The Goose Man
grief of the world urging and pulsing in him, and this he was
translating into the symphony. The eternal wanderer had arrived at the
gates of Heaven and was not admitted. Supernal harmonies had borne him
aloft. Muffled drum beats symbolised his beseeching raps on closed
doors. Within resounded the terrible "no" of the trumpets. The pleading
of the violins was in vain; in vain the intercession of the one angel
standing at the right, leaning on a harp without strings; in vain the
melodious chants of the other angel at the left, crowned with flowers
and all together lovely; in vain the elfin chorus of the upper voices,
in vain the foaming lament of the voices below. No path here for him,
and no space!
One evening Daniel noticed a strange girl at his window. She was
beautiful. Struck by her charms, he got up to go to her. She had
vanished. It was an hallucination. He became afraid of himself, left
the house, and wandered through the streets as in days of long ago.
XI
It was Carnival Week, and the people had resumed their wonted gaiety.
Masked boys and girls paraded the streets, making merry wherever they
went.
As Daniel was passing through The Fuell he was startled: the windows in
the Benda house were lighted. He suddenly recalled that Herr Seelenfromm
had told him that Frau Benda had returned from Worms some time ago, and
was living with her niece; she had become totally blind.
He went up the steps and rang the bell. A grey-haired,
distressed-looking woman came to the door. He thought she must be the
niece. He told her his name; she said she had heard of him.
"You probably know that Friedrich has disappeared," she said in a
sleepy, sing-song voice. "It is eight years since we have heard from
him. The last letter was from the interior of Africa. We have given up
all hope. Not even the newspapers say anything more about him."
"I have read nothing about it," murmured Daniel. "But Friedrich cannot
be dead," he continued, shaking his head, "I will never believe it,
never." Partly in distraction and partly in anxiety, he riveted his eyes
on the woman, who stared at his glasses as if held by a charm.
"We have done everything that was humanly possible," she said. "We have
written to the consulates, we have inquired of the military outposts and
missionary stations, and all to no purpose." After a pause she said with
a little more vivacity: "You do not wish me to ask you in, I hope. It is
so painful to my aunt to hear a strange voice, and I cannot think of
letting you talk to her. If I did, it would merely open her old wounds,
and she has a hard enough time of it as it is."
Daniel nodded and went on his way. A coarse laugh could be heard down in
the entrance hall; it was painfully out of harmony with the depressed
atmosphere of the Benda apartment. He felt his heart grow faint; he felt
a burning desire for something, though he was unable to say precisely
what, something sweet and radiant.
On the last landing he stopped, and looked with utter amazement into
the hall below.
Herr Carovius was dancing like a Merry-Andrew around the door of his
residence. He had a crown of silver paper on his head, and was trying to
ward off the importunate advances of a young girl. His smiles were
tender but senile. The girl wore a carnival costume. Her dark blue
velvet dress, covered with threads of silver, made her robust figure
look slenderer than it actually was. A black veil-like cloth hung from
her shoulders to the ground, and then draped along behind her for about
three paces. It was sprinkled with glittering tinsel. In her hand she
held a hideous wax mask of the face of an old sot with a red nose. She
was trying to fit the mask to Herr Carovius's face.
She was working hard to make him yield; she said she was not going to
leave until she had put the mask on his face. Herr Carovius shook the
door, which in the meantime had closed, fumbled about in his pockets for
the key, but the girl gave him no peace.
"Come now, Teddy," she kept crying, "come, Uncle, don't be such an old
bore." She kept getting closer and closer to him.
"You wait, I'll show you how to make a fool of respectable people,"
croaked Herr Carovius in well-meaning anger. He resembled an old dog,
hopping about and getting ready to make the plunge when his master
throws his walking stick into the water. In his zeal, however, to
prevent the girl from offending his dignity, he had forgotten the paper
crown on his head. It wabbled and shook so when he hopped around, that
the girl nearly split her sides laughing.
A maid came in just then with an apronful of snow. The girl with the
sweeping train ran up to her, got some of the snow, and threatened to
pelt Herr Carovius with it. He begged for mercy; and rather than undergo
a bombardment with this cold stuff, he ceased offering resistance,
whereupon the girl walked up to him and placed the mask on his face.
Then, exhausted from laughter, she laid her head on his shoulder. The
maid--it was Doederlein's maid--was delighted at the comedy, and made a
noise that resembled the cackling of a hen.
The scene was dimly lighted by a lamp attached to the adjacent wall, and
had on this account, quite apart from the sight of Herr Carovius with
the paper crown and the toper's mask, something fantastic about it.
Daniel did not know that the girl was Dorothea Doederlein, though he
half suspected as much. But whoever she was, he was impressed by her
jollity, her actual lust for laughter, her complete lack of restraint.
He had never known that sort of mirthful hilarity; and if he had known
it, he could not recall it. Her youthful features, her bright eyes, her
white teeth, her agile gestures filled him with deferential respect; his
eyes swam with emotion. He felt so old, so foreign; he felt that where
he was the sun was not shining, the flowers were not budding. He felt
that life had appeared to him all of a sudden and quite unexpectedly in
a new, kindly, bewitching light.
