Selected Stories (11 page)

“I might.”

“The dissatisfaction, the displeasure, and the grief I feel, force me to inform you
that you have vexed me.”

“I swear to you that I am sorry.”

“The assiduity with which you choose to swear that you are sorry to have vexed me
and put me in the worst possible humor does not in the least modify the defectiveness
of the suit, to which I refuse to accord even the smallest degree of recognition,
and acceptance of which I vigorously reject, since there can be no question of any
approbation and applause. As regards the jacket, I clearly feel that it makes me a
hunchback, and therefore hideous, a deformation with which I can under no circumstances
admit myself to concur. On the contrary, I do really feel obliged to protest against
such a wicked extravagance and addition to my body. The sleeves suffer from an objectionable
surfeit of length, and the waistcoat is eminently distinguished in that it creates
the impression and evokes the unpleasant semblance of my being the bearer of a fat
stomach. The trousers, or trouserings, are absolutely disgusting. The design and scheme
of these trousers inspire me with a genuine feeling of horror. Where this miserable,
idiotic, and ridiculous work of trouserly art should possess a certain width, it exhibits
a very straitlaced narrowness, and where it should be narrow, it is more than wide.
Your execution, Herr Dünn, is in sum unimaginative, and your work manifests an absence
of intelligence. There adheres to this suit something despicable, something petty-minded,
something inane, something homemade, something ridiculous, and something fearful.
The man who made it can certainly not be counted among men of spirit. Regrettable
indeed is such an absolute absence of talent.”

Herr Dünn had the imperturbability to reply: “I do not understand your indignation,
nor shall I ever be persuaded to understand you. The numerous violent reproofs which
you feel obliged to heap upon me are incomprehensible to me, and will very probably
remain incomprehensible. The suit fits you very well. Nobody can make me think otherwise.
My conviction that you appear uncommonly to your advantage in it, I declare to be
unshakable. To certain distinguishing features and peculiarities of it you will soon
become accustomed. Very high-up state officials order their estimable requirements
from me; graciously likewise do Justices of the Peace send me their commissions. This
assuredly striking proof of my capability should satisfy you. For exaggerated expectations
and imaginings I cannot cater, and master tailor Dünn does not admit any arrogant
demands. Better situated persons and more eminent gentlemen than you have been in
every respect satisfied with my proficiency and skill. The insinuation of my claim
should disarm you.”

Since I had to agree that it was impossible to accomplish anything, and since I had
to consider that my perhaps excessively fiery and impetuous onslaught had been transformed
into a painful and ignominious defeat, I withdrew my troops from this unfortunate
engagement, broke feebly off, and flew the field in shame. In such manner was concluded
the audacious adventure with the tailor. Without another glance about me, I sped to
the municipal treasury, or revenue office, to settle my taxes; but here I must correct
a gross error.

It was, that is to say, a question not of payment, as it now subsequently occurs to
me, but merely, for the time being, of a personal discussion with the President of
the laudable Commission for Revenues, and of the handing in, or handing over, of a
solemn declaration. May my readers not hold this error against me, but listen generously
to what I have to say in this connection. As adequately as the resolute and unshakable
master tailor Dünn promised and guaranteed faultlessness, so do I promise and guarantee,
with regard to the declaration to be rendered, exactitude and completeness, as well
as concision and brevity.

With a bound I enter the charming situation in question. “Permit me to inform you,”
I said frankly and freely to the tax man—or high revenue official—who gave me his
governmental ear in order to follow with appropriate attentiveness the report I was
about to deliver, “that I enjoy, as a poor writer and pen-pusher or
homme de lettres,
a very dubious income. Naturally you will not see or find in my case the smallest
trace of an amassed fortune. I affirm this with deep regret, without, however, despair
or any tears over the lamentable fact. I get along as best I can, as they say. I dispense
with all luxuries: this, a single glance at my person should tell you. The food I
eat can be described as sufficient and frugal. It occurred to you to consider that
I might be lord and master of many sources of income; but I am compelled to oppose,
courteously but decisively, this belief and all such suppositions, and to tell the
simple unadorned truth, and this truth is that I am extremely free from wealth, but,
on the other hand, laden with every sort of poverty, as you might be so kind as to
write in your notebook. On Sundays I may not allow myself to be seen on the streets,
for I have no Sunday clothes. In my steady and thrifty way of life I am like a field
mouse. A sparrow has better prospects of prosperity than this deliverer of a report
and taxpayer you see before you. I have written books, which the public unfortunately
does not like, and the consequences of this oppress my heart. I do not for a moment
doubt that you understand this, and that you consequently realize my financial situation.
Ordinary civil status and civil esteem I do not possess; that’s as clear as daylight.
There seems to be no sense of obligation toward men such as myself. Exceedingly few
persons profess a lively interest in literature, and the pitiless criticism of our
work, which any manjack assumes he can practice and foster, constitutes yet another
abundant source of hurt, and, like a drag chain, drags down the aspirant accomplisher
of a state of modest well-being. Of course there exist amicable patrons and friendly
patronesses, who subsidize me most nobly from time to time; but a gift is no income,
and a subsidy is no fortune. For all these self-explanatory and I hope convincing
reasons, most honoured sir, I would request you to overlook all the increases in taxation
which you have communicated to me, and I must ask, if not implore you, in my case
to set your rate of taxation at as low a level as possible.”

