Álvaro and Hans laughed. As the laughter made their heads pull apart, Sophie was able to pour them some tea without appearing intrusive. Hans understood that she was rebuking them not for whispering in private, but because they were excluding her from their reprehensible conversation, which was the sort she preferred. Hans explained in hushed tones as she filled their cups and her neckline gave slightly: We were talking discreetly about the necessity of God’s non-existence so as not to offend your father. Álvaro added sardonically: I hope we haven’t offended you either. Well, Sophie replied, I had moments of devoutness in my teens. And then? asked Hans. And then, gentlemen, Sophie grinned, straightening up, I made a full recovery. A recovery, my child? Herr Gottlieb enquired, pricking up his whiskers. From my migraines, Father! She wheeled round. Do you remember my dreadful migraines?
Well, gentlemen? Professor Mietter said, under the impression the two men had been criticising him. In short, Professor, said Hans, we think Catholicism and Protestantism are based on equivalent sources of authority—one cites an infallible institution, and the other an irrefutable book. Sophie tried to make the professor feel he wasn’t under attack—Don Quixote also set great store by the latter. Yes, replied Álvaro, but he was shrewd enough to find a shield-bearer who had never read a novel in his life.
Their hands clasped in the air, first position, then raised in an arch above the head, while his other hand slips round her waist, second position, until their arms are in line with one another and he puts one foot forward as though testing the ground, and she withdraws as if to say “wait”, third position, but suddenly she relents, some strands of hair work loose, and she brings her legs together, waiting for him to bend forward and take—How tortuous, thought Hans, who can do that?—take one of her hands over his shoulder and the other at waist level, fourth position, so that he is now bending down virtually tied into a knot, and for a moment she has him in her power, trapped from behind, as long as he doesn’t stand up, fifth position, but now he straightens up—How did he do that? thought Hans. Where did he put his arms?—forming a perfect ring by looping his forearm inside hers, so that they are facing one another again, their hands intertwined as in a lovers’ toast, my glass is your glass (Hans gripped his glass uneasily), until finally, sixth position, they have turned full circle and the embrace is complete, he places his arm round her neck and his hand under her arm (He touched her! The swine is touching her!) and she drags her heel backwards while her partner slides his leg forward and remains motionless, proud, balancing on one foot, the toe of his shoe touching the infernal dance floor in the Apollo Theatre—Sophie had just danced an allemande with a man Hans did not know.
He breathed in and plucked up his courage. Before walking towards Sophie, he repeated the words several times over in his head so he would become accustomed to them, so they wouldn’t sound humiliating. Sophie pretended she hadn’t seen him approaching her from the side—she adopted an absent-minded look, but in the meantime centred the neck of her dress and smoothed the rebellious curl, which instead of forming a bass clef on her cheek was intent on tickling her earlobe. Sophie started, pretended to start, when Hans touched her shoulder as someone might tentatively ring a door bell thinking “Please let there be someone at home”. My dear Hans, declared Sophie, how delightful to see you here, I thought you wouldn’t come, I had almost forgotten about you.
Hans ran over the sentence again and then, eyes half-closed, pronounced it out loud. His own voice seemed to boom in his ears. Teach me to dance, he said. I came here so you would teach me to dance. Sophie’s eyes lit up, her lips flushed and her curl sprang out of place. Arms akimbo, she squeezed her waist, it felt ticklish. She replied: Why didn’t you ask me before, silly?
She led him to the least crowded part of the dance floor. I’ll begin by teaching you the basic steps, she said, so that at least you stop moving like a duck. Don’t be offended, I’ve always liked ducks. The steps are the same in almost every dance, and once you’ve mastered them we can try a minuet, which is the most suitable dance for us, remember your partner is a respectable young woman about to be married! No, don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me, on the contrary, I’m only reminding you because when I start to dance I’m the one who sometimes forgets about my engagement and being respectable. What? Yes, I can imagine, all right, well, it was a joke.
