Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Fear of making a mistake, Hans had said, probing Sophie’s shape, her luminosity, her eyes. And she, rather than avoid his gaze or busy herself with some object on the table, had stood up straight and replied: Yet fear of making a mistake, Monsieur Hans, is also the prerogative of poets.

  My dear Professor, said Álvaro smiling, you remind me of Don Ignacio de Luzán’s lawyer. I don’t know this Lutsan, said Professor Mietter. There is no need, Álvaro quipped, you are his Saxon counterpart! Instinctively taking offence, Professor Mietter said: I don’t know how you say this in Spanish, Herr Urquiho, but allow me to tell you the French expression for what some of you appear to be defending—culte de la pose. Listen, Professor, resumed Hans, still agitated after his and Sophie’s recent exchange of glances, it is true there is a surfeit of rhetorical poetry. But the way to avoid this is not by following convention, but by refusing to conform. Rebelliousness may be aesthetically naive, but to me nonconformism is essential. And the problem with good taste is that it conforms. It doesn’t conform, Professor Mietter objected, it renounces. It renounces clever ideas, innovation for its own sake. The best way to be original, as I said before, is to learn from the Classics. Yes, replied Hans, but the Classics themselves were daring! What was once brilliantly daring is now called harmonious, proper, etc … I am not against the Classics, Professor, far from it! I am against imitation. Your beloved ancient poets weren’t copying anyone, so why should we? In the end every imitation is a betrayal of the original. Obviously, Professor Mietter sighed, the great works bore Herr Hans, they are too slight for a mind as inventive as his. And yet since Aristotle, Herr Levin pointed out, raising a finger, the norms have always been the basis of all art. I disagree, said Hans. So, Professor Mietter almost snapped, now our young writer doesn’t think norms are necessary either? Not necessary, said Hans, unavoidable. The literary norms that interest me aren’t the necessary ones, which are imposed, but the unavoidable ones, that is the ones each of us encounter in the act of writing. The former are dictated by prejudice, the latter by personal experience. You forget, the professor pointed out, that all personal experience feeds on collective traditions, shared principles that have survived thanks to. I haven’t forgotten, Hans cut in, because that is also unavoidable. But being aware of those principles is one thing, and perpetuating them is another. I find it far more pleasurable to disobey them, to attempt to change them.

  (Change principles? Disobey them? Pleasurable? Sophie mused as she held out a tray of canapés to Frau Levin.)

  I am not suggesting changing one set of norms for another, Hans went on. Have no fear, Professor, my literary ideal is not to see young writers tear down the old norms and replace them with their own dogmas. My aim would be to steer clear of all previous definitions, to regard style as an eternal search, don’t you see? You say this now, ventured Professor Mietter, because we are in a period of transition. When things become clearer you will see how this misguided impulse of yours was transitional. The thing is, for me, Hans said, raising his voice, all poets are transitional, because poetry is in constant motion.

  (Suddenly, Álvaro, distracted by the continuous movement of Elsa’s foot, began once more to pay attention to the discussion. Whenever his friend became involved in a debate about literature, he tried to listen, because he knew it was the only way Hans had of talking about himself. That fellow needs his head examining, thought Álvaro, he makes a living from translating and he needs translating himself.)

  Be that as it may, Professor Mietter was saying in the meantime, but not all taste is relative, or perhaps you don’t believe some taste is more worthy of respect? That, I regret to tell you, shows a lack of judgement. Or is sheer demagoguery. Naturally, no one denies that taste can be discerning or ignorant, said Hans. Relativity does not mean an end to criteria, it merely contrasts different criteria. If you will allow me to make a political parallel, Professor, it is a matter of avoiding the centralisation of taste. Since I hope literature will remain a republic, I prefer a federalism of aesthetics. And yet, young man—Professor Mietter gave a forced laugh—like the monarchist ideal, aesthetics obey a natural hierarchy and are not subject to the whims of a sovereign taste. And a good poet, as a subject of his art, must learn to respect the nature of things. It is the same for any artist, once he has matured. A painter, for instance, has a landscape before him. He may vary the colours, play with the light, experiment with texture, do whatever he likes. Yet the most honest approach would be to overcome his vanity and immerse himself in the reality he is contemplating, surrender to it, attempt to paint what he sees at that very moment. Naturally this implies a great sacrifice and a supreme technical challenge. Consequently many will choose to paint this landscape as best they can, or in the simplest way possible, claiming it was intentional. That is how things are today. And apparently you approve.

  Turning away in frustration, Hans’s eye fell once more upon the painting hanging next to the old family portraits, the copies of Titian, the still-lifes and the hunting scenes. It showed the back view of a figure walking in a snow-covered forest, lost or perhaps leaving somewhere. Noticing his interest in the painting, Sophie explained: We don’t know whom it is by, my grandfather left it to us and the signature is illegible. It’s wonderful, Hans said smiling, and since we are on the subject, Professor, let us compare the figure in the snow with, I don’t know, one of the other paintings, with that one, yes, no, the one next to it, the hunting scene. Well now, academic poets suffer from the same problem as second-rate landscape artists—they give too much importance to observing nature, respecting forms, and it turns out these realist landscapes are based on a hundred similar paintings or theories of painting rather than on the landscape itself! I think if a painter looks at nature without any preconceptions it can seem far stranger than any of those supposedly faithful reproductions. To me a patch of fog seems more real than a precise outline. I do not defend imagination because I find reality uninteresting; on the contrary I want to know how far that reality can take us, how deeply we are able to fathom a landscape. Consider for a moment which painter is more of a realist, the one who paints outlines or the one who paints blotches? The poet who avoids ambiguity or who reveals the chaos of language?

  Herr Hans, Professor Mietter replied coolly, you are confusing technique with subject matter. Or style with poetics. Irrespective of whether you like the snowscape and I prefer others—not the hunting scene, naturally—you are not playing fair, because that painting is ghastly, irrespective of our individual taste, the function of art is to examine the world, not the artist. Ah! Hans countered gleefully, but objective observers forget they are part of the very world they are studying! People’s emotions play a part in reality, they give it shape! You are contradicting yourself, Professor Mietter protested. That is fortunate, Professor, that is fortunate, Hans replied, contradictions help create the landscape. If you will, Professor Mietter sighed, yet you repeatedly contradict yourself. You defend what is rational and what is mysterious in the same breath. You find norms too restrictive, yet you like exhaustive criticism. It is impossible to know what your principles are. Pray forgive me, said Hans, an orthodoxy such as yours is not within reach of all of us. In my view contradiction is sincere, it links extremes which examined in isolation are incomprehensible. Moreover, obscurity or mystery seem to me most reasonable for a writer, because faced with them his reason must work harder. Am I contradicting myself? I don’t know, I abide by Schlegel when he says: “Poetry is a discourse that proposes its own laws, and its elements are free citizens who must give their opinion in order for an agreement to be reached”. How curious, said Professor Mietter mockingly, that a rebel such as you should turn so readily to the Enlightenment.

  Gentlemen, gentlemen, Sophie decided to intervene, it is twenty minutes before midnight, and I assume that my father and Monsieur Wilderhaus will come out of the study at any moment to say goodnight. Let us tone down the debate, I suggest we drink a toast, Elsa my dear, could you bring the liqueur? �
�� So that we can await them, glasses raised. As for you, Monsieur Hans (Sophie said at last, relaxing the tension in her thighs, unaware that her expression betrayed her preferences), I beg you, calm your temperament a little and clink glasses with the professor. That is what I like to see, gentlemen. Why, deep down you are as alike as two peas in a pod!

  The Levins took advantage of the lull to leave. Álvaro, unusually, followed suit. Hans understood the reason for his early departure and he flashed him a wink of gratitude that only Elsa, the quick-witted Elsa noticed—by leaving the gathering together with the two other guests, Álvaro was trying to force Professor Mietter’s departure in order to leave his friend alone with Sophie. However, the professor did not stir, but settled back in his chair as if to show he had all night ahead of him.

