1914
ADVENTURE ON A TRAIN
ONCE I took a train trip where I was sitting all alone in a compartment, like a contemplative hermit in his silent, secluded cloister. The train stopped at some station, the doors were flung open with an abruptness befitting an official of the railways, and into the strange room on wheels where I was stepped a woman. It was no different for me than when sunshine enters a night-black carriage, so bright did this adorable feminine apparition seem to me, approaching as though especially to see me. She said a friendly good evening. Who was gladder to hear it than I? The train started moving again forthwith and out into the night and the unknown land was borne the chamber in which there were two persons sitting now, looking at each other with friendly gazes. A smile gave rise to a word, and while the wheels clattered industriously on and on I had already, like a rogue and a thief, perceived the proper opportunity and I sat at her side and put my arm around her enchanting figure. The wheels were busily working and regions I did not know flew past us two happy people, outside in the quiet dead of night. I was busily working with my lips upon hers, which were exquisite, like a child’s lips. One kiss unleashed the next, one kiss followed the last. I took my time with this sweet business and turned into an artist of kissing, an artist of caressing. Oh, how the dear, sweet woman smiled at me with her beautiful mouth and with her beautiful dark eyes, which, as they looked into mine, kissed me. Paradisiacal wantonness lay upon her lips, paradisiacal pleasure shone from her eyes. I, meanwhile, had already learned very well how to manage things so as to get the greatest excitement from a kiss and to put the highest pleasure into it. Beneath our lusty lovemaking, the wheels clattered ever onward, and the train hurtled through the land, and the two of us held each other in our arms like saints in the embrace of the supernatural spheres, cheek pressed to cheek and body against body, as though we had previously been two separate thoughts but were now one single one. How happy it made me that what I was doing made this sweet creature happy. To quench her blissful thirst for love made me the happiest of mortal creatures, made me a god. But now the train has stopped again, and the most ravishing of women has disembarked, while I had to keep riding.
1914
APOLLO AND DIANA
I WAS, I remember, employed at the brewery in Thun. About ten years ago it must have been, and I had the good fortune to be living in a lovely, spacious old house right next to the magnificent castle on Castle Hill. I drank a lot of beer, as my brewing job quite naturally tempted me to do, went swimming in the surging Aare, and often went for walks in the lowlands surrounding Thun, staring up in amazement at those colossi, the mountains, which towered up into the sky like monstrous fortresses. One day I had an exciting little titillating experience with my landlady, the clerk’s wife, and in fact it was because of a picture I had hanging on the wall of my room. This room was comfort, coziness, and homeyness itself. I will never forget this sap-green-tinged room, pretty as a picture, but nor will I forget the sunbeams, so golden and at the same time so crafty, smiling their way into this hidden chamber. But now to the clerk’s wife. She took the picture, a photograph of Cranach’s painting Apollo and Diana (the original hangs in the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin), off the wall where it had been hanging for my amusement and delight and put it, prudishly and accusingly facedown, on my table. I came home and immediately noticed with my two ever-attentive eyes the work of this false sense of morality, and I quickly and with determination seized hold of the quill waiting ready for service at all times and wrote the following cheeky note: “Dear Madam, Has the picture, which I like, since it consists of nothing but pure beauty, perhaps done you some sort of harm, so that you felt compelled to remove it from the wall? Do you find it ugly? Are you of the opinion that it is not a respectable picture? In that case, may I most humbly ask you simply not to dignify it with another look. But perhaps, my dear madam, you would permit me to dispose as I see fit of the property I hold to be mine and place the picture once more in the place it once occupied. I will affix it back onto the wall at once and I feel certain that it will not be taken down again.” The clerk’s wife read and took away the note. What a scoundrel I was! To write such hard words to such a lovable woman. Still, these few words—what a great effect they had. How affectionate the clerk’s wife was to me from that moment on. She was charming, charming. She even requested my torn pants so that she could mend them—she, the clerk’s wife.
