Traveler of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  When Herr Levin’s spinning, thermal and centripetal energy appeared to abate, Sophie allowed herself to bring up a name she had for some time wanted to introduce in her salon. Refresh yourself, Herr Levin, try some of this tea from India we just received, I hope you like it, and, while we are on the subject of religion, have any of you read Schleiermacher by any chance? I hear he is a theologian who concerns himself with worldly affairs. Never heard of him, said Frau Pietzine, but I would very much like to try some of your Indian tea. Schleiermacher? Professor Mietter shrugged, bah. Tea from India, you say? Rudi perked up, from Jaipur or Madras? I’m not sure, Herr Gottlieb replied, relighting his pipe, I think it is from Calcutta. Herr Hans, Sophie continued, disheartened, what do you think? And I am not referring to the tea. I think Schleiermacher is a brave author, replied Hans, although he lacked the courage of his convictions. If, as he claimed, religion belongs in the realm of the emotions, the next step would be to acknowledge that the essence of God is subjective, that is, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, he feeds on human emotion. Don’t you think, Álvaro, that would have been more revolutionary than Descartes? For if reason itself depends on the existence of God then religion becomes irrefutable. However, if religion is born of the emotions … Herr Hans, Sophie grinned, contented, are you suggesting that a feeling cannot be reasonable? No, no, Hans said, blushing, I mean to say that some of Schleiermacher’s ideas were progressive and others reactionary, you need look no further than Schlegel to see how feeling took over. Schleiermacher began by saying “more education, less religion” and went on to declare that religion was the essence of humanity, what a pity! To have come so far only to lose his nerve! Attention, young man, said Professor Mietter, atheism can be the biggest expression of cowardice, “what I do not understand cannot exist” is hardly the bravest of slogans. Ahem, if you’ll permit me—Herr Levin joined the conversation once more after finishing his tea—I am prepared, Herr Hans, to accept the idea of the cowardliness of Catholicism, by which, dear Herr Gottlieb, dear friends, you must understand I do not mean Catholics themselves but the religious orthodoxy which, ahem, in some way aims to oppress its devotees. I can accept that, but I do not agree about the rest. There is no cowardice in divine thought, on the contrary it takes great courage to launch oneself into that abyss, because we cannot know what form it takes. Indeed, that is why, ahem, I insist that divinity is dynamic in essence and the heavenly bodies copulate in the sky.

  Frau Levin set her cup down on its saucer and declared: There you go again with your talk of copulation! You have a fixation, my Lord, a fixation!

  Speaking of dynamic nature, said Frau Pietzine, a bitter taste in her mouth, where are you all planning to spend your holidays?

  Nowhere very exciting, Rudi replied smoothing down his lapels, you know the kind of thing, a few days here, a few days there, I imagine my parents and I will go to Baden in August. (In Baden, Frau Levin said, her eyes opening wide, at the spa?) Naturally, dear lady, what else is there to do in Baden? A frightfully boring place! And from there we will spend a few days at our small country mansion near Magdeburg, it doesn’t have many rooms, but … Incidentally, my Sophie (My Sophie! Hans recoiled), if you would reconsider the invitation, there’s a pretty little garden which you (I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Rudi dear, but why this impatience? You know how I feel—I will gladly go there, but only after the wedding), yes, yes of course, I was only suggesting … (Good! Hans muttered under his breath.)

  As for us, explained Herr Gottlieb, we shall find somewhere, my daughter is fond of surprises, aren’t you my dear? Indeed, only the other day I was telling our friends how tiresome it is to travel anywhere these days, people are in such a hurry, the wheels of a carriage don’t seem fast enough, no sooner do they get in than they want to get out again, the faster we go the faster we want to go! I suppose travel has gone out of fashion, the new fashion is to arrive. I couldn’t agree more, said Professor Mietter, and when I see the speed at which we travel I fear for the mental health of passengers, and this isn’t me, it is the doctors who say this, the less human our method of transport, the more perilous it is for our nerves, this obsession with speed is absurd! Travelers today want to anticipate everything, the exact time of arrival, they want to avoid all surprises. Alles klar, carry on, full steam ahead and no more argument! But what will they think about when there is no more uncertainty? (About where to go, said Hans, just as they do now.) Yes, but what about the ritual, the excitement of departure? (I assure you, said Álvaro, that on the platform at Liverpool station the passengers become more excited than at Mass.)

