The Tanners (27 page)

Sometimes elegantly dressed people with dainty manners came to the
Copyists Office to ask for work. To them the administrator was in the habit of
saying: “It’s my impression that you’d be better suited to the hustle and bustle
of worldly life than to the Copyists Office. Here a person must sit still all
day long, bent over and diligently working if he wants to earn his pittance.
I’m
speaking to you openly in this way because I have a feeling this work would not
in fact suit you. Nor do you appear to be suffering doleful, needy poverty. I,
however, am charged with giving employment first and foremost to the poor, that
is, to those whose clothes might well be hanging off them in tatters as proof
of
their squalor. You, on the other hand, look far too grand, it would be a sin
to
employ you here. My advice to you is to mingle with other elegant people. It
seems you’ve failed to recognize the gloom of the Copyists Office if you come
here wearing such a cheerful expression to ask for work, as though you were
going to a ball. Here it is customary to make clumsy defiant bows, or, most
commonly, none at all, but you bowed to me a moment ago like a perfect man of
the world. That’s no good, I have no use for you, I have neither employment that
might satisfy you nor a world in which you might fit. You will have no
difficulty finding a position as a shop or hotel clerk, should you have other
intentions than just seeking adventure in this city, as I am inclined to
suspect. Here a young man will experience only discouragement, but no other
sorts of adventure. A person who comes here knows why he has come. You appear
most assuredly not to have known this. Your entire person is an affront to my
workers, you’ll have to admit this if you cast so much as a single look about
the room. Just look at me: I too have seen the world, I know every metropolis,
and I too would not be sitting here if I were not compelled to do so. A person
who comes here has already experienced misfortune and all manner of adversity.
Those who come here are the good-for-nothings, beggars,
rogues and shipwrecks: in a word, the unfortunate. Now I ask you: Are you such
a
one? No, and therefore I now ask that you depart at once from this
establishment, which contains no air that you would be capable of breathing for
long. I know the creatures who belong here! Know them better perhaps than suits
me! And now farewell!”

And with a wave of his hand he would smilingly dismiss those people
who had no business in the Copyists Office. The administrator possessed poise
and education, and he enjoyed showing them off on occasion before such
happenstance and maladroit visitors who came more out of curiosity than
need.

Beside the Copyists Office flowed a quiet, green, deep and old canal,
a former fortress moat and the connecting link between the lake and the flowing
river which in this way was given lake water to take along with it on its
journey to distant seas. In general this was the quietest part of town; there
was something secluded and village-like about it. When the ones who
were sent away now tramped back down the stairs, they liked to sit for a while
upon the railing at the edge of this canal, which then looked as if a row of
large, strange, foreign birds were perched there. There was something
philosophical about this, and indeed, many a one gazed down into the green dead
water world and pondered the unrelentingness of fate just as fruitlessly as a
philosopher is wont to do sitting in his study. The canal had something about
it
that invited one to dream and reflect, and the unemployed had ample time for
this.

At the same time, the Copyists Office was a job market for the
mercantile trade. A gentleman or lady, for example, might walk into the Office,
go into the administrator’s office and ask to have a man, that is, a temporary
worker for his or her place of business. Then the administrator would appear
in
the doorframe, looking over his charges, and after considering for a while would
call one man by name: The person in question had then found work for a short
while, perhaps eight, one, two or fourteen days. It was always an
envy-arousing event when someone was called by name, for everyone was
eager to work on the outside, since the pay was then higher and the work more
interesting. Besides which, such a man who found work with kindhearted employers
would be given a nice snack mornings and evenings, which was by no means to be
despised. And so there was always a certain competition for such positions and
an ogling of the one selected. Many believed they were always unjustly
overlooked, while others, on the other hand, thought it advantageous to court
and flatter the administrator and his under-official to attain what
they so yearned for. It was approximately like a pack of trained dogs leaping
up
to snatch at a sausage that was constantly being jerked out of reach on a
string, each dog firmly convinced that the others had no business going after
the sausage, though without, of course, being able to substantiate that belief.
Here too one man would growl at another who’d succeeded in snatching the prize,
much as in the greater spheres of trade, scholarship, art and diplomacy, where
things aren’t done so very differently, just with more cunning, arrogance and
culture.

