Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Frau Gottlieb, Hans smiled, I confess your eloquence would be reason enough for any man, Professor Mietter included, to lose his head.

  Sophie stared at him, blinking, as if she had forgotten something.

  Touché, Hans thought, that makes two hits.

  Well, she parried, and what about you? You also went to university, and I think it thoroughly ill-mannered of you not to have regaled me with stories of your student days in Jena. True, said Hans, with the unease that always assailed him whenever he was questioned about his past. Well, there isn’t much to tell, I began studying philology when (philology? Sophie said, bewildered. Didn’t you say philosophy), no, no, philology, I always wanted to be a translator, which is why I studied philology (at Jena, wasn’t it? said Sophie), yes, at Jena, between 1811 and 1814. Those were years of great conflict. I felt a mixture of utter political disillusionment and a continued allegiance to certain ideals. The question I kept asking myself then, and which I still ask myself, was—how the devil could we go from the French Revolution to the dictatorship of Metternich? (A sad question, said Sophie.) Or, more generally, how the devil had Europe gone from the Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen to the Holy Alliance? I remember Fichte had just published his Addresses to the German Nation and Hegel his Phenomenology of Mind, as though they had both had the foreboding that Germany was about to undergo a change. Soon afterwards, the resistance to Napoleon began, funnily enough just as Schelling’s Of Human Freedom and Goethe’s Elective Affinities were published, do you realise I’ve always wondered how far history influences the titles of books. But they all, starting with Goethe, went on supporting the alliance with Napoleon. They saw him as a hero who had dared wage war on feudalism and its archaic laws (get to the point, Sophie implored, get to the point), no, you’ll see I’m not digressing, I’m reminding you of this because the French troops once more occupied the northern territories, and in the meantime there were more reforms, academic freedoms, equal taxation, the abolition of serfdom, many things, and then (and then? Sophie said, impatiently. You went to university), exactly, I went to university, and, well, it was a confusing time. In Jena (yes, yes, tell me about Jena) the memory of the poetic circle lived on, all those revolutionaries who were either dead, had stopped writing or had renounced their beliefs. We students inherited what was left of their legacy, let’s say, but also the reactionary turn that events were about to take. And so we were chasing something that had already gone. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but that’s what it’s been like my whole life.

  Sophie looked at Hans. Hans looked at Sophie. Sophie said things to him with her eyes. Perhaps Hans translated them.

  Bah! he said. I’ll go on. In that situation, most of us knew we would become nomads, constantly searching, never completely in one place. We would spend hours in the university archive—a dust-filled corridor lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. It was much better than going to lectures, it was like going on a journey, getting lost and accidentally discovering marvels. On one of the top shelves, whether to protect or hide them I don’t know, I found some copies of the Schlegels’ magazine, Athenaeum. They were very dog-eared and we fought over them. These were rich yet meagre pickings, six editions, three years, nothing. Holding these journals was like clutching the remains of a shipwreck, we still believed a magazine could change our lives! (But wasn’t that true? said Sophie.) I don’t know, you tell me, are we already jaded? Or were we naive? (Mmm, let me think, perhaps both things are true?) Our generation was a borderline, we were the last to study before Metternich’s repression began, but we were also the first to lose faith in the Revolution. We didn’t know which to fear more—occupation or liberation. Support for Napoleon dwindled as he started losing battles. (And you, what were you doing?) Me? I was preparing for my final exams when Napoleon retreated and the accursed Congress of Vienna was set up. When I finished university, France had to apologise even for the good things it had done, while we, the so-called victors, had the dreadful restoration foisted on us, and, well, you know the rest. The old regime came back to defend the old order, and that was that. I remember student demonstrations and movements calling for unity, which of course never came about. It was one thing for the monarchies to unite, but quite another for the people to unite, wasn’t it? Then came the decrees, the repression, the religious censorship, in short, all that shit, if you’ll forgive my language. (don’t offend me, sir, by assuming I would take offence at the word shit when used appropriately), well, you know what I mean. Suddenly, the interests of the nation officially turned against every principle of the Revolution, as though we had never collaborated with Napoleon, never written the eulogies we wrote about him, never signed the treaties we signed. The funniest thing is that it was the Spanish then the Russians who weakened the emperor, who had marched through Germany without anyone batting an eyelid. (All right, but how did things end for you at the university, what was it like? Sophie insisted.) It was strange, we read Hegel’s essays, the Brothers Grimm, a book about Goethe’s patriotic work, imagine! Suddenly we had no idea what to think of the fatherland. Quite frankly, I’m surprised the country’s youth did not go mad. Or perhaps it did? And then there was the final irony—the great Schlegel, the young freethinker of Jena, became press secretary to the regime. I saw all my heroes surrender, and I could not help wondering, when will my turn come?

