The Tanners (12 page)

She began to cry. Then Kaspar came up to her: “What’s the matter,
Klara?”

“Nothing! What could be the matter? After all, here you are. I missed
you. I’m happy, but I can’t stand being happy all alone, without you. That’s
why
I was crying. Come here, come,” and she pressed him to her, hard.

–6–

Simon was beginning to find his torpid, wastrel’s life unbearable. He
felt he’d soon have to return to the world of work and day-labor:
“After all, there’s something appealing about living like most people. It’s
starting to annoy me to be so idle, such an oddity. Food has stopped tasting
good to me, going for walks just makes me tired, and what’s so uplifting and
grand about letting yourself be stung all over by wasps and gadflies on hot
country roads, striding through villages, jumping down steep walls, perching
atop erratic blocks, propping your head in your hands, starting to read a book
and being unable to finish it, then taking a dip in a lake that is lovely but
remote, getting dressed again and setting off for home and then at home finding
Kaspar so lethargic he no longer knows what leg to stand on or what nose to
think with or what finger to lay beside which of his noses. With such a
lifestyle, it’s easy to acquire a large number of noses and the desire to spend
all day long laying all ten fingers beside all ten noses to reflect. Meanwhile
all your noses are laughing and thumbing their noses at you. Well, and what’s
so
divine about watching your ten or more noses thumb their noses at you? By this
I
mean only to illustrate the fact that all this lying-about makes you a
dunce. No, I’m starting to feel something like pricks of conscience and believe
that merely feeling such pricks is not enough: I must undertake something.
Running about in the sunshine cannot, in the long term, be viewed as an
activity, and only a simpleton sits around reading books, for a simpleton is
what you are if all you ever do is read. Labor in the company of others is, in
the end, the single thing that educates us. So what should I do? Write some
poems perhaps? To wish to try something of the sort on such a hot summer day,
I’d have to be named Sebastian, and then maybe I would want to. That’s what he’s
doing, I’m convinced of it. Sebastian’s the kind of person who first goes on
an
outing—studying lakes, forests, mountains, streams, puddles and sunshine,
possibly taking some notes—and then goes home and writes an essay about his
outing that gets printed in newspapers of world-historical
significance. Perhaps this sort of thing could be suitable for me? Probably,
if
I could manage it, but I’m such a dilettante. I’d best go back to scraping out
letters, erasing calculations, squandering ink—yes, that’s what I must do,
though there isn’t much honor in starting all over from scratch in a field I
quit. But it must be done. In such a case it doesn’t do to think of honor but
of
what is necessary and irremediable. I’m twenty years old now. How could it be
that I am twenty already? How discouraged some other person might be—twenty
years old and having to start again from scratch, from where you stood just
leaving school. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll display as much good humor
as possible, and in any case, I have no wish to get ahead in life, I just want
to live in a way that counts for something. Nothing more. And really, all I want
is to make it till winter comes again, and then, when it’s snowing and
wintertime, I’ll know how to go on, it’ll come to me how I should best go on
living. It gives me great pleasure, dividing my life into small, simple, easily
solvable equations like this—sums there’s no need to rack my brains over, they
solve themselves. During the winter, by the way, I’m always more clever and
enterprising than in the summer. With all that warmth, all that blossoming and
fragrance, there’s no getting anything done, but cold and frost spur you on.
So
before winter comes, let me put myself in funds, and then enjoy the lovely
wintertime spending the money sensibly. I wouldn’t insist on studying languages
all winter long for days on end in unheated rooms until my fingers froze off,
but all the same summer is for the sort of people who are given vacations, the
ones who spend time at summer resorts and find enjoyment in leaping barefoot
if
not naked though warm meadows, sometimes with a leather apron bound about their
loins like John the Baptist, who incidentally is said to have eaten
grasshoppers. So now upon the bed of daily toil let me lie down to sleep and
not
wake up again until snow is flying across the earth and the mountains turn white
and howling northern storms come up to freeze your ears and melt them in the
flames of frost and ice. The cold is like a blaze to me,
awe-inspiring, beyond description! So it shall be or my name is not
Simon. In the winter, Klara will be wrapped up in thick soft furs, and I shall
accompany her in the streets and it will snow upon us, so quietly, secretly,
soundless and warm. Oh, when it is snowing in the black streets, going out to
do
the shopping, and the shops all lit up with lamps. To walk into a shop beside
Klara or a few steps behind her person and say: My lady wishes to purchase this
or that. Klara, fragrant in her furs, and her face—how beautiful it will be when
we then go back out into the street. Perhaps when it is winter she’ll be working
in some elegant establishment, just like me, and I will be able to come collect
her every night—unless she should one day instruct me not to collect her.
Perhaps Agappaia will send his wife packing, and then she will be forced to take
up some employment or other, which will be easy for her, given what an imposing
person she is. That’s as far ahead as I wish to think. Thinking further than
that is something done perhaps by Herr Spielhagen of the Corporation for
Electrical Illumination but not by me, for, occupying no such position, I don’t
accrue so many obligations in this world that I am compelled to think any
further ahead. Ah, wintertime! If only it would come soon—”

