My Cousin: What do you imagine are the feelings of that girl being introduced to the precepts of a domesticity wholly abhorrent to her delicate sensibility? I know that lovely little one; she’s the daughter of a privy finance counselor, a natural, totally unaffected soul, endowed with a true feminine feeling and with that savvy and sense of tact young women of that sort always possess. Hold on, cousin! That’s what I call a fortuitous conjuncture. Over there, around the corner, comes the very antithesis of this one. What do you say to that other girl, cousin?

  Me: Oh, what a sleek, slim figure!— young— fleet-footed— facing the world with a brash, uninhibited look— a sunny expression— merry music in her movements— how cool and carefree she courses into the crowd— the servant following her with a shopping basket doesn’t look a day older than her, and there is an unmistakable cordiality between them— Mademoiselle is decked out in splendid duds, her shawl is modern— her hat matches the rest of her attire— every stitch of her clothing handsome and decent— oh, dear! What do I see? Mademoiselle is wearing white silk shoes. Cast-off ball pumps at the marketplace! The longer I look at that girl the more I’m struck by a certain singularity I can’t put into words. It’s true, she makes all her purchases with a painstaking sedulousness, always picky, bargains and bargains, speaks, gesticulates, all with a lively mien and manner almost bordering on tension; but it seems to me she’s after more than mere household necessities.

  My Cousin: Bravo, bravo, cousin! You’re gaining keener insight, I must say. Look closely, my most esteemed fellow, her modest attire notwithstanding – the fleet-footedness in and of itself should be a clue – the white silken pumps at market must surely reveal that our mademoiselle belongs to the ballet or perhaps the theater. What else she’s after ought soon to become apparent— hah, I guessed it! Look there, dear cousin, a bit to the right, just up the street, and tell me who you catch sight of on the sidewalk, in front of the hotel, practically all by his lonesome?

  Me: I see a tall, slender youth in a yellow, short fleece coat with black collar and steel buttons. He’s wearing a little red, silver-threaded cap, beneath which lovely black curls peek out almost too flamboyantly. The expression of his pale, manly, finely shaped face sets off his short black mustache on the upper lip. He’s holding a briefcase under his arm – no doubt a student about to attend a collegium – but his feet are firmly planted on the ground, his gaze turned toward the market, seemingly oblivious to the collegium and all else.

  My Cousin: You’ve hit the nail on the head, cousin. His entire attention is turned to our actress. The time has come; he approaches the big fruit stand in which the freshest fruit is appealingly piled atop the heap, and appears to ask for a particular fruit not easily reachable. It is altogether impossible that a good midday meal should not include fruit for dessert; consequently, our little actress is constrained to wrap up her business at the fruit stand. A round, red, luscious-looking apple slips seductively out from between dainty fingers— the yellow-clad gent picks it up— the little theater enchantress responds with a charming curtsy— the conversation has been kicked off— the acquaintance, no doubt already made before, wraps up with reciprocal advice and affirmative nods concerning the admitted difficulty in selecting oranges, as prelude to the impending rendezvous, surely not the first, of varying scenarios and at different locales.

  Me: Let the son of the Muses flirt and opine about selected oranges as much as he likes; I couldn’t care less, all the less so since my best beloved, the privy secretary’s daughter, has just turned up again at the corner, near the main entrance to the theater, where the florists display their colorful wares.

