Jakob von Gunten

by Robert Walser

  On the first day my behavior was enormously prim, I was like mother’s little boy. I was shown the room in which I was to sleep together with the others, i.e., with Kraus, Schacht, and Schilinski. A fourth to make up the party, as it were. Everyone was there, my comrades, the Principal, who was looking at me grimly, and his sister. Well, and then I simply threw myself at the maiden’s feet and exclaimed: “No, I can’t sleep in that room, it’s impossible! I can’t breathe in there. I’d rather spend the night on the street.” While I was speaking, I clung to the young lady’s legs. She seemed to be annoyed and told me to stand up. I said: “I won’t stand up until you promise to give me a decent room to sleep in. I ask you, Fräulein, I implore you, put me somewhere else, in a hole, for all I care, but not in here. I can’t be here. I certainly won’t offend my fellow-pupils, and if I’ve already done so I’m sorry, but to sleep together with three people, as a fourth person, and in such a small room, too? It won’t do. Ah, Fräulein!” She was smiling now, I noticed it, and so I quickly added, clinging even more tightly to her: “I’ll be good, I promise you. I’ll obey all your commands. You’ll never, never have to complain of my behavior.” Fräulein Benjamenta asked: “Is that so? Shall I never have to complain?” “No, it certainly isn’t so, Fräulein,” I replied. She exchanged a meaningful look with her brother, the Principal, and said to me: “Do please first stand up. Good heavens, what insistency and what a fuss! And now come along. You can sleep somewhere else, for all I care.” She took me to the room in which I live now, showed it to me, and asked: “Do you like this room?” I was cheeky enough to say: “It’s small. At home the windows had curtains. And the sun shone into the rooms there. Here there’s only a narrow bed and a washstand. At home there were completely furnished rooms. But don’t be angry Fräulein Benjamenta. I like it, and thank you. At home it was much more refined, friendlier and more elegant, but it’s very nice here too. Forgive me for coming at you with the comparisons with how it was at home, and heaven knows what else besides. But I find the room very very charming. To be sure, the window up there in the wall can hardly be called a window. And the whole thing is definitely rather like a rat’s hole, or a dog-kennel. But I like it. And I’m impertinent and ungrateful to talk to you like this, aren’t I? Perhaps the best thing would be for you to take the room away from me again, though I have a really high opinion of it, and give me strict orders to sleep with the others. My comrades certainly feel offended. And you, Fräulein, are angry. I see it. It makes me very sad.” She said to me: “You’re a silly boy, and now you be quiet.” And yet she was smiling. How silly it all was, on that first day. I was ashamed of myself, and I’m ashamed, to this day, when I think how improperly I behaved. I slept very restlessly the first night. I dreamed of the instructress. And as regards my own room, I would to this day be quite happy to share it with one or two other people. One is always half mad when one is shy of people.

