Am I a born city dweller? It’s quite possible. I hardly ever get stunned or surprised. There’s something unspeakably cool about me, in spite of the excitements that can attack me. I have shed provincial habits in six days. Of course, I did grow up in a very very small metropolis. I drank in city life and city feeling with my mother’s milk. As a child I saw yowling drunken workers reeling about. Even when I was very small, nature seemed to me a remote heaven. So I can do without nature. Doesn’t one then have to do without God, too? To know that goodness, pure and sublime, is hidden somewhere, somewhere in the mists, and to revere and adore it very very quietly, with an ardor that is, as it were, totally cool and shadowy: I’m accustomed to that. One day as a child I saw an Italian workman lying dead against a wall, in a pool of blood, and pierced by numerous knife-wounds. And another time, it was in the days of Ravachol, we young people told each other that bombs would soon be getting thrown in our part of the world as well, et cetera. Old times, those. I meant to talk of something quite different, that is, of comrade Peter, Beanpole Peter. This exceedingly tall boy is too funny, he comes from Teplitz in Bohemia and can speak Slavic and German. His father is a policeman, and Peter was trained as a clerk in a rope works, but he seems to have played being ignorant, unusable, and unsuccessful, which I, privately, find very endearing. He says that he can also speak Hungarian and Polish, if it is asked of him. But here nobody asks any such thing of him. What extensive knowledge of languages! Peter is quite decidedly the silliest and the clumsiest of us pupils, and that heaps him and wreathes him with distinctions in my inconsiderable eyes, for I am unbelievably fond of silly people. I hate the kind of person who pretends he understands everything and beamingly parades knowledge and wit. Sly and knowing people are to me an unspeakable abomination. How nice Peter is, in precisely this point. His being tall, so tall that he could crack in two, is good, but even better is the goodness of heart which keeps whispering to him that he is a cavalier and has the looks of a noble and elegant rake. It’s a great laugh. He’s always talking of adventures he has had, but probably hasn’t had. Anyway, one thing is true: Peter owns the finest and most delicate walking stick in the world. And now he is always going out and walking the liveliest streets with this stick in his hand. Once I met him in the F—— Street. F—— Street is the fascinating focus of cosmopolitan life in this big city. Still a long way off, he was waving his hand to me nodding and brandishing his walking stick. Then, when I was close to him, he looked paternally and anxiously at me, as if to say: “What? You here too? Jakob, Jakob, this is no place for you.” And then he took his leave, like one of the great men of the world, like the editor of an internationally famous newspaper who can’t spare a moment of his highly valuable time. And then I saw his round, silly, nice little hat vanishing in the mass of other heads and hats. He melted, as they say, into the crowd. Peter learns absolutely nothing, although in his so humorous way he really needs to, and it seems that he only came to the Benjamenta Institute in order to distinguish himself with the most delightful sillinesses. Perhaps he’s even becoming a few considerable degrees sillier than he was, and why, indeed, shouldn’t his silliness be allowed to develop? I, for instance, am convinced that Peter will have a shameful amount of success in life, and, strange to say, I grant him this. Yes, I even go further. I have the feeling, and it is a very comforting one, tingling and pleasant, that I shall one day obtain a master, lord, and superior such as Peter would be, for such silly people are made for promotion, advancement, good living, and the giving of commands, and such people as I am, to some extent intelligent, should let the good impulses which they possess blossom and exhaust themselves in the service of others. Me, I shall be something very lowly and small. The feeling that tells me this is like a complete and inviolable fact. My God, and do I have, all the same, so much, so much zest for life? What is it with me? Often I’m a little frightened of myself, but not for long. No, no, I have confidence in myself. But isn’t that altogether comic?
