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- VII. Beatrice
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VII
BEATRICE
In Berlin, I drive from the Stettin to the
Anhalt Station. The half-hour’s drive becomes a
real way of thorns for me, so many are the
memories which painfully revive in me. At first
we pass through the street in which my friend
Popoffsky, as an unknown, but yet misunderstood,
man fought his first battles with poverty
and passion. Now his wife and child are both
dead; they died in this house on the left; and
our friendship has turned into bitter hatred.
Here, on the right, are the restaurants frequented
by artists and authors, the scenes of so
many intellectual and erotic orgies. Here is the
Cantina Italiana, where I used to meet with
my fiancée three years ago, and where the first
honorarium I received from Italy was spent in
Chianti. There is the Schiffbauerdamm with the
Pension Fulda, which we lived in when a young
married pair. Here is my theatre, my bookseller,
my tailor, my chemist.
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Project Runeberg, Wed Dec 20 19:57:50 2023
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