Klingsor's Last Summer by Hermann Hesse Page B

Castiglione isn’t back yet either.”

3
    T HE DANCER WAS ALREADY THERE when Klein entered the park. She was walking with her buoyant step around a sector of lawn, and suddenly stood facing him at the shady entrance to a copse.
    Teresina’s light-gray eyes probed him attentively. Her expression was earnest and somewhat impatient. While walking, she began to talk.
    â€œCan you tell me what happened yesterday? How is it we kept running across each other? I’ve been thinking about that. I saw you yesterday in the garden twice. The first time you were standing at the exit looking at me. You looked bored or irritated, and as soon as I saw you I remembered that I’d already run across you in the park. I didn’t have a good impression, and I made an effort to forget you right away. Then I saw you again, barely fifteen minutes later. You were sitting at the next table and suddenly looked entirely different, and I didn’t realize right away that you were the same man I’d met before. And then, after my dance, you suddenly stood up and took my hand, or I took yours, I’m not sure which. What was going on? You must know something, you really must. But I hope you haven’t come here to make me declarations of love.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Klein said. “I haven’t come with anything definite in mind. I love you, since yesterday, but we needn’t talk about that, you know.”
    â€œYes, let’s talk about something else. Yesterday there was something between us for a moment that bothers me and also frightens me, as though we had some similarity or something in common. What is it? And the main thing I wanted to ask: What was that strange change in you? How was it possible that within an hour you could have two such entirely different faces? You looked like a person who has experienced something very important.”
    â€œHow did I look?” he asked childishly.
    â€œOh, at first you looked like a rather grumpy, disagreeable middle-aged gentleman. You looked like a philistine, like a man who is used to taking out on others his anger over his own insufficiencies.”
    He listened with eager sympathy, nodding vigorously. She continued:
    â€œAnd then, afterwards, it’s hard to describe. You were sitting somewhat stooped. When I happened to notice you, my first thought was: Good Lord, what sad postures these philistines have. You were holding your head propped in your hand, and suddenly that looked so odd. It looked as if you were the only person in the world, and as if you didn’t care one bit what happened to you or to the whole world. Your face was like a mask, horribly sad or maybe horribly indifferent…”
    She broke off and seemed to be groping for words, but then said nothing further.
    â€œYou are right,” Klein said meekly. “You saw so accurately that I can’t help being amazed. You read me like a letter. But of course I suppose it is only natural and right that you should be able to see all that.”
    â€œWhy so?”
    â€œBecause in a different way, while dancing, you express the same thing. When you dance, Teresina, and at many other moments too, you’re like a tree or a mountain or an animal, or like a star, altogether alone, altogether by yourself. You don’t want to be anything different from what you are, whether good or bad. Isn’t that the same thing you saw in me?”
    She studied him without replying. Then she said falteringly: “You are a strange person. And what about now: are you still that way? Do you not care at all what happens to you?”
    â€œYes. Only not always. I’m often frightened, too. But then it comes again and the fear is gone and then nothing matters. Then I feel strong. Or rather, it’s not quite right to say I feel that nothing matters; everything is precious and welcome, no matter what it is.”
    â€œFor a moment I even thought you might be a