Read Online The Black Obelisk by Erich Maria Remarque - Free Book Online
Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
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ones who profit are the exchange kings, the profiteers, the foreigners who buy what they like with a few dollars, kronen, or zlotys, and the big entrepreneurs, the manufacturers, and the speculators on the exchange whose property and stocks increase without limit. For them practically everything is free. It is the great sellout of thrift, honest effort, and respectability. The vultures flock from all sides, and the only ones who come out on top are those who accumulate debts. The debts disappear of themselves.
It was Riesenfeld who at the last instant instructed us in these matters and turned us into small-time participants in the great sellout. He accepted our first ninety-day note, although at the time we were by no means good for the sum on the face of it. But the Odenwald Granite Works was, and that was enough.
Naturally we were grateful. We tried to entertain him like an Indian rajah when he came to Werdenbrück—that is, insofar as an Indian rajah could be entertained in Werdenbrück. Kurt Bach, our sculptor, made a colorful portrait of Riesenfeld which we solemnly presented to him. Unfortunately, he did not like it. It makes him look like a country preacher, which is exactly what he does not want. He wants to look like a dark seducer and he assumes that that is the effect he makes—a remarkable example of self-deception, considering his pointed belly, and short, bandy legs. But who does not live by self-deception? I, with my innocuous, average talents, do I not cherish, especially at night, the dream of becoming a better man with ability enough to find a publisher. In these circumstances who is to throw the first stone at Riesenfeld's parenthetical legs, especially when they, at a time like this, are clad in genuine English tweeds?
"What in the world are we going to do with him, Georg?" I ask. "This time we haven't a single attraction! Riesenfeld won't be satisfied with just getting drunk. He has too much imagination and too restless a character for that. He wants something he can see and hear, or, better yet, grab hold of. Our choice of women is hopeless. The few pretty ones we know haven't the slightest desire to spend a whole evening listening to Riesenfeld in his role of Don Juan of 1923. Unfortunately, helpfulness and understanding are only to be found among the older and homely dames."
Georg grins. "I don't even know whether our cash will last out the night. When I got the stuff I made a mistake about the dollar rate; I thought it was still the same as at ten o'clock. When the twelve o'clock quotation was announced, it was too late."
"On the other hand there's been no change today."
"There has at the Red Mill, my boy. On Sundays they're two days ahead of the dollar rate there. God knows what a bottle of wine will cost tonight!"
"God doesn't know either," I say. "The proprietor himself doesn't know. He only decides on the price when the electric light goes on. Why doesn't Riesenfeld have a passion for the arts? That would be a lot cheaper. Admission to the museum still costs only two hundred and fifty marks. For that we could show him pictures and plaster heads for hours. Or music. There's an organ concert at St. Catherine's today—"
Georg chokes with laughter. "Well, all right," I admit, "it's absurd to picture Riesenfeld in such a setting; but why doesn't he at least love operettas and light music? We could take him to the theater, and it would still be much less than that damn night club!"
"Here he comes," Georg says. "Ask him."
We open the door. Through the early spring evening Riesenfeld comes sailing up the steps. We see at once that the enchantment of spring twilight has had no effect on him. We greet him with false camaraderie. Riesenfeld notices it, squints at us, and drops into a chair. "Quit the play acting," he growls in my direction.
"That's just what I was going to do," I reply. "It's not easy for me. What you call play acting is known elsewhere as good manners."
Riesenfeld grins
It was Riesenfeld who at the last instant instructed us in these matters and turned us into small-time participants in the great sellout. He accepted our first ninety-day note, although at the time we were by no means good for the sum on the face of it. But the Odenwald Granite Works was, and that was enough.
Naturally we were grateful. We tried to entertain him like an Indian rajah when he came to Werdenbrück—that is, insofar as an Indian rajah could be entertained in Werdenbrück. Kurt Bach, our sculptor, made a colorful portrait of Riesenfeld which we solemnly presented to him. Unfortunately, he did not like it. It makes him look like a country preacher, which is exactly what he does not want. He wants to look like a dark seducer and he assumes that that is the effect he makes—a remarkable example of self-deception, considering his pointed belly, and short, bandy legs. But who does not live by self-deception? I, with my innocuous, average talents, do I not cherish, especially at night, the dream of becoming a better man with ability enough to find a publisher. In these circumstances who is to throw the first stone at Riesenfeld's parenthetical legs, especially when they, at a time like this, are clad in genuine English tweeds?
"What in the world are we going to do with him, Georg?" I ask. "This time we haven't a single attraction! Riesenfeld won't be satisfied with just getting drunk. He has too much imagination and too restless a character for that. He wants something he can see and hear, or, better yet, grab hold of. Our choice of women is hopeless. The few pretty ones we know haven't the slightest desire to spend a whole evening listening to Riesenfeld in his role of Don Juan of 1923. Unfortunately, helpfulness and understanding are only to be found among the older and homely dames."
Georg grins. "I don't even know whether our cash will last out the night. When I got the stuff I made a mistake about the dollar rate; I thought it was still the same as at ten o'clock. When the twelve o'clock quotation was announced, it was too late."
"On the other hand there's been no change today."
"There has at the Red Mill, my boy. On Sundays they're two days ahead of the dollar rate there. God knows what a bottle of wine will cost tonight!"
"God doesn't know either," I say. "The proprietor himself doesn't know. He only decides on the price when the electric light goes on. Why doesn't Riesenfeld have a passion for the arts? That would be a lot cheaper. Admission to the museum still costs only two hundred and fifty marks. For that we could show him pictures and plaster heads for hours. Or music. There's an organ concert at St. Catherine's today—"
Georg chokes with laughter. "Well, all right," I admit, "it's absurd to picture Riesenfeld in such a setting; but why doesn't he at least love operettas and light music? We could take him to the theater, and it would still be much less than that damn night club!"
"Here he comes," Georg says. "Ask him."
We open the door. Through the early spring evening Riesenfeld comes sailing up the steps. We see at once that the enchantment of spring twilight has had no effect on him. We greet him with false camaraderie. Riesenfeld notices it, squints at us, and drops into a chair. "Quit the play acting," he growls in my direction.
"That's just what I was going to do," I reply. "It's not easy for me. What you call play acting is known elsewhere as good manners."
Riesenfeld grins
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