  Unclasping her fingers, Sophie asked: Is that why you travel constantly? In order to keep starting again all the time? Staring at Sophie’s fingers, Hans smiled and said nothing.

  Bertold (during his comings and goings in the corridor, or his pretence at coming and going) chose that moment to enter the room. Hans and Sophie looked around them. The sun had stopped streaming through the windows, a few shreds of light clung to the balcony railings. They had a sudden feeling of frustrated intimacy, as though, unthinkingly, they had fallen asleep without managing to touch each other. They had said many things and had told each other nothing. Fräulein, shall I light some candles? No thank you, Sophie replied, we’re fine as we are. Shall I bring more tea? No thank you, Bertold, Sophie repeated, you can go now. In that case … Bertold said, without moving.

  And, in that case, he was obliged finally to leave the room.

  The moment they were alone, with the same urgency as the fading light, Sophie uncrossed her legs and sat up straight in her chair. Listen, she said, we’ve spent hours talking of politics and I don’t even know where you were born. I know nothing about your family, your childhood. We’re supposed to be friends.

  Caught by two opposing forces, one driving him forward to be closer to her, the other forcing him to withdraw in order to protect himself, Hans was paralysed. Forgive me, he said, I’m not used to speaking about that. Firstly because where a person is from is purely accidental, we are the place we find ourselves in. (Perfect, she sighed, more philosophy, and secondly?) And secondly, my dear Sophie, because there are certain things, which, were I to reveal them, no one would believe.

  Sophie sank back in her chair. Vexed, she said: I think that’s unfair. You know my house, my father, things about me. And yet I scarcely know anything about you. I don’t even know why you want to go to Dessau, or wherever it is you’re going. If that’s the way you want it, so be it.

  No, no, Hans hastened to explain, that’s not true, of course you know me. You know very well who I am. You know what I think, you share my tastes, you understand my responses. And besides, you nearly always guess what I’m feeling. Is it possible to know anyone better than that? But, Sophie insisted, is there something unspeakable, something that might shock me? Because even if there was, Hans, I swear I’d rather know about it. I’m here with you, he said, how could you hope for anything better? So that’s how much you trust me, she murmured, folding her arms. My confidant is hiding the truth from me.

  Hans watched Sophie withdraw completely. And he knew he had no choice but to lose all restraint. In a fit of recklessness, considering they could be seen from the cor
ridor, and even though they could hear Herr Gottlieb in his study, he rose from his chair and grasped Sophie by the shoulders (she sat, arms still folded, gazing up at him in bewilderment) and declared: Sophie. Listen. Believe me. I’ve been traveling a long time, and I’ve never, never … I trust you. I do. And more.

  More? Sophie asked, in a less hostile tone, still with her arms crossed, trying to hide the thrill she felt at suddenly having her shoulders grasped, at feeling Hans touch her for the first time, and also trying to hide the fact that she had not resisted as she ought. She was unsure whether to unfold her arms, aware that leaving them folded was a protection against any sudden impulses. Her own, not those of Hans.

  I just want to be certain, Sophie said, that you are being honest with me.

  Once Hans realised she had decided to stay, he loosened his grip very slowly and sighed. I believe in being honest, too. But sometimes honesty requires us to remain silent. Love, for example …

  Sophie started when she heard this word, and looked at her arms, as though unsure of what to do with them. She immediately realised Hans had gone back to theorising, and felt a mixture of relief and regret.

  … Love, he went on, which is the highest expression of trust between two people, is founded upon a lie. Those who love one another, even though all through their lives they have lied or secretly changed, are suddenly supposed to love someone else without knowing who the other really is. To me this is the greatest lie of all—to assume that it is absolute, sacred, a duty, as if those of us who love (and here, safe inside his theorising, Hans contemplated her open lips) were not relative, impure, unpredictable. That is why I ask you, Sophie, would it not be more profoundly honest to love from this starting point?