The very next day found him working at a large
machine-producing factory that employed a number of young people to
take inventory. He spent his evenings reading by the window, or else
supplemented his trip home from the factory to Klara’s house with a lengthy
detour around the entire mountain, passing through the dark verdant forested
ravines that cut into the broad mountain. He would always stop at a spring he
passed to quench his prodigious thirst, then would lie down in a secluded forest
meadow until night arrived, reminding him to go home. He loved watching the
summer evening give way to summer night, this slow rosy subsiding of the
forest’s hues into the blackness of deep night. He was in the habit then of
dreaming without words or thought, setting aside all self-reproach and
surrendering to a delicious exhaustion. Often it seemed to him that a large
fiery-red ball went whistling up into the air from the dark bushes
beside him, from the sleeping earth, and when he looked, it was the moon dancing
up into the sky, floating ponderously against its backdrop, the universe. How
his eye then clung to the pale weightless shape of this loveliest of heavenly
bodies. That this far-distant world appeared to be tucked away just
behind the bushes seemed so strange to him, close enough to be fingered and
grasped. Everything appeared to him near at hand. What was the concept of
distance in the face of such withdrawal and drawing near. The infinite suddenly
appeared to him infinitely close. When he returned, passing amid all the heavy,
singing, fragrant nocturnal verdure, Simon perceived it as a mysterious, dear
gesture when Klara walked to meet him, as she did every evening, and welcomed
him home. Her eyes always appeared to have been weeping when she walked toward
him like this or waited. Then the two of them would sit together until deep into
the night on the small balcony, which had been transformed into a little
mid-air summer-house, playing a game with tiny cards, or
else she would sing some melody or have him tell her a story. When at last she
bid him goodnight, he would sleep so soundly it might have been a magic spell,
this “good night” of hers, giving her the power to shackle him to an
exceptionally beautiful, deep slumber. In the morning, silver dew would glitter
in the bushes, on the blades of grass and leaves as he walked to his place of
employment to get to work writing and helping with the inventory. One Sunday
he
returned from a walk to find Klara sleeping on the divan in his bedroom. From
outdoors the sound of an accordion could be heard coming from one of the squalid
huts built into the foothills, where poor workers lived, at the edge of town.
The shutters had been drawn and the room held a hot green light. He sat down
at
the foot of the divan beside the sleeper, and she touched him lightly with her
feet. Overjoyed at the sensation of her feet pressing against him, he gazed
intently at the face of the slumbering woman. How beautiful she was when she
slept. She was one of those women who are most beautiful when their faces are
immobile, at rest. Klara was breathing in peaceful waves; her chest,
half-exposed, rose and sank gently; a book had fallen from the hands
now dangling at her side. The idea arose in Simon that he might kneel beside
her
and quietly kiss these lovely hands, but he refrained. He might have done so
had
she been lying there awake, but sleeping? No. Secret, surreptitious, furtive
expressions of tenderness are not for me, he thought. Her mouth was smiling,
as
though she were just casually sleeping, fully aware she was asleep. This smile
upon the sleeper’s lips barred all uninnocent thoughts, but it forced one to
gaze at this mouth, this face, this hair and these elongated cheeks. Still
sleeping, Klara suddenly pressed her feet more urgently against Simon, then she
woke up and looked about her questioningly, and for a long time remained looking
into Simon’s eyes as though there were something she failed to grasp. Then she
said: “Simon! I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“We aren’t going to live in this house much longer. Agappaia has
gambled and lost everything. He’s fallen into the hands of swindlers. The house
has already been sold, it’s been bought by your Ladies’ Association for the
Public Good and Moderation. The ladies are going to create a woodland health
spa
for the working class. Agappaia has thrown in his lot with a group of Asian
explorers and will be traveling far away with them soon to discover a sunken
Greek city somewhere in India. I no longer figure in his plans. How strange,
this doesn’t even distress me. My husband was never capable of causing me
distress. Enough! I shall keep house in a simple room down in the city, and
Kaspar and you will visit me. I shall take a job, some employment or other, just
like you. We’re moving out this autumn, and the house is to be renovated
straight away. What do you say to all this?”

