The Goose Man
passed by without even speaking to him, cold, reserved, hostile, filled
him with such intense anger that from then on he was not accountable for
what he did.
The flood of melody in Beethoven's great work was on the point of
pouring forth from the orchestra in all its exalted ruggedness. What
happened? There came forth instead a confused, noisy clash and clatter.
Daniel was seized with violent restlessness. It was hard enough to see
his own works bungled; to see this creation with its delicate soul and
titanic power, a work which he knew as he knew few things on this earth,
torn to tatters and bungled all around was more than he could stand. The
trumpet solo did not sound as though it came from some distant land of
fairy spirits: it was manifestly at the people's feet and it was flat.
He began to tremble. When the calm melancholy andante, completely robbed
of all measure and proportion by the unskilled hand of the leader and
made to dissipate in senseless sounds, reached his ear, he was beside
himself. He rushed on to the platform, seized the arm of the conductor
with his icy fingers, and shouted: "That is enough! That is no way to
treat a divine creation!"
The people rose in their seats. The instruments suddenly became silent,
with the exception of a cello which still whimpered from the corner.
Andreas Doederlein bounded back, looked at the mad man, his mouth as wide
as he could open it, laid the baton on the desk, and stammered: "By
Jupiter, this is unheard of!" The musicians left their places and
grouped themselves around the strange man; the tumult in the public grew
worse and worse. They asked questions, threatened, tried to set each
other at ease, scolded and raged. In the meantime Daniel Nothafft, his
head bowed, his back bent, stood there on the platform, glowing with
anger and determined to have his revenge.
A few minutes later, Andreas Doederlein was sitting at the table in the
musicians' waiting room. He looked like Emperor Barbarossa in
Kyffhaeuser. He had well founded reason to express his contempt for the
decadence and impiety of the youth of to-day. It was superfluous for him
to remark that a man who would conduct himself as Daniel had done should
be eliminated from the ranks of those who lay claim to the help and
consideration of sane people. The dignified gentlemen of the Orchestral
Union were of the same opinion; you could search the annals of history
from the beginning of time, and you would never find a case like this.
Mild eyes flashed, grey beards wagged. The deliberation was brief, the
sentence just. A committee waited on Daniel to inform him that his
compositions had been struck from the programme. The news spread like
wild-fire.
Who was happier than Jason Philip Schimmelweis?
He was like a man who gets up from the table with a full stomach, after
having sat down at it fearing lest he starve to death. On his way home
he whistled and laughed alternately and with well balanced proportion.
"There you see it again," he said to his daughter, as she walked along
at his side, "you see it again: you cannot get blood from a turnip any
more than you can get happiness from misery. A jackass remains a
jackass, a culprit a culprit, and loafing never fails to bring the
loafer to a disgraceful end. The Devil has a short but nimble tail; and
it makes no difference how slovenly he may conduct his business, his
recruits have got to pay the piper in the end. This will be a windfall
for mother. Let's hurry so that we can serve it to her while it's still
hot!"
And Philippina--she had never taken her eyes off the floor the entire
evening--seemed to be utterly unconscious of the fact at present that
she was surrounded by houses and people. She was a defeated woman; she
wanted to be. She had much to conceal; her young breast was a hell of
emotions, but her ugly, gloomy old face was as inanimate and empty as a
stone.
Herr Carovius waited at the gate. After all the other people had gone,
Daniel, Benda, Wurzelmann, and Eleanore came along. Daniel's storm cape
fluttered in the wind; his hat was drawn down over his eyes. Herr
Carovius stepped up before him.
"A heroic deed, my dear Nothafft," he miauled. "I could embrace you.
From this time on you can count me among your friends. Now stand still,
you human being transformed into a hurricane. I must say of course that
so far as your music is concerned, I am not with you. There is too much
hullaballoo in it, and not enough plain hellishness to suit me. But rid
this country of the whole tribe of Doederleins, and you will find that I
am your man. Not that I would invite you to take dinner with me, so that
you could have me make you a loan, not on your life. I am only a poor
musician myself. But otherwise I am at your service. I hope you sleep
well to-night--and get the hullaballoo out of your music just as soon as
you can."
He tittered, and then scampered away. Daniel looked at him with a
feeling of astonishment. Wurzelmann laughed, and said he had never seen
such a queer codger in all his life. All four stood there for a while,
not knowing exactly what to think, and in the meantime it was snowing
and raining. Asked by Benda where he wished to go, Daniel said he was
going home. But what could he do at home? Why couldn't he go home with
Benda? "No," said Daniel, "I can't do that: I am a burden to every one
to-day, including myself. Say, little servant, how are you feeling?" he
said, turning to Wurzelmann, "how about a drink or two?"
Wurzelmann, somewhat embarrassed, said that he had an engagement. There
was something repulsive in the way he declined the invitation.
"Ah, you, with your old engagement," said Daniel, "I don't give a hang
where you are going; I am going along."
"No, you're not, Daniel," cried Eleanore. And when Daniel looked at her
in astonishment, she blushed and continued: "You are not going with him;
he is going to see some women!"
