Mendel, a second-hand bookseller

Author: Stefan Zweig

I am in Vienna again. One night, when I came home from visiting friends in the suburbs, I was suddenly caught in a heavy rain. The wet rain whip suddenly drove people to the door and under the eaves, so I quickly found a place to shelter myself from the rain. Fortunately, there are cafes everywhere in Vienna, so I wore a dripping hat and dragged my wet clothes into the opposite cafe. From the inside, we can see that this is an ordinary suburban cafe with the flavor of old Vienna citizens: unlike the cafe with a concert hall in the center of Germany, there are some attractive and fashionable things here; There are many customers, all of whom are ordinary people at the lower level. They are reading the newspaper rather than eating snacks here. Although blue smoke rings are suspended in the suffocating air, the sofa is obviously covered with velvet, the aluminum-plated counter is shining, and the cafe still looks very clean and pleasant. I didn't pay attention to the sign in my hurry-but what's the point? I'm sitting here, staring at the blue glass window soaked by rain-when will this damn heavy rain pass?

In this way, I sat idly, gradually controlled by a kind of tiredness that made people feel scared. This kind of fatigue emanates invisibly from every real Vienna cafe, making people sleepy like an anesthetic. I looked at the customers absently, because people were smoking in the room, and their faces were gray under the light; I looked at the lady at the cashier to see how she mechanically put sugar and spoons into each cup of coffee of the waiter; I unconsciously read the boring slogans posted on the wall in a sleepy mood, which is not bad. However, I suddenly woke up from a semi-sleep state, just like a person felt a faint toothache, but I was not sure which tooth hurt-the upper tooth or the lower tooth, on the left or on the right; I feel uneasy in my heart, but it's just a mixture of tension and mental confusion. Because I can't figure it out myself. I suddenly realized that I must have been here many years ago, and some memory clues linked me with the walls, chairs, tables and smoky rooms that made me feel strange.

However, the more I try to grasp this memory, the more sly it slips away; Like a sparkling jellyfish swimming in the deepest part of my mind, but I can't catch it. I stared at everything in the room in vain, some of which were naturally unfamiliar to me, such as the counter with the tinkling automatic calculator and the brown partition made of artificial rosewood, all of which must have been prepared later. However, in any case, I did come here more than 20 years ago. I have become a part of the past "me", lurking out of sight like a nail, and staying here persistently. I tried my best to awaken all the senses and captured the traces of the old times around me and deep in my heart, but damn it, I couldn't capture this lost memory that had been annihilated in my mind.

I will get angry, just as people often get angry when they encounter some helpless and helpless situations and realize that their intelligence is not sound enough. However, I didn't give up hope of finally grasping this memory. But I know I have to grasp a subtle detail to keep up, because my memory is very strange, which is both good and bad: on the one hand, it is willful and stubborn, and the wild horse is difficult to tame, and then it is extremely true and reliable; It often hides the most important events and people, the dark abyss that has been completely read and experienced. Without coercion, only the call of will can recall it from the nether world. However, as long as you catch a clue, a postcard with a landscape painting, familiar handwriting on the envelope, or a yellowed newspaper, in an instant, the forgotten things will surface from the dark abyss like a hooked fish, which is vivid, concrete and lifelike. I will think of every detail of someone. When he smiles, his mouth and his left side are missing a tooth. I will hear his intermittent laughter, see his goatee tremble, and another new face will emerge from the laughter; I saw all this at once in my illusion, and I remembered everything this man said many years ago. But in order to see and feel what I am looking for vividly and concretely, I still need a specific stimulus and a little help from the real world. I close my eyes so that I can think harder, let the mysterious hook of thinking appear and catch it. However, this is completely futile! It's all over, completely forgotten. I am angry with this unmanageable machine in my mind. I want to punch myself on the forehead, just like people desperately shake a broken vending machine because it refuses to throw away what should be given. No, I can't sit down quietly anymore; This inherent inefficiency made me feel anxious, so I got up angrily and left my seat to go out for a change of air. But strangely, before I took a few steps, the first light flashed in my mind.

