The Tanners

by Robert Walser

  Simon burst into laughter and this set the tone for the next hour. Then there was a knock at the door. The two of them got up, and Simon went to see who was there. It was the teacher from the next school. Her husband, a rough and ruthless individual, had beaten her yet again. They did what they could to comfort her, and in this they succeeded.

  The weather was growing ever warmer and the earth more resplendent, it was covered with a thick, blossoming carpet of meadows, the fields and pastures were steaming, the forests offered an enchanting sight with their beautiful, fresh, rich green. All of nature was presenting itself, expansive, stretching, curving, rearing up, whizzing and rustling and buzzing, fragrant and motionless as a bright beautiful dream. The land had become perfectly fat, lush, opaque and glutted. It was lolling, as it were, in voluptuous surfeit. It was green and dark brown and flecked with black, white, yellow and red, blossoming with hot breath, almost perishing beneath its profusion of blossoms. It lay there like a luxuriating, veiled woman, immobile, shifting her limbs, perfumed with scents. The gardens spread their fragrance into the streets and out over the fields, where men and women were working; the fruit trees were a bright, twittering singing, and the nearby, round, vaulted forest was a choral song of young men; the bright paths scarcely penetrated the green. In forest clearings, one would see a white, dreamy, indolent sky that one could imagine sinking down and rejoicing as birds rejoice, tiny birds that one has never before seen but that are so natural a part of nature. Memories arrived that a person didn’t wish to analyze and dissect, you weren’t capable of this, it caused such sweet pain, and you were too indolent to feel a pain through to the end. Thus you walked and thus stopped in your tracks, turning in all directions, gazing off into the distance, gazing up, away, down, across and to the ground, feeling deeply affected by all the languor of this blossoming. The buzzing in the forest was not the buzzing in the barer clearing, it was different and required in turn a staking out of new positions for new daydreams. Always you were having to tussle, resist, gently thrust aside, reflect and waver. It was all one great wavering, a struggle, a finding yourself weak. But this was sweet, quite simply sweet: a bit difficult, and then a bit parsimonious, then hypocritical, then crafty, then nothing at all, then perfectly stupid; and finally it became rather difficult to find anything else beautiful any longer, this just didn’t seem called for, and so you sat, strolled, loitered, drifted, trotted and tarried in such a way that you yourself became a bit of spring. Could all this buzzing feel delight at its own buzzing and cooing and singing? Was it given to the grass to observe its own beautiful variability? Might it have been possible for the beech to fall in love with its own appearance? Without growing weary or blunted, you let things be as they were, let them go, let them waver this way and that. All of nature, the way it was looking, was just a loiterer, a lingering and dangling! Scents hung in the air, and all the earth lingered and waited. Colors were the blissful expression of this. You could discern something prematurely weary and portentous in the bush with its blossoms. It was a sort of no-longer-wishing-to-go-on, but all one great smile. The blue, hazy wooded mountains sounded like far-off, distant horns, you felt the landscape to be a bit English, it was like a luxuriant English garden, the luxuriant growth and the interweaving and wafting of voices drew your senses to this affinity. You thought: In such and such a place things might look just now as they do right here, the region conjured up all other regions in your heart. It was comical and far-reaching, a carrying-off and bringing-hither: A bringing, as things are brought by young lads, an offering up, such as children might offer, an obeying and harkening. You could say and think whatever you pleased, yet it was always just the same unspoken, unthought thing—light and heavy, blissful and painful, poetic and natural. You understood the poets, or rather you didn’t actually understand them, for, walking along like this, you would have been far too indolent to imagine understanding them. You had no need to understand anything at all, there was no understanding, and yet understanding arrived of its own accord, dissolving in the effort of listening for a sound or gazing into the distance or remembering that in point of fact it was now time to return home and discharge some admittedly rather minor duty, for even in springtime there are duties to discharge.

  The nights were becoming splendid. The moon fell in love with the white of the blossoming bushes and trees and the long windings of the roads, and made them gleam. Moonlight shone in the fountains and the flowing river water. The churchyard with its silent graves was transformed into a white fairy place, making you forget the dead who lay buried there. The moon inserted itself among the tangle of thin, hanging, hair-like branches, providing light enough to make out the inscriptions on the headstones. Simon walked around the edge of the churchyard several times, then struck out on a further path that led him through the flat raised field, thrust himself between low, illuminated bushes, came upon a small, sloping meadow between them, and sat down there upon a stone to ponder the question of how much longer he was likely to continue this life of mere observation and contemplation. Soon it must surely come to an end, for things could not go on in this way. He was a man, and to him pertained the rigorous discharge of duty. Soon he would have to take action once more, this was becoming clear to him. When he got home, he said as much to his sister in fitting words. He shouldn’t be thinking about such things, at least not yet, she said. All right, he replied, I won’t think about it yet. What’s more, the thought of remaining here further was so enticing. What was it he wanted, what was driving him? He could hardly have travel money to make a trip somewhere, and as for the place he might to be going, what awaited him there? No, he would gladly remain where he was for an indeterminate brief time. Probably he’d drive himself mad with longing for the place once he left it, and what good would that do him? No, he’d have to make short work of it, this longing; for it would ill befit him. But didn’t people often engage in unbefitting pastimes? What’s more, he would be staying on, and had no intention of surrendering any further to these trains of thought, which he found vexing.

