The Tanners (19 page)

In a gentle, calm voice she said good night.

“I’m glad to be here all the same,” she said the next morning. “How
can one go wishing oneself away from a position so tempestuously. As if this
were so important! I could almost laugh to think of it, and I’m a bit ashamed
to
have been so forthcoming yesterday. And yet I’m glad; for you do have to speak
your mind sometimes. How patiently you were able to listen to me, Simon! Almost
reverentially! And yet this too makes me glad. In the evening one isn’t the same
as in the morning, no, one is so utterly different, so dissimilar in the way
one
expresses oneself and in one’s feelings. Merely having slept soundly for a
single night, I’ve heard, can utterly change a person. I can certainly believe
it. Having spoken in such a way yesterday appears to me now, on this bright
morning, like an anxious, exaggerated, sad dream. What can have been the matter?
Should one take things so irritably, so hard? Think no more about it! I must
have been tired yesterday—I’m always tired in the evenings—but now I feel so
light, so healthy, so fresh, as if new-born. I have such a feeling of
suppleness, as if someone were lifting me up and bearing me along the way a
person is carried on a litter. Open the window while I’m still lying here in
bed. It’s so lovely to lie in bed while the windows are being opened. Where can
I have found all the joyousness that envelops me as I lie here. Out of doors,
the beautiful landscape appears to me to be dancing, the air is slipping indoors
to me. Is it Sunday today? If not, it’s a day that seems made to be a Sunday.
Do
you see the geraniums? They stand so prettily before the window. What did I want
yesterday? Happiness? Don’t I already have happiness? Should one have to go off
searching for it at unknown distances among people who surely have no time to
be
thinking about such things? It’s good when you don’t have time for too many
things, quite good in fact, for if we had time enough, we’d surely die of
presumptuousness. What a brightness there is in my head. Now there’s not a
single thought in my head that isn’t lying there like its mistress—me—feeling
glad and light, exactly like me. Would you bring me breakfast in bed, Simon?
I’d
enjoy having you serve me as if I were a Portuguese noblewoman and you a young
Moor who comprehends my every gesture. Of course you’ll bring me what I ask.
Why
shouldn’t you be attentive? How long have you been here with me? Wait, it was
winter when you arrived, snow was falling, I can still remember it quite
clearly—how many fair and rainy days have since gone by. Now you’ll be leaving
soon; but you mustn’t rob me of the pleasure of having you here with me a few
days more. And three days from now I’ll say to you: “Stay another three,” and
you won’t be any better able to resist me then than you are now, bringing the
breakfast to my bedside. You’re a curiously unresisting and unscrupulous person.
Ask anything of you, and you’ll do it. You want everything anyone wants. I think
a person might ask all sorts of improper things of you before you’d start to
think ill of him. One can’t avoid feeling a certain touch of contempt with
regard to you. I do despise you a tiny bit, Simon! But I know it doesn’t matter
to you if one speaks to you like this. I consider you, by the way, quite capable
of performing a heroic deed at a pinch: You see, I do think quite well of you.
With you, people allow themselves all sorts of things. Your behavior liberates
our behavior from every sort of restraint. Years ago, I used to box your ears,
I
was always tattling on you to Mother and having you punished when you’d
committed some misdeed, and now I’m asking you: Come give me a kiss, or rather:
Let me give you one, a nice cautious kiss on the forehead. There! Compared with
last night I’m like a saint this morning. I feel a presentiment of the times
that are coming—let them come! But don’t laugh at me. Though if you laughed I’d
also be pleased; for laughter is the most fitting sound for an early blue
morning. And now please leave the room so I’ll be at liberty to get dressed—”

Simon left her alone.

