Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Álvaro was dozing, open-mouthed, on the straw pallet. He had burbled a few slurred words in a foreign tongue. Hans was grinning idiotically, eyelids half-closed. The organ grinder covered him, then pulled an old blanket over himself. You’re quite right, Hans murmured all of a sudden. No, replied the organ grinder, you’re the one who’s right. Then we agree, said Hans, half nodding off. They remained silent for a while, watching the moist light of dawn arrive. The pine trees slowly emerged and the river began to appear as they looked from the cave.

The light here is ancient, said the organ grinder, it finds it hard to come out, doesn’t it?

What captivity, Hans whispered, what weakness.

Or what peace, the old man sighed, what repose.

And that Friday it happened — that Friday, at last, shortly after the meeting had begun, the scar on Bertold’s upper lip wrinkled solemnly as he announced Rudi Wilderhaus’s arrival at the Gottlieb salon. Herr Wilderhaus, intoned Bertold. Struggling to overcome a pang of jealousy, Hans had to admit he had grown used to hearing about Sophie’s fiancé and to acting as though he did not really exist, as if ignoring him were enough to prevent his existence. The salon-goers stood up as one. Herr Gottlieb went over to the doorway to greet his guest. In the round mirror, Hans saw Sophie pull up the neckline of her dress and turn her back on him.

The two pairs of footsteps grew louder as they walked down the corridor — those of Elsa light and nervous, those of Rudi dawdling and squeaking. The squeaking noises came from the guest’s patent-leather shoes, which as they drew nearer seemed to resonate through the room before they finally arrived, gleaming, and came to a halt in front of Herr Gottlieb. Rudi Wilderhaus was taller than Hans would have liked. He wore a velvet frock coat, which Bertold gingerly helped him out of, gold epaulettes, a waistcoat with two rows of jewel-studded buttons, snug white breeches with braid down the side and silk knee-length stockings. His sleeves were tapered at the wrist. Rudi Wilderhaus’s starched collar gave the impression of offering up his robust head, adorned with an impeccable crimped wig, on a plate. Gnädiger, gnädiger Herr! exclaimed Herr Gottlieb, bowing and seizing his wrists. The ladies bobbed slightly at the knee, while the gentlemen (including Hans, who felt like a complete fool) tilted forward. Rudi Wilderhaus moved towards Sophie, took one of her slender gloved hands, brushed it with his lips and announced: Meine Dame …

Once Hans had been introduced to him, he was aware of three things. Firstly, Rudi used powder on his face as well as a touch of rouge. Secondly, his clothes were freshly perfumed, giving off an overly pungent whiff of lemon. Thirdly, Rudi Wilderhaus spoke with his shoulders raised, as though his muscles were holding aloft his words, which for the moment were utterly prosaic. To Hans’s surprise Rudi greeted him, if not cordially, then at least with a measure of respect he had shown neither the Levins nor Frau Pietzine. I was told the salon had acquired a new member, said Rudi. I’m delighted you could join. You have already seen what a pleasure it is to be welcomed into this household. Our dear Herr Gottlieb and my beloved Sophie are undeniably model hosts.

Our dear and my beloved , Hans ruminated. Our dear and my beloved .

Owing to his numerous other engagements, Sophie explained to Hans as they all sat down again, Herr Wilderhaus is not always able to honour us with his presence. Indeed, today he must leave before the end of the evening, but he will keep us company until eight o’clock. You will only take tea? Pray do not be so abstemious, my dear Herr Wilderhaus, you must at least try a spoonful of jelly, or I shall be most put out! Elsa, please, that’s more like it, you see how I must cajole him into even trying a mouthful! Just before you arrived, my dear Herr Wilderhaus, we were discussing the fascinating differences between Germany, France and Spain, the latter thanks to the observations of Herr Urquiho , no, forgive me, Urquixo , is that right? Well, anyway, that was the subject of our discussion. I see, Rudi replied, trying to sound interested, good, very good.

Why does she insist on addressing him my dear Herr Wilderhaus ? thought Hans. Isn’t such politeness a trifle artificial? Isn’t it overly formal? Isn’t it inappropriate for someone who? Could it mean that? Why am I being so foolish? Why am I building up my hopes? Why can’t I gather my thoughts? Why? Why? Why?

