Soon afterwards they said good-bye. The architect had suggested a glass of wine together, but Rolf refused, partly from an aversion to entering a dwelling where Sibylle perhaps had spent her hours of happiness, partly from the sudden conviction that this was not the right man after all. He started the engine, thanked Sturzenegger for his kind invitation, and asked him to slam the door hard. Sturzenegger hurried away as people do after accidentally entering a strange room that does not concern them, without looking back when Rolf opened the car door again and wished him a good flight to Canada. Then Rolf drove on, simply to avoid standing still, as aimlessly as before in Genoa—anything rather than return home. Anything rather than see Sibylle just now. Nothing had been settled, nothing at all.
That was in October.
Like every man of action who cannot deal with an awkward part of his inner life, Rolf did not plunge into introspective brooding, but into workj into useful and impersonal work, of which there was naturally no lack now that he was a public prosecutor. He dealt with everything that was in any way subject to his competence, he dealt with it from morning till late in the evening, until his. last secretary was worn out, then he carried on alone. He dealt with things in the manner of an Orlando Furioso. His colleagues assumed that he was wildly ambitious. His colleagues had no idea what impelled this self-possessed and reserved man, well known for always keeping a cool head, to perform these prodigies of effort. All his life he had enjoyed the reputation of leading a regular and therefore happy existence, a reputation, incidentally, which he in no way fostered—not in the least. Rolf could show himself in front of the Doge's Palace feeding pigeons with another woman without giving rise to any talk in his little town: there are such men, phenomena of good reputation, whose reputation is as impervious to talk as a gull's feathers are impervious to water, and then nobody—even in a little town like Zurich—has any urge to gossip, for trying to wet a gull's wings is a tedious occupation. And it seems that this phenomenon also extended to his wife: in her case, too, the thought simply never entered people's heads. So who was to guess the real reason for a new public prosecutor's zeal? Moreover, in all the various cases he had to deal with, Rolf made every effort not to regard all women as being tarred with the same brush: where other people were concerned, at least, he retained his power of discrimination: he could see that in some cases it was the man's fault. He was considered very understanding, and he did everything in his power to spare the prisoner at the bar humiliation. His successes grew again like plums on the plum-tree, but they made not the slightest impression on Sibylle; worse still, she found exactly the same satisfaction in Rolf's professional success as in a toy water-wheel which she knew would keep little Hannes happy and busy for the next few days...
Rolf dreamt once more about a tattered parcel containing flesh-pink cloth...
Then came the move into the new house, and Sibylle had the effrontery to go and stay with a girl friend at St Gallen, this week of all weeks. Rolf reminded her of the imminent move; but the girl friend at St Gallen could not be put off. Rolf did not believe in this girl friend at St Gallen for a moment, but all he said was 'All right, have it your own way.' And Sibylle actually went. To be in a rage for a precise reason, a rage there was no need to sublimate, a real tearing rage, such as Rolf was in during that week, was a positive treat. It released him for once from his admirable detachment, and he went around the new house in a way that made the men with leather belts who asked from underneath their burdens where they were to put the carved wardrobe, or the sewing machine, or the cutlery case, or the dressing-table, surprised at the language of an educated gentleman. 'Go to the lady!' said Rolf. 'Go to the lady with the whole damn lot, or chuck it out of the window!' And as he left: 'It's a bloody scandal the bitch isn't here, a bloody scandal.' The honest workmen dared not ask any more, for fear the irritable gentleman should make a spectacle of himself again: they examined the stuff on the van, looked at one another, and anything that didn't obviously belong in the garden or the cellar, or wasn't recognizably an educated gentleman's desk, they silently piled up in the lady's room. At the end, when the chaos was complete, the honest workmen received a tip that embarrassed them: it verged on hush money.
Rolf found himself alone in his much-praised house, alone with little Hannes and an Italian maid who didn't know where the bed linen had got to. The lady was badly missed. Only little Hannes was not in despair, was blissfully happy in this chaos—where everything commonplace suddenly became a sensation—and asked a thousand questions. 'Handle With Care' was written on the boxes. The place did not look like home at all. Rolf didn't know how he was to live here and found it senseless for the maid to begin opening boxes, or at least premature: it was less certain than ever whether the marriage that would make it worth while opening the boxes and unrolling the carpets would take place at all. He simultaneously hoped and no longer hoped. What did independence and freedom in marriage really mean—quite practically, what did they mean—? What was left was common property with all sorts of goods and chattels and a maid to keep them clean. And what about Hannes? It could not go on like this. Should Rolf simply tell his wife to drop it, using threats, an either-or, and give her till Christmas to think it over? It was a possible way of bringing this impossible situation to an end, but not a possible way of preserving or regaining her love. Should he simply wait? A provisional, haphazard life, perhaps she'll come, perhaps she won't, perhaps he'd get used to it, perhaps he'd fall in love himself, and since everything passes, who knows, perhaps a divorce would be premature—a life of blind patience—was that the solution?
