Free The Tanners by Robert Walser Page A

exalted,
     plan-hatching and legislative about it. Simon often tried to imagine
     himself in the director’s shoes. But this image generally vanished before his
     eyes, and every last concept receded from him when he thought about this: “There
     is something proud and exalted about him, but also something incomprehensible
     and almost inhuman. Why in the world do all these people, copyists and
     calculators, indeed even girls in the bloom of youth, go through the selfsame
     entryway into the selfsame building just in order to scribble away, try out
     pens, calculate and wave their arms about, study and blow their noses, sharpen
     pencils and carry papers about in their hands? Do they do so out of pleasure
     or
     under duress, and are they conscious of performing some sensible fruitful
     activity? All of them come from quite different directions, some even arrive
     by
     train from distant regions, pricking up their ears to see whether they still
     have time to run a private errand before work: They are as patient as a herd
     of
     lambs, and when evening arrives they scatter, each on his own particular
     trajectory, and tomorrow they’ll all be back again at the same time. They see
     one another, recognize each other by gait, voice and way of opening a door, but
     they have very little to do with one another. They are all alike and yet are
     strangers to each other, and when one of them dies or embezzles something, they
     puzzle about it for the space of a morning, and then things go on as before.
     It’s been known to happen that in the middle of his copy-work one of
     them has a stroke. Does it help him that he was employed at this firm for a good
     fifty years? For fifty years on end he went in and out the selfsame door,
     employed the selfsame turns of phrase in business letters a thousand times over,
     went through several new suits and often felt surprised how long each pair of
     boots lasted. And now? Can one say this man has lived? And don’t thousands of
     people live just like this? Were perhaps his children the thing that mattered
     most to him in life, was his wife the joy of his existence? Yes, that could be.
     I don’t want to pretend to be an expert in these matters, for this would appear
     quite appropriate to me, given my youth. Outside it is spring, and I could
     spring right out the window, that’s how painful I find this long, long
     not-being-allowed-to-move-one’s-limbs.
     A bank is a foolish thing in springtime. How would a banking establishment look
     standing, say, upon a lush green meadow? Perhaps my pen would look to me like
     a
     young flower freshly sprouted from the earth. But no, I’ve no desire to make
     fun. Perhaps this is all exactly as it has to be, perhaps everything has a
     purpose. I just can’t make out the big picture because the view itself I see
     too
     intensely. This view is somewhat discouraging: this sky outside the windows,
     and
     in my ear this sweet singing. The white clouds are out walking in the sky, and
     I
     have to sit here writing. Why do I have an eye for the clouds? If I were a
     cobbler, at least I’d be making shoes for children, men and ladies, and then
     all
     these people could go walking in the streets on spring days wearing my shoes.
     I
     would experience spring when I saw my shoes on their feet. Here I cannot feel
     the springtime—the springtime is disturbing me.”
    Simon hung his head, furious to be having such tender feelings.

    One evening as he was on his way home across the bridge all lit up
     for the night, Simon noticed a man walking ahead of him in long strides. This
     figure in its greatcoated slimness filled him with sweet alarm. He thought he
     recognized this walk, these trousers, this odd cauldron of a hat, the fluttering
     hair. The stranger was carrying a flimsy portfolio beneath one arm. Simon
     hastened his steps, overcome with tremulous forebodings, and suddenly he threw
     his arms about the walker’s neck, crying out