Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

Frau Pietzine walked away from the church’s twisted towers towards the market square, avoiding Archway. This was the same street Elsa had just avoided, knowing how keenly Father Pigherzog and his faithful informant, the sacristan, spied on the passers-by. She had just left Sophie at the inn and, face half-obscured beneath her parasol, was hurrying to find a carriage to take her to the country. Frau Pietzine was walking at a slow pace, lost in thought, clasping the brim of her sun hat between gloved fingers. The two women bumped into one another in front of the coach stop — Elsa almost knocked her over. Frau Pietzine looked up, took off her hat and stared at the young girl in bewilderment. Switching her parasol to her other hand and discovering Frau Pietzine’s sad, painted face, Elsa opened her eyes wide, murmured an apology and continued on her way in a hurry.

Why hadn’t Frau Pietzine spoken? Or had she been so absentminded she hadn’t even recognised her? I hope so, Elsa thought anxiously as she stepped into the carriage, because that foolish chatterbox is the greatest busybody in Wandernburg.

A few yards away from her, staring into space, Frau Pietzine understood everything, and, unmindful of the passengers ahead of her in the queue, she said to herself: I hope they are happy.

In a corner of the square, echoing quietly, the organ grinder turned the handle.

Clothes, that paradoxical pleasure — one loves to see them on and cannot wait to take them off. Sophie’s corset constrained her eager breasts, the surprises of her belly, the arch of her back, pressed against her flesh, making her impatient. Hans undid knots, peeled off layers, unfastened girdles. Meanwhile she pushed aside collars, defeated buttons, pulled his linen breeches down. He undressed her in a hurry. She enjoyed pretending not to be in one.

Recovering their breath, Hans and Sophie contemplated the tangled landscape of clothes on the floor. They looked at one another, smiled, kissed the tips of each other’s tongues. He jumped up to gather their clothes and draped them over the back of a chair — like someone repacking luggage, after sex he was in the habit of carefully folding his high-waisted jacket, his linen shirt, his satin cravat. Sophie, who preferred to see a riot of clothing, to savour the vision of those torn-off garments, sat up and said: What are you afraid of, my love? Hans stopped what he was doing. Me? he replied, turning his head. Nothing, why? In that case, she asked, gazing at Hans’s buttocks, why are you so concerned about untidy clothes? He blinked several times, let his shirt fall to the floor, and said: It seems to me you are the translator here.

She would smile — why not? The moment she entered the courtyard and the others stood up and came over to greet her, Frau Pietzine decided she would carry on as before. Since she no longer expected anything from life why not laugh instead of crying? She had been in her room for a whole week without speaking to a soul, and now she had returned to society and to the salon, she realised it made no difference — she would always be alone. Like an act of personal revenge rather than out of simple good manners, she began frantically greeting everyone, talking loudly and laughing at every joke. Yet it wasn’t like before. Now she was aware that she was play-acting.

We missed you last Friday, my dear, declared Frau Levin! Please, sit down next to me, try these delicious cakes, how did you say you are feeling? Oh, much improved, replied Frau Pietzine, it was nothing, my dear, a few silly fainting fits, you know certain things happen when you get to our age! Frau Levin whispered into her ear: Oh but I, that is, you and I, are still too young for that ! Mmm, Frau Pietzine replied mysteriously. Mmm! echoed Frau Levin, I quite agree! And the two women laughed and embraced, content to be talking at cross-purposes.

No one could accuse Herr Levin of being long-winded, but that afternoon he was eloquent. At times he even dominated the conversation. Hans listened with surprise, and reflected about the unexpected loquacity of quiet men. Quiet men have much to say, particularly when they are not talking. There are many types of quiet man. The avaricious type, who keeps his opinions to himself only to air them wittily and at great length when alone. The resigned type, who is so convinced of having nothing to say that it never occurs to him to open his mouth. The mischievous type, whose takes great pleasure in the curiosity his silence inspires in others. The impotent type, who wishes to speak yet never finds the right moment, and who is, in effect, a frustrated conversationalist. The austere type, who is not even tempted to confess his thoughts to himself. And finally the cautious type, which was perhaps the case of Herr Levin. Herr Levin had learnt to keep quiet when others voiced their opinions in order not to cause any awkwardness. His habit of silence might have proved terribly tiresome for him, were it not for the advantage it gave him of knowing others’ thoughts whilst they remained ignorant of his. And although he made no concrete use of this advantage, it seemed to him that this parsimonious use of speech was a form of moral capital which sooner or later would bring him dividends.

