As Daniel was going home one afternoon from a piano lesson, he met
Eleanore Jordan. He told her about his new room and the three bizarre
creatures in the house in the Long Row.
Eleanore had heard all about them. She said they were the daughters of
the geometrician Ruediger, and that he had left the town some time ago
because of a quarrel with the citizens, or rather with one of the gilds.
The origin of the trouble was the picture of a certain painter. More she
did not know, other than that Ruediger had gone to Switzerland and lost
his life by falling down one of the mountains. The sisters, she said,
were the laughing stock of the town. They never left the house except on
certain days, when they went out to the nearby cemetery at the Church of
St. John to place flowers on the grave of that painter.
Daniel hardly listened to what she said. They were standing at the St.
Sebaldus Church, and the chimes began to play. "Magnificent," he
murmured, "an ascending triad in A."
Eleanore asked him how he was getting along, and looked with regret at
his sunken cheeks. Her virile expression was rather displeasing to him.
He was surprised to see how rarely she lowered her eye lids. He said he
was getting along quite well. She smiled.
"It's terrible that a man has to have a monster in his body that must be
fed," he remarked. "Otherwise one could storm the heavens and steal the
songs of the angels. But this was not to be. You have first to flutter
your wings until they are wounded and break your chains, and by that
time such ethereal power as you may have had is dissipated."
He wrinkled his face until he again looked like the wily ape. "But I am
going to see it through," he said. "I want to find out whether God drew
me from the urn as a blank or a prize." He could be very eloquent when
he talked about himself.
Eleanore smiled. It seemed to her that it was merely necessary to bring
a little order into his life. She consequently assumed the
responsibility of looking after his room.
In Tetzel Street they met the inspector. As Jordan walked along at the
side of his beloved daughter, it seemed to him that the grey walls and
weather-beaten stones of the houses were no longer so earthy or weighed
down with time. Eleanore looked toward the West into the purple glow of
the setting sun. She was not quite herself. There came moments when she
suffered from homesickness for a fairer land.
She thought of Italy. She conjured up lovely visions of sunny bays,
blooming groves, and white statues.
Daniel however went on toward the Fuell. The workmen were coming from the
suburbs, and in their tired faces he felt that he recognised his own
world. "Oh," he sighed, "I should like to get nearer the stars, to make
the acquaintance of more dependable hearts, of hearts that are truer
even than my own."
Just then he looked up at Benda's window, and saw his light. He was
ashamed of himself.
V
The first time Eleanore visited Daniel it was along toward evening. She
heard from a distance the piano and the shrill crowing of Daniel's
voice. Down in the hall she saw three white figures cuddled up close to
each other like hens on a roost.
It was the Ruediger sisters trying to drink in the creative efforts of
the artist. That they were eavesdropping at the fount of art they
understood both in the good and the bad sense: their enthusiasm was
praiseworthy, their courtesy was deficient. When they caught sight of
Eleanore on the stairway, they were terrified, and rustled into the
adjoining room.
The three elderly hearts beat impetuously. It was Jasmina's turn to read
from Rueckert's poems. Jasmina had not the shadow of a desire to perform;
her sisters were equally disinclined to listen.
"It is not right," the three kept saying, when they heard of Eleanore's
visits. "It is not right." Even Meta the maid was of the opinion that
her calls were highly unconventional.
As Daniel played on and merely nodded to her, Eleanore's eyes fell on
the mask of Zingarella. She stepped up, took it down from the nail on
the wall, and examined it in perfect silence.
Daniel had in the meantime left the piano. A loud cry from him startled
her: "What the devil are you doing?" he exclaimed in a tone of
immoderate anger. He took the mask, which she was handling so lightly
and tremulously, out of her hands, and replaced it on the nail with
affectionate care.
The sensitive girl at once began to cry. She turned to one side in order
to conceal her tears. Daniel was irritated, but the first thought that
occurred to him was how he could make amends for his rudeness. He
fetched a worn book, and offered to lend it to her. It was a translation
of that beautiful old novel, "Manon Lescaut."
Eleanore came frequently after office hours, but never remained long;
she did not wish to make the people at home uneasy. During the short
time she stayed she always found a number of things to do, such as
straightening up the papers on his table or arranging his scores.
She became acquainted with Benda; he took a liking to her. It did him
good merely to be in her presence, and he could not understand why she
did not have the same wholesome effect on Daniel. Daniel seemed
thoroughly unappreciative of the girl. He was like a man who goes along
the street carrying a basket full of eggs: his sole ambition for the
time being is to see that not a single egg is lost or broken.
The two would frequently accompany the girl home. Daniel always talked
about himself, and Benda listened with a smile. Or Benda talked about
Daniel, and Daniel was all ears.
What did people say? That Eleanore was now trotting around with three
men, whereas she formerly had only one on her string, the Baron, and
that you are going to hear from this affair.
Every now and then a snip of ugly gossip reached Eleanore's ears. She
paid not the slightest attention to it. She looked out from her glass
case on to the world with cool and cheerful indifference, quite
incapable of placing the established interpretation on the glances of
calumniators.