pale. I ask: “Are you the editor of the magazine section?” He: “Yes.” I just say, “J’accuse,” and leave.
In the bank I immediately telephone Bohemia. I want to give them the story for publication. But I can’t get a good connection. Do you know why? The office of the
Tagblatt is pretty close to the telephone exchange, so from the Tagblatt it’s easy for them to control the connections as they please, to hold them up or put them
through. And as a matter of fact, I keep hearing indistinct whispering voices on the telephone, obviously the editors of the Tagblatt. They have, of course, a good deal
of interest in not letting this call go through. Then I hear (naturally very indistinctly) some of them persuading the operator not to put the call through, while others are
already connected with Bohemia and are trying to keep them from listening to my story. “Operator,” I shout into the telephone, “if you don’t put this call through at
once, I’ll complain to the management.” My colleagues all around me in the bank laugh when they hear me talking to the telephone operator so violently. Finally I get
my party. “Let me talk to Editor Kisch. I have an extremely important piece of news for Bohemia. If you don’t take it, I’ll give it to another paper at once. It’s high
time.” But since Kisch is not there I hang up without revealing anything.
In the evening I go to the office of Bohemia and get the editor, Kisch, called out. I tell him the story but he doesn’t want to publish it. Bohemia, he says, can’t do
anything like that, it would cause a scandal and we can’t risk it because we’re dependent. Hand it over to a lawyer, that would be best.
On my way from the Bohemia office I met you and so I am asking your advice.
“I advise you to settle the matter in a friendly way.”
“Indeed, I was thinking myself that would be best. She’s a woman, after all. Women have no souls, says Mohammed, with good reason. To forgive would be more
humane, too, more Goethe-like.”
“Certainly. And then you wouldn’t have to give up the recitation evening, either, which would otherwise be lost, after all.”
“But what should I do now?”
“Go to them tomorrow and say that this one time you are willing to assume it was unconscious influence.”
“That’s very good. That’s just what I’ll do.”
“But because of this you needn’t give up your revenge, either. Simply have the essay published somewhere else and then send it to Mrs. Durège with a nice
dedication.”
“That will be the best punishment. I’ll have it published in the Deutsces Abendblatt. They’ll take it; I’m not worried about that. I’ll just not ask for any payment.”
Then we speak about his talent as an actor, I am of the opinion that he should really have training. “Yes, you’re right about that. But where? Do you perhaps know
where it can be studied?” I say: “That’s difficult. I really don’t know.” He: “That doesn’t really matter. I’ll ask Kisch. He’s a journalist and has a lot of connections.
He’ll be able to give me good advice. I’ll just telephone him, spare him and myself the trip, and get all the information.”
“And about Mrs. Durège, you’ll do what I advised you to?”
“Yes, but I forgot; what did you advise me to do?” I repeat my advice.
“Good, that’s what I’ll do.” He turns into the Café Corso, I go home, having experienced how refreshing it is to speak with a perfect fool. I hardly laughed, but was just
thoroughly awakened.
The melancholy “formerly,” used only on business plaques.
2 March. Who is to confirm for me the truth or probability of this, that it is only because of my literary mission that I am uninterested in all other things and therefore
heartless.
3 March. 28 February to hear Moissi. Unnatural spectacle. He sits in apparent calm, whenever possible keeps his folded hands between his knees, his eyes on the
book lying before him, and lets his voice pass over us with the breath of a runner.