“The relationship between the artist and his work was seen in exactly the same light. The fairy tale gave the writer free rein to exploit his ‘universe-creating imagination.’ And even the creative act was not always completely conscious. The writer could experience that his story was being written by some innate force. He could practically be in a hypnotic trance while he wrote.”
“He could?”
“Yes, but then he would suddenly destroy the illusion. He would intervene in the story and address ironic comments to the reader, so that the reader, at least momentarily, would be reminded that it was, after all, only a story.”
“I see.”
“At the same time the writer could remind his reader that it was he who was manipulating the fictional universe. This form of disillusion is called ‘romantic irony.’ Henrik Ibsen, for example, lets one of the characters in Peer Gynt say: ‘One cannot die in the middle of Act Five.’ “
“That’s a very funny line, actually. What he’s really saying is that he’s only a fictional character.”
“The statement is so paradoxical that we can certainly emphasize it with a new section.”
“What did you mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing, Sophie. But we did say that Novalis’s fiancee was called Sophie, just like you, and that she died when she was only fifteen years and four days old ...”
“You’re scaring me, don’t you know that?”
Alberto sat staring, stony faced. Then he said: “But you needn’t be worriedthat you will meet the same fate as Novalis’s fiancee.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are several more chapters.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that anyone reading the story of Sophie and Alberto will know intuitively that there are many pages of the story still to come. We have only gotten as far as Romanticism.”
“You’re making me dizzy.”
“It’s really the major trying to make Hilde dizzy. It’s not very nice or him, is it? New section!”
* * *
Alberto had hardly finished speaking when a boy came running out of the woods. He had a turban on his head, and he was carrying an oil lamp.
Sophie grabbed Alberto’s arm.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
The boy answered for himself: “My name is Aladdin and I’ve come all the way from Lebanon.”
Alberto looked at him sternly:
“And what do you have in your lamp?”
The boy rubbed the lamp, and out of it rose a thick cloud which formed itself into the figure of a man. He had a black beard like Alberto’s and a blue beret. Floating above the lamp, he said: “Can you hear me, Hilde? I suppose it’s too late for any more birthday greetings. I just wanted to say that Bjerkely and the south country back home seem like fairyland to me here in Lebanon. I’ll see you there in a few days.”
So saying, the figure became a cloud again and was sucked back into the lamp. The boy with the turban put the lamp under his arm, ran into the woods, and was gone.
“I don’t believe this,” said Sophie.
“A bagatelle, my dear.”
“The spirit of the lamp spoke exactly like Hilde’s father.”
“That’s because it was Hilde’s father—in spirit.”
“But. . .”
“Both you and I and everything around us are living deep in the major’s mind. It is late at night on Saturday, April 28, and all the UN soldiers are asleep around the major, who, although still awake, is not far from sleep himself. But he must finish the book he is to give Hilde as a fifteenth birthday present. That’s why he has to work, Sophie, that’s why the poor man gets hardly any rest.”
“I give up.”
“New section!”
Sophie and Alberto sat looking across the little lake. Alberto seemed to be in some sort of trance. After a while Sophie ventured to nudge his shoulder.
“Were you dreaming?”
“Yes, he was interfering directly there. The last few paragraphs were dictated by him to the letter. He should be ashamed of himself. But now he has given himself away and come out into the open. Now we know that we are living our lives in a book which Hilde’s father will send home to Hilde as a birthday present. You heard what I said? Well, it wasn’t ‘me’ saying it.”
“If what you say is true, I’m going to run away from the book and go my own way.”
“That’s exactly what I am planning. But before that can happen, we must try and talk with Hilde. She reads every word we say. Once we succeed in getting away from here it will be much harder to contact her. That means we must grasp the opportunity now.”
“What do we say?”
“I think the major is just about to fall asleep over his typewriter—although his fingers are still racing feverishly over the keys ...”
“It’s a creepy thought.”
“This is the moment when he may write something he will regret later. And he has no correction fluid. That’s a vital part of my plan. May no one give the major a bottle of correction fluid!”
“He won’t get so much as a single coverup strip from me!”
“I’m calling on that poor girl here and now to rebel against her own father. She should be ashamed to let herself be amused by his self-indulgent playing with shadows. If only we had him here, we’d give him a taste of our indignation!”
“But he’s not here.”
“He is here in spirit and soul, but he’s also safely tucked away in Lebanon. Everything around us is the major’s ego.”
“But he is more than what we can see here.”
“We are but shadows in the major’s soul. And it is no easy matter for a shadow to turn on its master, Sophie. It requires both cunning and strategy. But we have an opportunity of influencing Hilde. Only an angel can rebel against God.”
“We could ask Hilde to give him a piece of her mind the moment he gets home. She could tell him he’s a rogue. She could wreck his boat—or at least, smash the lantern.”
Alberto nodded. Then he said: “She could also run away from him That would be much easier for her than it is for us. She could leave the major’s house and never return. Wouldn’t that be fitting for a major who plays with his ‘universe-creating imagination’ at our expense?”
“I can picture it. The major travels all over the world searching for Hilde. But Hilde has vanished into thin air because she can’t stand living with a father who plays the fool at Alberto’s and Sophie’s expense.”
“Yes, that’s it! Plays the fool! That’s what I meant by his using us as birthday amusement. But he’d better watch out, Sophie. So had Hilde!”
“How do you mean?”
“Are you sitting tight?”
“As long as there are no more genies from a lamp.”
“Try to imagine that everything that happens to us goes on in someone else’s mind. We are that mind. That means we have no soul, we are someone else’s soul. So far we are on familiar philosophical ground. Both Berkeley and Schelling would prick up their ears.”
“And?”
