The Tanners

Simon and Klara were sitting, immersed in long hushed conversation, upon a bench. They had so many things to say to one another, they could have talked on and on forever without stopping. Klara would have gone on speaking about Kaspar, and Simon of the woman seated beside him. He had a strange, free, open way of speaking about people who were his immediate companions, who sat or stood beside him listening to what he said. This came about of its own accord, he always felt most strongly about whoever was occasioning his speech, and so he spoke of them and not of others who were absent. “Doesn’t it torment you,” she asked, “that we speak only of him?” “No,” Simon replied, “his love is my love. I always asked myself whether either of us would ever fall in love. I always saw this as a marvelous thing for which neither of us was good enough. I’ve read a great deal about lovers in books, I’ve always loved lovers. Even as a schoolboy I spent hours bent over books of this sort, trembling and shaking and fearing along with my lovers. It was almost always a proud woman and a man of an even more unbending nature, a laborer in a work shirt or a lowly soldier. The woman was always a fine lady. A common pair of lovers wouldn’t have piqued my interest in those days. All my senses grew up with these books, perishing again and again when I closed their covers. Then I stepped into life and forgot all these things. I became obsessed with questions of freedom, but I dreamt of experiencing love. What good would it do me to be angry that love has now arrived but not for me? How childish. I am almost even happy that this love desires not me but another, I would like to witness this first and only later experience it. But I shall never experience love. I think life has other plans for me, other intentions. It forces me to love everything it throws my way, every being. I am allowed to love you, too, Klara, if only in a different, perhaps a foolish way. Isn’t it silly that I know perfectly well that, if you should wish it, I could die for you, would willingly do so. May I not die for you? I’d find this so perfectly natural. I place no value on my life, I value only the lives of others, and nonetheless I love life, but I love it only because I hope it will give me the opportunity to throw it away in some respectable fashion. Isn’t it idiotic to speak in this way? Let me kiss your two hands so you’ll feel how I belong to you. Of course I am not yours and you will never demand anything at all of me, for what could it possibly occur to you to ask of me? But I love women of your sort, and it is agreeable to give gifts to a woman one loves, and so I am giving you myself, since I don’t know what would make a better present. Perhaps I can be useful to you, I can jump about for you with these legs of mine, I can hold my tongue when you want someone to keep silent for you, I can lie if you happen to find yourself in the position of requiring a shameless liar. There are quite noble instances of this sort. I can carry you in my arms, if you should happen to fall down, and I can lift you over puddles to keep your feet from getting dirty. Take a look at my arms. Don’t they look as though they were already lifting and carrying you? How you would smile if I were to carry you, and I would smile as well, for one smile, as long as it is not indelicate, always calls forth another. This gift that I am giving you is a portable, eternal one; for man, even the simplest of men, is eternal. I shall belong to you even when you have long since ceased to be anything at all, not even a grain of dust; because a gift always outlives its recipient so that it can mourn its lost owner. I was born to be a gift, I’ve always belonged to someone or other, and it’s always filled me with chagrin to spend a day wandering about without finding anyone to whom I could offer myself. Now I belong to you, though I know how little I mean to you. You have no choice but to not value me highly. It often happens that one scorns a gift. My soul, for example, is filled with scorn when I think of presents. I virtually abhor receiving gifts. This is why fate has willed me to be loved by no one; for fate is good and all-seeing. I would be unable to endure being loved, but I find the absence of love endurable. One mustn’t love a person who insists on loving, one would only be disturbing him in his devotions. I wouldn’t want you to love me. What’s more, the fact that you love another makes me so happy; for now, please understand me, you are clearing the way for me to love you. I adore faces that turn away from me, toward some other object. The soul, which is a painter, loves this sort of allure. A smile is so lovely when it crosses lips one surmises rather than sees. This is how you’ll please me — do you suppose there’s no need to? But no, now I remember: you don’t have to please me, you’ve no need to at all; for I am incapable of judging you, at most I might manage a plea; but I no longer know what I am saying.”