Girlfriends, Ghosts, and Other Stories
Page 2
(1908)
AN ABC IN PICTURES BY MAX LIEBERMANN
THIS IS a book without words; it tells its story in pictures, in fleetingly drawn sketches of a singular art and gracefulness; it contains a fine, understandable language, a tale filled with age-old suspense; it breathes with life, and when you turn its pages, the sorrow and bliss of nature step toward you entrancingly. The vast, sedate country life breathes its wind upon you. Wind and clouds blow and float in these bold and simple lines. Bushes blooming, country roads—and then the masterly pen compels the sun towards its natural, thought-provoking demise. Or we gaze into the front room of a farmhouse where there’s nothing but an old woman sitting pensively at the window. Here the sketching hand has delineated reclusiveness as though accuracy and persuasiveness had been delineated concisely by an experienced novelist. However, the lovely sketch resists any attempts at comparison. A slow, melancholy flock of sheep on a path. Sun shimmering down from above. And then again sorrow arrives, a casket is being carried somewhere, one thinks one can hear the roar from behind ocean waves, everything is dark and disconcerting. Yet upon turning the page, childhood and immortality smile on us again, and once more everything is filled with sunshine. The artist’s pen knows how to instill delight and horror. We grow fond of this book because we have the feeling that we should pick it up and look at it again and again. The true and genuine thing is how compelling, unsophisticated, endearing, natural, and enchanting it is. Each single picture nuzzles up to a letter, a piece of the ocean to B, a childish laugh to F, crying to U, zest for life to Z, hardship to K. Maybe that’s not exactly right. You should seek out the book for yourself and see where I might have slipped up.
(1909)
SKETCH (I)
HE ARRIVED as if from a misty distance. That alone was enough to recommend him. In appearance he was like no other. She thought, “He looks like someone in imminent danger.” He was poor, wore ragged clothes, but bore himself proudly. His demeanor expressed great peace and great inner joy. She thought, “How glorious the taste of his kiss must be.” Further, he gave the impression of having aroused much favor and stirred a lot of interest, and having provoked this, moved on without a single glance to the right or left.
She thought, “There’s something bold and bighearted about him. Will I fall in love with him? He’s certainly worthy of being loved.”
He also looked as if he knew, and then again as if he didn’t know in the least, how attractive he was. There was something lost, something ambivalent about his behavior. She said to herself, “This young man surely understands how to be discreet. I believe it must be exquisite to trust him. Even more beautiful and sweeter to fall into his arms and embrace him.” With all the sureness and strength of his appearance, nevertheless there adhered to him the shimmer of repudiation and defenselessness. Then she thought, “He needs to be protected. How happy it would make me if I were allowed to protect him.” He was young and yet, it seemed, already tested; tenaciously he stood there, the picture of steadfastness and perseverance, and yet he looked as if he longed for a superfluity of gentlenesses and trustfulnesses.
Then she touched him as if unintentionally and accidentally on the arm. She blushed and thought, “He recognizes what I want.” He, too, blushed. Then she thought to herself, “Ah, the noble man! He respects me. He’s a knight.” In her eyes, he now behaved even more beautifully, and more and more strength, pride, and tenderness rose from his being. She thought, “I’m in love. In fact, though, I mustn’t be in love because I’m married. But I am in love.” She intimated with her eyes that he possessed the thoughtfulness, courtesy, and intelligence to understand what she meant and what she felt and what she wanted. And now the novel began. If I were an authoress rather than an author, I’d write two volumes ASAP.
(1911)
POETRY (I)
I NEVER wrote poems in summer. The blossoming and resplendence were too sensuous for me. In summer I was melancholy. In autumn a melody came over the world. I was in love with the fog, with the first beginnings of darkness, with the cold. I found the snow divine, but perhaps even more beautiful, more divine, seemed the dark wild warm storms of early spring. In the winter cold, the evenings glistened and shimmered enchantingly. Sounds bedazzled me, colors spoke. It goes without saying I lived eternally alone. Loneliness was the bride I indulged, the friend I preferred, the conversation I adored, the beauty I enjoyed, the society in which I lived. Nothing was more natural and nothing friendlier to me. I was a clerk and often without a suitable position, which was fine with me. O the delightful dreamy melancholia, the enchanting hopelessness, the heavenly beautiful dejection, genial sorrow, sweet cruelty. I adored the outskirts with its figure of the solitary laborer. The snow-covered fields spoke intimately to me, the moon seemed to be weeping low onto the ghostly white snow. The stars! It was glorious. I was so princely poor and so regally free. In the wintry night, towards morning, I stood at the open window in only my nightshirt, the icy air blowing on my face and chest. And at the same time I had the strange illusion that the air was glowing all around me. Often in the remote room that I inhabited, I threw myself on my knees and begged God to give me a pretty line of verse. Then I walked out the door and lost myself in nature.
(1912)
THE FOREST
IMBUED with all sorts of strange emotions, I walked slowly on the rocky path up into the forest that advanced towards me like a dark-green impenetrable mystery. The forest was still, yet it seemed to me as if it were moving towards me with all its splendors. It was evening and, as far as I can recall, the air was filled with a sweet, melodic chill. The sky threw golden embers into the thicket, and the grasses and herbs were oddly fragrant. The scent of the forest earth bewitched my soul, and as I was bewildered and oppressed, I was able to progress only with slow, very slow steps. Suddenly, from a low coppice of oaks and between the trunks of firs, there appeared a wild, large, beautiful, unfamiliar woman wearing little clothing, her head covered with a small straw hat from which a ribbon fell onto her dark hair. It was a forest woman. She nodded and waved her hand and came slowly toward me. The evening was already so beautiful, the birds, invisible, already sang so sweetly, and now this beautiful woman who seemed to me like the dream of a woman, like the pure idea of what she was. We drew closer and greeted each other. She smiled and I, I, too, had to smile, and was overcome by her smile and captivated by her magnificent fir-like figure. Her face was pale. Now the moon also emerged from between the branches and regarded us both with a pensive solemnity, and then we sat down next to each other on the moist, soft, sweet-smelling moss and gazed contentedly into each other’s eyes. O, what beautiful, huge, wistful eyes she had. A whole world seemed to lie in them. I embraced her huge, soft body and bade her, with as much adulation in my voice as I could put into it (and this wasn’t difficult), to show me her legs; and she pulled her skirt away from them and the heavenly, beautiful, white ivory shimmered softly toward me through the dark of the forest. I bowed down and kissed both legs, and a friendly welcome stream streamed through my beatified body, and now I kissed her mouth, the swelling, yielding goodness and love itself, and we put our arms around each other and embraced for a long, long time in our mutual silent rapture. Ah, how the fragrance of the forest night enraptured me, but how the fragrance pouring from the woman’s body also enraptured me. We lay down on the moss as if on a precious, richly decorated bed, silence and darkness and peace all around us, and above us the dancing and glittering stars and the good, dear, huge, carefree, heavenly moon.
(1912)
Translated with Annette Wiesner
LUNCH BREAK
ONE DAY during my lunch break I lay in the grass under an apple tree. It was hot and before my eyes everything swam in the light green air. The wind swept through the tree and through the beloved grass. Behind me lay the dark edge of a forest with its somber, faithful firs. Desires swarmed through my head. I wished for a lover to match the sweet-fragranced wind. Then, as I lay there comfortably and l
anguidly on my back, with my eyes closed and face directed toward the sky, summer humming all around, there appeared from out of the sunny ocean-and sky-bright bliss two eyes that looked on me with infinite kindness. I also clearly saw cheeks drawing nearer to my own as if they wanted to touch them, and a wonderfully beautiful, as if formed from pure sun, finely curved, voluptuous mouth came out of the reddish-blue air close to mine as if it wanted to touch my mouth as well. The firmament I saw through my eyes I had pressed closed was completely pink and hemmed by a splendid velvety black. I looked into a world of pure bliss. But then all of a sudden I stupidly opened my eyes, and the mouth and cheeks and eyes were gone and all at once I was robbed of the sky’s sweet kiss. What’s more, by then it was time to go back down to the city, back to business and my daily work. As far as I remember, I was reluctant to get up and leave the meadow, the tree, the wind, and the beautiful dream. Yet everything in the world that enchants the mind and delights the soul has its limits, as does, fortunately, all that inspires fear and anxiety. With that I bounced back down to my dry office and kept nicely busy until closing time.
(1914)
THE KITTEN (I)
I HAD JUST come down from a mountain into an ancient, friendly little village. A house stood there so tenderly it seemed to wink at me with its eyes, I mean to say its windows. An old woman stood beside the road and stuck her head into one of the windows, apparently crocheting a conversation with a neighbor. But the main thing is: I saw a cat in front of the house; no, not a cat, rather a young kitten, yellow and snow-white in color. Through the window which was closed I saw an old kind woman sitting at her sewing machine busily sewing. Completely captivated by the dear little kitten, I stopped there in order to carefully observe the animal, which sat totally still, its tail curled between its forepaws. The woman saw a strange man just standing there, stepped to the other window that was open, and looked at me with friendly eyes. “Ah,” she said, “I see you’re watching the cat.” “Yes,” I said. The kitten gazed up at the woman and let out a sweet, tiny, graceful meow, thereby exposing her little teeth. I bid farewell to the woman and walked on. Still, at one point I looked back and saw the kitten chasing a dry leaf. As fast as the wind, the dear lively animal whirled about. And there was indeed a wind blowing from the lake now. I passed through the town which had only one, albeit wide street. And there were two comic little lads, not yet old enough even for school, rolling about on the ground. What else can I add? Not much particularly. There was a large olden castle and next to it flowed a stream. I went home, and while I was walking homeward, I became more and more engrossed in the yellow and snow-white kitten. How is it that we pay heed to such insignificant things?
