That evening Daniel visited Benda in his home. Benda showed him some
armour and implements he had brought back with him from Africa. In
explaining some of the more unusual objects, he described at length the
customs of the African blacks.
Then he was seized with a headache, sat down in his easy chair, and was
silent for a long while. He suddenly looked like an old man. The ravages
his health had suffered while in the tropics became visible.
"Did you ever see Dorothea's mother?" he asked, by way of breaking the
long silence.
Daniel shook his head: "It is said that she is vegetating, a mere shadow
of her former self, in some kind of an institution in Erlangen," he
replied.
"I have been told that neither Andreas Doederlein nor his daughter has
ever, in all these years, taken the slightest interest in the
unfortunate woman," continued Benda. "Well, as to Andreas Doederlein, I
have always known what to expect of him."
Daniel looked up. "You hinted once that Doederlein was guilty of
reprehensible conduct with regard to his wife. Do you recall? Is that in
any way connected with Dorothea and her life? Do you care to discuss the
matter?"
"I have no objection whatever to throwing such light on the incident as
I have," replied Benda. "It does have to do with Dorothea, and it
explains, perhaps, some things about her. That is, it is possible that
her character is in part due to the kind of father she grew up under and
the kind of mother she lost when a mere child. It is strange the way
these things work out: I am myself, in a way, interwoven with your own
fate."
He was silent for a while; memories were rushing to his mind. Then he
began: "If you had ever known Marguerite Doederlein, she would have been
just as unforgettable to you as she is to me. She and Eleanore--those
were the two really musical women I have known in my life. They were
both all nature, all soul. Marguerite's youth was a prison; her brother
Carovius was the jailer. When she married Doederlein, she somehow fancied
she would escape from that prison, but she merely exchanged one for the
other. And yet she hardly knew how it all came about. She accepted
everything just as it came to her with unwavering fidelity and
gentleness. Her soul remained unlacerated, unembittered."
He rested his head on his hand; his voice became gentler. "We loved one
another before we had ever spoken a word to each other. We met each
other a few times on the street, once in a while in the park; and a
number of times she stole up to me in the theatre. I was not reserved: I
offered her my life, but she always insisted that she could not live
without her child and be happy. I respected her feelings and restrained
my own. For a while things went on in this way. We tortured ourselves,
practised resignation, but were drawn together again, and then Doederlein
suddenly began to be suspicious. Whether his suspicion was due to
whisperings or to what he himself had at some time seen his wife do--it
was impossible for her to play the hypocrite--I really do not know. At
any rate he began to abuse her in the most perfidious manner. He tried
to disturb her conscience. One night he went to her bed with a crucifix
in his hand, and made her swear, swear on the life of her child, that
she would never deceive him. He used all manner of threats and unctuous
fustian. She took the oath."
"Yes, my friend, she took the oath. And this oath seemed to her much
more solemn and serious than the oath she had taken at the altar the day
they were married. I knew nothing about it; she kept out of my sight. I
could not endure it. One day she came to me again to say good-bye. There
followed a moment when human strength was no longer of avail, and human
deliberation the emptiest of words. The fatal situation developed. The
delicately moulded woman succumbed to a sense of guilt; her heart grew
irresponsive to feelings, her mind dark. She was stricken with the
delusion that her child was slowly dying in her arms, and one day she
collapsed completely. The rest is known."
Benda got up, went over to the window, and looked out into the darkness.
Daniel felt as if a rope were being tightened about his neck. He too got
up, murmured a farewell, and left.