every day for the sake of living, the clothes we must wear so as not to freeze to death …”
“But that’s mysticism,” cried Prackwitz angrily. “Money’s quite a simple matter. Money is only—used to be, I mean—if you had a sovereign, but notes were all right, too. They were different then because you could exchange them for gold.… Well then, money, I mean any kind of money, you know …” He became furious with himself, stammering and stuttering; one ought to be able to say clearly and distinctly what one so clearly and distinctly felt. “Well,” he finished, “if I have money I want to know what I can buy with it.”
“Naturally,” said Studmann, who had noticed nothing of his friend’s confusion, busy with his own thoughts. “Of course we took up the wrong attitude. I’ve discovered that ninety-nine per cent of mankind have to torment themselves about money; they think of it day and night, speak of it, spend it, save it, start anew—in short, money is the thing round which the world revolves. It is only inexperience which makes us indifferent to money, not willing to speak about the most important thing which exists.”
“But is this right?” cried Prackwitz, in despair at his friend’s present frame of mind. “Is this noble? Merely to live in order to satisfy one’s private hunger?”
“Of course it isn’t right, of course it isn’t noble,” Studmann agreed. “But we’re not consulted; that’s how it is now. And if it’s like that, then we oughtn’t to close our eyes but should devote our attention to it. If we don’t find it noble, then we must ask ourselves how to alter it.”
“Studmann,” asked von Prackwitz, bewildered and despairing, “Studmann, you haven’t become a Socialist, by any chance?”
The former first lieutenant looked for a moment as perplexed and as startled as if he had been suspected of a murder. “Prackwitz,” he said, “old comrade, the Socialists think about money just as you do. Only they want to take it away from you, so that they can have it. No, Prackwitz, I’m certainly not a Socialist. And won’t become one either.”
“But what are you?” asked von Prackwitz. “You must eventually belong to some group or party.”
“Why?” asked von Studmann. “Why must I?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said von Prackwitz, a little perplexed. “We all eventually belong to something, for the elections if for no other reason. Somehow one has to subordinate oneself, to toe the line. It’s, so to speak, orderly.”
“But if no order exists for me?” asked von Studmann.
“Yes,” said Prackwitz. “I remember that I had a chap once in my squadron, a crank we always said—what was his name? Grigoleit, yes, Grigoleit. A proper orderly kind of man. But he refused to touch a carbine or a side-arm. Imploring him didn’t help, reprimands didn’t help, punishments didn’t help. ‘Yes, Herr Lieutenant,’ he’d say—I was a lieutenant, it was before the war. ‘But I’m not allowed to. You’ve your code and I’ve mine. And because I’ve my code I’m not permitted to disobey it. One day my code will be yours.’ And such cranky pacifist stuff. But he was a decent sort, not one of those shirkers who shout, ‘No More War’ because they’re cowards.… Well, we could have made his life a perfect hell for him, of course. But the Old Man was reasonable and said: ‘He’s only a poor idiot,’ and so he was reported as unfit for service, sub-section fifteen you know, because of insanity.”
The Rittmeister paused, meditating, perhaps recalling the fat, round-headed Grigoleit, with his platinum-blond hair, who did not at all look like a martyr.
Studmann, however, burst out laughing. “Oh, Prackwitz,” he cried, “you haven’t changed a bit. And now in all innocence you’ve certified me as suffering from imbecility and insanity! Without even noticing. That reminds mevividly how you tried to console our Old Man, when he cut a very poor
“But that’s mysticism,” cried Prackwitz angrily. “Money’s quite a simple matter. Money is only—used to be, I mean—if you had a sovereign, but notes were all right, too. They were different then because you could exchange them for gold.… Well then, money, I mean any kind of money, you know …” He became furious with himself, stammering and stuttering; one ought to be able to say clearly and distinctly what one so clearly and distinctly felt. “Well,” he finished, “if I have money I want to know what I can buy with it.”
“Naturally,” said Studmann, who had noticed nothing of his friend’s confusion, busy with his own thoughts. “Of course we took up the wrong attitude. I’ve discovered that ninety-nine per cent of mankind have to torment themselves about money; they think of it day and night, speak of it, spend it, save it, start anew—in short, money is the thing round which the world revolves. It is only inexperience which makes us indifferent to money, not willing to speak about the most important thing which exists.”
“But is this right?” cried Prackwitz, in despair at his friend’s present frame of mind. “Is this noble? Merely to live in order to satisfy one’s private hunger?”
“Of course it isn’t right, of course it isn’t noble,” Studmann agreed. “But we’re not consulted; that’s how it is now. And if it’s like that, then we oughtn’t to close our eyes but should devote our attention to it. If we don’t find it noble, then we must ask ourselves how to alter it.”
“Studmann,” asked von Prackwitz, bewildered and despairing, “Studmann, you haven’t become a Socialist, by any chance?”
The former first lieutenant looked for a moment as perplexed and as startled as if he had been suspected of a murder. “Prackwitz,” he said, “old comrade, the Socialists think about money just as you do. Only they want to take it away from you, so that they can have it. No, Prackwitz, I’m certainly not a Socialist. And won’t become one either.”
“But what are you?” asked von Prackwitz. “You must eventually belong to some group or party.”
“Why?” asked von Studmann. “Why must I?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said von Prackwitz, a little perplexed. “We all eventually belong to something, for the elections if for no other reason. Somehow one has to subordinate oneself, to toe the line. It’s, so to speak, orderly.”
“But if no order exists for me?” asked von Studmann.
“Yes,” said Prackwitz. “I remember that I had a chap once in my squadron, a crank we always said—what was his name? Grigoleit, yes, Grigoleit. A proper orderly kind of man. But he refused to touch a carbine or a side-arm. Imploring him didn’t help, reprimands didn’t help, punishments didn’t help. ‘Yes, Herr Lieutenant,’ he’d say—I was a lieutenant, it was before the war. ‘But I’m not allowed to. You’ve your code and I’ve mine. And because I’ve my code I’m not permitted to disobey it. One day my code will be yours.’ And such cranky pacifist stuff. But he was a decent sort, not one of those shirkers who shout, ‘No More War’ because they’re cowards.… Well, we could have made his life a perfect hell for him, of course. But the Old Man was reasonable and said: ‘He’s only a poor idiot,’ and so he was reported as unfit for service, sub-section fifteen you know, because of insanity.”
The Rittmeister paused, meditating, perhaps recalling the fat, round-headed Grigoleit, with his platinum-blond hair, who did not at all look like a martyr.
Studmann, however, burst out laughing. “Oh, Prackwitz,” he cried, “you haven’t changed a bit. And now in all innocence you’ve certified me as suffering from imbecility and insanity! Without even noticing. That reminds mevividly how you tried to console our Old Man, when he cut a very poor