by Stefan Zweig
In the book trade and among ordinary persons, Jacob Mendel was regarded as nothing more than a second-hand book dealer in a small way of business. Sunday after Sunday, his stereotyped advertisement appeared in the Neue Freie Presse and the Neues Wiener Tagblatt. It ran as follows:
Best prices paid for old books, Mendel, Obere Alserstrasse.
A telephone number followed, really that of the Café Gluck. He rummaged every available corner for his wares, and once a week, with the aid of a bearded porter, conveyed fresh booty to his headquarters and got rid of old stock—for he had no proper bookshop. Thus he remained a petty trader, and his business was not lucrative. Students sold him their textbooks, which year by year passed through his hands from one generation to another, and for a small percentage on the price he would procure any additional book that was wanted. He charged little or nothing for advice. Money seemed to have no standing in his world. No one had ever seen him better dressed than in the threadbare black coat. For breakfast and supper he had a glass of milk and a couple of rolls, while at midday a modest meal was brought to him from a neighbouring restaurant. He did not smoke; he did not play cards; one might almost say he did not live, were it not that his eyes were alive behind his spectacles, and unceasingly fed his enigmatic brain with words, tides, names. The brain, like a fertile pasture, greedily sucked in this abundant irrigation. Human beings did not interest him, and of all human passions perhaps one only moved him, the most universal—vanity.
When someone, wearied by a futile hunt in countless other places, applied to him for information, and was instantly put on the track, his self-gratification was overwhelming, and it was unquestionably a delight to him that in Vienna and elsewhere there existed a few dozen persons who respected him for his knowledge and valued him for the services he could render. In every one of these large conurbations we call towns, there are here and there facets which reflect one and the same universe in miniature—unseen by most, but highly prized by connoisseurs, by brethren of the same craft, by devotees of the same passion. The fans of the book market knew Jacob Mendel. Just as anyone encountering a difficulty in deciphering a score would apply to Eusebius Mandyczewski of the Musical Society, who would be found wearing a grey skullcap and seated among multifarious musical manuscripts, ready, with a friendly smile, to solve the most obstinate problem; and just as, today, anyone in search of information about the Viennese theatrical and cultural life of earlier times will unhesitatingly look up the scholar Father Glossy, so, with equal confidence did the bibliophiles of Vienna, when they had a particularly hard nut to crack, make a pilgrimage to the Café Gluck and lay their difficulty before Jacob Mendel.
To me, young and eager for new experiences, it became enthralling to watch such a consultation. Whereas ordinarily, when a would-be seller brought him some ordinary book, he would contemptuously clap the cover to and mutter, “Two crowns”, if shown a rare or unique volume, he would sit up and take notice, lay the treasure upon a clean sheet of paper, and, on one such occasion, he was obviously ashamed of his dirty, ink-stained fingers and filthy fingernails. Tenderly, cautiously, respectfully, he would turn the pages of the treasure. One would have been as loath to disturb him at such a moment as to break in upon the devotions of a man at prayer, and in very truth there was a flavour of solemn ritual and religious observance about the way in which contemplation, palpation, smelling and weighing in the hand followed one another in orderly succession. His rounded back waggled while he was thus engaged, he muttered to himself, exclaimed “Ah” now and again to express wonder or admiration, or “Oh, dear” when a page was missing or another had been mutilated by the larva of a book beetle. His weighing of the tome in his hand was as circumspect as if books were sold by the ounce, and his sniffing at it as sentimental as a girl’s smelling of a rose. Of course it would have been the height of bad form for the owner to show impatience during this ritual of examination.
