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Paul Scheerbart

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by Glass! Love!! Perpetual Motion!!!-A Paul Scheerbart Reader Josiah McElheny


  of ultraviolet. The other moons have new colors too.

  But the dearly beloved isn’t surprised this time either. He takes no notice

  and keeps turning.

  And the moons are waiting — ever waiting! For a long time they keep

  hoping that he, the great one, wil comment.

  But he, the great one, says nothing . . .

  The moons want terribly badly to know what he, their dearly beloved,

  wants.

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  But he just turns — turns without the slightest change — on and on —

  just as before.

  The colored moons, who have already changed colors, are not at al

  pleased with this.

  — —

  And again the moons ponder . . . . . . .

  After a little while the now moss-green moon says, “Let’s try something

  else!”

  He suggests: changing their orbits a little.

  But the other moons waggle their bal -round bodies dubiously, expressing

  a very distinct “no.” Changing their orbits seems far too dangerous . . . . they

  could so easily bump into each other . . . . . . and just one col ision would cost

  any of them their lives.

  But the moss-green one meets this objection. He says he’d like to

  go a little farther out into space, all on his own — what harm could

  that do?

  Now — after a little reluctance, the other moons agree.

  And so the moss-green moon goes a little farther out into space.

  This perplexes the dearly beloved, of course — he almost forgets to

  keep turning.

  But at the same time he says to himself that such behavior is unbecom-

  ing — surprise is for young comets — a central star who leads an orderly

  life should in no circumstances al ow himself to be surprised.

  So once again, he takes no notice.

  — —

  A long, long time passes.

  The dearly beloved keeps turning, just as before.

  Eventual y the moss-green moon comes back and sighs — and the other

  moons sigh too.

  Such huge clouds puff out of their craters that their colorful air

  darkens . . . . .

  But this doesn’t help either.

  The dearly beloved remains completely impassive. He keeps silent.

  — —

  But the moons can tel that he’s thinking. He isn’t stupid.

  “Wait and see,” says one of the smaller moons. “That seems best. Per-

  haps our big friend just wants us to watch him quietly, as we did before.”

  The others grumble but don’t contradict him.

  And so they are quiet — for several long millennia.

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  PAUL S C H E E R B A R T

  The moons are so quiet that one might think they were dead.

  But their curiosity doesn’t sleep.

  Final y they make another attempt to provoke their friend into saying

  something.

  They get their old colors back, so that eventual y they look just as they

  once did.

  — — —

  Of course, this doesn’t help, either.

  The moons nearly despair.

  The moon who is now crimson again is the most curious because he

  was the last of the moons to gravitate toward the middle star — he real y

  doesn’t quite belong with the other nine moons — once upon a time he had

  been a big, big comet.

  After pondering long and hard, the crimson one says:

  “Brothers, we must try a different way of discovering the thoughts of

  our dearly beloved. We must train our feelings. We must learn to sense

  what he, the great one, is thinking. If we want to learn his thoughts, we too

  wil have to ponder.”

  This makes sense to the brothers.

  And with much effort over the long millennia, they train their feel-

  ings — and they think a great deal. This natural y makes them much

  cleverer.

  And now that they’ve grown so much cleverer — yes — final y, they think

  they are beginning to notice some things. The central star seems to be talking.

  One night the blue star says: “You know, I think our dearly beloved just

  wants to say. . . .”

  “What?” the others cry stormily, steaming out huge clouds.

  “He’s tel ing us,” the blue one says slowly, “to keep orbiting just as we’re

  orbiting right now.”

  There is a dul silence.

  And they al hope that the central star wil confirm the blue moon’s words.

  But once again, he does not.

  He is incomprehensible.

  — —

  After another few years the silver moon thinks that he, the dearly be-

  loved, is saying:

  “My dear moons, one thing is just as good and just as bad as another

  thing.”

  Another pause. . . .

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  And again, in vain!

  The moons would have laughed if they had learned to laugh. Unfortu-

  nately, they never learned.

  Suddenly, the ultraviolet moon cries:

  “I know! I know! He’s saying: You don’t get drunk enough — you’re too

  sober for me!”

  And al of them think — final y they’ve figured it out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  The dearly beloved, on the other hand, remains silent, even now — as

  silent as the invisible phantoms.

  — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

  Final y, after seven times a hundred thousand years, the crimson moon

  cries:

  “Our dearly beloved says: “Moons, just watch me turn!”

  The other moons are indignant; they think this is a bad joke.

  But now the crimson moon cries out for the second time: “That wasn’t

  his last word. He wants to know why we don’t turn, too.”

  At that — yes — then — al of the moons are — completely stumped.

  And they remark angrily that they’re used to getting drunk in other

  ways. Not everyone gets his thril s in the same way.

