The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  At the jail he discovered that visitors were allowed only three times weekly; he must apply again next day. What was he to do? Go on to Badenweiler without further delay? He began to swear at this interference with the freedom of his movements. At length, however, he said: “Oh well, a reprieve,” and the word “reprieve” stuck to him, haunting his mind, and gave him even a proud and comforting sense of brotherhood with a man so powerful as Bertrand, for the reprieve concerned both of them. He could not go off into the darkness without having seen Martin first, and it would have been ridiculous, even degrading, to let his visit to Mannheim mean nothing but a night with Erna. When a man takes a long journey he should leave no loose ends behind him, he should rather greet all his friends and say good-bye. So he went first down to the docks to look up his acquaintances in the warehouses and in the canteen. He felt almost like a long-lost relative returning from America, a little shy in case people should not know him again. For instance, it was quite possible that the watchman wouldn’t even let him through the gates. But his reception was very amiable, perhaps because all those he met probably felt they no longer had a hold on him; the customs men at the gate welcomed him at once with light friendliness, and he had a short talk with them. Yes, they said, laughing, now that he wasn’t with the Shipping Company he had no business there, and Esch said, he would soon let them see whether he had no business there, and they did not make the slightest attempt to prevent him from going in. Nobody hindered him from looking at all the sheds and cranes, warehouses and goods trucks, to his heart’s content, and when he shouted in at the warehouse doors, the storekeepers and stevedores came out and stood like brothers before him. Yet he did not regret leaving it all, he merely impressed it with great clearness on his memory, sometimes caressing a goods wagon and sometimes a gangway, so that the feeling of dry wood clung to his hard palm. Only in the canteen was he disappointed; he looked for Korn but Korn was not there; Korn was stupid and kept out of the way, and Esch had to laugh, for he was no longer jealous of Ilona; Ilona would be spirited out of Korn’s clutches into an inaccessible castle. So he merely drank a brandy with the policeman and betook himself along the accustomed street, no longer accustomed and yet more familiar than ever, till he came to a corner where the tobacco-shop regarded him expectantly, as if Lohberg had been waiting within for him with great impatience, waiting to have a chat.

  Lohberg was really there behind his till with the large cigar-cutter in his hand, and as Esch came in he amiably laid the instrument down, for he had much to beg Esch’s pardon for, and yet neither of them mentioned it, for Esch was ready to forgive and did not want Lohberg to burst into tears. Perhaps it was against the spirit of this agreement that Lohberg began to speak of Erna, but it was such a paltry infringement that Esch barely noticed it. Who could waken him until he chose? He was free! “She’s a fine comrade,” said Lohberg, “and we have many interests in common.” And since Esch was free to say what he chose, he said: “Yes, she would never do you in.” And he looked up at Lohberg’s worried face that Mother Hentjen could have squashed merely with her thumb, and he was sorry for Erna because she wasn’t big enough even to do that. Lohberg, however, smiled timidly, he was a little scared by the grisly jest, and under the eyes of his grim visitor he shrank and diminished. No, he was no fit opponent for a man like Esch; it is only the dead that are strong, though in life they may have looked like miserable snippets. Esch stalked about the shop like a ghost, sniffing the air, opening first one drawer and then another, and sliding the palm of his hand over the polished counter. He said: “When you’re dead you’ll be stronger than I am … but you’re not the kind to be done in,” he added contemptuously, for it struck him that even a dead Lohberg would be negligible; he knew the fellow too well, he would always be an idiot, and it was only those one didn’t know, those who had never existed, who were omnipotent. Lohberg, however, still suspicious where women were concerned, said: “What do you mean? Do you mean would my widow be provided for? I’ve insured my life.” That would certainly be a good reason for poisoning him off, said Esch, and could not help laughing so loudly that the laughter somehow stuck in his throat and hurt him. Mother Hentjen, now, that was a woman. She would have no truck with poison, she would simply spit a man like Lohberg on a pin as if he were a beetle. She was a woman to be regarded with consideration and respect, and it amazed Esch that he had ever thought of comparing her with Lohberg. And he was a little touched, because for all that she put on an air of weakness, and was probably quite right in doing so. Lohberg’s skin prickled, and he rolled his pale eyes: “Poison?” he said, as if it were the first time he had ever heard the word, though it was always on his tongue, or at least as if it were the first time he had actually understood it. Esch’s laughter became condescending and somewhat scornful: “Oh, she won’t poison you, Erna’s not that kind of woman.” “No,” said Lohberg, “she has a heart of gold; she wouldn’t hurt a fly.…” “Or spit a beetle on a pin,” said Esch. “I’m sure she wouldn’t,” said Lohberg. “But if you’re ever unfaithful to her she’ll do you in all the same,” threatened Esch. “I’ll never be unfaithful to my wife,” announced the idiot. And suddenly Esch realized, and it was a pleasant and illuminating realization, why he had thought of comparing Lohberg and Mother Hentjen: Lohberg was merely a woman, after all, a kind of natural freak, and that was why it didn’t matter if he slept with Erna: even Ilona had slept in Erna’s bed. Esch rose to his feet, stood firmly and robustly on his legs, and stretched his arms like a man newly awakened from sleep or nailed to a cross. He felt strong, steadfast and well endowed, a man whom it would be worth while to kill. “Either him or me,” he said, and felt that the world was at his feet. “Either him or me,” he repeated, striding about the shop. “What do you mean?” asked Lohberg. “I don’t mean you,” replied Esch, showing his strong white teeth: “As for you, you’re going to marry Erna,” for that seemed right and proper: the fellow had a fine and highly polished shop, complete with life-insurance policy, and should marry little Erna and go on living in peace; he himself, on the other hand, had wakened up and accepted the task laid upon him. And since Lohberg went on singing Erna’s praises, Esch said what was expected of him, and what the other had long been waiting for as a sign from on high: “Oh, you and your Salvation Army twaddle … if you hum and haw much longer she’ll slip through your fingers. It’s high time you took hold of her, you milksop.” “Yes,” said Lohberg, “yes, I think the time of probation is now fulfilled.” The shop looked bright and friendly in the light of that dull summer day; its yellow-oak fittings made a solid and enduring impression, and beside the patent till lay a ledger with neatly added columns. Esch sat down at Lohberg’s desk and wrote to Mother Hentjen that he had arrived safely and was well on the way to settle all his business.