The three young men laughed, and in her confusion Eleanore laughed too.
"How tragic you are, little Eleanore," said Daniel in a tone of unusual
flippancy, "what do you want me to do? Do you think that Wurzelmann and
I are just alike when it comes to an evening's amusement? Do you think
the earth claims me as soon as I see a tear?"
"Let him go," whispered Benda to the girl, "he is right. Don't bring an
artificial light into this darkness; it serves his purpose; let him do
with it as he pleases."
Eleanore looked at Benda with wide-opened eyes. "Darkness? What do you
mean? The fire then was merely a will-o'-the-wisp," she said, her eyes
shining with pride, "I see him full of light." Daniel had heard what she
said. "Really, Eleanore?" he asked with greedy curiosity.
She nodded: "Really, Daniel."
"For that you can have anything you want from me."
"Well then I beg you and Benda to come over to our house. Father will
be delighted to see you, and we will have something to eat."
"Fine. That sounds good to me. Addio, Wurzelmann, and remember me to the
girls. You are coming along, aren't you, Friedrich?"
Benda first made a few polite remarks, and then said he would accept.
"You liked it then, did you, Eleanore?" asked Daniel, as they walked
along the street.
Eleanore was silent. To Daniel her silence was moving. But he soon
forgot the impression it made on him; and it was a long, long while,
indeed even years, before he recalled this scene.
XI
Jordan had taken Gertrude home. He was very careful not to ask her any
questions that would cause her pain. On reaching the house he lighted a
lamp and helped her take off her cloak.
"How do you feel?" he asked in a kindly tone, "are you better?"
Gertrude turned to one side, and sat down on a chair.
"Well, we'll drink a cup of hot tea," continued the old man; "then my
child will go to bed, and to-morrow morning she will be all right again.
Yes?"
Gertrude got up. "Father," she sighed, and felt around for the tea table
as a means of support.
"Gertrude, what is the matter?" cried Jordan in dismay.
She moved the upper part of her body in her characteristic way--as
though it were limp and she were trying to drag it along with her--and a
faint smile came over her face. All of a sudden she burst out crying and
ran to her room. Jordan heard her bolt the door, looked anxiously before
him, waited a moment or two, and then crept up to her door on his
tiptoes.
He placed his hands under his chin and listened. Gertrude was crying. It
was an even and touching cry, not so much filled with grief as her sobs
generally were, and seemed to be expiratory rather than the reverse.
As Jordan let the lonely, unhappy, and impenetrable life of his daughter
pass by him in mental review, he became painfully aware of the fact that
this was the first time in her life that she had ever heard real music.
"Is it possible?" he asked. He tried to think of another time that would
make him disbelieve the accuracy of his unpleasant observation.
He said to himself: Her case is simple; the hitherto unknown sweetness
and power concealed in the ensemble playing of the violins, the euphony
of the orchestra, and the beauty of the melody with all its fateful
directness has made the same impression on her that the sunlight makes
on a person from whose eyes a cataract has just been removed. Her soul
has suffered from hunger; that is where the trouble lies. She has
struggled too fiercely with the incomprehensible and the intangible.
His instinct of love told him that the best thing to do was to let her
cry. It will do her good; it will relieve her soul. He pulled a chair up
to her door, sat down, and listened. When he could no longer hear her
crying, his heart grew easier.
XII
Eleanore was right. Her father was quite pleased to see Daniel and
Benda. "I am proud of you," he said to Daniel, "and for your visit to me
I thank you. I feel flattered."
"If you had stayed a half hour longer, you might feel differently about
it," replied Daniel.
Eleanore gave her father a brief account of what had taken place at the
concert. Jordan listened attentively, looked at Daniel, and, with a
wrinkle on his forehead, said, "Is it possible?"
"Yes, it is possible; it had to happen," said Daniel.
"Well, if it had to happen, it is a good thing that it is over," was the
dispassionate response.
Eleanore took her father's hand; the back of it was covered with big
yellow spots; she kissed it. Then she set the table, got everything
ready for the meal, went in and out of the room in a most cheerful way,
and did not forget to put the water on the stove to boil. She had asked
about Gertrude as soon as she came home, but for some reason or other
her father seemed disinclined to say anything on the subject, from which
Eleanore inferred that there was nothing seriously wrong.
Finally they sat down at the table. Eleanore was quite pleased to see
the three men whom she liked so much gathered together in this way.
There was a feeling of gratitude in her heart toward each one of them.
But she was also hungry: she ate four sandwiches, one right after the
other. When she saw that Daniel was not eating, she stepped up behind
his chair, bent over him so far that the loose flowing hair from her
temples tickled his face, and said: "Are you embarrassed? Or don't you
like the way the sausages have been prepared? Would you like something
else?"
Daniel evaded the questions; he was out of sorts. And yet in the bottom
of his heart the contact with the girl made a pleasing impression on
him; it was in truth almost a saving impression. For his thoughts
continually and obstinately returned to the girl who had fled, and whose
presence he missed without exactly wishing that she were at the table
with the others.