Hans looked at Reichardt, drained his glass and said: What you just said is brilliant. “Everything’s the same, but diminished.” I don’t think you realise how brilliant, damn it. I’ll realise whatever you like, as long as you pass the bottle, Reichardt retorted. In short, said Álvaro, there seem to be two types of people, wouldn’t you say? Those who always leave and those who always stay put. Well, and there are also those of us who first leave and then stay put. The way I see it, the organ grinder asserted, is this—there are those who want to stay put and those who want to leave. All right, said Álvaro, but wanting to leave and leaving aren’t the same thing. Take me, for example, I’ve wanted to leave Wandernburg ever since, well, it doesn’t matter, for a long time now, yet look, I’m still here. Thinking of leaving is one thing, but actually doing it is another. My dear man, the organ grinder said, am I not always on the move? But you’re different, said Hans. (No, no, said the organ grinder, letting Franz lick the palm of his hand, we’re just like everyone else aren’t we, boy?) You know where your home is, you’ve found your place, but apart from a few exceptions like you (and Franz, the organ grinder said, don’t forget Franz), seriously, though, I think that in order to know where we want to be we have to travel to different places, get to know things, people, learn new words (is that travelling or running away? the organ grinder asked), that’s a good question, let me think, well—it’s both, travelling can also be running away, but that’s not a bad thing. And running away isn’t the same as looking ahead either.
Lamberg spoke once more: I’ve always dreamt of running away to America. To America or any place where you can start afresh. I’d like to start afresh.
Lamberg went quiet and gazed into the fire as if attempting to read a map in the flames.
The organ grinder’s bony fingers played along Franz’s flank as the dog began to fall asleep. I’ve hardly travelled at all, he said, and honestly, Hans, I admire all the things you’ve seen. When I was young I was afraid to travel. I thought it might lead me astray. Lead you astray? said Hans, puzzled. Yes, explained the organ grinder, I thought it might lead me into thinking my life was different, but that this illusion would last only as long as I went on travelling. I don’t know, Álvaro reflected, leaving or staying, perhaps that’s a simplistic way to look at it. In fact, it’s impossible to be fully in one place or to leave it completely. Those who stay could always have left or could leave at any moment, and those who have left could have stayed or could always come back. Doesn’t virtually everyone live like that, on the frontier between leaving and staying? Then you’d feel at home in a port city, like Hamburg, Hans said. I had a home once and lost it, sighed Álvaro. I’ve just remembered an Arabic proverb, Hans said, placing a hand on Álvaro’s shoulder—he who follows a path becomes the path. What the hell does that mean? said Reichardt. I don’t know, Hans grinned, proverbs are ambiguous things. The best path is a winding path, declared Álvaro. Is that another proverb? Reichardt asked, belching. No, replied Álvaro, I just made that up. The best path, Reichardt ventured, is the one that leads to the sea. I haven’t seen the sea in thirty years! The best path, suggested the organ grinder, is the one that leads you to the point of departure.
For me the best path, Lamberg spoke again, would be the one that makes me forget the point of departure.
The organ grinder thought this over. He was about to respond when Lamberg leapt to his feet, brushed off his corduroy jacket and wool breeches. I have to go, he said, gazing at the dying embers. It’s late and I’m working tomorrow. Thanks for the supper. The organ grinder stood up laboriously and offered him a last swig of wine. The four others said goodbye without getting up. Before stepping through the cave mouth, Lamberg turned and said to Hans: I’m going to think about what you said. With that he vanished into the night.
