In August, 1909, Daniel's pupils celebrated the fiftieth birthday of
their master. They made him a great number of presents, and gave him a
dinner in the inn at the Sign of the Ox.
One of his pupils, an extremely handsome young fellow for whose future
Daniel had the highest of hopes, presented him with a huge bouquet of
orange lilies, wild natives of the woods around Eschenbach. He had
gathered them himself, and arranged them in a costly vase.
The menu at the dinner was quite frugal; the wine was Franconian country
wine. During the dinner, Daniel rose, took his glass in his hand, and,
with a far-away look in his eyes, said: "I drink to the health and
happiness of a creature who is a stranger to all of you. She grew up
here in Eschenbach. Many years ago she vanished in a most mysterious
way. But I know that she is alive and happy at this hour."
His pupils all raised their glasses. They looked at him, and were deeply
moved by the strength and clarity of his features.
After the dinner he and his pupils went to the old church. He had both
of the large doors opened so that the bright light of day might pour in
unimpeded. Up in the lofty vaults of the nave, where all had been dark
but a moment ago, there was now a milky clearness and cheerfulness.
He went to the organ and began to play. Some men and women who chanced
to be passing by came in and sat down on the benches with the boys. Then
a group of children entered. They tripped timidly through the open
doors, stopped, looked around, and opened their eyes as wide as children
can. Other people came in; for the tones of the organ had penetrated the
humble homes. They looked up at the organ silently and seriously; for
its exalted melodies had, without their being prepared for it, carried
them away from their everyday existence, and lifted them up above its
abject lowliness.
The tones grew louder and louder, until they sounded like the prayer of
a heart overflowing with feeling. As the close of the great hymn drew
on, a little girl was heard weeping from among the uninvited auditors.
It was Agnes who wept. Had life been fully awakened in her? Was love
calling her out into the unknown? Was the life of her mother being
repeated in her?
Children grow up and are seized by their fate.
Toward evening, Daniel took a walk with his nine pupils out over the
meadow. They went quite far. The last song of the birds had died out,
the glow of the sun had turned pale.
The beautiful youth, then walking by Daniel's side, said: "And the work,
Master?"
Daniel merely smiled; his eye roamed over the landscape.
The landscape shows many shades of green. Around the weirs the grass is
higher, so high at times that one can see nothing of the geese but their
beaks. Were it not for their cackling, one might take these beaks for
strangely mobile flowers.