  Thus a few more days arrived and vanished. Time arrived so soundlessly and then withdrew without one’s noticing. In this way it actually moved fairly quickly, although before leaving it hesitated for a long while. The two of them, Simon and Hedwig, now became even more powerfully attached to one another. They spent their evenings chatting by lamplight and never wearied of speaking. They talked of food over their meals, whose simplicity and delicacy they praised with carefully chosen words, and as they worked they spoke of work; every activity they accompanied with words, and then they discussed the joys and pleasures of walking while out on their walks. They had long since forgotten they were only brother and sister, they felt conjoined more by fate than shared blood, interacting with one another more or less like two locked-up prisoners who are making an effort to forget their lives with the help of their friendship. They idled away a great deal of time, but they wished to see it wasted in this fashion, for each of them felt what gravity lay concealed behind these exchanges, and both believed themselves perfectly capable of speaking and acting in full earnestness if they only wished. Hedwig sensed she was revealing herself to her brother more and more and was fully conscious of the feeling of consolation this gave her. She found it flattering that he was living with her not only because it was of practical advantage and in accordance with his condition, but also because he found it interesting, and she thanked him for this by becoming even more truly fond of him than before. To both it appeared
that each found the other valuable enough to feel pride at spending a bit of their lives together. They spoke and thought a great deal about memories, promising to serve up everything they could recall from that early, bygone age when both were children. Do you remember? This was the way so many of their conversations began. And so they immersed themselves in the precious images of the past and were always at pains to let these remembrances, regardless of their object, instruct their hearts and minds, careful always to whet their laughter on them, or—when the memories were sorrowful—maintain still their high spirits, as was only fitting. The past, in turn, made the present appear sharper and more tender, and then this very present moment they were perceiving took on a more vivid and richer aspect, as if doubled or trebled in a mirror, and it more visibly, more clearly pointed the way to the future they often imagined together, an activity that filled them with a mild intoxication. What future could be lovelier than the one glimpsed in a daydream; and the thoughts they thought were always light and gay.

  –10–

  One evening Hedwig said: “I almost have the impression there’s something like a thin but opaque wall cutting me off from life. I can’t even manage to feel sad about it, just pensive. Perhaps other girls feel something similar, I don’t know. Perhaps I missed out on my life’s true profession when I set out to find a career for life. Studying to learn a profession is something we girls do halfheartedly anyhow, for us it isn’t the main thing. How strange it now seems to me that I became a teacher. Why not a dressmaker, or something completely different? I can no longer even imagine the feelings that drove me to take up such a profession. What sense of wonder and promise held me in its thrall? Did I think I would become a benefactress, did I feel I had no choice but to see this as my duty, my calling? You believe all kinds of things when you lack experience, and later you experience things that make you see the world quite differently. How very strange. Taking life as seriously as I did involves a certain severity in the way one treats oneself. I must tell you, Simon: I took life too seriously, too sacredly; I didn’t stop to consider that I was a girl when I undertook a task fit only for men. No one told me I was a girl. No one flattered me with such an observation. No one thought of me so thoughtfully as would have been necessary to observe so simple a thing, which I’d have heeded even if my first response was indignation. If these words had come from a heart, I’d have heeded them. But all the words I heard were superficial, offhanded: ‘Do this, do that. It’s good you want to take up a profession. It does you honor.’ And so on. What an honor it is to be a miserable girl filled with emptiness and longings, as practicing this honorable profession has made me. A profession is a burden to be borne through life by a man with strong shoulders and a powerful will: A girl like me is crushed by it. Does my profession bring me joy? None at all. Please don’t be too shocked by this confession; I’m only making it because you’re the sort of person one almost longs to confess to. You understand me, I know you do. Others would perhaps understand me just as well, but only out of a sense of obligation. You understand willingly, as you have no reason to feel shocked by simple, honest confessions. On the inside, you’re living my entire life along with me, your sister. In fact you’re far too good to be only my brother. What a pity you can’t be more to me: This too you’d do willingly; for I see you nodding your head. Let me continue. When a person has you as a listener, it’s a pleasure to speak. And so hear this: I’ve decided to give up my school career, and soon; for I lack the strength to withstand this life much longer. I thought it would be so lovely: introducing children to the world, teaching them, opening their souls to virtue, watching over them and guiding them. And indeed the task is lovely, but it’s also far too strenuous for a weak woman like me; I’m no match for it, not by far. I thought I was, but now I realize the opposite is true: I find myself buckling beneath my responsibilities. I thought it would be a daily source of refreshment to me, but I only experience it as an excessive and unjust burden. Something that oppresses you can’t help but seem unjust. Do you think it’s unfair of me to feel this way? Don’t my feelings themselves set the standard for measuring injustices against my person? And can I help it if this injustice is, in its way, guileless and sweet: the children? The children! I can no longer endure them. At the beginning I rejoiced at all their faces, their little gestures, their eagerness, even their mistakes. I rejoiced at the thought of devoting myself to this young, shy, helpless little band of humans. But can a single thought belie the life one is experiencing, can one think away a life with an idea? Beware the day when your idea and your sacrifice no longer mean much to you—when you can no longer manage to think the thought that’s supposed to compensate for all the rest with the heartfelt passion needed to justify this exchange within your soul. Woe betide you if you even notice an exchange was made. For then you’ll begin to brood, making distinctions, weighing one thing against another, gloomily and balefully comparing; you’ll feel unhappy at having become so fickle and unfaithful, and you’ll rejoice when each day finally draws to a close so you can hide yourself away somewhere and weep. Having just once tasted unfaithfulness, you’re ready to abandon your life’s guiding principle, which demands utter devotion, and yet you declare: I’ll do my duty and think of nothing else! The children are still dear to me, they’ve always been dear to me. Who can help being fond of children? But when I’m teaching, I think of other things, things more distant and greater than their little souls, and this constitutes a betrayal I can no longer endure. A schoolteacher must lose herself in little things with all her heart, otherwise she cannot exercise power, and without power she is worthless. Perhaps I’m expressing myself in an exaggerated way, and I’m also quite aware that all or most people to whom I might say these things would find them exaggerated. But my way of speaking accords with my view of life; surely it’s out of the question I might speak some other way. I haven’t yet learned to feign contentment, satisfaction or a sense of well-being I don’t feel, and anyone who thinks I might learn this is mistaken. I’m too weak to pretend and deceive, and ponder this as I may, I cannot see any grounds that would justify this dissimulation. If I speak to you now in this way, it’s because I’m taking advantage of a moment—whose arrival I’ve long been awaiting—to unburden myself of my weaknesses once and for all. It’s such a relief to be permitted to confess one’s weaknesses after months of nerve-racking restraint, which have demanded more strength than I possess. Since I cannot possibly go on indefinitely performing duties that bring out the worst in me, I’m now looking for work that will appeal both to my pride and to my weakness. Shall I succeed in finding it? I truly cannot say, but one thing I do know for certain is that I must search until I’ve succeeded in convincing myself that happiness and duty can coincide. I wish to become a private tutor and have already written to a wealthy Italian lady offering my services in a perhaps somewhat overly long letter in which I inform her that I am in a position to instruct two children, a girl and a boy, in all the subjects she might desire. I don’t now remember everything I wrote, just that I am eager to exchange the schoolroom for a nursery, that I love and respect children, that I can play the piano and embroider pretty things and that I’m the sort of girl who flourishes under a firm hand. I expressed myself with rather proud words, saying I was adept at loving-kindness and obedience but incapable of flattery, that I could flatter only if I myself were to demand it of me; that I would rather imagine my future employer as proud and strict than lenient, that it would cause me pain and disappointment if I
were to discover that one might, if one had such intentions, easily, insolently deceive her; that I wasn’t planning to enter her employment for the purpose of resting, but rather that I hoped to be given work for both my heart and hands. I confessed to her that I was already, anticipatorily, feeling heartfelt love for her two children, that I in no way lack the respect for children a person needs to be able to educate them both strictly and with devotion, that I expected to be given free rein to serve her, my lady, that I possessed a simultaneously strict and easy-going notion of service, and that it would be impossible to convince me to deviate from it. I wrote that it would be pointless to expect from me slick or lickspittle slavishness, and that I lacked all talent for performing courtesies in a crude, indecorous way, but that I would gladly forgo gentle treatment and instead be governed coldly and strictly as long as it was not in an insulting manner, that I knew my own station and would at all times distinguish it from hers, that I would not insist on justice but only on a pride that would forbid her from treating me unjustly, that it would fill my heart with joy if she would occasionally, even just once a year, be so kind as to give me some sign of her satisfaction, which I would treasure far more than familiar treatment, which I’d find humiliating rather than a kindness, that I was hoping to find a lady I could look up to in order to learn how a person should behave in all circumstances, and that she had no cause to fear that by engaging me she would be taking a gossip into her service who would enjoy blurting out her secrets. I told her I was incapable of saying how dearly I wished to admire and obey her and to show her how very adept I would be at never being a burden to her. I then gave voice to the fear and at the same time the hope that, while I don’t yet speak the language of her country, I should soon master it if they would only show me how to go about this. Otherwise I couldn’t think of anything that would not give me the right to join her household, I said by way of conclusion, except perhaps the shyness that still adhered to my person, but which I hoped to overcome, as clumsiness and awkwardness were otherwise not in my nature—”