159
A GREAT EVENT IS IN THE MAKING. MEETING SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES
Ulrich, who had been standing beside his cousin while she was speaking with Meseritscher, asked her as soon as they were alone for a moment:
“I’m sorry I arrived too late; how was your first encounter with La Drangsal?”
Diotima raised her heavy eyelashes to give him a single world-weary glance and dropped them again.
“Delightful, of course. She’d been to see me. We’ll arrange something or other this evening. As if it made any difference!”
“You see!” Ulrich said, in the tone of their old conversations, as if to draw a final line under all that.
Diotima turned her head and gave her cousin a quizzical look.
“I told you already,” Ulrich said. “Now it’s almost all over, as if nothing had happened.” He needed to talk: when he had got home that afternoon, Agathe had been there but soon left again; they had spoken only a few brief words before they came to Diotima’s; Agathe had dressed with the aid of the gardener’s wife. “I did warn you!” Ulrich said.
“Against what?” Diotima asked slowly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Against everything!”
In fact, he no longer knew himself what he had not warned her against: her ideas, her ambition, the Parallel Campaign, love, intellect, the Jubilee Year, the world of business, her salon, her passions; against the dangers of sensibility and of casually letting things take their course, against letting herself go too far and holding herself too much in check, against adultery and marriage. There was nothing he had not warned her against. “That’s how she is,” he thought. Everything she did looked ridiculous to him, yet she was so beautiful it made him sad.
“I warned you,” Ulrich repeated. “I hear that you’re no longer interested in anything but the scientific approach to sexual problems.”
Diotima ignored this. “Do you think this Drangsal’s protégé is really gifted?” she asked.
“Certainly,” Ulrich replied. “Gifted, young, undeveloped. His success and this woman will be the ruin of him. In this country newborn babies are ruined by being told that they are people with fabulous instincts that intellectual development would only rob them of. He sometimes comes up with good ideas, but can’t let ten minutes go by without making an ass of himself.” He leaned over to say in her ear: “Do you know anything specific about that woman?”
Diotima shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“She’s dangerously ambitious,” Ulrich said. “But not uninteresting from the point of view of your current researches. Where beautiful women used to wear a fig leaf, she wears a laurel leaf! I hate women like that!”
Diotima did not laugh, nor even smile; she merely inclined her head toward the “cousin.”
“And how do you find him as a man?” he asked.
“Pathetic,” Diotima whispered. “Like a lambkin running to premature fat.”
“What of it? The beauty of the male is only a secondary sexual characteristic,” Ulrich said. “What’s primarily exciting about him is the expectation of his success. Ten years from now Feuermaul will be an international celebrity; Drangsal’s connections will take care of that, and then she’ll marry him. If he remains a celebrity, it’ll be a happy marriage.”
Diotima bethought herself and gravely corrected him: “Happiness in marriage depends on factors one cannot judge without first subjecting oneself to a certain discipline!” Then she abandoned him as a proud ship abandons the quay alongside which it has lain. Her duties as hostess bore her away from him with the barest nod, not even a glance, as she cast off her moorings. But she did not mean it unkindly; on the contrary, Ulrich’s voice had affected her like an old tune from her youth. She even wondered privately what she might learn about him by subjecting his sexuality to the illumination of a scientific study. Oddly enough, in all her detailed research into these problems, she had never thought of connecting them with him.
Ulrich looked up, and through a gap in the festive tumult—a kind of optical channel through which Diotima’s gaze might have preceded his own just before she had taken her somewhat abrupt departure—he saw, in the room beyond the next, Paul Arnheim in conversation with Feuermaul, with Frau Drangsal standing benignly by. She had brought the two men together. Arnheim was holding the hand with the cigar raised, as though in an unconscious gesture of self-defense, but he was smiling most engagingly; Feuermaul was talking vivaciously, holding his cigar with two fingers and sucking at it between sentences with the greed of a calf butting its muzzle at the maternal udder. Ulrich could have imagined what they were talking about, but he didn’t bother; he stayed where he was, in happy isolation, looking around for his sister. He discovered her in a group of men who were mostly strangers to him, and a cool chill ran through him despite his distractedness. But just then Stumm von Bordwehr poked him gently in the ribs with a fingertip, and at the same moment Hofrat Professor Schwung approached him on the other side but was stopped a few steps away by the intervention of one of his colleagues from the capital.
