until I’ve finished, perhaps even perfected, this work of mine. Leaving Peiskam is what I hate most. I walk from one room to another, I go downstairs and back upstairs, I cross the yard, I rattle the different doors and gates, I check the bolts on the windows and everything else that has to be checked when one goes away, and when I’ve checked the windows I no longer know whether the locks on the doors are in order, and when I’ve checked these I no longer know whether the windows are locked. Such an abrupt departure from Peiskam — and for many years all my departures have been abrupt — drives me to distraction and I am glad no one can see me, I’m glad there are no witnesses to my outward and inward disarray. How ideal it would be if I could sit at my desk now and begin my work! I thought, how ideal just to sit down and write the first sentence which would free the way for all the rest, to be able to concentrate on this study of Mendelssohn Bartholdy, press on with it and complete it! How ideal, how ideal, how ideal! But the desk has been cleared, and by clearing it I’ve forfeited any chance of beginning work immediately. By making these abrupt travel arrangements and bookings and so on I’ve possibly forfeited everything, possibly not just my work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy, but literally everything, perhaps my very last chance of survival! I held on to the door-post of my study in order to calm myself. I tried to check my pulse, but I couldn’t feel any. I felt as though I’d momentarily lost my hearing, and I pressed my head and my body so hard against the door-post that I could have cried out with pain. In the end, I told myself, though my head was far from clear, when I think I’ve checked everything, especially the plumbing and the electric wiring, I shall drop into my armchair, only to jump up again because I’ve forgotten to turn down the hot water system, which is something I can’t expect Frau Kienesberger to do. And then I shall go and clear out the big dirty linen basket, throwing out all the dirty washing, great heaps of it which have accumulated over many weeks, as may be imagined in view of my condition, which causes me to sweat profusely several times a day. All this washing, moreover, smells foul because of the large quantities of diuretics I have to take in order to lose water and so relieve the strain on my heart. I felt sick as I got all these pieces of dirty linen out of the basket and threw them on the washroom table, even though they were all mine — or perhaps because they were mine. I began to count them all, without realising that this was a sign of madness, and of course it was completely mad, but by the time I realised how mad it was I had become utterly exhausted, and it was as much as I could do to get back upstairs and sit down again in my armchair. It is our misfortune that we always decide in favour of something that turns out to be contrary to our wishes, and when I thought about it more closely, sitting in my armchair, I realised that my sudden decision to quit Peiskam and fly to Palma, where admittedly I had the Cañellas with their palace on the Borne, was all of a sudden directed entirely against myself. I couldn’t understand why I’d made it, but now, in view of all the circumstances it had conjured up, I saw that it simply couldn’t be reversed. I had to go away and at least try to start work in Palma. At least try, I kept on repeating to myself, at least try, at least try! Why did I have the armchair covered with french velvet only a few weeks ago if I’m not going to sit in it and enjoy it? I asked myself. What good will the new desk-lamp or the new blinds be to me now if I go away, possibly to some new hell? I tried to calm myself while making sure that I had packed everything that was necessary, or at any rate everything that was absolutely necessary, in my suitcases and my grandfather’s little travelling bag, which I always take with me when I go away. At the same time, however, I wondered how I could possibly think of calming myself in my present state; it was absurd for me to have such an idea as I sat slumped in the armchair, actually feeling that I should be incapable of getting up again. And somebody like you, somebody who’s already half dead, is about to fly to Palma, I repeated to myself several times, again half aloud, as has become a habit with me, a habit that can no longer be cured, as old people do who have been alone for years and are only waiting to be able to die. I was just such an old person already as I sat there in the armchair, an old man who was already more dead than alive. I must have made a pitiful, indeed pitiable impression on an observer, though there was none — unless I’m going to say that I am an observer of myself, which is stupid, since I am my own observer anyway: I’ve actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists only of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery. For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself. But all the time I ask myself what I have to save myself from. Is what I constantly wish to save myself from really as bad as all that? No, it isn’t, I told myself, and immediately resumed my self-observation, self-calumniation and self-mockery. All I want to do is to prolong my present state, which leads directly out of the world, I thought, though I dared not actually say it to myself. I’m playing with this state, and I’ll go on playing with it as long as I please. As long as I please, I now said to myself, and I listened, but couldn’t hear anything. The neighbours, I thought, have for years looked upon me as a madman. This role — for that’s what it is in the whole of this more or less unbearable farce — suits me down to the ground. As long as I please, I said to myself again, and this time I suddenly enjoyed hearing myself speak, which was something new, for I’d hated my own voice for years. How can I even for a moment think of calming myself, I thought, when I am so full of agitation? And I tried playing a record. My house has the best acoustics imaginable, and I filled it with the sound of the Haffner Symphony. I sat down and closed my eyes. What would the world be like without music, without Mozart! I said to myself. It’s always music that saves me. I actually calmed myself by repeatedly solving the mathematical puzzle of the Haffner Symphony with my eyes closed, an activity which always affords me the greatest possible pleasure. Mozart is supremely important for my work on Mendelssohn Bartholdy, I reflect, Mozart gives me the key to everything; I must start from Mozart. Have I given Frau Kienesberger the money I owe her? Yes. Have I packed all my medicaments? Yes. Have I packed all the necessary books and articles? Yes. Have I inspected the huntsman’s lodge? Yes. Have I told my sister she needn’t pay for the papering of her room at Peiskam as I originally demanded? Yes. Have I told the gardener how I want the trees pruned in January? Yes. Have I told the specialist that at night I now get pains on the right-hand side of my chest, not just on the left? Yes. Have I told Frau Kienesberger not to open the blinds on the east side? Yes. Have I told her to put the heating on during my absence, but not to