Our philosopher, p.2
Our Philosopher, page 2
As things stand, it would be better if you didn’t speak to him on the street any more, Mother always said, once we had passed him.
And say hello? we asked Mother. Should we still say hello to him?
No, said Mother, don’t say hello either. Instead we should act as if we don’t know him, as if he were already no longer present.
And if he says hello?
My God! Mother cried and flung up her arms, I’m sure that he won’t be so tactless.
So that, when we saw him from far away—that was just after the Deutscher Peter—we no longer said hello to Herr Veilchenfeld, but instead looked down at the ground. But then when we reached him, we winked at him, so that he realised that we knew who he was. And Herr Veilchenfeld, as a sign that he forgave us, winked back. Sometimes he smiled too when he winked, though naturally only a little, and we went on, each to his own place.
•
Ever since two blocks of flats, in the shadows of which we now live, were built across from us in a single autumn, our house is smaller than it used to be. If someone who doesn’t know it is looking for it, he can hardly find it. New patients who want to see Father first ask at the blocks of flats whether or not Father lives there. No, they are told, he lives over there in the little house. Oh, they say, really? They often don’t ask at all and just go away. What these new buildings amount to in losses, no one would believe, Father says to Mother and to us, but he doesn’t want to move, as he lacks the energy to do so. We also lack our sandbox now. When we heard that they wanted to take it from us, we howled with rage, though that didn’t help at all. The fence was simply removed and a street was built through our garden and our sandbox, so that the tenants of the new buildings could get to their flats. Now you see only the street; the sandbox has disappeared. Also lacking: 1 maple, 1 walnut, 1 rabbit hutch for our annual rabbit named Puschel, which, because there’s no longer a run, Father has not replaced. Also, now that we lack a horizon, we can no longer see the approach of a storm and we don’t know what kind of weather there’ll be the next day, or whether there’ll be any at all, Father tells us. Instead we’re showered by the furnace soot of thirty-eight families, so that our poor mother has to have everything washed twice, as she says. Many brick workers, all from the big city, now live above us, and for them everything here is too close. Father tells us there will also be many misunderstandings between us and them, as for example because of what one said to the other or didn’t say.
•
On the day that the hearse comes for Herr Veilchenfeld, Mother pulls down the blinds in the evening but doesn’t switch on the light. Instead we sit in the dark for a long time, and think again and again that we hear footsteps in front of the house. But we are mistaken, no doubt. Also, when it’s time for it, Mother forgets about supper altogether. Mother, my little sister calls, why, you’ve forgotten about supper! But Mother doesn’t answer her. She has sat down on the kitchen chair, but she isn’t knitting either. Instead she lets her arms hang down on the right and left sides of the chair, where with the coming of dusk they are more and more invisible. Perhaps she has dozed off, or something much worse.
Mama, my sister calls, the light, the light! Mama, she calls, where are you?
Oh, says Mother, where should I be? I’m here, of course. And, as if she’s on a school bench, she raises her hand to show my sister. And she means to get up too and go through the kitchen and finally turn the light on, but she keeps forgetting. Only when we can no longer make out her arms and her hands and her face in the darkness and Father comes back from his house calls and makes a great deal of noise in the hall with his artificial leg does Mother get up and switch on the light. Then the table is set too, but no one wants to eat anything.
Here, Mother says, and points to the food she’s placed on the table and pushes it towards all of us, but Father shakes his head and says: Not now, perhaps later. And he lets a really long time pass by and then takes a slice of bread and cuts it into two equal pieces, but then instead of spreading something on them, he lifts the knife in the air and exclaims, Listen to me, there’s more coming.
And what more’s coming? my sister asks, and looks at the door.
What must come, will come, Father says, since he doesn’t want to tell us what.
Then Mother lays the bread, which she took after Father did, back in the basket—she doesn’t even cut it—and says something, but something completely different. She says that in other times a philosopher of Herr Veilchenfeld’s status would have had a splendid funeral. Indeed he would have been entitled either to the simultaneous or subsequent sacrificial death of his connections and other members of his household, who naturally would not have wanted to survive him.
