Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
Traveler of the Century (23 page)
There it was, at lastâa glimpse of something deeper. Although Sophie was skilled at using irony to protect herself, Hans realised she had opened up to him a little. He decided to keep pulling on this thread by asking her questions. The tea had gone cold. Sophie did not ring for Bertold.
My mother? Sophie went on. From what I've been told she was rather pretty, and, like all women from here, domestically minded, fond of saving on clothes and staying at home. Well, that is my impression, my father has never described her to me like that. When I was a child and I asked people about her, they would say “Your mother was a great beauty!” so I ended up assuming no one considered her particularly intelligent. Her maiden name was Bodenlieb, which is a shame, because I far prefer her surname to that of my father. I'm afraid, had we known each other, she would have been a much better mother than I would a daughter. I imagine her as gentle, compliant, full of feminine virtues like Goethe's heroines, do you remember? “Women should learn to serve from an early age, for it is their destiny”âhow much we can learn from our masters! I for one don't intend to spend my days with flour up to my elbows. (You have no need, ventured Hans, your skin is already like flour.)
Is that meant to be a cheap compliment, Herr Hans? Let's call it a description. And stop chuckling, you seem far too friendly!
Is that meant to be a cheap compliment, Herr Hans? Let's call it a description. And stop chuckling, you seem far too friendly!
And yet, Hans ventured once more, your beloved Professor Mietter approves highly of such domestic virtues. If you'll allow me to be honest with you, Sophie, I find your admiration for him rather odd. I saw you give him your album the other day for him to write out one of his poems (don't fret, jealous one, she purred, I'll give it to you, too, so you may write one of yours), no, that isn't why I mention it (no, no, Sophie laughed, of course not), seriously, I don't write, I translate. Besides, I would never write a single verse in your album. (Oh, wouldn't you? And why not?) Because such albums are for showing to others, and what I would like to write in yours no one may read.
Sophie lowered her eyes, and for the first time she seemed uncomfortable. She quickly shrugged off her uneaseâshe despised feeling embarrassed, because it gave the other person the initiative. Hans savoured this moment, tried to memorise its essence, the way it had occurred.
I have great respect for Professor Mietter, said Sophie, recovering her composure, because regardless of his conservative views he is, or at least he was until you arrived, the only person I know with whom it is possible to discuss poetry, music or philosophers. Whether we agree or not, I enjoy listening to him and I learn a lot. And I value that more than any differences we might have. It is thanks to the professor, Hans, that the salon has become what it is. I know you dislike him, and I wouldn't like to think this is because he is the only person there who is your equal. If he didn't come the others probably wouldn't come either. Everyone here admires him and reads his articles in the
Thunderer
. He is by far the most cultured person in Wandernburg, and I can't afford the luxury of rejecting his conversation. In addition, as I was unable to attend university, it is a privilege for me to include a professor at my salon. If all that were not enough, my father holds the
professor in high esteem, and sees in him a kind of guarantor that nothing untoward will happen in the salon. How could I not appreciate him? We also play duets with him on the cello, and you, dear Hans, can't even play the harmonica.
Thunderer
. He is by far the most cultured person in Wandernburg, and I can't afford the luxury of rejecting his conversation. In addition, as I was unable to attend university, it is a privilege for me to include a professor at my salon. If all that were not enough, my father holds the
professor in high esteem, and sees in him a kind of guarantor that nothing untoward will happen in the salon. How could I not appreciate him? We also play duets with him on the cello, and you, dear Hans, can't even play the harmonica.
Frau Gottlieb, Hans smiled, I confess your eloquence would be reason enough for any man, Professor Mietter included, to lose his head.
Sophie stared at him, blinking, as if she had forgotten something.
Touché
, Hans thought, that makes two hits.
, Hans thought, that makes two hits.
