H. Adler - Panorama

Frieda and Greta have cleared away the plates and want to clean up in the kitchen, Yolanda hurrying after them, the collective meeting in the tower room beginning to break up and spread out into the apartment. Josef doesn’t want to talk with anyone else, though he walks through the rooms and listens in here and there, noticing people whom he hasn’t seen before, they having arrived inconspicuously much later than the rest, Johannes now sitting with two of them by his side, older men who quietly yet keenly speak with him, as Thomas thumbs through the writings of Meister Eckhart, Haschke reads Flaschenberg’s poem again and appears to be explaining it to him, Schorschl chatting with his father, the words “bag,” “hat,” and “cake” able to be heard. Then Josef overhears a conversation in the chamber where he had sat listening to Johannes striking the gong. Master Ringel is with Herr Herold, who says that he would love to buy a painting, he needs something for a wedding gift for his niece in Pardubitz, and that he’ll pay the full price, as well as buy Ringel a pair of shoes of his own choosing. “But you know, it must be a beautiful painting, as beautiful as any of yours, though not just beautiful but also sensible, for my niece is quite normal. She knows nothing about the true path or about concentration. But she has good taste, and was herself a good draftsman in school, though her taste is somewhat out of date, more naturalistic and not at all mystical. The painting will hang over the credenza in the dining room.” Ringel appears to be pleased by the proposition, but he says that he hardly has such a painting, he makes only paintings that are epiphanies, so he wants to know just what Herold would like to see in such a painting. A still life is the answer he gets, nothing mystical, but still well done. Master Ringel appears to have nothing that will fit the bill and wants to know whether it could be a bunch of flowers, which in fact also have a mystical quality, even though they look like real flowers that are recognizable, such as crocuses, lilies, and roses. Then Herold asks if they are indeed flowers that anyone in Pardubitz would recognize, Ringel assuring him that the painting contains a whole bouquet, a really lovely painting that he did especially in oils, its title being Flowers of Hope , which would make for an excellent wedding gift. Herold agrees and says he would like to see the painting, and so they set up a time for him to visit.

At this same moment Herr von Flaschenberg steps up to Josef and tells him, “It’s not very nice of your friend to say bad things about my poem. He’s done that to me a couple of times. He used to just praise me and visit me almost every Sunday, where he wanted to hear my poetry. And now he’s different. That’s hard to take, my young friend. I hope you’ll soon visit me, for then I will explain all the symbols to you. But what do you think of my poem?” Josef doesn’t want to give any verdict. “But that’s not right, my young friend! Your name is Josef, which is a lovely name. I have already said that I don’t want to just rattle on to you, but if you come visit I’ll read you my poem ‘Josef Enslaved.’ You can also find it in my book Biblical Legends . Have you already read some of my poems?” Josef is forced to say that he hasn’t. “That’s too bad. Everyone here knows my poems. But you can buy a copy and have a painting by Master Ringel on the cover as a bonus. We brought out a fine edition — a few poems, a few illustrations, and the book design by him. You should get a copy. When I was your age I knew all the poetry that was contemporary to my time, such as the German poets Dehmel, Bierbaum, and Caesar Flaischlen, as well as our own Hugo Salus. I also translated a great deal. Have you ever translated a poem?” Once more Josef has to say no. “It’s hard to do, if you’ve never tried it. Your friend Thomas has also not translated anything, and yet he’s happy to criticize. Only a creative person has the right to criticize, for only he knows how hard it is.”

The women are done cleaning up, and people begin to get ready to leave as Yolanda announces, “We have to head home. Johannes, thank you! And Frieda as well! It was so wonderful what you read today, and then the music! Also Spiridion’s poem! Everything was just lovely!” Johannes asks, “Wouldn’t you all like to stay a little longer?” But everyone is ready to leave, it’s already late, and they don’t want to miss the last electrical. Then Johannes says, “Well, then, if you feel you have to go I won’t stop you. I thank you for coming, and you, Yolanda, I especially thank you for the cake.” The guests reach for their coats, which are all mixed together because of Schorschl having searched for his mother’s bag, after which people start to say goodbye, the women always having something to talk about and whisper to one another, Yolanda advising Frieda what she should cook for Johannes, all of it coming to a pleasant end as Frieda insists that they not clog up the hall in front of the apartment, at which handshakes quickly go round, as well as thank-yous and goodbyes, the group already heading down the stairs.

