The Tanners

  Klara paused for a moment, smiled at Simon, and then went on:

  “I was forced to seek employment, and found a job working for a photographer as his receptionist. Coming into contact with so many people there, I was courted and even proposed to several times, but I brushed them all aside with a smile. All men thought, looking at me: ‘There’s something so tender about her, so domestic-motherly, she’d be a good one!’ But I didn’t become anyone’s ‘good one.’ My position allowed me certain expenditures, at least I was able to keep all my lovely dresses, which has proved useful to this day. My boss was a man I was able to respect, which made my work much easier, and I performed my work as if caught up in a quiet pleasant dream. I’d accustomed myself to flashing a quite particular smile when clients came in, and this made me quite popular, everyone thought I was kind, and I attracted customers, which prompted my employer to increase my salary. At the time I was almost happy. Everything vanished before me in a haze of lovely sweet memories. I felt the approach of my labor pains, and this contributed to my melancholy-happy mood. It was snowing, the streets were completely enveloped in flakes. And when in the evening I walked through the snowy streets, I thought of you brothers, you and Kaspar and a great deal of Hedwig, to whom I paid grateful homage in my thoughts and feelings. I only allowed myself to write her a single time. She never answered. ‘But that’s for the best,’ I thought. I found myself too for the best when I thought such things. I was becoming more and more fulfilled by everything, and I walked always with slow steps, feeling every footstep as an act of human kindness. Meanwhile I gave up my elegant room in the center of town and found lodgings here where you now see me. In the morning and evening I’d ride the electric streetcar back and forth, always attracting the attention of the other passengers. There was something odd about me, I myself could feel this. Many unconsciously starting talking to me, a few wishing just to exchange a word or two, and others to make my acquaintance. But acquaintances no longer had much appeal for me. I thought I could tell everything in advance, and this gave me such a decisive, rejecting but also gentle feeling that soothed me. Men! How often they spoke to me. They resembled curious children who wanted to know what I did, where I lived, whom I knew, where I ate lunch and how I was in the habit of spending my evenings. They appeared to me like innocent, rather importunate children; that’s what I was like at the time. Never did I respond harshly to a single one of them; I had no need to, for not one man allowed himself liberties: To them I was a lady who simultaneously attracted them and left them cold. Once a small, clever-looking girl spoke to me, this was Rosa, the Rosa you know. She revealed all her sufferings to me and her life story, the two of us became friends, and now she’s gone and married, though I advised her not to. She often visits me, me, the Queen of the Poor!” —

  Again Klara fell silent for a moment, looking at Simon with childish amusement, and then went on speaking:

  “The Queen of the Poor! Yes, that’s who I am. Do you not see how regally your Klara is dressed? This is a dress left over from my ball wardrobe: with a low-cut back! After all, I do have to keep up appearances given my status as regent. My adherents like to see me dressed like this, they have a taste for majesty, the splendor of a ball gown makes quite a singular impression in this realm of stained gray female garments. One must stand out, dear Simon, if one wishes to have influence, yet please do keep listening to everything in order. What an expert, pleasant listener you are. No one listens like you! It’s one of your good qualities. It feels so natural, so lovely to be telling you things: When I moved here to this remote neighborhood, I slowly but surely learned to love the poor, the ones who’ve been thrust to the other, darker side of the world, the masses, as this entire world of longing and hardship is dismissively called. I saw I could be needed here, and without forcing the matter or making any fuss about it, I found a place for myself here, and now in fact I am needed. If I were to leave again today, these people, these womenfolk, children and men would wail with sorrow. At the beginning I was put off, actually repulsed by their squalor, but then I saw that this squalor was not so hideous when seen from close up as from a stiff grandiose distance. I taught my hands and even my mouth how to touch these children whose faces were not the cleanest. I accustomed myself to shaking the rough hands of workers and day-laborers, and quickly noticed the gentleness with which these people took my hand. I found many things in this world that reminded me of you two, of you and Kaspar. A great many delicate and hidden things finally enticed me to become the mistress of and advocate for these people. Doing so was simultaneously easy and difficult. The womenfolk for one thing! How much effort it cost to convince them of their infirmities and horrific failings such that they gradually were seized by a desire to free themselves from their disgrace. I introduced them to the blessings and pleasures of cleanliness and I saw that after their long, distrustful hesitation they came to take great pleasure in it. The men proved easier to influence: I was beautiful, and so they obeyed me better, and were more talented in grasping my simple lessons. Simon! If you only knew how happy it makes me to have become a secret educator of these poor people! How little one needs to know to find people even more impoverished in knowledge whom one can guide. No, knowledge itself is not enough. Here one needs the courage and the desire to take a stand vigorously, to shore up one’s stand with clemency and pride, and to approach others with passion. I accustomed myself to a way of speaking that explained all the learning I possessed and could impart in a readily graspable way, using the sorts of expressions loved by the humble and humiliated. And so I became their ruler by adapting myself to their thoughts and feelings, though often these were not to my taste. But with time I found them to my taste. A person who exerts influence simultaneously has a talent for being imperceptibly influenced by those he’s influencing. One’s heart and habits can easily bring this about. And then one day as I lay in bed, painfully awaiting the arrival of my child who is asleep there in the next room, they came to me, the women and girls, they tended and cared for me and showered me with kindnesses until I was able to get up again. During this time, their menfolk asked after me with concern, and when they saw me again, they seemed delighted to be finding me even more beautiful than before. Thus did they honor their queen. This was in the springtime. Still rather weak from giving birth, I sat in my room covered with flowers, for all of them brought me flowers, as many as they could manage. A wealthy young man from the neighborhood often visited me and I allowed him to sit at my feet; I saw this as a sort of tribute, and it was tender of him. One day he implored me to become his wife. I pointed to the child, yet this only encouraged him to repeat his proposals, which struck me as rather peculiar, over the following days. He told me the whole story of his empty restless life, and I felt pity for him and promised him my hand in marriage. A mere gesture or glance from me is enough to satisfy him, and he loves me in such a way that I am conscious of it at every moment. If I say to him: ‘Artur, it’s impossible,’ he turns pale and I must fear some calamity. He’s in a position of utter helplessness before me, and I lack the strength to make him unhappy. Besides, he’s rich, and I need money for my people, and he’ll give it to us. He does everything I want. He won’t allow me to ask for things, instead he asks me to command him. That’s how it is with him. He’s about to come now, I’ll introduce you to him. Or would you rather go? You look as though you’re about to leave. Well, go then! Perhaps it’s better this way. Yes, it’s better. He would be suspicious. In this regard he’s quite awful.
He’s perfectly capable of banging his head against the wall until it bleeds if he sees me with a young man. Besides, I don’t want to have anyone else here when you’re here. And when others are here, you shouldn’t be. I want to have you all to myself, to myself alone. There’s so much more I must say to you about how all of this came to be. We say so much, but are these the right things?—Go now. I know you’ll come back again soon. Besides, I’ll write to you. Leave me your address. Well then, farewell!”

  On the staircase as he was going out, Simon passed a dark fleeting figure. “That must be this Artur,” he thought and went on his way. Night had fallen. He set out upon a small narrow dirt path, turning around after he’d gone a few steps: The window was now closed, and dark red curtains had been drawn behind it, luminous in a curiously dismal way in the light of a lamp that had no doubt just been lit. A shadow moved behind the curtain, it was Klara’s shadow. Simon walked on, slowly, deep in thought. He was in no hurry whatever to arrive back in the city. No one was waiting there for him. The next day he would be writing at the Copyists Bureau again. It was high time he at last put his shoulder to the grindstone, worked, earned some money. Perhaps he might finally find a post again somewhere. He laughed as he thought the word “post.” When he arrived in town, it was already quite late. He went into a music hall that was still open, hoping to amuse himself, but there wasn’t much of interest. He saw the act of a comic whom he’d have liked to see vanish as an ordinary person among the crowd watching him. In fact this comic deserved, based on his performance, to have his ears boxed. But no! Soon Simon was feeling the most emphatic pity for this poor wretch who was having to contort his legs, arms, nose, mouth, eyes and even his poor bony cheeks, only to fail after all these torments to achieve his goal of being comical. Simon would have liked to shout out “Boo!” and then again nothing more than “Alas!” One could clearly tell, just looking at the man, that he was honest, decent and not particularly cunning; but this made what he was doing on stage all the more horrid, for this was an activity suitable only for people who must be equally supple and dissolute if they wish to present a rounded, pleasing tableau. Simon had an inkling that this comic had perhaps, not long ago, still been practicing some quiet solid profession from which, no doubt because of some error or misdeed, he’d been ejected. The entire man made a profoundly shameful, repulsive impression on him. Then a petite young singer came on stage dressed in the short tight uniform of a hussar officer. This was better, for what this girl had to offer verged on the artistic. Then came a juggler who, however, would have done better extracting corks from bottles than balancing bottles on the tip of his nose, which he went about in an utterly childish, tasteless fashion. He placed a burning lamp upon his flat head and was insolent enough to expect the audience to see this as artistic. Simon stayed long enough to hear a little boy singing a song that pleased him, and then he immediately left the establishment on this good note, going back out to the street.

  Hardly any people were still walking about. There appeared to be a dispute in progress in a side street, and indeed, as Simon drew closer, he witnessed a violent scene: Two girls were striking one another, one using her fists, the other a red parasol. This battle was illuminated by a lone, melancholy lantern that in part lit up the girls’ faces. Of their clothing and hats only rags remained, and all the while the two of them were screaming, not so much out of fury as pain, and this pain wasn’t so much on account of the blows as out of a leftover sense of shame at seeing themselves act in such a miserably bestial way. A horrific battle but only a short one, it was soon ended by a constable. He led away both girls along with an elegantly dressed gentleman who appeared to have been the cause of the dispute. A postman had played the role of snitch, and now he was putting on airs. The girls now directed the full force of their fury at the postman, who as a result beat a quick retreat.

  Simon went home. But when he reached the alley where he lived, he caught sight of a group of people who were laughing and shrieking, and it turned out to be a woman who was attracting the attention of these night owls. She held a switch with which she was striking a drunkard who appeared to be her husband, whom she had just dragged out of some little bar. All this while she was shrieking, and as Simon approached, she cried out to him in loud shrieked words, lamenting what a scoundrel she had for a husband. All at once from the top of the building beneath which the group was standing, a stream of water came shooting out, maliciously wetting the heads and clothes of those standing below. It was a custom in this corner of the old part of town to pour water on nocturnal revelers who got too noisy. This custom might well have attained a venerable, hallowed age, but it was nonetheless always shockingly novel and striking for those on whom it was brought to bear. Everyone directed imprecations in the direction of the woman standing up above in a white mantilla gazing down at them like a malevolent wicked spirit. Simon more than all the others shouted up to her: “What in the world are you thinking of up there, you woman or man in the window frame? If you have too much water, pour it on your own head instead of other people’s. Your head may well be in more need of it. What sort of manners is that, dousing the street in the post-midnight hour and treacherously plunging people into a bath along with their clothes. Were you not so high up, and I not so far below, I’d take a bite right out of that apple-head of yours until your mouth watered! Good Lord, if there is such a thing as justice, you should pay me a thaler for every drop that’s sprinkled my shoulders, since it seems to me this would spoil your pleasure. Withdraw from sight, you ghost up there, or you’ll tempt me to scale the wall of your building in order to ascertain whether you’re wearing woman’s or man’s hair. The outrage of being sprinkled like this is enough to turn a man into a devil!”

  Simon was whipping himself into a frenzy with this vulgar speech. It did him good to be able to shout and bluster. A few moments later, after all, he’d be lying in bed fast asleep. How tedious it was always to be doing exactly the same thing. Starting tomorrow, he would resolve to become a different person. The next day, sitting in the Copyists Office, filled with and distracted by his thoughts of Klara, he made many slips of the pen, causing the secretary of the Office, a former staff captain, to reproach him and threaten that he’d be given no more work if he didn’t intend to go about it more conscientiously.

