The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  Frau Hentjen, however, was still resentful of the way he had abused her on Geyring’s account, and she called out from the buffet that he would kindly stick up his posters only where he was asked to; it was for her to decide that kind of thing. Esch, who had long forgotten the incident, and was only reminded of it whenever he saw her angry face, made as if to obey her order. This submissiveness disarmed Mother Hentjen; she came from behind the buffet, still scolding, to have a look at the poster. As she deciphered the list of names she was overcome by sympathy and disgust: these females deserved the degradation of exposing themselves before the eyes of objectionable men, but she was at the same time sorry for them. Esch, who had engineered the whole thing, stood revealed as a pasha in the middle of a harem, and this seemed a situation of such surpassing wickedness, of such deep debauchery, that by comparison with the rest of her customers who sat around with their contemptible little lusts and vices Esch was raised to a different plane, even a higher one. His short, stiff hair, his dark head, his tanned, ruddy skin, pah! he gave her the creeps; no, she did not understand why she put up with the man and his posters, and she started when he grasped her by the wrist. Did it not look as if he meant to overpower her and have her at his mercy and add her name to the list on the poster? She was almost disappointed when nothing happened, except that Esch guided her obediently outstretched finger from one name to the other: “Russia, Germany, United States of America, Belgium, Italy, Austria, Bohemia,” he read out aloud, and because it sounded grand, and not at all dangerous, Frau Hentjen recovered her composure. She said: “But there’s some missed out; for instance, Luxemburg and Switzerland.” None the less she presently turned away from the poster with the list of feminine names as though it had an evil smell: “How can you mix yourself up with all these women!” Esch replied by quoting Martin, that every man must stay where God had put him, adding that anyhow it was Teltscher’s business, not his, to deal with the women; he was concerned only with the administrative side.

  Teltscher came to Cologne and inspected Esch’s recruits in Oppenheimer’s office. He sat the whole morning in judgment, dismissed some of them outright, and appointed the others to meet him in the Alhambra for a first lesson and a trial of their abilities.

  It turned out to be a jolly entertainment. Teltscher had brought the tights with him, and after Esch had called the roll from his notebook Herr Teltini invited the ladies to enter the dressing-room and get into their tights. Most of them refused to go until they had seen the others first in that unusual costume. When the pioneers, stripped and highly embarrassed, emerged from the dressing-room, there was a general outburst of laughter. The doors leading into the beer-garden were wide open; the green trees looked gaily in, and sudden wafts of air brought the warmth of the morning sun into the theatre. At the doors stood the proprietor and all the cooks from the restaurant, and Teltscher climbed up on the stage to give a demonstration, on the soft brown mat that was laid out, of the rules governing the Græco-Roman style of wrestling. Then he ordered up a couple to try it, but none of the girls would come; they giggled and nudged each other, pushing forward now one, now another, who resisted stoutly and took refuge in the crowd.

  At long last two of them made up their minds to it; but when Teltscher proceeded to show them the preliminary holds they only laughed and let their arms hang and did not venture to touch each other. Teltscher ordered up a third girl, but when the same thing happened he made Esch call the roll again and attempted by jocose observations on each name to create a bold and enterprising atmosphere. A French name he hailed with praise of Gallic courage, and invited the “Pride of France” to step up; then he announced the “Polish Giantess”; in brief, he rehearsed all the honourable and inspiriting titles with which he intended to introduce the wrestlers to the public. Some of the girls now appeared on the stage, but others with shrieks of mirth called back that they weren’t having any and that they wanted to put on their clothes, which Teltscher countered with expressions of regret and a pantomime of comic despair. The whole thing was not to go off without an upset, however. When Esch called out the name of Ruzena Hrushka and Teltscher added: “Up with you, O Lioness of Bohemia,” a plump, soft creature, still dressed in her own clothes, pushed forward to the footlights and with the hard sing-song cadence of her race screamed that no one would laugh at her for dirty money. “I have throw away good money already because I not let no one laugh over me,” she screamed at Teltscher, and while he was still trying to think of a joke that would save the situation she lifted up her parasol as if to fling it at him. But then she fell silent, her soft round shoulders began to heave, and it could be seen that she was crying. When she turned round and went out between the silent ranks of startled girls her eye fell on Esch, who was sitting at a table with his lists. She bent over to him and spat out: “You, you are bad friend, bring me here to shame me.” Then she went out sobbing. Meanwhile Teltscher had got the situation in hand again, and the incident was not without its good effect; the girls, as if ashamed of their previous frivolity, showed themselves now ready for serious work. Teltscher heartened them with praise, and soon they had all forgotten the wild Czech woman. Even Esch dismissed her reproaches from his mind, although he could not but admit that he was a bad friend; yet in a little he would have Martin out of confinement. Such were his thoughts as he went home.

