And it would have been well worth the trouble! Langfeldt, who was mayor of Güstrow, having arrived at the house of the government commissioner from Shwerin, entered the hall, and, giving his lantern into the charge of a footman, was shown into an audience-chamber. Scarcely was this done when some one came puffing and blowing up the steps, and Pomuchelskopp made his appearance. He made a low bow to the footman and said: "Can you tell me, Sir, where I can ad the gentleman who has just come to call?"--The man opened a door and Pomuchelskopp entered the room, and made a series of deferential bows to Langfeldt, whom he mistook for the government commissioner; mistake for which he might the more readily be pardoned, that the worshipful mayor of the border town of Güstrow was in the habit of holding his head so high, that it looked as if it would go through the ceiling, and that was quite what might be expected of a Mecklenburg government commissioner. He however met Pomuchelskopp right by showing him the real man, and then, as his own business was finished, he went way taking his lantern with him. Pomuchelskopp, in deadly fear of losing sight of him, made a bow to the commissioner and hurried after Langfeldt and his lantern. The same thing took place at the house of the Chief of the constabulary forces. The mayor had just begun to make a polite speech when Pomuchelskopp panted into the room after him.--"What brings that fellow here, I wonder," he asked himself, and at once taking leave hoped to make good his escape; but Pomuchelskopp was wary and the lantern was his only guide, so off he steered again in its wake.--They met once more at the house of the High Sheriff of the Wendish district and Langfeldt lost his temper at the intrusion. As he knew the High Sheriff well, indeed they were members of the same select committee, he was determined to come to the bottom of the affair, and enquired sternly: "Sir, may I ask why you are pursuing me?"--"I--I," stammered Pomuchelskopp, "I have as good a right as you to make calls."--"Then make them by yourself," cried the mayor.--The High Sheriff tried to smooth over matters, and Pomuchelskopp began to put on a look of clownish stupidity, but no sooner did the mayor get out of doors than he again started in pursuit.--Langfeldt became still more angry and turning round in the street, said: "Sir, why are you running after me?"--And Pomuchelskopp had now lost the shyness which the High Sheriff's presence had made him feel, and knew that it was only a mayor he had to deal with, so he answered loftily: "Sir, I am every bit as much the Grand Duke's pheasant as you are!"--He meant to have said "vassal," but used the word pheasant by mistake.[[3]]--However angry a man may be he is certain to be amused by a ludicrous blunder such as Pomuchelskopp had made, and as the mayor happened to be a good tempered fellow in the main, he burst out laughing, and said: "All right then. Come away. I see what sort of man you are."--"And," cried Pomuchelskopp furiously, for he bitterly resented being laughed at, "let me tell you, I've got every bit as good a right to go to these places as you have!" Having said that he set off once more in pursuit of the lantern. But he might have spared himself the trouble, for Langfeldt had finished paying his visits, and was now on his way back to his inn. Arrived there, he took his key off the nail and went to get some money to pay his stakes at ombre. On looking round he found that Pomuchelskopp had followed him into the room.--The mayor put his lantern on the table, and as the affair amused him, he said laughingly: "Pray tell me what you want?"--"I tell you that I've every bit as much right to pay visits as you have," said Pomuchelskopp, who was boiling over with rage at finding himself made a laughing-stock.--"But whom do you want to see here?"--"What's that to you?" said Pomuchelskopp, "the gentleman I have come to visit will soon be in," and he seated himself on a chair with a flop.--"This is as good as a play!" said the mayor, and going to the door he called out: "Sophia, bring candles." When the servant brought the candles he asked: "Did you ever see a pheasant, Sophia?--Look there," pointing to Pomuchelskopp, "that's a pheasant, one of the Grand Duke's pheasants!"--Sophia ran away in fits of laughter. A few minutes afterwards the landlord came in to have a look at the pheasant, and he was soon followed by his children, who showed their amusement so openly that Pomuchelskopp was not long in finding out whom he was visiting. He went away in a rage and the mayor followed him lantern in hand.
The good-natured looking gentleman said to his friend smilingly as he entered the coffee-room at Voitel's: "Well, Langfeldt, have you finished your calls?" "To be sure!" exclaimed the mayor, "I understand it all now, I wonder that I didn't guess at once that you had sent that idiot after me."--Then he told the whole story, and as even members of parliament like a little fun, Pomuchelskopp was known ever after by the nick-name of the "pheasant," and Alick, whose footsteps he was continually dogging, was called the "game-keeper," while Mally and Sally who came to the ball in splendid attire were talked of as the "chickens." On one occasion when Pomuchelskopp had to record his vote in favour of a motion, he wrote "yeaws" instead of "yes," so a wit, who saw what he had done, proposed that he should be called the "parliamentary-donkey," but nobody was inclined to adopt the new name, and the old one of "pheasant" carried the day.
