Subject: translation of the German Lolita -- page 2 of 4
(corrected)
Several
weeks passed, and again I was passing by the tavern late at night, even later
than the last time. From behind the shutters I heard a desolate cry and
then such an extremity of cursing and filth that I was frightened out of
my skin. There could be no doubt, the shouts and quarrelling voices that came
from within the old tavern were not those of the two weak old men that I knew --
these voices were deep, young and bellowing with rage.. There must have been two
strong young men, who had come to loggerheads. The shouts became even louder
until they reached a pitch of frenzy punctuated by the blows of a fist
crashing on a table. Then I heard the silvery bright laugh of a
woman's voice, and immediately the enraged voices swelled into an insane
bawling.
I stood frozen in my tracks and it never occured to me to open
the door and see what was going on.
The woman's voice screamed, just a
cry, but so frightened, in such fearful anguish, that I have never been
able to forget it. Then everything was still.
The next day when I went
into the tavern, Anton placed my glass of wine on the table with his usual
friendly grin, and everything was so unchanged that I began to wonder if the
whole episode hadn't been a dream, and I was too ashamed to ask.
One
afternoon towards the end of Winter I had to tell the brothers that I wouldn't
be coming anymore as I was setting out for Spain on the following
day.
This news had a strange effect on Anton and Aloys, and their hard
weathered faces blanched for a moment and two pairs of eyes sought the floor.
They went out and I could hear them whispering together.
After a while
Anton returned and asked me in some excitement if by chance I would be going to
Alicante and when I said yes, he turned and ran lightheartedly back to his
brother.
Later they both returned, behaving as if nothing had
happened.
While I was packing I forgot about the brothers, but during the
night I had a confused and complicated dream in which a crooked little salmon
colored house in a derelict street in the harbor of Alicante played some
part.
On my way to the train station the next day, I was surprised to see
that in bright daylight Anton and Aloys had their shutters closed up
tight.
During the trip I soon forgot all about my studies and little
adventures in southern Germany. Travelling makes it easy to forget.
I
spent several days in Paris to visit a few friends and see the Louvre. One
evening I returned tired from a cabaret in the Latin Quarter, where I went
to hear a remarkable poet, who one of my friends had heard of. He turned
out to be an ancient blind bard who sang beautifully with a simple, sorrowful
voice. He was accompanied skilfully on the violin by his charming
daughter.
Later she played a solo piece, and I immediately recognized the
melody as the one that I had heard coming from the Walzer brothers' house. I
later determined it was a gavotte by Lully, from the time of Louis XIV.
Some
days later I traveled on toward Lisbon and in early February I came through
Madrid on my way to Alicante.
I have always had a weak spot in my heart
for the South in general, and for Spain first and foremost. There you live in a
surreality, all experiences are heightened. Life is hot and unfettered. The
people too, like their wine, are strong, fiery and sweet, but excitable and
dangerous when aroused. Then, too, I always thought that the Southerners had a
little of Don Quixote in their blood.
Actually, I didn't have anything in
particular to do in Alicante, but I passed several of those inexpressibly sweet
nights there, when the moon rises over the castle of Santa Barbara and throws
the harbor into an uncanny chiaroscura. On such nights the German heart
beats with a lyrical romanticism.