Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Gentlemen, gentlemen, Sophie decided to intervene, it is twenty minutes before midnight, and I assume that my father and Monsieur Wilderhaus will come out of the study at any moment to say goodnight. Let us tone down the debate, I suggest we drink a toast, Elsa my dear, could you bring the liqueur? … So that we can await them, glasses raised. As for you, Monsieur Hans (Sophie said at last, relaxing the tension in her thighs, unaware that her expression betrayed her preferences), I beg you, calm your temperament a little and clink glasses with the professor. That is what I like to see, gentlemen. Why, deep down you are as alike as two peas in a pod!

The Levins took advantage of the lull to leave. Álvaro, unusually, followed suit. Hans understood the reason for his early departure and he flashed him a wink of gratitude that only Elsa, the quick-witted Elsa noticed — by leaving the gathering together with the two other guests, Álvaro was trying to force Professor Mietter’s departure in order to leave his friend alone with Sophie. However, the professor did not stir, but settled back in his chair as if to show he had all night ahead of him.

The sweet flow of liqueur relaxed the debate, but not its focus. The professor gave his best smile, which was small and sceptical, before continuing to play off classical and modern authors, insisting that a study of tradition was the only way towards a renaissance of national literature. He cited Goethe as an example, preaching that his return to classicism was a lesson in wisdom. Hans, while inventing any excuse to brush his hand against Sophie’s (reaching for a napkin, putting down his glass of liqueur, nudging a candlestick), stuck to his guns, alternately objecting and clapping Professor Mietter gently on the shoulder, a gesture to which the professor responded with the face of someone sucking on a lemon. On the subject of a renaissance of German literature, Hans argued that with regard to respecting national traditions Goethe, thank God, was a perfect example of the opposite, for all he had done was to assimilate foreign authors. Sophie was careful to prevent any friction (except between her and Hans’s hands), employing a strategy that often proved successful — mitigating Hans’s opinions by summarising them for him. This kept both men happy — the professor because he presumed Sophie disapproved of Hans’s forcefulness and was attempting to show him the tone he ought to adopt when speaking to the professor; and Hans, who understood that by choosing to explain his point of view to the professor, she was taking his side.

My dear, excellent Professor, said Sophie, I don’t believe Monsieur Hans means to renounce our great masters, which as you say would be unjust, but to go a step further. Not to forget young Werther’s suicide, as it were, but to encourage him to live. So, Professor Mietter said with surprise, don’t you admire Werther for dying of love like every other young lady your age? Sophie replied, lowering her tone when she noticed Hans staring at her intently: If you want my honest opinion, I think the poor man takes his life so he doesn’t have to love a real woman. He prefers to torment himself rather than act out of true desire. (How can she say this when that idiot of a husband-to-be is at the far end of the corridor and she has made no effort to stop the marriage, to admit to herself she does not love him, to rub her leg against mine yet again under the table?) Werther’s decision never moved me, dear Professor, because I find the moral of the story, in the end, repressive. (What about you? Hans thought jealously. What about you!) I prefer Schlegel’s Lucinde or The Flowering of Sentiment by Madame Mereau, which Perthes has published and which is extremely interesting. I find any everyday scene between Albert and Nanette, or Lucinde and Julius, more admirable than Werther finally pulling the trigger. (Then why, Schlegel be damned, don’t you bring your thigh a little closer?) An artificial passion, agreed the professor, it is typical — Werther shot himself while his author went on holiday. In any case, Goethe was still very young. (Or already far ahead of his time! thought Hans, but he did not say so because he thought her thigh had moved closer.)

And what about the Roman Elegies , Mademoiselle? asked Professor Mietter, a Faustian look on his face. Ah, replied Sophie, I find the Elegies extraordinary, there, you see, reason and passion aren’t in opposition, tradition and, well, pleasure coexist, what do you think, Herr Hans? I find the poems at once masterful and intolerable. Why intolerable? she asked. Because the Elegies , said Hans, do not celebrate antiquity, or Rome, or even love. In fact they celebrate a much older, obsolete idea — that of the home. Please! protested the professor, don’t be childish! What Goethe did in Italy was to finish Werther off, to show that his previous torments were senseless. Or are you going to tell us now that Goethe was a coward for running off with a tavern wench instead of joining the revolutionaries? On the contrary! On the contrary! replied Hans. That was the only brave thing he ever did! Calm yourselves, please, gentlemen, Sophie implored. As for Elective Affinities (she began saying when she suddenly heard a door opening at the far end of the corridor and the two voices approaching), I confess the ending was not to my taste either. Mademoiselle Gottlieb (smiling mischievously, Hans pretended to be shocked), the man she loves is married! Yes, yes, of course (Sophie went on, unnerved by the approach of her father’s footsteps, the creak of Rudi’s patent-leather shoes, the feeling Hans was pressing her to say too much), but once again the character has to sacrifice his feelings, why in so many novels does moral duty oppose? (Rudi walked into the drawing room followed by Herr Gottlieb’s pipe.) Father! My darling! We missed you both, what is the reason for these long private talks? Have you so many things to say to Rudi behind my back? (Hans, instinctively, pushed his chair away from the table and folded his hands.)

On the way to the front door, while Herr Gottlieb and Rudi were saying goodbye to the professor, Hans took the opportunity to exchange a few words with Sophie. I was intrigued (he whispered, casting a sidelong glance at Rudi) by your defence of feeling in the face of marital duty. I am not sure you are in the best position to make such an argument. Sophie pulled a face. Then she lifted her chin and replied coldly: Be very careful, Herr Hans, not to confuse literary criticism with impertinence.

With this she turned on her heel and went to join in saying goodnight to Professor Mietter. She took her fiancé’s arm, and did not speak to Hans again until Herr Gottlieb bade them goodbye and closed the door.

The afternoon sun waned indecisively. Leaden clouds hung in the sky, stirring like curtains trapped in a door, until a strong gust shifted them. The organ grinder narrowed his eyes and gazed at the horizon. He moved his hand in front of his face, delighting in the flickering shapes, the light passing between his fingers. The spring evenings were still timid in Wandernburg. Suddenly he found Hans even more so, as they sat facing the pinewood and he described to him in hushed tones, without looking at him, events of that Friday.

I really put my foot in it this time, said Hans. I don’t know why I said that to her, I suppose I was trying to provoke her or something, to get a rise out of her, I don’t know! It was incredibly stupid of me, what could the poor girl do with her father and that other fellow there? How could I think such a? How conceited of me to? Did I expect her to say yes and fall into my arms? Incredibly, incredibly stupid! (No, Hans, the old man remarked, you were simply impatient, stop tormenting yourself.) Yes, but now I think I’ve scared her away, I forced her to react and she seems to have done so by distancing herself, understandably (but how long is it since she last spoke to you? said the old man), not very long, in fact, three or four days, the thing is, I know this sounds foolish, but before that we would write to one another every day, so you see this silence must mean something (yes, of course, replied the old man, it means she’s keeping silent. Not that she’s never going to speak to you again, maybe she’s thinking about what to say to you), I envy you your optimism, organ grinder, I think I put my foot in it and got my just desserts. (And why don’t you write to her?) Me? Now? After what happened? (Yes and no, that is, write to her yes, but not straight away, wait a few more days, when she stops being annoyed I’m sure she’ll start worrying that you aren’t talking to her either, and then if you write apologising you’ll see how glad she is.) Do you think so? (Yes, now stop fretting and look, bring your hand up, see how it looks like the clouds are passing through your fingers?)