The Tanners

  “Give this young man something to do!”

  The spectacles nodded. With this, Simon became an assistant bookseller. Simon—for that was his name.

  At around this same time, Professor Klaus, a brother of Simon’s who lived in a historic capital where he’d made a name for himself, had begun to worry about his younger brother’s behavior. A good, quiet, dutiful person, he would dearly have loved to see his brothers find the firm respect-commanding ground beneath their feet in life that he, the eldest, had. But this was so utterly not the case, at least till now, in fact it was so very much the opposite, that Professor Klaus began to reproach himself in his heart. He told himself, for example: “I should have been a person who would long since have had every opportunity to lead my brothers to the right path. Until now I’ve failed to do so. How could I have neglected these duties, etc.” Dr. Klaus knew thousands of duties, small and large, and sometimes it seemed as if he were longing to have even more of them. He was one of those people who feel so compelled to fulfill duties that they go plunging into great collapsing edifices constructed entirely of disagreeable duties simply out of the fear that some secret, inconspicuous duty might somehow elude them. They cause themselves to experience many a troubled hour because of these unfulfilled duties—never stopping to consider how one duty always piles a second one upon the person undertaking the first—and they believe they’ve already fulfilled something like a duty just by being made anxious and uneasy by any dark inkling of its presence. They meddle in many an affair that—if they’d stop to think about it in a less anxious way—hasn’t a blessed thing to do with them, and they wish to see others as worry-laden as themselves. They tend to cast envious glances upon naïve unencumbered people, and then criticize them for being frivolous characters since they move through life so gracefully, their heads held so easily aloft. Dr. Klaus often forced himself to entertain a certain small modest sensation of insouciance, but always he would return again to his gray dreary duties, in the thrall of which he languished as in a dark prison. Perhaps, back when he was still young, he’d once felt a desire to stop, but he’d lacked the strength to leave undone something that resembled a nagging duty and couldn’t just walk past it with a dismissive smile. Dismissive? Oh, he never dismissed anything at all! Attempting this—or so it seemed to him—would have split him in twain from bottom to top; he’d have been incapable of avoiding painful recollections of what he’d cast aside and dismissed. He never dismissed or discarded anything at all, and he was wasting his young life analyzing and examining things utterly unworthy of examination, study, attention or love. Thus he’d grown older, but since he was by no means anything like a person devoid of sensibility and imagination, he often also reproached himself bitterly for neglecting the duty of being at least a little happy. This was yet another neglect of duty, a new one, which with perfect acuity demonstrated that the dutiful never quite succeed in fulfilling all their duties, indeed, that such individuals are the most likely of all human beings to disregard their foremost duties and only later—perhaps when it’s already too late—call them once more to mind. On more than one occasion Dr. Klaus felt sad about himself when he thought of the precious happiness that had faded from his view, the happiness of finding himself united with a young sweet girl, who of course would have to have been a girl from an impeccable family. At around the same time as he was contemplating his own person in a melancholy frame of mind, he wrote to his brother Simon, whom he genuinely loved and whose conduct in this world troubled him, a letter whose contents were approximately as follows:

  Dear Brother,

  It would appear you are refusing to tell me anything about yourself. Perhaps things aren’t well with you and this is why you don’t write. You are once more, as so often before, lacking a solid steady occupation—I’ve been sorry to hear this, and to hear it from strangers. From you, it seems, I can no longer expect any candid reports. Believe me, this pains me. So very many things now cause me displeasure, and must you too—who always seemed to me to hold such promise—contribute to the bleakness of my mood, which for many reasons is far from rosy? I shall continue to hope, but if you are still even a little bit fond of your brother, please don’t make me hope in vain for too long. Go and do something that might justify a person’s belief in you in some way or other. You have talent and, as I like to imagine, possess a clear head; you’re clever too, and all your utterances reflect the good core I’ve always known your soul possesses. But why, acquainted as you are with the way this world is put together, do you now display so little perseverance? Why are you always leaping from one thing to the next? Does your own conduct not frighten you? You must possess quite a stockpile of inner strength to endure this constant change of professions, which is such a disservice to yourself in this world. In your shoes, I would have despaired long ago. I really cannot understand you at all in this, but for precisely this reason—that after experiencing all too often that nothing can be achieved in this world without patience and goodwill—I’m not abandoning my hope of one day seeing you energetically seize hold of a career. And surely you wish to achieve something. In any case, such a lack of ambition is hardly like you, in my experience. My advice to you is: Stick it out, knuckle under, pursue some difficult task for three or four short years, obey your superiors, show that you can perform, but also show that you have character, and then a career path will open before you—and it will lead you through all the known world if you desire to travel. The world and its people will show themselves to you quite differently once you yourself are truly something: when you are in a position to mean something to the world. In this way, it seems to me, you will perhaps find far more satisfaction in life than even the scholar who (though he clearly recognizes the strings from which all lives and deeds depend) remains chained to the narrow confines of his study but nonetheless, as I can report from experience, is often not so terribly comfortable. There’s still time for you to become a quite splendidly serviceable businessman, and you have no idea to what an extent businessmen have the opportunity to design their existences to be the most absolutely liveliest of lives. The way you are now, you’re just creeping around the corners and through the cracks of life: This should cease. Perhaps I ought to have intervened earlier, much earlier; maybe I ought to have helped you more with deeds than with mere words of warning, but I don’t know, given your proud mind, with its one determination to be helped only by yourself in every way possible, perhaps I’d have done more to offend than to genuinely convince you. What are you now doing with your days? Do tell me about them. Given all the worries I’ve endured on your behalf, I might now perhaps deserve your being somewhat more loquacious and communicative. As for me, what sort of a person am I? Someone to be wary of approaching unreservedly and with trust? Do you consider me a person to be feared? What is it about me which makes you wish to avoid me? Perhaps our circumstance? That I am the “big brother” and possibly know a bit more than you? Well then, know that I would be glad to be young again, and impractical, and naïve. And yet I am not quite so glad, dear brother, as a person should be. I am unhappy. Perhaps it’s too late for me to become happy. I’ve now reached an age when a man who still has no home of his own cannot think of those happy individuals who enjoy the bliss of seeing a young woman occupied with running their households without the most painful longing. To love a girl, what a lovely thing this is, brother. And it’s beyond my reach. —No, you really have no need to fear me, it is I who am seeking you out once more, who am writing to you, hoping to r
eceive a warm friendly response. Perhaps you are now in fact richer than I—perhaps you have more hopes and far more reason to have them, have plans and prospects I myself cannot even dream of—the thing is: I don’t fully know you anymore. How could I after all these years of separation? Let me make your acquaintance once more, force yourself to write to me. Perhaps one day I shall enjoy the good fortune of seeing all my brothers happy; you, in any case, I should like to see content. What is Kaspar up to? Do you write to one another? What about his art? I’d love to have news of him as well. Farewell, brother. Perhaps we shall speak together again soon.

  Yours, Klaus.

  When a week had passed, Simon entered his employer’s office just as evening was arriving and made the following speech: “You have disappointed me. Don’t look so astonished, there’s nothing to be done about it, I shall quit your place of business this very day and ask that you pay me my wages. Please, let me finish. I know perfectly well what I want. During the past week I’ve come to realize that the entire book trade is nothing less than ghastly if it must entail standing at one’s desk from early morning till late at night while out of doors the gentlest winter sun is gleaming, and forces one to scrunch one’s back, since the desk is far too small given my stature, writing like some accursed happenstance copyist and performing work unsuitable for a mind such as my own. I am capable of performing quite different tasks, esteemed sir, than the ones entrusted to me here. I’d expected to be able to sell books in your shop, wait on elegant individuals, bow and bid adieu to the customers when they’re ready to depart. What’s more, I’d imagined I might be allowed to peer into the mysterious universe of the book trade and glimpse the world’s features in the visage and operation of your enterprise. But I experienced nothing of the sort. Do you imagine my young years in such a sorry state that I need to crumple up and suffocate in a lousy bookshop? You are equally mistaken if you suppose, for example, that a young man’s back exists in order to be hunched. Why didn’t you allocate for my use a good proper desk so I could comfortably sit or stand? Are not splendid American-sized desks available for purchase? If one wishes to have an employee, I believe, one should know how to accommodate him. This is a knack which, apparently, you don’t have. Lord knows, all sorts of things are demanded of a young beginner: industry, loyalty, punctuality, tact, sobriety, modesty, moderation, purpose, and who knows what else. But to whom would it ever occur to start demanding virtues from a business owner such as yourself? Should my strength, my desire for activity, the pleasure I take in my own person, and the talent for being so gloriously capable of all these things be squandered on an old, meager, narrow bookshop? No, before I do any such squandering, I might join the army and sell my freedom altogether, if only for the sake of getting rid of it. It does not please me, respected sir, to own a half-measure, I would prefer to number among those who are utterly without possessions, for then at least my soul will still belong to me. You may be thinking it’s inappropriate for me to speak with such vehemence, and that this is not a fitting place for a speech: So be it, I shall hold my tongue, pay me what I am owed and you will never set eyes on me again.”

