The Sleepwalkers (81 page)

Lieutenant Jaretzki got up. He had a feeling as though he had fallen asleep in a railway carriage. Now the train was stopping at one of the bigger stations; Jaretzki resolved to visit the buffet. There were a great many people and a great many lights on the platform. “Sunday traffic” Jaretzki told himself. He had got quite cold. Round about the region of the stomach. Something warm would do him good. Suddenly his left arm was missing. Must have left it lying on the luggage-rack. He
steered his way through tables and people. At the tombola counter he halted.

“A grog,” he commanded.

“It’s a good thing that you’re here,” said Sister Mathilde to Dr Flurschütz, “it won’t be an easy job to deal with Jaretzki to-night.”

“We’ll manage it all right, Sister … enjoyed yourself?”

“Oh yes, it was quite jolly.”

“Isn’t it a little spectral to you too, Sister?”

Sister Mathilde tried to understand, and did not answer.

“Well, could you have pictured anything like this to yourself years ago?”

“It reminds me somewhat of our annual fair.”

“A somewhat hysterical fair.”

“Well, perhaps, Dr Flurschütz.”

“Empty forms that still live … looks like a fair, but the people in it don’t know any longer what’s happening to them.”

“It will all soon come right again, Herr Doctor.”

She stood before him, straight and sound.

Flurschütz shook his head:

“Nothing has ever come right yet … least of all on the Judgment Day … doesn’t this look a little bit like it? what?”

“The ideas you have, Doctor!… but we must get our patients together.”

The volunteer Dr Pelzer caught up Jaretzki in his wandering course near the music pavilion.

“You seem to be looking for something badly, Herr Lieutenant.”

“Yes, a grog.”

“That’s a famous idea, Herr Lieutenant, winter is coming, I’ll fetch you a grog … but sit down … until I get it.” He rushed away and Jaretzki sat down on a table, swinging his legs.

Dr Wendling and his wife, just leaving, passed by. Jaretzki saluted: “Allow me, Herr Lieutenant, I’m Second Lieutenant Jaretzki, Hessian Light Infantry Battalion No. 8, Army of the Crown Prince, lost left arm as result of gas-poisoning at Armentières, beg to introduce myself.”

Wendling looked at him in astonishment:

“Delighted,” he said. “Lieutenant Dr Wendling.”

“Diploma engineer Otto Jaretzki,” Jaretzki now felt obliged to add, this time standing to attention before Hanna, so as to show that the introduction also included her.

Hanna Wendling had already encountered a great deal of admiration during the evening. She said graciously:

“But that’s horrible, about your arm.”

“Quite right, gracious lady, horrible but just.”

“Come, come, Herr Comrade,” said Wendling, “one can’t talk of justice in such things.”

Jaretzki raised one finger:

“It isn’t legal justice that I mean, Herr Comrade … we’ve been given a new kind of justice, a man doesn’t need so many members when he’s alone … you’ll agree with that, I’m sure, gracious lady.”

“Good-evening,” said Wendling.

“A pity, a horrible pity,” said Jaretzki, “but of course everyone is pledged to his loneliness … good-evening.” And he returned to his table again.

“Queer man,” said Hanna Wendling.

“Drunken fool,” replied her husband.

The volunteer Pelzer passing with two glasses of grog stood to attention.

Huguenau hurried out of the ballroom. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and tucked his handkerchief inside his collar.

Sister Mathilde stopped him:

“Herr Huguenau, you could help us by gathering the patients together.”

“A great honour, gracious lady, shall I order a flourish to be blown?”—and he turned at once towards the band.

“No, no, Herr Huguenau, I don’t want any fuss, we can manage without that.”

“As you please … been a splendid evening, hasn’t it, gracious lady? The Herr Major has expressed his pleasure in the most gracious terms.”

“Certainly, a lovely evening.”

“The Herr Surgeon-Major seemed to be very pleased too … he was in splendid spirits … may I beg you to give him my humble regards … he left us so suddenly that I couldn’t see him off.”

“I wonder, Herr Huguenau, if you would let the soldiers in the
ballroom know that Dr Flurschütz and myself are waiting for them at the door.”

“It shall be done, it shall be done at once … but it isn’t right of you, gracious lady, to leave us so soon … not a sign, I hope, that you haven’t enjoyed yourself … well then, I shan’t regard it as that.”

