The Tanners

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 “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: