The Man Without Qualities, Volume 2

by Robert Musil

  “Honestly! You really do have a lot of news to tell!”

  “Hmph!” Fischel went. “We no longer live in the old apartment. While the divorce is going on, my wife has moved in with her brother”— he took out a business card—”and this is my address. I hope you’ll pay me a visit soon.” On the card Ulrich read several ambiguous titles, such as “Import/Export” and “Trans-European Goods and Currency Exchange Company,” and a prestigious address. “You have no idea how one rises all by oneself,” Fischel explained to him, “once all those weights like family and job responsibilities, the wife’s fancy relations, and responsibility for the leading minds of humanity are taken off one’s shoulders! In a few weeks I became an influential man. And a well-off man, to boot. Perhaps the day after tomorrow I’ll have nothing again, but I may have even more!”

  “What are you now, actually?”

  “It’s not easy to explain casually to an outsider. I conduct transactions. Transactions of goods, transactions of currency, political transactions, art transactions. In every case the important thing is to get out at the right moment; then you can never lose.” As in the old days, it seemed to give Leo Fischel pleasure to accompany his activity with “philosophy,” and Ulrich listened to him with curiosity. —Philosophy of money of the free man, among others—

  Then Ulrich: “But with all that, it’s also important for me to know what Gerda said about Hans’s suicide.”

  “She claims I murdered him! But they had broken up definitively well before!”

  Rachel

  And while Ulrich was letting the notion of remorse surface in his reflections, in order to dissolve it immediately again in the deep play of thought, his little friend Rachel was suffering this word in all its tortures, dissolved by nothing but the palliative effect of tears and the cautious return of temptation after the remorse had gone on for a while. One will recall that Diotimas intense little maid, ejected from her parents’ house because of a misstep, who had landed in the golden aura of virtue surrounding her mistress, had, in the weakest of a series of increasingly weak moments, submitted to the attacks of the black Moorish boy. It happened and made her very unhappy. But this unhappiness aspired to repeat itself as often as the scanty opportunities that Diotimas house offered would allow. On the second or third day after every unhappiness a remarkable change occurred, which can be compared to a flower that, bent over by the rain, raises its little head again. Can be compared to fine weather that, way up above, peeks from a remote corner of the sky through a rainy day; finds friendly little spots of blue; forms a blue lake; becomes a blue sky; is veiled by a light haze of the overwhelming brightness of a day of happiness; is tinged with brown; lets down one hot veil of haze after another and finally towers, torrid and trembling, from earth to sky, filled with the zigzags and cries of birds, filled with the listless droop of tree and leaf, filled with the craziness of not-yet-discharged tensions that cause man and beast to roam madly about.

  On the last day before the remorse, the head of the Moor always twitched through the house like a rolling head of cabbage, and little Rachel would have loved to creep on it like a caterpillar with a sweet tooth. But then remorse set in. As if a pistol had been fired and a shimmering glass ball been turned into a powder of glassy sand. Rachel felt sand between her teeth, in her nose, her heart; nothing but sand. The world was dark; not dark like a Moor, but nauseatingly dark, like a pigsty. Rachel, having disappointed the confidence placed in her, seemed to herself besmirched through and through. Grief placed a deep drill in the vicinity of her navel. A raging fear of being pregnant blinded her thoughts. One could go on in this fashion—every limb in Rachel ached individually with remorse—but the main thing was not in these details but seized hold of the whole person, driving her before the wind like a cloud of dust raised by a broom. The knowledge that a misstep that has happened cannot be rectified by anything in the world made the world something of a hurricane in which one can find no support to stand up. The peaceful-ness of death seemed to Rachel like a dark feather bed, which it must be delightful to roll on. She had been torn out of her world, abandoned to a feeling whose intensity was unlike anything in Diotima’s house. She could not get at this feeling with an idea, any more than comfortings can get at a toothache, while it actually seemed to her, on the other hand, that there was only one remedy, to pull little Rachel entirely out of the world like a bad tooth.

