of ultraviolet. The other moons have new colors too.
But the dearly beloved isn’t surprised this time either. He takes no notice
and keeps turning.
And the moons are waiting — ever waiting! For a long time they keep
hoping that he, the great one, wil comment.
But he, the great one, says nothing . . .
The moons want terribly badly to know what he, their dearly beloved,
wants.
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SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S
But he just turns — turns without the slightest change — on and on —
just as before.
The colored moons, who have already changed colors, are not at al
pleased with this.
— —
And again the moons ponder . . . . . . .
After a little while the now moss-green moon says, “Let’s try something
else!”
He suggests: changing their orbits a little.
But the other moons waggle their bal -round bodies dubiously, expressing
a very distinct “no.” Changing their orbits seems far too dangerous . . . . they
could so easily bump into each other . . . . . . and just one col ision would cost
any of them their lives.
But the moss-green one meets this objection. He says he’d like to
go a little farther out into space, all on his own — what harm could
that do?
Now — after a little reluctance, the other moons agree.
And so the moss-green moon goes a little farther out into space.
This perplexes the dearly beloved, of course — he almost forgets to
keep turning.
But at the same time he says to himself that such behavior is unbecom-
ing — surprise is for young comets — a central star who leads an orderly
life should in no circumstances al ow himself to be surprised.
So once again, he takes no notice.
— —
A long, long time passes.
The dearly beloved keeps turning, just as before.
Eventual y the moss-green moon comes back and sighs — and the other
moons sigh too.
Such huge clouds puff out of their craters that their colorful air
darkens . . . . .
But this doesn’t help either.
The dearly beloved remains completely impassive. He keeps silent.
— —
But the moons can tel that he’s thinking. He isn’t stupid.
“Wait and see,” says one of the smaller moons. “That seems best. Per-
haps our big friend just wants us to watch him quietly, as we did before.”
The others grumble but don’t contradict him.
And so they are quiet — for several long millennia.
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PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
The moons are so quiet that one might think they were dead.
But their curiosity doesn’t sleep.
Final y they make another attempt to provoke their friend into saying
something.
They get their old colors back, so that eventual y they look just as they
once did.
— — —
Of course, this doesn’t help, either.
The moons nearly despair.
The moon who is now crimson again is the most curious because he
was the last of the moons to gravitate toward the middle star — he real y
doesn’t quite belong with the other nine moons — once upon a time he had
been a big, big comet.
After pondering long and hard, the crimson one says:
“Brothers, we must try a different way of discovering the thoughts of
our dearly beloved. We must train our feelings. We must learn to sense
what he, the great one, is thinking. If we want to learn his thoughts, we too
wil have to ponder.”
This makes sense to the brothers.
And with much effort over the long millennia, they train their feel-
ings — and they think a great deal. This natural y makes them much
cleverer.
And now that they’ve grown so much cleverer — yes — final y, they think
they are beginning to notice some things. The central star seems to be talking.
One night the blue star says: “You know, I think our dearly beloved just
wants to say. . . .”
“What?” the others cry stormily, steaming out huge clouds.
“He’s tel ing us,” the blue one says slowly, “to keep orbiting just as we’re
There is a dul silence.
And they al hope that the central star wil confirm the blue moon’s words.
But once again, he does not.
He is incomprehensible.
— —
After another few years the silver moon thinks that he, the dearly be-
loved, is saying:
“My dear moons, one thing is just as good and just as bad as another
thing.”
Another pause. . . .
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SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S
And again, in vain!
The moons would have laughed if they had learned to laugh. Unfortu-
nately, they never learned.
Suddenly, the ultraviolet moon cries:
“I know! I know! He’s saying: You don’t get drunk enough — you’re too
sober for me!”
And al of them think — final y they’ve figured it out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
The dearly beloved, on the other hand, remains silent, even now — as
silent as the invisible phantoms.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Final y, after seven times a hundred thousand years, the crimson moon
cries:
“Our dearly beloved says: “Moons, just watch me turn!”
The other moons are indignant; they think this is a bad joke.
But now the crimson moon cries out for the second time: “That wasn’t
his last word. He wants to know why we don’t turn, too.”
At that — yes — then — al of the moons are — completely stumped.
And they remark angrily that they’re used to getting drunk in other
ways. Not everyone gets his thril s in the same way.
But — on the dearly beloved central star — final y the bright, joyful
flames of having been understood begin to flash and flicker.
