Old Masters: A Comedy (Phoenix Fiction) - Softcover

Bernhard, Thomas

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0226043916 ISBN 13: 9780226043913

Publisher: University of Chicago Press, 1992

Synopsis

In this exuberantly satirical novel, the tutor Atzbacher has been
summoned by his friend Reger to meet him in a Viennese museum. While
Reger gazes at a Tintoretto portrait, Atzbacher—who fears Reger's
plans to kill himself—gives us a portrait of the musicologist: his
wisdom, his devotion to his wife, and his love-hate relationship with
art. With characteristically acerbic wit, Bernhard exposes the
pretensions and aspirations of humanity in a novel at once pessimistic
and strangely exhilarating.

About this title

About the Author

Widely acclaimed as a novelist, playwright, and poet, Thomas Bernhard (1931-89) won many of the most prestigious literary prizes of Europe, including the Austrian State Prize, the Bremen and Brüchner prizes, and Le Prix Séguier.

From the Back Cover

In this exuberantly satirical novel, the tutor Atzbacher has been summoned by his friend Reger to meet in a Viennese museum. While Reger gazes at a Tintoretto portrait, Atzbacher--who fears Reger's plans to kill himself--gives us a portrait of the musicologist: his wisdom, his devotion to his wife, and his love-hate relationship with art. With characteristically acerbic wit, Bernhard exposes the pretensions and aspirations of humanity in a novel at once pessimistic and strangely exhilarating.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

OLD MASTERS

A Comedy

By Thomas Bernhard, Ewald Osers

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

Copyright © 1985 Suhrkamp Verlag
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-226-04391-3

