The Goose Man
effects with lamentably inadequate material. And from morning to night
he had to wage war eternal against libellous action, inattention, and
inability.
Nobody loved him for this; they merely feared him. They swore they would
take vengeance on him, but they knuckled under whenever they seemed to
have a chance. He had a habit of treating them with crushing coldness,
he could make them look like criminals. He had a look of icy contempt
that made them clench their fists when his eye fell on them. But they
bowed before a power which seemed uncanny to them, though it consisted
in nothing more than the fact that he did his duty while they did not.
At the close of each quarter, the impresario Doermaul appeared on the
scene to take invoice in person. His presence was invariably celebrated
by a gala performance of "Fra Diavolo," or "The Daughter of the
Regiment," or "Frou Frou." On these occasions the buffo did not get
drunk, the barytone rested from the torments of his lawsuit, the alto
had a charming smile for the sympathetic house, the soprano was as
peaceful as a mine immediately after an explosion. Not one of the chorus
stayed too long in the cafe; and since Wurzelmann directed, and the
orchestra did not have to feel the burning, basilisk eye of
Kapellmeister Nothafft resting on it and floating over it, it played
with more precision and produced a more pleasing feast for the ears than
ordinarily.
Doermaul was not stingy with his praise. "Bravo Wurzelmann," he cried,
"one more short year of hard work, and I'll get you a position in the
Royal Opera House."
"Nothafft will likewise rise to fame and office," he said, "although I
was so stupid as to publish his music, and now all this waste paper is
lying in my shop like a pound of brick cheese in a sick stomach."
The impresario Doermaul wore black and white striped trousers of
imported cut, a vest that looked like a bit of tapestry made of pressed
leather, a massive gold watch-chain from which dangled countless fobs, a
blood red tie with a diamond as big as the Koh-i-noor and as false as an
April sun, and a grey silk tile hat which he lifted only when in the
presence of privy councillors, generals, and police presidents.
To a man of this kind Daniel had the boldness to remark: "Had you eaten
cheese you would at least have digested it. Your crowded shops are after
all more desirable in my estimation than many a head which would remain
empty even if some one stuffed the whole of the 'Passion of St. Matthew'
into it."
Doermaul decided to laugh. "Oho, my good fellow," he said, and pushed his
tile hat on to the back of his head, "you are getting all puffed up.
Look out that you don't burst. You remember the story of Haenschen: He
was awfully proud of his porridge while sitting behind the stove; but
when he went out on to the street, he fell into the puddle."
The little slave tittered. Daniel had known for a long time that
Wurzelmann was working against him. Quite innocently, to be sure, for
half souls can admire and betray at the same time.
"Envy is my only virtue," said Wurzelmann quite openly, "I am a genius
at envying."
Daniel was not equal to such cynicism. He was stupefied by Wurzelmann's
remark, but he did not break with the little slave; he continued to use
him. He was the only individual with whom he could speak of himself and
his work. And though he was overburdened, owing to his present position,
he nevertheless managed to steal a few hours every day for his own work.
And the pressure from all sides fanned the flame within him.
It was then that he staked out his field in order to be master in his
own realm; he turned to the song; he chose the clear, restrained forms
of chamber music; he studied with unwavering industry the old masters;
he deduced from their works the right rules of composition; and he set
these up before him like a dam against arbitrariness and aesthetic
demoralisation.
He was not unmindful of the fact that by so doing he was cutting himself
off from association with men, and renouncing, probably forever, the
satisfaction that comes from monetary reward and outward success. He
knew, too, that he was not making his life easier by adopting this
course, nor was he gaining the popular favour of the emotionalists.
When he would sit in a cafe late at night and show Wurzelmann one score
after another, sing a few bars in order to bring out the quality of a
song, improvise an accompaniment, praise a melody, or explain the
peculiarity of a certain rhythm, he surprised the little slave, and
drove him into an attitude of self-defence. All this was fundamentally
new to Wurzelmann. If Daniel proved that the new was not new after all,
that the trouble lay in the fact that the deranged and shattered souls
of the present century had lost the power to assimilate unbroken lines
in their complete purity, Wurzelmann at once became an advocate of
modern freedom, insisting that each individual should be allowed to do
all that his innate talent enabled him to vindicate.
Daniel remained unconvinced. Was not the whole of life, the rich
contents of human existence, to be found in the beautiful vessel that
had been proved long ago? Could any one say that he was displaying a
spirit of greediness in his love for the classical? And were joy and
sorrow, however intense, less perceptible when expressed through a
concise, well ordered medium? "What a distorted view a man takes when he
becomes so narrow-minded," thought Daniel. "His ambition makes it
impossible for him to feel; his very wit militates against clear
thinking."
Thus they went from town to town, month after month, year after year.
The company had in time its traditions, its _chronique scandaleuse_, its
oft-tested drawing cards, its regular patrons, its favourite stands, and
its stands that it avoided if humanly possible.
