I wrote back to her immediately, struggling with the brave, new words, even when it came to signing my own name: “Doktoro Jakovo Jozefo Sammelsohn.” Samelson? Samelsono? Zamelzono? I was uncertain if Es-perantistoj Esperanticized siajn nomojn, but I proceeded to do so with my own name, further announcing my allegiance to a cause that, I knew, was as near to Fraŭlino Bernfeld’s heart as the breath inside her lungs.
EACH DAY, FOLLOWING our lunch, Fraŭlino Bernfeld and I walked the Ring, arm in arm, in a comradely fashion. I must say: it was a delightful experience, speaking this silly, made-up language with a woman as beautiful as she. And indeed, I cherished it as a delicious irony that on the Ringstrasse, that grand Deutschophonic wreath of a boulevard, the international language should prove, for the time being at least, the most private of idiolects. We could confer in our natural voices at their normal volumes with no one understanding us, and except for the very real fear that we might be arrested as foreign spies, we could speak our minds openly. The intimacy was exhilarating. I felt as though I’d inhaled a draft of Ramsay’s newly discovered helium gas: my voice sounded funny to me, and I felt as though I were floating above the clouds. As far as I was concerned, I’d found my happiness in the Fraŭlino’s person. When I was away from her, I could think of nothing but being with her again; and when I was with her, I could think of nothing at all; and it was difficult for me to believe that I could feel this way if she in fact felt differently towards me.
However, since our first meeting in her apartment, when those looks of erotic curiosity had passed between us, she seemed to have reconsidered her attraction to me. Or perhaps I’d misinterpreted those looks in the first place. Naturally, I longed to clarify our standing, and yet I knew enough about myself to know that the anxiety attendant upon such an ambition would spoil my attempts to achieve it — indeed, each time I took a step closer to the subject, I could feel the Fraŭlino gliding away — and so I pushed for nothing.
We were in her mind, it seemed, merely geamikoj, “friends” in Esperanto, ge- being, as she informed me, one of Dr. Zamenhof’s most forward-thinking inventions, a prefix indicating that the word following it refers to members of both genders. “You see, Dr. Sammelsohn, hidden in the international language are all sorts of — oh, let’s call them linguistic promissory notes for the future.” Pro la venonto, she said: literally, “for that which will be coming.” “But then I see you’re laughing at me.”
I looked into her lovely face. Snowflakes glimmered in her hair and on her eyelashes and were melting on her cheeks.
“I’m laughing,fraŭino, yes, but not at you nor at what you’re saying. I’m merely happy to be in the company of someone who cares so much about something besides herself.”
She laced her arm again through mine, and we took a step forward. “These are, of course, just thoughts of my own. I haven’t spoken to the Majstro concerning any of this, you understand.” However, along the same lines, she’d noted other treasures hidden inside Dr. Zamenhof’s work: whenever possible, for example, thanks to the prefix mal-, words for negative things appeared to have no linguistic substances in themselves, but were merely the shadowy negation of their solar opposites.
“For example?”
“Oh, I don’t know …” she said. A pensive look dimpled her brow. “There’s no word in Esperanto for ‘old,’ for example. ‘Old’ is simply malnova, ‘not new’; or maljuna, ‘not young.’”
“Yes, I see, and what else?”
She squinted at the horizon of rooftops. “Well, theologically speaking, we say that evil has no substance in itself, that it’s only the absence of good, and interestingly enough, the Esperantan word for ‘evil’ also has no linguistic substance either. It’s simply malbono, the ‘un-good.’ ‘Darkness’ is the absence of light: mallumo. ‘Sadness’ is malgajeco or malĝojeco: ‘joylessness.’ The Majstro has never spoken or written about this openly. But in this way, I believe, the structure of the language harmonizes with its greater agenda.”
“Which is?”
She looked at me, as a schoolteacher might a student who’d mastered the entire curriculum, but still had no idea what the purpose of his lessons were. “Why, to produce goodness, of course!”