CHAPTER 1

Although I had arranged to meet Reger at the KunsthistorischesMuseum at half-past eleven, I arrived at the agreed spot athalf-past ten in order, as I had for some time decided to do, toobserve him, for once, from the most ideal angle possible andundisturbed, Atzbacher writes. As he had his morning spot inthe so-called Bordone Room, facing Tintoretto's White-BeardedMan, on the velvet-covered settee on which yesterday,after an explanation of the so-called Tempest Sonata, hecontinued his lecture to me on the Art of the Fugue, from beforeBach to after Schumann, as he put it, and yet was in the moodto talk rather more about Mozart and not about Bach, I had totake up position in the so-called Sebastiano Room; I wascompelled therefore, entirely against my inclination, to submitto Titian in order to be able to observe Reger in front ofTintoretto's White-Bearded Man, moreover standing, whichwas no disadvantage because I prefer standing to sitting,especially when engaged in observing people, and I have all mylife been a better observer standing up than sitting down, andas, looking from the Sebastiano Room into the BordoneRoom, I eventually, by focusing as hard as I could, was able tosee Reger completely in profile, not even impaired by theback-rest of the settee, Reger who, no doubt badly affected bythe sudden change in the weather during the preceding night,kept his black hat on his head the whole time, so as I wastherefore able to see the whole left side of Reger exposed to me,my plan to observe Reger undisturbed for once had succeeded.As Reger (in an overcoat), supporting himself on a stickwedged between his knees, was totally absorbed in viewing theWhite-Bearded Man I had not the least fear, while observingReger, of being discovered by him. The attendant Irrsigler(Jenö!), with whom Reger is linked by an acquaintanceship ofmore than thirty years and with whom I myself have always tothis day had good relations (also for over twenty years), hadbeen warned by a hand signal on my part that for once I wishedto observe Reger undisturbed, and whenever Irrsigler appeared,with clockwork regularity, he acted as if I were not there at all,just as he acted as if Reger were not there at all, while he,Irrsigler, discharging his duty, subjected the visitors to thegallery, who, incomprehensibly on this free-admission Saturday,were not numerous, to his customary (for anyone who didnot know him) disagreeable scrutiny. Irrsigler has that irritatingstare which museum attendants employ in order to intimidatethe visitors who, as is well known, are endowed with all kindsof bad behaviour; his manner of abruptly and utterly soundlesslyappearing round the corner of whatever room in order toinspect it is indeed repulsive to anyone who does not knowhim; in his grey uniform, badly cut and yet intended foreternity, held together by large black buttons and hanging onhis meagre body as if from a coat rack, and with his peaked captailored from the same grey cloth, he is more reminiscent of awarder in one of our penal institutions than of a state-employedguardian of works of art. Ever since I have knownhim Irrsigler has always been as pale as he now is, even thoughhe is not sick, and Reger has for decades described him as a statecorpse on duty at the Kunsthistorisches Museum for overthirty-six years. Reger, who has been coming to the KunsthistorischesMuseum for over thirty-six years, has known Irrsiglerfrom the first day of his employment and maintains an entirelyamicable relationship with him. It only required a very smallbribe to secure the settee in the Bordone Room forever, Regertold me some years ago. Reger entered into a relationship withIrrsigler which has become a habit for both of them for overthirty years. Whenever Reger, as happens not infrequently,wishes to be alone in his contemplation of Tintoretto's White-BeardedMan, Irrsigler quite simply blocks the Bordone Roomto visitors, he quite simply places himself in the doorway andlets no one pass. Reger need only give a hand signal and Irrsiglerblocks the Bordone Room, indeed he does not shrink frompushing any visitors already in the Bordone Room out of theBordone Room, because that is Reger's wish. Irrsigler finishedan apprenticeship as a carpenter in Bruck-on-Leitha but gaveup carpentry even before qualifying as an assistant carpenter inorder to become a policeman. The police, however, turnedIrrsigler down because of his physical weakness. An uncle, abrother of his mother, who had been an attendant at theKunsthistorisches Museum since nineteen twenty-four, gothim his post at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, the mostunderpaid but the most secure, as Irrsigler says. Anyway,Irrsigler had only wanted to join the police because the career ofa policeman would, as he believed, solve his clothing problem.To slip all one's life into the same clothes without even havingto pay for those clothes out of his own pocket because the stateprovided them, appeared to him ideal, and his uncle, who gothim into the Kunsthistorisches Museum, had thought the sameway, and anyway there was no difference in this respectbetween being employed by the police and being employed bythe Kunsthistorisches Museum, admittedly the police paidmore and the Kunsthistorisches Museum less, but then servicein the Kunsthistorisches Museum could not be compared withservice in the police, he, Irrsigler, could not imagine a moreresponsible but at the same