Simon also worked a few times on the outside—as abbreviated in the
copyists’ patois—but he didn’t have much luck at it. Once he was sent to the
devil by his boss, a shifty, rather brutal real estate and property agent who
nearly fancied himself God almighty, because he’d been reading the newspaper
when he should have been writing; and another time he hurled his pen right in
the face of his employer, a wholesale fruit and vegetable merchant, with the
words: “Do it yourself!” The fruitseller’s wife had insisted on bossing Simon
around; so he simply broke things off; for, as he saw it, this female was merely
trying to hurt and humiliate him, which in the end he didn’t see any reason to
put up with; at least that’s how he felt about it.

–17–

Several weeks of marvelous summer passed in this way. Simon had never
before experienced so marvelous a summer as this year, when he was spending so
much of his life on the street looking for work. Nothing came of his efforts,
but at least it was beautiful. When he walked in the evening through the modern,
leaf-trembling, shadowy, light-flickering streets, he was
always unceremoniously approaching people and saying something foolish, just
to
see how it would feel. But all the people just looked at him in
bewilderment—they didn’t say anything. Why wouldn’t they speak to the one
walking and standing there, why didn’t they ask him, their voices low, to come
with them, go into a strange house and there engage in some activity only people
of leisure indulge in, people who, like himself, have no other life purpose than
watching the day pass by and evening arrive, in full expectation that evening
will bring miracles and fantastical deeds? “I’d be prepared to undertake any
deed, provided it was bold and required some derring-do,” he said to
himself. For hours he sat upon a bench listening to the music that came
murmuring from some regal hotel garden, as if the night had been transformed
into soft notes. Nocturnal womenfolk passed by the solitary watcher, but they
only needed to take a good look to know how things stood with the young man’s
wallet. “If only I knew a single person whom I could touch for a bit of money,”
he thought. “My brother Klaus? That wouldn’t be honorable; I’d get the money,
but accompanied with a faint, sad reproach. There are people one can’t go
begging to because their thoughts are too pure. If only I knew someone whose
respect weren’t so important to me. No, I can’t think of anyone. I care about
everybody’s respect. I’ll have to wait. You don’t actually need so much in
summer, but winter’s on its way! I’m a bit scared of winter. I have no doubt
that things will go badly with me this coming winter. Well, then I’ll go running
about in the snow, even if I’m barefoot. What harm can come of it. I’ll keep
going until my feet are on fire. In summer, it’s so lovely to rest, to lie upon
a bench beneath the trees. All of summer is like a warm fragrant room. Winter
is
a thrusting open of windows, the winds and storms come howling and blustering
in
and that makes you have to move about. I’ll soon give up my laziness then. It’ll
be fine with me, come what may! How long the summer seems to me. It’s only been
a few weeks I’ve been living in summer, and it already seems so long. I think
time must be sleeping and stretching out as it sleeps if you’re always having
to
think what to do next, just to get through the day on your few coins. Besides
which, I believe that time spends the summer sleeping and dreaming. The leaves
on the tall trees are growing ever larger, at night they whisper, and in the
daytime they doze in the warm sunshine. I, for example, what do I do? When I
have no work, I spend entire days lying in bed with the shutters closed, in my
room, reading by candlelight. Candles have such a delightful smell, and when
you
blow them out, a fine, moist smoke floats through the dark room, and then a
person feels so peaceful, so new, as if resurrected. How will I manage to pay
my
rent? Tomorrow it’s due. Nights are so long in the summer because you stroll
and
slumber all day long, and the moment night falls, you awaken from all sorts of
confused buzzings and stirrings and begin to live. Now it would seem to me
almost sinful to sleep through even a single summer night. Besides, it’s too
humid to sleep. In summertime your hands are moist and pale as if they sense
the
preciousness of the fragrant world, and in winter they’re red and swollen as
if
angry about the cold. Yes, that’s how it is. Winter makes you go stamping around
in a rage, whereas in summer you wouldn’t be able to find any cause for anger,
except perhaps the circumstance that you’re incapable of paying your rent. But
this has nothing to do with the beautiful summer. And I’m not angry anymore
either, I think I’ve lost the talent for flying into a rage. It’s nighttime now,
and anger is such a daylight phenomenon, as red and fiery as a thing can be.
Tomorrow I’ll have a talk with my landlady—”

The next morning he inserted his head into the door of the room where
his landlady lived and asked with intentionally precise intonation whether he
might have a word with her, should she have the time.

