Traveler of the Century Read online

  The deacon stammered his way through the Epistle, and the choir sang the Gradual. Frau Pietzine sang along, her bosom swelling. Father Pigherzog finished blessing the incense, recited the Munda cor meum and began reading the Gospel in the calming voice Frau Pietzine loved so much—he was such a wise, simple man who was dedicated to his calling. But what might hers be? she wondered. What should it be now? How many sins would she commit not because of straying voluntarily from the path, but because she was lost? And why the devil did these new shoes of hers pinch her feet so? Oh forgive me, Hail Mary! Father Pigherzog had begun his sermon and was cautioning his flock against the dangers of the mechanical rationalism of our day that could so easily lead to a vulgar form of atheism, a life without God, turning men’s souls into mere merchandise. Life, brothers and sisters, insisted Father Pigherzog, is not a transaction or an act of convenience. Living, my brothers is to act without looking, to look only into our own conscience, honouring with sanctity the … (Why, dear God, Frau Pietzine lamented, why did I buy them, however pretty they are, when I knew they were too small? It serves you right for being avaricious, how right Father Pigherzog is!) … much less the wretched materialism that holds sway, yes, holds sway over our families, our jobs, even our newspapers. Ah, my brothers, those newspapers! Those scurrilous pamphlets! We do not say reading is sinful in itself, nor that … (Praise the Lord, Frau Pietzine thought, relieved, in that case romances are …) … But tell me now, to what kind of reading do we refer? Does the complete freedom so vigorously demanded by some necessarily mean the impunity of the word, sin in print, heresies for purchase? … (But the romances I read are loaned to me, Frau Pietzine thought, justifying herself) … than decency? Can entertainment be said to be as worthy as virtue?

  Suscipe sancte Pater, they prayed, offering the bread and wine, which the deacon nearly spilt over the sides of the chalice. Offerimus tibi, Domine, Father Pigherzog intoned, glaring at the deacon out of the corner of his eye. And the incense floated up, dispersed and was gone. While the choir finished chanting the offertory, the priest washed his hands intoning the lavabo. Frau Pietzine adored watching Father Pigherzog as he washed his hands—he had the purest, most trustworthy, comforting hands of any man (well, she corrected herself, not exactly a man, or at least not in that sense, he was more than a man, or less, or both?) she had ever known (known and touched, but in the pure sense of the word). This was why her favourite parts of Mass were the Eucharist, the lavabo and above all Communion—receiving Communion from the hand of Father Pigherzog (who had just said Orate, fratres) was like exchanging lies for truth, the taste of flesh for the crystal waters of the spirit. The priest recited the final prayer and said: Per omnia saecula saeculorum. And the choir said: Amen.

  The bread came apart like cotton wool. Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum—how easily Father Pigherzog broke the bread! After the Agnus Dei, the priest kissed the deacon and the deacon hoped Father Pigherzog had forgiven him for having almost spilt the wine. When the priest wet his rough lips in the blood, Frau Pietzine’s breathless bosom shuddered as the moment of Communion approached—it was she who had asked Father Pigherzog to allow the parishioners to receive Communion. The priest took the host plate from the altar boy, holding it between his second and third fingers, holy, pure, learned fingers! Libera nos, and when it was time for the words da propitious, he crossed himself and held the plate beneath the host. The altar boy uncovered the chalice, bowed, and the priest took the host, broke it in two, obliging wafer, nimble fingers, Per eundem, and half of it fell gently onto the plate while the other broke into pieces, weightless specks, Qui tecum, per omnia. With what infinite care and grace, oh Lord, did Father Pigherzog make the sign of the cross three times with the half he was holding in his right hand, Pax Domini, above the chalice. As he dipped the morsel into the chalice, Haec commixtio, rubbing his fingers together in order to purify them, Frau Pietzine’s eyes rolled up.

  Back in the sacristy, Father Pigherzog slumped into his armchair with a sigh. When he saw the sacristan standing before him as though waiting to receive his next orders, the priest waved his arm to dismiss him. If the boy were as bright as he was obedient, he thought to himself, we would be in the presence of one of the chosen. Father Pigherzog plucked the volume entitled Notes on the State of Souls from a pile of reading matter, and placed it in his lap. He opened it at the last entry, reread a few paragraphs, dipped his quill in the ink pot and wrote the date in fine Roman numerals. He raised his eyes searching for the right words.

