CHAPTER XIV.
Anton was now the most assiduous of all the clerks in the office. Fink was seldom able to persuade him to accompany him out riding or to the shooting gallery, but, on the other hand, he made diligent use of his friend's book-shelves, and having, after arduous study, gained some insight into the mysteries of the English language, he was anxious to exercise his conversational powers upon Fink. But the latter proving a most irregular and careless master, Anton thought it best to put himself in the hands of a well-educated Englishman.
One day, looking up from his desk as the door opened, he saw, to his amazement, Veitel Itzig, his old Ostrau schoolfellow. Hitherto they had but seldom met, and whenever they did so, Anton had taken pains to look another way.
"How are you getting on?" asked he, coldly enough.
"Poorly," was the reply; "there is nothing to be made in our business. I was to give you this letter, and to inquire when Mr. Bernhard Ehrenthal may call upon you."
"Upon me!" said Anton, taking the letter and a card with it.
The letter was from his English master, asking whether he would join young Ehrenthal in a systematic course of some of the older English writers.
"Where does Mr. Bernhard Ehrenthal live?" asked Anton.
"At his father's," said Itzig, making a face. "He sits in his own room all the day long."
"I will call upon him," rejoined Anton; and Itzig took his departure.
Anton was not much inclined to agree to the proposal. The name of Ehrenthal did not stand high, and Itzig's appearance had not conferred any pleasant associations upon it. But the ironical way in which he had mentioned his master's son, and something Anton had heard of him besides, determined him to take the matter at least into consideration.
Accordingly, one of the next days he mounted the dingy staircase, and was at once ushered into Bernhard's room, which was long and narrow, and filled with books great and small.
A young man came toward him with the uncertainty of manner that short-sight gives. He had fine features, a fragile frame, brown curling hair, and deep, expressive gray eyes. Anton mentioned the reason of his visit, and inquired the terms for the course. To his astonishment, young Ehrenthal did not know them, but said that, if Anton insisted upon sharing the expense, he would inquire. Our hero next asked whether Bernhard was in business with his father.
"Oh no," was the reply; "I have been at the University, and as it is not easy for a young man of my creed to get a government appointment, and I can live with my family, I occupy myself with my books." And, casting a loving glance at his book-shelves, he rose as if to introduce his guest to them.
Anton looked at their titles, and said, "They are too learned for me."
Bernhard smiled. "Through the Hebrew I have gone on to the other Asiatic languages. There is much beauty in them, and in their Old-World legends. I am now engaged upon a translation from the Persian, and some day or other, when you have a few idle minutes, I should like to inflict a short specimen upon you."
Anton had the politeness to beg to hear it at once. It was one of those countless poems in which a votary of the grape compares his beloved to all fair things in heaven and earth. Its complicated structure impressed Anton a good deal, but he was somewhat amazed at Bernhard exclaiming, "Beautiful! is it not? I mean the thought, for I am unable to give the beauty of language;" and he looked inspired, like a man who drinks Schiraz wine, and kisses his Zuleika all day long.
"But must one drink in order to love?" said Anton; "with us the one is very possible without the other."
"With us, life is very commonplace."
"I do not think so," Anton replied, with fervor. "We have the sunshine and the roses, the joy in existence, the great passions and strange destinies of which poets sing."
"Our present time is too cold and uniform," rejoined Bernhard.
"So I read in books, but I do not believe it. I think that whoever is discontented with our life would be so still more with life in Teheran or Calcutta, if he remained there long enough. It is only novelty that charms the traveler."
"But how poor in vivid sensations our civilized existence is," rejoined Bernhard. "I am sure you must often feel business very prosaic."
"That I deny," was the eager reply; "I know nothing so interesting as business. We live amid a many-colored web of countless threads, stretching across land and sea, and connecting man with man. When I place a sack of coffee in the scales, I am weaving an invisible link between the colonist's daughter in Brazil, who has plucked the beans, and the young mechanic who drinks it for his breakfast; and if I take up a stick of cinnamon, I seem to see, on the one side, the Malay who has rolled it up, and, on the other, the old woman of our suburb who grates it over her pudding."
