Traveller of the Century Page 18

  What a shame, said Álvaro, that there isn’t a good theatre in Wandernburg. Quite, Sophie agreed. Bah! said Professor Mietter. You only have to travel a short distance. I wish we had operas in Wandernburg! Frau Pietzine sighed. Incidentally, Monsieur Urquiho, are you not an enthusiast of Spanish operetta? More or less, Madame, replied Álvaro, more or less. Ahem, in my humble opinion, Herr Levin reflected, theatre is superfluous. I beg your pardon? Professor Mietter said, astonished. Well, explained Herr Levin, I think actors do on stage more or less what the audience does at home, that is, they pretend. Whenever I go to a farce I think to myself: Why I am paying to see this, when all I need do is look behind closed doors! In that case, Sophie said, delighted by Herr Levin’s quirky sense of humour, at least the theatre shows us how to behave, that is, how to pretend. For me, Álvaro joined in, theatre doesn’t reflect real life, it ridicules it. I think theatre allows people to transform themselves, said Hans, on stage men can be women and slaves can be kings. My idea, declared Professor Mietter, and here we must agree with Schiller, is that theatre constructs public models to educate audiences. The aim of theatre is to depict opposing forces and to demonstrate convincingly that good prevails. And what about Shakespeare, my dear Professor? Sophie ventured. He is brilliant because he portrays evil in a convincing manner, his plays attempt to explain wickedness. Shakespeare, Mademoiselle, replied Professor Mietter, censures evil in the opposite manner. I adore operetta, said Frau Pietzine, the costumes are delightful, and, I confess, I have a weakness for anything with animals in it.

  Frau Pietzine seemed to be overcome by an attack of cultural enthusiasm. She nodded violently, making her necklaces quiver. She laughed euphorically at Álvaro’s comments, with which she tended to agree. She questioned Hans about every country, opening her eyes wide and fluttering her eyelashes. She clasped Sophie’s hands and exclaimed: What a clever girl! Have you ever seen such a thing! Or she admired Rudi’s elegance despite his silence. All in all, it was probable that hours of lonely sobbing awaited Frau Pietzine when she returned home. Now, at her insistence, the conversation had turned to romances and historical novels. Everyone there (including Herr Gottlieb, who had just wound up the clock and said goodnight before retiring to his study with Rudi to discuss some details of the dowry) declared they had read one or more of Walter Scott’s novels. This great Scotsman, asserted Herr Levin, is far more than a simple novelist. (Fair enough, said Álvaro, but what is so simple about being a novelist?) Ahem, he is a painter, a poet! Álvaro, who was the only one who had read him in English, said that in Great Britain people would queue to buy his books, and that the translations he had seen, the Spanish ones in any case, were truly atrocious and all copied from the French. Frau Pietzine thought it unnecessary to be able to read English in order to understand the knights of old, and that, notwithstanding certain excesses typical of those benighted times, she wished modern life had preserved the colour, loyalty and chivalry of Scott’s stories. Then, for the first time Professor Mietter and Hans agreed on something, and they stared at one another in bewilderment—neither of them liked Walter Scott in the slightest. The professor said he lacked historical accuracy and credibility. Hans accused the author of being a reactionary, and affirmed that a single ironical verse by Robert Burns was worth more than any of Scott’s moralising novels. You really don’t find them charming? said Frau Pietzine with surprise. Those melancholy landscapes! Those noble bandits! Those fiery passions and ferocious battles! What gallantry and emotion, what fearless exploits! Life, my friends, is becoming more and more dull, don’t you think? Madame, said Álvaro, I see that gallant knights turn your head. Beaming, Frau Pietzine seized Sophie’s hand and replied: I am not the only one. My dear, let us leave these learned gentlemen with all their knowledge, I am sure you as a woman understand—is there anything more heart-rending than these heroines who are prepared to sacrifice everything for love, for their one true love, who will endure anything rather than renounce their feelings? Where can we find such loyalty today? My dear friend, replied Sophie, you know how much I value your opinion, yet I confess all these tragic women alarm me. Writers and readers love heroines, but they must be dead ones. And the wretched creatures are forced to sacrifice themselves hither and thither. Could we not have heroines who are a little happier? Frau Pietzine blinked a few times, but was soon smiling dreamily once more. Of course, my dear girl, of course, even so, aren’t they marvellous? I mean, is it human to remain unmoved when the Knights Templar discover the terrible curse of the chalice in The Secret of the Clashing Sword? Or by the heart-rending final cry in The Unrepentant Temptress? Or when the old king reveals the truth to his son in Sir Highwolf in the Nameless Tower? Can anyone who has a heart not tremble when reading of the vengeance in Hindu Passion on the Cliff Edge or the fire in the castle in Rhythm’s Last Stand? Your trouble, Madam, Álvaro sympathised, is that you are too big-hearted.

  The problem is, Professor Mietter declared, too many books are published. Everyone these days believes they can write a novel. As an old man (you exaggerate, Professor, don’t be so coquettish, remarked Sophie), oh well, more or less, what funny ideas you have, mein liebes Fräulein, thank you, but as a relatively old man I can still recall the time when a book was a rare adventure, and I don’t mean the kind the knights of old embarked upon! The adventure was getting hold of a real book. In those days, each one was a treasure and we expected it to yield important knowledge, something conclusive. Nowadays people prefer buying a book to understanding it, as though by purchasing books one appropriated their content. I, on the other hand. Excuse me, Professor, Herr Levin interrupted, don’t you think it was far worse before than it is now, because almost no one could read? And, ahem, let’s not forget that if we are to have good bookshops, good translations, reprints of the classics, and so on, we need readers who like to purchase books. The market, the market! the professor declared, don’t come to me singing the praises of the …

  Just then Sophie sought Hans’s image in the round mirror and noticed he looked pensive. She turned to him, reading his eyes, and concluded he had something to say on the matter. Monsieur Hans, Sophie said encouragingly, calming the debate between the professor and Herr Levin, you haven’t spoken for a while, and we are beginning to be alarmed by all this silence. So, if you please, explain to us why you dislike historical novels? Hans sighed.

  Let’s see, he began, it isn’t so much that I dislike them. In my view Walter Scott’s romances, not to mention those of his imitators, are a fraud. Not for being historical, but because they are anti-historical. I am passionate about history, which is why I regret the current trend for historical novels. I have nothing against the genre, but it is rarely done justice. I believe the past should not be a distraction, but a laboratory in which to analyse the present. These romances usually portray the past either as a rural idyll or a fake hell. And in both cases the author is being dishonest. I mistrust books that imply the past was much nobler, when even the author wouldn’t go back there if he could. I equally mistrust books that try to convince us the past was worse in every respect, as this is usually a way of detracting from present injustices. What I mean is, and excuse me for sermonising, the present is also historical. As for the plots, I find them superficial. Full of action yet empty of meaning, because they do not interpret that period nor the origins of this one. They are not really historical at all. Romances use the past as a backdrop instead of as a starting point for reflection. For example, their plots rarely link passion and politics, or culture and feeling. Of what use is it to me to know exactly how a prince dressed if I know nothing of how it felt to be a prince? And what about the timelessness of these romances? Or are we to believe history changes while love stays the same? Not to mention the style, oh dear, the style of these historical novels! With all due respect, I have difficulty understanding why these adventure stories continue to be told as though nothing else had been written since the romances of the age of chivalry. Doesn’t language evolve, doesn’t it have its own
history? But I’ve talked too much again. I beg you to forgive me.

  On the contrary, dear Monsieur Hans, Sophie smiled, what do the rest of you think?

  The afternoon light shone through the lace curtains, filling the room with lemons. Everything around the windows sparkled. Sophie ensconced herself in a brightly lit armchair, as though she had sat down on the sun. Hans was opposite her smiling, his leg crossed at right angles, stroking his ankle. Herr Gottlieb, who was now accustomed to Hans’s presence in the house, was working in his study. Sophie had told Elsa not to disturb them and she was resting up on the second floor. From time to time Bertold would appear to ask if they needed anything, or to keep an eye on them, or both. Hans felt happy—Sophie and he had just had lunch together for the first time. They now exchanged confidences daily, and, if they were unable to meet, they sent notes back and forth to one another between Stag Street and Old Cauldron Street. Occasionally, Hans had the impression that Sophie was oddly close, that a gesture or a word would be enough to shatter the distance between them, while at other times he thought she would never lose control. It was he who was unsure, who appeared to vacillate, perhaps because he was free to stay or to leave, to keep trying or to give up. Sophie seemed perfectly conscious of the boundaries imposed by her circumstances and she moved within them without ever overstepping the mark, like a ballerina dancing along the edge of a line.

