Daniel had a letter of introduction to the Prior of the Monastery at
Loehriedt. He was looking for a manuscript that was supposed to have been
written by a contemporary of Orlando di Lasso, if not by Di Lasso
himself.
He remained for over two months, working at his collection. He found his
association with the monks quite agreeable, and they liked him. One of
them, who held him in especially high regard because of his ability as
an organist, gave him to understand that it was a matter of unaffected
regret to him that he could not greet him, Protestant that he was, with
the confidence that a man of his singular distinction deserved.
"So! I wish I were a Jew," said Daniel to him, "then you would have a
really unqualified opportunity to see what God can do without your
assistance."
The monk in question was called Father Leonhard; he was a short, wiry
fellow with black eyes and a dark complexion. He seemed to have had a
great deal of experience with the world, and to have no little cause for
contrition and repentance: there was nothing conventional about his
religious practices; they were, on the contrary, of almost redundant
fervour and renunciation. Daniel was impressed by the man's faith,
though his soul shuddered when in his presence: he regarded him as an
enemy, a Philistine, and preferred not to look at him at all.
He lived close by the monastery in the house of a railroad official.
Father Leonhard came in to visit him once. Daniel was sitting by the
window busily engaged in making some corrections. The Father looked
about the room: his eyes fell on a round, wooden box lying on a chair;
it looked like a cake box.
"The people at home have sent you something to nibble at," remarked the
Father, as Daniel got up.
Daniel riveted his eyes on the monk, took the box, hesitated for a
while, and then opened it. In it, carefully packed in sawdust, was the
mask of Zingarella. It was a part of Daniel's meagre luggage; wherever
he went it followed him.
Father Leonhard sprang back terrified. "What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means sin and purification," said Daniel, holding the mask up in the
light of the setting sun. "It means grief and redemption, despair and
mercy, love and death, chaos and form."
From that day on, Father Leonhard never said another word to Daniel
Nothafft. And whenever the strange musician chanced to play the organ,
the monk arose as quickly as possible, left the church, and sought out
some place where the tones could not reach him.