Concrete (4 page)

complete
failure. To publish anything is folly and evidence of a certain defect of character. To publish the intellect is the most heinous of all crimes, and on a number of occasions I have not recoiled from committing this most heinous of crimes. It wasn’t even done out of a crude urge to communicate, because I’ve never wanted to communicate my ideas to anybody. That has never attracted me. It was a craving for fame pure and simple. What a good thing I didn’t publish my work on Nietzsche and Schönberg, not to speak of Reger! If I am nauseated by all the thousands and hundreds of thousands of publications by ofher people, I should be unutterably nauseated by my own. But we can’t escape vanity and the craving for fame. If necessary, we are prepared to yield to it with our heads held high, even though we know that we are acting in an unpardonable and perverse manner. And what about my work on Mendelssohn Bar-tholdy? I’m not going to write it just for my own satisfaction, after all, and then leave it lying around when it’s finished. Naturally I intend to publish it, whatever the consequences. For I actually believe that this work will be my most successful, or rather my least unsuccessful. I certainly am thinking of publishing it! But before I can publish it I have to write it, I thought, and at this thought I burst into a fit of laughter, of what I call self-laughter, to which I have become prone over the years through being constantly alone. Yes, you’ve first got to write the work in order to be able to publish it! I exclaimed to my own amusement. By suddenly laughing at myself like this I had actually released all my tension; I got up and went to the window. But I couldn’t see a thing. Thick fog clung to the windowpanes. I leant against the sill and tried, by continuous concentration, to descry the wall on the other side of the yard, but despite the most intense concentration I couldn’t make it out. Only twenty yards away and I can’t see the wall. To exist alone in such fog is madness! In a climate like this, which makes anything and everything a thousand times more difficult! It oppressed me, as it always did at this time of the year. I knocked on the windowpane with my index finger to see whether I could scare some bird outside, but nothing stirred. In the same way as I had tapped the pane I now tapped my head and dropped back into the chair. Ten years and
not one successful piece of work!
I thought. Naturally that has robbed me of all credibility. My sister spreads it around in Vienna that I am a failure, especially in those quarters where the effect is most devastating for me. I’m continually hearing her say to all and sundry
My little brother and his Mendelssohn Bartholdy.
She’s not embarrassed to call me a madman in everybody’s hearing. Someone who’s no longer quite right in the head. I know she talks like this about me and gets me an exceedingly damaging reputation everywhere. She recoils from nothing in order to get money, that is to do business, and rather than ruin a party she’d call me anything. She has no scruples, and she can behave abominably. On the other hand I’ve always loved her, with all her dreadful faults — loved her and hated her. Sometimes I’ve loved her more than I’ve hated her, and vice versa, but most of the time I’ve hated her because she’s always acted against me, quite consciously, by which I mean clear-mindedly, for her clear-mindedness has always been beyond question. She’s always been the realistic one, just as I’ve always been the imaginative one.
I love you because you’re so imaginative,
she often says, but there’s more disdain than admiration in this remark. When someone like her says
I love you
it’s mere hypocrisy. Or am I being grossly unjust? She always said
I love you
to her husband, until he could no longer endure it and cleared off to Peru, which to us seems like the end of the world, never to return. Husbands who have been deceived and lied to and made to look fools have for centuries fled to South America, never to return. It’s a tradition that goes back a long way.
