Хайнц Лихберг - Lolita

During the course of conversation someone mentioned the name of E.T.A. Hoffmann and those musical tales. The Countess Beata, our young hostess, put down the orange she was about to peel and said to the young poet “Would you believe it — his stories — and I only seldom read them — can keep me awake all night long? My rational mind tells me it is fantasy, and yet…”

“Perhaps it is not mere fantasy, my dear countess.”

The diplomat gave a good natured chuckle “You don’t think such outlandish things actually happened to Hoffmann, do you?”

“But that is exactly what I do think,” countered the poet. “They did happen to him. Of course I don’t mean that he saw them with his own eyes. But because he was a poet, he experienced everything that he wrote psychically. Perhaps I should say that he only wrote of things that he had encountered in his soul. In fact I would say that this is what differentiates the poet from the writer. The poet’s soul experiences the fantastic as its reality.”

Silence fell over the beautiful countess’s little empire style room.

“You are completely right,” said the professor, a sensitive man of youthful appearance. “Will you allow me to tell you a story that I have carried with me for many years? To this day I am not certain if it actually happened to me or if I dreamed it. It won’t take long.”

“Please do tell us,” said our hostess.

The professor began his tale:

“Toward the end of the last century, more than twenty years ago, I was studying in a very old town in southern Germany. I lived, as it pleased me, in a narrow street full of age-old houses. Not far from my rooms was a tavern — one of the oddest I have ever seen. I went there often in late autumn afternoons when I could take a break from my work between daytime and nightfall.

“There was only one room, rather rickety with rafters sunk in gloom. Near the window facing the street stood two well scoured tables and a few rough-hewn chairs. Back in a dark corner where the tile stove stood there was a third little table and two remarkably colorful chintz armchairs. Over one of them was draped a black silk mantilla, the kind women wear in Spain on holy days. I never saw any other customers there except for myself & I still sometimes wonder if it really was a commercial establishment. Sometimes upon the stroke of seven the door would be locked and the shutters closed. I never asked about this, but my curiosity had already fastened itself on the proprietors of this odd establishment.

“Their names were Aloys and Anton Walzer and they gave an impression of great age. They were unusually tall and lanky. They were both bald but sported full scraggly reddish-grey beards. I never saw them wear anything but yellow britches and black jackets that hung loosely on them. They must have been twins for it was impossible to tell them apart, and it took quite awhile before I was able to distinguish Anton’s slightly deeper voice.

“As soon as I entered the tavern a glass of marvelous sweet spanish wine would be placed on the table near the stove for me with a friendly grin. Aloys would take the easy chair next to me while Anton would stand leaning with his back to the window. They puffed away on their aromatic pipes, the kind you see in old Flemish pictures. Somehow I got the feeling that they were waiting for something.

“I would almost say that the impression they made on me was grotesque, but that wouldn’t be quite the right word because the grotesque always has something of the comic about it. But the impression made on me by the Walzer brothers was inexpressibly sad and troubled — almost tragic. There was no indication of a feminine presence in the place and I certainly never saw a woman there.

“As winter came on with its early dusks and long nights, I found my visits to the smoky tavern becoming almost a daily necessity. As the proprietors came to know me better, now and then they would talk a little with me. But they seemed to have lost their sense of time and always spoke of things that happened in times long past and their voices made the same dry, rattling sound.

“I told them of my travels and whenever I mentioned southern climes, a disturbing leery look would come into their eyes that were usually so sorrowful and expectant. They seemed almost to be living in a kind of memory. I could never leave without having the feeling that something dreadful was about to happen as soon as I left, but I forced myself to laugh at such thoughts.

“One evening I was passing by the place rather late and from behind the shuttered windows there came such a lovely sound of violin music that I stood there in the street entranced. The next day when I asked the brothers about it, they only smiled and nodded.

“Several weeks passed, and again I was passing by the tavern late at night, even later than the last time. From behind the shutters I heard a desolate cry and then such an extremity of quarreling and cursing that I was frightened out of my wits. There could be no doubt, the shouts that came from within the old tavern were not those of the two weak old men that I knew — these voices were deep, young and bellowing with rage. It sounded like two strong young men who were having a dreadful row. The shouts became even louder until they reached a pitch of frenzy punctuated by the blows of a fist crashing on a table.

“Then I heard the silvery bright laugh of a woman’s voice, and immediately the enraged voices swelled into an insane bawling. I stood frozen in my tracks. It never occurred to me to open the door and see what was going on.

“The woman’s voice screamed, just a single cry, but in such fearful anguish, that I have never been able to forget it. Then everything was still.

“The next day when I went into the tavern, Anton placed my glass of wine on the table with his usual friendly grin, and everything was so unchanged that I began to wonder if the whole episode hadn’t been a dream, and I was too ashamed to ask.

“One afternoon towards the end of Winter I told the brothers that I wouldn’t be coming anymore as I was setting out for Spain on the following day.

“This news had a strange effect on Anton and Aloys, and their hard weathered faces blanched for a moment and two pairs of eyes sought the floor. They went out and I could hear them whispering together.

“After a while Anton returned and asked me in some excitement if by chance I would be going to Alicante and when I said yes, he turned and almost skipped back to his brother. Later they both returned, behaving as if nothing had happened.

“While I was packing I forgot about the brothers, but that night I had a confused and complicated dream that had something to do with a crooked little salmon-colored house in a derelict street in the harbor of Alicante.

“On my way to the train station the next day, I was surprised to see that in bright daylight Anton and Aloys had their shutters closed up tight.

“During the trip I soon forgot all about my studies and little adventures in southern Germany. Traveling makes it easy to forget.

“I spent several days in Paris to visit a few friends and see the Louvre. One evening I returned tired from a cabaret in the Latin Quarter, where I went to hear a remarkable poet, who one of my friends had heard of. He turned out to be an ancient blind bard who sang beautifully with a simple, sorrowful voice. He had a lovely daughter who accompanied him skillfully on the violin.

“Later she played a solo piece, and I immediately recognized the melody as the one that I had heard coming from the Walzer brothers’ house. I later determined it was a gavotte by Lully, from the time of Louis XIV.