Panorama, p.29
Panorama, page 29
The poem is not met with overwhelming applause, some seeming tired, it having lasted too long for everyone, some suppressing a tired yawn, though most indeed say that it pleased them, as Yolanda asks with great interest, “Spiridion, will the poem be in your next book?” To which he replies, “Of course. I don’t write poems that aren’t publishable.” Yolanda adds, “That’s good, Spiridion. Your poem is quite lovely. But one needs to read it a few times in order to understand it all.” Haschke disagrees, saying, “Oh, it’s clear as day! It’s heavenly! If only I could do the same! You have created poetry like a fire-breathing Prometheus!” Herr von Flaschenberg corrects him, “Fire-stealing Prometheus.” He in fact wants to explain further to Haschke, but Ringel wants to weigh in with his thoughts, and says, “The poem certainly has an elaborate structure. Perhaps it’s a bit overdone, if you allow me. But in truth it’s very modern.” Spiridion explains, “I thought about the content a great deal. I wanted to express the flow of the electricity and to make the roar of the streetcar palpable. I thought of Verlaine’s violin poem, in which everything is built around the sound of ‘O.’ But Verlaine, and also Wildgans in his cello poem, made it easy on themselves, for they wanted only to elicit the sound of music. They succeeded, but it’s too naturalistic and not really symbolic. One needs to show with such a theme that everything is spiritual.” Thomas then raises a few objections, saying that for him the repeated images are somewhat strained, and that in his opinion the poem doesn’t manage to capture actual reality, at which point the poet interrupts to say, “Thomas, my young friend, you just try to write such a poem yourself! You couldn’t do so if you had a year, and I wrote it in a single evening! That’s not easy. But for critics it is. Look around at poetry today and tell me where you know of a poem like it. Walt Whitman would have applauded me, but he is most likely the only poet who would be able to grasp my boldness.” Spiridion turns from Thomas in a huff and says to Josef, “If you’re his friend, tell him how hard it is. I hope you understand me better than he does.” Then Herr von Flaschenberg turns to Johannes, saying, “So what do you think? Don’t you want to say how much it pleased you?” Johannes replies, “I think poems should express inner simplicity. Quiet as a snowflake and deep as a raindrop.” At this, Spiridion wants to hear no more.
Frieda and Greta have cleared away the plates and want to clean up in the kitchen, Yolanda hurrying after them, the collective meeting in the tower room beginning to break up and spread out into the apartment. Josef doesn’t want to talk with anyone else, though he walks through the rooms and listens in here and there, noticing people whom he hasn’t seen before, they having arrived inconspicuously much later than the rest, Johannes now sitting with two of them by his side, older men who quietly yet keenly speak with him, as Thomas thumbs through the writings of Meister Eckhart, Haschke reads Flaschenberg’s poem again and appears to be explaining it to him, Schorschl chatting with his father, the words “bag,” “hat,” and “cake” able to be heard. Then Josef overhears a conversation in the chamber where he had sat listening to Johannes striking the gong. Master Ringel is with Herr Herold, who says that he would love to buy a painting, he needs something for a wedding gift for his niece in Pardubitz, and that he’ll pay the full price, as well as buy Ringel a pair of shoes of his own choosing. “But you know, it must be a beautiful painting, as beautiful as any of yours, though not just beautiful but also sensible, for my niece is quite normal. She knows nothing about the true path or about concentration. But she has good taste, and was herself a good draftsman in school, though her taste is somewhat out of date, more naturalistic and not at all mystical. The painting will hang over the credenza in the dining room.” Ringel appears to be pleased by the proposition, but he says that he hardly has such a painting, he makes only paintings that are epiphanies, so he wants to know just what Herold would like to see in such a painting. A still life is the answer he gets, nothing mystical, but still well done. Master Ringel appears to have nothing that will fit the bill and wants to know whether it could be a bunch of flowers, which in fact also have a mystical quality, even though they look like real flowers that are recognizable, such as crocuses, lilies, and roses. Then Herold asks if they are indeed flowers that anyone in Pardubitz would recognize, Ringel assuring him that the painting contains a whole bouquet, a really lovely painting that he did especially in oils, its title being Flowers of Hope, which would make for an excellent wedding gift. Herold agrees and says he would like to see the painting, and so they set up a time for him to visit.
