Kitabı oku: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 11», sayfa 27
The screaming, blessings and beseechings of Esther outside and a knocking at the door drove the old man from his calculations and thoughts onto his feet.
"God of Abraham, he is here!"
With a trembling hand he pushed back the bolt and clasped his son, who was just entering, in his arms.
"Here he is! Here he is! My son, the son of my wife! Well, Moses, speak, how did it go?"
Moses' face showed not a sign of change, he appeared cold, as always, and calmly he held out his certificate to his father.
"I knew that they would have to write what they have written. They probably made faces over it but they had to give me the first place. Come now! Don't be ridiculous, Father; don't go mad, Esther. Oh say, how they would like to have put that sentimental Hans over there ahead of me, but they couldn't manage it; I knew it. By all the silly gods, Father, what have you been doing this morning? Gold? Gold and no end of it? What's that? What does that mean? Great God, where – "
He broke off and bent over the table. That was a sight that entirely destroyed his accustomed self-control, at least for a time.
"Yours! Yours! It is all yours!" cried his father. "I told you that I would do my part if you did yours at the table there. That is not all! Here! Here!"
The old man had rushed to the closet again and threw a few more jingling bags on the black floor and a few more bundles of securities on the table. His eyes glowed as with fever.
"You are equipped and armed, now raise your head. Eat when you are hungry and reach out for everything that you desire. They will bring it to you if you are wise; you will become a great man among the strangers! Be wise on your way! Don't stand still, don't stand still, don't stand still!"
The hanging globe in the house opposite reflected Samuel Freudenstein as he hurried out, tore the Westphalian body-servant from his hook and buried him in the depths of the shop; thus he closed his business for ever, – the lackey had served as a sign for many things which had really nothing to do with junk-dealing; it was not to be regretted that he disappeared from Kröppel Street.
If only the glass globe of Master Anton Unwirrsch could have reflected the figure of Moses Freudenstein as, during his father's short absence he stood with folded arms in front of the richly burdened table! He was pale and his lips twitched, he passed his finger tips over several of the rows of gold-pieces and at their touch a slight tremor ran through his body. A thousand thoughts chased one another through his brain with the rapidity of lightning, but not one of them rose from his heart; he did not think of the toil, the care, the – love that clung to this piled-up wealth. He thought only of what his own attitude must be to these riches which were suddenly thrust before him, of the changed existence that would begin from this moment – for him. His cold heart beat so violently that it almost caused him physical pain. It was an evil moment in which Samuel Freudenstein announced to his son that he was rich and that the latter would one day be so. From that moment a thousand dark threads stretched out into the future; whatever was dark in Moses' soul became still darker from this moment; nothing became lighter; egoism raised its head menacingly and stretched out hungry arms, like those of an octopus, to grasp the world.
In this headlong, wildly increasing tumult of thoughts his father's existence no longer counted for anything, it was rubbed out as if it had never been. Moses Freudenstein thought only of himself and when his father's step sounded again behind him he started and clenched his teeth.
Samuel Freudenstein had bolted the door; he had closed the shop and thus also locked out the wide, lovely spring world, the blue sky, the beautiful sun – woe to him!
He had nothing to do with the joyful sounds, the shining colors of life, they would only have been in his way; he wanted to celebrate a triumph in which he did not need them – woe to him! The gray dusk which fell through the dirty panes of the back room sufficed perfectly for him to lay his secret account book before his son and show him in what way the wealth that he had spread out before him had been acquired.
The sun went down, but before taking his farewell, he flooded the world with unequaled beauty; he smiled a parting greeting through every window that he could reach; but he could not say farewell to poor Samuel Freudenstein – woe to him!
