And yet poor old Dr. Kremlin was a being not altogether to be despised. His appearance was perhaps against him inasmuch as his clothes were shabby, and his eyes rather wild,—but the expression of his meagre face was kind and gentle, and a perpetual compassion for everything and everybody seemed to vibrate in his voice and reflect itself in his melancholy smile. He was deeply occupied—so he told a few friends in Russia, where he was born—in serious scientific investigations,—but the “friends,” deeming him mad, held aloof till those investigations should become results. If the results proved disappointing, there would be no need to notice him any more,—if successful, why then, by a mystic process known only to themselves, the “friends” would so increase and multiply that he would be quite inconveniently surrounded by them. In the meantime, nobody wrote to him, or came to see him, except El-Râmi; and it was El-Râmi now, who, towards ten o’clock in the evening, knocked at the door of his lonely habitation and was at once admitted with every sign of deference and pleasure by the servant Karl.
“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,”—said this individual cheerfully,—“The Herr Doctor has not been out all day, and he eats less than ever. It will do him good to see you.”
“He is in the tower as usual, at work?” inquired El-Râmi, throwing off his coat.
Karl assented, with rather a doleful look,—and, opening the door of a small dining-room, showed the supper-table laid for two.
El-Râmi smiled.
“It’s no good, Karl!” he said kindly—“It’s very well meant on your part, but it’s no good at all. You will never persuade your master to eat at this time of night, or me either. Clear all these things away,—and make your mind easy,—go to bed and sleep. To-morrow morning prepare as excellent a breakfast as you please—I promise you we’ll do justice to it! Don’t look so discontented—don’t you know that over-feeding kills the working capacity?”
“And over-starving kills the man,—working capacity and all”—responded Karl lugubriously—“However, I suppose you know best, sir!”
“In this case I do”—replied El-Râmi—“Your master expects me?”
Karl nodded,—and El-Râmi, with a brief “good-night,” ascended the staircase rapidly and soon disappeared. A door banged aloft—then all was still. Karl sighed profoundly, and slowly cleared away the useless supper.
“Well! How wise men can bear to starve themselves just for the sake of teaching fools, is more than I shall ever understand!” he said half aloud—“But then I shall never be wise—I am an ass and always was. A good dinner and a glass of good wine have always seemed to me better than all the science going,—there’s a shameful confession of ignorance and brutality together, if you like. ‘Where do you think you will go to when you die, Karl?’ says the poor old Herr Doctor. And what do I say? I say—‘I don’t know, mein Herr—and I don’t care. This world is good enough for me so long as I live in it.’ ‘But afterwards, Karl,—afterwards?’ he says, with his gray head shaking. And what do I say? Why, I say—‘I can’t tell, mein Herr! but whoever sent me Here will surely have sense enough to look after me There!’ And he laughs, and his head shakes worse than ever. Ah! Nothing can ever make me clever, and I’m very glad of it!”