“Young man,” said the woman, and her lower jaw jutted forward, “you want to live here?”
“Yes,” the young man said, tossing his head upward.
“You will like it here,” the woman said, leading him to a chair on which she sat him down. In doing this she noticed a stain on his trousers, kneeled down beside him and
began to scrape at the stain with her fingernails.
“You’re a dirty fellow,” she said.
“It’s an old stain.”
“Then you are an old dirty fellow.”
“Take your hand away,” he said suddenly, and actually pushed her away. “What horrible hands you have.” He caught her hand and turned it over. “All black on top,
whitish below, but still black enough and”—he ran his fingers inside her wide sleeve—“there is even some hair on your arm.”
“You’re tickling me,” she said.
“Because I like you. I don’t understand how they can say that you are ugly. Because they did say it. But now I see that it isn’t true at all.”
And he stood up and walked up and down the room. She remained on her knees and looked at her hand.
For some reason this made him furious; he sprang to her side and caught her hand again.
“You’re quite a woman,” he then said, and clapped her long thin cheek. “It would really add to my comfort to live here. But it would have to be cheap. And you would
not be allowed to take in other roomers. And you would have to be faithful to me. I am really much younger than you and can after all insist on faithfulness. And you
would have to cook well. I am used to good food and never intend to disaccustom myself.”
Dance on, you pigs; what concern is it of mine?
But it has more reality than anything I have written this past year. Perhaps after all it is a matter of loosening the joint. I shall once more be able to write.
Every evening for the past week my neighbor in the adjoining room has come to wrestle with me. He was a stranger to me, even now I haven’t yet spoken to him. We
merely shout a few exclamations at one another, you can’t call that “speaking.” With a “well then” the struggle is begun; “scoundrel!” one of us sometimes groans
under the grip of the other; “there” accompanies a surprise thrust; “stop!” means the end, yet the struggle always goes on a little while longer. As a rule, even when he
is already at the door he leaps back again and gives me a push that sends me to the ground. From his room he then calls good night to me through the wall. If I wanted
to give up this acquaintance once and for all I should have to give up my room, for bolting the door is of no avail. Once I had the door bolted because I wanted to read,
but my neighbor hacked the door in two with an axe, and, since he can part with something only with the greatest difficulty once he has taken hold of it, I was even in
danger of the axe.
I know how to accommodate myself to circumstances. Since he always comes to me at a certain hour, I take up some easy work beforehand which I can interrupt at
once, should it be necessary. I straighten out a chest, for example, or copy something, or read some unimportant book. I have to arrange matters in this way—no
sooner has he appeared in the door than I must drop everything, slam the chest to at once, drop the penholder, throw the book away, for it is only fighting that he wants,
nothing else. If I feel particularly strong I tease him a little by first attempting to elude him. I crawl under the table, throw chairs under his feet, wink at him from the
distance, though it is of course in bad taste to joke in this very one-sided way with a stranger. But usually our bodies close in battle at once. Apparently he is a student,
studies all day, and wants some hasty exercise in the evening before he goes to bed. Well, in me he has a good opponent; accidents aside, I perhaps am the stronger and