1914
A STORY
A YOUNG woman and a young man were very unhappy. He was supposed to carry her off, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. She wanted to be carried off, but had a vague feeling that it would turn out to be rather difficult. I do not know what era this story takes place in, anyway, the time came, the hour struck, it was night (obviously), the wind blew, the forest nearby was pitch black. Actually the moon should have been shining but unfortunately this was not the case. What did our lovers do? They looked at each other long and hard, with doubt and apprehension in their eyes. Finally they hurried off, but it was as though they were hurrying away from their unknowing, and toward what? They reached the open field, the grass gave off its scent, it was harvest time. They were already getting tired and somewhat bored. Elopings were usually always so exciting, intoxicating, hearts pounding, expectations mounting uncontrollably. But this one was different. When they reached the forest and sat down on the ground, they heard noises from this direction and that, as though someone were coming, but no one came. Nothing happened, except that the fir trees swayed, the needles whispered, the leaves rustled, the branches creaked, a screech owl softly cried, and above the trees twinkled the stars. A feeling of acceptance came over them both at that moment, and they said to each other that it would be better if they turned back. Everything would stay just the way it was, and that would be the most beautiful thing of all. They decided it was a good idea to return home, and on their way home they smiled. A dog barked, otherwise all was quiet, and now the moon came out, as though arriving on the scene to endorse their decision. As if pleased with their self-denial. They wanted to renounce everything and in future be nothing but dutiful and obedient, no longer thirsting for adventure, but virtuous and honest instead, no longer stupid, but intelligent instead, no longer fractious and restive, but well-behaved instead, no longer high-spirited, but also no longer indecisive. “Tomorrow morning I will play for my edification a piece on the piano,” she said, and he said something too. They loved each other no less as a result of their abortive elopement—in fact, true love began only then. Now, for the first time, they grew close. Now that they were no longer thinking of outward appearances, inner feelings were born. They now laughed, held each other close, kissed, were gargantuanly good to each other, all as a matter of course. Before, each had imposed on the other the burden of being frightfully courageous, of underestimating the peace and calm of everyday life. Now that they had calmed down and no longer wanted to do anything extravagant, their inclinations burst forth like freckles, they were satisfied, took each other home, and thought that being a little patient before they got engaged was actually rather nice. When they arrived back home, someone was standing there, who asked them, “Well then, are you agreed?” They answered, “Yes, we are.” And so our story has reached a happy conclusion—that’s the main thing, now the weather will be nice tomorrow.
August 1921
THE NEW NOVEL
EXCEPTIONALLY estimable, good, nice, dear people they all were but they all, unluckily, kept asking me about the new novel, and that was excruciating.
Whenever I met an estimable friend on the street, he said and asked, “How’s your new novel coming? Countless avid readers are rejoicing in advance and are already eager to see your new novel. You were nice enough to let on that you’re writing a new novel, were you not? Hopefully it’ll be out soon, the new novel.”
Unhappy me, deplorable wretched me!
Of course I had dropped all kinds of hints. It’s true. I had been unwise and imprudent enoug
h to let on that a new big novel was flowing forth under my quill or nib.
And now it was me in the inky blackness. Lost!
Ghastly was my condition, monstrous my state.
I went out in public and I heard from this corner and that corner: “So when is your new powerful novel finally coming out?”
I was almost ready to keel over.
“If only it had never crossed my mind to let on that a new novel was budding and blossoming!” a voice full of despair cried out within me.
My vexation was as great as my shame. Only by overcoming a kind of horror did I still dare now and then to show my face in the houses whose conveniences and hospitalities had once enchanted me.
To my publisher, estimable from every point of view, I had become nothing less than the bull’s-eye in the cross-hairs of the highest-caliber worries. Whenever I sat in his office he looked at me steadily, sadly, and deeply crestfallen as though I were a horrible child. Anyone can easily understand how maddening that was.
To the most estimable person in the world I had become the object of melancholy meditations.
Kindly, despondently, in a soft, still, graveside voice as though talking about matters irredeemably hopeless, he asked:
“How’s your new high-caliber novel coming?”
“It’s making progress, slowly; it’s coming along,” I tonelessly answered.
Not even I believed what I was saying, and the most estimable of persons believed it just as little as I did. His smile was tired, flat, and full of resignation.
Those and suchlike smiles are smiled only by someone who wants to convey that he has decided to forego everything splendid in the world.
One time he said:
“If you aren’t bringing me your new successful novel then there’s little or no point in coming to see me at all. The sight of a novelist who, instead of actually delivering his new capacious novel, only ever promises to deliver it, pains me, and for this reason I would ask you to put off visiting my office until you are in a position to lay your new and good novel on my desk.”
I was shattered.
“Oh, if only I had never let on that a new, respectable novel was arising within me! Alas, that it ever decided to cross my mind to promise what I could not deliver and lay on the table! If only I had nevermore given anyone to understand that a novel as beautiful as it is exciting and long-winded would be in the offing and presumably available in bookstores rather soon!”
This I cried out loud, this was my lament. I felt reduced to nothing.
How abundantly I had come to know the misery it is a novel-writer’s lot to experience when he more faithfully promises to deliver his new, astounding, and gripping novel than he in fact truly puts it on the table and delivers it, who lets on about it and holds out the prospect of it more than he writes it.
I could no longer show my face in public among the estimable people who are in the habit of asking a novelist about his new novel. But I soon brought this oppressive, lamentable condition to a sudden end by one day so to speak scramming and hitting the road.
