Ulrich now succumbed after all to the temptation to talk, which is not so very different from the temptation to go on smoking, and conceded that one probably had to tackle everything one wanted to do effectively with the utmost seriousness, even when one knew that in fifty years every experiment would turn out not to have been worthwhile. But such a “punctured seriousness” was nothing so very unusual, after all; people risked their lives every day in sport and for nothing at all. Psychologically, there was nothing impossible about a life conducted as an experiment; all that was needed was the determination to assume a certain unlimited responsibility. “That’s the crucial difference,” he concluded. “In the old days, people felt as it were deductively, starting from certain assumptions. Those days are gone. Today we live without a guiding principle, but also without any method of conscious, inductive thinking; we simply go on trying this and that like a band of monkeys.”
“Splendid!” Arnheim admitted freely. “But allow me one last question. Your cousin tells me that you’re taking a great interest in the case of a dangerous psychopath. I happen to understand this very well, incidentally. We really don’t know how to handle such cases, and society’s method of dealing with them is disgracefully hit-or-miss. But in the circumstances—which leave us no choice but either to kill an ‘innocent’ man or to let him go on killing innocent people—would you let him escape the night before his execution, if you could?”
“No!” Ulrich said.
“No? Really not?” Arnheim asked with sudden animation.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I might of course talk myself out of it by claiming that in a malfunctioning world I have no right to act freely on my own personal convictions; but I shall simply admit that I don’t know what I would do.”
“That man must surely be stopped from doing further harm,” Arnheim said pensively. “And yet, when he is having one of his seizures, he is certainly a man possessed by the demonic, which in all virile epochs has been felt to be akin to the divine. In the old days such a man would have been sent into the wilderness. Even then he might have committed murder, but perhaps in a visionary state, like Abraham about to slaughter his son Isaac. There it is! We no longer have any idea of how to deal with such things, and there is no sincerity in what we do.”
Arnheim might have let himself be carried away in uttering these last words without quite knowing what he meant by them; his ambition might have been spurred on by Ulrich’s not mustering up enough “heart and rashness” to answer with an unqualified “yes” when asked whether he would save Moosbrugger. But although Ulrich felt this turn of the conversation to be almost an omen, an unexpected reminder of his “resolve” at Count Leinsdorf’s, he resented Arnheim’s flamboyance in making the most of the Moosbrugger problem, and both factors made him ask dryly, but intently: “Would you set him free?”
“No,” Arnheim replied with a smile, “but I’d like to propose something else.” And without giving him time to put up resistance, he added: “It’s a suggestion I’ve been wanting to make to you for some time, to make you give up your suspicions of me, which, frankly, hurt my feelings; I want you on my side, in fact. Do you have any conception of what a great industrial enterprise looks like from the inside? It is controlled by two bodies, the top management and the board of directors, usually capped by a third body, the executive committee, as you in Austria call it, made up of representatives of the first two, which meets almost every day. The board of directors naturally consists of men who enjoy the confidence of the majority shareholders. . . .” Here he paused for the first time, to give Ulrich a chance to speak if he wished, as though testing to see whether Ulrich had already noticed something. “As I was saying, the majority shareholders have their representatives on the board and the executive committee.” He prompted Ulrich. “Have you any idea who this majority is?”
Ulrich had none. He had only a vague general concept of finance, which to him meant clerks, counters, coupons, and certificates that looked like ancient documents.
Arnheim cued him in again. “Have you ever helped to elect a board of directors? No, you haven’t,” he answered his own question. “There would be no point in trying to imagine it, since you will never own the majority of shares in a company.” He said this so firmly that Ulrich very nearly felt ashamed of being found wanting in so important a respect; and it was in fact just like Arnheim to move in one easy stride from his demons to his board of directors. Smiling, he continued: “There is one person I haven’t mentioned yet, the most important of all, in a sense. I spoke of the majority shareholders, which sounds like a harmless plural but is in fact nearly always a single person, a chief shareholder, unnamed and unknown to the general public, hidden behind those he sends out front in his place.”
Ulrich now realized that he was being told things he could read in the papers every day; still, Arnheim knew how to create suspense. He was sufficiently interested to ask who was the majority shareholder in Lloyd’s of London.
“No one knows,” Arnheim replied quietly. “That is to say, there are those in the know, of course, but one doesn’t usually hear it spoken of. But let me get to the point. Wherever you find two such forces, a person who really gives the orders and an administrative body that executes them, what automatically happens is that every possible means of increasing profits is used, whether or not it is morally or aesthetically attractive. When I say automatically I mean just that, because the way it works is to a high degree independent of any personal factor. The person who really wields the power takes no hand in carrying out his directives, while the managers are covered by the fact that they are acting not on their own behalf but as functionaries. You will find such arrangements everywhere these days, and by no means exclusively in the world of finance. You may depend on it that our friend Tuzzi would give the signal for war with the clearest conscience in the world, even if as a man he may be incapable of shooting down an old dog, and your friend Moosbrugger will be sent to his death by thousands of people because only three of them need have a hand in it personally. This system of indirection elevated to an art is what nowadays enables the individual and society as a whole to function with a clear conscience; the button to be pressed is always clean and shiny, and what happens at the other end of the line is the business of others, who, for their part, don’t press the button. Do you find this revolting? It is how we let thousands die or vegetate, set in motion whole avalanches of suffering, but we always get things done. I might go so far as to say that what we’re seeing here, in this form of the social division of labor, is nothing else than the ancient dualism of conscience between the end that is approved and the means that are tolerated, though here we have it in a grandiose and dangerous form.”
In answer to Arnheim’s question whether he found all this revolting Ulrich had shrugged his shoulders. The split in the moral consciousness that Arnheim spoke of, this most horrifying phenomenon of modern life, was an ancient fact of human history, but it had won its appalling good conscience only in recent times, as a consequence of the universal division of labor with all its magnificent inevitability. Ulrich did not care to wax indignant over it, especially as it gave him, paradoxically, the funny and gratifying sensation one can get from tearing along at a hundred miles an hour past a dust-bespattered moralist who is standing by the wayside, cursing. When Arnheim came to a stop, Ulrich’s first words were: “Every kind of division of labor can be developed further. The question is not whether it repels me but whether I believe that we can attain more acceptable conditions without having to turn back the clock.”
“Aha, your general inventory!” Arnheim interjected. “We have organized the division of labor brilliantly but neglected to find ways of correlating the results. We are continuously destroying the old morality and the soul in accordance with the latest patents, and think we can patch them up by resorting to the old household remedies of our religious and philosophical traditions. Levity on such a subject”—he backed off—“is really quite distas
teful to me, and I regard jokes on the whole as in dubious taste anyway. But then, I never thought of the suggestion you made to us all in the presence of Count Leinsdorf, that we need to reorganize the conscience itself, as a mere joke.”
“It was a joke,” Ulrich said gruffly. “I don’t believe in such a possibility. I would sooner be inclined to believe that the Devil himself built up the European world and that God is willing to let the competition show what he can do.”
“A pretty conceit,” Arnheim said. “But in that case, why were you so annoyed with me for not wanting to believe you?”
Ulrich did not answer.
“What you said just now,” Arnheim calmly persisted, “also contradicts those adventurous remarks of yours, some time ago, about the means toward attaining the right way in life. Besides, quite apart from whether I can agree with you on the details, I can’t help noticing the extent to which you are a compound of active tendencies and indifference.”
When Ulrich saw no need to reply even on this point, Arnheim said in the civil tone with which such rudeness must be met: “I merely wished to draw your attention to the degree to which we are expected, even in making economic decisions, on which after all everything depends, to work out the problem of our moral responsibility on our own, and how fascinating this makes such decisions.” Even in the restraint with which this reproof was expressed there was a faint suggestion of trying to win him over.
“I’m sorry,” Ulrich said, “I was totally caught up in what you’ve been saying.” And as though he were still pursuing the same line of thought, he added: “I wonder whether you also regard it as a form of indirect dealing and divided consciousness in keeping with the spirit of the times to fill a woman’s soul with mystical feelings while sensibly leaving her body to her husband?”
These words made Arnheim color a little, but he did not lose control of the situation. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said quietly, “but if you were speaking of a woman you love, you couldn’t say this, because the body of reality is always richer than the mere outline sketch we call principles.” He had moved away from the window and invited Ulrich to sit down with him. “You don’t give in easily,” he went on in a tone of mingled appreciation and regret. “But I know that I represent to you more of an opposing principle than a personal opponent. And those who are privately the bitterest opponents of capitalism are often enough its best servants in the business world; I may even say that to some extent I count myself among them, or I wouldn’t presume to say this to you. Uncompromising, passionately committed persons, once they have seen that a concession must be made, usually become its most brilliant champions. And so I want in any case to go ahead with my intended proposal: Will you accept a position in my firm?”
He took care to say this as casually as he could, trying by speaking rapidly and without emphasis to lessen the cheap surprise effect he could be only too sure of causing. Avoiding Ulrich’s astonished gaze, he simply proceeded to go into the details without making any effort to indicate his own position.
“You wouldn’t, of course, have the necessary training and qualifications at first,” he said smoothly, “to assume a leading position, nor would you feel inclined to do so, therefore I would offer you a position at my side, let us say that of my executive secretary, which I would create especially for you. I hope you won’t take offense at this: it is not a position I can see as carrying an irresistible salary, to begin with; however, in time, you should be able to aim for any income you might wish. In a year or so, I am sure that you will understand me quite differently from now.”