His handkerchief tucked inside his collar, Huguenau hastened back into the ballroom.

“What about the officers, Sister?” asked Flurschütz.

“Oh, we don’t need to bother about them, they’ve made arrangements themselves for being driven back.”

“Good, then everything seems to be coming right after all … but we’ve still got Jaretzki on our shoulders.”

Jaretzki and Dr Pelzer were still sitting in the garden beneath the music pavilion. Jaretzki was trying to look at the illuminations through his brown grog-glass.

Flurschütz sat down beside them:

“How about going to bed, Jaretzki?”

“I’ll go to bed if I can find a woman, if I can’t find a woman I won’t go to bed … the whole thing began with the men going to bed without women and the women going to bed without men … that was a bad arrangement.”

“He’s right there,” said the volunteer.

“Possibly,” said Flurschütz, “and that’s only occurred to you now, Jaretzki?”

“Yes, this very moment … but I’ve known it for a long time.”

“Well, you’ll certainly save the world with that idea.”

“It would be enough if he saved Germany,” said the volunteer Pelzer.

“Germany …” said Flurschütz, looking round the empty garden.

“Germany …” said Pelzer, “when it began I volunteered straight off for the Front … now I’m glad to be sitting here.”

“Germany …” said Jaretzki, who had begun to weep, “too late …” he wiped his eyes, “Flurschütz, you’re a nice fellow, I love you.”

“That’s good of you, I love you too … shall we go home now?”

“We haven’t a home to go to, Flurschütz … I’ll have a shot at getting married.”

“It’s too late for that too, at this time of day, I fancy,” said the volunteer.

“Yes, it’s rather late, Jaretzki,” said Flurschütz.

“It’s never too late for that,” bawled Jaretzki, “but you’ve cut it off, you swine.”

“Come, Jaretzki, it really is time now that you wakened up.”

“If you cut mine off, I’ll cut yours off … that’s why the war must go on for ever … have you ever tried to do it with a hand-grenade …?” he nodded gravely, “… now I, I have … fine eggs, the hand-grenades … rotten eggs.”

Flurschütz took him under the arm:

“Well, Jaretzki, probably you’re quite right … yes, and probably it’s actually the only way left of coming to a mutual understanding … but now come along, my friend.”

At the outside door the soldiers were already assembled round Sister Mathilde.

“Pull yourself together, Jaretzki,” said Flurschütz.

“Righto!” said Jaretzki, and as he appeared before Sister Mathilde he straightened himself to attention and reported: “A lieutenant, a medical officer and fourteen men present … I beg to report that he has cut it off …” he made a short pause for effect, and then drew the empty sleeve out of his pocket and waved it to and fro under Sister Mathilde’s long nose: “Chaste and empty.”

Sister Mathilde cried:

“Those who want to drive back can do so; I am going on foot with the others.”

Huguenau came rushing out:

“I hope everything has gone all right, gracious lady, and that we’re all here … may I wish you a safe journey home?”

He shook hands with Sister Mathilde, with Dr Flurschütz, with Lieutenant Jaretzki, and with each of the fourteen soldiers, being careful to introduce himself in each case as “Huguenau.”

What really do I want of Marie? I invite her here, I ask her to sing, I couple her in all chastity with Nuchem, the Talmudist, the renegade Talmudist, I suppose I should say, and I let her go away again, let her
disappear within the walls of her grey hostel. What do I want of her? and why does she lend herself to this game? is she resolved to save my soul, is she resolved to take on the endless, the ultimately impossible task of capturing the Talmudist soul of this Jew and leading it to Jesus? What does Nuchem think about it anyway? Here I am with these two human beings apparently in the hollow of my hand, and yet I know nothing about them, not even what they are thinking and what they will eat this evening; man is such an isolated creature that nobody, not even God Who created him, knows anything about him.

The whole thing disturbed me extraordinarily, especially as I had never been able to look upon Marie except as a creature filled to the brim with hymns and Bible texts, and in my uneasiness I set out for the hostel.

I had to go there twice before I found her. She was out on a round of sick-visiting, and did not return until the evening. So I sat and waited in the common-room, contemplated the Bible texts on the walls, contemplated the portrait of General Booth, and once more considered all the various possibilities. I recalled to my mind my first meeting with Marie, also her first chance encounter with Nuchem, I made myself visualize everything that had happened since, I impressed all this very thoroughly on my mind, not even excepting my situation at the moment; I examined the common-room with the greatest attention, walking about in the slowly increasing dusk, for the sky had darkened; outside heavy raindrops were falling, hastening the twilight. I asked myself whether the two old men who were also sitting in the room like myself were to be included in my memory, and I included them—best to make certain. They were very feeble, their thoughts were impenetrable, I was empty air to them.

It was quite late when Marie arrived. Meanwhile the two old men had been led out, and I had been almost afraid that I would be treated in the same way. In the barely lit room she did not recognize me at once; she said: “God send you His blessing,” and I responded: “That is only a symbolic figure of speech.” Recognizing me now she replied on her side: “It isn’t a figure of speech, may God send you His blessing.” Now I said for my part: “With us Jews everything is a symbol.” Thereupon she replied: “You aren’t a Jew.” To which I answered: “The bread and the wine are only symbols, none the less; besides, I live among Jews.” She said: “The Lord is our eternal home.” That was completely
in character, that was just as I had imagined it to myself, a sacred text for every eventuality; now she was delivered once more into my hand, and raising my voice I said: “I forbid you ever to enter my Jewish home again,” but it had an empty sound in that place. I must have her in my flat again, it seemed, if I was to talk reasonably to her; so I laughed and said: “A joke of mine,
nebbich
, a joke.” Yet though with that Yiddish word I may have been seeking to take refuge from my own speech in that of an alien, an utterly alien people, and to shelter myself under the ægis of a God alien to me, it was of no avail, I did not recover my assurance. It may be that I was really too broken by my long wait, grown old like the two old men who had finally been led out of the waiting-room; I had been humiliated by my wait, a creature instead of a creator, a disthroned God. Almost humbly I had to bring out: “I wanted to save you from scandal, Dr Litwak has been pointing out the danger to me.” Now that was of course a distortion of the case, for Litwak had feared the danger simply for Nuchem’s sake. And to call in such a ridiculous half-baked Freethinker as a confederate! truly I could not have given a more painful wound to my self-respect. And simple as was the retort which she found in reply, it was a reproof: “When your heart is filled with the joy of the Lord, you’re safe from scandal.” My patience gave under this humiliation, and I did not notice that now I was actually serving the old grandfather’s and Dr Litwak’s purposes: “You mustn’t carry on any more with the young Jew; he has a fat wife and a swarm of children.” Oh, could I have read in her soul, could I have known whether with these words I had hurt and wounded her, torn that heart which gave out that it was filled with the joy of the Lord,—but there was no sign of that, perhaps she had not even understood what I said. She merely said: “I’ll come to see you. We’ll sing together.” I acknowledged myself beaten. “We can go now,” I said with a last remnant of hope that I might still manage to decide her course. She replied: “I would love to, but I must go back to my sick patients.”

So I was compelled to set off for home again with everything still unsettled. Only a soft rain was falling now. In front of me marched a very young pair of lovers; they were clasping each other and their free arms swung to the rhythm of their march.

Religions arise out of sects and in their decadence lapse again into sects, returning to their original status before falling into complete dissolution. At the beginning of the Christian era there were the several Christ- and Mithras-cults, at its close we find the grotesque American sects and the Salvation Army.

Protestantism was the first great sect-formation in the decay of Christianity. A sect, not a new religion. For it lacked the most important characteristic of a new religion, that new theology which binds together into a new harmony the new experience of God and a new cosmogony. Protestantism, by its very nature undeductive and untheological, refused to venture beyond the sphere of the autonomous inward religious experience.

Kant’s attempt to establish a retrospective Protestant theology did indeed wrestle with the task of transferring the substance of religious Platonism to the new positivistic science, but it was far from seeking to set up a universal theological canon of values on the Catholic pattern.

The defence of Catholicism against a progressive disintegration into sects was organized by the Jesuits of the Counter-reformation in a draconic, even a military, centralization of values. That was the time when even the survivals of heathenish folk-customs were pressed into the service of the Church, when folk-art received its Catholic colouring, when the Church of the Jesuits blossomed into an unheard-of splendour, aspiring towards and achieving an ecstatic unity which was no longer, indeed, the mystic symbolical unity of the Gothic, but none the less was its heroic-romantic counterpart.