Читать книгу Debit and Credit - Gustav Freytag - Страница 16

One warm summer evening, office hours being over, Fink said to Anton, "Will you accompany me to-day? I am going to try a boat that I have just had built." Anton was ready at once; so they jumped into a carriage, and drove to the river. Fink pointed out a round boat that floated on the water like a pumpkin, and said, in a melancholy tone, "There it is—a perfect horror, I declare! I cut out the model for the builder myself too; I gave him all manner of directions, and this is the sea-gull's egg he has produced."

"It is very small," replied Anton, with an uncomfortable foreboding.

"I'll tell you what it is," cried Fink to the builder, who now came forward, respectfully touching his hat, "our deaths will be at your door, for we shall inevitably be drowned in that thing, and it will be owing to your want of sense."

"Sir," replied the man, "I have made it exactly according to your directions."

"You have, have you?" continued Fink. "Well, then, as a punishment, you shall go with us; you must see that it is but fair that we should be drowned together."

"No, sir, that I will not do, with so much wind as this," returned the man, decidedly.

"Then stay ashore and make sawdust pap for your children. Give me the mast and sails." He fitted in the little mast, hoisted and examined the sails, then took them down again, and laid them at the bottom of the boat, threw in a few iron bars as ballast, told Anton where to sit, and, seizing the two oars, struck out from shore. The pumpkin danced gayly on the water, to the great delight of the builder and his friends, who stood watching it.

"I wanted to show these lazy fellows that it is possible to row a boat like this against the stream," said Fink, replacing the mast, setting the sail, and giving the proper directions to his pupil. The wind came in puffs, sometimes filling the little sail, and bending the boat to the water's edge, sometimes lulling altogether.

"It is a wretched affair," cried Fink, impatiently; "we are merely drifting now, and we shall capsize next."

"If that's the case," said Anton, with feigned cheerfulness, "I propose that we turn back."

"It doesn't matter," replied Fink, coolly; "one way or other, we'll get to land. You can swim?"

"Like lead. If we do capsize I shall sink at once, and you will have some trouble to get me up again."

"If we find ourselves in the water, mind you do not catch hold of me, which would be the surest way of drowning both. Wait quietly till I draw you out; and, by the way, you may as well be pulling off your coat and boots; one is more comfortable in the water en négligé." Anton did so at once.

"That's right," said Fink. "To say the truth, this is wretched sport. No waves, no wind, and now no water. Here we are, aground again! Push off, will you? Hey, shipmate! what would you say if this dirty shore were suddenly to sink, and we found ourselves out on a respectable sea—water as far as the horizon, waves as high as that tree yonder, and a good hearty wind, that blew your ears off, and flattened your nose on your face?"

"I can't say that I should like it at all," replied Anton, nervously.

"And yet," said Fink, "there are few plights so bad but they might be still worse. Just think; in that case it would be some comfort to have even these good-for-nothing planks between us and the water; but what if we ourselves lay on the stream—no boat, no shore—mountain waves all round?"

"I at least should be lost!" cried Anton, with genuine horror.

"I have a friend, a good friend, to whom I trust implicitly in any crisis, to whom this once happened. He sauntered down to the shore on a glorious evening, had a fancy to bathe, stripped, plunged, and struck out gayly. The waves lifted him up and drew him down; the water was warm, the sunset dyed the sea with ten thousand exquisite hues, and the golden sky glowed above him. The man shouted with ecstasy."

"You were that man?" inquired Anton.

"True. I went on swimming for about an hour, when the dull look of the sky reminded me that it was time to return; so I made for land; and what think you, Master Wohlfart, that I saw?"

"A ship?" said Anton; "a fish?"

"No. I saw nothing—the land had vanished. I looked on all sides—I rose as high as I could out of the water—there was nothing to be seen but sea and sky. The current that set out from the land had treacherously carried me out. I was in mid ocean, somewhere between England and America, that I knew; but this geographical fact was by no means soothing to one in my circumstances. The sky grew dark, the hollows filled with black uncanny shadows, the waves got higher, and a cold wind blew round my head; nothing was to be seen but the dusky red of the sky and the rolling waters."

"Horrible!" cried Anton.

"It was a moment when no priest in the world could have prevented a poor human being from wishing himself a pike, or some such creature. I knew by the sky where the land lay. Now came the question, which was stronger—the current or my arm? I began a deadly struggle with the treacherous ocean deities. I should not have done much by such swimming as they teach in schools. I rolled like a porpoise, and struck out desperately for about two hours; then the labor got hard indeed. It was the fiercest battle I ever fought. The sky grew dark, the emerald waves pitchy black, only they were crested with foam that blew in my face. At times a single star peeped from the clouds—that was my only comfort. So I swam on and on, and still there was no land to be seen. I was tired out, and the hideous darkness sometimes made me think of giving up the struggle. The clouds gathered darker, the stars disappeared; I began to doubt whether I was taking the right direction, and I was making very little way. I knew the game was nearly up—my chest heaved—countless sparks rose before my eyes. Just then, my boy, when I had glided half unconsciously down the slope of a wave, I felt something under my feet that was no longer water."

"It was land!" cried Anton.

"Yes," said Fink; "it was good firm sand. I found myself on shore about a mile to leeward of my clothes, and fell down like a dead seal." Then stopping, and with a steady look at Anton, "Now, mate, get ready!" cried he; "take your legs from under the bench; I am going to tack and make for shore. Now for it!"

At that moment came a violent gust of wind; the mast creaked, the boat heeled over, and could not right herself. According to promise, Anton went to the bottom without any more ado. Quick as lightning Fink dived after him, brought him up, and, with a violent effort, reached a spot whence they could wade ashore. "Deuce take it," gasped Fink; "take hold of my arm, can't you?"

But Anton, who had swallowed a quantity of water, was hardly conscious, and only waved Fink off.

"I do believe he'll be down again," cried the latter, impatiently, catching hold of him and making for the shore.

A crowd had by this time assembled round the spot where Fink was holding his companion in his arms and exhorting him to recover himself. At length Anton opened his eyes.

"Why, Wohlfart," said Fink, anxiously, "how goes it, my lad? You have taken the matter too much to heart. Poncho y ponche!" cried he to the by-standers; "a cloak and a glass of rum—that will soon bring him round."

A cloak was willingly lent, and our hero carried to the builder's house.

"Here is an end of boat, sails, oars, and all," said Fink, reproachfully, "and of our coats into the bargain. Did not I tell you that it was a good-for-nothing tub?"

For an hour, at least, Fink tended his victim with the greatest tenderness, but it was late before Anton was sufficiently recovered to walk home.

The next day was Sunday, and the principal's birth-day besides. On this important occasion, the gentlemen of the office spent some hours after dinner with the family circle, and coffee and cigars were served. As they were sitting down to table, the good-natured cousin said to Fink, "The whole town is full of the fearful risk which you and Mr. Wohlfart ran yesterday."

"Not worth mentioning, my dear lady!" replied Fink, carelessly; "I only wanted to see how Master Wohlfart would behave in drowning. I threw him into the water, and he was within a hair's-breadth of remaining at the bottom, considering it indiscreet to give me the trouble of saving him. Only a German is capable of such self-sacrificing politeness."

"But," cried the cousin, "this is a sheer tempting of Providence. It is dreadful to think of it!"

"It is dreadful to think of the impurity of your river. The water sprites that inhabit it must be a dirty set. But Wohlfart did not mind their mud. He fell into their arms with enthusiasm. He threw both legs over the boat's edge before there was any occasion."

"You told me to do so," cried Anton, in self-exculpation.

"Poor Mr. Wohlfart!" exclaimed the astonished cousin. "But your coats! This morning I met a policeman with the wet bundle in his arms, and it was he who told me of your accident."

