Brother of Sleep: A Novel

by Robert Schneider

  For if I can just be near thee

  I shall join the Lord above.

  And Johannes Elias Alder was jubilant, and his jubilation was the glowing, endless major key that brought that inconceivable, that insane improvisation to a close.

  Then there was silence. All that could clearly be heard was the violent snorting of the two lads at the bellows, for Elias had driven them to the brink of exhaustion.

  “Goller doesn’t use as much air in a year as that one needs in an hour!” one of them moaned afterward.

  Elias too sat motionless on his stool. Then with his sleeve he wiped the sweat that was running down his forehead, brushed back his thin hair, and looked upward and outward into the apse, where the figures of the Pietà stood grieving above the choir screen. Only now could it be seen how this improvisation, more than two hours in length, had sapped his physical substance. His face, already thin, was ashen, his eyes were hollow, his cheekbones stood out, and his lips were dry. He had lost weight.

  Then the cry of a man’s voice tore through the ghostly silence in the cathedral. “Long live Alder!” cried the voice, and again, “Long live Alder!”

  The cry came from the last third of the nave, more or less from the place where Peter was sitting. In any case, the shout was so liberating that a regular tumult suddenly arose. The people started back into con­sciousness; they began bellowing, exulting, and applauding. Row after row they stood, turned their heads toward the organ loft, and gave an ovation to the invisi­ble magician. Hats were thrown, baskets, kerchiefs. We think we even saw a bundle of diapers flying into the air.

  “Long live Alder! Long live Alder!” the crowd rejoiced, their throats now reawakened.

  The vicar-general shot from his carved choir stall, stumbled deafened to the pulpit, raised his arms to the jubilant people, and tried to calm them down.

  “Beloved, praiseworthy people,” he cried unheard. “In the name of God! This is a holy place!”

  There arose an even greater tumult, and every­one–with the exception of the family of Peter Paul Battlog–left their pews, unable now to stand in peace. In desperation, the vicar-general gave the order to open all the portals of the cathedral lest there be a stampede, but no one wanted to leave the cathedral before they had seen this magician with their own eyes.

  “Long live Alder! Long live Alder!” The crowd was chanting now, everyone turned toward the organ loft.

  Finally the organist came to the balustrade, and the light that shone from below gave his face an even more spectral appearance. Cries of “Ah!” and “Oh!” ran through the general clamor, and women and children could be heard weeping. But jubilation broke out again, and the people’s faces beamed in the gleaming major key with which Elias had ended. He himself clutched the balustrade, and no one noticed that he was weeping with happiness and exhaustion. Or was he weeping over the decision he had made while he was playing?

  He stepped down to the crowd, which formed a princely guard of honor around him. An upper-class lady pushed a handful of strawberries into the opening of his sweat-drenched linen shirt, his pockets were filled with clinking coins, banknotes were thrust at him. When, like his competitors, he had humbly bowed before the committee of the four pallid pro­fessors, the tumult slowly subsided. The vicar-general was about to lay the book of chorales on its back again, in preparation for the last pupil’s ceremony, when the audience cried out with a single voice, “He’s the winner! The lyre goes to Elias Alder!”

  And they chanted our musician’s name for such a long time that the vicar-general, overcome, finally left the pulpit and went to the sacristy with Goller and the professors to discuss what was to be done. Their deliberations did not take long. Despite Goller’s efforts to convince these gentlemen that Alder had improvised for too long, that what he had played had been neither the variation on a chorale nor a prelude nor–most importantly, by St. Cecilia!–a fugue according to the old rules but a monstrous symphony, without clearly distinguishing between the different disciplines, de­spite the vehemence with which Goller referred to the overall degeneracy of the music, there was nothing to be done: The eyes of the four pallid professors glowed with idolatrous admiration.

  So it was that the Feldberg Organ Festival came to a premature close. The vicar-general pressed the golden lyre on the greasy hair of Elias Alder, who was utterly distracted, and praised the musician as a respectable natural genius. The audience cried and applauded. The vicar-general appealed for level-headedness and, losing patience, finally gave a Latin benediction. Then everyone left.

  Goller ran away too, in such a hurry that there was no time to find a lodging for the lads from Eschberg, somewhere they could spend the night for a reasonable amount of money. It was Goller’s hope that, having been left alone like this, they would set off homeward the very same night.

  Elias Alder’s magical performance was the talk of Feldberg for days. Spirits were heated in the cool rooms of the Musical Institute, and lessons were at first abandoned. The conversation constantly returned to the peasant genius. During those days, Goller suffered from painful earaches that prevented him from teaching his improvisation classes. In Werdenberg, a little village in Liechtenstein, three young hotheads announced that they were founding an Elias Alder Association, with the duty of erecting a bronze statue in the musician’s honor.

  But man is inconstant, and tomorrow he forgets what yesterday he so solemnly vowed. Time did its work, and soon the last distant, glimmering echoes of the celestial concert faded entirely, and the erection of the bronze statue never happened.

  We should add that the position of second organist finally went to Peter Paul Battlog. Goller had suc­cessfully influenced the professors, saying that an organist who could not read music would never be able to play the conventional church literature. And in addition, his appointment would be a heavy drain on cathedral funds. The peasant would have to be given lodgings in accordance with his position, and, proud as peasants were, he would certainly demand twice if not three times the usual payment.

  But one man, and one only, could not help reacting. He was one of the four pallid professors, the one who had cried “That’s impossible! That is not possi­ble!” at the beginning of the fugue. Some forty days after the disappearance of Elias Alder, Seff’s wife received a letter accompanied by a large banknote, invit­ing Musician Elias Alder to present himself at the vicariate-general forthwith. A respected citizen had placed a considerable sum at his disposal, which would enable him to take a place at the Institute of the Liberal Arts without any worries.

  The respected citizen was, of course, the author of the letter himself. But the letter was too late. By this time Elias Alder was already dead. Not even Seff’s wife knew that, because she thought her son was still in Feldberg. No one knew apart from Peter.

  When the friends set off for home, Peter was unrecognizable. He kept embracing Elias, who walked apathetically onward, he whooped with joy, danced a few steps farther, stood in the road with his arms outstretched, hugged Elias, kissed his forehead, and would not stop shouting and talking. The townspeople had never seen anything like what he had just done, he said excitedly. He, Johannes Elias Alder, was the king of that night, he added with feeling, bowing to his friend. And what a glorious future blossomed ahead of him now, he babbled. Elias could make a fortune with his organ playing–and he pulled the dark paper and the coins out of Elias’s pockets, letting them clatter in his hands. He himself would sell his farm and move with Elias to Feldberg. From Feldberg they would go on great journeys in elegant coaches with damask carpets. They would travel the country, maybe even as far as Inns­bruck. And over time the organ would make Elias immensely wealthy.…

  Peter would not calm down, and not for a second did he notice that his friend’s mind was on quite differ­ent matters. Even the soothing coolness of the night did nothing to calm the hothead’s spirits. However, as Elias was not answering any of his questions, Peter fell silent as well. And they walked for three hours without
exchanging a single word.

  At dawn they reached Götzberg, and when Peter wanted to take the fork for Eschberg, Elias suddenly opened his lips. He wanted to walk to Eschberg along the river, he said thinly. It was an old and painful path. Many people from Eschberg had walked along it when the fire had destroyed their lives. Peter did not under­stand the strange wish and objected that he was tired from the day’s and the night’s exertions. But Elias would not be put off and said in a mysterious voice that other exertions still awaited them. It was thus that they climbed ponderously toward Eschberg, making big detours to avoid the waterfalls, until they finally arrived at their home or, more precisely, at the water-polished stone.

