The Tanners (7 page)

This firm was a bank that enjoyed international significance, a large
building with a palatial look to it in which hundreds of young and old, male
and
female people were employed. They all wrote with diligent fingers, made
calculations using calculating machines and also sometimes their memories,
thought using their thoughts and made themselves useful with their knowledge.
There were any number of young, elegant letter-writing clerks who
could speak four to seven languages. These clerks stood out from the rest of
the
calculating pack by virtue of their refined foreign airs. They had traveled on
ocean liners, attended the theater in Paris and New York, visited tea houses
in
Yokohama and knew how to amuse themselves in Cairo. Now they were handling the
bank’s correspondence and waited for their salaries to increase while casting
aspersions on their homeland, which they found tiny and dingy. The calculating
pack consisted for the most part of older individuals who clung to their posts
large and small as if to beams and stakes. All of them had long noses from years
of calculations and went about in threadbare, shabby, abraded, creased and
crumpled garments. But among them were a number of intelligent individuals who
perhaps secretly pursued strange exotic hobbies and thus led lives that, while
quiet and isolated, were nonetheless dignified. Many of the younger clerks,
however, were incapable of spending their free time in refined ways; mostly they
were the offspring of rural landowners, innkeepers, farmers and craftsmen, who,
the moment they arrived in the city, did all they could to cultivate a refined
urban air, though they never quite succeeded, and so they failed to advance
beyond a certain clodhopperish coarseness. Meanwhile there were also quiet
characters with delicate manners who stood out oddly amid the louts. The bank’s
director was an old quiet man whom no one ever saw. It seemed that the threads
and roots of the entire monstrous enterprise lay in a tangle inside his head.
As
a painter thinks in colors, a musician in notes, a sculptor in stone, a baker
in
flour, a poet in words, and a farmer in patches of land, this man appeared to
think in money. One good thought of his, thought at just the right moment, could
bring in half a million in the space of half an hour. Possibly! Possibly more,
possibly less, possibly nothing at all, and to be sure, this man must secretly
have lost money now and then without his subordinates being any the wiser: They
went off to lunch when the church-bell rang at noon, returned at two,
worked another four hours, went away, slept, awoke, got up for breakfast, went
back into the building just like before, resumed their labors, and no one knew
a
thing, for no one had time to learn anything at all about these mysterious
goings-on. And the morose quiet old man went on thinking in his
private office. For matters pertaining to his employees he had only a weak
half-smile. This smile had something poetic, exalted,
plan-hatching and legislative about it. Simon often tried to imagine
himself in the director’s shoes. But this image generally vanished before his
eyes, and every last concept receded from him when he thought about this: “There
is something proud and exalted about him, but also something incomprehensible
and almost inhuman. Why in the world do all these people, copyists and
calculators, indeed even girls in the bloom of youth, go through the selfsame
entryway into the selfsame building just in order to scribble away, try out
pens, calculate and wave their arms about, study and blow their noses, sharpen
pencils and carry papers about in their hands? Do they do so out of pleasure
or
under duress, and are they conscious of performing some sensible fruitful
activity? All of them come from quite different directions, some even arrive
by
train from distant regions, pricking up their ears to see whether they still
have time to run a private errand before work: They are as patient as a herd
of
lambs, and when evening arrives they scatter, each on his own particular
trajectory, and tomorrow they’ll all be back again at the same time. They see
one another, recognize each other by gait, voice and way of opening a door, but
they have very little to do with one another. They are all alike and yet are
strangers to each other, and when one of them dies or embezzles something, they
puzzle about it for the space of a morning, and then things go on as before.
It’s been known to happen that in the middle of his copy-work one of
them has a stroke. Does it help him that he was employed at this firm for a good
fifty years? For fifty years on end he went in and out the selfsame door,
employed the selfsame turns of phrase in business letters a thousand times over,
went through several new suits and often felt surprised how long each pair of
boots lasted. And now? Can one say this man has lived? And don’t thousands of
people live just like this? Were perhaps his children the thing that mattered
most to him in life, was his wife the joy of his existence? Yes, that could be.
I don’t want to pretend to be an expert in these matters, for this would appear
quite appropriate to me, given my youth. Outside it is spring, and I could
spring right out the window, that’s how painful I find this long, long
not-being-allowed-to-move-one’s-limbs.
A bank is a foolish thing in springtime. How would a banking establishment look
standing, say, upon a lush green meadow? Perhaps my pen would look to me like
a
young flower freshly sprouted from the earth. But no, I’ve no desire to make
fun. Perhaps this is all exactly as it has to be, perhaps everything has a
purpose. I just can’t make out the big picture because the view itself I see
too
intensely. This view is somewhat discouraging: this sky outside the windows,
and
in my ear this sweet singing. The white clouds are out walking in the sky, and
I
have to sit here writing. Why do I have an eye for the clouds? If I were a
cobbler, at least I’d be making shoes for children, men and ladies, and then
all
these people could go walking in the streets on spring days wearing my shoes.
I
would experience spring when I saw my shoes on their feet. Here I cannot feel
the springtime—the springtime is disturbing me.”