  But — on the dearly beloved central star — final y the bright, joyful

  flames of having been understood begin to flash and flicker.

  — —

  What the crimson moon said is real y what the dearly beloved had been

  thinking al these many million years. He didn’t want to say so because

  stars never speak their innermost thoughts but, rather, hope that others wil

  reach these innermost thoughts through their own efforts. Only then can

  the innermost thoughts be of use to others.

  “Why don’t you just turn around yourselves?”

  This was the dearly beloved’s great question.

  The crimson moon had understood him.

  And so immediately he starts to turn — he spins out into outer space —

  and just keeps turning, orbiting only himself.

  Soon he too wil be a central star, with moons orbiting around him

  without ever turning themselves. And the crimson one wil ask his moons

  the same riddle that the dearly beloved asked them.

  “Why don’t you just turn around yourselves?

  Oh yes, the dearly beloved’s nine remaining moons stil don’t under-

  stand their friend — they stare at him, the great one, more wildly than ever.

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  PAUL S C H E E R B A R T

  They simply cannot under
stand that stars can only be happy when they

  turn around themselves.

  The crimson one — he’s happy — he says to himself:

  “There is only one thing that makes life bearable — and that one thing

  is intoxication — and intoxication, if it is to last, is created only when one

  moves his whole body — his whole being — constantly in the same way.

  For round stars, this movement is turning around oneself — it is the only

  movement that one can keep up constantly and without change. For a star,

  there is no other way to maintain eternal intoxication, eternal happiness.”

  The crimson one sings, puffing happy crimson clouds out of his craters:

  Joyful y we spin ourselves

  Through the giant universe.

  We are always glad and cheerful,

  No dream of longing gets us down.

  For we live in intoxication!

  Always — the same intoxication!

  Yes, we should — wish for nothing more!

  — — — — — —

  We toddle as if batty

  Without an aim, without desire

  Through the universe!

  — —

  Through the universe’s gleaming night!

  Translated by Anne Posten

  172

  The Love of Souls:

  A Spiritualistic Scene from a Novel

  Carriages rattle through the streets — clattering. . . .

  It’s twelve at night.

  I’m lying very stil on the sofa, smoking.

  There is a lot of smoke in the room.

  A lamp is burning — over on the cupboard in front of the mirror — the

  lamp with the red lampshade.

  — —

  For many years I have been thinking of a woman every day — when I

  am alone, I think of this woman even more often —

  It often seems as if she must be about to come to me.

  Yet I am not surprised when she doesn’t.

  But today I’m feeling so peculiar.

  It seems as if she real y wil come to me today — right now — now . . . . . . .

  — —

  Next to the door — right by the oven — what is that?

  Such a delicate, airy image — like smoke.

  No — it’s a very delicate, light bluish cloth — see-through — soft —

  sparkling, delicate . . .

  I dare not move . . .

  But now — incredible — oh!

  It’s true — it’s an arm — a soft, delicate arm — the arm is very white.

  And to the left? — to the left are only garments — a great mass of

  them — — —

  There — there — above the garments — dreadful! — ghastly! — a pale

  countenance with deep, deep, sea-green eyes!

  Those are her eyes — that is her face — her face.

  She wants to speak.

  She wags her finger.

  First published as “Seelenliebe: Spiritistische Romanscene” in 1897 as a story within the novel

  Ich Liebe Dich! Ein Eisenbahnroman mit 66 Intermezzos (I love you! A railway novel with 66

  intermezzos), Schuster and Loeffler, Berlin.

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  PAUL S C H E E R B A R T

  It almost looks teasing.

  Now she speaks — everything is hazy!

  I cannot hear her yet.

  But now — yes — I can hear quite clearly — she says:

  “Why should I always be physical y with you? Is that necessary? I love

  you stil ! Isn’t that enough for you? No? Look at me!”

  A quiet horror comes over me, but I fight it. I want to stand up — but I

  cannot. Am I dreaming? — no — my cigar is stil burning — I am awake.

  After a while I say, very softly:

  “I long for you so often! And I love you stil — there’s no one I love

  more than you.”

  It looks as though she is beginning to cry when I say this — yet she

  answers immediately — more fervently, and not quite as clearly:

  “Do you know that I am a mother?”

  “Yes!” I say loudly, startling myself.

  “That’s why,” she continues more calmly, “I have to stay far from you.

  My two children cannot live without me. Yes — I know — you love me!

  But — — — do you love my children too?

  I say nothing.

  She continues:

  “You have to love them. I wil bless you for it. I beg you with al my

  heart — see! — love my two children too! . . . . . . . Let me stay far away — with

  my children. Physical love doesn’t bring happiness. You know that. And

  I — alas — you know that I know it too. I want to be with you invisibly!”

