If you're looking for a beautiful, overlooked, underappreciated treasure of a novel - here's one.
The Bells is rich with themes of legacy and purpose.
I'm rather jealous of the author - born in the United States and now living in Switzerland. My ancestors immigrated from Switzerland in 1861 and I often daydream of visiting that ancestral country someday. I'm assuming Richard Harvell is still in Switzerland since we haven't heard from the author in ten years.
The Bells is a novel that intrigued me when I worked at Borders Bookstore. I bought a hardcover copy during the Borders Liquidation Sale in 2011. During the global pandemic of 2020, I obtained an audiobook to assist me in the auditory experience of The Bells.
Favorite Passages:
In terms of space, our belfry was a tiny world - most would have thought it a prison for a child. But in terms of sound, it was the most massive home on earth. For every sound ever made was trapped in the metal of those bells, and the instant my mother struck them, she released their beauty to the world. So many ears heard the thunderous pealing echo through the mountains.
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It so happened that this village possessed, among its treasures, a deaf idiot girl. She was wont to star down the villagers with a haunting glare, as though she knew the sins they fought to hide, and so they drove her off with buckets of dirty wash water whenever she came near. This deaf child was staring at the belfry as she climbed the hill, for she, too, had heard the bells, not in her vacant ears, but as we hear holiness: a vibration in the gut.
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. . . the memory of the bells' peal pulls her to the doors and into the church, where she has never been before. There are shards of glass on the floor - the shattered windows - and so she leaves bloody footprints as she climbs the narrow stairs at the back of the church.
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The villagers said my mother was not of sound mind. She was skittish, had a wild look; she was dirty, and cried or laughed at nothing. She hid from them in caves; she sometimes went without clothes; she raised her son in a belfry; she ate with her hands; she cared for nothing but her child and the ringing of her bells.
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She swung amid the bells, closed her eyes, and, I believe, fantasized that she was one of them.
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As my mother rang her bells, she tuned the fibers of her body as a violinist tunes his strings.
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I cannot remember my mother's face, but I remember this landscape of her sounds.
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We always feasted in the belfry, and threw the bones and pots and spits to the ravine below, where they gathered like the refuse of a bloody battle. We ate with our hands and tore the meat with our teeth, wiping our palms on the rags we wore. We had the luxurious freedom of the wretched.
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I am so tired. I am falling asleep, and my last thought, as Rapucci grunts and Ulrich quietly sob, is that what these awful men have taken, one day I shall steal it back again.
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"It is bad enough that this city is full of reformers. Now even children are molesting women."
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"Science is our way of praying."
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"We tried, but we failed. We did not get enough chances, that's the problem. It's unfair, the way it is. Disease getting all the chances it wants, and we getting so few. If it were the other way around we would stumble un the solution one way or another. However, I do thank you for trying. A noble job you have done."
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And so, against the sense of Science, I began to sing. From that small library of music in my head, I chose sections from Dufay's Mass for St. Anthony, a piece written when music was still pure and clear, more like a shallow mountain stream than today's profound musical oceans.
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I sang even more loudly, and my voice shook off all the dirt and grime that weighed us down. It shook away sadness and disease. It shook away fear and worry. It shook the meek into courage. The sick rose from their beds. My voice shook the desperation from their eyes. It shook the exhaustion from their bodies, the disease from their lungs. We had again what we had lost.
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"My son, you are a eunuch. You are not a man. Nor are you a woman. You are a creature that God never intended to create, and so you are destined to remain outside God's design. His law says you cannot marry; nor may you become a priest. This is not cruelty. I expect if you are sincere, you see why it must be so. Moses, your body will not let you be a father. You are weak - a woman's muscles 0n a man's heavy frame. You cannot work the fields. And your mind is also weak. You will never know manly reason."
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. . . I closed my eyes and unlocked the library of my memory, and my imagination sampled the pleasures of every sound I had ever heard. My heart soared. Hope that I could be happy in this beautiful world began to reawaken inside of me.
Until I opened my eyes and found myself in my cell, in my prison, in this imperfect body, and once more I loathed myself for dreaming.
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Three times in my life my dead mother called me with a bell. This night was the first: the abbey's bell struck two.
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Landscapes of sound, like paintings, are composed of layers. The wind forms the foundation, which is not a sound, technically, but creates sound as it plays the city: it clangs a loose shutter, hums in a keyhole, makes a whistle of the tin knife coat of arms that hangs above the butchers's shop. With the wind come those other sounds of weather: The rain patters on the cobblestones, it drips off eaves, it rushes in gutters. Sleet hisses. Snow dampens other sounds with its blanket. The earth shifts. Houses creek.
On top of these are the sounds that feed upon the silence of dying and decay: the jaws of rats, dogs and maggots; the bubbling streams of wash water and urine steaming in gutters; the piles of rotting scraps of food and cackle for the patient listener; the heaps of warm manure that sizzle their putrescence; the flit of falling leaves; the dirt settling on a fresh grave. In the twilight, winged beasts feast on the dead and dying: the flutter of the bat, the graceless clap of the alighting pigeon's wings, the mosquito's tenor, the fat fly's ecstatic hum as he hops from shit to urine. No sound was ugly. I laid my ear to graves. I crouched at piles of manure. I followed the streams of urine along the gutters.
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It was outside Haus Duft one night that I discovered I was not this city's only ghost.
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Soon the room seemed noisy. With each glimpse, each painting whispered to me. I removed many of them and turned them so they faced the wall . . .
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"If you see me, I will disappear." It was not a lie.
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He fed me figs that tasted as if they were soaked in blood. I ate them greedily.
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I ran inside the black mountain. I pushed aside wrinkled grandmothers, mourning widows. I knocked a general to his knees, splashed holy water upon the floor. Windowpanes as red as blood cast the pale faces pink. Except for the constant booming, my footfalls upon the black-and-white-checkered floor were the loudest sound in what I realized was a vast church. I stopped in the center of the nave and looked up at the ceiling. It was like the ceiling of a forest: looming gray pillars split into intertwining branches of stone that could have held up the sky.
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It had grown quite dark. The Riecher Palace was squeezed between tow larger, but less pristine facades, so all I saw of the grand building was its face, with two lit windows in the second floor its glowing eyes, and its closed black gate its fearsome mouth.
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Follow me that miraculous evening as I turn at the Schottentor back up the Schottengasse and into the heart of the inner city. I strolled blindly, listening to the clink of silver against Vienna's finest teeth emanating from the elegant residences along the street . . .
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I tried to gather words, but all I could manage was to clench and unclench my fists before my face, as if trying to grasp some elusive speck of magic dust floating in the air.
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The ground floor was some kind of public house, with a single word printed above the door: Kaffee.
"In here," Remus said. The sole room was crowded with men on benches. They all drank the same steaming liquid, with a pungent, earthy smell. It seemed a magic brew, for they were all possessed by the same wide-eyed vivacity. They pounded on the tables and spat urgent monologues into each other's ears. At the back of all of this, a raven-haired man played the sorcerer; he ground beans, as black as death, into a fine powder before mixing it with steaming water from a samovar.
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There was an empty fireplace against one wall. Thick curtains covered the three small windows, so only a dim, indirect glow illuminated the room. Stacks of books were piled on the tables and on the floor along the walls. The close air smelled like drying hay.
Someone sat in an armchair, his back to us, but he was such a large man that even in the dar, I could see it was my friend.
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"They tear him to pieces. As his dismembered head floats down the Hebrus, he calls Eurydice's name."
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It was the fifth of October, 1762 - barely forty years ago today if we count revolutions of the sun,, but so much longer by an other scale. We were so young. Little Napoleon still needed seven years before he was ready to be born, and another thirty to conquer France. That year Robespierre and his Terror cried in a Calais crib. Frederick the Great was just Fredrick then. America was a far-off place where cotton grew, not a nation that would embarrass George III with revolution. Bach and Vivaldi were still our heroes. No one had ever heard of Beethoven; he was not yet alive. Little Mozart was six and, in fact, was that night just ten miles from where this history unfolded, speeding toward the imperial city to play his tiny violin for the empress. Today, Amadeus is already fifteen years dead, though he will outlive us all.
The year 1762 was still one full of dreamers. And one of the most faithful dreamers had a sack over his head that October evening. He was being shoved foot first into a coal chute, which, though it may have been the widest coal chute n the empire, was not quite wide enough for this dreamer, large as a bear. His two friends pushed with a violence that made several well-dressed passersby pause in consternation. Then there was a tearing of cloth, a thick pop, and our dreamer slid into the chute.
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Though I could never unbreak what had been broken, I would stop mourning all that I had lost.
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"The moon spins so fast around the earth, that if we stood on it, we would shoot off and burn up in the sun."
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I had no time to explain. "My mother," I said, "she was a bell."
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"Have you no ears? Have you no heart?"
"I . . . I do," stammered the Kirchner.
"Then, sir," Gluck said in a reproaching tone, "next time you hear beauty calling in the night, I suggest you listen."
________
Nicolai, my son, have I made up for all that I robbed from you? Have I replaced with love your destiny of wealth and privilege? Your double inheritance? Think back through all you know . . .
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History records the footsteps of its heroes, and in late 1763, on the night of my debut in Teatro San Benedetto, I became a hero.