Authors: Robert Walser
Simon stopped writing. He went over to a photograph of his mother
that hung on the dirty wall of his room, and, rising up on tiptoe, pressed a
kiss upon it. Then he tore up what he’d written, neither out of pique nor with
much premeditation; simply because it no longer held any value for him. Then
he
went to visit Rosa out in the suburbs and said to her: “Soon I shall find
employment, perhaps in a small rural town, which at the moment I’d find the most
beautiful thing imaginable. After all, small towns are delightful. In such a
place, you have your old comfortable room, for which you pay curiously little
rent. Returning to this room from your place of work is easily accomplished with
just a few steps. All the people say hello to you on the street, wondering who
this young gentleman might be. The women with daughters are already, in thought,
granting you their daughter’s hand—the youngest daughter, no doubt, the one with
curly ringlets and dangling, heavy earrings on her tiny ears. At work you’ll
soon have made yourself indispensable, and the boss would be happy to have made
such an acquisition. After returning home in the evening, you’d sit in a heated
room, and the pictures on the walls would be gazed at, one of which might
perhaps represent lovely Empress Eugenie and the other a revolution. The
daughter of the house would perhaps come in and bring me flowers, why ever not?
Are all these things not possible in a small town where people welcome one
another so affectionately? One day, however, during my warm bright lunch break,
this very same girl would knock shyly at my door—a door dating, by the way, from
the Rococo period—would open it, come into the room and say to me, tilting her
head to one side in an infinitely delicate gesture, ‘How quiet you always are,
Simon. You are so modest and make no demands at all. You never say: I need this
or that. You take everything as it comes. I fear you are dissatisfied.’ I would
laugh and reassure her. Then suddenly, as if the oddest feelings had come over
her, it might occur to her to say: ‘How quiet and beautiful the flowers are on
the table there. They look as if they have eyes, and it seems to me as if
they’re smiling.’ I would be astonished to hear words of this sort on the lips
of a small-town girl. Then I would suddenly find it quite natural to
go walking with slow steps toward the one standing there hesitantly, place my
arm about her figure and kiss her. She would permit this, but not in such a way
that one might be tempted to indulge in unlovely thoughts. She would cast her
eyes down before her, and I would hear the pounding of her heart, the rising
and
falling of her beautiful, round breast. I would ask her to show me her eyes,
and
she would open them, allowing me to gaze into the heaven of her open,
questioning eyes. A long asking and gazing would follow. First there would be
an
imploring look from her, then I would be moved to look at her in just the same
way, and then of course I would be unable to suppress a laugh, and she would
nonetheless trust me. How wonderful that can be, in a small town where people
say so much with their glances alone. I would once more kiss her oddly curved
and bowed mouth and flatter her in such a way that she would have no choice but
to believe all my compliments and then it wouldn’t be flattery at all, and I
would tell her I considered her my wife, whereupon she, once more tilting her
head to one side in that marvelous way, would say yes. After all, how else could
she respond with me pressing her mouth shut as one does a child’s, if I covered
her with kisses, this magnificent girl now incapable of suppressing a smile of
high spirits and victorious pride? Indeed, the victor would be she and I her
victim, this would be apparent quite soon, for I would become her husband and
thus would sacrifice and present to her my entire life, my freedom and all my
desires to see the world. Now I would always be observing her, finding her ever
more beautiful. Until the nuptials, I would be like a rogue chasing after all
the charms she might let drop behind her. I would watch to see her kneel down
on
the floor in the evening to make a fire in the stove. I would laugh a great
deal, like a lunatic, to avoid always resorting to overly delicate expressions
of affection, and perhaps I would often treat her roughly as well just to catch
a glimpse of pain in her face. After behavior like this, I wouldn’t hesitate
to
kneel down beside her bed, secretly, in her absence, and to pray to her with
a
flaming heart. I might even go so far as to take her shoe, even if it were
covered with blacking, and press it to my lips; for an object in which she has
placed her little white foot would easily suffice to produce in me a feeling
of
worship; after all, it doesn’t take much to pray. I would often climb the high,
rocky mountains that lay nearby, casually hoisting myself up by the little
saplings, passing along precipices, and when I reached the top, just above a
rockfall, I would lie down in a yellow pasture and reflect on where I was and
ask myself whether in fact a life like this, sharing close quarters with a wife
who was dear to me but nonetheless really quite demanding would satisfy me. I
would merely shake my head over such questions and with splendidly healthy
senses go on sending daydreams down into the valley where this little town lay
spread. Perhaps I would weep for half an hour, why not, in order to appease my
longings and then would lie there peaceful and happy again until the sun sank,
whereupon I would go back down and squeeze my maiden’s hand. Everything would
be
decided on and bolted shut behind me—but my heart would rejoice in this firm,
commanding conclusiveness. Then I would celebrate my marriage and in this way
give my life new life. My old life would sink like a beautiful sun, and I
wouldn’t cast so much as a glance after it, for I would consider that dangerous
and weak. Time would pass and now we would be bending—to give an illustration
for our affection—not over flowers but over children and would feel delight at
their smiles and countless questions. Our love for our children and the thousand
cares they would demand of us would make our own love gentler and all the
greater but also quieter. It would never occur to me to wonder whether my wife
still pleased me, nor would it cross my mind to tell myself I was living a small
paltry life. I would have experienced everything life has to offer by way of
experiences, and willingly would renounce all thoughts holding out and dangling
before me all the elegant adventures I was missing out on. ‘What can still be
called missing out here?’ I would ask myself calmly, with a superior air. I
would have become a solid individual, this would be all and would remain all
until the death of my wife, who might possibly have been fated to die before
me.
