Me: Verily, a marvel to gaze upon. A head of cabbage— many potatoes— some apples— a small loaf of bread— a couple of herrings wrapped in paper— a sheep milk cheese not of a particularly appetizing hue— a mutton liver— a small shrub of roses— a pair of slippers— a bootjack— and what have you—

  My Cousin: Be still, be still, dear cousin, enough rosy superfluities! Look closely at that blind man to whom misery’s child gave alms. Could there be a more stirring picture of undeserved human misery and pious, God-fearing resignation? With his back to the wall of the theater, both dried-out, bony hands resting on a cane held out before him so that the careless crowd does not trample on his feet, his corpse-pale face raised heavenward, his military cap pressed down over his eyes, he stands there motionless at the same spot from early morning until the market closes—

  Me: He begs, even though blind veterans are well cared for.

  My Cousin: You are quite mistaken, dear cousin. This poor man serves as the hired help of a woman who hawks vegetables and who belongs to the lower echelon of such salespersons, since the upper echelon peddle their greens from baskets packed on carts. This blind man comes every morning loaded down like a packhorse with heaping baskets of vegetables, so that the heavy load almost bends him to the ground, and he can only advance with a wobbly step, holding himself upright with the aid of a cane. A big-boned, robust woman whom he serves, or who perhaps only uses him to transport the produce to market, hardly makes much of an effort to help when he almost succumbs to the burden, gruffly grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to the spot where he now stands. Here she takes the baskets from his back and carries them off, leaving him standing there, and without paying the slightest attention to him until it’s time for the market to shut down, when she once again loads the empty or only partially empty baskets onto his back.

  Me: How curious, even if an individual’s eyes are not shut or some other visible impairment is not apparent at first glance, that one can nevertheless always immediately recognize blindness from the upward-turned tilt of the head unique to the blind; it seems to suggest an eternal striving to behold something in the eternal night that envelops the blind.

  My Cousin: There is for me no more stirring sight than that of such a blind man with head uplifted who appears to be peering into the distance. The reddish tint of sunset has forever faded to dark for that man, but his inner eye still strives after a glimpse of the eternal light shining toward him, offering solace, hope and salvation in the hereafter – but I am becoming too solemn. Every market day that blind veteran provides me with a wealth of observations. You will note, dear cousin, how this poor man elicits the beneficence of Berliners. Droves of people regularly pass him, and not one fails to give him a handout. But the diverse mode and manner with which such pittances are passed along – that’s what interests me the most. Observe for a while, dear cousin, and tell me what you see.

  Me: Just now, three, four, five heavyset, sturdy housemaids are walking by; their shopping baskets, some of them packed to the brim with heavy goods, almost straining their fleshy arms right down to the blue nerve-endings; they have all reason to hurry, to divest themselves of their load, and yet each one lingers a moment, reaches hastily into the basket, and presses a coin into the blind man’s hand without even looking at him. This payment appears to be an essential and indispensable part of market day activities. You’re right about that. Here comes a woman whose outfit, whose entire bearing clearly bespeaks a life of comfort and prosperity— she stops in front of the invalid, pulls out a purse in which she searches and searches, but no coin seems small enough to fulfill the act of charity she feels impelled to perform— she calls to her cook— it seems that she, too, has run out— she must first make change by trading with the vegetable dealers— finally the threepence piece destined for charitable contribution has been procured— she taps on the blind man’s hand so that he may notice that he is about to receive something— he opens the palm of his hand— the benevolent lady presses the coin into his hand and closes the fingers of his fist around it so that the lavish gift not be lost. But why does the dainty little mademoiselle pitter-patter back and forth, coming closer and closer to the blind man? Hah, scurrying by, she plunked a coin into the blind man’s hand, so quickly, in fact, that surely no one but me captured the act in the sight of my looking glass – that was definitely more than a threepence piece. The proper, portly gentleman in the brown coat who comes ambling over is surely a member of the upper crust. He, too, stops before the blind man and engages in a lengthy conversation, blocking the way of others, thereby hindering them from handing him their pittance – at last, at long last he pulls a hefty green purse out of his pocket, takes pains to slowly snap it open, and rattles up such a storm in the change, I believe I can hear it tinkling up here at my window. Parturiunt montes![*5] But I really want to believe that, torn by the misery of the blind man, that noble philanthropist intends to shell out a pretty penny. Given these observations, it seems to me that the blind man must bring in a considerable sum on market day, and what surprises me is that he accepts it all without the least display of gratitude; only a silent movement of the lips, which I seem to detect, indicates that he utters something that might be a thank-you – but even this lip movement I only notice from time to time.

