After examining the organ grinder more thoroughly, Doctor Müller prescribed aloe purgatives at eight-hour intervals. Six different chest ointments, one for every day except Sunday. Soothing morning enemas using a chicken's gut for easy application. Poultices in the afternoon, mustard plasters after supper. Pomeranian vinegar to be taken with each meal. Fenugreek poultices to aid digestion. Five grams of shredded lemon balm to reduce the nausea. Ten grams of decoction of horehound to ease minor coughing. Four small cups of juniper berry at the first sign of a convulsive coughing fit, followed by four more infusions of arnica and maidenhair fern to help bring up the phlegm once the fever has subsided. Mandrake root with crushed peppercorns as a tonic. Optional doses of snakeweed root if the patient's bowel movements become too frequent. And if he suffers any acute pains or thirst, a cocktail of lilies boiled in milk and schnapps. Finally, if all else should fail, vigorous rubbing with swallowwort leaves on the forehead and temples.
Isn't that rather a lot, Hans asked, jotting it all down. Doctor Müller bridled: Tell me, do you know the Reil method? Carus's experimental anatomy? Mesmer's animal fluids? Well, in that case, kindly place your trust in science. Hans sighed: I'm doing my best. Is there anything else? No, I don't think so, Doctor Müller replied wistfully, or perhaps there is, say a prayer or two for the patient, it's a small gesture and it can do no harm. I'm afraid I can't promise anything there, said Hans. I understand, the doctor smiled, don't worry, I'm not a very religious man myself. The thing is patients sometimes feel more relief from prayer than from the treatment.
The old man appeared to be sound asleep. Doctor Müller folded his French stethoscope and straightened up brusquely. Franz let out two barks. Well, said Müller, giving Franz a wide berth, mission accomplished, wouldn't you say? I'll be on my way, that is ⦠How much? asked Hans. For you, the doctor
replied, five florins. The organ grinder opened one glassy eye, and, to their surprise, spoke up: Hansâ
kof!
âdon't give him a pfennig more than three thalers, do you hear!
Â
Lately, each time Sophie went out she noticed people staring at her. Scrutinising her gestures. Comparing what they saw with what they had heard. Staring at her waist, for example. Gazing intently at her dress and her stomach, examining her from the side just in case. To begin with she wasn't sure. She found it hard to distinguish between outside speculation and her inner fears, between what others thought and her own doubts, and she tried to convince herself it wasn't true. Until one morning, a distant acquaintance had greeted her in a peculiar way; after saying good morning, she had narrowed her heavily made-up eyes and said: My dear, you look, how can I put it, as healthy as a horse, don't you agree? Fuller, more radiant, of course nowadays, as you know, they make women's clothes in such a way â¦
Back home, alarmed, Sophie had hurriedly weighed herself on the scales. She discovered she had not only gained no weight but had lost several pounds since the summer.
One afternoon after lunch, Elsa and Sophie went out under the pretext of making a few final purchases to complete her trousseau. At the end of Old Cauldron Street they bumped into Frau Pietzine. Frau Pietzine was friendly, although she wore a concerned expression that made Sophie feel ill at ease. Before saying goodbye she beckoned to Sophie with a silken finger. Elsa took two steps back and began watching the passing coaches.
All I ask is that you reflect on it, whispered Frau Pietzine, you wouldn't want to throw away something so full of promise, such a privileged future for a foolish passion. And don't look at me like that, I beg you, I am your friend. Perhaps you don't consider me a friend, but I am, and my advice as a friend is to try not to lose your head. My dear lady, Sophie replied coldly, you sound
like your Father confessor. That's unfair of you! Frau Pietzine replied with unusual insistence, let us be frank for once, a difficult thing in this damnable city. Yes, damnable, and I know perfectly well you feel the same. I sympathise, my dear friend, a girl like you! With your temperament! How could I not sympathise? I'm not talking of sin, but of timeâwe lose our time over love, do you know why? Because we invest everything we have in it, all that it has taken half a lifetime to build up, in exchange for a fleeting reward. But after this passion has died we have to go on livingâdo you understand?âwe have to go on living! In the end, all a woman has left are the things she sometimes rejectsâfamily, friends, neighbours. Nothing else lasts. Remember that Sophie, we aren't young for ever. Everyone knows this, but we prefer not to think about it until it is too late. When we are young and happy we don't want to accept that our happiness is a product of youth and not of the rash decisions we take. But, mark my words, the day will dawn when you realise you have become old. And there is nothing you can do. And what you possess that day will be all that you possess until the end of your days. I shan't hold you up any longer, dear. Good afternoon.
Stretched out next to Hans, her brow wrinkled, a nipple poking above the blanket, Sophie broke the silence. Do you know what? she said. I bumped into Frau Pietzine on my way here, and she said some terrible things to me. The wretched woman is a busybody, replied Hans, don't pay her any attention. I shouldn't pay attention to most people, said Sophie, but it isn't so easy. We can't live as if no one else existed, Hans. Besides, I think Frau Pietzine meant well, I had the feeling she was trying to help me. She was misguided, but she wanted to help me. Yes, of course, he sighed, everyone wants to help you decide about your life, above all the Wilderhaus family with their son to the fore!
Sophie's belly, against which Hans had his ear pressed,
suddenly clenched. He heard her reply: How dare you criticise someone who goes on loving me despite all the rumours? You're always talking about leaving, and yet you speak of the Wandernburgers as if they concerned you. Make up your mind! Are you here or aren't you? I'm not criticising Rudi, said Hans, defending himself, I'm worried about you. You know perfectly well this marriage isn't what a woman like you needs. How do you know? she said angrily. Or are you also going to tell me what I ought to do? Who told you what I need? You did! He shouted, you told me! Here in this room, in a thousand different ways! Hans, she sighed, I went as far as to postpone my wedding for you. Don't talk to me as though I didn't know my own feelings. Did you do it for me? he asked. Or was it for yourself, for your own happiness?
Sophie did not answer. There was a pause. Suddenly Hans heard himself say: Come with me to Dessau. What? she sat up. You heard me, come with me, he repeated, I'm begging you. But my love, said Sophie, I can't just leave. You mean I'm not a good enough reason for you to leave, he said. I can't understand why you expect so much of your lover and so little of your husband. That's different, she said. I have no expectations of Rudi, but I have them of you, do you see? That's why I'm asking you to do something, Hans, I'm asking you to stay. I'm terrified you might leave tomorrow. What terrifies you is not having the courage, he murmured. And what about you? Sophie shouted, are you incredibly free or an incredible coward? What right have you to preach to me? Be a woman for a moment, just for one moment, and you'll see how different courage looks from here, you stupid man!
Â
A folded piece of paper, papyrus-coloured rather than mauve, written in haste. Hans read:
Dear heartâthis is a message of possibilities, for I am no longer sure of anything. Will I write to you again? Will you write to me? Will we see one another? Will we stop seeing one another? Will I think about what I write? Or will I think as I write?
Until a moment ago, I wanted our next meeting, if we are to meet again, to be up to you, I wanted you to ask to see me after these long and lonely days. The reason for this, if indeed I was capable of reasoning, was that if I had asked, you would have come at my behest (you would have, wouldn't you?) and perhaps contrary to your misgivings, to our misgivings.
Yet it turns out this perfect reasoning has failed. Quite simply because between yesterday and today I realised that my desire to touch you, even if only for an hour, is stronger than everything else. To have you in the way that
I
want, however inappropriate or irresponsible. And I realised that if I kept my calm these past few days it was because deep down I believed you would come after me, that I wouldn't need to chase you. It wounds my pride to admit it. And yet the proudest part of us is our intelligence and mine was insulted by keeping up this charade. It is not so much my feelings that have imposed themselves (my feelings are in tur moil) but the facts. Naive creature, how could I have been so sure of myself? Why didn't I realise sooner that my treasured pride was also a token of my love for you? And how could I have assumed you would want to stay on here, unreservedly? I am comforted by the thought that my obstinacy in doing so was equal to yours when you assumed that, sooner or later, I would agree to follow you wherever you went.
Although I still believe in the intensity of things, in their fleetingness, it is only now, as the afternoon fades, that I have begun to assimilate the idea that you might be leaving. It isn't that now I know (I have always known) but that I feel it. And the idea feels unbearable. There is nothing more unbearable than experiencing in the flesh the suffering you have gone over a thousand times in your head. Perhaps tomorrow I will receive a message similar to this, a few lines asking me to go and see you. Or perhaps you will change you mind after reading this. Or
perhaps neither of these things will happen, and the days will simply go by. Or (I tremble at the thought) perhaps when you read these words you will already be somewhere else. It is possible. As I said, this is a letter of possibilities.
I have nothing more to say. Or I have many more things to say, but in another place, at another time. If love is a possibility, I kiss you here or there, now or on another day.
Mistress of myself all of a sudden, that is to say yours
S
At noon the following day, a brief, lightly perfumed mauve note arrived, Hans read:
Your reply cheered me up. Reading it was like a sip of water in the middle of a desert. I also forgive you. We'll see each other at the inn from three o'clock until four-thirty. Not today. Better tomorrow, because the salon is the following day and it will be easier for me to find some excuse to go out on an errand. You are a naughty man. I shall reward you appropriately.âS
Sophie bit the air, ensconced on top of him, legs apart. More than making love, she was treading grapes. Each time her hips collided with Hans's stomach, she would propel herself higher in order to crash down with more force. Underneath the storm, at once overwhelmed and moved, Hans was scarcely able to resist the current dragging him to somewhere that was beyond them both, away from there, inside himself.
The fire in the hearth crackled and sparked. For a while Hans had been staring intently into the embers. Sophie was still, she had sucked up all of him. Hans looked away from the fire, turned his head and gazed at her. Is anything the matter, my love? he asked. No, she replied, I don't know whether I had an orgasm or a premonition.
Elsa had taken off all her clothes, Ãlvaro had not. Now he was fastening his belt, tucking his shirt into his breeches. She hurriedly finished dressing and tidied her hair. Ãlvaro had remained in a sluggish dazeâhis movements were dulled, even his speech. In contrast, Elsa seemed distracted, as though on the point of saying something. It made him uneasy to see her in this state after they made love, it cast a cloud over his satisfaction. Moreover he was aware that at these times she appeared more demanding about certain things and he was more obliging.
Listen, said Elsa, I'm going to try to speak plainly to you (Ãlvaro sighed, sat up straight on the sofa, made it clear he was paying attention), you claim, and I believe you, that before you went into business you were on the side of the working man (I was and still am, Ãlvaro clarified), yes, but you have money now (my fortunes have changed, not my ideals, he declared), well, whatever the case, you understand that better than I, but listen. In spite of what you say, I think you'd be a little ashamed if people saw us together. (What is this nonsense you are spouting?) Exactly what you are hearing, my precious. Out here in your country house we are equals, but back in the city I am what I am, and you are what you are. (Sorry, but you insult me. Have you still not realised that it's my widowhood that troubles me, not our social positions? That's what I am, a widower, is it so hard for you to grasp?) Oh Ãlvaro, of course not, but I don't think the present can ever offend the past. Isn't it time you forgot the past? I don't mean her, but her death? (I need more time, Elsa.) We have time, my love, but not an eternity! (I know, I know.) When will you let me go to England with you, for instance? (Soon, soon.) Do you really mean soon? (You know I do, my darling.) How am I to know! (
Do you speak English enough
,
princess
?) You lost me after the word
English
, but I am making headway. (
Nobody would deny it, my dear.
) Precisely,
nobody would
whatever it was you said, so, when are you taking me to England? (Soon, soon â¦)
Â