And why can’t you have another home? the organ grinder asked. It’s too late for that now, Álvaro stammered, half out of sorrow, half in his cups. Aren’t you happy here? said the organ grinder. I never wanted to come here, Álvaro protested. So why don’t you leave? Reichardt asked. Because I don’t know how to, Álvaro replied. The best thing to be, said Hans, would be a foreigner. A foreigner from where? the organ grinder said. Just a foreigner, Hans shrugged. I ask because the ones I know are all different, said the old man. Some never adapt to the place they live in because they aren’t accepted. Others just don’t want to belong. And others are like Álvaro, who could be from anywhere. You speak like Chrétien de Troyes, Hans said in astonishment. Like who? asked the organ grinder. An early French poet, Hans replied, who said something extraordinary: He who believes his birthplace to be his homeland suffers. He who believes all places could be his homeland suffers less. And he who knows that no place can be his homeland is invincible. Wait a minute, Reichardt protested, now you’re complicating things. What has some long-dead Frenchman got to do with anything? I was born in Wandernburg, this is my home and I couldn’t live anywhere else, and that’s that. Yes, Reichardt, said Hans, but tell me, what makes you so sure? How do you know your home is here and not in another place? I just do, damn it, snapped Reichardt. How could I not know? I feel part of the place, I’m a Saxon and a German. But Wandernburg is Prussian now, argued Hans, so why do you feel Saxon and not Prussian? Why do you feel German and not Teutonic, for example? This place has been Saxon, Prussian, half-French, practically Austrian, and who knows what it will be tomorrow. Isn’t it pure chance? Borders shift around like flocks of sheep, countries shrink, break apart, grow bigger; empires are born and die. The only thing we can be sure of is our lives, and we can live them anywhere. You just like to complicate things, Reichardt sighed. I think you’re both right, the organ grinder said. It’s true, Hans, our life is the only sure thing we have. But that’s precisely why I know I’m from here, from this cave, this river, this barrel organ, they are my home, my belongings, all that I have. Fair enough, said Hans, but you could be playing your barrel organ anywhere. If it were anywhere but here, the organ grinder smiled, we would never even have met.
Now there were only three of them. Reichardt had gone to sleep it off. The wine was almost finished, and Álvaro’s speech had become punctuated by slurred ss and exotic js. Hans reflected that Álvaro’s German improved as his pronunciation worsened, as though being drunk brought his foreignness to the fore once and for all, and the patent impossibility of adapting completely to another language made him more careful, more confident. His mouth dry, his tongue loosened, Álvaro was entering his last half-hour of clear-headedness. He scrutinised almost every word the other two uttered, rolling them round on his tongue with a puzzled expression, savouring them as though they had only just been invented. Gemütlichkeit? Álvaro repeated. Amazing, isn’t it? And so difficult—Gemütlichkeit … First it compresses your lips, look, as if you were whistling, Gemü … but then suddenly, eh, suddenly you have to smile, how funny! Tlich … but, I’ll be damned, the joy doesn’t last long before there’s a kick to the palate, keit, there keit! and your jaw is left hanging … Hans, who had been listening with amusement, and contorting his lips along with Álvaro, asked how he would translate the word into Spanish. I’m not sure, Álvaro frowned, that depends, let me see, the problem of course is that you can say the word Gemütlichkeit to mean, to mean simply cosy, or blissful, can’t you? Bah, but that’s nonsense because it can also mean what you were saying, Gemütlichkeit, that is, oh I can hardly talk any more, the, the pleasure of being, of being where you are, the joy of staying, of having a home, can’t it? That’s what you were saying and that’s what I don’t have. That, said Hans, is what no German can find. Oh, but do you know what? Álvaro went on, taking no notice of Hans, I’ve thought of another word, one, one that’s the opposite of the other one, and, well, actually it’s not Castilian, its Galician, but every Spaniard knows this word, it’s very pretty, listen to the sound, it’s funny—morriña. When he heard how musical the word was, the organ grinder clapped and shook with laughter. He insisted Álvaro repeat it six times in a row,
attempting to say it himself and chuckling each time he heard it. Suddenly exhilarated, Álvaro explained that morriña was a kind of nostalgia for the homeland, a faraway feeling of sadness that was somehow sweet. And that to be republican and Spanish was like suffering from morriña, a bittersweet feeling, an honour and a sorrow. A sorrow that comes and goes, the sorrow of sailors, said Álvaro, but we all have something of the sailor in us.
Somewhat incoherently and between hiccups, Hans told them the Tibetans referred to man as “he who migrates”, because of his need to break his chains. The organ grinder, apparently still sober, replied pointing to the pinewood: I have no chains, if anything a few roots. Yes, well, of course, Hans stammered, of course, well, yes, but what the Tibetans mean is that things like chains and roots hinder our movement, and to travel is to overcome these limitations to free ourselves from our bodily ties, do you understand? Álvaro, my friend, you understand what I’m saying don’t you? Certainly, comrade! Álvaro exclaimed. Let’s overcome our morriña, our nostalgia and our Gemüt … Gemütlichkeit! Lads, the old man smiled, I’m too advanced in years to overcome my bodily ties, if anything I’m trying to preserve them. As for nostalgia, well, isn’t nostalgia a way of travelling? Hans’s hiccups suddenly stopped, he contemplated the organ grinder and said: Álvaro, listen! If we took this fellow to Jena, more than one professor would be out of a job! Are you listening, Álvaro? Alas, no, Álvaro spluttered, I’m not listening to you or to myself any more.
