THE FATHERLAND
Our form of government is a republic. We are allowed to do whatever we want. We can act as free and easy as we feel like. We don’t have to account for our behavior to anyone but ourselves, and that is our pride. Our honor, though, is the limits we place on our actions. Other countries stare in wonder at us, amazed that we can govern ourselves with nothing but our own power. We are not subject to anyone or anything except our own judgment and our upright character, whose orders and guidance we are happy to receive. We have no place for king or kaiser. The streets of our cities were not built for princely processions to march through, our houses are no pigsties but not palaces either. Our churches have no pomp and splendor and our city halls are simple and proud. Our mentality is like our homes, simple and prosperous; our hearts are like our landscapes: rough, but not infertile. We carry ourselves like members of a republic, citizens, warriors, human beings. The subjects in other countries often look like house pets. I don’t mean that freedom and pride are not native to other peoples as well, but with us they are inborn. Our forefathers, the brave confederators, bequeathed us their mentality, and it would be tragic if we were anything other than true to their magnificent gift. I feel a sacred serious feeling when I write these words. I am an ardent believer in the Republic. Young as I am, I already want to eagerly serve my fatherland. I am writing this essay with trembling fingers. I only hope that it will please the fatherland to claim my services and abilities soon. But I forget that I am still a boy in grade A-2. How I long to escape from this stifling youth and enter into public life with its great demands, tempests, ideas, and actions. I lie here as though in chains. I feel like a mature, intelligent adult, and then I look in the mirror and what I see stuns me with its youth and insignificance. Oh, if I ever make it that far, I will serve my fatherland with the most sacred fervor, and take pride in being permitted to serve it, and not get tired from whatever tasks it sees fit to assign me. It needs my abilities—my whole life. Why else did my parents give me it (life)? You are not really alive if you’re not living for something, and what other good is it nobler and more glorious to fight and live for than the good of the homeland? I am glad I still have such a wonderful life ahead of me. The fatherland is large, but to be able to do my part to help make it even larger will be my pride, my life, my desire, my honor. Oh, I have boundless aspirations, all the more so since I know that this kind of ambition is not a shameful, ignoble urge. It is still possible to be a hero, even today. Heroism looks different now, that’s all. When it comes to the greatness, fame, and advancement of the fatherland, it is no superfluous thing to be a hero, a sacrificer. Oh, but I still a schoolboy in grade A-2.
MY MOUNTAIN
It gets its name, Bözingenberg, from the village that lies at its southwestern foot. It is high but you can still climb it easily. We climb it a lot, my classmates and I, because the best places to play are up there. It is wide, probably an hour, no, much wider than that. I actually have no idea since I have never measured its whole width. It would take me too far out of my way. When you see it from another mountain, sitting there in all its height and width, it looks like a sleeping magician. Its form has the shape of an elephant’s head. I don’t know if that’s exactly right. In any case, since it’s only a beautiful mountain, it doesn’t really make any difference what it looks like. And it is the best mountain, with the best view. From the top you can see three white lakes, lots of other mountains, plains in three directions, cities and villages, forests, and all of it so beautiful down in the distant valleys, as though spread out just for you to look at. From up there, studying geography and lots of other things too is a pleasure. But for us the most beautiful things are the mighty beech trees on the mountainside. In spring their leaves are a wonderfully bright and wet green, almost fresh enough to eat. Frisky brown horses leap around in its meadows. You can walk right up close to them without being afraid. You just have to trust horses. There are goats and cows, too, but they’re not as exciting. A classmate of mine once grabbed a cow by the tail and it dragged him halfway down the mountain. We were scared for him, but still we had to laugh. When we play we often get into arguments, sometimes even fights. I like the latter more than the former. I hate arguments but it’s fun and exciting to hit. I like to feel hot with my blood pumping. Sometimes our game degenerates into a crazy battle. A battle is tremendous, and the hero in a battle is even more splendid. Of course you’re mad afterward, there’s anger, hate, enmity. But at least those are all clear feelings. Nothing is drier than dryness and there’s nothing more important to me than being dry and aloof. If there’s hate in the air I like to be the mediator and calm everybody down. I can play that role too. Playing shouldn’t get out of control and degenerate into fistfights. There, now I’ve said the right thing, even though I myself am a first-class giver and receiver of punches when it comes to that. Well, let’s move on. It’s easier to give fine warnings (to give yourself fine warnings) than it is to avoid being bad and sinning in the given moment. Everything at its proper time. So, fighting and throwing stones at its, and good intentions at its. It’s important to know every side. But I’ve almost forgotten about my mountain. I have spent so many beautiful mornings, evenings, and even nights on it that it’s hard for me to picture and put down on paper one single time. Once I spent an evening up there. I was lying in the grass by myself under century-old fir trees and dreaming. The sun cast its glow down on me and on the meadow. Bells and railroad noises rose up from the lowlands. I felt like I was far, far away from the whole world. I didn’t look at anything, I just let myself be looked at. At least that’s what a squirrel did for a long time. It peeked down at me scared and confused. I let it do what it wanted. Shrewmice were jumping from rock to rock, the sun went down, and the meadow glowed in the dark, transparent shadows. Oh, the longing I felt in my heart. If only I knew what for.
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 muc
h 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.
