The Goose Man
Daniel felt that his peace was leaving him; his own arm seemed to him
like a shot-gun; it itched. But thus far he could not say a thing. The
question he had in mind to put to Jason Philip was of such tremendous
import that he could not suppress his fear that he might make a mistake
or become too hasty.
"Where is the money my father gave you?" came the words at last, rolling
from his lips in a tone of muffled sullenness.
The colour left Jason Philip's face; his arms fell down by his side.
"The money? Where it's gone to? That your father--?" He stuttered in
confusion. He wanted to gain time; he wanted to think over very
carefully what he should say and what he could conceal. He cast one
glance at Daniel, and saw that it was not possible to expect mercy from
him. He was afraid of Daniel's bold, lean, sinewy face.
He nearly burst with anger at the thought that this young man, for whom
he, Jason Philip, was once the highest authority, should have the
unmitigated audacity to call him to account. In this whole situation he
pictured himself as the immaculate man of honour that he wished he was
and thought he was in the eyes of his fellow citizens. At the same time
he was nearly stifled with fear lest he lose the money which he had long
since accustomed himself to regard as his own, with which he had worked
and speculated, and which by this time was as much a part of his very
being as his own house, his business, his projects. He buried his hands
in his pockets and snorted. His cowardly dread of the consequences of
fraud forced him into a half confession of fraud, but in his words lay
the feverish pettifogging of the frenzied financier who fights for
Mammon even unto raging and despair.
"The money is here; of course it is. Where did you think it was? My
books will show exactly how much of it has found its way over to
Eschenbach in the shape of interest and loans. My books are open to
inspection; the accounts have been kept right up to this very day. I
have made considerable progress in life. A man who has lived as I have
lived does not need to fear a living soul. Do you imagine for a minute
that Jason Philip Schimmelweis can be frightened by a little thing like
this? No, no, it will take more of a man than you to do that. Who are
you anyhow? What office do you hold? What authority have you? With what
right do you come rushing into the four walls of my home? Do you perhaps
imagine that your artistic skill invests you with special privileges? I
don't give a tinker's damn for your art. The whole rubbish is hardly
worth spitting on. Music? Idiocy. Who needs it? Any man with the least
vestige of self-respect never has anything to do with music except on
holidays and when the day's work is done. No, no, you can't impress me
with your music. You're not quite sane! And if you think that you are
going to get any money out of me, you are making the mistake of your
life. It is to laugh. If a man wants money from me, he has to come to me
at least with a decent hair-cut and show me at least a little respect.
He can't come running up like a kid on the street who says: 'Mumma, gif
me a shent; I want to buy some tandy.' No, no, son, you can't get
anything out of me that way."
The smile that appeared on Daniel's face filled Jason Philip with mortal
terror. He stopped his talk with incriminating suddenness. He decided to
hold in and to promise Daniel a small payment. He hoped that by handing
over a few hundred marks he could assure himself the desired peace of
mind.
But Daniel never felt so certain of himself in his life. He thought of
the hardships he had had to endure, and his heart seemed as if it were
on fire. At the same time he was ashamed of this man and disgusted with
him.
He said quietly and firmly: "I must have three thousand seven hundred
marks by ten o'clock to-morrow morning. It is a question of saving an
honourable and upright family from ruin. If this sum is handed over to
me promptly, I will waive all rights to the balance that is due me, in
writing. The receipt will be filled out ready for delivery in my house.
If the money is not in my hands by the stipulated time, we will meet
each other in another place and in the presence of people who will
impress you."
He turned to go.
Jason Philip's mouth opened wide, and he pressed his fist to the hole
made thereby. "Three thousand seven hundred marks?" he roared. "The man
is crazy. Completely crazy is the man. Man, man, you're crazy," he cried
in order to get Daniel to stop. "Are you crazy, man? Do you want to ruin
me? Don't you hear, you damned man?"
Daniel looked at Jason Philip with a shudder. The door to the adjoining
room sprang open, and Theresa rushed in. Her face was ashen pale; there
were just two little round red spots on her cheek bones. "You are going
to get that money, Daniel," she howled hysterically, "or I am going to
jump into the Pegnitz, I'll jump into the Pegnitz and drown myself."
"Woman, you ..." he gnashed his teeth, and seized her by the shoulder.
She sank down on a chair, and, seizing her hair, continued: "He is
everywhere, and wherever he is, our dear Gottfried, he is looking at me.
He stands before the clothes press, at the cupboard, by my bedside,
nods, exhorts, raises his finger, finds no peace in his grave, and does
not let me sleep; he has not let me sleep all these years."
"Now listen, you had better think of your children," snapped Jason
Philip.
Theresa let her hands fall in her lap, and looked down at the floor:
"All that nice money, that nice money," she cried. Then again, this time
with a face distorted beyond easy recognition and at the top of her
voice: "But you'll get it, Daniel; I'll see to it that you get it: I'll
bring it to you myself." Then again, in a gentle voice of acute
lamentation: "All that nice money."
Daniel was almost convulsed. It seemed to him as if he had never rightly
understood the word _money_ before, as if the meaning of _money_ had
never been made clear to him until he heard Theresa say it.
"To-morrow morning at ten o'clock," he said.
Theresa nodded her head in silence, and raised her hands with
outstretched fingers as if to protect herself from Jason Philip.
Willibald and Markus had crept under the door. The gate must not have
been closed, for just then Philippina came in. She had come over with
Daniel, but had remained outside on the street. She could not wait any
longer; she was too anxious to see the consequences of her betrayal.
She looked around with affected embarrassment. Was it merely the sight
of her that aroused Jason Philip's wrath? Was it the half-cowardly,
half-cynical smile that played around her lips? Or was it the cumulative
effect of blind anger, long pent up and eager to be discharged, that
made Jason Philip act as he did? Or did he have a vague suspicion of
what Philippina had done? Suffice it to say, he leapt up to her and
struck her in the face with his fist.
She never moved a muscle.
Indignant at the rudeness of his conduct, Daniel stepped between Jason
Philip and his daughter. But the venomous scorn in the girl's eyes
stifled his sympathy; he turned to the door, and went away in silence.
"All that nice money," murmured Theresa.
XIII
When Daniel told the Jordans that the money would be there the next
morning, Jordan looked at him first unbelievingly, and then wept like a
child.
Eleanore reached Daniel both her hands without saying a word. Gertrude,
who was lying on the sofa, straightened up, smiled gently, and then lay
down again. Daniel asked her what was the matter. Eleanore answered for
her, saying that she had not felt well since some time in the afternoon.
"She must go to bed, she is tired," added Eleanore.
"Well, come then," said Daniel, and helped Gertrude to get up. But her
legs were without strength; she could not walk. She looked first at
Daniel and then at Eleanore; she was plainly worried about something.
"You won't care, will you, Father, if I go home with them?" asked
Eleanore in a tone of flattery.
"No, go, child," said Jordan, "it will do me good to be alone for a few
minutes."
Daniel and Eleanore took Gertrude between them. At the second landing in
their apartment, Daniel took Gertrude in his arms, and carried her into
the bedroom. She did not want him to help her take off her clothes; she
sent him out of the room. A cup of warm milk was all she said she
wanted.
"There is no milk there," said Eleanore to Daniel, as she entered the
living room. He stopped suddenly, and looked at her as if he had
awakened from a fleeting dream: "I'll run down to Tetzel Street and get
a half a litre," said Eleanore. "I'll leave the hall door open, so that
Gertrude will not be frightened when I come in."
She had already hastened out; but all of a sudden she turned around, and
said with joyful gratitude, her blue eyes swimming in the tears of a
full soul: "You dear man."
His face took on a scowl.
There was a fearful regularity in his walking back and forth. The chains
of the hanging lamp shook. The flame sent forth a thin column of smoke;
he did not notice it. "How long will she be gone?" he thought in his
unconscious, drunken impatience. He felt terribly deserted.
He stepped out into the hall, and listened. There hovered before him in
the darkness the face of Philippina. She showed the same scornful
immobility that she showed when her father struck her in the face. He
stepped to the railing, and sat down on the top step; a fit at once of
weakness and aimless defiance came over him. He buried his face in his
hands; he could still hear Theresa saying, "All that nice money."
There were shadows everywhere; there was nothing but night and shadows.
Eleanore, light-hearted and light-footed, returned at last. When she saw
him, she stopped. He arose, and stretched out his arms as if to take the
milk bottle. That is the way she interpreted his gesture, and handed it
to him in surprise. He, however, set it down on the landing beside him.
The light from the living room shone on it and made it look sparkling
white. Then he drew Eleanore to him, threw his arms around her, and
kissed her on the mouth.
Merely a creature of man, only a woman, nothing but heart and breath,
all longing and forgetting, forgetting for just one moment, finding
herself for a moment, knowing her own self for a moment--she pressed
close up to him. But her hands were folded between her breast and his,
and thus separated their bodies.
Then she broke away from him, wrung her hands, looked up at him, pressed
close up to him again, wrung her hands again--it was all done in
absolute silence and with an almost terrible grace and loveliness.
Everything was now entirely different from what it had been, or what she
had formerly imagined it to be; there were depths to everything now. She
lost herself; she ceased to exist for a moment; darkness enveloped her
much-disciplined heart; she entered upon a second existence, an
existence that had no similarity with the first.
To this existence she was now bound; she had succumbed to it: the law of
nature had gone into effect. But the glass case had been shattered; it
was in pieces. She stood there unprotected, even exposed, so to speak,
to men, no longer immune to their glances, an accessible prey to their
touch.
She went into the kitchen, and heated the milk. Daniel returned to the
living room. His veins were burning, his heart was hammering. He had no
sense of appreciation of the time that had passed. When Eleanore came
into the room, he began to tremble.
She came up to him, and spoke to him in passionate sadness: "Have you
heard about Gertrude? Don't you know, really? She is with child--your
wife."
"I did not know it," whispered Daniel. "Did she tell you?"