And why not? we ask.
Absolutely, she says.
But he didn’t have any connections.
That makes no difference, she says.
Is that what you wanted to say just now? we ask Father.
In any case, Father says, I have no appetite and I’m going to lie down now. I had such a hard day, you wouldn’t believe it. And he gets up and goes into his consulting room and he’s eaten nothing today and indeed won’t eat anything.
But you’ve eaten nothing at all, Mother calls after Father, everything is still there.
Quite so, says Father and shuts the door behind him and lies down. Once Father has lain down, it is immediately much quieter, although Father said nothing and didn’t shout.
Will Frau Abfalter die too now, since Herr Veilchenfeld is dead? my sister asks Mother.
No, says Mother, not her. And she puts the bread, the sausage, and the cheese back in the kitchen cupboard. Now we keep going back and forth beside her between the table and the cupboard, asking what Father really meant when he said there’s more coming, but Mother doesn’t tell us. Perhaps she doesn’t know herself. Perhaps she simply doesn’t want to tell us. And then when we’re put to bed and covered and I ask her whether she won’t at least tell us what she meant by subsequent death, she shakes her head. Oh, just that, somehow, she says.
•
On the afternoon of the festival, probably when Mother is already looking for us at the other end of town, Herr Veilchenfeld, with the black now somewhat decayed hat on his head, with his scarf wound around his neck—that is, as if prepared for a long trip which would take him far from our town—is in his garden, because here no one will see him when the parade with the music passes through Heidenstrasse. He also has his emergency bag with him, which he won’t part with any more. He also has his doctoral diploma (“summa cum laude”) in his jacket pocket, right over his heart. In addition: the substitute for a passport, fifty marks in small bills, his birth certificate, his confirmation document, his police clearance, on which it is indicated that previous convictions are inapplicable, a photograph of his wife when young in a high-necked white blouse, and ten sugar cubes for quick energy, Mother says. In case he is suddenly relocated, she says, when we ask about it. And now quickly into the tub, the water will get cold, she calls, and she lets the water run.
And when will he be relocated? I ask and undress as slowly as possible.
Soon now, Mother says.
And why will he be relocated?
Because of what he thinks.
And what does he think? asks my little sister, who doesn’t trust Herr Veilchenfeld.
But that, too, Mother can’t tell her. She can’t read his mind. He just thinks differently, she says.
And we, asks my sister, how do we think?
Like everyone.
Then we won’t be relocated too?
No, says Mother. And now into the tub.
And what’s in his emergency bag? I ask, when we’re lying together in the tub, so that we can be done all in one go.
Oh, how should I know that? I haven’t looked in it either, Mother says. Shirts and trousers and socks probably, just what one needs. And a couple of books, in order to pass the time. He’s used to it now.
•
Later Mother has an attack because, as if she had guessed, it is in fact not Frau Abfalter, who never would have thought of such a thing, but Dr Magirius, Herr Veilchenfeld’s former colleague and student, whose death follows his quite suddenly. To be sure, Dr Magirius was weak on his legs for a long time (Mother), but nevertheless was still sufficiently eating and excreting (Father). By lying down on the tracks of our provincial train on which he always came to us here, as Father said to Mother, when he came back from the investigation. And he is found—with his thighs torn away, having bled to death—by a railroad worker who was just checking the tracks. The engineer hadn’t noticed anything at all. Then naturally they called Father at once; we unfortunately slept through it. Father got into his automobile and drove to the place they described to him. He had a look at everything, and from his doctor’s bag took the forms that he always had ready, and filled them out while standing, and confirmed Herr Magirius’ death, noting nothing about him, although of course he had known Herr Magirius. Indeed it’s always like that with Father. Only seldom is anything noted: his voice, whether he’s sad or happy, is invariably even-tempered.
When he returns, he stands at the house door for a long time with his doctor’s bag, as if, after confirming the death of Herr Magirius, he didn’t want to come back to us at all, but instead now wanted to go away as well, though he seemed still undecided as to where. It’s only when he comes in after all and is sitting before us at the table and we ask him: Why Herr Magirius now too, Papa? that he loses his self-control and shouts at us that we shouldn’t ask so much.
