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Authors: Thomas Bernhard

Tags: #Literary, #General, #Music Critics, #Fiction

Concrete (9 page)

BOOK: Concrete
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until I’ve finished, perhaps even perfected, this work of mine.
Leaving Peiskam is what I hate most. I walk from one room to another, I go downstairs and back upstairs, I cross the yard, I rattle the different doors and gates, I check the bolts on the windows and everything else that has to be checked when one goes away, and when I’ve checked the windows I no longer know whether the locks on the doors are in order, and when I’ve checked these I no longer know whether the windows are locked. Such an abrupt departure from Peiskam — and for many years all my departures have been abrupt — drives me to distraction and I am glad no one can see me, I’m glad there are no witnesses to my outward and inward disarray. How ideal it would be if I could sit at my desk now and begin my work! I thought, how ideal just to sit down and write the first sentence which would free the way for all the rest, to be able to concentrate on this study of Mendelssohn Bartholdy, press on with it and complete it!
How ideal, how ideal, how ideal!
But the desk has been cleared, and by clearing it I’ve forfeited any chance of beginning work immediately. By making these abrupt travel arrangements and bookings and so on I’ve possibly forfeited everything, possibly not just my work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy, but literally everything, perhaps my very last chance of survival! I held on to the door-post of my study in order to calm myself. I tried to check my pulse, but I couldn’t feel any. I felt as though I’d momentarily lost my hearing, and I pressed my head and my body so hard against the door-post that I could have cried out with pain. In the end, I told myself, though my head was far from clear, when I think I’ve checked everything, especially the plumbing and the electric wiring, I shall drop into my armchair, only to jump up again because I’ve forgotten to turn down the hot water system, which is something I can’t expect Frau Kienesberger to do. And then I shall go and clear out the big dirty linen basket, throwing out all the dirty washing, great heaps of it which have accumulated over many weeks, as may be imagined in view of my condition, which causes me to sweat profusely several times a day. All this washing, moreover, smells foul because of the large quantities of diuretics I have to take in order to lose water and so relieve the strain on my heart. I felt sick as I got all these pieces of dirty linen out of the basket and threw them on the washroom table, even though they were all mine - or perhaps because they were mine. I began to count them all, without realising that this was a sign of madness, and of course it was completely mad, but by the time I realised how mad it was I had become utterly exhausted, and it was as much as I could do to get back upstairs and sit down again in my armchair. It is our misfortune that we always decide in favour of something that turns out to be
contrary
to our wishes, and when I thought about it more closely, sitting in my armchair, I realised that my sudden decision to quit Peiskam and fly to Palma, where admittedly I had the Cañellas with their palace on the Borne, was all of a sudden directed entirely against myself. I couldn’t understand why I’d made it, but now, in view of all the circumstances it had conjured up, I saw that it simply couldn’t be reversed. I had to go away and at least try to start work in Palma. At least try, I kept on repeating to myself, at least try, at least try! Why did I have the armchair covered with french velvet only a few weeks ago if I’m not going to sit in it and enjoy it? I asked myself. What good will the new desk-lamp or the new blinds be to me now if I go away, possibly to some new hell? I tried to calm myself while making sure that I had packed everything that was necessary, or at any rate everything that was absolutely necessary, in my suitcases and my grandfather’s little travelling bag, which I always take with me when I go away. At the same time, however, I wondered how I could possibly think of calming myself in my present state; it was absurd for me to have such an idea as I sat slumped in the armchair, actually feeling that I should be incapable of getting up again. And somebody like you, somebody who’s already half dead, is about to fly to Palma, I repeated to myself several times, again half aloud, as has become a habit with me, a habit that can no longer be cured, as old people do who have been alone for years and are only waiting to be able to die. I was just such an old person already as I sat there in the armchair, an old man who was already more dead than alive. I must have made a pitiful, indeed pitiable impression on an observer, though there was none — unless I’m going to say that I am an observer of myself, which is stupid, since I am my own observer anyway: I’ve actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists only of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery. For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself. But all the time I ask myself what I have to save myself from. Is what I constantly wish to save myself from really as bad as all that? No, it isn’t, I told myself, and immediately resumed my self-observation, self-calumniation and self-mockery. All I want to do is to prolong my present state, which leads directly out of the world, I thought, though I dared not actually say it to myself. I’m playing with this state, and I’ll go on playing with it as long as I please. As long as I please, I now said to myself, and I listened, but couldn’t hear anything. The neighbours, I thought, have for years looked upon me as a madman. This role — for that’s what it is in the whole of this more or less unbearable farce — suits me down to the ground. As long as I please, I said to myself again, and this time I suddenly enjoyed hearing myself speak, which was something new, for I’d hated my own voice for years. How can I even for a moment think of calming myself, I thought, when I am so full of agitation? And I tried playing a record. My house has the best acoustics imaginable, and I filled it with the sound of the Haffner Symphony. I sat down and closed my eyes. What would the world be like without music, without Mozart! I said to myself. It’s always music that saves me. I actually calmed myself by repeatedly solving the mathematical puzzle of the Haffner Symphony with my eyes closed, an activity which always affords me the greatest possible pleasure. Mozart is supremely important for my work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy, I reflect, Mozart gives me the key to everything; I must start from Mozart. Have I given Frau Kienesberger the money I owe her? Yes. Have I packed all my medicaments? Yes. Have I packed all the necessary books and articles? Yes. Have I inspected the huntsman’s lodge? Yes. Have I told my sister she needn’t pay for the papering of her room at Peiskam as I originally demanded? Yes. Have I told the gardener how I want the trees pruned in January? Yes. Have I told the specialist that at night I now get pains on the right-hand side of my chest, not just on the left? Yes. Have I told Frau Kienesberger not to open the blinds on the east side? Yes. Have I told her to put the heating on during my absence, but not to
overheat
everything? Yes. Have I removed the key to the huntsman’s lodge? Yes. Have I paid the bill for the papering? Yes. I asked myself questions and gave myself answers. But the time wouldn’t pass. I got up and went down into the hall and checked my suitcases. I wanted to be sure they were locked firmly enough, and so I inspected the locks. Why am I doing all this to myself? I wondered. I went and sat in the east room on the ground floor and looked at the picture of my uncle, who had once been Ambassador in Moscow, as was evident from the picture. It was painted by Lampi and is of more artistic value than I originally assumed. I love this picture; my uncle reminds me of myself. But he lived longer than I shall, I thought. I was already wearing my travelling shoes. Everything I had on was too much for me, too tight and too heavy. And then there’ll be the fur coat, I thought. Wouldn’t it be better to get down to reading Voltaire as I intended, and my beloved Diderot, rather than go away suddenly, leaving behind everything that is so dear to me? I’m not at all the kind of unfeeling person that some people take me to be because they want to see me like that and because that’s how I very often make myself appear, not daring to show myself as I really am. But what am I really like? Once more I was caught up in speculations about myself. I don’t know why, but suddenly I recalled that twenty-five years ago, when I was just over twenty, I’d been a member of the Socialist Party. What a joke! I wasn’t a member for long. As with everything else, I resigned my membership after a few months. And to think that I once wanted to become a monk! That I once thought of becoming a Catholic priest! And that I once donated eight hundred thousand schillings for the starving in Africa! To think that that’s all true! At the time it all seemed logical and natural enough. But now I’ve completely changed. To think that I once believed I would marry! And have children! I even thought at one time of going into the army, of becoming a general or a field-marshal like one of my ancestors! Absurd. There’s nothing I wouldn’t once have given everything for, I told myself. But all these speculations added up, if not to nothing, then to ludicrously little. Poverty, wealth, the church, the army, parties, welfare institutions — all ludicrous. All I have left in the end is my present pathetic existence, which no longer has very much to offer. But that’s how it should be. No doctrine holds water any longer; everything that is said and preached is destined to become ludicrous. It doesn’t even call for my scorn any longer. It doesn’t call for anything, anything at all. When we really know the world, we see that it is just a world full of errors. But we are reluctant to part from it, because in spite of everything we’ve remained fairly naive and