The Sleepwalkers (70 page)

“That will soon be all right, Jaretzki.”

“Oh, everything’s all right as it is.”

The logic of the soldier demands that he shall throw a hand-grenade between the legs of his enemy:

the logic of the army demands in general that all military resources shall be exploited with the utmost rigour and severity, resulting, if necessary, in the extermination of peoples, the demolition of cathedrals, the bombardment of hospitals and operating-theatres:

the logic of the business man demands that all commercial resources shall be exploited with the utmost rigour and efficiency to bring about the destruction of all competition and the sole domination of his own business, whether that be a trading house or a factory or a company or other economic body:

the logic of the painter demands that the principles of painting shall be followed to their conclusions with the utmost rigour and thoroughness, at the peril of producing pictures which are completely esoteric, and comprehensible only by those who produce them:

the logic of the revolutionist demands that the revolutionary impulse shall be pursued with the utmost rigour and thoroughness for the achievement of a revolution as an end in itself, as, indeed, the logic of politicians in general demands that they shall obtain an absolute dictatorship for their political aims:

the logic of the bourgeois climber demands that the watchword “enrichissez-vous” shall be followed with the most absolute and uncompromising rigour:

in this fashion, in this absolute devotion to logical rigour, the Western world has won its achievements,—and with the same thoroughness, the absolute thoroughness that abrogates itself, must it eventually advance
ad absurdum:

war is war,
l’art pour l’art
, in politics there’s no room for compunction, business is business,—all these signify the same thing, all these appertain to the same aggressive and radical spirit, informed by that uncanny, I might almost say that metaphysical, lack of consideration for consequences, that ruthless logic directed on the object and on the object alone, which looks neither to the right nor to the left; and this, all this, is the style of thinking that characterizes our age.

One cannot escape from this brutal and aggressive logic that exhibits itself in all the values and non-values of our age, not even by withdrawing into the solitude of a castle or of a Jewish dwelling; yet a man who shrinks from knowledge, that is to say, a romantic, a man who must have a bounded world, a closed system of values, and who seeks in the past the completeness he longs for, such a man has good reason for turning to the Middle Ages. For the Middle Ages possessed the ideal centre of values that he requires, possessed a supreme value to which all other values were subordinate: the belief in the Christian God. Cosmogony was as dependent on that central value (more, it could be scholastically
deduced from it) as man himself; man with all his activities formed a part of the whole world-order which was merely the reflected image of an ecclesiastical hierarchy, the closed and finite symbol of an eternal and infinite harmony. The dictum “Business is business” was not permitted to the medieval merchant, competitive struggle being forbidden to him; the medieval artist knew nothing of
l’art pour l’art
, but only that he must serve his faith; medieval warfare claimed absolute authority only when it was waged in the service of the faith. It was a world reposing on faith, a final not a causal world, a world founded on being, not on becoming; and its social structure, its art, the sentiments that bound it together, in short, its whole system of values, was subordinated to the all-embracing living value of the faith: the faith was the point of plausibility in which every line of inquiry ended, the faith was what enforced logic and gave it that specific colouring, that style-creating impulse, which expresses itself not only in a certain style of thinking, but continues to shape a style characterizing the whole epoch for so long as the faith survives.

But thought dared to take the step from monotheism into the abstract, and God, the personal God made visible in the finite infinity of the Trinity, became an entity whose name could no longer be spoken and whose image could no longer be fashioned, an entity that ascended into the infinite neutrality of the Absolute and there was lost to sight in the dread vastness of Being, no longer immanent but beyond the reach of man.