  Before the courtyard grew dark and the lamps were lit, the guests proceeded with the promised reading from Schiller’s William Tell. They agreed to an informal performance of the first scene and the last, and a couple of scenes from the middle. The allocation of parts was interesting. Someone suggested Rudi play the influential Baron Attinghausen, or if not, his nephew. However, he refused both and elected the role of Conrado Baumgarten, a man of the people. Álvaro jested: You must tell us how it feels! Álvaro, who had never actually read the work, was given the role of Ruodi the fisherman, and Hans was asked to read the part of the hunter Werni so that he and Álvaro would appear together in the final scene. Herr Levin was the victim of another little whim, and, without even proffering an ahem, asked if he could play Baron Attinghausen’s nephew, Ulrico de Rudenz. Everyone agreed that the young heiress, Berta de Bruneck, would be a perfect role for Sophie. After some insistence, Sophie managed to persuade Herr Gottlieb to play William Tell, as a tribute to paternal love. Frau Levin, who was hiding her face behind her fan, smiled nervously when, amid applause, she was allotted the part of William Tell’s wife, Hedwigia. Does Hedwigia have many lines? she asked, flustered, and Sophie put her mind at rest by explaining that none of these scenes had more than five or six lines. As for the bloodthirsty, tyrannical Governor Geszler, no one volunteered to play him. Even Professor Mietter, who rejected Hans’s barbed suggestion, insisting that instead of acting he would provide a cello accompaniment to give the performance atmosphere. After some discussion, and since Geszler was crucial to one scene, Frau Pietzine requested to speak, and, with an expression of infinite weariness, said: What does it matter, I will play him. Finally the professor, who, as well as taking charge of the music, had designated himself director, declared as he leafed through the pages of his copy: One moment, we have forgotten Pastor Kuoni, who has a couple of lines in the first scene. Herr Gottlieb instantly gestured to Bertold, and with a sigh of resignation the servant received a copy of the play. We will need at least one village woman as well, added the professor. The salon goers turned towards Elsa, who to begin with seemed quite willing. However, when she learnt the woman’s name, she dug her heels in: Ermengarda! Not in your wildest dreams, not with a name like that! Sophie volunteered to read the village woman’s lines, and the distribution of roles was complete.

  ACT I, SCENE 1

  … RUDI [in a loud booming voice]: Quick, quick, they are at my heels! The governor’s guards are after me, and if they catch me I am a dead man.

  ÁLVARO [exaggerating a look of surprise]: Why are they after you?

  RUDI [more authoritative, less imploring than was called for]: Save me first and then I will tell you.

  HANS [with a fine delivery, although casting unwarranted sidelong glances at Berta, that is at Sophie]: You are bleeding, what happened?

  RUDI [also turning towards Sophie]: The emperor’s ball at Rossberg …

  BERTOLD [reluctantly, his feet aching]: Is Wo … Er, is Wolfenschieszen after you?

  RUDI [imitating the gesture of someone raising a sword]: No, he will do no more harm; I have killed him.

  ALL [not quite as one]: God forgive you! What have you done?

  RUDI [with authentic fury]: That which all free men would have done in my place. I have rightfully taken revenge on the man who insulted my honour and that of my wife.

  BERTOLD [exaggerating the intonation o
f the question; Hans suddenly begins to take notice]: The ball was an insult to your honour?

  RUDI [staring intently at Hans]: God and my axe have put an end to his wicked intentions.

  HANS [swallowing hard]: Did you … split his skull open with an axe?

  ACT V, SCENE 3

  ALL [Frau Levin’s voice is scarcely audible; Frau Pietzine roars even though she isn’t supposed to; Herr Gottlieb greets them, honoured]: Long live Tell the hunter, the liberator!

  SOPHIE [with perfect intonation]: Friends, confederates, admit into your alliance the happy woman who was the first to find refuge in the land of freedom. I entrust myself to your strong arms, will you defend my rights and protect me as your fellow citizen?

