The Tanners

The nights were becoming splendid. The moon fell in love with the white of the blossoming bushes and trees and the long windings of the roads, and made them gleam. Moonlight shone in the fountains and the flowing river water. The churchyard with its silent graves was transformed into a white fairy place, making you forget the dead who lay buried there. The moon inserted itself among the tangle of thin, hanging, hair-like branches, providing light enough to make out the inscriptions on the headstones. Simon walked around the edge of the churchyard several times, then struck out on a further path that led him through the flat raised field, thrust himself between low, illuminated bushes, came upon a small, sloping meadow between them, and sat down there upon a stone to ponder the question of how much longer he was likely to continue this life of mere observation and contemplation. Soon it must surely come to an end, for things could not go on in this way. He was a man, and to him pertained the rigorous discharge of duty. Soon he would have to take action once more, this was becoming clear to him. When he got home, he said as much to his sister in fitting words. He shouldn’t be thinking about such things, at least not yet, she said. All right, he replied, I won’t think about it yet. What’s more, the thought of remaining here further was so enticing. What was it he wanted, what was driving him? He could hardly have travel money to make a trip somewhere, and as for the place he might to be going, what awaited him there? No, he would gladly remain where he was for an indeterminate brief time. Probably he’d drive himself mad with longing for the place once he left it, and what good would that do him? No, he’d have to make short work of it, this longing; for it would ill befit him. But didn’t people often engage in unbefitting pastimes? What’s more, he would be staying on, and had no intention of surrendering any further to these trains of thought, which he found vexing.

Thus a few more days arrived and vanished. Time arrived so soundlessly and then withdrew without one’s noticing. In this way it actually moved fairly quickly, although before leaving it hesitated for a long while. The two of them, Simon and Hedwig, now became even more powerfully attached to one another. They spent their evenings chatting by lamplight and never wearied of speaking. They talked of food over their meals, whose simplicity and delicacy they praised with carefully chosen words, and as they worked they spoke of work; every activity they accompanied with words, and then they discussed the joys and pleasures of walking while out on their walks. They had long since forgotten they were only brother and sister, they felt conjoined more by fate than shared blood, interacting with one another more or less like two locked-up prisoners who are making an effort to forget their lives with the help of their friendship. They idled away a great deal of time, but they wished to see it wasted in this fashion, for each of them felt what gravity lay concealed behind these exchanges, and both believed themselves perfectly capable of speaking and acting in full earnestness if they only wished. Hedwig sensed she was revealing herself to her brother more and more and was fully conscious of the feeling of consolation this gave her. She found it flattering that he was living with her not only because it was of practical advantage and in accordance with his condition, but also because he found it interesting, and she thanked him for this by becoming even more truly fond of him than before. To both it appeared that each found the other valuable enough to feel pride at spending a bit of their lives together. They spoke and thought a great deal about memories, promising to serve up everything they could recall from that early, bygone age when both were children. Do you remember? This was the way so many of their conversations began. And so they immersed themselves in the precious images of the past and were always at pains to let these remembrances, regardless of their object, instruct their hearts and minds, careful always to whet their laughter on them, or — when the memories were sorrowful — maintain still their high spirits, as was only fitting. The past, in turn, made the present appear sharper and more tender, and then this very present moment they were perceiving took on a more vivid and richer aspect, as if doubled or trebled in a mirror, and it more visibly, more clearly pointed the way to the future they often imagined together, an activity that filled them with a mild intoxication. What future could be lovelier than the one glimpsed in a daydream; and the thoughts they thought were always light and gay.

— 10–