Peter Camenzind (16 page)

Since Boppi was usually in no position to feed the animals himself, we sometimes fell to debating whether the tapir had had his due, or whether we should let him levy another tidbit. We gave this the most dispassionate consideration, as though it involved a matter of state policy. Once, after we left the tapir, Boppi felt we should have given him one more lump of sugar, so we turned back. But the tapir, comfortable again on his straw, merely squinted haughtily and refused to come to the fence. “Excuse me, Mr. Customs Collector,” Boppi called to him, “but I believe we short-changed you one lump.” So we went on to the elephant. Waddling back and forth expectantly, he extended his warm, pliant trunk in welcome. Boppi was able to feed the elephant himself and he watched with childish glee as the giant swung out his limber trunk, picking the bread out of Boppi's flat, outstretched hand, squinting slyly and benignly at us out of tiny, merry eyes.

I reached an agreement with one of the keepers that Boppi could sit at the zoo in his wheelchair when I had no time to stay with him, so he'd be able to get the sun and watch the animals. When I came to fetch him, he would describe everything he had seen during the day. What particularly impressed him was how courteously the lion treated the lioness. As soon as she lay down to rest, the lion redirected his restless pacing so as not to brush against her or have to step over her. Most entertaining for him were the acrobatics of the otter. He never tired of the agile water sports this lithe creature indulged in, as Boppi sat motionless in the chair, each movement of his head or arms costing him great effort.

On one of the most beautiful days that fall, I told Boppi the story of my two loves. We were on such intimate terms now that I felt I could no longer keep from him even the less pleasing and salutary events of my life. He listened gravely and sympathetically but made no comment. Later he confessed a desire to see Elizabeth and asked me not to forget, should we ever come across her on the street.

As this did not happen and the days were turning chilly, I called on Elizabeth and asked her to give the hunchback the pleasure of seeing her. She kindly consented to my request and one day she had me fetch her and take her to the zoo, where Boppi waited for us in his wheelchair. As the lovely, elegantly dressed lady shook the cripple's hand, bending down to him a little, and poor Boppi looked up at her gratefully and almost tenderly with his big kind eyes, I could not decide which of them was more beautiful at this moment or dearer to my heart. Elizabeth said a few kind words to him, and the cripple never once took his shining eyes off her. I stood by, astonished to see the two persons I loved most, and whose lives were divided by such a deep gulf, standing hand in hand before me. Boppi did not speak of anything else except Elizabeth the entire afternoon, praised her beauty, her distinction, her goodness, her walk, her dress, her yellow gloves, her green shoes, her voice, and her pretty hat. But it struck me as painful and grotesque to stand by and watch as the woman I loved handed out alms of kindness to my best friend.

Meantime, Boppi had read Keller's
Der Grüne Heinrich
and
Die Leute von Seldwyla.
He felt so much at home in the world of these unique books that Schmoller Pankraz, Albertus Zwiehan, and the self-righteous combmakers had become our mutual friends. For a while I considered giving Boppi some of Conrad Ferdinand Meyer's books, but it seemed unlikely that he would care for the almost Latin terseness of the style. I also had my doubts about opening the abyss of history before his cheerful, calm eyes. Instead, I told him about St. Francis and gave him Mörike's stories to read.

It was amusing to see how we gradually began addressing each other in the second person singular. Actually, I had never asked or offered to use the “thou” with him, nor would he have accepted. It all happened quite naturally; we realized we were using it one day and we couldn't help smiling, so we let it continue.