"You have a lively imagination, and are happy in the utility of your calling. But if we seek for poetry, we must, like Byron, quit civilized countries to find it on the sea or in the desert."
"Not so," replied Anton, pertinaciously; "the merchant has just as poetical experiences as any pirate or Arab. There was a bankruptcy lately. Could you have witnessed the gloomy lull before the storm broke, the fearful despair of the husband, the high spirit of his wife, who insisted upon throwing in her own fortune to the last dollar to save his honor, you would not say that our calling is poor in passion or emotion."
Bernhard listened with downcast eyes, and Anton remarked that he seemed embarrassed and distressed.
Changing the conversation, he proposed that they should both walk together to the English master, and make the final arrangements. They left the house like two old acquaintances; Anton surprised that Ehrenthal's son should be so little of a trader, Bernhard delighted to find a man with whom he could discuss his favorite subjects.
That evening he joined the family circle in a cheerful mood, and placing himself behind his sister, who was practicing a difficult piece on a costly piano, he kissed her ear. "Do not disturb me, Bernhard," said she; "I must get this piece perfect for the large party on Sunday, when I shall be asked to play."
"Of course you will be asked," said her mother. "There is no company that does not wish to hear Rosalie play. If you could only be persuaded to come with us, Bernhard—you are so clever and so learned. It was but the other day that Professor Starke, of the University, spoke of you to me in the highest terms. It is so pleasant for a mother to feel proud of her children! Why will you not join us? The society will be as good as any in the town."
"You know, mother, that I am not fond of strangers."
"And I desire that my son Bernhard should have his own way," cried Ehrenthal from a neighboring room, having chanced, during a pause in Rosalie's practice, to hear the last sentence, and now joining his family: "our Bernhard is not like other people, and his way is sure to be a good one. You look pale, my son," stroking his brown curls; "you study too much. Think of your health. The doctor recommended exercise. Will you have a horse, my son Bernhard? I will get the most expensive horse in the town for you, if you like."
"Thank you, dear father; but it would give me no pleasure," and he gratefully pressed the hand of his father, who looked sorrowfully at his pale face.
"Do you always give Bernhard what he likes to eat? Get him some peaches, Sidonie; there are hot-house peaches to be had. You shall have any thing you like; you are my good son Bernhard, and my delight is in you."
"He will not have any thing of the kind," interposed his mother. "All his joy is in his books. Many a day he never asks for Rosalie and me. He reads too much, and that's why he looks like a man of sixty. Why will he not go with us on Sunday?"
"I will, if you like," said Bernhard, mournfully; adding soon after, "Do you know a young man of the name of Wohlfart, in Schröter's house?"
"No," said his father, decidedly.
"Perhaps you do, Rosalie. He is handsome and refined-looking; I think you must have met him."
"Hardly, if he is in an office."
"Our Rosalie dances chiefly with officers and artists," explained her mother.
"He is a clever and a delightful man," continued Bernhard; "I am going to study English with him, and rejoice to have made his acquaintance."
"He shall be invited," decreed Ehrenthal; "if he pleases our Bernhard, he shall be welcome to our house. Let us have a good dinner on Sunday, Sidonie, at two o'clock. He shall come to all our parties; Bernhard's friend shall be the friend of us all."
The mother gave her consent, and Rosalie began to ponder what dress she should wear, so as to make the greatest impression.
But whence came it to pass that Bernhard did not communicate to his family the subject of the conversation that had so much interested him? that he soon relapsed into silence and returned to his study? that, when there, he bowed his head over his old manuscripts, while large drops rolled down on them, erasing the much-prized characters unobserved? Whence came it that the young man, of whom his mother was so proud, whom his father so loved and honored, sat alone, shedding the bitterest tears that an honest man can, while in another part of the house Rosalie's white fingers were flying over the keys, practicing the difficult piece that was to astonish the next soiree? From that day dated a friendship between Anton and Bernhard which was a source of pleasure and profit to both. Anton described the studious youth to the free and easy Fink, and expressed his wish to bring about a meeting between the two by a tea-drinking in his rooms.
