The Goose Man
"I?" responded Theresa, in a tone of contemptuous amazement, "not one
step will I take. What have I got to do with your imbecile concerts?"
"But these gentlemen are going to be disillusioned, terribly so,"
continued Jason Philip in a threatening tone. "There is still a certain
amount of common sense left, just as there are means of proceeding
against a common, ordinary swindler."
Philippina raised her head in the mood of a person who has come to a
sudden decision: "C'n I go 'long, Pop?" she asked, her ears as red as
fire.
It was more than a request. Jason Philip was startled at the intractable
expression on the girl's face. "Sure," he said, avoiding as well as he
could the mute opposition on the part of Theresa, "but take a whistle
along so that you can make cat calls."
He sank back with a comfortable sigh on his chair, and stretched out his
legs. Philippina knelt down and took off his boots. He then put on his
slippers. Each of them bore a motto embroidered in red. On the left one
were the words "For tired father"; on the right one, "Consolation."
IX
Eleanore had not told her father why she had left her position with
Alfons Diruf. Nor did Jordan ask her why when he learned that she did
not wish to speak about it. He suspected that there was some
disagreeable incident back of it, and if he maintained a strict silence
it was because he feared his own wrath and grief.
She soon found another position. A schoolmate and good friend of hers,
Martha Degen, the daughter of the pastry-baker, had married Herr Ruebsam,
a notary public and an old man to boot. Eleanore visited the Ruebsams
occasionally, as did also her father; and in the course of conversation
it came out that Herr Ruebsam needed an assistant copyist. Since it was
then impossible to give Eleanore a desk in the office, she was allowed
to do all her work at home.
Friedrich Benda had also given her a cordial letter of recommendation to
Herr Bock, Counsellor of Archives, who was just then engaged in writing
a voluminous work on the history of Nuremberg. It would be her task to
arrange Herr Bock's muddled manuscript.
It was a laborious undertaking, but she learned a great deal from it.
Her thirsty mind would draw nourishment even from dry and lifeless
subjects.
She was seized with a desire to fill up the gaps in her education. She
begged Benda first for this book and then for that one. And after having
written the whole day long, she would often sit down and read until late
at night.
Everything she came in contact with she either assimilated or shook off:
she dragged nothing along in the form of surface impedimenta; it became
a part of her being, or she threw it to one side.
Daniel had not called for a long while. He was busy with the rehearsals
which Wurzelmann was conducting. Professor Doederlein was not to take
charge of the orchestra until it had been thoroughly drilled. The
programme was to consist of Daniel's works and the "Leonore Overture."
Wurzelmann referred to the Beethoven number as "a good third horse in
the team."
Daniel also had a lot of business to transact with the impresario
Doermaul: the company was to go on the road in March, and many things had
to be attended to. The contract he signed was for three years at a
salary of six hundred marks a year.
A few days before the public rehearsal he came to Jordan's with three
tickets: one for Jordan himself and the other two for the sisters. The
public rehearsal was quite like a regular concert; over a hundred
persons had been invited.
Jordan was just getting ready to go out. "That is fine, that is great: I
can hear some more music now. I am looking forward to the concert with
extreme pleasure. When I was a young fellow I rarely missed a concert.
But that was long ago; indeed, when I think it over I see how old I am.
The years pass by like milestones on the highway of life. Well, Daniel,
I thank you, thank you very much!"
Eleanore's joy was also great. As soon as her father had gone, she
remarked that Daniel had looked for Gertrude; but she had left the room
as soon as she saw him coming. Eleanore opened the door, and cried:
"Gertrude, come in, right away! I have a surprise for you."
After a while Gertrude came in.
"A ticket for you to Daniel's concert," said Eleanore, radiant with joy,
and handed her the green card of admission.
Gertrude looked at Eleanore; and she wanted to look at Daniel. But her
heavy glance, slowly rising from the floor, barely reached his face
before it returned to its downward position, aggrieved and pained. Then
she shook her head, and said: "A ticket for the concert? For me? Are you
serious, Eleanore?" Again she shook her head, amazed and indignant.
Whereupon she went to the window, leaned her arm against the cross bars,
and pressed her head against her arm.
Daniel followed her with looks of glowing anger. "You can take sheep to
the slaughter," he said, "you can throw thieves in a dungeon, you can
transport lepers to a hospital for incurables, but you cannot force an
emotional girl to listen to music."
He became silent; a pause ensued. Tortured at the thought that Daniel's
eyes were riveted on her back, Gertrude turned around, went to the
stove, sat down, and pressed her cheek against the Dutch tiles.
Daniel took two steps, stood by her side, and exclaimed: "But suppose I
request that you go? Suppose my peace of mind or something else of
importance to the world, consolation, liberation, or improvement,
depends on your going? Suppose I request that you go for one of these
reasons? What then?"
Gertrude had become as pale as death. She looked at him for a moment,
then turned her face to one side, drew up her shoulders as if she were
shivering with cold, and said: "Well--then--then--I'll go. But I will be
sorry for it ... sorry for it."
Eleanore was a witness to this scene. Her eyes, wide open when it began,
grew larger and larger as it advanced through its successive stages. As
she looked at Daniel a kindly, languishing moisture came to them, and
she smiled.
Daniel, however, had become vexed. He mumbled a good-bye and left.
Eleanore went to the window and watched him as he ran across the
square, holding his hat with both hands as a shield against the driving
wind.
"He is an amusing fellow," she said, "an amusing fellow."
She then lifted her eyes to the clouds, whose swift flight above the
church roof pleased her.
X
It was the original intention to begin the regular evening concert with
the third "Fidelio Overture." Doederlein was of the opinion that it
offered no special difficulties: the general rehearsal was to be devoted
primarily to the works of the novice. He raised his baton, and silence
filled the auditorium.
The "Nuremberg Serenade" opened with ensemble playing of the wind
instruments. It was a jovial, virile theme which the violins took up
after the wind instruments, plucked it to pieces in their capricious
way, and gradually led it over into the realm of dreams. The night
became living: a gentle summer wind blew, glow worms flitted about,
Gothic towers stood out in the sultry darkness, plebeian figures crept
into the narrow, angular alleys; it was night in Nuremberg. The
acclamation a glorious past with an admonition to the future fell upon
the smug complacency of the present, the heroic mingled with the jocose,
the fantastic with the burlesque, romanticism found its counterpart, and
all this was achieved through a flood of genuine melody in which
stodginess played no part, while charm was abundant in every turn and
tune.
The professional musicians were astonished; and their astonishment was
vigorously expressed in their criticisms. The general admiration, to be
sure, was somewhat deafened by the unpleasant end that the rehearsal was
destined to come to; but one critic, who enjoyed complete independence
of soul, though an unfortunate incident in his life had compelled him to
relinquish his influential circle in the city and retire to a limited
sphere of activity in the province, wrote: "This artist has the
unquestioned ability to become the light and leader of his generation.
Nature created him, his star developed him. May Heaven give him the
power and patience indispensable to the artist, if he would be born
again and become a man above the gifts of men. If he only does not reach
out too soon for the ripe fruits, and, intoxicated by the allurements of
the lower passions, fail to hear the voice of his heart! He has taken a
lofty flight; the azure gates of renown have swung wide open to him.
Let him only be cautious about his second descent into the night."
The same connoisseur found the composition of "Vineta" less ingenious,
and its instrumentation suffering from the lean experience of a
beginner. Yet even this work was strongly applauded. The impresario
Doermaul clapped his hands until the perspiration poured from his face.
Wurzelmann was beside himself with enthusiasm. Old Herold smiled all
over his face. The long-haired found it of course quite difficult to
subdue their jealousy, but even they were not stingy with their
recognition.
But how did Herr Carovius feel? His spittle had a bitter taste, his body
pained him. When Andreas Doederlein turned to the audience and bowed,
Carovius laughed a laugh of tremendous contempt. And Jason Philip
Schimmelweis? He would have felt much more comfortable if the
hand-clapping had been so much ear-boxing, and Daniel Nothafft, the
culprit, had been the objective. The boy who had been cast out had
become the leader of men! Jason Philip put his hand to his forehead,
shook his head, and was on the point of exclaiming, "Oh, ye deceivers
and deceived! Listen, listen! I know the boy; I know the man who has
made fools of you here this evening!" He waited to see whether the
misunderstanding, the colossal swindle, would not be cleared up
automatically. He did not wait in vain.
At the close of the "Serenade," Jordan was struck by Gertrude's feverish
paleness. He asked her whether she felt ill, but received no reply.
During the performance of the second piece she kept putting her hands to
her bosom, as if she were suffering from repressed convulsions. Her eyes
were now lifeless, now glowing with an uncanny fire. As soon as the
piece was finished, she turned to her father and asked him to take her
home. Jordan was frightened. Those sitting next to him looked at the
girl's pale face, sympathised with her, and made conventional remarks.
Eleanore wanted to go home too, but Gertrude whispered to her in her
imperious way and told her to stay. Familiar as she was with Gertrude's
disposition, she thought that it was simply a passing attack of some
kind, and regained her composure.
Daniel was standing at the door, talking to Benda and Wurzelmann. He was
very much excited; his two companions were trying to appease his
embitterment against Andreas Doederlein. "Ah, the man doesn't know a
thing about his profession," he exclaimed, and scorned all attempts to
effect a reconciliation between him and the leader of the orchestra.
"What is left of my compositions is debris only. He drags the time,
never even tries to make a _legatura_, scorns a _piano_ every time he
comes to one, pays no attention to _crescendos_, never retards--it is
terrible! My works cannot be played in public like that!"
Gertrude and her father passed by quickly and without greeting. Daniel
was stupefied. The lifeless expression in Gertrude's face unnerved him.
He felt as if he had been struck by a hammer, as if his own fate were
inseparably connected with that of the girl. Her step, her eyes, her
mouth were, he felt, a part of his own being. And the fact that she