However, that evening Herr Levin was holding forth without moderation or caution, almost with abandon. Someone had touched on his favourite subject, interpretations of the Bible. He had mentioned the seven astral spheres, Ezekiel’s wheel, and thereafter he was unable to contain himself. Sophie, marvelling at this phenomenon, did her best to cut off the others so as to prolong his outburst. And yet, my dear Professor, Herr Levin argued, by calling himself the Gate , Jesus was clearly saying: You must open the gates, open them! That is, Christian teachings about love of God and of thy neighbour had a clear theosophical basis, ahem, what I mean is this wasn’t simple emotion but love in the Greek sense, or agape , an appreciation of the supreme truth of human experience, which belongs to us all equally, or to no one, in as much as all beings are made in the image of the one and should therefore act as one, should they not? Ahem. Upon close reading, the dynamic, centripetal, essentially creative nature of the divinity becomes clear, and in that sense, if I may be blunt, the heavenly bodies could be said to be copulating in the sky. All things copulate with one another and all is as it should be. Creation, my friends, is nothing more than an act of mutual fecundation … (Please, dear! interjected Frau Levin. These metaphors! But her reproach had the opposite effect — when she dared to disagree with her husband her ultimate submissiveness towards him became more evident. Professor Mietter looked at Herr Levin with an expression of contained horror, as though the ringlets of his wig were being singed. Each time the word copulate echoed round the yard, Hans and Sophie gave each other mischievous sidelong glances and tried to be solicitous towards Rudi, asking if he was hot, passing him a jug of something or smiling amiably at him) … and nature behaves like a living, volatile, organism. It is an infinite and infinitely subordinated cycle, that is, individual organisms are like tranquil pools which disturb the main current in order to intensify it. That is why there is no such thing as death, each individual is born of another being. The same applies to thought. Thought is also a force that evolves by feeding off everything, assimilating opposition. That is the law of the comet and the comet tail — they appear to be two separate entities but in fact one is the consequence of the other. Everything revolves in a circle of heat and this whole is the primordial oneness, the single living entity. The rest is appearance, pure reaction, ahem.

When Herr Levin’s spinning, thermal and centripetal energy appeared to abate, Sophie allowed herself to bring up a name she had for some time wanted to introduce in her salon. Refresh yourself, Herr Levin, try some of this tea from India we just received, I hope you like it, and, while we are on the subject of religion, have any of you read Schleiermacher by any chance? I hear he is a theologian who concerns himself with worldly affairs. Never heard of him, said Frau Pietzine, but I would very much like to try some of your Indian tea. Schleiermacher? Professor Mietter shrugged, bah. Tea from India, you say? Rudi perked up, from Jaipur or Madras? I’m not sure, Herr Gottlieb replied, relighting his pipe, I think it is from Calcutta. Herr Hans, Sophie continued, disheartened, what do you think? And I am not referring to the tea. I think Schleiermacher is a brave author, replied Hans, although he lacked the courage of his convictions. If, as he claimed, religion belongs in the realm of the emotions, the next step would be to acknowledge that the essence of God is subjective, that is, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, he feeds on human emotion. Don’t you think, Álvaro, that would have been more revolutionary than Descartes? For if reason itself depends on the existence of God then religion becomes irrefutable. However, if religion is born of the emotions … Herr Hans, Sophie grinned, contented, are you suggesting that a feeling cannot be reasonable? No, no, Hans said, blushing, I mean to say that some of Schleiermacher’s ideas were progressive and others reactionary, you need look no further than Schlegel to see how feeling took over. Schleiermacher began by saying “more education, less religion” and went on to declare that religion was the essence of humanity, what a pity! To have come so far only to lose his nerve! Attention, young man, said Professor Mietter, atheism can be the biggest expression of cowardice, “what I do not understand cannot exist” is hardly the bravest of slogans. Ahem, if you’ll permit me — Herr Levin joined the conversation once more after finishing his tea — I am prepared, Herr Hans, to accept the idea of the cowardliness of Catholicism, by which, dear Herr Gottlieb, dear friends, you must understand I do not mean Catholics themselves but the religious orthodoxy which, ahem, in some way aims to oppress its devotees. I can accept that, but I do not agree about the rest. There is no cowardice in divine thought, on the contrary it takes great courage to launch oneself into that abyss, because we cannot know what form it takes. Indeed, that is why, ahem, I insist that divinity is dynamic in essence and the heavenly bodies copulate in the sky.