The Tanners

In conversation with his little ladyfriend Rosa, Simon expressed himself in the following manner: “My lawyer has a long red nose and is a tyrant, but I get along with him quite well. I take his grumpy dictatorial nature as humorous and am myself surprised at how well I submit to all his commandments, many of which are unfair. I love it when things get a bit caustic, that suits me well, launching me to certain warm heights and whetting my appetite for work. He has a beautiful slender wife whom I should like to paint if I were a painter. She has, take my word for it, wonderful large eyes and splendid arms. Often she busies herself with something or other in the office; how she must look down on me, poor devil of a copy clerk. When I look upon such women I tremble and yet I’m happy. Are you laughing? Unfortunately I am accustomed to show myself before you without inhibitions, and I can only hope this pleases you.”

Indeed Rosa did love it when people were open with her. She was a peculiar girl. Her eyes had a marvelous gleam, and her lips were downright lovely.

Simon went on: “When I’m on my way to work at eight in the morning, I feel so beautifully connected to all the others who must also report to work at eight. What a great barracks modern life is! And yet how beautiful and contemplative all this uniformity. Constantly you long for something that might be approaching, something you ought to encounter. You’re so utterly bereft of possessions, so very much the poor devil, and you find yourself utterly at sea amid all this erudite, orderly precision. I ascend the four flights of stairs, go in, say “Good morning” and begin my work. Good God, how little is being asked of me, how little knowledge they expect. How little those around me seem to suspect I might be capable of quite different things. But this charming lack of demandingness on the part of my employers suits me perfectly. I can think while I am working — I have great prospects of becoming a thinker. I often think of you!”

Rosa laughed. “What a scoundrel you are. But do go on, it’s quite interesting, what you’re saying.”

“The world is in point of fact marvelous,” Simon continued, “I can be sitting here with you and no one can stop us from chatting for hours. I know you like listening to me. It’s your opinion that my way of speaking is not without grace, though now I find myself compelled to laugh horribly inside because I’ve said this. But it’s my habit to say anything and everything that comes to my mind, even if it should happen to be, for example, self-praise. I can also criticize myself with just the same lightness — I’m even pleased when I have occasion to do so. Why shouldn’t we say whatever’s on our minds? How much is lost if you insist on first examining everything at length. I don’t like to spend too long considering before I speak, and whether the words are suitable or not, out they come! If I am vain, my vanity will inevitably come to light; if I were miserly, there would be miserliness speaking in my words; if I am decent, then doubtless my respectability will peal out from my lips; and if God had made an honest man of me, stalwartness would emanate from me regardless of what I was saying. In this respect I find myself free of worries, because I know myself and us a little and because I would be ashamed to display timidity while speaking. If, for example, I insult, wound, injure or annoy someone with words, can’t I make this bad impression disappear again with the next few words? I never start thinking about how I am speaking until I notice disagreeable wrinkles on the face of my listener, such as those I now see on your face, Rosa.”

“It’s something else—”

“Are you tired?”

“Go home now, why don’t you, Simon. It’s quite true I’m feeling tired. You’re sweet when you talk. I’m very fond of you.”

Rosa held out her little hand to her young friend, who kissed it, said good night and departed. When he was gone, little Rosa sat there for a long time crying quietly to herself. She was weeping over her beloved, a young man with curls on his head, an elegant gait, an aristocratic mouth, but a dissolute lifestyle. “And so you love the one who doesn’t deserve it,” she said to herself, “and yet should I love out of reason, out of wishing to assign value? How laughable. What do I care about what is valuable — all I want is what I love.” Then she went to bed.

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