I remember: there should be an entrance on the right side of the counter, which leads to a room without windows and lit by lights. Sure enough, that's the room; Yes, although the wallpaper has been changed, the interior layout is the same as that of that year-this is the roughly square back room: the recreation room. I am in high spirits (I already think I can remember it at once), and I instinctively look around the room: two pool tables are idle, like a green pond with a layer of algae; There is a poker table in the corner. There are two people on one of the tables. I don't know if they are seventh-class civil servants or professors. They are playing games. On the other side, there is a small square table next to the telephone room. At this moment, in this brief moment, the disease is like lightning, and I suddenly had an epiphany:

God, isn't this Mendel's seat? That's right, it's Jacob Mendel, the location of Mendel, a second-hand bookseller!

Twenty years later, I came to his main activity place again, and went to Gluck Cafe on Ahlsell Street! How can I forget him? Can't understand. How can I forget this stranger for so long? This wise man, this genius, is famous among a small group of admirers in the university. The book agent sits here motionless all day. How can I forget him, the symbol of knowledge and the glory and pride of Gluck Cafe?

I closed my eyes and recalled that in an instant, his real and vivid unique image emerged in front of me. I saw him sitting at the square table again. The dusty marble table is full of books and letters. I saw him sitting here, staring at the book through the lens with tenacious, quiet and absorbed eyes; He sat, reading a book, muttering something with a nasal voice, and his upper body swung back and forth with a spotted bald head-a habit formed in eastern Jewish primary schools. Here, on this table, he always reads books and books on this table, uses the reading methods taught him by Jewish schools, sings and shakes his head gently, just like a black cradle. Just as a child falls asleep in a long lullaby and loses consciousness of the world, religious people think that idleness is nothing, so it is easy for people to enter a state of ecstasy by shaking their bodies up and down rhythmically. Indeed, no matter what happens around him, Jacob Mendel can neither see nor hear. Next to him, the pinball players were shouting and cursing, the scorekeeper was running around, the phone was ringing, people were cleaning the floor and making a fire, but he didn't notice. Once, a piece of red-hot charcoal fell from the stove, and the parquet floor was burned to smoke two steps away from him. At that time, a customer rushed into the room after smelling the pungent smell and hurriedly put out the fire; And he-Jacques Mendel, close at hand, smoked by choking smoke, didn't find it at all. This is because he reads like someone is praying, like an enthusiastic gambler gambling cards, like a drunk staring at the air; He read so touching and selfless that I always felt that others' attitude towards reading was rude from then on. In Jacob Mendel, a young bookseller from Galicia, I first realized what it meant to be absorbed. It was it that produced artists, scholars, real philosophers and real lunatics, and saw the tragic happiness and bad luck brought by complete intoxication.

What took me to see him was a colleague who was a little older than me in the university. I am studying mesmer, a doctor and hypnotist from Parac. Even today, he is not famous, but my grades are not good. There are not enough books for reference. As an outspoken novice, I asked a librarian for help, but he was very unfriendly and boasted that I should point out the bibliography instead of him. It was then that my colleague mentioned the name of the second-hand bookseller for the first time. "I'll take you to Mendel." He promised. "This man knows everything and can get any book. He can find the most obscure books for you from any old bookstore in Germany that nobody cares about. This is the most knowledgeable person in Vienna. He is a freak and an old bookworm, but his race is on the verge of extinction. "

So we came to Gluck Cafe. Mendel, a second-hand bookseller, sat there, wearing glasses, a messy beard and black clothes, swinging back and forth like a dark bush in the wind. We went to look for him, but he didn't find him.

