Once he wrote a letter. After he had it quite ready, i.e., had completely finished it, he looked askance at the letter, for once again he did not trust his eyes and was not close to believing he had written a letter. The letter had, however, certainly been written, there was no doubt about it, but, as with the door, he who did not trust his eyes sniffed about the letter with his nose, was the height of suspicion and wondered if the letter was really written now or not. Without doubt it was written, it was definitely written, but he who did not trust his eyes was in no way convinced of it, rather he smelled, as I said, cautiously and carefully around the letter and asked in a loud cry: “Letter, tell me, are you written or not?” The letter naturally did not give the slightest answer. Since when can letters give speeches and answers? The letter was perfectly in order, quite ready, readable, and nicely written word by word, sentence by sentence. Splendid and proper stood the letters, periods, commas, semicolons, question marks, and exclamation points, and the delicate quotation marks all in place. Not a dot on an i was missing in the great work; he, however, who had written the masterpiece of a letter and unfortunately did not trust his eyes, was in no way convinced of all that, rather asked anew: “Are you in order, letter?” It gave, however, no answer again, naturally. For that it was again looked askance at and considered obliquely. At last the dumb person knew he had really and truly written the letter, and for that reason laughed joyfully and loudly, was happy like a small child, rubbed his hands full of pleasure, folded the letter together, stuck it exultantly in a suitable envelope, and said: “So! I’ve got you,” about which fine expression he was uncommonly delighted. Thereupon he went to his daily work. Is not such a person a fool? Indeed, but he was just one who believed in nothing, one who did not come out from sorrows, distress, and doubt, one who, as I said, doubted everything.
One other time, he wanted to drink a glass of red wine which was before him, but he wouldn’t dare do it, because again he did not trust his eyes. No doubt there was the glass of wine. Without doubt, the glass of wine stood there in every respect, and the question, if it stood there or did not stand there, was thoroughly absurd and silly. Any average person would have immediately comprehended the glass of wine, but he who did not trust his eyes did not comprehend it, did not believe it, looked at the glass of wine for a good half hour, sniffed about it with his fool nose a meter long, as with the letter, and asked: “Glass of wine, tell me, are you really there or are you really not there?” The question was superfluous, since the glass of wine was there, that was fact. It gave no answer, naturally, to the dumb question. A glass of wine gives no answer, it is simply there and wants to be drunk, which is better than all talking and answering. Our good glass of wine was suspiciously sniffed at with the nose from all sides, like the letter before, and stared at with the eyes, like the door before. “Are you at bottom there, or aren’t you there?” was asked again, and again no answer was forthcoming. “So drink it then, so taste it, let yourself enjoy it, then you will have felt and experienced it, and its existence will no longer be in doubt to you,” one would have liked to shout at him, him who did not trust his eyes, who looked at the glass of wine mistrustfully, instead of putting it to his lips. He was still a long way from being convinced. He went into still more delicate and lengthy details; at last, however, he seemed to have comprehended it, finally he believed that there was in fact a glass of wine under his nose. “So! I’ve got you,” he said, laughed loudly like a child, rubbed his hands again in pleasure, smacked his tongue, gave himself a sound slap on the head out of purely foolish and immense joy, took the glass of wine carefully into his hands and drank it up, was satisfied at that, and thereupon went to his daily work. Is not such a person an arrant fool? Surely, but he was just one who did not trust his ears or eyes, one who did not have a single calm minute due to sincerely sensitive and overly sensitive deliberation, one who was unhappy whenever the least thing failed to pass or work exactly, a fool for order and punctuality, a fool for accuracy and precision, one who should have been sent and driven into a School of Thoughtlessness, one who, in God’s name, as I said, doubted everything.
1917
Translated by Tom Whalen and Carol Gehrig
Nothing at All
A woman who was only just a little flighty went to town to buy something good for supper for herself and her husband. Of course, many a woman has gone shopping and in so doing been just a little absentminded. So in no way is this story new; all the same, I shall continue and relate that the woman who had wanted to buy something good for supper for herself and her husband and for this reason had gone to town did not exactly have her mind on the matter. Over and over she considered what delights and delicacies she could buy for herself and her husband, but since she didn’t, as already mentioned, exactly have her mind on the matter and was a little absentminded, she came to no decision, and it seemed that she did not exactly know what she really wanted. “It must be something that can be made quickly since it’s already late, my time is limited,” she thought. God! She was, you know, only just a little flighty and did not exactly have her mind on the matter. Impartiality and objectivity are fine and good. But the woman here was not particularly objective, rather a little absentminded and flighty. Over and over she considered but came, as already mentioned, to no decision. The ability to make a decision is fine and good. But this woman possessed no such ability. She wanted to buy something really good and delicious for herself and her husband to eat. And for this fine reason she went to town; but she simply did not succeed, she simply did not succeed. Over and over she considered. She wasn’t lacking in good will, she certainly wasn’t lacking in good intentions, she was just a little flighty, didn’t have her mind on the matter, and therefore didn’t succeed. It isn’t good when minds aren’t on the matter, and, in a word, the woman finally got disgusted, and she went home with nothing at all.