When winter put a stop to our excursions and I again spent entire evenings in the carpenter's living room, I noticed belatedly that my new friendship had been won at some cost, for the carpenter was now grumpy, unfriendly, or simply taciturn. The irksome presence of the useless lodger he had to feed irritated him as much as my friendship with Boppi. Sometimes I would sit an entire evening, chatting gaily with the cripple, while the master of the house grouchily read his paper. Even his wife, usually a model of patience, became cross with her husband; this time she insisted on having her way and not sending Boppi elsewhere. I made several attempts to mollify the carpenter and to suggest alternative solutions, but he seemed permanently disgruntled. He grew caustic and began to jeer at my friendship with the cripple and make life miserable for him. The invalid and I, sitting with him much of the time, were both a burden to the household, which was too crowded even without us. Still, I had not given up hope that the carpenter would some day become as fond of Boppi as I. Finally, however, it became impossible for me to take a step without either offending the carpenter or making Boppi unhappy. Since I have always had an abhorrence of making swift or binding decisions—Richard used to call me Petrus Cunctator, even in Zurich—I waited for weeks, afraid that I might lose the friendship of either, and perhaps of both.

The increasing discomfort of this disruptive situation drove me to my old haunts, the taverns. One evening, after the whole loathsome business had made me particularly angry, I sought refuge in a small Vaudois wine-hall where I exorcised my misery with several liters of wine. For the first time in two years I had some difficulty navigating home in an upright position. As usual after a hard bout of drinking, my mood the next day was cool and easy and I plucked up courage and went to see the carpenter to put an end to this farce once and for all. I suggested he leave Boppi entirely in my hands. He seemed agreeable and finally, after mulling it over a few days, he gave his consent.

Soon after, I moved with my crippled friend into a newly rented apartment. I felt almost as if I were married, since I now had to take care of a real household, not just a makeshift bachelor's quarters. But it all worked out well, though some of my first housekeeping experiments misfired. We had a girl come in every day to clean up and do the laundry. Food was delivered to the house, and soon both of us felt quite comfortable in our new quarters. The prospect of having to give up my hikes and carefree excursions did not worry me yet. I even found that my friend's presence had a calming, productive effect on my work. All the little services Boppi required were, of course, new to me and I did not find them pleasant at first, particularly the dressing and undressing. But he was so patient and grateful that he made me feel ashamed and I took great care in looking after him.

*   *   *

Recently I had called only rarely at the professor's house, more frequently at Elizabeth's, which, despite everything that had happened, held a continuing fascination for me. There I would drink tea or a glass of wine, watch Elizabeth play hostess, and be overcome occasionally by bouts of sentimentality, though I was always ready to pounce with derision on any Wertherlike feelings in myself. Insipid, adolescent selfishness in love, however, had disappeared for good. A delicate and intimate state of war was just the right relationship between Elizabeth and me and we seldom met without engaging in the friendliest of quarrels. The lively and, in a feminine way, illogical turn of mind of that clever woman and my own amorous yet rough-hewn nature were not ill-matched, and since we felt a genuine respect for each other, we would allow ourselves to be at loggerheads, that much more fiercely, over trifles. What struck me as particularly amusing was my defense of the state of bachelorhood to her, the woman to whom I would have offered my life in marriage only a short while before. I was even able to tease her about her husband, who was a thoroughly decent fellow and proud of his clever wife.

Underneath, my old love for her burned. However, the old flame was now replaced by the glow of lasting embers that keep the heart young and before which a confirmed bachelor can warm his hands occasionally on winter nights. Since Boppi had become my friend and I was aware of his constant and honest affection for me, I could safely let my old love linger as a part of my youth and poetry. Besides, every so often Elizabeth's cattiness cooled me off and made me feel grateful for my bachelorhood.

*   *   *

After Boppi and I began to live together, I neglected Elizabeth's house more and more. I read books with Boppi, leafed through travel albums and diaries, and played dominoes. To liven things up a bit, we even bought a poodle. We watched the first signs of winter through our window and each day engaged in clever conversations and silly ones. The invalid had acquired an exalted view of the world, a pragmatic attitude enriched by kindness and humor, from which I learned something every day. When it snowed and winter unfolded its pure loveliness outside the window, we would sit inside by the stove and fashion a safe cocoon for ourselves. The fine art of observing mankind, which hitherto had cost me so many miles on foot, I now pursued effortlessly at Boppi's side. For Boppi, a quiet and acute observer, was filled with pictures of his previous surroundings and, once he got started, could tell marvelous stories. During his entire existence he had probably known no more than three dozen people and had never been part of the mainstream of life, yet he knew life much more accurately than I, for he was accustomed to noticing even the smallest details and finding in every person a source of experience, joy, and understanding.

