I feel so savage, I'd like to write a good many more such letters.

Hav'n't you anything for me to do in that line, David?"--"Whenever I have anything to write I do it myself, and when I have nothing to write, I leave it alone," said David, leaving the room with Pomuchelskopp.

CHAPTER XIV.

The hours that had elapsed since Pomuchelskopp's visit had seemed to Mrs. von Rambow the slowest and dreariest she had ever known. Wearily had they pa.s.sed over her, every new minute revealing new cares and anxieties. She had tried to tear out the weeds that threatened to choke the wheat in her field, but alas the busiest hand grows tired in time, and the bravest heart craves rest, the rest that comes when the day of toil is past. Her husband had not come home on the day he had promised; instead of his arrival, a letter came from Slus'uhr brought by a special messenger, who said that he had orders to wait until he could deliver it into Mr. von Rambow's own hands. She had a very good idea of what that meant. As it grew dusk that evening she seated herself in her room beside her child, folded her hands in her lap, and gazed out of the window at the sky over which heavy clouds were rising.

The day had been close and muggy, a day in which the blood courses slowly through the veins, instead of circulating rapidly, and giving the body a sense of lightness and vitality it cannot otherwise enjoy.

On such an enervating day as this the blood flows languidly, like the black, almost stagnant water in a moorland ditch, and even as all nature groans and sighs for a storm to clear the air, the heart longs for the whirlwind of action, or the shock of fate to drive away "this stifled, drowsy, unimpa.s.sioned grief," wishes at any cost to shake off the deadly lethargy! Frida's feeling was much what I have described, she longed for anything that would clear the air around her, and make it possible for her to breathe once more; and she did not long in vain.

Caroline Kegel brought in the post-bag, and stood about as if she wanted to find something to do in the room. At last she opened the bag, and taking out a letter, laid it on the table beside her mistress. Then she hung about again, and asked: "If you please ma'am, shall I light the candles?"--"No, never mind." Still Caroline did not go, she said: "If you please, ma'am, you told us we wer'n't to repeat any gossip to you, but ...."--"What is it?" asked Frida, startled out of her reverie.

"The Gurlitz labourers have chased away Mr. Pomuchelskopp, his wife and two daughters."--"You don't mean to say so!" cried Frida. "Yes, and all of our labourers are down stairs in the yard, and wish to speak to you."--"Do they want to chase us away too?" asked Frida, drawing herself up proudly. "No, no! my dear, dear lady," cried Caroline, throwing herself on her knees and bursting into tears; "there's no talk of anything so dreadful, and my old father says that he'll be the death of the first who dares to speak of such a thing. They only say that Mr.

von Rambow won't listen to them, and so they want to speak to you, for they have great confidence in you."--"Where is Triddelfitz?"--"Lor, ma'am, he's going about amongst them talking to them, but they won't hear a word he says, they say they have nothing to do with him, and must speak to you."--"Come," said Frida, and she went down stairs.

"What do you want with me?" she asked as she stepped out at the door, before which the labourers were all collected. Fred Flegel, the carpenter, came forward, and said: "Madam, we have come to you, for we're all of one mind. We told the master about it some time ago, but he wouldn't attend to us. The squire was affronted with us for saying it; but you see we have no confidence in Mr. Triddelfitz, he is too young and doesn't know enough, and we thought perhaps you could help us if you would be so very kind. We are not so impertinent as to ask for more than we have, indeed we're quite satisfied with what we've got, and we get all we ought, though never at the right time so that our wives sometimes find it difficult to manage."--"Yes," interrupted Pasel, "and last year, which was a year of famine, the rye was all sold, and, Madam, you see I always have my wages paid in kind, so when I couldn't get the rye, how could I live; and when I didn't get it, I was told to be patient. Yes, to be patient! Then there was the potato disease! So how could one live?"--"Madam," said a white-haired old man, "I won't speak of food, for we never really starved; but I am an old man and I was sometimes kept standing so long in the marl pit pouring water over the marl, that I couldn't straighten myself in the evening, nor sleep at night from pain, and it might have been so easily managed better. We were used to other ways when Mr. Hawermann was here, but now we're ordered about by folk that don't know what work is."--"Yes, Madam," resumed the carpenter, "that's why we've come to ask you to let us have a bailiff put over us who knows what ought to be done, either Mr. Hawermann or another as good; one who will listen to us quietly when we've got anything to say, who will not abuse us when we don't deserve it, and who will not use his stick to our children when they are doing their work, as Mr. Triddelfitz was in the habit of doing."--"That must never happen again," cried Frida.--"Well, Madam, he has given up doing that now. It must be six months ago that I made bold to speak to him seriously about it one day when I was alone with him, and he has never done it since. I wish that the squire would only see that it would be for his own advantage if he got a good bailiff, for he understands nothing about farming himself, and then the wind wouldn't blow all the grain out of a field of wheat from leaving it standing too long, as was the case last year, nor would the people talk of him as they do now. And, Madam, there's a great deal of talk just now. It's said that he's going to sell the estate to Mr. Pomuchelskopp, but we won't have him for our master."--"No," they all exclaimed, "we won't have him."--"A fellow whom his own labourers have turned out."--"We needn't have him."

