On New Year's Eve, Doermaul, the impresario, gave a dinner in the Little
Swan, to which he invited Daniel. Doermaul was quite well disposed toward
Daniel. He said he had recognised the young man's talents at the sight
of his very first note. He promised to publish "Vineta" and also the
work Daniel had finished in the meantime, entitled "Nuremberg Serenade."
He also seemed inclined to consider favourably Daniel's appointment in
his newly founded opera company.
Among those present at the dinner were Professors Herold and
Wackerbarth, Wurzelmann, a few of the long-haired and a few of the
lost-in-dreams. Andreas Doederlein had promised to come in later. He
appeared, as a matter of fact, five minutes before midnight, and stood
in the wide-opened door as ceremonious as the New Year itself.
He went up to Daniel, and extended him his right hand.
"Look who's here! Our Benjamin and our John, not to mention our Daniel,"
he said, glancing at the last of the trio. "Congratulations, my young
star! What do the annals from Andreas Doederlein's nose for news have to
report? Back in Bayreuth, when we used to draw our wine by the flask, he
merely had to sniffle around a bit to know just how things were. Isn't
that true, Benjamin?"
Nobody denied it. Benjamin let right yield to mercy. The mighty man
removed his storm-cape from his shoulders as though it were ermine he
were doffing before condescending to associate with ordinary mortals.
Professor Wackerbarth had a wife who beat him and gave him nothing to
eat: he regarded this as a rare opportunity to eat his fill and have a
good time generally. But it was a poor sort of a good time.
One of the long-haired sang the champagne song, and Wurzelmann made a
witty speech. Doederlein suggested that now was the time to let the mice
dance and the fleas hop. When one of the lost-in-dreams sang David's
March, which according to the rules of Bayreuth could not be classed as
real music, Doederlein exclaimed: "Give me Lethe, my fair one." By
"Lethe" he meant punch.
Daniel drank Lethe too. He embraced old Herold, shook hands with Andreas
Doederlein, and tried to waltz with Wurzelmann. He was not drunk; he was
merely happy.
Then it became too close for him in the room. He took his hat, put on
his overcoat, and hurried out.
The air was warm, mild. A south wind was blowing. Heaven above, heaven
below, the houses were standing on clouds. One breath made him thirsty
for the next one. There was a bay-window; it was so beautiful that he
felt like kneeling before it. There was a fountain; it was so snug and
exotic that it seemed like a poem. There were the arches of the bridge;
in them was the dim reflection of the water. There were two towers; they
were as delicate as a spider's web.
He rejoiced and exclaimed: "Oh world, art thou real? Art thou my world,
and am I living in thee? My world, my year, my time, and I in it all, I
myself!"