The Sleepwalkers (88 page)

From this we can draw the following comprehensive conclusion, the

Third Thesis:

the world is a product
¹
of the intelligible Self, for the Platonic idea has never been abandoned nor ever can be. But this product is not projected “like a bullet from a pistol,” for nothing can be posited but value-making subjects, which in their turn reflect the structure of the intelligible Self and in their turn fashion their own value-products, their own world-formations: the world is not an immediate but a mediate product of the Self, it is “a product of products,” “a product of products of products,” and so on in infinite iteration. This process, the positing of “products of products,” provides the world with its methodological organization and hierarchy, a relative organization, certainly, but yet absolute in form, since the ethical imperative postulated for the effective or fictive value-positing subjects remains undiminished in its force, together with the immanent validity of the Logos within the created product: the logic of things remains unshaken. And even though the logical advance of history must be arrested time and again whenever it reaches the limits of infinity inherent in its metaphysical construction, and though the Platonic view of the world must time and again make way for a positivistic examination of data, yet the reality of the Platonic idea remains invincible, for with every access of Positivism it merely touches its mother earth again to rise anew, upborne by the bathos of experience.

Every conceptually comprehensible unity in the world is “product of a product,” every concept, every thing; and this methodological function of knowledge, of knowledge as an integrator that can comprehend a thing only by regarding it as an autonomous and value-positing subject, probably extends right into mathematics, thus abolishing the distinction between mathematical scientific abstraction and empirical abstraction. For, methodologically regarded, to define a thing as the “product of a product” is nothing else than to introduce the ideal observer into the field of observation, as has been already done long since by the empirical sciences (by physics, for example, in the Theory of Relativity) quite independently of epistemological considerations: and further, research into mathematical first principles, pursuing the questions “what is number?” and “what is unity?” has reached a point at which it has found itself compelled to accept intuition as the
only way out of its difficulties: now the principle of “product of a product” provides intuition with its logical legitimation, for the infiltration of the Self into a hypostatized value-positing subject can be justifiably termed the methodological structure of the act of intuition.

That this principle has been so long unrecognized may perhaps be explained by its obviousness, even its primitiveness. For it is indeed primitive. And the pride of man seems to find insuperable difficulty in admitting the validity of a primitive attitude. For even though this view of everything as the “product of a product” guarantees the presence of the intelligible self in every object throughout the world, yet, if one ignores for a moment this Platonic background, it amounts to a kind of animism that reanimates the whole of nature, nay, the whole of the world in its totality, an animism that introduces a value-subject into everything, into every concept however abstract, and that can be compared only to the animism of primitive peoples: it seems as if the development of logic has an ontogenesis of its own that keeps alive, even in the most highly developed logical structures, all previous and apparently obsolete thought-formations, including that of the simple animism which shortened to one link all chains of plausibility; an ontogenesis that preserves in every new advance of thought the form if not the content of primitive metaphysics—indubitably a stumbling-block for the rationalists, but a consolation to pantheistic feeling.

And yet there is consolation even for the rationalists. For if the principle of “product of products” in its dependence on the governing Logos may be interpreted as the logical structure of the intuitive act, it may also be regarded as the “condition of possible experience” for the otherwise inexplicable fact of the mutual understanding between man and man, between one isolated self and another; so it provides not only an epistemological structure that accounts for the translatableness of all languages, be they ever so different from each other, but far beyond that, infinitely far, it provides in the unity of thought a common denominator for all human speech, a warrant for the unity of mankind and of a humanity that even in its self-laceration remains the image of God—for in every thought and in every unity that man creates, the Logos, mirror of himself, shines out upon him, the Word of God shines out as the measure of all things. And even if all that is created in this world were to be annihilated, if all its æsthetic values were abolished and resolved into a function, dissolved in scepticism of all law, nay more, in the imperative duty to
question and to doubt, there would yet survive untouched the unity of thought, the ethical postulate, the rigorous operation of ethical value as pure function, the real duty of its most strict observance: all these would survive and with them a continuing unity of the world, a unity of mankind, illuminating all things, still surviving and imperishable through all eternities of space and time.

