Summer with Tucholsky | It is not spring

In the morning they went into the fields. Yesterday's thunderstorm had cooled down, the first days of autumn were approaching. The wind blew hard. As they went against it, it sang plaintively... Along the paths, the masses of leaves foamed. A milky white light shone evenly over the fields. The sun was hidden behind the stormy clouds; sometimes it emerged, then it was red and froze in the harsh, strong autumn air. An empty path lay before them, swept clean by the wind – and it was bliss to stride across it. Young linden trees stretched endlessly, and it was a joy to always have the creaking trunk at their side. Their breath was deep, and their shoulders heaved. They walked in step.

Longing—longing for fulfillment! Here was everything (he felt), autumn, the clear, purifying autumn, Claire, everything—and yet it moved on, the foot striving forward, somewhere lay a goal, never to be reached!

Much, almost everything in the world could be satisfied, almost every longing could be fulfilled – except this one. What was a lover, seen from above? – A fool. When the beloved heart opened to him, he remained silent, full and content. Entire literatures would not exist if the maidens unlocked their doors… An amoroso could be satisfied; give him the woman he desires, and the resonant mouth falls silent. What is there to silence us? We have nothing left to conceal, we know all the secrets of the body… And all of the soul? – There are words that must never be spoken, or they die… But we do not want to enter these depths of the treasure chambers; we have each other completely, and yet we long for each other. What is it that drives us on, further, higher, forward? – It is not spring; for it is in all seasons, it is not youth; for we feel it at all ages, it is not Claire, we feel it anyway.

Now they came through a windless grove of young birch trees.

To be able to embrace all of this, not because it is good or beautiful, but because it is there, because the banks of clouds are white and fluffy, because we are alive!

Be happy, but never satisfied. Don't let the fire go out, never, never! In a round hole, black, putrid water swirled lazily. Everything else is a prelude: the wooing, the granting, the enjoying. Then it begins and never ends. What can happen beforehand? Preoccupied with the simple question: Yes? - No? - they fail to see the essential, the real thing. Strip yours of your desires, to possess her, put her in your room, wishless, alone, thinking you have everything you wanted... Would she stay? Can she do more than entice, promise? - Can she give? Not everyone can withstand the test of endurance. It is not for nothing that one anxiously guards one's last possessions when one does not know that they are the most precious thing one has to give. Conquests where the attraction lies only in the conquest. But we want to possess.

And there is no deeper longing than this: the longing for fulfillment. It cannot be satisfied...

"Little Wolf! Hello!" She had run far ahead and was picking white iceberries from the bushes, placing them in a circle on the ground and cracking them in two with her foot.

"Why are you doing it?"

"Don't you have a sense of beauty? Don't you feel that it's satisfying, liberating, like a release from pressure, when the berry—finally—crack open?—Philistine!"

The grass shimmered in the light, a fat beetle flew across the road, took flight, a wind swept across the path, carrying it away. Did he want to go there? – Well, he would be happy there too…

A flock of sheep trotted through the stubbled fields; they tried to dodge, but it was too late. The sheepdog had barked a long line into order; they were in the middle of them, the sheep swirling around them, the Claire swaying back and forth in the sea, laughing.

"Little wolf, what if the animals eat me?"

"Not you, miss, it probably wouldn't be worth it."

Finally they crawled out, covered in dust, laughing.

"I'm so glad you figured it out, Wolfie!"

They were in an open field, the green grass shone brightly in the wind, the air was in great motion, but the land lay still, no matter how winds blew and passed over it, the earth remained firm.

They stood on a small hill, the land rolling away, the strong wind playfully tugging at their hair. To be able to embrace all of this, not because it's good or beautiful, but because it's there, because the banks of clouds are white and fluffy, because we're alive! Strength! The strength of youth!...

"Claire?"

"N/a?"

And was grabbed and carried away like a baby, down the slope deep into the flowery hollow.

This is an excerpt from Kurt Tucholsky's novella "Rheinsberg: A Picture Book for Lovers" (1912): A progressive, intellectual Berlin student couple travels to the Brandenburg resort for a few days, encounters a rude encounter with the provinciality and Wilhelminian narrow-mindedness of the small town, and takes refuge in playful, constant mockery and their love. With this early autumn piece, we conclude our series "Summer with Tucholsky."