The Goose Man
left the room. She clenched her horny fists, and continued Daniel's life
history: "The brute has a bastard, he has. You wait, you little chit,
and the first chance I get I'll scratch your eyes out!"
Taking the child on her lap, Marian sat down by Daniel's side. "Don't
cry, Eva, don't cry; we're going back home now in a minute."
Daniel looked at his mother most attentively, and told her how
Philippina had chanced to come into his family. He told her all about
Jason Philip's attempt to rob him of his inheritance, and how his own
daughter had betrayed him; how his father had taken three thousand
talers to Jason Philip; how Jason Philip had been forced to hand over a
part of the money when Jordan was in trouble because of his son; and how
he had waived his claims to the rest of the money.
Marian's head sank low on her breast. "Your father was a remarkable man,
Daniel," she said after a long silence, "but he never did understand
people; and the person whom he misunderstood most of all was his wife.
He was like a man who is blind, but who does not want to let it be known
that he is blind: he walks around, but where does he go? He stands still
and has not the faintest idea where he is. And by the way, Daniel, it
seems to me that you are a little bit like him. Open your eyes, Daniel,
I beg you, open your eyes!"
The child in her lap had fallen asleep. Daniel looked into Eva's
face--yes, he opened his eyes--and as he saw this delicate, sweet,
charming countenance so close before him, he could no longer control
himself. He turned to the wall, and cried as if his heart would break:
"I am a murderer!"
"No, Daniel," said Marian gently, "or if you are, then everybody who
lives is a murderer, the dead of the past being the victims."
Daniel writhed in agony and gnashed his teeth.
"Father is in the room there," whispered Eva in her dreams.
XI
The hardest of all for Marian was to get along with old Jordan; for he
was only a shadow of his former self. He never entered Daniel's room; if
Marian wanted to see him she went upstairs, and there he sat, quiet,
helpless, extinguished, a picture of utter dereliction.
He never mentioned his sorrows; it made him restless to see that Marian
sympathised with him. When she did, he became quite courteous; he even
tried to act the part of a man of the world. The effect of this assumed
sprightliness, seen from the background of his physical impoverishment
and spiritual decay, was terrifying.
Marian hoped to hear something from him concerning Daniel's present
situation. She knew, in a general way, that he was in profound distress,
that he was living in most straightened circumstances, and this worried
her tremendously. But she wanted to know how he stood in the world;
whether people felt there was anything to him; and whether music was
something from which a man could make a decent living. On this last
point her distrust was as strong as ever; her fear showed no signs of
weakening. It was Eleanore, and she only, that had given her a measure
of confidence: it seemed that Eleanore's disposition, her very presence,
had inspired her with a vague, far-away idea of music. But now Eleanore
was gone, and all her old doubts returned.
Jordan however became painfully secretive whenever she referred to
Daniel. He seemed to be grieved at the mere mention of his name. He
would merely look at the door, tuck his hands up his coat-sleeves, and
draw his head down between his shoulders.
Once he said: "Can you explain to me, my good woman, why I am alive? Can
you throw any light on such a preposterous paradox as my present
existence? My son--a wretch, vanished without a trace, so far as I am
concerned no longer living. My daughters, both of them, in the grave; my
dear wife also. I have been a man, a husband, and a father; that is, I
have _been_ a father! My existence scorns the laws and purposes of
nature. To eat, to drink, to sleep--oh, what repulsive occupations! And
yet, if I do not eat, I get hungry; if I do not drink, I get thirsty; if
I do not sleep, I get sick. How simple, how aimless it all is! For me
the birds no longer sing, the bells no longer ring, the musicians have
no more music."
Owing to her desire to find consolation of some kind and at any price,
she turned to Eberhard and Sylvia; they were now visiting Daniel almost
every day. She liked them; there was so much consideration for other
people in their behaviour, so much delicacy and refinement in their
conversation. Sylvia was not in the least offended by Daniel's sullen
silence; she treated him with a respect and deference that made Marian
feel good; for it was proof to her that in the eyes of good and noble
people Daniel stood in high esteem. The Baron seemed in some mysterious
way to be continually talking about Eleanore, though he never mentioned
her name. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded her of Eleanore;
there was something supersensuous in its power. Marian often felt as
though this strange nobleman and her son were brothers and at the same
time enemies, as seen in the light of painful memories. Sylvia also
seemed to have the same feeling; but she found nothing objectionable in
the relation.
One day, as Marian accompanied the two to the hall door, she decided to
pick up her courage; and she did. "Well, how do you think he is going to
make out?" she asked; "he has no work; as a matter of fact he never
speaks of work. What will that lead to?"
"We have been thinking about that," replied Sylvia, "and I believe a way
has been found to help him. He will hear about it in a short while. But
he must not suspect that we have anything to do with it." She looked at
her fiance; he nodded approvingly.
Eberhard and Sylvia knew perfectly well from the very beginning that
there could be no thought of lending Daniel money. Gifts, large or
small, merely humiliated him; they disgraced him. It was a case where
eagerness to serve on the part of those who have meets with
insurmountable obstacles, whether they wish to be lavish in their
generosity or of seeming calculation. There was no use to appeal to
delicacy; attenuating provisos would not help; small deceptions
practised in the spirit of love would prove ineffectual. Riches stood
face to face with poverty, and was as helpless as poverty usually is
when obliged to enter the lists against riches. The case was striking,
but not unique.
Having made up her mind to come to the assistance of the musician,
Sylvia turned to her mother. But it was idle to count on the backing of
the Baroness: Andreas Doederlein had so poisoned her mind against Daniel
that the mere mention of his name caused her brow to wrinkle, her lips
to drop.
Agatha von Erfft got in touch, by letter, with some business people who
were in a position to give her some practical advice. Their assistance
was helpful in that it at least saved her the invaluable time she might
have lost by appealing to the wrong people. One day she appeared before
Eberhard and Sylvia with her plans all drawn up.
One of the most reputable music houses of Mayence had been nursing the
idea for years of bringing out a pretentious collection of mediaeval
church music. A great deal of material had already been assembled under
the supervision of a writer on musical subjects who had recently died.
But there was still much to be collected. To do this, it would be
necessary to go on long journeys, and these would entail the expenditure
of a good deal of money. Moreover, it was necessary to find a man who
would not be afraid of the work attached to the undertaking, and on
whose judgment one could rely without doubt or cavil. Owing to the fact
that the expenses up to the present had far exceeded the initial
calculations, and since it seemed impossible to engage the right sort of
man to place in charge of the work, the publisher had become first
sceptical and then positive; positive that he would invest no more money
in it.
Agatha had heard of this some time ago. That the enterprise might be
revived she learned from direct inquiry; indirect investigation
confirmed what she had been told. But the publisher was unwilling to
assume all the financial responsibility; he was looking for a patron who
would be disposed to invest capital in the plan. If such a person could
be found, he was willing to place Daniel Nothafft, whose name was now
known to him, in the responsible position of making the collections and
editing them. There would be a good deal of work connected with the
undertaking: the treasures of the archives, libraries, and convents
would have to be investigated; corrections would have to be made; notes
would have to be written; and the entire work would have to be seen
through the press. To do this would take several years. The publisher
consequently insisted that whoever was placed in charge should sign a
contract to remain until the work had been finished, he in turn agreeing
to pay the editor a salary of three thousand marks a year.
Eberhard made careful inquiries as to the standing of the firm, and
finding that it enjoyed a rating well above the average, he agreed to
furnish the requisite capital.
A few days after the conversation between Sylvia and Marian, Daniel
received a letter in the morning mail from Philander and Sons,
requesting him to accept the position, a detailed description of which
was given. In the event of his acceptance, all he had to do was to sign
the enclosed contract.
He read the letter carefully and quietly from beginning to end. His face
did not brighten up. He walked back and forth in the room a few times,
and then went to the window and looked out. "It seems to rain every day
this summer," he said.
Marian had returned to the table. She took the letter with the enclosed
contract and read both of them. Her heart beat with joy, but she was
exceedingly careful not to betray her state of mind to Daniel: she was
afraid of his contradictory and crotchety disposition. She hardly dared
look at him, as she waited in anxious suspense to see what he would do.
Finally he came back to the table, made a wry face, stared at the
letter, and then said quite laconically: "Church music? Yes, I will do
it." With that he took his pen, and scrawled his name to the contract.
"Thank God," whispered Marian.
That afternoon they left Daniel. Eva hung on her father's neck, quite
unwilling to leave him. Without the least display of shyness, she kissed
him many times, laughing as she did so. She was overflowing with a
natural and whole-hearted love for him. Daniel offered no resistance. He
looked serious. As his eye caught that of the child, he shuddered at the
abundant fulness of her life; but he was aware at the same time of a
promise, and against this he struggled with all the power there was in
him.
XII
It was a sunny day in September. Eberhard, who had spent the entire
August at Erfft, had returned to the city to attend to some urgent
business--and also to hasten the arrangements for his coming wedding.
As the streets were filled with playing children, he sauntered along on
his way up to the Castle on the hill. He wanted to look up his little
house; he had not been in it for months. He had a feeling that he would
enjoy the quiet up there; he longed to look back over and into scenes
from the past; he wanted to pass in review the shadowy pictures of his
former self; pictures he saw before him wherever he went, wherever he
was. One of these was always with him; if he found himself in a certain
room it was there; if he went on a long journey it was with him. He even
found it on the faded pages of books he had taken to himself as
companions in his loneliness.