Do you see? said Sophie, breathlessly, the darkness brings the flame to life! Mystery is the essence of this poem, but Shelley wrote it in order to bring light to the intellect. And this “human thought”, untouched by emotion or love, is at once nourished by beauty, isn't it wonderful? Stop, Hans laughed, you're too convincing, I'm going to end up liking Shelley.
When they reached Coleridge, they concentrated above all on rewriting
Kubla Khan
, which was the only poem everyone knew:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
The funny thing is
Kubla Khan
is far from being Coleridge's best poem, remarked Hans. But, as you know, it's the myth that counts, people don't expect poets to produce great works but to behave like great poets. And it occurred to the crafty Coleridge to tell people a three-hundred-line poem had come to him during an opium-induced slumber, and that when he awoke he recalled it word for word, an unrivalled work of genius! And so he began to copy it all down, but the poor man was interrupted and his poem remained unfinished, with only the few verses you can see ⦠So you don't believe him, said Sophie. I'd believe anything of a poet, smiled Hans, provided nothing he tells me is true. In that case, she argued, the poem wasn't unfinished, it continued in Coleridge's own narrative, in the tale he told about the dream, so that where the poem, or rather the dream, ends, the other tale begins, the one that begins when he wakes up. I get it! Hans declared, brushing her ankle under the table. In fact, Sophie went on, offering Hans her other ankle, the most romantic part of the poem is its explanation. You're right, Hans said growing excited once more, and what do think of the last line? “And drunk the milk of paradise”âall those
k
s at the end, such a struggle to drink some nectar! As if paradise were choking you! If you think about it for a moment, you realise the best Romantic poets never evoke paradise, only its impossibility. (When he had finished talking about Coleridge, Hans noticed with a touch of sadness that Sophie's ankle had moved away from his.)
Comparing styles, Sophie said, as she leafed through the
book, there seem to be two distinct approaches in English poetryâthe grandiloquent and passionate, like Shelley and Byron, and the more serene but more modern one of Coleridge or Wordsworth. And where would that put Keats? Hans asked, indicating his poems. In both, Sophie hesitated, or neither. I agree, said Hans, that Byron or Shelley, however good they are, could never be modern like Wordsworth. He attempts to approximate speech when he writes, which in poetry is a cardinal sin. And as we know, literature only evolves through sinning (do you really think so? she smiled mischievously), yes, of course, I mean, when Wordsworth says in the Preface, wait, look, here, when Wordsworth says the language of prose can be perfectly adapted to poetry, that there is no real difference between well-written prose and the language of poetry, what is he doing? Debasing poetry? On the contrary, it seems to me he is enriching the possibilities of prose. And more importantly, he is associating poetry with everyday speech, with events in life that aren't necessarily sublime. Wordsworth takes poetry off its pedestal and broadens its scope.
I understand, Sophie said, taking the book from him, it sounds very convincing. But if poetry takes on too much of an everyday quality, how are we to differentiate between a well-written and a badly written poem? That, replied Hans, is Wordsworth's most difficult dilemma, which I suppose is why he tackled it early on in his Preface, pass me the book, please, look, here: “The first volume of these poems, blah blah blah, was published as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men ⦔ (Ah, said Sophie sarcastically, and the language of women remains a mystery.) Well, all right: “to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of people ⦔ (how kind of you, Sophie broke in) “⦠in a state of vivid sensation that sort of pleasure
and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a poet may rationally endeavour to impart.” Notice that Wordsworth refers to it as an
experiment
, there is nothing perfunctory about it, especially since he is referring to a
selection
of everyday speech, which is where the poet's talent comes into play, and that such everyday moments must coincide with a state of vivid emotion. If these premises are adopted, Wordsworth's experiment could never result in vulgarity. It would be different were someone to follow the simplest part of his advice and ignore the rest. Most notably, just a moment, let's see, I underlined it somewhere, where is it? Ah, hereâmost notably the part where he says “and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual aspect”, this is most interesting don't you think? And then further down: “chiefly, as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement”, meaning, to delve into everyday emotions, to order them and translate them into everyday language, not forgetting the capacity our imagination has to associate images and ideas. Do you see how old-fashioned Byron seems by comparison?
I'm not trying to defend Byron or Shelley, Sophie mused, I just think that in order to judge a poet's style one must take into account the rhetoric of his forebears. I mean, rhetoric is like a pendulum, isn't it? There are periods when everyday speech and writing seem to be in conflict, such as in the works of Milton or Shakespeare, until that exclusively poetic language becomes mannered, giving way, so to speak, to Pope, and then poetry moves closer to speech again, as in some of Coleridge's or Wordsworth's poems. It strikes me that the swings of the pendulum have their propitious moments, and that a poet with a good ear should know at what point the pendulum is with regard to the poetry in his language. Hans said with admiration: We must include that idea in the introduction. Yes, Sophie
went on, I see it like a set of scales, and perhaps Wordsworth is right, and now is one of those moments. Hans agreed: We could do with a dose of it here in Germany. We are constantly seeking purity, which is regrettable. And in my view poetry that seeks purity becomes puritanical, true lyricism is the opposite, how can I describe it? It is pure impure emotion. That's what I like about modern English poetry, its impurities. However lofty, it never loses faith in the value of immediate reality, as in “the fancy cannot cheat so well”. That's why (Hans went on, skipping forward through the pages of the book) I left Keats, my favourite, until last. I was very keen for us to translate him together, beginning with
Ode to a Nightingale.
A simple nightingale would never satisfy a German poet, he'd have to hear the cosmos or at the very least a gigantic mountain.
Sophie had just finished reading the last words of
Ode to a Nightingale
. Hans remained silent for a few moments, eyes half-closed, savouring the possible sound of those words in a different tongue. Then he asked Sophie to read the last verse again more slowly. “Forlorn!” she began reading again softly. “The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self ⦔ Hans simultaneously copied out his translation, which she read immediately afterwards.
Sophie reread the final verse. She noted down
fades
next to
vanishes
(I think it's more powerful, she said, crossing her leg), she wrote down
has flown
next to
has gone
(we lose a rhyme, she explained, slipping off a shoe, but we gain in accuracy, because music flies like a bird) and
submerged
instead of
interred
(it fits better with the stream, she explained, letting her other shoe fall to the floor). But if the song is
submerged
, Hans protested gazing at her feet, we sacrifice the idea of the nightingale not just flying away, but in some way dying in the poem. I see, Sophie replied, moistening her lips, what about
buried
, which sounds more terrible? Possibly, said Hans chewing his lip. Sophie read aloud the
different versions. I like it, she nodded, standing up, although the poet seems pleased the dream has ended, as if by bidding the nightingale farewell he had vanquished itâfarewell! Fly away! I've awoken, you can no longer deceive me, I know that nothing is eternal. True, Hans grinned, seeing what she was driving at, but don't you think Keats was saying the same thing? I'm not sure, Sophie said, standing in front of him, I thought he was sad that the nightingale's spell has been broken. The question is, Hans said, rising from the table, whether when he writes: “the fancy cannot cheat so well”, he means: what a pity the dream can't deceive us for ever! Or is it his pride speaking: you can't fool me now!âlike someone suddenly seeing the light. Exactly! Sophie said, running her hands over Hans's thighs, doesn't the same apply to “deceiving elf”? Is he writing with longing or regret? It seems to me, Hans said, spreading his legs, that Keats was saying farewell to his dreams, he was sick and knew what awaited him, he no longer had time for certain things, he wanted to come down to earth, to be as real as possible, I assume that's what happens when you have tuberculosis. Perhaps, said Sophie, her hand reaching his upper thigh, and yet what a beautiful and ambiguous poem! Precisely because he knew he hadn't long to live, I think, Keats was struggling to create a voice that would outlast his own, a means to fly away with the nightingale, as though the nightingale itself were poetry, don't you think? “Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!”âa bird that sings for all eternity. Do you know what? Hans said, unfastening his belt, I think both interpretations are right, Keats must have thought: How wonderful it would be to live in an imaginary world where death doesn't exist and one can sing for all eternity! Why not shield oneself from pain with this fantasy? Even as he was thinking: Yet each day I feel more pain, my condition is deteriorating, and when I sing blood pours from my mouth, how can I believe nightingales live for
ever? Farewell, let them fly away, I'll spend what remains of my life down here.
A melancholy silence descended on the roomâit was a quarter to seven in the evening, and the sun's rays were almost horizontal.
What remains of my life down here, Sophie echoed, kneeling.
Â
For reasons of social discretion and because it was his personal retreat, Hans had scarcely talked to Sophie about the organ grinder or his cave. The first time he had mentioned his friend to her, Sophie had taken a moment to realise he was referring to the scruffy old man who played a battered barrel organ in the market square, a black dog at his feet. What? That old man? she had said in astonishment. What's so special about him? He's been there for years. Noticing that Hans had bridled slightly, Sophie began to insist on a formal introduction. Initially, he had resisted, partly out of a sense of shame (a shame that made him bitterly unhappy) and partly because he was afraid he couldn't bear it if, like everyone else, she were to look down her nose at him. After a while, faced with Sophie's pleas, Hans decided to take the plunge. In fact, for months he had been eager and reluctant to introduce her to the organ grinder. Apart from Ãlvaro, the organ grinder was his only friend in Wandernburg, and it was only natural he should introduce Sophie to him. Besides, as things stood, the old man knew virtually all there was to know about her. And so, at twelve o'clock one balmy Wednesday in July, Hans arranged the meeting and crossed his fingers. Sophie would arrive accompanied by Elsa just before lunch, on the pretext of having gone out to purchase some cotton thread and angora buttons at a haberdasher's.
The market square was bustling with children on their way home from school, women flaunting colourful frocks that billowed in the breeze, and men piling in to taverns. The Tower of
the Wind cast a tall shadow over the cobblestones, its twin towers pointing skywards, as though about to pierce the skin of time and fly off like arrows. Hans waited anxiously and played with Franz, who was trying to bite the toe of his boot. Of the three coins in the organ grinder's dish, two were from Hans. When Hans recognised the familiar green parasol floating through the crowd, he turned to the old man and asked if he would play an allemande. The organ grinder nodded and began turning the handle, but suddenly he lifted his head and said: A waltz would be better. Why a waltz? asked Hans. Don't be such an innocent, because it's more daring, of course!
Sophie, Elsa, announced Hans ceremoniously, this is my good friend, the organ grinder. The old man bowed, clasped Elsa's hand between two fingers, brushed it with his lips and said: Charmed, I'm sure. He repeated the same gesture with Sophie, and added: I've been looking forward to meeting you, Fräulein, I've heard a great deal about you, all of which I can see was true. Seeing Hans become uneasy, the organ grinder explained: Your family has always enjoyed great prestige in this city. Perplexed by the old man's graciousness, which seemed so at odds with his appearance, Sophie handed her parasol to Elsa, leant forward and replied: The pleasure is ours, sir, and I confess that of late I have been hearing even more flattering things about you.
A silence descended, which Hans found uncomfortable, Sophie intriguing and the organ grinder utterly delightful. They all exchanged glances, smiled and looked at the ground at a loss for words. Hans gave a nervous cough. Then the organ grinder clicked his tongue, exhaled noisily and declared: Good heavens, where are my manners, a thousand pardons, ladies, this creature sprawled on the floor here is Franz, my protector, Franz get up and say hello to these young ladies. Hans raised a hand to his face and thought: This can only end badly. But Sophie, utterly enchanted by the old man, stooped to stroke
Franz, who sprang to his feet. Delighted to meet you, Herr Franz, said Sophie. Franz gazed at her with moist eyes, wrinkled his brown eyebrows and laid back down. He's a well-bred dog, but he likes to conserve his energy, explained the organ grinder.