  … whose attendance at prayer has failed to lead her away from certain worldly interests. As a relatively young woman of xxxxxxxx healthy appearance, it is to be hoped the aforementioned Frau Pietzine will change her life. In order to do this it is essential for her to devote more time to the nourishing duties of motherhood, and, above all, not to let her mind stray so much. As for her dedication to prayer, she gives herself to it with such zeal that on occasion it seems (caeli remissione) she is trying to convince God of something rather than praying to Him. It should be noted that, within her limitations, she is excellently disposed towards listening. Express disapproval of her attire at subsequent meetings.

  … in such a way that, as far as I can gather from her account, the closer she comes to the Roman Catholic faith, the more her husband, A N Levin, abandons himself to outlandish studies of the Kabbala, Palestino-Alexandrian doctrines and God knows what else besides. Every sin finds the absolution it seeks, but complacency is a different kettle of fish. I refer briefly, as an example, to some of the many heresies with which Frau Levin’s spouse attempts to confuse his wife, clouding her understanding of the Scriptures. Taking random quotations such as “We speak the wisdom of God in a mystery” out of their doctrinal context and distorting them by relating them arbitrarily to others such as “But God has revealed them unto us by the Spirit” (1 Corinthians 2:7–10), which the foolish man reads as a mysterious conclusion, arguing that Paul understood the need to interpret the sacred principles of Christianity as a coded language inasmuch as “the letter killeth but the spirit giveth life” (2 Corinthians 3:6) and that Paul himself told the converts and initiates that divine wisdom could not be imparted (1 Corinthians 3:2). According to his deviant interpretation, this implies that biblical studies should be based upon Samosatenian treatises and Leovigildian readings, as though the Word of God were a mere introduction to other unrelated words or parables. Consider the degree of apostasy in these considerations, and take into account the known inclination of the circumcised towards the language of doubt and paradox. Strongly advise Frau Levin, for the sake of her nascent faith, to frequent other places and people at least for the time being.

  … for, in his case, his immaculate manners and attire are but the outward manifestation of the richness of his soul. After questioning him about his illustrious parents’ impression after the betrothal dinners, the aforementioned Von Wilderhaus the younger replied, with customary discretion and graciousness, that they had found Herr Gottlieb’s residence pleasant and simple, avoiding any allusion to their host’s financial difficulties. In contrast to his fiancée, we have no objections to this virtuous gentleman. With the exception of his habit of taking snuff, a trifle at all events.

  … his unspeakable desire to revel in xxxxxxxx repugnant images, over which he shows no hint of remorse nor yet of frailty. Continued use of hair shirt appears not to have diminished his aberrant appetites. Warn seminarists so that they take all necessary precautions with him. Try immersion in ice-cold water and castor-oil concoctions.

  … extremely satisfactory, inasmuch as not only has he found employment, but he continues to learn to read and write. Such exemplary cases as his nourish the souls of those who are acquainted with them and recompense the difficulties of our tireless mission.

  … and his wife’s forgiveness, which shows an encouraging change in both their attitudes. Besides the sufferings endured by the good woman, who has recovered from her bruises, special mention should be made of the supreme
torment undergone by the paterfamilias, whose conscience will act as a guiding light. Space out confessions as harmony is restored to the household.

  … consider it appropriate to include an addendum to the last quarterly accounts of lands given in concession by the Holy Mother Church, as well as to update Your Excellency, whose hands I kiss and whose humble servant I remain, on the progress of contributions. Having previously informed Your Excellency that these had diminished by seventeen per cent from an average of half a thaler per parishioner to the current eight groschen per parishioner at Sunday Mass, thus amounting to an overall reduction in the parish revenue of twenty-two ducats gross, I am relieved today to be able to report that this tendency was reversed at the end of March, thanks to the pious influence of the religious holidays, and, dare I say, to our humble yet tireless labours, which Your Excellency in his benevolence will doubtless recognise with generosity when in his xxxxxxxx infallible judgement he deems it opportune and necessary, as has always been the case. Special mention should be made of the inestimable goodwill of the noble Herr Rudolph P von Wilderhaus and the most excellent Ratztrinker family, whose regular donations of alms and stipends have also continued to increase, giving the lie to malicious rumours about an alleged rapprochement with Lutheran sects in Berlin, and demonstrating once more their unequivocal devotion to the Holy Mother Church that watches over us all. And lastly I come to a list, revised only yesterday, of families in arrears, and peasants who have failed to pay their tithes. I have written out the sums for Your Excellency in descending order of the amounts owed, a more efficient method, if I may say so, than the one hitherto employed of writing them out in alphabetical order …

  Every Friday, five minutes before making his entrance into the salon, which he had begun attending more regularly since his formal betrothal to Sophie, Rudi Wilderhaus would send ahead a footman, who would barge into the drawing room carrying an enormous bouquet of white flowers. A whiff of expectation filled the air, of hope about to be fulfilled. Rudi knew how to manipulate this to perfection, waiting with theatrical timing before rapping with the left door knocker and deploring the state of the roads or the growing amount of traffic. Bertold bowed fulsomely, relieved Rudi of his cape, while the scar on his lip stretched as far as it would go: Welcome, Herr Wilderhaus, oh, no, you’re not late at all, the others have only just arrived, yes, of course, Fräulein Sophie was delighted with the flowers, Herr Wilderhaus, you know I’m entirely at your disposition and always will be in this or any other residence, Herr Wilderhaus, as you may see fit.

  Besides the flowers, that afternoon Rudi had brought with him a gilt cameo. Hans liked to think Frau Pietzine and Frau Levin were more impressed with it than Sophie, for whom it was destined. During the first hour of debate, Rudi would make an effort to take part, interposing brief or at any rate agreeable comments. After that his contributions would gradually diminish amid discreet yawns, which Rudi ably camouflaged thanks to his snuffbox, turning his boredom into an expression of contemplation. The only thing he kept up all evening (and this hurt Hans more than anything else) were the admiring glances he directed at his fiancée, so distinct from the rather regal manner with which he contemplated the other guests. Each time Rudi made an affectionate gesture towards her, Hans looked for a space in the bustle of the room, from which he could watch Sophie in the round mirror on the far wall. And although he would invariably discover her eyes smiling back at him, he saw none of the irony he had hoped for in them. In the confusion of Hans’s emotions, on Fridays Sophie was two different women. One was the delightful accomplice with whom he exchanged furtive whispers. The other, duplicated in the mirror, the perfect hostess, the mistress of her secrets who not only accepted Rudi’s attentions but returned them. This behaviour, which Hans found so contradictory, was the only honourable way Sophie had of being coherent—Hans was her friend, perhaps her closest friend now, and she was not prepared to renounce this connection between them, this frisson which so thrilled her, and to which, of course! she had and would continue to have every right, whatever her civil status; yet Rudi was to be her husband—as of October she would be living with him, and she was loath to make him jealous or to foolishly ignore the important commitment they had made. Not to mention her poor father, who had for so many years put the happiness of others before his own, and whom she had no intention of mortifying by showing Rudi less affection than circumstance demanded.

  Aside from this, did she love Rudi? Had she grown accustomed to loving him? Well, perhaps. Not completely. Was she naive enough to believe all women were madly in love when they married? When it came down to it, wasn’t marriage a social convention, an amalgam of family interests? In which case, what obligation did she have to feel, or convince herself she felt, a consuming passion? In the same way pleasure and love could clearly exist separately, despite what her priggish friends believed, could love and marriage coincide or not depending on each case? Would she live like every other silly young woman waiting for a ridiculous Prince Charming to come along? Precisely because marriage was an artificial institution, was it not hypocritical to imagine that every wedding should take place in the throes of a mutual passion? Rudi loved her, and this to her seemed a good place to start if he were to respect her wishes and not ride roughshod over her, as had happened to so many of her friends. As for her, well, she loved him in part, but in part she did not, not yet. But time, according to popular wisdom, could heal all. And if Rudi went on treating her with the same consideration, naturally he would end up winning all her wifely respect. Which, in view of everything, was a good start!