  The clouds of smoke move, and the apparition seems to waver, it seems

  to press against the oven.

  I say loudly: “Yes, and amen!”

  A sigh of relief sounds through the room.

  And suddenly I can’t see anything anymore.

  But soon I hear her voice again — she speaks urgently:

  “Your soul’s wife greets you! Go to bed and sleep! Don’t drink so much!

  Dream of me! Dreams are — don’t leave! Look at me!”

  “I can’t see anything!” I cry.

  But she doesn’t seem to hear me.

  She speaks in a firm, metal ic voice.

  “You are mine! Yes, you are mine! Now live — write — become a

  messiah!”

  I want to jump up, open my eyes — go to her:

  But I cannot.

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  SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S

  — —

  After a long time I see her light, bluish garments down by the

  oven — with her two feet below them — white and shining.

  I see nothing of the rest of her body.

  And again she says to me:

  “I believe in you! But do not wish for me to come to you physical y —

  later — someday — someday — someday — perhaps! But first you must

  complete your life’s work. Physical love is . . . . . . . . . .”

  Incomprehensible noises fil my ear.

  Loud, hot, piercing sounds suddenly fil the smoky chamber — I think I

  understand the sounds — they sound — like:

  “Become a messiah! Become a messiah!”

  I turn my head.

  Now I can move.

  I see — yes — my cigar is stil burning in my left hand.

  I jump up.

  I don’t know what’s going on.

  I’m very agitated.

  Yet I ask myself: “Did I dream it? With the cigar burning in my hand?

  Is it possible? — how? — but how? You can’t smoke if you’re asleep!”

  The piercing sounds keep booming in my ears — hotly:

  “Become a messiah! Become a messiah!”

  — —

  Carriages rattle through the streets — clattering. . . .

  The clock has stopped.

  Translated by Anne Posten

  175

  Atlas, the Comfortable:

  A Myth of Humanity

  Many hundreds of years ago, there lived in ancient India a group of gray-

  bearded philosophers — they wanted to do away with war.

  They had long pondered how this might be accomplished. Yet they

  could not agree.

  Final y, a hunchbacked philosopher suggested that they visit Atlas the

  Greek and boldly ask him for advice.

  Atlas lived at the edge of the earth and held up the great dome of the

  heavens.

  The Indian philosophers listened quietly to their hunchbacked friend,

  considered a while, and came to the conclusion that th
e hunchback’s idea

  wasn’t half bad, and they were indeed inclined to grace Atlas with a

  visit — particularly since even in those days Atlas enjoyed a reputation as

  a very comfortable and hospitable fel ow.

  Accordingly, the philosophers rented a smal boat, stepped aboard, and

  saw that the wind was favorable so that they would be face to face with

  hospitable Atlas in just a few months.

  Atlas lived on a mountain, and he came right down as soon as the

  philosophers cal ed his name.

  At first the philosophers thought the heavens would immediately fal onto

  their heads, since Atlas hadn’t brought the dome down with him — they

  cowered in fear.

  But the comfortable giant reassured the wise Indians, pointed to two

  tal columns rising into the clouds from the summit of the mountain, and

  said with a smirk:

  “Don’t be alarmed, dear friends! A long time ago I set the dome of

  the heavens up there on a pair of strong columns. The columns wil hold,

  never fear! Holding the heavens on my shoulders forevermore was just too

  much of a bother. I bore it long enough. I bore the heaviest possible weight.

  First published as “Atlas, der Gemüthliche: Ein Humanitätsmythos” in 1897 as a story within

  the novel Ich Liebe Dich! Ein Eisenbahnroman mit 66 Intermezzos (I love you! A railway novel

  with 66 intermezzos), Schuster and Loeffler, Berlin.

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  SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S

  Now I just have to watch that no one approaches the columns — watching

  is much more comfortable than endlessly standing stil , hunched over with

  that weight on my back.

  The philosophers nodded knowingly, got out of the boat, and told Atlas

  what they wanted.

  — —

  When Atlas had heard and understood, he looked completely puzzled.

  Then he cried, very loudly:

  “Children! Children! You’re not comfortable yet! No — how sil y! You

  want to do away with war? You? I hardly know what to say! Look — do

  you know what you have to do if you want to do away with war? — It’s

  actual y very simple: You have to get rid of rich people, and then war wil

  disappear al by itself. But — but —”

  The philosophers looked at each other wide-eyed, thought for a bit, put

  their left index fingers against their left nostrils, and, after a little while,

  nodded their old gray heads.

  The hunchback was the first to speak — he acted as if he had solved the

  problem al by himself and said the fol owing:

 

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