For my fellow-pupil Fuchs I have only one single expression: Fuchs is crosswise, Fuchs is askew. He speaks like a flopped somersault and behaves like a big improbability pummeled into human shape. Everything about him is unpleasant, therefore unlovable. To know something about Fuchs is an abuse, a coarse and bothersome superfluity. One only knows such rascals in order to despise them; but since one doesn’t want in the least to despise anything, one forgets and overlooks it. It, yes. For an it is what he is, a thing. O God, why must I talk angrily today? I could almost hate myself for it. Away to something better.—I see Herr Benjamenta very rarely. Sometimes I go into the office, bow to the ground, say, “Good day, Principal,” and ask this kingly man if I may go out. “Have you written the account of your life, eh?” I am asked. I reply: “Not yet. But I shall do so.” Herr Benjamenta comes up to me, that is, up to the counter at which I’m standing, and pushes his gigantic fist up to my nose. “You’ll be on time with it, boy, or else—you know what comes of that.” I understand him, I bow again and disappear. Curious, the pleasure it gives me to annoy practicers of force. Do I actually want this Herr Benjamenta to punish me? Do I have reckless instincts? Everything is possible, everything, even the most sordid and undignified things. Very well, then, soon I shall write the account of my life. I find Herr Benjamenta very handsome indeed. A glorious brown beard—what? Glorious brown beard? I’m a fool. No, there’s nothing handsome about the Principal, nothing glorious, but behind this man one senses difficult paths of destiny and heavy blows of fate, and it is this human thing, this almost divine thing, that makes him handsome. True people and true men are never visibly handsome. A man who has a really handsome beard is an opera singer or a well-paid departmental chief in a big store. Surface people are handsome, as a rule. However, there may be exceptions and specimens of masculine handsomeness that are authentic. Herr Benjamenta’s face and hands (I have already felt his hand) are like knotty roots, roots which at some sad moment have had to withstand a few unmerciful ax-blows. If I were a lady of noblesse and intelligence, I would know absolutely how to bestow distinction on men like this apparently so impecunious principal of an institute, but, as I suppose, Herr Benjamenta doesn’t mix with society on the worldly stage. Actually he is always at home, doubtless he keeps sort of hidden away, he creeps away, “into the solitude,” and, indeed, this noble and clever man must live a horribly lonely life. Some-thing must have happened to make on this character a deep and perhaps even destructive impression, but who knows? A pupil at the Benjamenta Institute, whatever can such a person know? But at least I am always investigating. In order to investigate, I often go to the office for no other reason than to ask the man just such fiddling questions as this “May I go out, Principal?” Yes, this man has a fascination for me, he interests me. The instructress also arouses my most intense interest. Yes, and for this reason, to get something out of all this mystery, I irritate him so that something like an incautious remark may escape from him. What’s the harm if he hits me? My desire for experiences is growing into a domineering passion, and the pain which this strange man’s annoyance causes me is small in comparison with my trembling wish to lead him on into saying something a little revealing. Oh, I dream—glorious, glorious—of winning the confidence which this man is just beginning to show. It may take a long time, but I think, I think I shall manage to penetrate at last the mystery of the Benjamentas. Mysteries make one dream of unendurable bewitchments, they have the fragrance of something quite, quite unspeakably beautiful. Who knows, who knows. Ah—
I love the noise and restless movement of the city. Perpetual motion compels morality. A thief, for example, when he sees all the bustling people, would not be able to help thinking what a scoundrel he is, and then the blithe and brisk sight of it all can feed betterment into his crumbling, ruin-like character. The braggart will perhaps become more modest and thoughtful when he catches sight of all the forces at work here, and this unseemly fellow may tell himself, when the supple throngs catch his attention, that he must
