Part 98

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 forehead 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 my 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!”

“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 sister?” 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 Jordan if Philippina were discharged? Daniel could not make his bed or get his meals.

Philippina went out. “The damned scoundrel!” she said as soon as she had left the room. She clenched her horny fists, and continued Daniel’s life history: “The brute has a bastard, he has. You wait, you little chit, and the first chance I get I’ll scratch your eyes out!”

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 misunderstood 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 everybody 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.

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 background of his physical impoverishment and spiritual decay, was terrifying.

Marian hoped to hear something from him concerning Daniel’s present situation. She knew, in a general way, that he was in profound distress, that he was living in most straightened circumstances, 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 distrust 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, far-away idea of music. But now Eleanore was gone, and all her old doubts returned.

Jordan however became painfully secretive whenever she referred 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? 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 mentioned her name. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded her of Eleanore; there was something supersensuous in its power. 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; “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 fiancé; he nodded approvingly.

Eberhard and Sylvia knew perfectly well from the very beginning 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; small deceptions practised in the spirit of love would prove ineffectual. 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 Döderlein had so poisoned her mind against Daniel that the mere mention of his name caused her brow to wrinkle, her lips to drop.