  Herr Benjamenta is a giant, and we pupils are dwarfs beside this giant, who is always rather gruff. As guide and commander of a crowd of such tiny, insignificant creatures as we boys are, he is certainly obliged, it is most natural, to be peevish, for this can never be a task that matches his powers: just ruling over us. No, Herr Benjamenta could do quite different things. Such a Hercules cannot help falling asleep, that is, growling and musing as he reads his newspapers, when he confronts such a petty exercise as that of educating us. What can the man have been thinking of when he decided to found the Institute? In a certain sense, it hurts me, and this feeling increases still more the respect that I have for him. Between him and me, at the beginning of my time here, I think it was during the morning of my second day, there was a small scene, but a violent one. I went into his office, but I couldn’t manage to open my mouth. “Go outside again! See if it’s possible for you to enter the room like a decent human being,” he said austerely. I went out and then I knocked on the door, which I had quite forgotten to do before. “Come in,” said a voice, and then I went in and stood there. “Well, aren’t you going to make your bow? And what does one say on entering?” I bowed and said, in a feeble tone of voice: “Good day, Principal.” Today I am so well trained that I positively trumpet out this “Good day, Principal.” In those days, I hated this servile and polite way of behaving, it was just that I knew no better. What seemed to me laughable and dimwitted then, now seems apt and beautiful. “Speak louder, you rascal,” exclaimed Herr Benjamenta. I had to repeat the greeting “Good day, Principal” five times. Only then did he ask what I wanted. I had got furious, and said: “One learns absolutely nothing here and I don’t want to stay. Please give me my money back, and then I’ll get out of the place. Where are the teachers here? Is there any plan, any idea to what we do? There’s nothing. And I’m leaving. Nobody, whoever he is, will stop me from leaving this place of darkness and mystification. I come from much too good a family to let myself be plagued by your silly rules. To be sure, I don’t mean to run back to my father and mother, never, but I’ll take to the streets and sell myself as a slave. There’s no harm in that.” Well, I had said it. Today I almost have to double up with laughing when I recall this silly behavior. At that time, I felt altogether serious. But the Principal didn’t say a word. I was on the verge of saying something rude and offensive to his face. Then he quietly spoke: “Sums of money, once paid in, are not paid back. As for your foolish opinion that you can learn nothing here, you are wrong, for you can learn. Learn, first of all, to know your surroundings. Your comrades are worth the attempt to get to know them. Talk with them. I advise you, keep calm. Nice and calm.” This “nice and calm” he uttered as if in deep thought, without a care in the world for me. He kept his eyes downcast, as if he wanted me to understand how well and how gently he meant it. He gave me clear proofs of his being absent in thought, and was silent again. What could I do? Herr Benjamenta was already busy reading his newspapers again. I felt as if a terrible, incomprehensible storm was creeping up on me. I bowed deeply, almost to the ground, to him who was paying no more attention to me, said, as the rules required, “Adieu, Principal,” clicked my heels, stood at attention, turned about, that is, no, I groped for the door handle, still kept looking at the Principal’s face, and thrust myself, without turning around, through the door and out again. Thus ended my attempt at revolution. Since then, there have been no willful scenes. My God, and I have been defeated. He defeated me, he, to whom I attribute a truly great heart, and I didn’t move, didn’t bat an eyelid, and he didn’t even insult me. Only it hurt me, and not for my own sake, but for the Principal’s. Actually, I am always thinking of him, of both of them, of him and Fräulein, the way they go on living here with us boys. What are they always doing in there, in their apartment? How do they keep themselves busy? Are they poor? Are the Benjamentas poor? There are “Inner Chambers” here. I have never been in them to this day. Kraus has, he is privileged, because he is so loyal. But Kraus doesn’t want to give any information about the way the Principal’s apartment is. He only goggles at me, when I ask him questions on this point, and says nothing. Oh, Kraus can really be silent. If I were a master, I would take Kraus into my service at once. But perhaps one day I shall penetrate into these inner chambers. And what will my eyes discover then? Perhaps nothing special at all? Oh, yes, something special. I know it, somewhere here there are marvelous things.

  One thing is true, there is no nature here. That’s just it, this is the big city, after all. At home there were views everywhere, near and far. I think I always heard the songbirds twittering up and down the streets. The streams were always murmuring. The woody mountain gazed down majestically upon the neat town. On the nearby lake one traveled, evenings, in a gondola. Cliffs and woods, hills and fields could be reached with a short walk. There were always voices and fragrances. And the streets of the town were like garden paths, they looked so soft and clean. Nice white houses peeped roguishly from green gardens. One saw well-known ladies, for example Frau Haag, out for a walk on the other side of the park fence. Sill
y it is, really, anyway nature, the mountain, the lake, the river, the foaming waterfall, the green foliage, and all sorts of songs and sounds were simply near at hand. If one went for a walk, it was like walking in the sky, for one saw blue sky everywhere. If one stood still, one could lie down straightaway and dream quietly up into the air, for there was grass or moss under one. And the pine trees that smell so wonderfully of spicy power. Shall I never see a mountain pine again? Really that would be no misfortune. To forgo something: that also has its fragrance and its power. Our alderman’s house had no garden, but everything around was a neat, sweet, and pretty garden. I hope I am not yearning. Nonsense. It’s good being here, too.

