I understand your argument, Hans said rather uneasily, but I think being faithful is a contradiction (Rudi turned towards him and gave him a significant stare: Now what are we talking about? thought Hans), because the moment another text emerges, faithfulness is no longer achievable, the poem has been transformed, it has become a different poem. We have to take as a given the impossibility of rewriting anything literally, not even a single word. Some translators are wary of this transformation, seeing it as a betrayal rather than a variation. But if it is well done, if the job of interpretation gives the right result, the text may even be improved, or at least become another poem as worthy as its predecessor. And I would go further—I think it is the translator’s duty to offer the reader an authentic poem in his own language precisely in order to remain faithful to the poetic nature of the original. Of course, this requires the translator to tread a delicate path between the liberties he takes and a true, or rather an honest, understanding of the text. That is the risk, and perhaps the hardest part of all. The fact is I see no alternative but to assume that risk. And let us not deceive ourselves—even an original poem has no single interpretation, to read a poem is also to translate it, we can never be completely sure of what a poem is saying even in our own language. As I see it, a translation is not made up of an authorial voice and one that obeys it, rather it is more akin to a meeting of two literary wills. In the end there is always a third person—isn’t there?—who is a third discordant voice, which turns out to be that of the reader (but what are we really talking about here? Hans thought to himself), and if that reader could really understand the original, as you are suggesting, then, rather than a useful guide, translations would be almost superfluous.
Aha, said Professor Mietter. Ahem, that depends, asserted Herr Levin. Possibly, acknowledged Álvaro. I’m not sure, wavered Sophie. How confusing, sighed Frau Pietzine. Snuff, anyone? proposed Rudi. Goodness, it’s hot, commented Gottlieb.
Look, the professor said, clearing his throat, given your penchant for getting lost in metaphor, I shall try to be as clear as possible. Poetry is obviously a universal form of artistic expression. However, in each of its particular manifestations, poetry is a cultural, national art, and as such, by definition, impossible to translate. And shall I tell you why? Perhaps you are familiar with Hamann, who rightly emphasises the inseparability of language and thought. I do not think something abstract and then translate it into my own language. I think directly in that language, because of it, through it. This is why no thought is translatable, at most it is adaptable. Are you with me? Good. If this applies to all disciplines, imagine how extreme the problem becomes in poetry, which is the language of emotions. Bear in mind, since you brought up the emotions earlier, that it is far easier to think in a foreign language than to feel in it (that, said Álvaro raising his head, is very true), and from this one can deduce that any feeling expressed in another language cannot be the same feeling, not even a variant of it. At best it can be inspired by another feeling. Call this an exchange, an influence or what you will. But, I beg you, do not call it translation.
Very well, said Hans, finding himself in the awkward position of having to contest a solid argument, very well, Professor, let us go step by step. You maintain that to translate feeling is more difficult than to translate thought. I am not sure in what measure it is possible to conceive of an idea as being divorced from emotion, or emotion devoid of any ideas. This would be my first objection, that you seem to take for granted the existence of pure emotion as if it came from nowhere and were self-contained. In my humble understanding, emotions are not only generated by a specific language, they also arise from cultural exchanges, from prior exposure to other languages, from national and foreign connotations. This is the heterogeneous basis of our thoughts, feelings and writings. In order to avoid getting lost in metaphor and upsetting you, I shall try to give you a concrete example, Professor. Does Goethe feel in German on the one hand and on the other speak six languages? Or rather, as an individual who speaks and reads several different languages, does Goethe feel in a specific way that is peculiar to him and which in this case expresses itself in the German language? Isn’t his broad cultural knowledge a current that is channelled, translated into his mother tongue? And by the same token, are the translations of Goethe’s own poems into other languages not simply one more link in an infinite chain of interpretations? Who are we to decide which is the original, the first link? Furthermore, Professor, allow me to say that even if translation were an impossible dialogue, culturally speaking it would be the most necessary one. Renouncing this dialogue would lead to the worst form of nationalism, not to say to esotericism. After separating the poetry of each country, the next step would be to decide which came first and which was superior to the rest. And so this is not simply a question of grammar and philology but of principles.