“Of course,” I said. “And I’m certain you’re right,fraŭino, although,” I couldn’t help teasing her, “in my own review of Dr. Zamenhof’s root words, I’ve noticed one or two exceptions to your rule.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the word war, for example,” which I uttered, by necessity, in German, “is milito, not merely malpaco, the ‘un-peace.’ “I felt cruel for having brought this vexing example to her attention, but charmed by the utter seriousness with which she approached it as a conundrum. Only because she took Dr. Zamenhof’s creation so seriously did a contradiction in its formation trouble her so deeply, whereas you or I might have simply shrugged off the entire thing. The day Dr. Zamenhof coined the word milito, we’d tell ourselves, was a day on which he was simply inattentive. Perhaps an abnormally heavy lunch had made his mind sluggish, and he’d forgotten his own secret principles.
“Yes, I’d noticed the same thing, and I’ve been meaning to write to the Majstro about it.”
“Or perhaps war isn’t always a bad thing, fraŭlino.”
“Now you’re just being stupid, Dr. Sammelsohn!”
“Just as love isn’t always a good thing.”
“Isn’t it?” she said, brushing my comment aside as lightly as she could. The truth is: I’d been waiting for the moment in which to bring the subject up. I could barely choke out the word love, it made me quite nervous to do so. And no sooner had I pronounced it than I felt a chill move in between us. The fraŭlino stepped away from me and pretended to stare at a part of the street where nothing exceptional was occurring.
“Or have you never loved unwisely,fraŭino?” I asked her as innocently as I could.
“That’s not really an issue here, Dr. Sammelsohn.” She brushed my question aside. “Although I applaud you for bringing up the word malsaĝe as an example of what I earlier meant. Proving your point, Esperanto also graces us with the word stulte, from which we may derive the noun stultulo, which is a double for the word idioto, fools being apparently so abundant Dr. Zamenhof felt the need for more than one word to encompass them all.”
“So the answer to the question is ‘no’ then, I take it?”
“The answer to which question? I believe we were discussing war.”
“The question of whether you’ve never loved unwisely.” I trailed along behind her. “Or been loved in a way that was not pleasing — malplezura — to you?”
“Malplezuriga,” she corrected me. “However, I think we’ve exhausted the usefulness of this particular topic.” She turned on me fiercely, her expression a warning not to proceed with my reckless flirtations, and suddenly, the day was no longer as pleasing (malplezura? malplezuriga? malplezuriĝa?) as it had been. I peered into Fraŭlino Bernfeld’s face. She seemed to be biting back tears. Obviously I’d touched something in her to a degree I hadn’t intended.
“I have to go now,” she said.
“I apologize,fraŭino, if I’ve — ”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There’s another appointment I’ve just remembered.”
Without another word, she dashed into the street.
“Wait,fraŭino!” I cried.
“What? What is it?” She hopped back onto the curb to confront me. “What is it that you want from me, Dr. Sammelsohn?”
I didn’t quite know what to tell her.
“We’ll still be skating on Saturday, won’t we? That’s all.”
She huffed out a breath, sighing so deeply, her rib cage seemed to collapse in upon itself. A vaporous cloud of condensation formed outside her mouth. The wind whipped her hair into her mouth, and she pulled it out with a mittened finger. Finally, she laughed and said, “I suppose we have to. Because you’re hopeless. No, you are! You can hardly conjugate your participles.”
Dibuko? Transmigrado? Metempsikozo?
There were concepts to which, I felt certain, Esperanto never had to bend itself.
(Leafing through La Plena Vortaro de Esperanto kun Suplemento and Le grand dictionnaire espéranto-français many years later, however, I was surprised to find the second and third words, if not the first, listed in the very forms I’d imagined for them.)