Simon hung his head, furious to be having such tender feelings.

One evening as he was on his way home across the bridge all lit up
for the night, Simon noticed a man walking ahead of him in long strides. This
figure in its greatcoated slimness filled him with sweet alarm. He thought he
recognized this walk, these trousers, this odd cauldron of a hat, the fluttering
hair. The stranger was carrying a flimsy portfolio beneath one arm. Simon
hastened his steps, overcome with tremulous forebodings, and suddenly he threw
his arms about the walker’s neck, crying out “Brother!” Kaspar embraced him.
Loudly conversing, they went home, that is: They had a rather steep ascent to
make up the mountainside whose slope the city had covered with gardens and
villas. At the top, they were welcomed by the small run-down cottages
of the outskirts. The setting sun blazed in their windows, turning them into
radiant eyes gazing fixedly, beautifully into the distance. Down below lay the
city, spread out broad and luxuriant upon the plain like a glittering twinkling
carpet, the evening bells, which are always different from morning bells, were
ringing far below, the lake lay, its outlines indistinct, in its delicate
ineffable form at the foot of the city, the mountain and all the gardens. Not
many lights were sparkling yet, but those whose glow could be seen were burning
with a splendid unfamiliar keenness. People were now walking and hastening down
below in all the crooked hidden streets, you couldn’t see them, but you knew
they were there. “It would be splendid to stroll down elegant
Bahnhofstrasse
just now,” Simon said.
Kaspar walked in silence. He had become a magnificent fellow. “How he strides
along,” Simon thought. Finally they were standing before their house. “Really?”
Kaspar laughed: “You live at the edge of the forest?” Both of them went
inside.

When Klara Agappaia beheld the new arrival, a strange flame began to
flicker in her large weary eyes. She closed her eyes and tilted her lovely head
to one side. She didn’t appear to be feeling such great pleasure at the sight
of
this young man, it looked like something quite different. She tried not to be
self-conscious, tried to smile the way a person smiles when welcoming
a guest. But she didn’t quite manage it. “Go upstairs,” she said, “I’m just so
tired today. How odd. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.” The two young
men went to their room: It was filled with moonlight. “Let’s not light the
lamp,” Simon said, “we can go to bed just like this.” —Then there was a knock
at
the door, it was Klara, who said, standing outside: “Have you two got everything
you need, is nothing missing?” —“No, we’ve already gone to bed, what could be
missing?” —“Good night, my friends,” she said and opened the door a little, shut
it again and went away. “She seems to be a peculiar woman,” Kaspar remarked.
Then they both fell asleep.