When it was over, he willingly, nay enthusiastically, tendered all the information at his disposal, not forgetting relevant anecdotes, and dramatised accounts of the prices which other specimens of the same work had fetched at auctions or in sales by private treaty. He looked brighter, younger, more lively at such times, and only one thing could put him seriously out of humour. This was when a novice offered him money for his expert opinion. Then he would draw back with an affronted air, looking for all the world like the skilled custodian of a museum gallery to whom an American traveller has offered a tip—for to Jacob Mendel contact with a rare book was something sacred, as is contact to a young man with a woman who has not had the bloom rubbed off. Such moments were his platonic love affairs. Books exerted a spell on him, never money. Vainly, therefore, did great collectors (among them one of the notables of Princeton University) try to recruit Mendel as librarian or book-buyer. The offer was declined with thanks. He could not forsake his familiar headquarters at the Café Gluck. Thirty-three years before, an awkward youngster with black down sprouting on his chin and black ringlets hanging over his temples, he had come from Galicia to Vienna, intending to adopt the calling of rabbi, but before long he forsook the worship of the harsh and jealous Jehovah to devote himself to the more lively and polytheistic cult of books. Then he happened upon the Café Gluck, by degrees making it his workshop, headquarters, post office—his world. Just as an astronomer, alone in an observatory, watches night after night through a telescope the myriads of stars, their mysterious movements, their changeful medley, their extinction and their flaming-up anew, so did Jacob Mendel, seated at his table in the Café Gluck, look through his spectacles into the universe of books, a universe that lies above the world of our everyday life, and, like the stellar universe, is full of changing cycles.
It need hardly be said that he was highly esteemed in the Café Gluck, whose fame seemed to us to depend far more upon his unofficial professorship than upon the godfathership of the famous musician, Christoph Willibald Gluck, composer of Alceste and Iphigenie. He belonged to the outfit quite as much as did the old cherry-wood counter, the two billiard tables with their cloth stitched in many places, and the copper coffee urn. His table was guarded as a sanctuary. His numerous clients and customers were expected to take a drink ‘for the good of the house’, so that most of the profit of his far-flung knowledge flowed into the big leather pouch slung round the waist of Deubler, the waiter. In return for being a centre of attraction, Mendel enjoyed many privileges. The telephone was at his service for nothing. He could have his letters directed to the café, and his parcels were taken in there. The excellent old woman who looked after the toilet brushed his coat, sewed on buttons and carried a small bundle of underlinen every week to the wash. He was the only guest who could have a meal sent in from the restaurant, and every morning Herr Standhartner, the proprietor of the café, made a point of coming to his table and saying “Good morning!”—though Jacob Mendel, immersed in his books, seldom noticed the greeting. Punctually at half-past seven he arrived, and did not leave till the lights were extinguished. He never spoke to the other guests, never read a newspaper, noticed no changes, and once, when Herr Standhartner civilly asked him whether he did not find the electric light more agreeable to read by than the malodorous and uncertain kerosene lamps they had replaced, he stared in astonishment at the new incandescents. Although the installation had necessitated several days’ hammering and bustle, the introduction of the glow-lamps had escaped his notice. Only through the two round apertures of the spectacles, only through these two shining lenses, did the thousands of black infusorians which were the letters filter into his brain. Whatever else happened in his vicinity was disregarded as unmeaning noise. He had spent more than thirty years of his waking life at this table, reading, comparing, calculating, in a continuous waking dream, interrupted only by intervals of sleep.
A sense of horror overcame me when, looking into the inner room behind the bar of the Café Gluck, I saw that the marble top of the table where Jacob Mendel used to deliver his oracles was now as bare as
a tombstone. Grown older since those days, I understood how much disappears when such a man drops out of his place in the world, were it only because, amid the daily increase in hopeless monotony, the unique grows continually more precious. Besides, in my callow youth a profound intuition had made me exceedingly fond of Buchmendel. It was through the observation of him that I had first become aware of the enigmatic fact that supreme achievement and outstanding capacity are only rendered possible by mental concentration, by a sublime monomania that verges on lunacy. Through the living example of this obscure genius of a second-hand book dealer, far more than through the flashes of insight in the works of our poets and other imaginative writers, had been made plain to me the persistent possibility of a pure life of the spirit, of complete absorption in an idea, an ecstasy as absolute as that of an Indian yogi or a medieval monk, and I had learnt that this was possible in an electric-lit café and adjoining a telephone box. Yet I had forgotten him, during the war years and through a kindred immersion in my own work. The sight of the empty table made me ashamed of myself, and at the same time curious about the man who used to sit there.
