Telegrams of the Soul

Sunset in the Prater

They sat for hours in the Grabenkiosk* on the last day of August, watched fiakers† roll by with foreigners in the passenger seats, automobiles like migrating birds returning from distant trips, ladies on the trottoir gliding by with astonishing self-assurance and others that pattered and pranced about to puff themselves up into something special.

At the Kiosk sat a French woman whom one dared greet only with one’s eyes. And a sweet young thing with her “aunt,” whom one likewise saluted with the eyes alone. And unfamiliar damsels with veiled hats whom one did not greet at all. And a few men who’d already returned from their vacations. All these people felt a little déclassé to have been spotted at the Grabenkiosk in the high season, while the others were still basking in Ostende or Biarritz—.

Notwithstanding all this, the two friends made a few salient observations, gathered a few rare examples of the little species of man for their internal bug collection, pinned them up and arranged them in generalized categories.

At 6 P.M. the red automobile, Mercedes 18–24, came by and drove them off to the Krieau.†† There they found an altogether dust-free country air and quiet. A man in a black suit and snow-white gloves mounted a horse. A fiaker brought a dancer (the Imperial Opera had just opened), a gray automobile drove up, muffled engine, roaring in a baritone, more than 30 horsepower. The little garden was full of yellow flowers that looked like little sunflowers and the rabbits in their cages pricked up their ears at an irregular slant. The two friends smoked Prinzesas and gaped at the mostly empty white tables and benches. In early spring and fall the place gets really hopping. But it was only August 31!

So the two friends drove on to the winter embankment.

Danube, small track, big leather factory, wobbly granite pavement, good enough for the wide-tired truck rolling along at a snail’s pace! But the automobile leapt, galloped, hopped, like a déclassé vehicle on this paved truck road. To the left lay the winter embankment, to the right a raised plateau made of sand and gravel dug out of the Danube studded with young birch trees. From there one had a panoramic view of blue-gray hills, black factory chimneys and the glow of the sunset. In the distance reared the somber dynamite depot, the Laaerberg, the Central Cemetery, the Kahlenberg—. The dark red blaze of the striped sunset surged against the gray molten lead-colored sky and earth. The leather factory reared up like a black beast, and three massive chimneys sent black smoke into the blaze like little spurts of steam that would like to put out giant fires! The slender delicate young birch trees in the Danube landfill trembled in the evening wind and the two friends picked out lovely smooth light brown pebbles as souvenirs of the pleasant evening. Back on the highway waited the red automobile, Mercedes 18–24, which, in fourth gear could rip along like a little road-running Orient Express.

The red blaze against the leaden sky turned raspberry colored, then dark gray-red. The two friends remarked: “Now there’s nothing more to see. The play is over.” So they climbed into the red automobile and said to the chauffeur: “Fourth gear, please—.”

They whizzed back to the Grabenkiosk.

Still seated there was the French lady whom one only dared greet with one’s eyes.

But at this late hour one felt entitled to say “Good evening—.”

And the two gentlemen politely bid her: “Bon soir—.”

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*The Café-pavilion “Am Graben”

†Horse-drawn hacks

††A trotting race track in the Prater