I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

Happiness has no tomorrow; it has only yesterday and today.

I was afraid of happiness, and I let it slip through my fingers.

Love, I thought, is stronger than death and the fear of death.

There are moments when you feel something inexpressible that you want to hold on to forever.

I was no longer a youth, but I still had the soul of one.

I

“I was about twenty-five then,” N. N. began, “things of long-past days, as you see. I had just broken free and gone abroad, not to ‘complete my education,’ as they used to say, but simply because I wanted to see God’s world. I was healthy, young, cheerful, money didn’t run out, and worries hadn’t yet managed to start—I lived without a backward glance, did as I pleased, was flourishing, in a word. It never occurred to me then that a human being is not a plant and cannot flourish for long. Youth eats gilded gingerbread and thinks that is the daily bread; but the time comes—and you beg for a crust. But there is no need to discuss that.

I traveled without any goal, without a plan; I stopped everywhere I liked and left immediately as soon as I felt the desire to see new faces—faces, specifically. I was exclusively interested only in people; I hated curious monuments, remarkable collections, the mere sight of a lackey aroused a feeling of boredom and malice in me; I nearly went mad in Dresden’s Grünes Gewölbe. Nature acted on me tremendously, but I did not like its so-called beauties, the extraordinary mountains, cliffs, waterfalls; I did not like it to intrude upon me, to bother me. But faces, living, human faces—people’s speech, their movements, laughter—these were what I could not do without. I always felt especially light and joyful in a crowd; I was happy to go where others went, to shout when others shouted, and at the same time, I loved to watch how these others shouted. It amused me to observe people… no, I didn’t even observe them—I examined them with a kind of joyful and insatiable curiosity. But I am straying again.

So, about twenty years ago, I was living in a small German town, Z., on the left bank of the Rhine. I was seeking solitude: I had just been wounded in the heart by a young widow whom I had met at the baths. She was very beautiful and clever, flirted with everyone—and with me, a sinner—at first even encouraged me, and then cruelly wounded me by sacrificing me for a red-cheeked Bavarian lieutenant. To be honest, the wound to my heart was not very deep; but I considered it my duty to surrender myself to grief and solitude for a while—what won’t youth entertain itself with!—and settled in Z.

I liked this town for its location at the foot of two high hills, its dilapidated walls and towers, its ancient linden trees, its steep bridge over a clear little river flowing into the Rhine, and most importantly, its good wine. In the evenings, immediately after sunset (this was in June), very pretty fair-haired German girls strolled along its narrow streets and, meeting a foreigner, pronounced in a pleasant voice: “Guten Abend!”—and some of them did not even leave when the moon rose from behind the sharp roofs of the old houses and the small cobblestones of the pavement were clearly outlined in its motionless rays. I loved to wander through the town then; the moon seemed to stare intently at it from the clear sky; and the town felt this gaze and stood alert and peaceful, all bathed in its light, that serene and at the same time quietly soul-stirring light. The weathervane on the high Gothic bell tower shone with pale gold; streaks of the same gold shimmered over the black sheen of the little river; tiny candles (the German is thrifty!) glowed modestly in the narrow windows under the slate roofs; grapevines mysteriously poked out their curled tendrils from behind stone fences; something scurried in the shadows near the ancient well in the triangular square, the sleepy whistle of the night watchman suddenly sounded, a good-natured dog growled quietly, and the air caressed the face so much, and the linden trees smelled so sweetly, that the chest involuntarily inhaled deeper and deeper, and the word: “Gretchen”—neither an exclamation nor a question—simply begged to be uttered.

The town of Z. lies two versts from the Rhine. I often went to look at the majestic river and, dreaming with some strain about the deceitful widow, sat for long hours on a stone bench under a solitary huge ash tree. A small statue of the Madonna with an almost childlike face and a red heart pierced by swords on her chest sadly peered out from its branches. On the opposite bank was the town of L., a little larger than the one where I had settled. One evening, I was sitting on my favorite bench, looking at the river, then at the sky, then at the vineyards. In front of me, fair-haired boys were clambering over the sides of a boat that had been pulled ashore and lay overturned with its tarred bottom facing up. Small ships sailed gently on faintly bulging sails; greenish waves slid past, barely swelling and murmuring. Suddenly, sounds of music reached me; I listened. A waltz was being played in the town of L.; the double bass boomed abruptly, the violin poured out unclearly, the flute whistled briskly.

“What is that?” I asked an old man who approached me, wearing a velvet vest, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.

“That,” he answered me, first moving the mouthpiece of his pipe from one corner of his lips to the other, “is students who have arrived from B. for a Kommersch.”

‘I think I’ll go see this Kommersch,’ I thought, ‘and besides, I haven’t been to L.’ I found a ferryman and went to the other side.

1 Guten Abend!: “Good evening!” (German).