Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Elsa was solemn; her head turned towards the window, she maintained a discreet yet awkward silence. Hans sat on the other side of Sophie, who rode in the middle, smiling and brushing the side of Hans’s tight breeches as he sat beside her. The jolting tipped the seat from one side to the other, throwing the passengers on top of one another. Elsa clung for dear life to the door, but there was too much of a crush. Didn’t the carriage move an awful lot! What dreadful suspension! What bumpy roads! Hans sat with his leg pressed slightly against the side of the carriage so he was pushed towards the middle. Sophie sighed sedately, sat still and let herself be squeezed. From time to time, because the carriage hit a pothole or swerved suddenly, Hans would tread on Sophie’s foot or Sophie would tread on Hans’s foot, and one would apologise to the other, who would hasten to say it didn’t matter, it was quite all right, it was only natural with five people travelling in one landau. But these apologies were so effusive that sometimes the one stepped upon would step on the other, and the expressions of regret would fly back and forth together with an arm, a leg, a hip. And they would knock against each other once more — How clumsy of me! No, it was my fault — and their laughter flowed. Hans’s breeches grew taut. The window beside him was steaming up. Beneath Sophie’s ample skirts, among the folds of her petticoat, wrapped in white muslin stockings, her thighs clenched, tighter and tighter.

Hans was not a man in whom instinct and intellect diverged. On the contrary, the greater his carnal desire, the more voracious his appetite for debate. This particularly intrigued Sophie. The men who had flirted with her before had either done so by stifling their urges in order to discuss books (a tactic that roused her interest, but ended by exasperating her), or they had thrust all literary interest aside in order to concentrate solely on their immediate desires (a forcefulness that did not displease her, but of which she grew quickly tired). Rudi had been infinitely patient in his courtship, which had proved necessary not in order to break down any resistance, but to convince her. Sophie thought she understood the rather limited methods of male conquest, which was inclined to separate (mind or body) rather than unite, and to divide time (speech — preamble, desire — discourse) rather than synchronise it. Hans, on the other hand, seemed to speak to her and desire her simultaneously. He encircled her with his questions, inflamed her with words. This was what the daily letters they sent one another were like. It was how Sophie knew that the passion with which he spoke about Greece one moment and vehemently asked her opinion the next was no preamble but the onslaught itself, desire as thought. Hans’s attitude in debate was as earthy as could be. And in his general reflections Sophie could not help but glimpse the suggestion of an intimate proposal.

As was their custom every Friday at ten o’clock sharp, Herr Gottlieb and Rudi had just withdrawn to the study to take a glass of brandy and talk as father-in-law and son-in-law to be, each convinced that these private meetings strengthened the engagement. In the meantime, as was his custom every Friday at one minute past ten, Hans’s opinions suddenly became bolder, his gestures more passionate.

Will you tell us what exactly you have against the ancient gods? Professor Mietter said, irritated. Me, said Hans, nothing at all, although I doubt they are of any use in explaining the world to us now. Myth, Professor Mietter pronounced, recalling his lessons in Graeco-Roman culture, will always be useful in our understanding of reality. Provided, Hans pointed out, those myths are transformed. The ancient gods seem remote to today’s readers. For all their Olympian prestige, Juno and Zeus no longer evoke in us an immediate response . (And after uttering the words evoke in us an immediate response, Hans stared at Sophie’s hands as though he’d been referring to them.) I don’t dispute that the Graeco-Latin gods were able to personify the spirit of their times, but do they personify ours? I may study them, even learn to love them (and on saying this, Hans gazed once more at Sophie’s fingers, which became startled and began moving among the teacups like a tangle of legs fleeing a hurricane), and yet I don’t feel capable of identifying with those divine beings, do you? Well, replied Herr Levin, that depends, we are talking about allegories, not about representations, and besides, those who read them have also changed, in which case, ahem. True, said Hans, but surely myths also age? Of course they don’t! bridled Professor Mietter. Not even a little, Professor? Sophie rallied. What annoys me, Hans resumed, is that when we fail to understand modern tastes we plagiarise the past, we insist on familiar forms. (And on saying the words familiar forms , Hans glanced at the precise place on the mirror where Sophie’s head was floating above the outline of her collarbones). Show me a single living soul in Berlin, Paris or London who can say he honestly likes triglyphs or identifies with Doric capitals? I trust, retorted Professor Mietter, you are at least generous enough to consider me a living soul, gnädiger Hans. And since we are on the subject of triglyphs and capitals, allow me to make an observation about modern tastes. Do you know why we are incapable today of building the great edifices of the past? It is very simple, because our forebears were men of great principles. We modern men only have opinions. Opinions and doubts, nothing more. But building a cathedral, my good fellow, requires more than stones, it requires powerful ideas. An idea, at least an idea of the divine. Today’s architecture, like today’s literature, philosophy and art, is one of opinions. And so we gradually become eclipsed. Unfortunately, if I may say so, much to the satisfaction of educated men like yourself.

Hans (who had only been half-listening to the professor’s disquisitions while gazing dreamily at Sophie, who would shrug her shoulders occasionally as though abandoning herself to an embrace) said nothing, acknowledging the professor’s comment. Even though he disagreed with his arguments, they were solid and imposing like the cathedrals he lamented. He tried to think of a rebuttal, but the discussion moved on, and by the time he had finally collected his thoughts, it was too late for him to air them. Professor Mietter smiled placidly. As he leant over his teacup, the reflection of his powdered wig floated in his tea like a jellyfish.

It was nearly midnight and the debate was still in full flow. Sophie, greatly entertained by Hans’s and the professor’s disagreements (and perhaps excited too by the growing tightness between her buttocks and her petticoats), did her best to keep the professor happy and to stir up Hans, whose passionate rejoinders filled her with she did not know what. They were now discussing poetic style. Professor Mietter was arguing that a knowledge of tradition was necessary to good poetry. Herr Levin agreed, although in his comments he implied almost the opposite. Hans wrinkled his brow. Álvaro watched him and let out an occasional booming laugh. Frau Pietzine, uninterested in the turn the conversation had taken, had taken her leave, claiming she needed to get up early. Some poets, said Professor Mietter, with the aim of appearing modern, give no importance at all to what their poems are saying. As if this had nothing to do with poetry, or as if they considered themselves far deeper than their readers. They try to show off with form in order to cover up their hollowness and then claim they are exploring . But the fact is they would be utterly incapable of writing a simple text or describing an object convincingly. You are not wrong, remarked Hans, but we need to know what we understand by convincingly . Yes, the reader has to believe what is written. But what each reader is able to believe also depends on his imagination, not merely on language. And what about clarity? insisted Professor Mietter. Does the effort of correcting or honing a poem matter, or can it be left a complete jumble? Of course it does, said Hans, and by making that effort a poet can attempt to see in the darkness instead of skirting round it. You are simplifying the notion of clarity, replied the professor, perhaps because you equate evocativeness with vagueness. Regretfully, a common mistake in poetry. I am talking to you about precision. Young poets on the whole lack precision. They consider it common-place and prefer to perform pirouettes. Only when they are older do they begin to appreciate restraint, nuance. There is nothing tiresome, much less easy about it, do you understand? We quite understand, said Hans, it is what academics call correctness, and some of us others term the fear of making a mistake.