At this same moment Herr von Flaschenberg steps up to Josef and tells him, “It’s not very nice of your friend to say bad things about my poem. He’s done that to me a couple of times. He used to just praise me and visit me almost every Sunday, where he wanted to hear my poetry. And now he’s different. That’s hard to take, my young friend. I hope you’ll soon visit me, for then I will explain all the symbols to you. But what do you think of my poem?” Josef doesn’t want to give any verdict. “But that’s not right, my young friend! Your name is Josef, which is a lovely name. I have already said that I don’t want to just rattle on to you, but if you come visit I’ll read you my poem ‘Josef Enslaved.’ You can also find it in my book Biblical Legends. Have you already read some of my poems?” Josef is forced to say that he hasn’t. “That’s too bad. Everyone here knows my poems. But you can buy a copy and have a painting by Master Ringel on the cover as a bonus. We brought out a fine edition—a few poems, a few illustrations, and the book design by him. You should get a copy. When I was your age I knew all the poetry that was contemporary to my time, such as the German poets Dehmel, Bierbaum, and Caesar Flaischlen, as well as our own Hugo Salus. I also translated a great deal. Have you ever translated a poem?” Once more Josef has to say no. “It’s hard to do, if you’ve never tried it. Your friend Thomas has also not translated anything, and yet he’s happy to criticize. Only a creative person has the right to criticize, for only he knows how hard it is.”
The women are done cleaning up, and people begin to get ready to leave as Yolanda announces, “We have to head home. Johannes, thank you! And Frieda as well! It was so wonderful what you read today, and then the music! Also Spiridion’s poem! Everything was just lovely!” Johannes asks, “Wouldn’t you all like to stay a little longer?” But everyone is ready to leave, it’s already late, and they don’t want to miss the last electrical. Then Johannes says, “Well, then, if you feel you have to go I won’t stop you. I thank you for coming, and you, Yolanda, I especially thank you for the cake.” The guests reach for their coats, which are all mixed together because of Schorschl having searched for his mother’s bag, after which people start to say goodbye, the women always having something to talk about and whisper to one another, Yolanda advising Frieda what she should cook for Johannes, all of it coming to a pleasant end as Frieda insists that they not clog up the hall in front of the apartment, at which handshakes quickly go round, as well as thank-yous and goodbyes, the group already heading down the stairs.
Haschke says, “Oh, it was wonderful today! Everything was heavenly! And now I have to head home. You know, Ringel, if I didn’t have your painting there, or Spiridion’s poetry, my notes about our evenings and my inner memories, as well as a couple of books on mysticism, then nothing would please me anymore, for there’s no one at home who understands me.” He adds, “Yes, I’m on the true path. But that’s a lot easier to say in the tower room than at home.” Meanwhile, below a couple of high-pitched tones that have slipped out from the bar can be heard, the group encountering the damp night air on the street, as everyone quickly says goodbye, Herr von Flaschenberg reminding Josef again, “Well then, goodbye, and I’ll see you on Sunday!” Already they all scatter in several different directions, Thomas having also left Josef, who wants to walk rather than take the streetcar, Herr Herold walking with him for part of the way and telling him about the price of shoes, which can ruin the prospects of any good salesman, but Josef interrupts to ask, “How long have you been interested in the questions that are so important for Johannes?” Herr Herold answers, “I’m only an outsider. As a salesman, I’m interested in other things. But Tvrdil is quite a guy. My older brother, who made gingerbread in Pardubitz, was a student of Tvrdil’s. He adored him. But my brother is long dead. It was in Italy during the war, back in 1918, when he didn’t come back from the collapse at Piave. That’s why I visit Tvrdil. The doctor recommended it as a diversion. My heart is still broken, so I have to take care. But now I have to go, for I’m already almost home. Good night!”
