Late Fame

by Arthur Schnitzler

Bolling was standing in front of a mirror and practicing his facial expressions.

  Outside, it was getting ever louder. They heard the voices of the arriving guests. The noise of tables and chairs being shifted became more distinct. Saxberger cast a glance into the function room and, for the first time, he felt his heart beat a little faster. Yes, truly, here they came. These were the people who would sit and listen for an uninterrupted quarter of an hour to his verses. These were the people who would clap their hands and be dumbfounded that the poet of these verses had remained unknown for decades.

  Meier came in. “We can start in five minutes . . . it’s almost quarter past seven.”

  “Is there anyone there from the papers?” asked Staufner.

  Meier shook his head. “But maybe I don’t know one or another of them.”

  “Linsmann,” said Staufner, “get ready.”

  “Already am,” he replied.

  Fräulein Gasteiner flashed Saxberger a smile and whispered, “Time to face the music!”

  “Linsmann, you’re on,” said Staufner.

  Linsmann rasped his throat, stepped out into the function room and paused briefly in the doorway without being noticed by the audience. Then, after a deep breath, he climbed the few steps to the podium, set the manuscript in front of him and sat down. Some people shouted “Bravo!,” there was a commotion in the room. The gentlemen in the back room stayed near the half-open door in order not to miss a single word of the lecture, nor any of the impression that it would surely make on the audience.

  Little Winder stood at the entrance and raised his eyebrows to greet a group of very young people—classmates from his school, to whom he had propagandized on behalf of “Enthusiasm.” And Linsmann began: “Ladies, gentlemen! For years, a battle of minds has been raging in the blossoming meadows of German art . . .”

  The room was almost completely still. A few more young people arrived during the lecture and, so as not to cause any disruption, stayed by the doors. Linsmann spoke with a sonorous voice and in some moments the magniloquent phrases about the banner of an ideal, about true and chaste art, about honest and humble striving, sounded so fresh and so pure that it was as if they were emerging out of deep conviction from the speaker’s breast.

  The lecture was followed by noisy applause and the atmosphere in the room was good. Linsmann even had to come out again and give a bow. Blink was almost unpleasantly astonished by the efficacy of his speech. He was annoyed that he hadn’t delivered it himself—after all, he had written virtually the whole thing. He shook Linsmann’s hand half ironically and Linsmann thanked him with feeling.

  Saxberger had found it boring. Over the past week, he had heard all these phrases till he was sick of them and Linsmann’s pathos no longer had any effect on him. He was leaning against the door with Fräulein Gasteiner standing behind him and sometimes he could feel the touch of her breath on his hair.

  After a short interlude, Staufner stepped out. He looked around the audience before beginning and then recited a ballad. It was the first thing of his that Saxberger had heard. Beside him, Friedinger said to Blink: “Would it really be too much for him to have written something new in the last three years?”

  Staufner became very vehement in the course of his declamation; he shouted so excessively that eventually his voice cracked. Saxberger involuntarily turned to look at Fräulein Gasteiner, who was laughing heartily. Bolling—as a joke, of course—held his hands over his ears, and a quiet giggling could be heard from the audience. Staufner got himself back under control and everything went well from then on. After the ballad there was some not very loud applause. Staufner then read two short poems that went down better. But he didn’t seem quite satisfied as he, after being called back twice by the audience, returned to his friends.

  Now it was supposed to be the turn of the “Evening Moods,” as it was still called in the program. His young friends were not behaving as Saxberger had expected. They chatted to one another without paying him any attention, as if this business had nothing to do with them. Only Fräulein Gasteiner gripped him by the hand: “Time for this evening to prove itself,” she whispered to him. It suddenly struck him how much depended on the next few minutes. He imagined an intoxicating, deafening success that would reach the world outside. He thought of how the audience would be moved and amazed when he showed them his face . . . and he also imagined resounding laughter that would spring up during the recital and annihilate him.

