Why are you writing it out? I could do it too, why do you keep telling me to keep calm? I’m perfectly calm, I’m following the calculation—oh, help, where did that logarithm x come from, what am I supposed to do with it, now what?
“There. And now what?” asks Kupfer. Putting down the chalk, he steps back. “Now I think you could do a little of the work, Candidate Gerber. So far I’ve done it all. If you please!”
Only now does Kurt realize what has been going on. He turns as pale as death.
“Find the log,” says Kupfer.
Kurt stands there dazed.
Inspector Marion disguises his own ignorance of the subject with the harmless question, “Don’t you know how to work out logarithms?”
Kurt is at a loss. What—what logarithm is he supposed to find? There is a huge paddle wheel going round in his head, he stares helplessly at the board with all those strange figures on it, tries to say something, spurred on by sheer fear, stops, begins again.
“That will do,” croaks Inspector Marion. “You can’t expect any more! Thank you, Candidate Gerber.” He makes a brief note on a piece of paper in front of him and then turns to Kupfer, who looks enquiringly at him:
“Shouldn’t we move on to the second question?”
Marion hesitates for a moment. Then he says, “Ah, the second first question.” He utters a hoarse laugh, moving his torso stiffly back and forth like a puppet on strings. Several of the professors oblige him by chuckling.
After a short pause Marion says grimly, “You really don’t deserve any more of our time.” More time passes before, with a dismissive gesture, he says, “But go on, please!”
Mechanically, Kurt writes: 4x–9y2 = 36.
“The equations of the asymptotes have to be shown.”
Kupfer does not speak up.
Bolder this time, Marion asks, “Don’t you know anything about the equations of the asymptotes?”
Kurt hardly hears him, but looks past him at the class. Kaulich, Weinberg, Hobbelmann and others are frantically moving their lips, they are trying to tell him something. Kurt tries desperately to interpret the message; he leans forward, Kaulich crosses two fingers, Weinberg traces something in the air, they are all gesturing, putting their hands to their heads in horror—the answer must be something childishly simple, but Kurt can’t think what it is, absolutely cannot, and they are gesticulating in more and more agitation…
Then Kurt sees Kupfer exchanging glances with Marion; he drops the chalk, he knows what is inevitably coming now—and it does.
“We have finished, Candidate Gerber!” says Kupfer.
And as Kurt staggers away from the lectern, feeling dazed, Marion says sarcastically, “And you wanted to answer that question first? Delicious!”
Brodetzky is already going up to begin the Latin exam. First he goes quickly over to the lectern, bends down, picks up the chalk that Kurt dropped. Then he sits beside Niesset at the head of the green table.
Kurt sits between Gerald and Duffek. No one is looking at him.
So that’s what failing is like. Kurt imagined it differently, as something on a larger scale, out of the ordinary. But this was pitiful. The questions weren’t difficult. He knew that himself. His eyes ran over the first question; yes, he had to work out the log of the factors of the numerator—only a little thing really—you have to be able to do it even if you don’t need it at university (Kurt clenches his fists in sudden rage)—even if it’s absurd to deprive someone of his Matura if he wants to study law or philosophy just because he couldn’t work out a compound interest sum, and that was by pure chance, with Professor Ruprecht he’d always been able to do it… but there was no denying that two simple questions had been enough to bring about his downfall. Kupfer’s behaviour was certainly another reason. On the other hand, he hadn’t had to help him at all. The way he had done so, getting him first into full swing and then plunging to his doom—that was a little interlude, those two factors cancelled each other out. Kurt had definitely come to grief over those two questions, had definitely failed the whole Matura.
Failed? No, why? There were still three subjects to come! No, you didn’t fail as easily as that. I didn’t make it in maths, agreed, but there’s still Latin, German and Prochaska’s two subjects. Good heavens, I could have taken things more easily! I shouldn’t have made all that effort, I should have saved my powers for the other subjects. Well—it may yet turn out all right.
Kurt calmed down. After all, anyone might have expected him to fail in maths. It was silly to have had any hopes of it. You don’t have to do equally well in all four parts of the exam. If you did, you were unanimously awarded your pass, but who needed to be unanimously passed?
He wiped the sweat off his face. He was feeling very hot in his dark suit, his shirt was sticking to his body. Another silly thing is having to get yourself up in your Sunday best, he thought, just for an exam like any other.
Then Gerald was called up. Niesset came over to Kurt, opened a book and pointed, without a word, to the passage for translation, which was marked in red. Kurt skimmed it quickly. About thirty lines from Virgil’s Eclogues, and they didn’t seem to him difficult.
However, his performance was not quite up to what he had expected. His translation, so far as he thought he could judge, was indeed better than Duffek’s and Gerald’s, but some of the grammatical questions he was then asked gave him difficulty. Right at the end, when he was under crossfire from Marion and Niesset and didn’t immediately recognize a very easy verbal form, coming up with one impossible future tense after another in his confusion; when Mattusch (yes, Mattusch, Kurt felt ashamed of himself) quietly told him the answer three times and finally gave up in exasperation because Kurt didn’t understand him; when the bell rang for the long break period, and Kurt still hadn’t decided between aberem, abirem and abiturus sum—right at the end Marion shook his head thoughtfully, saying slowly, “And this is supposed to be a candidate for the Matura!” With that Latin was over, and with it the first part of the examination.
Kurt went out into the corridor, and was surrounded by a group of his agitated friends all talking together.
“You idiot—what was that spectacle all about?—fool—can’t answer the simplest questions and insists on changing the order of them—even a first-year student can’t do that, but in the Matura—are you out of your mind?—it all comes from thinking so well of yourself—you always have to know best!—gets into difficulty, so he has to act impossibly to all the examiners—didn’t you see what I was telling you?” (This was Rimmel, pulling him aside.) “You had only to take the equation of the hyperbola down to its normal form and then bring it out, child’s play, don’t you see that?”
Kurt stared in astonishment at his eager fellow student, who was now trying to tell him how to work something out. He was through with maths, after all, for ever. The whole maths exam, and its prelude, now seemed to him so far in the past that he wondered how the others all knew so much detail about it. Had it really been so important? Since then, after all, he had done pretty well in Latin, that made everything all right again—why didn’t they say a word about the Latin?
Kurt waited. At last he asked them himself. “How was my Latin?”
The voices ebbed away, undecided opinions were hesitantly proffered; some of his fellow students shrugged their shoulders and walked away.
Kurt took fright. Did that mean—?
“You were all at sea at the end,” said Klemm. “The translation was quite good.”
Quite good, only quite good? Not very good? The conclusion, with that little mistake he had made, was not forgotten, and mattered? How could they say so with such certainty?
“Maybe you’re just imagining that you shone in Latin?” said Schönthal venomously. “And anyway, it’s obvious that Almighty God Kupfer let you talk on the way you did just to make sure you really would fail the Matura!”
Kurt swung round, and Schönthal retreated in alarm.
“There, there, t
here!” said Kaulich the peacemaker. “It was a very good average performance in Latin, and that’s all you need if you’re just after a majority of pass marks. You’re sure to get that, Scheri, even if God Almighty Kupfer stands on his head. And a little while ago I picked something up, a conversation, Birdie was saying: and I’m not letting Gerber get failed because of Kupfer. Lengsfeld heard it too.”
Lengsfeld confirmed Kaulich’s remarks. Several other students made confident predictions. Anyway, the more difficult part of the oral Matura was over…
The bell rang again. The last time I ever hear it ring, thought Kurt suddenly, and he felt like rejoicing out loud. The happy idea of no longer having anything to do with school made itself forcibly felt, overwhelmed him. He went back to his place, humming quietly to himself.
The German oral exam was in two parts: first you had to offer your interpretation of a poem, and then a question about German literary history that had some connection with it was discussed.
