"It was the same with the people. I recognized some that I saw in the distance, I knew their names, I had them on my lips and I was all ready to call out. But most of them went into houses or side streets and were gone. When one of them came closer, he turned into a stranger; then when he had passed me and I looked after him, it seemed to me that he was the man after all and that I did know him. I saw a group of women standing outside a shop, and one of them, I thought, was my aunt, who is dead; but when I went up to them, I no longer recognized her, and they were speaking a strange dialect that I could hardly understand.
"In the end I thought: Oh, if I could only be gone from here, it's my old town and then again it isn't. But all the while I kept seeing a familiar house or a familiar face and rushing up to it, and every time I was disappointed. But I wasn't angry or vexed, only sad and afraid; I wanted to say a prayer and tried hard to remember one, but all I could think of was silly phrases -- such as 'Dear Sir' and 'Under the circumstances' -- and in my sadness and confusion I went about mumbling these.
"This, it seemed to me, lasted a few hours, until I was thoroughly hot and tired, and still I stumbled aimlessly from place to place. By then it was evening and I decided to ask the next person I met where I could lodge for the night or how to find the road out of town, but I was unable to speak to anyone, they all passed me by as though I weren't there. I was so tired and desperate I thought I'd burst into tears.
"Then suddenly I turned a corner and there was our old street. It had changed, it looked unreal and ornate, but by then that didn't trouble me much. I walked along and distinctly recognized house after house in spite of the dream decorations, and finally I came to the old house where I grew up. Like the others, it was unnaturally tall, but otherwise it looked pretty much as it had in the old days, and I shuddered with joy and excitement.
"In the doorway stood my first love, her name was Henriette. Except that she was taller and somehow different than before, and still more beautiful. As I came closer, I saw that there was something miraculous and angelic about her beauty, but I also noticed that her hair was golden blond and not brown like Henriette's; still, it was Henriette from top to toe, though transfigured.
" 'Henriette!' I cried out, and took off my hat because she looked so ethereal that I wasn't sure she'd recognize me.
"She turned and looked into my eyes. And as she looked into my eyes, I was surprised and ashamed, because it wasn't Henriette but Lisabeth, my second love, whom I had gone with for years.
"So I cried 'Lisabeth!' and held out my hand.
"She looked at me; her look pierced my heart, as if God had looked at me; it wasn't severe or proud but clear and calm, yet so spiritual and lofty that I felt like a dog. And as she looked at me, she became grave and sad; then she shook her head as if I had asked an impudent question. She didn't take my hand but went back into the house and closed the door behind her. I could hear the lock snap.
"I turned around and went away, and though I was almost blinded by tears and grief, I saw that the city was strangely changed. For now every street and every house was exactly as it had been in the old days, the evil spell was broken. The gables were no longer so high and the colors were right, the people were really themselves and looked at me with happy surprise as though they knew me, and some called me by name. But I couldn't answer and I couldn't stop to talk with them. Something drove me across the old familiar bridge and out of the city, and my heart was so sore that tears clouded everything I saw. I didn't know why, but it seemed to me that I had lost everything I had in the city and was running away in disgrace.
"Under the poplars at the edge of the town I stopped to rest. Only then did it occur to me that I had been right outside our old home and hadn't given a thought to my father and mother, my brothers, sisters, and friends. Never had my heart been filled with such turmoil, grief, and shame. But I couldn't turn back and make amends, because the dream was over and I woke up."
Knulp said: "Every human being has his soul, he can't mix it with any other. Two people can meet, they can talk with one another, they can be close together. But their souls are like flowers, each rooted to its place. One can't go to another, because it would have to break away from its roots, and that it can't do. Flowers send out their scent and their seeds, because they would like to go to each other; but a flower can't do anything to make a seed go to its right place; the wind does that, and the wind comes and goes where it pleases."
And later: "Maybe that's what the dream I told you means. I didn't wrong Henriette or Lisabeth knowingly. But because I once loved them both and wanted to make them my own, they became for me a kind of dream figure, which looks like both of them and is neither. That figure belongs to me, but it no longer has life. And I've often had such thoughts about my parents. They think I'm their child and that I'm like them. But though I love them, I'm a stranger to them, a stranger they can't understand. And to them the main part of me, what may actually be my soul, is unimportant; they put it down to my youth, or to caprice. And yet they love me and would do anything in the world for me. A father can pass on his nose and eyes and even his intelligence to his child, but not his soul. In every human being the soul is new."
I had nothing to say to that, for at the time I hadn't begun to think along those lines, at least I had felt no inner need to. Such musings didn't dismay me in the least; they didn't touch my heart and so I imagined that for Knulp as well they were more a game than a struggle. Besides, it was so lovely and peaceful to be lying side by side in the dry grass, waiting for night and sleep and watching the first stars.
I said: "You're a thinker, Knulp. You ought to have been a professor."
He laughed and shook his head. "I'd be much more likely to join the Salvation Army one of these days," he said thoughtfully.
That was too much. "I don't believe you," I said. "Next you'll be telling me you want to become a saint."
