The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  He informed the lawyer, so that the deed of settlement could be drawn up again; this time Ruzena would surely accept it. But the kindness with which Ruzena and he had taken leave of each other depressed him more than the helpless resentment he had previously felt at her incomprehensible behaviour. It was indeed still as incomprehensible and dreadful as ever. His thoughts of Ruzena were full of sad yearning, full of that reluctant homesickness with which, in his cadet days, his mind had turned to his father’s house and his mother. Was the fat man by her side now? He had to think of the jesting insult his father had put upon Ruzena, and here too he recognized the curse of his father, who, himself sick and helpless, had sent a deputy in his stead. Yes, God was fulfilling his father’s curse, and all he could do was to submit.

  Sometimes he made a feeble attempt to find Ruzena again; but whenever he was a few streets away from her flat he always turned back or took a side-street, landing in the slum quarter or in the turmoil of the Alexanderplatz, and once even going as far as the Küstriner Station. He was entangled all over again in the toils, and had lost hold of all the threads. His one firm certainty was that at least Ruzena’s income should be assured, and Joachim now spent much time in the office of Bertrand’s lawyer, much more time than was actually needful. But the hours he wasted there were a kind of consolation, and although these dull and somewhat pointless visits could not have been very agreeable to the lawyer, and although Joachim learned nothing of what he hoped to learn from Bertrand’s representative, yet the lawyer did not spare himself in going into the semi-relevant and almost private questions raised by his aristocratic client, applying himself to them with a professional interest which somewhat resembled a doctor’s, but none the less did Joachim good. The lawyer, a spare man and quite beardless although he was Bertrand’s legal representative, looked like an Englishman. When, after ample delay, Ruzena’s acceptance finally came, the lawyer said: “Well, now we’ve got it. But if you’ll take my advice, Herr von Pasenow, you’ll allow the lady in question the option of taking the capital sum instead of the interest on it.” “Yes,” interposed Joachim, “but I arranged it so with Herr von Bertrand simply because …” “I appreciate your motive, Herr von Pasenow, and I know too—if you’ll excuse me—that you are not much inclined to take any bull by the horns; but what I advise is in the best interests of both parties: for the lady it’s a pretty sum of money, which in certain circumstances might set her up better for life than an allowance, and for you, on the other hand, it’s a definite quittance.” Joachim felt a little helpless; was it really a definite quittance he wanted? The lawyer remarked his helplessness: “If I may touch on the private aspect of the matter, my experience has taught me that the best kind of settlement is one which enables one to regard a past obligation as non-existent.” Joachim looked up. “Yes, as non-existent, Herr von Pasenow. Convention, after all, is the safest guide.” The word “non-existent” stuck to Joachim. Only it was strange that through the mouth of his representative Bertrand should signify such a change in his opinions and even acknowledge a convention of feeling. Why did he do it? The lawyer went on to say: “So think it over from that point of view as well, Herr von Pasenow; and, of course, for a man in your position the loss of the capital is of no importance.” Yes, a man in his position; Joachim’s sentiment for his home welled up again, warm and comforting. He left the lawyer’s office this time in an exceptionally good mood, one might almost say uplifted and strengthened. True, he did not yet see his way clear before him, for he still felt bewildered in the invisible tangle that seemed to net the whole city, a tangle of invisible forces that could not be grasped and that made his dull, persistent yearning for Ruzena insignificant, although bringing new elements of anguish into it, yet that bound him in such a novel and unreal relation to Ruzena and to all the world of the city that the net of false brightness became a net of horror winding around him, within whose tangled confusion lurked the threat that Elisabeth too, on returning to the city, which was not her world, might be caught in it; that she, the innocent and untouched, might be caught and entangled in these devilish and impalpable coils, entangled by his fault, entrapped because of him, because he could not free himself from the invisible embrace of the Devil, so persistently did darkness threaten to cloud what was clear, darkness invisible, perhaps, and still far off, floating, perhaps, and uncertain, but as besmirching as what his father had done to the maids in his mother’s house. In spite of that, however, Joachim felt as he left the lawyer’s office that he had come to a turning-point, for it was as if Bertrand had denounced his lies through the mouth of his own representative; Bertrand it had been, Bertrand, who had tried to draw him into the invisible, impalpable net, and now his own representative had had to acknowledge that the position of a Pasenow was something other, something outside this city and its swarming creatures, provided only that one was willing to regard the whole mirage as non-existent. Yes, that was Bertrand’s message by his representative, and so the Devil at last was loosening his grip of his own accord; even the Devil was still subject to the will of God, Who, in the person of a father, demands the annihilation and the non-existence of whatever lies under a father’s curse. The Evil One had acknowledged defeat, and even though he had not expressly renounced his claims on Elisabeth yet, he had himself advised Joachim to obey his father’s wishes. And without consulting Bertrand in person Joachim resolved to empower the lawyer to pay out the capital sum.

