Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  I’m not trying to defend Byron or Shelley, Sophie mused, I just think that in order to judge a poet’s style one must take into account the rhetoric of his forebears. I mean, rhetoric is like a pendulum, isn’t it? There are periods when everyday speech and writing seem to be in conflict, such as in the works of Milton or Shakespeare, until that exclusively poetic language becomes mannered, giving way, so to speak, to Pope, and then poetry moves closer to speech again, as in some of Coleridge’s or Wordsworth’s poems. It strikes me that the swings of the pendulum have their propitious moments, and that a poet with a good ear should know at what point the pendulum is with regard to the poetry in his language. Hans said with admiration: We must include that idea in the introduction. Yes, Sophie went on, I see it like a set of scales, and perhaps Wordsworth is right, and now is one of those moments. Hans agreed: We could do with a dose of it here in Germany. We are constantly seeking purity, which is regrettable. And in my view poetry that seeks purity becomes puritanical, true lyricism is the opposite, how can I describe it? It is pure impure emotion. That’s what I like about modern English poetry, its impurities. However lofty, it never loses faith in the value of immediate reality, as in “the fancy cannot cheat so well”. That’s why (Hans went on, skipping forward through the pages of the book) I left Keats, my favourite, until last. I was very keen for us to translate him together, beginning with Ode to a Nightingale. A simple nightingale would never satisfy a German poet, he’d have to hear the cosmos or at the very least a gigantic mountain.

  Sophie had just finished reading the last words of Ode to a Nightingale. Hans remained silent for a few moments, eyes half-closed, savouring the possible sound of those words in a different tongue. Then he asked Sophie to read the last verse again more slowly. “Forlorn!” she began reading again softly. “The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self …” Hans simultaneously copied out his translation, which she read immediately afterwards.

  Sophie reread the final verse. She noted down fades next to vanishes (I think it’s more powerful, she said, crossing her leg), she wrote down has flown next to has gone (we lose a rhyme, she explained, slipping off a shoe, but we gain in accuracy, because music flies like a bird) and submerged instead of interred (it fits better with the stream, she explained, letting her other shoe fall to the floor). But if the song is submerged, Hans protested gazing at her feet, we sacrifice the idea of the nightingale not just flying away, but in some way dying in the poem. I see, Sophie replied, moistening her lips, what about buried, which sounds more terrible? Possibly, said Hans chewing his lip. Sophie read aloud the different versions. I like it, she nodded, standing up, although the poet seems pleased the dream has ended, as if by bidding the nightingale farewell he had vanquished it—farewell! Fly away! I’ve awoken, you can no longer deceive me, I know that nothing is eternal. True, Hans grinned, seeing what she was driving at, but don’t you think Keats was saying the same thing? I’m not sure, Sophie said, standing in front of him, I thought he was sad that the nightingale’s spell has been broken. The question is, Hans said, rising from the table, whether when he writes: “the fancy cannot cheat so well”, he means: what a pity the dream can’t deceive us for ever! Or is it his pride speaking: you can’t fool me now!—like someone suddenly seeing the light. Exactly! Sophie said, running her hands over Hans’s thighs, doesn’t the same apply to “deceiving elf”? Is he writing with longing or regret? It seems to me, Hans said, spreading his legs, that Keats was saying farewell to his dreams, he was sick and knew what awaited him, he no longer had time for certain things, he wanted to come down to earth, to be as real as possible, I assume that’s what happens when you have tuberculosis. Perhaps, said Sophie, her hand reaching his upper thigh, and yet what a beautiful and ambiguous poem! Precisely because he knew he hadn’t long to live, I think, Keats was struggling to create a voice that would outlast his own, a means to fly away with the nightingale, as though the nightingale itself were poetry, don’t you think? “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!”—a bird that sings for all eternity. Do you know what? Hans said, unfastening his belt, I think both interpretations are right, Keats must have thought: How wonderful it would be to live in an imaginary world where death doesn’t exist and one can sing for all eternity! Why not shield oneself from pain with this fantasy? Even as he was thinking: Yet each day I feel more pain, my condition is deteriorating, and when I sing blood pours from my mouth, how can I believe nightingales live for ever? Farewell, let them fly away, I’ll spend what remains of my life down here.

  A melancholy silence descended on the room—it was a quarter to seven in the evening, and the sun’s rays were almost horizontal.

  What remains of my life down here, Sophie echoed, kneeling.

