The Goose Man
He hesitated from time to time, stopped, and seemed quite irresolute.
All of a sudden he turned around, and started back with hasty steps to
AEgydius Place. Just as he was entering the hall of Daniel's apartment,
he met Daniel coming out. He greeted Eberhard and gave him his hand.
"I was just going to call for you," said the Baron. "Won't you come with
me up to my old hermitage?"
Daniel looked out through his glasses at a swallow that was just then
circling around over the square; there was something fabulous in its
flight. "To tell you the truth, Baron, I have very little inclination to
gossip at present." He made the remark with as much consideration for
the laws of human courtesy as lay within his power.
"There must be no gossiping," said Eberhard. "I have a great secret, one
that I can tell you without saying a word."
Daniel went along with him.
The air in the little house was dead, stuffy. But Eberhard did not open
the windows; he wished to have it as quiet as it was when they entered.
Daniel took a seat on one of the chairs in the former living room of the
Baron. Eberhard thought he had sat down because he was tired; he
therefore took a seat opposite him. The evening sun cast a slanting ray
on an old copper engraving based on a scene from pastoral life. A mouse
played around in the corner.
"Well, what is your secret?" asked Daniel brusquely, after they had sat
in perfect silence for some time.
Eberhard got up, and made a gesture which meant that Daniel was to
follow him. They crossed the narrow hall, climbed up a pair of small
steps, and then Eberhard opened a door leading into the attic room.
A stupefying, deadening odour of decayed flowers struck them in the
face. Involuntarily Daniel turned to go, but the Baron pointed at the
walls in absolute silence.
"What is this? What kind of a room is this?" asked Daniel, rather
forcibly.
The four walls of the room were completely covered with bouquets,
garlands, and wreaths of withered flowers. The leaves had fallen from
most of them, and were now lying scattered about the floor. Leaves that
had once been green had turned brown; the grasses and mosses were in
shreds, the twigs were dry and brittle. Many of the bouquets had had
ribbons attached to them; these, once red or blue, were now faded.
Others had been bound with gold tinsel; this had rusted. The slanting
rays of the sun fell on others, and lighted them as it had shone on the
copper engraving in the room below. Through the purple rays could be
seen a dancing stream of dust.
It was a flower mausoleum; a vault of bouquets, a death-house of
memories. Daniel suspected what it all meant. He felt his tongue
cleaving to the roof of his mouth; a chill ran over him. And when
Eberhard at last began to speak, his eyes filled with hot, gushing
tears.
"The flowers were all picked and bound by her hands, by Eleanore's
hands," said Eberhard. And then, after a pause: "She prepared the
bouquets for a florist, and I bought them; she had no idea who bought
them." That was all he said.
Daniel looked back into his past life, as if an invisible arm were
drawing him to the pinnacle of some high mountain. He looked, and his
soul was dissolved in anxiety, torture, and repentance.
What had he left? Two graves: that was all. No, he had, aside from the
two graves, a broken harp, some withered flowers, and a mask of
terracotta.
He looked at the dead stems and withered chalices: Eleanore's fingers
had once touched all of these. Her fingers were even then hovering over
the dead buds like figures from the realm of spirits. In the dusty
spider webs hung caught at present unused moments, kind words that were
never spoken, consolation that was never expressed, encouragement,
consideration, and happiness that were allowed to pass unclaimed and
unapplied. Oh, this living and not knowing what the present contains!
Oh, this being with a living life, and remaining unaware of it! This
failure to avail one's self of a wonderful day, a breathing, pulsing
hour! This dragging, falling, plunging into the night of desire and
delusion, this proud, vain, criminal discontent! O winged creature,
winged creature, where art thou! Where can one call out to thee!
There was nothing left but two graves, a broken harp, withered flowers,
and a mask! And a fair child here, a foul one there, and a third that
had come into life only to die! And up above all this, up above even the
tip of the mountain top, the gigantic, the inexpressible, the sea of
dreams and dreamed melodies, the breath of God, the annunciation of
infernal darkness, the message of eternity, the wonders of temporal
existence, dance and dancing pipes, peals of thunder, and sweet weavings
of sound--Music!
It was evening. The Baron closed the door. Daniel reached him his hand
in silence, and then went home.
THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY
I
During the following autumn and winter, Daniel lived a quiet, lonely
life. In the spring, Sylvia von Auffenberg wrote him a letter, asking
him to come over to Siegmundshof and spend a few weeks with her and
Eberhard. He declined, though he promised to come later.
Old Herold visited him occasionally. He told all about the friction in
the conservatory since Doederlein had been in charge, and contended that
the world was on the point of turning into a pig-stye.
Herr Seelenfromm also came in from time to time, while among other
visitors were the architect who had a defect in his speech and Martha
Ruebsam. Toward the close of the winter Herr Carovius also called.
Socially he had become more nearly possible than he had been in former
years. He still held, however, some very remarkable views about music.
