Hans raised his head, laid down his quill and said: I like Nerval a lot, he writes as if he were half-asleep. Moreover his German is excellent and he spends his time travelling, and do you know what else, he’s a translator, he just translated Faust, and Goethe says his French version is better than the original. The poem I’m going to read you isn’t in this little volume, I found it in the latest copy of Muse parisienne and it’s my favourite:
THE HALT
The carriage halts and we step down,
Slip between two houses in the town
Dazed from the noise of horses, road and whips,
Eyes tired from looking, and aching hips.
Then all at once, silent and green,
A lilac-covered vale is seen,
A stream midst poplars making play,
And road and clatter seem far away.
Stretched in the grass our lives we feel;
The fresh-mown hay makes senses reel,
Minds are blank as we gaze heavenward,
Alas! Until we hear the shout: “All aboard.”
Very you, she nodded thoughtfully, very you. The question would be—is the voice at the end simply the cry of the coachman? Or is the traveller hearing his destiny because he is unable to remain in the place where he is happy? Sophie lowered her head and continued translating.
Presently, her foot sought out Hans’s foot. Ready! she declared. Actually I have a soft spot for this little poem by Hugo. I’ll start with the first three verses, which are the only ones I’m more or less happy with:
WISH
If I could be the leaf
Spinning on the wings of wind
Or floating on rapid waters
Or that the eye follows in a dream
Still green I would gladly fall,
Freeing myself from my branch
To the morning breeze
Or the stream of evening.
Far beyond the rushing flood,
Far beyond the dark forest,
Far beyond the deep abyss,
I would escape, swift as I could.
Bravo! said Hans, although I see your leaf doesn’t wish to stay where it is either! Yes, replied Sophie, but unlike your traveller the leaf isn’t free, it is trapped in its birthplace, and longs to fly away before it withers.
They worked on two more poems and when it was nearing six o’clock they took a break. They decided to correct their drafts the next day and to leave Vigny and Lamartine for the following week. Then Hans went over to the trunk, searched for a couple of volumes with dark bindings and gave Sophie an impish look as he handed them to her. She read the names—Theophile de Viau, Saint-Amant, Saint-Évremond. Aren’t these the … she said, surprised. Yes! Hans nodded, the old French libertines. And are we going to translate them? asked Sophie. Yes, we are, he said. But aren’t they banned? she said. Indeed, he grinned, but there’s a very simple way round that. Because they appear in the official censorship list under their noms de plume, I have managed to convince Brockhaus to publish them under their given names—Marc-Antoine Girard and Charles Marguetel. We will call it something innocuous such as Amusements, and, being ignoramuses, the censors won’t notice a thing. And if by any chance they do, we will claim we had no idea these eminent men of letters were the selfsame libertines. That won’t work with de Viau because he never used a nom de plume, but since his Libertine Ballads were published anonymously over two hundred years ago, we will keep them anonymous and wash our hands of the matter. I don’t know if it will work, but we won’t have to take responsibility. The publisher knows how to deal with that kind of thing. The idea of translating them excites me, they did as much for the French Revolution as Voltaire, Montesquieu or Rousseau. Listen, listen:
ON THE RESURRECTION
Then came the happy day, if we believe in history,
When the Creator, crowned as he was in glory,
Cheated his own death and defeated Hell.
Friend, if you believe that, you’re a donkey’s arse,
We nailed him there with our eyes wide open—
When he returned to life, he was all alone!
That de Viau was a terror, Sophie chuckled, Father Pigherzog would love that! Further on he turns serious, said Hans:
Why all these bells and all these masses?
Do you think you can revive the dead?
Let us rather wisely share the news
That the soul dies with the head.
Sophie ran over to sit on his lap. Well, my libertine, she said, her skirts enveloping his legs, why not leave poetry until tomorrow and do something for our mortal flesh?
