my city, as my home in fact, but now I am bound to say that I don’t feel at home in a cesspit which has been filled brimful with filth by pseudo-socialists. And I am no longer as interested as I once was in hearing music performed: I prefer reading the scores by myself, though this is a vastly more expensive pleasure. But what is one offered today at these concerts in the Musikverein or the concert hall? The marvellous conductors of the past have turned into crude, sensation-seeking animal tamers, and the orchestras have become feebleminded under these tamers. I’ve seen all the museums, and the Viennese theatre is the shabbiest in the whole of Europe. The Burgtheater today is nothing but a witless, though unwitting parody of the theatre in general, in which anything to do with the intellect is totally lacking — nothing but provincialism and farce. To say nothing of the other theatres, whose daily diet of dilettantism is perfectly in tune with the utterly tedious society of today. And naturally I should find it intolerable to live under the same roof as my sister: that became clear to me when she was in Peiskam just now. She’d make life hell for me and I’d make life hell for her, and before very long one of us would kill the other. We’ve never been able to live together under one roof. However, it’s quite possible that my sister was genuinely concerned about me and my future when she invited me to stay with her in her Vienna apartment — though ultimately I find myself unable to believe this, since I know her. On the other hand, I told myself, I’m not sufficiently curious to go to Vienna just to inspect her new apartment, which probably contains any number of precious objects — and by no means tastelessly arranged either. Quite the contrary — that’s just what would make me white-hot with rage. Look, my little brother, this vase is from Upper Egypt. I can just hear her saying it and then waiting to see what I have to say about it, although she knows what I’m going to say. We’re an intelligent pair, and in four and a half decades we’ve been able to develop our intelligence to a high degree in our different ways, our different directions — I in mine and she in hers — up to today. If I were to go to Vienna, I should only need to take my travelling bag with me, since there would be no question of working in Vienna. Not at my sister’s anyway. And not if I stayed in a hotel either, for Vienna has always been inimical to my work: I’ve never succeeded with any work in Vienna — I’ve started a number of projects there, but I’ve never completed a single one, and this has always resulted in a terrible feeling of shame. Once, twenty-five years ago, I managed to complete something on Webern in Vienna, but as soon as I’d completed it I burned it, because it hadn’t turned out properly. Vienna has always had a paralysing effect on me, even though I would never admit it. It paralysed me in every way. The people I met in Vienna paralysed me too, with one or two exceptions. But my dear friend Paul Wittgenstein died — of his madness, I must emphasize — and my painter friend Joanna hanged herself. Anyone who goes to Vienna to stay and fails to recognize the moment when it is time to clear out becomes a senseless victim of a city which takes everything away from everybody and gives absolutely nothing in return. There are cities, for instance London or Madrid, which admittedly take something, though not much, but give almost everything. Vienna takes everything and gives nothing. That’s the difference. The city has a way of sucking dry all who get caught in its trap, and it goes on sucking until they fall down dead. I recognized this at an early stage and kept away from Vienna as far as possible. After the years when I lived almost continuously in Vienna I’ve only ever been back occasionally to visit a few people I was deeply fond of. Only a few people have the strength’to turn their backs on Vienna soon enough, before it is too late; they remain stuck to this dangerous and poisonous city until, finally, they become tired and let themselves be crushed to death by it, as by a glistening snake. And how many geniuses have been crushed to death in this city? They simply can’t be counted. But those who did manage to turn their backs on it at the right moment succeeded in everything they did, or almost everything. This is proved by history, and there is no need to insist on it. If I were to go to Vienna now, I thought, I’d make myself sick with boredom. In no time I’d destroy what little I still have left to me. So Vienna was ruled out. For a brief moment I considered Venice, but I shuddered at the thought of having to spend months sitting in this splendid but thoroughly perverse heap of masonry, even in the most perfect place. Venice is a city to be visited for only a few days, never for longer, like an elegant old lady whom one always goes to see for the last time. My mind was now set exclusively on Palma, and on the very evening that I got back from Niederkreut, where the old man had told me of his last wish, which continued to fascinate me and to occupy my mind most of the time — on that very evening I began to think