Perlefter by Joseph Roth

prime of his life, a man who made table lamps. His lamps were of a very special type, made from a material that looked like porcelain and yet never broke, decorated with colourful ornamentation which could never fade, with movable shades whose position could be adjusted. The most important thing about these lamps, however, was the fact that the inside contained one or more little bulbs, so that a faint, mild, milky light streamed out, the room darkened and yet illuminated, the most excellent lighting for people who suffer from insomnia, who fear the dark or who are disturbed by an ordinary lamp. A light that was also useful in salons in which intimate societies sat, for lovers who no longer need to see each other but do not want complete darkness and for ageing and ill-looking women whose fading looks are still beautiful if a dim and colourful shadow is cast upon them.
    One should never draw conclusions about a person’s character based on his profession. In this case, however, I cannot deny a correlation between the gentle light ofthe table lamps and the lyrical soul of Herr Sedan, as Margarete’s fiancé was called. The historical name had no bearing in this case. When one saw Herr Sedan one thought not of history. He looked fat and mild, and he possessed the gentle softness and warm goodness of a man whose soul was well cushioned and protected against any attack like a well-padded suitcase. Across the wide bridge of his nose sat his ancient black pince-nez with thick, sharply polished glasses that slightly shrunk his large eyeballs without robbing them of their lustre of goodness. Herr Sedan wore dark suits that made him look slim, obscured his belly and mellowed the girlish red of his cheeks. He was someone who wrote no poetry, yet one could still say that he was poetic, so I call him a poet, a passive poet. And even this restrictive attribution loosens when I consider that the lamps of the Sedan factory were actually poetry.
    One must remember that Margarete’s goal was to operate a salon in which true artists could convene. Consequently, her fiancé began to finance an artistic magazine. He located a man of letters, a writer of feuilletons who had long been seeking funding. His name was Dr Feld, and he wrote under an Italian pseudonym about fashion, art exhibitions, social events and also about women. This last them e he handled in the form of aphorisms that he scattered in various magazines, as a farmer spreads seeds over the fields. One read the aphorisms there where the sketches left off and the advertisements began, brief lines punctuated with dashes on smooth shiny paper in a delicate font, and thereader sensed immediately a man of mind and world. Herr Dr Feld now brought a new magazine into existence. It was richly endowed and appeared irregularly, not because it lacked money but, rather, because its publisher and creator considered irregularity a quintessential characteristic of refinement.
    All the wealthy members of the family and their distant relatives subscribed to this magazine. It had a somewhat obscure name. It was called
The Blue Margin,
and I guessed that Herr Dr Feld himself had devised the name. Many collaborators spent their Wednesday afternoons at Frau Margarete Sedan’s. She wore wondrous clothes and gained a little weight. She met all sorts. A young lecturer in history was recommended to her. He came and gave lectures on Napoleon to a small group. Within the circle that surrounded Margarete Russia was in vogue. Margarete began to learn Russian. Her teacher was a refugee Russian engineer with no papers and no money. He liked to speak of the cruelty of the Bolsheviks, and one could tell that he had lived through it. He favoured all people who were upset by revolutions. It was quite agreeable to please these people, because it was they who had money. The engineer gave Russian lessons to many women. He was a small agile man with a bald head and deep little watery eyes. Margarete