The local paper greeted them editorially; the children stood on the
sidewalks to gape their fill at the ladies from the theatre; the retired
major bought a reserved seat for the first performance; the barber
offered his services; and the faculty of the Latin School held a special
meeting to decide whether they should permit their pupils to go to the
opera or not. The Young Men's Christian Association voiced its protest
against the nude shoulders of the _artistes_; the members of the Casino
turned up their noses at the achievements of the company; the police
insisted that the booth or hotel lobby in which they performed should be
fireproof; the wife of the mining engineer fell in love with the
barytone, and her husband hired a number of hoodlums to take their
places in the gallery and hoot and hiss when the time came. And those
who nag under any circumstances requested more cheerfulness. They found
the "Czar and Zimmermann" too dull, the "Muette de Portici" too
hackneyed. They insisted on "Madame Angot" and "Orpheus in the Under
World."
There was always something wrong.
Daniel shuddered at the mere presence of these people; he was repelled
by their occupations, their amusements, and the cadavers of their
ideals. He did not like the way they laughed; nor could he stand their
dismal feelings. He despised the houses out of which they crept, the
detectives at their windows, their butcher shops and hotels, their
newspapers, their Sundays and their work days. The world was pressing
hard upon him. He had to look these people straight in the face, and
they compelled him to haggle with them for money, words, feelings, and
ideas.
He learned in time, however, to see other things: the forests on the
banks of the Main; the great meadows in the hills of Franconia; the
melancholy plains of Central Germany; the richly variegated slopes of
the Jura Mountains; the old cities with their walls and cathedrals,
their gloomy alleys and deserted castles. In time he came to see people
in a different and easier light. He saw the young and the old, the fair
and the homely, the cheerful and the sad, the poor--and the rich so far
away and peaceful. They gave him, without discrimination, of their
wealth and their poverty. They laid their youth and their old age, their
beauty and their ugliness, their joys and their sorrows, at his feet.
And the country gave him the forests and the fields, the brooks and the
rivers, the clouds and the birds, and everything that is under the
earth.
X
It was winter. The company came to Ansbach, where they were to play in
the former Margrave Theatre. "Freischuetz" was to be given, and Daniel
had held a number of special rehearsals.
But a violent snow storm broke out on the day of the performance;
scarcely two dozen people attended.
How differently the violins sounded in this auditorium! The voices were,
as it seemed, automatically well balanced; there was in them an element
of calm and assurance. The orchestra? Daniel had so charmed it that it
obeyed him as if it were a single instrument. At the close of the last
act, an old, grey-haired man stepped up to Daniel, smiled, took him by
the hand, and thanked him. It was Spindler.
Daniel went home with him; they talked about the past, the future, men
and music. They could not stop talking; nor could the snow stop falling.
This did not disturb them. They met again on the following day; but at
the end of the week Spindler was taken ill, and had to go to bed.
As Daniel entered the residence of his old friend one morning, he
learned that he had died suddenly the night before. It had been a
peaceful death.
On the third day, Daniel followed the funeral procession to the
cemetery. When he left the cemetery--there were but few people at the
funeral--he went out into the snow-covered fields, and spent the
remainder of the day walking around.
That same night he sat down in his wretched quarters, and began his
composition of Goethe's "Harzreise im Winter." It was one of the
profoundest and rarest of works ever created by a musician, but it was
destined, like the most of Daniel's compositions, not to be preserved to
posterity. This was due to a tragic circumstance.
XI
In the spring of 1886, the company went north to Hesse, then to
Thuringia, gave performances in a few of the towns in the Spessart
region and along the Rhoen, the box receipts growing smaller and smaller
all the while. Doermaul had not been seen since the previous autumn; the
salaries had not been paid for some time. Wurzelmann prophesied a speedy
and fatal end of the enterprise.
An engagement of unusual length had been planned for the town of
Ochsenfurt. The company placed its last hopes on the series, although it
was already June and very warm. The thick, muggy air of the gloomy hall
in which they were to play left even the enthusiasts without much desire
to brighten up the monotony of provincial life by the enjoyment of grand
opera.
They drew smaller houses from day to day. Finally there was no more
money in the till; they did not even have enough to move to the next
town. To make matters worse, the tenor was taken down with typhus, and
the other singers refused to sing until they had been paid. Daniel wrote
to Doermaul, but received no reply. Wurzelmann, instead of helping,
fanned the easily inflamed minds of the company into a fire of noise,
malevolence, and hostility. They demanded that Daniel give them what was
due them, besieged him in his hotel, and finally brought matters to such
a pitch that the whole town was busied with their difficulties.
One afternoon, a stately gentleman between fifty-five and fifty-six
years old entered Daniel's room, and introduced himself as Sylvester von
Erfft, the owner of an estate.
His mission was as follows: Every year, at this season, the Chancellor