  His second night in Erna’s bed he regarded as a formality that a free man was entitled to comply with. They had had a friendly talk about her marriage to Lohberg, and made love to each other almost tenderly and sentimentally, as if they had never fought tooth and nail. And after that long and wakeful night he rose with the pleasant feeling of having helped Erna and Lohberg to their joint happiness. For every man has many potentialities in him, and according to the chain of logic he throws round them he can convince himself that they are good or bad.

  Immediately after breakfast he started for the prison. In Lohberg’s shop he bought some cigarettes for Martin; nothing else occurred to him. The heat was sweltering, and Esch could not help thinking of that afternoon in Goarshausen on which he had pitied Martin because of the heat. In the prison he was shown into the visiting-room, which had barred windows giving on the bare prison yard, across which the yellow-washed buildings threw sharply cut shadows. The yard looked as if the executioner’s block might well be set up in the middle of it, that block by which the criminal had to kneel and wait for the keen edge of the axe that was to sever his head. When Esch had come to this conclusion he did not want to look at the yard any longer, and turned
away from the window. He examined the room. In the middle stood a yellow-painted table with splashes of ink on it that told of previous use in an office; there were also one or two chairs. The room was like an oven although it was in the shadow, for the early morning sun had streamed into it and the windows were shut. Esch became drowsy; he was alone and he sat down; he was left to wait.

  Then he heard footsteps in the paved corridor and the clacking of Martin’s crutches. Esch rose to his feet as if to greet a superior. But Martin came in exactly as if he were coming into Mother Hentjen’s. If an orchestrion had been at hand he would have hobbled over to it and set it going. He looked round the room and seemed pleased that Esch was alone, went up to him and shook his hand. “ ’Morning, Esch, good of you to come and see me.” He leaned his crutches against the table, just as he always did in Mother Hentjen’s, and sat down. “Come on, Esch, sit down too.” The warder who had escorted him was reminiscent of Korn in his uniform; he had remained standing by the door according to regulations. “Will you not take a seat too, Herr Warder? There’s nobody coming and I certainly won’t try to escape.” The man muttered something about the service regulations, but he came up to the table and laid down his huge bunch of keys. “So,” said Martin, “now we’re all comfortable,” and then they were silent all three, sitting round the table staring at the notches in it. Martin was rather yellower than usual; Esch did not dare to ask how his health was. But Martin could not help laughing at the embarrassed silence and said: “Well, August, tell me all the news from Cologne, how’s Mother Hentjen, and everybody else?”

  In spite of his burning cheeks Esch felt himself redden, for suddenly it struck him that he had exploited the prisoner’s absence to steal his friends from him. Nor did he know whether he should give them away before the warder. After all, few people care to be mentioned in connection with a criminal in the visiting-room of a prison. He said: “They’re all getting on well.”

  Probably Martin had understood his constraint, for he did not insist on a more exhaustive answer, but asked: “And you yourself?”

  “I’m on my way to Badenweiler.”

  “To take the waters?”

  Esch felt that Martin had no need to make fun of him. He answered dryly: “To see Bertrand.”

  “Upon my soul, you’re getting on! He’s a fine chap, Bertrand.”

  Esch was not certain if Martin was still joking or being somehow ironical. A fine sodomite was what Bertrand was, that was the truth. But he couldn’t say that in front of the warder. He muttered: “If he was really a fine chap you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Martin looked a question.