We have to do something, said Elsa, her leg rocking beneath her dress. The doors of the Central Tavern creaked, and Álvaro turned to see who was coming in. Even though he knew they were unlikely to bump into anyone he knew there, he felt jumpy—he seldom met Elsa in public places. We have to do something, I tell you, she insisted, I can’t go on living like this, in that house, Fräulein Sophie makes me cover up for her almost every day, I can’t stand that idiot Bertold, and Herr Gottlieb is drinking more and more (Elsa, darling, said Álvaro, your position in the Gottlieb residence isn’t as bad as all that, I assure you I know many houses where). Nonsense! A servant is a servant! Don’t you see? (Of course I do, said Álvaro, all I’m saying is that Herr Gottlieb pays you a decent wage and.) Decent? Decent according to whom? (All right, Álvaro said, lowering his voice, I’m sorry, but they treat you with respect, don’t they?) You call that respect? Don’t make me laugh! Look, do you want to know how I learnt to read? Do you? Well, I’ll tell you. Before I went to the Gottliebs, my mother packed me off to work for the Saittemberg family, do you know them? Yes, well, them. Anyway, it may surprise you to know that I taught myself to read aged fourteen thanks to the love letters Silke Saittemberg received from her paramour. Fräulein Silke would give them me to hide under my mattress because she knew it was the only place her father would never find them. Yes, my dear, I learnt to read from those letters, and that wasn’t all, I also learnt that we servants live off the masters’ leftovers, we thrive on their scraps, Álvaro, and a servant has to take every opportunity, like I did with Fräulein Silke’s love letters. I would read them at night, copy them out word for word and use them to study grammar with the help of a book I stole from Herr Saittemberg’s library.
Wait a moment, wait a moment, said Álvaro, do you read Sophie’s letters, too? She bowed her head and stirred her lukewarm coffee. Elsa, answer me, do you read them? Yes, Elsa confessed, but I’d never show them to anyone else, I swear! I only read them out of curiosity, and habit (Elsa, Elsa, my girl, he said clasping her hand, you know that’s wrong), we all do things knowing they’re wrong, look, Álvaro, I’m only doing what they do, taking advantage of my position. Think of Fräulein Silke’s letters, if I’d been discreet, as you would probably have advised, I’d be nearly illiterate now. (You’re right, said Álvaro, what I’m trying to say is that Sophie values you and you’d have difficulty finding that elsewhere.) I don’t plan to go elsewhere to carry on doing the same thing! And my love, don’t fool yourself, you should know better at your age, Fräulein Sophie is kind, I have no complaints about the way she treats me, but I’d feel a lot more comfortable if she stopped pretending we’re friends, because we aren’t. I’m her maid. Her servant. I wait on her. I help her to dress. I listen to her. What more does she want? Must I love her too? (You’re a hard one, said Álvaro.) Not with you (really? he grinned), no. I just want us to live together, to begin another life. (Don’t be in such a hurry, Elsa.) But time is racing by! And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, my love, you have less time than I do. (If you think I’m so old, why do you like me?) Because I like my men like that, old!
Elsa finished her cold coffee. Why don’t we go away? Don’t pull a face, not for ever, just on a trip, we could go to England, I’ve never been to England. (That’s impossible, he murmured, letting go of her hand, I mean, not for the time being at least.) Why not, tell me, why not, ex
plain to me, be truthful, I implore you, are you ashamed to be in love with a servant, is that it? (Of course not, Elsa, he said, clasping her hand once more, how can you even think that!) Why then? Because we mustn’t be seen together? Who are we hiding from? (And what about now, here, aren’t we being seen together?) Oh come, come, you know perfectly well your rich friends never frequent this tavern. (What? What are you saying? Do you want us to meet in the Central Tavern next time or in Café Europa or wherever you like, is that what you want?) No, my love, I don’t want to meet you in a tavern or anywhere else, what I want is to be free, not to hide any longer, to leave that house once and for all, that’s what I want. I want to do other things. I’m not young any more (you look younger than ever to me. And lovelier), don’t flatter me. Oh don’t flatter me.