  Had she been cleverer, she would have been able to assert that remorse is a basic disturbance of equilibrium, which one can restore in the most various ways. But God helped her out with his old, proven home remedy by again giving her, after a few days, the desire to sin.

  We, however, cannot of course be as indulgent as the great Lord, to whom earthly matters offer little that is new or important. We must ask whether in a condition in which there is no sin there can be any remorse. And since this question has already been answered in the negative, except for a few borderline cases, a second question immediately arises: from which ocean did the little drop of hell’s fire fall into Rachel’s heart, if it may not be said to have originated in the ocean whose clouds Ulrich had discovered? Every such question was suited to plunge Ulrich out of the sky on which he wanted to set foot purely theoretically. There are so many lovely things on earth that have nothing to do with divine, seraphic love, and most decidedly there are among them things that forbid anything and everything to be expected from their rediscovery. This question was later to be of the greatest significance for Ulrich and Agathe.

  LATE 1920s

  The weeks since Rachel had left Diotima’s house had passed with an improbability that a different person would hardly have accepted calmly. But Rachel had been shown the door of her parents’ house as a sinner, and at the conclusion of that fall had landed, straight as an arrow, in paradise, at Diotima’s; now Diotima had thrown her out, but such an enchantingly refined man as Ulrich had been standing there and had caught her: how could she not believe that life is the way it is described in the novels she loved to read? Whoever is destined to be a hero fate throws into the air in daredevil ways over and over, but it always catches him again in its strong arms. Rachel placed blind confidence in fate, and during this entire time had really done nothing but wait for its next intervention, when it might perhaps unveil its intentions. She had not become pregnant; so the experience with Soliman seemed to have been only a passing incident. She ate in a small pub, together with coachmen, out-of-work servant girls, workers who had business in the neighborhood, and those undefinable transients who flood a large city. The place she had chosen for herself, at a specific table, was reserved for her every day; she wore better clothes than the other women who frequented the pub; the way she used her knife and fork was different from what one was accustomed to seeing here; in this place Rachel enjoyed a secret respect, which she was acutely aware of even though not many people wanted to show it, and she assumed that she was taken for a countess or the mistress of a prince, who for some reason was compelled for a time to conceal her class. It happened that men with dubious diamonds on their fingers and with slicked-down hair, who sometimes turned up among the respectable guests, arranged to sit at Rachel’s table and directed seductively sinuous compliments to her; but Rachel knew how to refuse these with dignity and without unfriendliness, for although the compliments pleased her as much as the buzzing and creeping of insects and caterpillars and snakes on a luxuriant summer day, she still sensed that she could not let herself go in this direction without running the risk of losing her freedom. She most liked to converse with older people, who knew something of life and told stories of its dangers, disappointments, and events. In this way she picked up knowledge that, broken into crumbs, came to her the way food sinks down to a fish lying quietly at the bottom of its tank. Adventurous things were going on in the world. People were now said to be flying faster than birds. Building houses entirely without bricks. The anarchists wanted to assassinate the Emperor. A great revolution was imminent, and then the coachmen w
ould sit inside the coaches and the rich people would be in harness, instead of the horses. In a tenement block in the vicinity, a woman had, in the night, poured petroleum on her husband and lit him; it was unimaginable! In America, blind people were given glass eyes with which they could really see again, but it still cost lots of money and was only for billionaires. These were the gripping things Rachel heard, of course not all at once, as she sat and ate. When afterward she stepped out into the street, nothing of such monstrosities was to be seen: everything flowed on in its well-ordered way or stood there exactly as it had the day before; but was not the air boiling in these summer days, was not the asphalt secretly yielding underfoot, without Rachel having to picture clearly that the sun had softened it? On the church roofs the saints stretched out their arms and lifted their eyes in a way that made one think that everywhere there must be something special to be seen. The policemen wiped away the sweat of their exertions in the midst of the commotion that roared around them. Vehicles going at high speed braked violently as an old lady crossing the street was almost run over because she was not paying attention to anything. When Rachel got back to her little room, she felt her curiosity sated by this light nourishment; she took out her undergarments to mend them, or altered a dress or read a novel—for with astonishment at the way the world was run, she had discovered the institution of the lending library—her landlady came in and chatted with her deferentially, because Rachel had money without having to work and without one’s being able to discern any misconduct; and so the day passed, with no time to miss anything in the least, and poured its contents, filled to the brim with exciting things, into the dreams of the night.

  To be sure, Ulrich had forgotten to send money promptly, or to ask Rachel to come to him, and she had already begun to use up the small savings from her work. But she was not concerned, for Ulrich had promised to protect her for the present, and to go to him to remind him seemed to her quite improper. In all the fairy tales she knew, there was something one was forbidden to say or do; and it would have been exactly that had she gone to Ulrich and told him she was out of money. This is not in any way to imply that she expressly thought that her manner of life seemed like a fairy tale, or that she believed in fairy tales at all. On the contrary, that was the way the reality that she had never known differently was constituted, even if it had never been as beautiful as it was now. There are people to whom this is permitted, and people to whom it is forbidden; the ones sink from step to step and end in utter misery, while the others become rich and happy—and leave behind lots of children. Rachel had never been told to which of the two groups she belonged; she had never revealed to the two people who might have explained the difference to her that she was dreaming, but had worked industriously, except for the two unintentional missteps that had had such serious consequences. And one day her landlady actually reported that while she was out to eat, a fine lady had asked for her and announced that she would return in an hour. Anxiously, Rachel gave a description of Diotima; but the lady who was looking for her was most decidedly not tall, the landlady asserted, and not stout either, not even if by stout one did not mean fat. The lady who was looking for Rachel was most decidedly, rather, to be called small and skinny.

  And indeed the lady was slender and small, and returned within a half hour. She said “Dear Fraulein” to Rachel, mentioned Ulrich’s name, and pulled from her purse a tightly folded, rather considerable sum of money, which she gave to Rachel on behalf of their friend. Then she began to tell an involved and exciting story, and Rachel had never in her life been so enthralled by a conversation. There was a man, the lady said, who was being pursued by his enemies because he had nobly sacrificed himself for them. Really not nobly; for he had to do it, it was his inner law, every person has an animal which he inwardly resembles. —You, for example, Fraulein—the lady said—have either a gazelle or a queen snake in you—it can’t always be determined at first glance.

  If it had been the cook in Diotima’s kitchen who had said that, it would have made either no impression on Rachel or an unfavorable one; but it was said by someone who with every word radiated the certainty of a well-bred lady, the gift of command that would make any doubt appear to be an offense against respect. It was therefore firmly established in Rachel’s mind that there was some link between herself and a gazelle or a queen snake, a link that at the moment was over her head, but that could doubtless be explained in some fashion, for one sometimes does hear such things. Rachel felt herself charged with this piece of news like a candy box one can’t get open.

  The man who had sacrificed himself, the lady continued, had within himself a bear, that is to say, the soul of a murderer, and that meant that he had taken murder upon himself, all murder: the murder of unborn and handicapped children, the cowardly murder that people commit against their talents, and murder on the street by vehicles, bicyclists, and trams. Clarisse asked Rachel—for of course it was Clarisse who was speaking—whether she had ever heard the name Moosbrugger. Now, Rachel had, although she later forgot him again, loved and feared Moosbrugger like a robber captain, at the time when he had horrified all the newspapers, and he had often been the topic of conversation at Diotima’s; so she asked right away whether it concerned him.

  Clarisse nodded. —He is innocent!

  For the first time Rachel heard from an authority what she had earlier often thought herself.

  —We have freed him, Clarisse went on. —We, the responsible people, who know more than the others do. But now we must hide him. Clarisse smiled, and so peculiarly and yet with such rapturous friendliness that Rachel’s heart, intending to fall into her panties, got stuck on the way, somewhere in the neighborhood of her stomach. —Hide where? she stammered, pale.