about what I should pack in my two cases, which I had meanwhile taken upstairs and left open on the chest of drawers in my bedroom. At first I packed some clothes, underclothes and shoes, bearing in mind my old principle of taking only what was essential. Only two jackets, two pairs of trousers and two pairs of shoes, I said to myself, and I got together the right ones, remembering all the time that they must be summer jackets, summer trousers and summer shoes, for in Palma it is already summer in January — or more or less summery, I said, correcting myself. People always make the mistake of taking too many clothes on a journey, half killing themselves with the weight of their luggage, and then, if they have any sense, always wearing the same things when they get there. Now I’ve been travelling on my own account for over thirty years, I told myself, yet I still always take too much at the last moment. But on this journey, which will possibly — indeed almost certainly — be my last, I thought, I won’t take too much. That at least was my intention. But I was already in two minds when it came to deciding whether to take a pair of dark brown or a pair of black trousers with the dark grey ones. In the end I put a dark grey pair, a dark brown pair and a black pair in the case. However, when it came to jackets I was in no doubt: it had to be just a grey jacket and a brown one. If it turns out that I need a so-called dark jacket in Palma I can buy one, an elegant one so to speak, although I was sure that I should have no occasion to wear a so-called elegant jacket. I shan’t be going anywhere where a so-called elegant jacket is called for. And who knows whether I shall visit the Cañellas at all in my condition? I thought. I know what is socially possible and what is socially impossible in Palma and the surrounding parts of the island. Probably the reason why I love the island is that it is full of people who are old and sick. I shall probably spend most of my time in the hotel writing my work. It was naturally not as easy to pack the second case as it had been to pack the first, for I should have needed one twice the size to get in all the things that seemed to me to be absolutely necessary for my work. In the end I stacked the books and articles about Mendelssohn Bartholdy in front of me on the table by the window in two piles; one was made up of those books and articles and other papers which were absolutely necessary, the other of those which were not absolutely necessary. At least I thought I knew which of these books and articles and other papers would be more necessary for my work than others, and in the end I actually had two equal piles side by side on the table in front of me. I packed the absolutely necessary items in the second case and still had room for some of those which were not absolutely necessary; with these I packed the case so full that it would hardly close. After I had packed my toilet articles in it too, I was able to get three books on Mendelssohn Bartholdy in the case containing my clothes. All this was done on the very next day after my sister had departed and had actually not returned. After packing the suitcases I was utterly exhausted. In the meantime I had had a telephone call from the travel agent, whom I had telephoned a few hours earlier to ask if there was still a seat on the plane. He had told me that everything was fixed. He would be sending my travel documents out to Peiskam after the office closed, he had said. My flight from Munich to Palma was scheduled for the evening of the next day, and so I had reason to hope that the journey would go relatively smoothly. As always, I had decided on the journey on the spur of the moment. I had sent for Frau Kienesberger to come early next morning so that I could discuss with her what had to be done in my absence. After that I wanted to pay a visit to my specialist in Wels. Whatever his opinion is now, I’m leaving anyway, I told myself. Now that I had decided to travel I was not in such a poor state as I had been the day before or even that morning. However, in the evening, just as I was sitting in my armchair, feeling fairly reassured by the sight of my two firmly locked suitcases and with the contours of Palma before my mind’s eye, a call came from the travel agency to say that, as it turned out, I couldn’t leave for another two days. At the moment I didn’t mind. I pretended to be disappointed, but in fact I was glad of the delay. A damper has been put on your murderous impetuosity — that’s a good thing, I thought. But at the same time I thought, I only hope that in the next two days I shan’t go off the plan which I’m now so fervently attached to. I hope I shall stick to it. I know myself too well not to realise how vacillating I can be; in two days everything could have changed completely, everything could have turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, possibly more than once. However, I was certain that Palma was the right choice. Now you can take your time seeing the specialist, going to the bank, and winding up everything here. It was like the end of a nightmare. When I rang up my sister and told her,