need, of poverty? Nothing at all. I also
don’t find it the least bit necessary that I should experience anything so base. But
I do feel sorry for the poor children. I would jump out the window under such conditions.
Papa and I reside in the most elegant quarter of the city. Quarters which are quiet,
scrupulously clean, and fairly old, are elegant. The brand-new? I wouldn’t like to
live in a brand-new house. In new things there is always something which isn’t quite
in order. One sees hardly any poor people—for example, workers—in our neighborhood,
where the houses have their own gardens. The people who live in our vicinity are factory
owners, bankers, and wealthy people whose profession is wealth. So Papa must be, at
the very least, quite well-to-do. The poor and the poorish people simply can’t live
around here because the apartments are much too expensive. Papa says that the class
ruled by misery lives in the north of the city. What a city! What is it—the north?
I know Moscow better than I know the north of our city. I have been sent numerous
postcards from Moscow, Petersburg, and Holland; I know the Engadine with its sky-high
mountains and its green meadows, but my own city? Perhaps to many, many people who
inhabit it, Berlin remains a mystery. Papa supports art and the artists. What he engages
in is business. Well, lords often engage in business, too, and then Papa’s dealings
are of absolute refinement. He buys and sells paintings. We have very beautiful paintings
in our house. The point of Father’s business, I think, is this: the artists, as a
rule, understand nothing about business, or, for some reason or other, they aren’t
allowed to understand anything about it. Or it is this: the world is big and coldhearted.
The world never thinks about the existence of artists. That’s where my father comes
in, worldly-wise, with all sorts of important connections, and in suitable and clever
fashion, he draws the attention of this world, which has perhaps no need at all for
art, to art and to artists who are starving. Father often looks down upon his buyers.
But he often looks down upon the artists, too. It all depends.
No, I wouldn’t want to live permanently anywhere but in Berlin. Do the children in
small towns, towns that are old and decayed, live any better? Of course, there are
some things here that we don’t have. Romantic things? I believe I’m not mistaken when
I look upon something that is scarcely half alive as romantic. The defective, the
crumbled, the diseased; e.g., an ancient city wall. Whatever is useless yet mysteriously
beautiful—that is romantic. I love to dream about such things, and, as I see it, dreaming
about them is enough. Ultimately, the most romantic thing is the heart, and every
sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls. Our Berlin
will soon burst at the seams with newness. Father says that everything historically
notable here will vanish; no one knows the old Berlin any more. Father knows everything,
or at least, almost everything. And naturally his daughter profits in that respect.
Yes, little towns laid out in the middle of the countryside may well be nice. There
would be charming, secret hiding spots to play in, caves to crawl in, meadows, fields,
and, only a few steps away, the forest. Such villages seem to be wreathed in green;
but Berlin has an Ice Palace where people ice skate on the hottest summer day. Berlin
is simply one step ahead of all other German cities, in every respect. It is the cleanest,
most modern city in the world. Who says this? Well, Papa, of course. How good he is,
really! I have much to learn from him. Our Berlin streets have overcome all dirt and
all bumps. They are as smooth as ice and they glisten like scrupulously polished floors.
Nowadays one sees a few people roller skating. Who knows, perhaps I’ll be doing it
someday, too, if
don’t find it the least bit necessary that I should experience anything so base. But
I do feel sorry for the poor children. I would jump out the window under such conditions.
Papa and I reside in the most elegant quarter of the city. Quarters which are quiet,
scrupulously clean, and fairly old, are elegant. The brand-new? I wouldn’t like to
live in a brand-new house. In new things there is always something which isn’t quite
in order. One sees hardly any poor people—for example, workers—in our neighborhood,
where the houses have their own gardens. The people who live in our vicinity are factory
owners, bankers, and wealthy people whose profession is wealth. So Papa must be, at
the very least, quite well-to-do. The poor and the poorish people simply can’t live
around here because the apartments are much too expensive. Papa says that the class
ruled by misery lives in the north of the city. What a city! What is it—the north?
I know Moscow better than I know the north of our city. I have been sent numerous
postcards from Moscow, Petersburg, and Holland; I know the Engadine with its sky-high
mountains and its green meadows, but my own city? Perhaps to many, many people who
inhabit it, Berlin remains a mystery. Papa supports art and the artists. What he engages
in is business. Well, lords often engage in business, too, and then Papa’s dealings
are of absolute refinement. He buys and sells paintings. We have very beautiful paintings
in our house. The point of Father’s business, I think, is this: the artists, as a
rule, understand nothing about business, or, for some reason or other, they aren’t
allowed to understand anything about it. Or it is this: the world is big and coldhearted.
The world never thinks about the existence of artists. That’s where my father comes
in, worldly-wise, with all sorts of important connections, and in suitable and clever
fashion, he draws the attention of this world, which has perhaps no need at all for
art, to art and to artists who are starving. Father often looks down upon his buyers.
But he often looks down upon the artists, too. It all depends.
No, I wouldn’t want to live permanently anywhere but in Berlin. Do the children in
small towns, towns that are old and decayed, live any better? Of course, there are
some things here that we don’t have. Romantic things? I believe I’m not mistaken when
I look upon something that is scarcely half alive as romantic. The defective, the
crumbled, the diseased; e.g., an ancient city wall. Whatever is useless yet mysteriously
beautiful—that is romantic. I love to dream about such things, and, as I see it, dreaming
about them is enough. Ultimately, the most romantic thing is the heart, and every
sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls. Our Berlin
will soon burst at the seams with newness. Father says that everything historically
notable here will vanish; no one knows the old Berlin any more. Father knows everything,
or at least, almost everything. And naturally his daughter profits in that respect.
Yes, little towns laid out in the middle of the countryside may well be nice. There
would be charming, secret hiding spots to play in, caves to crawl in, meadows, fields,
and, only a few steps away, the forest. Such villages seem to be wreathed in green;
but Berlin has an Ice Palace where people ice skate on the hottest summer day. Berlin
is simply one step ahead of all other German cities, in every respect. It is the cleanest,
most modern city in the world. Who says this? Well, Papa, of course. How good he is,
really! I have much to learn from him. Our Berlin streets have overcome all dirt and
all bumps. They are as smooth as ice and they glisten like scrupulously polished floors.
Nowadays one sees a few people roller skating. Who knows, perhaps I’ll be doing it
someday, too, if
Similar Books
