Letter from Edward Renouf to Anny Schey von Koromla

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Sunday – at the brewery

My Annie!

Your telegram has just arrived at table, and I’m sat here in the bar, waiting for whipped cream and, with far greater appetite, for tomorrow, or whenever your first letter arrives. Your card from Zurich felt fresh somehow, like you’d never been tired at all. Was everything alright?

The American pair was delighted with the English pair, and both thought the entertainment at Platzl was wonderful. The young American artist came later too, with his wife, and drew bad caricatures of the actors. I couldn’t eat a thing at dinner and didn’t drink much either. I just smoked a lot, wrote a poem in my notebook and found it hard to be entirely polite when the couples kept interrupting me while I was writing, wanting to know what I was writing, which theory I took my metre from and whether I was a follower of ‘Gertrude Stein’. I replied curtly that what I was writing was an expression of neither rule nor theory, and that I didn’t follow anyone in particular. With that I pushed my chair another half metre away from them, put my feet up on the chair in front of me (with a gesture of blasé nonchalance) and finished writing the following:

Today I’m still alive,
You’re still here,
But tomorrow
You want to go –
What then?
When you’re away
It seems
The firmament
Of my mind
Collapses,
And the watery spheres
Of my eyes
Dry out and crumble.
Fears then
Rise up
Around me –
Impenetrable
They obscure and deny me
The way of the will
And of hope –
You’re going!
My hand holds on
To the handle still,
You’re out of sight,
My fist is bleeding –
Did I not strike
The oak post
Of the door?
Did I not cry out
Into the empty room?
Then whisper
And stare,
The dripping blood
Unseeing?
Today I’m still alive,
And you –
And the end
Doubtless turns
On the sun.
You’re leaving me –
How can I know
You’ll return?

On the way home we all pretended we were drunk (except the little one), sang loudly and were the best of friends. In this way I escaped my loneliness and hid behind a mask of jokes. On Friday I took the Americans around the National Museum, then went shopping with the little architect – books, markets, –

The concert in the evening only gave me a sense of how splendid the St Matthew Passion could be if it were performed differently. Knappertsbusch conducted like a man worn out, reluctantly going through the motions. The tenor (not Patzak!) sang far too dramatically, and his voice faltered at every high note. But it was a good introduction for me. Next time we must hear the Passion together. I’m far more readily enthused when I’m next to you.

On Saturday I received a letter from Dr Santerus asking for an immediate reply and acknowledgement of the bill for 822 marks. Having met with Keller and an expert from the Association of German Architects I replied that I’d welcome a court ruling on the matter.

Evening: Hubermann concert with Hans and Eugenie. Beethoven and Tchaikovsky concerts, the latter in particular wonderfully played. All the Kaulas were there (Janne from Berlin). Now I’m taking the Plessens to see the American couple.

I still love you, always, always more than ever! Come what may. Not [musical notation]? Write!

Yours

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