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Updated: June 25, 2025
In the spring of 1886, the company went north to Hesse, then to Thuringia, gave performances in a few of the towns in the Spessart region and along the Rhoen, the box receipts growing smaller and smaller all the while. Dörmaul had not been seen since the previous autumn; the salaries had not been paid for some time. Wurzelmann prophesied a speedy and fatal end of the enterprise.
When he would sit in a café late at night and show Wurzelmann one score after another, sing a few bars in order to bring out the quality of a song, improvise an accompaniment, praise a melody, or explain the peculiarity of a certain rhythm, he surprised the little slave, and drove him into an attitude of self-defence. All this was fundamentally new to Wurzelmann.
One of the long-haired sang the champagne song, and Wurzelmann made a witty speech. Döderlein suggested that now was the time to let the mice dance and the fleas hop. When one of the lost-in-dreams sang David’s March, which according to the rules of Bayreuth could not be classed as real music, Döderlein exclaimed: “Give me Lethe, my fair one.” By “Lethe” he meant punch. Daniel drank Lethe too.
Wurzelmann was always mixed up in some kind of love affair, introduced in time a ruinous system of favouritism, and became lazier and lazier as the weeks passed by.
Say, little servant, how are you feeling?” he said, turning to Wurzelmann, “how about a drink or two?” Wurzelmann, somewhat embarrassed, said that he had an engagement. There was something repulsive in the way he declined the invitation. “Ah, you, with your old engagement,” said Daniel, “I don’t give a hang where you are going; I am going along.” “No, you’re not, Daniel,” cried Eleanore.
Daniel had known for a long time that Wurzelmann was working against him. Quite innocently, to be sure, for half souls can admire and betray at the same time. “Envy is my only virtue,” said Wurzelmann quite openly, “I am a genius at envying.” Daniel was not equal to such cynicism. He was stupefied by Wurzelmann’s remark, but he did not break with the little slave; he continued to use him.
Dörmaul was frightened; he sent the necessary money by return wire. In another telegram to Wurzelmann he declared the company dissolved; most of the contracts had expired, and those members of the company who put in claims were satisfied in one way or another. Daniel was free. Wurzelmann said to him on taking leave: “Nothafft, you will never amount to anything. I have been disappointed in you.
“The province is the enchanted Sleeping Beauty,” said the impresario Dörmaul to Wurzelmann and Daniel, “the province is still asleep, and you must rouse it from its slumbers by pressing the kiss of the Muse on its forehead.” But the impresario was unwilling to open his pockets.
Father will be delighted to see you, and we will have something to eat.” “Fine. That sounds good to me. Addio, Wurzelmann, and remember me to the girls. You are coming along, aren’t you, Friedrich?” Benda first made a few polite remarks, and then said he would accept. “You liked it then, did you, Eleanore?” asked Daniel, as they walked along the street. Eleanore was silent.
He spoke in the detestable idiom of the Oriental Jew. Benda was politely cold. The main point was still to come: “Vineta” had aroused Wurzelmann’s profound admiration; he had read the score on the side: “A great talent, Doctor, a talent such as we have not had for a long, long while,” said Wurzelmann. “Yes, but what am I to say about Herr Dörmaul’s opinion?” asked Benda.
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