He stumbled from decision to decision, first one way, then another. How often had Rolf given advice, and where other people were concerned, with all due precaution, it was always much clearer in which direction effort should be exerted. In short, Rolf found himself at that dead point where with the greatest effort one can tear oneself apart, but not turn the wheel either forwards or backwards, and yet whether the wheel turns forwards or backwards depends on a trifle, perhaps on chance; and that was the bitterest thing of all, the thought that everything might be decided as though of its own accord by a single word, a good or a foolish word...
During that week he not only received Sturzenegger's promised card from Redwood City, California, but also a very queer telephone call from Paris. A manifestly agitated gentleman, who introduced himself as Stiller, talked some muddled nonsense and seemed to think Rolf was bound to know where his wife was, a man who absolutely refused to believe that Rolf was not well acquainted with his name. The excitable individual whose voice came to him over the telephone was undoubtedly none other than the fancy-dress pierrot. (So what my public prosecutor stated earlier on is not quite true: he did know the name of Sibylle's friend, even if not through Sibylle herself, before Stiller's disappearance. I only mention this as an example of the fact that even a public prosecutor, in an entirely voluntary statement, does not manage altogether to avoid contradicting himself, as they expect us to do during an interrogation.) A very queer telephone call indeed; for Rolf had assumed that Sibylle had gone off with her fancy-dress pierrot. Had the two of them missed each other in Paris? He rejected the thought that this call was an exceedingly cunning attempt to put him on a false scent; but once in his mind the thought would not let go of him. He couldn't credit Sibylle with such a plan. No! he said out loud, No! And from the very back of his mind came the echo, Why not? He tried to throw off this suspicion, felt ashamed of himself, and with the same breath as he felt ashamed of his mean suspicion he thought himself ridiculous for feeling ashamed, a fool. Wasn't anything possible now? His reason revoked at the idea. Was it possible that he would one day hate Sibylle, the mother of his son and moreover closer to him than anyone else he could imagine? He was afraid of meeting her again.
It seems that this meeting, when it did take place, was an unfortunate affair. One morning in his office—it was November—he was told his wife wanted to speak to him, no, not on the telephone: she was s
itting in the ante-chamber. Now he really was in conference, and she had to wait nearly an hour. It was eleven o'clock; couldn't they .‹imply have lunched together? Rolf gave word for her to come in and went to meet her at the door with the mute question, What's wrong? Sibylle was rather pale, but cheerful. 'Ah,' she said, 'so this is your office?' and went straight over to the window to look at the modest view. Rolf didn't ask, How was it at St Gallen? nor, How was it in Paris? It was for Sibylle to do the talking, he felt, not for him. She acted as though nothing had happened and was more on edge than he had ever known her, chatting as though she had only come to see his new place of work and smoking hurriedly. Rolf might have rung St Gallen; he wisely hadn't done so. Was this what she wanted to find out? Sibylle thanked him for seeing to the move. What else? She had a secret in her eyes, fear too, though she didn't speak of it and didn't want to speak of it. The situation seemed to Rolf farcical, unbearable—Rolf behind his wide desk, Sibylle sitting opposite him in the armchair like a client. Did she want a divorce?
Suddenly he said against his will, 'A Herr Stiller phoned, obviously your lover.' He was sorry he had used this word, and at the same time he felt indignation that on top of everything else he now ought to apologize; instead of doing so, he added with a freedom from rancour which he knew very well to be full of condescension, 'I suppose you met in Paris, after all, the call came on Wednesday.' At this Sibylle rose as though after a fruitless discussion, which in fact had not taken place at all, slowly and without speaking, and went over to the window. Rolf could see by her shoulders that she was crying, sobbing. She could not endure his hand on her shoulder, nor even his gaze. 'I'm going,' she said. 'Where to?' he asked. She crushed out her cigarette in his ashtray, picked up her handbag, took out a small cloth and powder with which to put her face in order, and said with the most shameless levity, 'To Pontresina.' After a deep breath, during which Sibylle painted her lips, Rolf said once more, 'As you like.' Then came her foolish question, 'Do you mind?' Then his equally foolish reply, 'Do as you please.' And so he let her go...
And she actually went to Pontresina.
At the beginning of December, when she returned bronzed by the sun, he suggested a divorce. She left the necessary steps to him. Rolf didn't know what to make of it all when she told him young Sturzenegger had written to tell her he urgently needed a secretary, and she had decided to go with Hannes to this Redwood City, California. Once again Rolf said, 'As you like.' He didn't believe it. The whole thing was just a childish farce. And even when she went to the American consulate to have her finger-prints taken, he didn't believe it. Was it up to him to make the first gesture of reconciliation? It wasn't in his power to make the first move, considering that he didn't even know what really had happened. It seemed to him that no marriage could be built on blind reconciliation. Was she waiting for him to tell her to stay? Her passage on the Ile-de-France had already been booked, as Rolf knew. Perhaps Sibylle had completely deserted him during the past summer, but even that wasn't the point: without a word from her that she wanted to stay, it was simply impossible for him to ask Sibylle without becoming ridiculous in his ignorance and thereby rendering ridiculous the marriage that was perhaps still possible between them. It was truly not possible, not like that anyhow. He felt he must not give way to her threats. A few days before Christmas Sibylle actually went to Le Havre with Hannes, who had not yet started going to school, to embark for America.
