Be aware—he is the King.
Hans, who is not in the scene, stops listening and stares at Sophie—in profile, very alert, she looks like a melancholy statue.
PROFESSOR MIETTER [his wig all a-tremble and with such lofty indignation!]:
Greatly it grieves me, prince
That when I have come to see you
Thinking to find you restored,
Having freed yourself from fates and stars,
Instead I find you so severe
That you on this occasion have committed
A foul murder …
The professor’s earnestness and the stress he places on each inflection amuses Hans—the exceedingly Protestant professor has become quite Catholic. Álvaro catches his eye, they wink at one another:
… Whoever that has seen
The naked blade which
Struck a mortal wound
Can be without fear?
Elsa comes in with a tray of canapés halfway through the professor’s speech; she wonders whether to carry on or to stop in order not to distract him; she almost loses her balance, catches herself, steadies the tray, sighs angrily. Álvaro watches her affectionately.
RUDI [recalling suddenly, as he reads, a sad episode from his childhood]:
… that a father who against me
Can act so cruelly
And with such bitter spite
Cast me from his side …
Mortified by Rudi’s intonation, his insistence on leaving a long pause at the end of each verse thus breaking up the flow, Sophie gives up trying to direct him and instead her gaze rests on Hans’s reflection. She thinks he looks handsome and tousled. When she rouses herself, the scene is nearly over and she affects a look of concentration.
PROFESSOR MIETTER [very much at home, more admonishing than ever]:
… Although you know who you are,
And are now freed from deception
And find yourself in a place
Where you stand above all,
Heed this warning that I make—
Be humble and be gentle
Because perhaps this is a dream
Even though you see yourself awake.
With exemplary professionalism, Professor Mietter makes as if to exit, as indicated in the original text. Hans watches his gestures and thinks that, all in all, the professor isn’t a bad actor. He tries to imagine him in costume on a stage. He succeeds so well that for a moment his eyelids grow heavy. He startles himself in mid yawn.
RUDI:
… I know now
Who I am, and know I am
Half-man, half-beast.
The first to applaud is Lady Rosaura, that is, Frau Pietzine. Álvaro and Frau Levin politely follow suit. Sophie gives a relieved smile, declaring: “And there, dear friends, our little production ends, congratulations.”
As he kissed her, Hans realised there was tension in Sophie’s mouth—her lips were pursed, her tongue was rigid, her teeth seemed reticent. Is something the matter? Hans asked, withdrawing his lips. She smiled, lowered her head and embraced him. He did not ask her again.
Sophie sat at the desk and looked at Hans in silence, as if to say it was his turn. He went to open the trunk, took out a book and handed it to her. Do you remember our essay on German poetry? said Hans, attempting to sound cheerful. The one we did for the European Review? Well, before we send it off I’d like to add another poet, see what you think, it arrived yesterday from Hamburg, The Book of Songs by Heinrich Heine, only just published, apparently it’s a roaring success, I read a review of it in the magazine Hermes. Sophie opened the book and noticed its appearance. It didn’t look to her like a new copy, but she said nothing—she had grown accustomed to Hans’s bibliographical secrets. He seemed to notice her bewilderment and explained: The postal service is getting worse by the day, those clumsy postmen are so slapdash. So, what do you reckon? he asked. (I’m not sure, she replied, he sounds awkward, as if he were sabotaging the seriousness of his own poems on purpose.) Yes! That’s exactly what I like most about him. There’s a poem in there, perhaps you saw it, about two French soldiers who return home after having been kept prisoner in Russia. Traveling through Germany they learn of Napoleon’s defeat and begin to weep. The poem caught my attention because it dares to give the enemy a voice, and that is something we Germans would have appreciated in a French author when we were defeated. I believe that in today’s poetry there is no place for half measures—either you aspire to being a Novalis or a Hölderlin, or you turn your back on heaven and try to be a Heine. (Wait a minute, Sophie said, slipping her finger between two pages, is this the poem you were talking about? The Grenadiers?) Yes, that’s the one, shall we read it?