In the violence of this revolution caused by the radical application, one might even say by the unleashing, of logic, in this removal of the point of plausibility to a new plane of the infinite, in this withdrawal of faith from concrete life, the simple sufficiency of existence was also destroyed. The style-creating force seems to vanish from concrete expression at this point, and beside the mass of the Kantian structure and the flames of revolution all that we find is rococo and an Empire degenerated overnight into Biedermeyer. For even although the Empire, and shortly after it the romantic movement, recognizing the discrepancy between this spiritual revolution and the existing forms of concrete expression, looked to the past for help, calling in the antique and the Gothic, yet the new development could not be checked: immanent Being had been analysed into pure function, the physical world itself had been analysed into such abstraction that two generations later even Space could be
eliminated from it; the decision for pure abstraction was already irrevocable. And the infinite remoteness, the inaccessible noumenal remoteness of that point towards which all lines of inquiry and chains of probability were now destined to strive, rendered impossible at one stroke the binding of all single value-systems to a central value; the abstract ruthlessly invaded the logic of every single value-making activity, stripping its content bare, and not only forbade it to deviate at all from the form determined by its function, insisting on purely functional structure whether in architecture or in any other constructive activity, but has also radicalized so thoroughly the single value-systems that these, being thrown back on themselves and referred to the Absolute, have separated from one another, now run parallel to each other, and, since they can no longer combine in the service of a supreme value, claim equality one with the other: like strangers they exist side by side, an economic value-system of “good business” next to an æsthetic one of
l’art pour l’art
, a military code of values side by side with a technical or an athletic, each autonomous, each “in and for itself,” each “unfettered” in its autonomy, each resolved to push home with radical thoroughness the final conclusions of its logic and to break its own record. And woe to the others, if in this conflict of systems that precariously maintain an equilibrium one should gain the preponderance and overtop all the rest, as the military system does in war, or as the economic system is now doing, a system to which even war is subordinate,—woe to the others! For the triumphant system will embrace the whole of the world, it will overwhelm all other values and exterminate them as a cloud of locusts lays waste a field.

But man, who was once the image of God, the mirror of a universal value created by himself, man has fallen from his former estate: he may still have some dim remembrance of his one-time security, he may still ask himself what is this superimposed logic that has perverted his life; yet he is driven out into the horror of the infinite, and, no matter how he shudders at the prospect, no matter how romantically and sentimentally he may yearn to return to the fold of faith, he is helplessly caught in the mechanism of the autonomous value-systems, and can do nothing but submit himself to the particular value that has become his profession, he can do nothing but become a function of that value—a specialist, eaten up by the radical logic of the value into whose jaws he has fallen.

Huguenau had arranged with Frau Esch that she should give him his midday meal every day. That suited his convenience in all sorts of ways, and Frau Esch did her best for him, she had to be given credit for that.

One day when he went up for his dinner, he found Esch sitting at the newly laid table absorbed in a black-bound book. Huguenau looked inquisitively over his shoulder and recognized the woodcuts of a Bible. As he seldom allowed himself to be surprised at anything, except perhaps when someone overreached him in business, and that happened rarely enough, he merely said: “Aha!” and waited for his food to be served up.

Frau Esch, broad-hipped, sexless, dowdy, passed through the room; her indeterminately fair hair was caught untidily in a knot. But in passing she touched her husband’s bony shoulder with an uncalled-for gesture, and Huguenau suddenly had the feeling that of nights she must know very well how to avail herself of her conjugal state. The thought was unpleasant, and so he asked:

“Well, Esch, are you preparing to go into a monastery?”

Esch glanced up from his book:

“That’s just the question, whether any escape is permissible,” adding with his accustomed rudeness, “but you don’t understand that.”

Frau Esch brought in the soup, and Huguenau’s disagreeable thoughts would not leave him. The two of them lived together like lovers, without desiring children, and it was probably to cloak this that they wanted to adopt the girl Marguerite. Actually he was sitting on the chair where their son should have been. So with simple guile he took up the joke again and told Frau Esch that her husband was going into a monastery. Whereupon Frau Esch asked whether it was true that in all the monasteries there were suspicious goings-on among the monks. And she laughed over some dissolute fancy that rose in her mind. But then her eyes turned slowly and suspiciously towards her husband:

“Yes, you’re capable of anything.”

