Chapter 6

The following day began with a heavy rain storm. Daniel had had a restless night; he went to his work quite early. But his head was so heavy that he had to stop every now and then, and rest it on his hand. There was no blood, no swing to his ideas.

Toward eight o’clock the postman came, and asked for Inspector Jordan. The old man had to sign a receipt in acknowledgment of a solemnly sealed money order.

In the letter the postman gave him were two hundred dollars in bills and a note from Benno. The letter had been mailed in Galveston. Benno wrote that he had made inquiries and found that his father was still living. He said he had been quite successful in the New World, and as a proof of his prosperity he was sending him the enclosed sum, with the best of greetings, in payment for the trouble he had cost his father.

It was a cold epistle. But the old man was beside himself with joy. He ran to Daniel and then to Philippina, held the crisp notes in the air, and stammered: “Look, people! He is rich. He has sent me two hundred dollars! He has become an honest man, he has. He remembers his old father, he does! Really this is a great day! A great day, Daniel, because of something else that has just been finished.” He added with a mysterious smile: “A blessed day in the history of a great cause!”

He dressed and went down town; he wanted to tell his friends the news.

Daniel called down to know if his breakfast was ready; nobody answered. Thereupon he went to the kitchen, and got himself a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread. Philippina came in a little later. Her hair looked as though a hurricane had struck it; she was in her worst humour. She snarled at Daniel, asking him why in the name of God he couldn’t wait till the coffee had been boiled.

“Leave me in peace, Philippina,” he said, “I need peace.”

“Peace!” she roared, “peace, the same old story: you want peace!” She threw a wild, contemptuous glance at the open chest containing Daniel’s scores, leaned against the table, put the tips of her dirty fingers on the score he was then studying, and shrieked: “There is the cause of the whole malheur! The whole malheur, I say, comes from this damned note-smearing of yours! The idea of a man settin’ down and dabbing them pot-hooks on good white paper, day after day, year in and year out! What does it all mean? Tell me! While you’re doin’ it, everything else is moving—like a crab, backwards. Jesus, you’re a man, and yet you spend your time at that kind of stuff! I’d be ashamed to admit it.”

Not prepared for this enigmatic outburst of anger and hate, Daniel looked at Philippina utterly dazed. “Get out of here,” he cried indignantly. “Get out of here, I say,” and pointed to the door.

She got out. “The damned dabbery!” she bellowed with reinforced maliciousness.

From ten to twelve, Daniel had to lecture at the conservatory. His heart beat violently, though he was unable to explain his excitement. It was more than a foreboding: he felt as if he had heard a piece of terribly bad news and the real nature of it had slipped his memory.

He did not go home for luncheon; he ate in the café at the Carthusian Gate. Then he took a long walk out over the fields and meadows. It had stopped raining, and the brisk wind refreshed him. He stood for a long while on the banks of the canal, and watched some men piling bricks at a brick-kiln. From time to time he took a piece of paper from his pocket, and wrote something on it with his pencil: it was notes.

Once he wrote alongside of a motif: “Farewell, my music!” His eyes were filled with dreadful tears.

He returned to the city just as the sun was setting; it looked like a huge ball of fire in the west. The sky shone out between two great black clouds like the forge of a smithy. He could not help but think of Eleanore.

He entered his living room, and paced back and forth. Philippina came in, and asked him whether she should warm up his soup for him. Her unnatural, singing tone attracted his attention; he looked at her very closely.

“Where is my wife?” he asked.

Philippina’s face betrayed an abysmally mean smile, but she never said a word.

“Where is my wife?” he asked a second time, after a pause.

Philippina’s smile became brighter. “Is it cold out?” she asked, and in a moment she had left the room. Daniel stared at her as if he feared she had lost her mind. In a few minutes she came back. In the meantime she had put on a cloak that was much too short for her, and beneath which the loud, freakish skirt of her checkered dress could be seen.

“Daniel, come along with me,” she said in an anxious voice. To Daniel her voice sounded mysterious and fearful. “Come along with me, Daniel! I want to show you something.”

He turned pale, put on his hat, and followed her. They crossed the square in silence, went through Binder Street, Town Hall Street, and across the Market. Daniel stopped. “What are you up to?” he asked with a hoarse voice.

“Come along! You’ll see,” whispered Philippina.

They walked on, crossed the Meat Bridge, went through Kaiser Street and the White Tower to St. James’s Place. Some people looked at the odd couple in amazement. When they reached Frau Hadebusch’s little house, it was dark. “Listen, Philippina, are you ever going to talk?” said Daniel, gritting his teeth.

“Psh!” Philippina knew what she was doing. She put her mouth to Daniel’s ear, and whispered: “Go up two flights, quick, you know the house, bang on the door, and if it’s locked, bust it in. In the meantime I’ll go to Frau Hadebusch so that she can’t interfere.”

Then Daniel understood.