The Goose Man
by your distress or my distress or the distress of any human being? Is
not the slime of slander thick upon their tongues? Is not your smile a
thorn in their flesh? Do they not envy me the little I have and for
which I have flayed myself? Don't they envy me my music, which they do
not understand, and which they hate because they do not understand it?
Would it not fill them with joy if I had to make my living beating
stones on the public highway or cleaning out sewers? Do they find it
possible to pardon me for my life and the things that make up my life?
And yet you say there are no wolves? That they are not wolves? Tell me
that you are afraid of them, that you do not wish to turn them against
yourself; but don't tell me that you are committing an evil act when I
call you to me, you with your wings, and you come."
His arms were stretched out toward her on the top of the kitchen table;
they were trembling to the very tips of his fingers.
"The evil deed, Daniel," whispered Eleanore, "hasn't anything to do with
these people; it was committed against the higher law of morals, against
our feeling of right usage and established honour...."
"False," he hissed, "false! They have made you believe that. They have
preached that to you for centuries and centuries; your mother, your
grand-mother, your great-grand-mother, they have all been telling you
that. It is false; it is a lie; it is all a lie. It is with this very
lie that they support their power and protect their organisation. It is
truth on the contrary that fills my heart, fills it with joy, and helps
me along. What nature offers, obedience to nature, that is truth. Truth
lies in your thoughts, in your feelings, girl, in your choked feelings,
in your blood, in the 'yes' you speak in your dreams. Of course I know
that they need their lie, for they must be organised, the wolves; they
must go in packs, otherwise they are impotent. But I have only my truth,
only my truth as I stand on the marble slab above the abyss."
"Your truth, Daniel," said Eleanore, "_your_ truth. But your truth is
not my truth."
"No, Eleanore? No? Not yours? What then is the use of my talking with
you? And even if everything else were falsehood and error, I am as
convinced as I can be that my truth is also your truth."
"You can't stand out against the whole world," said Eleanore in anguish,
"you are after all in the world yourself."
"Yes, I will take my stand against the whole world," he said, "that is
precisely what I have made up my mind to do. I will pay them back in
their own coin. Just as they have all stood against me, just so will I
stand against them. I am no compromiser, no treaty-maker, no haggler, no
beggar. I live according to my own law. I _must_, where other people
merely _should_ or _may_, or _may not_. Whoever does not comprehend that
has nothing in common, one way or the other, with me."
She was terrified at the presumptuousness of his words; and yet there
was a feeling in her of joy and pride: she felt a desire to be for him,
to be with him. If he was fighting against the very power that would in
the end overcome him, he was doing it for her sake. She did not feel,
therefore, that she had the right to withdraw from him. The thing about
it all that gave her a wonderful feeling of relief, and at the same time
made her morally flabby and carried her away, was the passion of his
will and the undaunted assurance of his feelings.
But their eyes chanced to meet; and in the eyes of each there was the
name of Gertrude.
Gertrude stood between them in living form. Everything they had said had
proceeded from her and returned to her. That Daniel was not thinking of
annulling his marriage, that he could not think of it, Eleanore knew. A
child was expected; who could reject the mother under these
circumstances? How would it be possible, poor as they were, to expose
both mother and child to the inevitable misery that would follow
annulment of the marriage? Daniel could not do this, and Eleanore knew
it.
But she also knew, for she knew her sister, that separation from Daniel
would mean her death. She knew too that Daniel considered his marriage
to Gertrude as indissoluble, not only because of his knowledge of her
character, but because there was in his life with Gertrude something
that is quite independent of passions, views, and decisions, something
that binds even in hate and binds even more firmly in despair.
Eleanore knew all this. She knew that Daniel knew it. And if she drew
the only conclusion that could be drawn from his argument and his state
of mind, she knew what he demanded of her.
He was demanding that she give herself up to him. Of this there could be
not a shred of doubt.
But how? Secretly? Could that produce happiness? With the understanding
of Gertrude? Could Gertrude endure such a thought, even if she were as
magnanimous as a saint? Where was the way that could be followed? Where
was there an angle from which embarrassment, anxiety, and ruin were not
ready to leap forth without warning?
She bowed her head, and covered it with her hands. She sat in this
position for a long while. Darkness settled down over the roofs of the
houses.
Suddenly she got up, reached him her hand, smiled with tears in her
eyes, and said with a last attempt to escape the horrible consequences,
"Bruederlein[1]...." She spoke the word in a tone of longing fervour and
half-humorous appealing.
[Footnote 1: "Little brother."]
He shook his head sadly, but took her hand and held it tenderly between
his.
Her face became clouded; it was like a landscape at the coming of night.
Her eyes, turned to one side, saw the trees of a great garden, an ugly
old woman sitting by a hedge, and two little girls who looked into the
setting sun with fear in their hearts.
There was a noise; she and Daniel were startled. In the doorway stood
Philippina Schimmelweis. Her eyes glistened like the skin of a reptile
that has just crept up from out of the bog.
Daniel went down to his apartment.
X
For nine years the rococo hall in the Auffenberg home had been closed to
festive celebrations of every kind. It took a long, tedious exchange of
letters between the secretary of the Baron living in Rome and the
secretary of the Baroness to get the permission of the former to use the
hall.
The indignation at Nothafft's work was general. The members of the
social set could hardly contain themselves, while the amateurs and
specially invited guests were likewise but little edified. The chief
diversion of the evening, in fact, was to see the composer himself
conduct. At the sight of the jumping and sprawling fellow, Herr Zoellner,
councillor of the consistory, almost burst with laughter.
Old Count Schlemm-Nottheim, who not only had a liking for pornographic
literature but was also known to drink a quarter of a litre of Dr.
Rosa's balsam of life every afternoon, declared that the ensemble
playing of all the instruments represented by the show-booths at the
annual fair was an actual musical revelation in comparison with this
Dutch concert of rogues' marches. Judge Braun of the Supreme Court gave
it as his candid opinion that there was evidently a conspiracy against
good taste.
Remarks of this kind were, of course, made behind screens and in the
corners. In order not to offend the Baroness, there was a goodly measure
of seemingly cordial applause. The guests and artists then assembled
around a huge table arranged in the shape of a horseshoe.
Count Schlemm-Nottheim was the table companion of the Baroness; he had
her tell him who the various personages from the world of art were. He
asked who was the woman of such interesting melancholy sitting next to
Major Bellmann. He was told that that was the wife of the composer. His
wife? She is not at all bad; life with her would be rather worth while.
And who was the woman between old Herold and the Frenchman? A charming
little creature: she had eyes like the Lake of Liguria and hands like a
princess. That was the sister of the composer's wife. Sister? You don't
tell me! A jolly fine family; worth the support of any man.
Toasts were drunk. Herr Ehrenreich, the wholesale merchant, drank to the
health of the creator of the "Harzreise"; the Count to the ladies
present.
Herr Carovius created a sensation. He sat with the members of the
"Liedertafel"; they had sung in the chorus; and they were ashamed of
him, for he conducted himself in a most unseemly fashion.
He had somehow managed to get hold of a glove Eleanore had lost, and
possibly it was this that made him so convivial. He picked up an almond
shell from the serving tray, and threw it at Fraeulein Varini. He let his
leery, lascivious eyes roam about over the cut glass and the decorations
of the hall, and never once grew tired of praising the wealth and
splendour of the house. He acted as though he were quite at home. He
raised his wine glass, and declared that he was charmed by the flavour
and colour of the costly, precious juice from the grape: he tried to
give the impression that he knew the Auffenberg wine cellar from years
of intimate association with it.
Then it happened that through a hasty, awkward movement, he upset his
plate; a rivulet of rich brown gravy ran down over his white vest. He
became silent; he retired within himself. He dipped his napkin in the
water, and rubbed and rubbed. The waiters tittered. He buttoned up his
coat, and looked like a show window in the dead of night.
The eyes of the waiters were also given the privilege of feasting on
another rare social phenomenon. They noticed that Kapellmeister Nothafft
was sitting at the table in his stocking feet. His patent leather shoes
had hurt him so much that he made short work of it and took them off
during the dinner. There they stood without master or servant, one at
the right, the other at the left of his disencumbered feet. Whenever the
waiters passed by, they would cast one furtive but profitable glance
under the table, and bite their lips to keep from bursting out in
laughter.
This rude offence to social dignity was not unknown to the other dinner
guests. They whispered, smiled, shrugged their shoulders, and shook
their heads. Daniel made no effort to conceal his bootlessness when the
guests rose to leave the table; without giving the astonishment of his
companions a single thought, he once more drew the patent leather
torturers on to his extremities. But he had made a mistake: he had
gambled and lost.
The news of the extraordinary event was fully exploited on the following
day. It was carried from house to house, accumulated momentous charm in
its course, passed from the regions of the high to those of the less
high and quite low, and provoked storms of laughter everywhere. No one
had anything to say about the symphony; everybody was fully informed
concerning the patent leather episode.
XI
On the way home Daniel walked with Eleanore. Gertrude followed at some
distance with M. Riviere; she could not walk rapidly.
"How did you find it, Eleanore? Didn't you have the feeling that you
were at a feast of corpses?"
"Dear," she murmured; they walked on.
After they had gone along for some time in perfect silence, they came to
a narrow gateway. Eleanore suddenly felt that she could no longer endure
Daniel's mute questioning. She pulled her silk veil closer to her
cheeks, and said: "Give me time! Don't hurry me! Please give me time!"
"If I hadn't given you time, my dear girl, I should not have deserved
this moment," he replied.
"I cannot, I cannot," she said, with a sigh of despair. She had only one
hope, one ray of hope left, and her whole soul was fixed on that. But
she was obliged to act in silence.