IX

Late in the afternoon of a stormy day in June Daniel came home from the

last rehearsal of the "Harzreise," tired and out of humour. The

rehearsals had been held in a small room in Weyrauth's Garden. He had

quarrelled with all the musicians and with all the singers, male and

female.

As he reached AEgydius Place a shudder suddenly ran through his body. He

was forced to cover his eyes with his hands and stand still for a

moment; he thought he would die from longing for a precious virginal

possession which he had been so foolish as to trifle away.

He went up the steps, passed by his own apartment, and climbed on up to

the apartment of Inspector Jordan and his daughter Eleanore.

His eye fell on the board partition surrounding the stove and the copper

cooking utensils that hung on the wall. There sat Eleanore, her arm

resting on the window sill, her head on her hand: she was

meditating--meditating and gaining new strength as she did so. Her face

was turned toward the steep fall of a roof, the century-old frame-work,

grey walls, darkened window panes and dilapidated wooden galleries,

above which lay stillness and a rectangular patch of sky that was then

covered with clouds.

"Good evening," said Daniel, as he stepped out of the darkness into the

dimly lighted room. "What are you doing, Eleanore, what are you thinking

about?"

Eleanore shuddered: "Ah, is it you, Daniel? You show yourself after a

long while? And ask what I am thinking about? What curiosity! Do you

want to come into my room?"

"No, no, sit perfectly still," he replied, and prevented her from

getting up by touching her on the shoulder. "Is your father at home?"

She nodded. He drew a narrow bench from which he had removed the coffee

mill and a strainer up to the serving table, and sat down as far as

possible from Eleanore, though even so they were as close together as

if they were sitting opposite each other in a cab.

"How are you making out?" she asked with embarrassment, and without the

remotest display of warmth.

"You know that I am beating a perforated drum, Eleanore." After a pause

he added: "But whatever people may do or fail to do, between us two

there must be a clear understanding: Are you going to Paris?"

She dropped her head in silence. "Well, I could go; there is nothing to

prevent me," she said, softly and with hesitation. "But you see how it

is. I am no longer as I used to be. Formerly I could scarcely picture

the happiness I would derive from having some one there in whom I could

confide and who would be interested in me. I would not have hesitated

for a moment. But now? If I go, what becomes clear from my going? And if

I stay here, what will be clear? I have already told you, Daniel, that I

don't understand you. How terrible it is to have to say that! What do

you want now? How is all this going to come out?"

"Eleanore, do you recall Benda's last letter? You yourself brought it to

me, and after that I was a different person. He wrote to me in that

letter just as if he had never heard of Gertrude, and said that I should

not pass you by. He wrote that we two were destined for each other, and

neither for any one else in the world. Of course you recall how I acted

after reading the letter. And even before that: Do you remember the day

of the wedding when you put the myrtle wreath on? Why, I knew then that

I had lost everything, that my real treasure had vanished. And even

before that: Do you recall that I found that Fraeulein Sylvia von Erfft

had your complexion, your figure, your hair, and your hands? And even

before that: When you went walking with Benda in the woods, I walked

along behind, and took so much pleasure in watching you walk, but I

didn't know it. And when you came into the room there in the Long Row,

and caressed the mask and sat down at the piano and leaned your head

against the wood, don't you recall how indispensable you were to me, to

my soul? The only trouble is, I didn't know it; I didn't know it."

"Well, there is nothing to be done about all that: that is a by-gone

story," said Eleanore, holding her breath, while a blush of emotion

flitted across her face only to give way to a terrible paleness.

"Do you believe that I am a person to be content with what is past?

Every one, Eleanore, owes himself his share of happiness, and he can get

it if he simply makes up his mind to it. It is not until he has

neglected it, abandoned it, and passed it by, that his fate makes a

slave out of him."

"That is just what I do not understand," said Eleanore, and looked into

his face with a more cheerful sense of freedom. "It wounds my heart to

see you waging a losing battle against self-deception and ugly defiance.

We two cannot think of committing a base deed, Daniel. It is impossible,

isn't it?"

Daniel, plainly excited, bent over nearer to her: "Do you know where I

am standing?" he asked, while the blue veins in his temples swelled and

hammered: "Well, I'll tell you. I am standing on a marble slab above an

abyss. To the right and left of this abyss are nothing but blood-thirsty

wolves. There is no choice left to me except either to leap down into

the abyss, or to allow myself to be torn to pieces by the wolves. When

such a being as you comes gliding along through the air, a winged

creature like you, that can rescue me and pull me up after it, is there

any ground for doubt as to what should be done?"

Eleanore folded her arms across her bosom, and half closed her eyes: "Ah

no, Daniel," she said in a kindly way, "you are exaggerating, really.

You see everything too white and too black: A winged creature, I? Where,

pray, are my wings? And wolves? All these silly little people--wolves?