  Similarly without consulting Bertrand, Joachim put on his dress-uniform and a new pair of gloves when he was informed that the Freiherr von Baddensen and his family had arrived, and drove to visit them at an hour when he could hope to find the Baron and the Baroness at home. They wanted to show him the new house at once, but he begged the Baron first for a private interview, and after the Baron had taken him into another room Joachim straightened himself with a jerk into a correct posture, standing stiffly as before a superior officer, and asked for Elisabeth’s hand. The Baron said: “Delighted and honoured, my dear, dear Pasenow,” and called the Baroness in. The Baroness said: “Oh, I have been expecting it; a mother sees ever so many things,” and dabbed her eyes. Yes, he would be very welcome as their dear son; they could not think of a better, and were convinced that he would do his utmost to make their daughter happy. He would do that, he returned manfully. The Baron had taken his hand: but now, first of all, they must speak to their daughter about it; he must understand that. Joachim replied that he understood; and thereupon they spent another quarter of an hour in half-formal, half-intimate conversation, in the course of which Joachim could not refrain from mentioning Bertrand’s wound; then he took his leave briefly without having seen either the new house or Elisabeth, but that mattered little now, for he had all the rest of his life to see them in.

  It surprised Joachim himself that he was not more passionately impatient for Elisabeth’s consent and did not feel impelled to shorten the time of waiting, and often it amazed him that he could not imagine their future life together. He could see himself, indeed, leaning on a stick with a white ivory crook-handle, standing beside Elisabeth in the middle of the stableyard, but when he tried to visualize the scene more closely the image of Bertrand always intruded. It would not be easy to tell him of their betrothal; after all it was Bertrand against whom it was directed and Bertrand from whom Elisabeth had to be shielded, and, strictly regarded, it had a look of treachery about it, since in a manner of speaking he had once surrendered Elisabeth to him. And although Bertrand deserved nothing better, yet he shrank from inflicting such a hurt upon him. Of course that was no reason for postponing the betrothal; but suddenly it began to look as if the betrothal could not take place at all unless Bertrand were previously informed of it. He was still in duty bound to keep an eye on Bertrand, and could not comprehend how he had so completely forgotten him for days together, as if he were already exempt from all obligations. Besides, Bertrand was probably still an invalid. He drove to the hospital. Bertrand was, in fact, still lying there; they had ha
d to operate on him; Joachim was genuinely upset to discover how he had neglected the patient, and now that he set himself to inform him of the approaching event he made it at the same time a kind of excuse for such remissness. “But, my dear Bertrand, I can’t always be plaguing you with my private affairs.” Bertrand smiled, and there was a hint of a consultant’s or a woman’s solicitude in his smile. “Go ahead, Pasenow, it’s not so bad as all that; I enjoy listening to you.” And Joachim related how he had proposed for Elisabeth. “I don’t know whether she will, I dread still more that she won’t, for then I should feel that I was irretrievably floundering again in all the awful complications of the past months which you have shared with me to a great extent, while with her by my side I hope to find a way into the open.” Bertrand smiled again. “Do you know, Pasenow, all that sounds very fine, yet I wouldn’t care to marry you on the strength of it; but you don’t need to worry. I’m convinced that you’ll soon be accepting congratulations.” What repulsive cynicism; the man was literally a bad friend, he was no true friend at all, even though one had to admit in extenuation that he was both jealous and disappointed. Joachim therefore ignored the cynical remark and fell back on his own train of thought, asking: “What shall I do if she says no?” And Bertrand gave him the answer he desired: “She won’t say no,” averring it with such conviction and certainty that Joachim once more experienced that feeling of security which Bertrand so often evoked in him. It now seemed to him almost unfair that Elisabeth should attach her preference to him, the unsure one, and renounce the sure and steady leader. And as if to justify himself a voice within him said: “Comrades in the King’s uniform.” And suddenly he had a vision of Bertrand as a major. But from what source did Bertrand draw his confidence? How could he be certain that Elisabeth would not refuse? Why did he smile so ironically as he said so? What did this man know? And he regretted having confided in him.—

  As a matter of fact Bertrand could have found many justifications for an ironical smile, or more precisely a knowing smile; yet his smile was one of simple friendliness.

  On the previous day Elisabeth had abruptly descended upon him. She had driven to the hospital and asked for him in the reception-room. In spite of his aches and pains he had gone down immediately. It was an extraordinary visit, and certainly outraged convention, but Elisabeth did not take any pains to conceal its irregularity; she was obviously in distress and went straight to the point:

  “Joachim has made an offer for my hand.”

  “If you love him, there isn’t any problem.”

  “I don’t love him.”

  “Then there isn’t any problem either, for I suppose you’ll refuse him.”

  “So you won’t help me?”

  “I’m afraid, Elisabeth, there’s nobody who can do that.”

  “And I thought that you could.”

  “I didn’t want to see you again.”

  “Have you no friendship for me?”

  “I don’t know, Elisabeth.”

  “Joachim loves me.”

  “Love needs some degree of cleverness, not to say wisdom. You must allow me to be somewhat dubious of his love for you. I warned you once already.”

