VII

At that time the superstition still prevailed that the window in the

room of a woman in confinement must never be opened. The air in the room

was consequently heavy and ill-smelling. Eleanore could hardly stand it

during the day; during the night she could not sleep. Moreover natural

daylight could not enter the room, and, as if it were not already gloomy

enough, the window had been hung with green curtains which were kept

half drawn.

The most unpleasant feature of all, however, was the interminable round

of visits from the women: custom had decreed that they should not be

turned away. The wife of the director of the theatre came in; Martha

Ruebsam came in, and so did the wife of Councillor Kirschner, and the

wives of the butcher, baker, preacher, and physician. And of course the

wife of the apothecary called. No one of them failed to pour out an

abundance of gratuitous advice or go into ecstasies over the beauty of

the baby. Once Daniel came in just as such an assemblage was in the sick

room. He looked first at one, then at another, threw back his head, and

left without saying a word.

Herr Seelenfromm and M. Riviere were likewise not frightened by the

distance; they called. Eleanore met them in the hall, and got rid of

them by the usual method. And one day even Herr Carovius came around to

inquire how mother and child were doing. Philippina received him; and

Philippina was having a hard time of it at present: she was not allowed

to enter Gertrude's room; Gertrude would have nothing to do with her;

she refused to see her.

So that she might not get too far behind with her work--for it meant

her daily bread--Eleanore pushed the table up to the window, and despite

the poor light, kept on writing. In the evening she would sit by the

lamp and write, although she was so tired that she could hardly keep her

eyes open.

After three days, Gertrude had no milk for the baby; it had to be fed

with a bottle. It would cry for hours without stopping. And as soon as

it was quiet, its clothes had to be washed or its bath prepared, or

Gertrude wanted something, or one of the pestiferous visitors came in.

Eleanore had to lay her work aside; in the evening she would fall across

the bed and sleep with painful soundness for an hour or two. If the baby

did not wake her by its hungry howling, the bad air did. Her head ached.

Yet she concealed her weakness, her longing, her oppression. Not even

Daniel noticed that there was anything wrong with her.

She had very little opportunity to talk with him. And yet there was

probably not another pair of eyes in the whole world that could be so

eloquent and communicative with admonition, promise, request, and

cordial resignation. One evening they met each other at the kitchen

door: "Eleanore, I am stifling," he whispered to her.

She laid her hands on his shoulder, and looked at him in silence.

"Come with me," he urged with a stupid air. "Come with me! Let's run

off."

Eleanore smiled and thought to herself: "The demands of his soul are

always a few leagues in advance of the humanly possible."

The next morning he stormed into the room. Eleanore was only half

dressed. With an expression of wrath flitting across her face she

reached for a towel and draped it about her shoulders. He sat down on

Gertrude's bed, and let loose a torrent of words: "I am going to set

Goethe's 'Wanderers Sturmlied' to music! I am planning to make it a

companion piece to the 'Harzreise' and publish the two in a cycle. I

have not slept the whole night. The main motif is glorious." He began to

hum it over in a falsetto voice: "'Oh, mortal man, if genius does not

forsake thee, neither rain nor storm can breathe upon thy heart!' How do

you like that?"

Gertrude looked at him inspired.

"I should have a good drink on that idea," he continued; "I have rarely

felt such a longing for a flask of old wine. It's a bloody shame that I

can't afford it. But you wait till I get a little money, and you will

see a _bouteille_ of Tokay on my table every day."

"My God, just listen how he raves! He's going to have the best there

is," said Philippina angrily, as she entered the room in her stocking

feet and heard Daniel's remarks.

Daniel told her to keep her mouth shut and leave the room at once. He

paid no attention to her reply, and cried out: "Something has got to

happen. If I can't drink, I at least want to dance. Dance with me,

Eleanore; don't be afraid, come, dance with me!" He threw his arms

around her, pressed her to his bosom, sang a waltz melody, and drew the

struggling and embarrassed girl across the floor.

Philippina broke out in her slimy, malicious laughter, and then shrieked

at the top of her voice that Frau Kirschner was outside and wanted to

see the Kapellmeister's wife. Gertrude made an imploring gesture, the

full meaning of which Daniel easily grasped. The baby began to cry,

Eleanore tore herself away from Daniel's embrace, arranged her hair, and

hastened over to the cradle. Philippina opened the door to let the

Councillor's wife in. Just then a violent discussion was started in the

hall. One could hear the voice of Jordan and that of some strange man.

It was the furniture dealer who had come to collect the money for the

cradle. He was boiling with the rage that cares not how it may be

expressed: he said he had already been there four times, and each time

he was put off. The truth is, Daniel was very hard up.

The Councillor's wife took Daniel to one side, and made him an offer of

a loan of two hundred marks. Daniel was silent; he bit his lips, and

looked down at the floor. She scolded him: "You are always your own

worst enemy. Now be reasonable, Nothafft, I will send the money over at

noon. If you have any left, you may pay it back."

Daniel went out, and gave the blustering furniture dealer his last

ten-mark piece.

Frau Kirschner had brought a flask of Tokay wine with her for Gertrude.

Tokay was regarded at that time as a sort of elixir of life.

"You see, so quickly are wishes fulfilled," said Gertrude to Daniel in

the evening, when he came into her room. She poured out a glass for him.

"Have you any bills to settle?" he asked, looking partly at Eleanore,

partly at Gertrude, and striking his wallet, then bulging with notes.

"It's Court Councillor's money," he said, "real Court Councillor's

money. How beautiful it looks, lousy fine, eh? And upon that stuff the

salvation of my soul depends!" He threw the money on Gertrude's bed,

stuck out his tongue, and turned away in disgust.

Eleanore handed him the glass of Tokay; her eyes glistened with tears.

"No, Eleanore," he said, "I have trifled it away. In my arrogance I

imagined I could do something; I thought I could get somewhere. I sit

down, brood over my ideas, and find that they are all wind-eggs. I have

the feeling that I have taken a false oath. What good am I, Eleanore,

what good am I, Gertrude?"

"Ah, take a drink, and perhaps your troubles will leave you," said

Eleanore, and stroked his brow with her hand.

Gertrude called out to her: "Quit that! Put that glass away!" She spoke

so harshly that Eleanore sprang back, and Daniel got up.

"Leave me alone for a while," she said. Daniel and Eleanore left the

room.

Eleanore went into the living room, sat down at the table, and laid her

head in her hands. "What can we do now?" she said to Daniel. The violin

tone in her voice had something unusually touching about it.

Daniel set the candle he was carrying in the bay window. He bent down

over the table, and took Eleanore by her small wrists. "Accept the

bitter for the sake of the sweet," he murmured. "Believe in me, believe

in yourself, believe in the higher law. It is not possible that I merely

imagined that there is a winged creature for me. I must have something

to cling to, something indestructible, ah, even superhuman."

"You must have something superhuman to cling to," Eleanore repeated

after him. She could not help but think that he had already made

superhuman demands of the other woman, his wife, her sister, Gertrude.

She raised her finger as if to warn him: it was a gesture of infinite

timidity.

But Daniel scarcely saw what she had done. In his arrogant presumption

and passion he could have smashed the universe to pieces, and then

re-created it merely in order to mould this one creature after his own

desires. He would have made her of boundless pliability, and yet active

in her love for him; he would have had her spurn venerable commandments

in a spirit of self-glorification, and yet cherish unequivocal

confidence in him, the creature of need and defiance; and she would be

cheerful withal.

"I am cold," whispered Eleanore, peering into the dark shadows of the

room.