Robert Walser: Berlin Stories

Art exhibitions are known to have as their goal the advantageous display of works of art and the attracting of buyers. The secretary plays the role of intermediary or go-between, facilitating communication between artists and their extensive, art-infatuated public. It is his task to ensure that a goodly number of bargains are definitively struck, that pictures are industriously sent out the door to buyers. Persons expressing interest in these works might appear on the scene only to swiftly vanish from sight again, unfortunately for good. The secretary must be attentive, as the most unimposing man can unexpectedly prove to be a connoisseur and buyer.

For a time I imagined myself to be exceedingly skillful at the art trade. Unquestionably I was splendidly suited to taking leisurely hackney-cab rides upon pleasantly lively, bright, glittering streets and to spending half and whole hours merrily chatting with jolly artists’ wives. Spirited evenings at the club regularly showed me in top form. I was a master at passing about platters heaped with delicacies, and was a frequent and enthusiastic visitor to and encourager of female painters. In such and similar respects, I acquitted myself gloriously. After the fact, however, I reached the conclusion that I cannot have been a particularly valuable, clever, prudent, and successful secretary for paintings. Specialists in the field were on several occasions seen to shrug their shoulders at the extent of my accomplishments. The head of the firm seemed to find it appealing to speak with his functionary above all on the subject of poetry and the like.

A stately successor soon reduced me to a predecessor and provided me with an occasion to lay down my post, resign my position, delicately make way, and charmingly busy myself elsewhere. Thinking poorly of me or feeling resentful because he had made so bold as to presume talents in me that I did not in fact possess was something that would never have occurred to my benefactor. To demonstrate that he was still of a mind to remain well-disposed toward me, he invited me, with a turn of phrase both courteous and jovial, to join him for supper.

1917

“Come with me, we’ll go visit Frau Bähni,” the potentate Bösiger said to me. At the time I was something resembling Bösiger’s favored protégé. He no doubt found it agreeable to consort with me because I was inexperienced. My innocuousness gave him a sort of pleasure, and the infelicities I now and then displayed made him laugh. It’s well known that powerful, influential gentlemen like to spend time in the company of people who have no importance at all. In those days, I was playing the role of youthful novice in the circles that set the tone, i.e., the world of culture, intellect, and elegance. I would turn up here and there, advantageously or not, and was collecting my first experiences of society. In the salons, by the way, as I soon discovered, I had not the slightest success, and perhaps it was precisely this circumstance that secured me Bösiger’s favor. It was impossible for him to see me as a rival. Later, though, he reconsidered his view of me, and in time he began to be taken aback by my behavior, and that was the end of his patronage.

We got into a hackney cab and together rode through the densely populated streets of the capital to the home of beautiful Frau Bähni, who lived in the most elegant, posh, desirable part of town. She was at home and received us most courteously. It was three in the afternoon, a rainy day. Much of what I have experienced in the wide world has vanished completely from my head over the years, but I still vividly recall Frau Bähni, and the afternoon hour I am describing here impressed itself on me and remains an indelible memory. Frau Bähni’s husband maintained extremely close business ties to capitalist Bösiger. She herself was strikingly beautiful. Her appearance and person always produced a stir, and she laid claim to a certain renown as a figure worthy of admiration. She held and retained this fame for a relatively long time. As for her apartment, I must confess that I’ve never seen a prettier abode. Frau Bähni greeted us with the most courteous and endearing smile, and her beautiful, majestic face seemed to express the most vibrant joy.

She pressed our hands in turn and then with what appeared to be the greatest amiability invited us to enter the parlor. Bösiger, by the way, had always assured me that Frau Bähni was an enigma. “She’s frightfully clever, and yet I don’t fully believe in her cleverness,” he’d said. Bösiger had a reputation for being both a witty and a domineering, violent person. There was a time when people compared him to Napoleon. His boldly enterprising nature and his ruthless drive were legendary. When he entered the home of Frau Bähni, whose beauty he was forced to acknowledge and who seemed to make a deep impression on him, it was with the expression of a person tormented by all sorts of spleen. He appeared to be a bit awkward and self-conscious and to be aggrieved at this circumstance. Frau Bähni sat down at the piano and began to play, and I had the strange impression that she was playing music primarily because she felt a need to calm her nerves. A conversation had not yet arisen. The two of us, or perhaps all three, feigned a sense of comfort that in truth was nonexistent and a pleasure none of us felt. Bösiger wrinkled his forehead. Frau Bähni interrupted her playing and with defiant coldness in her large, beautiful eyes approached her adversary. I began to realize that the two of them had been preparing for this hostile encounter for quite some time, and I was extremely curious to hear the words that would be uttered by these two persons who now stood facing each other like two adversaries on the field of battle. Something like a drama was beginning to unfold. I took a good look at Bösiger, who sat there stiffly, and I could see quite clearly by the various small signs he was giving that he found himself in a state of extreme agitation. The elegant, cold smile he saw fit to place upon his lips was askew. At this moment he was almost ugly. His clever, interesting face that was usually almost handsome was contorted and pale. Apparently he was fighting an exceptionally difficult internal battle. People who are spoiled suffer terribly when their self-love is dealt a blow. Frau Bähni clearly had the advantage over him, and this appeared to be something that Bösiger could under no circumstances tolerate.

“I love you,” he said in a constrained, forced voice. “I don’t wish to hear anything of the sort,” she replied. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I worship you,” he said. “Please do stop,” she unsparingly countered. She gazed at him directly, penetratingly, all merciless distrust. It was clear that she did not attribute to Bösiger’s words even the slightest credibility, or else she was being political and found it appropriate to feign disbelief. “Here the veil is being lifted on a daredevil liaison,” I whispered to myself, at pains to be as quiet as a mouse. “So you refuse to be friendly to me. You thrust me away. You slice my fondest hopes to ribbons, and it means nothing to you to trample on my heart. Warmth leaves you cold, and on friendship you place no value. You are treating me with intentional frostiness, heartlessly rejecting all closeness and familiarity. Faced with the tenderness I feel for you, you do not bat an eyelash. Either you are indifferent or you are obstinately making a show of indifference. You are tormenting, martyring me, and it gives you pleasure to see me so distraught. This is not good, and I would like to know how I have merited such unfriendliness.” —To this outpouring of openness from a man whom she would not previously have thought capable of candor, her only response was: “It is inappropriate for you to speak in this way.” The capitalist and man of influence was trembling with fury. In fact he had not yet been the least bit candid. I sensed this, but at the same time I sensed that Frau Bähni had not yet spoken candidly either. No one speaks the truth here, in these circles that set the tone for society at large. — Perhaps a word of truth is out of the question, if only because people here are too clever and are acquainted with thousands of truths and untruths. The knowledge of human nature is too rich, the treasury of experiences in fact already too replete. In a sense, speaking the truth presupposes a certain narrow-mindedness.