One afternoon Dorothea, with an open letter in her hand, came rushing
into Daniel's room, where he was working.
"Listen, Daniel, Frau Feistelmann invites me over to a party at her
house to-morrow. May I go?"
"You are disturbing me, my dear. Can't you see you are upsetting me?"
asked Daniel reproachfully.
"Oh, I see," breathed Dorothea, and looked helplessly at the stack of
scores that lay on the top of the table. "I am to take my violin along
and play a piece or two for the people."
Daniel gazed into space without being able to comprehend her remarks. He
was composing.
Dorothea lost her patience. She stepped up to the place on the wall
where the mask of Zingarella had been hanging since his return home.
"Daniel, I have been wanting for some time to ask you what that thing
is. Why do you keep it there? What's it for? It annoys me with its
everlasting grin."
Daniel woke up. "That is what you call a grin?" he asked, shaking his
head; "Is it possible? That smile from the world beyond appeals to you
as a grin?"
"Yes," replied Dorothea defiantly, "the thing is grinning. And I don't
like it; I can't stand that silly face; I don't like it simply because
you do like it so much. In fact, you seem to like it better than you do
me."
"No childishness, Dorothea!" said Daniel quietly. "You must get your
mind on higher things; and you must respect my spirits."
Dorothea became silent. She did not understand him. She looked at him
with a touch of distrust. She thought the mask was a picture of one of
his old sweethearts. She made a mouth.
"You said something about playing at the party, Dorothea," continued
Daniel. "Do you realise that I never heard you play? I will frankly
confess to you that heretofore I have been afraid to hear you. I could
tolerate only the excellent; or the promise of excellence. You may show
both; and yet, what is the cause of my fear? You have not practised in a
long while; not once since we have been living together. And yet you
wish to play in public? That is strange, Dorothea. Be so good as to get
your violin and play a piece for me, won't you?"
Dorothea went into the next room, got her violin case, came out, took
the violin, and began to rub the bow with rosin. As she was tuning the
A string, she lifted her eyebrows and said: "Do you really want me to
play?"
She bit her lips and played an _etude_ by Fiorillo. Having finished it
but not having drawn a word of comment from Daniel, she again took up
the violin and played a rather lamentable selection by Wieniawski.
Daniel maintained his silence for a long while. "Pretty good, Dorothea,"
he said at last. "You have, other things being equal, a very pleasant
pastime there."
"What do you mean?" asked Dorothea with noticeable rapidity, a heavy
blush colouring her cheeks.
"Is it anything more than that, Dorothea?"
"What do you mean?" she repeated, embarrassed and indignant. "I should
think that my violin is more than a pastime."
Daniel got up, walked over to her, took the bow gently from her hands,
seized it by both ends, and broke it in two.
Dorothea screamed, and looked at him in hopeless consternation.
With great earnestness Daniel replied: "If the music I hear is not of
unique superiority, it sounds in my ears like something that has been
hashed over a thousand times. My wife must consider herself quite above
a reasonably melodious dilettantism."
Tears rushed to Dorothea's eyes. Again she was unable to grasp the
meaning of it all. She even imagined that Daniel was making a conscious
effort to be cruel to her.
For her violin playing had been a means of pleasing--pleasing herself,
the world. It had been a means of rising in the world, of compelling
admiration in others and blinding others. This was the only
consideration that made her submit to the stern discipline her father
imposed upon her. She possessed ambition, but she sold herself to praise
without regard for the praiser. And whatever an agreement of unknown
origin demanded in the way of feeling, she fancied she could satisfy it
by keeping her mind on her own wishes, pleasures, and delights while
playing.
Daniel put his arms around her and kissed her. She broke away from him
in petulance, and went over to the window. "You might have told me that
I do not play well enough for you," she exclaimed angrily and sobbed;
"there was no need for you to break my bow. I never play. It never
occurred to me to bother you by playing." She wept like a spoiled child.
It cost Daniel a good deal of persuasion to pacify her. Finally he saw
that there was no use to talk to her; he sighed and said nothing more.
After a while he took her pocket handkerchief, and dried the tears from
her eyes, laughing as he did so. "What was really in my mind was that
party at Frau Feistelmann's. I did not want you to go. For I do not put
much faith in that kind of entertainment. They do not enrich you, though
they do incite all kinds of desires. But because I have treated you
harshly, you may go. Possibly it will make you forget your troubles, you
little fool."
"Oh, I thank you for your offer; but I don't want to go," replied
Dorothea snappishly, and left the room.