Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

How can we speak about free trade, Hans pronounced as he lay next to Sophie, of a customs union and all that implies, without considering a free exchange of literature? We should be translating as many foreign books as possible, publishing them, reclaiming the literature of other countries and taking it to the classroom! That’s what I told Brockhaus. And what did he say? Sophie asked, nibbling his nipple. Hans shrugged and stroked her back: He told me, yes, all in good time, and not to get agitated. But in such exchanges, said Sophie, it’s important that the more powerful countries don’t impose their literature on everyone else, don’t you think? Absolutely, replied Hans, plunging his hand between Sophie’s buttocks, and besides, powerful countries have a lot to learn from smaller countries, which are usually more open and curious, that is to say, more knowledgeable. You’re the curious one! Sophie sighed, allowing Hans’s probing fingers in and lying back. That, Hans grinned, must be because you’re so open and you know what’s what.

Refreshed and dressed, they were at the desk preparing to resume working when Hans began telling Sophie about a review he had read of the French adaptation of Tasso in which Goethe hailed the beginning of a new universal literature. He may be conservative in his political ideas, but you have to hand it to the old man, he’s years ahead of everyone else in his literary thinking. A Weltliteratur ! He was one of the first to defend French culture after the fall of Bonaparte, and he always describes poetry as the homeland of the poet, regardless of where he is from and what he writes. Goethe is a little like Faust, don’t you think? And who wouldn’t like to be a little like Goethe — to be a ceaseless reader, a polyglot, to know about every country and study every period in history. Hans rummaged in his trunk, found the article, and handed it to Sophie. Where did you get all your magazines from? she asked, attempting to see inside his trunk. I have them sent to me, he replied, hastily shutting the lid. An era of universal literature is approaching, Sophie read aloud, and each one of us should contribute to its formation. Yes, Hans nodded excitedly, the only way to build a German literature is by challenging it, comparing it, mixing it with foreign literatures. Anything else would be tantamount to locking the door and throwing the key into the sea. I recently read an article on this very subject by a fellow called Mazzini, why don’t we translate it together next week, your Italian is better than mine. Mazzini was writing about Europe, but it seems to me that is only the beginning. For instance, Oriental literature is in fashion now, but soon it could be the turn of the Americas. And who knows, one day it might be necessary to go there in order to learn about ourselves. I’m thinking about sailing for America one of these days — listen! What if you came with me? What if we? What if we started working, Hans? Sophie interrupted, caressing him, it’ll soon be five o’clock. Yes, yes, Hans said, coming back down to earth, forgive me. After searching through the disarray in his room, he placed several books and a handful of folios on the table. So, it’s the turn of the English today, said Sophie, leafing through the various books. Indeed, my dear , sighed Hans in English, and I must actually confess that it is urgent .

There were two assignments for Brockhaus — a complete revision of an anthology of new English poets which the publisher wasn’t happy with and which had been out of print for two years, and a translation of the main excerpts of the preface to Lyrical Ballads , which would be included as an appendix. They did a quick first reading in order to highlight the most problematic passages and lighten their work the following day. The method they used was simple — Sophie, who without a shadow of a doubt recited poetry better than Hans, would read the original poem aloud, pausing after each verse so that the rhythm of the stanza could unfold and settle, then go on to the next, like building a house of cards. In the meantime, Hans would go over the translated version, crossing out words, underlining any imprecisions, and noting down alternatives for discussion later. He was accustomed to working alone, and at first he had found it difficult to concentrate because Sophie’s melodious voice, her pauses and inflections, made him feel an unexpected frisson. Slowly he began to enjoy this feeling that transported him from a foreign language to his lover’s body. And he sensed Sophie was similarly aware of the sensual effect of this approach — she enjoyed holding back, modulating the tension between the discipline of work and the distraction of her desires. Indeed, it was from this electrifying struggle, which heightened their senses and sharpened their intelligence, that some of their best ideas were born. After several translation sessions, they both had become used to desiring one another as they worked, and had understood that their search for different words was another way of connecting, of shortening the distance between their two mouths.

They revised the versions of Byron’s poems. These were somewhat mechanical although mostly accurate, because the translator had been careful to choose the simplest passages. It’s strange, said Hans, Byron was at his most rhetorical, his most academic when he was at his least restrained. Perhaps, suggested Sophie, because he sometimes frightened himself with what he was saying.

They decided, however, to alter all the translations of Shelley, which they found stylised and filled with a stodgy pathos. Hans suggested eliminating all the adjectives and translating what was left. Sophie said she admired Hymn to Intellectual Beauty , which in her opinion refuted all attempts to separate the Enlightenment and the Romantics:

Thou messenger of sympathies

That wax and wane in lovers’ eyes—

Thou, that to human thought art nourishment,

Like darkness to a dying flame!

Do you see? said Sophie, breathlessly, the darkness brings the flame to life! Mystery is the essence of this poem, but Shelley wrote it in order to bring light to the intellect. And this “human thought”, untouched by emotion or love, is at once nourished by beauty, isn’t it wonderful? Stop, Hans laughed, you’re too convincing, I’m going to end up liking Shelley.

When they reached Coleridge, they concentrated above all on rewriting Kubla Khan , which was the only poem everyone knew:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

The funny thing is Kubla Khan is far from being Coleridge’s best poem, remarked Hans. But, as you know, it’s the myth that counts, people don’t expect poets to produce great works but to behave like great poets. And it occurred to the crafty Coleridge to tell people a three-hundred-line poem had come to him during an opium-induced slumber, and that when he awoke he recalled it word for word, an unrivalled work of genius! And so he began to copy it all down, but the poor man was interrupted and his poem remained unfinished, with only the few verses you can see … So you don’t believe him, said Sophie. I’d believe anything of a poet, smiled Hans, provided nothing he tells me is true. In that case, she argued, the poem wasn’t unfinished, it continued in Coleridge’s own narrative, in the tale he told about the dream, so that where the poem, or rather the dream, ends, the other tale begins, the one that begins when he wakes up. I get it! Hans declared, brushing her ankle under the table. In fact, Sophie went on, offering Hans her other ankle, the most romantic part of the poem is its explanation. You’re right, Hans said growing excited once more, and what do think of the last line? “And drunk the milk of paradise”—all those k s at the end, such a struggle to drink some nectar! As if paradise were choking you! If you think about it for a moment, you realise the best Romantic poets never evoke paradise, only its impossibility. (When he had finished talking about Coleridge, Hans noticed with a touch of sadness that Sophie’s ankle had moved away from his.)