“Then a new faith ought to be created, the religion of the soup pot,” said the landlord.
“Well, it would be more useful to believe in a soup pot or a greased pan than in smeared paper or any sort of tubs and vessels where you keep women’s paints and colours that men admire,” the landlady lashed out now like a whip at her husband’s stare. “A German woman, since I am talking about her, was the mainstay and the keeper of her home and hearth; now everybody is enthusiastic about those women who are masters at breaking up homes and hearths. And I tell you, my dear young lady, that if the German men had been as virtuous as the German women, you would not be sitting at our table now. Because…”
“For God’s sake, please, no politics!” said the landlord, as if outraged.
“What about politics?” replied the landlady, who had evidently got into her stride, “I’m only saying what I personally think.”
“Nobody believes that you’re alone in thinking this; everybody is convinced of this general opinion. It’s what Estonians think,” explained the landlord.
“No, my dear man, listen to me first. Then you’ll see that ideas like this can only be held by a few Estonian women familiar with the steam of the soup pot. You see, I think that if German men had been as clever and virtuous about their affairs as German women have been, they would have all gone with our men over beyond Narva and near Pskov, but not down to Võnnu. No one would have gone there if they’d been equal to their women. And if they had all been beyond Narva and near Pskov, our history would certainly not have taken such a sudden turn. Or what do you think, Mr Studious?” she turned to me while I was staring wide-eyed at her, “might our history have been different, if all the Korporanten, even the German ones, had gone beyond Narva together and over near Pskov?”
“I don’t know,” I fumbled for an answer, “but it seems to me that the whole supposition…”
“… rose from the steam of the soup pot, eh?” interjected the landlady. “All right! So why are you a Korporant, Mr Studious?”
“Leave those questions alone!” the embarrassed landlord reprimanded his wife.
“Let me ask now,” replied the landlady, “I do want to hear how Mr Studious answers. My own children will grow up and go to university; I want to know.”
“It’s hard to give an answer to your question,” I said at length, in utter confusion, since I felt that this woman was not to be feared only when she started talking about love, or wanted to feed you to bursting at the dinner table, but on several other occasions too. How was I supposed to answer her? Everything that I wrote above? In Erika’s presence I had to say I was a Korporant because coursing in my veins were dozens of generations of slaves’ blood, and that I too felt like a slave, as do my parents, brothers, sisters, relatives, acquaintances, complete strangers, because why would they otherwise admire me in my coloured cap, which leads me down to Võnnu, but does not call men to arms beyond Narva or near Pskov? And should I perhaps add to that that my present mad love was rooted deeply in slaves’ blood and that every glance I cast on that girl in admiration, every word with which I tried to approach her, every movement, every action whereby I tried to please her, every dream of mine in the middle of the day or late at night, was nothing more than a little glow-worm’s service of devotion bowing before the moon? Perhaps I should explain in self-defence that just as nothing that is not in the water can rise to the water’s surface, nor can anyone who is not in society rise to the top of it? Prophets of a new faith arise every time that society is bursting with a new faith. So why do you hang prophets, but not the society that created the prophets and lifted them up on its shoulders? Only to make things easier for executioners and gravediggers – and for no other reason. Well, pass judgement on me as a Korporant, because I and my companions are fewer than the whole Estonian nation that admires us. Was I really supposed to say all this to the landlady? Even now I don’t know whether there is an ounce of truth in these words and pronouncements. Maybe my explanations will turn all of society and the Estonian nation on its head, maybe my mad love will thus only become a bit of tomfoolery, which doesn’t correspond to any reality. All of this flashed like lightning through my brain as the landlady said with a haughty smile, “You see now what you men are like – Germans or Estonians. It’s all fiddle-faddle with you, and then you wonder that history is going that way and not another. You put your cap on without…”
“But why do women do it, if men are just fiddle-faddle?” said the landlord, to support me.
“Girls?” responded the landlady. “They want to please the boys.”
“But if the boys want to please the girls as well?” replied the landlord.
“Exactly!” I cried and added, “and that’s all.” And I was surprised at my own failure to realise that simple answer to the landlady’s question in the first place. But as with everything in the world, there had to be a natural reason for my failure to realise it. Now I can guess the reason why: I was afraid of the word “love” and therefore I also refrained from mentioning “liking”, because that’s how it is with people: loving is never far from liking. This was proven today as well. Hardly had I uttered my happy words than the landlady said, turning to the young lady, “You see, miss, how men make their lives easy: when some foolishness hits them, instantly love is to blame, which is the same as saying we women are to blame.”
“But, my lady, maybe that’s true,” she said.
“There it is: I was seeking support from you, but you go over to the men’s side,” joked the landlady. “But I warn you, miss, be careful with men. If we trust them too much at a young age, then we’ll trust them too little in old age, and both of these will do us harm.”
With that wise adage, we rose from the table because we had all finished eating long ago. I went up to my room, but I couldn’t find peace there at all. My body was heating up, actually burning, inside and out. Time passed at the pace of a snail feeling its way carefully with its horns. But to me that protracting animal was repulsive, because it forced me to think, and at the moment I didn’t have a single beautiful, useful idea. Everything that came into my head worked against me. I couldn’t escape the feeling, try as I might, that at today’s lunch something wounding and humiliating happened to me. I was wounding and humiliating myself – that was my conclusion, except that there was no way I could collect my thoughts and clarify where my own mistake lay. Finally, I could stand it no longer and left the house. But even on the street I could find no consolation or ease. After about half an hour I came back home, and when I looked at the clock I saw that the young lady would be free in just a couple of hours. To revive myself in time, I threw myself on the sofa, if not to sleep, then to rest a bit. As I closed my eyes I tried to think only of the young lady, not of myself. I remember that all my interest was concentrated on one question: did she lie to her grandfather today for my sake or not? That question was to my mind parallel with another question: does she love me, even a little? And with that last question I woke from my sleep, which had lasted ten whole minutes longer than anyone should be allowed. For the first moment I was senseless. My arm, holding the clock, fell listlessly on to the sofa, and there I was oblivious, until the next moment I jumped to my feet, grabbed my cap and coat, and rushed downstairs as if on fire. But having got to the second floor, I very nearly tumbled on to the reason for my hurry: Erika was coming up the stairs towards me. There must have been something terrifying about my demeanour, because she froze to the spot and asked, “Good Lord! What’s wrong?”