The Walk (12 page)

The superintendent or inspector of taxes said: “But you're always to be seen out for a walk!”

“Walk,” was my answer, “I definitely must, to invigorate myself and to maintain contact with the living world, without perceiving which I could not write the half of one more single word, or produce the tiniest poem in verse or prose. Without walking, I would be dead, and my profession, which I love passionately, would be destroyed. Also, without walking and gathering reports, I would not be able to render one single further report, or the tiniest of essays, let alone a real, long story. Without walking, I would not
be able to make any observations or any studies at all. Such a clever and enlightened man as you may and will understand this at once. On a lovely and far-wandering walk a thousand usable and useful thoughts occur to me. Shut in at home, I would miserably decay and dry up. Walking is for me not only healthy and lovely, it is also of service and useful. A walk advances me professionally and provides me at the same time also with amusement and joy; it refreshes and comforts and delights me, is a pleasure for me, and simultaneously, it has the peculiarity that it allures me and spurs me on to further creation, since it offers me as material numerous small and large objectivities upon which I later work at home, diligently and industriously. A walk is always filled with significant phenomena, which are valuable to see and to feel. A pleasant walk most often teems with imageries and living poems, with enchantments and natural beauties, be they ever so small. The lore of nature and the lore of the country are revealed, charming and graceful, to the sense and eyes of the observant walker, who must of course walk not with downcast but with open and unclouded eyes, if the lovely significance and the gay, noble idea of the walk are to dawn on him. Consider how the poet must grow impoverished and run sadly to ruin if that maternal and paternal and, in beauty childlike, beautiful nature does not ever and again refresh him from the source of the good and of the beautiful. Consider the great unabating importance for the poet of the instruction and golden holy teaching which he derives out there in the play of the open air. Without walking and the contemplation of nature which is connected with it, without this equally delicious and admonishing search, I deem myself lost, and I am lost. With the utmost love and attention the man who walks must study and observe every smallest living thing, be it a child, a dog, a fly, a butterfly, a sparrow, a worm, a flower, a man, a house, a tree, a hedge, a snail, a mouse, a cloud, a hill, a
leaf, or no more than a poor discarded scrap of paper on which, perhaps, a dear good child at school has written his first clumsy letters. The highest and the lowest, the most serious and the most hilarious things are to him equally beloved, beautiful, and valuable. He must bring with him no sort of sentimentally sensitive self-love or quickness to take offense. Unselfish and unegoistic, he must let his careful eye wander and stroll where it will; only he must be continuously able in the contemplation and observation of things to efface himself, and to put behind him, little consider, and forget like a brave, zealous, and joyfully self-immolating front-line soldier, himself, his private complaints, needs, wants, and sacrifices. If he does not, then he walks only half attentive, with only half his spirit, and that is worth nothing. He must at all times be capable of compassion, of sympathy, and of enthusiasm, and it is hoped that he is. He must be able to bow down and sink into the deepest and smallest everyday thing, and it is probable that he can. Faithful, devoted self-effacement and self-surrender among objects, and zealous love for all phenomena and things, make him happy in this, however, just as every performance of duty make that man happy and rich in his inmost being who is aware of his duty. Spirit, devotion, and faithfulness bless him and raise him high up above his own inconspicuous walking self, which has only too often a name and evil reputation for vagabondage and vagrancy. His manifold studies enrich and hearten, appease and ennoble him, and moreover, however improbable it may sound, they touch the fringes of exact science, a thing of which nobody would think the apparently frivolous wanderer capable. Do you realize that I am working obstinately and tenaciously with my brain, and am often in the best sense active when I present the appearance of a heedless and out-of-work, negligent, dreamy, and idle pickpocket, lost out in the blue, or in the green, making the worst impression, seeming
a frivolous man devoid of any sense of responsibility? Mysterious and secretly there prowl at the walker's heels all kinds of beautiful subtle walker's thoughts, such as make him stand in his ardent and regardless tracks and listen, so that he will again and again be confused and startled by curious impressions and bewitchings of spirit power, and he has the feeling that he must sink all of a sudden into the earth, or that before his dazzled, bewildered thinker's and poet's eyes an abyss has opened. His head wants to fall off, and his otherwise so lively arms and legs are as benumbed. Countryside and people, sounds and colours, faces and farms, clouds and sunlight swirl all around him like diagrams, and he must ask himself: ‘Where am I?' Earth and heaven suddenly stream together and collide, rocking interlocked one upon the other into a flashing, shimmering, obscure nebular imagery; chaos begins, and the orders vanish. Convulsed, he laboriously tries to retain his normal state of mind; he succeeds, and he walks on, full of confidence. Do you think it quite impossible that on a gentle and patient walk I should meet giants, have the privilege of seeing professors, do business in passing with booksellers and bank officials, converse with budding, youthful songstresses and former actresses, dine at noon with intelligent ladies, stroll through woods, dispatch dangerous letters, and come to wild blows with spiteful, ironic master tailors? All this can happen, and I believe it actually did happen. There accompanies the walker always something remarkable, some food for thought, something fantastic, and he would be foolish if he did not notice this spiritual side, or even thrust it away; rather, he welcomes all curious and peculiar phenomena, becomes their friend and brother, because they delight him; he makes them into formed and substantial bodies, gives them structure and soul just as they for their part instruct and inspire him. In a word, by thinking, pondering, drilling, digging, speculating, writing, investigating,
researching, and walking, I earn my daily bread with as much sweat on my brow as anybody. Although I may cut a most carefree figure, I am highly serious and conscientious, and though I seem to be no more than delicate and dreamy, I am a solid technician! I hope that all these meticulous explanations convince you that my endeavours are honourable, and satisfy you completely.”

The official said: “Good!” and he added: “Your application concerning approval of an exceptionally low rate of taxation we shall examine later and inform you shortly of the reduction or approval thereof as may be. For the kind declaration delivered and the industriously assembled honest statements we thank you. For the present you may withdraw and proceed with your walk.”

As I was mercifully released, I hurried happily away, and was soon in the open air again. Raptures of freedom seized me and carried me away. I come now at last, after many a bravely endured adventure, and after more or less victoriously overwhelming many an arduous obstacle, to the long-since announced and forecast railway crossing, where I had to stop a while to wait pleasantly until gradually the train kindly had the high grace to pass gently by. All sorts of male and female folk of every age and character were standing and waiting at the barrier, as did I. The kindly, corpulent signalman's wife stood there still as a statue and examined us loiterers and waiters thoroughly. Hurtling past, the railway train was full of soldiery, and all the soldiers, sworn and dedicated to serve their dearly beloved fatherland, looking out of the windows, this entire travelling military college on the one hand and the useless civilian population on the other greeted each other and waved their hands amicably and patriotically, an action which spread pleasant feelings far and wide. As the crossing was now open, I and all the others went peacefully on our ways, and now all the world around seemed to me suddenly to have become a thousand times more
beautiful. The walk seemed to be becoming more beautiful, rich, and long. Here at the railway crossing seemed to be the peak, or something like the centre, from which again the gentle declivity would begin. Something akin to sorrow's golden bliss and melancholy's magic breathed around me like a quiet, lofty god. “It is divinely beautiful here,” I said to myself. Like a song at departure that brings tears to our eyes, the gentle countryside lay there with its dear humble fields, gardens, and houses. Soft, very ancient folk lamentations and the sorrows of the good, poor folk thronged and sounded everywhere. Spirits with enchanting shapes and garments emerged vast and soft, and the dear good country road shone sky-blue, and white, and precious gold. Compassion and enchantment flew like carven angels falling from heaven over the gold-coloured, rosey-aureoled little houses of the poor, which the sunlight delicately embraced and framed about. Love and poverty and silvery-golden breath walked and floated hand in hand. I felt as if someone I loved were calling me by name, or as if someone were kissing and comforting me. God the Almighty, our merciful Lord, walked down the road, to glorify it and make it divinely beautiful. Imaginings of all sorts, and illusions, made me believe that Jesus Christ was risen again and wandering now in the midst of the people and in the midst of this friendly place. Houses, gardens, and people were transfigured into musical sounds, all that was solid seemed to be transfigured into soul and into gentleness. Sweet veils of silver and soul-haze swam through all things and lay over all things. The soul of the world had opened, and all grief, all human disappointment, all evil, all pain seemed to vanish, from now on never to appear again. Earlier walks came before my eyes; but the wonderful image of the humble present became a feeling which overpowered all others. The future paled, and the past dissolved. I glowed and flowered myself in the glowing, flowering present. From near
and far, great things and small things emerged bright silver with marvellous gestures, joys, and enrichments, and in the midst of this beautiful place I dreamed of nothing but this place itself. All other fantasies sank and vanished in meaninglessness. I had the whole rich earth immediately before me, and I still looked only at what was most small and most humble. With gestures of love the heavens rose and fell. I had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world; everything outside me became a dream; what I had understood till now became unintelligible. I fell away from the surface, down into the fabulous depths, which I recognized then to be all that was good. What we understand and love understands and loves us also. I was no longer myself, was another, and yet it was on this account that I became properly myself. In the sweet light of love I realized, or believed I realized, that perhaps the inward self is the only self which really exists. The thought seized me: “Where would we poor people be, if there was no earth faithful to us? What would we have, if we did not have this beauty and this good? Where would I be, if I was not here? Here I have everything, and elsewhere I would have nothing.”

What I saw was as small and poor as it was large and significant, as modest as it was charming, as near as it was good, and as delightful as it was warm. Two houses which lay close together in the bright sunlight, like lively and kindly neighbours, these I delighted in. One delight followed the other, and in the soft confiding air contentment floated to and fro and trembled as with joy restrained. One of the two subtle little houses was the Bear Inn; the bear was admirably and comically depicted on the inn sign. Chestnut trees overshadowed the delicate and pretty house, which was assuredly inhabited by kind, pleasant, friendly people; it did not seem, like some buildings, to be arrogant, but rather the very image of intimacy and trust. Everywhere the eye looked lay
splendid profusion of contented gardens, hovered green tangled profusion of pleasant leaves. The second house, or cottage, in its evident delightfulness and humility, was like a childishly beautiful page out of a picture book, a sweet illustration, so charming and curious did it show itself to be. The vicinity of the cottage seemed entirely beautiful and good. I fell immediately head over heels in love with this pretty little house person, and I would have passionately liked to go into it, in order to make my nest and lodging there and to live in the magic cottage, the jewel, forever and content; but it is unfortunately just the most beautiful houses which are occupied, and the person who looks for a dwelling to suit his presumptuous tastes has a difficult time, because that which is empty and available is often frightful and inspires horror. The pretty cottage was certainly inhabited by a little spinster or grandmother; it had about it just such a smell, just such a look. It being permitted to say so, I report in addition that on the wall of the cottage abounded wall paintings, or noble frescoes, which were divinely subtle and amusing and showed a Swiss alpine landscape in which stood, painted again, another house, to be accurate a Bernese mountain farmhouse. Frankly, the painting was not good at all. It would be impudent to maintain that it was. But, nonetheless, to me it seemed marvellous. Plain and simple as it was, it enchanted me; as a matter of fact, any sort of painting enchants me, however foolish and clumsy it is, because every painting reminds me first of diligence and industry, and second of Holland. Is not all music, even the most niggardly, beautiful to the person who loves the very being and existence of music? Is not almost any human being you please, even the worst and most unpleasant, lovable to the person who is a friend to man? Painted landscape in the middle of real landscape is capricious, piquant. This nobody will contest. The fact that a little old lady may live in the cottage I certainly did not anyway
confirm or establish on record, and I have no desire at all to give it as gospel. But I am surprised at myself that I should dare to use the word “fact” here, where everything is, or should be, supple and as full of human nature as the thoughts and feelings of a mother's heart. Further, the cottage was painted blue-gray and had bright golden-green shutters, which seemed to smile, and all around it in the magic garden was a fragrance of most beautiful flowers. Over the little garden- or summerhouse there bowed and twisted with enchanting grace a rosebush or bouquet full of the loveliest roses.