“I was always in the habit,” Hedwig said to Simon in the course of the
day, “of treating you somehow as my subordinate. In their dealings with you,
perhaps others do, too—you hardly give an impression of intelligence—what people
are more likely to see in you is love, and you know pretty well how that’s
received. I don’t think you’ll ever have much success in society the way you
are
and the way you act, but I’m also confident you’ll never trouble your head about
this—that wouldn’t be like you, in my experience. Only those who know you will
think you capable of heartfelt sentiment and incisive thought—others not. And
that’s the rub, the main point, the underlying cause why you’ll probably be
unsuccessful in life: A person must get to know you to find you credible, and
this takes time. Success depends on first impressions, which will always fail
you, but at least this won’t make you lose your composure. Not many will love
you, but
the ones who do will promise themselves everything from you, and
with their liking for you they’ll be simple, good human
beings—your
foolishness can take you far. There’s something idiotic about you, something
unstable, something . . . how should I put it, lackadaisically
foolish—and that’s what will offend many people: They’ll call you
impertinent—and having made many harsh, hastily judgmental enemies, you’ll find
they might very well succeed in making you hot under the collar. But this will
never frighten you. Some people will always seem unkind to you, and to them
you’ll look insolent; there will be frictions, you must be prepared for this!
And in larger groups of people where it’s important to show oneself to advantage
and to stand out by virtue of one’s eloquence, you’ll always keep silent because
it won’t appeal to you to open your mouth when everyone’s already jabbering
away. As a result, you’ll be overlooked: And then you’ll start to feel defiant
and behave inappropriately. Yet some, on the other hand, those who’ve gotten
to
know you, will consider it a gift to engage in heartfelt conversation with you;
you’re skilled at listening, and in conversation this is perhaps more important
than speaking. People will happily entrust their secrets and private affairs
to
a close-mouthed person like you, and in general you’re a master when
it comes to discretion in silence and speech—unconsciously, I mean, it’s not
as
if you need to go to particular trouble on this account. You speak a bit
awkwardly, and your mouth, a little ungainly, first pops open and then remains
that way until you start to speak, as if you were expecting the words to come
flying up from somewhere or other and land there. In the eyes of most, you’ll
cut an uninteresting figure: Girls will find you dreary, women irrelevant, and
men utterly untrustworthy and ineffectual. See if you can’t change a little in
that department, if you’re able. Pay a bit more attention to yourself and be
more vain; for being completely free of vanity is something even you will soon
have to realize is an error. For example, Simon, look at your trousers: all
ragged at the bottom! To be sure, and I know this perfectly well myself: They’re
just trousers, but trousers should be kept in just as good a condition as one’s
soul, for when a person wears torn, ragged trousers it displays carelessness,
and carelessness is an attribute of the soul. Your soul must be ragged too. The
other thing I wanted to say to you—You don’t think I’m saying all these things
to you in jest, do you? Now he’s laughing. Don’t you consider me just a little
bit more experienced than you are? Not at all! You’re more experienced? But if
I
say that many more experiences still lie before you, isn’t that demonstrating
experience? Surely it is—”

For a moment she reflected, then went on:

“When you’ve left me behind, as must happen soon, don’t write to me. I
don’t want you to. I don’t want you to feel obliged to inform me about your
further adventures. Neglect me, just as you used to neglect me. What good can
writing do us? I shall go on living here and find it a pleasure to think often
about the three months you spent with me. The countryside will buoy me up and
show me your image. I shall go to visit all the places we admired together, and
I shall find them even more beautiful; for a defect, a loss, makes things more
beautiful. I and the entire region shall be missing something, but this absence,
and yes even this defect, will introduce even more tender sentiments to my life.
I’m not inclined to feel pressured just because something’s lacking. Why would
I! On the contrary, there’s something liberating, relief-bringing
about this. And after all—Gaps exist to be filled with something new. When I’m
about to get up in the morning, I shall imagine I hear your footsteps, see your
face and hear your voice—and then I’ll laugh at this illusion. Do you know: I’m
fond of illusions, and you are too, I can tell. It’s peculiar how much I’ve been
chattering these days. These days! I think by now the days themselves ought to
feel how precious they are to me, ought to do me the kindness of coming and
departing more slowly, in a more protracted, leisurely, loitering way, and more
quietly too! And in fact that’s what they’re doing. When they approach, it feels
like a kiss, and when they darkly withdraw it’s like someone pressing my hand
or
waving to me, sweetly, familiarly. The nights! How many nights you slept here
beside me, slept beautifully, for you’re an accomplished sleeper and slept so
well in that little room there, on the straw bed that soon will be ownerless
and
sleepless. The nights that will be arriving now will creep up to me shyly the
way little children with guilty consciences approach their father or mother,
with their eyes cast down. The nights will be less silent, Simon, when you’re
gone, and I’ll tell you why: You were so quiet at night, your sleep increased
the silence. We were two silent, peaceful human beings during all these nights;
now I’ll have to be silent alone, of necessity, and it will be less silent; for
I’ll often sit upright in bed in the dark, listening for something. Then I shall
feel how much less silent it now is. Perhaps I’ll weep then—but not at all
because of you, so don’t give yourself airs on my account. Just look, he’s
already puffing himself up! No, Simon, no—no one is going to weep for you. When
you’re gone, you’re gone. That’s all. Do you think a person would weep for you?
It’s out of the question. You must never imagine that. One can feel that you’re
gone, one takes note of it, but then? Might one feel longing or something of
the
sort? No one feels longing for a person like you. You simply don’t inspire it.
No heart will go trembling off in search of you. Might one devote a thought to
you? What a notion! Well, yes, carelessly, the way one drops a needle, one might
occasionally call you to mind. That’s all you’ll merit, even if you live to be
a
hundred. You haven’t the slightest talent for leaving behind memories. You don’t
leave behind anything at all. I can’t imagine what you might leave behind in
any
case, as you have no possessions. There’s no call for you to laugh in such an
impudent way, I’m speaking seriously. Out of my sight this minute! March!”

