Free Lenz by Georg Büchner

nothing. Everything seemed so small, so near, so wet, he would have liked to set the earth down behind an oven, he could not grasp why it took so much time to clamber down a slope, to reach a distant point; he was convinced he could cover it all with a pair of strides. Onlysometimes when the storms tossed the clouds into the valleys and they floated upwards through the woods and voices awakened on the rocks, like far-echoing thunder at first and then approaching in strong gusts, sounding as if they wanted to chant the praises of the earth in their wild rejoicing, and the clouds galloped by like wild whinnying horses and the sunshine shot through them and emerged and drew its glinting sword on the snowfields so that a bright blinding light knifed over the peaks into the valleys; or sometimes when the storms drove the clouds downwards and tore a light-blue lake into them and the sound of the wind died away and then like the murmur of a lullaby or pealing bells rose up again from the depths of ravines and tips of fir trees and a faint reddishness climbed into the deep blue and small clouds drifted by on silver wings and all the mountain peaks, sharp and firm, glinted and gleamed far across the countryside, he would feel something tearing at his chest, he would stand there, gasping, body bent forward, eyes and mouth open wide, he was convinced he should draw the storm into himself, contain everything within himself, he stretched out and lay over the earth, he burrowed into the universe, it was a pleasure that gave him pain; or he would remain still and lay his head upon the moss and half-close his eyes and then everything receded from him, the earth withdrew beneath him, it becameas tiny as a wandering star and dipped into a rushing stream whose clear waters flowed beneath him. But these were only moments, and then he got up, calm, steady, quiet, as if a shadow play had passed before him, he had no memory of anything. Toward evening he came to the mountain ridge, to the snowfield from which one again descended westwards into the plain, he sat down at the crest. Things had grown more quiet toward evening; the clouds lay still and solid in the sky, as far as the eye could see, nothing but peaks, broad downward slopes, and everything so silent, gray, twilit; a terrible solitude came over him, he was alone, all alone, he wanted to talk to himself, but he could not, he hardly dared breathe, the crunch of his foot sounded like thunder beneath him, he had to sit down; he was seized by a nameless anxiety in this emptiness, he was in a void, he sprang to his feet and raced down the slope. It had gotten dark, sky and earth melted together. It was as if something were following him, as if something terrible would overtake him, something no human could bear, as if madness were hunting him down on horseback. At last he heard voices, he saw lights, he breathed easier, he was told Waldbach lay half an hour away. He went through the village, lights shone through the windows, as he passed by he saw children at tables, old women, young girls, the faces all calm andquiet, the light seemed to pour forth from them, he felt at ease, he was soon in the parsonage in Waldbach. They were sitting at the table, he went in; curls of blond hair fell around his pale face, his eyes and mouth twitched, his clothes were torn. Oberlin welcomed him, he took him to be a journeyman. “Welcome, whoever you are.”—I am a friend of . . . and bring you greetings from him. “Your name, if you please?” . . . Lenz . “Aha, it’s appeared in print, hasn’t it? Haven’t I read several plays attributed to a gentleman by this name?” Yes, but I beg you not to judge me by that. They continued talking, he searched for words and they came tumbling out, but it was torture; little by little he calmed down, the cozy room and the tranquil faces looming out of the shadows, the bright face of a child on which all the light seemed to rest,