On the contrary, dear Monsieur Hans, Sophie smiled, what do the rest of you think?
The afternoon light shone through the lace curtains, filling the room with lemons. Everything around the windows sparkled. Sophie ensconced herself in a brightly lit armchair, as though she had sat down on the sun. Hans was opposite her smiling, his leg crossed at right angles, stroking his ankle. Herr Gottlieb, who was now accustomed to Hans’s presence in the house, was working in his study. Sophie had told Elsa not to disturb them and she was resting up on the second floor. From time to time Bertold would appear to ask if they needed anything, or to keep an eye on them, or both. Hans felt happy — Sophie and he had just had lunch together for the first time. They now exchanged confidences daily, and, if they were unable to meet, they sent notes back and forth to one another between Stag Street and Old Cauldron Street. Occasionally, Hans had the impression that Sophie was oddly close, that a gesture or a word would be enough to shatter the distance between them, while at other times he thought she would never lose control. It was he who was unsure, who appeared to vacillate, perhaps because he was free to stay or to leave, to keep trying or to give up. Sophie seemed perfectly conscious of the boundaries imposed by her circumstances and she moved within them without ever overstepping the mark, like a ballerina dancing along the edge of a line.
She was laughing as she told him about her education as a child — she laughed because it didn’t amuse her in the slightest. I never went to school, Sophie said, there you have a perfect excuse for my bad behaviour. It is true that at home everything was at my disposal, they wanted to turn me into everything I’m afraid I have become. They began by teaching me writing, arithmetic and singing. When I was six they hired a French governess whom I adored, but who I now suspect was a very unhappy woman. In her own way she was, or tried to be, the mother I never had. She would read Les Magasins des enfants and the tales of Madame Le-Prince to me, and she always insisted on perfect manners, toujours en français naturellement. The poor woman never tired of showing me how to drink tea properly, how to play the piano without mussing up my hair, the exact way to hold my skirts when I was in a hurry, things like that. Don’t laugh, silly! You don’t even know how to sit on a chair properly! Just look at you! For a girl like me who preferred rolling in the snow and capering about, training like that would have been an ordeal had I not swiftly learnt that good manners were a way not of being good but of being bad without anyone noticing. When I saw that children who lied more openly were more severely punished, I resigned myself to all these lessons in etiquette. When I was nine I became quite a nuisance and my father hired an English tutor who taught me English language and culture. At that time, please stop laughing, will you, I would cut off locks of my hair if I forgot my lessons. Later, almost an adolescent, a professor of grammar, Latin and theology taught me. You’re the pedant! Look who’s talking! Theology was awful, so I pretended it was a Latin class. I can’t really blame my father — he had a peculiar daughter and he did everything he could to please her without abandoning his own principles. That’s why I respect him, however old-fashioned … No, thank you, Bertold, I already told you we don’t need anything, you can go … The time came when I grew bored of private tutors and insisted on going to university. Each time I brought up the subject, my father would say to me: My child, you know very well that as your father I’ve always been careful to provide you with the best education, I’ve never prevented you from reading books other girls are forbidden from reading, etc etc. But to send you to university, to allow you to mix with all those students, to lead the same life as they do — do you realise what you are asking? And he lectured me on the privileged education he had given me, which after all was true enough. I kept telling him I didn’t want any more privileges, that I was fed up with being an exception and that all I wanted was to study the way other people did, etc. Anyway, I don’t wish to complain too much. And so I limited myself to regular visits to Wandernburg public library. To be honest, I never completely accepted not being able to study at Halle University. No, no, you’re very kind, it’s too late, and besides it would be impossible. It just would, Hans. Even so, you know, I sometimes imagine I’m far away from here, I fantasise about unknown places, new faces, foreign languages. But I immediately come down to earth with a bump, and realise I’ll never leave here. Do you honestly not know why? Because everything keeps me here! My father, my betrothal, convention, my childhood, doubt, you know the kind of thing, fear, apathy, everything. There are always too many forces, like magnets, pulling at people born in a city like Wandernburg. I am different? Well, thank you from the bottom of my heart, you are truly kind, but don’t be so sure. I may think differently from the people here, but I’m not convinced I am different; in any case I sometimes have my doubts. No, listen. Seriously. There is something that unites me with the others, that unites all of us Wandernburgers — a feeling of fatality. When we close our eyes and say the word home we cannot help but think of here, do you understand? Yes, I might be deluding myself. I could listen to you talk of your travels and envisage the whole wide world. But deep down, Dieu sait pourquoi, as my governess used to say, I know I’ll never leave Wandernburg. If our grandparents and our parents were unable to leave, and despite their denials I know they tried, why should we succeed? So as to change our fate? Hans, my dear Hans! The moment you’re off guard you seem like an optimist.
There it was, at last — a glimpse of something deeper. Although Sophie was skilled at using irony to protect herself, Hans realised she had opened up to him a little. He decided to keep pulling on this thread by asking her questions. The tea had gone cold. Sophie did not ring for Bertold.
My mother? Sophie went on. From what I’ve been told she was rather pretty, and, like all women from here, domestically minded, fond of saving on clothes and staying at home. Well, that is my impression, my father has never described her to me like that. When I was a child and I asked people about her, they would say “Your mother was a great beauty!” so I ended up assuming no one considered her particularly intelligent. Her maiden name was Bodenlieb, which is a shame, because I far prefer her surname to that of my father. I’m afraid, had we known each other, she would have been a much better mother than I would a daughter. I imagine her as gentle, compliant, full of feminine virtues like Goethe’s heroines, do you remember? “Women should learn to serve from an early age, for it is their destiny”—how much we can learn from our masters! I for one don’t intend to spend my days with flour up to my elbows. (You have no need, ventured Hans, your skin is already like flour.) Is that meant to be a cheap compliment, Herr Hans? Let’s call it a description. And stop chuckling, you seem far too friendly!