Sophie clicked her tongue—her smooth, expressive, darting tongue. Herr Levin? she said, noticing him drumming his fingers on the table.
Indeed, ahem, said Herr Levin I would like, I mean, I think we have ignored an important point in this discussion, or something I consider has a certain bearing. For translation is not simply an individual process, is it? It is also a process that depends on the community in which it is being done. That is, a translator translates for others, or rather with others, and communities change with history. Doesn’t every author, book and text have a history of the ways in which it has been read? And this history forms part of the work itself. What I’m saying is, ahem, how are we to separate the collective readings of the Classics from the Classics themselves? In my opinion translations belong to this kind of rereading, every translator is also a product of his time, of the period when he wrote his translation. No book remains exactly the same throughout time, the readers of each period change it, don’t they? And the same goes for translations, each period needs to retranslate its literature. Ahem, I don’t mean to go on.
You are quite right, said Hans. (Do you really think so? stammered Herr Levin.) A work doesn’t begin and end with its author, it forms part of a much broader group, a kind of writing collective that includes translators. Translation is neither a betrayal nor a substitute, it is another contribution, a further push to something that is already in motion, like when someone jumps into a moving carriage. And as you say, dear Herr Levin, every text continues to be translated over time by readers of its mother tongue. Each German reader of Goethe understands, misunderstands, interprets and over-interprets each word, there is no transparency between a book and its reader, there will always be some peculiarity that gives rise to a second text, a new reading. That is why, if you’ll forgive my insistence, no good translation can ever distort the translated work—it simply exaggerates the mechanisms of reading itself.
Sophistry, demagoguery! protested Professor Mietter, with all your insistence on communities, are you trying to deny the influence of national culture? The nation is important even when translating a text, gentlemen. The French, for instance, have always appropriated texts rather than try to translate them, which is why they built an empire. A French translator will seldom attempt to stay close to the foreign mentality of the author he is translating, but will instead try to adapt the work to fit his own mentality. Aristotle in the French, for example, appears French. This approach undoubtedly has its merits, and yet it also shows that the real Aristotle is and can only be written in Greek. (Yes, argued Hans, but however hard a French translator tries to approximate Aristotle to his own way of thinking, don’t you think the outcome will resemble neither the original Greek nor a French philosopher? And won’t this French translation of Aristotle for ever change French philosophy and what you refer to as its national mentality?) Ah, young people, young people, how they love to answer back! This elderly gentleman deserves a rest, now, my dear, is there any more raspberry jelly?
(Raspberries! Hans thought suddenly, like someone opening a window. Sophie’s sex tastes just like raspberries—raspberries to begin with, and
afterwards lemons.)
Raspberries, yes! Rudi declared, stirring from his bored stupor, a capital idea, Professor Mietter! Elsa, liebe Jungfer, would you? …
(There’s something strange going on here, Hans said to himself, glancing anxiously at Sophie, who flashed him a look of desire. There’s something decidedly peculiar going on here, Hans repeated to himself, or didn’t I get enough sleep last night, or what?)
Raspberries! exclaimed Frau Pietzine. Heaps of raspberries!
(No, I didn’t get enough sleep, Hans said to himself, I stayed translating into the small hours, and it was late, late, very late when I went to bed.)
Heaps of raspberries! Frau Pietzine howled ecstatically. And Frau Levin joined in, dropping her fan and lifting up her skirts: Just like Sophie’s sex!
(Wait a moment, what? Hans said to himself, what the? …)
Herr Hans, said Sophie.
(What the? …)
Herr Hans! Sophie repeated, giggling.
What! asked Hans, his eyes opening with a jerk.
