The Tanners (11 page)

They got to their feet, and when they had walked a little way they met
the three others. Hedwig took her leave of her brothers and Frau Klara.
Sebastian accompanied the girl. When the two had walked some distance away,
Klara quietly asked Kaspar: “Can you trust your sister to the company of this
gentleman?” Kaspar replied: “Would I be allowing this if it weren’t all
right?”

When they got home, they heard a shot ring out in the forest. “He’s
shooting again,” Klara said quietly. “What’s the point of these shots?” Kaspar
asked, and Simon, laughing, interjected the swift reply: “He’s shooting because
things still seem odd to him. There’s still a sort of idea behind it, and when
that ceases to interest him, he’ll soon give it up, you’ll see.” Once more they
heard a shot. Klara furrowed her brow with a sigh, then attempted to suffocate
her apprehension with laughter. But this laughter sounded harsh, and for a
moment both brothers flinched.

“You’re acting strange,” Aggapaia said to his wife, suddenly appearing
at the front door just as they were about to go in. She remained silent as
though she hadn’t heard him. Then all of them went to bed.

This same night Klara, being unable to sleep, wrote a letter to
Hedwig:

My dear girl, sister of my
Kaspar, I must write to you. I cannot sleep, cannot find rest. I am sitting
here half-clothed at my desk, involuntarily thrust to and fro by
dreams. I feel as though I could write letters to all the world, to any
random stranger, any heart; for to me all human hearts tremble with warmth.
Today when you pressed my hand you looked at me for such a long time,
questioningly and with a certain severity, as though you already knew how
things stood with me, that I was in a bad way. Could it be that I appear bad
in your eyes? No, I feel certain you won’t condemn me when you know
everything. You’re the sort of girl one doesn’t wish to keep secrets from,
but the sort one wishes to tell everything, and I do wish to tell you
everything so that you’ll know everything, so that you’ll be able to love
me; for you will love me once you know me, and I so long to be loved by you.
I dream of having all beautiful, intelligent girls gathered around me, as
friends and advisors, but also as my pupils. Kaspar tells me you want to be
a teacher and sacrifice yourself to the education of young children. I too
wish to be a teacher, for women are born educators. You wish to become
something, be something: This suits you well, and corresponds to my image of
you. It also corresponds to this age we live in, and the world, which is a
child of this time. This is lovely of you, and if I had a child, I would
send it to study with you, I would entrust it to you completely so that it
would become accustomed to revering and loving you as a mother. How the
children will look up to you, look to see whether there is severity or
benevolence in your eyes. How they will lament in their small, blossoming
hearts when they see you arrive for class with a worried expression; for
your soul is comprehensible to children. You will not have to spend long
with poorly behaved children; for I imagine that even the most poorly
behaved, poorly brought-up among them will quickly come to feel
ashamed of their misbehavior and will regret having caused you pain. To obey
you, Hedwig, how sweet that must be. I should like to obey you, to become a
child and feel the pleasure of being allowed to be obedient to you. And you
intend to move to a small, quiet village? All the lovelier! Then you will
have village children to teach, and they are even better to educate than
children from the cities. But even in the city you would be successful. You
long for the countryside, the cottages and the little gardens before them,
the human faces one sees there, the river that goes rushing past, the
lonely, enchanting shore of the lake, the plants one searches for and finds
in the silent forest, the animals in the countryside and the entire country
world. You will find all these things; for this is where you belong. One
belongs in the place one longs for. Surely you will one day find there the
answer to the question of what one must do to be happy. You are already
happy now, and I can feel quite well how dearly I would love to possess your
good cheer. When one sees you, one would like to imagine one has known you a
long time and that one even knows what your mother looks like. Other girls
one might find pretty, even beautiful, but just looking at you is enough to
make a person wish to be known and loved by you. There is something
enticing, something almost grandmotherly in your bright young face; perhaps
it’s the country air you have about you. Your mother grew up on a farm? What
a beautiful, dear farmwife she must have been. She suffered a great deal in
the city, Kaspar once told me; I can believe it; for I see her as if she
were standing here before me, this mother of yours. I understand she behaved
haughtily and suffered on this account. Of course; because in the city one
isn’t allowed to display such pride as in the country, where a woman can
easily imagine herself the mistress of all she surveys. I’m hoping to please
you a little by speaking of your mother, whom you tended and cared for when
the poor thing was broken and ill. I’ve seen a picture of your mother too,
and I shall honor and love her if you’ll allow me. If you give your
permission, I’ll do so even more warmly. If only I could see her, could
throw myself at her feet, take her hand and press my lips to it. How much
good this would do me. It would be like a provisional, paltry, incomplete
payment of a debt; for I am her debtor, and yours as well, Hedwig. Your
brother Kaspar was no doubt often unkind and treated you harshly; for young
men must often be hard on those who love them best if they are to clear
themselves a path out into the world. It makes sense to me that artists must
often shake off love as a hindrance. You saw him when he was very young, a
mere schoolboy going to school, you reproached him for his poor conduct,
argued with him, you both pitied and envied him, protected and warned him,
scolded and praised, you shared with him his first, awakening sentiments and
told him it was good to feel things; you withdrew from him when you realized
his aspirations were different from yours; you gave him leave to do as he
pleased, hoping he would prosper and not fall. When he was gone, you longed
for him and ran to throw your arms about his neck on the day of his return,
and at once you went back to taking him under your wing; for he is the sort
of person who seems constantly in need of a wing to rest under, constantly.
Thank you for this. I haven’t breath enough, heart enough, words enough to
thank you. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to. Perhaps you want nothing to
do with me. I am a sinner, but perhaps sinners deserve to be permitted to
learn what a person must do to appear humble. I am humble, not defeated,
certainly not broken, but rather filled with flaming, suppliant, imploring
humility. I wish to make good again with humility what I have done wrong out
of love. If you place any value on having a sister who is happy to be your
sister, I am at your service. Do you know what your brother Simon has given
me? He has given me himself, as a gift, he has thrown himself away on me,
and I should like to throw myself away on you. But, Hedwig, one cannot throw
oneself away on you. After all, this would mean wanting to give you little.
But I am a great deal happier ever since Kaspar embraced me. Now I’m
starting to boast and speak pridefully, let me stop. I’m going to see if I
can fall asleep. The forest is sleeping too, why should people be unable to
sleep. But I know I’ll be able to sleep now.