Álvaro was dozing, open-mouthed, on the straw pallet. He had burbled a few slurred words in a foreign tongue. Hans was grinning idiotically, eyelids half-closed. The organ grinder covered him, then pulled an old blanket over himself. You’re quite right, Hans murmured all of a sudden. No, replied the organ grinder, you’re the one who’s right. Then we agree, said Hans, half nodding off. They remained silent for a while, watching the moist light of dawn arrive. The pine trees slowly emerged and the river began to appear as they looked from the cave.
The light here is ancient, said the organ grinder, it finds it hard to come out, doesn’t it?
What captivity, Hans whispered, what weakness.
Or what peace, the old man sighed, what repose.
And that Friday it happened—that Friday, at last, shortly after the meeting had begun, the scar on Bertold’s upper lip wrinkled solemnly as he announced Rudi Wilderhaus’s arrival at the Gottlieb salon. Herr Wilderhaus, intoned Bertold. Struggling to overcome a pang of jealousy, Hans had to admit he had grown used to hearing about Sophie’s fiancé and to acting as though he did not really exist, as if ignoring him were enough to prevent his existence. The salon-goers stood up as one. Herr Gottlieb went over to the doorway to greet his guest. In the round mirror, Hans saw Sophie pull up the neckline of her dress and turn her back on him.
The two pairs of footsteps grew louder as they walked down the corridor—those of Elsa light and nervous, those of Rudi dawdling and squeaking. The squeaking noises came from the guest’s patent-leather shoes, which as they drew nearer seemed to resonate through the room before they finally arrived, gleaming, and came to a halt in front of Herr Gottlieb. Rudi Wilderhaus was taller than Hans would have liked. He wore a velvet frock coat, which Bertold gingerly helped him out of, gold epaulettes, a waistcoat with two rows of jewel-studded buttons, snug white breeches with braid down the side and silk knee-length stockings. His sleeves were tapered at the wrist. Rudi Wilderhaus’s starched collar gave the impression of offering up his robust head, adorned with an impeccable crimped wig, on a plate. Gnädiger, gnädiger Herr! exclaimed Herr Gottlieb, bowing and seizing his wrists. The ladies bobbed slightly at the knee, while the gentlemen (including Hans, who felt like a complete fool) tilted forward. Rudi Wilderhaus moved towards Sophie, took one of her slender gloved hands, brushed it with his lips and announced: Meine Dame …
Once Hans had been introduced to him, he was aware of three things. Firstly, Rudi used powder on his face as well as a touch of rouge. Secondly, his clothes were freshly perfumed, giving off an overly pungent whiff of lemon. Thirdly, Rudi Wilderhaus spoke with his shoulders raised, as though his muscles were holding aloft his words, which for the moment were utterly prosaic. To Hans’s surprise Rudi greeted him, if not cordially, then at least with a measure of respect he had shown neither the Levins nor Frau Pietzine. I was told the salon had acquired a new member, said Rudi. I’m delighted you could join. You have already seen what a pleasure it is to be welcomed into this household. Our dear Herr Gottlieb and my beloved Sophie are undeniably model hosts.
Our dear and my beloved, Hans ruminated. Our dear and my beloved.
Owing to his numerous other engagements, Sophie explained to Hans as they all sat down again, Herr Wilderhaus is not always able to honour us with his presence. Indeed, today he must leave before the end of the evening, but he will keep us company until eight o’clock. You will only take tea? Pray do not be so abstemious, my dear Herr Wilderhaus, you must at least try a spoonful of jelly, or I shall be most put out! Elsa, please, that’s more like it, you see how I must cajole him into even trying a mouthful! Just before you arrived, my dear Herr Wilderhaus, we were discussing the fascinating differences between Germany, France and Spain, the latter thanks to the observations of Herr Urquiho, no, forgive me, Urquixo, is that right? Well, anyway, that was the subject of our discussion. I see, Rudi replied, trying to sound interested, good, very good.
Why does she insist on addressing him my dear Herr Wilderhaus? thought Hans. Isn’t such politeness a trifle artificial? Isn’t it overly formal? Isn’t it inappropriate for someone who? Could it mean that? Why am I being so foolish? Why am I building up my hopes? Why can’t I gather my thoughts? Why? Why? Why?
Professor Mietter was holding forth: Grossly oversimplifying, we may argue, then, that the French regard external objects as the driving force for their ideas, whereas we Germans regard them as a stimulus for our impressions. Granted, here in Germany we tend to converse about matters that would be better off written about in books. However, the French make a far worse error by writing on subjects that are only worthwhile in conversation. I would argue that first and foremost the French write in order to be admired, in the same way we Germans write in order to think, or the English write in order to be understood. Do you really think so, Professor? said Frau Pietzine. But the French are so elegant! Ils sont si conscients du charme! Frankly, dear Madame, said Professor Mietter, the two values can scarcely be … Ahem, Herr Levin interrupted, I don’t see why there is any need to choose? Every aesthetic, the professor declared, is founded on choice. Well, yes, of course, Herr Levin conceded, still, I am not entirely sure. My dear Professor, Sophie intervened, if I may say so, in my opinion we Germans would benefit from a touch of frivolity. As you so rightly point out, every aesthetic is doubtless based on choice. Yet, surely we may also decide on the mix, since an aesthetic is made up of concepts, abstractions, objects and anecdotes, wouldn’t you agree? Hmm, Professor Mietter admitted grudgingly. (Hans made sure Rudi was not watching him and gazed at the tiny pores on Sophie’s arm, wishing he could run his tongue over them.) And what in your opinion should we think of the French, Rudi? asked Sophie (Rudi! Hans cursed. Now she’s calling him Rudi! Although this time she didn’t say dear. Why am I being so ridiculous?) Me? Rudi jumped, raising his shoulders. Why, I concur with you entirely on the matter, my dear. (He uses the formal “you”, Hans noted, I wonder if he does that when they’re alone?) What I mean is, there is no difference between our two ways of thinking. None at all? Sophie persisted, come now, don’t be bashful, I am inviting you to disagree. That is not the reason, Rudi smiled, it is simply that you speak like an angel. Then, Sophie jested, you do not question the existence of angels either? My dear Mademoiselle, Rudi replied, not when I see you, I confess.
(Ugh! Hans bit his lip.)
And what is wrong with austerity? said Professor Mietter. Is it not nobler than the spirit of decorativeness? My dear Professor, ventured Sophie, would it not be more just to refer to it a
s the spirit of sociability? Here in Germany we keep everything to ourselves, we hide it. In France everything is on display. Here we are naturally unsociable, or so we believe, and we end up seeming awkward. How right you are, said Frau Pietzine, there’s no denying it. I was in Paris a few years ago and, well, it was another world, my dear. Those dresses. Those restaurants. Those parties. Upon my word! Let me tell you, my dear, a French corpse enjoys himself more than any living German! Germany, said Herr Levin enigmatically, is the kitchen of Europe and France is its stomach. Sociability notwithstanding, Professor Mietter resumed, the French read less. Professor, Sophie said, I hesitate to contradict someone as well-informed as you, but what if instead of reading less the French read in a different way? Perhaps the French read in order to discuss books with others, whereas we Germans consider books as companions, a kind of refuge? The difference is more profound, Mademoiselle, Professor Mietter asserted. The problem with the French is that not only do they read for others, they also write only for others, for their audience. A German author creates his own audience, he moulds it, he makes demands on it. A French author is content simply to please his audience, to give it what it expects. Behold your French sociability, et je ne vous en dis pas plus! Professor, Hans remarked tetchily, is it not simply that in France there is more of an audience than here? Paris boasts more theatres and bookshops than Berlin. There is scarcely any audience here for artists to please or despise. Perhaps that is why we console ourselves with the idea that our authors are more scrupulous, independent and so forth. In Paris, my dear Monsieur, said Professor Mietter, what prevails is easy success and popular appeal. Berlin values loftiness and personality, do you not see the difference? You said it yourself, Hans retorted. In both cases there is a pre-existing pattern. Paris values one approach, while Berlin gives prestige to another. In both cases the author is seeking approval from his audience. Some seek the plaudits of the well-read, who fortunately abound in France, others the plaudits of critics and professors, who, in Germany, are the only people who read. Neither of the two alternatives is more or less sociable or self-seeking than the other. I see no difference in the nobility of their intentions. Monsieur Hans, if that is indeed the case (Sophie said as if colluding, inclining her head towards him while smiling disarmingly at Professor Mietter), how would you suggest bringing the two countries’ readerships closer together?
Traveller of the Century Page 13
