don’t pay a thing.
What does it matter? Not at all, not at all, just come with me, come. Come into
this room with me. Marie! Where are you? Bring in the coffee at once.”
Inside she said to Simon: “I wish to get to know you and your brother.
How could you go running off like that? I am so often all alone in this isolated
house that I feel frightened. My husband is always gone, off on some distant
journey, he is an explorer and goes sailing off on seas the very existence of
which his poor wife hasn’t even an inkling. Am I not a poor woman? What is your
name? What’s the name of the other one, your brother? My name is Klara. Just
call me Miss Klara. It pleases me to hear this simple name. Are you feeling a
bit more trusting now? This would make me so, so very happy. Don’t you think
we’ll be able to live together and get along? Certainly we’ll be able to—I think
you must be quite gentle. I’m not afraid to have you in my home. You have honest
eyes. Is your brother older than you?”
“Yes, he is older and a much better person than I am.”
“You are an honest man to say such a thing.”
“My name is Simon, and my brother is Kaspar.”
“My husband’s name is Agappaia.”
She turned pale as she spoke these words, but quickly pulled herself
together and smiled.
Simon wrote to his brother Kaspar:
What odd fish we are, the two of us. The way we drift about this
earth, it’s as if only you and I were alive, and no one else. What a crazy sort
of friendship the two of us have forged, it’s as though among all mankind no
one
else could be found who might be worthy of the designation “friend.” We’re not really brothers at
all, we’re just friends, two people who find themselves companions in this
world. I’m not truly made for friendship, and can’t understand what it is about
you I find so splendid that I’m forced constantly to imagine myself at your
side, pressed against your back as it were. I’ll soon be thinking your head is
my own, for you’re so very often in my head already; and if things go on like
this, perhaps I’ll soon be seizing things with your hands, walking with your
legs and eating with your mouth. Truly there is something mysterious about our
friendship when I say to you I consider it quite possible that our hearts have
been trying to draw apart from one another, but they’re incapable of separating.
I’m overjoyed I have to admit that you still can’t quite manage this, for your
letters sound so nice and for the time being I also wish to remain under this
mystery’s spell. For us this is good, but how can I be speaking in such a
horribly dry tone: I find it simply, not to tell a lie, enchanting. And why
shouldn’t two brothers overdo things a little? We fit together quite well—and
we
did even back in the days of still hating one another when we nearly beat each
other to a pulp. Do you remember? This appeal, with a dash of healthy laughter,
is all that’s needed to stir up within you, to glue together, paste, and draw
pictures that are truly more than worth remembering. We had become, for reasons
I can no longer recall, mortal enemies. Oh, how accomplished we were at
hating—our hatred was decidedly resourceful in inventing torments and
humiliations to inflict on one another. Once at the dinner table, just to
provide a single example of this lamentable and childish state of affairs, you
threw a platter of sauerkraut at me, because you couldn’t resist, saying: “Here,
catch!” I have to tell you, at the time I was trembling with fury even if only
for the fact that here was this lovely opportunity for you to insult me so
cruelly, and there was nothing I could do about it. I caught the platter, but
was stupid enough to savor the pain of this mortification all up and down my
gullet. And do you remember how, one noon—it was a quiet, a deathly quiet
summer-hot Sunday
What does it matter? Not at all, not at all, just come with me, come. Come into
this room with me. Marie! Where are you? Bring in the coffee at once.”
Inside she said to Simon: “I wish to get to know you and your brother.
How could you go running off like that? I am so often all alone in this isolated
house that I feel frightened. My husband is always gone, off on some distant
journey, he is an explorer and goes sailing off on seas the very existence of
which his poor wife hasn’t even an inkling. Am I not a poor woman? What is your
name? What’s the name of the other one, your brother? My name is Klara. Just
call me Miss Klara. It pleases me to hear this simple name. Are you feeling a
bit more trusting now? This would make me so, so very happy. Don’t you think
we’ll be able to live together and get along? Certainly we’ll be able to—I think
you must be quite gentle. I’m not afraid to have you in my home. You have honest
eyes. Is your brother older than you?”
“Yes, he is older and a much better person than I am.”
“You are an honest man to say such a thing.”
“My name is Simon, and my brother is Kaspar.”
“My husband’s name is Agappaia.”
She turned pale as she spoke these words, but quickly pulled herself
together and smiled.
Simon wrote to his brother Kaspar:
What odd fish we are, the two of us. The way we drift about this
earth, it’s as if only you and I were alive, and no one else. What a crazy sort
of friendship the two of us have forged, it’s as though among all mankind no
one
else could be found who might be worthy of the designation “friend.” We’re not really brothers at
all, we’re just friends, two people who find themselves companions in this
world. I’m not truly made for friendship, and can’t understand what it is about
you I find so splendid that I’m forced constantly to imagine myself at your
side, pressed against your back as it were. I’ll soon be thinking your head is
my own, for you’re so very often in my head already; and if things go on like
this, perhaps I’ll soon be seizing things with your hands, walking with your
legs and eating with your mouth. Truly there is something mysterious about our
friendship when I say to you I consider it quite possible that our hearts have
been trying to draw apart from one another, but they’re incapable of separating.
I’m overjoyed I have to admit that you still can’t quite manage this, for your
letters sound so nice and for the time being I also wish to remain under this
mystery’s spell. For us this is good, but how can I be speaking in such a
horribly dry tone: I find it simply, not to tell a lie, enchanting. And why
shouldn’t two brothers overdo things a little? We fit together quite well—and
we
did even back in the days of still hating one another when we nearly beat each
other to a pulp. Do you remember? This appeal, with a dash of healthy laughter,
is all that’s needed to stir up within you, to glue together, paste, and draw
pictures that are truly more than worth remembering. We had become, for reasons
I can no longer recall, mortal enemies. Oh, how accomplished we were at
hating—our hatred was decidedly resourceful in inventing torments and
humiliations to inflict on one another. Once at the dinner table, just to
provide a single example of this lamentable and childish state of affairs, you
threw a platter of sauerkraut at me, because you couldn’t resist, saying: “Here,
catch!” I have to tell you, at the time I was trembling with fury even if only
for the fact that here was this lovely opportunity for you to insult me so
cruelly, and there was nothing I could do about it. I caught the platter, but
was stupid enough to savor the pain of this mortification all up and down my
gullet. And do you remember how, one noon—it was a quiet, a deathly quiet
summer-hot Sunday
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