"The coats were fished up at an early hour," said Fink, "but Karl doubts whether they will ever dry. Meanwhile, Wohlfart's boots are on a voyage of discovery toward the ocean."

Anton blushed with anger at his friend's jests, and looked stealthily toward the upper end of the table. The merchant glanced darkly at the cheerful Fink. Sabine was pale and downcast—the cousin alone was fluent in her pity for the coats.

The dinner was more solemn than usual. After the plates were removed, Mr. Liebold rose to fulfill the arduous duty imposed upon him by his position—to propose the health of their principal. He took all possible pains not to retract or qualify his eulogiums and good wishes; but even this toast fell flat—a certain painful excitement seemed to prevail at the head of the table.

After dinner they all stood round in groups, drinking their coffee; and bold spirits—Mr. Pix, for instance, ventured upon a cigar as well. Meanwhile, Anton roamed through the suite of rooms, looking at the paintings on the walls, turning over albums, and fighting off ennui as well as he could. In this way he reached the end room, and stopped there in amazement. Sabine stood before him, tears falling from her eyes. She was sobbing silently, her slender form shaken by the conflict within, but yet she was trying to repress her grief with an energy that only made it the more touching.

As Anton, filled with deepest sympathy, turned to go, she looked round, composed herself, passed her handkerchief over her eyes, and said kindly, "Take care, Mr. Wohlfart, that the foolhardiness of your friend leads you into no fresh danger. My brother would be very sorry that your intercourse with him should prove an injury to you."

"Miss Sabine," replied Anton, looking reverentially at her, "Fink is as noble as he is reckless. He saved me at the peril of his own life."

"Oh yes!" cried Sabine, with an expression Anton did not quite understand; "he loves to play with whatever is sacred to others."

At that moment Mr. Jordan came to request her to give them some music. She went at once.

Anton was excited to the utmost. Sabine Schröter stood so high in the estimation of the gentlemen of the counting-house that they paid her the compliment of rarely naming her. Most of the younger clerks had been desperately in love with her; and though the flames had burned down for want of fuel, yet the embers still glowed in the innermost recesses of their hearts. All alike would have fought for her against any enemy in the world. But they looked upon her as a marble saint, a being beyond the influence of human weaknesses.

Anton, however, now doubted whether she were really this. To him, too, the young lady of the house had been like the moon, only visible afar off, and on one side. Daily he sat opposite her, saw the delicate sadness of her face—the deep glance of her beautiful eyes—heard her speak the same commonplace sentences, and knew no more of her. All at once an accident made him her confidant. He felt sure, by many a token, that this grief was connected with Fink; and although he had for him the devoted admiration that an unsophisticated youth readily bestows upon a daring and experienced comrade, yet, in this case, he found himself enlisted on the lady's side against his friend; he resolved to watch him narrowly, and be to her a brotherly protector, a faithful confidant—all, in short, that was sympathizing and helpful.

A few hours later, Sabine sat in the window with folded hands. Her brother had laid aside his newspaper, and was watching her anxiously. At last he rose, stepped silently up to her, and laid his hand on her head. She clasped him in her arms. There they stood, leaning against each other, two friends who had so shared their lives that each knew the other's thoughts without a spoken word.

Tenderly stroking his sister's hair, the merchant began: "You know what large dealings we have with Fink's father?"

"I know that you are not satisfied with the son."

"I could not help taking him into our house, but I regret the hour I did so."

"Do not be hard upon him," pleaded the sister, kissing her brother's hand; "think how much there is that is noble in his character."

"I am not unjust toward him. But it is yet to be proved whether he will be a blessing or a curse to his fellow-men. He may become a more paltry aristocrat, who wastes his energies in refined self-indulgence, or a covetous, unscrupulous money-maker, like his uncle in America."

"He is not heartless!" murmured Sabine; "his friendship for Wohlfart shows that."

"He does but play with him—throws him into the water, and picks him out again."

