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Updated: June 29, 2025
A violinist whose career had a great influence on musical life in England was Johann Peter Salomon, a pupil of Benda, and it is necessary to speak of him because his name is so frequently mentioned in connection with other artists during the latter half of the eighteenth century.
The fault of a woman!” he repeated, in a voice that threw off a gruesome echo in the vaulted arch of the gateway to the castle. “There is to be sure a woman there; and when one has anything to do with her, he finds himself with nothing left but his eyes for weeping.” They left the gateway. Benda laid one hand on Daniel’s shoulder, and pointed in silence at the sky with the other.
The thought of meeting Benda filled him with a sense of shame, to which was added a touch of bitterness as day after day passed by and Benda never called or wrote. “It is all over,” he thought, “he has forgotten me.” He would have liked to forget too; and he could have done it, for his mind was wandering, restless, strayed.
But there is one delicate point: it is a point of conscience. Call it, so far as I am concerned, a chip; call it anything you please. The fact is I have had a Don Quixotic run in, and I have got to defend myself.” Daniel shook his head and read on. Benda knew nothing of his marriage. He did not even seem to know that Daniel and Gertrude had been engaged. Or if he had known it he had forgotten it.
The delicately moulded woman succumbed to a sense of guilt; her heart grew irresponsive to feelings, her mind dark. She was stricken with the delusion that her child was slowly dying in her arms, and one day she collapsed completely. The rest is known.” Benda got up, went over to the window, and looked out into the darkness. Daniel felt as if a rope were being tightened about his neck.
With the old sense of dim defiance, he coaxed the ghost of disappointment into his soul; and his soul was weighed down by the nocturnal darkness like the glass of his window. “Now I am enjoying my home,” said Benda thoughtfully, “I am enjoying a milder light, a more ordered civilisation. I have come to look upon Germany as a definite figure, to love it as a composite picture.
Late in the evening Benda came. He had been tolerably well informed of everything that had taken place. In the hall he met Agnes. Though generally quite monosyllabic, Agnes was now inclined to be extremely communicative, but she could merely confirm what he had already heard. She went up to the top floor with him, and he stood there for a long while looking at the burnt rooms.
Benda, deeply moved, remained silent: “Is it the fault of a woman?” he asked gently, as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the desolate old door leading to the castle. “The fault of a woman? No! Not really the fault of a woman. It is rather the fault of a man—my fault. Many a fate reaches the decisive point in happiness, many not until coloured with guilt. And guilt is bitter.
“Do you mean to tell me that such people as you and Daniel and I may be living up there in those starry regions?” “Certainly.” “And that there are countless peoples and humanities up among the stars of whom we know nothing at all?” “Certainly.” Eleanore sat down on a milestone by the roadside, gazed out into space with trembling lips, and broke out crying. Benda took her hand, and caressed it.
Benda smiled a gracious smile. “Yes, you die at each fall, and at each come-back you appear a new-made man,” he said. “That is fine. But a Döderlein cannot come back, once his contemporaries have thrown him over. The very thing that means a new idea to you spells his ruin; what gives you pleasure, voluptuous pleasure, is death to him.” “Y-e-s,” mumbled Daniel, “and yet, what good is he?”
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