Pomuchelskopp cannot be said to have had much enjoyment during the time he attended the sitting of parliament, for even the nobles to whom he paid court, and with whom he voted, would have nothing to do with him for fear of making themselves ridiculous, and when he was at home again his wife made him even more uncomfortable by her compassionate "Pöking." He was ill at ease, and yet neither Mally nor Sally came to his rescue, for they had had no dancing on the evening of the parliamentary ball, but had been left sitting as motionless as if they had been hatching eggs. The womenkind all united in stabbing the poor quiet man and law-giver with their sharp words as he sat cowering in his sofa-corner, till the sight of his misery would have softened a heart of stone.--"Well, Pöking, were you much thought of at the parliament?"--And: "Will they soon make you a nobleman, father?"--And: "What do people do, Pöking, when they are up at the parliament-house?"--"How can I tell?" he said. "They're always fighting."--"What was settled about the nunneries, father?"--"I can't tell. You'll know soon enough from the Rostock newspaper."--Then he rose and went to the barn, where he got rid of some of his ill-temper by abusing the farm-servants.
CHAPTER IX.
The new year 1844 had come and winter was gone. Spring was waiting at the door till the Lord of the house gave him permission to enter, and re-clothe the earth with her garment of leaves, grass and flowers. When the ice and snow melted all hearts at Pümpelhagen grew lighter as though awakened to new life by the sunshine. Even old Hawermann was happier as he worked away in the fields, and while he sowed the corn-seed in the dark soil, God sowed the seed of hope in his sad heart. As Mr. and Mrs. von Rambow had gone to visit some of their relations he was able to get on quicker with the work of the farm, and also to see more of his daughter than during the winter. He had seen and spoken to her that morning at church, and he was now spending the Sunday afternoon quietly in his sitting-room thinking over the past. No one interrupted him for a long time, as Fred was in the stable with his mare, and that was a great comfort to the old man, for he could now find his pupil at a moment's notice if he wanted him, which was not always the case before.
Bräsig came in: "How-d'ye-do, Charles," he said.--"What?" cried Hawermann, starting up, "I thought you were laid up with gout, and was just meditating paying you a visit, but the difficulty was that Mr. von Rambow is from home, and Triddelfitz isn't to be trusted just now."--"Why, what's the matter with him?"--"Oh, his old mare is going to foal very soon."--"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Bräsig. "The thoroughbred foal that he's going to sell to the squire."--"Yes. But tell me, hav'n't you had another attack of gout?"--"Well, Charles, it's very difficult to tell whether one has had the real thing or not. But it comes to much the same thing in the long run, for one's suff'ring is quite as severe in the one case as in the other. The only great difference is in the cause. You see real gout is brought on by good eating and drinking, and what I had wasn't quite the right kind, for it was caused by wearing wretched thin-soled patent leather boots."--"What on earth makes you wear such things then?"--"I had them when I was in the Count's service, and I can't throw them away. But what I wanted to say was this: have you seen the parson today?"--"Yes."--"Well, how is he?"--"He looks ill, and is very weak; when he got into the pulpit the perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead from the exertion, and he had to rest quietly on the sofa for some time after he went home."--"Hm! Hm!" sighed Bräsig, shaking his head. "I'm sorry to hear that, Charles, but we must remember that he's an old man now."--"Yes, that's true," said Hawermann thoughtfully.--"How's your little girl?" asked Bräsig.--"She's very well, thank you, Zachariah. She was here last week, but I had no time to speak to her, as I had to go and see to the sowing of the corn. Mrs. von Rambow saw her though, and called her into the house where she kept her till the evening."--"Charles," said Bräsig, and getting up from his chair he walked up und down the room, biting the mouth-piece of his pipe so hard in his excitement that the knob broke short off, "believe me, your squire's wife is a capital product of humanity."--Hawermann also rose and paced the room. Every time the old friends passed each other in their walk they gave their pipes a vehement puff, and Bräsig said: "Well, Charles, am I not right?" and Hawermann answered: "Quite right, Zachariah."--Who knows how long they would have gone on repeating this question and answer, if a carriage had not driven up to the door, and Kurz and the rector made their appearance.
