And then and there did the tailor commit his first spontaneous fault by obediently saying yes instead of no; and thereupon did the landlord of the “Woge” betake himself in person to his cellar to pick out a choice bottle; for he was greatly concerned to have it said that there was something first-class to be had in the place. When his guest, suffering under the torments of an evil conscience, ventured only to sip faint-heartedly of the contents of his glass, the host ran exulting into the kitchen, smacked his tongue, and cried: “The devil take me, there’s one to the manner born; there’s a judge of good wine for you. He takes it on his tongue as one would lay a ducat on the gold scales!”
So dinner took its course, very slowly indeed, for the poor tailor ate and drank very coyly and undecidedly; and the host, to give him time, left everything on the table for longer than ordinary. For all that, what the guest had eaten up to this time was not worth speaking of; but now his hunger, which was constantly being tempted in so dangerous a manner, began to conquer his terror, and when the partridge-pie appeared the mood of the tailor suddenly changed, and one fixed thought began to master him. “Things are as they are,” he said to himself, warmed and incited by a new glass of wine. “I were a fool now if I should bear the brunt of the coming shame and persecution without having eaten my fill for it! So look to it while it is time. This is likely to be the last dish; I will devote myself to this, come what may! What I once have in my stomach no king can rob me of!”
No sooner said than done. With the boldness of despair he attacked the savoury pie, with no thought of stopping, so that in less than five minutes it was half gone, and the cause of the gentlemen who had ordered it was sadly in want of support. Meat, mushrooms, balls, crust, and top he swallowed without distinction, only anxious to bag it all before a cruel destiny should overtake him. He drank his wine in a hearty draught, and put enormous bits of bread into his mouth; in short, it was a lively innings, as when before a storm the hay from the near meadow is cast into the barn with a pitch-fork. Again the host ran to the kitchen and cried: “Look, he is eating up the pie, while he scarcely touched the roast! And the Bordeaux he drinks by glassfuls!”
“Let him,” said the cook. “He knows a partridge when he sees it! If he were a common fellow, he would have gorged on the roast!”
“That’s what I say,” remarked the host; “it doesn’t look very genteel; but I have often seen generals and the high clergy eat so!”
Meanwhile the coachman had had his horses fed, had eaten a substantial meal himself in the servants’ room, and as he was in haste, he had ordered his horses to be harnessed again. The menials could not resist asking him, before it was too late, who his master was and what was his name. The coachman, a jolly and sly fellow, said, “Has he not told you himself?”
“No,” they said; and he replied, “It is no wonder. He doesn’t have much to say from morning till night. Well, he is Count Strapinsky! He is going to stay here all day,—perhaps longer, for he told me to take the carriage home.”
He perpetrated this vicious joke to take revenge on the tailor, who had, as he thought, without giving him a word of thanks for his kindness, gone into the hotel to play the false rôle of a gentleman. Carrying his waggishness still further, he got up on his box without so much as asking what there was to pay for himself and his horses, cracked his whip, and drove out of town, no one interfering, for it was all put down on the bill of our friend the tailor.
Gottfried Keller (1815-1887).