The Goose Man
present case had got her into serious trouble, and she wanted to get out
of it. "The devil to these women who are so delicately built," she had
said about an hour ago to the grinning Philippina.
Philippina came back with the announcement that Dr. Mueller was on a
vacation: "Well, is he the only physician in the city, you dumb ox?"
howled Daniel, "go get Dr. Dingolfinger; he lives here close by: right
over there by the Peller House. But wait a minute! You stay here; I'll
go get him."
Dr. Dingolfinger was a Jewish physician, a rather old man, and Daniel
had to ring and ring to get him out of his bed. But finally he heard the
bell, got up, and followed Daniel across the square. Daniel had left the
lantern burning at the front gate, and with it he lighted the doctor
through the court and up the stairs.
Then he sat down on the bench in the kitchen; how long he sat there he
did not know; he bent his body forward and buried his head in his hands.
The screams became worse and worse: they were no longer the cries of
Eleanore but of some unsouled, dehumanised being. Daniel heard them
all; he could think of nothing, he could feel nothing but that voice. At
times the terrible cry ran through his heart: Sisters! Sisters!
Frau Hadebusch came out several times to get hot water. The yellow tooth
in her lower jaw stuck out like a cracked, lecherous remainder and
reminder of her past life. Once Dr. Dingolfinger himself came out,
rummaged around in his leather case, which he had left in the hall,
looked at Daniel, and said: "It is going to come out all right; it will
all be over in a short while." At that Philippina poked at the fire, and
put on fresh coals. She looked at Daniel out of one corner of her eye,
and went on her way. From time to time old Jordan rapped on the wall to
have Philippina come up and tell him how things were going.
It must have been about four o'clock in the morning; the gloomy, grey
stones in the walls of the court yard were already being covered with
rosy tints from the East. There was a cry so fearful, so like that of a
voice from the wilds of the heart, that Daniel sprang to his feet and
stood trembling in every limb.
Then it became quiet, mysteriously, uncannily quiet.
XIX
He sat down again; after a while his eyes closed, and he fell asleep.
He must have slept about half an hour when he was wakened by the sound
of footsteps.
Standing around him were the physician, Frau Hadebusch, and Philippina.
The doctor said something at which Daniel shook his head. It sounded
like: "Unfortunately I cannot keep the sad news from you." Daniel did
not understand him; he drew his lips apart, and thought: "The idea of
dreaming such disordered stuff!"
"Mother and child are both dead," said the old physician, with tears in
his eyes. "Both dead. It was a boy. Science was powerless; nature was
hostile and the stronger of the two."
"So delicately built," murmured Frau Hadebusch, in a tone of
disapproval, "as delicate as the stem of a plant."
When Daniel at last realised that he was not dreaming, that these were
in bitter truth Philippina's glistening eyes and Frau Hadebusch's
goatish tooth and Dr. Dingolfinger's silvery beard, and that these were
actual words that were being spoken to him, he fell over and became
unconscious.
XX
Pain, grief, despair, such terms do not describe his condition.
He knew nothing about himself; he had no thoughts; he lay on the sofa in
the living room day and night, ate nothing, said nothing, and never
moved.
When they carried the empty coffin into the death chamber, he burrowed
his face into the corner of the sofa. Old Jordan tottered through the
room to take a last look at his dead daughter. "He has sinned," Jordan
sobbed, "sinned against God in Heaven."
In the hall some people were whispering. Martha Ruebsam and her husband
had come in. Martha was crying. Her slender figure with her pale face
appeared in the doorway; she looked around for Daniel.
"Don't you want to see your Eleanore before the coffin is closed?" asked
Philippina in a hollow voice.
He never moved; the twitchings of his face were terrible to behold.
Beside him on the table was some cold food; also some bread and apples.
They carried the coffin out. He felt that where his heart once was there
was now a dark, empty space. The church bell rang, the rain splashed
against the window panes.
During the second night he felt his soul suddenly become incoherent,
lax. This was followed by a brief flaring up within him, whereupon his
eyes were filled with hot, burning tears. He resigned himself to the
situation without audible display of grief; he felt all of a sudden that
he had now for the first time in his life really sensed the beauty of
the pure triad in the major key.
Another day passed by. He could hear old Jordan walking about in the
room above him, ceaselessly and with heavy tread. He felt cold;
Philippina came in; he asked her to get him a blanket. Philippina was
most eager to be of service to him. The door bell rang; Philippina
opened.
Before her stood a lady and a gentleman. There was something so refined
about them that Philippina did not dare raise any objections when they
quietly came in and went straight to the living room: the door had not
been closed, and they could see Daniel lying on the sofa.
Daniel looked at them quite indifferently. Gradually he began to collect
his thoughts, to compose himself, to come to himself.
His guests were Eberhard von Auffenberg and his cousin, Sylvia von
Erfft. They were betrothed.
Taken up as he had latterly been with the marked changes and
transformations in his life, Eberhard had not heard of the death of
Eleanore until a few hours ago.