  The old bookseller was quite astonished now to hear this young, quiet, shy individual—who had worked so conscientiously during the past week—speaking in such a way. From the adjoining work rooms, some five heads belonging to clerks and shop assistants pressed together, watching and witnessing this scene. The old gentleman said: “If I had suspected you of such inclinations, Mr. Simon, I would have thought twice before offering you employment in my shop. You appear to be quite peculiarly fickle. Since a desk isn’t to your liking, the entire enterprise displeases you. From what region of the world do you come, and are all the young people there cut from the same cloth? Just look how you are now standing before me—the old man. No doubt you don’t yourself know what, in that callow head of yours, you actually want. Well, I have no intention of preventing you from leaving—here is your money, but in all honesty I must say this gives me no pleasure.” The bookseller paid him his money, and Simon pocketed it.

  When he arrived at home, he saw his brother’s letter lying on the table, he read it and then thought to himself: “He’s a good person, but I’m not going to write to him. I don’t know how to describe my circumstances, and they aren’t worth describing anyhow. I’ve no cause for complaint, and just as little reason to jump for joy, but grounds aplenty to keep silent. It’s quite true, the things he writes, but for just that reason I shall be satisfied with the truth—let’s leave it at that. That he is unhappy is something he himself must come to terms with, but I don’t believe he is really so terribly unhappy. Letters often come out sounding that way. Writing a letter, you get carried away and make incautious remarks. In letters, the soul always wishes to do the talking, and generally it makes a fool of itself. So it’s best I don’t write.”

  —And with this, the matter was settled. Simon was filled with thoughts, with beautiful thoughts. Whenever he was thinking, beautiful thoughts flooded his mind quite involuntarily. The next morning—the sun was blindingly bright—he reported to the Employment Referral Office. The man who sat there writing got to his feet. This man knew Simon quite well and was in the habit of addressing him with a sort of mocking agreeable familiarity. “Ah, Mr. Simon! Back again? What brings you to us today?”

  “I’m looking for a job.”

  “You’ve certainly stopped by here often enough while seeking employment, a person might be tempted to think you uncannily swift when it comes to job-seeking.” The man laughed, but his laugh was gentle; he was incapable of harsh laughter. “What was your last place of employment, if I’m allowed to ask?”

  Simon replied: “I was a nurse. I proved to be in possession of all those qualities needed for tending the infirm. Why does your jaw drop at my admission? Is it so terribly strange for a man my age to try out various professions and attempt to make himself useful to all different sorts of people? I find this quite a nice trait in myself, for it requires a certain courage. My dignity is in no way injured—on the contrary, I pride myself on being able to solve all manner of life problems without trembling in the face of difficulties that might scare most people off. I am useful, and this certainty is enough to satisfy my pride. I wish to be of service.”

  “And so why did you not continue in the nursing profession?” the man asked.

  “I don’t have time to stick to a single profession,” Simon replied, “and it would never occur to me to repose, as many do, upon one type of profession as if it were a mattress with springs. No, I wouldn’t succeed at that even if I lived to be a thousand. I’d rather go and join the army.”

  “Be careful that’s not what happens.”

  “There are other escape routes as well. The army remark is just a casual expression I’ve gotten in the habit of using to conclude my speeches. There are so many ways out for a young man like myself. In the summertime, I can go find a farmer and work in the fields to help bring in the harvest on time: He’ll welcome me and be grateful for my strength. He’ll feed me and feed me well, they really cook out in the country, and when I leave him again, he’ll press a few banknotes into my hand, and his young daughter, a fresh-faced lovely girl, will smile at me in parting in such a way that she will occupy my thoughts for a long time as I continue on my road. What harm is there in being on the road, even if it’s raining or snowing, as long you have healthy limbs and remain free from cares? You, squeezed into your corner there, cannot even imagine how glorious it is to ramble d
own country roads. If they’re dusty, then dusty is just how they are, no need to trouble your head about it. Afterwards you find yourself a cozy cool spot at the edge of the forest and as you lie there your eyes enjoy the most splendid view, and your senses repose in the most natural way, and your thoughts wander as taste and pleasure fancy. You’ll no doubt counter that another person can do just the same thing—you yourself, for example, when you’re on vacation. But vacations, what are they? The thought of them makes me laugh. I wish to have nothing to do with vacations. One might even say I hate them. Whatever you do, just don’t set me up with a position involving vacations. This wouldn’t appeal to me at all—in fact I think I’d die if I were given vacations. As far as I’m concerned I wish to do battle with life, fighting until I keel over: I wish to taste neither freedom nor comfort, I hate freedom if it’s hurled at my feet the way you throw a dog a bone. That’s vacation for you. If you might happen to think you see standing before you a man with a hankering for a vacation, you are very much mistaken, but I have every reason to suspect this is just what you think of me, alas.”