“Of course! What is it?”

Simon said: “I can’t pay you this month’s rent. I won’t even try to
explain how embarrassing this is to me. Anyone can say that in such a case. On
the other hand, I assume it goes without saying that you consider me capable
of
striving to find a way and means to acquire a substantial sum of money such that
I can eradicate my debt as quickly as possible. I know people who’d give me
money if I so desired, but my pride forbids me to borrow money from people whom
I prefer to have beholden to me. From a woman, to be sure, I’d accept a loan,
in
fact I’d do so willingly, for I have quite different sentiments regarding women,
sentiments that must be judged by a different sort of honor. Would you, Frau
Weiss, be willing to advance me the money, first of all the money to cover the
rent, and then a small additional sum to cover my living
expenses
?
—Is it now your impression that my behavior is outrageous?
You shake your head. I believe you have some trust in me. You can see how I’m
blushing at my own shameless request, you see me standing here not without
embarrassment at this moment. But I’m in the habit of seizing resolves rather
quickly and carrying them out promptly, even if this impulsiveness should take
my own breath away. I’m happy to accept a loan from a woman because I’m
incapable of deceit where women are concerned. With men I can lie when
circumstances require, lie mercilessly, take my word for it. But with women
never. Do you really wish to loan me so much? I could live on that for half a
month. By then, many things will improve in my current situation. And I haven’t
even thanked you yet. You see, that’s the sort I am. Only rarely in my life have
I expressed feelings of gratitude to another person. Where gratitude is
concerned, I’m a bungler. Well, I should also say, to be sure, that I’ve always,
whenever possible, disdained acts of benevolence. A benevolent act! I truly feel
at this moment what benevolence is. I really shouldn’t be accepting this
money.”

“Just listen to you!”

“Well, I’ll take it then. But don’t fret about not having it returned.
I’m temporarily overjoyed about this money. Money is something only a dunce
could despise.”

“Are you leaving already?”

Simon had already gone back out the door and returned to his
room. He found it uncomfortable, or at least acted as if he found it
uncomfortable, to go on speaking about this matter. Besides, he’d
accomplished what he’d set out to do, and he wasn’t fond of giving long
apologies or making promises when he’d asked someone for a favor and had it
granted. If he himself were one day to be the giver, he wouldn’t demand
excuses or assurances; it wouldn’t occur to him to do so. You should either
have trust and sympathy and therefore give, or else just turn your back
coldly on the petitioner because you find him distasteful. “She found me not
at all distasteful, in fact I noticed that she gave me the money with a sort
of eager joy. It’s all a matter of bearing when you wish to achieve an aim.
It gives this woman pleasure to make me beholden to her, probably because in
her eyes I’m a tolerable person. No one likes to give anything to
disagreeable persons because you don’t want to have them beholden to you;
after all, an obligation like the repayment of a debt brings people
together, it rubs shoulders, binds, shares confidences and closeness,
remaining always at one’s side. How utterly unenviable it is to have
distasteful debtors—such people sit practically astride their creditors’
necks, it makes you want to forgive their debts just to be rid of them. It’s
delightful when someone thoughtlessly, swiftly gives you something; what
better attestation could there be to the fact that you still have people
around who find you agreeable—”

Popping the money he’d received into his vest pocket, he walked over
to the window and beheld, down below in the narrow alleyway, a woman dressed
all
in black who seemed to be looking for something, for she kept tilting her head
to look up, and in one such moment her eyes met those of Simon. These were
large, dark eyes, true female eyes, and Simon involuntarily thought of Klara,
whom he hadn’t seen in such a long time now; indeed he’d almost forgotten her.
But it wasn’t Klara. This beautiful creature in the deep alley with her elegant,
opulent dress offered a strange contrast to the dismal filthy walls between
which she was slowly walking. Simon would have liked to call out to her: “Is
it
you, Klara?” But already the figure was vanishing around a corner, and nothing
of her remained in the alleyway except the faint scent of melancholy that beauty
always leaves behind in dismal places. “How beautiful it would have been, and
how fitting, just at the moment when she looked up, to have thrown her a large
dark red rose that she would have bent down to pick up. She would have smiled
at
this, astonished to be met by such a friendly greeting in so squalid an
alleyway. A rose would have suited her well, as a pleading, crying child suits
its mother. But how would a person who’s just had to avail himself of others’
generosity come to be in possession of expensive roses, and how could it be
foreseen that at precisely nine in the morning a beautiful female figure would
pass through this alleyway—which is the darkest of all alleys—a woman who
appears to be the most elegant creature I’ve ever set eyes on?”