The superintendent or inspector of taxes said: “But you’re always to be seen out for
a walk!”

“Walk,” was my answer, “I definitely must, to invigorate myself and to maintain contact
with the living world, without perceiving which I could not write the half of one
more single word, or produce the tiniest poem in verse or prose. Without walking,
I would be dead, and my profession, which I love passionately, would be destroyed.
Also, without walking and gathering reports, I would not be able to render one single
further report, or the tiniest of essays, let alone a real, long story. Without walking,
I would not be able to make any observations or any studies at all. Such a clever
and enlightened man as you may and will understand this at once. On a lovely and far-wandering
walk a thousand usable and useful thoughts occur to me. Shut in at home, I would miserably
decay and dry up. Walking is for me not only healthy and lovely, it is also of service
and useful. A walk advances me professionally and provides me at the same time also
with amusement and joy; it refreshes and comforts and delights me, is a pleasure for
me, and simultaneously, it has the peculiarity that it allures me and spurs me on
to further creation, since it offers me as material numerous small and large objectivities
upon which I later work at home, diligently and industriously. A walk is always filled
with significant phenomena, which are valuable to see and to feel. A pleasant walk
most often teems with imageries and living poems, with enchantments and natural beauties,
be they ever so small. The lore of nature and the lore of the country are revealed,
charming and graceful, to the sense and eyes of the observant walker, who must of
course walk not with downcast but with open and unclouded eyes, if the lovely significance
and the gay, noble idea of the walk are to dawn on him. Consider how the poet must
grow impoverished and run sadly to ruin if that maternal and paternal and, in beauty
childlike, beautiful nature does not ever and again refresh him from the source of
the good and of the beautiful. Consider the great unabating importance for the poet
of the instruction and golden holy teaching which he derives out there in the play
of the open air. Without walking and the contemplation of nature which is connected
with it, without this equally delicious and admonishing search, I deem myself lost,
and I am lost. With the utmost love and attention the man who walks must study and
observe every smallest living thing, be it a child, a dog, a fly, a butterfly, a sparrow,
a worm, a flower, a man, a house, a tree, a hedge, a snail, a mouse, a cloud, a hill,
a leaf, or no more than a poor discarded scrap of paper on which, perhaps, a dear
good child at school has written his first clumsy letters. The highest and the lowest,
the most serious and the most hilarious things are to him equally beloved, beautiful,
and valuable. He must bring with him no sort of sentimentally sensitive self-love
or quickness to take offense. Unselfish and unegoistic, he must let his careful eye
wander and stroll where it will; only he must be continuously able in the contemplation
and observation of things to efface himself, and to put behind him, little consider,
and forget like a brave, zealous, and joyfully self-immolating front-line soldier,
himself, his private complaints, needs, wants, and sacrifices. If he does not, then
he walks only half attentive, with only half his spirit, and that is worth nothing.
He must at all times be capable of compassion, of sympathy, and of enthusiasm, and
it is hoped that he is. He must be able to bow down and sink into the deepest and
smallest everyday thing, and it is probable that he can. Faithful, devoted self-effacement
and self-surrender among objects, and zealous love for all phenomena and things, make
him happy in this, however, just as every performance of duty make that man happy
and rich in his inmost being who is aware of his duty. Spirit, devotion, and faithfulness
bless him and raise him high up above his own inconspicuous walking self, which has
only too often a name and evil reputation for vagabondage and vagrancy. His manifold
studies enrich and hearten, appease and ennoble him, and moreover, however improbable
it may sound, they touch the fringes of exact science, a thing of which nobody would
think the apparently frivolous wanderer capable. Do you realize that I am working
obstinately and tenaciously with my brain, and am often in the best sense active when
I present the appearance of a heedless and out-of-work, negligent, dreamy, and idle
pickpocket, lost out in the blue, or in the green, making the worst impression, seeming
a frivolous man devoid of any sense of responsibility? Mysterious and secretly there
prowl at the walker’s heels all kinds of beautiful subtle walker’s thoughts, such
as make him stand in his ardent and regardless tracks and listen, so that he will
again and again be confused and startled by curious impressions and bewitchings of
spirit power, and he has the feeling that he must sink all of a sudden into the earth,
or that before his dazzled, bewildered thinker’s and poet’s eyes an abyss has opened.
His head wants to fall off, and his otherwise so lively arms and legs are as benumbed.
Countryside and people, sounds and colors, faces and farms, clouds and sunlight swirl
all around him like diagrams, and he must ask himself: “Where am I?” Earth and heaven
suddenly stream together and collide, rocking interlocked one upon the other into
a flashing, shimmering, obscure nebular imagery; chaos begins, and the orders vanish.
Convulsed, he laboriously tries to retain his normal state of mind; he succeeds, and
he walks on, full of confidence. Do you think it quite impossible that on a gentle
and patient walk I should meet giants, have the privilege of seeing professors, do
business in passing with booksellers and bank officials, converse with budding, youthful
songstresses and former actresses, dine at noon with intelligent ladies, stroll through
woods, dispatch dangerous letters, and come to wild blows with spiteful, ironic master
tailors? All this can happen, and I believe it actually did happen. There accompanies
the walker always something remarkable, some food for thought, something fantastic,
and he would be foolish if he did not notice this spiritual side, or even thrust it
away; rather, he welcomes all curious and peculiar phenomena, becomes their friend
and brother, because they delight him; he makes them into formed and substantial bodies,
gives them structure and soul just as they for their part instruct and inspire him.
In a word, by thinking, pondering, drilling, digging, speculating, writing, investigating,
researching, and walking, I earn my daily bread with as much sweat on my brow as anybody.
Although I may cut a most carefree figure, I am highly serious and conscientious,
and though I seem to be no more than delicate and dreamy, I am a solid technician!
I hope that all these meticulous explanations convince you that my endeavors are honorable,
and satisfy you completely.”