The labourers' words had fallen like heavy blows on Frida's heart. She felt how little love and respect they had for her husband, and the knowledge of the difficulty of her position made it hard for her to speak. After a sharp inward struggle for composure, she said: "Hush, my men! When the squire comes home he must decide whether he will grant your request. Go home quietly and don't come back to the house in such numbers again. I will tell the squire what you want, and I believe I can promise you that there will be a change in the farming arrangements at midsummer--one way or another," she added with a sigh. Then she was silent for an instant, as though to swallow a lump in her throat.

"Yes," she continued, "wait patiently till midsummer, and then there shall be a change."--"That's all right!"--"That's all we want!"--"And we're very grateful to you."--"Good-night, Madam."--And they all went away.

Frida returned to her room. It had begun to thunder and lighten, and the wind which was bl.u.s.tering through the yard drove sand and straw pattering against the window. "Yes," she said to herself, "midsummer will decide it. I hav'n't promised too much, for there must be a change then. But what will it be?" and involuntarily she thought of the picture David had so mercilessly drawn of her future life. She saw herself condemned to spend the rest of her days in a hired house in a small country town with her husband and child, leading an idle useless life without hope of remedy, and hearing people whisper that their fate might have been so different. She saw her husband get up in the morning and go out into the town, come home to dinner, spend the afternoon lounging on the sofa, then go out again, and come home to bed. He had always. .h.i.therto frittered away the time G.o.d had given him to work, and he would continue to waste his days in idleness. She saw herself worn out and wearied with household cares, comfortless and friendless, fighting the battle of life alone; she saw herself dying and her child standing by her bed. Her child! Her poor child! The penniless daughter of a n.o.bleman! There are few things that are a greater curse than the possession of rank without the means of keeping it up.--A man can get on pretty well, for he can go into the army; but a girl? Even if G.o.d has endowed her with the loveliness of an angel, and her parents have done the best they can for their darling, a gentleman says: "She is poor, so I cannot marry her," and a man of the middle-cla.s.s says: "She has grand notions, so I cannot marry her."--Frida looked sadly at her child, who was sleeping calmly through the storm that was raging out of doors, and that which was raging in her mother's breast.

Caroline Kegel brought in candles, and Mrs. von Rambow hastily took up the letter that was lying on the table, like one who did not wish it to be perceived that she had been engaged in deep and painful thought. She looked at the direction and saw it was from her sister-in-law, Albertine. She opened the envelope, and another letter fell out addressed to her husband.--"Put this letter on your master's writing table," she said to the maid.--Caroline took it and left the room.

Her husband's sisters had often written to her before, such letters as women write to while away their time.--Frida unfolded the letter, but--oh!--this was no commonplace chatty note such as she was accustomed to receive,--Albertine wrote:

"Dear Sister,

"I don't know whether I am doing right. Bertha advises me to write to you, and Fidelia has twice torn the paper from under my pen, for she thinks it will make our dear brother Alick unhappy if I do. But however that may be, I can't help it. Sheer necessity forces me to write. We have already written to Alick twice, but he has never answered our letters. I have no doubt that he has to travel about a good deal in these bad times, and that besides that, he must have much to occupy his attention at home--for we hear rumours of things going on about you, of the probable truth of which we have only too many proofs here in Schwerin--and so I think that I cannot be doing wrong in writing to you. You will answer me soon, won't you?--You know that Alick has taken the small capital our father left us as a mortgage on Pumpelhagen, and that he has promised to give us 5 per cent on the money instead of the 4 per cent we had formerly received. It was not necessary for him to have done that, for we could live within our income before. But he promised to send us the money punctually every quarter, and we have not received a penny in the last nine months. Dear Frida, you may be sure that we should never have complained if we had not been in very great need. Our brother-in-law Breitenburg was here lately; he had never heard of our having lent Alick the money, and as soon as he found it out, he--you know how rough he is--swore at Alick, and told us we were three geese to have given him the money. He asked to see our bond, and when we could not show it to him, for Alick has always forgotten to send it to us, he said outright, that our money was gone beyond recall, as it was well known that Alick had ruined himself with his bad farming, and that Pumpelhagen would have to be sold to pay his debts.--We know how to treat our brother in-law's talk, for he has always disliked our dear Alick; and as for selling Pumpelhagen, I don't believe it. It has been in our family for centuries! The Grand Duke would never allow it!--We told him that and a great deal more. Fidelia, especially, gave him a piece of her mind very energetically. So he took up his hat and stick, and said in his rude way: 'Your brother Alick has always been a fool, and now he has capped all his former misdeeds by behaving like a scoundrel.' Fidelia rose and showed him the door at once.--It was a dreadful scene, and I should not have told you about it, if I did not feel rather frightened lest Alick and Breitenburg should meet, and act like those two brothers-in-law, Dannenberg and Malzahn, who in order to avenge their injured sense of honour shot each other dead across a pocket-handkerchief. Please warn Alick to avoid any meeting with him, and if it is possible ask him to send us the interest on our money.--We think of going to see you in autumn, and are looking forward like children to the pleasure of seeing you, and of revisiting the home where we played as children, dreamt our day-dreams as young women, and where, alas, we saw our dear father die. Yes, Frida; Bertha, Fidelia and I rejoice at the thought of seeing Pumpelhagen again, for we live in the past, our present is so dull and empty of interest. Only now and then, and at very long intervals do we see the face of some old friend of our dear father, who comes to tell us what is going on in the world, and Bertha and I think there is something very pathetic in the way our little Fidelia throws down her work on such occasions, and listens eagerly to the news our old friend brings us.--She is especially interested in all that concerns the court.--Good-bye for the present, dear Frida. Forgive me for having troubled you with this letter, and give Alick the enclosed note. I have entreated him earnestly to help us, but have spared him all the disagreeables of our position as much as I could.--We shall meet in August.

