THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT
 
 THE GOOSE MAN
 
 The GOOSE MAN 
 
 by JACOB WASSERMANN 
 
 cAvahor of 
 
 "THE WORLD'S ILLUSION" 
 
 cAuthorized translation by 
 ALLEN W. PORTERFIELD 
 
 GROSSET er DUNLAP <v. Publishers 
 
 by arrangement "With 
 HARCOURT, BRACE &. COMPANY
 
 NOTE 
 
 The first chapter, "A Mother Seeks Her Son," and sections I 
 and ii of the second chapter, "Foes, Brothers, a Friend, and a 
 Mask," were translated by Ludwig Lewisohn. The rest of the 
 book has been translated by Allen W . Porterfield. The title, "The 
 Goose Man" ("Das Gdnsemdnnchen"), refers to the famous statue 
 of that name in Nuremberg. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 PMINTKD IN THE U. A.
 
 Li: i -u-y 
 
 TT 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGI 
 
 A Mother Seeks Her Son . ... 1 
 
 Foes, Brothers, A Friend and a Mask . 23 
 
 The Nero of To-day .... ... 44 
 
 Inspector Jordan and His Children . ... 65 
 
 Voices from Without and Voices from Within . . 97 
 
 In Memory of a Dream Figure . 123 
 
 Daniel and Gertrude 153 
 
 The Glass Case Breaks . ...... 178 
 
 Tres Faciunt Collegium 204 
 
 Philippina Starts a Fire . 239 
 
 Eleanore .... .... . 277 
 
 The Room with the Withered Flowers 323 
 The Promethean Symphony . . . . .352 
 
 Dorothea . .405 
 
 The Devil Leaves the House in Flames 43 5 
 
 But Aside, Who Is It? . . 455 
 
 683050
 
 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 
 
 THE landscape shows many shades of green; deep forests, mostly 
 coniferous, extend from the valley of the Rednitz to that of the 
 Tauber. Yet the villages lie in the midst of great circles of 
 cultivated land, for the tillage of man is immemorial here. 
 Around the many weirs the grass grows higher, so high often that 
 you can see only the beaks of the droves of geese, and were it not 
 for their cackle you might take these beaks to be strangely mobile 
 flowers. 
 
 The little town of Eschenbach lies quite flat on the plain. In 
 it a fragment of the Middle Ages has survived, but no strangers 
 know it, since hours of travel divide it from any railway. Ans- 
 bach is the nearest point in the great system of modern traffic; to 
 get there you must use a stage-coach. And that is as true to-day as 
 it was in the days when Gottfried Nothafft, the weaver, lived there. 
 
 The town walls are overgrown with moss and ivy; the old draw- 
 bridges still cross the moats and take you through the round, ruined 
 gates into the streets. The houses have bay-windows and far- 
 projecting overhangs, and their interlacing beams look like the 
 criss-cross of muscles on an anatomical chart. 
 
 Concerning the poet who was once born here and who sang the 
 song of Parsifal, all living memory has faded. Perhaps the foun- 
 tains whisper of him by night; perhaps sometimes when the moon 
 is up, his shadow hovers about the church or the town-hall. The 
 men and women know nothing of him any more. 
 
 The little house of the weaver, withdrawn by a short distance 
 from the street, stood not far from the inn at the sign of the Ox. 
 Three worn steps took you to its door, and six windows looked out 
 upon the quiet square. It is strange to reflect that the spirit of 
 
 I
 
 2 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 modern industrialism hewed its destructive path even to this forgot- 
 ten nook of the world. 
 
 In 1849, at the time of Gottfried Nothafft's marriage his wife, 
 Marian, was one of the two Hollriegel sisters of Nuremberg he 
 had still been able to earn a tolerable living. So the couple 
 desired a child, but desired it for years in vain. Often, at the 
 end of the day's work, when Gottfried sat on the bench in front 
 of his house and smoked his pipe, he would say: "How good it 
 would be if we had a son." Marian would fall silent and lower 
 her eyes. 
 
 As time passed, he stopped saying that, because he would not 
 put the woman to shame. But his expression betrayed his desire 
 all the more clearly. 
 
 A day came on which his trade seemed to come to a halt. The 
 weavers in all the land complained that they could not keep their 
 old pace. It was as though a creeping paralysis had come upon 
 them. The market prices suddenly dropped, and the character of 
 the goods was changed. 
 
 This took place toward the end of the eighteen hundred and 
 fifties, when the new power looms were being introduced from 
 America. No toil profited anything. The cheap product which 
 the machines could furnish destroyed the sale of the hand-made 
 weaves. 
 
 At first Gottfried Nothafft refused to be cast down. Thus the 
 wheel of a machine will run on for a space after the power has 
 been cut off. But gradually his courage failed. His hair turned 
 grey in a single winter, and at the age of forty-five he was a 
 broken man. 
 
 And just as poverty appeared threatening at their door, and the 
 soul of Marian began to be stained by hatred, the longing of the 
 couple was fulfilled, and the wife became pregnant in the tenth 
 year of their marriage. 
 
 The hatred which she nourished was directed against the power 
 loom. In her dreams she saw the machine as a monster with 
 thighs of steel, which screamed out its malignity and devoured the 
 hearts of men. She was embittered by the injustice of a process 
 which gave to impudence and sloth the product that had once come 
 thoughtfully and naturally from the careful hands of men. 
 
 One journeyman after another had to be discharged, and one
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 3 
 
 hand-loom after another to be stored in the attic. On many days 
 Marian would slip up the stairs and crouch for hours beside the 
 looms, which had once been set in motion by a determinable and 
 beneficent exertion and were like corpses now. 
 
 Gottfried wandered across country, peddling the stock of goods 
 he had on hand. Once on his return he brought with him a piece 
 of machine-made cloth which a merchant of Nordlingen had given 
 him. "Look, Marian, see what sort of stuff it is," he said, and 
 handed it to her. But Marian drew her hand away, and shuddered 
 as though she had seen the booty of a murderer. 
 
 After the birth of her boy she lost these morbid feelings; Gott- 
 fried on the other hand seemed to dwindle from month to month. 
 Though he outlasted the years, there was no cheer left in him and 
 he got no comfort even from his growing boy. When he had sold 
 all his own wares, he took those of others, and dragged himself 
 wearily in summer and winter from village to village. 
 
 In spite of the scarcity that prevailed in the house, Marian was 
 convinced that Gottfried had put by money, and certain hints 
 which he threw out confirmed her in this hope. It was one of his 
 peculiar views that it was better to leave his wife in the dark re- 
 garding the true state of their fortunes. As their circumstances 
 grew worse, he became wholly silent on this point. 
 
 On the square of the grain merchants in Nuremberg, Jason 
 Philip Schimmelweis, the husband of Marian's sister, had his book- 
 binder's shop. 
 
 Schimmelweis was a Westphalian. Hatred against the junkers 
 and the priests had driven him to this Protestant city of the South, 
 where from the beginning he had acquired the respect of people 
 through his ready wit and speech. Theresa Hollriegel had lodged 
 in the house in which he opened his shop, and gained her living 
 as a seamstress. He had thought that she had some money, but it 
 had proved to be too little for his ambitious notions. When he 
 discovered that, he treated Theresa as though she had cheated him. 
 
 He held his trade in contempt, and was ambitious of greater 
 things. He felt that he was called to be a bookseller; but he had 
 no capital wherewith to realise this plan. So he sat morosely in 
 his subterranean shop, pasted and folded and quarrelled with his 
 lot, and in his hours of leisure read the writings of socialists and 
 freethinkers.
 
 4 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 It was the Autumn in which the war against France was raging. 
 On that very morning had come the news of the battle of Sedan. 
 All the church bells were ringing. 
 
 To the surprise of Jason Philip, Gottfried Nothafft stepped into 
 his shop. His long, patriarchal beard and tall stature gave some- 
 thing venerable to his appearance, even though his face looked 
 tired and his eyes were dull. 
 
 "God bless you, brother," he said and held out his hand. "The 
 fatherland has better luck than its citizens." 
 
 Schimmelweis, who did not like the visits of kinsmen, returned 
 the salutation with careful coolness. His features did not brighten 
 until he heard that his brother-in-law was stopping at the Red 
 Cock Inn. He asked what errand had brought Gottfried to the 
 city. 
 
 "I must have a talk with you," Nothafft replied. 
 
 They entered a room behind the shop and sat down. Jason 
 Philip's eyes harboured even now a definitely negative answer to 
 any proposal that might cost him money or trouble. But he was 
 to be agreeably disappointed. 
 
 "I want to tell you, brother," Gottfried Nothafft said, "that 
 I have put by three thousand taler during the nineteen years of my 
 married life. And since I have the feeling that I am not long for 
 this world, I have come to ask you to take charge of the money 
 for Marian and the boy. It has been troublesome enough not to 
 touch it in these evil times that have come. Marian knows nothing 
 of it, and I don't want her to know. She is a weak woman, and 
 women do not understand money nor the worth and dignity it has 
 when it has been earned so bitterly hard. In some hour of dif- 
 ficulty she would begin to use it, and presently it would be gone. 
 But I want to ease Daniel's entry into life, when his years of 
 training and apprenticeship are over. He is twelve now. In an- 
 other twelve years he will be, God willing, a man. You can help 
 Marian with the interest, and all I ask of you is to be silent and to 
 act a father's part toward the boy when I shall be no more." 
 
 Jason Philip Schimmelweis arose. He was moved and wrung 
 Gottfried Nothafft's hand. "You may rely upon me," he said, "as 
 you would on the Bank of England." 
 
 "I thought that would be your answer, brother, and that is why 
 I came." 
 
 He put down on the table three thousand taler in bank notes 
 of the realm, and Jason Philip wrote out a receipt. Then he 
 urged him to stay that night at his house. But Gottfried Nothafft
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 5 
 
 said that he must return home to his wife and child, and that a 
 single night in the noisy city had been enough for him. 
 
 When they returned to the shop, they found Theresa sitting there. 
 In her lap she held Philippina, her first-born, who was three years 
 old. The child had a large head and homely features. Gottfried 
 hardly stopped to answer his sister-in-law's questions. Later Theresa 
 asked her husband what Gottfried's business had been. Jason 
 Philip answered brusquely: "Nothing a woman would understand." 
 
 Three days later Gottfried sent back the receipt. On the back 
 of it he had written: "The paper is of no use; it might even betray 
 my secret. I have your word and your hand. That is enough. 
 With thanks for your friendship and your services, I am your 
 faithful kinsman, Gottfried NothafTt." 
 
 Before peace had been made with France, Gottfried lay down to 
 die. He was buried in the little churchyard by the wall, and a 
 cross was set upon his grave. 
 
 Jason Philip and Theresa had come to the funeral, and stayed 
 for three days. An examination of her inheritance showed, to 
 Marian's consternation, that there were not twenty taler in the 
 house, and what she saw ahead of her was a life of wretchedness 
 and want. Jason Philip's counsel and his plan were a genuine 
 consolation to her, and his declaration that he would stand by her 
 to the best of his ability eased her heart. 
 
 It was determined that she was to open a little shop, and Jason 
 advanced her one hundred taler. All the while he had the air of 
 a made man. He held his head high, and his fat little cheeks 
 glowed with health. He was fond of drumming with his fingers 
 on the window pane and of whistling. The tune he whistled 
 was the Marseillaise, but that tune was not known in Eschenbach. 
 
 Daniel observed carefully his uncle's lips, and whistled the tune 
 after him. Jason Philip laughed so that his little belly quivered. 
 Then he remembered that it was a house of mourning, and said: 
 "What a boy!" 
 
 But really he did not like the boy. "Our excellent Gottfried 
 does not seem to have trained him carefully," he remarked once, 
 when Daniel showed some childish recalcitrance. "The boy needs 
 a strong hand." 
 
 Daniel heard these words, and looked scornfully into his uncle's 
 face.
 
 6 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Sunday afternoon, when the coffee had been served, the Schim- 
 melweis couple was ready to leave. But Daniel was not to be 
 found. The wife of the inn-keeper called out across the road 
 that she had seen him follow the organist to church. Marian ran 
 to the church to fetch him. After a while she returned, and said 
 to Jason Philip, who was waiting: "He's crouching in the organ 
 loft, and I can't get him to move." 
 
 "Can't get him to move?" Jason Philip started up, and his little 
 red cheeks gleamed with rage. "What does that mean? How 
 can you tolerate that?" And he himself proceeded to the church 
 to get the disobedient child. 
 
 As he was mounting the organ-loft he met the organist, who 
 laughed and said: "I suppose you're looking for Daniel? He's 
 still staring at the organ, as though my bit of playing had be- 
 witched him." 
 
 "I'll drive the witch-craft out of him," Jason Philip snarled. 
 
 Daniel was crouching on the floor behind the organ, and did not 
 stir at his uncle's call. He was so absorbed that the expression of 
 his eyes made his uncle wonder whether the boy was really sane. 
 He grasped Daniel's shoulder, and spoke in a tone of violent com- 
 mand: "Come home with me this minute!" 
 
 Daniel looked up, awoke from his dream, and became aware of 
 the indignant hiss of that alien voice. He tore himself away, and 
 declared insolently that he would stay where he was. That en- 
 raged Jason Philip utterly, and he tried again to lay hands on the 
 boy in order to drag him down by force. Daniel leapt back, and 
 cried with a quivering voice: "Don't touch me!" 
 
 Perhaps it was the silence of the nave that had an admonishing 
 and terrifying effect on Jason Philip. Perhaps the extraordinary 
 malignity and passion in the little fellow's face caused him to 
 desist. At all events he turned around and went without another 
 word. 
 
 "The stage-coach is waiting. We'll be late!" his wife called 
 out to him. 
 
 He turned a sinister face to Marian. "You're bringing up a 
 fine product, I must say. You'll have your own troubles with 
 him." 
 
 Marian's eyes fell. She was not unprepared for the reproach. 
 She was herself frightened at the boy's saxige obduracy, his self- 
 centred insistence on his imaginings, his hardness and impatience 
 and contempt of all restraint. It seemed to her as though fate had
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 7 
 
 inspired the soul of her child with something of the foolish and 
 torturing hatred which she had nursed during her pregnancy. 
 
 Jason Philip Schimmelweis left the dark basement on the square, 
 rented a shop near the bridge by the museum, and set up as a 
 book-seller. Thus his old ambition was realised at last. 
 
 He hired a shop-assistant, and Theresa sat all day at the till and 
 learned to keep books. 
 
 When she asked her husband what was the source of his capital, 
 he answered that a friend who had great confidence in his ability 
 had advanced him the money at a low rate of interest. He added 
 that he had been pledged not to divulge the name of his friend. 
 
 Theresa did not believe him. Her mind was full of dark fore- 
 bodings. She brooded incessantly and grew to be watchful and 
 suspicious. In secret she tried to ferret out the identity of this 
 nameless friend, but came upon no trace. Now and then she 
 tried to cross-question Jason Philip. On such occasions he would 
 snarl at her malignantly. There was no talk of the return of the 
 money or of the payment of interest on it, nor did the books show 
 an entry of any sort. To rid herself of the anxieties that accom- 
 panied her through the years, it would have been necessary for 
 Theresa to believe in helpful fairies. And she did not believe in 
 them. 
 
 Nature had given her neither gaiety nor gentleness; under the 
 pressure of this insoluble mystery she became ill-tempered as a 
 wife and moody :.s a mother. 
 
 When there were no customers in the shop she would pick up 
 books quite at random and read in them. Sometimes it was a novel 
 dealing with crime, sometimes a garrulous tract dealing with secret 
 vices. Such things were needed to attract a public that regarded 
 the buying cf books as a sinful waste. Without special pleasure, 
 and with a morose sort of thirst for information, she read reve- 
 lations of court life and the printed betrayals of all kinds of spies, 
 adventurers, and rogues. Quite unconsciously she came to judge 
 the world to which she had no real access according to these books 
 which offered her us truth the issues of sick and pestilential minds. 
 
 But as the years went on, and prosperity raised Jason Philip 
 definitely into the merchant class, he abandoned the shadier side 
 of his business. He was a man who knew his age and who un-
 
 8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 furled his sails when he was sure of a favourable wind. He 
 entrusted his ship more and more to the ever swelling current of 
 the political parties of the proletariat, and hoped to find his profit 
 where, in a half-hearted way, his convictions lay. He exhibited 
 a rebel's front to the middle-classes, and held out a hand of unc- 
 tuous fellowship to the toiler. He knew how to make his way! 
 Many an insignificant shop-keeper had been known to exchange 
 his musty rooms for a villa in the suburbs, to furnish it preten- 
 tiously, and to send his sons on trips abroad. 
 
 In these days, too, the old imperial city awoke from its romantic 
 slumber. Once the sublime churches, the lovely curves of the 
 birdges, and the quaint gables of the houses had formed an artistic 
 whole. Now they became mere remnants. Castle and walls and 
 mighty towers were ruins of an age of dreams now fortunately 
 past. Iron rails were laid on the streets and rusty chains with 
 strangely shaped lanterns were removed from the opening of 
 narrow streets. Factories and smoke-stacks surrounded the vener- 
 able and picturesque city as an iron frame might surround the work 
 of some old master. 
 
 "Modern man has got to have light and air," said Jason Philip 
 Schimmelweis, and clinked the coins in his trousers pocket. 
 
 Daniel attended the gymnasium at Ansbach. He was to com- 
 plete the course of studies that would entitle him to the reduction 
 of his military service to one year and then enter business. This 
 had been agreed upon between Jason Philip and Marian. 
 
 The boy's zeal for study was small. His teachers shook their 
 heads. Their considerable experience of the world had never yet 
 offered them a being so constituted. He listened more eagerly 
 to the lowing of a herd of cows and to the twittering of the 
 sparrows than to the best founded principles of grammatical science. 
 Some of them thought him dull, others malicious. He passed 
 from class to class with difficulty and solely by virtue of a marvel- 
 lous faculty of guessing. At especially critical moments he was 
 saved through the help and advocacy of the music-master Spindler. 
 
 The families who gave the poor student his meals complained 
 of his bad manners. The wife of Judge Hahn forbade him the 
 house on account of his boorish answers. "Beggars must not be 
 choosers," she had called out after him. 
 
 Spindler was a man who asserted quite correctly that he had been
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 9 
 
 meant for better things than wearing himself out in a provincial 
 town. His white locks framed a face ennobled by the melancholy 
 that speaks of lost ideals and illusions. 
 
 One summer morning Spindler had risen with the sun and gone 
 for a long walk in the country. When he reached the first barn 
 of the village of Dautenwinden he saw a company of strolling 
 musicians, who had played dance music the evening before and 
 far into the night, and who were now shaking from their hair and 
 garments the straw and chaff amid which they had slept. Above 
 them, under the open gable of the barn, Daniel Nothafft was 
 lying in the straw. With an absorbed and devout expression he 
 war seeking to elicit a melody from a flute which one of the 
 musicians had loaned him. 
 
 Spindler stood still and looked up. The musicians laughed, but 
 he did not share in their merriment. A long while passed before 
 the unskilful player of the flute became aware of his teacher. 
 Then he climbed down and tried to steal away with a shy greeting. 
 Spindler stopped him. They walked on together, and Daniel con- 
 fessed that he had not been able to tear himself away from the 
 musicians since the preceding afternoon. The lad of fourteen was 
 not able to express his feeling; but it seemed to him as though a 
 higher power had forced him to breathe the same air at least with 
 those who made music. 
 
 From that day on and for three years Daniel visited Spindler 
 twice a week, and was most thoroughly grounded in counterpoint 
 and harmony. The hours thus spent were both consecrated and 
 winged. Spindler found a peculiar happiness in nourishing a pas- 
 sion whose development struck him as a reward for his many years 
 of toneless isolation. And though the desperateness of this passion, 
 though the rebelliousness and aimless wildness which streamed to 
 him not only from the character of his pupil but also from that 
 pupil's first attempts at composition, gave him cause for anxiety, 
 yet he hoped always to soothe the boy by pointing to the high and 
 serene models and masters of his art. 
 
 And so the time came in which Daniel was to earn his own 
 bread. 
 
 Spindler journeyed to Eschenbach to confer with Marian 
 Nothafft. 
 
 The woman did not understand him. She felt tempted to laugh.
 
 io THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Music had meant in her life the droning of o hurdy-gurdy, the 
 singing of a club of men, the marching of a military band. Was 
 her boy to wander from door to door and fiddle for pennies? 
 Spindler seemed a mere madman to her. She pressed her hands 
 together, and looked at him as at a man who was wasting trivial 
 wordr on a tragic disaster. The music-master realised that his 
 influence was as narrow as his world, and was forced to leave with- 
 out accomplishing anything. 
 
 Marian wrote a letter to Jason Philip Schimmelweis. 
 
 One could almost see Jason Philip worrying his reddish brown 
 beard with his nimble fingers and the scornful twinkling of his 
 eyes; one could almost hear the sharp, northern inflection of his 
 speech when his answer to Daniel arrived: "I expected nothing else 
 of you than that it would Le your dearest wish to be a wastrel. 
 My dear boy, either you buckle under and make up your mind to 
 become a decent member of society, or I leave you both to your 
 own devices. There is no living in selling herringr and pepper, 
 and so you will kindly imagine for yourself the fate of your 
 mother, especially if a parasite like yourself clings to her." 
 
 Daniel tore up the letter into innumerable bits and let them 
 flutter out into the wind. His mother wept. 
 
 Then he went out into the forest, wandered about till night- 
 fall, and slept in the hollow of a tree. 
 
 VIII 
 
 One might go on and tell the tale of continued rebellion, of 
 angry words on both sides, of pleas and complaints and fruitless 
 arguments, of bitter controversy and yet bitterer silence. 
 
 Daniel fled and returned and let the slothful days glide by, 
 stormed about in the vicinity, and lay in the high grass beside the 
 pools or opened his window at night, cursing the silence and envy- 
 ing the clouds their speed. 
 
 His mother followed him when he went to his little room and 
 pressed her ear to the door, and then entered and saw the candle 
 still lit, and went to his bed and was frightened at his gleaming 
 eyes which grew sombre at her approach. Full of the memories 
 of her early cares and fears for him, and thinking that the darkness 
 and the sight of her weakness would prevail upon him, she pleaded 
 and begged once more. And he looked up at her and something 
 broke in his soul, and he promised to do as she demanded. 
 
 So we see him next at the house of the leather merchant Hamecher
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON n 
 
 in Ansbach. He sits on a bale of leather in the long, dismal 
 passage way or on the cellar steps or in the store room, and dreams 
 and dreams and dreams. And gradually the worthy Hamecher's 
 indulgent surprise turned to blank astonishment and then to indig- 
 nation, and at the end of six months he showed the useless fellow 
 the door. 
 
 Once more Jason Philip condescended to grant his favour, and 
 chose a new scene and new people for his nephew, if only to 
 remove him from Spindler's baneful influence. At the mention 
 of the city of Bayreuth no one became aware of Daniel's fiery 
 ecstasy, for they had never heard of the name of Richard Wagner 
 but always of the name of the wine merchant Maier. And so he 
 came to Bayreuth, the Jerusalem of his yearning, and forced him- 
 self to an appearance of industry in order to remain in that spot 
 where sun and air and earth and the very beasts and stones and 
 refuse breathe that music of which Spindler had said that he him- 
 self had a profound presentiment of its nature but was too old to 
 giasp and love it wholly. 
 
 Daniel did his best to make himself useful. But in spite of 
 himself he scrawled music notes on the invoices, roared strange 
 melodies in lonely vaults, and let the contents of a whole keg of 
 wine leak out, because in front of him, on the floor, lay the score 
 of the English Suites. 
 
 At a rehearsal he slipt into the Festival Playhouse, but was put 
 out by a zealous watchman, and on this occasion made the acquain- 
 tance of Andreas Doberlein, who wr.s a professor at the Nuremberg 
 conservatory and a tireless apostle of the redeemer. Doberlein 
 seemed not disinclined to understand and to help, and expressed a 
 real delight at the deep, original enthusiasm and burning devotion 
 of his protege. And Daniel, intoxicated by a rather vague and not 
 at all binding promise of a scholarship at the conservatory, fled 
 from Bayreuth by night, made his way on foot back to Eschenbach, 
 threw himself at his mother's feet, and almost writhed there before 
 her and begged and implored her, and in words almost wild sought 
 to prevail on her to attempt to change the mind of Jason Philip. 
 He tried to explain to her that his life and happiness, his very blood 
 and heart were dedicated to this one thing. But she, who was once 
 kindly, was now hard hard as stone, cold as ice. She understood 
 nothing, felt nothing, believed nothing, saw only the frightfulness, 
 as she called it, of his incurable aberration. 
 
 All these matters might have been related at length. But they 
 are as inevitable in their character and sequence as the sparks and
 
 12 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 smoke that follow upon fire. They are quite determinable; they 
 have often happened, and have always had the same final effect. 
 
 What clung to Marian's soul was an immemorial prejudice 
 against a gipsy's life and a stroller's fate. Her ancestors and her 
 husband's had always earned their livelihood in the honest ways 
 of a trade. She could not see what the free tuition at Doderlein's 
 conservatory would avail Daniel, since he had nothing where- 
 withal to sustain life. He told her that Spindler had taught him 
 how to play on the piano, that he would perfect his skill and so 
 earn his sustenance. She shook her head. Then he spoke to her 
 of the greatness of art, of the ecstasy which an artist could com- 
 municate and the immortality he might win, and that perhaps it 
 would be granted him to create something unique and incomparable. 
 But these words she thought mad and t pretentious delusions, and 
 smiled contemptuously. And at that his soul turned away from her, 
 and she seemed a mother to him no more. 
 
 When Jason Philip Schimmelweis learned what was afoot, he 
 would not let the troublesome journey deter him, but appeared in 
 Marian's shop like an avenging angel. Daniel feared him no 
 longer, since he had given up hoping for anything from him. He 
 laughed to himself at the sight of the stubby, short-necked man in 
 his rage. Gleams of mockery and of cunning still played over the 
 red cheeks of Jason Philip, for he had a very high opinion of 
 himself, and did not think the windy follies of a boy of nineteen 
 worthy of the whole weight of his personality. 
 
 While he talked his little eyes sparkled, and his red, little tongue 
 pushed away the recalcitrant hairs of his moustache from his 
 voluble lips. Daniel stood by the door, leaning against the post, 
 his arms folded across his chest, and regarded now his mother, who, 
 dumb and suddenly old, sat in a corner of the sofa, now the oil 
 portrait of his father on the opposite wall. A friend of Gottfried 
 Nothafft's youth, a painter who had been long lost and forgotten 
 like his other works, had once painted it. It showed a man of 
 serious bearing, and brought to mind the princely guildsman of 
 the Middle Ages. Seeing the picture at that moment enlightened 
 Daniel as to the ancestral strain that had brought him to this mood 
 and to this hour. 
 
 And turning now once more to Jason Philip's face, he thought he 
 perceived in it the restlessness of an evil conscience. It seemed to 
 him that this man was not acting from conviction but from an 
 antecedent determination. It seemed to him further that he was 
 faced, not merely by this one man and his rage and its accidental
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 13 
 
 causes, but by a whole world in arms that was pledged to enmity 
 against him. He had no inclination now to await the end of Jason 
 Philip's oratorical efforts, and left the room. 
 
 Jason Philip grew pale. "Don't let us deceive ourselves, 
 Marian," he said. "You have nursed a viper on your bosom." 
 
 Daniel stood by the Wolfram fountain in the square, and let the 
 purple of the setting sun shine upon him. Round about him the 
 stones and the beams of the ancient houses glowed, and the maids 
 who came with pails to fetch water at the fountain gazed with 
 astonishment into the brimming radiance of the sky. At this hour 
 his native town grew very dear to Daniel. When Jason Philip 
 entered the square, at the corner of which the stage-coach was 
 waiting, he did his best not to be seen by Daniel and avoided him 
 in a wide semi-circle. But Daniel turned around and fastened 
 his eyes on the man, who strode rapidly and gazed stubbornly 
 aside. 
 
 This thing too has happened before and will happen again. Nor 
 is it amazing that the fugitive should turn and inspire terror in 
 his pursuer. 
 
 IX 
 
 Daniel saw that he could not stay to be a burden to his mother 
 with her small resources. She was poor and dependent on the 
 judgment of a tyrannical kinsman. Mastering his passionate im- 
 pulses, he forced himself to cool reflection and made a plan. He 
 would have to work and earn so much money that after a year 
 or more he would be able to go to Andreas Doderlein and remind 
 him of his magnanimous offer. So he studied the advertisements 
 in the papers and wrote letters of application. A printer in Mann- 
 heim wanted an assistant correspondent. Since he agreed to take 
 the small wage offered, he was summoned to that city. Marian 
 gave hrm his railway fare. 
 
 He endured the torment for three months. Then it grew un- 
 bearable. For seven months he slaved for an architect in Stuttgart, 
 next four months for the municipal bath in Baden-Baden, finally 
 for six weeks in a cigarette factory in Kaiserslautern. 
 
 He lived like a dog. In terror of having to spend money, he 
 avoided all human intercourse. He was unspeakably lonely. 
 Hunger and self-denial made him as lean as a rope. His cheeks 
 grew hollow, his limbs trembled in their sockets. He patched 
 his own clothes, and to save his shoes hammered curved bits of iron
 
 H THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 to the heels and toes. His aim sustained him; Andreas Doderlein 
 beckoned in the distance. 
 
 Every night he counted the sum he had saved so far. And 
 when at last, after sixteen months of self-denial, he had a fortune 
 of two hundred marks, he thought he could risk the fateful step. 
 As he reckoned and according to his present standard of life, he. 
 thought that this money would last him five months. Within 
 that period new sources might open. He had come to know many 
 people and had experienced many circumstances, but in reality he 
 had known no one and experienced nothing, for he had stood in 
 the world like a lantern with a covered light. With an enormous 
 expenditure of energy he had restrained his mind from its native 
 activity. He had throttled it for the sake of its future. Hence 
 his whole soul had now the temperature of a blast furnace. 
 
 On his trip his fare was the accustomed one of dry bread and 
 cheese. He had made a package of his few books and his music, 
 and had despatched it in care of the railway station in Nuremberg. 
 It was early spring. In fair weather he slept in the open. When 
 it rained he took refuge in barns. A little bundle was his pillow 
 and his ragged top-coat shielded him from frost. Not rarely 
 farmers received him in kindly fashion and gave him a meal. 
 Now and then a tramping apprentice joined him. But his silence 
 did not invite companionship. 
 
 Once in the neighbourhood of Kitzingen he came upon a high 
 fenced park. Under a maple tree in the park sat a young girl in 
 a white dress reading a book. A voice called: "Sylvia!" There- 
 upon the girl arose, and with unforgettable grace of movement 
 walked deeper into the garden. 
 
 And Daniel thought: Sylvia! A sound as though from a better 
 world. He shuddered. Was it to be his lot to stand without 
 a gate of life that gave everything to the eyes and nothing to the 
 hands? 
 
 He sought out Andreas Doderlein at once. He was told that the 
 professor was not in town. Two weeks later he stood once more 
 before the old house. He was told that the professor could not be 
 seen to-day. He was discouraged. But out of loyalty to his 
 cause he returned at the end of three days and was received. 
 
 He entered an overheated room. The professor was sitting in 
 an arm chair. On his knees was his little, eight-year old daughter;
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 15 
 
 in his right arm he held a large doll. The white tiles of the 
 stove were adorned with pictured scenes from the Nibelungen 
 legend; table and chairs were littered with music scores; the 
 windows had leaded panes; in one corner there was a mass of art- 
 fully grouped objects peacocks' feathers, gay-coloured silks, 
 Chinese fans. This combination was known as a Makart bouquet, 
 and represented the taste of the period. 
 
 Doderlein put the little girl down and gave her her doll. Then 
 he drew himself up to the fulness of his gigantic stature, a process 
 that gave him obvious pleasure. His neck was so fat that his chin 
 seemed to rest on a gelatinous mass. 
 
 He seemed not to recall Daniel. Cues had to be given him to 
 distinguish this among his crowded memories. He snapped his 
 fingers. It was a sign that his mind had reached the desired place. 
 "Ah, yes, yes, yes! To be sure, to be sure, my dear young man! 
 But what do you suppose? Just now when all available space is 
 as crowded as a street strewn with crumbs is crowded with sparrows. 
 We might take the matter up again in autumn. Yes, in autumn 
 something might be done." 
 
 A pause, during which the great man gave inarticulate sounds of 
 profound regret. And was the young man, after all, so sure of a 
 genuine talent? Had he considered that art was becoming more 
 and more an idling place for the immature and the shipwrecked? 
 It was so difficult to tell the sheep from the goats. And finally, 
 granting talent, how was the young man equipped in the matter 
 of moral energy? There, indisputably, the core of the problem 
 was to be sought. Or didn't he, perhaps, think so? 
 
 As through a fog Daniel observed that the little girl had ap- 
 proached him and looked him over with a curiously cold and 
 testing glance. Almost he was impelled to stretch out his hand 
 and cover the eyes of the child, whose manner was uncanny to him 
 through some ghostly presentiment. 
 
 "I'm truly sorry that I can't give you a more encouraging out- 
 look." Andreas Doderlein's voice was oily, and showed a conscious 
 delight in its own sound. "But as I said, there's nothing to be 
 done until autumn. Suppose you leave me your address. Put it 
 down on this slip. No? Well, quite as you wish. Good-bye, 
 young man, good-bye." 
 
 Doderlein accompanied him to the door. Then he returned 
 to his daughter, took her on his knee, picked up the doll, and said: 
 "Human beings, my dear Dorothea, are a wretched set. If I were 
 to compare them to sparrows on the road, I should be doing the
 
 16 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 sparrows but little honour. Heavens and earth! Wouldn't even 
 write his name on a slip of paper. Pelt hurt! Well, well, well. 
 What funny creatures men are. Wouldn't leave his name. Well, 
 well." 
 
 He hummed the Walhalla motif, and Dorothea, bending over 
 her doll, coquettishly kissed the waxen face. 
 
 Daniel, standing in front of the house, bit his lips like a man 
 in a fever who does not want his teeth to rattle. Why, the depth 
 of his soul asked him, why did you sit in their counting-houses and 
 waste their time? Why did you crucify your body and bind my 
 wings? Why were you deaf to me and desirous of gathering 
 fruits where there are only stones? Why did you, like a coward, 
 flee from your fate to their offices and ware-houses and iron safes 
 and all their doleful business? For the sake of this hour? Poor 
 fool! 
 
 And he answered: "Never again, my soul, never again." 
 
 XI 
 
 In the beginning Marian had received a letter from Daniel 
 every now and then. These letters became rarer. During the 
 second year he wrote only once a few lines at Christmas. 
 
 At the time when he was leaving his last place of employment 
 he wrote her on a postcard that he was changing his residence again. 
 But he did not tell her that he was going to Nuremberg. So spring 
 passed and summer. Then her soul, which was wavering between 
 fear and hope, was rudely jolted out of its dim state by a letter 
 from Jason Philip. 
 
 He wrote that Daniel was loafing about in Nuremberg. Quite by 
 accident he had met him a few days before near the fair booths 
 on Schiitt Island. His appearance was indescribable. He had 
 tried to question him, but Daniel had disappeared. What had 
 brought him to the city he, Jason Philip, could not see. But he 
 was willing to wager that at the bottom of it was some shady trick, 
 for the fellow had not looked like one who earns an honest living. 
 So he proposed to Marian that she should come to Nuremberg and 
 help in a raid on the vagabond, in order to prevent the unblemished 
 name he bore from being permanently disgraced before it was too 
 late. As a contribution to her travelling expenses he enclosed five 
 marks in stamps. 
 
 Marian had received the letter at noon. She had at once locked 
 up her house and shop. At two o'clock she had reached the sta-
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 17 
 
 tion at Ansbach; at four she arrived in Nuremberg. Carrying 
 her hand-bag, she asked her way to Plobenhof Street at every 
 corner. 
 
 Theresa sat at the cashier's desk. Her brown hair on her square 
 peasant's skull was smoothly combed. Zwanziger, the freckled 
 shop-assistant, was busy unpacking books. Theresa greeted her sister 
 with apparent friendliness, but she did not leave her place. She 
 stretched out her hand across the ink-stand, and observed Marian's 
 shabby appearance the worn shawl, the old-fashioned little cloth 
 bonnet with its black velvet ribbands meeting in a bow under the 
 phin. 
 
 "Go upstairs for a bit," she said, "and let the children entertain 
 you. Rieke will bring up your bag." 
 
 "Where is your husband?" asked Marian. 
 
 "At an electors' meeting," Theresa answered morosely. "They 
 couldn't meet properly, according to him, if he isn't there." 
 
 At that moment a man in a workingman's blouse entered the 
 shop and began to talk to Theresa urgently in a soft but excited 
 voice. "I bought the set of books and they're my property," said 
 the man. "Suppose I did skip a payment. That's no reason to 
 lose my property. I call that sharp practice, Frau Schimmelweis, 
 that's what I call it." 
 
 "What did Herr Wachsmuth buy of us? " Theresa turned to the 
 shop-assistant. 
 
 "Schlosser's 'History of the World/ " was the prompt answer. 
 
 "Then you'd better read your contract," Theresa said to the work- 
 ing-man. "The terms are all fixed there." 
 
 "That's sharp practice, Frau Schimmelweis, sharp practice," the 
 man repeated, as though this phrase summed up all he could ex- 
 press in the way of withering condemnation. "A fellow like me 
 wants to get on and wants to learn something. All right. So I 
 think I'll buy me a book and get a step ahead in knowledge. So 
 where do I go? To a party member, to Comrade Schimmelweis, 
 thinking natural-like I'm safe in his hands. I pay sixty marks 
 hard earned money for a history of the world, and manage to 
 squeeze the payments out o' my wages, and then, all of a sudden, 
 when half the price is paid, I'm to have my property taken from me 
 without so much as a by your leave just because I'm two payments in 
 arrears." 
 
 "Read your contract," said Theresa. "Every point is stipulated." 
 
 "No wonder people get rich," the man went on. His voice grew 
 
 louder and louder, and he glanced angrily at Jason Philip, who at
 
 i8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 that moment rushed into the shop with his hat crushed and his 
 trousers sprinkled with mud. "No wonder that people can buy 
 houses and speculate in real estate. Yes, Schimmelweis, I call such 
 things sharp practice, and I don't give a damn for your contract. 
 Everybody knows by this time what kind of business is done here 
 more like a man-trap and that these here instalments are just a 
 scheme to squeeze the workingman dry. First you talk to him 
 about education, and then you suck his blood. It's hell!" 
 
 "Pull yourself together, Wachsmuth!" Jason Philip cried sternly. 
 
 Wachsmuth picked up his cap, and slammed the shopdoor behind 
 him. 
 
 Marian Nothafft's eyes passed mechanically over the titles of 
 a row of fiercely red pamphets spread out on a table. She read: 
 "The Battle that Decides," "Modern Slaveholders," "The Rights 
 of the Poor," "Christianity and Capitalism," "The Crimes of the 
 Bourgeoisie." Although these catch-words meant nothing to her, 
 she felt in her heart once more her old, long forgotten hatred 
 against machines. 
 
 XII 
 
 "Fetch me a sandwich, Theresa," Jason Philip commanded, "I'wi 
 hungry as a wolf." 
 
 "Didn't you eat anything at the inn?" Theresa asked suspiciously. 
 
 "I was at no such place." Jason Philip's eyes gleamed, and hfc 
 shook his head like a lion. 
 
 So Theresa went to fetch his sandwich. It was queer to observe 
 how much distrust and contradiction she was able to express through 
 the sloth of her movements. But her daughter Philippina was al- 
 ready hurrying down the stairs with the sandwich. 
 
 At this moment Jason Philip became aware of his sister-in-law. 
 "Ah, there you are, you shrinking flower," he said lightly, and 
 held out his pudgy hand. "Theresa will put you up in the little 
 room under the store-room. You have a pleasant view of the river 
 there." 
 
 Theresa handed him the bread. He sniffed at it, and frowned 
 because it wasn't thickly enough buttered. But he had not the 
 courage to complain. He bit into it, and, with full cheeks, turned 
 once more to Marian. 
 
 "Well, that son of yours has disappeared again. A nice situation. 
 Shouldn't wonder if he ended in the penitentiary. The best 
 thing would be to ship him off to America; but it isn't clear to me
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 19 
 
 how we're to get hold of him at all. It was really premature to 
 ask you to come." 
 
 "If only I knew what he's living on," Marian whispered, with 
 repressed anguish. 
 
 Jason Philip indulged with broad psychical comfort in an 
 anecdote: "I was reading the other day how a giraffe escaped from 
 the Zoo. You've heard of giraffes. They are long-necked quad- 
 rupeds, very stupid and stubborn. The silly beast had run off into 
 the woods, and the people didn't know how to capture it. Then 
 the keeper hung the stable-lantern over his chest and a bundle of 
 hay on his back, and at nightfall went into the woods. Scarcely 
 had the giraffe noticed the gleam of the lantern when it came up 
 in its curiosity. At once the man swung around. It smelled the 
 hay, nibbled, and began to feed. Slowly the man went on, and 
 the beast went on nibbling and feeding. First thing you know 
 it was back in its cage. Now don't you think that when hunger 
 begins to torment him, your Daniel could be tamed with a bit 
 of hay too? It's worth your thinking about." 
 
 Jason Philip laughed merrily, and Zwanziger grinned. His boss 
 was a source of humour. At night, when he sat in his favourite 
 tap-rooms over his beer, he would entertain his boon companions 
 with the witticisms of Schimmelweis, and always won their applause. 
 
 A lean old man with kid gloves and a top-hat entered the shop. 
 It was growing dark, and he had peered carefully about before 
 entering. He hurried up to Jason Philip, and said in a cracked 
 falsetto: "How about the new publications? Anything very fine?" 
 He rubbed his hands, and stared stupidly from under his thin, red- 
 dish lids. It was Count Schlemm-Nottheim, a cousin of the Baron 
 von Auffenberg, the leader of the liberal party. 
 
 "I'm entirely at your service, sir," said Jason Philip, holding 
 himself as rigidly as a sergeant who is being addressed by a captain. 
 
 He led the count to a corner of the shop, and opened a heavy 
 oaken chest. This chest contained the pornographic publications 
 forbidden by the state. They were sold quite secretly and only 
 to very reliable persons. 
 
 Jason Philip whispered, and the old count turned over the heap 
 of books with avid fingers. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Marian climbed up the steep, dark stairs, and rang the upstairs 
 bell. She had to tell the maid who she was and even mention her
 
 20 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 name to the children. The latter laughed at her stiff, rural cour- 
 tesy. Philippina, who was twelve, acted arrogantly and swung her 
 hips when she walked. All three had their mother's square head 
 and a cheesy complexion. 
 
 The maid brought up the bag. Then Theresa came too and 
 helped her sister unpack. With her acrid, unfeeling voice she asked 
 many questions, but without waiting for an answer told the tale of 
 marriage and births and deaths that had taken place in the city. 
 She avoided Marian's eyes, because she was silently considering how 
 long her sister's visit would last and to what expense it would put 
 her. 
 
 She did not mention Daniel, and her silence condemned him 
 more completely than her husband's acrimonious speeches. She 
 held firmly an almost religious doctrine of the complete obedience 
 which children owe their parents, and doubted Marian's power to 
 punish properly a breach of this sacred law. 
 
 When Marian was left alone, she sat down by the window of 
 the little room, and gazed sadly down at the river. Without any 
 curl of waves the yellow water glided by and washed the walls 
 of the houses on the other bank. She had a view of the Museum 
 Bridge and another bridge, and the crowding of people on the 
 bridges disquieted her. 
 
 She walked through the streets, and stopped at the head of the 
 Museum Bridge. She thought that every human being who lived 
 in the town must pass by here sooner or later. Her attentive 
 glance searched all faces, and where one escaped, she followed the 
 figure as it melted into the dark. But as it grew later the people 
 were fewer and fewer. 
 
 At night she would lie awake, and listen to the dull echo of the 
 feet of the last passerby. Next day from morning to twilight she 
 would wander up and down the streets. What she saw weighed on 
 her heart. The city people seemed to her like dumb animals, 
 tormented and angry. The narrow streets stopped her breath; the 
 hubbub deadened her senses. 
 
 But she was never tired of seeking. 
 
 On the fifth day she did not come home until ten o'clock. 
 Theresa, who had gone to bed, sent her a plate of lentil soup. 
 While she was avidly eating the soup she heard steps in the hall and 
 a knock at the door. Jason Philip entered. "Come along at once," 
 was all he said. But she understood. With trembling fingers she 
 threw a shawl across her shoulders, since the October nights were 
 growing cool, and followed him in silence.
 
 A MOTHER SEEKS HER SON 21 
 
 They went up hill to Adler Street, turned into it and then into a 
 narrow, dark little alley at the right. A lantern hung above a 
 door and on a green glass pane were inscribed the words: "The 
 Vale of Tears." A greenish light suffused the stone stairs that led 
 to the cellar, the kegs and the desolate room filled with chairs and 
 benches. A sourish smell of wine arose from the place. 
 
 Beside the entrance there was a barred window. Beside it Jason 
 Philip stopped, and beckoned Marian to join him. 
 
 At the long tables below them sat a queer crowd. They were 
 young men, but such as one never finds in ordinary houses and only 
 very rarely in the streets. Want seemed to have driven them to 
 huddle here, and the night to have lured them from their hiding 
 places shipwrecked creatures they seemed who had fled to a cavern 
 on some deserted shore. They had absurdly gay cravats and sad, 
 pallid faces, and the greenish light made them look altogether like 
 corpses. It was long since a barber had touched their hair or a 
 tailor their garb. 
 
 A little aside from these sat two old fellows, habitual topers, 
 not in the best circumstances themselves, yet rather astonished at 
 this dreary Stygian crew. For they themselves at least received 
 their weekly wage of a Saturday night, while those others had 
 obviously for years not worked at all. 
 
 But in a dusky corner sat one at a piano and struck the keys with 
 a strange might. He had no score before him, but played from 
 memory. The instrument moaned; the strings hummed pitifully; 
 the pedals creaked; but the man who played was so bewitched by 
 his music that he cared little for the inadequacy of its communi- 
 cation. Wild as the tumult of the playing sounded, the shrill and 
 raging chords, the wild clamour of the treble, the driven triplets 
 and seething tremolos of the bass, yet the deep emotion of the 
 player, the ecstasy and world-estranged madness in which he was, 
 lent the scene a melancholy and a solemnity which would have had 
 its effect even without the greenish cellar and the cavernous pallor 
 of the listeners. 
 
 Marian had at once recognised the pianist as Daniel. She had 
 to hold fast to the bars of the window and lean her knees against 
 the wainscoting. It was not for nothing that Jason Philip was 
 known as a thorough wag. The comparison to Daniel in the lion's 
 den was too much for him. He whispered the words to Marian. 
 But since the window was open and the music had first risen and 
 then, at this moment, paused, his words penetrated to the people 
 below, and several heads turned toward him. Marian was thought-
 
 22 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 less. She believed that the piece had ended. Faintly and fear- 
 fully she cried: "Daniel!" 
 
 Daniel leaped up, stared at her, saw Jason Philip's mocking face, 
 hastened to the door, the steps, and was beside them. 
 
 He stood in the doorway, and his lips began to form words. 
 The unhappy boy, she thought, and it seemed to her as though 
 power would be given her to press back to his heart the words she 
 trembled to hear. 
 
 It was in vain. The words were uttered. He did not wish to 
 see his mother any more; he was content to live alone and for him- 
 self and to be free. He needed no one. He needed only to 
 be free. 
 
 Jason Philip hurled a glance of contempt at the blasphemous 
 wretch, and drew Marian away with him. To the very corner of 
 the alley they were accompanied by the excited voices of the 
 people in the Vale of Tears. 
 
 Next morning Marian returned to Eschcnbach.
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 
 
 DANIEL had rented a room of the brushmaker Hadebusch and 
 his wife, who lived on Jacob's Square behind the church. 
 
 It was March, and a sudden cold had set in; and Frau Hadebusch 
 had a superstitious fear of coal, which she characterised as Devil's 
 dung. At the back of the yard was the wood pile, and logs were 
 brought in with which to feed the oven fires. But wood was dear, 
 and had Daniel fed his little iron stove in the garret with such 
 costly food, his monthly bill would have reached a fabulous height. 
 He paid seven marks a month for his room and counted every 
 penny so as not to shorten the period of his liberty by any needless 
 expenditure. 
 
 So he sat freezing over his books and scores until the first warmth 
 of spring stole in through the windows. The books he borrowed 
 from the library at the King's Gate, and paid six pfennigs a 
 volume. Achim von Arnim and Jean Paul were his guides in those 
 days: the one adorned the world of the senses for him, the other 
 that of the soul. 
 
 On the police department's identification blank Daniel had called 
 himself a musician. Frau Hadebusch brought the paper into her 
 living room, which, like all the rooms of the house, seemed built 
 for dwarfs and reeked of limewater and lye. It was at the day's 
 end, and in the room were assembled Herr Francke and Herr 
 Benjamin Dorn, who lodged on the second floor, and Frau Hade- 
 busch's son, who was weak-minded and crouched grinning beside 
 the stove. 
 
 Herr Francke was a town traveller for a cigar house, and was 
 regarded as a good deal of a Don Juan by the female servants of 
 the neighbourhood. Benjamin Dorn was a clerk in the Prudentia 
 Life Insurance Company, belonged to a Methodist congregation, and 
 was respected by all the respectable on account of his Christian walk 
 and conversation. 
 
 These gentlemen examined the document thoroughly and with 
 frowns. Herr Francke gave it as his opinion that a musician who 
 never made music could scarcely be regarded as one. 
 
 23
 
 24 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "He's probably pawned his bass violin or bugle or whatever he 
 was taught," he said contemptuously ; "perhaps he can only beat 
 a drum. Well, I can do that too if I have one." 
 
 "Yes, you've got to have a drum to be a drummer," Benjamin 
 Dorn remarked. "The question, however, is whether such a call- 
 ing is in harmony with the principles of Christian modesty." He 
 laid his finger on his nose, and added: "It is a question which, with 
 all proper humility, all proper humility, you understand, I would 
 answer in the negative." 
 
 "He hasn't any relatives and no acquaintances at all," Frau 
 Hadesbusch wailed, and her voice sounded like the scraping of 
 carrots on a grater; "and no employment and no prospects and no 
 boots or clothes but what he's got on. In all my life I haven't 
 had no such lodger." 
 
 The blank fluttered to the floor, whence the weak-minded Hade- 
 tmsch Jr. picked it up, rolled it in the shape of a bag, and applied 
 that bag, trumpet-like, to his lips, a procedure which caused the 
 document in question to be gradually soaked through and thus 
 withdrawn from its official uses. Frau Hadebusch was too little 
 concerned over the police regulations to take further thought of 
 her duties as the keeper of a lodging house. 
 
 Herr Francke drew from his pocket a pack of greasy cards and 
 began to shuffle them. Frau Hadebusch giggled and it sounded like 
 a witch rustling in the fire. The Methodist conquered his pious 
 scruples, and placed his pfennigs on the table; the town-traveller 
 turned up his sleeves as though he were about to wring a hen's 
 neck. 
 
 Before very long there arose a dissonant controversy, since Herr 
 Francke's relations with the goddess of fortune were strained and 
 violent. The old brushmaker poked his head in at the door and 
 cursed; the weak-minded boy blew dreamily on his paper trumpet; 
 and the company that had been so peacefully at one separated in 
 violence and rage. 
 
 Daniel wandered up to the castle, along the walls, over the 
 bridges and planks. 
 
 It was his youth that caused him so to love the night that he 
 forgot all men and seemed to himself to be alone on earth. It was 
 his youth that delivered him up to things with such passion that
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 25 
 
 he was able to weave the ghostly flowers of melodies about all 
 that is visible melodies that were so delicate, so eloquent, and so 
 winged that no pen could ever record them. They vanished and 
 died whenever he sought to capture them. 
 
 But it was also his youth that fired his eyes with hatred when 
 he saw the comfort of lit windows, and filled his heart with bitter- 
 ness against the satisfied, the indifferent, the strangers, the eternal 
 strangers who had no consciousness of him. 
 
 He was so small and so great: small in the eyes of the world, 
 great in his own estimation. When the tones burst from him like 
 sparks from an anvil, he was a god. When he stood in the dark 
 court behind the City Theatre waiting for the final chorus of 
 "Fidelio" to penetrate the wall and reach his grateful ears, he was 
 an outcast. Fountains of music rustled all about him. He looked 
 into the eyes of the children and there was melody; he gazed up at 
 the stars and there was harmony. He finally came to the point 
 where there was no limit. His day was a waste place, his brain 
 a parched field in the rain, his thoughts were birds of passage, his 
 dreams a super-life. 
 
 He lived on bread and fruit, treating himself only every third 
 day to a warm meal in the inn at the sign of the White Tower. 
 There he would sit and listen at times, unobserved, to the quite 
 remarkable conversation of some young fellows. This awakened 
 in him a longing for intercourse with congenial companions. But 
 when the brethren of the Vale of Tears finally took him into 
 their circle, he was like a Robinson Crusoe or a Selkirk who had 
 been abducted from his island. 
 
 HI 
 
 Benjamin Dorn was a compassionate individual. The desire to 
 save a lost soul filled him with the courage to pay Daniel Nothafft 
 a visit. He hobbled up the creaky steps with his club-foot, and 
 knocked timidly at the door. 
 
 "Can I be of service to you, Sir, in a Christian way?" he asked, 
 after he had blown his nose. 
 
 Daniel looked at him in amazement. 
 
 "You know, I could help you in an unselfish, Christian way, 
 to get a position. There is a great deal of work to be done down 
 at the Prudentia. If I were to recommend you to Herr Zittel 
 it certainly would not be in vain. Herr Zittel is head of the
 
 26 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 clerical department. I also stand in with Herr Diruf, and he is 
 general agent. I come in contact nearly every day with Inspector 
 Jordan, and Herr Jordan is a man of exceptional culture. His 
 daughter Gertrude attended my Sunday-school class. She has 
 received and still enjoys divine favour. If you were to entrust 
 your case to me, you would be entering upon a righteous, whole- 
 some career. I am always looking out for some one. To tell the 
 truth, and not wishing to appear immodest, I was born that way." 
 
 The man looked like a patchwork of qualmishness, tribulation, 
 and unctuous piety, and his coat collar was badly frayed. 
 
 "That's all right," replied Daniel; "don't you see that I am 
 getting along quite well?" 
 
 The pious life-insurance agent sighed and brushed a drop from 
 the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. "My dear Sir," 
 said he, "take to heart the words of Solomon: Pride goeth before 
 a fall, but the humble in spirit obtain honour." 
 
 "Yes, I'll take that to heart," said Daniel drily, and bent still 
 lower over the score on which he was working. 
 
 Benjamin Dorn sighed again, and limped out of the room. 
 With his thumbs pointing straight to high heaven above, he said to 
 Frau Hadebusch: "You know, Frau Hadebusch, I simply can't help 
 it. I must lighten my heart in a Christian way. What do you 
 think?" 
 
 "Good heavens, what's he doing? What's he up to now?" 
 sighed the old lady, as she shoved her broom under her arm. 
 
 "As true as I stand here, the table is all covered with papers, 
 and the papers are all covered with some kind of mysterious 
 signs." 
 
 Alarmed at the very thought of having a lodger up in the attic 
 who was practising black magic, Frau Hadebusch sent her husband 
 down to the district policeman. This enlightened official declared 
 that the brush-maker was a gossip. Vexed at this unanticipated 
 description of himself, the brush-maker went straightway to the 
 inn at the sign of the Horse and got drunk, so drunk that Ben- 
 jamin Dorn had to take him home. It was a beautiful moonlit 
 night. 
 
 IV 
 
 Not far from Hadebusch's was a little cafe known as The Para- 
 dise. Everything in it was diminutive, the proprietor, the waitress, 
 the tables, the chairs and the portions. There the brethren from
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 27 
 
 the Vale of Tears assembled to drag the gods down into the dust 
 and destroy the universe in general. 
 
 Daniel wended his way thither. He knew the liliputian 
 room and the starved faces. He was personally acquainted with 
 the painter who never painted, the writer who never wrote, the 
 student who never studied, and the inventor who never invented 
 anything. He knew all about the sculptor who squandered such 
 talents as he may have had in tinkering with plaster casts, the 
 actor who had been on a leave of absence for years, and the half 
 dozen mendicant Philistines who came here day after day to have 
 a good time in their own repelling fashion. He knew the young 
 Baron von Auffenberg who had broken with his family for reasons 
 that were clear to no one but himself. He knew Herr Carovius, 
 who invariably played the role of the observer, and who sat there 
 in a sort of mysterious fashion, smiling to himself a smile of lan- 
 guishing irony, and stroking his hand over his long hair, which 
 was cut straight across at the back of his neck. 
 
 He knew, ah, he knew by heart, the grease spots on the walls 
 that had been rubbed in by the heads of the habitues, the indelible 
 splotches on the tables, the hartshorn buttons on the proprietor's 
 vest, and the smoke-coloured curtains draped about the tiny win- 
 dows. The loud, boisterous talking, the daily repetition of the 
 same hackneyed remarks, the anarchistic swashbuckling of the 
 painter whom his comrades had dubbed Kropotkin all of these 
 were familiar stories to him. He knew the philosophic cynicism 
 of the student who felt that he was the Socrates of the nineteenth 
 century, and who looked back on twenty-five wasted semesters as 
 on so many battles fought and won. 
 
 The most interesting personage was Herr Carovius. He was a 
 well-read man. That he knew a great deal about music was plain 
 from many of his chance remarks. He was a brother-in-law of 
 Andreas Doderlein, though he seemed to take anything but pride 
 in the relationship. If any one mentioned Doderlein's name in his 
 presence, he screwed up his face, and began to shuffle about uneasily 
 on his chair. He was an unfathomable, impenetrable personality. 
 Even if his years* he was forty-five had not won for him a 
 measure of esteem, the malicious and mordant scorn he heaped on 
 his fellow-men would have done so. People said he had a good 
 deal of money. If this was brought to his attention, he employed 
 the most ghastly oaths in asserting his poverty. But since he had 
 neither calling nor profession and spent his days in unqualified 
 idleness, it was apparent that his assertions on this point were
 
 28 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 wholly unfounded, and this despite the virility of his unconven- 
 tional language. 
 
 "Say, tell me, who is that lanky quack there?" asked Herr 
 Carovius, pointing to Daniel and looking at Schwalbe the sculptor. 
 He had known Daniel for a long while, but every now and then 
 it gave him a peculiar kind of pleasure to play the role of the 
 newcomer. 
 
 The sculptor looked at him indignantly. 
 
 "That is a man who still has faith in himself," he remarked 
 rather morosely. "He is a man who has bathed in the dragon 
 blood of illusions, and has become as invulnerable as Young Sieg- 
 fried. He is convinced that the people who sleep in the houses 
 around this part of town dream of his future greatness, and have 
 already placed an order with the green-grocer for his laurel wreath. 
 He has not the faintest idea that the only thing that is sacred to 
 them is their midday meal, that they are ready to drink their beer 
 at the first stroke of the gong, and to yawn when the light appears 
 Tin Mount Sinai. He is completely taken up with himself; he is 
 sufficient unto himself; and he gathers honey. The bee will have 
 its honey, and if it is unable to get it from the flowers, it buzzes 
 about the dung heap. As is evidently the case here. Prosit 
 NothafFt," he said in conclusion, and lifted his glass to Daniel. 
 
 Herr Carovius smiled in his usual languishing fashion. "Not- 
 hafTt," he bleated, "Nothafft, Nothafft, that is a fine name, but 
 not exactly one that is predestined to a niche in Walhalla. It 
 strikes me as being rather more appropriate for the sign of a tailor. 
 Good Lord! The bones the young people gnaw at to-day were 
 covered with meat in my time." 
 
 And then, clasping his glasses a bit firmer onto his nose, he 
 riveted his blinking, squinting eyes on the door. Eberhard von 
 AufFenberg, elegant, slender, and disgruntled, entered to find life 
 where others were throwing it away. 
 
 It was far into the night when the brethren went home. As they 
 passed along through the streets they bellowed their nocturnal 
 serenades at the windows of the otherwise peaceful houses. 
 
 As the hilarious laughter and vocal rowdyism reached Daniel's 
 ear, he detected from out of the hubbub a gentle voice in E-flat 
 minor, accompanied by the inexorable eighth-notes sung with 
 impressive vigour. Then the voice died away in a solemn E-flat 
 major chord, and everything was as if sunk in the bottom of 
 the sea.
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 29 
 
 Toward the end of the summer, Philippina, Jason Philip's 
 daughter, shot out the eye of her seven-year-old brother with a 
 so-called bean-shooter. 
 
 The children were playing in the yard. Willibald, the older 
 boy, wanted the shooter. Philippina, who had not the slightest 
 sense of humour, snatched it from his hands, placed the stone on 
 the elastic band and let it fly with all her might. Little Marcus 
 ran in front of it. It was all over in a jiffy. A heart-rending 
 scream caused the frightened mother to leave the shop and run 
 out into the yard. She found the child lying on the ground con- 
 vulsed with pain. While Theresa carried the boy into the house, 
 Jason Philip ran for the doctor. But it was too late; the eye 
 was lost. 
 
 Philippina hid. After considerable search her father found her 
 under rhe cellar steps. He beat her so mercilessly that the neigh- 
 bours had to oome up and take him away. 
 
 Little Marcus was Theresa's favourite child. She could not 
 get over the accident. The obsession that had slumbered in her 
 soul for years now became more persistent than ever: she began 
 to brood over guilt in general and this case in particular. 
 
 At times she would get up in the night, light a candle, and 
 walk about the house in her stocking feet. She would look behind 
 the stove and under the table, and then crouch down with her ear 
 against the maid's door. She would examine the mouse-trap and 
 if a mouse had been caught in it, she could not, try as she might, 
 completely detach her own unrest from the mental disturbance of 
 the little beast. 
 
 One day Jason Philip was stopped on the street by a well- 
 known cabinet-maker and asked whether he had any old furniture 
 for sale. Jason Philip replied that he was not at all familiar with 
 the contents of the attic and sent him to Theresa. Theresa recalled 
 that there was an old desk up in the attic that had been standing 
 there for years. She suggested that they might be willing to 
 dispose of this for a few taler, and accompanied the man to the 
 room where the worn-out furniture was stored. 
 
 She opened the little wooden door. The cabinet-maker caught 
 sight at once of the desk. It had only three legs and was just 
 about ready to fall to pieces. "I can't make you an offer for 
 that." said the cabinet-maker, and began to rap on it here and
 
 30 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 there, somewhat as a physician might sound a corpse. "The most 
 I can offer you is twelve groschen." 
 
 They haggled for a while, and finally agreed on sixteen. The 
 man left at once, having promised to send one of his men up in 
 the afternoon to get the desk. Theresa was already standing on 
 the steps, when it occurred to her that it might be well to go 
 through the drawers before letting the thing get out of the house: 
 there might be some old documents in them. She went back up in 
 the attic. 
 
 In the dust of one of the drawers she found, sure enough, a 
 bundle of papers, and among them the receipt which Gottfried 
 Nothafft had sent back to Jason Philip ten years before. She read 
 in the indistinct light the confidential words of the deceased. She 
 saw that Jason Philip had received three thousand taler. 
 
 After she had read this, she crumpled up the paper. Then she 
 put it into her apron pocket and screamed out: "Be gone, Gott- 
 fried, be gone!" 
 
 She went down stairs into the kitchen. There she took her 
 place by the table and stirred a mixture of flour and eggs, as com- 
 pletely absent-minded as it is possible for one to become who 
 spends her time in that part of the house. Rieke, the maid, became 
 so alarmed at her behaviour that she made the sign of the cross. 
 
 When the midday meal was over, the children left the table 
 and prepared to go to school. Jason Philip lighted a cigar, and 
 took the newspaper from his pocket. 
 
 "Did you find anything for the second-hand furniture man?" 
 he asked, as he puffed away. 
 
 "I found something for him and something for myself," she 
 said. 
 
 "What do you mean? You found something for yourself?" 
 
 "What do I mean? I mean just what I said. I have always 
 known that there was something crooked about that money." 
 
 "What money are you talking about? Listen, don't speak to 
 me in riddles! When you have anything to say to me, say it. 
 Do you understand?" 
 
 "I mean Gottfried Nothafft's money, Jason Philip," said 
 Theresa, almost in a whisper. 
 
 Jason Philip bent over the table. "Then you have at last 
 found the old receipt, have you?" he asked with wide-opened eyes.
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 31 
 
 "Ahem! You have found the receipt that I've been looking for 
 for years ... ? " 
 
 Theresa nodded. She took out a hairpin, and stuck it in a 
 crust of bread. Jason Philip got up, clasped his hands behind his 
 back, and began to walk back and forth. Just then Rieke came in 
 and began to clear off the table. She went about her business in 
 a slow but noisy fashion. She made things rattle, even if she 
 could not make them hum. When she was through, Jason Philip, 
 his hands pressed to his hips, his elbows protruding, planted him- 
 self before Theresa. 
 
 "I suppose you think I am going to let you browbeat me," he 
 began. "Well, my dear woman, you're mistaken. Listen! Are 
 you angry at me because I have created for you and your children 
 a dignified existence? Do you take it amiss of me for having 
 kept your sister from going to the poor-house? You act as though 
 I had won that much money at the county fair, or had squandered 
 an equal amount at the same place. The truth is, Gottfried Not- 
 hafft entrusted me with three thousand taler. That's what he 
 did; that's the truth. It was his intention to keep the whole affair 
 from the chatter of women. And he willed that I should use 
 this hard-earned capital in a productive way, and not give it to the 
 culprit who would waste it in debauchery and worse if possible." 
 
 "Ill-gotten goods seldom prosper," said Theresa, without looking 
 up. "Things may go along all right for ten years, and that seems 
 like a long time, but the vengeance of Heaven comes in the 
 eleventh, as it has already come in the case of little Marcus." 
 
 "Theresa you're talking like a mad woman," said Jason Philip 
 at the top of his voice. With that he picked up a chair, and threw 
 it on the floor so violently that every cup, spoon, and plate in the 
 room shook. 
 
 Theresa turned her peasant face toward him without the shadow 
 of a trace of fear. He was a trifle alarmed: "You'll have to be 
 responsible, if you can, for any misfortune that visits us in the 
 future." She spoke these words with a deep voice. 
 
 "Do you think I am a bandit?" said Jason Philip. "Do you 
 think I want to pocket the money? Don't you think that I am 
 capable of anything better or higher than that? Or is ambition 
 of any sort quite beyond your powers of comprehension?" 
 
 "Well, what ambitions do you have?" asked Theresa in a tone 
 of sullenness, her eyes in the meantime blinking. 
 
 "Listen," Jason Philip continued, as he sat down on the chair 
 he had so violently abused a minute before, and assumed the air
 
 32 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of a teacher: "The culprit has got to submit, and that with good 
 grace. He has got to fall on his knees before me. And he'll 
 come to it. I have made some inquiries; I am on his tracks; and 
 I know that he has just about reached the end of his rope. He'll 
 come, depend upon it he'll come around, and when he does he 
 will whine. Then I am going to take him into the business. In 
 this way we will see whether it is humanly possible to make a useful 
 man out of him. If I can, and if he sticks, I'll call him into the 
 office, tell him the whole story, make everything as clear as day 
 to him, and then offer to take him in as a partner in the firm. You 
 have got to admit that he will be a made man if he becomes my 
 partner. He will have sense enough himself to see this, and as 
 sure as you are living, he will first kiss my hand and then eat 
 out of it for the kindness I have shown him. And once this has 
 all been put through, I will bind him to us more firmly than ever 
 by having him marry Philippina." 
 
 A wry smile disfigured Theresa's face. "I see, so, so," she 
 said in a sing-song tone. "You will have him marry Philippina. 
 I take it that you feel that she will be hard to marry, and that the 
 man who does marry her will have his hands full. Well, that's 
 not a bad idea." 
 
 "In this way," continued Jason Philip, without detecting the 
 scorn in Theresa's words, "the account between the culprit and 
 myself will be settled. He will become a decent member of 
 society, the money will remain in the family, and Philippina 
 will be cared for." 
 
 "And suppose he does not come; suppose he does not fall on 
 his knees; suppose you have made a miscalculation. What then?" 
 Whether Jason Philip himself believed what he had said Theresa 
 could not determine. Nor had she the slightest desire to enlighten 
 herself on this point. She did not look him in the face, but 
 contented herself with letting her eyes rest on his hands. 
 
 "Well there will be time then to change my plans," said Jason 
 Philip, in a tone of peeved vexation. "Leave it to me. I have 
 turned the whole situation over in my mind; I have omitted not 
 the slightest detail. I know men, and I have never made a mis- 
 take in judging them. Mahlzeitl" 
 
 With that he went out. 
 
 Theresa remained seated for a while, her arms folded across 
 her breast. Then she got up, and walked over to the door that 
 opened on to the court. Suddenly she stopped as if rooted to the 
 sill: she caught sight of Philippina, who was then sitting by the
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 33 
 
 window mending a pair of socks. On her face there was an expres- 
 sion of naivete that may be harmless in itself, but it was enough 
 to arouse suspicion. 
 
 "What's the matter with you, why didn't you go to school?" 
 asked Theresa uneasily. 
 
 "I couldn't; I had a headache," said Philippina curtly, and 
 broke the thread as she gave a hasty jerk at the needle. Her dis- 
 hevelled hair hung down over her forehead and quite concealed 
 her face. 
 
 Theresa was silent. Her gloom-laden eyes rested on the diligent 
 fingers of Philippina. It was easy to suspect that the girl had 
 heard everything Jason Philip had said, for he had such a loud 
 voice. She could have done this without going to the trouble of 
 listening at the door. Theresa was minded to give the girl a 
 talking-to; but she controlled herself, and quietly withdrew. 
 
 Philippina looked straight through her as she left. But she did 
 not interrupt her work, and in a short while she could be heard 
 humming a tune to herself. There was a challenge in her voice. 
 
 VII 
 
 Daniel's money was about at an end. The new sources on 
 which he had hoped to be able to draw were nowhere to be dis- 
 covered. He defiantly closed the doors against care; and when 
 fear showed its gloomy face, he shut up shop, and went out to 
 drown his sorrows with the brethren of the Vale of Tears. 
 
 Schwalbe, the sculptor, had made the acquaintance of Zingarella, 
 then engaged in singing lascivious couplets at the Academy, and 
 invited the fellows to join him. 
 
 The Academy was a theatre of the lowest description. Smoking 
 was, of course, permitted. When they arrived the performance 
 was over. People were still sitting at many of the tables. Reeking 
 as the auditorium was with the stench of stale beer, it left the 
 impression of a dark, dank cavern. 
 
 With an indifference that seemed to argue that Zingarella made 
 no distinction between chairs and people, she took her seat between 
 the sculptor and the writer. She laughed, and yet it was not 
 laughter; she spoke, and her words were empty; she stretched out 
 her hands, and the gesture was lifeless. She fixed her eyes on 
 no one; she merely gazed about. She had a habit of shaking her 
 bracelet in a way that aroused sympathy. And after making a 
 lewd remark she would turn her head to one side, and thereby
 
 34 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 stagger even the most hardened frequenter of this sort of places. 
 Her complexion had been ruined by rouge, but underneath the 
 skin there was something that glimmered like water under thin ice. 
 
 The former winsomeness of her lips was still traceable in the 
 sorrowed curves of her now ravaged mouth. 
 
 At times her restless eyes, seeking whom they might entangle, 
 were fixed on Daniel, then sitting quite alone at the lower end 
 of the table. In order to avoid the unpleasant sensation associated 
 with the thought of going up to such a distinguished-looking person 
 and making herself known to him, she would have been grateful 
 had some one picked her up and thrown her bodily at his feet. 
 There was an element of strangeness about him. Zingarella saw 
 that he had had nothing to do with women of her kind. This 
 tortured her; she gnashed her teeth. 
 
 Daniel did not sense her hatred. As he looked into her face, 
 marked with a life of transgression and already claimed by fate, 
 he built up in his own soul a picture of inimitable chastity. He 
 tried to see the playmate of a god. The curtain decorated with 
 the distorted face of a harlequin, the acrobat and the dog trainer 
 at the adjacent table, who were quarrelling over their money, the 
 four half-grown gamblers directly behind him, the big fat woman 
 who was lying stretched out on a bench with a red handkerchief 
 over her face and trying to sleep, the writer who slandered other 
 writers, the inventor who discoursed so volubly and incessantly 
 on perpetual motion to all of this he paid not the slightest bit of 
 attention. For him it could just as well have been in the bottom 
 of the sea. He got up and left. 
 
 But as he saw the snow-covered streets before him and was 
 unable to decide whether he should go home or not, Zingarella 
 stepped up to him. "Come, be quick, before they see that we are 
 together," she whispered. And thus they walked along like two 
 fugitives, whose information concerning each other stops short with 
 the certainty that both are poor and wretched and are making their 
 way through a snow storm. 
 
 "What is your name?" asked Daniel. 
 
 "My name is Anna Siebert." 
 
 The clock in the St. Lorenz Church struck three. The one 
 up in the tower of St. Sebaldus corroborated this reckoning by also 
 striking three and in much deeper tones. 
 
 They came to an old house, and after floundering through a 
 long, dark, ill-smelling passage way, entered a room in the base- 
 ment. Anna Siebert lighted a lamp that had a red chimney.
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 35 
 
 Gaudy garments of the soubrette hung on the wall. A big, grey 
 cat lay on the table cover and purred. Anna Siebert took the cat 
 in her arms and caressed it. Its name was Zephyr. It accompanied 
 her wherever she went. 
 
 Daniel threw himseli on a chair and looked at the lamp. Zin- 
 garella, standing before the mirror, stroked the cat. Gazing dis- 
 tractedly into space, she remarked that the manager had discharged 
 her because the public was no longer satisfied with her work. 
 
 "Is this what you call the public?" asked Daniel, who never 
 once took his eyes from the lamp, just as Anna Siebert kept hers 
 rigidly fixed on the desolate distances of the mirror. "These 
 fathers of families who side-step every now and then, these counter- 
 jumpers, the mere looks of whom is enough to snatch your clothing 
 from your body, this human filth at the sight of which God must 
 conceal His face in shame this is what you call the public?" 
 
 "Well, however that may be," Anna Siebert continued in a 
 colourless voice, "the manager rushed into my dressing room, threw 
 the contract at my feet, and said I had swindled him. How on 
 earth could I have swindled him? I am no prima donna and my 
 agent had told him so. You can't expect a Patti on twenty marks 
 a week. In Elberfeld I got twenty-five, and a year ago in Zurich 
 I even drew sixty. Now he comes to me and says he doesn't need 
 to pay me anything. What am I to live off of? And you've got 
 to live, haven't you, Zephyr," said Anna as she picked up the cat, 
 pressed its warm fur to her cheek, and repeated, "You've got to 
 live." 
 
 She let her arms fall to her sides, the cat sprang on the floor, 
 hunched up its back, wagged its tail, and purred. She then went 
 up to Daniel, fell on her knees, and laid her head on his side. 
 "I have reached the end," she murmured in a scarcely audible 
 voice, "I am at the end of all things." 
 
 The snow beat against the window panes. With an expression 
 on his face as though his own thoughts were murdering each other, 
 Daniel looked into the corner from which Zephyr's yellowish eyes 
 were shining. The muscles of his face twitched like a fish on being 
 taken from the hook. 
 
 And as he cowered in this fashion, the poor girl pressed against 
 his body, his shoulders lowered, past visions again arose from the 
 depths of the sea. First he heard a ravishing arpeggio in A-flat major 
 and above it, a majestic theme, commanding quiet, as it were, in 
 sixteenth triads. The two blended, in forte, with a powerful 
 chord of sevens. There was a struggling, a separating, a wandering
 
 36 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 on, and out of the subdued pianissimo there arose and floated in 
 space a gentle voice in E-flat minor. O voice from the sea, O 
 humanity on earth! The eighth note, unpitiable as ever in its 
 elemental power, cut into the bass with the strength that moves 
 and burrows as it advances, until it was caught up by the redeemed 
 voice in E-flat major. And now everything suddenly became real. 
 What had formerly been clouds and dreams, longing and wishing, 
 at last took shape and form and stood before him. Indeed he him- 
 self became true, real, and conscious of his existence in a world of 
 actualities. 
 
 On his way home he covered his face with his hands, for the 
 windows of the houses gaped at him like the hollow eyes of a 
 demi-monde. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Zingarella could not imagine why the strange man had left. He 
 seemed to be quite indifferent. Her heart beat with numerical 
 accuracy, but there was no strength in the beats. The sole creature 
 through which she was bound to the world was Zephyr. 
 
 Night followed night, day followed day. Each was like the 
 preceding. She spoke when people took enough trouble to speak 
 to her. She laughed when they had the incomprehensible desire 
 to hear laughter. To-day she wrapped this dress around her shiv- 
 ering body, to-morrow another. She waited for the time to come 
 when she was to do something definite. She lay in bed and 
 dreaded the darkness; she pondered on the injustice of the world; 
 she thought of her own disgrace, and reflected on the need that 
 surrounded her. It was too much for her to bear. 
 
 A man would come, and at daylight he would leave and mingle 
 with the rest of the people on the street. When she awoke she 
 could no longer recall what he looked like. The landlady would 
 bring in soup and meat. Then some one knocked at the door; but 
 she did not open it. She had no desire to find out who it was. 
 Perhaps it was the man who had been with her the night before; 
 perhaps it was another. 
 
 She had neither curiosity nor hope. Her soul had dissolved 
 like a piece of salt in water. When she returned home on the 
 third day she found Zephyr lying by the coal-scuttle dead. She 
 knelt down, touched the cold fur, wrinkled her brow, shook her 
 bracelet, and went out. 
 
 It was getting along toward night, and the air was heavy with
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 37 
 
 mist. She went first through lighted streets, and then turned into 
 others that were not lighted. She passed through avenues of 
 leafless trees, and walked across silent squares. The snow made 
 walking difficult. When it was too deep, she was obliged to stop 
 every now and then and take a deep breath. 
 
 She reached the river at a point where the shore was quite flat 
 and the water shallow. Without thinking for a moment, without 
 a moment's hesitation, just as if she were blind, or as if she saw 
 a bridge where there was none, she walked in. 
 
 First she felt the water trickling into her shoes. Then she could 
 feel her legs getting wet, as her clothes, soft, slippery, and ice-cold, 
 clung to her body. Now her breast was under the water, and 
 now her neck. She sank down, glided away, took one deep breath, 
 smiled, and as she smiled she lost consciousness. 
 
 The next day her body was washed up on the shore some dis- 
 tance beyond the city. It was taken to the morgue of the Rochus 
 Cemetery. 
 
 IX 
 
 Schwalbe, the sculptor, was attending a funeral. His nephew 
 had died, and was being buried in the same cemetery. 
 
 As he passed by the morgue he caught sight of the body of a 
 girl. After the child had been buried he went back to the morgue. 
 A few people were standing near the body, one of whom said, 
 "She was a singer down at the Academy." 
 
 Schwalbe was struck by the pure and beautiful expression on the 
 girl's face. He studied it long and with no little emotion. Then 
 he went to the superintendent, and asked if he might take a death 
 mask. The permission was given him, and in a few hours he 
 returned with the necessary implements. 
 
 When he removed the mask from the face, he held something 
 truly wonderful in his hands. It showed the features of a 
 sixteen-year-old girl, a face full at once of sweetness and melan- 
 choly, and, most charming of all, an angelic smile on the curved 
 lips of this mouth of sorrow. It resembled the work of a 
 renowned artist, so much so that the sculptor was suddenly seized 
 with a burning desire to regain his lost art. 
 
 He was nevertheless obliged within a week to sell the mask 
 to the caster by whom he was employed in Pfannenschmied Street. 
 Schwalbe needed ready money. The caster hung the mask by the 
 door at the entrance to his shop.
 
 38 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 At the end of December Daniel found himself with not a cent 
 of cash, so that he was obliged to sell his sole remaining treasure, 
 the score of the Bach mass in B-minor. Spindler had presented 
 it to him when he left, and now he had to take it to the second- 
 hand dealer and part with it for a mere pittance. 
 
 Unless he cared to lie in bed the whole day, he was obliged to 
 walk the streets in order to keep warm. His poverty made it out 
 of the question for him to go to any of the cafes, and so he was 
 excluded from association with the brethren of the Vale of Tears. 
 He had moreover taken a violent dislike to them. 
 
 One evening he was standing out in front of the Church of 
 /Egydius, listening to the organ that some one was playing. The 
 icy wind blew through his thin clothing. When the concert was 
 over he went down to the square, and leaned up against the wall 
 of one of the houses. He was tremendously lonesome; he was 
 lonely beyond words. 
 
 Just then two men came along who wished to enter the very 
 house against the wall of which he leaned. He was cold. One 
 of these men was Benjamin Dorn, the other was Jordan. Benja- 
 min Dorn spoke to him; Jordan stood by in silence, apparently 
 quite appreciative of the condition in which the young man found 
 himself, as he stood there in the cold and made unfriendly replies 
 to the questions that were put to him. Jordan invited Daniel up 
 to his room. Daniel, chilled to the very marrow of his bones, and 
 able to visualise nothing but a warm stove, accepted the invitation. 
 
 Thus Daniel came in contact with Jordan's family. He had 
 three children: Gertrude, aged nineteen, Eleanore, aged sixteen, 
 and Bcnno, fifteen years old and still a student at the gymnasium. 
 His wife was dead. 
 
 Gertrude was said to be a pietist. She went to church every 
 day, and had an inclination toward the Catholic religion, a fact 
 which gave Jordan, as an inveterate Protestant, no little worry. 
 During the day she looked after the house; but as soon as she had 
 everything in order, she would take her place by the quilting 
 frame and work on crowns of thorns, hearts run through with 
 swords, and languishing angels for a mission. There she would 
 sit, hour after hour, with bowed head and knit. 
 
 The first time Daniel saw her she had on a Nile green dress, 
 fastened about her hips with a girdle of scales, while her wavy 
 brown hair hung loose over her shoulders. It was in this make-up
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 39 
 
 that he always saw her when he thought of her years after: Nile 
 green dress, bowed head, sitting at the quilting frame, and quite 
 unaware of his presence, a picture of unamiability, conscious or 
 affected. 
 
 Eleanore was entirely different. She was like a lamp carried 
 through a dark room. 
 
 For some time she had been employed in the offices of the Pru- 
 dentia, for she wished to make her own living. So far as it was 
 humanly possible to determine from her casual remarks, she thor- 
 oughly enjoyed her work. She liked to make out receipts for 
 premiums, lick stamps, copy letters, and see so many people come 
 in and go out. Stout old Diruf and lanky Zittel did everything 
 they could to keep her interested, and if, despite their efforts, it 
 was seen that a morose mood was invading her otherwise cheerful 
 disposition, they took her out to the merry-go-round, and in a 
 short time her wonted buoyancy had returned. 
 
 She seemed like a child, and yet she was every inch a woman. 
 She insisted on wearing her little felt cap at a jaunty angle on her 
 blond hair. When she entered the room, the atmosphere in it 
 underwent a change; it was easier to breathe; it was fresher. 
 People somehow disapproved of the fact that her eyes were so 
 radiantly blue, and that her two rows of perfect white teeth were 
 constantly shining from out between her soft, peach-like lips. 
 They said she was light-hearted; they said she was a butterfly. 
 Benjamin Dorn was of the opinion that she was a creature possessed 
 of the devil of sensuality and finding her completest satisfaction 
 in earthly finery and frippery. For some time there had been an 
 affair of an intimate nature between her and Baron von Auffenberg. 
 Just what it was no one knew precisely; the facts were not obtain- 
 able. But Benjamin Dorn, experienced ferreter that he was, 
 could not see two people of different sexes together without imagin- 
 ing that he was an accomplice in the hereditary sin of human kind. 
 And one day he caught Eleanore alone in the company of Baron 
 von Auffenberg. From that day on she was, in his estimation, a 
 lost soul. 
 
 The fact concerning Eleanore was this: life never came very 
 close to her. It comes right up to other people, strangles them, 
 or drags them along with it. It kept its distance from Eleanore, 
 for she lived in a glass case. If she had sorrow of any kind, if 
 some painfully indeterminable sensation was gnawing at her soul, 
 if the vulgarity and banality of a base and disjointed world came 
 her way, the glass case in which she lived simply became more
 
 40 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 spacious than ever, and the things or thoughts that swarmed around 
 it more and more incomprehensible. 
 
 One can always laugh if one lives in a glass case. Even bad 
 dreams remain on the outside. Even longing becomes nothing 
 more than a purple breath which clouds the crystal from without, 
 not from within. 
 
 The people were quite right in saying that Jordan was bringing 
 up his daughters like princesses. Both were far removed from the 
 customary things of life: the one was translated to the realm of 
 darkness, the other to that of light. 
 
 Daniel saw both of them. They were just as strange to him as 
 he to them. He saw the brother, too, a tall, glib, dapper youth. 
 He saw the old house with its dilapidated stairs, its rooms filled 
 with cumbersome, provincial furniture. He saw the alternating 
 currents of life in this family: there was now rest, now unrest, 
 now quiet, now storm. Life flowed out from the house, and then 
 life, the same or of a different origin, flowed back in again. 
 When he came, he talked with Jordan himself rather than with 
 any one else; for he always knew when Jordan would be at home. 
 They spoke in a free and easy fashion and about things in general. 
 If their conversation could be characterised more fully, it might 
 be said that Daniel was reserved and Jordan tactful. Gertrude 
 sat by the table and attended to her needlework. 
 
 Daniel came and warmed himself by the stove. If he was 
 offered a sandwich or a cup of coffee he declined. If the offer 
 was made with noticeable insistency, he shook his head and dis- 
 torted the features of his face until he resembled an irritated ape. 
 It was the peasant spirit of defiance in him that made him act this 
 way. He nourished a measure of small-minded anxiety lest he be 
 indebted to somebody for something. To temptations, yielding to 
 which would have been spiritually mortifying, he was impervious. 
 When, consequently, his need became overpowering, he simply 
 stayed away. 
 
 XI 
 
 His want grew into a purple sheen. To him there was an ele- 
 ment of the ridiculous in the whole situation: it was 1882 and he 
 had nothing to eat; he was twenty-three years old and quite with- 
 out food. 
 
 Frau Hadebusch, virago that she could be when a dubious 
 debtor failed to fulfil his obligations, stormed her way up the stepi,
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 41 
 
 The rent was long overdue, and uncanny councils were being held 
 in the living room, in which an invalid from the Wasp's Nest and 
 a soap-maker from Kamerarius Street were taking part. 
 
 In his despair, Daniel thought of entering the army. He 
 reported at the barracks, was examined and rejected because of 
 a hollow chest. 
 
 At first there was the purple sheen. He saw it as he stood on 
 the hangman's bridge and looked down into the water where pieces 
 of ice were drifting about. But when he raised his distrersed 
 face a gigantic countenance became visible. The great vaulted 
 arch of heaven was a countenance fearfully distorted by vengeance 
 and scorn. Of escape from it there could be no thought. Within 
 his soul everything became wrapped in darkness. Tones and pic- 
 tures ran together, giving the disagreeably inarticulate impression 
 that would be made by drawing a wet rag across a fresh, well- 
 ordered creation. 
 
 As he walked on, it seemed to him that the horror of the vision 
 was diminishing. The countenance became smaller and more 
 amiable. It was now not much larger than the facade of a church 
 and what wrath remained seemed to be concentrated in the fore- 
 head. An old woman passed by, carrying apples in her apron. 
 He trembled at the smell of them; but he did not reach out; he 
 did not try to take a single one of them from her; he still held 
 himself in control. By this time the entire vision was not much 
 larger than the top of a tree, and in it were the traces of mercy. 
 
 The sun was high in the heavens, the snow was melting, birds 
 were chirping everywhere. As he sauntered along with uncertain 
 steps through Pfannenschmied Street he suddenly stopped as if 
 rooted to the pavement. There was the vision: he caught sight 
 of it in bodily form on the door jamb of the shop. He could 
 not see that it was the mask of Zingarella. Of course not, for it 
 was a transfigured face, and how could he have grasped a reality 
 in his present state of mind? He looked from within out. The 
 thing before him was a vision; it joined high heaven with the 
 earth below; it was a promise. He could have thrown himself 
 down on the street and wept, for it seemed to him that he was 
 saved. 
 
 The incomparable resignation and friendly grief in the ex- 
 pression of the mask, the sanctity under the long eyelashes, the 
 half extinguished smile playing around the mouth of sorrow, the 
 element of ghostlincss, a being far removed from death and equally 
 far removed from life all this caused his feeling to swell into
 
 42 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 one of credulous devotion. His entire future seemed to depend 
 upon coming into possession of the mask. Without a moment's 
 hesitation or consideration he rushed into the shop. 
 
 Within he found a young man whom the caster addressed most 
 respectfully as Dr. Benda, and who was about thirty years old. 
 Dr. Benda was being shown a number of successful casts of a 
 figure entitled "The Fountain of Virtue." It was quite a little 
 while before the caster turned to Daniel and asked him what he 
 wanted. In a somewhat rude voice and with an unsteady gesture, 
 Daniel made it clear to him that he wished to buy the mask. 
 The caster removed it from the door, laid it on the counter, and 
 named his price. He looked at the shabby clothing of the newly 
 arrived customer, concluded at once that the price, ten marks, 
 would be more than he could afford, and turned again to Dr. 
 Benda, so that Daniel might have time to make up his mind. 
 
 The two conversed for quite a while. When the caster finally 
 turned around, he was not a little surprised to see that Daniel 
 was still standing at the counter. He stood there in fact with 
 half closed eyes, his left hand lying on the face of the mask. 
 The caster exchanged a somewhat dazed glance with Dr. Benda, 
 who, in a moment of forewarning sympathy, grasped the situation 
 perfectly in which the stranger found himself. Dr. Benda some~ 
 how understood, owing to his instinct for appreciation of unusual 
 predicaments, the man's poverty, his isolation, and even the ardour 
 of his wish. Subduing as well as he might the feeling of ordi- 
 nary reserve, he stepped up to Daniel, and said to him calmly, 
 quietly, seriously, and without the slightest trace of condescension: 
 "If you will permit me to advance you the money for the mask, 
 you will do me a substantial favor." 
 
 Daniel gritted his teeth just a little. His face turned to a 
 greenish, hue. But the face of his would-be friend, schooled in 
 affairs of the spirit, showed a winning trace of human kindness. 
 It conquered Daniel; it made him gentle. He submitted. Dr. 
 Benda laid the money for the mask on the counter, and Daniel 
 was as silent as the tomb. 
 
 When they left the shop, Daniel held the mask under his 
 arm so tightly that the paper wrapping was crushed, if the mask 
 itself was not. The sad state of his clothing and his haggard 
 appearance in general struck Dr. Benda at once and forcibly. He 
 needed to ask but a few well chosen questions to get at the under- 
 lying cause of this misery, physical and spiritual, in human form.
 
 FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK 43 
 
 He pretended that he had not lunched and invited Daniel to 
 be his guest at the inn at the sign of the Grape. 
 
 Daniel felt that his soul had suddenly been unlocked by a 
 magic key. At last he had ears and could hear, eyes and could 
 see. It seemed to him that he had come up to earth from out 
 of some lightless, subterranean cavern. And when they separated 
 he had a friend.
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 
 
 THE spectacle of wellnigh complete degeneracy offered by the 
 roister-doistering slough brethren of the Vale of Tears gave 
 Herr Carovius a new lease on life. He had a really affable tend- 
 ency to associate with men who were standing just on the brink 
 of human existence. He always drank a great deal of liqueur. 
 The brand he preferred above all others was what is known as 
 Knickebein. Once he had enjoyed his liberal potion, he became 
 jovial, friendly, companionable. In these moods he would venture 
 the hardiest of assertions, not merely in the field of eroticism, but 
 against the government and divine providence as well. 
 
 And yet, when he trippled home with mincing steps, there was 
 in his face an expression of cowardly, petty smirking. It was the 
 sign of his inner return to virtuous living; for his night was not 
 as his day. The one belied the other. 
 
 He had a quite respectable income; the house in which he lived 
 was his own private property. It was pointed out to strangers as 
 one of the sights of the town; it was certainly one of the oldest 
 and gloomiest buildings in that part of the country. An especially 
 attractive feature of it was the smart and graceful bay-window. 
 Above the beautifully arched outer door there was a patrician coat- 
 of-arms, consisting of two crossed spears with a helmet above. 
 This was chiselled into the stone. In the narrow court was a 
 draw-well literally set in a frame of moss. Each floor of the 
 house had its own gallery, richly supplied with the most artistic 
 of carvings. The stairway was spacious; the tread of the steps was 
 broad, the elevation slight; there were four landings. It sym- 
 bolised in truth the leisurely, comfortable tarrying of centuries 
 gone before and now a matter of easy memory only. 
 
 Often in the nighttime, Herr Carovius recognised in the dis- 
 tance the massive figure of his brother-in-law, Andreas Doderlein, 
 the professor of music. Not wishing to meet him, Herr Carovius 
 would stand at the street corner, until the light from Doderlein's 
 study assured him that the professor was at home. On other oc- 
 
 44
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 45 
 
 casions he would come in contact with the occupant of the second 
 floor, Dr. Friedrich Benda. When these two came together, there 
 was invariably a competitive tipping of hats and passing of com- 
 pliments. Each wished to outdo the other in matters of courtesy. 
 Neither was willing to take precedence over the other. The 
 polished civility of the young man made an even greater degree 
 of pretty behaviour on the part of Herr Carovius imperative, with 
 the result that his excessive refinement of manners made him 
 appear awkward, while his embarrassment made coherent speech 
 difficult and at times impossible. 
 
 When however he came alone, he would take the huge key 
 from his pocket, unlock the door, light a candle, hold it high 
 above his head, and spy into every nook and cranny of the barn- 
 like hall before entering his apartment on the ground floor. 
 
 II 
 
 Herr Carovius was a regular customer at the Crocodile Inn ; a 
 table was always reserved for him. Around it there assembled 
 CTery noon the following companions: Solicitor of the Treasury 
 Korn, assistant magistrate Hesselberger, assistant postmaster Kitzler, 
 apothecary Pflaum, jeweller Griindlich, and baker Degen. Judge 
 Kleinlein also joined them occasionally as a guest of honour. 
 
 They gossiped about their neighbours, their acquaintances, their 
 friends, and their colleagues. What they said ran the whole 
 gamut of human emotions from an innocent anecdote up to venom- 
 ous calumny. Not a single event was immune from malicious 
 backstairs comment. Reputations were sullied without discrimi- 
 nation; objections were taken to the conduct of every living soul; 
 every family was shown to have its skeleton in the closet. 
 
 When the luncheon was finished, the men all withdrew and 
 went about their business, with the exception of Herr Carovius. 
 He remained to read the papers. For him it was one of the 
 most important hours of the day. Having feasted his ears with 
 friends in private, he now turned to a study of the follies, trans- 
 gressions, and tragedies that make up everyday life. 
 
 He read three papers every day: one was a local sheet, one a 
 great Berlin daily, and the third a paper published in Hamburg. 
 He never deviated; it was these three, week in and week out. And 
 he read them from beginning to end; politics, special articles, and 
 advertisements were of equal concern to him. In this way he 
 familiarised himself with the advance of civilisation, the changes
 
 46 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 civic life was undergoing, and the general status of the artistocracy, 
 bourgeoisie, and proletariat. 
 
 Nothing escaped him. He was as much interested in the murder 
 of a peasant in a Pommeranian village as he was in the loss of a 
 pearl necklace on the Boulevard des Italiens in Paris. He read 
 with equal concentration of the sinking of a steamer in the South 
 Sea and the wedding of a member of the Royal Family in West- 
 minster Abbey. He could work up just as much enthusiasm over 
 the latest fashions as he could over the massacring of enslaved 
 Armenians by the Turks. If he read with care and reflection of 
 the death of a leading citizen, he pursued the same course with 
 regard to the reprehending of a relatively harmless vagabond. 
 
 It is only fair to remark, however, that his real sympathy was 
 with those events that have to be entered on the calamitous side 
 of life's ledger. This was due to a bizarre kink in his philosophy: 
 he studied the world primarily from the point of view of its 
 wars, earthquakes, floods, hailstorms, cyclones, and public and 
 private tragedies in the lives of men. Happy and reassuring events, 
 such as the birth of a healthy child, the conferring of an order 
 of distinction, heroic deeds, the winning of a prize in the lottery, 
 the publication of a good book, or the announcement of a legiti- 
 mate and successful speculation made no impression on him. At 
 times they even annoyed him. He kept his mind, in other words, 
 riveted on the evils, sorrows, woes, and tribulations that come to 
 pass either on this earth or in the starry firmament above, and 
 that were somehow brought to his attention. 
 
 His brain was a storehouse of fearful and ferocious happenings; 
 it was a catalogue, an inventory of disease, seduction, theft, rob- 
 bery, larceny, assassination, murder, catastrophe, pest, incest, suicide, 
 duel, bankruptcy, and the never failing family quarrel. 
 
 If he chanced to enrich his collection by the addition of some 
 especially curious or unheard-of incident, he took out his pocket 
 diary, noted the date, and then wrote: "In Amberg a preacher 
 had a hemorrhage while delivering his morning sermon." Or: 
 "In Cochin China a tiger killed and ate fourteen children, and 
 then, forcing its way into the bungalow of a settler, bit off the 
 head of a woman as she was sleeping peacefully by the side of 
 her husband." Or: "In Copenhagen a former actress, now ninety 
 years old, mounted a huge vegetable basket on the market place, 
 and recited Lady Macbeth's monologue. Her unconventional be- 
 haviour attracted such a large crowd of passersby that several people 
 were crushed to death in the excitement."
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 47 
 
 This done, he would go home, happy as a man can be. To 
 idlers standing in the doorways or servants looking out the windows 
 he would extend the greetings of the day, and that with really 
 conspicuous cordiality. 
 
 If a fire broke out in the city, he was present. As his eye* 
 peered into the flames, they seemed intoxicated, obsessed, seized 
 with uncanniness. He would hum a tune of some sort, look into 
 the anxious faces of those immediately concerned, busy himself 
 with whatever had been salvaged, and attempt to force his gratui- 
 tous advice on the fire chief. 
 
 If a prominent citizen died, he never failed to attend the 
 funeral, and, where possible, to join the procession on the way to 
 the cemetery. He would stand by the grave with bowed head, 
 and take in every word of the funeral discourse. But his lips 
 twitched in a peculiar fashion, as if he felt that he were under- 
 stood, and flattered. 
 
 And in truth all this did flatter him. The defeat, distress, and 
 death of other people, the betrayals that take place in any com- 
 munity, the highhanded injustice of those in power, the oppres- 
 sion of the poor, the violence that was done to right and right- 
 eousness, and the sufferings which had to be borne by thousands 
 day after day, all this flattered him; it interested him; it lulled 
 him into a comfortable feeling of personal security. 
 
 But then he sat down at his piano at home, and played an 
 adagio of Beethoven or an impromptu by Schubert, his eyes with 
 fine frenzy rolling in the meantime. And when the mighty 
 chorus in a Bach oratorio resounded, he became pale with ecstasy. 
 At the hearing of a good song well sung he could shed copious 
 tears. 
 
 He idolised music. 
 
 He was a provincial with unfettered instincts. He was an 
 agitator with a tendency to conservatism. He was a Nero without 
 servants, without power, and without land. He was a musician 
 from despair and out of vanity. He was a Nero in our own day. 
 
 He was the Nero of our day living in three rooms. He was 
 a lonely bachelor and a bookworm. He exchanged his views 
 with the corner grocer; he discussed city ordinances with the night 
 watchman; he was a tyrant through and through and a hangman 
 at heart; he indulged in eaves-dropping at the shrine of fate, and 
 in this, way concocted the most improbable of combinations and 
 wanton deeds of violence; he was constantly on the lookout for 
 misfortune, litigation, and shame; he rejoiced at every failure,
 
 48 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 and was delighted with oppression, whether at home or abroad. 
 He hung with unqualified joy on the imagined ruins of imaginary 
 disaster, and took equal pleasure in the actual debacles of life as it 
 was lived about him. And alongside of this innate and at times 
 unexpressed gruesomeness and bloodthirstiness, he was filled with 
 a torturing passion for music. This was Herr Carovius. Such 
 was his life. 
 
 in 
 
 For nine long years, that is, from the time she was fifteen 
 until she was twenty-four, his sister Marguerite kept house for him. 
 She got his breakfast, made his bed, darned his socks, and brushed 
 his clothes; and all he knew about her was that she had yellowish 
 hair, a skin full of freckles, and a timid, child-like voice. His 
 astonishment was consequently unbounded when Andreas Doderlein 
 called one day and proposed to her. He had moved into the 
 house the year before. Herr Carovius was amazed for the very 
 simple reason that he had never known Marguerite except as 
 fourteen-year old girl. 
 
 He took her to task. With unusual effort she summoned the 
 courage to tell him that she was going to marry Doderlein. "You 
 are a shameless prostitute," he said, though he did not dare to 
 show Andreas Doderlein the door. The wedding took place. 
 
 One evening he was sitting in the company of the young couple. 
 Andreas Doderlein, being in an unusually happy mood, went to 
 the piano, and began playing the shepherd's motif from Wagner's 
 "Tristan and Isolde." 
 
 Herr Carovius sprang to his feet as if stung by a viper, and 
 exclaimed: "Stop playing that foul magic! You know as well as 
 you are living that I don't believe in it." 
 
 "What do you mean, brother?" asked Andreas Doderlein, his 
 head bowed in grief. 
 
 "What are you trying to do? Are you trying to teach me some- 
 thing about this poisoner of wells?" shouted Herr Carovius, and 
 his face took on the enraged expression of a hunchback who has 
 just been taunted about his deformity. "Does the professor im- 
 agine that he knows better than I do who this Richard Wagner is, 
 this comedian, this Jew who goes about masked as the Germanic 
 Messiah, this cacaphonist, this bungler, botcher, and bully, this 
 court sycophant, this Pulchinello who pokes fun at the whole 
 German Empire and the rest of Europe led about by the nose,
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 49 
 
 this Richard Wagner? Very well, if you have anything to teach 
 me about him, go on! Proceed! I am listening. Go on! Pluck 
 up your courage." With this he leaned back in his chair, and 
 laughed a laughter punctuated with asthmatic sighs, his hands 
 in the meantime resting folded across his stomach. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein rose to his full stature, see-sawed a bit on 
 the tips of his toes, and looked down on Herr Carovius as one 
 might look down upon a flea that one had caught and was just 
 in the act of crushing between two finger nails. "Oh, ho," he 
 said, "how interesting! Upon my word, brother Carovius, you 
 are an interesting individual. But if some one were to offer me 
 all the money in the world, I should not like to be so ... in- 
 teresting. Not I. And you, Marguerite, would you like to be so 
 interesting? " 
 
 There was something distinctly annihilating in this air of 
 superiority. It had its full effect on Herr Carovius: his unleashed 
 laughter was immediately converted into a gurgling titter. He 
 opened his eyes wide and rolled them behind his nose-glasses, 
 thus making himself look like a water-spitting figure on a civic 
 fountain. Marguerite, however, timid as she was, never saying 
 a word without making herself smaller by hiding her hands, glanced 
 in helpless fashion from her brother to her husband, and dropped 
 her head before them. 
 
 Was the feeling of Herr Carovius for Andreas Doderlein one 
 of hatred? It was hatred and more. It was a feeling of venom- 
 ous embitterment with which he thought of him, his name, his 
 wife, his child, the thick, bulky wedding ring on his finger, and 
 the gelatinous mass of flesh on his neck. From that evening on 
 he never again visited his sister. If Marguerite got up enough 
 courage to visit him, he treated her with crabbed contempt. She 
 finally came to the point where she would pass his door with not 
 a thought of entering it. 
 
 When the first child was born and the maid brought him the 
 glad tidings, he squinted into the corner, tittered, and made bold 
 to say: "Well, my congratulations. It is good that the Doderleins 
 are not to become extinct, for so long as one of them is living, 
 flaisir will not have vanished from the earth." 
 
 Little Dorothea formed in time the habit of playing on the 
 steps or around the old windlass well in the backyard. Herr 
 Carovius procured forthwith a mean dog and named him Ciesar. 
 Cresar was tied to a chain, to be sure, but his snarls, his growls, his 
 vicious teeth were hardly calculated to inspire the child with a
 
 50 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 love for the place near him. She soon stopped playing at home. 
 
 Four years had elapsed since the Carovius-Doderlein wedding. 
 Herr Carovius was celebrating his birthday. Marguerite called 
 with Dorothea. The child recited a poem which she had learned 
 by heart for her uncle's benefit. Carovius shook with laughter 
 when he saw the girl dressed up like a doll and realised that the 
 recital was imminent. Dorothea had of course the enunciation 
 of one of her age. When through, Herr Carovius said: "Honestly, 
 it would never have occurred to me that such a little toad could 
 croak so beautifully." 
 
 Though the man knew so little about women that it would 
 be perilous to attempt to measure his ignorance of them, he never- 
 theless felt, as he looked into Marguerite's radiant face, a certain 
 disappointment in life a disappointment which he would try 
 at once to benumb but which delighted him. 
 
 IV 
 
 About this time Herr Becker died. He was the senior city 
 official, and had been living in the second story of the apartment 
 for twenty-eight years. Dr. Benda moved in at once with his 
 mother. 
 
 Carovius told all about this at the reserved table in the Crocodile. 
 His companions were in a position to tell him a great deal more 
 about the ancestry and past life of the Bendas. They were said 
 to have been very rich once, to have lost their money in the 
 great panic, and to be living at present in quite moderate circum- 
 stances. Benda's father was said to have shot himself, and his 
 mother was reported to have taken the boy to school every morn- 
 ing. Solicitor Korn had been told that, despite his youth, Dr. 
 Benda had written a number of scientific books on biology, but 
 that this had not enabled him to reach his desired goal. 
 
 "What goal?" the table companions asked in unison. 
 
 "Why, he wanted to be made a professor, but people had 
 objected." Why had they objected? came the question from more 
 than one throat. "Well, you see it was this way: the man is a 
 Jew, and the authorities are not going to appoint a Jew to an offi- 
 cial position in a university without raising objections. That is 
 to be taken as a matter of course." That this was in very truth 
 to be taken as a matter of course was also the opinion of Herr 
 Carovius, who, however, insisted that Benda didn't exactly look 
 like a Jew; he looked more like a tolerably fat Dutchman. He
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 51 
 
 was in truth not quite blond, but he was not dark either, and his 
 nose was as straight as a rule. 
 
 "That is just the point: that's the Jewish trick," remarked the 
 Judge, and took a mighty draught from his beer glass. "In olden 
 times," he said, "the Jews all had the yellow spots, aquiline noses, 
 and hair like bushmen. But to-day no Christian can be certain 
 who is Jew and who is Gentile." To this the whole table agreed. 
 
 Herr Carovius at once began a system of espionage. He studied 
 the faces of the new tenants, and was particularly careful to note 
 when they went out and when they came in and with whom they 
 associated. He knew precisely when they turned the lights out 
 at night and when they opened the windows in the morning. He 
 could tell exactly how many rugs they had, how much coal they 
 burned, how much meat they ate, how many letters they received, 
 what walks they preferred, what people they spoke to, and who 
 recognised them. As if this were not enough, he went down to 
 the bookstore, bought the complete works of Dr. Benda, and read 
 these heavy scientific treatises in the sweat of his brow. He was 
 annoyed at the thought that they had not been critically reviewed. 
 He would have embraced any one who would have told him that 
 they were all perfectly worthless compilations. 
 
 One evening, along towards spring, he chanced to go into the 
 backyard to feed Csesar. He looked up, and saw Marguerite 
 standing on the balcony. She did not see him, for she was also 
 looking up. On the balcony of the second floor, across the court 
 from her, stood Friedrich Benda, responding to some mute signals 
 Marguerite was giving him. Finally they both stopped and merely 
 looked at each other, until Marguerite caught sight of her brother, 
 when she quickly disappeared behind the glass door draped with 
 green curtains. 
 
 "Aha," thought Carovius, "there's something up." The scene 
 warmed his very blood. 
 
 From that day on he avoided the court. He sat instead for 
 hours at a time in a room from which he could look out through a 
 crack and see everything that was taking place at the windows 
 and on the balconies. He discovered that signals were being sent 
 from the first floor up to the second by changing the position of 
 a flower pot on the railing of the balcony, and that these signals 
 were answered by having a yellow cloth flutter on now a vertical, 
 now a horizontal pole. 
 
 At times Marguerite would come out quite timidly, and look 
 up; at times Benda appeared, and stood for a while at the window
 
 52 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 completely absorbed, as it seemed, in melancholy thoughts. Herr 
 Carovius caught them together but on one single occasion. He 
 opened the window as quickly as he could, and placed his ear 
 so that he could hear what was being said, but it so happened that 
 over in the adjoining yard some one was just then nailing a box 
 together. As a result of the noise it was impossible for him to 
 understand their remarks. 
 
 Since that day they exchanged no more signals, and never again 
 appeared on the balcony. 
 
 Carovius rubbed his hands at the thought that the majestic 
 Andreas Doderlein had after all grown horns. But his joy waned 
 when he reflected that two other people were deriving profit from 
 the situation. That should not be; that had to be corrected. 
 
 And so he stood at times in the evening out in the narrow pas- 
 sage at the entrance to his apartment. His bathrobe fell down 
 over his bony body in many folds. In his right hand he carried 
 a candle. Thus equipped, he listened in, or rather into, the 
 stillness of the house. 
 
 At times he would take a dark lantern, walk up the stairs slowly, 
 step by step, and listen, listen with the greedy ears of a man 
 who was determined to hear something. There was something 
 in the air that told him of secret, and of course illicit, transac- 
 tions. 
 
 Was it the same medium through which he learned of the 
 weakening of Marguerite's mind and the beclouding of her soul? 
 Was it this that told him of her mental anxiety and the ever 
 growing delusion of her terrified and broken heart? 
 
 Later he learned of her mad outbursts of anxiety concerning 
 the life of her child. He heard that she would never allow the 
 child out of her sight; that she regarded the natural warmth of 
 her body as a high fever; that every morning she would stand by 
 Dorothea's bed, weep, take her in her arms, feel her pulse, and 
 wrap her body in warm clothing. He heard, too, that night after 
 night she sat by the child's bedside watching over her and pray- 
 ing for her, while the child herself slept like an old shoe. All 
 this he learned from the maid. 
 
 One day Herr Carovius came home, and found an ambulance 
 and a crowd of gaping people before the house. As he went up 
 the stairway he heard a hushed whimpering. Marguerite was 
 being dragged from the house by two men. The rear of this 
 procession was brought up by Andreas Doderlein, on whose face 
 there was an expression of accusation. The room door was open.
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 53 
 
 He looked in, and saw bits of broken glasses and dishes, and in 
 the midst of the debris sat Dorothea. Her mouth was puckered 
 as if just on the point of weeping, and a cloth was bound about 
 her forehead. The maid stood in the door wringing her hands. 
 And on a step above was Friedrich Benda, white as a sheet, and 
 evidently suffering from great mental anxiety. 
 
 Marguerite offered but little resistance. She looked behind her, 
 and tried to see what the child was doing. Herr Carovius buried 
 his hands in his overcoat pockets, and followed the mournful 
 caravan out on to the street. The poor woman was taken to the 
 insane asylum at Erlangen. 
 
 Herr Carovius said to himself: somebody is responsible for all 
 this. He determined at once to bring the guilty party to account. 
 He took this stand neither out of grief nor from a feeling of 
 love for his fellow men. His action was motivated by his hatred 
 of a world in which something is constantly going on, and in 
 the midst of which he was condemned to an inactive and deedless 
 life. 
 
 Not much could be learned from Doderlein's maid. The efforts 
 to draw something out of little Dorothea were also fruitless. She 
 was wrapped up in her own affairs. She arranged her ribbons, 
 played with her toys, recounted the small incidents of her un- 
 eventful life, and could hardly be persuaded even to listen to the 
 ingenious questions Carovius put to her when he stopped her out 
 in the hall and asked her about this and that. 
 
 One day he went over to Erlangen to visit his sister in the 
 insane asylum. He thought that he might be able to get some 
 clue to this mystery from her. 
 
 He found her sitting in the corner of a room, stroking her 
 long, yellowish hair. Her head was bowed; her eyes were fixed 
 on the floor. Through no cunning that he could devise was it 
 possible to entice a single statement from her. 
 
 The physician said: "She is a harmless patient, but most secre- 
 tive and passionate. She must have suffered for years from some 
 heavy burden on her soul." 
 
 Herr Carovius left her, and went back to the station. The 
 sun was shining bright. He soon saw to his infinite discomfort 
 that it was impossible to eliminate the picture of the melancholy 
 woman from his inner eye. He went into a cafe and drank some
 
 54 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 whiskey. On the return journey an old woman sat opposite him 
 who seemed to understand him. There was a trace of compassion 
 in her eyes. This made him so uneasy that he found it necessary 
 to change his seat. 
 
 He had met with unanticipated difficulties in his investiga- 
 tion. He recognised these fully, but consoled himself with the 
 thought that there was still time. It occurred to him that he 
 might somehow get hold of Dr. Benda and cross-question him. He 
 recalled having seen Friedrich Benda meet little Dorothea on the 
 stairway once, and no sooner had be seen her coming than he made 
 every effort to avoid her. That set Carovius to thinking. 
 
 Some gas pipes had to be installed in the apartment about 
 that time, and this gave him, as superintendent, a splendid op- 
 portunity to go up and see Benda. The doctor was just then 
 making his final attempt to claim his rights the rights of a man 
 and a scholar against the conspiracy of enemies who were really 
 immune before the law. 
 
 He was all alone when Carovius called. He took him straight 
 to his study. The walls of his hall as well as those of his room 
 were covered with books from floor to ceiling. Benda said he 
 was just getting ready to go on an extended journey. The finished 
 politeness with which he removed the books from a chair and the 
 tense way in which he eyed Herr Carovius made it clear to the 
 latter that this was neither the time nor the place to engage in mock 
 conversation. Carovius talked gas pipes. Benda finished all he had 
 to say on this subject in two short, crisp sentences and got up to 
 go. 
 
 Herr Carovius got up too, removed his nose glasses, and rubbed 
 them with his bright blue handkerchief. "Where are you going, if 
 I may ask?" There was an expression of apparent sympathy in his 
 question. 
 
 Benda made it a habit never to treat any man impolitely, how- 
 ever little regard he might have for him personally. He said that 
 he was going to Kiel to deliver his trial lecture at the university. 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Carovius, falling at once into the tone of awk- 
 ward familiarity. "You have simply got to show those fellows 
 that you are not a coward. Bravo!" 
 
 "I don't quite understand you," said Benda in amazement. His 
 antipathy for the man was growing. And no one recognised this 
 better than Carovius himself. 
 
 He cast a sideglance that reeked with hypocrisy at the young 
 scholar. "My dear doctor, you must not look upon me as a poor
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 55 
 
 uncultured yokel," he said, "ancA' to sono pittore. I have read, 
 among other things, your monograph on the morphogenetic achieve- 
 ments of the original sulcate cell. Listen, man! I take off 
 my hat to that book. Of course, it is not exactly original, but 
 then it is one of your earlier works. The idea developed in it 
 follows pretty closely that of the evolutionary and mechanical 
 theories of the much slandered Wilhelm Roux. And yet I am 
 bound to say you display considerable independence in your 
 method. Indeed you do. And more than that, you throw much 
 needed light on the mysteries of God himself. There is a good 
 deal of incoherent drivel these days about the freedom of science. 
 Well, you'll have to show me where it is. Scientists? They 
 are a lot of conceited pin-heads, each working for himself, and 
 incurably jealous of what his colleagues are doing. Up and at 'em, 
 Doctor, that's my advice, and luck to you!" 
 
 Benda was amazed to hear Carovius mention a work that was 
 otherwise known only to specialists. This however merely tended 
 to increase his distrust. He knew too much about the man to 
 stand before him without a feeling of hostility. He merely 
 needed to call to mind the story of the woman whose youth he 
 had made into a waste place and a prison to be made aware of the 
 fact that it was quite impossible to stand in his presence and 
 breathe easily. The air of the room in which Carovius chanced 
 to be was heavy, stuffy, depressing. 
 
 Benda's bearing, however, remained unchanged. He replied in 
 a serious tone: "It is not after all easy to get along with people. 
 Each has his own place and wants to keep it. I thank you very 
 much for your visit and your kind words, but my time is limited. 
 I have a great deal to do-" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Carovius hastily, while a rancorous grin 
 flitted across his face, "but you don't need to drive me away. 
 I am going on my own accord. I have an engagement at the 
 district court at five o'clock. I am to sign some sort of a document 
 concerning the detention of my sister in the insane asylum. It 
 probably has to do with the settling of her estate or something 
 like that. Who knows? By the way, what have you to say 
 about the affair? You knew her rather intimately. No hedging, 
 doctor. There she sits in the cell and combs her hair. Can you 
 imagine who is responsible? You know a woman doesn't lose 
 her mind from a mere love affair. And this music swindler down 
 stairs it is impossible to get him to show his true colours. Yes, 
 we all have our troubles."
 
 56 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 In order to take the sting out of his impudent insinuations, 
 for he regretted having made a premature move with his trump 
 card, Carovius smiled in a scurrilous fashion, ducked his head, 
 coward that he was, and riveted his greedy, banal eyes on Benda. 
 
 But Benda was looking down. His eyes had been attracted 
 by the fancy buckle shoes of Herr Carovius. He was repelled 
 by the man's foppish socks with the yellow stripes which were 
 made more conspicuous by the fact that his trousers were too high. 
 He had a feeling of unmitigated mental nausea, too, when he 
 noticed how Carovius lifted first one foot and then the other from 
 the floor, and then set it down, heel first. It was a detestable 
 habit; and indulging in it made an ugly noise. 
 
 Benda's absence lasted for hardly a year. His mother had not 
 accompanied him this time. She was not feeling well, and there 
 was some danger that she was losing her eyesight. 
 
 After his return he took to silent brooding. Though he never 
 said a word to his mother about the disappointment he had ex- 
 perienced, she knew precisely what he had gone through, and 
 spared him the humiliation that would have followed any ques- 
 tions she might have asked. 
 
 He was oppressed by the memories the house awakened in him. 
 Forgotten pictures became living ones. The figure of the murdered 
 woman appeared in the nighttime on the balcony. Her shadow 
 fell upon him, nestled up to him in fact, as he sat at his writ- 
 ing-desk. 
 
 There were a great many things that still bound him to her 
 whose spirit had vanished from the earth, though her body re- 
 mained. 
 
 It was impossible for him to forget her gentle look or the 
 coyness of her hands. He knew her fate; he knew her soul. 
 But he was condemned to silence. To withdraw from contact 
 with the world and into the deepest of loneliness had been her 
 lot; it had also been his. At present it was possible to get only 
 one picture of her, the one her brother had given: she sat in her 
 cell and combed her yellow hair. 
 
 He held no one responsible; he blamed no one. He merely 
 regretted that men are as they are. 
 
 A former university friend of his came in, and tried to get 
 him interested in collaborating on a great scientific work. He
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 57 
 
 declined. As soon as his colleague of other days had gone, he vis- 
 ualised to himself the entire conversation: The man was affable 
 and insistent; and yet there was in his very being an underground, 
 enigmatic hostility. It was the hostility he invariably felt when- 
 ever he had anything to do, either of a purely external, business 
 nature or in a social way, with men of other faith. The least 
 he had to fear was a prejudiced inimicality, as if the individual 
 in question were on the point of calling out to him: You stay 
 on that side, I'll stay on this. Keep off the bridge. 
 
 He was fully aware of this, but his pride forbade his fighting 
 against it. He renounced his natural right to life and a living. 
 He declined the university conceded privilege of co-existence. 
 To go out and actually win for himself the right to participate 
 in the inevitable contest of forces, or to secure even this poor 
 privilege by supplication, or to defend it by argument, or to cajole 
 it into his possession by political wiles, seemed to him contrary 
 to reason and at odds with common sense. He would not do it. 
 
 He refused to knock at the door which he himself had bolted 
 and barricaded. 
 
 From this self-imposed embarrassment he suffered to an almost 
 intolerable degree. It was the irrational and fraudulent phase 
 of matters that made him suffer. Did men act as they did because 
 they were so strong in their faith? Not at all. Did he believe 
 in those racial differences which made them believe? Not at 
 all. He felt at home on the soil that nourished him; he felt 
 under obligations to the weal and woe of his people; he was 
 bound heart and soul to the best of them, and realised that he had 
 been spiritually developed by their language, ideas, and ideals. 
 
 Everything else was a lie. They knew that it was a lie too, 
 but out of his pride they forged a weapon and turned it against 
 him. To deny his relationship to them, a relationship that had 
 been proved by his achievements and enthusiasm, was a part of 
 their plan; it was also a part of their evil designs. 
 
 To strike up acquaintances, seek out congenial companions, or 
 take an active part in social organisations was repulsive to him. 
 He did not care to be dragged into fruitless and empty community 
 of effort or social co-operation. Defiant and alone, he explained 
 his case to himself. Since it merely intensified his agony to 
 compare his lot with that of others who seemed to be similiarly 
 situated, he did not do it. He avoided in truth all reflections that 
 might have made the world appear to him as having at least a sem- 
 blance of justice.
 
 58 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He was consequently filled with a longing which took more 
 definite shape day by day, and finally developed into a positive 
 and irrevocable decision. 
 
 About this time he made the acquaintance of Daniel, and 
 through him he came to know other people. He saw at once that 
 there was something unusual about Daniel; that there was some- 
 thing in him which he had never before noticed in any one. Even 
 his outer distress was a challenge to greater activity, while his 
 inner agitation never permitted his associates to rest in idle peace. 
 
 It was not easy to be of assistance to him; he rejected all 
 gifts which he could not repay. He had to be convinced first 
 of his duty and indebtedness to the friend whom fate had made 
 cross his path. And even then he stood out for the privilege of 
 being theoretically ungrateful. 
 
 Benda and his mother succeeded in getting him a position 
 as a tutor in some private families. He had to give piano lessons 
 to young boys and girls. The compensation was not great, but 
 it at least helped him out for the time being. 
 
 After the day's work was done, the evenings and nights bound 
 the two more and more firmly together. 
 
 VII 
 
 One evening Daniel entered the house and met Herr Carovius. 
 But he was so absorbed in thought that he passed by without 
 noticing him. Carovius looked at him angrily, and walked back 
 to the hall to see where the young man was going. When he 
 heard him ring the bell on the second floor, an uneasy expression 
 came over his face. He rubbed his chin with his left hand. 
 
 "The idea of passing by me as though I were a block of wood," 
 murmured Carovius spitefully. "Just wait, young man, I'll make 
 you pay for that." 
 
 Instead of leaving the house as he had wished, Carovius went 
 into his apartment, lighted a candle, and tripped hastily through 
 three rooms, in which there were old cabinets and trunks filled 
 with books and music scores. There was also a piano in one. He 
 then took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a fourth room, 
 which had closed shades and was in fact otherwise quite oddly 
 arranged. 
 
 He went to a table which reached almost the full length of the 
 room, picked up a piece of white paper, sat down, and wrote with 
 red ink: "Daniel Nothafft. Musician. Two months in jail."
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 59 
 
 He then covered the paper with mucilage, pasted it on a 
 wooden box which looked like a miniature sentry-house, and nailed 
 a lid on the box, using tacks that were lying ready for this pur- 
 pose. 
 
 There were at least five dozen such boxes on the long table, the 
 majority of which had names attached to them and had been 
 nailed up. 
 
 The closed room Herr Carovius called his court chamber. What 
 he did in it he termed the regulation of his affairs with humanity, 
 and the collection of little wooden cells he called his jail. Every 
 individual who had oiTcnded, hurt, humiliated, or defrauded him 
 was assigned such a keep in which he was obliged to languish, 
 figuratively, until his time, determined by a formal sentence, was 
 up. 
 
 Nor was this all. In the middle section of the table there 
 were a number of diminutive sand heaps, about thirty in all, and 
 on each one was a small wooden cross and on each cross was a 
 name. That was Herr Carovius's cemetery, and those who were 
 figuratively buried there were, so far as he was concerned, dead, 
 even though they were still going about their earthly affairs as 
 lively and cheerful as ever. They were people whose mundane 
 careers were finished, as he saw it, and under each of their accounts, 
 reckoned exclusively in sins, he had drawn a heavy line. They 
 were such people as Richard Wagner and his champions, the local 
 stationer to whom he had advanced some money years ago and 
 who entered a plea of bankruptcy a few months later, the authors 
 of bad books that were widely read, or of books which he loathed 
 without having read them, as, for instance, those of Zola. 
 
 There were still a third noteworthy section of the table, and 
 that was the so-called Academy. This consisted of a plot of 
 ground, surrounded by an iron fence, and divided up into twelve 
 or fifteen square fields, each of which was painted in fresh green. 
 In the middle of each field there was a wooden peg about two 
 inches high, and to the middle of each peg there was attached a 
 name-plate. From the tops of some of these pegs little banners 
 of green cloth fluttered in the breeze. 
 
 The fact is, Herr Carovius had a weakness for association with 
 aristocrats. In his heart of hearts he admired the manners of the 
 aristocracy, their indifference and self-complacency, their irrefra- 
 gable traditions and their noiseless and harmonious behaviour. To 
 the pegs of the Academy he had affixed the names of some of 
 the best families he had known; among others, those of the Tuchers,
 
 6o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the Hallers, the Humbsers, the Kramer-Kleets, and the Auffen- 
 bergs. Whenever he had succeeded in making the personal ac- 
 quaintance of the members of any of these families, he went 
 straightway to the Academy and hoisted the appropriate flag. 
 
 But, despite all his effort, he had never in the course of time 
 been able to run up more than three flags, and these only for a 
 brief period and without any marked success. Some one had 
 recognised him on the street or spoken to him at the concert, and 
 that was all. The Academy looked, in contradistinction to the 
 jail and the cemetery, quite deserted. Finally he was able tc 
 hoist the Auffenberg banner. Herr Carovius felt that the Academy 
 had a great future. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Kropotkin the painter had once upon a time received an order 
 to make a copy of a Holbein for Baron Siegmund von Auffenberg. 
 He never finished the picture, owing to lack of ability; but he 
 had become acquainted with Baron Eberhard, and years later, 
 having met him quite accidentally, took him to the Paradise, where 
 the infamous brethren were then in the habit of gathering. 
 
 Eberhard's appearance at the Paradise was short-lived; he dis- 
 appeared in fact as quickly as he had appeared. But this brief 
 space was sufficient for Herr Carovius to become intimately ac- 
 quainted with himj 
 
 The first time he sat at the same table with him he was 
 noticeably excited. His face shone with a mild spiritual glow. 
 His voice was sweet and gentle, his remarks of an unusually agree- 
 able moderation. 
 
 He turned the conversation to a discussion of the superiorities 
 of birth, and lauded the distinction of the hereditary classes. He 
 said it was from them only that the people could acquire civic 
 virtue. The brethren scorned his point of view. Herr Carovius 
 came back at them with an annihilating jest. 
 
 During the rendition of this hallelujah-solo in praise of the 
 nobility, Eberhard von Auffenberg intrenched himself behind a 
 sullen silence. And though Carovius used every available opportu- 
 nity from then on to flatter the young nobleman in his cunning, 
 crafty way, he failed. The most he could do was to inspire 
 Eberhard to lift his thrush-bearded chin in the air and make some 
 sarcastic remark. Fawn as he might, Carovius was stumped at 
 every turn.
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 61 
 
 One night, however, the two enjoyed each other's company on 
 the way home. That is, Carovius never left Eberhard s side. 
 Annoyed at the failure of his former tactics, he thought he would 
 try his luck in another way: he ridiculed the arrogance of a certain 
 caste which affected to attach less importance to a man like himself 
 than to some jackanapes whose handkerchief was adorned with 
 an embroidered crown. 
 
 "What are you, any way, what is your vocation?" asked Eber- 
 hard von Auffenberg. 
 
 "I don't do anything," replied Carovius. 
 
 "Nothing at all? That is quite agreeable." 
 
 "Oh, I do work a little at music," added Herr Carovius, entirely 
 pleased at the curiosity of the Baron. 
 
 "Now, you see, that is after all something," said the Baron. 
 "I for my part am as unmusical as a shot-gun. And if you do 
 not do anything but interest yourself in music, you must have a 
 great deal of money." 
 
 Herr Carovius turned away. The positive dread of being 
 taken for a rich man wrestled with the vain desire to make the 
 young Baron feel that he really was somebody. "I have a little," 
 he remarked with a titter, "a little." 
 
 "Very well; if you will loan me ten thousand marks, it will 
 give me great pleasure to make you a present of the crown on my 
 handkerchief," said Eberhard von Auffenberg. 
 
 Herr Carovius stopped stock still, and opened his mouth and his 
 eyes: "Baron, you are taking the liberty of jesting with me." 
 But when Eberhard indicated that he was quite serious, Carovius 
 continued, blank amazement forcing his voice to its highest pitch: 
 "But my dear Sir, your father has an income of half a million. 
 A mere income! The tax receipts show it." 
 
 "Well, I am not talking about my father," said Eberhard 
 coldly, and once more threw his chin in the air. "It is evidently 
 a part of your heraldic prejudices to feel that you can coax the 
 income of my father into my own pockets." 
 
 They were standing under a gas lamp at the Hallcr Gate. 
 It was dripping rain, and they had raised their umbrellas. It 
 was perfectly still; it was also late. Not a human being was to 
 be seen anywhere. Carovius looked at the seriously offended young 
 man, the young man looked at Carovius, then grinning a grin of 
 embarrassment, and neither knew how to take the other. 
 
 "You are surprised," said Eberhard, resuming the conversation. 
 "You are surprised, and I don't blame you. 1 am a discontented
 
 62 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 guest in my own skin; that much I can assure you. I am as 
 abortive a creature as ever was born. I inherited far too much 
 that is superfluous, and not nearly enough of the necessities. 
 There are all manner of mysteries about me; but they are on the 
 outside. Within there is nothing but stale, dead air." 
 
 He stared at the ground as though he were talking to himself, 
 and as though he had forgotten that any one was listening, and 
 continued: "Have you ever seen old knights carved in stone 
 in old churches? If you have, you have seen me. I feel as 
 if I were the father of my father, and as if he had had me buried 
 alive, and an evil spirit had turned me to stone, and my hands 
 were lying crossed over my breast and could not move. I grew 
 up with a sister, and I see her as though it were yesterday" at 
 this point his face took on an expression of fantastic senility 
 "walking through the hall, proud, dainty, innocent, with roses 
 in her hand. She is married to a captain of cavalry, a fellow 
 who treats his men like Negro slaves, and who never returns the 
 greeting of a civilian unless he is drunk. She had to marry him. 
 I could not prevent it. Somebody forced her into it. And if 
 she is carrying roses now, it is as if a corpse were singing songs." 
 
 Herr Carovius felt most uneasy. He was not accustomed to 
 hearing things like this. Where he lived people called a spade a 
 spade. He pricked up his ears and made a wry face. "It is the 
 way he has been trained that makes him talk like that," he 
 thought; "it is the result of constantly sitting on gold-embroidered 
 chairs and seeing nothing about him but paintings." 
 
 "I am going to sit on such chairs too," he was happy to think, 
 "and I shall see the paintings, too." He pictured himself between 
 the Baron and the Baroness, marching up to the portals of the castle, 
 flanked on either side by a row of liveried servants, the nervous 
 masses catching sight of the splendour as well as they might. The 
 rear of this procession was being brought up by the young Baron, 
 who had returned home as the penitent Prodigal Son. 
 
 "One must have a feeling of personal security," remarked 
 Carovius. He wondered whether the Baron had reached his 
 majority. Eberhard replied that he had just completed his twen- 
 ty-first year, and that certain things had made him feel that it 
 would be wise to live independent of his family and to renounce 
 his claims to all family rights for the time being. What he 
 really had in mind was the desire to avoid, so far as humanly 
 possible, association with all professional money-lenders. 
 
 Herr Carovius felt that this was an extremely serious CMC..
 
 THE NERO OF TO-DAY 63 
 
 He claimed moreover to understand it perfectly and to be ready 
 for anything, but insisted that nothing must be withheld, that he 
 must be given undiluted wine. He made this remark just a 
 if he were holding a glass of old Johannisberger out in the rain, 
 sniffing as he did with appreciative nostrils. 
 
 "I am very discreet," he said, "very taciturn." He looked at 
 the Baron tenderly. 
 
 The young Baron nodded. 
 
 "The wearer of purple is recognised wherever he goes," con- 
 tinued Herr Carovius, "and if he lays the purple aside he stands 
 at once in need of reticent friends. I am reserved." 
 
 The Baron nodded again. "If you will permit me, I shall visit 
 you in a few days." With that he ended the conversation. 
 
 He started off toward the Avenue, walking stiffly. It was 
 not hard to see that he was ill at ease. Herr Carovius walked 
 away with mincing, merry steps down toward the small end of 
 the alley, singing an aria from the "Barber of Seville" as he 
 went. 
 
 At the end of the first week he was taken down with a dis- 
 concerting suspicion that the Baron had made a fool of him. He 
 was filled with a wrath that had to be cooled. One morning, 
 just as he was leaving his apartment, he saw two milk cans filled 
 with milk standing in the outer hall. One was for the first floor, 
 the other for the second. The milkmaid had placed them there 
 for the time being, and had gone over to have a little morning 
 chat with her neighbour. Herr Carovius went to his lumber- 
 room, which also served as the kitchen, took down a jug of vinegar, 
 came back, looked around with all the caution he could summon, 
 and then poured half of the contents of the jug into one can 
 and the other half into the other. 
 
 Two days later he decided not to give Cresar anything to eat, so 
 that he would terrify the neighbours by his howling. This worked. 
 The dog howled and whined and barked night after night. It 
 was enough to melt the heart of a stone. Nobody could sleep. 
 Andreas Doderlein went to the police, but they told him that the 
 caee was beyond their jurisdiction. 
 
 Herr Carovius lay in bed rejoicing with exceeding great joy 
 over the fact that the people could not sleep. He became en- 
 amoured of the idea that it might be possible, through some inge- 
 nious invention, to rob a whole city or a whole nation of its sleep. 
 The inventor could then move about conscious of the fact that he 
 was at once the distributor and the destroyer of the world's supply
 
 64 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of sleep. If he so elected to exploit his invention, he could 
 revel in the sight of an entire people pining, drying up, and 
 eventually dying from the" want of sleep. 
 
 After Csesar had become quite savage, Herr Carovius decided 
 to unleash him. It was just after sunset. He slipped up to the 
 beast from the rear, and opened the chain lock. The dog ran 
 like mad through the court and the hall, and out on to the 
 street. 
 
 Just at this moment young Baron von Auffenberg was enter- 
 ing to pay Herr Carovius that promised visit. He jumped back 
 from the beast, but it sprang at his body, and in a jiffy the Baron 
 was lying full length on the pavement. Cassar left him, made a 
 straight line for the open door of a butcher shop across the street, 
 sprang in, and snatched a fancy cut from one of the hooks. 
 
 In order to see just how much damage the dog would really do, 
 Herr Carovius ran after him, hypocritically feigning as he ran 
 an expression of horror, and acting as though the beast had some- 
 how broken his chain and got loose. The first sight that caught 
 his eyes was that of the young Baron as he rose to his feet and 
 limped over toward his host to-be. 
 
 The horror of Herr Carovius at once became real. With the 
 diligence of a seasoned flunkey, he stooped over, picked up the 
 Baron's hat, dusted it, stammered all sorts of apologies, gazed at 
 high heaven like a martyred saint, and brushed the dirt from Eb- 
 erhard's trousers. Then the dog came back, a huge piece of meat 
 in his mouth. The butcher came to the door and shook his 
 fists. The butcher's boy stuck two fingers in his mouth, and 
 whistled for the police. They came, too, and Herr Carovius had 
 to pay for the meat. 
 
 He then took the Baron into his living-room, plying him in the 
 meantime with innumerable questions as to how he felt. Having 
 been stunned by the fall, the Baron asked to lie down for a few 
 minutes on the couch. Herr Carovius granted his wish, smother- 
 ing him with sighs of affection and exclamations of regret. 
 
 As the Baron lay on the couch, trying to regain his vital spirits, 
 Herr Carovius went to the piano and played the rondo from 
 Weber's sonata in A flat major. His technique was superb; his 
 emotion was touching. 
 
 After the concert the transactions began.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 
 
 BENNO JORDAN was now a senior in the gymnasium and had 
 begun to play mischievous pranks. He also declared that he was 
 no longer minded to tolerate the tyranny of the school, and that 
 he had not the slightest desire to enter the university. He was 
 a wilful, obstinate boy with a marked tendency to sociability. He 
 paid a great deal of attention to his clothes, and was proud of his 
 handsome face. 
 
 After repeated conversations with the seventeen-year old boy, 
 Jordan decided to get him a job as a clerk in the offices of the 
 Prudentia. He discussed the situation with the general agent, and 
 Alfons Diruf gave his consent. Benno began his work at fifty 
 marks a month. 
 
 When Jordan would come home of an evening, the first thing 
 he would hear from Eleanore was that Benno had an engagement 
 with some of his friends, and that they were in the Alfas Garden, 
 or in the Wolf's Glen, or in Cafe Merkur, where the orchestrion, 
 then a new invention, was being played for the first time. 
 
 "Lord, what is to become of the next generation?" said Jordan, 
 quite worried. "All they think about is having a good time. 
 Why, I never in my whole life thought of merely amusing my- 
 self." 
 
 Anxious about Benno's behaviour, Jordan called on the chief of 
 the clerical department. The little man with the waxened, weaz- 
 ened face expressed himself as quite satisfied with the new em- 
 ploye. Jordan took him by the hand; it was his way of displaying 
 gratitude. And he was grateful, though it was hard for him to 
 subdue a feeling of solicitude. He recognised the boy's external 
 amiability, but felt convinced that this merely covered and con- 
 cealed a decayed soul. 
 
 Alfons Diruf was obese and gloomy. His clothes were made in 
 Paris, and on the ring finger of his left hand was a brilliant 
 diamond. 
 
 Since the Prudentia had introduced the so-called workmen's 
 
 65
 
 66 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 insurance, the number of clerks on its payroll had been increased 
 bv about twenty-five thousand. Of these eighty-four were under 
 Diruf's direct supervision. They were located in three rooms 
 of a house in Further Street. They were pale and they were 
 silent. Diruf himself had a private office which resembled the 
 boudoirs of a woman of the world. The curtains were of blue 
 silk, a bathing nymph by Thumann hung on the wall, and the 
 whole place smelled of musk. 
 
 Three times a day he would leave his fair retreat, and, with 
 the mien of disgust, make the rounds of the clerks' quarters. 
 When they saw him coming, heads ducked, hands scurried across 
 the books, feet stopped scraping, and all whispering died out. 
 
 He gave the impression of a man who hated his job, but in 
 reality he loved it. He liked the clerks because of their servile 
 docility and their famished faces. He liked them because they 
 came promptly every morning and went away every evening tired 
 as tired could be, and because day after day, year in and year out, 
 they sat there and wrote, wrote, wrote. 
 
 He liked the inspectors because day after day, year in and year 
 out, they did a great deal of work for a very little money. He 
 liked the agents and sub-agents who made it possible for the com- 
 pany to issue hundreds of new policies every day. He liked their 
 dirty clothes and tattered boots, their hungry looks, their mis- 
 leading but effective line of talk, and their sad faces. 
 
 The special bait of the workmen's insurance was the small 
 premium, carrying with it a small policy. In this way the man 
 of small means was to be educated in thrift. As a rule, however, 
 the small man realised, when it was too late, that the agent had 
 promised more than the company could do. He became dis- 
 trustful; his weekly savings were so scant that it was impossible 
 for him to pay his premiums regularly; with the expiration of 
 each week it became increasingly difficult to make up the back 
 payments, and, before he knew precisely what had happened, his 
 policy had been declared void, and the money he had paid in 
 on it confiscated. 
 
 In this way the company made millions. It was the pfennigs 
 of the poorest classes that constituted these millions, made the 
 dividends rise higher and higher, increased the army of clerks, 
 and filled the pockets of the agents. 
 
 These agents were recruited from the scum of human society. 
 They were made up of bankrupts, decadent students, gamblers, 
 topers, and beggars. They came from the ranks of those who
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 67 
 
 had been pursued by misfortune and who bore the marks of crime. 
 No one was too small or too bad. 
 
 Alfons Diruf, however, saw that it would vastly improve the 
 credit of the company if to this list of outcasts he would add a 
 few eminently respectable citizens. He consequently went out 
 on his own responsibility, and looked for help. His quest brought 
 him to Jason Philip Schimmelweis. 
 
 "It's a gold mine," he said; "you work for an ideal, and you 
 get something out of it for yourself. Ideals, incidentally, that 
 are not profitable are idiotic." With that he blew the smoke 
 of his Havana cigar through his nose. 
 
 Jason Philip understood. It was not necessary to flatter the 
 leader and politican that was admittedly in him. He nearly 
 ran his legs off working for the company. Alfons Diruf loved 
 this socialist book-keeper, after a fashion. 
 
 Inspector Jordan saw however that the countless brokers were 
 encroaching on his territory and stirring up distrust on the part 
 of his better clients. He lost his interest. The directors felt 
 obliged to send Alfons Diruf a critical memorandum explaining 
 Jordan's case, and showing that he was no longer as efficient as 
 he used to be. 
 
 Daniel had grown tired of his room in the attic and the society 
 of brush-maker Hadebusch. He announced that he was going to 
 move. Surrounded by a cloud of smells from boiled cabbage, 
 Frau Hadebusch raged about the ingratitude of man. Her shrieks 
 called Herr Franke and the Methodist from out their warm holes; 
 the brush-maker and his imbecile son also appeared in the dimly 
 lighted vestibule; and before these five Hogarth figures stood the 
 defenceless sinner, Daniel Nothafft. 
 
 He looked about in the suburbs of St. Mary, but found every- 
 thing too dear. He went out to New Gate, but everything was 
 taken. He tried the St. John district, and that pleased him best 
 of all. Late in the afternoon he came to a house in the Long 
 Row, at the entrance to which hung a "To Let" sign. 
 
 He pulled the bell cord, and a beautiful servant girl took him 
 into a room. Through the window he could look out on a garden 
 filled with old trees. A spinster came in, and smiled at the 
 pleasure he took in the room and the view. 
 
 "I must see my sister," she said, as he asked her about the price.
 
 68 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 She called out into the hall, and her sister, likewise an elderly 
 and kindly spinster, came in. They held a council, the deliber- 
 ations of which were conducted in muffled tones, and then agreed 
 that they would have to consult Albertina. She was the third 
 sister. The first tip-toed to the door and, with pointed lips, 
 called the name, Albertina, out into the long hall with as 
 much coyness as had been employed in summoning the second 
 sister. 
 
 Albertina was the youngest of the three; she was about forty. 
 But she had forgotten, like Jasmina and Saloma, to erase twenty 
 years from the calendar: all three had preserved the youthful 
 charm of their girlhood. 
 
 Albertina blushed as she looked at the young man, and her 
 modesty was contagious; the two sisters also blushed. She told 
 Daniel that they were the Riidiger sisters. With that she re- 
 mained silent, and looked down as though she had divulged her 
 entire fate. She informed Daniel that they had decided to rent 
 the room to some dependable young man, because there had been 
 considerable petty thieving in the neighbourhood of late and they 
 would like to enjoy the protection of a man, for they were 
 entirely alone, except for the boy who tended the garden. They 
 told him also that they had had several offers, but that they had 
 declined them because they did not like the appearance of the 
 applicants. In affairs of this kind, indeed in everything, the 
 three sisters were always of like mind. 
 
 Fraulein Saloma asked Daniel what he did. He replied that he 
 was a musician. A chorus of surprise greeted his ears, rendered 
 in perfect time by the three female voices. Fraulein Jasmina 
 asked him whether he was a singer or a violinist. He replied that 
 he was neither, that he was a composer, or that he at least hoped 
 to become one. With that an expression of intense spirituality 
 spread over the faces of the sisters, so that they looked like 
 triplets. Aha, a creative artist! "Y-c-s," said Daniel, "if you 
 wish to put it that way: a creative artist." 
 
 They hopped into the corner like so many sparrows, and went 
 into serious conference. Fraulein Saloma, as chairman, wanted to 
 know whether a monthly rent of twelve marks would be too much. 
 No, replied Daniel, that would not be excessive. He said it 
 without giving the matter the slightest consideration, and then 
 shook hands with the sisters. Fraulein Jasmina added that he 
 could use the piano on the first floor whenever he wished to, and 
 that it merely needed tuning. Daniel shook her hand again, this
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 69 
 
 time with special warmth. His joy had awakened in him a 
 measure of clumsy familiarity. 
 
 Before he left the house he went out into the garden, and 
 stood for a while under one of the trees. A tree to myself at 
 last, he thought. Up in the top a blackbird was singing. Meta 
 the servant }ooked out from the door where she was standing, 
 astonished at it all. 
 
 Fraulein Albertina said to her sisters: "He seems like an interest- 
 ing young man, but he has bad manners." 
 
 "Artists attach no importance to externalities," replied Fraulein 
 Jasmina with knitted brow. 
 
 "A great mistake. He always looked as if he had just come 
 out of a bandbox. You remember, don't you?" 
 
 The other two nodded. The three then walked down the gar- 
 den path, arm in arm. 
 
 in 
 
 Daniel was standing in the vegetable market before the Goose 
 Man Fountain, eating apples. 
 
 The sun was shining, and he noticed that the shadow of the 
 fountain was moving slowly toward the church. It made him sad 
 to see that time was passing and how it was passing. When he 
 turned around, however, and saw that the bronze figure of the 
 man with the two geese under his arms was not merely indifferent 
 to the passing of time but confident that all is well, he could not 
 help but laugh. 
 
 What made him laugh was partly the calm of the man: he 
 was always waiting for something, and he was always there. He 
 was likewise amused at the thought that two geese could make a man 
 look so contented. 
 
 IV 
 
 As Daniel was going home one afternoon from a piano lesson, 
 he met Eleanore Jordan. He told her about his new room and the 
 three bizarre creatures in the house in the Long Row. 
 
 Eleanore had heard all about them. She said they were the 
 daughters of the geometrician Rudiger, and that he had left the 
 town some time ago because of a quarrel with the citizens, or 
 rather with one of the gilds. The origin of the trouble was the 
 picture of a certain painter. More she did not know, other than
 
 70 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 that Rudigcr had gone to Switzerland and lost his life by falling 
 down one of the mountains. The sisters, she said, were the laugh- 
 ing stock of the town. They never left the house except on 
 certain days, when they went out to the nearby cemetery at the 
 Church of St. John to place flowers on the grave of that painter. 
 
 Daniel hardly listened to what she said. They were standing 
 at the St. Sebaldus Church, and the chimes began to play. 
 "Magnificent," he murmured, "an ascending triad in A." 
 
 Eleanore asked him how he was getting along, and looked with 
 regret at his sunken cheeks. Her virile expression was rather dis- 
 pleasing to him. He was surprised to see how rarely she lowered 
 her eye lids. He said he was getting along quite well. She 
 smiled. 
 
 "It's terrible that a man has to have a monster in his body 
 that must be fed," he remarked. "Otherwise one could storm the 
 heavens and steal the songs of the angels. But this was not to be. 
 You have first to flutter your wings until they are wounded and 
 break your chains, and by that time such ethereal power as you 
 may have had is dissipated." 
 
 He wrinkled his face until he again looked like the wily ape. 
 "But I am going to see it through," he said. "I want to find out 
 whether God drew me from the urn as a blank or a prize." He 
 could be very eloquent when he talked about himself. 
 
 Eleanore smiled. It seemed to her that it was merely neces- 
 sary to bring a little order into his life. She consequently assumed 
 the responsibility of looking after his room. 
 
 In Tetzel Street they met the inspector. As Jordan walked 
 along at the side of his beloved daughter, it seemed to him that 
 the grey walls and weather-beaten stones of the houses were no 
 longer so earthy or weighed down with time. Eleanore looked to- 
 ward the West into the purple glow of the setting sun. She 
 was not quite herself. There came moments when she suffered 
 from homesickness for a fairer land. 
 
 She thought of Italy. She conjured up lovely visions of 
 sunny bays, blooming groves, and white statues. 
 
 Daniel however went on toward the Full. The workmen were 
 coming from the suburbs, and in their tired faces he felt that he 
 recognised his own world. "Oh," he sighed, "I should like to 
 get nearer the stars, to make the acquaintance of more dependable 
 hearts, of hearts that are truer even than my own." 
 
 Just then he looked up at Bnda's window, and saw his light. 
 He was ashamed of himself.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 71 
 
 The first time Eleanore visited Daniel it was along toward 
 evening. She heard from a distance the piano and the shrill 
 crowing of Daniel's voice. Down in the hall she saw three white 
 figures cuddled up close to each other like hens on a roost. 
 
 It was the Rudiger sisters trying to drink in the creative efforts 
 of the artist. That they were eavesdropping at the fount of 
 art they understood both in the good and the bad sense: their 
 enthusiasm was praiseworthy, their courtesy was deficient. When 
 they caught sight of Eleanore on the stairway, they were terrified, 
 and rustled into the adjoining room. 
 
 The three elderly hearts beat impetuously. It was Jasmina's 
 turn to read from Ruckert's poems. Jasmina had not the shadow 
 of a desire to perform; her sisters were equally disinclined to 
 listen. 
 
 "It is not right," the three kept saying, when they heard of 
 Eleanore's visits. "It is not right." Even Meta the maid was of 
 the opinion that her calls were highly unconventional. 
 
 As Daniel played on and merely nodded to her, Eleanore's eyes 
 fell on the mask of Zingarella. She stepped up, took it down 
 from the nail on the wall, and examined it in perfect silence. 
 
 Daniel had in the meantime left the piano. A loud cry from 
 him startled her: "What the devil are you doing?" he exclaimed 
 in a tone of immoderate anger. He took the mask, which she 
 was handling so lightly and tremulously, out of her hands, and 
 replaced it on the nail with affectionate care. 
 
 The sensitive girl at once began to cry. She turned to one 
 side in order to conceal her tears. Daniel was irritated, but the 
 first thought that occurred to him was how he could make amends 
 for his rudeness. He fetched a worn book, and offered to lend 
 it to her. It was a translation of that beautiful old novel, 
 "Manon Lescaut." 
 
 Eleanore came frequently after office hours, but never remained 
 long; she did not wish to make the people at home uneasy. 
 During the short time she stayed she always found a number of 
 things to do, such as straightening up the papers on his table or 
 arranging his scores. 
 
 She became acquainted with Benda; he took a liking to her. 
 It did him good merely to be in her presence, and he could 
 not understand why she did not have the same wholesome effect 
 on Daniel. Daniel seemed thoroughly unappreciative of the girl.
 
 72 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He was like a man who goes along the street carrying a basket 
 full of eggs: his sole ambition for the time being is to see that not 
 a single egg is, lost or broken. 
 
 The two would frequently accompany the girl home. Daniel 
 always talked about himself, and Benda listened with a smile. Or 
 Benda talked about Daniel, and Daniel was all ears. 
 
 What did people say? That Eleanore was now trotting around 
 with three men, whereas she formerly had only one on her string, 
 the Baron, and that you are going to hear from this affair. 
 
 Every now and then a snip of ugly gossip reached Eleanore's 
 ears. She paid not the slightest attention to it. She looked out 
 from her glass case on to the world with cool and cheerful 
 indifference, quite incapable of placing the established interpret- 
 ation on the glances of calumniators. 
 
 Benda could have sketched Daniel's face in the darkness: the 
 round forehead, the little nose, pointed and mulish, the rigidly 
 pinched lips, the angular musician's chin, and the deep dimples 
 in his cheeks. 
 
 His ignorance of the musician was complete. Like all scholars, 
 he nurtured an ingrained distrust when it came to the supernatural 
 influence of art. for the great musical compositions which, in the 
 course of time and as a result of the homage of succeeding gen- 
 erations, had come to be regarded as exemplary and incontestable, 
 he had a feeling of reverence. For the creations of his contem- 
 poraries he had no ear. 
 
 That it was hard to understand and appreciate, he knew. 
 That it was bitter not to be understood or appreciated, he had 
 experienced. That the discipline associated with all intellectual 
 work demands its tribute in the form of sacrifical renunciation 
 needed no proof in his case. 
 
 The musician was something new to him. How did he regard 
 him? As a blind man whose soul was on fire. As a drunken 
 man who made the impression of repulsive sobriety on other men. 
 As an obsessed individual who was living an excruciatingly lonely 
 life and was unaware of it. As an unpolished peasant with the 
 nerves of a degenerate. 
 
 The scientist wished to find the established and formulated law 
 in the musician a task that could lead only to despair. The friend 
 surveyed the life of his friend; he allowed the personalities of
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 73 
 
 many young men whom he had met in life to pass before his mind's 
 eye. He looked for the criteria of common interests; he sought 
 a law, even here. He sat in the dusk, and read from the works 
 of the philosopher Maiplander. Then he laid the book to one side, 
 and said to himself: "The youth of to-day are lacerating, devastat- 
 ing themselves. ... It is a fearful age. Measure, proportion, and 
 balance are gone. Every model becomes a caricature. The indi- 
 vidual is absolutely dependent upon himself. The flame is without 
 container, and threatens to burn the hand that would check it." 
 
 In Daniel he had found his brother in fate. Music became his 
 brother in torture. On seeing his friend lacerated and dev- 
 astated, he saw twitch from the eye of Gorgo herself the pro- 
 foundest of wisdom. But he did not lay bare his own heart. 
 
 One night, after unending conversation had brought them both 
 to silence like ships which, tossed about by the winds, at last 
 drift into the harbour Benda, taking up with an angry, exasperated 
 remark by Daniel as it echoed back from the other shore of this 
 silence, said: "We must not be vain. We dare not usurp a 
 privilege which has no other basis than our inner task. We must 
 never stand before our own picture. It seems to me that an 
 artist should be of exalted modesty, and that without this modesty 
 he is nothing but a more or less remarkable lout." 
 
 Daniel looked up at once. Benda's big teeth were visible under 
 his bushy moustache. He had a habit of pulling his lips apart 
 whenever he was searching for a really incisive word. 
 
 Benda continued: "The great majority of what you call talent 
 is ignominious. Talent is a feather duster. All that comes from 
 the finger tips is evil. The man who has a distinct goal and is will- 
 ing to suffer in order to reach it, that man we can use. And 
 otherwise how beautiful it all is after all! Heaven is above 
 us, the earth is beneath us, and in between stands immortal 
 man." 
 
 Daniel got up, and seized Benda's hand. There was nothing more 
 vanquishing than Benda's handshake. His good strong right be- 
 came a vise in which he shook a man's hand until it became limp, 
 a perfectly delightful benevolence radiating from his eyes in the 
 meanwhile. 
 
 The two men exchanged the fraternal "thou." 
 
 VII 
 
 Eleanore returned the copy of "Manon Lescaut." When Daniel
 
 74 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 asked her how she liked it, she never said a word. Since he thought 
 that it was an excellent book, he began to scold. 
 
 She said: "I cannot read books in which there is so much talk 
 about love." 
 
 He gazed into space in order to allow her voice time to die 
 away. There was a violin tone in her speech, the charm of which 
 he could not escape. When he fully realised what she had said, 
 he laughed a short laugh, and remarked that her attitude was 
 one of affected coyness. She shook her head. Then he teased 
 her about going with young Auffenberg, and asked her whether 
 real love affairs were just as disagreeable to her as those related 
 in novels. 
 
 The flaming blue of her eyes compelled him to look down. 
 It was not pleasant for him to admit, by action, that the expres- 
 sion in her face was stronger than his own. She left, and did not 
 allow herself to be seen for a few days. 
 
 When she returned, he was naive enough to renew his banter. 
 She took her seat on the corner sofa, and looked straight into his 
 face: "Do we really intend to remain friends, Daniel?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He cast a side glance of amazement at her, not because he was 
 particularly struck by her charming suavity and marked winsomeness, 
 but rather because the violin tone in her throat resounded more 
 strongly and clearly than ever. But it was quite impossible for 
 him to give an affirmative reply to her question without puckering 
 up his lips and putting his hands in his trouser pockets. 
 
 She said she had no desire to seem important in his estimation, 
 that she merely wanted him to regard her as different from other 
 girls. She insisted that he concede her one privilege if they were 
 to remain friends: he was not to talk to her about love, either 
 seriously or in jest. She remarked that for months the very 
 word love had called up ghost-like recollections. Why this was so, 
 she said she could not tell him, not now, perhaps years from now 
 when both had grown old. She could not do it, for if she 
 endeavoured to refresh old memories or revive what she had half 
 forgotten, her whole past arose before her, flat, languid, and 
 insipid, easily misinterpreted by the person who heard the story, 
 however clear it might be to her. She repeated that this was the 
 way it was, and she could not help it. Once again she asked 
 that he spare her feelings on this point. 
 
 Her face took on a serious expression; it resembled an old 
 picture. There was something dream-like in her words.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 75 
 
 "Well, if that is all you have on your mind, Eleanore, I am 
 sure that it will be easy for me to respect your wish," said Daniel. 
 There was a manifest lack of feeling in the kindness he displayed. 
 It seemed indeed that the secret to which she was attaching so 
 much importance was far removed from his egotistically encircled 
 world. The little fountain in the garden was rustling. He 
 listened to see if he could not catch the dominating tone in the 
 continual splashing. 
 
 Eleanore turned to him now with renewed if not novel candour. 
 She was closer to him in every way her eyes, her hands, and 
 her words. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Daniel had just completed an orchestral work which he had 
 entitled "Vineta." He wished to have Benda hear it. One 
 evening about six Benda came in. Everything was ready. Daniel 
 sat down at the piano. His face was pale, his smooth upper lip 
 was trembling. 
 
 "Now think of the sea; think of a storm; think of a boat with 
 people in it. Picture to yourself a wonderful aurora borealis and 
 a sunken city rising from the sea. Imagine a sea that had suddenly 
 become calm, and in the light a strange phenomenon. Conjure up 
 such a scene before your mind's eye, or conjure up something 
 totally different, for this is a false way of getting at the meaning 
 of music. It is plain prostitution to think anything of the kind. 
 Ice-flat." 
 
 He was just about to begin, when some one knocked at the door. 
 Eleanore entered. She whisked across the room, and took her 
 seat on the sofa. 
 
 The piece opened with a quiet rhythmical, mournful movement, 
 which suddenly changed to a raging presto. The melodic figure 
 was shattered like a bouquet of flowers in a waterfall almost before 
 it had had time to take shape and display real composure. The 
 dissipated elements, scattered to the four corners of the earth, then 
 returned, hesitatingly and with evident contrition, to be reunited 
 in a single chain. It seemed that the mad whirlwind had left 
 them richer, purer and more spiritual. They pealed forth now, 
 one after the other, in a slow-moving decrescendo, until they con- 
 stituted a solemn chorus played in moderato, melting at last into 
 the lovely and serious main theme, which in the finale streamed 
 away and beyond into infinity, dying out on an arpeggi.itcd chord.
 
 76 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Where the piano failed to produce the full effect, Daniel helped 
 out with his crow-like voice. It was the uncanny energy of 
 expression that prevented his singing from having a comic effect. 
 
 Benda's eyes we.c so strained in the effort to listen intelligently 
 and appreciatively that they became dazed, glazed. Had he been 
 asked he could not have said whether the work was a success or a 
 failure. The feature of the performance that convinced him was 
 the man and the magnetism that radiated from the man. The 
 work itself he could neither fathom nor evaluate. It took hold 
 of him nevertheless because of its inseparable association with 
 the human phenomenon. 
 
 Daniel got up, stumbled over to the sofa, buried his face in 
 his hands, and sighed: "Do you feel it? Do you really feel it?" 
 He then rose, lunged at the piano, seized the score, and hurled it 
 to the floor: "Ah, it's no account; it is nothing; it is an abominable 
 botch." 
 
 He threw himself on the sofa a second time. Eleanore, sitting 
 perfectly motionless in the other corner, looked at him with the 
 eyes of an astonished child. 
 
 Benda had gone to the window, and was looking out into the 
 trees and the grey clouds of the sky. Then he turned around. 
 "That something must be done for you and your cause is clear," 
 he said. 
 
 Eleanore stretched out her arms toward Benda as though she 
 wished to thank him. Her lips began to move. But when she 
 saw Daniel she did not dare to say a word, until she suddenly 
 exclaimed: "Heavens, there are two buttons on his vest which are 
 hanging by a thread." She ran out of the room. In a few 
 moments she returned with needle and thread, which she had 
 had Meta give her, sat down at Daniel's side, and sewed the 
 buttons on. 
 
 Benda had to laugh. But what she did had a tranquilising 
 effect; she seemed to enable life to win the victory over the 
 insidious pranks of apparitions. 
 
 IX 
 
 In years gone by, Benda had known the theatrical manager and 
 impresario Dormaul. He went to Dormaul now, and took Daniel's 
 new work along with him; for the versatile parvenu, who always 
 had a number of irons in the fire, also published music.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 77 
 
 A few weeks elapsed before Benda heard from Dormaul: "In- 
 comprehensible stuff! Crazy attempt to be original! You couldn't 
 coax a dog away from the stove with it." Such was Dormaul's 
 opinion. 
 
 A young man with fiery red hair followed Benda to the door 
 and spoke to him. He said his name was Wurzelmann and that 
 he was a musician himself; that he had attended the Vienna Con- 
 servatory, where his teacher had given him a letter of recommen- 
 dation to Alexander Dormaul. He also told Benda that Dormaul 
 was planning to form an opera company that would visit the 
 smaller cities of the provinces, and that he was to be the Kapell- 
 meister. 
 
 He spoke in the detestable idiom of the Oriental Jew. Benda 
 was politely cold. 
 
 The main point was still to come: "Vineta" had aroused Wurzel- 
 mann's profound admiration; he had read the score on the side: 
 "A great talent, Doctor, a talent such as we have not had for a 
 long, long while," said Wurzelmann. 
 
 "Yes, but what am I to say about Herr Dormaul's opinion?" 
 asked Benda. He found it difficult to trust the man before him, 
 and was using the judgment of the man behind him as a foil. 
 
 "Don't you know Dormaul? I thought you did. Whenever 
 he has no authority to fear he becomes very bold. Lay the Ninth 
 Symphony before him without Beethoven's name to it, and he will 
 tell you at once that it is rubbish. Do you want to bet?" 
 
 "Honestly?" asked Benda, somewhat concerned. 
 
 "Give me the score, and I'll promise you to arouse the least 
 sensitive from their lethargy with it. With a work of that kind 
 you have got to blow the trumpet." 
 
 Benda thought it over. He had no use for trumpet-blowing, 
 and no confidence in those who did the blowing. And yet he 
 consented, for he did not feel justified in arbitrarily depriving 
 Daniel of a chance. 
 
 It turned out that Wurzelmann had told the truth. A fortnight 
 later Daniel was informed that the Orchestral Union had decided 
 to perform his work in February. In order to provide its hearers 
 with a more elaborate picture of his creative ability, the Union 
 asked him for a second work. His compositions were perfect; 
 others needed revision. 
 
 Wurzelmann boasted of having won his way to the seats of the 
 mighty. He had the cordial approval of such professors of music
 
 78 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 as Wackerbarth and Herold. His masterpiece of diplomacy lay- 
 in the fact that he had secured Andreas Doderlein as director of 
 the orchestra. 
 
 His store of suggestions was inexhaustible, his plans without 
 number. He mentioned the fact that when the company was 
 on the road they would have to have a second Kapellmeister, since 
 he himself would have to function at times as substitute director: 
 "Leave it all to me, dear Nothafft," he said, "Alexander Dormaul 
 has got to dance to my tune, and my tune is this: It is Nothafft 
 or nobody for Kapellmeister." 
 
 If he began with humility, he concluded with familiarity. 
 Daniel hated red-headed people, particularly when they had in- 
 flamed eyes and slobbered when 'Jiey spoke. 
 
 "He is an unappetising fellow, your Wurzelmann," he said to 
 Benda, "and it is embarrassing to me to be indebted to him. He 
 imagines he flatters me when he speaks contemptibly of himself. 
 What he deserves is a kick or two." 
 
 Benda was silent. Touched by Wurzelmann's devoted efforts, 
 he had called him servule, or the "little slave." It was pleasant 
 to think that there was some one to remove the stumbling blocks 
 from the road, so that the feet of him who had risen from obscurity 
 might find a place to walk. But the little slave was filled with 
 the admiration of the Jew, born in poverty and oppression, for the 
 genius of the other race. 
 
 Benda knew this. He was uneasy at the thought of it; for 
 other and no less disingenuous fanatics regarded Wurzelmann's 
 behaviour merely as a racial peculiarity. 
 
 Summer with its hot August days had come. The two friends 
 took frequent walks out to the suburbs, strolling through the forests 
 of Fcucht and Fischbach, or climbing the high hills about the city. 
 
 Eleanorc joined them on one of these excursions. It was a joy 
 to see her drink in the fragrance of the flowers and the fir trees 
 or study the various cloud formations and the alternating scenes of 
 the landscape. When she did this she was like a bird gliding 
 along on noiseless wing in the upper regions, far removed from 
 the grime of the earth, bathing in the undcfilcd air of the clouds. 
 
 She listened to the conversation of the friends with intelligent 
 attention. A piercing glance or a wrinkle of the brow showed 
 that she was taking sides, and accepting or rejecting in her own
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 79 
 
 mind the views that were being set forth. If she was moved to 
 express an opinion of her own, she generally hit the nail on the 
 head. 
 
 As they were returning home, night set in. The sky was clear; 
 the stars were shining. There were a great number of falling 
 stars. Eleanore remarked that she really did not have as many 
 wishes as she could express under these circumstances. The erudite 
 Benda replied with a smile that in these August nights there were 
 frequently so many groups of asteroids that the whole firmament 
 seemed to be in motion, and that one could easily grow tired of 
 so many wishes. 
 
 Eleanore wanted to know what an asteroid was. Benda explained 
 it to her as well as he could. Then he told her all about con- 
 stellations and the milky way, and explained to her that the latter 
 consists of millions of individual stars. He also spoke of the size 
 of the stars; and since he referred to them occasionally as suns 
 and worlds, she became somewhat sceptical, and asked him whether 
 there were any earths among the stars. "Earths? What do you 
 mean by earths? " he asked. "Why, earths, just like the one we 
 live on," she replied. Having been told that there were earths 
 among the stars, Eleanore raised a number of rather cleverly 
 framed questions about the trees and animals and people that might 
 be found on these other earths. She was told that it was highly 
 probable that they were all inhabited about as our own: "Why 
 should this globe enjoy special privileges? " he asked. He added, 
 however, that even if the inhabitants of the other earths did not 
 have the same mental faculties that we have, they were at least 
 beings endowed with reason and instinct. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that such people as you and Daniel 
 and I may be living up there in those starry regions?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "And that there are countless peoples and humanities up among 
 the stars of whom we know nothing at all?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 Eleanore sat down on a milestone by the roadside, gazed out 
 into space with trembling lips, and broke out crying. Benda took 
 her hand, and caressed it. 
 
 "I am awfully sorry for all those peoples up there," Eleanore 
 sobbed, looked up, smiled, and let the tears take their course. 
 Benda would have liked to take Daniel by the arm, and shout into 
 his car: "Look at her now!" Daniel was looking at her, but he did 
 not sec her.
 
 8o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 XI 
 
 One evening in October, Inspector Jordan left his house in 
 Broad Street, buttoned his top coat more closely about him, and 
 walked hastily through a connecting alley that was so narrow that 
 it seemed as if some one had taken a big knife and cut the houses 
 in two. His goal was Carolina Street. It was late, and he was 
 hungry. Doubting whether Gertrude would have a warm supper 
 ready for him, he went to an inn. 
 
 He had spent two full hours there trying to get a rich hops 
 dealer to take out some insurance. The man had him explain 
 over and over again the advantages of insurance, studied the tables 
 backwards and forwards, and yet he was unable to come to a 
 decision. Then the waiter brought him his dinner. There he 
 sat, smacking his lips with the noise of human contentment, his 
 great white napkin tied under his chin in such a fashion that the 
 two corners of it stuck out on either side of his massive head, 
 giving the appearance of two white ears. He had offended Jor- 
 dan's social instincts: he had not thought it worth while to wait 
 for an invitation. 
 
 Among other guests in the inn was Bonengel, the barber. He 
 recognised Jordan and spoke to him. He took a seat in the back- 
 ground, picked out the ugliest and greasiest of the waitresses, and 
 ordered a bulky portion of sausage and sauerkraut. 
 
 He told lascivious anecdotes. When the waitress brought him 
 his food, she tittered, and said: "He is a jolly good fellow, Bonen- 
 gel is." 
 
 Jordan began to eat rapidly, but soon lost his appetite, pushed 
 his plate to one side, propped his chin on his hands, and stared at 
 the immobile clouds of tobacco smoke before him. 
 
 He had a feeling that it was no longer possible to keep at this 
 work day after day, year in and year out. Running from one end 
 of the city to the other, up and down the same stairs, through 
 the same old streets he could not do it. Answering the same 
 questions, making the same assertions, refuting the same objections, 
 praising the same plan in the same words, feigning the same interest 
 and quieting the same distrust day after day no, he could not do 
 it. Disturbing the same people in their domestic peace, prodding 
 himself on to new effort every morning, listening to the same 
 curtain lectures of that monster of monsters, the insatiate stock 
 market, and standing up under the commands of his chief, Alfons
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 81 
 
 Diruf no, he was no longer equal to it. It was all contrary to 
 the dignity of a man of his years. 
 
 He was ashamed of himself; and he was fearfully tired. 
 
 He thought of his past life. He recalled how he had risen 
 from poverty, and worked up to the position of a highly respected 
 merchant. That was when he was in Ulm. There he had married 
 Agnes, the blond daughter of the railroad engineer. 
 
 But why had he never become rich? Other men who were dis- 
 tinctly inferior to him in shrewdness, diligence, and polish were 
 now wealthy; he was poor. Three times he had been threatened 
 with bankruptcy, and three times friends had come to his rescue. 
 Then a partner joined him, invested some capital in the firm, and 
 the business was once more on its feet. 
 
 But it turned out that this partner was a stranger to loyalty 
 and quite without conscience. "Jordan is a drag on the business," 
 he would say to his customers, "Jordan is stupid, Jordan cannot 
 make a calculation." And the partner never rested until Jordan 
 was paid a set sum and eased out of the firm. 
 
 He then tried his fortune here and there for eight or nine 
 years. "Don't worry, Jordan," said Agnes, "everything will come 
 out well." But it did not. Whatever Jordan took hold of, he 
 took hold of at the wrong end at the wrong time with the wrong 
 people. 
 
 He could not get on. Not only because his hand was heavy 
 and his head too honest, but because he had allowed himself to 
 be befooled by a chimera. 
 
 Early in life he had had a dream, and all his enterprise and 
 industry were directed toward the fulfilment of this dream. It 
 had been impossible: he had never been able to save up enough 
 money. Every time he discussed his favourite wish with Agnes, 
 and told her about the happy days when he would be able to live 
 his own life and be his own boss, she encouraged him and tried to 
 help him. But it seemed now that she had known all along that 
 he had merely been dreaming, and that her magnanimity had 
 prompted her not to jolt him out of his delusion. 
 
 It had always seemed to him that the world of dolls was a 
 world in itself. He had taken an enchanted delight in picturing 
 the types of faces, clothes, and hair he would design for his 
 various dolls, big and little. Dolls of the most variegated charm 
 peopled his fancy: there were princesses of different degrees of 
 proximity to the throne, fisher maids and mermaids; there were 
 shepherds and shepherdesses, Casperls and lusty imps, dolls with
 
 82 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 heads of porcelain and dolls with heads of wax, all so faithfully 
 imitated that it would require anthropomorphic skill to detect 
 that they were not human beings. Their hair was, of course, to 
 be human hair. Some of them were to wear the costumes of 
 foreign races, while others were to be dressed up like fairy figures, 
 sprites, and gnomes. There was to be a Haroun al Raschid and 
 an Oriental Dervish. 
 
 The last time he moved his choice fell on Nuremberg. He was 
 attracted to Nuremberg because it was the centre of the doll 
 industry. 
 
 About this time Agnes died, and he was left alone with the 
 three children for whom he had to make a living. He no longer 
 had the courage to hope for success or prosperity; even the doll 
 factory had become a chimera. He had but one ambition: he 
 wished to lay aside ten thousand marks for each of his three daugh- 
 ters, so that they would be provided for in any event after his 
 death. The boy, he thought, could take care of himself. 
 
 Up to the present, however, he had not been able to place the 
 half of this sum in the bank. And now, suppose he lost his posi- 
 tion; suppose the frailties of old age prevented him from making 
 his own living; suppose he was obliged to draw on the savings of 
 years for his own support. How could he look his daughters 
 in the face in the evening of his earthly life? 
 
 "The slag hid behind something in the cellar, and when his 
 wife tried to bring him his pants, she let them fall in the flour 
 bin." This elegant remark emanated from Bonengel the barber. 
 
 His auditors gurgled, the waitress roared. 
 
 As Jordan walked home he could hear above the wind the voice 
 of Bonengel the barber. It sounded like the rattling of a pair of 
 hair-clippers. 
 
 He disliked walking up the steps to his front door; they were 
 so narrow; they creaked as though they were ready to fall down; 
 and he was always afraid ha would meet some blind people. An 
 oculist lived on the first floor, and he had often seen sightless per- 
 sons feeling their way around. 
 
 A letter was lying on his table. The cover bore the address of 
 the General Agency of the Prudentia Insurance Co. He walked 
 up and down a while before opening it. It was his discharge 
 papers.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 83 
 
 XII 
 
 Friedrich Benda became more and more dejected. He saw 
 that as a private individual he would have to waste energy that 
 should be going into his profession. It seemed to him that he was 
 condemned to bury his talent in eternal obscurity. 
 
 He broke off from the most of his acquaintances; with others 
 he quit corresponding. If friends spoke to him on the street, he 
 turned his head. His sense of honour had been wounded; he 
 was on the point of losing his self-respect. 
 
 Daniel was the only one who failed to notice the change that 
 was coming over him. Probably he had accustomed himself to the 
 belief that Benda's life was orderly and agreeable. The plebeian 
 prosperity of the family in which he himself lived probably made 
 him feel that that was the way his friend was living. At all 
 events he never asked any questions, and was never once struck by 
 the fact that Benda would sit before him for hours with his face 
 wrapped in bitter, melancholy gloom. 
 
 Benda smiled at Daniel's naivete; for he felt that his attitude 
 was due to naivete and nothing more. He harboured no resent- 
 ment. He decided not to say a word about his condition to Daniel, 
 then all taken up with himself and his music. It was, however, 
 at times impossible for him to prevent his smarting and his desire 
 to put an end to his ineffectual existence from breaking through 
 the coating of reserve in which he had encased himself. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of a dismal day, Benda called for Daniel 
 just as he was finishing one of his piano lessons. The two friends 
 decided to take a walk and then dine together at Benda's. 
 
 In the hallway they met the Rudiger sisters as they were return- 
 ing from their daily stroll through the garden. Benda greeted 
 them with an antiquated politeness; Daniel just barely touched 
 the rim of his hat. The sisters lined up as if ready for a cotillion, 
 and returned the greetings with infinite grace. Fraulein Jasmina 
 let a rose fall, and when Benda picked it up for her, she pressed 
 her hand against her scarcely noticeable breast and gave voice to 
 her gratitude, again with infinite grace. 
 
 When they reached the street, Benda said in a tone of com- 
 passion: "They are three delicate creatures; they live their lonely 
 lives like vestal virgins guarding a sacred fire." 
 
 Daniel smiled. "Yes, a sacred fire? Do you refer to the 
 incident with the painter?" 
 
 "Yes, I do; and he was no ordinary painter, either, let me tell
 
 84 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 you. I heard the whole story the other day. The painter was 
 
 Anselm Feuerbach." 
 
 Daniel knew nothing whatever about Anselm Feuerbach. He 
 was impressed, however, by the name, which, by virtue of a mys- 
 terious magic, struck his ear like the chime of a noble bell. "Tell 
 me about him," he said. 
 
 The story was as follows: Four years before his death, that is, 
 six years ago, Anselm Feuerbach came to Nuremberg for the last 
 time to visit his mother. He was already sick in body and soul, 
 and was much disappointed in his alleged friends. The incessant 
 torture resulting from lack of appreciation had told on his health. 
 A few of the more enlightened citizens, however, recalled his 
 fame, as it floated about in the heavy air of Germany, somewhat 
 befogged and quite expatriated, and the Chamber of Commerce 
 placed an order with Feuerbach for a painting to be hung in the 
 Palace of Justice. Feuerbach accepted the order, choosing as his 
 theme Emperor Ludwig in the act of conferring on the citizens 
 of Nuremberg the right to free trade. When the picture was 
 completed, there was a great deal of dissatisfaction with it. The 
 merchants had expected something totally different: they had 
 looked for a cheap but striking canvas after the style of K-reling, 
 and not this dignified, classical work by Feuerbach. 
 
 Nor was this all. The hanging space was so small that several 
 inches of the canvas had to be run into the wall, and the light 
 was wretched. The Chamber of Commerce proceeded at once to 
 make trouble with regard to the paying of Feuerbach's bill. An 
 ugly quarrel arose in which Rudiger, the geometrician, who had 
 always been an ardent champion of Feuerbach, took the artist's 
 part It finally reached the point where Rudiger left the city, 
 swearing he would never return. His daughters had all three loved 
 Feuerbach from the time he lived in their father's house. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, if there ever was an amiable artist," Benda 
 said in conclusion, "it was Anselm Feuerbach. Would you like to 
 see him? Come, then." 
 
 They were near the Cemetery of St. John. The gate was open, 
 and Daniel followed Benda. They walked along a narrow path, 
 until Benda pointed to a flat stone bearing the name of Albrecht 
 Durcr. After this they came to Feuerbach's grave. A bronze 
 tablet, already quite darkened with age and weather, bore Feuer- 
 barh's face in profile. Beneath it lay a laurel wreath, the withered 
 leaves of which were fluttering in the wind.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 85 
 
 "What a life he lived!" said Benda in a low tone. "And what 
 a death he died! The death of a hunted dog!" 
 
 As they walked back to the city, night came on. Daniel had 
 removed his hat, and was walking along at Benda's side looking 
 straight ahead. Benda was as nervous as he had ever been in 
 his life. 
 
 "A German life, and a German death," he exclaimed. "He 
 stretched out his hand to give, and the people spat in it. He gives 
 and gives and gives, and they take and take and take, without 
 gratitude, yea, rather with scorn. The only thing they study is 
 their consanguinity table. They make the microscope and the 
 catechism copulate; their philosophy and their police systems live 
 in mesalliance. Good demeanour they know not; of human agree- 
 ments they have never heard. They decide to do something, and 
 they do it. That is all. There is no longer a place for me in 
 Germany. I am leaving." 
 
 "You are going to leave? Where are you going?" asked Daniel, 
 in faithful amazement. Benda bit his lips, and was silent. 
 
 "Do you see these big white spots here? They have neither 
 mountains nor rivers on them. Those are places that have never 
 been trod upon by European feet. There is where I am going." 
 He smiled a gentle smile. 
 
 "Really? When?" asked Daniel, filled with dismay at the 
 thought of losing his friend. 
 
 "I have not decided when, but it will be soon. I have work to 
 do over there. I need air, room, sky, the free animal and the 
 free plant." 
 
 Benda's mother came in. She was rather tall, walked with the 
 difficulties of age, had sharp features and deep-set eyes. 
 
 She looked first at her son and then at Daniel. Then her eyes 
 fell on the atlas and remained fixed upon it, filled with an expres- 
 sion of horror and anxiety. 
 
 Daniel did not know what to say. Benda, still smiling to him- 
 self, began to talk noout other things. 
 
 XIII 
 
 At the death of her mother, Gertrude Jordan was nine years 
 old. She had crept into the death chamber and sat by the bier 
 for three hours. Perhaps her seclusion from the world and asso- 
 ciation with people dated from that hour. As she was leaving the
 
 86 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 death room, the clock on the wall struck, and a cock crowed in the 
 distance. 
 
 "Why do you tick, clock?" she asked in a loud voice, "why do 
 you crow, cock?" And again: "Who makes you tick, clock, who 
 makes you crow, cock? " 
 
 She had grown up, and no one knew anything about her. It 
 was even difficult for her own father to approach her; how she 
 was constituted, mentally and spiritually, he did not know. She 
 never associated with girls of her own age. Her dark eyes glowed 
 with wrath when she heard the senseless, sensuous laughter of 
 other girls. 
 
 The first time she partook of the holy communion she swooned 
 and had to be carried out. Jordan then took her to Pommers- 
 felden to his sister, the widow of the district physician Kupfer- 
 schmied. At the end of one week she returned alone, completely 
 broken in spirit. She had seen a calf slaughtered; the sight had 
 made her almost insane. 
 
 From the time she was fifteen years old she had insisted on 
 having her own bed room. When she was sixteen she demanded 
 that the maid be discharged; she herself did all the cooking and 
 kept house. As soon as she had finished her work, she would take 
 her seat by the quilting frame. 
 
 Through her father, Benjamin Dorn had come into the family. 
 Gertrude liked him because Eleanore made fun of him. He did 
 not seem to her like a man; he reminded her rather of the lan- 
 guishing angels she embroidered. He brought her all his religious 
 tracts and edifying pamphlets, but she could not grasp the language. 
 He took her to the Methodist revivals, but the noisy gnashing of 
 teeth at these meetings terrified her, and after a few times it was 
 impossible to persuade her to go back. He also recommended that 
 she read the Bible, but she could find nothing in it that brought 
 her peace of mind. It seemed that she had a wound in her soul 
 that would not heal. Long after she had abandoned Benjamin 
 Dorn and his cheap sanctimoniousness, he imagined that she still 
 loved him and looked up to him. She managed, however, to come 
 into his presence only on the rarest occasions, and then she never 
 spoke to him. 
 
 Divine worship in the Protestant church seemed to her like a 
 sort of bargain day on which the people assembled to do business 
 with Heaven instead of on work days. She missed the dignity; 
 the sermons left her cold; the ritual made not the slightest appeal 
 to her.
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 87 
 
 She never heard from any one at any time a single sentence that 
 really enlightened her or remained fixed in her memory. It was 
 the jejune insipidity of an entire age, the stale flatness of the 
 world that she felt to the very depths of her soul. If she wished 
 to make her heart glow, if she became unusually fearful of the 
 empty air and the empty day, she stole secretly into the Church 
 of Our Lady or into St. Sebaldus, where the house of God was 
 more solemnly decorated, where there were more lights burning, 
 where the prayers had a more mysterious sound, the priests seemed 
 to be more affected by what they were doing, and where the wor- 
 shipper could sense the awful meaning of life and death. 
 
 All external beauty, however, was repulsive to her. She hated 
 even beautiful scenery and fair weather, regarding them as tempta- 
 tions to mortal man intended to lead him into some sort of folly. 
 She loved nothing about herself, neither her face nor her voice. 
 She was indeed frightened at the sound of her own deep voice. 
 She did not like her hair, nor had she any use for her hands. 
 
 One winter evening she took from her fund the gold ring, an 
 heirloom from her mother, presented to her by her father, and 
 threw it into the creek. Then she bowed down over the ledge, 
 and seemed to feel as if she had relieved her soul of a great 
 burden. 
 
 Eleanore tried time and time again to come near her sister, but 
 each time she was thrust back. Though Gertrude never conversed 
 with people, every word that was said about Eleanore reached her 
 ears; she felt ashamed of her sister. She could not bear the 
 looks of Eleanore, took an intense dislike to her, and in the end 
 was obliged to summon all her courage in order to return her 
 greeting. It was impossible for her, however, to reproach Eleanore; 
 for that she did not have sufficient command of language. In 
 truth, her control of words was exceedingly limited. Everything, 
 grief as well as injustice, she was forced to stifle within her own 
 soul. She grieved about Eleanore, and became at the same time 
 more and more nervous and excited. It seemed that something 
 about her sister was tantalising her, drawing her on, worrying her, 
 making her lose sleep. 
 
 Her restlessness became so great that she could no longer sit 
 at the quilting frame; in fact, it was no longer possible for her 
 to do any kind of exacting work. Something drew her out of the 
 house, and once she was away, something forthwith drew her 
 back home. Her heart beat violently when she was alone, and 
 yet, if her father or brother or Eleanore came in, she could not
 
 88 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 stand their presence, and took refuge in her own room. If it was 
 hot, she closed the windows; if it was cold, she opened them and 
 leaned out. If it was quiet, she was filled with fear; if it was not 
 quiet, she longed for peace. She could not say her prayers; she 
 had none to say; her mind and soul were muted, muffled, dumb. 
 She felt the hours following each other in regular order as some- 
 thing terrible; she wanted to skip over years, just as one might 
 skip over pages of a tiresome book. And when the worst came 
 to the worst, and she did not know what on earth to do, she ran 
 to the Church of Our Lady, threw herself prostrate before the 
 hjgh altar, buried her face, and remained perfectly motionless 
 until her soul had found greater peace. 
 
 Something made her go to Eleanore; she did not want to do it, 
 but she could not help it. She was naturally vigilant, and she 
 wished to ward off misfortune if possible. She was obsessed with 
 an uncanny feeling, a gruesome curiosity. She dogged her sister's 
 steps in secret. One time she saw from a distance that Eleanore 
 had started off with a man who had been waiting for her. She 
 could not move from the spot; Eleanore caught sight of her. 
 
 The next day Eleanore came to her voluntarily, and told her 
 quite candidly of her relation to Eberhard von Auffenberg. Con- 
 cerning what she knew of Eberhard's fate she said nothing; she 
 merely indicated that he was extremely unhappy. She told her 
 how she had met him the previous winter on the Dutzendteich at 
 the ice carnival, how he ran after her, how glad she was to show 
 him a little friendship, and how much he needed friendship. 
 
 Gertrude was silent for a long while. Finally she said, with a 
 voice so deep that it seemed to have burst from being too full: 
 "You two either must get married, or you must not see each other 
 any more. What you are doing is a crime." 
 
 "A crime?" said Eleanore astonished, "how so?" 
 
 "Ask your conscience," was the answer, spoken with eyes riveted 
 on the ground. 
 
 "My conscience is quite clear." 
 
 "Then you have none," said Gertrude harshly. "You lie, and 
 you are being lied to. You are sunk in sin; there is no hope for 
 you. That man's evil looks! His ugly thoughts! And the 
 thoughts of the other men! They are all beyond redemption. 
 You are spotted through and through. You don't know it, but 
 I do." 
 
 She got up, kicked the chair from her with her heels, and stared 
 at Eleanore with her mysterious black eyes: "Never mention this
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 89 
 
 to me again," she whispered with trembling lips, "never, never!" 
 With that she went out. 
 
 Eleanore felt something like actual loathing for her own sister. 
 Filled with an indescribable foreboding, she detected in Gertrude 
 the adversary that fate had marked out for her. 
 
 XIV 
 
 When the autumn days came on and it began to get cold, Daniel 
 was a frequent visitor at Jordan's. Although he had a warm 
 stove now of his own, he took pleasure in remembering the com- 
 fortable corner of a year ago. He had a greater affection for 
 things and rooms than he had for human beings. 
 
 It was rare that he came in contact with Jordan, for now that 
 he was no longer with the Prudentia, it was hard to locate him: 
 he was doing odd jobs for a number of concerns, and this kept 
 him more or less on the go. Benno came home after office hours, 
 only to betake himself to his room, where he shaved and made 
 himself as elegant-looking as possible for the social engagements of 
 the evening. He did not like to be alone with Gertrude, so he 
 never came until after six o'clock, when he knew that Eleanore 
 would be at home. Realising that Eleanore was diligently pur- 
 suing the study of French and English, and that her evenings 
 were therefore of great value to her, he begged her not to be 
 disturbed by his visits. He said that he found nothing so agree- 
 able as sitting still and saying nothing. After an hour or two, 
 however, he left, murmuring an indistinct farewell as he did so. 
 
 At times he would bring a book with him and read. If he 
 chanced to look up, he saw Eleanore bending over the writing 
 table, her hair, bathed in a flood of golden light from the lamp, 
 falling in fine silken threads over her temples, while her mouth 
 was firmly closed, her lips inclined to droop at the corners, but in 
 a lovely fashion. Then he saw Gertrude. She did not wear her 
 hair loose; she put it up in a tight knot above her neck. Her 
 dress was no longer the Nile green; it was made of brown cloth, 
 and on the front was a row of glistening black buttons. 
 
 At times Eleanore would make some remark to him, and he 
 would reply. At times the remarks between the two spun out into 
 a verbal skirmish. Eleanore teased, and he was gruff; or he 
 mocked, and Eleanore delivered a curtain lecture. Gertrude would 
 sit with an expression of helpless amazement on her face, and look 
 at the window. She purposely remained unoccupied; she pur-
 
 90 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 posely postponed her household duties. The thought of leaving 
 the two alone in the room was unbearable. 
 
 What Daniel did and said, how he walked or sat or stood, how 
 he put his hands in his pockets and smacked his lips, all this and 
 more aroused a sense of fear and shame in her. She regarded his 
 candour as impudent presumption; she looked upon his capricious- 
 ness as malevolent irrationality; his indifferent manners and his 
 disposition to slander she felt certain were of a piece with the 
 scorn of the devil. 
 
 On one occasion he dropped a caustic remark about the bigots 
 who contend that God is a moralising censor. Having this phase 
 of ethics under discussion, he also paid his respects n those people 
 who look upon every worm-eaten pastor as an archangel. Gertrude 
 got up with a jerk, and stared at him. He stood his ground; he 
 merely shrugged his shoulders. Gertrude whispered: "Men with- 
 out faith are worse than contagious diseases." 
 
 Daniel laughed. Then he became serious, and asked her what 
 she understood by faith. He wanted to know whether she felt 
 that faith was a matter of lip service. She replied, with bowed 
 head, that she could not discuss sacred matters with a man who 
 had renounced all religion. Daniel told her that her remark was 
 slanderous. He wanted to know whether she had ever taken the 
 pains to find out precisely how lie stood in matters of religion, 
 and if not, was this the jeason she passed such final judgment on 
 him with such suddenness and conviction. He asked her point 
 blank whether she was quite certain that her so-called faith was 
 better than his so-called unfaith. Not content with this, he asked 
 where she got her authority, her courage, her feeling of security; 
 whether she felt she had evidence to prove that she had carefully 
 examined his soul; and whether she had at any time interviewed 
 God. 
 
 He laughed again, whistled, and left. 
 
 Gertrude remained motionless for a while, her eyes fixed on the 
 floor. Eleanore supported her chin on her hand, and looked at 
 her compassionately. Gertrude began to tremble in her whole 
 body, and, without raising her head, she stretched out her arms to 
 Eleanore. Though quite unable to interpret this accusing gesture, 
 Eleanore was terrified. 
 
 The next time Daniel came, he resumed his seat by the stove, 
 and remained silent for a while. Then, without the slightest 
 warning or apparent motivation, he began to discuss religion. And 
 howr With the old spirit of defiance, as if from an ambuscade
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 91 
 
 from which he could send out his poisoned arrows, with calculating 
 maliciousness and cold rebellion, with the air of a man who has 
 been defeated, who is now being pursued, and who is willing to 
 concede more to the earthly order of things than to the divine. 
 Thus he sat, 1\2 incarnation of blasphemy, and once more shuffled 
 the features of his face until he looked like the sedulous ape. 
 
 Eleanore felt that he uvs denying; both himself and God, and 
 that with violence. She went over 13 him, and laid her hand on 
 his shoulder. Gertrude, a death-like pallor playing over her face, 
 got up, passed by her and Daniel, and did not appear again that 
 evening. Nor did she appear the following evening. From that 
 time on she avoided his presence. 
 
 For one remarkable second and no longer, Daniel fixed his eyes 
 on the shape of Gertrude's legs. He became suddenly conscious of 
 the fact that she was a woman, and he was a man. During this 
 second, one of the rarest of his life, he perceived the outer surface 
 of her body, but without the enveloping clothes. He thought of 
 her as a nude figure. It lasted only a second, but he pictured her 
 to himself as a nude. Everything she had said and done fell from 
 her like so much clothing. 
 
 He had a feeling that his eyes had been opened; that he had 
 really seen for the first time in his life; and that what he now 
 saw was the body of the world. 
 
 The nude picture followed him. He fought against his dis- 
 quietude. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. 
 He conjured up the picture in order to destroy it with coolness 
 and composure; but it would not be destroyed, nor would it vanish. 
 One day he chanced to meet Gertrude by the beautiful fountain. 
 He stopped, stood as if petrified, and forgot to speak to her. 
 
 xv 
 
 It was a cold, clear day in the middle of December. Eleanore 
 wanted to go skating after dinner. She was known in the entire 
 city for her skill on the ice. An irrepressible vivacity and sense 
 of freedom pulsed through her body. It seemed to her lamentable 
 that she should have to sit down in the overheated, sticky air of 
 the office among all those clerks, and write. 
 
 She went, nevertheless, to the office, took her place among the 
 clerks, and wrote as usual. Herr Zittel's eyes shone through the 
 lenses of his spectacles like two poison flasks. But she did not 
 make much progress; time dragged; it dragged even more heavily
 
 92 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 and slowly than Herr Diruf's feet, as he made his rounds through 
 the room. Eleanore looked up. She felt as if his gloomy eyes 
 were resting on her. Conscious of having failed to perform her 
 duty 23 fhe might have done, she blushed. 
 
 Finally the clock struck six. The other clerks left, making much 
 noise as they did so. Eleanore waited as usual until they had all 
 gone, for she did rot like to mix with them. Just then Benjamin 
 Dorn came wabbling in: "The Chief would like to speak to Frau- 
 lein Jordan," he said, and bent his long neck like a swan. Eleanore 
 was surprised: what on earth could Herr Diruf want with her? 
 Possibly it had to do with Benno. 
 
 Alfons Diruf was sitting at his desk as she entered. He wrote 
 one more line, and then stared at her. There was something in 
 his expression that drove the blood from her cheeks. Involuntarily 
 she looked down at herself and felt her flesh creep. 
 
 "You wanted to see me," she said. 
 
 "Yes, I wanted to see you," he replied, and made a weary attempt 
 to smile. 
 
 There was another pause. In her anxiety Eleanore looked first 
 at one object in the room and then at another; first at the bathing 
 nymph, then at the silk curtains, then at the Chinese lampshade. 
 
 "Well, sweetheart," said Herr Diruf, his smile gradually chang- 
 ing into a sort of convulsion, "we are not bad, are we? By the 
 beard of the prophet, we are all right, aren't we? Hunh?" 
 
 Eleanore lowered her head. She thought she had misunderstood 
 him: "You wanted to see me," she said in a loud voice. 
 
 Diruf laid his hand, palm down, on the edge of his desk. 
 His solitaire threw off actual sparks of brilliancy. "I can crush 
 every one of you," he said, as he shoved his hand along the edge 
 of the desk toward Eleanore. "That boy out there, your brother, 
 is an underhanded sharper. If I want to I can make him turn a 
 somersault, believe me." He shoved his fat hand a little farther 
 along, as if it were some dangerous engine and his solitaire a 
 signal lamp. "I can make the whole pack of you dance whenever 
 I want to. Can't I, sweetheart? Capita? Comprenez-vous?" 
 
 Eleanore looked into Alfons Diruf's smeary eyes with unspeak- 
 able amazement. 
 
 Diruf got up, walked over to her, and put his arms around her 
 shoulders. "Well, if the boy is a sweet-toothed tom-cat who can 
 easily be led astray, you are a purring pussy-cat," he said with a 
 tone of terrible tenderness, and held the girl so tight in his arms
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 93 
 
 that she could not possibly move. "Now be quiet, sweetheart; 
 be calm, my little bosom; don't worry, you little devil!" 
 
 Horror, hot and cold, came over her, and filled her with un- 
 namable dismay. Contact with the man had a more gruesome 
 effect on her than anything she had ever even dreamed of. One 
 jerk as though it were a matter of life and death, and she was 
 free. White as a sheet, she nevertheless stood there before him, 
 and smiled. It was a rare smile, something quite beyond the 
 bounds of what is ordinarily called a smile. Alfons Diruf was no 
 longer fat and fierce; he was like a pricked bubble; he was done 
 for. And finding himself alone, he stood there for a while and 
 gaped at the floor. He looked and felt hopelessly stupid. 
 
 Eleanore hastened through the streets, and suddenly discovered 
 that she was in the Long Row. She turned around. Benda, then 
 on the way over to call on Daniel, caught sight of her, recognised 
 her by the light of the gas lamp, stopped as she passed by him, 
 and looked after her not a little concerned. 
 
 When she reached home, she sank down on the sofa exhausted. 
 To rid her mind of the memory of the past hour, she took refuge 
 in her longing, longing for a southern country. Her longing was 
 so intense, her desire to go south so fervent, that her face shone 
 as if in fever. But the glass case had at last been broken. 
 
 The bell rang shortly before eight; she said to Gertrude: "If it 
 5s Daniel, send him away. I cannot see any one this evening." 
 
 "Are you ill?" asked Gertrude with characteristic sternness. 
 
 "I don't know; I simply do not want to see anybody," said 
 Eleanore, and smiled again as she had smiled in Diruf's office. 
 
 It was Daniel, to be sure. Benda had told him that he had seen 
 Eleanore out in front of the house; and when he learned that she 
 had not been to call on Daniel, his anxiety increased. "There is 
 something wrong here," he said, "you had better go see her." 
 After they had talked the situation over for a while Benda accom- 
 panied Daniel as far as ^gydius Place, in order to make sure that 
 he inquired after Eleanore. 
 
 Gertrude opened the iron door. "Eleanore does not want you 
 to come in," she said, with a trace of joy in her eyes. 
 
 "Why not? What has happened?" 
 
 "She does not wish to see you," said the monosyllabic Gertrude, 
 and gazed into the light of the hall lamp. 
 
 "Is she ill?" 
 
 "No!"
 
 94 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "Then she has got to tell me herself that she does not wish to 
 see me." 
 
 "Go!" commanded Gertrude and tossed her head back. 
 
 Her gloomy eyes hung on his, and the two stood there for a 
 moment opposite each other, like two racers who have come in at the 
 same goal at the same time but from opposite directions. Daniel 
 then turned around, and went down the steps in silence. Gertrude 
 remained standing for a time, her head sinking deeper and deeper 
 all the while on her breast. Suddenly she covered her face with 
 her hands; a cold shudder ran through her body. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Before going to bed, Eleanore wrote a letter to Herr Zittel 
 informing him that she was leaving the Prudentia at once. 
 
 Lying in bed, she could not sleep. She saw herself on the ice 
 cutting bold and novel figures. The spectators, grouped about her 
 in a wide circle, admired her skill. She saw the sea with fishing 
 smacks and coloured sails. She saw gardens full of roses. 
 
 Her father and Benno had come home long ago. She heard 
 the bell up in the nearby church tower strike twelve and then 
 one and then two. 
 
 She heard some one walking back and forth in the house; she 
 heard some one opening and closing a door. Then the steps died 
 away, and all was quiet. She got up, went to the door, and 
 listened. A deep sigh reached her ear from the next room. She 
 opened the door just a little, without making the slightest noise, 
 and peeped out through the crack. 
 
 Gertrude was standing by the open window; she was in her 
 nightgown and bare feet. The moon was shining on the square 
 in front of the house; the glitter of the snow on the roofs made 
 it seem quite cold. The spooky illumination made the girl's face 
 look spooky. Her loose flowing hair looked as black as ebony. 
 
 Eleanore ran into the room, and closed the window. "What on 
 earth are you doing, Gertrude?" she exclaimed; "are you getting 
 ready to take your life?" 
 
 Gertrude's slender body shivered in the cold; her toes were all 
 bent in as if she were having a convulsion. "Yes," she said with 
 marked moroscncss, "that is what I would like to do." 
 
 "That's what you would like to do?" replied Eleanore, also 
 trembling with cold. "And your father? Haven't you the slight- 
 est consideration for him? Do you want to give him more worry
 
 INSPECTOR JORDAN AND HIS CHILDREN 95 
 
 than he already has? What is the matter with you, you crazy 
 girl?" 
 
 "I am a sinner, Eleanore," cried Gertrude, fell on her knees, 
 and clasped Eleanor about the hips. "I am a sinner " 
 
 "Yes? A sinner? What sin, pray, have you committed?" 
 asked Eleanore, and bent down over her. 
 
 "Why am I in that house there, in that prison?" cried Gertrude, 
 and clasped her hands to her breast. "Evil has come over me, 
 evil has taken possession of me. I have evil thoughts. Look at 
 me, Eleanore, look at me!" 
 
 Her voice had now mounted to the pitch of a piercing shriek. 
 Eleanore stepped back from her, terror stricken. Gertrude fell 
 head first on the floor. Her hair covered her bent and twitching 
 back. 
 
 The door leading to Jordan's room opened, and he himself 
 came in carrying a lighted candle. In default of pajamas, he had 
 thrown a chequered shawl around his shoulders, the fringes of 
 which were dangling about his knees. He had a white-peaked 
 night-cap on his head. 
 
 Quite beside himself, he Ipoked at the two girls and wanted 
 to say something; but he was speechless. When much worried 
 he would always smirk. It was a disagreeable habit. In Eleanore 
 it always aroused a feeling of intense compassion. "There is noth- 
 ing wrong, father," she stammered, and made an awkward gesture 
 which indicated to him that it would be most agreeable to her if 
 he would go away. "Gertrude has pains in her stomach; she tried 
 to go to the medicine chest to get a f5w drops. Please go, father; 
 I'll put her to bed." 
 
 "I will go to the doctor, or I will call Benno and have him 
 go," said Jordan. 
 
 "No, father, it is not necessary. Please go away!" 
 
 He appreciated Eleanore's impatience and obediently withdrew, 
 shielding the light of the candle with his hand; his gigantic 
 shadow followed along behind him like some unclassified animal. 
 
 "Get up, Gertrude, get up and come with me!" said Eleanore. 
 
 Gertrude was taken back to her room. After she had been in 
 bed for a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. It was 
 Jordan; he asked how she felt. Eleanore told him everything 
 was all right. 
 
 Until the moon had disappeared below the church roof, Eleanore 
 sat on Gertrude's bed, and held her mute hand in her own. 
 Though she had thrown a cloak about her shoulders, she was cold.
 
 96 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Gertrude lay with open, lifeless eyes. Every movement of 
 Eleanore's face revealed the changing moods of her soul: she was 
 thinking over an unending series of grave thoughts. When it 
 became quite dark, Gertrude turned her face to Eleanore, and said 
 softly: "Please get in bed with me, Eleanore. If I see you sleep- 
 ing, possibly I can sleep too." 
 
 Eleanore laid the cloak to one side, and slipped in under the 
 covers. The two girls cuddled up to each other, and in a few 
 minutes both were sound asleep.
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND VOICES FROM WITHIN 
 
 DANIEL gradually gained followers. Those whom the "little 
 slave" won over to his cause were hardly to be called patrons: 
 they were patriots. They were delighted at the thought that a 
 maestro should have been born and risen to fame in soulful old 
 Franconia. In the actual life of their protege they took but little 
 interest. 
 
 Daniel's followers were young people. 
 
 Professor Herold was a strange man. His reputation reached far 
 beyond the boundaries of his native province, and yet, owing to 
 his whimsical peculiarities, he had not the slightest desire to leave 
 home. On such sons and daughters of the natives as were diligent 
 in their pursuit of musical studies, he poured out the whole of his 
 sarcasm. His chief, his darling ambition was to wean them away 
 from their fondness for worthless music and clap-trap performances 
 of it. He did not succeed: you were not considered educated 
 unless you could play the piano, and in the homes of these mer- 
 chants education was highly regarded. 
 
 Enticed by his name, all kinds of people came from a distance to 
 take lessons from Professor Herold. Having read the score of 
 "Vineta," he said to two of these: "Fetch me that fellow dead or 
 alive." And they fetched him. 
 
 The two came more frequently to Daniel, and then others, 
 pupils of Professors Wackerbarth and Doderlein. At times he 
 would take luncheon with them in the students' restaurant. We 
 will call them the long-haired, or the pale-faced. Many of them 
 looked like snake-charmers. They were almost without exception 
 hopelessly stupid, but they all had some kind of a bee in their 
 bonnet. 
 
 There were some young girls among them; we will call them 
 the dreamy-eyed, or the lost-in-dreams. Daniel had no use for 
 them whatsoever. His patience with the long-haired was equally 
 lacking. 
 
 He told "the old man," as Professor Herold was called, of his 
 antipathy to these students. Professor Herold snapped like a 
 
 97
 
 98 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 vicious dog, brushed the white bristles back over his enormous head, 
 and said: "Well, my young original, you have made a discovery. 
 Don't you know that music cajoles into its magic circle the very 
 riff-raff of any community: 1 Don't you know that music is a 
 subterfuge for the neglect of human duty? Don't you know that 
 the voluptuous fumes it spreads over the cities results in the general 
 corrosion and consumption of men's hearts? Don't you know 
 that of every five hundred so-called artists, four hundred and 
 ninety-nine are nothing but the cripple guard of God above? 
 Therefore he who does not come to music with the holiest fire 
 burning in the depths of his soul has his blood in time transformed 
 by it into glue, his mind into a heap of rubbish." 
 
 Whereat he pushed Daniel out of the door, so that he might 
 work undisturbed on his little pictures. Of these the walls of his 
 room were full. He painted them in his leisure hours. They 
 were small in size, and smaller still in merit; but he was proud 
 of them. They represented scenes from country life. 
 
 On New Year's Eve, Dormaul, the impresario, gave a dinner in 
 the Little Swan, to which he invited Daniel. Dormaul was quite 
 well disposed toward Daniel. He said he had recognised the young 
 man's talents at the sight r f his very first note. He promised to 
 publish "Vineta" and also the work Daniel had finished in the 
 meantime, entitled "Nuremberg Serenade." He also seemed in- 
 clined to consider favourably Daniel's appointment in his newly 
 founded opera company. 
 
 Among th' v -i present at the dinner were Professors Herold and 
 Wackerbarth, Wurzelmann, a few of the long-haired and a few 
 of the lost-in-dreams. Andreas Doderlein had promised to come 
 in later. He appeared, as a matter of fact, five minutes before 
 midnight, and stood in the wide-opened door as ceremonious as 
 the New Year itself. 
 
 He went up to Daniel, and extended him his right hand. 
 
 "Look who's here! Our Benjamin and our John, not to men- 
 tion our Daniel," he said, glancing at the last of the trio. "Con- 
 gratulations, my young star! What do the annals from Andreas 
 Doderlein's nose for news have to report? Back in Bayreuth, 
 when we used to draw our wine by the flask, he merely had to 
 sniffle around a bit to know just how things were. Isn't that true, 
 Benjamin?"
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 99 
 
 Nobody denied it. Benjamin let right yield to mercy. The 
 mighty man removed his storm-cape from his shoulders as though 
 it were ermine he were doffing before condescending to associate 
 with ordinary mortals. 
 
 Professor Wackerbarth had a wife who beat him and gave him 
 nothing to eat: he regarded this as a rare opportunity to eat his 
 fill and have a good time generally. But it was a poor sort of a 
 good time. 
 
 One of the long-haired sang the champagne song, and Wurzel- 
 mann made a witty speech. Doderlein suggested that now was the 
 time to let the mice dance and the fleas hop. When one of the 
 lost-5n-dreams sang David's March, which according to the rules 
 of Bayreuth could not be classed as real music, Doderlein exclaimed: 
 "Give me Lethe, my fair one." By "Lethe" he meant punch. 
 
 Daniel drank Lethe too. He embraced old Herold, shook hands 
 with Andreas Doderlein, and tried to waltz with Wurzelmann. 
 He was not drunk; he was merely happy. 
 
 Then it became too close for him in the room. He took his 
 hat, put on his overcoat, and hurried out. 
 
 The air was warm, mild. A south wind was blowing. Heaven 
 above, heaven below, the houses were standing on clouds. One 
 breath made him thirsty for the next one. There was a bay- 
 window; it was so beautiful that he felt like kneeling before it. 
 There was a fountain; it was so snug and exotic that it seemed 
 like a poem. There were the arches of the bridge; in them was 
 the dim reflection of the water. There were two towers; they 
 were as delicate as a spider's web. 
 
 He rejoiced and exclaimed: "Oh world, art thou real? Art 
 thou my world, and am I living in thee? My world, my year, 
 my time, and I in it all, I myself!" 
 
 in 
 
 He stood on ^gydius Place, and looked up at the windows in 
 Jordan's house. They were all dark. 
 
 He wanted to call out, but the name that was on his lips filled 
 him with anxiety. The passionate flutter of his heart almost tore 
 his breast asunder. 
 
 He had to do something; he had to speak; he had to ask ques- 
 tions and hear a human voice. Consequently, he hurried out to 
 the Full, stood under Benda's window, and called Benda's name. 
 The clocks struck three.
 
 ioo THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 The blinds were soon drawn to one side, and Benda's stoutish 
 figure appeared at the open window. "Daniel? Is it you? 
 What's up?" 
 
 "Nothing. I merely wanted to bring you New Year's greetings." 
 
 "Do you think you are bringing me something good? Go home 
 and go to bed." 
 
 "Ah, let me come in a little while, Friedrich. Let's chat for a 
 moment or two about happiness!" 
 
 "Be reasonable! We might frighten happiness away by our 
 talk." 
 
 "Philistine! Well, give me your blessing at least." 
 
 "You have it. Now go, night owl, and let the people sleep." 
 
 Arrother window opened on the ground floor. Herr Carovius's 
 desolate nocturnal physiognomy appeared at the window, looked up, 
 looked down on the disturber of the peace on the street, and with 
 one mighty grim, grinning sound on his lips, his revengeful fist 
 swinging in the meanwhile, the indignant man closed the window 
 with a bang. 
 
 Something impelled Daniel to return to ^Igydius Place. Again 
 he looked up at the windows, this time beseechingly. The storm 
 within his heart became more violent. For a long time he ran 
 through the streets, and reached home at last along toward five 
 o'clock. 
 
 As he passed through the dark hall, he saw a light up on the 
 landing. Meta was carrying it. She was already stirring about, 
 ready to begin her morning's work. He hesitated; he looked at 
 her; with three steps he was by her side. 
 
 "So late?" she whispered with premonitory embarrassment, and 
 began to finger her dress, which she had not yet buttoned up. 
 
 "Oh, what a joy to take hold of a living human being on this 
 glorious day!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She offered some resistance, but when he tried to take her into 
 her room, she bent her body backward, and thus pressed about 
 his wrist She was still carrying the light. 
 
 "Oh, if you only knew how I feel, Meta. I need you. Hold 
 me tight in your arms." 
 
 She made no more resistance. Perhaps she too was not without 
 her fervent desire. Perhaps it was the time of day that made 
 nature more insistent thaa usual. Perhaps she was suffering from 
 loneliness in the company of the three sisters. It was still night 
 and dark; but for her it was already day; it was the first day in 
 the year, and she greeted it in festive mood. She yielded to him.
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 101 
 
 She was a virgin; she had no idea of the responsibility she was 
 taking upon herself. Man had never been exactly a mystery to 
 her, but now she felt for the first time the congenerous creature 
 and she gave in to him. 
 
 Daniel returned to earth after having knocked at the portals 
 of the gods with tremendous wishes. The gods smiled their pro- 
 foundest smile; for they had decided to have an especial fate 
 arise from this hour. 
 
 IV 
 
 A meeting of the Social Democrats was being held in Gosten 
 Court. They had met to discuss the Chancellor's speech on acci- 
 dent insurance. 
 
 The first speaker was Deputy Storbecker. But his voice had no 
 carrying power, and what he said died- away almost unheard. 
 
 Jason Philip Schimmelweis followed him. He presented a 
 fearful indictment of the government. The official representative 
 of the government advised him to be more reserved, whereupon he 
 reinvigorated himself with a draught of beer. Then he hurled the 
 full beaker of that wrathful scorn for which his heart, beating for 
 the people, was noted, at the head of the individual who was first 
 and foremost responsible for the affairs of the Empire. He did 
 not mention Bismarck by name; he spoke instead of a certain bogey. 
 He snatched the halo from his head, swore that he would some 
 day unmask him and show the people that he was a traitor, branded 
 his fame as a tissue of lies, his deeds as the disgrace of the century. 
 
 The venemous and eloquent hatred of the pudgy little man 
 inflamed the minds that drank in his oratory. Jason Philip was 
 greeted with a tumult of applause as he took his seat. His face 
 was a bright scarlet red. 
 
 The leaders of the party, however, were noticeably quiet. In a 
 moment or two, Deputy Storbecker returned with two comrades 
 eager to enter into a debate with Jason Philip. He followed them 
 into a side room. Exalted at the thought that they had been dele- 
 gated to express to him the gratitude of the party for his speech, 
 he smiled the smile of vanity and caressed his beard with his 
 fingers. 
 
 "What is the matter, gentlemen? Why are you so serious? 
 Did I go too far? I assume complete responsibility for everything 
 I said. But be calm! They are getting afraid of us. The air 
 has a dubious odour. The French are becoming cantankerous again."
 
 102 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "No, Comrade Schimmelweis, that is not it. You have got to 
 vindicate yourself. You are a Proteus, Comrade Schimmelweis. 
 Your right hand does not know what your left hand is doing. 
 You are treating us disgracefully. You are ploughing in the 
 widow's garden. You preach water and guzzle wine. You have 
 entered into a conspiracy with the grafters of the town. You are 
 in collusion with the people down at the Prudentia, and you are 
 filling your own coffers in this gigantic swindle. From morning 
 to night you enrich yourself with the hard-earned pennies of the 
 poor. That is sharp practice, Jason Philip Schimmelweis, sharp 
 practice, we say. Now you have got to sever all connection with 
 the Prudentia, or the Party is going to kick you out." 
 
 Then it was that Jason Philip Schimmelweis rose to his true 
 heights of eloquence. He insisted that his hands were clean, his 
 left one and also his right one; that he was working in the interest 
 of a good cause; and that threats could not intimidate him. He 
 made it plain that he would bow to no dictatorship operating under 
 the mask of equality and fraternity. He cried out that if the 
 people wanted a scandal they could have it, but they would find 
 him armed to the teeth. And he assured them that wherever he 
 went in this wide, wide world, he would find the doors open to 
 welcome him. 
 
 He then made a sudden about-face, and left his comrades stand- 
 ing. On the way home he continued to murmur murmurs of 
 embitterment to himself. 
 
 Like a seasoned sailor eager to escape the storms of a raging sea, 
 he steered his good ship toward other and more hospitable shores. 
 Three days later he went to Baron Siegmund von Auffenberg, the 
 leader of the Liberals, and offered him his services. He told him 
 that he was willing to make any sacrifice for the great Liberal 
 Party. 
 
 For thirty-five minutes, by his own watch, he cooled his heels 
 in the ante-chamber. He made one caustic remark after another 
 touching on the arrested development of the feeling of equality 
 among the rich. Genuine rebel that he was, he did not repudiate 
 himself even when he was practising high treason. 
 
 When he was finally taken into the office, he was not blinded 
 in the slightest by the luxuriousness of the furniture, the rugs, or 
 the oil paintings. He displayed not the remotest shimmer of
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 103 
 
 servility on meeting the illustrious Baron. He sat down on one 
 of the chairs with complete equanimity, took no notice of the 
 French-speaking parrot, and never cast a single glance at the break- 
 fast table covered with appetising tid-bits. But he did present 
 his case with all due straightforwardness and simplicity. 
 
 "Fine," said the Baron, "fine! I hardly believe that you will 
 find it necessary to make a radical change in your battlefront. A 
 conscienceless agitator you have never been. You have a family, a 
 home of your own; your affairs are in good condition; and in 
 the bottom of your heart you love order and discipline. I have 
 in truth been expecting you for a long while. Nor am I exag- 
 gerating when I confess to you that you had to bolt, sooner or 
 later." 
 
 Jason Philip blushed with satisfaction. With the bearing of a 
 cabman who has just pocketed his tip, he replied: "I thank you 
 very much, Baron." 
 
 "On one point we are wholly agreed," said the Baron, "and it 
 seems to me to be the most important " 
 
 "Quite right," interrupted Jason Philip, "you allude to the 
 fight against Bismarck. Yes, on this point we are, I hope, of 
 precisely the same opinion. I will do my part. Hand and heart 
 on it, Baron. I could look with perfectly cold blood on this 
 knight of obscurantism writhing on the rack." 
 
 Herr von Auffenberg heard this temperamental statement with 
 noticeably tenuous reassurance. He smiled just a little, and then 
 said: "Wait a minute, my friend, don't be quite so savage." He 
 reached for his smelling salts, held them to his nose, and closed 
 his eyes. Then he got up, folded his hands across his back, and 
 walked up and down the room a few times. 
 
 What he said after this was as familiar to him as the letters of 
 the alphabet. While Jason Philip gaped at his lips in dumb 
 inspiration, the Baron himself thought of things that had not the 
 remotest connection with what he said. 
 
 "The very same man who tried to make the new Empire in- 
 habitable, with the aid of a liberal code of laws, and who brought 
 the long-drawn-out quarrel between the Emperor and the Pope 
 to a happy conclusion, is now trying, by word, thought, and deed, 
 gradually to destroy all liberal traditions and to proclaim the Roman 
 High Priest as the real creator of peace. All that the German 
 Chancellor could do to give the final blow to liberalism he hag 
 done. The reaction has not hesitated to abandon the idea of the 
 Kulturkamff and to work instead in the interests of class hatred
 
 104 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 and racial prejudice, nurturing them even with deeds of violence. 
 Faced with the crimes they themselves have committed, they will 
 see their own children despised and rejected." 
 
 "Defeche-toi, mon bon garfon," screeched the parrot. 
 
 "I am happy at the thought of having snatched a precious booty 
 from the claws of anarchy, and of having won a new citizen for 
 the State, my dear Herr Schimmelweis. But for the time being 
 it will be advisable for you to keep somewhat in the background. 
 They will be inclined to make your change of political conviction 
 the subject of vociferous attacks, and that might injure the cause." 
 
 What was the old Baron really thinking about while he delivered 
 this political speech? 
 
 There was just one thought in his mind; the same sullen, con- 
 cealed anger gnawed incessantly at his heart. 
 
 He thought incessantly of his son, of the contempt which he 
 had experienced because of him, and was still experiencing daily, 
 even hourly, because of the fact that Eberhard had withdrawn from 
 his power, had repudiated him. 
 
 He could not get over the fact that he had heaped up millions, 
 and that Eberhard, so far as it was humanly possible to calculate 
 and in accordance with the law would some day fall heir to a 
 part of these millions. He knew very little about poverty; but 
 his poisoned mind could think of nothing else than the satisfac- 
 tion he would derive from being able, somehow, to deliver this 
 abortive scion of his own name and blood over to poverty. Thus 
 did he wish to take vengeance; thus would he puni?h. 
 
 But it was impossible for him to wreak vengeance on his son as 
 he would have liked to: between the execution of the punishment 
 and himself stood the law. The very thought that his riches were 
 increasing daily, hourly, that the millions he had were creating new 
 millions without his moving a finger, that he could not even stop 
 the flood if he wished to, and that consequently the share of this 
 disloyal, rebellious, and hateful son was becoming larger daily, even 
 hourly this thought he could not endure. It poisoned his peace 
 of mind, paralysed his powers, robbed him of all natural and 
 legitimate joy, and enveloped his days in a cloud of despair. 
 
 A modern Midas, he transformed everything he touched into 
 gold; and the more gold he had the sadder his life became, the 
 more revengeful his soul.
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 105 
 
 The tones of a piano reached his ear; it was his wife who was 
 playing. She played Mendelssohn's "Song Without Words." He 
 shook with disgust; for of all things repulsive, music was to him 
 the most repulsive. 
 
 "DepecAe-toi, mon bon garfon," screeched the parrot. 
 
 VII 
 
 During Jason Philip's absence, poorly dressed people frequently 
 came to the shop and demanded that Theresa give them back the 
 money they had paid in on their insurance. 
 
 Some of them became very much excited when Theresa told 
 them that she would do nothing of the kind, that the insurance 
 was the affair of her husband, and that she had nothing whatever 
 to do with it. A locksmith's apprentice had given a sound thrash- 
 ing to Zwanziger, the clerk, who had hastened up to protect the wife 
 of his employer. A gold-beater from Fiirth had created so much 
 excitement that the police had to be called in. A cooper's widow, 
 who had managed to pay her premiums for one year, but had been 
 unable to continue the payment for the quite sufficient reason that 
 she had been in the hospital, fell head-long to the floor in epileptic 
 convulsions when she heard how matters stood. 
 
 It finally reached the point where Theresa was frightened every 
 time she saw a strange face. She breathed more easily when a 
 day had passed without some disagreeable scene, but trembled at 
 the thought of what might happen on the day to come. 
 
 What disturbed her more than anything else was the inexplicable 
 disappearance of small sums of money; this had been going on 
 for some time. A man came into the office once and laid his 
 monthly premium, one taler in all, on the counter. When he 
 left, Theresa closed the door behind him in order that she might 
 be able to watch the snow storm from the window. When she 
 returned to the desk the taler had disappeared. She asked where 
 it was. Jason Philip, who was just then handing some books up 
 the ladder to Zwanziger, became so gruff that one might have 
 thought she had accused him of the theft. She counted the money 
 over in the till, but in vain; the taler had vanished. 
 
 She had forgotten, or had not noticed, that Philippina had been 
 in the office. She had brought her father his evening sandwiches, 
 and then gone out again without making the slightest noise; she 
 wore felt shoes. 
 
 On another occasion she missed a number of groschcn from her
 
 106 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 purse. On still another, a spice merchant came in and demanded 
 that she pay a bill of three marks. She was certain she had already 
 paid it; she was certain she had given Philippina the money to pay 
 it. Philippina was called in. She, however, denied having any- 
 thing to do with it, and acted with such self-assurance that Theresa, 
 completely puzzled, reached down in her pocket and handed over 
 the three marks in perfect silence. 
 
 She had suspected the maid, she had suspected the clerk. She 
 even suspected Jason Philip himself; she thought that he was 
 appropriating money to pay his drinking expenses. And she sus- 
 pected Philippina. But in no case could she produce the evidence; 
 her spying and investigating were in vain. Then the thieving 
 stopped again. 
 
 For Philippina, who had been doing all the stealing, feared 
 she might be discovered, and adopted a less hazardous method of 
 making herself a rich woman: she stole books, and sold them to the 
 second-hand dealer. She was sly enough to take books that had 
 been on the shelves for a long while, and not to do all her business 
 with one dealer: she would go first to one and then to another. 
 
 The money which she scraped together in this way, as secretly 
 and greedily as a jack-daw, she hid in the attic. There was a 
 loose brick in the wall near the chimney. This she removed; and 
 in time she removed other bricks. And once her treasures were 
 safely stored in the hole, she would replace the bricks and set a 
 board up against them. 
 
 When everything had become perfectly quiet and she felt wholly 
 at ease, she would sit down, fold her hands, and give herself up 
 to speechless meditation, an evil and fanatic dream playing over 
 her features as she did. 
 
 VIII 
 
 One evening in February, Theresa and Philippina chanced to be 
 sitting by the lamp mending the week's wash. Jason Philip entered 
 the room; there was a sheepish expression on his face; he rubbed 
 his hands. 
 
 Since Theresa did not consider it worth her trouble to ask him 
 why he was in such a good humour, he suddenly laughed out loud 
 and said: "Now we can pack up, my dear. 1 see it in writing: 
 The wonder of the age, or the humiliated relatives. A touching 
 tableau presented by Hcrr Daniel Nothafft of the Schimmelweis 
 family."
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 107 
 
 "I do not understand you; you are talking like a harlequin 
 again," said Theresa. 
 
 "Compositions by Daniel are going to be played in a public con- 
 cert," Philippina informed her mother with that old, harsh voice 
 of hers. 
 
 "How do you know?" asked Theresa, in a tone of evident dis- 
 trust. 
 
 "I read it in the paper." 
 
 "The miracle is to take place in the Harmony Society," said 
 Jason Philip, by way of confirming Philippina's remark, with an 
 expression of enigmatic malevolence. "There is to be a public 
 rehearsal on Thursday, and there is nothing on earth that can keep 
 me away. The music dealer, Zierfuss, has given me two tickets, 
 and if you want to, why you can come along and see how they 
 make a local hero out of a plain loafer." 
 
 "I?" responded Theresa, in a tone of contemptuous amazement, 
 "not one step will I take. What have I got to do with your imbecile 
 concerts? " 
 
 "But these gentlemen are going to be disillusioned, terribly 
 so," continued Jason Philip in a threatening tone. "There is 
 still a certain amount of common sense left, just as there are means 
 of proceeding against a common, ordinary swindler." 
 
 Philippina raised her head in the mood of a person who has 
 come to a sudden decision: "C'n I go 'long, Pop?" she asked, her 
 ears as red as fire. 
 
 It was more than a request. Jason Philip was startled at the 
 intractable expression on the girl's face. "Sure," he said, avoid- 
 ing as well as he could the mute opposition on the part of Theresa, 
 "but take a whistle along so that you can make cat calls." 
 
 He sank back with a comfortable sigh on his chair, and stretched 
 out his legs. Philippina knelt down and took off his boots. He 
 then put on his slippers. Each of them bore a motto embroidered 
 in red. On the left one were the words "For tired father"; on 
 the right one, "Consolation." 
 
 IX 
 
 Eleanore had not told her father why she had left her position 
 with Alfons Diruf. Nor did Jordan ask her why when he learned 
 that she did not wish to speak about it. He suspected that there 
 was some disagreeable incident back of it, and if he maintained a 
 strict silence it was because he feared his own wrath and grief.
 
 io8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 She soon found another position. A schoolmate and good friend 
 of hers, Martha Degen, the daughter of the pastry-baker, had 
 married Herr Riibsam, a notary public and an old man to boot. 
 Eleanore visited the Riibsams occasionally, as did also her father; 
 and in the course of conversation it came out that Herr Riibsam 
 needed an assistant copyist. Since it was then impossible to 
 give Eleanore a desk in the office, she was allowed to do all her 
 work at home. 
 
 Friedrich Benda had also given her a cordial letter of recom- 
 mendation to Herr Bock, Counsellor of Archives, who was just then 
 engaged in writing a voluminous work on the history of Nurem- 
 berg. It would be her task to arrange Herr Bock's muddled 
 manuscript. 
 
 It was a laborious undertaking, but she learned a great deal 
 from it. Her thirsty mind would draw nourishment even from 
 dry and lifeless subjects. 
 
 She was seized with a desire to fill up the gaps in her education. 
 She begged Benda first for this book and then for that one. And 
 after having written the whole day long, she would often sit 
 down and read until late at night. 
 
 Everything she came in contact with she either assimilated or 
 shook off: she dragged nothing along in the form of surface im- 
 pedimenta; it became a part of her being, or she threw it to one 
 side. 
 
 Daniel had not called for a long while. He was busy with 
 the rehearsals which Wurzelmann was conducting. Professor 
 Doderlein was not to take charge of the orchestra until it had been 
 thoroughly drilled. The programme was to consist of Daniel's 
 works and the "Leonore Overture." Wurzelmann referred to the 
 Beethoven number as "a good third horse in the team." 
 
 Daniel also had a lot of business to transact with the impresario 
 Dormaul: the company was to go on the road in March, and many 
 things had to be attended to. The contract he signed was for 
 three years at a salary of six hundred marks a year. 
 
 A few days before the public rehearsal he came to Jordan's with 
 three tickets: one for Jordan himself and the other two for the 
 sisters. The public rehearsal was quite like a regular concert; over 
 a hundred persons had been invited. 
 
 Jordan was just getting ready to go out. "That is fine, that 
 is great: I can hear some more music now. I am looking for- 
 ward to the concert with extreme pleasure. When I was a young 
 fellow I rarely missed a concert. But that was long ago; indeed,
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 109 
 
 when I think it over I see how old I am. The years pass by like 
 milestones on the highway of life. Well, Daniel, I thank you, 
 thank you very much!" 
 
 Eleanore's joy was also great. As soon as her father had gone, 
 she remarked that Daniel had looked for Gertrude; but she had 
 left the room as soon as she saw him coming. Eleanore opened 
 the door, and cried: "Gertrude, come in, right away! I have a 
 surprise for you." 
 
 After a while Gertrude came in. 
 
 "A ticket for you to Daniel's concert," said Eleanore, radiant 
 with joy, and handed her the green card of admission. 
 
 Gertrude looked at Eleanore; and she wanted to look at Daniel. 
 But her heavy glance, slowly rising from the floor, barely reached 
 his face before it returned to its downward position, aggrieved 
 and pained. Then she shook her head, and said: "A ticket for the 
 concert? For me? Are you serious, Eleanore?" Again she shook 
 her head, amazed and indignant. Whereupon she went to the 
 window, leaned her arm against the cross bars, and pressed her 
 head against her arm. 
 
 Daniel followed her with looks of glowing anger. "You can 
 take sheep to the slaughter," he said, "you can throw thieves in a 
 dungeon, you can transport lepers to a hospital for incurables, 
 but you cannot force an emotional girl to listen to music." 
 
 He became silent; a pause ensued. Tortured at the thought 
 that Daniel's eyes were riveted on her back, Gertrude turned 
 around, went to the stove, sat down, and pressed her cheek against 
 the Dutch tiles. 
 
 Daniel took two steps, stood by her side, and exclaimed: "But 
 suppose I request that you go? Suppose my peace of mind or 
 something else of importance to the world, consolation, liberation, 
 or improvement, depends on your going? Suppose I request that 
 you go for one of these reasons? What then?" 
 
 Gertrude had become as pale as death. She looked at him for 
 a moment, then turned her face to one side, drew up her shoulders 
 as if she were shivering with cold, and said: "Well then then 
 I'll go. But I will be sorry for it ... sorry for it." 
 
 Eleanore was a witness to this scene. Her eyes, wide open 
 when it began, grew larger and larger as it advanced through its 
 successive stages. As she looked at Daniel a kindly, languishing 
 moisture came to them, and she smiled. 
 
 Daniel, however, had become vexed. He mumbled a good- 
 bye and left. Eleanore went to the window and watched him
 
 no THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 as he ran across the square, holding his hat with both hands as a 
 
 shield against the driving wind. 
 
 "He is an amusing fellow," she said, "an amusing fellow." 
 She then lifted her eyes to the clouds, whose swift flight above 
 
 the church roof pleased her. 
 
 It was the original intention to begin the regular evening con- 
 cert with the third "Fidelio Overture." Doderlein was of the 
 opinion that it offered no special difficulties: the general rehearsal 
 was to be devoted primarily to the works of the novice. He 
 raised his baton, and silence filled the auditorium. 
 
 The "Nuremberg Serenade" opened with ensemble playing of 
 the wind instruments. It was a jovial, virile theme which the 
 violins took up after the wind instruments, plucked it to pieces 
 in their capricious way, and gradually led it over into the realm 
 of dreams. The night became living: a gentle summer wind blew, 
 glow worms flitted about, Gothic towers stood out in the sultry 
 darkness, plebeian figures crept into the narrow, angular alleys; 
 it was night in Nuremberg. The acclamation a glorious past with 
 an admonition to the future fell upon the smug complacency of 
 the present, the heroic mingled with the jocose, the fantastic 
 with the burlesque, romanticism found its counterpart, and all 
 this was achieved through a flood of genuine melody in which 
 stodginess played no part, while charm was abundant in every turn 
 and tune. 
 
 The professional musicians were astonished; and their astonish- 
 ment was vigorously expressed in their criticisms. The general 
 admiration, to be sure, was somewhat deafened by the unpleasant 
 end that the rehearsal was destined to come to; but one critic, 
 who enjoyed complete independence of soul, though an unfortunate 
 incident in his life had compelled him to relinquish his influential 
 circle in the city and retire to a limited sphere of activity in the 
 province, wrote: "This artist has the unquestioned ability to be- 
 come the light and leader of his generation. Nature created him, 
 his star developed him. May Heaven give him the power and 
 patience indispensable to the artist, if he would be born again and 
 become a man above the gifts of men. If he only does not reach 
 out too soon for the ripe fruits, and, intoxicated by the allurements 
 of the lower passions, fail to hear the voice of his heart! He 
 has taken * lofty flight; the azure gates of renown have swung
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN in 
 
 wide open to him. Let him only be cautious about his second 
 descent into the night." 
 
 The same connoisseur found the composition of "Vineta" less 
 ingenious, and its instrumentation suffering from the lean experi- 
 ence of a beginner. Yet even this work was strongly applauded. 
 The impresario Dormaul clapped his hands until the perspiration 
 poured from his face. Wurzelmann was beside himself with en- 
 thusiasm. Old Herold smiled all over his face. The long-haired 
 found it of course quite difficult to subdue their jealousy, but 
 even they were not stingy with their recognition. 
 
 But how did Herr Carovius feel? His spittle had a bitter 
 taste, his body pained him. When Andreas Doderlein turned 
 to the audience and bowed, Carovius laughed a laugh of tremen- 
 dous contempt. And Jason Philip Schimmelweis? He would 
 have felt much more comfortable if the hand-clapping had been 
 so much ear-boxing, and Daniel Nothafft, the culprit, had been 
 the objective. The boy who had been cast out had become 
 the leader of men! Jason Philip put his hand to his forehead, 
 shook his head, and was on the point of exclaiming, "Oh, ye de- 
 ceivers and deceived! Listen, listen! I know the boy; I know 
 the man who has made fools of you here this evening!" He 
 waited to see whether the misunderstanding, the colossal swindle, 
 would not be cleared up automatically. He did not wait in vain. 
 
 At the close of the "Serenade," Jordan was struck by Gertrude's 
 feverish paleness. He asked her whether she felt ill, but received 
 no reply. During the performance of the second piece she kept 
 putting her hands to her bosom, as if she were suffering from 
 repressed convulsions. Her eyes were now lifeless, now glowing 
 with an uncanny fire. As soon as the piece was finished, she 
 turned to her father and asked him to take her home. Jordan 
 was frightened. Those sitting next to him looked at the girl's 
 pale face, sympathised with her, and made conventional remarks. 
 Eleanore wanted to go home too, but Gertrude whispered to her 
 in her imperious way and told her to stay. Familiar as she was 
 with Gertrude's disposition, she thought that it was simply a pass- 
 ing attack of some kind, and regained her composure. 
 
 Daniel was standing at the door, talking to Benda and Wurzel- 
 mann. 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 ex- 
 claimed, and scorned all attempts to effect a reconciliation between 
 him and the leader of the orchestra. "What is left of my com-
 
 ii2 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 positions is debris only. He drags the time, never even tries to 
 make a legatura, scorns a fiano every time he comes to one, pays no 
 attention to crescendos, never retards it is terrible! My works 
 cannot be played in public like that!" 
 
 Gertrude and her father passed by quickly and without greet- 
 ing. Daniel was stupefied. The lifeless expression in Gertrude's 
 face unnerved him. He felt as if he had been struck by a ham- 
 mer, 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 passed by without even 
 speaking to him, cold, reserved, hostile, filled him with such in- 
 tense 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 rugged- 
 ness. What happened? There came forth instead a confused, 
 noisy clash and clatter. Daniel was seized with violent restless- 
 ness. It was hard enough to see his own works bungled; to see this 
 creation with its delicate soul and titanic 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, com- 
 pletely 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 Db'derlein 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 Bar-
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 113 
 
 barossa 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 jack- 
 ass remains a jackass, 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 hell 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 em- 
 brace 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 hellishncss to suit me. But rid this country of the whole
 
 ii 4 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 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 tittered, 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 embarrassed, said that he had an engage- 
 ment. 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 even- 
 ing's amusement? 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 shining 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.
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 115 
 
 Father will be delighted to see you, and we will have something 
 to eat." 
 
 "Fine. That sounds good to me. Addio, Wurzelmann, and re- 
 member me to the girls. You are coming along, aren't you, Fried- 
 rich?" 
 
 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 pass 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.
 
 ii6 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He said to himself: Her case is simple; the hitherto unknown 
 sweetness and power concealed in the ensomble 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. 
 
 xn 
 
 Eleanore was right. Her father was quite pleased to see Danrel 
 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 dispassionate 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 every- 
 thing 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. 
 
 Finally they sat down at the table. Eleanore was quite pleased 
 to see the three men whom she liked so much gathered together 
 in this way. There was a feeling of gratitude in her heart to- 
 ward each one of them. But she was also hungry: she ate four 
 sandwiches, one right after the other. When she saw that Daniel 
 was not eating, she stepped up behind his chair, bent over him so 
 far that the loose flowing hair from her temples tickled his face, 
 and said: "Are you embarrassed? Or don't you like the way the
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 117 
 
 sausages have been prepared? Would you like something else?" 
 
 Daniel evaded the questions; he was out of sorts. And yet in 
 the bottom of his heart the contact with the girl made a pleasing 
 impression on him; it was in truth almost a saving impression. 
 For his thoughts continually and obstinately returned to the girl 
 who had fled, and whose presence he missed without exactly wish- 
 ing that she were at the table with the others. 
 
 Benda spoke of the political changes that might, he feared, take 
 place because of the death of Gambetta. Jordan, who always took 
 a warm interest in the affairs of the Fatherland, made a number 
 of true and humane remarks about the tense feeling then existing 
 between France and Germany, whereupon the door to Gertrude's 
 room opened and Gertrude herself stood on the threshold. 
 
 Deep silence filled the room; they all looked at her. 
 
 Strangely enough, she was not wearing the dress she had on 
 at the concert. She had put on the Nile green dress, the one in 
 which Daniel saw her for the first time. Jordan and Eleanore 
 hardly noticed the change; they were too much absorbed in the 
 expression on the girl's face. Daniel was also astonished; he could 
 not look away. 
 
 Her expression had become softer, freer, brighter. The unrest 
 in which her face had heretofore been clouded had disappeared. 
 Even the outlines of her face seemed to have changed: the arch of 
 her eyebrows was higher, the oval of her cheeks more delicate. 
 
 She leaned against the door; she even leaned her head against the 
 door. Her left hand, hanging at her side, seemed indolent, limp, 
 indifferent. Her right hand was pressed against her bosom. 
 Standing in this position, she studied the faces of those who were 
 sitting at the table, while a timid and gentle smile played about her 
 lips. 
 
 Jordan's first suspicion was that she had lost her mind. He 
 sprang up, and hastened over to her. But she gave him her hand, 
 and offered no resistance at all to being led over to the table. 
 
 Suddenly she fixed her silent gaze on Daniel. He got up in- 
 voluntarily, and seized the back of his chair. His colour changed; 
 he distorted the corners of his mouth; he was nervous. But when 
 Gertrude withdrew her hand from her father's and extended it 
 to him, and when he took it and his eye met hers he could not 
 help but look at her his solicitude vanished. For what he read 
 in her eyes was an unreserved and irrevocable capitulation of her 
 whole self, and Daniel was the victor. His face grew gentle, 
 grateful, dreamy, and resplendent.
 
 ii8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 It was not merely the sensuous charm revealed in the feeling 
 which Gertrude betrayed that moved him: it was the fact that she 
 came as she had come, a penitent and a convert. The sublime 
 conviction that he had been able to transform a soul and awaken it 
 to new life touched him deeply. 
 
 This it was that drew him to Gertrude more than her counte- 
 nance, her expression, and her body combined. And now he saw 
 all three her countenance, her expression, and her body. 
 
 Jordan had a foreboding of something. He felt that he would 
 have to take the girl in his arms and flee with her. Pictures of 
 future misfortune crowded upon his imagination; the hope he had 
 cherished for Gertrude was crushed to the earth. 
 
 Benda stared at his plate in silence. Nevertheless, just as if 
 he had other eyes than those with which he saw earthly things, he 
 noticed that Eleanore's hands and lips were trembling, that with 
 each succeeding second she grew paler, that she cast a distrustful 
 glance first at her father, then at her sister, and then at Daniel, 
 and that she finally, as if overcome with a feeling of exhaustion, 
 slipped away from her place by the table lamp, stole into a corner, 
 and sat down on the hassock. 
 
 But after they had all resumed their seats at the table, Gertrude 
 sitting between Benda and her father, Eleanore came up and sat 
 down next to Daniel. She never took her eyes off Gertrude; 
 she looked at her in breathless surprise, Gertrude smiled as she 
 had smiled when leaning against the door, timidly and passion- 
 ately. 
 
 From that moment on, the conversation lagged, Benda suggested 
 to his friend that it was time for them to leave. They thanked 
 Jordan for his hospitality and departed. Jordan accompanied them 
 down the stairs and unlocked the front door. When he returned, 
 Eleanore was just going to her room: "Well, Eleanore, are you 
 not going to say good-night?" he called after her. 
 
 She turned around, nodded conventionally, and closed the door. 
 
 Gertrude was still sitting at the table. Jordan was walking up 
 and down the room. Suddenly she sprang up, stepped in his way, 
 forced him to stop, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him 
 on the forehead. She had never done that before. 
 
 She too had gone to sleep. Jordan felt terribly alone. He 
 heard the street door open and close; he heard some one enter. It 
 was Benno. Jordan thought that his son would come in, for he 
 must have seen the light through the crack of the door. But Benno 
 evidently had no desire to see his father. He went to his room at
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 119 
 
 the other end of the hall, and closed the door behind him just as 
 if he were a servant. 
 
 "They are all three in bed," thought Jordan to himself," and 
 what do I know about them?" 
 
 He shook his head, removed the hanging lamp from its frame, 
 and locked the room, holding the lamp very carefully as he did so. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Eleanore had not seen Eberhard von Auffenberg for a number of 
 weeks. He wrote her a card, asking for the privilege of meeting 
 her somewhere. The place in fact was always the same the 
 bridge at the gate to the Zoological Garden. Immediately after 
 sunset she betook herself to that point. It was a warm March 
 evening; there was not a breath of wind; the sky was covered with 
 clouds. 
 
 They strolled up the castle hill, and when they had reached the 
 parapet, Eleanore said, gently laughing: "Now listen, I have talked 
 enough; you say something." 
 
 "It is so pleasant to be silent with you," replied Eberhard in a 
 downcast mood. 
 
 Filled with a disagreeable premonition, Eleanore sought out 
 one of the many hundreds of lights dimly flickering down in the 
 city, fixed her eyes on it, and stubbornly refused to look at any 
 other earthly object. 
 
 "If I appeal to you at this hour," the young Baron finally began, 
 "it is to a certain extent exactly as if I were appealing to the 
 Supreme Court. My expectations in life have, with one single 
 exception, been utterly and irrevocably crushed. It depends quite 
 upon you, Eleanore, whether I am to become and remain a use- 
 less parasite of human society, or a man who has firmly decided to 
 pay for his share of happiness by an equal amount of honest work. 
 I offer you everything I have. It is not much, but I offer it to 
 you without haggling and forever. You and you alone can save 
 me. That is what I wanted to say to you." 
 
 He looked up at the clouds, leaning on his cane, which he had 
 placed behind his back. 
 
 "I have forbidden you to speak of this," whispered Eleanore 
 in profound dismay, "and you promised me that you would not say 
 anything about it." 
 
 "I gave you my promise because I loved you; I break it for the 
 same reason," replied Eberhard. "I feel that such a promise is
 
 120 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the act of a foolish child, when the building up or the tearing 
 down of a human life depends upon it. If you are of a different 
 opinion, I can only beg your pardon. Probably I have been 
 mistaken." 
 
 Eleanore shook her head ; she was grieved. 
 
 "It was my plan to go to England with you, and there we would 
 be married," continued Eberhard. "It is quite impossible for me 
 to get married here: I loathe this city. It is impossible, because if 
 I did my people would in all probability set up some claims to 
 which they are no longer entitled and for which I would fight. 
 The mere thought of doing this repels me. And it is also im- 
 possible because . . ." at this he stopped and bit his lips. 
 
 Eleanore looked at him; she was filled with curiosity. His 
 pedantic enumeration of the various hindrances as well as the 
 romanticism of his plans amused her. When she detected the 
 expression of downright grief in his face, she felt sorry for him. 
 She came one step nearer to him; he took her hand, bowed, and 
 pressed his lips to her fingers. She jerked her hand back. 
 
 "Fatal circumstances have placed me in a most humiliating 
 situation; if I am not to succumb to them, I must shake them off 
 at once," said Eberhard anxiously. "I was inexperienced; I have 
 been deceived. There is a person connected with my case who 
 hardly deserves the name of a human being; he is a monster in 
 the garb of an honest citizen. I have not the faintest idea what 
 I am to do next, Eleanore. I must leave at once. In a strange 
 country I may regain my strength and mental clearness. With 
 you I could defy the universe. Believe in me, have confidence in 
 me!" 
 
 Eleanore let her head sink. The despair of this usually reserved 
 man touched her heart. Her mouth twitched as she sought for 
 words. 
 
 "I cannot gf married, Eberhard," she said, "really, I cannot. 
 I did not entice you to me; you dare not reproach me. I have 
 tried to make my attitude toward you perfectly clear from the very 
 first time I met you. I cannot get married; I cannot." 
 
 For five or six minutes there was a silence that was interrupted 
 only by human voices in the distance and the sound of carriages 
 from the streets down in the city. In the compassion that Eleanore 
 after all felt for Eberhard she sensed the harshness of her unquali- 
 fied refusal. She looked at him courageously, firmly, and said: "It 
 is not obstinacy on my part, Eberhard; nor is it stupid anxiety, nor
 
 VOICES FROM WITHOUT AND WITHIN 121 
 
 imagination, nor lack of respect. Truth to tell I have a very high 
 opinion of you. But there must be something quite unnatural 
 about me, for you see that I loathe the very idea of getting married. 
 I detest the thought of living with a man. I like you, but when 
 you touch me as you did a little while ago when you kissed my 
 hand, a shudder runs through my whole body." 
 
 Eberhard looked at her in astonishment; he was morose, too. 
 
 She continued: "It has been in me since my childhood; perhaps 
 I was born with it, just as other people are born with a physical 
 defect. It may be that I have been this way ever since a certain 
 day in my life. It was an autumn evening in Pappenheim, where 
 my aunt then lived. My sister Gertrude and I were walking in a 
 great fruit garden; we came to a thorn hedge, and sitting by the 
 hedge was an old woman. My father and mother were far away, 
 and the old woman said to my sister, then about seven: Be on your 
 guard against even-thing that sings and rings. To me she said: Be 
 careful never to have a child. The next day the woman was found 
 dead under the hedge. She was over ninety years old, and for 
 more than fifty years she had peddled herbs in Altmiihltal. I 
 naturally had not the vaguest idea what she meant at the time by 
 "having a child," but her remark stuck in my heart like an arrow. 
 It grew up with me; it became a part of me. And when I learned 
 what it meant, it was a picture by the side of the picture of death. 
 Now you must not think that I have gone through life thus far 
 filled with a feeling of despicable fear. Not at all. I simply 
 have no desires. The idea does not attract me. If it ever doe?, 
 many questions will I ask about life and death! I will laugh at 
 the old woman under the hedge and do what I must." 
 
 As she spoke these last words, her face took on a strangely 
 chaste and fanciful expression. Eberhard could not take his eyes 
 from her. "Ah, there are after all fairy creatures on this flat, stale, 
 and unprofitable earth," he thought, "enchanted princesses, myste- 
 rious Melusinas." He smiled somewhat distrustfully as a matter 
 of habit. But from this moment his frank, open, wooing attach- 
 ment to the girl was transformed into a consuming passion. 
 
 He was proud, and man enough to subdue his feelings. But 
 he yearned more than ever, and was tortured by his yearnings to 
 know something more than the vague knowledge he had at present 
 about that glass case, that spirit-chest in which, so near and yet 
 so far, this lovely creature lived, impervious to the touch of mortal 
 hands and immune to the flames of love.
 
 122 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "You are rejecting me ; then?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, it is at least advisable that for the time being we avoid 
 each other's presence." 
 
 "Advisable for me, you think. And for the time being? How 
 am I to interpret that?" 
 
 "Well, let us say for five years." 
 
 "Why exactly five years? Why not twenty? Why not fifty? 
 It would be all the same." 
 
 "It seems to me that five years is just the right amount of time, 
 Eberhard." 
 
 "Five years! Each year has twelve times thirty, fifty-two times 
 seven days. Why the arithmetic of it is enough to make a man 
 lose his mind." 
 
 "But it must be five years," said Eleanore gently though firmly. 
 "In five years I will not have changed. And if I am just the same 
 in five years from now, why, we'll talk it over again. I must not 
 exclude myself from the world forever. My father often says: 
 What looks like fate at Easter is a mere whim by Pentecost. I 
 prefer to wait until Pentecost and not to forget my friend in the 
 meantime." 
 
 She gave him her hand with a smile. 
 
 He shook his head: "No, I can't take your hand; another one of 
 those shudders will run through you if I do. Farewell, Eleanore." 
 
 "And you too, Eberhard, farewell!" 
 
 Eberhard started down the hill. Suddenly he stopped, turned 
 around, and said: "Just one thing more. That musician NothafFt 
 is his name, isn't it? is engaged to your sister, isn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, Gertrude and Daniel will get married some day. But who 
 told you about it? " 
 
 "The musician himself was in a restaurant. The fellows were 
 drinking, and he was so incautious as to raise his glass, and, some- 
 what after the fashion of an intoxicated drum-major, he himself 
 drank to Gertrude's health. For some time there was talk of his 
 marrying you. It is much better as it is. I can't stand artists. I 
 can't even have due respect for them, these indiscreet hotspurs. 
 Good night, Eleanore." 
 
 And with that he vanished in the darkness.
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 
 
 ONE evening Daniel called on Benda to take leave of him for 
 a long while. 
 
 Just as he was about to enter the front gate, he saw Herr 
 Carovius's dog standing there showing his teeth. The beast's blood- 
 shot eyes were fixed on a ten-year old girl who was likewise on 
 the point of entering the house, but, afraid of the dog, she did 
 not dare take another step. The animal had dragged his chain 
 along behind him, and stood there now, snarling in a most vicious 
 way. 
 
 Daniel took the child by the hand and led it back a few steps, 
 after he had frightened the dog into silence by some rough com- 
 mands. "Who are you?" he asked the girl. 
 
 "Dorothea Doderlein," was the reply. 
 
 "Ah," said Daniel. He could not help but laugh, for there was 
 a comic tone of precociousness in the girl's manner of speaking. 
 But she was a very pretty child. A sly, smiling little face peeped 
 out from under her hood, and her velvet mantle with great pearl 
 buttons enshrouded a dainty figure. 
 
 "You should have been in bed long ago, Dorothea," said Daniel. 
 "What will the night watchman think when he comes along and 
 finds you up? He will take you by the collar, and lead you off 
 to jail." 
 
 Dorothea told him why she was still up and why she was alone. 
 She had been visiting a school friend, and the maid who called 
 for her wanted to get a loaf of bread from the bakery before 
 going up stairs. She related the story of her meeting with the 
 dog with so much coquetry and detail that Daniel was delighted at 
 the contrast between this rodomontade and the quaking anxiety in 
 which he first found her. 
 
 "You are a fraud, Dorothea," said Daniel, and called to mind the 
 unpleasant sensation she aroused in him when he saw her for the 
 first time years ago. 
 
 In the meanwhile the maid had come up with the loaf of bread; 
 he looked with astonishment at the two as they stood there 
 
 123
 
 124 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 gossiping, and immediately took the child into her charge, con- 
 scious as she was of her own dilatoriness. With a few piercing 
 shrieks she drove Cassar back from the gate, and as he ran across 
 the street Dorothea cast one triumphant glance back at Daniel, 
 feeling that she had proved to him that she was not the least 
 afraid of the dog. 
 
 Frau Benda opened the door, closed it without saying a word, 
 and went into her room. She had had a violent quarrel with her 
 son, who had just informed her that he had accepted the invitation 
 of a learned society to come to England and settle down. He was 
 to start at the end of spring. Frau Benda was tired of travelling; 
 she shuddered at the thought of moving. The separation from 
 Friedrich seemed intolerable to her; and in his flight from the 
 Fatherland she saw a final and premature renunciation of all the op- 
 portunities that might in the end present themselves to him at home. 
 
 She was convinced that the men who had done him injustice 
 would in time come to see the error of their ways and make amends 
 for their miscalculations. She was particularly anxious that he 
 be patient until satisfaction had been done him. Moreover, she 
 knew his plans, and trembled at the risks to which he was volun- 
 tarily exposing himself: she felt that he was undertaking a task for 
 which he had not had the practical experience. 
 
 But his decision was irrevocable. That he had never said a 
 word about it to Daniel, had not even insinuated that he was think- 
 ing of making a change, was due to the peculiar onesideness of their 
 present relation to each other. 
 
 Laughing heartily, Daniel told of his meeting with little Doro- 
 thea. "She looks to me as though she will give old Doderlein a 
 good deal to think about in the days to come," said Daniel. 
 
 "You played him a pretty scurvy trick, the old Doderlein," re- 
 plied Benda. "The night after the public rehearsal I heard him 
 walking up and down for hours right under my bed-room." 
 
 "You feel sorry for him, do you?" 
 
 "If I were you, I would go to him and beg his pardon." 
 
 "Do you really mean it?" exclaimed Daniel. Benda said noth- 
 ing. Daniel continued: "To tell the truth, I should be grateful 
 to him. It is due to his efforts that I have come to see, more 
 quickly than I otherwise would have done, that those were two im- 
 possible imitations to which I wanted to assure a place in the sun.
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 125 
 
 They may throw me down if they wish; I'll get up again, depend 
 upon it, if, and even if, I have in the meantime gulped down the 
 whole earth." 
 
 Benda smiled a gracious smile. "Yes, you die at each fall, and 
 at each come-back you appear a new-made man," he said. "That 
 is fine. But a Doderlein cannot come back, once his contemporaries 
 have thrown him over. The very thing that means a new idea to 
 you spells his ruin; what gives you pleasure, voluptuous pleasure, is 
 death to him." 
 
 "Y-e-s," mumbled Daniel, "and yet, what good is he?" 
 
 "The spirit of nature, the spirit of God, is a total stranger to 
 such conceptions as harmfulness and usefulness," replied Benda in 
 a tone of serious reflection. "He lives, and that is about all you 
 can say. So far as I am concerned, I have not the slightest reason 
 to defend a Doderlein in your presence." He was silent for a 
 moment and took a deep breath. "I cannot speak more distinctly; 
 somehow or other I cannot quite find the right words," he con- 
 tinued in a disconcerted way, "but the point is, the man has com- 
 mitted a crime against a woman, a crime so malicious, subtle, and 
 naive, that he deserves every stigma with which it is possible to 
 brand him, and even then he would not be adequately punished." 
 
 "You see," exclaimed Daniel, "he is not only a miserable musi- 
 cian. And that is the way it always is. They are all like that. 
 Oh, these bitter-sweet, grinning, pa jama-bred, match-making, 
 ninnying, super-smart manikins it makes your blood curdle to look 
 at one of them. And yet a real man has got to run the gauntlet 
 before them his whole life long, and down through their narrow 
 little alleys at that!" 
 
 "Rather," said Benda with bowed head. "It is a tough, clammy 
 poison pap. If you stir it with your finger, you will stick fast, 
 and it will suck the very marrow out of your bones. But you are 
 speaking for the time being without precise knowledge of all the 
 pertinent material, as we say in science. During my study of the 
 cells of plants and animals, I came to see that a so-called funda- 
 mental procreation was out of the question. I gave expression to 
 this view in a circle of professional colleagues. They laughed at 
 me. To-day it is no longer possible to oppose the theory I then 
 advanced. One of my former friends succeeded in making certain 
 combinations of acetic acid, crystallised by artifical means. When 
 he made his great discovery known, one of the assembled gentle- 
 men cried out: 'Be careful, doctorettc, or your amido atoms will 
 get out of their cage.' That is a sample of the base and treacherous
 
 126 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 fashion in which we are treated by the very people who we might 
 think were our warmest friends, for they are apparently trying to 
 reach the same goal that we are. But you! The world may 
 reject you, and you still have what no one can take from you. 
 I have to wait in patience until a judge hands down a decision 
 either condemning me or redeeming me. You? Between you 
 and me there is the same difference that exists between the seed 
 which, sunk into the earth, shoots up whether it rains or shines, and 
 some kind of a utensil which rusts in the store because no one buys 
 it." 
 
 He got up and said: "You are the more fortunate of us two, it 
 behooves me therefore to be the more merciful." 
 
 Daniel could make no reply that would console him. 
 
 As he went home, he thought of the fidelity and the constant 
 but unassuming help he had received from Benda. He thought 
 of the refined and delicate consideration of his friend. He 
 thought especially of that extraordinary courtesy which was so 
 marked in him, that, for example, while laughing at a good joke, 
 Benda would stop with open mouth if some one resumed the con- 
 versation: he did not wish to lose anything another might wish to 
 say to him. 
 
 He stopped. It seemed to him that he had neglected the op- 
 portunity to put an especially reassuring, cordial, and unforgettable 
 force into his final handshake. He would have liked to turn back. 
 But it is not the custom to turn back; no one in truth can do it. 
 
 in 
 
 Daniel did not wish to take the mask of Zingarella with him 
 on his tours. To expose the fragile material to all the risks as- 
 sociated with a fortuitous life on the road seemed to him an act 
 of impiety. He had consequently promised Eleanore to leave the 
 mask with her in Jordan's house during his absence. 
 
 Eleanore opened the door; Daniel entered. Gertrude arose 
 from her seat at the table, and came up to meet him. Her face 
 showed, as it always did when she saw him, unmistakable traces of 
 resignation, willingness, submissiveness. 
 
 Daniel walked over to the table, took the newspaper wrapping 
 from the mask, and held it up in the light of the lamp. 
 
 "How beautiful!" exclaimed Gertrude, whose senses were now 
 delighted at the sight of any object that appealed to one's feelings. 
 
 "Well, take it, then, Gertrude," said Eleanore, as she leaned both
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 127 
 
 elbows on the top of the table. "Keep it with you," she continued 
 somewhat tensely, when she noticed that Gertrude was looking at 
 Daniel as if to say, "May I?" 
 
 "But won't he give it to both of us?" replied Gertrude with a 
 covetous smile. 
 
 "No, no, he simply mentioned me for courtesy's sake," said 
 Eleanore, quite positively. 
 
 "Eleanore, I can scarcely tell you how I feel toward you," said 
 Daniel, half confused, half angry, and then stopped with con- 
 spicuous suddenness when the fiery blue of her eyes fell upon him. 
 
 "You?" she whispered in astonishment, "you?" 
 
 "Yes, you," he replied emphatically. "Later I can tell every- 
 body; to-day it is true in a double sense: you seem to me just like 
 a sister." 
 
 He had laid the mask to one side and extended his left hand to 
 Eleanore, and then, hesitating at first, he gave Gertrude his right 
 hand with a most decisive gesture. 
 
 Eleanore straightened up, took the mask of Zingarella, and held it 
 up before her face. "Little Brother," she cried out in a teasing 
 tone. The pale, sweet stone face was wonderful to behold, as it 
 was raised above the body that was pulsing with life. 
 
 And Gertrude for one second she hung on Daniel's gaze, a 
 sigh as deep as the murmuring of the sea sounded in her bosom, 
 and then she lay in his arms. He kissed her without saying a word. 
 His face was gloomy, his brow wrinkled. 
 
 "Little Brother" sounded out from behind the mask. But there 
 was no banter in the expression; it was much more like a complaint, 
 a revelation of anguish: "Little Brother!" 
 
 IV 
 
 Daniel had left the city long ago. Eleanore chanced to meet 
 Herr Carovius. He forced her to stop, conducted himself in such 
 a familiar way, and talked in such a loud voice that the passers-by 
 simpered. He asked all about the young master, meaning 
 Daniel. 
 
 He told her that "the good Eberhard" it was his way of re- 
 ferring to Baron von Auffenberg had gone to Munich for a few 
 months, and was taking up with spiritists and theosophists. 
 
 "It is his way of having a fling," said Hcrr Carovius, grinning 
 from ear to ear. "In former times, when young noblemen wished 
 to complete their education and have a little lark at the same time,
 
 128 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 they made the grand tour over Europe. Now-a-days they become 
 penny-a-liners, or they go in for table-tipping. Humanity is OB 
 the decline, my charming little girl. To study the flower of the 
 nation at close range is no longer an edifying occupation. It is 
 rotten, as rotten, I tell you, as last winter's apples. There is con- 
 sequently no greater pleasure than to make such a young chap 
 dance. You play, he dances; you whistle, he retrieves. It is a 
 real treat!" 
 
 He laughed hysterically, and then had a coughing spell. He 
 coughed so violently that the black cord suspended from his nose- 
 glasses became tangled about a button on his great coat, and his 
 glasses fell from his nose. In his awkwardness, intensified by his 
 short-sightedness, he fumbled the button and the cord with his 
 bony fingers until Eleanore came to the rescue. One move, and 
 everything was again in order. 
 
 Herr Carovius was struck dumb with surprise. He would never 
 have imagined that a young girl could be so natural and unem- 
 barrassed. He suspected a trap: was she making fun of him, or 
 did she wish to do him harm? It had never occurred to him that 
 one might voluntarily assist him when in distress. 
 
 Suddenly he became ashamed of himself; he lifted his eyes and 
 smiled like a simpleton; he cast a glance of almost dog-like tender- 
 ness at Eleanore. And then, without saying a word, without even 
 saying good-bye to her, he hastened across the street to hide as soon 
 as he might in some obscure corner. 
 
 One afternoon in the last week of August, the Riidiger sisters 
 sent the boy who attended to their garden over to Eleanore with 
 the urgent request that she call as soon as she possibly could. Feel- 
 ing that some misfortune had befallen Daniel and that the sisters 
 wished to tell her about it, Eleanore was not slow about making up 
 her mind: exactly one quarter of an hour later she entered the 
 Riidigers' front door. 
 
 A lamentable sight greeted her. Each of the three sisters was 
 sitting in a high-backed chair, her arms hanging lifeless from 
 her sides. The curtains were drawn; in the shaded light their 
 faces looked like mummies. Nor was the general impression measur- 
 ably brightened by the "Medea," the "Iphigenie," and the 
 "Roman Woman" that hung on the wall, copies of the paintings of 
 their idol.
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 129 
 
 Eleanorc's greeting was not returned. She did not dare leave 
 without finding what was the matter, and the silence with which 
 she was received was broken only when she herself decided to ask 
 some questions. 
 
 Fraulein Jasmina took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes. 
 Fraulein Saloma looked around somewhat like a judge at a session 
 of court. And then she began to speak: "We three lonely women, 
 forgotten by the world, have asked you to come to our house so 
 that we might tell you of a crime that has been committed in our 
 innocent home. We never heard of it until this morning. It is 
 such an unexampled, gruesome, abominable deed that we have been 
 sitting here ever since it was brought to our attention, wringing our 
 hands in vain attempt to make up our minds as to what course we 
 should pursue." 
 
 Fraulein Jasmina and Fraulein Albertina nodded their heads in 
 sadness and without looking up. 
 
 "Can we put the unfortunate girl out of the house?" continued 
 Fraulein Saloma, "can we, sisters? No! Can we afford to keep 
 her? No! What are we to do then? She is an orphan; she is 
 all alone, abandoned by her infamous seducer, and exposed to 
 unmitigated shame. What are we to do?" 
 
 "And you," said Fraulein Saloma turning to Eleanore, "you 
 who are bound to that gifted monster by ties the precise nature of 
 which we are in no position to judge, you are to show us a way out 
 of this labyrinth of our affliction." 
 
 "If I only knew what you are talking about," said Eleanore, 
 a great burden falling from her heart as she realised that her initial 
 fears were groundless. "By the monster you evidently mean Daniel 
 Nothafft. What crime has he committed?" 
 
 Fraulein Saloma was indignant at the flippancy of her manner. 
 She rose to her full stature, and said with punitive lips: "He has 
 made our maid an ordinary prostitute, and the consequences are no 
 longer to be concealed. Do you know what we are talking about 
 now? " 
 
 Eleanore uttered a faint "Oh!" and blushed to the roots of her 
 hair. In her embarrassment she opened her mouth to laugh, but 
 she came very near to crying. 
 
 Her saddened feelings slowly crept back to Daniel, and as the 
 picture of him rose before her mind's eye, she turned from it in 
 disgust. But she did not wish to allow this picture to remain in her 
 memory: it was too flabby, petty, and selfish. Before she knew 
 what she was doing, she, as a woman, had pardoned him. Then
 
 i 3 o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 she shuddered, opened wide her eyes, and resumed her accustomed 
 cheerfulness. She was again in complete control of herself. 
 
 The court had in the meanwhile examined the silent woman 
 with stern scrutiny: "Where is Daniel Nothafft at present?" asked 
 Fraulein Saloma. 
 
 "I do not know," replied Eleanore, "he hasn't written for over 
 three weeks." 
 
 "We must request you to inform him at once of the condition of 
 the prostitute, for so long as such a person is in our house, we 
 cannot sleep at night nor rest by day." 
 
 "I am sorry that you take the matter so to heart," said Eleanore, 
 "and it is a rather disagreeable affair. But I have no right to mix 
 myself up in it, nor have I the least desire to do so." 
 
 The three sisters received this statement with despair; they wrung 
 their hands. They would rather die, they said, then meet this 
 voluptuary face to face again ; they would endure all manner of 
 martyrdom before they would have him come in. All three spoke 
 at once; they threatened Eleanore; they implored her. Jasmina 
 told with bated breath how Meta had come to them and confessed 
 the whole business. Albertina swore that there was not another 
 living soul on earth who could help them out of this shameless 
 situation. Saloma said that there was nothing for them to do but 
 to send the wicked creature back to the streets where she belonged. 
 
 Eleanore was silent. She had fixed her eyes on the "Medea," and 
 was doing some hard thinking. Finally she came to a conclusion: 
 she asked whether she might speak to Meta. Filled at once with 
 anxiety and hope, Saloma asked her what she wanted with Meta. 
 She replied that she would tell them later what her purpose was. 
 Fraulein Jasmina showed her the way to Meta's room. 
 
 When Meta caught sight of Eleanore, her features became at 
 once beclouded in sombre amazement. 
 
 She was sitting at the open window of her attic room knitting. 
 She got up and looked into the face of the beautiful girl with- 
 out saying a word. Eleanore was moved on seeing the tall, youth- 
 ful figure, and yet it was quite impossible for her to subdue a feel- 
 ing of horror. 
 
 At Eleanore's very first words, Meta began to sob. Eleanore 
 comforted her; she asked her where she was planning to go during 
 her confinement. 
 
 "Why, there are institutions," she murmured, holding her apron 
 before her face, "I can go to one of them." 
 
 Eleanore sat down on the side of the bed. She unrolled her
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 131 
 
 plans to the girl with a delicacy and consideration just as if she 
 were speaking to a pampered lady. She spoke with a silver- 
 clear vivacity just as if she were discussing some hardy prank. 
 Meta looked at her at first with the air of one oppressed; later she 
 assumed the attitude of a grateful listener. 
 
 Pained by the ethereal and inhuman primness of her three em- 
 ployers, angry at the man who had abandoned her to her present 
 fate, and fighting against the reproaches of her own conscience, 
 Meta became as wax in Eleanore's hands, submissive, obedient, and 
 appreciative. 
 
 The Rudiger sisters, all but bursting with curiosity to know 
 what Eleanore had in mind, could draw nothing from her other 
 than that she was going to take Meta away and that Meta ( was 
 agreed. 
 
 VI 
 
 It was Eleanore's intention to take the pregnant girl to Daniel's 
 mother at Eschenbach. 
 
 She knew of the dissension between Daniel and his mother. 
 She knew that the two avoided each other's presence; that Daniel 
 in his defiance felt it his duty to avenge himself for the lack of 
 love on the part of his mother. Back of the picture of the un- 
 loving and impatient son she saw that of an old woman worrying 
 her life away in silent care. 
 
 She had often given way to a painful feeling of sympathy when 
 she thought of the unknown mother of her friend. It seemed 
 to her now as if she could play the role of an emissary of re- 
 conciliation; as if it were her duty to take the deserted woman here 
 to the deserted woman there; as if she were called to take the 
 mother-to-be to the mother who had just reasons for regretting that 
 she had ever been a mother. 
 
 It seemed to her as if she must create a bond which could not 
 even be sundered by crime, to say nothing of misunderstanding or 
 caprice; it seemed to her that Daniel had to effect a reconciliation 
 in the home of the Riidigers as well as in that of his mother; 
 and that, conscious as she was of doing what was right, she would 
 meet with no opposition, would have no settling of accounts to 
 fear. 
 
 She also took the practical side of the matter into careful consid- 
 eration: Meta would have no trouble in making her living in 
 Eschenbach; she could help Daniel's mother, or she could do day 
 work among the peasants.
 
 i 3 2 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 When the child was born, Daniel's mother would have a picture 
 of young life to look at; it would alleviate her longing; it would 
 appease her bitterness to see a child of Daniel's own blood. 
 
 Eleanore told the people at home that she was going on an 
 excursion with a school friend to the Ansbach country. She 
 studied the time-table, and wrote a postcard to Meta telling her 
 to be at the station at eight o'clock in the morning. 
 
 Jordan approved of Eleanore's outing, though he warned her 
 against bandits and cold drinks. Gertrude was not wholly without 
 suspicion. She had a feeling that something was wrong, that 
 these unspoken words referred to Daniel, for she was always think- 
 ing about him. 
 
 If she received a letter from him, which was very rare, she 
 would let it lie on the table for a long while, imagining that it 
 was full of the most glorious declarations of his love for her, ex- 
 pressed in language which she could not command. In a sort of 
 moon-struck ecstasy she made an inner, dreamed music out of what 
 he wrote. 
 
 When she read his letter, she was satisfied merely to see the 
 words he had written and to feel the paper on which his hand had 
 rested. She submitted in silence to the laws of his nature, which 
 would not permit him to be excessive in his remarks or unusually 
 communicative. Each of his dry reports was a tiding of glad 
 joy to her, though her own replies were just as dry, giving not 
 the slightest picture of the enraptured soul from which they 
 came. 
 
 She felt that Eleanore was lying, and that the lie she was telling 
 was somehow connected with Daniel. That is why she went up 
 to Eleanore's bed in the dead of night, and whispered into her 
 ear: "Tell me, Eleanore, has anything happened to Daniel?" 
 
 But before Eleanore could reply, reassured by her sister's 
 astonished behaviour, and angry at herself for having suspected 
 Eleanore of a falsehood, she hurried back to her own bed. She 
 had come to think more and more of her sister every day. 
 
 "How sne must love him," thought Eleanore to herself, and 
 buried her smiling face in the pillow. 
 
 "Wait for me at the fountain," said Eleanore to her companion, 
 as she crossed the market place in Eschenbach at mid-day: "I'll call 
 for you as soon as everything has been discussed."
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 133 
 
 The coachman pointed out the little house of the widow 
 Nothafft. 
 
 A woman with a stern face and unusually large eye-brows asked 
 her what she wanted as she entered the little shop, which smelled of 
 vinegar and cheese. 
 
 Eleanore replied that she would like to talk with her for a few 
 minutes quite undisturbed and alone. 
 
 The profound seriousness of Marian's features, which re- 
 sembled more than anything else an incurable suffering, did not 
 disappear. She closed the shop and took Eleanore into the living 
 room, and, without saying a word, pointed to one chair and took 
 another herself. 
 
 Above the leather sofa hung the picture of Gottfried Nothafft, 
 Eleanore looked at it for a long while. 
 
 "Dear mother," she finally began, laying her hand on Marian's 
 knee. "I am bringing you something from Daniel." 
 
 Marian twitched. "Good or bad?" she asked. She had not 
 heard from Daniel for twenty-two months. "Who are you?" 
 she asked, "what have you to do with him?" 
 
 Eleanore saw at once that she would have to be extremely 
 cautious if she did not wish to offend the sensitive and offended 
 woman by some inconsiderate remark. With all the discrimination 
 she could command she laid her case before Daniel's mother. 
 
 And behold the unusual became usual, just as the natural 
 seemed strange. Eleanore pictured Daniel's hardships and rise to 
 fame, boasted loyally of his talents and of the enthusiasm for 
 him of those who believed in him, referred to his future renown, 
 and insisted that all his guilt, including that toward his mother, be 
 forgotten and forgiven. 
 
 Marian reviewed the past; she understood a great many things 
 now that were not clear to her years ago; she understood Daniel 
 better; she understood virtually everything, except this girl's 
 relation to him and the girl herself. If it was peculiar that this 
 strange woman had to come to her to tell her who Daniel was 
 and what he meant to the people, it was wholly inexplicable that 
 she had brought some one with her who had been the sweetheart 
 of the very man for whom she now showed unreserved affection. 
 
 Eleanore read Marian's face and became a trifle more deliber-. 
 ate. It occurred to her, too, to ask herself a few questions: What 
 am I, any way? What is the matter with me? 
 
 She could not give a satisfactory answer to these questions. His 
 friend? He my friend? The words seemed to contain too much
 
 134 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 peace and calm. Brother? Companion? Either of these words 
 brought up pictures of intimate association, inner relationship= 
 Little Brother! Yes, that is what she had called out to him once 
 from behind the mask. Well then: Little sister behind the mask? 
 
 Yes, that was what it should be: Little sister behind the mask. 
 She had to have a hiding place for so many things of which she 
 had only a vague presentiment and which in truth she did not 
 care to visualise in brighter outlines. A subdued heart, a captured 
 heart it glows, it cools off, you lift it up, you weigh it down just 
 as fate decrees. To be patient, not to betray anything, that was 
 the all-important point: Little sister behind the mask that was the 
 idea. 
 
 Marian said: "My child, God himself has inspired you with 
 the idea of coming to me and telling me about Daniel. I will put 
 fresh flowers in the window as I did some time ago, and I will leave 
 the front door open so that the swallows can fly in and build their 
 nests. Perhaps he will think then from time to time of his 
 mother." 
 
 Then she asked to see Meta. Eleanore went out, and returned 
 in a few minutes with her charge. Marian looked at the preg- 
 nant girl compassionately. Meta was ill at ease; to every ques- 
 tion that was put to her she made an incoherent reply. She could 
 stay with her, said Marian, but she would have to work, for 
 there was no other way for the two to live. The girl referred to 
 the fact that she had already worked out for four years, and that 
 no one had ever accused her of lack of industry or willingness. 
 Thereupon Marian told her she would have to be very quiet, 
 that the people in the neighbourhood were very curious, and that 
 if she ever gave them her family history she would have to leave. 
 
 This attended to, Eleanore went on her way. She refused 
 quite emphatically to stay for dinner. Marian thought that she 
 was in a hurry to catch the next coach, and accompanied her across 
 the square. They promised to write to each other; before 
 Eleanore got into the rickety old coach, Marian kissed her on the 
 cheek. 
 
 She watched the coach until it had passed out through the city 
 gate. A drunken man poked her in the ribs, the blacksmith called 
 to her as she passed by, the doctor's wife leaned out of the window 
 and asked her who the cityfied lady was. Marian paid not the 
 slightest attention to any of them; she went quietly and slowly 
 back to her house.
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 135 
 
 Thus it came about that five weeks later a daughter of Daniel 
 Nothafft saw the light of the world under Marian's roof. 
 
 As soon as the child was born, Marian took a great liking to it, 
 despite the fact that she had thought of it before its birth only 
 with aversion. It was a fine little creature: its little legs and arms 
 were delicately formed, its head was small, there was something 
 peculiarly human about its first cries and laughter, and it showed 
 quite distinctly that there was something noble in its character. 
 
 The people of Eschenbach were astonished. "Where did the 
 child come from?" they asked. "Who is its mother? Who is its 
 father?" The records in the office of the registrar of births showed 
 that Meta Steinhager was the mother of the illegitimate child, 
 Eva Steinhager, and that its father was unknown. 
 
 It was to be presumed, however, that widow Nothafft knew the 
 details. The old women, and the young ones too, came on this 
 account more frequently now than ever to her shop. They wanted 
 to know how the little thing was getting along, whether its milk 
 agreed with it, whether it had begun to teethe, whether it would 
 speak German or some foreign tongue, and so on. 
 
 In order to quiet them, Marian told them that Meta was a poor 
 relative and that she was bringing up the child at her own expense. 
 It was not difficult to make this story seem plausible, for Meta had 
 very little to do with her daughter. Shortly after her confine- 
 ment, she got a job with a baker over in Dinkelsbiihl, and never 
 visited Eva more than once a month. She cared very little for the 
 child. A young fellow in the bakery had fallen in love with 
 Meta, and wanted to marry her and move to America. 
 
 At Christmas they were married, and left the country at once. 
 Marian was glad of it: the child now belonged entirely to her. 
 
 Though the people soon became accustomed to the existence of 
 their diminutive fellow-townswoman, Eva was and remained the 
 mysterious child of Eschenbach. 
 
 IX 
 
 The opera company made its rounds through the small cities that 
 lie between the Danube and the Main, the Saale and the Neckar 
 and there are many of them, its stay in any one place depending 
 naturally on the interest shown by the public.
 
 i 3 6 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "The province is the enchanted Sleeping Beauty," said the 
 impresario Dormaul to Wurzelmann and Daniel, "the province is 
 still asleep, and you must rouse it from its slumbers by pressing 
 the kiss of the Muse on its forehead." 
 
 But the impresario was unwilling to open his pockets. The 
 princes who were to release Sleeping Beauty did not have sufficient 
 means to make a presentable appearance, while their retinue was 
 seedy looking indeed. 
 
 The tenor had long since passed the zenith of his career. 
 His massive paunch placed deadening strictures on his credentials 
 as the impersonator of heroes. The buffo was an inveterate toper 
 who had often been placed behind bars by the police for his 
 nocturnal excesses. The barytone had a big lawsuit on his hands 
 about an estate; his lawyers were two stars of obscurity from a small 
 village; and at times he became so vexed at the cuts of his opponents 
 that he lost his voice. The soprano was incessantly quarrelling with 
 her colleagues, and the alto was an intriguing vixen quite with- 
 out talent. In addition to these there were a dozen or so super- 
 numaries and under-studies, who were bored, who played practical 
 jokes on each other, drew starvation wages, and had never learned 
 anything. 
 
 The musicians were also a sorry lot. It was not rare that one or 
 the other of them had pawned his instrument. Once a perform- 
 ance had to be postponed because the violinists had stayed over 
 their time at a village dance where they were playing in order to 
 add to their paltry income. The inspector, who was scene-shifter, 
 promoter, ticket seller, and publicity agent all in one, and who 
 was not equal to any of these positions, took French leave in the 
 second year and ran off with one of the chorus girls, taking the 
 box-office receipts for the evening with him. 
 
 One time the costumes were sent to the wrong address, with the 
 result that Boieldieu's "La Dame Blanche" had to be played in 
 woollen frocks, patched velvet skirts, filthy cotton blouses, and 
 French wadding. 
 
 Another time the mob in "Martha" consisted of a distempered 
 woman, a waiter brought in at the last minute from a herring res- 
 taurant, and the door-keeper of an orphanage: the chorus had gone 
 on a strike because their salaries had been held up. 
 
 In Karlstadt the final act of the "Merry Wives of Windsor" 
 could not be played, because during the intermission Falstaff and 
 Mrs. Quickly had got into a fight, and the lady had scratched a 
 huge piece of skin from the singer's nose.
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 137 
 
 If these musical strollers, as acting-director Wurzelmann called 
 the company, nevertheless made some money, it was due to the 
 superhuman efforts of Daniel. Wurzelmann was always mixed up 
 in some kind of love affair, introduced in time a ruinous system of 
 favouritism, and became lazier and lazier as the weeks passed by. 
 
 Daniel had to pull the singers out of their beds to get them to 
 go to rehearsals; Daniel had to help out with the singing when 
 the chorus was too weak; Daniel had to distribute the roles, tame 
 down refractory women, and make brainless dilettants subordinate 
 their noisy opinions to the demands of a work which he himself 
 generally detested. He had to drill beginners, abbreviate scores, 
 transpose voices, and produce effects with lamentably inadequate 
 material. And from morning to night he had to wage war eternal 
 against libellous action, inattention, and inability. 
 
 Nobody loved him for this; they merely feared him. They 
 swore they would take vengeance on him, but they knuckled under 
 whenever they seemed to have a chance. He had a habit of treating 
 them with crushing coldness, he could make them look like crimi- 
 nals. He had a look of icy contempt that made them clench their 
 fists when his eye fell on them. But they bowed before a power 
 which seemed uncanny to them, though it consisted in nothing more 
 than the fact that he did his duty while they did not. 
 
 At the close of each quarter, the impresario Dormaul appeared 
 on the scene to take invoice in person. His presence was invariably 
 celebrated by a gala performance of "Fra Diavolo," or "The 
 Daughter of the Regiment," or "Frou Frou." On these occasions 
 the buffo did not get drunk, the barytone rested from the torments 
 of his lawsuit, the alto had a charming smile for the sympathetic 
 house, the soprano was as peaceful as a mine immediately after an 
 explosion. Not one of the chorus stayed too long in the cafe; 
 and since Wurzelmann directed, and the orchestra did not have to 
 feel the burning, basilisk eye of Kapellmeister Nothafft resting 
 on it and floating over it, it played with more precision and 
 produced a more pleasing feast for the ears than ordinarily. 
 
 Dormaul was not stingy with his praise. "Bravo Wurzelmann," 
 he cried, "one more short year of hard work, and I'll get you a 
 position in the Royal Opera House." 
 
 "Nothafft will likewise rise to fame and office," he said, "al- 
 though I was so stupid as to publish his music, and now all this 
 waste paper is lying in my shop like a pound of brick cheese in a 
 sick stomach." 
 
 The impresario Dormaul wore black and white striped trousers
 
 i 3 8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of imported cut, a vest that looked like a bit of tapestry made of 
 pressed leather, a massive gold watch-chain from which dangled 
 countless fobs, a blood red tie with a diamond as big as the 
 Koh-i-noor and as false a; an April sun, and a grey silk tile hat 
 which he lifted only when in the presence of privy councillors, 
 generals, and police presidents. 
 
 To a man of this kind Daniel had the boldness to remark: 
 "Had you eaten cheese you would at least have digested it. Your 
 crowded shops are after all more desirable in my estimation than 
 many a head which would remain empty even if some one stuffed 
 the whole of the 'Passion of St. Matthew' into it." 
 
 Dormaul decided to laugh. "Oho, my good fellow," he said, 
 and pushed his tile hat on to the back of his head, "you are getting 
 all puffed up. Look out that you don't burst. You remember 
 the story of Hanschen: He was awfully proud of his porridge 
 while sitting behind the stove; but when he went out on to the 
 street, he fell into the puddle." 
 
 The little slave tittered. Daniel had known for a long time 
 that Wurzelmann was working against him. Quite innocently, to 
 be sure, for half souls can admire and betray at the same time. 
 
 "Envy is my only virtue," said Wurzelmann quite openly, "I 
 am a genius at envying." 
 
 Daniel was not equal to such cynicism. He was stupefied by 
 Wurzelmann's remark, but he did not break with the little slave; 
 he continued to use him. He was the only individual with whom 
 he could speak of himself and his work. And though he was 
 overburdened, owing to his present position, he nevertheless man- 
 aged to steal a few hours every day for his own work. And the 
 pressure from all sides fanned the flame within him. 
 
 It was then that he staked out his field in order to be master 
 in his own realm; he turned to the song; he chose the clear, 
 restrained forms of chamber music; he studied with unwavering 
 industry the old masters; he deduced from their works the right 
 rules of composition; and he set these up before him like a dam 
 against arbitrariness and resthetic demoralisation. 
 
 He was not unmindful of the fact that by so doing he was 
 cutting himself off from association with men, and renouncing, 
 probably forever, the satisfaction that comes from monetary reward 
 and outward success. He knew, too, that he was not making his 
 life easier by adopting this course, nor was he gaining the popular 
 favour of the emotionalists. 
 
 When he would sit in a cafe late at night and show Wurzelmann
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 139 
 
 one score after another, sing a few bars in order to bring out the 
 quality of a song, improvise an accompaniment, praise a melody, 
 or explain the peculiarity of a certain rhythm, he surprised the 
 little slave, and drove him into an attitude of self-defence. All 
 this was fundamentally new to Wurzelmann. If Daniel proved 
 that the new was not new after all, that the trouble lay in the 
 fact that the deranged and shattered souls of the present century 
 had lost the power to assimilate unbroken lines in their complete 
 purity, Wurzelmann at once became an advocate of modern free- 
 dom, insisting that each individual should be allowed to do all 
 that his innate talent enabled him to vindicate. 
 
 Daniel remained unconvinced. Was not the whole of life, the 
 rich contents of human existence, to be found in the beautiful 
 vessel that had been proved long ago? Could any one say that he 
 was displaying a spirit of greediness in his love for the classical? 
 And were joy and sorrow, however intense, less perceptible when 
 expressed through a concise, well ordered medium? "What a 
 distorted view a man takes when he becomes so narrow-minded," 
 thought Daniel. "His ambition makes it impossible for him to 
 feel; his very wit militates against clear thinking." 
 
 Thus they went from town to town, month after month, year 
 after year. The company had in time its traditions, its chronique 
 scandaleuse, its oft-tested drawing cards, its regular patrons, its 
 favourite stands, and its stands that it avoided if humanly possible. 
 
 The local paper greeted them editorially; the children stood on 
 the sidewalks to gape their fill at the ladies from the theatre; the 
 retired major bought a reserved seat for the first performance; the 
 barber offered his services; and the faculty of the Latin School 
 held a special meeting to decide whether they should permit their 
 pupils to go to the opera or not. The Young Men's Christian 
 Association voiced its protest against the nude shoulders of the 
 artistes; the members of the Casino turned up their noses at the 
 achievements of the company; the police insisted that the booth 
 or hotel lobby in which they performed should be fireproof; the 
 wife of the mining engineer fell in love with the barytone, and 
 her husband hired a number of hoodlums to take their places in 
 the gallery and hoot and hiss when the time came. And those 
 who nag under any circumstances requested more cheerfulness. 
 They found the "Czar and Zimmermann" too dull, the "Muette 
 de Portici" too hackneyed. They insisted on "Madame Angot" 
 and "Orpheus in the Under World." 
 
 There was always something wrong.
 
 I 4 o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Daniel shuddered at the mere presence of these people; he was 
 repelled by their occupations, their amusements, and the cadavers 
 of their ideals. He did not like the way they laughed; nor could 
 he stand their dismal feelings. He despised the houses out of 
 which they crept, the detectives at their windows, their butcher 
 shops and hotels, their newspapers, their Sundays and their work 
 days. The world was pressing hard upon him. He had to look 
 these people straight in the face, and they compelled him to haggle 
 with them for money, words, feelings, and ideas. 
 
 He learned in time, however, to see other things: the forests on 
 the banks of the Main; the great meadows in the hills of Fran- 
 conia; the melancholy plains of Central Germany; the richly 
 variegated slopes of the Jura Mountains; the old cities with their 
 walls and cathedrals, their gloomy alleys and deserted castles. In 
 time he came to see people in a different and easier light. He 
 saw the young and the old, the fair and the homely, the cheerful 
 and the sad, the poor and the rich so far away and peaceful. 
 They gave him, without discrimination, of their wealth and their 
 poverty. They laid their youth and their old age, their beauty 
 and their ugliness, their joys and their sorrows, at his feet. 
 
 And the country gave him the forests and the fields, the brooks 
 and the rivers, the clouds and the birds, and everything that is 
 under the earth. 
 
 It was winter. The company came to Ansbach, where they were 
 to play in the former Margrave Theatre. "Freischiitz" was to be 
 given, and Daniel had held a number of special rehearsals. 
 
 But a violent snow storm broke out on the day of the perform- 
 ance; scarcely two dozen people attended. 
 
 How differently the violins sounded in this auditorium! The 
 voices were, as it seemed, automatically well balanced; there was 
 in them an element of calm and assurance. The orchestra? 
 Daniel had so charmed it that it obeyed him as if it were a single 
 instrument. At the close of the last act, an old, grey-haired man 
 stepped up to Daniel, smiled, took him by the hand, and thanked 
 him. It was Spindler. 
 
 Daniel went home with him; they talked about the past, the 
 future, men and music. They could not stop talking; nor could 
 the snow stop falling. This did not disturb them. They met
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 141 
 
 again on the following day; but at the end of the week Spindler 
 was taken ill, and had to go to bed. 
 
 As Daniel entered the residence of his old friend one morning, 
 he learned that he had died suddenly the night before. It had 
 been a peaceful death. 
 
 On the third day, Daniel followed the funeral procession to the 
 cemetery. When he left the cemetery there were but few people 
 at the funeral he went out into the snow-covered fields, and spent 
 the remainder of the day walking around. 
 
 That same night he sat down in his wretched quarters, and 
 began his composition of Goethe's "Harzreise im Winter." It 
 was one of the profoundest and rarest of works ever created by a 
 musician, but it was destined, like the most of Daniel's composi- 
 tions, not to be preserved to posterity. This was due to a tragic 
 circumstance. 
 
 XI 
 
 In the spring of 1886, the company went north to Hesse, then 
 to Thuringia, gave performances in a few of the towns in the 
 Spessart region and along the Rhoen, the box receipts growing 
 smaller and smaller all the while. Dormaul had not been seen 
 since the previous autumn; the salaries had not been paid for some 
 time. Wurzelmann prophesied a speedy and fatal end of the 
 enterprise. 
 
 An engagement of unusual length had been planned for the 
 town of Ochsenfurt. The company placed its last hopes on the 
 series, although it was already June and very warm. The thick, 
 muggy air of the gloomy hall in which they were to play left 
 even the enthusiasts without much desire to brighten up the 
 monotony of provincial life by the enjoyment of grand opera. 
 
 They drew smaller houses from day to day. Finally there was 
 no more money in the till; they did not even have enough to move 
 to the next town. To make matters worse, the tenor was taken 
 down with typhus, and the other singers refused to sing until they 
 had been paid. Daniel wrote to Dormaul, but received no reply. 
 Wurzelmann, instead of helping, fanned the easily inflamed minds 
 of the company into a fire of noise, malevolence, and hostility. 
 They demanded that Daniel give them what was due them, 
 besieged him in his hotel, and finally brought matters to such a 
 pitch that the whole town was busied with their difficulties.
 
 i 4 2 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 One afternoon, a stately gentleman between fifty-five and fifty- 
 six years old entered Daniel's room, and introduced himself as 
 Sylvester von Erfft, the owner of an estate. 
 
 His mission was as follows: Every year, at this season, the 
 Chancellor of the German Empire was taking the cure at the 
 nearby Kissingen Baths. Herr von Erfft had made his acquaint- 
 ance, and the Prince, an enthusiastic landowner, had expressed 
 the desire to visit Herr von Erfft's estate, the management of 
 which was widely known as excellent in every way. In order to 
 celebrate the coming of the distinguished guest with befitting 
 dignity, it had been decided not to have any tawdry fireworks or 
 cheap shouting, but to give a special performance of the "Marriage 
 of Figaro" in a rococo pavilion that belonged to the Erfft estate. 
 
 "This idea comes from my wife," said Herr von Erfft. "Some 
 ladies and gentlemen of noble birth who belong to our circle 
 will sing the various parts, and my daughter Sylvia, who studied 
 for two years in Milan with Gallifati, will take the part of the 
 page. The only thing we lack is a trained orchestra. For this 
 reason I have come to you, Herr Kapellmeister, to see if you could 
 not bring your orchestra over and play for us." 
 
 Daniel, though pleased with the kindly disposition of Herr von 
 Erfft, could not make him any definite promise, for he felt bound 
 to the helpless, if not hopeless, opera company now in his care. 
 Herr von Erfft inquired more closely into the grounds of his doubt 
 as to his ability to have his orchestra undertake the special engage- 
 ment, and then asked him whether he would accept his help. 
 "Gladly," replied Daniel, "but such help as you can offer us will 
 hardly be of any avail. Our chief is a hardened sinner." 
 
 Herr von Erfft went with Daniel to the mayor; a half-hour 
 later an official dispatch was on its way to the impresario Dormaul. 
 It was couched in language that was sufficient to inspire any citizen 
 with respect, referred to the desperate plight in which the com- 
 pany then found itself, and demanded in a quite imperious tone 
 that something be done at once. 
 
 Dormaul was frightened; he sent the necessary money by return 
 wire. In another telegram to Wurzelmann he declared the com- 
 pany dissolved; most of the contracts had expired, and those mem- 
 bers of the company who put in claims were satisfied in one way 
 or another. 
 
 Daniel was free. Wurzclmann said to him on taking leave: 
 "Nothafft, you will never amount to anything. I have been dis- 
 appointed in you. You have far too much conscience. You
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 143 
 
 cannot make children out of morality, much less music. The 
 swamp is quaggy, the summit rocky. Commit some act of genuine 
 swinishness, so that you may put a little ginger into your life." 
 
 Daniel laid his hand on his shoulder, looked at him with his 
 cold eyes, and said: "Judas." 
 
 "All right, Judas so far as I am concerned," said Wurzelmann. 
 "I was not born to be nailed to the cross; I am much more for the 
 feasts with the Pharisees." 
 
 He had got a position as critic on the Phoenix, one of the 
 best known musical magazines. 
 
 Daniel found the members of the orchestra only too glad to 
 take the excursion over to Herr von Erfft's. They were put up 
 in a hotel; Daniel himself lived in the castle. The rehearsals 
 were held with zeal and seriousness. Though the name of the 
 Chancellor was still darkened by the clouds of political life, by the 
 enmity of his opponents, by pettiness and misunderstanding, all 
 these young people felt the power of the great Immortal, and 
 were delighted with the idea of meaning something to him, even 
 in the guise of an imaginary world and for only a fleeting hour 
 or two. Agatha von Erfft, the wife of Herr von Erfft, was 
 indefatigable in preparing the costumes, surmounting technical 
 difficulties, and entertaining her guests. The twenty-four-year-old 
 Sylvia had inherited neither the strength of her mother nor the 
 amiability of her father: she was delicate and reserved. Never- 
 theless, she managed to put a great deal of winsomeness and roguish- 
 ness into the role of the cherub. Even her parents were surprised 
 at the unexpected wealth of her natural ability. Moreover, her 
 voice was velvety and well trained. Accustomed as he had been 
 for years to the mediocre accomplishments of sore throats, Daniel 
 nodded approval when she sang. 
 
 The other members of the improvised company he handled 
 with no greater indulgence than he had shown the singers of the 
 Dormaul troupe. They had to put up with his gruffness and 
 snappishness, and to ' do it without a murmur. Herr von Erfft 
 attended the rehearsals regularly, observing Daniel at all times 
 with quiet admiration. If Daniel spoke to any one with such seem- 
 ing harshness that the case was taken up with Herr von Erfft, the 
 latter said: "Let the man have his way; he knows his business; 
 there are not many like him." 
 
 Sylvia was the only one he treated with consideration. As soon 
 as Herr von Erfft mentioned her name, Daniel listened; and as 
 soon as he had seen her, he knew that he had seen her before. It
 
 144 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 was the time he was on his journey; he was standing out at the 
 entrance to the park; some one called to her. It seemed strange 
 to him that he should remember this. Now he was with her, and 
 yet he was just as much of a stranger to her as ever. 
 
 But the thing that drew him to the beautiful girl had nothing 
 to do with this chance incident; nor was there the slightest trace 
 of sensuousness in his feelings. It was all a sort of dream-like sym- 
 pathy, similar to the quest of memory in search of a forgotten 
 happiness. It was a vaguer and more plaguing sensation than the 
 one that bound him so inviolably to Gertrude; it was more sorrow 
 than joy, more unrest than consciousness. 
 
 This forgotten happiness slumbered deep down in his soul ; it 
 had been washed away by the waves of life. It was not Sylvia her- 
 self; it was perhaps a movement of her hand: where had he known 
 this same movement before? It was the way she tossed her head 
 back; it was her proud look, the blue of her eyes but where had 
 he seen all this before? 
 
 Forgotten, forgotten. . . . 
 
 XII 
 
 Just as everything was in full swing, just as they had decorated 
 the buildings and arranged the Herrenhaus, the news came of the 
 death of King Ludwig of Bavaria. The newspapers bore a broad 
 black margin, and were crowded with details concerning the tragedy 
 at the Starnbergersee. The entire country, including the family 
 of Hcrr von Erfft, mourned the loss of the art-loving monarch 
 genuinely and for a long while. 
 
 Of an operatic performance there could be no thought. The 
 Chancellor cancelled his engagement, and the young men who 
 had assembled for the rehearsals went quietly home. Herr von 
 Erfft gave Daniel a considerable purse with which he might recom- 
 pense his musicians for their trouble, and, not wishing to treat 
 Daniel himself as though he were an ordinary mechanic, he invited 
 him to spend a few more days on his estate. 
 
 Daniel did not decline; he had not in truth given one minute's 
 thought to where he would go when he left. 
 
 After he distributed the present from Herr von Erfft among 
 the musicians and discharged them, he took a long walk in the 
 woods. He ate a frugal meal in a village restaurant, and then 
 sauntered around until evening. When he returned, he found his 
 hosts sitting at the table. He neglected to beg their pardon; Prau
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 145 
 
 Agatha looked at her husband and smiled, and told the maids to 
 bring in something for the Herr Kapellmeister. Sylvia had a 
 book in her hand and was reading. 
 
 Daniel was a trifle ill at ease; he merely took a bite here and 
 there. When Frau von Erfft left the table, walked over to the 
 window, and looked out into the cloudy sky, Daniel got up, went 
 into the adjoining room, and sat down at the piano. 
 
 He began to play Schubert's "Song to Sylvia." Having finished 
 the impetuous, heart-felt song, he struck up a variation, then a 
 second, a third, and a fourth. The first was melancholy, the sec- 
 ond triumphant, the third meditative, the fourth dreamy. Each 
 was a hymn to forgotten joy. 
 
 Herr von Erfft and Agatha were standing in the open door. 
 Sylvia had sat down close beside him on a tabourette; there was a 
 pleasing, faraway look in her eyes, riveted though they were to 
 the floor. 
 
 He suddenly stopped, as if to avoid both thanks and applause. 
 Sylvester von Erfft took a seat opposite him, and asked him in a 
 most kindly tone whether he had any definite plans for the imme- 
 diate future. 
 
 "I am going back to Nuremberg and get married," said Daniel. 
 "My fiancee has been waiting for me for a long time." 
 
 Herr von Erfft asked him whether he was not afraid of pre- 
 mature marriage bonds. Daniel replied rather curtly that he 
 needed some one to stand between him and the world. 
 
 "You need some one to act as a sort of buffer," said Frau Agatha 
 sarcastically. Daniel looked at her angrily. 
 
 "Buffer? No, but a guardian angel if such a creature can shield 
 me from rebuffs," said Daniel, even more brusquely than he had 
 spoken the first time. 
 
 "Why do you wish to settle down and live in Nuremberg, a city 
 of such one-sided commercial interests? " continued Herr von Erfft, 
 with an almost solicitous caution. "Would you not have a much 
 better opportunity as a composer in one of the great cities? " 
 
 "It is impossible to separate the daughter from her father," 
 replied Daniel with unusual candour. "It is impossible. Nor is 
 it possible to get the old man to tear himself away from his former 
 associations. He was born and reared there. And I do not wish 
 to live alone any longer.- Everybody needs a companion; even 
 the miner digs with a better heart, when he knows that up on the 
 earth above his wife is preparing the soup. I must say, however, 
 that I am not so much taken up with the soup phase of married
 
 146 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 life: it is the dear little soul that will belong to me that inter- 
 ests me." 
 
 He turned around, and struck a minor chord. 
 
 "And even if everything were different, your great cities would 
 not attract me," he began again, wrinkling his face in a most bizarre 
 way. "What would I get out of them? Companions? 1 have 
 had enough of them. Music 1 can study at home. I can summon 
 the masters of all ages to my study. Fame and riches will find 
 their way to me, if they wish to. The dawn is missed only by 
 those who are too indolent to get up, and real music is heard 
 by all except the deaf. God attends to everything else; man has 
 nothing to do with it." 
 
 He struck another chord, this time in a major key. 
 
 Herr von Erfft and his wife looked at him with evident joy and 
 sympathy. Sylvia whispered something to her mother, who then 
 said to Daniel: "I have a sister living in Nuremberg, Baroness 
 Clotilde von Auffenberg. From the time she was a mere child 
 she was an ardent lover of good music. If I give you a letter of 
 introduction to her, I am quite sure she will welcome you with 
 open arms. She is unfortunately not in the best of health, and a 
 heavy fate is just now hanging over her; but she has a warm heart, 
 and her affections are trustworthy." 
 
 Daniel looked down at the floor. He thought of Gertrude and 
 his future life with her, and murmured a few words of gratitude. 
 Frau von Erfft went at once to her desk, and wrote a detailed 
 letter to her sister. When she had finished it, she gave it to 
 Daniel with a good-natured smile. 
 
 The next morning he left the castle with the feeling of regret 
 that one experiences on leaving the dwelling place of peace and 
 separating from noble friends. 
 
 The streets of Nuremberg were hung with black banners. It was 
 raining. Daniel took a cheap room in The Bear. 
 
 It had already grown dark when he started to Jordan's. He 
 met Benno at the front door. He did not recognise the foppishly- 
 dressed young man, and was on the point of passing by without 
 speaking to him; but Benno stopped, and laughed out loud. 
 
 "Whew, the Herr Kapellmeister!" he cried, and his pale face, 
 already showing the signs of dissipation, took on a scornful expres- 
 sion. "Be careful, my friend, or Gertrude will swoon."
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 147 
 
 Daniel asked if they were all well. Benno replied that there 
 was no lack of good health, though some of the family were a 
 little short of change. Then he laughed again. He spoke of his 
 father, said the old gentleman was not getting along very well, 
 that he was having quite a little trouble to get anything to do, but 
 then what could be expected with a man of his age, and the com- 
 petition and the hard times! Daniel asked if Eleanore was at 
 home. No, she was not at home: she had gone on a visit with 
 Frau Rubsam over to Pommersfelden, and planned to stay there 
 for a few weeks. "Well, I'll have to be hurrying along," said 
 Benno, "my fraternity brothers are waiting for me." 
 
 "Good gracious! Do you have fraternity brothers too?" 
 
 "Of course! They are the spice of my life! We have a holi- 
 day to-day: The King's funeral. Well, God bless you, Herr 
 Kapellmeister, I must be going." 
 
 Daniel went up and rang the bell; Gertrude came to the door, 
 It was dark; each could see only the outline of the other. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Daniel!" she whispered, happy as happy could be. 
 She came up to him, and laid her face on his shoulder. 
 
 Daniel was surprised at the regularity of his pulse. Yesterday 
 the mere thought of this meeting took his breath. Now he held 
 Gertrude in his arms, and was amazed to find that he was perfectly 
 calm and composed. 
 
 In the room he led her over to the lamp, and looked at her for a 
 long while, fixedly and seriously. She grew pale at the sight of 
 him: he was so strange and so terrible. 
 
 Then he took her by the hand, led her over to the sofa, sat 
 down beside her, and told her of his plans. Her wishes and his 
 tallied exactly. He wanted to get married within four weeks. 
 Very well ; she would get married. 
 
 He found her the same unqualifiedly submissive girl. In her 
 eyes there was an expression of fatal docility; it terrified him. 
 There was no cowardly doubt in her soul; her cool hand lay in 
 his and did not twitch. With her hand her whole soul, her whole 
 life, lay in his hand. He wanted to raise some doubt in her 
 mind: he spoke in a down-hearted tone of his future prospects; he 
 said that there was very little hope of his ever winning recognition 
 from the world for his compositions. 
 
 "What is the good of recognition?" she asked. "They can take 
 nothing from you, and what they give you is clear gain." 
 
 He became silent. The feeling of her worth to him swept 
 like a fiery meteor through the heaven of his existence.
 
 i 4 8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 The statement that they were going to remain in Nuremberg 
 made her happy, particularly because of her father. She said 
 there was a small apartment for rent on ^gydius Place, three 
 rooms, a very quiet neighbourhood. They went over to the win- 
 dow; Gertrude showed him the house. It was close to the church, 
 right where the Place makes a turn. 
 
 Jordan came in, and welcomed Daniel with a long handshake. 
 His hair had become greyer, he walked with more of a stoop, and 
 his clothes showed traces of neglect. 
 
 When he heard what Daniel and Gertrude were planning to 
 do, he shook his head: "It is a bad year, children. Why are you 
 in such a hurry? Both of you are still young." 
 
 "If we were older, we would have less courage," replied Daniel. 
 
 Jordan took a seat, and buried his face in his hands. In course 
 of time he looked up, and said that three years ago he had only 
 eight thousand marks in the bank; that hard times had forced 
 him to draw on this sum to keep the house going; and that to-day 
 there was hardly a third of it left. Two thousand marks was all 
 he could give Gertrude as a dowry; with that they would have to 
 be satisfied, and get along as well as they could. 
 
 "We don't need 'any more," said Daniel; "as a matter of fact 
 I did not expect that much. Now I haven't a care in the world; 
 I am ready for anything." 
 
 A bat flew in at the open window, and then quietly flew out 
 again. It had stopped raining. You could still hear the water 
 trickling and splashing down the leaders and in the pipes. There 
 was something heavy, portentous, in the air of this June evening. 
 
 XIV 
 
 At first Daniel had received small bits of news from England 
 about Benda, but for a year and a half he had not heard a word. 
 When Eleanore returned from Pommersfelden in July, she told 
 him that she had received a letter from Benda in April, and that 
 she had sent him this letter when he was at Naumburg. Daniel, 
 however, had never received it, and the investigations which he 
 made proved fruitless. 
 
 Benda's mother was not in the city; she was living with relatives 
 in Worms, but had kept her apartment at Herr Carovius's. 
 
 Frau von Auffcnberg was at Bad Ems, and did not plan to 
 return until September. Daniel looked up old friends, and 
 rebound the ties of former days. He also succeeded in getting a
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 149 
 
 number of students to tutor, an occupation that netted him a little 
 spending money. 
 
 He had to attend to a great deal of business for which he was 
 quite unfit. He had imagined that he could get married just as 
 he might go to a shop and buy something: he would not make any 
 noise, nor would it take much time. He had a hundred moods, 
 a hundred objections, a hundred grimaces. The apartment on 
 ^Egydius Place was already rented. It embittered him to think 
 that in order to live with a person you loved, you had to have 
 tables, beds, chairs, cupboards, lamps, glasses, plates, garbage cans, 
 water pails, window cushions, and a thousand and one other foolish 
 objects. 
 
 There was a great deal of talk in the city about the marriage. 
 The people said they did not know what Jordan could be thinking 
 of. They were convinced that he was in desperate financial straits 
 if he would marry his daughter to an impecunious musician. 
 
 Daniel found everything hard: every day was his Day of Judg- 
 ment. A melody was gnawing at his heart, trying to take on a 
 pure and finished form. Freedom sounded in his ears with voices 
 from above; his quiet fiancee begged for comradeship. The task 
 to which he had dedicated himself demanded loneliness; then his 
 blood carried him along and away, and he became like wax, 
 but wild. 
 
 He would rush to Jordan's house, enter the living room, his hair 
 all dishevelled, sit down where the two sisters were working on 
 Gertrude's trousseau, and never utter a syllable until Gertrude 
 would come up to him and lay her hand on his forehead. He 
 thrust her back, but she smiled gently. At times, though none too 
 frequently, he would take her Ly the arms and pull her down to 
 him. When he did this, Eleanore would smile with marked 
 demureness, as if it were not right for her to see two people in 
 love. 
 
 There was a second-hand baby grand piano in Jordan's living 
 room. Daniel played on it in the evening, and the sisters listened. 
 Gertrude was like a woman wrapt in peaceful slumber, her every 
 wish having been fulfilled, with kindly spirits watching over her. 
 Eleanore, however, was wide awake; she was awake and meditating. 
 
 xv 
 
 The day of the wedding arrived. At half past nine in the 
 morning, Daniel appeared in Jordan's house. He wore an after-
 
 i 5 o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 noon suit and a high hat! He was vexed, and villanous to behold, 
 a picture of misery. 
 
 Benno, the man of the world, was forced to leave the room. 
 No sooner was he outside than he laughed so heartily that he fell 
 into a clothes basket. He did not approve of this marriage; he 
 was ashamed to tell his friends about it. 
 
 Gertrude wore a plain street dress and a little virgin bonnet, 
 then prescribed by fashion. She sat by the table, and gazed into 
 space with wide-opened eyes. 
 
 Eleanore came into the room with a wreath of myrtle. "You 
 must put this on, Gertrude," she said, "just to please us; just to 
 make us feel that you are a real bride. Otherwise you look too 
 sober, too much as though you two were going to the recorder's 
 office on profane business." 
 
 "Where did you get that wreath?" asked Jordan. 
 
 "I found it in an old chest; it is mother's bridal wreath." 
 
 "Really? Mother's bridal wreath?" murmured Jordan, as he 
 looked at the faded myrtle. 
 
 "Put it on, Gertrude," Eleanore again requested, but Gertrude 
 looked first at Daniel, and then laid it to one side. 
 
 Eleanore went up to the mirror, and put it on her own head. 
 
 "Don't do that, child," said Jordan with a melancholy smile. 
 "Superstitious people say that you will remain an old maid forever, 
 if you wear the wreath of another." 
 
 "Then I will remain an old maid, and gladly so," said Elea- 
 nore. 
 
 She turned away from the mirror, and looked at Daniel half 
 unconscious of what she was doing. The blond of her eyelashes 
 had turned almost grey, the red of her lips had been dotted with 
 little spots from her smiling, and her neck was like something 
 liquid and disembodied. 
 
 Daniel saw all this. He looked at the Undine-like figure of 
 the girl. It seemed to him that he had not seen her since the day 
 of his return, that he had not noticed that she had become more 
 mature, more beautiful, and more lovely. All of a sudden he felt 
 as if he were going to swoon. It went through him like a flash: 
 Here, here was what he had forgotten; here was the countenance, 
 the eye, the figure, the movement that had stood before him, and 
 he, fool, unspeakable fool, had been struck by blindness. 
 
 Gertrude had a fearful suspicion of the experience he was going 
 through. She arose, and looked at Daniel in horror. He hastened 
 up to her as if he were fleeing, and seized her hands. Eleanore,
 
 IN MEMORY OF A DREAM FIGURE 151 
 
 believing she had aroused Daniel's displeasure by some word or 
 gesture, snatched the myrtle wreath from her hair. 
 
 Jordan had paid no attention to these incidents. Bringing at 
 last his restless pacing back and forth to an end, he took out his 
 watch, looked at it, and said it was time they were going. Eleanore, 
 who had displayed a most curious disposition the whole morning, 
 asked them to wait a minute. Before they could find out why 
 she wished them to wait, the door bell rang, and she ran out. 
 
 She returned with a radiant expression on her face; Marian 
 Nothafft followed her. Marian composed herself only with 
 extreme difficulty. Her eyes roamed about over the circle of 
 people before her, partly as if she were frightened, partly as if 
 she were looking for some one. 
 
 Mother and son stood face to face in absolute silence. That 
 was the work of Eleanore. 
 
 Marian said she was living with her sister Theresa; that she 
 had arrived the day before; and that she wished to return this 
 evening. 
 
 "I am glad, Mother, that you could come," said Daniel with a 
 stifled voice. 
 
 Marian laid her hand on his head; she then went up to Gertrude, 
 and did the same. 
 
 After the wedding, Jordan gave a luncheon for his children. 
 In the afternoon they all started off in two hired coaches. Daniel 
 had never seen his mother so cheerful; but it was useless to ask 
 her to prolong her visit. While this was being discussed, she and 
 Eleanore exchanged knowing glances. 
 
 As evening drew on, Daniel and Gertrude betook themselves to 
 their home. 
 
 XVI 
 
 It is night. The antiquated old square is deserted. The bell 
 in the church tower has struck eleven; the lights in the windows 
 die out, slowly, one by one. 
 
 The figure of a woman is seen coming up the alley. She is 
 spying anxiously about, before her and behind her. Finally she 
 stops before the little house in which Daniel and Gertrude live. 
 Is it a living creature? Is it not rather an uncanny gnome? The 
 garments hang loose about the unshapely body; a crumpled straw 
 hat covers the mad-looking face; the shoulders are raised; the fists 
 are clenched; the eyes are glassy.
 
 152 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Suddenly there is a scream. The woman hastens over toward 
 the church, falls on her knees, and sinks her teeth with frenzied 
 madness into the wooden pickets of the fence. After some time 
 she rises, stares up once more at the windows with distorted lips, 
 and then moves away with slow, dragging steps. 
 
 It was Philippina Schimmelweis. She kept going about the 
 streets in this fashion until break of day.
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 
 
 THE Reichstag had voted to extend the period during which the 
 Socialist law would be in effect; the passing of a new army bill 
 was also to be expected. These two measures had provoked tumul- 
 tuous discord in many parts of the country. 
 
 The Social Democrats were planning a parade through the main 
 streets of the city in October, but the police had already forbidden 
 their demonstration. The evening the edict was issued the regi- 
 ments stood at alert in the barracks; feeling ran high throughout 
 the entire city. In Wohrd and Plobenhof there had been a number 
 of riots; in the narrow streets of the central zone thousands of 
 workmen had stormed the Rathaus. 
 
 Every now and then there would come a long, shrill whistle 
 from the silent mass, followed at once by the heavy rolling of 
 drums at the guard house. 
 
 Among those who came down from the direction of Koenig 
 Street was the workman Wachsmuth. In the vicinity of the 
 Schimmelweis shop he delivered an excited harangue against the 
 former member of the party; his words fell on fruitful soil. A 
 locksmith's apprentice who had lost some money through the Pru- 
 dentia violently defamed the character of the book-seller. 
 
 The mob gathered before the lighted shop window. Wachsmuth 
 stood by the door, and demanded that the traitor be suspended 
 from a lamp post before this day's sun had set. A stone flew 
 through the air over their heads, and crashed through the window; 
 pieces of glass flew in all directions. Thereupon a dozen fellows 
 rushed into the shop, exclaiming, "Where is the dirty dog? Let 
 us get at the blood-sucker!" They wanted to teach him a lesson 
 he would never forget. 
 
 Before Theresa could open her mouth, scraps of books and 
 newspapers were flying in every direction, and pamphlets were 
 being trampled under foot. A forest of arms were reaching out 
 for the shelves, and bundles of books were falling to the floor, 
 like stacks of cards piled up by a child and blown over by the 
 
 153
 
 i 5 4 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 wind. Zwanziger had taken refuge at the top of the ladder; he 
 was howling. Theresa stood by the till looking like the ghost of 
 ages. Philippina came in through the back door, and eyed what 
 was going on without one visible trace of surprise or discomfort; 
 she merely smiled. Just then the policeman's whistle blew; in 
 less time than it takes to draw one breath, the rebellious insurgents 
 were beating a hasty retreat. 
 
 When Theresa regained consciousness, the shop was empty; and 
 the street in front of the shop was as deserted as it ordinarily is 
 at midnight. After some time, the chief of police came up; he 
 was followed by a crowd of curious people, who stood around and 
 gaped at the scene of devastation. 
 
 Jason Philip, seeing what was coming, had left the shop betimes 
 and hidden in his house. He had even locked the front door and 
 was sunk down on a chair, his teeth clappering with vigour and 
 regularity. 
 
 He returned at last to the shop, and with heartrending dignity 
 faced the dispenser of justice, who by this time had put in his 
 appearance. He said: "And this is what I get from people for 
 whom I have sacrificed my money and my blood." 
 
 In giving his testimony as an eyewitness, Zwanziger displayed 
 boastful hardiness in his narration of details. Philippina looked 
 at him with venomous contempt from under the imbecile locks 
 that hung down over her forehead, and murmured: "You disgust- 
 ing coward!" 
 
 When Jason Philip came back from the inn, he said: "To believe 
 that people can be ruled without the knout is a fatal delusion." 
 With that he stepped into his embroidered slippers "For tired 
 Father Consolation." The slippers had aged, and so had Jason 
 Philip. His beard was streaked with grey. 
 
 Theresa took an invoice of the damage the mob had done: she 
 felt that Jason Philip was a ruined man. 
 
 As he lay stretched out in bed, Jason Philip said: "The first 
 thing I want to do is to have a serious, heart-to-heart talk with 
 Baron Auffenberg. The Liberal Party is going to take direct 
 action against the impudence of the lower classes, or it is going 
 to lose a constituent." 
 
 "How many quarts of beer did you drink? " asked Theresa from 
 the depths of the pillows. 
 
 "Two." 
 
 "You are a liar." 
 
 "Well, possibly I drank three," replied Jason Philip with a
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 155 
 
 yawn. "But to accuse a man of my standing of lying on such 
 small grounds is an act of perfidy such as only an uncultured 
 woman like yourself could be brought to commit." 
 Theresa blew out the candle. 
 
 Baron Siegmund von Auffenberg had returned from Munich, 
 where he had had an interview with the Minister. 
 
 He had also seen a great many other people in the presence 
 of whom he was condescending, jovial, and witty. His amiability 
 was proverbial. 
 
 Now he was sitting with a gloomy face by the chimney. Not 
 a one of those many people who had so recently been charmed by 
 his conversational gifts would have recognised him. 
 
 The stillness and loneliness pained him. An irresistible force 
 drew him to his wife. He had not seen her for seven weeks, 
 though they had lived in the same house. 
 
 He was drawn to her, because he wanted to know whether she 
 had heard anything from that person whose name he did not like 
 to mention, from his son, his enemy, his heir. Not that he wanted 
 to ask his wife any questions: he merely wished to read her face. 
 Since no one in the vicinity had dared say a word to him about 
 his son, he was forced to rely on suppositions and the subtle cun- 
 ning of his senses at ferreting out information on this kind of 
 subjects. He did not dare betray the curiosity with which he 
 waited for some one to inform him that his hated offspring had at 
 last come to mortal grief. 
 
 Six years had elapsed, and still he could hear the insolent voice 
 in which the monstrous remarks' were made that had torn him from 
 the twilight of his self-complacency; remarks that distressed him 
 more than any other grief he may have felt in the secrecy of his 
 bed chamber and which completely and forever robbed him of all 
 the joys of human existence. 
 
 f Defechc-toi, mon bon gar^on," screeched the parrot. 
 
 The Baron arose, and went to his wife's room. She was terri- 
 fied when she saw him enter. She was lying on a sofa, her head 
 propped up by cushions, a thick Indian blanket spread out over 
 her legs. 
 
 She had a broad, bloated face, thick lips, and unusually big 
 black eyes, in which there was a sickly glare. She had been 
 regarded as a beauty in her young days, though none of this beauty
 
 i 5 6 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 was left, unless it was the freshness of her complexion or the 
 dignified bearing of the born lady of the world. 
 
 She sent her maid out of the room, and looked at her husband 
 in silence. She studied the friendly, Jesuitic wrinkles in his face, 
 by virtue of which he managed to conceal his real thoughts. Her 
 anxiety was increased. 
 
 "You have not played the piano any to-day," he began in a 
 sweet voice. "It makes the house seem as though something were 
 missing. I am told that you have acquired perfect technique, and 
 that you have engaged a new teacher. Emilia told me this." 
 
 Emilia was their daughter. She was married to Count Urlich, 
 captain of cavalry. 
 
 In the Baroness's eyes there was an expression such as is found 
 in the eyes of some leashed beast when the butcher approaches, axe 
 in hand. She was tortured by the smoothness of the man from 
 whom she had never once in the last quarter of a century received 
 anything but brutality and scorn, and from whom she had suffered 
 the grossest of humiliations when no one was listening. 
 
 "What do you want, Siegmund?" she asked, with painful effort. 
 
 The Baron stepped close up to her, bit his lips, and looked at 
 her for ten or twelve seconds with a fearful expression on his face. 
 
 She then seized him by the left arm: "What is the matter with 
 Eberhard?" she cried; "tell me, tell me everything! There is 
 something wrong." 
 
 The Baron, with a gesture of stinging aversion, thrust her hands 
 from him, and turned to go. There was unfathomable coldness 
 in his conduct. 
 
 Beside herself with grief, the Baroness made up her mind to 
 tell him, for the first time in her life, of the thousand wrongs 
 that burned within her heart. And she did: "Oh, you monster! 
 Why did Fate bring you into my life? Where is there another 
 woman in the world whose lot has been like mine? Where is the 
 woman who has lived without joy or love or esteem or freedom or 
 peace, a burden to others and to herself? Show me another 
 woman who goes about in silk and satin longing for death. Name 
 me another woman who people think is happy, because the devil, 
 who tortures her without ceasing, deceives them all. Where is 
 there another woman who has been so shamelessly robbed of her 
 children? For is not my daughter the captive and concubine of an 
 insan* tuft-hunter? Has not my son been taken from me through 
 the baseness that has been practised against his sister, and the 
 lamentable spectacle afforded him by my own powerlessness?
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 157 
 
 Where, I ask high Heaven, is there another woman so cursed as I 
 have been? " 
 
 She threw herself down on her bosom, and burrowed her face 
 into the cushion. 
 
 The Baron was surprised at the feverish eloquence of his wife; 
 he had accustomed himself to her mute resignation, as he might 
 have accustomed himself to the regular, monotonous ticking of a 
 hall clock. He was anxious to see what she would do next, how 
 she would develop her excitement; she was a novel phenomenon 
 in his eyes: therefore he remained standing in the door. 
 
 But as he stood there in chilly expectancy, his haggard face 
 casting off expressions of scorn and surprise, he suddenly sensed a 
 feeling of weary disgust at himself. It was the disgust of a man 
 whose wishes had always been fulfilled, whose lusts had been satis- 
 fied; of a man who has never known other men except as greedy 
 and practical supplicants; of a man who has always been the lord of 
 his friends, the tyrant of his servants, and the centre of all social 
 gatherings; of a man before whom all others yielded, to whom all 
 others bowed; of a man who had never renounced anything but 
 the feeling of renunciation. 
 
 "I am not unaware," he began slowly, just as if he were making 
 a campaign speech to his electors, "I am not unaware that our 
 marriage has not been the source of wholesome blessings. To be 
 convinced of this, your declamation was unnecessary. We married 
 because the circumstances were favourable. We had cause to regret 
 the decision. Is it worth while to investigate the cause now? I 
 am quite devoid of sentimental needs. This is true of me to such 
 an extent that any display of sympathy or exuberance or lack of 
 harshness in other people fills me with mortal antipathy. Unfor- 
 tunately, my political career obliged me to assume a favourable 
 attitude toward this general tendency of the masses. I played the 
 hypocrite with complete consciousness of what I was doing, and 
 made so much the greater effort to conceal all feeling in my private 
 life." 
 
 "It is easy to conceal something you do not have," replied the 
 Baroness in a tone of intense bitterness. 
 
 "Possibly; but it is a poor display of tact for the rich man to 
 irritate the poor man by flaunting his lavish, spendthrift habits in 
 his face; and this is precisely what you have done. The emphasis 
 you laid on a certain possession of yours, the value of which we will 
 not dispute, provoked my contempt. It gave you pleasure to cry 
 when you saw a cat eating a sparrow. A banal newspaper novel
 
 i 5 8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 could rob you completely of your spiritual equanimity. You were 
 always thrilled, always in ecstasy, it made not the slightest differ- 
 ence whether the cause of your ecstasy was the first spring violet 
 or a thunder storm, a burnt roast, a sore throat, or a poem. You 
 were always raving, and I became tired of your raving. You did 
 not seem to notice that my distrust toward the expression of these 
 so-called feelings was transformed into coldness, impatience, and 
 hatred. And then came the music. What was at first a diversion 
 for you, of which one might approve or disapprove, became in time 
 the indemnity for an active life and all the defects of your char- 
 acter. You gave yourself up to music somewhat as a prostitute 
 gives herself up to her first loyal lover" the Baroness twitched 
 as if some one had struck her across the back with a horsewhip 
 "yes, like a prostitute," he repeated, turning paler and paler, his 
 eyes glistening. "Then it was that your whole character came to 
 light; one saw how spoiled you were, how helpless, how undis- 
 ciplined. You clung like a worm to uncertain and undetermined 
 conditions. If I have become a devil in your eyes, it is your music 
 that has made me so. Now you know it." 
 
 "So that is it," whispered the Baroness with faltering breath. 
 "Did you leave me anything but my music? Have you not raged 
 like a tiger? But it is not true," she exclaimed, "you are not so 
 vicious, otherwise I myself would be a lie in the presence of the 
 Eternal Judge, and that I had borne children by you would be 
 contrary to nature. Leave me, go away, so that I may believe that 
 it is not true!" 
 
 The Baron did not move. 
 
 In indescribable excitement, and as quickly as her obese body 
 would permit, the Baroness leaped to her feet: "I know you better," 
 she said with trembling lips, "I have been able to foreshadow 
 what is driving you about; I have seen what makes you so rest- 
 less. You are not the man you pretend to be; you are not the 
 cold, heartless creature you seem. In your breast there is a spot 
 where you are vulnerable, and there you have been struck. You 
 are bleeding, man! If we all, I and your daughter and your 
 brothers and your friends and your cowardly creatures, are as 
 indifferent and despicable to you as so many flies, there is one who 
 has been able to wound you; this fact is gnawing at your heart. 
 And do you know why he was in a position to wound you? Because 
 you loved him. Look me in the eye, and tell me that I lie. You 
 loved him your son you idolised him. The fact that he has 
 repudiated your love, that he found it of no value to him, the love
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 159 
 
 that blossomed on the ruined lives of his mother and sister, this is 
 the cause of your sorrow. It is written across your brow. And 
 that you are suffering, and suffering for this reason, constitutes 
 my revenge." 
 
 The Baron did not say a word; his lower jaw wagged from left 
 to right as though he were chewing something; his face seemed 
 to have dried up; he looked as though he had suddenly become 
 older by years. The Baroness, driven from her reserve, stood 
 before him like an enraged sibyl. He turned in silence, and left 
 the room. 
 
 "My suffering is her revenge," he murmured on leaving the 
 room. Once alone, he stood for a while perfectly absent-minded. 
 "Am I really suffering?" he said to himself. 
 
 He turned off a gas jet that was burning above the book case. 
 "Yes, I am suffering," he confessed reluctantly; "I am suffering." 
 He walked along the wall with dragging feet, and entered a room 
 in which a light was burning. He felt the same satiety and dis- 
 gust at himself that he had experienced a few moments earlier. 
 This time it was caused by the sight of the hand-carved furniture, 
 the painted porcelain, the precious tapestries, and the oil paintings 
 in their gold frames. 
 
 He longed for simpler things; he longed for barren walls, a 
 cot of straw, parsimony, discipline. It was not the first time that 
 his exhausted organism had sought consolation in the thought of a 
 monastic life. This Protestant, this descendent of a long line of 
 Protestants, had long been tired of Protestantism. He regarded 
 the Roman Church as the more wholesome and merciful. 
 
 But the transformation of his religious views was his own care- 
 fully guarded secret. And secret it had to remain until he, the 
 undisciplined son of his mother, could atone for his past misdeeds. 
 He decided to wait until this atonement had been effected. Just 
 as a hypnotist gains control of his medium by inner composure, 
 so he thought he could hasten the coming of this event by con- 
 ceding it absolute supremacy over his mind. 
 
 in 
 
 When Eberhard von Auffenbcrg left the paternal home to strike 
 out for himself, he was as helpless as a child that has lost the 
 hand of its adult companion in a crowd. 
 
 He put the question to himself: What am I going to do? He 
 had never worked. He had studied at various universities as so
 
 160 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 many other young men have studied, that is, he had managed to 
 pass a few examinations by the skin of his teeth. 
 
 He had had so little to do in life, and was so utterly devoid of 
 ambition, that he looked upon a really ambitious individual as 
 being insane. Anything that was at all practical was filled with 
 insurmountable obstacles. His freedom, in other words, placed 
 him in a distressing state of mind and body. 
 
 It would not have been difficult for him to find people who 
 would have been willing to advance him money on his name. But 
 he did not wish to incur debts of which his father might hear. 
 If he did, his solemn solution of an unbearable relation would 
 have amounted to nothing. 
 
 He could, of course, count on his share of the estate; and he 
 did count on it, notwithstanding the fact that to do so was to 
 speculate on the death of his own father. He stood in urgent 
 need of a confidential friend; and this friend he thought he had 
 found in Herr Carovius. 
 
 "Ah, two people such as you and I will not insist upon unneces- 
 sary formalities," said Herr Carovius. "All that I need is your 
 face, and your signature to a piece of paper. We will deduct ten 
 per cent at the very outset, so that my expenses may be covered, 
 for money is dear at present. I will give you real estate bonds; 
 they are selling to-day at eighty-five, unfortunately. The Exchange 
 is a trifle spotty, but a little loss like that won't mean anything 
 to you." 
 
 For the ten thousand marks that he owed, Eberhard received 
 seven thousand, six hundred and fifty, cash. In less than a year 
 he was again in need of money, and asked Herr Carovius for 
 twenty thousand. Herr Carovius said he did not have that much 
 ready money, and that he would have to approach a lender. 
 
 Eberhard replied sulkily that he could do about that as he saw 
 fit, but he must not mention his name to a third party. A few 
 days later Herr Carovius told a tale of hair-splitting negotiations: 
 there was a middleman who demanded immodest guarantees, includ- 
 ing certified notes. He swore that he knew nothing about that 
 kind of business, and that he had undertaken to supply the needed 
 loan only because of his excessive affection for his young friend. 
 
 Eberhard was unmoved. The eel-like mobility of the man with 
 the squeaking voice did not please him; not at all; as a matter of 
 fact he began to dread him; and this dread increased in intensity 
 and fearfulness in proportion to the degree in which he felt he was 
 becoming more and more entangled in his net.
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 161 
 
 The twenty thousand marks were procured at an interest of 
 thirty-five per cent. At first Eberhard refused to sign the note. 
 He would not touch it until Herr Carovius had assured him that 
 it was not to be converted into currency, that it could be redeemed 
 with new loans at any time, and that it would lie in his strong-box 
 as peacefully as the bones of the Auffenberg ancestors rested in 
 their vaults. Eberhard, tired of this flood of words, yielded. 
 
 Every time he signed his name he had a feeling that the danger 
 into which he was walking was becoming greater. But he was too 
 lazy to defend himself; he was too aristocratic to interest himself 
 in petty explanations; and he was simply not capable of living on 
 a small income. 
 
 The endorsed notes were presented as a matter of warning; 
 new loans settled them; new loans made new notes necessary; 
 these were extended; the extensions were costly; an uncanny indi- 
 vidual shielded in anonymity was taken into confidence. He 
 bought up mortgages, paid for them in diamonds instead of money, 
 and sold depreciated stocks. The debts having reached a certain 
 height, Herr Carovius demanded that Eberhard have his life 
 insured. Eberhard had to do it; the premium was very high. In 
 the course of three years Eberhard had lost all perspective; he could 
 no longer survey his obligations. The money he received he spent 
 in the usual fashion, never bothered himself about the terms on 
 which he had secured it, and had no idea where all this was leading 
 to and where it was going to end. He turned in disgust from 
 Herr Carovius's clumsy approaches, malicious gibes, and occasional 
 threats. 
 
 What an insipid smile he had! How fatuous, and then again 
 how profound, his conversation could be! He took upon himself 
 the impudent liberty of running in and out at Eberhard's whenever 
 he felt like it. He bored him with his discussion of philosophic 
 systems, or with miserable gossip about his neighbours. He watched 
 him day and night. 
 
 He followed him on the street. He would come up to him 
 and cry out, "Herr Baron, Herr Baron!" and wave his hat. His 
 solicitude for Eberhard's health resembled that of a gaoler. One 
 evening Eberhard went to bed with a fever. Herr Carovius ran 
 to the physician, and then spent the whole night by the bedside 
 of the patient, despite his entreaties to be left alone. "Would it 
 not be well for me to write to your mother?" he asked, with much 
 show of affection on the next morning when he noticed that the 
 Cevcr had not fallen. Eberhard sprang from his bed with an
 
 162 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 exclamation of rage, and Herr Carovius left immediately and 
 unceremon iously. 
 
 Herr Carovius loved to complain. He ran around the table, 
 exclaiming that he was ruined. He brought out his cheque book, 
 added up the figures, and cried: " Two more years of this business, 
 dear Baron, and I will be ready for the poor house." He de- 
 manded security and still more securities; he asked for renewed 
 promises. He submitted an account of the total sum, and demanded 
 an endorsement. But it was impossible for any one to make head 
 or tail out of this welter of interest, commissions, indemnities, 
 and usury. Herr Carovius himself no longer knew precisely how 
 matters stood; for a consortium of subsequent indorsers had been 
 formed behind his back, and they were exploiting his zeal on 
 behalf of the young Baron for all it was worth. 
 
 "What is this I hear about you and the women?" asked Herr 
 Carovius one day. "What about a little adventure?" He had 
 noticed that the Baron had a secret; and it enraged him to think 
 that he could not get at the bottom of this amorous mystery. 
 
 He made this discovery one day as Eberhard was packing his 
 trunk' "Where are you going my dear friend?" he crowed in 
 exclamatory dismay. Eberhard replied that he was going to Switz- 
 erland. "To Switzerland? What are you going to do there? I 
 am not going to let you go," said Herr Carovius. Eberhard gave 
 him one cold stare. Herr Carovius tried beseeching, begging, 
 pleading. It was in vain; Eberhard left for Switzerland. He 
 wanted to be alone; he became tired of being alone, and returned; 
 he went off again; he came back again, and had the conversation 
 with Eleanore that robbed him of his last hope. Then he went 
 to Munich, and took up with the spiritists. 
 
 Spiritual and mental ennui left him without a vestige of the 
 power of resistance. An inborn tendency to scepticism did not 
 prevent him from yielding to an influence which originally was 
 farther removed from the inclinations of his soul than the vulgar 
 bustle of everyday life. Benumbed as his critical judgment now 
 was, he went prospecting for the fountain of life in a zone where 
 dreams flourish and superficial enchantment predominates. 
 
 Herr Carovius hired a spy who never allowed Eberhard to get 
 out of his sight. He reported regularly to his employer on the 
 movements of the unique scion of the Auffenberg line. If Eber- 
 hard needed money, he was forced to go to Carovius, who would 
 stand on the platform for an hour waiting for the Baron's train 
 to come in; and once Eberhard had got out of his carriage, Herr
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 163 
 
 Carovius excited the laughter of the railroad officials by his 
 affectionate care for his protege. Delighted to see him again, he 
 would talk the sheerest nonsense, and trip around about his young 
 friend in groundless glee. 
 
 It seemed after all this that Herr Carovius really loved the 
 Baron ; and he did. 
 
 He loved him as a gambler loves his cards, or as the fire loves 
 the coals. He idealised him; he dreamt about him; he liked to 
 breathe the air that Eberhard dreamed; he saw a chosen being in 
 him; he imputed all manner of heroic deeds to him, and was 
 immeasurably pleased at his aristocratic offishness. 
 
 He loved him with hatred, with the joy of annihilation. This 
 hate-love became in time the centre of his thoughts and feelings. 
 In it was expressed everything that separated him from other men 
 and at the same time drew him to them. It controlled him uncon- 
 ditionally, until a second, equally fearful and ridiculous passion 
 became affiliated with it. 
 
 IV 
 
 Daniel had hesitated for a long while about making use of the 
 letter of introduction from Frau von Erfft. Gertrude then took 
 to begging him to go to the Baroness. "If I go merely to please 
 you, my action will avenge itself on you," he said. 
 
 "If I understood why you hesitate, I would not ask you," she 
 replied in a tone of evident discomfort. 
 
 "I found so much there in Erfft," said he, "so much human 
 kindness that was new to me; I dislike the idea of seeing some 
 ulterior motive back of it, or of putting one there myself. Do 
 you understand now?" She nodded. 
 
 "But must is stronger than may," he concluded, and went. 
 
 The Baroness became quite interested in his case. The position 
 of second Kapellmeister at the City Theatre was vacant, and she 
 tried to have Daniel appointed to it. She was promised that it 
 would be given to him; but the usual intrigues were spun behind 
 her back; and when she urged that the matter be settled imme- 
 diately and in favour of her candidate, she was fed on dissembling 
 consolation. She was quite surprised to be brought face to face 
 with hostile opposition, which seemed to spring from every side 
 as if by agreement against the young musician. Not a single one 
 of his enemies, however, allowed themselves to be seen, and no 
 oe heard from by correspondence. It was the first time that she
 
 164 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 had come in conflict with the world in a business way; there was 
 something touching in her indignation at the display of cowardly 
 fraud. 
 
 Finally, after a long, and for her humiliating, interview with 
 that chief of cosmopolitan brokers, Alexander Dormaul, Daniel's 
 engagement for the coming spring was agreed upon. 
 
 In the meantime the Baroness took lessons from Daniel. She 
 expressed a desire to familiarise herself with the standard piano 
 compositions, and to be given a really practical introduction to their 
 meaning and the right method of interpreting them. 
 
 It was long before she became accustomed to his cold and 
 morose sternness. She had the feeling that he was pulling her out 
 of a nice warm bath into a cold, cutting draught. She longed 
 to return to her twilights, her ecstatic moods, her melancholy 
 reveries. 
 
 Once he explained to her in a thoroughly matter-of-fact way the 
 movement of a fugue. She dared to burst out with an exclama- 
 tion of joy. He shut the piano with a bang, and said: "Adieu, 
 Baroness." He did not return until she had written him a letter 
 asking him to do so. 
 
 "Ah, it is lost effort, a waste of time," he thought, though he 
 did not fail to appreciate the Baroness's human dignity. The 
 eight hours a month were a complete torture to him. And yet he 
 found that twenty marks an hour was too much; he said so. The 
 suspicion that she was giving him alms made him exceedingly dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 A servant became familiar with him. Daniel took him by the 
 collar and shook him until he was blue in the face. He was as 
 wiry as a jaguar, and much to be feared when angry. The 
 Baroness had to discharge the servant. 
 
 Once the Baroness showed him an antique of glass work made 
 of mountain crystal and beautifully painted. As he was looking 
 at it in intense admiration, he let it fall; it broke into many pieces. 
 He was as humiliated as a whipped school boy; the old Baroness 
 had to use her choicest powers of persuasion to calm him. He 
 then played the whole of Schumann's "Carneval" for her, a piece 
 ot music of which she was passionately fond. 
 
 Every forenoon you could see him hastening across the bridge. 
 He always walked rapidly; his coat tails flew. He always had 
 the corners of his mouth drawn up and his lower lip clenched 
 between his teeth. He was always looking at the ground; in the 
 densest crowds he seemed to be alone. He bent the rim of his
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 165 
 
 hat down so that it covered his forehead. His dangling arms 
 resembled the stumpy wings of a penguin. 
 
 At times he would stop, stand all alone, and listen, so to speak, 
 into space without seeing. When he did this, street boys would 
 gather about him and grin. Once upon a time a little boy said to 
 his mother: "Tell me, mother, who is that old, old manikin over 
 there?" 
 
 This is the picture we must form of him at this time of his life, 
 just before his years of real storm and stress: he is in a hurry; 
 he seems so aloof, sullen, distant, and dry; he is whipped about the 
 narrow circle of his everyday life by fancy and ambition; he is 
 so young and yet so old. This is the light in which we must 
 see him. 
 
 The apartment of Daniel and Gertrude had three rooms. Two 
 opened on the street, and one, the bed room, faced a dark, gloomy 
 court. 
 
 With very limited means, but with diligence and pleasure, 
 Gertrude had done all in her power to make the apartment as 
 comfortable as possible. Though the ceilings were low and the 
 walls almost always damp, the rooms seemed after all quite home- 
 like and attractive. 
 
 In Daniel's study the piano was the chief object of furniture; it 
 dominated the space. Fuchsias in the window gave a pleasing 
 frame to the general picture of penury. His mother had given 
 him the oil painting of his father. From its place above the 
 sofa the stern countenance of Gottfried Nothafft looked down 
 upon the son. It seemed at times that the face of the father 
 turned toward the mask of Zingarella as if to ask who and what it 
 was. The mask hung on the other side of the room from the oil 
 painting; its unbroken smile was lost in the shadows. 
 
 Gertrude had to do all the household work; they could not 
 afford a servant. In the years of Daniel's absence, however, she 
 had learned to copy notes. Herr Seelenfromm, assistant to the 
 apothecary Pflaum, had taught her. He was a cousin of Frau 
 Riibsam, and she had become acquainted with him through Eleanore. 
 In his leisure hours he composed waltzes and marches, and dedi- 
 cated them to the princes and princesses of the royal family. He 
 also dedicated one to Gertrude. It was entitled "Feenzaubcr," 
 and was a gavotte.
 
 166 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 When Daniel learned of her accomplishment, he was so aston- 
 ished that he threw his hands above his head. The rare being 
 looked up at him intoxicated with joy. "I will help you," she 
 said, and copied his notes for him. 
 
 When they walked along the streets she would close her eyes at 
 times. A melody floated by her which she had never before been 
 able to understand. As she bought her vegetables and tried to drive 
 a bargain with the old market woman, her soul was full of song. 
 
 Certain tones and combinations of tones took on definite shapes 
 in her mind. The bass B of the fourth octave appeared to her 
 as a heavily veiled woman ; the middle E resembled a young man 
 who was stretching his arms. In chords, harmonies, and harmonic 
 transformations these figures were set in motion, the motion 
 depending on the character of the composition: a procession of 
 mourning figures between clouds and stars; wild animals spurred 
 on by the huntsmen who were riding them; maidens throwing 
 flowers from the windows of a palace; men and women plunging 
 into an abyss in one mass of despairing humanity; weeping men 
 and laughing women, wrestlers and ball players, dancing couples 
 and grape pickers. The pause appealed to her as a man who climbs 
 naked from a deep subterranean shaft, carrying a burning torch in 
 his hand; the trill seemed like a bird that anxiously flutters about 
 its nest. 
 
 All of Daniel's compositions came close to her heart; all his 
 pictures were highly coloured; his figures seemed to be full of 
 blood. If they remained dead and distant, her sympathy vanished; 
 her face became tired and empty. Without having spoken a word 
 with each other, Daniel would know that he was on the wrong 
 track. But all this bound him to the young woman with hoops of 
 steel; he came to regard her as the creature given him of God to 
 act as his living conscience and infallible if mute judge. 
 
 He hated her when her feelings remained unmoved. If he at 
 last came to see, after much introspection, that she was right, then 
 he would have liked to fall down and worship the unknown power 
 that was so inexorable in pointing him the way. 
 
 Spindler had a beautiful harp which he had bequeathed to 
 Daniel in his will. It had remained in Ansbach in the possession 
 of the old lady who kept house for him. Daniel had forgotten all 
 about the harp. After his marriage he had it sent to him. 
 
 He kept it in the living room; Gertrude was fond of looking 
 at it. It enticed her. One day she sat down and tried to draw 
 tones from its strings. She touched the strings very gently, and
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 167 
 
 was charmed with the melody that came from them. Gradually 
 she learned the secret; she discovered the law. An innate talent 
 made the instrument submissive to her; she was able to express on 
 it all the longings and emotions she had experienced in her dark 
 and lonely hours. 
 
 She generally played very softly; she never tried intricate 
 melodies, for the harp was adapted to the expression of simple, 
 dream-like harmonies. The tones were wafted out into the hall 
 and up the stairs; they greeted Daniel as he entered the old house. 
 
 When he came into the room, Gertrude was sitting in a corner 
 by the stove, the harp between her knees. She smiled mysteriously 
 to herself; her hands, like strange beings loosed from her body, 
 sought chords and melodies that were his, and which she was trying 
 to translate to her own world of dreams. 
 
 VI 
 
 Her command cf language was more defective now than ever. 
 She was seized with painful astonishment when she noticed that 
 in matters of daily intercourse Daniel's mind was not able to 
 penetrate the veil behind which she lived. 
 
 He said to himself: she is too heavy. He was dumbfounded at 
 her conduct, and displeased with it. 
 
 "The gloomy house oppresses you," he said in a tone of ill 
 humour, when she smiled in her helpless way. 
 
 "Let us run a race," he said to her one day as they were taking 
 a walk through the country. An old tree in the distance that had 
 been struck by lightning was to be their objective. 
 
 They ran as fast as their feet could carry them. At a distance 
 of about ten metres from the tree, Gertrude collapsed. He carried 
 her over to the meadow. 
 
 "How heavy you are," he said. 
 
 "Too heavy for you?" she asked with wide-opened eyes. He 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Then she slipped out of his embrace, sprang to her feet, and 
 ran with remarkable swiftness a distance that was twice as long 
 as the one he had staked off; she did not fall; she did not want 
 to fall; she dared not. 
 
 Breathing heavily and pale as a corpse, she waited until he came 
 up. But he had no tenderness for her now; he merely scolded. 
 Ann in arm they walked on. Gertrude felt for his hand; he 
 gave it to her, and she pressed it to her bosom.
 
 168 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Daniel was terrified as he looked into her face, and saw her 
 thoughts written there as if in "letters of fire: We belong to each 
 other for time and eternity. 
 
 That was her confession of faith. 
 
 She lay wide awake until late at night. She heard him go into 
 the kitchen and get a drink of water and then return to his room. 
 He had forbidden her to come to the door and ask whether he was 
 not going to bed soon: she was not to do this, it made no difference 
 how late it was. 
 
 Then he lay beside her, his head on his arm, and looked at her 
 with eyes that had lost their earthly, temporal glow. Man, where 
 are your eyes anyway, she would have liked to exclaim. And yet 
 she knew where they were; she knew, too, that it is dangerous to 
 disturb a somnambulist by calling to him. 
 
 One night he had found it impossible to do his work. He sat 
 down on the edge of the bed and stared into the light of the 
 lamp for an hour or so, hating himself. Gertrude saw how he 
 raged at himself; how he really fed, nourished his lack of con- 
 fidence in himself. But she could not say anything. 
 
 A publisher had returned one of his manuscripts with a cour- 
 teous but depressing conventional rejection slip. Daniel spoke 
 disparagingly of his talents; he had lost hope in his future; he 
 was bitter at the world; he felt that he was condemned to a life 
 of unceasing obscurity. 
 
 The only thing she could do was look at him; merely look 
 at him. 
 
 He became tired of having her look at him; a fresh, vigorous 
 remark would have served his purpose much better, he thought. 
 
 She measured her work and his not in terms of reward; she did 
 not seek for connection of any kind between privation and hope; 
 nor did she measure Daniel's love in terms of tender expressions 
 and embraces. She waited for him with much patience. In time 
 her patience irritated him. "A little bit more activity and insistence 
 would not hurt you," he said one day, and thrust her timid, 
 beseeching hands from him. 
 
 He saw himself cared for: He had a home, a person who pre- 
 pared his meals, washed his clothes, and faithfully attended to his 
 other household needs. He should have been grateful. He was, 
 too, but he could not show it. He was grateful when he was
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 169 
 
 alone, but in Gertrude's presence his gratitude turned to defiance. 
 If he was away from home, he thought with pleasure of his 
 return; he pictured Gertrude's joy at seeing him again. But when 
 he was with her, he indulged in silent criticism, and wanted to have 
 everything about her different. 
 
 The judge's wife on the first floor complained that Gertrude 
 did not speak to her. "Be kind to your neighbours," he remarked 
 with the air of a professional scold. The next Sunday they took 
 a walk, on which they met the judge's wife. Gertrude spoke to 
 her: "Well, you don't need to fall on her neck," he mumbled. 
 She thought for a long while of how she might speak to people 
 without offending them and without annoying Daniel. She was 
 embarrassed; she was afraid of Daniel's criticism. 
 
 On such days she would put too much salt in the soup, every- 
 thing went wrong, and in her diligent attempt to be punctual she 
 lost much time. She was fearfully worried when he got up from 
 the table and went to his room without saying a word. She 
 would sit perfectly still and listen; she was frightened when he 
 went to the piano to try a motif. When he again entered her 
 room, she looked into his face with the tenseness of a soul in utter 
 anguish. Then it suddenly came about that he would sit down by 
 her side and caress her. He told her all about his life, his home, 
 his father, his mother. If she could only have heard each of his 
 words twice! If she could only have drunk in the expression in 
 his eyes! They were filled with peace; his nervous hands lay in 
 quiet on his knees when he spoke to her in this way on these sub- 
 jects. His twitching, angular face, weatherbeaten by the storms 
 of life, took on an expression of sorrow that was most becom- 
 ing to it. 
 
 When she had a headache or was tired, he expressed his anxiety 
 for her in touching tones. He would go about the house on 
 tiptoes, and close the doors with infinite care. If a dog barked 
 on the street, he rushed to the window and looked out, enraged at 
 the beast. When she retired, he would help her undress, and 
 bring her whatever she needed. 
 
 It was also strange that he disliked the idea of leaving her alone. 
 There was something childlike in his restlessness when he was at 
 home and she was out. He pictured her surrounded by grievous 
 dangers; he would have liked to lock her up and hold her a cap- 
 tive, so as to be sure that she was quite safe. This made her all 
 the weaker and more dependent upon him, while he was like a 
 man who presses what he has to his heart, plagued with the thought
 
 i 7 o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 that by some mischance it might escape, and yet clings to it also 
 lest he be disturbed by the thought of another more precious pos- 
 session he loved long since and lost a while. 
 
 Once he came to Gertrude while she was playing the harp, threw 
 his arms about her, looked into her face with a wild, gloomy expres- 
 sion, and stammered: "I love you, I love you, I do." It was the 
 first time he had spoken these eternal words. She grew pale, first 
 from joy and then from fear; for there was more of hatred than 
 of love in his voice. 
 
 VIII 
 
 He felt that association with congenial men would help him over 
 many a dark hour. But when he set out to look for these men, 
 the city became a desert and a waste place. 
 
 Herr Seelenfromm came to his house now and then. Daniel 
 could not endure the timid man who admired him so profoundly, 
 and who, in the bottom of his heart, had an equal amount of respect 
 for Gertrude. The young architect who had been employed at 
 the St. Sebaldus Church while it was being renovated, and who 
 loved music, had won Daniel's esteem. But he had a repulsive 
 habit of smacking his tongue when he talked. Daniel and he dis- 
 cussed the habit, and parted the worst of enemies. His association 
 with a certain Frenchman by the name of Riviere wis of longer 
 duration. Riviere was spending some time in the city, looking up 
 material for a life of Caspar Hauser. He had made his acquaint- 
 ance at the Baroness von Auffenberg's, and taken a liking to him 
 because he reminded him of Friedrich Benda. 
 
 M. Riviere loved to hear Daniel improvise on the piano. He 
 knew so little German that he merely smiled at Daniel's caustic 
 remarks; and if he became violently enraged, M. Riviere merely 
 stared at his mouth. He had a wart on his cheek, and wore a 
 straw hat summer and winter. He cooked his own meals, for it 
 was an obsession of his that people wanted to poison him because 
 he was writing a life of Caspar Hauser. 
 
 When Herr Seelenfromm and M. Riviere came in of a Sunday 
 evening, Daniel would reach for a volume of E. T. A. Hoffmann 
 or Clemens Brentano, and read from them until he was hoarse. 
 He tried in this way to find peace in a strange world; for he did 
 not wish to weep at the sight of human beings who seemed per- 
 fectly at ease. 
 
 Gertrude looked at him, and put this question to herself: How
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 171 
 
 is it that a man to whom music is life and the paradise of his heart 
 can allow himself to be so enveloped in sorrow, so beclouded by 
 gloom? She understood the smarting pains in which he composed; 
 she had a vague idea of the labyrinthine complications of his inner 
 fate; these she grasped. But her own soul was filled with joyless 
 compassion; she wished with all her power to plant greater faith 
 and more happiness in his heart. 
 
 She meditated on the best means of carrying on her spiritual 
 campaign. It occurred to her that he had had more of both faith 
 and happiness at the time he was going with Eleanore. She saw 
 Eleanore now in a quite different light. She recalled that Eleanore 
 was not merely her sister but the creator of her happiness. Nor 
 was she unmindful of the fact that through the transformation 
 of her being, love and enlightenment had arisen to take the place 
 of her former suspicion and ignorance. 
 
 She ascribed to Eleanore all those powers in which she had 
 formerly been lacking: general superiority and stimulating vigour; 
 an ability to play that lent charm to drudgery and made the hard 
 things of life easy; brightness in conversation and delicacy of 
 touch. In her lonely breedings she came to the conclusion that 
 Eleanore was the only one who could help her. She went straight- 
 way to her father's house to find out why Eleanore so rarely came 
 to see her. 
 
 "I don't like to come; Daniel is so unkind to me," said Eleanore. 
 
 Gertrude replied that he was unkind to everybody, including 
 her herself, and that she must not pay any attention to this; for 
 she knew full well that Daniel liked her and perhaps he himself 
 was offended because she never called. 
 
 Eleanore thought it all over, and from then on visited her sister 
 more frequently. But if it did not look as though Daniel did 
 everything in his power to avoid her, this much was certain: he 
 never said a word to her more than human decency required, and 
 was an expert at finding reasons why he had to leave the room 
 when she was there. Eleanore was gainfully conscious of this; 
 it hurt her. 
 
 IX 
 
 One morning Gertrude returned from the market, carrying a 
 heavy basket full of things she had bought. As she came in the 
 front door she heard Daniel playing. She noticed at once that he 
 was not improvising; that he was playing a set piece, the tones 
 of which were quite unfamiliar to her.
 
 172 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 As she came up the steps, the basket no longer seemed like a 
 burden. She went quietly into the living room and listened. 
 Something drew her closer and closer to the piano. Daniel had 
 not noticed that she had entered the room and sat down. He was 
 wholly lost in what he was doing; he never took his rapt and 
 wondering eyes from the music before him. 
 
 It was his draft of the "Harzreise im Winter." For a year 
 and a half, since the time he had composed it in Ansbach, he had 
 never again thought of it; it had lain untouched. Suddenly the 
 fire of creation had flamed up in him; he could once more bind the 
 incoherent, and make what had been merely implied or indicated 
 take definite shape. 
 
 He would play a movement again and again, trying to connect 
 it with what went before or came after; he would take his pencil 
 and write in a few notes here or there; then he would try it again, 
 and smile to himself in a strange, confused, and yet enchanted 
 way, when he saw that the motif was complete, perfect. Gertrude 
 was drawn still closer to him. In her awe-struck admiration she 
 crouched on the floor beside him. She would have liked to creep 
 into the piano, and give her soul the opportunity it sought to 
 express itself in the tones that came from the strings. When 
 Daniel had finished, she pressed her head to his hips, and reached 
 her hot hands up to him. 
 
 Daniel was terrified; for he recalled instantaneously another 
 occasion on which another woman had done precisely the same 
 thing. His eye involuntarily fell on the mask of Zingarella. 
 He was not conscious of the connection; there was no visible bridge 
 between the two incidents; Gertrude's face was too unlike that of 
 its momentary prototype. But with a feeling of awe he detected 
 a mysterious liaison between then and now: he imagined he could 
 hear a voice calling to him from the distant shores of yonder 
 world. 
 
 He laid his hand on Gertrude's hair. She interpreted the ges- 
 ture as a visible sign that his promise had been fulfilled; that this 
 work belonged to her; that he had created it for her, had taken it 
 from her heart, and was returning it to the heart from whence 
 it came. 
 
 ZJerfuss, the music dealer, had sent out invitations to a concert. 
 Daniel did not feel like going. Gertrude asked Eleanore if
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 173 
 
 she would not go with her. Daniel called for them after the 
 concert. 
 
 Elesnore told him on the way home that she had received a 
 letter for him that afternoon bearing a London stamp. 
 
 "From Benda?" asked Daniel quickly. 
 
 "It is Benda's handwriting," replied Eleanore. "I was going to 
 bring it to you when Gertrude called for me. Wait out in the 
 front of the house, and I'll go in and get it." 
 
 "Take dinner with us this evening, Eleanore," said Gertrude, 
 looking rather uncertainly at Daniel. 
 
 "If it is agreeable to Daniel. . . ." 
 
 "No nonsense, Eleanore, of course it is agreeable to me," said 
 Daniel. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later Daniel was sitting by the lamp read- 
 ing Benda's letter. 
 
 The first thing his friend told him was that he was to join a 
 scientific expedition to the Congo, and that his party would follow 
 almost exactly the same route that had been taken by the Stanley 
 Expedition when it set out to look for Emin Pascha. 
 
 Benda wrote: "This letter then, my dear friend, is written to 
 say good-bye for a number of years, perhaps forever. I feel as if 
 I had been born anew. I have eyes again; and the ideas that fill 
 my brain are no longer condemned to be stifled in the morass of 
 imprisoned colleagues, loyal and inimical. To labour in nature's 
 laboratory will make me forget the wrongs I have suffered, the 
 injustice that has been done me. Hunger and thirst, disease and 
 danger will of course have to be endured; they are the effects of 
 those crimes of civilisation that spare the body while they poison 
 the mind and soul." 
 
 Further on Benda wrote: "I am bound to my home by only two 
 people, my mother and you. When I think of you, a feeling of 
 pride comes over me; every hour we spent together is indelibly 
 stamped on my heart. But there is one delicate point: it is a 
 point of conscience. Call it, so far as I am concerned, a chip; call 
 it anything you please. The fact is I have had a Don Quixotic 
 run in, and I have got to defend myself." 
 
 Daniel shook his head and read on. Benda knew nothing of 
 his marriage. He did not even seem to know that Daniel and 
 Gertrude had been engaged. Or if he had known it he had 
 forgotten it. Daniel could hardly believe his own eyes when he 
 came to the following passage: "My greatest anxiety always lay 
 in the fear that you would pass Eleanore by. I was too cowardly
 
 174 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 to tell you how I felt on this point, and I have reproached myself 
 ever since for my cowardice. Now that I am leaving I tell you 
 how I feel about this matter, though not exactly with the sensation 
 of performing a belated task." 
 
 For Heaven's sake, thought Daniel, what is he trying to do to 
 me? 
 
 "I have often thought about it in quiet hours; it gave me the 
 same feeling of satisfaction that I have in a chemical experiment, 
 when the reactions of the various elements take place as they should: 
 what Eleanore says is your word; what you feel is Eleanore's 
 law." 
 
 He is seeing ghosts, cried Daniel, he is tangling up the threads 
 of my life. What does he mean? Why does he do it? 
 
 "Don't neglect what I am telling you! Don't crush that won- 
 derful flower! The girl is a rare specimen; the rarest I know. 
 You need your whole heart with all its powers of love and kindness 
 to appreciate her. But if rny words reach you too late, please tear 
 this letter into shreds, and get the whole idea out of your mind 
 as soon and completely as possible." 
 
 "Come, let's eat," said Gertrude, as she entered the room with 
 a dish of pickled herring. 
 
 Eleanore was sitting on the sofa looking at Daniel quizzically. 
 He was lost in thought. 
 
 Daniel looked up, and studied the two women as if they were 
 the figures of a hallucination: the one in dark red, the other in 
 dark blue; minor and major keys. The two stood side by side, 
 and yet so far removed from each other: they were the two poles 
 of his world. 
 
 XI 
 
 "What has Benda got to say? " asked Gertrude hesitatingly. 
 
 "Just think, he is going to Africa," replied Daniel, with a voice 
 as if he were lying. "Curious, isn't it? I suppose he is on the 
 ocean by this time." 
 
 With an expression on his face that clearly betrayed the fact 
 that he was afraid the sisters might somehow divine or suspect the 
 parts of the letter he wished to keep to himself, he read as much 
 of it as he dared to them. 
 
 "Why don't you read on?" asked Eleanore, when he paused. 
 
 She bent over the table, filled with a burning curiosity to know 
 the whole contents of the letter, and while so doing her hair
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 175 
 
 became entangled in the metal bric-a-brac of the hanging lamp. 
 Gertrude got up and liberated her. 
 
 Daniel had laid his hand over the letter, and was looking at 
 Eleanore threateningly. His eye and that of the captured girl 
 chanced to meet; she struggled between a feeling of amusement 
 and one of annoyance. It gave Daniel an uncomfortable feeling to 
 have her eyes so close to his. 
 
 "Don't you know that that is not polite?" he asked. "We have 
 some secrets, probably, Benda and I." 
 
 "I merely thought that Benda had sent me his greetings," replied 
 Eleanore, and blushed with embarrassment. 
 
 Daniel then held the letter above the chimney of the lamp, 
 waited until it had caught fire, and then threw it on the floor, 
 where it burned up. 
 
 "It is late, and father is already waiting," said Eleanore, after 
 they had eaten in great haste. 
 
 "I will take you home," declared Daniel. Surprised by such 
 unusual gallantry, Eleanore looked at him with amazement. He 
 at once became moody; she was still more surprised. "I can go 
 home alone, Daniel," she said in a tone of noticeable seriousness, 
 "you do not need to put yourself out for me." 
 
 "Put myself out? What do you mean? Are you one of those 
 people who can't keep a tune, and step on the pedal when their 
 sentiment runs short?" 
 
 Eleanore had nothing to say. 
 
 "Put your great coat on, Daniel," said Gertrude in the hall, 
 "it is cold and windy out." 
 
 She wanted to help him on with it, but he threw it in the 
 clothes press; he was irritated. 
 
 He walked along at Eleanore's side through the deserted streets. 
 
 She had already put the key in the front door, when she turned 
 around, looked up in a most unhappy way, and said: "Daniel, what 
 in the world is the matter with you? When I look at you, a feel- 
 ing of anguish and distress comes over me. What have I done 
 that you should act so disagreeably toward me?" 
 
 "Oh, forget it, think about something else, don't mention the 
 subject any more," said Daniel, in a rough, rude voice. But the 
 glance she fixed on him was so stern and unpitying, so testing and 
 so un-girl-like, so strong and so bold, that he felt his heart grow 
 softer. "Let us take a little walk," he said. 
 
 For a long time they paced back and forth in perfect silence. 
 Then she asked him what he was working on now. He made
 
 176 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 cautious, non-committal replies, and then suddenly he was over- 
 whelmed with a flood of words. He remarked that he felt at 
 times as if he were struggling with goblins in the dark. What 
 gushed forth from the deepest depths of his soul, he said, was 
 somehow or other too noisy and blatant, and died in his hands 
 while he was trying to create an appropriate form for it. He said 
 he had no success with anything unless it was something disem- 
 bodied, incorporeal, the melody of which had thus far found an 
 echo in no human breast. Therefore he seemed to be groping 
 around, without anchorage, after sprites from the land of no-where. 
 And the more domineering the order was to which he subjected 
 his mind and his fancy, the more lost and hopeless his earthly self 
 seemed to be as it drifted in the chaos of the everyday world. 
 He remarked that heaven was in his dreams, hell in his association 
 with men. And how dead everything about him seemed to be! 
 It was all like a cemetery; it was a cemetery. His doughtiest life 
 was gradually transformed into a shadow and lacerated into a mon- 
 strosity. But that he was aggrieved at men he felt full well; for 
 they lived more innocent lives than he, and they were more useful. 
 
 "But you have some one to hold to," said Eleanore, realising that 
 she was skating on thin ice, "you have Gertrude." 
 
 To this he made no reply. She waited for him to say some- 
 thing, and when she saw that he did not care to make a reply of 
 any kind, she smiled at him as if in a last attempt to get him to 
 tell her what was the matter. Then all peace of mind van- 
 ished from her soul and her face. Every time they passed a 
 street lamp she turned her head to one side. 
 
 "She is after all in the presence of God your wife," said 
 Eleanore gently and with remarkable solemnity. 
 
 Daniel looked up and listened as if greatly abashed. Speaking 
 out into the wind he said: "The over-tone, Eleanore; a bird twit- 
 tering in the bush. In the presence of God my wife! But in the 
 roots the bass is howling; it is an infernal tremolo; do you hear it?" 
 
 He laughed as if mad, and his face, with his spotted teeth, was 
 turned toward her. She took him by the arm, and implored him 
 to straighten up. 
 
 He pressed her hand to his forehead, and said: "The letter, 
 Eleanore, the letter . . .!" 
 
 "Now you see, Daniel, I knew it all along. What was in the 
 letter?" 
 
 "I dare not tell you, otherwise my sweet over-tone will take a
 
 DANIEL AND GERTRUDE 177 
 
 somersault, become mingled with the gloomy bass, and be lost 
 forever." 
 
 Eleanore looked at him in amazement; he had never seemed 
 so much like a fool to her in her life. 
 
 "Listen," he said, putting his arm in hers, "I have composed a 
 song; here is the way it goes." He sang a melody he had written 
 for one of Eichendorff's poems. In it there was a tender sadness. 
 "While everything is still and everybody asleep, my soul greets 
 the eternal light, and rests like a ship in the harbour." 
 
 They had again reached the front door; they had been strolling 
 back and forth for two hours. 
 
 He had an unpleasant feeling when he went up the steps of 
 his apartment. 
 
 Gertrude was sitting where he had left her: by the clothes 
 press. She had wrapped his top coat about her legs, her back was 
 leaning against the wall, her head had sunk on her shoulder; she 
 was asleep. She was not awakened by his coming. Beside her 
 stood the candle, now burned down to the edge of the metal 
 holder; it was spluttering. The light from it fell on Gertrude's 
 face, lighting it up irregularly and lending it a painful expression. 
 
 "In the presence of God my wife," murmured Daniel. He 
 did not waken Gertrude until the candle had gone out. Then he 
 did; she got up, and the two went off in darkness to their bed 
 room.
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 
 
 DANIEL wished to see Eleanore skate; he went out to the Maxfeld 
 at a time he knew she would be there. 
 
 He saw her quite soon, and was delighted when she glided by; 
 but when she was lost in the crowd, he frowned. High school 
 boys followed her with cowardly and obtrusive forwardness. One 
 student, who wore a red cap, fell flat on his stomach as he bowed 
 to her. 
 
 She ran into two army officers, or the} into her; this put an 
 end for the time being to the inspired grace of her movement. 
 When she started off a second time, drawing a beautiful circle, she 
 saw Daniel and came over to him. She smiled in a confidential 
 way, chatted with him, glided backwards in a circle about him, 
 laughed at his impatience because she would not stand still, threw 
 her muff over to him, asked him to throw it back, and, with arms 
 raised to catch it, cut an artistic figure on the ice. 
 
 The picture she offered filled Daniel with reverence for the 
 harmony of her being. 
 
 IX 
 
 They frequently took walks after sunset out to the suburbs 
 and up to the castle. Gertrude was pleased to see that Daniel and 
 Eleanore were good friends again. 
 
 One time when they walked up the castle hill, Eleanore told 
 Daniel that there was where she had taken leave of Eberhard von 
 Auffenberg. She could recall everything he said, and she con- 
 fessed with marked candour what she had said in reply. The 
 story about the old herb woman Daniel did not find amusing. He 
 stopped, and said: "Child, don't have anything to do with spirits! 
 Never interfere with your lovely reality." 
 
 "Don't talk in that way," replied Eleanore. "I dislike it. The 
 tone of your voice and the expression on your face make me feel 
 as if I were a woman of worldly habits." 
 
 178
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 179 
 
 They went into the Church of St. Sebaldus, and revelled in the 
 beauty of the bronze castings on the tomb of the saint. They 
 also went to the Germanic Museum, where they loved to wander 
 around in the countless deserted passage-ways, stopped and studied 
 the pictures, and never tired of looking at the old toys, globes, 
 kitchen utensils, and armour. 
 
 Eleanore's greatest pleasure, however, was derived from saunter- 
 ing through the narrow alleys. She like to stand in an open door, 
 and look into the court at some weather-beaten statue; to stand 
 before the window of an antique shop, and study the brocaded 
 objects, silver chains, rings with gaudy stones, engraved plates, and 
 rare clocks. All manner of roguish ideas came to her mind, and 
 around every wish she wove a fairy tale. The meagrest incident 
 sufficed to send her imagination to the land of wonders, just as if 
 the fables and legends that the people had been passing on from 
 hearth to hearth for centuries were leading a life of reality over 
 there. 
 
 The tailor sitting with crossed legs on his table; the smith ham- 
 mering the red-hot iron; the juggler who made the rounds of the 
 city with the trained monkey; the Jewish pawnbroker, the chimney 
 sweep, the one-legged veteran, an old woman who looked out from 
 some cellar, a spider's nest in the corner of a wall around all 
 these things and still others she wound her tale of weal or woe. It 
 seemed that what she saw had never been seen by mortal eyes 
 before. It seemed that the things or people that attracted her 
 attention had not existed until she had seen them. For this reason 
 she was never in a bad humour, never bored, never lazy, never 
 tired. 
 
 There was something about her, however, that Daniel could not 
 understand. He did not know wherein the riddle lay, he merely 
 knew that there was one. If she gave him her hand, it seemed 
 to him that there was something unreal about it. If he requested 
 that she look at him, she did so, but it seemed that her glance was 
 divided, half going to the left, half to the right, neither meeting 
 his. If she came so close to him that their arms touched, he had 
 the feeling that he could not take hold of her if he wished to. 
 
 He struggled against the enticement that lay in this peculiarity. 
 
 Her presence ennobled his ambition and dispelled his whims. 
 She gave him the beautifully formed cloud, the tree covered with 
 young foliage, the moon that rises up over the roofs of the houses 
 she gave him the whole earth over which he was hastening, a 
 stranger to peace, unfamiliar with contentment.
 
 i8o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He cherished no suspicion; he had no foreshadowing of his 
 fate. And Eleanore was not afraid of him; she, too, was without 
 a sense of danger. 
 
 in 
 
 One Sunday afternoon in April they took a walk out into the 
 country. Gertrude had been suffering for weeks from lassitude 
 and could not go with them. 
 
 Eleanore was a superb walker. It gave Daniel extreme pleasure 
 to walk along with her, keeping step, moving hastily. The quick 
 movement increased his susceptibility to the charm of the changing 
 landscapes. It was quite different when he walked with Gertrude. 
 She was slow, given to introspection, thoughtful, and not very 
 strong. 
 
 In the course of an hour clouds gathered in the sky, the sun 
 disappeared, big drops began to fall. Eleanore had taken neither 
 umbrella nor rain coat along; she began to walk more rapidly. If 
 they tried, they could reach the inn beyond the forest, and find 
 shelter from the storm. 
 
 Just as they slipped through the crowd that had hurried up the 
 road to the same refuge and entered the inn, the sluices of heaven 
 seemed to open, and a cloud-burst followed. They were standing 
 in the hall. Eleanore was warm, and did not wish to remain in 
 the draught. They went into the restaurant; it -was so full that 
 they had considerable trouble to find seats. A working man, his 
 wife, and four sickly-looking children squeezed up more closely 
 together; the two youngest boys gave them their chairs and went to 
 look for others. 
 
 The clouds hung low, causing premature darkness. Lamps were 
 lighted, and their odour mingled freely with the other odours of 
 this over-crowded room. A few village musicians played some 
 unknown piece; the eyes of the workingman's children shone with 
 delight. Because they sat there so quietly and because they looked 
 so pale Eleanore gave each of the children a sandwich. The 
 mother was very grateful, and said so. The father, who said he 
 was the foreman in a mirror factory, began to talk with Daniel 
 about the troubles of the present era. 
 
 All of a sudden Daniel caught sight of a familiar face at a 
 nearby table. As it turned to one side, he saw in the dim, smelly 
 light another face he knew, and then a third and a fourth. It 
 was all so ghost-like in the room that it was some time before he
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 181 
 
 knew just where to place them. Then it occurred to him where 
 they came from. 
 
 Herr Hadebusch and Frau Hadebusch, Herr Francke and 
 Benjamin Dorn were having a little Sunday outing. The brush- 
 maker's wife was radiant with joy on seeing her old lodger. She 
 nodded, she blinked, she folded her hands as if touched at the 
 sight, and Herr Hadebusch raised his beer glass, eager to drink a 
 toast to Daniel's health. 
 
 They could not quite make out who Eleanore was; they took 
 her for Daniel's wife. This misunderstanding, it seemed, was 
 then cleared up by the Methodist after he had craned his neck and 
 called his powers of recognition into play. The demoniac woman 
 nodded, to be sure, and kept on blinking, but in her face there was 
 an expression of rustic disapproval. Her mouth was opened, and 
 the tusks of her upper jaw shone forth uncannily from the black 
 abyss. 
 
 The swan neck of the Methodist was screwed up so hardily 
 and picturesquely above the heads of the others that Eleanore 
 could not help but notice his physical and spiritual peculiarities. 
 She wrinkled her brow, and looked at Daniel questioningly. 
 
 She looked around, and saw a great many people from the city 
 whom she knew either by name or from having met them so fre- 
 quently. There was a saleswoman from Ludwig Street; a clerk 
 with a pock-marked face from a produce store; the dignified 
 preceptress of a Kindergarten; an official of the savings bank; the 
 hat-maker from the corner of the Market Place with his grown 
 daughter; and the sergeant who invariably saluted when he passed 
 by her. 
 
 All these people were in their Sunday clothes and seemed care- 
 free and good natured. But as soon as they saw Eleanore a mean 
 expression came over them. The fluttering of the lights made 
 their faces look ghastly, while partial intoxication made it easy 
 to read their filthy, lazy thoughts. Full of anxiety, Eleanore 
 looked up at Daniel, as if she felt she would have to rely on his 
 wealth of experience and greater superiority in general. 
 
 He was sorry for her and sorry for himself. He knew what 
 was in store for him and her. When he looked over this Hogar- 
 thian gathering, and saw, despite its festive, convivial mood, hidden 
 lusts of every description, crippled passions, secreted envy, and 
 mysterious vindictiveness spread about like the stench of foul 
 blood, he felt it was quite futile to cherish delusions of any kind 
 as to what was before him. To spare Eleanore and to defend her,
 
 182 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 to leave her rather than be guilty of causing the child-like smile 
 on her lips to die out and disappear forever this he believed in 
 the bottom of his heart he could promise both her and himself. 
 
 The working man and his family had left; and as it was no 
 longer raining, most of the other guests had also gone. Up in 
 the room above people were dancing. The lamps were shaking, 
 and it was easy to hear the low sounds of the bass violin. Daniel 
 took out his pencil, and began writing notes on the table. Eleanore 
 bent over, looking at him, and, like him, fell to dreamy thinking. 
 
 Neither wished to know what the other was thinking; they enter- 
 tained themselves in silence; inwardly they were drawn closer and 
 closer together, as if by some mysterious and irresistible power. 
 They had not noticed that it was evening, that the room was empty, 
 that the waiters had taken the glasses away, and that the dance 
 music in the room above had stopped. 
 
 They sat there in the half-lighted corner side by side, as if in 
 some dark, deserted cavern. When they finally came out of their 
 deep silence and looked at each other, they were first surprised 
 and then dismayed. 
 
 "What are we going to do?" asked Eleanore half in a whisper, 
 "it is late; we must be going home." 
 
 The sky was clouded, a warm wind swept across the plains, the 
 road was full of puddles. Here and there a light flashed from the 
 darkness, and a dog barked every now and then in the distant 
 villages. When the road turned into the forest, Daniel gave 
 Eleanore his arm. She took it, but soon let go. Daniel stopped, 
 and said almost angrily: "Are we bewitched, both of us? Speak, 
 Eleanore, speak!" 
 
 "What is there for me to say?" she asked gently. "I am fright- 
 ened; it is so dark." 
 
 "You are frightened, Eleanore, you? You do not know the 
 night. It has never yet been night in your soul; nor night in the 
 world about you. Now you appreciate perhaps how a being of the 
 night feels." 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 "Give me your hand," he said, "I will lead you." 
 
 She gave him her hand. Soon they saw the lights of the city. 
 He took her to her house; but when they reached it, they did not 
 say good-bye: they looked at each other with dazed, helpless, 
 seeking eyes; they were both pale and speechless. 
 
 Eleanore hastened into the k "", but turned as she reached the 
 stairs, and waved to him with a smile, as if the two were separated
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 183 
 
 by a hazy distance. As he fixed his eyes on the spot where he 
 saw the slender figure disappear, he felt as if something were 
 clutching his throat. 
 
 IV 
 
 Without the slightest regard for time, without feeling tired, 
 without definite thoughts, detached from the present and all sense 
 of obligation, Daniel wandered aimlessly through the streets. A 
 low dive on Schiitt Island saw him as a late guest. He sat there 
 with his hands before his eyes, neither seeing nor hearing nor 
 feeling, all crouched up in a bundle. Dirty little puddles of gin 
 glistened on the top of the table, the gamblers were cursing, the 
 proprietor was drunk. 
 
 The fire alarm drove him out: there was a fire in the suburbs 
 of Schoppershof. The sky was reddened, it was drizzling. It 
 seemed to Daniel that the air was reeking with the premonition 
 of a heart-crushing disaster. Above the Laufer Gate a sheaf of 
 sparks was whirling about. 
 
 Just then the melody for which he had waited so long through- 
 out so many nights of restless despair arose before him in a 
 grandiose circle. It seemed as if born for the words of the 
 "Herzreise": "With the dim burning torch thou lightest for him 
 the ferries at night over bottomless paths, across desolate fields." 
 
 In mournful thirds, receding again and again, the voices sank 
 to earth; just one remained on high, alone, piously dissociated 
 from profane return. 
 
 He hummed the melody with trembling lips to himself, until 
 he met the nineteenth-century Socrates with his followers in the 
 Rosenthal. They were still gipsying through the night. 
 
 They all talked at once; they were going to the fire. Daniel 
 passed by unrecognised. The shrill voice of the painter Krapotkin 
 pierced the air: "Hail to the flames! Hail to those whose coming 
 we announce!" The laughter of the slough brothers died away 
 in the distance. 
 
 Gertrude was standing at the head of the stairs with a candle 
 in her hand; she had been waiting there since twelve o'clock. At 
 eleven she had gone over to her father's house and rung the bell. 
 Eleanore, frightened, had raised the window, and called down to 
 her that Daniel had left her at nine. 
 
 He took the half-inanimate woman into the living room: "You 
 must never wait for me, never," he said.
 
 1 84 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He opened the window, pointed to the glowing sky beyond the 
 church, and as she leaned her head, with eyes closed, on his 
 shoulder, he said with a scurrilous distortion of his face: "Behold! 
 The fire! Hail to the flames! Hail to those whose coming we 
 announce!" 
 
 The following morning Eleanore had no time to think of why 
 Daniel had not gone home. 
 
 Jordan had just finished his breakfast when some one rang the 
 door bell with unusual rapidity. Eleanore went to the door, and 
 came back with Herr Zittel, who was in a rare state of excitement. 
 
 "I have come to inquire about your son, Jordan," he began, 
 clearing his throat as though he were embarrassed. 
 
 "About my son?" replied Jordan astonished, "I thought you had 
 given him three days' leave." 
 
 "I know nothing about that," replied Herr Zittel. 
 
 "Last Saturday evening he went on a visit to his friend Gerber 
 in Bamberg to celebrate the founding of a club, or something of 
 that sort; we are not expecting him until to-morrow. If you 
 know nothing about this arrangement, Herr Diruf must have given 
 him his leave." 
 
 The chief of the clerical department bit his lips. "Can you 
 give me the address of this Herr Gerber?" he asked, "I should 
 like to send him a telegram." 
 
 "For heaven's sake, what has happened, Herr Zittel ?" cried 
 Jordan, turning pale. 
 
 Herr Zittel stared into space with his gloomy, greenish eyes: 
 "On Saturday afternoon Herr Diruf gave your son a cheque for 
 three thousand seven hundred marks, and told him to cash it at 
 the branch of the Bavarian Bank and bring the money to me. I 
 was busy and did not go to the office in the afternoon. To-day, 
 about a half-hour ago, Herr Diruf asked me whether I had 
 received the money. It turned out that your son had not put in 
 his appearance on Saturday, and since he has not shown up this 
 morning either, you will readily see why we are so uneasy." 
 
 Jordan straightened up as stiff as a flag pole: "Do you mean to 
 insinuate that my son is guilty of some criminal transaction?" he 
 thundered forth, and struck the top of the table with the bones 
 of his clenched fist. 
 
 Herr Zittel shrugged his shoulders: "It is, of course, possible
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 185 
 
 that there has been some misunderstanding, or that some one has 
 failed to perform his duty. But in any event the affair is serious. 
 Something must be done at once, and if you leave me in the lurch 
 I shall have to call in the police." 
 
 Jordan's face turned ashen pale. For some reason or other he 
 began to fumble about in his long black coat for the pocket. The 
 coat had no pocket, and yet he continued to feel for it with hasty 
 fingers. He tried to speak, but his tongue refused to obey him; 
 beads of perspiration settled on his brow. 
 
 Eleanore embraced him with solicitous affection: "Be calm, 
 Father, don't imagine the worst. Sit down, and let us talk it 
 over." She dried the perspiration from his forehead with her 
 handkerchief, and then breathed a kiss on it. 
 
 Jordan fell on a chair; his powers of resistance were gone; he 
 looked at Eleanore with beseeching tenseness. From the very first 
 she had known what had happened and what would happen. But 
 she dared not show him that she was without hope; she summoned 
 all the power at her resourceful command to prevent the old man 
 from having a paralytic stroke. 
 
 With the help of Herr Zittel she wrote out a telegram to 
 Gerber. The answer, to be pre-paid, was to be sent to the General 
 Agency of the Prudentia, and Eleanore was to go to the main office 
 between eleven and twelve o'clock. She accompanied Herr Zittel 
 to the front door, whereupon he said: "Do everything in your 
 power to get the money. If the loss can be made good at once, 
 Herr Diruf may be willing not to take the case to the courts." 
 
 Eleanore knew full well that it would be exceedingly difficult 
 to get such a sum as this. Her father had no money in the bank; 
 his employer had lost confidence in him because he could no 
 longer exert himself; what he needed most of all was a rest. 
 
 She entered the room with a friendly expression on her face, 
 and remarked quite vivaciously: "Now, Father, we will wait and 
 see what Benno has to say; and in order that you may not worry 
 so much, I will read something nice 1 > you." 
 
 Sitting on a hassock at her father's feet she read from a recent 
 number of the Gartcnlaube the description of an ascent of Mont 
 Blanc. Then she read another article that her eye chanced to fall 
 upon. All the while her bright voice was ringing through the 
 room, she was struggling with decisions to. which she might come 
 and listening to the ticking of the clock. That her father no 
 more had his mind on what she was reading than she herself was 
 perfectly clear to her.
 
 1 86 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Finally the clock struck eleven. She got up, and said she had 
 to go to the kitchen to make the fire. A maid usually came in at 
 eleven to get dinner for the family, but to-day she had not 
 appeared. Out in the hall Eleanore took her straw hat, and 
 hastened over to Gertrude's as fast as her feet could carry her. 
 Daniel was not at home; Gertrude was pealing potatoes. 
 
 In three sentences Eleanore had told her sister the whole story. 
 "Now you come with me at once! Go up and stay with Father! 
 See that he does not leave the house! I will be back in half 
 an hour!" 
 
 Gertrude was literally dragged down the steps by Eleanore; 
 before she could ask questions of any kind, Eleanore had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 At the General Agency Herr Zittel met her with the reply from 
 that Gerber, Benno's friend. It bore Gerber's signature, and 
 read: "Benno Jordan has not been here." 
 
 Benjamin Dorn stood behind Herr Zittel; he displayed an 
 expression of soft, smooth, dirge-like regret. 
 
 "Herr Diruf would like to speak to you," said Herr Zittel 
 coldly. 
 
 Eleanore entered Herr Diruf 's private office; her face was pale. 
 He kept on writing for about three minutes before he took any 
 notice of her. Then his plum-like eyes opened lazily, a rare, 
 voluptuous smile sneaked out from under his moustache like a sloth- 
 ful flash of heat lightning; he said: "The sharper has gone and 
 done it, hasn't he?" 
 
 Eleanore never moved. 
 
 "Can the embezzled money be returned within twenty-four 
 hours?" asked the pudgy, purple prince of pen-pushers. 
 
 "My father will do everything that is humanly possible," replied 
 Eleanore anxiously. 
 
 "Be so good as to inform your father that to-morrow morning 
 at twelve o'clock the charge will be preferred and placed in the 
 hands of the police, if the money has not been paid by that 
 time." 
 
 Eleanore hastened home. Now her father had to be brought 
 face to face with the realities of the case. He and Gertrude were 
 sitting close to each other in terrible silence. Eleanore revealed 
 the exact state of affairs; she had to. 
 
 "My good name!" groaned Jordan. 
 
 He had to save himself from disgrace; the twenty- four hours 
 seemed to offer him a sure means of doing this. He had not the
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 187 
 
 remotest doubt but that he could find friends who would come 
 to his aid; for he had something of which he could boast: a 
 blameless past and the reputation of being a reliable citizen. 
 
 Thus he thought it over to himself. And as soon as he made 
 up his mind to appeal to the friends of whom he felt he was 
 certain, the most difficult part of his plan seemed to have been 
 completed. The suffering to which he was condemned by his 
 wounded pride and his betrayed, crushed filial affection he had to 
 bear alone. He knew that this was a separate item. 
 
 He went out to look up his friends. 
 
 The first one he appealed to was the brother-in-law of his sister, 
 First Lieutenant Kupferschmied, retired. His sister had died six 
 months ago, leaving nothing; the lieutenant, however, was a well- 
 to-do man. He had married into the family of a rich merchant. 
 Jordan's relation to him had always been pleasant; indeed the old 
 soldier seemed to be very fond of him. But hardly had Jordan 
 explained his mission when the lieutenant became highly excited. 
 He said he had seen this disaster coming. He remarked that any 
 man who brings up his children in excessive ease must not be sur- 
 prised if they come to a bad end. He remarked, too, that no power 
 on earth could persuade him to invest one penny in Jordan's case. 
 
 Jordan went away speechless. 
 
 The second friend he appealed to was his acquaintance of long 
 standing, Judge Riibsam. From him he heard a voluble flow of 
 words dealing with regrets, expressions of disgust, one lament after 
 the other, a jeremiade on hard times, maledictions hurled at dilatory 
 creditors, infinite consolation and empty advice. He assured 
 Jordan that yesterday he had almost the requisite sum in cash, and 
 that he might have it again some time next month, but to-day ah, 
 to-day his taxes were due, and so on, and so on. 
 
 Oppressed by the weight of this unexpected humiliation, he 
 went to the third friend, a merchant by the name of Hornbusch, 
 to whom he had once rendered invaluable assistance. Herr Horn- 
 busch had forgotten all about this, though he had not forgotten 
 that he had vainly sounded in Jordan's ears a warning against the 
 ever-increasing flippancy of young Benno. He told Jordan that 
 he himself was just then in urgent need of money, that he had 
 only last month been obliged to sacrifice a mortgage, and that his 
 wife had pawned her diamonds.
 
 i88 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Thus it went with the fourth friend, an architect who had told 
 him once that he would sacrifice money and reputation for him if 
 he ever got into trouble. And it was the same story with the fifth 
 and sixth and seventh. With a heart as heavy as lead, Jordan 
 decided to take the last desperate step: He went to Herr Diruf 
 himself. He asked for a three days' extension of time. Diruf 
 sat inapproachable at his desk. He was smoking a big thick Havana 
 cigar, his solitaire threw off its blinding fireworks, he smiled a 
 cold, tired smile and shook his head in astonishment. 
 
 When Jordan came home that evening he found Daniel and 
 Gertrude in the living room. Gertrude went up to him to sup- 
 port him; then she brought him a glass of wine as a stimulant: 
 he had not eaten anything since breakfast. 
 
 "Where is Eleanore?" he murmured, but seemed to take no 
 interest in the reply to his question. He fell down on a chair, 
 and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Gertrude, who saw his strength leaving him as the light dies out 
 of a slowly melting candle, became dizzy with compassion. Her 
 last hope was in Eleanore, who had left at five o'clock simply 
 because she found it intolerable to sit around, hour after hour, 
 doing nothing but waiting for the return of her father. At every 
 sound that could be heard in the house, Gertrude pricked up her 
 ears in eager expectancy. 
 
 Daniel stood by the window, and looked out across the deserted 
 square into the dull red glow of the setting sun. 
 
 It struck seven, then half past seven, eight, and Eleanore had not 
 returned. Daniel began to pace back and forth through the room; 
 he was nervous. If his foot chanced to strike against a chair, 
 Gertrude shuddered. 
 
 Shortly after eight, steps were heard outside. The key rattled 
 in the front gate, the room door opened, and in came Eleanore 
 and Philippina Schimmelweis. 
 
 Everybody looked at Philippina; even Jordan himself honoured 
 her with a faint glance. Daniel and Gertrude were amazed. 
 Daniel did not recognise his cousin; he knew nothing about her; 
 he. had seen her but once, and then he was a mere child. He did 
 not know who this repulsive-looking individual was, and demanded 
 that Eleanore give him an explanation. As he did this, he raised 
 his eyebrows.
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 189 
 
 Eleanore was the only one Philippina looked at in a kindly way; 
 in Philippina's own face there was an expression of curiosity. 
 
 Philippina's whole bearing had something of the monstrous about 
 it. Even her dress was picturesque, adventuresome. Her great 
 brown straw hat, with the ribbon sticking straight up in the air, 
 was shoved on to the back of her head so as not to spoil the effect 
 of the fashionable bangs that hung down over her forehead. Her 
 loud, checkered dress was strapped about her waist with a cloth 
 belt so tightly that the contour of her fat body was made to look 
 positively ridiculous: she resembled a gigantic hour glass. In her 
 rough-cut features there was an element of lurking malevolence. 
 
 After a few minutes of painful stillness she walked up to Daniel, 
 and plucked him by the coat-sleeve: "Eh, you don't know who I 
 am?" she asked, and her squinty eyes shone on him with enig- 
 matic savagery: "I am Philippina; you know, Philippina Schimmel- 
 weis." 
 
 Daniel stepped back from her: "Well, what of it?" he asked, 
 wrinkling his brow. 
 
 She followed him, took him by the coat-sleeve again, and led 
 him over into one corner: "Listen, Daniel," she stammered, "my 
 father he must give you all the money you need. For years ago 
 your father gave him all the money he had, and told him to keep 
 it for you. Do you understand? I happened to hear about it 
 one time when my father was talking about it to my mother. It 
 was a good seven years ago, but I made a note of it. My father 
 spent the money on himself; he thinks he can keep it. Go to him, 
 and tell him what you want; tell him how much you want, and 
 then go help these people here. But you must not give me away; 
 if you do they'll kill me. Do you understand? You won't say 
 a word about it, will you?" 
 
 "Is that true?" Daniel managed to say in reply, as a feeling of 
 unspeakable anger struggled with one of indescribable disgust. 
 
 "It is true, Daniel, every word of it; 'pon my soul and honour," 
 replied Philippina; "just go, and you'll see that I have told TOU 
 the truth." 
 
 During the conversation of the two, of which she could hardly 
 hear a single syllable, Eleanore never took her eyes off them. 
 
 Since the day Philippina had made her little brother Markus a 
 cripple for life, she had been an outcast in the home of her parents.
 
 igo THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 To be sure, she had had no great abundance of kindness and 
 cheerfulness before the accident took place. But since that time 
 the barbarous castigation of her father had beclouded and be- 
 smirched her very soul. From her twelfth year on, her mind was 
 ruled exclusively by hate. 
 
 Hatred aroused her; it gave birth to thoughts and plans in her; 
 it endowed her with strength of will and audacity; and it matured 
 her before her time. 
 
 She hated her father, her mother, her brothers. 
 
 She hated the house with all its rooms; she hated the bed in 
 which she slept, the table at which she ate. She hated the people 
 who came to see her parents, the customers who came into the shop, 
 the loafers who gathered about the window, the tall lanky 
 Zwanziger, the books and the magazines. 
 
 But the day she overheard her father and mother talking about 
 that money, a second power had joined the ranks of hate in her 
 benighted, abandoned soul. With her brain on fire she stood 
 behind the door, and heard that she was to be married to Daniel. 
 This remark had filled the then thirteen-year-old girl with all the 
 savage instincts of a bound and fettered woman, with all the 
 crabbedness of an unimaginative person of her standing. 
 
 In her father's remark she did not see merely a more or less 
 carefully outlined plan; she heard a message from Fate itself; and 
 from that time on she lived with an idea that brought light and 
 purpose into her daily existence. 
 
 Shortly after his arrival in Nuremberg, she saw Daniel for the 
 first time as he was standing by a booth in the market place on 
 Schiitt Island. Her father had pointed him out to her. She 
 knew that he wished to become a musician ; this made no special 
 impression on her. She knew that he was having a hard time of 
 it; this filled her neither with sympathy nor regret. When she 
 later on saw him in the concert hall, he was already her promised 
 spouse; he belonged to her. To capture him, to get him into her 
 power, it made no difference how, was her unchanging aspiration, 
 in which there was a bizarre mixture of bestiality and insanity. 
 
 The thieving, which she decided upon at once and practised 
 with perfect regularity, netted her in the course of time a hand- 
 some sum. She did not become bolder and bolder as she continued 
 her evil practices, but, unlike thieves generally, she grew to be 
 more and more cautious. She acquired in time remarkable skill 
 at showing an outwardly honest face. Indeed she became such an 
 adept at dissimulation that the suspicion of even Jason Philip,
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 191 
 
 aroused as it had been during the course of a careful investigation, 
 was dispelled by her behaviour. 
 
 Her plan was to gain a goodly measure of independence through 
 the money she had stolen. For she always felt convinced that the 
 day would come when her parents would debar her from their 
 home. She was convinced that her father and mother were merely 
 waiting for some plausible excuse to rid themselves of her for 
 good and all. 
 
 Moreover, she had two pronounced passions: one for candy and 
 one for flashy ribbons. 
 
 The candy she always bought in the evening. She would slip 
 into the shop of Herr Degen, and, with her greedy eyes opened 
 as wide as possible, but twenty pfennigs' worth of sweets, at which 
 she would nibble until she went to bed. 
 
 The ribbons she sewed together into sashes, which she wore on 
 her hat or around her neck or on her dress. The gaudier the 
 colour the better she liked it. If her mother asked her where 
 she got the ribbons she was forced to lie. Although she had no 
 girl friends, as a matter of fact no friends of any kind, she would 
 say that this or that girl had given them to her. When "her wealth 
 became too conspicuous, she would leave the house and not tie her 
 sashes about her until she had reached some unlighted gateway 
 or dark corner. 
 
 She never dared go to the attic more than once a week; she did 
 this when her brothers were at school and her parents in the shop. 
 The fear lest some one find her out and take her stolen riches from 
 her made her more and more uneasy, lending to her face an expres- 
 sion of virulent distrust. 
 
 She would go up the thirteen steps from the landing to the 
 attic with trembling feet. The fact that there were exactly thir- 
 teen was the first thing that awakened her superstition. As the 
 months crept on, she resigned to this superstition with the abandon 
 of an inveterate voluptuary. If she chanced to put her left foot 
 first on the bottom step and not to notice it until she was half way 
 up, she would turn around, come down, and relinquish the pleasure 
 of seeing her treasures for the rest of that week. 
 
 She was afraid of ghosts, witches, and magicians; if a cat ran 
 across the street in front of her, she turned as white as chalk. 
 
 Theresa did not keep a maid; Philippina helped in the kitchen; 
 this ruined her complexion, and made her skin rough and horny. 
 Frequently she got out of washing dishes by simply running away. 
 On these occasions Theresa would create such an uproar that
 
 iga THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the neighbours would come to the window and look out. Philip- 
 pina avenged herself by purposely ruining the sheets, towels, and 
 shirts that lay in the clothes basket. When in this mood and at 
 this business, she made use of a regular oath that she herself had 
 formulated: it consisted of sentences that sounded most impressive, 
 though they had no meaning. 
 
 She cherished the odd delusion that it lay in her power to bring 
 misfortune to other people. The time Jason Philip complained 
 of poor business she felt an infernal sense of satisfaction. His 
 change of political views had driven away his old customers, and 
 the new ones 'had no confidence in him. He had to go in for the 
 publication of dubious works, if he wished to do any business at 
 all. The result of this was that when people passed by the Schim- 
 melweis bookshop, they stopped before the window, looked at his 
 latest output, and smiled contemptuously. The workman's insur- 
 ance no longer paid as it used to, for the credit of the Prudentia 
 and its agents had suffered a violent setback. 
 
 The rise and fall in bourgeois life follows a well established 
 law. In a single day the honesty and diligence of one man, the 
 tricks and frauds of another, grow stale, antiquated. Thus Jordan's 
 affairs started on the down grade, and Jason Philip's likewise. 
 
 Philippina ascribed their failure to the quiet influence of her 
 destructive work. Every bit of misfortune in the life of her 
 father loosened by that much the chain that prevented her from 
 complete freedom of movement. In her most infamous hours she 
 would dream of the hunger and distress, bankruptcy and despair 
 of her people. Once this state of affairs had been realised, she 
 would no longer have to play the role of Cinderella; ?he would 
 no longer have to be the first one up in the morning; she would 
 no longer have to chop wood, and polish her brothers' boots: she 
 would have a fair field and no favours in her campaign to capture 
 Daniel. 
 
 IX 
 
 At times she thought she could simply go to him and stay with 
 him. At times she felt that he would come and get her. One 
 thing or the other had to take place, she thought. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon it chanced to be her eighteenth birth- 
 day a junior agent of Jason Philip, a fellow by the name of 
 Pfefferkorn, came to the house, and in the course of the conversa- 
 tion remarked rather casually that the elder of the Jordan sisters
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 193 
 
 was engaged to the musician Nothafft, that the engagement had 
 been kept secret for a while, but that the wedding was to take 
 place in the immediate future. 
 
 "By the way, I hear that the musician is your nephew," said 
 Pfefferkorn at the close of his report. 
 
 Jason Philip cast a gloomy look into space, while Theresa, then 
 sipping her chicory coffee, set her cup on the table, and looked at 
 the man with scornful contempt. 
 
 Philippina broke out in a laughter that went through them like 
 a knife. Then she ran from the room, and banged the door 
 behind her. "She seems a bit deranged," murmured Jason Philip 
 angrily. 
 
 Then came that June night on which she did not come home at 
 all. Jason Philip raged and howled when she returned the next 
 morning; but she was silent. He locked her up in the cellar for 
 sixteen hours; but she was silent. 
 
 After this she did not leave the house for months at a time; 
 she did not wash or comb her hair; she sat crouched up in the 
 kitchen with her long, dishevelled, unwashed hair falling in loose 
 locks down over her neck and shoulders. 
 
 A feeling of consuming vengeance seethed in her heart; the 
 patience she was forced to practise, much against her will, petrified 
 in time into a mien of hypocritic sottishness. 
 
 Suddenly she took to dressing up again and sauntering through 
 the streets in the afternoon. Her loud ribbons awakened the 
 mocking laughter of young and old. 
 
 She had learned that Eleanore Jordan was attending the lectures 
 in the Cultural Club. She went too; she always crowded up close 
 to Eleanore, but she could not attract her attention. One time 
 she sat right next to Eleanore. A strolling pastor delivered a 
 lecture on cremation. Philippina took out her handkerchief, and 
 pressed it to her eyes as though she were weeping. Eleanore, 
 somewhat concerned, turned to her, and asked her what was the 
 matter. She said that it was all so sad what the old gentleman was 
 saying. Eleanore was surprised, for nothing the speaker had said 
 was sad or in any way likely to bring tears to the eyes of his 
 auditors. 
 
 At the end of the lecture she left the hall with Eleanore. When 
 the ugly, disagreeable creature told her of the wretchedness of her 
 life, how she was abused by her parents and brothers, and that 
 there was not a soul in the world who cared for her, Eleanore was 
 moved. The fact that Philippina was Daniel's blood cousin made
 
 194 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 her forget the aversion she felt, and drew from her a promise to 
 go walking with her on certain days. 
 
 Eleanore kept her promise. She was not in the least disconcerted 
 by the queer looks cast at her by the people they met. With perfect 
 composure she walked along by the side of this strapping, quackish 
 young woman dressed in the oddest garments known to the art 
 of dress-making. At first they strolled in broad daylight through 
 the park adjoining the city moat. Later Eleanore arranged to 
 have the walks, which were to take place two or three times a 
 month, postponed until after sunset. 
 
 This was quite agreeable to Philippina. She threw out a hint 
 every now and then that there was a mysterious feud between the 
 Schimmelweis family and the Nothaffts, and implored Eleanore 
 never to let Daniel know that she was taking these walks with her. 
 It was painful to Eleanore to have Philippina make such requests 
 of her. The lurking manner in which she would turn the con- 
 versation to the affairs of Daniel and Gertrude had an element of 
 offensive intrusiveness in it. She wanted to know first this, then 
 that. She even had the impudence to ask about Gertrude's dowry; 
 and finally she requested that Eleanore bring her sister along some 
 time when they went walking. 
 
 Eleanore came to have a feeling of horror at the sight or thought 
 of Philippina; she was dismayed too when, despite the darkness, 
 she noticed the shrewish look of incorrigible wickedness in Philip- 
 pina's face. An ineluctable voice put her on her guard. In so far 
 as she could do it without grievously offending Philippina, she 
 withdrew from further association with her. And even if she had 
 not promised her absolute silence, a feeling half of fear and half 
 of shame would have prevented her from ever mentioning Philip- 
 pina's name in Daniel's presence. 
 
 She never once suspected that Philippina was spying on her. 
 Philippina soon found out just when, how often, and where Daniel 
 and Eleanore met; and wherever they went, she followed at a safe 
 distance behind them. Why she did this she really did not know; 
 something forced her to do it. 
 
 What she had succeeded in doing with Eleanore she now wished 
 to do with Gertrude. She would bob up all of a sudden in the 
 butcher shop, at the vegetable market, in the dairy, anywhere, stare 
 at Gertrude, act as though she were intensely interested in some- 
 thing, and make some such remarks as: "Lord, but beans are dear 
 this year"; or "That is a nasty wind, it is enough to give you 
 the colic." But Gertrude was far too lost to the world and much
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 195 
 
 too sensitive about coming in contact with strangers to pay any 
 attention to her awkward attempts at approach. 
 
 "Just wait," thought Philippina, enraged, "the penalty of your 
 arrogance will some day descend upon your head." 
 
 On that Monday so fatal for the Jordan family, Philippina 
 had another violent quarrel with her mother. Theresa was still 
 shrieking, when Jason Philip 'came up from the shop to know what 
 could be wrong. 
 
 "Don't ask," cried Theresa at the top of her shrill voice, "go 
 teach your daughter some manners. The wench is going to end 
 up in jail; that's what I prophesy." 
 
 Philippina made a wry face. Jason Philip, however, was little 
 inclined to play the role of an avenging power: he had something 
 new on the string; his face was beaming. 
 
 "I met Hornbusch," he said, turning to Theresa, "you know 
 him, firm of Hornbusch heirs, bloody rich they are, and the man 
 tells me that young Jordan has embezzled some money from the 
 Prudentia and left the country. I went at once to the Prudentia, 
 and Zittel told me the whole story, just as I had heard it. It is 
 almost four thousand marks! Jordan has been requested to make 
 good the deficit; but he hasn't a penny to his name and is in a 
 mighty tight place, for Diruf is threatening to send him to jail. 
 You know, Diruf is hard-boiled in matters of this kind. What do 
 you think of that?" 
 
 Theresa wrapped her hands in her apron, and looked at Jason 
 Philip out of the corner of her eye. She guessed at once the 
 cause of his joy, and hung her head in silence. 
 
 Jason Philip smirked to himself. Leaning up against the Dutch 
 tiles of the stove, he began to whistle in a happy-go-lucky mood. 
 It was the "Marseillaise." He whistled it partly out of forget- 
 fulness and partly from force of habit. 
 
 He had not noticed how Philippina had listened to every syllable 
 that fell from his lips; how she was holding her breath; that her 
 features were lighted up from within by a terrible flame of fire. 
 He did notice, however, that she got up at the close of his remarks 
 and left the room with rustling steps. 
 
 Five minutes later she was standing before Jordan's house. She 
 sent a small boy in with the request that Friiulein Eleanorc come 
 down at once. The boy came back, and said that Friiulein Elcanore
 
 196 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 was not at home. She took her position by the front gate, and 
 waited. 
 
 Driven by the torment of her soul, Eleanore had gone to Martha 
 Rubsam's only to hear that her father had been there three hours 
 earlier. From the confused and embarrassed conduct of her friend 
 she learned that her father had made a request of Judge Riibsam, 
 and a fruitless one at that. 
 
 Then she stood for a while on one of the leading streets, and 
 stared in bewilderment at the throngs of people surging by. It 
 was all so cruelly real. 
 
 She thought of whom she might go to next. A wave of purple 
 flashed across her face as she thought of Eberhard. Involuntarily she 
 made a passionate, deprecating gesture, as if she were saying: No, 
 no, not to him! The first ray of this hope was also the last. Her 
 conscience struck her; but she was helpless. Here was a feeling 
 impervious to reason ; armed ten times over against encouragement. 
 Anyhow, he was not at home. She thought of this with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 Would Daniel go to the Baroness? No; that could not be 
 thought of for a minute. 
 
 She could no longer endure the city nor the people in it. She 
 walked through the park out into the country. She could not stand 
 the sight of the sky or the distant views; she turned around. She 
 came back to The Full, entered the Carovius house, and rang Frau 
 Benda's bell. She knew the old lady was away, and yet, as if 
 quite beside herself, she rang four times. If Benda would only 
 come; if the good friend were only sitting in his room and could 
 come to the door. 
 
 But there was not a stir. From the first floor the sounds of a 
 piano floated out the window; it was being played in full chords. 
 Down in the court Cresar was howling. 
 
 She started back home with beating heart. At the front gate 
 ihe saw Philippina. 
 
 "I have heard all about your misfortune," said Philippina in 
 her shrill voice. "Nobody can help you but me." 
 
 "You? You can help?" stammered Eleanore. The whole 
 square began to move, it seemed, before her. 
 
 "Word of honour I can. I must simply have a talk with Daniel 
 first. Let's lose no time. Is he upstairs?"
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 197 
 
 "I think he is. If not, I will get him. 
 "Let's go up, then." 
 They went up the stairs. 
 
 XII 
 
 Jason Philip had been invited to a sociable evening in the 
 Shufflers' Club. He was now enjoying his siesta after his banquet 
 by reading an editorial in the Kurier. One of Bismarck's addresses 
 had been so humorously commented on that every now and then 
 Jason Philip emitted a malevolent snarl of applause. 
 
 He had brought a lemon along home with him; it was lying on 
 a plate before him, sliced and covered with sugar. From time to 
 time he would reach over, take a piece and stick it in his mouth. 
 He smacked his tongue with the display of much ceremony of his 
 kind, and licked his lips after swallowing a piece. His two sons 
 gaped at his hand with greedy eyes and likewise licked their 
 lips. 
 
 Willibald was groaning over an algebraic equation. In his pale, 
 pimpled face were traces of incapability and bad humour. Markus, 
 owing to his physical defect, was not allowed to study by artificial 
 light. He helped his mother shell the peas, and in order to make 
 her angry at Philippina, kept making mean remarks about her stay- 
 ing out so long. 
 
 Just as the last piece of the lemon disappeared behind Jason 
 Philip's moustache, the door bell rang. 
 
 "There is a man out there," said Markus, who had gone to the 
 door and was now standing on the threshold, stupidly staring with 
 his one remaining eye. 
 
 Jason Philip stretched his neck. Then he got up. He had 
 recognised Daniel standing in the half-lighted hall. 
 
 "I have something to say to you," said Daniel, as he entered the 
 room. His eyes gazed on the walls and at the few cheap, ugly, 
 banal objects that hung on them: a newspaper-holder with embroid- 
 ered ribbons; a corner table on which stood a beer mug representing 
 the fat body of a monk; an old chromic print showing a volunteer 
 taking leave of his big family as he starts for the front. These 
 things appealed to Daniel somewhat as an irrational dream. Then, 
 taking a deep breath, he fixed his eyes on Jason Philip. In his 
 mind's eve he looked back over many years; he saw himself stand- 
 ing at the fountain in F.schenbarh. Round about him glistened the 
 stones and cross beams of the houses. Jason Philip was hurrying
 
 ig8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 by at a timid distance. There was bitterness in his face: he seemed 
 to be fleeing from the world, the sun, men, and music. 
 
 "I have something to say to you," he repeated. 
 
 Theresa felt that the worst of her forebodings were about to be 
 fulfilled. With trembling knees she arose. She did not dare 
 turn her eyes toward the place in the room where Daniel was 
 standing. She did not see, she merely sensed Jason Philip 'as 
 he beckoned to her and his sons to leave the room. She took 
 Markus by the hand and Willibald by the coat-sleeve, and marched 
 out between the two. 
 
 "What's the news?" asked Jason Philip, as he crossed his arms 
 and looked at the pile of beans on the table. "You have a what 
 shall I say? a very impulsive way about you. It is a way that 
 reminds me of the fact that we have a law in this country against 
 disturbing the peace of a private family. Your stocks must have 
 gone to the very top of the market recently. Well, tell me, what 
 do you want? " 
 
 He cleared his throat, and beat a tattoo on the elbows of his 
 crossed arms with his fingers. 
 
 Daniel felt that his peace was leaving him; his own arm seemed 
 to him like a shot-gun; it itched. But thus far he could not say 
 a thing. The question he had in mind to put to Jason Philip was 
 of such tremendous import that he could not suppress his fear that 
 he might make a mistake or become too hasty. 
 
 "Where is the money my father gave you?" came the words at 
 last, rolling from his lips in a tone of muffled sullenness. 
 
 The colour left Jason Philip's face; his arms fell down by 
 his side. 
 
 "The money? Where it's gone to? That your father ?" 
 He stuttered in confusion. He wanted to gain time; he wanted 
 to think over very carefully what he should say and what he could 
 conceal. He cast one glance at Daniel, and saw that it was not 
 possible to expect mercy from him. He was afraid of Daniel's 
 bold, lean, sinewy face. 
 
 He nearly burst with anger at the thought that this young man, 
 for whom he, Jason Philip, was once the highest authority, should 
 have the unmitigated audacity to call him to account. In this 
 whole situation he pictured himself as the immaculate man of 
 honour that he wished he was ami thought he was in the eyes of 
 his fellow citizens. At the same time he was nearly stifled with 
 fear lest he lose the money which he had long since accustomed 
 himself to regard as his own, with which he had worked and specu-
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 199 
 
 lated, and which by this time was as much a part of his very 
 being as his own house, his business, his projects. He buried his 
 hands in his pockets and snorted. His cowardly dread of the con- 
 sequences of fraud forced him into a half confession of fraud, 
 but in his words lay the feverish pettifogging of the frenzied 
 financier who fights for Mammon even unto raging and despair. 
 
 "The money is here; of course it is. Where did you think it 
 was? My books will show exactly how much of it has found its 
 way over to Eschenbach in the shape of interest and loans. My 
 books are open to inspection; the accounts have been kept right 
 up to this very day. I have made considerable progress in life. A 
 man who has lived as I have lived does not need to fear a living 
 soul. Do you imagine for a minute that Jason Philip Schimmel- 
 weis can be frightened by a little thing like this? No, no, it 
 will take more of a man than you to do that. Who are you 
 anyhow? What office do you hold? What authority have you? 
 With what right do you come rushing into the four walls of my 
 home? Do you perhaps imagine that your artistic skill invests you 
 with special privileges? I don't give a tinker's damn for your art. 
 The whole rubbish is hardly worth spitting on. Music? Idiocy. 
 Who needs it? Any man with the least vestige of self-respect 
 never has anything to do with music except on holidays and when 
 the day's work is done. No, no, you can't impress me with your 
 music. You're not quite sane! And if you think that you are 
 going to get any money out of me, you are making the mistake 
 of your life. It is to laugh. If a man wants money from me, 
 he has to come to me at least with a decent hair-cut and show 
 me at least a little respect. He can't come running up like a kid 
 on the street who says: 'Mumma, gif me a shcnt; I want to buy 
 some tandy.' No, no, son, you can't get anything out of me 
 that way." 
 
 The smile that appeared on Daniel's face filled Jason Philip with 
 mortal terror. He stopped his talk with incriminating suddenness. 
 He decided to hold in and to promise Daniel a small payment. 
 He hoped that by handing over a few hundred marks he could 
 assure himself the desired peace of mind. 
 
 But Daniel never felt so certain of himself in his life. He 
 thought of the hardships he had had to endure, and his heart 
 seemed as if it were on fire. At the same time he was ashamed of 
 this man and disgusted with him. 
 
 He said quietly and firmly: "I must have three thousand seven 
 hundred marks by ten o'clock to-morrow morning. It is a question
 
 200 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of saving an honourable and upright family from ruin. If this 
 sum is handed over to 1 me promptly, I will waive all rights to the 
 balance that is due me, in writing. The receipt will be filled out 
 ready for delivery in my house. If the money is not in my 
 hands by the stipulated time, we will meet each other in another 
 place and in the presence of people who will impress you." 
 
 He turned to go. 
 
 Jason Philip's mouth opened wide, and he pressed his fist to the 
 hole made thereby. "Three thousand seven hundred marks? 1 ' he 
 roared. "The man is crazy. Completely crazy is the man. Man, 
 man, you're crazy," he cried in order to get Daniel to stop. "Are 
 you crazy, man? Do you want to ruin me? Don't you hear, 
 you damned man?" 
 
 Daniel looked at Jason Philip with a shudder. The door to 
 the adjoining room sprang open, and Theresa rushed in. Her face 
 was ashen pale; there were just two little round red spots on her 
 cheek bones. "You are going to get that money, Daniel," she 
 howled hysterically, "or I am going to jump into the Pegnitz. 
 I'll jump into the Pegnitz and drown myself." 
 
 "Woman, you . . ." he gnashed his teeth, and seized her by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 She sank down on a chair, and, seizing her hair, continued: 
 "He is everywhere, and wherever he is, our dear Gottfried, he is 
 looking at me. He stands before the clothes press, at the cup- 
 board, by my bedside, nods, exhorts, raises his finger, finds no 
 peace in his grave, and does not let me sleep; he has not let me 
 sleep all these years." 
 
 "Now listen, you had better think of your children," snapped 
 Jason Philip. 
 
 Theresa let her hands fall in her lap, and looked down at the 
 floor: "All that nice money, that nice money," she cried. Then 
 again, this time with a face distorted beyond easy recognition and 
 at the top of her voice: "But you'll get it, Daniel; I'll see to it 
 that you get it: I'll bring it to you myself." Then again, in a 
 gentle voice of acute lamentation: "All that nice money." 
 
 Daniel was almost convulsed. It seemed to him as if he had 
 never rightly understood the word money before, as if the meaning 
 of money had never been made clear to him until he heard 
 Theresa say it. 
 
 "To-morrow morning at ten o'clock," he said. 
 
 Theresa nodded her head in silence, and raised her hands with 
 outstretched fingers as if to protect herself from Jason Philip.
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 201 
 
 Willibald and Markus had crept under the door. The gate must 
 not have been closed, for just then Philippina came in. She had 
 come over with Daniel, but had remained outside on the street. 
 She could not wait any longer; she was too anxious to see the 
 consequences of her betrayal. 
 
 She looked around with affected embarrassment. Was it merely 
 the sight of her that aroused Jason Philip's wrath? Was it the 
 half-cowardly, half-cynical smile that played around her lips? Or 
 was it the cumulative effect of blind anger, long pent up and eager 
 to be discharged, that made Jason Philip act as he did? Or did 
 he have a vague suspicion of what Philippina had done? Suffice 
 it to say, he leapt up to her and struck her in the face with 
 his fist. 
 
 She never moved a muscle. 
 
 Indignant at the rudeness of his cor.duct, Daniel stepped between 
 Jason Philip and his daughter. But the venomous scorn in the 
 girl's eyes stifled his sympathy; he turned to the door, and went 
 away in silence. 
 
 "All that nice money," murmured Theresa. 
 
 XIII 
 
 When Daniel told the Jordans that the money would be there 
 the next morning, Jordan looked at him first unbelievingly, and 
 then wept like a child. 
 
 Eleanore reached Daniel both her hands without saying a word. 
 Gertrude, who was lying on the sofa, straightened up, smiled 
 gently, and then lay down again. Daniel asked her what was the 
 matter. Eleanore answered for her, saying that she had not felt 
 well since some time in the afternoon. "She must go to bed, she 
 is tired," added Eleanore. 
 
 "Well, come then," said Daniel, and helped Gertrude to get 
 up. But her legs were without strength; she could not walk. She 
 looked first at Daniel and then at Eleanore; she was plainly worried 
 about something. 
 
 "You won't care, will you, Father, if I go home with them?" 
 asked Eleanore in a tone of flattery. 
 
 "No, go, child," said Jordan, "it will do me good to be alone 
 for a few minutes." 
 
 Daniel and Eleanore took Gertrude between them. At the sec- 
 ond landing in their apartment, Daniel took Gertrude in his 
 arms, and carried her into the bedroom. She did not want him
 
 202 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 to help her take off her clothes; she sent him out of the .room. 
 A cup of warm milk was all she said she wanted. 
 
 "There is no milk there," said Eleanore to Daniel, as she 
 entered the living room. He stopped suddenly, and looked at her 
 as if he had awakened from a fleeting dream: "I'll run down to 
 Tetzel Street and get a half a litre," said Eleanore. "I'll leave 
 the hall door open, so that Gertrude will not be frightened whei. 
 I come in." 
 
 She had already hastened out; but all of a sudden she turned 
 around, and said with joyful gratitude, her blue eyes swimming 
 in the tears of a full soul: "You dear man." 
 
 His face took on a scowl. 
 
 There was a fearful regularity in his walking back and forth. 
 The chains of the hanging lamp shook. The flame sent forth a 
 thin column of smoke; he did not notice it. "How long will she 
 be gone?" he thought in his unconscious, drunken impatience. 
 He felt terribly deserted. 
 
 He stepped out into the hall, and listened. There hovered 
 before him in the darkness the face of Philippina. She showed 
 the same scornful immobility that she showed when her father 
 struck her in the face. He stepped to the railing, and sat down 
 on the top step; a fit at once of weakness and aimless defiance came 
 over him. He buried his face in his hands; he could still hear 
 Theresa saying, "All that nice money." 
 
 There were shadows everywhere; there was nothing but night 
 and shadows. 
 
 Eleanore, light hearted and light footed, returned at last. When 
 she saw him, she stopped. He arose, and stretched out his arms 
 as if to take the milk bottle. That is the way she interpreted his 
 gesture, and handed it to him in surprise. He, however, set it 
 down on the landing beside him. The light from the living room 
 shone on it and made it look sparkling white. Then he drew 
 Eleanore to him, threw his arms around her, and kissed her on the 
 mouth. 
 
 Merely a creature of man, only a woman, nothing but heart and 
 breath, all longing and forgetting, forgetting for just one moment, 
 finding herself for a moment, knowing her own self for a moment 
 she pressed close up to him. But her hands were folded between 
 her breast and his, and thus separated their bodies. 
 
 Then she broke away from him, wrung her hands, looked up at 
 him, pressed close up to him again, wrung her hands again it was
 
 THE GLASS CASE BREAKS 203 
 
 ull done in absolute silence and with an almost terrible grace and 
 loveliness. 
 
 Everything was now entirely different from what it had been, 
 or what she had formerly imagined it to be; there were depths to 
 everything now. She lost herself; she ceased to exist for a 
 moment; darkness enveloped her much-disciplined heart; she 
 entered upon a second existence, an existence that had no similarity 
 with the first. 
 
 To this existence she was now bound; she had succumbed to it: 
 the law of nature had gone into effect. But the glass case liad 
 been shattered; it was in pieces. She stood there unprotected, even 
 exposed, so to speak, to men, no longer immune to their glances, 
 an accessible prey to their touch. 
 
 She went into the kitchen, and heated the milk. Daniel re- 
 turned to the living room. His veins were burning, his heart was 
 hammering. He had no sense of appreciation of the time that 
 had passed. When Eleanore came into the room, he began to 
 tremble. 
 
 She came up to him, and spoke to him in passionate sadness: 
 "Have you heard about Gertrude? Don't you know, really? She 
 is with child your wife." 
 
 "I did not know it," whispered Daniel, "Did she tell you?" 
 
 "Yes, just now."
 
 THE habitues of the reserved table at the Crocodile were all 
 reasonably well informed of the events that had recently taken 
 place in the homes of Inspector Jordan and Jason Philip Schim- 
 melweis. Details were mentioned that would make it seem prob- 
 able that the cracks in the walls and the key-holes of both houses 
 had been entertaining eavesdroppers. 
 
 Some refused to believe that Jason Philip had made restitution 
 for the money young Jordan had embezzled. For, said Degen, 
 the baker, Schimmelweis is a hard-fisted fellow, and whoever 
 would try to get money out of him would have to be in the posses- 
 sion of extraordinary shrewdness. 
 
 "But he has already paid it," said Grundlich, the watchmaker. 
 He knew he had; he knew that the wife of the bookseller had 
 gone over to Nothafft's on Tuesday afternoon ; that she had a heap 
 of silver in a bag; and that when she came back home she took to 
 bed, and had been ill ever since. 
 
 Kitzler, the assistant postmaster, felt there was something wrong 
 here; and if there was not, you would simply have to assume that 
 Nothafft, the musician, was a dangerous citizen, who had somehow 
 managed to place the breast of his uncle vis-a-vis a revolver. 
 
 "And you know, Nothafft is to be made Kapellmeister at the 
 City Theatre," remarked the editor Weibezahl, the latest member 
 of the round table. "His appointment is to be made public in a 
 few days." 
 
 "What! Kapellmeister! You don't say so! That will make 
 Andreas Doderlein the saddest man in ten states." 
 
 Herr Carovius, whose mouth was just then hanging on his beer 
 glass, laughed so heartily that the beer went down his Sunday 
 throat; he was seized with a coughing spell. Herr Korn slapped 
 him on the back. 
 
 It was a shame that such a bad actor as Nothafft had to be 
 endured in the midst of people who lived peaceful and law-abiding 
 lives. This lament came from Herr Kleinlcin, who had been 
 
 204
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 205 
 
 circuit judge now for some time. He was anxious to know whether 
 all the tales that were circulating concerning Nothafft were true. 
 
 Well, he was told, a great many things are said about Nothafft, 
 but it is difficult to get at the truth. They appealed to the apothe- 
 cary Pflaum, on the ground that his assistant knew the musician 
 and might be able to give them some definite information. 
 
 Herr Pflaum took on an air as if he knew a great deal but was 
 under obligations not to tell. Yes, yes, he said rather perfunctorily, 
 he had heard that some one had said that Nothafft was running a 
 pretty questionable domestic establishment; that he had a rather 
 unsavoury past; and that there was some talk about his neglecting 
 his wife. 
 
 The deuce you say! Why, they were married only a short 
 while ago. Yes, but there was a rumour to the effect that there 
 was a woman in the case. Who could it be? Ahem! Well-ah, 
 it would be a good idea to be cautious about mentioning names. 
 Good Lord, why cautious? Why not straight out with the infor- 
 mation any one chanced to be fortunate enough to have? Is it not 
 a question of protecting one's own wife and daughters? 
 
 And so this slanderous babble rattled on. There was some- 
 thing unfathomable in their hatred of the musician. They were 
 just as agreed on this point as they would have been if Daniel had 
 broken open their strong boxes, smashed their windows, and betrayed 
 their honour and dignity to public ridicule. 
 
 They did not know what they should do about him. They 
 passed by him as one would pass by a bomb that might or might 
 not explode.- 
 
 When Herr Carovius was alone, he picked up the paper, and 
 read the account of a mine explosion in Silesia. The number of 
 killed satisfied him. The description of the women as they stood 
 at the top of the shaft, wept, wrung their hands, and called out 
 the names of their husbands, filled him with the same agreeable 
 sensation that he experienced when he listened to the melancholy 
 finale of a Chopin nocturne. 
 
 But he could not forget the expression on Herr Pflaum's face 
 when he told how Nothafft was neglecting his wife. It had been 
 the expression that comes out, so to speak, from between the cur- 
 tains of a sleeping room: something was up, make no mistake, some- 
 thing was going on.
 
 206 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 For quite a while Herr Carovius had harboured the suspicion 
 that there was something wrong. Twice he had met Daniel and 
 Eleanore walking along the street in the twilight, talking to each 
 other in a very mysterious way. Things were going on behind 
 Herr Carovius's back which he could not afford to overlook. 
 
 Since the day Eleanore had disentangled the cord of his nose 
 glasses from the button of his top coat, the picture of the young 
 girl had been indelibly stamped on his mind. He could still see 
 the beautiful curvature of her young bosom as she raised her arm. 
 
 A year and a half after this incident, Herr Carovius was going 
 through some old papers. He chanced upon an unfinished letter 
 which Eberhard von Auffenberg had written to Eleanore but had 
 never posted. Eberhard had come to Nuremberg at the time to 
 transact some business connected with the negotiation of a new 
 loan ; he had left his hotel, and Herr Carovius had had to wait 
 for him a long while. This time he had spent in looking over 
 the unsealed documents of the incautious young Baron. 
 
 Then it was that he discovered the letter. What words! And 
 oh, the passion! Herr Carovius would never have believed that 
 the reserved misanthrope was capable of such a display of emotion. 
 He felt that Eberhard had disclosed to him the most secret cham- 
 bers of his heart. He was terrified at the voluptuousness revealed 
 to him by the unveiling of the mystery of his soul. They are 
 human beings after all, those members of the nobility, he ex- 
 claimed with a feeling of personal triumph. They throw them- 
 selves away; they meet some slippery imp, and fall; they lose 
 control of themselves as soon as they hear a skirt rustle. 
 
 But what concerned the Baron in this case concerned also Herr 
 Carovius. A passion that had taken possession of the Baron had 
 to be guarded, studied, and eventually shared by Herr Carovius 
 himself. 
 
 Herr Carovius's loneliness had gradually robbed him of his 
 equanimity. Suppressed impulses were stifling his mind with the 
 luxuriant growths of a vivid and vicious imagination. The adven- 
 tures into which he had voluntarily plunged in order to make sure 
 of his control over Eberhard had almost ruined him. The net 
 he had spread for the helplessly fluttering bird now held him 
 himself entangled in its meshes. The world to him was a body 
 full of wounds on which he was battening his Neronic lusts. But 
 it was at the same time a tapestry with bright coloured pictures 
 which could be made living and real by a magic formula, and this 
 formula he had not yet been able to discover.
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 207 
 
 At the insinuations of the apothecary his fancy took on new 
 life: he was not a man in whose soul old emotions died out; his 
 lusts never became extinct. Lying on the sofa, taking his midday 
 siesta, he would picture the figure of Eleanore dancing around 
 him in diminutive form. When he sat at the piano and played 
 an etude^ he imagined he saw Daniel standing beside him criticising 
 his technique and doing it with much show of arrrgance. When 
 he went out of evenings, he saw Nothafft displayed on all the 
 signs, while every demi-monde bore Eleanore's features. 
 
 It seemed to him in time that Eleanore Jordan was his property; 
 that he had a right to her. His life, he felt, was full of lamentable 
 privations: other people had everything, he had nothing. Others 
 committed crimes; all he could do was to make note of the crimes. 
 And no man could become either satiated or rich from merely tak- 
 ing the criminal incidents of other people's lives into account. 
 
 At midnight he put on his sleeping gown, took a seat before 
 the mirror, and read until break of day a novel in which a man 
 fifty years old has a secret and successful love affair with a young 
 woman. As he read this novel he knew that something was going 
 on. And he knew that out there in a certain house on ^Egydius 
 Place something was also going on. Make no mistake, some- 
 thing was up. 
 
 He saw trysts on unlighted stairways. He saw people coming 
 to mutual understandings by a certain pressure of the hand and 
 adulterous signals. That is the way they did it; that is the way 
 Benda and Marguerite had done it. His old hate was revived. 
 He transferred his hate, but also his hope, to music. Through 
 music he was to build a bridge to Daniel and Eleanore. He 
 wanted to give them the advantage of his insight, his tricks, his 
 experience, simply in order that he might be on hand when they 
 committed the gruesome deed; so that he might not be cut off 
 from them by an impenetrable wall and be tortured in consequence 
 by an incorporeal jealousy; he wanted to be one with them, to 
 feast his eye and reach forth his empty, senescent hand. 
 
 "I am," he said to himself, "of the same flesh and blood as 
 that man; in me too there is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I have, 
 to be sure," he said to himself, "despised women, for they are 
 despicable. But let some woman come forward and show me 
 that she is fit for anything more than to increase by two or three 
 the number of idiots with which the world is already overcrowded, 
 and I will do penance, whole and complete, and then offer her 
 my services as a knight."
 
 208 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He no longer slept or ate; nor could he do anything that was 
 in- any way rational. In a belated sexual outburst, a second 
 puberty, his imagination became inflamed by a picture which he 
 adorned with all the perfections of both soul and body. 
 
 He heard that one of Daniel's works was to be played before 
 invited guests at the home of Baroness von Auffenberg. He wired 
 to Eberhard, and asked him to get him an invitation. The reply 
 was a negative one. In his rage he could have murdered the mes- 
 senger boy. He then wrote to Daniel, and, boasting of what he 
 had already done for him, begged Daniel to see to it that he 
 was among the guests at the recital. He received a printed card 
 from the Baroness, on which she had expressed the hope that she 
 might be able to greet him on a certain day. 
 
 He was in the seventh heaven. He decided to pay Daniel a 
 visit, and to thank him for his kindness. 
 
 "The only thing to do is to leave the city, to go far, far away 
 from here," thought Eleanore, on that evening that was so different 
 from any other evening of her life. 
 
 While she was combing her hair, she was tempted to take the 
 scissors and cut it off just to make herself ugly. In the night she 
 went to the window to look for the stars. If it only had not 
 happened, if it only were a dream, a voice within her cried. 
 
 As soon as it turned grey in the morning, she got up. She 
 hastened through the deserted streets, just as she had done yester- 
 day, out to the suburbs. But everything was different. Tree 
 and bush looked down upon her with stern reproachfulness. The 
 mists hung low; but the hazy grey cold of the early morning 
 was like a bath to her. Later the sun broke through; primroses 
 glistened with gold on the meadow. If it could only have been 
 a dream, she thought in silence. 
 
 When she came home, her father had already received the news 
 about the money: it had been paid to Diruf ; Daniel had taken it 
 to him. 
 
 Jordan remained in his room the whole day. And on the 
 following day he kept to himself except while at dinner. He sat 
 at the table with bowed head; he had nothing to say. Eleanore 
 went to his door from time to time to see if she could hear him. 
 There was not a sound; the house sang with solitude. 
 
 Jordan had requested the landlord to sublet the house before
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 309 
 
 his lease had expired: he felt that it was too large and expensive 
 for him in the present state of his affairs. The landlord approved 
 of the idea. In the house where Daniel and Gertrude were living 
 there were two vacant rooms in the attic. Gertrude suggested to 
 her father that it would be well for him to take them. Jordan 
 agreed with her. 
 
 Eleanore began to think the situation over: if Father moves into 
 those rooms, I can leave him. She learned from Gertrude, who 
 came now to see her father every other day, that Daniel had 
 received the appointment as Kapellmeister at the City Theatre. 
 Eleanore could carry out her plans then with a clear conscience, 
 for her brother-in-law and her sister were getting along quite 
 well at present. 
 
 She recalled some conversations she had had with M. Riviere, 
 who had advised her to go to Paris. Since Christmas, when he was 
 invited to be present at the distribution of the presents, he had 
 been coming to Jordan's quite frequently to talk French with 
 Eleanore. This was in accord with her express desire. 
 
 One afternoon she went to visit M. Riviere. He was living in 
 the romantic place up by the gardener on Castle Hill. His room 
 had a balcony that was completely overgrown with ivy and elder, 
 while in the background the trees and bushes of the city moat 
 formed an impenetrable maze of green. The spring air floated 
 into the room in waves. As Eleanore made her business known, 
 she fixed her enchanted eyes on a bouquet of lilies of the valley 
 that stood on the table in a bronze vase. 
 
 M. Riviere took a handful of them, and gave them to her. 
 They had not been cut; they had been pulled up by the roots. 
 Eleanore laughed happily at the fragrance. 
 
 M. Riviere said he was just about to write to his mother in 
 Paris, and as she was so familiar with the city, she could be of 
 great help to Eleanore. 
 
 Eleanore stepped out on the balcony. "The world is beautiful," 
 she thought, and smiled at the fruitless efforts of a tiny beetle 
 to climb up a perpendicular leaf. "Perhaps it was after all 
 merely a dream," she thought, and thereby consoled herself. 
 
 When she returned, Daniel was at her father's. The two men 
 were sitting in the dark. 
 
 Eleanore lighted the lamp. Then she filled a glass with water, 
 and put the lilies of the valley in it. 
 
 "Daniel wants to know why you never visit them any more," 
 said Jordan, weak and distraught as he now always was. "I told
 
 210 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 him you were busy at present with great plans of your own. 
 Well, what does the Frenchman think about it?" 
 
 Eleanore answered her father's question in a half audible voice. 
 
 "Go wherever you want to go, child," said Jordan. "You have 
 been prepared for an independent life in the world for a long while; 
 there is no doubt about that. God forbid that I should put any 
 hindrances in your way." He got up with difficulty, and turned 
 toward the door of his room. Taking hold of the latch, he 
 stopped, and continued in his brooding way: "It is peculiar that 
 a man can die by inches in a living body; that a man can have 
 the feeling that he's no longer a part of the present; and that he 
 can no longer play his role, keep up with his own people, grasp 
 what is going on about him, or know whether what is to come is 
 good or evil. It is fearful when a man reaches that stage, fear- 
 fulfearful!" 
 
 He left the room, shaking his head. To Daniel his words 
 sounded like a voice from the grave. 
 
 They had been silent for a long while, he and Eleanore. Sud- 
 denly he asked gruffly: "Are you serious about going to Paris?" 
 
 "Of course I am," she said, "what else can I do?" 
 
 He sprang up, and looked angrily into her face: "One has to 
 be ashamed of one's self," he said, "human language becomes 
 repulsive. Don't you have a feeling of horror when you think? 
 Don't you shudder when you reflect on that caricature known as 
 the heart, or the soul, or whatever it may be called?" 
 
 "I don't understand you, Daniel," said Eleanore. She would 
 never have considered it possible that he would look with disfavour 
 on her contrition and the decision that had sprung from it. Then 
 it had not after all been the flash of a solitary second? Had she 
 not hoped and expected to hear a self-accusation from him that 
 would make her forget all and forgive herself? Where was she? 
 In what world or age was she living? 
 
 "Do you believe that I merely wanted to enjoy a diverting and 
 momentary side-step?" Daniel continued, measuring her with his 
 eyes from head to foot. "Do you believe that it is possible to 
 jest with the most sacred laws of nature? You have had a good 
 schooling, I must say; you do your teachers honour. Go! I don't 
 need you. Go to Paris, and let me degenerate!" 
 
 He stepped to the door. Then he turned, and took the lamp, 
 which she had removed from the holder when she lighted it. Hold- 
 ing the lamp in his right hand, he walked close up to her. Her
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 211 
 
 eyes closed involuntarily. "I simply wanted to see whether it was 
 really you," he said with passionate contempt. "Yes, it is you," 
 he said scornfully, "it is you." With that he placed the lamp 
 on the table. 
 
 "I don't understand you, Daniel," she said softly. She looked 
 around for some object to rest her eyes on. 
 
 "So I see. Good night." 
 
 "Daniel!" 
 
 But he had already gone. The hall door closed with a bang. 
 The house sang with solitude. 
 
 The green threadbare sofa, the old, old smoke stains on the 
 whitewashed ceiling, the five rickety chairs that reminded her of 
 so many decrepit old men, the mirror with the gilded angel of 
 stucco at the top all these things were so tiring, so irksome, so 
 annoying: they were like underbrush in the forest. 
 
 Little brother! Little brother! 
 
 IV 
 
 Three evenings of the week were devoted to opera, the others 
 to drama. 
 
 The first Kapellmeister was a middle-aged man whose curly hair 
 made him the idol of all flappers. He was lazy, uncultivated, 
 and his name was Lebrecht. 
 
 The director was an old stager who referred to the public about 
 as a disrespectful footman refers to his lord. At Daniel's sug- 
 gestions for improving the repertory, he generally shrugged his 
 shoulders. The operas in which he had the greatest confidence 
 as drawing cards were "The Beggar Student," "Fra Diavolo," 
 "L'Africaine," and "Robert le Diable." The singers and the 
 orchestra were not much better than those of the lamented 
 Dormaul-Wurzelmann troupe. The possibility of arousing them 
 to intensified effort or filling them with a semblance of intelligent 
 enthusiasm for art was even less. Privileges based on length of 
 service and the familiar traditions of indolence made aesthetic 
 innovations unthinkable. 
 
 Wherever careworn Philistines and slothful materialists occupy 
 the seats from which art should raise her voice, advancement, 
 progress born of sacrificial application, is out of the question: the 
 most it is reasonable to expect is a bourgeois fulfilment of ines- 
 capable duties. In such cases the flower droops; the dream van-
 
 212 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 ishes; the free-born spirit has the choice of fighting day in and 
 day out against the collective demons of pettiness and mediocrity, 
 or of going down in admitted defeat. 
 
 "Stuff the people can easily digest, my dear boy, that is the 
 idea," said the director. 
 
 "What are you so excited about? Don't you know these people 
 haven't a musical muscle in their whole soul?" said Lebrecht. 
 
 "For nine consecutive years I have been singing F sharp at this 
 opera house, and now here comes a musicien from the backwoods 
 and demands all of a sudden that I sing F!" This was the com- 
 mentary of Fraulein Varini, the prima donna whose outstanding 
 bosom had long been a source of human merriment to pit, stall, 
 and gallery. 
 
 "Ah, he is a greasy grind determined to arrive," said the first 
 violinist. 
 
 "He's a spit-fire," said the lad who beat the big drum, when 
 Daniel threatened to box his ears for a false intonation. 
 
 The Baroness had secured a publisher in Leipzig for his cycle 
 of sixteen songs; the compositions were to be brought out at her 
 expense. That did not have the right effect: it was not some- 
 thing, Daniel felt, that he had fought for and won; it was not a 
 case where merit had made rejection impossible. He had the 
 feeling that he was selling his soul and was being paid to do it. 
 Moreover, and worst of all, he had to express his gratitude for this 
 act. The Baroness loved to have somebody thank her for what she 
 had done. She never once suspected that what Daniel wanted was 
 not benefactors, but people who were stirred to the depths of their 
 souls by his creations. The rich cannot sense the feelings of the 
 poor; the higher classes remain out of contact with the lower. 
 
 His excitability saved him. In his magnificent solicitude for 
 the mission that is at once the token and the curse of those who 
 are really called, he shut himself off from a world from which 
 the one thing he wanted was bread; bread and nothing else. 
 
 After the publication of the songs a review appeared in the 
 Phoenix which had a remarkably realistic ring to the ear of the 
 layman. As a matter of fact it was merely an underhanded attempt 
 at assassination. The thing was signed with a big, isolated "W." 
 Wurzelmann, the little slave, had shot from his ambush. 
 
 Other musical journals copied this review. A half dozen people 
 bought the songs; then they were forgotten. 
 
 It was no use to hope. The trouble was, he needed bread, just 
 bread.
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 213 
 
 It was often difficult for him to find the peace and quiet neces- 
 sary for effective work. May brought cold weather; they had to 
 make a fire; the stove smoked; the potter came in and removed the 
 tiles; the room looked like an inferno. 
 
 Gertrude was pounding sugar: "Don't be angry at me, Daniel; 
 I must pound the sugar to-day." And she pounded away until the 
 hammer penetrated the paralysed brain of the listener by force of 
 circumstances. 
 
 The hinges of the door screeched. "You ought to oil them, 
 Gertrude." Gertrude looked high and low for the oil can, and 
 when she finally found it, she had no feather to use in smearing 
 the oil on. She went over to the chancellor's, and borrowed one 
 from her maid. While she was gone, the milk boiled over and 
 filled the house with a disagreeable stench. 
 
 The door bell rang. It was the cobbler; he had come to get 
 the money for the patent leather shoes. The wives of Herr 
 Kirschner and Herr Riibsam had both said that Daniel must not 
 think of appearing at the coming recital at the Baroness's without 
 patent leather shoes. 
 
 "I haven't the money, Gertrude; have you got that much?" 
 
 Gertrude went through her chests, and scraped up five marks 
 which she gave the cobbler as a first instalment. The man went 
 away growling; Daniel hid from him. 
 
 Gertrude was sitting in the living room making clothes for 
 her baby-to-come. There was a happy expression on her face. 
 Daniel knew that it was a display of maternal joy and expectation, 
 but since he could not share this joy, since indeed he felt a sense 
 of fear at the appearance of the child, her happiness embittered 
 him. 
 
 Between the fuchsias in the window stood a robin red-breast; 
 the impish bird had its head turned to one side, and was peeping 
 into the room: "Come out," it chirped, "come out." And Daniel 
 went. 
 
 He had an engagement with M. Riviere at the cafe by the 
 market place. Since he no longer saw anything of F.leanore, he 
 wanted to find out how her plans for going to Paris were getting 
 along. 
 
 The Frenchman told of the progress he was making in his 
 Caspar Hauser research. In hi? broken German he told of the 
 murder of body and soul that had been committed in the case of
 
 214 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the foundling: "He was a mortal man comme une etoile" he 
 said. "The bourgeoisie crushed him. The bourgeoisie is the 
 ratine of all evil." 
 
 Daniel never mentioned Eleanore's name. He tried to satisfy 
 himself by the fact that she kept out of his sight. He bit his 
 lips together, and said: I will. But a stronger power in him said, 
 No, you won't. And this stronger power became a beggar. It 
 went around saying, Give me, please, give me! 
 
 The billiard balls rattled. A gentleman in a red velvet vest 
 had a quarrel with a shabby looking fellow who had been reading 
 Fliegende Blatter for the last two hours; he would begin over 
 and over again at the very beginning, and break out into con- 
 vulsions of laughter every time he came to his favourite jokes. 
 
 Daniel was silent; he insisted somehow on remaining silent. 
 M. Riviere wished, for this reason, to hear something about the 
 "Harzreise." By way of starting a discussion he remarked quite 
 timidly that sans musique la vie est insupportable, "There is some- 
 thing about music that reminds one of insanity," he remarked. 
 He said there were nights when he would open a volume of 
 Schubert's or Brahms's songs, leaf through them, read the notes, 
 and hum the melodies simply in order to escape the despair which 
 the conduct of the people about him was emptying into his heart. 
 "Moi, I ought to be, how do you say? stoic; mais I am not. In 
 me there is trop de- musique, et c'est le contraire." 
 
 Daniel looked at him in astonishment. "Come with me," he said 
 suddenly, got up, and took him by the arm. 
 
 They met Eleanore in the hall. She had been up in the new 
 flat with the whitewasher. Her father was to move in the follow- 
 ing day. 
 
 "Why was all this done so quickly?" asked Daniel, full of a 
 vague happiness that drew special nourishment from the fact that 
 Eleanore was plainly excited. 
 
 "Mere chance," she said, and carefully avoided looking at him. 
 "A captain who is being transferred here from Ratisbon is moving 
 in our place. It is a pity to leave the good old rooms. The 
 second-hand dealer is going to get a deal of our stuff; there is 
 no room for it up there in those two cubby holes. How is 
 Gertrude? May I go up and see her for a minute or two?" 
 
 "Yes, o right up," said Daniel stiffly; "you can stay and listen 
 if you wish to. I am going to play the Harzreise." 
 
 "If I wish to? I almost have a right to; you promised me this 
 long ago."
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 215 
 
 "She thinks after all that I want to catch her," he thought to 
 himself. "It will be better for me to drop the whole business 
 than to let the idea creep into her stupid skull that my composition 
 is going to make propaganda for our private affairs." With 
 bowed head he ascended the stairs, M. Riviere and Eleanore fol- 
 lowing along behind. His ears were pricked to hear anything they 
 might say about Paris; they talked about the weather. 
 
 As they entered the room Gertrude had the harp between her 
 knees; but she was not playing. Her hands lay on the strings, 
 her head was resting on the frame. "Why haven't you lighted a 
 lamp?" asked Daniel angrily. 
 
 She was terrified; she looked at him anxiously. The expression 
 on her face made him conscious of many things that he had kept 
 in the background of his thoughts during his everyday life: her 
 unconditional surrender to him; the magnanimity and nobility of 
 her heart, which was as dependent on his as the mercury in the 
 thermometer is dependent on the atmosphere; her speechless resig- 
 nation regarding a thousand little things in her life! her well-nigh 
 supernatural ability to enter into the spirit and enjoyment of what 
 he was doing, however much his mind might presume to write 
 De -projundis across his creations. 
 
 It was on this account that he recognised in her face a serious, 
 far-a-way warning. At once cowardly and reverential, conscious 
 of his guilt and yet feeling innocent, he went up to her and 
 kissed her on the hair. She leaned her head on his breast, thus 
 causing him to feel, though quite unaware of it herself, the whole 
 weight of the burden she was placing on him. 
 
 He told her he was going to play. He said: "I have lost my 
 picture again; I want to try to find it in others." 
 
 Gertrude begged him, with a pale face, to be permitted to stay 
 in the living room. She closed the door only partly. 
 
 In Goetne s verses entitled "Harzreise im Winter," thoughts 
 lie scattered about like erratic strata in the world of geology, and 
 feelings that are as big and terrible as the flames from burning 
 planets. In Daniel's work the whole of Goethe's prodigious sor- 
 row and solemnity seemed to have been transformed automatically 
 into music. 
 
 When, in the second half, the motif of human voices was taken 
 over, when these voices pealed forth first singly, one by one,
 
 216 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 from the surging sea of tones, and then gathered with ever- 
 increasing avidity, longing, and candour into the great chorus, one 
 had the feeling that without this liberation they would have been 
 stifled in the darkness. 
 
 The effect of the pianissimo moaning of the basses before the 
 soprano set in was overwhelming: it was like the vulture which, 
 resting with easy wing on the dark morning cloud, spies around 
 for booty. So was the song meant to be. The trombone solo was 
 a shout of victory: it imparted new life to the sunken orchestra. 
 
 Daniel had infinite trouble in making all this wealth of sym- 
 bolic art clear through song, word, and gesture at the same time 
 that his music was being played. 
 
 The work abounded in blends and half tones which stamped it 
 as a child of its age, and still more of ages to come, despite the 
 compact rigidity of its architecture. There was no bared sweet- 
 ness in it; it was as rough as the bark of a tree; it was as rough 
 as anything that is created with the assurance of inner durability. 
 
 Its rhythm was uniform, regular; it provided only for cres- 
 cendos. There was nothing of the seductive, nothing of the waltz- 
 fever in it. It was in no way cheap; it did not flatter slothful ears. 
 It had no languishing motifs; it was all substance and exterior. 
 The melody was concealed like a hard kernel in a thick shell; 
 and not merely concealed: it was divided, and then the divisions 
 were themselves divided. It was condensed, compressed, bound, 
 and at the same time subterranean. It was created to rise from 
 its depths, rejoice, and overwhelm: "But clothe the lonely one in 
 thy clouds of gold! Enshroud with ivy until the roses bloom 
 again, oh Love, the dampened hair of thy poet!" 
 
 The work was written a quarter of a century before its time. 
 It was out of touch with the nerves of its contemporary environ- 
 ment. It could not hope to count upon a prophet or an inter- 
 preter. It could not be carried further by the benevolence of 
 congenial champions. It bore the marks of mortal neglect. It was 
 like a bird from the tropics left to die on the icy coasts of 
 Greenland. 
 
 But for those who are near in heart there is a fluid in the air 
 that intercedes for the higher truth. M. Riviere and Eleanore 
 scarcely breathed during the recital. Eleanore's big eyes were still: 
 they opened and closed slowly. When Daniel finished, he dried 
 his hot brow with his handkerchief, and then his arms fell limp 
 at his sides. He felt as if the brilliancy of Eleanore's eyes had 
 reached the tips of his hair and had electrified it.
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 217 
 
 "Enshroud with ivy, until the roses bloom again, oh Love, the 
 dampened hair of thy poet!" 
 
 "It is impossible to get an idea of it," murmured Daniel; "the 
 piano is like an instrument of torture." 
 
 They were struck by peculiar sounds coming from the living 
 room. They went in, and found Gertrude pale as death, her 
 hands folded across her bosom, sitting on the sofa. She was talk- 
 ing to herself, partly as if in a dream, partly as if she were pray- 
 ing. It was impossible to understand what she was saying. She 
 seemed distant, estranged. 
 
 Eleanore hastened to her; Daniel looked at her with a scowl. 
 Just then the bell rang, and M. Riviere went out. There was the 
 sound of a man's voice; it was disagreeable. The door was opened 
 and Herr Carovius entered. 
 
 Herr Carovius bowed in all directions. He wore tan shoes with 
 brass buckles, black trousers, a shiny green coat, and a white 
 cravat that could no longer be called clean. He laid his slouch 
 hat on a chair, and said he would like to beg their pardon if he 
 had called at an inopportune hour. He had come, he said, to thank 
 his dear young master for the aforementioned invitation. 
 
 "It seems yes, it seems," he added, with a droll blinking of 
 his eyes, "that I have in all innocence interrupted the performance 
 of a most interesting production. There is a crowd of people 
 gathered out in front of the house, and I could not forego the 
 pleasure of listening. I hope you will not stop playing the sacri- 
 ficial festival on my account. What was it, maestro? It wasn't the 
 symphony, was it?" 
 
 "Yes, it was the symphony," replied Daniel, who was so amazed 
 at the appearance and conduct of the man that he was really 
 courteous. 
 
 "It cost me money to be sure believe it or not. I had to get 
 an afternoon coat that would do for a Count latest cut, velvet 
 collar, tails that reached down to my calves. Aristocratic, very!' 
 He stared over Gertrude's head into the corner, and tittered for 
 at least a half a minute. 
 
 Nobody said a word. Everybody was dumb, astounded. 
 
 "Good lord, social obligations," continued Herr Carovius, "but 
 after all you can't afford to be a backwoodsman. Music is sup- 
 posed to ennoble a man even externally. By the way, there is a
 
 218 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 rumour afloat that it is a symphony with chorus. How did you 
 happen upon the idea? The laurels of the Ninth will not let you 
 sleep? I would have thought that you didn't give a damn about 
 classical models. Everybody is so taken up now with musical lul- 
 labies, wage-la-wei-a, that kind of stuff, you know. But then I 
 suppose that is only a transition stage, as the fox said when he was 
 being skinned." 
 
 He took off his nose glasses, polished them very hastily, fumbled 
 for a while with his cord, and then put them on again. Having 
 gained time in this way, he began to expatiate on the decadence 
 of the arts, asked Daniel whether he had ever heard anything 
 about a certain Hugo Wolf who was being much talked about and 
 who was sitting in darkest Austria turning out songs like a Hot- 
 tentot, made a number of derogatory remarks about a fountain 
 that was being erected in the city, said that a company of dancers 
 had just appeared at the Cultural Club in a repertory of gro- 
 tesque pantomimes, remarked that as he was coming over he 
 learned that there was an institution in the city that loaned potato 
 sacks, and that there had just been a fearful fire in Constanti- 
 nople. 
 
 Thereupon he looked first at Daniel, then at M. Riviere, took 
 the snarls of the one and the embarrassment of the other to be 
 encouraging signs for the continuation of his gossip, readjusted his 
 glasses, and sneezed. Then he smoothed out the already remark- 
 ably smooth hairs he had left on his head, rubbed his hands as 
 if he were beginning to feel quite at home, and tittered when 
 there was any sign of a stoppage in his asinine eloquence. 
 
 At times he would cast a stealthy glance at Gertrude, who 
 would draw back somewhat as the arm of a thief who feels he is 
 being watched. Eleanore did not seem to be present so far as he 
 was concerned: he did not see her. Finally she got up. She was 
 tortured by the interruption of what she had just experienced from 
 the music and by his flat, stale, and unprofitable remarks. Then 
 he got up too, looked at his watch as if he were frightened, asked 
 if he might repeat his visit at another time, took leave of Ger- 
 trude with a silly old-fashioned bow, from Daniel with a con- 
 fidential handshake, and from the Frenchman with uncertain cour- 
 tesy. Eleanore he again entirely overlooked. 
 
 Out in the hall he stopped, nodded several times, and said with 
 an almost insane grin, speaking into the empty air before him: 
 "Auf Wiedersehen, fair one! Auf Wiedersehen, fairest of all! 
 Good-bye, my angel! Forget me not!"
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 219 
 
 In the room Eleanore whispered in a heavy, anxious tone: 
 "What was that? What was that? " 
 
 VIII 
 
 Philippina Schimmelweis came to help Eleanore with the mov- 
 ing. At first Elenore was quite surprised; then she became accus- 
 tomed to having her around and found her most helpful. Jordan 
 took no interest in anything that was going on. The last of all 
 his hope seemed to be shattered by the fact that he was to move. 
 
 Philippina gradually fell into the habit of coming every day 
 and working for a few hours either for Eleanore or for Gertrude, 
 so long as the latter had anything to do in the kitchen. They 
 became used to seeing her, and put up with her. She tried to 
 make as little noise as possible; she had the mien of a person who 
 is filling an important but unappreciated office. 
 
 She made a study of the house; she knew the rooms by heart. 
 She preferred to come along toward sunset or a little later. One 
 day she told Eleanore she had seen a mysterious-looking person 
 out on the hall steps. Eleanore took a candle and went out, but 
 she could not see any one. Philippina insisted nevertheless that 
 she had seen a man in a green doublet, and that he had made a 
 face at her. 
 
 She was particularly attracted by the rooms in the attic. She 
 told the neighbours that there was an owl up there. As a result 
 of this the children of that section began to fear the entire 
 house, while the chancellor's wife, who lived on the ground floor, 
 became so nervous that she gave up her apartment. 
 
 There was no outside door or entrance hall of any kind to 
 Jordan's new quarters. You went direct from the stairway into 
 the room where Eleanore worked and slept. Adjoining this was 
 her father's room. People still called him the Inspector, although 
 he no longer had such a position. 
 
 He sat in his narrow, cramped room the whole day. One wall 
 was out of plumb. The windows he kept closed. When Eleanore 
 brought him his breakfast or called him to luncheon, which she 
 had cooked in the tiny box of a kitchen and then served in her own 
 little room, he was invariably sitting at the table before a stack 
 of papers, mostly old bills and letters. The arrangement of these 
 he never changed. 
 
 Once she entered his room without knocking. He sprang up, 
 closed a drawer as quickly as he could, locked it, put the key in
 
 220 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 his pocket, and tried to smile in an innocent way. Eleanore's heart 
 almost stopped beating. 
 
 He never went out until it was dark, and on his return he could 
 be seen carrying a package under his arm. This he took with 
 him to his room. 
 
 At first Eleanore was always uneasy when she had to leave. 
 She requested Philippina to be very careful and see to it that no 
 stranger entered the house. Philippina had a box full of ribbons 
 in Eleanore's cabinet. She set a chair against the door leading 
 into Jordan's room; and when her hands were tired from rum- 
 maging around in the ribbons and her eyes weary from looking at 
 all the flashy colours, she pressed her ear to the door to see if she 
 could find out what the old man was doing. 
 
 At times she heard him talking. It seemed as if he were talking 
 with some one. His voice had an exhortatory but tender tone 
 in it. Philippina trembled with fear. Once she even pressed 
 the latch; she wanted to open the door as quietly as possible, so 
 that she might peep in and see what was really going on. But 
 to her vexation, the door was bolted on the other side. 
 
 For Gertrude she did small jobs and ran little errands: she 
 would go to the baker or the grocer for her. Gertrude became 
 less and less active; it was exceedingly difficult for her to climb 
 the stairs. Philippina took the place of a maid. The only kind of 
 work she refused to do was work that would soil her clothes. 
 Gertrude's shyness irritated her; one day she said in a snappy tone: 
 "You are pretty proud, ain't you? You don't like me, do you?" 
 Gertrude looked at her in amazement, and made no reply; she did 
 not know what to say. 
 
 Whenever Philippina heard Daniel coming, she hid herself. 
 But if he chanced to catch sight of her, he merely shrugged his 
 shoulders at the "frame," as he contemptuously called her. It 
 seemed to him that it would be neither wise nor safe to mistreat 
 her. He felt that it was the better part of valour to look with 
 favour on her inexplicable diligence, and let it go at that. 
 
 Once he even so completely overcame himself that he gave her 
 his hand; but he drew it back immediately: he felt that he had 
 never touched anything so slimy in his life; he thought he had 
 taken hold of a frog. Philippina acted as if she had not noticed 
 what he had done. But scarcely had he gone into his room, when 
 she turned to Gertrude with a diabolic glimmer in her eyes, and, 
 making full use of her vulgar voice, said: "Whew! Daniel's kind, 
 ain't he? No wonder people can't stand him!"
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 221 
 
 When she saw that Gertrude knit her brow at this exclamation, 
 she wheeled about on the heels of her clumsy shoes, and screamed 
 as if the devil were after her: "Oi, oi, Gertrude, Gertrude, oi, oi, 
 the meat's burning! The meat's burning." 
 
 It was a false alarm. The meat was sizzling quite peacefully 
 in the pan. 
 
 IX 
 
 Late in the afternoon of a stormy day in June Daniel came 
 home from the last rehearsal of the "Harzreise," tired and out of 
 humour. The rehearsals had been held in a small room in Wey- 
 rauth's Garden. He had quarrelled with all the musicians and 
 with all the singers, male and female. 
 
 As he reached ^gydius Place a shudder suddenly ran through 
 his body. He was forced to cover his eyes with his hands and 
 stand still for a moment; he thought he would die from longing 
 for a precious virginal possession which he had been so foolish as 
 to trifle away. 
 
 He went up the steps, passed by his own apartment, and 
 climbed on up to the apartment of Inspector Jordan and his 
 daughter Eleanore. 
 
 His eye fell on the board partition surrounding the stove and 
 the copper cooking utensils that hung on the wall. There sat 
 Eleanore, her arm resting on the window sill, her head on her 
 hand: she was meditating meditating and gaining new strength as 
 she did so. Her face was turned toward the steep fall of a roof, 
 the century-old frame-work, grey walls, darkened window panes 
 and dilapidated wooden galleries, above which lay stillness and 
 a rectangular patch of sky that was then covered with clouds. 
 
 "Good evening," said Daniel, as he stepped out of the darkness 
 into the dimly lighted room. "What are you doing, Eleanore, 
 what are you thinking about?" 
 
 Eleanore shuddered: "Ah, is it you, Daniel? You show your- 
 self after a long while? And ask what I am thinking about? 
 What curiosity! Do you want to come into my room?" 
 
 "No, no, sit perfectly still," he replied, and prevented her from 
 getting up by touching her on the shoulder. "Is your father at 
 home?" 
 
 She nodded. He drew a narrow bench from which he had 
 removed the coffee mill and a strainer up to the serving table, and 
 sat down as far as possible from Eleanore, though even so they
 
 222 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 were as close together as if they were sitting opposite each other 
 in a cab. 
 
 "How are you making out?" she asked with embarrassment, and 
 without the remotest display of warmth. 
 
 "You know that I am beating a perforated drum, Eleanore." 
 After a pause he added: "But whatever people may do or fail 
 to do, between us two there must be a clear understanding: Are 
 you going to Paris?" 
 
 She dropped her head in silence. "Well, I could go; there 
 is nothing to prevent me," she said, softly and with hesitation. 
 "But you see how it is. I am no longer as I used to be. Formerly 
 I could scarcely picture the happiness I would derive from having 
 some one there in whom I could confide and who would be inter- 
 ested in me. I would not have hesitated for a moment. But 
 now? If I go, what becomes clear from my going? And if I 
 stay here, what will be clear? I have already told you, Daniel, 
 that I don't understand you. How terrible it is to have to say 
 that! What do you want now? How is all this going to come 
 out?" 
 
 "Eleanore, do you recall Benda's last letter? You yourself 
 brought it to me, and after that I was a different person. He 
 wrote to me in that letter just as if he had never heard of Gertrude, 
 and said that I should not pass you by. He wrote that we two 
 were destined for each other, and neither for any one else in the 
 world. Of course you recall how I acted after reading the letter. 
 And even before that: Do you remember the day of the wedding 
 when you put the myrtle wreath on? Why, I knew then that I 
 had lost everything, that my real treasure had vanished. And even 
 before that: Do you recall that I found that Friiulein Sylvia von 
 Erfft had your complexion, your figure, your hair, and your hands? 
 And even before that: When you went walking with Benda in the 
 woods, I walked along behind, and took so much pleasure in watch- 
 ing you walk, but I didn't know it. And when you came into the 
 room there in the Long Row, and caressed the mask and sat down 
 at the piano and leaned your head against the wood, don't you 
 recall how indispensable you were to me, to my soul? The only 
 trouble is, I didn't know it; I didn't know it." 
 
 "Well, there is nothing to be done about all that: that is a 
 by-gone story," said Eleanore, holding her breath, while a blush 
 of emotion flitted across her face only to give way to a terrible 
 paleness. 
 
 "Do you believe that I am a person to be content with what is
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 223 
 
 past? Every one, Eleanore, owes himself his share of happiness, 
 and he can get it if he simply makes up his mind to it. It is 
 not until he has neglected it, abandoned it, and passed it by, that 
 his fate makes a slave out of him." 
 
 "That is just what I do not understand," said Eleanore, and 
 looked into his face with a more cheerful sense of freedom. "It 
 wounds my heart to see you waging a losing battle against self- 
 deception and ugly defiance. We two cannot think of committing 
 a base deed, Daniel. It is impossible, isn't it?" 
 
 Daniel, plainly excited, bent over nearer to her: "Do you know 
 where I am standing?" he asked, while the blue veins in his 
 temples swelled and hammered: "Well, I'll tell you. I am stand- 
 ing on a marble slab above an abyss. To the right and left of this 
 abyss are nothing but blood-thirsty wolves. There is no choice 
 left to me except either to leap down into the abyss, or to allow 
 myself to be torn to pieces, by the wolves. When such a being 
 as you comes gliding along through the air, a winged creature like 
 you, that can rescue me and pull me up after it, is there any ground 
 for doubt as to what should be done? " 
 
 Eleanore folded her arms across her bosom, and half closed her 
 eyes: "Ah no, Daniel," she said in a kindly way, "you are exag- 
 gerating, really. You see everything too white and too black: A 
 winged creature, I? Where, pray, are my wings? And wolves? 
 All these silly little people wolves? Oh no, Daniel. And 
 blood-thirsty? Listen, Daniel, that is going quite too far; don't 
 you think so yourself?" 
 
 "Don't crush my feelings, Eleanore!" cried Daniel, in a sup- 
 pressed tone and with passionate fierceness: "Don't crush my feel- 
 ings, for they are all I have left. You are not capable of thinking 
 as you have just been talking, you cannot think that low, you are 
 not capable of such languid, ordinary feelings. The over-tone! 
 The over-tone! Think a little! Can't you see them gritting 
 their teeth at me? Can't you hear them howling day and night? 
 Can you possibly say that they are kind or compassionate? Or are 
 they willing to be good and great when one comes? Do you 
 have confidence in a single one of them? Have they not even 
 dragged your good name into the mire? Are any of the things 
 that are sacred to you and to me sacred to them? Can they be 
 moved the one-thousandth part of an inch by your distress or my 
 distress or the distress of any human being? Is not the slime of 
 slander thick upon their tongues? Is not your smile a thorn in 
 their flesh? Do they not envy me the little I have and for
 
 224 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 which I have flayed myself? Don't they envy me my music, which 
 they do not understand, and which they hate because they do 
 not understand it? Would it not fill them with joy if I had 
 to make my living beating stones on the public highway or cleaning 
 out sewers? Do they find it possible to pardon me for my life 
 and the things that make up my life? And yet you say there are 
 no wolves? That they are not wolves? Tell me that you are 
 afraid of them, that you do not wish to turn them against your- 
 self; but don't tell me that you are committing an evil act when 
 I call you to me, you with your wings, and you come." 
 
 His arms were stretched out toward her on the top of the kitchen 
 table; they were trembling to the very tips of his fingers. 
 
 "The evil deed, Daniel," whispered Eleanore, "hasn't anything 
 to do with these people; it was committed against the higher law 
 of morals, against our feeling of right usage and established 
 honour. . . ." 
 
 "False," he hissed, "false! They have made you believe that. 
 They have preached that to you for centuries and centuries; your 
 mother, your grand-mother, your great-grand-mother, they have all 
 been telling you that. It is false; it is a lie; it is all a lie. It is 
 with this very lie that they support their power and protect their 
 organisation. It is truth on the contrary that fills my heart, fills 
 it with joy, and helps me along. What nature offers, obedience 
 to nature, that is truth. Truth lies in your thoughts, in your feel- 
 ings, girl, in your choked feelings, in your blood, in the 'yes' you 
 speak in your dreams. Of course I know that they need their lie, 
 for they must be organised, the wolves; they must go in packs, 
 otherwise they are impotent. But I have only my truth, only my 
 truth as I stand on the marble slab above the abyss." 
 
 "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 false- 
 hood and error, I am as convinced as I can be that my truth is also 
 your ;ruth." 
 
 "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
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 225 
 
 own law. I must y where other people merely should or may, or 
 may not. Whoever does not comprehend that has nothing in com- 
 mon, 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 passion of his will and the 
 undaunted assurance 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 circumstances? 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 con- 
 sidered 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 passions, 
 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 embarrassment, anxiety, and ruin were not ready to leap 
 forth without warning? 
 
 She bowed her head, and covered it with her hands. She sat
 
 226 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 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, "Briiderlein. 1 . . ." She spoke the word in a tone 
 of longing fervour and half-humorous appealing. 
 
 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 door- 
 way 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. 
 
 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 com- 
 poser himself conduct. At the sight of the jumping and sprawling 
 fellow, Herr Zo'llner, councillor of the consistory, almost burst 
 with laughter. 
 
 Old Count Schlemm-Nottheim, who not only had a liking for 
 pornographic 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 
 
 i "Little brother."
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 227 
 
 in the corners. In order not to offend the Baroness, there was a 
 goodly measure of seemingly cordial applause. The guests and 
 artists then assembled 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 interest- 
 ing 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 sup- 
 port 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 shell from the serving tray, and threw it at 
 Fraulein Varini. He let his leery, lascivious eyes roam about over 
 the cut glass 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 glass, 
 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 
 association 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 tittered. He buttoned 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 Kapell- 
 meister Nothafft was sitting at the table in his stocking feet. His
 
 228 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 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 disencumbered feet. Whenever the waiters passed 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 con- 
 ceal 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, accumulated 
 momentous charm in its course, passed 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
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 229 
 
 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 lustful horror of the inhabitants with 
 their bloated or emaciated bodies and the sad or intoxicated stare 
 of their eyes. 
 
 Herr Carovius wended his way to this quarter of the city. 
 Because it was only a shadow which he embraced in hours when 
 his inflamed imagination, vitiated by all the poisons of the earth, 
 conjured up a human body, he was angry; now he went there, and 
 bought himself a real human body. 
 
 After he had been in a half a dozen of these houses, had been 
 jubilantly greeted, and then thrown out to the accompaniment of 
 bawdy abuse, he at last found what he had been looking for: a 
 creature whose cunning had not entirely been lost, who still had 
 the features of a daughter of man, and whose figure and character 
 still had the power to call up a memory, provided one were firmly
 
 230 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 decided to see what one wished to see and to forget what one 
 wished to forget. 
 
 Her name was Lena, charming reminder of a desired reality! 
 He went with her as she left the circle of her companions, and 
 followed her into the wretched hole between winding stairs and 
 attic rooms. He rattled the coins in his pocket, and gave his 
 orders. The nymph had to put on a street dress, set a modest hat 
 on her head, and draw a veil over her rouged face. Thereupon he 
 went up to her, spoke to her courteously, and kissed her hand. 
 He had never in his life acted in so polite and chivalric a fashion 
 in the presence of a woman. 
 
 The prostitute was frightened; she ran away. She had to be 
 given instructions; these were given her by the madame of the 
 house; for Herr Carovius was rattling the coins in his pocket. 
 "You will have to be patient and indulgent; we are not prepared 
 for such refined guests here." 
 
 He returned. Lena had been told what to do. She soon fell 
 into her role. 
 
 "To be frank," he said to Lena, "I am inexperienced- in the 
 arts of love. I am too proud to kowtow to the berobed and 
 bodiced idol. A woman is a woman, and a man is a man. They 
 delude themselves and each other, or try to, into believing that 
 each woman is a special person, and each man a man to himself. 
 Idiocy!" 
 
 The prostitute grinned. 
 
 He walked back and forth; the room was just large enough to 
 allow him to take three steps. He recalled the expression on 
 Eleanore's face during the performance of the symphony; his 
 greedy eyes had rested on her all the while. He became enraged: 
 "You don't imagine that progress can be made by such amateurish 
 efforts?" he said with a roar. "It is all hocus-pocus. There is as 
 a matter of fact no such thing as progress in art, any more than 
 there is progress in the course of the stars. Listen!" 
 
 He bellowed forth the first motif from the "Sonata quasi una 
 fantasia" of Mozart: "Listen to this: Da dada da daddaa! Is 
 it possible to progress beyond that? Don't let them make a fool 
 of you, my angel. Be honest with yourself. He has hypnotised 
 you. He has turned your unsuspecting heart upside down. Look 
 at me! Are you afraid of me? I will do all in my power for 
 you. Give me your hand. Speak to me!" 
 
 The prostitute was obliged to stretch out her arms. He sat 
 down beside her with a solemn ceremoniousness. Then he removed
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 231 
 
 the pin from her hat, and laid the hat tenderly to one side. She 
 had to lean her head on his shoulder. 
 
 With that he fell into a dreamy meditation. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Philippina came up to Gertrude in the living room. Daniel 
 was not at home. Philippina was humming the latest street song, 
 the refrain of which ran as follows: 
 
 Draft di, Model, draft dl t 
 Morgen kommt der Mahdi. 
 
 "There it is," said Philippina, and threw a ba of yarn on 
 the table. 
 
 Gertrude had yielded to the girl's importunities, and was address- 
 ing her now with the familiar "thou" and allowing Philippina 
 to do the same in speaking to her. "We are after all relatives, 
 you know, Gertrude," said Philippina. 
 
 Gertrude was afraid of Philippina; but she had thus far found 
 no means of defending herself against her exaggerated eagerness 
 to help her with the housework. And she felt in Philippina's 
 presence what she felt in the presence of no one else a sense of 
 shame at her own condition. 
 
 Philippina, in fact, saw something indecent in Gertrude's preg- 
 nancy; when she talked to her she always held her head up and 
 looked into space; her action was quite conspicuous. 
 
 "Oh, but ain't people impudent," Philippina began, after she 
 had taken a loutish position on a chair. "The clerk over in the 
 store asked me whether there wasn't something up between Daniel 
 and Eleanore. What d'ye think of that? Fresh, yes? You bet 
 I give him all that was coming to him!" 
 
 The needle in Gertrude's fingers stopped moving. It was not 
 the first time that Philippina had made such insinuating remarks. 
 To-day she would come up to Gertrude, and whisper to her that 
 Daniel was upstairs with Eleanore; yesterday she had said in a 
 tone of affected sympathy that Eleanore looked so run down. 
 Then she gave a detailed report of what this person and that person 
 had said; then she turned into a champion of good morals and 
 gentle manners, and remarked that you ought not offend people. 
 
 Her every third word was "people." She said she knew what 
 a faultless character Eleanore had and how Daniel loved his wife,
 
 232 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 but people! And after all you couldn't scratch everybody's eyes 
 out who annoyed you with dubious questions; if you did, there 
 would soon be very few eyes left. 
 
 Philippina's bangs had acquired an unusual length; they covered 
 her whole forehead down to her eyelashes. The glances she cast 
 at Gertrude had on this account something especially malevolent 
 about them. "She is not so certain of herself and her family 
 after all," thought Philippina, and made a lewd gesture with her 
 \egs as she sprawled on the chair. 
 
 "You know, I think Daniel ought to be more cautious," she 
 said with her rasping voice. "This being together all alone for 
 hours at a time ain't going to do no good; no good at all, I say. 
 And the two are always running after each other; if it's not her, 
 it's him. If you happen to take 'em by surprise, they jump like 
 criminals. It's been going on this way for six weeks, day after 
 day. Do you think that's right? You don't need to put up with 
 it, Gertrude," she said in conclusion, making a sad attempt to look 
 coquettish. Then she cast her eyes to the floor, and looked as 
 innocent as a child. 
 
 Gertrude's heart grew cold. Her confidence in Daniel was 
 unfaltering, but the venomous remarks made to her left her without 
 peace of mind or body; she could not think clearly. The very 
 fact that such things were being said about Daniel and Eleanore, 
 and that words failed her to stop them because from the very 
 beginning she had borne it all with the self-assurance that naturally 
 springs from contempt for gossip, only tended to make her grief 
 all the more bitter. 
 
 How hollow any objection on her part would have sounded! 
 How fatuous and ineffective a rebuke from her would have been! 
 Could she muzzle these wicked, slanderous tongues by referring to 
 the peculiarities of Daniel's nature? Could he be expected to go 
 to Philippina and give an account of himself? A contemptuous 
 smile came to her face when she pondered on such possibilities. 
 
 And yet, why was she heart-sore? Was it because she was at 
 last beginning to realise that she was unloved? 
 
 Involuntarily her eyes fell on the mask; it was still covered 
 with the withered rose twigs. She got up and removed them. 
 Her hand trembled as if she were committing some evil act. 
 
 "Go home, Philippina, I don't need you any more," she said. 
 
 "Oi, it is late, ain't it? I must be going," cried Philippina. 
 "Don't worry, Gertrude," she said by way of consolation. "And 
 don't complain of me to your husband; he'll git ugly if you do.
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 233 
 
 If you say anything bad about me, there's going to be trouble here, 
 I say. I am a perfect fool; people git out of my way, they do. 
 I've got a wicked mouth, I have; there's no stopping it. Well, 
 good night." 
 
 She rubbed her hands down over her skirt, as if she were 
 trying to smooth out the wrinkles; there was an element of comic 
 caution in what she did. 
 
 Out on the street she began to hum again: 
 
 Dratf di, Madel, drah? dt y 
 Morgen kommt der Mahdi. 
 
 XIV 
 
 When Daniel came home, it was late; but he sat down by 
 the lamp in his room and began to read Jean Paul's "Titan." In 
 the course of time his thoughts liberated themselves from the book 
 and went their own way. He got up, walked over to the piano, 
 raised the lid, and struck a chord; he listened with closed eyes: 
 it seemed that some one was calling him. It was a sultry night; 
 the stillness was painful. 
 
 Again he struck the chord: bells from the lower world. They 
 rang up through the green, grey mists, each distinct and delicate. 
 Each tone sent forth its accompanying group like sparks from a 
 skyrocket. Those related by the ties of harmony joined; those 
 that were alien fell back and down. And up in the distant, inac- 
 cessible heights there rang out with deceiving clarity, like the last 
 vision of earthly perfection, the melody of love, the melody of 
 Eleanore. 
 
 Yet, some one was calling him; but from where? His wife? 
 The distant, gloomy, waiting one? He closed the piano; the echo 
 of the noise made thereby rebounded from the church wall 
 through his window. 
 
 He put out the lamp, went into his bedroom, and undressed 
 by the light of the moon. The border of the curtain was em- 
 broidered with heavy Vitruvian scrolls, the shadows of which were 
 reflected on the floor; they made jagged, goalless paths. All these 
 lines consisted after all of only one line. 
 
 As he lay in bed his heart began to hammer. Suddenly he 
 knew, without looking, that Gertrude was not asleep; that she 
 was lying there staring at the ceiling just as he was. "Gertrude!" 
 he called.
 
 234 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 From the slight rustling of the pillow he concluded that she 
 turned her face to him. 
 
 "Don't you hear me?" 
 
 "Yes, Daniel." 
 
 "You must give me some advice; you must help me: help me and 
 your sister, otherwise I cannot say what may happen." 
 
 He stopped and listened, but there was not a stir: the stillness 
 was absolute. 
 
 "It is at times possible to remain silent out of consideration 
 for others," he continued, "but if the silence is maintained too 
 long, deception follows, and falsehood does not fail. But of what 
 use is candour if it thrusts a knife into the heart of another merely 
 in order to prepare an unblocked path for him who is candid? 
 What good does it do to confess if the other does not understand? 
 Two are already bleeding to death; shall the third meet with the 
 same fate merely in order to say that the matter was talked over? 
 The truth is, too many words have already been spoken, gruesome, 
 shameless words, at the sound of which the innocent night of 
 the senses vanishe-s. And must one bleed to death when it becomes 
 clearer and clearer that those are not eternal laws against which 
 war is being waged? How can I, dwarf that I am, attack eternal 
 laws? No, it is the frail, mutable customs of human society ? 
 Are you listening, Gertrude?" 
 
 A "yes" that sounded like a note from a bird on a distant hill 
 greeted his ears: it was the answer to his question. 
 
 "I have reached the point where silence is no longer thinkable: 
 there is no going any farther without you. I will neither exag- 
 gerate nor have recourse to conventional phrases: I will not speak 
 of passion nor say that it could not be helped. It is just barely 
 possible that everything can be helped; that a man could always 
 have done differently if he had begun soon enough. But who 
 can ever tell what the future may bring? And passion? There 
 are many varieties of passion. It is the term that every swain, 
 washed and unwashed, uses in referring to his lusts. I had never 
 felt a passion for which a woman was guilty. But now one has 
 seized me with hide and hair. I had imagined that I could get 
 out of it and not bring you into it; impossible! I am burning 
 up with this passion, Gertrude, my whole being has been changed 
 by it; and if help is not given me, I will be ruined." 
 
 For a time there was a death-like stillness in the room; then 
 he continued. 
 
 "But where is help to come from? It is strange; never until
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 235 
 
 this thing happened did I know what holds us two together, you 
 and me. Threads are being spun back and forth between us which 
 no hand may touch without withering, as it is written in the 
 Bible. There is a secret, a sacred secret, and if 1 offended it I 
 would feel as though I had strangled the unborn child in your 
 womb; and not only the child in your womb, but all the unborn 
 children in my own breast. There is in the life of each man a 
 woman in whom his own mother becomes young again, and to 
 whom he is bound by an unseen, indestructible, umbilical cord. 
 Face to face with this woman, his love, great or small, even his 
 hate, his indifference, becomes a phantom, just as everything that 
 we give out becomes a phantom compared with what is given to us. 
 And there is another woman who is my own creation, the fruit 
 of my dreams; she is my picture; I have created her from ray 
 own blood; she lay in me just as the seed lay in the bud. And she 
 must be mine once she has been unveiled and made known to me, 
 or I will perish of loneliness and maddened longing." 
 
 The extravagant man pressed his face to the pillow and groaned: 
 "She must be mine, or I will never get up from this bed. But 
 if my way to her passes over you, Gertrude, I would have to cry 
 out with Faust: 'Oh, had I never been born!' 
 
 Gertrude never uttered a sound. Minute after minute passed by. 
 Daniel, growing calmer, listened to see if he could not hear some 
 sound in the room. He heard nothing. The silence of his wife 
 began to fill him with anxiety; he rose up in bed. The moon 
 had gone down ; it was pitch dark. He felt around for some 
 matches, and lighted a candle. Holding it in his hand, he bent 
 over Gertrude. She was as pale as death; she was looking at the 
 ceiling with wide-opened eyes* 
 
 "Put the candle out, Daniel," she whispered, "I have some- 
 thing to say to you." 
 
 He put the candle out, and set it away. 
 
 "Give me your hand, Daniel." 
 
 He felt for her hand; he took hold of it. It was ice cold; 
 he laid it on his breast. 
 
 "May I stay with you, Daniel? Will you tolerate me in your 
 home? " 
 
 "Tolerate? Gertrude, tolerate?" he asked, in a lifeless, tone- 
 less voice. "You are my wife, in the presence of God my wife," 
 he added, in deadened memory of the words of another. 
 
 "I will become your mother made young again, as you wish." 
 
 "Yes, Gertrude, but how?"
 
 236 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "I will help you, you and Eleanore. The hearts of you two 
 shall not bleed to death because of me. Let me stay; that is 
 all I ask." 
 
 "That is more easily said than done, Gertrude." He pressed 
 close up to her, took her in his arms, and sobbed with unexpected 
 violence. 
 
 "It is hard; yes, it is hard. But your heart must not be allowed 
 to bleed on my account." 
 
 His head lay on her breast; he was seized with convulsions of 
 grief that would not let him go until break of day. 
 
 Then all of a sudden the words came like a scream from 
 Gertrude's lips: "I too am a creature." 
 
 He embraced her with warmth; and she murmured: "It is hard, 
 Daniel, but be of good cheer, be of good cheer." 
 
 xv 
 
 Pflaum, the apothecary, had begun to feel cramped in his house 
 near the Church of the Holy Ghost. He had looked at several 
 houses in the last week or two, and had finally decided on the 
 Schimmelweis property, which was now for sale. The apothecary 
 shop was to remain for the time being at its present location, and 
 Jason Philip was likewise to keep his store and his residence. Herr 
 Pflaum, being the landlord, intended to occupy the first and second 
 floors; he had a large family. 
 
 One beautiful August afternoon, the two men the apothecary 
 and the bookseller left the office of Judge Riibsam, where they 
 had gone to sign the papers transferring the mortgage on the 
 Schimmelweis property. A cloudless sky, already tinted with the 
 blue of the descending sun, shone over the city. 
 
 Herr Pflaum looked the picture of happiness: his troubles 
 seemed all to be behind him; he was manifestly facing the future 
 without fear and without care. Jason Philip Schimmelweis, on 
 the contrary, was plainly worried. He looked like a man who 
 was on the down grade. There was a great grease spot on his coat. 
 This spot told the story of domestic troubles; it revealed the fact 
 that Jason Philip had a wife who had been ill in bed for months, 
 and no physician in the city could diagnose her case; none knew 
 what she was suffering from. Jason Philip was angry at his wife, 
 at her illness, at the whole medical profession, and at the growing 
 confusion and disorder in his affairs. 
 
 As they crossed /Egvdius Place he cast a glance of unbounded
 
 TRES FACIUNT COLLEGIUM 237 
 
 hatred at the house in which Daniel and Gertrude lived. But 
 he did not say anything; he merely pinched his lips and hung his 
 head. In so doing he noticed the grease spot on his coat, and 
 emitted a vexed growl. "I will go along with you, Herr Apothe- 
 cary, and get a bottle of benzine," he said, turning to his com- 
 panion. In his voice there was a noticeable trace of that reluctant 
 and unwilling humility which the poor display in the presence of 
 the rich. 
 
 "Good, good," he said, "come right along." He blew the air 
 before him; for he was warm. "Greetings, greetings," he ex- 
 claimed, and waved his hand, "what are you doing here?" 
 
 It was Herr Carovius to whom he spoke. Herr Carovius was 
 just then standing by the fountain of the Goose Man, rapt in 
 the sort of reflection that was peculiar to him. 
 
 "At your service, gentlemen," he said. 
 
 "I see there are natives who study our native art," remarked 
 the apothecary with an ironical smile, and stopped. Jason Philip 
 likewise stopped, and looked in a dazed, distraught way at the 
 bronze man with the two geese. Some boys were playing ball 
 close by the fountain. When they saw the three men looking at it, 
 they quit playing, came up, and looked at the fountain and the 
 men and grinned as if there were something new to be seen. 
 
 "We have no idea what riches we possess," said Herr Carovius. 
 
 "Quite right, quite right," nodded the apothecary. 
 
 "I have just been trying to think what meaning this group may 
 have," continued Herr Carovius, "there is undeniably a musical 
 motif in it." 
 
 "A musical motif?" murmured Jason Philip, to whom the very 
 term music conveyed the idea of something unpleasant. 
 
 "Yes, but you have got to understand it," said Herr Carovius 
 rather jauntily. With that he seized the ear of a small boy who 
 had ventured right up to his trousers' legs; the boy screamed. 
 
 After casting an angry look at the monument, Jason Philip broke 
 out in sudden and hearty laughter. "Now I understand," he 
 stammered as he coughed, "you are a fox, a sly old dodger." 
 
 "What do you mean, gentlemen?" asked the apothecary, who had 
 become somewhat anxious, for he feared that this outburst of 
 hilarity was directed at him. 
 
 "Why, don't you see? Don't you understand?" panted Jason 
 Philip with a scarlet red face, "the two geese ? The musical 
 motif and the two geese ? Isn't it clear yet?" 
 
 It was clear to Herr Carovius. He stuck the index finger of
 
 238 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 his right hand in the air, and broke out in a neighing sort of 
 laughter. Then he took the apothecary by the arm, and in the 
 pauses between salvos of laughter he bleated: "Magnificent! 
 Under each arm a goose! Priceless! Say, Herr Schimmelweis, 
 that was good. We will allow you one on that." 
 
 The connection was now clear to the apothecary. He slapped 
 himself on his hips and cried: "As sure as there is a devil, that's 
 the best joke I ever heard in my life." 
 
 Jason Philip Schimmelweis again got control of himself. He 
 pressed his hands to his stomach and said breathlessly: "Who would 
 have thought that the Goose Man moves about among us in bodily 
 form?" 
 
 "Yes, who would have thought it?" said Herr Carovius as if 
 conceding a point. "It is a capital shot, a real discovery. We 
 come to the simple conclusion: Goose Man! And we are capable 
 of drawing a conclusion, for there are three of us. According to 
 an old proverb, Tres faciunt collegium" 
 
 "And they," stuttered Jason Philip, pointing to the group, as 
 tears of laughter trickled down over his pudgy cheeks, "they are 
 three, too. See, there are three of them!" 
 
 "Right," screamed Herr Carovius, "there are three of them, too. 
 It is all clear." 
 
 "Have a chew, gentlemen?" said the apothecary, taking his 
 tobacco pouch from his pocket. 
 
 "No," replied Jason Philip, "that joke deserves a cigar." The 
 remark was made between gulps of laughter. 
 
 "I suggest that we christen the story with a flask of Salvator," 
 said Herr Carovius. 
 
 The other two agreed to the proposal. The collegium marched 
 across the square, stopped every now and then, broke out in fits of 
 insuppressible laughter, and then continued on their way to the inn 
 with parched throats. 
 
 It may have been only an evening shadow, or it may have been a 
 rare inspiration that created the impression. But the Goose Man, 
 standing there in all his pride behind the iron railing, seemed to 
 follow them with his eyes, in which there were traces of sorrow 
 and astonishment. The boys playing ball had soon forgotten the 
 delectable episode.
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 
 
 DANIEL and Eleanore had reached a stage of mutual silence; 
 it was not the first time, however, and it was as disagreeable now 
 as it had been then. They would meet on the steps, and pass each 
 other with a mere nod. If Eleanore came in to see Gertrude, 
 Daniel withdrew. 
 
 Once Eleanore called when Gertrude was not at home. Daniel 
 was stubborn; nor could Eleanore manage to make a single rational 
 remark. He did not like her looks; he suspected her paleness 
 and outward, enforced cheerfulness. "It is an undignified state 
 of affairs, Eleanore," he exclaimed, "we must make an end of it." 
 
 Make an end of it? Yes but how? This was the thought that 
 came at once to Eleanore's mind. Every day the chain that bound 
 her to him became stronger. 
 
 Daniel was also tortured by the sight of Gertrude. He felt 
 that she was watching him and that she was worried about him. 
 More than that, the event was approaching that surrounded her 
 with an atmosphere of suffering and made forbearance obligatory. 
 Her features, though haggard and distorted, bore nevertheless an 
 expression of mysterious transfiguration. 
 
 After Gertrude had noticed for some time that Daniel was being 
 estranged from his work and that he had lost interest in every- 
 thing, she decided to have a talk with Eleanore. She did it with- 
 out preparation or tenderness. 
 
 "Can't you see that you are ruining him?" she cried. 
 
 "You want me to be ruined, do you?" asked Eleanore, in sur- 
 prised dismay. She had appreciated at once and without difficulty 
 the complete range of Gertrude's renunciation. 
 
 "What difference does it make about you?" replied Gertrude 
 harshly; "what are you getting excited about?" 
 
 This question made Eleanore's ideas of order and duty quake 
 and totter. She looked at her sister with incredulous eyes and 
 in perfect silence. It was not the happy, gentle Gertrude that had 
 spoken, but the Gertrude of months ago, the lonely, loveless 
 Gertrude. 
 
 What difference does it make about you? Why arc you getting 
 
 239
 
 240 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 excited? That was equivalent to saying: Make short work of your 
 life, and don't draw out the episode in his life any longer than 
 you have to. 
 
 Eleanore took courage to carry out the plan she had had in mind 
 for a long while and in which she placed her last hope. 
 
 One evening she went to Daniel and said: "I should like to go 
 with you to Eschenbach, Daniel, and visit your mother." 
 
 "Why do you wish to do that?" he asked in amazement. He 
 and his mother did not write to each other: that was due first of 
 all to their natures, and secondly to the condition in which each 
 was now living. But he knew that Eleanore received an occasional 
 letter from Eschenbach which she answered without consulting him. 
 This had never seemed strange to him until now. 
 
 A few days later she repeated her wish; Daniel granted it. 
 They decided upon the following Sunday for the excursion. 
 
 A warm, languid October sun shone over the land; the forests 
 presented a gorgeous array of autumnal foliage; the fields lay 
 stretched in barren rows; along the hills of Franconia floated clouds 
 that looked like down driven by the wind. 
 
 They had taken the train as far as Triesdorf ; from there they 
 went on to Merckendorf by stage coach. The rest of the distance 
 they walked. Daniel pointed to a flock of geese that were trotting 
 around on the shore of an abandoned pond, and said: "That is 
 our national bird; his cackle is our music. But it doesn't sound 
 so bad." 
 
 A peasant woman passed by, and made the sign of the cross 
 before the picture of a saint: "It is strange that everything has 
 suddenly become Catholic," said Eleanore. 
 
 Daniel nodded, and replied that when his father moved to 
 Eschenbach a few other Protestant families were living there, all 
 of whom joined in Protestant worship. Later, he said, most of 
 them emigrated, leaving his mother as the only Protestant, so far 
 as he knew, in the neighbourhood. But, Daniel remarked in the 
 course of conversation, his mother had never had any unpleasant 
 experience on this account, and he himself had frequently gone to 
 church, primarily of course to helta" the organ, though no one had 
 ever taken offence at this. "There is a totally different type of 
 people here," he added, "people who lay greater stress on externals 
 than we do, and yet are more secretive."
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 241 
 
 Elcanore looked at the church tower whose Spanish-green roof 
 rose from the valley. After a long silence she said: "I wonder 
 whether it will be a boy or a girl, Gertrude's baby? Oh, a girl, 
 of course. Some day it will be in the world, and will look at me 
 with eyes, with real eyes. How strange that a child of yours 
 should look at me!" 
 
 "What is there strange about that? Many children are born, 
 many look at some one." 
 
 "What are you going to call it? " asked Eleanore. 
 
 "If it is blond and has blue eyes like yours, I am going to 
 call it Eva." 
 
 "Eva!" cried Eleanore, "no, that won't do." She herself had 
 chosen the name of Eva for the child of the maid at the Riidigers'. 
 That he should now want to call Gertrude's child by the same 
 name seemed so strange to her. 
 
 "Why not Eva?" he asked. "There is something back of this 
 objection on your part. Women always have something up their 
 sleeve. Out with it! Why do you object to Eva?" 
 
 Eleanore smiled, and shook her head. She would have liked 
 to make a clean confession to him, but she was not certain how he 
 would take it: she was afraid he would turn back, enraged at her 
 cunning. Once the child had been born and lay there before 
 him, it would captivate him, and she knew it. 
 
 They had stopped and were looking out over the sunlit plains. 
 "How alone we are!" said Daniel. 
 
 "Everything is easier here," said Eleanore thoughtfully. "If 
 one could only forget where one comes from, it would be easy to 
 be happy." 
 
 "I have been away for seven years," said Daniel as they passed 
 through the village gate. Everything seemed so ridiculously small 
 the Town Hall, the Church, the Market Place, and the Eschen- 
 bach Fountain. He had also pictured the houses and streets to 
 himself as being cleaner and better kept. As he passed over the 
 three steps at the front gate, each one of which was bulging out 
 like a huge oyster shell, and entered the shop with its smell of 
 spices, the past dwindled to nothing. Marian was so happy she 
 could not speak. She reached one of her hands to Daniel, the 
 other to Eleanore. Her first question was about Gertrude. 
 
 In the room sat a four-year-old child with blond hair and
 
 242 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 marvellous blue eyes. Its little face was of the most delicate beauty, 
 its body was delicately formed. 
 
 "Who is the child? To whom does it belong?" asked Daniel. 
 
 "It is your own child, Daniel," said his mother. 
 
 "My own child! Yes, for heaven's sakes !" He blushed, 
 turned pale, looked first at his mother, and then at Eleanore. 
 
 "It is your own flesh and blood. Don't you ever think of 
 Meta any more? " 
 
 "Of Meta. . . . Oh, I see. And you, you adopted the child? 
 And you, Eleanore, knew all about this? And you, Mother, took 
 the child?" He sat down at the table, and covered his face with 
 his hands. "That was what Eleanore had in mind?" he murmured 
 timidly to himself. "And I presume that to make the story com- 
 plete the child's name is Eva . . .?" 
 
 "Yes, Eva," whispered Eleanore, touched by trie situation. "Go 
 to your father, Eva, and shake hands with him." 
 
 The child did as it had been told. Then Marian related to 
 her son how Eleanore had brought the child to Eschenbach, 
 and how Meta had married and gone to America with her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Every look, every movement on the part of Marian showed 
 how great her love for the child was: she guarded it as the apple 
 of her eye. 
 
 The circle of wonderful events closed in around Daniel's heart. 
 Where responsibility lay and where guilt, where will power ended 
 and fate began, Daniel could not say. To express gratitude would 
 be vulgar; to conceal his emotions was difficult. He was ashamed 
 of himself in the presence of both of the women. But when he 
 looked at the living creature, his shame lost all meaning. And 
 how exalted Eleanore appeared in his eyes just then! She seemed 
 to him equally amiable and worthy of respect, whether he regarded 
 her as an active or as a sentient, feeling woman. He almost 
 shuddered at the thought that she was so near him; that what she 
 had done had been done for him filled him with humility. 
 
 The strangest of all, however, was little Eva herself. He 
 could not see enough of her; he was amazed at the trick nature 
 had played: a human being of the noblest mien and form had 
 been born of a gawky, uncouth servant girl. There was something 
 divinely graceful and airy about the child. She had well-formed 
 hands, delicate wrists, shapely ankles, and a clear, transparent 
 forehead, on which a network of bluish veins spread out in various 
 directions. Her laughter was the purest of music; and in her
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 243 
 
 walk and gestures in general there was a rhythm which promised 
 much for her future poise and winsomeness. 
 
 Daniel took Eleanore through the village and out to the old 
 town gate. It was the time of the annual fair; Eschenbach was 
 crowded. They returned on this account to the more quiet streets, 
 and finally entered the church. The sexton came up and admitted 
 Daniel to the choir. Daniel sat down at the organ; the sexton 
 pumped the bellows; Eleanore took a seat on one of the little 
 benches near the side wall. 
 
 Daniel's eyes became fixed; his fingers touched the keys with 
 supernatural power; he began to improvise. There were two 
 motifs following each other in close succession; both were in fifths; 
 they were united into one; they ran from the low to the high 
 registers, from Hell through the World to Heaven. A hymn 
 crowned the improvised composition. 
 
 He stood with Eleanore for a long whfle in the stillness. The 
 songs echoed from the lofty arches. It seemed to both of them 
 that the blood of the one was flowing into the body of the other. 
 Incidents of the past faded from their memory; they seemed to 
 have completed a long journey; there was no voice to remind them 
 of their return; they were completely liberated from duties and 
 made immune from care. 
 
 IV 
 
 Eleanore was to sleep with Marian and Eva; Daniel was to 
 have his old room. He showed it to Eleanore; they stepped to 
 the window and looked out. They saw Eva down in the yard 
 dancing back and forth barefooted on a wooden balustrade. She 
 kept her equilibrium by holding out her arms. The grace of 
 her movements was so fairy-like that Daniel and Eleanore smiled 
 at each other in astonishment. 
 
 After dinner Daniel went out in front of the house; Marian 
 and Eleanore sat for a while at the window; the light of the lamp 
 shone behind them. Later they came out into the street and 
 joined Daniel. Marian, however, was uneasy on account of the 
 child. She said that Eva had been restless all day and might cry 
 for her. "Stay out just as long as you like; I will leave the door 
 open," she said, and went back. 
 
 Daniel and Eleanore returned to the fair. It was still early in 
 the evening, but the crowd had disappeared. They sauntered 
 around among the booths, and stopped to listen to the harangue
 
 244 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of a mountebank or to watch peasant boys shooting at figures of 
 various kinds and a glass ball that danced on a jet of water. There 
 was a sea of red and green lanterns; sky-rockets were hissing into 
 the air from the rampart; musicians were playing in the cafes, 
 while hilarious tipplers sang or hooted as the spirit moved them. 
 
 They came to a grass plot, the sole illumination of which was 
 the light from a c'rcus wagon. On the steps of the wagon sat a 
 man in tricot holding the head of a black poodle between his 
 knees. 
 
 "Those were the last inhabitants of the earth," said Daniel, 
 after they had crossed the square. The noise died away, the 
 gaudy lights disappeared. 
 
 "How far are you going?" asked Eleanore, without the remotest 
 trace of fear in her voice. 
 
 "I am going on until I am with you," was the quick reply. 
 
 The indistinct outline of a bridge became visible; under it the 
 water flowed noiselessly. The path had a yellowish shimmer; 
 there were no stars in the heavens. Suddenly the path seemed to 
 come to an end; at the end of it were trees there that seemed to 
 be moving closer and closer together; it became darker and darker; 
 they stopped. 
 
 "We have told each other our whole story," said Daniel. "In 
 the way of words we owe each other nothing. We have had 
 enough of talk; there has been no lack of sorrow and enough of 
 error. We can no longer act differently, and therefore we dare 
 not act differently any longer." 
 
 "Be still," whispered Eleanore, "I don't like your wrangling; 
 what you say is so unpeaceful and fiendish. Yesterday I dreamed 
 that you were lying on your knees and had your folded hands 
 uplifted. Then I loved you very much." 
 
 "Do you need dreams in order to love me, girl? I don't; I 
 need you just as you are. I will soon be thirty years old, Eleanore. 
 A man never really wakes up until he is thirty; it is then that he 
 conquers the world. You know what rests within me; you suspect 
 it. You know too how I need you; you feel it. You are my 
 soul; you are created out of my music; without you I am an 
 empty hull, a patchwork, a violin without strings." 
 
 "Oh, Daniel, I believe you, and yet it is not all true," replied 
 Eleanore. He thought he could see in the darkness her mockingly 
 ironical smile: "Somewhere, I am almost tempted to say in God, 
 it is not true. If we were better, if we were beings in the image 
 of God and acting in God's ways, we would have to desist from
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 245 
 
 our own ways. Then it would be wonderful to live: it would be 
 like living above the clouds, happy, at peace, pure." 
 
 "Does that come from your heart, Eleanore?" 
 
 "My dear, dear man! My heart, like yours, has been beclouded 
 and bewitched. I cannot give you up. I have settled my accounts. 
 In my soul I am entirely conscious of my guilt. I know what I 
 am doing and assume full responsibility for my action. There is 
 no use to struggle any longer; the water is already swirling over 
 our heads. I simply want to say that you should not delude your- 
 self into believing that we have risen up above other people by 
 what we have done, that we have deserved the gratitude of fate. 
 No, Daniel, what we are doing is precisely what all those do who 
 fall. Let me stay with you, dearest; kiss me, kiss me to death." 
 
 Philippina had promised Eleanore to look after Jordan and 
 Gertrude on Sunday. 
 
 As she was crossing Five Points, she went into a shop, and asked 
 for three pfennigs' worth of court plaster. While doing some 
 housework she had scratched herself on a nail. The clerk gave 
 her the plaster, and asked her what was the news. 
 
 "Ah, you poor bloke, you want to know the very latest, don't 
 you?" she snarled, and then grinned with blatant self-complacency. 
 
 "The later the better," said the fellow with a lustful smirk. 
 
 Philippina bent over the counter, and whispered: "They're taking 
 their wedding trip to-day." She laughed in a lewd, imbecile way. 
 The clerk stared at her with wide-opened eyes and mouth. Two 
 hours later the news was in the mouth of every hussy in that 
 section of the city. 
 
 Gertrude was in bed. The day woman who did the cooking 
 gave Philippina a plate with Jordan's dinner on it: Meat, vegetables, 
 and a few sour plums. Philippina ate two of the plums on the 
 way up to his room, and licked her fingers. 
 
 The whole forenoon she spent rummaging around in Eleanore's 
 room ; she looked through the cabinets, the presses, and the pockets 
 of Eleanore's dresses. As it began to grow dark, Jordan suddenly 
 entered, in hat and great coat, and looked on in speechless and 
 enraged amazement at the girl's inexplicable curiosity. 
 
 Philippina took the broom from the corner, and began to sweep 
 with all her might. While sweeping she sang, out of tune, im- 
 pudently, and savagely:
 
 246 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "No fire, no coal, so warmly glows 
 As secret love that no one knows." 
 
 Jordan went away without saying anything. He had forgotten 
 to lock his room.. Hardly had Philippina noticed that he had left 
 the key in the door, when she opened it and went in. 
 
 She spied around with cowardly, superstitious eyes. She was 
 afraid of the old inspector, as she would have been afraid of an 
 invincible magician. For such cases she had a number of formulas 
 at her tongue's end. She murmured: "Put earth in, close the lid, 
 hold your thumbs, spit on your shoe." She spat on her shoe. 
 
 Ske then began to examine the cabinet, for she believed that it 
 contained all of Jordan's secrets. But she could not open the 
 lock, try as she might. She then went at the writing desk; she 
 was angry. There she found, in plain wooden frames, the pictures 
 of Gertrude and Eleanore. She ran out, got a large needle, came 
 back, and stuck it in the picture of Eleanore right between the eyes. 
 Then she took Gertrude's picture, and after she had held it for a 
 while, looking at it with her gloomy eyes, she noticed that it was 
 spotted with blood. The plaster had come off her finger, and 
 the finger had started to bleed. 
 
 "Come now, Philippina," she said to herself, "go and see how 
 Gertrude is making out." Entering Gertrude's room, she found 
 her asleep. Creeping up to her bed on her tiptoes, she took a 
 chair, straddled it, leaned her chin on the back, and stared fixedly 
 at the face of the young woman, now just barely visible in the 
 darkness of the room. 
 
 Gertrude dreamed that a black bird was hovering over her and 
 picking at her breast with its pointed beak. She screamed and 
 woke up. 
 
 Shortly after this Gertrude had to send for the midwife. 
 
 During the night, Gertrude gave birth to a girl; she had suffered 
 terrible pains. Philippina had seen and heard it all. She had 
 run back and forth, from the kitchen to the bedroom and from the 
 bedroom to the kitchen, for hours; she was like an insane person; 
 she kept mumbling something to herself. What she mumbled 
 no one knew. 
 
 Gertrude had called in vain for Daniel; in vain had she waited 
 for him the whole day. 
 
 "Where in the world can Daniel be?" cried Philippina, "where 
 can Daniel be with his damned Eleanore?" She sat in the corner 
 with her hands folded, her hair tangled and knotted, her face
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 247 
 
 distorted with the grimaces of madness. The midwife was still 
 busy with Gertrude; the new-born child was crying pitifully. 
 
 Daniel held the child in his arms, and looked at it carefully 
 but without love. "You little worm, what do you want in this 
 world?" he said to his daughter. He still had his hat on; so had 
 Eleanore. Both of them were dressed just as they came from 
 the station; they were embarrassed and excited at what had hap- 
 pened. Eleanore was exceedingly pale; her great eyes looked 
 dreamy; her body seemed of almost boyish slenderness. At times 
 she smiled; then the smile died away, as if she did not have the 
 courage to appear so cheerful. 
 
 Inspector Jordan was also in the room, acting as he had always 
 acted since his bankruptcy like a guest who feels that he is a 
 burden to the family. He said very humbly: "I have suggested 
 to Gertrude that she call the child Agnes after my deceased wife." 
 
 "Very well, let's call her Agnes," said Daniel. 
 
 Gertrude asked that the child be brought to her so that she 
 could nurse it. Eleanore carried it over and laid it at her breast. 
 As the hands of the sisters touched, Gertrude looked up quickly: 
 there was an indescribable expression of thoughtfulness, knowing- 
 ness, and kindliness on her face. Eleanore fell on her knees, 
 threw her arms around Gertrude's neck, and kissed her passionately. 
 Gertrude reached out her left hand to Daniel; he gave her his 
 right hand with some hesitancy. Jordan was radiant with joy: "It 
 is so good, children, to see that you all love each other, so good," 
 he said with visible emotion. 
 
 "Daniel, you must move up into Father's quarters at once," 
 said Gertrude. "Your piano, bed, and all your things must be 
 taken up, and Eleanore will move into your room. I have already 
 spoken to Father about it, and he feels that it will be a good 
 arrangement. He will be very quiet so as not disturb you. The 
 crying of the baby would make it impossible for you to work." 
 
 "It is a very practical solution of the problem," said Jordan, 
 speaking for Daniel, and looked down at his frayed coat-sleeves, 
 which he tried to conceal by hiding them behind his back. "I 
 am also glad that Eleanore will be with you. A man, you know, 
 has a habit of going to bed long before a woman quits her daily 
 work. Is that not true, my .son-in-law?" With that he clapped 
 Daniel on the shoulder.
 
 248 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "During Gertrude's confinement I will sleep here in her room," 
 said Eleanore, avoiding Daniel's eyes as she said so. "She cannot 
 stay alone, and it costs too much to keep a nurse." 
 
 "Exactly," said Jordan, and went to the door. But he turned 
 around: "I should like to know," he asked in a tone of great 
 grief, "who has been at Gertrude's and Eleanore's pictures. The 
 one is covered with spots of blood, and the other has a hole 
 punched in it. Isn't that very strange? I can't understand it: 
 I can't imagine who could have done me this injury." He shook 
 his head and went out. 
 
 "Do you realise that to-morrow is the first of November? " 
 asked Gertrude. "Have you the rent ready? Did Father make 
 any money last month?" 
 
 "No, he didn't," replied Eleanore, "but I have almost enough 
 to pay the landlord." 
 
 It was no longer possible to depend upou Jordan. He was 
 supported by his children, and seemed to find the arrangement 
 neither strange nor humiliating. At times he would allude in a 
 mysterious way to a big enterprise that was going to claim the 
 whole of his attention and bring him a great deal of money and 
 honour. But if you asked him about it, he would wrinkle hia 
 brow and put his finger to his lips. 
 
 "I owe the man more than the rent," said Daniel. He kissed 
 Gertrude on the forehead, and went out. 
 
 "Put the child in the cradle, and come over here," said Gertrude 
 to Eleanore, as soon as Daniel had closed the door behind him. 
 Eleanore did as she had been told. The baby was asleep. She 
 took it up, looked at its wrinkled face, and carried it to the cradle. 
 Then she went over to Gertrude's bed. 
 
 Gertrude seized her by her hands, and drew her down to her 
 with more strength than one would have imagined her to have 
 just then. The eyes of the two women were drawn close to- 
 gether. "You must make him happy, Eleanore," she said in a 
 hoarse voice, and with a sickly glimmer in her eyes. "If you do 
 not, it would be better if one of us were dead." 
 
 Despite her terror, Eleanore loosened Gertrude's hold on her 
 with great gentleness. "It is hard to discuss that subject, Ger- 
 trude; it is hard to live and hard to think about it all." Eleanore 
 breathed these words into Gertrude's ears. 
 
 "You must make him happy; you must make him happy! Re- 
 peat it to yourself and keep it in your mind every day, every hour,
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 249 
 
 every minute. You must, you must, you must." Gertrude was 
 almost beside herself. 
 
 "I will learn how to do it," replied Eleanore slowly and seri- 
 ously. "I am ... I hardly know what I am or how I feel. 
 But be patient with me, Gertrude, I will learn how to make him 
 happy." She looked into Gertrude's face with anxious curiosity. 
 Gertrude however pressed her hands against Eleanore's cheeks, 
 drew her down to her again, and kissed her with unusual fervour. 
 "I too must learn how," whispered Gertrude, "I must learn the 
 whole of life from the very beginning." 
 
 Some one knocked at the door. The midwife came in to look 
 after her patient. 
 
 VII 
 
 At that time the superstition still prevailed that the window in 
 the room of a woman in confinement must never be opened. The 
 air in the room was consequently heavy and ill-smelling. Eleanore 
 could hardly stand it during the day; during the night she could 
 not sleep. Moreover natural daylight could not enter the room, 
 and, as if it were not already gloomy enough, the window had 
 been hung with green curtains which were kept half drawn. 
 
 The most unpleasant feature of all, however, was the intermina- 
 ble round of visits from the women: custom had decreed that they 
 should not be turned away. The wife of the director of the 
 theatre came in; Martha Riibsam came in, and so did the wife of 
 Councillor Kirschner, and the wives of the butcher, baker, preacher, 
 and physician. And of course the wife of the apothecary called. 
 No one of them failed to pour out an abundance of gratuitous 
 advice or go into ecstasies over the beauty of the baby. Once 
 Daniel came in just as such an assemblage was in the sick room. 
 He looked first at one, then at another, threw back his head, and 
 left without saying a word. 
 
 Herr Seelenfromm and M. Riviere were likewise not fright- 
 ened by the distance; they called. Eleanore met them in the hall, 
 and got rid of them by the usual method. And one day even 
 Herr Carovius came around to inquire how mother and child were 
 doing. Philippina received him; and Philippina was having a hard 
 time of it at present: she was not allowed to enter Gertrude's 
 room; Gertrude would have nothing to do with her; she refused 
 to see her.
 
 250 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 So that she might not get too far behind with her work for it 
 meant her daily bread Eleanore pushed the table up to the 
 window, and despite the poor light, kept on writing. In the 
 evening she would sit by the lamp and write, although she was 
 so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open. 
 
 After three days, Gertrude had no milk for the baby; it had to 
 be fed with a bottle. It would cry for hours without stopping. 
 And as soon as it was quiet, its clothes had to be washed or its 
 bath prepared, or Gertrude wanted something, or one of the 
 pestiferous visitors came in. Eleanore had to lay her work aside; 
 in the evening she would fall across the bed and sleep with painful 
 soundness for an hour or two. If the baby did not wake her by 
 its hungry howling, the bad air did. Her head ached. Yet she 
 concealed her weakness, her longing, her oppression. Not even 
 Daniel noticed that there was anything wrong with her. 
 
 She had very little opportunity to talk with him. And yet 
 there was probably not another pair of eyes in the whole world 
 that could be so eloquent and communicative with admonition, 
 promise, request, and cordial resignation. One evening they met 
 each other at the kitchen door: "Eleanore, I am stifling," he whis- 
 pered to her. 
 
 She laid her hands on his shoulder, and looked at him in 
 silence. 
 
 "Come with me," he urged with a stupid air.. "Come with me! 
 Let's run off." 
 
 Eleanore smiled and thought to herself: "The demands of his soul 
 are always a few leagues in advance of the humanly possible." 
 
 The next morning he stormed into the room. Eleanore was 
 only half dressed. With an expression of wrath flitting across her 
 face she reached for a towel and draped it about her shoulders. 
 He sat down on Gertrude's bed, and let loose a torrent of words: 
 "I am going to set Goethe's 'Wanderers Sturmlied' to music! I 
 am planning to make it a companion piece to the 'Harzreise' and 
 publish the two in a cycle. I have not slept the whole night. The 
 main motif is glorious." He began to hum it over in a falsetto 
 voice: " 'Oh, mortal man, if genius does not forsake thee, neither 
 rain nor storm can breathe upon thy heart!' How do you like 
 that?" 
 
 Gertrude looked at him inspired. 
 
 "I should have a good drink on that idea," he continued; "I 
 have rarely felt such a longing for a flask of old wine. It's a 
 bloody shame that I can't afford it. But you wait till I get a
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 251 
 
 little money, and you will see a boutcillc of Tokay on my table 
 CTery day." 
 
 "My God, just listen how he raves! He's going to have the 
 best there is," said Philippina angrily, as she entered the room in 
 her stocking feet and heard Daniel's remarks. 
 
 Daniel told her to keep her mouth shut and leave the room at 
 once. He paid no attention to her reply, and cried out: "Some- 
 thing has got to happen. If I can't drink, I at least want to 
 dance. Dance with me, Eleanore; don't be afraid, come, dance 
 with me!" He threw his arms around her, pressed her to his 
 bosom, sang a waltz melody, and drew the struggling and em- 
 barrassed girl across the floor. 
 
 Philippina broke out in her slimy, malicious laughter, and then 
 shrieked at the top of her voice that Frau Kirschner was outside 
 and wanted to see the Kapellmeister's wife. Gertrude made an 
 imploring gesture, the full meaning of which Daniel easily grasped. 
 The baby began to cry, Eleanore tore herself away from Daniel's 
 embrace, arranged her hair, and hastened over to the cradle. 
 Philippina opened the door to let the Councillor's wife in. Just 
 then a violent discussion was started in the hall. One could hear 
 the voice of Jordan and that of some strange man. 
 
 It was the furniture dealer who had come to collect the money 
 for the cradle. He was boiling with the rage that cares not how 
 it may be expressed: he said he had already been there four times, 
 and each time he was put off. The truth is, Daniel was very 
 hard up. 
 
 The Councillor's wife took Daniel to one side, and made him 
 an offer of a loan of two hundred marks. Daniel was silent; he 
 bit his lips, and looked down at the floor. She scolded him: 
 "You are always your own worst enemy. Now be reasonable, 
 Nothafft, I will send the money over at noon. If you have any 
 left, you may pay it back." 
 
 Daniel went out, and gave the blustering furniture dealer hii 
 last ten-mark piece. 
 
 Frau Kirschner had brought a flask of Tokay wine with her 
 for Gertrude. Tokay was regarded at that time as a sort of elixir 
 of life. 
 
 "You see, so quickly are wishes fulfilled," said Gertrude to 
 Daniel in the evening, when he came into her room. She poured 
 out a glass for him. 
 
 "Have you any bills to settle?" he asked, looking partly at 
 Eleanore, partly at Gertrude, and striking his wallet, then bulging
 
 252 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 with notes. "It's Court Councillor's money," he said, "real 
 Court Councillor's money. How beautiful it looks, lousy fine, eh? 
 And upon that stuff the salvation of my soul depends!" He threw 
 the money on Gertrude's bed, stuck out his tongue, and turned 
 away in disgust. 
 
 Eleanore handed him the glass of Tokay; her eyes glistened 
 with tears. 
 
 "No, Eleanore," he said, "I have trifled it away. In my arro- 
 gance I imagined I could do something; I thought I could get 
 somewhere. I sit down, brood over my ideas, and find that they 
 are all wind-eggs. I have the feeling that I have taken a false 
 oath. What good am I, Eleanore, what good am I, Gertrude?" 
 
 "Ah, take a drink, and perhaps your troubles will leave you," 
 said Eleanore, and stroked his brow with her hand. 
 
 Gertrude called out to her: "Quit that! Put that glass away!" 
 She spoke so harshly that Eleanore sprang back, and Daniel got up. 
 
 "Leave me alone for a while," she said. Daniel and Eleanore 
 left the room. 
 
 Eleanore went into the living room, sat down at the table, and 
 laid her head in her hands. "What can we do now?" she said 
 to Daniel. The violin tone in her voice had something unusually 
 touching about it. 
 
 Daniel set the candle he was carrying in the bay window. He 
 bent down over the table, and took Eleanore by her small wrists. 
 "Accept the bitter for the sake of the sweet," he murmured. "Be- 
 lieve in me, believe in yourself, believe in the higher law. It is 
 not possible that I merely imagined that there is a winged creature 
 for me. I must have something to cling to, something inde- 
 structible, ah, even superhuman." 
 
 "You must have something superhuman to cling to," Eleanore 
 repeated after him. She could not help but think that he had 
 already made superhuman demands of the other woman, his wife, 
 hei sister, Gertrude. She raised her finger as if to warn him: it 
 vas a gesture of infinite timidity. 
 
 But Daniel scarcely saw what she had done. In his arrogant 
 presumption and passion he could have smashed the universe to 
 pieces, and then re-created it merely in order to mould this one 
 creature after his own desires. He would have made her of 
 boundless pliability, and yet active in her love for him; he would 
 have had her spurn venerable commandments in a spirit of self- 
 glorification, and yet cherish unequivocal confidence in him, the 
 Creature of need and defiance; and she would be cheerful withal.
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 253 
 
 "I am cold," whispered Eleanore, peering into the dark shadows 
 of the room. 
 
 VIII 
 
 To know that these eyes and their pure passion were so close to 
 him; to be able to touch this cool, sincere, mutely-eloquent mouth 
 with his lips; to be able to hold these hands in which passion 
 resided as it does in the speechless unrest of a messenger; to be 
 able to press this throbbing figure with all its willingness and hesi- 
 tation to his bosom it was almost too much for Daniel. It in- 
 volved pain ; it aroused an impatience, a thirst for more and more. 
 His daily work was interrupted; his thoughts, plans, and arrange- 
 ments were torn from their connection. 
 
 He spoke to people whom he knew as though they were total 
 strangers; he amazed those whom he did not know by the loyal 
 confidence he voluntarily placed in them. He forgot to put on his 
 hat when he walked along the street; the distraction he revealed 
 was the source of constant merriment to passersby and onlookers. 
 He would not know when it was noon; he would come home at 
 three o'clock, thinking it was twelve. Once he came nearly being 
 run over by a team of galloping horses; another time he had his 
 umbrella taken straight from his hands without noticing it. This 
 took place at the Ludwig Station. 
 
 "Oh, winged creature, winged creature," he would say to him- 
 self, and smile like a somnambulist. Deep in his soul a sea of 
 tones was surging. He listened to them with complete assurance, 
 angry though he would become at times because of the failure of 
 this or that. He was so absorbed in himself, so enmeshed in 
 his own thoughts, that he scarcely saw the sky above him; houses, 
 people, animals, and the things that are after all necessary to human 
 existence existed only in his dreams, if at all. 
 
 Winged creature, winged creature! 
 
 IX 
 
 As soon as Gertrude could get up and go about, Eleanore ac^ 
 cepted an invitation from Martha Riibsam to visit her aunt, Fran 
 Seelenfromm, in Altdorf. The visit was to last two weeks. 
 Eleanore looked upon it as a test that would determine whether 
 she could do anything on her own account now: whether she could 
 get along without Daniel.
 
 254 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 But she saw that she could no longer live without him. In the 
 lonely house she came to the conclusion that her love was great 
 enough to enable her to bear the monstrous burden fate had been 
 trying to impose upon her. She saw that neither flight nor con- 
 cealment nor anything else could save her, could save Daniel, could 
 give back to Gertrude what she had lost, what had been taken from 
 her. 
 
 There were times, to be sure, when she asked herself whether 
 it was all true and real; whether it could be possible. She walked 
 in darkness surrounded by demons. Her being was plunged into 
 the deepest and strangest bewilderment; confusion enveloped her; 
 there was sorrow in the effort she made to avert the inexorable. 
 
 But in one of her sleepless nights she thought she was covering 
 Daniel's mind with a flame of fire; she thought she heard his 
 voice calling out to her with a power she had never known before. 
 
 No one she had ever seen was so vivacious, so alive as he. Her 
 slumbering fancy had awakened at the sound of his voice and the 
 feel of his warm breath. She felt that people owed him a great 
 deal; and since they did not seem inclined to pay their debts, it 
 was her duty to make restitution to Daniel for their neglect. 
 
 She could not survey the ways of his art: the musician in him 
 made neither a strange nor a special appeal to her. She grasped 
 and felt only him himself; to her he was Daniel. She grasped 
 and felt only the man who was born to do lofty, the loftiest, 
 deeds and who passed by the base and evil in men in silence; 
 who knew that he had been chosen but was obliged to renounce 
 the privilege of ruling; who was always in full armour, ready to 
 defend a threatened sanctuary. 
 
 Of such a man, of such a knight and warrior, she had dreamt 
 even when a child. For although she looked at things and cir- 
 cumstances with the eyes of truth, her soul had always been full 
 of secret dreams and visions. Back of her unceasing and unfading 
 activity the genii of romanticism had been spinning their bright- 
 coloured threads; it was they that had formed the glass case in 
 which she had lived for so long, impervious to the touch of mortal 
 hand, immune to the flames of love. 
 
 The morning following that night she explained to her friend 
 that she was going home. Martha tried in vain to get her to stay: 
 she was almost ill with longing. 
 
 Martha let her go; she had the very saddest of thoughts con- 
 cerning Eleanore's future; for the unhappy incidents of that un- 
 happy home had reached Martha's sensitive ears. She did not worry
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 255 
 
 because of moral principles; she was not that kind of a woman. 
 She worried over Eleanore out of genuine affection: it pained her 
 to know that she could no longer admire Eleanore. 
 
 In the meanwhile Daniel had told his wife that a child of his 
 was living with his mother in Eschenbach, and that he had known 
 nothing about it until Eleanore took him over there. He told 
 her the child's name and how old it was and who its mother was, 
 and gave her a detailed description of that celebrated New Year's 
 Night on which he had embraced the maid. He told her how 
 he had stood out in front of her house that night and longed for 
 her with all his senses, and how he felt, when he looked at little 
 Eva, as if Providence had only seemed to use the body of a 
 strange woman, and that Eva was in reality Gertrude's own child. 
 
 To this Gertrude replied: "I never want to see that child." 
 
 "You will be ashamed of having made this remark once you do 
 see the child," replied Daniel. "You should not be envious of a 
 creature whom God brought into the world so that the world may be 
 more beautiful." 
 
 "Don't speak of God!" said Gertrude quickly and with uplifted 
 hand. Then, after a pause, during which Daniel looked at her 
 angrily, she added with a painful smile: "The very idea: I, jealous, 
 envious! O no, Daniel." 
 
 The way she pressed her hands to her bosom convinced Daniel, 
 and quite emphatically too, that she did not know the feeling of 
 envy or jealousy. He said nothing, but remained in her room for 
 an unusually long while. When she was cutting bread, she let the 
 knife fall. He sprang and picked it up for her. He had never 
 done this before. Gertrude looked at him as he bent over. Her 
 eyes became dim, flared up, and then became dim again. 
 
 "Don't speak of God!" Somehow Daniel could not get these 
 words out of his mind. 
 
 When Eleanore returned she was terrified at the expression on 
 Daniel's face. He seemed dazed; his eyes were inflamed as though 
 he too had not been able to sleep; he could hardly talk. Finally 
 he demanded that she swear to him never to go away again. 
 
 She hesitated to take an oath of this kind, but he became more 
 and more insistent, and she took it. He threw his arms about her 
 with passionate impetuosity; just then the door opened, and 
 Gertrude stood on the threshold. Daniel hastened to her, and
 
 256 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 wanted to take her by the hand; but she stepped back and back 
 until she reached her bedroom. 
 
 It was evening; covers were laid for four: Jordan was to take 
 dinner with them that evening. He came down promptly; Elea- 
 nore brought in the food; but Gertrude was nowhere to be found. 
 Eleanore went in to her. She was sitting by the cradle, combing 
 her hair with slow deliberation. 
 
 "Won't you eat with us, Gertrude?" asked Eleanore. 
 
 Gertrude did not seem to hear her. In a few minutes she got 
 up, walked over to the mirror on the wall, pressed her hair with 
 the palms of her hands to her two cheeks, and looked in the mirror 
 with wide-opened eyes. 
 
 "Come, Gertrude," said Eleanore,- rather timidly, "Daniel is 
 waiting." 
 
 "That they are in there again," murmured Gertrude, "it seems 
 like a sin." She turned around, and beckoned to Eleanore. 
 
 Eleanore went over to her in perfect obedience. Gertrude 
 threw her arms around her neck until her left temple touched 
 Eleanore^ right one with only her hair hanging between them 
 like a curtain. Gertrude again looked in the mirror; her eyes 
 became rigid; she said: "Oh yes, you are more beautiful, much 
 more beautiful, a hundred times more beautiful." 
 
 Just then the child began to stir, and since Gertrude was still 
 standing immovable before the mirror, Eleanore went to the 
 cradle. Hardly had Gertrude noticed what she had done, when 
 she rushed out and cried with terrifying rudeness: "Don't touch 
 that child! Don't touch it, I say!" She then went up, snatched 
 the child from the cradle, and went back to her bed with it, 
 saying gently and yet threateningly: "It belongs to me, to me and 
 to no one else." 
 
 Since this incident, Eleanore knew that a fearful change had 
 come over her sister. She did not know whether other people 
 noticed it; she did not even know whether Daniel was aware of 
 it. But she knew it, and it frightened her. 
 
 One afternoon, about sunset, Eleanore came in and found Ger- 
 trude on her knees in the hall scrubbing the floor. "You shouldn't 
 do that, Gertrude," said Eleanore, "you are not strong enough for 
 that kind of work yet." 
 
 Gertrude made no reply; she kept on scrubbing. 
 
 "Why don't you dress better?" continued Eleanore; "Daniel 
 does not like to see you going about in that ugly old brown skirt. 
 Believe me, it makes him angry."
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 257 
 
 Gertrude straightened up on her knees, and said with discon- 
 certing humility: "You dress up; it is not well for two to look 
 so nice. What shall I do? " she asked, and let her head sink. 
 "You wear your gold chain and the corals in your ears. That 
 pleases me; that is the way it should be. But I have no gold 
 chain; I have no corals. If I had them, I wouldn't wear them; 
 and if I wore them, it would not be right." 
 
 "Ah, Gertrude, what are you talking about?" asked Eleanore. 
 
 The ringing of the church bells could be heard in the hall. 
 Gertrude folded her hands in prayer. There was a stern solem- 
 nity in her action. In her kneeling position she looked as though 
 she were petrified. 
 
 Eleanore went into the room with a heavy heart. 
 
 XI 
 
 Through the dividing walls Daniel and Eleanore were irre- 
 sistibly drawn to each other. They accompanied each other in 
 their thoughts; each divined the other's wishes and feelings. If 
 he came home in a bad humour, if she was anxious and restless, 
 they both needed merely to sit down by each other to regain their 
 peace. 
 
 If Daniel's power of persuasion was great, Eleanor's example 
 was equally great. A dish would displease Daniel. Eleanore 
 would not only eat it, but would praise it; and Daniel would then 
 eat it too, and like it. Gertrude had prepared the food, and 
 Eleanore felt it was her duty to spare her sister as much humilia- 
 tion as possible. But Gertrude did not want to be treated indul- 
 gently. She would lay her knife and fork aside, and say: "Daniel 
 is right. It is not fit to eat." She would get up and go into the 
 kitchen and make a porridge that would take the place of the 
 inedible dish. That was the way she acted: she was always re- 
 signed, diligent, and quiet; she made every possible effort to do 
 her duty. Daniel and Eleanore looked at each other embarrassed; 
 but their embarrassment was transformed in time into mutual 
 ecstasy: they could not keep from looking at each other. 
 
 There was nothing of the seducer in Daniel's sexual equip- 
 ment. On the other hand he was dependent to a very high degree 
 upon his wishes and desires; and in his passionate obstinacy he not 
 infrequently lacked consideration. Eleanore however possessed pro- 
 found calmness, cheerful certainty, and a goodly measure of indul- 
 gence; and she knew exactly how to make use of these traits. The
 
 258 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 claims that were made on her patience and moderation would have 
 harassed a heart steeled in the actualities of politics and flooded 
 with worldly experiences. She however found a safe and unerring 
 guide in the instincts of her nature, and was never tired. 
 
 The trait in her to which he took most frequent and violent 
 exception was what he called her plebeian caution; she seemed 
 determined to pay due and conventional respect to appearances. 
 He did not wish to lay claim to the hours of his love as though 
 they were a stolen possession; he did not wish to sneak across 
 bridges and through halls; he did not wish to whisper; he did not 
 wish to lie in wait for a secret tryst; he rebelled at the thought of 
 coming and going in fear and trembling. 
 
 There is not the slightest use to investigate all the secrecies be- 
 tween Daniel and Eleanore. It will serve no useful end to in- 
 fringe with unskilled hand on the work of the evil spirit Asmodeus, 
 who makes walls transparent and allows his devotees to look into 
 bed chambers. It would be futile to act as the spy of Daniel and 
 show how he left the attic room in the dead of night and crept 
 down the stairs in felt slippers. We have no desire to hear of 
 Eleanore's pangs of conscience and her longings, her flights, her 
 waiting in burning suspense; to relate how she endeavoured to 
 avert the inevitable to-day and succumbed to-morrow would be 
 to tell an idle tale. It is best to overlook all these things; to 
 draw a curtain of mercy before them; for they are so human and 
 so wholly without a trace of the miraculous. 
 
 It will be enough to touch upon a single night on which Daniel 
 went to Eleanore's room and said: "I have never yet seen you as a 
 lover sees his beloved." Eleanore was sitting on the edge of her 
 bed, trembling. She blew out the candle. Daniel heard the 
 rustling of her clothes. She went up to the stove and opened the 
 front draft door. There was a red hot coal fire in the stove. 
 She stood before him with the purple glow of the burning coals 
 upon her body, slender, delicate, nude. Her figure, peculiarly 
 beautiful, was filled with the most harmonious of inspiration; it 
 was ensouled. And since the play of her limbs, as they became 
 conscious of the light, was suddenly stiffened with shame, Elea- 
 nore bent her head over to the wall where the mask of Zingarella, 
 which he had given her, was hanging. She took it down, and 
 held it with both hands so that the purple glow from the stove fell 
 also on it. As she did this she smiled in a way that cut Daniel 
 to the very heart: something eternal came over him; he had a 
 premonition of the end; he feared fate.
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 259 
 
 At the same time Gertrude rose up in her bed, and stared with 
 eyes as if she were beholding, who knows whom? at the door. 
 After she had stared for a long while, she got up, opened the door, 
 went out into the hall without making the slightest noise, came 
 back, went out again, came back again, and got in bed, left the 
 door open, sat upright and gazed at the closed door across the hall 
 behind which she knew Daniel and Eleanore were. Her hair 
 hung down in two long braids on either side of her head. Her 
 pale face in this frame of black hair above it and on both sides of 
 it looked like a wax figure in an old black frame. 
 
 Of the pictures that were being formed in her mind and soul, 
 there was not a single twitching of the muscles to indicate what 
 they looked like. 
 
 For her the entire world lay behind that door. It seemed to 
 her that she could no longer endure the knowledge she had of 
 what was taking place. In her maddened imagination she saw 
 women stealing through the halls of the house; in every corner 
 there was a woman, and with every woman there was a man; they 
 embraced each other, and sank their teeth into each other's flesh. It 
 was all as criminal as it was irrational; it was a shame and an 
 abomination to behold. Everywhere she looked she saw repre- 
 hensible nudeness; all clothes seemed to be made of glass; she 
 could look neither at a man nor at a woman without turning pale. 
 She had only one refuge: the cradle of her child. She would 
 rush to it and pray. But as soon as her prayer was ended she 
 again felt stifled in the poisoned air about her, while the desire 
 to acquit herself of the crime of which she felt guilty, unable 
 though she was to define the crime or determine her part in it, 
 robbed her of her sleep. She felt that a great jagged stone was 
 suspended over her head, that it was becoming less and less firmly 
 attached every day,' and that its fall if not imminent was 
 certain. 
 
 Hour after hour passed by; Daniel finally appeared in the 
 vestibule. He was not a little terrified when he saw the burning 
 lamp and Gertrude sitting up in bed. 
 
 He went into the bedroom, closed the door, walked up to the 
 cradle, looked at the child, and then went over to Gertrude. She 
 cast a glance of infinite inquiry at him. It was a look that seemed 
 to implore him for a decision, a judgment. At the same time she 
 put out her hands as if to ward off any approach on his part. 
 When she saw that he was astonished, she softened the expression 
 on her face, and said: "Give me your hand."
 
 260 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 She took his right hand, stroked it, and whispered: "Poor hand, 
 poor hand." 
 
 Daniel bit his lips: "Oh woman, what . . .?" That was all. 
 
 He sat down in silence on the edge of her bed. Gertrude looked 
 at him in the same tense, anxious way in which she had studied 
 him a few moments earlier. He sank down beside her, and fell 
 asleep with his head on her breast. 
 
 She kept en holding his hand. She looked into his pale, narrow 
 face and at his angular brow, the skin of which could be seen to 
 twitch every now and then under the loose flowing hair that hung 
 over it. The oil in the lamp was getting low, the wick had 
 begun to smell. She was afraid however to put it out lest she 
 might waken Daniel. She looked on in silence as the light became 
 dimmer and dimmer and finally went out, leaving only the red 
 glow of the wick. This too died away in time, and it became dark. 
 
 XII 
 
 For some time Eleanore had noticed that the bafcer's boy, instead 
 of carefully putting the rolls in the sack each morning as had 
 always been his custom, threw them through the lattice on to the 
 ground. 
 
 The newspaper boy stopped speaking to her; the postman smiled 
 scornfully; and even the beggar, at least she thought so, asked for 
 his alms in a tone of impudence. 
 
 One day she was passing through Schmausen Street; a woman 
 was leaning out of the window. Seeing Eleanore coming, she 
 called back into the room, whereupon a young man and three half- 
 grown girls rushed to the window, began making remarks to each 
 other, and gaped at her with looks that made her turn deathly 
 pale. 
 
 Another time Daniel brought her a free ticket to a concert. 
 She went, and as soon as she reached the hall she was struck by 
 the discourteous and indecent manner in which the bystanders 
 looked at her. A well-dressed woman moved away from her. 
 Some men kept walking around her, grinning at her. She found 
 ii intolerable, and went home. 
 
 Exercise in the open had often driven away the cares that 
 chanced to be weighing upon her: she went skating. As soon as 
 the people saw her, they began to whisper among themselves. She 
 did not bother about them or their remarks; she cut her beautiful 
 ngures on the ice as if she were quite alone. A group of young
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 261 
 
 girls pointed at her with their fingers. She went up to them with 
 pride glistening in her eyes, and they all ran away. Those who 
 had formerly paid homage to her avoided her now. Her soul 
 rebelled within her; meeting with so much unexpected and cow- 
 ardly vulgarity enflamed her sensibilities and ennobled her self- 
 respect. 
 
 One day in December she crossed the Wine Market, and started 
 to pass through a narrow street that led to the Halle Gate. Stand- 
 ing at the entrance to the alley were a number of men engaged ia 
 conversation. She recognised Alfons Diruf among them. She 
 thought they would step to one side and let her pass, but not one 
 of them moved. They gaped at her in unmitigated shamelessness. 
 She could have turned about and taken another street, but that 
 defiance on the part of those men made her insist upon her rights 
 to go the way she had originally decided upon. Impressed, appar- 
 ently, by the flaming blue of her eyes, the scoundrels at last con- 
 descended to shift their lazy frames to one side. They formed 
 an espalier through which she had to walk. But worse than this 
 were the lewd looks that she knew were following her, and the 
 laughter that greeted her ears. It was the type of laughter ordi- 
 narily heard at night when one passes a low dive, in which the 
 scum of human society has gathered to amuse itself by the telling 
 of salacious stories. 
 
 She often had the feeling, particularly after dark, that some 
 one was following her. Once she looked around, and a man was 
 behind her. He wore a havelock; he turned quickly into a gate. 
 A few days later she had a similar experience, but this time she 
 was frightened worse than ever, for she thought it was Herr 
 Carovius. 
 
 One evening as she was leaving the house she saw the same 
 figure standing by the church on the other side of the street. As 
 she hesitated and wondered whether she should go on, another 
 person joined the first. She thought it was Philippina. The two 
 began to talk, but Eleanore could not make out who they were; it 
 was snowing, and there was no street lamp nearby. 
 
 She could not tell why, but she was suddenly seized with 
 anxiety for Daniel; for him and for no one else. She felt that 
 unless she went back something dreadful would happen to him. 
 She rushed up the steps to the attic room, and knocked at his 
 door; there was not a sound. She opened the door and went in, 
 but everything was dark. In the darkness, however, standing out 
 against the white background from the light of the snow, she saw
 
 262 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 his body. He was sitting at the piano; he had his arms on the lid, 
 his head between his hands. Eleanore hastened up to him, and, 
 with a tone of sweet sadness in what she said, threw her arms 
 around his neck. 
 
 Daniel took her on his lap, pressed her head to his bosom, and 
 laughed with open mouth and shining teeth but without making 
 a sound. He often laughed that way now. 
 
 xin 
 
 He laughed that way at the intrigues that were being forged 
 against him by his bitterest enemy, Fraulein Varini, and which 
 resulted in his meeting with distrust and opposition in everything 
 he undertook at the City Theatre. 
 
 He laughed that way at the anonymous letters, filled with insult- 
 ing remarks, which were being sent him by his fellow citizens, 
 and which he read with naTve curiosity merely to see how far 
 human nastiness and bestial hate could go. 
 
 He laughed that way when he received the letter from Baroness 
 von Auffenberg informing him that she was forced to discontinue 
 her lessons and recitals. She said that her constitution had been 
 weakened, and that she was going to close her town house and spend 
 the winter at her country place at Hersbruck. Daniel heard how- 
 ever that she spent a great deal of her time in town, and that she 
 had arranged for an elaborate cycle of musicales, a thing she had 
 never dared to do under his administration. Andreas Doderlein 
 had been engaged as her musical adviser: now she could rave and 
 go into ecstasies and hypnotise her impotent soul in the mephitic 
 air of artificial aroma just as much as she pleased. 
 
 And he laughed that way at the weekly attacks upon him and 
 his art that appeared in the Fr'dnkischer Herold, copies of which 
 were delivered at his front door with the regularity of the sun. 
 The attacks consisted of sly, caustic sneers, secrets that had been 
 ferreted out with dog-like keenness, gigantic broadsides based on 
 hearsay evidence, and perfidious suspicions lodged against Daniel 
 Nothafft, the artist, and Daniel Nothafft, the man. 
 
 The articles never failed to mention the Goose Man. Daniel 
 asked to have the allusion explained. The Goose Man was elevated 
 to the rank and dignity of an original humourist. "What is the 
 latest concerning the Goose Man?" became a standing head-line. 
 Or the reader's eye would fall on the following notice: "The 
 Goose Man is again attracting the attention of all friends of
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 263 
 
 music. He has had the ingenious audacity to make the opera 
 'Stradella' more enjoyable by the interpolation of a funeral march 
 of his own make. The ever-submissive domestic birds which he 
 carries under his arms have rewarded him for his efforts in this 
 connection by the cackling of their abundant and affectionate grati- 
 tude." 
 
 The birthplace of these inimitable achievements in the field of 
 journalistic wit was the reserved table at the Crocodile. If ever 
 in the history of the world men have laughed real honest tears 
 it was at the writing of such news bearing on the life and conduct 
 of the Goose Man. The editor-in-chief, Weibezahl, was the 
 recording secretary at these intellectual Olympiads, and Herr 
 Carovius was the protagonist. He had access to reliable sources, 
 as newspaper men say, and every evening he surprised the round 
 table with new delicacies for Weibezahl's columns. 
 
 Daniel was ignorant of what was going on. But the Goose 
 Man, the expression as well as the figure, became interwoven with 
 his thoughts, and acquired, somehow and somewhere in the course 
 of time, a transfigured meaning. 
 
 XIV 
 
 One day Frau Kirschner wrote to Daniel telling him that she 
 did not wish to have anything more to do with him; she demanded 
 in the same letter that he pay back the money she had advanced 
 him. He could not raise it: the City Theatre had already made 
 him a loan, he had no friends, and M. Riviere, the only person 
 on earth who might have been able to come to his rescue, had 
 gone back to France. 
 
 Matters took their usual course: A lawyer notified Daniel, giving 
 him so many days grace; when these had elapsed and no payment 
 had been made, a summons was served on him; the sheriff came in, 
 and in default of any other object of value he pawned the piano. 
 
 Daniel's objections were quite ineffectual: a few days more and 
 the piano would be put up at auction. 
 
 One gloomy morning in January Philippina entered his room. 
 
 "Say, Daniel," she began, "would you like to have some money 
 from me?" 
 
 Daniel turned his head slowly and looked at her in amazement. 
 
 "I have lots of it," she continued with her hoarse voice, her 
 glassy eyes glittering underneath her bangs. "I have been saving 
 it a pfennig at a time ever since 1 was a child. I can give you
 
 264 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the money you owe the Councillor's wife. Sling it at her, the 
 old hag! Say to me: 'Please Philippina, give me the money,' and 
 you'll find it on the table." 
 
 "Are you crazy?" asked Daniel, "get out of here just as quickly 
 as your feet can carry you!" He felt distinctly creepy in her 
 presence. 
 
 Philippina, beside herself with rage, seized his hand. Before 
 he could do a thing she bit him just below the little finger. The 
 wound was quite deep. He groaned, shook her off, and pushed 
 her back. She looked at him triumphantly, but her face had 
 turned yellow. 
 
 "Listen, Daniel," she said in a begging, beseeching tone, 
 "don't be so ugly! Don't be so mean toward me! Don't be so 
 jealous!" 
 
 The wench's infamous smile, her hair hanging down over her 
 eyes, her big red hands, the snow-flakes on her short cloak, the 
 border on her fiery red dress below her cloak, and the poison 
 green ribbon on her hat this ensemble of ugliness filled Daniel 
 with the loathing he might have experienced had he stood face to 
 face with the most detestable picture he had ever seen from the 
 world of human beings. But as he turned his head, a feeling of 
 sympathy came over him; he suspected that the girl was bound 
 to him by bonds that did not reach him until after they had 
 taken their course through the dark channels of some subterranean 
 labyrinth. What she had done filled him with dismay; but as a 
 revelation of character it surprised him and set him to thinking. 
 
 He went over to the washing table to put his bleeding hand 
 in the water. Philippina took a fresh handkerchief from the 
 cabinet, and handed it to him as a bandage. He looked at her 
 with piercing eyes, and said: "What kind of a person are you? 
 What sort of a devil is in you, anyway? Be careful, Jason Philip's 
 daughter, be careful!" 
 
 Since there was a tone of kindness in these words, the muscles 
 of Philippina's face moved in a mysterious way. Her features 
 were distorted as if by a grin, and yet she was not grinning. She 
 drew a leather purse from her cloak pocket, opened it, and took 
 out two one-hundred-mark notes and a gold coin. They had been 
 wrapped in paper. She unfolded the paper and the notes, laid 
 them, together with the coin, on the table, and handed Daniel a 
 written statement. 
 
 He read it: "I, the undersigned, Daniel Nothafft, promise to pay
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 265 
 
 to Philippina Schimmelweis two hundred and twenty marks at 
 five per cent interest, for value received." 
 
 "With that you c'n pay the sheriff and git yourself out of this 
 mess," said Philippina, in a most urgent tone. "You can't give 
 piano lessons on a rolling pin, and that music box of yours is after 
 all the tool you make your living by. Sign that, and you will 
 be in peace." 
 
 "Where did you get the money?" asked Daniel. "How did 
 you ever come by so much money? Tell me the truth." All of 
 a sudden he remembered Theresa's words: "All that nice money, 
 all that nice money!" 
 
 Philippina began to chew her finger nails. "That's none of 
 your business," she said gruffly, "it ain't been stolen. Moreover, 
 I c'n tell you," she said, as she felt that his distrust was taking on 
 a threatening aspect, "mother give it to me on the sly. She 
 didn't want me to be without a penny if anything happened. For 
 my father he would like to see me strung up. She give it to me, 
 I say, on the side, and she made me swear before the cross that I 
 would never let any one know about it." 
 
 This tale of horror made Daniel shake his head; he had his 
 doubts. He felt she was lying, and yet there was a mysterious 
 force back of her statement and in her eyes. He was undecided; 
 he thought it over. His livelihood was at stake. Weeks, months 
 might pass by before he could get another piano. Philippina's 
 readiness to help him was a riddle to him, everything she said was 
 repulsive and banal; but after all she was willing to help in a most 
 substantial way, and he was in such difficulties that voices of 
 admonition simply had to be drowned out. 
 
 "It is nothing but money," he thought contemptuously, and 
 sat down to put his name to the note. 
 
 Philippina drew up her shoulders, and never once breathed until 
 he had signed the note and handed it over to her in silence. Then 
 she looked at him imploringly, and said: "Now Daniel, you must 
 never again treat me like you would a scurvy cat." 
 
 There had been an unusual amount of talk this year about the 
 parade on Shrove Tuesday. On the afternoon of that day the 
 whole city was on its feet. 
 
 Daniel was on his way home; he had reached the corner of
 
 266 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Theresa Street when he ran into the crowd. He stopped out of 
 idle curiosity. The first division of the parade came up: it con- 
 sisted of three heralds in gaudy medieval costumes, and back of 
 them were three councillors on horseback. 
 
 Next in the procession was a condemned witch on a wheel- 
 barrow. Her face had been hideously painted, and in her hand 
 she swung a huge whiskey bottle. She was followed by a group 
 of Chinese, each with a long pigtail, and they by a troupe of 
 dancing Kameruns. 
 
 The procession moved on in the following order: a giant carry- 
 ing twenty-seven quart beer mugs; a woman's orchestra consisting 
 exclusively of old women; a wagon from one of the peasant dis- 
 tricts bearing the inscription, "Adorers of Taxes"; a smoking club 
 with the Swedish match merchant; a wagon with a replica of the 
 Spittler Gate made of beer kegs; the so-called guard against 
 sparks; a nurse with a grown child in diapers and Hussar boots; 
 the seven Swabians on velocipedes; a cabriolet with a gaily dressed 
 English family; a conveyance carrying authors. There were two 
 inscriptions on it: "The And So Forths" and "The Et Ceterists." 
 
 At the end of the procession was a wagon with a skilful imita- 
 tion of the Goose Man. It had been made out of old boards, 
 hoops, clay, old rags, and iron. The Goose Man himself wore 
 an open velvet doublet and short velvet trousers, from the pockets 
 of which protruded rolls of banknotes. Instead of a cap he had 
 a rusty pan on his head, and on his feet was a pair of worn 
 patent leather shoes. Under each arm he carried a goose. The 
 geese had been made of dough. Their heads were not the heads 
 of geese but of women artificially painted and with so-called taws, 
 or marbles, for their eyes. The face at the Goose Man's left 
 looked melancholy, the one at his right was cheerful. 
 
 This was the centre of attraction; it was surrounded by the 
 largest crowds. Every time it came within sight of a fresh group 
 of on-lookers there was a tremendous shouting and waving of flags. 
 This was true even where it was plain that the people did not 
 appreciate the significance of it. Pulchinellos brandished their 
 wooden swords, Indian chieftains danced around it screaming their 
 mighty war-whoops, a Mephistopheles turned somersaults, knights 
 mounted on stilts saluted, and children with wax masks shrieked 
 until it was impossible to hear one's own voice. 
 
 Daniel had watched the performance with relative indifference. 
 He had regarded it merely as a display of commonplace ability 
 to amuse the people. Then came the wagon with the imitation
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 267 
 
 of the Goose Man. On it stood Schwalbe the sculptor, gloriously 
 drunk. Beside him stood Kropotkin the painter in his shirt 
 sleeves, apparently oblivious to the fact that it was cold. A fear- 
 fully fat youth a future school officer, so far as could be deter- 
 mined from his looks had hit upon the happy idea of pasting 
 the title of the Frankischer Herald to the Goose Man's hat. This 
 took the initiated by storm. 
 
 Kropotkin recognised Daniel. He called to him, threw him 
 kisses, had one of the wooden swords given him, and went through 
 the motion of directing an orchestra. The fat boy hurled a hand- 
 ful of pretzels at the spot on the sidewalk where Daniel was 
 standing; a trombone began to bray; the Englishman first stuck 
 his head out of his cabriolet, and then got out and hopped over to 
 Daniel, carrying a pole draped with women's clothes, including 
 a feather hat and a veil. A new keg of beer was tapped on the 
 Gambrinus wagon, while the people in the houses rushed to the 
 windows and roared. * 
 
 "You have forgotten the railing," cried Daniel in a loud voice 
 to the people on the Goose Man wagon. 
 
 "What did he say? " they asked, and looked at each other in 
 astonishment. The on-lookers were filled with curioui silence; 
 many of them gazed at Daniel, bewildered. 
 
 "You forgot the railing," he repeated, with glistening eyes^ 
 "you have forgotten the iron railing. Without his protection the 
 poor Goose Man is to be sure your buffoon, your zany, your 
 clown." 
 
 He laughed quietly, and, with opened mouth and shining teeth, 
 quickly withdrew from the innumerable gapers. Having reached 
 a deserted alley, he began to sing with a frenzied expression on 
 his face: "Whom thou dost not desert, oh Genius, him wilt thou 
 raise up with wings of fire. He will wander on as if with feet of 
 flowers across Deucalion's seas of slime, killing Python, light-footed, 
 famed Pythius Apollo." 
 
 XVI 
 
 A few weeks later a real singer came to Daniel. She sang 
 several of the songs he had written. He had thought they were 
 completely forgotten by everybody. Her art was not merely per- 
 fect; it was wonderful. 
 
 It was a very mysterious visit the singer paid him. One after- 
 noon during a fearful snow storm the bell rang; and when Gertrude
 
 268 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 opened the door, she saw a woman wearing a heavy black veil 
 standing before her, who said she wished to speak to Kapellmeister 
 Nothafft. Gertrude took her up to Daniel's room. The stranger 
 told Daniel she had been wishing to make his acquaintance for a 
 long time, and, now on her way to Italy, she had been detained 
 in the city for a few days by the illness of a near friend. This, 
 she said, she regarded as a hint from fate itself. She had come 
 to extend him her greetings, and particularly to thank him for his 
 songs, a copy of which a friend had been good enough to present 
 to her at a time when she was living under the weight of a great 
 sorrow. 
 
 She spoke with an accent that had a Northern note in it, but 
 easily and fluently; she gave the impression of a woman who had 
 seen a great deal of the world and had profited by her travels. 
 Daniel asked her with whom he had the pleasure of speaking, but 
 she smiled, and asked permission to conceal her name for the 
 present. She said that it really did not make much difference, 
 and that it might be more agreeable to him later to think that an 
 unknown woman had come to him to express her appreciation than 
 to recall that Fraulein So-and-So had been there: she hoped that 
 her very anonymity would make a more lasting impression on his 
 memory than could be made by a woman of whom he knew only 
 what everybody knows. 
 
 The mingling of the jocose and the serious, of the mind and 
 the heart, in the words of the stranger pleased Daniel. Though 
 his replies were curt and cool, it was plain that she was affording 
 him much pleasure: she was reminding him of the fact that his 
 creations had not after all sunk into an echoless abyss. In course 
 of time, the conversation turned again to the songs; she said she 
 would like very much to sing some of them for him. Daniel was 
 pleased. He got the score, sat down at the piano, and the enig- 
 matic woman began to sing. At the very first note Daniel was 
 enraptured; he had never heard such a voice: so soft, so pure, so 
 emotional, so unlike the conventional product of the conservatory. 
 As soon as she had finished the first song, he looked up at her in 
 unaffected embarrassment, and murmured: "Who are you, any- 
 how? Who are you?" 
 
 "No investigations or cross-questioning, please," replied the 
 singer, and, blushing at the praise Daniel was bestowing on her 
 by his very behaviour, she laughed and said, "The next song, 
 please, that one by Eichendorff!" 
 
 Gertrude, who had not wished to remain longer than was neces-
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 269 
 
 
 
 sary because of the unkempt impression she knew she made, had 
 hastened down to the kitchen. And now Eleanore came in, after 
 having knocked at the door with all imaginable timidity. She had 
 heard the strange voice, had rushed out into the hall, and, un- 
 able to restrain her curiosity any longer, had come in to see the 
 singer. 
 
 Daniel nodded to her with radiant eyes, the stranger greeted 
 her cordially though calmly, and then began to sing the next song; 
 after this she took up the third, and so on until she had sung 
 the complete cycle of six. Old Jordan was standing behind the 
 door; he had his hands pressed to his face and was listening; he 
 was much moved. 
 
 "Well, I must be going," said the strange woman, after she had 
 finished the last song. She shook hands with Daniel, and said: 
 "It has been a beautiful hour." 
 
 "It has been one of the most beautiful hours I have ever experi- 
 enced," said Daniel. 
 
 "Farewell!" 
 
 "Farewell!" 
 
 The strange woman went away, leaving behind her not a trace 
 of anything other than the memory of a joy that grew more 
 fabulous as the storm-tossed years rolled by. Daniel never saw 
 her again, and never heard from her again. 
 
 xvn 
 
 While the woman was singing, Gertrude had been standing down 
 in the hall listening. She knew every note of every song; every 
 melody in the accompaniment seemed to her like an old, familiar 
 picture. She was also aware that an artist by the grace of God 
 had been in the house. 
 
 But how strange it was that she should find nothing unusual in 
 the incident. She felt that a living stream in her bosom had dried 
 up, leaving nothing but sand and stones in its bed. This inability 
 to feel, this being dead to all sensations, took the form of excruciat- 
 ing pangs of conscience. 
 
 "My God, my God, what has happened to me?" she sighed, 
 and wrung her hands. 
 
 That evening she went to the Church of Our Lady, and prayed 
 for a long while. Her prayer did not appease her, however; she 
 came back home more disquieted than ever. 
 
 The door of the living room was open: Daniel and Eleanore
 
 270 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 were sitting by the lamp, reading together from a book. The 
 baby began to move; Eleanore had left the door open so that she 
 might be able to hear the child when it woke up. Gertrude took 
 the child in her arms, quieted it, and returned to the door leading 
 into the living room. Daniel and Eleanore had turned their backs 
 to the door, and were so absorbed in their reading that they were 
 not aware of Gertrude's presence. 
 
 A light suddenly came into Gertrude's heart: she became con- 
 scious of her guilt the guilt she had been trying in vain to 
 fathom now for so many cruel weeks. 
 
 She did not have enough of the power of love; therein lay her 
 guilt. She had assumed an obligation that was quite beyond her 
 power to fulfil: she had entered into marriage without having 
 the requisite strength of heart. 
 
 Marriage had seemed to her like the Holy of Holies. Her 
 union with the man she loved seemed to her to be of equal 
 significance with the union with God. But when she saw that 
 this bond had been broken, the world was plunged into an abyss 
 immeasurably remote from God. And it was not her husband 
 who seemed to her to be guilty of infidelity; nor did she look 
 upon her sister as being the guilty one; it was she herself who had 
 been unfaithful and guilty in their eyes. She had not stood the 
 test; she had been tried and found wanting; her strength had not 
 been equal to her presumptions; God had rejected her. This 
 conviction became irrevocably rooted in her heart. 
 
 In her union with Daniel music had become something divine; 
 and she saw, now this union had been broken, something in music 
 that was perilous, something that was to be avoided: she understood 
 why she was so unemotional, why her feelings had dried up and 
 vanished. 
 
 But she wanted to make one more effort to see whether she 
 was entirely right in the analysis of her soul. One morning she 
 went to Daniel, and asked him to play a certain passage from the 
 "Harzreise." She said she would like to hear the close of the 
 slow middle movement which had always made such an appeal to 
 her. Her request was made in such an urgent, anxious tone that 
 Daniel granted it, though he did not feel like playing. As 
 Gertrude listened, she became paler and paler: her diagnosis was 
 being corroborated with fearful exactness. What had once been 
 a source of ecstasy was now the cause of intense torture. The 
 tones and harmonics seemed to be eating into her very soul; the 
 pain she felt was so overwhelming, that it was only with the greatest
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 271 
 
 exertion that she mustered up sufficient self-control to leave the 
 room unaided. Daniel was dismayed. 
 
 On her return to the kitchen, Gertrude heard a most peculiar 
 noise in her bedroom. She went in only to see that little Agnes 
 had crept into the corner of the room where the harp stood, and 
 was striking the strings with a copper spoon, highly pleased with 
 her actions. Gertrude was seized with a vague, nameless terror. 
 She took the harp into the kitchen, removed the strings from the 
 frame, rolled them up, put them in a drawer, and carried the 
 stringless frame up to the attic. 
 
 "What can I do?" she whispered to herself, and looked around 
 in the attic with an expression of complete helplessness. She 
 longed for peace, and it seemed peaceful up where she was. She 
 stayed a while, leaning up against one of the beams, her eyes 
 closed. 
 
 "What can I do?" That was the question she put to herself 
 day and night. "I can no longer be of any help to my husband; 
 to stand in his way merely because of the child is not right." 
 Such was the trend of her argument. She saw how he was suffer- 
 ing, how Eleanore was suffering, how each was suffering on account 
 of the other, and how both were suffering because of the despicable 
 vulgarity of the human race. She thought to herself that if 
 she were not living, everything would be right. She imagined, 
 indeed she was certain, that all the truth he had given her had 
 had the sole purpose of whitewashing a lie, by which she was to 
 be made to believe that her existence was a necessity to him. She 
 was convinced that the weight of this lie was crushing the very 
 life out of him. She wished to free him from it and its conse- 
 quences. But how she was to do this she did not know. She 
 knew that if Daniel and Eleanore could belong to each other in a 
 legal, legitimate way, they would be vindicated in the eyes of God 
 and man. But how this was to be brought about she did not 
 know. 
 
 She sought and sought for a way out. Her ideas were vague 
 but persistent. She felt that she was running around in a circle, 
 unable to do more than stare at the centre of the circle. Every 
 morning at five o'clock she would get up and go to church. She 
 prayed with a devotion and passion that physically exhausted her 
 heart. 
 
 One morning she knelt before the altar in unusually heart- 
 rending despair. She thought she heard a small voice crying out 
 to her and telling her to take her life.
 
 272 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 She swooned; people rushed up to her, and wet her forehead 
 with cold water. This enabled her to get up and go home. A 
 peculiarly sorrowful and dreamy expression lay on her face. 
 
 She wanted to do some knitting, for she recalled that when she 
 was a girl she was always able to dispel care and grief by knitting. 
 But every stitch she made turned into the cry: "You must take 
 your life." 
 
 She knelt down by the cradle of little Agnes, but the child 
 said to her only too distinctly: "Mother, you must take your 
 life." 
 
 Eleanore came in. On her brow was the light of enjoyed 
 happiness; her whole body was happiness; her lips trembled and 
 twitched with happiness. But her eyes said. "Sister, you must take 
 your life." 
 
 Philippina stood by the kitchen stove, and whispered to the 
 coals: "Gertrude, you must take your life." Her father came in, 
 got his dinner, expressed his thanks for it, and went out murmur- 
 ing, "Daughter, you must take your life; believe me, it will be 
 for the best." 
 
 If she passed by the well, something drew her to the edge; voices 
 called to her from the depths. From every beaker she put to her 
 lips to drink shone forth her image as if from beyond the tomb. 
 On Sunday she climbed up the Vestner Tower, and let her eyes 
 roam over the plains below as if in the grief of departure. She 
 leaned forward out of the little window with a feeling of assuag- 
 ing horror. The keeper, seeing what she was doing, rushed up, 
 seized her arms, and made her get back. 
 
 If the cock crew, it was the crow of death; if the clock ticked, 
 it was the tick of death; if the wind blew, it was a breath from 
 beyond the grave. "You must take your life" with this thought 
 the air, the earth, the house, the church, the morning, the evening, 
 and her dreams were full. 
 
 In April Eleanore was taken down with fever. Gertrude watched 
 by her bedside night and day; she sacrificed herself. Daniel, 
 worried about Eleanore, went around in a dazed condition. When 
 he came to her bed he never noticed Gertrude. After Eleanore 
 had begun to recover, Gertrude lay down ; for she was very tired. 
 But she could not sleep; she got up again. 
 
 She went into the kitchen in her bare feet, though she did not 
 know why she went. It was the consuming restlessness of her 
 heart that drove her from her bed. Her legs were heavy with
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 273 
 
 exhaustion, but she did not like to stay in any one place for any 
 length of time. Later Daniel came back from the city, and 
 brought her a silver buckle which he fastened to her bracelet. 
 Then he pressed his lips to her forehead, and said: "I thank you for 
 having been so good to Eleanore." 
 
 Gertrude stood as if rooted to the floor. Something seemed 
 to cry incessantly within her; she felt that a mortally wounded beast 
 was in her bosom wallowing in its blood. Long after Daniel 
 had gone to his room she could still be seen standing in the middle 
 of the floor. Wrapped in gloomy meditation, she removed the 
 buckle from her bracelet: she thought she saw an ugly mark where 
 the metal had touched her skin. She went into her room, opened 
 the cabinet, and hid the buckle under a pile of linen. 
 
 She had only one wish: she wanted to sleep. But as soon as she 
 would close her eyes her heart would begin to beat with doubled, 
 trebled rapidity. She had to get up and walk back and forth in 
 the room; she was struggling for breath. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 A few days later she went out during a pouring rain storm, 
 and wandered about aimlessly through the streets. Every minute 
 she feared and hoped she would fall over and become uncon- 
 scious of herself and the world about her. She passed by two 
 churches, the doors of which were locked. It was growing dark; 
 she reached the apothecary shop of Herr Pflaum, and looked 
 in through the glass door. Herr Seelenfromm was standing at the 
 counter, mixing some medicine in a mortar. She went in and 
 asked him whether he could not give her a narcotic. He said he 
 could, and asked her what it should be. "One which makes you 
 sleep for a long, long while," she said, and smiled at him so as 
 to make him inclined to fulfil her request. It was the first smile 
 that had adorned her grief-stricken face for many a day. Herr 
 Seelenfromm was just about to suggest a remedy to her. He sat 
 down in a vain position so that he might avail himself of the 
 opportunity to flirt with her a little. The apothecary, however, 
 came up just then, and when he heard what Gertrude wanted, he 
 cast a penetrating glance at her and said: "You had better go to 
 the doctor, my good woman, and have him make you out a prescrip- 
 tion. I have had some rather disagreeable experiences with cases 
 of this kind."
 
 274 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 When Gertrude had finally dragged herself home, she found 
 Philippina sitting by the cradle of little Agnes, rocking the child 
 back and forth and humming a lullaby. "Where is Eleanore?" 
 asked Gertrude. 
 
 "Where do you think she is? " said Philippina contemptuously: 
 "She is upstairs with your husband." 
 
 Gertrude heard Daniel playing the piano. She raised her head 
 to hear what he was playing. 
 
 "She told me I was to go with her to Glaishammer to get a 
 washwoman for you," continued Philippina. 
 
 "Ah, what do we want with a washwoman?" said Gertrude; 
 "we cannot afford one. It costs a great deal of money, and every 
 cent of money spent means a drop 9f blood from Daniel's veins. 
 Don't go to Glaishammer! I would rather do the washing myself!" 
 
 She knew, however, at that very moment that she had done her 
 last washing. There was something so mournful about the light 
 of the lamp. Agnes's little face looked so pale as it peeped out 
 from under the covers, Philippina cowered so witlessly at the floor. 
 But all this was only for the moment; all this she could take with 
 her up into a better world. 
 
 She bent down over the child, and kissed it, and kissed it with 
 hot, burning lips. A lurk of unsoftened evil crept into Philip- 
 pina's face. "Listen, Gertrude, listen: you are all Greek to me," 
 said Philippina, "I don't understand you." 
 
 Gertrude went over to Eleanore's room, where she stood for a 
 while in the dark, trembling and thinking. At times she was 
 startled: she heard some one walking about, and she thought the 
 door would open. She could scarcely endure her impatience. 
 Suddenly she remembered the attic and how quiet it was up there; 
 there no one could disturb her. She decided to go up. On her 
 way she went into the kitchen, and took a thick cord from a 
 sugar-loaf. 
 
 As she passed by Daniel's room, she noticed that the door was 
 half open. He was still playing. Two candles were standing on 
 the piano; Eleanore was leaning up against the side of the piano. 
 She had on a pale blue dress that fell down over her beautiful 
 body in peaceful folds. 
 
 Gertrude looked at the picture with wide-open eyes. There was 
 an inimitable urging, a reaching aloft, and a painful sinking-back in 
 the piece he was playing and in the way he was playing it. 
 Gertrude went on up without making the slightest bit of noise. It 
 was dark, but she found her way by feeling along with her hands.
 
 PHILIPPINA STARTS A FIRE 275 
 
 After a half-hour had gone by, Philippina began to wonder 
 where Gertrude was. She looked in the living room, then in 
 Eleanore's room, and then hastened up the steps and peeped 
 through the open door into Daniel's room. Daniel had stopped 
 playing and was talking with Eleanore. Philippina turned back. 
 On the stairs she met Jordan just then coming in from his evening 
 walk. She lighted a candle, and looked in the kitchen. Gertrude 
 was nowhere to be found. 
 
 "It is raining; there is her raincoat, and here is her umbrella, 
 so she can't have gone out," thought Philippina to herself. She 
 sat down on the kitchen table, and stared before her. 
 
 She was filled with an ugly, bitter suspicion; she scented a 
 tragedy. In the course of another half-hour, she got up, took the 
 lighted candle, and started out on a second search. Something 
 drove her all about the house: she went out into the hall, into the 
 various rooms, and then back to the kitchen. 
 
 All of a sudden she thought of the attic. It was the expression 
 on Gertrude's face the last time she kissed Agnes that made her 
 think of it. Was not the attic of any house, and particularly the 
 one in this house, the room that had the greatest atraction for her, 
 and that her light-fearing fancy invariably chose as the most desir- 
 able and befitting place for her hidden actions? 
 
 She went up quickly and without making the least noise. Hold- 
 ing the lighted candle out before her, she stared at a rafter 
 from which hung a human figure dressed in woman's clothes. 
 She wheeled about, uttering a stifled gurgle. A sort of drunken- 
 ness came over her; she was seized with a terrible desire to dance. 
 She raised one leg, and sank her teeth deep into the nails of her 
 right hand. In her convulsions she had the feeling that some one 
 was crying out to her in a strong voice: "Set it on fire! Set it 
 on fire!" 
 
 Near the chimney wall was a pile of letters and old newspapers. 
 She fell on her knees, and exclaimed: "Blaze! Blaze!" And 
 then, half with horror and half with rejoicing, she uttered a series 
 of irrational, incoherent sounds that were nothing more than 
 "Hu-hu, oi-oi, hu-hu, oi-oi!" 
 
 The fire from the papers flared up at once, and she ran down 
 the steps with a roar and a bellow that are fearful to imagine, 
 nerve-racking to hear. 
 
 In a few minutes the house was a bedlam. Daniel ran up the
 
 276 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 steps, Eleanore close behind him. The women in the lower apart- 
 ments came running up, screaming for water. Daniel and Eleanore 
 turned back, and dragged a big pail full of water up the stairs. 
 The fire alarm was turned in, the men made their way into the 
 building, and with the help of many hands the flames were in time 
 extinguished. 
 
 Jordan was the first to see the lifeless Gertrude. Standing in 
 smoke and ashes, he sobbed and moaned, and finally fell to the 
 floor as if struck on the head with an axe. The men carried 
 Gertrude's body out; her clothes were still smoking, 
 
 Philippina had vanished.
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 IT was all over. 
 
 The visit of the doctor was over; and so was that of the 
 coroner. The investigations of the various boards, including that 
 of the fire department, the cross-examination, the taking of evi- 
 dence, the coming to a decision all this was over. 
 
 The cause of the fire remained unexplained; a guilty party 
 could not be found. Philippina Schimmelweis had sworn that the 
 fire had already started when she reached the attic. It was there- 
 fore assumed that the suicide had knocked over a lighted candle 
 in her last moments. 
 
 The crowd of acquaintances and close friends had disappeared; 
 this was over too. Hardened souls expressed their conventional 
 sympathy to Kapellmeister Nothafft. That a man who had carried 
 his head so high had suddenly been obliged to lower it in humility 
 awakened a feeling of satisfaction. The punished evil-doer again 
 gained public favour. Women from the better circles of society 
 expatiated at length on the question whether a relation which in 
 all justice would have to be designated as a criminal one while the 
 poor woman was living could be transformed into a legal one 
 after the lapse of a certain amount of time. With pimplike 
 generosity and match-making indulgence they decided that it 
 could. 
 
 The funeral was also over. Gertrude was buried in St. John's 
 Cemetery on a stormy day. 
 
 The preacher had preached a sermon, the mourners had stood 
 with their hands stuffed in their coat pockets and their furs, for 
 it was cold. As the coffin was lowered into the grave, Jordan 
 cried out: "Farewell, Gertrude! Until we meet again, my child!" 
 
 There was one man who crowded right up to the edge of the 
 grave: it was Herr Carovius. He looked over his nose glasses at 
 Jordan and Daniel and Eleanore. It seemed to him that the 
 latter, with her pale face and her black dress, was more be.iutiful 
 than the most beautiful Madonna any Italian or Spaniard had 
 ever immortalised on imperishable canvas. 
 
 277
 
 278 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He turned his frightened face to one side, and came very nearly 
 falling over the heaped-up earth by the grave. 
 
 With regard to Daniel's conduct, Pflaum, the apothecary, had 
 this to say: "I should have expected more grief and sorrow from 
 him, and not so much sullenness." 
 
 "A hard-hearted man, an exceedingly hard-hearted man," said 
 Herr Seelenfromm in his grief. 
 
 Daniel was severely criticised for his discourteous treatment of 
 the people from the City Theatre, every one of w.hom had come 
 to the funeral. When several of them shook hands with him, 
 he merely nodded, and blinked his eyes behind the round glasses 
 which he had been wearing for some time. 
 
 Judge Kleinlein said: "He should be very grateful for the 
 Christian burial, for despite the evidence that was turned in, it 
 was not satisfactorily proved that the woman was in her right 
 mind." 
 
 Eleanore looked into the open grave. She thought: "Guilt is 
 being heaped upon guilt, deep, serious guilt." 
 
 All this was over now. Daniel and Eleanore and Jordan had 
 come back to the house. 
 
 They felt lonely and deserted. Jordan shut himself up in his 
 room. It was rare now that he took his accustomed evening walks; 
 his coat-sleeves and the ends of his trouser legs had become more 
 and more frayed. He pined away; his hair became snow white, 
 his walk unsteady, his eye dim. But he was never ill, and he 
 never complained of his fate. He never said anything at the 
 table; he was a quiet man. 
 
 Eleanore moved back up with her father, and Daniel took his 
 old room next to the dining room. There was all of a sudden so 
 much space; he was surprised that the going of a single person 
 could make such a vast difference. 
 
 Eleanore spent the whole day with little Agnes until Philippina 
 came and relieved her. She also did her work close to Agnes. 
 
 When she had finished her writing, she had to look after the 
 house. She could not cook, and had no desire to learn how, so she 
 had a woman come in three times a week who prepared the mid- 
 day meals. Twice a week she would prepare meals for two days, 
 and once a week she would get them ready for three days. She 
 was a modest woman who worked for very little money. The
 
 ELEANORE 279 
 
 food she cooked merely needed to be heated over, and in the 
 evening they always had sausage and sandwiches anyhow. 
 
 It was a practical arrangement, but no one praised Eleanore 
 for it. 
 
 At first she spent her nights in Gertrude's room with the child; 
 she could not stand this, however, longer than three weeks. Either 
 she could not sleep, or she had such terrible dreams. 
 
 Then she took to carrying the child up to her room with her 
 and making a little bed for it on the sofa. But the child did 
 not sleep so well there; Eleanore noticed that, as a result of all 
 the excitement and hard work, she was losing strength. 
 
 Often in the night when she would take the child to quiet it 
 and become so tired and uneasy she would make up her mind to 
 have a talk with Daniel. But the next morning she would find it 
 impossible to bring up the subject. She felt that the voice of 
 Gertrude was admonishing her from beyond the grave and telling 
 her to be patient. 
 
 She felt, too, that the time was drawing near when she would 
 succumb to over-exertion; it made her anxious. Just then Philip- 
 pina came in to help. 
 
 in 
 
 When Jason Philip heard that Philippina was going to Jordan's 
 daughters every day, he told her most emphatically and repeatedly 
 that she had to quit it. Philippina paid not the slightest attention 
 to him and did as she pleased. 
 
 "I'll kill you," cried Jason Philip at the girl. 
 
 Philippina shrugged her shoulders and laughed impudently. 
 
 Jason Philip saw that a grown person was standing before him; 
 he was afraid of the evil look of his daughter. 
 
 It was long before he could make out what was taking her to his 
 enemies. Then he learned that wherever she chanced to be, at 
 home, or with acquaintances, or with strangers, she was spreading 
 evil reports concerning Daniel and his family. This tended to 
 make him a bit more indulgent: he too wanted to feast his ears on 
 scandal from that quarter. At times he would enter into a con- 
 versation with Philippina, and when she told him the latest news 
 he was filled with fiendish delight. "The day will rome when I 
 will get back at that music-maker, you see if I don't," he said. 
 
 Theresa was still confined to her bed. During his leisure hours 
 Willibald had to read to her, either from the newspapers or from
 
 280 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 trashy novels. When she was alone she lay perfectly quiet and 
 stared at the ceiling. 
 
 The time finally came when Willibald left school. He went 
 to Fiirth, where he was employed as an apprentice by a manu- 
 facturer. There was no doubt in any one's mind but that he 
 would become one of those loyal, temperate, industrious people 
 who are the pride of their parents, and who climb the social ladder 
 at the rate of an annual increase in salary of thirty marks. 
 
 The one-eyed Markus entered the paternal bookshop, where he 
 soon familiarised himself with the novels of the world from Dumas 
 and Luise Muhlbach to Ohnet and Zola, and with the popular 
 sciences from Darwin to Mantegazza. His brain was a book 
 catalogue, and his mouth an oracle of the tastes displayed at the last 
 fair. But in reality he not only did not like the books, he regarded 
 all this printed matter as a jolly fine deception practised on people 
 who did not know what to do with their money. Zwanziger, the 
 clerk, had married the widow of a cheese merchant, and was run- 
 ning a shop of his own on the Regensburg Chaussee. 
 
 "A rotten business," said Jason Philip at the end of each month. 
 "The trouble with me," he invariably added, "is that I have been 
 too much of an idealist. If I had worked as hard for myself as 
 I have for other people, I would be a rich man to-day." 
 
 He went to the cafe and discussed politics. He had developed 
 into a perpetual grumbler; he was pleased with nothing, neither 
 the government nor the opposition. To hear him talk you would 
 have thought that the opposing parties had been forced to narrow 
 their platforms down to the differences between the views of 
 Prince Bismarck and Jason Philip Schimmelweis. When Kaiser 
 Wilhelm I died, Jason Philip acted as though his appointment to 
 the chancellorship was imminent. And when in that same mem- 
 orable year Kaiser Friedrich succumbed to his sufferings, Jason 
 Philip resembled the pilot on whose isolated fearlessness the rescue 
 of the storm-tossed ship of state depends. 
 
 The born hero always finds a sphere of activity, a forum from 
 which to express his views. If public life has rejected him, he 
 goes to the cafe, where he is sure to find a congenial element. 
 
 One day Theresa got up from the bed where she had spent 
 fifteen unbroken months, and seemed all of a sudden completely 
 recovered. The physician said it was the strangest case that 
 had ever come under his observation. But Jason Philip said: "It 
 is the triumph of a good constitution." With that he went to the 
 cafe, drank beer, made fiery political speeches, and played skat.
 
 ELEANORE 281 
 
 But Theresa left her bed not as a woman forty-six years old 
 that was her age but as a woman of seventy. She had only a 
 few sparsely distributed grey hairs left on her square head, her 
 face was full of wrinkles, her eye was hard and cold. From that 
 time on, however, she did not seem to age. She did not quarrel 
 any more, attended to her affairs in a straightforward, self-assured 
 way, and observed her increasing impoverishment with unexpected 
 calm. 
 
 She lived on herring, potatoes, and coffee; it was the same, diet 
 on which Philippina and Markus lived, with the one exception 
 that Markus, as the child nearest her heart, was allowed a piece 
 of sugar for his coffee. Jason Philip was also put on a diet: he 
 never dared open his mouth about it, either. 
 
 Philippina stood it for a while in silence; finally she said to 
 her mother: "I can't stand this chicory brew forever." 
 
 "Then you'll have to lap up water, you will," replied Theresa. 
 
 "No, I won't," said Philippina. "I am going to hire out." 
 
 "Well, hire out. Who cares? It'll be one mouth less to feed." 
 "Your daughter is going to hire out," said Theresa to her husband, 
 when he came home that evening. 
 
 Jason Philip had been playing cards that day, and had lost. 
 He was in a terrible humour: "She can go plumb to the Devil so 
 far as I am concerned." That was his comment. 
 
 The next morning Philippina sneaked up to the attic, and 
 drew out her cash from the hole in the chimney: it amounted 
 to nine hundred and forty marks, mostly in gold, which she had 
 exchanged in the course of years for small coins. Through the 
 opening in the wall the June sun fell upon her face, which, never 
 young and bearing the stamp of extended crime, looked like that 
 of a witch. 
 
 She put the money in a woollen stocking, rolled it up in a knot, 
 stuffed it down her corset between her breasts, made the sign of 
 the cross, and repeated one of her drivelling formulas. Her 
 clothes, ribbons, and other possessions she had already packed in a 
 basket. This she carried down the stairs, and, without saying 
 good-bye to a soul, left the house. 
 
 Her brother Markus was standing with sprawled legs in the 
 sun before the store, whistling. He caught sight of her with his 
 one eye, smiled contemptuously at her, and cried: "Happy 
 journey!" 
 
 Philippina turned to him, and said: "You branded lout! You're 
 going to have a lousy time of it, mark what I tell you!"
 
 282 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 In this frame of mind and body she came to Daniel, and said 
 to him: "I want to work for you. You don't need to pay nothing 
 if you ain't got it." 
 
 Daniel had been noticing for some time that Eleanore could 
 not stand the exertion required of her by the extra work. 
 
 "Will you mind the baby and sleep with it?" Daniel asked. 
 Philippina nodded and looked down. 
 
 "If you will take care of the child and act right toward it and 
 me, I shall be awfully grateful to you," he said, breathing more 
 easily. 
 
 Thereupon Philippina threw her hands to her face, and shud- 
 dered from head to foot. She was not exactly crying; there was 
 something much worse, much more despairing, in what she was 
 doing than in mere crying. She seemed to be convulsed by some 
 demoniac power; a ghastly dream seemed to have seized her in a 
 moment of higher consciousness. She turned around and trotted 
 into the room where the child was playing with a wooden horse. 
 
 She sat down on a foot-stool, and stared at the restless little 
 creature. 
 
 Daniel stopped, stood perfectly still, and looked at her in a 
 mood of solicitous reflection. 
 
 IV 
 
 During a rehearsal of "Traviata," Daniel flew into a rage at 
 Fraulein Varini: "Listen, pay attention to your intonation, and 
 keep in time. It's enough to make a man lose his mind! What 
 are you squeaking up at the gallery for? You're supposed to be 
 singing a song, and not whining for a little bit of cheap applause." 
 
 The lady stepped out to the foot-lights with heaving bosom. 
 Her offended dignity created something like the spread tail of a 
 peacock about her hips: "How dare you?" she exclaimed: "I give 
 you your choice: You can apologise or leave this place. Whatever 
 you do, you are going to become acquainted with the power I 
 have." 
 
 Daniel folded his arms, let his eyes roam over the members of 
 the orchestra, and said: "Good-bye, gentlemen. Since it is the 
 director's place to choose between me and this lady, there is no 
 doubt whatever but that my term of usefulness in this position 
 is up. And moreover, in an institution where meat is more valuable 
 than music, I feel that I am quite superfluous." 
 
 The other singers had come running out from the wings, and
 
 ELEANORE 283 
 
 were standing crowded together on the stage looking down at the 
 orchestra. When Daniel laid down his baton and walked away, 
 every member of the orchestra rose as one man to his feet. It 
 was a voluntary and almost overwhelming expression of speechless 
 admiration. Though they had never loved this man, though they 
 had regarded him as an evil, alien kill-joy, who interfered with 
 their easy-going habits as musicians in that town, they nevertheless 
 respected his energy, admired the nobility of his intentions, and at 
 least had a vague idea of his genius. 
 
 Fraulein Varini went into hysterics. The director was called 
 in. He promised Fraulein Varini immediate redress, and wrote 
 a letter to Daniel requesting that he offer an apology. 
 
 Daniel replied in a brief note that he had no thought of chang- 
 ing his plans as announced when he left the building. He 
 remarked that it was quite impossible for him to get along with 
 Fraulein Varini, that either he or she would have to quit, and that 
 since she intended to remain he must consider his resignation as 
 submitted and accepted. 
 
 That evening, as he was sitting at the table with Eleanore, he 
 told her, after a long silence and in very few words, what had 
 happened. Her response to him was a look of astonishment; that 
 was all. 
 
 "Oh, it was the only thing I could do," said Daniel, without 
 looking up from his plate; "I was so heartily sick of the whole 
 business." 
 
 "What are you going to live on, you and your child?" asked 
 Eleanore. 
 
 His eye became even darker and harsher: "You know, God who 
 makes the lilies grow in the fields ... I can't quote that old 
 proverb exactly, my familiarity with the Bible is nothing to 
 boast of." 
 
 That was all they said. The window was open; there was a 
 mysterious pulsing in the earth; the warm air had a disagreeable 
 taste, somewhat like that of sweet oil. 
 
 When the clock in the tower struck ten, Eleanore got up and 
 said good-night. 
 
 "Good-night!" replied Daniel, with bowed head. 
 
 That is the way it was now every evening between the two; 
 for during the day they scarcely saw each other.
 
 284 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Daniel would sit perfectly still for hours at a time and brood. 
 
 He could not forget. He could not forget the burning, smok- 
 ing border of the dress; nor the shoes that had some street mud on 
 them; nor the face with the pinched upper lip, the dishevelled 
 hair, the nervously knitted brow. 
 
 Under the linen in the clothes press he had found the silver 
 buckle he had given her. "Why did she hide it there?" he asked 
 himself. The condition of her soul when she opened the press 
 and put the buckle in it became vivid, real; it became blended 
 with his own soul, a part of his own being. 
 
 Then he discovered the harp without the strings. He took it 
 to his room; and when he looked at it, he had the feeling that he 
 was looking at a face without flesh. 
 
 "Am I too melancholy, too heavy for you?" This was the 
 question that came to him from the irrevocable past. And that 
 other statement: "I will be your mother made young again." 
 And that other one, too: "I, too, am a living creature." 
 
 He recalled some old letters she had written him and which he 
 had carefully preserved. He read them over with the care and 
 caution he would have exercised in studying an agreement, the 
 disregard or fulfilment of which was a matter of life and death. 
 And there were bits of old embroidery from her girlhood which 
 he acquired in order to lock them up and keep them as if they 
 were sacred relics. 
 
 She stood out in his mind and his soul more vividly with each 
 passing hour. If he remembered how she sat and listened when 
 he played or discussed his works, he felt something clutching at 
 his throat. He recalled how she crept up to him once and 
 pressed her forehead against his lips: this picture was enshrouded 
 in the awe of an unfathomable mystery. 
 
 It was not a sense of guilt that bound him to his deceased wife. 
 Nor was it contrition or self-reproach or the longing that finds 
 expression in the realisation of accumulated neglect. His fancy 
 warded off all thought of death; in its creative defiance it invested 
 the dead woman with a reality she never possessed while making 
 her pilgrimage in bodily form over this earth. 
 
 It was not until now that she really took on form and shape 
 for Daniel. And this is the marvellous and the criminal feature 
 of the musician. Things and people are not his while they are 
 his. He lives with shadows; it is only what he has lost that is 
 his in living form. Dissociated from the moment, he reaches out 
 for the moment that is gone; he longs for yesterday and storms
 
 ELEANORE 285 
 
 to-morrow with unassimilative impatience. What he has in his 
 hands is withered; what lies behind him is in flower. His thinking 
 is a winter between two springs: the true one that is gone, and the 
 one that is to come of which he dreams, but when it arrives he 
 fails to take it to himself. He does not see; he has seen. He 
 does not love; he has loved. He is not happy; he was happy. 
 Dead, lifeless eyes open in the grave; and the living eyes that look 
 into the grave, see all things, understand all things, and glorify 
 all things, feel as if they are being deceived by death and its 
 duration throughout eternity. 
 
 Gertrude was transformed into a melody; everything she had 
 done or said was a melody. Her silence was awakened, her mute 
 hours were made eloquent. Once he had seen her and Eleanore, 
 the one in a brown dress, the other in a blue, minor and major, 
 the two poles of his universe. Now the major arose like the night, 
 spread out over the lonely earth, and enveloped all things in 
 mourning. Grief fed on pictures that had once been daily, com- 
 monplace occurrences, but which were illumined at present by the 
 brightness of visions. 
 
 He saw her as she lay in bed with the two braids of hair on 
 either side of her face, her face itself looking like a wax figure 
 in an old black frame. He could see her as she carried a dish into 
 the room, threaded a needle, put a glass to her lips to drink, or 
 laced up her shoe. He could see the expression in her eye when 
 she cautioned, besought, was amazed, or smiled. How incom- 
 parably star-like this eye had all of a sudden become! It was 
 always lifted up, always bright with inner meaning, always fixed 
 on him. In the vision of this eye he found one evening along 
 toward sunset the motif of a sonata in B minor. A gesture he 
 remembered it was the time Eleanore stood before the mirror 
 with the myrtle wreath on her head gave the impulse to the 
 stirring -presto in the first movement of a quartette. The twenty- 
 second Psalm, beginning "My God, my God, why hast thou 
 forsaken me?" he sketched on awakening from a dream in which 
 Gertrude had appeared before him in perfect repose, as pale as 
 death, her chin resting on her hand. 
 
 But it could not be said that he worked. The music he wrote 
 under these conditions simply gushed forth, so to speak, during 
 fits of fever. When the mood came over him, he would scribble 
 the notes on whatever lay nearest him; his haste seemed to betray 
 a sense of guilt. He stole from himself; tones appealed to him 
 as so many crimes. When the gripping melody of the twenty-
 
 286 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 second Psalm arose in his mind, he trembled from head to foot, 
 and left the house as if lashed by Furies, though it was in the 
 dead of night. The recurring bass figure of the -presto sounded 
 to him as though it were a gruesome, awed voice stammering out 
 the fatal words: "Man, hold your breath, Man, hold your breath!" 
 And he did hold his breath, full of unresting discomfort, while 
 his inspiration hacked its way through the ice-locked region into 
 which a passionate spell that was becoming more and more a part 
 of his nature had driven it. 
 
 He saw humanity forsaking him; he watched the waves of isola- 
 tion widening and deepening around him. Since he felt that time 
 did not challenge him to effort of any kind, he took to despising 
 time. It came to the point where he regarded his creations as 
 something that never were intended for the world; he never spoke 
 about them or cherished the remotest desire that men hear of 
 them. The more completely he kept them in secret hiding, the 
 more real they appeared to him. The thought that a man could 
 write a piece of music and sell it for money appealed to him as 
 on a par with the thought of disposing for so much cash of his 
 mother or his sweetheart, of his child or one of his own limbs. 
 
 He came on this account to cherish a feeling of superb disgust 
 for shrewd dealers who were carried along on the wings of fashion. 
 He took a dislike to anything that was famous; for fame smelled 
 of and tasted to him like money. He shuddered at the mere 
 thought of the chaos that arises from opinions and judgments; 
 the disputes as to the merits of different schools and tendencies 
 made him ill; he could not stand the perambulating virtuosos of 
 all zones and nations, the feathers they manage to make fly, the 
 noise they evoke, the truths they proclaim, the lies they wade 
 about in and make a splash. He stood aghast at the mention of a 
 concert hall or a theatre; he flew into a reasoned rage when he 
 heard a neighbour playing a piano; he despised the false devotion 
 of the masses, and scorned their impotent, imbecile transports. 
 
 All their music smelled of and tasted to him like money. 
 
 He had bought the biographies of the great masters. From 
 them he familiarised himself with their distress and poverty; he 
 read of the petty attitudes and fatuous mediocrity that stood deaf 
 and dumb in the presence of immortal genius. But one day he 
 chanced to read that Mozart's body had been buried in a pauper's 
 grave. He hurled the book from him with an oath that he would 
 never again touch a work of that sort. The mordant smoke of 
 misanthropy blew into the fire of idolisation; he did not wish to
 
 ELEANORE 287 
 
 see any one; he left the city, and found peace only after he had 
 reached a lonely, unfrequented place in the forest, where he felt 
 he was out of the reach of human feet and safe from the eyes 
 of men. 
 
 At night he would walk "rapidly through the streets; his head 
 was always bowed. If he became tired, he betook himself to some 
 unknown cafe where he was sure he would not meet any of his 
 acquaintances. If some one whom he knew met him on the street, 
 he did not speak; if any one spoke to him, he was blatant and 
 bizarre in his replies, and hastened off as rapidly as he could, with 
 some caustic bit of intended wit on his loosened tongue. 
 
 To enter the room where Philippina and the child were required 
 much effort; at first he was able to do it only with pronounced 
 aversion. Later he came somehow to be touched by the form and 
 actions of the child: he would come in a few times each day for 
 a minute or two only, take it up in his arms, have it poke its tiny 
 hands into his face or even jerk at his nose glasses; he listened 
 with undivided interest to its baby talk. Philippina would stand 
 in the corner in the meanwhile, with her eyes on the floor and her 
 mouth closed. He became painfully aware of his obligations to 
 her because of her inexplicable fidelity to him, and knew that he 
 would never be able to reward her for her unique and faithful 
 assistance. He was grieved at the same time to see the child so 
 motherless, so utterly without the attention that ennobles. The 
 child's bright eyes, its outstretched arms hurt him: he feared the 
 feelings slumbering even then in its breast, and was driven away 
 by the thought of what might happen in the future. 
 
 One morning in August he arose with the sun, went to the 
 kitchen and got his own breakfast, took his walking stick, and left 
 the house. He wanted to go to Eschenbach on foot. 
 
 He walked the entire day, making only very short stops for rest. 
 At noon .the heat became intense; he asked a peasant, who chanced 
 to drive up in his hay wagon, if he might ride a little. He had 
 no definite end in view, no plan. Something drew him on; what 
 it was he did not know. 
 
 When he finally reached the little town it was late at night; 
 the moon was shining. There was not a soul on the street. The 
 windows of his mother's house were all dark. He climbed up 
 the steps, and sat down as close to the front door as was physically 
 possible. He imagined he could hear his mother and the child 
 she had in her care breathing. 
 
 It seemed so strange to him that his mother knew nothing of
 
 288 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 his presence. If she had known he was there, she would have 
 unlocked the door and looked at him in astonishment. And if 
 he had not felt like talking, he would have been obliged to lay 
 his head in her lap and weep. Nothing else was possible; he could 
 not speak. And yet the fear lest he talk, lest he be forced to tell 
 everything, took such firm hold on him that he decided to start 
 back home without letting his mother know that he had been 
 there and without having seen either her or the child. The pecu- 
 liar restlessness that had driven him away from his home and 
 impelled him to go on this unusual journey was silenced as soon 
 as he sat in the shadow of his mother's little house. 
 
 But he was so tired that he soon fell asleep. He dreamed that 
 the child and the old lady were standing before him, that the 
 former had a great bunch of grapes in her hand and the latter 
 a shovel and was shovelling up the earth, her face revealing a soul 
 of sorrows. Eva seemed to him to be much more beautiful than 
 she had been a year ago; he felt drawn to the child by an uncon- 
 trollable power and a painful love that stood in a most unusual 
 relation to what his mother was doing. The longer his mother 
 shovelled in the earth the heavier his heart became, but he could 
 not say anything; he felt as if a glorious song were pouring forth 
 from his soul, a song such as he had never heard in his life. 
 Enraptured by its beauty, he woke up. At first he thought he 
 could still hear it, but it was only the splashing of the water in the 
 Wolfram fountain. 
 
 The moon was high in the heavens. Daniel went over to the 
 fountain just as the night watchman came along, blew his trumpet 
 and sang: "Listen, all men, I wish to tell that it has struck two 
 from the town-hall bell." The watchman noticed the lonely man 
 standing by the fountain, was startled at first, but then continued 
 on his rounds, repeating from time to time the words of his official 
 song. 
 
 Often as a child Daniel had read the inscription on the base 
 of the Wolfram figure. Now he read the words, irradiated by the 
 light of the moon, and they had a totally different meaning: 
 
 Water gives to the trees their life, 
 And makes with fertile vigour rife 
 All creatures of the world. 
 By water all our eyes are purled; 
 It washes clean man's very soul 
 And makes it like an angel, whole.
 
 ELEANORE 289 
 
 Simple words, but Daniel read them in the light of a full experi- 
 ence, dipped his hands in the basin, and rubbed them over his 
 eyes drunk with sleep; then casting one more glance at his mother's 
 house, he turned in the direction of the road leading away from 
 the town. 
 
 Out in the fields it was too damp for him to lie down to rest. 
 Near an isolated farm house he found a hay rick, wert up to it, 
 aod lay down. 
 
 VI 
 
 Every time Eleanore looked at Daniel her heart was filled with 
 the same anxiety. She did not understand him; she could not 
 comprehend a single one of his movements. Such joy as she had 
 arose from meditation on the past. 
 
 He did not seem to be able to recall her. One word, any word, 
 from him would have relieved her of her anguish; but he spoke to 
 her precisely as he spoke to Philippina or to Frau Kiitt, the woman 
 who came in to do the housework. 
 
 It was bad enough to live with Philippina, to feel the incessant 
 hatred of this secretive person; to suspect that she knew things that 
 would not stand the light of day. But to see the child handed 
 over to her, treated by her as though it were her own and guarded 
 by her with a jealousy that made her face wrinkle with rage if 
 Eleanore presumed to stay with it for as much as five minutes, this 
 was infinitely worse. 
 
 It was bad enough to have to accept with filial obedience the 
 society of the speechless old father who spent his days and nights 
 in his own mysterious way, striving without peace of any kind to 
 reach an unknown goal. This made it hard for Eleanore. It was 
 spooky in the rooms upstairs, and equally spooky in the ones down- 
 stairs. Eleanore dreaded the coming winter. At times she felt 
 that her own voice had an unreal sound, and that her most com- 
 monplace remark echoed with the gloom of unhappy premonitions. 
 
 She sought refuge in the old pictures of her longings southern 
 landscapes with groves and statues and a sea of supernatural blue. 
 But she was too mature to find enduring satisfaction in empty 
 dreams; she preferred, and felt it were better, to forget her grief 
 in the distractions of hard work. It was not until the pen fell 
 from her hand, weighed down with distress at the thought of so 
 many unadorned and unrelieved hours, that something drew her 
 back into the realm of soirits and visions. And then it was that
 
 ago THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 *he sought support, that she endeavoured to get a footing, in the 
 world of actual objects round about her. 
 
 She would take a pear, and think herself, so to speak, into the 
 very heart of this bit of fruit, just as if it were possible to find 
 protection, shelter in so small a space. Or she would take a piece 
 of coloured glass, hold it in her hand, and look at the world of 
 reality about her, hoping that the commonplace would in this 
 way be made to seem more beautiful. Or she looked into the 
 burning fire, and studied, with a smile on her face, the romantic 
 tongues of flames. Or she had a longing to look at old pictures: she 
 went to the Germanic Museum, and spent an entire morning there, 
 standing before a Crucifixion, a Last Supper, her eye and her heart 
 filled with flowing emotion. 
 
 Her love for flowers became stronger than ever, and she began 
 to study them. The most of them she picked herself; those that 
 grew only in gardens she bought from the florists, paying very 
 little for them. After she had made several purchases, they refused 
 to take any more money from her; they gave her just as many 
 flowers as she wanted. She took them home, and made bouquets 
 out of them. 
 
 One evening she was frightened by Philippina, who came rush- 
 ing up to her just as she was arranging her flowers and told her 
 that little Agnes had a high fever. Eleanore went out and got 
 the doctor, who immediately reassured her. As she returned, her 
 astonishment was intense and unusual. Reaching the door, her eyes 
 fell on the flowers: they seemed wonderfully beautiful to her; the 
 harmony and play of their colours was so striking that she involun- 
 tarily looked around in the illusion that a stranger had called 
 during her absence, brought the flowers, and arranged them in 
 their artistic bouquets. 
 
 In the meantime poverty was haunting the house in very tangible 
 form. Neither the butcher nor the baker was willing any 
 longer to deliver goods on credit. It was quite impossible for 
 Eleanore to support five people with her clerical work, to say 
 nothing of keeping them in clothes and paying the rent. However 
 hard she might work, the most she could do was to get enough 
 money for the barest necessities. Her cares multiplied day by day. 
 
 She had always been an implacable foe of debts; she would not 
 make them. But after all, the people could not starve, and so 
 she had to contract debts now. Bitter humiliations were unavoid- 
 able; she looked into the future with untempered dread. She 
 racked her brain trying to devise plans, deplored her weakness
 
 ELEANORE 291 
 
 and the gaps in her training, bemoaned the neglect both she and 
 Daniel were suffering, and was quite disturbed to see that Philip- 
 pina's heart was filled with joy at the thought that the destitution 
 of the household with its accompanying mental anguish was rapidly 
 increasing. 
 
 Twice a day the druggist sent in his bill; finally he came in 
 person. It was along toward evening when he rang. Philippina 
 treated him so impolitely that he became impudent, and made such 
 a noise that the people on the lower floors came out into the hall 
 and leaned over the railing of the stairs. Eleanore ran down and 
 stood before the man with folded hands. Jordan also left his 
 room and looked on, sighing. 
 
 Others came in and started trouble. Philippina came up to 
 Eleanore, and, with a smile on her face as if she were going to tell 
 of some great good fortune that had come to the family, said: 
 "There's another down there, Eleanore; come down and give him 
 a piece of your mind, or I'm thinking he's going to call the police." 
 
 After quiet had been restored, Philippina began to rage and 
 rant: "Daniel's a dunderhead. He could live like a Kaiser if he'd 
 mix with the right people. I know a woman who is lousy with 
 money, and she's going to git a lot more; but Daniel, the poor bloke, 
 ain't got a ghost of an idea as to how to work people." She 
 laughed furiously; or, in order to ventilate her spiteful rage, she 
 picked up some object and smashed it to pieces on the floor. 
 
 Eleanore did not hear what she had said. Her hope was gone. 
 Daniel had been out of work for three months: who could explain 
 his strange inactivity? The rent would be due in a short while, 
 and then what? 
 
 One morning she went to Daniel's room and said: "Daniel, we 
 are out of money." 
 
 He was sitting at the table reading; he looked at her as if he 
 had to think for a while who she was: "Just have patience," he 
 said, "you are not going to starve." 
 
 "I am doing all that I possibly can, Daniel," continued Eleanore; 
 "but tell me, please, how are you planning to keep the house 
 going? I see no way out. Tell me, Daniel, tell me, please, what 
 you are going to do." 
 
 "A musician must be poor, Eleanore," replied Daniel, and looked 
 at her with eyes that seemed to be frozen. 
 
 "But he has got to live, I should think." 
 
 "You can't live from husks alone, and I am not going to work 
 my head off for husks."
 
 292 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "Daniel, oh Daniel, where is your mind? And where is your 
 heart?" cried Eleanore in despair. 
 
 "Where I should have been long ago," he replied, without the 
 shadow of a ray of hope. He got up, and turning his face away 
 from Eleanore, said in a half-audible voice: "Let's have no argu- 
 ment, no cogency, no urgency. Not now! Not now when I am 
 creeping along on the earth with such light as is left me, trying to 
 grope my way out of the hole. A man doesn't give up the ghost so 
 quickly as all that, Eleanore. The stomach is a very elastic piece 
 of skin." 
 
 He went into the other room, sat down at the piano, and struck 
 a slow-moving bass chord. 
 
 Eleanore turned to the wall, and buried her feverish brow in 
 her hands. 
 
 VII 
 
 It was not in Ekanore's nature to submit to a misfortune with- 
 out first having made every possible effort to evade it. 
 
 She wrote for from fourteen to sixteen hours a day, with the 
 result that she had finished all that was asked of her long before 
 her time was really up. 
 
 Then she looked around for a better paying position; it was in 
 vain. Women had never been paid well, she had no recommenda- 
 tions, no personal connections, nothing on which she could depend 
 or to which she might refer. 
 
 Finally it occurred to her that she might make some money out 
 of her flowers. She went to the florist at St. Lorenz Place, taking 
 with her a garland of carnations and mignonettes she had made the 
 day before. She told the florist she knew a great deal about 
 flowers and had had considerable experience in handling them. 
 
 The man laughed at her, and told her he could find no sale for 
 that kind of things, and that, even if he could, he would have to 
 ask so little for them that it would not pay her to make them. 
 Eleanore took her flowers back home; she was profoundly discour- 
 aged. She saw herself how perishable flowers were; these withered 
 that same evening. Nothing could be expected from that source. 
 
 She had not noticed that, as she left the florist shop, a man on 
 the other side of the street had stopped and looked at her. He 
 was a haggard young individual with a pale, peevish expression on 
 his face, a man with a chin the unimpressiveness of which was 
 hidden behind a Vandyke beard. 
 
 He stood for a long while and looked at Eleanore as she walked
 
 ELEANORE 293 
 
 down the street. There could be no doubt but that something in 
 her general bearing and her face had drawn his attention to her; 
 had awakened in him a feeling that was nobler than mere curiosity 
 or the satisfaction an idler derives from gaping. 
 
 The young man finally began to move; he walked rather stiffly 
 across the square and entered the florist's shop. A few minutes 
 later the florist, a man past middle age, with the typical toper's 
 nose, threw open his door and removed his cap, actions which in 
 addition to his fawning bow were unmistakable proof to the mer- 
 chants on either side of him that it was no ordinary sale he had 
 just made. The young man went his way, ambling along in shift- 
 less indifference to where he was or the time of day. 
 
 The next morning the florist's errand boy came to Eleanore, 
 and told her that his chief had something very important to say 
 to her, and that she should come at once. Eleanore followed the 
 call without delay. As she entered the shop, the florist greeted 
 her with unusual politeness, and told her that a man who took a 
 special fancy to the kind of flowers she had shown him the day 
 before had been there and placed an order for two such bouquets, 
 or even three, a week at twenty marks each. He advised her 
 to exercise all diligence in making the flowers and said that when 
 such a rain of good fortune descended upon one it was wise to 
 let other things take care of themselves. The only condition the 
 florist imposed on her was absolute silence. The customer did not 
 wish his name to be known, nor did he wish to be seen. He 
 remarked casually that there was manifestly some whim or crotchet 
 back of the man's action, such as is so frequently the case with 
 aristocratic people. 
 
 Who was happier than Eleanore! She never bothered herself 
 for a minute about the illogical and legendary element in the 
 offer of a man who only a day before had appeared so shrewd 
 and cautious. She drank in every word of the florist's detailed 
 statement, and merely believed that in this city, among its in- 
 habitants, there was an eccentric fellow who was willing to pay 
 such a princely price for her flowers simply because he liked 
 flowers and was pleased with the way she put them up. Though 
 she had not been spoiled by fortune, the transformation that had 
 suddenly taken place in her circumstances awakened in her not 
 the slightest suspicion or surprise. She was too happy to be dis- 
 trustful, too grateful to become inquisitive. Her thoughts were 
 on Daniel, who, she felt, was saved. The whole way home she 
 smiled to herself as if lost in dreams.
 
 294 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Evening after evening she sat with the flowers she had gath- 
 ered in the forenoon from the forests, the meadows, and the gar- 
 dens out by the city fortress, where an old gardener went with 
 her and picked out the choicest specimens for her. He had a 
 crippled son who fell in love with Eleanore and always stood 
 in the door and smiled at her when she came. He promised 
 he would get her flowers from the green house during the 
 winter. 
 
 The butcher was paid, the baker was paid; the druggist was 
 paid, and so was the rent. Philippina shook her head, and swore 
 there was something wrong. She was convinced that it would 
 all come out some day, even if you had to scratch the dung hill 
 to get at the secret. She told the people about a ghost that carried 
 on every night up in the attic; and once when the moon was 
 shining she came running into the room and swore that a bony 
 finger had rapped on the window. 
 
 Eleanore bound roses and gilliflowers, tulips and pansies, mosses, 
 ferns, and what-not into beautiful tapestried pictures, or wound 
 them into wreaths and garlands. She gave herself up to this novel 
 occupation with the sacrificial love of a woman of her type; and 
 at times she became dizzy from so much fragrance. But this mat- 
 tered not. She arranged her flowers; and then she would lean out 
 of the window, and sing gently into the night. 
 
 Daniel was ignorant of what she was doing; he had not troubled 
 himself about the distressing poverty of past weeks; he did not 
 concern himself now with their abundance; where it came from 
 he never asked. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Eberhard von Auffenberg had returned to the city shortly after 
 the death of Gertrude Nothafft. The last large sum he had 
 received from Herr Carovius, now nearly a year ago, he had almost 
 used up. He found Herr Carovius quite changed in his attitude 
 toward him. Herr Carovius declared that he was bankrupt, that he 
 could not get any more money for him. Instead of complaining 
 or boasting, or flattering his princely friend, or trying to incite 
 him to activity of some kind, as he had been accustomed to do, he 
 wrapped himself in a silence that could not be regarded as a 
 favourable omen. 
 
 Eberhard had no desire to beg. Herr Carovius's personality was 
 so disagreeable to him that he refused to investigate the cause of
 
 ELEANORE 295 
 
 his novel behaviour. He let his thoughts take their own course; 
 and they drifted into other channels. 
 
 The gossip afloat concerning Eleanore had naturally reached his 
 ears. Herr Carovius had seen to it that there was no lack of 
 insinuations, either written or oral. But Eberhard had ignored 
 them. Offensive insults that had dared attach themselves to 
 Eleanore seemed to him as incredible as litter from the street on 
 the radiant moon. 
 
 One day he had to call on Herr Carovius because of a note that 
 had been protested. They discussed the affair in a dry, business- 
 like way, and then, all of a sudden, Herr Carovius fixed his pierc- 
 ing eyes on the Baron, walked around the table time after time, 
 dressed in his sleeping gown, and told, without the omission of a 
 single detail, of the lamentable death of Daniel Nothafft's young 
 wife. 
 
 He became highly excited; why, it would be hard to say. "Let 
 us hope that the Kapellmeisterette will come to his senses now," 
 he cried in a falsetto voice. "He is already on the point of starv- 
 ation; ah, believe me, he is nearly done for. It will be necessary 
 to take up a collection for the unrecognised genius. He has al- 
 ready put one of his women in the grave, the other is still kicking. 
 By the way, how do you like her, the angel? Are you not a bit 
 sorry for the neat little halo that now hangs like a piece of castoff 
 clothing on the bedpost of an adulteress? Of course, geniuses are 
 allowed to do as they please. O Eleanore, bloody lie that you are, 
 yon hypocritical soft, sneaking, slimy lie Eleanore!" 
 
 With that Eberhard stepped up very calmly to the unleashed 
 demon in pajamas, seized him by the throat, and held him with such 
 a fierce and unrelenting grip that Herr Carovius sank to his knees, 
 while his face became as blue as a boiled carp. After this he was 
 remarkably quiet; he crept away. At times he tittered like a 
 simpleton; at times a venomous glance shot forth from under his 
 eyelids. But that was all. 
 
 Eberhard poured some water in a basin, dipped his hands in it, 
 dried them, and went away. 
 
 The picture of the whining man with the puffed and swollen 
 eyes and the blue face was indelibly stamped on Eberhard's memory. 
 He had felt a greedy, voluptuous desire to commit murder. He 
 felt he was not merely punishing and passing final judgment on 
 his own tormentor and persecutor, but on the hidden enemy of 
 humanity, the arch-criminal of the age, the destroyer of all noble 
 seed.
 
 296 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 And yet the exalted outburst of Herr Carovius had precisely the 
 effect that Eberhard had least expected. His confidence in Elea- 
 nore's innocence had been shaken. There may have been in Herr 
 Carovius's voice, despite the slanderous wrath with which his cow- 
 ardly tongue was coated, something that sounded truer than the 
 wretch himself suspected. Eberhard saw just then, for the first 
 time in his life, the adored figure of the girl as a human being 
 like all other human beings; and as if through a distant vision he 
 experienced in his heart what had taken place. 
 
 His illusions were destroyed. 
 
 In his soul he had gone through the trials of renunciation long 
 ago. His passionate wishes of former times had gone through 
 a process of weakening from loss of blood. He had learned to 
 bow to the inevitable; he had made a special effort to acquire this 
 bit of earthly wisdom. When he surveyed the life he had lived 
 in the past five years, it resembled, despite its flux and the in- 
 cessant change from city to city and country to country, a sojourn 
 in a room with closed doors and drawn shades. 
 
 When he had returned to the city, which he loved simply 
 because Eleanore lived in it, he had had no intention of remind- 
 ing Eleanore of the expiration of the time mutually agreed upon. 
 He felt that it would be a banal display of poor taste to appear 
 before her once again as an awkward, jilted suitor, and try to re- 
 connect the thread where it had been so ruthlessly broken five 
 years ago. He had intended not to disturb her or worry her in 
 any way. But to go to her and speak with her, that had been the 
 one bright ray of hope in all these empty years. 
 
 After the scene with Herr Carovius he decided quite firmly to 
 keep away from Eleanore. 
 
 His ready cash had shrunk to a few hundred marks. He dis- 
 charged his servants, disposed of some of his jewelry, and rented 
 one of those little houses that are stuck on the rocks up by the 
 castle like so many wasp nests. The house he took had been 
 occupied before him by the Pfragners, and with its three rooms 
 was not much larger than a fair-sized cage in a menagerie. But 
 he had taken it into his head to live there, and that was all there 
 was to it. He bought some old furniture, and adorned the 
 slanting walls of the dilapidated barracks with such pictures as he 
 had. 
 
 One evening there was a knock at the green door of the cot- 
 tage. Eberhard opened, and saw Herr Carovius standing before 
 him.
 
 ELEANORE 297 
 
 Herr Carovius entered the Baron's doll house, looked around in 
 astonishment, and, pale as a sheet, said: "So help me God, it seems 
 to me you are trying to play the role of a hermit. This won't 
 do; this is no place for a Baron; I will not stand for it." 
 
 Eberhard reached for the book he had been reading, a volume 
 of Carl du Prel, and read on without replying to Herr Carovius 
 or even taking notice of the fact that he was present. 
 
 Herr Carovius tripped from one foot to the other. "Perhaps 
 the Baron will be so good as to take a look at his account," he 
 said in a beseeching tone. "I am in a tight place. My capital is 
 gone, and my debts in the shape of interest have been swelling 
 like the Pegnitz in the spring of the year. Would you like to 
 know what I have been living on for the last three months? I 
 have been living on turnips, potato pealings, and brick cheese; that 
 has been my daily diet; and I have submitted to it for the sake of 
 my Baron." 
 
 "I am not a bit interested in what you have been eating," said 
 the Baron arrogantly, and kept on reading. 
 
 Herr Carovius continued with an imbecile sulk: "When you left 
 me recently because of that little quarrel we had about the Goose 
 Man, it never occurred to me that you were going to take the 
 matter so seriously. Lovers like to be teased, I thought. He'll come 
 back, I thought, he'll come back just as sure as laughter follows 
 tickling. Well, I was mistaken. I thought you were of a more 
 gentle disposition, and that you would be more indulgent with an 
 old friend. Yes, we make mistakes sometimes." 
 
 Eberhard remained silent. 
 
 Herr Carovius sighed, and sat down timidly on the narrow edge 
 of the sofa that stood next to the whitewashed wall. He sat there 
 for almost an hour in perfect silence. Eberhard appreciated 
 neither the ridiculous nor the fantastic element in the conduct of 
 his guest. He read on. 
 
 And then, all of a sudden, Herr Carovius sprang to his feet, 
 took his wallet from his pocket, drew out a thousand-mark note, 
 and laid it, together with a blank receipt, across the page Eberhard 
 was reading. Before the Baron could recover from his amaze- 
 ment he had already disappeared, closing the door behind him. 
 The sound of his footsteps on the street could be heard in the 
 room; but he was gone. 
 
 What rare living creatures there are, O World, and what rare 
 dead ones, too! This is the thought that passed through Eberf 
 hard's mind.
 
 298 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 IX 
 
 That two men as radically different by nature as Eberhard and 
 Daniel chanced to meet and be drawn together at the very period 
 of their lives when both had voluntarily renounced human society 
 was due to one of those decrees of Providence that contain in 
 them either a law of crystallisation or the attraction of polar 
 forces, however much they may seem to be matters of pure chance. 
 
 Their coming together took place on the day after Daniel had 
 gone to Eschenbach. At the break of day, Daniel had decided 
 to return by way of Schwabach, both for the sake of variety 
 and because this was the shorter route. The sun was hotter 
 than on the day before; and when it had reached the height of 
 its ability to dry up the land and scorch a human being, Daniel lay 
 down in the forests. Late in the afternoon, just as he was ap- 
 proaching Schwabach, great black clouds began to gather in the 
 West; a fearful storm was evidently to be expected. Heavy streaks 
 of lightning flashed across the sky; and although Daniel tried to 
 hasten his steps, the storm overtook him. Before he could reach the 
 shelter of a house, he was wet to the skin from head to foot. 
 
 The rain came down in torrents. He waited a long while, and 
 then had to start out in it again, arriving finally at the station 
 shivering with cold. As he went to buy his ticket he noticed a 
 lean, haggard, unusual looking individual standing at the ticket 
 window. It is quite probable that, vexed by his uncomfortable 
 condition, Daniel treated him none too courteously; he pushed up 
 against him, whereupon the man turned around, and Daniel recog* 
 nised the young Baron, Eberhard von Auffenberg. Eberhard in 
 turn recognised Daniel. It is unlikely that there was at that time 
 another face in the world which could belong so completely to 
 just one person as that of Daniel. 
 
 The Baron had been attracted to Schwabach by his affection for 
 a certain person there, an affection he had preserved from the 
 days of his childhood. There lived in Schwabach at the time a 
 woman who had been his nurse. Her undivided and resigned love 
 for him was touching. She was as proud of him as she might have 
 been had she been able to say that in him she had been responsible 
 for the childhood training of the noblest specimen of manhood 
 known to human history. And he was_fond of her; the stories 
 she told him he could still recall, and he did recall them frequently 
 and with pleasure. She had married the foreman of a tin mill, 
 and had sons and daughters of her own. Eberhard had been plan-
 
 ELEANORE 299 
 
 ning for years to visit her. This visit had now been paid. But 
 Eberhard could not say that he had derived extraordinary pleasure 
 from it: it had taken an inner figure from his soul. And, on the 
 other hand, whether the nurse felt, on seeing the tall, lank, stiff, 
 and ill-humoured foster son, that enraptured charm she so much 
 liked to conjure up before her imagination, is a question that had 
 better remain unanswered. 
 
 When Eberhard became aware of the condition in which Daniel 
 then found himself, his feelings of chivalry were moved. With 
 the dauntless courage of which he was capable, he subdued the 
 apathy he had cherished toward Daniel ever since he first came to 
 know him, and to which actual detestation and disquieting jeal- 
 ousy had been added a few weeks ago. "You have been out in the 
 rain," said Eberhard courteously, but with a reserve that was rigid 
 if not quite forbidding or impenetrable. 
 
 "I look like it, don't I?" said Daniel with a scowl. 
 
 "You will catch cold if you are not careful. May I offer you 
 my top coat?" continued Eberhard more courteously. He felt as 
 if he could see the figure of Eleanore rising up behind Daniel, that 
 she was quite surrounded by flowers, and that she was smiling at 
 him in joy and gratitude. He bit his lips and blushed. 
 
 Daniel shook his head: "I am accustomed to all kinds of weather. 
 Thank you." 
 
 "Well, then, at least wrap this around your neck; the water is 
 running down your back." Thereupon Eberhard reached him a 
 white silk kerchief he drew from the pocket of his coat. Daniel 
 make a wry face, but took the kerchief, threw it about his neck, 
 and tied it in a knot under his chin. 
 
 "You are right," he admitted, and drew his head down between 
 his shoulders: "It all reminds me of a good warm bed." 
 
 Eberhard stared at the locomotive of the in-coming train* 
 "Plebeian," he thought, with inner contempt. 
 
 Nevertheless he joined this same plebeian in the third-class car- 
 riage, though he had bought a ticket for first class. Was it the 
 white silk kerchief that so suddenly attracted him to the plebeian? 
 What else could it have been? For during the entire journey 
 they sat opposite each other in absolute silence. It was a remarka- 
 ble pair: the one in a shabby, wet suit with a hat that looked 
 partly as though it belonged to a cheap sign painter, and partly as 
 though it were the sole head gear of a gypsy bard, and with a 
 big pair of spectacles from which the eyes flashed green and un- 
 steady; the other looking as though he had just stepped out of a
 
 300 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 band-box, not a particle of dust on his clothing, in patent leather 
 slippers, English straw hat, and with an American cigarette in his 
 mouth. 
 
 Next to them sat a peasant woman with a chicken basket on her 
 lap, a red-headed girl who held the hind part of pig on her knees, 
 and a workman whose face was bandaged. 
 
 At times they looked at each other. If they chanced to catch 
 each other's eye, the Baron would at once look down, and Daniel, 
 bored as he was, would gaze out of the window at the rain. But 
 there must have been something unusually communicative and 
 mutually intelligent in the few glances with which they involun- 
 tarily honoured each other during the journey; for when the train 
 pulled into the station, they left together, and walked along the 
 street quite peacefully, side by side, just as if it were to be taken 
 as a matter of fact that they would remain in each other's com- 
 pany. 
 
 Man is a gregarious animal; given the right conditions, one man 
 will seek out the company of another. Neither defiance nor re- 
 serve is of the slightest avail; there is something that conquers the 
 strongest man when he finds another who will yield. Then it is 
 that what was formerly regarded as contentment with loneliness is 
 unmasked and shown to be nothing more than ordinary self- 
 deception. 
 
 "I presume you wish to go home and change your clothes," said 
 Eberhard, standing on the street corner. 
 
 "I am already dry," said Daniel, "and I really have no desire to 
 go home. Over there on Schutt Island is a little inn called 
 the Peter Vischer. I like it because it is frequented only by old 
 people who talk about old times, and because it is situated on a 
 bridge, so that you have the feeling you are in a ship floating around 
 on the water." 
 
 Eberhard went along. From eight o'clock till midnight they sat 
 there opposite each other. Their conversation was limited to such 
 remarks as, "It is really quite comfortable here." "It seems to 
 have stopped raining." "Yes, it has stopped." "That old white 
 bearded man over by the stove who is doing so much talking is a 
 watchmaker from Unschlitt Place." "So? He looks pretty 
 husky." "He is said to have fought in the battle of Worth." And 
 so their remarks ran. 
 
 When they separated, Eberhard knew that Daniel would again 
 be at the Peter Vischer on Wednesday of the following week, and 
 Daniel knew that he would find the Baron there.
 
 ELEANORE 301 
 
 Philippina was on her knees by the hearth, cleaning out the 
 ashes; Eleanore was sitting by the kitchen table, adding up the 
 week's expenses in a narrow note-book. 
 
 "You ought-a git married, Eleanore," said Philippina, as she 
 blew on a hot coal, " 'deed you ought; it's the right time for 
 you." 
 
 "Ah, leave me alone," said Eleanore angrily. 
 
 Philippina crouched still lower on the hearth: "I mean well by 
 you, I do," she said. "You're simply killing yourself here. With 
 your white skin and sugary eyes uhm, uhm! You bet if I had 
 'em like yours I'd git one. Men are all as dumb as shoats outside 
 of a sty." 
 
 "Keep quiet," said Eleanore, and went on counting: "Seven from 
 fifteen leaves eight. . . ." 
 
 "An angel has made your bed," interrupted Philippina with a 
 giggle, "I know a fellow," she went on, her face becoming rather 
 sour, "he's just the right one. Money? whew! He's stuck on 
 you too, believe me! If I wuz to go to him and say, Eleanore 
 Jordan is willing, I believe the old codger would give me a bag of 
 gold. Cross my heart, Eleanore, and he's a fine man too. He can 
 play the piano just as good as Daniel, if not better. When he 
 plays you can see the sparks fly." 
 
 Eleanore got up, and closed the book. "Do you want me to 
 give you a present for finding me a man, Philippina?" she asked, 
 with a sympathetic smile. "And you are trying to sound me? Go 
 on, you fool." 
 
 "Come wind and blow my fire hot, so that my soup be not 
 forgot," whispered Philippina with a gloomy face. 
 
 Eleanore left the kitchen and went upstairs. Her heart was 
 full of longing; it was in truth almost bursting with longing. 
 
 XI 
 
 It was at the beginning of October that Daniel for the first time 
 visited Ebcrhard in his doll house up by the castle. 
 
 They had met each other in the Peter Vischer on the evening 
 agreed upon, but there was a special party there that evening, a 
 sort of a clam-bake; the place was crowded; the noise was disagree- 
 able, so that they left much earlier than they had intended. 
 
 They walked along in silence until they reached the Town Hall,
 
 302 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 when Eberhard said: "Won't you come up and sit awhile with me?" 
 Daniel nodded. 
 
 Eberhard lighted the six candles of a chandelier in his diminu- 
 tive room. Seeing that Daniel was surprised, he said: "There is 
 nothing I hate worse than gas or oil. That is light; gas and oil 
 merely give off illuminated stench." 
 
 For a while there was complete silence in the room; Daniel had 
 stretched out on the sofa. 
 
 "Illuminated stench," he repeated with a smile of satisfaction. 
 "That is not bad; it is the new age in which we are living. I 
 believe they call it fin de- siecle. The day when things flourish is 
 gone; everything has to be manufactured now. Men have be- 
 come Americans, gruesomely sobered by the intoxication of doing 
 a big business; women have lost their nicety of instinct; the cities 
 have become colossal steam engines; everybody, young and old, is 
 on his belly adoring the so-called wonders of science, just as if 
 it really meant anything to humanity that a loafer in Paris can 
 sip his morning coffee and crunch his rolls while reading that the 
 Pope spent a restful night, or that a gun has been invented which 
 will send a bullet through fourteen people one after another, 
 whereas the best record up to the present had been only seven to 
 a shot. Who can create anything, who can draw anything from his 
 soul under such conditions? It is madness, it is immoral disci- 
 pline." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; I think a man can draw something from 
 within his soul," said the Baron, in whose face a bored, peeved 
 expression gave way to one of suspense. "It is possible, for exam- 
 ple, to conjure the invisible spirit into visibility." 
 
 Daniel, who had not yet suspected that the Baron was, in a way, 
 speaking from another country and in a strange tongue, continued: 
 "The whole supply of interest and enthusiasm at the disposal of 
 the nation has been used up. The venerable creations of days 
 gone by still have nominal value; that is, they are still gaped at 
 and praised, but creative, reproductive, and moulding power they 
 no longer have. Otherwise hocus-pocus alone prospers, and he 
 who does forgive it is not forgiven. But life is short; I feel it 
 every day; and if you do not attend to the plant, it soon withers 
 and dies." 
 
 "It ** not only hocus-pocus," replied Eberhard, who was now 
 comp^teJy transformed, though he did not grasp the painful 
 indignation of the musician. "You see, I have associated but very 
 little v.ith men. My refuge has been the realm of departed and
 
 ELEANORE 303 
 
 invisible spirits who take on visible form only when a believing 
 soul makes an unaffected appeal to them. It was my task to de- 
 sensualise and de-materialise myself; then the spirits took on shape 
 and form." 
 
 Daniel straightened up, and saw how pale the Baron had be- 
 come. It seemed to him that they were both quite close together, 
 and at the same time poles removed from each other. He could 
 not refrain however from taking up the thread of his thought. 
 "Yes, yes," he exclaimed with the same short, jerky laugh that 
 accompanied the beginning of the conversation, "my little spirits 
 also demand faith, credulity, and whine and cry for form and 
 shape. You have expressed yourself in an admirable way, Baron." 
 
 "And have you given up in final resignation with regard to 
 your spirits? " asked Eberhard, in a serious tone. 
 
 "Resignation? To what? Of what? Do you imagine that 
 is necessary in my case? I am the counterpart of Cronos. My 
 children devour me; they devour my living body. I conjure up 
 spirits and endow them with flesh and blood, and in return for 
 what I do they convert me into a shadow. They are rebellious 
 fellows, I tell you, quite without mercy. I am supposed to arouse 
 a citizenry on their behalf that is petrified with indifference. 
 The very thing, or things, that offend and disgust me, I am sup- 
 posed to take up and carry about on an unencumbered shoulder. 
 I am supposed to be their prostitute and offer them my body at a 
 price. I am supposed to be their retail grocer and haggle in their 
 behalf. There is something inspiring about a struggle, and when 
 the enemy is worthy of one's steel there is a distinct pleasure in 
 entering the fray. But my little spirits want to be pampered and 
 have a lot of attention paid them. The hate, consequently, that 
 is being dammed up within me is possibly nothing but rage at my 
 fruitless wooing. No, mine is not an honest hate, because I long 
 to get at every ragged beggar who will have nothing to do with 
 my spirits, because my entire life consists in pleading for an audi- 
 ence with people who do not care to listen, and scraping together 
 pennies of love from people who cannot love, because two or three 
 are not enough for me, because I must have thousands and am 
 nothing if I don't have thousands, and pine away in anguish and 
 distress if I cannot imagine that the whole world is keeping step 
 with my pace and keeping in time with the swing of my baton. 
 I can despise Mushroom Mike who lies down by his wife at night 
 drunk as a fool, and to whom the name of Beethoven is an empty 
 sound; Jason Philip Schimmelweis makes me laugh when he loob
 
 304 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 me in the face and says, I don't give a damn for all your art. 
 And yet there is humanity in such people, and so long as this is 
 true I must have them; I must convince them, even if my heart is 
 torn from my breast in the attempt. Would you call this life? 
 This digging-up of corpses from the graves, and breathing the 
 breath of life into them so that they may dance? And doing it 
 with the consciousness that this moment is the only one? I am; 
 I exist; here is the table, there are the wax candles, and over there 
 sits a man; and when I have stopped talking everything is dif- 
 ferent, everything is as if a year had passed by, and everything 
 is irrevocable. Show me a way to humanity, to men, and then 
 I will believe in God." 
 
 The Baron's head swam; his brain felt close; it seemed to be 
 sultry, stuffy in his skull. He could not help but think of certain 
 exciting meetings where the people had sat in the dark in trem- 
 bling expectancy and then suddenly heard a voice from beyond the 
 tomb at the sound of which the marrow froze in their bones. He 
 hardly dared look at the place where Daniel was sitting. The 
 words of the musician caused him infinite pain: there lay in them 
 a greediness, a shamelessness, and a gruesomeness that filled him 
 with terror. 
 
 He could almost have asked: And Eleanore? And Eleanore? 
 
 But however much he felt repelled, owing to his training, asso- 
 ciation, and general views of life, there was nevertheless something 
 about the whole situation before which he bowed. He could not 
 have said precisely what it was, but it seemed to be a compromise 
 between fear and convulsion. 
 
 As he was pondering over it all, he heard a rattling at the win- 
 dow. He looked up, and saw the face of Herr Carovius pressed 
 so tightly against the pane that his nose was as flat as a pan-cake, 
 while his glasses looked like two opalescent grease spots on the 
 water. 
 
 Daniel also looked up; he too saw the face of Herr Carovius, 
 then distorted with wrath and filled with threats. He looked at 
 the Baron in amazement; the latter got up and said: "You will have 
 to pardon the annoyance; I forgot to draw the blinds." 
 
 With that he went to the window, and pulled down the dark 
 shade over the face of Herr Carovius. 
 
 XII 
 
 That same night, just as Daniel was crossing the hall of his
 
 ELEANORE 305 
 
 apartment, he detected a strong scent of flowers. He had smelt 
 them before, but they had never seemed to be so fragrant as at 
 present. Because of the season of the year, the sensation was all 
 the more pronounced and unusual. 
 
 He sniffed around for a while, and then saw that the door to 
 Eleanore's room was open: her light was shining out on the stairs. 
 
 When Daniel was not at home of an evening, Eleanore always 
 kept her door open so that she could hear when he came in. 
 Daniel was unaware of this; he had never seen the light on any 
 previous night. 
 
 He thought for a moment, then locked the door, and went up 
 the stairs. But Eleanore must have heard his approaching footsteps; 
 for she stepped hastily out into the vestibule, and said with evident 
 embarrassment: "Please stay downstairs, Daniel; Father is asleep. 
 If you wish I will come down to the living room." 
 
 She did not wait for his answer, but went into her room, got 
 the table lamp, and followed Daniel to the living room. Daniel 
 closed the window, and shook as if he were cold; for it was a cool 
 night, and there was no fire in the stove. 
 
 "What is this I smell?" he asked. "Have you so many flowers 
 up in your room?" 
 
 "Yes, I have some flowers," replied Eleanore, and blushed. 
 
 He looked at her rather sharply, but was disinclined to make 
 any further inquiry, or he was not interested in knowing what this 
 all meant. He walked around the room with his hands in his 
 pockets. 
 
 Eleanore had sat down on a chair; she never once took her 
 eyes off Daniel. 
 
 "Listen, Daniel," she said suddenly, and the violin tone of her 
 voice lifted him from his mute and heavy meditations, "I know 
 now what Father is doing." 
 
 "Well, what is the old man doing?" asked Daniel distractedly. 
 
 "He is working at a doll, Daniel." 
 
 "At a doll? Are you trying to poke fun at me?" 
 
 Eleanore, whose cheeks had turned pale, began to tell her story: 
 "Yesterday afternoon, Father took advantage of the beautiful 
 weather, and went on a walk for the first time in a long while. 
 During his absence, I went to his room to straighten it up a little. I 
 noticed that the door to the large cabinet was not closed as usual, 
 but was standing ajar. He probably forgot to lock it. I did not 
 suspect anything, and knew that there was no harm in what I 
 was going to do, so I opened the door, and what did I see? A
 
 306 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 big doll, about the size of a four-year-old child, a wax figure with 
 big eyes and long, yellow hair. But there were no clothes on it: 
 the lower part of the back and the front from the neck to the 
 legs had been removed. Inside, there where a person's heart and 
 entrails are, was a network of wheels and screws and little tubes and 
 wires, all made of real metal." 
 
 "That is strange, really strange. Well?" 
 
 "He is making something," continued Eleanore, "that much is 
 clear. But if I could tell you how I felt when I saw the thing! 
 I never felt so sad in my life. I have shown him so little love, 
 just as Fate has been so unlovely to him. And everything the 
 air and the light and the people and how one feels towards the 
 people and how they feel towards you, all seemed to me to be so 
 hopelessly without love that I could not help it: I just sat down 
 before that doll and cried. The poor man! The poor old 
 man!" 
 
 "Strange, really strange," repeated Daniel. 
 
 After a while, as if conscious of his guilt, he took a seat by the 
 table. Eleanore however got up, went to the window, and leaned 
 her forehead against the glass. 
 
 "Come here to me, Eleanore," said Daniel in a changed tone 
 of voice. 
 
 She came. He took her hand and looked into her face. "How 
 in the world have you been keeping the house going all this 
 time?" he asked, viewing the situation in the light of his guilty 
 conscience. 
 
 Eleanore let her eyes fall to the floor. "I have done my writ- 
 ing, and I have had considerable success with the flowers. I have 
 even been able to save a little money. Don't look at me like that, 
 Daniel. It was nothing wonderful I did; you have no reason to 
 feel especially grateful to me." 
 
 He drew her down on his knees, and threw his arms around her 
 shoulders. "You probably think I have forgotten you," he said 
 sorrowfully, and looked up, "that I have forgotten my Eleanore. 
 Forget my Eleanore? My spirit sister? No, no, dear heart, you 
 have known for a long while that we have begun our common 
 pilgrimage for life, for death." 
 
 Eleanore lay in his arms; her face was perfectly white; her 
 body was rigid; her eyes were closed. 
 
 Daniel kissed her eyes: "You must hold me, keep me, even when 
 it seems that I have left you," he murmured. 
 
 Then he carried her in his arms through the door into his room.
 
 ELEANORE 307 
 
 "I have so longed, I have been so full of longing," she said, 
 pressing her lips to his neck. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Before one could realise it, winter had come, and the Place 
 with the Church was covered with snow. 
 
 Eleanore had gone skating; when she returned she sat down in 
 the living room to wait for Daniel. There she sat with her fur 
 cap on her head, holding her skates in her hand by the cord: she 
 was tired and she was thinking. 
 
 Daniel entered the room and greeted her; she looked up, and 
 said with a gentle voice: "I am with child, Daniel; I found it out 
 to-day." 
 
 He fell on his knees, and kissed the tips of her fingers. 
 Eleanore drew a deep breath; a smile of dream-like cheerfulness 
 spread over her face. 
 
 The following day Daniel went to the Town Hall, and made 
 arrangements to have the banns posted. 
 
 Hardly had Philippina heard that Daniel and Eleanore were 
 to get married in February when she disappeared; she did not 
 leave a trace of her whereabouts behind her. Little Agnes cried in 
 vain for her "Pina." Six days after Philippina had left, she came 
 back just as mysteriously as she had gone away. She was des- 
 perately gloomy; her hair was towsled, her clothes were wrin- 
 kled, there were no soles on her shoes; she was as speechless as a 
 clod, and remained so for weeks. 
 
 No one knew, nor has any one ever found out, what she did 
 during those six days or where she had been. 
 
 Eleanore insisted on a church wedding; this caused Daniel a 
 great deal of worry; it made him run many a vexatious errand. 
 But he consented to do as Eleanore had asked; for he did not wish 
 to deprive her of any pleasure she might imagine such a ceremony 
 would give her. Eleanore made her own white dress and her veil. 
 Gisela Degen, a younger sister of Martha Riibsam, and Elsa 
 Schneider, the daughter of the rector of the Church of St. /Egy- 
 dius, were to be her bridesmaids. Marian Nothafft and Eva 
 were also to come over from Eschenbach; Eleanore had already 
 sent them the money for the tickets. 
 
 "Help me with my sewing, Philippina," said Eleanore one 
 evening and handed her silent house companion the veil, the 
 border of which had to be made.
 
 3 o8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Philippina took her seat opposite Eleanore, and began to sew; 
 she was silent. In the meanwhile, little Agnes, tottering about on 
 the floor, fell and began to cry in a most pitiable fashion. Elea- 
 uore hastened over and picked the child up. Just then she heard 
 a sound as if cloth were being torn. She looked around, and saw 
 that the veil had an ugly rip in it: "You wicked thing! What 
 do you mean, Philippina?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I didn't do it; it tore itself," growled Philippina, taking every 
 precaution to see that Eleanore might not catch her cowardly eye. 
 
 "You just leave that alone! Keep your hands off of it! You 
 will sew evil thoughts into my veil," replied Eleanore, filled with 
 forebodings. 
 
 Philippina got up. "Well, it's torn anyway, the veil," she said 
 in a defiant tone; "if harm is to come it will come; you can't 
 keep it off by sending me away." Philippina left the room. 
 
 The injury to the veil was not as great as Eleanore had feared. 
 It was a relatively easy matter to cut off the torn piece entirely, 
 and still use the remainder. 
 
 But from that hour Eleanore was filled with sadness: her face 
 might be compared to a beautiful landscape on which the first fog 
 of autumn has settled. It is probable that the tearing of her veil 
 had nothing to do with her depression: there was not a shimmer 
 of superstition in her. Perhaps it was merely happiness and ful- 
 filment: it may be that she felt the end had come, that happiness 
 and fulfilment leave nothing more to be desired, that life from 
 then on would be nothing but a hum-drum existence which does 
 not give but only takes. 
 
 Perhaps her mind was darkened and weighed down with grief 
 because of the life within her body; for that which is to come 
 sends out its rays of melancholy just as well as that which has come 
 and gone. What was there to hinder a pure soul from having an 
 inner premonition of the fate that was in store for it? Why 
 should this soul not learn in its dreams of the inevitable that was 
 not so far ahead? 
 
 It was impossible to notice any change in Eleanore; her eyes 
 were bright; she seemed peaceful. She would often sit before the 
 mask of Zingarella; she hung it with fresh flowers every day: to 
 her the mask was a mysterious picture of all that her own being, 
 her own life, embraced. 
 
 Marian Nothafft came to the wedding alone. Just as in the 
 case of Daniel's wedding to Gertrude, she had left the child with 
 a neighbour. She told Daniel and Eleanore that she could not
 
 ELEANORE 309 
 
 think of taking the child out on such a journey in the dead of 
 winter. She mentioned Eva's name or talked about her only in a 
 half audible, subdued voice, a tender smile playing gently about 
 her lips. 
 
 Among those present at the wedding in the /Egydius Church 
 were Judge and Frau Riibsam, Councillor Bock, Impresario Dor- 
 maul, Philippina Schimmelweis, Marian Nothafft, and Inspector 
 Jordan. On the very last bench sat Herr Carovius; underneath 
 one of the pillars, unseen by most of the people in the church, 
 stood Baron Eberhard von Auffenberg. 
 
 Philippina walked along in an ugly, crouched, cowering fashion 
 by the side of Jordan ; had it not been that she was constantly 
 chewing her finger nails, one would have thought she was asleep. 
 
 As the bridal couple was marching up to the altar, the sun broke 
 out, and shone through the windows of the old church. The 
 effect was touching; for just then Eleanore raised her head, 
 stroked her veil back from her forehead, and caught the full light 
 of the sun in her radiant face. 
 
 Old Jordan had laid his forehead on the prayer-desk; his back 
 was quivering. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Late at night and in senseless excitement for he was thinking 
 of a bridal bed that filled him with the most intense pangs of 
 jealousy Herr Carovius sat in his room playing Chopin's etudf 
 of the revolution. He would begin it again and again; he struck 
 the keys with ever-increasing violence; the time in which he 
 played the etude became wilder and wilder; the swing of his ges- 
 tures became more and more eloquent; and his face became more 
 and more threatening. 
 
 He was squaring accounts with the woman he had been unable 
 to bring before his Neronic tribunal in bodily form; and all the 
 pent-up hatred in his heart for the musician Nothafft he was 
 emptying into the music of another man. The envy of the man 
 doomed to limit his display of talent to the appreciation of what 
 another had created laid violent hands on the creator; the impotence 
 of the taster was infuriated at the cook. It was as if a flunked 
 and floored comedian had gone out into the woods to declaim his 
 part with nothing but the echo of his own voice to answer back. 
 
 His hatred of things in general, of the customs of human 
 society, of order and prosperity, of state and family, of love and
 
 3 io THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 marriage, of man and woman, had burst out into lurid flames. It 
 was rare that a man had so cut, slashed, and vilified himself as 
 did this depatriated citizen while playing the piano. He con- 
 verted music into an orgy, a debauch, a debasing crime. 
 
 "Enough!" he bellowed, as he closed with an ear-splitting dis- 
 cord. He shut the piano with a vituperative bang, and threw him- 
 self into a rickety leather chair. 
 
 What his inner eye saw mocks at language and defies human 
 speech. He was in that house over there; it lay in his power to 
 murder his rival; he could abuse the woman who had been denied 
 him by the wily tricks of circumstances; he chastised her; he 
 dragged her from her bed of pleasure by the hair. He feasted 
 on her sense of shame and on the angry twitchings of the musician, 
 tied, bound, and gagged. He spared them no word of calumnia- 
 tion. The whole city stood before his court, and listened to the 
 sentence he passed. Everybody stood in awe of him. 
 
 Thus it is that the citizen of the moral stature of Herr Carovius 
 satisfies his thirst for revenge. Thus does the Nero of our time 
 punish the crimes mankind commits against him in that it creates 
 pleasures and enjoyments of which he is not in a position to 
 partake. 
 
 But because he felt more abandoned to-day than ever, and more 
 fearful in his abandonment, and because he felt so keenly the 
 injustice done him by the man on whom he had hung for years 
 with dog-like fidelity, and who avoided him to-day as one avoids 
 an old dog that is no longer fit for anything, he decided in the 
 depths of his embittered soul to avenge himself, and to do it by a 
 means that would be quite different from playing the piano in 
 accordance with the rules of his own perverted fancy. 
 
 With this decision in mind he sought sleep at last. 
 
 Jordan was now living all alone in the two attic rooms. He 
 had asked of his own will that he be permitted to take over the 
 clerical work Eleanore had been doing, and her employers had 
 agreed to this arrangement. He was consequently enabled to pay 
 the rent and a little on his board. 
 
 Daniel and Eleanore slept in the corner room in the front. Daniel 
 moved his piano into the living room, and did all his work there. 
 Philippina and Agnes remained in the room next to the kitchen. 
 
 Eleanore still made the bouquets, and still received the fancy
 
 ELEANORE 3" 
 
 price for them from the unknown purchaser. But she did not 
 attend to her flowers in Daniel's presence, or even near him; she 
 did this in the old room up next to the roof. 
 
 Her father would sit by her, and look at her thoughtfully. She 
 had the feeling that he knew of everything that had taken place 
 between her and Gertrude and Daniel, but, out of infinite delicacy 
 and modesty, and also in grief and pain, had never said a word 
 about it. For previous to her marriage with Daniel, he had never 
 been with her; he had never sat and looked at her so attentively; 
 he had always passed by her in great haste, and had always shown 
 an inclination to be alone. 
 
 She had the feeling that he knew a great deal in general about 
 men and things, but rarely said anything because of his superior 
 sense of gentleness and compassion. 
 
 Daniel lived about as he did before the wedding. He would 
 sit at the table until late at night and write. It often happened 
 that Eleanore would find him sitting there with his pen in his hand, 
 sound asleep, when she got up early in the morning. She always 
 smiled when this took place, and wakened him by kissing him on the 
 forehead. 
 
 He wrote the notes direct from his memory, from his head, just 
 as other people write letters. He no longer needed an instrument 
 to try what he had composed or to give him an inspiration for a 
 new theme. 
 
 Once he showed Eleanore eighteen variations of the same melody. 
 He had spent the whole night making changes in a single composi- 
 tion. Eleanore's heart was heavy: she came very nearly asking, 
 "For whom, Daniel? For what? The trunk up in the attic?" 
 
 She slowly began to perceive that it is not brooding reason that 
 climbs and conquers the steos of perfection, but moral will. Like 
 a flash of lightning she recognised one day the demoniacal element 
 in this impulse, an impulse she had been accustomed to ascribe to 
 his everlasting fidgeting, fumbling, and grumbling. She shuddered 
 at the hitherto unsuspected distress of the man, and took pity on 
 him: he was burying himself in darkness in order to give the world 
 more light. 
 
 The world? What did it know about the creations of her Daniel! 
 The big trunk was full of ofui upon opus, and not a soul troubled 
 itself about all these musical treasures resting in a single coffin. 
 
 There was something wrong here, she thought. There must be a 
 lost or broken wheel in the clock-work of time; there was some 
 disease among men; some poison, some evil, some heinous oversight.
 
 3 i2 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 She could think of nothing else. One day she decided to visit 
 old Herold. At first he acted as though he would chew her to 
 pieces, but afterwards he became more civil, at least civil enough to 
 listen to her. Her features were remarkably brilliant and agile as 
 she spoke. He expressed himself as follows later on: "If some one 
 had promised me eternal blessedness on condition that I forget the 
 picture of this pregnant woman, as she stood before me and argued 
 the case of Daniel Nothafft vs. The Public, I would have been 
 obliged to forego the offer, for I could never have fulfilled my 
 part of the agreement. Forget her? Who would demand the 
 impossible? " 
 
 Old Herold begged her to send him one of Daniel's latest com- 
 positions, if she could. She said she would, and the next morning 
 she took from the trunk the quartette in B minor for strings, and 
 carried it over to the professor. He laid the score before him, and 
 began to read. Eleanore took a seat, and patiently studied the many 
 little painted pictures that hung on the wall. 
 
 The hour was up. The white-haired man turned the last leaf 
 and struck his clenched fist on the paper, while around his leonine 
 mouth there was a play partly of wrath and partly of awe. He said: 
 "The case will be placed on the calendar, you worthiest of all 
 Eleanores, but I am no longer the herald." 
 
 He walked back and forth, wrung his hands, and cried: "What 
 structure! What colourful tones! What a wealth of melody, 
 rhythm, and originality! What discipline, sweetness, power! What 
 a splendid fellow he is! And to think that a man like that lives 
 right here among us, and plagues and tortures himself! A disgrace 
 and a shame it is! Come, my dear woman, we will go to him at 
 once. I want to press him to my bosom. . . ." 
 
 But Eleanore, whose face burned with the feeling of good for- 
 tune, interrupted him, and said: "If you do that, you will spoil 
 everything. It will be much better to tell me what to do. He 
 will become more and more obstinate and bitter, if some ray of 
 light does not soon fall on what he has thus far created." 
 
 The old man thought for a while: "You leave the score with me; 
 I'll see what I can do with it; I have an idea," he replied, after 
 a short time had elapsed. 
 
 Eleanore went back home full of hope. 
 
 The quartette was sent to Berlin, and placed in the hands of 
 a man oi influence and discrimination. Some professional musicians 
 soon became acquainted with it and its merits. Professor Herold 
 received a number of enthusiastic letters, and answered them with
 
 ELEANORE 313 
 
 characteristic and becoming shrewdness. A cycle of sagas was 
 soon afloat in Berlin concerning the habits and personality of the 
 unknown master. It was said that he was an anchorite who lived 
 in the Franconian forests and preached renunciation of all earthly 
 pleasures. 
 
 In Leipzig the quartette was played before an invited audience. 
 The applause was quite different from what it ordinarily was in the 
 case of a public that is surfeited with musical novelties. 
 
 Thereby Daniel finally learned what had been done. One day 
 he received a letter from the man who had arranged the concert, 
 a certain Herr Lowenberg. The letter closed as follows: "A 
 community of admirers is anxious to come into possession of your 
 compositions. They send you their greetings at present with 
 cordial gratitude." 
 
 Daniel could scarcely believe his own eyes; it was like magic. 
 Without saying a word he handed the letter to Eleanore. She 
 read it, and looked at him quietly. 
 
 "Yes, I am guilty," she said, "I stole the quartette." 
 
 "Is that so? Do you realise, Eleanore, what you have done 
 to me?" 
 
 Elcanore's face coloured with surprise and fear. 
 
 "You ought to know; probably in the future you will lose 
 interest in such womanish wiles." 
 
 He walked back and forth, and then stepped up very close to 
 her: "You probaby think I am an idiotic simpleton, a dullard. 
 You seem to feel that I am one of those rustic imbeciles, who has 
 had his fingers frozen once, and spends his days thereafter sitting 
 behind the stove, grunting and shaking every time anybody says 
 weather to him. Well, you are wrong. There was a period when 
 I felt more or less like that, but that time is no more." 
 
 He started to walk back and forth again; again he stopped: 
 "It is not because I think they are too good, nor is it because 
 I am too inert or cowardly, that I keep my compositions under 
 lock and key. I would have to have wheels in my head if I did 
 not have sense enough to know that the effect of a piece is just 
 as much a part of it as heat is a part of fire. Those people who 
 claim that they can quite dispense with recognition and success 
 are liars and that only. What I have created is no longer my 
 property: it longs to reach the world; it is a part of the world; 
 and I must give it to the world, provided, do you hear? provided 
 it is a living thing." 
 
 "Well then, Daniel," said Eleanore, somewhat relieved.
 
 3H THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "That is where the trouble lies," he continued, as though he 
 had never been interrupted, "it all depends on whether the piece 
 has life, reality, the essence of true being in it. What is the 
 use of feeding people with unripe or half-baked stuff? They 
 have far too much of that already. There are too many who try 
 and even can, but what they create lacks the evidence that high 
 heaven insisted on its being created: there is no divine must about 
 it. My imperfect creations would merely serve as so many stum- 
 bling blocks to my perfect ones. If a man has once been seduced 
 by the public and its applause, so that he is satisfied with what 
 is only half perfect, his ear grows deaf, his soul blind before he 
 knows it, and he is the devil's prey forever. It is an easy matter 
 to make a false step, but there is no such thing as turning back 
 with corrective pace. It cannot be done; for however numerous 
 the possibilities may be, the actual deed is a one-time affair. And 
 however fructifying encouragement from without may be, its effects 
 are in the end murderous if it is allowed to drown out conscience. 
 What I have created in all these years is good enough so far as it 
 goes, but it is merely the preparatory drill to the really great work 
 that is hovering before my mind. It is possible that I flatter 
 myself; it may be that I am being cajoled by fraud and led on by 
 visions; but it is in me, I feel certain of it, and it must come to 
 light. Then we shall see what sort of creature it is. Then all 
 my previous works will have ceased to exist; then I will bestir 
 myself in a public way; I will come out and be the man that I 
 really am. You can depend on it." 
 
 Daniel had never talked t Eleanore in this way before. As she 
 looked at him, overcome almost by the passion of his words, and 
 saw him standing there so utterly fearless, so unyielding and 
 unpitying, her breast heaved with a sigh, and she said: "God 
 grant that you succeed, and that you live to enjoy the fruits of 
 your ambition." 
 
 "It is all a matter of fate, Eleanore," he replied. 
 
 He demanded the quartette; it was sent back to him. 
 
 From then on Eleanore suppressed even the slightest sense of dis- 
 content that arose in her heart. She felt that he needed cruelty 
 and harshness for his small life in order to preserve love and 
 patience for the great life. 
 
 Yes, she prayed to Heaven that she might leave him harsh and 
 cruel.
 
 ELEANORE 315 
 
 "Eleanore is my wife," said Daniel every now and then; he 
 would even stop in the middle of the street in order to enjoy to 
 the full, and preserve if possible, the blessed realisation of this fact. 
 
 He always knew it. Yet when he was with Eleanore he fre- 
 quently forgot her presence. There were days when he would 
 pass by her as though she were some chance acquaintance. 
 
 Then there were other days when his happiness made him scep- 
 tical; he would say: "Is it then really happiness? Am I happy? 
 If so, why is it that I do not feel my happiness more fervently, 
 terribly?" 
 
 He would frequently study her form, her hands, her walk, and 
 wish that he had new eyes, so that he might see her anew. He 
 went away merely in order that he might see her better. In the 
 night he would take a candle, and go up to her bed: a gentle 
 anguish seemed to disappear from her features, his own pulse beat 
 more rapidly. This was caused by the flame-blue of her eyes. 
 
 There is a point where the most demure and chaste woman 
 differs in no wise from a prostitute. This is the source of infinite 
 grief to the man who loves. No woman suspects or can under- 
 stand it. 
 
 It was one day while he was brooding and musing and quar- 
 relling without definite reason, in the arms of his beloved, that the 
 profound, melancholy motif in the first movement of his symphony 
 in D minor came to him. This symphony gradually grew into 
 the great vision of his life, and, many years later, one of his 
 women admirers gave it the modifying title of Promethean. The 
 first time the theme sounded in his ears he roared like a wild 
 beast, but with joy. It seemed to him that music was really born 
 at that moment. 
 
 He pressed Eleanore so tightly to his bosom that she could not 
 breathe, and murmured between his teeth: "There is no choice 
 left: we have got to remain lifeless and irresponsive to each other's 
 presence or wound one another with love." 
 
 "The mask, the mask," whispered Eleanore anxiously, and 
 pointed over to the corner from which the mask of Zingarella, 
 with the dim light falling on it, shone forth like the weirdly beau- 
 tiful face of a spectre. 
 
 Philippina stood before the door, and listened to what they 
 were saying. She had caught a rat, killed it, and laid the cadaver 
 in the door. The next morning, as Eleanore was going into the
 
 316 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 kitchen, she saw the dead rat, screamed, and went back to her 
 room trembling with fright. 
 
 Daniel stroked her hair, and said: "Don't worry, Eleanore. Rats 
 belong to married life just as truly as salty soup, broken dishes, 
 and holes in the stockings." 
 
 "Now listen, Daniel, is that meant as a reproach?" she asked. 
 
 "No, my dear, it is not a reproach; it is merely a picture of 
 the world. You have the soul of a princess; you know nothing 
 about rats. Look at those black, staring, pearly eyes: they remind 
 me of Jason Philip Schimmelweis and Alfons Diruf and Alexander 
 Dormaul ; they remind me of the reserved table, the Kaffeeklatsch, 
 smelly feet, evenings at the club, and everything else that is 
 unappetising, vulgar, and base. Don't look at me in such aston- 
 ishment, Eleanore, I have just had an ugly dream; that is all. I 
 dreamt that a miserable-looking wretch came up to me and kept 
 asking me what your name is, and I couldn't tell him. Just think 
 of it: I could not recall your name. It was terribly annoying. 
 Farewell, farewell." 
 
 He had put on his hat and left. He ran out in the direction 
 of Feucht, and stayed the entire day in the open fields without 
 taking a single bit of nourishment except a piece of black bread 
 and a glass of milk. But when he returned in the evening his 
 pockets were bulging with notes he had jotted down while out 
 there by himself. 
 
 He came back by way of the Castle, and knocked at Eberhard's 
 door. Since there was no one at home, he sauntered around for 
 a while along the old rampart, and then returned about nine 
 o'clock. But the windows were still dark. 
 
 He had not seen Eberhard for two months. He could still 
 recall the Baron's depression and worry the last time he had talked 
 with him it was toward the end of March: he had spoken very 
 little at that time and had gazed into space with remarkably lifeless 
 eyes. He gave the impression of a man who is on the point of 
 doing something quite out of the ordinary if not distinctly terrible. 
 
 Daniel did not become aware of this until now; the Baron's 
 troubles, whatever they were, had not occurred to him during the 
 past weeks; he was sorry for having neglected him so. 
 
 XVII 
 
 When he came home Eleanore was suffering from premature 
 birth pains. Philippina greeted him with the words: "There is
 
 ELEANORE 317 
 
 going to be an increase in the family, Daniel." Whereat she 
 burst out in a coarse laugh. 
 
 "Shut up, you beast," cried Daniel: "How long has she been 
 suffering? Why didn't you get the nurse?" 
 
 "Can I leave the child here alone? Don't growl so!" replied 
 Philippina angrily. She went out for the nurse. In a half an 
 hour she came back with her: it was Frau Hadebusch. 
 
 Daniel had a disagreeable feeling. He wanted to raise some 
 questions and make some objections, but Frau Hadebusch's nimble 
 tongue anticipated him. She grinned, curtsied, rolled her eyes, 
 and went through the entire category of acquired mannerisms on 
 the part of a woman of her type, and then unloaded her life 
 history: Her duly wedded husband had said farewell to this vale 
 of tears three years ago, and since then she had been supporting, 
 as well as she could, herself and her poor Henry, the idiot, by 
 hiring out as a mid-wife. She seemed already to have come to 
 an understanding with Eleanore, for when she entered the 
 room, Eleanore greeted her as though she were an old acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 While Daniel was alone with Eleanore for a few minutes, he 
 asked her in an indignant tone: "How did you ever come to get 
 that vicious woman?" 
 
 Eleanore replied in a gentle and unsuspecting tone: "She came 
 to me one day, and asked to be called in when the child was born. 
 She said she was awfully fond of you, and that you had once lived 
 in her house. Well, I thought, what difference does it make who 
 comes, so I engaged her, and there she is." 
 
 It was only with the greatest difficulty that she finished say- 
 ing what was on her mind. Her face, white as a sheet, was 
 pinched with an expression of terrific pain. She reached for 
 Daniel's hand, and held it so tightly that he became rigid with 
 anxiety. 
 
 When she began to groan, Daniel turned away and pressed his 
 fists together. Frau Hadebusch came in with a tub of hot water: 
 "This is no place for men," she exclaimed with a kindly twisting of 
 her face, took Daniel by the shoulder, and pushed him out the 
 door. 
 
 Little Agnes was standing in the hall. "Father," she said. 
 
 "Put that child to bed!" said Daniel, turning to Philippina. 
 
 Jordan came out of the kitchen. He held an earthen bowl of 
 soup in his hand. It had been saved for him, and all he had to 
 do was to hold it over the fire and heat it up. He went up to
 
 318 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Daniel, and said, as his chin quivered: "May God protect her, 
 and be merciful to her!" 
 
 "Quit that kind of talk, Father," said Daniel impatiently. 
 "God rules with reservations that make me insane." 
 
 "Won't you say good-night to little Agnes?" asked Philippina 
 in a rude, rough tone from the other room. 
 
 He went in; the child looked at him timidly. The more it 
 grew, the greater his own shyness became in its presence. And 
 the constant association of Eleanore with the child had always 
 been a source of worry to him. There was one thing of which 
 he was mortally certain: he could not see Eleanore in bodily form 
 and precisely as she was, when Agnes, with her Gertrude eyes and 
 her arched Eleanore mouth, was present in the room with Eleanore. 
 He felt that Eleanore had been transformed into the sister of 
 Agnes, that she was still only a sister. And this he felt was some- 
 thing fatal. 
 
 Both of the sisters looked at him out of Agnes's big childish 
 eyes; in her they were both melted and moulded into a single 
 being. A presageful horror crept over him. Sisters! The word 
 had a solemn sound in his ears; it seemed full of mysterious mean- 
 ing; it took on mythical greatness. 
 
 "Sleep, baby, sleep, outside are two sheep, a black one and a 
 white one . . ." sang Philippina in her imbecile way. It was 
 astonishing the amount of malevolence there was in her sing-song. 
 
 Daniel could not stand it in the house; he went out on the street, 
 and wandered around until midnight. If he made up his mind to 
 go home, the thought occurred to him at once that Frau Hadebusch 
 would prevent him from going into Eleanore's room. He felt like 
 lying down on the pavement and waiting until some one came and 
 told him how Eleanore was getting along. 
 
 It struck one just as ne came home. The maid from the first 
 floor and the maid from the second were standing on the stairs. 
 They had not been able to sleep; they had heard the cries of the 
 young woman from their rooms, had come out, joined each other, 
 listened, trembled, and whispered. 
 
 Daniel heard one of them say: "The Kapellmeister should send 
 for the doctor." 
 
 The other sobbed and replied: "Yes, but a doctor can't work 
 miracles."
 
 ELEANORE 319 
 
 "Lord, Lord," they cried, as a nerve-racking cry from Eleanors 
 rang through the bleak house. 
 
 Daniel sprang up the steps. "Run for Dr. Miiller just as fast 
 as your feet can carry you," said Daniel to Philippina, who was 
 then standing in the kitchen in her bare feet with her hair hanging 
 down her back. Daniel was breathing heavily; Philippina was 
 making some tea. Daniel then hastened into Eleanore's room; Frau 
 Hadebusch tried to keep him out, but he pushed her to one side, 
 gritted his teeth, and threw himself on the floor by Eleanore's bed. 
 
 She raised her head; she was a pale as death; the perspiration 
 was pouring down over her face. "You shouldn't be here, Daniel, 
 you shouldn't see me," she said with much effort, but her tone 
 was so commanding and final that Daniel got up and slowly left 
 the room. He was seized with a strange, violent anger. He went 
 out into the kitchen and drank a glass of water, and then hurled 
 the glass on the floor: it broke into a hundred pieces. 
 
 Frau Hadebusch had followed him; she looked very much dis- 
 couraged. When he noticed the frame of mind she was in, he 
 became dizzy; he had to sit down in order to keep from falling. 
 "Ah, the doctor will come," he said in a brusque tone. 
 
 "My God, it makes you sick at the stomach to see how women 
 suffer to-day," said the old lady in her shrillest, one-tooth voice; 
 it was quite plain that she was pleased to know that the doctor was 
 coming. The present case had got her into serious trouble, and she 
 wanted to get out of it. "The devil to these women who are so 
 delicately built," she had said about an hour ago to the grinning 
 Philippina. 
 
 Philippina came back with the announcement that Dr. Miiller 
 was on a vacation: "Well, is he the only physician in the city, you 
 dumb oxf" howled Daniel, "go get Dr. Dingolfinger; he lives 
 here close by: right over there by the Peller House. But wait a 
 minute! You stay here; I'll go get him." 
 
 Dr. Dingolfinger was a Jewish physician, a rather old man, and 
 Daniel had to ring and ring to get him out of his bed. But 
 finally he heard the bell, got up, and followed Daniel across the 
 square. Daniel had left the lantern burning at the front gate, 
 and with it he lighted the doctor through the court and up the 
 stairs. 
 
 Then he sat down on the bench in the kitchen; how long he 
 sat there he did not know; he bent his body forward and buried 
 his head in his hands. The screams became worse and worse: 
 they were no longer the cries of Eleanore but of some unsouled,
 
 320 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 dehumanised being. Daniel heard them all; he could think of 
 nothing, he could feel nothing but that voice. At times the ter- 
 rible cry ran through his heart: Sisters! Sisters! 
 
 Frau Hadebusch came out several times to get hot water. The 
 yellow tooth in her lower jaw stuck out like a cracked, lecherous 
 remainder and reminder of her past life. Once Dr. Dingolfinger 
 himself came out, rummaged around in his leather case, which he 
 had left in the hall, looked at Daniel, and said: "It is going to 
 come out all right; it will all be over in a short while." At 
 that Philippina poked at the fire, and put on fresh coals. She 
 looked at Daniel out of one corner of her eye, and went on her 
 way. From time to time old Jordan rapped on the wall to have 
 Philippina come up and tell him how things were going. 
 
 It must have been about four o'clock in the morning; the gloomy, 
 grey stones in the walls of the court yard were already being 
 covered with rosy tints from the East. There was a cry so fearful, 
 so like that of a voice from the wilds of the heart, that Daniel 
 sprang to his feet and stood trembling in every limb. 
 
 Then it became quiet, mysteriously, uncannily quiet. 
 
 XIX 
 
 He sat down again; after a while his eyes closed, and he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 He must have slept about half an hour when he was wakened 
 by the sound of foot-steps. 
 
 Standing around him were the physician, Frau Hadebusch, and 
 Philippina. The doctor said something at which Daniel shook 
 his head. It sounded like: "Unfortunately I cannot keep the sad 
 news from you." Daniel did not understand him; he drew his 
 lips apart, and thought: "The idea of dreaming such disordered 
 stuff!" 
 
 "Mother and child are both dead," said the old physician, with 
 tears in his eyes. "Both dead. It was a boy. Science was power- 
 less; nature was hostile and the stronger of the two." 
 
 "So delicately built," murmured Frau Hadebusch, in a tone of 
 disapproval, "as delicate as the stem of a plant." 
 
 When Daniel at last realised that he was not dreaming, that 
 these were in bitter truth Philippina's glistening eyes and Frau 
 Hadebusch's goatish tooth and Dr. Dingol finger's silvery beard, 
 and that these were actual words that were being spoken to him, 
 he fell over and became unconscious.
 
 ELEANORE 321 
 
 xx 
 
 Pain, grief, despair, such terms do not describe his condition. 
 
 He knew nothing about himself; he had no thoughts; he lay 
 on the sofa in the living room day and night, ate nothing, said 
 nothing, and never moved. 
 
 When they carried the empty coffin into the death chamber, 
 he burrowed his face into the corner of the sofa. Old Jordan 
 tottered through the room to take a last look at his dead daughter. 
 "He has sinned," Jordan sobbed, "sinned against God in Heaven." 
 
 In the hall some people were whispering. Martha Riibsam and 
 her husband had come in. Martha was crying. Her slender 
 figure with her pale face appeared in the doorway; she looked 
 around for Daniel. 
 
 "Don't you want to see your Eleanore before the coffin is 
 closed?" asked Philippina in a hollow voice. 
 
 He never moved; the twitchings of his face were terrible to 
 behold. 
 
 Beside him on the table was some cold food; also some bread 
 and apples. 
 
 They carried the coffin out. He felt that where his heart once 
 was there was now a dark, empty space. The church bell rang, 
 the rain splashed against the window panes. 
 
 During the second night he felt his soul suddenly become 
 incoherent, lax. This was followed by a brief flaring up within 
 him, whereupon his eyes were filled with hot, burning tears. 
 He resigned himself to the situation without audible display of 
 grief; he felt all of a sudden that he had now for the first time 
 in his life really sensed the beauty of the pure triad in the 
 major key. 
 
 Another day passed by. He could hear old Jordan walking about 
 in the room above him, ceaselessly and with heavy tread. He felt 
 cold; Philippina came in; he asked her to get him a blanket. 
 Philippina was most eager to be of service to him. The door 
 bell rang; Philippina opened. 
 
 Before her stood a lady and a gentleman. There was some- 
 thing so refined about them that Philippina did not dare raise any 
 objections when they quietly came in and went straight to the 
 living room: the door had not been closed, and they could see 
 Daniel lying on the sofa. 
 
 Daniel looked at them quite indifferently. Gradually he began 
 to collect his thoughts, to compose himself, to come to himself.
 
 322 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 His guests were Eberhard von Auffenberg and his cousin, Sylvia 
 von Erfft. They were betrothed. 
 
 Taken up as he had latterly been with the marked changes and 
 transformations in his life, Eberhard had not heard of the death 
 of Eleanore until a few hours ago. 
 
 It was a rare visit. None of the three said a word. Daniel 
 lay wrapped in his blanket; he never moved. Finally, when his 
 friends were about to leave, Sylvia got up, and turning to Daniel, 
 said: "I did not know Eleanore, but I feel as if I had lost one of 
 my own dear friends." 
 
 Eberhard tossed his chin in the air, turned pale, and was as 
 silent as the tomb. 
 
 They repeated their visit on the following day, and then on 
 the next day, and so on. The presence of the two people came 
 in time to have a beneficent effect on Daniel.
 
 THE ROOM WITH THE WITHERED FLOWERS 
 
 A FEW days later, Herr Carovius carried out the scheme he 
 had decided upon at the time his heart became so embittered at 
 Eleanore's marriage. 
 
 It was the end of March. Herr Carovius had learned that the 
 old Baron had just returned from Berlin. He went around to 
 his house, and sent in his card. The butler came out, and told 
 him that the Baron could receive no one, that he should state his 
 business in writing. 
 
 Herr Carovius, however, wanted to see his debtor face to face: 
 this was the heart of his dream. When he came back a second 
 time and was again told that he could not see the Baron, he began 
 to storm and bluster, and insisted that they should at least let 
 him talk with the Baroness. 
 
 The Baroness was just then taking her music lesson. The fifteen- 
 year-old Dorothea Doderlein, who gave promise of developing 
 into a remarkable virtuoso on the violin, was playing some sonatas 
 with the Baroness. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein had recognised her talents when she was a 
 mere child. Since her tenth year, she had been obliged to practise 
 six hours every day. She had had a great number of different 
 teachers, all of whom had been brought to the point of despair 
 by her intractability. In the presence of her father, however, 
 she was meek: to him she bowed. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein had recommended his daughter to the 
 Baroness in words replete with objective recognition. The 
 Baroness declared her willingness to play with Dorothea. Andreas 
 Doderlein had said to her: "Now you have a chance to rise in the 
 world through powerful influence; don't neglect it! The Baroness 
 loves the emotional; be emotional. At times she will demand the 
 demoniac; be obedient. Like all rich people, she is pampering 
 some grief de. luxe; don't disturb her!" 
 
 Dorothea was docile. 
 
 They were playing Beethoven's spring sonatas, when the alter- 
 cation began out in the vestibule. The maid came in and whis- 
 
 323
 
 324 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 pered something to her mistress. The Baroness arose and went to 
 the door. Dorothea laid her violin in her lap, and looked around 
 in affected astonishment, as though she were coming out of a 
 dream. 
 
 At a sign from the Baroness the old servant gave Herr Carovius 
 a free path. He went in: his face was red; he made a quite 
 ridiculous bow. His eyes drank in the velvet portieres, the cut 
 glass mirrors, the crystal vases, and the bronze statuettes. In the 
 meantime, and without fail, he had placed his right hand against 
 his hip, giving the fine effect of right akimbo, and set one foot 
 very elegantly a trifle more to the fore than the other: he looked 
 like a provincial dancing-master. 
 
 He complained of the presumptuousness of the servants, and 
 assured the Baroness that she was in complete enjoyment of his 
 deference. He spoke of his good intentions and the pressure of 
 circumstances. When the impatient bearing of his sole but dis- 
 tinguished auditor at last obliged him to come to the real purpose 
 of his visit, the Baroness twitched; for from his flood of words 
 there emerged, as she heard them, nothing but the name of her son. 
 
 With panting sounds she came up to Herr Carovius, and took 
 him by the coat-sleeve. Her dim, black eyes became as round as 
 little bullets; the supplicating expression in them was so much 
 balm to the soul of her visitor. 
 
 Herr Carovius was enchanted; he was having the time of a 
 scurvy life; he became impudent; he wanted to take vengeance on 
 the mother against the son. He saw that the Baroness did not 
 correspond to the picture he had made of a creature who belonged 
 to the aristocracy. In his imagination she had lived as a domineer- 
 ing, imperious, inaccessible phenomenon: and now there stood 
 before him an old, obese, worried woman. On this account he gave 
 his voice a shriller tone, his face a more scurrilous expression than 
 was his wont. Then he launched forth on a graphic narration of 
 the unhappy plight in which he now found himself as a result 
 of his association with Baron von Eberhard, Jr. 
 
 He claimed that it was nothing but his own good nature that 
 had got him into this trouble. And yet, what was he to do? 
 The Baron would have starved to death, or become morally de- 
 praved, if he had not come to his spiritual and pecuniary rescue, 
 for the young man was sadly wanting in the powers of moral 
 resistance. And what had he gained by all this altruism? Ingrati- 
 tude, bitter ingratitude! 
 
 "He plundered me; he took my last cent, and then acted as if
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 325 
 
 it were my damned duty to go through fire for his baronical 
 excellency," screamed Herr Carovius. "Before I came to know 
 him I was a well-to-do man; I could enjoy myself; I could reap 
 the higher pleasures of human existence. To-day I am ruined. 
 My money is wasted, my house is burdened with mortgages, my 
 peace of mind has gone plumb to thi Devil. Two hundred and 
 seventy-six thousand marks is what the young man owes me and 
 my business friends. Yes two hundred and seventy-six thousand 
 marks, including interest and interest on the interest, all neatly 
 noted down and signed up by the duly authorised parties. Am I 
 to let him slam the door in my face because of his indebtedness 
 to me? I think you will see yourself that that cannot be expected 
 of me. He at least owes me a little respect for what I have 
 done for him." 
 
 The Baroness had listened to all this with folded hands and 
 unfixed eyes. But the close of the story was too much for her: 
 she threw herself on a great divan, overcome for the time being 
 with worry and maternal weakness. A grin strayed across Herr 
 Carovius's face. He twirled his Calabrian headpiece in his hands, 
 and let his leery eyes wander about the walls. Then it was that 
 he caught sight of Dorothea, whom he had thus far failed to see 
 in his intoxication of wrath and rapture. 
 
 When Herr Carovius entered, Dorothea, out of discretion rather 
 than with serious intent, had made herself as small as possible in 
 the most remote corner of the room. Trembling with curious 
 excitement, she had wished to evade the eye of her uncle Carovius, 
 for in very truth she was ashamed of him. 
 
 She regarded him as a sort of comic freak, who, though he had 
 enough to live on, could not be- said to be in the best of circum- 
 stances. When he rolled the sum the Auffenberg family owed 
 him from his tongue, she was filled with astonishment and delight, 
 and from then on she took a totally different view of him. 
 
 During the last few years Herr Carovius had seen very little of 
 Dorothea. Whenever he had met her, she had passed by him in 
 great haste. He knew that she was taking violin lessons: he had 
 often heard her screechy fiddling on the stairs and out in the hall. 
 
 He fixed his eyes on her, and exclaimed: "Well I'm a oon-of-a- 
 gun if there isn't Doderlein's daughter! How did you get here? 
 Aha, you are going about and showing the people what you can 
 do! I should think you and your creator would have had enough 
 of music by this time." 
 
 The Baroness, recalling that the young girl was present, raised
 
 326 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 her eyes and looked at Dorothea reproachfully. For the first time 
 in her life she felt that the resources she had managed to extract 
 from a life of neglect were about exhausted; for the first time 
 in her life she felt a shudder at the thought of her musical 
 stupefactions. 
 
 She asked Herr Carovius to have patience, adding that he would 
 hear from her in a few days as soon as she had talked the matter 
 over with her husband. She nipped in the bud a zealous reply 
 he was about to make, and nodded a momentary farewell to Doro- 
 thea, who put her violin in the case, took the case in her hand, 
 curtsied, and followed her uncle out of the .room. 
 
 She remained at his side; they went along the street together. 
 Herr Carovius turned to her from time to time, and made some 
 rancorous remark. She smiled modestly. 
 
 With that began the strange relation that existed between the 
 two from then on. 
 
 It had looked for some time as though the Baron von Auffenberg 
 had retired from the political stage. In circles in which he had 
 formerly been held in unqualified esteem he was now regarded as 
 a fallen hero. 
 
 His friends traced the cause of his failure to the incessant fric- 
 tion from which the party had suffered; to the widespread change 
 that was taking place in the public mind; to the ever-increasing 
 pressure from above and the never-ceasing fermentation from 
 below; to the feverish restlessness that had come over the body 
 politic, changing its form, its ideals, and its convictions; and to the 
 more scrupulous and sometimes reactionary stand that was being 
 taken on all matters of national culture. 
 
 But this could not explain the hard trace of repulsion and 
 aversion which the Baron's countenance had never before revealed 
 when in the presence of men; it threw no light, or at most an 
 inadquate light, on the stony glare, gloomy impatience, and reti- 
 cence which he practised now even in those circles and under 
 those circumstances in which he had formerly been noted for his 
 diverting talents as a conversationalist and companion. 
 
 In his heart of hearts he had, as a matter of fact, always despised 
 his political constituents, their speeches, their action, their enthusi- 
 asm, and their indignation. But he had never kicked over the 
 traces, for during the course of a rather eventful life he had made
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 327 
 
 the discovery that contempt and an icy disposition are invaluable 
 adjuncts to any one who wishes to control men. 
 
 Even though he had fought at the beginning of his career with 
 all the eloquence and buoyancy at his command for freedom and 
 tolerance, it remained a fact that he regarded liberalism as nothing 
 more than a newspaper term, a means of keeping men busy who 
 were too indolent to think for themselves, and a source of obstruc- 
 tive annoyance to the openly hated but secretly admired Bismarck. 
 
 He had wielded a power in full consciousness of the lie he was 
 acting, and had done it solely by gestures, calculations, and political 
 adroitness. This will do for a while, but in time it eats into the 
 marrow of one's life. 
 
 In his eyes nothing was of value except the law, unwritten to 
 be sure, but of immemorial duration, that subjects the little to the 
 big, the weak to the strong, the immature to the experienced, the 
 poor to the rich. In accordance with this law humanity for him 
 was divided into two camps: those who submitted to the law, and 
 the undesirable citizens who rebelled against the law. 
 
 And of these undesirable citizens his son Eberhard was the most 
 undesirable. 
 
 With this stinging, painful thorn in his flesh, oppressed by the 
 feeling of loneliness in the very midst of a noisy, fraudulent 
 activity, and filled with an ever-increasing detestation of the super- 
 fluity and consequent effeminacy of his daily existence, he had 
 created out of the figure of his son a picture of evil incarnate. 
 
 He visualised him in dissipation and depravity of every kind 
 and degree; he saw him sinking lower and lower, a traitor to his 
 family name; as if in a dream that appeases the sense of obscene 
 horror, he saw him in league with the abandoned and proscribed, 
 associating with thieves, street bandits, high-flying swindlers, count- 
 erfeiters, anarchists, prostitutes, and literati. He saw him in dirty 
 dives, a fugitive from justice wandering along the highway, drunk 
 in a gambling den, a beggar at a fair, and a prisoner at the bar. 
 
 His determination to wait until the degenerate representative of 
 the human family had been stigmatised by all the world he finally 
 abandoned. His impatience to find peace, to throw off" the mask, 
 to rid himself completely of all entangements, dissimulation, and 
 the life of luxury to which he had been accustomed became so 
 great, that he looked forward to the day that would eventually 
 mark his release as the day of a new birth. 
 
 But why did he hesitate? Was there still an element of doubt 
 in his breast? Was there still slumbering, deep down In the
 
 328 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 regions of his heart that were inaccessible to bitterness and revenge, 
 another picture of his son? Why did he hesitate from week to 
 week, from month to month? 
 
 In the meantime he had donated great fortunes to poor houses, 
 hospitals, foundations, and similar causes. He wanted to give away 
 other millions, at least so much that his heirs would receive only 
 the gleanings of what had once been a field of riches. Emilia 
 was to be given the income from the breweries and the country 
 estates. 
 
 To this extent he had firmly made up his mind. Now that his 
 wife had told him of the actual condition in which Eberhard 
 found himself, he felt justified in going ahead and carrying out 
 his pre-determined plans. The proofs of dishonourable conduct 
 on the part of his son could now be brought forward. The debts 
 he had contracted, either through flippancy or downright deception, 
 in the name of his father were sufficient to condemn him forever. 
 And if not, then let them fight it out after he was dead and gone; 
 let his last will and testament be a ghost, a spectre that would strike 
 terror into their hearts and embitter such pleasure as they might 
 otherwise derive from life. 
 
 His will had been drawn up seven years ago; all that was needed 
 was the signature of the notary public. 
 
 But why did the Baron hesitate? Why did he pace back and 
 forth in his room with pinched lips? Why did he ring for the 
 butler with the idea of sending this functionary for the notary, 
 and then suddenly change his mind and give the butler something 
 else to do? 
 
 "Defeche-toi, mon bon garfon," screeched the parrot. 
 
 in 
 
 In the course of three days the Baroness had five talks with 
 her husband. Each .time he rejected her petition to have the 
 affairs of their son straightened out; and when she became insistent 
 and seemed minded to keep up her fight, he became silent, speech- 
 less. 
 
 It was during her last attempt that the servants heard her speak- 
 ing with extraordinary passion and violence. When she left the 
 Baron's room her whole body was quivering with emotion and 
 excitement. She came out, and ordered the house servants to pack 
 her trunk and her coachman tr > be ready to leave in a few 
 minutes.
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 329 
 
 An hour later she was on her way to the estate at Siegmundshof, 
 about ten miles from the baronial residence. Her maid accom- 
 panied her. But she was utterly unable to find peace there. Dur- 
 ing the day she would pace back and forth through the rooms, 
 crying and wringing her hands; at night she would lie down, but not 
 to sleep. On the fourth day she returned to the city, had the 
 carriage driven to the residence of Count Urlich, and sent her 
 coachman in to get the Countess. Emilia came down, terrified, to 
 know what her mother wanted. The Baroness told her that she 
 wished her to accompany her to Herr Carovius, whose address 
 she had found in the city directory. 
 
 Herr Carovius had waited in vain for the news the Baroness 
 had promised him. His anger got the best of him: he decided to 
 make an example of the Auffenberg family, and, with this end in 
 view, entered their house as the personal embodiment of punitive 
 justice. When he was told that he could not be admitted, he 
 began once more to start trouble; h'e raged and stormed like a 
 madman. The servants came running out from all quarters; 
 finally a policeman appeared on the scene and questioned him. 
 The porter then dragged him from the house and out through the 
 big gate at the entrance to the grounds, where he stood surrounded 
 by a crowd of curious but not entirely disinterested people, bare- 
 headed, waving his arms and striking an imaginary adversary with 
 his fists a picture, all told, of anger intensified to the point of 
 insanity. 
 
 His backers at once got wind of his fruitless attempts to collect. 
 They became uneasy, gave Herr Carovius himself a deal of trouble, 
 and finally appointed a lawyer to take charge of the case. In the 
 meantime Herr Carovius had learned through a spy that it had 
 come to a complete break between the Baron and the Baroness, 
 that the latter had left within two days with bag and baggage, 
 and that great consternation prevailed among the servants and 
 friends of the family. 
 
 A voluptuous light crept across Herr Carovius's face: here was 
 defeat and despair, weeping and gnashing of teeth; what more 
 could he wish? He felt that he was personally the annihilator 
 of the collective aristocracy. And if it is possible to take a fiendish 
 delight in witnessing the destruction of what one after all despises, 
 how much greater may this joy be when the thing destroyed is 
 something one loves and admires! 
 
 It was while in this mood that the Baroness and her daughter 
 came to sec him. The sight of the two women left him momcn-
 
 330 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 tarily speechless. He forgot to say good-day to them; to ask 
 them in i ever once occurred to him. 
 
 The Baroness wanted to know where Eberhard was: she was 
 determined to see him. When Herr Carovius stuttered out the 
 astounding information to her that he was living hardly more 
 than three hundred paces from where she was then standing, she 
 began to tremble and leaned against the wall. She was not pre- 
 pared for this: she had always imagined that he was staying at 
 some mysterious place in some mysterious distance. 
 
 Herr Carovius at once insisted that he accompany the ladies to 
 the Baron's diminutive residence. But the Baroness felt that she 
 was not capable of this: she feared it would mean her death. 
 "Take me home with you, Emilia," she said to her daughter, "and 
 you go over and have a talk with Eberhard first." 
 
 But Emilia had not seen Eberhard once during the nine years 
 of her married life, and was even less inclined than her mother 
 to meet him now. Nor was it possible to take the Baroness to her 
 home. The old lady had evidently forgotten that she had told 
 Count Urlich never to show his face in her presence again. The 
 occasion of this inexorable request was the time she learned that 
 the governess of his child was in a family way and that he war 
 responsible for her disgrace. 
 
 Since the Baroness stoutly refused to return either to her town 
 residence or to Siegmundshof, there was nothing for Emilia to do 
 but to take her to a hotel. Herr Carovius, who had accompanied 
 the two women on the street and had enjoyed to the full their 
 pitiable distress, suggested that they go to the Bavarian Court. He 
 climbed up on the seat by the coachman, told him how to get 
 there, and looked down in regal triumph on the pedestrians. 
 
 Countess Emilia, quite at her wits' end, sent a telegram to her 
 Aunt Agatha. The next Wednesday Frau von Erfft with her 
 daughter Sylvia arrived. "Clotilda acts as if she had lost her 
 mind," she said to Emilia after having spent an hour in the room 
 with her sister. "I am going to see your father. I must have a 
 long talk with Siegmund." 
 
 The Baron received his sister-in-law with marked coolness, 
 though he had always had a great deal of respect for her. 
 
 Frau von Erfft was quite careful to avoid any reference to the 
 family affairs. She talked about Sylvia, remarking that she was 
 now twenty-seven years old, and that she had rejected all her 
 tuitors, a fact which was causing her parents a measure of concern. 
 "She simply will not be contented," said Frau Agatha. "She is
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 331 
 
 bent on securing a special mission in her marriage, and fears nothing 
 so much as the loss of her personal liberty. T^hat is the way our 
 childer are, dear Siegmundj and if we had brought them into 
 the world differently, they would be different. In our day the 
 ideal was obedience; but now children have discovered the duty 
 they owe themselves." 
 
 "Then they should look out for themselves," replied the Baron 
 gloomily. He had fully appreciated what his sister-in-law was driv- 
 ing at. 
 
 From the confused and incoherent remarks of her sister, Agatha 
 had learned what had taken place between the Baron and the 
 Baroness. She was familiar with the painful past; and when she 
 looked into the old Baron's eyes, she saw what was necessary. She 
 made up her mind then and there to have Eberhard meet his 
 mother. 
 
 She wished above everything else to quiet Clotilda and persuade 
 her to return home. The task, owing to the weakness and in- 
 stability of the Baroness, was not difficult. Sylvia remained with 
 her aunt, and her quiet, resolute disposition had a wholesome effect 
 upon her. In the meantime Agatha had got Eberhard's address. 
 After some search she found the house: Eberhard was at home. 
 
 rv 
 
 The first talk she had with him passed off without results of 
 any kind. He evaded her courageous remarks, and failed to hear 
 what he did not care to hear. He was stiff, polite, and annoyingly 
 listless. Agatha, full of vexation, told her daughter of her dis- 
 appointment. Sylvia said she would like to go with her mother the 
 next time she visited Eberhard. Agatha shook her head, though 
 she was in no way minded to abandon her purpose. 
 
 There was no change at the Baron's house. Baroness Clotilda 
 was in a perpetual state of nervous excitement that was anything 
 but reassuring either to herself or those about her. The Baron 
 was a disquieting riddle to the entire household: he never left his 
 room; he paced up and down hours at a time, with his hands folded 
 across his back. 
 
 Agatha called on her nephew a second, a third, a fourth time. 
 Even though Eberhard's Arctic impenetrability seemed made for all 
 time, though yielding seemed to be no part of his nature, she 
 finally succeeded in jolting him loose from his bearings. And 
 when Sylvia accompanied her mother Sylvia generally won her
 
 332 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 point with her mother he shook off his armour with unexpected 
 suddenness; you could see the struggles that were going on in 
 his soul. 
 
 Falteringly, and in the affected and finical tone he not infre- 
 quently adopted, he told the story of his youth, commenting on the 
 everlasting discord between his father and his mother and the 
 disagreeable quarrels that used to take place at home. He said 
 that just as soon as his mother would ask that something be done, 
 his father would demand the opposite. The children soon saw 
 that father was going his way and mother hers; they were not 
 unaware of the fact that their parents cordially distrusted each other 
 and even went so far as to lay traps for each other. He insisted 
 that his mother, with all her amiability and gentleness, was obsessed 
 with the idea of teasing, annoying, and wounding his father on 
 that very point where she had already and so often teased, annoyed, 
 and wounded him before; and that this lack of reason and con- 
 sideration on her part, coupled with the absence of kindness and 
 candour on his, had made the paternal home a hell, torn at the 
 hearts of the growing children, and in time so hardened them 
 that they suspected every friendly face they saw, and withdrew, 
 as if so from something vile, from every hand that was reached 
 out to them. He related further that in this loveless wilderness 
 brother and sister had been drawn to each other, that in Emilia's 
 heart, and his own as well, this mutual friendship was cherished 
 as a sacred, inviolable possession, so sacred that it impelled them 
 in time to establish a league against all the rest of the world. How 
 did they conduct themselves once this league had been founded? 
 If they read a book it was in common ; they kept no secrets from 
 each other, advised each other, and shared their happiness and 
 sorrow equally, until one fine day Emilia's father appeared before 
 her, and informed her that Count Ulrich had asked for her hand 
 and that he had promised that he should have it. 
 
 At this point in the story, Eberhard became silent; he bit his 
 lips; his ashen face, that had never before reminded Agatha so 
 much of the old Baron, betrayed an incurable grief. 
 
 Agatha was familiar with this incident, in rough outline; but 
 as Eberhard related it, it stirred her soul to the very depths. "One 
 must try to forget," she said. 
 
 "Forget? No, that I cannot do; never have been able to do. 
 Be it a matter of virtue or of vice, I cannot forget. Emilia, then 
 still half child and only half woman, was made flexible in time. 
 But that my mother did not do everything in her power to prevent
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 333 
 
 this gruesome deed, and that it caused her to sink deeper and 
 deeper into the coils of domestic anguish by reason of her innate 
 and gnawing weakness that was the bitterest experience of my 
 entire life." 
 
 "But she is your mother, Eberhard. Never in the history of the 
 human family has a son had the right to condemn his mother." 
 
 "That is news to me," replied Eberhard coldly. "Mothers are 
 human beings like any one else. Even mothers can commit a sin 
 by filling their children with the poison of distrust and disgust 
 with life. Father and mother, parents: they are a symbol, a 
 glorious one when they hover above us and around us, worthy of 
 respect and calling for filial veneration. But if I am bound to 
 them only by the ties of duty, they are not symbols; they are mere 
 phantoms, conceptions of human speech. There is no duty but the 
 duty of love." 
 
 Sylvia had sat in perfect silence. Unconsciously she had fol- 
 lowed the most beautiful law of harmonious souls: to wield an 
 influence, to have power, not through the use of words and the 
 elaboration of reasons, but by a pure life, an unquestioned existence. 
 Agreement and disagreement lay like a play of light and shadow on 
 her brow. 
 
 In this way she reminded Eberhard more and more of Eleanore. 
 
 Perhaps it was the power of this memory that moved him to 
 promise that he would go with Agatha on the following day to 
 his mother. The sole condition he imposed was that he be assured 
 that he would not meet his father. 
 
 Seeing that he was relentless in this request, Frau von Erfft 
 conceded it, though she had a reassuring premonition that the events 
 and the hour would be stronger than will and purpose. 
 
 On entering his mother's boudoir, Eberhard's eyes fell at once 
 on the alabaster clock, the face of which was supported by three 
 figures representing the daughters of time. In his childhood days 
 the clock had always had a highly poetic meaning to him: it 
 seemed to symbolise the fulfilment of his most ardent wishes. 
 
 The Baroness had been prepared for his coming by her sister. 
 While Eberhard and Sylvia had been standing in the corner room 
 waiting, a fe%v of the servants had gathered at the door, where 
 they whispered to each other timidly. 
 
 Eberhard went up to his mother and kissed her hand. The
 
 334 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Baroness's face was the colour of lead; her eyes were opened as 
 wide as possible, and yet she seemed hardly conscious. Emilia 
 stood at one side; her hands were pressed to her bosom, her fingers 
 were twitching convulsively. 
 
 Frau Agatha endeavoured to relieve the situation of its solem- 
 nity and unnaturalness by making a few humorous remarks about 
 Eberhard's hiding place on the hill by the Castle. Baroness 
 Clotilda looked at her son in anxious and uneasy suspense: "I 
 scarcely recognise him," she said with a hoarse voice, "he has 
 changed so." 
 
 "You have changed, too, Mother," said Eberhard, as his chin 
 sought refuge between the lapels of his coat. He was as stiff as a 
 poker. Agatha looked at him full of vexation and annoyance. 
 He acted as though he were being bored by the meeting. 
 
 But it was only a mask. As he looked at the old, indistinct, 
 tired, bullied face, he became conscious of his mistake: he felt 
 that he was wrong in saying that "Mothers are also human beings." 
 He saw at once that amends had to be made, that action was neces- 
 sary; he felt that his next step would lead to inevitable self- 
 contempt if he neglected the moral deed of repentance. 
 
 As he struggled with himself and stared, as if paralysed, into the 
 rebellion of his own soul, a certain pair of eyes had forced their 
 way behind the seeming apathy. A sudden blush came to Sylvia's 
 cheeks: she went up to her cousin, and took him by the hand. He 
 quivered; he saw at once that she had divined what was going on 
 in his soul, and now she was determined to bring his fight to a 
 close, a final, definite close. She took him out of the room; he 
 followed her; she led him through the dining room, the reception 
 room, the smoking room, the library, and on to his father's room. 
 Agatha, Emilia, and the Baroness looked at each other in amaze- 
 ment. They went to the door of the room, and listened in breath- 
 less suspense. 
 
 Sylvia opened the door rather boldly. The old Baron was 
 sitting on the leather chair before the stove. His legs were wrapped 
 in a blanket; the expression on his face was of stony coldness. 
 
 Hardly had he noticed the two when he sprang to his feet as 
 if the lightning had struck close by him. He shook; he faltered; 
 he groped about for a physical support; and from his throat there 
 came a stifled gurgle. That was all. 
 
 Eberhard walked over to him, and reached out his hand. 
 
 For a moment it seemed as if the old man would collapse. A 
 last flash of hatred and revenge shot from his blue eyes; then he
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 335 
 
 too reached out his hand. His arm trembled; thick knots of 
 quivering muscles formed on his cheeks. Sylvia had gently closed 
 the door and vanished. 
 
 Anxious minutes passed by and nothing happened, except that 
 each held the hand of the other and each looked into the eyes 
 of the other. The silence was broken only by the crackling of 
 the fire in the stove. 
 
 "Just at the right time," murmured the old Baron, without 
 looking up and as if lost in meditation, "just at the right time." 
 
 Eberhard made no reply. He stood as still, as motionless, as 
 silent, and with his heels as close together as if he were a young 
 officer facing his superior in command. 
 
 After a while he wheeled about and slowly left the room. 
 
 Sylvia was waiting in the library. In the twilight it was pos- 
 sible to see only the vague outline of her body. 
 
 Eberhard took hold of her and whispered: "I really believe that 
 I no longer have a father." 
 
 VI 
 
 That same night the old Baron had left. He got up in the 
 middle of the night; at four o'clock his valet accompanied him to 
 the station. 
 
 The next morning two letters were found lying on his writing 
 desk: one was addressed to Eberhard, the other to the Baroness. 
 The latter contained nothing more than a few words of farewell. 
 The former was more detailed. It expressed the Baron's satisfac- 
 tion at the fact that Eberhard, whom he welcomed as the head 
 of the house, had returned, and plainly indicated that all the 
 necessary legal steps would be taken in a very short while to give 
 him complete authority as his heir and successor. The letter closed 
 with this surprising sentence: "So far as I am personally concerned, 
 I am planning to enter the Catholic Church, in order to spend the 
 remainder of my misapplied life at Viterbo in the Dominican 
 Convent of Delia Guercia." 
 
 There was no explanation, no unusual display of feeling, no 
 confession, nothing but the naked fact. 
 
 The Baroness was neither surprised nor shocked. She fell into 
 a mute, melancholy brooding, and then said: "He never was happy, 
 never in his whole life. I never heard him laugh a really whole- 
 souled laugh; and living with him has made me forget how to 
 laugh myself. His heart has been from time immemorial a sort
 
 336 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of convent, an abode of darkness, a place of sternness. He has 
 found his way home at last, and is probably tired from the long 
 journey on the way to his soul." 
 
 "Nonsense, Clotilda!" cried Frau von Erfft. "What you say 
 about his laughing may be true, and a man who cannot laugh is 
 half animal. But do you mean to tell me that an intelligent 
 man must resort to such means to find peace with himself and his 
 God? A man who is under obligations to set an example for 
 others? Is there not enough darkness in men's heads already? 
 Is it necessary to put out the torches of those who stand guard? 
 My sense of pardon is not so elaborate. I prefer to be a child 
 of the world and associate with those who are regarded as heathens, 
 and who have given us works of light and illumination." 
 
 At these words Eberhard entered. As she looked into his face, 
 Frau von Erfft thought: "There is another who can't laugh." 
 
 The Baron's change of religious views caused the greatest excite-* 
 ment throughout the entire country. The liberal newspapers pub- 
 lished fulminatory articles; flaming protests were made in the clubs 
 against the surreptitious propaganda of Rome. The ultramontane 
 party leaders rejoiced and made capital out of the marvellous 
 return of such a sceptic to the bosom of the Church which alone 
 can save the souls of men: they used the case as a bait for fresh 
 recruits and as a means to fill the old regulars with greater fire 
 and enthusiasm. Through the homes blew a breath of a tyrannical 
 priesthood and spiritual gagging. 
 
 Eberhard adapted himself to his changed condition quickly and 
 with but little apparent effort: the chaos of opinions left him 
 virtually unmoved. To become the master of so much and so 
 many people, and to do it so suddenly, necessitated dignity, a clear 
 eye, and a firm hand. His being was in no danger from an excess 
 of zeal or up-start conceit, suffer though he might from too great 
 seriousness and his preference for a place in the shadow. Strangely 
 enough, the abundance of his responsibilities made him more 
 cheerful. And where he was unable to take his part in the world 
 of outward unrest, Sylvia's influence interceded and made it pos- 
 sible for him to do what was expected of him. 
 
 In May he accompanied her and her mother to Erfft. There 
 they took long walks together every day, and talked a great deal 
 bout Eleanore. At first he spoke with noticeable reserve. But 
 when he felt that he had gained the confidence of his auditor, 
 and she his, he spoke quite candidly, so candidly in truth that 
 Sylvia came to look upon his action as one of inner liberation..
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 337 
 
 When he told of Eleanore's marriage to Daniel Nothafft, Sylvia 
 interrupted him, and asked a number of questions concerning 
 Daniel. "Oh, yes, he was our guest once; he is the Kapellmeister," 
 she said. And then she told him all about Daniel's visit at Erfft, 
 and did it with a smile in which there were both indulgence and 
 re-awakened astonishment. 
 
 Her smile made the same appeal to Eberhard that Eleanore's had. 
 And yet, when he was in Sylvia's company, he seemed to recognise 
 more distinctly than ever what had drawn him with such irresistible 
 power to Eleanore, possibly because Sylvia was of a less ardent and 
 forceful nature. He could not exactly- express it in words; he 
 merely felt that it was the unknown realm of tones, the unknown 
 melting of melodies, the ringing order of the music transformed 
 into soul. 
 
 At the beginning of June, Sylvia went back to Nuremberg with 
 Eberhard and her parents. A few days later the betrothal took 
 place in the baronial residence. 
 
 Herr Carovius had been paid. The consortium of silent backers 
 had been dissolved. 
 
 Never in the history of finance had there been a satisfied creditor 
 who was so unhappy as Herr Carovius. He was without a goal, 
 and the sign posts had been destroyed. He had received his 
 money; so far so good. His share of the profit was something 
 over sixty thousand marks. But what was this in comparison with 
 the great noise? What comparison was there between living in 
 ease and the gorgeous sight of falling stars? What attraction 
 could the world offer him after this hopeful affair, which had 
 begun as a tragedy, and had increased in interest and suspense 
 until one was justified in believing that all the contradictory forces 
 in human nature were going to collide with one mighty bang, 
 when, in reality, the whole incident flattened out into an ordinary 
 drama of emotion, with the curtain going down on reconciliation 
 all around? 
 
 But this was not the sole reason why Herr Carovius, up until 
 this time a most elastic figure, one of those imperturbable bachelors 
 for whom no hurdle was too high, suddenly felt that he was 
 growing old. His soul was filled with unrest; he was seeing bad 
 omens; he feared there was going to be a change in the weather. 
 
 He felt an inner hunger, and yet he somehow lacked appetite
 
 338 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 for his kind of things. "Down and out, lost and no good," he 
 sighed within. But those who had got rich at his expense could 
 not possibly succeed. This much he knew. 
 
 He began to lose his hair; he became rheumatic. As soon as 
 the thermometer began to fall he shivered; if it rained he stayed 
 at home. He began to study medicine, all by himself. He took 
 up the various remedies of our remote ancestors. He read the 
 works of Paracelsus, and declared that all those who had written 
 on medicine since Paracelsus were quacks and poison-mixers. 
 
 His ideas with regard to music became also more and more 
 strange and izarre. He had discovered an old Nuremberg com- 
 poser by the name of Staden. His opera entitled "Seelewig" 
 the first of all German operas, by the way he insisted was the 
 very zenith of musical art, eminently superior to Mozart and Bach, 
 He played arias and melodies from "Seelewig" to Dorothea. 
 
 "Now, when you can get that," he exclaimed, "when you come 
 to the point where I can see from your playing what is in it and 
 at the bottom of it, Heaven and Hell in one stroke of the bow, 
 then, you little jackanapes, I'm going to make you my heiress." 
 
 That was precisely what Dorothea had been longing to hear; 
 it confirmed her calculations and crowned her dreams. To heat 
 these words roll from her uncle's tongue had been her ambition/ 
 and she had spared no pains to arrive at her goal. 
 
 Herr Carovius was not spoiled. Since the days his sister had 
 kept house for him, no woman had ever concerned herself about 
 him in the least. But at that time he was young; and he had 
 wheedled himself into believing that the women were merely 
 waiting for him, that all he had to do was to beckon to them 
 with his finger and they would come rushing up to him in bat- 
 talions. But because he had dreaded the idea of making an un- 
 happy selection, and by reason of the expense of the enterprise, 
 he had neglected to give the necessary signal, and hence had 
 been so generous as to leave them in complete possession of their 
 freedom. 
 
 He never knew until now that the soft, little hand of a woman 
 could bring out effects as if they had come from the touch of a 
 magic wand. "What a pleasant little phiz Doderlein's offspring 
 has," he thought. And if Dorothea, who had made him believe 
 that she was visiting him on the sly, though her father had given 
 his consent long ago, chanced to remain away for a few days, he 
 would become wild with rage, and go into the kitchen and chop 
 wood merely to enjoy the sensation of destroying something.
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 339 
 
 Moreover, the music lessons Dorothea was taking at Herr Caro- 
 vius's expense gave the girl a new conception of her art, and 
 awakened in her a measure of wholesome ambition. Satisfied as 
 he was with her docility and her progress, Herr Carovius referred 
 to her at times as the coming female Paganini, and pictured himself 
 in the role of a demoniacal impresario. 
 
 But the thing about Dorothea that struck him most forcibly and 
 filled him with such astonishment was her relation to mirrors. 
 
 A mirror exercised a tremendous influence on her. If she passed 
 by one, her face became coloured with a charming blush of desire; 
 if she stood before one and saw her picture reflected in it, she 
 was filled, first with sexual unrest, and then with retreating uncer- 
 tainty. In the brightness of her eyes there was always a longing 
 for the mirror. Her gait and her gestures seemed to have duties 
 imposed on them by the mirror; it seemed to be their task to 
 prepare surprises. Her whole body seemed to live in common with 
 a spectral mirror sister, and to catch sight of this beloved sister 
 was her first wish, fulfilment of which she effected as often as 
 possible. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Dorothea had succeeded in making it clear to her father that 
 it would be highly advantageous to her, as the nearest relative, to 
 show Herr Carovius every conceivable favour. Andreas Doderlein 
 baulked at first; but he could not refuse recognition to the far-seeing 
 penetration of his daughter. 
 
 When she told him of her appearance in the baronial residence, 
 and mentioned the enormous sum Herr Carovius had collected 
 with the mien of an undaunted victor, Doderlein became serious; 
 he stared into space and did some hard thinking. Recalling the 
 now superannuated feud, he preserved the appearance of inap- 
 proachability, and said: "We will not debase ourselves for the sake 
 of Mammon." 
 
 A few days later, however, he said, quite of his own free will, 
 sighing like a man who has gone through some great moral struggle 
 and come out of it victorious, "Well, do as you think best, my 
 child, but don't let me know anything about it." 
 
 His argument, had he expressed it in so many words, would have 
 been something like the following: We are poor; we are living 
 from hand to mouth. The negligible dowry Herr Carovius gave 
 his sister has been used up. Marguerite would have been perfectly
 
 340 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 justified in putting in her claim for thirty thousand marks, but 
 Herr Carovius settled with her for only twelve thousand, and 
 there was no possibility of redress. For Herr Carovius had 
 wheedled his sister into giving him a written statement that she 
 was satisfied with the sum of twelve thousand: the remaining 
 eighteen thousand was the price he demanded in return for her 
 consent to have his sister, who was slavishly submissive to him, 
 marry the man of her choice. 
 
 "I have been duped," said Andreas Doderlein, and bore up 
 under his grudge with becoming dignity. 
 
 The director of the conservatory died, and Andreas Doderlein, 
 who, by virtue of his achievements and his personality, had the 
 first right to the vacant position, was appointed to it. His former 
 colleagues were stout in their contention that the appointment cost 
 him many a bitter visit to the powers that be. Doderlein read envy 
 in their eyes and smiled to himself. 
 
 But it was a hard life. "Art cannot live without bread," said 
 Doderlein, with a heroic glance into the future. "But oh, what 
 works I could bring out if I only had time! Give me time, time, 
 and," swinging his hands cloudward, "the eagles above would 
 greet me!" 
 
 IX 
 
 Herr Carovius and death were intimate friends. Whenever 
 death had an errand to run, it always knocked on Herr' Carovius's 
 door, as if to find a person who approved of its deeds and who 
 had a just appreciation of them, for there were so many of the 
 other kind. 
 
 But when Herr Carovius heard that Eleanore Nothafft had died, 
 he felt that his old friend had gone a bit too far. He was 
 touched. He was seized with griping pains in the abdominal 
 region, and locked himself up for the period of one whole day in 
 his court room. There he was taken down with catalepsy; his face 
 went through a horrible transformation: it came to look as if all 
 the wickedness, hopelessness, and despair of the man who had never 
 become reconciled to life through love had been concentrated in it 
 and petrified. 
 
 His forebodings had come true. 
 
 Eleanore's funeral took place on a rainy June day. Herr Caro- 
 vius, dressed in his shabby old yellow rain-coat with its big pockets, 
 was present. There were also many others present. Every face
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 341 
 
 was touched with grief; every eye was filled with tears, like the 
 earth round about. Those who had not known her had at least 
 heard of her. They had known that she had been there in some 
 capacity, just as one hears of some unusual phenomenon among the 
 celestial bodies, and that she was gone; that she was no more to be 
 seen. For one moment at least all these people were changed 
 into deep, seeing, feeling beings; for one moment they laid aside 
 their fruitless activities, their petty misdeeds, desires, anxieties, 
 and vanities, and became conscious of the fact that the truth, purity, 
 love, and loveliness of this earth had been decreased. 
 
 Herr Carovius went home and made a lime-blossom tea; such 
 a tea had often helped him when he had not felt well. 
 
 The rain dripped down on the kitchen window sill. Herr 
 Carovius said to himself: "That is my last funeral." 
 
 Along in the evening Dorothea came in and after her Philippina 
 Schimmelweis. Herr Carovius had paid her many a penny for her 
 services as a spy, and now she wanted to hear what he had to say 
 to this last and greatest of misfortunes. His infatuated interest 
 in everything Eleanore did had been a source of unmitigated 
 pleasure to her, though she had been exceedingly cautious never to 
 let him see how she felt about it all. On the contrary, she never 
 failed to affect a hypocritical seriousness in the face of all his 
 questions, orders, instructions, and caustic observations. She had 
 egged him on; she had flattered him; she had used every oppor- 
 tunity to fan the flames of his ridiculous hopes. Owing to this the 
 confidence between the two had grown to considerable proportion; 
 the man's senile madness, born of his love for Eleanore, had even 
 aroused Philippina's lewd lasciviousness. 
 
 She said she would have to be going home; the child was 
 asleep; and though she had locked the front door, you could never 
 tell what was going to happen over there. "My God," she said, 
 "things take place in that house that are never heard of in any 
 other home." 
 
 The presence of Dorothea disturbed and annoyed her. She sat 
 down on the kitchen bench, and looked at the young girl with 
 poison in her eyes. Dorothea on the other hand found it painfully 
 difficult to conceal her disgust at the mere sight of Philippina: 
 her ugliness defied descriptive adjectives. Dorothea never took 
 her eyes off the creature who sat there talking in a screeching 
 voice, and who, as if her normal unattractiveness were not enough, 
 had her head bandaged. 
 
 The fact is that Philippina had the toothache; for this reason
 
 342 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 her face was wrapped in a loud, checkered cloth, while out from 
 underneath her hat stuck two little tassels. 
 
 She told the story of Eleanore's death with much satisfaction 
 to herself, and with that delight in the tragic in which she revelled 
 by instinct. "And now," she said, "old Jordan sits over there in 
 his attic rooms and sobs, and Daniel goes moping about, refusing 
 to eat any food and looking at you with eyes that would fill you 
 with fear even if everything else was as it should be." 
 
 This is the point to which Daniel has brought things, she 
 showed in her gratuitous report, in which there was an attempt 
 to chide him for his waywardness: He has put two women under 
 the ground, has a helpless child in the house, is out of a job, is 
 not making a cent. Now what could this kind of doings lead to? 
 Judge Riibsam's wife had paid the funeral expenses. Why, you 
 know, Daniel didn't even know what they were talking about 
 when the bill came in, and old Jordan, he didn't have twenty 
 marks to his name. She swore she wasn't going to stand for it 
 much longer, and if Daniel didn't quit his piano-strumming he 
 wasn't getting a cent for it she was going to know a thing or 
 two. 
 
 Quite contrary to his established custom, Herr Carovius failed 
 to show the slightest interest in her gabble; at least he made no 
 concessions to her. Nor did he fuss and fume; he gazed into 
 space, and seemed to be thinking about many serious things all at 
 the same time. His silence made Philippina raging mad. She 
 jumped up and left without saying good-bye to him, slamming 
 first the room door and then the hall door behind her. 
 
 Dorothea was standing by the piano rummaging around in some 
 note books. Her thoughts were on what she had just been 
 hearing. 
 
 She remembered Daniel Nothafft quite well. She knew that 
 there was an irreconcilable feud between him and her father. 
 She had seen him; people had pointed out the man with the angry 
 looking eyes to her on the street. She had felt at the time as if 
 she had already talked with him, though she could not say when 
 or where. She had a vague idea as to what people said about him, 
 and she knew that he was looked upon in the city as the adversary 
 of evil himself. 
 
 Her breast was filled with an aimle?s longing. Her blood 
 began to run warm, the fusty milieu in which she just then chanced 
 to be cleared up and began to bestir itself. She took her violin 
 and began to play a Hungarian dance, while an enlivening smile
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 343 
 
 flitted across her face, and her eyes shone with the audacity of an 
 ambitious and temperamental g'rl. 
 
 Herr Carovius raised his head: "Tempo!" he exclaimed, 
 "Tempo!" and began to beat time with his hands and stamp the 
 floor with his feet. 
 
 Dorothea smiled, shook her head, and played more and more 
 rapidly. 
 
 "Tempo," howled Herr Carovius. "Tempo!" 
 
 The barking of a sad dog was wafted into the room from the 
 court below. It was Caesar: he was on his last legs. 
 
 Daniel's mother had come; she had brought little Eva along. 
 
 Marian had learned of Eleanore's death through the news- 
 paper. No one had thought of her; no one had written to her. 
 She had not read it in the newspaper herself. The doctor in 
 Eschenbach, who had subscribed to the Frankischer Herold, had 
 read it one morning, and had given her the paper with considera- 
 ble hesitation, calling her attention to the death notice. 
 
 She was not present at the funeral. But she went out to the 
 cemetery and prayed by Eleanore's grave. 
 
 She appreciated Daniel's loss. When she met him he was 
 precisely as she thought he would be. She recognised her son in 
 his great grief and mute despair: he was nearer to her then than at 
 any other time of his life. She honoured his grief; she did not 
 need to decrease it or divert it. She was silent, just as Daniel 
 himself was silent. All she did was to lay her hand on his fore- 
 head occasionally. He murmured: "Mother, oh Mother!" She 
 replied: "Now don't! Don't think of me!" 
 
 She said to herself: "When an Eleanore dies in the full bloom 
 of youth, one must mourn until the soul of its own accord again 
 grows hungry for life." 
 
 At first Eva had tried to play with her little step-sister; but 
 Philippina had chased her from the room. Once she turned 
 against the enraged daughter of Jason Philip Schimmelweis, and 
 said: "I'll tell mv father on you!" 
 
 "Yes? You'll tell your father? Well, tell him! Who cares?" 
 replied Philippina scornfully. "But who is your father? What 
 is he? Where is he? In Pomerania perhaps?" Whereupon she 
 added in a sing-song voice: "Pomerania is burnt to the ground. 
 Fly, cockchafer, fly<"
 
 344 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "My father? He's in the room there," replied Eva surprised 
 and offended: "I am in his house, and little Agnes is my sister." 
 
 Philippina tore open her eyes and her mouth: "Your father 
 is in the room " she stammered, "and little Agnes is your sis- 
 ter?" She got up, seized Eva by the shoulders, and dragged her 
 across the floor into the room where Daniel and Marian were 
 sitting. With an outburst of laughter that sounded as though 
 she were not quite in her right mind, and with an expression of 
 impudence and rage on her face, she panted forth her indignation 
 in the following terms: "This brat says Daniel is her father and 
 Agnes is her sister! A scurvy chit I'll say!" 
 
 Marian, terrified, sprang to her feet, ran over to Eva, and 
 began to scream: "Let her go, take your hands off that child!" 
 Eva was pale, the tears were rolling down her cheeks, her little 
 arms were stretched out as if in urgent need of help from an 
 older hand. Philippina let go of her and stepped back. "Is it 
 really true?" she whispered, "is it really true?" Marian knelt 
 down and picked up her foster child: "Now you mind your own 
 business, you rogue," she said to Philippina. 
 
 "Daniel?" Philippina turned to Daniel with uplifted arms, and 
 repeated, "Daniel?" She seemed to be challenging him to speak; 
 and to be reproaching him for having deceived her. There was 
 something quite uncanny about the way she said, "Daniel? 
 Daniel?" 
 
 "You go back and mind Agnes!" said Daniel, worried as he had 
 never been before: he felt more than ever under obligations to 
 Philippina. And what could he do now without her? She was 
 the sole guardian of his child. His mother could not remain in 
 the city; she had to make her living, and that she could do only 
 over in Eschenbach. Her business was located there; and there 
 Eva was growing up in peace and happiness. On the other hand, 
 he did not feel that it would be possible or advisable to take 
 Agnes away from Philippina, even if his mother saw fit to adopt 
 her too. Philippina was attached to the child with an ape-like 
 affection. And more than this: Who would take care of old Jor- 
 dan if Philippina were discharged? Daniel could not make his 
 bed or get his meals. 
 
 Philippina went out. "The damned scoundrel!" she said as soon 
 s she had left the room. She clenched her horny fists, and con- 
 tinued Daniel's life history: "The brute has a bastard, he ha?. 
 You wait, you little chit, and the first chance I get I'll scratch 
 vour eve: out!"
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 345 
 
 Taking the child on her lap, Marian sat down by Daniel's 
 side. "Don't cry, Eva, don't cry; we're going back home now in a 
 minute." 
 
 Daniel looked at his mother most attentively, and told her how 
 Philippina had chanced to come into his family. He told her all 
 about Jason Philip's attempt to rob him of his inheritance, and 
 how his own daughter had betrayed him; how his father had 
 taken three thousand talers to Jason Philip; how Jason Philip 
 had been forced to hand over a part of the money when Jordan 
 was in trouble because of his son; and how he had waived his 
 claims to the rest of the money. 
 
 Marian's head sank low on her breast. "Your father was a 
 remarkable man, Daniel," she said after a long silence, "but he 
 never did understand people; and the person whom he misunder- 
 stood most of all was his wife. He was like a man who is blind, 
 but who does not want to let it be known that he is blind: he 
 walks around, but where does he go? He stands still and has not 
 the faintest idea where he is. And by the way, Daniel, it seems 
 to me that you are a little bit like him. Open your eyes, Daniel, 
 I beg you, open your eyes!" 
 
 The child in her lap had fallen asleep. Daniel looked into 
 Eva's face yes, he opened his eyes and as he saw this delicate, 
 sweet, charming countenance so close before him, he could no 
 longer control himself. He turned to the wall, and cried as if 
 his heart would break: "I am a murderer!" 
 
 "No, Daniel," said Marian gently, "or if you are, then every- 
 body who lives is a murderer, the dead of the past being the 
 victims." 
 
 Daniel writhed in agony and gnashed his teeth. 
 
 "Father is in the room there," whispered Eva in her dreams. 
 
 XI 
 
 The hardest of all for Marian was to get along with old 
 Jordan; for he was only a shadow of his former self. He never 
 entered Daniel's room; if Marian wanted to see him she went 
 upstairs, and there he sat, quiet, helpless, extinguished, a picture 
 of utter dereliction. 
 
 He never mentioned his sorrows; it made him restless to see that 
 Marian sympathised with him. When she did, he became quite 
 courteous; he even tried to act the part of a man of the world. 
 The effect of this assumed sprightliness. seen from the back-
 
 346 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 ground of his physical impoverishment and spiritual decay, was 
 terrifying. 
 
 Marian hoped to hear something from him concerning Dan- 
 iel's present situation. She knew, in a general way, that he was 
 in profound distress, that he was living in most straightened cir- 
 cumstances, and this worried her tremendously. But she wanted 
 to know how he stood in the world; whether people felt there 
 was anything to him; and whether music was something from which 
 a man could make a decent living. On this last point her dis- 
 trust was as strong as ever; her fear showed no signs of weakening. 
 It was Eleanore, and she only, that had given her a measure of 
 confidence: it seemed that Eleanore's disposition, her very presence, 
 had inspired her with a vague, faraway idea of music. But now 
 Eleanore was gone, and all her old doubts returned. 
 
 Jordan however became painfully secretive whenever she re- 
 ferred to Daniel. He seemed to be grieved at the mere mention 
 of his name. He would merely look at the door, tuck his hands 
 up his coat-sleeves, and draw his head down between his shoulders, 
 
 Once he said: "Can you explain to me, my good woman, why 
 I am alive? Can you throw any light on such a preposterous 
 paradox as my present existence: 1 My son a wretch, vanished 
 without a trace, so far as I am concerned no longer living. My 
 daughters, both of them, in the grave; my dear wife also. I have 
 been a man, a husband, and a father; that is, I have been a father! 
 My existence scorns the laws and purposes of nature. To eat, to 
 drink, to sleep oh, what repulsive occupations! And yet, if I 
 do not eat, I get hungry; if I do not drink, I get thirsty; if I do 
 not sleep, I get sick. How simple, how aimless it all is! For me 
 the birds no longer sing, the bells no longer ring, the musicians 
 have no more music." 
 
 Owing to her desire to find consolation of some kind and at 
 any price, she turned to Eberhard and Sylvia; they were now 
 visiting Daniel almost every day. She liked them; there was so 
 much consideration for other people in their behaviour, so much 
 delicacy and refinement in their conversation. Sylvia was not in 
 the least offended by Daniel's sullen silence; she treated him with 
 a respect and deference that made Marian feel good; for it was 
 proof to her that in the eyes of good and noble people Daniel 
 stood in high esteem. The Baron seemed in some mysterious way 
 to be continually talking about Eleanore, though he never men- 
 tioned her name. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded 
 her of Eleanore; there was something supersensuous in its power.
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 347 
 
 Marian often felt as though this strange nobleman and her son 
 were brothers and at the same time enemies, as seen in the light 
 of painful memories. Sylvia also seemed to have the same feeling; 
 but she found nothing objectionable in the relation. 
 
 One day, as Marian accompanied the two to the hall door, she 
 decided to pick up her courage; and she did. "Well, how do you 
 think he is going to make out?" she asked; r 'he has no work; as 
 a matter of fact he never speaks of work. What will that lead to?" 
 
 "We have been thinking about that," replied Sylvia, "and I 
 believe a way has been found to help him. He will hear about it 
 in a short while. But he must not suspect that we have anything 
 to do with it." She looked at her fiance; he nodded approvingly. 
 
 Eberhard and Sylvia knew perfectly well from the very begin- 
 ning that there could be no thought of lending Daniel money. 
 Gifts, large or small, merely humiliated him; they disgraced him. 
 It was a case where eagerness to serve on the part of those who 
 have meets with insurmountable obstacles, whether they wish to 
 be lavish in their generosity or of seeming calculation. There was 
 no use to appeal to delicacy; attenuating provisos would not help; 
 amall deceptions practised in the spirit of love would prove inef- 
 fectual. Riches stood face to face with poverty, and was as helpless 
 as poverty usually is when obliged to enter the lists against riches. 
 The case was striking, but not unique. 
 
 Having made up her mind to come to the assistance of the 
 musician, Sylvia turned to her mother. But it was idle to count 
 on the backing of the Baroness: Andreas Doderlein had so poisoned 
 her mind against Daniel that the mere mention of his name caused 
 her brow to wrinkle, her lips to drop. 
 
 Agatha von Erfft got in touch, by letter, with some business 
 people who were in a position to give her some practical advice. 
 Their assistance was helpful in that it at least saved her the invalu- 
 able time she might have lost by appealing to the wrong people. 
 One day she appeared before Eberhard and Sylvia with her plans 
 all drawn up. 
 
 One of the most reputable music houses of Mayence had been 
 nursing the idea for years of bringing out a pretentious collection 
 of mediasval church music. A great deal of material had already 
 been assembled under the supervision of a writer on musical sub- 
 jects who had recently died. But there was still much -to be col- 
 lected. To do this, it would be necessary to go on long journeys, 
 and these would entail the expenditure of a good deal of money. 
 Moreover, it was necessary to find a man who would not be afraid
 
 54 8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of the work attached to the undertaking, and on whose judgment 
 one could rely without doubt or cavil. Owing to the fact that the 
 expenses up to the present had far exceeded the initial calcula- 
 tions, and since it seemed impossible to engage the right sort of man 
 to place in charge of the work, the publisher had become first 
 sceptical and then positive; positive that he would invest no more 
 money in it. 
 
 Agatha had heard of this some time ago. That the enterprise 
 might be revived she learned from direct inquiry; indirect investi- 
 gation confirmed what she had been told. But the publisher was 
 unwilling to assume all the financial responsibility; he was looking 
 for a patron who would be disposed to invest capital in the plan, 
 If such a person could be found, he was willing to place Daniel 
 Nothafft, whose name was now known to him, in the responsible 
 position of making the collections and editing them. There would 
 be a good deal of work connected with the undertaking: the treas- 
 ures of the archives, libraries, and convents would have to be inves- 
 tigated; corrections would have to be made; notes would have to be 
 written; and the entire work would have to be seen through the 
 press. To do this would take several years. The publisher con- 
 sequently insisted that whoever was placed in charge should sign a 
 contract to remain until the work had been finished, he in turn 
 agreeing to pay the editor a salary of three thousand marks a 
 year. 
 
 Eberhard made careful inquiries as to the standing of the firm, 
 and finding that it enjoyed a rating well above the average, he 
 agreed to furnish the requisite capital. 
 
 A few days after the conversation between Sylvia and Marian, 
 Daniel received a letter in the morning mail from Philander and 
 Sons, requesting him to accept the position, a detailed description 
 of which was given. In the event of his acceptance, all he had to 
 do was to sign the enclosed contract. 
 
 He read the letter carefull) and quietly from beginning to 
 end. His face did not brighten up. He walked back and forth 
 in the room a few times, and then went to the window and looked 
 out. "It seems to rain every day this summer," he said. 
 
 Marian had returned to the table. She took the letter with 
 the enclosed contract and read both of them. Her heart beat with 
 joy, but she was exceedingly careful not to betray her state of 
 mind to Daniel: she was afraid of his contradictory and crotchety 
 disposition. She hardly dared look at him, as she waited in anxious 
 uspense to see what he would do.
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 349 
 
 Finally he came back to the table, made a wry face, stared at 
 the letter, and then said quite laconically: "Church music? Yes, 
 I will do it." With that he took his pen, and scrawled his name 
 to the contract. 
 
 "Thank God," whispered Marian. 
 
 That afternoon they left Daniel. Eva hung on her father's 
 neck, quite unwilling to leave him. Without the least display of 
 shyness, she kissed him many times, laughing as she did so. She 
 was overflowing with a natural and whole-hearted love for him. 
 Daniel offered no resistance. He looked serious. As his eye 
 caught that of the child, he shuddered at the abundant fulness of 
 her life; but he was aware at the same time of a promise, and 
 against this he struggled with all the power there was in him. 
 
 XII 
 
 It was a sunny day in September. Eberhard, who had spent the 
 entire August at ErfFt, had returned to the city to attend to some 
 urgent business and also to hasten the arrangements for his com- 
 ing wedding. 
 
 As the streets were filled with playing children, he sauntered 
 along on his way up to the Castle on the hill. He wanted to look 
 up his little house; he had not been in it for months. He had a 
 feeling that he would enjoy the quiet up there; he longed to 
 look back over and into scenes from the past; he wanted to pass in 
 review the shadowy pictures of his former self; pictures he saw 
 before him wherever he went, wherever he was. One of these 
 was always with him; if he found himself in a certain room it 
 was there; if he went on a long journey it was with him. He 
 even found it on the faded pages of books he had taken to himself 
 as companions in his loneliness. 
 
 He hesitated from time to time, stopped, and seemed quite 
 irresolute. All of a sudden he turned around, and started back 
 with hasty steps to ^gydius Place. Just as he was entering the 
 hall of Daniel's apartment, he met Daniel coming out. He 
 greeted Eberhard and gave him his hand. 
 
 "I was just going to call for you," said the Baron. "Won't you 
 come with me up to my old hermitage?" 
 
 Daniel looked out through his glasses at a swallow that was just 
 then circling around over the square; there was something fabuloui 
 in its flight. "To tell you the truth, Baron, I have very little 
 inclination to gossip at present." He made the remark with as
 
 350 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 much consideration for the laws of human courtesy as lay within 
 his power. 
 
 "There must be no gossiping," said Eberhard. "I have a great 
 secret, one that I can tell you without saying a word." 
 
 Daniel went along with him. 
 
 The air in the little house was dead, stuffy. But Eberhard 
 did not open the windows; he wished to have it as quiet as it was 
 when they entered. Daniel took a seat on one of the chairs in 
 the former living room of the Baron. Eberhard thought he had 
 sat down because he was tired; he therefore took a seat opposite 
 him. The evening sun cast a slanting ray on an old copper en- 
 graving based on a scene from pastoral life. A mouse played around 
 in the corner. 
 
 "Well, what is your secret? " asked Daniel brusquely, after they 
 had sat in perfect silence for some time. 
 
 Eberhard got up, and made a gesture which meant that Daniel 
 was to follow him. They crossed the narrow hall, climbed up 
 a pair of small steps, and then Eberhard opened a door leading 
 into the attic room. 
 
 A stupefying, deadening odour of decayed flowers struck them 
 in the face. Involuntarily Daniel turned to go, but the Baron 
 pointed at the walls in absolute silence. 
 
 "What is this? What kind of a room is this? " asked Daniel, 
 rather forcibly. 
 
 The four walls of the room were completely covered with 
 bouquets, garlands, and wreaths of withered flowers. The leaves 
 had fallen from most of them, and were now lying scattered about 
 the floor. Leaves that had once been green had turned brown; the 
 grasses and mosses were in shreds, the twigs were dry and brittle. 
 Many of the bouquets had had ribbons attached to them; these, 
 once red or blue, were now faded. Others had been bound with 
 gold tinsel; this had rusted. The slanting rays of the sun fell on 
 others, and lighted them as it had shone on the copper engraving 
 in the room below. Through the purple rays could be seen a 
 dancing stream of dust. 
 
 It was a flower mausoleum ; a vault of bouquets, a death-house of 
 memories. Daniel suspected what it all meant. He felt his 
 tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth; a chill ran over him. 
 And when Eberhard at last began to speak, his eyes filled with hot, 
 gushing tears. 
 
 "The flowers were all picked and bound by her hands, by Elea- 
 nore's hands," said Eberhard. And then, after a pause: "She pre-
 
 THE ROOM WITH WITHERED FLOWERS 351 
 
 pared the bouquets for a florist, and I bought them; she had no 
 idea who bought them." That was all he said. 
 
 Daniel looked back into his past life, as if an invisible arm 
 were drawing him to the pinnacle of some high mountain. He 
 looked, and his soul was dissolved in anxiety, torture, and re- 
 pentance. 
 
 What had he left? Two graves: that was all. No, he had, 
 aside from the two graves, a broken harp, some withered flowers, 
 and a mask of terracotta. 
 
 He looked at the dead stems and withered chalices: Eleanore's 
 fingers had once touched all of these. Her fingers were even then 
 hovering over the dead buds like figures from the realm of spirits. 
 In the dusty spider webs hung caught at present unused moments, 
 kind words that were never spoken, consolation that was never 
 expressed, encouragement, consideration, and happiness that were 
 allowed to pass unclaimed and unapplied. Oh, this living and not 
 knowing what the present contains! Oh, this being with a living 
 life, and remaining unaware of it! This failure to avail one's 
 self of a wonderful day, a breathing, pulsing hour! This drag- 
 ging, falling, plunging into the night of desire and delusion, this 
 proud, vain, criminal discontent! O winged creature, winged 
 creature, where art thou! Where can one call out to thee! 
 
 There was nothing left but two graves, a broken harp, withered 
 flowers, and a mask! And a fair child here, a foul one there, and 
 a third that had come into life only to die! And up above all 
 this, up above even the tip of the mountain top, the gigantic, the 
 inexpressible, the sea of dreams and dreamed melodies, the breath 
 of God, the annunciation of infernal darkness, the message of 
 eternity, the wonders of temporal existence, dance and dancing 
 pipes, peals of thunder, and sweet weavings of sound Music! 
 
 It was evening. The Baron closed the door. Daniel reached him 
 his hand in silence, and then went home.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 
 
 During the following autumn and winter, Daniel lived a quiet, 
 lonely life. In the spring, Sylvia von Auffenberg wrote him a 
 letter, asking him to come over to Siegmundshof and spend a few 
 weeks with her and Eberhard. He declined, though he promised 
 to come later. 
 
 Old Herold visited him occasionally. He told all about the 
 friction in the conservatory since Doderlein had been in charge, 
 and contended that the world was on the point of turning into a 
 pig-stye. 
 
 Herr Seelenfromm also came in from time to time, while 
 among other visitors were the architect who had a defect in his 
 speech and Martha Riibsam. Toward the close of the winter Herr 
 Carovius also called. Socially he had become more nearly possible 
 than he had been in former years. He still held, however, some 
 very remarkable views about music. 
 
 Whatever any of the visitors said went in one of Daniel's ears 
 and out of the other. It would often happen that there would 
 be a number of people in his presence, and he would seem to be 
 listening to them; and yet if you watched his face, you could see 
 that he was completely absent-minded. If some one turned to 
 him with a question, he would not infrequently smile like a child, 
 and make no effort whatsoever to respond. No one had ever no- 
 ticed him smile this way before. 
 
 He returned the money Philippina had loaned him at the time 
 the piano was pawned. Philippina said: "Oi, oi, Daniel, you seem 
 to be swimming in money!" She brought him the receipt, and 
 then took the money to her room, where she did a lot of figuring 
 to see whether the interest had been accurately calculated. 
 
 Little Agnes was sitting on the floor, sucking a stick of candy. 
 She was always happy when Philippina was around; she was afraid 
 of her father. 
 
 Friends had told him that his apartment was too large now; 
 he was advised to give it up and take a smaller one. He became 
 
 352
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 353 
 
 enraged; he said he would never do this voluntarily, for the house 
 meant a great deal more to him than merely so many rented 
 rooms; and he insisted that everything be left just as it was. 
 
 One day at the beginning of spring he said to Philippina: "I 
 am going away for a long time. Watch the child, and don't let 
 the old man upstairs suffer for anything. I will send you the 
 money to keep up the house on the first day of each month, and 
 you will be held responsible for everything that takes place. 
 Moreover, I want to pay you a set wage: I will give you five talers 
 a month. There is no reason why you should work for me for 
 nothing." 
 
 The shaking and shuddering that Daniel had often had occasion 
 to notice in Philippina returned. She shrugged her shoulders, 
 looked as mean as only she could, and said: "Save your coppers; 
 you'll need 'em; you mustn't try to act so rich all of a sudden; 
 it ain't good for your health. If you have any money to spend, 
 go out and git Agnes a pair of shoes and a decent dress." Daniel 
 made no reply. 
 
 Her greediness in money matters had certainly not diminished 
 since the day she began to pilfer from her parents. She loved 
 money; she adored the shining metal; she liked to see it and feel 
 it; she liked to take bank notes in her hands and caress them. It 
 gave her intense pleasure to think that people looked upon her as 
 being poor when she was actually carrying more than a thousand 
 marks around in an old stocking stuffed down in her corset be- 
 tween her breasts. She loved to hear people complain of hard 
 times. When a beggar reached out his hand to her on the street, 
 she felt that he was doing it as an act of homage to her; she would 
 cause her bosom to heave so that she might feel the presence of 
 the stocking more keenly. She was pleased to think that one so 
 young had made herself so secure against future eventualities of 
 any kind. 
 
 She felt, despite all this, like scratching Daniel's eyes out when 
 he spoke of paying her regular monthly wages. This she re- 
 garded as base ingratitude. If it were at all possible for grief to 
 find ineradicable lodgment in her envious, unenlightened, malicious 
 soul, Daniel's offer of so much per month made it so. 
 
 She ran into the kitchen, and hurled knives and forks in the 
 sink. She went to old Jordan's room, knocked on his door, and 
 made him open it; then she told him with all the anger at her 
 resourceful command that Daniel was going away. "There is 
 hardly a cent in the house, and he's going on a jamboree!" she
 
 354 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 exclaimed. "There is some damned wench back of this. Go tell 
 him, Herr Inspector, go tell him what a dirty thing it is he's 
 doing going away and leaving his child and his old father in the 
 lurch. Do it, Herr Inspector, and you'll get potato dumplings, 
 ginger-bread, and sauce for dinner next Sunday." 
 
 Jordan looked at Philippina timidly. His mouth watered for the 
 food she had promised him; for she was holding him down to a 
 near-starvation diet. He was often so hungry that he would sneak 
 into the delicatessen shop, and buy himself ten pfennigs' worth of 
 real food. 
 
 "I will make inquiry as to the reason for his going," murmured 
 Jordan, "but I hardly believe that I will be able to move him one 
 way or the other." 
 
 "Well, you go out and take a little walk; git a bit of fresh 
 air," commanded Philippina; "I've got to straighten up your room. 
 Your windows need washing; you can't see through 'em for dirt." 
 
 Late that evening Daniel came up to say good-bye to Jordan. 
 
 "Where are you going? " asked the old man. 
 
 "I want to see a little of the German Empire," replied Daniel, 
 "I have some business to attend to up in the North, in the cities 
 and also out in the country." 
 
 "Good luck to you," said Jordan, much oppressed, "good luck 
 to you, my dear son. How long are you going to be gone?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know yet; possibly for years." 
 
 "For years?" asked Jordan. He looked at the floor; he tried to 
 keep his eyes on the floor under his feet: "Then I suppose vre 
 might as well say good-bye forever." 
 
 Daniel shook his head. "It makes no difference when I return, 
 1 will find you here," he said with a note of strange assurance in 
 Kis voice. "When fate has treated a man too harshly, there seems 
 to come a time when it no longer bothers him; it evades him, in 
 fact. It seems to me that this is the case with you: you are quite 
 fateless." 
 
 Jordan made no reply. He opened his eyes as if in fear, and 
 sighed. 
 
 The next morning Daniel left home. He wore a brown hunting 
 jacket buttoned close up to his neck with hartshorn buttons. Over 
 this hung a top-coat and a cape. His broad-brimmed hat overshad- 
 owed his face, which looked young, although so serious and dis- 
 tracted that voices, glances, and sounds of any kind seemed to 
 rebound from it like swift-running water from a smooth stone wall. 
 
 Philippina carried his luggage to the station. Her dress was
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 355 
 
 literally smothered in garish, gaudy ribbons. The women in the 
 market-place laughed on seeing her until they got a colic. 
 
 When Daniel took leave from her and boarded the train, she 
 did not open her mouth; she wrinkled her forehead, rubbed the 
 ends of her fingers against each other, stood perfectly quiet, and 
 looked at the ground. Long after the train had left the station, 
 she was still to be seen standing there in that unique position. A 
 station official went up to her, and, with poorly concealed ridicule 
 at the rare phenomenon, asked her what she was waiting for. 
 
 She turned her back on him, and started off. She came back by 
 way of St. James's Place, and talked for a quarter of an hour with 
 her friend Frau Hadebusch. It was Sunday. Benjamin Dorn was 
 just coming home from church. Seeing Philippina, he made a 
 profound bow. 
 
 Frau Hadebusch slapped Philippina on the hip, and smiled at 
 her knowingly. 
 
 Herr Francke was no longer living at Frau Hadebusch's: he was 
 in jail. He had promised to marry the cook of a certain distin- 
 guished family; but instead of hastening the coming of the happy 
 day, he had gambled away the savings of his bride-to-be. 
 
 Daniel had a letter of introduction to the Prior of the Mon- 
 astery at Lohriedt. He was looking for a manuscript that was sup- 
 posed to have been written by a contemporary of Orlando di 
 Lasso, if not by Di Lasso himself. 
 
 He remained for over two months, working at his collection. 
 He found his association with the monks quite agreeable, and they 
 liked him. One of them, who held him in especially high regard 
 because of his ability as an organist, gave him to understand that it 
 was a matter of unaffected regret to him that he could not greet 
 him, Protestant that he was, with the confidence that a man of his 
 singular distinction deserved. 
 
 "So! I wish I were a Jew," said Daniel to him, "then you would 
 have a really unqualified opportunity to see what God can do 
 without your assistance." 
 
 The monk in question was called Father Leonhard; he was a 
 short, wiry fellow with black eyes and a dark complexion. He 
 seemed to have had a great deal of experience with the world, and 
 to have no little cause for contrition and repentance: there was 
 nothing conventional about his religious practices; they were, on
 
 356 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the contrary, of almost redundant fervour and renunciation. Dan- 
 iel was impressed by the man's faith, though his soul shuddered 
 when in his presence: he regarded him as an enemy, a Philistine, 
 and preferred not to look at him at all. 
 
 He lived close by the monastery in the house of a railroad 
 official. Father Leonhard came in to visit him once. Daniel was 
 sitting by the window busily engaged in making some corrections. 
 The Father looked about the room: his eyes fell on a round, 
 wooden box lying on a chair; it looked like a cake box. 
 
 "The people at home have sent you something to nibble at," 
 remarked the Father, as Daniel got* up. 
 
 Daniel riveted his eyes on the monk, took the box, hesitated for 
 a while, and then opened it. In it, carefully packed in sawdust, 
 was the mask of Zingarella. It was a part of Daniel's meagre lug- 
 gage; wherever he went it followed him. 
 
 Father Leonhard sprang back terrified. "What does that mean?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "It means sin and purification," said Daniel, holding the mask up 
 in the light of the setting sun. "It means grief and redemption, 
 despair and mercy, love and death, chaos and form." 
 
 From that day on, Father Leonhard never said another word to 
 Daniel Nothafft. And whenever the strange musician chanced to 
 play the organ, the monk arose as quickly as possible, left the 
 church, and sought out some place where the tones could not 
 reach him. 
 
 That summer Daniel came to Aix-la-Chapelle and the region of 
 Liege, Louvain, and Malines. From there he wandered on foot to 
 Ghent and Bruges. 
 
 In places where he had to make investigations, he was obliged 
 to depend upon the letters he received from his publisher to make 
 himself understood. Condemned to silence, he lived very much 
 alone; he was a stranger in a strange land. 
 
 He had no interest in sights. It was rare that he looked at old 
 paintings. The beautiful never caused him to stop unless it actu- 
 ally blocked his way. He went about as if in between two walls. 
 He followed his nose, turned around only with the greatest re- 
 luctance, and never felt tired until he was ready to lie down to 
 sleep. 
 
 And even when he was tired the feeling that he was being
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 357 
 
 robbed of something gnawed at his soul ; he was restless even when 
 he slept. Haste coloured his eye, fashioned his step, and moulded 
 his deeds. He ate his meals in haste, wrote his letters in haste, 
 and talked in haste. 
 
 It pained him to feel that men were looking at him. Although 
 he invariably sought out the most deserted corner of whatever inn 
 he chanced to stop at, and thereby avoided becoming, so far as he 
 might, the target of the curious, he was nevertheless gaped at, 
 watched, and studied wherever he went. For everything about 
 him was conspicuous: the energy of his gestures, the agility of his 
 mimicry, the way he showed his teeth, and the nervous, hacking 
 step with which he moved through groups of gossiping people. 
 
 He had anticipated with rare pleasure the sight of the sea. He 
 was prepared to behold the monstrous, titanic, seething, and surging 
 element, the tempest of the Apocalypse. He was disappointed by 
 the peaceful rise and fall of the tide, the harmless rolling back 
 and forth of the waves. He concluded that it were better for one 
 not to become acquainted with things that had inspired one's fancy 
 with reverential awe. 
 
 He could quarrel with nature just as he could quarrel with men. 
 The phases of nature which he regarded as her imperfections ex- 
 cited his anger. He was fond, however, of a certain spot in the 
 forest; or he liked a tree in the plain, or sunset along the canal. 
 
 He liked best of all the narrow streets of the cities, when the 
 gentle murmurings of song wafted forth from the open windows, 
 or when the light from the lamp shone forth from the windows 
 after they had been closed. He loved to pass by courts and cellars, 
 gates and fences; when the face of an old man, or that of a young 
 girl, came suddenly to view, when workmen went home from the 
 factories, or soldiers from the barracks, or seamen from the har- 
 bours, he saw a story in each of them; he felt as one feels on read- 
 ing an exciting book. 
 
 One day when he was in Clcve he walked the streets at night 
 all alone. He noticed a man and a woman and five children, all 
 poorly dressed, standing near a church. Lying before them on the 
 pavement were several bundles containing their earthly possessions. 
 A man came up after a while and addressed them in a stern, 
 domineering tone; they picked up their bundles and followed him: 
 it was a mournful procession. They were emigrants; the man had 
 told them about their ship. 
 
 Daniel felt as if a cord in his soul had been made taut and 
 were vibrating without making a sound. The steps of the eight
 
 358 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 people, as they died away in the distance, developed gradually into 
 a rhythmical, musical movement. What had been confused became 
 ordered; what had been dark shone forth in light. Weighed down 
 with heaviness of soul, he went on, his eyes fixed on the ground 
 as if he were looking for something. He no longer saw, nor 
 could he hear. Nor did he know what time it was. 
 
 After a year and a half of congealed torpidity, the March wind 
 once more began to blow in his soul. 
 
 But it was like a disease; he was being consumed with impatience. 
 His immediate goal was the cloister of CEsede at Osnabriick, and 
 from there he wanted to go to Berlin. He could not bear to sit 
 in the railway carriages: in Wesel he placed his trunk on a freight 
 train, and went from there on foot, his top-coat hung over his 
 arm, his knapsack strapped across his back. Despite the inclement 
 weather he walked from eight to ten hours every day. It was 
 towards the end of October, the mornings and evenings were 
 chilly, the roads were muddy, the inns were wretched. This did 
 not deter him from going on:" he walked and walked, sought and 
 sought, often until late at night, passsionately absorbed in himself. 
 
 When he came to the coal and iron district, he raised his head 
 more and more frequently. The houses were black, the earth and 
 the air were black, blackened men met him on the road. Copper 
 wires hummed in the fog and mist, hammers clinked, wheels 
 hummed, chimneys smoked, whistles blew it was like a dream 
 vision, like the landscape of an unknown and accursed star. 
 
 One evening he left a little inn which he had entered to get 
 something to eat and drink. It was eight miles to Dortmund, where 
 he planned to stay over night. He had left the main road, when 
 all of a sudden the fire from the blast-furnaces leaped up, giving 
 the mist the appearance of a blood-red sea. Miners were coming 
 in to the village; in the light of the furnaces their tired, blackened 
 faces looked like so many demoniac caricatures. Far or near, it 
 was impossible to say, a horse could be seen drawing a car over 
 shining rails. On it stood a man flourishing his whip. Beast, man, 
 and car all seemed to be of colossal size; the "gee" and "haw" 
 of the driver sounded like the mad cries of a spectre; the iron 
 sounds from the forges resembled the bellowing of tormented 
 creatures. 
 
 Daniel had found what he had been looking for: he had found 
 the mournful melody that had driven him away the day Eleanore 
 died. He had, to be sure, put it on the paper then and there,
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 359 
 
 but it had remained without consequence: it had been buried in 
 the grave with Eleanore. 
 
 Now it had arisen, and its soul its consequence had arisen 
 with it; it was expanded into a wonderful arch, arranged and 
 limbed like a body, and filled as the world is full. 
 
 Music had been born to him again from the machine, from 
 the world of machinery. 
 
 IV 
 
 Jason Philip Schimmelweis had been obliged to give up his 
 house by the museum bridge. He could not pay the rent; his 
 business was ruined. By a mere coincident it came about that the 
 house on the Corn Market had a cheap apartment that was vacant, 
 and he took it. It was the same house in which he lived when he 
 made so much money twenty years ago. 
 
 Was Jason Philip no longer in touch with modern business 
 methods? Had he become too old and infirm to make the public 
 hungry for literary nourishment? Were his advertisements with- 
 out allurement, his baits without scent? No one felt inclined to 
 buy expensive lexicons and editions de luxe on the instalment plan. 
 The rich old fellows with a nose for dubious reading matter never 
 came around any more. Jason Philip had become a dilatory 
 debtor; the publishers no longer gave him books on approval; he 
 was placed on the black list. 
 
 He took to abusing modern writers, contending that it was no 
 wonder that the writing of books was left exclusively to good-for- 
 nothing subjects of the Empire, for the whole nation was suffering 
 from cerebral atrophy. 
 
 But his reasoning was of no avail; his business collapse was im- 
 minent; in a jiffy it was a hard reality. A man by the name of 
 Rindskopf bought his stock and furnishings at brokers' prices, and 
 the firm of Jason Philip Schimmelweis had ceased to exist. 
 
 In his distress Jason Philip appealed to the Liberal party. He 
 boasted of his friendship with the former leader of the party, 
 Baron von Auffenberg, but this only made matters worse: one 
 renegade was depending upon the support of another. This was 
 natural: birds of a feather flock together. 
 
 Then he went to the Masons, and began to feel around for their 
 help; he tried to be made a member of one of the better lodges. 
 He was given to understand that there was some doubt as to the
 
 3 6o THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 loyalty of his convictions, with the result that the Masons would 
 have none of him. 
 
 For some time he found actual difficulty in earning his daily 
 bread. He had resigned his position with the Prudentia Insur- 
 ance Company long ago. Ever since a certain interpellation in 
 the Reichstag and a long law-suit in which the Prudentia became 
 involved, and whfch was decided in favour of its opponents, the 
 standing of the company had suffered irreparably. 
 
 Jason Philip had no other choice: he had to go back to book- 
 binding; he had to return to pasting, cutting, and folding. He 
 returned in the evening of his life, downcast, impoverished, and 
 embittered, to the position from which he had started as an am- 
 bitious, resourceful, stout-hearted, and self-assured man years ago. 
 His eloquence had proved of no avail, his cunning had not helped 
 him, nor his change of political conviction, nor his familiarity 
 with the favourable turns of the market, nor his speculations. He 
 had never believed that the order of things in the world about 
 him was just and righteous, neither as a Socialist nor as a Liberal. 
 And now he was convinced that it was impossible to write a 
 motto on the basis of business principles that would be fit material 
 for a copy book in a kindergarten. 
 
 Willibald was still the same efficient clerk. Markus had got a- 
 job in a furniture store, where he spent his leisure hours studying 
 Volapiik, convinced as he was that all the nations of the earth 
 would soon be using this great fraternal tongue. 
 
 Theresa moved into the house on the Corn Market with as much 
 peace and placidity as if she had been anticipating such a change 
 for years. There was a bay window in the house, and by this she 
 sat when her work in the kitchen was done, knitting socks for her 
 sons. At times she would scratch her grey head with her knitting 
 needle, at times she would reach over and take a sip of cold, 
 unsugared coffee, a small pot of which she always kept by her side. 
 Hers was the most depressed face then known to the human family; 
 hers were the horniest, wrinkliest peasant hands that formed part 
 of any citizen of the City of Nuremberg. 
 
 She thought without ceasing of all that nice money that had 
 passed through her hands during the two dcrades she had stood 
 behind the counter of the establishment in the Plobenhaf Street. 
 
 She tried to imagine where all the money had gone, who was 
 using it now, and who was being tormented by it. For she was 
 rid of it, and in the bottom of her heart she was glad that she 
 no longer had it.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 361 
 
 One day Jason Philip came rushing from his workshop into her 
 room. He had a newspaper in his hand; his face was radiant with 
 joy. "At last, my dear, at last! I have been avenged. Jason 
 Philip Schimmelweis was after all a good prophet. Well, what 
 do you say? " he continued, as Theresa looked at him without any 
 noticeable display of curiosity, "what do you say? I'll bet you 
 can't guess. No, you will never be able to guess what's happened; 
 it's too much for a woman's brain." He mounted a chair, held 
 the paper in his hand as if it were the flag of his country, waved 
 it, and shouted: "Bismarck is done for! He's got to go. The 
 Kaiser hates him! Now let come what may, I have not lived in 
 vain." 
 
 Jason Philip had the feeling that it was due to his efforts that 
 the reins of government had been snatched from the hands of 
 the Iron Chancellor. His satisfaction found expression in blatancy 
 and in actions that were thoroughly at odds with a man of his age. 
 He held up his acquaintances on the street, and demanded that they 
 offer him their congratulations. He went to his favourite cafe, 
 and ordered a barrel of beer for the rejuvenation of his friends. 
 He delivered an oration, spiced with all the forms of sarcasm 
 known to the art of cheap politics and embellished with innumera- 
 ble popular phrases, explaining why he regarded this as the hap- 
 piest day of his eventful life. 
 
 He said: "If fate were to do me the favour of allowing me to 
 stand face to face with this menace to public institutions, this 
 unscrupulous tyrant, I would not, believe me, mince matters in the 
 slightest: I would tell him things no mortal man has thus far 
 dared say to him." 
 
 Several months passed by. Bismarck, then staying at his country 
 place in Sachsenwald and quarrelling with his lot, decided to visit 
 Munich. There was tremendous excitement in Nuremberg when it 
 was learned that he would pass through the city at such and such 
 an hour. 
 
 Everybody wanted to see him, young and old, aristocrats and 
 humble folk. Early in the morning the whole city seemed to be 
 on its feet, making its way in dense crowds out through the 
 King's Gate. 
 
 This was a drama in which Jason Philip had to play his part: 
 without him it would be incomplete. "To look into the eyes of 
 a tiger whose claws have been chopped off and whose teeth have 
 been knocked out is a pleasure and a satisfaction that my mother's 
 son dare not forego," said he.
 
 362 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 His elbows stood him in good stead. When the train pulled 
 into the station, our rebel was standing in the front row, having 
 pushed his way through the seemingly impenetrable mass of 
 humanity. 
 
 The train stopped for a few minutes. The Iron Chancellot 
 left his carriage amid deafening hurrahs from the assembled mul- 
 titude. He shook hands with the Mayor and a few high-ranking 
 army officers. 
 
 Jason Philip never budged. It never occurred to him to shout 
 his own hurrah. An acidulous smile played around his mouth, his 
 white beard quivered when he dropped the corners of his lips in 
 satanic glee. It never occurred to him to take off his hat, despite 
 the threatening protests all too audible round about him. "I am 
 consistent, my dear Bismarck, I am incorruptible," he thought to 
 himself. 
 
 And yet the satisfaction which we have described as satanic 
 seemed somehow or other to be ill founded: it was in such marked 
 contrast to the general enthusiasm. What had possessed this im- 
 becile pack? Why was it raging? It saw the enemy, the hang- 
 man, right there before it, immune to the law, dressed in civilian 
 clothes, and yet it was acting as though the Messiah had come to 
 town on an extra train! 
 
 Jason Philip had the feeling that Bismarck was looking straight 
 at him. He fancied that the fearfully tall man with the unusu- 
 ally small head and the enormously blue eyes had taken offence at 
 his silence. He feared some one had told him all about his po- 
 litical beliefs. 
 
 The scornful smile died away. Jason Philip detected a luke- 
 warm impotency creeping over his body. The sweat of solicitude 
 trickled down across his forehead. Involuntarily he kneed his way 
 closer to the edge of the platform, threw out his chest, jerked his 
 hat from his head, opened his mouth, and cried: "Hurrah!" 
 
 He cried hurrah. The Prince turned his face from him, and 
 looked in another direction. 
 
 But Jason Philip had cried hurrah. 
 
 He sneaked home shaking with shame. He drew his slippers, 
 "For the tired Man Consolation," on his feet. They had become 
 quite worn in the course of his tempestuous life. He lay down on 
 the sofa with his face to the wall, his back to the window and 
 against the world.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 363 
 
 Daniel had been in Berlin for weeks. He had been living a 
 lonely life on the east side of the gigantic city. One of the 
 managers of Philander and Sons came to see him. He returned 
 the call, and in the course of two hours he was surrounded, con- 
 trary to his own will, by a veritable swarm of composers, directors, 
 virtuosos, and musical critics. 
 
 Some had heard of him; to them he appeared to be a remarkable 
 man. They threw out their nets to catch him, but he slipped 
 through the meshes. Unprepared, however, as he was for their 
 schemes, he could not help being caught in time. He had to give 
 an account of himself, to unveil himself. He found himself under 
 obligations, interested, and so forth, but in the end they could 
 not prevail against him: he simply passed through them. 
 
 They laughed at his dialect and his rudeness. What drew them 
 to him was his self-respect; what annoyed them was his secretive- 
 ness; what they found odd about him was the fact that, try as 
 they might to associate with him, he would disappear entirely 
 from them for months at a time. 
 
 A divorced young woman, a Jewess by the name of Regina 
 Sussmann, fell in love with him. She recognised in Daniel an 
 elemental nature. The more he avoided her the more persistent 
 she became. At times it made him feel good to come once again 
 into intimate association with a woman, to hear her bright voice, 
 her step more delicate, her breathing more ardent than that of men. 
 But he could not trust Regina Sussmann; she seemed to know too 
 much. There was nothing of the plant-like about her, and with- 
 out that characteristic any woman appealed to him as being un- 
 formed and uncultured. 
 
 One winter day she came to see him in his barren hall room in 
 Greifswald Street. She sat down at the piano and began to 
 improvise. At first it was all like a haze to him. Suddenly he 
 was struck by her playing. What he heard made a half disagree- 
 able, half painful impression on him. He seemed to be familiar 
 with the piece. She was playing motifs from his quartette, his 
 "Eleanore Quartette" as he had called it. It came out that 
 Regina Sussmann had been present at the concert given in Leipzig 
 three years ago when the quartette was performed. 
 
 After a painful pause Regina began to ask some questions that 
 cut him to the very heart. She wanted to know what relation, 
 if any, the composition bore to actual life. She was trying to lift
 
 364 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 the veil from his unknown fate. He thrust her from him. Then 
 he felt sorry for her: he began to speak, with some hesistation, of 
 his symphony. There was something bewitching, enchanting in 
 the woman's passionate silence and sympathy. He lost himself, 
 forgot himself, disclosed his heart. He built up the work in words 
 before her, pictured the seven movements like seven stairs in the 
 tower of a temple, a glorious promenade in the upper spheres, a 
 tragic storm with tragically cheerful pauses of memory and medita- 
 tion, all accompanied by laughing genii that adorned and crowned 
 the pillars of the structure of his dreams. 
 
 He went to the piano, began playing the melancholy leading 
 motif and the two subsidiary themes, counterpointed them, ran 
 into lofty crescendos, introduced variations, modulated and sang at 
 the same time. The pupils of his eyes became distended until 
 they shone behind his glasses like seas of green fire. Regina 
 Sussmann fell on her knees by the piano. It may be that she was 
 so affected by his playing that she could not act otherwise ; and 
 it may be that she wished thereby to give him visible proof of her 
 respect and adoration. All of a sudden the woman became repul- 
 sive to him. The unleashed longing of her eyes filled him with 
 disgust. Her kneeling position appealed to him as a gesture of 
 mockery and ridicule: a memory had been desecrated. He sprang 
 to his feet and rushed out of the room, leaving her behind and 
 quite alone. He never said a word; he merely bit his lips in 
 anger and left. When he came back home late that night, he 
 was afraid he might meet her again; but she was not there. Only 
 a letter lay on the table by the lamp. 
 
 She wrote that she had understood him; that she understood he 
 had been living in the past as if in an impregnable fortress, sur- 
 rounded by shadows that were not to be dispelled or disturbed 
 by the presumption of any living human being. She remarked 
 that she had neither intention nor desire to encroach upon his 
 peace of mind, that she was merely concerned for his future, and 
 was wondering how he would fight down his hunger of body 
 and soul. 
 
 "Shameless wretch," cried Daniel, "a spy and a woman!" 
 
 She remarked, with almost perverse humility, that she had recog- 
 nised his greatness, that he was the genius she had been waiting for, 
 and that her one desire was to serve him. That is, she wished 
 to serve him at a distance, seeing that he could not endure her 
 presence. She implored him to grant her this poor privilege, not 
 merely for his own sake, but for the sake of humanity as well.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 365 
 
 Daniel threw the letter in the stove. In the night he woke 
 up with a burning desire for delicate contact with an untouched 
 woman. He dreamed of a smile on the face of a seventeen-year- 
 old girl innocently playing around him and shuddered at himself 
 and the thought of himself. 
 
 Shortly after this he went to Dresden, where he had some 
 work to do in the Royal library. 
 
 People came to him anxious to place themselves at his service. 
 Many signs told him that Regina Sussmann was making fervent 
 propaganda for him. 
 
 One day he received a letter from a musical society in Magde- 
 burg, asking him to give a concert there. He hesitated for a long 
 while, and then agreed to accede to their wish. Outwardly it 
 could not be called an unusually successful evening, but his auditors 
 felt his power. People with the thinnest smattering of music 
 forgot themselves and became infatuated with his arms and his 
 eyes. An uncertain, undetermined happiness which he brought to 
 the hearts of real musicians carried him further along on his 
 career. For two successive winters he directed concerts in the 
 provincial towns of North Germany. He was the first to accustom 
 the people to strictly classical programmes. It is rare that the 
 first in any enterprise of this kind reaps the gratitude of those 
 who pay to hear him. Had he not desisted with such Puritanical 
 severity from feeding the people on popular songs, opera selections, 
 and favourite melodies, his activity would have been much better 
 rewarded. As it was, his name was mentioned with respect, but he 
 passed through the streets unacclaimed. 
 
 Regina Sussmann was always on hand when he gave a concert. 
 He knew it, even if he did not see her. At times he caught sight 
 of her sitting in the front row. She never approached him. 
 Articles redolent with adulation appeared in the papers about him: 
 it was manifest that she had been influential in having them 
 written. Once he met her on the steps of a hotel. She stopped 
 and cast her eyes to the ground; she was pale. He passed by her. 
 Again he was filled with longing to come into intimate contact 
 with an untouched woman. Was his heart already hungry, as she 
 had predicted? He bit his lips, and worked throughout the whole 
 night. He felt that he was being fearfully endangered by the 
 prosy insipidity of the age and the world he was living in. But 
 could he not escape the terrors of such without having recourse to 
 a woman? The shadows receded, enveloped in sorrow, Gertrude 
 and Elcanore, wrapped in the embrace of sisters.
 
 366 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "Don't!" they cried. He saw at once that his provincial con- 
 certs were leading him to false goals, enflaming false ambitions, 
 robbing him of his strength. He no longer found it possible to 
 endure the sight of brilliantly lighted halls, and the over-dressed 
 people who came empty and left untransformed. It all seemed 
 to him like a lie. He desisted; he threw it all overboard just 
 as the temptation was strongest, just as the Berlin Philharmonic 
 invited him to give a concert of his own works in its hall. 
 
 He had suddenly disappeared. In less than three months his 
 name had become a saga. 
 
 VI 
 
 He spent the summer, autumn, and winter of 1 893 wandering 
 around. Now he was in a remote Thuringian village, now in some 
 town in the Rhon region, now in the mountains of Saxony, now 
 in a fishing village on the Baltic. Throughout the day he worked 
 on his manuscripts, in the evening he composed. No one except 
 the members of the firm of Philander and Sons knew where he 
 was. He did not dare hide himself from the people who were 
 sending him the cheque at the end of the month. 
 
 He gradually became so unaccustomed to talking that it was 
 only with difficulty that he could ask a hotel-keeper about the price 
 of his room. This unrelieved silence chiselled his lips into 
 ghastly sharpness. 
 
 He never heard from his mother or his children. He seemed 
 to have forgotten that there were human beings living who thought 
 of him with affection and anxiety. 
 
 The only messages he received from the world were letters that 
 were forwarded to him at intervals of from four to five weeks 
 by the musical firm in Mayence. These letters were written by 
 Regina Sussmann, though they were not signed in her name: the 
 signature at the close of each one was "The Swallow." She 
 addressed Daniel by the familiar Du, and not by the more conven- 
 tional and polite Sie. 
 
 She told him of her life, wrote of the books she had read, the 
 people she had met, and gave him her views on music. Her 
 communications became in time indispensable to him; he was 
 touched by her fidelity; he was pleased that she did not use her 
 own name. She had a remarkable finesse and power of expression, 
 and however ungenuine and artificial she may have appealed to 
 him in personal association, everything she wrote seemed to him
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 367 
 
 to be natural and convincing. She never expressed a wish that 
 he do something impossible and never uttered a complaint. On 
 the other hand, there was a passion of the intelligence about her 
 that was quite new to him; she was unlike the women he had 
 known. And there was a fervour and certainty in her apprecia- 
 tion of his being before which he bowed as at the sound of a 
 higher voice. 
 
 Though he never answered her letters, he looked forward to 
 receiving them, and became impatient if one were overdue. He 
 often thought of the swallow when he would step to the window 
 on a dark night. He thought of her as an all-seeing spirit that 
 hovered in the air. The swallow that was fraught with meaning 
 the restless, delicate, swift-flying swallow. And in his mind's 
 eye he saw the swallow that hovered over ^Egydius Place when 
 Eberhard came to take him up to the room with the withered 
 flowers. 
 
 He wrote to Philippina: "Decorate my graves. Buy two wreaths, 
 and lay them on the graves." 
 
 "You must mount to the clouds, Daniel, otherwise you are 
 lost," was one passage in one of the letters from the Swallow. 
 Another, much longer, ran: "As soon as you feel one loneliness 
 creeping over you, you must hasten into another, an unknown one. 
 If your path seems blocked, you must storm the hedges before 
 you. If an arm surrounds you, you must tear yourself loose, even 
 though it cost blood and tears. You must leave men behind and 
 move above them; you dare not become a citizen; you dare not 
 allow yourself to be taken up with things that are dear to you; 
 you must have no companion, neither man nor maid. Time must 
 hover over you cold and quiet. Let your heart be encased in 
 bronze, for music is a flame that breaks through and consumes all 
 there is in the man who created it, except the stuff the gods have 
 forged about their chosen son." 
 
 Why should the picture of this red-haired Jewess, from whom 
 Daniel had fled in terror, not have vanished? There was a Muse 
 such as poets dream of! "Jewess, wonderful Jewess," thought 
 Daniel, and this word Jewess took on for him a meaning, a 
 power, and a prophetic flight all its own. 
 
 "The work, Daniel Nothafft, the work," wrote this second Rahel 
 in another letter, "the rape of Prometheus, when are you going to 
 lay it at the feet of impoverished humanity? The age is like 
 wine that tastes of the earth; your work must be the filter. The 
 age is like an epileptic body convulsed with agonies; your work
 
 368 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 must be the healing hand that one lays on the diseased brow. 
 When will you finally give, O parsimonious mortal? when ripen, 
 tree? when flood the valley, stream?" 
 
 But the tree was in no hurry to cast off the ripened fruit; the 
 stream found that the way to the sea was long and tortuous; it 
 had to break through mountains and wash away the rocks. Oh, 
 those nights of torment when an existing form crashed and fell 
 to the earth in pieces! Oh, those hundreds of laborious nights in 
 which there was no sleep, nothing but the excited raging of many 
 voices! Those grey mornings on which the sun shone on tattered 
 leaves and a distorted face, a face full of suffering that was always 
 old and yet new! And those moonlight nights, when some one 
 moved along singing, not as one sings with joy, but as the heretics 
 who sat on the martyr benches of the Inquisition! Then there 
 were the rainy nights, the stormy nights, the nights when it 
 snowed, and when he chased after the phantom of a melody that 
 was already half his own, and half an incorporeal thing wander- 
 ing around in boundless space under the stars. 
 
 Each landscape became a pale vision: bush and grass and flower, 
 like spun yarn seen in a fever, the people who passed by, and 
 the clouds fibrillated above the forests were of one and the same 
 constituency. Nothing was tangible; the palate lost its sense of 
 taste, the finger its sense of touch. Bad weather was welcome; it 
 subdued the noises, made men quieter. Cursed be the mill that 
 clappers, the carpenter who drives the nails, the teamster who calls 
 to his jaded pair, the laughter of children, the croaking of frogs, 
 the twittering of birds! An insensate man looks down upon the 
 scene, one who is deaf and dumb, one who would snatch all cloth- 
 ing and decorations from the world, to the end that neither colour 
 nor splendour of any description may divert his eye, one who 
 mounts to heaven at night to steal the eternal fire, and who burrows 
 in the graves of the dead by day an outcast. 
 
 In the beginning of spring, he started on the third movement, 
 an andante with variations. It expressed the gruesome peace that 
 hovered over Eleanore's slumbering face one night before her 
 death. The springs within him were all suddenly dried up; he 
 could not tell why his hand was paralysed, his fancy immobile. 
 
 One evening he returned from a long journey to Arnstein, a 
 little place in Lower Franconia, where he had then pitched his 
 tent. He was living in the house of a seamstress, a poor widow, 
 and as he came into the room he noticed her ten-year-old daughter 
 standing by the open box in which he had kept the mask of
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 369 
 
 Zingarelia. Out of a perfectly harmless curiosity the child had 
 removed the lid, and was standing bewitched at the unexpected 
 sight. 
 
 When Daniel's eyes fell on her, she was frightened; her body 
 shook with fear; she tried to run away. "No, no, stay!" cried 
 Daniel. He felt the emaciated body, the timidly quivering figure, 
 and a distant memory sunk its claws deep into his breast. The 
 mouth of the mask seemed to speak; the cheeks and forehead shone 
 with a brilliant whiteness. And as he turned his eyes away there 
 was a little elf dancing over him; and this little elf aroused a 
 guilty unrest in his heart. 
 
 VII 
 
 Philippina would not permit little Agnes to play with other 
 children. 
 
 One day the child went out on to the square, and stood and 
 watched some other children playing a game known as "Tailor, 
 lend me the scissors." She was much pleased at the sight of them, 
 as they ran from tree to tree and laughed. She would have been 
 only too happy to join them, but no one thought of asking the 
 pale, shy little creature to take part. Philippina, seeing her, rushed 
 out like a fury, and cried in her very meanest voice: "You come 
 back here in the house, or I'll maul you until your teeth will 
 rattle in your mouth for three days to come!" 
 
 Philippina also disliked to have Jordan pay any attention to 
 Agnes. If he did not notice that he was making her angry by 
 talking with the child, she would begin to sing, first gently, and 
 then more and more loudly. If this did not drive the old man 
 away, she would unload some terrific abuse on him, and keep at 
 it until he would get up, sigh, and leave. He did not dare 
 antagonise her, for if he did, she would penalise him by giving 
 him poor food and reduced portions. And he suffered greatly 
 from hunger. He was making only a few pennies a week, and had 
 to save every bit of it, if possible, so as to defray the expenses 
 he was incurring while working on his invention. 
 
 He had unbounded faith in his invention; his credulity became 
 stronger and stronger as the months rolled by. He could not be 
 discouraged by seeming failure. He was convinced, on the con- 
 trary, that each failure merely brought him so much nearer the 
 de?ired goal. 
 
 He said to Philippina: "Why is it that you object to my playing
 
 370 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 once in a while with my little grand-daughter? It gives me so 
 much pleasure; it diverts me; it takes my mind off of my troubles." 
 
 "Crazy nonsense," replied Philippina. "Agnes has had trouble 
 enough with her father. Her grandfather? whew! That beats me!" 
 
 Another time the old man said: "Suppose we make an agree- 
 ment: let me have the child a half-hour each day, and in return 
 for that I'll run your errands down town." 
 
 Philippina: "I'll run my own errands. Agnes belongs to me. 
 That settles it." 
 
 And yet Philippina was in an especially good humour about 
 this time. Benjamin Dorn, like Herr Zittel, had left the Pru- 
 dentia, and obtained a position with the Excelsior. He was taking 
 unusual interest in Philippina. In a dark hour, Philippina had 
 told her friend, Frau Hadebusch, that she had saved a good deal 
 of money, and, equipped with this bit of earthly wisdom, Frau 
 Hadebusch had gone to the Methodist, told him all about it, and 
 put very serious matrimonial ideas in his head. 
 
 Benjamin Dorn took infinite pains to gain Philippina's good 
 graces. He was, to be sure, somewhat dismayed at having her 
 blasphemous system of theology dinned into his ears. He shook 
 his head wearily when she called him a sky-pilot and declared 
 right out that all this sanctimonious stuff was damned rot, and that 
 the main thing was to have a fat wallet. In this philosophy Frau 
 Hadebusch was with her to the last exclamation point. She had 
 told Benjamin Dorn that a doughtier, bonnier, more capable 
 person than Fraulein Schimmelweis was not to be found on this 
 earth, and that the two were as much made for each other as oil 
 and vinegar for a salad. She said: "You simply ought to see the 
 dresses the girl has and how she can fix herself up when she wants 
 to go out. Moreover,, she comes of a good family. In short, 
 any man who could get her would be a subject for real con- 
 gratulations." 
 
 To Philippina Frau Hadebusch said: "Dorn he can write as 
 no one else on this earth. Oh> you ought to see him swing a pen! 
 He limps a little, but what of h? Just think how many people 
 go around on two sound legs, bnt have their heads all full of 
 rubbish! But Doru! He's whole cloth and a yard wide! He's 
 as soft as prune juice. Why, when a dog barks at him, he gives 
 the beast a lump of sugar. That's the kind of a man he is." 
 
 In October Benjamin Dorn and Philippina went to the church 
 fair, and natural!^ took Agnes along Benjamin Dorn knew what 
 was expected of Noi. He had Philippina take two rides on the
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 371 
 
 meriy-go-round, paid her way into the cabinet of wax figures, and 
 took a chance on the lottery. It was a blank. He then explained 
 to Philippina that it was immoral to have anything to do with 
 lotteries, and bought her a bag of ginger snaps; and that was solid 
 pleasure. 
 
 Philippina acted very nicely. She laughed when nothing amus- 
 ing had taken place, rolled her eyes, spoke with puckered lips, 
 shook her hips when she walked, and never lost a chance to show 
 her learning. As they were coming home on the train, she said 
 she felt she would like to ride in a chaise, but there would have 
 to be two horses and a coachman with a tile hat. Benjamin Dorn 
 replied that that was not an impossible wish, suggesting at the same 
 time in his best brand of juvenile roguishness that there was a 
 certain solemn ceremony that he would not think of celebrating 
 without having a vehicle such as she had described. Philippina 
 giggled, and said: "Oi, oi, you're all right." Whereupon Benjamin 
 Dorn, grinning with embarrassment, looked down. 
 
 Then they took leave of each other, for Agnes had fallen asleep 
 in Philippina's arms. 
 
 How Philippina actually felt about the attention he was show- 
 ing her would be extremely difficult to tell, though she acted as 
 if she felt honoured and flattered. Benjamin Dorn was by no 
 means certain of himself. Frau Hadebusch did all she could to 
 bring Philippina around, but every time she made a fresh onslaught 
 Philippina put her off. 
 
 But Philippina had never sung as she had been singing recently, 
 nor had she ever been so light and nimble of foot. Every day 
 she put on her Sunday dress and trimmed it with her choicest 
 ribbons. She washed her hands with almond soap, and combed 
 her hair before the mirror. Bangs had gone out of fashion, so 
 she built her hair up into a tower and looked like a Chinese. 
 
 She visited Herr Carovius occasionally, and always found him 
 alone, for Dorothea Doderlein had been sent by her father to 
 Munich to perfect herself in her art. In broken words, with 
 blinking eyes, from a grinning mouth and out of a dumb soul, she 
 told Herr Carovius all about her affair with Benjamin Dorn, evi- 
 dently believing that he was all fire and flame to know how she 
 was getting along and what she had in fe/to. Herr Carovius had 
 long since grown sick and tired of her, though he did not show 
 her the door. He had reached the point where he heaved a sigh 
 of relief when he heard a human voice, where he began to dread 
 the stillness that ruled supreme within his four walls. No one
 
 372 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 came to see him, no one spoke to him, and he in turn no longer 
 had the courage to speak to any one. His arrogance of former 
 days had died a difficult death, and now he saw no way of making 
 friends. If he went to the cafe, there was no one there whom 
 he knew. The brethren of the Vale of Tears had been scattered 
 to the four corners of the earth; a new generation was having its 
 fling; new customs were being introduced, new topics discussed, 
 and he was old. 
 
 He found it hard to get along without Dorothea. He counted 
 the days, waiting for her to return. He never opened the piano, 
 because all music, and especially the music he loved, caused a 
 melancholy depression to arise that rilled the room with miasma. 
 
 The Nero of our day was suffering from Cssar sadness. The 
 private citizen had sunk to the very bottom of the ditch which 
 he himself had dug with the idea of burying all that was new 
 and joyful, and all winged creatures in it. 
 
 The worst of it all was that he had nothing to do, and no 
 brain racking could devise a position he could fill. The world 
 went on its way, progress was made, and, strangely enough, it was 
 made without his criticism, his adulation, his opinions, or his crepe- 
 hanging. 
 
 Philippina was annoyed at the grudging squints cast at her by 
 the old stay-at-home; her visits became rarer and rarer. She did 
 not feel like opening her heart to Frau Hadebusch, for she did 
 not appeal to her as a disinterested party. This completed her list 
 of friends; she was obliged to restrain her impatience and excite- 
 ment. 
 
 It was Christmas. On Christmas Eve they had bought a tree 
 for Agnes, trimmed it, and lighted it with candles. Agnes's 
 Christmas gifts were placed under the tree: a big piece of ginger- 
 bread, a basket with apples and nuts, and a cheap doll. For Old 
 Jordan she had bought a pair of boots which he badly needed. He 
 had been going around on his uppers since autumn. 
 
 Jordan was sitting by the door holding his boots on his knees. 
 Agnes looked at the doll with unhappy eyes; she did not dare 
 touch it. After gazing for a while into the light of the fluttering 
 candles, Jordan said: "I thank you, Philippina, I thank you. You 
 art a real benefactress. I also thank you for remembering the 
 child. It is a paltry makeshift you have bought there at the 
 bazaar, but any one who gives gifts to children deserves the reward 
 of Heaven, and in such giving we do not weigh the value or count 
 the cost."
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 373 
 
 "Don't whine all the time so!" shrieked Philippina. She was 
 chewing her finger nails, hardly able to conceal her embarrassment. 
 Frau Hadebusch had told her that Benjamin Dorn was coming 
 around that evening to make a formal proposal of marriage. 
 
 "Just wait, Agnes, just wait!" continued old Jordan, "you'll 
 soon get to see a wonder of a doll. A few short years, and the 
 world will be astonished. You are going to be the first to see it 
 when it is finished. You'll be the first, little 'Agnes, just wait. 
 What have we got to eat on this holy evening?" asked Jordan, 
 turning with fear and trembling to Philippina. 
 
 "Cold hash and broiled meal-beetles," said Philippina scornfully. 
 
 "And . . . and ... no letter from Daniel?" he asked in a 
 sad voice, "nothing, nothing at all?" 
 
 Philippina shrugged her sKoulders. The old man got up and 
 tottered to his room. 
 
 A little later Philippina heard some one stumbling around in 
 the. 'hall, and then the bell rang. "Open the door," she said to 
 Agnes, who did as she was told and returned with Benjamin Dorn. 
 The Methodist wore a black suit, and in his hand he had a black 
 felt hat that was as flat as a pancake. He bowed to Philippina, 
 and asked if he was disturbing any one. Philippina pushed a chair 
 over to him. He sat down quite circumstantially, and laughed a 
 hollow laugh. As Philippina was as silent as the tomb and looked 
 at him so tensely, he began to speak. 
 
 First he expatiated on the general advantages of a married life, 
 and then remarked that what he personally wished first of all was 
 to be able to take a good, true woman into his own life as his 
 wife. He said that he had gone through a long struggle over the 
 matter, but God had finally shown him the light and pointed the 
 way. He no longer hesitated, after this illumination from above, 
 to offer Fraulein Schimmelweis his heart and his hand forever 
 and a day, insist though he must that she give the matter due 
 consideration, in the proper Christian spirit, before taking the 
 all-important step. 
 
 Philippina was restless; she rocked back and forth, first on one 
 foot and then on another and then burst out laughing. She 
 bent over and laughed violently. "No, you poor simpleton, what 
 you want is my money, hey? Be honest! Out with it! You 
 want my money, don't you?" 
 
 Her anger grew as Benjamin Dorn sat and looked on, his asinine 
 embarrassment increasing with each second of silence. "Listen! 
 You'd like to git your fingers on it, wouldn't you? Money it
 
 374 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 would taste good, wouldn't it? You think I'm crazy? Scrape a 
 few coppers together and lose my mind and marry some poor fool, 
 and let him loaf around and live on me. Nothing doin'! They 
 ain't no man iivin' what can catch Philippina Schimmelweis so 
 easy as all that. She knows a thing or two about men, she does. 
 D'ye hear me! Get out!" She sawed the air with her arms like 
 a mad woman, and showed him the door. 
 
 Benjamin Dorn rose to his feet, stuttered something unintel- 
 ligible, moved backwards toward the door, reached it, and left the 
 place with such pronounced speed that Philippina once again broke 
 out in a shrill, piercing laughter. "Come here, Agnes," she said, 
 sat down on the step in the corner, and took the child on her lap. 
 
 She was silent for a long while; the child was afraid to speak. 
 Both looked at the lights on the Christmas tree. "Let us sing 
 something," said Philippina. She began with a hoarse, bass voice, 
 "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht," and Agnes joined in with her high, 
 spiritless notes. 
 
 Another pause followed after they had finished singing. 
 
 "Where is my father?" asked Agnes suddenly, without looking 
 at Philippina. It sounded as if she had waited for years for an 
 opportunity to ask this question. 
 
 Philippina's face turned ashen pale; she gritted her teeth. 
 "Your father, he's loafing around somewhere in the country," 
 replied Philippina, and blew out one of the candles that had 
 burned down and was ready to set the twig on fire. "He's done 
 with women, it seems, but you can't tell. He strums the music 
 box and smears good white paper full of crow-feet and pot-hooks. 
 A person can rot, and little does he worry." Whereat she set the 
 child on the floor, hastened over to the window, opened it, and 
 put her head out as if she were on the point of choking with 
 the heat. 
 
 She leaned out over the snow-covered window sill. 
 
 "I'm getting cold," said Agnes; but Philippina never heard her. 
 
 Daniel wrote to Eberhard and Sylvia asking them if he might 
 visit them. He thought: "There are friends; perhaps I need 
 friends again." 
 
 He received a note in a strange, secretarial hand informing him 
 that the Baroness was indeed very sorry but she could not receive 
 him at Siegmundshof : she was in child-bed. She sent her best
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 375 
 
 greetings, and told him that the newest born was getting along 
 splendidly, as well as his brother who was now three years old. 
 
 "Everywhere I turn, children are growing up," thought Daniel, 
 and packed his trunk and started south as slowly as he could go, 
 so slowly indeed that it seemed as if he were approaching a goal 
 he was afraid to reach and yet had to. 
 
 He arrived in Nuremberg one evening in April. As he entered 
 the room, Philippina struck her hands together with a loud bang, 
 and stood as if rooted to the floor. 
 
 Agnes looked at her father shyly. She had grown slim and 
 tall far beyond her age. 
 
 Old Jordan came down. "You don't look well, Daniel," he said, 
 and seemed never to let go of his hand. "Let us hope that you 
 are going to stay home now." 
 
 "I don't know," replied Daniel, staring absent-mindedly around 
 the walls. "I don't know." 
 
 On the third day he was seized with a quite unusual sense of 
 fear and anxiety. He felt that he had made a mistake; that he 
 had lost his way; that something was driving him to another place. 
 He went into the kitchen. Philippina was cooking potato noodles 
 in lard; they smelt good. 
 
 "I am going to Eschenbach," he said, to his own astonishment, 
 for the decision to do so had come with the assertion. 
 
 Philippina jerked the pan from the/ stove; the flames leaped up. 
 "You can go to Hell, so far as I'm concerned," she said in a furious 
 rage. With the light from the fire flaring up through the open 
 top of the stove and reflected in her face, she looked like a veritable 
 witch. 
 
 Daniel gazed at her questioningly. "What is the matter with 
 Agnes?" he asked after a while. "The child seems to try to 
 avoid me." 
 
 "You'll find out what's the matter with her," said Philippina 
 spitefully, and placed the pan on the stove again. "She don't 
 swallow people whole." 
 
 Daniel left the kitchen. 
 
 "He is going over to sec his bastard, the damned scoundrel," 
 murmured Philippina. She crouched down on the kitchen stool, 
 and gazed into space. 
 
 The potato noodles burned up.
 
 376 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 IX 
 
 Daniel entered his mother's little house in Eschenbach late at 
 night. As soon as he saw her, he knew that some misfortune had 
 taken place. 
 
 Eva was gone. She had disappeared one evening four weeks 
 ago. A troupe of rope dancers had given an exhibition in the 
 city, and it was generally suspected that they had abducted the 
 child. The people of Eschenbach were still convinced of their 
 suspicion after the police had rounded up the dancers without 
 finding a trace of the child. 
 
 A general alarm had been sent out, and investigations were being 
 made even at the time of Daniel's arrival. But they were in vain; 
 it was impossible to find the slightest clue. To the authorities, 
 indeed to every one, the case was a hopeless riddle. 
 
 They made a thorough search of the forests; the canals were 
 drained; vagabonds were cross-questioned. It was all in vain; Eva 
 had apparently been spirited away in some mysterious fashion. 
 Then the Mayor received an anonymous letter that read as follows: 
 "The child you are looking for is in safe keeping. She was not 
 forced to do what she has done; of her own free will and out of 
 love for her art she went off with the people with whom she is 
 at present. She sends her grandmother the tenderest of greetings, 
 and hopes to see her some time again, after she has attained to 
 what she now has in mind." 
 
 To this Eva had added in a handwriting which Marian Nothafft 
 could be reasonably certain was her own: "This is true. Good-bye, 
 grandmother!" 
 
 The people who mourned with Marian the loss of the child 
 were convinced that if Eva had really written these words herself, 
 she had been forced to do it by the kidnappers. 
 
 The letter bore the postmark of a city in the Rhenish Palatinate. 
 A telegram brought the reply that a company of jugglers had 
 been there a short while ago, but that they had already gone. It 
 was impossible to say in what direction, but it was most likely 
 that they had gone to France. 
 
 Marian was completely broken up. She no longer had any 
 interest in life. She did not even manifest joy or pleasure at 
 seeing Daniel. 
 
 Daniel in turn felt that the brightest star had fallen from his 
 heaven. As soon as he had really grasped the full meaning of the 
 tragedy, he went quietly into the attic room, threw himself across
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 377 
 
 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 passionate 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 acquaint- 
 ance 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 im- 
 possible 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 shining, 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 Institute had some invaluable manuscripts 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 disposi- 
 tion should be made of his mother's property. He was asked 
 whether the house was to be put on the market. A neighbour, the
 
 378 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 green grocer, nad 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. 
 
 While living in little towns and villages on the Danube, Daniel 
 completed the third movement of \\e 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 God. 
 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 over- 
 whelming delight. Then when a man passed 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 cor- 
 poreality 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 restitution for 
 the lost illusions of religious faith, provide us with wings, trans- 
 form us, and save us from the abyss to which we are rushing 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 manuscripts 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 
 glass. He longed for forests; his dreams became disordered.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 379 
 
 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 
 lor three months with typhus. From his window he could see 
 the tall chimneys of factories and an endless procession of wander- 
 ing clouds. It had become winter; the ground was covered with 
 snow. 
 
 Two years after his last visit he again entered the house on 
 ^gydius 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. Muffled 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 space! 
 
 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 him-
 
 380 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 self, left the house, and wandered through the streets as in days 
 of long ago. 
 
 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 passing 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, dis- 
 tressed-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 hare 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 glasses 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 mili- 
 tary 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 coarse 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.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 381 
 
 On the last landing he stopped, and looked with utter amaze- 
 ment 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 sprin- 
 kled 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 apronful 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 resem- 
 bled 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.
 
 382 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 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 lust 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 ges- 
 tures 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 shining, the flowers were not budding. He felt 
 that life had appeared to him all of a sudden and quite unex- 
 pectedly 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 embarrassed, laughing Dorothea, "how 
 gloriously young!" 
 
 Dorothea was angry because she did not have on the red dress 
 she had had made in Munich. 
 
 "Dorothea!" called a strong voice from the first floor. 
 
 "Oh, there's father!" whispered Dorothea. She was frightened. 
 She ran up the steps on her tiptoes, dragging her long veil after 
 her. The maid followed her. 
 
 "A devil, a regular little devil, Maestro" said Herr Carovius 
 turning to Daniel. "You must come in some time and hear how 
 she can draw the bow. She's a regular little devil, I say." 
 
 Daniel bade Herr Carovius adieu, and went walking down the 
 street with bowed head.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 383 
 
 XII 
 
 In the province, Dorothea Doderlein, fresh from the Bavarian 
 capital, was a phenomenon that attracted general attention. Her 
 conduct seemed, to be sure, a bit liberal, but then she was an 
 artist, and her name appeared in the newspapers every now and 
 then, so it was only natural to make allowances for her. When 
 she gave her first concert, Adler Hall was almost completely 
 sold out. 
 
 The musical critic of the Herold was captivated by her capricious 
 playing. He called her an extraordinary talent, and predicted a 
 brilliant future for her. Andreas Doderlein accepted the con- 
 gratulations in the spirit of a seasoned patron of the arts; Herr 
 Carovius was in the seventh heaven of joy. He who had formerly 
 been so captious never uttered a critical word. He had taken to 
 worshipping the Dorothea cult, and this had made him quite 
 indiscriminating. 
 
 At first Dorothea never suffered from want of invitations to all 
 manner of clubs, dances, and family gatherings. She was much 
 adored by the young men, so much so that other daughters of the 
 city of matrimonial age could not sleep from envy. In a short 
 while, however, the youth of more sterling character, warned 
 while there was yet time by their mothers, sisters, cousins, and 
 aunts, withdrew in fear. 
 
 Dorothea reaped the disapproval of her acquaintances by walk- 
 ing with her admirers in public, unchaperoncd. Moreover she 
 could frequently be seen in the company of officers in the Eisenbeiss 
 pastry shop, drinking chocolate and having a good time generally. 
 Once she had been seen in the society of a big blonde Swede from 
 Schuckcrt's factory coming out of the Music Hall. The rumour 
 was spread that she had lived an irregular life in Munich, had 
 gadded about the streets at night, contracted a number of bad 
 debts, and flirted with all kinds of men. 
 
 Yet there were a few serious wooers who, duped by Andreas 
 Doderlein's diplomacy, fell into the habit of coming around on 
 Sunday evenings and taking dinner with father and daughter. 
 Dorothea, however, always managed to play off one against the 
 other; and as they were all serious and provincial, they did not 
 know precisely what to make of it. In order to instil patience 
 into them, Doderlein took to delivering them lectures on the 
 intricate complications of the artistic temperament, or he made
 
 384 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 mysterious allusions to the handsome legacy to which Dorothea 
 would one day fall heir. 
 
 It was this very fact, however, that made him exercise caution 
 with regard to Dorothea. Knowing her spirit of defiance, and 
 appreciating her youthful lack of judgment, he was afraid she 
 might make some faux fas that would offend that old fool of a 
 Carovius. He was already giving her a little spending money, 
 and the Doderleins found this a highly advantageous arrangement. 
 
 The state of Doderlein's own finances was hopeless. It was 
 with the greatest difficulty that he kept up the appearance of a 
 well-to-do man. The chief cause of his pecuniary embarrassment 
 was his relation of long standing with a woman by whom he 
 had had three children. To support this second family, of whose 
 existence not a soul in his immediate surroundings knew a thing, 
 burdened him with a care that made it hard for him to preserve 
 his cheerful, Jove-like disposition. 
 
 He had been leading a double life for fourteen years. His 
 regular visits to the woman he loved she lived very quietly out 
 in the remote suburbs of the city had to be made without attract- 
 ing attention. To conceal his connection with her from the 
 vigilant eyes of his fellow citizens made constant dissimulation, 
 discretion, and shrewdness a necessary part of his character. But 
 to practise these traits year in and year out and suffer at the same 
 time from economic pressure filled him with suppressed anger 
 and fear. 
 
 He was afraid of Dorothea. There were moments when he 
 would have liked to maul her; and yet he saw himself obliged 
 to hold her in check with kind words. He could not see through 
 her. But she was always around, always adding to his troubles with 
 her plans, wishes, engagements and intrigues. He thought he had 
 her under control, only to discover that she was a tyrant, lording 
 it over him. Now she would burst out crying because of some 
 bagatelle, now she was laughing as though nothing had ever hap- 
 pened. The roses her serious and moneyed I admirers brought her 
 she picked to pieces in their very presence, and threw the pieces 
 in the waste-paper basket. Doderlein would lecture her in the 
 kindest and most intelligent way on good morals and gentle man- 
 ners, and she would listen as though she were a saint. Five minutes 
 later she would be hanging out of the window, flirting with the 
 barber's boy across the street. 
 
 "I am an unfortunate father," said Andreas Doderlein to him- 
 self, when, apart from all his other multifarious worries, he began
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 385 
 
 to be sceptical about Dorothea's artistic ability. Shortly after her 
 success in Nuremberg, she gave a concert in Frankfort, but every- 
 thing was pretty quiet. Then she toured the small towns of cen- 
 tral Germany, and was received everywhere with the greatest 
 enthusiasm. But what of it? How much critical acumen is to be 
 found in such places? 
 
 One evening she was at the home of a certain Frau Feistelmann, 
 a woman whose past had some connection with nearly every scandal 
 of the city. While there she met an actor by the name of 
 Edmund Hahn. Herr Hahn had soft, blonde hair and a pale, 
 bloated face. He was rather tall and had long legs. Dorothea 
 raved about long legs. There was a thoroughly sensual atmosphere 
 about the man; he devoured Dorothea with his impudent eyes. 
 His build, his bearing, his half blase, half emphatic way of speak- 
 ing made an impression on Dorothea. He sat next to her at the 
 table, and began to rub his feet against hers. Finally he succeeded 
 in getting his left foot on her slipper. She tried to pull her foot 
 back, but the more she tried the harder he bore down on it. She 
 looked at him in amazement; but he smiled cynically, and in a few 
 minutes they were desperately intimate. After dinner they with- 
 drew to a hidden corner, and you could hear Dorothea giggling. 
 
 They arranged to meet each other on a certain street corner 
 in the dark. He sent her free tickets to "Maria Stuart" and "Die 
 Rauber." He played the roles of Mortimer and Kosinsky; he 
 roared till you thought the roof would fall in. He introduced 
 Dorothea to a number of his friends, and these brought their girl 
 friends along, and they all sat in the Nassau Cellar till break of 
 day. Among them was a certain Samuelsky, an employe of the 
 Reutlinger Bank. He had the manners of a man about town, 
 drank champagne, and went mad over Dorothea. She submitted 
 to his attention, welcomed it in fact, and accepted presents from 
 him, though, as it seemed, not until she had received the permission 
 from Edmund Hahn. Once he tried to kiss her: she gave him a 
 ringing box on the ears. He wiped his cheek, and called her a 
 siren. 
 
 She liked the expression. At times she would stand before the 
 mirror, and whisper: "Siren." 
 
 When Andreas Doderlein heard of what was going on, he had 
 an attack of mad rage. "I will put you out of the house," he 
 exclaimed, "I will beat you until you are a helpless, despicable 
 cripple." But in his eyes there was again the trace of that sup- 
 pressed fear that gave the lie to his seeming berserker rage.
 
 386 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "An artist does not need to adapt her morals to the code of the 
 Philistine," remarked Dorothea, with complete imperturbability. 
 "Those are all nice people with whom I am going. Every one 
 of them is a gentleman." 
 
 A gentleman: that was an argument against which it was futile 
 to enter a caveat. In her eyes that man was a gentleman who ran 
 risks, impressed waiters and coachmen, and wore creased trousers. 
 "No one dares come too close to me," she said with much pride. 
 That was the truth; no one had thus far awakened her deepest 
 curiosity, and she had determined to put a high price on herself. 
 Edmund Hahn was the only one who had any influence on her; 
 and this was true of him because he was absolutely devoid of feel- 
 ing, and had a type of shamelessness that completely disarmed and 
 terrified her. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein had to let her have her way. If he had 
 any consolation at all, it lay in the belief on his part that a real 
 Doderlein would never voluntarily come to grief. If Dorothea 
 was a genuine Doderlein, she would march straight to her objective, 
 and take by storm the good and useful things of life. If she 
 failed, it would be proof that there was a flaw somewhere in her 
 birth. This was his logic; and having applied it, theoretically, he 
 enshrouded himself in the clouds of his Olympus. 
 
 Dorothea gave her uncle Carovius, however, detailed accounts 
 of how she was making her suitors, young and old, walk the war- 
 path. They all had to do it, the actor and the banker, the candle 
 manufacturer and the engineer. She said she was leading the 
 whole pack of them around by the nose. Herr Carovius's face 
 beamed with joy when he heard her say this. He called her his 
 little jackanapes, and said she was the fortune of his old age. To 
 himself he said that she was a genuine Carovius destined to great 
 deeds. 
 
 "You don't have to get married," he said with the urge of a 
 zealot of old, and rubbed his hands. "Oh, of course, if a Count 
 comes along with a few millions and a castle in the background, 
 why, you might think it over. But just let some greasy comedian 
 get it into his head that he is going to steal you away from me! 
 Or let some wabbly-hipped office-boy imagine for a minute that 
 he is going to drag you into his circle along with his other unwashed 
 acquaintances! If this ever happens, Dorothea, give it to 'em hot 
 and heavy! Show the wanton satyrs what kind of blood you have 
 in you." 
 
 "Ah, Uncle," said Dorothea, "I know you mean well by me.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 387 
 
 You are the only one who does. But if I were only not so poor! 
 Look at me! Look at this dress I have on! It's a sight!" And 
 she put her head in her uplifted arm and sobbed. 
 
 Herr Carovius pulled at his moustaches, moved his eyebrows up 
 and down, went to his writing desk, opened his strong box, took 
 out a hundred-mark bill, and gave it to her with turned head, as 
 if he were afraid of the wrath of the protecting spirit of the 
 money chest. 
 
 This was the state of affairs when Daniel met the youthful 
 Dorothea in Herr Carovius's home, and went away with an unfor- 
 gettable, unextinguishable picture of her in his soul. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Daniel's approaching fortieth birthday seemed like a sombre 
 portal leading to the realm of spent ambition. "Seize what 
 remains to be seized," a voice within him cried. "Grass is grow- 
 ing on the graves." 
 
 His senses were at war with his intellect and his heart. He had 
 never looked on women as he was looking on them now. 
 
 One day he went out to Siegmundshof. Eberhard was not at 
 home. Sylvia's face showed traces of subdued sadness. She had 
 three children, each one more beautiful than the other, but when 
 her eyes rested on them her heart was filled with grief. Women 
 whose married life is unhappy have dull, lifeless features; their 
 hands are transparent and yellow. 
 
 Daniel took leave more quickly than he had wished or intended. 
 He felt an egoistic aversion to the joyless sons of man. 
 
 He went to see Herr Carovius. The laughing one whom he 
 sought was not at home. 
 
 Herr Carovius looked at him at times distrustfully. The face 
 of his former foe set him to thinking. It was furrowed like a 
 field under cultivation and burnt like a hearthstone. It was the 
 face of a criminal, crabbed, enervated, tense, and breathed upon, 
 it seemed, by threatening clouds. Herr Carovius was a connoisseur 
 of faces. 
 
 In order to avoid the discomfort of fatuous conversation, Daniel 
 played a number of old motetts for Herr Carovius. Herr Carovius 
 was so pleased that he ran into his pantry, and got a half dozen 
 Boxdorf apples and put them in Daniel's pockets. He bought 
 these apples every autumn by the peck, and cherished them as so 
 many priceless treasures.
 
 388 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "At the sound of such music it would not be difficult to become 
 a real Christian," he said. 
 
 "There is spring in them," said Daniel, "they are art that is 
 as innocent as new seed in the soil. But your piano needs 
 tuning." 
 
 "Symbolic, symbolic, my dear friend," cried Herr Carovius, and 
 puffed out his cheeks. "But you come back another time, and you 
 will find it in the pink of condition. Come frequently, please. 
 You will reap the reward of Heaven if you do." 
 
 Herr Carovius begging for company; it was touching. Daniel 
 promised to bring some of the manuscripts he had been collecting 
 along with him. When he returned a few days later, Dorothea 
 was there; and from then on she was always there. His visits 
 became longer and longer. When Herr Carovius noticed that 
 Dorothea was coming to see him more frequently now, he moved 
 heaven and earth to persuade Daniel to come more frequently. 
 He rained reproach and abuse on him if he failed to come; if he 
 was late, he greeted him with a sour face and put indiscreet ques- 
 tions to him. When he was alone of an afternoon, time stood 
 still. He was like a drinker tantalised by seeing his accustomed 
 portion of brandy on the table but just beyond his reach. The 
 company of these two people, Daniel and Dorothea, had become as 
 indispensable to his happiness as in former years the reading of 
 the newspapers, the brethren of the Vale of Tears, the troubles 
 of Eberhard and the funerals were indispensable if he were to feel 
 at ease. It is the way of the small citizen: each of his customs 
 becomes a passion. 
 
 When Daniel played the old chorals, Dorothea listened quietly, 
 though it could not be said that she was perfect at concealing 
 her tedium. 
 
 One time they began talking about Dorothea's violin playing. 
 Herr Carovius asked her to play something. She declined without 
 the slightest display of affectation. Daniel said nothing to encour- 
 age her; he found that this modesty was becoming to her; he 
 believed that he detected wisdom and resignation in her behaviour; 
 he smiled at her graciously. 
 
 "Tell us a story, Daniel," she said, "that would be better." 
 It eventually came out that that was what she had wanted all along. 
 
 "I am a poor raconteur," said Daniel. "I have a thick tongue." 
 
 She begged him, however, with stammering words and beseech- 
 ing gestures. Herr Carovius tittered. Daniel took off his glasses, 
 polished them, and looked at the young girl with squinting eyes.
 
 389 
 
 It seemed as if the glasses had made it difficult for him to see 
 Dorothea distinctly, or as if he preferred to see her indistinctly. 
 "I really don't know what I could tell in the way of a story," he 
 replied, shaking his head. 
 
 "Tell us everything, anything," cried Dorothea, seized with a 
 veritable fit of eagerness to hear him talk. She stretched out her 
 hands toward him: that seemed to him to be so like a child. He 
 had never told stories to a child; he had never in truth told stories 
 to any one. Gertrude and Eleanore had, to be sure, forced a con- 
 fession or a complaint from him at times, but that was all, and all 
 that was necessary or appropriate. 
 
 Suddenly he was drawn on by the word in which his fate would 
 be quietly reflected; by the fiery young eye in the brilliancy of 
 which the complex became simple, the dark bright; by the wicked 
 old man to whom the whole world, as seen from his mire, had 
 become a poisonous food. 
 
 And with his brittle, staccato voice he told of the countries 
 through which he had journeyed; of the sea and the cities by the 
 sea; of the Alps and the Alpine lakes; of cathedrals, palaces, and 
 marvellous monasteries; of the queer people he had met, of his 
 work and his loneliness. It was all incoherent, arid, and loveless. 
 Though sorely tempted, he desisted from mentioning things that 
 came close to his soul; things that moved his heart, fired his brain. 
 When he told of the Jewess, the Swallow, he did not even finish 
 the sentence. He made a long pause, and then shifted to the 
 account of his visit to Eschenbach. Here he stopped again before 
 he was through. 
 
 But Dorothea began to ask questions. It was all too general and 
 therefore unsatisfactory. "What was there in Eschenbach? Why 
 did you go there?" she asked boldly. 
 
 He was in error concerning the hot desire that burned in her 
 eyes to know about Eschenbach. Her question made him feel 
 good; he believed that he was on the scent of warm-heartedness; 
 he thought he had found a soul that was eager to help through 
 knowledge. He was seized with the desire of the mature man to 
 fashion an untouched soul in harmony with the picture of his 
 dreams. "My mother used to live there," he replied hesitatingly, 
 "she has died." 
 
 "Yes and?" breathed Dorothea. She saw that that was not all. 
 
 He felt that this uncompromising reticence was not right; he 
 felt a sense of guilt. With still greater hesitation and immediate 
 repentance he added: "A child of mine also lived there; she was
 
 390 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 eleven years old. She has disappeared ; no one knows where she is." 
 
 Dorothea folded her hands. "A child? And disappeared? Sim- 
 ply vanished?" she whispered excitedly. 
 
 Herr Carovius looked like a man sitting on a hot iron. "Eleven 
 years old?" he asked, hungry for sensation, "why that was, then 
 before the time . . ." 
 
 "Yes, it was before the time," said Daniel gloomily and by way 
 of confirmation. He had betrayed himself, and was angry at him- 
 self for having done so. He became silent; it was impossible to 
 get him to say another word. 
 
 Herr Carovius noticed how Dorothea hung on Daniel's eyes. 
 A tormenting suspicion arose in him. "Yesterday out on St. 
 Joseph's Place, I was talking with one of your admirers, the fellow 
 who shatters the wings of the stage with his ranting," he began 
 with malice aforethought. "The blade had the nerve to say to me: 
 'You'd better hurry up and get Dorothea Doderlein a husband, or 
 people will talk their tongues loose in their throats.' " 
 
 "That is not true," cried Dorothea indignantly, blushing to the 
 roots of her hair. "He didn't say that." 
 
 Herr Carovius laughed malevolently. "Well, if it is not true, 
 it is pretty well put together," he said with his usual bleat. 
 
 When Daniel left, Dorothea accompanied him to the outside 
 door. 
 
 "It's a pity," murmured Daniel, "a pity!" 
 
 "Why a pity? I am free. There isn't a soul in the world 
 who has any claim on me." She looked at him with the courage 
 of a real woman. 
 
 "There are remarks that are just like grease spots," he replied. 
 
 "Well, who can keep from the dirt these days? " she asked, almost 
 wild with excitement. 
 
 Daniel let his eyes rest on her as though she were some material 
 object. He said slowly and seriously: "Keep your hands and your 
 eyes off of me, Dorothea. I will bring you no happiness." 
 
 Her lips opened, thirsty. "I should like to take a walk with you 
 some time," she whispered, and her features trembled with an 
 ecstasy which he was dupe enough to believe was meant for him; 
 in reality Dorothea was thinking of the adventurer and the dis- 
 closure of the secret. 
 
 "Many years ago," said Daniel, "you will scarcely recall it, I 
 protected you here in this very same gateway from a big dog. Do 
 you remember?"
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 391 
 
 "No! Or do I? Wait a minute! Yes, I remember, that is, 
 quite indistinctly. You did that?" Dorothea seized his hands 
 with gratitude. 
 
 "Fine! Then we will go walking to-morrow morning. Where? 
 Oh, it doesn't make much difference," said Daniel. 
 
 "But you must tell me everything, you hear? everything." 
 Dorothea was as insistent as she had been in the room a short while 
 ago; and she was more impetuous and impatient. 
 
 They, agreed upon the place where they would meet. 
 
 XIV 
 
 At first they took short walks in remote parts of the city; then 
 they took longer ones. On Mid-Summer Day they strolled out to 
 Kraftshof and the grove of the Pegnitz shepherds. Daniel made 
 unconscious effort to avoid the places where he had once walked 
 with Eleanore. 
 
 There came moments when Dorothea's exuberance made him 
 pensive and sad; he felt the weight of his forty years; they were 
 inclined to make him hypochondriacal. Was it the vengeance of 
 fate that made him slow up when they came to a hill, while 
 Dorothea ran on ahead and waited for him, laughing? 
 
 She did not see the flowers, the trees, the animals, or the clouds. 
 But when she saw people a change came over her: she would 
 become more active; or she would mobilise her resources; or she 
 seemed to strike up a spiritual liaison with them. It might be 
 only a peasant boy on an errand or a vagabond going nowhere; 
 she would shake her hips and laugh one note higher. 
 
 "Her youth has gone to her head, like wine," Daniel thought to 
 himself. 
 
 Once she took a box of chocolate bon-bons along. Having had 
 enough of them herself and seeing that Daniel did not care for 
 them, she threw what was left away. Daniel reproached her for 
 her wastefulness. "Why drag it along?" she asked with perfect 
 lack of embarrassment, "when you have enough of a thing you 
 throw it away." She showed her white teeth, and took in one 
 deep breath of fresh air after another. 
 
 Daniel studied her. "She is invulnerable," he said to himself; 
 "her power to wish is invincible, her fulness of life complete." 
 He felt that she bore a certain resemblance to his Eva; that she 
 wa* one of those elves of light in whose cheerfulness there is occa-
 
 392 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 sionally a touch of the terrible. He decided then and there not to 
 let mischievous chance have its own way: he was going to put out 
 his hand when he felt it was advisable. 
 
 "When are you going to begin to tell me the stories?" she asked: 
 "I must, I must know all about you," she added with much warmth 
 of expression. "There are days and nights when I cannot rest. 
 Tell me! Tell me!" 
 
 That was the truth. In order to penetrate his life history, which 
 she pictured to herself as full of passionate, checkered events, she 
 had done everything that he had demanded of her. 
 
 Daniel refused; he was silent; he was afraid he would darken 
 the girl's pure mind, jeopardise her unsuspecting innocence. He 
 was afraid to conjure up the shadows. 
 
 One day she was talking along in her easy way, and while so 
 doing she tripped herself up. She had begun to tell him about 
 the men she had been going with; and before she knew what she 
 was doing, she had fallen into the tone she used when she talked 
 with her Uncle Carovius. Becoming suddenly aware of her indis- 
 cretion, she stopped, embarrassed. Daniel's serious questions caused 
 her to make some confessions she would otherwise never have 
 thought of making. She told a goodly number of rather murky 
 and ugly stories, and it was very hard for her to act as though she 
 were innocent or the victim of circumstances. At last, unable 
 longer to escape from the net she had woven, she made a clean 
 breast of her whole life, painted it all in the gaudiest colours, and 
 then waited in breathless but agreeable suspense to see what 
 effect it would have on Daniel. 
 
 Daniel was silent for a while; then he made a motion with his 
 outstretched hand as if he were cutting something in two: "Away 
 from them, Dorothea, or away from me!" 
 
 Dorothea bowed her head, and then looked at him timidly from 
 head to foot. The decisiveness with which he spoke was some- 
 thing new to her, though it was by no means offensive. A volup- 
 tuous shudder ran through her limbs. "Yes," she whispered girl- 
 ishly, "I am going to put an end to it. I never realised what it all 
 meant. But don't be angry, will you? No, you won't, will you?" 
 
 She came closer to him; her eyes were filled with tears. "Don't 
 be angry at me," she said again, "poor Dorothea can't help it. She 
 is not responsible for it." 
 
 "But how did you come to do it?" asked Daniel. "I can't see 
 how it was possible. Weren't you disgusted to the very bottom 
 of your soul? How could you go about under God's free heavens
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 393 
 
 with such hyenas? Why, girl, the very thought of it fills me with 
 scepticism about everything." 
 
 "What should I have done, Daniel?" she said, calling him by his 
 baptismal name for the first time. She spoke with a felicitous 
 mixture of submissiveness and boldness that touched and at the 
 same time enchanted him. "What should I have done? They 
 come and talk to you, and spin their nets about you; and at home 
 it is so dreary and lonely, and your heart is so empty and Father 
 is so mean, you haven't got anybody else in the world to talk to." 
 Such was her defence, effective even if more voluble than coherent. 
 
 They walked on. They were passing through a valley in the 
 forest. On either side were tall pine trees, the crowns of which 
 were lighted by the evening sun. 
 
 "You can't play with Fate, Dorothea," said Daniel. "It dops 
 not permit smudging or muddling, if we are to stand the test. It 
 keeps a faultless ledger; the entries it makes on both sides are the 
 embodiment of accuracy. Debts that we contract must always be 
 paid, somehow, somewhere." 
 
 Dorothea felt that he was getting started; that the great, good 
 story was about to come. She stopped, spread her shawl on the 
 ground, and took a graceful position on it, all eyes and ears. Daniel 
 threw himself on the moss beside her. 
 
 And he told his story into the moss where little insects were 
 creeping around. He never raised either his eye or his voice. 
 At times Dorothea had to bend over to hear him. 
 
 He told about Gertrude, her torpor, her awakening, her love, 
 her resignation. He told about Eleanore; told how he had loved 
 her without knowing it. He told how Eleanore, out of an excess 
 of passion and suffering, became his, how Gertrude wandered about 
 dazed, unhappy, lost, until she finally took her life: "Then we went 
 up to the attic, and found it on fire and her lifeless body hanging 
 from the rafter." 
 
 He told how Gertrude had lived on as a shadow by the side of 
 Eleanore, and how Eleanore became a flower girl, and how Philip- 
 pina the inexplicable, and still inexplicable, had come into his 
 family, and how Gertrude's child lived there like an unfed foun- 
 dling, and how the other child, the child he had had by the maid, 
 had found such a warm spot in his heart. 
 
 He told of his meeting the two sisters, their speaking and their 
 remaining silent, his seeing them in secret trysts, the moving about 
 from house to house and room to room, the singing of songs, his 
 experiences with the Dormaul opera company, the light thrown
 
 394 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 on his drab life by a mask, his friend and the help he had received 
 from him, his separation from him, the brush-maker's house on 
 St. James's Place, the three queer old maids in the Long Row, the 
 days he spent at Castle Erfft, the old father of the two sisters 
 and his strange doings all of this he described in the tone of a 
 man awakening from a deep sleep. There was a confidence in what 
 he said and the way he said it that mayhap terrified the hovering 
 spirits of the evening, though it did not fill Dorothea's eyes, then 
 glistening like polished metal, with a more intimate or cordial 
 light. 
 
 When he looked up he felt he saw two sombre figures standing 
 on the edge of the forest; he felt he saw the two sisters, and that 
 they were casting mournful, reproachful glances at him. 
 
 He got up. "And all that," he concluded, "all that has been 
 drunk up, like rain by the parched earth, by a work on which I 
 have been labouring for the past seven years. For seven years. 
 Two more years, and I will give it to the world, provided this 
 unsteady globe has not fallen into the sun by that time." 
 
 Dorothea had a confused, haphazard idea as to the type of 
 man that was standing before her. She was seized with a prickling 
 desire for him such as she had thus far never experienced. She 
 began to love him, in her way. Something impelled her to seek 
 shelter by him, near him, somewhat as a bird flies under the crown 
 of a tree at the approach of a storm. Daniel interpreted the 
 timidity with which she put her arm in his as a sign of gratitude. 
 
 And in this mood he took her back to the city. 
 
 xv 
 
 It was in this pulsing, urging, joyful mood that Daniel worked 
 at and completed the fifth movement of his symphony, a scherzo 
 of grand proportions, beginning with a clarinet figure that sym- 
 bolised laughing sans-souci. All the possibilities of joy developed 
 from this simple motif. Nor was retrospection or consolation lack- 
 ing. If the main themes, mindful of their former pre-eminence, 
 seemed inclined to widen the bed of their stream, they were 
 appeased and forced back into their original channel by artistic 
 and capriciously alternating means. Once all three themes flowed 
 along together, gaining strength apparently through their union, 
 rose to a wonderful fugue, and seemed to be just on the point of 
 gaining the victory when the whole orchestra, above the chord in 
 D sevenths, was seized by the waltz melody, those melancholy sister-
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 395 
 
 strains were taken up by the violins, and fled, dirge-like, to their 
 unknown abodes. Just before the jubilant crescendo of the finale, 
 a bassoon solo held one of them fast on its distant, grief-stricken 
 heights. 
 
 Daniel sketched the sixth movement in the following fourteen 
 nights. 
 
 He was fully aware of the fact that he had never been able to 
 work this way before. When a man accomplishes the extraordinary, 
 he knows it. It seizes him like a disease, and fills him like a pro- 
 found dream. 
 
 At times he felt as though he must tell some one about it, even 
 if it were only Herr Carovius. But once the flame had died 
 down, he could not help but laugh at the temptation to which he 
 had felt himself subjected. "Patience," he thought, feeling more 
 assured than ever, "patience, patience!" 
 
 Since his work on the manuscripts was completed and his con- 
 nection with the firm of Philander and Sons dissolved, he began to 
 look around for another position. He had saved in the course of 
 the last few years four thousand marks, but he wished to keep 
 this sum intact. 
 
 He learned that the position of organist at the Church of St. 
 ^Egydius was vacant; he went to the pastor, who recommended him 
 to his superiors. It was decided that he should play something 
 before the church consistory. This he did one morning in October. 
 The trial proved eminently successful to his exacting auditors. 
 
 He was appointed organist at St. ^gydius's at a salary of twelve 
 hundred marks a year. When he played on Sundays and holidays, 
 the people came into the church just to hear him. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Among the suitors for the hand of Dorothea on whom Andreas 
 Doderlein looked with special favour was the mill owner, a man 
 by the name of Weisskopf. Herr Weisskopf was passionately fond 
 of music. He had greatly admired Dorothea when she gave her 
 concert, and had sent her a laurel wreath. 
 
 One day Herr Weisskopf came in and took dinner with the 
 Doderleins. When he left, Doderlein said to his daughter: "My 
 dear Dorothea, from this day on you may consider yourself be- 
 trothed. This admirable man desires to have you as his lawfully 
 wedded wife. It is a great good fortune; the man is as rich as 
 Croesus."
 
 396 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Instead of making a reply, Dorothea laughed heartily. But she 
 knew that the time had come when something had to be done. 
 Her mobile face twitched with scorn, fear, and desire. 
 
 "Think it over; sleep on it. I have promised Herr Weisskopf to 
 let him know to-morrow," said Doderlein, black-browed. 
 
 A week before this, Andreas Doderlein, confidently expecting 
 that Herr Weisskopf would ask for the hand of his daughter, had 
 borrowed a thousand marks from him. The miller had loaned 
 him the money believing that he was thereby securing a promissory 
 note on Dorothea. Doderlein had placed himself under obliga- 
 tions, and was consequently determined to carry out his plans with 
 regard to the marriage of his daughter. 
 
 But Dorothea's behaviour made it safe to predict that objections 
 would be raised on her part. Doderlein was in trouble; he sought 
 distraction. Sixteen years ago he had begun an opus entitled "All 
 Souls: a Symphonic Picture." Five pages of the score had been 
 written, and since then he had never undertaken creative work. 
 He rummaged around in his desk, found the score, went to tht 
 piano, and tried to take up the thread where he had lost it sixteen 
 years ago. He tried to imagine the intervening time merely as 
 pause, an afternoon siesta. 
 
 It would not go. He sighed. He sat before the instrument, 
 and stared at the paper like a schoolboy who has a problem to solve 
 but has forgotten the rule. He seemed to lament the loss of his 
 artistic ability. He felt so hollow. The notes grinned at him; 
 they mocked him. His thoughts turned involuntarily to the miller. 
 He improvised for a while. Dorothea stuck her head in the door 
 and sang: "Rhinegold, Rhinegold, pu-re gold." 
 
 He was enraged; he got up, slammed the lid of the piano, took 
 his hat and top coat, left the house, and went out to see his friend 
 in the suburbs. 
 
 When he returned that night, he saw Dorothea standing in the 
 door with a man. It was the actor, Edmund Hahn. They were 
 carrying on a heated conversation in whispers. The man was hold- 
 ing Dorothea by the arm, but when Doderlein became visible from 
 the unlighted street, he uttered an ugly oath and quickly disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Dorothea looked her father straight, and impudently, in the face, 
 and followed him into the dark house. 
 
 When they were upstairs and had lighted the lamp, Doderlein 
 turned to her, and asked her threateningly: "What do you mean 
 by these immodest associations? Tell me! I want an answer!"
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 397 
 
 "I don't want to marry your flour sack. That's my answer," said 
 Dorothea, with a defiant toss of her head. 
 
 "Well, we'll see," said Doderlein, pale with rage and ploughing 
 through his hair with his fingers, "we'll see. Get out of here! 
 I have no desire to lose my well-earned sleep on account of such 
 an ungrateful hussy. We'll take up the subject again to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 The next morning Dorothea hastened to Herr Carovius. "Uncle," 
 she stammered, "he wants to marry me to that flour sack." 
 
 "Yes? Well, I suppose I'll have to visit that second-rate musician 
 in his studio again and give him a piece of my mind. In the 
 meantime be calm, my child, be calm," said he, stroking her brown 
 hair, "Old Carovius is still alive." 
 
 Dorothea nestled up to him, and smiled: "What would you say, 
 Uncle," she began with a knavish and at the same time unsually 
 attentive expression in her face, "if I were to marry Daniel 
 Nothafft? You like him," she continued in a flattering tone, and 
 held him fast by the shoulder when he started back, "you like him, 
 I know you do. I must marry somebody; for I do not wish to be 
 an old maid, and I can't stand Father any longer." 
 
 Herr Carovius tore himself loose from her. "To the insane 
 asylum with you!" he cried. "I would rather see you go to bed 
 with that meal sack. Is the Devil in you, you prostitute? If your 
 skin itches, scratch it, so far as I am concerned, but take a stable 
 boy to do it, as Empress Katherine of blessed memory did. Buy 
 fine dresses, bedizen yourself with tom-foolery of all shades and 
 colours, go to dances and lap up champagne, make music or throw 
 your damn fiddle on the dung heap, do anything you want to do, 
 Til pay for it; but that green-eyed phantast, that lunk-headed rat- 
 catcher, that woman-eater and music-box bird, no, no! Never! 
 Send him humping down the stairs and out the front door! For 
 God's sake and the sake of all the saints, don't marry him! Don't, 
 I say. If you do, it's all off between you and me." 
 
 There was such a look of hate and fear in Herr Carovius's face 
 that Dorothea was almost frightened. His hair was as towsled as 
 the twigs of an abandoned bird's nest; water was dripping from the 
 corners of his mouth; his eyes were inflamed; his glasses were on 
 the tip of his nose. 
 
 Nothing could have made Dorothea more pleased with the story 
 Daniel had told her than Herr Carovius's ravings. Her eyes were 
 opened wide, her mouth was thirsty. If she had hesitated at times 
 before, she did so no more. She loved money; greed was a part
 
 398 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 of her make-up from the hour she was born. But if Herr Carovius 
 had laid the whole of his treasures at her feet, and said to her, 
 "You may have them if you will renounce Daniel Nothafft," she 
 would have replied, "Your money, my Daniel." 
 
 Something terribly strange and strong drew her to the man she 
 
 had just heard so volubly cursed. That sensual prickling was of 
 
 a more dangerous violence and warmth in his presence than in that 
 
 j of any other man she had ever known; and she had known a 
 
 j' number. To her he was a riddle and a mystery; she wanted to 
 
 (solve the one and clear up the other. He had possessed so many 
 women, indubitably more than he had confessed to her; and she 
 wished now to possess him. He was so quiet, so clever, so resolute: 
 she wanted his quietness, his cleverness, his resoluteness. She 
 wanted everything he had, his charm, his magic, his power over 
 men, all that he displayed and all that he concealed. 
 
 She thought of 'him constantly; she thought in truth of no one 
 else, and nothing else. Her thoughts fluttered about his picture, 
 shyly, greedily, and as playfully as a kitten. He had managed to 
 bring will power and unity into her senses. She wanted to have 
 him. 
 
 The rain beat against the window. Terrified at Dorothea's 
 thoughtfulness, Herr Carovius pressed his hands to his cheeks. "I 
 see, I see, you want to leave me all alone," he said in a tone that 
 sounded like the howling of a dog in the middle of the night. 
 "You want to deceive me, to surrender me to the enemy, to leave 
 me nothing, nothing but the privilege of sitting here and staring 
 at my four walls. I see, I see." 
 
 "Be still, Uncle, nothing is going to happen. It is all a huge 
 joke," said Dorothea with feigned good humour and kind inten- 
 tions. She walked to the door slowly, looking back every now and 
 then with a smile on her face. 
 
 It was early in the morning when Dorothea rang Daniel's bell. 
 Philippina opened the door, but she did not wish to let Dorothea 
 in. She forced an entrance, however, and, standing in the door, 
 she inspected Philippina with the eye of arrogance, always a clear- 
 sighted organ. 
 
 "Look out, Philippin', there's something rotten here," murmured 
 Philippina to herself.
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 399 
 
 Daniel was at work. He got up and looked at Dorothea, who 
 carefully closed the door. 
 
 "Here I am, Daniel," she said, and breathed a sigh of relief, 
 like a swimmer who has just reached the land. 
 
 "What is it all about?" asked Daniel, seemingly ill inclined to 
 become excited. 
 
 "I have done what you wanted me to do, Daniel: I have broken 
 away from them. I cannot tolerate Father a minute longer. Where 
 should I go if not to you?" 
 
 Daniel went up to her, and laid his hands on her shoulders. 
 "Girl, girl!" he said as if to warn her. He felt uneasy. 
 
 They looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like an 
 eternity. Daniel was apparently trying to peer into the inner- 
 most recesses of her soul. Dorothea's eyes sparkled with daring; 
 she did not lower her lids. Suddenly, as if moved from within, 
 Daniel bent over and kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 "You know who I am," he said, and walked back and forth in 
 the room. "You know how I have lived and how I am living at 
 present. I am a guilty man, and a lonely man. My nature 
 craves tenderness, but is unable to give tenderness in return. My 
 lot is a hard one, and whoever decides to share it with me must 
 be able to bear her part of this hardness. I am frequently my own 
 enemy and the enemy of those who mean well by me. I am not 
 a humourist, and make a poor impression in society. I can be 
 gruff, offensive, spiteful, irreconcilable, and revengeful. I am 
 ugly, poor, and no longer young. Are you not afraid of your 
 twenty-three years, Dorothea?" 
 
 Dorothea shook her head vigorously. 
 
 "Test yourself, Dorothea, examine yourself," he continued 
 urgently, "don't be too inexact, too careless with me, nor with 
 yourself. Study the situation from all sides, so that we may make 
 no false calculations. Fate, you know, is fate. Love can get 
 control of me more than I can get control of myself, and when 
 this takes place I will do everything in my power. But I must 
 have confidence, unlimited confidence. If I were to lose con- 
 fidence, I should be like a mortal proscribed to Hell, an outcast, an 
 evil spirit. Examine yourself, Dorothea. You must know what 
 you are doing; it is your affair, and it is a sacred one." 
 
 "I cannot do otherwise, Daniel!" cried Dorothea, and threw 
 herself on his bosom. 
 
 "Then God be merciful to us," said Daniel.
 
 400 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Daniel took Dorothea over to Sylvia von Erfft's at Siegmundshof. 
 He had written to her, given her all the details, explained the 
 entire situation, and begged her to take Dorothea in and entertain 
 her until the day of the wedding. Sylvia had shown herself most 
 obliging in the matter; she met his requests with unaffected cor- 
 diality. 
 
 Dorothea had spent two nights at home, during which she had 
 succeeded in evading all explanations with her father. She did 
 this by having him agree to give her three days to think it over. 
 On the morning of the third day, after her father had gone to 
 the conservatory, she packed up her belongings and left the house. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein found the following letter from her: "Dear 
 Father: Abandon all your hopes with regard to my marrying Herr 
 Weisskopf. I am of age and can marry whomsoever I wish. I 
 have already made my choice. The man who is going to lead me 
 to the altar is called Daniel Nothafft. He loves me perhaps even 
 more than I deserve, and I will make him a good wife. This is 
 my unalterable decision, and you yourself will certainly come to 
 see that it is nobler to obey the impulses of one's own heart than 
 to allow cne's self to be led on and blinded by material considera- 
 tions. Your loving daughter, Dorothea." 
 
 Andreas Doderlein had a sinking spell. The letter slipped from 
 his fingers and fell to the floor. Trembling in his whole body, 
 he walked up to the covered table, took a glass and hurled it against 
 the wall. The glass broke into a thousand pieces. "I will choke 
 you, you impious toad!" he panted, shook his clenched fist, went to 
 Dorothea's room, and, seized with boundless wrath, upset the chairs 
 and the little dressing table. 
 
 The maid, terrified, ran into the living room. She saw Doro- 
 thea's letter lying on the floor, picked it up, and read it. When 
 she heard her mad master returning, she ran down stairs to the 
 ground floor, rang Hcrr Carovius's bell, and showed him the letter. 
 His face turned yellow as he read it. The maid uttered a shrill, 
 piercing cry, snatched the letter from Herr Carovius's hands, and 
 ran out into the court, for she heard Andreas Doderlein stumbling 
 down the steps. He wanted to call the police and have them 
 lock up the abductor of his daughter. Catching sight of Herr 
 Carovius in the hall, he stopped and fixed his eyes on him. In 
 them there was a sea of anger; and yet it was obvious that Andreas 
 Doderlein was eager to ask a question or two. It seemed indeed
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 401 
 
 that just one conciliatory statement, even a single gesture on the 
 part of the man whom he had scrupulously avoided for years, 
 would make bye-gones be bye-gones and convert two implacable 
 foes into friends, colleagues indeed in the business of revenge and 
 punishment. 
 
 But Herr Carovius was done with the world. His face was 
 distorted; grimaces of unrelieved meanness furrowed his brow; his 
 contempt knew no bounds. He turned about and slammed the 
 door leading into his apartment with a bang that showed his inten- 
 tion of shutting himself up in his own stronghold. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein got as far as the entrance to the Town Hall. 
 There he was suddenly seized with grave doubts. He stared at 
 the pavement for a while, sad and sinister, and then started back 
 home. His steps were not half so impetuous as they had been 
 on the way over; they gave evidence of weakened will and fading 
 energy. 
 
 Hardly had he reached home when Daniel was announced. 
 "You have the boldness, Sir," he cried out to Daniel on his enter- 
 ing. "You have the boldness to appear in my sight? By the 
 gods above, you are going far!" 
 
 "I will accept any challenge you make," said Daniel, with the 
 chilly dignity that was characteristic of him in such circumstances 
 and that never failed to have a sobering effect on his potential 
 antagonist. "I have nothing to fear. I should like to live in 
 peace with the father of my wife, and for this reason I have come 
 to you." 
 
 "Do you know what you are doing to me? You have stolen my 
 daughter, man!" cried Doderlein with pathos. "But just wait. 
 I will checkmate your plans. I will make you feel the full measure 
 of my power." 
 
 Daniel smiled contemptuously. "I am certain of that," he 
 replied. "I will feel your power as long as I live; I have always 
 felt it. But I have never submitted to it, and up to the present I 
 have always been able to break it. Think it over! Recall my past 
 history! And devote a few of your meditative moments to your 
 child. Adieu!" With that Daniel left. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein was 511 at ease. The man's smile followed 
 him wherever he went. What could the desperado be planning? 
 A bad conscience paralyses evil determinations. For more than a 
 week, Doderlein waged perpetual war with his pride. And then? 
 Daniel did not allow himself to be seen; he received no news 
 of any kind from Dorothea; and, climax of it all, Herr Weisskopf
 
 402 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 notified him that his note for one thousand marks, with interest, 
 was due. Doderlein saw that there was nothing to be done about 
 it all except to recognise the denouement as a fact and not as a 
 stage scene. And one day he hobbled up the steps of the house 
 on ^gydius Place. 
 
 "I am gl d to see you," said Daniel as he reached out his hand 
 to his visitor. 
 
 Andreas Doderlein spoke of a father's bleeding heart, of the 
 crushing of proud hopes, of the impiety of youth, and the lone- 
 someness of old age. And then, rather disconnectedly, beating a 
 tattoo with the fingers of his big hand on the top of the table, he 
 spoke of the constraint in which he found himself with reference 
 to the opulent owner of the mill. He told Daniel he had gone 
 on a man's note, had been suddenly obliged to redeem the note, and 
 not having so much ready money at his disposal, had accepted a 
 loan from the rich aspirant for Dorothea's hand. 
 
 Daniel was forced to admit that his troubles were humiliating 
 and that the money would have to be raised. Doderlein said it 
 amounted to fifteen hundred marks. He was surprised himself 
 when he mentioned the sum which assured him a clear gain of 
 fifty per cent. It had been a clever idea, serving as it did to put 
 the generosity of his future son-in-law to test. At the bottom of 
 his heart he felt that his action was dishonourable, and was conse- 
 quently touched when Daniel, giving this inroad on his savings 
 but a moment's thought, promised to send him the money the 
 following day. 
 
 "You make me feel ashamed of myself, Daniel, really you do. 
 Let us bury the hatchet! We are after all colleagues in Apollo. 
 Or aren't we? Call me Father, and I will call you Son! Address 
 me with Du, and I will follow your example." 
 
 Daniel gave him his hand without saying a word. 
 
 Doderlein asked about Dorothea; and when Daniel told him 
 where she was, he seemed quite contented. "Tell her my house 
 and my arms are open to her; tell her of the change in the constel- 
 lation," he said softly. "We have both done each other injustice 
 and have both repented." 
 
 Daniel replied quite conventionally that he thought it better 
 to leave Dorothea with Sylvia von Auffenberg. 
 
 "As you wish, my son," said Andreas Doderlein, "I bow to the 
 claims of your young happiness. Now we should have a bottle 
 of Malvoisie or Moselle, so that I can drink to the health of my 
 dear, unruly daughter. Or don't you care to?"
 
 THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY 403 
 
 Daniel went to send Philippina to the Golden Posthorn. But 
 Philippina had gone out with Agnes. He saw one of the maids 
 from one of the other apartments standing on the steps, and got 
 her to run the errand. It was a long while before she returned, 
 and when the wine was finally poured out, Doderlein had not time 
 to drink: he was scheduled to give a lecture in the conservatory at 
 seven. He drank about half of his glass, and then took hasty leave 
 of Daniel, shaking his hand with unwonted fervour. 
 
 Daniel sat for a while thinking it all over. There was a knock 
 at the door, and old Jordan came in. "May I?" he asked. 
 
 Daniel nodded. Jordan took a seat on the chair Doderlein had 
 been sitting on. He looked into Daniel's face quizzically. "Is it 
 true, Daniel, that you are going to get married again? That you 
 are going to marry the Doderlein girl?" 
 
 "Yes, Father, it is true," replied Daniel. He got a fresh glass, 
 filled it, and pushed it over to the old man. "Drink, Father!" he 
 said. 
 
 The old man sipped the wine with an air of adoration. "It 
 must be nine or ten years since I have had any wine," he said more 
 or less to himself. 
 
 "You have not had a happy life," replied Daniel. 
 
 "I will not complain, Daniel. I bear it because I have to. And 
 who knows? Perhaps there is still a measure of joy in store for 
 me. Perhaps; who knows?" 
 
 The two men sat in silence and drank. It was so still that you 
 could hear the fluttering of the light in the lamp. 
 
 "Where can Philippina be?" asked Daniel. 
 
 "Yes, Philippina. I had forgot to tell you," began old Jordan 
 sorrowfully. "She came to me this afternoon, and told me she 
 was going over to Frau Hadcbusch's with Agnes and was going 
 to stay there until after the wedding. But she spoke in such a 
 confused way that I couldn't make out just what she planned to do. 
 It sounded in fact as though she were thinking of leaving the 
 house for good and all. I wonder whether the girl isn't a little 
 off in her head? Day before yesterday I heard an awful racket 
 in the kitchen; and when I went down, I saw at least six plates 
 lying on the floor all smashed to pieces. And as if this was not 
 enough, she threatened to throw the dishwater on me. She was 
 swearing like a trooper. Now tell me: how is this? Can she go 
 over to Frau Hadebusch's, and take Agnes with her without getting 
 any one's consent?" 
 
 Daniel made no reply. The thought of Philippina filled him
 
 4 o 4 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 with anguish ; he feared some misfortune. He felt that he would 
 have to let her have her way. 
 
 In the night Daniel became very much excited. He left the 
 house, and, despite the darkness and the snow storm, wandered 
 out to the country quite unmindful of the cold and snow and 
 the wind. 
 
 He listened to the whisperings of his soul ; he took council 
 with himself. He looked up at the great black vaulted arch of 
 heaven as though he were beseeching the powers above to send 
 him the light he felt he needed. The morning of the approach- 
 ing day seemed bleaker, blacker to him than the night that was 
 passing. He was lost in anxiety: he went over to his graves. 
 
 He did not stop to think until well on his way that the gate 
 to the cemetery would be closed; but he kept on going. He 
 looked around for a place in the wall where he might climb over. 
 Finally he found one, climbed up, scratched his hands painfully, 
 leaped down into some snow-covered hedges, and then wandered 
 around with his burden of grief over the stormy, desolate field of 
 the dead. As he stood before Gertrude's grave he was overwhelmed 
 with the feeling of the hour: there were voices in the storm; he 
 felt that the horror and the memory of it all would hurl him to 
 the ground. But when he stood by the grave of Eleanore, he felt 
 his peace return. The clouds suddenly opened on the distant 
 horizon, and a moonbeam danced about him. 
 
 It was almost morning when he reached home. 
 
 A week later he went over to Siegmundshof and got Dorothea. 
 
 Sylvia and Dorothea came down through a snow-covered alley 
 to meet him. They were walking arm in arm, and Sylvia was 
 laughing at Dorothea's easy-flowing conversation. They seemed to 
 be getting along perfectly together: there could be no mistaking 
 the picture he saw before him. Sylvia told Daniel when she was 
 alone with him that she had taken a great liking to Dorothea. She 
 remarked that 'jhcr cheerfulness was irresistible and contagious, and 
 that when she was with children she became a child herself. 
 
 Yet, despite all this, Sylvia studied Daniel. And when Dorothea 
 was present she studied her too: she cast fleeting, searching, unas- 
 sured glances at them at Daniel and at Dorothea. 
 
 Daniel and Dorothea were married on a sunny day in December.
 
 DOROTHEA 
 
 FOR the past fortnight, Philippina and Agnes had been living 
 at Frau Hadebusch's. A message came from Daniel telling Philip- 
 pina that she and Agnes should return, or, if she preferred to stay 
 with Frau Hadebusch, she should send Agnes home at once. 
 
 "There you have it," said Frau Hadebusch, "the master speaks." 
 
 "Ah, him he's been speakin' to me for a long while. Much 
 good it does him," said Philippina. "The child stays with me, 
 and I'm not going back. That settles it! What, Agnes? Yes?" 
 
 Agnes was sitting on the bench by the stove with Henry the idiot, 
 reading the greasy pages of a cheap novel. When Philippina 
 spoke to her, she looked up in a distracted way and smiled. The 
 twelve-year-old child had a perfectly expressionless face; and as 
 she never got out of the house for any length of time, her skin 
 was almost yellow. 
 
 "It ain't no use to try to buck him," continued Frau Hadebusch, 
 who looked as old as the mountains and resembled generally a 
 crippled witch, "he c'n demand the kid, and if he does he'll git 
 her. If you ain't careful, I'll get mixed up in the mess before 
 long." 
 
 "Well, how do you feel about it, Agnes? Do you want to go 
 back to your daddy?" said Philippina, turning to the girl, and 
 looking at Frau Hadebusch in a knowing way. 
 
 Agnes's face clouded up. She hated her father. This was 
 the point to which Philippina had brought matters by her inces- 
 sant whisperings and ugly remarks behind Daniel's back. Agnes 
 was convinced that she was a burden to her father, and his mar- 
 riage had merely confirmed what she already felt she knew. Deep 
 in her silent soul she carried the picture of her prematurely deceased 
 mother, as if it were that of a woman who had been murdered, 
 sacrificed. Philippina had told her how her mother had committed 
 suicide; it was a fearful tale in her language. It had been the 
 topic of conversation between her and her charge on many a cold, 
 dark winter evening. Agnes always said that when she was big 
 and could talk, she would take vengeance on her father. 
 
 When she could talk! That was her most ardent wish. For 
 
 405
 
 406 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 she was silent-born. Her soul pined in a prison that was much 
 harsher and harder than that in which her mother's soul had been 
 housed and harassed. Gertrude had some bright moments; Agnes 
 never. She was incapable of enthusiasm; she could not look up. 
 For her heart, her soul was not merely asleep, torpid, lethargic; 
 it was hopelessly dried up, withered. Life was not in it. 
 
 "I am not going to those Doderleins," she said, crying. 
 
 But in the evening Daniel came over. He took Philippina to 
 one side, and had a serious talk with her. He explained the rea- 
 sons for his getting married a third time as well as he could 
 without going too deeply into the subject. "I needed a wife; I 
 needed a woman to keep house for me; I needed a companion. 
 Philippina, I am very grateful to you for what you have done, but 
 there must also be a woman in my home who can cheer me up, 
 turn my thoughts to higher things. I have a heavy calling; that 
 you cannot appreciate. So don't get stubborn, Philippina. Pack 
 up your things, and come back home. How can we get alog 
 without you?" 
 
 For the first time in his life he spoke to her as though she 
 were a woman and a human being. Philippina stared at him. 
 Then she burst out into a loud, boisterous laugh, and began to 
 show her whole supply of scorn. "Jesus, Daniel, how you c'n flatter 
 a person! Who'd a thought it! You've always been such a sour 
 dough. Very well. Say: 'Dear Philippina!' Say it real slow: 
 'D-e-a-r Philippina,' and then I'll come." 
 
 Daniel looked into the face of the girl, who never did seem 
 young and who had aged fearfully in the last few months. "Non- 
 sense!" he cried, and turned away. 
 
 Philippina stamped the floor with her foot. Henry, the idiot, 
 came out into the hall, holding a lamp above his head. 
 
 "Does the sanctimonious clerk still live here?" asked Daniel, 
 looking up at the crooked old stairway, while a flood of memories 
 came rushing over him. 
 
 "Thank God, no!" snarled Philippina. "He'd be the last 
 straw. I feel sick at the stomach when 1 sec a man." 
 
 Daniel again looked into her detestable, ugly, distorted, and 
 wicked face. He was accustomed to question everything, eyes and 
 bodies, about their existence in terms of tones, or their trans- 
 formation into tones. Here he suddenly felt the toneless; he had 
 the feeling one might have on looking at a deep-sea fish: it is life- 
 less, toneless. He thought of his Eva; he longed for his Eva, 
 Just then Agnes came out of the door to look for Philippina.
 
 DOROTHEA 407 
 
 He laid his hand on Agnes's hair, and said good-naturedly, 
 looking at Philippina: "Well, then d-e-a-r Philippina, come back 
 home!" 
 
 Agnes jerked herself away from him; he looked at the child 
 amazed; he was angry, too. Philippina folded her hands, bowed 
 her head, and murmured with much humility: "Very well, Daniel, 
 we'll be back to-morrow." 
 
 Philippina arrived at the front door at ten o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. In one hand ishe carried her bundle; by the other she led 
 Agnes, then studying her milieu with uneasy eyes. 
 
 Dorothea opened the door. She was neatly and tastefully 
 dressed: she wore a blue gingham dress and a white apron with a 
 lace border. Around her neck was a gold chain, and suspended 
 from the chain a medallion. 
 
 "Oh, the children!" she cried cheerfully, "Philippina and Agnes. 
 What do you think of that! God bless you, children. You are 
 home at last." She wanted to hug Agnes, but the child pulled 
 away from her as timidly as she had pulled away from her father 
 yesterday. In either case, she pulled away! 
 
 Philippina screwed her mouth into a knot on hearing a woman 
 ten years her junior call her a child; she looked at Dorothea from 
 head to foot. 
 
 Dorothea scarcely noticed her. "Just imagine, Philippin', the 
 cook didn't come to-day, so I thought I would try my own hand," 
 said Dorothea with glib gravity, "but I don't know, the soup meat 
 is still as hard as a rock. Won't you come and see what's the 
 matter?" She took Philippina into the kitchen. 
 
 "Ah, you've got to have a lid on the pot, and what's more, 
 that ain't a regular fire," remarked Philippina superciliously. 
 
 Dorothea had already turned to something else. She had found 
 a glass of preserved fruit, had opened it, taken a long-handled 
 spoon, dived into it, put the spoon to her mouth, and was licking 
 away for dear life. "Tastes good," she said, "tastes like lemon. 
 Try it, Philippin'." She held the spoon to Philippina's lips so that 
 she could try it. Philippina thrust the spoon rudely to one side. 
 
 "No, no, you have got to try it. I insist. Taste it!" continued 
 Dorothea, and poked the spoon tightly against Philippina's lips. 
 "I insist, I insist," she repeated, half beseechingly, half in the 
 tone of a command, so that Philippina, who somehow or other
 
 4 o8 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 could not find her veteran power of resistance, and in order to 
 have peace, let the spoon be shoved into her mouth. 
 
 Just then old Jordan came out into the hall, and with him the 
 chimney-sweeper who wished to clean the chimney. 
 
 "Herr Inspector, Herr Inspector," cried Dorothea, laughing; 
 and when the old man followed her call, she gave him a spoonful, 
 too. The chimney-sweep likewise; he had to have his. And last 
 but not least came Agnes. 
 
 They all laughed; a faint smile even ventured across Agnes's 
 pale face, while Daniel, frightened from his room by the hubbub, 
 came out and stood in the kitchen door and laughed with the rest. 
 
 "Do you see, Daniel, do you see? They all eat out of my 
 hand," said Dorothea contentedly. "They all eat out of my hand. 
 That's the way I like to have things. To your health, folks!" 
 
 One afternoon Dorothea, with an open letter in her hand, came 
 rushing into Daniel's room, where he was working. 
 
 "Listen, Daniel, Frau Feistelmann invites me over to a party at 
 her house to-morrow. May I go? " 
 
 "You are disturbing me, my dear. Can't you see you are up- 
 setting me?" asked Daniel reproachfully. 
 
 "Oh, I see," breathed Dorothea, and looked helplessly at the stack 
 of scores that lay on the top of the table. "I am to take my 
 violin along and play a piece or two for the people." 
 
 Daniel gazed into space without being able to comprehend her 
 remarks. He was composing. 
 
 Dorothea lost her patience. She stepped up to the place on the 
 wall where the mask of Zingarella had been hanging since his 
 return home. "Daniel, I have been wanting for some time to ask 
 you what that thing iis. Why do you keep it there? What's it 
 for? It annoys me with its everlasting grin." 
 
 Daniel woke up. "That is what you call a grin?" he asked, shak- 
 ing his head; "Is it possible? That smile from the world beyond 
 appeals to you as a grin?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Dorothea defiantly, "the thing is grinning. And 
 I don't like it; I can't stand that silly face; I don't like it simply 
 because you do like it so much. In fact, you seem to like it better 
 than you do me." 
 
 "No childishness, Dorothea!" said Daniel quietly. "You must 
 get your mind on higher things; and you must respect my spirits."
 
 DOROTHEA 409 
 
 Dorothea became silent. She did not understand him. She 
 looked at him with a touch of distrust. She thought the mask 
 was a picture of one of his old sweethearts. She made a mouth. 
 
 "You said something about playing at the party, Dorothea," 
 continued Daniel. "Do you realise that I never heard you play? 
 I will frankly confess to you that heretofore I have been afraid to 
 hear you. I could tolerate only the excellent; or the promise of 
 excellence. You may show both; and yet, what is the cause of 
 my fear? You have not practised in a long while; not once since 
 we have been living together. And yet you wish to play in 
 public? That is strange, Dorothea. Be so good as to get your 
 violin and play a piece for me, won't you?" 
 
 Dorothea went into the next room, got her violin case, came 
 out, took the violin, and began to rub the bow with rosin. As 
 she was tuning the A string, she lifted her eyebrows and said: "Do 
 you really want me to play?" 
 
 She bit her lips and played an etude by Fiorillo. Having fin- 
 ished it but not having drawn a word of comment from Daniel, 
 she again took up the violin and played a rather lamentable selec- 
 tion by Wieniawski. 
 
 Daniel maintained his silence for a long while. "Pretty good, 
 Dorothea," he said at last. "You have, other things being equal, 
 a very pleasant pastime there." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Dorothea with noticeable rapidity, 
 a heavy blush colouring her cheeks. 
 
 "Is it anything more than that, Dorothea?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" she repeated, embarrassed and indignant. 
 "I should think that my violin is more than a pastime." 
 
 Daniel got up, walked over to her, took the bow gently from her 
 hands, seized it by both ends, and broke it in two. 
 
 Dorothea screamed, and looked at him in hopeless consternation. 
 
 With great earnestness Daniel replied: "If the music I hear is 
 not of unique superiority, it sounds in my ears like something 
 that has been hashed over a thousand times. My wife must con- 
 sider herself quite above a reasonably melodious dilettantism." 
 
 Tears rushed to Dorothea's eyes. Again she was unable to grasp 
 the meaning of it all. She even imagined that Daniel was making 
 a conscious effort to be cruel to her. 
 
 For her violin playing had been a means of pleasing pleasing 
 herself, the world. It had been a means of rising in the world, 
 of compelling admiration in others and blinding others. This was 
 the only consideration that made her submit to the stern discipline
 
 4 io THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 her father imposed upon her. She possessed ambition, but she 
 sold herself to praise without regard for the praiser. And whatever 
 an agreement of unknown origin demanded in the way of feeling, 
 sht fancied she could satisfy it by keeping her mind on her own 
 wishes, pleasures, and delights while playing. 
 
 Daniel put his arms around her and kissed her. She broke away 
 from him in 1 petulance, and went over to the window. "You 
 might have told me that I do not play well enough for you," she 
 exclaimed angrily and sobbed; "there was no need for you to break 
 my bow. I never play. It never occurred to me to bother you 
 by playing." She wept like a spoiled child. 
 
 It cost Daniel a good deal of persuasion to pacify her. Finally 
 he saw that there was no use to talk to her; he sighed and said 
 nothing more. After a while he took her pocket handkerchief, 
 and dried the tears from her eyes, laughing as he did so. "What 
 was really in my mind was that party at Frau Feistelmann's. I did 
 not want you to go. For I do not put much faith in that kind of 
 entertainment. They do not enrich you, though they do incite all 
 kinds of desires. But because I have treated you harshly, you may 
 go. Possibly it will make you forget your troubles, you little 
 fool." 
 
 "Oh, I thank you for your offer; but I don't want to go," 
 replied Dorothea snappishly, and left the room. 
 
 Yet Dorothea said the next day at the dinner table that she was 
 going to accept the invitation. It would be much easier just to go 
 and have it over with, she remarked, than to stay away and explain 
 her absence. She said this in a way that would lead you to believe 
 that it had cost her much effort to come to her decision. 
 
 "Certainly, go!" said Daniel. "I have already advised you to do 
 it myself." 
 
 She had had a dark blue velvet dress made, and she wanted to 
 wear it for the first time on this occasion. 
 
 Toward five o'clock Daniel went to his bedroom. He saw 
 Dorothea standing before the mirror in her new dress. It was a 
 tall, narrow mirror on a console. Dorothea had received it from 
 her father as a wedding present. 
 
 "What is the matter with her?" thought Daniel, on noticing 
 her complete lack of excitement. She was as if lost in the reflec-
 
 DOROTHEA 411 
 
 tion of herself in the mirror. There was something rigid, drawn, 
 transported about her eyes. She did not see that Daniel was stand- 
 ing in the room. When she raised her arm and turned her head, 
 it was to enjoy these gestures in the mirror. 
 
 "Dorothea!" said Daniel gently. 
 
 She started, looked at him thoughtfully, and , smiled a heady 
 smile. 
 
 Daniel was anxious, apprehensive. 
 
 "I am related to Daniel, and we must address each other by the 
 familiar Du," said Philippina to Dorothea. Daniel's wife agreed. 
 
 Every morning when Dorothea came into the kitchen Philippina 
 would say: "Well, what did you dream?" 
 
 "I dreamt I was at the station and it was wartime, and some 
 gipsies came along and carried me off," said Dorothea on one 
 occasion. 
 
 "Station means an unexpected visit; war means discord with 
 various personalities; and gipsies mean that you are going to have 
 to do with some flippant people." All this Philippina rattled off in 
 the High German of her secret code. 
 
 Philippina was also an adept in geomancy. Dorothea would 
 often sit by her side, and ask her whether this fellow or that fellow 
 were in love with her, whether this girl loved that fellow and 
 the other girl another, and so on through the whole table of local 
 infatuations. Philippina would make a number of dots on a sheet 
 of paper, fill in the numbers, hold the list up to the light, and 
 divulge the answer of the oracle. 
 
 In a very short while the two were one heart, one soul. Doro- 
 thea could always count on Philippina's laughter of approval when 
 she fell into one of her moods of excessive friskiness. And if 
 Agnes failed to show the proper amount of interest, Philippina 
 would poke her in the ribs and exclaim: "You little rascallion, has 
 the cat got your tongue?" 
 
 Agnes would then sneak off in mournful silence to her school 
 books, and sit for hours over the simplest kind of a problem in the 
 whole arithmetic. Dorothea would occasionally bring her a piece 
 of taffy. She would wrap it up, put it in her pocket, and give it 
 the next day to a school-mate from whose note book she had copied 
 her sums in subtraction.
 
 412 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Herr Seelenfromm stopped Philippina on the street, and said to 
 her: "Well, how are you getting along? How is the young wife 
 making out? " 
 
 "Oi, oi, we're living on the fat of the land, I say," Philippina 
 replied, stretching her mouth from ear to ear. "Chicken every 
 day, cake too, wine always on hand, and one guest merely opens 
 the door on another." 
 
 "Nothafft must have made a pile of money," remarked Herr 
 Seelenfromm in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, he must. Nobody works at our house. The wife's pocket- 
 book at least is always crammed." 
 
 The sky was blue, the sun was bright, spring had come. 
 
 VI 
 
 Andreas Doderlein always took Sunday dinner with his children. 
 He loved a juicy leg of pork, a salad garnished with greens and 
 eggs, and a tart drowned in sugar. Old Jordan, who was privileged 
 to sit at the table, let the individual morsels dissolve on his tongue. 
 He had never had such delicacies placed before him in his life. 
 At times he would cast a glance of utter astonishment at Daniel. 
 
 He very rarely took part in the conversation. As soon as the 
 dishes had been removed, he would get up and quietly go to his 
 room. 
 
 "A very remarkable old man," said Andreas Doderlein one Sun- 
 day, as he sat tipped back on his chair, picking his teeth. 
 
 "Ah, we have our troubles with him," said Dorothea abusively, 
 "he is an incorrigible pot-watcher. He comes to the kitchen ten 
 times a day, sticks his nose up in the air, asks what we are going 
 to have for dinner, and then goes out and stands in the hall, with 
 the result that our guests come and stumble over him." 
 
 Andreas Doderlein emitted a growl of lament. 
 
 "How are your finances, my son?" he asked, turning to Daniel 
 with an air of marked affability. "Would you not like to bolster 
 up your income by taking a position in the conservatory? You 
 would have time for it; your work as organist at St. TEgydius does 
 not take up all your time. Herold is going to be retired, you 
 know. He is seventy-five and no longer able to meet the require- 
 ments. All that we will have to do will be for me to give you 
 my backing. Three thousand marks a year, allocation to your 
 widow after ten years of service, extra fees I should think you 
 would regard that as a most enticing offer. Or don't you?"
 
 DOROTHEA 413 
 
 Dorothea ran up to her father in a spirit of unrestrained jubila- 
 tion, threw her arms around his bulky body, and kissed him on his 
 flabby cheek. 
 
 "No thanks to me, my child," said the Olympian; "to stand 
 by you two is of course my duty." 
 
 "What sort of a swollen stranger is that, anyhow? " thought 
 Daniel to himself. "What does he want of me? Why does he 
 come into my house and sit down at my table? Why is he so 
 familiar with me? Why does he blow his breath on me? " Daniel 
 was silent. 
 
 "I understand, my dear son, that you would abandon your 
 leisure hours only with the greatest reluctance," continued Doder- 
 lein with concealed sarcasm, "but after all, who can live precisely 
 as he would like to live? Who can follow his own inclinations 
 entirely? The everyday feature of human existence is powerful. 
 Icarus must fall to the earth. With your wife anticipating a 
 happy event, you cannot, of course, hesitate in the face of such 
 an offer." 
 
 Daniel cast an angry look at Dorothea. 
 
 "I will think it over," said Daniel, got up, and left the room. 
 
 "It is unpleasant for him," complained Dorothea; "he values his 
 leisure above everything else in the world. But I will do all in 
 my power to bring him around, Father. And you keep at him. 
 He will resist and object. I know him." 
 
 Thus it was brought to light that Daniel was no longer a mys- 
 terious and unfathomable individual in her estimation. She had 
 found him out; she had divined him, in her way to be sure. He 
 was much simpler than she had imagined, and at times she was 
 really a bit angry at him for not arousing her curiosity more than 
 he did. What she had fancied as highly interesting, thrilling, 
 intoxicating, had proved to be quite simple and ordinary. The 
 charm was gone, never to return. Her sole diversion lay in her 
 attempts to get complete control over him through the skilful 
 manipulation of her senses and her priceless youth. 
 
 Daniel felt that she was disappointed; he had been afraid of this 
 all along. His anxiety increased with time, for it was evident 
 that everything he said or did disappointed her. His anxiety 
 caused him to be indulgent, where he had formerly been unbend- 
 ing. The difference in their ages made him patient and tractable. 
 He feared he could not show her the love that she in her fresh- 
 ness and natural, unconsumed robustness desired. On this account 
 he denied himself many things which he formerly could not have
 
 414 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 got along without, and put up with many things that would have 
 been intolerable to him as a younger man. 
 
 It needed only a single hour at night to make him promise to 
 accept the position old Herold was leaving. He, as parsimonious 
 with words as in the expression of feelings, succumbed to her cat- 
 like cuddling. He capitulated in the face of her unpitying ridi- 
 cule, and surrendered all to the prurient agility of a young body. 
 Dark powers there are that set up dependencies between man and 
 woman. When they rule, things do not work out in accordance 
 with set calculation or inborn character. It takes but a single hour 
 of the night to bend the most sacred truth, of life into a lie. 
 
 In the course of time Daniel had to provide for an increase in 
 his annual salary. Dorothea had made a great many innovations 
 that cost money. She had bought a dressing table, a number of 
 cabinets, and a bath tub. The lamps, dishes, bed covers, and 
 curtains she found old-fashioned, and simply went out and bought 
 new ones. 
 
 Nothing gave her greater pleasure than to go shopping. Then 
 the bills came in, and Daniel shook his head. He begged her to 
 be more saving, but she would fall on his neck, and beseech and 
 beseech until he acceded to every single one of her wishes. 
 
 She rarely came home with empty hands. It may have been 
 only little things that she bought, a manikin of porcelain with a 
 tile hat and an umbrella, or a pagoda with a wag-head, or even 
 merely a mouse-trap but they all cost money. 
 
 Philippina would be called in; Philippina was to admire the 
 purchases. And she would say with apparent delight: "Now ain't 
 that sweet!" Or, "Now that's fine; jwe needed a mouse-trap so 
 bad! There was a mouse on the clothes rack just yesterday, cross 
 my heart, Daniel." 
 
 As to hats, dresses, stockings, shoes, laces, and blouses when it 
 came to these Dorothea was a stranger to such concepts as measure 
 or modesty. She wanted to compete with the wives of the rich 
 people whose parties she attended, and next to whom she sat in 
 the pastry shop or at the theatre. 
 
 She was given free tickets to the theatre and the concerts. But 
 once when she had told Daniel that the director had sent her a 
 ticket, he learned from Philippina that she had bought the ticket 
 and paid for it with her own money. He did not call her to
 
 DOROTHEA 415 
 
 account, but he could not get the thought out of his mind that she 
 had believed she had deceived him. 
 
 He did not accompany her on her pleasure jaunts; he wanted to 
 work and not double even the smallest expenditure by going with 
 her. Dorothea had become accustomed to this. She looked upon 
 his apathy toward the theatre and his dislike of social distractions 
 as a caprice, a crotchet on his part. She never considered what 
 he had gone through in the way of theatricals and concerts; she 
 had completely forgotten what he had confessed to her in a de- 
 cisive hour. 
 
 When she came home late in the evening with burning cheeks 
 and glowing eyes, Daniel did not have the courage to give her 
 the advice he felt she so sorely needed. "Why snatch her from 
 her heaven?" he thought. "She will become demure and quiet in 
 time; her wild lust for pleasure will fade and disappear." 
 
 He was afraid of her pouting mien, her tears, her perplexed 
 looks, her defiant running about. But he lacked the words to 
 express himself. He knew how ineffectual warning and reproach 
 might be and were. Empty talking back and forth he could not 
 stand, while if he made a really human remark it found no re- 
 sponse. She did not appreciate what he said; she misunderstood, 
 misinterpreted everything. She laughed, shrugged her shoulders, 
 pouted, called him an old grouch, or cooed like a dove. She did 
 not look at him with real eyes; there was no flow of soul in what 
 she did. 
 
 Gloom filled his heart. 
 
 The waste in the household affairs became worse and worse from 
 week to week. Daniel would have felt like a corner grocer if he 
 had never let her know how much he had saved, or had given her 
 less than she asked for. And so his money was soon all gone. 
 Dorothea troubled herself very little about the economic side of 
 their married life. She told Philippina what to do, and fell into 
 a rage if her orders were not promptly obeyed. 
 
 "It's too dull for her here. My God, such a young woman!" 
 said Philippina to Daniel with simulated regret. "She wants to 
 have a good time; she wants to enjoy her life. And you can't 
 blame her." 
 
 Philippina was the mistress of the house. She went to the 
 market, paid the bills, superintended the cook and the washwoman, 
 and rejoiced with exceeding great and fiendish joy when she saw 
 how rapidly everything was goinjz downhill, downhill irresistibly 
 and as sure a* vnur life.
 
 4 i6 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 As the time approached for Dorothea's confinement she very 
 rarely left the house. She would lie in bed until about eleven 
 o'clock, when she would get up, dress, comb her hair, go through 
 her wardrobe, and write letters. 
 
 She carried on a most elaborate correspondence; those who 
 received her letters praised her amusing style. 
 
 After luncheon she would go back to bed; and late in the after- 
 noon her visitors came in, not merely women but all sorts of young 
 men. It often happened that Daniel did not even know the names 
 of the people. He would withdraw to the room Eleanore had 
 formerly occupied, and from which he could hear laughter and 
 loud talk resounding through the hall. 
 
 By evening Dorothea was tired. She would sit in the rocking 
 chair and read the newspaper, or the Wiener Mode, generally not 
 in the best of humour. 
 
 Daniel confidently believed that all this would change for the 
 better as soon as the child had been born; he believed that the 
 feeling of a mother and the duties of a mother would have a 
 broadening and subduing effect on her. 
 
 Late in the autumn Dorothea gave birth to a boy, who was 
 baptised Gottfried. She could not do enough by way of showing 
 her affection for the child; her transports were expressed in the 
 most childish terms; her display of tenderness was almost ex- 
 cessive. 
 
 For six days she nursed the child herself. Then the novelty 
 wore off, friends told her it would ruin her shape to keep it up, 
 and she quit. "It makes you stout," she said to Philippina, "and 
 cow's milk is just as good, if not better." 
 
 Philippina opened her mouth and eyes as wide as she could when 
 she saw Dorothea standing before the mirror, stripped to the hips, 
 studying the symmetry of her body with a seriousness that no one 
 had ever noticed in her before. 
 
 Dorothea became coldly indifferent toward her child; it seemed 
 that she had entirely forgotten that she was a mother. The baby 
 slept in the room with Philippina and Agnes, both of whom cared 
 for it. Its mother was otherwise engaged. 
 
 As if to make up for lost time and to indemnify herself for the 
 suffering and general inconvenience to which she had been put in 
 the last few months, Dorothea rushed with mad greediness into 
 new pleasure* and strange diversions. Soon however she found
 
 DOROTHEA 41? 
 
 herself embarrassed from a lack of funds. Daniel told her, kindly 
 but firmly, that the salaries he was drawing as organist and teacher 
 were just barely enough to keep the house going, and that he was 
 curtailing his own personal needs as much as possible so that there 
 would be no cause to discontinue or diminish the home comforts 
 they had latterly been enjoying. "We are not peasants," he said, 
 "and that we are not living from the mercy of chance is a flaw 
 in me rather than in my favour." 
 
 "You old pinch-penny!" said Dorothea. Ugly wrinkles ap- 
 peared on her brow. "If you had not made me disgusted with my 
 art, I might have been able to make a little money too," she added. 
 
 He looked down at the floor in complete silence. She how- 
 ever began thinking about ways and means of getting her hands on 
 money. "Uncle Carovius might help me," she thought. She took 
 to visiting her father more frequently, and every time she came 
 she would stand out in the hall for a while hoping to see Herr 
 Carovius. One day he appeared. She wanted to speak to him, 
 smile at him, win him over. But one look from that face, filled 
 with petrified and ineradicable rage, showed her that any attempt 
 to approach the old man and get him in a friendly frame of mind 
 would be fruitless. 
 
 On the way home she chanced to meet the actor Edmund Hahn. 
 She had not seen him since she had been married. The actor 
 seemed tremendously pleased to see her. They walked along to- 
 gether, engaged in a zealous conversation, talking at first loudly 
 and then gently. 
 
 The day Dorothea got married, Herr Carovius had gone to his 
 lawyer to have the will he had drawn up the night before attested 
 to. He had bequeathed his entire fortune, including his home 
 and the furniture, to an institution to be erected after his death for 
 the benefit of orphans of noble birth. Baron Eberhard von 
 Auffenbcrg had been named as first director of the institution and 
 sole executor of his will. 
 
 Herr Carovius refused to have anything more to do with music. 
 He had a leather cover made for his long, narrow grand piano, 
 and enshrouded in this, the instrument resembled a stuffed animal. 
 He looked back on his passion for music as one of the aberrations 
 of his youth, though he realised that he was chastising his spirit 
 till it hurt when he took this attitude.
 
 418 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 The method he employed to keep from having nothing to do was 
 characteristic of the man: he went through all the books of his 
 library looking for typographical errors. He spent hours every 
 day at this work; he read the scientific treatises and the volumes of 
 pure literature with his attention fixed on individual letters. When, 
 after infinite search, he discovered a word that had been mis- 
 spelled, or a grammatical slip, he felt like a fisherman who, after 
 waiting long and patiently, finally sees a fish dangling on the hroh 
 
 Otherwise he was thoroughly unhappy. The beautiful evenness 
 of his hair on the back of his neck had been transformed into a 
 shaggy wilderness. He could be seen going along the street in a 
 suit of clothes that was peppered with spots, while his Calabrian 
 hat resembled a war tent that has gone through a number of major 
 offensives. 
 
 He had again taken to frequenting the Paradise Cafe two or 
 three times a week, not exactly to surrender himself to mournful 
 memories, but because the coffee there cost twenty pfennigs, 
 whereas the more modern cafes were charging twenty-five. His 
 dinner consisted of a pot of coffee and a few rolls. 
 
 It came about that old Jordan likewise began to frequent the 
 Paradise. For a long while the two men would go there, sit down 
 at their chosen tables, and study each other at a distance. Finally 
 the day came when they sat down together; then it became a 
 custom for them to take their places at the same table, one back 
 in the corner by the stove, where a quiet comradeship developed 
 between them. It was rare that their conversation went beyond 
 external platitudes. 
 
 Herr Carovius acted as though he were merely enduring old 
 Jordan. But he never really became absorbed in his newspaper 
 until the old man had come and sat down at the table with him, 
 greeting him with marked respect as he did so. Jordan, however, 
 did not conceal his delight when, on entering the cafe and casting 
 his eyes around the room, they at last fell on Herr Carovius. 
 While he sipped his coffee, he never took them off the wicked 
 face of his vis-a-vis. 
 
 Philippina became Dorothea's confidential friend. 
 
 At first it was nothing more than Dorothea's desire to gossip that 
 drew her to Philippina. Later she fell into the habit of telling 
 her everything she knew. She felt no need of keeping any secret
 
 DOROTHEA 419 
 
 from Philippina, the inexplicable. The calm attentiveness with 
 which Philippina listened to her flattered her, and left her without 
 a vestige of suspicion. She felt that Philippina was too stupid 
 and uncultivated to view her activities in perspective or pass judg- 
 ment on them. 
 
 She liked to conjure up seductive pictures before the old maid's 
 imagination; for she loved to hear Philippina abuse the male of the 
 species. If some bold plan were maturing in her mind, she would 
 tell Philippina about it just as if it had already been executed. 
 In this way she tested the possibility of really carrying out her 
 designs, and procured for herself a foretaste of what was to follow. 
 
 It was chiefly Philippina's utter ugliness that made her trust her. 
 Such a homely creature was in her eyes not a woman, hardly a 
 human being of either sex; and with her she felt she could talk 
 just as much as she pleased, and say anything that came into her 
 head. And since Philippina never spoke of Daniel in any but a 
 derogatory and spiteful tone, Dorothea felt perfectly safe on that 
 ground. 
 
 She would come into the kitchen, and sit down on a bench and 
 talk: about a silk dress she had seen for sale; about the fine com- 
 pliments Court Councillor Finkeldey had paid her; about the love 
 affairs of these and the divorce proceedings of those; about Frau 
 Feistelmann's pearls, remarking that she would give ten years of 
 her life if she also had such pearls. In fact, the word she used 
 most frequently was "also." She trembled and shook from head to 
 foot with desires and wishes, low-minded unrest and lusts that 
 flourish in the dark. 
 
 Often she would tell stories of her life in Munich. She told 
 how she once spent a night with an artist in his studio, just for 
 fun; and how on another occasion she had gone with an officer to 
 the barracks at night simply on a wager. She told of all the 
 fine-looking men who ran after her, and how she dropped them 
 whenever she felt like it. She said she would let them kiss her 
 sometimes, but that was all; or she would walk arm in arm with 
 them through the forest, but that was all. She commented on the 
 fact that in Munich you had to keep an eye out for the police and 
 observe their hours, otherwise there might be trouble. For exam- 
 ple, a swarthy Italian kept following her once he was a regular 
 Conte and she couldn't make the man go on about his business, and 
 you know he rushed into her room and held a revolver before her 
 face, and she screamed, of course she did, until the whole house 
 was awake, and there was an awful excitement.
 
 420 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Whin Daniel endeavoured to put a stop to her wastefulness, she 
 went to Philippina and complained. Philippina encouraged her. 
 "Don't you let him get away with anything," said she, "let him 
 feel that a woman with your beauty didn't have to marry a skin- 
 flint." 
 
 When she began to go with Edmund Hahn, she told Philippina 
 all about it. "You ought to see him, Philippina," she whispered in 
 a mysterious way. "He is a regular Don Juan ; he can turn the head 
 of any woman." She said he had been madly in love with her for 
 two years, and now he was going to gamble for her; but in a very 
 aristocratic and exclusive club, to which none but the nicest people 
 belonged. "If I win, Philippina, I am going to make you a lovely 
 present," she said. 
 
 From then on her conversation became rather tangled and inco- 
 herent. She was out a great deal, and when she returned she was 
 always in a rather uncertain condition. She had Philippina put 
 up her hair, and every word she spoke during the operation was 
 a lie. One time she confessed that she had not been in the theatre, 
 as Daniel had supposed, but at the house of a certain Frau Baumler, 
 a good friend of Edmund Hahn. Thev had been gambling: she 
 had won sixty marks. She looked at trw. door as if in fear, took out 
 her purse, and showed Philippina three gold pieces. 
 
 Philippina had to swear that she would not give Dorothea away. 
 A few days later Dorothea got into another party and got out of it 
 successfully, and Philippina had to renew her oath. The old maid 
 could take an oath with an ease and glibness such as she might 
 have displayed in saying good morning. In the bottom of her heart 
 she never failed to grant herself absolution for the perjury she was 
 committing. For the time being she wished to collect, take notes, 
 follow the game wherever it went. Moreover, it tickled and 
 satisfied her senses to think about relations and situations which she 
 knew full well she could never herself experience. 
 
 Dorothea became more and more ensnared. Her eyes looked 
 like will-o'-the-wisps, her laugh was jerky and convulsive. She 
 never had time, either for her husband or her child. She would 
 receive letters occasionally that she would read with greedy haste 
 and then tear into shreds. Philippina came into her room once 
 quite suddenly; Dorothea, terrified, hid a photograph she had been 
 holding in her hand. When Philippina became indignant at the 
 secrecy of her action, she said with an air of inoffensive superiority: 
 "You would not understand it, Philippina. That is something I 
 cannot discuss with any one."
 
 DOROTHEA 421 
 
 But Philippina's vexation worried her: she showed her the photo- 
 graph. It was the picture of a young man with a cold, crusty face. 
 Dorothea said it was an American whom she had met at Frau 
 Baumler's. He was said to be very rich and alone. 
 
 Every evening Philippina wanted to know something about the 
 American. "Tell me about the American," she would say. 
 
 One evening, quite late, Dorothea came into Philippina's room 
 with nothing on but her night-gown. Agnes and little Gottfried 
 were asleep. "The American has ;a box at the theatre to-morrow 
 erening. If you call for me you can see him," she whispered. 
 
 "I am bursting with curiosity," replied Philippina. 
 
 For a while Dorothea sat in perfect silence, and then exclaimed: 
 "If I only had money, Philippin', if I only had money!" 
 
 "I thought the American had piles of it," replied Philippina. 
 
 "Of course he has money, lots of it," said Dorothea, and her 
 eyes flashed, "but" 
 
 "But? What do you mean?" 
 
 "Do you think men do things without being compensated?" 
 
 "Oh, that's it," said Philippina reflectively, "that's it." She 
 crouched on a hassock at Dorothea's feet. "How pretty you are, 
 how sweet," she said in her bass voice: "God, what pretty little 
 feet you have! And what smooth white skin! Marble's got 
 nothing on you." And with the carnal concupiscence of a faun in 
 woman's form she took Dorothea's leg in her hand and stroked the 
 skin as far as the knee. 
 
 Dorothea shuddered. As she looked down at the cowering 
 Philippina, she noticed that there was a button missing on her 
 blouse. Through the opening, just between her breasts, she saw 
 something brown. "What is that on your body there?" asked 
 Dorothea. 
 
 Philippina blushed. "Nothing for you," shelreplied in a rough 
 tone, and held her hand over the opening in her blouse. 
 
 "Tell me, Philippina, tell me," begged Dorothea, who could not 
 stand the thought of any one keeping a secret from her: "Possibly 
 it is your dowry. Possibly you have made a savings bank out of 
 your bosom?" She laughed lustily. 
 
 Philippina got up: "Yes, it is my money," she confessed with 
 reluctance, and looked at Dorothea hostilcly. 
 
 "It must be a whole lot. Look out, or some one will steal it 
 from you. You will have to sleep on your stomach." 
 
 Daniel came down from his study, and heard Dorothea laugh- 
 ing. Grief was gnawing at his heart; he passed hastily by the door.
 
 422 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 XI 
 
 One evening, as Philippina came into the hall from the street, 
 she saw a man coming up to her in the dark; he called her by 
 name. She thought she recognised his voice, and on looking at him 
 more closely saw that it was her father. 
 
 She had not spoken to him for ten years. She had seen him 
 from time to time at a distance, but she had always made it a point 
 to be going in another direction as soon as she saw him; she 
 avoided him, absolutely. 
 
 "What's the news?" she asked in a friendly tone. 
 
 Jason Philip cleared his throat, and tried to get out of the light 
 in the hall and back into the shadow: he wished to conceal his 
 shabby clothes from his daughter. 
 
 "Now, listen," he began with affected naturalness, "you might 
 inquire about your parents once in a while. The few steps over to 
 our house wouldn't make you break your legs. Honour thy father 
 and thy mother, you know. Your mother deserves any kindness you 
 can show her. As for me, well, I have dressed you down at times, 
 but only when you needed it. You were a mischievous monkey, 
 and you know it." 
 
 He laughed; but there was the fire of fear in his eyes. Philip- 
 pina was the embodiment of silence. 
 
 "As I was saying," Jason Philip continued hastily, as 'if to 
 prevent any inimical memories of his daughter from coming to his 
 mind, "you might pay a little attention to your parents once in a 
 while: Can't you lend me ten marks? I have got to meet a bill 
 to-morrow morning, and I haven't got a pfennig. The boys, you 
 know, I mean your brothers, are conducting themselves splendidly. 
 They give me something the first of each month, and they do it 
 regularly. But I don't like to go to them about this piddling 
 business to-morrow. I thought that as you were right here in the 
 neighbourhood, I could come over and see you about it." 
 
 Jason Philip was lying. His sons gave him no help whatsoever. 
 Willibald was living in Breslau, where he had a poorly paid position 
 as a bookkeeper and was just barely making ends meet. Markus 
 was good for nothing, and head over heels in debt. 
 
 Philippina thought the matter over for a moment, and then told 
 her father to wait. She went upstairs. Jason Philip waited lat the 
 door, whistling softly. Many years had passed by since he first 
 attacked the civil powers, urged on by a rebellion of noble thoughts 
 in his soul. Many years had passed by since he had made his peace
 
 DOROTHEA 423 
 
 with these same civil powers. Nevertheless, he continued to whistle 
 the "Marseillaise." 
 
 Philippina came waddling down the steps, dragged herself over 
 to the door, and gave her father a five-mark piece. "There," she 
 bellowed, "I haven't any more myself." 
 
 But Jason Philip was satisfied with half the amount he had asked 
 for. He was now equipped for an onslaught on the nearest cafe 
 with its corned beef, sausages, and new beer. 
 
 From this time on he came around to the house on ^Egydius 
 Place quite frequently. He would stand in the hall, look around 
 for Philippina, and if he found her, beg her for money. The 
 amounts Philippina gave him became smaller and smaller. Finally 
 she took to giving him ten pfennigs when he came. 
 
 XII 
 
 It frequently happened that Daniel would not answer when any 
 one asked him a question. His ear lost the words, his eye the 
 pictures, signs, faces, gestures. He was in his own way; he was 
 a torment to himself. 
 
 Something drew him there and then here. He would leave the 
 house, and then be taken with a longing to return. He noticed 
 that people were laughing at him; laughing at him behind his 
 back. He read mockery in the eyes of his pupils; the maids in the 
 house tittered when he passed by. 
 
 What did they know? What were they concealing? Perhaps 
 his soul could have told what they knew and what they concealed; 
 but he was unwilling to drag it all out into the realm of known, 
 nameable things. 
 
 As if an invisible slanderer were at his side, unwilling to leave 
 him, leave him in peace, his despair increased. "What have you 
 done, Daniel!" a voice within him cried, "what have you done!" 
 The shades of the sisters, arm in arm, arose before him. 
 
 The feeling of having made a mistake, a mistake that could 
 never be rectified, burned like fire within him. His work, so 
 nearly completed, had suddenly died away. 
 
 For the sake of his symphony, he forced himself into a quiet 
 frame of mind at night, made room for faint-hearted hopes, and 
 lulled his prescntient soul into peace. 
 
 The thing that troubled him worst of all was the way Philippina 
 looked at him. 
 
 Since the birth of the child he had been living in Eleanore's
 
 424 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 room. Old Jordan was consideration itself: he went around in 
 his stocking feet so as not to disturb him. 
 
 One night Daniel took the candle, and went downstairs to 
 Dorothea's room. She woke up, screamed, looked at him bewil- 
 dered, recognised him, became indignant, and then 'laughed mock- 
 ingly and sensually. 
 
 He sat down on the side of her bed, and took her right hand 
 between his two. But he had a disagreeable sensation on feeling 
 her hand in his, and looked at her fingers. They were not 
 finely formed: they were thicker at the ends than in the middle; 
 they could not remain quiet; they twitched constantly. 
 
 "This can't keep up, Dorothea," he said in a kindly tone, "you 
 are ruining your own life and mine too. Why do you have all 
 these people around you? Is the pleasure you derive from asso- 
 ciating with them so great that it benumbs your conscience? I 
 have no idea what you are doing. Tell me about it. The house- 
 hold affairs are in a wretched condition; everything is in dis- 
 order. And that cigar smoke out in the living room! I opened 
 a window. And your child! It has no mother. Look at its little 
 face, and see how pale and sickly it looks!" 
 
 "Well, I can't help it; Philippina puts poppy In the milk so 
 that it will sleep longer." Dorothea answered, after the fashion 
 of guilty women: of the various reproaches Daniel had cast at her, 
 she seized upon the one of which she felt the least guilty. But 
 after this, Daniel had no more to say. 
 
 "I am so tired and sleepy," said Dorothea, and again blinked at 
 him out of one corner of her eye with that mocking, sensual look. 
 As he showed no inclination to leave, she yawned, and continued 
 in an angry tone: "Why do you wake a person up in the middle of 
 the night, if all you want is to scold them? Get out of here, you 
 loathsome thing!" 
 
 She turned her back on him, and rested her head on her hand. 
 Opposite her bed was a mirror in a gold frame. She saw herself 
 in it; she was pleased with herself lying there in that offended 
 mood, and she smiled. 
 
 Daniel, who had been so cruel to noble women now become 
 shades, saw how she smiled at herself, infatuated with herself: he 
 took pity on such child-like vanity. 
 
 "There is a Chinese fairy tale about a Princess," he said, and 
 bent down over Dorothea, "who received from her mother as a 
 wedding present a set of jewel boxes. There was a costly present 
 in each box, but the last, smallest, innermost one was locked, and
 
 DOROTHEA 425 
 
 the Princess had to promise that she would never open it. She 
 kept her promise for a while, but curiosity at last got the better 
 of her, she forgot her vow, and opened the last little box by force. 
 There was a mirror in it; and when she looked into it and saw how 
 beautiful she was, she began to abuse her husband. She tortured 
 him so that he killed her one day." 
 
 Dorothea looked at him terrified. Then she laughed and said: 
 "What a stupid story! Such a tale of horror!" She laid her 
 cheek on the pillow, and again looked in the mirror. 
 
 The following morning Daniel received an anonymous lett-r. 
 It read as follows: "You will be guarding your own honour if you 
 keep a sharp lookout on your wife. A Well-wisher." 
 
 A cold fever came over him. For a few days he dragged his 
 body from room to room as if poisoned. He avoided every one in 
 the house. One night he again felt a desire to go down to Doro- 
 thea. When he reached the door to her room, he found it bolted. 
 He knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again, this time 
 more vigorously. He heard her turn her head on the pillow. "Let 
 me sleep!" cried Dorothea angrily. 
 
 "Open the door, Dorothea," he begged. 
 
 "No, I will not; I want to sleep." These were the words that 
 reached his ear from behind the bolted door. 
 
 He pressed three or four times on the latch, implored her 
 three or four times to let him come in, but received no answer. 
 He did not wish to make any more noise, looked straight ahead 
 as if into a dark hole, and then turned and went back to his room 
 in the attic. 
 
 Friedrich Benda was again in Europe. All the newspapers con- 
 tained accounts of the discoveries made on the expedition. Last 
 autumn Arab dealers in ivory had found him in the land of Niam- 
 Niam, taken an interest in him, and finally brought him, then 
 seemingly in the throes of imminent death, back to the Nile. In 
 England he was celebrated as a hero and a bold pioneer; the Royal 
 Geographical Society had made him an honorary member; and the 
 incidents of his journey were the talk of the day. 
 
 Toward the close of April he came to Nuremberg to visit his 
 mother. The blind old woman had been carefully and cautiously 
 prepared for his coming. She nevertheless came very nc.ir dying 
 with joy; her life 'was in grave danger for a while.
 
 426 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Benda had not wished to stay more than a week: his business 
 and hi* work called him back to London; he had lectures to deliver, 
 and he had to see a book through the press, a book in which he had 
 given a description of the years spent in Africa. 
 
 At the urgent request of his mother he had decided to stay 
 longer. Moreover, during the first days of his visit to Nuremberg, 
 he suffered from a severe attack of a fever he had brought with him 
 from the tropics, and this forced him to remain in bed. The 
 newb of his presence in the city finally became generally known, 
 and he was annoyed by the curiosity of many people who had 
 formerly never concerned themselves about him in the slight- 
 est 
 
 He wac eager to see Daniel; every hour of delay in meeting his 
 old friend was an hour of reproach. But his mother insisted that 
 he stay with her; he had to sit near her and tell of his experiences 
 in Africa. 
 
 When he heard of the outer events in Daniel's life he was filled 
 with terror. The fact that made the profoundest impression on 
 him was Daniel's marriage to Dorothea Doderlein. People told 
 him a great many things about their life and how they were getting 
 along, and with each passing day he felt that it would be more 
 difficult to go to Daniel. One evening he got his courage together 
 and decided to go. He got as far as /Egydius Place, when he was 
 seized with such a feeling of sadness and discomfort at the thought 
 of all the changes that time and fate had made that he turned back. 
 He felt as if he might be deceived by a picture which would per- 
 haps still show the features of Daniel as he looked in former years, 
 but that he would be so changed inwardly that words would be 
 unable to bring the two together. 
 
 He longed to talk with some one who loved Daniel and who had 
 followed his career with pure motives. He had to think for a long 
 while: where was there such a person? He thought of old Herold 
 and went to him. He directed the conversation without digression 
 to a point that was of prime importance to him. And in order to 
 put the old man in as confidential a frame of mind as possible, he 
 reminded him of a night when the three of them, Daniel, Herold, 
 and Benda, had sat in the Mohren Cellar drinking wine and dis- 
 cussing things in general, important and unimportant, that have a 
 direct bearing on life. 
 
 The old man nodded; he recalled the evening. He spoke of 
 Daniel's genius with a modesty and a deference that made Benda's 
 heart swell. He raised his finger, and said with a fine fire in his
 
 DOROTHEA 427 
 
 eye: "I'll stand good for him. I prophesy on the word of the 
 Bible: A star will rise from Jacob." 
 
 Then he spoke of Eleanore; he was passionately fond of her. 
 He told how she had brought him the quartette, and how she had 
 glowed with inspiration and the desire to help. He also had a good 
 deal to say about Gertrude, especially with regard to her mental 
 breakdown and her death. 
 
 Benda left the old man at once quiet and disquieted. He 
 walked along the street for a, long while, rapt in thought. When 
 he looked up he saw that he was standing before Daniel's house. 
 He went in. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Daniel knew that Benda had returned: Philippina had read it 
 in the newspaper and told him about it. Dorothea, who had 
 learned of his return from her father, had also spoken to him 
 about it. He had also heard other people speak of it. 
 
 The first time he heard it he was startled. He felt he would 
 have to flee to his friend of former days. Then he was seized 
 with the same fear that had come over Benda: Is our relation to each 
 other the same? The thought of meeting Benda filled him with a 
 sense of shame, to which was added a touch of bitterness as day 
 after day passed by and Benda never called or wrote. "It is all 
 over," he thought, "he has forgotten me." He would have liked to 
 forget too; and he could have done it, for his mind was wandering, 
 restless, strayed. 
 
 One evening as he crossed the square he noticed that the win- 
 dows of his house were all brilliantly lighted. He went to the 
 kitchen, where he found Agnes at the table seeding plums. 
 
 "Who is here again?" he asked. One could hear laughter, loud 
 and boisterous, in the living room. 
 
 Agnes, scarcely looking up, reeled off the names: Councillor 
 Finkeldey, Herr von Ginsterberg, Herr Samuelsky, Herr Hahn, a 
 strange man whose name she did not know, Frau Feistelmann and 
 her sister. 
 
 Daniel remained silent for a while. Then he went up to 
 Agnes, put his hand under her chin, lifted her head, and mur- 
 mured: "And you? And you?" 
 
 Agnes frowned, and was afraid to look into his face. Suddenly 
 she said: "To-day is the anniversary of mother's death." With 
 that she looked at him fixedly.
 
 428 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "So?" said Daniel, sat down on the edge of the table, and 
 laid his head in his hand. Some one was playing the piano in the 
 living room. Since Daniel had taken the grand piano up to his 
 room, Dorothea had rented a small one. The rhythmical move- 
 ment of dancing couples could be heard quite distinctly. 
 
 "I'd like to leave this place," said Agnes, as she threw a worm- 
 eaten plum in the garbage can. "In Beckschlager Street there is a 
 seamstress who wants to teach me to sew." 
 
 "Why don't you go?" asked Daniel. "It would be a very sensible 
 thing to do. But what will Philippina say about it?" 
 
 "Oh, she doesn't object, provided I spend my evenings and 
 Sundays with her." 
 
 The front door bell rang, and Agnes went out: there was some 
 one to see Daniel. He hesitated, started toward the door, shook 
 and stepped back, seized with trembling hand the kitchen lamp in 
 order to make certain that he was not mistaken, for it was dark, 
 but there could be no mistake. It was Benda. 
 
 They looked at each other in violent agitation. Benda was the 
 first to reach out his hand; then Daniel reached out his. Something 
 seemed to snap within him. He became dizzy; his tall, stiff body 
 swung back and forth. Then he fell into the arms of his friend, 
 whom he had lived without for seventeen years. 
 
 Benda was not prepared for such a scene; he was unable to 
 speak. Then Daniel tore himself loose from the embrace of his 
 old comrade, pushed the dishevelled hair back from his forehead, 
 and said hastily: "Come upstairs with me; no one will disturb us 
 up there." 
 
 Daniel lighted the lamp in his room, and then looked around to 
 see whether old Jordan was at home. Jordan's room was dark. 
 He closed the door and took a seat opposite Benda. He was breath- 
 ing heavily. 
 
 What meaning can be attached to the preliminary questions and 
 answers that invariably accompany such a meeting after such a long 
 separation? "How are you? How long are you going to stay in 
 town? You still have the same old habits of life? Tell me about 
 yourself." What do such questions mean? They mean virtually 
 nothing. The protagonists thereby simply remove the rubbish from 
 the channels which have been choked up in the course of years, and 
 try to build new bridges carrying them over abysses that must be 
 crossed it the conversation is to be connected and coherent. 
 
 Benda had grown somewhat stout. His face was brownish
 
 DOROTHEA 429 
 
 yellow, about the colour of leather. The deep wrinkles around his 
 forehead and mouth told of the hardships he had gone through. 
 His eye was completely changed: it had the strong, vivacious, and 
 yet quiet appearance of the eye of a hunter or a peasant. 
 
 "You may well imagine that I have already told the story of my 
 adventures in Africa a hundred times and in the same way," said 
 Benda. "It has all been written down, and will shortly appear in 
 book form, where you can read it. It was an unbroken chain of toil 
 and trouble. Frequently I was as close to death as I am to this wall. 
 I devoured enough quinine to fill a freight car, and yet it was 
 always the same old story, fever to-day, to-moirow, for six months 
 in the year. I have, I fear, ruined my health; I am afraid my 
 old heart will not last much longer. The eternal vigilance I was 
 obliged to exercise, the incessant fight for so simple a thing as a 
 path, or for more urgent things such as food and drink, has told 
 on me. I suffered terribly from the sun; also from the rain. I 
 had very few of the comforts of life; I was often forced to sleep 
 on the ground. And there was no one to talk to, no sense of 
 security." 
 
 "And yet," he continued, "I had my reward. When I look 
 back on it all, there is not an hour that I would care to have wiped 
 from my memory. I accomplished a great deal. I made some im- 
 portant discoveries, brought back enough work to keep me busy for 
 years to come, thirty-six boxes of plant preparations, and this despite 
 the fact that the entire fruit of my first seven years of effort was 
 burned in a tent near Nembos. But apart from what I have actu- 
 ally done, there is something so real and solemn about such a life. 
 You live with the sky above you and savages round about you. 
 These savages are like children. This state of affairs is, to be sure, 
 being rapidly changed: Europe is breathing its pest into the para- 
 dise. The wiles and weaknesses of these savages are in a way 
 touching; you feel sorry for them as you feel sorry for a dumb, 
 harassed beast. I had taken a boy along with me from the bound- 
 less, primeval forests north of the Congo. He was a little bit of 
 a fellow, almost a dwarf. I liked him; I even loved him. And 
 obedient! I merely had to make a sign, and he was ready. Well, 
 we came back to the Italian lakes, where I wished to remain for 
 a while for the sake of the climate before returning to England. 
 What happened? At the sight of the snow-covered mountain peaks 
 he was seized with deathly fear; he became homesick; and in a few 
 days he died of pneumonia."
 
 430 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "Why is it that there was such a long period that we never heard 
 from you?" asked Daniel, with a timidity and shyness that made 
 Benda's heart ache. 
 
 "That is a long story," said Benda. "It took me two years to 
 get through that fearful forest and out to a lake called Albert- 
 Nyanza. From there I wanted to get over to Egypt, but the coun- 
 try was in a state of revolution and was occupied by the soldiers 
 of the Mahdi. I was forced to take the route to the Northwest, 
 ran into a' pathless wilderness, and for five years was a captive of 
 a tribe of the Wadai. The Niam-Niam, who were at war with the 
 Wadai, liberated me. I could move about with relative freedom 
 among them, but I could not go beyond their boundaries, for they 
 held me in high esteem as a medicine man and were afraid I would 
 bewitch them if I ever got out of their personal control. I had 
 lost my guides, and I had no money to hire new ones. The things 
 I needed, because of the delicacy of my constitution, as compared 
 with theirs, I secured through the chieftain from a band of 
 Arabian merchants. This was all very well so far as it went, but 
 the chieftain was careful to keep me concealed from the Arabs. 
 I finally succeeded in coming into personal touch with a Sheik to 
 whom I could make myself understood. It was high time, for I 
 could not have stood it another year." 
 
 Daniel was silent. It was all so strange; he could hardly adapt 
 himself to Benda's voice and manner. Memory failed him. The 
 world of Benda was all too foreign, unknown to him. What he 
 himself felt had no weight with his friend; it did not even have 
 meaning. With the old sense of dim defiance, he coaxed 
 the ghost of disappointment into his soul; and his soul was 
 weighed down by the nocturnal darkness like the glass of his 
 window. 
 
 "Now I am enjoying my home," said Benda thoughtfully, "I 
 am enjoying a milder light, a more ordered civilisation. I have 
 come to look upon Germany as a definite figure, to love it as a 
 composite picture. Nature, really great, grand nature such as 
 formerly seemed beyond the reach of my longings, such as con- 
 stituted my idea, my presentiment of perfection, I have experi- 
 enced in person; I have lived it. It enticed me, taught me, and 
 almost destroyed me. All human organisation, on the contrary, has 
 developed more and more into an idea. In hours that were as full 
 of the feeling of things as the heart is full of blood, I have seen 
 the scales of the balance move up and down with the weight of 
 two worlds. The loneliness, the night, the heavens at night, the
 
 DOROTHEA 431 
 
 forest, the desert have shown me their true faces. The terrible- 
 ness that at times proceeds from them has no equal in any other 
 condition of existence. I understood for the first time the law 
 that binds families, peoples, states together. I have repudiated all 
 thought of rebellion, and sworn to co-operate, to do nothing but 
 co-operate. 
 
 "I want to make a confession to you," he continued. "I never 
 had the faintest conception of the rhythm of life until I went to 
 Africa. I hr.d known how long it takes to grow a tree; I was 
 familiar with the metamorphoses through which a plant must 
 pass before it attains to perfection and becomes what it is; but it 
 had never occurred to me to apply these laws and facts to our own 
 lives; this had never entered my mind. I had demanded too 
 much; I had been in too much of a hurry. Egoistic impatience had 
 placed false weights and measures in my hands. What I have 
 learned during these seventeen years of trial and hardship is pa- 
 tience. Everything moves so slowly. Humanity is still a child, 
 and yet we demand justice of it, expect right and righteous action 
 from it. Justice? Oh, there is still a long, long road to be trav- 
 elled before we reach Justice! The way is as long and arduous as 
 that from the primeval forest to the cultivated garden. We must 
 exercise patience for the benefit of the many generations of men 
 that are to come after us." 
 
 Daniel got up and began to walk back and forth. After a 
 silence that was exceedingly painful to Benda, he said: "Let's go 
 out. Let's go to a cafe, or take a long walk on the streets, or go 
 wherever you would like to go. Or if I am a burden to you, I 
 will accompany you for a short stretch and then remain alone. 
 The point is, I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot stand it 
 here." 
 
 "A burden to me?" replied Benda reproachfully. That was the 
 tone, the look of years gone by. Daniel felt at once that he was 
 personally under no obligation to talk. He saw at once that Benda 
 knew a great deal and suspected the rest. He felt his heart grow 
 lighter. 
 
 They went downstairs. 
 
 XV 
 
 Daniel asked Benda to wait on the stairs, locked the door, and 
 took his hat from the hook. In the living room there was a great 
 deal of noise punctuated with laughter. Philippina came out of
 
 432 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 her room, and snarled: "The way they're carrying on in there! 
 You'd think they wuz all drunk!" 
 
 "What is going on?" asked .Daniel timidly, merely to have 
 something to say. 
 
 "They are playing blindfold," replied Philippina contemptu- 
 ously, "every one of them is an old bird, and they're playing 
 blindfold!" 
 
 There was a sound as if a plate had been broken; a piercing 
 scream followed, and then silence. But the silence was of momen- 
 tary duration: that vulgar, slimy laughter soon broke out again. 
 
 Above the din of screaming voices, Daniel heard Dorothea's. 
 He hastened to the door and opened it. 
 
 His enraged eye fell on the table covered with pots, empty 
 cups, and pastry. The chairs had been pushed to one side; the new 
 gas chandelier with its five frosted globes was functioning at full 
 force; there were seven or eight persons grouped around Dorothea, 
 laughing and looking at something that had fallen on the floor. 
 
 Dorothea had pushed the white sash she had been wearing while 
 playing blindfold back on her forehead. She was the first to see 
 Daniel; she exclaimed: "There is my husband. Now don't get 
 angry, Daniel; it's nothing but that idiotic plaster mask." 
 
 Councillor Finkeldey, a white-bearded man, nodded at Daniel, 
 or at least at the spot where he was standing, with marked en- 
 thusiasm. It was his way of paying homage to Dorothea: every- 
 thing she said he accompanied with an inspired nod of approval. 
 
 Daniel saw that the mask of Zingarella had been broken to 
 pieces. 
 
 Without greeting a single person present, without even looking 
 at a single one of them, he stepped into the circle, knelt down, 
 and tried to put the broken pieces of the mask together. But 
 there were too many small shreds. The nose, the chin, parts of 
 the glorious forehead, a piece with the mouth arched in sorrow, 
 another piece of the cheek there were too many; they could not 
 be put together. 
 
 He hurled the fragments to one side, and straightened up. 
 "Philippina! The broom!" His command was given in a loud 
 tone. And when Philippina came in with the broom, he added: 
 "Sweep the dirt up on a pile, and then throw it in the garbage 
 can." 
 
 Philippina swept up, while Daniel, as silent and unsocial on 
 going as he had been on coming, left the room. 
 
 Frau Feistelmann made an indignant face, Edward Hahn
 
 DOROTHEA 433 
 
 breathed through his nose, Herr Samuelsky, a fat man with a red 
 beard, made a contemptuous remark, Dorothea, vexed and an- 
 noyed, stood and looked on while the tears took their unrestrained 
 course. 
 
 Benda had been waiting down at the front door. "She has 
 broken my mask," said Daniel with a distorted smile, as he came 
 down to his old friend, "the mask you gave me. You remember! 
 Strange that it should have been broken to-day of all days, the 
 very day you come to see me after so long a separation." 
 
 "Possibly it can be glued together again," said Benda, trying to 
 console Daniel. 
 
 "I am not in favour of glueing things together," replied Daniel. 
 His eyes flashed green behind his glasses. 
 
 xvi 
 
 When the guests left, Philippina came in and cleaned up the 
 room. Dorothea sat on the sofa. Her hands were lying in her 
 lap; she was unusually serious. 
 
 "Why don't your American ever come to see us?" asked Philip- 
 pina, without apparent motive. 
 
 Dorothea was terrified. "Lock the door, Philippina," she whis- 
 pered, "I have something to tell you." 
 
 Philippina locked the door, and went over to the sofa. "The 
 American has to see me," continued Dorothea, as her eyes roamed 
 about the room in timid waywardness. "He says he wants to talk to 
 me about something that will be of very great importance to me 
 the rest of my life. He is living in a hotel, but I can't go to a 
 hotel. It will not do to have him come here, nor do I wish to 
 be seen on the street with him. He has suggested a place where 
 we might meet, but I am afraid: I do not know the people. Can't 
 you help me out, Philippina? Don't you know some one to whom 
 we can go and in whose house we can meet?" 
 
 Philippina's eyes shone with their veteran glitter. She thought 
 for a second or two, and then replied: "Oh, yes, I'll tell you what 
 you can do. Go down to Frau Hadebusch's! She's a good 
 friend of mine, and you c'n depend on her. It don't make no 
 difference what takes place in her house; it won't bother even the 
 cat. You know Frau Hadebusrh! Of course you do. What am 
 I talking about! She is a widow, and lives all alone in a little 
 house. She won't rent; she says she don't want the trouble. You 
 know she's no young woman any more. She is all alone, mind
 
 434 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 you. No one there but her son, and he's cracked. Honest, the 
 boy ain't right." 
 
 "Well, you go and talk it over with Frau Hadebusch, Philip- 
 pina," said Dorothea timidly. 
 
 "Very well, I'll go see her to-morrow morning," replied Philip- 
 pina, smiled subserviently, and laid her horny hand on Dorothea's 
 tender shoulder. 
 
 "But listen, Philippina, be very, very careful. Do you hear?" 
 Dorothea's eyes became big and threatening. "Swear that you will 
 be as silent as the tombs." 
 
 "As true as I'm standing here!" said Philippina. Just then she 
 bent over to pick up a hair pin from the floor. 
 
 The next morning Philippina ran over to Frau Hadebusch's. 
 The whole way she kept humming to herself} she was happy; she 
 was contented.
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 
 
 Despite the rain, Daniel and Benda strolled around the city 
 moat until midnight. 
 
 The very thing that lay heaviest on Daniel's heart, as was obvi- 
 ous from the expression on his face, he never mentioned. He 
 told of his work, his travels in connection with the old manu- 
 scripts, his position as organist and in the conservatory, but all in 
 such a general, detached, and distraught way, so tired and bewil- 
 dered, that Benda was filled with an embarrassed anguish that made 
 courteous attention difficult if not impossible. 
 
 In order to get him to talk more freely, Benda remarked that he 
 had not heard of the death of Gertrude and Eleanore until his 
 return. He said he was terribly pained to hear of it, and, try as 
 he might, he could not help but brood over it. But he had no 
 thought of persuading Daniel to give him the mournful details. 
 He merely wished to convince himself that Daniel had become 
 master of the anguish he had gone through, master of it at least 
 inwardly. 
 
 Instead of making a direct and logical reply, Daniel said with 
 a twitching of his lips: "Yes, I know, you have been here for quite 
 a while already. Inwardly I was surprised at your silence. But it 
 is not easy to start up a renewed friendship with such a problematic 
 creature as I am." 
 
 "You know you are wrong when you say that," responded Benda 
 calmly, "and therefore I refuse to explain my long waiting. You 
 never were problematic to me, nor are you now. I find you at 
 this moment just as true and whole as you always were, despite the 
 fact that you avoid me, crouch before me, barricade yourself 
 against me." 
 
 Daniel's breast heaved as if in the throes of a convulsion. He 
 said falteringly: "First let that old confidence return and grow. I 
 must first become accustomed to the thought that there is a man 
 near me who feels with me, sympathises with me, understands me. 
 To be sure, you want me to talk. But I cannot talk, at least not 
 of those things about which you would like to hear. I am afraid: 
 I shudder at the thought; I have forgotten how; words mock me, 
 
 435
 
 436 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 make me feel ashamed. Even when I have good dreams, I person- 
 ally am as happily and blessedly silent in them as the beast of the 
 field. I shudder at the thought of reaching down into my soul 
 and pulling out old, rusty things and showing them to you 
 mouldy fruit, slag, junk showing them to you, you who knew 
 me when all within me was crystal." 
 
 He fixed his eyes on the clouds and then continued: "But there 
 is probably another means, Friedrich. Look, friend, look! It was 
 always your affair to look, to behold. Look, but see to it that you 
 do not make me writhe before you like a worm in the dust! And 
 when you have looked wisdom needs only one spoken word for 
 ten that are unspoken. This one word you will surely draw from 
 me." 
 
 Benda, deeply moved, remained silent: "Is it the fault of a 
 woman?" he asked gently, as they crossed the drawbridge and 
 entered the desolate old door leading to the castle. 
 
 "The fault of a woman? No! Not really the fault of a 
 woman. It is rather the fault of a man my fault. Many a 
 fate reaches the decisive point in happiness, many not until col- 
 oured with guilt. And guilt is bitter. The fault of a woman!" 
 he repeated, in a voice that threw off a gruesome echo in the 
 vaulted arch of the gateway to the castle. "There is to be sure a 
 woman there; and when one has anything to do with her, he finds 
 himself with nothing left but his eyes for weeping." 
 
 They left the gateway. Benda laid one hand on Daniel's 
 shoulder, and pointed in silence at the sky with the other. There 
 were no stars to be seen ; nothing but clouds. Benda however had 
 the stars in mind. Daniel understood his gesture. His eyelids 
 closed; around his mouth there was an expression of vehement 
 grief. 
 
 Benda was convinced, not merely that one great misfortune had 
 already taken place, but that a still greater was in the making. 
 
 Whenever he thought of Dorothea, the picture that came to his 
 mind was one that filled him with fear. And yet, he thought, 
 she must have some remarkable traits, otherwise Daniel would 
 never have chosen her as his life companion. He wanted to meet 
 her. 
 
 He had Daniel invite him in to tea. He called one evening 
 earlv in the afternoon.
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 437 
 
 She received him with expressions of ostentatious joy. She said 
 she could hardly wait until he came, for there was nothing in the 
 world that madie such an impression on her as a man who had 
 really run great risks, who had placed his very life at stake. She 
 could not become tired of asking him questions. At each of his 
 laconic replies she would shake her head with astonishment. Then 
 she rested her elbows on her knees, placed her head in her hands, 
 bent over and stared at him as though he were some kind of prodigy 
 or monster. 
 
 She asked him whether he had been among cannibals, whether 
 he had shot any savages, whether he had hunted lions, and whether 
 it was really true that every Negro chieftain had hundreds of 
 wives. When she asked this question she made an insidious face, 
 and remarked that Europeans would do the same thing if the law 
 allowed. 
 
 Thereupon she said that she could not recall having seen him, 
 when still a child, in her father's house, and she was surprised at 
 this, for he had such a striking personality. She devoured him 
 with her eyes; they began to burn as they always did when she 
 wanted to make some kind of human capture, and blind greed 
 came over her. She unbent; she spoke in her very sweetest voice; 
 in her laugh and her smile there was, in fact, something irresisti- 
 ble, something like that trait we notice in good, confiding, but at 
 times obstinate children. 
 
 But she noticed that this man studied her, not as if she were 
 a young married woman who were trying to please him and gain 
 his sympathy, rather as a curious variety of the human species. 
 There was something in his face that made her tremble with 
 irritation, and all of a sudden her eyes were filled with hate and 
 distrust. 
 
 Benda felt sorry for her. This everlasting attempt to make a 
 seductive gesture, this fishing for words that would convey a double 
 meaning, this self-betrayal, this excitement about nothing, made 
 him feel sad. Dorothea did not seem to him a bad woman. 
 Whatever else she might be accused of, it did not seem to 
 him that she was guilty of downright immoral practices. He 
 felt that she was merely misguided, poisoned, a phantom and a 
 fool. 
 
 His mind went back to certain Ethiopian women in the very 
 heart of Africa; he thought of their noble walk, the proud rest- 
 fulness of their features, their chaste nudeness, and their in- 
 separability from the earth and the air.
 
 438 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 He nevertheless understood his friend: the musician could not 
 help but succumb to the charms of the phantom; the lonely man 
 sought the least lonely of all human beings. 
 
 As he was coming to this conclusion, Daniel entered the room. 
 He greeted Benda, and said to Dorothea: "There is a girl outside 
 who says she has some ostrich feathers for you. Did you order any 
 feathers?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," replied Dorothea hastily, "it is a present from my 
 friend, Emmy Biittinger." 
 
 "Who's she?" 
 
 "You don't know her? Why, she is the sister of Frau Feistel- 
 mann You must help me," she said, turning to Benda, "for you 
 must know all about this kind of things. There where you have 
 been ostriches must be as thick as chickens here at home." Laugh- 
 ing, she went out, and returned in due time with a big box, from 
 which, cautiously and with evident delight, she took two big 
 feathers, one white, one black. Holding them by the stem, she 
 laid them across her hair, stepped up to the mirror, and looked 
 at herself with an intoxicated mien. 
 
 In this mien there was something so extraordinary, indeed un- 
 canny, that Benda could not help but cast a horrified glance at 
 Daniel. 
 
 "This is the first time I ever knew what a mirror was," he said 
 to himself. 
 
 in 
 
 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 Doderlcin nor his daugh- 
 ter has ever, in all these years, taken the slightest interest in the
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 439 
 
 unfortunate woman," continued Benda. "Well, as to Andreas 
 Doderlein, I have always known what to expect of him." 
 
 Daniel looked up. "You hinted once that Doderlein 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 Doderlein, 
 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 Doderlein, 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 resig- 
 nation, but were drawn together again, and then Doderlein suddenly 
 began to be suspicious. Whether his suspicion was due to whisper- 
 ings 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
 
 440 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 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 delibera- 
 tion 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. 
 
 IV 
 
 He had reached the Behaim monument when he began to walk 
 more slowly. A short distance before him he saw a man and a 
 woman. He recognized Dorothea. 
 
 They were speaking very rapidly and in subdued tones. Daniel 
 followed them; and when they reached the door of his house and 
 turned to go in, he stopped in the shadow of the church. 
 
 The man seemed to be angry and excited: Dorothea was trying 
 to quiet him. She was standing close by him; she held his hand 
 in her? until she unlocked the door. First she whispered, looked 
 up at the house anxiously, and then said out loud: "Good night, 
 Edmund. Sweet dreams!" 
 
 The man went on his way without lifting his hat. Dorothea 
 hastened m. 
 
 Daniel was trembling in his whole body. There was something 
 in his eyes that seemed to be beseeching; and there was some- 
 thing mystic about them. He watched until the light had been 
 lighted upstairs and the window shade drawn. He was tortured 
 by the stillness of the Square; when the clock in the tower struck 
 eleven he thought he could hear the blood roaring in his ears. 
 
 It was only with difficulty that he dragged himself into the house. 
 Dorothea, already in her night-gown, was sitting at the table in the 
 living room, sewing a ribbon on the dress she had just been wearing: 
 it had somehow got loose. 
 
 They spol.c to each other Daniel stood behind her, near the 
 stove, and looked over at the back of her bared neck as if held
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 441 
 
 by a spell. One cold shiver after another was running through 
 his body. 
 
 "Who gave you those ostrich feathers? " he asked, suddenly and 
 rather brusquely. The question slipped from his lips before he 
 himself was aware of it. He would have liked to say some- 
 thing else. 
 
 Dorothea raised her head with a jerk. "I thought I told you," 
 she replied, and he noticed that she coloured up. 
 
 "I cannot believe that a perfect stranger, and a woman at that, 
 is making you such costly presents," said Daniel slowly. 
 
 Dorothea got up, and looked at him rather undecidedly. "Very 
 well, if you simply must know, I bought them myself," she said 
 with unusual defiance. "But you don't need to try to brow-beat 
 me like that; I'll get the money that I paid for them. And you 
 needn't think for a minute that I am going to let you draw up a 
 family budget, and expect to make me live by it." 
 
 "You didn't buy those feathers," said Daniel, cutting her off in 
 the middle of her harangue. 
 
 "I didn't buy them, and they were not given to me! How 
 did I get them then? Stole them perhaps?" Dorothea was scorn- 
 ful; but cowardice made it impossible for her to look Daniel in 
 the face. 
 
 "I have never in my life talked to any one in this way, nor has 
 any one ever spoken to me like that," thought Daniel to himself. 
 He turned deathly pale, went up to her, and placed his hand like 
 an iron vise about her arm. "I shall permit you to waste my money; 
 I shall not object if you fritter your time away in the company 
 of good-for-nothing people; if you regard my health and peace 
 of mind as of no consequence whatever, I shall say nothing; if you 
 let your poor little child suffer and pine away, I shall keep quiet. 
 I shall submit to all of this. And why shouldn't I? Why should 
 I want to have my meals served at regular hours? Why should 
 I insist that my morning coffee be warm and my rolls fresh from 
 the baker? Why should I be so exacting as to ask that my clothes 
 be mended, my windows washed, my room swept, and my table in 
 order? I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth; I have 
 never known what it was to be comfortable." 
 
 "Oh, listen, Daniel, it's too bad about you," said Dorothea in 
 an anxious tone, "but let go of my arm." 
 
 He loosened his grip on her arm, but did not let it go. "You 
 may associate with whomsoever you please. Let those people 
 treasure you to whom you are a treasure. So far as money is con-
 
 442 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 cerned, you can have all that I have. Here it is, take it." He 
 drew from hi? pocket an embroidered purse filled with coins, and 
 hurled them on the table. "So that you can wear fine dresses, I 
 will play the organ on Sundays. So that you can go to masquerade 
 balls and parties of all kinds, I will try to beat a little music into 
 some twenty-odd unmusical idiots. I will do more than that: I 
 will promise never to bother myself about your behaviour: I will 
 never ask you where you have been or where you are going. But 
 listen, Dorothea," he said, as his face flushed with anger and 
 anxiety, his voice rising as if by unconscious pressure, "don't you 
 ever dare dishonour my name! It is the only thing I have. I owe 
 humanity an irreparable debt for it. It invests me not simply with 
 what is known as civic honour, it gives me also the honour I feel 
 and enjoy when I stand in the presence of what I have created. 
 Lie. and you besmirch my name! Lie, and you sully and debase 
 it! I am probably not as much afraid as you think I am of being 
 regarded as a cuckold, though I admit that the thought of it makes 
 my blood boil. But I want to say to you here and now, that 
 when I think of you in the arms of another man I feel within me 
 a deep desire, a real lust for murder. But you would throw me 
 into the last pit of hell and damnation, if you were to repay the 
 truths I have told you and given you with lies, lies, lies. You 
 must not, you dare not, imagine for a minute that I am so selfish 
 and vulgar as not to be able to understand that a change might 
 come over your heart. But that is one thing; telling a lie and 
 living a lie is quite another. It is impossible for me to live side 
 by side with another human being except in absolute truth. A 
 lie, the lie, crushes what there is in me of the divine. A lie to 
 me is carrion and corruption. Tell me, then, whether you have 
 been and are true to me! Don't be afraid, Dorothea, and don't 
 be ashamed. Everything may be right yet and work out as it 
 should. But tell me: Have you been deceiving me?" 
 
 "I deceiving you?" breathed Dorothea, and looked into his face 
 as if hypnotised, never so much as moving an eyelash. "What 
 do you mean? Deceiving you? Do you really think that I would 
 be capable of such baseness?" 
 
 "You have no lover? No other man has touched you since you 
 have been my wife?" 
 
 "A lover? Some other man has touched me?" she repeated 
 with that same hypnotic look. In her child-like face there was 
 the glow of unadulterated honour and undiluted innocence. 
 
 "You have been having no secret rendezvous, you have not been
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 443 
 
 receiving treacherous letters, nor writing them, you have promised 
 no man anything, not even in jest?" 
 
 "Ah, well now, Daniel, listen! In jest. That's another matter. 
 Who knows? You know me, and you know how one talks and 
 laughs." 
 
 "And you assure me that all this mysterious abuse that is being 
 whispered into my ears and to which your conduct has given a 
 certain amount of plausibility is nothing in the world but wicked- 
 ness on the part of people who know us, nothing but calumny?" 
 
 "Yes, Daniel: it is merely wickedness, meanness, and calumny." 
 
 "You are willing that God above should never grant you another 
 minute of peace, if you have been lying to me? Do you wish 
 that, Dorothea?" 
 
 Dorothea balked; she blinked a little. Then she said quite 
 softly: "Those are terrible words, Daniel. But if you insist upon 
 it, I am willing to abide by the curse you have made a pos- 
 sibility." 
 
 Daniel breathed a breath of relief. He felt that a mighty 
 load had been taken from his heart. And in grateful emotion he 
 went up to his wife, and pressed her to his bosom. 
 
 But at the same time he was repelled by something. He felt 
 that the creature he was pressing to his heart was without rhythm, 
 or vibration, or law, or order. He began again to be gnawed at 
 by torture, this time of a new species and coming from another 
 direction. 
 
 As he opened the door to the hall, he heard a rustle; and he 
 saw a dark figure hastening over to the room that opened on the 
 court. 
 
 Left alone, Dorothea stared for a while into space, as motionless 
 as a statue. Then she took her violin and bow from the case 
 she had bought a new bow to take the place of the one that had 
 been broken and began to play: a cadence, a trill, a waltz. Her 
 face took on a hardened, resolute expression. 
 
 She soon let the instrument fall from her hands, and began to 
 think. She laid the violin to one side, took off her slippers, 
 sneaked out of the room in her stocking feet and across the hall, 
 and listened at the door to Philippina's room. She opened it cau- 
 tiously and heard a sound snoring from Philippina's bed, which 
 stood neat to the door.
 
 444 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 The lamp had almost burned down; it gave so little light that 
 the bed clothes could hardly be seen. 
 
 She stole up to Philippina's couch of repose, step by step, with- 
 out making the slightest noise, bent dawn, stretched out her arm, 
 groped around over the body of the inexplicable creature who was 
 sleeping there, and was on the point of raising the covers and 
 reaching for Philippina's breast. Philippina ceased snoring, woke 
 up as if she had been struck in the face by the rays of a magic 
 lantern, opened her eyes, and looked at Dorothea with a speechless 
 threat. Not a muscle of her face moved. 
 
 Dorothea collected her thoughts instantly. With the expression 
 on her face of one who has just succeeded in carrying out some 
 good joke, she threw her whole body on Philippina and pressed 
 her face to her cheek, nauseated though she was by the stench of 
 her breath and the bed clothes. 
 
 "Listen, Philippina, the American wants to give you something," 
 she whispered. 
 
 "Jesus, you're punching my belly in," replied Philippina, and 
 gasped for breath. When Dorothea had straightened up, she said: 
 "Well, has he already given you something? That's the main 
 thing." 
 
 "He gave me the feathers. Isn't that something?" replied 
 Dorothea, "and he is going to give me a set of rubies." 
 
 "I wish you already had 'em. It seems to me that your Ameri- 
 can don't exactly hail from Givetown. I've been told that he 
 ain't so damn rich after all. When are you goin' to meet him 
 again, your lover?" 
 
 "To-morrow evening, between six and seven. Oh, I am so glad, 
 so glad, Philippina. He is so young." 
 
 "Yes, young! That's a lot, ain't it?" murmured Philippina 
 contemptuously. 
 
 "He has such a pretty mole on his neck, way down on his neck, 
 down there," she said, pointing to the same spot on Philippina's 
 neck. "Right there! Does it tickle you? Does it make you 
 feel good ? " 
 
 "Don't laugh so loud, you'll waken little Gottfried," said 
 Philippina in a testy, morose tone. "And get out of here! I'm 
 sleepy." 
 
 "Good-night, then, you pesky old dormouse," said Dorothea, 
 iii seemingly good-natured banter, and left the room. 
 
 Hardly had she closed the door behind her when Philippina 
 sprang like an enraged demon from her bed, clenched her fist,
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 445 
 
 and hissed: "Damned thief and whore! She wanted to rob me, 
 that's what she did, the dirty wench! You wait! Your days in 
 this place are numbered. Somebody's going to squeal, believe me, 
 and when they do, they'll get you right." 
 
 She drew her red petticoat over her legs, tied it tightly, and 
 went to the door to lock it. The lock had been out of order for 
 some time; she could not budge it. She carried a chair over to 
 the door, placed it directly underneath the lock, folded her arms, 
 sat down on it, and remained sitting there for an hour or so blink- 
 ing her evil eyes. 
 
 When no longer able to keep from going to sleep, she got up, 
 placed the folding table against the door, and got back into bed, 
 murmuring imprecations such as were second nature to her. 
 
 VI 
 
 The following day began with a heavy rain storm. Daniel had 
 had a restless night; he went to his work quite early. But his 
 head was so heavy that he had to stop every now and then, and rest 
 it on his hand. There was no blood, no swing to his ideas. 
 
 Toward eight o'clock the postman came, and asked for Inspector 
 Jordan. The old man had to sign a receipt in acknowledgment 
 of a solemnly sealed money order. 
 
 In the letter the postman gave him were two hundred dollars 
 in bills and a note from Benno. The letter had been mailed in 
 Galveston. Benno wrote that he had made inquiries and found 
 that his father was still living. He said he had been quite suc- 
 cessful in the New World, and as a proof of his prosperity he was 
 sending him the enclosed sum, with the best of greetings, in pay- 
 ment for the trouble he had cost his father. 
 
 It was a cold epistle. But the old man was beside himself with 
 joy. He ran to Daniel and then to Philippina, held the crisp 
 notes in the air, and stammered: "Look, people! He is rich. He 
 has sent me two hundred dollars! He has become an honest man, 
 he has. He remembers his old father, he does! Really this is a 
 great day! A great day, Daniel, because of something else that 
 has just been finished." He added with a mysterious smile: "A 
 blessed day in the history of a great cause!" 
 
 He dressed and went down town; he wanted to tell his friends 
 the news. 
 
 Daniel called down to know if his breakfast was ready; nobody 
 answered. Thereupon he went to the kitchen, and got himself
 
 446 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread. Philippina came in a little 
 later. Her hair looked as though a hurricane had struck it; she 
 was in her worst humour. She snarled at Daniel, asking him why 
 in the name of God he couldn't wait till the coffee had been 
 boiled. 
 
 "Leave me in peace, Philippina," he said, "I need peace." 
 
 "Peace!" she roared, "peace, the same old story: you want peace!" 
 She threw a wild, contemptuous glance at the open chest containing 
 Daniel's scores, leaned against the table, put the tips of her dirty 
 fingers on the score he was then studying, and shrieked: "There is 
 the cause of the whole malheurl The whole malheur, I say, 
 comes from this damned note-smearing of yours! The idea of a 
 man settin' down and dabbing them pot-hooks on good white paper, 
 day after day, year in and year out! What does it all mean? Tell 
 me! While you're doin' it, everything else is moving like a 
 crab, backwards. Jesus, you're a man, and yet you spend your time 
 at that kind of stuff! I'd be ashamed to admit it." 
 
 Not prepared for this enigmatic outburst of anger and hate, 
 Daniel looked at Philippina utterly dazed. "Get out of here," he 
 cried indignantly. "Get out of here, I say," and pointed to the 
 door. 
 
 She got out. "The damned dabbery!" she bellowed with re- 
 inforced maliciousness. 
 
 From ten to twelve, Daniel had to lecture at the conservatory. 
 His heart beat violently, though he was unable to explain his excite- 
 ment. It was more than a foreboding: he felt as if he had heard 
 a piece of terribly bad news and the real nature of it had slipped 
 his memory. 
 
 He did not go home for luncheon; he ate in the cafe at the 
 Carthusian Gate. Then he took a long walk out over the fields 
 and meadows. It had stopped raining, and the brisk wind refreshed 
 him. He stood for a long while on the banks of the canal, and 
 watched some men piling bricks at a brick-kiln. From time to 
 time he took a piece of paper from his pocket, and wrote some- 
 thing on it with his pencil: it was notes. 
 
 Once he wrote alongside of a motif: "Farewell, my music!" 
 His eyes were filled with dreadful tears. 
 
 He returned to the city just as the sun was setting; it looked 
 like a huge ball of fire in the west. The sky shone out between 
 two great black clouds like the forge of a smithy. He could not 
 help but think of Fleanore. 
 
 He entered his living room, and paced back and forth, Philip-
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 447 
 
 pina came in, and asked him whether she should warm up his soup 
 for him. Her unnatural, singing tone attracted his attention; he 
 looked at her very closely. 
 
 "Where is my wife?" he asked. 
 
 Philippina's face betrayed an abysmally mean smile, but she 
 never said a word. 
 
 "Where is my wife?" he asked a second time, after a pause. 
 
 Philippina's smile became brighter. "Is it cold out?" she asked, 
 and in a moment she had left the room. Daniel stared at her as if 
 he feared she had lost her mind. In a few minutes she came 
 back. In the meantime she had put on a cloak that was much 
 too short for her, and beneath which the loud, freakish skirt of 
 her checkered dress could be seen. 
 
 "Daniel, come along with me," she said in an anxious voice. 
 To Daniel her voice sounded mysterious and fearful. "Come along 
 with me, Daniel! I want to show you something." 
 
 He turned pale, put on his hat, and followed her. They 
 crossed the square in silence, went through Binder Street, Town 
 Hall Street, and across the Market. Daniel stopped. "What are 
 you up to? " he asked with a hoarse voice. 
 
 "Come along! You'll see," whispered Philippina. 
 
 They walked on, crossed the Meat Bridge, went through Kaiser 
 Street and the White Tower to St. James's Place. Some people 
 looked at the odd couple in amazement. When they reached Frau 
 Hadebusch's little house, it was dark. "Listen, Philippina, are you 
 ever going to talk?" said Daniel, gritting his teeth. 
 
 "Psh!" Philippina knew what she was doing. She put her 
 mouth to Daniel's ear, and whispered: "Go up two flights, quick, 
 you know the house, bang on the door, and if it's locked, bust it in. 
 In the meantime I'll go to Frau Hadebusch so that she can't inter- 
 fere." 
 
 Then Daniel understood. 
 
 VII 
 
 Everything became blood-red before his eyes; he was seized 
 with a feverish chill. 
 
 He had followed Philippina with a dejected, limp feeling of 
 disgust, fear and coercion. Now he knew what it was all about. 
 At the very beginning of the events he saw the middle and the 
 end. He saw before the bolted door what was going on behind 
 it. His soul was seized with horror, rage, woe, contempt, and
 
 448 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 terror. He felt dizzy; he feared he might lose consciousness. 
 
 He sprang up the creaking stairs by leaps and bounds. He stood 
 before the door behind which he had gone hungry, been cold, and 
 glowed with enthusiasm as a young man. Silence should have 
 reigned there now, so that the devotion of retrospective spirits 
 might not be molested on the grave of so many, many hopes. 
 
 He jerked at the latch; a scream was heard from within. The 
 door was bolted. He pressed his body against the fragile wood so 
 violently that both hinges, and the latch, gave way, and the door 
 fell on to the middle of the floor with a mighty crash. 
 
 The scream was repeated, this time in a more piercing tone. 
 Dorothea was lying on a big bed with nothing on but a flimsy 
 chemise. Frau Hadebusch, pimp always, had rented the bed from 
 a second-hand dealer; it covered a half of the room. Before 
 Dorothea was a plate of cherries; she had been amusing herself by 
 shooting the pits at her lover. He likewise was lacking nearly all 
 the garments ordinarily worn by men when in the presence of 
 women. He was sitting astride on a chair, smoking a short-stemmed 
 
 Pipe- 
 When Daniel, with bloody hands he had scratched himself 
 while breaking in the door with his hair flying wild about his 
 face, panting, and pale as death, stepped over the door, Dorothea 
 again began to scream ; she screamed seven or eight times. She 
 was filled with despair and terrible anxiety. 
 
 Daniel rushed at the young man, and seized him by the throat. 
 While he held the American in a death-like grip, while he saw 
 Dorothea, as if in a roseate h.ize, with uplifted arms, leave the 
 bed screaming at the top of her voice, while an extraordinary 
 power of observation, despite his insane rage, came over him, while 
 he watched the cherries as they rolled across the bed and saw 
 the green stems, some of which were withered, showing that the 
 cherries were half rotten, while he felt a taste on his tongue as if 
 he too had eaten cherries while he saw all these things and had 
 this sensation, he thought to himself without either doubt or relief: 
 "This is the downfall; this is chaos." 
 
 The American it later became known that he was a wandering 
 artist who had, with an equal amount of nerve and adroitness, 
 worked his way into the private social life of the city thrust his 
 antagonist back with all his might, and struck up the position of a 
 professional boxer. Daniel, however, gave him no time to strike; 
 he fell on him, wrapped his arms tight about him, threw him to 
 the floor, and was trying to choke him. He groaned, struggled,
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 449 
 
 got his fist loose, struck Daniel in the face, and cried, "You damned 
 fool!" But it was the cry of a whipped man. 
 
 Loud noise broke out downstairs. A crowd of people collected 
 on the sidewalk. "Police, police!" shrieked the shrill voice of a 
 woman. The people began to make their way up the stairs. 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh!" moaned Dorothea. In half a minute she had 
 her dress on. "Out of this place and away," she said, as she 
 looked for her gloves and umbrella. 
 
 Frau Hadebusch appeared in the hall, wringing her hands. Be- 
 hind her stood Philippina. Two men forced their way in, ran 
 up to Daniel and the American, and tried to separate them. But 
 they had bitten into each other like two mad dogs; *nd it was 
 necessary to call for help. A soldier and the milkman gave a 
 hand; and finally two policemen appeared on the scene. 
 
 "I must go home," cried Dorothea, while the other women 
 shrieked and carried on. "I must go home, and get my things 
 and leave." 
 
 With the face of one possessed and at the same time dumb, 
 Philippina stole out from among the excited crowd and followed 
 Dorothea. She did not feel that she was walking; she could not 
 feel the pavement under her feet; she was unconscious of the air. 
 That wild inspiration returned to her which she had experienced 
 once before in her life the time she went up in the attic and 
 saw Gertrude's lifeless body hanging from a rafter. 
 
 Her veins pulsed with a hot lust for destruction. "Swing the 
 torch!" That was the cry she heard running through her brain. 
 "Swing the torch!" But she wanted to do something much more 
 pretentious this time than merely start a fire in some rubbish. 
 The farther she went the more rapidly she walked. Finally she 
 began to run and sing with a loud, coarse voice. Her cloak was 
 not buttoned; it flew in the air. The people who saw her stopped 
 and looked at her, amazed. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Herr Carovius and Jordan were sitting in the Paradise Cafe. 
 
 "How things change, and how everything clears up and 
 straightens out!" remarked Jordan. 
 
 "Yes, the open graves are gaping again," said Herr Carovius 
 cynically. 
 
 "So far as I am concerned," continued Jordan, without noticing 
 the aversion his affability had aroused in Herr Carovius, "I can
 
 450 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 jow face death with perfect peace of mind. My mission is ended; 
 my work is done." 
 
 "That sounds as if you had discovered the philosopher's stone," 
 remarked Herr Carovius sarcastically. 
 
 "Perhaps," replied Jordan gently, and bent over the table. "You 
 are after all not entirely wrong, my honoured friend. Do you 
 wish to be convinced? Will you honour me with a visit?" 
 
 Herr Carovius had become curious. They paid their bills and 
 left for ^gydius Place. 
 
 Having entered Jordan's room, the old man lighted a lamp and 
 bolted the door. He then opened the door of the great cabinet 
 by the wall, and took out a big doll. It was dressed like a Swiss 
 maid, had on a flowered skirt, a linen waist, and a little pink apron. 
 It; yellow hair was done up in braids, and on its head was a little 
 felt hat. 
 
 "All that is my handiwork," said Jordan, with much show of 
 pride. "I myself took all the measurements and made the clothes, 
 including even the shoes. And now vatch, my dear friend." 
 
 He placed the doll in the middle of the room. "She will 
 speak," he continued, his face radiant with joy, "she will sing. 
 She will sing a song native to her beloved Tyrol. Will you be 
 so good as to take this chair? I would rather not have you so 
 close to it, if I may, for there are certain noises which I still have 
 to correct. The illusion is stronger when you are some distance 
 away." 
 
 He crouched down behind the doll, did something at its back, 
 and the buzzing of wheels became audible. The old man then 
 stepped out to the front of the doll, and said: "Now, my little girl, 
 let's hear what you can do!" 
 
 An uncanny, hoarse, somewhat cooing voice rang out from the 
 body of the doll. It sounded like the vibrations of metallic strings 
 accompanied by th* low tones of a water whistle. If you closed 
 your eyes, you could at least imagine you were hearing a song sung 
 by some one in the distance. But if you looked at the thing closely 
 with its lifeless, mask-like kindly, waxen face, and heard the shrill, 
 muffled sounds, without either articulation or rhythm, coming from 
 within, it took on a ghostly aspect. Herr Carovius in fact felt a 
 cold chill creep down his back. 
 
 When the machine ran down, the doll's eyelids and lips closed. 
 Jordan was looking at Herr Carovius in great suspense. "Well, 
 what do you think of it?" he asked. "Be quite frank; I can stand 
 any amount of criticism."
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 451 
 
 Herr Carovius had great difficulty to keep from bursting out 
 laughing. His mouth and chin itched. Suddenly, however, scorn 
 and contempt left him; he fell into a disagreeably serious frame 
 of mind, and a softness, a mildness such as he had not felt since 
 time immemorial stole over his heart. He said: "That is a per- 
 fectly splendid invention! Perfectly splendid! Though it does 
 need some improvement." 
 
 Jordan nodded zealously and with joyous approval. He was 
 on the point of going into a detailed description of the mechanism 
 and its artistic construction, when the two men heard a strange 
 noise in the adjoining room. They stopped and listened. They 
 could hear some one moving the furniture; there were steps 
 back and forth; they heard a hammering and pounding as if 
 some one were trying to open a box. This was followed by a 
 sound that resembled the falling of paper on the floor; it lasted for 
 some time, bunch apparently following bunch. Listen! Some one 
 is talking in an abusive voice! What's that? A gruesome, sing- 
 song voice repeating unintelligible words: "I-oi! huh, huh! I-oi, 
 huh-huh!" There is a sound as if of crackling fire. The flames 
 cannot be seen; but they can be heard! 
 
 Old Jordan jerked the door open, and cried like a child. 
 
 Philippina was standing in the midst of a pile of burning papers. 
 She had forced Daniel's trunk open, thrown every one of his scores 
 on the floor, and set them on fire. She was a fearful object to 
 behold. Her hair hung down loose and straggly over her shoulders, 
 she was swinging her arms as if she were working a pump-handle, 
 and from her mouth poured forth a volley of loud, babbling, 
 gurgling tones that bore not the faintest resemblance to anything 
 human. Her face, lightened by the flames, was coloured with the 
 trace of fearful voluptuousness. Herr Carovius and old Jordan 
 stood in the doorway as if paralysed. Seeing them, she began to 
 hop about, and stretched out her upraised arms to the flames, which 
 were leaping higher and higher. 
 
 Herr Carovius, awakening from his torpidity, saw that it was 
 high time to make some effort to escape. Shielding his face with 
 his hands, he fled as fast as his feet could carry him to the hall 
 door and down the steps. Tears were gushing down Jordan's 
 cheeks; fear had made it impossible for him to reflect. He ran back 
 into his room, opened the window, and called out to the people 
 on the square. Then he chanced to think of his beloved doll. 
 He rushed up to it and took it under his arm. But when he tried 
 to leave the room, the smoke blew into his face, benumbing and
 
 452 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 burning him. He staggered, reached the top of the stairs, made 
 a misstep, fell headlong down the steps, still holding the doll in 
 convulsive embrace, twitched a few times, and then lav lifeless 
 on the hall floor. 
 
 Heart failure had put an end to his life. 
 
 Dorothea, who had been in the house packing her things, 
 hastened, luggage in hand, past the corpse. Her face was ashen ; 
 she never looked at the dead body of Inspector Jordan. She was 
 soon lost in the crowd of excited people. She had vanished. 
 
 IX 
 
 The police had at last separated Daniel and the American in 
 Frau Hadebusch's house. Daniel fell on a chair, and gazed 
 stupidly into space. Frau Hadebusch brought him some water. 
 The American put on his clothes, while the spectators looked on 
 and laughed. 
 
 The two men were then taken to the police station, where the 
 lieutenant in charge took such depositions as were necessary for 
 court action. Daniel saw a gas lamp, a quill pen, several grinning 
 faces, his own bloody hand, and nothing more. The American 
 was held in order to protect him from further attacks; Daniel 
 was released. He heard the young man tell his story in a mangled 
 German and with a voice that was nearly choked with rage, but 
 did not absorb anything he said. 
 
 He heard a dog bark, a wagon rattle, a bell strike; he heard 
 people talking, murmuring, crying; he heard the scraping of feet. 
 But it all sounded to him like noises that were reaching his ears 
 through the walls of a prison. He went on his way; his gait 
 was unsteady. 
 
 As he reached the Church of Our Lady, Daniel turned to the 
 right toward the Market Place, and saw the Goose Man standing 
 before him. 
 
 "Go home," the Goose Man seemed to say with a sad voice. 
 "Go home!" 
 
 "Who are you? what do you wish of me?" A voice within 
 him asked. But then it seemed that the figure had become in- 
 visible, and that it could not be seen again until it was far off in 
 the distance, where it was being shone upon by a bright light. 
 
 People were running across /F.gydius Place; some of them were 
 crying "Fire!" Daniel turned the corner; he could see his house. 
 Flames were leaping up behind his window. He pressed his hands
 
 THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES 4 53 
 
 to his temples, and, with eyes wide open and filled with terror, he 
 forced his way through the crowd up to his house. "For God's 
 sake, for Heaven's sake!" he cried, "save my trunk!" 
 
 Many looked at him. A figure appeared at the window; many 
 arms were pointed at it. "The woman! Look, look, the woman!" 
 came a cry from the crowd. And then again: "She has set the 
 house on fire! She has swung the torch and started the fire!" 
 
 Daniel rushed into his house. Firemen overtook him. There 
 he saw in the hall, lighted by the lanterns being carried back and 
 forth so swiftly, and placed in the corner with no more care or 
 consideration than was possible under such circumstances, the dead 
 body of old Jordan. His body, and close beside it, as if in super- 
 natural mockery of all things human, the doll, the Swiss maid 
 with the machi-e in her stomach. Sighing and sobbing, he fell 
 down; his forehead touched the dead hand of the old man. 
 
 As if in a dream he heard the hissing of the hoses, the com- 
 mands, the hurried running back and forth of the firemen. Then 
 he felt as if a shadow, a figure from the lower world, suddenly 
 rose before him. A clenched fist, he thought, opened and hurled 
 shreds of paper into his face. When he looked up he could see 
 nothing but the firemen rushing around him. The shadow, the 
 figure, had pushed its way in among them, and in the confusion 
 no one had paid any attention to it. 
 
 With an absent-minded gesture, Daniel reached out and picked 
 up the paper that was lying nearest him. It had fallen on the 
 face of the doll. He unfolded it and saw, written in his own 
 hand, the music to the "Harzrcise im Winter." Under the notes 
 were the words: 
 
 But aside, who is it? 
 
 His path in the bushes is lost, 
 
 Behind him rustle 
 
 The thickets together, 
 
 The grass rises again, 
 
 The desert conceals him. 
 
 The melody and rhythm that interpreted the words were of a 
 grandiose gloominess, like a song of shades pursued in the night, 
 across the sea. Daniel recalled the hour he had written this music; 
 ho recalled the expression on Gertrude's face the time he played 
 it for her. Elcanore was there, too, wearing a white dress, with 
 a myrtle wreath in her hair. The tones dissolved the web of
 
 454 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 infinite time. "But aside, who is it?" came forth like a great, 
 deep dirge. In the question there was something prophetically 
 great. He covered his face and wept; he felt as if his heart 
 would break. 
 
 The dead man and the doll were lying there, motionless, lifeless. 
 
 In half an hour the fire was under control. The two attic 
 rooms had been burned out completely. Further than this no 
 damage had been done. 
 
 Philippina had vanished without a trace. Since no one had 
 seen her leave the house, the first theory was that she had been 
 burned to death. But investigation proved this assumption to be 
 incorrect. The police looked for her everywhere, but in vain ; 
 she was not to be found. A few people who had known her 
 rather intimately insisted that she had been burned up so completely 
 that there was nothing left of her but a little pile of black ashes. 
 
 However this may be, and whatever the truth may be, Philippina 
 never agai i entered the house. No one ever again saw or heard a 
 thing of her.
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 
 
 LATE in the evening Benda came. He had been tolerably well 
 informed of everything that had taken place. In the hall he met 
 Agnes. Though generally quite monosyllabic, Agnes was now 
 inclined to be extremely communicative, but she could merely con- 
 firm what he had already heard. 
 
 She went up to the top floor with him, and he stood there for a 
 long while looking at the burnt rooms. There were two firemen 
 on guard duty. "All of his music has been burnt up," said Agnes. 
 Benda thought he would hardly be able to talk with his old friend 
 again after this tragedy. But he at once felt ashamed of his 
 timidity, and went down to see him. 
 
 It was again quiet throughout the entire house. 
 
 Daniel had lighted a candle in the living room. Finding it too 
 dark with only one candle, he lighted another. 
 
 He paced back and forth. The room seemed too small for him: 
 he opened the door leading into Dorothea's room, and walked 
 back and forth through it too. On entering the dark room, his 
 lips would move; he would murmur something. When he returned 
 to the lighted room, he would stand for a second or two and stare 
 at the candles. 
 
 His features seemed to show traces of human suffering such as 
 no man had borne before; it could hardly have been greater. He 
 did not seem to notice Benda when he came in. 
 
 "Everything gone? Everything destroyed?" asked Benda, after 
 he had watched Daniel walk back and forth for nearly a quarter 
 of an hour. 
 
 "One grave after the other," murmured Daniel, in a voice that 
 no longer seemed to be his own. He raised his head as if sur- 
 prised at the sound of what he himself had said. He felt that 
 a stranger had come into the room without letting himself be heard. 
 
 "And the last work, the great work of which you told me, 
 the fruit of so many years, has it also been destroyed?" asked 
 Benda. 
 
 455
 
 456 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 "Everything," replied Daniel distractedly, "everything I have 
 created in the way of music from the time I first had reason to 
 believe in myself. The sonatas, the songs, the quartette, the psalm, 
 the 'Harzreise,' 'Wanderers Sturmlied,' and the symphony, every- 
 thing down to the last page and the last note." 
 
 Yes, there was a stranger there; you could hear him laughing 
 quietly to himself. "Why do you laugh?" asked Daniel sternly, 
 and adjusted his glasses. 
 
 Benda, terrified, said: "I did not laugh." 
 
 "The grass rises again, the desert conceals him," said the stranger. 
 He wore an old-fashioned suit, a droll sort of cap, and Hessian 
 boot!. "I ought to know him," thought Daniel to himself, and 
 began to meditate with cloudy mind. 
 
 "This is like murder, unheard-of murder," cried Benda's soul; 
 "how can he bear it? What will he do?" 
 
 "What is there to do?" asked Daniel, expressing Benda's silent 
 thought in audible words, and looking askew, as he walked back 
 and forth, at the stranger who went slowly through the room over 
 to the window in the corner. "What can human fancy find rea- 
 sonable or possible after all that has happened? Nothing! Merely 
 pine away; pine away in insanity." 
 
 "Oho," said the stranger, "that is a trifle strong." 
 
 "If he would only keep quiet," thought Daniel, tortured. "I 
 presume you know what has happened with the woman whom I 
 called my wife," he continued. "That I threw myself away on 
 this vain, soulless spirit of a mirror is irrelevant. Greater men 
 than I have walked into such nets and become entangled, ensnared. 
 I have never cherished the delusion that I was immune to all the 
 mockery of this earth. I believed, however, that I could scent out 
 truth and falsehood, and differentiate the one from the other, just 
 as the hand can tell by the feel the wet from the dry. But the 
 connection of the one with the other, and the horrible necessity 
 of this connection, I do not understand." 
 
 "You have been served just right," remarked the intruder with 
 the Hessian boots. He had sat down on a chair in the corner, and 
 looked quite friendly. 
 
 "Why?" roared Daniel, stopping. 
 
 Benda, astounded, rose to his feet. "Speak out, Daniel," he said 
 affectionately, "unburden your soul!" 
 
 "If I only could, Fricdrich, if I only could! If my tongue 
 would only move! Or if there were some one who felt with me 
 and could speak for me!"
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 457 
 
 "Try it; the first word is often like a spark and starts a flame." 
 Daniel was silent. The intruder said deliberatively: "That goes 
 
 deep down to the recesses of the heart and up high to the things 
 
 that are immortal." 
 
 Daniel looked over at him sharply, and saw that it was the 
 
 Goose Man. 
 
 All effort to get Daniel to talk was in vain. Along toward 
 midnight, Benda took leave of him. Agnes unlocked the door for 
 him; he said to her: "Look after him; he has no one else now." 
 
 Daniel lay on the sofa with his hands crossed behind his head, 
 and stared at the ceiling. His eyes were hot; at times he trembled 
 and shook. 
 
 "It isn't very sociable here," said the Goose Man, "the air is 
 full of tobacco smoke, and there is a draft coming in from that 
 dark room." 
 
 Daniel got up, closed the door, and lay down again. 
 
 The metallic exterior of the Goose Man seemed to become 
 flexible, somewhat as when a frozen body thaws out. "You have 
 gone through a great deal," he continued thoughtfully. "That 
 any one who wishes to create must also experience is clear. Experi- 
 ence is his mother's milk, his realm of roots; it is where the saps 
 flow together, from which his forms and figures are developed. 
 But there is experience and experience, and between the two there 
 is a world of difference." 
 
 "Superfluous profundity," murmured Daniel, plainly annoyed. 
 "To live is to have experience." He took council with himself 
 in the attempt to devise a means by which he might get rid of the 
 importunate chatterer. 
 
 The Goose Man again struck up his gentle laugh. He replied: 
 "Many live, and yet do not live; suffer, and yet do not suffer. 
 In what does guilt lie? What does it consist of? In not feeling; I 
 in not doing. The first thing for some men to do is to eradicate 
 completely the false notions they have of what constitutes greatness. 
 For what is greatness after all? It is nothing in the world but the 
 fulfilment of an unending circle of petty duties, small obligations." 
 
 "There is a fundamental difference between the creator and all 
 other men," remarked Daniel, at once excited and troubled by the 
 conversation and the turn it was taking. 
 
 "Do you appeal to, depend on, refer to music in this present
 
 458 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 case?" asked the Goose Man, his good-natured look becoming more 
 or less disdainful. 
 
 "In music every creation is more closely related to an uncon- 
 ditional exterior than is true of anything else that man gives to 
 man," answered Daniel. "The musical genius stands nearer God 
 than any other genius." 
 
 The Goose Man nodded. "But his fall begins one step from 
 God's throne, and is a high and deep one. Do you know what 
 you are? And do you really know what you are not?" 
 
 Daniel pressed his hand to his heart: "Have you ever known me 
 to fight for evanescent laurels? Have I ever tried to feed the 
 human race, which is a race of minors, on surrogates? Have I 
 ever imitated the flights of Heaven with St. Vitus dance, confusing 
 the one with the other? Have I not always acted in accord with 
 the best, the inmost knowledge I had, and in obedience to my con- 
 science? Was I ever a liar?" 
 
 "No, no, no!" cried the Goose Man, by way of appeasing 
 Daniel's unrest. He took off his cap, and laid it on his knee. 
 "You were always sincere. There can be no doubt about it, your 
 heart was always in your profession. All life has streamed into 
 your soul, and you have lived in the ivory tower. Your soul was 
 well protected, well projected from the very beginning. It was 
 in a position similar to that created by a swimmer who rubs his 
 body with grease before plunging into the water. You have suf- 
 fered; the poison of the Nessus shirt you have worn has burned 
 your skin, and the pain you have thereby suffered has been trans- 
 formed into sweet sounds. So they all are, the creators, invul- 
 nerable and inaccessible. That is the way you picture them to 
 yourself. Is it not true? Monsters who take up the cross of the 
 world, and yet, grief-laden though they be, grow beyond their own 
 fate. Such is your lot; and so do you look to-day in your forty- 
 second year." 
 
 Daniel was not prepared for this tone of bitterness; he turned 
 his face to the corner where the Goose Man was sitting. "I do 
 not understand you," he said slowly. The pitiable crying of little 
 Gottfried could be heard from the room opening out on the court, 
 and then Agnes's quieting lullaby. 
 
 "If you only had not lived in the ivory tower!" cried the Goose 
 Man. "If you only had been more sensitive and not so well pro- 
 tected! If you had only lived, lived, lived, really and truly, and 
 near to life, like a naked man in a thicket of thorns! Life would 
 have got the best of you, but your love would have been real, the
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 459 
 
 hate you have experienced real, your misfortunes real, the lies, 
 ridicule, and betrayal all real, and the shadows of those who have 
 died from you would have taken on reality. And the poison of 
 the Nessus shirt would not merely have burned your -skin; it would 
 have penetrated to your very blood, it would have found its way 
 to the deepest, most secret recesses of your heart. Your work 
 would have been carried on and out, not in a struggle against your 
 darkness and your limited torments of soul, a slave before men and 
 unblessed of God. Eliminate from your mind now, forever and 
 completely, the delusion that you have borne the sufferings of the 
 world! You have merely borne your own sufferings, loving-love- 
 less, altruistic-egoist, monster, man without a country that you are!" 
 
 "Who are you? What are you trying to say?" asked Daniel, 
 automatically, falteringly, with pale lips. 
 
 "Oh, don't you see who I am? I am the Goose Man," came 
 the reply, spoken with a loyal and devoted bow. "The Goose 
 Man, lonesome there behind the iron fence, lonesome there on the 
 water at the fountain, and yet situated in the middle of the 
 Market. An insignificant being, tangible and intelligible to every 
 one who passes by, though a certain degree of monumentality has 
 been ascribed to me in all these years. But I pay no attention to 
 this ascription of greatness; I laugh at it. I give the Market, where 
 the people come and haggle over the price of potatoes and apples, 
 a certain degree of dignity. That is all. They see me as I stand 
 there, always upright, under the open sky; and despite my distin- 
 guished position, they have all come to look upon me as a cousin. 
 For a time they gave me a nickname: they called me by your name. 
 But they had no right to do this; none at all, it seems to me. I 
 have looked out for my geese; no one can say a thing against me." 
 
 The Goose Man laughed a quiet, inoffensive laugh; and when 
 Daniel turned his face to the corner, the chair was empty, the 
 strange guest had vanished. 
 
 in 
 
 But he came back. And when Daniel's mind and body were 
 both completely broken down and he was obliged to remain in 
 bed, his visits became regular. He sat next to Benda, for Benda 
 had taken to calling on Daniel now every day and staying with him 
 until late at night. But Daniel grew quieter and quieter. Some- 
 times he would make no reply at all to Benda's remarks or questions. 
 
 The Goose Man came in behind Dr. Dingolfinger and stood on
 
 460 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 tiptoes, as curious as curious could be, and looked over his arm 
 when he wrote out his prescriptions. The Goose Man was a little 
 fellow: he hardly reached up to the doctor's hips. 
 
 He hopped around Agnes when she cooked the soup and expressed 
 his sympathy for her; she looked so pale. Though only thirteen 
 years old, there was the worried look of a mature woman in her 
 face; she would cast her eyes around the room as if trying to 
 catch a glance of human love in the eyes of another person; her 
 looks were timid and stealthy. "Some one should be caring for her 
 too," said the Goose Man, shaking his head, "some one should be 
 making a good, warm soup for her." 
 
 Though it would be unfair to say that the Goose Man was 
 offensively concerned, he seemed to be interested in everything 
 that was going on in the house. When the officials of the fire 
 department came to cross-question Daniel about the fire, he became 
 angry and gruff, and did not wish to let them in. "Give the poor 
 man some rest, some peace, after all these years of suffering," he 
 implored, "give him time to collect himself and to meditate on 
 what has taken place." And in fact the members of the fire depart- 
 ment left as soon as possible; they did not stay long. 
 
 The Goose Man was always in a cheerful humour, always ready 
 for a good joke. At times he would whistle softly, and smooth 
 out the wrinkles in his doublet. There was a certain amount of 
 rustic shyness about him, but his affability, his good manners, and 
 his child-like cheerfulness removed any unpleasant impression this 
 rusticity might otherwise have made. He generally spoke the dia- 
 lect of Nuremberg, though when with Daniel he never spoke any- 
 thing but the most correct and chosen High German. His natural, 
 acquired culture and the wealth of his vocabulary were really 
 amazing. 
 
 Ten times a day at least he would scamper into the room where 
 little Gottfried was sleeping and express his admiration for the 
 pretty child. "How you are to be envied to have such a living 
 creature crawling and sprawling around in your home!" he said 
 to Daniel. And in course of time Daniel actually came to have 
 a new affection for the child. 
 
 As soon as the Goose Man felt perfectly at home in Daniel's 
 house, he took to bringing his two geese along with him. He 
 would place them very circumspectly in a corner of the room. 
 One evening he was sitting playing with them, when the bell rang. 
 Andreas Doderlein stormed in, and demanded that some one tell 
 him where his daughter was.
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 461 
 
 "Upon my word and honour! An old acquaintance of mine!" 
 said the Goose Man, laughing and blinking. "I see him nowadays 
 in the cafe much more frequently than is good for his health." 
 
 "I must urgently request you to control yourself," said Benda, 
 turning to Andreas Doderlein, and pointed to the bed in which 
 Daniel was lying. 
 
 "My daughter is not a bad woman. Let people overburdened 
 with credulity believe that she is bad," cried Doderlein, with the 
 expression and in the tone and gesture of the royal Lear, and 
 shook his Olympian locks. "The fact is that violence has been 
 practised on her; she has been driven into ruin! Men have stolen 
 the sweet love of my dearly beloved daughter through the use of 
 vile tricks and artifices. Where is she, the unfortunate, betrayed 
 child? With what is she clothing her nakedness, and how is she 
 finding food and shelter shelter in a world of wicked men?" 
 
 A strange thing happened: the Goose Man took the gigantic 
 arm of the Olympian, put his mouth to his beefy ear, and, with 
 a sad and reproachful look on his face, whispered something to 
 him. Doderlein turned red and then pale, looked down at the 
 floor, and went away with heavy, rumbling step but silent lips. 
 The Goose Man folded his arms across his breast, and looked at 
 Doderlein thoughtfully. 
 
 "He is said to have taken to drinking," remarked Benda, "is 
 said to be living a wild, dissipated life. It seems incredible to 
 me. The Doderleins are generally content to stroll in lust along 
 the banks of the slimy sea of vice and let other people fall in. 
 The Doderlins are born in false ermine, and they die in false 
 ermine." 
 
 "And yet he is a human being," said the Goose Man, so that 
 only Daniel could hear him. 
 
 Daniel sighed. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was late at night. Daniel could not sleep. The Goose Man 
 crouched at his feet on the edge of the bed, and looked at him as 
 one looks at a dear brother who is suffering intense pain. 
 
 "I cannot deny that it is difficult for you to continue your life," 
 said the Goose Man, trying to subdue his bright voice. "When 
 we sum up your situation, we sec day following day, night follow- 
 ing night, and nothing happening that can be a cause for rejoicing. 
 Everything has been cut off; the threads have all been broken; the
 
 462 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 foundation on which you built has been completely annihilated. 
 You are like the mother of many children who loses them all, all 
 of them, on a single day by one terrible stroke. The labour of 
 years remains unrewarded; your work has been in vain; in vain the 
 blood your heart has poured out, the deprivations you have sub- 
 mitted to; your whole past is like a bad, disordered dream. Oh, I 
 understand full well; I appreciate your situation. It seems hard, 
 very hard, to go on and not to despair." 
 
 Daniel covered his face with his hands and moaned. 
 
 "Have you ever asked yourself how the hand of murder came 
 to strike you? Ah, this Philippina! This daughter of Jason 
 Philip! I am almost four hundred years old, but such a person 
 I have never seen or known. But look back over your past! Do 
 it just once! Open your eyes; they are pure now and capable of 
 beholding. Have you not suffered the Devil to live by your side, 
 to take part in your life? And were you not at the same time 
 impatient with the angels who spread their wings about you as my 
 geese spread theirs about me? The Devil has grown fat from 
 you. The vampire has battened on you, has fed on your blood. 
 All this comes about when one is unwilling to give, when one 
 merely takes and takes and takes. That makes the Devil fat; the 
 vampire becomes greedier with each passing sun. Ah, so many good 
 genii have fled from you! Many you have frightened away, you, 
 bewitched, you, enchanted! Well, what now? What next? Hell 
 has claimed its full booty; Heaven can now open again to your 
 new-born heart." 
 
 "There is no Heaven," groaned Daniel, "there is nothing but 
 blackness and darkness." 
 
 "You still breathe, your heart is still beating, you still have 
 five fingers on each hand," replied the Goose Man quietly. "He 
 who has paid his debts is a free man: you have paid yours." 
 
 "I am my own debt, my own guilt. If I continue to live, I 
 will sin a^ain. Were I to live over the past, back into the past, 
 I would contract the same debts." 
 
 "But there is such a thing as a transformation, and through it 
 one receives absolution. Turn away from your phantom and be- 
 come a human being and then you can become a creator. If you 
 once become hum^n, really human, it may be that you will not 
 need the work, symphony or whatever else you choose to call it. 
 It may be that power and glory will radiate from you yourself. 
 For are not all works merely the round-about ways, the detours of 
 the man himself, merely man's imperfect attempts to reveal him-
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 463 
 
 self? Did you not love a mask of plaster more than the countenances 
 that shone upon you, the faces that wept about you? Did you 
 not allow another mask, a thing of the mirror, to get control over 
 you, and so to besmirch your soul and strike your spirit with 
 paralysis? How can a man be a creator if he deceives, stunts, and 
 abbreviates the humanity that is in him? It is not a question of 
 ability, Daniel Nothafft, it is a question of being, living, being." 
 
 Daniel tossed his head back and forth on his pillow, writhing 
 in agony. "Stop!" he gulped, "stop, stop!" 
 
 The Goose Man bent over him, and crouched up nearer to his 
 body like <an animal trying to get warm. "Come out of the con- 
 vulsion," something cried and exhorted within him, "break your 
 chains! Your music can give men nothing so long as you yourself 
 are held captive. Feel their distress! Have pity on their un- 
 plumbed loneliness! Behold mankind! Behold it!" 
 
 "There is so much," replied Daniel in extreme torture, "a 
 hundred thousand faces bewilder me, a hundred thousand pictures 
 hem me in. I cannot differentiate; I must flee, flee!" 
 
 There was something inimitably tender, reassuring, and re- 
 signed in what the Goose Man then said: "I speak to you as Christ: 
 Rise and walk! Rise and go in peace, Daniel! Go with me to 
 my place. Be me for just one day, from morning to evening, 
 and / will be you." 
 
 Daniel got up, and before he was conscious of what he was 
 doing, he had put on his clothes and was out on the street with 
 the Goose Man. They crossed the market place, and Daniel, in 
 a crepuscular state of mind, climbed up, with the help of the 
 Goose Man, and took his place on the base of the fountain behind 
 the iron railing. The two geese he took under his arms. He 
 stood perfectly still, rigid, just like the Goose Man, and waited 
 in anticipation of the things that were to come. 
 
 But nothing extraordinary happened. Everything that took 
 place was quite prosaic and obviously a matter of custom. 
 
 The sun rose, and the market women took the cords and covers 
 from their baskets. Fresh cherries, young pears, and winter apples 
 shone in all their brilliancy of colour and lent variety to the drab 
 square. Sparrows picked in the straw that lay on the street. The 
 sun rose higher; its early red gave way to a midday blue. Clouds 
 drifted over the roof of the church. The women gossiped.
 
 464 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 Wagons rattled by, errand boys called to each other, curtains were 
 drawn from the windows, and men and women looked out to see 
 what the weather was going to be like. There were sleepy faces 
 and anxious faces, good faces and bad faces, young and old. 
 
 Maids and humbler housewives came to make their purchases. 
 They examined the fruit with seasoned care and experienced hand, 
 and bargained for lower prices. The peasant women praised what 
 they had, and if their praise was ineffectual, they became abusive. 
 Once a sale had been made, they would take their balances, put 
 the weights in one pan and the fruit in another, and never cease 
 praising what they were selling until they had the money safe in 
 their pockets. Then they would count over the coins they had 
 received, and looked at them as if to say: "It is fine to earn money!" 
 
 But those who paid out the money bore the mien of 'painful 
 care and solicitude. They seemed to be counting it all up in their 
 heads; to be taking lessons in mental arithmetic. They would 
 think over how much it were wise or permissible for them to spend. 
 The thing that impressed Daniel most of all, and the longer he 
 'itood there the clearer it became to him, was this: Each purchaser 
 went right up to the very edge of the territory staked out for her, 
 so to speak, by some mysterious master. This they felt was cor- 
 rect, certain though they were that to have gone beyond the allotted 
 limit would have brought swift and irremediable ruin. The money 
 was paid out with such studied caution, and taken in with such a 
 sense of victory! There was something touching about it all. This 
 daily life of these small people seemed so strange, so very strange, 
 and at the same time so in accord with established order: it seemed 
 indeed to be a practical visualisation of the sanctity of the law. 
 
 In all the transactions due respect was paid to the formalities of 
 life, and nothing was veiled. There was fulness, but no confusion; 
 many words, but no misunderstanding. There were the wares and 
 there were the coins. The scales showed how much was being 
 given and how much taken. The fruit wandered from basket to 
 basket; and human arms carried it home. Each bought as much as 
 could be paid for; there was no thought of going beyond one's 
 means 
 
 The clock in the tower struck on the hour, and the shadows 
 moved in a circle about the objects on the square. So it was to-day; 
 and so it had been four hundred years ago. 
 
 Four hundred years ago the houses stood there just as they stood 
 to-day, and people, men and women, looked out of the windows, 
 some with kindly some with embittered faces.
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 465 
 
 Is that not Theresa Schimmclweis creeping around the corner? 
 How old, decrepit, and bent with years! Her hair is stone grey, 
 her face is like lime. She is poorly dressed; she does not notice 
 the people she meets. She sees nothing but the full baskets of 
 fruit; for them she has a greedy eye. And she looks at Daniel 
 behind the iron fence with an expression of painful astonishment. 
 
 And is that not Frau Hadebusch hobbling along over there! 
 Though her face is that of a crafty criminal, in her eyes there is 
 a panicky, terrified look. She has no support other than the 
 ground beneath her feet; she is a poor, lost soul. 
 
 There comes Alfons Diruf, who retired years ago. He has be- 
 come stout and gloomy. He is out for his morning walk along the 
 city moat. There goes the actor, Edmund Hahn, seeking whom 
 he may devour. Disease and lust are writ large across his jaded 
 face. There is the sculptor, Schwalbe. He is secretly buying a 
 few apples to take home to roast, for otherwise he has nothing 
 warm to eat. And there is Herr Carovius, ambling along. He 
 looks like a wandering spirit, dejected and exhausted. 
 
 Beggars pass by, and so do the rich. There are respected people 
 who are greeted by those who see them; there are outcasts who are 
 shunned. There are those who are happy and those who are 
 weighed down with grief. Some hasten and some hesitate. Some 
 seem to hold fast to their lives as a lover might hold fast to his 
 fiancee; others will die that same day. One has a child by the 
 hand, another a woman by the arm. Some drag crimes in their 
 hearts, others walk upright, free, happy to face the world. One is 
 being summoned to court as a witness, the other is on his way to 
 the doctor. One is fleeing from domestic discord, another is 
 rejoicing over some great good fortune. There is the man who has 
 lost his purse and the man who is reading a serious letter. One is 
 on his way to church to pray, another to the cafe to drown his 
 sorrows. One is radiant with joy over the business outlook, another 
 is crushed with poverty. A beautiful girl has on her best dress; a 
 cripple lies in the gateway. There is a boy who sings a song, and 
 a matron whose eyes are red with weeping. The baker carries his 
 bread by, the cobbler his boots. Soldiers are going to the barracks, 
 workmen arc returning from the factory. 
 
 Daniel feels that none of them are strangers to him. He sees 
 himself in each of them. He is nearer to them while standing on 
 his elevated position behind the iron railing than he was when he 
 walked by them on the street. The jet of water that spurts from 
 him is like fate: it flows and collects in the basin. Eternal wisdom,
 
 466 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 he feels, is streaming up to him from the fountain below; each hour 
 becomes a century. However men may be constituted, he is seized 
 with a supernatural feeling when he looks into their eyes. In all 
 of their eyes there is the same fire, the same anxiety and the same 
 prayer; the same loneliness, the same life, the same death. In all 
 of them he sees the soul of God. 
 
 He himself no longer feels his loneliness; he feels that he has 
 been distributed among men. His hate has gone, dispelled like so 
 much smoke. The tones he hears now come rushing up from the 
 great fountain; and this fountain is fed from the blood of all 
 those he sees on the market place. Water is something different 
 now: "It washes clean man's very soul, and makes it like an angel, 
 whole." 
 
 Noon came, and then evening: a day of creation. And when 
 evening came, a mist settled over the city, and Daniel came down 
 from his high place at the fountain, set the geese carefully to one 
 side, and went home. He arrived at the vestibule; he stood in the 
 door of the room looking out on the court. His eyes beheld a 
 wonderful sight. 
 
 The Goose Man was sitting playing with Agnes and little Gott- 
 fried. He had cut silhouettes from bright coloured paper and 
 made them stand up on the table by bending back the edge of the 
 paper. There he sat, pushing these figures into each other, and 
 making such droll remarks that Agnes, who had never in her life 
 really laughed, laughed now with all her heart, and like the child 
 that she in truth still was. 
 
 Little Gootfried could only prattle and clap his hands. The 
 Goose Man had placed him on the table. Whenever he made a 
 false or awkward move, the Goose Man would set him right. He 
 seemed to be especially skilled at handling and amusing children. 
 
 When Daniel came in, the Goose Man got up and went over 
 to him, greeted him, and said in a kindly, confidential tone: "Are 
 you back so soon? We have had such a nice time!" 
 
 In the room, however, there was the same haze that had settled 
 down over the city when Daniel left the fountain. Agnes and 
 Gottfried were seized with a terrible fear. The boy began to cry; 
 Agnes threw her arms around him and cried too. 
 
 Daniel went up to them, and said: "Don't cry! I'm with you. 
 You don't need to cry any more!" 
 
 He sat down on the same seat on which the Goose Man had 
 been sitting, looked at the tiny paper figures, and, smiling, con- 
 tinued the game the Goose Man had been playing with them.
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 467 
 
 Gottfried became quiet and Agnes happy. 
 
 "Good-night!" cried the Goose Man, "now I am again myself, 
 and you are you." 
 
 He nodded kindly and disappeared. 
 
 VI 
 
 That same evening six of Daniel's pupils came in. They had 
 heard that he had been removed from his position at the con- 
 servatory. 
 
 It was not a mere rumour. Andreas Doderlein had had him 
 discharged. He was also relieved of his post as organist at St. 
 /Egydius's. The scandal with which he had been associated, and 
 which was by this time known to the entire city, had turned the 
 church authorities against him. 
 
 The six pupils came into his room where he was playing with his 
 children. One of them, who had been chosen as their spokesman, 
 told him that they had made up their minds not to leave him; they 
 were anxious to have him continue the instruction he had been 
 giving them. 
 
 They were clever, vivacious young chaps. In their eyes was an 
 enthusiasm that had not yet been dimmed either by cowardice or 
 conceit. 
 
 "I am not going to remain in the city," said Daniel. "I am 
 planning to return to my native Eschenbach." 
 
 The pupils looked at each other. Thereupon the speaker re- 
 marked: "We want to go with you." They all nodded. 
 
 Daniel got up and shook hands with each one of them. 
 
 Two days later, Daniel's furniture and household belongings 
 had all been packed. Benda came to say good-bye: his work, his 
 great duty was calling him. 
 
 At first Benda could hardly realise that Daniel was yet to live 
 an active life; that there was still a whole life in him; that his 
 life was not merely the debris of human existence, the ruins of a 
 heart. But it was true. 
 
 There was about Daniel the expression, the bearing of a man 
 who had been liberated, unchained. No one could help but notice 
 it. Though more reticent and laconic than in former days, his 
 eyes had taken on a new splendour, a renewed brilliancy and 
 clarity; they were at once serious and cheerful. His mood had 
 become milder, his face more peaceful. 
 
 The friends shook hands. Benda then left the room slowly,
 
 468 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 went down the steps slowly, and once out on the street he walked 
 along slowly: he felt so small, so strangely unimportant. 
 
 VII 
 
 Daniel returned to Eschenbach, and moved into the house of 
 his parents. His pupils took rooms with the residents of the 
 village. 
 
 He was regarded by the natives as a peculiar individual. They 
 smiled when they spoke of him, or when they saw him passing 
 through the streets absorbed in his own thoughts. But it was not a 
 malicious smile. If there was the faintest tinge of ridicule in it at 
 first, it soon gave way to a vague feeling of pride. 
 
 He gained a mysterious influence over people with whom he came 
 in contact; many sought his advice when in trouble. His pupils 
 especially adored him. He had the gift of holding their attention, 
 of carrying them along. The means he employed were the very 
 simplest: his splendid, cheerful personality, the harmony between 
 what he said and what he did, his earnestness, his humanness, his 
 resignation to the cause that lay close to his heart, and his own belief 
 in this cause those were the means through which and by which 
 he gained a mysterious influence over those with whom he came in 
 touch. 
 
 He became a famous teacher; the number of pupils who wished 
 to study under him increased from year to year. But he admitted 
 very few of them to his classes. He took only the best; and the 
 certainty with which he made his selections and differentiated was 
 wellnigh infallible. 
 
 No inducements of any kind could persuade him to leave the 
 isolated place where he had elected to live. 
 
 He was almost always in a good humour; he was never dis- 
 tracted; and the preciseness and sharpness with which he observed 
 whatever took place was remarkable. The one thing that could 
 throw him into a rage was to see some one abuse a dumb beast. 
 Once he got into trouble with a teamster who was beating his skinny 
 old jade in order to make it pull a load that was far in excess of its 
 strength. The boys on the street made fun of him; the people 
 laughed with considerable satisfaction, and said: "Ah, the professor: 
 he's a bit off." 
 
 Agnes kept house for him; she was most faithful in looking out 
 for his wants. When he would leave the house, she would bring 
 him his hat and walking stick. Every evening before she went to
 
 BUT ASIDE, WHO IS IT? 469 
 
 sleep, he would come in to her and kiss her on the forehead. It 
 was rare that they spoke with each other, but there was a secret 
 zgreement, a peaceful harmony, between them. 
 
 Gottfried grew up to be a strong, healthy boy. He had Daniel's 
 physique and ELanore's eyes. Yes, they were the eyes with that 
 blue fire; and they had Eleanore's elfin-like chastity and her hatred 
 of all that is false and simulated. Daniel saw in this a freak of 
 nature of the profoundest significance. All the laws of blood 
 seemed unsubstantial and shadowy. His feelings often wandered 
 between gratitude and astonishment. 
 
 Of Dorothea he heard one day that she was making her living 
 as a violinist in a woman's orchestra. He made some inquiries and 
 traced her as far as Berlin. There he lost her. A few years later 
 he was told that she had become the mistress of a wealthy country 
 gentleman in Bohemia, and was driving about in an automobile on 
 the Riviera. 
 
 He was also informed of the death of Herr Carovius. His last 
 hours were said to have been very hard: he had kept crying out, 
 "My flute, give me my flute!" 
 
 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,
 
 470 THE GOOSE MAN 
 
 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 md 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. 
 
 THE END
 
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