  ELSA [convinced at the last moment by the professor, responding in the name of all the villagers]: Yes, we will protect you with our possessions and our blood.

  SOPHIE [suddenly distracted, without knowing why]: Very well, I will marry this youth. A free woman will wed a free man.

  HERRLEVIN : And I, ahem, grant freedom to all my serfs.

  Professor Mietter plays a long note on the cello, letting it fade into a diminuendo. There is a brief silence. Applause, congratulations. They all embrace one another and begin their cheerful farewells, wishing each other a good summer. Sophie bids her guests goodbye one at a time, although suddenly she seems preoccupied. When it comes to Rudi’s turn, he kisses her hand effusively and declares: When the summer is over, my love, it will give me great joy to return to this salon as your legitimate husband. The curtain of night has fallen. A lamp goes out.

  What flowers were on the table? asked the organ grinder. Acacias, replied Hans, acacias. How do you know? asked Lamberg. On hearing Lamberg’s voice, Franz put his tail between his legs. I didn’t know, Hans said, I asked the maid. That’s good, very good, the organ grinder grinned, taking another swig of wine, acacias mean hidden love.

  After wolfing down his supper, Lamberg stood up. Leaving already? Reichardt objected, but it’s Sunday tomorrow! I know, said Lamberg, but I’m tired, I have to go back. There’s still some wine left, Reichardt tempted him, and I mean to polish off your share. You’re welcome to it, said Lamberg, rubbing his eyes.

  Lamberg walked past the mills, skirted round the factory buildings, crossed the mud track where the workers’ lodgings were crowded. He groped his way up the stairs—the creak of steps merged with the snoring coming from the dormitories. As he passed the rows of doors, Lamberg checked who was asleep and who had gone to the city to enjoy their night off. He was glad to see the rooms adjoining his were empty.

  He tiptoed inside. A smell of underar ms pervaded the room. He could make out Günter’s sleeping figure. At the foot of the straw pallet stood a bottle of grain alcohol and two glasses of water containing fl oating candles. Lamberg smiled in the gloom—it amused him that his room-mate, a burly, bearded, rough fellow, couldn’t go to sleep in the dark. Lamberg moved closer to Günter. He watched him as he slept, lying naked on his front, the sheet rumpled between his thighs. He was breathing through his mouth. A film of sweat glistened on his shoulder blades, sculpting them. Illuminated by the sputtering candles, Günter’s downy hair appeared orange, like splashes of lava. All of him seemed to pulsate placidly, except for his buttocks—his buttocks tensed then relaxed, as though in his dream Günter were making a physical effort. Lamberg went over to his own bunk, undressed quietly, lay face down, eyes open. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. In summer with both men’s bodies sweating the temperature in the room became unbearable. It occurred to Lamberg he ought to have stopped off at the Picaro Tavern for a while to have a few drinks and enjoy himself. But then he heard Günter’s hoarse drowsy voice. Is that you? Lamberg smiled, turned his head and said: Yes, were you asleep? No, no, Günter replied turning over and stretching his arms, I was waiting for you. Lamberg sat down on the edge of Günter’s bunk. He brought his lips close to his red beard and spoke softly in his ear: Tell me, what were you dreaming about? Nothing, said Günter, I told you, I was waiting for you. Are you sure? Lamberg said, wiping the sweat off Günter’s broad chest with his hand. Günter grabbed his wrist, squeezing it until he winced. Lamberg let Günter pull him close. He found Günter’s mouth and licked his liquor-smelling tongue. Günter folded his knees. Lamberg saw his member stiff on his belly. His lips moved round it, disturbing his pubic hair, then lingering at his hips and the muscles on his abdomen. Günter let out a different groan, almost an entreaty. Lamberg lifted Günter’s member from his belly, leant forward, and with bloodshot eyes, sucked the tip as if it were a strawberry.

  They leafed through Quevedo’s poems while they were waiting for Álvaro. Hans and Sophie had asked him to help them out with the Spanish translations. His imminent arrival inhibited them, and they smiled nervously, not daring to touch one another. What time did he say he was coming? she asked. At half-past three, he replied, and I’m surprised because he’s very punctual.

