Robert Walser: A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories

Our form of government is a republic. We are allowed to do whatever we want. We can act as free and easy as we feel like. We don’t have to account for our behavior to anyone but ourselves, and that is our pride. Our honor, though, is the limits we place on our actions. Other countries stare in wonder at us, amazed that we can govern ourselves with nothing but our own power. We are not subject to anyone or anything except our own judgment and our upright character, whose orders and guidance we are happy to receive. We have no place for king or kaiser. The streets of our cities were not built for princely processions to march through, our houses are no pigsties but not palaces either. Our churches have no pomp and splendor and our city halls are simple and proud. Our mentality is like our homes, simple and prosperous; our hearts are like our landscapes: rough, but not infertile. We carry ourselves like members of a republic, citizens, warriors, human beings. The subjects in other countries often look like house pets. I don’t mean that freedom and pride are not native to other peoples as well, but with us they are inborn. Our forefathers, the brave confederators, bequeathed us their mentality, and it would be tragic if we were anything other than true to their magnificent gift. I feel a sacred serious feeling when I write these words. I am an ardent believer in the Republic. Young as I am, I already want to eagerly serve my fatherland. I am writing this essay with trembling fingers. I only hope that it will please the fatherland to claim my services and abilities soon. But I forget that I am still a boy in grade A-2. How I long to escape from this stifling youth and enter into public life with its great demands, tempests, ideas, and actions. I lie here as though in chains. I feel like a mature, intelligent adult, and then I look in the mirror and what I see stuns me with its youth and insignificance. Oh, if I ever make it that far, I will serve my fatherland with the most sacred fervor, and take pride in being permitted to serve it, and not get tired from whatever tasks it sees fit to assign me. It needs my abilities — my whole life. Why else did my parents give me it (life)? You are not really alive if you’re not living for something, and what other good is it nobler and more glorious to fight and live for than the good of the homeland? I am glad I still have such a wonderful life ahead of me. The fatherland is large, but to be able to do my part to help make it even larger will be my pride, my life, my desire, my honor. Oh, I have boundless aspirations, all the more so since I know that this kind of ambition is not a shameful, ignoble urge. It is still possible to be a hero, even today. Heroism looks different now, that’s all. When it comes to the greatness, fame, and advancement of the fatherland, it is no superfluous thing to be a hero, a sacrificer. Oh, but I still a schoolboy in grade A-2.

It gets its name, Bözingenberg, from the village that lies at its southwestern foot. It is high but you can still climb it easily. We climb it a lot, my classmates and I, because the best places to play are up there. It is wide, probably an hour, no, much wider than that. I actually have no idea since I have never measured its whole width. It would take me too far out of my way. When you see it from another mountain, sitting there in all its height and width, it looks like a sleeping magician. Its form has the shape of an elephant’s head. I don’t know if that’s exactly right. In any case, since it’s only a beautiful mountain, it doesn’t really make any difference what it looks like. And it is the best mountain, with the best view. From the top you can see three white lakes, lots of other mountains, plains in three directions, cities and villages, forests, and all of it so beautiful down in the distant valleys, as though spread out just for you to look at. From up there, studying geography and lots of other things too is a pleasure. But for us the most beautiful things are the mighty beech trees on the mountainside. In spring their leaves are a wonderfully bright and wet green, almost fresh enough to eat. Frisky brown horses leap around in its meadows. You can walk right up close to them without being afraid. You just have to trust horses. There are goats and cows, too, but they’re not as exciting. A classmate of mine once grabbed a cow by the tail and it dragged him halfway down the mountain. We were scared for him, but still we had to laugh. When we play we often get into arguments, sometimes even fights. I like the latter more than the former. I hate arguments but it’s fun and exciting to hit. I like to feel hot with my blood pumping. Sometimes our game degenerates into a crazy battle. A battle is tremendous, and the hero in a battle is even more splendid. Of course you’re mad afterward, there’s anger, hate, enmity. But at least those are all clear feelings. Nothing is drier than dryness and there’s nothing more important to me than being dry and aloof. If there’s hate in the air I like to be the mediator and calm everybody down. I can play that role too. Playing shouldn’t get out of control and degenerate into fistfights. There, now I’ve said the right thing, even though I myself am a first-class giver and receiver of punches when it comes to that. Well, let’s move on. It’s easier to give fine warnings (to give yourself fine warnings) than it is to avoid being bad and sinning in the given moment. Everything at its proper time. So, fighting and throwing stones at its, and good intentions at its. It’s important to know every side. But I’ve almost forgotten about my mountain. I have spent so many beautiful mornings, evenings, and even nights on it that it’s hard for me to picture and put down on paper one single time. Once I spent an evening up there. I was lying in the grass by myself under century-old fir trees and dreaming. The sun cast its glow down on me and on the meadow. Bells and railroad noises rose up from the lowlands. I felt like I was far, far away from the whole world. I didn’t look at anything, I just let myself be looked at. At least that’s what a squirrel did for a long time. It peeked down at me scared and confused. I let it do what it wanted. Shrewmice were jumping from rock to rock, the sun went down, and the meadow glowed in the dark, transparent shadows. Oh, the longing I felt in my heart. If only I knew what for.

Our city is actually more like a beautiful big park than a city. The streets are garden paths. They look so clean, as if strewn with fine sand. The mountain with its dark firs and green leaves rises up over the roofs of the city. We have the most magnificent sights, including a boulevard that they say Napoleon built. I don’t think he actually planted the trees with his own hands, he was probably too proud for that, too mighty. In summer, the big old chestnut trees cast wonderful refreshing shadows. On summer evenings, you can see the residents of this city who like to take walks strolling up and down the boulevard. The ladies look especially lovely in their brightly colored dresses. It is delightful to go floating on the dark evening lake in a gondola then. The lake is part of our city, like the church, or like a prince’s château de plaisance is part of a monarchy’s capital. Without the lake, our city would not be our city — no, you wouldn’t recognize it at all. Our church, the Reformed Church, stands on a raised platform adorned with two wonderfully beautiful big chestnut trees. The windows of the church are painted in the most fiery colors, which makes it look like it’s from a fairy tale. You can often hear the most lovely choir of singing voices from the church. I like to stand outside when they’re singing inside. The women’s singing is the prettiest. Our city hall is dignified, and its great hall is well suited to balls and other special occasions like that. We even have a theater. Every winter, actors from somewhere else visit us for two months. They have very sophisticated manners, speak a very fine German, and wear top hats on their heads. I am always glad when they come, and I do not go along with our fellow citizens when they talk contemptuously about the “riff-raff.” It may be true that they don’t pay their bills, that they’re rude, that they get drunk, that they come from bad families, etc., but that’s why they’re artists, isn’t it? An artist is someone you take a generous view of, through your fingers so to speak. They also are great actors. I saw them do The Robbers. It’s a great play, full of fire and beautiful things. Is there any finer, nobler pastime than going to the theater? In this respect, big cities do provide the best example and surpass us. — Our city has much industry, which is because it has factories. Factories and the areas around them do not look nice. The air is black and thick there, and I don’t understand how anyone can be around such unclean things. I don’t care about what they make in the factories. I only know that all the poor people work in the factories, maybe to punish them for being so poor. We have pretty streets, and green trees peek out between the houses everywhere. When it rains, the streets are very dirty. They don’t do much for our streets. Father says that. It’s too bad that our house doesn’t have a lawn. We live on the second floor. Our apartment is nice but it should have a lawn. Mama complains about that a lot. The old quarter of the city is my favorite. I like to wander around the little old alleys, arches, and passageways. We have underground passageways too. All things considered, we have a very nice city.