"I am eighteen years old to-day," said Karl to his father, who was
sitting at home one Sunday morning, never weary of contemplating the
handsome youth.
"So you are," replied the father; "there are eighteen tapers round the
cake."
"Therefore, father," Karl went on, "it is time that I should turn to,
something, and make some money. I will be a porter."
"Make some money!" repeated old Sturm, looking at his son in amazement.
"Do I not make as much, and more than we want? Why, you are going to
turn a miser!"
"I can't always hang to your apron," said Karl; "and if you were to earn
a thousand dollars, would that make an active, useful man of me? Or, if
I were to lose you, what would become of me?"
"You will lose me, boy," said the giant, nodding, "in a few years,
perhaps, and then you may become what you like, so it be not a porter."
"But why should I not be what you are? Do not be unreasonable."
"You know nothing about the matter. Do not be covetous; I can not bear
covetous people."
"But, father, if I am not to be a porter, I must learn _something_,"
cried Karl.
"Learn!" exclaimed his father; "how much learning have you not had
stuffed into your little head already! Two years at the infant school,
four at the city school, two at the industrial. Why, you have had eight
years' schooling, and you know the different goods as well as a clerk.
Why, you are an insatiable youth."
"Yes; but I must have a calling," replied Karl. "I must be a shoemaker,
tailor, shopkeeper, or mechanic."
"Don't tease yourself about that," said his father; "I have provided for
all that in your education. You are practical and honorable too."
"Yes; but can I make a pair of boots? can I cut out a coat?"
"You can," replied old Sturm; "try, and you'll succeed."
"Very well; to-morrow I'll buy you some leather, and make you a pair of
boots: you shall feel how they'll pinch. But, once for all, I can't go
on as I am, and I'll set some one at you who will tell you the same."
"Don't be covetous, Karl," said his father, "or spoil this day for me.
Give me the can of beer, and be a good boy."
Karl placed the great can before his father, and soon took up his cap
and went out. Old Sturm sat still a while, but his comfort was
destroyed, and the house seemed dull without his son's cheerful face. At
length he went into the next room, and drew out a heavy iron chest from
under the bed. He opened it with a little key that he took out of his
waistcoat pocket, lifted one bag after another, began a long mental
calculation, then pushed the chest under the bed again, and returned to
his can of beer with a calmer aspect.
Meanwhile Karl had hurried off to the town, and soon made his appearance
in Anton's apartment. After the kindly greeting on both sides, he began:
"I am come, sir, to ask your advice as to what is to become of me? I can
make nothing of my father. He won't hear of my being a porter; and if I
speak of another calling, he comforts me with saying that he shall not
live long. A pretty comfort that! Would you be so good as to speak to
him about me? He has a high opinion of you, and knows that you are
always kind to me."
"That I will, gladly," replied Anton; "but what do you think of
becoming?"
"It's all one to me," said Karl, "so that it's something regular. Here I
turn my hands to all sorts of things, but that's different to regular
work."
The next Sunday Anton went to old Sturm's. The home of the head porter
was a small house near the river, distinguished from those of his
neighbors by its red-washed walls. Anton opened the low door, and
wondered how the giant could possibly live in so small a space. It must
have required constant patience and forbearance; for, had he ever drawn
himself up to his full height, he would infallibly have carried off the
roof.
"I am delighted to see you in my house, sir," said Sturm, taking Anton's
hand in his immense grasp as gently as he could.
"It is rather small for you, Mr. Sturm," answered Anton, laughing. "I
never thought you so large as I do now."
"My father was still taller," was the complacent reply; "taller and
broader. He was the chief of the porters, and the strongest man in the
place; and yet a small barrel, not half so high as you are, was the
death of him. Be seated, sir," said he, lifting an oaken chair, so heavy
that Anton could hardly move it. "My Karl has told me that he has been
to see you, and that you were most kind. He is a good boy, but he is a
falling off as to size. His mother was a little woman," added Sturm,
mournfully, draining a quart of beer to the last drop. "It is draught
beer," he said, apologetically; "may I offer you a glass? It is a custom
among us to drink no other, but certainly we drink this the whole day
through, for our work is heating."
"Your son wishes to become one of your number, I hear," said Anton.
"A porter!" rejoined the giant. "No, that he never shall." Then laying
his hand confidentially on Anton's knee, "It would never do; my dear
departed wife besought me against it on her death-bed. And why? Our
calling is respectable, as you, sir, best know. There are not many who
have the requisite strength, and still fewer who have the requisite--"
"Integrity," said Anton.
"You are right," nodded Sturm. "Always to have wares of every kind in
immense quantities under our eyes, and never to touch one of them--this
is not in every body's line. And our earnings are very fair too. My dear
departed saved a good deal of money, gold as well as silver. But that is
not my way. For why? If a man be practical, he need not plague himself
about money, and Karl will be a practical man. But he must not be a
porter. His mother would not hear of it, and she was right."
"Your work is very laborious," suggested Anton.
"Laborious!" laughed Sturm; "it may be laborious for the weak, but it is
not that. It is this," and he filled his glass; "it is the draught
beer."
Anton smiled. "I know that you and your colleagues drink a good deal of
this thin stuff."
"A good deal," said Sturm, with self-complacency; "it is a custom of
ours--it always has been so--porters must be strong men, true men, and
beer-drinkers. Water would weaken us, so would brandy; there is nothing
for it but draught beer and olive oil. Look here, sir," said he, mixing
a small glassful of fine oil and beer, stirring plenty of sugar into it,
and drinking off the nauseous compound; "this is a secret of ours, and
makes an arm like this;" and he laid his on the table, and vainly
endeavored to span it. "But there is a drawback. Have you ever seen an
old porter? No; for there are none. Fifty is the greatest age they have
ever reached. My father was fifty when he died, and the one we lately
buried--Mr. Schröter was at the funeral--was forty-nine. I have still
two years before me, however."
Anton looked at him anxiously. "But, Sturm, since you know this, why not
be more moderate?"
"Moderate!" asked Sturm; "what is moderate? It never gets into our
heads. Twenty quarts a day is not much if you know nothing of it.
However, Mr. Wohlfart, it is on this account that my dear departed did
not choose that Karl should be a porter. As for that, few men do live to
be much more than fifty, and they have all sorts of ailments that we
know nothing about. But such were my wife's wishes, and so it must be."
"And have you thought of any other calling? True, Karl is very useful in
our house, and we should all miss him much."
"There it is," interrupted the porter; "you would miss him, and so
should I. I am alone here; when I see my little lad's red cheeks, and
hear his little hammer, I feel my heart glad within me. When he goes
away, and I sit here by myself, I know not how I shall bear it." And his
features worked with strong emotion.
"But must he leave you at present?" inquired Anton; "perhaps he may
remain on for another year."
"Not he; I know him; if he once thinks of a thing at all, he thinks of
nothing else. And, besides, I have been considering the matter these
last days, and I see I have been wrong. The boy did not come into the
world merely to amuse me; he must turn to something or other; so I try
to think of what my dear departed would have liked. She had a brother,
who is my brother-in-law, you know, and who lives in the country; I
should like my boy to go to him. It is far away, but then there's
kinship."
"A good thought, Sturm; but, since you are resolved, keep your son no
longer in uncertainty."
"He shall know at once; he is only in the garden." And he went and
called him in stentorian tones.
Karl hastened in, greeted Anton, and looked expectantly first at him and
then at his father, who had seated himself, and now inquired, in his
usual voice, "Little mannikin, will you be a farmer?"
"A farmer! that never occurred to me. Why, I should have to leave you,
father."
"He thinks of that," said the father, nodding his head to Anton.
"Do you then wish that I should leave you?" asked Karl, in amazement.
"I must, my little man," said Sturm, gravely; "I must wish it, because
it is necessary for your dear departed mother's sake."
"I am to go to my uncle!" cried Karl.
"Exactly so," said his father; "it's all settled, provided your uncle
will have you. You shall be a farmer, you shall learn something regular,
you shall leave your father."
"Father," said Karl, much downcast, "I do not like leaving you. Can't
you come with me to the country?"
"_I_ go to the country! Ho, ho, ho!" Sturm laughed till the house shook
again. "My mannikin would put me into his pocket, and take me to the
country." Then wiping his eyes: "Come here, my Karl," said he, holding
the youth's head between his two great hands; "you are my own good lad;
but there must be partings on this earth, and if it were not now, it
would be in a couple of years."
And thus Karl's departure from the firm was arranged.
As the time drew near, he tried in vain to conceal his emotion by a
great deal of cheerful whistling. He stroked Pluto tenderly, executed
all his various odd jobs with intense zeal, and kept as close as he
could to his father, who often left his barrels to place his hand in
silence on his son's head.
"Nothing heavy in farming!" said the paternal Sturm to Anton, looking
anxiously into his face.
"Heavy!" replied Anton; "it will be no light matter to learn all
connected with it."
"Learn!" cried the other; "the more he has to learn the better, so it be
not very heavy."
"No," said Pix, who understood his meaning, "nothing heavy. The heaviest
are sacks of corn--hundred and eighty; beans--two hundred pounds. And
those he need not lift; the servants do it."
"If that's the case with farming," cried Sturm, contemptuously rearing
himself to his full height, "it's all one to me whether he lifts them or
not. Even my mannikin can carry two hundred pounds."