The Storyteller (17 page)

Christ Child with Yellow Wings (Christ-kind ohne Flügel)
, 1883.

A
fter an application process lasting months, I finally got a commission from the station management at D to entertain the listeners for twenty minutes with a report from my specialist area, booklore. Were it to be the case that my chatting found an echo, then there was the prospect of a regular repetition of such dispatches. The department manager was kind enough to point out to me that crucial, alongside the composition of such reflections, is the manner of their delivery. ‘Beginners', he said, ‘commit the error of believing that they are holding their lecture in front of a greater or lesser public,
which just happens to be invisible. Nothing could be further from the truth. The radio listener is almost always alone. And even assuming that one reaches thousands of listeners, one is only ever reaching thousands of single listeners. One should always act as if one is speaking to a single person – or to lots of single people, if you wish – but never to many gathered together. That is one thing. And now another thing: stick exactly to the time. If you don't do it, then we have to do it in your place, namely by ruthlessly pulling the plug. Every delay, even the smallest one has, as we know from experience, the tendency to multiply itself in the course of the programme schedule. If we don't intervene instantly, the programming goes off the rails. So don't forget – informal style of presentation! And finish on the dot!'

I followed these instructions very closely: a lot was at stake for me with the recording of my first programme. The manuscript, with which I presented myself at the radio station at the appointed hour, had been read out loud at home against the clock. The announcer received me courteously, and I took it as a special sign of trust that he abstained from monitoring my debut from an adjoining booth. Between the introduction and the sign off, I was my own boss. For the first time ever, I was standing in a modern broadcast studio, where everything was set up to serve the complete comfort of the speaker, the uninhibited blossoming of his abilities. He may stand at a lectern or sit down in one of the commodious armchairs. He has a choice between various sources of light. He can even walk up and down taking the microphone with him. And finally a long case clock whose face marks only minutes, not hours, ensures he is aware of how much the moment is worth in this sealed chamber. When the pointer points to forty, I must be finished.

I had read at least half of my manuscript when I turned
to look at the standing clock, on which the second hand was taking the same circuit as the minute hand, but at sixty times the speed. Had I committed an error at home in my self-direction? Had I made a mistake in my pacing? One thing was clear, two-thirds of my speaking time had passed. As I read on further, word for word, with an engaging tone of voice, I sought feverishly in silence for a way out. Only decisive action would help: whole sections needed to be sacrificed. The considerations leading up to the conclusion would have to be improvised. Tearing myself away from my text was not without its dangers. But I had no other choice. I mustered my energy, turned over several pages of my manuscript, while I dwelled for an extended period, and finally landed happily, like a pilot on his airfield, into the sphere of thought of the concluding section. Breathing again, I immediately gathered together my papers and in the elation of the par force achievement, which I had pulled off, I stepped away from the lectern in order calmly to put on my overcoat.

At this point the announcer should have entered. But he was a long time coming, so I turned towards the door. In so doing, my eye fell again on the long case clock. Its minute hand showed thirty-six! – a whole four minutes until forty. What I had registered earlier on the fly must have been the position of the
second hand!
Now I understood why the announcer was missing. But at the same moment the silence, which had just now been pleasant, surrounded me like a net. In this chamber dedicated to technology and the humans that rule through it, a new terror came over me, which was related to the oldest one that we already know. I lent myself an ear, which now suddenly resonated with nothing but its own silence. But I recognised it as that of death, which now ripped through me in a thousand ears and a thousand parlours.

An indescribable terror came over me and, immediately following that, a wild determination. Salvage what can be salvaged, I said to myself, and ripped the manuscript from out of my coat pocket, took the first best sheet from the omitted ones, and began to read with a voice which seemed to drown out my heartbeat. I was lost for any other ideas. And since the piece of text which I had grabbed was short, I stretched the syllables, let the vowels soar up, rolled the
R
s and inserted meaningful pauses between sentences. Once again, in this manner, I reached the end – the correct one this time. The announcer came and released me, obligingly, just as he had greeted me earlier. But my disquiet persisted. Therefore when, the next day, I met a friend, whom I knew had heard me, I asked casually for his impression. ‘It was very nice', he said, ‘only the radio receivers have a weakness. My one had a whole minute's interruption again.'

—

Translated by Esther Leslie
.

First published in
Frankfurter Zeitung
, 6 December 1934 under the pseudonym Detlef Holz;
Gesammelte Schriften IV
, 761–3; also translated in Walter Benjamin,
‘The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility' and Other Writings on Media
, 407–9.

Christ Child Without Wings (Christ-kind mit gelben Flüglen)
, 1885.

‘O
ne simply has to have a lucky hand', said the Dane. ‘I could tell you a story …'

‘No story!' interjected the host. ‘I want to know your own opinion: do you believe that everything comes down to chance in gambling, or is something else involved?'

There were four of us. My old friend Fritjof, the novelist; the Danish sculptor, to whom he had introduced me in Nice; the shrewd and well-travelled hotelier, on whose terrace we were drinking our afternoon tea; and me. I can't remember anymore
how the conversation got around to gambling. I myself had barely joined in, but rather had been devoting myself to the spring sunshine and the feeling of contentment which came from having met my Nice friends here in remote Saint Paul.

