But now Frau Sophie interrupted with a scream. "Here in my parlor I do not allow writing to be done! That's the only thing wanting—that my new carpet should be all spotted with ink. Go to your room if you want to write. And I won't have this squabbling with your people here in my rooms!"
"I should like to know if it isn't my house," growled the great man.
"I am master here!"
"And I am mistress here!"
The screeching and growling had the good result for Timar that Herr Brazovics flew into a rage, and in order to show that he was master in his own house, seized the pen and signed the power of attorney. But when he had given it, both fell on Timar, and overwhelmed him with such a flood of reproaches and invective, that he would willingly have taken yet another bath in the Danube to wash them away. Frau Sophie only scolded Timar indirectly, as she abused her husband for giving such a ragged, dirty fellow, such a tipsy, beggarly scoundrel, a warrant like that.
Why had he not given it to any other supercargo than Timar, who would run away with the money, and drink and gamble till it was gone.
Timar stood the whole time with the same immovable calm in the midst of this tumult as that with which he had defied storm and waves at the Iron Gate. At last he broke silence: "Will you take charge of the money which belongs to the orphan, or shall I give it over to the City Orphanage?" (At this last question Brazovics got a great fright.) "Now, then, if you please, come with me into the office and we will settle the affair at once, for I don't like servants' squabbles."
With this hundred-pound insult he succeeded in suddenly silencing both master and mistress. Against such scolds and blusterers, a good round impertinence is the best remedy. Brazovics took the light and said, "All right; bring the money along." Frau Sophie appeared all at once to be in the best of tempers, and asked Timar if he would not have a glass of wine first.
Timéa was quite stunned; of what passed in a foreign language she understood not a word, and the gestures and looks which accompanied it were not calculated to enlighten her. Why should her guardian now kiss and hug her, the orphan, and the next moment push her from him? Why did he again take her on his lap, only to thrust her away once more? Why did both of them scream at this man, who remained as calm as she had seen him in the tempest, until he spoke a few words, quietly, without anger or excitement, and thereby instantly silenced and overpowered the two who had been like mad people the minute before, so that they could prevail as little against him as the rocks and whirlpools and the armed men. Of all that went on around her, she had not understood one word; and now the man who had been hitherto her faithful companion, who had gone "thrice" into the water for her sake, with whom alone she could speak in Greek, was going away—forever, no doubt—and she would never hear his voice again.