"If it amuses you, Tony," said Fink, shrugging his shoulders, "I will come; but I warn you that of all living characters I most dislike a book-worm. No one theorizes more presumptuously upon every possible subject, or makes a greater fool of himself when it comes to practice. And, besides, a son of the worthy Ehrenthal! Don't be angry if I soon run away."
On the evening appointed, Bernhard sat on Anton's sofa in anxious expectation of the arrival of this well-known character, many wild anecdotes of whom had found their way even into his study.
At first Anton feared that the two would never suit. Two greater contrasts could hardly be imagined; the thin, transparent hand of Bernhard, and the healthy, muscular development of Fink; the bent form of the one, the elastic strength of the other; here, a deeply-lined face, with dreamy eyes; there, a proud set of features, lighted up by a glance like an eagle's—how could these possibly harmonize? But all turned out better than he had expected. Bernhard listened with much interest to what Fink had to say of foreign countries, and Anton did all he could to turn the conversation to subjects likely to bring out Bernhard.
The result was, that a few days later Bernhard found himself sitting in one of Fink's easy-chairs, and even ventured to invite him, with Anton, to spend an evening with him. Fink consented.
And now arose great excitement in the Ehrenthal circle.
Bernhard dusted his books and set them in order, and for the first time in his life troubled himself about household matters. "We must have tea, supper, wine, and cigars," said he.
"You need not be uneasy," replied his mother; "Herr von Fink shall find every thing well arranged."
"I will buy you some of the very finest cigars, and see to the wine," added his father.
As the hour drew near, Bernhard grew increasingly anxious, nay, irritable. "Where is the tea-kettle? The tea-kettle is not yet in my room! Nothing is ready!" cried he to his mother.
"I will make the tea and send it in—that is the fashionable way," replied his mother, rustling up and down in a new silk.
"No," said Bernhard, decidedly, "I will make the tea myself. Anton makes it, and so does Von Fink."
"Bernhard will make the tea himself!" cried the astonished mother to Rosalie. "Wonderful! he will make his own tea!" exclaimed Ehrenthal, who was in his room drawing on his boots. "He is going to make the tea!" cried the cook in the kitchen, clapping her hands in amazement.
On their way, Anton said to Fink, "It is very kind of you, Fritz, to come; Bernhard will be delighted."
"One must make sacrifices," replied Fink. "I have taken the liberty to eat my supper beforehand, for I have a horror of Jewish cookery. But the handsomest girl in town is worth a little effort. I saw her lately at a concert—a gorgeous figure, and such eyes! The old usurer, her father, has never seen such diamonds pass through his hands."
"We are invited to see Bernhard," replied Anton, somewhat reproachfully.
"And we shall certainly see his sister too," said Fink.
"I hope not," thought Anton.
Bernhard's room was wonderfully adorned for their reception, and he himself was a most pleasant host. The three were soon in full talk. Fink was in one of his most benevolent moods, and Anton mentally prayed that the beautiful sister might be kept out of sight.
But, just as the clock struck nine, the door opened, and Madam Ehrenthal majestically crossed the threshold. "Bathsheba entering in to Solomon," whispered Fink to Anton, who angrily trod upon his foot in return. Bernhard, in some embarrassment, introduced his mother, and she invited them all three to the next room, where Ehrenthal and the fair Rosalie awaited them. Fink soon fell into a lively discussion with her about music, for which, in reality, he little cared; promised her an excellent place at the ensuing races, and told her and her mother satirical anecdotes of the best society, which, as they were excluded from it, they particularly enjoyed. A princess of celebrated beauty came under discussion. Fink, who had been introduced to her once upon a time, declared that the young lady now before him might be taken for her, except, indeed, that the princess was not quite so tall and majestic-looking; and then he went into ecstasies over Mrs. Ehrenthal's mosaic brooch. The paternal Ehrenthal, however, tried in vain to keep up a conversation with him. Fink contrived not to appear aware of his presence, without, however, being in any way rude. Every one felt it to be in the nature of things; and Ehrenthal himself humbly acted the part of nonentity assigned to him, and consoled himself by eating a whole pheasant.
The supper lasted till midnight, and then Rosalie moved to the piano, after which Fink ran his fingers over the keys, and sang a wild Spanish song. When at length the guests took their departure, the family remained perfectly enraptured. Rosalie ran to the piano to try and remember the air Fink had sung; her mother was full of his praises, and her father, spite of his temporary annihilation, was enchanted with the visit of the rich young heir, and kept repeating that he must be worth more than a million. Even Bernhard's ingenuous spirit was captivated by his manner and brilliant rattle. True, he had occasionally felt an uncomfortable misgiving, as though Fink might be making fun of them all; but he was too inexperienced to feel sure of it, and soothed himself by thinking that it was only the way of all men of the world.
Anton alone was dissatisfied with his friend, and he told him so as they walked home.
"Why, you sat there like a stock," replied Fink; "I entertained the good people, and what more would you have? Change yourself into a mouse, creep into the decked-out room, and hear how they are singing my praises. What more can be wanted than that our behavior to people should be what they themselves find pleasant?"
"I think," said Anton, "that our aim should rather be to behave in a manner worthy of ourselves. You went on like a frivolous nobleman who meant to ask a loan from old Ehrenthal on the morrow."
"I choose to be frivolous," cried Fink; "and perhaps I may want a loan from the Ehrenthal house. And now have done with your preachments—it is past one o'clock."
A few days later, Anton remembered, at the close of the office, that he had promised to send on a book to the young student. As Fink, who had gone out an hour before, had carried off his paletot, which indeed often happened, Anton wrapped himself in Fink's burnoose, which chanced to lie in his room, and hurried off to Ehrenthal's house. As he reached the door, he was not a little amazed to see it noiselessly open, and a shawled and veiled figure come out. A soft arm wound itself round his, and a low voice said, "Come quickly; I have waited for you long." Anton recognized Rosalie's voice, and stood petrified. At length he said, "You are mistaken." With a suppressed scream the young lady rushed up stairs, and Anton, little less confused, entered his friend's room, where he had the shock of being at once addressed by the short-sighted Bernhard as Herr von Fink. A dreadful suspicion crossed his mind; and, pretending to be in the utmost haste, he carried the luckless cloak home, over a heart full of grief and anger. If it were, indeed, Fink that Ehrenthal's fair daughter had been expecting! The longer Anton had to wait for his friend, the more angry he grew. At last he heard his step in the court-yard—ran down to meet him—told him the circumstance—and ended by saying, "Look! I wore your cloak; it was dusk; and I have a horrible suspicion that she mistook me for you, and that you have most unjustifiably abused Bernhard's friendship."
"Ah ha!" said Fink, shaking his head, "here we have a proof of how ready these virtuous ones are to throw a stone at others. You are a child. There are other white cloaks in the town; how can you prove that mine was the one waited for? And then allow me to remark, that you showed neither politeness nor presence of mind on the occasion. Why not have led the lady down stairs, and when the mistake became apparent, have said, 'It is true that I am not he you take me for, but I am equally ready to die in your service,' and so forth?"
"You don't deceive me," rejoined Anton; "when I think the matter over, I can not, spite of your lies, shake off the belief that you were the one expected."
"You cunning little fellow," said Fink, good-humoredly, "confess, at least, that when a lady is in the case, I needs must lie. For seest thou, my son, to admit this were to compromise the fair daughter of an honorable house."
"Alas!" said Anton, "I fear that she already feels herself compromised."
"Never mind," said Fink, coolly, "she will bear it."
"But, Fritz," said Anton, wringing his hands, "have you, then, no sense of the wrong you are doing to Bernhard? It is just because his pure heart beats in the midst of a family circle that he only endures because he is so trusting and inexperienced, that this injury pains me so bitterly."
"Therefore you will do wisely to spare your friend's sensitiveness, and keep his sister's secret."
"Not so," replied Anton, indignantly; "my duty to Bernhard leads me to a different course. I must demand from you that you break off your connection with Rosalie, whatever its nature, and strive only to see in her what you always should have seen—the sister of my friend."
"Really," returned Fink, in a mocking tone, "I have no objection to your making this demand; but if I do not comply with it, how then?—always supposing, which, by the way, I deny, that I was the fortunate expected one."
"If you do not," cried Anton, in high excitement, "I can never forgive you. This is more than mere want of feeling—it is something worse."
"And what, pray?" coldly asked Fink.
"It is base," cried Anton. "It is bad enough to take advantage of the young girl's coquetry, but worse to forget her brother as well as me, through whom you made this unfortunate acquaintance."
"Be so good as to hear me say," replied Fink, lighting the lamp of his tea-kettle, "that I never gave you any right to speak to me thus. I have no wish to quarrel with you, but I shall be much obliged to you henceforth to drop this subject."
"Then I must leave you, for I can speak of nothing else while I have the conviction that you are acting unworthily."
Anton moved to the door. "I give you your choice; either you break with Rosalie, or, dreadful as it is to me to think of it, you break with me. If you do not by to-morrow evening give me an assurance that this intrigue is at an end, I go to Rosalie's mother."
"Good-night, thou stupid Tony!" said Fink.
The following day was a gray one for both.
It was Fink's constant custom, on entering the office, to beckon to his friend, whereupon Anton would leave his place, and exchange a few words as to how Fink had spent the previous evening. But this morning Anton doggedly remained where he was, and bent down over his letters when Fink took his seat opposite him. Whenever they looked up, they had to make as though empty space were before them, and not each other's faces. Fink had found it easy to treat the paternal Ehrenthal as a nonentity, but it was not so in this case; and Anton, who had had no practice in the art of overlooking others, felt himself supremely uncomfortable. Then every thing conspired to make it peculiarly difficult to each to play his part. Schmeie Tinkeles, the unfortunate little Jew who spoke such execrable German, and whom Fink always found especial pleasure in badgering and beating down, made his appearance in the office, and, as usual, a laughable scene ensued. All the clerks watched Fink, and chimed in with him, but Anton had to behave as though Tinkeles were a hundred miles away. Then Mr. Schröter gave him a commission, which obliged him to ask Fink a question, and he had to cough hard to get out the words at all. He received a very short answer, which increased his anger. Finally, when the dinner hour struck, Fink, who used regularly to wait till Anton came for him, walked off with Jordan, who wondered what could keep Wohlfart, to which Fink could only reply that he neither knew nor cared.
During the afternoon Anton could not avoid a few furtive glances at the haughty face opposite him. He thought how dreadful it would be to become estranged from one he so dearly loved; but his resolve was firm as ever. And so it happened that Fink, chancing to look up, met his friend's eyes mournfully fixed upon his face, and this touched him more than the anger of the previous night. He saw that Anton's mind was made up, and the side of the scale in which sat the fair Rosalie kicked the beam. After all, if Anton did, in his virtuous simplicity, tell her mother, the adventure was spoiled, and, still worse, their friendship forever at an end. These reflections furrowed his fine brow.
A little before seven o'clock a shadow fell on Anton's paper, and, looking up, he saw Fink silently holding out a small note to him, directed to Rosalie. He sprang up at once.
"I have written to tell her," said Fink, with icy coldness, "that your friendship left me no other choice than that of compromising her or giving her up, and that, therefore, I chose the latter. Here is the letter; I have no objection to your reading it; it is her dismissal."
Anton took the letter out of the culprit's hand, sealed it in all haste with a little office seal, and gave it to one of the porters to post at once.
And so this danger was averted, but from that day there was an estrangement between the friends. Fink grumbled, and Anton could not forget what he called treachery to Bernhard; and so it was, that for some weeks they no longer spent their evenings together.