When it was finished, he went with his two acquaintances to their restaurant. One of them was a retired major, the other the proprietor of a large delicatessen.
In the restaurant they took their places at their usual table, where around ten men were sitting. One was having his name day and had ordered several bottles of wine to celebrate. The conversation was loud and lively; Saxberger sometimes joined in. From time to time it seemed bizarre to him that they spoke to him as to one of their equals. But indeed—what did they know of him! What could they know of him! By what had he ever given them to understand that he was of a different sort than they.
Herr Grossinger, the delicatessen owner, who was considered the company’s wittiest soul, stood up and delivered a toast in verse. It was harmless rhyming doggerel with a few jokes aimed at the predilections of the man being celebrated—at his preference for particular dishes, at a tender inclination he was said to feel for a female tobacconist, at a bright-yellow raincoat that he liked to wear even in the finest weather. While these verses were being greeted with hearty laughter, Saxberger sat there smiling genially. He thought to himself: would they dare present this “poem” if they knew who I am? He took a distinct pleasure in being able to attend this party, as it were, incognito, and when Herr Grossinger finished his toast to general applause, he clapped along with the rest.
“Splendid, splendid . . . Grossinger’s done very well there—so he can write poetry, too—he’s a hell of a man, that Grossinger,” was what they were all saying over each other. Saxberger shook the delicatessen owner’s hand and said: “Very nice.”
“Well, I ask you,” said the major, “that was no run-of-the-mill occasional poem, you really have to say that was something more, true poetry . . .”
Saxberger looked at the major, quite nonplussed. Some of the others voiced their agreement.
“You could have that published, just the way it is! Splendid! I always say it, old Grossinger!”
Saxberger had an unpleasant feeling: he would have liked to make a critical comment, because he had not enjoyed the poem. The verses he had found stale, the rhymes forced. He was slightly angered by the self-satisfied face of the delicatessen owner and by the excessive praise that was being showered upon him.
But he stayed silent. He felt very clearly that any word of criticism coming now would spoil the group’s good mood. Also, it would have been taken in the wrong spirit, and so he remained sitting quietly.
Soon another of the company stood up and toasted the man whose name day it was. He was a schoolmaster and, in a few earnest words, he portrayed the man as the model of all civic virtues. Soon after him yet another stood up and drank the health of “the ladies.”
Again they applauded, again they congratulated the speaker; Grossinger’s fame had faded. But still it gnawed at Saxberger. He was overcome by an irresistible urge to tell them about himself, to remove his mask. He wanted to leap to his feet and suddenly shout to them all: I am a poet. He wished there had been someone there to tell them all the story of his life . . . But it wasn’t as if he had to say straight out: “I am a poet”; there were ways of dropping a gentle hint. He stood up and went into the corner of the room, where his overcoat was hanging. He took a cigar from it and then stopped behind Grossinger. “Very good! Should I . . . give you my works as an encouragement?”
Grossinger turned around. “What works are those?”
Saxberger lit his cigar with feigned equanimity. “You see, I can write poetry, too,” he said.
“Really?” said Grossinger and turned back around. Saxberger did not think that was at all proper. He saw that these kinds of generally couched remarks would not have any effect and, putting his hand on the delicatessen owner’s shoulder, he said, almost bitterly:
“I wrote a whole book of poetry when I was a young man, you understand?”
Grossinger looked blankly at the old gentleman, then turned, smiling, to the man being celebrated, who was sitting beside him, and said:
“D’you hear what Saxberger’s been saying? He’s written a whole book of poetry.” The man smiled contently, without even looking around. “God will forgive him,” he said.
Saxberger sensed that there was no going back and said: “You don’t understand what I mean! I wrote a book—it was published, you understand?”
“Well,” cried Grossinger, “then you were wickeder in your youth than most! Imagine sending it straight to the printers!”
Saxberger was furious. “I didn’t write doggerel! Verse, beautiful, long, serious things are what I wrote, you understand?” Saxberger had started to speak so loudly that it caught the attention of some of those sitting nearby.
Grossinger laughed and said to Saxberger: “Why are you telling us this? If you’d never written any poems, that would be much stranger!”
And before Saxberger could make a comeback, some of the others involved themselves in the conversation. It turned out that each of them had written poems at one time, and they laughed as they remembered it.
Saxberger, who had stayed behind Grossinger’s chair, could not listen to this for long. His bitterness melted away. He felt scorn and pity for these people . . . He—had to remain incognito; they took his mask for his true face. Something inside told him that even if he were to read them his works, they would not know more of him than before. They considered anyone who happened to end up among them to be a person like them. What could you do . . .
Saxberger took his coat from the peg, and went. It wasn’t noticed. The group were still talking and shouting over one another. As the old gentleman stood outside on the street, he started to feel uncomfortable. No—he did not want to come here again, at least not in the near future. What he would have most liked to do was go straight to his young friends, to hear from them again that he did not belong to those others, and that he was indeed a poet!
