The Eternal Philistine by Ödön von Horváth

Author:Ödön von Horváth
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Humorous, Literary, Black Humor, Political, Fiction
ISBN: 9781935554745
Publisher: Melville House
Published: 2012-03-26T23:00:00+00:00

Now the train was leaving the sea and would return to it again in Toulon. “We’re almost in Marseille now,” said Schmitz. It was already late in the afternoon; the sky was dark blue.

Outside was Toulon, the naval base of the French Republic. The sight of the gray torpedo boats and armored cruisers roused all sorts of childhood memories in Schmitz. And so he remembered how, back when he was a child, he had been allowed to look around one of the armored cruisers of the Imperial and Royal Austro-Hungarian fleet in Pola with his posh aunt Natalia. But his aunt soon went down below with a deck officer, leaving him alone up above. He had to wait for her for nearly half an hour. And he was terribly afraid because the gun barrels started moving all by themselves.

“I just don’t understand the French democracy,” he now thought melancholically in Toulon. “This armament madness is only natural to the Fascists, so long as you take their criminal egoism into consideration, but the French democracy, with its European mission? So you’ll say, La France has got to prepare itself for war against Mussolini because, after all, he’s got his eye on Nice and Corsica and even wants to annex the great Napoleon for himself. And sadly, dear Mariann, what you’re saying there is just logical!”

They finally reached Marseille.

It is well known that all the larger harbor cities distinguish themselves with a colorful life, but Marseille is particularly distinguished.

The center of Marseille’s colorful life is the old harbor. And the center of this old harbor is the brothel district. We shall return to this later.

As the two gentlemen descended the wide stairs of the Gare Saint-Charles, Schmitz already felt considerably better while Kobler was still feeling rather faint. He also still felt like he could not think properly.

“ ‘The Marseillaise’ originated here in Marseille,” Schmitz instructed him.

“Just keep it to yourself,” Kobler rebuffed him in a weak voice.

Night had fallen right after they left Toulon, and now the two gentlemen had no greater desire than to be able to fall asleep as soon as possible in a wide, soft French bed.

They checked into a small hotel on the Boulevard Dugommier, which had been recommended to Schmitz as being extremely tasteful and reasonably priced. Whoever made this recommendation must have been exceedingly malicious because the hotel was not tasteful but rather a sleazy hot-sheet hotel and thus not reasonably priced. Upon arrival, though, the two gentlemen failed to realize this—they were, after all, already half asleep when they walked into the reception. They went silently up to their rooms and undressed automatically.

“Hopefully you’re not a sleepwalker,” wailed Schmitz.

“That should be the least of your worries,” joked Kobler, and then fell into his bed.

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