  Nobody, she whispered, has ever spoken to me like that about love. And I, he whispered, have never met anyone who cared to listen.

  Beyond the enclosed fields, towards the empty south-east, amid dozens of tired windmills, where the River Nulte’s waters grew more turbid, the red chimneys of Wandernburg’s textile mill loomed. Even before sunrise, the boilers had stirred and the noises of the mill had started up—the sloshing of the wool-rinsing machines, the cracking of the carders, the whirring of the Spinning Marys, the tapping of the meters, the rumble of coal in Steaming Eleanor’s belly.

  Lamberg wiped his brow with his forearm. His breath mingled with the steam from the machine. He was used to rising at the crack of dawn, the arduousness of his job didn’t bother him, he had learnt to breathe with his mouth shut. But he couldn’t bear the effect on his eyes. They itched like the devil; he could feel the smuts circulating under his eyelids, although he knew rubbing them would only make it worse. Sometimes, while he was watching Steaming Eleanor’s engines from his platform, Lamberg would fantasise about gouging his eyes out. Whenever this urge came over him, he would close his eyelids, grit his teeth and put more effort in each of his gestures. Lamberg’s smooth, bulging right arm would pull levers and turn taps.

  Lamberg! yelled Foreman Körten. Have you finished with that? Not yet! Lamberg cried out, leaning over the platform, ten more minutes! Foreman Körten muttered and moved on between the tanks of hot water, soapy bleach, potash and bicarbonate, his hair blowing about in the blasts of air drying the tufts of wrung wool, stopping next to the wool carder who oversaw the combs. Günter! said the foreman, How much fine have we got? As you can see, Günter replied, no more than a couple of pounds for every three or four of half-blood, five or six of quarter-blood, not to mention a lot more low-quarter. It’s not good enough! the foreman complained. How long is it since you checked the combs? I check them every morning, sir, replied Günter. That’s what they all say, grunted the foreman, and this is the result!

  Lamberg opened and closed his eyes as if he were trying to trap something with his eyelids. He yelled at the stoker to stop. He halted the inductor, unblocked the hubs, filled the mixers, straightened the funnels and belts, shouted again at the stoker, then started up Steaming Eleanor’s pump. The sound, that rushing noise which echoed in Lamberg’s ears each night before he fell asleep, crescendoed until it took off. The vapour condensed in the air. The cylinders heated up. The pump whistled and the wheels began turning until they reached full speed. Lamberg contemplated the machine, feeling as though he were watching the workings of his own body. The valves opened, the bobbins rattled, the pistons shunted, the tubes juddered, the regulator roared, the cogs creaked, the wheels spun round.

  The machine operators came down and formed a circle. The circle was made up of men, women and children. It was lunchtime, yet no one was eating. Except for the children, who munched their bread and cold sausage. They were all silent, heads pointing towards the same place in the midst of the circle, where one of the workers was speaking in hushed tones and gesticulating furiously. Lamberg listened, nodded and pressed his eyelids together. Fellow workers! declared the man in the middle. We must act tomorrow, we can wait no longer. The situation will never change unless we use force. The bosses have their methods, and we have ours. In England, comrades, machines have been wrecked, mills burned to the ground. We propose more peaceful means, at least for the time being. But we mustn’t let ourselves be bullied. There are men working here who were promised contracts seven years ago. There are children of men working here who are paid in food. And wives who work a full day and receive a quarter day’s wage instead of half. The delegates have discussed this at the assembly and we carried the vote, but now we want to hear from our comrades. Every man and woman here has a voice. There are five minutes left before the return to work. We’ll open the session to objections and criticisms and after that we’ll put the measure to the vote. Agreed? Good. We’re all agreed. Now is the time to speak up. Do we strike tomorrow or not? No objections, criticisms or questions? Nothing?

