kitchen.
Even the clothes closet and the door to the broom closet in the hall were terra cotta.
I didn’t expect to get anywhere by phoning Kinkel—but I dialed his number just the same. He had always declared himself to be an enthusiastic admirer of my art—and anyone familiar with our profession knows that even the tiniest scrap of praise from a stagehand makes us nearly burst with pride. I had the urge to disturb the peace of Kinkel’s Christianevening—and the idea at the back of my mind that he might tell me where Marie was. He was the brain of the group, had studied theology, then broken off his studies on account of a pretty woman, went in for law, had seven children and was said to be “one of our most capable social legislators.” Perhaps he really was, I couldn’t judge. Before I met him Marie had given me one of his pamphlets to read,
Ways to a New Order
, and after reading it, and liking it very much, I had imagined him as a tall, slight man with fair hair, and then when I saw him for the first time: a heavy-set, short chap with thick black hair, “bursting with vitality,” I couldn’t believe it was him. Maybe it was because he didn’t look the way I had imagined that I was so unjust toward him. Whenever Marie began to enthuse about Kinkel, old man Derkum had always talked about the Kinkel cocktails: mixtures of various ingredients: Marx plus Guardini, or Bloy plus Tolstoy. The first time we were invited there, things went wrong right from the start. We arrived much too early, and somewhere in the rear of the apartment Kinkel’s children were quarreling noisily, with much hissing, subdued by still further hissing, as to whose job it was to clear the supper table. Kinkel came in, smiling, still chewing, and tried desperately to hide his irritation at our premature appearance. Sommerwild came in too, not chewing, but grinning and rubbing his hands. Kinkel’s children shrieked atrociously in the background, an embarrassing contrast to Kinkel’s smile and Sommerwild’s grin, we could hear faces being slapped, a brutal sound, and behind closed doors, I knew, the shrieking went on worse than ever. I sat there beside Marie and out of sheer nervousness, thrown completely off balance by the row going on in the background, I smoked one cigarette after another, while Sommerwild chatted with Marie, that “forgiving, generous smile” never leaving his face. It was our first time back in Bonn since our flight. Marie was pale with emotion, also with awe and pride, and I understood very well what she was feeling. It was important to her to “becomereconciled with the Church,” and Sommerwild was so kind to her, and Kinkel and Sommerwild were people she looked up to in awe. She introduced me to Sommerwild, and when we sat down again Sommerwild said: “Are you related to the brown-coal Schniers?” I was annoyed. He knew quite well who I was related to. Almost everyone in Bonn knew Marie Derkum had run away with one of the brown-coal Schniers, “just before her graduation, too, and she was such a religious girl.” I ignored Sommerwild’s question, he laughed and said: “Sometimes I go hunting with your grandfather, and occasionally I play skat with your father at the Union Club in Bonn.” This annoyed me too. Surely he couldn’t be so stupid as to suppose I would be impressed by this nonsense about hunting and the Union Club, and he didn’t look to me the type of man who would say something just for the sake of talking. I finally opened my mouth and said: “Hunting? I always thought the Catholic clergy were forbidden to hunt.” An awkward silence followed, Marie blushed, Kinkel hunted irritably around the room for the corkscrew, his wife, who had just come into the room, shook some salted almonds onto a glass dish which already contained olives. Even Sommerwild blushed, and it didn’t suit him at all, his face was red enough in the first place. He said in a low yet slightly offended voice: “For a
Even the clothes closet and the door to the broom closet in the hall were terra cotta.
I didn’t expect to get anywhere by phoning Kinkel—but I dialed his number just the same. He had always declared himself to be an enthusiastic admirer of my art—and anyone familiar with our profession knows that even the tiniest scrap of praise from a stagehand makes us nearly burst with pride. I had the urge to disturb the peace of Kinkel’s Christianevening—and the idea at the back of my mind that he might tell me where Marie was. He was the brain of the group, had studied theology, then broken off his studies on account of a pretty woman, went in for law, had seven children and was said to be “one of our most capable social legislators.” Perhaps he really was, I couldn’t judge. Before I met him Marie had given me one of his pamphlets to read,
Ways to a New Order
, and after reading it, and liking it very much, I had imagined him as a tall, slight man with fair hair, and then when I saw him for the first time: a heavy-set, short chap with thick black hair, “bursting with vitality,” I couldn’t believe it was him. Maybe it was because he didn’t look the way I had imagined that I was so unjust toward him. Whenever Marie began to enthuse about Kinkel, old man Derkum had always talked about the Kinkel cocktails: mixtures of various ingredients: Marx plus Guardini, or Bloy plus Tolstoy. The first time we were invited there, things went wrong right from the start. We arrived much too early, and somewhere in the rear of the apartment Kinkel’s children were quarreling noisily, with much hissing, subdued by still further hissing, as to whose job it was to clear the supper table. Kinkel came in, smiling, still chewing, and tried desperately to hide his irritation at our premature appearance. Sommerwild came in too, not chewing, but grinning and rubbing his hands. Kinkel’s children shrieked atrociously in the background, an embarrassing contrast to Kinkel’s smile and Sommerwild’s grin, we could hear faces being slapped, a brutal sound, and behind closed doors, I knew, the shrieking went on worse than ever. I sat there beside Marie and out of sheer nervousness, thrown completely off balance by the row going on in the background, I smoked one cigarette after another, while Sommerwild chatted with Marie, that “forgiving, generous smile” never leaving his face. It was our first time back in Bonn since our flight. Marie was pale with emotion, also with awe and pride, and I understood very well what she was feeling. It was important to her to “becomereconciled with the Church,” and Sommerwild was so kind to her, and Kinkel and Sommerwild were people she looked up to in awe. She introduced me to Sommerwild, and when we sat down again Sommerwild said: “Are you related to the brown-coal Schniers?” I was annoyed. He knew quite well who I was related to. Almost everyone in Bonn knew Marie Derkum had run away with one of the brown-coal Schniers, “just before her graduation, too, and she was such a religious girl.” I ignored Sommerwild’s question, he laughed and said: “Sometimes I go hunting with your grandfather, and occasionally I play skat with your father at the Union Club in Bonn.” This annoyed me too. Surely he couldn’t be so stupid as to suppose I would be impressed by this nonsense about hunting and the Union Club, and he didn’t look to me the type of man who would say something just for the sake of talking. I finally opened my mouth and said: “Hunting? I always thought the Catholic clergy were forbidden to hunt.” An awkward silence followed, Marie blushed, Kinkel hunted irritably around the room for the corkscrew, his wife, who had just come into the room, shook some salted almonds onto a glass dish which already contained olives. Even Sommerwild blushed, and it didn’t suit him at all, his face was red enough in the first place. He said in a low yet slightly offended voice: “For a
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