“What delicious and good, exquisite and fine, sensible and intelligent food did you buy for supper?” asked the husband when he saw his good-looking, nice little wife come home.
She replied: “I bought nothing at all.”
“How’s that?” asked the husband.
She said: “Over and over I considered, but came to no decision, because the choice was too difficult for me to make. Also it was already late, and my time was limited. I wasn’t lacking in good will or the best of all intentions, but I just didn’t have my mind on the matter. Believe me, dear husband, it’s really terrible when you don’t keep your mind on a matter. It seems that I was only just a little flighty and because of that I didn’t succeed. I went to town and I wanted to buy something truly delicious and good for me and you, I wasn’t lacking in good will, over and over I considered, but the choice was too difficult and my mind wasn’t on the matter, and therefore I didn’t succeed, and therefore I bought nothing at all. We will have to be satisfied today with nothing at all for once, won’t we. Nothing at all can be prepared most quickly and, at any rate, doesn’t cause indigestion. Should you be angry with me for this? I can’t believe that.”
So for once, or for a change, they ate nothing at all at night, and the good upright husband was in no way angry, he was too chivalrous, too mannerly, and too well-behaved for that. He would never have dared to make an unpleasant face, he was much too cultivated. A good husband doesn’t do something like that. And so they ate nothing at all and were both satisfied, for it tasted exceptionally good to them. His wife’s idea to prefer nothing at all for a change the good husband found quite charming, and while he maintained that he was convinced she had had a delightful inspiration, he feigned his great joy, whereby he indeed concealed how welcome a nutritious, honest supper like, e.g., a hearty, valiant apple mash would have been.
Many other things would have probably tasted better to him than nothing at all.
1917
Translated by Tom Whalen and Carol Gehrig
Kienast
Kienast was the name of a man who wanted nothing to do with anything. Even
in his youth he stood out unpleasantly as an unwilling sort. As a child he gave his parents much grief, and later, as a citizen, his fellow citizens. It didn’t matter what time of day you wanted to talk to him, you would never get from him a friendly or fellowly word. Indignant, invidious was his behaviour, and his conduct was repulsive. Guys like this Kienast probably believed it a sacrilege if they were kind or obliging to people. But have no fear: he was neither kind nor courteous. Of that he wanted to hear nothing. “Nonsense,” he grumbled at everything desiring his attention. “I’m really sorry, but I have no time,” he was in the habit of angrily mumbling as soon as someone came to him with a request. Those were duped folks who went to Kienast with a request. They didn’t get much from him, because there was no trace of considerateness to be found in him. He didn’t want to know even the least of it. Should Kienast once have done something good for somebody, something which, so to say, was in the general interest, he would have said coldheartedly, “Goodbye, au revoir” by which he meant to say, “Please leave me alone.” He was interested only in personal gain, and he had eyes only for his supreme profit. Everything else concerned him little or preferably not at all. Of it he wanted to know absolutely nothing. Should anyone expect a willingness or even a sacrifice of him, he nasaled, “What next, I wonder?” by which he meant to say, “If you will be so kind as not to molest me with such matters.” Or he said, “Remember me, please, it will make me happy,” or very simply just, “Bonsoir.” Community, church, and country seemed in no way to concern him. In his opinion, community affairs were looked after solely by jackasses; whoever needed the church in any way was in Kienast’s eyes a sheep, and for those who loved their country, he possessed not the least understanding. Tell me, dear readers, you who are aglow with patriotism for fatherland and motherland, what do you think should be done with the Kienasts? Wouldn’t it be a splendid, yes even a sublime task to beat them in great haste and with the proper carefulness to a pulp? Gently! It has been seen to that such gentlemen will not remain eternally undisturbed. One day someone knocked at Kienast’s door, someone who evidently did not allow himself to be turned away with a “Bonjour” or with a “Bonsoir” or with a “What next!” or with a “Sorry, I’m in a real hurry,” or with a “Please leave me alone.” “Come, I can use you,” said the peculiar stranger. “You are really exquisite. But what’s the matter with you? Do you think I have time to lose? That’s the limit! Remember me, it will make me happy. Sorry I have no time, so goodbye, au revoir.” Such or similar things Kienast wanted to answer; however, as he opened his mouth to say what he was thinking, he became sick to death, he was deathly pale, it was too late to say anything else, not one more word passed over his lips. It was Death who had come to him, it was all no use. Death makes its work brief. All his “Nonsenses” did no more good and all his beautiful “Bonjours” and “Bonsoirs” had an end. It was all over with scorn and mockery and with cold-heartedness. Oh, God, is such living a life? Would you like to live so lifelessly, so godlessly? To be so inhuman among human beings? Could someone cry out about you or about me if we had lived like Kienast? Could someone regret my death? Might it not be then that this or that person could almost be delighted about my departure?
