The Man Without Qualities, Volume 2

by Robert Musil

  The taxi stopped in a remote alley in front of an old tumbledown “court,” one of those deep plots of land where, from a narrow frontage on the alley, low wings run to the back, with workshops, stables, chickens, children, and the small dwellings of large families opening directly onto the courtyard or, one story higher, onto an open gallery connecting everything from the outside. Clarisse helped Rachel drag her things and seemed anxious to avoid the superintendent; they bumped into wagons standing in the dark, into tools that lay around everywhere, and into the well, but they arrived undamaged at Rachel’s new dwelling. Clarisse had a candle in her pocket and with its aid found a large oil lamp she had remembered to sneak from her parents’ attic. It was a tall piece worked in metal, incorporating all the latest advances the petroleum age had made just before it was irrevocably shunted aside by electrical illumination, and it filled the entire room, because it lacked a shade, with moderate light. Clarisse was very proud of it, but she had to hurry, since she had had the taxi wait at the next corner in order to fetch Moosbrugger.

  As soon as she was alone and looked around in her new surroundings, tears filled Rachel’s eyes. Except for the dirty walls, the thick white light of the lamp was almost the only thing in the room. But her fright had made Rachel misjudge; on closer inspection she found against one wall a narrow iron bed, on which there was something like bedclothes; in a corner, a pile of blankets was heaped up in disorder, no doubt meant to be the second sleeping place; blankets were also hanging in front of the windows and the door that led outside, and formed before a small and extremely plain table a kind of carpet, on which a roughly finished chair stood. Sighing, Rachel sat down on it and drew out her money in order to count and sort it. But now she again got a fright, this time over the size, indeed the excess, of the amount Clarisse, throwing caution to the winds, had thrust at her in the taxi. She smoothed the banknotes and concealed them in a small purse, which she wore on her breast. If she had known that she was sitting at the table at which Meingast had created his great work, and that the narrow iron bed had also been his, she might perhaps have understood a little more. But as it was, she simply signed once more, already made easier about the future, and even discovered an old fireplace, a spirit stove, and odds and ends of dishes before Clarisse returned with Moosbrugger.

  This moment was like the terrifying moment when one is called in by the dentist, which Rachel had experienced only once, and she stood up obediently as the two entered.

  Moosbrugger allowed himself to be led into the room the way a great artist is introduced to a circle of people who have been waiting for him. He pretended not to notice Rachel, and first inspected the new room; only then, after he had found fault with nothing, did he direct his glance at the girl and nod by way of greeting. Clarisse seemed to have no more to say to him; she pushed him, her tiny hand against his gigantic arm, toward the table and merely smiled, the way a person does who during a risky enterprise has to tense every muscle and is meanwhile trying to smile, so that the delicate facial muscles have to pull themselves together sharply in order to force their way between the pressure of all the other muscles. She maintained this expression while she placed a bag of groceries on the table and explained to the other two that she could not stay a minute longer but had to rush home. She promised to come back the next morning around ten and would then take care of anything else they might need.

  So now Rachel was alone with the revered man. She covered the table with a pillowcase, since she could not find a tablecloth, and spread out on a large platter the cold cuts Clarisse had brought. These duties greatly eased her embarrassment. Then, placing the meal on the table, she said in carefully chosen German: “You will most certainly be hungry’; she had thought out this sentence ahead of time. Moosbrugger had stood up, and with a gallant gesture of his big paw offered her his place, for it turned out that there was only the one chair. —Oh, no thank you— Rachel said—I don’t want much; I’ll sit over there. She took two slices from the platter Moosbrugger offered her and sat down on the bed.

  Moosbrugger had taken a horrifying long folding knife from his pocket and used it while eating. In the days of his flight he had eaten irregularly and badly, and had developed a great hunger. Rachel took advantage of the opportunity to study him; more properly, she had to, for as soon as she turned in the direction of the table, this man completely filled her field of vision; more, his appearance overflowed her eyes, spilling over their rims in every direction, and Rachel could not properly let her glance roam around; it was, for instance, quite a long distance across the whole extent of his chest, or from the edge of the table to his thick mustache, and also from his chin to the top of his powerful skull, and one could linger in the reddish-blond hairs of his mighty fists as in underbrush. In the meantime, all the ideas and some of the fantasies of which Moosbrugger had once been the object came back to Rachel. Above all, she sought to bring to mind how many women would envy the situation in which she found herself. For her, Moosbrugger was a great and famous man, which corresponded to the truth if one leaves aside the different degrees of public notoriety that are made but are by no means clear or precise. She did not at all overlook the fearfulness of the notoriety, which had been acquired by cruel, indeed even treacherous deeds, for she was trembling with fear, although she was also burning with excitement. But like all people, she admired the energy in this cruelty, and like all impulsive people she assumed that in contact with her, this herculean strength would not be dangerous but could be turned toward the good, so that her fear seemed to her only a petty external habit, while her soul became braver and braver the longer she was together with Moosbrugger. And indeed, whoever lives in the proper relation to criminals lives as securely among them as among other people.