I’m one for lovers
, she once said. I’ve always been unsuited to marriage. The very idea of having a husband round my neck for life has always been distasteful to me. I don’t know why I did marry in the end. Was it perhaps to please our parents? The business she was left with when her marriage broke up involved — and still involves — nothing but the biggest and most desirable properties in Austria, the value of which runs into millions. When her husband left her she turned the business into one which some people — the serious ones — would call disgusting and others would call incredibly successful. I am on the side of the serious ones, rightly or wrongly. To me the life my sister leads now is something to be ashamed of, being built solely on profit. Donating a million to charity at the end of the year, then gleefully reading about it in the newspapers and laughing herself silly for weeks, as she herself says she does — I find that revolting. On one occasion she made over to the church a palace near Siena — admittedly over-run by rats — to be used as an old people’s home, at the same time contributing two million schillings for extensions to the building. She had inherited it from a certain old Prince Ruspoli, who died of kidney failure. She had met him in Rome and had corresponded and gone to parties with him for years, maintaining that she was a relative of his. When I asked her whether she was going to Italy to see the palace when the restoration was finished she said quite baldly no, she wasn’t interested. She really had no time for old buildings — for old people yes, she said contemptuously, but not for old buildings. I have to put myself in good standing with the church, my little brother, she said. I found this whole procedure and what she had to say about it highly distasteful. But she’s like that. She’s always turning up with some twit or other who wears shoes made by Nagy, what is more with metal tips which give them a revolting, unnatural gait, claiming that these people are relatives of hers, and consequently of mine. I have no relatives, I always tell her. I have only intellectual kin. The dead philosophers are my relatives. She always responds to this with her sly smile. But you can’t go to bed with philosophy, my little brother, she would often say, to which I would reply, just as often, Of course I can, and at least I don’t defile myself by doing so. This remark of mine once led her to announce, at a party in Miirzzuschlag to which she had dragged me after hours of nonstop nagging, My little brother sleeps with Schopenhauer. He alternates between Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. With this she scored the expected success, as always at my expense. All my life I have admired the ease with which my sister is able to conduct a conversation. Even now — in fact to an even greater extent now — she surmounts the most difficult social obstacles with supreme ease — if indeed such social obstacles exist for her at all.

Where she gets this talent from I don’t know, since our father had no interest whatever in society, and our mother disliked all the social to-do, as she called it. My sister’s business sense, which is her most distinctive trait, though no one would suspect it without knowing her as well as I do, comes from our paternal grandfather. It was he who made the family fortune, in the most curious circumstances, but at all events, however he did it, he made so much money that my sister and I, the third generation, still have enough for our existence, and all in all neither of us leads the most modest existence. For even though I live alone in Peiskam, I spend more money each month than other people who have large families. Who, for instance, heats more than nine rooms — not small rooms either — all through the winter just for himself? In fact, even though I am the most incompetent person in all so-called money matters, I could live for another twenty years without having to earn a penny, and then I could still sell off one parcel of land after another without seriously impairing the estate and thus lowering its value, but that won’t be necessary, and it’s absurd to contemplate it in view of the fact that I have only a very short time left to live, thanks to the incessant and inexorable progress of my.illness. I give myself one or two years at the most, by which time my need for life or existence or anything else this world has to offer will probably be exhausted. If I wished, I might describe myself as affluent, unlike my sister, who is really rich, for what one sees of her wealth is far from being the whole. In one point, however, which I have already mentioned, I differ markedly from her: she donates millions to the church and other such dubious institutions for the good of her soul and for her own private amusement, whereas I donate nothing and would never dream of donating anything in a world which is choking on its billions, yet prates about charity at the drop of a hat. I haven’t the least desire to amuse myself for weeks on end by giving to charity, nor have I the capacity to derive pleasure from newspaper accounts of my generosity and love of my neighbour, because I believe neither in generosity nor in love of one’s neighbour. The world of do-gooders is steeped in hypocrisy, and anyone who proclaims the contrary, or even asserts it, is either a subtle exploiter of humanity or an unpardonable idiot. Ninety per cent of the time today we are up against subtle exploiters, ten per cent of the time against unpardonable idiots. Neither can be helped. The church — since this suits my argument — exploits both, no matter what church it is, and the Catholic Church I know far too well to leave it a thing. It is the subtlest of them all, taking advantage wherever it can and getting most of its money from the poorest of the poor. But the poorest of the poor can’t be helped. The idea that they can is the most widespread of lies, propagated above all by the politicians. Poverty can’t be eradicated, and anyone who thinks of eradicating it is set on nothing short of the eradication of the human race itself, and