Goodbye to Berlin

Sally’s German was not merely incorrect; it was all her own. She pronounced every word in a mincing, specifically “foreign” manner. You could tell that she was speaking a foreign language from her expression alone.

“Somehow, when people have cash, you feel differently about them—I don’t know why.”

“I’m awfully glad. I’ve wanted you to like me ever since we first met. But I’m glad you’re not in love with me, because, somehow, I couldn’t possibly be in love with you—so, if you had been, everything would have been spoilt.”

We went to the little cinema in Bülowstrasse, where they were showing a film about a girl who sacrificed her stage career for the sake of a Great Love, Home, and Children. We laughed so much that we had to leave before the end.

[Clive] had about him that sad, American air of vagueness which is always attractive; doubly attractive in one who possessed so much money. He was vague, wistful, a bit lost: dimly anxious to have a good time and uncertain how to set about getting it. He seemed never to be quite sure whether he was really enjoying himself, whether what we were doing was really fun.

We had nothing to do with those Germans down there, marching, or with the dead man in the coffin, or with the words on the banners. In a few days, I thought, we shall have forfeited all kinship with ninety-nine per cent of the population of the world, with the men and women who earn their living, who insure their lives, who are anxious about the future of their children. Perhaps in the Middle Ages people felt like this, when they believed themselves to have sold their soul to the Devil. It was a curious, exhilarating, not unpleasant sensation: but, at the same time, I felt slightly scared. Yes, I said to myself, I’ve done it, now. I am lost.

“I don’t know what it is… You seem to have changed, somehow…”

“How have I changed?”

“It’s difficult to explain… You don’t seem to have any energy or want to get anywhere. You’re so dilletante. It annoys me.”

Indeed, I was so absurdly upset that I began to wonder whether I hadn’t all this time, in my own particular way, been in love with Sally myself.

But no, it wasn’t love ether—it was worse. It was the cheapest, most childish kind of wounded vanity…. The awful sexual flair women have for taking the stuffing out of a man!

When you read this, Sally—if you ever do—please accept it as a tribute, the sincerest I can pay, to yourself and to our friendship.

And send me another postcard.

“I’m getting rather tired of what you call your experiments. Tonight wasn’t the first of them by any means. The experiments fail, and then you’re angry with me. I must say, I think that’s very unjust… But what I can’t stand is that you show your resentment by adopting this mock-humble attitude… Actually, you’re the least humble person I’ve ever met.”