  The sweet flow of liqueur relaxed the debate, but not its focus. The professor gave his best smile, which was small and sceptical, before continuing to play off classical and modern authors, insisting that a study of tradition was the only way towards a renaissance of national literature. He cited Goethe as an example, preaching that his return to classicism was a lesson in wisdom. Hans, while inventing any excuse to brush his hand against Sophie’s (reaching for a napkin, putting down his glass of liqueur, nudging a candlestick), stuck to his guns, alternately objecting and clapping Professor Mietter gently on the shoulder, a gesture to which the professor responded with the face of someone sucking on a lemon. On the subject of a renaissance of German literature, Hans argued that with regard to respecting national traditions Goethe, thank God, was a perfect example of the opposite, for all he had done was to assimilate foreign authors. Sophie was careful to prevent any friction (except between her and Hans’s hands), employing a strategy that often proved successful—mitigating Hans’s opinions by summarising them for him. This kept both men happy—the professor because he presumed Sophie disapproved of Hans’s forcefulness and was attempting to show him the tone he ought to adopt when speaking to the professor; and Hans, who understood that by choosing to explain his point of view to the professor, she was taking his side.

  My dear, excellent Professor, said Sophie, I don’t believe Monsieur Hans means to renounce our great masters, which as you say would be unjust, but to go a step further. Not to forget young Werther’s suicide, as it were, but to encourage him to live. So, Professor Mietter said with surprise, don’t you admire Werther for dying of love like every other young lady your age? Sophie replied, lowering her tone when she noticed Hans staring at her intently: If you want my honest opinion, I think the poor man takes his life so he doesn’t have to love a real woman. He prefers to torment himself rather than act out of true desire. (How can she say this when that idiot of a husband-to-be is at the far end of the corridor and she has made no effort to stop the marriage, to admit to herself she does not love him, to rub her leg against mine yet again under the table?) Werther’s decision never moved me, dear Professor, because I find the moral of the story, in the end, repressive. (What about you? Hans thought jealously. What about you!) I prefer Schlegel’s Lucinde or The Flowering of Sentiment by Madame Mereau, which Perthes has published and which is extremely interesting. I find any everyday scene between Albert and Nanette, or Lucinde and Julius, more admirable than Werther finally pulling the trigger. (Then why, Schlegel be damned, don’t you bring your thigh a little closer?) An artificial passion, agreed the professor, it is typical—Werther shot himself while his author went on holiday. In any case, Goethe was still very young. (Or already far ahead of his time! thought Hans, but he did not say so because he thought her thigh had moved closer.)

  And what about the Roman Elegies, Mademoiselle? asked Professor Mietter, a Faustian look on his face. Ah, replied Sophie, I find the Elegies extraordinary, there, you see, reason and passion aren’t in opposition, tradition and, well, pleasure coexist, what do you think, Herr Hans? I find the poems at once masterful and intolerable. Why intolerable? she asked. Because the Elegies, said Hans, do not celebrate antiquity, or Rome, or even love. In fact they celebrate a much older, obsolete idea—that of the home. Please! protested the professor, don’t be childish! What Goethe did in Italy was to finish Werther off, to show that his previous torments were senseless. Or are you going to tell us now that Goethe was a coward for running off with a tavern wench instead of joining the revolutionaries? On the contrary! On the contrary! replied Hans. That was the only brave thing he ever did! Calm yourselves, please, gentlemen, Sophie implored. As for Elective Affinities (she began saying when she suddenly heard a door opening at the far end of the corridor and the two voices approaching), I confess the ending was not to my taste either. Mademoiselle Gottlieb (smiling mischievously, Hans pretended to be shocked), the man she loves is married! Yes, yes, of course (Sophie went on, unnerved by the approach of her father’s footsteps, the creak of Rudi’s patent-leather shoes, the feeling Hans was pressing her to say too much), but once again the character has to sacrifice his feelings, why in so many novels does moral duty oppose? (Rudi walked into the drawing room followed by Herr Gottlieb’s pipe.) Father! My darling! We missed you both, what is the reason for these long private talks? Have you so many things to say to Rudi behind my back? (Hans, instinctively, pushed his chair away from the table and folded his hands.)

