Robert Walser - A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories

Christmas? Oh! This will be the hardest essay yet! It’s impossible not to come up short when you try to write about something so wonderful. — In the streets, in the doorways, on the stairs, in the rooms, it smelled of oranges. The snow lay deep outside. Christmas without snow would be unbearable. That afternoon, two pitifully thin little voices made themselves heard through our front door. I went to open it. I knew it would be poor children. I looked at them for a rather long time, rather heartlessly. “What do you want?” I asked them. Then the little girl started crying. I felt bad that I had been so rude. Mother came to the door, sent me away, and gave the children little presents. When it was evening, Mother had me come into the lovely room. I did it trembling. I must admit that I have a kind of inexplicable fear of being given presents. My soul does not yearn for presents. I went in and my eyes hurt, as if I had entered a sea of light and lights. I peered into the darkness for a long time at first. Father was sitting there, in the leather armchair, smoking. He stood up and led me kindly over to the presents. He started laughing and chatting with me about the presents, what they meant, what they were worth, and about my future. I didn’t let anyone see how happy that made me. Mother came and sat down with us. I felt like I had to say something loving to her but I couldn’t get it past my lips. She noticed what I was trying to get out and hugged me close and kissed me. I was unspeakably happy and glad that she had understood me. I cuddled close to her and looked into her eyes. They were full of water. I said something but no sound came out. I was so happy that I could talk to my mother in this nicer way. After that we had a lot of fun. There was wine, in delicately cut glasses. That made the conversation flow with laughter. I told them about school and about the teachers, especially emphasizing their comic side. They were very willing to forgive my exuberant lack of restraint. Mother went over to the piano and played a simple song. Her playing is extraordinarily lovely. I recited a poem. My reciting is extraordinarily bad. The maid came in with cookies and other delicious baked goods (Mother’s recipes). She made a stupid face when they gave her her presents. But she gave my mother a polite kiss on the hand. My brother had not been able to come, which I was very sorry about. Our servant, old Fehlmann, got a big sealed package; he ran out to open it. We laughed. Christmas went by so quietly. Finally we were sitting all alone with our wine and we hardly said anything. Then the time passed quickly. It was twelve o’clock when we got up to go to bed. The next morning we all looked a bit tired. The Christmas tree too. This is all very badly written, isn’t it? But at least I said in advance that it would be, so the criticism can’t take me by surprise.

A letter to me from my brother: Dear Brother! I got your letter, read it, and read it again with amazement, yes, almost with admiration. You are a little scoundrel when it comes to style. You write like two professors put together. A real professional writer couldn’t say it any better. Where did you get it from? — I especially liked what you wrote about art. Yes, brother, art is a great and beautiful thing, but it is damn hard. If it was made out of the fantastic ideas people had, it would be quickly and easily finished, but there’s dexterity and craft that stands blocking the way between it and its execution. I have sighed more terrible sighs over it than a religious extremist. Brother, let me tell you: I have recently been writing poems. I sit at night for hours by the light of the lamp on my desk and I try to give my feelings a sonorous expression. It is hard, but other people, who seem to have no problems doing it, accomplish astounding things. There is one in particular who has even gotten famous. He is no older than I am and has already landed a book of poems. I’m not jealous but it pains me to see how far behind I still am despite all of my desperate efforts. Either the Muse smiles upon me in a hurry or I’m going to give it all up and become a mercenary. Studying philosophy seems ridiculous to me, and I’m not cut out for a job. I will carry off more laurels in some foreign army than I could harvest here, even if I got used to having a regular job. I will just live a wild, adventurous life, like so many other people who felt that life in their homeland was too narrow. I must admit that I’m worried about telling you these things. But I have faith in your strength and discretion. Our parents won’t hear any of this from your lips, I’m sure of that. So, my dear brother, how are things with you? Before I go we have to spend one more lovely night with each other. Maybe I’ll have some luck with my poems and then I won’t need to run away. You wrote to me that you’re bored. It’s too early for that, my good man. It seems to me that your lively spirit and your mania for expressing yourself in fine, elegant phrases prove it. What I wanted to say was that you were and are and always will be dear to me. You’re a funny kid, and easy to talk to. You will be something very great in life or else I’m an idiot. Yes, art really makes me sweat. It would really be too bad if I had to give it all up. But either I’ll create something first-rate or else nothing at all. Nothing is more pathetic than being a dilettante. Do you still take walks the way we used to together last summer? You can get a lot out of a solitary walk. Be patient with school. You may be twice as smart as your teacher but it’s still good to stick it out. Goodbye kid, goodbye my dear fellow. In any case, we’ll talk soon on a starry night over a beer about all the things that can be so beautiful and so ugly in this world. We need the wings of an eagle, but farewell! — I am using this letter from my brother in place of an essay because I’m totally lazybrained today. I ask that the teacher, insofar as one can request a favor of him as a man of honor, not tattle on my brother but observe the strictest secrecy. By the way, my dear brother’s poems have long since won applause and made him famous.

The usefulness of a fair is great, and the pleasure it gives perhaps even greater. The farmers bring their cattle to market, the merchants their goods, the performers their curiosities, and the artists their works. Everyone wants to buy and sell. One person sells what he’s bought for a higher price and buys something else with the profit; someone else buys back the sold item from the buyer at a loss so that he can sell it somewhere else for more. Then maybe he slaps himself on the forehead and calls himself a fool. All anyone does is trade, bustle, shout, run around, look, and buy and sell. We impartial bystanders drift around in the crowded fair with our schoolboy intentions. There are plenty of grand things to see. The lady there with her tight-fitting red dress, feathered hat, and high little boots is a snake-charmer. I can watch her for hours with the greatest pleasure. She stands supremely still. Her face is pale, her eyes are big and lackluster, and the expression of her mouth is filled with contempt. I don’t mind letting her despise me: She is so sad. She must bear some kind of indelible sorrow. — Here are the shooting galleries. This is where young patriots practice their bull’s-eyes. The distance from the barrel of the gun to the target is admittedly not very great, but a lot of people still miss. Shots cost 5 cents each. An incredibly beautiful girl lures everyone in the mood to try shooting to her booth, and even people who aren’t in the mood. Her colleagues give her the evil eye. She is as beautiful as a princess and friendly like no one else but her—. There are carousels everywhere, steam-powered and not. The music is not very uplifting and still you wouldn’t want to do without it. I let myself be carried up and down, and down and up. You ride in the most beautiful sleighs of silver and gold, the stars in the sky dance around you, the world revolves with you. It’s worth the money. — Then there’s the Kasperli puppet show. I’m glad I didn’t walk past that and not see it. I would have missed out on the best laughs. You have to laugh at every blow that the Kasperl strikes with his monstrous whip. More people die than want to die. Death leaps out unbelievably fast and strikes his victims down with marvelous accuracy. These victims include generals, doctors, governesses, soldiers, policemen, and ministers. Not one of them dies a peaceful death, as the newspapers say. They are pretty violently executed. Kasperl gets away with a light beating. At the end of the show, he politely bows to us and invites us to a brand-new, never-before-performed show. I like how his rascally face never changes. — Here you can have your photograph taken. There a panorama offers anyone who wants to look the chance to see every continent and every historical event in the world. Here you can see the three-legged horse. And just three steps farther on, you can look at the biggest ox in the world. No one has to but everyone is most politely invited to. People pay their entrance fees as they walk by. We keep walking. I take one last look at the snake lady. Truly, she deserves it. She stands there as tall and motionless as a picture. My parents gave me a frank to spend. I wonder where it went. — Beautiful snake lady!