"Yours affectionately,

"Albertine von Rambow."

"Schwerin, June 11th, 1848."

Frida began the letter, but did not read to the end. When she got to the place where Albertine has repeated Breitenburg's words: "Your brother Alick has always been a fool and now he has capped all his former misdeeds by behaving like a scoundrel," she threw the letter on the floor, started up from her chair wringing her hands, and began to walk rapidly up and down the room. "It's true," she moaned, "quite true!" Her little girl was sleeping calmly near her. She threw herself into the chair again, picked up the letter, and once more read the dreadful words. As she did so the terrible picture her imagination had before drawn of her child's future faded before the actual horror that confronted her. The new picture she saw was burnt into her brain. She saw in it the faces of the three sisters, and underneath it was written in letters of fire: "Swindled! Swindled by their own brother!" Beyond them she saw her husband, but his features were blurred and indistinct so that she could hardly trace them, and underneath this figure the single word "scoundrel" was written. Horrible, most horrible!--She had lost her all!--And it was a double loss!--She had only herself to trust to now on earth, for she had lost him she had loved as her own soul.

That was the terrible part of her grief! Oh for help to wash away the brand of dishonour from the forehead she had so often kissed lovingly.

But how? Who would help her? Alas, the people whose names occurred to her were all far away and she could go to none of them in her distress.

She wrung her hand in agony. It seemed as though she were being more and more hemmed in every moment. Pomuchelskopp's name flashed into her mind, and Slus'uhr's and David's. She sprang to her feet and moved her hands about as if to waive off once more the ghosts of the past. She could think of very few names now, when suddenly in the midst of her anguish she remembered a kind, womanly old face, Mrs. Nussler's face, and it looked as it had done when it bent over her child to kiss it.

Mrs. von Rambow immediately exclaimed aloud: "That woman has a heart, a large heart that can feel the sorrows of others!" Out of doors the thunder was still rolling, the lightning flashing and the rain coming down in torrents. Mrs. von Rambow s.n.a.t.c.hed up a warm shawl and rushed out into the rain. "For G.o.d's sake, ma'am, tell me what's the matter," cried Caroline Kegel, "see how it's raining and how dark it is!"--"Leave me alone!"--"Nay, I won't do that," said the maid going after her. "A kind heart, a kind heart!" murmured the poor thing as she hastened on, the rain beating ever more violently in her face. She still held the shawl in her hand without knowing it, and her feet slipped often in the deep cut limestone road without her knowing it; her whole soul was bent on getting on quickly. "If you _must_ go, Madam, we'll go together," said Caroline, taking the shawl out of her hand and wrapping it round her head and shoulders, then throwing her strong arm round her waist, she asked: "Where do you want to go?"--"To Mrs. Nussler's," answered her mistress, and then murmured: "a kind heart." A kind heart was beating close to her own and yet she never thought of it; nothing separates two human beings so much as the words: "Command and obedience." She had always been kind to her dependents, and had met her servant's good feeling towards her half way; but at this moment she did not think of Caroline Kegel, her heart was filled with the thought of how Alick was to be saved from shame and dishonour, and Mrs. Nussler's honest face drew her on through the rain and darkness as the only star of hope that shone on her path. "To Rexow, to Rexow!"

"Goodness gracious me, Joseph!" said Mrs. Nussler, going to the window, "what a storm it is!"--"Yes, mother, but what can anyone do?"--"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Nussler, reseating herself. "I hope that no one's out on the high road to-night. I feel very anxious." Mrs. Nussler went on knitting, Joseph went on smoking, and the parlour was as quiet and cosy as heart could wish. Suddenly Bolster, who was lying under Joseph's chair, gave a short sharp bark which was dog language for: "what's that?" As he got no answer he lay still, but next moment he started up and crept to the door on his stiff old legs. When he got there, he began to snarl after the manner of his kind. "Bolster!" cried Mrs. Nussler. "What's the matter with the old dog?--What is it Bolster?"--"Mother," said Joseph, who knew Bolster as well as Bolster knew him, "somebody's coming." At the same moment the door opened and a pale woman staggered into the room supported by a strong country girl, who placed her on the sofa. "Good G.o.d!" cried Mrs. Nussler jumping up and taking her visitor by both hands, "what's the matter? What is it?

Oh dear, how wet you are."--"Yes, indeed she is," answered Caroline.

"Good gracious Joseph, why don't you get up from your chair? Go and fetch Mina. Tell her to come here at once, and tell Dolly she must make some camomile tea." Joseph hastened from the room, and Mrs. Nussler taking off Mrs. von Rambow's shawl, dried the rain off her face and beautiful hair with her pocket-handkerchief. Mina ran into the parlour and was about to ask a number of questions, but her mother stopped her by saying: "Mina, this isn't the time to trouble Mrs. von Rambow with questions, go and bring one of your dresses and some of your underclothing to my bedroom." But as soon as Mina had run away to do as she desired, she herself asked: "What's the matter, Caroline Kegel?"--"I don't know, but she certainly got a letter this evening."

As soon as Mina said that she was ready Mrs. Nussler and Caroline helped Mrs. von Rambow into the bedroom and undressed her, laid her on the top of the bed and gave her the hot tea Dolly had prepared. She soon recovered her full consciousness and remembered why she had come, for it was only the sense of her utter loneliness that had overcome her and had made her feel so faint and weak, and now that she saw the kind motherly face bending over her, she felt strong and brave once more.

She sat up in bed, looked at Mrs. Nussler trustfully, and said: "You once told me that you would help me if ever I was in need."--"And I will do so," said Mrs. Nussler with tears in her eyes, and stroking her visitor's hands softly, "tell me what it is."--"It's a dreadful state of things," cried Frida, "our labourers are discontented, we're in debt, deeply in debt, and our creditors want to sell the estate ...."--"Good gracious!" interrupted Mrs. Nussler, "surely it's early days to talk of that!"--"I can't see my way at all," continued Mrs. von Rambow, "but it was for something else I came to you, and I can't, I dar'n't tell you what it is."--"Don't tell me, Madam. But what you have already told me is not a case in which a woman's advice is worth anything, we must consult some man, and if you like, we can drive over to Rahnstadt and speak to my brother Charles."--"Ah, if I could!

But how could I ever expect the man, whom I ...."--"That's a mistake on your part, Madam, and shows that you don't know my brother. Joseph,"

she called putting her head out at the door of her room, "tell Christian to get the carriage ready and to make haste, and do you make haste also. Mina, quick, bring me your new Sunday hat and cloak, we are going out." Everything was done as she desired, and as soon as they were seated in the carriage, Mrs. Nussler said to Christian: "You know that I don't like going too fast, Christian, but you can't drive too quickly to-day; we must be in Rahnstadt in half an hour. If we don't make haste they'll all be in bed," she added, addressing Mrs. von Rambow.

Anna had just gone home after spending the evening at Mrs. Behrens'

house; Hawermann and Brasig had said good-night, and Brasig had just opened the window, and looking out at the weather had said: "What a sweet smell the air always has after a storm, it's quite full of atmosphere!" when a carriage drove up to the door, and the light from Mrs. Behrens' bedroom streamed into it. "Bless me, Charles," cried Brasig, "there's your dear sister and Mina, and every one ought to be making ready to go to bed just now."--"There must be something wrong,"

said Hawermann taking his candle and leaving the room. "Why have you come so late, Dorothea," asked Hawermann, meeting his sister on the stairs, "Mina ...." then interrupting himself, "and you too, Madam, at this hour?"--"Quick, Charles," said Mrs. Nussler, "Mrs. von Rambow wants to speak to you alone, so make haste before anyone comes."

Hawermann opened the door of Mrs. Behrens' best parlour and showed Mrs.

von Rambow in; as he followed her and closed the door he heard the beginning of what Brasig said to Mrs. Nussler. "As sure as your nose is in the middle of your face, tell me what's brought you here? Excuse me for having come down in my shirt sleeves, but you see Charles is a thoughtless fellow and he took away the candle so that I couldn't find my coat in the dark. But where is he, and where's Mina?" Mrs. Nussler did not need to answer the question, for at this moment Louisa came out of Mrs. Behrens' ordinary sitting-room with a candle. "Why, you here.

Aunt?" she said. "Come back with me to the parlour, Louie; and you Brasig, go and put on your coat again and then you can join us." This was done, and Mrs. Behrens came too. All was silent and still in the pa.s.sage, and anyone who had chosen to listen at the keyhole of the best parlour might have heard Mrs. von Rambow telling Hawermann her story.