  There Elias sat down in silence, folded his arms, and said quietly, ‘My friend, I did not betray you when you set the village on fire. So swear to me now that you will not betray me either. Swear that everything that happens now and subsequently will stay locked in your heart until the Day of Judgment!’

  Peter looked at him with tired yet helpless eyes. But he raised his fingers and swore eternal silence. Elias told him to return to the farm, go to bed, and sleep there very conscientiously. After which he should spread the word in the village that they had kept him in Feldberg and that he could not return immediately. Peter should come back here toward evening, with some hempen ropes and enough provisions for a week. No one, Elias said, almost menacingly, should know that he had come home.

  “And if Elsbeth asks after you?” Peter said warmly. Elias said nothing and looked at him with such empty eyes that Peter’s forearms were covered with gooseflesh.

  Peter stood up and did as Elias had commanded.

  COME, O DEATH, O COME, BROTHER OF SLEEP

  PETER had just gone to bed when he heard Lukas Alder’s clogs heavily mounting the stairs. During his absence Lukas had taken care of the cattle, milked them, and led them back to the pasture. Peter rose from his pallet, went to find Lukas, and told him what had happened in Feldberg. And he constantly repeated that the professors had wanted to keep Elias there for a while, in order to investigate his extremely curious natural genius. Lukas remained silent, not understanding, and asked only whether he should go and milk the cows because he had the impression that Peter looked very much in need of sleep. But Peter took five hellers from his pocket, held out his crippled arm, and told him to go home. In the morning Peter walked over to Seff’s wife’s house and told her the same lying tale. Just by chance the Lamparter gossip crossed his path, so he could be sure the whole village would soon know the reason for Elias’s absence. And in fact the gossip turned on the spot, headed straight for the village school, and awarded the waiting children a holiday.

  Peter could not sleep, although he had gone back to bed at midday. The sultry heat did not help, so he set about packing the hempen rope and the provisions. In the afternoon he lay down again, this time in the cool walls of his cellar. He slept an agitated sleep there, tossing and turning. He had nightmares.

  When the sun had disappeared behind the mountains of the Rhine Valley, he put on his rucksack and took a series of detours to the bed of the Emmer, not suspecting that he would be witness to an incredibly long and tormented suicide.

  Elias was sitting in the place where everything had started and where everything would now come to an end. He had cut his hair, which had reached his shoulders; the slate he had used, as thin as a leaf, lay beside him. He had the tuft of hair in his mouth, and Peter could not understand what he was trying to say with this. Elias’s eyes were staring at the lively water of the Emmer. He had stayed awake, he had not slept for a moment. Peter went over to him, kissed his forehead, and took his burning head in his hands. He saw that Elias had gone mad.

  “Elias,” he whispered, “why are you hurting yourself like this? You’ve become a famous man.” And he added craftily that he had seen a handful of young women in Eschberg cathedral gazing at the organist with love in their eyes. He was trying to give him hope. But the idea that Elias might take a wife and abandon him hurt him too much, and so he let it be.

  Elias took the tuft of hair from his mouth. “Did you sleep conscientiously?” he asked with hollow eyes.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” said Peter. “I had a terrible nightmare.” And he let go of his friend’s head.

  “Let’s go, before night falls, and collect deadly nightshade, amanites, and belladonna,” said Elias. “I’ll need that when I get tired.”

  Peter knew the intoxicating effect of these substances, but he still could not understand what Elias really had in mind. “Do you want to wait here until the Day of Judgment?” he asked with an affected smile, and Elias gravely answered that he did. “You need some sleep,” Peter repeated irritably. “Your head is burning with fever. Be reasonable, and let’s go back.”

  At these words, Elias stood up on the rock, stretched his limbs, and suddenly jumped into the icy water of the mountain stream. He dived to the bottom, came back up, shook his limbs, and rubbed his head and arms in wild circles. “How good cold water is!” he cried to Peter. “A man dives in, and as if by itself sleep leaves his limbs!”