This was obviously painful to Herr Esch; Huguenau noted that he flushed and returned her glance with anger. Nevertheless, resolved not to lose his prestige in front of his wife but rather to enhance it, Esch declared that after all it was simply a matter of habit, but that everybody knew
well enough that even in a monkery there wasn’t the slightest need to take refuge in these practices, on the contrary, he flattered himself that even if he wore a cowl he would be able to give a good account of himself.

Frau Esch had stiffened into expressionless gravity. She mechanically patted her hair to rights and said at last:

“Is the soup good, Herr Huguenau?”

“Splendid,” said Huguenau, supping it up.

“Would you like another plateful?” Frau Esch sighed. “I’ve nothing very grand to follow to-day in any case, only a tart.”

She nodded in satisfaction when he let his plate be filled again. But meanwhile Huguenau stuck to his theme: apparently Herr Esch was already sick of the war rations; there were no meat and flour cards in the monasteries, one could still live there as if it were peace-time; but considering how much land the priests owned that wasn’t surprising. They still stuffed their bellies full in these places. When he was in Maulbronn an employee of the monastery had told him …

Esch interrupted him: if the world became really free again, there would be no need for anyone to eat prison fare.…

“Turnips and cabbages,” said Frau Esch.

“But not fresh cabbage,” said Huguenau, “what do you call being really free?”

Esch said:

“The freedom of a Christian soul.”

“By all means,” said Huguenau, “but I would like to know what that has to do with cabbage.”

Esch seized the Bible:

“My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of murderers.”

“Hm, and murderers are given stale cabbage,” grinned Huguenau; then he became serious: “So you think the war is a kind of murder, murder with robbery in a way, as the Socialists say.”

Esch paid no attention to him; he went on turning over the leaves:

“And besides it’s stated in Chronicles second book … sixth chapter, eighth verse … here it is: ‘ Forasmuch as it was in thine heart to build an house for my name, thou didst well in that it was in thine heart: Notwithstanding thou shalt not build the house; but thy son which shall come forth out of thy loins, he shall build the house for my name.’ ” Esch’s face had grown red: “That’s a very important passage.”

“It may be,” said Huguenau, “but why?”

“Murder and counter-murder … many must sacrifice themselves that the Redeemer may be born, the son who shall build the house.”

Huguenau asked cautiously:

“Do you mean the future Socialist State?”

“Trade unions alone can’t do it.”

“I see … that’s from the Major’s article, I suppose?”

“No, that’s in the Bible, only nobody has gathered its meaning yet.”

Huguenau threatened Esch with an upraised finger:

“You’re a sly dog, Esch … and you fancy that the old Major will never notice what you’re up to now under cover of the Bible?”

“What’s that?”

“Why, communistic propaganda.”

Esch grinned, showing his strong yellow teeth:

“You’re an idiot.”

“It’s easy to be rude … what’s your idea of the future state, then?” Esch thought hard:

“It’s impossible to make you understand anything … but one thing I can tell you: when people begin again to understand how to read the Bible, then there won’t be any more need of Communism or Socialism … and there won’t be any French Republic or German Emperor either.”

“Well, but that’s plain revolution … just tell that to the Major.”

“I’d tell him, too, without any hesitation.”

“He’ll be delighted to hear it, no doubt … and what will happen next, after you’ve got rid of the Emperor?”

Esch said:

“The Redeemer will reign over all men.”

Huguenau winked across at Frau Esch:

“Your son, do you mean?”

Esch too gazed at his wife: it looked almost as if he were startled:

“My son?”

“We have no children,” said Frau Esch.

“But you said that your son would build the house,” Huguenau grinned.

That, however, was too much for Esch:

“You’re blaspheming, sir … you’re so dense that you can’t help blaspheming or twisting one’s words.…”