He came slowly down the steps.
"Is it possible!" cried Herr Carovius, tearing the mask from his face.
"Can I trust my own eyes? It is our _maestro_! Or is it his ghost?"
"It is both he and his ghost," replied Daniel drily.
"This is no place for ghosts," cried Dorothea, and threw a snow ball,
hitting him square on the shoulder.
Daniel looked at her; she blushed, and looked at Herr Carovius
questioningly. "Don't you know our Daniel Nothafft, you little
ignoramus?" said Herr Carovius. "You know nothing of our coryphaeus? Hail
to the Master! Welcome home! He is here, covered with fame!"
At any other time Herr Carovius's biliary sarcasm would have aroused
Daniel's whole stock-in-trade of aversion and indignation. To-day he was
unimpressed by it. "How young she is," he thought, as he feasted his
eyes on the embarrassed, laughing Dorothea, "how gloriously young!"
Dorothea was angry because she did not have on the red dress she had had
made in Munich.
"Dorothea!" called a strong voice from the first floor.
"Oh, there's father!" whispered Dorothea. She was frightened. She ran up
the steps on her tiptoes, dragging her long veil after her. The maid
followed her.
"A devil, a regular little devil, _Maestro_," said Herr Carovius turning
to Daniel. "You must come in some time and hear how she can draw the
bow. She's a regular little devil, I say."
Daniel bade Herr Carovius adieu, and went walking down the street with
bowed head.
XII
In the province, Dorothea Doederlein, fresh from the Bavarian capital,
was a phenomenon that attracted general attention. Her conduct seemed,
to be sure, a bit liberal, but then she was an artist, and her name
appeared in the newspapers every now and then, so it was only natural to
make allowances for her. When she gave her first concert, Adler Hall was
almost completely sold out.
The musical critic of the _Herold_ was captivated by her capricious
playing. He called her an extraordinary talent, and predicted a
brilliant future for her. Andreas Doederlein accepted the congratulations
in the spirit of a seasoned patron of the arts; Herr Carovius was in the
seventh heaven of joy. He who had formerly been so captious never
uttered a critical word. He had taken to worshipping the Dorothea cult,
and this had made him quite indiscriminating.
At first Dorothea never suffered from want of invitations to all manner
of clubs, dances, and family gatherings. She was much adored by the
young men, so much so that other daughters of the city of matrimonial
age could not sleep from envy. In a short while, however, the youth of
more sterling character, warned while there was yet time by their
mothers, sisters, cousins, and aunts, withdrew in fear.
Dorothea reaped the disapproval of her acquaintances by walking with her
admirers in public, unchaperoned. Moreover she could frequently be seen
in the company of officers in the Eisenbeiss pastry shop, drinking
chocolate and having a good time generally. Once she had been seen in
the society of a big blonde Swede from Schuckert's factory coming out of
the Music Hall. The rumour was spread that she had lived an irregular
life in Munich, had gadded about the streets at night, contracted a
number of bad debts, and flirted with all kinds of men.
Yet there were a few serious wooers who, duped by Andreas Doederlein's
diplomacy, fell into the habit of coming around on Sunday evenings and
taking dinner with father and daughter. Dorothea, however, always
managed to play off one against the other; and as they were all serious
and provincial, they did not know precisely what to make of it. In order
to instil patience into them, Doederlein took to delivering them lectures
on the intricate complications of the artistic temperament, or he made
mysterious allusions to the handsome legacy to which Dorothea would one
day fall heir.
It was this very fact, however, that made him exercise caution with
regard to Dorothea. Knowing her spirit of defiance, and appreciating her
youthful lack of judgment, he was afraid she might make some _faux pas_
that would offend that old fool of a Carovius. He was already giving her
a little spending money, and the Doederleins found this a highly
advantageous arrangement.
The state of Doederlein's own finances was hopeless. It was with the
greatest difficulty that he kept up the appearance of a well-to-do man.
The chief cause of his pecuniary embarrassment was his relation of
long standing with a woman by whom he had had three children. To support
this second family, of whose existence not a soul in his immediate
surroundings knew a thing, burdened him with a care that made it hard
for him to preserve his cheerful, Jove-like disposition.
He had been leading a double life for fourteen years. His regular visits
to the woman he loved--she lived very quietly out in the remote suburbs
of the city--had to be made without attracting attention. To conceal his
connection with her from the vigilant eyes of his fellow citizens made
constant dissimulation, discretion, and shrewdness a necessary part of
his character. But to practise these traits year in and year out and
suffer at the same time from economic pressure filled him with
suppressed anger and fear.
He was afraid of Dorothea. There were moments when he would have liked
to maul her; and yet he saw himself obliged to hold her in check with
kind words. He could not see through her. But she was always around,
always adding to his troubles with her plans, wishes, engagements and
intrigues. He thought he had her under control, only to discover that
she was a tyrant, lording it over him. Now she would burst out crying
because of some bagatelle, now she was laughing as though nothing had