When Arnheim had finished, he felt moved in spite of himself. Actually, he had surprised himself by going so far in making this offer to Ulrich, who only had to refuse in order to put Arnheim at a disadvantage, while if he accepted, there wasn’t much in it for Arnheim. Any idea that this man he was talking to could accomplish something that he himself could not do on his own had vanished even as he spoke, and the need to charm Ulrich and get him into his power had become absurd in the very process of finding articulate expression. That he had been afraid of something he called this man’s “wit” now seemed unnatural. He, Arnheim, was a man of some consequence, and for such a man life has to be simple! Such a man lives on good terms with other great men and circumstances, he does not act the romantic rebel or cast doubt on existing realities; it would be against his nature. On the other hand, there are, of course, all the things of beauty and ambiguity one wants in one’s life as much as possible. Arnheim had never felt as intensely as he did at this moment the permanence of Western civilization, that marvelous network of forces and disciplines. If Ulrich did not recognize this he was nothing but an adventurer, and the fact that Arnheim had almost let himself be tempted to think of him as—At this point words failed him, un-formulated as they still were at the back of his mind; he could not bring himself to articulate clearly, even in secret, the fact that he had considered taking Ulrich on as an adopted son. Not that it really mattered; it was only an idea like countless others one need not answer for, probably inspired by the kind of moodiness that afflicts every man of action, because a man is never really satisfied, and perhaps he had not had this idea at all, in so dubious a form, but only some vague impulse that could be so interpreted; still, he shied away from the memory, and only kept painfully in mind that the difference between Ulrich’s age and his own was not all that great; and behind this there was a secondary, shadowy sense that Ulrich might serve him as a warning against Diotima! How often he had already felt that his relationship to Ulrich was somehow comparable to a secondary volcanic crater that emits the occasional warning or clue to the strange goings-on in the main crater, and he was somewhat troubled that the eruption had now occurred and his words had come pouring out and were making their way into real life. “What’s to be done,” flashed through his mind, “if this fellow accepts ?” It was in such suspense that an Arnheim had to wait for the decision of a younger man who mattered only insofar as Arnheim’s own imagination had lent him significance. Arnheim sat there stiffly, his lips parted in a hostile expression, thinking: “There’ll be a way of handling it, in case there’s still not a way of getting out of it.”
Even while his feelings and thoughts were running their course in this fashion the situation had not come to a standstill; question and answer followed each other without pause.
“And to what qualities of my own,” Ulrich asked dryly, “do I owe this offer, which can hardly be justified from a businessman’s point of view?”
“You always misjudge this sort of thing,” Arnheim replied. “To be businesslike in my position is not the same as counting pennies. What I stand to lose on you is quite immaterial compared to what I hope to gain.”
“You certainly pique my curiosity,” Ulrich remarked. “Very seldom am I told I represent a gain of any kind. I might perhaps have developed into a minor asset in my special subject, but even there, as you know, I have been a disappointment.”
“That you are a man of exceptional intelligence,” Arnheim answered, in the same quiet tone of unshakable confidence to which he was outwardly clinging, “is surely something of which you are fully aware without my having to tell you. Still, we may have keener and more dependable minds already working for us. It is actually your character, your human qualities, that, for certain reasons, I wish to have constantly at my side.”
“My qualities?” Ulrich could not help smiling at this. “That’s funny: I have friends who call me a man without qualities.”
Arnheim let slip a faint gesture of impatience that said, more or less: “Tell me about it, as if I didn’t know.” This twitch that ran across his face all the way to the shoulder betrayed his dissatisfaction, even while his words flowed on as programmed. Ulrich caught the fleeting grimace, and he was so ready to be provoked by Arnheim that he now dropped all restraint against bringing everything out into the open. They had meanwhile risen from their chairs, and Ulrich moved back a few steps to see his effect all
the better as he said:
“You have asked me so many pointed questions, and now there is something I would like to know before I make my decision. . . .” When Arnheim nodded he went on in a frank and matter-of-fact tone: “I’ve been told that your interest in our Parallel Campaign and everything connected with it, Frau Tuzzi and my humble self thrown in for good measure, has to do with your acquiring major portions of the Galician oil fields.”
Despite the failing light, Arnheim could be seen to have turned pale; he walked slowly up to Ulrich, who thought he had brought some rude answer upon himself and regretted his own rash bluntness, which had given the other man a way to break off the conversation when it became inconvenient for him to go on with it. So he said, as affably as he could: “Please don’t misunderstand me. I have no wish to offend you, but there is surely no point in our conversation unless we can speak our minds with brutal frankness.”
These few words and the time it took him to cover the short distance enabled Arnheim to regain his composure. As he reached Ulrich he smiled, placed his hand—actually, his arm—on Ulrich’s shoulder, and said reproachfully: “How can you fall for such a typical Stock Exchange rumor?”
“It reached me not as a rumor but as information from someone who knows what he is talking about.”
“Yes, I know, I’ve heard that such things are being said, but how can you believe it? Of course I’m not here purely for pleasure; it’s too bad, but I can never get away entirely from business affairs. And I won’t deny that I have talked with some people about these oil fields, though I must ask you to keep this confidential. But what has this to do with anything?”