FIFTH NOTEBOOK
THE show put on today by my defending counsel, that diligent man who continues to defend the missing Stiller, was a total failure from his point of view—and yet this aperitif-confrontation with the leading critics of the little town was most enjoyable. A young gentleman's request that I should not take personally certain biting comments written seven years ago was touchingly superfluous. There was also a lady present, a mature personality, in character a 'guardian of the temple', yet possessed of a human modesty that was apparent at the first glance. My assurance that I was not the Stiller they took me for visibly relieved the little gathering of critics, and on top of that came the whisky. I asked the lady why she had refused to shake hands with me at the beginning. The situation became embarrassing again, but only for a few moments. If she had known it was about Stiller, the lady would not have come to this coffee-house table at all. Stiller must have behaved in an absolutely scandalous way towards this lady. My counsel looked at me, and my own curiosity was also aroused: the lady's silence provoked all sorts of conjectures. Stiller had once written this lady a letter, I heard, calling her a 'school-marm', just because she had been compelled, and would always be compelled, in the name of the spirit, out of love of the spirit and a profound sense of duty towards the art of all epochs, to deny him a place among true artists. I took the hand of this gracious and spirited lady, which was perhaps going too far, and said, 'Frau Doktor, I couldn't agree more.' The subject of discussion was a piece of sculpture I had recently seen in a public park. True, the lady's objections were not quite the same as my own, they were more subtle; but we conversed about strict criteria of judgement, and as a result we were very soon no longer concerned with the missing Stiller, who could not stand up to such criteria, but with the lady herself, with criticism as such, about which the lady knew a very great deal. I could understand her resolve never to write about Stiller again, simply to consign Stiller to oblivion: what better could I wish in my position, when the missing man gets in my way at every turn? And the gentlemen, too, were very pleasant. You only have to assure a critic perfectly frankly that you are not an artist, and immediately he'll talk to you as though you knew as much about art as he does.
***
Julika has gone away. Unfortunately when she came to see me before leaving, I was just being interrogated by the psychiatrist, who wouldn't allow the door to be suddenly opened for fear my soul might escape him. Her little good-bye present of cigars touched me precisely because they were the wrong brand again. As far as she is concerned, cigars are simply cigars, and as they are very expensive she's sure I'll like them. I do like them too—because they come from Julika.
***
A visit from an elderly couple, Professor Haefeli and his wife, who, having been informed by my defence counsel appointed by the court that I am Anatol Ludwig Stiller, had requested permission for a personal meeting and now shake hands with me in an entirely personal manner. Then, after an embarrassed silence, they sit down on my plank bed and, in a confidential if shy and to begin with positively anxious tone, embark on what is—to them—a very important conversation they have long wanted to have.
'We have come,' says the elderly professor, 'about an entirely personal matter that has nothing to do with your present situation. You knew our son—'
'Alex talked a lot about you—'
'We were sorry,' says the elderly professor with deliberate gravity, making a perceptible effort to remain matter-of-fact and keep the mother, a white-haired lady, from becoming over-emotional, 'we were very sorry that Alex never brought his friends home. In any case, he spoke of you as his friend. I remember a conversation that will not surprise you, shortly before his death; our son described you as the person closest to him on earth. Frankly, that was the first time I had heard your name—'
To remind me of Alex, the mother, who up to now had been rather silent and gave the impression of being somehow disturbed behind her appearance of solid dignity, hands me a photograph, with a mixture of timidity and importunity. It shows Alex at the age of about twenty-five, in evening dress, horn-rimmed spectacles in his right hand while his left, which is remarkably slender, rests on a black grand piano; he is making a brief, rather inhibited bow. It is a touching picture, if only because you see this embarrassed bow without hearing applause, so that there is something frozen, something stuffed, something pitifully lifeless about it. His face, although it is rather flattened by the flashlight, is unusual, refined like his hand, very much like his mother and somewhat feminine without being soft; one guesses he is homosexu
al. There is a strange joy in his face that seems not to come from within but from somewhere outside, like the flashlight that has taken him by surprise, from some occurrence we cannot see, which, to his own amazement, convinces him that he has reason to rejoice. Probably it's his first success in the concert hall. You get the feeling you can see the same kind of disturbance you observe in his mother, which makes it difficult to look this otherwise pleasant and doubtless very cultured lady in the eye. She can't tolerate anyone looking at her son with his own eyes. She wants something from the observer. She yearns for approval at any price.
'Alex,' she says, 'valued you highly—'
I have no idea what she is after, what is the point of this visit, which is not easy for the two unhappy parents, what hope it is I'm supposed to fulfil.
'His death,' says the elderly professor, 'is a bitter mystery to us, as you can imagine. It's six years now—'