time easier service than in theKunsthistorisches Museum. In the police, Irrsigler said, a manserved day after day in danger of his life; not so if he served atthe Kunsthistorisches Museum. As for the monotony of hisoccupation there was no need to worry, he loved thatmonotony. Each day he would cover some forty to fiftykilometres, which was more beneficial to his health than, forinstance, service in the police, where the main part of the jobwas sitting on a hard office chair, life-long. He would rathershadow visitors to the museum than normal people, for visitorsto the museum were at any rate superior people with anunderstanding of art. In the course of time he had, he said,acquired such an understanding of art that he would be capableat any time of guiding a conducted tour through the KunsthistorischesMuseum, or certainly through the picture gallery, buthe could do without that. Anyway, people do not take in whatis said to them, he says. For decades the museum guides havealways been saying the same thing, and of course a great deal ofnonsense, as Herr Reger says, Irrsigler says to me. The arthistorians only swamp the visitors with their twaddle, saysIrrsigler, who has, over the years, appropriated verbatim many,if not all, of Reger's sentences. Irrsigler is Reger's mouthpiece,nearly everything that Irrsigler says has been said by Reger, forover thirty years Irrsigler has been saying what Reger has said.If I listen attentively I can hear Reger speak through Irrsigler. Ifwe listen to the guides we only ever hear that art twaddle whichgets on our nerves, the unbearable art twaddle of the arthistorians, says Irrsigler, because Reger says so frequently. Allthese paintings are magnificent, but not a single one is perfect,Irrsigler says after Reger. People only go to the museum becausethey have been told that a cultured person must go there, andnot out of interest, people are not interested in art, at any rateninety-nine per cent of humanity has no interest whatever inart, as Irrsigler says, quoting Reger word for word. He,Irrsigler, had had a difficult childhood, a mother sufferingfrom cancer and dying when she was only forty-six, and awomanizing and perpetually drunk father. And Bruck-on-Leitha,moreover, is such an ugly place, as are most of theplaces in Burgenland. Anyone who can do so leaves theBurgenland, Irrsigler says, but most of them cannot, they aresentenced to Burgenland for life, which is at least as terrible asimprisonment for life at Stein-on-Danube. The Burgenlandersare convicts, says Irrsigler, their native land is a penalinstitution. They try to make themselves believe that they havea beautiful homeland, but in reality Burgenland is boring andugly. In winter the Burgenlanders choke in snow and in summerthey are eaten alive by mosquitoes. And in spring and autumnthe Burgenlanders only wallow in their own filth. In the wholeof Europe there is no poorer and no filthier region, Irrsiglersays. The Viennese are forever persuading the Burgenlandersthat Burgenland is a beautiful province, because the Vienneseare in love with Burgenland filth and with Burgenland dimwittednessbecause they regard this Burgenland filth and thisBurgenland dim-wittedness as romantic, because in theirViennese way they are perverse. Anyway, apart from HerrHaydn, as Herr Reger says, Burgenland has produced nothing,Irrsigler says. I come from Burgenland means nothing otherthan I come from Austria's penal institution. Or fromAustria's mental institution, Irrsigler says. The Burgenlandersgo to Vienna as if to church, he says. A Burgenlander's fondestwish is to join the Vienna police, he said a few days ago, I failedto do so because I was too weak, because of physical weakness.Anyway I am an attendant at the Kunsthistorisches Museumand just as much a public servant. In the evening, after six, I donot lock up any criminals but works of art, I lock up Rubensand Bellotto. His uncle, who had entered the services of theKunsthistorisches Museum immediately after the First WorldWar, had been envied by everyone in the family. Whenever theyhad visited him at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, once in everyfew years, on free-admission Saturdays or Sundays, they hadalways followed him totally intimidated through the roomswith the great masters and had not ceased to admire hisuniform. Naturally his uncle had soon become SeniorAttendant and had worn a small brass star on his uniformlapel, Irrsigler said. With all that reverence and admirationthey had, as he was leading them through the rooms,understood nothing of what he said to them. There would havebeen no point in explaining Veronese to them, Irrsigler said afew days ago. My sister's children, Irrsigler said, admired mysoft shoes, my sister stopped in front of the Reni, in front ofthat most tasteless of all painters exhibited here. Reger hatesReni, therefore Irrsigler hates Reni too. Irrsigler has achieved ahigh degree of mastery in appropriating Reger's statements,indeed he now utters them almost perfectly in Reger'scharacteristic tone. My sister visits me and not the museum,Irrsigler said. My sister does not care for art at all. But herchildren are amazed at everything they see when I guide themthrough the rooms. They stop in front of the Velazquez andrefuse to move away from it, Irrsigler said. Herr Reger onceinvited me and my family to the Prater, Irrsigler said, thegenerous Herr Reger, on a Sunday evening. When his wife