INSTEAD OF AN ESSAY
A letter to me from my brother: Dear Brother! I got your letter, read it, and read it again with amazement, yes, almost with admiration. You are a little scoundrel when it comes to style. You write like two professors put together. A real professional writer couldn’t say it any better. Where did you get it from?—I especially liked what you wrote about art. Yes, brother, art is a great and beautiful thing, but it is damn hard. If it was made out of the fantastic ideas people had, it would be quickly and easily finished, but there’s dexterity and craft that stands blocking the way between it and its execution. I have sighed more terrible sighs over it than a religious extremist. Brother, let me tell you: I have recently been writing poems. I sit at night for hours by the light of the lamp on my desk and I try to give my feelings a sonorous expression. It is hard, but other people, who seem to have no problems doing it, accomplish astounding things. There is one in particular who has even gotten famous. He is no older than I am and has already landed a book of poems. I’m not jealous but it pains me to see how far behind I still am despite all of my desperate efforts. Either the Muse smiles upon me in a hurry or I’m going to give it all up and become a mercenary. Studying philosophy seems ridiculous to me, and I’m not cut out for a job. I will carry off more laurels in some foreign army than I could harvest here, even if I got used to having a regular job. I will just live a wild, adventurous life, like so many other people who felt that life in their homeland was too narrow. I must admit that I’m worried about telling you these things. But I have faith in your strength and discretion. Our parents won’t hear any of this from your lips, I’m sure of that. So, my dear brother, how are things with you? Before I go we have to spend one more lovely night with each other. Maybe I’ll have some luck with my poems and then I won’t need to run away. You wrote to me that you’re bored. It’s too early for that, my good man. It seems to me that your lively spirit and your mania for expressing yourself in fine, elegant phrases prove it. What I wanted to say was that you were and are and always will be dear to me. You’re a funny kid, and easy to talk to. You will be something very great in life or else I’m an idiot. Yes, art really makes me sweat. It would really be too bad if I had to give it all up. But either I’ll create something first-rate or else nothing at all. Nothing is more pathetic than being a dilettante. Do you still take walks the way we used to together last summer? You can get a lot out of a solitary walk. Be patient with school. You may be twice as smart as your teacher but it’s still good to stick it out. Goodbye kid, goodbye my dear fellow. In any case, we’ll talk soon on a starry night over a beer about all the things that can be so beautiful and so ugly in this world. We need the wings of an eagle, but farewell!— I am using this letter from my brother in place of an essay because I’m totally lazybrained today. I ask that the teacher, insofar as one can request a favor of him as a man of honor, not tattle on my brother but observe the strictest secrecy. By the way, my dear brother’s poems have long since won applause and made him famous.
THE FAIR
The usefulness of a fair is great, and the pleasure it gives perhaps even greater. The farmers bring their cattle to market, the merchants their goods, the performers their curiosities, and the artists their works. Everyone wants to buy and sell. One person sells what he’s bought for a higher price and buys something else with the profit; someone else buys back the sold item from the buyer at a loss so that he can sell it somewhere else for more. Then maybe he slaps himself on the forehead and calls himself a fool. All anyone does is trade, bustle, shout, run around, look, and buy and sell. We impartial bystanders drift around in the crowded fair with our schoolboy intentions. There are plenty of grand things to see. The lady there with her tight-fitting red dress, feathered hat, and high little boots is a snake-charmer. I can watch her for hours with the greatest pleasure. She stands supremely still. Her face is pale, her eyes are big and lackluster, and the expression of her mouth is filled with contempt. I don’t mind letting her despise me: She is so sad. She must bear some kind of indelible sorrow.— Here are the shooting galleries. This is where young patriots practice their bull’s-eyes. The distance from the barrel of the gun to the target is admittedly not very great, but a lot of people still miss. Shots cost 5 cents each. An incredibly beautiful girl lures everyone in the mood to try shooting to her booth, and even people who aren’t in the mood. Her colleagues give her the evil eye. She is as beautiful as a princess and friendly like no one else but her—. There are carousels everywhere, steam-powered and not. The music is not very uplifting a
nd still you wouldn’t want to do without it. I let myself be carried up and down, and down and up. You ride in the most beautiful sleighs of silver and gold, the stars in the sky dance around you, the world revolves with you. It’s worth the money.— Then there’s the Kasperli puppet show. I’m glad I didn’t walk past that and not see it. I would have missed out on the best laughs. You have to laugh at every blow that the Kasperl strikes with his monstrous whip. More people die than want to die. Death leaps out unbelievably fast and strikes his victims down with marvelous accuracy. These victims include generals, doctors, governesses, soldiers, policemen, and ministers. Not one of them dies a peaceful death, as the newspapers say. They are pretty violently executed. Kasperl gets away with a light beating. At the end of the show, he politely bows to us and invites us to a brand-new, never-before-performed show. I like how his rascally face never changes.—Here you can have your photograph taken. There a panorama offers anyone who wants to look the chance to see every continent and every historical event in the world. Here you can see the three-legged horse. And just three steps farther on, you can look at the biggest ox in the world. No one has to but everyone is most politely invited to. People pay their entrance fees as they walk by. We keep walking. I take one last look at the snake lady. Truly, she deserves it. She stands there as tall and motionless as a picture. My parents gave me a frank to spend. I wonder where it went.—Beautiful snake lady!
A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories Page 4