"Certainly I would, with pleasure, papa," Kurt replied, "if I had the necessary funds."
"The two months' salary the Baron von Kletzingk gave you would have been enough to live on for a whole term if you had not squandered it. You know that you needn't expect a farthing from me. Get the money as best you can, but remember, in eight days you clear out of this!"
"All right," Kurt replied with dignity, getting up. "I will go to ruin on the king's highway. But it seems a pity, just as my nature has taken a start, and I begin to be conscious of unsuspected springs of energy within me. But we won't speak about it further. The door of my father's house is to be shut on me--and with justice. Your long-suffering has been boundless, father. I thank you, and I will at once try and raise a little money. Farewell!" And he left the room.
The old man looked after him, shaking his head. "What a young scamp it is!" he said, full of admiration. "I was just such another."
Kurt, filled with bitter feelings, climbed up to the attic. He threw himself on his bed to reflect on his position, and also to await the dinner hour. There was baked ham with dumplings for dinner,--a dish which could be cooked in no university town so excellently as in the parental house. It was sad that the ham came to an end so soon, and that his father announced there would before long be one less to feed at the table.
When Kurt had composed himself a little, he went the round of neighbouring estates to see what was to be done in the money line.
"How brutal it is," he thought, "that a man's fine ambitions should be chased away by sordid cares!" And while he plodded along the rain-drenched country roads, it became clearer than ever that pessimism was the only philosophy of life worthy of consideration. He resolved to air his views in some great work which should take the form either of "Childe Harold" or "The Philosophy of the Unknown."
Grey clouds raced over the sky, the wind whistled across the furrows, and ravens circled weirdly above the dung-hills. Everything was vast and dreary, like his mood.
The proceeds of his first day's crusade was a ten-mark piece, lent by the newly appointed bailiff at Ellernthal--a novel of Zola's, also lent, and a fit of the blues.
The second day he fared no better, and on the third there seemed to be little doubt that his credit for ten miles round had been exhausted. Now he became so utterly disconsolate that he thought of taking his life. But the same day he received a gilt-edged note, which bore a certain family resemblance to Elly's missives, only there was no rosebud. The signature was Hertha von Prachwitz.