hence of nature itself. The greater the sums my sister gives to charity, the louder and more devilishly she laughs about them. No one who has heard her laughing about one of her donations can be in any doubt about what makes the world go around. I’ve heard this laughter so often that I never want to hear it again. People are always talking about it being their duty to find their way to their fellow men — to their neighbour, as they are forever saying with all the baseness of false sentiment — when in fact it is purely and simply a question of finding their way to themselves. Let each first find his way to himself! And since hardly anyone has yet found his way to himself, it is inconceivable that any of these unfortunate millions has ever found his way to another human being — or to his neighbour, as they say, dripping with self-deception. The world is so rich that in fact it can afford anything, but this is prevented by the politicians who rule it. They cry out for aid, yet daily squander billions on arms alone. No, I positively refuse to give this world a single penny, for, unlike my sister, I don’t suffer from this devious craving for gratitude. Those people who are everlastingly saying that they are prepared for any sacrifice, that they would sacrifice everything non-stop, ultimately their lives, and so forth, those saints who are as greedy for sacrifice as pigs for the trough and who are to be found in every country and every continent under every possible and impossible name, I find utterly revolting. Such people have no other aim in mind than to be inundated with praise and showered with honours. These dangerous people, who are more self-seeking and self-satisfied than any others, whose numbers run into millions from St. Francis of Assisi onwards and who disport themselves day in day out in countless religious and political organisations the world over merely to satisfy their craving for fame, I find utterly abhorrent. The so-called social element, which has been talked about ad nauseam for centuries, is nothing but the basest of lies. I refuse to have any part in it, even at the risk of being misunderstood, though to be honest that is a risk to which I have always been indifferent. My sister, together with a number of so-called ladies from the so-called higher and highest reaches of society, once arranged a bazaar at which the Christ Child was made to croak nonstop through some dreadful loudspeaker, and my sister contributed five hundred thousand schillings to the proceeds. She then had the gall to explain to me that she cared about the poorest of the poor, but she soon realised, even though — or perhaps precisely because — I said nothing about this hypocritical enterprise of hers, that I had seen through her. In return for it she had the pleasure of being gallantly kissed on the hand by the Monsignor, the president of one of our biggest charities, who is nothing but a wily old socialite. I should be horrified at having my hand shaken by this particular gentleman. Fifteen or sixteen years ago, when I had some connection with him, admittedly only slight, he asked my sister whether, in return for eight hundred thousand schillings in cash, she would furnish an apartment for him. My sister agreed and furnished the Monsignor’s apartment exclusively with renaissance furniture from Florence and late eighteenth century Austrian pieces from two Marchfeld castles that had come her way. When the commission was completed she threw a party for him which was attended by fifty hand-picked guests, the lowliest among them being an Irish earl. He had been chosen as a guest for the evening by the Monsignor and her just because he owned a cotton mill on the border between Lower Austria and the Burgenland which she wanted to acquire at all costs. In this I know she was successful; my sister is always successful in such matters. For eight hundred thousand schillings, no doubt from church funds, she furnished the Monsignor’s apartment, and I actually told her to her face that she had done it with church funds — at a cost of eight hundred thousand schillings, which in present-day terms is more like six or seven million. Just imagine: the Monsignor furnishes an apartment for himself at a cost of eight hundred thousand schillings and at the same time goes on the air to beg on behalf of his charity in a whining appeal addressed to the poorest of the poor, and couched in terms that are mendacious in every detail. I asked my sister whether she didn’t feel ashamed, but she didn’t: she was too intelligent for that, as she herself would put it, and simply said, Four hundred thousand came from me — the Monsignor only paid four hundred thousand. Such goings-on revolt me. But they are typical of the so-called upper crust, to which it has been my sister’s life-long endeavour to belong. A mere count had to have great charm and infinite wealth for my sister to converse with him for any length of time; her normal behaviour she reserved for nothing less than princes. I don’t know where she gets this dreadful madness from. I’ve often wondered whether there’s anything the least bit natural about a person like her. On the other hand there are times when suddenly, from one moment to the next, my attitude to her becomes one of admiration. The little brother is powerless in the face of such a radiant person, which is what she often calls herself. Every room is transformed when she enters it; wherever and whenever she appears, everything changes and becomes subordinated to her alone. And yet she’s not really beautiful. I’ve often asked myself whether she’s beautiful or not, but I can’t say. She is and she isn’t. She’s different from all the others and has the ability, if not to extinguish everybody around her, at least to relegate them to the background, to put them in the shade. This makes her the exact opposite of myself: all my life I have been inconspicuous, not modest — that would be quite the wrong word — but inconspicuous and essentially retiring. The result of my being so inconspicuous and retiring has been that in the course of time I have liquidated myself, as I might say — as I do say, since it’s the truth. Your tragedy, my little brother, is that you always stay in the background, she often says. Her tragedy, however, she once said, was that she must always be in the foreground, whether she wanted to or not, that she was always forced into the foreground wherever she was and whatever the situation. What she says is never stupid, because it’s always cleverer than what other people say, but much of what she says is wrong. At times — not just at times, in fact, but all the time — I could scream at the nonsense which evidently earns her the highest admiration in all quarters. Naturally she goes to the opera, and she never misses a Wagner opera, with one exception: she never goes to see