  Moosbrugger had not found it proper to be bothered by the girPs glances during such an important an occasion as eating. But when he had finished he leaned back, snapped his knife shut, stroked the crumbs from his mustache, and said: —Well, little Fraulein, now a glass of schnapps wouldn’t be—

  Rachel hastened to assure him that there were no alcoholic drinks in the house, adding the lie that Clarisse had charged her not to provide any.

  Moosbrugger hadn’t meant it that seriously. He was not a drinker, indeed he himself took care not to drink, out of fear of its unpredictable effects. But he hadn’t seen a drop for months, and after the substantial meal had thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to try one on this dull evening. He was angry at her refusal. These women had him really locked up. But he did not show it, and undertook to carry on the conversation in the most civilized manner.

  —So here we are, man and wife, in a way, for the time being, little Fraulein, he began. —What should I call you? He used the natural Du of simple people; Rachel did not find this unpleasant, but just as naturally she stayed with the formal Sie. —My name is Rachel or Rèle, whichever you like.

  —Oo-la-la, Rèle, my compliments! He pronounced the French name twice over, with pleasure. —And Rachel was the loveliest daughter of Laban. He laughed gallantly.

  —Tell me how you beat the masons! Rachel asked. She dared not ask about anything more exciting.

  Moosbrugger turned away and rolled a cigarette. He was insulted. In his circles such a question was regarded as an unwarranted intimacy after so short an acquaintance. He smoked several cigarettes in succession. He was bored. Insignificant, importunate women meant nothing to him. He became sleepy. In prison and the asylum he had become accustomed to going to bed early.

  Rachel was upset that he was smoking so inconsiderately. She also had the feeling of having done something wrong, without knowing what.

  Moosbrugger stood up, stretched his legs, and yawned.

  —Do you want to go to sleep? Rachel asked.

  —What else is there to do? Moosbrugger said. He inspected the bed; then, remembering the commandments of chivalry, turned to the corner where the bedding lay.

  —Sleep in the bed; you need rest, Rachel said.

&n
bsp; —No, you can sleep in the bed. Indolently, he removed his coat. Rachel was embarrassed when Moosbrugger took off his pants. But then he lay down on the blankets as he was, and pulled one of them over himself. Rachel waited awhile, then blew out the lamp and undressed in the dark.

  During the night she again grew afraid; she imagined that if she were to fall asleep it might happen that she would never wake up again. But soon she did sleep, and when she awoke, morning was shining into the room. Moosbrugger lay covered up in the corner like a huge mountain. Everything was still quiet in the house. Rachel took advantage of it to fetch water from the well. She also cleaned her shoes and Moosbrugger’s out in the courtyard. When she softly slipped in the door again, Moosbrugger said good morning to her.

  —Would you like coffee, tea, or hot chocolate? she asked him. Moosbrugger was astonished. He said coffee, but did not find the decision an easy one. Then too, he liked Rachel better in the daylight than he had last evening; there was something delicate and refined in her appearance. He took care getting dressed, and turned away from the wall only when he was finished.

  —Were you angry at me last evening? Rachel asked, noticing his good humor.

  —Oh, women always want to know everything, but if you like I’ll tell you the story about the masons. That will show you what people are like; they’re all the same. And what have you been doing up to now?

  —I was in a very elegant house, where I was treated like a daughter.

  —Well, and what got you turned out?

  —Oh! said Rachel, not at all resolved to tell the truth. —You know, the master in this house is a very high diplomat, and there was this business with a Moorish prince—

  —Are you pregnant? Moosbrugger asked suspiciously.

  —For shame! Rachel exclaimed indignantly. —You’re taking too many liberties in speaking to me that way! Would the lady have entrusted you to me?

  Moosbrugger definitely liked her. She was something finer, you could see and hear that. When he thought over the females he knew, he had never had anything so fine. —Well, all right, he said. —I didn’t mean to insult you. The story with the masons went like this:

  He told it minutely and with dignity, together with all the scheming and corruption that a man like himself encounters before the court, and because she had mentioned an acquaintance with a Moorish prince, he felt he had to match it, so he also told her about his march to Constantinople.

  —Do the Turks have more than one wife? Rachel asked.

  —Only the rich ones. But that’s why the Turks aren’t worth anything, he answered with a gallant smile. —Even one wife will ruin a man!

  —Have you had bad experiences with women? Rachel asked, her blood twitching in circles like the tail of a cat lying in ambush.

  Moosbrugger looked at her inquiringly, and became serious. —All my life I’ve had only bad experiences. If I were to write down my life, a lot of people would be surprised!

  —You ought to! Rachel proposed enthusiastically.

  —Writing is much too uncomfortable for me! Moosbrugger said proudly, and stretched his shoulders. —But you’re an educated girl. Perhaps I’ll tell you something. Then you can write it.

  —I’ve never written a book, Rachel replied modestly; but she felt as if she had been offered Section Chief Tuzzi’s job. And this man before her was no idle gossip; he had shown that he could put meaning into his words.

  Thus the time passed in animated conversation, and it got to be ten o’clock, but Clarisse did not appear.

  Moosbrugger pulled his large, fat, chrome-plated watch from his vest and determined that it was ten thirty-five.