  “Break a leg!” was whispered from beside him. It was the voice of Fräulein Gasteiner, who had taken Meier’s arm and was going on. He quickly pressed her hand, he felt very well disposed towards her.

  As she stepped up to the podium, clapping rang out more loudly than any they had heard so far. Saxberger was pleased. Behind him, Staufner, Blink and Friedinger were talking. He turned around and called out “Shh.” Before he turned back, he saw the smiles with which they looked at one another. From then on, he kept his eyes firmly on Fräulein Gasteiner.

  “Evening Moods,” she said. She read in a rocking, sensual tone that was completely unfamiliar to him. The audience was deeply quiet and, as he looked at the people, he could see that all their gazes were fixed upon the reader. When the poem came to an end—there was silence. Saxberger could not understand it, then he thought, perhaps they didn’t know that it was over. But the applause was already breaking out. The second between the last word and the beginning of the ovation had felt very long to him.

  Fräulein Gasteiner gently inclined her head in thanks and carried on reading. She read another three poems, all of which were heartily received. It was just that, to Saxberger, she didn’t seem to be giving the audience enough time to cheer themselves out—and so denied him a last little bit of applause each time she started on a new poem. But when she had finished and Meier accompanied her off, and the ovation continued, she took Saxberger by the hand to pull him up onto the podium. He really did not want to go. She went back up alone and one of the serving staff presented her with a small laurel wreath, and when she went off with it and the applause rang out again—she again took the poet by the hand and this time he had to let himself be led out onto the podium . . .yes, the moment had come. The ovation roared around him. He felt nothing in particular, hardly even the embarrassment he had feared. He had to go up again—this time without Fräulein Gasteiner, and it was a little peculiar to him to hear the noise of clapping hands and the loud shouts of “Bravo.” He bowed several times, turned to the door and then, just as the clapping was getting weaker, he heard a voice from slightly behind him, or to the side—he couldn’t quite tell—but the words were perfectly distinct, no matter how quietly they had been said: “Poor devil!” He wanted to look around, but he felt that that would seem absurd. The applause ended . . . he heard the audience going back to murmuring. He stayed, as if there were no other place for him, standing at the door where he had stood before. And still those words echoed within him . . .“poor devil!”—what was that supposed to mean? Why? Why? And while his young friends surrounded him, shook his hand, congratulated him and Fräulein Gasteiner hung the laurel wreath round his neck, he thought to himself: why “poor devil”? What was it about? Because I’m old? Do I really look that wretched? Or is it just that I behaved ridiculously when I was bowing? And as he heard the words “poor devil” sounding again and again in his ears, they took on an ever sadder, more pitying tone . . . tears ran down his face, but he knew: it was not from the emotion of his success—no, it was unbearable hurt, his anger at the incomprehensible words of a stranger he would never find.

  But the young people around him believed themselves to understand very well why the old gentleman was crying. And Friedinger said to Blink: “Well, you can hardly begrudge him that!”

  And still Saxberger stood wordlessly by the door, while Bolling appeared on the podium to read some poems by Geibel, Lenau and Goethe. He looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung opposite the door. His own expression seemed alien, almost
uncanny to him—it was odd how crying had altered his features. And there, round his neck—oh yes, it was still there, the wreath that Gasteiner had hung on him. He took it off and put it on a chair.

  The others stayed by the door to listen to Bolling. He sat down at the table; Fräulein Gasteiner took a seat opposite him.

  “Well, were you satisfied?” she whispered tenderly to him.

  He just nodded. Then it occurred to him that he had to thank her. He reached his hand to her across the table and said, “Thank you.”

  “But why are you so sad?” she asked.

  “Me?—oh no!—” he said. It was incredible how much this hurt him. It was as if someone had let him see a great sorrow that was weighing on him and that until then he hadknown nothing about . . .

  He stayed sitting where he was; he felt entirely drained and exhausted.