  But much of this reasoning escaped Hans, who, in his anguish, could only conceive simple questions—if she doesn’t truly love him then why the devil is she marrying him? And if she does, then why do I feel she feels something else? As for her fiancé, how did he behave? That was the most uncomfortable part—notwithstanding his natural arrogance, his hunched shoulders and the unbearable squeaking of his patent-leather pumps, Rudi was surprisingly courteous to him. Surprisingly? Perhaps this was an exaggeration. Rudi, who was no philosopher, was no fool either—he was aware Sophie had forged a friendship with Hans that went beyond the civilities of the salon. And, knowing his fiancée’s rebellious spirit, he realised it was far more dangerous to question that friendship or to show his dislike for Hans than to be polite towards him. Rudi was perfectly aware that, provided he played his cards right, he had and always would have the upper hand over any opponent—after all, he was a Wilderhaus.

  Don’t talk to me about von Weber, Professor Mietter said, banging a teaspoon against his cup, von Weber is nothing compared to Beethoven! Ahem, insisted Herr Levin, I am not suggesting he is, Professor, but surely you must agree opera was never Beethoven’s forte. A single movement of his—may God rest his soul!—is worth more than all the librettos, scores, stage sets, even the entire orchestra of your von Weber’s operas put together! Beethoven’s music has the ability to soothe men’s souls. Do you know why? Because Beethoven knew how to suffer. If the listener has also suffered, he feels a bond with Beethoven’s music. Alternatively, if he is happy then listening to it makes him feel relieved. Rudi, my dear, what do you think? asked Sophie, keen for her fiancé to give his musical opinion. What do I think about Beethoven? Rudi faltered. No, replied Sophie, about von Weber. I see, Rudi prevaricated. Well, I won’t be the one to deny his merits. Von Weber is not bad, not bad, of course. Hans tried to catch Sophie’s eye in the mirror, but she avoided him and ordered Elsa to bring more canapés. Rudi made an effort, adding: Mozart is the one I like. Do you know his opera The Magic Flute? (Vaguely, Hans hastened to agree, with sly courtesy.) Well, I saw it performed recently and, well, it is, it has, without doubt it is a most original work, don’t you agree Sophie darling? Although I haven’t much time, I find going to the opera exceedingly agreeable (how could he even think of saying exceedingly? thought Hans), indeed, my father and I have two annual season tickets for the Berlin Opera House. Also, and I mention this in case an
y of you are interested, I have a box at L’Opéra, une vraie merveille! Don’t you think we ought to go, beloved? What? declared Frau Pietzine, her eyes lighting up. A box at L’Opéra, and you say it so casually? Madame, Rudi replied, tugging his lapels, one word from you and I shall place a carriage at your disposal. Ahem, if I may be so bold as to ask, said Herr Levin, the price of the season ticket is? … Ah, replied Rudi, let me think, I never remember these things, I don’t believe it is very expensive, provided one uses it! (Rudi concluded with a guffaw that caused Sophie to turn to Elsa once more to tell her that the jellies were watery. How could Petra have put so much water in the jelly!) L’Opéra, yes, the professor murmured, realising he hadn’t spoken for some minutes. Herr Mietter, said Rudi, if you ever want a box at L’Opéra, I have friends who could offer you one for little more than a florin. You are very kind, Herr Wilderhaus, replied the professor, however, on my occasional trips to Paris I usually go to L’Opéra already. Do you really? Rudi smiled, somewhat put out. How interesting, a magnificent building, is it not? Indeed, Herr Wilderhaus, the professor said, and as you so rightly say, it isn’t easy to find seats in a box. It so happens an old friend of mine, an exiled Argentinian general, lives there and gets me tickets. He is a rather sad man, he doesn’t seem like an army officer, his only aim in life is to educate his daughter. (Very commendable, very commendable, Herr Gottlieb applauded.) Argentinian? said Álvaro, I have always wanted to travel to the Río de la Plata, has anyone ever been there? Hans was about to nod, but thought better of it and remained silent. Whatever for? asked Rudi, it is so far away! Indeed, said Professor Mietter, these Argentinians are very restless, they are everywhere at the moment. They have a penchant for Europe and seem to speak several languages. They talk incessantly about their own country, but never stay there.