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 enough 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?”