… the two soldiers weep together
At the fateful news:
“How they hurt!” says one,
“How my wounds sting!”
“I would like to die with you,”
Says the second, “this is the end;
But I have a wife and children,
Who cannot live without me.”
“Wife, children? What matter?
Something grieves me more;
Let them live on charity,
In chains lies my Emperor!”
Reading it through again, she commented, I’m not convinced the poem is Bonapartist. They feel bound to spill their blood for Napoleon and this allegiance is inhuman, like the first grenadier’s impassioned response when his companion fears for his family. You could be right, said Hans, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Perhaps the poem’s strength is the way it avoids condemning either of the grenadiers, it simply offers two different ways of understanding fate.
Her head leaning on Hans’s shoulder, Sophie observed the mineral response of her nipples—they were still hard, not out of excitement now, but from the cold. My love, said Sophie, isn’t it time you lit the fire? You’re right, said Hans sitting up, it has got colder. The summer is over, she whispered. Not yet, he whispered.
Listen, said Sophie, there’s something I want to tell you. (Hans handed her a shoe.) Oh, thank you, where was it? (Hans gestured towards the space between bed and wall.) Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you and I don’t know how. (He shrugged, and smiled forlornly.) It’s just that, my father is becoming more and more nervous, he never stops drinking, the Wilderhauses are growing impatient, and I’m doing my best to keep up a pretence, but I don’t see how I can keep them at bay any longer. Rudi had a talk with me yesterday, he was furious, we quarrelled, and I had difficulty calming him down, I don’t know how long for (and so? he said, closing his eyes), and so, I was thinking, it might be a good idea, at least for a while, to stop (to stop? he echoed), I mean, to stop translating for a while, don’t you think? Look at me, Hans! Just for a while, until things settle down a little. (Aha, he breathed very slowly, you mean that we should stop seeing each other completely.) No, of course not! My love, I’ve already worked that out. (Ah, how?) Look, it won’t be so very different, we’ll just have to be more careful that’s all, and perhaps see each other less, Elsa will go on helping me, we can meet at least once a week, when Elsa goes out on an errand I’ll go with her, I’ll come and see you and she’ll wait for me in the usual place at a reasonable time, I’ve worked out that we’ll have a couple of hours to ourselves (if there’s no other way). I don’t think there is, not for the moment.
Halfway through the door, she turned and said: Do you know what annoys me? Not being able to finish our European anthology! Hans stuck his head out and replied: We’ll finish it one day.
Lying open on the desk, a book reproduced some verses by Heine:
So much we felt for one another that
We reached a perfect harmony.
Often we played at being married
Without suffering mishaps or quarrels.
We played together, cried out for joy,
Exchanged sweet kisses as we caressed.
At length we decided, with childish pleasure,
To pl
ay hide-and-seek in woods and fields.
So well did we succeed in hiding
That never again did we find each other.
The pulp of the day was squeezed out over the countryside. From Bridge Walk Hans contemplated Wandernburg’s misty domes, its pointed spires. The earth exuded a muddy smell of rain. The River Nulte shimmered in the distance. An occasional carriage shattered the calm of the main road. Hans lingered absent-mindedly for a moment, until he looked down and clicked his tongue—he had left the organ grinder’s sheep’s cheese behind at the inn.
The cave was cold inside. The surface of the rocks had a slimy sheen. Franz greeted him, sniffing timidly at his hands, as though sensing they ought to be carrying something. The organ grinder and Lamberg were gathering furze branches, old newspapers and kindling. Can I help? said Hans rubbing his arms. Yes, please, the old man replied, do me a favour, sit down and tell me what you dreamt last night, Lamberg hasn’t dreamt anything for me for days. Hans scoured his memory and realised he couldn’t recall a single recent dream; he would just have to make one up like he’d done so many times. That, the old man sighed as he stacked the firewood, is what most amused me about Reichardt, he always had a new dream to tell. Have you heard nothing? asked Lamberg. The labourers say they haven’t seen him for a while. No, the old man said mournfully, nothing. Hans went over to help fan the flames. When the fire began to shine light on them, Hans noticed a circular blotch on Lamberg’s neck—a wound or a bite mark. Lamberg caught him looking and turned up the collars of his wool coat.
Lamberg left early. He explained that tomorrow would be hard work, they were late with the autumn orders and there was a rumour going round the factory about more people being laid off. The organ grinder wrapped a scarf round his neck and accompanied him outside. A few moments later, seeing he hadn’t come back, Hans wrapped up and went after him.
A fine drizzle was falling, next to nothing. He found the old man absorbed in watching the twilight. The clouds were trailing off, like burnt-out fireworks. This rain makes me nervous, said Hans standing next to him. It’s always the same at this time of year, said the organ grinder, this is a clever rain, it tells us winter is coming and it takes care of the flowers. What flowers? Hans said, puzzled, observing the bald grass. There, there, the old man replied, pointing to some specks of colour among the tree trunks, the last flowers of autumn are much more beautiful than those of spring. And they fell silent, in their different ways, watching the light snap like an umbilical cord.
Hans left the Café Europa and peered down the narrow passage that was Glass Alley—if he wasn’t mistaken, the third turning on the left should take him down to Potter’s Lane, and from there into Ducat Street, where the Bank of Wandernburg was situated, which would lead him straight into the market square. That was right, and it was the shortest route. But where the devil was Potter’s Lane? Was it the third on the left after Café Europa or before? If he was able to draw a mental map of the city centre from memory, why were his calculations so seldom correct? How could he …
Idiot! a coach driver screeched from his perch, where do you think you’re going? Hans leapt backwards like a cat, flattening himself against the wall, and repeated the question to himself: Indeed, where did I think I was going? The wheels sped past, clipping his boots. When the coach disappeared from sight, at the end of the street, Hans was surprised to recognise the cobblestones of the market square.
Glancing up at the Tower of the Wind, he was pleased to see he was still in time to say hello to the organ grinder. He felt like listening to him play for a moment and then inviting him for a beer. They hadn’t taken a stroll together for quite a while; lately they only met at the cave. At first he didn’t notice—he walked on without glancing at the organ grinder’s spot. And even when it was obvious he still carried on walking like he always did, as if he were listening to the music. Only when he was within yards of the edge of the square did he blink several times and stop in his tracks. For a moment he had the sensation that he was in the wrong place. Hans glanced up at the clock tower once more, he looked around bewildered—for the first time that year, the old man wasn’t at his post during work hours.
Hans entered the cave uneasily. He found the organ grinder curled up in a ball on his straw pallet. He tried to smile at Hans. Hans touched his face. His brow was burning, his lips cold. His shoulders trembled and he kept rubbing his feet. A sharp cough punctuated each of his sentences. My head hurts, but, you know, kof, it’s not my head, it’s inside, kof. But, it’s freezing in here, organ grinder, Hans said, breathing on his hands, why haven’t you lit the fire? Oh, this is nothing, replied the old man, kof, last year was much worse, wasn’t it Franz?
The bark and the cough rang out as one.
The following four mornings, Hans got up (moderately) early to bring the organ grinder breakfast and a few provisions. He forced him to drink broth, herbal infusions, and lemonade for his cold. He also brought him some warm clothes, which the old man only accepted on the condition that he would pay for them as soon as he could play again. As the old man sweated, his straw pallet grew limp, and his eyes lightened. It was impossible to convince him to see a doctor. Are you crazy? he had objected. With what they charge—kof—and with all their quackery? Hans had finally given up trying, in return for a promise he would obey all Hans’s instructions. The first two days, the organ grinder let him have his way without any objection. He complied cheerfully, ate everything Hans brought, and slept for hours on end so that occasionally Franz would lick his beard just to see his eyelids flutter. On the third day, he threatened to get up. Listen, my dear Hans, he said without coughing, I know best how I am feeling. I thank you for all your attention from the bottom of my heart, but I’m fine, really, in the end this has been a rest, do you see? Old as I am, I should allow myself a holiday, that was my mistake, and I promise I’ll dress warmly, I do, no, thanks, I’ve already had some, yes, it’s marvellous, I’m going out for a while, let go of me! I’m not a child, really? Then I’ll behave like one, it can’t be helped, won’t you let go? I don’t believe this? Franz, bite one of his boots! Heavens, we are a stubborn pair aren’t we, Hans?