  Frau Hentjen carefully blew her nose and regarded the result in her handkerchief. Perhaps from a feeling of guilt Esch had told her of the incident with the recalcitrant Czech woman, and Frau Hentjen had rated him, saying that it would have served him right if the poor, abused woman had scratched his eyes out. That was what came of degrading himself to the level of such women. Didn’t he have any proper pride? The trollop should have been glad he had given her a chance to earn a little money. Yes, that was all the thanks he got. But the Czech woman was quite right all the same; that’s how men should be treated. They deserved nothing better. To enjoy seeing a few poor drabs rolling over each other on the stage in tights! The poor things were ten times better than these men who took advantage of them. And she said cuttingly: “Put that cigar away for goodness’ sake.” Esch listened to all this respectfully, not merely because of the abundant dinner she gave him at a ridiculously low price, but also because he conceded her the right to show up his sinful way of life as it deserved. His affairs were in a bad state: of the three hundred marks that had been put aside for the wrestling project all he possessed now was a bare two hundred and fifty, and although his profits would begin to accumulate from the very first day’s takings, yet he did not know where he was heading for. He must have a settled source of livelihood if the sacrifice which he had taken on himself for Ilona’s sake, and which he had actually almost lost sight of by now, was not to come a cropper; he would have liked to talk the matter over but his vanity prevented him, for Mother Hentjen wasn’t in a mood to see that even the most splendid careers must grow out of humble beginnings. So he simply said: “Better wrestling matches than knife-throwing.” Frau Hentjen regarded the knife in Esch’s hand; she did not really understand what he meant, but she felt uncomfortable, so she replied briefly: “Perhaps.” “Nice meat,” said Esch, bending over his plate, and she replied with the dignity of the expert: “Sirloin.” “The grub poor Martin is getting now …” Frau Hentjen said: “Meat only on Sundays,” and she added with a hint of satisfaction, “and the rest of the time turnips mostly, I reckon.” For whose sake was Martin doomed to eat turnips? For whom was he sacrificing himself? Did Martin himself know? Martin was a martyr and yet regarded his martyrdom simply as an occupation, partly pleasant, partly disagreeable; all the same he was a decent fellow. Frau Hentjen said: “If you won’t be led you must be driven.” Esch did not reply. Perhaps Martin was keeping something to himself which nobody else knew of; a martyr had always to suffer for some conviction, for an inward certainty that determined all his actions. Martyrs were decent people. Frau Hentjen declared: “That’s what comes of these anarchist papers.” Esch ag
reed. “Yes, they’re a set of swine, now they’ve left him in the lurch.” Martin himself, of course, had sneered at the Socialist papers, although one would have thought that it was their duty to represent the Socialist point of view and advance it. Had Martin really any Socialist convictions, or had he none at all? Esch was annoyed at the thought that Martin had kept something from him. A man who possessed the truth could redeem his fellowmen; that was what the Christian martyrs had done. And because he felt proud of his education he said: “In the times of the Romans there were wrestling matches too, but with lions. Blood all over the place. Over in Trier there’s a Roman circus still.” Frau Hentjen said with interest: “Well?” But when no answer came she continued: “And I suppose you want to introduce that next, eh?” Esch silently shook his head. If Martin sacrificed himself and lived on turnips neither for his convictions, nor for his better knowledge, nor for anything else, then he probably just did it for the sake of the sacrifice itself. Perhaps one had to sacrifice oneself first, so that—how had that idiot in Mannheim put it?—so that one might feel the power of redeeming grace. But in that case perhaps Ilona too needed the daggers for her act of sacrifice; who could make head or tail of it? And so Esch said: “I don’t want to do anything. Maybe all this wrestling business is pure idiocy.” Yes, said Mother Hentjen, that it was. And again he felt a sort of respectful esteem for Mother Hentjen which gave him a sense of security.