•
The next evening, Herr Eduard Saxberger again made his way to the coffee house to join his young friends and received in deep satisfaction the respectful greetings with which he was welcomed. Fräulein Gasteiner, too, was present and, as she reached out her hand to him, a smile played across her lips as though she were greeting an old, dear friend.
“So today we’ve announced ourselves,” said Meier, passing him a newspaper and pointing to the notices. Saxberger read: “Club news—the literary society ‘Enthusiasm’ will soon be putting on an evening of recitals. Among others, the venerable poet Saxberger has kindly agreed to take part.”
Saxberger did not immediately put the newspaper down, but acted as if there were more he still wanted to read. In truth, the announcement had made such a strong impression on him that he had to hide how affected he was . . . the venerable poet Saxberger . . . What he thought of above all were the men from the Pickled Pear and especially of Herr Grossinger. Then he thought of the many other people who had never heard of him and would today be asking themselves—why don’t we know this name?
It didn’t say. . . Herr Saxberger—not the civil servant Herr Saxberger—no, “the venerable poet Saxberger”—that was who he was, he himself. And none of those present made any kind of reference to this epithet. They obviously considered it entirely self-evident.
If only he had met them sooner! Then he would not have given up so quickly, nor mixed with the quotidian rabble that didn’t understand him.
The loud chatter around him roused him from his thoughts. Staufner was telling them that he was often incapable of writing verse for weeks at a time, but that there were specific places which had a revivifying effect on his eagerness to work. Which places these were he did not want to reveal.
“Maybe it’s superstitious, but I think that if I told anyone, the magic would vanish.”
Much was now said about this. Christian explained that the idea for each of his dramas had occurred to him in Sievering and that he wrote his best scenes when lying on his back in the grass.
“I have an idiosyncrasy,” said Bolling the actor, “that really is
odd: I always study best if I keep my desk drawer full of lots of rotten . . . bitter oranges.”
“Have you always preserved them?” asked Blink.
Bolling was about to object to this remark. But he remembered that Blink was a critic and laughed good-naturedly.
“Well, what kind of mood do you need?” Meier asked of little Winder.
“I,” he replied, reddening . . . “I can actually always write . . .”
“Always!” laughed the others.
Winder looked around for help. His gaze came to rest on Saxberger, who regarded him kindly.
The conversation continued. As soon as Staufner had mentioned this peculiarity, that he was able to compose only in specific places, a memory had struck the old gentleman. He remembered all at once where, in his day, his best thoughts had sprung to mind. He remembered how as a young man he had often strolled along the bank of the Danube canal at twilight, along the brown footpath that leads to Nussdorf. . . It was there, he suddenly knew, that his best verses had always come to him.
And as the talk again turned to the program and Staufner asked whether they could yet be told the title of the new work he was preparing for the recital, he smiled and said: “ ‘Evening Moods’ is what it’ll be called.”
That day, too, he went to the restaurant with the young people and felt very much at his ease among them. Fräulein Gasteiner again sat beside him and was far more charming even than on the previous occasion. She was interested in the most insignificant details of how he lived. She asked about how he divided up his day; she wanted to know how his room was arranged; she showed a matronly understanding of all the trifling elements of running a household. That did not at all fit with the picture that he had had of her. And at one point he said to her in great surprise: “I had no idea you would understand these things so well.”
“Two souls, alas,” she replied, “dwell within my breast . . . Of course I’m an artist and I’m devoted to my art with every fiber of my heart, but sometimes I long for peace, for hush, for . . .”
She broke off.
“For what?” asked Saxberger.
She lowered her eyes and was silent. And as she suddenly lifted them again, she said decisively: “Let’s leave it . . . it’s all right . . . I belong to art. No one”—she repeated the word, giving Herr Saxberger a look that was almost stern—“no one will succeed in tearing me from it.”
Although she had previously been speaking quite quietly, with these words she raised her voice so that those sitting nearest them could hear her.
And that evening, too, as it approached midnight, toasts were made, mainly to the imminent recital and to art in general. On the way home, Saxberger was again accompanied by the whole party.
“Listen,” said Linsmann, “Gasteiner is carrying on with Christian.”
Saxberger looked at Linsmann. “What . . . does that have to do with me?”
“I just thought you didn’t know. . . Oh yes, she’s a fine one . . .”
“How do you mean that?”
“Oh, women, women—” He said nothing for a while, then added in lachrymose tones: “D’you have any inkling how utterly I fell for it?” and didn’t say another word.
When Linsmann had rejoined the others, Fräulein Gasteiner came over to the old gentleman’s side. “I know what Herr Linsmann whispered to you,” she said simply.
Saxberger stayed silent, in some embarrassment.
“He told you,” continued Fräulein Gasteiner, “that the gentleman with the long black hair is my lover.”
“But . . .”
Fräulein Gasteiner smiled disdainfully. “I have never yet been able to have a friendly association with a man without it being said that he is my lover.”
“But that’s . . .”
“Oh, it’s been a long time since I bothered about it, but I also know what Herr Linsmann didn’t tell you.”