Dr Flurschütz was helping Jaretzki to fit on his artificial arm. Sister Mathilde too was in attendance.

Jaretzki was jerking at the straps:

“Well, Flurschütz, aren’t you heart-broken that I’m leaving you so soon … not to speak of Sister Mathilde!”

“Do you know, Jaretzki, I would really like to keep you here for a while longer under observation … you’re at a highly questionable stage of your development.”

“Can’t say … wait a minute,” Jaretzki endeavoured to wedge a cigarette between the fingers of the artificial hand, “… wait a minute, how would it do if we added a kind of cigarette-receiver to this … or a permanent cigarette-holder … that would be quite an ingenious idea …?”

“Stand still just for a minute, Jaretzki,” Flurschütz fastened the straps, “… there, how do you feel?”

“Like a newly-born machine … a machine at a fine stage of development … if the cigarettes were better it would be still finer.”

“Couldn’t you let this smoking of yours alone altogether … and the other thing too, of course.”

“Love? Oh yes, like a shot.”

Sister Mathilde said quite superfluously:

“No, Dr Flurschütz meant that you should give up drinking.”

“Oh, I see, I didn’t understand … when one is sober, it’s so hard to understand things.… I’m surprised that that has never struck you, Flurschütz: it’s only when people are drunk that they can understand one another.”

“That’s a daring attempt at self-justification!”

“But just cast your mind back, Flurschütz, and remember how gloriously drunk we all were in August 1914 … it seems to me as
though that was the first and the last time that people felt a real sense of fellowship.”

“Scheler says something like that.…”

“Who?”

“Scheler.
The Genius of War
 … not much of a book.”

“Oh, I see, a book … that doesn’t count … but I tell you this, Flurschütz, and I say it in all seriousness: give me some other, some new drunkenness, it doesn’t matter what as far as I’m concerned, morphia or patriotism or communism or anything else that makes a man drunk … give me something to make me feel we’re all comrades again, and I’ll give up drinking … to-morrow.”

Flurschütz reflected; then he said:

“There’s something in what you say … but if you must have intoxication and fellowship, there’s a simple enough remedy: fall in love.”

“Under doctor’s orders, certainly … have you ever fallen in love under doctor’s orders, Sister?”

Sister Mathilde blushed; two red patches appeared amid the freckles that covered her neck.

Jaretzki averted his eyes:

“A bad stage of development for falling in love … it seems to me we’re all in a bad way … even love’s no more use …” he tested the joints of the artificial arm, “… we should really be given instructions for using this thing … there must surely be a special joint for cuddling somewhere in it.”

Flurschütz strangely enough felt shocked. Perhaps because Sister Mathilde was present. Sister Mathilde blushed still more deeply:

“What ideas you have, Herr Jaretzki!”

“How? they’re quite good ideas … artificial limbs for making love … yes, quite a splendid idea, special models for staff officers, from colonels upwards … I’ll set up a factory.”

Flurschütz said:

“Must you always play the
enfant terrible?
”

“Not at all, I simply have ideas for the armament industry … now let’s take it off.” Jaretzki began to undo the straps; Sister Mathilde helped him. He straightened the joints of the metallic fingers: “There, now it only needs a glove … little finger, ring finger and that’s the thumb that picks out the plum.”

Flurschütz examined the scars on the naked arm stump.

“I think it fits quite all right, only be careful at the beginning that it doesn’t rub your arm sore.”

“Let the good charwomen rub and scrub … this one picks out the plums.”

“Well, Jaretzki, as far as you’re concerned at any rate, there really seems no hope of common understanding.”

Huguenau’s dodging Esch at the dinner-hour had of course availed nothing. That very same evening there was a violent scene. Nevertheless Esch was soon disarmed, for Huguenau not only took his stand in his documented rights as a publisher, which fully authorized him to insert any article that he liked, but he also employed Esch’s own arguments: “My dear friend,” he jeered, “you’ve complained often enough about people queering your pitch when you wanted to unmask public abuses … but when someone else has the courage actually to do it you draw in your horns … of course one doesn’t fling away the favour of a high and mighty Town Commandant in a hurry … must always trim your coat to suit the fashion, what?” Yes, Esch had to listen to things like that, and although it was a vile and cowardly attack with which the fellow had taken him in the rear, he could find nothing better as a retort but guttersnipe abuse, and after that had held his tongue.

But Huguenau had thereupon adroitly changed his tactics. He had gone to Frau Esch and complained bitterly that her husband had treated abominably a conscientious partner, simply because said partner had conscientiously and selflessly tried to do his duty. That had not been without its effect, and when next day Esch came up to his dinner he found a sulky and offended Huguenau and a wife who with conciliating words spoke up for Herr Huguenau’s innocence, so that before they knew where they were they were reconciled and all supped their soup in peace together, much to the satisfaction of Frau Esch, who was anxious not to lose a patron so generous with his praise.

But perhaps Esch too was actually glad that he had avoided having to show Huguenau the door: one couldn’t tell what attacks against the Major this fellow might still have in mind … it was best in any case not to let
him out of one’s sight. So Huguenau stayed where he was, although these meals were none too sociable, especially as Esch now took to glaring at Huguenau across the dishes, mustering him with suspicious eyes.

To Huguenau’s credit it must be said that he did his best to brighten matters: but his efforts met with scant success. Even a week later Esch was still in his most bearish mood. And to the hesitant inquiries of his spouse he replied only in a growl: “Emigrate to America.…” After which nothing more was said. Finally, however, Huguenau leant back satiated, and broke the uncomfortable silence with these auspicious words:

“Mother Esch,” he said, lifting one finger, “Mother Esch, I’ve hunted up a farmer who will deliver flour to us, maybe a gammon occasionally too.”

“Indeed?” said Esch mistrustfully, “where have you picked him up?”

Of course this farmer was non-existent, but what is non-existent may one day come to life, and Huguenau was annoyed that his good will was never recognized. Yet he did not want to get into a squabble with Esch so soon again, on the contrary he wanted to say something conciliatory:

“We must lighten things a little for Mother Esch if we can … four mouths … I’m surprised that she manages it at all … for one must count in the kid as well.”

Esch smiled:

“Yes, the little one.”

Huguenau said forthcomingly:

“Where has she been hiding herself?”

Frau Esch sighed:

“You’re right, nowadays it’s no trifle to fill four mouths … it would have been better if my husband hadn’t saddled us with the worry of the child.”

“I refuse to listen to a word about that,” Esch burst out. He looked angrily across at his wife, who sat there with a curiously frigid smile, as though conscious of guilt. Esch was somewhat mollified: “When there’s no new life, everything’s dead.”

“That’s so,” said Frau Esch, “that’s so.”

Huguenau said:

“But she runs about the streets all day … with the boys; you mark my words, she’ll run away yet.”

“Oh, it suits her quite well to stay with us,” said Frau Esch. And Esch, almost warily, almost as though he were touching a pregnant
woman, gripped his wife above the elbow by the thick arm: “And I say that she likes to stay with us, do you hear?”

Huguenau was exasperated by the two of them. He said:

“It suits me too to stay with you, Mother Esch … wouldn’t you like to adopt me as well?” He would have liked to add that Esch then would have the son that he was always raving about and that was to build the house—but for some reason incomprehensible even to himself he felt deeply indignant, and the whole business seemed to him no longer a matter for jest. If Esch had suddenly sprung up and threatened him Huguenau would not have been surprised. No doubt about it, it would be better to slip away and look for Marguerite; she would probably be down in the courtyard. The best thing would be to fly from the place and take Marguerite with him.