Well, she parried, and what about you? You also went to university, and I think it thoroughly ill-mannered of you not to have regaled me with stories of your student days in Jena. True, said Hans, with the unease that always assailed him whenever he was questioned about his past. Well, there isn't much to tell, I began studying philology when (philology? Sophie said, bewildered. Didn't you say philosophy), no, no, philology, I always wanted to be a translator, which is why I studied philology (at Jena, wasn't it? said Sophie), yes, at Jena, between 1811 and 1814. Those were years of great conflict. I felt a mixture of utter political disillusionment and a continued allegiance to certain ideals. The question I kept asking myself then, and which I still ask myself, wasâhow the devil could we go from the French Revolution to the dictatorship of Metternich? (A sad question, said Sophie.) Or, more generally, how the devil had Europe gone from the
Déclaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen
to the Holy Alliance? I remember Fichte had just published his
Addresses to the German Nation
and Hegel his
Phenomenology of Mind
, as though they had both had the foreboding that Germany was about to undergo a change. Soon afterwards, the resistance to Napoleon began, funnily enough just as Schelling's
Of Human Freedom
and Goethe's
Elective Affinities
were published, do you realise I've always wondered how far history influences the titles
of books. But they all, starting with Goethe, went on supporting the alliance with Napoleon. They saw him as a hero who had dared wage war on feudalism and its archaic laws (get to the point, Sophie implored, get to the point), no, you'll see I'm not digressing, I'm reminding you of this because the French troops once more occupied the northern territories, and in the meantime there were more reforms, academic freedoms, equal taxation, the abolition of serfdom, many things, and then (and then? Sophie said, impatiently. You went to university), exactly, I went to university, and, well, it was a confusing time. In Jena (yes, yes, tell me about Jena) the memory of the poetic circle lived on, all those revolutionaries who were either dead, had stopped writing or had renounced their beliefs. We students inherited what was left of their legacy, let's say, but also the reactionary turn that events were about to take. And so we were chasing something that had already gone. I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but that's what it's been like my whole life.
Déclaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen
to the Holy Alliance? I remember Fichte had just published his
Addresses to the German Nation
and Hegel his
Phenomenology of Mind
, as though they had both had the foreboding that Germany was about to undergo a change. Soon afterwards, the resistance to Napoleon began, funnily enough just as Schelling's
Of Human Freedom
and Goethe's
Elective Affinities
were published, do you realise I've always wondered how far history influences the titles
of books. But they all, starting with Goethe, went on supporting the alliance with Napoleon. They saw him as a hero who had dared wage war on feudalism and its archaic laws (get to the point, Sophie implored, get to the point), no, you'll see I'm not digressing, I'm reminding you of this because the French troops once more occupied the northern territories, and in the meantime there were more reforms, academic freedoms, equal taxation, the abolition of serfdom, many things, and then (and then? Sophie said, impatiently. You went to university), exactly, I went to university, and, well, it was a confusing time. In Jena (yes, yes, tell me about Jena) the memory of the poetic circle lived on, all those revolutionaries who were either dead, had stopped writing or had renounced their beliefs. We students inherited what was left of their legacy, let's say, but also the reactionary turn that events were about to take. And so we were chasing something that had already gone. I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but that's what it's been like my whole life.
Sophie looked at Hans. Hans looked at Sophie. Sophie said things to him with her eyes. Perhaps Hans translated them.
