The old man spoke in a very sorrowful tone. I began to feel a deep interest in Roderick, whatever his misfortunes might be.
“Is not Roderick your son?” I asked, supposing that I must have made a mistake.
“Yes—that one I suppose you don’t know; that’s Karl Wagner, that’s Mary’s husband—a good son he is. And that’s Tommy, that’s our Tommy—sturdy Tommy, as they call him. That’s the last one Roderick ever made.” And the old man brushed his eyes with his shriveled hands as he spoke.
“Where does Roderick live?” I asked. “Is he married?”
“Hush—here!”
“Why is it, that a young man of such talent gives up a glorious art, when it opens a field to him to enable him to rise above his condition, to gain wealth, honor, fame?”
“Hush!”
“Go, ask Count Reisach!” cried the old woman, starting up. She was in a frenzy. Her eyes glared, her bent form trembled from head to foot, her hands were clenched, but hung dangling at her side, and she seemed to make superhuman efforts to raise them. They were paralyzed. Tears coursed each other down her cheeks as she cried—“Go ask Count Reisach! Go find him! Go ask poor Father Klaus! Go down and ask Almighty God why he let—oh!” she cried, sinking on her knees—her voice choked; sobs, spasms convulsed her frame; still her face was raised, it seemed to me in prayer, but her hands clasped not, they seemed to weigh her to the earth, as they hung lifeless beside her.
“Mein Got! O, mein Got!” cried the old man, as he took her in his arms. “O, my poor frau—would to God thy poor spark of reason would go out, that I might see this heavy burden off thy soul!”
He raised her tenderly as a child, repelling my assistance, and when he had placed her in her arm-chair, left her to Mary’s care, and came to resume his seat upon the bench, outside the door.