About the same time that these things were occurring in the back
building, the master of the house was in the shop talking with a
customer, who had just brought to be mended a pair of embroidered
slippers, carefully wrapped in an old newspaper.
It was somewhat unusual for the shoemaker to be absent from the
workroom at this time of day. But it was also, as the reader will
remember, an unusual occasion, Reginchin's birthday, and her mother,
who generally attended to the management of everything in the shop, was
obliged to give up the charge to her husband, in order to go into the
kitchen and mix the dough herself, for the usual birthday cake. She
would not relinquish this task, though there was a confectioner's shop
at the very next corner. For ever since Reginchin was four years old,
she had been very fond of a certain kind of home-made plumb-cake, and,
though she could rarely do anything exactly to her mother's mind, and
was continually subject to her criticism, the young girl was, as she
very well knew, the apple of her mother's eye, and, for her the good
woman would have gone through fire. So, hot as the day was, Madame
Feyertag stood without a murmur beside the servant at the fire,
allowing herself to be troubled but little by the principal anxiety
which usually rendered her unwilling to have her husband in the shop:
the jealous fear that some female customers might come in, and that the
shoemaker might find other feet, whose measure he would be obliged to
take, prettier than those adorned with the legitimate slippers of his
wife.
To be sure the worthy man, though he might have been a sly fellow in
his bachelor days, had given very little cause for such a suspicion
during twenty-three years of extremely peaceful married life. But
within a few months a change had taken place which attracted the
attention of his clever wife; a change not much apparent in his actions
and conduct, since he quietly continued his regular mode of life and
did not even oppose the before-mentioned slippers, but noticeable in
his language. She was already accustomed to hear him talk much of
progress, and inveigh against all tyranny, especially domestic slavery,
giving utterance to very forcible expressions, and this harmless
amusement she willingly countenanced, since all affairs of state and
family pursued, as before, their even course. But during the last three
months his revolutionary table-talk had changed its tone, and had been
steadily pointed against "women," of whom he repeated the most
malicious things, usually in strange, outlandish words. Perhaps he
had merely picked up these contemptuous epithets at the liberal
trades-union, to which he owed all his progressive ideas; and if so, it
was something to be thankful for. But except on certain festive
occasions, women were excluded from these meetings, and at the
entertainments a very decorous tone always prevailed, to say nothing of
the obligatory toast to the fair sex. So, when all at once in speaking
of "women," he used the word "females," and talked of the "sex" with a
shade of contempt, for which Madame Feyertag's person and conduct did
not give the slightest cause, nothing was more probable than that the
shoemaker had obtained his new knowledge of feminine nature in other
circles, and, perhaps led astray by some acquaintances formed in the
shop, had approached nearer to the light-minded portion of the sex than
could be at all desirable for the peace of the household. Since that
time, Madame Feyertag had kept a sharp eye on the secret sinner, no
longer permitting his presence in the shop, and had emphatically
forbidden the utterance of his offensive remarks, at least in
Reginchen's presence. For this restraint the worthy man indemnified
himself by talking all the more freely to others, and on this very
morning, when, contrary to his usual custom, we find him in the shop,
he was in the act of giving vent to the pent-up emotions of his heart.
Compelled to keep silence, his companion with some little surprise,
patiently submitted to the torrent of his eloquence. He was a little
old-fashioned gentleman, with a timid but lively manner, whose delicate
regular features bore an expression of such winning kindness that the
most casual observer could not fail to notice it; his was one of those
faces, which, in consequence of the delicacy of the skin, become
prematurely withered, and yet never grow old. A small grey moustache
endeavored in vain to give a martial air to the innocent childish face,
and the forehead, which, through baldness, seemed to reach to the crown
of his head, failed just as signally to cast upon its owner the air of
a deep thinker. Yet when any important subject was under discussion,
the mild eyes could sparkle with a strange fire, and the whole face
become transfigured with interest and excitement.
This little man wore a neatly brushed but rather threadbare coat, cut
in a fashion that had prevailed ten years before, and a large white
cravat, fastened with a pin containing a woman's picture. He had placed
upon the counter an old-fashioned grey hat, with a piece of crape
twisted around it, and, with both hands resting on his cane, he sat
opposite the shoemaker, who had just examined the slippers, and said
that they could be mended so as to look very well, only that a part of
the embroidery would be lost.
"Spare as much of it as you can," pleaded the little gentleman. "They
were my dead wife's last birthday gift; she worked them herself. I have
worn them constantly for five years; but I step so lightly that I don't
wear out many shoes. I suppose I am your worst customer," he added,
with an apologetic smile.
"That is of no consequence, Herr Koenig," replied the shoemaker; "it is
always an honor as well as a pleasure to work for you and your family,
not only on account of the high instep which you all have, but because
you are an artist and have an eye for shape. As for the durableness of
the shoes, that is not your fault, but the fault of the leather. But
wait till your daughter goes to balls. Good work is of no avail then,
Herr Koenig; dancing shoes which are not as delicate and as easily
broken as poppy-leaves, do the shoemaker no credit."
The little gentleman shook his head thoughtfully.
"My daughter, I fear, will give you little opportunity to earn money in
that article," said he, "She has no desire for any of the seemly
amusements which I would willingly grant her; her mind is filled with
her work and her father; she can't be induced to attend to anything
else."
"Well, well," said the shoemaker, drawing from his jacket a little
silver snuff-box, which he offered the artist, "those things will come
as a matter of course. Young ladies always have some peculiarities, you
know; they do not forget the mother; but women are women, Herr Koenig,
and there is no virtue in youth. True, you yourself still wear crape
around your hat; in your case constancy may be in the blood. But wait a
while. The will, Herr Koenig, is master; the perception weak; of how
weak it is, we have sometimes little idea."
"You are mistaken," replied the other, fixing his eyes which wore a
quiet, thoughtful expression upon the floor. "She has become perfectly
cheerful again, and I also, though every day I still miss my dead wife.
God does not like to see discontented faces, He has made the world too
beautiful for that. The crape--yes, I have kept it on my hat. Why
should I take it off, and when? It would seem very strange to me, to
say to myself on a certain day: From this time things shall no longer
be as they were yesterday; I will now remove this token of remembrance.
Should I thereby blot out the memory too? But even if her mother were
still alive, I do not think the child would be any different. She has a
very peculiar character."
"Be kind enough to permit me to differ from you," said the shoemaker
with great positiveness, despite the courteous language he studiously
adopted. "Women--true women--have generally no character of their own,
but one that belongs in common to all the sex. For the sole object for
which they are in the world, is, to use Salvenia's words, only to
continue the species, or, as we term it, for propagation. A woman who
desires anything else, has something wrong about her; I say this
without intending to cast any reflections upon your daughter."
The artist opened his little eyes to their widest extent. "My dear
Feyertag, why do you say such strange things?" he said, naively. "Is
not a woman as much a creature of the dear God as we ourselves? formed
in his image, and endowed with soul and mind?"
The shoemaker laughed, as if fully conscious of his own superiority.
"Don't take it amiss, Herr Koenig," he said, "but that is an exploded
opinion. Have you never heard of the great philosopher, Schopenhauer?
He will make you understand it thoroughly; he will prove as plainly as
that twice two make four, of what account is the so-called emancipation
of women."
"I don't have much time to read," replied the little artist. "But the
little you have told me does not render me anxious to become familiar
with an author who has thought so slightingly of the noblest and most
lovable portion of humanity. I prefer to say with my beloved Schiller,
'Honor to women'!"
"'They spin and weave,'" replied, the shoemaker. "Yes, and they
can do it very skillfully, and it is an extremely useful occupation.
But in other things, in the employments of men--this low-statured,
narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and short-legged sex, as Herr
Schopenhauer expresses it,--no, Herr Koenig, men must not allow them to
become too strong. Propagation, nothing more. But _propaganda_, you
see, for the liberal and progressive, is our affair. For instance,
there is my wife; the best woman in the world! But if I did not now and
then show her that I am master, where should I be? I admit that during
the last few years, out of pure indolence, I have allowed her to do and
say more than was well. But Schopenhauer has brought me to myself. Now,
when she mistakes her social position, and wants to emancipate herself
too much, I say: 'Hush, Guste. You, too, were once an explosive effect
of Nature; but now the noise has died away, and the effect remains.'
Then she scolds about my worthless way of talking, as she calls it, but
no longer ventures to say anything, because she has not the least
suspicion what I really mean by it, and that it is in Schopenhauer. Ha!
ha! ha!"
He chuckled with delight, and rubbed his broad hands.
"How did you chance upon this mischievous book?" asked the artist.
"Very naturally. In my back building lives a very learned gentleman, a
philosopher by profession, and soon to become professor of philosophy.
One day, when he was not at home, the bookbinder's boy came and left in
my shop a whole package of freshly bound books, which I was to keep for
the Herr Doctor. It was after dinner, when I usually take a little nap.
So, half asleep, I aimlessly took the uppermost book in my hand, and
began to read at the place where it opened. Zounds, how my eyes flew
open! 'Upon females' was the heading of the chapter. I could not stop
till I had read the last lines. I tell you, Herr Koenig, old King
Solomon, much as he knew about women, and propagation, and the
conception of species, might have gone to school to him."
"Is Schopenhauer the author's name? And do you call him a philosopher,
because he revives the old commonplaces about the other sex?"
The little artist's eyes flashed as he uttered these words, and he
seized his hat as if he were in a hurry to leave the shop.
"He is a philosopher, for the Herr Doctor himself says so; but not
merely because of what he has written about women; the Herr Doctor
showed me another thick book. He said it treated of will and
perception; however, it was too heavy for me. If you would like to read
it, he will cheerfully lend it to you."
"Thank you, I have not the slightest desire to make the acquaintance of
a gentleman who holds and desires to spread such opinions."
"The Herr Doctor? There you are very much mistaken, Herr Koenig. He
won't listen to a word about the essay on women, and says there is just
as much falsehood as truth in it. He is a bachelor, Herr Koenig, and
what does a bachelor know about the conception of species? Besides, he
never associates with women, but devotes himself entirely to his
invalid brother. They might as well be in a monastery, Herr Koenig; my
wife often says that if we were to advertise in the newspapers and
offer a reward of a hundred thalers, we could not find such another
couple of well-behaved young men in all Berlin."
"Indeed? And learned too, you say?"
"Only the older one, the Herr Doctor. He has not much money, because he
is at the university, and you are probably aware the minister of public
worship and instruction wants to starve out the whole university, and
then fill all the vacant places with pastors; there is but one opinion
about it in the trades union. But our Herr Doctor gives private
lessons, and his brother sells some of the little articles he turns;
they live on the proceeds always paying punctually the rent, and the
household bills for cooking and washing. Two young men, Herr Koenig, to
whom immorality is something utterly unknown."
The artist had laid down his hat again, and seemed to be struggling
with some resolution.
"My dear Herr Feyertag," he said at last, "Do you know, I think I
should like after all to make the acquaintance of your Herr Doctor. If
what you say is true, he is the very man for whom I have been looking a
long time. My daughter complains that she cannot continue her studies
alone. What she knows she learned from her mother. But since the latter
died, I have found her services indispensable at home, and I thought
her so clever that she could get on by herself if I only bought her
books. But it seems that she cannot dispense with regular instruction,
and now she is too old and too sensible to content herself with the
first instructor that offers, and recently, when she met a certain
young lady, a teacher who has given lessons in very aristocratic
families, she conversed with her so cleverly that the young woman
declared she could teach her nothing. So if your Herr Doctor is really
such a phoenix, and a true man besides--"
"If by 'phoenix' you mean insurance against fire, one can never be
certain of that in young people, but I'll stake my life on his
goodness; everything else you must find out for yourself in case you
are really serious about giving your daughter--but that is none of my
business. My Regine can read and write, and that is enough to enable
her to get along with everything that does not concern propagation.
However, everybody has a right to his own opinion. If that is yours,
Herr Koenig, you will probably find the Herr Doctor at home now. It is
vacation, and most of his private pupils are traveling."
"I suppose," said the artist timidly, as he put on his hat and followed
the shoemaker into the entry, "the price for the lessons will not be
exorbitant."
"You need have no anxiety on that score," replied the shoemaker,
shuttings the door of the shop. "If he were paid as he deserves, he
wouldn't need to climb my old back stairs, but could buy the handsomest
house on Unter der Linden. Turn to the left here, and then cross the
courtyard, Herr Koenig, if you please."