  When Elias had clambered up from the pond, Peter noticed that he was having considerable diffi­culty coordinating his movements. Peter was not surprised. For a day, a night, and another day his friend had not slept. But everything would get more frightening still.

  Once Elias had revived his strength with bread, dried semolina, and raw eggs, they set off in search of the deadly nightshade leaves, belladonna, and am­anites. They came close to being seen, for a Lamparter was committing incest with his sister in the forest. But the woman’s cries for help warned them in time. When night fell they returned to the water-polished stone. They had found what Elias needed. During their walk Elias had revealed to Peter his current way of thinking, which grotesquely reflected the disturbance of his mind.

  Elias asked whether he could still remember the carrottop, the wandering preacher. He certainly could, said Peter. And could he remember the words he had cried when he had fallen in a faint? Peter said nothing. Then Elias grew wider awake, and his movements became very agitated. While he had been playing the organ in Feldberg it had occurred to him that he had only loved Elsbeth halfway. That was why God had refused him Elsbeth, for his love had been too lukewarm. His so-called love had been nothing but a pile of lies and halfheartedness.

  How, he stammered, could a man who was pure in heart claim that he loved a woman his whole life long, when he had done so only by day, and then perhaps only for the duration of a thought? That could not be true. For when sleeping–Peter must see that–one did not love. One was in a state of death, which was why it was no coincidence that death and sleep were called brothers. So sleeping time was a waste and conse­quently a sin. The time a person spent sleeping would be added on after death to his time in purgatory. So he had decided to live his life awake, as new. And this new awakened life would bring him Elsbeth’s love and the certainty of eternal bliss in heaven.

  Peter felt he had nothing more to say. Elias spread his frock coat on the edge of the stone and sat down upon it. Then he moistened a leaf of deadly nightshade with his spit and twisted it into a tiny roll. He laughed and said he felt like his father’s old nag, which had only waked up when those leaves had been stuffed up its arse. Peter tried again, in vain, to persuade him to abandon this demented plan, but Elias only gave an indifferent laugh. He gruffly told Peter to go now, and get some conscientious sleep, for in two or three nights’ time he would have to be vigorous enough to watch over him. Then he picked a belladonna berry, bit it, and ate half of it.

  The symptoms were quick to appear. About half an hour after Peter left, Elias entered a great state of euphoria. He began to sing. He got up and danced to his own melodies. Then he suddenly had convulsions and finally burst into long fits of sobbing. When he had calmed down after midnight, he felt dead tired. His head fell heavily on his breast, but when he noticed that he had dozed for a few moments, he reprimanded himself in the most violent
terms, jumped into the river, and wallowed in it like a heavy great stag. And that was what he felt like, for he thought he had put on weight.

  When morning came, when the first bright rays of sunlight played in the leaves of the mixed forest, his brain was already suffering from persecution mania. He thought he could see fur-covered beasts with small but sharp-toothed mouths in the moving leaves. The whole sky filled up with these menacing creatures, and they were jumping back and forth, shooting dangerously toward his head and yet not attacking him. In the morning of his second night without sleep, his hearing seemed to have grown more acute, while at the same time his eyesight had weakened.

  In the morning Peter came back down to the water-polished stone, but Elias was no longer sitting there. Only the hempen rope and the black frock coat lay on the stone. Peter called out to him and waited for more than an hour, but in vain. He climbed back up the hill, believing that Elias had abandoned his intentions. Toward evening, he crept to Elias’s farm and threw pebbles at the window of his room, but nothing moved behind the window and he grew sad. He went down to the Emmer immediately, but there was no sign of Elias.

  For three days and three nights he was not to be seen. On the morning of the fourth day, Peter thought of breaking his oath and summoning a handful of men to go out searching for him at midday. But he did not have time; when he returned to the polished rock to have another look, Elias was sitting there again. Peter watched him from a safe distance and saw that Elias could no longer sit up. He saw that he had still not closed his eyes.