The Goose Man Part 67

As soon as he had really grasped the full meaning of the tragedy, he went quietly into the attic room, threw himself across the bed of his lost daughter, and wept. "Man, man, are you weeping at last?" a voice seemed to call out to him.

Of evenings he would sit with his mother, and they would both brood over the loss. Once Marian began to speak; she talked of Eva. She had always been made uneasy by the child's love for mimicry and shows of any kind.

Long ago, she said, when Eva was only eight years old, a company of comedians had come to the village, and Eva had taken a pa.s.sionate interest in them. She would run around the tent in which they played, from early in the morning until late in the evening. She had made the acquaintance of some of them at the time, and one of them took her along to a performance. Whenever the circus came to town, it was impossible to keep her in the house. "At times I thought to myself, there must be gipsy blood in her veins," said Marian sadly, "but she was such a good and obedient child."

Another time she told the following story. One Sunday in spring she took a walk with Eva. It had grown late, night had come on, and on the return journey they had to go through the forest. Marian became tired, and sat down on the stump of a tree to rest. The moon was s.h.i.+ning, and there was a clearing in the forest where they had stopped. All of a sudden Eva sprang up and began to dance. "It was marvellous the way she danced,"

said Marian, at the close of her story. "The girl's slender, delicate little figure seemed to glide around on the moss in the moonlight of its own accord. It was marvellous, but my heart grew heavy, and I thought to myself at the time, she is not going to be with me much longer."

Daniel was silent. "Oh, enchanting and enchanted creature!" he thought, "heredity and destiny!"

He remained with his mother for three weeks. Then he began to feel cramped and uneasy. The house and the town both seemed so small to him.

He left and went to Vienna, where the custodian of the Imperial Inst.i.tute had some invaluable ma.n.u.scripts for him.

Six weeks later he received a letter that had followed him all over south Europe informing him of the death of his mother. The school teacher at Eschenbach had written the letter, saying, among other things, that the aged woman had died during the night, suddenly and peacefully.

A second letter followed, requesting him to state what disposition should be made of his mother's property. He was asked whether the house was to be put on the market. A neighbour, the green-grocer, had expressed his willingness to look after Daniel's interests.

Daniel wrote in reply that they should do whatever seemed best. There was a heavy mortgage on the house, and the amount that could reasonably be asked for it was not large.

He retired to a desolate and waste place.

X

While living in little towns and villages on the Danube, Daniel completed the third movement of the Promethean symphony. When he awoke as if from a delirious fever, it was autumn.

One morning in October he heard a saint playing the organ. It was in the Church of St. Florian near Enns. The great artist had lived in former years in the monastery, and now had the habit of coming back once in a while to hold communion with his G.o.d. In his rapture, Daniel felt as if his own crowned brother were at the organ. He sat in a corner and listened, meekly and with overwhelming delight. Then when a man pa.s.sed by him, a stooped, haggard, odd-looking old fellow with a wrinkled face and dressed in shabby clothes, he was terror-stricken at the reality, the corporeality of genius: he wondered whether he himself were not a ghost.

The Swallow wrote: "There is only one who can redeem us: the musician.

The day of founders of religion, builders of states, military heroes, and discoverers is gone. The poets have only words, and our ears have grown tired of words, words, words. They have only pictures and figures, and our eyes are tired beholding. The soul's last consolation is to be found in music; of this I am certain. If there is any one thing that can make rest.i.tution for the lost illusions of religious faith, provide us with wings, transform us, and save us from the abyss to which we are rus.h.i.+ng with savage senses, it is music. Where are you, O redeemer? You are wandering about over the earth, the poorest, the most abandoned, the guiltiest of men. When are you going to pay your debts, Daniel Nothafft?"

Daniel spent seven months in Ravenna, Ferrara, Florence, and Pisa. He was looking for some ma.n.u.scripts by Frescobaldi, Borghesi, and Ercole Pasquini. Having found the most important ones he could regard his collection as complete.

Men seemed to him like puppets, landscapes like paintings on gla.s.s. He longed for forests; his dreams became disordered.

From Genoa he wandered on foot through Lombardy and across the Alps. He slept on hard beds in order to keep his hot blood in check, and lived on bread and cheese. His attacks of weakness, sometimes of complete exhaustion, did not worry him at first; he paid no attention to them.

But in Augsburg he swooned, falling headlong on the street. He was taken to a hospital, where he lay for three months with typhus. From his window he could see the tall chimneys of factories and an endless procession of wandering clouds. It had become winter; the ground was covered with snow.

Two years after his last visit he again entered the house on aegydius Place. When Philippina saw him, so pale and emaciated, she uttered a cry of horror.

Agnes had grown still taller, thinner, and more serious. At times when she looked at her father he felt like crying out to her in anger: "What do you mean by your everlasting questions?" But he never said a word of this kind to her.

When Philippina saw that Daniel had returned as lonesome and uncommunicative as he was when he went away, she took it upon herself to display a great deal of gentleness, kindness, sympathy in his presence.

Old Jordan was living the same life he had been living for years.

Everything in fact was just the same; it seemed that the household was run according to a prescribed routine. It seemed as if Daniel had been away, not six years, but six days.

He did not feel strong yet, but he worked day and night. The fourth movement of the symphony gave promise of being a miracle of polyphony.

Daniel felt primeval existence, the original of all longing, the basic grief of the world urging and pulsing in him, and this he was translating into the symphony. The eternal wanderer had arrived at the gates of Heaven and was not admitted. Supernal harmonies had borne him aloft. m.u.f.fled drum beats symbolised his beseeching raps on closed doors. Within resounded the terrible "no" of the trumpets. The pleading of the violins was in vain; in vain the intercession of the one angel standing at the right, leaning on a harp without strings; in vain the melodious chants of the other angel at the left, crowned with flowers and all together lovely; in vain the elfin chorus of the upper voices, in vain the foaming lament of the voices below. No path here for him, and no s.p.a.ce!

One evening Daniel noticed a strange girl at his window. She was beautiful. Struck by her charms, he got up to go to her. She had vanished. It was an hallucination. He became afraid of himself, left the house, and wandered through the streets as in days of long ago.

XI

It was Carnival Week, and the people had resumed their wonted gaiety.

Masked boys and girls paraded the streets, making merry wherever they went.

As Daniel was pa.s.sing through The Full he was startled: the windows in the Benda house were lighted. He suddenly recalled that Herr Seelenfromm had told him that Frau Benda had returned from Worms some time ago, and was living with her niece; she had become totally blind.

He went up the steps and rang the bell. A grey-haired, distressed-looking woman came to the door. He thought she must be the niece. He told her his name; she said she had heard of him.

"You probably know that Friedrich has disappeared," she said in a sleepy, sing-song voice. "It is eight years since we have heard from him. The last letter was from the interior of Africa. We have given up all hope. Not even the newspapers say anything more about him."

"I have read nothing about it," murmured Daniel. "But Friedrich cannot be dead," he continued, shaking his head, "I will never believe it, never." Partly in distraction and partly in anxiety, he riveted his eyes on the woman, who stared at his gla.s.ses as if held by a charm.

"We have done everything that was humanly possible," she said. "We have written to the consulates, we have inquired of the military outposts and missionary stations, and all to no purpose." After a pause she said with a little more vivacity: "You do not wish me to ask you in, I hope. It is so painful to my aunt to hear a strange voice, and I cannot think of letting you talk to her. If I did, it would merely open her old wounds, and she has a hard enough time of it as it is."

Daniel nodded and went on his way. A coa.r.s.e laugh could be heard down in the entrance hall; it was painfully out of harmony with the depressed atmosphere of the Benda apartment. He felt his heart grow faint; he felt a burning desire for something, though he was unable to say precisely what, something sweet and radiant.

On the last landing he stopped, and looked with utter amazement into the hall below.

Herr Carovius was dancing like a Merry-Andrew around the door of his residence. He had a crown of silver paper on his head, and was trying to ward off the importunate advances of a young girl. His smiles were tender but senile. The girl wore a carnival costume. Her dark blue velvet dress, covered with threads of silver, made her robust figure look slenderer than it actually was. A black veil-like cloth hung from her shoulders to the ground, and then draped along behind her for about three paces. It was sprinkled with glittering tinsel. In her hand she held a hideous wax mask of the face of an old sot with a red nose. She was trying to fit the mask to Herr Carovius's face.

She was working hard to make him yield; she said she was not going to leave until she had put the mask on his face. Herr Carovius shook the door, which in the meantime had closed, fumbled about in his pockets for the key, but the girl gave him no peace.

"Come now, Teddy," she kept crying, "come, Uncle, don't be such an old bore." She kept getting closer and closer to him.

"You wait, I'll show you how to make a fool of respectable people,"

croaked Herr Carovius in well-meaning anger. He resembled an old dog, hopping about and getting ready to make the plunge when his master throws his walking stick into the water. In his zeal, however, to prevent the girl from offending his dignity, he had forgotten the paper crown on his head. It wabbled and shook so when he hopped around, that the girl nearly split her sides laughing.

A maid came in just then with an ap.r.o.nful of snow. The girl with the sweeping train ran up to her, got some of the snow, and threatened to pelt Herr Carovius with it. He begged for mercy; and rather than undergo a bombardment with this cold stuff, he ceased offering resistance, whereupon the girl walked up to him and placed the mask on his face.

Then, exhausted from laughter, she laid her head on his shoulder. The maid-it was Doderlein's maid-was delighted at the comedy, and made a noise that resembled the cackling of a hen.

The scene was dimly lighted by a lamp attached to the adjacent wall, and had on this account, quite apart from the sight of Herr Carovius with the paper crown and the toper's mask, something fantastic about it.

Daniel did not know that the girl was Dorothea Doderlein, though he half suspected as much. But whoever she was, he was impressed by her jollity, her actual l.u.s.t for laughter, her complete lack of restraint.

He had never known that sort of mirthful hilarity; and if he had known it, he could not recall it. Her youthful features, her bright eyes, her white teeth, her agile gestures filled him with deferential respect; his eyes swam with emotion. He felt so old, so foreign; he felt that where he was the sun was not s.h.i.+ning, the flowers were not budding. He felt that life had appeared to him all of a sudden and quite unexpectedly in a new, kindly, bewitching light.

He came slowly down the steps.

"Is it possible!" cried Herr Carovius, tearing the mask from his face.

"Can I trust my own eyes? It is our _maestro_! Or is it his ghost?"

"It is both he and his ghost," replied Daniel drily.

"This is no place for ghosts," cried Dorothea, and threw a snow ball, hitting him square on the shoulder.

Daniel looked at her; she blushed, and looked at Herr Carovius questioningly. "Don't you know our Daniel Nothafft, you little ignoramus?" said Herr Carovius. "You know nothing of our coryphaeus? Hail to the Master! Welcome home! He is here, covered with fame!"

At any other time Herr Carovius's biliary sarcasm would have aroused Daniel's whole stock-in-trade of aversion and indignation. To-day he was unimpressed by it. "How young she is," he thought, as he feasted his eyes on the embarra.s.sed, laughing Dorothea, "how gloriously young!"