Unknown - Isherwood, Christopher (The Berlin Stories - The Last of Mr Norris - Goodbye to Berlin) (TXT)

We went into the sitting-room, and she began putting aspirin tablets into the bowls of flowers—to revive them, she said. J asked what she’d been doing during the last few days. ‘ **

“All this week,” said Natalia, “I am not going in the school.

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I have been unwell. Three days ago, I stand there by the piano, and suddenly I fall down—so. How do you say— ohnmächtig?”

“You mean, you fainted?”

Natalia nodded vigorously: “Yes, that’s right. I am ohnmächtig.”

“But in that case you ought to be in bed now.” I felt suddenly very masculine and protective: “How are you feeling?”

Natalia laughed gaily, and, certainly, I had never seen her looking better:

“Oh, it’s not so important!”

“There is one thing I must tell you,” she added. “It shall be a nice surprise for you, I think—to-day is coming my father, and my cousin Bernhard.”

“How very nice.”

“Yes! Is it not? My father makes us great joy when he comes, for now he is often on travel. He has much business everywhere, in Paris, in Vienna, in Prague. Always he must be going in the train. You shall like him, I think.”

“I’m certain I shall.”

And sure enough, when the glass doors parted, there was Herr Landauer, waiting to receive me. Beside him stood Bernhard Landauer, Natalia’s cousin, a tall pale young man in a dark suit, only a few years older than myself. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Bernhard said, as we shook hands. He spoke English without the faintest trace of a foreign accent.

Herr Landauer was a small lively man, with dark leathery wrinkled skin, like an old well-polished boot. He had shiny brown boot-button eyes and low-comedian’s eyebrows—so thick and black that they looked as if they had been touched up with burnt cork. It was evident that he adored his family. He opened the door for Frau Landauer in a way which suggested that she was a very beautiful young girl. His benevolent, delighted smile embraced the whole party—Natalia sparkling with joy at her father’s return, Frau Landauer faintly flushed, Bernhard smooth and pale and politely enig-149

matic: even I myself was included. Indeed, Herr Landauer addressed almost the whole of his conversation to me, carefully avoiding any reference to family affairs which might have reminded me that I was a stranger at his table.

“Thirty-five years ago I was in England,” he told me, speaking with a strong accent. “I came to your capital to write a thesis for my doctorate, on the condition of Jewish workers in the East End of London. I saw a great deal that your English officials did not desire me to see. I was quite a young fellow then: younger, I suspect, than you are to-day. I had some exceedingly interesting conversations with dock-hands and prostituted women and the keepers of your so-called Public Houses. Very interesting… .” Herr Landauer smiled reminiscently: “And this insignificant little thesis of mine caused a great deal of discussion. It has been translated into no less than five languages.”

“Five languages!” repeated Natalia, in German, to me. “You see, my father is a writer, too!”

“Ah, that was thirty-five years ago! Long before you were born, my dear.” Herr Landauer shook his head deprecat-ingly, his boot-button eyes twinkling with benevolence: “Now I have not the time for such studies.” He turned to me again: “I have just been reading a book in the French language about your great English poet, Lord Byron. A most interesting book. Now I should be very glad to have your opinion, as a writer, on this most important question—was Lord Byron guilty of the crime of incest? What do you think, Mr. Isherwood?”

I felt myself beginning to blush. For some odd reason, it was the presence of Frau Landauer, placidly chewing her lunch, not of Natalia, which chiefly embarrassed me at this moment. Bernhard kept his eyes on his plate, subtly smiling. “Well,” I began, “it’s rather difficult… .”

“This is a very interesting problem,” interrupted Herr Landauer, looking benevolently round upon us all and masticating with the greatest satisfaction: “Shall we allow that the man of genius is an exceptional person who may do excep—

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tional things? Or shall we say: No—you may write a beautiful poem or paint a beautiful picture, but in your daily life you must behave like an ordinary person, and you must obey these laws which we have made for ordinary persons? We will not allow you to be exira-ordinary.” Herr Landauer fixed each of us in turn, triumphantly, his mouth full of food. Suddenly his eyes focussed beamingly upon me: “Your dramatist Oscar Wilde … this is another case. I put this case to you, Mr. Isherwood. I should like very much to hear your opinion. Was your English Law justified in punishing Oscar Wilde, or was it not justified? Please tell me what you think?”

Herr Landauer regarded me delightedly, a forkful of meat poised half-way up to his mouth. In the background, I was aware of Bernhard, discreetly smiling.

“Well …” I began, feeling my ears burning red. This time, however, Frau Landauer unexpectedly saved me, by making a remark to Natalia in German, about the vegetables. There was a little discussion, during which Herr Landauer seemed to forget all about his question. He went on eating contentedly. But now Natalia must needs chip in:

“Please tell my father the name of your book. I could not remember it. It’s such a funny name.”

I tried to direct a private frown of disapproval at her which the others would not notice. “All the Conspirators,” I said, coldly.

“All the Conspirators . . oh, yes, of course!”

“Ah, you write criminal romances, Mr. Isherwood?” Herr Landauer beamed approvingly.

“I’m afraid this book has nothing to do with criminals,” I said, politely. Herr Landauer looked puzzled and disappointed: “Not to do with criminals?”

“You will explain to him, please,” Natalia ordered.

I drew a long breath: “The title was meant to be symbolic… . It’s taken from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar… .”

Herr Landauer brightened at once: “Ah, Shakespeare! Splendid! This is most interesting …”

“In German,” I smiled slightly at my own cunning: I was

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luring him down a side-track, “you have wonderful translations of Shakespeare, I believe?”

“Indeed, yes! These translations are among the finest works in our language. Thanks to them, your Shakespeare has become, as it were, almost a German poet… .”

“But you do not tell,” Natalia persisted, with what seemed really devilish malice, “what your book is about?”

I set my teeth: “It’s about two young men. One of them is an artist and the other a student of medicine.”

“Are these the only two persons in your book, then?” Natalia asked.

“Of course not… . But I’m surprised at your bad memory. I told you the whole story only a short time ago.”

“Imbecile! It is not for myself I ask. Naturally, I remember all what you have told me. But my father has not yet heard. So you will please tell… . And what is then?”

“The artist has a mother and a sister. They are all very unhappy.”

“But why are they unhappy? My father and my mother and I, we are not unhappy.”

I wished the earth would swallow her: “Not all people are alike,” I said carefully, avoiding Herr Landauer’s eye.

“Good,” said Natalia. “They are unhappy… . And what is then?”

“The artist runs away from home and his sister gets married to a very unpleasant young man.”

Natalia evidently saw that I wouldn’t stand much more of this. She delivered one final pin-prick: “And how many copies did you sell?”

“Five.”

“Five! But that is very few, isn’t it?”