  My Cousin: Complete and total resignation, that’s the apt expression. What good is money to him? He can’t use it; only in the hand of another, whom he must heedlessly trust, does it attain its value – I may be altogether mistaken, but it seems to me that the woman whose baskets of produce he carries is a nasty profiteer who takes complete advantage of poor folks like him, in addition to which she most likely confiscates all the money he takes in. Every time she brings back the empty baskets, she harangues the blind man, in direct relation to the good or bad business she did that day. Already the blind man’s deathly pale face, haggard figure, and tattered clothing allow us to suspect that his situation in life is lamentable, and it would be the task of an active philanthropist to investigate this insidious relationship.

  Me: Surveying the entire market, I notice that sheets are spanned like tents over the carts of flour, according it all a picturesque appearance, granting the eye a point of reference from which to consider the colorful crowd.

  My Cousin: The white flour carts and the flour dusted miller’s lads and lasses with their rosy red cheeks, each one a bella molinara,[*6] clues me in to something altogether different. I am saddened not to see a family of coal mongers who ordinarily peddle their wares directly opposite my window, there in front of the theater, and have been reassigned a spot on the other side of the market. The head of the charcoal dealer’s family is a big, robust man with an expressive face— marked features— vehement, almost violent in his movements— suffice to say the very epitome of a charcoal dealer as commonly depicted in novels. On a solitary stroll in the woods I once actually ran into this man, an encounter that might well under other circumstances have given me the chills, but his amicable disposition came as a godsend at that moment. In stark contrast to him, the second member of the family is an altogether droll, strangely twisted fellow, hardly four feet tall. You know, dear cousin, that there are people of peculiar build; at first sight you take them for hunchbacked, and yet on closer consideration you cannot rightly tell where exactly their hump is located.

  Me: Apropos of which, I remember the naïve turn of phrase of a quick-witted military man who had business dealings with just such a misshapen fellow, and for whom the unfathomable nature of the latter’s bodily build prodded his wit. “A hump,” he said, “that fellow has a hump; but who the devil knows where that hump of his is planted!”

  My Cousin: Nature initially conceived the idea of building the little charcoal burner into a giant figure, some seven feet tall – for so do his colossal hands and feet suggest, almost the biggest that I have ever seen. This modest little fellow, draped in a big-collared coat with a curious fur cap plunked on his head, is in a constant state of restless agitation; with an unsettling agility he leaps and scurries back and forth, now here, now there, and takes pains to play the role of the most beloved, charming character, the primo amoroso of the marketplace. He does not let a single woman pass, unless she belongs to the upper class, without puttering after her, uttering endearments with his own inimitable posturing, gestures, and grimaces befitting only of a charcoal burner. Sometimes he carries his gallantry so far in the course of a conversation as to suavely sling an arm around a girl’s hip, and taking his cap in his hands, praise her beauty, and proffer his chivalrous services. Strangely enough, not only do the girls allow him to take such liberties, but they give the little creature a friendly nod and appear to condone his gallant advances. This little fellow is surely endowed with a rich dose of natural wit, the essential talent for drollery, and the ability to express it. He is the Pagliaccio, le tausendsasa,[*7] the life and soul of every event, known in the entire region surrounding the woods in which he lives; without his presence, no child’s baptism, nuptial feast, no last dance to wrap up a wedding, no proper banquet can take place; his pleasantries are prized and laughed at all year round.