“So there you are at last!” the General murmured in relief. “The Minister wants to know what an ‘ethos’ is.”
“Why an ethos?”
“I don’t know. What’s an ethos?”
“An eternal truth,” Ulrich defined, “that is neither eternal nor true, but valid for a time to serve as a standard for people to go by. It’s a philosophical and sociological term, and not often used.”
“Aha, that’ll be it,” the General said. “Arnheim, you see, was claiming that the proposition ‘Man is good’ is only an ethos. Feuermaul replied that he didn’t know what an ethos was, but man is good, and that’s an eternal truth! Then Leinsdorf said, ‘Quite right. There can’t really be any evil people, since no one can possibly will evil; these people are only misguided. People are rather nervous these days because in times like these we have so many skeptics who won’t believe in anything solid.’ I couldn’t help thinking he should have been with us this afternoon. Anyway, he also thinks that people who won’t realize what’s good for them have to be forced to. And so the Minister wants to know what an ethos is. I’ll just dash over to him and come right back. Don’t budge, so I can find you again! There’s something else I must talk with you about, urgently, and then I’ll take you to the Minister.”
Before Ulrich could ask for particulars, Tuzzi slipped a hand around his arm in passing, saying: “We haven’t seen you here in ages!” Then he went on: “Do you remember my prediction that we’d have a pacifist invasion to deal with?” So saying, he gazed cordially into the General’s eyes, but Stumm was in a hurry and merely said that though his ethos as an officer was of another kind, any sincere conviction . . . The rest of this sentence vanished with him, because he always found Tuzzi irritating, which is not conducive to good thinking.
The Section Chief blinked gaily at the General’s retreating form and then turned back to the “cousin.” “That business with the oil fields is only a blind, of course,” he said.
Ulrich looked at him in surprise.
“You don’t mean to say you haven’t heard about the oil fields?” Tuzzi asked.
“I have,” Ulrich answered. “I was merely surprised that you knew about them,” and, not to be impolite, added, “You really understood how to keep quiet about it!”
“I’ve known about them for quite some time,” Tuzzi said, flattered. “That this fellow Feuermaul is here this evening is of course Arnheim’s doing, by way of Leinsdorf. Have you read his books, incidentally?”
Ulrich admitted that he had.
“A dyed-in-the-wool pacifist!” Tuzzi said. “And La Drangsal, as my wife calls her, mothers him so ambitiously that she’ll kill for pacifism if she has to, even though it’s not really her line—artists are her line.” Tuzzi paused to consider, then revealed to Ulrich: “Pacifism is the main thing, of course; the oil fields are only a red herring; that’s why they’re pushing Feuermaul, with his pacifism, to make ever
yone think: ‘Aha, that’s the red herring!’ and believe that what’s behind it is the oil fields! Neatly done, but much too clever to fool anybody. For if Arnheim has the Galician oil fields and a contract to supply the Army, we naturally have to protect our frontier. We also have to install oil bases for the Navy on the Adriatic, which will upset the Italians. But if we provoke our neighbors this way, the outcry for peace goes up, and so does the peace propaganda, and then when the Czar steps forward with some idea about Perpetual Peace, he’ll find the ground psychologically prepared for it. That’s Arnheim’s real objective!”
“And you’ve something against it?”
“Of course we have nothing against it,” Tuzzi said. “But as you may remember, I’ve already explained to you why there’s nothing so dangerous as peace at any price. We must defend ourselves against the dilettantes!”
“But Arnheim is a munitions maker!” Ulrich objected, smiling.
