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 commissioned 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.
Inside, in his brother’s room, he gazed at everything with wondering eyes, though there wasn’t much to observe. In one corner stood the bed, an interesting bed—after all, it was where Kaspar slept; and the window was a marvelous window—though made of simple wood and with plain curtains—since Kaspar had just stuck his head out this very window. The floor, table, bedspread and chairs were covered with drawings and pictures. Each separate sheet now slid through the visitor’s fingers, every one beautiful and so perfectly executed. Simon found it all but inconceivable what a worker this painter was, so many things lay before his eyes that he could scarcely manage to look at them all. “Why, it’s nature herself you’ve painted,” he exclaimed. “I find it so bittersweet to look at new pictures of yours. Each one is so beautiful, they gleam with sentiment and seem to strike nature in her heart, and yet you are always painting new things, always striving for something even better—possibly you also destroy many things that have turned out poorly in your eyes. I’m incapable of finding any of your pictures weak, each one moves me and bewitches my soul. Even just a brushstroke of yours, or a color, gives me a firm and unshakeable conviction of your talent—it’s simply
wonderful. And when I look at your landscapes, painted so expansively and so warmly by your brush, I always see you, and along with you I feel a sort of pain which tells me there is never an end to art. I understand art so well—the urgency human beings feel for its sake, that longing to vie for Nature’s love and good graces in this way. Why do we wish to see a charming landscape reproduced in a picture? Is it just for the sake of pleasure? No, we are hoping this image will explain something—but this is a something that will surely always remain inexplicable. It cuts so deeply into us when we, lying at a window, dreamily watch the setting sun; but that’s nothing at all compared to a street when it’s raining and the women are daintily raising their skirts, or to the sight of a garden or lake beneath the weightless morning sky or to a simple fir tree in winter or to a boat ride at night, or a view of the Alps. Fog and snow enchant us no less than sunshine and colors: Fog refines the colors, and snow is, after all, and particularly beneath the blue of the warm early spring sky, a profound, marvelous, almost incomprehensible thing. How beautiful that you paint, Kaspar, and paint so beautifully. I’d like to be a little bit of nature and be loved by you the way you love every bit of nature. A painter must love nature so ardently and achingly, even more tempestuously and tremblingly and openly than a poet, such as Sebastian, for example—and people are saying he’s built himself a hut up in the high pastures so he can worship nature undisturbed, like a Japanese hermit. But poets, no doubt, are less faithfully attached to nature than you painters; for as a rule they approach nature with their heads over-educated, over-stuffed. But perhaps I’m mistaken, and in this case I would gladly be mistaken. How you must have worked, Kaspar. Surely you have no cause to reproach yourself. I wouldn’t do so. Not even I reproach myself, and truly, I have ample cause. But I don’t, because this makes a person nervous, and nervousness is an ugly state unworthy of human beings—”
The Tanners Page 12