We rather suspect, Sophie said with amusement, that you were enjoying a little nap, Herr Hans. Hans sat up in his chair and noticed a crick in his neck. He glanced around him—the other guests were looking at him, amused. Ladies and gentlemen, Hans stammered groggily, I’m terribly, terribly sorry. On the contrary, said Sophie, it shows you feel at home in our courtyard. You see, last night, Hans tried to rouse himself, last night I, er, I translated, ah, translation! Forgive me, So, er, Mademoiselle Gottlieb, but how long was I asleep? Not very long, said Álvaro, unable to stifle a chuckle, a few minutes, about as long as it took Professor Mietter to answer you! Professor, said Hans, sitting up straight, please forgive this mishap, which owes nothing to your reply and everything to my tiredness, I have an accumulation of work and last night … Oh, the professor said, waving his hands disdainfully, don’t worry, don’t worry—we translated it in accordance with your theories as a form of cultural exchange with Herr Urquiho.
The other salon-goers burst out laughing. Hans joined in, forcing a smile. He felt a hissing in his ears, his eyes smarted and he had a slight taste of raspberries in his mouth.
As evening closed in, Elsa and Bertold brought down four candles to the yard and spread them out along the folding table. The conversation became filled with shadows and glistening profiles. Before taking his leave at the customary hour, Herr Gottlieb placed a fleshy hand on Hans’s shoulder. My dear Herr Gottlieb, said Hans, rising from his chair. Herr Gottlieb lowered his pipe, drew his bushy whiskers near, and whispered discreetly: Would you be so kind as to accompany me to my study for a moment? Fearing the worst, Hans said of course, it would be an honour. Sophie watched the two men leave out of the corner of her eye.
They climbed the steps together and walked down the icy tunnel of the corridor, which always seemed to remain at the same temperature. Although since the beginning of his friendship with Sophie he had taken the precaution to continue visiting Herr Gottlieb on his own, Hans had never been invited into the mysterious room where Herr Gottlieb would withdraw for hours. Bertold opened the door for them, went ahead, and lit a couple of oil lamps before disappearing. Hans’s attention was immediately drawn to the shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Next he glanced at the desk made of dark wood, the leather armchair and the bronze inkstand containing an inkwell, quill pens, a penknife and a bell to ring for the servants. On one side of the desk was a framed photograph of a pale-faced young woman. The lamps were placed so that that the whole room was plunged into a purposeful gloom, forcing the visitor to tread more cautiously, almost with trepidation. Herr Gottlieb sat down in his chair, gesturing to Hans to sit down opposite him, and poured two generous glasses of brandy. Hans swallowed hard.
You see, my friend, said Herr Gottlieb, I would like to be frank with you. I know I can trust you, because we have got on from the very first and you have always seemed to me a responsible and perceptive young man. I have been observing this literary collaboration between you and my daughter for some weeks now. Don’t get me wrong, knowing my daughter as I do, I find nothing surprising about her interest in translating and seeing her work published in these magazines, indeed I would describe it as yet another of her countless whims. I understand her need to begin freeing herself from her father’s authority, and also, to some degree, to establish her independence in the eyes of her future husband. Sophie has ever been thus, since she was a child. I’m afraid Herr Wilderhaus knows it only too well and, thank Heaven, loves her all the same. However, my dear Hans, I cannot help wondering how appropriate it is for a young woman about to marry to be working, let us say, at such close quarters with a bachelor like yourself. I assure you I have no objection to you personally, on the contrary I like to think you and I have developed a certain friendship, correct me if I’m wrong, good, I’m glad you agree. I am relieved to be able to tell you all this, because, you see, I am concerned as a father, and also as your friend. What do you say, dear fellow?
The brandy thickened.
Your feet, Sophie commanded, your feet, too. Hans hated his feet. Sophie adored them. She adored his rough heels, his rather stubby toes. Come on, show me, she urged as she undressed, and he obeyed with the awkward excitement of one allowing the last of his modesty to be trampled. Sophie raised her arms to strip off another garment, revealing her underarm hair. Hans, embarrassed, contented, removed his socks as one might peel a piece of fruit.
