The Drinker

  From such childish dreams, Lobedanz would wake me roughly enough. He made it clear that I should get neither drink nor lodging from him unless I produced some more money at once.… We became involved in an endless quarrel, on his side, always polite, quiet, insinuating, on mine, rude, with passionate outbursts that ended almost in floods of tears. But it did not help in the least to keep reproaching him for the usurious prices at which he availed himself of my belongings, giving me little, almost nothing, in return. He sheltered behind the pawnbroker who just would not give more, he swore up hill and down dale that he had not made a penny out of me up to now, and still maintained that I must get money or move out. Yes, and now he even made dark insinuations that the police might be very interested in people of my sort, and that it was not permitted to take up residence without reporting to them, and that this was making it dangerous for him. At that time, I paid no attention to such threatening talk. But I knew that I would have to get some money, for the gentle Lobedanz was as hard as flint.

  The only thing I got out of him was another bottle of brandy on tick, to make me fresh for my night expedition. I had just had one of my good days, that is, a day when my body was on good terms with alcohol; that was a bit of luck. On another day, it would have been impossible for me to undertake such a trip. I knew that I could not go to the bank any more: I was sure that they had been notified of my disappearance, and advised that, if I did turn up, no payments were to be made to me without previous consultation. So I would have to break into my own house. The thought of meeting Magda was not so pleasant—now that such a meeting was almost certain—as it had been a week ago, when I had only dreamed of her. But it had to be. I thrust the brandy bottle into my trouser pocket—the gentle Lobedanz had refused me the return of my brief-case—and started on my way. It was shortly after midnight. Lobedanz let me out of the house and whispered that it was very dark. I should be particularly careful when crossing the bridge over the river.

  “I’ll wait up for you, sir,” he whispered, “however late it may be. I’ll have a bottle ready for you. And then, sir,” he whispered still softer, “then, sir, if you’ve still got any jewellery or silver—I’ve got a dealer on hand who pays very decent prices, not like that twister—just bring whatever you can and I’ll look after you all right.”

  “That’s the way to catch simpletons,” I thought, and was simpleton enough not to withhold my appreciation from Lobedanz for being so clever as to keep a bottle of brandy ready as a reward for my return. Of course, I had quite different plans, of which he had no inkling.

  Walking was much easier for me than I had expected. I felt hardly any need for drink. I was rather excited. I well remember how, all the long way, I tried anxiously not to think of what lay ahead of me. I recited to myself, over and over again, all the poems I knew by heart from my schooldays; and in spite of that, I found myself between one verse and the next, talking to Magda or wondering which suitcase would be the best one to take.

  At last, after nearly three-quarters of an hour’s walking, I arrived at the garden gate of my villa. Shortly before, one o’clock had struck from the town’s three steeples. I closed the gate softly behind me, and avoiding the gravel-path, made my way across the grass round my house. Everything lay quiet and dark. For a long time, I stood under Magda’s bedroom window, and thought I heard her quiet breathing; but it was only my own heart beating loud and restless within my breast. When I came to think that here I stood by my own house, within five yards of my own wife, like a penniless stranger in the night, unwashed and unshaven for a week, such a wave of self-pity swept over me that I burst into bitter tears. I wept long and painfully. I would have liked to get into Magda’s room and let her console me, but in the end, the schnaps again proved the best comforter. I drank long and deeply. My grief calmed down. I fought back an inclination to sleep for a while, and returned to the front of the house.

  16

  I am standing in my stockinged feet in the hall of my house. I have left my shoes by the door. It is dark, but now my hand gropes for the switch, a faint click, and it is light. Yes, here I am at home again, I belong here, in all this order and cleanliness! With an almost reverent shyness, I gaze around at this cosy little hall, with its light-green carpet, from which the ugly traces of that dismal night have long since been removed; I look at the hall-stand, on which Magda’s green costume jacket and a blueish summer coat are neatly hanging side by side. And now I tiptoe over to the mirror, in which one can see oneself from head to foot, and I look myself up and down. And I am gripped by a terrible fear when I see myself standing there in my soiled and shapeless clothes, with a greyish-black collar, a pallid bristly face, and red-rimmed eyes.

  “So that’s what’s become of me!” cries a voice within me, and my first impulse is to rush in to Magda, to fall on my knees before her, and to implore her: “Save me! Save me from myself! Hold me to your heart!” But this impulse vanishes: I smile craftily at my image in the mirror.

  “That’s just what she would like,” I think. “And then—off with the old man into a drunkard’s home, while she gets hold of the business and the money!”

  Be cunning. Always be cunning. And I quickly move a chair over to the big cupboard in the hall, I reach up, and take down a suitcase, the best suitcase we possess, a real cowhide one; it belongs to Magda really, I gave it to her once for a birthday present. But that is of no importance now, besides—do not married people own everything in common? In the next quarter of an hour, I become feverishly active, I pack my overcoat, two suits, underwear. I fetch my toilet things from the bathroom. Magda will be surprised in the morning! From the shoe-cupboard I fetch two pairs of shoes—I arrange everything as if for a long journey. And now I really do feel as if I were about to start on a long journey, perhaps, perhaps this time Elinor will be more amenable. Now I have finished with all these things, and before I begin the most difficult part, I sit down for a moment on the hall floor, take a drink, and rest. It is very noticeable how feeble I have become during the last few weeks. This bit of packing has exhausted me out of all proportion, my heart is palpitating, I am covered with sweat.