With every day that passed, I understood better why Fritjof had chosen this corner to recommence the work on his novel, which he had been unable to make any progress with in Nice. At any rate, that was what I had concluded from the fact that some weeks ago, in response to a question about it, he had answered with an indefinable smile, ‘I have lost my fountain pen'. Soon afterwards, I departed and so my joy in seeing Fritjof and his Danish friend here again was all the greater. Of course it was not without some surprise. Had Fritjof, the poor devil, for once actually managed to get a room in a pleasant hotel?

Now we were sitting here in cosy seclusion from the world and, while we chatted, we let our glances rest on the semaphore that waved from a washing line over the city gate or from staggered trees in the valley.

‘If you want to hear what I think', said the Dane, ‘then it doesn't really depend on any of the things that we have discussed up until now. Neither on the gambling budget, nor on the so-called system, nor on the temperament of the gambler. Indeed it has to do rather with his lack of temperament.'

‘I really don't get what you mean.'

‘If you had seen with your own eyes what I saw take place in San Remo last month, you would understand right away.' ‘Well?' I responded, now curious.

‘I arrived', the Dane explained, ‘at a casino late in the evening and went up to a table where a game of baccarat had just begun. One seat was still free. It was reserved, and the glances that occasionally fell on it revealed that someone was expected. I was on the point of asking about this guest, who
appeared to arouse such anticipation, when I heard someone close by mention the name and, in the same moment, the Marchesina Dal Pozzo herself approached the table, flanked by an usher on one side and her secretary on the other. The journey from the vehicle to her seat seemed to have taken it out of the old lady. Barely had she reached it than she collapsed. After a while, when the dealing shoe reached her and it was her turn to hold the bank, she opened her bag, in no great hurry, and brought out a small pack of hounds in porcelain, glass and jade, her mascots, which she distributed around her seat. She took her time to do this too and then she plunged her hand once more into the depths of her bag and pulled out a bundle of thousand-lira notes. She left the bother of counting them to the croupier. She dealt the cards, but barely had she distributed the last one when she collapsed once again. She didn't even hear the request for another one, with which her partner wished to improve his game. For she was asleep. Now it was possible to see how her secretary rendered outstanding services for her and, respectfully, with a gentle hand, which one could see was well practiced, woke her. Deliberately, the Marchesina disclosed her points, one after the other. “Neuf à la banque”, said the croupier; she had won. But that only seemed to send her to sleep. And however many thousand-lira notes she won from this bank, barely a single time passed without the secretary having to prompt her to her good fortune.'

‘God looks after his own in sleep,' I said.

‘Or should one not rather say in this case, “The Devil looks after his own”?' said the hotelier with a smile.

‘Do you know', Fritjof said instead of giving a response, ‘that I have sometimes posed myself the question of why gambling is something to be condemned. Of course there is nothing puzzling about it. There are plenty of suicides, frauds and
the rest occasioned by gambling. But, as said, is that all?'

‘There is something unnatural about gambling,' said the Dane.

‘In my opinion', I said, ‘it seems all too natural. As natural as the inexhaustible, never depleted hope that we will be lucky.'

‘So you give me', responded the Dane, ‘the motto “Faith, love, hope”. And now look at what has become of it!'

‘You mean that your object is unworthy of it. “Filthy lucre!” or suchlike – if I understand you correctly.'

‘But he does not understand me correctly,' said the Dane, suddenly turning away from me and towards Fritjof. ‘Have you', he continued, looking penetratingly at him, ‘ever found yourself on a train or on a bench in the park in direct proximity to a woman who struck you as charming? But really right close up to her?'

‘Let me say something to you', replied Fritjof. ‘If she is really sitting so close to you, then you will be barely able to see her clearly. Why? Because at such extreme closeness, it is nigh on impossible to behold her. To me, at least, that would seem an impertinence.'

‘Then you will understand me all the better, if I now return to our question. We spoke of hope and I compared hope to a young and pretty stranger. It would be impudent to eye her from all too great a nearness or even to approach her with a glance.'

‘How come?' I asked, for I was on the point of losing the thread.

‘I spoke of temporal closeness,' said the Dane. ‘It is my belief that it makes a huge difference whether I cherish a wish directed to a distant future or at the instant. “What one wishes for in one's youth, one has in abundance in old age,” says Goethe. The earlier in life one makes a wish, the greater the prospects that it will be fulfilled … but I have gone off-topic.'

‘I presume that you wanted to say', Fritjof remarked, ‘that someone who gambles also makes a wish.'

‘Yes, but one that the very next moment must grant. And that is what is so depraved about it.'

‘This is a weird context in which to place gambling', said the hotelier. ‘And the opposite to the ivory ball rolling into its pocket would be the shooting star which dives in the distance and grants a wish in that way.'

‘Yes, the right wish, which is oriented to the future', said the Dane.

There was a pause after these words. But for me they had cast new light on the old phrase ‘unlucky at cards, lucky in love'. As if he wanted to delve into my musings, I heard Fritjof say pensively: ‘This much is sure – there are more charms to gambling than winning. Aren't some people looking for a scuffle with fate? Or the opportunity to court it? Believe me: lots of scores are settled on the green cloth – outsiders to the game have no idea of this.'