“Of course he is!” Tuzzi murmured with some exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, how can you be so naïve about these things? He’ll have his contract in his pocket. At most, our neighbors will arm too. Mark my words: at the crucial moment, he’ll show his hand as a pacifist! Pacifism is a safe, dependable business for munitions makers; war is a risk!”
“It seems to me the military doesn’t really mean any harm,” Ulrich said, trying to mollify him. “They’re only using the business with Arnheim to bring their artillery up-to-date, nothing more. Today the whole world is only arming for peace, after all, so it only seems right to let the pacifists help.”
“And how do these people imagine that’s to be done?” Tuzzi inquired, ignoring the joke.
“I don’t think they’ve got that far yet; for the present they’re still searching their hearts.”
“Naturally!” Tuzzi agreed crossly, as though this were just what he had expected. “The military ought to stick to thinking about war and leave everything else to the department responsible. But before doing that, these gentlemen with their dilettantism would rather endanger the whole world! I tell you again: Nothing is so dangerous in diplomacy as loose talk about peace! Every time the demand for peace has reached a certain pitch and was no longer to be contained, it’s led straight to war! I can document that for you!”
Now Hofrat Professor Schwung had rid himself of his colleague and turned with great warmth to Ulrich for an introduction to their host. Ulrich obliged with the remark that one might say that this distinguished jurist condemned pacifism in the sphere of the penal code as ardently as the authoritative Section Chief did in the political arena.
“But good gracious,” Tuzzi protested, laughing, “you’ve misunderstood me entirely!”
And Schwung too, after a moment’s hesitation, was sufficiently reassured to join forces with him, saying that he would not like his view of diminished responsibility to be regarded as in any way bloodthirsty or inhumane.
“Quite the opposite!” he said, spreading his voice in place of his arms like an old actor on the lecture platform. “It is precisely the pacification of the human being that requires us to be strict! May I assume that the Herr Section Chief has heard something about my most recent current efforts in this matter?” And he now turned directly to his host, who had heard nothing about the dispute as to whether the diminished responsibility of an insane criminal is based exclusively in his ideas or exclusively in his will, and thus hastened all the more politely to agree with everything Schwung said. Schwung, well satisfied with the effect he had produced, then began to praise the serious view of life to which this evening’s gathering gave witness, and reported that he had often overheard in conversations here and there such expressions as “manly severity” and “moral soundness.” “Our culture is far too infested with inferior types and moral imbeciles,” he added by way of his own contribution, and asked: “But what is the real purpose of this evening? As I passed some of the groups, I’ve been struck by how often I’ve heard positively Rousseauistic sentiments about the innate goodness of man.”
Tuzzi, to whom this question was principally addressed, merely smiled, but just then the General came back to Ulrich, and Ulrich, who wanted to give him the slip, introduced him to Schwung and called him the man best qualified among all those present to answer the question. Stumm von Bordwehr vehemently denied this, but neither Schwung nor even Tuzzi would let him go. Ulrich was already beating a jubilant retreat, when he was grabbed by an old acquaintance, who said:
“My wife and daughter are also here.” It was Bank Director Leo Fischel.
“Hans Sepp has passed his State Exam,” he said. “What do you say to that? All he has to do now is pass one more exam for his doctorate! We’re all sitting in that corner over there. . . .” He pointed toward the farthest room. “We know too few people here. Nor have we seen anything of you for a long time! Your father, wasn’t it. . . ? Hans Sepp got us the invitation for this evening—my wife was dead set on it—so you see the fellow isn’t entirely hopeless. They’re semi-officially engaged now, he and Gerda. You probably didn’t know that, did you? But Gerda, you see, that girl, I don’t even know whether she’s in love with him or has just got it into her head that she is. Won’t you come over and join us for a bit?”
“I’ll be along later,” Ulrich promised.
“Please do,” Fischel urged, and fell silent. Then he whispered: “Isn’t that our host? Won’t you introduce me? We haven’t had the opportunity. We don’t know either him or her.”
