Lenz (7 page)

Man hatte ihn mit livländischen Kavalieren nach Straßburg gesendet, und einen Mentor nicht leicht unglücklicher wählen können. Der ältere Baron ging für einige Zeit ins Vaterland zurück, und hinterließ eine Geliebte, an die er fest geknüpft war. Lenz, um den zweiten Bruder, der auch um dieses Frauenzimmer warb, und andere Liebhaber zurückzudrängen, und das kostbare Herz seinem abwesenden Freunde zu erhalten, beschloß nun selbst sich in die Schöne verliebt zu stellen, oder, wenn man will, zu verlieben. Er setzte diese seine These mit der hartnäckigsten Anhänglichkeit an das Ideal, das er sich von ihr gemacht hatte, durch, ohne gewahr werden zu wollen, daß er so gut als die übrigen ihr nur zum Scherz und zur Unterhaltung
diene. Desto besser für ihn! denn bei ihm war es auch nur Spiel, welches desto länger dauern konnte als sie es ihm gleichfalls spielend erwiderte, ihn bald anzog, bald abstieß, bald hervorrief, bald hintansetzte. Man sei überzeugt, daß wenn er zum Bewußtsein kam, wie ihm denn das zuweilen zu geschehen pflegte, er sich zu einem solchen Fund recht behaglich Glück gewünscht habe.

Übrigens lebte er, wie seine Zöglinge, meistens mit Offizieren der Garnison, wobei ihm die wundersamen Anschauungen, die er später in dem Lustspiel »Die Soldaten« aufstellte, mögen geworden sein. Indessen hatte diese frühe Bekanntschaft mit dem Militär die eigene Folge für ihn, daß er sich für einen großen Kenner des Waffenwesens hielt; auch hatte er wirklich dieses Fach nach und nach so im Detail studiert, daß er, einige Jahre später, ein großes Memoire an den französischen Kriegsminister aufsetzte, wovon er sich den besten Erfolg versprach. Die Gebrechen jenes Zustandes waren ziemlich gut gesehn, die Heilmittel dagegen lächerlich und unausführbar. Er aber hielt sich überzeugt, daß er dadurch bei Hofe großen Einfluß gewinnen könne, und wußte es den Freunden schlechten Dank, die ihn, teils durch Gründe, teils durch tätigen Wider-stand, abhielten, dieses phantastische Werk, das schon sauber
abgeschrieben, mit einem Briefe begleitet, kuvertiert und förmlich adressiert war, zurückzuhalten, und in der Folge zu verbrennen.

Mündlich und nachher schriftlich hatte er mir die sämtlichen Irrgänge seiner Kreuz- und Querbewegungen, in bezug auf jenes Frauenzimmer vertraut. Die Poesie die er in das Gemeinste zu legen wußte, setzte mich oft in Erstaunen, so daß ich ihn dringend bat, den Kern dieses weitschweifigen Abenteuers geistreich zu befruchten, und einen kleinen Roman daraus zu bilden; aber es war nicht seine Sache, ihm konnte nicht wohl werden, als wenn er sich grenzenlos im einzelnen verfloß und sich an einem unendlichen Faden ohne Absicht hinspann. Vielleicht wird es dereinst möglich, nach diesen Prämissen, seinen Lebensgang, bis zu der Zeit da er sich in Wahnsinn verlor, auf irgend eine Weise anschaulich zu machen; gegenwärtig halte ich mich an das nächste, was eigentlich hierher gehört.