–3–

The next morning the painter unpacked his landscapes from their
portfolio, and first an entire autumn fell out of it, then a winter, all the
moods of Nature came to life again. “How little this is of what I saw. Swift
as
a painter’s eye is, his hand is so sluggish, so slow. There are still so many
things I have to paint! Often I think I’ll go mad.” All three of them, Klara,
Simon and the painter, were standing around the pictures. Few words were spoken,
and these were just exclamations of delight. Suddenly Simon leapt over to his
hat, which lay on the floor of the room, thrust it savagely, furiously upon his
head and dashed out the door, shouting, “I’m late!”

“An hour late! This is something a young man should not allow
himself,” he was told at the bank.

“And if he nonetheless does allow it?” the one being scolded replied
defiantly.

“What, insolence on top of everything else? Well, go right ahead! Suit
yourself!”

Simon’s conduct was reported to the director, who decided to dismiss
the young man; he called him to his office and gave him this news in a quite
soft, even kindly voice. Simon replied:

“I’m perfectly happy things have come to an end. Do you
perhaps suppose you’re striking me a blow by sending me away—robbing me
of courage, destroying me or anything of the sort? On the contrary, I’m being
raised up and flattered, at long last I’m being infused with new hope. I was
never made to be a writing and calculating machine. I like to write, I like
doing calculations and find it desirable to behave in a decorous manner towards
my fellow men, I enjoy being industrious, and as long as it does my heart no
injury, I passionately love to obey. I’d also be perfectly capable of submitting
to certain laws if this were important, but it’s been some time now since such
things had any importance for me here. When I found myself running late today,
I
merely felt angry and annoyed, I was by no means filled with honest
conscientious concern, nor did I reproach myself, or if I did so, it was only
for still being such a cowardly fool that I leap to my feet at the stroke of
eight and start running like a wind-up clock that runs whenever it’s
wound. I thank you for having the energy to dismiss me and request that you
think of me however you please. You are surely an admirable, commendable, great
man, but, you see, I too wish to be one, and that’s why it’s good you’re sending
me away, why it was so advantageous for me to comport myself today in a manner
one might call unseemly. In your offices, which are so highly touted and where
anyone at all would be delighted to find employment, there can be no question
of
a young man developing and growing. I don’t care a whit about enjoying the
benefits associated with receiving a fixed monthly income. While receiving it,
I
degenerate, becoming addlepated and lily-livered, I ossify. You may be
surprised to hear me making use of such expressions, but you must admit I am
speaking the complete truth. Only one person can be a man here: you! —Doesn’t
it
ever occur to you that among your poor subordinates there might be some who feel
the urge to be men themselves: effective, productive,
respect-inspiring men. I can’t possibly find it agreeable to stand off
to one side in this world just to avoid acquiring a reputation as a malcontent
and therefore a scarcely employable person. How great is the temptation here
to
feel afraid—and how faint the appeal of extricating oneself from this miserable
fear. My having set in motion this all but impossible development on this day
is
something I cannot help appreciating in myself, let people say what they will.
You, Herr Direktor, have barricaded yourself in here, you’re never visible, no
one knows whose orders they are following, and in fact one isn’t following
orders at all but rather merely stagnating according to one’s own bad habits,
which turn out to be perfectly appropriate. What a trap for young people with
a
tendency to be indolent and sluggish. Here nothing is demanded of all the
strength that might animate a young man’s spirit, nothing is required that might
distinguish a man and human being. Neither courage nor wit, neither loyalty nor
industry, neither creative drive nor the desire for challenges can help a person
to advance himself here: Indeed, displaying strength and capabilities is even
looked down upon. Naturally, how could it not be looked down upon in such a
slow, sluggish, dry, miserable system? Farewell, sir, I leave in order to work
myself back to health, even if this means shoveling dirt or carrying endless
sacks of coal on my back. I love all sorts of work, excepting the sort whose
performance does not require the exertion of all one’s faculties.”

“Shall I write you out a letter of reference, even though you don’t
really deserve one?”

