An excellent choice, Professor Mietter declared, if I may say so, I only wish today's young playwrights would see it! They might learn how to write good theatre instead of writing theatrically. An exemplary work, seconded Herr Levin, isn't it, dear? Frau Levin nodded dully.
William Tell
, yes, of course, Rudi said doubtfully. The only good thing about it (Hans whispered to Ãlvaro, who had taken his time coming back from the bathroom) is that the tyrant dies. Ãlvaro let out a guffaw and glanced sideways at Elsa.
When it was past midnight, the guests began to say their farewells amidst the oil lanterns in the courtyard. Herr Gottlieb, having retired to his study, came back down to bid them goodnight and to keep an eye on his daughter. The first to leave were the Levins and Rudi Wilderhaus, who offered them a lift in his carriage. Sophie drew Rudi aside, let him kiss the back of her hand and replied yes to her fiancé when he alluded to an engagement the following day. Although Hans pricked up his ears, this was all he heard. Professor Mietter was the next to leave. I trust, said the professor, that at least
William Tell
will be to your liking, Herr Hans. Do not worry, Professor, Hans replied, with a broad grin, I am relatively easy to please. Hans's
intention had been to infuriate him, but instead the professor walked over to Hans, placed a hand on his shoulder and retorted: Young man, you are still impetuous, and I quite understand.
Sophie, Ãlvaro and Hans stayed behind talking in the coolness of the yard. Herr Gottlieb hovered around them pretending to give orders to the servants.
When Sophie had persuaded her father to go to bed, they remained alone with Elsa, who seemed unusually disposed to stay awake. Amid laughter brought on by fruit liqueur, Sophie confessed: What I least like about Schiller is the fear of pleasure expressed in his ideas, as though sensuality were a betrayal of intellect. Keep your voice down, my girl, Hans jested. I mean it, said Sophie, this is what depresses me about Schiller and the school of respectable scholars. Emotion to them is like a geometric equation, “thus far, no further, perfect, we must not give way to rhetoric”, and the worst thing is, they call this being noble. In short, with all due respect to the gentlemen present, they are altogether too masculine. Well, said Ãlvaro, masculinity doesn't seem like such a bad thing to me. Hans placed an arm around him, and declared:
Viva España!
The others laughed, even Elsa. Seeing her standing in a corner, Sophie invited her to sit with them and poured her some of the leftover port. Ãlvaro said:
Prost!
Elsa replied spontaneously:
Salud!
Had they been sober, Hans and Sophie would have been surprised.
They lingered in the doorway, chatting in raised voices before saying goodbye. Occasionally, Sophie would whisper: Shh! then carry on shouting. I have a confession to make, said Hans, the sad truth is that I think Schiller's essays are excellent, but I refuse to give that pompous Mietter the pleasure of admitting it. I knew it! Sophie rejoiced, perhaps you haven't realised, but when the professor isn't there, you repeat his arguments. I know, I know, replied Hans, and do you know what the worst thing is? I only argue with him to prevent him convincing me,
because sometimes what he says seems very true. Ãlvaro peered into the street and declaimed: “
Everyone dreams of what they are, but none understands! What is life? A frenzy! What is life? An illusion! A shadow, a fiction!
” Hans clambered onto his back, howling: Hush, Calderón!
Â
Leaning against the confessional, Frau Pietzine was sobbing so much she could scarcely speak. She had locked herself in the house refusing to see anyone, afflicted with fevers and migraines. Finally, that morning she had left the house, attended Mass and after that confession. She had not mentioned, nor did she ever intend to, what had happened in Jesus Lane. She had convinced herself that, beyond any shame, scandal or cruel gossip, recounting her experience would have meant accepting that it was really true. And she was determined to keep quiet until she had banished those few dreadful moments from her memory. She knew the havoc fever could wreak on the mind, the false imaginings it could produce, the phantom pains, the ghastly hallucinations. Why couldn't this, like so many other things in her life, simply be a terrible nightmare?
Noticing she was more agitated than usual, Father Pigherzog questioned Frau Pietzine more carefully. My daughter, he calmed her, you must not torment yourself so, sin dwells in all of us, and it is best to accept our guilt. But Father, she sobbed, if this vale of tears is but transitory why go on living? Our Creator demands that we live and honour him before going to join him, the priest explained. But where is he? cried Frau Pietzine. Where is our Creator when we are suffering? My daughter, said Father Pigherzog, today your pain is different, open your heart and tell me everything, everything, in order to unburden yourself.
⦠said stranger, to whom we have referred on prior occasions, who is undoubtedly a harmful influence on Fräulein Gottlieb (already somewhat
fickle in the observation of her duties), and who, if my experience is
is
anything to go by, is in danger of compromising her imminent union with the illustrious Herr Wilderhaus the younger, a God-fearing man and a perfect husband. After several failed attempts I can confirm the impossibility of having a reasonable discussion with the aforementioned individualâhe is a lost soul, xxxxxx
imo serio irascor
. God willing he will leave and take his Voltaire with him before it is too late â¦
While Father Pigherzog began filling the pages of
Notes on the State of Souls
with his elegant handwriting, Frau Pietzine left the church with a sense of complete emptinessâas though an inner part of her had come permanently unstuck, or as though a cracked corner had finally snapped off. Always, ever since she was a child, she had feared life would bring her more suffering than joy. Now she realised the meaning of all her anxietiesâit was a sinister message, but one she now fully understood. Thenceforth, her existence would be a mere conduit to eternal life, and her children the sole reason for remaining as that conduit. As she stepped out of St Nicholas's Church, eyes fixed to the ground, Frau Pietzine paused to contemplate the grains of rice from that morning's wedding scattered over the steps like a mysterious symbol.
Frau Pietzine walked away from the church's twisted towers towards the market square, avoiding Archway. This was the same street Elsa had just avoided, knowing how keenly Father Pigherzog and his faithful informant, the sacristan, spied on the passers-by. She had just left Sophie at the inn and, face half-obscured beneath her parasol, was hurrying to find a carriage to take her to the country. Frau Pietzine was walking at a slow pace, lost in thought, clasping the brim of her sun hat between gloved fingers. The two women bumped into one another in front of the coach stopâElsa almost knocked her over. Frau Pietzine looked up, took off her hat and stared at the young
girl in bewilderment. Switching her parasol to her other hand and discovering Frau Pietzine's sad, painted face, Elsa opened her eyes wide, murmured an apology and continued on her way in a hurry.
Why hadn't Frau Pietzine spoken? Or had she been so absent-minded she hadn't even recognised her? I hope so, Elsa thought anxiously as she stepped into the carriage, because that foolish chatterbox is the greatest busybody in Wandernburg.
A few yards away from her, staring into space, Frau Pietzine understood everything, and, unmindful of the passengers ahead of her in the queue, she said to herself: I hope they are happy.
In a corner of the square, echoing quietly, the organ grinder turned the handle.
Clothes, that paradoxical pleasureâone loves to see them on and cannot wait to take them off. Sophie's corset constrained her eager breasts, the surprises of her belly, the arch of her back, pressed against her flesh, making her impatient. Hans undid knots, peeled off layers, unfastened girdles. Meanwhile she pushed aside collars, defeated buttons, pulled his linen breeches down. He undressed her in a hurry. She enjoyed pretending not to be in one.
Recovering their breath, Hans and Sophie contemplated the tangled landscape of clothes on the floor. They looked at one another, smiled, kissed the tips of each other's tongues. He jumped up to gather their clothes and draped them over the back of a chairâlike someone repacking luggage, after sex he was in the habit of carefully folding his high-waisted jacket, his linen shirt, his satin cravat. Sophie, who preferred to see a riot of clothing, to savour the vision of those torn-off garments, sat up and said: What are you afraid of, my love? Hans stopped what he was doing. Me? he replied, turning his head. Nothing, why? In that case, she asked, gazing at Hans's buttocks, why are you so concerned about untidy clothes? He blinked several
times, let his shirt fall to the floor, and said: It seems to me you are the translator here.
Â
She would smileâwhy not? The moment she entered the courtyard and the others stood up and came over to greet her, Frau Pietzine decided she would carry on as before. Since she no longer expected anything from life why not laugh instead of crying? She had been in her room for a whole week without speaking to a soul, and now she had returned to society and to the salon, she realised it made no differenceâshe would always be alone. Like an act of personal revenge rather than out of simple good manners, she began frantically greeting everyone, talking loudly and laughing at every joke. Yet it wasn't like before. Now she was aware that she was play-acting.
We missed you last Friday, my dear, declared Frau Levin! Please, sit down next to me, try these delicious cakes, how did you say you are feeling? Oh, much improved, replied Frau Pietzine, it was nothing, my dear, a few silly fainting fits, you know certain things happen when you get to our age! Frau Levin whispered into her ear: Oh but I, that is, you and I, are still too young for
that
! Mmm, Frau Pietzine replied mysteriously. Mmm! echoed Frau Levin, I quite agree! And the two women laughed and embraced, content to be talking at cross-purposes.
No one could accuse Herr Levin of being long-winded, but that afternoon he was eloquent. At times he even dominated the conversation. Hans listened with surprise, and reflected about the unexpected loquacity of quiet men. Quiet men have much to say, particularly when they are not talking. There are many types of quiet man. The avaricious type, who keeps his opinions to himself only to air them wittily and at great length when alone. The resigned type, who is so convinced of having nothing to say that it never occurs to him to open his mouth. The mischievous type, whose takes great pleasure in the curiosity
his silence inspires in others. The impotent type, who wishes to speak yet never finds the right moment, and who is, in effect, a frustrated conversationalist. The austere type, who is not even tempted to confess his thoughts to himself. And finally the cautious type, which was perhaps the case of Herr Levin. Herr Levin had learnt to keep quiet when others voiced their opinions in order not to cause any awkwardness. His habit of silence might have proved terribly tiresome for him, were it not for the advantage it gave him of knowing others' thoughts whilst they remained ignorant of his. And although he made no concrete use of this advantage, it seemed to him that this parsimonious use of speech was a form of moral capital which sooner or later would bring him dividends.
However, that evening Herr Levin was holding forth without moderation or caution, almost with abandon. Someone had touched on his favourite subject, interpretations of the Bible. He had mentioned the seven astral spheres, Ezekiel's wheel, and thereafter he was unable to contain himself. Sophie, marvelling at this phenomenon, did her best to cut off the others so as to prolong his outburst. And yet, my dear Professor, Herr Levin argued, by calling himself
the Gate,
Jesus was clearly saying: You must open the gates, open them! That is, Christian teachings about love of God and of thy neighbour had a clear theosophical basis, ahem, what I mean is this wasn't simple emotion but love in the Greek sense, or
agape
, an appreciation of the supreme truth of human experience, which belongs to us all equally, or to no one, in as much as all beings are made in the image of the one and should therefore act as one, should they not? Ahem. Upon close reading, the dynamic, centripetal, essentially creative nature of the divinity becomes clear, and in that sense, if I may be blunt, the heavenly bodies could be said to be copulating in the sky. All things copulate with one another and all is as it should be. Creation, my friends, is nothing more
than an act of mutual fecundation ⦠(Please, dear! interjected Frau Levin. These metaphors! But her reproach had the opposite effectâwhen she dared to disagree with her husband her ultimate submissiveness towards him became more evident. Professor Mietter looked at Herr Levin with an expression of contained horror, as though the ringlets of his wig were being singed. Each time the word
copulate
echoed round the yard, Hans and Sophie gave each other mischievous sidelong glances and tried to be solicitous towards Rudi, asking if he was hot, passing him a jug of something or smiling amiably at him) ⦠and nature behaves like a living, volatile, organism. It is an infinite and infinitely subordinated cycle, that is, individual organisms are like tranquil pools which disturb the main current in order to intensify it. That is why there is no such thing as death, each individual is born of another being. The same applies to thought. Thought is also a force that evolves by feeding off everything, assimilating opposition. That is the law of the comet and the comet tailâthey appear to be two separate entities but in fact one is the consequence of the other. Everything revolves in a circle of heat and this whole is the primordial oneness, the single living entity. The rest is appearance, pure reaction, ahem.