A FRIEND IN NEED.
At this very hour Pilgrim intended to have gone to church; but on the
way he turned, and went several times past Petrowitsch's house. At last
he stopped at the door, and pulled the bell.
Petrowitsch had long since observed him from his window, and when he
now rung, Petrowitsch said to himself, "So you are coming to me? You
shall not soon forget your reception."
Petrowitsch was in very bad humour, as cross as if he had been
suffering from the effects of intoxication, and it was very nearly the
same. He had been tempted to revel in old remembrances, and to entrust
another with his secret life. He was provoked with himself, for not
having been able to withstand the temptation of appearing good, in the
eyes of one man. He felt ashamed of ever facing the Doctor again in
broad daylight. His usual pride, which made him say he was quite
indifferent to what the world thought of him, was all gone. Now Pilgrim
was come, and on him should be discharged the whole vials of his wrath.
He will neither play the guitar, nor sing, nor whistle today.
Pilgrim came in, and said, "Good morning, Herr Lenz."
"The same to you, Herr Pilgrim."
"Herr Lenz, I come to you instead of going to church."
"I had no idea I was considered so holy."
"Herr Lenz, I come, not because I believe that it will do any good, but
still I shall have done my duty."
"It would be well if every one did their duty."
"You know your nephew Lenz--"
"There is no Lenz whom I care about, except the one I see there," said
Petrowitsch, looking at his wrinkled face in the glass.
"You know, however, that your brother's son is in distress."
"No, the distress is in him. This comes of giving way to the impulses
of a good heart, and having companions who encourage such weakness; and
whatever advice may be in opposition to this, is considered the mere
whims of a peevish, withered old man."
"You may be right; but wise speeches do no good now. The misery of Lenz
is greater than you think."
"I never tried to fathom its depth."
"In one word, I have the greatest fear that he may make away with
himself."
"That he did long since. A man who marries so stupidly makes away with
his life."
"I don't know what more to say. I thought I was prepared for
everything; but not for this. You are worse, and yet different, from
what I thought."
"Thanks for the compliment. It is a sad pity that I can't hang it round
my neck as an order of merit, like the Choral Society."
The good humoured, merry Pilgrim stood before the old man, looking as
foolish as a swordsman whose blade is made to fly out of his hand at
each attack.
Petrowitsch feasted on this spectacle, and crammed a large piece of
sugar into his mouth. Then he said, smacking his lips, "My brother's
son followed his own devices, and it would not be fair on my part, were
I to deprive him of the harvest he so richly deserves. He has
squandered his life and his money, and I have no power to restore
either."
"Indeed you have, Herr Lenz! His life, and that of his family, can yet
be saved. All discord in the house will cease when they are once more
at ease, and free from care and anxiety. The proverb says, 'Horses
quarrel over an empty manger.' Money is not happiness in itself, but it
can bring happiness."
"A very remarkable fact how free and easy young people are with other
people's money! but they object to earning it themselves! Once for all,
however, I am resolved to do nothing for the husband of Annele of the
'Lion,' whose affection is only to be bought with money."
"And if your nephew dies?"
"Then he will, probably, be buried."
"And what is to become of the children?"
"No one can tell what becomes of children."
"Did your nephew ever offend you in any way?"
"I don't know why he should."
"What can you, then, do better with your money than--"
"When I find that I require a guardian, I will apply to Herr Pilgrim."
"Herr Lenz, you are a vast deal too clever for me."
"You do me much honour," said Petrowitsch, kicking off his slippers.
"I have done all I could, at all events," rejoined Pilgrim.
"And at a cheap rate; words cost little--how much a bushel? for I
should like to buy some."
"This is the first and last time I ask you anything."
"And this is the first and last time I refuse you anything."
"Good morning, Herr Lenz."
"The same to you, Herr Pilgrim."
Pilgrim turned round once more at the door. His face was red, and his
eyes flashed, as he said, "Herr Lenz, do you know what you are doing?"
"I have hitherto always known pretty well what I was doing."
"You are, in fact, turning me out of your house."
"Really!" said Petrowitsch, with a sneer. He, however, cast down his
eyes when he saw the expression of Pilgrim's face--half rage, half
sorrow.
Pilgrim resumed: "Herr Lenz, I submit to a good deal from you. Of all
the men, far and near, who have seen trees and hedges growing, where
sticks are to be had, not one can come forward and say that those who
offended Pilgrim ever yet did so with impunity. You may do so, and do
you know why? Because I allow myself to be maltreated for the sake of
my friend. Alas! it is all I can do for him. I don't say one angry word
to you--not one. You shall never have it in your power to say, 'Pilgrim
behaved so rudely to me, that it prevents my doing anything for his
dear friend Lenz.' For my friend's sake I submit to your insults. You
may tell every one you turned me out of doors."
"I shall not gain much credit by that."
Pilgrim drew a deep breath, his lips quivered, and he left the room in
silence.
Petrowitsch looked after him, with pretty much the same satisfied air
that a fox displays when it sucks the blood of a leveret, and then lets
it run away, as it best can.
He paced his room in high good humour, playing with the tassels of his
dressing-gown. His satisfaction seemed positively to inflate him, for
he stroked himself down with his hands, as if to say, "Now you are once
more yourself; yesterday evening you were a soft hearted fool, and had
no right to abuse this weak, wayward world."
In the mean time Pilgrim went homewards in a dejected mood, and,
passing his own door, went far out into the fields, till at last he
turned, and went home. There, to his great joy, he found his friend's
child. "Thus it is when friends are really attached; my good Lenz was
thinking of me, at the very same moment when I was thinking of him.