  “You are a bad friend.”

  “No, but there are moments when one must be absolutely honest.”

  “Can one be too stupid to love?”

  “I have just said so.”

  “Perhaps, then, I too am too stupid.”

  “Listen to me, Elisabeth, we won’t touch on questions of that kind, for these are not the motives that decide our lives.”

  “Perhaps I do love him … there was a time when I wasn’t unwilling to think of marrying him.”

  Elisabeth sat in the large invalid-chair in the small reception-room and looked at the floor.

  “Why have you come here, Elisabeth? Surely not to ask for advice that nobody can give you?”

  “You don’t want to help me?”

  “You have come because you can’t bear to have anyone run away from you.”

  “I am serious in this … you mustn’t make a joke of it … too serious to endure your saying more of your abominable things to me. I thought I should find some understanding.…”

  “But I must tell you the truth. That’s just why I must tell you the truth. You have come because you feel that I stand posted at some point outside your world, because you think that from my outpost there might be descried a third possibility beside the banal alternatives: I love him, I don’t love him.”

  “Perhaps that is so; I don’t know any longer.”

  “And you have come because you know that I love you—I told you that plainly enough—and because you want to show me what my somewhat absurd conception of love leads to,” he gave her a side-glance, “perhaps to discover how quickly estrangement can turn into intimacy.…”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Let us be honest, Elisabeth; the question between you and me now is whether you would marry me. Or, to be more exact, whether you love me.”

  “Herr von Bertrand, how dare you take advantage of the situation in such a way!”

  “Ah, you shouldn’t have said that, for you know perfectly well that it’s not true. You have a decision for life in front of you, and you can’t simply take refuge in convention. Of course the only question is whether a woman can think of her man as a lover, and not whether she is willing to set up house with him. If there is one thing I can’t forgive Joachim for, it’s that he didn’t frankly discuss this essential point with you, but went with his so-called wooing to your parents, literally degrading you. Mark my words, he’ll be on his knees next.”

  “You’re trying to torment me again. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have come, because I didn’t want to see you again, but, my dear, you had to come, because you l—”

  She stopped her ears.

  “Well, more precisely, you are on the verge of believing that you might be able to love me.”

  “Oh, don’t torment me; have I not been tormented enough already?” With her hands pressed to her temples she lay in the easy-chair, her head thrown back, her eyes shut; that was just how she used to sit in Lestow, and this relapse into old habit made him smile and feel almost tender. He was standing behind her. The arm in the sling pained him and made him awkward. But he succeeded in bending down and touching her lips with his. She started up: “This is madness!”

  “No, it’s merely a farewell.”

  With a voice as drained of life as her face she said: “You shouldn’t, you, of all people …”

  “Who should kiss you, Elisabeth?”

  “You don’t love me.…”

  Bertrand was now walking up and down the room. His arm ached and he felt feverish. She was right, it was sheer madness. Suddenly he turned round and stopped close in front of her: without his intending it his voice sounded menacing: “I don’t love you?”

  She stood motionless with her arms hanging, and let him bend back her head. In her very face he repeated his threatening words: “I don’t love you?” And she felt that he was going to bite her lips, but it turned into a kiss. And while most incomprehensibly the rigidity of her mouth relaxed into a smile, her hands, which had been hanging limp, now came to life and raised themselves, with the outflow of her feeling, towards his shoulders to clutch them, never more to let them go. At that he said: “Take care, Elisabeth, that’s where I’m wounded.”

  Horrified, she loosened her grasp. But then her strength forsook her: she collapsed into the easy-chair. He sat on the arm of it, drew out the pins of her hat, and caressed her blond hair. “How lovely you are, and how much I love you.” She was silent; she suffered him to take her hand; she felt the fevered heat of his, felt the heat of his face as he bent close to her again. When he hoarsely repeated “I love you” she shook her head, but yielded him her lips. Then at last the tears came.

  Bertrand sat on the arm of the chair stroking her hair gently. He said: “I have such a longing for
you.”

  She answered weakly: “It isn’t true.”

  “I have such a longing for you.”

  She made no reply, staring into vacancy. He did not touch her again; he had risen to his feet and said once more: “I have an unspeakable longing for you.”

  Now she smiled.

  “And you are going away?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked up, questioning and incredulous; he repeated: “No, we shall never see each other again.”

  She was still unconvinced. Bertrand smiled: “Can you imagine me suing for you to your father? Giving the lie to everything I have said? That would make it all the most sordid comedy; the most barefaced imposition.”

  She grasped somehow what he meant, but yet could not understand:

  “But why, then? Why …?”

  “I can’t possibly ask you to be my mistress, to come with me … of course I could and you would end up by doing it too … perhaps out of romanticism … perhaps because you really care for me now … of course you do now … oh, my dear …” they lost themselves in a kiss … “but after all, I can’t put you in a false position, even though it might perhaps mean more to you than … to put it frankly, than your marriage to Joachim.”