Panorama (34 page)

Josef writes in his diary and looks forward to Wednesday with Johannes, where he will remain quiet and observe the others, how they talk and what they have to say, as well as Johannes’s playing of the gong. The days rush by, and the evening has arrived, Thomas showing up right on time, the two not saying a word after they first greet each other, though usually their time together is full of talk, neither able to say enough about what he has been doing, each having always been so unsettled by all that’s gone on since they last met, it being a flood of dreams and nightmares, puzzling incidents that they can’t help but divulge. Both are full of passion and hardly let the other get in a single word, feeling an inexhaustible pouring forth from within that they can barely keep up with in speech, the two also having experienced many symbolic events that strain the normal definitions of words, though the friends understand each other through hints and suggestions for which
they have developed their own style. They spend long evenings together, either at Thomas’s or Josef’s place, playing piano for each other, their own tunes, which sometimes sound a bit off, Josef striking a tone with different emphasis in a rhythmic chain, loud or soft, again and again, heightening the effect with the pedal and the dampening of various keys in order to arrive at effects that from the distance remind one of Johannes playing the gong. What, indeed, would he say about Josef’s piano playing? After many hours in the room together the two friends walk around at night for some hours more, heading out through the city outskirts and onto paths that rise into the hills, where they hardly ever encounter anyone else, here and there a farm or brickyard standing on its own, as Thomas thinks that all brickyards look almost like a place where evil spirits gather, one reminding him of the legend of Rabbi Löw and the golem he made of clay, it still seeming possible here even today, though Josef loves the feel of brickyards, and both love the many lights that stretch out like chains through the streets and that shine from the clusters of houses on the outskirts, as well as the murky shimmer whose lofty cloud of light floods the distance where the middle of the city lies hidden, it being somewhat unreal what they love, if in fact they believe it to be unchanging and constant, since they value only the eternal, rather than the everyday life in which one must scrape along in order to survive. Their back-and-forth does not spring from frivolity, there is nothing superficial about them. Since he was a boy Thomas has had to work hard to get by, Josef having it a bit better, though he, too, must count his pennies, both having learned not even to think about spending money on unnecessary things, for what good is the eternally temporal versus the temporary eternal which they continually aspire to so diligently.

But tonight the friends walk along without saying a word, moving as fast as the tumultuous streets surrounding the tower building will allow, themselves almost at the door, as below the sound of a tango whispers as it snakes its way upward as they enter through the sliding door, neither again having the right coins for the elevator, as they slowly climb up six floors and Thomas knocks three times. This time they don’t have to wait very long, Frieda already there to open the door, all the doors of the apartment standing open, lights turned on everywhere, some voices audible, the door to the left leading into the kitchen, something that Josef didn’t notice last time,
though today Thomas takes his somewhat wary friend by the hand and heads in, Johannes there with two men and two women as he greets him heartily and says a couple of friendly words, to which Josef responds, “I’m so happy, Herr Tvrdil, that I could come again.” But Johannes laughs and says, “What? My friends never speak to me so formally. To you I am Johannes and to me you are Josef.” Josef wants to protest, but Thomas grabs him hard by the arm so that Josef knows that he shouldn’t say anything.

One of the men in the kitchen is Herr Haschke, who quickly asks Josef, “Are you also interested in the true path? If so, you have found the right place here with Johannes. You have no idea how much I owe to him!” Josef is somewhat embarrassed, but he is spared from having to reply, for Herr Haschke rushes on about the incredible experiences he has had, though one should not think that it’s that easy to remain on the true path, you must be careful not to lose hold of it and concentrate every moment in order to make sure that you are not led astray by false thoughts, people being so easy to seduce, such that you have to resist, for afterward you are disburdened and can float like an angel above the thorny way of everyday life. As he speaks, Herr Haschke’s face goes all misty, and then he asks Josef gravely, “How long have you been on the true path?” Josef doesn’t understand right away, and looks questioningly at Herr Haschke. “I mean, how long have you concentrated on it?” Josef replies to the query with a vague answer, though it doesn’t satisfy Herr Haschke, who announces, “You have to devote yourself to the path, and that indeed requires concentration. That’s most important in the morning when you first wake up, and in the evening before going to sleep. For then it functions all through the night. You sink inside yourself and think of nothing but the highest self that slumbers inside you and that through concentration will awaken. When you wake up, your aimless wandering is over. Oh, how lost I have been, but now I am somewhat enlightened! Oh, it’s wonderful, it’s so wonderful, such that I cannot describe it to you. Worldly matters disappear, and only the pure spirit is there. You must search for it! But it is incredibly hard, for evil spirits wish to distract you at first. Try reading the mystical writings of Kerning and Eckartshausen in order to be inspired!” Herr Haschke closes his eyes blissfully, his mouth open with rapture, his tongue licking a corner of it.