  Since the charcoal burner’s children and any and all maidservants are left at home, the visible rest of the family comprises two women of robust build and dark, sullen expression, for which the coal dust caught in the folds of the face may well be blamed. The touching attachment of a great big spitz, with whom the family shares every bite that they themselves gobble down during market, offers ample proof of the upright nature and good-hearted patriarchalism of the charcoal burners’ household. The little man, moreover, is endowed with great strength, of which the family makes ample use to lug the sold sacks of charcoal to clients’ homes. I often saw him loaded down by the women with a good ten baskets full, which they heaped one on top of the other on his back, and he hopped off with it as though it weighed nothing at all. Seen from the rear, this fellow looked about as droll and quixotic as you can imagine. Naturally one could not see the worthy figure of the little fellow himself, but only the most massive sack of coal with a little pair of feet attached to the bottom. He looked like a fabulous creature, a fairy-tale-like kangaroo leaping about the market.

  Me: Look, look, cousin! Somebody’s making an awful racket over there in front of the church. Two vegetable peddlers are probably engaged in a tiresome squabble over mine and thine, and with fists balled up at their sides, are exchanging the most colorful language. The crowd converges— a dense circle surrounds the disputants— their voices grow louder and shriller by the moment— ever more ferociously do they go at it, hands waving with menace in the air— they move ever closer to bodily contact— the altercation is on the verge of breaking out into fisticuffs— the police break it up— how? Suddenly I notice a group of glittering helmets butting in between the disputants— a moment later, the female friends of the two sides manage to mollify the hotheads— the fight is over— without the help of the police— the two women return quietly to their respective vegetable baskets— the crowd, which only a couple of times, probably in response to particularly agitated moments in the dispute, expressed their approbation with loud cheers, is dissipating.

  My Cousin: You will notice, dear cousin, that in the entire time we’ve been looking out the window this was the only squabble that broke out on the marketplace, and that, ultimately, it was hushed by the crowd. Even more serious, more threatening disputes are generally broken up in this way by the crowd, which presses in between the disputants and pulls them apart. Last market day, there was a big raggedy fellow with a churlish, wild-eyed expression stationed between the meat and fruit stands who suddenly got into a squabble with the butcher boy just then passing by. With the awful club that he held strung over his shoulder like a rifle, he promptly lunged at the boy, which would have instantly laid him low, had the latter not adroitly sidestepped the blow and leapt into the butcher stand. Here, however, he armed himself with a big butcher’s cleaver, intending to chop at his assailant. All circumstances seemed to indicate that this altercation would be resolved with a murderous blow, and become a case for the criminal court. But the female fruit vendors, the whole lot powerful ladies of portly build, felt impelled to embrace the butcher boy so tenderly and firmly that he could not manage to break free of their grip; he stood there with weapon raised above his head, as it is said in that emotional dramatic description of the angry Pyrrhus: “So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, / And like a neutral to his will and matter, / Did nothing.” In the meantime, other women, brush makers, bootjack vendors, etc. surrounded the attacker, granting the police time to take the fellow, likely a recently released convict, into a custody.

  Me: So there is, in fact, a sense among the people for the order to be preserved, which can only be very fruitful for everyone.

