Peter Altenberg - Telegrams of the Soul

A little drum sits askew on a little drum stand.

He comes out in black tails and a white tie. His wavy hair is streaked with gray.

The piece is called “The Battle!”:

Rata-tat tat tat tat — from the distance countless troops come running, millions, ever more, ever more, more, more, more. More—! They sneak, slide, scurry, fly—. Pause.

Defensive salvo — rata-tat! Pause. Rata-ta, rata-ta, rata-ta, ratata — ratatat-tat!

The battle sings its song, shouts, shrieks, screams, moans, breathes its last——. Pause. All of a sudden a terrible uproar——rrrrata-tat rrrrata rrrrata rrrrata-tat tat tat tat tat — trrrrrrrrra! The death struggle of life: “The Battle!”

Hurricane roll!

He rapes the ear, stretches it, rips it apart, shakes it, brakes it, storms into the soul and makes it — tremble! An awful drum-roll, a terrible, unrelenting, gruesome, bloody-eared drum-roll! Won’t he stop it?! He won’t stop, rrrrata-tat, rattles on, tears your nerves to shreds, rrrata-tat-tat! Roll it! Roll it—!! Rrrrata-tat!

He mops the floor with ’em, mows ’em down, wipes ’em out!

Bang-bang——bang! Rrrrrrrrrat——. The battle goes dead.

Silence.

The man in black tails rises, bows, makes his exit—.

Nobody applauds.

“A wretched drummer—,” you think to yourself, “tears up the drum skin.”

“A genius of the wrist flat out—,” remarks an aristocrat in a box seat.

The young woman sits there, pale as can be—.

“You look scared to death—,” says the husband, and lays his hand gently on hers.

“Napoleon—!” she whispers.

“What’s that?” says the husband.

“He got so little applause—,” she says, “maybe he’ll be fired—.”

“Oh no—,” says the husband, “they’re on contract—. How pale you look—.”

The young woman gulps: “Napoleon—!”

“Fishing must be very boring,” said a young lady who knew as much about it as most young ladies.

“If it were boring I wouldn’t do it,” replied the child with the dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.

She stood there with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. She took the little fish off the hook and hurled it to the ground.

The little fish died—.

The lake lay there bathed in light and shimmering. It smelled of willows and steaming rotting swamp grass. You could hear the clatter of knives, forks and plates from the hotel. The little fish danced around on the ground a short original fandango like the dance of wild tribes — and died.

The child kept on fishing, with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman.

“Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s’adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I’d never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity, said an old lady seated nearby.

The child took the little fish off the hook and once again hurled it to the ground, at the lady’s feet.

The little fish died—. It lunged upwards and dropped dead — a simple, placid death. It even forgot to dance, gave up the ghost just like that.

“Oh—,” said the old lady.

And yet, in the face of the cruel child with the dirty blond hair you could discern a deepening beauty and the traces of a soul in the making—.

But the face of the noble lady was languid and pale—.

She will no longer give anyone joy, light and warmth—.

That’s why she sympathizes with the little fish.

Why should it die when it still has life left in it—?

And yet it lunges up and drops dread — a simple placid death.

The child keeps on fishing with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. Beautiful beyond description with big, determined eyes, dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.

Perhaps one day the child too will pity a little fish and say: “Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s’adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I’d never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity—!”

But such tender stirrings of the soul only burst into bloom at the last resting place of all dashed dreams, all blighted hopes—.

So fish on, lovely little girl!

As, oblivious to all, you still bear your beautiful birthright buried in your breast—!

Kill the little fish and fish on!

I once went to the foremost hairdresser in the capital.

Everything smelled of Eau de Cologne, of fresh washed linen and fragrant cigarette smoke — Sultan Flor, Cigarettes des Princesses égyptiennes.

A young girl with light blond silken hair sat at the cash register.

“Dear God,” I thought, “a count will surely sweep you off your feet, you lovely thing—!”

She peered back at me with a look that said: “Whoever you may be, one among thousands, I declare to you that life lies before me, life—! Don’t you know it?!”

I knew it.

“Ah well,” I thought, “it might also be a prince—!”

She married the proprietor of a café who went bust a year later.

She was built like a gazelle. Silk and velvet hardly enhanced her beauty — she was probably most beautiful in the buff.

The café proprietor went bust.

I ran into her on the street with a child.

She peered back at me with a look that said: “I still have life before me, life, don’t you know it—?!”

I knew it.

A friend of mine had typhus. He was a well-to-do bachelor and lived in a lakefront villa.

When I visited him, a young woman with light blond silken hair prepared his ice packs. Her delicate hands were red and raw from the ice water. She peered back at me: “This is life—! I love it—! Because it’s life—!”

When he got well he passed the woman on to another rich young man—.

He dumped her, just like that—.

It was summer.

Later he was overcome by longing — it was fall.

She had looked after him, nestled close with her sweet gazelle limbs—.

He wrote to her: “Come back to me—!

One evening in October I spotted her with him entering the wondrous vestibule in which eight red marble columns shimmered.

I greeted her.

She peered back at me: “Life lies behind me, life—! Don’t you know it?!”

I knew it.

I went to the foremost hairdresser in the capital.

It still smelled of Eau de Cologne, of fresh washed linen and fragrant cigarette smoke — Sultan Flor, Cigarettes des princesses égyptiennes.

Another girl sat at the cash register, this one with brown wavy hair.

She peered back at me with the grand triumphant look of youth — profectio Divae Augustae Victricis: “Whoever you may be, one among thousands, I declare to you that life lies before me, life—! Don’t you know it?!”

I knew it.

“Dear God,” I thought, “a count will surely sweep you off your feet — but it might also be a prince!”

Above my bed hangs a carbon print of the painting by Gustav Klimt: Schubert. Schubert is singing songs for piano by candlelight with three little Viennese Misses. Beneath it I scribbled: “One of my gods! People created the gods so as, despite all, to somehow rouse otherwise unfulfilled ideals hidden in their hearts into a more vital form!”

I often read from Niggli’s Schubert biography. Its intent, you see, is to present Schubert’s life, not Niggli’s thoughts about it. But I have returned a hundred times to the passage on page 37. He was a music teacher on the estate of Count Esterhazy in Zelesz, an instructor to the very young Countesses Marie and Karoline. To Karoline he lost his heart. Thus emerged his creations for four-handed piano. The young countess never learned of his profound affection. Only once when she teased him that he had never dedicated a single one of his compositions to her, he replied: “What for?! As it is, it’s all for you!”