Girlfriends, Ghosts, and Other Stories Read online

  Instead of walking along country roads, I sit here at a little table and work on being delighted, which consists of one’s wishing not at all to be entertained.

  A young Amazon comes in; she might be justified in considering herself pretty. Feminine surroundings undoubtedly make for cultivation of the intellect. If anywhere it’s here that I recollect my better self.

  Never are the conversations of young women uninteresting. How they eat ice cream is truly worth observing.

  Ribbons fall from hats onto shoulders. Such a hat often covers a face quite advantageously. What is kept hidden from view often seems very attractive.

  If you flip through a magazine, you might come across an illustration by Guys that transports you to the Bois de Boulogne and the age of crinoline.

  With pleasure I detect how the cups and saucers are reflected in the polished serving tray. Because the tea hour is now over, I rise and go on my way.

  (1922)

  Translated with Annette Wiesner

  THE GIRLS

  A Sort of Lecture

  OFTEN they stroll about too much.

  Flirting can be quite ineffectual, but no doubt promenading in itself is something quite nice.

  The prettiest, loveliest, cutest, most enchanting girls are exposed to the risk of being “wallflowers.” I know I’m speaking rather cruelly here, yet that’s fun for me. A single attribute can be more advantageous to a beauty than a pretty exterior. Often I encounter an exceptionally lovely lass; each time she gives me a lot: the sight of her!

  Walking past a girl can leave quite a pleasing impression, but only fleetingly. On the street we make only a vanishingly small number of acquaintances.

  Girls don’t trust suitors but instead the valiant ones; not those who indulge but instead those who abstain; not the eyes but instead the behavior. The best conduct toward the good ones is not to consider them too good.

  Overtrustfulness is not met with trust. They want to be seen right through and thus respected.

  For months I ignored a dancer. This disregard instilled in her a confidence in me.

  Every girl strives simultaneously to be loved and to inspire love. They like to carp; when we disappoint them, we’re almost doing them a favor. Misery to them is bliss. Whoever treats them unkindly increases their chances with them. They want to be charmed in order to fall in love with a bore, and bored in order to fall in love with a charmer.

  Nonchalance delights; strength of character they find impressive. They deem nothing more beautiful in a man than restraint; they’re jealous of this invisible rival, and rightly so, since she’s a beautiful apparition.

  I gave a gift to a girl. As a consequence she lost her geniality because she considered me frivolous, whereas before she thought me frugal.

  You can put them out of sorts with small courtesies, win their devotion by being indifferent. For their part they please us all the more by not looking at us, by not being well-behaved.

  They prefer the bold and decisive to be indecisive, the shy to be social. They make fun of you if you don’t give them the chance to succumb, refuse to greet you because they would quite gladly like to, are able to grieve if you command their respect, are able to detest and admire someone unstable.

  “How is it that you understand me so well?” I was asked by a girl years ago, who was puzzled by the inexperienced one’s style of speech.

  Often enemies understand us better than friends. The thinking ones aren’t always kind, though they’re usually understanding. However, misunderstanding is as valuable as understanding. If I understand them correctly, they aspire to agency, they want to be moved, want to give of themselves.

  To be dear is their dream.

  (1924)

  Translated with Nicole Köngeter

  OVERCOATS

  AT THE moment overcoats are in vogue. Advertising posters draw our attention to this.

  I’m not wearing one yet because I don’t want to pamper myself.

  Ladies’ coats are awe-inspiring. I find it enchanting to help women put them on or take them off, although it seems to me advisable to impose limits on one’s passion to serve.

  One smiles now and then at an excess of courtesy, but in general it’s quite nice.

  Fur coats command respect.

  Recently after the end of a concert I excelled in dispensing coats. A need to be courteous had taken control of me.

  Prose writers love poetry.

  Girls go cloaked to see Mozart’s Magic Flute. Doesn’t Goethe speak about magic cloaks?

