The Diaries of Franz Kafka (69 page)

F
RIDAY
, 28 June. Left from the Staatsbahnhof. Felt fine. Sokols
¹⁴⁵
delayed the departure of the train. Took off my jacket, stretched out full length on the seat. Bank of the Elbe. The beautifully situated villages and villas, as on lake shores. Dresden. Clean, punctilious service. Calmly spoken words. Massive look of the buildings as a result of the use of concrete; though in America, for example, it hasn’t this effect. The Elbe’s placid waters marbled by eddies.

Leipzig, conversation with the porter. Opel’s Hotel. The half-built new railway station. Beautiful ruins of the old one. Room together. Buried alive from four o’clock on, for the noise made Max close the window. Great deal of noise, sounded like one wagon pulling another behind it. The horses on the asphalt like galloping saddle horses. The receding bell of the tram by its pauses marking off the streets and squares.

Evening in Leipzig. Max’s sense of direction, I was lost. But I discovered a beautiful oriel on the Fürstenhaus and was later confirmed by the guidebook. Night work on a construction job, probably on the site of Auerbach’s Keller. A dissatisfaction with Leipzig that I couldn’t throw off. The attractive Café Oriental. Dovecot, a beer parlour. The slow-moving, long-bearded proprietor. His wife drew the beer. Their two tall robust daughters served. Drawers in the tables. Lichtenhain beer in wooden jugs. Disgraceful smell when the lid was opened. An infirm habitué of the place, reddish, pinched cheeks, wrinkled nose; he sat with a large group of people, then stayed on alone; the girl joined him with her beer glass. The picture of the habitué, dead twelve years ago, who had been going there for fourteen years. He is lifting his glass, behind him a skeleton. Many heavily bandaged students in Leipzig. Many monocles.

Friday, 29 June. Breakfast. The man who wouldn’t sign the receipt for a money order on Saturday. Walk. Max to Rowohlt. Museum of the book trade. Couldn’t contain myself in the presence of all the books.
The ancient look of the streets of the publishing quarter, though there were straight streets too, and newer but less decorative houses. Public reading-room. Lunch in the Manna. Bad. Wilhelm’s winehouse; dimly lit tavern in a courtyard. Rowohlt: young, red-cheeked, beads of sweat between his nose and cheeks, moved only above the hips. Count Bassewitz, author of
Judas
, large, nervous, expressionless face. The movement in his waist, a strong physique carried well. Hasenclever, a lot of shadow and highlights in a small face, bluish colours too. All three flourished sticks and arms. Queer daily lunch in the winehouse. Large, broad wine cups with slices of lemon. In the Café Français, Pinthus, correspondent for the
Berliner Tageblatt
, a round, rather flat face, correcting the typescript of a review of
Johanna von Neapel
(première the previous evening). Café Français. Rowohlt was rather serious about wanting a book from me. Publishers’ personal obligations and their effect on the average of the present-day German literature. In the publishing house.

Left for Weimar at five o’clock. The old maid in the compartment. Dark skin. Beautiful contours of her chin and cheeks. The twisted seams of her stockings; her face was concealed by the newspaper and we looked at her legs. Weimar. She got off there too, after putting on a large old hat. Later on I saw her again while looking at the Goethehaus from the market place.

Long way to the Hotel Chemnitius. Almost gave up. Search for a place to swim. Public beach on the Kirschberg. Schwanensee. Walked at night to the Goethehaus. Recognized it at once. All of it a yellowish-brown colour. Felt the whole of our previous life share in the immediate impression. The dark windows of the uninhabited rooms. The light-coloured bust of Juno. Touched the wall. White shades pulled part way down in all the rooms. Fourteen windows facing on the street. The chain on the door. No picture quite catches the whole of it. The uneven surface of the square, the fountain, the irregular alignment of the house along the rising slope of the square. The dark, rather tall windows in the midst of the brownish-yellow. Even without knowing it was the Goethehaus, the most impressive middle-class house in Weimar.

