If only the glass globe of Master Anton Unwirrsch could have reflected the figure of Moses Freudenstein as, during his father's short absence he stood with folded arms in front of the richly burdened table! He was pale and his lips twitched, he passed his finger tips over several of the rows of gold-pieces and at their touch a slight tremor ran through his body. A thousand thoughts chased one another through his brain with the rapidity of lightning, but not one of them rose from his heart; he did not think of the toil, the care, the—love that clung to this piled-up wealth. He thought only of what his own attitude must be to these riches which were suddenly thrust before him, of the changed existence that would begin from this moment—for him. His cold heart beat so violently that it almost caused him physical pain. It was an evil moment in which Samuel Freudenstein announced to his son that he was rich and that the latter would one day be so. From that moment a thousand dark threads stretched out into the future; whatever was dark in Moses' soul became still darker from this moment; nothing became lighter; egoism raised its head menacingly and stretched out hungry arms, like those of an octopus, to grasp the world.
In this headlong, wildly increasing tumult of thoughts his father's existence no longer counted for anything, it was rubbed out as if it had never been. Moses Freudenstein thought only of himself and when his father's step sounded again behind him he started and clenched his teeth.
Samuel Freudenstein had bolted the door; he had closed the shop and thus also locked out the wide, lovely spring world, the blue sky, the beautiful sun—woe to him!
He had nothing to do with the joyful sounds, the shining colors of life, they would only have been in his way; he wanted to celebrate a triumph in which he did not need them—woe to him! The gray dusk which fell through the dirty panes of the back room sufficed perfectly for him to lay his secret account book before his son and show him in what way the wealth that he had spread out before him had been acquired.
The sun went down, but before taking his farewell, he flooded the world with unequaled beauty; he smiled a parting greeting through every window that he could reach; but he could not say farewell to poor Samuel Freudenstein—woe to him!
Night came on and Esther carried the lighted lamp into the little back room. The children were put to bed, the night watchman came; the older people too disappeared from the benches before their front doors. Everyone carried his cares to bed; but Samuel and Moses Freudenstein counted and figured on, and it was not until the gray dawn that the latter sank into a restless, feverish slumber only to start up again almost as soon as he had closed his eyes. He did not wake like Hans Unwirrsch; he woke with a cry of fear, stretched his hands out and crooked his fingers as if something infinitely precious were being torn from him, as if he were striving in deadly fear to hold it tight. He sat upright in bed and stared about him, pressed his hands to his forehead and then jumped up. Hastily he drew on his clothes and went down into the back room where his father still lay asleep restlessly murmuring disconnected sentences. The son stood before his father's bed and his gaze wandered from his father's face to the empty table which had lately been so richly burdened.
Oh, the hunger, the terrible hunger, by which Moses Freudenstein was tormented, was consumed! Between the feast and the sufferer there stood a superfluous something, the life of an old man. The son of this old man gnashed his teeth—woe to you too, Moses Freudenstein!
How did the hour-glass from the pulpit of the Christian church come to be in the shop? It was there and it stood beside the bed of the old man on a shelf against the wall. In former years it had often served Moses and Hans as a plaything and they had watched the sand ran through with delight; it was long now since any hand had touched it, the spiders had spun their webs about it; it was a useless thing. What notion could suddenly have shot into the mind of the junk-dealer's son to make him turn the hour-glass over now? A frightened spider scuttled up the wall; the sand began to trickle down again and Samuel Freudenstein woke with a start. He drew the bed-clothes close about him and felt under his pillow for his bunch of keys; then he asked almost in a screech:
"What do you want, Moses? Is it you? What do you want? It's still night!"
"It's bright daylight. Have you forgotten, Father, that we did not finish yesterday? It is bright daylight; and you still have so much to say to me."