Friedrich Benda became more and more dejected. He saw that as a private
individual he would have to waste energy that should be going into his
profession. It seemed to him that he was condemned to bury his talent in
eternal obscurity.
He broke off from the most of his acquaintances; with others he quit
corresponding. If friends spoke to him on the street, he turned his
head. His sense of honour had been wounded; he was on the point of
losing his self-respect.
Daniel was the only one who failed to notice the change that was coming
over him. Probably he had accustomed himself to the belief that Benda's
life was orderly and agreeable. The plebeian prosperity of the family in
which he himself lived probably made him feel that that was the way his
friend was living. At all events he never asked any questions, and was
never once struck by the fact that Benda would sit before him for hours
with his face wrapped in bitter, melancholy gloom.
Benda smiled at Daniel's naivete; for he felt that his attitude was due
to naivete and nothing more. He harboured no resentment. He decided not
to say a word about his condition to Daniel, then all taken up with
himself and his music. It was, however, at times impossible for him to
prevent his smarting and his desire to put an end to his ineffectual
existence from breaking through the coating of reserve in which he had
encased himself.
Late in the afternoon of a dismal day, Benda called for Daniel just as
he was finishing one of his piano lessons. The two friends decided to
take a walk and then dine together at Benda's.
In the hallway they met the Ruediger sisters as they were returning from
their daily stroll through the garden. Benda greeted them with an
antiquated politeness; Daniel just barely touched the rim of his hat.
The sisters lined up as if ready for a cotillion, and returned the
greetings with infinite grace. Fraeulein Jasmina let a rose fall, and
when Benda picked it up for her, she pressed her hand against her
scarcely noticeable breast and gave voice to her gratitude, again with
infinite grace.
When they reached the street, Benda said in a tone of compassion: "They
are three delicate creatures; they live their lonely lives like vestal
virgins guarding a sacred fire."
Daniel smiled. "Yes, a sacred fire? Do you refer to the incident with
the painter?"
"Yes, I do; and he was no ordinary painter, either, let me tell you. I
heard the whole story the other day. The painter was Anselm Feuerbach."
Daniel knew nothing whatever about Anselm Feuerbach. He was impressed,
however, by the name, which, by virtue of a mysterious magic, struck his
ear like the chime of a noble bell. "Tell me about him," he said.
The story was as follows: Four years before his death, that is, six
years ago, Anselm Feuerbach came to Nuremberg for the last time to visit
his mother. He was already sick in body and soul, and was much
disappointed in his alleged friends. The incessant torture resulting
from lack of appreciation had told on his health. A few of the more
enlightened citizens, however, recalled his fame, as it floated about in
the heavy air of Germany, somewhat befogged and quite expatriated, and
the Chamber of Commerce placed an order with Feuerbach for a painting to
be hung in the Palace of Justice. Feuerbach accepted the order, choosing
as his theme Emperor Ludwig in the act of conferring on the citizens of
Nuremberg the right to free trade. When the picture was completed, there
was a great deal of dissatisfaction with it. The merchants had expected
something totally different: they had looked for a cheap but striking
canvas after the style of Kreling, and not this dignified, classical
work by Feuerbach.
Nor was this all. The hanging space was so small that several inches of
the canvas had to be run into the wall, and the light was wretched. The
Chamber of Commerce proceeded at once to make trouble with regard to the
paying of Feuerbach's bill. An ugly quarrel arose in which Ruediger, the
geometrician, who had always been an ardent champion of Feuerbach, took
the artist's part. It finally reached the point where Ruediger left the
city, swearing he would never return. His daughters had all three loved
Feuerbach from the time he lived in their father's house.
"As a matter of fact, if there ever was an amiable artist," Benda said
in conclusion, "it was Anselm Feuerbach. Would you like to see him?
Come, then."
They were near the Cemetery of St. John. The gate was open, and Daniel
followed Benda. They walked along a narrow path, until Benda pointed to
a flat stone bearing the name of Albrecht Duerer. After this they came to
Feuerbach's grave. A bronze tablet, already quite darkened with age and
weather, bore Feuerbach's face in profile. Beneath it lay a laurel
wreath, the withered leaves of which were fluttering in the wind.
"What a life he lived!" said Benda in a low tone. "And what a death he
died! The death of a hunted dog!"
As they walked back to the city, night came on. Daniel had removed his
hat, and was walking along at Benda's side looking straight ahead. Benda
was as nervous as he had ever been in his life.
"A German life, and a German death," he exclaimed. "He stretched out his
hand to give, and the people spat in it. He gives and gives and gives,
and they take and take and take, without gratitude, yea, rather with,
scorn. The only thing they study is their consanguinity table. They make
the microscope and the catechism copulate; their philosophy and their
police systems live in _mesalliance_. Good demeanour they know not; of
human agreements they have never heard. They decide to do something, and
they do it. That is all. There is no longer a place for me in Germany. I
am leaving."
"You are going to leave? Where are you going?" asked Daniel, in faithful
amazement. Benda bit his lips, and was silent.
"Do you see these big white spots here? They have neither mountains nor
rivers on them. Those are places that have never been trod upon by
European feet. There is where I am going." He smiled a gentle smile.
"Really? When?" asked Daniel, filled with dismay at the thought of
losing his friend.
"I have not decided when, but it will be soon. I have work to do over
there. I need air, room, sky, the free animal and the free plant."
Benda's mother came in. She was rather tall, walked with the
difficulties of age, had sharp features and deep-set eyes.
She looked first at her son and then at Daniel. Then her eyes fell on
the atlas and remained fixed upon it, filled with an expression of
horror and anxiety.
Daniel did not know what to say. Benda, still smiling to himself, began
to talk about other things.