Heavens! how can the world make such an exceedingly bad shot as that? The advocate was not even in quarter mourning, let alone half; he was in as good spirits as if he had this third chapter before him, and were just beginning it, as I am.
The reason was, that he had drawn up an able plaint against his guardian, Blaise (enlivening it with sundry satirical touches, which nobody but himself understood), and laid it before the Inheritance Office. When we are in a difficulty, it is always so much gained if we can but do something or other. Let fortune bluster in our faces with ever so harsh and frosty an autumn wind—as long as it does not break the fore joint of our wing (as in the case of the swans), our very fluttering, though it may not transport us into a warmer climate, will at all events have the effect of warming us a little. From motives of kindness, Siebenkæs kept his wife in ignorance of the delay in the settling of his heritage accounts, as well as of the old story of the change of names; he thought there was very little likelihood of a struggling advocate’s wife ever having an opportunity of looking over a patrician’s shoulder into his family hand at cards.
And, indeed, what could a man who had made a sudden plunge from out his hermit’s holy-week of single blessedness, into the full honeymoon of double blessedness wish for besides? Not until now had he been able to hold his Lenette in both his arms rightly—hitherto his friend, always fluttering backwards and forwards in life, had been held fast with his left arm; but now, she was able to stretch herself out far more comfortably in the chambers of his heart. And the bashful wife did this as much as she dared. She confessed to him, albeit timidly, that she was almost glad not to have that boisterous Saufinder lying under the table and glaring out in that terrible way of his. Whether she experienced a similar relief at the absence of his wild master, she could not be brought to say. To the advocate she felt a good deal like a daughter, and her great tall father could never have enough of her quaint little ways. That, when he went out, she used to look after him as long as he was in sight, was nothing in comparison to the way in which she used to run out after him with a brush, when she noticed from the window that there was such a quantity of street paving sticking to his coat-tails that nothing would do but she must have him back again into the house, and brush his back as clean as if the Kuhschnappel municipality would charge him paving-tax if any of the mud were found on him. He would take hold of the brush and stop it, and kiss her, and say, “There’s a good deal inside as well; but nobody sees it there; when I come back we’ll set to work and scrub some of that away.”
Her maidenly obedience to his every wish and hint, her daughterly observance and fulfilment of them, were more than he looked for or required, indeed; but not too great for the love he bestowed in return. “Senate clerk’s daughter,” he said, “you mustn’t be too obedient to me; remember I’m not your father, a senate clerk, but a poor’s advocate who has married you and signs himself Siebenkæs, to the best of his belief.”
“My poor dear father,” she answered, “used often to compose and write down things too at home, himself, with his own hand, and then fair-copy them beautifully afterwards.” But he enjoyed these crooked answers which she used to make. And though, from sheer veneration of him, she never understood a single one of the jokes which he was always making about himself (for she gainsaid him when he satirically depreciated himself, and agreed with him completely if he ironically lauded himself), yet these mental provincialisms of hers pleased him not a little. She would use such words as “fleuch” for “fliehe,” “reuch” and “kreuch” for “riehe” and “kriehe;” religious antiquities out of Luther’s Bible, which were valuable and enjoyable contributions to her stock of idiosyncracies, and to the happiness of his honeymoon. One day when he took a particularly pretty cap which she had tried on with much satisfaction to each of her three cap-blocks, one after another (she would often gently kiss these cap-blocks), and putting it on her own little head before the looking-glass, said, “See how it looks on your own head; perhaps that’s as good a block as the others,” she laughed with immense delight, and said, “Now, you are always flattering one!”
Believe me, this naive failure of hers to see his joke so touched him that he made a secret vow never to make another of the kind, except in private to himself. But there was a greater honeymoon pleasure still. This was that, when there came a fast day, Lenette would on no account allow him to kiss her, when she came into the room (ready for church), her white and red bloom of youth shining out with threefold beauty from under her black lace head-dress, and the dark leafage of her dress.
“Worldly thoughts of that kind,” she said, “weren’t at all proper before service, when people had on their fast-day things; people must wait!”
“By heaven!” said Siebenkæs to himself, “may I stick a soup spoon five inches long and three broad through my lower lip, like a North American squaw, and go about with it there, if ever I begin spooning and kissing the pious soul again, when she has a black dress on, and the bells are ringing.” And though he wasn’t much of a churchgoer himself, he kept his word. See how we men behave in matrimonial life, young ladies!
From all which it will readily appear how perfectly happy the advocate was during his honeymoon, when Lenette, in the most delightful manner, did all those things for him which he used previously to have to do for himself in a most miserable fashion and against the grain, making by unwearied sweepings and brushings his dithyrambic chartreuse as clean and level and smooth as a billiard-table. Whole honey-trees full of cakes did she plant during the honeymoon; humming round him of a morning like a busy bee, carrying wax into her little hive (while he was going quietly on with his law-papers, building away at his juridical wasp’s nest), forming her cells, cleaning them out, ejecting foreign bodies, and mending chinks; he now and then looking out of his wasp’s nest at the pretty little figure in the tidiest of household dresses, at sight of which he would take his pen in his mouth, hold his hand out to her across the ink-bottle, and say, “Only wait till the afternoon comes and you’re sitting sewing—then, as I walk up and down, I shall pay you with kisses to your heart’s content.” But that none of my fair readers may be unhappy about the souring of the honey of this moon which the conduct of that disinheriting blackguard Blaise might bring about, let me just ask one question? Hadn’t Siebenkæs a whole silver mine and a coining mill, in the shape of seven law suits all going on, full of veins of rich ore? And hadn’t Leibgeber sent him a military treasury chest on four wheels of fortune, containing two spectacle dollars of Julius Duke of Brunswig, a Russian triple-dollar of 1679, a tail or queue ducat—a gnat or wasp dollar—five vicariat ducats, and a heap of Ephraimites? For he might melt down and volatilise this collection of coins without a moment’s hesitation, inasmuch as his friend had only pocketed them by way of a jest on the people who pay a hundred dollars for one. They two had all things corporeal and mental in common to an extent comprehensible by few. They had arrived at that point where there is no distinction visible between the giver and the receiver of a benefit, and they stepped across the chasms of life bound together, as the crystal-seekers in the Alps tie themselves to each other to prevent their falling into the ice clefts.
One Lady Day, towards evening, however, he hit upon an idea which will quite reassure all fair readers of his history who may be in a state of anxiety about him, and which made him happier than the receipt of the biggest basket of bread with little baskets of fruit in it would have done—or a hamper of wine. He had felt sure all along that he would hit upon an idea. Whenever he was in a difficulty of any kind, he always used to say, “Now, I wonder what I shall hit upon this time; for I shall hit upon something or other as sure as there are four chambers in my brain.” The delightful idea in question was, that he should do what I am doing at this moment—write a book; only his was to be a satirical one.[[22]] A torrent of blood rushed through the opened sluices of his heart, right in amongst the wheels and mill-machinery of his ideas, and the whole of the mental mechanism rattled, whirred, and jingled in a moment—a peck or two of material for the book was ground on the spot.