Hans managed to keep him in bed until the fifth day. That morning, the colour having returned to his cheeks, the old man got up, pulled on his clothes, donned his bright-red, thick woollen beret and left the cave, calmly pushing his barrel organ. After Sunday Mass, Father Pigherzog was conversing with the mayor beneath the portico of St Nicholas’s Church. In order not to be overheard, the two men stood so close together that the mayor’s pointed nose was almost prodding the priest’s waxy chin. The mayor found this somewhat offensive, not simply on account of the priest’s breath, but because the difference in height between the two men became glaringly conspicuous. Suddenly, something distracted the priest, and he turned towards the group of parishioners leaving the church. Failing to connect with the priest’s ear, the word thalers slipped from beneath the mayor’s oily whiskers, lingering for a moment, before dissolving like vapour.
Sophie was walking arm in arm with Herr Gottlieb towards Archway. Father Pigherzog turned his head, cleared his throat, and called out to her a couple of times. It was Herr Gottlieb, not she, who responded to the call. They approached the priest, Herr Gottlieb beaming, Sophie more solemn, while Mayor Ratztrinker took his leave, saying: We’ll discuss this tomorrow. As he walked past Herr Gottlieb, the mayor doffed his hat. My child, the priest said, how glad I am to see you, you have been in my prayers of late. You’re most kind, Sophie retorted, am I to understand that you didn’t pray for me before? Good Father, Herr Gottlieb intervened, flustered, you know what a witty girl my daughter is. I certainly do, said Father Pigherzog, not to worry, not to worry, I’ve been praying for you my dear (the priest placed his hand on Sophie’s), and for the happiness of your marriage, you know how highly I esteem the Wilderhaus family, and how proud I am to see that curious, studious child, do you remember, Herr Gottlieb? Now a fine young woman about to wed such a God-
fearing, honourable and principled man. I thank you, Father, with all my heart, she said, although there are still two months to go before. That is precisely, the priest cut in, what I wished to discuss with you: I have been reflecting about the details of the liturgy, the missa pro sponso et sponsa, the arrangements for the holy space, because, well, as one of the participants I consider it advisable to leave nothing to chance, in view of the repercussions of. Yes, yes, of course, Herr Gottlieb hurriedly declared, we would be most grateful to receive your advice on all necessary matters, and I can assure you here and now—in fact haven’t we already discussed this Sophie my dear?—I can assure you we never doubted for a moment about appointing you to officiate at the wedding, we were, how shall I put it, counting on it, indeed, we were about to ask you for a meeting in order to. Naturally, naturally, Father Pigherzog beamed, there is still plenty of time, I was merely reflecting, my child, that in order for the preparations to proceed smoothly, it might be a good idea if, for the time being, we resumed our old talks, what I mean is, although it is no longer your practice, since you are obliged to confess before taking the marriage oath, I would like you to know that I am willing to offer you guidance and prepare your soul for receiving this sacrament in peace. Mmm, thank you very much, Father, Sophie murmured glancing towards the street, I’ll bear that in mind. I am sure, intervened Herr Gottlieb, the opportunity will arise, these will be very busy days! Although naturally your offer is most. The talks, Sophie broke in, turning to her father, will be with me. I do not feel you are at peace, said Father Pigherzog, is something worrying you, my child? You may confide in me, is there some reason why you are anxious? Are you afraid of anything in particular? One is always afraid, Father, she sighed, to live is to fear. Quite so, said the priest, which is why our Father is here to help us when we are most in need, you must not torment yourself, none of us is free from sin, and our redemption is His everlasting gift, for as you know, man is born a sinner. Tell me, Father, replied Sophie, if man is born a sinner, how can he know when he is sinning? And what about us women, what are we to do in the meantime?
Traveler of the Century Page 47