The Tanners (8 page)

Klara said: “Think of a silent landscape, the way all of it is just
lying there, the forests and hills and the wide meadows, and here we are in this
glittery theater. How strange. But perhaps it’s all just nature—not only the
vastness and silence out there, but also the small agile things that are the
work of man. A theater is also part of nature: What nature instructs us to
create must itself belong to nature, though perhaps that’s just a natural
anomaly. Let culture become ever so refined, it will nonetheless remain a part
of nature, for culture is only a long drawn-out process of inventing,
spread over the ages, and performed by creatures who must always cling to
nature. If you paint a picture, Kaspar, that will be nature, for you paint using
your senses and fingers, which nature has given you. No, we do well to love
nature and remain mindful of it—even, if I may be permitted to say so, to
worship nature—for human beings must do their praying somewhere, otherwise they
turn bad. If only we can love what is nearest at hand! That’s a blessing that
makes us roll thoughtfully along with the earth, driving our centuries
tempestuously on, a blessing that makes us feel our lives more intensely and
with greater bliss—and so we must seize and grab hold of it a thousand times
over, in a thousand moments—oh, what do I know!”

She had become inflamed as she spoke. “Does that make any sense, what
I just said?” she asked Kaspar.

Kaspar did not reply. They had long since left the theater behind and
were on their way home. Simon had walked on a bit ahead with Herr Agappaia.

“Tell me something,” Klara asked her companion.

“I have a colleague, Erwin by name,” Kaspar began, walking beside the
woman. “He doesn’t have much talent, or perhaps he was once talented, in his
early youth. Nonetheless, despite the fact that his painting offers him no
prospect of success, he is fanatically in love with his art. He declares all
his
pictures lousy, and lousy is what they are, but he works on them for years. He
keeps scraping off the paint to try again. To love nature as he does must be
a
torment—and it’s also disgraceful: No sensible man allows himself to be made
a
fool of by any one thing, tormented and tricked for so long, even by nature
itself. Of course, it isn’t art that torments him: He himself is doing the
tormenting with his pathetic notions of art and the world. This Erwin loves me.
When both of us were just starting out, we would paint together. We would romp
about the open meadows and beneath the trees, which I always see only in the
fullest, most opulent blossom when I think back on that ‘godful’ time. This word
‘godful’ is one that Erwin himself coined in his blind enthusiasm when he stood
before landscapes whose beauty surpassed his powers of apprehension.
Kaspar, just look at this godful
landscape,
is something he said to me I don’t know how many hundreds
of times. Even back then, although he was turning out attractive little pictures
that were made with talent, he was a harsh unsparing critic of his own work.
He
destroyed pictures of his that were successful, and preserved only the botched
ones, because only they appeared to him to have value. His talent suffered
terribly beneath this constant distrust, until finally the bad treatment caused
it to shrivel up and run dry like a spring that’s been scorched by the sun and
parched. I often advised him to sell his finished pictures at a modest price,
but because of my importunity he almost declared our friendship null and void.
Day after day he became more and more puzzled at how I could go on
lightheartedly, even frivolously painting, but he admired my talent, which he
had to acknowledge. But he wished I would pursue my art with more seriousness
of
purpose, and I replied that in the practice of art all that was required to
accomplish something were diligence, a joyful zeal, and the observation of
nature, and I drew his attention to the harm that could and must come about when
one approached a matter with exaggerated holy solemnity. He did in fact believe
me, but he was too weak to tear himself away from this bullheaded seriousness
he’d sunk his teeth into. Then I left on a journey and received the most
poignant letters from him, full of sadness over my departure. He said I was the
only one who’d been able to keep his spirits up, such as they were. He asked
me
to return or, failing that, to allow him to join me. Indeed, he did join me.
He
was always right behind me like my very own shadow, no matter how often I
treated him with coldness, scorn or even condescension. He steered clear of
women, indeed he hated them, for he was afraid they might distract him from the
holiness of his life’s work. I made fun of him for this, and it may be that I
treated him rather contemptuously. His paintings became ever more clumsy, and
he
went on sketching ever more obsessively. I advised him to make fewer studies
and
instead get his hand used to the brush. He tried it, and wept at the sight of
my
own offhanded productivity. Then the two of us undertook a shared journey to
my
homeland—you can imagine! The paths there led one across broad high mountains,
then steeply down into deep valleys and at once back up again. To me it was an
easily grasped pleasure, something to savor, a slight quickening of the breath,
a greater demand on the legs, and nothing further. Erwin could barely move
forward: In truth, his strength had been sapped by the excesses of his artistic
longings. One day the two of us—it was nearly evening, and we stood high up on
a
mountain meadow—glimpsed between the fir branches the three lakes of my native
region. Edwin cried out at the sight. It was indeed unforgettably beautiful.
Down below, the noise of the railway could be heard, and the sound of bells rang
up to where we stood. The city had not yet come into view, but I stretched out
my hand to show Edwin the spot where it must lie. Like the raiment of
princesses, the lakes lay spread out all sparkly and gently gleaming, ringed
in
by noble processions of mountains, with enchantingly delicate shorelines, so
far
off in the distance and yet so near. That very evening the two of us reached
home, dust-covered and ravenous. My sister was happy I’d brought this
reticent guest with me. This was perhaps three years ago now. Little by little
she drew closer to him, and I believe I am correct in thinking that a secret
love for him was kindled within her. It pained her to see how I treated her
chosen ward. She asked me to speak of him in a more friendly and respectful way
when I made jocular remarks at his expense. The poor fellow didn’t last long.
One day he took his leave. He was prevailed upon to write a few lines in my
sister’s journal—it’s all so comical, and yet somehow profound. Perhaps while
he
was writing in her book he rested his hand thoughtfully and imagined a future
for himself together with my sister. What was art offering him? I felt a bit
worried my sister might make something like a scene. But she just looked at him
warmly and kindly as they said goodbye. He couldn’t bring himself to look at
her, he didn’t dare. Did he appear to himself a miserable wretch? Probably.
Perhaps because he had a birthmark that covered half his face he was incapable
of believing that a girl might love him and want him for a husband. But in my
eyes it only made him look more noble. I very much liked looking at him. We were
traveling, and once he asked my permission to write to my sister. ‘What’s it
got
to do with me,’ I exclaimed. ‘Write to her if you feel like it!’ He went home
again, back to the utterly dead, dismal surroundings of his academy professors.
I pitied him, but parted from him coldly, or at least I displayed coldness
toward him: For me it’s unpleasant to show warmth to someone I find so pitiable.
He wrote a few letters which I never answered, and even today he still writes
to
me and I don’t respond. He’s clinging to me in desperation. Under such
circumstances, is it necessary to respond? He’s lost, he’s made no progress
whatsoever. His recent pictures are horrible. And yet no other person has ever
had so close a bond with me as he did. . . . And when I think of
those days when the two of us were so captivated by nature! So many things in
this world pass. All you can do is work, make things, create, that’s what we’re
here for, not for inspiring pity.”