Sunday the 30th. Morning. Schillerhaus. The hunch-backed, woman
who came forward and in a few words, but mostly by the tone of her voice, seemed to be apologizing for the fact that these souvenirs still existed. On the steps, Clio, as diarist. Picture of the centennial birthday celebration, 10 November 1859; the decorated, enlarged house. Italian views, Bellagio, presents from Goethe. Locks of hair no longer human, yellow and dry as the beard on grain. Maria Pavlovna, slender neck, her face no broader, large eyes. Various Schiller heads. Well-arranged house for a writer. Waiting-room, reception room, study, sleeping alcoves. Frau Junot, his daughter, resembled him.
Large-Scale Arboriculture Based on Small-Scale Experiments
, his father’s book.

Goethehaus. Reception rooms. Quick look into the study and bedroom. Sad, reminding one of dead grandfathers. The garden that had gone on growing since Goethe’s death. The beech tree darkening his study.

While we were still sitting below on the landing, she ran past us with her little sister. The plaster greyhound on the landing is associated in my memory with this running. Then we saw her again in the Juno room, and again when we were looking out of the garden room. There were many other times I thought I heard her step and voice. Two carnations handed through the balcony railing. Went into the garden too late. I caught sight of her on a balcony. She came down only later on, with a young man. In passing I thanked her for having called our attention to the garden. But we did not leave yet. Her mother came up, a conversation sprang up in the garden. She stood next to a rosebush. Urged on by Max, I went over to her, learned of the excursion to Tiefurt. I’ll go too. She’s going with her parents. She mentioned an inn from where you can see the door of the Goethehaus. Gasthaus zum Schwan. We were sitting among strands of ivy. She came out of the house. I ran over, introduced myself to everyone, received permission to accompany them, and ran back again. Later the family arrived, without the father. I wanted to join them; no, they were going to have coffee first, I was supposed to follow with the father. She told me to go into the house at four. I called for the father after taking leave of Max.

Conversation with the coachman outside the gate. Walk with the father. Talked about Silesia, the Grand Duke, Goethe, the National
Museum, photography and drawing, and our nervous age. Stopped in front of the house where they were drinking coffee. He ran up and called them all to the bay window; he was going to take a picture. Out of nervousness played ball with a little girl. Walked with the men, the two women in front of us, the three girls in front of them. A small dog scampered in and out among us. Castle in Tiefurt. Sightseeing with the three girls. She has a lot of those things in the Goethehaus too, and better. Explanations in front of the Werther pictures. Fräulein von Göchhausen’s room. Walled-up door. Imitation poodle. Then left with her parents. Twice took picture in the park; one on a bridge, it won’t come out. At last, on the way home, a definite contact but without establishing any real relationship. Rain. Breslau carnival jokes told in the Archives. Took leave in front of the house. I stood around on Seifengasse. Max had meanwhile napped.

In the evening, incomprehensibly, ran into her three times. She with her girl friend. The first time we escorted them on their way. I can come to the garden any time after six in the evening. Now she had to go home. Then met her again on the Rundplatz, which had been got ready for a duel. They were talking to a young man in a manner more hostile than friendly. But then why hadn’t they stayed home, since we had already escorted them to the Goetheplatz? They had had to go home as quickly as possible, hadn’t they? Why were they now running out of Schillerstrasse down the small flight of steps into the out-of-the-way square, pursued by the young man or on their way to meet him, apparently without having been home at all? Why, after speaking a few words to the young man at a distance of ten paces and apparently refusing his escort, did they turn around again and run back alone? Had we, who had passed by with only a simple greeting, disturbed them? Later we walked slowly back; when we came to the Goetheplatz they once more came running out of another street almost into our arms, evidently very frightened. To spare them, we turned away. But they had already gone a roundabout way.

Monday, 1 July. Gartenhaus am Stern. Sat in the grass in front of it and sketched. Memorized the verse on the Ruhesitz. Box bed. Slept Parrot in the court calling Grete. Went without success to the Erfurter Allee, where she is learning to sew. Bathing.

Tuesday, 2 July. Goethehaus. Garrets. Looked at the photographs in the custodian’s quarters. Children standing around. Talked about photography. Continually on the alert for a chance to speak to her. She went off to her sewing with a friend. We stayed behind.

In the afternoon, Liszthaus. A virtuoso’s place. Old Pauline. Liszt worked from five to eight, then church, then slept a second time, visitors from eleven on. Max took a bath, I went for the photographs, ran into her just before, walked up to the gate with her. Her father showed me the pictures, but finally I had to go. She smiled at me meaninglessly, purposelessly, behind her father’s back. Sad. Thought of having the photographs enlarged. To the chemist. Back to the Goethehaus again for the negatives. She saw me from the window and opened the door.