For the next few days the weather was foul and rainy, and this too
was a reason to stay on. How could Simon begin his journey in such weather?
Certainly he might have been able to, but was there any point leaving when the
weather was poor? And so he stayed. Another day or two, he thought, that’s all.
He spent practically the entire time sitting in the large empty classroom,
reading a novel he wished to finish before he left. Sometimes he walked up and
down between the rows of school benches, always holding this book: Its contents
so gripped him he couldn’t tear his mind away. But he didn’t make much progress
in his reading; he kept getting mired in thoughts. I’ll keep reading as long
as
it keeps raining, he thought; when the weather turns fair, I’ll go on—not with
my reading, though: in the real sense.

On the last day, Hedwig said to him:

“No doubt you’ll be leaving now, it’s what we agreed. Farewell. Come
here to me, come close, and take my hand. Quite possibly I shall soon throw
myself at a man who doesn’t deserve me. I’ll have wasted my life. I’ll enjoy
a
great deal of respect. People will say: What a capable woman she is. In all
truth, I have no desire ever to hear from you again. Try to be a good man. Get
involved in public matters, give people cause to talk about you, it would give
me pleasure to hear of you from others. Or just go on living as best you’re
able, remain in the dark, struggle on in the darkness with the many days left
to
come. I shall never suspect you of frailty. What else should I say to wish you
luck on your journey? Go on, thank me. Yes, you! Do you really have no intention
of thanking me for your time here, which I made possible for you? But no, don’t
thank me, it wouldn’t suit you. You’re incapable of bowing and saying you can’t
even begin to express your thanks. Your behavior’s your gratitude. You and I
chased and drove the hours before us at such a clip they got winded. Do you
really not own any more things than fit in that tiny suitcase? You are truly
poor. A single suitcase is the entire household you inhabit in this world.
There’s something enchanting about this, but also something wretched. Go now.
I
shall watch from the window as you walk away. When you reach the edge of the
hill up there, turn around and look back at me one last time. Why should any
further words of tenderness be exchanged? Between you, the brother, and me, the
sister? Does it matter if a sister never sees her brother again? I am sending
you away somewhat coldly because I know you and know you hate affectionate
farewells. Between us this means nothing. Now bid me adieu and then be on your
way—”

