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'It won't be long now,' said Knobel. 'You'll get your whisky at last, Mr White, perhaps this week.'
When I asked him what he meant, he didn't answer; I realized at once that he had heard something, but wasn't supposed to talk about it. At the end, when he had already picked up the soup pail, he nevertheless added:
'The lady seems to have taken a great liking to you.'
'So what?'
'Anyhow she's gone bail for you,' he said in an undertone, 'a tidy sum.'
'What for?'
'Well—for you, Mr White,' he grinned and winked his eye.
'So that you can go for walks with her.'
***
Once again (for the last time!) I made an attempt today to help my over-solicitous counsel to escape from his positively touching misunderstanding of my situation, which has caused him so much work, so much fruitless work and so much annoyance with me, with me who am really so grateful to him for his daily cigar—
'Are you familiar,' I asked him as I once more bit the dry knob from the cigar, 'with the story of Rip van Winkle?'
Instead of an answer he gave me a light.
'An American fairy tale,' I said with the cigar in my mouth and hence rather indistinctly. 'I read it once as a lad, decades ago that's to say, in a book by Sven Hedin, I believe. Do you know it?'
As I spoke (this is important) I held his silver lighter with the little flame without lighting the fragrant cigar, that one and only sensual pleasure available to me in my imprisonment on remand, no, notwithstanding my avid desire I repeated my question:
'You don't know it?'
'What?'
'The story of Rip van Winkle?'
Only by means of this trick—that's to say by holding the lighter, which I relit every time it went out, and with the cigar in the other hand, all the time on the point of lighting the splendid cigar, indeed once setting the cigar aglow, so that all I had to do was to draw on it, but every time prevented—prevented by Rip van Winkle, whose story was obviously more acutely important than my cigar—only by means of this trick could I compel my busy defence counsel to listen at all.
The story goes something like this.
Rip van Winkle, a descendant of that intrepid van Winkle who opened up the country of America while serving under Hendrik Hudson, was a born lazybones but at the same time, it seems, a thoroughly good fellow, who didn't fish for the sake of the fish but in order to dream, for his head was full of so-called thoughts, which had little to do with his reality. His reality, a good little wife whom everyone in the village could only pity or admire, didn't have an easy time with him. Rip certainly felt he ought to have a trade, a masculine trade, and he liked to pretend he was a hunter, which had the advantage of allowing him to roam around for days on end where no one saw him. He generally came back without so much as a single pigeon, carrying nothing but a bad conscience. His little house was the most neglected in the whole village, to say nothing of his garden. Nowhere did the weeds flourish so merrily as in his garden, and it was always his goats that wandered off and fell into the ravines. He bore it without bitterness, for he was philosophically inclined, unlike his ancestors who all gazed down from the old pictures with every appearance of being men of action. For days at a time he would sit outside his dilapidated little house with his chin in his hand pondering why he wasn't really happy. He had a wife and two children, but he wasn't happy. He had expected more of himself; he was fifty and he still expected more, even if his good wife and his companions smiled about it. Only Bauz, his shaggy dog, understood him and wagged his tail when Rip took down his gun to go squirrel hunting. He had inherited the gun, a heavy thing with a great deal of ornament, from his forefathers. They must have smiled to themselves when Rip talked about his hunting; what he had seen always exceeded what he had shot. And since his stories couldn't be roasted, his wife, the mother of two children, had soon had enough of them; she called him a lazy good-for-nothing, in front of everyone, which he couldn't stand. So in order to unburden himself of his stories, Rip used to spend almost every evening in the village tavern, where there were always a few people to listen to him, even if his stories couldn't be roasted. His splendid gun and the tired dog at his feet were witnesses enough when Rip talked about his hunting. People liked him, because he never spoke ill of anyone; on the contrary it seems as though he was always a bit afraid of the world and badly needed to be liked. He drank a bit too, no doubt. And if no one listened, that didn't matter either; in any case, Rip and his dog, which put its tail between its legs as soon as it heard Mrs van Winkle coming, didn't go home before midnight, because every evening