Night came on and Esther carried the lighted lamp into the little back room. The children were put to bed, the night watchman came; the older people too disappeared from the benches before their front doors. Everyone carried his cares to bed; but Samuel and Moses Freudenstein counted and figured on, and it was not until the gray dawn that the latter sank into a restless, feverish slumber only to start up again almost as soon as he had closed his eyes. He did not wake like Hans Unwirrsch; he woke with a cry of fear, stretched his hands out and crooked his fingers as if something infinitely precious were being torn from him, as if he were striving in deadly fear to hold it tight. He sat upright in bed and stared about him, pressed his hands to his forehead and then jumped up. Hastily he drew on his clothes and went down into the back room where his father still lay asleep restlessly murmuring disconnected sentences. The son stood before his father's bed and his gaze wandered from his father's face to the empty table which had lately been so richly burdened.
Oh, the hunger, the terrible hunger, by which Moses Freudenstein was tormented, was consumed! Between the feast and the sufferer there stood a superfluous something, the life of an old man. The son of this old man gnashed his teeth – woe to you too, Moses Freudenstein!
How did the hour-glass from the pulpit of the Christian church come to be in the shop? It was there and it stood beside the bed of the old man on a shelf against the wall. In former years it had often served Moses and Hans as a plaything and they had watched the sand ran through with delight; it was long now since any hand had touched it, the spiders had spun their webs about it; it was a useless thing. What notion could suddenly have shot into the mind of the junk-dealer's son to make him turn the hour-glass over now? A frightened spider scuttled up the wall; the sand began to trickle down again and Samuel Freudenstein woke with a start. He drew the bed-clothes close about him and felt under his pillow for his bunch of keys; then he asked almost in a screech:
"What do you want, Moses? Is it you? What do you want? It's still night!"
"It's bright daylight. Have you forgotten, Father, that we did not finish yesterday? It is bright daylight; and you still have so much to say to me."
The father glanced at the son, and then looked at him again. Then his eye fell on the hour-glass.
"Why did you turn the glass over? Why do you wake me before it is day?"
"Oh come! You know, Father, that time is precious and runs away like sand. Will you get up?"
The old man turned uneasily in his bed several times, and glanced ever anew at his son, now searchingly, now fearfully, now angrily.
Moses had turned away and went to the writing table near the window; the old man sat upright and drew up his knees. The sand in the glass trickled down – down, and the old man's eyes became more and more fixed. Had he had a dream during his short sleep and was now considering whether this dream might not be truth; who could say? Had it become clear to him all of a sudden that in giving his child the treasure that he had concealed so long and so well he was giving him only darkness and ruin? What a life he had led in order to be able to celebrate that hour of triumph yesterday! Woe to him!
The son threw shifty glances over his shoulder at his father.
"What is the matter, Father? Are you not well?"
"Quite well, Moses, quite well. Be quiet, I will get up. Do not be angry. Be quiet – that your days may be long upon earth."
He rose and dressed. Esther came with breakfast but she almost let the tray fall when she looked into her old master's face.
"God of Israel! What is the matter, Freudenstein?"
"Nothing, nothing! Be quiet, Esther; it will pass."
He sat in his chair all morning without moving. His mouth alone moved, but only once did an audible word cross his lips; he wanted them to open the door and the shutters again.
"Why should Esther unlock the house?" asked Moses. "We want to finish our business of yesterday first, and don't need people gaping and listening."
"Be quiet, you are right, my son. It is well, Esther. Take the keys from under my pillow, Moses."
The sand in the hour-glass had run through again; Moses Freudenstein himself had unlocked the closet once more and was looking through the papers. The old man did not move, but he followed his son's every movement with his eyes and now and then started and shivered. Esther had put an old cover about his shoulders; he was like a child that must let everything be done for it.
Moses took out another bag of money; it slipped from his hands and fell ringing on the floor, scattering part of its contents over the room. With the ringing and jingling of the money a scream mingled that froze one's blood.
"Apoplexia spasmodica!" said the doctor fifteen minutes later. "Hm, hm – an unusual case in a man of his constitution!"
Summary of Chapters IX and X
[Three days after the first shock a second apoplectic attack occurred and Samuel Freudenstein died. On the way home from the cemetery Hans sought to comfort his friend – quite unnecessarily, as all that occupied the latter's mind was what his father had left. With the help of two guardians he was able, within a few days to find out exactly what this amounted to, and finally, after thoroughly rummaging through the shop, he sold it again to another Semite. He sought to banish all remembrance of his father; the hour-glass slipped from his hand and a kick sent the fragments into a corner.