—While the woman was writing this letter, Simon
and Kaspar were sitting beside the lamp they’d lit. They had no desire to go
to
bed yet and were still conversing. Kaspar said: “For the past few days I’ve
painted nothing at all, and if things go on like this, I’m going to give up on
art and become a farmer. Why not? Must it be art or nothing? Isn’t it possible
to live in other ways as well? Perhaps it’s only a habit that makes us think
we
must devote ourselves to art at all costs. Why not set it aside and return to
it
ten years from now! That would make us look at everything differently, much more
simply, much less fantastically, and this couldn’t hurt. All that’s needed is
the courage and the trust. Life is short when you’re distrustful, but long when
you’re capable of trust. What would we be losing? I feel myself becoming more
and more sluggish from day to day. Should I be pulling myself together and
forcing myself like some schoolboy to do my duty? Do I have duties to perform
with regard to art? One can turn the question this way and that, twisting it
about however one pleases. Painting pictures! How utterly stultifying this now
appears to me, how utterly meaningless. You’ve got to be able to let yourself
go. Whether I paint one hundred landscapes or just two of them, what difference
does it make? A person who paints constantly can still remain a bungler because
he’d never think to imbue his pictures with even a trace of his experiences,
for
he’s experienced nothing all the days of his life. When I have more experiences
under my belt, I’ll use my brush more wisely, more introspectively, and I
believe this will make a great difference. What does the quantity matter. But
nonetheless: Somewhere inside me a feeling is telling me it isn’t good to get
out of practice for even a single day. It’s just laziness talking, accursed
laziness!—”

He said no more, for a long horrifying scream pierced the walls
at just this moment. Simon seized the lamp and both of them hurled
themselves down the stairs to the room where they knew she slept. It was
Klara who had screamed. Agappaia had come running as well, and they found
the woman lying stretched out upon the floor. It appeared she’d been about
to undress for bed when she’d been overcome by a violent seizure and had
fallen to the ground. Her hair had come loose, and her magnificent arms were
twitching feverishly where they lay. As her chest rose and fell
spasmodically, a confused smile flew about her lips, which were open wide.
All three men knelt down beside her, holding her arms still until the
twitching gradually subsided. It seemed she hadn’t hurt herself in the fall,
as she easily might have. They picked up the unconscious woman and laid her,
half clothed as she was, upon her bed, which was neatly turned down. She
grew calmer when her corset was opened. She gave a sigh of relief and now
appeared to be sleeping. And she smiled more and more beautifully, delirious
now, speaking in whispered notes that sounded like bells ringing far off in
the distance, acute and yet scarcely perceptible. They listened
breathlessly, discussing whether or not there was any point to bringing a
doctor from the city. “Wait a while,” Agappaia said calmly to Simon, who had
wanted to set out for the doctor right away, “it will pass. This isn’t the
first time.” They continued to sit there listening, exchanging meaningful
glances. From Klara’s mouth came not much that was comprehensible, just
brief, fragmentary sentences, half sung and half spoken: “In the water, no,
just look, deep, deep. It took a long time, long, so long. And you do not
weep. If you knew, it’s so black and so muddy all around me. But look. A
violet is growing from my mouth. It’s singing. Do you hear? Can you hear it?
You might think I’d drowned. How lovely, so very lovely. Isn’t there a ditty
about it? That Klara! Where is she now? Go looking for her, go look. But
you’ll have to go into the water. That’ll make your skin crawl, won’t it? My
skin no longer crawls. A violet. I can see the fish swimming. I am perfectly
still, I no longer do anything at all. Be sweet, be kind. You look
displeased. That’s where Klara is lying, right there. Do you see her, do
you? I’d wanted to say something else to you, but I am content. What did I
want to say? Can’t remember. Can you hear me ringing? It’s my violet
ringing. A little bell. I always knew. But don’t say so. I can’t hear
anything any more. Please, please—”

“Go on, go to bed. If it gets worse, I’ll come wake you,” Agappaia
said.

