“Pity for this Gerlach!” thought the official, as he strode through the street. “He is lost to progress, for he is too solidly rooted in superstition to be reclaimed. War against nature's claims; deny healthy physical nature its rights; re-establish the reign of terror of the seven capital sins; permit the priesthood to tyrannize over conscience; restore the worship of an unmathematical triune God—no! no!” cried he fiercely, “sooner shall all go to the devil!”
A carriage whirled past him. He cast a glance into the vehicle, and raised his hat to Mr. Hans Shund.
The chief magistrate was on his way home from the town-hall. He could not rest under the weight of his laurels; the inebriation of his triumph drove him into the room where sat his lonely and careworn wife.
“My election to the assembly is assured, wife.” And he went on with a minute account of the proceedings of the day.
The pale, emaciated lady sat bowed in silence over her work, and did not look up.
“Well, wife, don't you take any interest in the honors won by your husband? I should think you ought to feel pleased.”
“All my joys are swallowed up in an abyss of unutterable wretchedness,” replied she. “And my husband is daily deepening the gulf. Yesterday you were again at a disreputable house. Your abominable deeds are heaped mountain high—and am I to rejoice?”
“A thousand demons, wife, I'm beginning to believe you have spies on foot!”
“I have not. But you are at the head of this city—your steps cannot possibly remain unobserved.”
“Very well!” cried he, “it shall be my effort in the assembly to bring about such a change that there shall no longer be any houses of disrepute. Narrow-minded moralists shall not be allowed to howl any longer. The time is at hand, old lady—so-called disreputable houses are to become places of amusement authorized by law.”