What a shame, said Álvaro, that there isn’t a good theatre in Wandernburg. Quite, Sophie agreed. Bah! said Professor Mietter. You only have to travel a short distance. I wish we had operas in Wandernburg! Frau Pietzine sighed. Incidentally, Monsieur Urquiho, are you not an enthusiast of Spanish operetta? More or less, Madame, replied Álvaro, more or less. Ahem, in my humble opinion, Herr Levin reflected, theatre is superfluous. I beg your pardon? Professor Mietter said, astonished. Well, explained Herr Levin, I think actors do on stage more or less what the audience does at home, that is, they pretend. Whenever I go to a farce I think to myself: Why I am paying to see this, when all I need do is look behind closed doors! In that case, Sophie said, delighted by Herr Levin’s quirky sense of humour, at least the theatre shows us how to behave, that is, how to pretend. For me, Álvaro joined in, theatre doesn’t reflect real life, it ridicules it. I think theatre allows people to transform themselves, said Hans, on stage men can be women and slaves can be kings. My idea, declared Professor Mietter, and here we must agree with Schiller, is that theatre constructs public models to educate audiences. The aim of theatre is to depict opposing forces and to demonstrate convincingly that good prevails. And what about Shakespeare, my dear Professor? Sophie ventured. He is brilliant because he portrays evil in a convincing manner, his plays attempt to explain wickedness. Shakespeare, Mademoiselle, replied Professor Mietter, censures evil in the opposite manner. I adore operetta, said Frau Pietzine, the costumes are delightful, and, I confess, I have a weakness for anything with animals in it.
Frau Pietzine seemed to be overcome by an attack of cultural enthusiasm. She nodded violently, making her necklaces quiver. She laughed euphorically at Álvaro’s comments, with which she tended to agree. She questioned Hans about every country, opening her eyes wide and fluttering her eyelashes. She clasped Sophie’s hands and exclaimed: What a clever girl! Have you ever seen such a thing! Or she admired Rudi’s elegance despite his silence. All in all, it was probable that hours of lonely sobbing awaited Frau Pietzine when she returned home. Now, at her insistence, the conversation had turned to romances and historical novels. Everyone there (including Herr Gottlieb, who had just wound up the clock and said goodnight before retiring to his study with Rudi to discuss some details of the dowry) declared they had read one or more of Walter Scott’s novels. This great Scotsman, asserted Herr Levin, is far more than a simple novelist. (Fair enough, said Álvaro, but what is so simple about being a novelist?) Ahem, he is a painter, a poet! Álvaro, who was the only one who had read him in English, said that in Great Britain people would queue to buy his books, and that the translations he had seen, the Spanish ones in any case, were truly atrocious and all copied from the French. Frau Pietzine thought it unnecessary to be able to read English in order to understand the knights of old, and that, notwithstanding certain excesses typical of those benighted times, she wished modern life had preserved the colour, loyalty and chivalry of Scott’s stories. Then, for the first time Professor Mietter and Hans agreed on something, and they stared at one another in bewilderment — neither of them liked Walter Scott in the slightest. The professor said he lacked historical accuracy and credibility. Hans accused the author of being a reactionary, and affirmed that a single ironical verse by Robert Burns was worth more than any of Scott’s moralising novels. You really don’t find them charming? said Frau Pietzine with surprise. Those melancholy landscapes! Those noble bandits! Those fiery passions and ferocious battles! What gallantry and emotion, what fearless exploits! Life, my friends, is becoming more and more dull, don’t you think? Madame, said Álvaro, I see that gallant knights turn your head. Beaming, Frau Pietzine seized Sophie’s hand and replied: I am not the only one. My dear, let us leave these learned gentlemen with all their knowledge, I am sure you as a woman understand — is there anything more heart-rending than these heroines who are prepared to sacrifice everything for love, for their one true love, who will endure anything rather than renounce their feelings? Where can we find such loyalty today? My dear friend, replied Sophie, you know how much I value your opinion, yet I confess all these tragic women alarm me. Writers and readers love heroines, but they must be dead ones. And the wretched creatures are forced to sacrifice themselves hither and thither. Could we not have heroines who are a little happier? Frau Pietzine blinked a few times, but was soon smiling dreamily once more. Of course, my dear girl, of course, even so, aren’t they marvellous? I mean, is it human to remain unmoved when the Knights Templar discover the terrible curse of the chalice in The Secret of the Clashing Sword? Or by the heart-rending final cry in The Unrepentant Temptress? Or when the old king reveals the truth to his son in Sir Highwolf in the Nameless Tower? Can anyone who has a heart not tremble when reading of the vengeance in Hindu Passion on the Cliff Edge or the fire in the castle in Rhythm’s Last Stand? Your trouble, Madam, Álvaro sympathised, is that you are too big-hearted.
The problem is, Professor Mietter declared, too many books are published. Everyone these days believes they can write a novel. As an old man (you exaggerate, Professor, don’t be so coquettish, remarked Sophie), oh well, more or less, what funny ideas you have, mein liebes Fräulein, thank you, but as a relatively old man I can still recall the time when a book was a rare adventure, and I don’t mean the kind the knights of old embarked upon! The adventure was getting hold of a real book. In those days, each one was a treasure and we expected it to yield important knowledge, something conclusive. Nowadays people prefer buying a book to understanding it, as though by purchasing books one appropriated their content. I, on the other hand. Excuse me, Professor, Herr Levin interrupted, don’t you think it was far worse before than it is now, because almost no one could read? And, ahem, let’s not forget that if we are to have good bookshops, good translations, reprints of the classics, and so on, we need readers who like to purchase books. The market, the market! the professor declared, don’t come to me singing the praises of the …
Just then Sophie sought Hans’s image in the round mirror and noticed he looked pensive. She turned to him, reading his eyes, and concluded he had something to say on the matter. Monsieur Hans, Sophie said encouragingly, calming the debate between the professor and Herr Levin, you haven’t spoken for a while, and we are beginning to be alarmed by all this silence. So, if you please, explain to us why you dislike historical novels? Hans sighed.
Let’s see, he began, it isn’t so much that I dislike them. In my view Walter Scott’s romances, not to mention those of his imitators, are a fraud. Not for being historical, but because they are anti-historical. I am passionate about history, which is why I regret the current trend for historical novels. I have nothing against the genre, but it is rarely done justice. I believe the past should not be a distraction, but a laboratory in which to analyse the present. These romances usually portray the past either as a rural idyll or a fake hell. And in both cases the author is being dishonest. I mistrust books that imply the past was much nobler, when even the author wouldn’t go back there if he could. I equally mistrust books that try to convince us the past was worse in every respect, as this is usually a way of detracting from present injustices. What I mean is, and excuse me for sermonising, the present is also historical. As for the plots, I find them superficial. Full of action yet empty of meaning, because they do not interpret that period nor the origins of this one. They are not really historical at all. Romances use the past as a backdrop instead of as a starting point for reflection. For example, their plots rarely link passion and politics, or culture and feeling. Of what use is it to me to know exactly how a prince dressed if I know nothing of how it felt to be a prince? And what about the timelessness of these romances? Or are we to believe history changes while love stays the same? Not to mention the style, oh dear, the style of these historical novels! With all due respect, I have difficulty understanding why these adventure stories continue to be told as though nothing else had been written since the romances of the age of chivalry. Doesn’t language evolve, doesn’t it have its own history? But I’ve talked too much again. I beg you to forgive me.