  On the way to the front door, while Herr Gottlieb and Rudi were saying goodbye to the professor, Hans took the opportunity to exchange a few words with Sophie. I was intrigued (he whispered, casting a sidelong glance at Rudi) by your defence of feeling in the face of marital duty. I am not sure you are in the best position to make such an argument. Sophie pulled a face. Then she lifted her chin and replied coldly: Be very careful, Herr Hans, not to confuse literary criticism with impertinence.

  With this she turned on her heel and went to join in saying goodnight to Professor Mietter. She took her fiancé’s arm, and did not speak to Hans again until Herr Gottlieb bade them goodbye and closed the door.

  The afternoon sun waned indecisively. Leaden clouds hung in the sky, stirring like curtains trapped in a door, until a strong gust shifted them. The organ grinder narrowed his eyes and gazed at the horizon. He moved his hand in front of his face, delighting in the flickering shapes, the light passing between his fingers. The spring evenings were still timid in Wandernburg. Suddenly he found Hans even more so, as they sat facing the pinewood and he described to him in hushed tones, without looking at him, events of that Friday.

  I really put my foot in it this time, said Hans. I don’t know why I said that to her, I suppose I was trying to provoke her or something, to get a rise out of her, I don’t know! It was incredibly stupid of me, what could the poor girl do with her father and that other fellow there? How could I think such a? How conceited of me to? Did I expect her to say yes and fall into my arms? Incredibly, incredibly stupid! (No, Hans, the old man remarked, you were simply impatient, stop tormenting yourself.) Yes, but now I think I’ve scared her away, I forced her to react and she seems to have done so by distancing herself, understandably (but how long is it since she last spoke to you? said the old man), not very long, in fact, three or four days, the thing is, I know this sounds foolish, but before that we would write to one another every day, so you see this silence must mean something (yes, of course, replied the old man, it means she’s keeping silent. Not that she’s never going to speak to you again, maybe she’s thinking about what to say to you), I envy you your optimism, organ grinder, I think I put my foot in it and got my just desserts. (And why don’t you write to her?) Me? Now? After what happened? (Yes and no, that is, write to her yes, but not straight away, wait a few more days, when she stops being annoyed I’m sure she’ll start worrying that you aren’t talking to her either, and then if you write apologising you’ll see how glad she is.) Do you think so? (Yes, now stop fretting and look, bring your hand up, see how it looks like the clouds are passing through your fingers?)

  Reichardt came to see if they had anything to eat in the cave. Although the organ grinder only had a few potatoes, du
mplings and some fruit, he invited him to supper. Hans offered to fetch provisions from the inn and bring them back in a tilbury. The organ grinder refused. You came here today to talk, didn’t you? he said. Friends talk, you needn’t always bring gifts. On hearing his master, Franz gave an abrupt bark, which sounded like a hungry clarification.