  She was laughing as she told him about her education as a child—she laughed because it didn’t amuse her in the slightest. I never went to school, Sophie said, there you have a perfect excuse for my bad behaviour. It is true that at home everything was at my disposal, they wanted to turn me into everything I’m afraid I have become. They began by teaching me writing, arithmetic and singing. When I was six they hired a French governess whom I adored, but who I now suspect was a very unhappy woman. In her own way she was, or tried to be, the mother I never had. She would read Les Magasins des enfants and the tales of Madame Le-Prince to me, and she always insisted on perfect manners, toujours en français naturellement. The poor woman never tired of showing me how to drink tea properly, how to play the piano without mussing up my hair, the exact way to hold my skirts when I was in a hurry, things like that. Don’t laugh, silly! You don’t even know how to sit on a chair properly! Just look at you! For a girl like me who preferred rolling in the snow and capering about, training like that would have been an ordeal had I not swiftly learnt that good manners were a way not of being good but of being bad without anyone noticing. When I saw that children who lied more openly were more severely punished, I resigned myself to all these lessons in etiquette. When I was nine I became quite a nuisance and my father hired an English tutor who taught me English language and culture. At that time, please stop laughing, will you, I would cut off locks of my hair if I forgot my lessons. Later, almost an adolescent, a professor of grammar, Latin and theology taught me. You’re the pedant! Look who’s talking! Theology was awful, so I pretended it was a Latin class. I can’t really blame my father—he had a peculiar daughter and he did everything he could to please her without abandoning his own principles. That’s why I respect him, however old-fashioned … No, thank you, Bertold, I already told you we don’t need anything, you can go … The time came when I grew bored of private tutors and insisted on going to university. Each time I brought up the subject, my father would say to me: My child, you know very well that as your father I’ve always been careful to provide you with the best education, I’ve never prevented you from reading books other girls are forbidden from reading, etc etc. But to send you to university, to allow you to mix with all those students, to lead the same life as they do—do you realise what you are asking? And he lectured me on the privileged education he had given me, which after all was true enough. I kept telling him I didn’t want any more privileges, that I was fed up with being an exception and that all I wanted was to study the way other people did, etc. Anyway, I don’t wish to complain too much. And so I limited myself to regular visits to Wandernburg public library. To be honest, I never completely accepted not being able to study at Halle University. No, no, you’re very kind, it’s too late, and besides it would be impossible. It just would, Hans. Even so, you know, I sometimes imagine I’m far away from here, I fantasise about unknown places, new faces, foreign languages. But I immediately come down to earth with a bump, and realise I’ll never leave here. Do you honestly not know why? Because everything keeps me here! My father, my betrothal, convention, my childhood, doubt, you know the kind of thing, fear, apathy, everything. There are always too many forces, like magnets, pulling at people born in a city like Wandernburg. I am different? Well, thank you from the bottom of my heart, you are truly kind, but don’t be so sure. I may think differently from the people here, but I’m not convinced I am different; in any case I sometimes have my doubts. No, listen. Seriously. There is something that unites me with the others, that unites all of us Wandernburgers—a feeling of fatality. When we close our eyes and say the word home we cannot help but think of here, do you understand? Yes, I might be deluding myself. I could listen to you talk of your travels and envisage the whole wide world. But deep down, Dieu sait pourquoi, as my governess used to say, I know I’ll never leave Wandernburg. If our grandparents and our parents were unable to leave, and despite their denials I know they tried, why should we succeed? So as to change our fate? Hans, my dear Hans! The moment you’re off guard you seem like an optimist.

  There it was, at last—a 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”—how 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!

  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.