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Good Friday 1954
As I made my way to the train station in the fifth hour of the day snow was falling. It looked like scraps of paper from another world, dull and of different sizes, big and little flakes blown together willy-nilly. A strange kind of snow, threatening, as if it would mumble: “Here I am, then, the snow from another world.”
From the train, east Switzerland looked like it was covered by the polar bear coat of winter, houses, gardens, and fields. There were only a few passengers, most with small bundles and daydreaming, half awake. I thought that maybe the sun didn't dare to appear. Today I heard birds singing in Zurich before sunrise, but in this black mood their twittering would have sounded like dirges.
At the train station: Robert with his umbrella but no coat; I with coat, but no umbrella. It was snowing heavily. He climbed into the coach, lit up a cheroot and asked contentedly “How's it going?” In Urnäsch most of the skiers departed, leaving us almost the only passengers to Appenzell.
We make our way through the silent village on the road to Gais. A couple of dozen jackdaws caw around the castle. Just past the bridge over the Sitter we encountered a funeral procession. A tired, black-draped horse pulled the hearse, on which three wreaths lay. It was followed by two columns of mourners, whose open umbrellas created a sort of tunnel from which murmured prayers emerged and wrinkled faces looked at us curiously. Most of the faces belonged to worn-out old women, many with blood vessels visible in their cheeks. Later I asked a waitress who the deceased was. She answered "An old one who became a child again" [? "Ganz aen alti, wo verchindlichet ischt."]
The snow turned to hail. Cutting bits of ice in the face. But we march on to Gais. Eventually we can’t hear the prayers anymore. Instead we hear the squealing of hungry pigs. Suddenly Robert stopped: “This weather's just too awful. Let's turn around.” No sooner said than done.
We went back the way we came and discovered that the hearse hadn't gotten past the Sitter bridge, almost as though it were waiting for us. Once again we can hear the prayers for the dead, and this bothers Robert: he doesn't like to think about death. He tugs at my sleeve as if he thinks he’s being pursued by dirges: "Let’s go to Gais." We splash back a hundred meters or so, but the hailstones sting our faces even worse than before. Parts of the road have been transformed into a brown soup. A car throws slush on us. We retreat again at Robert's request, this time to a comfortable pub, where they serve big breakfasts.
My suggestion that we stroll a bit around the castle, which holds a historical collection, is brusquely rejected. "No, now finally we'll visit Gais as planned, where my sister Lisa and I were once very happy." The snow falls there as well. Nonetheless, Robert is delighted by the village square. Enchanted, he stops and inhales the familiar atmosphere with deep breaths, while I enjoy the church and the shape of the gables and point out the grandness and personality of the house. "Like something out of a dream” he whispers. I take a picture of him hastily and full of inhibitions, just to have a remembrance of him for later.
In the Krone we have a rather dry pike, which we wash down with a Beaujolais, and then follow with a meringue. The stylish waitress stays aloof; she prefers a better class of customer, like those arriving by car.
Over black coffee Robert tells me about Byron’s striking similarities with Raphael. Both matured early and died young. He lists all of Byron's works and describes his adventurous life with its fevered end in the marshy town of Missolonghi, among the Greek patriots, who honor him as royalty. And he recalls the pain with which Goethe in Weimar had heard the news of the death of this "incomparable talent."
Finally I asked Robert if he had ever met Carl Spitteler. For at the recollection of the Greek-inspired creator of Manfred and The Prisoner of Chillon one could also bow to the poet of Olympic Springs . . .
The reaction was a bit cool: "No, I've never spoken with him, but my publisher Cassirer sent him one of my novels, with the result that a letter from Spitteler arrived, in which he opined about my work in a very disparaging way." He himself [Robert?] had in a cursory way made fun of Conrad, der Leutnant. This prose piece of Spitteler's provoked Robert to an exchange on his military experiences. He had been in boot camp in Bern before his 7-year stay in Berlin. He’d usually reported for border and [wiederholungs] service. He'd never actually been on maneuvers. After his return to Switzerland he was assigned straight into the Home Guard.