Hans lay on his back awaiting Sophie’s manoeuvres, which she would draw out, prolonging these moments when she felt he was in some way at her mercy. She liked it when Hans showed his eagerness, called out her name, implored her. And not because she didn’t share his urgency, but because she felt a violent symmetry, a harmonious tension in possessing him before being possessed. Sophie lay on her side, and studied Hans’s testicles. She saw their heaviness, their blemishes, their tight pores and wrinkled darkness. The lines and furrows reminded her of a map with its maze of rivers, paths, promontories and valleys. She imagined travelling over these testicles made of earth, exploring their seed. She brought her mouth close to them, closed her eyes and began to lick them, to moisten their folds, soften them. Sophie’s wandering tongue reached his anus. She moved the tip of it close to the orifice, then paused. Opening her eyes she looked up at Hans. He silently consented, covering his face with his forearm. Sophie raised his legs, which seemed light or put up no resistance despite the puzzled look on their owner’s face. Hans feared Sophie’s nails might hurt him, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her drag the washstand over and soap her hands. First she circled the orifice, probing its mysteries. Then she discovered its softness, the hair around the fissure. Then a soapy finger slipped inside. Then his flesh opened to her.
Sophie enjoyed watching the muscles along Hans’s back go taut as he moved on top of her as if he were climbing. She liked feeling his weight, that mixture of protection and aggression, of freedom and suffocation. She could read his exertions, his spasms, his pauses in the skin on his back. She lay back, felt close to the edge of something, and gripped Hans’s arms, which were flanking her, throbbing, straining, scarcely able to hold themselves up. She gripped them as someone might clasp a railing to prevent themselves falling, she pushed against them, tried to make them give way, felt every muscle, then suddenly began laughing without knowing why. She went into the tunnel of laughter, searching for an end that might be a beginning. Hans pressed hard, but held back his climax and closed his eyes—in the darkness he saw a double helix of light turning on itself, almonds within almonds, as though fingerprints were being etched on the inside of his eyelids.
She rolled around, spun on herself like an axle—now astride Hans, sitting on his urgency, sinking into position, she had the impression of being the one penetrating him with her own member. Hans’s sex was no longer his, or hers, it was an intermediary. She pressed her hands against his chest, she felt she was bathing in a river, thrashing, diving, swimming. Beneath, drowned, saved, Hans watched her writhe
, testing the resilience of the wooden bed frame. He thought they might hear the creaking downstairs. He thought Herr Zeit might realise what they were doing. He thought Frau Zeit might be on the stairs. He thought Lisa might be loitering in the passageway. He thought they shouldn’t be doing this and he didn’t care. He stopped thinking in a flash, and Sophie dragged him with her. Hans groped in the air, lost control, and found her breasts. They both rolled downhill together.
She washed, humming to herself beside the washbasin. She washed between her legs, freshened her underarms, dabbed her neck and cheeks with perfume. She asked Hans to help tighten her corset. He took the opportunity to remove a few pubic hairs that had stuck to her back. She straightened her skirts, carefully smoothed out her crinolines. Then she went over to the tiny mirror to straighten her hair and refresh her make-up. After this agile performance, Sophie wheeled round and Hans gazed at her in admiration—in ten brief minutes, she was once more Fräulein Gottlieb.
Sophie sat down at the desk, folded her legs and said dreamily: Shall we go over what we did on Monday or move on to something else?
With the broiling heat of July, with burning skins and exhausted fans, the summer began in Wandernburg. The more well-to-do families chose a spa or headed for their country houses on the banks of the Nulte. The young people preferred to travel to the Rhine to enjoy the nightlife of Bonn or Cologne. The summer holidays had begun, although few people went away—the majority of Wandernburgers stayed behind, spending the days in the shade of their gardens. A few families were content to go on day trips, cramped and uncomfortable in carriages, but happy because the sun was in the zenith. Craftsmen laid down their tools, shut up shop and slept with the windows closed. Children gambolled in parks or squares, suddenly faced with what seemed like eternal freedom.
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