  —The police will be looking for him—Clarisse declared—so it has to be where no one would think of looking for him. The best thing would be if you would pretend he was your husband. He would have to wear a wooden leg, that’s easy to pretend, or something, and you would get a little shop with living quarters attached, so it would look as if you were supporting your invalid husband who can’t leave the house. The whole thing would be for only a few weeks, and I could offer you more money than you need.

  —But why don’t you take him in yourself? Rachel dared to counter.

  —My husband isn’t in on it and would never allow it, Clarisse answered, adding the he that the proposal she had made came from Ulrich.

  —But I’m afraid of him! Rachel exclaimed.

  —That’s as it should be, Clarisse said. —But, my dear Fraulein, everything great is terrible. Many great men have been in the insane asylum. It is uncanny to put oneself on a level with someone who is a murderer; but to put oneself on a level with the uncanny is to resolve to be great!

  —But does he want to? Rachel asked. —Does he know me? He won’t do anything to me?

  —He knows that we want to save him. Look, his whole life he’s known only substitute women; you understand what I mean. He’ll be happy at having a real woman to protect him and take him in; and he won’t lay a finger on you if you don’t let him. I’ll back you up on that all the way! He knows that I have the power to compel him, if I want!

  —No, no! was all Rachel could get out; from everything Clarisse was saying she could hear only the shape of the voice and language, a friendliness and a sisterly equality that she could not resist. A lady had never spoken to her this way, and yet there was nothing artificial or false in it; Clarisse’s face was on a level with hers and not up in the air like Diotima’s; she saw her features working, especially two long furrows that constantly formed by the nose and ran down by the mouth; Clarisse was visibly struggling together with her for the solution.

  —Consider, Fraulein— Clarisse went on to say—that he who recognizes must sacrifice himself. You recognized right away that Moosbrugger only appears to be a murderer. Therefore you must sacrifice yourself. You must draw what is murderous out of him, and then what’s behind it, which corresponds to your
own nature, will come out. For like is attracted only by like; that’s the merciless law of greatness!

  —But when will it be?

  —Tomorrow. I’ll come in the late afternoon and get you. By that time everything will be arranged.

  —If a third person could live with us, I’d do it, Rachel said.

  —Ill drop in every day—Clarisse said—and watch over things; the living arrangement is only for show. Then too, it wouldn’t do to be ungrateful to Ulrich if he needs you to do him a favor.

  That clinched the matter. Clarisse had confidently used his Christian name. It appeared to Rachel as though her cowardice were unworthy of her benefactor. The portrayal our inner being gives us of what we ought to do is extraordinarily deceitful and capricious. Suddenly the whole thing seemed to Rachel a joke, a game, a trifle. She would have a shop and a room; if she wanted, she could bar the door between them. Then too, there would be two exits, the way there are in rooms on the stage. The whole proposal was only a formality, and it was really exaggerated of her to make difficulties, even though she was horribly afraid of Moosbrugger. She had to get over this cowardice. And what had the lady said? What corresponds to your own nature will come out in him. If he really was not so fearsome, then she would have what she had earlier passionately wished for.

  ***

  The shop and the adjoining room and the two exits came to nothing. Clarisse had appeared and declared that at the last minute the rent had posed an obstacle; since time was pressing, they had to take what was available, and fate perhaps depended on a matter of minutes. She had found another room. Had Rachel already packed up her things, and was she ready? The taxi was waiting downstairs. Unfortunately, it was not a nice room. And above all it was not yet furnished. But Clarisse had hastily had the most necessary items brought over. Now it was only a matter of getting Moosbrugger settled quickly. Everything else could be taken care of tomorrow. Today everything was only provisional. Clarisse reported the greater part of this when they were in the taxi. The words were dizzying. Rachel had no time to think. The taxi meter, half lit by a tiny light, advanced incessantly; with every revolution of the wheels Rachel heard the ticking of the meter, like a jug that has sprung a leak and drips unceasingly; in the darkness of the old cab Clarisse pressed a sum of money into her hand, and Rachel had to concentrate on stuffing it into her purse; in the process, the paper expanded, individual notes sailed away and had to be pursued and caught; laughing, Clarisse helped her find them, and this took up the rest of the long ride.