Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
Traveler of the Century (48 page)
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They leafed through Quevedo's poems while they were waiting for Ãlvaro. Hans and Sophie had asked him to help them out with the Spanish translations. His imminent arrival inhibited
them, and they smiled nervously, not daring to touch one another. What time did he say he was coming? she asked. At half-past three, he replied, and I'm surprised because he's very punctual.
them, and they smiled nervously, not daring to touch one another. What time did he say he was coming? she asked. At half-past three, he replied, and I'm surprised because he's very punctual.
Fifteen minutes later there was knock at the door of room number seven. Ãlvaro greeted them in Spanish, humorously imitating his friend's Saxon burr, and apologised for his tardiness. Is Elsa downstairs? Sophie asked. Ãlvaro replied uneasily: Who? Elsa? Ah, yes, yes, I saw her there, why? Sophie explained: I don't know what's got into her today, she's been very curt with me, and she made up all kinds of excuses not to accompany me, and rather than go off in a coach as she usually does she has stayed downstairs. Well, Ãlvaro cleared his throat, servants aren't what they used to be, you know.
We've got Quevedo, Hans read out, Lope de Vega, St John, Garcilaso ⦠And what about Góngora? asked Ãlvaro. I think we'll leave Góngora out, replied Hans, he's untranslatable. But, Sophie said, according to you poetry is always translatable. It is, it is, Hans grinned, except for Góngora. And you're able to read him in Spanish? Ãlvaro looked surprised. Well, said Hans, more or less, I have a few of his books in my trunk. How many languages do you know? insisted Ãlvaro. A few, replied Hans. And where did you learn them? Ãlvaro asked. Let's just say on my travels, replied Hans. Then he went over to his trunk and rummaged around in it before extracting a weighty volume, which he brought back to the desk. Ãlvaro examined it with interest. Its title was
Dictionary of the Spanish and English Languages, Wherein the Words Are Correctly Explained, Agreeably to Their Different Meanings
, compiled by Henry Neuman and printed in London in 1823. It contained a vast number of terms pertaining to the arts, sciences, business and navigation. This gem, explained Hans, has helped me out of a tight corner on more than one occasion.
Dictionary of the Spanish and English Languages, Wherein the Words Are Correctly Explained, Agreeably to Their Different Meanings
, compiled by Henry Neuman and printed in London in 1823. It contained a vast number of terms pertaining to the arts, sciences, business and navigation. This gem, explained Hans, has helped me out of a tight corner on more than one occasion.
We still have no modern Spanish poets in our European anthology, can you recommend any? Don't worry, Ãlvaro laughed, in Spain all the modern poets died out with the baroque era. In that case, said Sophie, I'd like to include Juana Inés de la Cruz, who I understand lived in colonial Mexico and was widely read in Spain. I have read some of her sonnets, where is that old edition from Madrid? Could you pass it to me, Hans, thank you, now, let me see, this one, for instance. This isn't yet another chivalrous knight praising his beloved, one of those absent maidens that have nothing to say throughout the entire poem, here it is she who speaks. It is a courtly sonnet, very serious and very ironical. Here, read it:
To whoe'er is heartless I give my heart,
The one who gives his heart I heartless leave,
Plight constant troth to whoe'er mistreats me,
Disdain the one who offers constant love,
The one who gives his heart I heartless leave,
Plight constant troth to whoe'er mistreats me,
Disdain the one who offers constant love,
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Whoe'er I beseech fondly I a diamond find,
Am diamond myself to any fond approach,
Triumphant wish to hail whoe'er would slay me
And slay the one who would see me triumph.
Am diamond myself to any fond approach,
Triumphant wish to hail whoe'er would slay me
And slay the one who would see me triumph.
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The one I reward sees the fading of my desire,
Whoe'er I implore sets me on fire
In either way I unhappy find myself.
Whoe'er I implore sets me on fire
In either way I unhappy find myself.
If you are going to translate this, Ãlvaro remarked, you have to take great care with the word
diamante
, it's a play on wordsâ
di-amante
, someone precious yet hard, impervious to love. Of course, Sophie said, looking up from the book, I hadn't thought of that! And look at the end. The poem begins tragically and ends so pragmatically. After all that strife, the lady chooses
between causing pain or suffering. And she decides torment and self-denial are not for her:
diamante
, it's a play on wordsâ
di-amante
, someone precious yet hard, impervious to love. Of course, Sophie said, looking up from the book, I hadn't thought of that! And look at the end. The poem begins tragically and ends so pragmatically. After all that strife, the lady chooses
between causing pain or suffering. And she decides torment and self-denial are not for her:
But then for sport I choose
The one I love not, to labour in vain,
And to whoe'er loves me not, am all aflame.
The one I love not, to labour in vain,
And to whoe'er loves me not, am all aflame.
Of course, Sophie went on excitedly, the ideal would be reciprocity, but Juana Inés warns us if there has to be a victim it won't be her. A seventeenth-century Mexican nun! If only my friends could read her! (We will translate it, Hans laughed, and you can give it to them as they come out of church on Sunday.) It is so different from any other love sonnets! Like these ones by Garcilaso, for example, they are wonderful, so subtle, and yet they have the same dreadful essential idea behind themâI love you provided you remain silent, you are perfect because I scarcely know you, nor do I need to:
Inscribed on my soul is your face
And whenever I wish to write of you â¦
And whenever I wish to write of you â¦
If I'm not wrong, said Sophie pointing to the page with her slender finger, the poet has such a clear image in his soul of his beloved that he has no need to see or even to speak to herâhe already knows everything he intends to say about her, it is engraved within him (oh, come now, please, come now! Ãlvaro protested), and that is why he goes on to admit, correct me if I'm wrong, my dear, that he prefers to contemplate this image of his beloved when he is alone:
⦠you alone inscribed it there; I read
It so alone I withdraw from you â¦
It so alone I withdraw from you â¦
We have to assume that in order to inspire this poem, Sophie continued, she must have possessed amazing qualities. And yet when he is interpreting them, the poet
avoids
her, isn't this because he is protecting himself? Or hiding, so his beloved doesn't get in the way? That is, he writes the poem on his own, with his eyes closed, and reads it to himself! (Hans, implored Ãlvaro, stop her, say something! She's tearing our classics apart! Hans shrugged and gave a sigh.) And further on, look, another beautiful, rather suspect verse: “my soul has moulded you in its image”. Why should anyone be moulded?
avoids
her, isn't this because he is protecting himself? Or hiding, so his beloved doesn't get in the way? That is, he writes the poem on his own, with his eyes closed, and reads it to himself! (Hans, implored Ãlvaro, stop her, say something! She's tearing our classics apart! Hans shrugged and gave a sigh.) And further on, look, another beautiful, rather suspect verse: “my soul has moulded you in its image”. Why should anyone be moulded?
With the aid of Ãlvaro, a couple of dictionaries and a Spanish grammar, they worked on poems by Quevedo, Juana Inés, Garcilaso, and St John of the Cross. They began by making observations, then discussed their meaning and finally translated a first draft. Ãlvaro's German was almost perfect, but he couldn't follow metre. If either Hans or Sophie weren't sure of a meaning, they would ask Ãlvaro to translate it as literally as possible, then try to adapt the rhymes and metres. Ãlvaro enjoyed watching them trade syllables and stresses, as if they had a metronome in their mouth. They seemed to him similar, happy and faintly ridiculous. When they took too long, Ãlvaro wondered why if they already knew what they were going to say it mattered so much how they said it. A strange pastime, he thought, and a strange way to love. But he said nothing to them (about love or poetry) and waited for them to decide.
They took a break. Hans asked Frau Zeit to bring them up a jug of lemonade. While they chatted, Sophie spoke of the differences she found between her language and Ãlvaro's. It's the opposite of what I expected, she said, metre in German or English poetry resembles a dance, while in Spanish it is like a military march. In German poetry the dancer marks the rhythm until he decides to turn round and go on to the next verse, regardless of how many steps he takes. It is more spoken, more from the
lungs, isn't it? Spanish verse is beautiful and yet there is something rigid about it, something imposed that doesn't seem to originate from speech, one has to count both accents and syllables, it's almost Pythagorean. I imagine it requires great technical skill, perhaps that is why Spanish poetry can seem as rhetorical as French poetry. It must be so difficult to sound informal in your language, Ãlvaro, while observing metre! I suppose so, Ãlvaro shrugged, I don't know much about verse. Although I have to say I think Spanish grammar is much more flexible, more fluid, shall we say, than German grammar. I feel like I'm banging a drum when I speak German and English, b-boom! B-boom! Firstâsecond! Subjectâverb! You can never stray far from the path of the sentence, maybe this is why your German reasoning is so convincing; your language doesn't allow any improvisation in mid-flow, you have to think before you speak in order to respect the word order. Whilst, as you see, Spanish grammar is like Spanish politics! Everything happens willy-nilly, by jerks. Ulrike always said I was more imaginative and less clear-headed when we spoke in Spanish.
Ich weià nicht
, it's possible.
lungs, isn't it? Spanish verse is beautiful and yet there is something rigid about it, something imposed that doesn't seem to originate from speech, one has to count both accents and syllables, it's almost Pythagorean. I imagine it requires great technical skill, perhaps that is why Spanish poetry can seem as rhetorical as French poetry. It must be so difficult to sound informal in your language, Ãlvaro, while observing metre! I suppose so, Ãlvaro shrugged, I don't know much about verse. Although I have to say I think Spanish grammar is much more flexible, more fluid, shall we say, than German grammar. I feel like I'm banging a drum when I speak German and English, b-boom! B-boom! Firstâsecond! Subjectâverb! You can never stray far from the path of the sentence, maybe this is why your German reasoning is so convincing; your language doesn't allow any improvisation in mid-flow, you have to think before you speak in order to respect the word order. Whilst, as you see, Spanish grammar is like Spanish politics! Everything happens willy-nilly, by jerks. Ulrike always said I was more imaginative and less clear-headed when we spoke in Spanish.
Ich weià nicht
, it's possible.
And yet it is far more difficult to translate a rhyming poem from Spanish into German than it is the other way round, isn't it? Assonant rhymes are easy to achieve in Spanish and they have a
ring
to them. In German, on the other hand, because of all our different vowel sounds and the endless consonants, ach! Assonance is more difficult and the rhymes are weak. What I find tedious about the Spanish language, said Ãlvaro, is all the long adverbsâ
larguÃsimamente largos, coño!â
and how bad it is at joining nouns together. In English or German, two or three things can become one thing, one new thing, whereas we are as purist about language as we are about religion, each thing is what it is, and if you want something else you have to use another word. And yet, replied Hans, as you were saying earlier, Castilian grammar, do you say Castilian or Spanish? (Oof ! Ãlvaro sighed. That is
an extremely tedious subject, I don't mind, whatever you like.) Well, in your language grammar allows you to play with words as if they were riddles, and this is immediately noticeable in poetry. Sentences in German are constructed like ships, out of big heavy sections. How funny! remarked Sophie, Ãlvaro eulogising German and Hans going into raptures over Spanish! What's so odd about that, Miss Wandenburger, said Hans, doesn't everyone aspire to being a little more of a foreigner?
ring
to them. In German, on the other hand, because of all our different vowel sounds and the endless consonants, ach! Assonance is more difficult and the rhymes are weak. What I find tedious about the Spanish language, said Ãlvaro, is all the long adverbsâ
larguÃsimamente largos, coño!â
and how bad it is at joining nouns together. In English or German, two or three things can become one thing, one new thing, whereas we are as purist about language as we are about religion, each thing is what it is, and if you want something else you have to use another word. And yet, replied Hans, as you were saying earlier, Castilian grammar, do you say Castilian or Spanish? (Oof ! Ãlvaro sighed. That is
an extremely tedious subject, I don't mind, whatever you like.) Well, in your language grammar allows you to play with words as if they were riddles, and this is immediately noticeable in poetry. Sentences in German are constructed like ships, out of big heavy sections. How funny! remarked Sophie, Ãlvaro eulogising German and Hans going into raptures over Spanish! What's so odd about that, Miss Wandenburger, said Hans, doesn't everyone aspire to being a little more of a foreigner?
They went back to work after finishing the jug of lemonade. They had left Ãlvaro's favourite poem for last. After looking up the meaning of the words
antaños
and
huirse
, Sophie asked Ãlvaro to read Quevedo's sonnet aloud.
antaños
and
huirse
, Sophie asked Ãlvaro to read Quevedo's sonnet aloud.
ON THE BREVITY OF LIVING AND THE NOTHINGNESS OF HAVING LIVED
“Is life there?” No reply is given
Despite all the years I have lived!
Fortune all my days has gnawed,
My madness steals away the hours.
Despite all the years I have lived!
Fortune all my days has gnawed,
My madness steals away the hours.
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Unable to know how or where
My health and years have fled!
Life gone missing, the living past endures,
And every calamity presses round.
My health and years have fled!
Life gone missing, the living past endures,
And every calamity presses round.
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Yesterday's no more; tomorrow is not yet,
Today is leaving in all haste,
I am a was, a will be, and a weary is.
Today is leaving in all haste,
I am a was, a will be, and a weary is.
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Today, tomorrow, yesterday, I shape
Shroud and swaddling clothes, and remain
Present successions of the dead.
Shroud and swaddling clothes, and remain
Present successions of the dead.
I don't know what moves me more, Sophie gulped, the way time passes so swiftly in the poem or the poet's despair over the time that he has left. Wait, said Hans, am I right in thinking this poem is divided into two? (Well done, Ãlvaro said sarcastically, quartets and tercets!) Very funny. The title suggests the poem will be about the fleeting nature of time, how quickly we grow old. And the quartets are about that. Yet the tercets say almost exactly the opposite, here a different voice appears to be speaking, the voice of a person who is tired of life, an old man for whom the end is dragging on, why is that? I'd never thought of that, said Ãlvaro, surprised, and I know the poem off by heart. You never thought of it precisely because you know it off by heart. I've had an idea, Sophie said pensively, perhaps the key to this is in that peculiar “soy un
fue
”, that is, why isn't it “soy un
fui
”? What if, after reminiscing in the quartets, the old man, fearful of time, is able to contemplate the whole of his life, and he distances himself so much from his memories that he sees them as though he were another person, he becomes detached from himself and a second voice is born, the one we hear in the tercets.
Bravo!
declared Hans. You're both crazy, Ãlvaro said, surreptitiously rereading the poem. Now that you mention it, said Hans, I can think of another turn of the screwâafter turning into someone else who contemplates his own life, the old man continues along the path towards death, and when he stumbles on it, or at least catches sight of it, he arrives full circle, encountering the child he was, his own beginning. Then, in the final tercet, yesterday, today and tomorrow merge into one. In that case, Sophie added, let me suggest an optimistic endingâonce he has encountered his beginning, the circle closing could be construed as a kind of eternity. That would explain the “present successions of the dead”.
Present
, do you see, because he is still alive!
fue
”, that is, why isn't it “soy un
fui
”? What if, after reminiscing in the quartets, the old man, fearful of time, is able to contemplate the whole of his life, and he distances himself so much from his memories that he sees them as though he were another person, he becomes detached from himself and a second voice is born, the one we hear in the tercets.
Bravo!
declared Hans. You're both crazy, Ãlvaro said, surreptitiously rereading the poem. Now that you mention it, said Hans, I can think of another turn of the screwâafter turning into someone else who contemplates his own life, the old man continues along the path towards death, and when he stumbles on it, or at least catches sight of it, he arrives full circle, encountering the child he was, his own beginning. Then, in the final tercet, yesterday, today and tomorrow merge into one. In that case, Sophie added, let me suggest an optimistic endingâonce he has encountered his beginning, the circle closing could be construed as a kind of eternity. That would explain the “present successions of the dead”.
Present
, do you see, because he is still alive!
Quevedo, Quevedo! Ãlvaro exclaimed. Come back to life, defend yourself!
Hans and Sophie looked at one another. They were no longer thinking of Quevedo, all they could see was a succession of present moments.
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In the end, at the behest of his parents, Rudi had no choice but to leave Wandernburg. They wished him to spend the holidays with them at Baden, where each summer the family rented a section of the spa, and then at their country mansion in the environs of Magdeburg, where the Wilderhauses owned land, which it was necessary to supervise occasionally. Rudi said goodbye to Sophie solemnly, insisting once again that she go with him. And once again she politely refused, citing her need to keep her father company, as well as the zealous care with which Herr Gottlieb was preparing for the wedding. You do know, my love, Rudi had said before giving her a last snuff-flavoured kiss, that even if you came with me, I would never dream of disrespecting you before our wedding day. I know, I know, she had said, blinking, and responding to his kiss more passionately than usual, that's what I love about you, my darling, but let's be patient, that way we'll enjoy our reward even more.
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