(1914)
A LITTLE RAMBLE
I WALKED through the mountains today. The weather was damp, and the entire region was gray. But the road was soft and in places very clean. At first I had my coat on; soon, however, I pulled it off, folded it together, and laid it over my arm. The walk on the wonderful road gave me more and more pleasure; first it went up, then straight down again. The mountains were huge, they seemed to go around. The whole mountainous world appeared to me like an enormous theater. The road snuggled up splendidly to the mountain-sides. Then I came down into a deep ravine, a river roared at my feet, a train rushed past me with magnificent white smoke. The road went through the ravine like a smooth white stream, and as I walked on, to me it was as if the narrow valley were bending and winding around itself. Gray clouds lay on the mountains as though they were resting there. I met a young journeyman with a rucksack on his back who asked if I had seen two other young fellows. No, I said. Had I come here from very far? Yes, I said, and continued on my way. Not a long time, and I saw and heard the two young wanderers pass by playing music. A village was especially beautiful with humble dwellings set thickly under the white rock face. I encountered a few carts, otherwise nothing, and I had seen some children on the country lane. We don’t need to see anything out of the ordinary. We already see so much.
(1914)
THE HAND HARP
I STOOD in the dark starless night by the side of a road that led into the mountains. With music and jovial colloquy three farmhands or lads passed me by and with jaunty rhythmic strides continued on. Soon the darkness enfolded them and they could no longer be seen, but the hand harp one of the three skillfully played penetrated back through the dark to enchant my ear. In playing the hand harp sometimes simple young people are great masters. The instrument requires a strong, firm fist and this the lads from the mountains certainly are not lacking. So I stood there listening. The magnificent, regal sound, gentle, large, and warm, followed the boys farther and farther into the distance. By now they might have arrived in the forest, the tone grew softer and quieter and rose and fell in waves. An analogy came to mind: I compared the sound to that of a swan intoning as it glided through the darkness. Soon all was still. Farm-hands love roaming through the mountain region and playing the hand harp before the houses where their young maidens dwell. The three boys were also on their way to see a girl.
(1914)
THE GODDESS
ONCE I was walking lost in thought down the elegant main street. Many others were strolling along as well. The sun shone pleasantly. The trees were green, the sky blue. I cannot recall exactly if it was Sunday. I only remember that around me was something sweet and gentle. But something even nicer was about to occur, namely, that from a light uncertain sky a snow-white cloud descended onto the road. The cloud resembled a large and graceful swan, and on its soft, white, downy back sat—in a reclining pose, one arm carelessly outstretched, filled with a gracious, childish majesty—a naked woman. Thus had I always imagined Greek goddesses. She smiled, and all the people who saw her, enraptured by her graceful, sacred beauty, were compelled to smile as well. O how her hair glowed in the sun! She looked upon the world with her large blue kind eyes, gracing us, so to speak, with her brief exalted visit. The cloud soared up like an airship, and after a short while the glorious sight vanished to me and all the others. The people went into the nearest café and recounted the miraculous event. Still the sun shone pleasantly, even without a goddess.
(1914)
THE LOOK
ONE DAY during a summer noon hour I was slowly walking home to have lunch, when, on Garden Street in the villa quarter through which I directed my steps, in all the heat and all the silence prevailing in the deserted, bright, yes, one would have to say garish street, I met a woman more strange than any I might have encountered recently or in times past. Weary and weak, as if deep down she longed for repletion and appeasement, she walked on the other side of the street, and as she came closer I could see from her noble bearing, which she displayed rather carelessly and almost contemptuously, observing a native custom, and also from her expensive clothes, that she came from gentility. Somewhat indolently, as it were, and only half interestedly, I gazed coolly and calmly at the strange woman, for which she reproached me with a long and deep look of pride and protest. Later I couldn’t escape the notion that the gaze of this beautiful, proud, unhappy woman, before being cast upon me, had reached up into the sky and dropped onto me from high above, and to this day I still see it directed at me, dark brown and blazing, the look this woman gave me.