The Goose Man Part 19

Daniel was standing at the door, talking to Benda and Wurzelmann. He was very much excited; his two companions were trying to appease his embitterment against Andreas Doderlein. "Ah, the man doesn't know a thing about his profession," he exclaimed, and scorned all attempts to effect a reconciliation between him and the leader of the orchestra.

"What is left of my compositions is debris only. He drags the time, never even tries to make a _legatura_, scorns a _piano_ every time he comes to one, pays no attention to _crescendos_, never r.e.t.a.r.ds-it is terrible! My works cannot be played in public like that!"

Gertrude and her father pa.s.sed by quickly and without greeting. Daniel was stupefied. The lifeless expression in Gertrude's face unnerved him.

He felt as if he had been struck by a hammer, as if his own fate were inseparably connected with that of the girl. Her step, her eyes, her mouth were, he felt, a part of his own being. And the fact that she pa.s.sed by without even speaking to him, cold, reserved, hostile, filled him with such intense anger that from then on he was not accountable for what he did.

The flood of melody in Beethoven's great work was on the point of pouring forth from the orchestra in all its exalted ruggedness. What happened? There came forth instead a confused, noisy clash and clatter.

Daniel was seized with violent restlessness. It was hard enough to see his own works bungled; to see this creation with its delicate soul and t.i.tanic power, a work which he knew as he knew few things on this earth, torn to tatters and bungled all around was more than he could stand. The trumpet solo did not sound as though it came from some distant land of fairy spirits: it was manifestly at the people's feet and it was flat.

He began to tremble. When the calm melancholy andante, completely robbed of all measure and proportion by the unskilled hand of the leader and made to dissipate in senseless sounds, reached his ear, he was beside himself. He rushed on to the platform, seized the arm of the conductor with his icy fingers, and shouted: "That is enough! That is no way to treat a divine creation!"

The people rose in their seats. The instruments suddenly became silent, with the exception of a cello which still whimpered from the corner.

Andreas Doderlein bounded back, looked at the mad man, his mouth as wide as he could open it, laid the baton on the desk, and stammered: "By Jupiter, this is unheard of!" The musicians left their places and grouped themselves around the strange man; the tumult in the public grew worse and worse. They asked questions, threatened, tried to set each other at ease, scolded and raged. In the meantime Daniel Nothafft, his head bowed, his back bent, stood there on the platform, glowing with anger and determined to have his revenge.

A few minutes later, Andreas Doderlein was sitting at the table in the musicians' waiting room. He looked like Emperor Barbarossa in Kyffhauser. He had well founded reason to express his contempt for the decadence and impiety of the youth of to-day. It was superfluous for him to remark that a man who would conduct himself as Daniel had done should be eliminated from the ranks of those who lay claim to the help and consideration of sane people. The dignified gentlemen of the Orchestral Union were of the same opinion; you could search the annals of history from the beginning of time, and you would never find a case like this.

Mild eyes flashed, grey beards wagged. The deliberation was brief, the sentence just. A committee waited on Daniel to inform him that his compositions had been struck from the programme. The news spread like wild-fire.

Who was happier than Jason Philip Schimmelweis?

He was like a man who gets up from the table with a full stomach, after having sat down at it fearing lest he starve to death. On his way home he whistled and laughed alternately and with well balanced proportion.

"There you see it again," he said to his daughter, as she walked along at his side, "you see it again: you cannot get blood from a turnip any more than you can get happiness from misery. A jacka.s.s remains a jacka.s.s, a culprit a culprit, and loafing never fails to bring the loafer to a disgraceful end. The Devil has a short but nimble tail; and it makes no difference how slovenly he may conduct his business, his recruits have got to pay the piper in the end. This will be a windfall for mother. Let's hurry so that we can serve it to her while it's still hot!"

And Philippina-she had never taken her eyes off the floor the entire evening-seemed to be utterly unconscious of the fact at present that she was surrounded by houses and people. She was a defeated woman; she wanted to be. She had much to conceal; her young breast was a h.e.l.l of emotions, but her ugly, gloomy old face was as inanimate and empty as a stone.

Herr Carovius waited at the gate. After all the other people had gone, Daniel, Benda, Wurzelmann, and Eleanore came along. Daniel's storm cape fluttered in the wind; his hat was drawn down over his eyes. Herr Carovius stepped up before him.

"A heroic deed, my dear Nothafft," he miauled. "I could embrace you.

From this time on you can count me among your friends. Now stand still, you human being transformed into a hurricane. I must say of course that so far as your music is concerned, I am not with you. There is too much hullaballoo in it, and not enough plain h.e.l.lishness to suit me. But rid this country of the whole tribe of Doderleins, and you will find that I am your man. Not that I would invite you to take dinner with me, so that you could have me make you a loan, not on your life. I am only a poor musician myself. But otherwise I am at your service. I hope you sleep well to-night-and get the hullaballoo out of your music just as soon as you can."

He t.i.ttered, and then scampered away. Daniel looked at him with a feeling of astonishment. Wurzelmann laughed, and said he had never seen such a queer codger in all his life. All four stood there for a while, not knowing exactly what to think, and in the meantime it was snowing and raining. Asked by Benda where he wished to go, Daniel said he was going home. But what could he do at home? Why couldn't he go home with Benda? "No," said Daniel, "I can't do that: I am a burden to every one to-day, including myself. Say, little servant, how are you feeling?" he said, turning to Wurzelmann, "how about a drink or two?"

Wurzelmann, somewhat embarra.s.sed, said that he had an engagement. There was something repulsive in the way he declined the invitation.

"Ah, you, with your old engagement," said Daniel, "I don't give a hang where you are going; I am going along."

"No, you're not, Daniel," cried Eleanore. And when Daniel looked at her in astonishment, she blushed and continued: "You are not going with him; he is going to see some women!"

The three young men laughed, and in her confusion Eleanore laughed too.

"How tragic you are, little Eleanore," said Daniel in a tone of unusual flippancy, "what do you want me to do? Do you think that Wurzelmann and I are just alike when it comes to an evening's amus.e.m.e.nt? Do you think the earth claims me as soon as I see a tear?"

"Let him go," whispered Benda to the girl, "he is right. Don't bring an artificial light into this darkness; it serves his purpose; let him do with it as he pleases."

Eleanore looked at Benda with wide-opened eyes. "Darkness? What do you mean? The fire then was merely a will-o'-the-wisp," she said, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with pride, "I see him full of light." Daniel had heard what she said. "Really, Eleanore?" he asked with greedy curiosity.

She nodded: "Really, Daniel."

"For that you can have anything you want from me."

"Well then I beg you and Benda to come over to our house. Father will be delighted to see you, and we will have something to eat."

"Fine. That sounds good to me. Addio, Wurzelmann, and remember me to the girls. You are coming along, aren't you, Friedrich?"

Benda first made a few polite remarks, and then said he would accept.

"You liked it then, did you, Eleanore?" asked Daniel, as they walked along the street.

Eleanore was silent. To Daniel her silence was moving. But he soon forgot the impression it made on him; and it was a long, long while, indeed even years, before he recalled this scene.

XI

Jordan had taken Gertrude home. He was very careful not to ask her any questions that would cause her pain. On reaching the house he lighted a lamp and helped her take off her cloak.

"How do you feel?" he asked in a kindly tone, "are you better?"

Gertrude turned to one side, and sat down on a chair.

"Well, we'll drink a cup of hot tea," continued the old man; "then my child will go to bed, and to-morrow morning she will be all right again.

Yes?"

Gertrude got up. "Father," she sighed, and felt around for the tea table as a means of support.

"Gertrude, what is the matter?" cried Jordan in dismay.

She moved the upper part of her body in her characteristic way-as though it were limp and she were trying to drag it along with her-and a faint smile came over her face. All of a sudden she burst out crying and ran to her room. Jordan heard her bolt the door, looked anxiously before him, waited a moment or two, and then crept up to her door on his tiptoes.

He placed his hands under his chin and listened. Gertrude was crying. It was an even and touching cry, not so much filled with grief as her sobs generally were, and seemed to be expiratory rather than the reverse.

As Jordan let the lonely, unhappy, and impenetrable life of his daughter pa.s.s by him in mental review, he became painfully aware of the fact that this was the first time in her life that she had ever heard real music.

"Is it possible?" he asked. He tried to think of another time that would make him disbelieve the accuracy of his unpleasant observation.

He said to himself: Her case is simple; the hitherto unknown sweetness and power concealed in the ensemble playing of the violins, the euphony of the orchestra, and the beauty of the melody with all its fateful directness has made the same impression on her that the sunlight makes on a person from whose eyes a cataract has just been removed. Her soul has suffered from hunger; that is where the trouble lies. She has struggled too fiercely with the incomprehensible and the intangible.

His instinct of love told him that the best thing to do was to let her cry. It will do her good; it will relieve her soul. He pulled a chair up to her door, sat down, and listened. When he could no longer hear her crying, his heart grew easier.

XII

Eleanore was right. Her father was quite pleased to see Daniel and Benda. "I am proud of you," he said to Daniel, "and for your visit to me I thank you. I feel flattered."

"If you had stayed a half hour longer, you might feel differently about it," replied Daniel.

Eleanore gave her father a brief account of what had taken place at the concert. Jordan listened attentively, looked at Daniel, and, with a wrinkle on his forehead, said, "Is it possible?"

"Yes, it is possible; it had to happen," said Daniel.

"Well, if it had to happen, it is a good thing that it is over," was the dispa.s.sionate response.

Eleanore took her father's hand; the back of it was covered with big yellow spots; she kissed it. Then she set the table, got everything ready for the meal, went in and out of the room in a most cheerful way, and did not forget to put the water on the stove to boil. She had asked about Gertrude as soon as she came home, but for some reason or other her father seemed disinclined to say anything on the subject, from which Eleanore inferred that there was nothing seriously wrong.