When Mattusch put the book with the poem in it down in front of Kurt, he leant down a little and whispered quickly, “Well then, pull yourself together, show them what you can do in German at least, right?” With those words he was gone, leaving Kurt deeply confused yet again. Mattusch’s good intentions were obvious, but sounded like a forlorn hope. What did that “at least” mean? Was his achievement so far as bad as that? Wasn’t he fighting a battle that was already lost? Was everything decided? I’m not letting Gerber—but then that meant they must have discussed the prospect of his failing, didn’t it?
“Gerber!” Mattusch was calling him up to be examined in German. And Kurt hadn’t even looked at the poem yet.
“Well then, what have we here? A poem by Lenau, right? ‘Autumn’. Well then.”
Kurt was glad he could talk about Lenau; he loved his poetry and he already knew this poem. He would take care to read it with the reserved attitude that was right for it. Not in a warm, emotional voice—that was all wrong here. But then he read the last verse aloud:
And so my youth has passed away,
Without the joys of springtide’s gladness;
The autumn winds blowing today
Bring dreams of death and mortal sadness.
And at that point he noticed, in alarm, that his voice was shaking slightly. Some sense of sublimity moved him in a way he had never felt so strongly before. It was not exactly unwelcome, just a little uncomfortable, something mighty and unapproachable—no, he could not have said what it roused in him. It was confusing. Kurt was used to knowing what his feelings were at once, and smiling at them if possible; he tried to do that now, telling himself it was an odd coincidence that he, of all the students, was to discuss a poem about youthful melancholy; maybe Mattusch had made a clever observation. But no, it was more likely chance, damn it, he thought; it’s been like this since Wednesday at ten, from the streetwalker and Lisa and the crooner and abeo abire all the way to here, to another Wednesday and ten o’clock again—so stupid, the trashy novel is out to annoy me… But Kurt’s thoughts took him no further, did not bring him to the heart of this unknown sensation before which all mockery died away… what could it be?…
“Well?” said Mattusch.
Kurt pulled himself together. No more trashy ideas.
But when he discussed the poem, hesitantly at first, trying to keep his way on the narrow path that left him the possibility of either choosing prosy, cliché-ridden language or being unable to make himself understood by the examiners—when he discussed the poem and came to the last verse that unknown sensation was back again. It flowed into him and would not let him go. Kurt tried to grasp it, to explore it—but it had too many facets. There was something about it like withered leaves, like floating away past a weary sun, something like apprehensiveness and peace, like growth and death. As if it would help him to escape the unknown sensation, for he felt timid in the face of it, he spoke forcefully about Lenau, his life and his madness, his death; he spoke cogently, ideas coming fast like ripples spreading out, and became so impassioned that Mattusch had to remind him to keep to the point. Kurt stopped. Where was he, then? Oh yes—taking the oral Matura, and there—brrr!—sat the professors around him. He looked at their faces. Seelig and Filip had propped their heads on their hands and were listening to him attentively. All the rest of them—Marion most intensively—were busy with something quite different, reading or writing or looking into space, Riedl had just yawned… Kurt sank back, feeling annihilated. An image appeared before him: he was standing in a large, high-ceilinged room, probably an official building of some kind, squeezed into a long line of people dressed almost the same, making their way towards a counter. Kurt did not really know why he was there. He was coming closer to the counter with every step he took. He could already hear the people in front of him putting forward their requests. He didn’t understand what they said, only that it was always the same thing. Then he was standing in front of the official who stood at a little window behind the counter. But no sooner had he begun speaking than an opaque glass pane came down over the window, the people behind him were pushing, Kurt had to move on, and the little window opened again for the next comer. This happened several times. And the odd thing was that he knew he was speaking but he couldn’t understand his own words.
Then the image suddenly disappeared, Kurt came to his senses, and was surprised to realize that he had really been talking all the time, mechanically churning out remarks on “lyric poetry in Austria at the time of the Young Germany literary movement”. Doubtfully, incredulously, he passed his hand over his forehead. Was this real? Yes, it was! There were the professors, still sitting there.