Hans felt embarrassed by these exercises and asked Sophie if she would teach him the minuet straight away. Are you sure? she said, looking down at his feet. Hans nodded gravely. Sophie agreed, and as the orchestra had just started playing a complicated quadrille, she began explaining the minuet close, very close, to his ear. She told him it was quite a slow dance in three-four time, that the couple didn’t have to twirl, that it was French, that is to say elegant but not very lively, that it was already going out of fashion, although people still danced it, particularly married couples of a certain age. (Are you teaching me a dance for old people? said Hans. No, Sophie giggled, I’m showing you the only dance you’ll be able to manage tonight without falling over.) And she went on describing close, very close to his ear, the different steps. She took him by the arm, and, moving back slightly, told him about the “Z” on the floor, the man’s right hand, the couple’s left hands, about the last but one step and the final sequence of “Zs” before the dancers raise their arms and end saluting one another from opposite corners. (All very chaste, for real ladies and real gentlemen, that’s why we young couples no longer want to dance it.)
How am I doing? asked Hans, bent almost double. Sophie did not answer. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she was laughing so much. Although the other couples were busy dancing, and the crowd was more taken up with its own affairs and merrymaking, to Hans it seemed as if everyone were staring at him. Why am I making such a fool of myself? he wondered, not realising that only those who ask themselves this are making fools of themselves. Moved by Hans’s clumsiness, Sophie decided to give up on the minuet and begin at the beginning, with the basic steps. Hans raised no objections this time, because among other things, besides feeling ridiculous, the infernal minuet had kept their bodies too far apart.
What did Sophie smell of? She smelt of rose water. Not of heady perfumes. Not of pungent lavenders or jasmines. But of translucent petals, of tranquil rose. Of self-possessed beauty. Yes, and, underneath, of almond milk. Of a neck you never wanted to stop … Pay attention Hans! Hans said to himself, and Sophie spoke close to his ear. And he longed to dance, but not in that way, not there.
All right, said Sophie, let’s try it once more. Legs straight, that’s right. Heels together. Now, feet in line and pointing out (feet in line? You do realise I’m a biped, Hans laughed), come on silly, if only you looked like a biped! Now, legs apart, more or less the length of a foot (whose foot? Hans whispered. Mine or yours, yours are so small and pretty and), shh! Listen, no, closer together, perfect, now cross them over, what do you mean what? Your feet! Yes yours! Cross your right foot like that over your left, more or less at the level of your ankle (Sophie, declared Hans, you’ll have to pick me up off the floor), you’re doing very well, don’t be like that! Quite well anyway, now the salute, do you see? The lady bends forward once she is in position. (I can’t hear you Sophie, why are you so far away?) Because that is how this part goes, can you hear me now? Good, so, the lady stands legs apart, bends her knees and lowers her head. Don’t stand there gaping at me, it’s your turn! Now, the gentleman … (Do you mean me? Are you sure? In that case why are you laughing, Fräulein Gottlieb?) Hans, please, enough! Carry on, transfer your weight to one foot, no, the one in front, and the one behind moves into the fourth position, do you remember? (What? Is this the fourth position already?) Shh, you rogue! Now transfer your weight to the other foot and then return it to the other, no wait! Return it to the first position (ah, then I think I’ll stay still until you come back), now bend your head, let your body follow, there, you see, that wasn’t so difficult, now lower your arms slowly. (Actually, I think I’d bette
r keep them up, I surrender, help, Herr Gottlieb, take your daughter in hand! Father Pigherzog forgive her! Professor Mietter write a review! …)
Hans didn’t learn the basic steps, he couldn’t find his rhythm or his coordination, he didn’t understand the minuet, but that night he learnt to love dancing. As he watched each of Sophie’s quick, alternating steps, Hans was able to enjoy the crossing of her shoes, the brushing together of her ankles, the movement of her legs, the sway of her hips. And, depending on how close he was, he also noticed the different pressure she applied with her hands. So that, rather than focusing on her instructions, which in any event he was incapable of carrying out, Hans tried to follow the movement of Sophie’s clothes, the way her gown folded and unfolded, the inner creaking of her corset, which pulsed beneath each movement, constraining the appetite. And unless Hans was much mistaken, he was not the only one whose arms were trembling.