Now Josef is alone and happy that he can pilgrimage through the somewhat foggy streets. He feels numb from these people and their snooty talk, and does not know if he did the right thing in following Thomas’s suggestion, since he hardly heard anything among the group that seemed worthwhile, he in fact being surprised that Johannes can stand that loony Haschke, nor do hardly any of them have a good idea of what they mean by “inward” or “outward,” they are all caught up in sentimental feelings and wallow in overblown talk. God, this Haschke, who presents himself as such a pitiful man, lying in bed and staring at Master Ringel’s painting, this Awakening of the Soul done in, as it were, dabbed-on pastels, an outrageous travesty of symbolic art. It pains Josef to think this way, for perhaps they are better people than himself who, he has to admit, strive very hard. None of Johannes’s guests whom he met today are free and have courage, nor even the desire for real freedom, but instead they are like spoiled children who play with their own chains, and because those sit lightly they end up fooling themselves into thinking they are flower chains worn upon the true path that the fools think they walk along. And how odd that Johannes puts up with these hangers-on and doesn’t try to set himself apart from them as he reads forth from great books that he can hardly expect are understood, supplying his opaque smile and his brief talk, then striking his gong, which radiates out past the borders of all existence, after which he allows Haschke to say that he’d like to dance to such music, followed by the vain conversation about Ringel’s paintings, and then Spiridion reciting his poem—surely it must be this way every week. Josef will think twice about looking up this cosmic poet, even if Thomas said a lot about him earlier and his marvelous collection of precious stones and crystals, rare plants, old coins, woodcuts and etchings, though Josef doubts the sense of such a collection if it’s not founded on a higher principle. Somehow the group in the tower room reminds him of a political rally, not at all like the one in the small town—there they drank bad-smelling beer, here there was tea with raspberry juice, there they listened to demagoguery, here there was mysticism—yet there was something similar about it all, and it takes a lot of courage to give yourself over to other people, for though human beings had accomplished the greatest works, where could you find them today, they are either all long dead or unattainable, everything is a miserable ruin, against which there is no cure, the escape into the internal being the only salvation, which Johannes had indeed made palpable, but only he, though he did so easily and in a genuine manner, for he simply let it happen, his calling of no concern to him, as he lets Frieda take care of him without worrying about it, nothing but adoration surrounding him.
Johannes may be important, but Josef is unimportant, though he has no problem making such a confession. He wants, in fact, to be honest with himself and to test his every assumption as best he can in order not to err out of vanity. He has graduated from high school and has passed his exit exam, but what does that mean? It was all child’s play, there being a slew of questions that were of no surprise at all, superficial questions that were answered with information he’d learned by rote. Josef doesn’t see this as an end point or a turning point, for no kind of liberation is granted through it or even offered. The world offers nothing but a puzzle that one can hardly solve, such that you are soon swamped, as Thomas believes, unsolved and unsolvable questions hanging before you like veils, and hardly do you pull away and think that you’re making progress than you discover again the unchangeable, the sculpture at Saïs nothing more than an empty frame. You can pull back the veil without any trouble, but there is nothing there at all, only what is behind it and what changes the view is fleeting and does not exist, it being only a revelation that says nothing is revealed, only the empty image of an endless expanse, and that which appears within the empty frame is finally nothing but impenetrable fog.
Josef turns inward, feeling an emerging pressure as he is gripped by an immense current, which is perhaps life, a transformation of his inner music that powerfully builds, a music with neither a major nor a minor chord, a fugue of graduated sounds, the sound of a gong expanding, a curtain gliding open as in the theater or in a viewing cabinet, as he hears “Come closer.” Then you stand alone, facing the court, thunderous voices crashing down upon you, declaring that you’ve missed your chance, for you have done nothing but simply live one day after another, and the days remained empty, nothing but riding on the streetcar, but the journey led only from chaos into chaos, the great parables all of a sudden meaning nothing, though one still remains a creation that doesn’t understand his creator, which is what Meister Eckhart said, and then colors appear, spiritual colors, but hardly any images, it having nothing to do with any art, it is an endless realm of light, an awakening of the soul that stands forever in the middle of thunderstorms, full of frightful thunder, and if one is not frightened the result is arrogance, a ridiculous pretension in the face of the laws under which one lives, there being lightning strikes that cannot be harnessed, and currents that cannot be channeled, since they flout the determination of the will, though, of course, will is everything, it being left up to us to want things to remain as we want them to, that being perhaps a kind of inwardness, though a feeble inwardness that without a living faith crumbles to nothing.