The pleasure we derived from animals continued to provide our favorite amusement. Now that we could not visit the zoo, we invented stories and fables about them. We did not tell each other the stories; they developed spontaneously in the form of dialogues. For example, a declaration of love between two parrots, a family of bisons quarreling, or evening conversations among the boars.

“How're things, Mr. Marten?”

“So-so, Mr. Fox. You will remember the time I was captured and lost my beloved wife, Bush Tail was her name as I've had the pleasure of informing you previously. A pearl of a girl, I can assure you…”

“Oh, neighbor, forget all those old stories. You must have talked about this pearl business a hundred times. My God, we've only one life and we don't want to spoil the few pleasures we have left by being sentimental.”

“As you like, Mr. Fox. But if you'd known my wife, you wouldn't dare talk like that.”

“Of course, of course. So she was called Bush Tail, right? A fine name, something you can caress! But what I really wanted to say is this: have you noticed how the sparrows are plaguing us again? I've got a little plan.”

“For the sparrows?”

“Yes, it's designed for the sparrows. Look—this, I think, will be our best strategy. We'll put some bread in front of the bars, lie down, and wait quietly for the little beggars. I'll be surprised if we don't catch one of them that way. What do you think?”

“An excellent idea, neighbor.”

“Would you be so good as to put a little bread right over there? Yes, that's fine. But perhaps you ought to push it a little to the right, then we'll both have a chance when they come. Pay attention now. We'll lie down flat, close our eyes … but, hush, there's one homing in on us now.” (
Pause.
)

“Well, Mr. Fox, nothing so far?”

“How impatient you are! As if this were the first time you've hunted! A hunter's main asset is the ability to wait and wait and wait again. Once more now!”

“Well, where's that bread gone to?”

“Pardon me?”

“The bread, it's gone!”

“Well, I'll be … Now, really! The bread? Indeed, it's gone! Well, I'll be damned. It must be the wind again.”

“Well, I have an idea I heard you chewing something a while back.”

“What? Me chewing?”

“The bread, obviously!”

“Your accusations are becoming insulting, Marten. One has to accept a harsh remark or two from a neighbor, but that's going too far! I repeat, too far! Do you understand? So I'm supposed to have eaten the bread? What's the big idea? First I have to listen to that insipid story about your pearly Bush Tail for the thousandth time, then I have the brilliant notion of putting the bait out there…”

“But that was mine! That was my bread!”

“… putting the bait out there. I lie down and watch. Everything is going fine, then you start your chatter, the sparrows fly off, the hunt is ruined, and now I'm even accused of eating the bread. Well, I declare! You can wait until hell freezes over before I speak another word to you.”

Thus our afternoons and evenings passed swiftly and easily. I was in the best of spirits, enjoyed my work, and was surprised that I had been so lazy, discontented, and sluggish before. Even the best times with Richard were no match for these quiet, cheerful days when the snowflakes danced outside the window and we and our poodle huddled around the stove.

And then my beloved Boppi had to commit his first, and last, act of stupidity. In my content, I was inattentive and did not notice that Boppi was experiencing more pain than usual. He, however, out of sheer modesty and affection, assumed a more cheerful air than ever, never uttered a single complaint, did not even ask me not to smoke, and then lay in bed at night suffering, coughing, and groaning softly. Quite by chance, as I was writing late one night in the next room, when he thought I had gone to sleep, I heard him groan. The poor fellow was thunderstruck when I entered the room, lamp in hand. I put the lamp down and sat next to him on the bed and conducted an inquisition. For a time he tried to evade the issue.

“It isn't all that bad,” he said finally, with some hesitation. “Only a tightness around the heart when I move in a certain way, and sometimes also when I breathe.”

He was literally apologizing, as though his illness were a crime.