A bell rang outside, and a moment later Herr Bähni entered. Courteous greetings were exchanged as if nothing at all had transpired. Bösiger rose to the occasion with an utterly astonishing display of ingenuousness and conviviality. He demonstrated talent in the truest sense and proved to be the most splendid confabulator. I felt sincere admiration for him. He was utterly in control and also showed himself in the best light. He sparkled with witticisms, and Frau Bähni found herself compelled to listen to everything he said with the utmost curiosity.
1916
Full
So many times, as I rode through the streets and hubbub of Berlin in the quaint, lumbering, and yet buoyantly plodding horse-drawn omnibus, which never failed to invigorate and charm me anew, I would hear the aging, good-natured conductor humbly and humorously uttering a single insignificant and yet also at that moment quite significant word, which in addition, by the way, was written for the sake of correctness and order upon a panel that could be either concealed or displayed. When the inscription
FULL
was hanging tidily and properly in its place, people knew that for the time being no one else would be allowed to climb and clamber aboard because the gondola or pleasure palace rolling along on its wheels was already packed suffocatingly full, a regrettable circumstance that was announced in no uncertain terms by the warning placard: “Stop! Whosoever they may be, this line they shall not cross!” At times, however, despite the rejecting, dismissive plaque, there would be a crowd pressing forward, expressing the impetuous desire to climb up and be carried off. And then someone, such as the chamberlain on duty, would say in a courteous voice, “Folks, we’re full up,” or he would say, “No shoving, please. It won’t do any good,” or perhaps it would occur to him to say, “With the greatest pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, would I invite you to climb aboard and take your seats, but it is my harsh duty to draw your attention to the fact that the car is already stuffed to the cracks with passengers. I do beg your pardon for having to deny you access and entry.” Sallies and attacks on one side, rebuffs and refusals on the other, the vessel continues to sail calmly and gaily through all the metropolitan traffic, which almost resembles an ocean. Once again some hasty hothead is about to leap aboard, and once again an imperturbable “Full!” resounds in the daredevil’s ears, whereupon he is obliged to circumspectly remove his foot from the footboard once more.
Once when the omnibus was cruising full steam ahead, everything proceeding smoothly and properly, and with no one even remotely plotting an ambush or violent coup, someone slipped aboard — a person who apparently had been accustomed from an early age to go through thick and thin and strike down anyone and anything that got in his way.
“Full up, sir,” the official remarked.
“Stupid, ridiculous nonsense,” replied Monsieur Dreadnought. He was without a doubt the sort of person who thought it advisable to engage in the most ruthless power politics. “I beg your pardon, did you not hear what I said?” the good carman inquired. But now a veritable downpour of invectives was unleashed upon his unfortunate head. This powerful flood of unforeseen unpleasantnesses was so overwhelming that the good man was forced to give in. All the same he complained, saying:
“It’s just not right, not right at all, and it’s a good thing not all people are like this gentleman who’s cursing me even though all I did was tell him we were full. It was my duty to tell him so, but certain people insist on trampling and flattening everything once they’ve made up their minds to do something. I don’t go around saying ‘full’ for my own amusement, or because I want to antagonize people, or out of Schadenfreude. Every person has his tasks to perform and his duties to fulfill, and it just happens to be my duty to tell people ‘full’ when the car is full up. It isn’t fair for a person to take offense like that. It’s downright preposterous how quick some people are to fly into a rage. Well then! I’ll stick with the ones who have some sense; thanks and praises be to God, there are still some of them left.”
This is what the conductor said as the omnibus unhurriedly trundled on its way.
1916
Horse and Woman
Let me not forget to write down two small memories from my stay in the metropolis. One concerns a horse’s head, the other an old, poor match-seller. Both these things, the horse and the woman, are surrounded by night. One night, as on so many others that had already been frittered away and poured out into oblivion, I was roaming through the streets in my elegant, though admittedly only borrowed overcoat, when at one of the busiest spots I beheld a horse harnessed to a heavy cart. The horse was standing there quietly in the indefinite darkness, and many, many people were hurrying by, passing the beautiful animal without paying it even the slightest heed. I too was hurrying past, I was in a big rush. A person whose ambition it is to go in search of amusement is always in a terrible hurry. But struck by the marvelous sight of the white horse standing in the black night, I stopped in my tracks. The long strands of hair hung down to the animal’s large eyes from which a nameless sorrow peered out. The horse stood there unmoving, as if it were a white, ghostly vision just arisen from the grave, displaying a humility and patience that spoke of majesty. But I was drawn on; after all, I was in search of amusement. Another night, too, found me out and about in pursuit of the most wretched entertainment. I had already passed through all sorts of public houses when I turned onto an unlit street, and then a shout came to me from the darkness: “Matches, young sir!” It was an old, poor woman who had cried out thus. I stopped short, for I happened to be filled with heartfelt good spirits, reached into my vest pocket to find a coin and gave it to the woman without taking any of her wares. How she thanked me then and wished me good fortune in the dark future. And how she held out her old, cold, gaunt hand to me! I took her hand and pressed it, and then, happy at this small experience, continued on my way.
1914
Frau Wilke
One day, when I was looking for a suitable room, I entered a curious house just outside the city and close to the city tramway, an elegant, oldish, and seemingly rather neglected house, whose exterior had a singularity which at once captivated me.
On the staircase, which I slowly mounted, and which was wide and bright, were smells and sounds as of bygone elegance.
What they call former beauty is extraordinarily attractive to some people. Ruins are rather touching. Before the residues of noble things our pensive, sensitive inward selves involuntarily bow. The remnants of what was once distinguished, refined, and brilliant infuse us with compassion, but simultaneously also with respect. Bygone days and old decrepitude, how enchanting you are!
On the door I read the name “Frau Wilke.”
Here I gently and cautiously rang the bell. But when I realized that it was no use ringing, since nobody answered, I knocked, and then somebody approached.
Very guardedly and very slowly somebody opened the door. A gaunt, thin, tall woman stood before me, and asked in a low voice: “What is it you want?”