  Although there’s nothing much that merits a scrape, I run to the barber from time to time, for the sake of the excursion on the street, and have myself shaved. The barber’s assistant asks if I am a Swede. An American? Not that either. A Russian? Well, then, what are you? I love to answer such nationalistically tinted questions with a steely silence, and to leave people who ask me about my patriotic feelings in the dark. Or I tell lies and say that I’m Danish. Some kinds of frankness are only hurtful and boring. Sometimes the sun shines like mad in these lively streets. Or everything is shrouded in rain, which I also very much like. The people are friendly, although I am unspeakably cheeky sometimes. Often in the lunch hour I sit idly on a bench. The trees in the park are quite colorless. The leaves hang down unnaturally, like lead. Sometimes, it is as if everything here were made of metal and thin iron. Then the rain descends and wets it all. Umbrellas are opened, coaches rumble over the asphalt, people hurry, the girls lift their skirts up. To see legs protruding from a skirt has something peculiarly homey about it. A female leg like that, tightly stockinged, one never sees, and now suddenly one sees it. The shoes cling so beautifully to the shape of the beautiful soft feet. Then the sun is shining again. A little wind blows, and then one thinks of home. Yes, I think of Mamma. She will be crying. Why don’t I ever write to her? I can’t tell why, can’t understand it, and yet I can’t decide to write. That’s it: I don’t want to tell anything. It’s too silly. A pity, I shouldn’t have parents who love me. I don’t want to be loved and desired at all. They will have to get used to not having a son any more.

  To be of service to somebody whom one does not know, and who has nothing to do with one, that is charming, it gives one a glimpse into divine and misty paradises. Even then: all people, or almost all, have something to do with one. The people passing by, they have something to do with me, that’s for sure. Of course, it’s really a private affair. I walk along, the sun is shining, then suddenly I see a puppy whimpering at my feet. At once I observe that this little animal extravagance has got his small legs caught up in his muzzle. He can’t walk any more. I stoop and this great big misfortune is a thing of the past. Now the dog’s mistress comes marching along. She sees what has happened, and thanks me. Fleetingly I doff my hat to the lady and I go on my way. Ah, that lady back there is now thinking that there are still polite young men in the world. Well and good. I have been of service to young people in general. And how this woman (she was not at all pretty) smiled at me. “Thank you, sir.” Ah, she made me a Sir. Yes, when one knows how to behave, one is a Sir. And when one says thank you, one respects the person whom one is thanking. The person who smiles is pretty. All women deserve politeness. Every woman has something refined about her. I have seen washerwomen who moved like queens. That is all comical, oh, so comical. And how the sun shone, and then how I ran off!—off into the shop: I’m getting myself photographed there. Herr Benjamenta wants a photograph of me. And then I must write a short and true account of my life. That means paper. So I have the added pleasure of walking into a stationer’s.