“A letter of reference? No, please don’t. If I have earned no other
reference than at most a bad one, I’d rather have none at all. From now on I
shall write my own references. I shall no longer call upon anyone other than
myself when someone asks me for references, and this will make the best possible
impression on sensible clear-minded people. I am glad to be leaving
you without a letter in hand, for a reference from you would only remind me of
my own cowardice and fear, a condition of sluggishness and relinquished
strength, of days spent in idleness, afternoons filled with furious attempts
at
escape, evenings dedicated to sweet but pointless longings. I thank you for
having had the intention of letting me go with an amicable gesture—that shows
me
I’ve been standing before a man who possibly grasps at least some of what I
say.”

“Young man, you are far too hot-headed!” the director said.
“You are undermining your own future—”

“I don’t want a future, I want a present. To me this appears of
greater value. You have a future only when you have no present, and when you
have a present, you forget to even think about the future.”

“I wish you well but I fear that something unfortunate will
befall you. You interest me, that’s why I’ve been listening—
otherwise
I wouldn’t have wasted so much time on you. Perhaps you haven’t found your
calling, perhaps you’ll amount to something yet. In any case, I hope things will
go well for you.”

With a nod of the director’s head Simon was dismissed and soon found
himself on the street outside. He observed a man pacing up and down in front
of
a pastry shop, probably he was waiting for someone, perhaps a woman, who could
say? But the man aroused his interest. He was, at first glance, horrifically
ugly, with a quite unusually large curved skull, a full beard and a rather
weary, even animal, expression in his eyes. He had a mincing walk that was
nonetheless noble, and his clothes were of good quality and tasteful. In his
hand he held a yellow walking stick; he appeared to be a scholar, but one who
was still young. There was something gentle, even heart-stirring about
this man and his bearing. It seemed as though one might venture to address him
freely—and Simon did:

“Forgive me, sir, for speaking to you in this way. The moment I set
eyes on you something about you appealed to me. I would like to make your
acquaintance. Shouldn’t such a heartfelt wish be sufficient grounds for
addressing a few words to a person like yourself in the middle of the street?
You seem as if you’re searching for someone, as if you suspect there might be
someone waiting for you here on this square. But with this crowd of people
milling about it will be difficult for you alone to discover the individual in
question. I’ll help you look if you are willing to confide a few details of the
person you hope to meet. Is it a lady?”

“Yes, most assuredly a lady,” the gentleman replied, smiling.

“What does she look like?”

“Dressed in black from head to foot. A tall slender creature. Large
eyes that, when you see them, will follow you for a long, long time, even if
they aren’t still gazing at you at all. About her neck she wears a necklace of
large white pearls, and on her ears long dangling earrings. Her joints are
circled by simple gold hoops—I mean her wrist joints, of course. Her face has
something full, oval, voluptuous about it. You’ll see. About her mouth, though
this is deceptive, there is a trace of something cagey and crafty, it’s a rather
shut-tight mouth. By the way, she likes to wear a
broad-brimmed hat with drooping feathers: The hat appears to have just
flown up and landed on her head and hair. If this description isn’t yet
sufficient, let me also draw your attention to the fact that she is accompanied
by a greyhound on a thin black leash. She never goes out without him. I shall
remain standing here at my post and await your report. I am grateful for your
offer, quite aside from the fact that, based on the words you’ve addressed to
me, I find you quite interesting: And indeed the crowd of people swarming about
keeps increasing in size. There appears to be some sort of festival in
progress.”

“Yes—something of that sort. I don’t generally pay much attention to
these things.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, you know, each person has his own path to follow. Goodbye for
now!”

And with this, Simon went off as quickly as possible through the thick
crowd of people. From all sides he was pressed and shoved, almost lifted into
the air. But he pushed back as well, finding it highly amusing to pass slowly
through the mass of bodies and faces in this way. Finally he reached a sort of
island, that is, a small empty space, and, glancing about, he suddenly caught
sight of Frau Klara. She really did have a dog with her. Since moving into her
house, he hadn’t paid her much attention, and so didn’t know she was in the
habit of going out with her dog at her side.

“There’s a man looking for you,” he said when she noticed him.

