I’ve determined that Clarimonde apparently lives alone in the little apartment. She has three windows, but only sits at the one that is across from mine. She sits there and spins on a little old fashioned distaff. I have seen something like it once at my grandmother’s but she never used it herself. She inherited it from some old aunt. I didn’t know that anyone still used them today.
By the way, Clarimonde’s distaff is a very small, dainty thing. It is white, apparently made out of ivory and the thread she makes with it must be frightfully delicate. She sits there behind the curtain working incessantly for the entire day. She only stops when it begins to grow dark. These foggy days it gets dark quite early in the narrow streets. There is a beautiful sunset around five o’clock already. I have never seen a light in her room.
What does she look like? Well, I don’t really know. She wears her black hair in wavy curls and her face is quite pale. Her nose is narrow and small. Her nostrils flare like wings. Her lips are pale as well and it appears to me that her teeth are pointed, like predators. Her eyelids have deep shadows but when she opens them, her large dark eyes glow. Yet this is all something I feel rather than know. It is hard to see anyone clearly behind a curtain.
There is one other thing; she always wears a black gown with the collar tightly buttoned. It has large lilac polka dots on it and she also wears long black gloves to protect her hands while she works. It looks strange, how her narrow black fingers quickly take the thread and pull it through each other-almost like the legs of an insect.
What is our relationship with each other? It is currently only a casual, surface relationship, yet it seems to me that it is getting much deeper. It began like this, she looked through my window and saw me and I looked through hers. She observed me and I observed her. She must have liked what she saw because one day as I looked back at her, she laughed. Naturally I laughed too. It went on like that for a couple of days, always a little more often and always more laughing together.
Almost hourly I feel compelled to greet her. I truly don’t know what restrains me and holds me back. Finally I did it, today at noon and Clarimonde greeted me back! It was hardly noticeable, but I saw it, saw how she nodded back to me.
Thursday 10 March
I sat over my books for a long time yesterday. I can’t truthfully say that I got much studying done. I built castles in the air and dreamed of Clarimonde. I hadn’t slept very well until late in the morning. When I stepped up to the window Clarimonde was sitting there. I greeted her and she nodded back. She laughed and looked at me for a long time.
I wanted to study but found no peace. I sat by the window and stared over at her. I saw how her hands lay in her lap. I pulled the white curtain back with the cord and at almost the same instant she did the same. We laughed and looked at each other. I believe we must have spent an hour sitting like that. Then she started spinning again.
Saturday 12 March
This day is gone. I ate and drank, I sat at my desk, and then I smoked my pipe and bent over a book. But I didn’t read a single syllable. I tried again and again but knew ahead of time that it was no use. Then I went to the window, greeted Clarimonde. She thanked me; we laughed and stared at each other for hours.
Yesterday afternoon around six o’clock was a little disturbing. Dusk came quite early and I felt a certain fear. I sat at my desk and waited. I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to go to the window, not to hang myself, really, but instead to see Clarimonde. I sprang up and stood behind the curtain. Never had I been able to see so perfectly even though it was already dark. She was spinning but her eyes looked over at me. I felt a curious sense of well being and a slight fear as well. The phone rang. I was enraged that the commissioner had torn me out of my dream with his foolish questions.
This morning he visited me, together with Mrs. Dubonnet. They are satisfied with my activity; it is enough that I have now survived for two weeks in room #7. Yet the commissioner wants more information. I had made mysterious comments and he wants answers. I said that I was hot on the trail of something and the ass believed every word.
In any case I can stay here one week longer, and that is my only wish, not because of Mrs. Dubonnet’s food and drink. Good God! How quickly we become indifferent to these things when we are always satisfied! No, it is because of her window, the one that she hates and fears, the one that I love so much, the one that shows me Clarimonde.
When the lamps are lit I can’t see her anymore. I’ve kept watch to see if she ever goes out, but have never seen her on the street.
I have a large comfortable easychair and a lamp with a green shade over it. I keep warm and comfortably wrapped up. The commissioner brought me a large pack of tobacco; I have never smoked in such luxury. And yet, despite all this I can’t study. I read two or three pages and when I get to the end I haven’t understood a single word. My eyes read the letters but my brain refuses to find any meaning in them.
Funny! It’s as if a sign said: Entry Forbidden! As if no other thought were allowed than one- Clarimonde. I finally shoved the book away, leaned back deeply in my chair and dreamed.
Sunday 13 March
This morning I saw a little performance. I went out into the hallway and waited while the maid was cleaning my room. In front of the little hall window hung a spiderweb. A fat Cross spider sat on it. Mrs. Dubonnet wouldn’t allow them to be taken away. Spiders bring “luck” and she already had enough “bad luck” in her house.
Then I saw how another smaller spider cautiously ran around the net, a male. It carefully stepped a little way onto a quivering thread and moved toward the middle. The female moved, snapping the thread and pulling it back quickly to herself. The male ran to another thread and tried again to get closer.
