Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

It was then they saw the fly.

What do we have to translate today, she asked slipping back into her white stockings. The Italians, he said, and the Portuguese. But first look at this.

Hans searched through his trunk and passed Sophie a copy of Atlas . In the centre pages was a selection of a young French poet they had translated together. And, underneath the heading, an introductory note accredited to Sophie. What’s this? she said, surprised. When did I write this? You didn’t, he replied, you said it. That day, I wrote down your ideas, copied them out, and sent them off together with the poems. And as you can see, the publishers of the magazine thought it was brilliant. C’est la vie, mademoiselle Bodenlieb .

We can do nothing with Camões, said Hans, because he’s already published and the translations are good. Have you heard of Bocage? You haven’t? He has no reason to envy the greats. I’ve jotted down some queries, there are a few verses I don’t quite understand, what does pejo mean exactly, and capir ? We have this (Hans handed Sophie a small, thick volume: A Pocket Dictionary of Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and German Languages , published in London in 1799), have a look at the poems.

Hark Marilia to the shepherds’ pipes,

Their merry lilt, their happy sounds!

How the Tagus smiles! And can you hear

The breezes dancing among the flowers?

See how in their playful love

They invite our most ardent kisses!

Look how innocent from plant to plant

The idling butterflies splash their colour!

Over in yonder bush waits the nightingale,

While amongst its leaves hovers a bee

Or suddenly buzzes through the stirring air!

Such a happy landscape, so clear a morn!

And yet if in seeing this I saw not thee,

Worse than death it would seem to me.

Yes, said Sophie, I think “breezes” works better than “zephyrs”. What about the butterflies, asked Hans, is “floating” better than “idling”? No, no, said Sophie, “idling” is better, because it gives the impression they take their time going from flower to flower, and inadvertently show us their colours.

Sophie worked in silence, head down. She went over the different versions, copied them out and consulted the dictionary. Hans became caught up watching her, so serious and concentrated, the long fingers of her right hand stained with ink, and he found her terribly beautiful. He tried to go back to the draft of the sonnet he had translated, but something buzzed in his ears like Bocage’s bee. Then he said: How is Rudi? Sophie looked up; Hans didn’t mention him very often, for which she was grateful, and she was surprised. Well, said Sophie, he is all right, he seems to have calmed down. On Monday I received a jet bracelet and a mother-of-pearl comb, so I suppose all is well.

Importunate reason, pursue me not;

Your harsh voice whispers in vain

If with terms of love or force of gentleness

You rule not, nor contrast, nor soften;

If you attack the mortal instead of giving succour

If (knowing the disease) you offer no cure,

Let me linger in my madness;

Importunate reason, pursue me not;

Your aim, your wish is to corrupt my soul

With jealousy, make me victim of the one

Who fickle I discern in others’ arms—

You wish me to abandon my love

To accuse and scorn her, while my desire

Is to bite, go mad, to die for her.

You’ve done a perfect job, Sophie smiled.

They finished the jug of lemonade Lisa had brought, and moved on to the Italians. In my view, said Hans, Leopardi is the best of the new poets, although he’s still very young. I also proposed a few articles by Mazzini to the magazine, but the editor thought them too scandalous and said this wasn’t a good time to publish them, but going back to what we were saying, I found these poems by Leopardi in the Gazzetta della Nuova Lira . Tell me which you prefer.

Sophie read them and chose Song of Ancient Fables and Saturday in the Village , which reminded her of weekends in Wandernburg when she was a child. Hans suggested Song for Italy because, he said, he liked poems that spoke with disenchantment about the fatherland, whatever that happened to be.

I see oh Italy! the walls, the arches,

The columns and the images,

The lonely towers of our ancestors;

And yet I nowhere see the glory

Or the iron and the laurels that once bedecked

Our forefathers. Today, prostrate,

Your forehead bare, and bare

Your breast, you stare back at us.

In Leopardi there seem to be two kinds of nostalgia, Hans asserted, I prefer the personal one. I see what you mean, she said, his historical nostalgia sounds imposed; the other is much more physical, as though it came from real experience. Here for instance:

The young maid comes in from the fields

As the sun is setting o’er the land

Carrying her load of hay; while in her hand

She bears a bunch of roses and violets,

To use on the morrow as is her wont

For a day of celebration,

As decoration on her bosom and her hair.

On the steps with her neighbours

The old woman sits and spins,

Facing the sky where the day is fading,

Telling stories of the happy times …

Isn’t it moving? said Sophie, the way the young girl with the posy and the old lady spinning meet fleetingly in the street? The girl must be in love, because she has brought a posy from the fields, which she will take to tomorrow’s fair. Yet for the old lady there is no tomorrow, what she sees is the close of day, and she waits for nightfall, spinning. I can just see her watching the girl pass by, smiling, then turning to one of her neighbours and saying: When I was a young girl … Anyway, shall we go over it again? No, no, replied Hans, it’s fine as it is.

… O playful boy, your flowering youth

Is like a day full of delights,

A calm and cloudless sky,

Herald of the celebration of your life.

Enjoy, my child, the sweet state

Of this happy season.

I say no more; but if perchance

That celebration tarries, fear thee not.

I much prefer this tone! Hans said, excitedly, it sounds far more authentic! The best thing when tackling important themes is to pretend to be discussing very simple things.

In front of the watercolour’s reverse side, Sophie combed her hair slowly, as one weighing up the day. Arms and legs crossed, still excited, Hans contemplated her from the bed in the very way he had said important subjects should not be considered — with solemnity. He didn’t know why Sophie’s meticulous, wistful way of dressing moved him so, as if those exquisite gestures of withdrawal encompassed a miniature farewell.

You are my good fortune, you know, Hans whispered. She stopped combing her hair, turned and said: I know what you mean, my love, the same thing happens to me, I get up each morning, I remember I’m going to see you, and I feel the urge to give thanks. But then I come to my senses and say to myself, no, this wasn’t good fortune, it was an act of boldness, our boldness. You could have left and you stayed. I could have ignored you and I did the exact opposite. All of this was intentional, magically intentional. (You sound like the old man, said Hans.) What old man? (The organ grinder, of course, who else?) Ah, speaking of which, when (yes, yes, soon), in fact, do you know, sometimes I think we haven’t been fortunate. I mean, we could have met somewhere else or later on. Sometimes I try to imagine what it would be like to live in other times, maybe things would be easier for us then.