Others' Paradise

Others’ Paradise

pau l

l e ppi n

Ot hers’ Pa rad ise Tales of Old Prague

Translated from the German by Stephanie Howard and Amy R. Nestor

twisted spoon p ress

Prague 20 1 6

Copyright © 1995, 2003 by Twisted Spoon Press Translation copyright © 1995 by Stephanie Howard and Amy R. Nestor Cover photograph copyright © 2003 by František Drtikol – Heirs All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the publisher’s written permission. isbn 978-80-86264-53-0

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The Doors of Life

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The Ghost of the Jewish Quarter The Wonderdoll

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The Funeral of Herr Muckenschnabel The House on the Riverbank Others’ Paradise

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About the Author

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The Dream of the Silver Eaves Retribution

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The Dream of the Silver Eaves

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ill I be able to tell it? Will I be able to find the words to speak it, that its nearness be felt, its presence known? A hundred iridescent and brittle, golden and diamond-clear dreams, lost in my youth.

The memories of them have been stilled; the garlands have fallen from their hair and the sun has set in their eyes.

When I am at home, when the others sleep and the lamp burns into the next day, they are in my room. They sit at the table, facing me, keeping their silence. Iridescent, brittle, golden, diamond-red. I cherish them all, but — I don’t know how it happened — I have almost completely forgotten them all. And sometimes, when they come through the door, I 103

have to hold my hand over my eyes — I do not recognize them. Oh you — you — it is you — I then say, saddened that at first I could not remember them. But there is one I know immediately. It sits beside me, as if it were only yesterday, or the day before — yet it was indeed years, many years ago — and I don’t know at all what I have made of the time since then, how I have spent the days since my dream. This one, I cannot forget — not this one. And today, finally, I want to tell it, from the beginning to the end, if I might have the power, if I might strike the proper tone, the proper words. It feels so very strange to me. The time, the years have slipped away, the hand on the old clock is now still. Who is here in the room? Who is looking at me? The light burns so oddly, as if it had tear-stained eyes. — It is here — it is here — the dream of the silver eaves. — ❂

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And where should I begin? Should I tell of the wind, which spoke such fantastic things with the trees next to the bare church, which brought solemn, unknown words out of the clouds, such as I had never heard before? March was in the city — the earth in the park was damp and exhaled a narcotic perfume . . .

Or should I speak of the studio, which stood between 104

the high, steep walls of the garden, where a poor, mournful bell sometimes rang through our conversation? How all at once the doors opened and the curtain was pushed aside and a new person stood before us in the twilight — before us, who were then still in search of new people — ?

The small studio was beautiful and I shall always carry it in my thoughts. It was mysterious and holy, due to something — what I might best call our youth. A hallowed afternoon hung suspended there, golden flakes in the warm mist of cigarette smoke, when footsteps sounded outside and a woman entered — — —.

No, I cannot tell it this way. I would rather begin elsewhere. Under a bright, extravagant, glittering sun that danced over the roofs, kissing the snow with warm lips. People stood in groups on the street, laughing. Now I know why my dream has so remarkable a name — the eaves were blossom-white, shimmering, and in the sun, the city was like a fairy tale. The snow water flowed in blue ribbons, from the silver eaves down to the windowpanes and beyond. And there was a man up in Belvedere with a scale who, for a crown, would weigh the people, together with their restless hearts, which the spring had burdened with longing.

We walked slowly up the street, past the man with the scale, between the children and the drops of sun, to the home of the painter.

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The unknown woman from the studio walked beside us. ❂

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I don’t know how it happened. We visited the painter in his upstairs room; we drank tea and chatted. It was dark and we sat there without lighting the lamp.

I don’t know how it happened. Who is this unknown woman? I want to name her Maria.

We walked back together in pairs. The others lagged behind and we went on, completely alone. The river swept on below, and the towers of the city shone with a thousand lights.

We saw that the bridge was already before us. We didn’t speak much, for we still knew but little about one another. — ❂

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I love her. I am foolish, blissful, wretched, jealous to the point of despair. I have to throw back my head when I think of her, so that the tears do not fall from my eyes. I have written a story in which she appears. A letter of supplication: come, be mine!

This evening, I read it aloud. It is the story of a woman who is fair and beautiful, like Maria. She lives in a small town outside the city and she waits to grow old. She already knows 106

the faces of the crones in front of the church opposite her by heart; nevertheless, she must sit by the window day after day, staring at the old well and listening for the six strikes of the silver clock, for then her husband comes home. Then one year a spring, such as there had never been, comes to the town, to her. It rattles and rattles at the windowpanes, striving to reach the fair woman. And her blood begins to pulse, her dreams begin to stir. And there is one person in the town, a youth, a poet, who loves her so much that she must smile at times; who always tells her of red roses when he comes to her window, of the wondrously beautiful red roses that stand in his room. — And the young woman jumps up and runs and runs, wanting to get to them.

It was completely still when I had read to the end. Those present made angry faces. For it was a letter of supplication, an open letter of supplication: come, be mine, Maria!

Then she stood up and gave me her hand: Your tale is so beautiful, it makes the heart beat! ❂

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Toward the end of the evening at our friend’s, the sculptor.

The sun has crept away again, it is cold. She leaves tomorrow.

The face of Malá Strana is filled with dread.

We sit around the table and eat. Our conversation scales 107

untrodden paths, plunges, clings, mounts upward. High above, the air is thin and one can hardly breathe.

Then someone suggests a game. We are like small children — we want to play with our hearts. In this hour, no speck of untruth is to remain between us. What is most bitter and most sweet shall be spoken, what each usually keeps in their soul.

The game is called: “King and Subject.”

Outside the evening hangs its gentle curtain before the window of the room. The clock strikes quarter-hour after quarter-hour — we do not hear it. We hold our hearts in our hands, showing them to one another. The hearts are bright, glowing in the darkness.

One King after another is chosen and has the Subject recount his sorrow.

You are a bad King, you are not just, don’t you know, don’t you remember — ?

The most bitter is spoken.

And Maria, too, is Queen — —.

The curtain of the evening becomes blacker and blacker and the hearts in the room are bright and red like church windows. — They lie heavy in our hands, burning.

Maria is the Queen.

The sweetest is spoken; it fills the eyes with tears. Maria is the Queen and we all know this and we all love her.

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My trembling hands seek the wineglass; our rims touch one another. — Maria — ? I ask.

Your story was beautiful — it made my heart beat — I read this in her eyes as she looks at me and drinks.

Then I lay my head in the painter’s lap and weep like a child.

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Is this happiness?

It sits in my throat like a smooth, round bullet; it weights my blood and parches my lips. It laughs and laughs so uncontrollably — it laughs itself into a huge, lonely fear.

Maria — Maria — you — you — you — Is this happiness? With sharp nails it claws into my neck; with its mouth, it sucks and sucks until my veins are empty — Maria — is it you — are you happiness, Maria — ?

I am in a fever. I dance over the streets, I whistle in the astonished eyes of the people, I am happy, happy, happy.

Now life begins. Everything before was but a dull smoke screen. Now I am a man — now that you love me, Maria.

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Now my soul is like the earth in the park outside, which was hard and unyielding only a few weeks ago. The sun shines and in the warmth it becomes bright and radiant.

I am completely stunned and sharp and capricious. I stretch myself and scream, like the frozen wood in the oven when the flame takes it.

Now, for the whole of life, there will be no more frost.

Now happiness has truly come. Ever since it was written in your letters, Maria, that you love me, that you — just as mad and delirious as I — let the days pass by unheeded and smile into the deep darkness at night. You kneel in your room, defending yourself against love. But you cannot resist. You write of my kisses, which you do not yet know, you are in longing, you are in longing, Maria. — O God — longing is like a poison. — But I am happy, so strangely happy — and on my throat — it sits there and sucks and sucks — —. ❂

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Have you ever been enchanted? It is almost as if you were sick and people were taking care of you and you knew nothing at all about what was really happening. You lie with your eyes shut; you are tired and don’t believe that you will ever be well again. And you don’t know whether you are sick, or 111

enchanted, or deranged; whether you are making a journey to America, or to the woman you love, or to a madhouse.

Outside, the landscape passes by, the telegraph poles bound across the window of the compartment. You are tired. You look at the man sitting opposite you; he takes your hand and you see that it is your friend the sculptor, and he says: In an hour we will be with Frau Maria.

Suddenly, the dream of the silver eaves comes to you — that spring day up at the Belvedere and that singular celebration in the twilit room in Malá Strana. You bend forward to look out the window; you see villages standing on the edges of the fields and red roofs sitting like ladybugs on the houses; you see yellow bells flashing in the bell towers — and in each tower, your heart hangs, tolling. You see the sky over the villages and the fields, its pale blue silk flocked with soft clouds.

Then you are bound to think of childish and wondrously beautiful things, about men and the world and the fortunes of Happy Hans. ❂

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Now we are with her and her child. It is all so remarkable and bright and unusual. The first evening was utterly unbearable.

I was not able to have a single word alone with her — I spoke into the lamp that stood on the table, and then we 112

went away. The tears welled up in my eyes, aching, and the happiness almost bit through my throat.

Maria — I begged the next morning, my eyes tormented, my face pale and convulsed.

Is it all true, what was written in the letters — ?

“Wouldn’t you like to see the silver clock that stands in my room — the one that appears in your story?” she asked clearly.

In her room I took her in my arms and kissed her, as never again in life. — ❂

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The sculptor and I live on the very edge of the woods beyond the village. We are at Frau Maria’s all day, and in the evenings as well. There, the three of us often gaze out the window, while the others sit around the table chatting. The stars are red and warm in the heavens, like hearts. We whisper softly to each other, telling stories about our lives, her child, the stars over the village.

Then, when it is late and we depart, she accompanies us through the next room to the door. In the second room it is dark — she blows out the candle and kisses me.

