The hardest of all for Marian was to get along with old Jordan; for he was only a shadow of his former self. He never entered Daniel’s room; if Marian wanted to see him she went upstairs, and there he sat, quiet, helpless, extinguished, a picture of utter dereliction.
He never mentioned his sorrows; it made him restless to see that Marian sympathised with him. When she did, he became quite courteous; he even tried to act the part of a man of the world. The effect of this assumed sprightliness, seen from the background of his physical impoverishment and spiritual decay, was terrifying.
Marian hoped to hear something from him concerning Daniel’s present situation. She knew, in a general way, that he was in profound distress, that he was living in most straightened circumstances, and this worried her tremendously. But she wanted to know how he stood in the world; whether people felt there was anything to him; and whether music was something from which a man could make a decent living. On this last point her distrust was as strong as ever; her fear showed no signs of weakening. It was Eleanore, and she only, that had given her a measure of confidence: it seemed that Eleanore’s disposition, her very presence, had inspired her with a vague, far-away idea of music. But now Eleanore was gone, and all her old doubts returned.
Jordan however became painfully secretive whenever she referred to Daniel. He seemed to be grieved at the mere mention of his name. He would merely look at the door, tuck his hands up his coat-sleeves, and draw his head down between his shoulders.
Once he said: “Can you explain to me, my good woman, why I am alive? Can you throw any light on such a preposterous paradox as my present existence? My son—a wretch, vanished without a trace, so far as I am concerned no longer living. My daughters, both of them, in the grave; my dear wife also. I have been a man, a husband, and a father; that is, I have been a father! My existence scorns the laws and purposes of nature. To eat, to drink, to sleep—oh, what repulsive occupations! And yet, if I do not eat, I get hungry; if I do not drink, I get thirsty; if I do not sleep, I get sick. How simple, how aimless it all is! For me the birds no longer sing, the bells no longer ring, the musicians have no more music.”
Owing to her desire to find consolation of some kind and at any price, she turned to Eberhard and Sylvia; they were now visiting Daniel almost every day. She liked them; there was so much consideration for other people in their behaviour, so much delicacy and refinement in their conversation. Sylvia was not in the least offended by Daniel’s sullen silence; she treated him with a respect and deference that made Marian feel good; for it was proof to her that in the eyes of good and noble people Daniel stood in high esteem. The Baron seemed in some mysterious way to be continually talking about Eleanore, though he never mentioned her name. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded her of Eleanore; there was something supersensuous in its power. Marian often felt as though this strange nobleman and her son were brothers and at the same time enemies, as seen in the light of painful memories. Sylvia also seemed to have the same feeling; but she found nothing objectionable in the relation.
One day, as Marian accompanied the two to the hall door, she decided to pick up her courage; and she did. “Well, how do you think he is going to make out?” she asked; “he has no work; as a matter of fact he never speaks of work. What will that lead to?”
“We have been thinking about that,” replied Sylvia, “and I believe a way has been found to help him. He will hear about it in a short while. But he must not suspect that we have anything to do with it.” She looked at her fiancé; he nodded approvingly.
Eberhard and Sylvia knew perfectly well from the very beginning that there could be no thought of lending Daniel money. Gifts, large or small, merely humiliated him; they disgraced him. It was a case where eagerness to serve on the part of those who have meets with insurmountable obstacles, whether they wish to be lavish in their generosity or of seeming calculation. There was no use to appeal to delicacy; attenuating provisos would not help; small deceptions practised in the spirit of love would prove ineffectual. Riches stood face to face with poverty, and was as helpless as poverty usually is when obliged to enter the lists against riches. The case was striking, but not unique.
Having made up her mind to come to the assistance of the musician, Sylvia turned to her mother. But it was idle to count on the backing of the Baroness: Andreas Döderlein had so poisoned her mind against Daniel that the mere mention of his name caused her brow to wrinkle, her lips to drop.