“The news is very much to my liking. I’d already been thinking it was
time for a ‘change.’ Now the change has come of its own accord. I look forward
to visiting you in your new home.”

And the two of them laughed as they imagined the future.

Kaspar was living in a small rural town, where he’d been
com
missioned to decorate a ballroom, that is, to paint its walls from
top to bottom. Autumn had meanwhile arrived, and one day
Simon—this
was on a Saturday—set out after work with the intention of walking all night
to
cover the distance separating him from Kaspar. Why shouldn’t he be able to keep
going all night long? He’d taken a map and with a compass carefully measured
out
the hours he would require to reach this town, and indeed it seemed he would
be
able to get there in exactly one night if he used his time well. His journey
first led him through the suburban district where Rosa lived, his old friend,
and he did not fail to pay her a brief visit on his way. She was delighted to
see him again after such a long time, but called him wicked and disloyal for
having abandoned her like that, saying these things more in a pouting than an
aggrieved tone of voice, and she would not be dissuaded from giving Simon a
glass of red wine to drink, saying it would strengthen him for his nocturnal
journey. She also quickly fried a sausage for him on her gas stove, and as she
cooked teased the one who stood there with words that, while not unkind, were
nonetheless pointed; she said he must be well provided with women, and
laughingly drew his attention to the fact that he didn’t really deserve this
sausage but should have it all the same if he would visit her more diligently
in
future. Eating his sausage, Simon promised he would, and soon thereafter set
out
upon his journey, feeling a bit apprehensive at the labors that lay before him.
But he really had no desire to turn back now like a coward and take the train
instead. So he kept on walking, stopping often to ask for directions to avoid
making a false turn. When he reached a signpost where two paths diverged, he
would light a match and hold it up at the necessary height to see in which
direction a path continued. He walked with frenzied speed, as if the path might
slip from beneath his feet and run away. Rosa’s red wine was burning in his
veins, and he only wished the mountains would come soon, feeling with what
pleasure and ease he would conquer them, and so he arrived in the first village
but had some difficulty finding his way among all the different roads, which
crisscrossed in all possible directions. Calling out to a blacksmith who was
still hammering away, however, he learned that he was on the right road, and
next came a landscape that was all blurry, consisting of nothing but bushes;
the
path was leading uphill; and then came a sort of plateau that was somehow
frightening. It was pitch black, not a star in the entire sky; now and then the
moon came out, but the clouds would conceal its light again. Walking next
through a dark fir forest, Simon began to gasp for breath and paid more
attention to where he set his feet; for he kept tripping over stones in the
path, and this he found rather irksome. The fir forest came to an end, and Simon
breathed more freely—walking in dark woods all alone like that is not without
its dangers. A large farmhouse suddenly stood before him as if it had sprung
up
from beneath the earth, blocking his view, and a large dog came shooting out
and
lunged at the walker but didn’t attack. Simon calmly and quietly stopped in his
tracks, staring at the dog, and so the dog didn’t dare bite him. Onward! Bridges
came that rang out thunderously beneath his rapid steps, for they were made of
wood, old wooden bridges with roofs and pictures of saints at either end. Simon
began to walk with mincing steps to entertain himself. As he passed through the
open but gloomy fields, a heavy-set man suddenly stood before him,
shouting and glaring at him ferociously. Simon shouted in turn, “What do you
want?” but then dodged around the man and ran off without waiting to hear what
the man wanted. His heart was pounding—it was the suddenness of his appearance,
not the man himself, that was so startling. Then he marched through a sleeping,
endlessly long village. A long white monastery building looked at Simon
expectantly and then vanished behind him. Once more, the path led uphill. Simon
ceased to think about anything at all, the growing exertion lamed his thoughts;
silent walls gave way to isolated groups of trees, forests to clouds, stones
to
springs: Everything seemed to be walking alongside and then sinking down behind
him. The night was damp, dismal and cold, but his cheeks burned, and his hair
was wet with perspiration. All at once he glimpsed something lying stretched
out
at his feet, something broad, shimmering and glinting—a lake; Simon stopped
short. From then on he was walking downhill on an appallingly
poorly-maintained path. For the first time his feet ached, but he paid
no attention and kept on going. He heard apples falling with soft thuds in the
meadow. How mysteriously beautiful the meadows were: unfathomable and dark. The
village that next followed awoke his interest thanks to the elegant buildings
it
had to show for itself. But now Simon no longer knew which direction to take.
Search as he might, he couldn’t find the right path. This infuriated him, so
he
chose the main road without giving it much thought. He must have walked nearly
an hour before a distinct feeling told him he had picked the wrong direction,
and he turned around again, practically weeping with rage and slamming his shoes
against the road as though his feet were at fault. He came back to the village:
Two hours wasted—what ignominy! This time he quickly found the right road, since
he was looking more carefully, and trotted away, beneath trees that were
relinquishing their foliage, on a narrow side road completely covered with
rustling leaves. He reached a forest, a mountain forest ascending precipitously
before him, and since Simon could no longer see any path, he simply kept walking
straight ahead, finding his way though thick fir branches as he climbed higher
and higher, scratching his face and scraping his hands, but at least he was
still ascending, until at last the forest he had been wrestling his way through
with groans and curses came to an end, and an open pasture lay before his eyes.
He rested for a moment: “Good Lord, if I arrive too late, how embarrassing!”
Onward! He was no longer walking so much as leaping along, heedlessly thrusting
his feet into the soft earth of the fields. A pale shy morning light grazed his
eyes from somewhere or other. He leapt over hedges that seemed to be mocking
him. He was no longer even looking for a path. A proper broad road—this remained
suspended in his fantasy as an exquisite treasure for which he longed with all
his heart. Again he was walking downhill, through narrow small ravines with
houses stuck to their slopes like little toys. He smelled the nut trees beneath
which he was walking; down in the valley there appeared to be something like
a
town, but this was just an eagerly grasped-at hunch. Finally he found
the road. His legs themselves appeared jubilant at the find, and he walked more
calmly now until he found a fountain and threw himself like a madman on its
water pipe. Down below he reached a small town, passing a
gleaming-white, diminutive, apparently ecclesiastical palace whose
ruinous state moved him deeply, and once more the road led him out into the open
countryside. Here the first gray glimpses of daylight appeared. The night seemed
to be growing pale; the long silent night showed signs of motion. Simon was now
thrusting the road aside in his haste. How comfortable such a smooth road seemed
to him, leading now uphill in wide meanderings, then guiding him down again in
a
splendid straightaway. Banks of mist sank down upon meadows and certain day
sounds began to reach his ear. How long a night was. During this night he’d
spent walking upon the earth, perhaps a scholar had sat up at his desk by
lamplight—perhaps even his brother Klaus, spending just as sour and laborious
a
wakeful night. Surely the awakening day must appear just as wondrous to a
sedentary figure as it did to him, the walker of country roads. Already the
first early-morning lamps were being lit in the small houses. A
second, larger town appeared, at first its outskirts, then alleyways, then large
gates and a wide main street where Simon noticed a splendid edifice with
sandstone statues. This was an old city castle now serving as a post office.
Already out walking on the street there were people of whom he could ask his
way, just as the evening before. And again he marched out into the flat, open
countryside. The mist was dissipating, colors appeared, enchanted colors,
enchanting colors—morning colors! It seemed it was going to be a splendid, blue
autumn Sunday. Now Simon encountered people, women above all, in their Sunday
best, women who had perhaps already walked a long way in order to go to church
in town. The day was becoming ever more colorful. Now you could see the red,
glowing fruit lying in the meadows beside the road, and ripe fruit was
constantly falling from the trees. It was real orchard country Simon was walking
through. He passed journeymen ambling along at their leisure; they didn’t see
walking as such a serious matter. An entire company of these lads lay stretched
out on the edge of a meadow in the sun’s first rays: the very image of ease!
A
cow was led down the road, and the women said “good morning” so prettily. Simon
ate apples as he walked; he too was now strolling peacefully through the
unfamiliar, beautiful, opulent land. The houses beside the road were so
inviting, but even more beautiful and dainty were the houses situated deeper
in
the landscape, surrounded by trees, in the midst of all that green. The hills
rose gracefully, softly into the air, the sky above was beckoning, everything
was blue, shot through with a magnificent, fiery blue, groups of people were
riding about on carts, and finally Simon beheld a tiny little house beside the
road, with a town beyond it, and his brother was just sticking his head out the
window. He had arrived punctually, barely a quarter of an hour later than the
two had agreed. Joyfully he went into the house.