–11–

It was about two in the afternoon when Simon arrived by train in the
metropolis he’d left behind around three months before. The station was full
of
people and completely black, filled with that train station odor that’s absent
only from small, rural stations. Simon was trembling as he got off; he was
hungry, stiff, exhausted, sad and sapped of all courage, besides which he
couldn’t shake off a certain trepidation, though he kept telling himself his
trepidation was utterly foolish. Like most travelers, he checked his luggage
at
the luggage window and lost himself in the crowd. As soon as he was able to move
freely again, he immediately felt better and once more was conscious of his
effortless good health—now in top form owing to his time in the country. He ate
something at one of those odd public establishments. So here he was eating
again, without much appetite; for the food was meager and poor, good enough for
a down-at-the-heels city-dweller, but
not for a spoiled denizen of the countryside. The people looked at him
attentively, as if they could tell he’d just arrived from the country. Simon
thought: “These people must surely sense that I’m used to better food; something
of the sort can be discerned in my approach to this meal.” In fact he left half
of it behind on his plate, paid his bill and couldn’t help remarking airily to
the waitress how far from tasty he’d found it. The waitress gazed at the
scornful customer contemptuously, amicably contemptuously, just ever so
slightly, as if she had no need to feel indignant at the affront, seeing it was
a person of this sort who’d complained and not another. If it had been someone
else, well then, certainly, but on account of such a one!— Simon walked out.
He
was feeling happy, the second-rate meal and the girl’s insulting
glance notwithstanding. The sky was a pale blue. Simon gazed at it: Yes, here
too he had a sky. In this respect it was perfectly silly to be so partial to
the
countryside at the city’s expense. He resolved to stop thinking back on the
countryside now and to acclimatize himself to this new world. He saw how people
went walking on before him, going much faster than he did; for in the country
he’d grown accustomed to an ambling, deliberate gait, as though he were afraid
of advancing too quickly. Well, for today he decided to permit himself to go
on
walking like a peasant, but from tomorrow on he’d stride forward in a different
manner. He observed people affectionately, however, with no trace of shyness,
he
met their eyes and looked at their legs to see how they were moving them, at
their hats to observe the progress of fashion, and at their clothes to be able
to judge his own outfit still good enough compared with the many unlovely
garments he was now industriously scrutinizing. How hurriedly they walked, these
people. He would have liked to stop one of them and address to him the words:
What’s the rush? But then he seemed to lack the courage for such a foolish
undertaking. He felt fine, though he was also a bit weary and tense. A tiny,
undeniable mournfulness held him in its grasp, but that harmonized well with
the
light, happy, somewhat overcast sky. It also harmonized with the city, where
to
wear too sunny an expression was all but unseemly. Simon had to confess to
himself that he was walking there looking for nothing, but he nonetheless found
it expedient to assume the bearing of a seeker, someone pressing rapidly forward
like all the others, for he had no wish to play the role of the idle newcomer.
He preferred not to call attention to himself, and it did him good to see his
behavior wasn’t attracting notice. From this he concluded that he was still
capable of city life, and so he carried himself a bit more upright than before
and acted as though he were carrying around with him a small, elegant intention,
one that he was imperturbably pursuing, but which elicited from him no worry,
only interest, and would not dirty his shoes or tire his hands. He was just now
walking through a beautiful affluent street planted on both sides with
blossoming trees, a street in which, given how broad it was, you had the sky
more freely before your eyes. It was truly a splendid bright street, just the
sort to conjure up the most pleasant existences and inspire dreams. Simon now
completely forgot his plan of walking through this street with a deliberate air.
He let himself go, allowed himself to drift, looking now at the ground, now up
above, now to the side into one of the many shop windows, before one of which
he
finally remained standing, without actually looking at anything. He found it
agreeable to have the noise of the beautiful lively street at his back and yet
also in his ears. His perceptions distinguished the footsteps of individual
passers-by, all of whom no doubt could only assume he was standing
there taking a good look at something on display in the shop window. Suddenly
he
heard someone addressing him. He turned around and beheld a lady demanding that
he carry a package she was holding out to him all the way to her home. This lady
was not particularly beautiful, but at this moment Simon’s task was not to lose
himself in reflections concerning the degree of her beauty but rather, as an
inner voice cried out to him, to step lively and do as she instructed. He took
the package, which wasn’t at all heavy, and carried it, following behind the
lady as she cut across the street with small, measured steps without turning
even once to look back at the young man. Having arrived before an, as it
appeared, distinguished building the woman commanded him to come upstairs with
her, and so he did. He saw no reason why he should refuse to comply.
Accompanying this lady into her home felt perfectly natural, and obeying her
voice was quite appropriate for his situation, which was so undefined. He would
perhaps still have been standing before the shop window gaping, he thought as
he
climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, the woman invited him inside.
She
went on ahead and gestured him into a room whose door she opened. To Simon the
room appeared quite splendid. The woman came in, sat down on one of the chairs,
cleared her throat a little, looked at the one standing before her and asked
whether he might make up his mind to enter her service. The impression she had
of him, she went on, was that of an individual standing idly about in the world,
a person one would be doing a favor by offering him work. As for the rest, she
found him quite passable, and would he please tell her whether he was inclined
to accept her offer?

