The reader will understand that I am not here speaking of my book.
So I just wish to say, in the words of Abraham Blankaart[1] . . .
“Who’s Abraham Blankaart?” asked Louisa Rosemeyer, and Frits told her, to my great delight, for it gave me an opportunity of getting up and, at any rate for that night, making an end of the reading aloud. You know that I am a coffee-broker—Laurier Canal, No. 37—and that I sacrifice everything for my profession. Anyone will therefore realize how little satisfied I am with Stern’s work. I had hoped for coffee, and he gives us . . . ay! heaven knows what.
Already for three evenings of our “party” he had occupied us with his composition, and, worst of all, the Rosemeyers think it beautiful. At least so they say. Whenever I make any remark, he appeals to Louisa. Her approval, he says, weighs more with him than all the coffee in the world, and, moreover, “when my heart glows” . . . etc.—Look up this tirade on page so and so; or rather, don’t look it up.—So then, there I am, not knowing what to do next! That parcel of Shawlman’s is truly a Trojan horse. Frits also is being perverted by it. He has, I notice, helped Stern, for that fellow Abraham Blankaart is far too Dutch for a German. They are both such pedants that I am really getting perplexed about it. The worst thing is that I have made a contract with Ripesucker for the publication of a book that is to deal with the coffee-sales—all Holland is waiting for it—and just imagine how that Stern suddenly goes on a different tack altogether! yesterday he said: “Don’t worry, all roads lead to Rome. Just now wait for the end of the introduction”—is all this still only an introduction?—“I promise you”—he really said: “I forspeak[2] you”—“that finally the thing will resolve itself into coffee, coffee! into
