Then I have to leave the lift, send it down again, and ring the bell, and the maid opens the door while I say: Good evening.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
Absent-minded Window-gazing
WHAT are we to do with these spring days that are now fast coming on? Early this morning the sky was gray, but if you go to the window now you are surprised and lean your cheek against the latch of the casement.
The sun is already setting, but down below you see it lighting up the face of the little girl who strolls along looking about her, and at the same time you see her eclipsed by the shadow of the man behind overtaking her.
And then the man has passed by and the little girl’s face is quite bright.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
The Way Home
SEE what a persuasive force the air has after a thunderstorm! My merits become evident and overpower me, though I don’t put up any resistance, I grant you.
I stride along and my tempo is the tempo of all my side of the street, of the whole street, of the whole quarter. Mine is the responsibility, and rightly so, for all the raps on doors or on the flat of a table, for all toasts drunk, for lovers in their beds, in the scaffolding of new buildings, pressed to each other against the house walls in dark alleys, or on the divans of a brothel.
I weigh my past against my future, but find both of them admirable, cannot give either the preference, and find nothing to grumble at save the injustice of providence that has so clearly favored me.
Only as I come into my room I feel a little meditative, without having met anything on the stairs worth meditating about. It doesn’t help me much to open the window wide and hear music still playing in a garden.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
Passers-by
WHEN you go walking by night up a street and a man, visible a long way off – for the street mounts uphill and there is a full moon – comes running toward you, well, you don’t catch hold of him, not even if he is a feeble and ragged creature, not even if someone chases yelling at his heels, but you let him run on.
For it is night, and you can’t help it if the street goes uphill before you in the moonlight, and besides, these two have maybe started that chase to amuse themselves, or perhaps they are both chasing a third, perhaps the first is an innocent man and the second wants to murder him and you would become an accessory, perhaps they don’t know anything about each other and are merely running separately home to bed, perhaps they are night birds, perhaps the first man is armed.
And anyhow, haven’t you a right to be tired, haven’t you been drinking a lot of wine? You’re thankful that the second man is now long out of sight.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
On the Tram
I STAND on the end platform of the tram and am completely unsure of my footing in this world, in this town, in my family. Not even casually could I indicate any claims that I might rightly advance in any direction. I have not even any defense to offer for standing on this platform, holding on to this strap, letting myself be carried along by this tram, nor for the people who give way to the tram or walk quietly along or stand gazing into shopwindows. Nobody asks me to put up a defense, indeed, but that is irrelevant.
The tram approaches a stopping place and a girl takes up her position near the step, ready to alight. She is as distinct to me as if I had run my hands over her. She is dressed in black, the pleats of her skirt hang almost still, her blouse is tight and has a collar of white fine-meshed lace, her left hand is braced flat against the side of the tram, the umbrella in her right hand rests on the second top step. Her face is brown, her nose, slightly pinched at the sides, has a broad round tip. She has a lot of brown hair and stray little tendrils on the right temple. Her small ear is close-set, but since I am near her I can see the whole ridge of the whorl of her right ear and the shadow at the root of it.
At that point I asked myself: How is it that she is not amazed at herself, that she keeps her lips closed and makes no such remark?
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
Clothes
OFTEN when I see clothes with manifold pleats, frills, and appendages which fit so smoothly onto lovely bodies I think they won’t keep that smoothness long, but will get creases that can’t be ironed out, dust lying so thick in the embroidery that it can’t be brushed away, and that no one would want to be so unhappy and so foolish as to wear the same valuable gown every day from early morning till night.
And yet I see girls who are lovely enough and display attractive muscles and small bones and smooth skin and masses of delicate hair, and nonetheless appear day in, day out, in this same natural fancy dress, always propping the same face on the same palms and letting it be reflected from the looking glass.
Only sometimes at night, on coming home late from a party, it seems in the looking glass to be worn out, puffy, dusty, already seen by too many people, and hardly wearable any longer.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
Rejection
WHEN I meet a pretty girl and beg her: ‘Be so good as to come with me,’ and she walks past without a word, this is what she means to say:
‘You are no Duke with a famous name, no broad American with a Red Indian figure, level, brooding eyes and a skin tempered by the air of the prairies and the rivers that flow through them, you have never journeyed to the seven seas and voyaged on them wherever they may be, I don’t know where. So why, pray, should a pretty girl like myself go with you?’
‘You forget that no automobile swings you through the street in long thrusts; I see no gentlemen escorting you in a close half-circle, pressing on your skirts from behind and murmuring blessings on your head; your breasts are well laced into your bodice, but your thighs and hips make up for that restraint; you are wearing a taffeta dress with a pleated skirt such as delighted all of us last autumn, and yet you smile – inviting mortal danger – from time to time.’
‘Yes, we’re both in the right, and to keep us from being irrevocably aware of it, hadn’t we better just go our separate ways home?’
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
Reflections for Gentlemen-jockeys
WHEN you think it over, winning a race is nothing to sigh for.
The fame of being hailed as the best rider in the country is too intoxicating a pleasure when the applause strikes up not to bring a reaction the morning after.
The envy of your opponents, cunning and fairly influential men, must trouble you in the narrow enclosure you now traverse after the flat racecourse, which soon lay empty before you save for some laggards of the previous round, small figures charging the horizon.
Many of your friends are rushing to gather their winnings and only cry ‘Hurrah!’ to you over their shoulders from distant pay boxes; your best friends laid no bet on your horse, since they feared that they would have to be angry with you if you lost, and now that your horse has come in first and they have won nothing, they turn away as you pass and prefer to look along the stands.
Your rivals behind you, firmly in the saddle, are trying to ignore the bad luck that has befallen them and the injustice they have somehow suffered; they are putting a brave new face on things, as if a different race were due to start, and this time a serious one after such child’s play.
For many ladies the victor cuts a ridiculous figure because he is swelling with importance and yet cannot cope with the never-ending handshaking, saluting, bowing, and waving, while the defeated keep their mouths shut and casually pat the necks of their whinnying horses.
And finally from the now overcast sky rain actually begins to fall.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
The Street Window
WHOEVER leads a solitary life and yet now and then wants to attach himself somewhere, whoever, according to changes in the time of day, the weather, the state of his business, and the like, suddenly wishes to see any arm at all to which he might cling – he will not be able to mana
ge for long without a window looking on to the street. And if he is in the mood of not desiring anything and only goes to his window sill a tired man, with eyes turning from his public to heaven and back again, not wanting to look out and having thrown his head up a little, even then the horses below will draw him down into their train of wagons and tumult, and so at last into the human harmony.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
The Wish to be a Red Indian
IF ONE WERE only an Indian, instantly alert, and on a racing horse, leaning against the wind, kept on quivering jerkily over the quivering ground, until one shed one’s spurs, for there needed no spurs, threw away the reins, for there needed no reins, and hardly saw that the land before one was smoothly shorn heath when horse’s neck and head would be already gone.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
The Trees
FOR WE are like tree trunks in the snow. In appearance they lie sleekly and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can’t be done, for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only appearance.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
Unhappiness
WHEN it was becoming unbearable – once toward evening in November – and I ran along the narrow strip of carpet in my room as on a racetrack, shrank from the sight of the lit-up street, then turning to the interior of the room found a new goal in the depths of the looking glass and screamed aloud, to hear only my own scream which met no answer nor anything that could draw its force away, so that it rose up without check and could not stop even when it ceased being audible, the door in the wall opened toward me, how swiftly, because swiftness was needed and even the cart horses down below on the paving stones were rising in the air like horses driven wild in a battle, their throats bare to the enemy.
Like a small ghost a child blew in from the pitch-dark corridor, where the lamp was not yet lit, and stood a-tiptoe on a floor board that quivered imperceptibly. At once dazzled by the twilight in my room she made to cover her face quickly with her hands, but contented herself unexpectedly with a glance at the window, where the mounting vapor of the street lighting had at last settled under its cover of darkness behind the crossbars. With her right elbow she supported herself against the wall in the open doorway and let the draught from outside play along her ankles, her throat, and her temples.
I gave her a brief glance, then said ‘Good day,’ and took my jacket from the hood of the stove, since I didn’t want to stand there half-undressed. For a little while I let my mouth hang open, so that my agitation could find a way out. I had a bad taste in my mouth, my eyelashes were fluttering on my cheeks, in short this visit, though I had expected it, was the one thing needful.
The child was still standing by the wall on the same spot, she had pressed her right hand against the plaster and was quite taken up with finding, her cheeks all pink, that the whitewashed walls had a rough surface and chafed her finger tips. I said: ‘Are you really looking for me? Isn’t there some mistake? Nothing easier than to make a mistake in this big building. I’m called So-and-so and I live on the third floor. Am I the person you want to find?’
‘Hush, hush,’ said the child over her shoulder, ‘it’s all right.’
‘Then come farther into the room, I’d like to shut the door.’
‘I’ve shut it this very minute. Don’t bother. Just be easy in your mind.’
‘It’s no bother. But there’s a lot of people living on this corridor, and I know them all, of course; most of them are coming back from work now; if they hear someone talking in a room, they simply think they have a right to open the door and see what’s happening. They’re just like that. They’ve turned their backs on their daily work and in their provisionally free evenings they’re not going to be dictated to by anyone. Besides, you know that as well as I do. Let me shut the door.’
‘Why, what’s the matter with you? I don’t mind if the whole house comes in. Anyhow, as I told you, I’ve already shut the door, do you think you’re the only person who can shut doors? I’ve even turned the key in the lock.’
‘That’s all right then. I couldn’t ask for more. You didn’t need to turn the key, either. And now that you are here, make yourself comfortable. You are my guest. You can trust me entirely. Just make yourself at home and don’t be afraid. I won’t compel you either to stay or to go away. Do I have to tell you that? Do you know me so little?’
‘No. You really didn’t need to tell me that. What’s more, you shouldn’t have told me. I’m just a child; why stand on so much ceremony with me?’
‘It’s not so bad as that. A child, of course. But not so very small. You’re quite big. If you were a young lady, you wouldn’t dare to lock yourself so simply in a room with me.’
‘We needn’t worry about that. I just want to say: my knowing you so well isn’t much protection to me, it only relieves you of the effort of keeping up pretenses before me. And yet you’re paying me a compliment. Stop it, I beg you, do stop it. Anyhow, I don’t know you everywhere and all the time, least of all in this darkness. It would be much better if you were to light up. No, perhaps not. At any rate I’ll keep it in mind that you have been threatening me.’
‘What? Am I supposed to have threatened you? But, look here. I’m so pleased that you’ve come at last. I say “at last” because it’s already rather late. I can’t understand why you’ve come so late. But it’s possible that in the joy of seeing you I have been speaking at random and you took up my words in the wrong sense. I’ll admit ten times over that I said something of the kind, I’ve made all kinds of threats, anything you like. Only no quarreling, for Heaven’s sake! But how could you think of such a thing? How could you hurt me so? Why do you insist on spoiling this brief moment of your presence here? A stranger would be more obliging than you are.’
‘That I can well believe; that’s no great discovery. No stranger could come any nearer to you than I am already by nature. You know that, too, so why all this pathos? If you’re only wanting to stage a comedy I’ll go away immediately.’
‘What? You have the impudence to tell me that? You make a little too bold. After all, it’s my room you’re in. It’s my wall you’re rubbing your fingers on like mad. My room, my wall! And besides, what you are saying is ridiculous as well as impudent. You say your nature forces you to speak to me like that. Is that so? Your nature forces you? That’s kind of your nature. Your nature is mine, and if I feel friendly to you by nature, then you mustn’t be anything else.’
‘Is that friendly?’
‘I’m speaking of earlier on.’
‘Do you know how I’ll be later on?’
‘I don’t know anything.’
And I went to the bed table and lit the candle on it. At that time I had neither gas nor electric light in my room. Then I sat for a while at the table till I got tired of it, put on my greatcoat, took my hat from the sofa, and blew out the candle. As I went out I tripped over the leg of a chair.
On the stairs I met one of the tenants from my floor.
‘Going out again already, you rascal?’ he asked, pausing with his legs firmly straddled over two steps.
‘What can I do?’ I said, ‘I’ve just had a ghost in my room.’
‘You say that exactly as if you had just found a hair in your soup.’
‘You’re making a joke of it. But let me tell you, a ghost is a ghost.’
‘How true. But what if one doesn’t believe in ghosts at all?’
‘Well, do you think I believe in ghosts? But how can my not believing help me?’
‘Quite simply. You don’t need to feel afraid if a ghost actually turns up.’
‘Oh, that’s only a secondary fear. The real fear is a fear of what caused the apparition. And that fear doesn’t go away. I have it fairly powerfully inside me now.’ Out of sheer nervousness I began to hunt through all my pockets.
‘But since you weren’t afraid of the ghost itself, you could easily have asked it how it
came to be there.’
‘Obviously you’ve never spoken to a ghost. One never gets straight information from them. It’s just a hither and thither. These ghosts seem to be more dubious about their existence than we are, and no wonder, considering how frail they are.’
‘But I’ve heard that one can fatten them up.’
‘How well informed you are. It’s quite true. But is anyone likely to do it?’
‘Why not? If it were a feminine ghost, for instance,’ said he, swinging onto the top step.
‘Aha,’ said I, ‘but even then it’s not worth while.’
I thought of something else. My neighbor was already so far up that in order to see me he had to bend over the well of the staircase. ‘All the same,’ I called up, ‘if you steal my ghost from me all is over between us, forever.’
‘Oh, I was only joking,’ he said and drew his head back.
‘That’s all right,’ said I, and now I really could have gone quietly for a walk. But because I felt so forlorn I preferred to go upstairs again and so went to bed.
Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir
The Judgment (1913)
The Judgment
IT WAS a Sunday morning in the very height of spring. Georg Bendemann, a young merchant, was sitting in his own room on the first floor of one of a long row of small, ramshackle houses stretching beside the river which were scarcely distinguishable from each other in height and coloring. He had just finished a letter to an old friend of his who was now living abroad, had put it into its envelope in a slow and dreamy fashion, and with his elbows propped on the writing table was gazing out of the window at the river, the bridge, and the hills on the farther bank with their tender green.