Free The Tanners by Robert Walser Page B

“Brother!” Kaspar embraced him.
     Loudly conversing, they went home, that is: They had a rather steep ascent to
     make up the mountainside whose slope the city had covered with gardens and
     villas. At the top, they were welcomed by the small run-down cottages
     of the outskirts. The setting sun blazed in their windows, turning them into
     radiant eyes gazing fixedly, beautifully into the distance. Down below lay the
     city, spread out broad and luxuriant upon the plain like a glittering twinkling
     carpet, the evening bells, which are always different from morning bells, were
     ringing far below, the lake lay, its outlines indistinct, in its delicate
     ineffable form at the foot of the city, the mountain and all the gardens. Not
     many lights were sparkling yet, but those whose glow could be seen were burning
     with a splendid unfamiliar keenness. People were now walking and hastening down
     below in all the crooked hidden streets, you couldn’t see them, but you knew
     they were there. “It would be splendid to stroll down elegant Bahnhofstrasse just now,” Simon said.
     Kaspar walked in silence. He had become a magnificent fellow. “How he strides
     along,” Simon thought. Finally they were standing before their house. “Really?”
     Kaspar laughed: “You live at the edge of the forest?” Both of them went
     inside.
    When Klara Agappaia beheld the new arrival, a strange flame began to
     flicker in her large weary eyes. She closed her eyes and tilted her lovely head
     to one side. She didn’t appear to be feeling such great pleasure at the sight
     of
     this young man, it looked like something quite different. She tried not to be
     self-conscious, tried to smile the way a person smiles when welcoming
     a guest. But she didn’t quite manage it. “Go upstairs,” she said, “I’m just so
     tired today. How odd. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.” The two young
     men went to their room: It was filled with moonlight. “Let’s not light the
     lamp,” Simon said, “we can go to bed just like this.” —Then there was a knock
     at
     the door, it was Klara, who said, standing outside: “Have you two got everything
     you need, is nothing missing?” —“No, we’ve already gone to bed, what could be
     missing?” —“Good night, my friends,” she said and opened the door a little, shut
     it again and went away. “She seems to be a peculiar woman,” Kaspar remarked.
     Then they both fell asleep.

–3–
    The next morning the painter unpacked his landscapes from their
     portfolio, and first an entire autumn fell out of it, then a winter, all the
     moods of Nature came to life again. “How little this is of what I saw. Swift
     as
     a painter’s eye is, his hand is so sluggish, so slow. There are still so many
     things I have to paint! Often I think I’ll go mad.” All three of them, Klara,
     Simon and the painter, were standing around the pictures. Few words were spoken,
     and these were just exclamations of delight. Suddenly Simon leapt over to his
     hat, which lay on the floor of the room, thrust it savagely, furiously upon his
     head and dashed out the door, shouting, “I’m late!”
    “An hour late! This is something a young man should not allow
     himself,” he was told at the bank.
    “And if he nonetheless does allow it?” the one being scolded replied
     defiantly.
    “What, insolence on top of everything else? Well, go right ahead! Suit
     yourself!”
    Simon’s conduct was reported to the director, who decided to dismiss
     the young man; he called him to his office and gave him this news in a quite
     soft, even kindly voice. Simon replied:
    “I’m perfectly happy things have come to an end. Do you perhaps suppose you’re striking me a blow by sending me away—robbing me
     of courage, destroying me or anything of the sort? On the contrary, I’m being
     raised up and flattered, at long last I’m being infused with new hope. I was
     never made to be a writing and calculating