Oh no, Daniel. And blood-thirsty? Listen, Daniel, that is going quite

too far; don't you think so yourself?"

"Don't crush my feelings, Eleanore!" cried Daniel, in a suppressed tone

and with passionate fierceness: "Don't crush my feelings, for they are

all I have left. You are not capable of thinking as you have just been

talking, you cannot think that low, you are not capable of such languid,

ordinary feelings. The over-tone! The over-tone! Think a little! Can't

you see them gritting their teeth at me? Can't you hear them howling day

and night? Can you possibly say that they are kind or compassionate? Or

are they willing to be good and great when one comes? Do you have

confidence in a single one of them? Have they not even dragged your good

name into the mire? Are any of the things that are sacred to you and to

me sacred to them? Can they be moved the one-thousandth part of an inch

by your distress or my distress or the distress of any human being? Is

not the slime of slander thick upon their tongues? Is not your smile a

thorn in their flesh? Do they not envy me the little I have and for

which I have flayed myself? Don't they envy me my music, which they do

not understand, and which they hate because they do not understand it?

Would it not fill them with joy if I had to make my living beating

stones on the public highway or cleaning out sewers? Do they find it

possible to pardon me for my life and the things that make up my life?

And yet you say there are no wolves? That they are not wolves? Tell me

that you are afraid of them, that you do not wish to turn them against

yourself; but don't tell me that you are committing an evil act when I

call you to me, you with your wings, and you come."

His arms were stretched out toward her on the top of the kitchen table;

they were trembling to the very tips of his fingers.

"The evil deed, Daniel," whispered Eleanore, "hasn't anything to do with

these people; it was committed against the higher law of morals, against

our feeling of right usage and established honour...."

"False," he hissed, "false! They have made you believe that. They have

preached that to you for centuries and centuries; your mother, your

grand-mother, your great-grand-mother, they have all been telling you

that. It is false; it is a lie; it is all a lie. It is with this very

lie that they support their power and protect their organisation. It is

truth on the contrary that fills my heart, fills it with joy, and helps

me along. What nature offers, obedience to nature, that is truth. Truth

lies in your thoughts, in your feelings, girl, in your choked feelings,

in your blood, in the 'yes' you speak in your dreams. Of course I know

that they need their lie, for they must be organised, the wolves; they

must go in packs, otherwise they are impotent. But I have only my truth,

only my truth as I stand on the marble slab above the abyss."

"Your truth, Daniel," said Eleanore, "_your_ truth. But your truth is

not my truth."

"No, Eleanore? No? Not yours? What then is the use of my talking with

you? And even if everything else were falsehood and error, I am as

convinced as I can be that my truth is also your truth."

"You can't stand out against the whole world," said Eleanore in anguish,

"you are after all in the world yourself."

"Yes, I will take my stand against the whole world," he said, "that is

precisely what I have made up my mind to do. I will pay them back in

their own coin. Just as they have all stood against me, just so will I

stand against them. I am no compromiser, no treaty-maker, no haggler, no

beggar. I live according to my own law. I _must_, where other people

merely _should_ or _may_, or _may not_. Whoever does not comprehend that

has nothing in common, one way or the other, with me."

She was terrified at the presumptuousness of his words; and yet there

was a feeling in her of joy and pride: she felt a desire to be for him,

to be with him. If he was fighting against the very power that would in

the end overcome him, he was doing it for her sake. She did not feel,

therefore, that she had the right to withdraw from him. The thing about

it all that gave her a wonderful feeling of relief, and at the same time

made her morally flabby and carried her away, was the passion of his

will and the undaunted assurance of his feelings.

But their eyes chanced to meet; and in the eyes of each there was the

name of Gertrude.

Gertrude stood between them in living form. Everything they had said had

proceeded from her and returned to her. That Daniel was not thinking of

annulling his marriage, that he could not think of it, Eleanore knew. A

child was expected; who could reject the mother under these

circumstances? How would it be possible, poor as they were, to expose

both mother and child to the inevitable misery that would follow

annulment of the marriage? Daniel could not do this, and Eleanore knew

it.

But she also knew, for she knew her sister, that separation from Daniel

would mean her death. She knew too that Daniel considered his marriage

to Gertrude as indissoluble, not only because of his knowledge of her

character, but because there was in his life with Gertrude something

that is quite independent of passions, views, and decisions, something

that binds even in hate and binds even more firmly in despair.

Eleanore knew all this. She knew that Daniel knew it. And if she drew

the only conclusion that could be drawn from his argument and his state

of mind, she knew what he demanded of her.

He was demanding that she give herself up to him. Of this there could be

not a shred of doubt.

But how? Secretly? Could that produce happiness? With the understanding

of Gertrude? Could Gertrude endure such a thought, even if she were as

magnanimous as a saint? Where was the way that could be followed? Where

was there an angle from which embarrassment, anxiety, and ruin were not

ready to leap forth without warning?

She bowed her head, and covered it with her hands. She sat in this

position for a long while. Darkness settled down over the roofs of the

houses.

Suddenly she got up, reached him her hand, smiled with tears in her

eyes, and said with a last attempt to escape the horrible consequences,

"Bruederlein[1]...." She spoke the word in a tone of longing fervour and

half-humorous appealing.

[Footnote 1: "Little brother."]

He shook his head sadly, but took her hand and held it tenderly between

his.

Her face became clouded; it was like a landscape at the coming of night.

Her eyes, turned to one side, saw the trees of a great garden, an ugly

old woman sitting by a hedge, and two little girls who looked into the

setting sun with fear in their hearts.

There was a noise; she and Daniel were startled. In the doorway stood

Philippina Schimmelweis. Her eyes glistened like the skin of a reptile

that has just crept up from out of the bog.

Daniel went down to his apartment.

X

For nine years the rococo hall in the Auffenberg home had been closed to

festive celebrations of every kind. It took a long, tedious exchange of

letters between the secretary of the Baron living in Rome and the

secretary of the Baroness to get the permission of the former to use the

hall.

The indignation at Nothafft's work was general. The members of the

social set could hardly contain themselves, while the amateurs and

specially invited guests were likewise but little edified. The chief

diversion of the evening, in fact, was to see the composer himself

conduct. At the sight of the jumping and sprawling fellow, Herr Zoellner,

councillor of the consistory, almost burst with laughter.

Old Count Schlemm-Nottheim, who not only had a liking for pornographic

literature but was also known to drink a quarter of a litre of Dr.

Rosa's balsam of life every afternoon, declared that the ensemble

playing of all the instruments represented by the show-booths at the

annual fair was an actual musical revelation in comparison with this

Dutch concert of rogues' marches. Judge Braun of the Supreme Court gave

it as his candid opinion that there was evidently a conspiracy against

good taste.

Remarks of this kind were, of course, made behind screens and in the

corners. In order not to offend the Baroness, there was a goodly measure

of seemingly cordial applause. The guests and artists then assembled

around a huge table arranged in the shape of a horseshoe.

Count Schlemm-Nottheim was the table companion of the Baroness; he had

her tell him who the various personages from the world of art were. He

asked who was the woman of such interesting melancholy sitting next to

Major Bellmann. He was told that that was the wife of the composer. His

wife? She is not at all bad; life with her would be rather worth while.

And who was the woman between old Herold and the Frenchman? A charming

little creature: she had eyes like the Lake of Liguria and hands like a

princess. That was the sister of the composer's wife. Sister? You don't

tell me! A jolly fine family; worth the support of any man.

Toasts were drunk. Herr Ehrenreich, the wholesale merchant, drank to the

health of the creator of the "Harzreise"; the Count to the ladies

present.

Herr Carovius created a sensation. He sat with the members of the

"Liedertafel"; they had sung in the chorus; and they were ashamed of

him, for he conducted himself in a most unseemly fashion.

He had somehow managed to get hold of a glove Eleanore had lost, and

possibly it was this that made him so convivial. He picked up an almond

shell from the serving tray, and threw it at Fraeulein Varini. He let his

leery, lascivious eyes roam about over the cut glass and the decorations

of the hall, and never once grew tired of praising the wealth and

splendour of the house. He acted as though he were quite at home. He

raised his wine glass, and declared that he was charmed by the flavour

and colour of the costly, precious juice from the grape: he tried to

give the impression that he knew the Auffenberg wine cellar from years

of intimate association with it.

Then it happened that through a hasty, awkward movement, he upset his

plate; a rivulet of rich brown gravy ran down over his white vest. He

became silent; he retired within himself. He dipped his napkin in the

water, and rubbed and rubbed. The waiters tittered. He buttoned up his

coat, and looked like a show window in the dead of night.

The eyes of the waiters were also given the privilege of feasting on

another rare social phenomenon. They noticed that Kapellmeister Nothafft

was sitting at the table in his stocking feet. His patent leather shoes

had hurt him so much that he made short work of it and took them off

during the dinner. There they stood without master or servant, one at

the right, the other at the left of his disencumbered feet. Whenever the

waiters passed by, they would cast one furtive but profitable glance

under the table, and bite their lips to keep from bursting out in

laughter.

This rude offence to social dignity was not unknown to the other dinner

guests. They whispered, smiled, shrugged their shoulders, and shook

their heads. Daniel made no effort to conceal his bootlessness when the

guests rose to leave the table; without giving the astonishment of his

companions a single thought, he once more drew the patent leather

torturers on to his extremities. But he had made a mistake: he had

gambled and lost.

The news of the extraordinary event was fully exploited on the following

day. It was carried from house to house, accumulated momentous charm in

its course, passed from the regions of the high to those of the less

high and quite low, and provoked storms of laughter everywhere. No one

had anything to say about the symphony; everybody was fully informed

concerning the patent leather episode.