Bah! he said. I'll go on. In that situation, most of us knew we would become nomads, constantly searching, never completely in one place. We would spend hours in the university archiveâa dust-filled corridor lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. It was much better than going to lectures, it was like going on a journey, getting lost and accidentally discovering marvels. On one of the top shelves, whether to protect or hide them I don't know, I found some copies of the Schlegels' magazine,
Athenaeum
. They were very dog-eared and we fought over them. These were rich yet meagre pickings, six editions, three years, nothing. Holding these journals was like clutching the remains of a shipwreck, we still believed a magazine could change our lives! (But wasn't that true? said Sophie.) I don't know, you tell me, are we already jaded? Or were we naive? (Mmm, let
me think, perhaps both things are true?) Our generation was a borderline, we were the last to study before Metternich's repression began, but we were also the first to lose faith in the Revolution. We didn't know which to fear moreâoccupation or liberation. Support for Napoleon dwindled as he started losing battles. (And you, what were you doing?) Me? I was preparing for my final exams when Napoleon retreated and the accursed Congress of Vienna was set up. When I finished university, France had to apologise even for the good things it had done, while we, the so-called victors, had the dreadful restoration foisted on us, and, well, you know the rest. The old regime came back to defend the old order, and that was that. I remember student demonstrations and movements calling for unity, which of course never came about. It was one thing for the monarchies to unite, but quite another for the people to unite, wasn't it? Then came the decrees, the repression, the religious censorship, in short, all that shit, if you'll forgive my language. (don't offend me, sir, by assuming I would take offence at the word
shit
when used appropriately), well, you know what I mean. Suddenly, the interests of the nation officially turned against every principle of the Revolution, as though we had never collaborated with Napoleon, never written the eulogies we wrote about him, never signed the treaties we signed. The funniest thing is that it was the Spanish then the Russians who weakened the emperor, who had marched through Germany without anyone batting an eyelid. (All right, but how did things end for you at the university, what was it like? Sophie insisted.) It was strange, we read Hegel's essays, the Brothers Grimm, a book about Goethe's patriotic work, imagine! Suddenly we had no idea what to think of the fatherland. Quite frankly, I'm surprised the country's youth did not go mad. Or perhaps it did? And then there was the final ironyâthe great Schlegel, the young freethinker of Jena, became press secretary to the
regime. I saw all my heroes surrender, and I could not help wondering, when will my turn come?
Athenaeum
. They were very dog-eared and we fought over them. These were rich yet meagre pickings, six editions, three years, nothing. Holding these journals was like clutching the remains of a shipwreck, we still believed a magazine could change our lives! (But wasn't that true? said Sophie.) I don't know, you tell me, are we already jaded? Or were we naive? (Mmm, let
me think, perhaps both things are true?) Our generation was a borderline, we were the last to study before Metternich's repression began, but we were also the first to lose faith in the Revolution. We didn't know which to fear moreâoccupation or liberation. Support for Napoleon dwindled as he started losing battles. (And you, what were you doing?) Me? I was preparing for my final exams when Napoleon retreated and the accursed Congress of Vienna was set up. When I finished university, France had to apologise even for the good things it had done, while we, the so-called victors, had the dreadful restoration foisted on us, and, well, you know the rest. The old regime came back to defend the old order, and that was that. I remember student demonstrations and movements calling for unity, which of course never came about. It was one thing for the monarchies to unite, but quite another for the people to unite, wasn't it? Then came the decrees, the repression, the religious censorship, in short, all that shit, if you'll forgive my language. (don't offend me, sir, by assuming I would take offence at the word
shit
when used appropriately), well, you know what I mean. Suddenly, the interests of the nation officially turned against every principle of the Revolution, as though we had never collaborated with Napoleon, never written the eulogies we wrote about him, never signed the treaties we signed. The funniest thing is that it was the Spanish then the Russians who weakened the emperor, who had marched through Germany without anyone batting an eyelid. (All right, but how did things end for you at the university, what was it like? Sophie insisted.) It was strange, we read Hegel's essays, the Brothers Grimm, a book about Goethe's patriotic work, imagine! Suddenly we had no idea what to think of the fatherland. Quite frankly, I'm surprised the country's youth did not go mad. Or perhaps it did? And then there was the final ironyâthe great Schlegel, the young freethinker of Jena, became press secretary to the
regime. I saw all my heroes surrender, and I could not help wondering, when will my turn come?
Unclasping her fingers, Sophie asked: Is that why you travel constantly? In order to keep starting again all the time? Staring at Sophie's fingers, Hans smiled and said nothing.
