23 April 1939
Robert wants to go “German” one day, to Meersberg. But the day dawns cool and cloudy, suited more for a hike on foot. Would I walk to Wil? Why not! A harmonious mood is more important than the direction.
Robert, as always, has his umbrella at hand; his hat is getting shabbier. The band is completely frayed. He will not, however, have new one. Anything new is offensive to him. He will not even have his broken teeth repaired. All of this annoys him; I hardly dare mention these things, although his favorite sister Lisa has asked me to take care of them.
We make our way from Herisau to Wil, conversing all the while, in three and a half hours. It’s as if we’re on roller skates, so easily we trot forward. Sometimes Robert draws my attention to a particularly beautiful meadow, or a cloud bank, or a baroque dwelling. He even allows photographs without offering any resistance. I am astounded. It delights and amuses him that we put twenty-six kilometers so quickly behind us, with only a vermouth as “fuel.” In the first inn where we install ourselves sit two creased old women and one young one. They study the radio program until we make motions to leave, at which point they come over to the table to shake our hands.
Wil. We eat at “Im Hof,” with awesome appetites, and afterwards move from one inn to another, five in total. Robert suggests that we not return to Goßau after 3-1/2 hours as planned, but two hours later. He wants to spend as much time as possible together. He now looks me in the eyes, distant and dispassionate, but underneath a quiet core of trustfulness. His train to Herisau leaves two minutes after mine. As my train pulls out, he makes, in all seriousness, two deep bows. Is this “Monsieur Robert,” the castle manservant? Now he makes two more bows and shouts: “The next time, the Germans!” as he vigorously nods and tips his hat.
At the beginning of the walk Robert recounted the following story: A lawyer in London was accused of murdering his wife. His gracious and charming manner, however, so influenced the judge that a favorable ruling was expected. The accused, nevertheless, was of the opposite opinion. He decided, with his pretty secretary, on whose behalf he had killed his wife, to escape to the the United States. On the ship, they were arrested. Disregarding the psychological situation cost the attorney his head. After his escape attempt, the judge was suspicious. They tore open the the floor of the kitchen and there indeed was the dismembered corpse.
Thus, the murderer brought himself down. Had he continued to play the role of the amiable man, he probably would have been acquitted. The moral: you can deceive others, but in the end you can’t deceive yourself.
“After returning from Berlin to Biel in 1913 with 100 francs in my pocket, I thought it advisable to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. To triumph there would mean nothing. I walked alone day and night; in between I carried on my writing enterprise. Finally, after I had grazed her themes like a cow pasture, I moved to Berne. Even there, initially it went well. But you can imagine my horror when I received a letter from the feuilleton editor of the Berlin Tageblatts, advising me to produce nothing for half a year! I was in despair. Yes, I admit, I was totally written out. Flamed out like a furnace. Nevertheless, I continued to exert myself despite the warning. But the things that I labored over were pathetic. Only that which comes from me effortlessly has ever succeeded. At that point, I made a few botched attempts on my life. I couldn’t even make a proper noose. Finally, it went so far that my sister Lisa brought me to the hospital at Waldau. Before the gate, I asked: ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ Her silence told me enough. What choice had I but to enter?”
[trans. Sam]
Sam :: Dec.10.2007 :: Uncategorized :: No Comments »