The Flying Dutchman
, because — in her own words —
The Flying Dutchman
is not a Wagner opera. And she thinks she’s right, as so many do. The clothes she wears on such occasions are of the simplest, much simpler even than the simplest, and yet this simplicity is what attracts the greatest attention. You know, the opera is supremely important for my business, she always says. People are quite crazy about music, which they don’t understand, and take my remaindered goods off my hands. By remaindered goods she means plots of not less than a thousand acres, or what she calls city centre lots, which bring in the highest returns in the shortest time. And it’s really a delight to watch her at table. The way she takes her soup or eats her salad, and so on, makes everyone around her appear, if not positively common, then at least of an inferior stamp. The only possible match for her would be an ancient dowager from the best stable, as they say. But how dreadful to be constantly the centre of attention and never out of the limelight! I can only guess what it must be like, but it must be much more dreadful than I can possibly imagine. I’ve always had the gift of going more or less unnoticed, of keeping myself to myself, even at the largest gathering, and so I’ve always had the advantage of being able to pursue my own inclinations, my own thoughts and fancies, as I wish. Hence the way I conduct myself in company has always stood me in better stead; it’s the one best suited to me, quite the opposite of the one best suited to my sister. No matter where or when she makes her entrance and becomes the focus of all eyes, she always appears utterly natural. Absolutely everything about her is natural — everything she does, everything she says, as well as everything she doesn’t say, everything she keeps to herself. One might think there was no more natural person in the world. It’s as though she didn’t have to give a single thought to anything. But equally naturally that is mistaken. I know how much calculation goes into everything she undertakes, how carefully everything is concocted before she finally dishes it up in front of all these people. In the most natural way in the world she constantly gives them to understand — though of course it isn’t true for a moment — that she has read, if not everything, then at any rate most things, that she has seen, if not everything, then at any rate most things, that she has met and is well acquainted, if not with all, then at any rate with most of the important and famous people who matter. And all this she gives them to understand without actually saying anything of the sort. Although she knows nothing about music and hasn’t even a superficial understanding of it, everybody believes she knows a great deal about music. And the same goes for literature, even philosophy. Where others have to make a continual effort to keep up, she doesn’t need to worry about a thing: everything comes to her at will, quite automatically. Naturally she is educated, in a manner of speaking, but only superficially. Naturally she knows a lot, more than most of the people she associates with, but her knowledge is of the most superficial kind, and yet nobody notices this. Where others constantly have to convince you in order not to be defeated and collapse and make themselves ridiculous, she remains silent and invariably scores a triumph, or else she makes some perfectly timed remark, from which it follows that she is in control of the whole scene. I have never seen my sister worsted. She, on the other hand, has often seen me come to grief over some quite ludicrous point. Two more different, more contrasting characters it would be impossible to imagine. This is probably the source of the tension between us. I have money and never talk about it, she once said, you have philosophy and never talk about it. This observation demonstrates where we both stand, and possibly also, I fear, where we have come to a standstill. Everywhere in the house there are traces of my sister. Wherever my glance falls, she was there. She’s moved this, she’s left that lying around, she’s not closed this window properly, she’s left all those half-empty glasses around. And I’ve no intention of tidying up the mess she’s made. On her bed I found Proust’s
Combray,
as if it had been thrown down in a fit of rage. I’m sure she didn’t get very far. But I can’t say either that she reads only inferior things. In her choice of reading matter she continually reaches a remarkable standard for a woman of her age and social position, and altogether for one with her background and leanings. If anyone should ever read these notes, he’ll wonder what is the point of my going on and on about my sister in this way. It is this: my sister has dominated me ever since childhood, and whenever she leaves it takes me several days to get over her. She may have left physically, but she is still present everywhere in the clearest and for me most terrible way. Above all she was present on this last evening, as I was most painfully aware, and precisely because she had left, this continuing monstrous presence of hers made me increasingly certain that it was impossible to force her out of the house only hours after her physical departure. She can’t be forced out, she stays as long as she wishes, and on this particular evening her wish to stay was enormously intense