Josef quietly opens the front door and slips into his room, sitting down at his desk and taking his journal out of the drawer as if he wants to read something in it, though he doesn’t read, the characters seeming meaningless, his thoughts are still there, wandering clumsily through his head, continuing for a while, yet when he wants to grab hold of them and put them into words in order to hold sway over them, they once again slip away, he not knowing how to grant them credence, as he thinks about Meister Eckhart’s sentences. Josef wants to disappear, to retreat into his inmost self, as he thinks about spiritual rebirth, which is a resurrection from one’s own ruins, a death within a living body, which is a mystical death, after which one is reborn and sees oneself anew, a small child, holding his mother’s hand while wandering through the world, which is completely changed and new, since everything is heard and seen again for the first time, as his companion explains everything, a spiritual medicine extended to you, a miracle in a cup, and a voice tells you to drink it and you will be healthy. Without a good doctor, many die, but whoever finds a good doctor will be restored to eternal life, and behind the gate sounds a scintillating song.
Josef gathers himself together and writes in his journal, “Today I finally went with Thomas to visit Johannes and his circle in the tower room.” That is in fact everything that Josef writes, as he feels there is nothing to write, it all being fantastical and unreal, Josef not knowing what to write if the next morning perhaps nothing more of it were to exist, it having passed and been nothing more than a mistake. Thus it is only a vain game of fragile words, there perhaps being others who would zealously hold on to them while on the true path in order to bring fulfillment to their lives, but Josef feels nothing of that, he wanting just to sleep and wake up and sleep again, and for it to last forever, an endless exchange of images, such that as soon as one image freezes for a moment it is ripped away, though another one replaces it, the previous image now unretrievable and unable to be extracted from memory to see the light of day, memory’s riches remaining dubious, even when one memorializes them in a journal, for soon they seem strange, strange and unattainable. Who could possibly one day discover such a journal and wrest it from what is forgotten? Thus Josef’s memory will die with him, no one recalling it, both the true and the false teachings meaningless, for Josef is meaningless, Herr Koppelter is meaningless, Thomas as well, even Johannes is meaningless, soon it will not be memory but rather just the sound of the gong reverberating among the shadows, spreading throughout the world from the tower room like wafts of smoke, as Johannes opens the window during the night and plays much louder until it is no longer just chamber music but now a blaring temple music, though this music has the quality of being heard by only a few, even though its incredible sound vibrates over all, spreading out in unearthly, trembling waves and pressing to the furthest reaches of space, and now tumbling into and setting the room aglow as an almost unbearably strong voice calls, “And so one must penetrate to the truth, to the one and only, which is God himself.” Thus one should forsake duality, it splits everything that is not a single entity, as the sound waves press the skin, already reverberating through the body and at last reaching the heart’s loneliness until it responds to the All. Johannes is now nothing more than a memory, he is already forgotten, the drumstick having fallen soundlessly to the floor, the gong swaying quietly back and forth, as if it were a beating heart that does not beat in any recognizable manner, the heart beating like a gong, and then there is peace, the empty night, oneness, sleep, and deep endless sleep.
THE TUTOR
MAY I CALL YOU BY YOUR FIRST NAME? YOU ARE A YOUNG MAN, HERR Josef, and it’s always been our custom to call all tutors by their first name. This results in a much friendlier atmosphere, and the boys will trust you a great deal more without any lessening of their respect, but rather the opposite, for you should know that I am for modern ways, naturally in pedagogy as well. If you only knew, Herr Josef, I mean, Josef, how I was raised in my time, unhygienic clothing, children not allowed to say a peep at the table, everything so impractical, though it was a strong generation. I always say, all that is long gone. Also the struggle of life was different, Josef, not easier, but life itself was easier. My husband works very hard, you understand, for he has plenty to worry about as director of the Stock Exchange. Indeed, you should simply call me Frau Director, rather than Madame, I never let myself be called Madame by the servants, I find Frau Director to be much simpler, it making clear to all the world that I always stand by my husband. So you see, Josef, in regard to modern pedagogy I always say I am for the new principles. I think free schools almost ideal, but I would never do the same with my boys, for then parental rule would be grossly undermined. Children should live with the family so that they benefit from the positive influence of their parents, but the children should maintain their own sense of free will and not be watched over all the time, though they can’t be allowed to do just anything. My husband won’t stand for that, I always say, for given how much he has to worry about the market, the boys naturally have to keep quiet. He is a wonderful man, and you’ll certainly have a chance to get to know him.”