“The poor thing,” Klara said, “I do pity him. I wish he were here, and
if he were ill, how gladly I would care for him. An unhappy artist is like an
unhappy king. What pain he must feel deep in his soul to know he’s so lacking
in
talent. I can imagine that so well. The poor fellow. I would like to be his
friend, since you have no time to take pity on him. I could make time for him.
What unfortunate people there are in this world!”

Kaspar said in a low voice, seizing her hand for the first time: “How
kind you are!”—

The forest was inky black, everything was dark, the house was a dark
patch in the darkness. Simon and Agappaia were waiting for the two others at
the
door.

“They aren’t coming. Come, let’s go inside.”

“I’m going to go to bed this minute,” Simon said.

When he was already lying in bed, about to shut his eyes, he suddenly
heard a shot ring out. In sheer terror, he leapt out of bed, tore open the
window and looked outside. “What was that?” he shouted down into the darkness.
But only his own voice echoed back at him from the forest. The forest was eerily
cloaked in a deathly silence. Suddenly he heard a man’s voice speaking just
below him: “It’s nothing, go to sleep. Forgive me for alarming you. I often go
shooting in the woods at night, it gives me pleasure to hear the shots resound
and echo. Some people whistle a melody to amuse themselves when everything all
around them is so quiet. Me, I shoot. Take care not to catch cold there at the
open window—the nights are still cold. In a minute you’ll hear me shooting
again, and this time you won’t be frightened. I’m still waiting for my wife to
return. Good night. Sleep well.” Simon lay back down. Nonetheless he couldn’t
fall asleep. The man’s voice had sounded so peculiar to him, so calm, that’s
precisely what was so odd. So icy—actually the voice had an ordinary
friendliness about it, and that’s just what was so icy. Surely something lay
behind it. But perhaps it was just that he didn’t yet know this man’s habits.
“Lord knows,” he thought to himself, “there are plenty of odd fish swimming
about. Life is so tedious, and this encourages the development of oddities. You
can turn odd before you know it. And so Agappaia too might not see anything
queer about this queer habit of his. He can just call it sporting and so lay
to
rest any other thoughts that might suggest themselves. All the same, I’m going
to try to get some sleep now.
”
—But other thoughts now came to him,
all having to do with nighttime: He thought of small children afraid to enter
dark rooms and who cannot fall asleep in the dark. Parents instill in their
children the most dreadful fear of the dark and then, as punishment, lock
recalcitrant ones up in silent dark rooms. Then the child clutches at the
darkness in this deep dense dark and finds only darkness and nothing more. The
child’s fear and this darkness are soon the best of friends, but the child is
not managing to befriend its fear. The child has such talents for feeling fear
that the fear just grows and grows. It soon overpowers the little child, being
such a large, dense, heavily-breathing entity; the child might wish
for example to cry out, but doesn’t dare. This not daring increases the fear
even further; for there must be something utterly terrifying there if the child
is too frightened even to utter cries of fear. The child believes someone is
listening in the dark. How melancholy it is, thinking of such an unfortunate
child. How the poor little ears strain to hear something: even the thousandth
part of some faint little sound. Not to hear anything at all is more frightening
by far than hearing something, when a person stands in the dark listening. Even
this alone: The child cannot help listening and almost hearing its own
listening—sometimes it merely listens and sometimes it hearkens, for the child
is capable of such distinctions in its nameless fear. When we speak of
listening, this presupposes something to be heard, but hearkening is often done
in vain, it is a waiting to hear, a hoping. Hearkening is the activity performed
by a child locked away in a dark room as punishment for disobedience. And now
let us imagine someone approaching—approaching softly, so dreadfully softly.
No,
it’s better not to imagine this. Better not imagine it at all. A person who
imagines such a thing will die of terror along with the child. Children have
such sensitive souls, how could one be thinking up terrors for such souls!
Parents, parents, never shut your recalcitrant children in dark rooms if you
have first taught them to fear the dark, which is otherwise so dear, so
sweet—

Now Simon was no longer afraid of anything else occurring that night.
He fell asleep, and when he woke up the next morning he saw his brother sleeping
peacefully beside him in his bed. He could have kissed him. He got dressed as
carefully as possible so as not to wake the sleeper, quietly opened the door
and
went downstairs. On the stairs he met Klara, who seemed to have been waiting
there for some time. But Simon had scarcely said good morning before the woman,
who appeared to be filled with violent emotion, threw her arms about his neck,
drew him to her and kissed him lovingly. “I want to kiss you too, you’re his
brother,” she said in a soft, urgent, rapturous voice.

“He’s still asleep,” Simon said. He was in the habit of gently
brushing aside acts of tenderness not meant for him, but his equanimity only
redoubled her agitation. She wouldn’t let him go on down the stairs, instead
she
held him even closer, seizing his head in her two hands and pressing kisses on
his forehead and cheeks. “I love you like a brother. Now you are my brother.
I
have so little and yet so much, do you understand? I have nothing left, I have
given it all. Will you shun me? No, you won’t, will you. Your heart is mine,
I
know it is—and having such a confidant makes me rich. You love your brother as
no one does. With such strength and will. He told me about you. How beautiful
you appear to me. You are so different from him. It’s impossible to describe
you. He said this too, that one cannot quite grasp you. Yet how trustingly one
throws oneself at you. Kiss me. I am yours in any way your heart desires. Your
heart is what’s beautiful about you. Don’t say anything. I understand that one
doesn’t understand you. You understand everything. You are fond of me, say yes,
do. No, don’t say yes. It isn’t necessary, isn’t necessary at all. Your eyes
have already said yes—I always knew it. I always knew there were people like
you, don’t ever force yourself to behave coldly. He’s asleep? Oh, no, don’t
leave yet! I must quarrel a bit more with you first. I am a foolish, foolish,
foolish woman, don’t you agree?”