Knulp by Hermann Hesse
There were several places, but the best was the Lion at Gertelfingen, only half an hour away. That, he decided, was where he would take Bärbele, the girl next door.
It was nearly lunchtime, and as Knulp climbed the stairs of the Rothfuss house a pleasantly pungent smell came his way. He stopped still and breathed in the balm with boyish pleasure and curiosity. Despite the lightness of his step, the tanner's wife had heard him. She flung open the kitchen door and stood in the bright opening, clouded in the steam of her cooking.
"Ah, Herr Knulp," she cried out affectionately. "I'm glad you're so early. You see, we're having liver dumplings, and I thought maybe I could fry up a slice of liver just for you, if you like. How do you feel about it?"
Knulp stroked his cheek and made a courtly gesture.
"Why should there be something special for me? I'll be only too happy with a dish of soup."
"That's no way to talk. When a man's been sick, he needs proper nourishment, he's got to get his strength back. But maybe you don't care for liver. Some people don't."
He laughed modestly. "Oh, I'm not one of those. A dish of liver dumplings is a Sunday dinner. If I could have them every Sunday of my life, I'd be perfectly happy."
"While you're staying with us you must have everything you want. What did I learn to cook for? Just speak up. There's an extra slice of liver, I've saved it for you. It would do you good."
She came closer and gave him an encouraging smile. He understood quite well what she meant, and she was rather pretty, but he pretended not to notice. He played with his fine hat that the poor tailor had ironed, and looked to one side.
"Thank you, Frau Rothfuss. Thank you for your kindness. But I really prefer dumplings. You've been spoiling me enough as it is."
She smiled and threatened him with her forefinger. "You don't have to act so bashful. It doesn't convince me anyway. Dumplings then. With plenty of onions, eh?"
"I can't say no to that."
She went busily back to her stove, while he went into the big room, where the table had already been laid. He sat reading yesterday's paper until the tanner came in and the soup was served. When the meal was over, the three of them played cards for a little while, and Knulp amazed his hostess with a few hazardous and graceful new card tricks. He had a playfully negligent way of shuffling and then gathering up the deck with the speed of lightning; he tossed his card on the table with an elegant gesture and occasionally ran his thumb over the edge of his cards. The tanner watched him with the admiration and indulgence that unprofitable skills arouse in a hardworking citizen. But his wife observed these signs of savoir-vivre with knowing interest. Her eyes rested attentively on his long graceful hands, which no hard work had ever disfigured.
Through the small windowpanes a thin, uncertain beam of sunlight poured into the room, passed over the table and the cards, played fitfully with the faint shadows on the floor and circled tremulously round the pale-blue ceiling. Knulp's eyes sparkled as he took it all in: the play of the February sun, the peace and quiet of the house, his friend's grave, work-hardened face, and the pretty woman's veiled glances. He didn't like it, this wasn't his aim in life, this wasn't his kind of happiness. If my health were better and if it were summer, he thought, I wouldn't stay here an hour longer.
"I think I'll follow the sun for a while," he said, as Rothfuss picked up the cards and looked at the clock. He went downstairs with the tanner, left him in the drying shed with his skins, and.wandered off through the dismal grass plot which extended, interspersed with tanning pits, down to the river. There the tanner had built a little board pier to stand on when washing his skins. Knulp sat down on the pier, letting his feet dangle over the swift silent stream, and watched with delight the dark fishes darting here and there below him. Then he studied his surroundings, trying to figure out a way of speaking to the little servant girl next door.
The gardens of the two houses adjoined, separated only by a broken-down lath fence. Down by the water the fence poles had long since rotted away and one could pass without difficulty from one garden to the other. The neighbor's garden seemed better-kept than the tanner's tangled grass plot. Knulp could see four little vegetable patches, overgrown with weeds as they are in the wintertime, two meager borders of lettuce and winter spinach, and a number of bowed rose bushes, their crowns buried in the ground. Farther up there were several handsome fir trees, which hid the house.
After a careful study of the neighbor's garden, Knulp crept silently as far as the fir trees; between them he could see the house, with the kitchen in back. He had not long to wait before he saw the girl, her sleeves rolled up, at work in the kitchen. The lady of the house was with her, giving orders, showing her one thing and another, as women must do when, unwilling to pay an experienced maid, they take on a beginner every year and then are always full of praises for the girl who has just left. But the tone in which she instructed and found fault was without malice; apparently the new girl was already used to it, for she went about her work calmly and with unruffled brow.
The intruder stood leaning against a tree, watching and listening with the vigilance of a hunter and the serene patience of a man whose time is cheap and who has learned to enjoy life as a spectator. It gave him pleasure to watch the young girl whenever she appeared in the window. The rest of the time he listened and gathered from her employer's speech that she was not a native of Lächstetten but of some place farther up in the valley. Chewing on a fragrant fir twig, he listened patiently for half an hour and then another half hour until at length the lady of the house disappeared and all was silent in the kitchen.
He waited a little longer, then approached quietly and tapped on the kitchen window with a dry branch. The girl paid no attention and he had to knock again. This time she came to the half-open window, opened it wide, and looked out.
"Goodness, what are you doing here?" she exclaimed in a whisper. "I almost had a fright."
"How could I frighten anybody?" said Knulp with a smile. "I just wanted to say hello and see how you were getting along. And besides, it's Saturday; I wanted to ask if you could take a little walk with me tomorrow afternoon."
She shook her head; the look on her face was so woebegone that he felt really sorry for her.
"No," she said in a friendly tone. "I won't be off tomorrow; only in the morning to go to church."
"Hm," Knulp muttered. "But then you could go out with me this evening."
"This evening? Well yes, I'll be free, but I mean to write a letter -- to my people at home."
"Oh, you'll write your letter an hour later, it won't go out tonight anyway. I'd been so looking forward to a little chat with you, and we could have such a nice walk this evening, if it doesn't rain pitchforks. So be nice. You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"I'm not afraid of anybody and certainly not of you. But I can't. If they see me out walking with a man. . ."
"But Bärbele, nobody knows you here. Besides, it's no sin and it's nobody's business. You're not a schoolgirl any more. So don't forget, I'll be waiting at eight o'clock down by the gymnasium -- you know, next to the cattle market. Or should I come earlier? I can if you like."
"No, not earlier. No. . . don't come at all, it's impossible, I can't. . ."
He displayed his boyish, crestfallen look.
"Well, if you don't feel like it!" he said sadly. "It seemed to me you were all alone and a stranger here and you must be homesick sometimes, and me too, and we could have talked a little. I'd have liked to hear more about Achthausen, because of being there once. But I can't force you, and don't take it amiss."
"Why would I take it amiss? It's just that I can't."
"You're free this evening, Bärbele. You just don't want to come. But maybe you'll change your mind. I've got to go now, but I'll be outside the gymnasium this evening, and if nobody comes I'll go for a walk by myself and think of you writing your letter to Achthausen. So goodbye and no hard feelings."
He gave a qui
Knulp heard her. He was sitting on the tanner's pier again, rolling little balls from a piece of bread he had put in his pocket at lunch. He dropped the bread balls gently into the water one after another, and watched musingly as they drifted a little way with the current and sank to the dark bottom, where they were snapped up by the silent ghostlike fishes.
"Well," said the tanner at supper, "here it is Saturday. You wouldn't know how good it feels after a hard week."
"Oh, I can imagine," said Knulp with a smile. Frau Rothfuss smiled, too, and gave him a mischievous look.
"Tonight," Rothfuss went on in a festive tone, "tonight we'll have a nice jug of beer together, the old lady will go and get it right away. And tomorrow, if the weather's good, the three of us will go for a hike. What do you say to that, old friend?"
Knulp gave him a good thump on the shoulder.
"It's a good life here with you, I've got to say that. I'm looking forward to our hike. But this evening I'll be busy; I have a friend here; he's been working in the upper blacksmith shop and he's leaving in the morning. -- I'm sorry, but we'll have all day tomorrow together, or I wouldn't have arranged it that way."
"But you can't go running around at night when you're still half sick."
"Oh, it's no good coddling myself too much. I won't be out late. Where do you keep the key, so I can let myself in?"
"What a stubborn fellow you are! All right, go if you must. You'll find the key behind the shutters of the basement window. You know the place?"
"Of course. Well, I'll be going now. Don't stay up for me. Good night. Good night, Frau Rothfuss."
He went down the stairs and had reached the outer door when the tanner's wife came running after him. She handed him an umbrella and, like it or not, Knulp had to take it.
"You must take care of yourself, Knulp," she said. "And now I'll show you where to find the key."
She took him by the hand in the darkness, led him around in back, and stopped by a little window.
"We put the key behind the shutters," she said in an excited whisper and stroked Knulp's hand. "Just reach in through the opening, it will be on the windowsill."
"Thank you," said Knulp, and withdrew his hand in embarrassment.
"Can I save you a mug of beer?" she asked, pressing gently close to him.
"No, thanks. I don't usually drink any at night. Good night, Frau Rothfuss, and thank you."
She gave his arm a squeeze and whispered affectionately: "Are you in such a hurry?" Her face was close to his and in the awkward silence, not wishing to push her away forcibly, he ran his hand over her hair.
"But now I must be going," he said in an exaggeratedly loud voice, and stepped back.
She smiled at him with parted lips, he could see her teeth shining in the darkness. And very softly she said: "Then I'll wait till you come home. You're a dear."
He walked quickly away into the dark street with his umbrella under his arm, and at the next corner, to get rid of his silly uneasiness, he began to whistle the tune of a song:
You think I'm going to take you.
Oh no, you're not for me.
Shame makes me want to shake you
When I'm in company.
The air was balmy, and here and there a star appeared in the black sky. In one of the inns some young people were having a boisterous Saturday night, and behind the windows of the new bowling alley at the Peacock he saw a group of substantial citizens in shirtsleeves, weighing bowling balls in their hands and smoking cigars.
