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Draped in corners, folded on shelves, spread out over her orange eiderdown, piled on top of the dresser, arranged in boxes and according to size, the wedding trousseau swamped Sophie's bedroom. Elsa, whose task it had been for months to gather it together, was reading aloud from a list. Leaning against the doorjamb tugging the ends of his whiskers as though they were two pieces of string, Herr Gottlieb presided over the inventory. Sophie sat in a corner yawning discreetly.
Let's see, Elsa recapped, plain and patterned cotton and
silk stockings, petticoats, under-corsets, so far so good, now for the accessories, cuffs, bonnets, camisoles with lace trim, I think three dozen is enough, don't you, sir? What! replied Herr Gottlieb. Only three dozen? She should have at least four, what am I saying, make that six! (Father, Sophie broke in, don't be ridiculous, why spend all this money?) My beloved child, we are not here to scrimp and save but to do things properly, you deserve all this and much more! And remember, once you are a Wilderhaus, you will no longer have to worry about economising, well, six dozen then, Elsa, go on. As you wish, sir, Elsa intoned. White silk peignoirs for summer and dark moiré ones for winter, assorted camisoles, satin slippers, yes, that's right, brocade and damask sheets, organdy pillowcases (organdy for pillowcases? Why? declared Sophie), to give you sweet dreams, Miss, bedspreads, blankets, bath towels, hand towels, face towels, extra towels for guests, three, I mean six dozen, that's enough isn't it? We need each kind. (I tell you I don't need half of this, Sophie protested, it's absurd.) It pains me deeply, Herr Gottlieb chided, to hear you say such things when you know how many years your father has been saving up for this moment, and the hardships your mother endured, may God rest her soul, and how happy she would have been to see the luxury you will enjoy. All I want, my child, is to know you will never need for anything so that I may grow old peacefully in the sure knowledge that I have done my duty, is this so hard for you to understand? And your ingratitude, Sophie, is not the best way of repaying my efforts. Anything more, Elsa? (Thwarted, Sophie stopped protesting and fell silent.) Yes, Elsa resumed, three high-waisted jackets, an otter-skin coat, a sable stole, four new bonnets, two with feathers and two with flowers, is that enough, sir? I don't know, probably not, make it four of each just in case. As you wish, sir, Elsa intoned, and should Miss Sophie's name be stitched in white? Not stitched, embroidered,
Herr Gottlieb corrected, everything embroidered! (But I'm no good at embroidery, Father, Sophie reminded him.) Then Elsa will do it, damn it, that's what she is here for. Let's stop now, the guests will be arriving soon.
Halfway through the afternoon, Hans noticed the logs burning in the marble fireplaceâhe thought there were too few for such a big room. Glancing around, it occurred to him the candles looked less white and gave off a more unpleasant smell, which led him to deduce that they were made from a cheaper wax than the usual ones. Rudi Wilderhaus's patent-leather shoes creaked, his pointed shoulders tensed, and for a moment Hans imagined him as a two-branched candlestick. Only then did he hear Rudi's words, which he had stopped listening to a while ago: A little over two months, Rudi declared. Two months? said Frau Pietzine excitedly. They will go by in a flash! Rudi, beaming with satisfaction, seized Sophie's hand, which she gave up half-heartedly, and announced: We will spend our honeymoon in Paris. Oh, my dears, oh! Frau Pietzine declared, her excitement growing. Hans brushed against Ãlvaro's elbow. Ãlvaro whispered in his ear:
Coño
, that's original! Frau Pietzine perceived Hans's sardonic expression and raised her voice: My dear girl, men will never understand how much the ceremony means to us. Entering the church in white as the organ plays. Led down the aisle amid a cloud of incense. Watching out of the corner of our eye our friends and family gathered for this one occasion, smiling through their tears. Men cannot imagine how intensely we long for this moment from a young age. Yet years later, my dear, believe me, this ends up being the most important memory of our lives, the one we will recall in the minutest detailâthe flower mosaics, the lighted candles, the children's choir singing, the priest's voice, the ring on the anxious finger, the holy blessing and most of all, isn't it so, Herr Gottlieb, the proud arm of our father. Hans tried to catch Sophie's eye
in the mirror. She looked away, a vacant smile on her face.
Professor Mietter's echoing voice called him back to the discussion. What about you, Herr Hans? Do you agree with Pascal? Not knowing whether he was being sarcastic, Hans decided to reply: If that's what Pascal says, I have no objection. I believe Pascal also said almost no one knows how to live in the present. This applies equally to me, so please forgive my absent-mindedness. Sophie came to his aid: We were discussing whether or not Pascal was right in considering it dangerous to reveal the injustice of a law, given that people obey laws precisely because they believe them to be just. Ah, Hans thought on his feet, mmm, a profound idea, and a fallacious one perhaps, for many a just law has arisen as a result of people rebelling against unjust laws. Not necessarily, said Herr Levin, not necessarily. If you'll allow me, Ãlvaro asserted, I'd like to quote an idea of Pascal's which I find delightfully republican, “the power of kings is based on the folly of the people”, I think this explains the question of law. God help us! Professor Mietter groaned, straightening his wig. Pascal deserves more than mere demagoguery!
Professor Mietter appeared hungry for debate, and exasperatingly dialectical. Imagine, Herr
Urquiho
, the professor said, only the other day I was looking through Tieck's translation of
Don Quixote
, which, to be honest, I don't think is much of an improvement on that of Bertuch (what? Hans countered. Bertuch even changed the title! Really? Ãlvaro was surprised, what did he call it?
Life and Miracles of the Wise Landowner Don Quixote
! replied Hans. Imagine how ghastly. And how mistaken, added Ãlvaro, because Alonso Quijano has no land to speak of, and he fails at almost every miracle he tries to create. The only miracle, Hans chuckled, was that Bertuch managed to teach himself Spanish by translating
Quixote
), perhaps, gentlemen, perhaps. In any event, you must admit it is amusing that a militant romantic such as Tieck should translate a book that
mocks all his own ideals. In my view, Soltau's is the most successful translation (too anachronistic, Hans disagreed),
alles klar
, my compliments on being more meticulous than me, but going back to what were we saying, while I was rereading
Quixote
the other day, I thought: Is Don Quixote not a conservative at the end of the day, a conservative in the best meaning of the word? Why is he considered a revolutionary hero when what he really wants is for history to stop and for the world to be the way it was before, when what he really longs for is a return to feudalism? (Ah, said Rudi, rousing himself and closing his snuffbox, not for nothing did they call him a wise man!) In contrast, gentlemen, I don't know what you think, but in my opinion his most brilliant speech is the one about arms and letters. (My dear professor, Hans laughed, I hope you won't be disappointed to hear that we very nearly agree.) Heavens, young man, what a welcome change! In this discourse, Don Quixote refutes a separation, which unfortunately still holds swayâphysical strength on the one hand and intellectual prowess on the other. I would even venture to say that the thing has worsened, because today the humanities themselves have been divided into the arts on the one hand and the sciences on the other, further evidence of the decline of the West. How can feeling be separated from reason? And how can anyone deny that a lack of physical fitness is an obstacle to understanding? I for example read much better after doing physical exercise (surely, Hans argued, Don Quixote wasn't referring to physical so much as military strength), you are wrong, he was referring to both, and moreover they are one and the same, war is as necessary to the peace of nations as physical strength is to the peace of the spirit. (You can't be serious, said Hans, wars don't happen in order to bring peace, and physical strength is seldom used to enhance the spirit. Well, Ãlvaro asserted, in this instance the professor is right, in his speech about arms
and letters Don Quixote says as much, doesn't he, “the aim of weapons is to bring peace, and this peace signals the true end to war”. That sounds like something the Holy Alliance would sign up to, Hans retorted.) Or Robespierre, Herr Hans, or Robespierre! (For your information, Professor, Hans replied angrily, I find Robespierre every bit as repellent as Metternich. What? exclaimed Ãlvaro, you can't be serious?) Gentlemen, you cannot imagine the pleasure it gives me to see the pair of you at odds. (My dear friends, Sophie intervened, please let's calm down, the whole purpose of these gatherings is to have different opinions, there would be no point to them otherwise. I beg you not to become agitated. As for this admirable speech, I'd like to remind you from my position of boundless ignorance that our hero from La Mancha, he who compares arms and letters, becomes a knight thanks to letters, not arms. And incidentally he does much more speaking than fighting, and wins arguments rather than battles. Elsa, my dear, would you bring the cakes?)
Ah, no, forgive me, the professor objected, when we speak of Calderón we speak of a poet rather than a playwright. It is enough to read the verse in his plays, which far outweighs the action. Furthermore, with all due respect,
lieber
Herr Gottlieb, for I am aware of your fondness for him, Calderón serves up his poetry with too liberal a sprinkling of holy allusions. Faith is one thing, religious zeal another. Good grief, Professor, declared Ãlvaro, how very Spanish you are this afternoon! As Spanish, retorted Professor Mietter, as the confusion to which I have just alluded. I shan't deny it, smiled Ãlvaro, I shan't deny it. My favourite of all the Catholic poets is Quevedoâhe could be reactionary, but never overly pious. God! What sublime wickedness, if you'll pardon the expression. What exasperates me about Calderón are his religious plays, rich and poor as one in death, kings and their subjects joined
in the afterlife! What would Sancho Panza have said of
The Great Theatre of the World
? My dear friend, the professor said solemnly, if anything makes us equal it is death. That is an inescapable truth, and a powerful idea for theatreâhearing what the dead would say if they knew what awaited them. Only by politicising philosophy can one question such a thing. Look, replied Ãlvaro, if life is a play, then Calderón forgot to describe what goes on behind the scenes. All that interest in the afterlife disguises what's going on here and now. Didn't Cervantes do the exact opposite in
Quixote
? He moved us by showing up everyday inequalities, injustices and corruption. By contrast the death of his character, what happens afterwards, is almost irrelevant. How can you say that, protested the professor, when Quijano recants on his deathbed! Quijano recants, said Ãlvaro, but not Don Quixote.
How fascinating, Frau Pietzine declared, I adore
Quixote
! I haven't read all of it, but some of the chapters are wonderful. And who do you prefer, as a Spanish reader, dear Monsieur
Urquiho
, Don Quixote or Sancho Panza? I hope I am not putting you on the spot! My dear lady, replied Ãlvaro, it is impossible to choose, the story needs them both, and neither character would make sense without the other. Don Quixote without Sancho would be an aimless old man who wouldn't last a week, and without him Sancho would be a plump little conformist without his curiosity, which is his greatest asset. I agree completely, commented Hans, except in one respectâthe key to Don Quixote is that he has no aim: “He continued on his way”âdo you remember?â“taking nothing save his beloved horse, believing that therein lay the true spirit of adventure”. If there can be no knight without a squire bearer and vice versa, without Rocinante there would be no book. How fascinating, Frau Pietzine cooed, and what de-li-cious cakes! Sophie, my dear, my compliments to Petra. Ah, scoffed Rudi, a speck
of snuff on the tip of his nose, a sensible remark at last!
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After several days of running a temperature, coughing, and feeling nauseous, the organ grinder agreed to be seen by a doctor. Just so you know,
kof
, he had declared, I'm doing this to put yours and Franz's minds at rest. Hans gave him a scrub down for the occasion. His muscles sagged like pieces of string.
Doctor Müller arrived by coach. Hans waited for him at the end of Bridge Walk. The doctor alighted nervously and approached in little leaps, as though his feet were tied together at the ankles. Haven't we met before? asked the doctor. I don't think so, answered Hans, but who knows. How odd, said Doctor Müller, your face looks familiar. And even though I say so myself, I seldom forget a face. The opposite happens with me, said Hans, leading him through the pinewood, I'm constantly muddling people up.
They entered the cave. Without batting an eyelash, the doctor made straight for the organ grinder's straw pallet. He studied him with interest, nodded a couple of times, draped an enormous stethoscope round his neck (It's French, he explained), listened to the patient's chest and proclaimed: This old fellow is suffering from pemphigus. And what is that, doctor? Hans asked anxiously. Pemphigus, replied Müller, is a common ailment. Yes, but what is it? Hans insisted. Blisters, the doctor explained, skin blisters, in this case mostly on the hands. I imagine this fellow has worked a great deal with his hands, or so it seems to me at least. Quite so, said Hans, but what has that to do with his condition? You mean the fevers and the coughing? said Müller. Oh very little. Nothing, in fact. But as soon as I saw him I knew. Without a doubt. Pemphigus. But what about the other symptoms? Hans said impatiently. Doctor Müller digressed onto the subject of nervous ailments, boils, lingering colds, old age, bone disease. In brief, he concluded, nothing serious. Or perhaps it could be.