The Goose Man
the partner never rested until Jordan was paid a set sum and eased out
of the firm.
He then tried his fortune here and there for eight or nine years. "Don't
worry, Jordan," said Agnes, "everything will come out well." But it did
not. Whatever Jordan took hold of, he took hold of at the wrong end at
the wrong time with the wrong people.
He could not get on. Not only because his hand was heavy and his head
too honest, but because he had allowed himself to be befooled by a
chimera.
Early in life he had had a dream, and all his enterprise and industry
were directed toward the fulfilment of this dream. It had been
impossible: he had never been able to save up enough money. Every time
he discussed his favourite wish with Agnes, and told her about the happy
days when he would be able to live his own life and be his own boss, she
encouraged him and tried to help him. But it seemed now that she had
known all along that he had merely been dreaming, and that her
magnanimity had prompted her not to jolt him out of his delusion.
It had always seemed to him that the world of dolls was a world in
itself. He had taken an enchanted delight in picturing the types of
faces, clothes, and hair he would design for his various dolls, big and
little. Dolls of the most variegated charm peopled his fancy: there were
princesses of different degrees of proximity to the throne, fisher maids
and mermaids; there were shepherds and shepherdesses, Casperls and lusty
imps, dolls with heads of porcelain and dolls with heads of wax, all so
faithfully imitated that it would require anthropomorphic skill to
detect that they were not human beings. Their hair was, of course, to be
human hair. Some of them were to wear the costumes of foreign races,
while others were to be dressed up like fairy figures, sprites, and
gnomes. There was to be a Haroun al Raschid and an Oriental Dervish.
The last time he moved his choice fell on Nuremberg. He was attracted to
Nuremberg because it was the centre of the doll industry.
About this time Agnes died, and he was left alone with the three
children for whom he had to make a living. He no longer had the courage
to hope for success or prosperity; even the doll factory had become a
chimera. He had but one ambition: he wished to lay aside ten thousand
marks for each of his three daughters, so that they would be provided
for in any event after his death. The boy, he thought, could take care
of himself.
Up to the present, however, he had not been able to place the half of
this sum in the bank. And now, suppose he lost his position; suppose the
frailties of old age prevented him from making his own living; suppose
he was obliged to draw on the savings of years for his own support. How
could he look his daughters in the face in the evening of his earthly
life?
"The slag hid behind something in the cellar, and when his wife tried to
bring him his pants, she let them fall in the flour bin." This elegant
remark emanated from Bonengel the barber.
His auditors gurgled, the waitress roared.
As Jordan walked home he could hear above the wind the voice of Bonengel
the barber. It sounded like the rattling of a pair of hair-clippers.
He disliked walking up the steps to his front door; they were so narrow;
they creaked as though they were ready to fall down; and he was always
afraid he would meet some blind people. An oculist lived on the first
floor, and he had often seen sightless persons feeling their way around.
A letter was lying on his table. The cover bore the address of the
General Agency of the Prudentia Insurance Co. He walked up and down a
while before opening it. It was his discharge papers.
XII
Friedrich Benda became more and more dejected. He saw that as a private
individual he would have to waste energy that should be going into his
profession. It seemed to him that he was condemned to bury his talent in
eternal obscurity.
He broke off from the most of his acquaintances; with others he quit
corresponding. If friends spoke to him on the street, he turned his
head. His sense of honour had been wounded; he was on the point of
losing his self-respect.
Daniel was the only one who failed to notice the change that was coming
over him. Probably he had accustomed himself to the belief that Benda's
life was orderly and agreeable. The plebeian prosperity of the family in
which he himself lived probably made him feel that that was the way his
friend was living. At all events he never asked any questions, and was
never once struck by the fact that Benda would sit before him for hours
with his face wrapped in bitter, melancholy gloom.
Benda smiled at Daniel's naivete; for he felt that his attitude was due
to naivete and nothing more. He harboured no resentment. He decided not
to say a word about his condition to Daniel, then all taken up with
himself and his music. It was, however, at times impossible for him to
prevent his smarting and his desire to put an end to his ineffectual
existence from breaking through the coating of reserve in which he had
encased himself.
Late in the afternoon of a dismal day, Benda called for Daniel just as
he was finishing one of his piano lessons. The two friends decided to
take a walk and then dine together at Benda's.
In the hallway they met the Ruediger sisters as they were returning from
their daily stroll through the garden. Benda greeted them with an
antiquated politeness; Daniel just barely touched the rim of his hat.
The sisters lined up as if ready for a cotillion, and returned the
greetings with infinite grace. Fraeulein Jasmina let a rose fall, and
when Benda picked it up for her, she pressed her hand against her
scarcely noticeable breast and gave voice to her gratitude, again with
infinite grace.
When they reached the street, Benda said in a tone of compassion: "They
are three delicate creatures; they live their lonely lives like vestal
virgins guarding a sacred fire."
Daniel smiled. "Yes, a sacred fire? Do you refer to the incident with
the painter?"
"Yes, I do; and he was no ordinary painter, either, let me tell you. I
heard the whole story the other day. The painter was Anselm Feuerbach."
Daniel knew nothing whatever about Anselm Feuerbach. He was impressed,
however, by the name, which, by virtue of a mysterious magic, struck his
ear like the chime of a noble bell. "Tell me about him," he said.
The story was as follows: Four years before his death, that is, six
years ago, Anselm Feuerbach came to Nuremberg for the last time to visit
his mother. He was already sick in body and soul, and was much
disappointed in his alleged friends. The incessant torture resulting
from lack of appreciation had told on his health. A few of the more
enlightened citizens, however, recalled his fame, as it floated about in
the heavy air of Germany, somewhat befogged and quite expatriated, and
the Chamber of Commerce placed an order with Feuerbach for a painting to
be hung in the Palace of Justice. Feuerbach accepted the order, choosing
as his theme Emperor Ludwig in the act of conferring on the citizens of
Nuremberg the right to free trade. When the picture was completed, there
was a great deal of dissatisfaction with it. The merchants had expected
something totally different: they had looked for a cheap but striking
canvas after the style of Kreling, and not this dignified, classical
work by Feuerbach.
Nor was this all. The hanging space was so small that several inches of
the canvas had to be run into the wall, and the light was wretched. The
Chamber of Commerce proceeded at once to make trouble with regard to the
paying of Feuerbach's bill. An ugly quarrel arose in which Ruediger, the
geometrician, who had always been an ardent champion of Feuerbach, took
the artist's part. It finally reached the point where Ruediger left the
city, swearing he would never return. His daughters had all three loved
Feuerbach from the time he lived in their father's house.
"As a matter of fact, if there ever was an amiable artist," Benda said
in conclusion, "it was Anselm Feuerbach. Would you like to see him?
Come, then."
They were near the Cemetery of St. John. The gate was open, and Daniel
followed Benda. They walked along a narrow path, until Benda pointed to
a flat stone bearing the name of Albrecht Duerer. After this they came to
Feuerbach's grave. A bronze tablet, already quite darkened with age and
weather, bore Feuerbach's face in profile. Beneath it lay a laurel
wreath, the withered leaves of which were fluttering in the wind.
"What a life he lived!" said Benda in a low tone. "And what a death he
died! The death of a hunted dog!"
As they walked back to the city, night came on. Daniel had removed his
hat, and was walking along at Benda's side looking straight ahead. Benda
was as nervous as he had ever been in his life.
"A German life, and a German death," he exclaimed. "He stretched out his
hand to give, and the people spat in it. He gives and gives and gives,
and they take and take and take, without gratitude, yea, rather with,
scorn. The only thing they study is their consanguinity table. They make
the microscope and the catechism copulate; their philosophy and their
police systems live in _mesalliance_. Good demeanour they know not; of
human agreements they have never heard. They decide to do something, and
they do it. That is all. There is no longer a place for me in Germany. I
am leaving."
"You are going to leave? Where are you going?" asked Daniel, in faithful
amazement. Benda bit his lips, and was silent.
"Do you see these big white spots here? They have neither mountains nor
rivers on them. Those are places that have never been trod upon by
European feet. There is where I am going." He smiled a gentle smile.
"Really? When?" asked Daniel, filled with dismay at the thought of
losing his friend.
"I have not decided when, but it will be soon. I have work to do over
there. I need air, room, sky, the free animal and the free plant."
Benda's mother came in. She was rather tall, walked with the
difficulties of age, had sharp features and deep-set eyes.
She looked first at her son and then at Daniel. Then her eyes fell on
the atlas and remained fixed upon it, filled with an expression of
horror and anxiety.
Daniel did not know what to say. Benda, still smiling to himself, began
to talk about other things.
XIII
At the death of her mother, Gertrude Jordan was nine years old. She had
crept into the death chamber and sat by the bier for three hours.
Perhaps her seclusion from the world and association with people dated
from that hour. As she was leaving the death room, the clock on the
wall struck, and a cock crowed in the distance.
"Why do you tick, clock?" she asked in a loud voice, "why do you crow,
cock?" And again: "Who makes you tick, clock, who makes you crow, cock?"
She had grown up, and no one knew anything about her. It was even
difficult for her own father to approach her; how she was constituted,
mentally and spiritually, he did not know. She never associated with
girls of her own age. Her dark eyes glowed with wrath when she heard the
senseless, sensuous laughter of other girls.
The first time she partook of the holy communion she swooned and had to
be carried out. Jordan then took her to Pommersfelden to his sister, the
widow of the district physician Kupferschmied. At the end of one week
she returned alone, completely broken in spirit. She had seen a calf
slaughtered; the sight had made her almost insane.
From the time she was fifteen years old she had insisted on having her
own bed room. When she was sixteen she demanded that the maid be
discharged; she herself did all the cooking and kept house. As soon as