I’M NOT mocking the poet who each evening, to put it bluntly, ate cheese, and at midday, if you like, ingested soup, and led a solid life.
Derision, in this instance, is the farthest thing from my mind. Only a few old, venerable fir trees, which appeared to be clothed in greatcoats, peered derisively down at the house wherein the one with whom I’m concerned had each year approximately one single idea.
From time to time the spouse of the fir-tree-surrounded and never-to-abandon-the-study person sat down with him, looked at him with honest concern, and put to him the question of whether he still believed in his poetic profession.
The one thus imposed upon used to respond that, yes, regarding his mission he was conviction itself.
The woman, whom I take the liberty to present to the reader here, had a small, delicate mouth only barely adorned with lips and curls of unusual tenderness.
When the poet achieved a few good, I mean well-rung or balanced lines that in addition he carefully polished, the little birds in the garden where the poet’s house was situated began to sing, tweet, and jubilate.
Basically the park was a poem of a very respectable type. Every day the gorgeous wife of the poet entered the city employing her adorable little feet that looked as if they were comical and capable of smiling.
She told the acquaintances she met that her husband was very industrious, which actually wasn’t the case, but she believed herself entitled to say this. She said it to make a favorable impression and especially so that people would think she was as happy with her husband as one could imagine.
Perhaps she would have welcomed seeing him more active. In his patience and repose he resembled the firs.
Her I know nothing to compare with, other than this story that has sprouted from me here and which I consider pretty.
Perhaps this is due to its meager contents.
(1927–1928)
Translated with Nicole Köngeter