Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

More tense than usual, although employing her usual strategic methods, Sophie clung to her role as organiser — it was her way of defending herself against the despondency that was beginning to haunt her, and above all, of protecting those few hours of subtle independence for which she had fought so hard. She stood up to greet the Levins, who had just walked in with that forced, rather unconvincing display of cheerfulness couples have when they have been arguing minutes before arriving at a party. Well, my dear friends, Sophie announced, now that we’re all here, I’d like to propose that we keep the promise we made to Herr Urquixo last week of reading a few passages together from our beloved Calderón (marvellous, Álvaro beamed, marvellous), and I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few scenes from Life Is a Dream , because I assumed everyone would be familiar with the work. (Rudi cleared his throat and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.) Is everyone agreed, then? There are, let me see, one, two, three, seven characters altogether, and we have two copies of Life Is a Dream here in the house, plus two more which I borrowed from the library. (Ah, Álvaro suddenly realised, we’ll be reading it in German, then.) Naturally, amigo ! How else? (Of course, Álvaro nodded, disappointed, I understand, but, La vida es sueño in German, ay!) View it as an informative exercise, it’ll be as if you are hearing it for the first time (let’s look at the translation, may I see a copy? Hans asked), here you are, don’t get too professional about it now, Monsieur Hans! Well, if everyone is ready, we’ll assign the roles. Any volunteers?

Everyone decided Rudi should play the part of Prince Segismundo, at which Hans clapped his hands ironically. Sophie asked Professor Mietter to read the part of King Basilio, and the professor, flushing with pride, made as if to hesitate before accepting. Hans was given the part of Astolfo, also a prince, though with fewer lines than Segismundo. Frau Pietzine seemed happy to personify Lady Rosaura. They had difficulty convincing Frau Levin to take on the timid role of Princess Estrella. Álvaro declared he was incapable of reciting Calderón in German and preferred to listen, and so Bertold had no choice but to accept the part of Fife the jester. (Seeing as it’s only a play, thought Bertold, why the devil can’t I play a prince or a king?) Herr Gottlieb was equally displeased at being given the role of old Clotaldo, although he limited himself to twirling his whiskers in protest. Herr Levin, who wasn’t an admirer of Calderón, sat next to Álvaro to give the impression of an audience. Sophie acted as stage director, instructing everyone until at last the performance was ready to begin.

PROFESSOR MIETTER [with affected unease] :

What was that?

RUDI [in his element, looking at Hans, or perhaps not] :

It was nothing.

I threw a man who wearied me

From a balcony into the sea.

BERTOLD [nodding unenthusiastically, and without an ounce of charm] :

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. Travelling 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?