Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Frau Pietzine leant forward and put her lips close to the grille in the confessional. Her rosary swung out from her chest and rattled against the partition.

Beloved Father, she murmured, it’s a good thing you received me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, it’s been too long since my last confession and I have to commune tomorrow, immediately, as soon as possible. Daughter, Father Pigherzog’s voice said on the other side of the grille, I’m not the only priest to whom you can confess, if you were in such a hurry there is always Father Kleist. Oh no, Father, never! Frau Pietzine insisted. Very well, daughter, very well, Father Pigherzog said, trying not to sound smug, I am at your service.

Frau Pietzine confessed for twenty minutes, continually gasping and covering her mouth with her fan. Father Pigherzog remained silent, although from time to time he could be heard fidgeting in his seat and breathing in a slightly laboured manner. When Frau Pietzine had finished, the priest took a deep breath and said: I can see how greatly you suffer, daughter. And you are of course right to confess with such fervour, for it calms the soul. However, we must endeavour not to fall into immoderation when confessing. It is also necessary to make room for atonement, in order to arouse our feeling of guilt and to offer our tears to Jesus. (I will, I will, I will, Frau Pietzine said contritely.) I absolve you, daughter — follow this instruction and say ten Our Fathers and six Hail Marys. (Amen, amen, amen, she agreed.) Now listen, daughter, there is another small matter to which I wish to draw your attention (I’m all ears, Father), and this is nothing other than the somewhat ostentatious dresses you have begun to wear, even though you ought still to be in semi-mourning. (Father, Frau Pietzine said, pulling up her décolletage, my husband passed away more than five years ago!) Five years ago, indeed, and what is five years, daughter, compared to a whole marriage? Compared to the vicissitudes of eternal life your deceased husband is currently experiencing? Five years, you say — is not death eternally present in our lives? (You are right, you are right, you are right, but, please, try to understand, I implore you — it may sound frivolous, but clothes are a solace to me, one of my few amusements, I purchase fabrics, choose colours and styles, yet I am constantly grieving, if not I wouldn’t need to distract myself with such trifles.) I understand, daughter, but that doesn’t mean I approve, these dresses, are, well, they are … (Tell me, Father, with all due respect to your holy condition, have you never been tempted to try on new clothes? A suit? The odd overcoat?) Me? Never, daughter. What fancies. I was very young when I was ordained and have always felt quite at home in a humble habit.

Seeing her agitated state, Father Pigherzog considered it best to administer Holy Communion to Frau Pietzine there and then, outside of Mass. He summoned the altar boy and asked him to prepare the altar.

… in so far as her will to repent is still weaker than her devotion. Having warned her about the lack of moderation of her attire, the aforementioned Frau H J Pietzine showed a degree of obstinacy that bears out our negative prognostications. In addition, she would be well advised to forgo reading sacrilegious tales of Knights Templar and to concentrate on more pious texts. Insist more upon this point.

… turning finally to set before Your Excellency, whose hands I kiss most fervently and whose loyal servant I remain, the state of the quarterly accounts for the lands rented on behalf of the church. In general terms, after a meticulous examination of contributions made during the second quarter, we are able to confirm with comparative regret that the tendency to growth in the Holy Easter period failed to continue through to the end of spring. I say with comparative regret, because, even as we continue to suffer from the shortages, of which Your Excellency has already been made aware, the news is perhaps not all bad, for thanks to the assistance of Our Lord, the provider of all things, and xxxxx xxxxxperhaps also in an infinitesimal way to our own humble work, I am pleased to inform Your Excellency that the collection for Sunday Mass has almost reached ten groschen — only two less than the average number of thalers at the end of the previous quarter.

What are we translating today? Sophie asked as she got dressed. Ah, Mademoiselle Gottlieb, Hans replied, buttoning up his shirt, nous avons de bonnes choses aujourd’hui ! But first let me show you something, come here.

Hans crouched beside his trunk. He rummaged around in it and pulled out a few old editions of the magazines Frankreich and Deutschland which he handed Sophie. Where did you get these? she asked, surprised. Truthfully? he grinned. From the public library. What! cried Sophie. You didn’t! I did, I stole them, Hans confessed, I know it’s wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. Hans … she chided him. But no one ever reads them, he excused himself, clasping her round the waist, on the contrary, they’re frowned upon nowadays for promoting Franco-German dialogue, I was amazed when I found them, believe me, it’ll be fifty years before anyone notices they’re missing. Thief, Sophie growled, letting him embrace her. No, said Hans, not a thief, a collector!

They turned in circles as they held one another, and Sophie came to a stop beside the open trunk. She tried discreetly to take in as much as she could — a few scattered notebooks, objects of indeterminate usage, heaps of jumbled papers, piles of books of unusual colours and with strange bindings she had never seen before. When Hans turned to pour himself a glass of water Sophie began rifling through the books in the trunk. What’s this? she said, holding up a volume, That? he replied. Victor Hugo’s Cromwell . Yes, she said, but where did you get it? Ah, it was sent to me, why? Oh, nothing, Sophie said, bemused, just that it says it was published in Paris by Ambroise Dupont in … Yes, yes, he cut in, plucking the book from her hand, a recent publication with a very interesting preface, Brockhaus sent it to me, they may translate it next year. Shall we begin working, my love? It’s getting late.

They sat on opposite sides of the desk, each with a quill and with an inkwell in the middle. The job consisted of making a small selection of the most contemporary French poets. Hans and Sophie exchanged books and magazines (odd copies of Le Conservateur littéraire, Globe, Annales or La Minerve ) and they noted down the authors they most liked. This young man is right, she remarked, underlining the prologue to New Odes , it makes no sense to classify authors as either classical or Romantic, what would Goethe be for example? A rather Romantic classicist? Or Hugo, for that matter, who is a Romantic among classicists, what do you think? I agree, said Hans, I suppose the Romantics are restless classicists. What saddens me about Hugo or this other fellow, Lamartine, is that they should be so young and yet be staunch monarchists and Christians, Chateaubriand seems to have infected everyone! Quite, Sophie laughed, and the more they declaim the more they seem to encounter God along the way. Hugo is good, isn’t he? Hans said, leafing through one of his works. He seems more aware than the others, and yet there is something, how can I describe it, something irritating about him, isn’t there? Sophie thought for a moment: He sounds as if he takes himself terribly seriously. Exactly! said Hans, moreover he is the son of one of Napoleon’s generals and calls himself a viscount, so you can just imagine, all that grandeur perdue , and oh woe is me! Do you know what, she said, it seems to me modern French poetry has a rather pathetic air for that very reason, you can tell it was written after the fall of an empire. Write that down! Hans said brushing her shoulder with the feather end of his quill.