  After Bolling had finished, to great applause, Gasteiner went up again and presented the monologue from “Zenobia.” The door to the larger room was half open and Saxberger could hear every word. It was from the first act, which Saxberger had read. He thought the monologue was hollow and boring and, as she finished it, thunderous applause again broke out. She was called back twice.

  When he thought about it, the audience always applauded. And he was no longer sure whether the clapping after his poems had been significantly louder than after the other readings. And it was, after all, unlikely that they were saying “poor devil” about Christian as he took his bow. They might have said “talentless fraud” or “boring sort of a man”—but. . .“poor devil”. . .no, not that.

  He stood up and congratulated Christian, who had come across to the table with Fräulein Gasteiner. She said quietly to the young man: “The ovation wasn’t on my account!” Christian kissed her on the arm. During the next number, Saxberger stood at the door and watched the audience with the vague desire, despite everything, to find the person from whose lips those words might have come. It was impossible.

  At one of the nearest tables Saxberger recognized some people he had sometimes seen in the coffee house where “Enthusiasm” met. Some young girls were also there who, when his head again appeared at the door, elbowed and hissed at one another that there was Saxberger. But in general, the audience was already focused and listening to Bolling read Meier’s poems. Saxberger was familiar with them. They came from the book that the young man had once given him. They were passable verses. He wondered whether they were just as good—as his own? Whether they were ultimately better? Everything had again become so unclear. He asked himself whether it took any especial art to put together a few passable verses as a young man and whether he himself had achieved anything more than that . . . but hadn’t they discovered and venerated him—there had to be a reason for it!

  Bolling had finished. And again the applause broke out. It really was too stupid. Each and every time these calls of bravo and this clapping-together of hands—let it always mean the same! Everyone was applauded—but only he was a poor devil!! Why? Why? Perhaps it was to do with his coat? . . . No, no, it was completely flawless, elegant almost. Shabby was something he never looked. It must be because he had only now—as an old man—received the recognition he deserved. There had been nothing malicious in those words, nothing in the least. But then why did they make him so dreadfully unhappy?

  Two good eyes were gazing at him from across the room. It was little Winder, who was standing faithful and conscientious at the door, and who, as he saw that his respectful gaze had been noticed, quickly looked away. The last up was Friedinger, who threw himself into an amusing novelette about student life. The applause for him was the most appreciative of all. The audience had already thinned out somewhat, but those still present laughed uproariously, and at the end he was called back with a storm of cheers.

  When it was all over, some of the society members’ acquaintances and relatives came into the small back room to say the usual kind or exuberant things to the group of friends. Some men Saxberger didn’t know came over and congratulated him. By and by, everyone left, with the exception of a few still sitting at their tables to drink a last glass of beer.

  Little Winder came in and, blushing, said to Saxberger: “It was really very good.”

  The friends sat down together, drank quite a lot and were in high spirits. But Saxberger slipped away. He sat alone in a cab and was driven home. As he leant into the corner with his eyes closed, he thought about how the evening to which he had looked forward so much was already over. And what now? . . . Oh, this certainly wasn’t fame. Some people perhaps even still mention him today and say: those were lovely poems, those by Saxberger . . . and others: yes, if only he had been discovered at the right time. And some say: poor devil . . .

  Where might he be, the one who said that?

  The cab shook him about on the uneven surface, rattling the badly mounted windows. And Saxberger was unhappier than he had long been.

  •

  On the following morning, Saxberger woke up dully disgruntled. The mechanical activity of his morning in the office did him good, since it did not give him a chance to really reflect. On the way home from his midday meal, he was surprised by how warm it was. Little girls were selling bunches of violets in the streets, those out for a stroll were already walking at the leisurely pace with which one saunters on the first beautiful, mild day. Spring had come.

  Saxberger, having got back to his apartment, opened the window. The air that came from outside did him good. He propped his elbows on the windowsill and looked out. He began to feel sleepy, his eyes were falling shut and, when he thought of the previous evening, it seemed very far away.

