The Tanners

“When you’ve left me behind, as must happen soon, don’t write to me. I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to feel obliged to inform me about your further adventures. Neglect me, just as you used to neglect me. What good can writing do us? I shall go on living here and find it a pleasure to think often about the three months you spent with me. The countryside will buoy me up and show me your image. I shall go to visit all the places we admired together, and I shall find them even more beautiful; for a defect, a loss, makes things more beautiful. I and the entire region shall be missing something, but this absence, and yes even this defect, will introduce even more tender sentiments to my life. I’m not inclined to feel pressured just because something’s lacking. Why would I! On the contrary, there’s something liberating, relief-bringing about this. And after all — Gaps exist to be filled with something new. When I’m about to get up in the morning, I shall imagine I hear your footsteps, see your face and hear your voice — and then I’ll laugh at this illusion. Do you know: I’m fond of illusions, and you are too, I can tell. It’s peculiar how much I’ve been chattering these days. These days! I think by now the days themselves ought to feel how precious they are to me, ought to do me the kindness of coming and departing more slowly, in a more protracted, leisurely, loitering way, and more quietly too! And in fact that’s what they’re doing. When they approach, it feels like a kiss, and when they darkly withdraw it’s like someone pressing my hand or waving to me, sweetly, familiarly. The nights! How many nights you slept here beside me, slept beautifully, for you’re an accomplished sleeper and slept so well in that little room there, on the straw bed that soon will be ownerless and sleepless. The nights that will be arriving now will creep up to me shyly the way little children with guilty consciences approach their father or mother, with their eyes cast down. The nights will be less silent, Simon, when you’re gone, and I’ll tell you why: You were so quiet at night, your sleep increased the silence. We were two silent, peaceful human beings during all these nights; now I’ll have to be silent alone, of necessity, and it will be less silent; for I’ll often sit upright in bed in the dark, listening for something. Then I shall feel how much less silent it now is. Perhaps I’ll weep then — but not at all because of you, so don’t give yourself airs on my account. Just look, he’s already puffing himself up! No, Simon, no — no one is going to weep for you. When you’re gone, you’re gone. That’s all. Do you think a person would weep for you? It’s out of the question. You must never imagine that. One can feel that you’re gone, one takes note of it, but then? Might one feel longing or something of the sort? No one feels longing for a person like you. You simply don’t inspire it. No heart will go trembling off in search of you. Might one devote a thought to you? What a notion! Well, yes, carelessly, the way one drops a needle, one might occasionally call you to mind. That’s all you’ll merit, even if you live to be a hundred. You haven’t the slightest talent for leaving behind memories. You don’t leave behind anything at all. I can’t imagine what you might leave behind in any case, as you have no possessions. There’s no call for you to laugh in such an impudent way, I’m speaking seriously. Out of my sight this minute! March!”

For the next few days the weather was foul and rainy, and this too was a reason to stay on. How could Simon begin his journey in such weather? Certainly he might have been able to, but was there any point leaving when the weather was poor? And so he stayed. Another day or two, he thought, that’s all. He spent practically the entire time sitting in the large empty classroom, reading a novel he wished to finish before he left. Sometimes he walked up and down between the rows of school benches, always holding this book: Its contents so gripped him he couldn’t tear his mind away. But he didn’t make much progress in his reading; he kept getting mired in thoughts. I’ll keep reading as long as it keeps raining, he thought; when the weather turns fair, I’ll go on — not with my reading, though: in the real sense.

On the last day, Hedwig said to him: