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Updated: June 22, 2025
“If I only knew what you are talking about,” said Eleanore, a great burden falling from her heart as she realised that her initial fears were groundless. “By the monster you evidently mean Daniel Nothafft. What crime has he committed?” Fräulein Saloma was indignant at the flippancy of her manner.
How can a man be a creator if he deceives, stunts, and abbreviates the humanity that is in him? It is not a question of ability, Daniel Nothafft, it is a question of being, living, being.” Daniel tossed his head back and forth on his pillow, writhing in agony. “Stop!” he gulped, “stop, stop!”
Who is its father?” The records in the office of the registrar of births showed that Meta Steinhäger was the mother of the illegitimate child, Eva Steinhäger, and that its father was unknown. It was to be presumed, however, that widow Nothafft knew the details. The old women, and the young ones too, came on this account more frequently now than ever to her shop.
All the church bells were ringing. To the surprise of Jason Philip, Gottfried Nothafft stepped into his shop. His long, patriarchal beard and tall stature gave something venerable to his appearance, even though his face looked tired and his eyes were dull. “God bless you, brother,” he said and held out his hand. “The fatherland has better luck than its citizens.”
Not one of the chorus stayed too long in the café; and since Wurzelmann directed, and the orchestra did not have to feel the burning, basilisk eye of Kapellmeister Nothafft resting on it and floating over it, it played with more precision and produced a more pleasing feast for the ears than ordinarily.
Schimmelweis, who did not like the visits of kinsmen, returned the salutation with careful coolness. His features did not brighten until he heard that his brother-in-law was stopping at the Red Cock Inn. He asked what errand had brought Gottfried to the city. “I must have a talk with you,” Nothafft replied. They entered a room behind the shop and sat down.
The attacks consisted of sly, caustic sneers, secrets that had been ferreted out with dog-like keenness, gigantic broadsides based on hearsay evidence, and perfidious suspicions lodged against Daniel Nothafft, the artist, and Daniel Nothafft, the man. The articles never failed to mention the Goose Man. Daniel asked to have the allusion explained.
On the back of it he had written: “The paper is of no use; it might even betray my secret. I have your word and your hand. That is enough. With thanks for your friendship and your services, I am your faithful kinsman, Gottfried Nothafft.” Before peace had been made with France, Gottfried lay down to die. He was buried in the little churchyard by the wall, and a cross was set upon his grave.
It was therefore assumed that the suicide had knocked over a lighted candle in her last moments. The crowd of acquaintances and close friends had disappeared; this was over too. Hardened souls expressed their conventional sympathy to Kapellmeister Nothafft. That a man who had carried his head so high had suddenly been obliged to lower it in humility awakened a feeling of satisfaction.
From that day on, Father Leonhard never said another word to Daniel Nothafft. And whenever the strange musician chanced to play the organ, the monk arose as quickly as possible, left the church, and sought out some place where the tones could not reach him. That summer Daniel came to Aix-la-Chapelle and the region of Liége, Louvain, and Malines. From there he wandered on foot to Ghent and Bruges.
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