It was a rare visit. None of the three said a word. Daniel lay wrapped
in his blanket; he never moved. Finally, when his friends were about to
leave, Sylvia got up, and turning to Daniel, said: "I did not know
Eleanore, but I feel as if I had lost one of my own dear friends."
Eberhard tossed his chin in the air, turned pale, and was as silent as
the tomb.
They repeated their visit on the following day, and then on the next
day, and so on. The presence of the two people came in time to have a
beneficent effect on Daniel.
THE ROOM WITH THE WITHERED FLOWERS
I
A few days later, Herr Carovius carried out the scheme he had decided
upon at the time his heart became so embittered at Eleanore's marriage.
It was the end of March. Herr Carovius had learned that the old Baron
had just returned from Berlin. He went around to his house, and sent in
his card. The butler came out, and told him that the Baron could receive
no one, that he should state his business in writing.
Herr Carovius, however, wanted to see his debtor face to face: this was
the heart of his dream. When he came back a second time and was again
told that he could not see the Baron, he began to storm and bluster, and
insisted that they should at least let him talk with the Baroness.
The Baroness was just then taking her music lesson. The fifteen-year-old
Dorothea Doederlein, who gave promise of developing into a remarkable
virtuoso on the violin, was playing some sonatas with the Baroness.
Andreas Doederlein had recognised her talents when she was a mere child.
Since her tenth year, she had been obliged to practise six hours every
day. She had had a great number of different teachers, all of whom had
been brought to the point of despair by her intractability. In the
presence of her father, however, she was meek: to him she bowed.
Andreas Doederlein had recommended his daughter to the Baroness in words
replete with objective recognition. The Baroness declared her
willingness to play with Dorothea. Andreas Doederlein had said to her:
"Now you have a chance to rise in the world through powerful influence;
don't neglect it! The Baroness loves the emotional; be emotional. At
times she will demand the demoniac; be obedient. Like all rich people,
she is pampering some grief _de luxe_; don't disturb her!"
Dorothea was docile.
They were playing Beethoven's spring sonatas, when the altercation began
out in the vestibule. The maid came in and whispered something to her
mistress. The Baroness arose and went to the door. Dorothea laid her
violin in her lap, and looked around in affected astonishment, as though
she were coming out of a dream.
At a sign from the Baroness the old servant gave Herr Carovius a free
path. He went in: his face was red; he made a quite ridiculous bow. His
eyes drank in the velvet portieres, the cut glass mirrors, the crystal
vases, and the bronze statuettes. In the meantime, and without fail, he
had placed his right hand against his hip, giving the fine effect of
right akimbo, and set one foot very elegantly a trifle more to the fore
than the other: he looked like a provincial dancing-master.
He complained of the presumptuousness of the servants, and assured the
Baroness that she was in complete enjoyment of his deference. He spoke
of his good intentions and the pressure of circumstances. When the
impatient bearing of his sole but distinguished auditor at last obliged
him to come to the real purpose of his visit, the Baroness twitched; for
from his flood of words there emerged, as she heard them, nothing but
the name of her son.
With panting sounds she came up to Herr Carovius, and took him by the
coat-sleeve. Her dim, black eyes became as round as little bullets; the
supplicating expression in them was so much balm to the soul of her
visitor.
Herr Carovius was enchanted; he was having the time of a scurvy life; he
became impudent; he wanted to take vengeance on the mother against the
son. He saw that the Baroness did not correspond to the picture he had
made of a creature who belonged to the aristocracy. In his imagination
she had lived as a domineering, imperious, inaccessible phenomenon: and
now there stood before him an old, obese, worried woman. On this account
he gave his voice a shriller tone, his face a more scurrilous expression
than was his wont. Then he launched forth on a graphic narration of the
unhappy plight in which he now found himself as a result of his
association with Baron von Eberhard, Jr.
He claimed that it was nothing but his own good nature that had got him
into this trouble. And yet, what was he to do? The Baron would have
starved to death, or become morally depraved, if he had not come to his
spiritual and pecuniary rescue, for the young man was sadly wanting in
the powers of moral resistance. And what had he gained by all this
altruism? Ingratitude, bitter ingratitude!
"He plundered me; he took my last cent, and then acted as if it were my
damned duty to go through fire for his baronical excellency," screamed
Herr Carovius. "Before I came to know him I was a well-to-do man; I
could enjoy myself; I could reap the higher pleasures of human
existence. To-day I am ruined. My money is wasted, my house is burdened
with mortgages, my peace of mind has gone plumb to the Devil. Two
hundred and seventy-six thousand marks is what the young man owes me and
my business friends. Yes--two hundred and seventy-six thousand marks,
including interest and interest on the interest, all neatly noted down
and signed up by the duly authorised parties. Am I to let him slam the
door in my face because of his indebtedness to me? I think you will see
yourself that that cannot be expected of me. He at least owes me a
little respect for what I have done for him."
The Baroness had listened to all this with folded hands and unfixed
eyes. But the close of the story was too much for her: she threw herself