  Then I set to work again. Till now, everything has gone splendidly. I have made no noise that would wake a normal sleeper, nothing has fallen from my hands. But, as I have said, the most difficult part is still ahead of me. I open the drawer under the mirror, and look, the torch is lying there sure enough! I switch on, and look, it really works! There’s nothing like a well-ordered household—hurrah for Magda! I switch off all the lights and steal into our living-room with the torch. It is next to the bedroom, and is separated from it only by a double-door decorated with coloured glass panels, through which every light and every sound penetrates. In the darkness, I grope over to the writing-desk, in whose centre compartment our ready money lies in a small cashbox. Usually, only the money necessary for household expenses is kept in it—very little; but if we had taken some money at the office of an evening, too late to pay it into the bank, we would bring it home with us here. So I was very anxious to see how much I would find. I managed to open the compartment without any noise and to get the cash-box out. In the dark I also came across the chequebook which was lying beside the cash-box. I thrust it into my pocket, and carried the cash-box carefully, step by step, into the hall, put it down first, closed the door, and switched on the light. It may sound odd, but I uttered something like a prayer before unlocking the cash-box. I prayed to God, whom I had so long forgotten, to let there be a lot of money in the box. A lot of money, to continue this life between drunkenness and sickness for a long time yet, still more money to induce Elinor, la reine d’alcool, to go travelling with me. I didn’t give a single thought to the position into which I was putting my own business by taking the money. Indeed, I believe that if I had thought of it, the greater the harm done to my business, the more I would have exulted. So I uttered my prayer, and opened the cash-box. I lifted out the upper compartment, in which there were only coins, and looked eage
rly for the paper-money.

  My disappointment was boundless. There were only a very few notes there; as I counted them over, they came to not much more than fifty marks. I still see myself standing there, those few notes in my hand, an icy feeling in my heart.

  “This is the end,” I thought. “This is neither enough for Elinor nor for Lobedanz. In two or three days, this money will be gone, and then there’s only surrender, sackcloth and ashes, the cold-water asylum, the final abandonment of hope.”

  So there I stood, with death in my heart, for a long, long time.…

  Then life came back to me again. Again I saw Lobedanz’s yellowish face before me, with its dark beard; I heard his soft voice whispering something about jewellery and silver.… Jewellery was out of the question. The little jewellery that Magda possessed was worth hardly anything; besides, she kept it in the bedroom dressing-table.

  But silver—yes, we had silver. Beautiful heavy old table silver, a bargain picked up at an auction. There was still room in the suitcase.… I drank quickly and deep. I emptied the whole bottle at a go. There had been a good third of it left. For a moment, the sudden strong intake of alcohol flooded my body like a red wave. I shut my eyes. I trembled. Would I have to vomit? But the attack passed, I had myself under control again. Quickly I went into the dining-room and switched on the chandelier. Now I did not need the caution that I had so carefully observed hitherto. I unlocked the sideboard and took out the silver, which was wrapped by the dozen in flannel covers (we only use it on festive occasions). First I laid it all in a heap before me, then I packed it away, big spoons, knives and forks, the small set, the fish knives and forks.… I stuffed them all into the suitcase as they came. Now only the silver serving-spoons, the salad- and carving-set were missing, which were lying loose in a separate drawer. I quickly took them out; suddenly something was driving me on, I had to get out of this house. A spoon fell with a clatter to the floor. I swore aloud, made a grab for it, and let a second spoon drop.

  Impatiently I tugged at the drawer to pull it right out, and to carry the single silver pieces in it to the suitcase. The drawer gave unexpectedly, and fell with a crash on to the silverware, which rang brightly. I gathered everything together however I could get hold of it, without a care now for the noise I made, and hurried with it to the suitcase. As I went, two or three spoons fell. I threw what I had brought into the suitcase, on top of everything, and ran back to get those I had dropped. Then I stood rooted, staring at Magda, who was there in the middle of the dining-room, in front of her burgled sideboard!

  17

  She turned her head and looked at me for a long time. I noticed how she started, how rapidly she breathed, how she tried to collect herself.

  “Erwin,” she said, in a faltering voice. “Erwin! What a sight you are! Where have you been to get into such a state? Where have you been for so long? Oh Erwin, Erwin, I’ve been so worried about you! And to think that we should meet like this! Think Erwin, we loved each other once. Don’t destroy it all! Come back to me, I’ll help you the best I can. I’ll be so patient with you. I’ll never quarrel with you again.…”

  She had been speaking faster and faster. Breathlessly she stopped and looked imploringly at me.

  But I was stirred by quite other feelings. I glared with fury and hatred at this well-kept woman, flushed with sleep, in her blue dressing-gown—I who looked as if I’d been rolling in the gutter, I who stank like a polecat. I think it must have been the reference to our former love that put me into such a mad rage. Instead of moving me, her words only reminded me how far off was the submerged past.

  Angrily I stumbled towards Magda, nearly fell over a silver-serving spoon, looked furiously at it, took a step back and trampled it underfoot. Magda cried out. I rushed over to her, raised my fist and cried: “Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I come back to you. And then what happens? Then what happens?”

  I shook my fist in her face.

  “You put me to bed and make sure I go to sleep and as soon as I’m asleep you fetch the doctors and let them take me off to some drunkards’ home for life, then you laugh up your sleeve and do as you please with my property. Yes, that’s what you’d like!”

  I glared at her. Now I was breathless too. And Magda glared back at me. She had turned very pale, but I could clearly see she wasn’t afraid of me, despite my threatening behaviour.

  Suddenly my mood changed; my excitement died down, and coolly and calmly I said, “I’ll tell you what you are. You’re just a common vulture. I say it to your face!”

  She didn’t flinch. She only looked at me.

  “You’re a traitor! You betrayed our whole marriage when you set those doctors on to me. I’d like to spit in your face, you—!”

  She was still staring at me. Then she said swiftly, “Yes, I did send the doctors after you, but not to betray you, only to save you if that’s still possible. If you had a spark of commonsense left, you would realise that, Erwin. You must see that you can’t live another month like this. Perhaps not another week …”

  I interrupted her. I gave a sneering laugh.

  “Not another week? I can live for years like this, I can stand anything, and I’ll go on living just to spite you, just to spite you.”

  I leaned close to her.

  “Shall I tell you what I’m going to do next time I get drunk? I’m going to stand outside your window and shout out to everyone that you are a traitor, a greedy vulture, greedy for my money, and greedy for me to die …”

  “Yes,” she said spitefully. “I believe you’re capable of that. But if you did, you wouldn’t land up in a home, you’d land in prison instead. And I’m not sure that it wouldn’t do you good.”

  “What?” I shouted at her, and now my rage had reached its climax. “Now you want to have me put in prison? Just you wait! You won’t say that again! I’ll show you.…” I reached for her. I saw red. I tried to seize her by the throat, but she fought back. She really was almost as strong as I, indeed in my present condition she was probably much stronger. We wrestled together. It was a sweet sensation, to feel this once loved, now hostile body pressing so close against me, now her breast, now her straining thigh. The thought shot through my head, “Suppose you were to kiss her suddenly, whisper loving words in her ear? Could you get her round?” I whispered in her ear: “Tomorrow night I’ll come and kill you. I’ll come very quickly.…”

  Magda called loudly, “No, no, it’s all right, Else! I can manage him alone. Ring Dr Mansfeld and the police. I’ll keep him here!”

  I turned in astonishment. Sure enough, there stood Else, pretty as a picture, attracted by the noise of our struggle. And then she disappeared in the hall, towards the telephone. I tore myself free with a jerk.

  “You’re not going to get me, Magda!” I gave her a push and she fell back.

  As I ran, I snatched up the scattered silverware, including the broken serving-spoon, and rushed into the hall. I threw everything into the suitcase, and tried hard to shut the lid. Magda was there already.

  “You’re not taking those things! My silver is staying here! You’re not going to drink that up as well!”

  A yard away, Else was busy telephoning. I heard her say: “He wants to kill his wife!”

  “My God, what a child you are,” I thought.

  We both tugged at the suitcase. Then suddenly I let go and Magda went sprawling on the floor again. I tore the case out of her hand, lashed out at her once or twice, rushed to the porch, snatched up my shoes and ran into the street in my socks. Suddenly I stopped short.

  “Give me the suitcase, sir,” said Lobedanz’s soft insinuating voice. “I’ll go on ahead, look out, here come the women!” Quite mechanically, I handed the case to Lobedanz. He made off. I ran after him, off into the night, in my socks.

  18

  Lobedanz ran with the suitcase. He took the shortest route, plunged into the oldest part of the town, rushed along lanes and alleys, and suddenly turned a corner. I ran after him. It was very
dark. It was only because he was wearing shoes and so made a noise as he ran, that I was able to follow him at all. I am quite sure that Lobedanz had intended to disappear completely with the suitcase, and leave me helpless in the street. He really thought he had shaken me off: he hadn’t heard my soft stockinged footsteps. But when he eventually stopped to draw breath, I was beside him, and asked him why he had been running so senselessly. Nobody was after us!

  The scoundrel was not put out for a moment. He managed to conceal his disappointment at my appearance, and said: “You had some trouble with the women, didn’t you? The women were shouting, weren’t they? What did you do to them?”

  “Nothing you hadn’t advised me to, Lobedanz,” I laughed. “I tried to frighten them by knocking them about but it didn’t come to much. It’s quite understandable that a woman should resist when her silver’s being taken. I’ve got the silver, Lobedanz.”

  “Ah, have you?” the scoundrel answered. “Now we have to see if we get anything for it. Most silver is light and hollow, or the shape is unfashionable, silver that’s only good for melting down is hardly worth anything.”

  “You needn’t worry about that, Lobedanz,” I said maliciously, “I’ll sell my silver without you—if I sell it at all, which I haven’t decided yet. Now let me carry my suitcase myself.”