— —
What the crimson moon said is real y what the dearly beloved had been
thinking al these many million years. He didn’t want to say so because
stars never speak their innermost thoughts but, rather, hope that others wil
reach these innermost thoughts through their own efforts. Only then can
the innermost thoughts be of use to others.
“Why don’t you just turn around yourselves?”
This was the dearly beloved’s great question.
The crimson moon had understood him.
And so immediately he starts to turn — he spins out into outer space —
and just keeps turning, orbiting only himself.
Soon he too wil be a central star, with moons orbiting around him
without ever turning themselves. And the crimson one wil ask his moons
the same riddle that the dearly beloved asked them.
“Why don’t you just turn around yourselves?
Oh yes, the dearly beloved’s nine remaining moons stil don’t under-
stand their friend — they stare at him, the great one, more wildly than ever.
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PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
They simply cannot under
stand that stars can only be happy when they
turn around themselves.
The crimson one — he’s happy — he says to himself:
“There is only one thing that makes life bearable — and that one thing
is intoxication — and intoxication, if it is to last, is created only when one
moves his whole body — his whole being — constantly in the same way.
For round stars, this movement is turning around oneself — it is the only
movement that one can keep up constantly and without change. For a star,
there is no other way to maintain eternal intoxication, eternal happiness.”
The crimson one sings, puffing happy crimson clouds out of his craters:
Joyful y we spin ourselves
Through the giant universe.
We are always glad and cheerful,
No dream of longing gets us down.
For we live in intoxication!
Always — the same intoxication!
Yes, we should — wish for nothing more!
— — — — — —
We toddle as if batty
Without an aim, without desire
Through the universe!
— —
Through the universe’s gleaming night!
Translated by Anne Posten
172
The Love of Souls:
A Spiritualistic Scene from a Novel
Carriages rattle through the streets — clattering. . . .
It’s twelve at night.
I’m lying very stil on the sofa, smoking.
There is a lot of smoke in the room.
A lamp is burning — over on the cupboard in front of the mirror — the
lamp with the red lampshade.
— —
For many years I have been thinking of a woman every day — when I
am alone, I think of this woman even more often —
It often seems as if she must be about to come to me.
Yet I am not surprised when she doesn’t.
But today I’m feeling so peculiar.
It seems as if she real y wil come to me today — right now — now . . . . . . .
— —
Next to the door — right by the oven — what is that?
Such a delicate, airy image — like smoke.
No — it’s a very delicate, light bluish cloth — see-through — soft —
sparkling, delicate . . .
I dare not move . . .
But now — incredible — oh!
It’s true — it’s an arm — a soft, delicate arm — the arm is very white.
And to the left? — to the left are only garments — a great mass of
them — — —
There — there — above the garments — dreadful! — ghastly! — a pale
countenance with deep, deep, sea-green eyes!
Those are her eyes — that is her face — her face.
She wants to speak.
She wags her finger.
First published as “Seelenliebe: Spiritistische Romanscene” in 1897 as a story within the novel
Ich Liebe Dich! Ein Eisenbahnroman mit 66 Intermezzos (I love you! A railway novel with 66
intermezzos), Schuster and Loeffler, Berlin.
173
PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
It almost looks teasing.
Now she speaks — everything is hazy!
I cannot hear her yet.
But now — yes — I can hear quite clearly — she says:
“Why should I always be physical y with you? Is that necessary? I love
you stil ! Isn’t that enough for you? No? Look at me!”
A quiet horror comes over me, but I fight it. I want to stand up — but I
cannot. Am I dreaming? — no — my cigar is stil burning — I am awake.
After a while I say, very softly:
“I long for you so often! And I love you stil — there’s no one I love
more than you.”
It looks as though she is beginning to cry when I say this — yet she
answers immediately — more fervently, and not quite as clearly:
“Do you know that I am a mother?”
“Yes!” I say loudly, startling myself.
“That’s why,” she continues more calmly, “I have to stay far from you.
My two children cannot live without me. Yes — I know — you love me!
But — — — do you love my children too?
I say nothing.
She continues:
“You have to love them. I wil bless you for it. I beg you with al my
heart — see! — love my two children too! . . . . . . . Let me stay far away — with
my children. Physical love doesn’t bring happiness. You know that. And
I — alas — you know that I know it too. I want to be with you invisibly!”
