A Tale Told to the Darkness

I first read Rilke’s short story when I was an emotional seventeen-year-old, living away from home for the first time as an exchange student in Germany. I worked on improving my language skills as the days shortened and the weather grew cold. I started with children’s books and practically memorized a German translation of The Little Prince (“Meine Blume ist vergänglich?”). I held Stephen Mitchell’s translation of Rilke’s poems on my lap during the streetcar ride to school, scanning from the German on the left to the English on the right. And I often got into bed at night with a thin zweisprachig collection of short stories that included Kafka’s “A Hunger Artist” and this strange and fascinating story by Rilke.

Rilke’s story stuck with me for years, yet I lost track of it, and struggled to find it again. What was the title? I couldn’t remember. My poorly-worded searches on the internet would turn up nothing.

What I remembered—what made me want to find it again—was the scene of the two children waiting for the honored guest to arrive and their shared conclusion that the waiting itself had been the best part. This image seemed to capture the wonderful essence of living, of being alive. With the comingled essence of knowing we will die. Holding in balance within ourselves the unfathomable mystery of where life comes from and where it is going.

When I did eventually stumble across my old zweisprachig copy of the book in a cardboard box, it was surprising and instructive to discover the aspects of the story that had flown past me as a teenage boy. The reluctant housewife who shocked everyone by fleeing a loveless marriage and seeking a life of independence—I somehow failed to remember any part of this.

Hearing me say that, Rilke’s deliciously expansive narrator might shrug and say, “Yes, grown child, but that part of the story remembered you.”

-Mark Ray Lewis

I wanted to take up my coat and go see my friend Ewald. But I’d lost myself in a book, an old book as it were, and evening had descended in the way spring arrives so suddenly in Russia. In the blink of an eye the living room had gone from being bright in all its distant corners, to knowing nothing but the dusk; large dark flowers were unfurling with velvet cups that glowed like dragonfly wings.

The invalid would no longer be at his window. So I stayed home. What had I been wanting to tell him? I no longer knew. But a while later I had a feeling that someone still wanted a story from me, perhaps some lonely person standing solo at a distant window in a dark room, or maybe it was the darkness itself as it surrounded me and him and all our things. So it was that I told a tale to the darkness. And it seemed to lean in ever closer to me, so that I could speak in the hushed tones most fitting for the telling of my tale. It takes place in the present. Let’s let it begin.

Following a lengthy absence, Dr. Georg Lassman returned to his small hometown. He had never owned much of anything in that place, and now only two of his sisters were there, apparently both well-married; the reason for his visit, after 12 years, was to see them again. Or so he believed. But in the night, when he could not find sleep on the crowded train, it became clear to him that what he was seeking was his own childhood, and he’d be searching for something among the old streets: a gate, a tower, a spring, any invitation to experience a joy or a sadness through which he might be able to find some resemblance of himself again. We lose our self within our life. A number of details began to come to him: the small apartment in Heinrichsgasse with the glass door handles and the darkly painted lobbies, the fastidiously maintained furniture with his parents standing alongside, these two aged creatures who felt something like reverence toward the furniture; the hurried and harried weekdays and the Sundays that were like empty auditoriums, the rare visits that brought laughter and embarrassment, the out-of-tune piano, the old canary bird, the heirloom chair in which no one was allowed to sit, a Name Day celebration, an uncle from Hamburg, a puppet theater, a barrel organ, a cluster of children, and someone calls out: “Klara!” The doctor was near sleep. Someone standing in a station, the lights passing over, and the hammer hissing through the ringing wheels. And it sounds like this: Klara, Klara. “Klara,” muses the doctor, alert now, who was that? And soon he senses a face, a child’s face, surrounded by straight blond hair. He wouldn’t be able to describe it in detail, but he has a sensation of something calm, helpless, earnest, and he senses the narrow shoulders of a child, pressed close together through a faded dress, and from all this he can conjure a face— but he already knows he doesn’t have to invent it. It is there — or it was there— back then. This is how Dr. Lassman recalls his best friend Klara, and not without effort. Prior to the day he was sent off to boarding school at age 10, he shared everything with her, all those little things (or those important things?). Klara had no siblings, and he practically did not either; his older sisters didn’t dote on him. Yet since that time he has never once asked about her. How is that possible? He leaned back a bit. She was a pious child, he recalled, and he asked himself: what became of her? For a while he was tormented by the thought that she’d died. A fathomless anxiety overwhelmed him in the train compartment, everything seemed to support this conclusion: she was a sickly child, things were not great at home, she often wept; there can be no doubt: she’s gone. The doctor couldn’t take it any longer and had to extract himself and push out into the aisle, disturbing sleepers along the way. There he threw open a window and stared out into the dark, hypnotized by the dancing sparks. This calmed him. Later, back in the train compartment, he was finally able to sleep, despite his discomfort.