He sat, his upper body hanging on the table, reading a book, like a stupa; There is a crack in the coat hook behind him;

Japanese black coats are dangling, and magazines and notes are stuffed in coat pockets. In order to inform him, my friend coughed hard, but Mendel put his thick glasses close to the book and continued reading stubbornly, but still didn't find us. Finally, my friend knocked loudly on the marble table as usual. Mendel raised his head and raised his heavy copper-rimmed glasses to his forehead. A pair of surprised eyes stared at us from under the provoked gray eyebrows-small and alert eyes, as sharp and agile as snake letters. My friend introduced me to him, so I asked him for advice. According to my friend's plan, I first expressed my indignation at the librarian who didn't want to help. Mendel leaned back in his chair, spat carefully, then smiled twice and said with a strong oriental accent, "Won't he help?"

No, it won't! He is a nuisance, a sad old donkey. I have known him for twenty years. He still hasn't made any progress. This kind of person will only ask for money! These doctors and gentlemen would rather push bricks than sit there fiddling with books. "

After this heated discussion, the atmosphere eased. This is the first time he kindly invited me to sit at the square table. The marble desktop is like a clipboard, which is full of words. To me, it is no less than a strange altar, and it is here that the saints in the forest of books inspire people. I immediately talked about the books I wanted: mesmer's contemporaries' works on hypnosis, and later works supporting and opposing hypnosis. After I finished, Mendel narrowed his left eye for a while, just like before the gunman fired. Really, he was absorbed in thinking for a while and immediately listed twenty or thirty books, just like he was looking at an invisible book catalogue. Each book had a publisher, a publication date and an approximate price. I was dumbfounded. Although I had heard about it beforehand, I didn't expect it to be like this. My surprise obviously pleased him, because he immediately continued to play amazing book variations on my theme on his memory piano. Don't I want to know something about sleepwalkers and the initial experiment of hypnosis? Do I also want to know something about Gasnut, exorcism, Christianity and Bob Lavarch? Names, titles and materials on another list. Only then did I realize what an incredible memory I saw in Jacques Mendel! This is a real encyclopedia dictionary, a living all-inclusive book catalogue. I was surprised to find that there is a genius in the book industry in the mediocre and even repetitive skin of the old booksellers in Galicia. After he lifted more than 80 titles in one breath, he pretended as if nothing had happened, but he felt very comfortable with his success and wiped his glasses with a handkerchief that might be white. In order to conceal my surprise a little, I asked with trepidation, which of these books can I get?

"Let's see what we can get," he whispered. "You come back tomorrow, and then Mendel will get you some; A thing is not here, it will be found in another place; Whoever can use his brain will succeed. " I thanked him politely, but to be polite, I did something stupid: suggested that he write down the title I needed on a small piece of paper. My friend immediately nudged me as a warning, but it was too late! Mendel looked me up and down-