  The room smelt of food and tobacco smoke and the sweetish odour of wine. Mother Hentjen was right: the women didn’t want things to be different. That was why Ilona had taken up with Korn. And if the wily cripple really did possess higher knowledge he didn’t give it away, allowed nobody else to share in it. He ran about, quite happy, like a dog on three legs, then whipped suddenly round a corner into prison, and prison made as little impression on him as a beating did on a dog. “Perhaps it even amuses them to be beaten and to sacrifice themselves,” he said absently. “Who?” asked Mother Hentjen with interest, “the women?” Esch reflected: “Yes, the lot of them.…” Mother Hentjen was pleased: “Shall I get you another slice?” She went to the kitchen. Esch was sorry for the Czech woman; she had cried so softly. But there too Mother Hentjen was probably right; the Hrushka woman herself did not want things to be different. And when Frau Hentjen returned with Esch’s plate he suddenly said: “No doubt she’s looking for a knife-thrower too, the Czech woman.” “Well!” said Mother Hentjen. “Poor devil,” continued Esch, and he himself did not know whether he meant Martin or the Czech woman. Mother Hentjen, however, took him to mean the Czech woman and retorted sarcastically: “Well, you can easily comfort her, seeing you’re so sorry for her … you’d better run away to her now.”

  He made no reply: he had eaten well, and so he silently took up his newspaper and began to study the advertisement column, which had become to him the most important part of the paper since the announcement of the wrestling performances was to be found there. Yet the upright book-keeping of his soul demanded that for Frau Hentjen too an account should be opened; had she any less right to it, after all, than Ilona, who absolutely despised one’s efforts to do her good? His eye was arrested by an announcement of a wine auction at Saint-Goar, and he asked Mother Hentjen where she bought her wine. She mentioned a wine-dealer in Cologne. Esch looked disdainful: “So you throw away your money on them! Why have you never asked me about it? I don’t say that every firm is as bad as the set of swindlers our fine Herr Nentwig works for, but I bet you pay pretty well through the nose.” She assumed a martyred expression: a weak woman fending for herself had to put up with lots of things. He suggested that he should go to Saint-Goar himself and buy wine for her. “Yes, and what about the expense?” she said. Esch became eager; the expense could easily be recouped in the price she charged, and if the quality was up to the mark the wine could be adulterated with a cheaper sort; he knew all about that. And besides he wasn’t thinking of the expense; an excursion up the Rhine—Lohberg’s idiotic twaddle about the joys of nature came into his mind—was always a pleasure, and she needn’t refund him his expenses until she found she had made a profit on the transaction. “And I suppose you’re going to take your Czech woman with you?” said Mother Hentjen suspiciously. The idea seemed to him not an unattractive one; yet he disavowed it loudly and indignantly; Mother Hentjen could see for herself by coming with him, why, she had said not so very long ago that she would like a day in the country—well, she could get both at the same time if she came with him, he added impatiently. She looked into his face, regarded his light-brown complexion, stiffened, and started back. “And who would look after the restaurant …? No, it would never do.”

  Well, he wasn’t so keen on it as all that himself; besides, his finances wouldn’t stand a trip for two at present, so Esch said nothing further about it, and Mother Hentjen regained her confidence. She took up the newspaper, saw with reassurance that the auction was not to take place for a fortnight still, and said that she would think it over. Yes, she could think it over, said Esch dryly, getting up. He must go to the Alhambra, where Teltscher was having a rehearsal. He chose the route past the restaurant where the Czech woman was employed. But he trod on the pedal of his bicycle and rode past.

