A FRIEND IN NEED.
At that very hour Pilgrim was on his way to church. When nearly there,
however, he changed his purpose, took several turns in front of old
Petrovitsch's house, and finally mustered courage to pull the bell.
Petrovitsch had been watching him from his window, and muttered to
himself, as he heard the ring: "You are going to make me a visit, are
you? I will give you a reception you won't forget in a hurry."
Petrovitsch was as much out of sorts as if he were suffering from the
effects of a night's debauch; and indeed it was pretty much so. He had
committed an excess in calling up old associations, and admitting a
guest to share them. The idea of having given way to the wretched
weakness of desiring to appear well before a fellow-man angered him.
How could he meet the doctor again in the full light of day? There was
an end to his proud boast of caring nothing for the opinion of the
world. Pilgrim was an excellent object on which to wreak his ill-humor;
he would put a stop to the fellow's playing and singing for one day at
least.
"Good morning, Mr. Lenz!" said Pilgrim, entering.
"The same to you, Mr. Pilgrim."
"Mr. Lenz, I have come to see you instead of going to church."
"I did not know I was considered such a saint."
"I do not come hoping for any great results from my visit, but only
that I may feel I have done my duty."
"If every one did his duty it would be a fine world to live in."
"Your Lenz, as you know--"
"I have no Lenz but that one," interrupted Petrovitsch, pointing to the
reflection of his carefully shaven face in the glass.
"You know that your brother's son is in great trouble."
"No; the trouble is in him. It all comes from a man's priding himself
on his kind heart, and having friends who pet him till he thinks all
other views than his are the whimsies of a crabbed old croaker."
"You may be right; but talking won't mend the matter. Your Lenz's
difficulties are greater than you think."
"I never measured them."
"He is even in danger of taking his own life."
"He did that long ago, when he married as he did."
"I can say no more. I thought I was prepared for everything, but this I
had not expected. You are much more,--you are a different man from what
I took you for."
"Thanks for the compliment. I only regret I cannot wear it as a medal
about my neck, as you singers wear your badges."
The gay, open-hearted Pilgrim stood before the old man as disconcerted
as a fencer who at every sally finds his weapon struck from his hand.
Petrovitsch hugged himself on his success, and putting an unusually
large lump of sugar into his mouth, said, as he smacked his lips: "The
son of my deceased brother has done according to his own will and
pleasure. It would be unjust in me to try to defraud him of the fruits
of his own choosing. He has squandered his life and money,--I cannot
restore them."
"Good Heavens, Mr. Lenz, you can. His life and that of his whole family
may yet be saved. The discord in his house will cease when plenty
returns and this wear of anxiety is removed. 'Horses quarrel over the
empty crib,' says the proverb. Wealth is not happiness, but it can
command happiness."
"Young people nowadays are very generous with others' money, but have
no taste for earning their own. I will do nothing for the husband of
Annele of the Lion, whose fair words have to be bought with gold."
"What if your nephew should die?"
"He will probably be buried."
"And what will become of the children?"
"We can never tell what will become of children."
"Has your nephew ever offended you in any way?"
"I know not how he could offend me."
"Then what can you do better with your money than now--"
"If I ever need a guardian, I will ask to have you appointed, Mr.
Pilgrim."
"I see I am not clever enough for you."
"You do me too much honor," said Petrovitsch, putting one foot over the
other and playing with the lappet of his slipper.
"I have done my duty," said Pilgrim again.
"And cheaply, too, at the expense of a couple of fair words. A bushel
of them would not cost much. I would buy at that rate."
"This is my first and last request to you."
"And this is my first and last refusal to you."
"Good morning, Mr. Lenz!"
"The same to you, Mr. Pilgrim."
At the door Pilgrim turned, his face crimson and his eyes flashing.
"Mr. Lenz, do you know what you are doing?"
"I generally know pretty well what I am doing."
"You are absolutely turning me out of your house."
"Indeed!" said Petrovitsch with an ugly smile; but his eyes fell before
the look of mingled pain and defiance in Pilgrim's face. "Mr. Lenz,"
continued the young man, "from you I bear everything. There lives not a
man within sight of a hedge or a tree that can yield a stick, who can
boast of having insulted Pilgrim with impunity. You can: and do you
know the reason? Because I am willing to bear insults in my friend's
cause. Unhappily it is all I can do for him. No angry word shall you
hear from me that you can use as a pretext for not helping my friend.
For his sake I gladly suffer insults. Tell all the world, if you will,
that you have turned me out of your house."
"It would not be much to boast of."
Pilgrim's breath came short and quick; his lips grew white, and without
another word he left the room.
Petrovitsch sent after him such a look of triumph as a satisfied fox
might send after the wounded and fugitive hare whose blood he had
sucked, but whose life the poor creature might save as he could.
With great satisfaction he paced about his room, stroking himself down
with his hands. He seemed actually so puffed up with satisfaction that
he had to let out the tasseled cord of his dressing-gown. Now
Petrovitsch is himself again, his every motion seemed to say; last
night you behaved like an old fool and forfeited all right to revile
the dish-clouts about you.
Pilgrim silently wended his way homeward, but, being in no mood for
entering his room at once, passed his house and took a long walk
through the fields. On returning, he was most agreeably surprised by
finding his friend's little boy. That is the way, he thought, when
friends heartily love one another. At the very moment I was thinking of
Lenz, his heart was full of me. Perhaps he had a presentiment of my
intended visit to Petrovitsch, and so sent his boy to help my petition.
But the child could have done no good. The voices of men and angels
would have been alike useless.
There was no end to the games Pilgrim invented, and the pictures he
drew, for the child's entertainment. Little William screamed with
delight at the hare and hounds made out of a handkerchief and a black
necktie, and called for the same stories over and over again. Pilgrim's
great story was of a Turk named Kulikali, who had an immense nose and
could swallow smoke. He dressed himself up like the Turk Kulikali, and
spreading a cloth on the floor, sat in the middle of it with his legs
crossed, and played all manner of tricks. He was as much of a child for
the time as his little godson. After dinner, which they ate down stairs
with Don Bastian, William insisted on being taken, in spite of the
sleet and slosh, down to the brook. That was the best fun of all. Great
blocks of ice went floating by with ravens perched upon them; and when
one of their rafts cracked and broke to pieces, the ravens flew up and
perched upon another. It was dizzying to look down on them from the
height where the two stood. The earth seemed to be in motion while the
ice stood still. The child clung anxiously to Pilgrim. When that
entertainment failed, Pilgrim took his godson home and made him up a
bed on his well-worn sofa, which they agreed should be little Lenz's
own, and he should never go away any more. "At home papa cries," the
little fellow said; "and mamma too; and mamma says papa is a wicked
man." Poor Pilgrim was cut to the heart at hearing of it. The snow and
rain increased so much in violence, and the avalanches from the roofs
of the houses and from the upland slopes were so constant, that it soon
became impossible to step out of doors. The evening came, but no Lenz.
The servant-maid told of her having met Petrovitsch on his way to the
Morgenhalde, not far from the house. He had asked whose the child was,
and on her replying it was Lenz's William, had given him a little bit
of sugar,--not a whole lump, for he broke off half of it first and put
it into his own mouth.
"Is it possible? can Petrovitsch really have been softened? Who can
read the hearts of men?"
Petrovitsch, after giving full scope to his exultation at this double
triumph over the doctor and Pilgrim, felt very tranquil in his mind. He
sat at his window watching the groups of church-goers, till at last all
were gone by except a single woman and a single man, who came hurrying
along to take their seats before the service should begin.
Petrovitsch's custom was to go to church himself; in fact, so regular
was his attendance that it was reported he meant to leave a handsome
sum in his will towards erecting a new building. To day, however, he
stayed at home, being busy with his own thoughts. One idea in
particular occupied his mind: The fellow has good friends in his time
of need. Pooh! would they be quite so good if they were rich? Pilgrim's
friendship perhaps is sincere; it almost looked so. He was very near
letting his passion break out at one time; but he kept it down and let
me say what I would, rather than injure his friend's cause.--It was all
a trick likely enough,--and yet there is such a thing as friendship.
He heard the rumbling of the organ from the distant church, the singing
of the congregation, and then came a silence which implied that the
minister had begun his sermon. A voice seemed to be preaching to
Petrovitsch as he sat with folded hands in his chair. Suddenly he rose
saying half aloud: "It is very well to show men their master, but it is
pleasant too to be thought well off.--No, no; that is not worth while;
that is not what I mean; but to make men rub their eyes and cry:
'Thunder and lightning, who would have thought it?' there is some fun
in that."
Petrovitsch had not for many years dressed himself so quickly as he did
to-day. Generally he took his dressing easily and comfortably, like
most things that he did, spending at least an hour over it; but to-day
he was soon ready, even to the putting on of his costly fur coat which
he had brought from Russia himself. The old housekeeper, who had seen
him a few minutes before in dressing-gown and slippers, stared in
amazement, but dared not utter a word, as she was not spoken to. With
his gold-headed cane, furnished with a hard, sharp ferrule at the
bottom, in case of need, Petrovitsch walked through the village and
straight up the hill. No human being was in the street; none at the
windows to wonder at seeing him leave his house at this unwonted hour
and in this ugly weather. Bubby had to represent the whole absent
humanity, and proclaimed, as well as his barking could: My master is
behaving himself in a way you would not believe; I would not have
believed it myself. He barked it at a raven sitting meditatively on a
hedge, sagely reflecting upon the melting snow; he barked it for his
own gratification as he leaped ever higher and higher through the
deepening drifts, on his useless digressions to and fro; and between
his barks his look at his master seemed to say: No human soul
understands us two; but we know each other.
I sacrifice all my peace of mind by doing it, said Petrovitsch to
himself; but if I don't do it I have no peace of mind either. I might
as well secure some thanks at least. After all, he is a good, simple,
honest fellow, as his father was before him.
Lenz's door was locked when the two reached the house. Bubby was
already on the threshold, and Petrovitsch had his hand on the latch
when--he sank to the ground, and an avalanche of snow overwhelmed him.
So much for troubling yourself about other men, was his first thought
and his last, for immediately consciousness failed him.