Traveller of the Century

by Andres Neuman

  Reichardt lifted up his tricorn hat and wiped his brow with his forearm. He glanced about—he was the only harvester in his row who had stopped. It was hours since they’d paused for a break, yet the others kept toiling as though it were nothing. Did they never tire? Or were they trying to impress the foreman? Because it was impossible they didn’t feel the slightest twinge, the same stabbing pain he felt in his shoulders from wielding the scythe all day long, the stiffness in his hips from turning to and fro all the time. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, the corn wouldn’t go up in smoke if they sat down for a moment to rest their legs. Reichardt waited for the foreman to look the other way before laying down his scythe. The calluses on his hands were stinging, although nothing hurt as much as his damned hips. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to recover his strength. Then the sound of metal scraping the ground, like a clash of swords, grew louder. As a youngster that sound had sent shivers down his spine. He had ended up becoming accustomed to it, had even grown to like it. Doubtless it still set the novices’ teeth on edge as they scythed. Not his. He was hardened. Not old, experienced. And he wasn’t even tired. He only needed a short rest, that was all. Five minutes. Nothing. There was a time when he didn’t need to stop either, but he wasn’t as good with a scythe as he used to be. In fact, it didn’t take as much strength as some muscly brutes thought. It was enough to know exactly where to cut the corn. If you cut very high, it would be too short and the foreman would shout at you. And if you cut too close to the ground, it was much more tiring and almost no one noticed the difference. Not to mention how some of them held the scythe! The clumsy oafs! No one could outstrip him where experience was concerned. Not even the foreman. So they thought they could tell him how to harvest corn? Working the land had its own time, like everything else. If you wanted to do a proper job, that is. And he wanted to do a proper job. That was why he needed five minutes, five bloody minutes’ rest.

  Facing into the hazy sun, against the light, the day labourers moved forward as one, heads down, scything the horizon.

  Behind them, the women stooped to pick up the corn and tie it into sheaves. After that the labourers would stack the bundles on the ox-cart and transport them to the barns. Reichardt always tried to be chosen to drive the carts because it was less arduous than scything. But this time it was the foreman who came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder and said: You. Reichardt wheeled round and gave him the most fresh-faced look he could muster in a bid to hide his weariness. Good work, eh? Reichardt said, splaying his arms and forcing a smile. More or less, replied the foreman. Listen, you’ve been around a long time, haven’t you? Reichardt stared intently at the foreman, sharpening his wits, trying to determine whether the remark was a criticism or a sign of trust. More or less, he said, echoing the foreman’s tone. I need a favour, the foreman said. At your service, Reichardt smiled, relieved, I was about to go on scything, but if there’s something else needs doing … I want you to go to the barn this instant, the foreman nodded, pick out the best grain you can find and take it in a horse-cart to Wilderhaus Hall. Of course, sir, said Reichardt, consider it done! Good, said the foreman, turning on his heel. Oh, sir, Reichardt called him back, excuse me sir. What is it? said the foreman, with the expression of someone whose time is being wasted. Nothing, sir, sorry sir, I just wondered, well, will I be paid? What for?—The foreman looked surprised—For going there and coming back? Of course not, old man, this is a favour, not a job, and I’m sure you’ll carry it out in good faith, or am I mistaken? No, of course not, sir, Reichardt replied, lowering his head, I was just asking because, well, I do what I’m asked, naturally, only the law says that all transportation … The foreman cut him short with a loud guffaw: I see you have friends in Parliament, I’ll keep it in mind, I’ll keep it in mind. Now fetch the cart, old man, go on, get a move on! And remember a horse-cart, not an ox-cart.

  Having at last obtained Herr Gottlieb’s permission, and under Elsa’s supposedly watchful eye, the two of them met at the inn after lunch three times a week to work. Before leaving the house, Sophie took the precaution of having coffee with her father and chatting to him for a while to put him in a good mood. They discussed their relatives, various other families, the wedding preparations, or some anecdote from Sophie’s childhood that might move Herr Gottlieb. At about three in the afternoon, Sophie would plant a kiss on her father’s brow and casually take her leave. She and Elsa would walk to Old Cauldron Street together. They would enter the inn, and, after a prudent amount of time had passed, Elsa would leave again. After making sure no one was following her, she would take a carriage to her own rendezvous. The agreement with Herr Gottlieb was to be home without fail before the nightwatchman finished his seven o’clock round. Elsa and Sophie would meet at exactly seven-thirty at the fountain. They chose to meet there because it was more likely to arouse suspicions if Elsa were always to return to the inn at the same time and always alone. Aware they were being observed, rather than dissembling they preferred to act as naturally as possible, which was the only way to forestall any rumours. And we can be thankful it’s summer, Sophie had said, otherwise I’d have to be home much sooner.

  During the four hours they spent alone three times a week, Hans and Sophie alternated between books and bed, bed and books, exploring one another in words and reading one another’s bodies. Thus, inadvertently, they developed a shared language, rewriting what they read, translating one another mutually. The more they worked together, the more similarities they discovered between love and translation, understanding a person and translating a text, retelling a poem in a different language and putting into words what the other was feeling. Both exercises were as happy as they were incomplete—doubts always remained, words that needed changing, missed nuances. They were both aware of the impossibility of achieving transparency as lovers and as translators. Cultural, political, biographical and sexual differences acted as a filter. The more they tried to counter them, the greater the dangers, obstacles, misunderstandings. And yet at the same time the bridges between the languages, between them, became broader and broader.

  Sophie discovered she had similar feelings when she made love to Hans as when she was translating. She thought she knew exactly what she wanted, what she desired. But then her certainties began to melt away, leaving fervent, conflicting intuitions to which she surrendered without worrying about the result. Later she would experience a strange fleeting lucidity, sudden bursts of light that would enable her to discover what she had been searching for—a definitive meaning, the precise feeling, the exact words. Then she would close her eyes and feel she was about to embrace an enormous sphere, to wrap her arms around it, to understand. Then, just as she was reaching the heights and was preparing to write or to speak to Hans from up there, the idea would unravel and the sphere would slip from her grasp, shattering into a thousand pieces. And although Sophie knew that no trembling emotion, no poem could be rendered in other words, because its totality was unattainable, her only wish was to begin again.

  Hans’s aim, which coincided in part with his publisher’s weekly assignment, was to work on the modern European poets, always with the idea in mind of an improbable anthology, over which, for commercial reasons, Brockhaus was still hesitating. How many countries are we talking about here? his editor had asked him in a letter. As many as possible, Hans had responded, without really thinking. Begin by sending a sample, the editor had replied with probable irony, then we’ll talk. Even so, Hans was convinced that in the end, with a little patience and with Sophie’s help, this volume would one day come into being.

  How can we speak about free trade, Hans pronounced as he lay next to Sophie, of a customs union and all that implies, without considering a free exchange of literature? We should be translating as many foreign books as possible, publishing them, reclaiming the literature of other countries and taking it to the classroom! That’s what I told Brockhaus. And what did he say? Sophie asked, nibbling his nipple. Hans shrugged and stroked
her back: He told me, yes, all in good time, and not to get agitated. But in such exchanges, said Sophie, it’s important that the more powerful countries don’t impose their literature on everyone else, don’t you think? Absolutely, replied Hans, plunging his hand between Sophie’s buttocks, and besides, powerful countries have a lot to learn from smaller countries, which are usually more open and curious, that is to say, more knowledgeable. You’re the curious one! Sophie sighed, allowing Hans’s probing fingers in and lying back. That, Hans grinned, must be because you’re so open and you know what’s what.

  Refreshed and dressed, they were at the desk preparing to resume working when Hans began telling Sophie about a review he had read of the French adaptation of Tasso in which Goethe hailed the beginning of a new universal literature. He may be conservative in his political ideas, but you have to hand it to the old man, he’s years ahead of everyone else in his literary thinking. A Weltliteratur! He was one of the first to defend French culture after the fall of Bonaparte, and he always describes poetry as the homeland of the poet, regardless of where he is from and what he writes. Goethe is a little like Faust, don’t you think? And who wouldn’t like to be a little like Goethe—to be a ceaseless reader, a polyglot, to know about every country and study every period in history. Hans rummaged in his trunk, found the article, and handed it to Sophie. Where did you get all your magazines from? she asked, attempting to see inside his trunk. I have them sent to me, he replied, hastily shutting the lid. An era of universal literature is approaching, Sophie read aloud, and each one of us should contribute to its formation. Yes, Hans nodded excitedly, the only way to build a German literature is by challenging it, comparing it, mixing it with foreign literatures. Anything else would be tantamount to locking the door and throwing the key into the sea. I recently read an article on this very subject by a fellow called Mazzini, why don’t we translate it together next week, your Italian is better than mine. Mazzini was writing about Europe, but it seems to me that is only the beginning. For instance, Oriental literature is in fashion now, but soon it could be the turn of the Americas. And who knows, one day it might be necessary to go there in order to learn about ourselves. I’m thinking about sailing for America one of these days—listen! What if you came with me? What if we? What if we started working, Hans? Sophie interrupted, caressing him, it’ll soon be five o’clock. Yes, yes, Hans said, coming back down to earth, forgive me. After searching through the disarray in his room, he placed several books and a handful of folios on the table. So, it’s the turn of the English today, said Sophie, leafing through the various books. Indeed, my dear, sighed Hans in English, and I must actually confess that it is urgent.

  There were two assignments for Brockhaus—a complete revision of an anthology of new English poets which the publisher wasn’t happy with and which had been out of print for two years, and a translation of the main excerpts of the preface to Lyrical Ballads, which would be included as an appendix. They did a quick first reading in order to highlight the most problematic passages and lighten their work the following day. The method they used was simple—Sophie, who without a shadow of a doubt recited poetry better than Hans, would read the original poem aloud, pausing after each verse so that the rhythm of the stanza could unfold and settle, then go on to the next, like building a house of cards. In the meantime, Hans would go over the translated version, crossing out words, underlining any imprecisions, and noting down alternatives for discussion later. He was accustomed to working alone, and at first he had found it difficult to concentrate because Sophie’s melodious voice, her pauses and inflections, made him feel an unexpected frisson. Slowly he began to enjoy this feeling that transported him from a foreign language to his lover’s body. And he sensed Sophie was similarly aware of the sensual effect of this approach—she enjoyed holding back, modulating the tension between the discipline of work and the distraction of her desires. Indeed, it was from this electrifying struggle, which heightened their senses and sharpened their intelligence, that some of their best ideas were born. After several translation sessions, they both had become used to desiring one another as they worked, and had understood that their search for different words was another way of connecting, of shortening the distance between their two mouths.

  They revised the versions of Byron’s poems. These were somewhat mechanical although mostly accurate, because the translator had been careful to choose the simplest passages. It’s strange, said Hans, Byron was at his most rhetorical, his most academic when he was at his least restrained. Perhaps, suggested Sophie, because he sometimes frightened himself with what he was saying.

  They decided, however, to alter all the translations of Shelley, which they found stylised and filled with a stodgy pathos. Hans suggested eliminating all the adjectives and translating what was left. Sophie said she admired Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, which in her opinion refuted all attempts to separate the Enlightenment and the Romantics:

  Thou messenger of sympathies

  That wax and wane in lovers’ eyes—

  Thou, that to human thought art nourishment,

  Like darkness to a dying flame!

  Do you see? said Sophie, breathlessly, the darkness brings the flame to life! Mystery is the essence of this poem, but Shelley wrote it in order to bring light to the intellect. And this “human thought”, untouched by emotion or love, is at once nourished by beauty, isn’t it wonderful? Stop, Hans laughed, you’re too convincing, I’m going to end up liking Shelley.

  When they reached Coleridge, they concentrated above all on rewriting Kubla Khan, which was the only poem everyone knew:

  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure dome decree:

  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

  Through caverns measureless to man

  Down to a sunless sea.

  The funny thing is Kubla Khan is far from being Coleridge’s best poem, remarked Hans. But, as you know, it’s the myth that counts, people don’t expect poets to produce great works but to behave like great poets. And it occurred to the crafty Coleridge to tell people a three-hundred-line poem had come to him during an opium-induced slumber, and that when he awoke he recalled it word for word, an unrivalled work of genius! And so he began to copy it all down, but the poor man was interrupted and his poem remained unfinished, with only the few verses you can see … So you don’t believe him, said Sophie. I’d believe anything of a poet, smiled Hans, provided nothing he tells me is true. In that case, she argued, the poem wasn’t unfinished, it continued in Coleridge’s own narrative, in the tale he told about the dream, so that where the poem, or rather the dream, ends, the other tale begins, the one that begins when he wakes up. I get it! Hans declared, brushing her ankle under the table. In fact, Sophie went on, offering Hans her other ankle, the most romantic part of the poem is its explanation. You’re right, Hans said growing excited once more, and what do think of the last line? “And drunk the milk of paradise”—all those ks at the end, such a struggle to drink some nectar! As if paradise were choking you! If you think about it for a moment, you realise the best Romantic poets never evoke paradise, only its impossibility. (When he had finished talking about Coleridge, Hans noticed with a touch of sadness that Sophie’s ankle had moved away from his.)

  Comparing styles, Sophie said, as she leafed through the book, there seem to be two distinct approaches in English poetry—the grandiloquent and passionate, like Shelley and Byron, and the more serene but more modern one of Coleridge or Wordsworth. And where would that put Keats? Hans asked, indicating his poems. In both, Sophie hesitated, or neither. I agree, said Hans, that Byron or Shelley, however good they are, could never be modern like Wordsworth. He attempts to approximate speech when he writes, which in poetry is a cardinal sin. And as we know, literature only evolves through sinning (do you really think so? she smiled mischievously), yes, of course, I mean, when Wordsworth says in the Preface, wait, look, here, when Wordsworth says the language of prose can be perfectly adapted to poetry, that t
here is no real difference between well-written prose and the language of poetry, what is he doing? Debasing poetry? On the contrary, it seems to me he is enriching the possibilities of prose. And more importantly, he is associating poetry with everyday speech, with events in life that aren’t necessarily sublime. Wordsworth takes poetry off its pedestal and broadens its scope.