Bertold (during his comings and goings in the corridor, or his pretence at coming and going) chose that moment to enter the room. Hans and Sophie looked around them. The sun had stopped streaming through the windows, a few shreds of light clung to the balcony railings. They had a sudden feeling of frustrated intimacy, as though, unthinkingly, they had fallen asleep without managing to touch each other. They had said many things and had told each other nothing. Fräulein, shall I light some candles? No thank you, Sophie replied, we're fine as we are. Shall I bring more tea? No thank you, Bertold, Sophie repeated, you can go now. In that case ⦠Bertold said, without moving.
And, in that case, he was obliged finally to leave the room.
The moment they were alone, with the same urgency as the fading light, Sophie uncrossed her legs and sat up straight in her chair. Listen, she said, we've spent hours talking of politics and I don't even know where you were born. I know nothing about your family, your childhood. We're supposed to be friends.
Caught by two opposing forces, one driving him forward to be closer to her, the other forcing him to withdraw in order to protect himself, Hans was paralysed. Forgive me, he said, I'm not used to speaking about that. Firstly because where a person is from is purely accidental, we are the place we find ourselves in. (Perfect, she sighed, more philosophy, and secondly?) And secondly, my dear Sophie, because there are certain things, which, were I to reveal them, no one would believe.
Sophie sank back in her chair. Vexed, she said: I think that's unfair. You know my house, my father, things about me. And
yet I scarcely know anything about you. I don't even know why you want to go to Dessau, or wherever it is you're going. If that's the way you want it, so be it.
yet I scarcely know anything about you. I don't even know why you want to go to Dessau, or wherever it is you're going. If that's the way you want it, so be it.
No, no, Hans hastened to explain, that's not true, of course you know me. You know very well who I am. You know what I think, you share my tastes, you understand my responses. And besides, you nearly always guess what I'm feeling. Is it possible to know anyone better than that? But, Sophie insisted, is there something unspeakable, something that might shock me? Because even if there was, Hans, I swear I'd rather know about it. I'm here with you, he said, how could you hope for anything better? So that's how much you trust me, she murmured, folding her arms. My confidant is hiding the truth from me.
Hans watched Sophie withdraw completely. And he knew he had no choice but to lose all restraint. In a fit of recklessness, considering they could be seen from the corridor, and even though they could hear Herr Gottlieb in his study, he rose from his chair and grasped Sophie by the shoulders (she sat, arms still folded, gazing up at him in bewilderment) and declared: Sophie. Listen. Believe me. I've been traveling a long time, and I've never, never ⦠I trust you. I do. And more.
More? Sophie asked, in a less hostile tone, still with her arms crossed, trying to hide the thrill she felt at suddenly having her shoulders grasped, at feeling Hans touch her for the first time, and also trying to hide the fact that she had not resisted as she ought. She was unsure whether to unfold her arms, aware that leaving them folded was a protection against any sudden impulses. Her own, not those of Hans.
I just want to be certain, Sophie said, that you are being honest with me.
Once Hans realised she had decided to stay, he loosened his grip very slowly and sighed. I believe in being honest, too.
But sometimes honesty requires us to remain silent. Love, for example â¦
But sometimes honesty requires us to remain silent. Love, for example â¦
Sophie started when she heard this word, and looked at her arms, as though unsure of what to do with them. She immediately realised Hans had gone back to theorising, and felt a mixture of relief and regret.
⦠Love, he went on, which is the highest expression of trust between two people, is founded upon a lie. Those who love one another, even though all through their lives they have lied or secretly changed, are suddenly supposed to love someone else without knowing who the other really is. To me this is the greatest lie of allâto assume that it is absolute, sacred, a duty, as if those of us who love (and here, safe inside his theorising, Hans contemplated her open lips) were not relative, impure, unpredictable. That is why I ask you, Sophie, would it not be more profoundly honest to love from this starting point?
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