Prater Violet by Christopher Isherwood Read Free Book Online

crook!”
    Bergmann bowed slightly, with ironic dignity. He half turned, as if to withdraw. Then he paused. His eye fell upon the imagined figure of van der Lubbe. His hand was raised, slowly, in a great, historic gesture. He addressed all Europe:
    â€œThere stands the miserable Faust.… But where is Mephistopheles?”
    Then he made his exit.
    â€œYou wait!” Bergmann-Goering roared after the retreating figure. “You wait till I get you out of the power of this Court!”
    Another scene, which Dorothy and I would often persuade Bergmann to repeat, was the moment when van der Lubbe is cross-examined. He stands before his accusers, with his huge stooped shoulders and hanging hands, the chin sunken on the chest. He is scarcely human—a wretched, clumsy, tormented animal. The President tries to make him look up. He does not move. The Interpreter tries. Dr. Seuffert tries. There is no response. Then, suddenly, with the harsh authority of an animal trainer, Helldorf barks out, “Head up, man! Quick!”
    The head jerks up at once, automatically, as if in obedience to some deeply hidden memory. The clouded eyes wander around the courtroom. Are they searching for somebody? A faint gleam of recognition seems to flicker in them for a moment. And then van der Lubbe begins to laugh. This is really horrible, indecent, terrifying. The heavy body quivers and heaves with noiseless laughter, as if shaken by its death agony. Van der Lubbe laughs and laughs, silently, blindly, his mouth open and dribbling, like an idiot’s. Then, with equal suddenness, the paroxysm ceases. Again, the head falls forward. The grotesque figure stands motionless, guarding its secret, unapproachable as the dead.
    â€œGoodness!” Dorothy would exclaim, with a shiver. “I’m glad I’m not over there! It gives you the creeps, just to think about it. Those Nazis aren’t human.”
    â€œYou are wrong, darling,” Bergmann told her, seriously. “That is how they wish you to imagine them, as unconquerable monsters. But they are human, very human, in their weakness. We must not fear them. We must understand them. It is absolutely necessary to understand them, or we are all lost.”
    Now that Bergmann had become Dimitrov, he was obliged to abandon a great deal of his cynicism. It was no longer in character. Dimitrov had to have a cause to fight for, to make speeches about. And the cause turned out to be Prater Violet.
    We were at work on the sequence in which Rudolf loses his future kingdom of Borodania through a palace revolution. A wicked Uncle deposes his Father and seizes the throne. Rudolf returns to Vienna, a penniless exile. He is now, in reality, the poor student he pretended to be at the beginning of the story. But Toni, naturally, refuses to believe this. She has been deceived once already. She has trusted him, she has loved him, and he has left her. (Unwillingly, of course; and only because his faithful chamberlain, Count Rosanoff, reminds him with tears of his duty to the Borodanians.) So Rudolf pleads in vain; and Toni angrily dismisses him as an impostor.
    We had been through the usual procedure. I had made my lazy, half-hearted attempt at a first draft. Bergmann had put it aside with his brief grunt. And now, with his usual brilliance and wealth of gesture, he had gone over the story for the second time.
    But it didn’t work. I was feeling temperamental and sulky that day, chiefly because I had a bad cold. My conscience had driven me to Bergmann’s flat, and I felt that my sacrifice wasn’t being properly appreciated. I had expected to be fussed over and sent home again.
    â€œIt’s no good,” I told him.
    Bergmann was belligerent at once. “Why is it no good?”
    â€œI’m afraid it just doesn’t interest me.”
    Bergmann gave a terrible snort. I seldom defied him like this. But I was in a thoroughly obstructive mood. I didn’t care if I got