Kaum war »Goetz von Berlichingen« erschienen, als mir Lenz einen weitläuftigen Aufsatz zusendete, auf geringes Konzeptpapier geschrieben, dessen er sich gewöhnlich bediente, ohne den mindesten Rand weder oben noch unten, noch an den Seiten zu lassen. Diese Blätter waren betitelt:»Über unsere Ehe«, und sie würden, wären sie noch vorhanden, uns gegenwärtig mehr aufklären als mich damals, da ich über ihn
und sein Wesen noch sehr im dunkeln schwebte. Das Hauptabsehen dieser weitläuftigen Schrift war, mein Talent und das seinige neben einander zu stellen; bald schien er sich mir zu subordinieren, bald sich mir gleich zu setzen; das alles aber geschah mit so humoristischen und zierlichen Wendungen, daß ich die Ansicht, die er mir dadurch geben wollte, um so lieber aufnahm, als ich seine Gaben wirklich sehr hoch schätzte und immer nur darauf drang, das er aus dem formlosen Schweifen sich zusammenziehen, und die Bildungsgabe, die ihm angeboren war, mit kunstgemäßer Fassung benutzen möchte. Ich erwiderte sein Vertrauen freundlichst, und weil er in seinen Blättern auf die innigste Verbindung drang (wie denn auch schon der wunderliche Titel andeutete), so teilte ich ihm von nun an alles mit, sowohl das schon Gearbeitete als was ich vorhatte; er sendete mir dagegen nach und nach seine Manuskripte, den »Hofmeister«, den »Neuen menoza«, die Soldaten«, Nachbildungen des Plautus, und jene Übersetzung des englischen Stücks als Zugabe zu den »Anmerkungen über das Theater«.

Bei diesen war es mir einigermaßen auffallend, daß er in einem lakonischen Vorberichte sich dahin äußerte, als sei der Inhalt dieses Aufsatzes, der mit Heftigkeit gegen das regelmäßige Theater gerichtet war, schon vor einigen Jahren, als Vorlesung, einer Gesellschaft von Literaturfreunden bekannt geworden,
zu der Zeit also, wo »Goetz« noch nicht geschrieben gewesen. In Lenzens Straßburger Verhältnissen schien ein literarischer Zirkel den ich nicht kennen sollte, etwas problematisch; allein ich ließ es hingehen, und verschaffte ihm zu dieser wie zu seinen übrigen Schriften bald Verleger, ohne auch nur im mindesten zu ahnen, daß er mich zum vorzüglichsten Gegenstande seines imaginären Hasses, und zum Ziel einer abenteuerlichen und grillenhaften Verfolgung ausersehn hatte.

[Teil III, Buch 14]

by Georg Büchner

 