Tell me, she said, letting him kiss her hand, what is England like? (Big, Álvaro said with a sigh, and complicated.) Well I want some complication in my life. In any case, I’ve started studying English. Seriously! Why are you laughing, silly? Don’t you believe me? Don’t you … no … believe me not? she said, partly in English. And for your information … know you now that I … that I don’t intend spending the rest of my life like this! … being a … (A maid, smiled Álvaro, the word is maid, Elsa, I don’t believe it!) Well you’d better believe it, silly, maid you say? Well, being a maid, then, anyway my love, dear dear, start getting used to the idea, and I don’t know why you’re so surprised. If you can learn to speak German, I don’t see why I can’t learn English, or Spanish even. (Of course you can, I believe you’re capable of anything, and besides I like it Elsa, I like it.) Do you? … Mucho bien! Because I’ve seen a Spanish grammar at the house too. In a few months I’ll be giving you lessons in your own language!
Elsa, he said, I love you, you know that. You’d better! she said, rubbing her leg against his calf and revealing a stockinged ankle.
Lisa clutched the pencil clumsily in her delicate but chafed hands. The pencil wobbled, turning on itself in search of an angle, a thrust. Hans glanced at Lisa’s fresh face and saw her wrinkle her brow, screw up her eyes, push the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. Lisa was concentrating so much, reflected Hans, that she did not even notice him—there was only an interminable line, a sluggish pencil, a pair of burning eyes and an unsteady hand. Everything else had vanished. Lisa’s powers of concentration never ceased to amaze him. Up until ten minutes ago she had been running back and forth to the market, hastily scrubbing floors, sewing incessantly, as she would soon go back to doing until evening. And yet now, sitting at Hans’s desk, staring intently at her writing, she looked like a schoolgirl who spent her whole time in a classroom. Considering how little time they had for lessons, half-an-hour twice weekly, she had made remarkable progress. She made few mistakes, and if she did, she would be the one to scold herself and impose minor punishments from which an astonished Hans tried to dissuade her. If I get that verb wrong once more, Lisa had said the week before, I’ll burn myself with the candle flame, how will I ever do anything in life if I can’t even conjugate the verb to do! Hans had tried to encourage her by explaining that the verb to do behaved erratically, and therefore it was logical that she got in a muddle with the different tenses. Lisa had insisted this was no excuse, because her behaviour was also erratic, sometimes she did things one way and sometimes another, so she oughtn’t to get into such a muddle.
Hans became distracted as he remembered this exchange. When he looked again at Lisa’s exercise book, he raised his eyebrows—she had completed the table of verbs in the present and past tense; furthermore, of her own accord, Lisa had added the verb to finish in the column for the verb to do. When you do things, she said, you have to be able to finish them, don’t you?
As Lisa was reading back with laborious pride the sentences Hans had just dictated to her in the present and past tense, a roar came from the floor beneath. Lisa immediately dropped her pencil and leapt to her feet in terror. Herr Zeit was shouting his daughter’s name as he lumbered up the stairs. Lisa closed her exercise book, said goodbye to Hans with a swift kiss on the cheek (a kiss, which, on the other hand, Hans reflected, proved she wasn’t very scared), ran across the corridor and hid in one of the other rooms. Hans stood behind his door listening—when Herr Zeit found her, she pretended she had been changing the sheets up on the second floor. But her father refused to be placated, he had come up in a terrible rage.
Wretched girl! he bellowed. Where did you get this? Lisa looked down at his hands and recoiled in horror—it was her new make-up. Where did you get it? Herr Zeit repeated, you don’t have money for this! He seized his daughter by the hair and dragged her from the room.
Frau Pietzine turns into Archway. She has spent the afternoon in church, meditating. This has made her late and she needs a carriage. There are no empty ones in the market square, so she must either wait there, or try her luck at the stand on the north side. When she hears the bell in the clock tower strike seven-thirty, Frau Pietzine pauses. She thinks about how neglectful of her motherly duties she has been of late, and how much her children hate having to eat their supper with the servant. And so she walks back the way she came, making her way to the stand on the north side, taking short cuts through the side alleys.
Once inside their apartment, the innkeeper slams the door, releases his daughter and looks around for a bag. When she sees her father hurl her make-up and perfumes into it, Lisa begins to cry. Herr Zeit bears down on her, fist raised. How did you pay for this filth? he bawls. With the change from the shopping? Have you been robbing your own family? Answer me, you wretched girl, is this how you make your father happy?
