“Ah, he is a greasy grind determined to arrive,” said the first violinist. “He’s a spit-fire,” said the lad who beat the big drum, when Daniel threatened to box his ears for a false intonation. The Baroness had secured a publisher in Leipzig for his cycle of sixteen songs; the compositions were to be brought out at her expense. That did not have the right effect: it was not something, Daniel felt, that he had fought for and won; it was not a case where merit had made rejection impossible. He had the feeling that he was selling his soul and was being paid to do it. Moreover, and worst of all, he had to express his gratitude for this act. The Baroness loved to have somebody thank her for what she had done. She never once suspected that what Daniel wanted was not benefactors, but people who were stirred to the depths of their souls by his creations. The rich cannot sense the feelings of the poor; the higher classes remain out of contact with the lower. His excitability saved him. In his magnificent solicitude for the mission that is at once the token and the curse of those who are really called, he shut himself off from a world from which the one thing he wanted was bread; bread and nothing else. After the publication of the songs a review appeared in the _Phœnix_ which had a remarkably realistic ring to the ear of the layman. As a matter of fact it was merely an underhanded attempt at assassination. The thing was signed with a big, isolated “W.” Wurzelmann, the little slave, had shot from his ambush. Other musical journals copied this review. A half dozen people bought the songs; then they were forgotten. It was no use to hope. The trouble was, he needed bread, just bread. V It was often difficult for him to find the peace and quiet necessary for effective work. May brought cold weather; they had to make a fire; the stove smoked; the potter came in and removed the tiles; the room looked like an inferno. Gertrude was pounding sugar: “Don’t be angry at me, Daniel; I must pound the sugar to-day.” And she pounded away until the hammer penetrated the paralysed brain of the listener by force of circumstances. The hinges of the door screeched. “You ought to oil them, Gertrude.” Gertrude looked high and low for the oil can, and when she finally found it, she had no feather to use in smearing the oil on. She went over to the chancellor’s, and borrowed one from her maid. While she was gone, the milk boiled over and filled the house with a disagreeable stench. The door bell rang. It was the cobbler; he had come to get the money for the patent leather shoes. The wives of Herr Kirschner and Herr Rübsam had both said that Daniel must not think of appearing at the coming recital at the Baroness’s without patent leather shoes. “I haven’t the money, Gertrude; have you got that much?”