"How-d'ye-do! How-d'ye-do!" cried Kurz as he entered the parlour. "Oh, I see, you're here too, Mr. Bräsig. How are you, old friend? I've come to speak to you about the clover-seed, Hawermann."--"Good-day!" said Baldrian to Bräsig, drawling out the word "day" till one would have thought he wanted that day to last to all eternity, "how are you my worthy friend?"--"Pretty bobbish," replied Bräsig.--"Hawermann," interrupted Kurz, "isn't it splendid seed?"--"Well, Kurz," said Hawermann, "I've seen worse seed and I've seen better. I put a little of it on a hot shovel, and as you know, if it's good seed it ought to jump off the shovel with a skip like a flea, but a good many of the grains never moved at all."--"You don't look quite so blooming, my dear Sir," continued the rector, "as on that memorable occasion when we met round the punch-bowl to celebrate the betrothals at Rexow."--"There's a good reason for that," said Hawermann, laying his hand affectionately on Bräsig's shoulder, "my dear old friend has been suffering from gout."--"I see," laughed the rector, trying to be witty,
"'Vinum, der Vater,
Und cœna, die Mutter,
Und Venus, die Hebamm,
Die machen podagram.'"[[4]]
"The seed is splendid," cried Kurz again, "you won't see finer between Grimmen and Greifswald."--"Take care, Kurz!" said Hawermann, "don't crow too loud, remember the proverb!"--"Listen!" Bräsig exclaimed, at the same moment addressing the rector. "Don't talk French to me! I can't understand you. But what do you mean by talking of Fenus? What have I and my gout to do with Fenus?"--"My honoured friend," said the rector with a deep bow, "permit me to inform you that Venus was the name given in ancient times to the goddess of love."--"I don't care about that," answered Bräsig, "she may have been anything you like, but now-a-days every stupid shepherd's dog is called Venus."--"No, Hawermann," exclaimed Kurz eagerly, "I assure you that when clover has the real purply red colour it ....."--"Yes, Kurz," was the answer, "but yours wasn't like that."--"My good friend," said the rector to Bräsig, "Venus was a goddess, as I told you before, and how a shepherd's dog ...."--"But," interrupted Bräsig, "you make a mistake in saying she was a goddess, for a Fenus was a kind of bird. Now, Charles, us'n't we to hear of a bird called the Fenus when we were children?"--"Ah, I see what you mean now," said the rector, who had received a new light on the subject. "You're thinking of the Arabian bird, the Phœnix, which builds its nest of costly spices ..."--"Humbug!" interposed Kurz. "How is it possible for any bird to build a nest with cloves, pepper, cummin and nutmegs."--"My dear brother-in-law, are you not aware that it is an old saga?"--"Then," said Bräsig, "the saga tells what isn't true, and besides that, you don't pronounce the word rightly. It isn't Phœnix but Ponix, and they arn't birds at all, but small horses that come from Sweden and Ireland, and not from Arabia, as you say. The Countess always used to drive two of these ponixes in her carriage."--The rector was going to put his friend right, but Kurz stopped him: "No, brother-in-law," he said, "just let it alone. We're all willing to admit that you're much better up in learned subjects than Bräsig."--"Let him say what he will," said Bräsig, standing before the rector, and looking quite ready to fight out the point.--"No, no," cried Kurz, "we didn't come here to quarrel about Venuses or clover-seed, but to have a good game at Boston."--"That's much better," said Hawermann, beginning to prepare the table.--"Stop, Charles," said Bräsig, "that isn't proper work for you to do; the apprentice ought to do it for you."--He then put his head out at the window and shouted "Triddelfitz" across the court. Fred came running to see why he was wanted. "We're going to play at Boston, Triddelfitz, so please put the table in order for us, and get a dish of some kind for the pool, then you can fill our pipes and make a handful of matches."--As soon as Fred had done this they sat down to play, but could not begin at once, as they had first to determine what the stakes were to be. Kurz wanted to do things grandly when he was about it, and proposed penny points, but he was always of a reckless disposition, and the others agreed with Bräsig that the stake was too high, as they were not playing for the pleasured of winning other people's money. At last Hawermann got them to fix on a smaller sum, and to begin.--"Diamond begins," said the rector.--"Kurz deals," said Bräsig. They might have begun now, but the rector laid his hand upon the cards, and said as he looked round upon the circle: "What a strange thing it is! We are all sensible men, and yet we are playing at a game, which, if old tales are true, was invented for the amusement of a mad king. King Charles of France ....."--"No, no, good people," said Kurz, pulling the cards from under the rector's hand, "if we're going to play let us play, and if we're going to talk let us talk."--"Fire away!" said Bräsig, and Kurz began to deal, but in his haste, he misdealt. "Try again!" This time it was all right, and they could begin.