Besides all friendly house-sprites and household divinities, there is
one other in the secret, and silently triumphant at Anton's return, and
that is the cousin.
Strangers indeed may shake their heads at much that passes, but she
knows better: that Anton should sit all day long pale and silent in the
office; Sabine evince a tendency to blush in her brother's presence,
which never appeared before; sit silent for hours over her work, then
silently start up and rush through the house, playful as a kitten after
a ball of twine; the merchant himself keep constantly looking at Anton,
and growing more and more merry from day to day, so that at last he
positively rallies the cousin without ceasing--all this, indeed, may
seem perplexing, but it was not so to one who had known for years what
each of them liked for dinner (although she only ventured to present the
favorite dish in order, once a month), who had with their own hands
knitted their stockings and starched their collars. She accounted for
all their inconsistencies most naturally.
The good lady took all the credit of Anton's return entirely to herself.
She had determined to restore her favorite to the office, and she had
had no ulterior intention, at least so she declared; for, in spite of
the rose-lined coverlet and the embroidered curtains, she knew that the
house to which she belonged was a proud house, which had ways of its
own, and required very skillful management. And, indeed, when told that
Anton was only to be a guest, she was herself in some uncertainty. But
soon she got the upper hand of the merchant and his sister, for she made
discoveries.
The second story of the house had been uninhabited for years. The
merchant and his young wife had occupied it in the lifetime of his
parents. When he had lost one after another, parents, wife, and baby
son, he moved to the first floor, and since then had seldom gone up
stairs. Gray blinds hung down there the whole year through; the
furniture and paintings were all covered up; in short, the whole story
was like an enchanted castle, and even the ladies' footsteps fell softer
when they were obliged to pass through the silent region.
The cousin was coming up stairs one day. In spite of her endless war
with Pix, she had contrived to keep one small room to dry linen in. She
was just musing upon the change official life made in men's characters,
for Balbus, the successor of Pix, on whose humble bearing she had
founded great hopes, showed himself in his new post just as aggressive
as his predecessor. She had once more found a heap of cigar-boxes
outside the three compartments which Pix had erected by main force in
her own special domain, and she was just going to declare war against
Balbus on their account. At that moment she remarked a door of the upper
story wide open, and thought of thieves, and of calling out for help,
but, upon consideration, judicially determined first to investigate the
mystery. She crept into the curtained rooms, and was in some danger of
being petrified with amazement when she saw her nephew standing there
alone, looking at a picture of his departed wife, taken as a bride, in
white silk, with a myrtle-wreath in her hair. The cousin could not
restrain a sympathizing sigh. The merchant turned round in amazement. "I
mean to remove the picture to my own room," said he, softly.
"But you have another portrait of Mary there already, and this one has
always depressed you," cried the cousin.
"Years make us calmer," replied the merchant; "and, in course of time,
another bride may come here."
The cousin's eyes flashed as she repeated "Another!"
"It was only a passing idea," said the merchant, cheerfully walking
through the suite of rooms, followed by the cousin, proudly shrugging
her shoulders. They might try to blind her as much as they liked; it was
all in vain.
Neither did the cautious Sabine succeed any better.
Anton had silently sat near the cousin at dinner. When he rose, the good
lady remarked that Sabine's eyes rested with an expression of tender
anxiety upon his pale face, and then filled with tears. As soon as he
had left the room, she moved to the window that looked into the court.
The cousin crept behind her, and looked out too. Sabine was gazing down
intently; suddenly she smiled, and her face was perfectly transfigured.
Yet there was nothing to be seen but Anton, with his back toward them,
caressing Pluto, who barked and jumped up at him.
"Oh!" thought the cousin, "it is not over Pluto that she laughs and
cries at once."
And soon after, one day that the merchant opened the drawing-room door
and called his sister out, the cousin spied a man with a great parcel
standing in the hall. Her sharp eyes recognized in him a porter from one
of the great draper's shops. The brother and sister went into the
ante-room, a murmur of voices was heard, and a sound uncommonly like
suppressed sobs. When Sabine returned her eyes were very red, but she
looked happy and bashful. When the cousin went into the ante-room on
some pretext or other, the great parcel was lying on a chair; and as she
touched it--of course accidentally--and the paper was not tied up, it
came to pass that she beheld its contents--a variety of exquisite
dresses, and one thing that moved her to tears: it was that white robe
of thickest silk which a woman only wears once in her life--on one
solemn day of devout and trembling joy.
From that moment the cousin went about her avocations with the
comfortable confidence of a good housewife, who forgives people, even
though for a season they do behave themselves foolishly, knowing that
the end of it all will be great excitement in her own especial
province--hard work in the kitchen, a long bill of fare, great slaughter
of fowls, and immense consumption of preserved fruit. She, too, waxed
mysterious now. The store-room was subjected to a careful inspection,
and new dishes often appeared at dinner. On such days the cousin would
come from the kitchen with very red cheeks, and look at the merchant and
Sabine with an expression which plainly said, "I have found you out,"
and was met with a severe glance from the master of the house.
And yet he was no longer severe now. Sabine and Anton grew daily more
silent and reserved; he became more cheerful, far less silent than of
yore, was never weary of drawing Anton into conversation, and listened
with intense attention to each word he spoke. There was still a great
flatness in trade, but he did not appear to heed it. When Mr. Braun, the
agent, poured out his oppressed heart, he only laughed and returned a
dry jest.
Anton, however, did not observe the change. When in the office, he sat
silently opposite Mr. Baumann, and seemed to think of nothing but his
correspondence. The evenings he generally spent alone in his room,
burying himself in the books Fink had left, and trying to escape from
his own dark thoughts. He did not find the firm as he had left it:
several of its old mercantile connections were dissolved, several new
ones entered into. He found new agents, new descriptions of goods, and
new servants.
The clerks' apartments, too, had grown silent. With the exception of Mr.
Liebold and Mr. Purzel, who had never been exciting social elements, he
only found Baumann and Specht remaining of all his former acquaintances,
and they, too, thought of leaving. Baumann had, immediately on Anton's
return, confided to the principal that he must leave in the spring, and
this time Anton's earnest representations failed to shake the future
missionary's firm resolve: "I can no longer delay," said he; "my
conscience protests against it. I go from hence to the London Training
College, and thence wherever they choose to send me. I confess that I
have a preference for Africa; there are certain kings there"--he
pronounced several crack-jaw names--"that I can not think wholly ill of.
There must be some hope of conversion among them. I trust to wean them
from that heathenish slave-trade. They may make use of their people at
home in planting sugar-cane and cultivating rice. In a couple of years I
will send you, by way of London, the first samples of our produce."
Mr. Specht, too, came to Anton. "You have always been friendly to me,
Wohlfart, and I should like to have your opinion. I am to marry a very
accomplished girl; her name is Fanny, and she is a niece of Pix."
"What!" said Anton, "and do you love the young lady?"
"Yes, that I do," cried Specht, enthusiastically; "but, if I am to marry
her, I am to enter into Pix's business, and that is what I want your
opinion about. My lady-love has some fortune, and Pix thinks it would be
best invested in his firm. Now you know Pix is a good fellow at bottom,
but another partner might suit me better."
"I think not, my good old Specht," said Anton; "you are apt to be a
little too precipitate, and it would be very well for you to have a
steady partner."
"Yes," said Specht; "but only think of the branches he has chosen. No
one could have believed it possible that our Pix would have taken to
them."
"What are they, then?" asked Anton.
"All sorts of things," cried Specht, "that he never saw before. Skins
and leather, and every kind of fur, from the sable to the mole, and,
besides, hemp and brushes--every thing, in short, that is hairy and
bristling. These are very low articles, Wohlfart."
"Don't be a child," replied Anton; "marry, my good fellow, and trust to
the management of your uncle-in-law; it will do you no harm."
