Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

There it was, at last — a glimpse of something deeper. Although Sophie was skilled at using irony to protect herself, Hans realised she had opened up to him a little. He decided to keep pulling on this thread by asking her questions. The tea had gone cold. Sophie did not ring for Bertold.

My mother? Sophie went on. From what I’ve been told she was rather pretty, and, like all women from here, domestically minded, fond of saving on clothes and staying at home. Well, that is my impression, my father has never described her to me like that. When I was a child and I asked people about her, they would say “Your mother was a great beauty!” so I ended up assuming no one considered her particularly intelligent. Her maiden name was Bodenlieb, which is a shame, because I far prefer her surname to that of my father. I’m afraid, had we known each other, she would have been a much better mother than I would a daughter. I imagine her as gentle, compliant, full of feminine virtues like Goethe’s heroines, do you remember? “Women should learn to serve from an early age, for it is their destiny”—how much we can learn from our masters! I for one don’t intend to spend my days with flour up to my elbows. (You have no need, ventured Hans, your skin is already like flour.) Is that meant to be a cheap compliment, Herr Hans? Let’s call it a description. And stop chuckling, you seem far too friendly!

And yet, Hans ventured once more, your beloved Professor Mietter approves highly of such domestic virtues. If you’ll allow me to be honest with you, Sophie, I find your admiration for him rather odd. I saw you give him your album the other day for him to write out one of his poems (don’t fret, jealous one, she purred, I’ll give it to you, too, so you may write one of yours), no, that isn’t why I mention it (no, no, Sophie laughed, of course not), seriously, I don’t write, I translate. Besides, I would never write a single verse in your album. (Oh, wouldn’t you? And why not?) Because such albums are for showing to others, and what I would like to write in yours no one may read.

Sophie lowered her eyes, and for the first time she seemed uncomfortable. She quickly shrugged off her unease — she despised feeling embarrassed, because it gave the other person the initiative. Hans savoured this moment, tried to memorise its essence, the way it had occurred.

I have great respect for Professor Mietter, said Sophie, recovering her composure, because regardless of his conservative views he is, or at least he was until you arrived, the only person I know with whom it is possible to discuss poetry, music or philosophers. Whether we agree or not, I enjoy listening to him and I learn a lot. And I value that more than any differences we might have. It is thanks to the professor, Hans, that the salon has become what it is. I know you dislike him, and I wouldn’t like to think this is because he is the only person there who is your equal. If he didn’t come the others probably wouldn’t come either. Everyone here admires him and reads his articles in the Thunderer . He is by far the most cultured person in Wandernburg, and I can’t afford the luxury of rejecting his conversation. In addition, as I was unable to attend university, it is a privilege for me to include a professor at my salon. If all that were not enough, my father holds the professor in high esteem, and sees in him a kind of guarantor that nothing untoward will happen in the salon. How could I not appreciate him? We also play duets with him on the cello, and you, dear Hans, can’t even play the harmonica.

Frau Gottlieb, Hans smiled, I confess your eloquence would be reason enough for any man, Professor Mietter included, to lose his head.

Sophie stared at him, blinking, as if she had forgotten something.

Touché , Hans thought, that makes two hits.

Well, she parried, and what about you? You also went to university, and I think it thoroughly ill-mannered of you not to have regaled me with stories of your student days in Jena. True, said Hans, with the unease that always assailed him whenever he was questioned about his past. Well, there isn’t much to tell, I began studying philology when (philology? Sophie said, bewildered. Didn’t you say philosophy), no, no, philology, I always wanted to be a translator, which is why I studied philology (at Jena, wasn’t it? said Sophie), yes, at Jena, between 1811 and 1814. Those were years of great conflict. I felt a mixture of utter political disillusionment and a continued allegiance to certain ideals. The question I kept asking myself then, and which I still ask myself, was — how the devil could we go from the French Revolution to the dictatorship of Metternich? (A sad question, said Sophie.) Or, more generally, how the devil had Europe gone from the Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen to the Holy Alliance? I remember Fichte had just published his Addresses to the German Nation and Hegel his Phenomenology of Mind , as though they had both had the foreboding that Germany was about to undergo a change. Soon afterwards, the resistance to Napoleon began, funnily enough just as Schelling’s Of Human Freedom and Goethe’s Elective Affinities were published, do you realise I’ve always wondered how far history influences the titles of books. But they all, starting with Goethe, went on supporting the alliance with Napoleon. They saw him as a hero who had dared wage war on feudalism and its archaic laws (get to the point, Sophie implored, get to the point), no, you’ll see I’m not digressing, I’m reminding you of this because the French troops once more occupied the northern territories, and in the meantime there were more reforms, academic freedoms, equal taxation, the abolition of serfdom, many things, and then (and then? Sophie said, impatiently. You went to university), exactly, I went to university, and, well, it was a confusing time. In Jena (yes, yes, tell me about Jena) the memory of the poetic circle lived on, all those revolutionaries who were either dead, had stopped writing or had renounced their beliefs. We students inherited what was left of their legacy, let’s say, but also the reactionary turn that events were about to take. And so we were chasing something that had already gone. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but that’s what it’s been like my whole life.

Sophie looked at Hans. Hans looked at Sophie. Sophie said things to him with her eyes. Perhaps Hans translated them.

Bah! he said. I’ll go on. In that situation, most of us knew we would become nomads, constantly searching, never completely in one place. We would spend hours in the university archive — a dust-filled corridor lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. It was much better than going to lectures, it was like going on a journey, getting lost and accidentally discovering marvels. On one of the top shelves, whether to protect or hide them I don’t know, I found some copies of the Schlegels’ magazine, Athenaeum . They were very dog-eared and we fought over them. These were rich yet meagre pickings, six editions, three years, nothing. Holding these journals was like clutching the remains of a shipwreck, we still believed a magazine could change our lives! (But wasn’t that true? said Sophie.) I don’t know, you tell me, are we already jaded? Or were we naive? (Mmm, let me think, perhaps both things are true?) Our generation was a borderline, we were the last to study before Metternich’s repression began, but we were also the first to lose faith in the Revolution. We didn’t know which to fear more — occupation or liberation. Support for Napoleon dwindled as he started losing battles. (And you, what were you doing?) Me? I was preparing for my final exams when Napoleon retreated and the accursed Congress of Vienna was set up. When I finished university, France had to apologise even for the good things it had done, while we, the so-called victors, had the dreadful restoration foisted on us, and, well, you know the rest. The old regime came back to defend the old order, and that was that. I remember student demonstrations and movements calling for unity, which of course never came about. It was one thing for the monarchies to unite, but quite another for the people to unite, wasn’t it? Then came the decrees, the repression, the religious censorship, in short, all that shit, if you’ll forgive my language (don’t offend me, sir, by assuming I would take offence at the word shit when used appropriately), well, you know what I mean. Suddenly, the interests of the nation officially turned against every principle of the Revolution, as though we had never collaborated with Napoleon, never written the eulogies we wrote about him, never signed the treaties we signed. The funniest thing is that it was the Spanish then the Russians who weakened the emperor, who had marched through Germany without anyone batting an eyelid. (All right, but how did things end for you at the university, what was it like? Sophie insisted.) It was strange, we read Hegel’s essays, the Brothers Grimm, a book about Goethe’s patriotic work, imagine! Suddenly we had no idea what to think of the fatherland. Quite frankly, I’m surprised the country’s youth did not go mad. Or perhaps it did? And then there was the final irony — the great Schlegel, the young freethinker of Jena, became press secretary to the regime. I saw all my heroes surrender, and I could not help wondering, when will my turn come?