In years gone by, Benda had known the theatrical manager and impresario
Doermaul. He went to Doermaul now, and took Daniel's new work along with
him; for the versatile parvenu, who always had a number of irons in the
fire, also published music.
A few weeks elapsed before Benda heard from Doermaul: "Incomprehensible
stuff! Crazy attempt to be original! You couldn't coax a dog away from
the stove with it." Such was Doermaul's opinion.
A young man with fiery red hair followed Benda to the door and spoke to
him. He said his name was Wurzelmann and that he was a musician himself;
that he had attended the Vienna Conservatory, where his teacher had
given him a letter of recommendation to Alexander Doermaul. He also told
Benda that Doermaul was planning to form an opera company that would
visit the smaller cities of the provinces, and that he was to be the
Kapellmeister.
He spoke in the detestable idiom of the Oriental Jew. Benda was politely
cold.
The main point was still to come: "Vineta" had aroused Wurzelmann's
profound admiration; he had read the score on the side: "A great talent,
Doctor, a talent such as we have not had for a long, long while," said
Wurzelmann.
"Yes, but what am I to say about Herr Doermaul's opinion?" asked Benda.
He found it difficult to trust the man before him, and was using the
judgment of the man behind him as a foil.
"Don't you know Doermaul? I thought you did. Whenever he has no authority
to fear he becomes very bold. Lay the Ninth Symphony before him without
Beethoven's name to it, and he will tell you at once that it is rubbish.
Do you want to bet?"
"Honestly?" asked Benda, somewhat concerned.
"Give me the score, and I'll promise you to arouse the least sensitive
from their lethargy with it. With a work of that kind you have got to
blow the trumpet."
Benda thought it over. He had no use for trumpet-blowing, and no
confidence in those who did the blowing. And yet he consented, for he
did not feel justified in arbitrarily depriving Daniel of a chance.
It turned out that Wurzelmann had told the truth. A fortnight later
Daniel was informed that the Orchestral Union had decided to perform his
work in February. In order to provide its hearers with a more elaborate
picture of his creative ability, the Union asked him for a second work.
His compositions were perfect; others needed revision.
Wurzelmann boasted of having won his way to the seats of the mighty. He
had the cordial approval of such professors of music as Wackerbarth and
Herold. His masterpiece of diplomacy lay in the fact that he had secured
Andreas Doederlein as director of the orchestra.
His store of suggestions was inexhaustible, his plans without number. He
mentioned the fact that when the company was on the road they would have
to have a second Kapellmeister, since he himself would have to function
at times as substitute director: "Leave it all to me, dear Nothafft," he
said, "Alexander Doermaul has got to dance to my tune, and my tune is
this: It is Nothafft or nobody for Kapellmeister."
If he began with humility, he concluded with familiarity. Daniel hated
red-headed people, particularly when they had inflamed eyes and
slobbered when they spoke.
"He is an unappetising fellow, your Wurzelmann," he said to Benda, "and
it is embarrassing to me to be indebted to him. He imagines he flatters
me when he speaks contemptibly of himself. What he deserves is a kick or
two."
Benda was silent. Touched by Wurzelmann's devoted efforts, he had called
him _servule_, or the "little slave." It was pleasant to think that
there was some one to remove the stumbling blocks from the road, so that
the feet of him who had risen from obscurity might find a place to walk.
But the little slave was filled with the admiration of the Jew, born in
poverty and oppression, for the genius of the other race.
Benda knew this. He was uneasy at the thought of it; for other and no
less disingenuous fanatics regarded Wurzelmann's behaviour merely as a
racial peculiarity.
X
Summer with its hot August days had come. The two friends took frequent
walks out to the suburbs, strolling through the forests of Feucht and
Fischbach, or climbing the high hills about the city.
Eleanore joined them on one of these excursions. It was a joy to see her
drink in the fragrance of the flowers and the fir trees or study the
various cloud formations and the alternating scenes of the landscape.
When she did this she was like a bird gliding along on noiseless wing in
the upper regions, far removed from the grime of the earth, bathing in
the undefiled air of the clouds.
She listened to the conversation of the friends with intelligent
attention. A piercing glance or a wrinkle of the brow showed that she
was taking sides, and accepting or rejecting in her own mind the views
that were being set forth. If she was moved to express an opinion of her
own, she generally hit the nail on the head.
As they were returning home, night set in. The sky was clear; the stars
were shining. There were a great number of falling stars. Eleanore
remarked that she really did not have as many wishes as she could
express under these circumstances. The erudite Benda replied with a
smile that in these August nights there were frequently so many groups
of asteroids that the whole firmament seemed to be in motion, and that
one could easily grow tired of so many wishes.
Eleanore wanted to know what an asteroid was. Benda explained it to her
as well as he could. Then he told her all about constellations and the
milky way, and explained to her that the latter consists of millions of
individual stars. He also spoke of the size of the stars; and since he
referred to them occasionally as suns and worlds, she became somewhat
sceptical, and asked him whether there were any earths among the stars.
"Earths? What do you mean by earths?" he asked. "Why, earths, just like
the one we live on," she replied. Having been told that there were
earths among the stars, Eleanore raised a number of rather cleverly
framed questions about the trees and animals and people that might be
found on these other earths. She was told that it was highly probable
that they were all inhabited about as our own: "Why should this globe
enjoy special privileges?" he asked. He added, however, that even if the
inhabitants of the other earths did not have the same mental faculties
that we have, they were at least beings endowed with reason and
instinct.
"Do you mean to tell me that such people as you and Daniel and I may be
living up there in those starry regions?"
"Certainly."
"And that there are countless peoples and humanities up among the stars
of whom we know nothing at all?"
"Certainly."
Eleanore sat down on a milestone by the roadside, gazed out into space
with trembling lips, and broke out crying. Benda took her hand, and
caressed it.
"I am awfully sorry for all those peoples up there," Eleanore sobbed,
looked up, smiled, and let the tears take their course. Benda would have
liked to take Daniel by the arm, and shout into his ear: "Look at her
now!" Daniel was looking at her, but he did not see her.