What had become of him? I called the waiter and enquired. “No, Sir,” he answered, “I’m sorry, but I never heard of Herr Mendel. There is no one of that name among the frequenters of the Café Gluck. Perhaps the head waiter will know.”
“Herr Mendel?” said the head waiter dubiously, after a moment’s reflection. “No, Sir, never heard of him. Unless you mean Herr Mendl, who has a hardware store in the Florianigasse?”
I had a bitter taste in the mouth, the taste of an irrecoverable past. What is the use of living, when the wind obliterates our footsteps in the sand directly we have gone by? Thirty years, perhaps forty, a man had breathed, read, thought and spoken within this narrow room; three or four years had elapsed, and there had arisen a new king over Egypt, which knew not Joseph. No one in the Café Gluck had ever heard of Jacob Mendel, of Buchmendel. Somewhat pettishly I asked the head waiter whether I could have a word with Herr Standhartner, or with one of the old staff.
“Herr Standhartner, who used to own the place? He sold it years ago, and has died since. The former head waiter? He saved up enough to retire, and lives upon a little property at Krems. No, Sir, all of the old lot are scattered. All except one, indeed, Frau Sporschil, who looks after the toilet. She’s been here for ages, worked under the late owner, I know. But she’s not likely to remember your Herr Mendel. People like her hardly know one guest from another.”
I dissented in thought:
“One does not forget a Jacob Mendel so easily!” What I said was:
“Still, I should like to have a word with Frau Sporschil, if she has a moment to spare.”
The Toilettenfrau (known in the Viennese vernacular as the Schocoladefrau) soon emerged from the basement, white-haired, run-to-seed, heavy-footed, wiping her chapped hands upon a towel as she came. She had been called away from her task of cleaning up, and was obviously uneasy at being summoned into the strong light of the guest rooms, for common folk in Vienna, where an authoritarian tradition has lingered on after the revolution, always think it must be a police matter where their ‘superiors’ want to question them. She eyed me suspiciously, though humbly. But as soon as I asked her about Jacob Mendel, she relaxed, and at the same time her eyes filled with tears.
“Poor Herr Mendel … so there’s still someone who bears him in mind?”
Old people are commonly much moved by anything which recalls the days of their youth and revives the memory of past companionships. I asked if he was still alive.
“Good Lord, no. Poor Herr Mendel must have died five or six years ago. Indeed, I think it’s fully seven since he passed away. Dear, good man that he was; and how long I knew him, more than twenty-five years; he was already sitting every day at his table when I began to work here. It was a shame, it was, the way they let him die.”
Growing more and more excited, she asked if I was a relative. No one had ever enquired about him before. Didn’t I know what had happened to him?
“No,” I replied, “and I want you to be good enough to tell me all about it.”
She looked at me timidly, and continued to wipe her damp hands. It was plain to me that she found it embarrassing, with her dirty apron and her tousled white hair, to be standing in the full glare of the café. She kept looking round anxiously, to see if one of the waiters might be listening.
“Let’s go into the card room,” I said, “Mendel’s old room. You shall tell me your story there.”
She nodded appreciatively, thankful that I understood, and led the way to the inner room, a little shambling in her gait. As I followed, I noticed that the waiters and the guests were staring at us as a strangely assorted pair. We sat down opposite one another at the marble-topped table, and there she told me the story of Jacob Mendel’s ruin and death. I will give the tale as nearly as possible in her own words, supplemented here and there by what I learnt afterwards from other sources.