be a dreadful rogue to set himself up, stupidly and vainly, with such conceit and arrogance. The city educates, it cultivates, and by examples, what’s more, not by arid precepts from books. There is nothing professorial about it, and that is flattering, for the towering gravity of knowledge discourages one. And then there is so much here that fosters, sustains, and helps. One can hardly express it. How difficult it is to give living expression to that which is fine and good! One is grateful, here, for one’s morsel of life, one is always a little grateful, while it is urging one on, while one is in a hurry. A person with time to waste doesn’t know what time means, and he is the natural stupid ingrate. In the city, there isn’t a messenger boy who doesn’t know the value of his time, there isn’t a newsboy who trifles his time away. And then how dreamlike it is, picturesque and poetic! People keep scuttling and shoving by. Well, now, that’s important, that is stimulating, that gives the mind a more zestful rhythm. While one is standing hesitantly around, a hundred people and a hundred things have passed through one’s head and before one’s eyes, which proves very clearly what a dawdler and a sluggard one is. There is such a general hurry here because people think every moment how nice it is to go struggling and grasping for things. The breath of life becomes more bewitching. The wounds and pains go deeper, joy jubilates more joyously and for longer than elsewhere, because anyone who is joyous here always seems to have bitterly and justly earned it by hard toil. Then again there are the gardens that lie behind the delicate fencings, so quiet and lost, like secret corners in English parklands. Right beside them the business traffic rushes by and clatters past, as if landscapes or dreams had never existed. The railway trains thunder over the quivering bridges. Evenings, the fabulous rich and elegant shopwindows shine, and streams, serpents, and billows of people roll past the allures of industrial riches on display. Yes, that all seems grand and good to me. One profits from being in the midst of the whirling and bubbling. One has a good feeling in the legs, the arms, and the chest while making the effort to wriggle cleverly and without much fuss through all the living stuff. In the morning everything comes to life anew, and in the evening everything sinks into the wildly embracing arms of a new and unknown dream. That’s very poetic. Fräulein Benjamenta would quite rightly admonish me if she were to read what I am writing here. Not to speak of Kraus, who makes no such passionate distinction between village and city. Kraus sees, firstly, people, second, duties, and third, at the most, savings which he will put aside, he thinks, to send to his mother. Kraus always writes home. He has an education that is as simple as it is purely human. The turmoil of the big city with all its many foolish, glittering promises leaves him completely cold. What an upright, tender, solid human soul!
At last my photographs are finished. The portrait, a really good one, shows me looking out very very energetically into the world. Kraus tries to annoy me and says that I look like a Jew. At last, at last he laughs a bit. “Kraus,” I say, “please realize, even Jews are people.” We quarrel about the worth and worthlessness of the Jews and it is splendid entertainment. I wonder what good opinions he has: “The Jews have all the money,” he thinks. I nod, I agree and say: “It’s money that makes people Jews. A poor Jew isn’t a Jew, and rich Christians, they’re dreadful, they’re the worst Jews of all.” He nods. At last, at last I have found this person’s approval. But now he’s angry again and says very gravely: “Stop this gabbling! What’s all this about Jews and Christians? Such people don’t exist. There are mean people and good ones. That’s all. And what do you think about that, Jakob? Which sort are you?” And now a really long discussion starts. Oh, Kraus likes to talk with me very much, I know it. The good, fine soul. Only he doesn’t want to admit it. How I love people who don’t like making admissions! Kraus has character: how clearly one feels that. —Of course, I’ve written the account of my life, but I tore it up. Fräulein Benjamenta warned me yesterday to be more attentive and obedient. I have the loveliest ideas about obedience and attentiveness, and it’s strange: they escape me. I am virtuous in my imagination, but when it comes to practicing virtue? What then? You see, then it’s quite another matter, then one fails, then one is reluctant. Also I am impolite. I long very much to be courtly and polite, but when it’s a question of speeding ahead of the instructress and opening the door for her respectfully, who’s that scoundrel there, sitting at the table? And who springs up like a gale to show his manners? Aha, it’s Kraus. Kraus is a knight from head to toe. Truly, he belongs in the Middle Ages, and it really is a pity that he hasn’t got a Twelfth Century at his disposal. He is fidelity in person, ardent service and unobtrusive, selfless obligingness. He has no judgment about women, he merely respects them. Who lifts from the floor what has fallen there, and hands it quick as a squirrel to the lady? Who leaps from the house on errands? Who carries the shopping bag when the instructress goes to market? Who scrubs the stairs and the kitchen without being told? Who does all this and doesn’t ask for thanks? Who is so gloriously, so powerfully happy in himself? What is his name? Ah, I know who it is. Sometimes I’d like this Kraus to punch me. But people like him, how could they punch? Kraus only wants what is right and good. That is no exaggeration at all. He never has bad intentions. His eyes are frighteningly kind. This person, what is he really doing in a world that is meant and built for empty words, lies, and vanity? When one looks at Kraus, one can’t help feeling how hopelessly lost in the world modesty is.