Perhaps he knew, or at least had a presentiment, that I meant to go to
Petrowitsch, and sent the child to me to assist my petition. But it
would have done no good; to such a man as Petrowitsch, men and angels
would speak equally in vain."
Pilgrim was unwearied in the games he thought of to amuse the boy, and
in the drawings he did for him; and then, with the aid of a white
handkerchief, and his black neckcloth, he could make with his fingers
hares, and hounds chasing them. Little Wilhelm shouted with joy, and
made Pilgrim tell him the same story at least three times over. Pilgrim
had a very pretty knack of story telling, especially about a certain
chesnut brown Turk, Kulikali, with a huge nose, who could swallow
smoke. Pilgrim dressed himself up in a moment as the Turk Kulikali,
seated himself crosslegged on a strip of carpet on the floor, and did
all sorts of conjuring tricks. Pilgrim was on this occasion quite as
much a child as his young godson. Then they went down stairs, and dined
with Don Bastian. In the afternoon, in spite of drizzling rain and snow
showers, Pilgrim went to the riverside for an hour with Wilhelm. Was it
not a pretty sight! Great blocks of ice were swimming along, and crows
perched on them; they wished to see for once how they liked boating,
but when one of the masses of ice was shivered, they wisely flew away,
and settled on another. It was a giddy sight to look down on from
above. It seemed as if the earth were moving, and the ice standing
still. The boy clung timidly to Pilgrim. He took him home, and put a
mattress for his godson on his old well worn sofa, for both agreed that
young Lenz should not go home to-night; and it went to Pilgrim's heart
when the child said, "My father speaks so loud, and my mother too; and
my mother said my father was a wicked man."
"Oh! my poor Lenz, you must do what you can, to make your boy less
sensitive than yourself," thought Pilgrim.
The rain and snow came down in such gusts, that it was scarcely
possible to go outside the house, especially as large masses of snow
were tumbling off the roofs. Soon it was evening, but Lenz did not
come; and Pilgrim was startled by hearing the maid say that she had met
Petrowitsch on the road to the Morgenhalde, not far from the house; he
asked her "Whose child is that?" and when she said, "Lenz's son,
Wilhelm," he patted the boy's head, and gave him a lump of sugar, or at
least one half of it, as he broke it in two, and put one piece into his
own mouth.
Is it possible? Can Petrowitsch really be softened? Who knows the heart
of man?
After Petrowitsch had fully enjoyed his triumph over the Doctor and
Pilgrim, he felt quite comfortable. He watched the people going to
church in groups, and at last one solitary woman and then a man running
to arrive in time.
Petrowitsch usually went regularly to church; indeed it was said that
in his will he had bequeathed a large sum for the purpose of building a
new place of worship; on this day he stayed at home, having sufficient
occupation for his thoughts, but involuntarily it occurred to him--
"That fellow, Lenz, has good friends in his need. Pooh! who knows if
they would have been as zealous, if they had been rich! ... Pilgrim's
earnestness did, however, seem genuine: tears were in his eyes; he
controlled his own indignation, and submitted to all my impertinence,
for the sake of his friend; but who can tell if this was not all a
trick on his part? No, no, there still are true friends in the world."
The organ vibrated from afar, and the singing of the congregation rose
in the air, then all was still: the Pastor was, no doubt, preaching his
sermon: one solitary human voice cannot be heard at such a distance.
Petrowitsch sat in his chair with clasped hands, and it seemed as if
some one was preaching to him, for suddenly he started up, and said
aloud:--"It is a very good thing to show others that you have a will of
your own; but it is also pleasant to be esteemed. After all, it is not
worth much; but still, to take men by surprise, and to make them say,
'Well, we never could have believed this.' Yes, yes, that would be
pleasant enough."
For many years Petrowitsch had not dressed himself so rapidly as
today--usually his dressing, like everything he did, was a work of
time, on which he could always spend a good hour--today he was ready in
a few minutes. He put on his fur cloak--and he had the finest fur in
the country; Petrowitsch had not been so long in Russia for nothing.
His old housekeeper, who had seen him so short a time before in his
dressing gown, looked at him in amazement, but she never ventured to
address him, unless he first spoke to her. Petrowitsch, stepping out
stoutly and carrying his goldheaded stick, with its strong sharp point,
went through the village, and then proceeded up the hill. No human
being was on the pathway, not a single soul looked out of the
window--so there was no one to wonder why the old man had left his own
house in such dreadful weather, and at so unusual an hour. Bueble,
however, barked loud enough to supply this deficiency, as if saying,
"My master is going to a house--to a house--where no one would believe
he was really going. I could not have believed it myself." Bueble barked
this out to a certain crow, who was perched contemplatively on a hedge,
gazing, in deep thought, at the melting snow; Bueble soon barked for his
own behoof only, and the deeper the snow became, the higher Bueble
jumped, making various unnecessary scurries on his own account, up the
hill and down again, and then he looked at his master, as if to say,
"No living creature understands you and me, except ourselves--we know
each other pretty well."
"I give up my peace for ever if I do it," said Petrowitsch to himself;
"but if I don't do it, I shall have no peace either, and so it is
better to earn some gratitude into the bargain; and he certainly is a
good, single hearted, honest man, just like his father. Yes, yes!"
These were Petrowitsch's reflections. He arrived in front of Lenz's
house. The door was locked; Bueble had trotted on before him, and was
standing on the door step, when at the same instant--Petrowitsch had
actually the latch of the door in his hand--he sank to the ground. He
was lying under a mass of snow.
"This is the result of taking charge of other people's affairs," was
his first thought as he fell. Soon he no longer had the power to think.