Selected Stories (15 page)

[1917]

Translated by Tom Whalen and Carol Gehrig

Poets

T
O
the question: How do authors of sketches, stories, and novels get along in life,
the following answer can or must be given: They are stragglers and they are down at
heel.

If thereupon it is seriously asked: Might there be exceptions?, then the reply is:
Yes, there are exceptions, indeed there are, insofar as there exist, or seem to, writers
who live in old country mansions, where, beside their proper tasks as authors, they
do extensive and profitable business with milk, cattle, and grass. When evening comes,
by the light of lamps they commit to paper their inspirations, either in their own
handwriting, or else they dictate to their wives, or to a typist, so that nice clean
copies may result. In this way entire exciting chapters come into being, which slowly
but on the other hand surely expand into volumes, such as may eventually dominate
the market.

If, again, it is asked: How and where, i.e., in what sorts of dwelling, do writers
mostly live?, the answer is very simply this: It is a fact that they prefer to live,
often, in attics, high up, with views all around, because from there they enjoy the
broadest and freest outlook upon the world. They also like, as is well known, to be
independent and unconstrained. Let us hope that they pay the rent, sometimes, as punctually
as possible.

From experience I can say that poets, lyrical as well as epic and dramatic, very seldom
heat their mathematical or philosophical rooms. “If you sweat all summer, you can
freeze a bit for a change all winter,” they say, and so they adjust, in a very talented
manner, to both heat and cold. If, while they are sitting and writing, their legs,
arms, and hands become stiff with cold, they need only to warm their fingers by breathing
on them a while, or, in order to restore the lost suppleness of their joints, they
can stand up and move their bodies about, this way and that, whereupon a sufficient
quantum of warmth comes to them, of its own accord. Physical exercises are quite effective,
what’s more, in enlivening the mind, which may have been overworked and thus become
slack. In general, creative energy, good thoughts, cheerful brainwaves, and the fiery
poetic resolve can quite certainly, and at all times, be an almost perfect substitute
for a glowing stove.

Yes, and I knew a poet, the author of most captivating verses, who lodged for a time
in the bathroom of a lady, which tempts one to ask, if one may so ask, of course,
whether or not he decently and promptly withdrew when the lady herself chose to take
a bath.

Anyway, it is certain that this author felt uncommonly comfortable in the bathroom,
which he decorated raffishly and romantically with old coats, fabrics, rags, and carpet
remnants, and as far as is known, he maintained rigidly and stoutly that he was living
in the Arabian style. Fantasy, ah, good heavens, what a nice, charming, and cheering
creature she is.

We believe that writers are capable of polishing shoes as well as, or perhaps even
better than, senators who dictate, or at least draft, a country’s laws. The truth
is that a senator once, i.e., in a good moment, confided to me that he polished, maintained,
and cleaned his own shoes, as well as those of his beloved spouse, regularly and with
the greatest pleasure. If leading senators have no hesitation, not the slightest,
when it comes to the polishing of shoes, surely any writer of books, which have lasting
value, may perform this task, which is a useful one, because it is extremely steadying
for the nerves.

Are writers, next, to some extent competent in the removal of cobwebs? This question
can be answered, without further detailed and time-wasting investigation, with a joyful
affirmative. They can abolish a cobweb as nimbly as the most expert housemaid; in
the mangling and destruction of such ingenious architectural monuments they are, quite
simply, perfect barbarians, enjoying the task of demolition in the wickedest way,
because it raises their spirits.

Every true poet likes dust, for it is in the dust, and in the most enchanting oblivion,
that, as we all know, precisely the greatest poets like to lie, the classics, that
is, whose fate is like that of old bottles of wine, which, to be sure, are drawn,
only on particularly suitable occasions, out from under the dust and so exalted to
a place of honor.

[1917]

Frau Wilke

O
NE
day, when I was looking for a suitable room, I entered a curious house just outside
the city and close to the city tramway, an elegant, oldish, and seemingly rather neglected
house, whose exterior had a singularity which at once captivated me.

