The Goose Man Part 40

"Your truth, Daniel," said Eleanore, "_your_ truth. But your truth is not my truth."

"No, Eleanore? No? Not yours? What then is the use of my talking with you? And even if everything else were falsehood and error, I am as convinced as I can be that my truth is also your truth."

"You can't stand out against the whole world," said Eleanore in anguish, "you are after all in the world yourself."

"Yes, I will take my stand against the whole world," he said, "that is precisely what I have made up my mind to do. I will pay them back in their own coin. Just as they have all stood against me, just so will I stand against them. I am no compromiser, no treaty-maker, no haggler, no beggar. I live according to my own law. I _must_, where other people merely _should_ or _may_, or _may not_. Whoever does not comprehend that has nothing in common, one way or the other, with me."

She was terrified at the presumptuousness of his words; and yet there was a feeling in her of joy and pride: she felt a desire to be for him, to be with him. If he was fighting against the very power that would in the end overcome him, he was doing it for her sake. She did not feel, therefore, that she had the right to withdraw from him. The thing about it all that gave her a wonderful feeling of relief, and at the same time made her morally flabby and carried her away, was the pa.s.sion of his will and the undaunted a.s.surance of his feelings.

But their eyes chanced to meet; and in the eyes of each there was the name of Gertrude.

Gertrude stood between them in living form. Everything they had said had proceeded from her and returned to her. That Daniel was not thinking of annulling his marriage, that he could not think of it, Eleanore knew. A child was expected; who could reject the mother under these circ.u.mstances? How would it be possible, poor as they were, to expose both mother and child to the inevitable misery that would follow annulment of the marriage? Daniel could not do this, and Eleanore knew it.

But she also knew, for she knew her sister, that separation from Daniel would mean her death. She knew too that Daniel considered his marriage to Gertrude as indissoluble, not only because of his knowledge of her character, but because there was in his life with Gertrude something that is quite independent of pa.s.sions, views, and decisions, something that binds even in hate and binds even more firmly in despair.

Eleanore knew all this. She knew that Daniel knew it. And if she drew the only conclusion that could be drawn from his argument and his state of mind, she knew what he demanded of her.

He was demanding that she give herself up to him. Of this there could be not a shred of doubt.

But how? Secretly? Could that produce happiness? With the understanding of Gertrude? Could Gertrude endure such a thought, even if she were as magnanimous as a saint? Where was the way that could be followed? Where was there an angle from which embarra.s.sment, anxiety, and ruin were not ready to leap forth without warning?

She bowed her head, and covered it with her hands. She sat in this position for a long while. Darkness settled down over the roofs of the houses.

Suddenly she got up, reached him her hand, smiled with tears in her eyes, and said with a last attempt to escape the horrible consequences, "Bruderlein[1]...." She spoke the word in a tone of longing fervour and half-humorous appealing.

[Footnote 1: "Little brother."]

He shook his head sadly, but took her hand and held it tenderly between his.

Her face became clouded; it was like a landscape at the coming of night.

Her eyes, turned to one side, saw the trees of a great garden, an ugly old woman sitting by a hedge, and two little girls who looked into the setting sun with fear in their hearts.

There was a noise; she and Daniel were startled. In the doorway stood Philippina Schimmelweis. Her eyes glistened like the skin of a reptile that has just crept up from out of the bog.

Daniel went down to his apartment.

X

For nine years the rococo hall in the Auffenberg home had been closed to festive celebrations of every kind. It took a long, tedious exchange of letters between the secretary of the Baron living in Rome and the secretary of the Baroness to get the permission of the former to use the hall.

The indignation at Nothafft's work was general. The members of the social set could hardly contain themselves, while the amateurs and specially invited guests were likewise but little edified. The chief diversion of the evening, in fact, was to see the composer himself conduct. At the sight of the jumping and sprawling fellow, Herr Zollner, councillor of the consistory, almost burst with laughter.

Old Count Schlemm-Nottheim, who not only had a liking for p.o.r.nographic literature but was also known to drink a quarter of a litre of Dr.

Rosa's balsam of life every afternoon, declared that the ensemble playing of all the instruments represented by the show-booths at the annual fair was an actual musical revelation in comparison with this Dutch concert of rogues' marches. Judge Braun of the Supreme Court gave it as his candid opinion that there was evidently a conspiracy against good taste.

Remarks of this kind were, of course, made behind screens and in the corners. In order not to offend the Baroness, there was a goodly measure of seemingly cordial applause. The guests and artists then a.s.sembled around a huge table arranged in the shape of a horseshoe.

Count Schlemm-Nottheim was the table companion of the Baroness; he had her tell him who the various personages from the world of art were. He asked who was the woman of such interesting melancholy sitting next to Major Bellmann. He was told that that was the wife of the composer. His wife? She is not at all bad; life with her would be rather worth while.

And who was the woman between old Herold and the Frenchman? A charming little creature: she had eyes like the Lake of Liguria and hands like a princess. That was the sister of the composer's wife. Sister? You don't tell me! A jolly fine family; worth the support of any man.

Toasts were drunk. Herr Ehrenreich, the wholesale merchant, drank to the health of the creator of the "Harzreise"; the Count to the ladies present.

Herr Carovius created a sensation. He sat with the members of the "Liedertafel"; they had sung in the chorus; and they were ashamed of him, for he conducted himself in a most unseemly fashion.

He had somehow managed to get hold of a glove Eleanore had lost, and possibly it was this that made him so convivial. He picked up an almond sh.e.l.l from the serving tray, and threw it at Fraulein Varini. He let his leery, lascivious eyes roam about over the cut gla.s.s and the decorations of the hall, and never once grew tired of praising the wealth and splendour of the house. He acted as though he were quite at home. He raised his wine gla.s.s, and declared that he was charmed by the flavour and colour of the costly, precious juice from the grape: he tried to give the impression that he knew the Auffenberg wine cellar from years of intimate a.s.sociation with it.

Then it happened that through a hasty, awkward movement, he upset his plate; a rivulet of rich brown gravy ran down over his white vest. He became silent; he retired within himself. He dipped his napkin in the water, and rubbed and rubbed. The waiters t.i.ttered. He b.u.t.toned up his coat, and looked like a show window in the dead of night.

The eyes of the waiters were also given the privilege of feasting on another rare social phenomenon. They noticed that Kapellmeister Nothafft was sitting at the table in his stocking feet. His patent leather shoes had hurt him so much that he made short work of it and took them off during the dinner. There they stood without master or servant, one at the right, the other at the left of his disenc.u.mbered feet. Whenever the waiters pa.s.sed by, they would cast one furtive but profitable glance under the table, and bite their lips to keep from bursting out in laughter.

This rude offence to social dignity was not unknown to the other dinner guests. They whispered, smiled, shrugged their shoulders, and shook their heads. Daniel made no effort to conceal his bootlessness when the guests rose to leave the table; without giving the astonishment of his companions a single thought, he once more drew the patent leather torturers on to his extremities. But he had made a mistake: he had gambled and lost.

The news of the extraordinary event was fully exploited on the following day. It was carried from house to house, acc.u.mulated momentous charm in its course, pa.s.sed from the regions of the high to those of the less high and quite low, and provoked storms of laughter everywhere. No one had anything to say about the symphony; everybody was fully informed concerning the patent leather episode.

XI

On the way home Daniel walked with Eleanore. Gertrude followed at some distance with M. Riviere; she could not walk rapidly.

"How did you find it, Eleanore? Didn't you have the feeling that you were at a feast of corpses?"

"Dear," she murmured; they walked on.

After they had gone along for some time in perfect silence, they came to a narrow gateway. Eleanore suddenly felt that she could no longer endure Daniel's mute questioning. She pulled her silk veil closer to her cheeks, and said: "Give me time! Don't hurry me! Please give me time!"

"If I hadn't given you time, my dear girl, I should not have deserved this moment," he replied.

"I cannot, I cannot," she said, with a sigh of despair. She had only one hope, one ray of hope left, and her whole soul was fixed on that. But she was obliged to act in silence.

Standing in the living room with Gertrude, Daniel's eye fell on the mask of Zingarella; it had been decorated with rose twigs. Under the green young leaves fresh buds shone forth; they hung around the white stucco of the mask like so many little red lanterns. "Who did that?" he asked.

"Eleanore was here in the afternoon; she did it," replied Gertrude.

His burning eyes were riveted on the mask, when Gertrude stepped up to him, threw her arms around him, and in the fulness of her feelings exclaimed: "Daniel, your work was wonderful, wonderful!"

"So? Did you like it? I am glad to hear it," he said, in a tone of dry conventionality.

"The people don't grasp it," she said gently, and then added with a blush: "But I understand it; I understand it, for it belongs to me."

The following day he laid the score of the "Harzreise" together with the words in a big old chest, and locked it. It was like a funeral.

XII

In the dark, winding alleys behind the city wall stand little houses with large numbers and coloured lanterns. They are filled with a sweetish, foul odour, and have been laboriously built up out of dilapidated lumber-rooms. From the cracks in the closed blinds come forth, night after night, the sounds of shrill laughter. Those who enter are received by half-nude monsters, and are made to sit down on monstrous chairs and sofas covered with red plush.

The citizen calls these places dens of vice. Between Friday and Sunday he thinks with l.u.s.tful horror of the inhabitants with their bloated or emaciated bodies and the sad or intoxicated stare of their eyes.