One day Frau Kirschner wrote to Daniel telling him that she did not wish
to have anything more to do with him; she demanded in the same letter
that he pay back the money she had advanced him. He could not raise it:
the City Theatre had already made him a loan, he had no friends, and M.
Riviere, the only person on earth who might have been able to come to
his rescue, had gone back to France.
Matters took their usual course: A lawyer notified Daniel, giving him so
many days grace; when these had elapsed and no payment had been made, a
summons was served on him; the sheriff came in, and in default of any
other object of value he pawned the piano.
Daniel's objections were quite ineffectual: a few days more and the
piano would be put up at auction.
One gloomy morning in January Philippina entered his room.
"Say, Daniel," she began, "would you like to have some money from me?"
Daniel turned his head slowly and looked at her in amazement.
"I have lots of it," she continued with her hoarse voice, her glassy
eyes glittering underneath her bangs. "I have been saving it a pfennig
at a time ever since I was a child. I can give you the money you owe
the Councillor's wife. Sling it at her, the old hag! Say to me: 'Please
Philippina, give me the money,' and you'll find it on the table."
"Are you crazy?" asked Daniel, "get out of here just as quickly as your
feet can carry you!" He felt distinctly creepy in her presence.
Philippina, beside herself with rage, seized his hand. Before he could
do a thing she bit him just below the little finger. The wound was quite
deep. He groaned, shook her off, and pushed her back. She looked at him
triumphantly, but her face had turned yellow.
"Listen, Daniel," she said in a begging, beseeching tone, "don't be so
ugly! Don't be so mean toward me! Don't be so jealous!"
The wench's infamous smile, her hair hanging down over her eyes, her big
red hands, the snow-flakes on her short cloak, the border on her fiery
red dress below her cloak, and the poison green ribbon on her hat--this
ensemble of ugliness filled Daniel with the loathing he might have
experienced had he stood face to face with the most detestable picture
he had ever seen from the world of human beings. But as he turned his
head, a feeling of sympathy came over him; he suspected that the girl
was bound to him by bonds that did not reach him until after they had
taken their course through the dark channels of some subterranean
labyrinth. What she had done filled him with dismay; but as a revelation
of character it surprised him and set him to thinking.
He went over to the washing table to put his bleeding hand in the water.
Philippina took a fresh handkerchief from the cabinet, and handed it to
him as a bandage. He looked at her with piercing eyes, and said: "What
kind of a person are you? What sort of a devil is in you, anyway? Be
careful, Jason Philip's daughter, be careful!"
Since there was a tone of kindness in these words, the muscles of
Philippina's face moved in a mysterious way. Her features were distorted
as if by a grin, and yet she was not grinning. She drew a leather purse
from her cloak pocket, opened it, and took out two one-hundred-mark
notes and a gold coin. They had been wrapped in paper. She unfolded the
paper and the notes, laid them, together with the coin, on the table,
and handed Daniel a written statement.
He read it: "I, the undersigned, Daniel Nothafft, promise to pay to
Philippina Schimmelweis two hundred and twenty marks at five per cent
interest, for value received."
"With that you c'n pay the sheriff and git yourself out of this mess,"
said Philippina, in a most urgent tone. "You can't give piano lessons on
a rolling pin, and that music box of yours is after all the tool you
make your living by. Sign that, and you will be in peace."
"Where did you get the money?" asked Daniel. "How did you ever come by
so much money? Tell me the truth." All of a sudden he remembered
Theresa's words: "All that nice money, all that nice money!"
Philippina began to chew her finger nails. "That's none of your
business," she said gruffly, "it ain't been stolen. Moreover, I c'n tell
you," she said, as she felt that his distrust was taking on a
threatening aspect, "mother give it to me on the sly. She didn't want me
to be without a penny if anything happened. For my father--he would like
to see me strung up. She give it to me, I say, on the side, and she made
me swear before the cross that I would never let any one know about it."
This tale of horror made Daniel shake his head; he had his doubts. He
felt she was lying, and yet there was a mysterious force back of her
statement and in her eyes. He was undecided; he thought it over. His
livelihood was at stake. Weeks, months might pass by before he could get
another piano. Philippina's readiness to help him was a riddle to him,
everything she said was repulsive and banal; but after all she was
willing to help in a most substantial way, and he was in such
difficulties that voices of admonition simply had to be drowned out.
"It is nothing but money," he thought contemptuously, and sat down to
put his name to the note.
Philippina drew up her shoulders, and never once breathed until he had
signed the note and handed it over to her in silence. Then she looked at
him imploringly, and said: "Now Daniel, you must never again treat me
like you would a scurvy cat."