"So I do, so I do. Everybody who's really in earnest about what he thinks and does is a saint. If he thinks something is right, he's got to do it. And if one day I think it's right for me to join the Salvation Army, I hope I'll do it."
"Why the Salvation Army?"
"I'll tell you why. I've spoken with a lot of people and listened to a lot of speeches. I've listened to priests and schoolteachers and mayors and Social Democrats and Liberals; but deep in his heart not a one of them was in earnest; not a one made me feel that if need be he'd sacrifice himself for his wisdom. But in the Salvation Army, with all the music and ruckus, I've seen and heard two or three fellows who were really in earnest."
"How do you know?"
"Never mind, you can tell. I remember one who was making a speech in a village square one Sunday. With the heat and the dust, his voice left him. He didn't look very strong. When he couldn't get out another word, he let his three companions sing a verse of a hymn, and he drank a little water. Half the village were standing around him, children and grownups, they made fun of him and heckled him. Behind him there was a young farm hand with a whip. From time to time he snapped it, crack! -- to plague the speaker, and everybody laughed. But the poor fellow didn't get angry, though he wasn't stupid; he struggled against the hubbub with his poor weak voice and smiled where anyone else would have wept or cursed. You know, a man doesn't do that for starvation wages or for pleasure; no, there's got to be a great clarity and certainty inside him."
"Possibly. But the same thing won't do for everybody. A clever, sensitive man like you couldn't stand all that noise."
"Maybe he could. If he had something and knew something that was better than all his cleverness and sensitiveness. I know the same thing won't do for everybody, but the truth has to do."
"Oh, the truth! How do we know that those halleluiah singers have the truth?"
"You've got something there. We don't know. I'm only saying that if one day I find it's the truth, I'll follow it."
"If! But every day you find some piece of wisdom, and the next day you give
it up."
He looked at me in consternation. "That wasn't a nice thing to say."
I wanted to apologize, but he stopped me and fell silent. In a little while he softly said good night and stretched out, but I don't think he fell asleep right away. I was wide awake myself and lay there for over an hour propped up on my elbows, peering into the night.
In the morning I saw right away that this was one of Knulp's good days. I told him so. He beamed at me out of his childlike eyes and said: "You've guessed right. And do you know where a good day like this comes from?"
"No. Where?"
"From sleeping well and dreaming of beautiful things. But you mustn't remember what they were. That's how it is with me today. I've dreamed magnificent, joyful things, but I've forgotten them all; I only know it was wonderful."
Even before we came to the next village and had our morning milk under our belts, he sang four brand-new songs into the sober morning in his warm, light, effortless voice. Written out and printed, these songs might not amount to much. Knulp was not a great poet, but a poet he was, and while he was singing them, his little songs often bore a close family resemblance to the finest songs in the world. Certain passages and lines that I remember are really beautiful and I still cherish them. They were never written down; his verses were born, lived, and died like the breezes, in irresponsible innocence, but they gave beauty and warmth to many a moment, not only for himself and me but for many others as well.
That morning he sang the praises of the sun, as he did in nearly all his songs.
Like a maiden from her door,
Bright and clad in Sunday best,
Blushing and yet proudly, she
Steps up from the mountain crest.
His conversation was often heavy with philosophy, but his songs had the lightness of children playing in their summer clothes. Some of them were nothing but whimsical nonsense, a mere outlet for his high spirits.
That day I was infected by his mood. We called out greetings to all the people we met and teased them, sometimes leaving laughter behind us and sometimes abuse, and our whole day passed like a holiday. We told each other jokes from our schooldays and recalled schoolboy pranks, we made up nicknames for the peasants who passed and sometimes for their horses and oxen, we stopped by a garden fence that could not be seen from the road and stuffed ourselves full of gooseberries, and we economized on energy and shoe leather by taking a rest every hour or so.
It seemed to me that never in the course of our brief friendship had I seen Knulp so merry and bright and entertaining. This, I thought to my delight, was the true beginning of our happy vagrant life together.
By midday the heat grew oppressive and we spent more time lying in the grass than walking. Late in the afternoon, storm clouds gathered, the air was still and sultry, and we decided to seek shelter for the night.
Knulp became less talkative; he was a little tired, but I hardly noticed it, for he continued to laugh heartily when I laughed and to sing when I sang. I myself became more exuberant than ever, as though fireworks were flaring up inside me. It may have been the exact opposite with Knulp; perhaps his holiday lights had begun to die down. I was always like that at the time. On a good day, I grew more and more lively toward nightfall; if I had been enjoying myself, I couldn't stop; many a time I roamed about for hours all by myself, long after the others had gone wearily to sleep.
My afternoon exuberance took hold of me that day. Descending the valley, we came to a good-sized village and I looked forward to a riotous night. First we selected our night lodging, an easily accessible barn off to one side, then we went into the village and sat down in the garden of an inn, for I had asked my friend to be my guest that evening. Since it was a day of rejoicing, I thought we'd have pancakes and a few bottles of beer.
Knulp had accepted the invitation gladly. But when we were seated at a table under a magnificent plane tree, he said with some embarrassment: "No drinking bout, eh? I'll be glad to drink a bottle of beer, it will do me good and I'll enjoy it, but that's about all I can take."