And think, I ask. May I think about him?
Now that I can’t forbid, but I really would prefer that you didn’t think about him so much, says Father.
But if a person doesn’t think about somebody any more, surely he forgets him, I say.
In any case, I would prefer that you didn’t think about him so much, Father exclaims and hurries into his consulting room and shuts himself in again, perhaps in order to rest. In any case, if I think about him too, Father is now all by himself.
Then, instead of playing in the yard, I sat still on the sofa and, while this day’s clouds were passing over our last walnut tree, closed my eyes. And without my eyes I saw the clouds, as if they were passing inside me. And under these clouds, I first thought a little about Herr Magirius and then longer about Herr Veilchenfeld, whom I knew much better, and I wondered whether they would be put side by side in their coffins, since Herr Magirius was also without connections. And he was so closely trusted with the work of our philosopher that he could have devoured it, Father says. He then asks me if I wouldn’t feel like driving with him to Frohna to pick up eggs at Herr Verhören’s, but I don’t feel like it and I stay on the sofa and close my eyes again and prefer to imagine.
•
How Dr Magirius, standing in the shadow of a house wall, introduces us to Herr Veilchenfeld, who has not yet been with us very long.
And this is Professor Veilchenfeld of Leipzig University, of whom you have certainly heard, says Herr Magirius, as he introduces him to us.
Pleased to meet you, says Father to Herr Veilchenfeld.
Pleased to meet you, says Herr Veilchenfeld to Father.
And we bow too and look up at Herr Veilchenfeld, who, in addition to his black hat, wears an enormous fleece coat much too warm for this time of year. But under the fleece coat, as everyone knows who has seen Herr Veilchenfeld at some time in a jacket or a shirt, or has been startled by him out walking, he is thin and delicate, because everything about him—head, hat, feet, fingers—is tender and fragile. Yes, there is less and less of me, Herr Veilchenfeld often says and smiles and tugs at his coat. Soon I will surely disappear completely, he says and laughs, and we drive him through town in our ailing car to the stone quarry, and so to our house.
First Herr Veilchenfeld sits by Father, then, because he’s not enough weight on the front axle, he moves to us in the back. And he says he has not been among people for an eternity.
Do you know how long an eternity is? Herr Veilchenfeld asks me.
No, I say.
It is long, he says, very long. And he tells us how lately, instead of talking to him, people hurry by him silently, and in telling us, he becomes completely agitated. We can smell the agitation. And sometimes he says to Father Doctor and then again My dear sir, while Father sometimes says Professor and sometimes Dear professor. And because he hasn’t spoken with people for such a long time, he even makes mistakes in speaking, slips of the tongue all the time. Despite that, Herr Veilchenfeld is glad to be among people, and he’s glad to talk to them, too. Who knows whether I could still hold my own at all in human society, says Herr Veilchenfeld. Meanwhile, the heavier Dr Magirius, who lectured from the works of Herr Veilchenfeld years ago in the larger cities of Asia Minor, and as a result caught one of those illnesses that sneaks up from behind, now sits beside Father and weighs down the axle quite well.
Well then, let’s talk, says Herr Veilchenfeld time and again, and looks from one to the other.
But we are all silent.
Then we won’t talk? asks Herr Veilchenfeld.
And we continue to be silent.
Then because this evening there is nothing else on his mind—this has emerged little by little—during the drive Herr Veilchenfeld already tries to acquaint Father with the most important features of his philosophy: what kind of philosophy it is and what it isn’t and also what it never can be. Yes, he even describes the table where he wrote it. In doing so he has to bend far forward in the narrow car in order to be heard clearly. Now, Father is listening to him, of course, only he has difficulty with the strange words which Herr Veilchenfeld, in the rear seat, sticks into his sentences. For Father studied something very different from what Herr Veilchenfeld did, and even that was a long time ago. And Father has not had the chance to read a real book for so long! He is completely taken up by the office hours during the day and the perpetual night bell. And then Father has actually even extended his practice in recent years. Whereas before he only treated patients in our town, now he drives out as far as Mittweida and Russdorf and treats them there, too. On top of that, the pains in his leg, which he can’t soothe himself because the leg isn’t there any more, as it’s now wooden. A Frenchman sits in there and stabs me with a knife all the time, says Father. There. And he knocks on it. And now he has to pay attention to the road; there’s fog that he must drive the car through safely. Despite that, he nods his head continually, but no, he can’t really answer Herr Veilchenfeld. And Herr Magirius, to whom the philosophical expressions are naturally all familiar, and who could have easily turned around and answered, Herr Magirius is not himself this evening. His illness is back again. He had hardly sat down beside Father before he fell asleep, which is his illness. Again and again Herr Veilchenfeld has to pluck at his shoulder and repeat his question, and Herr Magirius always slumps, and time and again the answer fails to come. So that after many disappointments, Herr Veilchenfeld breaks off the explanation of his philosophy and turns to us and asks me what my favourite subject at school is and what meal . . .
Drawing and macaroni, I say.
Aha, Herr Veilchenfeld says, and pulls a sugar cube out of his pocket for my sister and me. But we may not bite it because that’s bad for our teeth. We must let it melt in our mouths and suck the sugar water, so that it can be absorbed slowly into our blood. Herr Veilchenfeld also strokes the back of my head, which he says is artistic. And so on through our twilit little town, hidden in fog, until our house, which stands somewhat beyond, on the other side of the stone quarry, so that Herr Veilchenfeld, Father says, can get out without being afraid and stretch and move around outside the car a little, because here no one sees him. So while Father rouses Herr Magirius, we take Herr Veilchenfeld between us and lead him to our house. Mother comes to meet us at the entrance. Herr Veilchenfeld kisses her hand and straight away thanks her for the invitation.
You have invited me, he exclaims again and again.
But of course, Mother says.
Well, says Herr Veilchenfeld, well. And because he has said nothing for so long, he can’t find the words that he wants to say. They are here, Herr Veilchenfeld says and indicates his tongue, but it will take a while until I . . .
Come in, Mother says, after she has waited long enough and the words have not come.
At all events I shall never forget this invitation, even if I should live to be one hundred years old, which, however, I hold to be improbable, Herr Veilchenfeld says.
Then because he is still shy with us, we take him between us again and lead him into the big room on the ground floor, where Grandfather died after a long difficult illness, and Mother has already heated the room and opened and set the table. She’s even put a vase with some flowers on it. Herr Veilchenfeld, as our most important guest, has to sit at the head of the table, where he exclaims again and again how long it’s been since he has been among people. But what do you want, he says, that’s the way it is in our time. It isn’t true that history can teach nothing; it is merely that there are no students. Mother has not made any special fuss with the meal, but instead cooked quite a usual supper in her cold and high-ceilinged kitchen. She brings the soup to the table in a pot, in order to serve it around from above our heads. The bread is placed in a basket; everyone takes what he wants to eat. Finally she serves a stew in the big Jena glass bowl. She doesn’t tell us what it’s called, but there seem to be noodles in it. Herr Veilchenfeld praises her meal from the first spoonful of soup. And, after he has begged Mother for permission, he breaks bread into it in little pieces. Again and again he gazes around the room; it is strange to him, and its corners are still completely unexamined by him. He seems to be entirely carried away by his feelings, there in his black dress suit which he hasn’t worn for a long time because he doesn’t dine out any more. The entire time he wants to inform us of something, since in recent years he has indeed written some for later, but owing to a lack of social environment, he hasn’t been speaking any more. He wants to, as he says, take us into his confidence, but the necessary words don’t come to him, or he gets befuddled (he says: febuddled). Upset, bent over his plate, spoon in hand, he sits there and keeps opening his mouth, but nothing comes out. Meanwhile the good stew that Mother has cooked steams in his face, so that drops of sweat run down his cheeks, which he has to wipe away with the back of his hand so that they don’t fall into the plate. Till I notice all of a sudden that they’re not drops of sweat at all, but tears. Herr Veilchenfeld is actually sitting there and crying into his soup!