I have sold my watch, so as to buy tobacco for cigarettes. I can live without a watch, but not without cigarettes, that is shameful, but a necessity. Somehow I must get some money or I shan’t have any clean clothes to wear. Clean collars are things I can’t do without. A person’s happiness depends, yet does not depend, on such things. Happiness? No. But one should be proper. Cleanliness alone is a joy. I’m just talking. How I hate all the right words! Today the Fräulein cried. Why? Halfway through the class, tears suddenly poured from her eyes. It strangely moves me. Anyway, I shall have to keep my eyes peeled. I like listening for something that doesn’t want to make a sound. I pay attention, and that makes life more beautiful, for if we don’t have to pay attention there really is no life. It is clear, Fräulein Benjamenta is grieving and it must be a violent grief, because usually our instructress is very self-controlled. I must get some money. And another thing: I’ve written the account of my life. This is how it goes:
MY LIFE
The undersigned, Jakob von Gunten, son of honorable parents, born on such and such a day, raised in such and such a place, entered the Benjamenta Institute as a pupil in order to acquire knowledge of the few things necessary for entering someone’s service. The same has no high hopes of life. He wishes to be treated strictly, so that he may know what it means to pull himself together. Jakob von Gunten is not very promising, but he proposes to behave well and honestly. The von Guntens are an old family. In earlier times they were warriors, but their pugnacity has diminished and today they are aldermen and tradesmen, and the youngest of the house, subject of this report, has resolved to lapse from every proud tradition. He wants life to educate him, not inherited or noble principles. Of course, he is proud, for it is impossible for him to deny his inborn nature, but by pride he means something quite new, something that corresponds, in some degree, to the times in which he is living. He hopes that he is modern, to some extent suitable for the performance of services, and not altogether stupid and useless, but that is a lie, he does not only hope this, he affirms it, and he knows it. He is defiant, the untamed spirit of his ancestors is still alive in him a little, but he asks to be admonished when he acts defiantly, and, if that does not work, to be punished, for then he believes it will work. In general, it will be necessary to know how to deal with him. The undersigned believes that he is adaptable to all circumstances, therefore it is a matter of indifference to him what he is ordered to do, he is firmly convinced that any carefully executed work will be for him a greater honor than sitting idly and timidly in a cozy corner at home. A von Gunten does not sit in a
cozy corner. If the ancestors of the obedient undersigned bore the knightly sword, their descendant acts in the same tradition by desiring ardently to make himself useful somehow. His modesty knows no limits, as long as one flatters his spirit, and his zeal to serve is like his ambition, which commands him to disdain obstructive and harmful feelings of honor. At home, the same undersigned always used to give his history teacher, the esteemed Dr. Merz, a drubbing, which was shameful, and which he regrets. Today he longs to be allowed to shatter his arrogance and conceit, which perhaps still animate him in part, against the merciless rock of hard work. He is reticent of speech and will never divulge confidences. He believes neither in heaven nor in hell. The satisfaction of that person who engages him will be his heaven, and the sorrowful opposite will be his annihilating hell, but he is convinced that he will give satisfaction in himself and in what he does. This firm belief gives him the courage to be the person he is,
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