  For reasons of social discretion and because it was his personal retreat, Hans had scarcely talked to Sophie about the organ grinder or his cave. The first time he had mentioned his friend to her, Sophie had taken a moment to realise he was referring to the scruffy old man who played a battered barrel organ in the market square, a black dog at his feet. What? That old man? she had said in astonishment. What’s so special about him? He’s been there for years. Noticing that Hans had bridled slightly, Sophie began to insist on a formal introduction. Initially, he had resisted, partly out of a sense of shame (a shame that made him bitterly unhappy) and partly because he was afraid he couldn’t bear it if, like everyone else, she were to look down her nose at him. After a while, faced with Sophie’s pleas, Hans decided to take the plunge. In fact, for months he had been eager and reluctant to introduce her to the organ grinder. Apart from Álvaro, the organ grinder was his only friend in Wandernburg, and it was only natural he should introduce Sophie to him. Besides, as things stood, the old man knew virtually all there was to know about her. And so, at twelve o’clock one balmy Wednesday in July, Hans arranged the meeting and crossed his fingers. Sophie would arrive accompanied by Elsa just before lunch, on the pretext of having gone out to purchase some cotton thread and angora buttons at a haberdasher’s.

  The market square was bustling with children on their way home from school, women flaunting colourful frocks that billowed in the breeze, and men piling in to taverns. The Tower of the Wind cast a tall shadow over the cobblestones, its twin towers pointing skywards, as though about to pierce the skin of time and fly off like arrows. Hans waited anxiously and played with Franz, who was trying to bite the toe of his boot. Of the three coins in the organ grinder’s dish, two were from Hans. When Hans recognised the familiar green parasol floating through the crowd, he turned to the old man and asked if he would play an allemande. The organ grinder nodded and began turning the handle, but suddenly he lifted his head and said: A waltz would be better. Why a waltz? asked Hans. Don’t be such an innocent, because it’s more daring, of course!

  Sophie, Elsa, announced Hans ceremoniously, this is my good friend, the organ grinder. The old man bowed, clasped Elsa’s hand between two fingers, brushed it with his lips and said: Charmed, I’m sure. He repeated the same gesture with Sophie, and added: I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Fräulein, I’ve heard a great deal about you, all of which I can see was true. Seeing Hans become uneasy, the organ grinder explained: Your family has always enjoyed great prestige in this city. Perplexed by the old man’s graciousness, which seemed so at odds with his appearance, Sophie handed her parasol to Elsa, leant forward and replied: The pleasure is ours, sir, and I confess that of late I have been hearing even more flattering things about you.

  A silence descended, which Hans found uncomfortable, Sophie intriguing and the organ grinder utterly delightful. They all exchanged glances, smiled and looked at the ground at a loss for words. Hans gave a nervous cough. Then the organ grinder clicked his tongue, exhaled noisily and declared: Good heavens, where are my manners, a thousand pardons, ladies, this creature sprawled on the floor here is Franz, my protector, Franz get up and say hello to these young ladies. Hans raised a hand to his face and thought: This ca
n only end badly. But Sophie, utterly enchanted by the old man, stooped to stroke Franz, who sprang to his feet. Delighted to meet you, Herr Franz, said Sophie. Franz gazed at her with moist eyes, wrinkled his brown eyebrows and laid back down. He’s a well-bred dog, but he likes to conserve his energy, explained the organ grinder.

  Sophie, Hans and the organ grinder stood casually chatting a moment longer, before saying goodbye. The old man concluded by solemnly inviting her to his cave. My humble cave, he stated, which is wonderfully cool in the summer. Sophie bade him farewell, promising to come. Hans had a suspicion she would be true to her word. As she turned to leave, taking Elsa’s arm, Hans studied Sophie’s face—he knew she had enjoyed herself and that, in some way, the organ grinder had fascinated her.

  The filthy old man with the barrel organ pointed towards the dog. Sophie bent down to stroke the animal and looked contented. Elsa stood watching, motionless. Hans, who also happened to be there, made a strange gesture with his hand. What were they saying to each other? Rudi Wilderhaus was observing the scene through the windows of the Central Tavern. He couldn’t hear them or fully make sense of the situation. She was with Elsa, yes, but why were they dallying? And what were they talking about to Hans and that filthy old man?

  Laughter broke out over by the bar. One of Rudi’s young companions placed a hand on his shoulder as he sat gazing through the window, his back to them. Hey, Wilderhaus, said the young aristocrat, aren’t you bothered by your fiancée associating with strange men? How can you accept her frequenting a common inn? My fiancée, Rudi replied, swinging round, associates with whom she pleases, because, unlike yours, she’s no fool. As for Sophie’s visits to the inn, her father and I are fully aware of them; she goes there to indulge in one of her favourite pastimes, which is literary translation.