  My Cousin: I’m not inclined to cast my glance at the flowers, dear cousin; I have my reasons. The saleswoman, who as a rule has the loveliest floral array of carnations, roses, and other rarer blooms, is a very attractive, pleasant-tempered girl, ever striving after greater refinement of the spirit; whenever she’s not busy selling flowers she is assiduously reading books bearing the emblem of Kralowski’s great literary army, which spread culture into the farthest corners of the capital. A flower girl engaged in reading is an irresistible sight for a writer of belletristic inclination. Once, long ago, when my path led me past the florists – the flowers are on display for purchase every day – I caught sight of the flower girl engrossed in her reading and stopped in surprise. She sat there as if in an arbor of blossoming geraniums, with an open book on her lap, her head resting on her hand. The hero of whatever story she was reading must have just faced impending danger, for the girl’s cheeks glowed read, her lips quivered, she seemed completely oblivious to her surroundings. Cousin, let me frankly confess a writer’s weakness. I was completely captivated – I scurried back and forth, wondering what the girl might be reading. This thought preoccupied my entire being. The essence of a writer’s vanity awoke and tickled my suspicion: might it be one of my own works that just now transported that girl into the fantastic world of my imaginings? Finally, I plucked up my courage, approached her, and asked after the price of a batch of carnations arrayed in a far corner of her stand. While the girl went to fetch the carnations, I muttered, ‘What might you be reading, my lovely child?’ and picked up said book. Oh! Heaven above, it really was a work of mine, none other than——. The girl fetched her flowers and immediately quoted a modest price. Never mind the flowers, never mind the carnations; that girl was for me at that moment the most precious reading public of the entire elegant coterie of readers in the capital. Beside myself, all fired up with an author’s most profound feelings, I asked with feigned indifference if she liked the book. ‘Oh, my dear Sir,’ replied the girl, ‘that’s an odd book. In the beginning it sends you for a loop; but then it’s like you’re sucked in.’ To my considerable surprise, the girl gave a clear account of the story, so that I realized she must have read it several times. She repeated that it was a really odd book, sometimes she laughed out loud in the telling, sometimes she was on the edge of tears; she advised me, in case I hadn’t yet read it, to pick it up that afternoon from Mr. Kralowski’s lending library, seeing as she changed books every afternoon.

  Now for the big stunner. With downcast eyes, with a voice as sweet as the honey from Hybla, and the smile of a blissful author, I let slip: ‘Here, my dear angel, here before you in the flesh stands the author of the book that gave you such pleasure.’

  Speechless, she gazed at me with big eyes and an open mouth. I took this as an expression of the greatest astonishment, nothing less than a stunned rapture that the sublime genius whose dynamic imagination produced such a work should suddenly appear among her geraniums. Perhaps, I thought, as the girl’s expression remained unchanged, she did not believe that the sudden appearance before her of the illustrious author of —— was not at all a matter of fortuitous happenstance. I sought to the best of my ability to convince her that said author and I were one and the same. But it was as if she were turned to stone, not a word slipped from her lips but: “Hm— so— is that a fact— you don’t say—.”

  But how should I make clear to you the profound humiliation that overcame me at that moment? It so happened that the girl never imagined that the books she read had previously been composed by someone. She had not the slightest notion of a writer or a poet, and I truly believe, after a bit of cross examination, once her pious childlike faith became apparent, that she believed God made books grow like mushrooms.

  Sheepishly I inquired again as to the price of the carnations. In the meantime, an altogether different dark idea of the provenance of books must have taken root in her imagination; for as I counted out the coins, she inquired in perfect naivete if I produced all the books in Mr. Kralowski’s stand. Quick as lightning I made tracks with my carnations.

  Me: Cousin, dear cousin, that’s what I’d call recompense for a writer’s vanity; but while you were telling me your tragic tale, I did not take my eye off my little darling. At least at the florist’s stand that overbearing kitchen demon gave the girl free rein. The surly kitchen governess had set down the heavy market basket on the ground and lost herself in indescribably delirious chitchat with three fellow cooks, first crossing her plump arms, now with hands on her hips, arms akimbo when prompted by the rhetorical expression of her dialogue. Contrary to biblical prescription, her choice of words was, shall we say, more peppery than yes, yes and no, no. Just look what a splendid bouquet of flowers the lovely angel selected and had delivered to her home by a hale and hearty lad. What’s this now? No, I don’t approve of her stopping in passing to sample cherries from a little basket; how will the fine bit of cambric cloth she has probably got on survive the stain of the fruit?

