"What? what did you say?"
"That thirty-one thousand thalers have been advanced for you, this night, and Moses advances it, and your cousin Franz has arrived, who may possibly do something more. But you are an ignorant creature, who lets that greyhound of a Triddelsitz get revolvers, to shoot the day-laborers with, and then goes to shooting himself."
"Franz is here? Franz, did you say?"
"Yes, he is here; but he did not come on your account, he is here because he is determined to make Louise Habermann Frau von Rambow; but if you want to thank anybody,--Franz will do something, will perhaps do something more,--then go to your dear gracious Frau, and to Karl Habermann; you can go to Moses also, if you like, and you must not forget Frau Nüssler, and the Frau Pastorin, they have all been good to you this night."
I never attempted to shoot myself, and cannot tell exactly how a poor man would feel, when, between himself and his resolution, ordinary life presses in so forcibly. I should think it might be a little vexatious, as when a weary, weary traveller is offered a glass of flat, sour beer,--and Uncle Bräsig looked a little sour, this morning,--which he may not refuse; but then comes the love of life, dear, human life, and a wife, with a child on her arm, pours him a glass of cool, fresh wine, and he drains the glass: "So! now tell me what has happened."
Uncle Bräsig related the good news, and Axel tottered from the tree, and fell upon the old man's neck.
"Herr Bräsig! Dear Herr Bräsig! Is it all true?"
"What do you mean? Do you think I would deceive you, at such a moment as this?"
Axel turned dizzy before the black abyss, into which, just now, he had looked so boldly; he staggered back, and there was a singing and a ringing in his ears, and a glowing and shining before his eyes and everything to which he was usually indifferent pressed overpoweringly upon him,--he pressed his hands over his eyes and began to weep bitterly. Uncle Bräsig stood and looked at him compassionately, and going up to him with the most tender pity took him by the shoulder, and shook him gently, saying:
"We all wander, here, in confusion, and you are greatly to blame for your misfortunes; but the fault is not wholly yours: what possessed your blessed Frau Mother to make a lieutenant of you? How could a farmer be made out of a lieutenant? It is just as if the musician, David Berger, who has blown half his breath out of his body with his trumpet, should set up to be pastor, and preach preach with his half-breath; he couldn't hold out. But"--and he took the young man by the arm,--"come away from this place, and then you will feel better."