The reunion with the married sisters was not without awkwardness. The three of them had forgotten how distant they’d always been, despite their filial relationship, and so they tried for a while to act as if they were close siblings. Soon enough they had migrated toward the sort of generic small talk and polite mannerisms that would be appropriate for any group gathering.

He was with the younger of the sisters, whose husband was particularly rich, an industrialist with the title of imperial councilman; and it was over dinner and after the fourth course the doctor asked: “Tell me Sophie, what ever became of Klara?” “Which Klara?” “I can’t remember her last name. The little girl, you know, the daughter of the neighbors that was my playmate?” “Ah, Klara Söllner, you mean?” “Söllner, that’s right, Söllner. Now I recall: the elder Söllner was such a terrifying old man— but tell me whatever happened to Klara?” The sister paused: “She did marry— at any rate, she has now withdrawn into a secluded life.” “Yes,” uttered the councilman, and his knife scraped across his plate, “very much withdrawn.” “You also know her?” the doctor said to his brother-in-law. “Yessss— fleetingly; she is known around here.” The spouses exchanged a knowing look. The doctor sensed that there was something uncomfortable in the subject and he asked nothing further.

The councilman remained keenly interested in the topic after his housewife had left them alone with their black coffee. “This Klara,” he inquired with a tight smile and he watched the ash fall from his cigar into a silver ashtray. “She must have been quite the daft and ugly child?” The doctor was silent. The councilman forged ahead: “What a story! Have you really never heard it?” “But I’ve never spoken with anyone.” “No need to speak about it,” the councilman said with a sly smile, “You could read about it in the news.” “What,” the doctor asked nervously.

“Well, she abandoned him,” — the industrialist slid this surprising line in under a cloud of smoke and he waited for its effect with seemingly infinite satisfaction. But the result didn’t seem to please him. As if offended, he sat up into a more businesslike posture and began speaking in a different tone. “Hmh. She’d married Lehr, a man on the building council. You wouldn’t know him. He was older, my age or thereabouts. Wealthy, and completely respectable, you know, completely respectable. She didn’t have a penny and on top of that she wasn’t pretty, with zero upbringing, etc. But her husband wasn’t seeking some grand dame, merely a modest housewife. But Klara was generally well-received within our society — really — people were kind to her — so she could have easily made a place for herself there, you know — but this Klara, one day— barely two years after their wedding day: she’s gone. Can you imagine: gone. Where to? Italy. A little pleasure trip, and not alone of course. We hadn’t invited them over the year prior, as if we somehow suspected it! The husband, my good friend, a councilman on the building council, a man of honor —”

“And Klara?” the doctor interrupted him and stood. “Ah. Yeah, well she’s provoked heaven’s judgement. As for the man in the tryst, they say he’s an artist, you know, free as a bird, of course. So when they returned from Italy to live in Munich, he bid his adieu and disappeared. Now she’s been left with a child!”

Doctor Lassman paced back and forth: “In Munich?” “Yes, in Munich,” answered the councilman and he also stood up. “Anyway, it must be miserable.” “Why do you say miserable.” “Look,” the councilman said and stared at his cigar. “Financial ruin, and all-around— my God— what an existence.” He abruptly placed his well-manicured hand upon the shoulder of his brother-in-law and a chuckle rose in his voice: “Anyway, you know, people say she’s been forced to earn her living by—” The doctor turned and walked out the door. His hand having fallen from his brother-in-law’s shoulder, it took the councilman a full ten minutes to recover from his astonishment. Then he went to find his wife and he said with irritation, “I’ve always said it, your brother is an odd duck.” She’d recently dozed off and she replied with a sleepy yawn, “Oh God yes.”

