Telegrams of the Soul Read Online Free PDF

lady.
    â€œThat one over there!” said Rosita and pointed to the old man.
    â€œDear, sweet, most gentle one—,” said Mr. Peter and pressed her softly to him.
    â€œDid you already thank your Grandpa?” the lady asked, annoyed, “probably not!”
    â€œYes, I did—. No, I didn’t yet.”
    Mr. Peter kissed her silken hair. He felt: “Who does she need to thank?! We need to cover her little hands with kisses, because she gives and gives and gives us so much. The old man is crab-red all over with gratitude for her gifts and I myself am warm in my heart.”
    The old man felt: “Thank me?! Oh God.”
    â€œGo on, thank him,” said the lady who was obsessed with the bane of her existence as with the devil and couldn’t get things straight. “A young love,” the unconcerned call it, “a fling of the past.” But for the concerned parties, it eats its way under your skin like a bark-beetle, tunnels its way through the marrow, undermines, causes collapse. The victim is by no means free. Pressed by himself.
    â€œSay thank you, won’t you?!”
    These words “say thank you, say thank you, say thank you—” were like shots fired in peacetime. The Hell with “say thank you.”
    Like a ghost it reared up. It had no substance. Only bones. Always this lie “say thank you.” It makes everyone ill at ease.
    â€œHush now!” said Mr. Peter to himself, “better keep your mouth shut!”
    To Rosita he said: “Whisper it quietly into his ear.”
    â€œGrandpa, I have to whisper something in your ear.”
    The old man heard nothing but “ps ps ps ps ps—.”
    He was all embarrassed. On top of which it tickled him. Not a single word of thanks.
    The mother said: “That’s a fancy little miss. I don’t know what’s to become of her. Always taking and taking and taking. Who’s going to tolerate that?!”
    â€œThe old man and the poet!” replied Mr. Peter and pressed the dear little one softly against himself. Then he said, hard and outright aggressively: “The rich ones! Those who no longer need to beg on the road of life, the full ones who have stored up the warmth and can radiate it like the sun, those with independent souls who no longer need to whine for love like little children whining for milk and quiet, the grownup rich ones able to do without pitiful taking, the kings, yes, the kings who live on giving! You see, we’re crab-red with love!”
    The young woman thought: “You’ve got to be old or mad. But we stayed too young. Is it any fault of ours? We still soak up the juices like a sapling. We rob nature just to exist. Oh and by the way, the earth still has a molten middle, and its chimneys sometimes spew forth and bury places blossoming with life. Isn’t that so? Bane of my existence, fire of my soul, Edgar, my beloved, you keep me young, don’t let me grow old!”
    Everyone sat in silence.
    â€œRosie, don’t be rude. You’re going to get too heavy for Mr. Peter. Better go to bed. I’d say you’ve had yourself a lovely day.”
    â€œWhere were you today?!” asked Mr. Peter.
    â€œI was at a theater!”
    â€œWhere were you?!” he said, because he wanted to hear it a hundred thousand times.
    â€œAt a theater!”
    â€œGood night, my dear life,” said the crab-red man with the white hair and got all ga ga.
    Rosie undressed with the door wide open, stood there all naked, pulled on her nightgown, lay down in her little bed and immediately fell fast asleep.
    Everybody sat there in silence. The arms of the young woman hung limp at her sides.
    Peter A. felt: “Life, I bow to you! Endowed with two eyes, two ears, Emperor that I am!”
    The old man sat there crab-red. He said: “No, anybody who didn’t see that child today—”
    The lady felt: “Bane of my existence, Edgar! Rosita