The Tanners

— While the woman was writing this letter, Simon and Kaspar were sitting beside the lamp they’d lit. They had no desire to go to bed yet and were still conversing. Kaspar said: “For the past few days I’ve painted nothing at all, and if things go on like this, I’m going to give up on art and become a farmer. Why not? Must it be art or nothing? Isn’t it possible to live in other ways as well? Perhaps it’s only a habit that makes us think we must devote ourselves to art at all costs. Why not set it aside and return to it ten years from now! That would make us look at everything differently, much more simply, much less fantastically, and this couldn’t hurt. All that’s needed is the courage and the trust. Life is short when you’re distrustful, but long when you’re capable of trust. What would we be losing? I feel myself becoming more and more sluggish from day to day. Should I be pulling myself together and forcing myself like some schoolboy to do my duty? Do I have duties to perform with regard to art? One can turn the question this way and that, twisting it about however one pleases. Painting pictures! How utterly stultifying this now appears to me, how utterly meaningless. You’ve got to be able to let yourself go. Whether I paint one hundred landscapes or just two of them, what difference does it make? A person who paints constantly can still remain a bungler because he’d never think to imbue his pictures with even a trace of his experiences, for he’s experienced nothing all the days of his life. When I have more experiences under my belt, I’ll use my brush more wisely, more introspectively, and I believe this will make a great difference. What does the quantity matter. But nonetheless: Somewhere inside me a feeling is telling me it isn’t good to get out of practice for even a single day. It’s just laziness talking, accursed laziness!—”

He said no more, for a long horrifying scream pierced the walls at just this moment. Simon seized the lamp and both of them hurled themselves down the stairs to the room where they knew she slept. It was Klara who had screamed. Agappaia had come running as well, and they found the woman lying stretched out upon the floor. It appeared she’d been about to undress for bed when she’d been overcome by a violent seizure and had fallen to the ground. Her hair had come loose, and her magnificent arms were twitching feverishly where they lay. As her chest rose and fell spasmodically, a confused smile flew about her lips, which were open wide. All three men knelt down beside her, holding her arms still until the twitching gradually subsided. It seemed she hadn’t hurt herself in the fall, as she easily might have. They picked up the unconscious woman and laid her, half clothed as she was, upon her bed, which was neatly turned down. She grew calmer when her corset was opened. She gave a sigh of relief and now appeared to be sleeping. And she smiled more and more beautifully, delirious now, speaking in whispered notes that sounded like bells ringing far off in the distance, acute and yet scarcely perceptible. They listened breathlessly, discussing whether or not there was any point to bringing a doctor from the city. “Wait a while,” Agappaia said calmly to Simon, who had wanted to set out for the doctor right away, “it will pass. This isn’t the first time.” They continued to sit there listening, exchanging meaningful glances. From Klara’s mouth came not much that was comprehensible, just brief, fragmentary sentences, half sung and half spoken: “In the water, no, just look, deep, deep. It took a long time, long, so long. And you do not weep. If you knew, it’s so black and so muddy all around me. But look. A violet is growing from my mouth. It’s singing. Do you hear? Can you hear it? You might think I’d drowned. How lovely, so very lovely. Isn’t there a ditty about it? That Klara! Where is she now? Go looking for her, go look. But you’ll have to go into the water. That’ll make your skin crawl, won’t it? My skin no longer crawls. A violet. I can see the fish swimming. I am perfectly still, I no longer do anything at all. Be sweet, be kind. You look displeased. That’s where Klara is lying, right there. Do you see her, do you? I’d wanted to say something else to you, but I am content. What did I want to say? Can’t remember. Can you hear me ringing? It’s my violet ringing. A little bell. I always knew. But don’t say so. I can’t hear anything any more. Please, please—”

“Go on, go to bed. If it gets worse, I’ll come wake you,” Agappaia said.

It didn’t get worse. The next morning Klara was in good spirits and had no memory of what had occurred. She had a touch of headache, that’s all.