On the staircase, which I slowly mounted, and which was wide and bright, were smells
and sounds as of bygone elegance.

What they call former beauty is extraordinarily attractive to some people. Ruins are
rather touching. Before the residues of noble things our pensive, sensitive inward
selves involuntarily bow. The remnants of what was once distinguished, refined, and
brilliant infuse us with compassion, but simultaneously also with respect. Bygone
days and old decrepitude, how enchanting you are!

On the door I read the name “Frau Wilke.”

Here I gently and cautiously rang the bell. But when I realized that it was no use
ringing, since nobody answered, I knocked, and then somebody approached.

Very guardedly and very slowly somebody opened the door. A gaunt, thin, tall woman
stood before me, and asked in a low voice: “What is it you want?”

Her voice had a curiously dry and hoarse sound.

“May I see the room?”

“Yes, of course. Please come in.”

The woman led me down a strangely dark corridor to the room, whose appearance immediately
charmed and delighted me. Its shape was, as it were, refined and noble, a little narrow
perhaps, yet proportionately tall. Not without a sort of irresolution, I asked the
price, which was extremely moderate, so I took the room without more ado.

It made me glad to have done this, for a strange state of mind had much afflicted
me for some time past, so I was unusually tired and longed to rest. Weary of all groping
endeavor, depressed and out of sorts as I was, any acceptable security would have
satisfied me, and the peace of a small resting place could not have been other than
wholly welcome.

“What are you?” the lady asked.

“A poet!” I replied.

She went away without a word.

An earl, I think, might live here, I said to myself as I carefully examined my new
home. This charming room, I said, proceeding with my soliloquy, unquestionably possesses
a great advantage: it is very remote. It’s quiet as a cavern here. Definitely: here
I really feel I am concealed. My inmost want seems to have been gratified. The room,
as I see it, or think I see it, is, so to speak, half dark. Dark brightness and bright
darkness are floating everywhere. That is most commendable. Let’s look around! Please
don’t put yourself out, sir! There’s no hurry at all. Take just as much time as you
like. The wallpaper seems, in parts, to be hanging in sad, mournful shreds from the
wall. So it is! But that is precisely what pleases me, for I do like a certain degree
of raggedness and neglect. The shreds can go on hanging; I’ll not let them be removed
at any price, for I am completely satisfied with them being there. I am much inclined
to believe that a baron once lived here. Officers perhaps drank champagne here. The
curtain by the window is tall and slender, it looks old and dusty; but being so prettily
draped, it betokens good taste and reveals a delicate sensibility. Outside in the
garden, close to the window, stands a birch tree. Here in summer the green will come
laughing into the room, on the dear gentle branches all sorts of singing birds will
gather, for their delight as well as for mine. This distinguished old writing table
is wonderful, handed surely down from a past age of great acumen. Probably I shall
write essays at it, sketches, studies, little stories, or even long stories, and send
these, with urgent requests for quick and friendly publication, to all sorts of stern
and highly reputable editors of papers and periodicals like, for example,
The Peking Daily News,
or
Mercure de France,
whence, for sure, prosperity and success must come.

The bed seems to be all right. In this case I will and must dispense with painstaking
scrutiny. Then I saw, and here remark, a truly strange and ghostly hatstand, and the
mirror there over the basin will tell me faithfully every day how I look. I hope the
image it will give me to see will always be a flattering one. The couch is old, consequently
pleasant and appropriate. New furniture easily disturbs one, because novelty is always
importunate, always obstructs us. A Dutch and a Swiss landscape hang, as I observe
to my glad satisfaction, modestly on the wall. Without a doubt, I shall look time
and again at these two pictures most attentively. Regarding the air in this chamber,
I would nevertheless deem it credible, or rather postulate at once with certitude
almost, that for some time here no thought has been given to regular and, it seems,
wholly requisite ventilation. I do declare that there is a smell of decay about the
place. To inhale stale air provides a certain peculiar pleasure. In any case, I can
leave the window open for days and weeks on end; then the right and good will stream
into the room.

