If I could be the leaf
Spinning on the wings of wind
Or floating on rapid waters
Or that the eye follows in a dream
Still green I would gladly fall,
Freeing myself from my branch
To the morning breeze
Or the stream of evening.
Far beyond the rushing flood,
Far beyond the dark forest,
Far beyond the deep abyss,
I would escape, swift as I could.
Bravo! said Hans, although I see your leaf doesn’t wish to stay where it is either! Yes, replied Sophie, but unlike your traveller the leaf isn’t free, it is trapped in its birthplace, and longs to fly away before it withers.
They worked on two more poems and when it was nearing six o’clock they took a break. They decided to correct their drafts the next day and to leave Vigny and Lamartine for the following week. Then Hans went over to the trunk, searched for a couple of volumes with dark bindings and gave Sophie an impish look as he handed them to her. She read the names — Theophile de Viau, Saint-Amant, Saint-Évremond. Aren’t these the … she said, surprised. Yes! Hans nodded, the old French libertines. And are we going to translate them? asked Sophie. Yes, we are, he said. But aren’t they banned? she said. Indeed, he grinned, but there’s a very simple way round that. Because they appear in the official censorship list under their noms de plume, I have managed to convince Brockhaus to publish them under their given names — Marc-Antoine Girard and Charles Marguetel. We will call it something innocuous such as Amusements, and, being ignoramuses, the censors won’t notice a thing. And if by any chance they do, we will claim we had no idea these eminent men of letters were the selfsame libertines. That won’t work with de Viau because he never used a nom de plume, but since his Libertine Ballads were published anonymously over two hundred years ago, we will keep them anonymous and wash our hands of the matter. I don’t know if it will work, but we won’t have to take responsibility. The publisher knows how to deal with that kind of thing. The idea of translating them excites me, they did as much for the French Revolution as Voltaire, Montesquieu or Rousseau. Listen, listen:
ON THE RESURRECTION
Then came the happy day, if we believe in history,
When the Creator, crowned as he was in glory,
Cheated his own death and defeated Hell.
Friend, if you believe that, you’re a donkey’s arse,
We nailed him there with our eyes wide open—
When he returned to life, he was all alone!
That de Viau was a terror, Sophie chuckled, Father Pigherzog would love that! Further on he turns serious, said Hans:
Why all these bells and all these masses?
Do you think you can revive the dead?
Let us rather wisely share the news
That the soul dies with the head.
Sophie ran over to sit on his lap. Well, my libertine, she said, her skirts enveloping his legs, why not leave poetry until tomorrow and do something for our mortal flesh?
We have to do something, said Elsa, her leg rocking beneath her dress. The doors of the Central Tavern creaked, and Álvaro turned to see who was coming in. Even though he knew they were unlikely to bump into anyone he knew there, he felt jumpy — he seldom met Elsa in public places. We have to do something, I tell you, she insisted, I can’t go on living like this, in that house, Fräulein Sophie makes me cover up for her almost every day, I can’t stand that idiot Bertold, and Herr Gottlieb is drinking more and more (Elsa, darling, said Álvaro, your position in the Gottlieb residence isn’t as bad as all that, I assure you I know many houses where). Nonsense! A servant is a servant! Don’t you see? (Of course I do, said Álvaro, all I’m saying is that Herr Gottlieb pays you a decent wage and.) Decent? Decent according to whom? (All right, Álvaro said, lowering his voice, I’m sorry, but they treat you with respect, don’t they?) You call that respect? Don’t make me laugh! Look, do you want to know how I learnt to read? Do you? Well, I’ll tell you. Before I went to the Gottliebs, my mother packed me off to work for the Saittemberg family, do you know them? Yes, well, them. Anyway, it may surprise you to know that I taught myself to read aged fourteen thanks to the love letters Silke Saittemberg received from her paramour. Fräulein Silke would give them me to hide under my mattress because she knew it was the only place her father would never find them. Yes, my dear, I learnt to read from those letters, and that wasn’t all, I also learnt that we servants live off the masters’ leftovers, we thrive on their scraps, Álvaro, and a servant has to take every opportunity, like I did with Fräulein Silke’s love letters. I would read them at night, copy them out word for word and use them to study grammar with the help of a book I stole from Herr Saittemberg’s library.
Wait a moment, wait a moment, said Álvaro, do you read Sophie’s letters, too? She bowed her head and stirred her lukewarm coffee. Elsa, answer me, do you read them? Yes, Elsa confessed, but I’d never show them to anyone else, I swear! I only read them out of curiosity, and habit (Elsa, Elsa, my girl, he said clasping her hand, you know that’s wrong), we all do things knowing they’re wrong, look, Álvaro, I’m only doing what they do, taking advantage of my position. Think of Fräulein Silke’s letters, if I’d been discreet, as you would probably have advised, I’d be nearly illiterate now. (You’re right, said Álvaro, what I’m trying to say is that Sophie values you and you’d have difficulty finding that elsewhere.) I don’t plan to go elsewhere to carry on doing the same thing! And my love, don’t fool yourself, you should know better at your age, Fräulein Sophie is kind, I have no complaints about the way she treats me, but I’d feel a lot more comfortable if she stopped pretending we’re friends, because we aren’t. I’m her maid. Her servant. I wait on her. I help her to dress. I listen to her. What more does she want? Must I love her too? (You’re a hard one, said Álvaro.) Not with you (really? he grinned), no. I just want us to live together, to begin another life. (Don’t be in such a hurry, Elsa.) But time is racing by! And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, my love, you have less time than I do. (If you think I’m so old, why do you like me?) Because I like my men like that, old!
Elsa finished her cold coffee. Why don’t we go away? Don’t pull a face, not for ever, just on a trip, we could go to England, I’ve never been to England. (That’s impossible, he murmured, letting go of her hand, I mean, not for the time being at least.) Why not, tell me, why not, explain to me, be truthful, I implore you, are you ashamed to be in love with a servant, is that it? (Of course not, Elsa, he said, clasping her hand once more, how can you even think that!) Why then? Because we mustn’t be seen together? Who are we hiding from? (And what about now, here, aren’t we being seen together?) Oh come, come, you know perfectly well your rich friends never frequent this tavern. (What? What are you saying? Do you want us to meet in the Central Tavern next time or in Café Europa or wherever you like, is that what you want?) No, my love, I don’t want to meet you in a tavern or anywhere else, what I want is to be free, not to hide any longer, to leave that house once and for all, that’s what I want. I want to do other things. I’m not young any more (you look younger than ever to me. And lovelier), don’t flatter me. Oh don’t flatter me.