"Yes, I have one belonging to my late father—will you put it on?"
"If you have no other, I suppose I must," said Petrowitsch, peevishly, for in his heart it made him sad, and in fact nervous, to wear what his brother had worn.
"You look now wonderfully like my poor father," cried Lenz, "as like as possible, only you are not so tall."
"I had a hard time of it when I was young, or I should have been less stunted," said Petrowitsch, looking at himself in the glass, as he came into the room.
The raven screeched in the kitchen; Petrowitsch started at the noise, and desired Lenz, in an imperious voice, to kill the bird instantly.
Lenz explained why he could not, and then peace was to be established between Büble and the house cat. Büble continued to whine for a long time, for the cat had scratched him severely, but was now shut up in the kitchen, which had the good effect of making the raven silent.
Petrowitsch asked for some more brandy, and Lenz told him that fortunately there were three bottles of it still remaining; they were at least twelve years old, and had belonged to his mother. Petrowitsch soon made a tumbler of hot punch. He became more conversible, and exclaimed:—"It would be too absurd, certainly! here have I dragged my old carcase all through the world, and now I am to be crushed to death in my parent's house. Serves me right; why could I not get over my longing for home? Yes, a longing indeed." Then he laughed, and continued: "My life is insured—what good does that do me now? and do you know who is the cause of our all being buried alive? That upright man, the fat Landlord of the 'Lion,' who sold the wood that sheltered this rooftree, to pay his debts."
"Alas! by this action he buries his own child and his grandchild," said Lenz.
"Neither of you are worthy to name my father's name," cried Annele, in a shrill voice. "My father was unfortunate, but wicked he never was; and if you say one word more against him, I will burn the house down."
"You are crazy," cried Petrowitsch; "are we to be grateful to him for throwing these pretty little snowballs on our heads? But calm yourself, Annele, come here and sit down by me, and give me your hand, Annele; I will tell you something. I never thought you honest till now, but now you are so indeed; you are right, and I am pleased to see that you won't allow your old father to be abused. There are very few who still cling to those who have nothing. So long as people have money in their purse, we hear, often enough, 'Oh! how fond I am of you!' You are right, my girl!"