Can you imagine if a book actually could have such influence, when we in this country, even the limited few who desire to, do not perceive literature in translation in any way but out of context because there have been so few fellow authors translated to compare them with, so many momentous decisions and humble words in print that we will never be exposed to, those that might have allowed us to connect the night? These few translated authors are exceptional but not islands, merely adding to and expanding the already existing literary traditions of their respective countries.

Take Your Choice, 1885
(Oil on canvas, 51.44 x 76.84 cm)
BY John Frederick Peto
John Wilmerding Collection
National Gallery of Art

Young man, you might wonder how an orphan has the fortitude to become a literary minded person of a certain stature, yet is still able to hide from history, or perhaps your expression, impassive and musing, is doubtless indication that you find me to merely be risibly unsettling and overtly cancerous, yet eagerly dependent? After the upheaval and sorrow of dear Papa being taken away, never to be seen again, then eventually living on my own, working for very little as a seamstress in the tailor shop, I had the pleasure of meeting someone who changed my life. I suppose we come across very few people over a lifetime offering a worthy recasting of life’s rhythms, and I was lucky to make the acquaintance of one who served as an impediment to the volatility and potentially trivial influences that could have easily undermined me at a vulnerable time. It must have been during winter, when a curious stooped gentleman entered the shop, whisking out a case of mounted butterflies. He had a strong German accent, held a dignified but time beaten haggard composure, was gravely serious, and smelled of drink. When he shuffled off, only a few minutes later, there were murmurs among the others of a scandalous past, cheap talk that I dismissed quickly. In the abbreviated time beforehand, it became clear that not only was he an obsessive entomologist with a vast collection of insects, to which his devotion was monk-like, but that he had been a writer of some note. To this day I have been seeking back issues of the newspaper with his column, The devil in Leveetown, and how he lifts the roofs of houses. …I have been trying to keep one step ahead of the fates all these years, fully aware that power on earth can easily become turncoat. He spoke with a rusty suffering voice, without question once crisp and exact, now pliable and weary, and was kind enough to give me a book, The Singular Life Story of Heedless Hopalong by Grimmelshausen, which I would eventually discover was the third book of the Simplicius novels. It was enough that he was generous with his time and spoke as a peer to me, a low peasant girl, but reading about Heedless Hopalong helped me begin to understand the human condition and that my own struggles were minor compared to those during the Thirty Years War. I did not catch the name of the man, nor did our paths ever cross again, and he likely forgot about the scant encounter by the next opportunity that allowed him to earnestly address the contents of his butterfly case, but for several reasons, I keep this quote written on the front of my notebook. It is from The Ballad of Hopalong at the beginning of the book, and, there, that was not too difficult to find, things tend to get lost in a large bag. It reads, I became a toy in Fortune’s hands, And went where I was led. With due deference to Grimmelshausen, I have been trying to keep one step ahead of the fates all these years, fully aware that power on earth can easily become turncoat. To think otherwise is a child’s ethereal conception of fairness. Also, it is of no interest to anyone else for one to begrudge a life deserved.

This has been certainly enough talk about such things. Do you realize the implications of what you have heard and that there are now two who lay in ambush for me? Considering the circumstances, don’t you think it is reasonable that this little talk ought to gain me the Hermann Ungar book I hold, gratis? It seems like a fair exchange, so as not to leave me with wasted troubles. Ah, a reticent nod, thank you. Let me say this as I leave your store. Despite my age and standing, one constant is that I have never liked to pay for anything, so I pocket what I can as often as I can, but it is difficult to do that when an item is out of reach. Sometimes there are other shrewd methods to making the score, and it appears that the night’s gambit was effective. I thank you for receiving me with such laudable courtesy rather than with common insolence. Good evening to you.