Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Hans, who had given this matter much thought, was about to answer Sophie, when a more mischievous idea occurred to him. He placed his teacup and saucer on the low table, made as if Rudi had just tried to catch his eye, and said in a very loud voice: Please, Monsieur Wilderhaus, let us hear what you have to say.

Rudi, who for the past half-hour had done nothing but take snuff and respond with the words “of course, of course” to each of Sophie’s ideas, sat bolt upright in his chair and raised an eyebrow. He shot Hans a black look, which he avoided, closely examining the trays of sweetmeats. Rudi noticed that his beloved was watching him with anticipation, and realised he must give some meaningful answer. Not to save face in front of the other guests, whose opinion he did not care a damn about, not even for the sake of his honour, which depended on far loftier values than these literary trifles. No — he must do so for Sophie’s sake. And perhaps to teach a lesson to this impertinent young upstart who was not even wearing gloves. Rudi brushed a few grains of tobacco from his waistcoat, cleared his throat, raised his shoulders and declared: Paris may outstrip us in printing presses and theatres, but it has none of the nobility and uprightness of Berlin and never will.

The discussion went on as before. Only now Hans was smirking, and the snuff spilt out of Rudi’s snuffbox.

Yes indeed, my friends, Frau Pietzine was saying, for me there is no better entertainment than reading. Is there anything more amusing and absorbing than a novel? (I see you are much entertained by reading, dear Madame, Professor Mietter said, sarcastically.) Just so, Professor, just so! Culture has always been a great solace to me. I am forever telling my children, as I did their deceased father, may God keep him in His glory — nothing is equal to a book, nothing will teach you as much, it doesn’t matter what you read, just read! But you know how young people are these days, they are only interested in their friends, their games, their dances. (But are we sure? Herr Levin said. Ahem, are we sure it does not matter what we read?) Well, books cannot be bad, can they? (With all due respect, Álvaro said, I think the idea is an ingenuous one, of course there are mediocre, futile, even harmful books, in the same way there are atrocious plays and worthless paintings). Well, I don’t know, viewed in that light … I agree with Monsieur Urquiho ’s appraisal, said Professor Mietter. Readers should be educated to reject inferior books. There is nothing terrible about that. I ask myself why we revere anything in print, however nonsensical. (But who decides? protested Hans. Who decides which books are nonsensical? The critics? The press? The universities?) Oh, please don’t start telling us that all opinions are relative, let’s show some nerve, someone has to have the courage to (I am not suggesting, interrupted Hans, that all opinions are equally worthy, yours, for instance, Professor, are far more authoritative than mine, what I am wondering is who is responsible for deciding where a work sits in the literary hierarchy, the existence of which I do not deny), very well, Herr Hans, if you do not consider it an impertinence on my part, I suggest a rather simple equation — the responsibility should lie with the philologist rather than the grocer, and the literary critic rather than the goatherd. Does that seem to you like a good place to start? Or should we discuss the matter first with the craftsmen’s guild? (Professor, said Sophie, isn’t your tea growing cold?) Thank you, my dear, in a moment. (We needn’t consult them, retorted Hans, but I assure you if a philologist were to spend even half-an-hour examining the life of a craftsman, it would transform his literary opinions.) Yes, my dear, a little more please, it has gone cold.

One contemporary novelist, Professor Mietter went on, has suggested that the novel, yes, with sugar, please, the modern novel mirrors our customs, that ideas are irrelevant and only observation matters, and everything that happens in life is worth writing about. An interesting notion, and one that accounts for the prevailing bad taste, wouldn’t you agree? Any arrant nonsense or folly is worth relating simply because it happened . This idea, said Sophie, of the modern novel as a mirror is much bandied about these days, but what if we ourselves were the mirrors? I mean, what if we, the readers, were a reflection of the customs and events narrated in the novel? This, Hans concurred, seems to me a far more attractive idea, it means each reader becomes a kind of book. My dear, said Rudi, hastening to show his appreciation and seizing her hand, it’s brilliant, I completely agree. The idea, Álvaro remarked, was already invented by Cervantes.

