Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Calm yourselves, gentlemen, insisted Sophie, here our greatest privilege is to disagree without losing our manners. Well said, my child, Herr Gottlieb said approvingly, twirling the tip of his moustache around one finger, and incidentally, if our guests are in agreement, I would like to propose that next Friday, by way of closing this salon for the summer, we read a few passages from one of Schiller’s plays. (Rudi looked at Hans and gave a snigger.) I might add that although we are no experts, we are particularly fond of Schiller in this house, and. (Dear father-in-law, Rudi interrupted, where will you have the pleasure of taking your summer holidays?) What? Where? Ah, well, we shall find somewhere! You know what August is like, dear son-in-law, people everywhere! We are waiting to hear from various friends before we make any plans (very wise, nodded Rudi, very wise), or — who knows! — we might simply stay here and relax, when you get to my age the crowds at the spas become a bore. (Forgive me, ahem, Herr Levin picked up the conversation, and which work of his do you prefer?) Which work? Ah, yes, I beg your pardon, well, of course one perhaps hasn’t read Schiller’s entire works, I don’t know, how about William Tell ? (An excellent choice in my view, father, said Sophie, if everyone else agrees …)

An excellent choice, Professor Mietter declared, if I may say so, I only wish today’s young playwrights would see it! They might learn how to write good theatre instead of writing theatrically. An exemplary work, seconded Herr Levin, isn’t it, dear? Frau Levin nodded dully. William Tell , yes, of course, Rudi said doubtfully. The only good thing about it (Hans whispered to Álvaro, who had taken his time coming back from the bathroom) is that the tyrant dies. Álvaro let out a guffaw and glanced sideways at Elsa.

When it was past midnight, the guests began to say their farewells amidst the oil lanterns in the courtyard. Herr Gottlieb, having retired to his study, came back down to bid them goodnight and to keep an eye on his daughter. The first to leave were the Levins and Rudi Wilderhaus, who offered them a lift in his carriage. Sophie drew Rudi aside, let him kiss the back of her hand and replied yes to her fiancé when he alluded to an engagement the following day. Although Hans pricked up his ears, this was all he heard. Professor Mietter was the next to leave. I trust, said the professor, that at least William Tell will be to your liking, Herr Hans. Do not worry, Professor, Hans replied, with a broad grin, I am relatively easy to please. Hans’s intention had been to infuriate him, but instead the professor walked over to Hans, placed a hand on his shoulder and retorted: Young man, you are still impetuous, and I quite understand.

Sophie, Álvaro and Hans stayed behind talking in the coolness of the yard. Herr Gottlieb hovered around them pretending to give orders to the servants.

When Sophie had persuaded her father to go to bed, they remained alone with Elsa, who seemed unusually disposed to stay awake. Amid laughter brought on by fruit liqueur, Sophie confessed: What I least like about Schiller is the fear of pleasure expressed in his ideas, as though sensuality were a betrayal of intellect. Keep your voice down, my girl, Hans jested. I mean it, said Sophie, this is what depresses me about Schiller and the school of respectable scholars. Emotion to them is like a geometric equation, “thus far, no further, perfect, we must not give way to rhetoric”, and the worst thing is, they call this being noble. In short, with all due respect to the gentlemen present, they are altogether too masculine. Well, said Álvaro, masculinity doesn’t seem like such a bad thing to me. Hans placed an arm around him, and declared: Viva España! The others laughed, even Elsa. Seeing her standing in a corner, Sophie invited her to sit with them and poured her some of the leftover port. Álvaro said: Prost! Elsa replied spontaneously: Salud! Had they been sober, Hans and Sophie would have been surprised.

They lingered in the doorway, chatting in raised voices before saying goodbye. Occasionally, Sophie would whisper: Shh! then carry on shouting. I have a confession to make, said Hans, the sad truth is that I think Schiller’s essays are excellent, but I refuse to give that pompous Mietter the pleasure of admitting it. I knew it! Sophie rejoiced, perhaps you haven’t realised, but when the professor isn’t there, you repeat his arguments. I know, I know, replied Hans, and do you know what the worst thing is? I only argue with him to prevent him convincing me, because sometimes what he says seems very true. Álvaro peered into the street and declaimed: “ Everyone dreams of what they are, but none understands! What is life? A frenzy! What is life? An illusion! A shadow, a fiction!” Hans clambered onto his back, howling: Hush, Calderón!

Leaning against the confessional, Frau Pietzine was sobbing so much she could scarcely speak. She had locked herself in the house refusing to see anyone, afflicted with fevers and migraines. Finally, that morning she had left the house, attended Mass and after that confession. She had not mentioned, nor did she ever intend to, what had happened in Jesus Lane. She had convinced herself that, beyond any shame, scandal or cruel gossip, recounting her experience would have meant accepting that it was really true. And she was determined to keep quiet until she had banished those few dreadful moments from her memory. She knew the havoc fever could wreak on the mind, the false imaginings it could produce, the phantom pains, the ghastly hallucinations. Why couldn’t this, like so many other things in her life, simply be a terrible nightmare?

Noticing she was more agitated than usual, Father Pigherzog questioned Frau Pietzine more carefully. My daughter, he calmed her, you must not torment yourself so, sin dwells in all of us, and it is best to accept our guilt. But Father, she sobbed, if this vale of tears is but transitory why go on living? Our Creator demands that we live and honour him before going to join him, the priest explained. But where is he? cried Frau Pietzine. Where is our Creator when we are suffering? My daughter, said Father Pigherzog, today your pain is different, open your heart and tell me everything, everything, in order to unburden yourself.

… said stranger, to whom we have referred on prior occasions, who is undoubtedly a harmful influence on Fräulein Gottlieb (already somewhat fickle in the observation of her duties), and who, if my experience is anything to go by, is in danger of compromising her imminent union with the illustrious Herr Wilderhaus the younger, a God-fearing man and a perfect husband. After several failed attempts I can confirm the impossibility of having a reasonable discussion with the aforementioned individual — he is a lost soul, xxxxxx imo serio irascor. God willing he will leave and take his Voltaire with him before it is too late …

While Father Pigherzog began filling the pages of Notes on the State of Souls with his elegant handwriting, Frau Pietzine left the church with a sense of complete emptiness — as though an inner part of her had come permanently unstuck, or as though a cracked corner had finally snapped off. Always, ever since she was a child, she had feared life would bring her more suffering than joy. Now she realised the meaning of all her anxieties — it was a sinister message, but one she now fully understood. Thenceforth, her existence would be a mere conduit to eternal life, and her children the sole reason for remaining as that conduit. As she stepped out of St Nicholas’s Church, eyes fixed to the ground, Frau Pietzine paused to contemplate the grains of rice from that morning’s wedding scattered over the steps like a mysterious symbol.