Chapter 12

It was a sunny day in September. Eberhard, who had spent the entire August at Erfft, had returned to the city to attend to some urgent business—and also to hasten the arrangements for his coming wedding.

As the streets were filled with playing children, he sauntered along on his way up to the Castle on the hill. He wanted to look up his little house; he had not been in it for months. He had a feeling that he would enjoy the quiet up there; he longed to look back over and into scenes from the past; he wanted to pass in review the shadowy pictures of his former self; pictures he saw before him wherever he went, wherever he was. One of these was always with him; if he found himself in a certain room it was there; if he went on a long journey it was with him. He even found it on the faded pages of books he had taken to himself as companions in his loneliness.

He hesitated from time to time, stopped, and seemed quite irresolute. All of a sudden he turned around, and started back with hasty steps to Ægydius Place. Just as he was entering the hall of Daniel’s apartment, he met Daniel coming out. He greeted Eberhard and gave him his hand.

“I was just going to call for you,” said the Baron. “Won’t you come with me up to my old hermitage?”

Daniel looked out through his glasses at a swallow that was just then circling around over the square; there was something fabulous in its flight. “To tell you the truth, Baron, I have very little inclination to gossip at present.” He made the remark with as much consideration for the laws of human courtesy as lay within his power.

“There must be no gossiping,” said Eberhard. “I have a great secret, one that I can tell you without saying a word.”

Daniel went along with him.

The air in the little house was dead, stuffy. But Eberhard did not open the windows; he wished to have it as quiet as it was when they entered. Daniel took a seat on one of the chairs in the former living room of the Baron. Eberhard thought he had sat down because he was tired; he therefore took a seat opposite him. The evening sun cast a slanting ray on an old copper engraving based on a scene from pastoral life. A mouse played around in the corner.

“Well, what is your secret?” asked Daniel brusquely, after they had sat in perfect silence for some time.

Eberhard got up, and made a gesture which meant that Daniel was to follow him. They crossed the narrow hall, climbed up a pair of small steps, and then Eberhard opened a door leading into the attic room.

A stupefying, deadening odour of decayed flowers struck them in the face. Involuntarily Daniel turned to go, but the Baron pointed at the walls in absolute silence.

“What is this? What kind of a room is this?” asked Daniel, rather forcibly.

The four walls of the room were completely covered with bouquets, garlands, and wreaths of withered flowers. The leaves had fallen from most of them, and were now lying scattered about the floor. Leaves that had once been green had turned brown; the grasses and mosses were in shreds, the twigs were dry and brittle. Many of the bouquets had had ribbons attached to them; these, once red or blue, were now faded. Others had been bound with gold tinsel; this had rusted. The slanting rays of the sun fell on others, and lighted them as it had shone on the copper engraving in the room below. Through the purple rays could be seen a dancing stream of dust.

It was a flower mausoleum; a vault of bouquets, a death-house of memories. Daniel suspected what it all meant. He felt his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth; a chill ran over him. And when Eberhard at last began to speak, his eyes filled with hot, gushing tears.

“The flowers were all picked and bound by her hands, by Eleanore’s hands,” said Eberhard. And then, after a pause: “She prepared the bouquets for a florist, and I bought them; she had no idea who bought them.” That was all he said.

Daniel looked back into his past life, as if an invisible arm were drawing him to the pinnacle of some high mountain. He looked, and his soul was dissolved in anxiety, torture, and repentance.

What had he left? Two graves: that was all. No, he had, aside from the two graves, a broken harp, some withered flowers, and a mask of terracotta.

He looked at the dead stems and withered chalices: Eleanore’s fingers had once touched all of these. Her fingers were even then hovering over the dead buds like figures from the realm of spirits. In the dusty spider webs hung caught at present unused moments, kind words that were never spoken, consolation that was never expressed, encouragement, consideration, and happiness that were allowed to pass unclaimed and unapplied. Oh, this living and not knowing what the present contains! Oh, this being with a living life, and remaining unaware of it! This failure to avail one’s self of a wonderful day, a breathing, pulsing hour! This dragging, falling, plunging into the night of desire and delusion, this proud, vain, criminal discontent! O winged creature, winged creature, where art thou! Where can one call out to thee!

There was nothing left but two graves, a broken harp, withered flowers, and a mask! And a fair child here, a foul one there, and a third that had come into life only to die! And up above all this, up above even the tip of the mountain top, the gigantic, the inexpressible, the sea of dreams and dreamed melodies, the breath of God, the annunciation of infernal darkness, the message of eternity, the wonders of temporal existence, dance and dancing pipes, peals of thunder, and sweet weavings of sound—Music!

It was evening. The Baron closed the door. Daniel reached him his hand in silence, and then went home.

THE PROMETHEAN SYMPHONY