In the meantime his mother, "Auntie," and Uncle Grünebaum had done their best to prepare Hans for his journey to the university. Hans bade farewell to everybody and everything in Neustadt that he loved and then, on a beautiful spring morning, started on his pilgrimage with Moses. As they passed the door of the second-hand shop, they found three old Jewish women there to whom Samuel had been charitable now and then, and the housekeeper, Esther. They were waiting to give Moses their blessings and good wishes, but he scorned them. They left the thaler that he threw to them lying on the ground and half the prayer that they sent after him was changed into a curse. Uncle Grünebaum, with his dignified person and his beautiful speeches, accompanied the two young people as far as the town gates.
On a height that afforded a last view of Neustadt the two wanderers paused for a short time. Hans thought of all that he had experienced up till then and of all the people that he had known, not excepting the dead, such as his master, Silberlöffel, and little Sophie. Moses, on the other hand, refused to think of those who had died and thought of the living only with his superior, cynical smile. He hated the town of Neustadt and finally roused Hans from his dreams by a mocking remark. Similar scenes often recurred on their way, the last one when, on the morning of the third day, they came in sight of the university town lying at their feet. Hans would like to have taken off his shoes on the holy ground while Moses gave characteristic expression to his opinion by remarking that there must be many a bad egg or a blown one down there in the little town.
Hans rented a little room from a shoemaker in the most remote and cheapest corner of the town of the muses, while Moses established himself in a house that looked on a beautiful public square opposite the Gothic cathedral. His rooms were elegantly furnished and he showed no disinclination for any of the exquisite enjoyments of life; the humble cocoon from Neustadt brought forth a gay-colored, bright, Epicurean butterfly that spread its wings with assurance and skill.
Hans entered himself as a student of theology while Moses joined the philosophers. Hans entertained a humble veneration for the apostles of wisdom and on every occasion Moses diabolically sought to trip up this touching belief in authority. He acknowledged one professor's good points only so as to be able to throw a stronger light on his weaknesses; in the case of another he was pleased to find that at least his moral reputation was not above reproach. But although Moses was able to destroy much he was also able to give as much else. He got himself books on all branches of learning and constructed for himself a rather original system of objective logic; he diligently attended lectures on law and for recreation he gave Hans instruction in Hebrew. With subtle arguments he discussed with him God and the world, physics and metaphysics, and proved to him that the Jews were still the chosen people, for the successes that the other nations won they won for the Jews too, whereas the latter were not concerned in other people's defeats. Whenever the Jews did enter the struggle they did so of their own free will, with no anxiety for the weal or woe of a nation, but only to fight for spiritual values, for ideas.
Hans could meet such sophistry only with the greatest difficulty; his talent did not lie in that direction. Even his first semester showed him that he was better fitted for practical than theoretical theology; in fact, the professor of homiletics was not satisfied with his achievements even in that subject. His pupil's oratory contained too much "poesie," too much enthusiasm for nature, even an odor of pantheism. Hence Hans liked best to preach his sermons in the open air, under a tall oak, on a narrow meadow in the woods where the birds listened to him with more tolerance than did his professor.
Hans always went home in the holidays and each time he entered with a clearer head and a larger heart into the small circle of his dear ones. Moses, however, remained in the university town and each time, when lectures began again, he came out of his rooms more sarcastic and sceptical than before. Finally the last semester drew near. Hans was to take his examination at home as a candidate in theological science. Moses wrote a capital doctor's dissertation on "Matter as an Element of the Divine," and defended his views by gradually turning the thesis round and making of the Divine an element of matter. Quite carelessly one evening after he had taken his degree Moses told Hans that he was going to Paris the day after tomorrow, as he wanted to learn to swim there. He went on to say that Germany was nothing but a beach from which the tide had receded but he had not yet lost his feeling for the open sea and wanted to find more extensive waters in which to try his fins. To Hans' great astonishment and regret Moses really did go to Paris and left the friend of his youth alone behind him. A great void was made in Hans' life, but before the end of the semester he received a letter which showed him that even greater voids might appear in his life. This letter came from Uncle Grünebaum and announced that his mother was very ill. As soon as he had recovered from his first stupefaction Hans packed his certificates and few belongings and left the university to go to Neustadt, to the deathbed of his mother.]
Chapter XI
It was a melancholy way through the autumn weather. Throughout the journey the wind was the poor wanderer's companion, the cold, dreary, whining, groaning October wind. Mockingly it tore from the woods a good part of the adornment with which it had often dallied so winningly in spring and summer. It whipped up dense clouds of dust on the road and rushed across the stubble fields with a shrieking hiss which could not have been pleasant to any living creature except the crows. Only the thrashing of the flails in the neighboring and distant villages could be taken as a comforting sign that everything was not yet lost to the earth and that the triumph that the wind was celebrating on the empty fields was only a deceptive one.
But this comfort was lost on the lonely wanderer in the clouds of dust on the country road; he could pay little attention to it and, deeply depressed and forlorn, he dragged one foot after the other. He had traveled this way so often already that no object that sprang into view on either side of the road was unfamiliar to him. Trees and boulders, houses and huts, sign-posts, church steeples, old boundary stones which no longer marked anything but the transitoriness of even the widest possessions – all had already made various impressions on him in his various moods. He remembered how he had sat thinking on this spot, had slept through an afternoon under the bushes on that one. He thought most of those days when he had passed this way for the first time with his great hunger for knowledge, in the companionship of that comrade of his youth who was now gone. Now he was going back along this way for the last time; – he had learnt much, endured many things and enjoyed many pleasures! What was now the state of his soul?
He was depressed, he was sad and would have been so even without Uncle Grünebaum's letter of ill tidings. With all his strength he had striven to learn all that could be learnt of the high branch of knowledge to which he had devoted himself, and he was obliged to confess that this was little enough. He felt deeply the inadequacy of what the men on the lecture platform had taught him, but he felt something else besides and that was what Professor Vogelsang and most of the other members of the highly laudable, honorable faculty did not want to recognize because they could not teach it.
He was on his way to see one die whom he loved more than any other human being; he stepped out toward darkness and it was darkness that he left behind him. At one time he had preached to the trees and the birds because the world would hear nothing of his feelings, and he had never complained of that. Now, his hunger for knowledge seemed to be dead, but his feelings were still alive, rose insistently and crowded about his heart; they grew to be the bitterest pain that a man can endure. At that moment nothing was distinct in the surging tumult; sorrow about his mother, disappointment, worry and fear were mingled; and, curiously enough, mixed with all these there sounded sharply and cuttingly long forgotten words which Moses Freudenstein had once uttered. During this journey Hans Jakob Unwirrsch was in a similar mood to that of another John James who, long years before, had gone from Annecy to Vevay and had written of that road:
"Combien de fois, m'arrêtant pour pleurer à mon aise, assis sur une grosse pierre, je me suis amusé à voir tomber mes larmes dans l'eau!"
It blew incessantly! All day long the wind drove dark clouds across the gray sky, yet not a drop of rain fell. It burrowed into the hedges about the neglected, untidy gardens where the withered sunflowers and hollyhocks hung their heads plaintively. It rattled the windows of the village inn where Hans ate his dinner, blustered about the house and waited grimly for the wanderer who had escaped it for a short moment. It played its game about the coach that stopped at the toll-gate and flapped the cape of the driver's coat so violently round his ears that he could scarcely get out the toll. Hans threw an indifferent glance at this carriage through the window; but the next moment he regarded it more keenly. The leather flap at the side of the carriage had been drawn back, a young girl looked out and peered down the dreary country road. The wind raised the black veil on her black mourning hat and had no more pity on the pale, sad, girlish face beneath it than on anything else that came in its way. But for that reason the little face only made the greater impression on Hans. Trouble greeted trouble, and the sorrow that went on foot along the country road bowed to the sorrow in the carriage that rolled through the clouds of dust. That childish, careworn face just fitted into the mood that possessed Hans; he would have liked to know more of its owner's life and fate.
But the girl's head drew back and in its place there appeared a gray moustache and an old military cap. A glass of brandy was handed into the carriage, full, and very quickly appeared again, empty; the driver too had found it possible, in spite of his violent struggle with his cape, to refresh himself with a drink that did not come directly from the spring. Get up! Forward! The horses started and, with a cloud of dust the old vehicle rattled off, the wind rushing after it like a bloodhound on the trail and it was more than remarkable that when Hans came out of the Golden Stag Inn it received him too with triumphant animosity and blew him after the carriage.
The people in the Golden Stag had not been able to say who the military old gentleman and the young lady in mourning were; they only knew the driver, the two lean nags and the tumble-down old vehicle, and said that this quartet was often hired by travelers as it was frequently the only means of transport in the neighborhood.
In addition to all his other thoughts Hans now carried with him on his way through the dark afternoon the image of the lovely little face he had seen. Ever anew it presented itself to his mental vision; he could not help it. Thus he went on and did not stop till the dusk had grown denser and he had reached the little town in which he was to spend the night.
To be sure, it had been dusk all day and the evening could make little change in the illumination of the world. But now night fell and made common cause with the wind and if the devil had joined the alliance he could not have made matters much worse.
It was not the wind's fault that the crooked old houses of the little country town which Hans now entered were still standing the next morning. The lights in the rooms, behind the windows, seemed to flicker and the few people who were still in the streets fought their way laboriously against the storm, bending forward or leaning back. Front doors slammed with thundering crashes, window shutters flew open with a rattle and the only glazier in the place listened with singular joy to every shrill clinking and clatter in the distance.
If, however, the wind was obliged to leave the little town as a whole still standing it could do even less to the keeper of the Post-horn Inn. To have blown him from his feet and thrown him to the earth would indeed have been a feat which Aeolus might well have set his subjects and rewarded with a prize. On his short, well-rounded legs the innkeeper stood firm and unmoved in front of his doorway under his creaking sign and gave orders regarding a carriage which was just being drawn under shelter by two servants. The lean theologian, Hans Unwirrsch, landed, in the most literal sense of the word, on the colossal mountain of flesh, the keeper of the Post-horn Inn; half smothered and half blinded Hans was blown into the doorway and hurled violently against the innkeeper's stomach, but even this collision did not disturb the balance of his huge bulk.
The keeper of the Post-horn Inn was fortunately a man who knew how to appreciate the compelling power of circumstances; the attack did not make him as rude as might have been expected. He did not invite the guest thus hurled against him to go to the devil, he even wheeled halfway round to afford him an entrance into his house and followed him merely snorting a few mild remarks.
"A confounded way to steer! Always go slow over the bridge! Don't turn too sharp a corner! Thunder, right on my full stomach!"
But when, in the dimly lit room, he recognized the stranger that the ill wind had blown into his house, the last shade of bad humor disappeared from his round face and with perfect cheerfulness he held out his broad paw to shake hands.
"Ah, it's you, my young student friend! Back once more in the holidays? I'm glad of that! As they say, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good."
Hans apologized as well as he could for his tumultuous greeting at the door; but now the innkeeper only looked at him smilingly and pityingly and blew across his hand as if he would say: "A feather! A feather! Nothing but a feather!" – But what he did say was: "That's all right, Mr. Unwirrsch, I'm well able to stand my ground. Take off your knapsack; – I suppose you've carried it on your back all day long as usual? It's a shame!"
There was the landlady, just as corpulent as the master of the house! There was "my hostess' daughter fair" but not "in a coffin black and bare" this time, thank God! nay, very much alive and also of pleasant amplitude. And they greeted poor, sad Hans whose good heart and tiny purse they had learnt to know in former vacations and treated with the respect due them. They questioned him about everything before he could get his breath and knew the sorrowful circumstance that now called him home before he had laid down his knapsack and heavy stick. And as they considered a good meal and a good draught the best panacea for all ills he, the landlord, went down into the cellar and the landlady with her daughter went into the kitchen and Hans was now able to take a first glance at the other guests.
There were only two there. There was a table laid for supper in the corner by the stove and they were sitting at it; an old gentleman with a moustache, in a long military coat buttoned up under his chin, and a pale, delicate looking young girl in mourning. The girl was looking down and continued to do so but the old gentleman stared at the theologian so steadily and openly that the latter felt quite uncomfortable and was very glad when the fat landlord reappeared in the room and interposed his solid form between the keen-eyed, moustached countenance and the table at which Hans had seated himself.
The landlord had a robust voice and did not put his questions as softly as Hans would have wished; the landlord was somewhat deaf and required Hans to answer as loudly as possible. And when "my hostess" came with dishes and plates and "my hostess's daughter fair" with knives and forks, they too had questions to ask. The old soldier did not need to play eavesdropper to hear everything worth knowing about the black-coat.
If a man who has had much trouble to bear has not heard any friendly, sympathetic voices about him for a long time, he becomes communicative when finally such voices do reach his ears and his heart with questions and expressions of pity, however reticent he may be as a rule. And, as we know, Hans Unwirrsch was not reticent; he did not keep his joys and sorrows out of sight and, as he had nothing to conceal, he unreservedly gave the good-natured family a full account of how he and the world had got along with one another.
The military looking old gentleman soon knew everything that might be of interest in such a hungry-looking, black-gowned, young theological student. He knew his name, he knew that he came from the famous town of Neustadt, he had heard that a certain Uncle Grünebaum was still in good health and that a no less certain Auntie Schlotterbeck still saw the dead wandering about in the streets. That the theologian had an old mother in Neustadt and that this mother was ill with a serious, painful disease and would perhaps have to die – all this the old gentleman with the gray moustache heard, and the young girl heard it too, moreover with sympathy, as it seemed, for she had raised her head and turned it towards where the young man was sitting. Her face was kind, but not beautiful; it was her eyes that were beautiful, with which, however, she could not see the theologian but only the broad back of the landlord of the Post-horn Inn. The landlord blocked her view as well as that of the young man whom he was questioning so eagerly.
How angry the wind was outside, and how unmistakably it showed its fury! It blustered round the house as if mad and shook every window at which its ally, the night, the dreary autumn night, the enemy of man, the enemy of light, looked in. Oh, how angry the wind and the night were with the travelers who were now so safe from them; how angry with the fat landlord of the Post-horn Inn and with the landlady and the landlady's rosy daughter! No pursuer whose victims had escaped into some inviolable sanctuary could be more angry.
But who was it who at this moment emphatically snapped out the words: "That impudent Jew!"…
Was it the wind or was it the night?
No, it was the elderly military gentleman with the moustache and if there had been any doubt that by this kindly designation he meant our friend Moses Freudenstein, whose name Hans Unwirrsch had just mentioned, he dissipated such doubt immediately by adding:
"A conceited, impudent Jewish brat, if it's the rogue to whom, lately, in Paris, I had to give a piece of my mind! Wasn't it so, Fränzchen? Moses Freudenstein, yes, that was the name. Won't you move nearer, sir; come over here to this table; it's an evening for people to gather close together and I shall be glad to make your nearer acquaintance and to hear something further about this Moses."
The landlord and his family, wondering much at this sudden interruption, had turned to the speaker, and Hans, much excited by this unsuspected attack on his friend, had risen.
With no trace of timidity he began Moses Freudenstein's defense from where he sat; but the old gentleman waved his hand soothingly.
"Come, come; always keep step! Right, left! Right – now the wind has the floor again. Just listen to its blustering outside! This is the sort of weather that takes away even a pastor's appetite for a dispute. Come over here, candidate, and have a glass of punch; and don't take it amiss if I've done it again and said something unsuitable; – I suppose I have, for here's my niece pulling my coat-tail."
