Part 43

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 innermost 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 confidence, 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.

XVIII

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 cordiality.

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 Döderlein 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 one’s self to be led on and blinded by material considerations. Your loving daughter, Dorothea.”

Andreas Döderlein 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 Dorothea’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 Herr 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 Döderlein 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 Döderlein was eager to ask a question or two. It seemed indeed 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 intention of shutting himself up in his own stronghold.

Andreas Döderlein 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 entering. “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 Döderlein 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 Döderlein was ill 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, Döderlein 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 notified him that his note for one thousand marks, with interest, was due. Döderlein saw that there was nothing to be done about it all except to recognise the dénouement as a fact and not as a stage scene. And one day he hobbled up the steps of the house on Ægydius Place.

“I am glad to see you,” said Daniel as he reached out his hand to his visitor.

Andreas Döderlein spoke of a father’s bleeding heart, of the crushing of proud hopes, of the impiety of youth, and the lonesomeness 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. Döderlein 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 consequently 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.

Döderlein 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 constellation,” 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 Döderlein, “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?”

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, Döderlein 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 Döderlein 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 Döderlein 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 Hadebusch’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 with anguish; he feared some misfortune. He felt that he would have to let her have her way.

XIX

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 approaching 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 her 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, unassured glances at them—at Daniel and at Dorothea.

Daniel and Dorothea were married on a sunny day in December.

DOROTHEA

I

For the past fortnight, Philippina and Agnes had been living at Frau Hadebusch’s. A message came from Daniel telling Philippina 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 incessant whisperings and ugly remarks behind Daniel’s back. Agnes was convinced that she was a burden to her father, and his marriage 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 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 Döderleins,” 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 reasons 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 along 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. “Nonsense!” 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 I see 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 transformation into tones. Here he suddenly felt the toneless; he had the feeling one might have on looking at a deep-sea fish: it is lifeless, toneless. He thought of his Eva; he longed for his Eva. Just then Agnes came out of the door to look for Philippina.

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.”

II

Philippina arrived at the front door at ten o’clock in the morning. In one hand she 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 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!”

III

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 upsetting 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.