there was a palaver of which Rip understood as little as his dog, a palaver while he took off his boots, and of course it was obvious things couldn't go on like this, but that had been obvious for years ... One day Rip and his faithful dog went squirrel hunting again, striding out as long as the village could see them; then, as usual, Rip made his first stop, taking a bite from his provisions while Bauz kept watch in case anyone should come round the hill. In return, as usual, Bauz got a small bone, and Rip lit his pipe in order to give his good old dog, who was loudly gnawing at the bare bone, a bit of a rest too. Finally they trotted on into the morning, into the wide sweep of hilly country above the glittering Hudson, a glorious region as may still be seen today, and there was no lack of squirrels. God knows why Rip went on telling everyone he was a hunter! Sunk in thoughts that no one ever got to know, he strolled through the forest. There were hares here, yes, even a deer! Rip stood still and looked at the surprised animal with reverence, his hands in his jacket pockets, his gun on his shoulder, his pipe in his mouth. The deer, which obviously didn't imagine for a moment that he was a hunter, went on calmly grazing. I've got to be a hunter! Rip told himself, suddenly thinking of the tavern in the evening and of his faithful wife, and he put the gun to his shoulder. He took aim at the deer, which gazed at him. He even pressed the trigger, only there was no powder in it! It was strange, the dog barked even though no shot had rung out, and at the same moment shouts came from the ravine: Rip van Winkle, Rip van Winkle! A very odd-looking fellow, panting under a heavy burden, came up out of the ravine that was as unexpected as it was rocky, bent down so that his face was out of sight, but his clothing alone was disconcerting, a cloth jerkin as in old-fashioned pictures and wide breeches with bright-coloured ribbons, yes, he even had a goatee beard such as Rip's forefathers had once worn. But on his shoulders he carried a handsome little barrel of brandy. Rip didn't take long to respond to his call. You're a polite person, said the fellow with the goatee. You're a helpful person. And with these words, which Rip was so pleased to hear, he hoisted the barrel onto his shoulders, so that Rip abandoned any further questions. First they went uphill, then down into another ravine, an area Rip had never seen before. Even Bauz, the faithful dog, felt ill at ease, rubbing up against his master's legs and whimpering. For there was a sound like thunder coming from the ravine! At last they got to the point when the hard barrel was lifted from Rip's aching shoulders and he could straighten up and look around. This is Rip van Winkle, said the fellow with the goatee, and Rip found himself in the middle of a group of old gentlemen wearing Dutch hats, with stiff, solemn faces and old-fashioned frills. No one said a word, only Rip nodded. It was, as it turned out, a group of skittle-players. Hence the booming and rumbling from the ravine! Rip had immediately to fill the jugs; each of the old gentlemen took a hearty swig, then they went silently back to their skittles and Rip, who liked to show himself polite, couldn't avoid setting up the skittles again. Only now and then, hurriedly, was he able to take a gulp from the jug. It was gin, his favourite liquor! But once again the skittles flew apart and every time with a ringing crack that echoed through the whole ravine. Rip had his hands full. And there was no end to the cracking and rumbling. No sooner had the heavy and rather wobbly skittles been straightened up again, so that Rip could reach for the gin, than the next gentleman stepped up to the alley, shut his left eye in order to ai
m, and bowled his stone ball, which boomed like a thunderclap. They were a pretty strange group of people and, as I have said, not a word was spoken, so that Rip too didn't dare ask when he was going to be released from this drudgery. Their faces between the Dutch hats and the old-fashioned frills, as worn by his ancestors, were so dignified. Only as Rip set up the skittles again he had the disagreeable feeling that they were grinning behind his back, but Rip couldn't turn round and look because while his hand was still on the last skittle, that was wobbling, he heard the booming rumble of the next ball and had to jump out of the way to prevent it from crushing his leg. It was impossible to see when this drudgery would ever come to an end. The barrel of brandy seemed to be inexhaustible, again and again Rip had to fill the jugs, again and again they took a gulp, again and again they went silently back to their skittles. There was only one thing for it: Rip must wake up!...The sun was already sinking into the brown haze of evening as Rip sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was time to go home, high time. But he whistled in vain for his dog. For a while, still half in a dream, Rip looked around for the ravine and the skittle-players with their Dutch hats and old-fashioned frills, but none of that existed! Beyond the forest the broad Hudson gleamed as always and if the dog had just come along faithfully wagging his tail, Rip would have thought no more about the dream. On his way home he would have turned over in his mind what he was going to tell them in the village. To be sure, these stories of his seemed to him a bit like the wobbly skittles that he had to keep putting up so the others could knock them down. Not a sign of Bauz! Finally, Rip picked up his gun from the grass, but just look, it was overgrown by junipers. Not only that, it was also rusty, the most miserable-looking gun in the world. The wooden butt was mouldy. Rip shook his head, turned the thing over in his hand a few times, then threw it away and rose to his feet. For the sun was already sinking. Rip just wouldn't believe that the bleached bones lying beside his knapsack were the last remains of his faithful dog Bauz. But what else could they be? It was all real, he wasn't dreaming, he rubbed his chin and tugged at a beard that reached down to his chest, an old man's beard. Years had passed. How many? Anyhow it was late. Driven by hunger, and no doubt by curiosity as to how many people he knew were still alive after that stupid game of skittles, Rip van Winkle came to his familiar village, whose streets and houses he didn't recognize. Nothing but strangers! Only his own house was still standing, as dilapidated as ever, empty and with no window panes, inhabited only by the wind. And where was Hannah, his wife? Gradually horror took possession of him. The old tavern, where you could always find out what you wanted to know, was nowhere to be found. Lost and lonely, bewildered, fearful and encircled by unknown children, he asked after his old companions. People pointed to the cemetery or shrugged their shoulders. Finally (in a low voice) he also asked about himself. Wasn't there anyone left who knew Rip van Winkle? They laughed. They knew all about Rip van Winkle, the squirrel hunter, and he heard really droll stories about the man who, as every child knew, had fallen down a ravine or been taken prisoner by the Indians twenty years ago. What could he do? He asked shyly after Hannah, the squirrel hunter's wife, and when they told him, yes, she died long ago of grief, he wept and tried to walk away. Who was he? they asked him and he thought it over. God knows, he said, God knows, yesterday I thought I knew, but today, now that I'm awake, how should I know? The bystanders tapped their foreheads with their fingers and all in vain he told them the extraordinary story of the skittles, the brief story of how he had slept away his life. They didn't know what he was talking about. But he couldn't tell the story any other way and soon the people walked off, only a young and rather pretty woman remained. Rip van Winkle was my father, she said. What do you know about him? For a while he looked into her eyes and no doubt he felt tempted to tell her he was her father, but was he the one they all expected, the squirrel hunter with the stories that always wobbled a bit and fell over when they laughed? In the end he said, Your father is dead. And so the young woman left him too, which hurt him, but no doubt it had to be. So had he woken up for nothing? He lived on in the village for a few more years, a stranger in a strange world, and he didn't ask them to believe him when he told them about Hendrik Hudson, the discoverer of the river and the country, and about his ship's crew that gathered from time to time in the ravines and played skittles, and when he said that was where they should look for their old Rip van Winkle. They smiled. It was true that on hot summer days they sometimes heard a dull rumble from the other side of the hills, a thudding as of skittles; but the grown-ups always took it to be an ordinary storm, and no doubt that's what it was.
So much for the fairy tale.
'Well?' asked my counsel when I had finished telling it and finally lit my cigar. 'What has that to do with our matter? Your case is coming up for trial towards the end of September and you're telling me fairy stories—fairy stories!—is that what I'm supposed to present in youi; defence?'
'What else?'
'Fairy tales,' he complained. 'Instead of just for once telling me a plain and simple truth I can make use of!'
***
P.S. I have asked my counsel to bring me another notebook, because this one will soon be full. I haven't let him read it yet, and his earnest hope that this notebook will enable him, so to speak, to get my life into his brief-case, is gradually beginning to worry me.
