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23 April 1939
Robert wanted to go to "German," via Meersburg. But the cool cloudy spring morning seemed made for a long walk; a walk to Wil seemed like a good idea. Why not! An agreeable mood is more important to me than the direction of march.
Robert has an umbrella, as usual. His hat is shabbier than ever--the band is in shreds. Nonetheless, he'll hear nothing about a new one; he finds new things repulsive. He doesn't want to have his teeth fixed, either; it's just too much trouble. I scarcely dare to mention that, though his favorite sister has begged me to look after these things.
We make our way from Herisau to Wil in three and a half hours, chatting continuously. We make progress so quickly it's as though we're wearing roller skates. Many times Robert calls my attention to an unusually attractive meadow or the shape of a cloud, or to a baroque nobleman's house. He allowed himself to be photographed without resistance. I am astounded. He is happy and excited that we covered the 20 kilometers so quickly, and with only one vermouth as fuel.
In the first pub we visit there were two wrinkled old women and a boy. They studied the radio schedule and came to our table to shake hands just as we set off.
In Wil, we eat at Im Hof, are very hungry and afterwards visit one pub after another. In our fifth pub, Robert suggests that we not return to Gossau before 3:30, about two hours from then. He would prefer that we spend as much time together as possible. He frequently looks into my eyes; the aloofness and dullness he hides behind has been replaced by a quiet trust.
His train to Herisau leaves two minutes after mine. When my train begins to move, he makes, quite seriously, two deep bows. Is he thinking about Monsieur Robert, the servant at the castle? I return the bows and call back to him "The next time German!" He nods briskly and waves his hat.
At the beginning of our walk Robert told me the following crime story: A lawyer in London was accused of murdering his wife. His gentle and charming nature would have won over the judges, insuring a favorable outcome for him. He wasn't sure of that, however, and decided, with his attractive secretary, to flee to the U.S. because he in fact was guilty. He was arrested on the ship. This attempt at flight made the judges suspicious; they had the floorboards in the kitchen torn up, and found the wife's dismembered body. Thus the murderer's misunderstanding of the psychology of the situation caused him to be shortened by a head: if he had continued to play the role of the loving husband, he would probably have been acquitted. The moral: one can fool others, but one can't be mistaken about one's self for long.
"In 1913 when I, with a hundred francs, returned to Biel, I thought it was advisable to be as inconspicuous as possible. No showing off. I went walking by myself, day and night. In between I conducted my business as a writer. Finally, when I had exhausted all my subjects, like a cow her pasture, I went back to Bern. At first things went well there for me. But imagine my fright when I got a letter from the feuilleton editor of the Berliner Tageblatt in which they said that I hadn't produced anything for half a year! I was confused. Yes, it's true, I was totally written out. Burned out like an oven. I made a genuine effort to continue writing. But what I wrote were silly things, and that worried me. What works for me is what can grow quietly within me and what I've somehow experienced."
"Then I made a couple of amateurish attempts to take my life, but I couldn't make a proper noose. Finally it reached the point where my sister Lisa took me to the Waldau Institute. I asked her just outside the gate "Are we doing the right thing?" Her silence gave me the answer. What else could I do, but enter?"
"It's madness and cruelty to demand that I continue to write in the sanitarium. The basis of a writer's creativity is freedom. As long as this condition is not met I refuse to write again. So even though I've been given a room, paper and pen, it just hasn't happened." [see 4 January 1937]
I: "I've had the impression that you don't want this freedom."
Robert: "There's no one who has offered it to me. [So it's called waiting.]"
I: "Would you like to leave the Institute?"
Robert (hesitating): "I could try it."
I: "Then where would you like to live?"
Robert: "In Biel, Bern, or Zurich, doesn't matter. Life can be enjoyable anywhere."
I: "Would you take up your writing again?"
Robert: "There is only one reply: that is, no reply."
Recently, Robert has read Robert Seumes' Spaziergang nach Syrakus and his adventurous biography; Gottfried Keller's Romeo and Julia auf dem Dorf; and the novella Goethe and Therese by the Bavarian poet Martin Greif; all with enjoyment.
He says: "The artist must enchant his audience, or torment them. He must bring them to tears or laughter."
I told him that a Swiss schoolmaster has written a novel whose action sometimes takes place in a Paris bordello. Robert's reaction: "It's awful, the things that impotent scribblers speculate about."
Concerning the country: "It seems to me only a philistine would harass the state with moral claims. The state's first duty is to be strong and alert. Morality must remain the concern of the individual."
I: "Should we get a late night snack?"
Robert: "For what? Liver or schnitzel won't perk me up. We should have a drink instead; that will do me some good. I can eat any time, any day. But drinking? I can only do that with you."