What look is this! This is an arrogant, humiliating, mocking and condescending look, the dignified look in Shakespeare's works: When Macduff suggested Macbeth to surrender without a fight, the invincible hero Macbeth looked him up and down with such eyes. He laughed twice again, and his Adam's apple rose and fell dramatically. Apparently, he swallowed a rude phone bill. Mendel, who is kind-hearted and unusual, said nothing rude, because only strangers and people who know nothing about him (Mendel called it "Amhara") would make such humiliating suggestions-write down the bibliography, who is this addressed to? To Jacob Mendel! As if he were an apprentice in a bookstore or a boy in a second-hand bookstore; It seems that his incomparable powerful mind once needed such clumsy auxiliary means. Later, I realized how much my manners would insult him, because Jacob Mendel was a short, ugly Galician Jew with a unkempt beard and a hunchback. He was really a master of memory. Behind his dirty, gray, spotted forehead is an unnamed magic book, and everyone's name and title are printed on it, just like a steel mold is printed on the cover of the book. He can tell exactly where any book was published, whether it was published yesterday or 200 years ago; Can tell its author, initial price and old book price; Can clearly remember binding, illustrations and photocopied attachments. He can see all the books that are already in his hands, or just the windows or libraries that he peeked at from a distance, just like an artist engaged in creative activities vividly sees his inner picture that has not yet been formed for the outside world. If the price list of a book in a second-hand bookstore in Gensburg is 6 marks, he can immediately remember that another such book in Vienna sold for 4 crowns two years ago and who bought it. Indeed, Jacob Mendel never forgot the name of any book or any number. He knows every plant and caterpillar in the book world like the back of his hand, and every star in the turbulent space of this world like the back of his hand. For every major, he knows much more than experts; He is more proficient in libraries than librarians; He has a profound insight into the book inventory situation of most companies, far better than the owners of these companies. He doesn't need to refer to any list or catalogue card, but only relies on his genius and unparalleled memory. Only a large number of examples can illustrate this memory ability. Of course, the only way to cultivate and develop memory to such a perfect and extraordinary degree is to concentrate, which is the eternal secret of completing any superb skill. This strange man knows nothing about anything in the world except books. For him, all the phenomena in the world only exist when they become type and then form books, as if they were above the secular world. However, he did not read for the content of the book, nor for the ideas or facts contained in the book; Only the title, pricing, specifications and cover appeal to him. Jacob Mendel's unique memory of second-hand booksellers is an endless list of names and titles, but it is not printed in the book catalogue as usual, but on the soft cerebral cortex of mammals. Although this list can neither be added at will nor be unique, this unforgettable memory is as perfect as Napoleon's appearance, Cao Jifen's language and Laskell's chess game. If this brain is used by schools or other social institutions, it will surprise thousands of college students and scholars and gain lessons, which will help science and the treasure house we call libraries open to everyone. However, this uneducated Galician second-hand bookseller, almost a person who went to a Jewish primary school, was always rejected by the upper class. Therefore, he can only show his amazing talent, a kind of buried knowledge, on the marble table of Gluck Cafe. However, if a great psychologist arrives (our spiritual world is still short of psychological works), he patiently and persistently sorts out all kinds of animals like a city seal, and describes the types, characteristics, initial forms and various evolutionary forms of magic called memory, then he should not ignore Jacob Mendel, a genius who is familiar with book titles and prices, and the obscurity of second-hand books.

As far as occupation is concerned, Jacob Mendel is naturally just a small bookseller for those who don't know. Every Sunday, the same advertisement appears in "New Freedom" and "New Vienna Daily": "Buy used books, offer preferential prices and receive goods in time. Mendel, go to accel Street. " This is the phone number-actually, it's the phone number of Gluck Cafe.

He searched around some bookshelves, and with the help of an old man running errands with a royal beard, he moved the books he got to his apartment every week, and then moved them out from there. He doesn't have a formal bookseller's license, so he can only do some small businesses with low income. College students sell textbooks to him; Through his hands, these books were transferred to the hands of junior students. In addition, he also helps people introduce and collect books, and charges a small fee as appropriate. It is easy to get good business from him, and he treats money like dirt. People always see him wearing that shabby dress; He only drinks a glass of milk and eats two loaves of bread every morning, afternoon and evening. At noon, please help yourself to something brought to him from the restaurant. He doesn't smoke, he doesn't gamble, and even he is not alive-only the eyes behind the camera are alive, and they constantly and tirelessly support his strange and difficult brain with words, titles and names. The brain is a soft and fertile thing, which greedily absorbs a steady stream of data, just like grass absorbs the rain falling from the sky. He has no interest in the people around him. Among people's secular desires, he only accounts for about one kind, and it is the most human one-vanity. This problem will be solved when a person runs through countless places with nothing and comes to Mendel for advice wearily. This alone is enough to make him feel satisfied and happy. Perhaps it will make him realize that dozens of people inside and outside Vienna respect and need his knowledge. Every big city is like a huge multi-faceted rock with many smooth crystal faces scattered on it. Although it is small, it still reflects that it is bigger than the world in details. Most people know nothing about them. Only insiders and like-minded people think they are valuable. All book lovers know Jacob Mendel. Similarly, people go to the Friends of Music Club to ask Yuzebius Monteishevsky for advice on musical works. Wearing a small round gray hat, he sat among a pile of paper clips and music books in a friendly way, knowing where he came from at a glance and solving the most difficult problem with laughter. Similarly, even today, anyone who wants to know about the drama life and culture of old Vienna must consult the ignorant old man Glossie. Similarly, when a few orthodox bibliophiles in Vienna encounter particularly difficult problems, it goes without saying that they should confidently go to Gruk Cafe and ask Jacob Mendel for advice. Seeing Mendel on this question-and-answer occasion, as a young and curious person, I feel very happy. Usually, if someone brings him a book of little value, he will shut it contemptuously and squeeze out a sentence through his teeth: "two crowns." However, if he sees a rare treasure or a rare book in China, he will respectfully step aside and put a page on it. It can be seen that he suddenly felt ashamed of his dirty hands and black nails. Then, he looked at these pages with deep affection and care, and felt like he was in a deep mountain. No one wants to disturb him at such a moment. In fact, whenever he comes across such a deal, he will look at it carefully and sniff around, and then execute it solemnly in the order of etiquette, which is quite pious. He hunched over, groaned, muttered, scratched his head, made some incomprehensible sounds, dragged a long voice, and shouted "ah" and "oh" with admiration; Then, if he encounters a missing page or a moth, he will shout "Ouch" and "Ouch?" In surprise.