  –18–

  Autumn came. Simon had walked so many more times though the nocturnal warmth of the alley, and he walked there still, but now the season was no longer mild. You could tell the trees out in the meadows must be losing their leaves even if you didn’t go there yourself to watch the leaves falling. Even in the alleyway you could feel it. One sunny autumn day Klaus had arrived, a scholarly project and plans had brought him to the region for a day. Lured by the beautiful sunshine, the two of them walked out into the high hilly fields, not saying much and carefully avoiding all-too-intimate topics of conversation. The path led them through a forest and then out again past wide expanses of meadow whose late, succulent grass Klaus admired along with the brown-spotted cows grazing there. Simon had found it lovely, a bit pensive but nonetheless lovely, to be walking there beside Klaus without much fuss or conversation through the autumnal lowlands, listening to the cowbells, speaking a few words but more often gazing off into the distance than speaking. Then they ascended a wooded hill at a comfortable, leisurely pace, for Klaus wished not to leave behind a single twig or berry without lovingly observing it; then they arrived at the top beside a lovely forest’s edge where the unspeakably m
ild, caressing, autumnal evening sun received them, and where once more an open vista lay before them, a view down into a valley in which a glimmering white river snaked along between yellow treetops and the little woods sticking out, passing a charming red-roofed village amid the brown slopes of the vineyards that couldn’t help but bring joy to all who saw them. Here they’d thrown themselves down upon the meadow and for a long time lay there quietly, without speaking, letting their eyes feast on the vast expanses of land and their ears on the sound of the bells, both of them thinking that somehow, somewhere sounds can be heard in every landscape even when no bells are ringing, and then they’d had one of those silent conversations, more felt than spoken, that cannot be written down and have no other purpose than establishing goodwill, conversations that aren’t trying to say anything at all but whose scents and sounds and intentions nonetheless remain unforgettable. Klaus had said: “Certainly if I can be allowed to imagine things might still turn out well with you, I’d be of better cheer. The thought of you becoming a useful, purposeful, fulfilled human being has always filled my heart with the loveliest chiming and pealing. You’re as well equipped as anyone to enjoy people’s respect, and on top of this you have qualities others lack, though in you they’re too ardent and avid. You’ve just got to dampen your avidness and stop making demands on yourself so testily. This harms a person, it wears you down and eventually turns you cold, take my word for it. If you happen not to find every last little thing in this world to your liking, this is not by a long shot grounds for feeling resentment. Others’ opinions and dispositions must prevail as well, and overly good intentions are far more likely to poison a man’s heart than their opposite, though that too is a malaise. You possess, it seems to me, too much desire to leap about. Running yourself breathless while chasing after some goal gives you pleasure. That won’t do. Let every day take its calm, natural, rounded-off course, and be a bit more proud of having made things comfortable for yourself, as after all is fitting for a human being. It’s our duty to set an example for others of how to live a life of ease with dignity and a certain gravitas, for we live surrounded by quiet pensive cultural worries that are far removed from the hot resentful breath of the scufflers and brawlers. You have—I must say this to you—something savage about you, and then, in the blink of an eye, you can change course and display a tenderness that then requires too much tenderness on the part of others to survive. Many things that should hurt you don’t offend you in the least, while you allow yourself to be wounded by quite ordinary things, natural products of the world and of life. You must try to become one of a multitude, then things will surely go well for you, as you know no weariness when it comes to fulfilling demands, and once you’ve won people’s love, you’ll feel the urge to prove to them that you deserve it. The way you are now, you’re just slinking around corners and expiring in sentimental longings not truly worthy of a citizen, human being and above all a man. So many things occur to me that you might undertake and do to solidify your standing, but in the end I must leave to you the labor of giving shape to your own life, for advice is rarely worth a fig.”—Simon said then: “Why are you filled with worries on so beautiful a day when looking out into the distance can make a person dissolve in happiness?” —