wasstill alive, Irrsigler said. I stood there, watching Reger, whowas still engrossed, as they say, in contemplating Tintoretto'sWhite-Bearded Man, and simultaneously saw Irrsigler, whowas not in the Bordone Room, recounting to me chunks of hislife story, i.e. the images with Irrsigler from the past week atthe same time as Reger, who was sitting on the velvet settee,and naturally, had not yet noticed me. Irrsigler had said thateven as a small child his fondest wish had been to join theVienna police, to be a policeman. He had never wanted to haveany other profession. And when, at the time he was twenty-three,they had confirmed physical weakness in him at theRossau barracks, a world had collapsed for him. In his state ofextreme hopelessness, however, his uncle had got him anattendant's position at the Kunsthistorisches Museum. He hadcome to Vienna with nothing but a small scuffed portmanteau,to his uncle's flat, who had let him stay with him for fourweeks, after which he, Irrsigler, had moved as a lodger to theMolkerbastei. In that rented room he had lived for twelveyears. During those first few years he had seen nothing ofVienna at all, he had gone to the Kunsthistorisches Museum inthe early morning, towards seven, and had returned home inthe evening, after six, his midday meal all those years hadinvariably consisted of a slice of bread with salami or withcheese, consumed with a glass of water from the tap in a smalldressing room behind the public cloakroom. Burgenlanders arethe most undemanding of people, I have myself worked withBurgenlanders at various building sites in my youth and livedwith Burgenlanders in various builders' hutments, and I knowhow undemanding these Burgenlanders are, they only need themost indispensable things and actually manage to save someeighty per cent or even more of their wages by the end of themonth. As I was scrutinizing Irrsigler and actually observinghim intently, as I had never observed him before, I could seeIrrsigler standing with me in the Battoni Room the previousweek and me listening to him. The husband of one of hisgreat-grandmothers had come from the Tyrol, hence the nameIrrsigler. He had had two sisters, the younger one, as late as thesixties, had emigrated to America with a hairdresser's assistantfrom Mattersburg and had died there of homesickness, at theage of thirty-five. He had three brothers, all of them living inBurgenland as casual labourers. Two of them, like himself, hadcome to Vienna to join the police but had not been accepted.And for the museum service, he said, a certain intelligence wasabsolutely necessary. He had learned a lot from Reger. Therewere people who said Reger was mad because only a madmancould for decades go every other day except Monday to thepicture gallery of the Kunsthistorisches Museum, but he didnot believe that. Herr Reger is a clever, educated man, Irrsiglersaid. Yes, I had said to Irrsigler, Herr Reger is not only a cleverand educated man, but also a famous man, after all he hadstudied music in Leipzig and Vienna and written music reviewsfor The Times and was writing for The Times to this day, Isaid. Not an ordinary scribbler, I said, not a chatterbox, but amusical scholar in the truest sense of the word and with the fullseriousness of a great personality. Reger was not to becompared with all those garrulous musical columnists whopoured out their garrulous refuse in the daily papers day afterday. Reger was in fact a philosopher, I said to Irrsigler, aphilosopher in the full clear meaning of the term. For overthirty years Reger has written his reviews for The Times, thoselittle musical-philosophical essays which would no doubt oneday be brought together and appear in book form. This sojournin the Kunsthistorisches Museum is undoubtedly one of theprerequisites of Reger's being able to write for The Times injust the way he does write for The Times, I said to Irrsigler,regardless of whether or not Irrsigler understood me, probablyIrrsigler did not understand me at all, I thought and still think.That Reger writes his musical criticism for The Times is notknown to anyone in Austria, or at most a few people knowabout it, I said to Irrsigler. I might also say Reger is a privatephilosopher, I said to Irrsigler, regardless of the fact that it wasa rather stupid thing to say to Irrsigler. At the KunsthistorischesMuseum Reger finds what he does not find anywhere else, Isaid to Irrsigler, everything that is important, everything that isuseful to his thinking and to his work. People may regardReger's behaviour as mad, which it is not, I said to Irrsigler,here in Vienna and in Austria Reger is not taken note of, I saidto Irrsigler, but in London and England, and even in the UnitedStates, people know who Reger is and what an outstandingexpert Reger is, I said to Irrsigler. And do not forget the idealtemperature of eighteen degrees Celsius, which is maintainedhere all the year round at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, I alsosaid to Irrsigler. Irrsigler only nodded his head.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from OLD MASTERS by Thomas Bernhard, Ewald Osers. Copyright © 1985 Suhrkamp Verlag. Excerpted by permission of THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: University of Chicago Press
• Publication date: 1992
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0226043916
• ISBN 13: 9780226043913
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 160