Where the gloomy other man acted wild, insane, and dissolute, behaved in the most unseemly way imaginable, and thus gave rise to immediate dislike, these quiet folks here in a corner of the woods conducted themselves as gently and good-humoredly as they could, hence of course disseminating sympathy in such a way that Hans stopped next to them with a kind of delight.
The sight that the beggar man and woman offered our passerby was moving, in fact clearly stirring, since it showed how two entirely impoverished people in isolation stuck together, faithful, honest, and solicitous, by sitting next to each other thoroughly unmiserable in their sorrow, instead innocent, affectionate, and warmhearted in their need, awaiting whatever came with a deep inner calm and in fact, it seemed, good cheer almost.
Hans, moved for a moment by the winning picture, said in silence to himself the following words:
“How warmly and intimately human suffering is painted here, presented as entirely harmless, natural, and appealing before the eyes of one who has happened by chance to wander past and see this charming if at the same time melancholy scene. Must not anyone with a heart capable of feeling sensations almost smile at such a picture and at the same time shed a tear?”
It seemed to him as though heaven were wanting to shine an especially beautiful and radiant beam of light down upon this poverty that does not rail and rage but rather accepts in God’s name whatever fate and its dispensations command it to bear and endure.
Everything faltered and came to a stop like pitch-black, moonless, starless midnight around the insurrectionist there in the open field; here, by the happy beggar couple, it resounded as though with love songs and melodies of peace, it flapped and fluttered as though with the wings of an angel, it was light like the realms where all good people imagine the saints live.
Perhaps the rebel in the empty field had suffered an injustice, but what will come of anyone who can no longer bear injustice, no longer endure a hard fate? Don’t you agree, dear reader, that they who accept life in good spirits, whatever bad things life might also bring, are blessed?
Words such as those given just above are actually what Hans says, not the author, who indeed would do best just to stay in the background and keep the most scrupulous silence, rather than pressing forward, which doesn’t look good at all.
Tact and discretion are never anything other than attractive. Modestly stepping aside can never be recommended as a continual practice in strong enough terms.
Such severe and merciless dealings with oneself as presented here may admittedly be somewhat strange.
What blatant iron will and manifest adamantine discipline!
Whereupon the forcefully reprimanded writer sits up, although in truth he is rather shy, straight and says, as apologetically as apparently unfortunately rather cockily, that the tempting smell and scent of rösti potatoes with bacon is wafting if he is not grossly mistaken into his nose!
The matter must be looked into with the same promptitude as that with which it is reported that Hans has once again one fine Sunday afternoon, as on so many before, betaken himself on a jaunty and pleasant walk.
It was impossible for him to remember clearly after the fact every particular little detail concerning that lovely afternoon. He knew only that it was warm and nice out, and that the walker sat down first on a boulder in the fields but later for half an hour on the banks of a bluely quietly delightfully flowing stream. A man passing by said: Hello. To our hero, surely more of an idyllic than a dramatic, more of a comic than a tragic hero, it felt wonderful to be able to respond to this polite greeting in a free and natural way, to sit amid the green under a blue sky with just a few clouds, and to gently regard the merry area lying all around him, which, for as far as he could see, was green, yellow, blue, and white, and through which breathed a wafting, childishly gentle, adorable wind from some, Hans himself was not quite sure which, direction.
He felt the urge to stand up and keep walking. Near an old and honorable building, formerly a monastery, he had himself brought across the river. The ferryman struck him as a figure from Dürer. The battles of Grandson and Murten came clearly into his mind, and yet the beautiful, good, calm, and cheerful country gave off the pleasant scent of peace, unremitting love of one’s neighbor, lasting amicable accord, harmony, fidelity, and kindheartedness more than that of tumult, clashing weapons, battle cries, hostilities, and brutal disturbance of tranquillity.
Beautiful, respectable houses and cheerful parks stood and lay peacefully thereabouts. An attractive antiquity enveloped every object. Hans abandoned himself to a dream in which he was once again a little boy gently strolling into the Sunday evening light with his father and mother and brothers and sisters. While he dreamed along these lines, it seemed as though everything around him had turned infinitely soft and lovely, and he found it impossible to suppress a sweet feeling of melancholy.
But soon enough he was cheerful again. Love of humanity and the sorrows thereof, a lust for life and the pain therefrom rose exquisitely up like tall ghostly shapes in the pale, golden air of the summer evening. Softly the figures seemed to wave to him. A scent of river water spread through the region. Later, he was sitting in front of a stately guesthouse where, while couples strolled modestly down immaculate country roads and horse-drawn carts, bicycles, parents with children, and all sorts of other Sunday people passed slowly or rapidly by, he chatted excitedly with the comely hostess.
The calm of Sunday, the joy and calm of evening, ambled softly but majestically past, with wide eyes, as breath, memory, and feeling. From the picturesque village’s chimneys puffed and smiled a bluish dinnertime smoke sighing softly through the still air. Now, in every kitchen, so Hans thought, they were making coffee and rösti, and having said this to himself he felt a most vigorous desire to once again dig in to some rösti himself.
He left the guesthouse. Numerous busy fisherman lined the evening canal. The railroad bridge shimmered silver and pink. What a monstrous wave of enchantment flooded in from everywhere across the whole world and covered everything.
Hans stepped into a village grocery store that was completely full of the smell of rösti, which made him practically perish with cravings, although of course he did not dare to say anything since it was hardly proper to step into a building without so much as a by your leave and help eat dinner.
In any case, he had been able to chat with a guesthouse hostess, which, admittedly, was certainly not much, but surely was also not little. He valued constructive conversations highly.
To secretly relish the beautiful figure of Frau B— (whom he referred to as “the Oriental”) was either not at all or very important to him, depending on whether such behavior seemed pleasant to him at that particular moment. He always gave over a bit of time to suchlike and similar things. In the evening, on the promenade, he would now and then stroll along close behind the abovementioned lady, thinking all the while that it might perhaps be nicer for him if he were arm in arm with her instead, but nonetheless just the enjoyment of her captivating gait as well as the sight of her bewitching back left him fully satisfied. Enthusiasts are happy with little, in fact even often extremely miniscule things. One time, he met her on the lakeshore, where she cast him a fleeting glance that seemed to contain a certain quantity of regard. As a result, Hans flew straight, without in the least pausing to reflect upon whether such a journey was a good idea, to seventh heaven and remained there for a rather long time fully out of his senses.