Part 92

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 footsteps.

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 powerless; 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. Dingolfinger’s silvery beard, and that these were actual words that were being spoken to him, he fell over and became unconscious.

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 Rübsam 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 something 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.

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 Döderlein, who gave promise of developing into a remarkable virtuoso on the violin, was playing some sonatas with the Baroness.