  My Cousin: In general, dear cousin, my observations of goings on in the marketplace have confirmed my belief that the people of Berlin have undergone a remarkable transformation since that catastrophic period when an impudent, overconfident enemy overran the country and tried in vain to break their spirit, which leapt back up with renewed force like a squashed spiral coil. In short: the people have improved in their ethical comportment; and if on a warm summer afternoon you watch the crowd break up camp and hightail it to Moabit,[*8] even among the common chambermaids and day laborers you will notice an altogether remarkable effort toward courteous behavior. Much the same as the individual, the masses have undergone profound change, and given their nihil admirari.[*9] They have, so it seems, become more supple in manner. In the past, Berlin’s hoi polloi were gruff and brutal; as a stranger, for instance, you could hardly ask after a street or a particular address, or anything else, for that matter, without receiving a rude or sarcastic response, or being made a fool of with false information. Gone is the Berlin street urchin likely to take advantage of the least excuse, a somewhat garish getup or someone having suffered a laughable accident, and respond with the most reprehensible prank. For those young hoodlums peddling cigars at the gates of the city who hoodwink gullible out-of-towners, those rogues who spend their lives in Spandau or Straußberg, or, as just recently happened to one of their ilk, who end up on the gallows, are by no means comparable to the Berlin street urchin of old. The latter was not some vagabond, but rather an ordinary apprentice craftsman and – it almost seems ridiculous to say it – in all his godlessness and depravity, still held by a certain point d’honneur and was not lacking in a droll sense of humor.

  Me: Oh, my dear cousin, let me tell you how just recently I was the shameful butt of just such an insidious lark. I was walking in front of the Brandenburg Gate and was followed by Charlottenburg carters who invited me to rest my weary legs and climb aboard. One of them, a lad of sixteen or seventeen at the most, carried his effrontery so far as to grab me by the arm with his filthy fist. ‘Take your hands off me!’ I snapped. ‘So, my good Sir,’ the youth replied perfectly calmly, gaping at me with a hollow look in his eyes, ‘why should I not lay my hands on you; are you perhaps not an honorable gentleman?’

  My Cousin: Haha! This lark really is one of those sprung from the stinking depths of depravity. The sassy repartees of Berlin’s female fruit vendors were renowned, and one even did them the honor of characterizing such jibes as Shakespearian, despite the fact that, when you get right down to it, their energy and originality consisted above all of the shameless cheek with which they famously dished out the vilest filth. In the past, the marketplace was the hotbed of bickering, brawls, bamboozlement, and petty theft, and no honest woman would dare do her own shopping there lest she expose herself to such unsavory goings-on. For not only did the hucksters turn their skullduggery on themselves and everyone else, but there were also unsavory types, like the ragtag contingent in military regiments culled from every corner of the world, who went there with the express purpose of stirring up trouble so as to go fishing in muddy waters. Notice, dear cousin, in contrast, how nowadays the marketplace presents the pretty picture of well-being and perfect harmony. I know that enthusiastic purists inveigle against this apparent picture of public propriety, suggesting that with this imposed politeness of manners the folksiness will also be polished off and forfeited. I, for my part, am of the firmest conviction that a people who treat the locals and strangers alike, not with gruffness or sarcastic contempt, but rather in a civil manner, will by no means thereby forfeit their character. Such purists would surely take issue with one striking example in support of the truth of my contention.

  * * *

  —

  The crowd had thinned out more and more; the market was growing emptier by the moment. The female vegetable vendors packed some of their empty baskets on a wagon that rolled up— they lugged others off themselves— the wagons full of flour drove off— the female florists hauled off their leftover stock of flowers on big pushcarts— the police proved most efficient at keeping everything running smoothly, in particular the wagon order. This steady flow of carts would have kept running on its own if every now and then a schismatic peasant boy had not taken it upon himself to chart his own new Bering Strait diagonally across the square, and dash audaciously through the fruit stands toward the entrance to the German church. This elicited much shouting and much troublesome maneuvering on the part of the adroit charioteers.

  “This market,” said my cousin, “is even now a faithful likeness of the eternally meandering course of life. Brisk activity, the necessity of the moment drove the crowd together; in a matter of minutes the whole place is deserted, the voices that had until now become entangled in a chaotic din fell silent, and the desolate square all too vividly illustrates the grim saying: ‘What was, was!’“

  A clock sounded, the surly invalid strode into the cubicle and remarked with a twisted look: “It would behoove you, Sir, to finally leave the window and come eat, as the served dishes will otherwise grow cold.”