Silence.
“Well then, that’s that—,” she says softly.
He inhales the clear scent of woman’s breath and mountain meadow.
She lies there motionless.
Then she says: “It’s a damn shame, it is—. I was proud of you all, proud—. I always said: ‘My friends—!’ Maybe I didn’t act like I should have. I shoulda pulled the wool over your eyes, made a scene, a comedy—.”
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be such a child—,” he says and kisses her hand.
“You’re fine fellahs, ain’t you—,” she says, “fine as silk! Why’d you bother coming?! What for?! Nothing to be done—. That’s alclass="underline" ‘Nothing to be done about it.’ I can’t put it into pretty words, but that’s all—. I got thoughts in my head too, see—. That Robert, he’s such a dear. I’ll tell you a little story. But you can’t go blabbing it around town. One time he said to me: “You’re tired, Anna, better sleep—.” “ ’S’at what we came up for?!” I says. “Tired is tired—,” he says. “It’s just like after a hike in the mountains—.” Ain’t that sweet, though—?! I really did fall asleep. Why did I trust him? He’s not really my type. But he said: “Go ahead, Anna, sleep!”
Silence. She sighs. Silence—.
“You’re a fine lot. Fine as silk. I’m really gonna miss you’s—.”
Silence.
“Nothing to be done—. Tell Max—.”
“Tell him what?!”
“Nothing——.”
Silence.
“Why’d you ever bother coming?! What for?! I don’t get it. You’re fine as silk. I think I’m gonna dry up—.”
The little room smells of Daphne Cneorum—.
She climbs out of bed and plunks herself in an easy chair.
Then she opens the Venetian blinds and the morning spills in like a mountain stream.
“Shut the blind—,” he says.
She lets down the blind, crawls back into bed.
“I have friends, three friends—!! Black Bertha, she’ll never get it. The dumbbell! Listen up — my heart is hurting.”
He says: “Alright then, we’ll be back. But what good does it do you?! We just bother you. Anyways, come June, we’re going away. Max is going to the seashore, Robert’s going to the mountains——.”
She: “Am I holding you back or what——?!”
She falls asleep.
He feels inside: “Sleep! Extinguisher of consciousness, wave breaker—!”
He thinks: “We’re like dumb fate, breaking and entering a human heart, tearing open the white gates of friendship, letting the light come spilling in like a mountain stream—! Then we go and say: ‘What are we, whoremongers?! For heaven’s sake, sweetheart, give us a break—!’ ‘Adieu,’ she says softly. ‘Am I holding you back or what—?!’ That’s just the way life is, we tell ourselves. A splendid excuse!”
The little room is flooded with the scent of Daphne Cneorum. It’s like the incense of mountain meadows—.
The poor soul sleeps.
Sleep-extinguisher of consciousness! Wave breaker—!
Human Relations
The two well-established artists sat together in a little after-hours café engaged in a heated discussion on the innate brutality evident in the “I-ism” of one’s fellow man! They stressed the term “I-ism” as if thereby precisely to emphasize the fact that: The rest of the world says “Egotism!”
Whereupon the young lady seated nearby said: “What the hell are you two talking about, huh?! What’s all this crap supposed to mean? Listen up, just this morning my madame herself served me with a signed writ of seizure. That don’t exist, does it, a personally signed and delivered writ of seizure?! It don’t exist! Right?”
“Pardon, Miss, but we’re no lawyers—.”
“Who needs lawyers?! Listen up! Anybody with a little book learning has got to know that there ain’t never been no such thing as a personally signed and delivered writ of seizure! Can you imagine such a thing!? The whole world would be doing nothing else but serving each other writs! Just use your brains a little, fellahs, will ya?!”
The artists discussed the fact that the puffed-up Mr. B. is so full of himself that he hears and sees nothing, like a woodcock in a fir tree. Can’t always keep claiming to be blinded by sexual frenzy like the wild fowl!
The girl started whimpering about how she’d been personally served with a signed writ of seizure by her madame. She once again explained to the gentlemen that there ain’t never been no such thing as a personally signed and delivered writ of seizure.
So the gentlemen agreed that they’d never heard of such a thing and started kissing up to the girl, presuming her to be somewhat consoled now that they’d concurred.
But the young lady wasn’t quite yet up to it. So the gentlemen told her that she’d missed her calling in life; that she was a weepy whore. If she went on like that she’d never lure a lousy dog.
The girl just stared at the end of her nose: “There ain’t no such thing as a personally signed and delivered writ of seizure!”
Now the artists took a somewhat more participatory stance and said: “How much do you actually owe her? How much can it possibly be?!”
The girl replied hopefully: “35 Guldens!”
The artists: “What?! For such a pittance?! And that’s all she’s blubbering about! Well for crying out loud, you can easily pay it off in installments!”
The girl felt: “Deadbeats, go hang yourselves!”
The artists went ahead and figured out that in weekly installments of only five Guldens she could pay it all off in less than seven weeks. Every penny of it. Or else she could pay it off in monthly installments of 20 Guldens. Or, better yet, daily, a Gulden a day. They agreed that a Gulden a day would be best.
The girl sat there and kept on crying.
The artists got fed up and left.
Outside they said: “What’s the use of trying to help a body? You go figure your head off for a stranger! And what do you get for your troubles?! Ingratitude!”
Now the down at the heels waiter walked up to the girclass="underline" “Listen, honey, what do you say the two of us head to the courthouse together at 8 A.M.!? There ain’t never been no such thing as a personally signed and delivered writ of seizure! This country’s got laws!”
So they went home together to hammer out the details. There were another three hours left till 8 A.M., which time they put to good use.
At 8 A.M., her prince in shining armor said to her: “Know what, Mitzi, it’s better not to start any trouble with a court of law. I’m sure your madame ain’t that mean-hearted. Know what, Mitzi, better pay it back in installments!”
By this time, the girl was all wiped out, and muttered softly as she dozed off: “There ain’t never been no such thing as a personally signed and delivered writ of seizure. Ain’t that right, Bud?!”
The New Romanticism
Heinrich Frauenlob, Walter von der Vogelweide, Hölty, Hölderlin, where are you tonight?!? Are your velvet doublets moth-eaten, are your locks all tousled by the storm?!
Here I stand, a seventeen-year-old, in the dead of night on the veranda of a country villa, with my nightgown open, ready to drop my comb so that you can press it against your lips and carry it around down darkened streets, your lips infused with silent songs.
Where are you?!? You dreamy ones?! Dreamers dreaming of us!?
Gentlemen, I danced this afternoon on the lawn in the melancholic old Herzogspark, held my dress with both hands and danced—.
Will you please dream of it tonight, dream of me dancing in the melancholic old Herzogspark holding my dress in both my hands??
Will nobody dream of it tonight?!?
Dream, will you please dream of it! You dreamless ones!