I didn't argue. I thought: We'll have as much or as little as we please. We ate the hot pancakes with good fresh rye bread. I have to admit I ordered a second bottle of beer while Knulp's first bottle was still half full. I was overjoyed to be at such a nice inn again, sitting so grandly and comfortably, and I was in no hurry to leave.
When Knulp had finished his bottle of beer, I offered him another but he declined; instead, he suggested that we take a little walk around the village and go to bed early. This wasn't at all what I had in mind. I couldn't tell him so directly, but since my bottle wasn't empty yet, I raised no objection to his leaving ahead of me; we'd find each other later on.
And leave he did. I watched him as he descended the two or three steps and with his easy, carefree holiday gait made his way down the broad street leading to the center of the village. He had a starflower behind his ear. I was sorry he hadn't wanted to join me in another bottle of beer, but as I looked after him I thought affectionately: What a fine fellow!
Meanwhile, the sun had disappeared, the heat became more oppressive. In such weather I enjoyed sitting quietly over a cool drink. I settled myself comfortably at my table and prepared to stay awhile. Since I was just about the only guest, the waitress had plenty of time to chat with me. I ordered two cigars. One of them was originally intended for Knulp, but after a while I forgot that and smoked it myself.
About an hour later Knulp came back and tried to take me away. But I had grown roots. He said he was tired, and we agreed that he should go to our sleeping place and lie down. And he left me. No sooner had he gone than the waitress began to question me about him; the girls always took a shine to him. I didn't mind, he was my friend and she wasn't my sweetheart. I sang his praises, for I was feeling fine and I loved the whole world.
It was beginning to thunder and the wind was whistling softly in the plane tree when finally, very late, I prepared to leave. I paid, gave the girl a tenner, and started off without haste. I had gone some time without drinking, and now I felt that I'd had a bottle too many. But I could hold my drink and my bit of tipsiness only made me gay. I sang as I went, and after a while I found our sleeping quarters. I went in quietly. As I expected, I found Knulp asleep. He had spread out his brown jacket and lay on it in his shirtsleeves. His forehead, his bare neck, and one outstretched hand shone pale in the half darkness.
Then I lay down fully dressed, but my excitement and the merry-go-round in my head kept waking me, and there was light in the sky when I finally fell into a deep dull sleep -- deep but not peaceful. I felt heavy and sluggish and had muddled, tormenting dreams.
I awoke late; it was already broad daylight and the brightness hurt my eyes. My head was empty and beclouded and my bones ached. I yawned and yawned, rubbed my eyes, and stretched so hard that my joints cracked. But for all my weariness I still retained a vestige and echo of yesterday's bright humor and I felt sure I could wash away my aches and pains at the nearest well.
I was wrong. When I looked around, Knulp wasn't there. I called out to him and whistled, suspecting nothing at first. But when my calling, whistling, and searching proved vain, it suddenly came to me that he had left me. Yes, he was gone, he had crept away without a word, he hadn't wanted to stay with me any longer. Maybe my drinking had disgusted him, maybe he had been ashamed of his own exuberance the day before. Or possibly a sudden whim had come over him, or he was tired of my company, or he simply felt the need to be alone. But more than likely, my drinking had been to blame.
The joy went out of me, I was overcome with shame and grief. Where was my friend now? In spite of his speeches, I had prided myself on understanding his soul a little and on holding some share in it. And now he was gone, I was disappointed and alone. I found more fault with myself than with him. Now it was my turn to taste the loneliness which in Knulp's opinion was the lot of every man and which I had never really believed in. It was bitter, and not only on
that first day. Since then, of course, it has been alleviated now and then, but it has never left me entirely.
The End
It was a bright day in October. Short, fitful gusts of wind stirred the light, sun-warmed air. The pale-blue smoke of brush fires rose in thin hesitant ribbons from fields and gardens, filling the luminous countryside with the sweet pungent smell of burning green wood and weeds. The village gardens were abloom with full-colored asters, pale late roses and dahlias; here and there along the fences a flaming nasturtium still glowed amid the pale withered shrubbery.
Dr. Machold's fly drove slowly along the gently rising road to Bulach. The grainfields on the left had already been mowed, but the potatoes were still being harvested; on the right there was a narrow strip of young pines, a brown wall of serried trunks and withered branches; the ground was of the same dry brown color, carpeted with parched pine needles. The road led straight into the tender-blue autumn sky, as though the world ended at the top of the rise.
The doctor held the reins loosely, letting his old nag go where he pleased. He had just left the deathbed of a woman who, though beyond help, had struggled obstinately for her life to the last. Now he was tired and the quiet ride through the friendly country lulled him. His thoughts had fallen asleep; absently following the cries that mingled with the smell of the brush fires, he was led to pleasant blurred memories of autumn holidays from school, and further back to the sounds and shapeless half-light of infancy. For he had grown up in the country, and his senses responded knowingly and gladly to the signs of the season and its occupations.
He had almost fallen asleep when his carriage stopped, jolting him awake. A rivulet running across the road held the front wheels in place; gratefully the horse had stopped and was waiting with lowered head, enjoying the rest.
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