Part 107

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.

From Genoa he wandered on foot through Lombardy and across the Alps. He slept on hard beds in order to keep his hot blood in check, and lived on bread and cheese. His attacks of weakness, sometimes of complete exhaustion, did not worry him at first; he paid no attention to them. But in Augsburg he swooned, falling headlong on the street. He was taken to a hospital, where he lay for three months with typhus. From his window he could see the tall chimneys of factories and an endless procession of wandering clouds. It had become winter; the ground was covered with snow.

Two years after his last visit he again entered the house on Ægydius 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 himself, 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 Füll he was startled: the windows in the Benda house were lighted. He suddenly recalled that Herr Seelenfromm had told him that Frau Benda had returned from Worms some time ago, and was living with her niece; she had become totally blind.

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

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

“I have read nothing about it,” murmured Daniel. “But Friedrich cannot be dead,” he continued, shaking his head, “I will never believe it, never.” Partly in distraction and partly in anxiety, he riveted his eyes on the woman, who stared at his 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 military outposts and missionary stations, and all to no purpose.” After a pause she said with a little more vivacity: “You do not wish me to ask you in, I hope. It is so painful to my aunt to hear a strange voice, and I cannot think of letting you talk to her. If I did, it would merely open her old wounds, and she has a hard enough time of it as it is.”

Daniel nodded and went on his way. A 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.

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

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

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

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

“You wait, I’ll show you how to make a fool of respectable people,” croaked Herr Carovius in well-meaning anger. He resembled an old dog, hopping about and getting ready to make the plunge when his master throws his walking stick into the water. In his zeal, however, to prevent the girl from offending his dignity, he had forgotten the paper crown on his head. It wabbled and shook so when he hopped around, that the girl nearly split her sides laughing.

A maid came in just then with an 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 Döderlein’s maid—was delighted at the comedy, and made a noise that resembled the cackling of a hen.

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

Daniel did not know that the girl was Dorothea Döderlein, 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 gestures filled him with deferential respect; his eyes swam with emotion. He felt so old, so foreign; he felt that where he was the sun was not shining, the flowers were not budding. He felt that life had appeared to him all of a sudden and quite unexpectedly in a new, kindly, bewitching light.

He came slowly down the steps.

“Is it possible!” cried Herr Carovius, tearing the mask from his face. “Can I trust my own eyes? It is our maestro! Or is it his ghost?”

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

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

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