The next day Pix himself came to Anton's room. "I found your card,
Wohlfart, and come to invite you to coffee on Sunday next. Cuba, and a
Manilla! You will make my wife's acquaintance."
"And so you are going to take Specht as your partner?" asked Anton,
smiling. "You used to have a great horror of partnerships."
"I should not enter into one with any body else. Between ourselves, I
owe the poor fellow some compensation, and I can make the ten thousand
dollars he is marrying useful in my business. I have undertaken a retail
warehouse, in which I will place him. That will amuse him. He can be
polite to the ladies all day long, and can have a new fur coat every
winter. He will come out much stronger there than here in the office."
"How comes it that you have chosen this branch of trade?"
"I was obliged," was the reply. "I found a great stock on hand left by
my predecessor in sorry plight, I can assure you, and was thrown all at
once among those who valued hare-skins and pig's bristles exceedingly."
"And that alone decided you?" replied Anton, laughing.
"Perhaps something else as well," said Pix. "I could not remain here on
account of my wife; and you will admit, Anton, that I, who was manager
of the provincial department of this firm, could not open another in the
same town of the same nature. I know the whole provincial department
better than the principal, and all small traders know me better than
they do him. I might have injured this house, though my capital is so
much smaller. I should, no doubt, have got on, but this house would have
suffered; so I was obliged to turn to something else. I went to Schröter
as soon as I had decided, and talked it over to him. I only keep one
thing in common with you here, and that is horse-hair, and in that I
beat you hollow. I have told the principal so."
"The firm can bear that," said Anton, and shook the fur-merchant by the
hand.
But it was not in the office only; even among the porters around the
great scales a change was observable. Father Sturm, the faithful friend
of the house, threatened to quit both it and this little ball of earth
together. One of Anton's first inquiries, on his return, had been for
Father Sturm. He was told that Sturm had been unwell for some weeks, and
did not leave his room. Full of anxiety, Anton went to the dwelling of
the giant the second evening after his arrival.
While still in the street, he heard a loud hum, as though a swarm of
gigantic bees had settled in the red-painted house. When he entered, the
hum sounded like the distant roar of a family of lions. He knocked in
amazement. No one answered. When he had opened the door he stood still
on the threshold, for at first he could see nothing but a dense smoke,
through which a yellow speck of light appeared, with a great halo round
it. Gradually he discovered in this smoke a few rotund forms, placed
around the candle like so many planets around the sun, and at times
something was seen to move, possibly a man's arm, but not unlike an
elephant's leg. At length the air through the open door partially
cleared away the smoke, and he could see farther into the room. Six
giants sat around the table--three on a bench, three on oaken chairs.
All had cigars in their mouths, and wooden beer-mugs on the table, and
the loud hum was their speech, duly lowered to suit a sick-room.
"I smell something," cried a loud voice, at length; "there must be a man
there. I feel a cool draught; the door is open. Let whoever is there say
who he is."
"Mr. Sturm," cried Anton, still on the threshold.
The great globes rapidly revolved and eclipsed the light.
"Do you hear?" cried the loud voice; "a man is there."
"Yes, and an old friend too," replied Anton.
"I know that voice," exclaimed some one at the other side of the table.
Anton drew nearer; the porters all rose and called out his name.
Father Sturm moved along to the farthest end of his bench, and held out
both his hands. "I heard from my comrades that you had returned. It is a
joy to me that you are come safe and sound from that outlandish
country."
Anton's hand now passed first into that of old Sturm, who powerfully
grasped it, and then tried to set the broken bones; next into that of
the other five porters, whence it came out red, weak, and slightly
dislocated, so that he was glad to put it into his coat pocket. While
the five were exchanging greetings with him, one after the other, Sturm
suddenly called out, "When does my Karl come?"
"Have you sent for him, then?" asked Anton.
"Sent for him! No," returned Sturm, shaking his head, "that I could not
do, because of his situation as bailiff; for if I were to write him word
'come,' he would come if even a million scythes lay in his way. But then
the family might want him, and therefore, unless he comes of his own
accord, he will not come."