Professor Mietter was holding forth: Grossly oversimplifying, we may argue, then, that the French regard external objects as the driving force for their ideas, whereas we Germans regard them as a stimulus for our impressions. Granted, here in Germany we tend to converse about matters that would be better off written about in books. However, the French make a far worse error by writing on subjects that are only worthwhile in conversation. I would argue that first and foremost the French write in order to be admired, in the same way we Germans write in order to think, or the English write in order to be understood. Do you really think so, Professor? said Frau Pietzine. But the French are so elegant! Ils sont si conscients du charme! Frankly, dear Madame, said Professor Mietter, the two values can scarcely be … Ahem, Herr Levin interrupted, I don’t see why there is any need to choose? Every aesthetic, the professor declared, is founded on choice. Well, yes, of course, Herr Levin conceded, still, I am not entirely sure. My dear Professor, Sophie intervened, if I may say so, in my opinion we Germans would benefit from a touch of frivolity. As you so rightly point out, every aesthetic is doubtless based on choice. Yet, surely we may also decide on the mix, since an aesthetic is made up of concepts, abstractions, objects and anecdotes, wouldn’t you agree? Hmm, Professor Mietter admitted grudgingly. (Hans made sure Rudi was not watching him and gazed at the tiny pores on Sophie’s arm, wishing he could run his tongue over them.) And what in your opinion should we think of the French, Rudi? asked Sophie ( Rudi ! Hans cursed. Now she’s calling him Rudi ! Although this time she didn’t say dear . Why am I being so ridiculous?) Me? Rudi jumped, raising his shoulders. Why, I concur with you entirely on the matter, my dear. (He uses the formal “you”, Hans noted, I wonder if he does that when they’re alone?) What I mean is, there is no difference between our two ways of thinking. None at all? Sophie persisted, come now, don’t be bashful, I am inviting you to disagree. That is not the reason, Rudi smiled, it is simply that you speak like an angel. Then, Sophie jested, you do not question the existence of angels either? My dear Mademoiselle, Rudi replied, not when I see you, I confess.

(Ugh! Hans bit his lip.)

And what is wrong with austerity? said Professor Mietter. Is it not nobler than the spirit of decorativeness? My dear Professor, ventured Sophie, would it not be more just to refer to it as the spirit of sociability? Here in Germany we keep everything to ourselves, we hide it. In France everything is on display. Here we are naturally unsociable, or so we believe, and we end up seeming awkward. How right you are, said Frau Pietzine, there’s no denying it. I was in Paris a few years ago and, well, it was another world, my dear. Those dresses. Those restaurants. Those parties. Upon my word! Let me tell you, my dear, a French corpse enjoys himself more than any living German! Germany, said Herr Levin enigmatically, is the kitchen of Europe and France is its stomach. Sociability notwithstanding, Professor Mietter resumed, the French read less. Professor, Sophie said, I hesitate to contradict someone as well-informed as you, but what if instead of reading less the French read in a different way? Perhaps the French read in order to discuss books with others, whereas we Germans consider books as companions, a kind of refuge? The difference is more profound, Mademoiselle, Professor Mietter asserted. The problem with the French is that not only do they read for others, they also write only for others, for their audience. A German author creates his own audience, he moulds it, he makes demands on it. A French author is content simply to please his audience, to give it what it expects. Behold your French sociability, et je ne vous en dis pas plus ! Professor, Hans remarked tetchily, is it not simply that in France there is more of an audience than here? Paris boasts more theatres and bookshops than Berlin. There is scarcely any audience here for artists to please or despise. Perhaps that is why we console ourselves with the idea that our authors are more scrupulous, independent and so forth. In Paris, my dear Monsieur, said Professor Mietter, what prevails is easy success and popular appeal. Berlin values loftiness and personality, do you not see the difference? You said it yourself, Hans retorted. In both cases there is a pre-existing pattern. Paris values one approach, while Berlin gives prestige to another. In both cases the author is seeking approval from his audience. Some seek the plaudits of the well-read, who fortunately abound in France, others the plaudits of critics and professors, who, in Germany, are the only people who read. Neither of the two alternatives is more or less sociable or self-seeking than the other. I see no difference in the nobility of their intentions. Monsieur Hans, if that is indeed the case (Sophie said as if colluding, inclining her head towards him while smiling disarmingly at Professor Mietter), how would you suggest bringing the two countries’ readerships closer together?