A Man in Love

by Martin Walser

  From outside came the clatter of horses, the lovely sound of freshly shod hooves on the hard courtyard, eight hooves in the most unruffled rhythm in the world. And it led him to Karlsbad, where he had lived in the Alte Wiesenstrasse, not fifty yards from the bridge over the Tepl River. Because the hooves pounded on the wooden bridge, Ulrike had called them, “the Ghost Riders.” It was in the evening as they sat in front of the Golden Ostrich and watched the moon rise over Mount Dreikreuz. And with her at the mineral spring, silently watching the water spout that didn’t rise monotonously to a constant height—because then it would just stand there like a column—no, it shot up, hesitated a quarter-second as if catching its breath, then shot up again. Whenever he stood with Ulrike and all the other spa guests, he didn’t know what they were all thinking when they stared in wonder at this spouting miracle. And he found that it was all a mistake! Why couldn’t one—why wasn’t one allowed to express what one so clearly felt?! He could feel the rhythm in his member, the part that would so much like to be the whole. And what about Ulrike and all the others? When Ulrike then touched him a little on the way back, he felt completely happy. Never again would he see the spouting spring with Ulrike. This “never again” was a force, an annihilating force. He sensed that he must not give in to the rigidity that was starting to spread through him. Now as never before, secrecy was called for. Concealment. If what was dominating him now should come out, a hurricane of sympathy and triumph would break out and he would be drowned in a wave of moral-aesthetic dogmatism that would roll in as dreadful compassion. Instinctively, he reached for the list of today’s obligations. It said that Chancellor von Müller and Julie von Egloffstein were scheduled to come together to present him with a remarkable painting. Not until five o’clock. At six, Riemer is going to read his satirical sonnets against the language purists. Then Linchen with Soret, Rehbein, Adele Sch., the chancellor, Riemer, Ottilie, Meyer, and Court Chaplain Röhr. But beforehand, at five, a certain Herr Zeuner, who in stilted language has asked for a letter of recommendation to W. von Humboldt and was himself highly recommended by Chancellor von Müller.

  She has exchanged the past for the future. Anyone of sound mind would do the same. In company, you must not let the words “sound mind” slip out of your mouth. To be able to extinguish oneself like a light. You have already dreamed everything. Just don’t admit during the day that your dream was right. You dreamed you were in a church with her in Karlsbad, which was St. Jacob’s church from Weimar. Now it was in Karlsbad, high above the city at the edge of a forest, on the path to Diana’s Hut where he had spent those four du-hours with her. In the dream they had climbed up the steep path without speaking. In reality, during the steep climb Ulrike had already recited Werther’s grief over the walnut trees. When they had almost arrived at the forest’s edge, they suddenly discovered this church, which he recognized as St. Jacob’s. Then they were inside the church, festively illuminated by a thousand candles. It was as overfull as on the day Christiane was buried there. Ulrike smiled as soon as they were inside the church, smiled to one person and another. Who smiled back. Ulrike knew everyone and everyone knew Ulrike. Then they kissed each other, he and she. In reality, it was on their return that they had kissed each other, at the edge of the forest, for the very last time. But as they were kissing each other in the dream, she tilted her head without interrupting the kiss so that she could see beyond him, and watch a young man—clearly an Oriental—who walked past them to the door and, before vanishing out the door, turned back once more and exchanged a look with her.

  When he awoke from this dream, he got up at once. He feared that if he fell back asleep, he would have to dream the same thing again. This helplessness in the face of a dream. What ought he to do during the day to be protected from such dreams? He knew the answer: he should assert himself. Against himself. The only thing that had helped so far: work. He could write whatever he wanted about whatever he wanted. As long as he wrote, he was protected. It was practiced, second nature. Writing, he was not of this world but in his own. But if he then tired and had to stop, the past pounced on him with redoubled fury as if because he had turned away from it, it had been recharged, had stored up energy and was now many times more powerful than before. He got out Hufeland’s book and reread the passage he had read and underlined during his illness:

  Boerhaave tells of himself that after thinking about the same thing for a few days and nights, he had suddenly fallen into such a state of fatigue and weakness that he had lain in a death-like condition, feeling nothing, for a considerable time.

  Why did he not fall into this wished-for, death-like condition, feeling nothing, since he thought of nothing but Ulrike? Why had he never thought of liberating Ulrike from her refusal to wear jewelry? Because he respected her condition. Because he adored her too much. Because he idolized her the way she was. On the last evening in Karlsbad, he had given her the little golden ginkgo leaf—how absolutely ridiculous. She hadn’t even worn it that evening. He, however, wore day and night around his neck the little golden key that led to her glove. They existed in cruel inequality.

  Without receiving the fellow, he had John convey to Herr Zeuner the letter recommending him to Humboldt. He felt able to do that because it was revenge for Zeuner’s stilted language. Then, the almost longed-for audience with Chancellor von Müller and Julie von Egloffstein. Since Sweet Julie (that was her nickname, and it was appropriate) frequented his house, he and the chancellor competed for her favor, and Julie enjoyed it. But today the two arrived with conspiratorial expressions. The chancellor was carrying a painting covered in a blanket. “Clear a space please, Excellency, and don’t look.” He obeyed. When he was allowed to look, the picture was hanging on the wall where paintings to be presented were always hung. It was Ulrike von Levetzow. The two of them were delighted at his astonishment.

  Julie said it was her Christmas present to him. But since she wasn’t sure it would be welcome under the family Christmas tree, she was giving it to him now.

  Dramaturgy, thought Goethe. The supreme director, or the Devil’s grandmother. He had always known that the word “coincidence” was only an ignoramus’s paltry substitute.

  “Ehhhhhxcellency,” said Julie, drawing out the first syllable as only she and Ulrike could.

  It was a touchy situation. He was unable to stand up. He had to assume a posture that the two of them would understand and, if asked, could pass on to others. “How did you come to paint this picture, Julie?” The question sounded intense, but not stunned.

  It was the question Julie was waiting for, and she burst out with the answer. In Dresden she’d met a Fräulein Fölkersam who studies art there. As soon as Fräulein Fölkersam, from the Duchy of Courland, hears that Julie lives in Weimar, she runs to fetch her portrait of Goethe and wants to know if it’s any good, and Julie, parodying Goethe, says, “Extremely congruent!” The Courlander girl is delighted, starts chattering about how much her friend Ulrike von Levetzow has told her about Goethe and Marienbad. And she has drawn Ulrike, too. Julie bought the drawing and based her portrait on it, part gouache, part watercolor, part chalk, part oil. The greatest thing about it: Ulrike’s face in so many colors! He remembered: that’s how she looked in the dream. Ah, Julie! She asked him to deliver a death sentence or a reprieve.

  “Extremely congruent,” said Goethe.

  And the other two laughed.

  Then he turned to Chancellor von Müller and said seriously, “You know, don’t you, that Ottilie and the entire family leave for Berlin tomorrow. ‘Berlin is agleam,’ Ottilie says. And since she said it, everyone says it. And everyone wants to spend the season and amuse themselves in Berlin. But not everyone can. We poor folks can only mourn as we watch the lucky ones leave, but we are able to look after ourselves. And the first thing that entails is purchasing this picture from the artist, Herr Chancellor. Pay whatever it takes, then it gets taken to my rooms, my armoires, disappears forever. We do not know of any such picture! No gossip, no rumors, we
are well-practiced renunciants, nothing leads us into temptation anymore. Herr Chancellor, dear Julie, I see you heartily agree.” And he had Stadelmann take the picture down at once and carry it to his rooms. The evening had been salvaged.

  When he returned to his rooms much later, he saw a note from the wise Stadelmann telling which cabinet he had put the picture in.

  He sat in Mother Egloffstein’s chair and let his hands tremble. There was not the slightest danger that his hands would start trembling in the presence of other people, but when he was alone it almost felt good to let them tremble. There was then nothing he had to do. They trembled effortlessly, all by themselves so to speak. He watched them. Looked at his hands, the fingernails Stadelmann had cleaned and polished in Marienbad. When genuine diamonds can no longer compete with imitations, it is probable that with his connections in the Orient, Juan Adam de Ror will become the king of coffee importers. Mocha is the name of the future.

  Chapter Six

  HE HAD TO get up. Hardly was he on his feet when her absence shot through him, as sharp, fresh, and painful as if the news that he no longer had her had only just arrived. At once, he was overwhelmed by the unsparing feeling of being forsaken. Lying in bed, he had practiced for an unmeasurable time seeing himself without her; had practiced that she no longer existed, would never again exist for him. He was able to feel that he had thrown some sort of impermeable blanket over everything. And now, thanks to nothing but a change of position, all his work at reconciling himself was gone as though it had never been. Every time, memory lunges out and stabs the defenseless. So then, begin again. Practice futility. Now he had Ulrike’s picture, now he could go to it at any moment, could look and look at her face in Julie’s almost wild riot of color … and then what?

  He must never look at this picture. And knew that he would tell himself that a hundred times and then run over and take it out and look at it. Look and look and look! A dirty trick of dramaturgy! With this picture, she is more clearly there than if the picture did not exist. So the picture exacerbates his struggle. So he ought to destroy it. He ought to, but … He had to do something against this picture. And as fast as he could, he went to his desk. And wrote.

  A Man in Love.

  No longer a face. A bend in a nose, the tip of a nose, a small mouth that never rests for a second. It twitches, fidgets, a dry insect that will not be skewered by the sharp chin that juts into space. Around these parts, hair flutters inadequately, least of all for the swollen earlobes glowing like two lanterns outside a house of pleasure. The lean neck can only be salvaged by a load of jewelry. Her movements give the impression of having no center point from which they are controlled. An uncontrollable dangle and swing. The voice, shrill, ideal for self-righteousness. The twitching little mouth issues a constant stream of self-righteousness. Never an easy smile. Always a flat giggle tuned to eeee. So much for your picture.

  Ah, Ulrike, through you he becomes a dwarf practicing the high jump. Hostility. Without hostility toward Ulrike, he couldn’t extricate himself. Apply hostility like an instrument, like a lever with which to increase one’s own, inadequate force. But how to cultivate a hostility toward this girl that would convince himself? Hatred? He had survived a long life without hatred. Suffering is the only possibility to hurt her who is making you suffer. But if you realize that everything you suffer was caused by yourself? If something is dreadful and you must admit that you deserve it? If you can say that what you suffer is unjust, you can defend yourself. If you have to say that you yourself are doing what makes you suffer, that you have no one else to blame, then you have to turn against yourself. Disgust? Yes! Increasingly. He was increasingly disgusted by all the clothes he had worn in Marienbad and Karlsbad. He should have done something about them long ago.

  And he called Stadelmann and directed him to immediately load into a crate everything he had worn that summer in Bohemia: the Werther costume, the summer coat with a red velvet collar, and all the linen and cotton shirts he had purchased there. The black silk and white silk vests, the white flannel nightshirt, the white cambric scarf and its stickpin, the hose, and the stockings.

  “Stadelmann, you were selling my hair again in Bohemia. I should have dismissed you. If you fail me now, I shall have to dismiss you. Everything into a crate, then drive out past the pheasant run into the Webicht Forest and take along some peat and paper and burn it all so that nothing remains. Have we understood each other, Stadelmann?”

  The giant Stadelmann, who visibly shrunk at the mention of selling hair, straightened up again and said solemnly, “Yes, sir.”

  Goethe saw that he could rely on Stadelmann this time. “If I ever happen upon even a handkerchief or scarf that was there last summer, you are dismissed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Stadelmann and left.