  I hope my essay may be appealing and give warmth.

  There were times I wore the coat of an art dealer, on other occasions the coat of a count. Both smartened me up.

  An appropriation that’s not refuted means one has availed oneself of munificence. Receiving gifts requires understanding.

  “Clothes make the man,” a novella by Keller reads. An overcoat confers self-confidence.

  Sometimes, though an overcoat be old, the heart beneath it can burgeon and beat with youthfulness, for which excuses may be found.

  A housewife said to her maid, “What’s come over you?” The servant was strutting about in her mistress’s mantilla.

  Once I presented to a friend a light-blue overcoat idea. To call attention to oneself is tiring, he responded. I agreed and let the inspiration drop.

  My overcoat article has exhausted me: How often have tasks that seemed so easy caused us difficulties!

  (1924)

  SHADOW

  NO MATTER how much I weaken, disappoint, fail to live up to expectations or satisfy demands, I can still offer up my shadow, and this indeed attests to my good character. He’s slender and handsome; the sight of him fills me with a lust for life, he makes me feel unequivocally that I have a right to exist. Of course everyone has his shadow; that this is the case diminishes its importance a bit, but isn’t it precisely this that’s so delectable? That I can show what everyone else can produce on request reassures me enormously; it proves I’m normal. It goes without saying that anyone endowed with reason is happy to be average. Wherever shadows exist, light also shines. Whoever has a shadow also possesses a body; pure spirit I’ve no desire to become. Who but he tells me I’m kindhearted, have a serene nature, and possess a bit of wit? He accommodates my every move and speaks flatteringly to me. That’s to say, like everyone I’m susceptible to the latter. No one shouts after me “He doesn’t have a shadow!” as was the case with poor Peter Schlemihl who gave away what was most precious to him; questions like “Bendel, what should I do now?” never cross my lips. Schlemihl fled from the sun, whereas I delight in it. Better an honest shadow than to triumph in life and be a genius.

  (1924)

  THE LOVER AND THE UNKNOWN GIRL

  HEINRICH: Isn’t this road beautiful?

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL: When I saw you walking toward me just now, I noticed in the languor and ease and calm of your stride that you would say something to me. You did, and having anticipated it, I replied.

  HEINRICH: It would have seemed unnatural to pass you by. The stream beside us, the leaves so still, so inviting—I was sure you would pause and tolerate my company for a spell. Do I seem disturbing to you a bit?

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL: Not at all. Do you always walk by yourself?

  HEINRICH: Your hands are pretty, your feet nice. It’s true, I’m no danger to a girl. I don’t belong to myself, never take walks by myself, I’m chained, and at the same time far too happy to do something wrong. I’m constantly accompanied by one who doesn’t care for me. The what and how of her hover about me. By and by, she speaks to me breezily, that is I never let her talk to me other than seriously. I have her just the way I like best to imagine her, shape her features however I choose, often scare her away, have no need to ever fear losing her. If she knew how precious she is to me, how I treat her, she’d be outraged, but can she forbid me to think? The tiniest thought connected to her gives me strength. You resemble her a little; that’s probably why I’ve confi
ded in you.

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL: Whom have I come across?

  HEINRICH: Someone in love.

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL: One hears it in your candor.

  HEINRICH: Does it offend you?

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL: It shouldn’t, but nonetheless it does. I would have liked to have gotten to know you, but you’re already never without company. I thought I could be something to you.

  HEINRICH: You’re dear to me.

  THE UNKNOWN GIRL: Because you spoke to me of your happiness?

