Telegrams of the Soul (6 page)

And she hurried off to Gravosa,
¹
and lay all by her lonesome on Saint Martin's Island with her stock of provisions from 7
A.M.
to 7
P.M
., and stretched out her arms, naked as the day she was born, to receive the healing energy of nature.

She had her body rubbed with mentholated French brandy twice a day for a good half hour and swallowed a liter of cacao with six raw beaten egg yolks and copious amounts of saltwater fish filets.

When she got well she was full of ambition and a lust for life and she found an engagement acting in a very small theater. Her first role was that of the French Countess Laborde-Vallais. She had no idea what to do with it, but a young gentleman sent his visiting card to her dressing room.

She had bravely plucked herself from the jaws of death and soon realized that life wasn't worth having struggled so mightily to save. She had eluded that peril “Death,”—and now had to face the greater peril “Life!” Sunbaths, cacao, beaten egg yolks, mentholated French brandy rubs were not enough to elude life!

Later she happened to make the poet's acquaintance. She didn't understand what it meant to be a poet. You write books and you're a poet. But what's it all about and what good is it?

But one day he said to her: “What was it like on Saint Martin's Island? You lay there, gave yourself to God, and awaited the healing powers of meadow, forest and sunlight—.”

And somebody said to her: “Enough already with your boring Saint Martin's Island! That was then, this is now, thank God!”

Then she peered at the poet with a look that begged for help and he flashed her a helpful look in reply—.

That's when she fathomed what a poet was and what he was good for.

__________________

*
The harbor of Dubrovnik, in Croatia

The kingfisher was already ever since childhood my favorite bird.

This contrast between “delicate bird” and “stark winter chill”!

On top of which he's iridescently tinged blue-green like a hummingbird in the tropical forests! The winter hummingbird!

His sharp pointed beak spears little fish out of the water; like harpoons spear whales!

He sits on the lookout for days on end, perched on a tree stump beside a pond. Suddenly he shoots forward, dives under, and spears. An elegant killer.

He robs the carp ponds clean of fish. Nobody would put it past him. For days on end he waits on a tree stump, tinged green-blue, his beak a lance, a sword, a dagger, a fatal needle!

A “romantic retainer” decked out in blue-green iridescent armor! A fairy-tale hero of nature!

Lilly had a pond dug on the grounds of her grandfather's estate, had it bordered with willow, alder, hazel shrubs, oleaster. She had the whole thing caged in by a fine chain-link fence. And she put in a kingfisher. And now she watches him for hours on end roosting and waiting. The master of the pond!

Consequently, the compliments of the gentlemen callers who hope to subdue her delicate soul all sound vapid and laughable.

She is consumed, consumed by the laws of nature and by its mysteries—.

In contrast to which, every man appears petty and pitiful. He's nothing but a “fumbling, brutal, uncomely” kingfisher. He too waits hours, days on end, to trap his prey! He spears and devours. But it isn't “measly minnows” that he devours, slays! He slays “souls”!

He sat with his young wife at “Ronacher's” Variety Show. He said to people who raised their eyebrows: “Why not? I'm interested in the tendrils of art. Aren't there also, after all, perfectly legitimate joints at the Prater? Well then!?”

The show begins at eight o'clock. A thousand bulbs light up.

“The Pickwicks.” Fat fellahs in light blue undershirts leapfrog over each other, sweating.

You can almost hear their lungs cry out: “Enough already, cut it out—.”

Everybody applauds. The young woman thinks: “Such tiresome—un-wholesome stuff!”

A little girl thin as a pink thread works her way across a white telephone wire.

A thin thing struggling with a thinner thing!

“Unwholesome!” mutters the young woman.

Three bears out of the wild make their appearance. One intones something in his native growl. Nobody understands. It means: “I was wild, wild arggggggggh I was wild—!”

Everybody applauds.

“Thoroughly un-wholesome!” the young woman thinks to herself.

A pantomime up next, “La Puce.” “The very soul of silence enveloped by vulgarity.”

“A young woman in a light green silk dress undresses herself in search of ‘la puce' (the flea), and so misses her rendezvous. The flea is her noble protector. The flea wins the day. Hurray for the flea—!”

Everybody applauds.

The young woman feels: “How terribly tiresome—!”

Now the drum virtuoso Belín.

“That's just what we need, a drummer—,” somebody says, “hope he's good for a laugh! What can he do? Beat the drum?!”

The audience cries out to him without words: “Hello, Mr. Drummer—!”

A little drum sits askew on a little drum stand.

He comes out in black tails and a white tie. His wavy hair is streaked with gray.

The piece is called “The Battle!”:

Rata-tat tat tat tat—from the distance countless troops come running, millions, ever more, ever more, more, more, more. More—! They sneak, slide, scurry, fly—. Pause.

Defensive salvo—rata-tat! Pause. Rata-ta, rata-ta, rata-ta, ratata—ratatat-tat!

The battle sings its song, shouts, shrieks, screams, moans, breathes its last———. Pause. All of a sudden a terrible uproar———rrrrata-tat rrrrata rrrrata rrrrata-tat tat tat tat tat—trrrrrrrrra! The death struggle of life: “The Battle!”

Hurricane roll!

He rapes the ear, stretches it, rips it apart, shakes it, brakes it, storms into the soul and makes it—tremble! An awful drum-roll, a terrible, unrelenting, gruesome, bloody-eared drum-roll! Won't he stop it?! He won't stop, rrrrata-tat, rattles on, tears your nerves to shreds, rrrata-tat-tat! Roll it! Roll it—!! Rrrrata-tat!