When the salon-goers began discussing Spain, Rudi glanced at the clock, stood up and said: If you will excuse me … Herr Gottlieb rose to his feet, and the other guests immediately followed suit. Elsa started towards the hallway, but Sophie restrained her with a gesture and went to fetch Rudi’s hat and cape herself. Rudi took the opportunity to say: This confounded dinner I have to attend is quite untimely. Believe me, I have found these discussions absolutely captivating. It has been a pleasure, meine Damen und Herren , a veritable pleasure. We shall meet again soon, perhaps this coming Friday. And now, with your kind permission …

Hans had to admit that the moment Rudi moved from the realm of debate into that of gestures, manners and pleasantries, he exuded an extraordinary self-assurance. Waiting there, solid, radiant, statuesque, Rudi Wilderhaus gave the impression of being able to stand still for an hour without feeling the slightest discomfort. When Sophie came back with his hat and cape, Herr Gottlieb walked over and whispered a few words to them which made his whiskers soften, and the three of them disappeared into the corridor. Hans stared after them until all that remained were wisps of pipe smoke drifting up in the air, the squeak of patent-leather shoes and the rustle of fabric. The guests glanced at one another, suddenly self-conscious, and the Indeeds, Anyways, Do-you-sees and What-an-agreeable-evenings ricocheted around the room. Then they fell silent, helping themselves from the trays Elsa was passing around. Professor Mietter began leafing through a book next to one of the candelabras. Álvaro winked at Hans, as if to say “We’ll talk later”. Amid all this silence, Hans was surprised by the sudden fit of loquaciousness that overcame the usually taciturn Frau Levin — she was talking rapidly into her husband’s ear without pausing for breath, gesticulating furiously, while he nodded, gazing down at the floor. Hans strained to hear what Frau Levin was saying, but only managed to make out the odd word here and there. One of them drew his attention and made him a little uneasy — he thought it was his name.

When Sophie re-entered the room, the guests came to life and once more the place was filled with laughter and voices. Sophie asked Bertold to light extra candles and Elsa to tell Petra, the cook, to serve some bowls of chicken broth. Then she went to sit down and the salon-goers gathered around the low table. Hans thought to himself that without a doubt Sophie possessed the sublime gift of movement — nothing around her remained still or unresponsive. Just then, Herr Gottlieb also came back, flopped into his armchair and sat twirling his whiskers round a plump finger. Although the conversation went on as before, Hans noticed that Sophie was avoiding his gaze in the round mirror. Far from unsettling him, Hans interpreted this sudden reticence as a good sign — this was the first time her fiancé and he had been together with her.

So you also know Spain, Monsieur Hans? Frau Pietzine said excitedly. I can’t imagine how you have found the time to visit so many different countries! There’s really nothing to it, my dear Madame Pietzine, Hans replied, it is simply a question of sitting in coaches and on boats. Judging from the numerous voyages you have described to us, Professor Mietter said sardonically, I suppose you must have spent your entire life travelling. Yes, in a way, I have, replied Hans, refusing to rise to the bait, and burying his nose in his teacup. In an attempt to ease the tension, Sophie turned to Álvaro and said: My dear friend, perhaps you would like to tell us a few things about today’s literature in your own country. I am not sure there is much literature of today , Álvaro grinned. We are still catching up with the Enlightenment. Take Moratín, for example, does the name ring a bell? I am not surprised, he crossed the Alps and half of Germany without learning anything about Sturm und Drang . To be fair, Frau Pietzine chipped in, being à la page is not everything, is it? You cannot deny the allure of the Spanish villages, the charm of the common people, their festive spirit, their. Madame, Álvaro cut in, do not remind me! I have heard, said Herr Gottlieb, plucking his pipe from between his teeth, that religious fervour is purer than it is here, more heartfelt (father, sighed Sophie). And the music, Professor Mietter added, the music emanates from a different source, from the people themselves, from the very heart of their traditions and …