Livery

She stops over in Vienna for a day to go shopping, and particularly
to buy series of luxurious gowns. She continues to treat me as her
servant. I follow her at the respectful distance of ten paces. She
hands me her packages without so much as even deigning a kind look,
and laden down like a donkey I pant along behind.

Before leaving she takes all my clothes and gives them to the hotel
waiters. I am ordered to put on her livery. It is a Cracovian costume
in her colors, light-blue with red facings, and red quadrangular cap,
ornamented with peacock-feathers. The costume is rather becoming to
me.

The silver buttons bear her coat of arms. I have the feeling of
having been sold or of having bonded myself to the devil. My fair
demon leads me from Vienna to Florence. Instead of linen-garbed
Mazovians and greasy-haired Jews, my companions now are curly-
haired Contadini, a magnificent sergeant of the first Italian
Grenadiers, and a poor German painter. The tobacco smoke no longer
smells of onions, but of salami and cheese.

Night has fallen again. I lie on my wooden bed as on a rack; my arms
and legs seem broken. But there nevertheless is an element of poetry
in the affair. The stars sparkle round about, the Italian sergeant
has a face like Apollo Belvedere, and the German painter sings a
lovely German song.

Now that all the shadows gather
And endless stars grow light,
Deep yearning on me falls
And softly fills the night.”

“Through the sea of dreams
Sailing without cease,
Sailing goes my soul
In thine to find release.

And I am thinking of the beautiful woman who is sleeping in regal
comfort among her soft furs.

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