Part 123

Councillor Finkeldey, a white-bearded man, nodded at Daniel, or at least at the spot where he was standing, with marked enthusiasm. It was his way of paying homage to Dorothea: everything 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 breathed through his nose, Herr Samuelsky, a fat man with a red beard, made a contemptuous remark, Dorothea, vexed and annoyed, 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 Philippina, without apparent motive.

Dorothea was terrified. “Lock the door, Philippina,” she whispered, “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 Hadebusch! 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 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, Philippina,” said Dorothea timidly.

“Very well, I’ll go see her to-morrow morning,” replied Philippina, 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 obvious from the expression on his face, he never mentioned. He told of his work, his travels in connection with the old manuscripts, his position as organist and in the conservatory, but all in such a general, detached, and distraught way, so tired and bewildered, 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, make me feel ashamed. Even when I have good dreams, I personally 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.”