Robert Walser - Selected Stories

One of them dreamed only of disappearing entirely from sight. Often he must have read exciting stories. As a person, he was, in addition, nothing to speak of. So we shall dismiss him.

The second settled, as a recluse, in a villa which enshrouding ivy had rendered almost invisible.

The beard of this country-house dweller grew longer by the hour, until it extended out of the window, whereat he saw his life’s task completed — a belief we gladly allow him.

The third found reason to become inconceivably incautious on account of a soprano, all naturally behind the wonderfully shaped back of his mother, who had a way of saying: “My sons displease me.”

They made her suffer, she made them suffer, and the patriarch suffered from his spouse, and the products suffered because of the producers.

This family, to which many families looked up without reluctance, displayed a pompous falling short.

No pen can describe the sighs they heaved together.

Folly upon folly was committed.

What use is the most dazzling scenery?

The father knew no peace till he could say: “One darn thing after another!”

All the members of the family longed to be constantly wept over; the daughters found their language instructor bewitching.

Meanwhile, a book had been through many too many editions, a book which had the virtue of being nicely written. The book had melody.

The family we are speaking of had melody too.

There was a Mediterranean island in it, where the best opportunities for perceiving realities were dreamed away.

Still to this day it lies there, witness of a disinclination to wash oneself spiritually, in the proper way.

But they all wore fitting clothes and were virtuosos of dissatisfaction.

And then she who bore the responsibility might step forward and say to her son: “I command you to suffer!”

He laughed at her.

She says: “Get out of my sight!”—but wishes inwardly for him not to obey, she wrestles laboriously with her composure.

She feels guilty and innocent.

She blames the times.

“Tell me all! Vindicate yourself!”

He quietly replies: “All this longing to cast off the shackles, to despise what the surrounding world imposes upon you, isn’t this what you’re injecting into me? What you prohibit me from doing you should also deny yourself,” and softly he adds: “Unbridled woman!”

Whereupon she has a scene with her husband.

If I felt talkative I’d repeat the reproaches she brought against him.

Her words slapped his face.

He thought it was very imposing to listen to her respectfully.

But his graciousness was for her a martyrdom.

Perhaps one can say that tact is the point from which powerlessness spreads more and more into the male world.

Defense to the last gasp seems to be not shrewd. If a man is shrewd, if he is conciliatory, relenting, submissive, the bonds are not torn, of course, but they still hang from him, more like threads, I mean as far as order is concerned, and women have won nothing, if one lets them win, although they tell themselves otherwise.

So he always eluded her, politely.

A reckless answer would have hurt her.

Together, by their fleeing from one another, they poisoned the atmosphere.

What kind of people am I thinking of, as I say this?

Of me, of you, of all our theatrical little dominations, of the freedoms that are none, of the unfreedoms that are not taken seriously, of these destroyers who never pass up a chance for a joke, of the people who are desolate?

Well, I could go around from person to person, letting each say some new thing, new but also old.

For they constantly repeated themselves. Each had his own sort of idée fixe.

And, in the theaters, plays were being performed that wearied the spectators’ souls, made them rebellious and perverse, cringing, and eager for war.

Should one speak out or be silent?

[1925]

Bern, Thunstrasse 20/III

(mid-October 1925)

RÖSI BREITBACH, altogether most esteemed young lady! Wishing that you should show, if your feelings permit it, my letters to your parents, in all simplicity, generosity, and affection, I would like to tell you that for some time now I have not found anything here to write about, because I have already written so many things. I’m sure you’ll understand this. Then I happened to read a small, silly sort of book, the kind you buy for a few cents at a kiosk, and it was most nicely entertaining to read it. I had read my fill of good books. Is it conceivable that you’ll understand what I mean? If so, it would be most kind of you. All the girls here find me enormously boring, because they are all spoiled by zesty young bucks. Our masculine world can be very self-assured in its behavior. Once I took the liberty of sending, for instance, to a singer in our meritorious municipal theater, as token of my admiration, a copy of my book Aufsätze, published by Kurt Wolff. The book was returned, with the observation that I hadn’t yet learned to write German. People hereabouts take me, generally, for an immature person, in every way. Even Thomas Mann, you know, that giant in the domain of the novel, regards me as a child, though a quite clever one to be sure. Once I was supposed to read from my work in Zurich, but the president of the Literary Circle which had invited me said that I had still not learned to speak German. For a time, people here thought I was insane, and would say aloud, in the arcades, as I was walking past: “He should be in the asylum.” Our great Swiss writer, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, whom you certainly know, also spent some time in a sanatorium for people who were mentally not altogether at their best. Now people are celebrating the centenary of this poor man’s birth, with speeches and choral declamations. And yet once he no longer dared to take up his pen, in fear that he might botch everything he wrote. Then one day I went into a café and fell in love with a girl who looked so poetic. It was of course very foolish of me, all the utilitarians leaped upon me and reminded me of the bitter duties of my so lovely and expensive profession — which is of such a nature that it brings no money in. I loved this beautiful young girl, who seemed already to have an inclination toward corpulence, it was all because of the music I heard every day in the café. Great, indeed, is the power of music, sometimes immense. Suddenly everything changed. I made the acquaintance of a so-called Saaltochter, i.e., waitress, and from that moment the previous girl had for me in part only half a reality, in part no reality at all. Loving and what they call yearning are quite quite different things, different worlds. Then I used to go, very often, to nature, that is, walk into the country, many thoughts occurred to me, ideas, which I worked on. By doing this I left the place where the waitress served, and since then I haven’t seen her; I subsequently wrote poems to her, and, well, there are many people around, also in your country, I expect, who think that poems are not work, but rather something comical, unworthy of respect. That has always been the case, and always will be, in Germany, the land of poets and thinkers. Our town is very lovely. Today I went swimming in deliciously cold water, soft and delicate sunshine, in the river which runs shimmering around our town like a serpent. Needless to say, nobody knows about the girl whom I made terrible fun of, partly in prose, and whom I worshipped, on the other hand, partly in poems. I have lived in rooms where all night I could not close my eyes for fear. Now it’s like this: I no longer know for sure if I love her. Indeed, my dear Fraulein, one can keep one’s feelings very much alive, or let them grow cold, neglect them. And then, true, I’m interested in many other matters besides. In the hope that you are happy, that your days pass pleasingly, and that you will be a little content, and perhaps also a bit dissatisfied, with this letter, I send you my cordial and of course, so to speak, respectful greetings.