And the miracle continued. Because it soon turned out that this poem, which was already a finished work of art with the closing verse about the nightingales, was even further elevated by the following magnificent addition:
. . . . . . . Nachtigallen.
die uns über Raum und Zeit
über uns hinaus zu den Gefilden
Gottes wiegen in die Ewigkeit
wo die Engel mit den milden
Mutterhänden unsren Liebesbund
heiligsprechen und in Harfenchören
und von Mund zu Mund
jubeln, daβ wir wieder Gott gehören.[3]
“Of course it’s hard to say,” Karl Kraus wrote in a postscript, “whether we ought to bemoan the loss of the full caesura following the line about the nightingales, or be thankful for the magnificent resurrection contained in this relative clause woven from these two verses that lead straight up to God. No matter what the results of the investigation into the authorship, and even if it turns out that admirers of spiritual values have found and memorized a poet who has gone unknown for centuries — it cannot produce a greater miracle than the work itself, and editors around the world will remain shamed by the fact that the asylum is, if not the source, then the refuge and sanctuary of this creation.”
The unresolved question of authorship had its own story: Czernopol was not a city to believe in miracles. After Blanche’s father and one of his colleagues — the junior house physician Dr. Kipper — forwarded the poems of the poor mentally ill person to a publicist named Sperber, who published them in the Tschernopoler Tageszeitung, people began to treat the case “scientifically.” The insane locksmith was then subjected to a cross-examination that yielded the following result:
Karl Piehowicz, whose command of German is lacking, and whose transcription of the poems is so difficult it literally requires deciphering, is not capable of defining single words of his poems. When repeating certain dates from his life he commits inaccuracies and entangles himself in contradictions. Upon much questioning and urging he confesses that he spent time in Morocco in the Foreign Legion in the company of some Germans, who “together wrote poems with him,” and his description of the origin of these poems is peculiar and not easily understood. The forementioned legionnaires evidently spent their free time trying to outdo one another composing poems, polishing and improving them, etc. Today Piehowicz is unable to identify with any degree of certainty the authors of the individual poems; he is sure of having composed only one of the poems himself. After much questioning, he ascribed the verse “The Young Dancer” to a certain Otto Berger, who comes from Stuttgart or Strassburg, and whose last address in Morocco he claims to know … Karl Piehowicz maintains that he possesses a notebook at home containing 1,500 (!) poems …
“My father is of the opinion that it doesn’t matter whether his patient was really the author of the poems or not,” said Blanche. “It would be miraculous enough if this entirely uneducated man had preserved them in his memory as the legacy of an unknown poetic genius and thereby saved them for us. Precisely at a time when, according to my father, all the keepers and custodians of German writing let this poet go undiscovered, the miracle is all the greater. By the way, my father speaks with great respect of Major Tildy, whom you admire so much. My father says that it’s only thanks to his soothing and calming influence on Piehowicz that the man has been able to withstand all these terrible examinations, without having his condition made much worse. Of course, ever since they started he feels he’s being watched at every step, so he looks for protection from Major Tildy, who seems to have a strange authority over him. Anyway, Piehowicz is devoted to him like a loyal dog, he does everything Tildy says, and is never at peace unless Tildy is by his side. Those are his happiest moments, in the little toolshed of the vegetable garden, where they both work, when he sits down with Tildy and can tell him his poems. Tildy is very conscientious about recording them. Piehowicz isn’t always capable of inventing them or remembering them, you see — he needs inspiration. Because he has never felt it in all the years he has spent in the institution up to now, and my father is inclined to attribute it to Tildy’s arrival, who apparently has had an influence on other patients as well that is quite puzzling but undeniably beneficial. Even ones who are raving mad grow calmer when Tildy, who is fearless, enters their cell. But then there are others who get worked up and angry at the very sight of him. My father says that he projects a force that no one can resist except people who are either completely without feeling or else depraved. So I owe you an apology.” Blanche smiled her beautiful, poignant smile, which in moments like that could exude such delightful and beguiling charm. “I was being insensitive when I didn’t understand why you wanted to hear about Herr Tildy more than listen to the poems. Imagine, Major Tildy is very happy in the institution. He’s never said a word about the fact that he’s being kept there with absolutely no justification. In my father’s estimation, he is a cultivated man, though not particularly educated in literature, but still his taste is so uncompromising that he not only immediately recognized the genius of the poor locksmith, but when he and Piehowicz make their selection from among the poems that Piehowicz writes down for him or which he transcribes according to the locksmith’s words, Tildy always knows which one to choose and how to tell the genuine from the false. My father says that Herr Tildy’s sense of justice, which the mentally ill notice as well — because that’s the first thing that anyone with any sensitivity notices about him — is so pronounced that it also guides him unfailingly in literary matters. Many of the poems Piehowicz produces contain verses borrowed from others, for instance there’s one about a southern landscape that begins with Goethe’s Kennst Du das Land, wo die Zitronen blüh’n. [4] Much to the astonishment of my father and Dr. Kipper, Tildy had no idea it was a line by Goethe, though he immediately expressed his doubt. He felt it wasn’t ‘genuine’! Of course, even if he’s never been interested in literary things up till now, he’s bound to have heard that more than once. But his reaction was the same with other, lesser-known citations. One poem, which Piehowicz calls ‘Life of a Legionnaire,’ closes with the line Auf ferner, fremder Aue [5] … And another verse out of a group of Italian poems is from Schiller: Prächtiger als wir in unserm Norden [6] … Tildy, who didn’t know the poem, said without hesitating that the lines seemed ‘borrowed.’ In the meantime, it’s no longer just a question of choosing only poems that are entirely original — people are also demanding some kind of evidence that would establish to what degree the mentally disturbed locksmith might be the author of lyrical compositions. As I mentioned, Herr Tildy, Dr. Kipper, and my father all agree that it doesn’t really matter, because as long as no other author can be determined, Piehowicz is the source of the wondrous poems he has given us. But the more it becomes clear that he can’t be the author, the more they should leave him in peace. And it seems more and more certain that he cannot have written the poems. After all, he completely lacks the education for that, he knows even less than Tildy — neither what he is quoting or whom — and his very low intelligence in general makes it questionable whether he could ever produce something original of such beauty. But that’s a different issue. What I wanted to say is what a fine ear Major Tildy has for distinguishing what is complete from what is not complete. From the cycle of Roman Poems he picked two where he claims to recognize that Piehowicz is quoting poems from several authors: