How am I doing? asked Hans, bent almost double. Sophie did not answer. Not because she didn't want to, but because she was laughing so much. Although the other couples were busy dancing, and the crowd was more taken up with its own affairs and merrymaking, to Hans it seemed as if everyone
were staring at him. Why am I making such a fool of myself? he wondered, not realising that only those who ask themselves this are making fools of themselves. Moved by Hans's clumsiness, Sophie decided to give up on the minuet and begin at the beginning, with the basic steps. Hans raised no objections this time, because among other things, besides feeling ridiculous, the infernal minuet had kept their bodies too far apart.
What did Sophie smell of? She smelt of rose water. Not of heady perfumes. Not of pungent lavenders or jasmines. But of translucent petals, of tranquil rose. Of self-possessed beauty. Yes, and, underneath, of almond milk. Of a neck you never wanted to stop ⦠Pay attention Hans! Hans said to himself, and Sophie spoke close to his ear. And he longed to dance, but not in that way, not there.
All right, said Sophie, let's try it once more. Legs straight, that's right. Heels together. Now, feet in line and pointing out (feet in line? You do realise I'm a biped, Hans laughed), come on silly, if only you looked like a biped! Now, legs apart, more or less the length of a foot (whose foot? Hans whispered. Mine or yours, yours are so small and pretty and), shh! Listen, no, closer together, perfect, now cross them over, what do you mean what? Your feet! Yes yours! Cross your right foot like that over your left, more or less at the level of your ankle (Sophie, declared Hans, you'll have to pick me up off the floor), you're doing very well, don't be like that!
Quite
well anyway, now the salute, do you see? The lady bends forward once she is in position. (I can't hear you Sophie, why are you so far away?) Because that is how this part goes, can you hear me now? Good, so, the lady stands legs apart, bends her knees and lowers her head. Don't stand there gaping at me, it's your turn! Now, the gentleman ⦠(Do you mean me? Are you sure? In that case why are you laughing, Fräulein Gottlieb?) Hans, please, enough! Carry on, transfer your weight to one foot, no, the one in front, and the one behind moves into the fourth
position, do you remember? (What? Is this the fourth position already?) Shh, you rogue! Now transfer your weight to the other foot and then return it to the other, no wait! Return it to the first position (ah, then I think I'll stay still until you come back), now bend your head, let your body follow, there, you see, that wasn't so difficult, now lower your arms slowly. (Actually, I think I'd better keep them up, I surrender, help, Herr Gottlieb, take your daughter in hand! Father Pigherzog forgive her! Professor Mietter write a review! â¦)
Hans didn't learn the basic steps, he couldn't find his rhythm or his coordination, he didn't understand the minuet, but that night he learnt to love dancing. As he watched each of Sophie's quick, alternating steps, Hans was able to enjoy the crossing of her shoes, the brushing together of her ankles, the movement of her legs, the sway of her hips. And, depending on how close he was, he also noticed the different pressure she applied with her hands. So that, rather than focusing on her instructions, which in any event he was incapable of carrying out, Hans tried to follow the movement of Sophie's clothes, the way her gown folded and unfolded, the inner creaking of her corset, which pulsed beneath each movement, constraining the appetite. And unless Hans was much mistaken, he was not the only one whose arms were trembling.
The three of them, Sophie, Hans and Elsa, left late, and joined the queue waiting for a carriage in front of the Apollo Theatre. Sophie and Hans walked side by side, talking. Elsa lagged behind, pensive. Hans noticed his face felt cold, his brow clammy; he was sweating, his lungs burned and his throat was hoarse. But more strongly than any other sensation, he felt a liquid euphoria in his muscles, a kind of certainty. Had he been drinking? Yes, on top of everything else he had been drinking.
After quite a long wait, they managed to secure a landau.
Hans insisted on paying for all three of them, and immediately calculated that at this rate his savings would last him another two or three weeks. The coachman was unwilling to leave one of the four places unoccupied and insisted they cram together on one side so he could accommodate another couple on the opposite seat. Sophie allowed Hans to help her upâtheir fingers touched, exchanging imprints before separating. The carriage tilted and creaked in weary acceptance as Sophie placed her foot on the small step.
Elsa was solemn; her head turned towards the window, she maintained a discreet yet awkward silence. Hans sat on the other side of Sophie, who rode in the middle, smiling and brushing the side of Hans's tight breeches as he sat beside her. The jolting tipped the seat from one side to the other, throwing the passengers on top of one another. Elsa clung for dear life to the door, but there was too much of a crush. Didn't the carriage move an awful lot! What dreadful suspension! What bumpy roads! Hans sat with his leg pressed slightly against the side of the carriage so he was pushed towards the middle. Sophie sighed sedately, sat still and let herself be squeezed. From time to time, because the carriage hit a pothole or swerved suddenly, Hans would tread on Sophie's foot or Sophie would tread on Hans's foot, and one would apologise to the other, who would hasten to say it didn't matter, it was quite all right, it was only natural with five people traveling in one landau. But these apologies were so effusive that sometimes the one stepped upon would step on the other, and the expressions of regret would fly back and forth together with an arm, a leg, a hip. And they would knock against each other once moreâHow clumsy of me! No, it was my faultâand their laughter flowed. Hans's breeches grew taut. The window beside him was steaming up. Beneath Sophie's ample skirts, among the folds of her petticoat, wrapped in white muslin stockings, her thighs clenched, tighter and tighter.
Â
Hans was not a man in whom instinct and intellect diverged. On the contrary, the greater his carnal desire, the more voracious his appetite for debate. This particularly intrigued Sophie. The men who had flirted with her before had either done so by stifling their urges in order to discuss books (a tactic that roused her interest, but ended by exasperating her), or they had thrust all literary interest aside in order to concentrate solely on their immediate desires (a forcefulness that did not displease her, but of which she grew quickly tired). Rudi had been infinitely patient in his courtship, which had proved necessary not in order to break down any resistance, but to convince her. Sophie thought she understood the rather limited methods of male conquest, which was inclined to separate (mind or body) rather than unite, and to divide time (speechâpreamble, desireâdiscourse) rather than synchronise it. Hans, on the other hand, seemed to speak to her and desire her simultaneously. He encircled her with his questions, inflamed her with words. This was what the daily letters they sent one another were like. It was how Sophie knew that the passion with which he spoke about Greece one moment and vehemently asked her opinion the next was no preamble but the onslaught itself, desire as thought. Hans's attitude in debate was as earthy as could be. And in his general reflections Sophie could not help but glimpse the suggestion of an intimate proposal.
As was their custom every Friday at ten o'clock sharp, Herr Gottlieb and Rudi had just withdrawn to the study to take a glass of brandy and talk as father-in-law and son-in-law to be, each convinced that these private meetings strengthened the engagement. In the meantime, as was his custom every Friday at one minute past ten, Hans's opinions suddenly became bolder, his gestures more passionate.
Will you tell us what exactly you have against the ancient gods? Professor Mietter said, irritated. Me, said Hans, nothing
at all, although I doubt they are of any use in explaining the world to us now. Myth, Professor Mietter pronounced, recalling his lessons in Graeco-Roman culture, will always be useful in our understanding of reality. Provided, Hans pointed out, those myths are transformed. The ancient gods seem remote to today's readers. For all their Olympian prestige, Juno and Zeus no longer evoke in us an immediate response. (And after uttering the words
evoke in us an immediate response
, Hans stared at Sophie's hands as though he'd been referring to them.) I don't dispute that the Graeco-Latin gods were able to personify the spirit of their times, but do they personify ours? I may study them, even learn to love them (and on saying this, Hans gazed once more at Sophie's fingers, which became startled and began moving among the teacups like a tangle of legs fleeing a hurricane), and yet I don't feel capable of identifying with those divine beings, do you? Well, replied Herr Levin, that depends, we are talking about allegories, not about representations, and besides, those who read them have also changed, in which case, ahem. True, said Hans, but surely myths also age? Of course they don't! bridled Professor Mietter. Not even a little, Professor? Sophie rallied. What annoys me, Hans resumed, is that when we fail to understand modern tastes we plagiarise the past, we insist on familiar forms. (And on saying the words
familiar forms
, Hans glanced at the precise place on the mirror where Sophie's head was floating above the outline of her collarbones.) Show me a single living soul in Berlin, Paris or London who can say he honestly likes triglyphs or identifies with Doric capitals? I trust, retorted Professor Mietter, you are at least generous enough to consider me a living soul,
gnädiger
Hans. And since we are on the subject of triglyphs and capitals, allow me to make an observation about modern tastes. Do you know why we are incapable today of building the great edifices of the past? It is very simple, because our forebears were men of
great principles. We
modern
men only have opinions. Opinions and doubts, nothing more. But building a cathedral, my good fellow, requires more than stones, it requires powerful ideas. An idea, at least an idea of the divine. Today's architecture, like today's literature, philosophy and art, is one of opinions. And so we gradually become eclipsed. Unfortunately, if I may say so, much to the satisfaction of educated men like yourself.
Hans (who had only been half-listening to the professor's disquisitions while gazing dreamily at Sophie, who would shrug her shoulders occasionally as though abandoning herself to an embrace) said nothing, acknowledging the professor's comment. Even though he disagreed with his arguments, they were solid and imposing like the cathedrals he lamented. He tried to think of a rebuttal, but the discussion moved on, and by the time he had finally collected his thoughts, it was too late for him to air them. Professor Mietter smiled placidly. As he leant over his teacup, the reflection of his powdered wig floated in his tea like a jellyfish.
It was nearly midnight and the debate was still in full flow. Sophie, greatly entertained by Hans's and the professor's disagreements (and perhaps excited too by the growing tightness between her buttocks and her petticoats), did her best to keep the professor happy and to stir up Hans, whose passionate rejoinders filled her with she did not know what. They were now discussing poetic style. Professor Mietter was arguing that a knowledge of tradition was necessary to good poetry. Herr Levin agreed, although in his comments he implied almost the opposite. Hans wrinkled his brow. Ãlvaro watched him and let out an occasional booming laugh. Frau Pietzine, uninterested in the turn the conversation had taken, had taken her leave, claiming she needed to get up early. Some poets, said Professor Mietter, with the aim of appearing modern, give no importance at all to what their poems are saying. As if this had nothing to
do with poetry, or as if they considered themselves far deeper than their readers. They try to show off with form in order to cover up their hollowness and then claim they are
exploring
. But the fact is they would be utterly incapable of writing a simple text or describing an object convincingly. You are not wrong, remarked Hans, but we need to know what we understand by
convincingly
. Yes, the reader has to believe what is written. But what each reader is able to believe also depends on his imagination, not merely on language. And what about clarity? insisted Professor Mietter. Does the effort of correcting or honing a poem matter, or can it be left a complete jumble? Of course it does, said Hans, and by making that effort a poet can attempt to see in the darkness instead of skirting round it. You are simplifying the notion of clarity, replied the professor, perhaps because you equate evocativeness with vagueness. Regretfully, a common mistake in poetry. I am talking to you about precision. Young poets on the whole lack precision. They consider it commonplace and prefer to perform pirouettes. Only when they are older do they begin to appreciate restraint, nuance. There is nothing tiresome, much less easy about it, do you understand? We quite understand, said Hans, it is what academics call correctness, and some of us others term the fear of making a mistake.
Fear of making a mistake
, Hans had said, probing Sophie's shape, her luminosity, her eyes. And she, rather than avoid his gaze or busy herself with some object on the table, had stood up straight and replied: Yet fear of making a mistake, Monsieur Hans, is also the prerogative of poets.
My dear Professor, said Ãlvaro smiling, you remind me of Don Ignacio de Luzán's lawyer. I don't know this
Lutsan
, said Professor Mietter. There is no need, Ãlvaro quipped, you are his Saxon counterpart! Instinctively taking offence, Professor Mietter said: I don't know how you say this in Spanish, Herr
Urquiho
, but allow me to tell you the French expression for what
some of you appear to be defendingâ
culte de la pose
. Listen, Professor, resumed Hans, still agitated after his and Sophie's recent exchange of glances, it is true there is a surfeit of rhetorical poetry. But the way to avoid this is not by following convention, but by refusing to conform. Rebelliousness may be aesthetically naive, but to me nonconformism is essential. And the problem with good taste is that it conforms. It doesn't conform, Professor Mietter objected, it
renounces.
It renounces clever ideas, innovation for its own sake. The best way to be original, as I said before, is to learn from the Classics. Yes, replied Hans, but the Classics themselves were daring! What was once brilliantly daring is now called harmonious, proper, etc ⦠I am not against the Classics, Professor, far from it! I am against imitation. Your beloved ancient poets weren't copying anyone, so why should we? In the end every imitation is a betrayal of the original. Obviously, Professor Mietter sighed, the great works bore Herr Hans, they are too slight for a mind as inventive as his. And yet since Aristotle, Herr Levin pointed out, raising a finger, the norms have always been the basis of all art. I disagree, said Hans. So, Professor Mietter almost snapped, now our young writer doesn't think norms are necessary either? Not necessary, said Hans, unavoidable. The literary norms that interest me aren't the necessary ones, which are imposed, but the unavoidable ones, that is the ones each of us encounter in the act of writing. The former are dictated by prejudice, the latter by personal experience. You forget, the professor pointed out, that all personal experience feeds on collective traditions, shared principles that have survived thanks to. I haven't forgotten, Hans cut in, because that is also unavoidable. But being aware of those principles is one thing, and perpetuating them is another. I find it far more pleasurable to disobey them, to attempt to change them.