childlike, I thought. What a good thing that I had my eye-pressure measured. Thirty-eight! We mustn’t pretend to ourselves. We may keel over at any moment. I have more and more dreams in which people fly, in and out of the window* beautiful people, plants I’ve never seen before, with gigantic leaves as big as umbrellas. We take all the necessary precautions, but not for living, for dying. It was a sudden decision on my part to give my nephew nine hundred thousand schillings, a fact which I must now admit, so that he could set up a practice appropriate to today’s conditions, as he put it. What is appropriate to today’s conditions? On the one hand it was stupid to give him what is after all quite a large sum for nothing, but on the other, what are we to do with our money? When my sister gets to hear that I’ve sold the property in Ruhsam I shan’t be around any longer. This thought reassures me. I’ve packed my Voltaire, I thought, and my Dostoyevsky — a wise decision. At one time I got on well with simple people, those whom I have for a long time called the so-called simple people. I used to visit them every day, but my illness has changed all that: I no longer visit them, I avoid them wherever possible, I hide from them. Going away makes one sad, I said in passing. The so-called simple people, the woodcutters for instance, had my trust, and I had theirs. I used to spend half the night with the woodcutters. For decades they were the only people for whom I could feel any sympathy! They never see me now. And in fact, having been spoilt for anything simple, we only impose on such people and take up their time when we are with them; we do them no good, only harm. If I were to see them now I’d only try to destroy their faith in everything they hold dear, the Socialist Party or the Catholic Church for instance, both of which are now, as ever, unscrupulous organisations for the exploitation of humanity. But it is a basic error to say that only the weak-minded are exploited: everybody is exploited. On the other hand this is reassuring. This is how things balance out; perhaps it is the only way things can continue. If only I didn’t have to read the sickening newspapers that are published here, which are not newspapers at all, but simply dirt-sheets edited by greedy upstarts! If only I didn’t have to see what surrounds me here, I said. One delusion succeeded the other, I now realise, as I sat in my armchair waiting to leave. I’m leaving a country that is totally ruined, a repulsive state that fills one with horror every morning. At first it was exploited and then discarded by the so-called conservatives; now it’s the turn of the so-called socialists. An obstinate old idiot who, having become chancellor, is now quite unpredictable, a megalomaniac and a public menace. If someone says the days are numbered he makes himself look ridiculous. Why have I stopped writing to people, why have I given up my correspondence? At one time I used to write letters regularly, even if I didn’t particularly enjoy writing. Quite unconsciously we give up everything, and then it’s gone. Was it my steadily worsening condition that kept my sister in Peiskam for so long and not, as I thought, a sudden onset of boredom with Vienna? If I were to ask her she’d reply with one of her charming lies. Pred-ni-so-lone. I said the word a few times quite slowly to myself, just as I’ve written it down here. Doctors don’t get much below the surface. They always neglect everything, and that’s what they constantly reproach their patients with — negligence. Doctors have no conscience: they simply answer the medical call of nature. But we repeatedly run to them because we can’t believe that this is so. If I carry these suitcases for even the shortest distance it may finish me off, I told myself. We call out the word
porter
as we used to, but there no longer are any porters. Porters have become extinct. Everybody has to hump their things as best they can. The world has become colder by a few degrees — I don’t wish to calculate by how many — and people are that bit crueller and more inconsiderate. But this is a perfectly normal course of events which we were bound to reckon with and which we could predict, because we’re not stupid. But the sick don’t like allying themselves with the sick, or the old with the old. They run away from one another. To their destruction. Everyone wants to be alive, nobody wants to be dead. Everything else is a lie. In the end they sit in an armchair or in some wing-chair and dream dreams of the past which bear not the slightest relation to reality. There ought to be only happy people — all the necessary conditions are present - but there are only unhappy people. We understand this only late in life. While we are young and without pain we not only believe in eternal life, but have it. Then comes the break, then the breakdown, then the lamentation over it, and the end. It’s always the same. At one time I enjoyed cheating the inland revenue; now I don’t even want to do that, I told myself. Everybody is welcome to see my hand. This is how I feel at the moment. At

BOOK: Concrete
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