I sent “Trot, Trot, Trot” to twenty-one to thirty-eight editors in the hope that it might fit a need, but twenty-one to thirty-eight times this hope turned out to be false, and this little Gothic piece failed to meet with a favorable reception anywhere.
Thirty to forty superiors refused to take this unquestionably superlative piece. Instead they rejected it as firmly as could be and sent it straight back to me.
One of these dictators wrote to me: “Mon dieu, what are you thinking?” Another opined: “Ach, why don’t you pass along your fairy-tale piece to The Venetian Night, I’m sure they’ll be tremendously happy to get it. As for us, we would ask to be spared any further trot, trot, trotting and five-to-sixeries.”
I sent “Trot, Trot, Trot” to the abovementioned newspaper, which thanked me politely by saying: “Ach, we would much rather you had understood that this charming piece was not quite right for us.”
“If at first you don’t succeed,” I thought, and I sent the piece to Cuba. They don’t seem interested in it at all. I think the best thing for everyone would be for me to sit in the corner and keep quiet.
October 1919
PART III
HANS
WHEN HANS, somewhat later, after much in his life had changed and he found himself occupied with entirely different things, thought back every now and then to that time, which he had primarily spent sauntering, strolling, and ambling around, the first thing he liked to remember, with a deep inner pleasure, was how one evening, after dinner, when it was just beginning to darken, he went out to the nearby lake where he sat down on a bench provided for such restful sojourns under the finely forking, delicate branches of a willow tree, so that, while in conformity to the gloomy weather it was raining out of the gray summer evening sky into the lake as though crying as if out of tear-filled eyes, he could sit for an hour there and dream.
As previously mentioned, he later used to recall with great clarity, once all sorts of external circumstances had long since forced entirely different impressions upon him, that beautiful evening hour he experienced back then by the lake, where he could abandon himself to his thoughts unmolested, which gave him keen pleasure; where the waves beat against the warm, friendly shore with delightful, painstaking splashes while familiar, heart-captivating figures rose up out of the soft, dark water into the air, with meaningful, noble gestures, such as, for example, the form of his old father, and the face of his dear mother.
A magnificent gentleness and nostalgic beauty lay over the landscape. The high mountain, drawn down by gentle forces, sank mildly with a wonderful gesture into the depths, where the smooth surface of the water gracefully reflected it. The large lake resembled a child who is completely silent because asleep and dreaming. The calm reigning everywhere all around was made yet stronger, and bigger, by the delicate rush of the rain; the silence, rustling noiselessly back and forth like an evening bird, experienced no lessening from the timorous light wind shyly wafting from the west. On the evening and, later, the nighttime water, several boats or barques, as if set in motion by harmonious feelings of home and carried onward by beautiful premonitions, floated past the figure sitting on his bench in a silence that might perhaps have been only slightly disturbed now and then by a late promenader’s footsteps.
As far as he can now recall, it was on the following day that he stood on the high cliffs right next to the lake, from which he looked down, with eyes as amazed as they were contented, into the brightly glittering gentle valleys sparkling with sunny objects and patterns. Everything on land, on water shimmered, shone. The lake was like a happy smile. The nearby forest was still wet with raindrops. Hans pondered where he wanted to walk, then slid into the forest, slipping between the wet branches. He found the green, moist, warm shrubs and underbrush magnificent. Passing by splendid oak trees, he walked back uphill. Down below, the tidy little city lay spread out before him like a toy, presenting a marvelous view. These bright, warm colors were like a many-voiced song. Green and blue and white were the prominent tonic notes, reigning everywhere. That afternoon, he showed up so punctually for lunch that he was astounded himself. In those days, he knew how to manage his walks so that he never missed a mealtime.
He was almost never at home. Rainwater was utterly incapable of preventing him from going out. Every kind of weather was equally lovable and precious. Since the suit and hat he wore were not of the newest or most exquisite, he did not need to take any special care of them. As far as he was concerned, it could rain down upon his hat, shoes, clothes, nose, collar, forehead, hair, and hands as hard and as often as it felt inclined to.
Sometimes, as an exception, he sat in his room and read or wrote something or another. The world was too beautiful for him to spend too much time slumped at home or, to put it perhaps with a slightly more appropriate delicacy, preferring to remain seated and pursue his studies.
He lived in a kind of palace, French-style, that is to say on the sixth floor right up under the roof. His favorite book was Gotthelf’s Erdbeerimareili, a story that he sometimes used to read half out loud to himself, to which end his attic room seemed to serve perfectly as a recital hall. The recitator and the listening public were both, of course, him.
The room’s window offered a truly very lively, entertaining, and exciting view of a bright and often crowded square, which bore some kind of stamp of Andalusia, i.e., Spain. Hans felt that it reminded him of Toledo, namely the square he was in love with and officially engaged to, which presumably was rather superfluous. Now he who felt that this or that reminded him of Granada, Madrid, Barcelona, Seville, or Toledo had incidentally never actually been to such cities, from which one may conclude either that he liked to brag or liked to lie, or liked to fib, or liked to fantasize, poetize, and dream. It is all too easy for those who have an imagination and use it too to seem like scoundrels and cheats. Just by the by.
Let an old tobacco pipe be mentioned here, but hopefully only in passing.
Hans, who owned a total of five books, had to laugh heartily and often at such imposing institutions as the City Library, the Monastery Repository, or the State Chancellery. Rather often and regularly he drank tea, because such a drink or sip had, he fancied, an imagination-awakening effect, which was thoroughly stimulating.
One day, he experienced an unforgettable, magnificent storm, by which he meant in particular a dusky street alongside the railroad tracks down which whizzed a raging tempest whirling up dust with astounding tempestuousness. All kinds of men, women, and children fled hastily from it as though from an unchained monster fast approaching. The flight, the dust, thick smoke, wet wind taken all together made a great impression and painted a frightening and at the same time exciting picture. Then thunder boomed, heavy rain pelted down on the roofs, streets, and hurrying people; lightning bolts tore through the sky; all at once the whole region was strangely dark. Later, though, the world looked friendlier and more cheerful than it had before the storm. With fresher breaths, people stepped back to their doors and out into the purified air where everything sparkled moistly and beckoned confidingly, streets, buildings, and trees adorably shimmering their hellos.
Often he spent the whole day walking in the mountains, with a piece of cheese, chocolate, bacon, or sausage or an egg in his pocket, fighting off thirst, exhaustion, and hunger, which made him happy, since he was a great enthusiast for enduring the kind of strenuous bodily activity that filled his heart with ardent fire and soul with joyful pride.