It didn’t get worse. The next morning Klara was in good spirits and
had no memory of what had occurred. She had a touch of headache, that’s all.

Klara felt divine. Dressed in a dark-blue morning coat that
flowed loosely about her body in opulent folds, she sat upon the balcony, which
provided a view of fir trees whose tips bobbed gently to and fro in the light
morning breeze. How glorious the forest is, she thought, leaning out toward it
over the delicately worked railing to have its fragrance closer. “How it lies
there, the forest, as though already slumbering its way closer to night. When
you walk into a forest during the daytime, in broad sunlight, it’s as if you’re
walking into an evening where the sounds are piercing and fainter, the scents
moist and more tender, where a person can rest and pray. In the forest you pray
involuntarily, and it’s also the only place in the world where God is near; God
seems to have created forests so we can pray in them as if in sacred temples;
one person prays in one way, another in another, but everyone prays. When you
lie beneath a fir tree reading a book, you are praying, if praying is the same
as being lost in thought. Let God be where He will, in the forest you can sense
Him, and you offer up your little bit of belief with silent rapture. God doesn’t
want us to believe in Him so terribly much, He wants us to forget Him, it even
makes Him happy to be scorned, for He is benevolent and great beyond all
measure; God is the most pliant thing in the universe. He insists on nothing,
wants nothing, requires nothing. Wanting things might be something for us
humans, but not for Him. Nothing is for Him. He is happy when people pray to
Him. Oh, this God is enraptured and cannot contain His bliss when I go and thank
Him, thank Him only just a little. Even if my thanks are superficial, God is
so
grateful. I’d like to know who could be more grateful than He. He has given us
everything, He’s so incautious and kind, and the way things are with Him, He
cannot help being happy when the beings He’s created think of him a little. This
is the unique thing about our God, that He wants to be God only when it pleases
us to elevate Him as our God. Who teaches humility better than He does? Who is
more prescient and still? Perhaps God merely has inklings of us, as we do of
Him, and all I’m doing, just now for instance, is giving voice to my own
inklings. Does He also sense that I’m sitting here on the balcony, admiring His
splendid forest? If only He knew how beautiful His forest is. But I think God
has forgotten His Creation, not out of bitterness—how could He be capable of
bitterness—no, He’s simply forgotten, or at
least it looks as if He’s
forgotten us. You can feel many different things about God—He permits all
sorts of thoughts. But when you think of Him, you can easily lose Him:
that’s why we pray. Great God, lead us not into temptation: That’s how I
prayed as a child, lying in my little bed, and I always felt pleased with
myself when I prayed. How happy I feel today, how glad; my entire being is a
smile, a blissful smile. My whole heart is smiling, the air is so fresh, I
think it must be Sunday, people will come from the city to go walking in the
forest, and I shall pick out some child, ask the parents to entrust it to me
for a little while and then we’ll play. How I can just sit here like this,
feeling joy at my very existence, at my sitting here and leaning over the
railing! How beautiful I find myself—I could almost forget Kaspar, forget
everything. How could I possibly ever have cried over anything, felt
perturbed over anything? How imperturbable the forest is, and yet also so
flexible, warm, alive and sweet. What a respiration comes from the fir
trees, what rustling! The rustling of the trees makes all music superfluous.
Indeed, I like to hear music only at night, never in the morning, the
morning is too sacred. How strangely refreshed I feel. How mysterious it is
to lie down to sleep, no, first to be tired and then lie down, and then wake
up again and feel newborn. Every day is our birthday. It’s like getting into
the bath when one climbs out of the veils of nighttime into the waves of the
blue day. Now the blaze of noon will soon come, until the sun longingly
sinks down again. What longing, what a miracle from eve to morn, from noon
to eve, from night to morn again. We’d find everything miraculous if we were
sensible of it all, for how could one thing be miraculous and another not? I
think I must have been ill yesterday and no one’s telling me. How beautiful
and innocent my hands look still. If they had eyes, I’d hold up a mirror to
show them how beautiful they are. How fortunate any man is whom I caress
with my hands. What peculiar thoughts I’m having. If Kaspar were to come
now, I’d have to weep at letting him see me like this. I haven’t been
thinking about him, and he’d sense I hadn’t given him a thought. All at once
I feel so wretched—the thought that I’ve neglected him. But am I his slave?
What is he to me?”