  (1924)

  THE TIP

  WHAT DID I do recently? Am I still worthy of writing a prose piece? Will anyone ever again consider me a poet? I doubt it, because I accepted a tip. Do authors accept delivery fees? Let me explain. Earlier today, while sitting on a bench, there came a lady laden with packages. My gallant soul could hardly bear the sight. Authors are accountable for their names. On the other hand, even the bearers of well-known names should be allowed to bear the packages of ladies, shouldn’t they? Please, tell me! I jumped up, hurried after the one hurrying away, who wasn’t hurrying, she was walking with effort, since she had things to lug. Whenever I see someone burdened, I want to help, so I said, “Excuse me, can I be of assistance?” She accepted my offer of service. Having reached her destination, she took out her purse and handed me a coin. She did this with gloved hands. Before such, I assure you, I go all limp. I might well have said it wasn’t suitable to give a tip to a poet whose fame admittedly had dissipated a bit. I hesitated to accept it, but then accepted it nonetheless. “I thank you, dear lady.” What now? In any case, the little woman was satisfied, considered me well-behaved, and for me that counts for more than if she thought me the greatest writer. What a charming smile! Calmly, I raised my hat to her.

  (1925)

  THE KELLER NOVELLA

  RECENTLY I found myself in one of our restaurants a bit tipsy, if that’s not too euphemistically put; one prefers, after all, to express oneself in a sophisticated manner. To regain my presence of mind, I drank coffee. Then I noticed that a woman of very voluptuous appearance was sitting opposite me, rather close, eating a cutlet and beans. I began to observe her and tasted the pleasure of perceiving how, with her expressions and gently moving foot, she reciprocated my attempt at communication. Goodness, anything can serve as a distraction! The mutual correspondence flourished fabulously. It occurred to me to stroll over to the newspaper stand, thinking that by doing so I might delicately brush against the adored lady. I hoped that perhaps she would be kind enough to drop something, a handkerchief, say; I would pick it up for her and establish a nicer, cozier relationship. She possessed a roundish, kindhearted face, adorned with the loveliest little lips. What tender soul could see this without feeling a craving to accommodate them! To my not small surprise, the newspaper I had picked up contained Keller’s novella A Village Romeo and Juliet. I found the coincidence interesting and began to read what had played into my hands; soon I was immersed in it. All kinds of thoughts enveloped me, so much so that I completely forgot the world around me, including the beautiful lady. Something like grace surrounded me, rose unforced from the wondrous lines that seemed snugly, mountainously put there, not written, no, but actually versed. Now and then I looked up; the everyday figures appeared simpler, more meaningful, and I felt as if I had undergone an intense rejuvenation, as it couldn’t have been otherwise when imbibing such a noble narrative. Especially beautiful to me was the part where the poet, wielding his pen with charming dexterity, enticingly uniting the heavy with the graceful, elaborates in the margins on the misfortunes that are certain to befall human existence as a result of the unjust appropriation of property, and just as beautiful if not more touching, the addition or remark intimating how the drinkers in the romantically situated vagrants’ tavern pitied as well as envied Vreneli and Sali, the blessed unfortunates, their obviously deep affection for each other. Meanwhile I had become sort of quietly proud of myself because, though I had lived through a lot, I could, as in earlier years, still follow the course and windings of the flow of the story, which in its greatness certainly constitutes one of our richest national treasures, and feel how important it was that such obedience and pleasure was not for me alone but for all my fellow citizens, and I wasn’t in the least surprised that, when I looked around, I could no longer see in the salon the lady whom I had been ogling, found it quite reasonable, even sensitive of her that, during the time I had taken full advantage of the chance to revive my heart and spirit, she had left, obviously recognizing from feminine instinct that I allowed myself to be swayed by something stronger and even more lovely than that which she could offer. By unintentionally stealing away from her, I didn’t have to blame myself for having treated her poorly: Greater beauty had wrested me from beauty . . .

  (1925)

  Translated with Nicole Köngeter

  WALSER ON WALSER

  HERE YOU can hear Walser the writer speaking.

  To Robert Walser, Writer.

  This is how the address on letters sent to me reads, as though certain people concerned about my welfare wanted to remind me of my writerly profession.

  Is it perhaps asleep in me, my passion for writing?

  Do the well-meaning perhaps want to awaken me?

