I
During the following autumn and winter, Daniel lived a quiet, lonely
life. In the spring, Sylvia von Auffenberg wrote him a letter, asking
him to come over to Siegmundshof and spend a few weeks with her and
Eberhard. He declined, though he promised to come later.
Old Herold visited him occasionally. He told all about the friction in
the conservatory since Doederlein had been in charge, and contended that
the world was on the point of turning into a pig-stye.
Herr Seelenfromm also came in from time to time, while among other
visitors were the architect who had a defect in his speech and Martha
Ruebsam. Toward the close of the winter Herr Carovius also called.
Socially he had become more nearly possible than he had been in former
years. He still held, however, some very remarkable views about music.
Whatever any of the visitors said went in one of Daniel's ears and out
of the other. It would often happen that there would be a number of
people in his presence, and he would seem to be listening to them; and
yet if you watched his face, you could see that he was completely
absent-minded. If some one turned to him with a question, he would not
infrequently smile like a child, and make no effort whatsoever to
respond. No one had ever noticed him smile this way before.
He returned the money Philippina had loaned him at the time the piano
was pawned. Philippina said: "Oi, oi, Daniel, you seem to be swimming in
money!" She brought him the receipt, and then took the money to her
room, where she did a lot of figuring to see whether the interest had
been accurately calculated.
Little Agnes was sitting on the floor, sucking a stick of candy. She was
always happy when Philippina was around; she was afraid of her father.
Friends had told him that his apartment was too large now; he was
advised to give it up and take a smaller one. He became enraged; he
said he would never do this voluntarily, for the house meant a great
deal more to him than merely so many rented rooms; and he insisted that
everything be left just as it was.
One day at the beginning of spring he said to Philippina: "I am going
away for a long time. Watch the child, and don't let the old man
upstairs suffer for anything. I will send you the money to keep up the
house on the first day of each month, and you will be held responsible
for everything that takes place. Moreover; I want to pay you a set wage:
I will give you five talers a month. There is no reason why you should
work for me for nothing."
The shaking and shuddering that Daniel had often had occasion to notice
in Philippina returned. She shrugged her shoulders, looked as mean as
only she could, and said: "Save your coppers; you'll need 'em; you
mustn't try to act so rich all of a sudden; it ain't good for your
health. If you have any money to spend, go out and git Agnes a pair of
shoes and a decent dress." Daniel made no reply.
Her greediness in money matters had certainly not diminished since the
day she began to pilfer from her parents. She loved money; she adored
the shining metal; she liked to see it and feel it; she liked to take
bank notes in her hands and caress them. It gave her intense pleasure to
think that people looked upon her as being poor when she was actually
carrying more than a thousand marks around in an old stocking stuffed
down in her corset between her breasts. She loved to hear people
complain of hard times. When a beggar reached out his hand to her on the
street, she felt that he was doing it as an act of homage to her; she
would cause her bosom to heave so that she might feel the presence of
the stocking more keenly. She was pleased to think that one so young had
made herself so secure against future eventualities of any kind.
She felt, despite all this, like scratching Daniel's eyes out when he
spoke of paying her regular monthly wages. This she regarded as base
ingratitude. If it were at all possible for grief to find ineradicable
lodgment in her envious, unenlightened, malicious soul, Daniel's offer
of so much per month made it so.
She ran into the kitchen, and hurled knives and forks in the sink. She
went to old Jordan's room, knocked on his door, and made him open it;
then she told him with all the anger at her resourceful command that
Daniel was going away. "There is hardly a cent in the house, and he's
going on a jamboree!" she exclaimed. "There is some damned wench back
of this. Go tell him, Herr Inspector, go tell him what a dirty thing it
is he's doing--going away and leaving his child and his old father in
the lurch. Do it, Herr Inspector, and you'll get potato dumplings,
ginger-bread, and sauce for dinner next Sunday."
Jordan looked at Philippina timidly. His mouth watered for the food she
had promised him; for she was holding him down to a near-starvation
diet. He was often so hungry that he would sneak into the delicatessen
shop, and buy himself ten pfennigs' worth of real food.
"I will make inquiry as to the reason for his going," murmured Jordan,
"but I hardly believe that I will be able to move him one way or the
other."
"Well, you go out and take a little walk; git a bit of fresh air,"
commanded Philippina; "I've got to straighten up your room. Your windows
need washing; you can't see through 'em for dirt."
Late that evening Daniel came up to say good-bye to Jordan.
"Where are you going?" asked the old man.
"I want to see a little of the German Empire," replied Daniel. "I have
some business to attend to up in the North, in the cities and also out
in the country."
"Good luck to you," said Jordan, much oppressed, "good luck to you, my
dear son. How long are you going to be gone?"
"Oh, I don't know yet; possibly for years."
"For years?" asked Jordan. He looked at the floor; he tried to keep his
eyes on the floor under his feet: "Then I suppose we might as well say
good-bye forever."
Daniel shook his head. "It makes no difference when I return, I will
find you here," he said with a note of strange assurance in his voice.
"When fate has treated a man too harshly, there seems to come a time
when it no longer bothers him; it evades him, in fact. It seems to me
that this is the case with you: you are quite fateless."
Jordan made no reply. He opened his eyes as if in fear, and sighed.
The next morning Daniel left home. He wore a brown hunting jacket
buttoned close up to his neck with hartshorn buttons. Over this hung a
top-coat and a cape. His broad-brimmed hat overshadowed his face, which
looked young, although so serious and distracted that voices, glances,
and sounds of any kind seemed to rebound from it like swift-running
water from a smooth stone wall.
Philippina carried his luggage to the station. Her dress was literally
smothered in garish, gaudy ribbons. The women in the market-place
laughed on seeing her until they got a colic.
When Daniel took leave from her and boarded the train, she did not open
her mouth; she wrinkled her forehead, rubbed the ends of her fingers
against each other, stood perfectly quiet, and looked at the ground.
Long after the train had left the station, she was still to be seen
standing there in that unique position. A station official went up to
her, and, with poorly concealed ridicule at the rare phenomenon, asked
her what she was waiting for.
She turned her back on him, and started off. She came back by way of St.
James's Place, and talked for a quarter of an hour with her friend Frau
Hadebusch. It was Sunday. Benjamin Dorn was just coming home from
church. Seeing Philippina, he made a profound bow.
Frau Hadebusch slapped Philippina on the hip, and smiled at her
knowingly.
Herr Francke was no longer living at Frau Hadebusch's: he was in jail.
He had promised to marry the cook of a certain distinguished family; but
instead of hastening the coming of the happy day, he had gambled away
the savings of his bride-to-be.