As Daniel entered the residence of his old friend one morning, he learned that he had died suddenly the night before. It had been a peaceful death.
On the third day, Daniel followed the funeral procession to the cemetery. When he left the cemetery—there were but few people at the funeral—he went out into the snow-covered fields, and spent the remainder of the day walking around.
That same night he sat down in his wretched quarters, and began his composition of Goethe’s “Harzreise im Winter.” It was one of the profoundest and rarest of works ever created by a musician, but it was destined, like the most of Daniel’s compositions, not to be preserved to posterity. This was due to a tragic circumstance.
XI
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.