My friend and I walk together through the spring night to our inn. We are both very quiet, keeping our silences. I 113

listen to the voices that belong to the night. It is exactly as in a fairy tale: the high road hums and whispers with the bushes standing in the shallow ditches beside it; somewhere the brook can be heard, calling something to the moon and then falling silent again; an incessant murmuring runs across the fields in the distance. Here and there a bird awakes on its perch and opens its beak, wanting to say something, but falls back to sleep at once.

From somewhere, roses release their fragrance — red roses.

Then I usually sit out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.

The sleeping houses lie below me and the sweet wind of the fields cools my eyes. I sit thus for a long time, thinking of my happiness; I think and think and listen to the brook and the moon converse. ❂

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Happiness hurts. It makes one sensitive and sad. Today I discovered that the sculptor is a poet. Early this morning, we were both lying in the grass. I was full of longing and tenderness — the sun pressed down upon me — the blades of grass stung. He read me the verses he had written: illformed, awkward verses, but nevertheless, quite beautiful.

Verses about peace. About happiness — — — that is far from life, in a corner next to life; that brings torment, beyond the 114

world, where men break each other’s hearts. This one line has stayed in my memory: where men break each other’s hearts — — Today I kissed Frau Maria for an hour. We were alone in the house and when the others came, we were still in a trance.

In the afternoon, we were in the garden with her child.

I love her child, just as she does.

Until the child is grown, I want to be her friend.

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Parting. Mourning. Desolation. The smooth, round bullet of happiness sits in my throat once more, pressing. I write her letters, pages long, mad letters. And I receive the same. It is wondrous when happiness abounds.

I count the days. I sit and wait. Isn’t tomorrow the feast day of Peter and Paul?

A precious holiday, which should be marked in gold on the calendar. My nameday, which I shall celebrate like no other. I am one of those men who has been loved by a queen.

Such men are rare — so I wrote to her yesterday. Peter and Paul is the festival of life. Its rising will have a purple carpet, its setting a ruby-red stair. Peter and Paul. My nameday!

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It is wondrous, when happiness abounds. — And am I not already sitting on the train again?

The steam whistles and swirls. The telegraph poles fly. I am completely alone in the compartment. I am traveling first class. Can a man do otherwise when he is going to Frau Maria?

Have I not been loved by a queen? Will I not kiss a queen again tonight?

I throw a silver coin out the window to the boys standing in the street before the gate. I laugh and dance and sing aloud, out into the fields. Today is my nameday. — — Alabaster larks rise out of the ears of corn, up into the heavens. They are suspended on high, like silver bells, ringing. — tirili — tirili — The steam swirls and whistles.

In one hour I will be with Frau Maria. tirili — tirili — Is it not wondrous, when happiness abounds? ❂

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The summer night glows like a golden chalice. Mystical, as if it had kindled lights out of tears — a sweet, painful sobbing across the expanse, a thousand stars.

The summer night can do this like no other — such that 117

About the Author Paul Leppin was born in Prague on November 27, 1878, the second son of a failed clockmaker and a former teacher.

Forced by the economic difficulties of his family to forgo a university education, he entered the civil service upon his graduation from the Gymnasium on Štěpánská, working as an accountant for the Postal Service until his release for reasons of physical disability. It was here that he witnessed firsthand the life-numbing existence of his contemporaries, a theme that consistently was to make its way into his writing.

Beginning with the appearance of his first novella, The Doors of Life, in 1901, his poetry, prose, and criticism appeared regularly in Prague and Germany over the next four decades.

Leppin was also one of the few German writers to have close contacts with the Czech literary community, translating Czech poetry and writing articles on Czech literature and art for German periodicals. As a leading figure of a young generation of Prague-German writers ( Jung-Prag) centered around the two literary journals he edited, Frühling and Wir, Leppin sought to combat the conservatism and provincialism of the city’s established culture. His aversion to bourgeois values was reflected in his decadent lifestyle, which earned him the title “the uncrowned king of Prague bohemians.”

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Although many German writers eventually left Prague, especially after the formation of the Czechoslovak Republic in 1918, Leppin felt he could not live elsewhere and stayed on in the city, writing novels, plays (performed at the Neues Deutsches Theater), stories, and poems — Prague always forming a strong influence. He eventually became secretary of the Protective Union of German Writers in the Czechoslovak Republic, which had been founded by Oskar Baum and Johannes Urzidil. Leppin’s contribution to the city’s literature and culture was recognized both in 1934, when he was awarded the Schiller Memorial Prize, and in 1938, on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday, when he received the Czechoslovak Ministry of Culture Award for Writers. In the same year, two volumes of his Prager Rhapsodie appeared (illustrated by Hugo Steiner-Prag), marking the end of his publishing activity.

After the German occupation of Prague in 1939, he was detained and interrogated by the Gestapo on account of his close relationship to the German-Jewish literati. Suffering a stroke upon his release, from which he never fully recovered, he died, virtually forgotten, of syphilis in Prague on April 10, 1945 and is buried in the Vinohrady Cemetery. His extensive library was destroyed during the Prague uprising of May of that year, and his wife was forced to emigrate to Germany.

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