  Comrade Schilinski comes from a Polish family. He speaks an attractive broken German. Everything that is foreign sounds noble, I don’t know why. Schilinski’s great pride is an electric tiepin that he got hold of somehow. He also likes, very much indeed, striking wax matches. Remarkably often one sees him cleaning his suit, polishing his boots and brushing his cap. He likes to look at himself in a cheap pocket mirror. Of course, we pupils have all got pocket mirrors, although we really do not know the meaning of vanity. Schilinski is slim and has an attractive face and curly hair, which he tirelessly combs and tends during the day. He says he would like to have a pony. To comb and groom a horse, and then go out on it, is his fondest dream. His mental gifts are few and far between. He is not quick-witted at all, one should not, in his case, speak of subtlety of mind. And yet he is not at all stupid, limited perhaps, but I don’t like to use this word when thinking of my school-friends. That I am the cleverest of them all is perhaps not altogether so very delightful. What is the use of thoughts and ideas if one feels, as I do, that one doesn’t know what to do with them? Anyway. No, no, I’ll try to see things clearly and I don’t want to be hoitytoity, I never want to feel superior to my surroundings. Schilinski will have good luck in life. Women will prefer him, that is how he looks, altogether the future darling of women. His face and hands have a light-brownish complexion, which reminds one of something distinguished, and his eyes are bashful as a doe’s. They are charming eyes. He could be the perfect young country nobleman. His behavior reminds one of a country estate, where city and peasant life, the refined and the rough, commingle in graceful and strong human culture. He likes especially to stroll idly around, and in the liveliest streets, where I sometimes accompany him, to the horror of Kraus, who hates idleness and persecutes and scorns it. “So you two have been out having fun again, have you?”—that’s how Kraus welcomes us when we come back home. I shall have much to say about Kraus. He is the most honest and efficient of us pupils, and efficiency and honesty are inexhaustible and immeasurable domains. Nothing can excite me so deeply as the sight and smell of what is good and just. You soon reach the end of feeling about vulgar and evil things, but to get wise to something good and noble is so difficult, and yet also so alluring. No, vices do not interest me much, much less than the virtues. Now I shall have to describe Kraus and I’m positively scared of doing so. Pruderies? Since when? I hope not.

  I now go every day to the shop and ask if my photographs will not be ready soon. Each time, I can go up to the top floor in the elevator. I find that rather nice, and it matches my many other inanities. When I travel in an elevator, I really do feel that I am a child of my times. Do other people find it so? I haven’t written the account of my life yet. It embarrasses me a little to tell the simple truth about my past. Kraus looks at me more and more reproachfully every day. That suits me very well. I like to see people I love getting a little angry. Nothing pleases me more than to give a completely false image of myself to people for whom I have made a place in my heart. Perhaps that’s unjust, but it is audacious, so it is right. Of course, it is a little morbid, in my case. Thus, for example, I imagine that it would be unspeakably lovely to die with the terrible knowledge that I have offended whomsoever I love the most and have filled them with bad opinions of me. Nobody will understand that, or only someone who can sense tremblings of beauty in defiance. To die miserably, because of some mischief, some silliness. Isn’t that desirable? No, certainly not. But these are all sillinesses of the crassest kind. At this point something occurs to me and I see myself compelled, for some unknown reason, to say it. A week or more ago I still had ten marks. Well, now these ten marks are gone. One day I walked into a restaurant, one with hostesses. I was quite irresistibly drawn into the place. A girl leaped toward me and forced me to sit down on a sofa. I half knew how it would end. I resisted, but without the slightest emphasis. I just didn’t care, and yet I did. It was pleasure beyond compare to play to the girl the role of the refined and condescending gentleman. We were quite alone, and we did the nicest of silly things. We drank. She kept running to the bar, to fetch new drinks. She showed me her charming garter and I caressed it with my lips. Ah, how silly one is. She kept standing up and fetching new things to drink. And so quickly. It was just that she wanted t
o earn a nice little sum of money from the silly boy. I know this perfectly well, but it was precisely this that I liked—her thinking me silly. Such a peculiar vice: to be secretly pleased to be allowed to observe that one is being slightly robbed. But how enchanting it all seemed to me. All around me, everything was fading out in fluting, caressing music. The girl was Polish, slim and supple, and so deliciously sinful. I thought: “There go my ten marks.” So I kissed her. She said: “Tell me, what are you? You behave like a nobleman.” I was gulping my fill of the fragrance that flowed from her. She noticed it and thought it was refined. And in fact: what sort of a scoundrel would go, without any feeling for love and beauty, to places where only delight forgives what depravity has undertaken? I lied and said that I was a stableboy. She said: “Oh, no, you behave much too beautifully to be that. Now say Hello.” And so I did what they call Saying Hello in such places, that is, she explained it to me, laughing and joking and kissing me, and then I did it. A moment later I found myself on the evening street, cleaned out, down to the last penny. How do I feel about that now? I don’t know. But one thing I do know: I must get hold of some money. But how shall I do that?