Despite my fears, Fraŭlino Bernfeld continued to see me, and I was overjoyed to find her on Saturday, already laced up and on the ice at the Heumarkt Rink. I sat down near a brazier and pulled on my own skates. The day was cold, and my muscles were stiff, and I had to dig into the ice to keep up with her. I had promised myself, come what may, that today I would declare my love for her. I would take my chances, and there would be no turning back. However, though we skated side by side, chatting amiably, she dashed away consistently at the first sign of a romantic declaration on my part. “Fraŭlino Bernfeld! Wait! There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you,” I cried after her. But she pretended not to hear me over the glistening whiz of the ice, hurrying off, as an undulating line of skaters whistled past me. My balance was thrown, and my legs went out from under me, and I dropped into the path of what looked, as he bore down upon me, like the national champion, moving with all the weight and speed of a locomotive engine. Unable to stop himself, he leapt over me instead — I was helpless to suppress a shriek — and skidded to an abrupt halt. I raised my arm, shielding my eyes against the prismatic sheen of icy sparks that fell across me, and struggled to sit up.
“Are you all right, sir?” he called out, resting his hands on his enormous thighs, his cheeks a cherry pink, steam issuing from his mouth.
“Fine, I’m fine,” I nodded irritably, muttering an unprintable epithet beneath my breath, unable to rise before Fraŭlino Bernfeld, having turned in time to witness my humiliation, skated to my aid.
“Mia doktoro! Kion vi faras?”
Seeing me stand and reassured of my well-being, the brawny skater flew off, but not before giving Fraŭlino Bernfeld a brisk masculine appraisal, ogling her person from the top of her hat to the point of her blade.
“Let’s get a warm drink, shall we? Some hot chocolate?” she said. Holding me by the arm, she led me through the kaleidoscopic shiftings of the skaters to the other side of the rink. We hobbled into the shelter. “Sidu ĉe la tablo, Doktoro, kaj me alportas du varmajn ĉokoladojn.”
“Jes, jes.” I obeyed her, seating myself at one of the shelter’s tables while she went off to get two hot chocolates. Feeling miserable, I watched the skaters whistling through the grey shafts of winter sunlight outside. The hut was heated by a number of braziers, and I was soon uncomfortably hot and had to unbutton my coat and unwrap my scarf. Waiting for the cocoa, Fraŭlino Bernfeld had begun a spirited conversation with the older man behind the counter, the owner of the concessionary by the looks of it. He had sucked in his belly and was standing straighter than he was clearly accustomed to. Fraŭlino Bernfeld rarely seemed to observe the transformation her presence occasioned in the men she encountered. For all she knew, the world was universally populated by a race of straight-spined, courteous gentlemen with little to do but pay exquisite attention to the woman standing before them. I couldn’t help but sigh. If this is the effect Fraŭlino Bernfeld has on all men everywhere, what chance do I have of successfully suing for her affections? Indeed, what was I, really, but one more flirtatious concessionaire?
She picked up the steaming cups and made her way back to our table. “There now,” she said, setting down the drinks. “What a pleasant fellow.” With her chin, she gestured over her shoulder towards the man.
“Was he?” I said, unable to muffle the petulance that crept into my voice, although I knew it did nothing but make my company a burden to her, more especially in comparison with the other men who so agreeably surrounded her.
“I must remind myself to carry a stack of promissory cards. You don’t have one on you, by any chance?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“Pity,” she said. “He seemed interested. I think he’d make the pledge.”
She wore a large hat with a wide brim and a woolen scarf with tassels. With the soft points of her elbows on the table in a rustic manner, she held the mug of steaming cocoa in both hands and raised it to her lips. She kept it elevated before her face, looking over its rim at me, her head to the side in an expression of curiosity, as though she’d just noticed something about me that she’d never seen before.
“Are you all right, Dr. Sammelsohn?”
I gave her a chagrined look. “Am I all right, fraŭlino?”
“That is to say: you’re not unwell?”
“Unwell?”
“Are you feeling well?” she added helpfully.
“As a matter of fact, no, I’m not.”
