1917
CASEMAN AND HOUSEMAN
AN ENERGETIC, well-known publisher, enterprising as he was, said to Caseman the writer one fine day: “My dear Caseman, pack your suitcase immediately, or your briefcase, or your cosmetics case for all I care, and without deliberating for a long time beforehand set out for Japan. Got it?” The quick and nimble Caseman, having decided on the spot to carrying out this flattering assignment, did not take ten minutes to think it over but simply got a move on, packed all his thoughts and implements into his carrying case, boarded the train, and steamed, journeyed, and drove off to the famous and remarkable land of Japan. The publisher, or publishing man, telephoned an important newspaper man to ask if he would be so kind as to put in his paper that Caseman had packed his case and flown off and slipped away to Japan. Before long, another publisher or publishing man read about it and asked Houseman, the writer, to come see him as quickly as he could, for he had something important to tell him. Houseman was rather busy delivering a polite and wide-ranging address to his cat, and also sipping his tea, and smoking a cigarette, when the letter arrived announcing that he should hurry forthwith to his publisher because he, the publisher, had something important to tell him, Houseman. He put on his best suit, brushed, scrubbed, combed, washed, and adorned his respective parts in the appropriate ways, and marched calmly and coolly to see his businessman. “My dear Houseman,” the publishing man said to Houseman, “I know you are a quiet, tranquil person who values his peace and calm! But now you must emerge from your cozy cocoon and fly with all possible haste, promptitude, and disquiet to Turkey! Caseman’s publisher has dispatched Caseman to Japan, and so I, my dear Houseman, must send you to Turkey. Understood?” Houseman did not, however, understand quite so easily; he did not possess the easy and nimble quickness of mind of a Caseman. He asked for a week to think it over and went back home where, as cheerful as he was thoughtful, he sat down on his old trunk, which started sighing and groaning under the weight, as trunks so often do in these circumstances. Houseman loved the quiet and peaceful hours he spent in this house of his and could not bring himself to say goodbye to said house. “I cannot bring myself to say goodbye to this house, and my trunk is old, it would pain me to send it on such a long journey,” Houseman wrote to his businessman. “I have considered the situation and I ask you to understand and rest assured that I cannot travel to Turkey. I am not the man for the job. I have just spent half an hour in Turkey in my mind and I found it very dull there. I would prefer to give the former Kingdom of Poland a try. Please let me know what you think. I will give you a week to consider it. The fact is, I am simply better suited to Poland than Turkey.” The publisher laughed when he read the letter and said, “That Houseman is useless.”
1917
THE IDOL
A YOUNG man, about whose elegance, education, and background there could be no question, and who enjoyed the undoubtedly good fortune to be numbered among civilized people, had the following curious if not indeed frightful and horrific adventure one day on a visit to the Anthropology Museum. The young man, after looking around with all due fascination in the spacious chambers stuffed full of every imaginable object of interest, suddenly stood, he knew not how, before an ancient wooden figure, which, forbidding and ungainly as it was, made a powerful and subsequently overpowering impression on him, to such an extent that he felt himself as it were bewitched, body and soul, by the primitive idol, for such indeed it was. He couldn’t breathe, his heart was pounding, his blood was coursing like a swollen, raging stream through all his veins, his hair stood on end, his limbs trembled, and he was seized all of a sudden with a monstrous, harrowing desire to throw himself onto the ground in contrition and debasement and pray, as energetically as he could, to the terrible image that had been taken from the deserts of Africa; a barbarian ecstasy percolated through his soul, blinded and robbed of all reason. He emitted a shriek that echoed direly through the spacious hall, and only just enough comprehension was left to him as was necessary to gather himself up to a certain extent with a desperate jolt from the terrifying darkness descending all around his dear bright consciousness. This he did. With extravagantly tempestuous strides, as though a blaze had burst forth behind him, and forfeiting forthwith the eager scientific interest he had so recently evinced, he sped and dashed to the doors, and only when he found himself back in the open air and saw living breathing human beings around him once more did he recover from his panicky consternation, a story that made he who had experienced it stop and deeply reflect, a story at which, however, I merely ask the reader to smile.
1914
THE COVER
I WROTE and wrote, I didn’t leave my desk. Never had I written with such avidity. It was total dedication. Not one thought did I give to food, no more so to sleep. I say this to try to convey how singlemindedly devoted I was to my task. Was I not practically a typewriter? Did I not pour my whole being into this book? More and more furiously did the closely written manuscript pages multiply. I was downright drowning in paper. Just imagine! No days off. As many overtime hours as humanly possible. Not a thought for compensation; all my thoughts were on the work itself. What did I know or care about eight-hour days? Secretly, of course, I nourished great hopes and believed certain things, such as e.g. that the book would one day be read by others with as much pleasure as it had been written with by me. It continued to swell and grow almost against my will, and yet I continued to bust my brains over it. Little by little its dimensions attained considerable extent. A colleague expressed his admiration, and sincerely too. The manuscript already weighed two and a half pounds and appeared to be growing by the hour.
All four seasons of the year had passed. There was plenty of landscape available. Oftentimes I had it rain; by no means did I stint on sunshine. Now and then I ensured some snow and afterwards spring showers. The book lacked wanderings filled with various diversions as little as it did rooms full of visitors, streets full of people, Sundays with the sounds of church bells, lakeshores in the moonlight, women having love affairs, bandits in the Apennines. Is that nothing? When the book was finished, I ran to the publisher and from there to the printer and encouraged them both to hurry. They both smiled, since they both had experience in such things.
Every author has his circle of friends and acquaintances and so I sent the book to a personage who wrote back to thank me and say that for the time being he could praise only the book’s cover. Everything else he planned to partake of only when the occasion arose.