Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
Traveler of the Century (44 page)
They turned in circles as they held one another, and Sophie came to a stop beside the open trunk. She tried discreetly to take in as much as she couldâa few scattered notebooks, objects of indeterminate usage, heaps of jumbled papers, piles of books of unusual colours and with strange bindings she had never seen before. When Hans turned to pour himself a glass of water Sophie began rifling through the books in the trunk. What's this? she said, holding up a volume. That? he replied. Victor Hugo's
Cromwell
. Yes, she said, but where did you get it? Ah, it was sent to me, why? Oh, nothing, Sophie said, bemused, just that it says it was published in Paris by Ambroise Dupont in ⦠Yes, yes, he cut in, plucking the book from her hand, a recent publication with a very interesting preface, Brockhaus sent it to me, they may translate it next year. Shall we begin working, my love? It's getting late.
Cromwell
. Yes, she said, but where did you get it? Ah, it was sent to me, why? Oh, nothing, Sophie said, bemused, just that it says it was published in Paris by Ambroise Dupont in ⦠Yes, yes, he cut in, plucking the book from her hand, a recent publication with a very interesting preface, Brockhaus sent it to me, they may translate it next year. Shall we begin working, my love? It's getting late.
They sat on opposite sides of the desk, each with a quill and with an inkwell in the middle. The job consisted of making a small selection of the most contemporary French poets. Hans and Sophie exchanged books and magazines (odd copies of
Le Conservateur littéraire
,
Globe
,
Annales
or
La Minerve
) and they noted down the authors they most liked. This young man is right, she
remarked, underlining the prologue to
New Odes
, it makes no sense to classify authors as either classical or Romantic, what would Goethe be for example? A rather Romantic classicist? Or Hugo, for that matter, who is a Romantic among classicists, what do you think? I agree, said Hans, I suppose the Romantics are restless classicists. What saddens me about Hugo or this other fellow, Lamartine, is that they should be so young and yet be staunch monarchists and Christians, Chateaubriand seems to have infected everyone! Quite, Sophie laughed, and the more they declaim the more they seem to encounter God along the way. Hugo is good, isn't he? Hans said, leafing through one of his works. He seems more aware than the others, and yet there is something, how can I describe it, something irritating about him, isn't there? Sophie thought for a moment: He sounds as if he takes himself terribly seriously. Exactly! said Hans, moreover he is the son of one of Napoleon's generals and calls himself a viscount, so you can just imagine, all that
grandeur perdue
, and oh woe is me! Do you know what, she said, it seems to me modern French poetry has a rather pathetic air for that very reason, you can tell it was written after the fall of an empire. Write that down! Hans said brushing her shoulder with the feather end of his quill.
Le Conservateur littéraire
,
Globe
,
Annales
or
La Minerve
) and they noted down the authors they most liked. This young man is right, she
remarked, underlining the prologue to
New Odes
, it makes no sense to classify authors as either classical or Romantic, what would Goethe be for example? A rather Romantic classicist? Or Hugo, for that matter, who is a Romantic among classicists, what do you think? I agree, said Hans, I suppose the Romantics are restless classicists. What saddens me about Hugo or this other fellow, Lamartine, is that they should be so young and yet be staunch monarchists and Christians, Chateaubriand seems to have infected everyone! Quite, Sophie laughed, and the more they declaim the more they seem to encounter God along the way. Hugo is good, isn't he? Hans said, leafing through one of his works. He seems more aware than the others, and yet there is something, how can I describe it, something irritating about him, isn't there? Sophie thought for a moment: He sounds as if he takes himself terribly seriously. Exactly! said Hans, moreover he is the son of one of Napoleon's generals and calls himself a viscount, so you can just imagine, all that
grandeur perdue
, and oh woe is me! Do you know what, she said, it seems to me modern French poetry has a rather pathetic air for that very reason, you can tell it was written after the fall of an empire. Write that down! Hans said brushing her shoulder with the feather end of his quill.
They finally chose Hugo, Vigny, Lamartine and, at Hans's request, a young, virtually unpublished poet called Gérard de Nerval. He proposed they each translate two poets and then correct one another's versions. She suggested they read the finished drafts aloud to see how they sounded.
Hans raised his head, laid down his quill and said: I like Nerval a lot, he writes as if he were half-asleep. Moreover his German is excellent and he spends his time traveling, and do you know what else, he's a translator, he just translated
Faust
, and Goethe says his French version is better than the original. The poem I'm going to read you isn't in this little volume, I found it in the
latest copy of
Muse parisienne
and it's my favourite:
Faust
, and Goethe says his French version is better than the original. The poem I'm going to read you isn't in this little volume, I found it in the
latest copy of
Muse parisienne
and it's my favourite:
THE HALT
The carriage halts and we step down,
Slip between two houses in the town
Dazed from the noise of horses, road and whips,
Eyes tired from looking, and aching hips.
Slip between two houses in the town
Dazed from the noise of horses, road and whips,
Eyes tired from looking, and aching hips.
Â
Then all at once, silent and green,
A lilac-covered vale is seen,
A stream midst poplars making play,
And road and clatter seem far away.
A lilac-covered vale is seen,
A stream midst poplars making play,
And road and clatter seem far away.
Â
Stretched in the grass our lives we feel;
The fresh-mown hay makes senses reel,
Minds are blank as we gaze heavenward,
Alas! Until we hear the shout: “All aboard.”
The fresh-mown hay makes senses reel,
Minds are blank as we gaze heavenward,
Alas! Until we hear the shout: “All aboard.”
Very you, she nodded thoughtfully, very you. The question would beâis the voice at the end simply the cry of the coachman? Or is the traveler hearing his destiny because he is unable to remain in the place where he is happy? Sophie lowered her head and continued translating.
Presently, her foot sought out Hans's foot. Ready! she declared. Actually I have a soft spot for this little poem by Hugo. I'll start with the first three verses, which are the only ones I'm more or less happy with:
WISH
If I could be the leaf
Spinning on the wings of wind
Or floating on rapid waters
Or that the eye follows in a dream
Spinning on the wings of wind
Or floating on rapid waters
Or that the eye follows in a dream
Â
Still green I would gladly fall,
Freeing myself from my branch
To the morning breeze
Or the stream of evening.
Freeing myself from my branch
To the morning breeze
Or the stream of evening.
Â
Far beyond the rushing flood,
Far beyond the dark forest,
Far beyond the deep abyss,
I would escape, swift as I could.
Far beyond the dark forest,
Far beyond the deep abyss,
I would escape, swift as I could.
Bravo! said Hans, although I see your leaf doesn't wish to stay where it is either! Yes, replied Sophie, but unlike your traveler the leaf isn't free, it is trapped in its birthplace, and longs to fly away before it withers.
They worked on two more poems and when it was nearing six o'clock they took a break. They decided to correct their drafts the next day and to leave Vigny and Lamartine for the following week. Then Hans went over to the trunk, searched for a couple of volumes with dark bindings and gave Sophie an impish look as he handed them to her. She read the namesâTheophile de Viau, Saint-Amant, Saint-Ãvremond. Aren't these the ⦠she said, surprised. Yes! Hans nodded, the old French libertines. And are we going to translate them? asked Sophie. Yes, we are, he said. But aren't they banned? she said. Indeed, he grinned, but there's a very simple way round that. Because they appear in the official censorship list under their noms de plume, I have managed to convince Brockhaus to publish them under their given namesâMarc-Antoine Girard and Charles Marguetel. We will call it something innocuous such as
Amusements
, and, being ignoramuses, the censors won't notice a thing. And if by
any chance they do, we will claim we had no idea these eminent men of letters were the selfsame libertines. That won't work with de Viau because he never used a nom de plume, but since his
Libertine Ballads
were published anonymously over two hundred years ago, we will keep them anonymous and wash our hands of the matter. I don't know if it will work, but we won't have to take responsibility. The publisher knows how to deal with that kind of thing. The idea of translating them excites me, they did as much for the French Revolution as Voltaire, Montesquieu or Rousseau. Listen, listen:
Amusements
, and, being ignoramuses, the censors won't notice a thing. And if by
any chance they do, we will claim we had no idea these eminent men of letters were the selfsame libertines. That won't work with de Viau because he never used a nom de plume, but since his
Libertine Ballads
were published anonymously over two hundred years ago, we will keep them anonymous and wash our hands of the matter. I don't know if it will work, but we won't have to take responsibility. The publisher knows how to deal with that kind of thing. The idea of translating them excites me, they did as much for the French Revolution as Voltaire, Montesquieu or Rousseau. Listen, listen:
ON THE RESURRECTION
Then came the happy day, if we believe in history,
When the Creator, crowned as he was in glory,
Cheated his own death and defeated Hell.
Friend, if you believe that, you're a donkey's arse,
We nailed him there with our eyes wide openâ
When he returned to life, he was all alone!
When the Creator, crowned as he was in glory,
Cheated his own death and defeated Hell.
Friend, if you believe that, you're a donkey's arse,
We nailed him there with our eyes wide openâ
When he returned to life, he was all alone!
That de Viau was a terror, Sophie chuckled, Father Pigherzog would love that! Further on he turns serious, said Hans:
Why all these bells and all these masses?
Do you think you can revive the dead?
Let us rather wisely share the news
That the soul dies with the head.
Do you think you can revive the dead?
Let us rather wisely share the news
That the soul dies with the head.
Sophie ran over to sit on his lap. Well, my libertine, she said, her skirts enveloping his legs, why not leave poetry until tomorrow and do something for our mortal flesh?
Â
We have to do something, said Elsa, her leg rocking beneath
her dress. The doors of the Central Tavern creaked, and Ãlvaro turned to see who was coming in. Even though he knew they were unlikely to bump into anyone he knew there, he felt jumpyâhe seldom met Elsa in public places. We have to do something, I tell you, she insisted, I can't go on living like this, in that house, Fräulein Sophie makes me cover up for her almost every day, I can't stand that idiot Bertold, and Herr Gottlieb is drinking more and more (Elsa, darling, said Ãlvaro, your position in the Gottlieb residence isn't as bad as all that, I assure you I know many houses where). Nonsense! A servant is a servant! Don't you see? (Of course I do, said Ãlvaro, all I'm saying is that Herr Gottlieb pays you a decent wage and.) Decent? Decent according to whom? (All right, Ãlvaro said, lowering his voice, I'm sorry, but they treat you with respect, don't they?) You call that respect? Don't make me laugh! Look, do you want to know how I learnt to read? Do you? Well, I'll tell you. Before I went to the Gottliebs, my mother packed me off to work for the Saittemberg family, do you know them? Yes, well, them. Anyway, it may surprise you to know that I taught myself to read aged fourteen thanks to the love letters Silke Saittemberg received from her paramour. Fräulein Silke would give them me to hide under my mattress because she knew it was the only place her father would never find them. Yes, my dear, I learnt to read from those letters, and that wasn't all, I also learnt that we servants live off the masters' leftovers, we thrive on their scraps, Ãlvaro, and a servant has to take every opportunity, like I did with Fräulein Silke's love letters. I would read them at night, copy them out word for word and use them to study grammar with the help of a book I stole from Herr Saittemberg's library.
her dress. The doors of the Central Tavern creaked, and Ãlvaro turned to see who was coming in. Even though he knew they were unlikely to bump into anyone he knew there, he felt jumpyâhe seldom met Elsa in public places. We have to do something, I tell you, she insisted, I can't go on living like this, in that house, Fräulein Sophie makes me cover up for her almost every day, I can't stand that idiot Bertold, and Herr Gottlieb is drinking more and more (Elsa, darling, said Ãlvaro, your position in the Gottlieb residence isn't as bad as all that, I assure you I know many houses where). Nonsense! A servant is a servant! Don't you see? (Of course I do, said Ãlvaro, all I'm saying is that Herr Gottlieb pays you a decent wage and.) Decent? Decent according to whom? (All right, Ãlvaro said, lowering his voice, I'm sorry, but they treat you with respect, don't they?) You call that respect? Don't make me laugh! Look, do you want to know how I learnt to read? Do you? Well, I'll tell you. Before I went to the Gottliebs, my mother packed me off to work for the Saittemberg family, do you know them? Yes, well, them. Anyway, it may surprise you to know that I taught myself to read aged fourteen thanks to the love letters Silke Saittemberg received from her paramour. Fräulein Silke would give them me to hide under my mattress because she knew it was the only place her father would never find them. Yes, my dear, I learnt to read from those letters, and that wasn't all, I also learnt that we servants live off the masters' leftovers, we thrive on their scraps, Ãlvaro, and a servant has to take every opportunity, like I did with Fräulein Silke's love letters. I would read them at night, copy them out word for word and use them to study grammar with the help of a book I stole from Herr Saittemberg's library.
Wait a moment, wait a moment, said Ãlvaro, do you read Sophie's letters, too? She bowed her head and stirred her lukewarm coffee. Elsa, answer me, do you read them? Yes, Elsa
confessed, but I'd never show them to anyone else, I swear! I only read them out of curiosity, and habit (Elsa, Elsa, my girl, he said clasping her hand, you know that's wrong), we all do things knowing they're wrong, look, Ãlvaro, I'm only doing what they do, taking advantage of my position. Think of Fräulein Silke's letters, if I'd been discreet, as you would probably have advised, I'd be nearly illiterate now. (You're right, said Ãlvaro, what I'm trying to say is that Sophie values you and you'd have difficulty finding that elsewhere.) I don't plan to go elsewhere to carry on doing the same thing! And my love, don't fool yourself, you should know better at your age, Fräulein Sophie is kind, I have no complaints about the way she treats me, but I'd feel a lot more comfortable if she stopped pretending we're friends, because we aren't. I'm her maid. Her servant. I wait on her. I help her to dress. I listen to her. What more does she want? Must I love her too? (You're a hard one, said Ãlvaro.) Not with you (really? he grinned), no. I just want us to live together, to begin another life. (Don't be in such a hurry, Elsa.) But time is racing by! And if you'll forgive me for saying so, my love, you have less time than I do. (If you think I'm so old, why do you like me?) Because I like my men like that, old!
