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In a belated sexual outburst, a second puberty, his imagination became inflamed by a picture which he adorned with all the perfections of both soul and body. He heard that one of Daniel’s works was to be played before invited guests at the home of Baroness von Auffenberg. He wired to Eberhard, and asked him to get him an invitation. The reply was a negative one.
She felt, despite all this, like scratching Daniel’s eyes out when he spoke of paying her regular monthly wages. This she regarded as base ingratitude. If it were at all possible for grief to find ineradicable lodgment in her envious, unenlightened, malicious soul, Daniel’s offer of so much per month made it so. She ran into the kitchen, and hurled knives and forks in the sink.
One afternoon, a stately gentleman between fifty-five and fifty-six years old entered Daniel’s room, and introduced himself as Sylvester von Erfft, the owner of an estate. His mission was as follows: Every year, at this season, the Chancellor of the German Empire was taking the cure at the nearby Kissingen Baths.
He grasped Daniel’s shoulder, and spoke in a tone of violent command: “Come home with me this minute!” Daniel looked up, awoke from his dream, and became aware of the indignant hiss of that alien voice. He tore himself away, and declared insolently that he would stay where he was. That enraged Jason Philip utterly, and he tried again to lay hands on the boy in order to drag him down by force.
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. 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.
That same night he sat down in his wretched quarters, and began his composition of Goethe’s “Harzreise im Winter.” It was one of the profoundest and rarest of works ever created by a musician, but it was destined, like the most of Daniel’s compositions, not to be preserved to posterity. This was due to a tragic circumstance.
She measured her work and his not in terms of reward; she did not seek for connection of any kind between privation and hope; nor did she measure Daniel’s love in terms of tender expressions and embraces. She waited for him with much patience.
When the child was born, Daniel’s mother would have a picture of young life to look at; it would alleviate her longing; it would appease her bitterness to see a child of Daniel’s own blood. Eleanore told the people at home that she was going on an excursion with a school friend to the Ansbach country.
A man, you know, has a habit of going to bed long before a woman quits her daily work. Is that not true, my son-in-law?” With that he clapped Daniel on the shoulder. “During Gertrude’s confinement I will sleep here in her room,” said Eleanore, avoiding Daniel’s eyes as she said so. “She cannot stay alone, and it costs too much to keep a nurse.” “Exactly,” said Jordan, and went to the door.
She thought for a long while of how she might speak to people without offending them and without annoying Daniel. She was embarrassed; she was afraid of Daniel’s criticism. On such days she would put too much salt in the soup, everything went wrong, and in her diligent attempt to be punctual she lost much time.
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