Telegrams of the Soul by Peter Altenberg Page A

guest.”—“Don’t tell me you was gonna drag your bones all the way to Vienna on foot, you fruitcake?!”—“If push came to shove, I might’ve hailed a hansom.”—“There you are, so you see, it comes down to the same.”—“In that case, I’ll contribute what the hansom would’ve cost—.”—“Will ya get a load o’ that, the guy rides in a rubber-tired coach and wants to pay the price of a hansom, well I’ll be damned—.”—“Alright, so how much do I owe?!”—“Ten Crowns, that’s pennies.”—I did not feel that it was pennies, but I inquired: “Why ten Crowns, if I may ask?!”—“So what if we already drove around a little in Hietzing on such a lovely evening before picking you up, you tightwad, wouldyou grudge us the pleasure!?”—I replied that I would gladly grant them that.”—“So, you see, you’re a gentleman, after all, you’re our good Peter, ain’t ya—.” So their good Peter shelled out the ten Crowns. “What about us, don’t we deserve a little something?!” said the two sweet things. “Ain’t our company worth something to ya, or are we just appetizers before the main course, for Chrissake—?” I gave each of them another Crown. “Peter, Peter, we always took ya for a true poet, a better sort, an idealistically inclined kind o’ guy; don’t tell me we was wrong—.” I called for the coach to stop, got out. “You ain’t sore, are you, Peter?!”—“No. Why should I be sore?!” “—So didn’t you find the ride amusing?!”—“Very,” I replied. That very night I wrote Hans Schliessmann a card: “Concerning your correction of a prior conjecture concerning the demise of the ‘golden Viennese heart,’ I bid you hold off on that correction until next Friday when Dostal of the 26ers once again concertizes at the Park Hotel, Hietzing. More to follow straight from the horse’s mouth—.”
    The next day I ran into one of the sweet young things. “Peter, lucky I should run into you. Right after you got out yesterday, I got to climb up onto the coach box and drive the rig, and Mr. coachman, he climbed in with Mitzl in the passenger compartment and pulled the shades. And then he went and gave us your ten Crowns. There’s a proper gentleman, let that be a lesson to you!” I hastened to write to Hans Schliessmann: “Your first inclination was correct. The ‘golden Viennese heart’ is still alive and well.”

In a Viennese Puff *
    â€œSay,” said the sweet, cuddly one to me, “that guy over there ain’t normal; he lives on a sandy island in the Danube, runs around half-naked, will ya get a load of him, he’s brown all over from the sun. He only comes here to sneer at us! At you too, Peter, you too. What’s the use of all your pretty poetry?”
    The fellah over there really did look like life itself. Or like an African traveler. His hide tanned tough by light and air, tanned I tell you.
    His friends at his table had all “fallen in love,” technically speaking.
    So now they all nudged him to likewise finally “fall in love.”
    â€œYou want me to go weak?” the brown one replied to the pale faces. And everyone laughed.
    â€œSome strength you got in you if you ain’t got none to spend!?” said sweet Anna.
    â€œLet ’im be—,” said Hansi, “everybody knows what he’s gotta do. Even the sun probably don’t do him no good no more—.”
    â€œDo you despise me too?” said the tanned man, turning to one of the girls who was reading a dime novel, totally immersed in it.
    â€œWhy should I despise you? I don’t even know you.”
    â€œHow did you get started in this kind of life?” said the natural man