She is mild-mannered, even negligent. When she walks, she tilts her head slightly to the left. However, the slightest upset can make her lose her temper and then her whole body trembles and rocks and her eyes squint and bulge out of their sockets. I’ve seen her in this state a couple of times and imagined she was inflating, that I should grab her housecoat to stop her floating off like a paper balloon.
Today I spoke to Roby, the young lame boy I thought must be Frau Berends’ nephew. He told me forcefully, absolutely sure of himself, that it’s fiddlesticks to think he is anyone’s nephew. I was astonished.
Roby is pitiful. Mystery surrounds that boy and he must know the truth, though he’s only ten years old. With his huge black shoe and woeful expression I can’t look at him without feeling moved. I know of no other child’s face with more anguished eyes and mouth. He has large, still blue eyes with a touch of gray, wide-open and full of melancholy. His usual look is that of a simple soul — half-gawping mouth, hands in pockets, gangling body. Roby spends his days out of the house. I don’t know if he even eats with Frau Berends. He often comes back at ridiculous times of the day or night and when he does, he always plays with the kitten first. Roby lies in the passage and teases the cat with a paper ball or a piece of string or by making shadows on the wall with his fingers. The cat jumps, hits the wall, knocks his head against the bar in the chair and meows in pain. However, he knows Roby well, climbs onto his shoulder and wraps his back around his ear and his tail around the nape of his neck. The boy rewards him with somersaults and all kinds of games. You sometimes hear a loud noise in the middle of the night: it’s Roby’s wooden shoe that’s clumsily hit the floor while he’s clowning with the cat. This shoe is the only noise you hear in the house at night: it sometimes sounds more muffled, when Roby, who apparently doesn’t take his shoes off very often, hits the slats in his bed with the big one. On my first days there I found that noise acutely distressing. Now I’m used to it.
The big cat, on the other hand, can’t stand the boy. She’s an animal that can’t bear poorly dressed people. She tolerates Roby to an extent; her loathing isn’t so loud or offensive; in any case, the boy’s ripped elbows, the holes in his trousers, and stiff, messily cut hair don’t bring out the best in her.
She has other features that make her a cat for a lordlier establishment. She is fat, with fluffy, painfully flaccid legs and an eye veiled in blood like an arthritic burgher. And, for example, she won’t tolerate whistling in the house. If somebody does, she meows two or three times by way of a warning, then sidles treacherously up and bites the ankle of the offending individual. Like all intelligent beings, this cat recognizes the proper importance of heating. She’s fussy in matters of food: her stomach is as sensitive and demanding as an old bon viveur’s. She only likes one particular brand of Frankfurter, in the evening only accepts fish. Frau Berends maintains that she likes to chew typewriter carbon paper — a must — and tobacco. Frau Berends is naturally inclined to emphasize the qualities and traits of the beast. Naturally, she exaggerates. That cat is hardly different from any other living being in this world. Though it’s hopeless! Pet owners will always believe that theirs is the most intelligent or sensible around.
In this household, Frau Berends and the cat represent the past, tradition, and order; Roby and the kitten, the future, revolution and instability. As a matter of taste I’d prefer to be on Roby’s side, but I recognize, albeit reluctantly, that I have one leg in the other camp. Roby’s still eyes and sorrowful air have stolen my heart but I respect the cat’s stomach and Frau Berends’ rude spirit. One must be objective in this world and accept it as it is — to echo the words uttered by that elegant gentleman when acknowledging that someone had trampled on a recalcitrant corn and made him see stars.
In my previous letter I said I was the only subtenant in the house. However, another gentleman moved in recently: Herr Brandt. He is middle-aged, shy, law-abiding, and unobtrusive. He is a draftsman. There’s sometimes a light on in his room at night. Otherwise he often arrives back very late and seems to grope his way along the passage. His is the sad, ravaged face of a man who has spent his entire life in lodgings and is perhaps fated to continue there forever.
You may be wondering why I’ve embarked on such detailed explanations, and what I have in mind. I expect it’s rather futile an excuse but now and then I find self-justification heartening. If I have succeeded in giving you an idea of where I am and of the society surrounding me, I feel I won’t have wasted my time — apart from the fact that I am much more relaxed after writing this letter to you. Yours put the fear of God into me. I now think I’m less of an unknown quantity than I was at four o’clock. Keyserling the writer — who is currently on everyone’s lips here — had no choice but to go round the world to discover himself. I’ve been once round this neighborhood and house and feel much better.
Remember me and write to me. Adéu.
I’ve completely recovered from influenza and today, Sunday, 14 December, Berlin, venture into the street. It’s two o’clock. The city is covered in snow, but the air is dry. The snow in the street is frozen, dirty, trampled underfoot, and yellowish. The snow on the trees, in sheltered spots, on cornices and roofs is soft and white. Is it white? I wonder why sometimes when observing a snow-swept city or landscape, I’ve sometimes thought it was black. It’s a distilled kind of cold. My face must still look quite poorly. What’s more, I’ve had several sleepless nights. Feverish hallucinations, delirium prompted by being so bedridden, and complete inertia have tired me out. I feel frail, and shriveled in the head. My body reacts to the cold in the street by seeming drained and weary. The freezing cold of my leather hatband stings my forehead. The hard, icy snow makes my legs buckle. It’s sunny, but the hard, dull sunlight gives out no heat. The sky is a pale, diluted blue and fading quickly. Men and women look like big black balls in their thick greatcoats. Silence hangs heavily in the air. The sunlight reflected from a house’s windows dazzles me as does the ubiquitous frozen pumpkin hue. My God, what a winter! The temperature changes so abruptly, with rapid lows and highs of cold. When the icy cold starts to freeze, the air stiffens, your skin stretches like rubber and turns sallow with bloody blotches; everything shrinks and withers. When a thaw sets in, and a short, mellow spring surges in the air, the blood rushes back to your skin and turns you into a daring, voluptuous cat. Perhaps the erotic belongs to countries that freeze. These warmer spells are pleasing but in my view they don’t compensate for the searing pain inflicted by the deep lows. All in all Barcelona must have the best of temperatures. At this time of day — I think — there will be butterflies on Tibidabo. Seen from here those butterflies seem ordered specially, but so what? I come to a street corner. Three lengthy, identical streets extend before me. I can go straight on, take a right or left turn. Which will I choose? I wonder ingenuously. In the end I give up on my stroll.