Josef doesn’t know whether to laugh or be appalled, but then an old
woman named Yolanda turns to him and says, “You really should know that Herr Haschke is the biggest fanatic among us. For a long while he had lost his way, but now he lives in bliss. I’ve not experienced it like him, for I was always God-fearing, but in a more churchly sense. I believed in the holy sacraments and in the grace of God. Then I had an epiphany. It was a genuine vision in which a white hand appeared to me, around which there was a soft light. The hand touched my forehead in order to bless me, and a voice said to me, ‘Yolanda, you must not sleep any longer! My daughter, wake up!’ Then I knew it was God’s voice. But belief is not enough, you must also act within the world and engage yourself. Thus I devoted myself to the path. I always keep at it, and then it simply occurs. I am at it when I do housework, when I make batter for a cake, when I shop in the market, when I cook, iron, even set the table and relax on the settee, even then I am still on the path and at it. Then all my thoughts are with God, who gives me the strength for my work and his blessing.” Herr Haschke looks up and takes Yolanda’s hands. “Yolanda, Yolanda, it’s all so wonderful. Your life is like the sun. I envy your husband and your son, Schorschl, who get to live within the circle of your light. With you at home, everyone must be on the true path. What a blessing! But no one at my house is on the true path. I have tried to lead my parents and my brother to it. But my brother is a total extrovert and loves going to the movies most of all. And my father says he just wants to rest after work. I have often wanted to explain to him that real and true relaxation comes through concentration, which sparks godliness. But my father doesn’t believe it and doesn’t understand me. Eckartshausen’s
Mystical Nights
, which I gave him, he didn’t read. He only reads the newspaper, and Johannes says I should leave my father in peace. But I suffer as a result. My mother has said that she has nothing against my being on the true path, yet she has no path at all, and so, end of story. Oh, Yolanda, your family enjoys God’s true blessing!”

Johannes is caught up in other conversations, but toward the end he also hears Haschke, and says, “You should not be envious of anyone or complain about their family. It’s simple. Each is granted the circumstances that best suit him. It only matters to recognize them and to make something good out of them. On one’s way one shouldn’t melt into sentimentality.”—“Oh, you’re so right, Johannes, you are always right! Don’t think that I am
really envious of Yolanda and her family! I’m happy that she has it so good. I also have it good when my sins are so great. For then is the grace of God even greater. Martin Luther was right, even if I never was a Protestant, when he said that one should sin deeply, in order to truly experience grace.” Johannes only says softly that one should watch out for one’s tongue getting caught up in idle chatter and parroting, especially when repeating mistaken ideas. Meanwhile more and more people arrive, Frieda responding to the doorbell and opening the door, but then it rings once more, and because Frieda isn’t there Haschke walks out to answer, as guests pour into the kitchen and then leave it, lively voices filling every room in the apartment, as Frieda appears with a woman named Greta, and they announce that it’s almost eight o’clock, almost everyone is there whom they expected, so they should all gather in the tower room and begin, during which time Frieda and Greta will get tea ready in the kitchen, at which Johannes gets up and turns to all those around him with a soft smile and says, “Yes, indeed, let us devote ourselves to the path!” Everyone heads into the studio, in the foyer and waiting room the lights are turned off, while in the tower room only the two standing lights and the eternal light are lit, chairs having been brought in from the other rooms, everyone gathering around the table except two or three, Haschke being one of them.