But when Ulrich made a move in that direction, Fischel held him back. “And how is the great philosopher? What’s he up to?” he asked. “My wife and Gerda are of course mad about him. But what’s this about the oil fields? The word now is that it was a false rumor, but I don’t believe it. They always deny it! You know, it’s the same as when my wife is annoyed with a maid, then I keep hearing that the maid is untruthful, immoral, impertinent—nothing but defects of character, you see? But when I quietly promise the girl a raise, just to have peace in the house, then her character suddenly disappears. No more talk about character, everything’s suddenly in order, and my wife doesn’t know why. Isn’t it always like that? There’s too much economic probability in those oil fields for the denials to be believed.”
And because Ulrich held his peace, while Fischel wanted to return to his wife as the glorious bearer of inside information, he began once more:
“One has to admit it’s very nice here. But my wife would like to know what all the strange talk is about. And who is this Feuermaul anyway?” he added. “Gerda says he’s a great poet; Hans Sepp says he’s nothing but a careerist who’s taken everyone in!”
Ulrich allowed that the truth probably lay somewhere in between.
“Now, that’s well put!” Fischel said gratefully. “The truth always lies somewhere in between, which everyone forgets nowadays, they’re all so extreme! I keep telling Hans Sepp that everyone’s entitled to his opinions, but the only opinions that count are the ones that enable you to earn a living, because that means that other people appreciate your opinions too!”
There had been an impalpable but important change in Leo Fischel, but Ulrich unfortunately passed up the opportunity to look into it and merely hastened to leave Gerda’s father with the group around Section Chief Tuzzi. Here Stumm von Bordwehr had meanwhile grown eloquent, frustrated at his inability to pin Ulrich down, and so highly charged with things to say that they burst out by the shortest path.
“How to account for this gathering tonight?” he cried, reiterating Hofrat Schwung’s question. “I would assert, in the same judicious spirit in which it was asked: Not at all! I’m not joking, gentlemen,” he went on, not without a touch of pride. “This very afternoon I happened to ask a young lady whom I had to show around the psychiatric clinic of our University what it was she was actually interested in seeing, so we could explain it properly, and she gave me a very witty answer, exceptionally thought-provoking. What she said was: ‘If we stop to explain everything, we will never change anythin
g in the world.’”
Schwung shook his head in disapproval.
“What she meant by that I don’t really know”—Stumm defended himself—“and I won’t take responsibility for it, but you can’t help feeling there is some truth in it. You see, I am, for instance, indebted to my friend here”—he gave a polite nod in Ulrich’s direction—“who has so often given His Grace, and thereby the Parallel Campaign too, the benefit of his thoughts, for a great deal of instruction. But what is taking shape here tonight is a certain distaste for instruction. Which brings me back to my first assertion.”
“But isn’t what you want . . . ?” Tuzzi said. “I mean, the word is that colleagues from the War Ministry hope to stimulate a patriotic decision here, a collection of public funds or some such thing, in order to bring our artillery up to strength. Naturally, a mere token demonstration, just to put some pressure on Parliament through public opinion.”
“That is certainly my understanding of some things I’ve heard tonight!” Hofrat Schwung concurred.
“It’s much more complicated, Herr Section Chief,” the General said.
“And what about Dr. Arnheim?” Tuzzi said bluntly. “If I may be quite candid: Are you sure that Arnheim wants nothing more than the Galician oil fields, which are tied up, as it were, with the artillery problem?”
“I can only speak of myself and my part in it, Section Chief,” Stumm said, warding him off, then repeated: “And it’s all much more complicated!”
“Naturally it’s more complicated,” Tuzzi said, smiling.
“Of course we need the guns,” the General said, warming to the subject, “and it may indeed be advantageous to work with Arnheim along the lines you suggest. But I repeat that I can only speak from my point of view as a cultural officer, and as such I put it to you: ‘What’s the use of cannons without the spirit to go with them?’ “
“And why, in that case, was so much importance attached to bringing in Herr Feuermaul?” Tuzzi asked ironically. “That is defeatism pure and simple!”