  Fifteen minutes later there was knock at the door of room number seven. Álvaro greeted them in Spanish, humorously imitating his friend’s Saxon burr, and apologised for his tardiness. Is Elsa downstairs? Sophie asked. Álvaro replied uneasily: Who? Elsa? Ah, yes, yes, I saw her there, why? Sophie explained: I don’t know what’s got into her today, she’s been very curt with me, and she made up all kinds of excuses not to accompany me, and rather than go off in a coach as she usually does she has stayed downstairs. Well, Álvaro cleared his throat, servants aren’t what they used to be, you know.

  We’ve got Quevedo, Hans read out, Lope de Vega, St John, Garcilaso … And what about Góngora? asked Álvaro. I think we’ll leave Góngora out, replied Hans, he’s untranslatable. But, Sophie said, according to you poetry is always translatable. It is, it is, Hans grinned, except for Góngora. And you’re able to read him in Spanish? Álvaro looked surprised. Well, said Hans, more or less, I have a few of his books in my trunk. How many languages do you know? insisted Álvaro. A few, replied Hans. And where did you learn them? Álvaro asked. Let’s just say on my travels, replied Hans. Then he went over to his trunk and rummaged around in it before extracting a weighty volume, which he brought back to the desk. Álvaro examined it with interest. Its title was Dictionary of the Spanish and English Languages, Wherein the Words Are Correctly Explained, Agreeably to Their Different Meanings, compiled by Henry Neuman and printed in London in 1823. It contained a vast number of terms pertaining to the arts, sciences, business and navigation. This gem, explained Hans, has helped me out of a tight corner on more than one occasion.

  We still have no modern Spanish poets in our European anthology, can you recommend any? Don’t worry, Álvaro laughed, in Spain all the modern poets died out with the baroque era. In that case, said Sophie, I’d like to include Juana Inés de la Cruz, who I understand lived in colonial Mexico and was widely read in Spain. I have read some of her sonnets, where is that old edition from Madrid? Could you pass it to me, Hans, thank you, now, let me see, this one, for instance. This isn’t yet another chivalrous knight praising his beloved, one of those absent maidens that have nothing to say throughout the entire poem, here it is she who speaks. It is a courtly sonnet, very serious and very ironical. Here, read it:

  To whoe’er is heartless I give my heart,

  The one who gives his heart I heartless leave,

  Plight constant troth to whoe’er mistreats me,

  Disdain the one who offers constant love,

  Whoe’er I beseech fondly I a diamond find,

  Am diamond myself to any fond approach,

  Triumphant wish to hail whoe’er would slay me

  And slay the one who would see me triumph.

  The one I reward sees the fading of my desire,

  Whoe’er I implore sets me on fire

  In either way I unhappy find myself.

  If you are going to translate this, Álvaro remarked, you have to take great care with the word diamante, it’s a play on words—di-amante, someone precious yet hard, impervious to love. Of c
ourse, Sophie said, looking up from the book, I hadn’t thought of that! And look at the end. The poem begins tragically and ends so pragmatically. After all that strife, the lady chooses between causing pain or suffering. And she decides torment and self-denial are not for her:

  But then for sport I choose

  The one I love not, to labour in vain,

  And to whoe’er loves me not, am all aflame.

  Of course, Sophie went on excitedly, the ideal would be reciprocity, but Juana Inés warns us if there has to be a victim it won’t be her. A seventeenth-century Mexican nun! If only my friends could read her! (We will translate it, Hans laughed, and you can give it to them as they come out of church on Sunday.) It is so different from any other love sonnets! Like these ones by Garcilaso, for example, they are wonderful, so subtle, and yet they have the same dreadful essential idea behind them—I love you provided you remain silent, you are perfect because I scarcely know you, nor do I need to:

  Inscribed on my soul is your face

  And whenever I wish to write of you …

  If I’m not wrong, said Sophie pointing to the page with her slender finger, the poet has such a clear image in his soul of his beloved that he has no need to see or even to speak to her—he already knows everything he intends to say about her, it is engraved within him (oh, come now, please, come now! Álvaro protested), and that is why he goes on to admit, correct me if I’m wrong, my dear, that he prefers to contemplate this image of his beloved when he is alone: