The Burning of the World: A Memoir of 1914 (18 page)

“They came while you were away.” She watched me attentively. Of the ten letters and postcards, five were letters of between four and eight pages from E—— H——. I put them in my pocket.

“I’ll read them all tonight, when things have calmed down.”

“You can be so cold and heartless sometimes, I hardly recognize you.”

I decided that I would definitely leave by the fast train at six the next day. I did some packing. I went up to the studio. Even the air in there was still, but it was tidy. Teréz had her own key and she strove to justify the fifteen korona I paid her each month. (That, too, annoyed my mother: you pay her for nothing, there’s no need for her. We could look after it ourselves.) I found my wonderful set of English watercolors from Winsor & Newton, in their splendid pocket-size enamel box with its water dish, and the block of excellent Fabriano watercolor paper. I had these with me in Taormina,
[1]
and whenever I looked at them I was seized by the urge to paint.

My father was waiting for me when I got home. I could see that my mother had prepared him. He seemed cheerful.

“You’re looking so much better. I hear you’re off again tomorrow. Well, live your life, son, while you can.”

I took the afternoon fast train for Fiume. Not many passengers. I found myself an empty compartment and took the window seat, facing west, with no one to bother me as I settled in. With fifteen minutes to go before departure, I got out and walked up to the engine. A connection with the great love of my lost childhood, its object of fascination and wonder: the steam engine. This was the latest type—the Class In, with its round-nosed boiler, three sets of driving wheels over two meters in diameter, capable of a hundred kilometers an hour. I would watch out during the journey to see how it behaved.

The Eastern Station was more neglected than I had ever seen it. The little park by the departures had disappeared, its lawns trampled to mud. Exhausted-looking groups of soldiers had set up camp on it. Inside the vast hall, listless groups of soldiers loaded up with full packs dragged their feet. A porter shouted “Last platform on the left!” at the top of his voice. The traffic was less than half of what it used to be.

The whistle blew, and I jumped aboard. There were only six carriages, one of them an empty sleeping car. The train soon picked up speed, and I felt a rush of youthful enthusiasm. Here we go, towards the old world of freedom! There wouldn’t be many visitors. That would suit me fine. I didn’t need company. I needed the mountains, Monte Maggiore,
[2]
the kindly villagers in the hills, the fishermen on the shore. And the sea. I needed the sea. I needed to sit on the cliffs by the shore, gaze at the waves as they rolled in, and listen to the whispered hiss, or the roar, of the pebbles on the beach; and to be hypnotized by the surges of seafoam washing up the little rocky inlets, whose music Böcklin could still hear, even as death’s dry fiddle squeaked in his ear.
[3]

I would be staying at the Mausers’. I had already sent a telegram to say I was coming. I might be the only guest. How nice that would be! That charming little villa—a symbol of homeliness, security. and calm. The padrone: sturdy, muscular, and grave, thick hair cut en brosse, the full moustache, a crease between his brows like an exclamation mark, the wrinkled brow—a steadfast, sure, fair-dealing man of forty-six who expected to be dealt with fairly, or else. He had a dairy herd which grazed on the lower slopes of Monte Maggiore, and he supplied the district with milk, as far as Abbazia.
[4]
He had made a fortune; still, the whole family was up at four every day.
Mama
Mauser sparkled with cleanliness and order, the embodiment of Puritan virtues. She ran the pension. The older daughter worked in the office, and the younger assisted her. The boys attended school. The whole family was an example of kindliness, devotion to duty, and affection: the Germanic family ideal. The younger daughter was very pretty, but unfortunately too young for me.

The conductor came in. I gave him five korona and asked him to make sure I was left in peace, as I wished to get some sleep. He promised to oblige. I stretched out along the seat on one side. Secure and undisturbed in my curtained-off compartment, I daydreamed about Lovrana.

It was still early, and dusk was just starting to fall; but if I was able to get to sleep now, I could wake at dawn and enjoy the magical deep valleys beneath the clouds clinging to the Karst’s rocky peaks, the bare mass of cliffs gilded by the blazing orange rays of the rising sun, the bay of Buccari emerging out of lilac mists, as in a dream, a thousand meters below, the blue panorama of distant islands, and the beloved sea.

I awoke at Cameral-Moravice.
[5]
The conductor was knocking softly at the door. Perfect! A ten-minute wait here while they changed engines. There was hot freshly brewed tea in the station. I had to take advantage of the opportunity. Tea in hand, I went to take a look: a matched pair of my old favorite, Hungary’s biggest mountain engine, twelve driven wheels between them to haul the train up to above a thousand meters.

I sat by the window and immersed myself in the beauty of the wakening forest. Here and there, a few late glowworms streaked like shooting stars, then were lost in the darkness of great forests of ferns; there were millions of them here. By the time we got to Lič, the highest point on the line,
[6]
it was light. The morning mist still obscured the view of the sea, which was visible from here in dry weather. Up here, snow still lay in many of the hollows, and there was condensation on the windows. Now the train began to gather speed, until it rushed headlong downwards through curve after curve, its clattering multiplied to an earsplitting din by the surrounding stone walls. The sunlight streamed down now. Nature was bursting into green. It was already springtime here. O happy day!

The coastal steamer was waiting in its usual place. Nothing had changed here, apart from the absence of crowds and the quiet. Perhaps it only seemed so quiet in comparison with the summer.

The war was far away. Serbia no longer mattered, Italy was our ally, Switzerland was neutral. Goodbye to all of that.

The steamer slid across a calm sea.
Mare olio
.

I gazed in pleasure at the beauty spots along the coast as we passed: Veprinac and Castua; Volosca and Abbazia, where we stopped off; then past Ika; and now here I was. A solitary cab waited at the jetty. I might as well arrive like a gentleman. Actually, I would have done better to get off at Abbazia, as the Mauser was closer to there. No matter. They greeted me warmly. The whole family was there, except for the padrone, who would be home in the evening. Mrs. Mauser, who was about forty-five, was very sweet. The older girl, Miri, was positively bursting with health, if a little to excess. Elsa, the younger one, was very attractive, with eyes that shone with life. For the sake of propriety, they made a point of informing me that she had turned sixteen just the day before. Still, I could see that I was a hit in my splendid double-breasted tunic. I was the only guest. They would bring me breakfast in my room, and I would eat lunch and dinner with them. Daily full board was five korona. I could eat as much as I liked.

So, what was I going to do here? If I was enjoying myself, I would stay to the very last day. It would cost a hundred and fifty korona for the month—half my salary. In fact, I ought to stay. I could go up onto the slopes of Monte Maggiore with
papa
Mauser and his herd and paint figures, animals, and landscapes, like the great Segantini.
[7]
I would make my haunt the
lungomare
—the winding, zigzag coastal path that runs from Abbazia to Moschiena.
[8]
Then there was the mountain; I might take a boat trip to Fianona; and I would draw and paint. The urge to work was bounding inside me.

I didn’t see
papa
Mauser until the evening. He paused in the doorway. There was not a flicker of movement in his face, which might have been carved in stone. He bowed his head deeply, then turned on his heel.

We had finished dinner, but at the request of the family I spent the rest of the evening with them. Elsa played the piano, very nicely. A delightful child. Then I was required to give an account of my experiences on the battlefield—not an easy task with my German, but we managed. They reacted with ingenuous horror, moderated by courtesy and consideration. Elsa gazed at the “hero” in fascination. Afterwards, we played a card game called
schwarzer Peter
for matchsticks. It was my first evening of gaiety and happiness in six months. My room on the first floor opened onto the sea; lulled by its rhythmical sound, I slept splendidly.

The rumble of thunder woke me in the gray half-light. The breeze blowing in through my open window was unexpectedly warm; the sea was in tumult. I waited impatiently for the daylight. I was going to paint waves.

This, I was informed over breakfast, was the
Sirocco
, and there would be a swell of three to four meters.

I headed off in the direction of Moschiena. In many places, the
lungomare
was awash, and I had to climb up to the coastal road which ran parallel to it. At Moschiena, a stream flowing down from Monte Maggiore had formed a shallow bay, some five hundred meters across. Here, I observed the marvelous spectacle of perfect waves being formed. So gripped was I by their beauty that I realized at once that there would be no painting. A rocky spur stood out darkly among the pebbles, and I watched wave after wave as they crashed against and surged over it. I wanted to keep watching until the physical principles that governed them, their form, and the colors that appeared in them became ingrained in me. From all of these similar but never identical waves I hoped to be able to abstract
the
wave.

That evening, whenever I shut my eyes, row upon row of waves rushed towards me, like old friends. Let there be one more day of these Titans storming ashore. I would definitely start painting. I went to bed at peace with myself, and felt as I were being rocked to sleep.

I was impatient to finish breakfast: the roar from outside urged me on. From the sound of it, the
Sirocco
was raging with full force.

Only now did I realize just how far I had wandered yesterday. I found the spot where I had been sitting, and the rock that jutted out into the water. Less of it showed today, as the tide was in. But the waves were just as big as the day before—that was the main thing. Ready to jump out of the way, I watched intently as they broke. I had it now. Feverishly, I set to work; soon, the external world ceased to exist for me.

If the rock on which I was sitting had not been quite so hard, I might have lost all track of time. I had to struggle to get to my feet. I had done it: surely, the best wave that I had ever drawn.

I was filled with happiness. The war had ceased to exist. There was quiet, there was peace; I was alone, and nature scattered her beauty before me. All I had to do was pick it up and present it to mankind, in all his folly.

A glance at my watch reminded me: you must hurry back for lunch with your kind hosts and tell them what a happy morning you’ve spent. Elsa will fix her eyes upon you and play you some Chopin.

I got home out of breath, just in time. I showed them the watercolor as evidence, to squeals of delight. As well as Chopin, Elsa played the Moonlight Sonata for me. Ah, Beethoven: the heroes’ hero.

I withdrew to the privacy of my room in a state of reverie. By the time I awoke, the sun was on its way down. I wanted to relive the happiness of that morning in solitude. There were some abandoned formal gardens, of great age, up above the old town in Lovrana, with cypresses and great chestnut trees. The old pathways were marked by the occasional mossy stone step and the barely discernible remnants of former buildings. Resting my head on a moss-covered rock, I enjoyed the distant view to Cherso and beyond.

Would I ever again have a day of such blessings?

The
lungomare
became my constant haunt. My favorite stretch was in the direction of Moschiena. The coastline here was precipitous, undercut by the waves with little chambers, which were refuges of silence. The sea, seemingly still, lapped the little coves with a visible slow swell, disturbing the pebbles into a soft murmur, then slapping up against the vertical cliff face with a snap, like the end of a whip. Sitting on a stone washed smooth over millennia, I painted one of the caverns. Forms and colors beyond reckoning. A lifetime would be too short to exhaust the eight-kilometer stretch between Lovrana and Moschiena. An inexhaustible fount of beauty, yet this was but the merest crumb, the tiniest fragment of the universe.

In the evening, we played the usual session of
schwarzer Peter
. A slightly imbecilic game, but it was a balm to my nerves to be together with these straightforward, decent, honest people.

I made drawings of the members of the family—the two girls and the two boys. I started with Elsa, but drew the others as well, so as to avoid any awkwardness. Her eyes shone and her face was aflame. If only she weren’t such a child!

I crossed over to Fiume as well. I had planned to walk as far as Volosca on my way back, but the path did not hold out much promise. I turned back and sat on a stone bollard on the dockside to wait for the ship. That unfamiliar silence again. Three smartly-dressed Italian men hurried past, gesticulating energetically. They huddled together as they spoke, or rather gabbled, using not just their heads but their shoulders, their arms, even their knees. These people’s temperament always seems to border on agitation.

The ship slowly swayed. Few passengers. Soporific silence. I was startled awake by someone racing past in front of me, waving. The same scene ashore, with a different cast.

That evening, Mauser appeared suddenly at the door. His face immobile, he beckoned
Mutti
over. He bent his head close and spoke to her. She spread her arms, then sat down again to our card game, her face serious. I could see that there was something she could not keep to herself, and would sooner or later have to blurt out. So it proved. She laid her cards down carefully and leaned in to me.