  But he felt a restlessness. Soon it propelled him towards the coffee house and on the walk there he was overcome by keen curiosity about what might be in the papers. He found the company in an excited mood and was greeted as a close companion, without much deference.

  In the morning papers there had been nothing and there was nothing yet in the evening papers published so far. Staufner was particularly annoyed.

  “If it was just us, fine—then I wouldn’t say anything,” he told them. “We’re young people—it’s just the way of things for them to put obstacles in our path, but I mean we do have one person among us who . . .” and he looked up at Saxberger, who felt very uncomfortable. He would much rather not have been there.

  Just then, the waiter put a new evening paper on the table and Staufner interrupted himself at once: “Perhaps there’s something in here.” He picked it up. Blink immediately discovered a review. “There’s something here,” he said.

  And Saxberger felt his heart beating in his chest.

  “Ah!!” cried Staufner, his face darkening.

  “Well . . . what is it . . . read it! Read it . . . Listen! . . .”

  He read: “A literary society with the promising name of ‘Enthusiasm’ staged a recital yesterday. Several young gentlemen—though it must be said that some of these young gentlemen were already somewhat long in the tooth—felt a pressing desire to read their more or less realized productions to a number of well-disposed friends, or to have them read by several artistic colossi unknown to a wider audience. There can be no objection to this and we have no desire to disturb these young gentlemen at their harmless pastime. It just seemed superfluous to have their various trifles prefaced by a sort of keynote address, in which the young gentlemen were pleased to present themselves as the rightful heralds of the one true redemptive form of Art. Well, we have to say: the young gentlemen know how to blow a trumpet, but not much else!”

  “Idiot,” added Staufner so quickly that it was as if he were reading the reviewer’s byline.

  There was a brief silence. The page was ripped out of Staufner’s hand and passed around.

  “Scandalous . . . that’s the state of Viennese criticism . . . impertinent misrepresentation . . . journalistic humor . . . cretin . . . who can it have been . . .”

  Fräulein Gasteiner had just come in and saw they were all bend
ing over the page at once, some sitting, one looking over the heads of the others. “What have you got there?”

  She sat down and read along with them. When she had finished, she said no more than: “You can thank Herr Linsmann for that.”

  “What?” Linsmann said threateningly.

  “Of course”—responded Fräulein Gasteiner. “Your speech!!”

  Linsmann leapt to his feet, wanted to retaliate. But he was pushed back down into his seat. He shook his head contemptuously and just mumbled something malicious through gritted teeth.

  “Why did you say you can thank him for it?” asked Staufner. “You’re not wholly uninvolved yourself, are you?!”

  “There’s no mention of me whatsoever,” Fräulein Gasteiner responded coldly.

  “Excuse me,” screeched Staufner. “It’s right here . . . ‘artistic colossi unknown to a wider audience.’”

  “I can read . . . but you don’t think that refers to me?”

  “I suppose just to me,” mocked Bolling.

  “Probably,” said Fräulein Gasteiner. “The fact that it doesn’t refer to me is something I can prove to you. [She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress.] I’ve just signed.”

  “For Großjedlersdorf,” screamed Staufner, who had completely lost his composure.

  “No, for Neuruppin . . .” Fräulein Gasteiner said calmly. Staufner emitted a short laugh. Christian cast a fearful and questioning glance at the actress. Saxberger noticed it. And in the same moment, Fräulein Gasteiner, with a sideways look at the old gentleman, said: “Nothing now will keep me from my art . . .”

  “In Neuruppin,” said Friedinger, “even Staufner and his ballads could be a hit.”

  “You’re a clot,” screamed Staufner. “There’s not a word in here about my ballads. I know very well what this idiot’s snide little remarks are supposed to mean—I know it precisely! . . .”

  “Keep it down,” said Meier . . . “them over there”—and he gestured at the neighboring table, “they’ve definitely seen the piece as well.”