The masked figure hears the sound of Frau Pietzine’s hurrying shoes behind him as she turns into Wool Alley. As it is not quite dark yet, instead of waiting for her, he walks on, hands in pockets, careful not to make any strange movements, even quickening his pace slightly in order to get farther ahead. It would be rash to do anything before they reached the bend in Jesus Lane.
What’s more, Herr Zeit screamed, it isn’t right for a young girl, a girl like you, to be perfuming herself! As well as giving the money back to your mother, I forbid you to bring another bottle of perfume into this house. That’s the last time you disobey me, the last, do you hear me! Do you hear me!
Backed into the dark corner in Jesus Lane, the shadow tilts his hat, puts on his mask and checks he has all his tools. The sound of heels draws closer and closer. The mask moves at cheek level—the masked man is smiling. He is very lucky. For several weeks he has been avoiding the side streets as a precaution. Policemen have been patrolling the neighbourhood, he has seen them when he has been walking through without his mask. He has even greeted them with a polite nod. But for a few days now the police have stopped patrolling, and this is the first evening he has gone out wearing his long coat and black-brimmed hat. Fewer and fewer women walk out alone after seven o’clock.
Biting her lips until they bleed, Lisa shuts herself in her room and blockades the door from inside. She lies on her bed, presses her face into the pillow and tries to ignore the stinging in her arms, back and buttocks. She struggles to stifle the sobs she feels neither her father nor her mother deserve to wring from her. She must stop crying like a child and learn to weep like a young lady—soundlessly, without gasping or snivelling, letting the tears roll down her cheeks dispassionately, as though she were thinking about something quite different. Groping around, she finds one of her old rag dolls. She sits up, holds it before her eyes and stares intently at it. Then she notices a seam unravelling between the doll’s arms and chest.
The first thing she sees when she comes round the corner is the blade. For a split second Frau Pietzine is so startled by the knife close to her neck she forgets to scream. When she does try to cry out, someone has already stopped her mouth with a handkerchief.
Herr Zeit is still haranguing Lisa from the other side of the door. Lisa doesn’t listen, she doesn’t want to listen to him, she concentrates on her old
rag doll and the hole in its chest. As the pounding on the door continues, Lisa begins to pull at the loose threads. She pulls harder and harder, watching the doll’s chest gradually unravelling. She experiences a searing joy, a bitter sense of superiority, and begins making the hole bigger, ripping apart the doll’s chest.
Frau Pietzine’s dress tears slightly. She thrashes her legs about, waves her arms, then suddenly freezes as she feels the knife prick the side of her neck. She lies motionless, gasping, as though waiting for two different guillotines to drop. She does not begin to pray then. She thinks first of her children, then of the supper, and then of death. She feels no remorse, but that she is being punished. At the first touch of cold air on her legs, she begins to pray silently.
Lisa tears the doll in two and probes its entrails. Does it hold some hidden secret? What is it hiding? But she finds nothing of interest inside her beloved doll. Pieces of thread, cloth and cotton wool, nothing. On the other side of the door, trying to force the handle, her father is shouting her name.
In a final gesture of resistance, Frau Pietzine tenses her thighs and presses her arms to her sides—she has discovered a brute strength she didn’t know existed. The masked man gives a start. He freezes for a moment. He falters—this is the first time he has known the victim. He is on the point of letting her go. Withdrawing. But it feels too late to stop now. Besides, he is excited. Very excited. And deep down it is this unexpected element that thrills him. And so, in order to ease his struggle, the masked man finally pulls off a glove, releasing a faint smell of lard. As she lies doubled up, a shiver of panic coursing through her, Frau Pietzine thinks she recognises the hand, or that it is in some way familiar. Afterwards she thinks she is mistaken. She thinks she is hallucinating, having a terrible nightmare from which she will awake, that everything is spinning very fast, that the pain is filtering through a crack. Then she has the impression of slipping down a steep slope, and that nothing will matter to her any longer.
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