Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Sophie clicked her tongue — her smooth, expressive, darting tongue. Herr Levin? she said, noticing him drumming his fingers on the table.

Indeed, ahem, said Herr Levin I would like, I mean, I think we have ignored an important point in this discussion, or something I consider has a certain bearing. For translation is not simply an individual process, is it? It is also a process that depends on the community in which it is being done. That is, a translator translates for others, or rather with others, and communities change with history. Doesn’t every author, book and text have a history of the ways in which it has been read? And this history forms part of the work itself. What I’m saying is, ahem, how are we to separate the collective readings of the Classics from the Classics themselves? In my opinion translations belong to this kind of rereading, every translator is also a product of his time, of the period when he wrote his translation. No book remains exactly the same throughout time, the readers of each period change it, don’t they? And the same goes for translations, each period needs to retranslate its literature. Ahem, I don’t mean to go on.

You are quite right, said Hans. (Do you really think so? stammered Herr Levin.) A work doesn’t begin and end with its author, it forms part of a much broader group, a kind of writing collective that includes translators. Translation is neither a betrayal nor a substitute, it is another contribution, a further push to something that is already in motion, like when someone jumps into a moving carriage. And as you say, dear Herr Levin, every text continues to be translated over time by readers of its mother tongue. Each German reader of Goethe understands, misunderstands, interprets and over-interprets each word, there is no transparency between a book and its reader, there will always be some peculiarity that gives rise to a second text, a new reading. That is why, if you’ll forgive my insistence, no good translation can ever distort the translated work — it simply exaggerates the mechanisms of reading itself.

Sophistry, demagoguery! protested Professor Mietter, with all your insistence on communities, are you trying to deny the influence of national culture? The nation is important even when translating a text, gentlemen. The French, for instance, have always appropriated texts rather than try to translate them, which is why they built an empire. A French translator will seldom attempt to stay close to the foreign mentality of the author he is translating, but will instead try to adapt the work to fit his own mentality. Aristotle in the French, for example, appears French. This approach undoubtedly has its merits, and yet it also shows that the real Aristotle is and can only be written in Greek. (Yes, argued Hans, but however hard a French translator tries to approximate Aristotle to his own way of thinking, don’t you think the outcome will resemble neither the original Greek nor a French philosopher? And won’t this French translation of Aristotle for ever change French philosophy and what you refer to as its national mentality?) Ah, young people, young people, how they love to answer back! This elderly gentleman deserves a rest, now, my dear, is there any more raspberry jelly?

(Raspberries! Hans thought suddenly, like someone opening a window. Sophie’s sex tastes just like raspberries — raspberries to begin with, and afterwards lemons.)

Raspberries, yes! Rudi declared, stirring from his bored stupor, a capital idea, Professor Mietter! Elsa, liebe Jungfer , would you? …

(There’s something strange going on here, Hans said to himself, glancing anxiously at Sophie, who flashed him a look of desire. There’s something decidedly peculiar going on here, Hans repeated to himself, or didn’t I get enough sleep last night, or what?)

Raspberries! exclaimed Frau Pietzine. Heaps of raspberries!

(No, I didn’t get enough sleep, Hans said to himself, I stayed translating into the small hours, and it was late, late, very late when I went to bed.)

Heaps of raspberries! Frau Pietzine howled ecstatically. And Frau Levin joined in, dropping her fan and lifting up her skirts: Just like Sophie’s sex!

(Wait a moment, what? Hans said to himself, what the? …)

Herr Hans, said Sophie.

(What the? …)

Herr Hans! Sophie repeated, giggling.

What! asked Hans, his eyes opening with a jerk.

We rather suspect, Sophie said with amusement, that you were enjoying a little nap, Herr Hans. Hans sat up in his chair and noticed a crick in his neck. He glanced around him — the other guests were looking at him, amused. Ladies and gentlemen, Hans stammered groggily, I’m terribly, terribly sorry. On the contrary, said Sophie, it shows you feel at home in our courtyard. You see, last night, Hans tried to rouse himself, last night I, er, I translated, ah, translation! Forgive me, So, er, Mademoiselle Gottlieb, but how long was I asleep? Not very long, said Álvaro, unable to stifle a chuckle, a few minutes, about as long as it took Professor Mietter to answer you! Professor, said Hans, sitting up straight, please forgive this mishap, which owes nothing to your reply and everything to my tiredness, I have an accumulation of work and last night … Oh, the professor said, waving his hands disdainfully, don’t worry, don’t worry — we translated it in accordance with your theories as a form of cultural exchange with Herr Urquiho .

The other salon-goers burst out laughing. Hans joined in, forcing a smile. He felt a hissing in his ears, his eyes smarted and he had a slight taste of raspberries in his mouth.

As evening closed in, Elsa and Bertold brought down four candles to the yard and spread them out along the folding table. The conversation became filled with shadows and glistening profiles. Before taking his leave at the customary hour, Herr Gottlieb placed a fleshy hand on Hans’s shoulder. My dear Herr Gottlieb, said Hans, rising from his chair. Herr Gottlieb lowered his pipe, drew his bushy whiskers near, and whispered discreetly: Would you be so kind as to accompany me to my study for a moment? Fearing the worst, Hans said of course, it would be an honour. Sophie watched the two men leave out of the corner of her eye.

They climbed the steps together and walked down the icy tunnel of the corridor, which always seemed to remain at the same temperature. Although since the beginning of his friendship with Sophie he had taken the precaution to continue visiting Herr Gottlieb on his own, Hans had never been invited into the mysterious room where Herr Gottlieb would withdraw for hours. Bertold opened the door for them, went ahead, and lit a couple of oil lamps before disappearing. Hans’s attention was immediately drawn to the shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Next he glanced at the desk made of dark wood, the leather armchair and the bronze inkstand containing an inkwell, quill pens, a penknife and a bell to ring for the servants. On one side of the desk was a framed photograph of a pale-faced young woman. The lamps were placed so that that the whole room was plunged into a purposeful gloom, forcing the visitor to tread more cautiously, almost with trepidation. Herr Gottlieb sat down in his chair, gesturing to Hans to sit down opposite him, and poured two generous glasses of brandy. Hans swallowed hard.

You see, my friend, said Herr Gottlieb, I would like to be frank with you. I know I can trust you, because we have got on from the very first and you have always seemed to me a responsible and perceptive young man. I have been observing this literary collaboration between you and my daughter for some weeks now. Don’t get me wrong, knowing my daughter as I do, I find nothing surprising about her interest in translating and seeing her work published in these magazines, indeed I would describe it as yet another of her countless whims. I understand her need to begin freeing herself from her father’s authority, and also, to some degree, to establish her independence in the eyes of her future husband. Sophie has ever been thus, since she was a child. I’m afraid Herr Wilderhaus knows it only too well and, thank Heaven, loves her all the same. However, my dear Hans, I cannot help wondering how appropriate it is for a young woman about to marry to be working, let us say, at such close quarters with a bachelor like yourself. I assure you I have no objection to you personally, on the contrary I like to think you and I have developed a certain friendship, correct me if I’m wrong, good, I’m glad you agree. I am relieved to be able to tell you all this, because, you see, I am concerned as a father, and also as your friend. What do you say, dear fellow?