T
HE 20TH
, Lenz walked through the mountains. Snow on the peaks and upper slopes, gray rock down into the valleys, swatches of green, boulders, and firs. It was sopping cold, the water trickled down the rocks and leapt across the path. The fir boughs sagged in the damp air. Gray clouds drifted across the sky, but everything so stifling, and then the fog floated up and crept heavy and damp through the bushes, so sluggish, so clumsy. He walked onward, caring little one way or another, to him the path mattered not, now up, now down. He felt no fatigue, except sometimes it annoyed him that he could not walk on his head. At first he felt a tightening in his chest when the rocks skittered away, the gray woods below him shook, and the fog now engulfed the shapes, now half-revealed their powerful limbs; things were building up inside him, he was searching for something, as if for lost dreams, but was finding nothing. Everything seemed so small, so near, so wet, he would have liked to set the earth down behind an oven, he could not grasp why it took so much time to clamber down a slope, to reach a distant point; he was convinced he could cover it all with a pair of strides. Only
sometimes when the storms tossed the clouds into the valleys and they floated upwards through the woods and voices awakened on the rocks, like far-echoing thunder at first and then approaching in strong gusts, sounding as if they wanted to chant the praises of the earth in their wild rejoicing, and the clouds galloped by like wild whinnying horses and the sunshine shot through them and emerged and drew its glinting sword on the snowfields so that a bright blinding light knifed over the peaks into the valleys; or sometimes when the storms drove the clouds downwards and tore a light-blue lake into them and the sound of the wind died away and then like the murmur of a lullaby or pealing bells rose up again from the depths of ravines and tips of fir trees and a faint reddishness climbed into the deep blue and small clouds drifted by on silver wings and all the mountain peaks, sharp and firm, glinted and gleamed far across the countryside, he would feel something tearing at his chest, he would stand there, gasping, body bent forward, eyes and mouth open wide, he was convinced he should draw the storm into himself, contain everything within himself, he stretched out and lay over the earth, he burrowed into the universe, it was a pleasure that gave him pain; or he would remain still and lay his head upon the moss and half-close his eyes and then everything receded from him, the earth withdrew beneath him, it became
as tiny as a wandering star and dipped into a rushing stream whose clear waters flowed beneath him. But these were only moments, and then he got up, calm, steady, quiet, as if a shadow play had passed before him, he had no memory of anything. Toward evening he came to the mountain ridge, to the snowfield from which one again descended westwards into the plain, he sat down at the crest. Things had grown more quiet toward evening; the clouds lay still and solid in the sky, as far as the eye could see, nothing but peaks, broad downward slopes, and everything so silent, gray, twilit; a terrible solitude came over him, he was alone, all alone, he wanted to talk to himself, but he could not, he hardly dared breathe, the crunch of his foot sounded like thunder beneath him, he had to sit down; he was seized by a nameless anxiety in this emptiness, he was in a void, he sprang to his feet and raced down the slope. It had gotten dark, sky and earth melted together. It was as if something were following him, as if something terrible would overtake him, something no human could bear, as if madness were hunting him down on horseback. At last he heard voices, he saw lights, he breathed easier, he was told
Waldbach
lay half an hour away. He went through the village, lights shone through the windows, as he passed by he saw children at tables, old women, young girls, the faces all calm and
quiet, the light seemed to pour forth from them, he felt at ease, he was soon in the parsonage in Waldbach. They were sitting at the table, he went in; curls of blond hair fell around his pale face, his eyes and mouth twitched, his clothes were torn.
Oberlin
welcomed him, he took him to be a journeyman. “Welcome, whoever you are.”—I am a friend of . . . and bring you greetings from him. “Your name, if you please?” . . .
Lenz
. “Aha, it's appeared in print, hasn't it? Haven't I read several plays attributed to a gentleman by this name?” Yes, but I beg you not to judge me by that. They continued talking, he searched for words and they came tumbling out, but it was torture; little by little he calmed down, the cozy room and the tranquil faces looming out of the shadows, the bright face of a child on which all the light seemed to rest, trusting eyes raised in curiosity, and finally the mother sitting quietly back in the shadows, angel-like. He began to talk of his homeland; he sketched its various local costumes, they all pressed around him to join in, he immediately felt at home, his pale child's face now all smiles, his lively talk; he felt at ease, it was as if familiar figures, forgotten faces were emerging from the dark, old songs were awakening, he was away, far away. Finally it was time to go, he was led
across the street, the parsonage was too cramped, he was given a room in the schoolhouse. He went upstairs, it was cold up there, a large room, empty, a high bed off to the back, he placed the lamp on the table and paced back and forth, he thought back on the day, how he had come here, where he was, the room in the parsonage with its lights and kindly faces, it seemed like a shadow, a dream, and emptiness came over him again as it had on the mountain, but he could no longer fill it with anything, the lamp was out, the darkness engulfed everything; he was seized by a nameless anxiety, he sprang to his feet, he ran through the room, down the stairs, out of the house; but in vain, everything dark, nothing, he seemed a dream to himself, stray thoughts flitted by, he grasped after them, he felt he had to keep on saying “Our Father” over and over again; he could no longer find himself, a dark instinct drove him to save himself, he butted against rocks, he tore at himself with his nails, the pain began to restore his consciousness, he threw himself into the fountain, but the water was not deep, he splashed around. Then people appeared, they had heard it, they called out to him. Oberlin came running; Lenz had come back to his senses, to the full consciousness of his condition, he felt at ease again, now he was ashamed and sorry to have frightened the good people, he told them it was
his custom to take cold baths and returned upstairs; exhaustion allowed him at last to rest.

