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Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
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briefly and evilly. "Good manners won't get you far these days—"
"They won't? Then what will?" I ask to draw him out.
"Cast-iron elbows and a rubber conscience."
"But, Herr Riesenfeld," Georg says reassuringly, "you yourself have the best manners in the world! Perhaps not the best in the bourgeois sense—but certainly the most elegant—"
"Really? There's just a chance you might be mistaken!" Despite his disclaimer Riesenfeld is flattered.
"He has the manners of a robber," I remark, exactly as Georg expects. We play this game without rehearsal, as though we knew it by heart, "Or rather those of a pirate. Unfortunately, they bring him success."
Riesenfeld has recoiled a little at the word robber; the shot went too near home. But "pirate" reassures him. Exactly as intended. Georg gets a bottle of Roth schnaps out of the cupboard where the porcelain angels stand and pours. "What shall we drink to?" he asks.
Ordinarily people drink to health and success in business. With us it's a bit difficult. Riesenfeld's too sensitive a nature for that; he maintains that in the tombstone business such a toast is not only a paradox but the equivalent of wishing that as many people as possible may die. One might as well drink to cholera, war, and influenza. Since then we have left the toasts to him.
He stares at us sidewise, his glass in his hand, but does not speak. After a while he says suddenly in the half-darkness: "What actually is time?"
Georg puts his glass down in astonishment. "The pepper of life," I reply. The old rascal can't catch me so easily with his tricks. Not for nothing am I a member of the Werdenbrück Poets' Club; we are used to big questions.
Riesenfeld disregards me. "What's your opinion, Herr Kroll?" he asks.
"I'm a simple man," Georg says. " Prost! "
'Time," Riesenfeld continues doggedly. "Time, this uninterrupted flow—not our lousy time! Time, this gradual death."
Now I, too, put down my glass. I think we'd better have some light," I say. "What did you eat for dinner, Herr Riesenfeld?"
"Shut up, youngster, when grownups are talking," Riesenfeld replies, and I notice that I have been inattentive for a moment. He did not intend to disconcert us—he means what he says. God knows what has happened to him this afternoon! I am tempted to reply that time is an important factor in the note we want him to accept—but content myself with my drink instead.
"I'm fifty-six now," Riesenfeld says, "but I remember the time when I was twenty as though it were only a couple of years ago. What's become of everything in between? What's happened? Suddenly you wake up and find you're old. What about you, Herr Kroll?"
"Much the same," Georg replies. "I'm forty but I often feel sixty. In my case it was the war."
He is lying to support Riesenfeld. "It's different with me," I explain. "Also because of the war. I went in when I was a little over seventeen. Now I am twenty-five; but I still feel like seventeen. Like seventeen and seventy. The War Department stole my youth."
"With you it was not the war," Riesenfeld replies. "You're simply a case of arrested intellectual development. That would have happened to you if there'd never been a war. As a matter of fact, the war really made you precocious; without it you would still be at the twelve-year-old level."
"Thanks," I say. "What a compliment! At twelve everyone is a genius. He only loses his originality with the onset of sexual maturity, to which you, you granite Casanova, attribute such exaggerated importance. That's a pretty monstrous compensation for loss of spiritual feedom."
Georg fills our glasses again. We see that it is going to be a tough evening. We must get Riesenfeld out of the depths of cosmic melancholy, and neither one of us is especially keen on being involved in philosophical platitudes tonight. We should prefer to sit quietly under a chestnut tree and drink a bottle of Moselle instead of in the Red Mill commiserating with Riesenfeld over his lost
"They won't? Then what will?" I ask to draw him out.
"Cast-iron elbows and a rubber conscience."
"But, Herr Riesenfeld," Georg says reassuringly, "you yourself have the best manners in the world! Perhaps not the best in the bourgeois sense—but certainly the most elegant—"
"Really? There's just a chance you might be mistaken!" Despite his disclaimer Riesenfeld is flattered.
"He has the manners of a robber," I remark, exactly as Georg expects. We play this game without rehearsal, as though we knew it by heart, "Or rather those of a pirate. Unfortunately, they bring him success."
Riesenfeld has recoiled a little at the word robber; the shot went too near home. But "pirate" reassures him. Exactly as intended. Georg gets a bottle of Roth schnaps out of the cupboard where the porcelain angels stand and pours. "What shall we drink to?" he asks.
Ordinarily people drink to health and success in business. With us it's a bit difficult. Riesenfeld's too sensitive a nature for that; he maintains that in the tombstone business such a toast is not only a paradox but the equivalent of wishing that as many people as possible may die. One might as well drink to cholera, war, and influenza. Since then we have left the toasts to him.
He stares at us sidewise, his glass in his hand, but does not speak. After a while he says suddenly in the half-darkness: "What actually is time?"
Georg puts his glass down in astonishment. "The pepper of life," I reply. The old rascal can't catch me so easily with his tricks. Not for nothing am I a member of the Werdenbrück Poets' Club; we are used to big questions.
Riesenfeld disregards me. "What's your opinion, Herr Kroll?" he asks.
"I'm a simple man," Georg says. " Prost! "
'Time," Riesenfeld continues doggedly. "Time, this uninterrupted flow—not our lousy time! Time, this gradual death."
Now I, too, put down my glass. I think we'd better have some light," I say. "What did you eat for dinner, Herr Riesenfeld?"
"Shut up, youngster, when grownups are talking," Riesenfeld replies, and I notice that I have been inattentive for a moment. He did not intend to disconcert us—he means what he says. God knows what has happened to him this afternoon! I am tempted to reply that time is an important factor in the note we want him to accept—but content myself with my drink instead.
"I'm fifty-six now," Riesenfeld says, "but I remember the time when I was twenty as though it were only a couple of years ago. What's become of everything in between? What's happened? Suddenly you wake up and find you're old. What about you, Herr Kroll?"
"Much the same," Georg replies. "I'm forty but I often feel sixty. In my case it was the war."
He is lying to support Riesenfeld. "It's different with me," I explain. "Also because of the war. I went in when I was a little over seventeen. Now I am twenty-five; but I still feel like seventeen. Like seventeen and seventy. The War Department stole my youth."
"With you it was not the war," Riesenfeld replies. "You're simply a case of arrested intellectual development. That would have happened to you if there'd never been a war. As a matter of fact, the war really made you precocious; without it you would still be at the twelve-year-old level."
"Thanks," I say. "What a compliment! At twelve everyone is a genius. He only loses his originality with the onset of sexual maturity, to which you, you granite Casanova, attribute such exaggerated importance. That's a pretty monstrous compensation for loss of spiritual feedom."
Georg fills our glasses again. We see that it is going to be a tough evening. We must get Riesenfeld out of the depths of cosmic melancholy, and neither one of us is especially keen on being involved in philosophical platitudes tonight. We should prefer to sit quietly under a chestnut tree and drink a bottle of Moselle instead of in the Red Mill commiserating with Riesenfeld over his lost
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