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Updated: June 22, 2025
Jason Philip’s eyes harboured even now a definitely negative answer to any proposal that might cost him money or trouble. But he was to be agreeably disappointed. “I want to tell you, brother,” Gottfried Nothafft said, “that I have put by three thousand taler during the nineteen years of my married life.
He went to a table which reached almost the full length of the room, picked up a piece of white paper, sat down, and wrote with red ink: “Daniel Nothafft. Musician. Two months in jail.” He then covered the paper with mucilage, pasted it on a wooden box which looked like a miniature sentry-house, and nailed a lid on the box, using tacks that were lying ready for this purpose.
“And you know, Nothafft is to be made Kapellmeister at the City Theatre,” remarked the editor Weibezahl, the latest member of the round table. “His appointment is to be made public in a few days.” “What! Kapellmeister! You don’t say so! That will make Andreas Döderlein the saddest man in ten states.”
Daniel was ignorant of what she was doing; he had not troubled himself about the distressing poverty of past weeks; he did not concern himself now with their abundance; where it came from he never asked. Eberhard von Auffenberg had returned to the city shortly after the death of Gertrude Nothafft. The last large sum he had received from Herr Carovius, now nearly a year ago, he had almost used up.
She jumped up and left without saying good-bye to him, slamming first the room door and then the hall door behind her. Dorothea was standing by the piano rummaging around in some note books. Her thoughts were on what she had just been hearing. She remembered Daniel Nothafft quite well. She knew that there was an irreconcilable feud between him and her father.
When he went out of evenings, he saw Nothafft displayed on all the signs, while every demi-monde bore Eleanore’s features. It seemed to him in time that Eleanore Jordan was his property; that he had a right to her. His life, he felt, was full of lamentable privations: other people had everything, he had nothing. Others committed crimes; all he could do was to make note of the crimes.
If there is any one thing that can make restitution for the lost illusions of religious faith, provide us with wings, transform us, and save us from the abyss to which we are rushing with savage senses, it is music. Where are you, O redeemer? You are wandering about over the earth, the poorest, the most abandoned, the guiltiest of men. When are you going to pay your debts, Daniel Nothafft?”
Eleanore made her own white dress and her veil. Gisela Degen, a younger sister of Martha Rübsam, and Elsa Schneider, the daughter of the rector of the Church of St. Ægydius, were to be her bridesmaids. Marian Nothafft and Eva were also to come over from Eschenbach; Eleanore had already sent them the money for the tickets.
There was a Muse such as poets dream of! “Jewess, wonderful Jewess,” thought Daniel, and this word—Jewess—took on for him a meaning, a power, and a prophetic flight all its own. “The work, Daniel Nothafft, the work,” wrote this second Rahel in another letter, “the rape of Prometheus, when are you going to lay it at the feet of impoverished humanity?
If such a person could be found, he was willing to place Daniel Nothafft, whose name was now known to him, in the responsible position of making the collections and editing them.
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