  My Cousin: Her youthful craving of the moment couldn’t give a hoot about cherry stains, for which there are potassium oxalate and other tried-and-true household cleansing remedies. Blame it on her childish naivete that the young thing in her retrieved autonomy lets herself be enticed by the seedy lures of the marketplace. For quite some time now I’ve had my eye on that man over there standing near the wagon, beside the second water pump, for whom a peasant woman is just now dishing out a cheap plum jam out of a large vat – I must admit that he remains a mystery to me. First off, dear cousin, you must admire the agility of the woman, who, armed with a long wooden spoon, attends to the business, serving quarter, half, and whole pounds of the stuff, and then turns to the voracious little nibblers, holding out their folds of paper, and even their fur caps, with lightning speed dishing out a desired dab, which that ilk promptly proceed to lap up as a tasty morning tidbit – caviar of the simple folk! Her skillful serving of the plum jam with the sweep of a wooden spoon brings to mind a thing I heard when I was a kid, how at a well-appointed peasant wedding the food was so splendidly served that a threshing flail was employed to dish out a delicate rice pudding with a thick crust of cinnamon, sugar, and cloves. Each of the esteemed guests had only to lazily open his mouth wide to receive his due portion, and everything transpired in like manner as in some fabled land of milk and honey. But say, cousin, have you focused on the man in question?

  Me: I have indeed! What do you make of that curious character? At least six feet tall, wind-weathered, back straight as a poker! The tip of a wig peaks out from behind a small, squashed, tricorn hat, its swishing tail hugging his back. His snug-fitting, gray coat – cut according to long-outdated fashion – is buttoned up from top to bottom, without a single pleat, and as he strode toward the wagon, I noticed that he had on black pantaloons, black stockings, and big tin buckles on his shoes. What might he have squirreled away in that rectangular box resembling a peddler’s kit he keeps clasped tightly under his left arm?

  My Cousin: Just keep your eye on him, you’ll find out presently.

  Me: He’s lifting the cover— the sun is shining in— radiant reflections— the box is lined with tin— doffing his little hat, he is bowing almost reverentially to the plum-jam lady. What an original, expressive face— tightly clasped lips— a hooked nose— big, black eyes— thick, bushy eyebrows— a high forehead— black hair— his heart-shaped toupee painstakingly combed, with little ringlets of hair dangling over the ears. He hands the box to the peasant woman, who promptly proceeds to fill it with plum jam, and hands it back with a courteous curtsy. Following a second bow, the man takes his leave— he winds his way to the herring barrel— pulls a bottom drawer out of the box— drops in a couple of salted fish acquired for a pittance— a third drawer, as I now notice, is reserved for coriander and other root-based herbs. Now he’s crisscrossing the market this way and that in long, deliberate strides, until he is captivated by an array of dappled poultry spread out on a table. Like everywhere else, here too he bows down low before beginning to bargain— he talks up a blue streak with the woman tending the stand, who listens with a particularly friendly mien— he carefully sets his box down on the ground and snatches up two ducks which he proceeds to calmly stuff into a big sack— heavens! He stuffs a goose in too. The turkey he just contemplates with a loving look— he can’t refrain from at least fondling it with index and middle finger— he’s lifting his box up lickety-split, bows down most obligingly to the poultry dealer, and breaking free of the seductive lure of coveted wares, he makes tracks directly for the butcher’s stall— is the man a cook purchasing provisions for a feast, I wonder?— He buys a leg of veal which he still manages to stuff into his massive sack. Having now completed his purchases, he strolls up Charlottenstraße with such a decorous and suave manner that it seems to me he must hail from some foreign land.

  My Cousin: I’ve racked my brains enough about this exotic character – tell me, cousin, what do you think of my hypothesis? This man is a master draughtsman who has taught his trade at various middling schools and is perhaps still so engaged. He has managed to amass a pretty penny through all manner of activities; he is stingy, distrustful, insufferably cynical, a confirmed bachelor— beholden to only one god— his belly. His sole pleasure is eating well, needless to say alone in his room— he has no servants, attends to everything himself— on market days, as you have seen, he fetches his provisions for half a week, and prepares his meals for himself in a little kitchen alcove adjoining his squalid room, which, seeing as the cook always pleases his master’s palate, he then proceeds to dispatch with a greedy, indeed animal-like, appetite. As you yourself noticed, dear cousin, he skillfully and purposefully converted a paint box into a market basket.