  When, for example, I experienced the events of my novel The Assistant, the writer Walser was at first also asleep. Otherwise I would have been an unnatural assistant.

  In order to write The Tanners, it took a lot of long awaiting, which of course occurred unconsciously. I would remind a writer more of a human being than of a writer. Writing indeed originates in what is human.

  I know people of the opinion that there’s too much scribbling going on, just as there’s too much painting.

  I’m also of this opinion, and that’s why in no way am I concerned about the writer Walser at present seemingly asleep. On the contrary, his conduct pleases me.

  When in reality I was an assistant, did I have any idea that from this scrap of experience a “true-to-life novel,” a literary work out of real work would come into being? Not in the least!

  At that time Walser already lived and already slept and already wrote remarkably little. But because he was committing himself to experiencing life disinterestedly, that is, without any concern for writerly passion, which is to say not writing anything yet, he wrote his Assistant years later, that is, afterwards. He did not perish from the unconsummated desire to have books published.

  Everything the writer Walser wrote “later” finally had to be experienced “earlier.”

  Can a person who doesn’t scribble even drink his coffee in the mornings?

  Such a person hardly dare breathe!

  And at the same time Walser takes a walk each and every day for a little hour, instead of getting his fill writing. Instinctively he finds excuses to help waitresses set the table. Why once did Walser experience all kinds of things?

  Because the writer in him happily slept, and thus did not get in the way of experience. That’s why he thinks it’s best to leave him lying there in his sprawled-out ignorance, and he asks the concerned ones for ten years’ patience, wishing his colleagues all imaginable success. Why is everyone else left less indifferent to Walser’s fame than he himself?

  For example, when I wrote The Tanners, how unmoved I was by fame! Had I already been famous, the book would have never been born.

  Thus I wish to go unnoticed. Should one nevertheless want to notice me, I for my part won’t notice the noticers. The penning of my books so far hasn’t been forced. I don’t believe writing a lot constitutes a rich literature. Don’t come to me about my “early books”! One shouldn’t overestimate them, and concerning the living Walser, one should try to take him for what he is.

  (1925)

  SACHER-MASOCH

  HE WAS born in Galicia, in his younger years presumably went to school, turned himself into a writer and one not without success, but in turn made his wife miserable.

  Not exactly blessed with an ex
cess of education, he composed novellas such as Miss Director.

  In Venus in Furs, the most famous of his once widely read books, the enthusiast distinguished himself by carrying boxes.

  He looks nice, alas too much in love, thus rich in weakness, poor in energy.

  With much agility he assists his beloved—who, with the most becharmed smile on her lips, esteems another to the extent she despises her helpmate—into a first-class carriage, and betakes himself with unfeigned delight to a lesser compartment.

  Such and similar experiences our author dishes up for us, obviously with too much pleasure. His fate is to be mocked by his own style.

  Once I read a detective story by him on the floor of a nicely furnished room fitted with alcoves, comfortably stretching out my legs.

  Furthermore, I have to thank him for knowledge of a youth who, naively punished for a naive mistake, tasted the whiplash of the lady of the manor, fully knowing how to enjoy this benevolence.

  That this occurred in the Carpathians excuses it.

  This portrayer of Eastern characteristics found willing readers precisely in the standardized West, which hardly surprises us, since savage beings impress tamed ones.

  Where else but in him did I find taverns impregnated by greenly shimmering schnapps air? Who else but he allows me, even today, to think about bear fights and so on?

  Maybe I should never have read him, but I gladly confess it. With a little goodwill, we can successfully rid ourselves of troublesome acquaintances. Doesn’t one influence in life happily replace another?

  He let one of his heroes be thoroughly pummeled, perhaps only too gently, by countrywomen wearing red leather boots that indeed clattered bravely on the pavement.

  I would have let them be harder on the simpleton who, in his highly single-minded soul, rejoiced in a most inimitable manner about the diminishment of his right to live.