“My husband, no doubt,” she replied. “Come with me, we’ll go together.
He’s suddenly returned from his journey without writing me so much as a line.
It’s always like this. How did you make his acquaintance, and how do you come
to
be tracking down ladies on his behalf? You are certainly a strange person,
Simon. What’s that? You’ve given up your job? So what are you planning to do
now? Come with me, this way. We can get through more easily over here. I’ll
introduce you to my husband.”

It was decided they would spend the evening at the theater. They sent
word to Kaspar, who showed up at the appointed hour at the theater, a white
splendid building towering up beside the shore of the lake. When the curtain
rose, it revealed a gray empty space. But this space soon came to life, when
a
dancer with bare legs and arms came on stage and began dancing to a soft music.
Her body was veiled in a transparent, fluttering, flowing garment which appeared
to mirror the lines of the dance in the floating air. You could sense the
complete innocence and gracefulness of this dance, and it wouldn’t have occurred
to anyone present to find her immodest or to ascribe impure intentions to the
girl’s nakedness. Her dance often resolved into a simple striding, but this too
remained a dance, and at some points the dancer appeared to be borne aloft upon
her own waves. When, for example, she raised one leg and curled her lovely foot,
she did so in such a novel
unperturbed manner that everyone thought: I
have seen this before, but where? Or did I just dream it? There was something
weighty about the girl’s dance, it seemed a part of nature. To be sure, measured
strictly by the laws of ballet, her art was perhaps somewhat lacking, her
abilities might seem paltry compared with the abilities and achievements of
ballerinas. But by means of her girlishly bashful gracefulness alone she
possessed the art of filling people with delight. When she sailed to the ground,
with such sweet heft, and when she flew up to attain greater momentum, the
wildness and innocence of her motions bewitched all the souls witnessing it.
And
as she moved, she too was exhilarated by her fleeting motions, and her arousal
devised ever new flourishes to accompany the notes. Her hands resembled two
beautiful white fluttering doves. The girl smiled as she danced, clearly this
made her happy. Her artlessness was felt to be the highest art. At one point
she
flew in huge soft leaps, like a stag being pursued, from one beat to another.
Like waves splashing up to crash down on a low shoreline, she’d seem to be
dancing to scatter into spray, but next she went flowing off like a wide, sunny,
powerful wave, like a wave in the middle of a lake, and now it was like a flurry
of flakes and little stones, constantly changing and always poignant. The
sensibilities of all who saw her danced along with her, filled with pleasure
and
pain. Some had tears in their eyes from watching this dance, pure tears of
vicarious delight, vicarious dancing. How beautiful it was, when the girl had
completed her dance, to see aged imposing women shoot passionately to their
feet, waving their handkerchiefs and throwing flowers into the abyss of the
stage to honor the girl. “Be our sister,” everyone’s smiles seemed to be asking.
“What a joy it would be to call you my daughter if you so wished,” these ladies
appeared to be exulting. Gazing at the young girl upon the stage, the
hundred-headed audience forgot the boundary, the wall separating them
from her. Innumerable arms arced through the air as though in imagined caresses;
hands were trembling as they waved. Words shouted down to the stage were the
inventions of pure joy. Even the cold golden statues adorning the stage appeared
to wish to come to life and for once crown a head with the laurel wreaths they
held in their gold hands. Simon had never before found the theater so beautiful.
Klara was utterly delighted, who could have been otherwise on such an evening.
Only Herr Agappaia remained silent and said not a word. Kaspar said: “I’m going
to paint an ovation like this, what a splendid picture it would make.” “But
difficult to paint,” Simon said, “this perfume and gleam of joy—this shimmer
of
delight, the coldness and warmth, the definite and blurry, the colors and shapes
in this perfume, the gold and the heavy red, drowning like this in all the
colors—and the stage, the tiny focal point and the small blissful girl standing
upon it, the clothing of the women, the faces of the men, the boxes and all the
rest—really, Kaspar, it would be quite difficult indeed.”