  Come in, Flamberg, said Herr Gelding. Come in, take a seat. Let’s see if you and I can reach an agreement. And I’m sure we will reach an agreement. I’ll go straight to the point, because neither of us like to waste time, do we Flamberg? You’re aware that yesterday, and I’m not saying you had any part in it, there was an attempt, let’s call it that, an attempt to strike at the mill. That is, in plain language, an attempt on the part of some workers to abandon their posts. Isn’t that so? Good. And you must be aware that Foreman Körten was verbally and even physically threatened. You must also know that the foreman attempted to reason with the rebellious employees, isn’t that so, Flamberg? To persuade them to go back to their posts, in exchange for overlooking the disturbing incident. And you know that were it not for the intervention of the police, we would be having this discussion at Foreman Körten’s funeral. Good. My first thought, then, is this, Flamberg. Notwithstanding the arduous nature of the work, which no one denies has its problems, like all work, have you ever seen an employee beaten or threatened in this mill, of which I’m proud to be the owner? You needn’t be afraid to answer. Have you ever witnessed such a thing? Good. As you can see I’m not even considering this from my position of authority as the owner, but rather from one of pure and simple logic. Now tell me, do you think that, apart from these crimes of violence, which will be duly dealt with by the law, do you believe that irresponsibly abandoning one’s post is any way to obtain concessions from the company, from me, or for that matter that from Foreman Körten? Excellent. I can see you’re no fool. I thought as much, which is why I summoned you, Flamberg. I like an observant employee. And you, Flamberg, are clearly observant. My next question, Flamberg, for as you see I only summoned you to ask you some questions, is simply this—do you believe in solving problems through dialogue? Tell me, do you? Of course you do! So do I, Flamberg, so do I. And it is precisely because a handful of sensible employees knew how to engage in dialogue like civilised people instead of behaving like animals that the mill has agreed to these wage increases and a week’s annual holiday. Now, pay close attention, Flamberg. If, as you have seen, through civilised dialogue we have achieved these improvements for our employees, for employees like you who d
o an honest job, and who now receive a bigger wage and more time off, in the midst of an industrial boom, Flamberg!—if all that has been achieved through dialogue and with due respect to the mill authorities, don’t you think the troublemakers deserve to be punished, not by me, not even by Foreman Körten, but by their fellow employees, whose conditions have improved thanks to the very dialogue these troublemakers were attempting to prevent? Think about it. I’m not here to think for you. Who was harming whom? Let’s be clear. And it isn’t, wait, let me finish my question, it isn’t only the employees and the labourers who would have lost out because of this silly mutiny, oh Flamberg! Let’s open our eyes! If this business does well, if our mill thrives, then the families of all its employees will eat. And so will the swarms of children. Do you think I like to see them working the machines, Flamberg? No, neither you nor I like to see them working the machines. But what happens is their mothers come to me begging, insisting, weeping. And I agree to help them, because a mother’s love sways us more than any other consideration. I don’t know about you, you’re still young, but, myself, I’m a family man. And what of the peasants, Flamberg? What will become of them if the wool is not worked on? To whom will they sell it? And the tenant farmers? And the landowners? Do you see that by insisting on protecting two or three rebels, we are putting the lives of hundreds and hundreds of families at risk, what am I saying, those of an entire city? Do you see that? Thousands of people’s lives in our hands, Flamberg! The mere thought is enough to make one shudder, isn’t it? But in order that our mill thrive and we can meet all these people’s needs, you will appreciate that a boss needs trustworthy employees, responsible employees like you, and that he must rid himself of those who do not perform their duties rigorously. Put yourself in my shoes, any boss has the right to assume that today’s troublemakers and idlers will endanger the future of the company. And this cannot be allowed. Which is why, Flamberg, if I knew exactly who these people were who had breached our rules, I would be able to be as just as I would like and punish only the guilty ones. But if I don’t know who they are, Flamberg, and I’m no mind reader—can you read minds, Flamberg? No, neither can I—well, if I don’t know who they are, then I may have to commit an injustice by dismissing one or more employees, or perhaps everyone, simply in order to be sure of dismissing the leaders of yesterday’s mutiny. Do you imagine I want that? I don’t want that. Do you want that? You don’t either. Once more we are in agreement. And so, I put it to you, and this is my last question, wouldn’t it be simpler, far simpler, to remove the two or three rotten apples from the barrel and carry on with the harvest? Or should the innocent pay for the sins of the guilty? Have you read Genesis, Flamberg? I’m glad we had this little chat.