For a moment she reflected, then went on:
“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:
“No doubt you’ll be leaving now, it’s what we agreed. Farewell. Come here to me, come close, and take my hand. Quite possibly I shall soon throw myself at a man who doesn’t deserve me. I’ll have wasted my life. I’ll enjoy a great deal of respect. People will say: What a capable woman she is. In all truth, I have no desire ever to hear from you again. Try to be a good man. Get involved in public matters, give people cause to talk about you, it would give me pleasure to hear of you from others. Or just go on living as best you’re able, remain in the dark, struggle on in the darkness with the many days left to come. I shall never suspect you of frailty. What else should I say to wish you luck on your journey? Go on, thank me. Yes, you! Do you really have no intention of thanking me for your time here, which I made possible for you? But no, don’t thank me, it wouldn’t suit you. You’re incapable of bowing and saying you can’t even begin to express your thanks. Your behavior’s your gratitude. You and I chased and drove the hours before us at such a clip they got winded. Do you really not own any more things than fit in that tiny suitcase? You are truly poor. A single suitcase is the entire household you inhabit in this world. There’s something enchanting about this, but also something wretched. Go now. I shall watch from the window as you walk away. When you reach the edge of the hill up there, turn around and look back at me one last time. Why should any further words of tenderness be exchanged? Between you, the brother, and me, the sister? Does it matter if a sister never sees her brother again? I am sending you away somewhat coldly because I know you and know you hate affectionate farewells. Between us this means nothing. Now bid me adieu and then be on your way—”
— 11–
It was about two in the afternoon when Simon arrived by train in the metropolis he’d left behind around three months before. The station was full of people and completely black, filled with that train station odor that’s absent only from small, rural stations. Simon was trembling as he got off; he was hungry, stiff, exhausted, sad and sapped of all courage, besides which he couldn’t shake off a certain trepidation, though he kept telling himself his trepidation was utterly foolish. Like most travelers, he checked his luggage at the luggage window and lost himself in the crowd. As soon as he was able to move freely again, he immediately felt better and once more was conscious of his effortless good health — now in top form owing to his time in the country. He ate something at one of those odd public establishments. So here he was eating again, without much appetite; for the food was meager and poor, good enough for a down-at-the-heels city-dweller, but not for a spoiled denizen of the countryside. The people looked at him attentively, as if they could tell he’d just arrived from the country. Simon thought: “These people must surely sense that I’m used to better food; something of the sort can be discerned in my approach to this meal.” In fact he left half of it behind on his plate, paid his bill and couldn’t help remarking airily to the waitress how far from tasty he’d found it. The waitress gazed at the scornful customer contemptuously, amicably contemptuously, just ever so slightly, as if she had no need to feel indignant at the affront, seeing it was a person of this sort who’d complained and not another. If it had been someone else, well then, certainly, but on account of such a one! — Simon walked out. He was feeling happy, the second-rate meal and the girl’s insulting glance notwithstanding. The sky was a pale blue. Simon gazed at it: Yes, here too he had a sky. In this respect it was perfectly silly to be so partial to the countryside at the city’s expense. He resolved to stop thinking back on the countryside now and to acclimatize himself to this new world. He saw how people went walking on before him, going much faster than he did; for in the country he’d grown accustomed to an ambling, deliberate gait, as though he were afraid of advancing too quickly. Well, for today he decided to permit himself to go on walking like a peasant, but from tomorrow on he’d stride forward in a different manner. He observed people affectionately, however, with no trace of shyness, he met their eyes and looked at their legs to see how they were moving them, at their hats to observe the progress of fashion, and at their clothes to be able to judge his own outfit still good enough compared with the many unlovely garments he was now industriously scrutinizing. How hurriedly they walked, these people. He would have liked to stop one of them and address to him the words: What’s the rush? But then he seemed to lack the courage for such a foolish undertaking. He felt fine, though he was also a bit weary and tense. A tiny, undeniable mournfulness held him in its grasp, but that harmonized well with the light, happy, somewhat overcast sky. It also harmonized with the city, where to wear too sunny an expression was all but unseemly. Simon had to confess to himself that he was walking there looking for nothing, but he nonetheless found it expedient to assume the bearing of a seeker, someone pressing rapidly forward like all the others, for he had no wish to play the role of the idle newcomer. He preferred not to call attention to himself, and it did him good to see his behavior wasn’t attracting notice. From this he concluded that he was still capable of city life, and so he carried himself a bit more upright than before and acted as though he were carrying around with him a small, elegant intention, one that he was imperturbably pursuing, but which elicited from him no worry, only interest, and would not dirty his shoes or tire his hands. He was just now walking through a beautiful affluent street planted on both sides with blossoming trees, a street in which, given how broad it was, you had the sky more freely before your eyes. It was truly a splendid bright street, just the sort to conjure up the most pleasant existences and inspire dreams. Simon now completely forgot his plan of walking through this street with a deliberate air. He let himself go, allowed himself to drift, looking now at the ground, now up above, now to the side into one of the many shop windows, before one of which he finally remained standing, without actually looking at anything. He found it agreeable to have the noise of the beautiful lively street at his back and yet also in his ears. His perceptions distinguished the footsteps of individual passers-by, all of whom no doubt could only assume he was standing there taking a good look at something on display in the shop window. Suddenly he heard someone addressing him. He turned around and beheld a lady demanding that he carry a package she was holding out to him all the way to her home. This lady was not particularly beautiful, but at this moment Simon’s task was not to lose himself in reflections concerning the degree of her beauty but rather, as an inner voice cried out to him, to step lively and do as she instructed. He took the package, which wasn’t at all heavy, and carried it, following behind the lady as she cut across the street with small, measured steps without turning even once to look back at the young man. Having arrived before an, as it appeared, distinguished building the woman commanded him to come upstairs with her, and so he did. He saw no reason why he should refuse to comply. Accompanying this lady into her home felt perfectly natural, and obeying her voice was quite appropriate for his situation, which was so undefined. He would perhaps still have been standing before the shop window gaping, he thought as he climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, the woman invited him inside. She went on ahead and gestured him into a room whose door she opened. To Simon the room appeared quite splendid. The woman came in, sat down on one of the chairs, cleared her throat a little, looked at the one standing before her and asked whether he might make up his mind to enter her service. The impression she had of him, she went on, was that of an individual standing idly about in the world, a person one would be doing a favor by offering him work. As for the rest, she found him quite passable, and would he please tell her whether he was inclined to accept her offer?