‘It must really be very tempting to test out one's compliance with fate.'

‘You never know how it will turn out,' said the hotelier. ‘I remember a scene that I witnessed in Montevideo. I lived there for quite a long time when I was a young man. The largest casino in Uruguay is there: people travel for eight hours from Buenos Aires to spend their weekends gambling there. One evening, I was in the casino, just watching. To be on the safe side, I didn't take any money with me. Two young people were standing in front of me, playing intently. They put down small bets, but lots of them. However, they had no luck at all. And soon one of them had lost everything. The other one had a few chips still, which he no longer wanted to bet with. So they interrupted their play, but remained standing there in order to
watch that of the others. They were silent and humble for a long time, as losers often are, when suddenly one of them, the one with nothing left, became lively again. He whispered to his friend: “thirty-four!” His friend was simply content to shrug his shoulders. But indeed thirty-four came up. The scryer, who was of course in some distress, tried again. “Seven or twenty-eight!” he murmured to his neighbour, who smiled impassively. And the even number indeed came up. Now the first lad was getting very agitated. Almost imploringly, he whispered “twenty-two”. He repeated it three times, in vain: when the twenty-two came up, its pocket was unoccupied. An altercation between the two friends appeared inevitable. But just as the miracle man, shaking with excitement, was about to turn to his neighbour again, the friend, no longer wishing to stand in the way of their common luck, handed him the money. He placed it on the number four. Fifteen came up. He occupied twenty-seven. Zero came up. And he placed and lost the last two chips in a single go. Defeated and reconciled, the two fled the scene.'

‘Remarkable!' said Fritjof. ‘One might have thought that holding the chips in his hand had suddenly taken from him his gift of seeing into the future.'

‘One could just as well say', said the Dane, ‘that his gift for seeing into the future robbed him of his winnings.'

‘That is an empty paradox', I interjected.

‘Not at all', the answer came back. ‘If there really is such a thing as a lucky gambler, that is, a telepathic mechanism in gambling, then it resides in the unconscious. It is unconscious knowledge that, if played successfully, translates itself into movements. If on the other hand it migrates to the consciousness, then it is lost for innervation. Our man will “think” the correct thing but he will “act” wrongly. He will stand there like so many other losers who tear their hair out and cry “I knew it!”'

‘So, according to you, a lucky gambler operates according to instinct? Like any person at a moment of danger?'

‘The game', the Dane confirmed, ‘is really an artificially induced danger. And gambling is effectively a blasphemous test of our presence of mind. For in danger the body makes an accord with things that goes over and above our heads. Only once we breathe a sigh of relief, upon being saved, do we think about what we have been through. In acting we are ahead of our knowledge. And gambling is a disreputable affair because it unscrupulously provokes all the finest and most precise things that our organism affords.'

There was a silence. ‘One simply has to have a lucky hand' was running through my head. Didn't the Dane want to tell us something about that earlier? I reminded him of this fact.

‘Ah, the story', he said smilingly. ‘Actually it is a bit late for that – incidentally we know its hero. And we all like him very much. I will simply reveal that he is a writer. That plays a role, you see, although – but I am just about to ruin the punchline. In a word, the man was determined to seek his fortune on the Riviera. He had no idea about gambling, tried this and that system and lost with all of them. Then he gave his systems up and stuck only with losing. His cash resources were soon all used up, his nerves even more so, and then, one day, he even lost his fountain pen. Writers are, as you know, sometimes odd, and our friend belongs to the oddest. He has to have a very particular lighting around his writing desk and a very particular type of paper and a very specific shape and size of his sheets, or else he cannot work. Therefore you can easily imagine what a lost fountain pen would mean to him. After we had frittered away a whole day searching in vain for a new one, we dropped in at the casino in the evening. I never play and contented myself with following our friend's gambling. Soon it was not just me
following it. This man was attracting the attention of lots of casino visitors, for he was winning non-stop. After a jolly hour, we left in order to take our cash somewhere secure, at least for this one night. But the next day couldn't harm it. For, as hopeless as the morning in the stationery shops had been, the more lucrative did the evening make itself. Of course there was no longer any talk of the novel, since the fountain pen had disappeared. Our friend, otherwise an industrious man, didn't even look at his manuscript, indeed even avoided the shortest letter. If I reminded him of some especially urgent piece of correspondence, he made excuses. He became parsimonious with his handshakes. He avoided carrying even the lightest little package. He barely turned the pages of his book while reading. It was as if his hand was resting in a bandage, which was taken off only in the evening – in the casino, where we never stayed for very long. We had amassed a tidy sum, when one day the porter at the hotel brought us the fountain pen. It had been found in the palm garden. Our friend gave the bearer a handsome tip, and he departed on the same day, in order to finally write his novel.'

‘Lovely', said the hotelier, ‘but what does it prove?'

I did not care what the story proved or disproved, and I was glad to see my old friend Fritjof, on whom life had seldom smiled, drink his afternoon tea so sanguinely on the walls of Saint Paul.