He paused. Much surprised, and without understanding at once, he heard Mattusch’s voice: “Good.”
He was expecting another question, but Mattusch closed the book. The German examination was over.
“Finished?” asked Marion, peering up from the register at which he had been looking. “Thank you.”
Kurt got up and went back to his place.
After this he couldn’t get his thoughts straight. They assumed almost physical shape, they were stronger than him, they disappeared from him into mist. Sometimes he saw them emerge again very far away and go gliding past in ghostly form, they kept swirling around in pairs, he tried to follow them, but he didn’t know the way; he groped around uncertainly, wandered off, got lost, then something that he had only recently been thinking jumped out at him again. Many thoughts came together, indistinct, intangible—yet always in such a way that they did not seem to him at all extraordinary or surprising, that he seemed to know all this from some time or other, that he felt his timidity as if it were a concern that he might find this or that was not the same as it had been at that mysterious last time, that—fully understanding the absurdity of it—he nonetheless always knew that nothing unexpected would really happen, nothing running counter to the outer course of events.
So he was not at all surprised when someone suddenly touched his shoulder, and next moment a white paper was lying on the table in front of him. It came from Prochaska, who would soon be examining him in geography and history, and thoughts of Prochaska and the examination in geography and history fitted neatly into the course of events—like everything yet to come; they went their way, were soon blurred and did not appear again until Prochaska called, “Gerber.” Kurt had a feeling that he had been addressed several times before. He quickly got to his feet, picked up the folded paper and went to the map on the wall. Only now did he think about his questions. Yes, he knew what they were. And he began.
“It can be said of the geological structure of the Carpathian system that it—”
“Excuse me, young gentleman—er—Candidate—er, Candidate Gerber—er—”
What was the matter? Why was Prochaska interrupting him? Why was he shifting from foot to foot, hunching his head down between his shoulders and moving it back and forth? This is a nuisance. Kurt began again, with emphasis, setting him right: “It can be said of
the geological structure—”
“That’s not the question. Please look at the paper!” Prochaska had said that sharply and fast, as if taking a run up to a difficult obstacle, and then he immediately looked in another direction.
Kurt heard movement in the room, like the distant rushing of a waterfall, swelling louder and interrupted by an audible, evocative clearing of throats. He looked at Prochaska. But surely his question was “The geological structure of the Carpathian system”!
It was so quiet now that you could have heard a pin drop.
Prochaska said, “Look at the paper, please. You could really have done that before.”
Kurt unfolded the paper and read: 1. Geography: Mining and the iron and steel industry in the succession states. 2. History: The causes and origins of the Thirty Years War.
There must be some mistake. He turned the paper over. No. It said: Kurt Gerber.
Suddenly he wasn’t surprised any more. It was all in order. It would all go its way. He saw Blank turning a hurdy-gurdy—then he thought of Prochaska’s first lesson that year—don’t make life too difficult for me, young people, I’m an old man, I’ll be retiring soon—something that Gerald had said to him (when?—he thought very long ago) ran past his ear—and then geography and history go like clockwork—he vaguely saw connections, they became clear for a moment, rage and hatred and indignation, and pity and understanding arose, airing themselves in one short, whistling breath… Then all was calm again, inside and outside.
“Then let’s take the history question. If you please, the causes and origins of the Thirty Years War.”
Kurt heard what the old man was saying, but it took some time for the words really to reach his conscious mind, put down root and bring more words out over his own lips. He began talking about what he dimly remembered, but what he said was so disjointed that Prochaska kept tearing it to shreds. Kurt nodded, spoke, nodded again; finally he brought some kind of train of thought together, and saw from a gesture by Prochaska that the examination was over. He went back to his place, and at first did not know why Gerald, the only one sitting there, stood up. Then he realized that the last who had been listening had also left the room. He followed them. The door closed behind him on the examiners and their discussion.
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