She began shyly and tearfully, but gained courage as she went on, and felt her hope and confidence in the old bailiff grow stronger every moment. Anyone who had chosen to listen at the door of Mrs. Behrens'

sitting-room, which was to the left of the pa.s.sage, might have heard the horrible fibs that Mrs. Nussler was telling, for it had suddenly occurred to the good woman that she could not do better than allow everyone to imagine that Mrs. von Rambow was Mina until she had had time to tell all her tale to Hawermann, and that she might not be troubled with questions. So she said that Mina was suffering from dreadful toothache, and that she knew her brother Charles had a wonderful remedy for it which could only be used with effect between twelve and one at night, and in complete silence. Mrs. Behrens said she was sure it could be no Christian work if that was the way of it, and Brasig remarked: "I never knew that Charles had any knowledge of medicine or doctoring."

Soon afterwards Hawermann put his head into the room and said: "Will you leave the house door ajar, Mrs. Behrens, I have to go out, but will soon return," and before Mrs. Behrens could answer he was half way down the street leading to Moses' house.

CHAPTER XV.

Moses was now a very old man, but he was strong and healthy though he found it difficult to walk even a short distance, and did not sleep well at night. He had grown into the habit of sitting up till long after his old wife Flora was asleep. He used at such times to sit in a large arm chair with a pillow under his head thinking over old stories.

He would have nothing to do with new things. David generally stretched himself on the sofa as he used to do, and told him anything he thought would interest him, and sometimes enjoyed a little nap between whiles.

I must say in David's honour that he was no exception to the rest of his people, and that he was gentle with and careful of his father in his old age, indeed he showed an example in that respect that it would be well if many Christians were to follow. On this particular evening they were chatting together. "David," said his father, "have I not often told you that you ought not to have anything to do with Pom.u.f.felskopp?"--"But, father, have I ever been taken in by him?

Hav'n't I always made money by my transactions with him?"--"You have strewed ashes on your head, you have eaten dirt."--"Are Louis d'ors dirt?"--"There's always dirt sticking to Pom.u.f.felskopp's money."--"If you like father, we can do a good stroke of business, Pom.u.f.felskopp wants to sell Gurlitz."--"Why?"--"Because he wants to get rid of it."--"I'll tell you why, David. It's because he doesn't feel safe amongst his labourers, and fears lest they should burn his barns, or knock him on the head. I'll tell you even more than that. I shan't do the business, nor will you do it; but still it will be done, and by attorney Slus'uhr too, whom you account your friend; but he's too clever for you, David, and you're too young."--"Father, I ..."--"Hush, David, I've got something more to say to you. You want to get rich, and to get rich all at once. Now listen to me; a jar with a narrow neck half full of gold is before you. You put in your hand and try to bring it out again full, but you can't do it, if, however, you're content to take one coin at a time, you get as many as you need in the end."--"Did I fill my hand too full?"--"Hush, David, I hav'n't done yet. You see two people, one throws a Louis d'or into a clear brook, while the other throws a handful of them into the mire. You go into the cold water, and get wet in picking up the Louis d'or, but when you've got it, you find it bright and clean; or you go into the mire and pick up the handful of gold, and all men try to get out of your way because you stink in their nostrils. The money Pom.u.f.felskopp has thrown you in the way of business, you have been obliged to pick out of the mire."--"Nay, father, it doesn't smell a bit worse than other gold."--"If men have not yet perceived its evil odour, its stink yet rises to heaven; but it is not true that men do not smell it, all honourable men know it to be what it is, while to Pom.u.f.felskopp and the attorney it is as the sweet savour of myrrh and frankincense." Just as David was about to answer there came a knock at the front door. "What's that?" asked David. The old man was silent, and the knocking became louder. "Go and open the door, David."--"What, at this time of night?"--"Yes, David, open the door. When I was a lad, and used to go about the country with a pack on my back, I often knocked at the door of some man's house, and he let me in, and now that I am old I shall soon stand before another door, and when I knock at it the G.o.d of Abraham will say: let him in, he is a human being. Some human being is now knocking at my door, and shall I not let him in? Open the door, David." David obeyed, and Hawermann came in.

"Bless me!" cried the old man. "It's the bailiff!"--"Yes, Moses.