"He will come in the spring," said Anton, looking anxiously into the
father's face.
Old Sturm shook his head. "He will not come in the spring--not to me, at
least. Perhaps my little manikin may come here, but not to his father
any more." He raised his can of beer and took a long draught, then shut
down the lid, cleared his throat, and, looking full into Anton's face,
solemnly rapped the table. "Fifty!" said he; "one other fortnight, and
then it comes."
Anton threw his arm round the old man's shoulders, and looked
inquiringly at the others, who held their cigars in their hands, and
stood round like the chorus in a Greek tragedy.
"Look you, Mr. Wohlfart," said the chorus-leader, who, considered as a
man, was colossal, but as a giant something less than old Sturm, "I will
explain matters to you: This man thinks that he is getting weaker, and
shall go on getting weaker, and that in a few weeks the day will come
when we porters must each take a lemon in our hands, and put a black
tail on our hats. We do not wish this." All shook their heads here and
looked disapprovingly at Sturm. "There is an old dispute between him and
us about the age of fifty. He is determined to be right--that is the
whole of it--and our opinion is that he is not right. He has become
weaker--that may be. Many are stronger at one time, and weaker at
another. Why should the man think of leaving this place on that account?
I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Wohlfart, it is downright absurdity on his
part."
All the giants confirmed this statement by nodding their heads.
"So, then, he is sick?" inquired Anton, anxiously. "Whereabouts is your
complaint, old friend?"
"It is here and there," replied Sturm. "It is in the air--it comes on
slowly--it takes first the strength, then the breath. It begins with the
legs, and then moves up." He pointed to his feet.
"Is it a trouble to you to stand?" asked Anton.
"That is just what it is," replied Sturm. "It is a sour trial, and every
day more and more so; but, Wilhelm," continued he, addressing the
spokesman of the party, "in a fortnight that will be all over, and there
will then be no more sourness, except, perhaps, a little in your faces
for an hour or two, till evening, when you must come back here and sit
down, and talk of old Sturm as of a comrade who has laid him down to
rest, and who will never lift another burden; for I fancy that yonder,
where we go, there will be nothing heavy."
"You hear him!" said Wilhelm, anxiously. "He is getting absurd again."
"What says the doctor to your complaint?" suddenly inquired Anton.
"The doctor!" said old Sturm; "if he were to be asked about me, he would
have enough to say. But we do not ask him. Between ourselves, there is
no use in a doctor. They may know what is the matter with many men, that
I don't deny; but how should they know what is the matter with us? Not
one of them can lift a barrel."
"If you have no doctor, my good Mr. Sturm," cried Anton, throwing open
the window, "let me begin at once to play a doctor's part. If your
breathing be oppressed, this close atmosphere is poison to you; and if
you suffer from your feet, you ought not to go on drinking." And he
moved the beer-mug to another table.
"Hum, hum, hum!" said Sturm, watching his proceedings; "well meant, but
of no use. A little smoke keeps one warm, and we are accustomed to the
beer. After I have sat on this bench all day alone, without work or
company, it is a pleasure to me that my friends should come and enjoy
themselves with me of an evening. They talk to me, and I get some
tidings of the business, and of what is going on in the world."
"But you yourself, at least, might abstain from beer and tobacco,"
replied Anton; "your Karl would tell you the same; and, as he is away,
you must let me take his place." Then turning to the others, "I will
convince him that he is wrong; leave me alone with him for half an
hour."
The giants left the room. Anton sat by the invalid and spoke on the
father's favorite topic--spoke of his son.
Sturm forgot all his dark forebodings, and got into excellent spirits.
At last he turned to Anton with his eyes shut, and said, confidentially,
"Nineteen hundred dollars. He came here once again."
"But you gave him nothing?" anxiously inquired Anton.
"Only a hundred dollars," said the old man, apologetically. "He is dead
now, the poor young gentleman. He looked so handsome with his
epaulettes. While a man is a son, he ought not to die: it gives too much
sorrow."
"I have spoken of your claim to Herr von Fink," said Anton; "he will see
that you are paid."
"That Karl is paid," suggested old Sturm, looking round; "and you, Mr.
Wohlfart, will undertake to give into my boy's hands what remains in the
chest, if I do not myself see my little fellow."
"If you don't give up this idea," cried Anton, "I shall become your foe,
and shall treat you with the greatest severity. Early to-morrow morning
you may expect me to bring you Mr. Schröter's doctor."
"He is a worthy man, no doubt," said Sturm; "his horses must be
remarkably well fed, they are so fat and strong, but he can do nothing
for me."
The following morning the doctor visited the invalid.
"I don't consider his case a serious one as yet," said he; "his feet are
swollen, indeed, but that might soon be cured. However, his sedentary
inactive life is so bad for a frame like his, and his diet is so
unwholesome, that I am sorry to say the sudden development of some
serious complaint is only too likely."
Anton immediately wrote off this opinion to Karl, and added, "Under
these circumstances, your father's own impression that he shall not
survive his fiftieth birth-day makes me very uneasy. It would be well
that you should be with him at that time."
Several days had now elapsed since Anton had written this letter, and,
meanwhile, he had paid a daily visit to Sturm, who did not appear to
change for the worse, but yet remained firm in his resolve of not
outliving his birth-day. One morning a servant came to Anton's room, and
announced that Sturm the porter urgently wished to see him.
"Is he worse?" inquired Anton, in dismay; "I will go to him
immediately."
"He is at the door in a cart," said the servant.
Anton hurried out. A carrier's cart was standing there, with great
barrel-hoops bent over the wicker-work, and covered by a white sheet,
from which--a corner of it being turned back--the head of Father Sturm,
ensconced in a colossal fur cap, appeared. He wore an anxious face, and,
as soon as he saw Anton, held out a sheet of paper. "Read this, Mr.
Wohlfart; I have had such a letter from my poor Karl! I must go to him
at once. To the estate beyond Rosmin," he added to the driver, a burly
carrier who stood by the vehicle.
Anton looked at the letter. It was written in the forester's clumsy
characters, and the contents amazed him. "My dear father, I can not come
to you, for a scythe-man has cut off the remainder of my hand, on which
account I beg you, as soon as you get this, to set out to your poor son.
You must take a large conveyance and drive to Rosmin. There you must
stop at the Red Deer. A carriage and a servant from the estate will be
waiting for you. The servant does not understand a word of German, but
he is a good fellow, and will know you when he sees you. You must buy
yourself a fur for the journey, and fur boots which must come above your
knees, and be lined with leather. If you can't find any large enough for
your great legs, godfather Kürschner must, during the night, sew a skin
over your feet. Greet Mr. Wohlfart from me. Your faithful Karl."
Anton held the letter in his hand, not exactly knowing what to make of
it.
"What do you say to this new misfortune?" asked the giant, mournfully.
"At all events, you must go to your son at once," was Anton's reply.
"Of course I must," said the porter; "this blow comes heavily upon me
just now; the day after to-morrow I shall be fifty."
The meaning of the letter now flashed upon Anton. "Are you accoutred
according to Karl's directions?"
"I am," said the giant, throwing back the linen covering; "all is right,
the fur and the boots too."
Anton looked in, and had some trouble to preserve his gravity. Sturm
looked like a pre-Adamic bear of colossal dimensions. A great sword
leaned against the seat. "Against those scythe-men!" said he, angrily
shaking it. "I have still one other request to make you. Wilhelm has got
the key of my house; will you take charge of this box? it holds what was
formerly under my bed. Keep it for Karl."
"I will give it into Mr. Schröter's care," replied Anton; "he is just
gone to the railway station, and may be back any moment."
"Greet him from me," said the giant; "greet him and Miss Sabine, and
tell them both how heartily I thank them for all the friendliness they
have shown to Karl and me." He looked in with emotion at the ground
floor. "Many a happy year I have worked away there, and if the rings on
the hundred weights are well polished, these hands have done their part
to make them so. I have shared the fate of this house for thirty years,
good and bad, and I can tell you, Mr Wohlfart, we were always wide
awake. I shall roll your barrels no more," continued he, turning to the
servants, "and some one else will help you to unload the wagons. Think
often of old Sturm when you fasten up a sugar-cask. Nothing here below
can last forever, not even the strongest; but this firm, Mr. Wohlfart,
will stand and flourish so long as it has a chief like Mr. Schröter, and
men like you, and good hands below there at the great scales. This is my
heart's wish." He folded his hands, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
"And now farewell, Mr. Wohlfart; give me your hand; and farewell Peter,
Franz, Gottfried--all of you, think kindly of me. To Rosmin, driver."
The cart rolled away over the pavement, the sheet opening once more, and
Sturm's great head emerging for a last look and wave of the hand.
Anton was exceedingly anxious about him for a few days, when a letter
came in Karl's own hand.
"Dear Mr. Wohlfart," wrote Karl, "you will of course have seen why I
sent that last note to my Goliath. I had to get him out of that room,
and to drive that notion about his birth-day out of his head; so, in my
anxiety, I hazarded a white lie. This is how it all came about:
"The day before his birth-day, the servant was waiting for him at the
Red Deer in Rosmin. I had ridden over there myself to see how my father
got on, and how he looked; but I kept myself out of sight. About midday
the cart came slowly rumbling up. The driver helped my father out--for
he had great difficulty in moving--which at first gave me a fright about
his legs; but it was really mainly owing to the fur boots and the
jolting. On the street the old boy took out a letter and read it. Then
he went up to Jasch, who had run to the cart, and who had to pretend
that he did not understand a word of German, and began to make all
manner of alarming gesticulations. He held his hand two feet above the
pavement, and when the servant shook his head, the governor stooped down
to the ground. This was meant to signify, 'My manikin!' but as Jasch
failed to understand it, my father caught hold of one hand with the
other, and shook it so violently under Jasch's nose, that the servant,
who, without this, was frightened at the great creature, was near taking
to his heels. At length my father and his effects were packed into a
spring-cart, he having several times walked round, and shaken it rather
mistrustfully. Then he drove off. I had told the servant to drive
straight to the forester's, with whom I had planned every thing. As for
me, I had gone there by a by-path; and as soon as the wagon arrived in
the evening, I slipped into the forester's bed, and had my hand tied
down under the clothes for fear I should stretch it out in my delight.
When the old gentleman reached my bedside, he was so moved that he wept,
and it went to my heart to be obliged to cheat him. I told him that I
was better already, and that the doctor would allow me to get up on the
morrow. This quieted him; and he said, with a most solemn mien, that he
was glad of that, for that the morrow was a great day for him, and that
he must then take to his bed. And so he went on with his nonsense. But
not long. He soon got cheerful. The forester joined us, and we made a
very good supper on what the young lady had sent us from the castle. I
gave the old boy beer, which he pronounced execrable; whereupon the
forester made some punch, and we all three drank heartily--I with my
amputated hand, my father with his melancholy forebodings, and the
forester. What with the long journey, the warm room, and the punch, my
father soon got sleepy (I had had a strong bedstead placed in the
forester's room); he kissed my head as he wished me good-night, tapped
the quilt, and said, 'To-morrow, then, my manikin!' He was asleep in a
moment; and how he slept, to be sure! I got out of the forester's bed,
and watched every breath he drew. It was a weary night. The next morning
he woke late. As soon as he began to stir, the forester came in,
clapping his hands at the door, and exclaiming over and over again,
'Why, Mr. Sturm, what have you done?' 'What have I done?' asked my
Goliath, still half asleep, and looking round in amazement. The birds
were screaming very loud, and every thing looked so strange to him he
hardly knew if he was still on earth or not. 'Where am I?' cried he;
'this place is not in the Bible.' However, the forester went on
exclaiming, 'No; such a thing never was heard of before,' till the old
man was quite alarmed, and anxiously asked what it was. 'What you have
done, Mr. Sturm!' cried the forester; 'why, you have slept a night, and
then a day, and then another night!' 'How so?' said my old boy; 'to-day
is Wednesday, the 13th.' 'No such thing,' affirmed the forester; 'to-day
is the 14th: it is Thursday.' So they went on disputing. At last the
forester took out his pocket-book, on which he strikes out each day as
it passes, and there was a great stroke over Wednesday; and on Tuesday
he had put down as a memorandum, 'To-day, at seven o'clock, the
bailiff's father arrived: a very tall man, can drink plenty of punch;'
and on Wednesday, 'The bailiff's father has been asleep the whole day
through.' Having read this, my governor got quite composed, and said,
'It's all correct: here we have it in black and white. Tuesday, I
arrived at seven--a tall man--plenty of punch; all this tallies.
Wednesday is past. This is Thursday--this is the 14th.' After some
musing, he cried, 'Where is my son Karl?' Then I entered, my arm bound
up, and told the same tale as the forester, till he said, 'I am like one
bewitched; I don't know what to think.' 'Why, don't you see,' said I,
'that I am out of bed? Yesterday, when you were asleep, the doctor came,
and gave me leave to get up. Now I am so well that I can lift this chair
with my stiff arm.' 'No more weights,' said the old man. Then I went on:
'I spoke of your case, too, to the doctor. He is a skillful man, and
told us one of two things would happen: either you would go off, or
sleep through it. If he sleeps throughout the day,' said he, 'he will
get over it. It's a serious crisis. Such things will happen
sometimes'--'To us porters,' chimed in the old man. And so it was that
we got him out of his bed; and he was very cheerful. But I was anxious
all day long, and never left him. At noon all was nearly lost when the
farmer came in to speak to me. Luckily, though, the forester had locked
the yard door, and so he went out and gave the farmer a hint. As soon as
the latter came in, my father called out, 'What day is it, comrade?'
'Thursday,' said the farmer, 'the 14th;' at which my father's whole face
broke out into a laugh, and he cried, 'Now it's certain; now I believe
it.' However, he slept at the forester's that night too, that we might
get the birth-day well over.
"The next day I took my father to the farm-yard, to the room next mine.
I had had it hastily furnished for him. Herr von Fink, who knew all
about it, sent some good stout things from the castle; I had his old
Blucher hung up, let in some robin-redbreasts, and put in a joiner's
bench and a few tools, that he might feel comfortable. So I said, 'This
is your room, father; you must stay with me now.' 'No,' said he; 'that
will never do, my manikin.' 'There is no help for it,' I replied; 'Herr
von Fink will have it so, Mr. Wohlfart will have it so, Mr. Schröter
will have it so; you must give way. We won't part again as long as we
are on earth.' And then drew my hand out of its bandages, and gave him
such a fine lecture about his unhealthy way of life, and his fancies,
that he got quite soft, and said all manner of kind things to me. Next
came Herr von Fink, and welcomed him in his own merry way; and in the
afternoon our young lady brought the baron in. The poor blind gentleman
was quite delighted with my father; he liked his voice much, felt him
all over, and as he went away, called him a man after his own heart; and
so he must be, for the baron has come every afternoon since to my
father's little room, and listened to his sawing and hammering.
"My father is still a good deal perplexed at all he sees here, and he is
not quite clear about that day he is said to have slept, though he must
be up to it too, for ever since he often catches me by the head, and
calls me a rascal. This word now replaces 'dwarf' and 'manikin' in his
talk, although it is a still worse appellation for a bailiff. He is
going to be a wheelwright, and has been cutting out spokes all day. I am
only afraid he will work too hard. I rejoice to have him here, and if he
once gets over the winter, he will soon walk off the weakness in his
feet. He means to sell the little house, but only to a porter. He begs
that you will offer it to Wilhelm, who now rents one, and say that he
shall have it cheaper than a stranger."