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Authors: Robert Walser
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must feel
the same way. Different young artists often come to us, that is to say, to Papa, for
dinner. Well, they are invited and then they appear. Often I write the invitations,
often the governess, and a grand, entertaining liveliness reigns at our table, which,
without boasting or wilfully showing off, looks like the well-provided table of a
fine house. Papa apparently enjoys going around with young people, with people who
are younger than he, and yet he is always the gayest and the youngest. One hears him
talking most of the time, the others listen, or they allow themselves little remarks,
which is often quite droll. Father overtowers them all in learning and verve and understanding
of the world, and all these people learn from him—that I plainly see. Often I have
to laugh at the table; then I receive a gentle or not-so-gentle admonition. Yes, and
then after dinner we take it easy. Papa stretches out on the leather sofa and begins
to snore, which actually is in rather poor taste. But I’m in love with Papa’s behavior.
Even his candid snoring pleases me. Does one want to, could one ever, make conversation
all the time?
Father apparently spends a lot of money. He has receipts and expenses, he lives, he
strives after gains, he lets live. He even leans a bit toward extravagance and waste.
He’s constantly in motion. At our house there is much said about success and failure.
Whoever eats with us and associates with us has attained some form of smaller or greater
success in the world. What is the world? A rumor, a topic of conversation? In any
case, my father stands in the very middle of this topic of conversation. Perhaps he
even directs it, within certain bounds. Papa’s aim, at all events, is to wield power.
He attempts to develop, to assert both himself and those people in whom he has an
interest. His principle is: he in whom I have no interest damages himself. As a result
of this view, Father is always permeated with a healthy sense of his human worth and
can step forth, firm and certain, as is fitting. Whoever grants himself no importance
feels no qualms about perpetrating bad deeds. What am I talking about? Did I hear
Father say that?
Have I the benefit of a good upbringing? I refuse even to doubt it. I have been brought
up as a metropolitan lady should be brought up, with familiarity and, at the same
time, with a certain measured severity, which permits and, at the same time, commands
me to accustom myself to tact. The man who is to marry me must be rich, or he must
have substantial prospects of an assured prosperity. Poor? I couldn’t be poor. It
is impossible for me and for creatures like me to suffer pecuniary need. That would
be stupid. In other respects, I shall be certain to give simplicity preference in
my mode of living. I do not like outward display. Simplicity must be a luxury. It
must shimmer with propriety in every respect, and such refinements of life, brought
to perfection, cost money. The amenities are expensive. How energetically I’m talking
now! Isn’t it a bit imprudent? Shall I love? What is love? What sorts of strange and
wonderful things must yet await me if I find myself so unknowing about things that
I’m still too young to understand. What experiences shall I have?
[1914]
Translated by Harriett Watts
Nervous
I AM a little worn out, raddled, squashed, downtrodden, shot full of holes. Mortars have
mortared me to bits. I am a little crumbly, decaying, yes, yes. I am sinking and drying
up a little. I am a bit scalded and scorched, yes, yes. That’s what it does to you.
That’s life. I am not old, not in the least, certainly I am not eighty, by no means,
but I am not sixteen any more either. Quite definitely I am a bit old and used up.
That’s what it does to you. I am decaying a little, and I am crumbling, peeling a
little. That’s life. Am I a little bit over the hill? Hmm! Maybe. But that
the same way. Different young artists often come to us, that is to say, to Papa, for
dinner. Well, they are invited and then they appear. Often I write the invitations,
often the governess, and a grand, entertaining liveliness reigns at our table, which,
without boasting or wilfully showing off, looks like the well-provided table of a
fine house. Papa apparently enjoys going around with young people, with people who
are younger than he, and yet he is always the gayest and the youngest. One hears him
talking most of the time, the others listen, or they allow themselves little remarks,
which is often quite droll. Father overtowers them all in learning and verve and understanding
of the world, and all these people learn from him—that I plainly see. Often I have
to laugh at the table; then I receive a gentle or not-so-gentle admonition. Yes, and
then after dinner we take it easy. Papa stretches out on the leather sofa and begins
to snore, which actually is in rather poor taste. But I’m in love with Papa’s behavior.
Even his candid snoring pleases me. Does one want to, could one ever, make conversation
all the time?
Father apparently spends a lot of money. He has receipts and expenses, he lives, he
strives after gains, he lets live. He even leans a bit toward extravagance and waste.
He’s constantly in motion. At our house there is much said about success and failure.
Whoever eats with us and associates with us has attained some form of smaller or greater
success in the world. What is the world? A rumor, a topic of conversation? In any
case, my father stands in the very middle of this topic of conversation. Perhaps he
even directs it, within certain bounds. Papa’s aim, at all events, is to wield power.
He attempts to develop, to assert both himself and those people in whom he has an
interest. His principle is: he in whom I have no interest damages himself. As a result
of this view, Father is always permeated with a healthy sense of his human worth and
can step forth, firm and certain, as is fitting. Whoever grants himself no importance
feels no qualms about perpetrating bad deeds. What am I talking about? Did I hear
Father say that?
Have I the benefit of a good upbringing? I refuse even to doubt it. I have been brought
up as a metropolitan lady should be brought up, with familiarity and, at the same
time, with a certain measured severity, which permits and, at the same time, commands
me to accustom myself to tact. The man who is to marry me must be rich, or he must
have substantial prospects of an assured prosperity. Poor? I couldn’t be poor. It
is impossible for me and for creatures like me to suffer pecuniary need. That would
be stupid. In other respects, I shall be certain to give simplicity preference in
my mode of living. I do not like outward display. Simplicity must be a luxury. It
must shimmer with propriety in every respect, and such refinements of life, brought
to perfection, cost money. The amenities are expensive. How energetically I’m talking
now! Isn’t it a bit imprudent? Shall I love? What is love? What sorts of strange and
wonderful things must yet await me if I find myself so unknowing about things that
I’m still too young to understand. What experiences shall I have?
[1914]
Translated by Harriett Watts
Nervous
I AM a little worn out, raddled, squashed, downtrodden, shot full of holes. Mortars have
mortared me to bits. I am a little crumbly, decaying, yes, yes. I am sinking and drying
up a little. I am a bit scalded and scorched, yes, yes. That’s what it does to you.
That’s life. I am not old, not in the least, certainly I am not eighty, by no means,
but I am not sixteen any more either. Quite definitely I am a bit old and used up.
That’s what it does to you. I am decaying a little, and I am crumbling, peeling a
little. That’s life. Am I a little bit over the hill? Hmm! Maybe. But that
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