  Me: Enough of that repulsive fellow!

  My Cousin: Why repulsive? A worldly-wise observer of my acquaintance claims it takes all kinds of curious codgers, and he knows what he’s talking about, since variety is the spice of life. But if you dislike that man so much, dear cousin, I can offer another hypothesis about what he is, does, and dithers. Four Frenchmen, all Parisians no less, a French language instructor, a master fencer, a dance instructor, and a pastry chef, all came in their youth to Berlin at the same time, toward the end of the previous century, and all managed, as they could hardly fail to do, to make a good living. Ever since the moment of their first meeting in the coach that brought them together, they established close friendships with one another, remained united in heart and soul, and passed every evening together after a good day’s work, true to their French heritage, in lively conversation over a frugal supper. The dance instructor’s legs had grown stiff, the fencing master’s thrust unnerved with age, the French language instructor challenged by professional rivals conversant in the latest Parisian turns of the tongue, and the tasty creations of the pastry chef surpassed by more inventive, younger palate ticklers trained by the most intractable Parisian gastronomes.

  But each member of the faithful foursome had already feathered his nest. They all moved into a spacious, altogether agreeable apartment – albeit situated in an outlying district – gave up their businesses, and true to old French custom, lived content and carefree, since they had all managed to weather and surmount the hardships and burdens of that difficult time. Each had cultivated a useful skill of great benefit to society. The dance instructor and the master fencer visited their old students, high-ranking veteran military officers, court chamberlains, lord high chamberlains, and such; since they had the most genteel clientele, they continued to gather the latest gossip to entertain the friends who didn’t go out. The French language instructor rummaged through the antique dealerships to keep digging up French publications the language of which the Académie Française had approved. The pastry chef kept the kitchen well stocked; he not only did all the shopping, but also saw to the meals, in the preparation of which an old French manservant assisted. Aside from the latter, and following the death of a toothless old Frenchwoman who had worked her way down from governess to scullery maid, a chubby lad whom the four friends had taken in from among the French orphans saw to their domestic needs. See that fellow clad in a sky-blue frock shuffling along over there with a basket of dinner rolls on one arm and a basket of heaped-up salad fixings in the other? So, in the blink of an eye, I have transformed the repulsive, cynical German draughtsman into a genial French pastry chef, and I believe that not only his attire but also his entire manner fits the bill.

  Me: This inventive contrivance is a credit to your writerly talent, dear cousin. But for some minutes now I’ve had my eye on those tall white feathers poking out of the thick of the crowd. Finally, the figure decked out with them emerges, standing over there beside the water pump— a tall, slender wench not at all bad-looking— her pink silken overcoat looks brand new— her hat is of the latest fashion, with a white lace veil attached to the front— she wears white kid gloves. What compels this elegant lady, probably invited to lunch, to press her way through the crowded market? Whatever her ultimate destination, does she too belong to the class of lady shoppers? She stops and motions to a shabby, dirty old woman, a lively picture of misery, yeast in the dough of humanity, laboriously limping after her with a half-broken basket on her arm. Upon reaching the corner of the theater building, the elegant lady stops to give a pittance to the blind veteran leaning against the wall. With some difficulty, she pulls the glove off her right hand— heaven help us! A blood-red and rather manly fist emerges. But without any hesitation she presses a coin into the blind man’s hand, runs out into the middle of Charlottenstraße without paying her shabby companion any more mind, and hastens on to the grand avenue Unter den Linden.

  My Cousin: To rest up, the old woman set the basket on the ground, and in a single glimpse you can survey all the purchases of the elegant lady.