He mops the floor with 'em, mows 'em down, wipes 'em out!

Bang-bang———bang! Rrrrrrrrrat———. The battle goes dead.

Silence.

The man in black tails rises, bows, makes his exit—.

Nobody applauds.

“A wretched drummer—,” you think to yourself, “tears up the drum skin.”

“A genius of the wrist flat out—,” remarks an aristocrat in a box seat.

The young woman sits there, pale as can be—.

“You look scared to death—,” says the husband, and lays his hand gently on hers.

“Napoleon—!” she whispers.

“What's that?” says the husband.

“He got so little applause—,” she says, “maybe he'll be fired—.”

“Oh no—,” says the husband, “they're on contract—. How pale you look—.”

The young woman gulps: “Napoleon—!”

“Fishing must be very boring,” said a young lady who knew as much about it as most young ladies.

“If it were boring I wouldn't do it,” replied the child with the dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.

She stood there with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. She took the little fish off the hook and hurled it to the ground.

The little fish died—.

The lake lay there bathed in light and shimmering. It smelled of willows and steaming rotting swamp grass. You could hear the clatter of knives, forks and plates from the hotel. The little fish danced around on the ground a short original fandango like the dance of wild tribes—and died.

The child kept on fishing, with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman.

“Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s'adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I'd never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity, said an old lady seated nearby.

The child took the little fish off the hook and once again hurled it to the ground, at the lady's feet.

The little fish died—. It lunged upwards and dropped dead—a simple, placid death. It even forgot to dance, gave up the ghost just like that.

“Oh—,” said the old lady.

And yet, in the face of the cruel child with the dirty blond hair you could discern a deepening beauty and the traces of a soul in the making—.

But the face of the noble lady was languid and pale—.

She will no longer give anyone joy, light and warmth—.

That's why she sympathizes with the little fish.

Why should it die when it still has life left in it—?

And yet it lunges up and drops dread—a simple placid death.

The child keeps on fishing with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. Beautiful beyond description with big, determined eyes, dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.

Perhaps one day the child too will pity a little fish and say: “Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s'adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I'd never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity—!”

But such tender stirrings of the soul only burst into bloom at the last resting place of all dashed dreams, all blighted hopes—.

So fish on, lovely little girl!

As, oblivious to all, you still bear your beautiful birthright buried in your breast—!

Kill the little fish and fish on!

I once went to the foremost hairdresser in the capital.

Everything smelled of Eau de Cologne, of fresh washed linen and fragrant cigarette smoke—Sultan Flor, Cigarettes des Princesses égyptiennes.

A young girl with light blond silken hair sat at the cash register.

“Dear God,” I thought, “a count will surely sweep you off your feet, you lovely thing—!”

She peered back at me with a look that said: “Whoever you may be, one among thousands, I declare to you that life lies before me, life—! Don't you know it?!”

I knew it.

“Ah well,” I thought, “it might also be a prince—!”

She married the proprietor of a café who went bust a year later.

She was built like a gazelle. Silk and velvet hardly enhanced her beauty—she was probably most beautiful in the buff.

The café proprietor went bust.

I ran into her on the street with a child.

She peered back at me with a look that said: “I still have life before me, life, don't you know it—?!”

I knew it.

A friend of mine had typhus. He was a well-to-do bachelor and lived in a lakefront villa.

When I visited him, a young woman with light blond silken hair prepared his ice packs. Her delicate hands were red and raw from the ice water. She peered back at me: “This is life—! I love it—! Because it's life—!”

When he got well he passed the woman on to another rich young man—.

He dumped her, just like that—.

It was summer.

Later he was overcome by longing—it was fall.

She had looked after him, nestled close with her sweet gazelle limbs—.

He wrote to her: “Come back to me—!

One evening in October I spotted her with him entering the wondrous vestibule in which eight red marble columns shimmered.

I greeted her.

She peered back at me: “Life lies behind me, life—! Don't you know it?!”

I knew it.

I went to the foremost hairdresser in the capital.

It still smelled of Eau de Cologne, of fresh washed linen and fragrant cigarette smoke—Sultan Flor, Cigarettes des princesses égyptiennes.

Another girl sat at the cash register, this one with brown wavy hair.

She peered back at me with the grand triumphant look of youth—profectio Divae Augustae Victricis: “Whoever you may be, one among thousands, I declare to you that life lies before me, life—! Don't you know it?!”

I knew it.

“Dear God,” I thought, “a count will surely sweep you off your feet—but it might also be a prince!”

Above my bed hangs a carbon print of the painting by Gustav Klimt: Schubert. Schubert is singing songs for piano by candlelight with three little Viennese Misses. Beneath it I scribbled: “One of my gods! People created the gods so as, despite all, to somehow rouse otherwise unfulfilled ideals hidden in their hearts into a more vital form!”

I often read from Niggli's Schubert biography. Its intent, you see, is to present Schubert's life, not Niggli's thoughts about it. But I have returned a hundred times to the passage on page 37. He was a music teacher on the estate of Count Esterhazy in Zelesz, an instructor to the very young Countesses Marie and Karoline. To Karoline he lost his heart. Thus emerged his creations for four-handed piano. The young countess never learned of his profound affection. Only once when she teased him that he had never dedicated a single one of his compositions to her, he replied: “What for?! As it is, it's all for you!”