  Rudi’s friends shot each other glances, stifled guffaws, raised their tankards: Your health, Wilderhaus! said one. I drink to your fiancée’s literary endeavours! Rudi clinked his tankard and retorted: And I drink to your descendants carrying on the family tradition of ignorance. All but the toastee laughed. Rudi turned once more to the window. He saw the two women taking their leave of Hans and the filthy old man, before continuing on their way. He thought he detected a smile on Sophie’s face. When he rested his elbows on the bar, he looked solemn, though apparently unruffled. Seriously, Wilderhaus, one of the others ventured, don’t you think it’s a bit much? Oughtn’t you to intervene just to be on the safe side, if only as a matter of decency? Sophie’s decency is beyond reproach, Rudi said lifting his chin. I told you, I trust her implicitly, and I trust myself even more. Of course, of course, the other man said, but be honest, don’t you feel just a little jealous? Rudi remained silent for a moment. He gave a long sigh, slammed down his tankard and growled: Who do you think you’re talking to, numbskull! Do you imagine for one moment that I’m intimidated by a lowly scribbler from God knows where, with no family, no estate, no refinement? Do you expect me to feel even remotely jealous of an ignorant commoner who lodges at an inn? What infuriates me are not Sophie’s outlandish pastimes, which she has always pursued and quite rightfully, it’s the disgraceful insinuations of people like you. The mere fact that you think I should be concerned about this is humiliating and offensive to me. I therefore demand that you retract your vile remarks this instant, or that you repeat them to me while brandishing the weapon of your choice. And the same goes for the rest of you.

  The other man lowered his head and stammered an apology. His friends hastily did likewise. The group fell silent. Rudi Wilderhaus gestured to the waiter, left a few coins on the bar, and walked out without saying goodbye.

  Each time Professor Mietter parted his taut lips to speak, the water fountain in the patio became clearly audible again—the other salon-goers dutifully stopped talking and waited for his opinion, fingers clasped. Hans could not help being impressed by the professor’s authority, although he remained somewhat perplexed by it. The professor never grew excitable in an attempt to impose his arguments—he delivered them unhurriedly while the others appeared to take notes in silence. Herr Gottlieb would nod his head in solemn interest. Sophie would smile rather ambiguously. And Hans, who was beginning to understand Sophie’s gestures, suspected that these long, ecstatic smiles were a sign that she disagreed completely.

  Aware of Hans and Sophie’s literary collaboration, Professor Mietter began by expressing his concern that she might be neglecting other important matters for a girl her age whose marriage was only months away. Upon hearing this, Herr Gottlieb uttered a cry that left his whiskers quivering like a pair of darts that have just hit their target. Then, almost imploringly, he said: That is precisely what I say to her, yet she refuses listen to reason. Frau Pietzine agreed with the professor. But on seeing Sophie frown, she added: Well, I dare say there’s no harm in it. Frau Levin shifted her fan from one hand to the other, shaking her head disapprovingly. Her husband cleared his throat, pensively. Hans, who wanted to give Sophie a look of encouragement, felt sure Rudi was watching him and, regretting the absence of the round mirror in the drawing room, spiked a slice of orange sprinkled with cinnamon. Encouraged by this protective advice, Sophie resolved not to waste time trying to defend herself, but instead to use humour—the only thing Professor Mietter didn’t understand, and which undermined her father’s authority. How right you are, gentlemen, I wish I’d never translated a single verse, I’ve been so naive! But I promise you, as of tomorrow, what am I saying, as of today! I shall study only moral treatises and cookery books.

  Were it not for Frau Pietzine’s quick laugh, Hans could have sworn Herr Gottlieb and Professor Mietter were about to take her seriously. Sophie used this opportunity to ask her guests what they would like to drink, and stood up to go and give Elsa instructions. By the time she returned to her seat, the conversation had turned to the practical scope of translation. With scholarly serenity, Professor Mietter was questioning the legitimacy of translations of poetry. Hans, who had scarcely slept a wink and felt his eyelids drooping, was disagreeing with him rather tactlessly.

  Don’t get me wrong, young man, the professor was saying, I have nothing against the admirable efforts of those who endeavour to translate poetry. God forbid, on the contrary. But strictly speaking, if we leave aside good intentions and study the topic more methodically, you must all agree, as discerning readers of poetry, that each poem possesses an untransmissible essence, a distinctive sound, precise forms and connotations that are impossible to adapt to another language with a similar perfection. It would be quite another thing, of course, to renounce the overly ambitious task of translating the poem and instead offer the reader a kind of guide, a literal transcription of the words that would enable him to penetrate the original, which is what really counts. But these are no longer translations in the literary sense to which you were referring, which, dare I say it, seems to me an impossible undertaking from the very outset.

  (As he listened to the professor’s arguments, Hans reflected that everything he said was applicable to the field of the emotions—in short, someone who disbelieved in the possibilities of translation was sceptical of love. This man, Hans reflected unkindly, was linguistically born to solitude. Or, all things considered, to marriage. All of a sudden Rudi choked on his drink, and for a moment Hans was unsure if he had been thinking aloud unawares.)

  Professor Mietter continued holding forth about fidelity to the original text, and respecting the author’s words. Hans raised a finger and, to his astonishment, the professor instantly fell silent, yielding him the floor with a polite gesture. The professor’s judicious mouth gobbled a piece of pineapple in syrup.

  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 impo
ssibility 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.