Seeing her agitated state, Father Pigherzog considered it best to administer Holy Communion to Frau Pietzine there and then, outside of Mass. He summoned the altar boy and asked him to prepare the altar.
… in so far as her will to repent is still weaker than her devotion. Having warned her about the lack of moderation of her attire, the aforementioned Frau H J Pietzine showed a degree of obstinacy that bears out our negative prognostications. In addition, she would be well advised to forgo reading sacrilegious tales of Knights Templar and to concentrate on more pious texts. Insist more upon this point.
… turning finally to set before Your Excellency, whose hands I kiss most fervently and whose loyal servant I remain, the state of the quarterly accounts for the lands rented on behalf of the church. In general terms, after a meticulous examination of contributions made during the second quarter, we are able to confirm with comparative regret that the tendency to growth in the Holy Easter period failed to continue through to the end of spring. I say with comparative regret, because, even as we continue to suffer from the shortages, of which Your Excellency has already been made aware, the news is perhaps not all bad, for thanks to the assistance of Our Lord, the provider of all things, and
What are we translating today? Sophie asked as she got dressed. Ah, Mademoiselle Gottlieb, Hans replied, buttoning up his shirt, nous avons de bonnes choses aujourd’hui! But first let me show you something, come here.
Hans crouched beside his trunk. He rummaged around in it and pulled out a few old editions of the magazines Frankreich and Deutschland which he handed Sophie. Where did you get these? she asked, surprised. Truthfully? he grinned. From the public library. What! cried Sophie. You didn’t! I did, I stole them, Hans confessed, I know it’s wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. Hans … she chided him. But no one ever reads them, he excused himself, clasping her round the waist, on the contrary, they’re frowned upon nowadays for promoting Franco-German dialogue, I was amazed when I found them, believe me, it’ll be fifty years before anyone notices they’re missing. Thief, Sophie growled, letting him embrace her. No, said Hans, not a thief, a collector!
They turned in circles as they held one another, and Sophie came to a stop beside the open trunk. She tried discreetly to take in as much as she could — a few scattered notebooks, objects of indeterminate usage, heaps of jumbled papers, piles of books of unusual colours and with strange bindings she had never seen before. When Hans turned to pour himself a glass of water Sophie began rifling through the books in the trunk. What’s this? she said, holding up a volume, That? he replied. Victor Hugo’s Cromwell. Yes, she said, but where did you get it? Ah, it was sent to me, why? Oh, nothing, Sophie said, bemused, just that it says it was published in Paris by Ambroise Dupont in … Yes, yes, he cut in, plucking the book from her hand, a recent publication with a very interesting preface, Brockhaus sent it to me, they may translate it next year. Shall we begin working, my love? It’s getting late.
They sat on opposite sides of the desk, each with a quill and with an inkwell in the middle. The job consisted of making a small selection of the most contemporary French poets. Hans and Sophie exchanged books and magazines (odd copies of Le Conservateur littéraire, Globe, Annales or La Minerve) and they noted down the authors they most liked. This young man is right, she remarked, underlining the prologue to New Odes, it makes no sense to classify authors as either classical or Romantic, what would Goethe be for example? A rather Romantic classicist? Or Hugo, for that matter, who is a Romantic among classicists, what do you think? I agree, said Hans, I suppose the Romantics are restless classicists. What saddens me about Hugo or this other fellow, Lamartine, is that they should be so young and yet be staunch monarchists and Christians, Chateaubriand seems to have infected everyone! Quite, Sophie laughed, and the more they declaim the more they seem to encounter God along the way. Hugo is good, isn’t he? Hans said, leafing through one of his works. He seems more aware than the others, and yet there is something, how can I describe it, something irritating about him, isn’t there? Sophie thought for a moment: He sounds as if he takes himself terribly seriously. Exactly! said Hans, moreover he is the son of one of Napoleon’s generals and calls himself a viscount, so you can just imagine, all that grandeur perdue, and oh woe is me! Do you know what, she said, it seems to me modern French poetry has a rather pathetic air for that very reason, you can tell it was written after the fall of an empire. Write that down! Hans said brushing her shoulder with the feather end of his quill.
They finally chose Hugo, Vigny, Lamartine and, at Hans’s request, a young, virtually unpublished poet called Gérard de Nerval. He proposed they each translate two poets and then correct one another’s versions. She suggested they read the finished drafts aloud to see how they sounded.
Hans raised his head, laid down his quill and said: I like Nerval a lot, he writes as if he were half-asleep. Moreover his German is excellent and he spends his time travelling, and do you know what else, he’s a translator, he just translated Faust, and Goethe says his French version is better than the original. The poem I’m going to read you isn’t in this little volume, I found it in the latest copy of Muse parisienne and it’s my favourite:
THE HALT
The carriage halts and we step down,
Slip between two houses in the town
Dazed from the noise of horses, road and whips,
Eyes tired from looking, and aching hips.
Then all at once, silent and green,
A lilac-covered vale is seen,
A stream midst poplars making play,
And road and clatter seem far away.
Stretched in the grass our lives we feel;
The fresh-mown hay makes senses reel,
Minds are blank as we gaze heavenward,
Alas! Until we hear the shout: “All aboard.”
Very you, she nodded thoughtfully, very you. The question would be — is the voice at the end simply the cry of the coachman? Or is the traveller hearing his destiny because he is unable to remain in the place where he is happy? Sophie lowered her head and continued translating.
Presently, her foot sought out Hans’s foot. Ready! she declared. Actually I have a soft spot for this little poem by Hugo. I’ll start with the first three verses, which are the only ones I’m more or less happy with:
WISH