IV
During a rehearsal of “Traviata,” Daniel flew into a rage at Fräulein Varini: “Listen, pay attention to your intonation, and keep in time. It’s enough to make a man lose his mind! What are you squeaking up at the gallery for? You’re supposed to be singing a song, and not whining for a little bit of cheap applause.”
The lady stepped out to the foot-lights with heaving bosom. Her offended dignity created something like the spread tail of a peacock about her hips: “How dare you?” she exclaimed: “I give you your choice: You can apologise or leave this place. Whatever you do, you are going to become acquainted with the power I have.”
Daniel folded his arms, let his eyes roam over the members of the orchestra, and said: “Good-bye, gentlemen. Since it is the director’s place to choose between me and this lady, there is no doubt whatever but that my term of usefulness in this position is up. And moreover, in an institution where meat is more valuable than music, I feel that I am quite superfluous.”
The other singers had come running out from the wings, and were standing crowded together on the stage looking down at the orchestra. When Daniel laid down his baton and walked away, every member of the orchestra rose as one man to his feet. It was a voluntary and almost overwhelming expression of speechless admiration. Though they had never loved this man, though they had regarded him as an evil, alien kill-joy, who interfered with their easy-going habits as musicians in that town, they nevertheless respected his energy, admired the nobility of his intentions, and at least had a vague idea of his genius.
Fräulein Varini went into hysterics. The director was called in. He promised Fräulein Varini immediate redress, and wrote a letter to Daniel requesting that he offer an apology.
Daniel replied in a brief note that he had no thought of changing his plans as announced when he left the building. He remarked that it was quite impossible for him to get along with Fräulein Varini, that either he or she would have to quit, and that since she intended to remain he must consider his resignation as submitted and accepted.
That evening, as he was sitting at the table with Eleanore, he told her, after a long silence and in very few words, what had happened. Her response to him was a look of astonishment; that was all.
“Oh, it was the only thing I could do,” said Daniel, without looking up from his plate; “I was so heartily sick of the whole business.”
“What are you going to live on, you and your child?” asked Eleanore.