  Gernerth had now arrived in Cologne, and Esch went down daily to the docks to inquire after the stage properties, which had been sent by boat down the Rhine, his expert knowledge of shipping affairs fitting him for this duty and his need for something to do making him zealous. And though perhaps he really went there to gaze at the sheds and nurse his regret at having given notice so prematurely to the Central Rhine Shipping Company, and to let the sight of the bonded wine-stores remind him that Nentwig was still a bitter thorn in his flesh, yet he saw and experienced all this not without satisfaction, for it proved to him visibly that his sacrifice could stand comparison with Martin’s. Also the fact that Ilona had not come to Cologne, but had remained with Korn, fitted into the scheme and gave it a sort of higher significance. Yet it must not be imagined that Esch had become a man glorying in his sufferings. Not at all! To himself he did not scruple to call Ilona a whore, and even a filthy whore, and Teltscher a pimp and a scoundrel. And if he had met that rascal Nentwig between the piled-up rows of wine-barrels he would just have let fly at him. Yet whenever in passing the long row of warehouses belonging to the Central Rhine Company he caught sight of that hated sign bearing the firm’s name, then high above all the swarm of petty scoundrels rose the splendid form of a man greater than life-size, the figure of a man of such high standing, a man so remote and lofty that he was almost more than human, and yet it was the figure of an arch-scoundrel; unimaginable and menacing rose that image of Bertrand, the rascally Chairman of this company, the sodomite who had got Martin thrown into prison. And that magnified figure, in essence unimaginable, appeared to subsume those of the two lesser scoundrels, and sometimes it seemed to Esch as though one had only to strike down this Antichrist to destroy as well all the pettier rascals in the world.

  Of course it was stupid to bother one’s head over such matters, for one had worse troubles; it was bad enough, in all conscience, to be loafing about these docks without pay. A man without a proper means of livelihood deserved to be exterminated. Mother Hentjen herself would agree with that, and it was curiously pleasant to picture this eventuality to oneself. Yes, the best solution perhaps would be for a super-murderer like that to come along and just do one in. And as Esch strolled along the quay and encountered once more the sign of the Central Rhine Shipping Company Limited he said loudly and distinctly: “Either him or me.”

  Esch was looking down into the barge that had brought up the theatrical properties, and supervising the unloading of its cargo. He saw Teltscher approaching with his rosy-cheeked friend, Oppenheimer: they advanced, so to speak, by stages, for every now and then they stopped, sometimes one seizing the other in his eagerness by the lapel of his coat, and Esch asked himself what they could have found to discuss so urgently. When they were near enough he heard Telt
scher: “And I tell you, Oppenheimer, this is no job for me—you wait, I’ll send for Ilona yet, and if in half-a-year’s time I don’t put on my turn in New York you can cut off my head.” Hoho, so Teltscher hadn’t given up his claims on Ilona even yet? Well, he would sing a different tune when things had been put in order. And Esch no longer found any pleasure in the thought of death. He snarled at the two of them: what did they want here? did they fancy, perhaps, that he had never seen to a job like this in his life before? or maybe they thought that he wanted to pinch something? or perhaps the gentleman wished to supervise his work? Well, he regretted bitterly that he had ever got other people to put their money into this business, not to mention his own. Here he had been slaving for nothing almost a whole month for this risky affair, and had put his last cent into it, and why? because a certain Herr Teltscher, who was apparently now intending to bolt, had wheedled him into it. Full of rage he began unskilfully to mimic Herr Oppenheimer’s Jewish intonations. “Why, he’s an Anti-Semite!” said Herr Oppenheimer, and Teltscher prophesied that after the first report from the box-office the day after next the Transport Director’s spirits would rise considerably. And because he himself felt in a good humour and wanted to tease Esch he walked round the conveyance on which the properties were being loaded and checked them carefully, then went up to the horses and offered them a few lumps of sugar from his pocket. Esch, angry and offended, had turned away from the Jews and was checking the packing-cases, but he regarded the two men with the tail of his eye and was astonished at Teltscher’s amiability; yet he did not want to admit that it was genuine, and half expected that the horses would decline the gift with a shake of the head. But the horses, just like horses, took into their soft and friendly lips the sugar-lumps lying on Teltscher’s flat palm, and Esch was annoyed; surely he himself might have thought of offering them a scrap of bread at least! But now that the work of loading was finished nothing remained for him but to give both the horses a sober clap on the crupper. Esch did so, and then, sitting on the packing-cases piled on the lorry, they all three drove into the town. Oppenheimer said good-bye at the Rhine Bridge; Teltscher and Esch drove on and got down at Mother Hentjen’s.