“Down to the outbreak of war, and after the war had begun, he continued to come here every morning at half-past seven, to sit at this table and study all day just as before. We had the feeling that the fact of a war going on had never entered his mind. Certainly he didn’t read the newspapers, and didn’t talk to anyone except about books. He paid no attention when (in the early days of the war, before the authorities put a stop to such things) the newspaper-vendors ran through the streets shouting, “Great Battle on the Eastern Front,” (or wherever it might be), “Horrible Slaughter,” and so on; when people gathered in knots to talk things over, he kept himself to himself; he did not know that Fritz, the billiard-marker, who fell in one of the first battles, had vanished from this place; he did not know that Herr Standhartner’s son had been taken prisoner by the Russians at Przemysl; never said a word when the bread grew more and more uneatable and when he was given bean coffee to drink at breakfast and supper instead of hot milk. Once only did he express surprise at the changes, wondering why so few students came to the café. There was nothing in the world that mattered to him except his books.
“Then disaster befell him. At eleven one morning, two policemen came, one in uniform, and the other a plain-clothes man. The latter showed the red rosette under the lapel of his coat and asked whether there was a man named Jacob Mendel in the house. They went straight to Herr Mendel’s table. The poor man, in his innocence, supposed they had books to sell, or wanted some information, but they told him he was under arrest, and took him away at once. It was a scandal for the café. All the guests flocked round Herr Mendel, as he stood between the two police officers, his spectacles pushed up under his hair, staring from each to the other, bewildered. Some ventured a protest, saying there must be a mistake—that Herr Mendel was a man who would not hurt a fly, but the detective was furious, and told them to mind their own business. They took him away, and none of us at the Café Gluck saw him again for two years. I never found out what they had against him, but I would take my dying oath that they must have made a mistake. Herr Mendel could never have done anything wrong. It was a crime to treat an innocent man so harshly.”
The excellent Frau Sporschil was right. Our friend Jacob Mendel had done nothing wrong. He had merely (as I subsequently learnt) done something incredibly stupid, only explicable to those who knew the man’s peculiarities. The military censorship board, whose function it was to supervise correspondence passing into and out of neutral lands, one day got its hands upon a postcard written and signed by a certain Jacob Mendel, properly stamped for transmission abroad.
This postcard was addressed to Monsieur Jean Labourdaire, Libraire, Quai de Grenelle, Paris—to an enemy country, therefore. The writer complained that the last eight issues of the monthly Bulletin bibliographique de la France had failed to reach him, although his annual subscription had been duly paid in advance. Thepedanticofficialwhoreadthismissive(ahigh-schoolteacher with a bent for the study of the Romance languages, called up for war service and sent to employ
his talents at the censorship board instead of wasting them in the trenches) was astonished by its tenor. “Must be a joke,” he thought. He had to examine some two thousand letters and postcards every week, always on the alert to detect anything that might savour of espionage, but never yet had he chanced upon anything so absurd as that an Austrian subject should unconcernedly drop into one of the imperial and royal letter boxes a postcard addressed to someone in an enemy land, regardless of the trifling detail that since August 1914 the Central Powers had been cut off from Russia on one side and from France on the other by barbed-wire entanglements and a network of ditches in which men armed with rifles and bayonets, machine guns and artillery, were doing their utmost to exterminate one another like rats. Our schoolmaster enrolled in the Landsturm did not treat this first postcard seriously, but pigeon-holed it as a curiosity not worth talking about to his chief. But a few weeks later there turned up another card, again from Jacob Mendel, this time to John Aldridge, Bookseller, Golden Square, London, asking whether the addressee could send the last few numbers of the Antiquarian to an address in Vienna which was clearly stated on the card.
The censor in the blue uniform began to feel uneasy. Was his correspondent trying to trick the schoolmaster? Were the cards written in cipher? Possible, anyhow; so the subordinate went over to the major’s desk, clicked his heels together, saluted and laid the suspicious documents before the ‘properly constituted authority’. A strange business, certainly. The police were instructed by telephone to see if there actually was a Jacob Mendel at the specified address, and, if so, to bring the fellow along. Within the hour, Mendel had been arrested, and (still stupefied by the shock) brought before the major, who showed him the postcards and asked him with drill-sergeant roughness whether he acknowledged their authorship. Angered at being spoken to so sharply, and still more annoyed because his perusal of an important catalogue had been interrupted, Mendel answered tardily: