On their way home, Herr Gottlieb and his daughter crossed the market square. All of a sudden, Sophie stopped in her tracks, let go of her father’s arm and walked down one side of the square, drawn by the gentle, weary strains of the old instrument she had noticed more than once when out strolling. The organ grinder was rolling out a mazurka, raising a grizzled eyebrow at every third beat. Hans, who was opposite the organ grinder and beaming with contentment as he stood flanked by two melodies, observed Sophie observing. In fact, he had been watching her since they had left church, but her conversation with Father Pigherzog had gone on too long for him to find an excuse or a posture that would enable him to linger in the background for the chance to greet her. And so he had given up and gone to the square to see the organ grinder. The moment he had stopped trying to find Sophie, here she was walking towards him, nodding her head gaily. Hans nodded back in silence, and, following the slow rhythm of the mazurka, gazed with impunity at her pale neck, her fingers clasped behind her back.
Yes, yes, Hans told him, she stopped just opposite you. (I remember a young woman approaching, said the organ grinder, and I noticed you were very interested, but I can’t remember her face, what did she look like?) Ah, so you suffer from the same problem? (What problem is that?) You can’t visualise Sophie’s face either? You might think this odd, and it’s hard to explain, but when I try to imagine her, all I see are her hands. I see her hands and I hear her voice. That’s all, no features. I can’t remember her. Yet it’s impossible for me to forget her. (I see, that’s too bad.) It’s strange what happens to me when I think of her, I’m alone, out walking, and all of a sudden I see a blurred image of Sophie, and I have to stop, you see, to stare into the distance, as if in my memory tiny brushstrokes, flashes of Sophie’s face, were becoming jumbled up, and I had to untangle them in order not to lose them. But just as I’m about to make the pieces fit into a whole, to glimpse her face, something slips away, eludes me, and then I feel the urgent need to see her again so that I can store her up in my memory once more. What do you think that means? (I think it means you’re going to have to stay a little longer in Wandernburg, said the organ grinder, grinning.)
Before long Reichardt arrived, followed shortly afterwards by Lamberg. Each of them was carrying a bottle wrapped in newspaper. It was close to sunset, and a sudden wave of cold had descended on the afternoon. Reichardt slumped to the ground and said: Shit, old man, are you a fakir or what? Come on, get that fire going! Good afternoon all, said Lamberg, his bloodshot eyes kindling the flames. He paused, then said to Hans: I saw you in church this morning. You, in church? Reichardt spluttered. Hey, old man, your friend here’s gone all pious on us! Hans went there to meet a young woman, the organ grinder remarked calmly. I thought as much, said Reichardt, you scoundrel! He forgot to take his beret off, Lamberg told them. Oh, so you noticed, smiled Hans. Yes, replied Lamberg, the girls were pointing at you. And did they laugh at him? asked Reichardt. I don’t know, replied Lamberg, I think they liked him. Let’s drink to your beret! cried Reichardt. Hear, hear, agreed the organ grinder.
An hour later, the cold was so severe that the fire no longer warmed them, and rubbing their hands and legs did not help. Every time they opened their mouths, vapour came out. The wind entered the mouth of the cave and seeped into the cracks, through the gaps in their clothing, and under their nails. Hans’s fingers felt hollow. Lamberg clenched his jaw. Franz swished his tail like a child attempting to shake frost off its rattle. The organ grinder had curled up under his blankets and was smiling peacefully. Shivering from cold, Reichardt suddenly burst into fits of laughter. His whole body shook, he laughed as only those about to freeze can laugh, he let out a puff of steam and began yelling: Butler, the stove, light the damned stove, will you? The organ grinder fell back laughing and cracked his head on a rock. Seeing this, Reichardt jabbed a finger at him before dissolving in a fit of vapoury coughing. Hans pointed at them both and doubled up with laughter. When he saw the other three unable to stop laughing, Lamberg could not help but join in. Say something, Franz! say something! Reichardt roared, his gums stained with red wine.
The fire was dying down. The bottles were empty. Do you hear? whispered the organ grinder. Do you hear it? (All I can hear are my guts, said Reichardt, haven’t you got anything else?) Hush, there, in among the branches. (What is it, organ grinder? asked Hans.) They’re talking to each other! (I can hear noises, said Lamberg.) They aren’t noises, they are the voices of the wind. (What are you on about? said Reichardt.) It’s the wind, the wind talking. Franz and the organ grinder listened closely, narrowing their eyes. All I hear is silence, old man, Reichardt insisted. There’s no such thing as silence, the organ grinder replied, and he went on listening to the night, head tilted to one side. I don’t know why you’re doing that, old man, said Reichardt. The wind is useful, snorted the organ grinder.
After a week of calculated meetings and assiduous courtesies, Hans achieved his aim and began to pay visits to the Gottlieb residence. Herr Gottlieb would receive him in front of the marble fireplace in the drawing room, smoking his amber pipe. On the mantelpiece stood a row of indolent statuettes that seemed about to topple into the hearth. During his visits, Hans had the chance to study the paintings hanging on the walls more closely — besides a few dusty family portraits, a couple of poor copies of Titian, one or two gloomy still lifes and some dreadful hunting scenes, his attention was drawn to a painting of a figure, seen from behind, walking through a snow-covered forest, lost or perhaps leaving, with a crow perched on a nearby tree trunk.
Herr Gottlieb had a habit of bursting out laughing, almost invariably because of something his daughter said. It was an admiring and at the same time nervous laugh, the laugh men put on when they are listening to an intelligent woman who is much younger than them. Whenever Herr Gottlieb gave one of his guffaws he looked down at the tips of his whiskers, as though surprised at how bushy they were. Hans would spend more time taking tea with him than with Sophie, who would often go out to the dressmaker’s with Elsa, or to go over musical scores at a friend’s house, or to return a social call. Only when he was able to keep Herr Gottlieb talking until the late afternoon did Hans manage to see her and exchange a few words. Sophie was oddly reserved — she seemed intent on avoiding serious conversation or remaining alone with him, but her gaze still had a dizzying effect on Hans. When he was out of luck and left the house early, he would go straight to the market square to accompany the organ grinder back to his cave.
Although Herr Gottlieb had little in common with Hans, he seemed to have found in him the perfect interlocutor. Herr Gottlieb was one of those men who in shying away from intimate conversations show an obvious need for them. Hans sensed that Herr Gottlieb misunderstood his questions yet gave Hans the answers he wanted to hear. And so, after some trivial remark about the beauty of the house, his host seemed to think he was referring to Sophie, and let slip some of his concerns about his daughter. Hans refrained from setting him straight and began listening eagerly. Her mother having died during birth, Herr Gottlieb, who also had a married son living in Dresden, had always been Sophie’s sole guardian. He had brought her up with that mixture of over-protectiveness and panic that is the lot of the youngest members of a family. Herr Gottlieb was undoubtedly proud of his daughter, and yet, perhaps for that very reason, he was also plagued with anxieties. As you have seen for yourself, said Herr Gottlieb, Sophie is an extraordinary young woman (Hans tried not to agree too heartily), but I’ve always feared that with her character and her high expectations it will be hard for her to find a good husband, you see? Perhaps you are worrying unnecessarily, ventured Hans, your daughter seems like a fascinating young woman with a forceful personality (Hans immediately thought: I shouldn’t have said fascinating), that is, she is a distinguished young woman, and I’m sure she is perfectly. Herr Gottlieb cut across him: If my daughter persists in being so fascinating and strong-willed, she’ll end up with a string of suitors but no husband.