The clouds of smoke move, and the apparition seems to waver, it seems
to press against the oven.
I say loudly: “Yes, and amen!”
A sigh of relief sounds through the room.
And suddenly I can’t see anything anymore.
But soon I hear her voice again — she speaks urgently:
“Your soul’s wife greets you! Go to bed and sleep! Don’t drink so much!
Dream of me! Dreams are — don’t leave! Look at me!”
“I can’t see anything!” I cry.
But she doesn’t seem to hear me.
She speaks in a firm, metal ic voice.
“You are mine! Yes, you are mine! Now live — write — become a
messiah!”
I want to jump up, open my eyes — go to her:
But I cannot.
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SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S
— —
After a long time I see her light, bluish garments down by the
oven — with her two feet below them — white and shining.
I see nothing of the rest of her body.
And again she says to me:
“I believe in you! But do not wish for me to come to you physical y —
later — someday — someday — someday — perhaps! But first you must
complete your life’s work. Physical love is . . . . . . . . . .”
Incomprehensible noises fil my ear.
Loud, hot, piercing sounds suddenly fil the smoky chamber — I think I
understand the sounds — they sound — like:
“Become a messiah! Become a messiah!”
I turn my head.
Now I can move.
I see — yes — my cigar is stil burning in my left hand.
I jump up.
I don’t know what’s going on.
I’m very agitated.
Yet I ask myself: “Did I dream it? With the cigar burning in my hand?
Is it possible? — how? — but how? You can’t smoke if you’re asleep!”
The piercing sounds keep booming in my ears — hotly:
“Become a messiah! Become a messiah!”
— —
Carriages rattle through the streets — clattering. . . .
The clock has stopped.
Translated by Anne Posten
175
Atlas, the Comfortable:
A Myth of Humanity
Many hundreds of years ago, there lived in ancient India a group of gray-
bearded philosophers — they wanted to do away with war.
They had long pondered how this might be accomplished. Yet they
could not agree.
Final y, a hunchbacked philosopher suggested that they visit Atlas the
Greek and boldly ask him for advice.
Atlas lived at the edge of the earth and held up the great dome of the
heavens.
The Indian philosophers listened quietly to their hunchbacked friend,
considered a while, and came to the conclusion that th
e hunchback’s idea
wasn’t half bad, and they were indeed inclined to grace Atlas with a
visit — particularly since even in those days Atlas enjoyed a reputation as
a very comfortable and hospitable fel ow.
Accordingly, the philosophers rented a smal boat, stepped aboard, and
saw that the wind was favorable so that they would be face to face with
hospitable Atlas in just a few months.
Atlas lived on a mountain, and he came right down as soon as the
philosophers cal ed his name.
At first the philosophers thought the heavens would immediately fal onto
their heads, since Atlas hadn’t brought the dome down with him — they
cowered in fear.
But the comfortable giant reassured the wise Indians, pointed to two
tal columns rising into the clouds from the summit of the mountain, and
said with a smirk:
“Don’t be alarmed, dear friends! A long time ago I set the dome of
the heavens up there on a pair of strong columns. The columns wil hold,
never fear! Holding the heavens on my shoulders forevermore was just too
much of a bother. I bore it long enough. I bore the heaviest possible weight.
First published as “Atlas, der Gemüthliche: Ein Humanitätsmythos” in 1897 as a story within
the novel Ich Liebe Dich! Ein Eisenbahnroman mit 66 Intermezzos (I love you! A railway novel
with 66 intermezzos), Schuster and Loeffler, Berlin.
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SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S
Now I just have to watch that no one approaches the columns — watching
is much more comfortable than endlessly standing stil , hunched over with
that weight on my back.
The philosophers nodded knowingly, got out of the boat, and told Atlas
what they wanted.
— —
When Atlas had heard and understood, he looked completely puzzled.
Then he cried, very loudly:
“Children! Children! You’re not comfortable yet! No — how sil y! You
want to do away with war? You? I hardly know what to say! Look — do
you know what you have to do if you want to do away with war? — It’s
actual y very simple: You have to get rid of rich people, and then war wil
disappear al by itself. But — but —”
The philosophers looked at each other wide-eyed, thought for a bit, put
their left index fingers against their left nostrils, and, after a little while,
nodded their old gray heads.
The hunchback was the first to speak — he acted as if he had solved the
problem al by himself and said the fol owing: