CHAPTER III.
MR. DOPPELDICK did come home—and he said nothing to it at all. He only pulled his tobacco-bag out of one coat-pocket, and his tobacco-pipe out of the other, and then he struck a light, and fell to smoking, as complacently as if there had been no Captain Schenk in the world. The truth was, he had none of that nervous nicety of feeling, which his partner possessed so eminently, and, accordingly, he took no more interest in her domestic dilemma, than the walnut-wood chair that he sat upon. Moreover, when he once had in his mouth his favourite pipe, with a portrait of Kant on the bowl of it, he sucked through its tube a sort of Transcendental Philosophy which elevated him above all the ills of human life, to say nothing of such little domestic inconveniences as the present. If the house had been as big as the hotel de Nassau, at Schlangenbad, with as many chambers and spare beds in it—or a barrack, with quarters for the captain and his company to boot—he could not have puffed on more contentedly. The very talk about beds and bedding appeared to lull him into a sort of sleep with his eyes open; and even when the voice and words of his helpmate grew a little sharp and querulous in detailing all her doubts, and difficulties, and disagreeables, they could not raise even a ripple in the calm placid expanse of his forehead. How should they? His equable German good humour might well be invulnerable to all outward attacks, which had so long withstood every internal one,—ay, in Temper’s very citadel, the stomach. For instance, the better part of his daily diet was of sours. He ate “sauer-kraut,” and “sauer-braten,” with sour sauce and “sauer-ampfer” by way of salad, and pickled plums by way of dessert, and “sauer-milch” with sourish brown bread—and then, to wash these down, he drank sourish “Essigberger” wine, and “sauer-wasser,” of which the village of Kleinewinkel had its own peculiar brunnen. Still, I say, by all these sours, and many others not mentioned besides, his temper was never soured—nor could they turn one drop of the milk of human kindness that flowed in his bosom. Instead, therefore, of his round features being ever rumpled and crumpled, and furrowed up by the plough-share of passion, you never saw any thing on his face but the same everlasting sub-smile of phlegmatic philanthropy. In spite of the stream of complaint that kept pouring into his ear, he forgave Captain Schenk from the bottom of his soul for being billeted on him; and entertained no more spleen towards the King of Prussia and the Quarter-master, than he did towards the gnat that bit him last year. At length, his pipe wanting replenishing, he dropped a few comfortable words to his wife, meanwhile he refilled the bowl, and brought the engine again into play:—
“WE ALL SMOKE IN GERMANY.”
“THE LAST IN BED TO PUT OUT THE LIGHT.”
“As for undressing, Malchen—before the strange man—puff—why can’t we go to bed,—puff—before he does,—puff—puff and so put an end to the matter—puff—puff—puff!”
“As I live upon damsons and bullases!” (for it was the plum season,) exclaimed Madame Doppeldick, clapping her fat hands with delight, “I never thought of that! Gretchen, my lass, get the supper ready immediately, for your good master is mortal hungry, and so am I!—and then, my own Dietrich dear, we’ll bundle off to bed as fast as we can!”