The Tanners

On the staircase as he was going out, Simon passed a dark fleeting figure. “That must be this Artur,” he thought and went on his way. Night had fallen. He set out upon a small narrow dirt path, turning around after he’d gone a few steps: The window was now closed, and dark red curtains had been drawn behind it, luminous in a curiously dismal way in the light of a lamp that had no doubt just been lit. A shadow moved behind the curtain, it was Klara’s shadow. Simon walked on, slowly, deep in thought. He was in no hurry whatever to arrive back in the city. No one was waiting there for him. The next day he would be writing at the Copyists Bureau again. It was high time he at last put his shoulder to the grindstone, worked, earned some money. Perhaps he might finally find a post again somewhere. He laughed as he thought the word “post.” When he arrived in town, it was already quite late. He went into a music hall that was still open, hoping to amuse himself, but there wasn’t much of interest. He saw the act of a comic whom he’d have liked to see vanish as an ordinary person among the crowd watching him. In fact this comic deserved, based on his performance, to have his ears boxed. But no! Soon Simon was feeling the most emphatic pity for this poor wretch who was having to contort his legs, arms, nose, mouth, eyes and even his poor bony cheeks, only to fail after all these torments to achieve his goal of being comical. Simon would have liked to shout out “Boo!” and then again nothing more than “Alas!” One could clearly tell, just looking at the man, that he was honest, decent and not particularly cunning; but this made what he was doing on stage all the more horrid, for this was an activity suitable only for people who must be equally supple and dissolute if they wish to present a rounded, pleasing tableau. Simon had an inkling that this comic had perhaps, not long ago, still been practicing some quiet solid profession from which, no doubt because of some error or misdeed, he’d been ejected. The entire man made a profoundly shameful, repulsive impression on him. Then a petite young singer came on stage dressed in the short tight uniform of a hussar officer. This was better, for what this girl had to offer verged on the artistic. Then came a juggler who, however, would have done better extracting corks from bottles than balancing bottles on the tip of his nose, which he went about in an utterly childish, tasteless fashion. He placed a burning lamp upon his flat head and was insolent enough to expect the audience to see this as artistic. Simon stayed long enough to hear a little boy singing a song that pleased him, and then he immediately left the establishment on this good note, going back out to the street.

Hardly any people were still walking about. There appeared to be a dispute in progress in a side street, and indeed, as Simon drew closer, he witnessed a violent scene: Two girls were striking one another, one using her fists, the other a red parasol. This battle was illuminated by a lone, melancholy lantern that in part lit up the girls’ faces. Of their clothing and hats only rags remained, and all the while the two of them were screaming, not so much out of fury as pain, and this pain wasn’t so much on account of the blows as out of a leftover sense of shame at seeing themselves act in such a miserably bestial way. A horrific battle but only a short one, it was soon ended by a constable. He led away both girls along with an elegantly dressed gentleman who appeared to have been the cause of the dispute. A postman had played the role of snitch, and now he was putting on airs. The girls now directed the full force of their fury at the postman, who as a result beat a quick retreat.