“Yes?”
“That he once went flying down some stairs because he dared step too close to a certain lady.”
“Ah . . .”
“I forgave him for it long ago. But the one thing that repels me about that person is his need for revenge . . .”
Just then, the vengeful Linsmann again began to whistle and, just as the last time, the group grew quiet and listened. Later, when they were already on the Währinger Straße, Friedinger leant against a lamp post and contributed his own regular number by beginning to sob. Today, however, he was paid no attention whatsoever and soon calmed down.
When they reached Saxberger’s house, they all waited until the concierge came to open up. Saxberger went quite quickly up the stairs and, when he reached his room, hurried to the window. He saw the whole company just disappearing around the corner. They hadn’t waited this time for him to reappear. He was a little disappointed. Also, Linsmann’s comments had left an unpleasant aftertaste.
Nonetheless, it was not hard to understand why Herr Linsmann had had his head turned by Fräulein Gasteiner. Twenty years ago she would have appealed to him, too, but today. . . And he had to smile wryly as the notice about the “venerable poet” again occurred to him.
•
There followed days of rain. Saxberger had to postpone his walk from evening to evening, and on evening after evening he sat in the coffee house with his young friends. The trim old gentleman with the proper, slightly old-fashioned suit and the smooth-shaven, good-natured face had long since been noticed by the coffee house’s regulars, and become a familiar figure. Sometimes he even believed himself to have overheard people at neighboring tables asking after him. At first, being noted in this way had been slightly embarrassing, but he soon grew used to it. Their circle was practically always there in full, and even Fräulein Gasteiner came almost predictably. Her guest performance had been temporarily put back. It seemed that the incumbent lead at Wiener Neustadt had intrigued scandalously against her.
The recital came ever closer and Saxberger had not written a line of his “Evening Moods.” Late one mild afternoon, he decided finally to take his stroll along the Donaulände.
It was still bright when he reached the Augarten Bridge. He thought of how often in the last years he must have seen the path that ran below where he was standing and then along the canal towards Nussdorf, between the lumber yards and the unhurried gray river—and always without ever remembering the days of his youth. In that instant it was incomprehensible to him how many profound interior experiences were extinguished by the mere wretched flow of existence as if they had never been. It also struck him that sometimes he had not gone that way alone. He no longer knew with whom. He could not remember any particular person, and that gave his reminiscing an especial melancholy.
He walked slowly down the broad, gently descending path that begins right beside the bridge and continues on flat and evenly. The nearby hills that reared up almost over him were already blurring at their edges and the twilit sky had lowered itself deep down onto them. On the canal, a long boat was moving upstream, pulled by horses which went their heavy, tired way along the bank. On the other side of the canal stood the high white and yellow houses of the Brigittenau, which became ever barer and drearier the closer they came to the edge of the city. A great number of tall factory smokestacks stretched above them into the sky. On this bank, the prospect was tightly hemmed in. The path led past lumber yards, and the logs and beams were stacked so high that they blocked the view almost completely. Only between the individual planked-in yards did tight paths lead out and again flow into the broader streets.
He encountered few people. Some pairs of lovers, a few customs officials, women leading their children by the hand. On the bank sat a number of miserably dressed people. A couple caught the old gentleman’s eye: she, a very young thing in a little blue linen dress, with no hat but a headscarf that had slid down and whose ends hung round the nape of her neck; he, a very tall, sick-looking young man with a pale, beardless face. He saw these two coming towards him from far off; it was as if they were floating forw
ard out of the gloom. They weren’t talking, they stared in front of themselves, some unspeakable sadness lay in their tread. And Saxberger was compelled to turn around after they had passed him to see them go walking silently on, still with that sad, floating tread, until they disappeared in the gloaming . . .
All the human noises he could hear came from the other bank. They reached him just as they were dying away. From that other side he also heard the whistling of locomotives and the distant groaning of the steam trams. Then he heard a shout from beside him. The coachman trotting along with the horses hauling the boat was driving the animals on. Saxberger stood aside for a few minutes to let them pass; only then did he realize he had been walking beside them for all this time . . . And as he stood still, he suddenly felt very alone. It was as if everything living was receding from him. Even the light of day seemed to be sneaking away more hastily than before and, when he looked in the direction of the hills, they had vanished completely. The night lay upon them.
All this was observed by Saxberger. He could not close his senses to these outer things, as little as they meant to him. Minutes and quarters of an hour went by. As the deeper dusk descended, the reason he had come here again weighed heavily upon him. He had wanted to think about his poem, yes, to think. Phrases, verses were what he was here to look for.
He stopped, he even closed his eyes. But then all the noises grew louder; noises that he hadn’t even noticed before entered his mind. He heard carriages rolling over the bridge nearby, he heard the horses’ hooves striking the escarpment, he heard the waves quietly, very quietly lapping the banks. He opened his eyes; it seemed to grow stiller. Lights were beginning to glow on the other side. The lanterns on the opposite street were being lit one after the other and he felt somehow forced to watch each lamp come on after the last.
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