Whatever any of the visitors said went in one of Daniel's ears and out
of the other. It would often happen that there would be a number of
people in his presence, and he would seem to be listening to them; and
yet if you watched his face, you could see that he was completely
absent-minded. If some one turned to him with a question, he would not
infrequently smile like a child, and make no effort whatsoever to
respond. No one had ever noticed him smile this way before.
He returned the money Philippina had loaned him at the time the piano
was pawned. Philippina said: "Oi, oi, Daniel, you seem to be swimming in
money!" She brought him the receipt, and then took the money to her
room, where she did a lot of figuring to see whether the interest had
been accurately calculated.
Little Agnes was sitting on the floor, sucking a stick of candy. She was
always happy when Philippina was around; she was afraid of her father.
Friends had told him that his apartment was too large now; he was
advised to give it up and take a smaller one. He became enraged; he
said he would never do this voluntarily, for the house meant a great
deal more to him than merely so many rented rooms; and he insisted that
everything be left just as it was.
One day at the beginning of spring he said to Philippina: "I am going
away for a long time. Watch the child, and don't let the old man
upstairs suffer for anything. I will send you the money to keep up the
house on the first day of each month, and you will be held responsible
for everything that takes place. Moreover; I want to pay you a set wage:
I will give you five talers a month. There is no reason why you should
work for me for nothing."
The shaking and shuddering that Daniel had often had occasion to notice
in Philippina returned. She shrugged her shoulders, looked as mean as
only she could, and said: "Save your coppers; you'll need 'em; you
mustn't try to act so rich all of a sudden; it ain't good for your
health. If you have any money to spend, go out and git Agnes a pair of
shoes and a decent dress." Daniel made no reply.
Her greediness in money matters had certainly not diminished since the
day she began to pilfer from her parents. She loved money; she adored
the shining metal; she liked to see it and feel it; she liked to take
bank notes in her hands and caress them. It gave her intense pleasure to
think that people looked upon her as being poor when she was actually
carrying more than a thousand marks around in an old stocking stuffed
down in her corset between her breasts. She loved to hear people
complain of hard times. When a beggar reached out his hand to her on the
street, she felt that he was doing it as an act of homage to her; she
would cause her bosom to heave so that she might feel the presence of
the stocking more keenly. She was pleased to think that one so young had
made herself so secure against future eventualities of any kind.
She felt, despite all this, like scratching Daniel's eyes out when he
spoke of paying her regular monthly wages. This she regarded as base
ingratitude. If it were at all possible for grief to find ineradicable
lodgment in her envious, unenlightened, malicious soul, Daniel's offer
of so much per month made it so.
She ran into the kitchen, and hurled knives and forks in the sink. She
went to old Jordan's room, knocked on his door, and made him open it;
then she told him with all the anger at her resourceful command that
Daniel was going away. "There is hardly a cent in the house, and he's
going on a jamboree!" she exclaimed. "There is some damned wench back
of this. Go tell him, Herr Inspector, go tell him what a dirty thing it
is he's doing--going away and leaving his child and his old father in
the lurch. Do it, Herr Inspector, and you'll get potato dumplings,
ginger-bread, and sauce for dinner next Sunday."
Jordan looked at Philippina timidly. His mouth watered for the food she
had promised him; for she was holding him down to a near-starvation
diet. He was often so hungry that he would sneak into the delicatessen
shop, and buy himself ten pfennigs' worth of real food.
"I will make inquiry as to the reason for his going," murmured Jordan,
"but I hardly believe that I will be able to move him one way or the
other."
"Well, you go out and take a little walk; git a bit of fresh air,"
commanded Philippina; "I've got to straighten up your room. Your windows
need washing; you can't see through 'em for dirt."
Late that evening Daniel came up to say good-bye to Jordan.
"Where are you going?" asked the old man.
"I want to see a little of the German Empire," replied Daniel. "I have
some business to attend to up in the North, in the cities and also out
in the country."
"Good luck to you," said Jordan, much oppressed, "good luck to you, my
dear son. How long are you going to be gone?"
"Oh, I don't know yet; possibly for years."
"For years?" asked Jordan. He looked at the floor; he tried to keep his
eyes on the floor under his feet: "Then I suppose we might as well say
good-bye forever."
Daniel shook his head. "It makes no difference when I return, I will
find you here," he said with a note of strange assurance in his voice.
"When fate has treated a man too harshly, there seems to come a time
when it no longer bothers him; it evades him, in fact. It seems to me
that this is the case with you: you are quite fateless."
Jordan made no reply. He opened his eyes as if in fear, and sighed.
The next morning Daniel left home. He wore a brown hunting jacket
buttoned close up to his neck with hartshorn buttons. Over this hung a
top-coat and a cape. His broad-brimmed hat overshadowed his face, which
looked young, although so serious and distracted that voices, glances,
and sounds of any kind seemed to rebound from it like swift-running
water from a smooth stone wall.
Philippina carried his luggage to the station. Her dress was literally
smothered in garish, gaudy ribbons. The women in the market-place
laughed on seeing her until they got a colic.