The organ grinder paused to sit down and eat the bread and bacon he had brought with him in his bag. While he and Franz were sharing their meal, Father Pigherzog stopped to watch them on his way back to church. Franz raised his head and gave an enquiring bark. My good man, Father Pigherzog said, bending over them, aren’t you uncomfortable sprawled on the ground? If you have nowhere else to go, at the old folks’ canteen we can offer you a meal at a table, it won’t cost you a penny, my son. The organ grinder stopped munching and looked up at the priest in a puzzled way. Father Pigherzog stood there beaming, his hand clasped across his chest. When he had swallowed his mouthful of bacon, the organ grinder wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve and replied: Sir, I applaud your idea of a canteen and I hope it is a help for the old folks. With this, he took another bite. Sighing, Father Pigherzog continued on his way.
In the afternoon, Hans went back to the inn to change and find some warm clothing in order to accompany the organ grinder back to the cave. When he opened the door to his room he was not surprised to find a mauve letter at his feet — before going to lunch he had sent one of Novalis’s poems to the Gottlieb residence, and Sophie did not like others to have the last word. He slowly unfolded the note. He saw there was another poem and smiled.
Dearest friend,
(“Dearest”! Hans’s heart leapt.)
Dearest friend, I reply to your Novalis poem with one of my favourite poems by Madame Mereau, I don’t know whether you know her. I chose it because it speaks to us women readers, to all those who dream of another life in this life,
(“Another life”? Hans paused. So is the life she has, the one she will soon have, the one that awaits her after this summer, not the life she longs for? In that case perhaps she? Perhaps it isn’t? Enough, read on!)
of another life in this life, another world in this selfsame world, those who are gaining strength thanks to words such as these. I see this poem as a hymn to the small revolution in every book, to the power of every woman reader. And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal.
(“An equal”, no less! Hans thought, filled with joy. And then doubt cast a shadow over him — an equal “in this way”, she says, but why not the other way? And what might that be? And why can’t we be equals in that way too? I mean, could there be anything more or was “this” all there was? And between the two what does “dearest friend” mean? Am I more a “friend” than a “dear”? Oh, I can’t read …)
And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal. For this reason I have copied out a few verses below, the ones I find most beautiful, in the hope that today or tomorrow you will respond with another poem.
(Aha! She’s inviting me to reply — that’s new. That is, she is allowing me the last word. Is that not a gift? A kind of surrender? Or am I reading too much into things as usual?)
Affectionately yours,
Sophie
(Mmm. “Affectionately”. That doesn’t sound very … No, it doesn’t. Yet she has written her name in full. She is offering herself, isn’t she? As though she were saying: I am yours completely. I am Sophie, I am. Oh stop this nonsense! I’m going to take a bath. No, it’s getting late. The old man will be waiting for me. It suddenly feels hot in here, doesn’t it? Now, let’s look at this poem. I’ll reply tomorrow. Curses! Shall I look for something now? Better tomorrow.)
Yours,
Sophie
All these women at peace, not wasting time on war,
Deeply aware of their intimate worth,
Between them creating wave-like shapes,
Summoned by the sign of the times,
Have come to unfurl from a fantasy realm
In spoken and written word, their unstoppable life;
Better no one try to detain their surging strength
Or they will find their way is blocked,
Because all these women are announcing their awakening,
The glad beginnings of their inner force.
Beyond the path to the bridge, the light was thinning. The muted rays of the sun spread tiny tremors across the grass. Stretching away from the city, muffling its sounds, the fields were neither green nor golden. The windmill sails turned, scattering the afternoon. Carriages arrived on the main road. Birds flocked, organising the sky. Hans, the organ grinder and Franz had gone through High Gate and were approaching the River Nulte, which flowed brightly between the poplars showing their first new leaves. The mud on the path had hardened — the cartwheels turned more easily, Hans’s boots threw up little clouds of dust that Franz sniffed over delightedly. Mixed with the heady scent of pollen and the heat of the paths, the countryside still gave off a smell of earth and manure, of fertiliser spread during the last ploughing. Beyond the hedges, labourers working late were hoeing weeds. Hans felt strange when he heard himself say: The countryside looks lovely. Didn’t I tell you so? smiled the old man. And you haven’t seen anything yet, just wait until summer. You’ll see how Wandernburg grows on you.
When they arrived at the cave, Hans begged the old man to let him try playing the barrel organ for a moment. The old man was about to say no, but Hans’s childlike tone won him over and all he could say was: Be careful, please, be careful. Hans focused on visualising the organ grinder’s hand movement and tried to reproduce it with his own arm. During the first piece, the handle moved at an acceptable pace. The organ grinder clapped his hands, Hans gave a roar of laughter and Franz barked madly. But when, emboldened, Hans tried to pull on the handle to change the tune, there was a slight crack from the rolls inside the box. The old man leapt forwards, snatching Hans’s hand away from the crank, and clutched the instrument to him like someone protecting his young. Hans, my friend, he said falteringly, I’m sorry, really, but no.
I’m going to tell you a secret, said the old man. When the barrel organ is playing and the lid is down, I like to pretend it isn’t the keys making the sounds, but the people the songs describe. I pretend they are the ones singing, laughing, weeping, dancing up and down between the strings. And that way I play better. Because I tell you Hans, when I close the lid there’s life in there. Almost a heart. And when everything goes quiet again, I hear the sounds of the barrel organ so clearly that for a moment I think I’m still playing. The music is here, in my head, and I don’t have to do a thing. You see, in the end, what matters is listening, not playing. If you listen you will always hear music. We all have music inside us, even those who walk through the square without even noticing me. The sound of instruments serves that purpose, it brings that music back. Sometimes, when I arrive in the square and begin turning the handle, I feel as if I had just woken up in the very place I was dreaming about. Thank goodness for Franz, he helps me realise if I’m playing asleep or awake, for as soon as the barrel organ starts churning I swear Franz pricks up his ears and lifts up his head. He’s very partial to music, above all the minuets, he loves the minuets, he’s a rather classical dog.