Often ran into Grete. At the strawberry festival, in front of Werther’s Garden, where there was a concert. The suppleness of her body in its loose dress. The tall officers who came out of the Russischen Hof. Every kind of uniform. Strong slender fellow in dark clothes.

The brawl on the side-street. ‘You’re the biggest
Dreckorsch
there is!’ The people at the windows. The departing family, a drunk, an old woman with a rucksack, and two boys tagging along.

I choke up at the thought of my having to leave soon. Discovery of the Tivoli. The old snake charmer; her husband who acts as the magician. The women German teachers.

Wednesday, 3 July. Goethehaus. Photographs were to be taken in the garden. She was nowhere in sight so I was sent to fetch her. She is always all atremble with movement, but stirs only if you speak to her. They snapped the photographs. The two of us on the bench. Max showed the man how to do it. She agreed to meet me the next day. Öttingen was looking through the window and forbade Max and me, who happened to be standing alone at the apparatus, to take photographs. But we weren’t taking photographs at all! Her mother was still friendly then.

Not counting the schools and those who don’t pay, there are thirty thousand visitors every year – Swim. The children boxing seriously and calmly.

Grand-ducal library in the afternoon. The praise of it in the guidebook. The unmistakable Grand Duke. Massive chin and heavy lips.
Hand inside his buttoned coat. Bust of Goethe by David, with hair bristling backward and a large, tense face. The transformation of a palace into a library, which Goethe undertook. Busts by Passow (pretty, curly-haired boy), Zach. Werner, narrow, searching, out-thrust face. Gluck. Cast from life. The holes in the mouth from the tubes through which he breathed. Goethe’s study. You passed through a door straight into Frau von Stein’s garden. The staircase that a convict fashioned from a giant oak without using a single nail.

Walk in the park with the carpenter’s son, Fritz Wenski. His earnest speech. At the same time he kept striking at the shrubbery with a branch. He is going to be a carpenter too, and do his
Wanderjahre
. They no longer travel now in the way they did in his father’s time, the railway is spoiling people. To become a guide you would have to know languages, hence you must either learn them in school or buy the necessary books. Whatever he knew about the park he either learned in school or heard from the guides. Remarks plainly picked up from the guides which didn’t fit in with the rest of his conversation; for instance, of the Roman house nothing but: This was the tradesmen’s entrance – Borkenhäuschen. Shakespeare monument.

Children around me on Karlsplatz. They discussed the navy. The children’s earnestness. Ships going down. The children’s air of superiority. Promise of a ball. Distribution of cookies.
Carmen
garden concert. Completely under its spell.

Thursday, 4 July. Goethehaus. The promised appointment confirmed with a loud yes. She was looking out through the gate. I misinterpreted this, for she continued to look out even when we were there. I asked once more: ‘Even if it rains?’ ‘Yes.’

Max went to Jena, to Diederich’s. I to the Fürstengruft. With the officers. Above Goethe’s coffin a golden laurel wreath, donated by the German women of Prague in 1882. Met everyone again in the cemetery. The Goethe family vault. Walter von Goethe, b. Weimar, 9 April 1818, d. Leipzig, 15 April 1885: ‘With him the house of Goethe ceased to be, whose name shall outlive the ages.’ Inscription over the grave of Frau Karoline Falk: ‘Though God took seven of her children, she was a mother to the children of strangers. God shall dry all her tears.’ Charlotte von Stein: 1742–1827.

Swim. Didn’t sleep in the afternoon in order to keep an eye on the uncertain weather. She didn’t keep the appointment.

Found Max in bed with his clothes on. Both of us unhappy. If a person could only pour sorrow out the window.

In the evening Hiller, with his mother. I dashed away from the table because I thought I saw her. Mistake. Then all of us went to the Goethehaus. Said hello to her.

Friday, 5 July. Walked to no avail to the Goethehaus – Goethe Schiller Archives. Letters from Lenz. Letter from the citizens of Frankfort to Goethe, 28 August 1830:

A number of citizens of the old city on the Mayn, long wont to greet the twenty-eighth of August with beakers in their fist, would commend the favour of heaven could they welcome in person within the precincts of the Free City that rare Frankfort man whom this day saw come into the world.