Selected Stories Read Online Free PDF

the shells of life. His fury rages at the pitch of his
     agony, his scorn at the pitch of his misery. My dear, what is the matter, his sister
     embraces him. Nothing, nothing. That was the ultimate wrong, that he should have to
     say what was wrong with him. On the floor of his room lie his manuscripts, like children
     horribly forsaken by father and mother. He lays his hand in his sister’s, and is content
     to look at her, long, and in silence. Already it is the vacant gaze of a skull, and
     the girl shudders.
    Then they leave. The country girl who has kept house for Kleist says goodbye. It is
     a bright autumn morning, the coach rolls over bridges, past people, through roughly
     plastered lanes, people look out of windows, overhead is the sky, under trees lies
     yellowish foliage, everything is clean, autumnal, what else? And the coachman has
     his pipe in his mouth. All is as ever it was. Kleist sits dejected in a corner of
     the coach. The towers of the castle of Thun vanish behind a hill. Later, far in the
     distance, Kleist’s sister can see once more the beautiful lake. It is already quite
     chilly. Country houses appear. Well, well, such grand estates in such mountainous
     country? On and on. Everything flies past as you look to the side and drops behind,
     everything dances, circles, vanishes. Much is already hidden under the autumn’s veil,
     and everything is a little golden in the little sunlight which pierces the clouds.
     Such gold, how it shimmers there, still to be found only in the dirt. Hills, scarps,
     valleys, churches, villages, people staring, children, trees, wind, clouds, stuff
     and nonsense—is all this anything special? Isn’t it all rubbish, quotidian stuff?
     Kleist sees nothing. He is dreaming of clouds and of images and slightly of kind,
     comforting, caressing human hands. How do you feel? asks his sister. Kleist’s mouth
     puckers, and he would like to give her a little smile. He succeeds, but with an effort.
     It is as if he has a block of stone to lift from his mouth before he can smile.
    His sister cautiously plucks up the courage to speak of his taking on some practical
     activity soon. He nods, he is himself of the same opinion. Music and radiant shafts
     of light flicker about his senses. As a matter of fact, if he admits it quite frankly
     to himself, he feels quite well now; in pain, but well at the same time. Something
     hurts him, yes, really, quite correct, but not in the chest, not in the lungs either,
     or in the head, what? Nowhere at all? Well, not quite, a little, somewhere so that
     one cannot quite precisely tell where it is. Which means: it’s nothing to speak of.
     He says something, and then come moments when he is outright happy as a child, and
     then of course the girl makes a rather severe, punitive face, just to show him a little
     how very strangely he does fool around with his life. The girl is a Kleist and has
     enjoyed an education, exactly what her brother has wanted to throw overboard. At heart
     she is naturally glad that he is feeling better. On and on, well well, what a journey
     it is. But finally one has to let it go, this stagecoach, and last of all one can
     permit oneself the observation that on the front of the villa where Kleist lived there
     hangs a marble plaque which indicates who lived and worked there. Travelers who intend
     to tour the Alps can read it, the children of Thun read it and spell it out, letter
     by letter, and then look questioning into each other’s eyes. A Jew can read it, a
     Christian too, if he has the time and if his train is not leaving that very instant,
     a Turk, a swallow, insofar as she is interested, I also, I can read it again if I
     like. Thun stands at the entrance to the Bernese Oberland and is visited every year
     by thousands of foreigners. I know the region a little perhaps, because I worked as
     a clerk in a brewery there. The region is considerably more beautiful than I have
     been able to describe here,