  “Well, you’re innocent, aren’t you?”

  “I? I have it in black and white, and sworn to in a court of law, that I’ve already lost my innocence several times.”

  “Oh, stop making silly jokes! If Bertrand’s such a fine chap he need only be told exactly what has happened to you. Then he’ll see to it that you’re let out.”

  “Is it you that’s going to enlighten him? Is that why you’re making for Badenweiler?” Martin laughed and stretched his hand out over the table to Esch: “My dear August, what an idea! It’s a good thing you won’t find him there.…”

  Esch said quickly: “Where is he?”

  “Oh, he’s still on his travels, in America or somewhere.”

  Esch was dumbfounded: so Bertrand was in America! Had got there first, was basking before him in the light of freedom. And although Esch had always suspected that the greatness and liberty of that far country had a very significant though not fully comprehensible connection with the greatness and freedom of the man he could never reach, he felt now as if Bertrand’s journey to America had annulled for ever his own plan of emigration. And because of this, and because everything was so remote and inaccessible, he fell into a rage with Martin: “A chairman of a company can get easily enough to America … but Italy would do him just as well.”

  Martin said peaceably: “Well, Italy, then, for all I care.”

  Esch reflected whether he should ask in the inquiry office of the Central Shipping where Bertrand was to be found. But suddenly that seemed to him superfluous, and he said: “No, he’s in Badenweiler.”

  Martin laughed: “Well, you may be right, but even so they won’t let you in … is there some girl or other behind all this, what?”

  “I’ll soon find ways and means of getting in,” said Esch threateningly.

  Martin scented trouble: “Don’t do anything silly, August, don’t worry the man; he’s a decent chap and should be respected.”

  Obviously he has no idea of all that’s hidden behind Bertrand, thought Esch, but he did not dare to mention it and merely said: “They’re all decent enough; even Nentwig,” and after some consideration he added: “All dead men are decent too, but one can only find out what that decency was worth by looking at the legacies they leave behind them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Esch shrugged his shoulders: “Nothing, I was just saying … yes, that it doesn’t matter in the long run whether a man’s decent or not; he’s always decent on one side; and that doesn’t come into question; the question is what did he do?” And he added angrily: “That’s the only way to keep yourself from being at sixes and sevens.”

  Martin shook his head in amusement mingled with sorrow: “Look here, August, you have a friend here in Mannheim who’s always prating about poison. Seems to me he must have poisoned you.…”

  But Esch continued undismayed: “For we don’t know black from white any longer. Everything’s topsy-turvy. You don’t even know what’s past from what’s still going on.…”

  Martin laughed again: “And I know even less what’s going to happen.”

  “Do be serious for once. You’re sacrificing yourself for the future; that’s what you told me yourself … that’s the only thing left to do, to sacrifice oneself for the future and atone for all that is past; a decent man must sacrifice himself or else there’s no order in the world.”

  The prison warder’s suspicions were aroused: “You mustn’t make revolutionary speeches here.”

  Martin said: “This man’s no revolutionary, Herr Warder. You’re more likely to be one yourself.”

  Esch was astounded that his remarks could be so construed. So he had turned into a Social Democrat, had he? Well, so be it! And obstinately he went on: “Let them be revolutionary, for all I care. Anyhow, you yourself have always preached that it doesn’t matter whether a capitalist is a decent fellow or not, for it’s as a capitalist he has to be opposed and not as a man.”

  Martin said: “Look at that, Herr Warder, do you think we should be allowed visitors? This man will poison me through and through with his heresies, and me just newly regenerated.” And he turned to Esch: “You’re the same old muddlehead, my dear August.”

  The warder said: “Duty’s duty,” and since he was in any case too hot, he looked at his watch and announced that their time was up.

  Martin took his crutches: “All right, lead on.” He gave Esch his hand. “And let me tell you again, August, don’t do anything silly. And many thanks for everything.”

  Esch was not prepared for such a sudden break-up. He kept Martin’s hand in his own and hesitated about shaking hands with the hostile warder. Then he offered the man his hand after all, because they had been sitting at the same table, and Martin nodded his approval. Then Martin departed, and Esch was again amazed because he went exactly as if he were only leaving Mother Hentjen’s, and yet he was going into a prison cell! It seemed indeed as if nothing that happened in the world mattered at all. Yet there was nothing that wasn’t significant: one had only to force it to be so.

  Outside the prison gate Esch drew a deep breath; he dusted himself as if to convince himself of his own existence, discovered the cigarettes he had intended for Martin, and once more felt that inexplicable and terrible rage against him, and once more his mouth was filled with curses. He even called Martin a ridiculous tub-thumper, a d
emagogue, as they said, although there was really nothing he could reproach the man with except, at the very most, that he had carried himself as though he were the chief figure in the drama, while there were much more important characters.… But that was what demagogues were like.