And so Anton found an old friend; but Karl was not his only military acquaintance. The captain was delighted with a countryman who had played so bold a part against the insurgents. He introduced him to the colonel who commanded the division. To him Anton had to tell his adventures, and to receive high commendation from a large circle of epaulets; and the following day the captain invited him to dinner, and introduced him to the officers of his own squadron. Anton's modest composure made a favorable impression upon them all. At home they would probably have been restricted by their views of human greatness from becoming intimate with a young merchant, but here in the camp they were themselves wiser men than in the idle days of peace, their social prejudices were fewer, and their recognition of others' deserts less impeded. Consequently, they soon came to consider the young clerk as a "deuced good fellow," fell into the habit of calling him by his Christian name, and whenever they were going to drink their coffee or to play a game of dominoes, they invariably invited him to join them. An obscure tradition of large means and mysterious relationship once more emerged from the abyss of past years, but, to do the squadron justice, it was not this which prompted their kind attentions to their countryman. Anton himself was more exalted by this good fellowship with these noble lads than he would have chosen to confess to himself or to Mr. Pix. He now enjoyed a free intercourse with men of mark, and felt as if born to many enjoyments which heretofore he had only contemplated with silent reverence from afar. Old recollections began to reassert their sway, and he felt once more drawn into the magic circle, where every thing appeared to him free, bright, and beautiful. Lieutenant von Rothsattel belonged to the number of Anton's friendly acquaintance. Our hero treated him with the tenderest consideration, and the lieutenant, who was at bottom a reckless, light-hearted, good-natured fellow, was readily pleased by Anton's cordial admiration, and repaid him with peculiar confidence.
Fortunately, however, for our hero, his business prevented him losing his independence among his new allies. The town was indeed devastated; the wild uproar was over; but all peaceful activity seemed exhausted too. The necessaries of life were dear, and work scarce. Many who once wore boots went barefoot now. He who could formerly have bought a new coat, now contented himself with having the old one mended; the shoemaker and tailor breakfasted on water-gruel instead of coffee; the shopkeeper was unable to pay his debts to the merchant, and the merchant unable to discharge his obligations to other firms. He who had to recover money from men thus depressed had a hard task indeed, as Anton soon found out. On every side he heard lamentations which were but too well founded; and frequently every species of artifice was employed to evade his claims. Every day he had to go through painful scenes, often to listen to long legal proceedings carried on in Polish, out of which he generally came with an impression of having been "done," though the agent played the part of interpreter. It was a strange commercial drama in which Anton had now to take a share. Men from every portion of Europe were here, and trade had many peculiarities, which to German eyes seemed irregular and insecure. Nevertheless, habits of duty exercise so great an influence even over weaker natures, that Anton's perseverance more than once won the day.
The greatest claim that his house had was upon a Mr. Wendel, a dry little man, who had done a great deal of business on every side. People said that he had become rich by smuggling, and was now in great danger of failing. He had received the principal himself with something of contumely, and had at first comported himself toward his young deputy like a man distracted. Anton had again spent an hour in reasoning with him, and, in spite of all the latter's twistings and turnings, had remained firm to his point. At length Wendel broke out, "Enough; I am a ruined man, but you deserve to get your money. Your house has always dealt generously by me. You shall be reimbursed. Send your agent to me again in the course of the day, and come to me early to-morrow morning."
On the morrow, when Anton, accompanied by the agent, appeared before their debtor, Wendel, after a gloomy salutation, seized hold of a great rusty key, slowly put on a faded cloak on which countless darns showed like cobwebs on an old wall, and led his creditors to a remote part of the town, stopping before a ruined monastery. They went through a long cloister. Anton looked admiringly at the exquisite moulding of the arches, from which, however, time had worn off many a fragment that encumbered the pavement. Monuments of the old inhabitants of the place were ranged along the walls, and weather-stained inscriptions announced to the inattentive living that pious Slavonic monks had once sought peace within this shelter. Here in this cloister they had paced up and down; here they had prayed and dreamed till they had to make over their poor souls to the intercession of their saints. In the centre of this building Wendel now opened a secret door, and led his companions down a winding staircase into a large vault. This had once been used as the cellar of the rich cloister, and down that same staircase the cellarer had gone—ah! how often—wandering between the casks, tasting here and tasting there; and at the ringing of the little bell above him, bowing his head and saying a short prayer, and then returning to taste again, or in comfortable mood to walk up and down. The prayer-bell of the cloister had been melted down long ago; the empty cells were in ruins, the cattle fed where once the prior sat at the head of his brethren at their stately meal. All had vanished; the cellar only remained, and the casks of fiery Hungarian wine stood as they did five hundred years before. Still the rays of light converged into a star on the beautiful arch of the roof; still the vault was kept stainlessly whitewashed, and the floor strewn with finest sand; and still it was the cellarer's custom only to approach the noble wine with a waxlight. True, they were not the identical casks out of which the old monks drew their potions, but they were now, as then, filled with the produce of the vine-clad hills of Hegyalla, with the rosy wine of Menes, with the pride of Œdenburg, and the mild juice of the careful vintage of Rust.
"A hundred and fifty casks at eighteen, four-and-twenty, and thirty ducats the cask," said the agent, beginning the inventory.
Meanwhile Wendel went from one cask to another, the waxlight in his hand. He stood a little time before each, carefully wiping off with a clean linen cloth the very slightest trace of mould. "This was my favorite walk," said he to Anton. "For twenty years I have attended every vintage as a purchaser. Those were happy days, Mr. Wohlfart, and now they are gone forever. I have often walked up and down here, looking at the sunlight that shone down upon the barrels, and thinking of those that walked here before me. To-day I am here for the last time. And what will become of the wine? It will all be exported; they will drink it in foreign parts, without knowing its merits; and some brandy distiller will take possession of this cellar, or some new brewer will keep his Bavarian beer in it. The old times are over for me too. This is the noblest wine of all," said he, going up to a particular cask. "I might have excepted it from my surrender. But what should I do with this barrel only? Drink it? I shall never drink wine more. It shall go with the rest, only I must take leave of it." He filled his glass. "Did you ever drink wine like that before?" asked he, mournfully, holding out the glass to Anton, who willingly owned he never had.
They slowly reascended the steps. Arrived at the top, the wine-merchant cast one last long look into the cellar, then turned round like one fully resolved, locked the secret door, took out the key, and laid it solemnly in Anton's hand. "There is the key of your property. Our accounts are settled. Fare you well, gentlemen." Slowly and with bent head he went through the ruined cloister, looking, in the gray light of the early morning, like the ghost of some ancient cellarer still haunting the relics of his past glory.
The agent called after him, "But our breakfast, Mr. Wendel!" The old man shook his head, and made a gesture of refusal.
Yes, indeed, the breakfast. Every transaction was drowned in wine in this town. The long sittings in drinking-houses, which even the bad times did not prevent, were no small sorrow to Anton. He saw that men worked much less, and talked and drank much more in this country than in his. Whenever he had succeeded in getting a matter arranged, he could not dispense with the succeeding breakfast. Then buyers, sellers, assistants, and hangers-on of every kind sat at a round table together in one of the taverns; began with porter, ate Caviare by the pound, and washed it down with red Bordeaux wine. Hospitality was dispensed on all sides; every familiar face must come and take a share in the banquet; and so the company went on increasing till evening closed. Meanwhile the wives, accustomed to such proceedings, would have dinner brought up and removed three successive times, and at last adjourned till the next day. At times like these Anton often thought of Fink, who, despite his reluctance, had at least taught him to get through such ordeals as these respectably.
One afternoon, while Anton was sitting watching a game at dominoes, an old lieutenant, looking off his newspaper, called to the players, "Yesterday evening one of our hussars had two fingers of his right hand smashed. The ass who was quartered with him had been playing with his carabine, which was loaded. The doctor thinks amputation unavoidable. I am sorry for the fine fellow: he was one of the most efficient of our squadron. These misfortunes always happen to the best."