The official said: “Good!” and he added: “Your application concerning approval of
an exceptionally low rate of taxation we shall examine later and inform you shortly
of the reduction or approval thereof as may be. For the kind declaration delivered
and the industriously assembled honest statements we thank you. For the present you
may withdraw and proceed with your walk.”

As I was mercifully released, I hurried happily away, and was soon in the open air
again. Raptures of freedom seized me and carried me away. I come now at last, after
many a bravely endured adventure, and after more or less victoriously overwhelming
many an arduous obstacle, to the long-since announced and forecast railway crossing,
where I had to stop a while to wait pleasantly until gradually the train kindly had
the high grace to pass gently by. All sorts of male and female folk of every age and
character were standing and waiting at the barrier, as did I. The kindly, corpulent
signalman’s wife stood there still as a statue and examined us loiterers and waiters
thoroughly. Hurtling past, the railway train was full of soldiery, and all the soldiers,
sworn and dedicated to serve their dearly beloved fatherland, looking out at the windows,
this entire traveling military college on the one hand and the useless civilian population
on the other greeted each other and waved their hands amicably and patriotically,
an action which spread pleasant feelings far and wide. As the crossing was now open,
I and all the others went peacefully on our ways, and now all the world around seemed
to me suddenly to have become a thousand times more beautiful. The walk seemed to
be becoming more beautiful, rich, and long. Here at the railway crossing seemed to
be the peak, or something like the center, from which again the gentle declivity would
begin. Something akin to sorrow’s golden bliss and melancholy’s magic breathed around
me like a quiet, lofty god. “It is divinely beautiful here,” I said to myself. Like
a song at departure that brings tears to our eyes, the gentle countryside lay there
with its dear humble fields, gardens, and houses. Soft, very ancient folk lamentations
and the sorrows of the good, poor folk thronged and sounded everywhere. Spirits with
enchanting shapes and garments emerged vast and soft, and the dear good country road
shone sky-blue, and white, and precious gold. Compassion and enchantment flew like
carven angels falling from heaven over the gold-colored, rosey-aureoled little houses
of the poor, which the sunlight delicately embraced and framed about. Love and poverty
and silvery-golden breath walked and floated hand in hand. I felt as if someone I
loved were calling me by name, or as if someone were kissing and comforting me. God
the Almighty, our merciful Lord, walked down the road, to glorify it and make it divinely
beautiful. Imaginings of all sorts, and illusions, made me believe that Jesus Christ
was risen again and wandering now in the midst of the people and in the midst of this
friendly place. Houses, gardens, and people were transfigured into musical sounds,
all that was solid seemed to be transfigured into soul and into gentleness. Sweet
veils of silver and soul-haze swam through all things and lay over all things. The
soul of the world had opened, and all grief, all human disappointment, all evil, all
pain seemed to vanish, from now on never to appear again. Earlier walks came before
my eyes; but the wonderful image of the humble present became a feeling which overpowered
all others. The future paled, and the past dissolved. I glowed and flowered myself
in the glowing, flowering present. From near and far, great things and small things
emerged bright silver with marvelous gestures, joys, and enrichments, and in the midst
of this beautiful place I dreamed of nothing but this place itself. All other fantasies
sank and vanished in meaninglessness. I had the whole rich earth immediately before
me, and I still looked only at what was most small and most humble. With gestures
of love the heavens rose and fell. I had become an inward being, and I walked as in
an inward world; everything outside me became a dream; what I had understood till
now became unintelligible. I fell away from the surface, down into the fabulous depths,
which I recognized then to be all that was good. What we understand and love understands
and loves us also. I was no longer myself, was another, and yet it was on this account
that I became properly myself. In the sweet light of love I realized, or believed
I realized, that perhaps the inward self is the only self which really exists. The
thought seized me: “Where would we poor people be, if there was no earth faithful
to us? What would we have, if we did not have this beauty and this good? Where would
I be, if I was not here? Here I have everything, and elsewhere I would have nothing.”