Robert Walser - The Tanners

“You speak like a poet, sir,” one of the men remarked with a smile.

“That may be. Wine always makes me speak poetically,” Simon replied, “as little a poet as I am otherwise. I tend to lay down rules for myself and in general am hardly disposed to get carried away by fantasies and ideals, since I consider doing so ill-advised and presumptuous in the extreme. Take my word for it, I can be quite dry. It’s also far from permissible to assume any person you happen to hear speaking of beauty is a poet with his head in the clouds, as seems to be your habit; for I do believe it can occur even to an in general coldly calculating pawn-shop broker or bank cashier to think of matters not pertaining to his money-grubbing profession. As a rule, we reckon too few individuals capable of sentimental reflection, for people haven’t learned to look at each other. I’ve taken it upon myself to engage in bold, heartfelt conversation with every single person so that I’ll quickly see what sort he is. You often make a fool of yourself using a rule like this in life, and occasionally you might even get your ears boxed — by a delicate lady, for example — but what harm does that do? I find it enjoyable to disgrace myself and maintain the conviction that the respect of individuals in whose eyes you lose face the moment you begin to speak openly isn’t so terribly valuable that losing it is any reason to feel glum. Human respect must always suffer beneath human love. That’s what I wanted to say in response to the somewhat derisive remark you made at my expense.”

“I had no intention of hurting your feelings.”

“In that case, how nice of you,” Simon said and gave a laugh. Then he added abruptly after a moment’s pause: “As for your story about my brother, by the way, it did in fact affect me. He’s still alive, my brother, and scarcely anyone still thinks of him; for when a person steals away, above all to such a dismal place, he’s soon stricken from people’s memories. The unfortunate! You know, I could argue that it would only have taken the tiniest alteration in his heart, perhaps a single teeny jot more in his soul, and he’d have been a productive artist whose work would have enraptured humankind. It takes so very little to make a person strong — and so very little, on the other hand, to thrust him into utter misfortune. What use is there talking about it. He’s ill, and he’s standing now on the side where there’s no longer any sunshine. I shall think of him more often now, for his misfortune is just too cruel. It is a misery even ten criminals wouldn’t deserve, much less him, who had such a heart. Yes, misfortune is sometimes far from lovely, I now freely confess this. I should warn you, sir: I’m a defiant person and like to go about making wild claims, which is no way to act. My heart is at times quite hard — particularly when I see that others are filled with pity. I feel such an impulse then to start raging and laughing in the middle of that nice warm pity. Very bad of me, very very bad! As for the rest, I am by no means a good man, far from it, but I hope one day I will be. It was a pleasure for me to be permitted to speak with you. The happenstance is always the most valuable. I would appear to have drunk rather a lot, and it’s so warm here in the barroom, that I feel an urge to go outside. Farewell, gentlemen! No, not au revoir . Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dream of it. I feel no urge at all to see you again. There are still so many people I have yet to meet, I can’t go about frivolously saying au revoir . That would only be a lie; for I have no desire to see you again unless it’s by chance, and then it will be a pleasure for me, though only to a certain extent. I don’t like to make a fuss and prefer to be truthful, this is perhaps my distinguishing characteristic. I hope it also distinguishes me in your eyes, though you are now gaping at me in a rather astonished and foolish way, as if you were insulted. Well, then, be insulted! Devil take it, what can I have said to insult you? Well?”

The innkeeper walked over and asked that Simon keep his voice down:

“It’s best you leave now, it’s time.”

And Simon allowed himself to be steered gently out into the dark alleyway.

It was a deep, black, humid night. It was as if the night were some creeping entity making its way along the walls. From time to time a tall building would be standing there, a dark shape, and then another one would glow yellow and white as though it possessed some magic power that made it luminous in the dark night. The walls of the buildings smelled so strange. Something moist and close emanated from them. Isolated lights now and then lit up a patch of street. Up above, the bold rooftops jutted out over the smooth high walls of buildings. The entire wide night seemed to have laid itself into this little tangle of alleyways in order to sleep here or dream. There were still isolated late-night individuals walking about. Here someone was staggering and singing as he went, another one was cursing loud enough to cleave the heavens in two, a third was already collapsed on the ground while a policeman’s helmet came glinting from behind the corner of a building. When you walked, your steps resounded beneath your feet. Simon encountered an old, inebriated man who was reeling from side to side the full width of the street. It was a wretched and at the same time jolly sight: the way the dark, awkward figure was being thrust back and forth as though shoved by an nimble, invisible hand. Then the old, white-bearded man dropped his walking stick and wanted to pick it up from the ground — no doubt a daunting task for this drunkard, who appeared about to fall down himself. But Simon, seized by a smiling merciful sentiment, hurried over to the man and his stick, picking up the latter and pressing it into the man’s hand, who murmured his thanks in the mysterious language of drunkenness, in a tone of voice that suggested he had cause to be still insulted. This sight immediately had a sobering effect on Simon, and he turned out of the old part of town into the newer, more elegant district. As he was crossing a bridge over the river that separated the two halves of the city from one another, he inhaled the strange perfume of the flowing water. He strode down the street in which he’d been addressed three weeks previous by that lady before the shop window, saw a light still burning in the home of his former mistress, reflected that she’d still been his mistress only yesterday, and then went on walking beneath the trees until he came to the broad dark lake lying there before him, appearing to be asleep across its entire splendid expanse. Such sleep! If an entire lake could sleep like that with all its bottomless depths — that was an impressive sight. Yes, it was certainly a strange thing, barely comprehensible. Simon went on gazing out at it for a while until he began to long to sleep himself. Oh, he would sleep excellently now. It would come over him so peacefully, and tomorrow he would remain lying in bed a long time, tomorrow was Sunday after all. Simon went home.

The next morning he didn’t wake up until the bells were ringing. From his bed, he noted that out of doors it must be a splendid blue day. The light flashing in the windowpanes suggested a glorious morning sky high up over the alleyway. Gazing at the wall of the building opposite, one was conscious of bright-golden intimations. It was difficult to think how dark and dismal this blotchy wall must look under a sky thick with clouds. One gazed at it for a long time, imagining what the lake must look like now with all the sails upon it in the golden blue morning weather. Certain mountain meadows, certain views and certain benches beneath the lush green trees, the forest, the streets, the promenades, the meadows upon the back of the broad mountain with its full complement of trees, the rampant green slopes and forest ravines, the spring and woodland brook with its large stones and water singing softly when you sat down beside it to be lulled to sleep. All these things could be seen quite clearly when Simon gazed over at the wall that after all was just a wall, but today was reflecting an entire vision of a blissful human Sunday, just because something like a breath of blue sky was bobbing up and down above it. And of course the bells were ringing all this time with their familiar notes, and bells, yes, they know how to awaken images.