“Postscript.
“But listen! If the future course of my waltz of life is a matter of the slightest interest to you—if you care in the least degree about my happiness, my plans, or ideas—if it is anything to you but a matter of the supremest indifference that I frank you as far as Bayreuth, providing you with board, lodging, and travelling expenses all on account of a project whose yarn the spinning-mills of the future must either manufacture into gin-snares and gallows-ropes (for my life), or else into rope-ladders and best bower anchor-cables—if this, and other matters more momentous still, have the smallest power over you, Firmian, for heaven’s sake, on with a pair of boots and start!”
“And, by thy holy friendship!” said Siebenkæs, “I will on with a pair, though the bolt of apoplexy should flash out of the blue sky of Swabia, and strike me down beneath a cherry-tree in full blossom. Nothing shall prevent me now!”
He kept his word, for in six days from thence we find him, at eleven o’clock at night, ready for his journey, with clean linen on his back, and in his pockets—with a hat-cover on his head (secretly freighted and stuffed with an old soft hat)—his newest boots (the antediluvian pair s relieved from duty, being left behind in garrison)—and a tower-clock, borrowed from Peltzstiefel, in his pocket—and fresh bathed, shaven, and kempt, standing by his wife and friend—both of whom kept their eyes fixed, with a gladsome, courteous watchfulness upon the departing traveller only, and did not, for the time being, look at all at one another. He took his leave of the pair while it was still night, being minded to pass the rest of it in his arm chair (of many sorrows), and be off about three o’clock, while Lenette should still be snoring. He committed to the Schulrath the office of treasurer-in-chief of the widow’s fund to his grass-widow, and the managership, or, at least, the “leading business,” of his miniature Covent Garden full of Gay’s Beggar’s Operas, the theatrical journal whereof I am here writing for the edification of a full half of the world. “Lenette,” he said, “when you want any counsel, apply to the counsellor here; he is going to do me the favour to come and see you very often indeed.” Peltzstiefel made the most solemn promises to come every day. Lenette did not go down stairs to the door with the Schulrath when he went away, as she usually did, but remained above, and drawing her hand out of her replenished money-bag (the starved stomachic coats of which had hitherto been rubbing together), snapped it to. It is not of sufficient importance to be recorded that Siebenkæs asked her to put out the light, and go to her bed, and that he gave her charming face his long parting kiss, and said good night, and took the tender farewell, almost within the Eden-gate of the land of dreams with that redoublement of fondness with which we take our leave of those we love, and greet them when we come back to them again.
The watchman’s last call at length drew him from his sleeping chair out into the starlight, breezy morning; but, first, he crept once more into the bed-room to the rose-maiden dreaming there, warm and happy, pulled the window to (for there was a cool air from it falling upon her unprotected breast), and would not suffer his lips to touch her in an awakening kiss. He gazed at her by the light of the stars and early blush of dawn, till he turned his eyes away (fast growing dim) at the thought, “perhaps I may never see her again.”
As he passed through the sitting-room, her distaff seemed to look at him as if it were a thing of life; it was wrapped in broad bands of coloured paper (which she had put on it because she had not got silk); and there was her spinning-wheel, too, which she used to work at in the dark mornings and evenings when there was not light enough for sewing. As he pictured her to himself working industriously at them while he was away, every wish of his heart cried out, “Ah, poor darling! may all go well with her, always, whether I ever come back to her or not.”
This thought of the last time grew more vivid still when he was out in the open air, and felt a slight giddiness produced, in the physical part of his head, by agitation and broken sleep, as well as natural regret at the sight of his home receding from view, and the town growing dimmer, and the foreground changing into background, and the disappearance of all the paths and heights on which he had so often walked a little life into his benumbed heart, frozen by the past winter. The little leaf whereon, like a leaf roller, or miner-worm, he had been crawling and feeding, was falling now to earth behind him, a skeleton leaf.
But the first spot of foreign, unfamiliar soil, as yet unmarked by any “Station of his Passion,” drew, like a serpent-stone, an acrid drop or two of sorrow-poison out of his heart.
And now the solar flames shot higher and higher up upon the enkindled morning clouds, till, at length, hundreds of suns rose in an instant in the sky, in the streams and pools, and in the dew-cups of the flowers, while thousands of varied colours went flowing athwart the face of earth, and one bright whiteness broke from the sky.