The next day went well. With Oberlin through the valley on horseback; broad mountain slopes funneling down from great heights into a narrow winding valley leading this way and that to the upper elevations, great boulder fields fanning out at the base, not much woodland, but everything a gray somber cast, a view to the west into the countryside and onto the mountain range running straight from north to south, the peaks looming huge, solemn, or mute and motionless, like a twilit dream. Enormous masses of light sometimes surging out of the valleys like a golden torrent, then clouds again, heaped around the highest peaks and then climbing down the forests into the valley or darting up and down in the sunbeams like silvery fluttering ghosts; no noise, no movement, no birds, nothing but the sighing of the wind, now near, now far. Specks also appeared, skeletons of huts, straw-covered planks, somber black. People, silent and somber, as if afraid to disturb the peace of their valley, quietly greeted them as they rode by. There was animation in the huts, they crowded around Oberlin, he set things right, offered advice, consolation; trusting looks everywhere, prayer. People
recounted dreams, premonitions. Then quickly on to practical matters, the laying of roads, the digging of ditches, visits to the school. Oberlin was tireless, Lenz his constant companion, now conversing, now attending to affairs, now absorbed in nature. It all had a benign and calming effect on him, he often had to look into Oberlin's eyes, and the immense peace that comes over us in the tranquility of nature, in the middle of the woods, on liquid moonlit summer nights, appeared even closer to him in this quiet gaze, this noble solemn face. He was shy, but he made observations, he spoke, Oberlin found his conversation agreeable, and the childish charm of Lenz's face gave him great pleasure. But things were only bearable for him as long as the light lay in the valley; towards evening he was seized by a strange anxiety, he wanted to chase after the sun; as objects gradually grew more shadowy, everything seemed so dreamlike, so menacing, he felt the anxiety of children who sleep in the dark; it was as if he were blind; now it was intensifying, the nightmare of madness was settling at his feet, the hopeless realization that everything was merely his dream opened before him, he clung to every object, figures fled by him, he pressed toward them, they were shadows, life drained from him and his limbs went stiff. He spoke, he sang, he recited passages from Shakespeare,
he grasped after everything that used to make his blood race, he tried everything, but cold, cold. He then felt the urge to rush outdoors, the sparse light scattered through the night, once his eyes had gotten used to the dark, made him better, he plunged into the fountain, the harsh effect of the water made him better, also he secretly hoped he would contract an illness, he now organized his bathing so there would be less noise. Yet the more he grew accustomed to this life, the calmer he became, he helped out Oberlin, sketched, read the Bible; old vanished hopes rose anew in him; the New Testament spoke to him so directly here, and one morning he ventured forth. When Oberlin recounted how an invisible hand had steadied him on the bridge, how his eyes had been dazzled by a blinding light on a mountain, how he had heard a voice, how it had spoken to him in the night, and how God had entered into him so completely that he took his Bible reader out of his pocket like a child in order to seek its advice, this faith, this eternal heaven in life, this existence in God; now for the first time Holy Scripture was hitting home. How Nature so affected these people, divine mystery in everything; but not violently majestic, rather taken on faith!—That morning he ventured forth, snow had fallen during the night, bright sunshine lay over the valley, but the countryside further
off half in fog. He soon left the path, up a gentle slope, no trace of footprints anymore, past a forest of firs, the sun chiseling the crystals, the snow fine and powdery, here and there the faint tracks of game leading into the mountains. Nothing astir in the air except a quiet breeze, the rustle of a bird dusting the snow off its tail. Everything so silent, and the expanse of trees, their white feathers swaying in the dark blue air. He felt more and more at home, the overpowering solid planes and lines that had sometimes seemed to address him in loud tones were blanketed over, he was suffused with a cozy Christmas feeling, at times it seemed his mother might loom forth from behind a tree and tell him she had arranged all this as a special gift; as he made his way down he saw a rainbow haloing his shadow and felt as if something had touched his brow, the Being was speaking to him. He came back down. Oberlin was in the room, Lenz went up to him cheerfully and said he would like to deliver a sermon at some point. “Are you a theologian?” Yes!—“Fine, this coming Sunday.”