Finally the strong female in the middle of the web consented to his courtship and didn’t move anymore. The male plucked a strand lightly at first, then harder until the entire web trembled but the object of his worship remained motionless. He went there quickly and was infinitely more cautious the closer he got. The female received him quietly and unmoving, surrendering entirely, falling into his armorous embrace. They hung motionless for long minutes in the center of the web.
Then I saw how the male slowly freed himself, one leg at a time. It was as if he wanted to draw back and leave his companion alone in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Suddenly he was free and ran as quickly as possible to edge of the web. At the same moment the female quickly came to life and wildly chased him down. The weak male was lowering himself down onto a thread as his beloved caught up to him.
Both fell onto the windowsill as he struggled with all of his might to escape. It was too late. He was already trapped in the powerful grip of his companion. She carried him back onto the web, back to the middle, to the same place, that had just served as a bed for their voluptuous desire. Now it appeared much differently.
The lover struggled in vain, reaching his weak legs out again and again in an effort to escape this wild embrace. His beloved would not let him go. In a few minutes she spun a cocoon around him so tightly that he couldn’t move a single limb. Then she sank her sharp pinchers into his body and sucked in full pulls the young blood of her beloved.
I saw then how she finally cut loose the miserable, unrecognizable lump, legs, skin and thread and contemptuously threw it out of the net. That is how love is with these creatures. I’m glad I’m not a boy spider.
Monday 14 March
I don’t even look at my books any more. I just spend my days at the window. When it gets dark I still sit there. She is not there, but I close my eyes and then I see her.
Hmm, this journal has really become something much different than what I thought it would be. It tells of Mrs. Dubonnet and the commissioner, of spiders and of Clarimonde. But there is not one syllable about the discovery I wanted to make. What can I write instead?
Tuesday 15 March
We have discovered an unusual game, Clarimonde and I. We play it all day long. I greet her, immediately s
he greets me back. Then I drum with my hand against the windowpane. She scarcely sees it before she begins drumming as well. I nod to her, she nods back. I move my lips as if I’m speaking to her and she does the same. Then I stroke the hair back on my temples and her hand is on her forehead as well. It is a true child’s game and we both laugh over it.
That is to say, she doesn’t really laugh, it is more of a smile that she gives, looking exactly like I believe my own does. This, by the way, is not as simple as it seems. It is not only a pure imitation, a form of play, but a form of communication as well. Clarimonde follows my movements and in the smallest fraction of a second replies. She hardly has time to see and sometimes it appears to me as if we are both doing it at the same time.
That’s what is so fascinating to me, there is always something new, something unforeseen and she copies it! It is staggering how she can make the same movements at the same time. Sometimes I try to fool her. I make a lot of different movements, one right after the other. Then do the same moves again and again in a pattern. Finally I follow the same pattern but make a small change in the order of the movements or make a different one, or leave one out. It’s just like how the children play “Simon Says”.
What is incredible is that Clarimonde never once makes a wrong move, even though I alternate so quickly that she scarcely has time to recognize a single movement.
That’s how I spend my day but I don’t for a second feel that I’m uselessly wasting my time. On the contrary, it seems as if I have never done anything as important.
Wednesday 16 March
It is funny that I’ve never seriously thought about my relationship with Clarimonde on a rational basis. What does it mean? All these hours of play? Last night I thought about it, deliberated over it. I could simply take up my hat and coat, go down two flights of stairs, five steps across the street, back up two flights of stairs again to be at her door. There would be a small sign on it that says “Clarimonde” —Clarimonde what? I don’t know her last name but Clarimonde would be on it. I would knock on the door and then—
I can imagine everything perfectly up to that point, every small movement that I make. I can see it all right before my eyes. But I can't see at all what happens next. The door opens, I see that much. But I stay in the hallway looking into the dark room. It is so dark you can see absolutely nothing at all. She doesn’t come-doesn’t come. There is nothing there at all, only the black impenetrable darkness.
Sometimes I wonder if there is another Clarimonde other than the one that sits at the window and plays with me. I can not imagine at all what this woman would look like in a hat or a different dress other than the black one with the lilac polka dots on it. I can’t even imagine her without gloves. If I saw her on the street or even in a restaurant eating, drinking and chatting, I would burst out laughing. The image appears so impossible to me.
Sometimes I wonder if I love her. I can’t answer truthfully; I’ve never been in love. Is the feeling that I have for Clarimonde really love? Or is it something entirely different. It’s not something I’ve learned about from my companions or from a book. It is very difficult to express my feelings. In general, it is very difficult to think about anything that doesn’t include Clarimonde and even more, include our game.
I can’t lie. It is our game that apparently always occupies me, nothing else. I understand at least that much. Clarimonde, yes, I feel attracted to her, but mixed with that is another feeling, as if I’m afraid. Afraid? No, that’s not quite right. It is more of shyness, a light anxiety about something. I don’t really know what.
It is precisely this anxiety, this strange restraint, this voluptuous sensuality that keeps me away from her and becomes stronger the closer I get. It is as if I am running in a wide circle around her, coming in a little closer, then pulling back again, running further, trying again from another place and quickly backing away again, until I finally—and this I most certainly know—until I finally go to her.
