Months had passed by. How many changes had taken place in this short space of time! How many tears had been shed there, how many hopes destroyed!
Elise had become Bertram's wife; and she lived with him in the small, quiet residence which they had selected in the most remote quarter of the town. The three had entered the low, narrow rooms, which were to be their home, with the firm determination not to let themselves be annoyed by such slight material privation as they might have to endure, but to pass them over with cheerful equanimity and proud indifference, consoling themselves with the conviction that no one could rob them of their great and pure love. And besides this, their honor and their reputation were untouched, for every one was acquainted with Gotzkowsky's fate, every one knew that he had not fallen through his own fault, but through the force of circumstances, and the baseness of mankind.
He might have cause of complaint against the world, it had none against him. With his creditors he had been honest. All that he possessed he had given up to them, and they were all satisfied. With proud step and unbent head could he pass through the streets, for no one dared to follow him with insulting words. Nor had he need to be ashamed of his poverty, for it was in itself a proof not only of his unmerited misfortune, but of his integrity. All this he said and repeated to himself daily, and yet it pained him to go through the streets, feeling solitary and downcast. His eyes even filled with tears, as one day passing by his house he saw the gates open, and equipages, as in former days, at his door, while genteel and rich people, with cold, apathetic countenances, were entering his house as they had done of yore. Formerly they came to Gotzkowsky's splendid dinners, now they had come to the auction. The fauteuils and velvet-covered sofas, the carpets and gold-embroidered curtains, the chandeliers of bronze and rock crystal, the paintings and statuary, the silver table-ware, and the costly porcelain service, all these were now exposed for sale.
There is something sad and mournful about an auction. It speaks always of the ruin and breaking up of a man's life and the happiness of his family, of the wreck of a shattered existence, and the sad remains of what was once, perhaps, a brilliant destiny. On the day of an auction there ceases to be a home, the sacred secrets of family life vanish; home is no longer the abode of peace, and the long-cherished penates hide their heads in grief.
Then the gates are opened, and the curious multitude rushes in, and with callous eye spies into each corner and every room; tries the sofas on which, perhaps, yesterday some poor widow sat weeping for her lost husband; throws itself down on the bed which once had been the sacred temple of their love; and coldly and unfeelingly examines the furniture of parlor and boudoir, which yet retains the appearance of comfort and of genial repose, though soon to be scattered to the winds, to proclaim aloud its sad and secret story in the gaudy show-room of some second-hand dealer. All the beauty and splendor of Gotzkowsky's former days were now to be displayed at auction. For this reason there stood so many carriages before his door; for this reason did so many noble and wealthy persons come to his house, and, mixed with brokers and speculators, crowd into those halls, which they had formerly trod with friendly smiles and in costly dresses.
No one took any heed of the figure of a man crouching, leaning against the staircase, with his hat pressed down over his brow, and the collar of his cloak drawn up high over his face. No one perceived how he shuddered when the auctioneer handled the beautiful articles and called on the public to bid. It was to him a terrible grief to assist at these obsequies of his past life, and yet he could not tear himself away. He felt fascinated, as it were, by some supernatural power, and forced to remain in the house and attend this horrible ceremony. In the tediousness of his lonesome, inactive, idle misery, it was a species of diversion to him, something to arouse him from his dull rumination, to be present at this disintegration and demolition of his own house.
As Jeremiah once sat among the ruins of Jerusalem, so sat Gotzkowsky with concealed face at the threshold of his house, listening with savage joy to the strokes of the auctioneer's hammer—albeit each blow struck him to the heart, and made its wounds smart still more keenly. At times, when a well-known voice fell on his ear, he would raise his head a little, and look at the bidders, and examine their cold, unsympathizing faces. How many were there among them whom he had once called his friends, and to whom he had done good! And now, like vultures, they flocked to the carcass of his past; they bought his treasures, while their eyes glistened with malicious joy. They were delighted to be able to boast that they possessed a souvenir of the rich Gotzkowsky.
When Gotzkowsky saw this, he felt ashamed that he had once smiled lovingly on these men, had confided in them, and believed in their assurances of friendship. He rose to leave, feeling himself refreshed and strengthened, for his depression and grief had left him. Never had he walked the streets more proudly than on the day when he returned from the auction to his dark, lowly dwelling. Never had he looked upon mankind with greater pity or more bitter scorn. And yet it pained him to reënter this dismal, quiet house, and to force himself back into the ennui and indolence of his inactive life. It was such a sensitive, burning pain, so, in the fulness of his strength and manhood to be condemned to do nothing more than drag on a weary existence—to sleep, to eat, and to dream of the past! And yet he would repeat to himself, he was strong and active to work and create; and nevertheless, he was condemned to idleness, to live by the favor and toil of others, even if these others were his children.
But they worked for him with so much pleasure and so much love! Bertram had accepted the situation of book-keeper in a large factory, and his salary was sufficient to support the three. To be sure, they had to manage carefully, and provide scantily enough. But Elise was active and notable; though as the spoilt child of wealth, she had, indeed, been able to learn nothing of those minor offices of life which are called by women "housekeeping." Still the instinct of her sex had enabled her soon to acquire this knowledge, and in a short time she became mistress of it. It was, indeed, a pleasant sight to see Elise, with the same quiet cheerfulness, acting at one moment the part of cook in the kitchen, at another setting her little chamber to rights with busy hands, and making amends in cleanliness and neatness for what was wanting in elegance and beauty. True, she was altered, but never since she had been. Bertram's wife had her brow been darkened or her eye dimmed. Her face was always bright and clear: for her husband, when he returned home, she had always a smile of welcome, a cordial greeting—never a word of complaint or of mourning over the privations she was obliged to undergo, or the wealth she had lost. Elise felt rich—for she loved her husband; not with that ardent, consuming passion which she had once felt, and which had been the cause of so much disappointment and so many tears; but with that gentle, affectionate flame which never dies out, but is constantly supplied and nourished by esteem and appreciation.
Bertram was no longer her brother; he was her beloved, her friend, her counsellor, and comforter, above all. With him she was always certain to be understood and appreciated, to find comfort and help. As on a rock, she could now rely on the noble heart of one who was at the same time so firm, and yet so soft in loving, that he had never doubted her, never turned away from her. Her whole heart was given up to him in gratitude and affection, and with her whole life did she wish to reward him for his noble love, for the self-sacrificing gratitude with which he had given up his entire fortune to her father, and saved the name and honor of his house from disgrace and shame. She desired neither splendor nor jewels. Surrounded by the halo of her love, and of her quiet, peaceful happiness, this poor, little dwelling seemed to her as a temple of peace and of holy rest; and, locked in Bertram's embrace, her wishes never reached beyond its narrow sphere.