Robert Walser - The Tanners

Simon left her alone.

“I was always in the habit,” Hedwig said to Simon in the course of the day, “of treating you somehow as my subordinate. In their dealings with you, perhaps others do, too — you hardly give an impression of intelligence — what people are more likely to see in you is love, and you know pretty well how that’s received. I don’t think you’ll ever have much success in society the way you are and the way you act, but I’m also confident you’ll never trouble your head about this — that wouldn’t be like you, in my experience. Only those who know you will think you capable of heartfelt sentiment and incisive thought — others not. And that’s the rub, the main point, the underlying cause why you’ll probably be unsuccessful in life: A person must get to know you to find you credible, and this takes time. Success depends on first impressions, which will always fail you, but at least this won’t make you lose your composure. Not many will love you, but the ones who do will promise themselves everything from you, and with their liking for you they’ll be simple, good human beings — your foolishness can take you far. There’s something idiotic about you, something unstable, something… how should I put it, lackadaisically foolish — and that’s what will offend many people: They’ll call you impertinent — and having made many harsh, hastily judgmental enemies, you’ll find they might very well succeed in making you hot under the collar. But this will never frighten you. Some people will always seem unkind to you, and to them you’ll look insolent; there will be frictions, you must be prepared for this! And in larger groups of people where it’s important to show oneself to advantage and to stand out by virtue of one’s eloquence, you’ll always keep silent because it won’t appeal to you to open your mouth when everyone’s already jabbering away. As a result, you’ll be overlooked: And then you’ll start to feel defiant and behave inappropriately. Yet some, on the other hand, those who’ve gotten to know you, will consider it a gift to engage in heartfelt conversation with you; you’re skilled at listening, and in conversation this is perhaps more important than speaking. People will happily entrust their secrets and private affairs to a close-mouthed person like you, and in general you’re a master when it comes to discretion in silence and speech — unconsciously, I mean, it’s not as if you need to go to particular trouble on this account. You speak a bit awkwardly, and your mouth, a little ungainly, first pops open and then remains that way until you start to speak, as if you were expecting the words to come flying up from somewhere or other and land there. In the eyes of most, you’ll cut an uninteresting figure: Girls will find you dreary, women irrelevant, and men utterly untrustworthy and ineffectual. See if you can’t change a little in that department, if you’re able. Pay a bit more attention to yourself and be more vain; for being completely free of vanity is something even you will soon have to realize is an error. For example, Simon, look at your trousers: all ragged at the bottom! To be sure, and I know this perfectly well myself: They’re just trousers, but trousers should be kept in just as good a condition as one’s soul, for when a person wears torn, ragged trousers it displays carelessness, and carelessness is an attribute of the soul. Your soul must be ragged too. The other thing I wanted to say to you — You don’t think I’m saying all these things to you in jest, do you? Now he’s laughing. Don’t you consider me just a little bit more experienced than you are? Not at all! You’re more experienced? But if I say that many more experiences still lie before you, isn’t that demonstrating experience? Surely it is—”

For a moment she reflected, then went on:

“When you’ve left me behind, as must happen soon, don’t write to me. I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to feel obliged to inform me about your further adventures. Neglect me, just as you used to neglect me. What good can writing do us? I shall go on living here and find it a pleasure to think often about the three months you spent with me. The countryside will buoy me up and show me your image. I shall go to visit all the places we admired together, and I shall find them even more beautiful; for a defect, a loss, makes things more beautiful. I and the entire region shall be missing something, but this absence, and yes even this defect, will introduce even more tender sentiments to my life. I’m not inclined to feel pressured just because something’s lacking. Why would I! On the contrary, there’s something liberating, relief-bringing about this. And after all — Gaps exist to be filled with something new. When I’m about to get up in the morning, I shall imagine I hear your footsteps, see your face and hear your voice — and then I’ll laugh at this illusion. Do you know: I’m fond of illusions, and you are too, I can tell. It’s peculiar how much I’ve been chattering these days. These days! I think by now the days themselves ought to feel how precious they are to me, ought to do me the kindness of coming and departing more slowly, in a more protracted, leisurely, loitering way, and more quietly too! And in fact that’s what they’re doing. When they approach, it feels like a kiss, and when they darkly withdraw it’s like someone pressing my hand or waving to me, sweetly, familiarly. The nights! How many nights you slept here beside me, slept beautifully, for you’re an accomplished sleeper and slept so well in that little room there, on the straw bed that soon will be ownerless and sleepless. The nights that will be arriving now will creep up to me shyly the way little children with guilty consciences approach their father or mother, with their eyes cast down. The nights will be less silent, Simon, when you’re gone, and I’ll tell you why: You were so quiet at night, your sleep increased the silence. We were two silent, peaceful human beings during all these nights; now I’ll have to be silent alone, of necessity, and it will be less silent; for I’ll often sit upright in bed in the dark, listening for something. Then I shall feel how much less silent it now is. Perhaps I’ll weep then — but not at all because of you, so don’t give yourself airs on my account. Just look, he’s already puffing himself up! No, Simon, no — no one is going to weep for you. When you’re gone, you’re gone. That’s all. Do you think a person would weep for you? It’s out of the question. You must never imagine that. One can feel that you’re gone, one takes note of it, but then? Might one feel longing or something of the sort? No one feels longing for a person like you. You simply don’t inspire it. No heart will go trembling off in search of you. Might one devote a thought to you? What a notion! Well, yes, carelessly, the way one drops a needle, one might occasionally call you to mind. That’s all you’ll merit, even if you live to be a hundred. You haven’t the slightest talent for leaving behind memories. You don’t leave behind anything at all. I can’t imagine what you might leave behind in any case, as you have no possessions. There’s no call for you to laugh in such an impudent way, I’m speaking seriously. Out of my sight this minute! March!”

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.