1917
Translated by Tom Whalen and Carol Gehrig
Poets
To the question: How do authors of sketches, stories, and novels get along in life, the following answer can or must be given: They are stragglers and they are down at heel.
If thereupon it is seriously asked: Might there be exceptions?, then the reply is: Yes, there are exceptions, indeed there are, insofar as there exist, or seem to, writers who live in old country mansions, where, beside their proper tasks as authors, they do extensive and profitable business with milk, cattle, and grass. When evening comes, by the light of lamps they commit to paper their inspirations, either in their own handwriting, or else they dictate to their wives, or to a typist, so that nice clean copies may result. In this way entire exciting chapters come into being, which slowly but on the other hand surely expand into volumes, such as may eventually dominate the market.
If, again, it is asked: How and where, i.e., in what sorts of dwelling do writers mostly live?, the answer is very simply this: It is a fact that they prefer to live, often, in attics, high up, with views all around, because from there they enjoy the broadest and freest outlook upon the world. They also like, as is well known, to be independent and unconstrained. Let us hope that they pay the rent, sometimes, as punctually as possible.
From experience I can say that poets, lyrical as well as epic and dramatic, very seldom heat their mathematical or philosophical rooms. “If you sweat all summer, you can freeze a bit for a change all winter,” they say, and so they adjust, in a very talented manner, to both heat and cold. If, while they are sitting and writing, their legs, arms, and hands become stiff with cold, they need only to warm their fingers by breathing on them a while, or, in order to restore the lost suppleness of their joints, they can stand up and move their bodies about, this way and that, whereupon a sufficient quantum of warmth comes to them, of its own accord. Physical exercises are quite effective, what’s more, in enlivening the mind, which may have been overworked and thus become slack. In general, creative energy, good thoughts, cheerful brainwaves, and the fiery poetic resolve can quite certainly, and at all times, be an almost perfect substitute for a glowing stove.
Yes, and I knew a poet, the author of most captivating verses, who lodged for a time in the bathroom of a lady, which tempts one to ask, if one may so ask, of course, whether or not he decently and promptly withdrew when the lady herself chose to take a bath.
Anyway, it is certain that this author felt uncommonly comfortable in the bathroom, which he decorated raffishly and romantically with old coats, fabrics, rags, and carpet remnants, and as far as is known, he maintained rigidly and stoutly that he was living in the Arabian style. Fantasy, ah, good heavens, what a nice, charming, and cheering creature she is.
We believe that writers are capable of polishing shoes as well as, or perhaps even better than, senators who dictate, or at least draft, a country’s laws. The truth is that a senator once, i.e., in a good moment, confided to me that he polished, maintained, and cleaned his own shoes, as well as those of his beloved spouse, regularly and with the greatest pleasure. If leading senators have no hesitation, not the slightest, when it comes to the polishing of shoes, surely any writer of books, which have lasting value, may perform this task, which is a useful one, because it is extremely steadying for the nerves.
Are writers, next, to some extent competent in the removal of cobwebs? This question can be answered, without further detailed and time-wasting investigation, with a joyful affirmative. They can abolish a cobweb as nimbly as the most expert housemaid; in the mangling and destruction of such ingenious architectural monuments they are, quite simply, perfect barbarians, enjoying the task of demolition in the wickedest way, because it raises their spirits.
Every true poet likes dust, for it is in the dust, and in the most enchanting oblivion, that, as we all know, precisely the greatest poets like to lie, the classics, that is, whose fate is like that of old bottles of wine, which, to be sure, are drawn, only on particularly suitable occasions, out from under the dust and so exalted to a place of honour.
1917
Frau Wilke
One day, when I was looking for a suitable room, I entered a curious house just outside the city and close to the city tramway, an elegant, oldish, and seemingly rather neglected house, whose exterior had a singularity which at once captivated me.
On the staircase, which I slowly mounted, and which was wide and bright, were smells and sounds as of bygone elegance.
What they call former beauty is extraordinarily attractive to some people. Ruins are rather touching. Before the residues of noble things our pensive, sensitive inward selves involuntarily bow. The remnants of what was once distinguished, refined, and brilliant infuse us with compassion, but sim
ultaneously also with respect. Bygone days and old decrepitude, how enchanting you are!
On the door I read the name “Frau Wilke.”
Here I gently and cautiously rang the bell. But when I realized that it was no use ringing, since nobody answered, I knocked, and then somebody approached.
Very guardedly and very slowly somebody opened the door. A gaunt, thin, tall woman stood before me, and asked in a low voice: “What is it you want?”