He went on for quite some time daydreaming about this woman who’d
reminded him so strangely of his forgotten, vanished Klara, then he left the
room, raced down the stairs and
through the streets, spent his day doing
nothing, and then
toward evening found himself in one of the outlying
districts of this sprawling city. Here workers lived in relatively attractive
tall apartment buildings; but when you looked at these buildings more closely,
you were struck by a certain austere squalor creeping up the walls, peering out
of the monotonous cold rectangles of the windows and even perching on rooftops.
The landscape of woods and meadows that began here formed a strange contrast
with the tall but shabby building blocks that more disfigured than graced the
area. Beside them, several lovingly built, low old cottages could be seen
nestled in the landscape like children in their mother’s warm lap. Here the land
formed a forest-topped hill beneath which the train line ran through a
tunnel, having just emerged from the jumble of buildings. Evening light fell
on
the meadows; standing here, one felt one was already in the country, that the
city and all its hubbub had been left behind. Simon was not put off by the
ugliness of the workers’ housing; to him the entire admixture of city and
country presenting itself here in a strange, graceful tableau was beautiful.
When he walked a bare stone street and felt the warm meadow close beside him,
this struck him as most peculiar, and when immediately afterward he went
striding between meadows upon a narrow, earthen path, what harm did it do to
know this was actually municipal and not country soil? “The workers have it good
here,” he thought: “through every one of their windows they have a green forest
view, and when they sit on their small balconies, they enjoy a good, strong,
spicy breeze and an entertaining panorama featuring hills and vineyards. Even
if
the new tall buildings are smothering the old ones and will eventually force
them out altogether, you must nonetheless consider that the earth never stands
still and that people must always remain in motion, even if it’s in what appears
at present to be a less than charming form. An area is always beautiful because
it always bears witness to the life present both in nature and architecture.
To
build a settlement in a pretty meadow and woodland region might seem at first
somewhat barbaric, but in the end every eye will make its peace with the
unification of building and world, finding all sorts of enchanting views to
glimpse from between the new walls, and forget its irritably critical
condemnation, which after all never gives rise to better things. We need not
compare the old and new buildings like architectural scholars; we can take
pleasure in both sorts, in both the modest and the vainglorious. When I see a
building standing here, there’s no cause to think that if I find it
insufficiently attractive I can just knock it down, for it stands rather firmly
on its foundations, housing a great many sentient persons, and is therefore a
respectable entity whose creation was the work of many diligent hands. Those
who
search for beauty must oftentimes feel that the mere search for beauty in this
world gets you only so far, that there are other things worth finding besides
the good fortune of being able to stand before a charming antique. The struggle
of the poor for a bit of peace—I’m referring to the so-called Workers’
Question—is itself quite an interesting matter, so to speak, and must certainly
engage a stalwart mind more than the question of whether a house is well or
poorly situated in a landscape. What smooth-tongued idlers this world
contains! To be sure: Every thinking head counts, and e
very question is
priceless, but it’s surely more admirable and does more honor to our heads
to address life questions first and more delicate artistic questions later.
Of course questions of art are sometimes life questions as well, but life
questions are questions of art in a far higher and nobler sense. Naturally
I’m thinking this way now because the first question on my mind is how I
shall go on existing, given that my sole employment is copying out addresses
for paltry day-wages, and I cannot sympathize with the snobbery of
art since at the moment it strikes me as the most irrelevant thing on earth;
and indeed just consider, what is art compared with Nature, which dies and
awakens over and over again? What means does art have when it wishes to
portray a blossoming fragrant tree, or the face of a human being? I admit
I’m musing somewhat insolently now, condescendingly—or rather furiously
con-
ascendingly
, from down in the depths inhabited by people who
have no money. The thing is, I’m critical but at the same time feel quite
melancholy because of my lack of funds. I’ve got to get some money, it’s
quite simple. Borrowed money isn’t money; money must be earned or stolen or
received as a gift—and then there’s one thing more: evening! In the evening
I’m generally tired and dispirited.”