OUR CITY
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.
CHRISTMAS
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.