Chapter 11

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.

An engagement of unusual length had been planned for the town of Ochsenfurt. The company placed its last hopes on the series, although it was already June and very warm. The thick, muggy air of the gloomy hall in which they were to play left even the enthusiasts without much desire to brighten up the monotony of provincial life by the enjoyment of grand opera.

They drew smaller houses from day to day. Finally there was no more money in the till; they did not even have enough to move to the next town. To make matters worse, the tenor was taken down with typhus, and the other singers refused to sing until they had been paid. Daniel wrote to Dörmaul, but received no reply. Wurzelmann, instead of helping, fanned the easily inflamed minds of the company into a fire of noise, malevolence, and hostility. They demanded that Daniel give them what was due them, besieged him in his hotel, and finally brought matters to such a pitch that the whole town was busied with their difficulties.

One afternoon, a stately gentleman between fifty-five and fifty-six years old entered Daniel’s room, and introduced himself as Sylvester von Erfft, the owner of an estate.

His mission was as follows: Every year, at this season, the Chancellor of the German Empire was taking the cure at the nearby Kissingen Baths. Herr von Erfft had made his acquaintance, and the Prince, an enthusiastic landowner, had expressed the desire to visit Herr von Erfft’s estate, the management of which was widely known as excellent in every way. In order to celebrate the coming of the distinguished guest with befitting dignity, it had been decided not to have any tawdry fireworks or cheap shouting, but to give a special performance of the “Marriage of Figaro” in a rococo pavilion that belonged to the Erfft estate.

“This idea comes from my wife,” said Herr von Erfft. “Some ladies and gentlemen of noble birth who belong to our circle will sing the various parts, and my daughter Sylvia, who studied for two years in Milan with Gallifati, will take the part of the page. The only thing we lack is a trained orchestra. For this reason I have come to you, Herr Kapellmeister, to see if you could not bring your orchestra over and play for us.”

Daniel, though pleased with the kindly disposition of Herr von Erfft, could not make him any definite promise, for he felt bound to the helpless, if not hopeless, opera company now in his care. Herr von Erfft inquired more closely into the grounds of his doubt as to his ability to have his orchestra undertake the special engagement, and then asked him whether he would accept his help. “Gladly,” replied Daniel, “but such help as you can offer us will hardly be of any avail. Our chief is a hardened sinner.”

Herr von Erfft went with Daniel to the mayor; a half-hour later an official dispatch was on its way to the impresario Dörmaul. It was couched in language that was sufficient to inspire any citizen with respect, referred to the desperate plight in which the company then found itself, and demanded in a quite imperious tone that something be done at once.

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. You have far too much conscience. You cannot make children out of morality, much less music. The swamp is quaggy, the summit rocky. Commit some act of genuine swinishness, so that you may put a little ginger into your life.”

Daniel laid his hand on his shoulder, looked at him with his cold eyes, and said: “Judas.”

“All right, Judas so far as I am concerned,” said Wurzelmann. “I was not born to be nailed to the cross; I am much more for the feasts with the Pharisees.”

He had got a position as critic on the Phœnix, one of the best known musical magazines.

Daniel found the members of the orchestra only too glad to take the excursion over to Herr von Erfft’s. They were put up in a hotel; Daniel himself lived in the castle. The rehearsals were held with zeal and seriousness. Though the name of the Chancellor was still darkened by the clouds of political life, by the enmity of his opponents, by pettiness and misunderstanding, all these young people felt the power of the great Immortal, and were delighted with the idea of meaning something to him, even in the guise of an imaginary world and for only a fleeting hour or two. Agatha von Erfft, the wife of Herr von Erfft, was indefatigable in preparing the costumes, surmounting technical difficulties, and entertaining her guests. The twenty-four-year-old Sylvia had inherited neither the strength of her mother nor the amiability of her father: she was delicate and reserved. Nevertheless, she managed to put a great deal of winsomeness and roguishness into the rôle of the cherub. Even her parents were surprised at the unexpected wealth of her natural ability. Moreover, her voice was velvety and well trained. Accustomed as he had been for years to the mediocre accomplishments of sore throats, Daniel nodded approval when she sang.

The other members of the improvised company he handled with no greater indulgence than he had shown the singers of the Dörmaul troupe. They had to put up with his gruffness and snappishness, and to do it without a murmur. Herr von Erfft attended the rehearsals regularly, observing Daniel at all times with quiet admiration. If Daniel spoke to any one with such seeming harshness that the case was taken up with Herr von Erfft, the latter said: “Let the man have his way; he knows his business; there are not many like him.”

Sylvia was the only one he treated with consideration. As soon as Herr von Erfft mentioned her name, Daniel listened; and as soon as he had seen her, he knew that he had seen her before. It was the time he was on his journey; he was standing out at the entrance to the park; some one called to her. It seemed strange to him that he should remember this. Now he was with her, and yet he was just as much of a stranger to her as ever.

But the thing that drew him to the beautiful girl had nothing to do with this chance incident; nor was there the slightest trace of sensuousness in his feelings. It was all a sort of dream-like sympathy, similar to the quest of memory in search of a forgotten happiness. It was a vaguer and more plaguing sensation than the one that bound him so inviolably to Gertrude; it was more sorrow than joy, more unrest than consciousness.

This forgotten happiness slumbered deep down in his soul; it had been washed away by the waves of life. It was not Sylvia herself; it was perhaps a movement of her hand: where had he known this same movement before? It was the way she tossed her head back; it was her proud look, the blue of her eyes—but where had he seen all this before?

Forgotten, forgotten....