confessed, but I'd never show them to anyone else, I swear! I only read them out of curiosity, and habit (Elsa, Elsa, my girl, he said clasping her hand, you know that's wrong), we all do things knowing they're wrong, look, Ãlvaro, I'm only doing what they do, taking advantage of my position. Think of Fräulein Silke's letters, if I'd been discreet, as you would probably have advised, I'd be nearly illiterate now. (You're right, said Ãlvaro, what I'm trying to say is that Sophie values you and you'd have difficulty finding that elsewhere.) I don't plan to go elsewhere to carry on doing the same thing! And my love, don't fool yourself, you should know better at your age, Fräulein Sophie is kind, I have no complaints about the way she treats me, but I'd feel a lot more comfortable if she stopped pretending we're friends, because we aren't. I'm her maid. Her servant. I wait on her. I help her to dress. I listen to her. What more does she want? Must I love her too? (You're a hard one, said Ãlvaro.) Not with you (really? he grinned), no. I just want us to live together, to begin another life. (Don't be in such a hurry, Elsa.) But time is racing by! And if you'll forgive me for saying so, my love, you have less time than I do. (If you think I'm so old, why do you like me?) Because I like my men like that, old!
Elsa finished her cold coffee. Why don't we go away? Don't pull a face, not for ever, just on a trip, we could go to England, I've never been to England. (That's impossible, he murmured, letting go of her hand, I mean, not for the time being at least.) Why not, tell me, why not, explain to me, be truthful, I implore you, are you ashamed to be in love with a servant, is that it? (Of course not, Elsa, he said, clasping her hand once more, how can you even think that!) Why then? Because we mustn't be seen together? Who are we hiding from? (And what about now, here, aren't we being seen together?) Oh come, come, you know perfectly well your rich friends never frequent this tavern. (What? What are you saying? Do you want us to meet in the
Central Tavern next time or in Café Europa or wherever you like, is that what you want?) No, my love, I don't want to meet you in a tavern or anywhere else, what I want is to be free, not to hide any longer, to leave that house once and for all, that's what I want. I want to do other things. I'm not young any more (you look younger than ever to me. And lovelier), don't flatter me. Oh don't flatter me.
Central Tavern next time or in Café Europa or wherever you like, is that what you want?) No, my love, I don't want to meet you in a tavern or anywhere else, what I want is to be free, not to hide any longer, to leave that house once and for all, that's what I want. I want to do other things. I'm not young any more (you look younger than ever to me. And lovelier), don't flatter me. Oh don't flatter me.
Tell me, she said, letting him kiss her hand, what is England like? (Big, Ãlvaro said with a sigh, and complicated.) Well I want some complication in my life. In any case, I've started studying English. Seriously! Why are you laughing, silly? Don't you believe me? Don't you â¦
no ⦠believe me not
? she said, partly in English. And for your information â¦
know you now that I â¦
that I don't intend spending the rest of my life like this! â¦
being a
⦠(
A maid
, smiled Ãlvaro, the word is
maid
, Elsa, I don't believe it!) Well you'd better believe it, silly,
maid
you say? Well, being a
maid
, then, anyway my love, dear
dear
, start getting used to the idea, and I don't know why you're so surprised. If you can learn to speak German, I don't see why I can't learn English, or Spanish even. (Of course you can, I believe you're capable of anything, and besides I like it Elsa, I like it.) Do you? â¦
Mucho bien!
Because I've seen a Spanish grammar at the house too. In a few months I'll be giving you lessons in your own language!
no ⦠believe me not
? she said, partly in English. And for your information â¦
know you now that I â¦
that I don't intend spending the rest of my life like this! â¦
being a
⦠(
A maid
, smiled Ãlvaro, the word is
maid
, Elsa, I don't believe it!) Well you'd better believe it, silly,
maid
you say? Well, being a
maid
, then, anyway my love, dear
dear
, start getting used to the idea, and I don't know why you're so surprised. If you can learn to speak German, I don't see why I can't learn English, or Spanish even. (Of course you can, I believe you're capable of anything, and besides I like it Elsa, I like it.) Do you? â¦
Mucho bien!
Because I've seen a Spanish grammar at the house too. In a few months I'll be giving you lessons in your own language!
Elsa, he said, I love you, you know that. You'd better! she said, rubbing her leg against his calf and revealing a stockinged ankle.
Â
Other books
The price of victory- - Thieves World 13 by Robert Asprin, Lynn Abbey
Pig Island by Mo Hayder
Where the Bones are Buried by Jeanne Matthews
Another Life Altogether by Elaine Beale
I Saw Your Profile by Swan, Rhonda
Torment Saint: The Life of Elliott Smith by Schultz, William Todd
This Cowboy's Heart by Cia Leah
The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim by Jonathan Coe
Her Teddy Bear by Mimi Strong