But I don’t wish to think any further, for all these things lie too far distant
in the darkness of the beautiful future. What do you say to all this? I’m always
such a dreamer, but you must at least admit my dreams these days possess a
certain uprightness and reflect my desire to become a better person than I am
at
present.”
Rosa was smiling. For a while she said nothing, merely observed Simon
attentively, and then asked: “How is your brother, the painter?”
“He’s planning to go to Paris soon.”
Rosa turned pale and shut her eyes, breathing with difficulty. Simon
thought: So she loves him too.
“You love him,” he said softly.
* * *
The next morning Simon stepped out of the house wearing a short, dark
blue coat, with a delicate, useless little stick in his hand. A thick heavy fog
received him, and it was still blackest night. An hour later, though, the sky
began to lighten as he stood on a hilltop gazing back at the metropolis beneath
him. It was cold, but the sun rising fiery-red above the snowy bushes
and fields promised a glorious day. He remained transfixed by the sight of this
red ball that kept soaring higher and higher and said to himself that the sun
in
winter was three times again as beautiful as a midsummer sun. The snow was soon
blazing with this peculiarly bright-red warm hue, and this warming
sight and the actual frostiness of the air all around had an invigorating,
stimulating effect on the wanderer, who, not allowing himself to be delayed any
longer, went striding stalwartly on. The path was the same one Simon had taken
that night in autumn; he practically could have found it in his sleep by now.
In
this way he walked all day long. At midday, the sun poured beautiful warmth down
on the region, the snow was on the verge of melting again, and there were bits
of green peeping out damply in several spots. The trickling streams reinforced
the impression of warmth, but toward evening, as the sky showed itself
resplendently dark blue and the sun’s red rays were vanishing over the mountain
ridge, it at once turned bitter cold again. Simon was once more ascending the
mountain he’d climbed before, that autumn night, though in more frantic haste;
the snow crunched beneath his footsteps. Heavily laden with snow, the fir trees’
thick branches arched down splendidly to the earth. When he was approximately
halfway to the top, Simon suddenly saw a young man lying in the snow in the
middle of the path. There was still enough last light in the forest that he
could observe the sleeper well. What had possessed this man to lie down here
in
the bitter cold, in such a secluded part of the forest? The man’s broad hat lay
across his face, just as one often sees on a hot, shadeless summer day, when
a
person lying down to rest will shield himself from the sun’s rays to be able
to
fall asleep. There was something unsettling about this covered face in the
middle of winter, a season when it could hardly be considered pleasurable to
settle down for a rest in the snow. The man lay there motionless, and already
it
was beginning to get darker in the forest. Simon studied the man’s legs, shoes,
clothes. His outfit was pale yellow, it was a summer suit, a quite thin,
threadbare one. Simon took the hat from the man’s face, it was rigid and looked
terrifying, and now all at once he recognized this face, it was Sebastian’s
face, no two ways about it—these were Sebastian’s features, this was his mouth,
his beard, his rather broad flat nose, his eyes and eyebrows, his forehead and
hair. And he’d frozen to death here, without a doubt, and he must have been
lying here on the path for a while. The snow displayed no footprints; it was
conceivable he’d been here for a considerable length of time. His face and hands
had long since turned rigid, and the clothes were stuck to his frozen torso.
Sebastian must have sunk to the ground here with an immense, no longer endurable
weariness. He’d never been particularly robust. He always stooped over, as
though he couldn’t bear to walk upright, as though it caused him pain to hold
his back and head straight. Looking at him, one couldn’t help feeling he hadn’t
been strong enough for life and its cold demands. Simon cut some branches from
a
fir tree and covered the body with them, but first he drew a small, thin
notebook from the dead man’s jacket pocket where it had been sticking out. It
appeared to contain poems, though Simon could no longer make out the letters.
Night had fallen. Stars were sparkling through the gaps between the fir trees,
and the moon, a fine delicate hoop, observed the scene: “I don’t have time,”
Simon said silently to himself, “I’ve got to hurry to reach the next town,
otherwise it wouldn’t frighten me at all to spend a bit more time with this poor
devil of a dead man, a poet and dreamer. How noble a grave he chose for himself.
His resting place lies amid splendid green snow-covered firs. I shall
not report this to anyone. Nature gazes down upon her dead man, the stars are
quietly singing at his head, and the night birds are squawking—this is the best
music for a person who no longer feels or hears. Your poems, dear Sebastian,
I
shall bring to a publisher, where they will perhaps be read and consigned to
print, so that at least your poor, sparkling, melodious name will remain to the
world. What splendid peace: reposing and growing stiff beneath fir branches in
the snow. You couldn’t have chosen anything better. People tend to inflict harm
on the eccentric—and this is what you were—and then laugh at their pain. Give
my
greetings to the dear, silent dead beneath the earth and don’t get too badly
scorched in the eternal fires of nonexistence. You are elsewhere. Surely you’re
somewhere splendid, you’re a rich fellow now, and publishing the poems of a rich
elegant fellow is certainly worthwhile. Farewell. If I had flowers, I’d strew
them over you. For a poet one never has flowers enough. You had too few. You
were expecting some, but you never heard the flutter of their petals above you,
nor did they alight upon your shoulders as you dreamed they might. I too am a
dreamer, you see, as are many, many people you’d never suspect, but you believed
dreaming to be your prerogative, whereas the rest of us dream only when we fancy
ourselves utterly miserable, and are happy to be able to stop at will. You
despised your fellow creatures, Sebastian! But this, my dear man, is something
only a strong individual may allow himself, and you were weak! But now that I
have found your hallowed grave, let me not heap scorn upon it. I cannot know
what you have suffered. Your death beneath the open stars is beautiful, I shall
not soon forget it. I shall tell Hedwig of your grave beneath these noble firs
and make her weep with my description. At least people will still be able to
read your poems, even if they didn’t have much use for you before.” —Simon
strode away from the dead man, casting one last glance back at the little pile
of fir branches beneath which the poet now slept, then turning away from this
image with a rapid twist of his supple body, he hastened further up the
mountain, moving as fast as he could in the snow. And so he was having to ascend
this mountain at night for a second time, but this time life and death were
shooting through his entire body in feverish shudderings. In this icy,
star-resplendent night he felt like crying out exultantly. The fire of
life bore him tempestuously away from that gentle, pale image of death. He no
longer felt any legs, just veins and tendons, and these pliantly obeyed his
forward-striding will. High up on the open mountain meadow he had his
first full, sublime view of the glorious night and laughed out loud, like a boy
who’s never seen a dead man before. What was a dead man? What else but a
reminder to live. This and nothing more. A delightful memory calling one back,
and at the same time a being-driven-on into the uncertain,
lovely future. If he was able to face the dead so calmly, Simon felt that his
future must still be spread out broad and wide before him. He was overjoyed that
he’d been able to see this poor, unhappy person one last time and that he’d
found him in so mysterious a guise, so silent, so eloquent, so dark and peaceful
and so graciously at an end. Now, praise God, there was nothing remaining about
this poet that you could smile or turn up your nose at, just something you could
feel
.
—Simon slept splendidly in his bed at an inn, the very
same inn whose ballroom had been painted by his brother. He used the following
day for more walking on grueling roads full of snow. He beheld always a blue
sky
above him, houses to either side of the road—beautiful large homes that led one
to assume the rural population here was prosperous and proud, hills covered with
black, bedraggled trees into which the blue sky was creeping, and people who
walked past him and others who were walking in his direction but who were soon
overtaken, for he was striding along while the others were comfortably
strolling. When night fell, he was walking through a silent, narrow, strange
valley entirely encircled by forest and filled with twists and turns and odd
glimpses of high-up villages where the evening lights were burning and
very few people could be seen out-of-doors. But as he was
now starting to be tormented by serious exhaustion, he stopped at the next inn.
The pub downstairs was filled with people, and the innkeeper’s wife looked more
like an elegant lady of good lineage than a waitress with the duty of serving
patrons. He shyly made his wishes known, whereupon the beautiful woman looked
him up and down strangely. But he was so weary, so worn-out that he
felt only pleasure when, a short while later, he was led to his room, where he
blissfully lay down in an ice-cold bed and at once fell asleep. The
third day brought him to a vast, beautiful city where he had only one piece of
business: finding an editor to whom he could entrust Sebastian’s poems. When
he’d reached the building that had been described to him, he realized it would
be incautious to go in himself and present the poems of a man who’d been found
dead. And so he inscribed the cover of the blue notebook with the title: “The
Poems of a Young Man Found Frozen to Death in the Fir Forest, for Publication
If
Possible,” and he dropped the notebook into the big, stocky mailbox with a loud
clunk. Having accomplished this, Simon took himself off again. The weather had
grown milder, snow was spiraling in large wet flakes down upon the roads now
drawing him on. The people in this city, which he didn’t know at all, looked
at
him with such odd expressions of surprise that he almost couldn’t help imagining
they knew him, a perfect stranger. Soon he’d left the actual city behind and
was
walking through an elegant villa district, then he abandoned this too and passed
through a forest, a field, another field, then a smaller forest, then a village,
then a second and a third, until night fell.