“Why not,” Simon replied.

She said: “It seems I wasn’t mistaken when I concluded, immediately on
first seeing you, that you were a young man who’d be happy to find a foothold
somewhere. So tell me, what’s your name, and what have you done in the world
until now?”

“My name is Simon, and as of yet I’ve done nothing at all!”

“How can that be?”

Simon said: “I received a small inheritance from my parents which I’ve
just now consumed down to the last cent. I didn’t consider it necessary to find
a job. The thought of learning a profession had no appeal for me at all. I found
the days so beautiful I’d have considered it impertinent to desecrate them with
work. You know how much is lost by daily work. I was incapable of acquiring a
body of knowledge if it meant renouncing the sight of the sun and the evening
moon. It took me hours to contemplate an evening landscape, and I’d spend nights
on end sitting not at a desk or in a laboratory but in the grass with a river
flowing past my feet and the moon peering at me through the branches of the
trees. No doubt you’ll look down at such a statement, disconcerted, but should
I
be telling you a lie? I’ve lived in both countryside and city, but to this day
I
have shown no person on earth any service worthy of particular note. I do wish
to do so now that an opportunity seems to have presented itself.”

“How could you have lived so wantonly?”

“I never had much respect for money, madam! Given the appropriate
circumstances, on the other hand, it might well occur to me—or even strike me
as
a matter of some urgency—to value money belonging to others. It would seem to
appear that you harbor a desire to take me into your service: Well, in this case
I should naturally keep a sharp eye on your interests; for in such a case, I
should have no other interests than yours, which should be mine as well. My own
interests! When could I ever have gotten so far as to have interests of my own?
When could I have had serious matters to pursue? I’ve frittered away my life
up
till now—intentionally, since it always struck me as utterly worthless. Devoting
myself to the interests of others would suit me well; after all, a person with
no goals of his own lives only for others’ purposes, interests and plans—”

“But surely you wish to imagine some sort of future for
your
self!” —

“I’ve never once given it a moment’s thought! You’re looking at me
with a rather worried, unfriendly expression. You distrust me and think me
incapable of serious intentions. And in fact I must confess that to this day
I’ve never once carried intentions of any sort around with me, as I’ve never
before been asked by anyone to entertain an intention. This is the first time
I’ve ever found myself standing before a person who wishes to avail herself of
my services; this flattering circumstance compels me to be bold and tell you
the
truth. If I’ve been a dissolute person until now, what does it matter as long
as
I’m now set on becoming a better one? Are you capable of doubting my wish to
show you gratitude for having scooped me up on the street and brought me to your
room with the intention of giving me a human destiny? I have no future plans
in
mind—just the intention of pleasing you. And I know how pleasant it is when a
person does his duty. So now here’s the future I’m imagining: performing my
duties, which are the tasks you’ll set me. I’ve no desire to go thinking ahead
to a future much more distant than the immediate one. The path my life will
follow is of no interest to me, let it meander as it likes, just so people are
pleased with me—”

Hereupon the lady said: “Although it is strictly speaking incautious
to offer employment to a person who is nothing and can do nothing, I am willing
to do so, for I believe you have the desire to work. You will be my servant and
do everything I demand. You can consider yourself particularly fortunate to
enjoy such benevolence, and I hope you’ll make an effort to deserve it. You
surely have no credentials, otherwise this would be the moment when I’d ask for
your credentials. How old are you?—”

“Twenty and a bit!”

The lady nodded. “That’s an age when a person must think of setting
himself a task for life. Well, for the moment I’m prepared to overlook many
aspects of your person that don’t entirely suit me, and shall give you the
opportunity to become a reliable man. We shall see!—”

With these words the conversation was ended.

The lady led Simon through a suite of elegant
rooms—noting,
as she strode on ahead of her young companion, that one
of his tasks would be to keep these rooms clean—and asked whether he was capable
of scrubbing a wooden floor with steel wool, but didn’t wait to hear his reply,
as though she already knew the answer and had asked for the sole purpose of
asking something or other to keep the questions whizzing arrogantly and
interrogatively about his ears; then she opened a door and ushered him into a
smaller room, warmly lined with tapestries of all sorts, where she introduced
him to a little boy lying in the bed with these brief words: He would be serving
this young master, who was ill, and how he was to do this would be explained
to
him later. The boy was a pale attractive lad, though disfigured by his sickness,
who coldly met Simon’s gaze without saying anything. You had the impression he
was unable to speak or do more than just babble when you examined his mouth,
which lay helplessly in his face as though it didn’t belong there, as if it were
merely pasted on and hadn’t always been his. The boy’s hands, though, were very
beautiful, they looked as if they bore all the pain and dishonor of his illness,
as though they’d taken it upon themselves to bear this enormity, the entire
beautiful burden of weeping sorrow. Simon couldn’t help gazing lovingly at these
hands for a moment longer than was permitted; for at once he was commanded to
follow the lady, who led him down a corridor to the kitchen, where she said that
when there were no more important tasks for him, he was to make himself useful
to the cook. Most gladly, Simon replied, looking at the girl who appeared to
be
mistress of the kitchen. Thereupon—the next morning to be precise—he took up
his
service, that is, this service strode up to him and demanded this and that of
him and no longer left him a minute to think about whether or not such service
pleased him. He’d spent the night in the room with the boy, his young master,
sleeping and constantly waking up again; for he’d been instructed to sleep only
lightly, softly and superficially, that is, intentionally poorly, so that he’d
get accustomed to leaping quickly out of bed when the sick lad called in even
the faintest whisper, to receive his orders. Simon believed he was the man for
such sleep; for when he swiftly thought it over, he despised sleep and was glad
to avail himself of an opportunity that compelled him to disdain all solid, deep
sleep. The next morning, he didn’t feel in the least as if he’d slept
badly—though he also couldn’t have said how many times he’d leapt out of bed—and
went to work in good spirits. His first task was to run down to the street with
a fat white pot in his hands and have a woman there fill it with fresh milk.
While performing this duty, he was able to spend a moment observing the
awakening, damply gleaming day, letting this spectacle intoxicate and ignite
both his eyes before he ran back upstairs. He made the observation that his
limbs obeyed him supplely and well as he hurried up and down. Then, even before
the woman had arisen from her slumber, he and the girl had to tidy the rooms
assigned to him: the dining room, the parlor and the study. The floor was to
be
swept clean with a broom, the carpets given a brushing, table and chairs dusted,
windows breathed on and polished and all the objects located in the room
touched, picked up, cleaned and returned to their places. All of this was to
be
performed with lightning speed, but it seemed to Simon that when he’d done it
three times, he’d be able to do it with his eyes closed. After this work was
completed, the girl indicated to him that he might now clean a pair of shoes.
Simon picked up the shoes—indeed, these were truly the lady’s shoes. They were
beautiful shoes, delicate shoes with fur trim and made of a leather as soft as
silk. Simon had always adored shoes, not just any shoes, not stout sturdy ones,
just delicate shoes like these—and now he was holding just such a shoe in his
hand, and it was his duty to clean it although he didn’t actually see anything
that required cleaning. Women’s feet had always appeared holy to him, and to
his
eyes and senses shoes were like children, happy favored children who knew the
happiness of clothing and enclosing the delicately mobile, sensitive foot. What
a lovely human invention a shoe is, he thought as he wiped the shoe with a cloth
to pretend he was cleaning it. He was caught red-handed by the woman
herself, who now came into the kitchen and looked him over sternly; Simon lost
no time wishing her a good morning, to which she responded with a mere nod.
Simon found this utterly charming, indeed ravishing—to be bid good morning and
reply only with a nod of the head, as if to say: That’s right, dear boy, yes,
thanks so much, I did hear what you said, you said it nicely, I’m pleased with
you!