Clarimonde sits by the window and spins thread, long, infinitely fine thread. She’s making a web out of it. I don’t know what it is for, and I don’t understand how she can make her delicate net without ever tangling or ripping the delicate threads. Her fine work contains fairytale animals and remarkable little monkeys.
What did I just write? The truth is that I can’t exactly see what she spins, the threads are much too fine. Yet I know exactly what she is making when I see her with my eyes closed. It is a large net with many creatures in it, fairytale animals and remarkable little monkeys.
Thursday 17 March
I am in a strange impulsive mood. I don’t speak with people anymore. I scarcely say good morning to the maid or even to Mrs. Dubonnet herself. I hardly take the time to eat. I just want to sit by the window and play games with her. It’s the excitement of the game, really, that’s what it is. I have the feeling that something will happen tomorrow.
Friday 18 March
Yes, yes, something will happen today. I told myself ahead of time- made a loud speech to myself—to hear my own voice—reminded myself of why I am here. The bad thing is that I’m afraid and this fear that I will end up like my predecessors in this room mixes strangely together with my other fear, my fear of Clarimonde. I can scarcely stay away from her. I am afraid. I want to scream.
Six o’clock in the evening
A few quick words in hat and jacket. At five o’clock I was at the end of my wits. Oh, I know now that it has most certainly something to do with this fateful sixth hour of the last day of the week. I don’t laugh anymore at the nonsense I told the commissioner.
I sat at my chair clutching my revolver, but the window pulled at me, almost tore at me. I wanted to play with Clarimonde but had this horrible fear of the window. I saw them hanging there, the fat Swiss merchant with his thick neck and gray stubble beard, the slender performer and the stocky powerful sergeant. I saw all three of them one after the other, and then all three of them together on the same hook with open mouths and protruding tongues. Then I saw myself in the midst of them.
Oh, the fear! I knew that just like them, I had stood in front of the crossbar and the horrible hook looking through the window at Clarimonde. May she forgive me, but it’s true. In my tangled fear I always placed her in the picture with the other three. The ones that hung there, legs deeply dragging on the floor.
The truth is that I felt no wish or desire to hang myself, that wasn’t my fear. It was only a fear of the window itself and of Clarimonde—of something terrible, unknown, that was just about to happen. I had the passionate uncontrollable impulse to stand up and go to the window. I had to do it—
Then the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and screamed into it before I could hear a word.
“Come over here, Come over here now!”
It was as if the shrill cry of my voice had instantly chased the last scratching shadows under the floorboards. I was instantly at peace, wiped the sweat from my forehead and drank a glass of water. Then I deliberated about what I should tell the commissioner when he came. Finally I went to the window, greeted her and smiled. Clarimonde greeted me back and smiled.
Five minutes later the commissioner was there. I told him that I had finally found the basis of the suicides. I didn’t want to answer any questions that night but I would certainly in a very short time reveal the entire remarkable story to him.
The funny thing is that even as I lied to him, I knew that I was telling the truth. I could almost grasp the answer but it still eluded me. He immediately noticed my calm composure, especially since I had just screamed fearfully into the telephone. I apologized, said that I knew he would naturally like an explanation but I didn’t have all the pieces put together yet.
He was amiable about it, said I should not let it bother me that I called him. He was always at my disposal, that was his duty. He would much rather come a dozen times in vain than not be called the one time when it was needed.
Then he invited me to go out with him that evening. It woul
d be a diversion. It was not good that I spent so much of my time alone. I gave in- that is to say I accepted. It didn’t seem right to me. I didn’t really want to step out of the room.
Saturday 19 March
We went to the Gaieté Rochechouart, the Cigale and the Lune Rousse. The commissioner was right. It was good for me to get out of there, breathe different air. In the beginning I was uncomfortable, felt like I was doing something wrong, as if I was a deserter, had turned my back on the flag. But then the feeling went away. We drank a lot, laughed a lot and chatted.
This morning as I went to the window I believed I saw reproach in Clarimonde’s look. Perhaps I only imagined it. How could she possibly know that I went out last night? Besides, it only lasted a moment, and then she laughed again. We played together all day long.
Sunday 20 March
I can only write again that we played all day long.
Tuesday 21 March
Yes, and we did it again today as well, nothing, absolutely nothing else. At times I literally ask myself, “For what purpose? Why? What do I really want? Where will this all lead?”
But I never have any answers. What is certain is that I don’t want anything else, only this. Whatever comes out of it, well, I must wait and see.
We speak with each other now in these days. Not by speaking out loud, sometimes we just move our lips; more often we just communicate by looking at each other. We understand each other very well. I was right. Clarimonde did reproach me because I ran away last Friday night. I asked for her forgiveness, said that I understood, it was stupid of me, and I have promised to never again want to leave this window. We kissed, pressing our lips for a long time on the windowpanes.
Hanns Heinz Ewers Volume I (Collected Short Stories by Hanns Heinz Ewers) Page 3