Haschke says, “Oh, it was wonderful today! Everything was heavenly! And now I have to head home. You know, Ringel, if I didn’t have your painting there, or Spiridion’s poetry, my notes about our evenings and my inner memories, as well as a couple of books on mysticism, then nothing would please me anymore, for there’s no one at home who understands me.” He adds, “Yes, I’m on the true path. But that’s a lot easier to say in the tower room than at home.” Meanwhile, below a couple of high-pitched tones that have slipped out from the bar can be heard, the group encountering the damp night air on the street, as everyone quickly says goodbye, Herr von Flaschenberg reminding Josef again, “Well then, goodbye, and I’ll see you on Sunday!” Already they all scatter in several different directions, Thomas having also left Josef, who wants to walk rather than take the streetcar, Herr Herold walking with him for part of the way and telling him about the price of shoes, which can ruin the prospects of any good salesman, but Josef interrupts to ask, “How long have you been interested in the questions that are so important for Johannes?” Herr Herold answers, “I’m only an outsider. As a salesman, I’m interested in other things. But Tvrdil is quite a guy. My older brother, who made gingerbread in Pardubitz, was a student of Tvrdil’s. He adored him. But my brother is long dead. It was in Italy during the war, back in 1918, when he didn’t come back from the collapse at Piave. That’s why I visit Tvrdil. The doctor recommended it as a diversion. My heart is still broken, so I have to take care. But now I have to go, for I’m already almost home. Good night!”

Now Josef is alone and happy that he can pilgrimage through the somewhat foggy streets. He feels numb from these people and their snooty talk, and does not know if he did the right thing in following Thomas’s suggestion, since he hardly heard anything among the group that seemed worthwhile, he in fact being surprised that Johannes can stand that loony Haschke, nor do hardly any of them have a good idea of what they mean by “inward” or “outward,” they are all caught up in sentimental feelings and wallow in overblown talk. God, this Haschke, who presents himself as such a pitiful man, lying in bed and staring at Master Ringel’s painting, this Awakening of the Soul done in, as it were, dabbed-on pastels, an outrageous travesty of symbolic art. It pains Josef to think this way, for perhaps they are better people than himself who, he has to admit, strive very hard. None of Johannes’s guests whom he met today are free and have courage, nor even the desire for real freedom, but instead they are like spoiled children who play with their own chains, and because those sit lightly they end up fooling themselves into thinking they are flower chains worn upon the true path that the fools think they walk along. And how odd that Johannes puts up with these hangers-on and doesn’t try to set himself apart from them as he reads forth from great books that he can hardly expect are understood, supplying his opaque smile and his brief talk, then striking his gong, which radiates out past the borders of all existence, after which he allows Haschke to say that he’d like to dance to such music, followed by the vain conversation about Ringel’s paintings, and then Spiridion reciting his poem — surely it must be this way every week. Josef will think twice about looking up this cosmic poet, even if Thomas said a lot about him earlier and his marvelous collection of precious stones and crystals, rare plants, old coins, woodcuts and etchings, though Josef doubts the sense of such a collection if it’s not founded on a higher principle. Somehow the group in the tower room reminds him of a political rally, not at all like the one in the small town — there they drank bad-smelling beer, here there was tea with raspberry juice, there they listened to demagoguery, here there was mysticism — yet there was something similar about it all, and it takes a lot of courage to give yourself over to other people, for though human beings had accomplished the greatest works, where could you find them today, they are either all long dead or unattainable, everything is a miserable ruin, against which there is no cure, the escape into the internal being the only salvation, which Johannes had indeed made palpable, but only he, though he did so easily and in a genuine manner, for he simply let it happen, his calling of no concern to him, as he lets Frieda take care of him without worrying about it, nothing but adoration surrounding him.