  Ottilie was already in Berlin. This maneuver might be successful. He breathed a sigh of relief. And trotted over to the room with the cabinet where papers were stored. The accounts from his travels, kept and signed by Johann Wilhelm Stadelmann. Wonderful papers in Stadelmann’s handwriting, which was as beautifully energetic as his driving style. And he became absorbed in once more reading the summer’s words and dates. The moor bath, 30 kreutzer per day; the daily oil, 15; the 4 rolls, 8; the daily wax candles, 1.40. Stadelmann had written down every guilder, every kreutzer: beer, laundry, room, papper (with two p’s), gratuities, alms box, ink powder. It did him good to see 3 guilders 20 for the table of Baron von Boesigke; he had always paid when dining at the table of Frau von Levetzow’s father over at the palais. He could burn all this himself. Everything, including the bill from the spa inspectors for the cases with 36 jugs of Kreuz Spring water, with cork, delivered to his lodgings. They had saved him. He had to read the bill once more:

  Only upon satisfactorily completed delivery of the goods in the prescribed weight and at the agreed-upon time, please have the kindness to pay the freight to the carter.

  No, he would not burn this bill. It should survive as monument to a probity that will someday cease to exist. And he put the bill back into one of the drawers where he kept things to save.

  But what about the picture? If he is serious, he has to burn it. But he cannot burn a picture. Not yet. And the box with the glove from August 28, 1823, and the little key he still wears around his neck on a little chain … Everything that couldn’t be burned must be buried. First, take off the little chain and key, get rid of them now.

  He breathed easier. As if this decision had made him much more able to act, it suddenly became clear to him that his entire show of renunciation, his comical forgoing act, his bogus cultural posing was nothing but a grotesque overestimation of the social environment.

  Ottilie was right to call him Tartuffe and reproach him for propagating the idea that the bitterer the cup, the sweeter the face of him who drains it, while in reality, he was as unrestrained, indecent, and unprincipled as the most hopeless opium eater in the slums of London. That’s how she shouted at him, and she was right.

  As never before, he felt how distant he was from the world of conversation. Was it really necessary for him to expend his most subtle energies to ensure that Bettina von Arnim (a notorious fraud) and all the Carolines and Charlottes talked about him as he would like them to? He should not have concealed Ulrike from them, but from himself. He ought not to have wasted his energy in a charade of renunciation, but in a struggle against Ulrike’s presence within himself. He had fought that battle, but not in earnest. Not as earnestly as the battle deserved. He had fought the battle in the consciousness that he could not win it, did not want to win it. In his obsessively positive daily routines he had never submitted himself to a test he knew he wouldn’t pass. Giving himself bad grades in life had to be avoided. The moment he thought, with the greatest possible earnestness, that he could make Ulrike disappear within himself, he saw her before him in the park. Under a straw hat secured by crossed yellow ribbons, she stands at the pond, feeding a swan. He had to protect himself from
these blows of recollection. Himself! Himself! Himself! What’s needed now is ruthlessness toward himself. Or you will croak because of a girl who knows some things about you but guesses nothing. What he felt now was anything but strength. He thought he could be embarrassed, ashamed. Not in the face of the world or morality, of any custom or propriety. Toward himself. He felt that an ability to be ashamed of himself was forming. Ashamed of hanging here, staggering, stuttering, lying to himself as he had never lied to anyone, not even his worst enemy. But to himself, himself, himself he is lying with every thought in which the girl shows up, dominates him and does what she will with him. But it isn’t her, it is he who allows insanity to bloom like some fragile, lovely thing. But this insanity of yours is … Make no predictions for yourself. Just give in and let the feeling grow that you’re ashamed. Ask nothing of this feeling. Let it grow until it brings you to a point you don’t need to calculate now. Only the sensibility that brought you to no longer bear the cultural sham—let that sensibility grow. Mercilessly. Let us see, right?

  But because anything weighty calls forth its counterweight, a certain feeling would give him to believe that the time when he kept his dependence on Ulrike secret was a blissful time. Out there, the entire out-of-the-question world, and then him, here in the cave of recollection with its inexhaustible treasures shining ever brighter. Now he needed to destroy those recollections. Hiding them, hiding them from himself, just wouldn’t work … And then there arrived—Oh holy dramaturgy!—a lavender blue envelope containing an equally lavender blue note on which stood “N-C-O-L-W-N. We plan to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Dresden. If you would like to do the same, it would please your devoted friend Ulrike.”