CHAPTER XVII.
TARDY GRATITUDE.
John Gotzkowsky, the rich merchant of Berlin, had determined to struggle no longer with Fate; no longer to undergo the daily martyrdom of an endangered honor, of a threatened name. Like the brave Sickenhagen, he said to himself, "Better a terrible end than an endless terror," and he preferred casting himself down the abyss at once, to be slowly hurled from cliff to cliff. He had given notice to the authorities of his failure, and of his intention of making over all his property to his creditors. He was now waiting to hand over the assets to the assignees, and leave the house which was no longer his. Not secretly, however, but openly, in the broad daylight, he would cross the threshold to pass through the streets of that town which was so much indebted to him, and which had formerly hailed him as her savior and preserver. It was inevitable—he must fall, but his fall should at the same time be his revenge. For the last time he would open the state apartments of his house; for the last time receive his guests. But these guests would be the legal authorities, who were to be his heirs while he was yet alive, and who were to consign his name to oblivion before death had inscribed it on any tomb-stone.
The announcement of his fall had spread rapidly through the town, and seemed at last to have broken through the hardened crust which collects around men's hearts. The promptings of conscience seemed for a moment to overcome the voice of egotism. The magistrates were ashamed of their ingratitude; and even the Jews of the mint, Ephraim and Itzig, had perceived that it would have been better to have avoided notoriety, and to have raised up the humbled Gotzkowsky, than to have trodden him in the dust entirely.
Instead of the officials whom he had expected, however, a committee of the Council, accompanied by Ephraim and Itzig, entered his house and asked to speak with him. He received them in his apartments of state, with his children at his side. His figure was erect, his head proudly raised, and he regarded them, not as an unfortunate, downcast man, but as a superior would regard his inferiors; and they lowered their eyes before his penetrating glances, ashamed and conscious of wrong.
"The Council have sent us," said one of the aldermen.
"I have no further business with the Council," said Gotzkowsky, contemptuously.
"Gotzkowsky, do not be angry with us any longer," said the aldermen, almost imploringly. "The magistracy, in acknowledgment of your great services to the city, are ready and willing to pay the sum you demand." Gotzkowsky shook his head proudly. "I am no longer ready to accept it. The term has expired; you can no longer buy me off; you remain my debtors."
"But you will listen to us," cried Itzig. "We come in the name of the
Jews."
"We are empowered to assist you," added Ephraim. "We have been instructed by the Jews to give you, on the security of your signature and the prepayment of the interest, as much money and credit as will prevent your house from failing."
Gotzkowsky's large bright eyes rested for a moment searchingly and speculatively on Ephraim's countenance; and the light, mocking smile which stood on the lips of the Jew confirmed his determination, and strengthened him in his resolution. "My house has failed," said he, quietly and proudly, and, reading the anxiety and terror depicted on their countenances, he continued almost exultingly: "yes! my house has failed. The document in which I announced it and declared myself a bankrupt, has already been sent to the magistracy and the merchant's guild."
"You dare not fail!" cried Itzig, in a rage.
"You dare not put this insult upon the Council and the town," exclaimed the aldermen, with dignity. "We cannot allow posterity to say of us, 'The town of Berlin left the noblest of her citizens to perish in want and misery.'"
"It will be well for me if posterity should say so, for then my name and my honor will be saved."
"But the magistracy will be delighted to be able to show its gratitude toward you."
"And the Jews will be delighted, too," cried Itzig. "The Jews are ready to help you."
Gotzkowsky cast an angry look at him. "That is to say, you have calculated that it will not profit you if I do fail. You have large drafts on me, and if I fail, you only get a portion of your debt; whereas, if I stand, you get the whole. You would be magnanimous from self-interest, but I do not accept your magnanimity—you shall lose. Let that be your punishment, and my revenge. You have wounded my heart unto death, therefore I will strike you on the only spot in which you are sensitive to pain: I attack your greed of money. You come too late; I am bankrupt! My drafts are no longer current, but my honor will not die with my firm."
They were all silent, and gazed down to the earth frowningly. Only one looked toward Gotzkowsky with a clear, bright eye. This was Ephraim, who, mindful of his conversation with Gotzkowsky, said to himself, triumphantly, "He has taken one lesson from me—he has learned to despise mankind."
But Itzig was only the more furious. "You wish our ruin," said he, angrily. "You will be ungrateful. The Jews, who made you a present of a handsome ring, have not deserved that of you. What will the world say?"
"The world will learn the cause of my ruin, and condemn you," said Gotzkowsky. "Go, take all that I have; I will reserve nothing; I despise riches and estate. I wish to be poor; for in poverty is peace. I turn my back upon this house, and I take nothing with me but this laurel-wreath and you, my children."
Smilingly he gave his hands to Bertram and Elise. "Come, my children! let us wander out in the happiness of poverty. We shake the dust from our feet, and are light and free, for though we are poor, we are rich in love. Yes, we are poor; but poverty means freedom. We are no longer dependent upon prejudices, conventionalities, and forms. We have nothing more to conceal or hide. We need not be ashamed of our poverty, for we dare to show it to all the world; and when we go through the streets as ragged beggars, these rich people will cast down their eyes in shame, for our poverty will accuse them, and our rags testify against them. Come, my children, let us begin our life of poverty. But when death comes to take me away, crown my cold brow with this laurel-wreath, given me by the city of Berlin, and write on my coffin: 'This is the world's reward!'"[1]
And firm and erect, leaning on his children, Gotzkowsky crossed the room. No one dared to detain him. Shame and remorse, anger and terror, kept them all spell-bound. "Let us go, let us go; I have a horror of this house, and this splendor sickens me."
"Yes! let us go," said Elise, throwing her arms around her father's neck. They went out into the street. How refreshing did the cool air seem to them, and how soft and sweet did the calm blue sky look down upon them! Gotzkowsky gazed up at it. He did not perceive the multitude of people which stood before his own door, or rather he did not wish to see them, because he took them for a portion of the idle, curious populace, which follows misfortune everywhere, and finds a spectacle for the amusement of its ennui in the suffering of others.
But for this once, Gotzkowsky was mistaken; it was indeed only poor people who were standing in the street, but their countenances bore the marks of sympathy, and their looks were sad. They had heard of his misfortunes, and had hastened hither, not from curiosity, but from interest in him. They were only factory-hands, to whom Gotzkowsky had been benefactor, friend, and adviser; they were the poor whom he had supported and comforted, who now stood before his house, to bid him a last farewell. To be sure, they could render him no assistance—they had no money, no treasures—but they brought their love with their tears.
At the head of the workmen stood Balthazar, with his young wife, and although his eyes were dimmed with tears, he still recognized his master who had done him so much kindness; and although his breast was stifled with grief, yet he controlled himself, and cried out, "Long live Gotzkowsky, our father!"
"Hurrah for Gotzkowsky! Long may he live!" cried the crowd, not jubilantly, but in a sad tone, half smothered by tears.
Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed with joy, and with a grateful smile he stretched out his hand to Balthazar. "I thank you, my friend," he said; "you have often shouted in compliment to me, but never has it given me so much pleasure as to-day."
"Never has it been done more cordially and sincerely," said Balthazar, pressing Gotzkowsky's hand to his lips. "You have always been a father and a friend to us, and we have often been sorry that you were so rich and powerful that we could not show you how dear you were to us. Now that you are no longer rich, we can prove that we love you, for we can work for you. We have come to an agreement among ourselves. Each of us will give one working-day in the week, and the proceeds shall go to you, and as there are one hundred and seventy of us workmen, you shall at least not starve, Father Gotzkowsky."
Gotzkowsky looked at him with eyes glistening with pleasure. "I thank you, my friends," said he, deeply moved; "and if I do not accept your offer you must not think that I do not appreciate its greatness or its beauty. Who can say that I am poor when you love me, my children?"
At that moment, a carriage stopped at the door. Bertram had brought it to convey them to their new and modest residence.
"Are you going, then, to leave us forever?" said Balthazar mournfully.
"No, my children, I remain among you, in the midst of you. I am only going to exchange this large house for a smaller one."
"Come," cried Balthazar, "come, my friends, we will escort our father, Gotzkowsky, to his new house. The town of Berlin shall see that only rich people are ungrateful, and that the poor never forget their benefactor and their friend. Come, let us take out the horses. We will draw Father Gotzkowsky through the streets."
The crowd answered with a thundering hurrah; and with busy haste they proceeded to the work. The horses were unharnessed, and twelve of the most powerful workmen crowded around the pole. In vain did Gotzkowsky beg them to refrain, not to make him an object of general curiosity. But the people paid no heed to his request—it was a necessity to their hearts to give him a public proof of their love. Almost by force they raised him into the carriage, and compelled Bertram and Elise, who had mixed with the crowd for the purpose of escaping attention, to take their seats beside him. And now the procession advanced. Women and workmen went on before, rejoicing and jumping about merrily at the side of the carriage; and when they met other workmen, these latter stopped and waved their hats, and greeted Gotzkowsky, calling him the great factory-lord, the father of his workmen, the benefactor of Berlin. Especially when the procession came to the low houses and the poor cottages, the small dusty windows were thrown open, and sun-browned faces looked out, and toil-hardened hands greeted and waved.
The forsaken, the ruined Gotzkowsky celebrated this day a splendid triumph. The jubilant voice that thus did him homage was that of the people—and the voice of the people is the voice of God!
[Footnote 1: With these words Gotzkowsky closes his autobiography.]
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