  No, Reichardt explained to Hans as he munched a potato, previously I was employed on several estates; you stayed on until they threw you out or you found a better-paid job. The trouble is now—any more dumplings? Thanks—none of the estate managers will hire me full-time, they say I’m too old. So every week I go to the market square touting for work, I talk to the farmers who are there selling produce and if I’m lucky they offer me a day’s labour, or more, weeding, tilling, sowing, you know. The worst thing isn’t when you stand there waiting to be hired and they look at you as if you were a dried up turd, it’s ending the day wondering if you’ll get any more work. I feel healthy, bah, I manage, I’m still strong enough to shift heavy sacks, the thing is you’re out there surrounded by other labourers and you say to yourself: Is this my last day? I don’t mean here on earth, I couldn’t care less about that, when I die, well, it’ll be good riddance, an end to all my problems! The thing is finishing a day’s work and remembering how hard it was to get hired and thinking next time will be even harder. Working in the fields does my back in but I like it, why do anything else if that’s what I’ve always done? Hey, are there any apples left? Pity. On top of that, those bastards see you’re a bit past it and sometimes they don’t pay you in money, which is better because you can save it, they pay you in leftover produce, it’s true, Hans, it’s true, but what can you do? Tell them to hire someone else, tell them to stick their vegetables up their stingy arses? So you accept whatever they give you, thank them, stuff it in your bag and go home. Where do I live? Over by the cornfields in one of those mud huts with the other labourers. No, of course I don’t, not even an acre! The land belongs to the Church, but since they don’t use it they let us live there and charge a tribute per hut. I swear on my eight good teeth these bloody tithes will be the death of us, apart from the priests we pay a tax to the landowners, the principality and I don’t know what else. No, the farmers don’t own the land either, they’re tenants and pay the landowners a tithe for the harvest and for the livestock, you see? The same old families, the Trakls, the Wilderhauses, the Rumenigges, the Ratztrinkers’ cousins, they’re all the same. Who me? Leave here? Never. Well, when I was a youngster I thought of looking for work elsewhere, at the port in Danzig or in some factory up north. But in the end, you know it’s not so easy to leave Wandernburg. Besides, this is my home, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have to leave, they’re the bastards, I shouldn’t have to go looking in some other bloody place. Do you know how Herr Wilderhaus used to treat us, Hans? No, not him, the father. Because, I don’t know if you’ve seen him, now he looks like a rheumatic old man, but you should have seen the bastard before, son of a whore! In those days he’d show up in the fields whenever he felt like it and say: “Harness four horses, I’m going to the ball.” And we’d reply: “Sire, we’re harvesting the grain and it’s nearly dark.” And he’d say: “I don’t give a turd if it’s late or blowing a gale! I told you, I’m going to the ball, now harness four horses. Besides, the grain is mine and you’ll harvest it when I say so.” That’s how he spoke, rolling his rrrrs like a brute, harrrrness fourrrr horrrrses this instant, and those of us who had to do it hurrrried, how we hurrrried to do that bastard’s bidding! No, no, Herr Wilderhaus was a kitten in comparison to some of them! Do you know what old Rumenigge did to the daughters of the, bah, what’s the difference, he’s dead now, to hell with him. And so we saddled up the horses and drrrrove him to the ball. Which I’m sure you’ve guessed was no ball, although we had to swear on our lives that we would always call it drrrriving him to the ball! Grapes, thanks, Franz, you rogue, I can see you! I know. You’re right there. Well, don’t be too sorry about it, Hans, because that’s not the worst thing. What’s worse by far for a man my age is wishing things hadn’t changed, do you understand, because nowadays there’s less and less need for labourers, one man can do the work of five and the farmers prefer young men because they say we older men don’t know how to work the machines. Machines, they say! I was already tilling these fields with my eyes shut before they’d even taken a shit in them! In the old days we let them lie fallow for three years, we didn’t have all that irrigation and fertilisers and things. Now they rotate the crops, alternating cereal with hay and God knows what. And anything left over they throw away, just like that, they throw it away! Otherwise prices will go down, they say. That is, yes, the new machines are very intelligent, very well thought out my eye. And I say: What’s to become of us? If I’m no good for working in the fields, what am I good for? Take the English planting and sowing machines. A lot of farmers make you use them now, they say this thing can plant and cover the seeds simultaneously, that it saves time. It saves time? The earth has its own time. I’ve never needed a machine to show me where to make a furrow or where the thistle root is, how to walk between the ridges, what colour ripe grain is, the way corn ears smell when the harvest is bad, none of that. Isn’t this the same soil my father and grandfather worked? Haven’t I been tilling and sowing here for fifty years? Who’s telling me I don’t know how any more? Where do they want me to go?