Two weeks later the doctor left town. He had known at once that he would need to seek his childhood elsewhere. In Munich, he scanned a directory and found Klara Söllner with an address listed in the bohemian Schwabing district. He left a message and made his way there. A slender woman greeted him in a living room full of light and grace.

“Georg, and you’ve remembered me?”

The doctor was stunned. After a while, he said, “So, is it you, Klara.”* She held her calm, clear, and earnest face quite still as if to aid him in recognizing her. Time passed. Finally, the doctor discovered something that seemed to indicate it really was his old playmate standing before him. He took her hand and pressed it, then he gently let it go and peered about the living room. It seemed to contain nothing superfluous. There was a desk by the window covered with books and papers, where Klara must have recently been sitting. The chair was still pushed back. “You’ve been writing?” … and the doctor immediately felt that this was a dumb question. But Klara didn’t mind and said, “Yes, I’m working on a translation.” “To be printed?” “Yes,” Klara said, in a simple manner, “for a publishing house.” Georg noticed that photographs from Italy adorned the walls. Among them was one of a painting “Pastoral Concert” by Giorgione. “Do you love this?” He stepped close to the picture. “You too?” “I’ve never seen the original; it’s in Florence, is it not?” “In the Palazzo Pitti. You have to go there.” “For this reason?” “Yes, for this reason.” She conveyed freedom and calm serenity. The doctor stared in contemplation.

“What can I get for you, Georg. Won’t you take a seat?” “I’m sad,” he said, with hesitation. “I had thought… but you’re not at all miserable,” he said abruptly. Klara smiled, “You’ve heard tell of my story?” “Yes, that is…” “Oh,” Klara said, interrupting him quickly when she saw the dark expression on his face. “It’s not anyone’s fault that they need to speak like that. The things we experience in life are often ineffable, and anyone who nevertheless needs to discuss them will naturally make mistakes.” Some silence. And the doctor: “What has made you so kind?” “Everything,” she said softly and with warmth. “But why do you say kind?” “Because… because it really could have made you hard. You were a sickly and helpless child; such children either turn hard or…” “Or they die, you mean. Well, I also have died. I’ve been dead for many years. Since the last time I saw you, at your house.” She took something from the table. “See this, it is his picture. It is a bit flattering. His face is not so clear, but it is more loving and serene. I will soon show you our child, sleeping in the next room. A boy. His name is Angelo, like his father, who is far away now, travelling.”

“And you’re left here alone?” the doctor asked in a distracted way while continuing to stare at the picture. “Yes, just me and my child. Isn’t that enough? I will tell you how it came about. Angelo is a painter. His name is not well-known, you won’t have heard of him. Until recently he was wrestling with his sense of the world, with his plan, with himself and with me. Yes, also with me. For a year, I’ve been bidding him to go and travel. I could feel how much he needed that. Once he said as a joke, “Me or a child?” “A child,” I said and then he went travelling.

“And when will he come back?”

“As soon as the child can say his name, that was our agreement.” The doctor wanted to say something. But Klara laughed, “And since it is a difficult name to say, it could be awhile. Angelino will only turn two this summer.”

“So rare,” said the doctor. “What is, Georg?” “How well you understand life. How tall you’ve grown, how young. Where have you placed your childhood? We were both really such helpless children. That cannot be changed or undone.” “So you think we must by rights suffer under the effects of our childhood?” “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. This falling darkness following us, making us weak and rendering our relationships uncertain. There was a time when we were enjoying our first fruits, everything beginning, the seeds of all that might one day come to be. And suddenly we realize it has all dropped to the bottom of the sea, and we don’t know exactly when. We didn’t notice at all. Like someone who gathered all their money in order to buy a feather and stuck it in their hat only to have it blow off in the wind. And when they eventually return home, they are left wondering when it was exactly that their feather blew away.”

“You are wondering this, Georg?”

“Not anymore. I’ve given up. Beginning sometime around age 10 when I stopped praying. The other no longer belongs to me.”

“And so how did it come about that you began to have memories of me?”

“That’s why I’ve come to see you. You are the sole witness of that time. I believe I can once again find in you what I can no longer find in myself. Some sort of stirring, a word, a name, upon which something is entangled— an epiphany.” The doctor sunk his head into his cold and restless hands.

Klara reflected: “I remember so little of my childhood, it is as if a thousand lifetimes have passed since then. But now, by your prompting, I do remember something. An evening. You came over to our place, unexpectedly; your parents were out, at the theater or something. My father was awaiting a guest, a relative, a distant and wealthy relative, if I remember correctly. He was coming from, from — I don’t remember where, but from far away in any case. We had already been waiting for him for two hours. The door was open, the lamps were lit, mother went from time to time to smooth the covers on the sofa, father stood at the window. No one wanted to disrupt the arrangement of the chairs by sitting in them. You arrived in the midst of this and you waited with us. We were children listening at the door. And the longer we waited the more wonderful the awaited guest became. Yes, we even trembled with fear lest he should arrive before achieving the most heightened level of glory that was approaching ever closer with each minute of his absence. We were not afraid that he wouldn’t come at all; we were certain: he’s coming, but we wanted to be sure he’d had sufficient time to wax large and strong.”

The doctor raised his head abruptly and with sadness said: “We’re both well-aware that he never came. I’ve also never forgotten about it.” “No,” Klara confirmed, “he never came.” And after a pause, “But still, it was beautiful!” “What?” “As it was — the waiting, the warm lights, the stillness, like a holy day.”

Something stirred in the next room. Klara excused herself for a moment and when she returned, bright and cheerful, she said, “We can go in. He is awake now and happy. But what were you about to say?”

“I’ve been wondering what has empowered you to find yourself, to arrive at this calm self-assurance. Life has not made it easy for you at all. You appear to possess something that I am lacking?” “What would that be Georg?” Klara sat down next to him.

“It is rare; when I first began to remember you, one night three weeks ago, while travelling, what occurred to me was this: she was a pious child. And now that I’ve seen you, despite your being so different than I expected, despite all that, I would like to say that I feel even more certain that what has been guiding you through all along was your… your piety.”

“What do you call piety?”

“Well, your relationship with God, and your love of him, your belief.”

Klara closed her eyes: “Love of God? Let me think about this.” The doctor watched her intently. She seemed to speak her thoughts slowly, as they came to her: “As a child, did I love God? I don’t believe so. Yes, I never thought — it would have seemed a delusional arrogance — that’s not the right word — like the greatest sin it, to think: he exists. As if I could thereby force him to be inside me, within this weak child, with absurdly long arms, to exist, in our poor apartment in which everything was fake and a lie, from the bronze wall plates made of papier-mâché to the wine in the bottles with such expensive labels. And later…” Klara stopped and put up her hands as if to shield herself, and she closed her eyes tight as if she feared what she might see through her eyelids. “I would have had to push him out of me, if he’d lived within me back then. But I knew nothing of him. I had completely forgotten him. Until Florence: when for the first time in my life, I saw, heard, felt, and at the same time learned gratitude for all of this— it was there that I thought of him again. Everywhere were traces of him. In every picture, I found remnants of his smile, the bells resonated with his voice, and the statues were shaped by his hands.”

“And there you found him?”

Klara looked at the doctor with wide open and smiling eyes: “I felt that he was, that at one time he had been… why should I expect more? That was abundance already.”

The doctor stood up and went over to a window. One could see a bit of a field and a little old Bavarian church, with the sky above beginning to turn toward evening. “And now?” the doctor asked abruptly, without turning. When there was no answer, he quietly returned.

“Now,” Klara said and hesitated as he stood directly before her. She fully raised her eyes up to meet his: “Now, sometimes I think: he will be.”

The doctor took up her hand and held it for a brief moment. He stared off into the unknown.

“What are your thoughts, Georg?”

“I’m thinking this is just like that evening: you waiting once again for the wonderful, waiting for God, with a certainty he will come. And then I randomly happen to arrive…”

Klara stood up with grace and cheer. She looked very youthful. “Now, this time we’ll just have to wait again.” She said this with such joy and simplicity that the doctor had to laugh. And so she led him into the next room to see her child.

There is nothing in this story that children may not know. Nonetheless, children will have no sense of it. I have only told my tale to the darkness, no one else. And the children are afraid of the dark, they run from it, and if they’re caught inside it, they close their eyes and cover their ears. But a time will come when they will also love the darkness. They will hear my tale told again and they will better understand it.

*Both use the formal pronoun Sie.