--"I pass," said Hawermann. It was now the rector's turn, and they had all to wait till he had arranged his cards, for he had a superstitious fancy for picking up his cards singly, thinking it would bring him better luck, and as he was very conscientious in all his actions he was careful to arrange them in regular order, placing the sevens and fives in such a way that he could see the centre mark on each card, and so distinguish between them and the sixes and fours.--Kurz meanwhile laid his cards on the table, folded his hands and sighed.--"I pass," said the rector.--"I knew that," said Kurz, who was quite aware that it would be very odd play if his brother-in-law were to declare anything, but still he was always frightened, lest Baldrian should return the lead when he himself had declared anything, and when in consequence he had nothing more, or else should not lead up to him when he ought.--"Pass," said Bräsig whose turn it now was.--"Boston grandissimo," said Kurz.--"Who can follow?"--"Pass," said Hawermann.--"Dear brother-in-law," said the rector, "I--I--one trick, two tricks--this'll be the third. I follow."--"Oh," said Kurz, "but remember, we're not going to pay together, we're each to pay for ourselves."--"Then, Charles," said Bräsig, "if that's the way of it we'll have to give them a double beating."--"No talking," said Kurz.--"Certainly not," answered Hawermann, laying the ten of hearts on the table; "'Archduke Michael fell on the land.'"--"Cœur, Mr. Bräsig," said the rector throwing down the knave of hearts.--"'Hug me (Herze mich), and kiss me, but don't crumple my collar,'" said Bräsig playing the queen.--"The lady must have a husband," said Kurz putting down the king and taking the trick. He then played a small club; "clubs."--"Quick, snap it up," cried Bräsig to Hawermann.--"Hush!" said Kurz, "no talking allowed."--"Of course not," said Hawermann playing a small club.--"Well done our side," said the rector playing the nine.--"I've conquered with a club and a lady," said Bräsig taking the trick with the queen.--"What the mischief!" cried Kurz. "He has no more clubs. I wonder what he has!"--"Keep a bright look out, Charles, we're going to begin," cried Bräsig; "Sir," he went on turning to Kurz, "this is Whist. The ace of spades leads the way," and he threw down the ace. The king followed: "Long live the king!" and then the queen: "Give place to the ladies!"--"Hang it!" cried Kurz laying his cards on the table and staring at the rector; "what can he have? He has no spades either!"--"Dear brother-in-law," said the rector, "I'll do my part afterwards."--"And then it'll be too late," said Kurz taking up his cards again with as deep a sigh as if the rector had been ill-treating him and he was determined to bear it with the resignation of a Christian--"Charles," asked Bräsig, "how many tricks have we altogether?"--"Four," answered Hawermann.--"Hush," said Kurz. "That's not the game. No talking allowed."--"I wasn't giving any hints," said Bräsig. "I was only asking a question. Now, Charles, do your best. I can make one more trick, and so if you make another we'll do."--"I shall make one," said Kurz positively.--"And so shall I," said the rector.--After a couple of rounds, Kurz laid his hand over his tricks and said: "I've got mine now."--Diamonds were led. Baldrian recklessly played his queen, and Bräsig threw down the king, exclaiming: "Where are you going to, my pretty maid?" so the poor old rector was out-done, and he muttered confusedly: "I don't understand how that happened."--"Because you don't know the rules of Whist," cried Kurz.--"Charles," said Bräsig, "if you had only been paying proper attention to the game you might have got another of their good cards."--"Might I? Well, you made a mistake too, you ought to have returned my lead that time I led hearts."--"Now, Charles, how could I when I had none. I had nothing but the king."--"Well, brother-in-law," exclaimed Kurz, "you threw away the game. Why did you play the nine of trumps when you had the king. If you hadn't done that the game would have been ours."--"Faugh!" said Bräsig with great contempt, "you boy, you savage! How can you say that, when you remember what a strong hand I had in spades, to say nothing of my other cards. What do you mean by it?"--"Sir, do you think that when I agreed to play at Boston I should be afraid of your stupid grumbling?" said the rector.--"Don't let's talk about it any more," said Hawermann beginning a new deal. "It's always unpleasant to play a game over again."
They began to play once more with the firm determination to get the better of their adversaries.--The rector won as was right and proper, for, as is well known, the one who loses the first game is sure to win the second.--Kurz looked gloomy for a time, but afterwards brightened up: "Ten grandissimo," he said. Everybody was astonished, and so was he. He looked at his cards again, and repeated: "Ten grandissimo," laid the cards on the table and began to walk up and down the room: "That's the way they play in Venice and in other great towns," he said in conclusion.