The three of them, Sophie, Hans and Elsa, left late, and joined the queue waiting for a carriage in front of the Apollo Theatre. Sophie and Hans walked side by side, talking. Elsa lagged behind, pensive. Hans noticed his face felt cold, his brow clammy; he was sweating, his lungs burned and his throat was hoarse. But more strongly than any other sensation, he felt a liquid euphoria in his muscles, a kind of certainty. Had he been drinking? Yes, on top of everything else he had been drinking.
After quite a long wait, they managed to secure a landau. Hans insisted on paying for all three of them, and immediately calculated that at this rate his savings would last him another two or three weeks. The coachman was unwilling to leave one of the four places unoccupied and insisted they cram together on one side so he could accommodate another couple on the opposite seat. Sophie allowed Hans to help her up—their fingers touched, exchanging imprints before separating. The carriage tilted and creaked in weary acceptance as Sophie placed her foot on the small step.
Elsa was solemn; her head turned towards the window, she maintained a discreet yet awkward silence. Hans sat on the other side of Sophie, who rode in the middle, smiling and brushing the side of Hans’s tight breeches as he sat beside her. The jolting tipped the seat from one side to the other, throwing the passengers on top of one another. Elsa clung for dear life to the door, but there was too much of a crush. Didn’t the carriage move an awful lot! What dreadful suspension! What bumpy roads! Hans sat with his leg pressed slightly against the side of the carriage so he was pushed towards the middle. Sophie sighed sedately, sat still and let herself be squeezed. From time to time, because the carriage hit a pothole or swerved suddenly, Hans would tread on Sophie’s foot or Sophie would tread on Hans’s foot, and one would apologise to the other, who would hasten to say it didn’t matter, it was quite all right, it was only natural with five people traveling in one landau. But these apologies were so effusive that sometimes the one stepped upon would step on the other, and the expressions of regret would fly back and forth together with an arm, a leg, a hip. And they would knock against each other once more—How clumsy of me! No, it was my fault—and their laughter flowed. Hans’s breeches grew taut. The window beside him was steaming up. Beneath Sophie’s ample skirts, among the folds of her petticoat, wrapped in white muslin stockings, her thighs clenched, tighter and tighter.
Hans was not a man in whom instinct and intellect diverged. On the contrary, the greater his carnal desire, the more voracious his appetite for debate. This particularly intrigued Sophie. The men who had flirted with her before had either done so by stifling their urges in order to discuss books (a tactic that roused her interest, but ended by exasperating her), or they had thrust all literary interest aside in order to concentrate solely on their immediate desires (a forcefulness that did not displease her, but of which she grew quickly tired). Rudi had been infinitely patient in his courtship, which had proved necessary not in order to break down any resistance, but to convince her. Sophie thought she understood the rather limited methods of male conquest, which was inclined to separate (mind or body) rather than unite, and to divide time (speech—preamble, desire—discourse) rather than synchronise it. Hans, on the other hand, seemed to speak to her and desire her simultaneously. He encircled her with his questions, inflamed her with words. This was what the daily letters they sent one another were like. It was how Sophie knew that the passion with which he spoke about Greece one moment and vehemently asked her opinion the next was no preamble but the onslaught itself, desire as thought. Hans’s attitude in debate was as earthy as could be. And in his general reflections Sophie could not help but glimpse the suggestion of an intimate proposal.
As was their custom every Friday at ten o’clock sharp, Herr Gottlieb and Rudi had just withdrawn to the study to take a glass of brandy and talk as father-in-law and son-in-law to be, each convinced that these private meetings strengthened the engagement. In the meantime, as was his custom every Friday at one minute past ten, Hans’s opinions suddenly became bolder, his gestures more passionate.
Will you tell us what exactly you have against the ancient gods? Professor Mietter said, irritated. Me, said Hans, nothing at all, although I doubt they are of any use in explaining the world to us now. Myth, Professor Mietter pronounced, recalling his lessons in Graeco-Roman culture, will always be useful in our understanding of reality. Provided, Hans pointed out, those myths are transformed. The ancient gods seem remote to today’s readers. For all their Olympian prestige, Juno and Zeus no longer evoke in us an immediate response. (And after uttering the words evoke in us an immediate response, Hans stared at Sophie’s hands as though he’d been referring to them.) I don’t dispute that the Graeco-Latin gods were able to personify the spirit of their times, but do they personify ours? I may study them, even learn to love them (and on saying this, Hans gazed once more at Sophie’s fingers, which became startled and began moving among the teacups like a tangle of legs fleeing a hurricane), and yet I don’t feel capable of identifying with those divine beings, do you? Well, replied Herr Levin, that depends, we are talking about allegories, not about representations, and besides, those who read them have also changed, in which case, ahem. True, said Hans, but surely myths also age? Of course they don’t! bridled Professor Mietter. Not even a little, Professor? Sophie rallied. What annoys me, Hans resumed, is that when we fail to understand modern tastes we plagiarise the past, we insist on familiar forms. (And on saying the words familiar forms, Hans glanced at the precise place on the mirror where Sophie’s head was floating above the outline of her collarbones.) Show me a single living soul in Berlin, Paris or London who can say he honestly likes triglyphs or identifies with Doric capitals? I trust, retorted Professor Mietter, you are at least generous enough to consider me a living soul, gnädiger Hans. And since we are on the subject of triglyphs and capitals, allow me to make an observation about modern tastes. Do you know why we are incapable today of building the great edifices of the past? It is very simple, because our forebears were men of great principles. We modern men only have opinions. Opinions and doubts, nothing more. But building a cathedral, my good fellow, requires more than stones, it requires powerful ideas. An idea, at least an idea of the divine. Today’s architecture, like today’s literature, philosophy and art, is one of opinions. And so we gradually become eclipsed. Unfortunately, if I may say so, much to the satisfaction of educated men like yourself.
Hans (who had only been half-listening to the professor’s disquisitions while gazing dreamily at Sophie, who would shrug her shoulders occasionally as though abandoning herself to an embrace) said nothing, acknowledging the professor’s comment. Even though he disagreed with his arguments, they were solid and imposing like the cathedrals he lamented. He tried to think of a rebuttal, but the discussion moved on, and by the time he had finally collected his thoughts, it was too late for him to air them. Professor Mietter smiled placidly. As he leant over his teacup, the reflection of his powdered wig floated in his tea like a jellyfish.
It was nearly midnight and the debate was still in full flow. Sophie, greatly entertained by H
ans’s and the professor’s disagreements (and perhaps excited too by the growing tightness between her buttocks and her petticoats), did her best to keep the professor happy and to stir up Hans, whose passionate rejoinders filled her with she did not know what. They were now discussing poetic style. Professor Mietter was arguing that a knowledge of tradition was necessary to good poetry. Herr Levin agreed, although in his comments he implied almost the opposite. Hans wrinkled his brow. Álvaro watched him and let out an occasional booming laugh. Frau Pietzine, uninterested in the turn the conversation had taken, had taken her leave, claiming she needed to get up early. Some poets, said Professor Mietter, with the aim of appearing modern, give no importance at all to what their poems are saying. As if this had nothing to do with poetry, or as if they considered themselves far deeper than their readers. They try to show off with form in order to cover up their hollowness and then claim they are exploring. But the fact is they would be utterly incapable of writing a simple text or describing an object convincingly. You are not wrong, remarked Hans, but we need to know what we understand by convincingly. Yes, the reader has to believe what is written. But what each reader is able to believe also depends on his imagination, not merely on language. And what about clarity? insisted Professor Mietter. Does the effort of correcting or honing a poem matter, or can it be left a complete jumble? Of course it does, said Hans, and by making that effort a poet can attempt to see in the darkness instead of skirting round it. You are simplifying the notion of clarity, replied the professor, perhaps because you equate evocativeness with vagueness. Regretfully, a common mistake in poetry. I am talking to you about precision. Young poets on the whole lack precision. They consider it commonplace and prefer to perform pirouettes. Only when they are older do they begin to appreciate restraint, nuance. There is nothing tiresome, much less easy about it, do you understand? We quite understand, said Hans, it is what academics call correctness, and some of us others term the fear of making a mistake.
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