Don't be angry with me, I can't help it, but my business is very important, and I must speak to you alone."--"David, you had better go away."--David made a face, but went,--"That doesn't help us much," said Moses, "for he's listening at the keyhole."--"It doesn't matter, Moses, I can't tell you here what I want you to know. Can't you come home with me?"--"I'm an old man now, Hawermann."--"I know that, but the air out of doors is quite warm, and the moon has risen. You can lean on my arm, and if you can't walk so far, I will carry you if you like."--"Why, what's the matter?"--"I can't tell you now, Moses; you must hear with your own ears, and see with your own eyes. You can do a good work if you come."--"Hawermann, you are an honest man, and have always been a friend to me from your youth up, I know that you will act rightly and justly. Call David."--Hawermann opened the door, and found him standing behind it.--"Mr. Hawermann, surely you won't take my father out tonight, he is an old man."--"Bring me my fur-boots, David," said his father.--"Don't go, father, or I will call my mother."--"Call your mother if you like, I'm going all the same."--"Why are you going?"--"On business, business of importance."--"Then I'll go with you."--"No, David, you're too young. Go and get me my fur-boots."--There was no help for it, David had to go and fetch the boots and put them on his father's feet. Hawermann then supported Moses with his arm, and the latter set off with his friend for Mrs. Behrens' house walking with great difficulty and keeping his hand in his left coat pocket all the time that he might hold up his trousers on that side, for he still continued to do without braces on his left side.

Hawermann did not manage to get old Moses over Mrs. Behrens' threshold noiselessly as he had hoped, for Moses tripped and nearly fell as he was going in. Naturally Mrs. Behrens heard the noise as distinctly as the others did.--"Ah!" she exclaimed, hastening to the door, "there's Hawermann come back with poor Mina," but when she put out her head expecting to see Mina's face, a little swollen it is true, she saw Moses in a flowing dressing gown, and fur-boots, and with his wrinkled old face and large black eyes turned full on her: "Good evening, Mrs.

Behrens," he said.--Little Mrs. Behrens was so startled that she drew back, exclaiming: "Preserve us all! Hawermann is trying all sorts of magic and heathen incantations to-night, and now he has brought an old Jew into the house at midnight; what can Moses do to cure Mina's toothache?"--Mrs. Nussler felt as if she were in her own kitchen at home frying fish, and had just got a fine large pike in the frying pan, when it caught her by the thumb and pressed its teeth gradually deeper and deeper into her flesh, so that she could not move for fear of losing her whole thumb. What business had Mrs. Nussler to tell such a fib, and a fib that might be disproved at any moment.--"Why, Mrs.

Behrens," said Brasig, "it can only have been Moses' double that you saw, it can't have been himself, for when I went to see him the day before yesterday he told me that he couldn't walk in the streets any more."--"Oh," interrupted Louisa, "my father must have something very important to say to the old man, and my aunt knows all about it, and has only been trying to put us off with a story about Mina. It would be very unlike my father to play foolish tricks at this time of night."--The pike forced its teeth deeper into Mrs. Nussler's flesh, but she shut her mouth tight and kept her own counsel a little longer: "Ah see!" she said. "You're frightfully clever, Louie! Clever children are a blessing to their parents; but," she could bear it no more, and pulling her thumb out of the pike's mouth, she went on, "I wish with all my heart that you were stupider. I'll tell you the truth, Mina isn't here at all, it's Mrs. von Rambow of Pumpelhagen who has something to arrange with Charles and Moses."--Little Mrs. Behrens was very angry when she heard this, partly because she had been kept in ignorance of the truth although it was her own house, and so she was most a.s.suredly the nearest, and ought to have been told; and partly because it showed her how horribly and heathenishly her good old friend and neighbour, Mrs. Nussler, could lie: "You told us such a circ.u.mstantial lie," she said.--"Yes, Mrs. Behrens," answered Mrs. Nussler, trying to look as if she had done nothing wrong, "I did."--"Mrs. Nussler," remonstrated her friend, looking as if the little black cloak of the late parson Behrens had fallen on her shoulders, "lying is an abominable unchristian sin."--"I know that,"

answered Mrs. Nussler, "and I never lie for myself. Whenever I tell a lie it's for the sake of other people. I was so sorry for the poor lady, and feared lest she should be troubled with questions. As everyone thought it was Mina, I just said 'yes' and then invented a little story." And now it seemed as if an invisible hand had bound the Geneva bands worn by her late husband round the little lady's neck; she said gravely: "My love, I fear that you're in a very bad way, for you're deceiving yourself at this very moment, you look upon what is evil as if it were good, you tell a lie ...."--"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Behrens," interrupted Brasig, taking his stand by the side of his old sweetheart, "for stopping you in the middle of your sermon; allow me to say that I quite agree with Mrs. Nussler. Look you, last week the town-clerk's wife called me, and asked me very sweetly: 'Pray tell me, Mr. Brasig, is it true that Mrs. Behrens once gave some one a randy-voo in a ditch ....'"--"Brasig!" cried Mrs. Behrens, resuming her natural manner.--"Don't be afraid," said uncle Brasig glancing at Louisa, "I know the prejudice that exists against such things.--'No, Ma'am,' I said, 'it's a confounded lie.' So you see, Mrs. Behrens, that I told a lie for your sake, and if I'm condemned to roast in h.e.l.l for it, I hope that you'll take compa.s.sion on me in heaven, and bring me a little water to refresh me."--Mrs. Behrens was about to answer, when Hawermann looked in to say: "Will you come and speak to me for a moment, Brasig?"--"Hawermann ...." began Mrs. Behrens.--"I shall return very soon, Mrs. Behrens."--Brasig went away.

The conversation in the other parlour had been as eager as the one I have described, though quite different from it in every respect. When Hawermann came in with Moses, Mrs. von Rambow rose from her seat on the sofa with a pain at her heart, and Moses started back.--"Mrs. von Rambow," said Hawermann, and then turning to the lady, he added: "This is my old friend Moses, he is very tired after his walk. You will excuse us, will you not, Madam?" and so saying he led the old man up to the sofa and making him lie down, arranged the pillows under his head.

As soon as his friend had recovered a little from his fatigue, Hawermann asked: "Do you know Mrs. von Rambow, Moses?"--"I've seen her driving past my house, and I've seen her walking on the road near Pumpelhagen; I touched my hat to her then and she returned the old Jew's greeting courteously."--"Moses, you know that Mr. von Rambow is in debt, deeply in debt."--"I know."--"You have demanded your money from him, princ.i.p.al and interest."--"I know."--"Moses, you must withdraw your demand; your money is safe."--"What do you call safe?

Didn't I tell you my opinion on that head in spring. Just now land isn't good security, it's only on the man one can rely, and Mr. von Rambow is not a man whose security is good. He's a bad farmer, he's a fool about horses, he's a spend ....."--"Hush, remember that his wife is here."--"I will remember."--Frida was in an agony of silent misery.

Then was not another word spoken for a few minutes, then Hawermann began again: "Supposing things were differently managed, and the estate were let on a lease of ...."--"Whoever would think of taking a lease of it in such bad times?" interrupted Moses.--"Or supposing that Mr. von Rambow decided on engaging a good, bailiff, and on leaving him alone to do his work in his own way ...."--"Hawermann," Moses once more interrupted, "you're an old man, and you're a wise man; you know the world and you know Mr. von Rambow, now let me ask you, did you ever see a master who could say, 'I won't be master any more, but will let another man be master'?"--Hawermann did not know how to meet this question, and looked enquiringly at Mrs. von Rambow, who cast down her eyes, and said: "I am afraid that Mr. Moses is right, I am afraid that my husband wouldn't do that."--Moses looked at her with a smile of commendation, and muttered: "She's a clever woman, and an honest woman."--Hawermann was in great perplexity, he sat thinking silently for some time; at last he said: "Well, Moses, I want to know whether you will give up your intention of foreclosing the mortgage, if Mrs.

von Rambow, or I, or the pressure of circ.u.mstances should induce the squire to agree to this proposal, and to sign a legal doc.u.ment to the effect that he will give up farming himself, and will engage a good bailiff to manage the estate for him?"--"If he does that, I'll let him have the money for another year; or even two years, if you like."--"Well, you promise to leave your money as it is; but there are other debts that must be paid. There's Pomuchelskopp's 1200."--"I know," muttered Moses.--"Then there are the shopkeepers' and artisans'

bills that have been running on for the last year, and which will come to at least 900."--"I know," said Moses.--"Then there's a debt of nearly two thousand pounds that must be paid in Schwerin."--"Why!"

exclaimed Moses starting, "I know nothing of that debt."--"In addition to what I have told you," continued Hawermann without allowing himself to be turned from the main point, "we must have three or four hundred pounds to cover the outlay required to begin farming properly."--"That's enough, it's a bad business, a very bad business," said Moses, making a movement as though to get up from the sofa.--"Stop, Moses, I hav'n't done yet."--"Let me be, let me be! I'm an old man, and can't undertake such an affair as this," and he sat up on the sofa and prepared to go away.--"Listen to me, Moses. You're not expected to give the money which will come to 4650, other people, safe people are going to do that, and you are only required to raise it for them by the midsummer term."--"G.o.d of Abraham! And I am to raise four thousand six hundred and fifty pounds in a fortnight! _Four thousand six hundred and fifty pounds!_ and that for fools who choose to throw away their money on a bad bit of business like this!"--"Well, Moses, we won't speak of that if you please. Just write down the names and sums of money as I dictate. You know Mrs. Behrens? Write down Mrs. Behrens'

name for 750."--"Yes, I know her, she's a good woman and helps the poor; but why am I to write down her name?"--"Do as I have asked you."--Moses took a pocket-book out of the pocket of his dressing gown, wet the end of his pencil in his mouth and wrote: "There now," he said, "I've put her down for 750."--"You know Brasig?"--"Who doesn't know, Brasig? He's a good man, and a reliable man. He often came to see me when I was ill. He tried to make me a democrat, and to persuade me to make speeches at the Reform-club, but still he's a good man."--"Put him down for 900. You also know my brother-in-law, farmer Nussler?"--"Have I not always bought his wool? He's a quiet man, and a good man. He smokes a great deal; but he isn't master, his wife is master."--"Very well, put my sister down for 1950."--"No, I won't do that. She's a woman, and a prudent woman, did she not stand out for two pence a stone more than I offered for the wool."--"You can write her name; my sister will tell you this very evening that it's all right. Now, then put me down for 1050, and that brings up the sum to 4650."--"Good G.o.d!"

cried Moses. "He's going to give his hard earned money, the money he had saved for his old age, and for his only child. And to whom is he going to give it? To a young man who attacked him with a gun, who stole his honest name and who treated him like a dog."--"You've got nothing to do with that, Moses; it's my affair. We ...."--Mrs. von Rambow had hitherto remained silent, feeling the full bitterness of her misery, but now she could bear it no longer; she sprang to her feet, ran up to Hawermann and laying her hands on his shoulders, said: "No, no! It cannot be! These kind good people and you shall not be drawn into our misfortunes. It is our own fault and so we must bear our fate. I will bear it, and, oh, Alick would a thousand times rather bear it with all its misery and shame than ... but--but," here she wailed out in spite of herself, "those poor sisters of his."--Hawermann put his arm gently round her, led her back to her chair, and whispered: "Try to compose yourself. You promised to leave the affair in my hands, and I will conduct it to the end, the happy end."--The tears streamed from Frida's eyes.--"Good G.o.d!" thought Moses, laying his pencil within the pocket-book, "she's beginning to be generous now. This isn't business.

This isn't business. But it's honest at any rate, and it's enough to bring tears into the eyes of an old man like me," at the same time wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his dressing gown. "Now, let me see how it stands with the Jew."

Meanwhile Hawermann had left the room to fetch Brasig, and after telling him in the pa.s.sage what had happened, came back into the room with him.--When Brasig came in he looked quite scared and Hawermann could not help feeling impatient with him. He went straight to Moses and said: "Moses, I am ready to sign anything Charles Hawermann wants me to sign, whether it is that I'm to give the money down, or only to put my name to a bill; but I can't pay up till S. Anthony's day."--"Good," answered Moses, "you're a safe man and I'll get you the money."--Brasig then went to Mrs. von Rambow, who was leaning her elbow on the table, and covering her eyes with her hand as though to shield them from the light. He made her a low bow and asked her how she was, and when she had murmured some almost inaudible answer, he asked: "And how is young Mr. von Rambow?"--Frida shivered, and Hawermann, who had intended to call in the others one by one, saw that it was time to interrupt his friend, lest Brasig should ignorantly make the poor lady yet more wretched than she was already. "Zachariah," he said, "will you be so kind as to ask Mrs. Behrens and my sister to come here. Louisa may come with them."--"All right, Charles," he replied. Soon afterwards he returned with the three women.--Mrs. Behrens rushed up to Mrs. von Rambow, pressed her in her arms and then burst into tears, and Louisa stood beside her full of deep but silent sympathy.--"G.o.d of Abraham!"

muttered Moses, "what a night it is! They say that they want to do business, and yet there they are weeping over each other, pressing each other's hands, embracing and showing themselves generous and loving to each other, while they leave an old man like me to sit here till morning. Miss Hawermann," he said aloud, "when you're quite done showing your kind feeling over there, will you be so good as to bring me a little wine, for I am an old man."--Louisa immediately brought a bottle of wine and a gla.s.s, and Brasig said: "Bring me another gla.s.s, Louisa." He no doubt considered that it was an excellent opportunity to get up a little clinking of gla.s.ses with Moses, for seating himself opposite the old Jew, he began: "Your good health, Moses."--But he failed in his attempt to induce Moses to join him, for the Jew did not take the hint, and when Hawermann brought up his sister to where they were sitting, Moses wetted his pencil and wrote. After Mrs. Nussler, Mrs. Behrens came, and Moses wrote down what she told him; Louisa meanwhile was talking to Mrs. von Rambow somewhat apart from the others. When he had finished writing, Moses stood up and said: "I have something to say to you. The four thousand six hundred and fifty pounds wanted are covered by the promises given me to-night; but this isn't business, generosity has run away with you all. Now you know the truth.

I am a Jew, and it has also run away with me. I will get the money for you. But I am an old man, and a prudent man. If Mr. von Rambow will not place his affairs in the hands of a good bailiff, and make a legal arrangement that they should be so managed, the contract is broken, and I refuse to provide the money, for it will mean ruin. When they bury me under the fir-trees in the cemetery where I have bought a resting place, they shall never have just cause to say of me: He had a tomb built for himself, of oak wood too. Shortly before his death he brought several honest people to misery, merely that he might not lose any business. Mrs. Nussler, Mrs. Behrens, Hawermann and Mr. Brasig are ruined by him. I have been a business man from my youth up; I began with a pack on my back; then I became a wool stapler, and lastly a money lender. I shall die as I have lived a business man, but a prudent one. Come and help me home, Hawermann. Good night, Mrs. Nussler, remember me to Mr. Joseph, and ask him to come and see me sometimes.