In the round mirror, Hans saw Sophie talking to Herr Levin, and he turned his attention to them. Monsieur Levin, Sophie said, you look rather pensive, tell us, what opinion do you have of our favourite monster? Ahem, said Herr Levin, none in particular, that is, well. Let us admit that among other things, ahem, worthy of mention, he introduced a certain civic equality, did he not? We quite understand, interrupted Professor Mietter with a scowl, I wonder what the Torah has to say about civic equality? My dear Professor, Sophie urged, that is not a joking matter. Then Álvaro said: Since we are on the subject, what does our charming hostess think of the matter? Hear, hear, agreed Professor Mietter, we are all dying to know. My dear, you are surrounded! declared Frau Pietzine. Herr Gottlieb’s whiskers bristled with anticipation. Frau Levin stopped sipping her tea. Hans glanced back at the mirror, eyes open wide. What I think, Messieurs, Sophie began, and I am aware that compared to you all I am an ignoramus when it comes to politics, is that the failures of a revolution needn’t make us regress historically. Perhaps I go too far in my conjectures, but you have all read Lucinde have you not? And do you not consider this slim volume a legitimate product of revolutionary aspirations? My dear Mademoiselle, said Professor Mietter, that book is not about politics at all! Lieber Professor, Sophie smiled, shrugging her shoulders delightfully in order to soften their disagreement, indulge me for a moment, and let us pretend that it is, that Lucinde is a deeply political novel, because it speaks not of matters of state but of people’s lives, the new intimacy of people’s lives. Can there be any greater revolution than that of social behaviour? Professor Mietter sighed: What bores the Schlegel brothers are. And how stupid their railings against Protestant rationalism. The younger brother has proved to be as insignificant as his aphorisms. And as for his elder brother, the poor man can think of nothing more interesting than to translate Shakespeare. But Hans, overwhelmed, had turned away from the mirror. So, you are an admirer of Schlegel, Mademoiselle? he asked in a hushed voice. Not of Schlegel himself, replied Sophie, well, that depends. I adore his novel, the world he evokes. You have no idea, Hans whispered, how profoundly we agree. Sophie lowered her gaze and began shifting the teacups around. Moreover, Sophie went on, seeing that her father and Professor Mietter had begun a separate conversation, I think Schlegel has become like Schiller — he is terrified of the present. In fact, if those two had their way I would be too busy trying on dresses even to discuss their work. My dear friends, Herr Gottlieb suddenly announced, standing up, I hope you enjoy the remainder of the evening. Then he walked over to the clock on the wall, which said ten o’clock sharp. He wound it up as he did every evening at the same time. He gave a nod and retired to bed.
A while later, realising he should not be the last to leave, Hans rose from his chair. Bertold went to fetch his hat and coat. Hans bowed to the other guests, his eyes remaining fixed on Professor Mietter. Sophie, who seemed more spirited since her father’s departure, went over to say goodbye. Mademoiselle Gottlieb, said Hans, please do not think I am being polite when I say that, thanks to you, I have enjoyed a delightful evening. It was very kind of you to ask me to your salon, and I hope my outspokenness will not result in me being exiled. On the contrary, my dear Monsieur Hans, Sophie replied, it is I who must thank you. Today’s discussion was one of the most lively and interesting we have had, and I suspect this is partly due to your presence. Your sympathy overwhelms me, Hans said, overstepping the mark with his flirtatiousness. Have no fear, Sophie retorted, putting him in his place, next Friday I shall be more disagreeable and less indulgent. Mademoiselle Gottlieb, said Hans, clearing his throat. (Yes? she asked abruptly.) If you will allow me, I would like, well, I would like to applaud your brilliant comments on Schlegel and Lucinde. Why, thank you, Monsieur Hans, Sophie smiled and rubbed one side of her hand with the other, you will have noticed that, while I try not to contradict my guests, when asked what I think of Napoleon, I am hard pressed to agree with the restorationists. Nevertheless, my dear friend (when he heard the word friend Hans’s heart skipped a beat), if I may be so bold as to clarify something concerning the French Revolution (please, do go ahead, said he), I assume we both defended it this evening because of our loyalty to certain convictions, but in order to remain true to my own beliefs I must remind you of something you did not mention. Of the many things for which we could reproach the Jacobins, one is their horror at French women demanding the right to participate in public life. This is why I said that we need an intimate revolution as well as political change. I hope you agree with me that the natural outcome of such a revolution, were it conducted properly, would be a change in public functions, allowing us women to aspire to parliament as well as needlework, although I assure you I have nothing against needlework, on the contrary I find it quite relaxing. In short, my dear Hans, I trust you do not think me fanciful, and I hope next Friday you will come up with an interesting response. Bertold! Bertold! There you are! I was beginning to think you’d run off with the gentleman’s overcoat! Goodnight, and take care, Hans, it is dark on the stairs. Goodbye, thank you, goodbye, goodbye.
As he made his way in a daze towards the front door of the Gottlieb residence, Hans heard his name being called from the staircase and stopped. Álvaro’s eyes flashed as he passed between two patches of darkness. My dear Hans, he said clapping him on the back, don’t you think the night is too young for two gentlemen such as us to go home?
Tramping across frozen mud and dried urine, they left Stag Street behind them. The flickering gas lamps lent the market square an intermittent presence — its luminosity fluctuated the way an instrument changes chords, the gradient of the deserted cobblestones rose and fell, the ornate fountain vanished for an instant then reappeared, the Tower of the Wind became smudged. Álvaro and Hans crossed the square listening to the sound of their own footsteps. Hans was still struck by the contrast between day and night, between the colourful fruit and the yellow darkness, the throng of passers-by and this icy silence. He reflected that one of the two squares, the daytime or night-time one, was like a mirage. Gazing up, he saw St Nicholas’s lopsided towers, its slanting silhouette. Álvaro stared at it and said: One of these days it is bound to topple over.
Unlike in the surrounding countryside where night falls slowly, day ends abruptly in Wandernburg, with the same alarming swiftness as that with which the shutters swing shut on the windows. The evening light is sucked away as down a drain. Then the few passers-by begin tripping over barrels outside taverns, all the carriage gear, kerbstones, loose logs, household waste. Beside each doorway bags of refuse decompose, while drawn by the stench dogs and cats gather round eating as the flies buzz overhead.