“You must get up earlier. I cannot allow you to stay in bed so long,” Frau Wilke said
to me. Beyond this, she did not say much.

This was because I spent entire days lying in bed.

I was in a bad way. Decrepitude surrounded me. I lay there as if in heaviness of heart;
I neither knew nor could find myself any more. All my once lucid and gay thoughts
floated in obscure confusion and disarray. My mind lay as if broken in fragments before
my grieving eyes. The world of thought and of feeling was jumbled and chaotic. Everything
dead, empty, and hopeless to the heart. No soul, no joy any more, and only faintly
could I remember that there were times when I was happy and brave, kind and confident,
full of faith and joy. The pity of it all! Before and behind me, and all around me,
not the slightest prospect any more.

Yet I promised Frau Wilke to get up earlier, and in fact I did then also begin to
work hard.

Often I walked in the neighboring forest of fir and pine, whose beauties, wonderful
winter solitudes, seemed to protect me from the onset of despair. Ineffably kind voices
spoke down to me from the trees: “You must not come to the dark conclusion that everything
in the world is hard, false, and wicked. But come often to us; the forest likes you.
In its company you will find health and good spirits again, and entertain more lofty
and beautiful thoughts.”

Into society, that is, where the big world foregathers, I never went. I had no business
there, because I had no success. People who have no success with people have no business
with people.

Poor Frau Wilke, soon afterwards you died.

Whoever has been poor and lonely himself understands other poor and lonely people
all the better. At least we should learn to understand our fellow beings, for we are
powerless to stop their misery, their ignominy, their suffering, their weakness, and
their death.

One day Frau Wilke whispered, as she stretched out her hand and arm to me: “Hold my
hand. It’s like ice.”

I took her poor, old, thin hand in mine. It was cold as ice.

Frau Wilke crept about her home now like a ghost. Nobody visited her. For days she
sat alone in her unheated room.

To be alone: icy, iron terror, foretaste of the grave, forerunner of unpitying death.
Oh, whoever has been himself alone can never find another’s loneliness strange.

I began to realize that Frau Wilke had nothing to eat. The lady who owned the house,
and later took Frau Wilke’s rooms, allowing me to stay in mine, brought, of course
in pity for her forsaken state, every midday and evening a cup of broth, but not for
long, and so Frau Wilke faded away. She lay there, no longer moving: and soon she
was taken to the city hospital, where, after three days, she died.

One afternoon soon after her death, I entered her empty room, into which the good
evening sun was shining, gladdening it with rose-bright, gay and soft colors. There
I saw on the bed the things which the poor lady had till recently worn, her dress,
her hat, her sunshade and her umbrella, and, on the floor, her small delicate boots.
The strange sight of them made me unspeakably sad, and my peculiar state of mind made
it seem to me almost that I had died myself, and life in all its fullness, which had
often appeared so huge and beautiful, was thin and poor to the point of breaking.
All things past, all things vanishing away, were more close to me than ever. For a
long time I looked at Frau Wilke’s possessions, which now had lost their mistress
and lost all purpose, and at the golden room, glorified by the smile of the evening
sun, while I stood there motionless, not understanding anything any more. Yet, after
standing there dumbly for a time, I was gratified and grew calm. Life took me by the
shoulder and its wonderful gaze rested on mine. The world was as living as ever and
beautiful as at the most beautiful times. I quietly left the room and went out into
the street.

[1918]

The Street (1)

I
HAD
taken some steps, useless they had been, and now I went out into the street, agitated,
numb. At first it was like being sightless, and I thought nobody saw anybody any more,
everybody had been blinded and life was at a standstill, everybody groping around
in confusion.

Because my nerves were so tense, I sensed things with exceptional sharpness. Façades
rose up before me, cold. Heads and clothes rushed towards me and vanished like ghosts.

A shiver passed through me; I hardly dared to walk on. One impression after another
seized hold of me. I was swaying, everything was swaying. All the people walking here
had plans in mind, business. A moment before, I too had had an end in view; but now,
no plans at all, but I was searching for one again, and I hoped to find something.