***
Zürich could be a charming little town. It stands at the lower end of a delightful lake, whose hilly banks are not disfigured by factories, but by villas, and as we had such pleasant weather for our outing yesterday, a blue September sky with a thin silvery haze, I was really enchanted—not merely to please Frau Julika, whose generous bail makes it possible for me to go for trips like this every week, provided of course that I always return punctually to my prison. In this connexion, I am less bound by my oath, which I had to swear to my counsel to prevent him from coming with us, than by natural consideration for Julika; if I made off she would lose a sum I could never restore to her. Moreover, I'm allowed one or two glasses of whisky! She looks simply magnificent, this woman, I think so every time I see her with her fiery hair in the sunshine, the white Paris hat on top of it and her willowy figure—I'm simply enchanted.
Once, when I caught sight of her reflection in a shop-window again, I couldn't help turning round, taking her by the chin and kissing her.
'Anatol,' she said, 'this is Zürich!'
I am particularly enchanted by the position of their little town, which is embraced on both sides by tranquil hills and natural woods that tempt one to go for country walks, while in the centre there glitters a little green river that reveals the direction in which great oceans lie (as every watercourse does) and therefore always arouses a vital urge, a longing for the world, for seashores. It must be delightful to spend three weeks in Zürich, especially at this time of the year, if one is not in prison. At this time of year, too, as you can hear in the street, there are all sorts of foreigners in thé town. Not for nothing is Zürich's coat of arms blue and white; in the dazzling brightness of its windswept blue ornamented with the white of gulls—a brightness that is said to cause even the residents a great many headaches—this Zürich really has a charm of its own, a cachet that is to be sought in the air rather than anywhere else, a radiance that is in the armosphere and stands in curious contrast to the moroseness that marks the faces of those who live here, and something positively festal, something neat and decorative like its coat of arms, something blue and white without many special characteristics. It is, one might perhaps say, a town whose charm lies above all in its countryside; in any case, one can understand the foreigners who get out and take snaps from the quay before going on to Italy, and one can also understand the residents who are proud when people take a lot of snaps. Their narrow lake, about as wide as the Mississippi, gleams like a curved scythe in the green, undulating countryside. Even on workdays it is alive with little sailing boats. In spite of all its bustle there is still something of the spa about
this Zürich, this meeting-place of businessmen.
Fortunately the Alps are not so close as on picture postcards; at a seemly distance they crown the undulating foothills, a spray of white névé and bluish clouds.
Perhaps Julika hasn't shown me the right parts of the town, looking back it strikes me that we haven't met a single beggar, and also no cripples. The people are not smartly dressed, but their clothes are made of good material, so that one never has to feel sorry for them, and the streets are clean from morning till evening. We stroll along for nearly an hour, unmolested by beggars, as I have said, and also undisturbed by outstanding works of architecture, which would have interrupted our conversation. The way they try to regulate the modern traffic is not always comprehensible to a foreigner, though the Swiss police take the greatest trouble and look very grave, and above all it would seem that they are more concerned about justice than about the traffic; at every crossing you feel you are undergoing some kind of moral training. The closer you come to the lake, where the foreigners create their own atmosphere, which they take to be the atmosphere of Zürich, the less you make yourself conspicuous if you are gay and laugh in the street; even Julika, I notice, becomes freer in this part of the town, and I can imagine what she is like in Paris. Her mama was Hungarian, but Zürich is her native town, and Julika is angry out of all proportion when the town council of Zürich makes a faux pas, when it fails to welcome Charlie Chaplin, for example. She talks about nothing else for half an hour.
An Indian couple, probably attending a congress, look most attractive, There are a lot of congresses here, there is altogether something international about the place with its large, dusty coaches crowded with German leather shorts, and every waitress speaks American. A touch of universality forms part of the essence of this little town, which, as I have said, is very pleasant for the foreigner; it is provincial without being dull. It is provincial with concerts by Furtwängler, guest performances by Jean-Louis Barrault, exhibitions from Rembrandt to Picasso, dramatic art by German émigrés, and Thomas Mann's new home, but also with all sorts of great men of its own who achieve things in the world outside, until their fame also gradually flatters their own country, which is incapable of bestowing fame itself precisely because it is provincial, in other words outside history. But what do I care about all that? For the foreigner it is a pleasure to stroll about this little town, especially when he has money, and, as I said, it might have been a delightful afternoon—ifjulika had not slipped back into her fixed idea that I am her lost husband.