  When they next looked, it was seven minutes before eleven.

  —She’s not coming; I thought as much, Moosbrugger said.

  —But she has to come! Rachel said.

  The conversation ran down. They had got up early and had not left the room. Being cooped up made them tired. Moosbrugger stood and stretched. Rachel finally declared herself ready to go and get something to eat without waiting any longer. But first Moosbrugger had to put on the green eyeshade and strap on the wooden leg, in case during Rachel’s absence a stranger should come in; wooden leg and eyeshade were a legacy of Clarisse’s. It was no simple matter to get his leg, which was bent back to the thigh and on whose knee the wooden leg was strapped, through a pant leg; Moosbrugger had to place his arm around Rachel’s neck, and he took the opportunity to draw her gently toward himself.

  He hobbled around the room alone for more than a quarter of an hour; it was nauseatingly tedious; then Rachel cooked, but she did not know much about cooking, and the meal was not exactly cheerful. Gradually, Moosbrugger became fed up with this seclusion, but realized that it would be a long time before he could give it up. He wanted to sleep a bit to make the time pass, yawned like a Hon, and sat on the bed to unbuckle the damn leg, which was driving the blood to his head. Rachel had to help him. And as he again laid his arm around her shoulder, he thought that after all she really was his wife for the time being. Surely she had never expected anything else of him and had made fun of him yesterday when he went straight off to sleep. As the wooden leg fell to the ground, with the arm that was around her shoulder he pulled Rachel back on the bed and drew her up on it a little, until her head rested on a pillow. Rachel did not resist. His large mustache descended on her mouth. But her small mouth came to meet it. Went into this mustache as into a forest, as it were, and sought the mouth in it. When the man pushed himself up on her, Rachel lay with her face almost under his chest and had to move her head to one side in order to be able to breathe; it seemed to her as if she were being buried by soil that was trembling volcanically. The really great bodily arousals are brought about by the imagination; Rachel saw in Moosbrugger not a hero without his peer on earth—for comparison and reflection would then have killed the power of imagination—but simply a hero, a notion that is less definite but blends with the time and place in which it appears and with the person who arouses admiration. Where there are heroes the world is still soft and glowing, and the web of creation unbroken. The adventurous room with the covered windows suddenly took on the appearance of the cave of a big robber who has withdrawn from the world. Rachel felt her breast lying under an enormous pressure; the scurrying quality that was part of her nature was pinned down for the moment by an overpowering force and compelled to be patient; her upper body could move as little as if it had fallen under the iron wheels of a truck, and this position would have been torture had not all the spontaneity and independence of which her body was capable gathered in her hips, where a giant was struggling with clouds and which despite their helplessness were embracing him again and again, and were just as strong in their way as he was in his. A desire such as Rachel had never felt in her life, indeed had never suspected, pressed upon her mind and from there opened up her entire person: she wanted to conceive and bear a hero. Her lips remained open in astonishment, her limbs lay where they were when Moosbrugger got up, and her eyes remained for a long time misted over with a bluish-yellow mist, the way chanterelles do when one breaks them. She did not get up until it was time to light the lamp and think of the evening meal; till then she had waited, with a kind of emptiness of mind, for a continuation that she was not able to picture to herself but did not think of at all as simply a repetition.

  For Moosbrugger, the matter was finished until further notice. People who on occasion commit sexual crimes are, as one knows, ordinarily anything but flamboyant lovers, since their crimes, to the extent that they do not spring from external influences, express nothing but the irregularity of their desire. Moosbrugger felt nothing more than boredom while Rachel lay demolished on the bed. So what had given their being together a certain tension was now, in his opinion, over and done with before one had thought of it.

  Clarisse did not come; she did not come the next day either; she did not come at all.

  Moosbrugger smoked cigarettes and yawned. Several times Rachel put her hand around his
neck and her hand in his hair; he shook her off. He pulled her onto his lap, and then immediately set her on her feet again because he had changed his mind. What he felt beside boredom was that he had been insulted. These women had fetched him out of school like a boy and taken him home; he had sometimes observed this picture and thought that such sonny boys could never develop into real men. But he realized that for the time being he had to go along with it; he did not dare venture out on the street as long as the zeal of the police was still fresh, and to visit Biziste or other friends would not be a good idea at all. He had Rachel bring him the newspapers and looked for what was being said about him; but this time he was not at all pleased with his press: the papers dismissed his escape in three to five lines. He knew that Rachel was just as downcast as he was at Clarisse’s not showing up; but he still laid on her the resentment that was building in him, even if he did not regard Rachel as its cause, since she was Clarisse’s representative. Rachel committed the error of continuing to refuse to provide alcohol, though if she had done so, that would have been a mistake as well. Moosbrugger was silent after such refusals, but the insults to which he was exposed formed, together with the stale boredom and his longing for a tavern, a tangle of revulsion whose spindle was the skinny girl who moved around him the entire day. He spoke only when he had to and disregarded all Rachel’s attempts to bring the conversation back to the level of the first morning. Tortured in addition by her own cares, Rachel was very unhappy.