“Oh dear.” She returned her mug to the tabletop and assumed a serious manner, putting aside, as a concerned friend must on behalf of a friend, the frivolities of chocolate. “You’re sick then, I take it?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am.”
She edged back in her chair. “It’s a private matter?”
“Until now, it has been, yes.”
“Then perhaps it should remain so.” She made a small gesture with both hands as though she were drawing a border between ourselves and the subject. “I apologize,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“But you’re not,fraŭino, and perhaps it’s time the malady were made known.”
“You are sick?”
“I am, yes.”
“Oh!”
“Lovesick.”
Amo-malsana, I said, an awkward construction, I’m afraid, Esperanto having no real word for “sick,” sickness being merely the absence of health. I preferred it, however, to amo-naŭzita — nauseated by love — although at the moment, I was so nervous this second construction did, perhaps, more accurately describe my feelings. It troubled me, if only distantly, that the international language lacked the subtlety that enabled one to express a pleasant misfortune in it. One fell in love, linguistically at least, in much the same way one fell down a staircase: the chaos of tumbling, of leaping, of trilling uncertainty, of not knowing what the next step might bring were similar, I thought. The neologism must have taken Fraŭlino Bernfeld a moment to decipher, for her expression of perplexed concern did not, for that moment, change. Then, all at once, she glowered at me with an almost too beautiful mask of irritation, exhaling briskly through her nose.
“You’re in love?” she said. She sounded annoyed.
“I am. Indeed.”
“With a woman?”
“Of course, with a woman! What do you take me for?”
“No, I meant: do I know her?”
“Ho, Fraŭlino Bernfeld!”
“Who is she?” she demanded. “Someone I know?”
“Yes, she’s someone you know.” I could take no more of this wretched playacting. “You know the woman quite well, in fact,fraŭino, as she is no one but yourself!”
“Oh …” she said, and then: “Oh.”
It’s difficult to describe the shifting expressions with which Fraŭlino Bernfeld met my declaration. Her face brightened and darkened. She smiled and unsmiled. She looked like a person approac
hed on the street by a beggar who makes a number of pleasant inquiries, drawing his interlocutor into a warm conversation, doing everything he can to make it seem as though he is not a beggar, before finally asking for five kronen. Indeed, Fraŭlino Bernfeld couldn’t have appeared more appalled if I had, in fact, asked her for five kronen.
“Mi povas nenion fari,” I said meekly. I can’t help it. I took a sip of my cocoa and fiddled with my scarf.
“Of course, you can’t.” She placed her hands around her mug of cocoa and stared unhappily into it. “However, I must tell you that I’m not …” She hesitated, and I waited in an agony of impatience for her to finish the sentence. “Not free,” she finally said, and the sad, consoling smile she offered me disappeared as quickly as it was offered. “I’m not free.”
“Of course not. How could you be?” I said. “A woman as beautiful as yourself.”
“No,” she said, and she brought her fingers to my lips, where she left them. “Don’t misunderstand me. I haven’t pledged my heart. It’s my father who has arranged everything.”
Ah, of course! The mighty Hans Bernfeld would never leave his only daughter’s marriage to chance.
“I liked you from the moment we met, Dr. Sammelsohn, I really did. You were so charming and so sweet and so silly, but … I wasn’t free. Despite my attraction to you, which,” she lowered her voice, “was intense, I knew I couldn’t get to know you in that way. I never imagined you’d really become interested in Esperanto, but I was hoping you might, so that we could continue seeing each other. Indeed, it was all I wanted, and when I received your note, I was so happy. I was so happy, Dr. Sammelsohn. You were interested in Esperanto, after all! Although what I really wanted you to be interested in was me. Although then I couldn’t have permitted myself to see you. You understand. I enjoyed our afternoons so much, but each time I thought you were on the point of declaring yourself, I tried to distract you, to change the subject, anything, because once you had declared yourself, it would be impossible for us to continue meeting under the pretext of language lessons, and then I knew we couldn’t meet at all!”
A Curable Romantic Page 33
