The Tanners

by Robert Walser

  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 c
ome 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 yourself!” —

  “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!