Finally, he respectfully weighed this ancient leather book with his hand, half-closed his eyes, intoxicated by the smell of this heavy square ancient book, no less than a sentimental girl smelling tuberose. When this long and boring process is going on, the owner of the book should naturally be patient. After studying it, Mendel will answer all kinds of questions happily, almost happily, and accurately tell endless anecdotes and dramatic reports about the price of this book. At this time, he looks energetic, young and lively; There is only one thing that will make him furious-inevitably, inexperienced novices will want to pay him as a thank you for evaluating books. At this time, he hid to one side in injustice, just like a gallery manager was humiliated when a passing Yankee asked him for a tip. This is because, for Mendel, holding a precious book is like a tryst between men and women. For him, such a moment is Plato's night of love. Only books, not money, can control him. Therefore, some big collectors tried to invite him, and the founder of Princeton University asked him to be a consultant and purchasing specialist in his library, but all failed-Jacob refused to quit. It's hard to imagine that he can go anywhere other than Gluck Cafe. Thirty-three years ago, he, an inconspicuous Jewish young man with a soft little black beard and curly hair, came to Vienna from the East to be a rabbi, but he soon left the majestic single god Yahweh and devoted himself to the glorious god in the book world. In those years, he first came to Gluck Cafe, and since then it has gradually become his studio, main residence and mailroom, as well as his world. ~ Every night, an astronomer observes the starry sky through the small round hole of the telescope on his observatory and observes the mysterious orbit of the stars. They are intertwined, constantly changing, sometimes going out, and then shining again in the sky; Coincidentally, Jacob Mendel sat at the square table of the Gluck Cafe, observing another world through his glasses, that is, the world of books-a world that is always running, constantly changing and regenerating, and observing the world above us.

Mendel is naturally highly respected in the Gluck Cafe. In people's eyes, the reputation of this cafe is more associated with his invisible pulpit than with the name of the founder of this cafe, the great musician, Hazel Starr and the creator of Evy Zinnia, Christopher Willibart Gluck. Mendel became a part of the property there, just like the old cherry counter, two hastily repaired pool tables and copper coffee pots;

His desk has become an inviolable reserved seat, because people in cafes always treat Mendel's customers so warmly that they have to buy something every time, so most of the money he earned from knowledge goes into the wallet hanging on Daeuble's hip. Mendel, a second-hand bookseller, also enjoys various preferential treatments: he can use the telephone at will, where he can save letters for him and order various books and periodicals on his behalf; The loyal old cleaning lady brushes his coat, sews buttons and sends a small bag of clothes to the laundry every week. Only he can order lunch from the restaurant next door; Every morning, Mr. Stendhal, the owner of the coffee shop, goes to Mendel's desk and greets him personally (Jacob Mendel is buried in a book, but naturally he doesn't find it). At 7: 30 in the morning, he arrived at the cafe on time and didn't leave until he turned off the lights and closed the door. He never talks with other customers, reads newspapers and is unaware of the changes around him. On one occasion, steinhardt politely asked him if reading under the electric light was more comfortable than reading under the flashing gas light. He looked at the light bulb in surprise:

Although he spent several days trying to modify the electric light, he didn't notice it at all. Only tens of millions of letters like black cilia poured into his brain through glasses like two round holes, through those two flashing and sucking lenses; Everything else is just a kind of empty and ethereal noise, which floats past my ears like running water. For more than 30 years-in other words, whenever he is awake, he always sits at this square table: reading, comparing and calculating; Only the night will interrupt this real and endless dream for a few hours.

Therefore, when I saw Mendel's marble table preaching proverbs lying idle like a tomb board, I felt an inexplicable surprise. Only when I am a little older now can I understand how much such a person will lose when he dies! First of all, because in our irretrievable monotonous world, all unique things become more and more precious every day. Secondly, although I was young and inexperienced, I liked Mendel very much from my deep intuition. Through him, I got close to a great secret for the first time-all the unique and powerful things in our life can only be produced by a desperate inner concentration, noble paranoia and sacred fanaticism. He showed me that in today's cafes with electric lights and telephone rooms, there may be a perfect spiritual life, a spirit of serving an idea enthusiastically and selflessly like Indian yogis and medieval monks. I saw such an example of service spirit in this unknown little secondhand bookseller, which is much more brilliant than what we contemporary poets have seen. Still, I can forget him. Yes, it was wartime, and I was as immersed in my work as he was. But now, in front of this empty table, I am ashamed of him and curious at the same time.

Where did he go? What happened to him? I called the lobby to ask. No, it's a pity that he doesn't know this Mr Mendel. This gentleman is not a frequent visitor to this cafe. However, maybe the master knows? Tang came slowly with a big belly and thought for a while-no, he didn't remember a Mr. Mendel either. But maybe I'm talking about Mr Mandel, the owner of Laurian Hutong grocery store? A trace of bitterness welled up in my mind, and I realized what impermanence of life is: since all traces of our life were blown away at once, what's the point of living?

Here, right here, a person once breathed, worked, thought and talked here for thirty years, maybe forty years. However, three or four years later, after a new Pharaoh came on stage, no one could remember Joseph-no one could remember Jacob Mendel, an old bookseller in the Gluck Cafe. I almost angrily asked the person in charge of the hall if I could meet Mr. steinhardt and who else was here among the old people in the past. What? Mr Stendhal. God, he sold the cafe a long time ago, and now he's dead. As for Don's stationery, he now lives in his manor near Clem. Yeah, there's no one left. ...

But maybe, the smell, and! Mrs. Spohill, the cleaning lady, is still here. However, she may not remember individual customers. However, I immediately thought that Jacob Mendel would never be forgotten, so I asked him to call this woman.

Mrs. Spohill came out of the back room with unkempt hair and swollen legs. As she walked, she hastily wiped her red hands with a cloth: it was obvious that she had just cleaned the dirty house or cleaned the windows. I immediately noticed that she was a little embarrassed and suddenly called her to the front of the bright and magnificent cafe. She felt very uncomfortable. The people of Vienna have always been afraid of spies sent by the police to investigate. At first, she looked at me from head to toe with distrust and vigilance. Why did she come here? However, as soon as I asked Jacob Mendel, she was shocked and stared at me with wide eyes. "My god, poor Mr Mendel! Does anyone else think of him? Oh, poor Mr. Mendel! " She was so moved that she almost cried, just like an old man talking about their youth and that long-forgotten era! That's what happened. I asked her if Mendel was still alive, and she said, "God, it's been five or six years since poor Mr. Mendel died, no, it's been seven years." Think about such a kind person, how many years have I known him-more than 25 years! You know, he was here when I came. Let him die like that-what a pity! " She became more and more excited and asked me if I was his relative. You know, no one ever cares.