At the gymnasium Knulp stopped and looked around. The damp wind sang softly in the bare chestnut trees, the river flowed soundlessly in the deep darkness, broken only by the reflections of a window or two. The gentle night soothed the tramp in every fiber of his being, he sniffed the air with an intimation of spring, warm weather, and dry roads. His inexhaustible memory surveyed the city, the river valley, and the whole region; he knew it well, he knew the roads and the paths along the river, the villages, hamlets, and farms, and he knew where he could expect a friendly lodging for the night. He thought hard, planning his next journey since he could stay in Lächstetten no longer. But he wanted to stay over Sunday for his friend's sake, if the woman didn't make it too hard for him.
Perhaps, he reflected, he ought to have said something to the tanner about his wife. But he didn't like to meddle in other people's concerns, and he felt no need to try to make people better or wiser. He was sorry it had turned out this way, and his feelings toward the former waitress at the Ox were not at all friendly; but at the same time he had to laugh when he thought of the tanner's pompous speeches about the joys of domesticity and marriage. He knew about these things. When a man boasted of his happiness or his virtue, they usually didn't amount to much; the same had been true of the tailor's piety. You could observe people's folly, you could laugh at them or feel sorry for them, but you had to let them go their own way.
With a deep sigh he dismissed these matters and, propping himself against the bend of an old chestnut tree across from the bridge, turned his thoughts back to his travels. He would have liked to tramp through the Black Forest, but it was too cold in the mountains at this season, most likely the ground was still covered with snow; you ruined your boots, and places to spend the night were too far apart. No, that wouldn't do. He would have to follow the valleys and stick to the towns. Stag's Mill, four hours down the river, was the first reliable stopping place; they would surely keep him for two days if the weather was bad.
Deep in his thoughts, he had just about forgotten that he was waiting for someone when a frail frightened figure appeared on the dark wind-swept bridge and came hesitantly closer. He recognized her at once; happy and grateful, he ran to meet her, swinging his hat.
"Bärbele! How nice of you to come! I'd almost stopped expecting you."
Walking at her left side, he led her up the river walk. She was timid and shy.
"I really shouldn't have come," she said over and over again. "If only nobody sees us!"
But Knulp had all sorts of questions to ask and soon her step became calmer and steadier. In a little while she was chatting with him as easily as an old friend. Encouraged by his questions and comments, she told him about her village, her father and mother, her brother and grandma, about the ducks and chickens, the hailstorms and sicknesses, the weddings and fairs. Her little treasure of experiences opened up, and it was larger than she herself would have supposed. At length she told him how her parents had hired her out and she had left home, and went on to speak of her work and the household she was in.
They were far out of town before Bärbele gave a thought to where they were going. Her chatter had set her free from a long dreary week of loneliness, of doing as she was told and saying nothing. She was all cheered up.
"But where are we?" she suddenly cried in amazement. "Where are we going?"
"If it's all right with you, we're going to Gertelfingen, we're nearly there."
"Gertelfingen? What for? We'd better go back, it's getting late."
"When do you have to be back, Bärbele?"
"At ten. Very soon. It's been a nice walk."
"Ten o'clock is a long way off," said Knulp. "I'll see that you get home on time. But we'll never again be so young together, so I thought we might risk a dance. Or don't you like to dance?"
She looked at him with eager surprise. "I love to dance. But where? Out here in the night?"
"Well be in Gertelfingen in a minute and there's music at the Lion. We could go in for just one dance, and then we'll go home and we'll have had a fine evening."
Bärbele stopped still, thinking it over. "It would be fun," she said slowly. "But what will people think of us? I don't want to be taken for that
Suddenly she laughed gaily and said: "You see, if I have a sweetheart later on, it mustn't be a tanner. I don't want to offend you, but tanning is a dirty trade."
"Maybe you've got something there," said Knulp good-naturedly. "I don't expect you to marry me. But nobody here knows I'm a tanner or that you're so proud, and I've washed my hands, so if you'd care to dance once around with me, you're invited. If not, we'll turn back."
A pale gable belonging to the first house of the village peered out through the black foliage. Suddenly Knulp said "Pst!" and lifted a finger: the sound of dance music from the village, an accordion and a fiddle.
"All right!" Bärbele laughed and they walked faster.
At the Lion only four or five couples were dancing, all young people unknown to Knulp. The atmosphere was quiet and sedate and no one molested the strangers who joined in the next dance. They danced a ländler and a polka and then came a waltz. Bärbele didn't know how to waltz, so they sat down and had a drop of beer, which was as far as Knulp's finances went.
Bärbele was flushed from dancing, and her eyes sparkled as she looked on.
"I suppose it's time to go," said Knulp at half past nine.
She started in surprise and looked rather sad.
"What a shame!" she said softly.
"We could stay a little longer."
"No. I've got to get back. It's been lovely."
They left the room but at the door something occurred to Bärbele: "We haven't given the musicians anything."