Josef is introduced to the regular guests, among whom is Spiridion von Flaschenberg, who animatedly turns to him, “Josef? Josef is a wonderful name. From both the Old and the New Testament. Have you ever thought about your name before? I don’t want to spoil it for you, but you should look into it. I hope you’ll soon come to visit me. Sunday mornings everyone—and by that I mean everyone, people, gods, spirits, and demons—are welcome to visit. The entire cosmos gathers at my place. Take down the address: Flaschenbergianeum, Balbinggasse 6, Electrical Number 8 to the final stop, then right on the first street you come to, and then the next left, where you’ll already see the address, Flaschenbergianeum 9-11, home of the cosmos.” At this Herr von Flaschenberg abruptly turns away from Josef and talks with other guests, making elaborate sweeping gestures with his hands, as Josef meets another man, Herr Ringel, who with his red beard looks sort of like a professor of history, though he is in fact an academic painter, he also inviting Josef to visit him, saying, “I live a quite humble existence. Today no
one values artists. Raphael’s paintings were, in a word, met with triumph when they emerged from his studio. Back then people knew how to honor the great, but today the world is awash in mediocrity. Hardly anyone believes in me, though indeed future times will erect a memorial and place my paintings in the most honored and sanctified places. That will no longer be galleries and museums, which are to blame more than anything for why no one understands painting today. Everyone is caught up in naturalism. And whoever doesn’t paint in a naturalist manner is considered an outrage, mad, or just a fool—that is to say, an
artiste
. People have gotten used to looking at even the work of the past as naturalistic. Above all, no one knows anything about color. If you want to understand painting, then please don’t visit any gallery, but instead come to me. I live for the most part in squalor, but no one buys paintings these days. And instead of Master Ringel I’m called Herr Ringel, which is really an insult, for art is mastery, not the pedestrian. The path to art has three stages: apprentice, assistant, and master. Painting is also a craft, not a trade. Through its nature as a craft it differs from arts like poetry and music, where there are no masters in this sense. In music the nonsense about maestro usually signifies a decline, it being diametrically opposed to the ancient notion of music. Musicians use it, I agree, but to err is human. But certainly it would sound ridiculous to say ‘Master Goethe,’ yet painters are indeed called masters. The term ‘Old Masters’ is still commonly used even today.”

Haschke then interrupts, saying, “Oh, Ringel’s paintings are epiphanies. He paints only while lost in concentration. It’s marvelous! Oh, what paintings they are!” Ringel adds, “I don’t mean to praise my own work. But in all modesty I can say that since my days at the academy I have not done a single naturalistic painting. I have dissolved all forms, I work only with color. Color is light, and thus it is divine. Each single color is a mystery that God, as it were, manifests in the rainbow. God himself cannot be painted, the Jews and Muhammad being correct about this. One can’t even paint the sun, the ultimate symbol of Him. But God’s manifestations can be painted, which share the colors we see in the rainbow. This is, as it were, my mission. I paint the path to God, and in a truly modern way, through bright colors and not in the illuminated darkness of Rembrandt, who for all his greatness was no painter. The Old Masters were also not genuine painters, but rather
illuminators or colorists, they used color only for coloration, as a surface element, without having experienced it as a spiritual essence. That’s also true of Titian, who attained the most, but I have made a considerable step beyond, as it were.” Haschke then interrupts again, saying, “Oh, it’s marvelous! You have to see it! I have one of Ringel’s paintings, naturally just a small one, but for me it is greater than all the other paintings in the modern gallery. It hangs above my bed between a reproduction from a Sistine Chapel Madonna and the
Mona Lisa
. Ringel’s painting is not done in oils but rather pastels, like the dust of a butterfly on colored paper. I tell you, it’s like a dream. I have it framed in a magenta frame, for Ringel says that magenta is the color of the future. The painting is titled
The Awakening of the Soul
. Oh, it’s marvelous! One figure lifts another one high, both pointing upward to where light pours down. It’s deeply symbolic. At night I dream about it and am in a good mood when I wake up, look at the painting, and begin to concentrate.”