1918
THE LETTER
WITH A letter in my pocket that the mailman had brought me and that I had not had the courage to open, I walked with slow, deliberate footsteps up the mountain into the forest. The day was like a charming prince dressed in blue. Everywhere, it chirped and blossomed and bloomed and was green and fragrant. The world looked as though it could only have been created for tenderness, friendship, and love. The blue sky was like a kindly eye, the gentle wind a loving caress. The woods were thicker and darker and soon brighter again, and the green was so fresh and new, so sweet. Then I stopped on the clean, yellowish path, pulled out the letter, broke the seal, and read the following:
“She who feels compelled to tell you that your letter surprised her more than it pleased her does not desire you to write to her again; she is amazed that you found the courage to permit yourself such familiarity even once, and she hopes that with this act of bold, foolhardy recklessness the matter will be permitted to rest once and for all. Has she ever once given you any sign that could possibly have been interpreted to mean that she wished to learn what you felt for her? Uninteresting as they appear to her, the secrets of your heart leave her utterly cold; she possesses not the slightest understanding for the outpourings of a love that means nothing to her, and thus she begs you to let yourself be guided by the knowledge of how good a reason you have to keep an appropriate distance from the sender of this letter. In relationships that are destined to remain on a solely respectable level, every warmth, you will surely agree, must remain categorically forbidden.”
I slowly refolded the letter containing such sad and demoralizing tidings, and while doing so I cried out: “How good and friendly and sweet you are, Nature! Your earth, your meadows and forests, how beautiful they are! And, God in Heaven, how hard your people are.”
I was shaken, and never before had the woods seemed as beautiful to me as they seemed at that moment.
1918
THE ITALIAN NOVELLA
I HAVE strong cause to doubt if readers will enjoy a story like this about two people, two little people, namely a charming nice young woman and an honest good and in his own way at least just as nice young man who enjoyed the most lovely and heartfelt relations of friendship with each other. The tender and passionate love they felt, each for the other, was like the summer sun in terms of heat and like decembral snow in terms of purity and chastity. Their kind mutual intimacy seemed unshakable, and their fiery, innocent inclination toward each other grew from day to day like a wonderful plant rich in color and as rich in perfume. Nothing seemed able to disturb this very sweetest of conditions and very most beautiful trust, and everything would have been nice and perfect if only the honest good dear and young man were not deeply familiar with the Italian novella. His precise knowledge of the beauty, splendor, and magnificence of the Italian novella turned him, however, as the perceptive reader will soon see, into a real numskull, temporarily robbed him of half his healthy common sense, and caused, forced, and necessitated him one day, morning, or evening, at eight, two, or seven o’clock, to say to his beloved in a dull voice, “Hey, listen, I have something to tell you, something that has oppressed, plagued, and tormented me for the longest time, something that will make perhaps both of us unhappy. I cannot keep it from you—I must, I must tell you. Gather up all your courage and fortitude. It may happen that these dreadful and frightful tidings will kill you. Oh, I want to give myself a thousand resounding slaps on the face and tear out my hair.” The poor girl fearfully cried out, “You’ve never been like this before. What is torturing you and racking you with pain? What is this dreadfulness that you have kept secret from me until now and now have to confide in me? Out with your words on the spot, so that I may know what there is to fear and what there is still, somehow, to hope. I do not lack the courage to endure what is most difficult and bear what is most extreme.”—She who spoke these words trembled throughout her whole body, of course, with fear, and her unease spread a deathly pallor over all the charms of her face, otherwise so fresh and pretty. “Listen and learn,” the young man said, “that I am alas only too thoroughly expert in the Italian novella, and that precisely this knowledge is our undoing.”—“What do you mean, for God’s sake?” asked the pitiful young woman, “How is it possible that education and knowledge could make us miserable and destroy our happiness?” At which point it pleased him to reply: “Because the style of the Italian novella is unique in its beauty and vitality, and because our love has no such style to show for itself. This thought makes me miserable, and I am no longer able to believe in any happiness.” Both of the good young people let their heads, their little heads, hang down for apx. 10 minutes or a bit longer, and were completely taken aback and adrift. But little by little they regained their composure and their lost faith and they returned to their senses. They picked themselves up from their mournful and dispirited state, looked each other affectionately in th
e eye, smiled, held hands, cuddled up close, were happier and friendlier than ever before, and said, “We want to take joy and pleasure in each other, now as before, despite all the style and splendor of the Italian novella, and tenderly love each other as we once did. We want to be modestly satisfied and not worry about any exemplary models that could only rob us of our own tastes and natural enjoyment. To be bound to each other simply and truly and be warm and good is better than the most beautiful, distinguished style, which can go hang as far as we’re concerned, right?” With these merry words they kissed each other in the most heartfelt way, laughed at their laughable dejection, and were once again satisfied.
A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories Page 9