"Nay," cried Sabine; "he esteems his good sense and high principles, and feels that he has a better nature than his own."

"Do not deceive yourself and me," replied the merchant; "I know the fascination that this strange man has long had for you. I have said nothing, for I could trust you. But, now that I see that he makes you really unhappy, I can not but wish for his absence. He shall leave our house without delay."

"Oh no, no!" cried Sabine, wringing her hands. "No, Traugott, that shall not, must not be! If there be any way of rescuing him from the evil influences of his past life, it is the being with you. To see, to take part in the regular activity, the high honor of your mercantile career, is salvation to him. Brother," continued she, taking his hand, "I have no secrets from you; you have found out my foolish weakness; but I promise you that henceforth it shall be no more to me than the recollection of some tale that I have read. Never by look or word will I betray it; only do not, oh! do not be angry with him—do not send him away, and that on my account."

"But how can I tell whether his remaining here may not subject you to a painful conflict?" inquired the merchant. "Our position as regards him is difficult enough without this. He ranks as a brilliant match in every sense of the word. His father has intrusted him to me. If an attachment were to spring up between you, it would be treachery to his father to withhold it from him. It might seem to him as if we had a wish to secure the young heir; and he, accustomed as he is to easy conquests, might perhaps laugh at what he would call your weakness and my long-headedness. The very thought calls up all my pride."

"Brother," cried Sabine, with burning cheeks, "do not forget that I am your sister. I am a merchant's daughter, and he would never belong entirely to our class. I am as proud as you, and have always had the conviction that not all the love in the world could ever fill the gulf between us. Trust me," continued she, with tears; "you shall see no more sad looks. But be kinder to him; think what his fate has been, tossed about among strangers; think how he has grown up without affection, without a home; spoiled in many ways, but still with a high sense of honor, an abhorrence of all that is little. Trust me, and be kinder to him."

"He shall stay," said the merchant; "but besides, my darling, there is another whom we should seek to guard from his influence."

"Wohlfart!" cried Sabine, cheerfully; "oh, I will answer for him."

"You undertake a good deal. So he, too, is a favorite?"

"He is tender-hearted and honorable, and devoted to you; and he has plenty of spirit too. Trust him, he will be a match for Fink. I happened to meet him at the time that Fink had insulted him, and I have given him a place in my heart ever since."

"How does this heart find room for every thing?" cried the merchant, playfully; "above and beyond all, the great store-room, the oaken presses of our grandmother, and the piles of white linen; then, in a side-chamber apart, your strict brother; then—"

"Then all the others in the ante-chamber," broke in Sabine.

Meanwhile Fink entered Anton's room, humming a tune, little suspecting the storm in the front part of the house, and, truth to tell, little caring what they thought about him there. "I have fallen into disgrace on your account, my son," cried he, merrily. "His majesty has treated me all the day long with killing indifference, and the black-haired has not deigned me a single glance—good sort of people, but desperately matter of fact. That Sabine has at bottom plenty of life and spirit, but she plagues herself about the merest trifles. She would raise a question as to whether it was a fly's duty to scratch its head with the right leg or the left. Why, you are on the way to be looked upon as the 'Mignon' of the counting-house, and I as your evil genius. Never mind; to-morrow we will go together to the swimming-school."

And so it was. From that day forth Fink delighted to initiate his young friend into all his own pursuits. He taught him to swim, to ride, to leap, to shoot at a mark, and even threatened to get him an invitation to a hunting-party. Against this Anton vehemently protested.

Anton on his side rewarded him by the greatest devotion. They were happy evenings for both when, sitting under the shadow of the condor's wings, they chatted away and laughed so loud that through the open window the sound reached old Pluto the watch-dog, who, feeling himself the guardian of the establishment, and considered by all as a distinguished member of it, woke up to bay out his hearty sympathy with their enjoyment—ay, they were happy hours; for their intimacy ripened for the first time in the life of either into sincere friendship. And yet Anton never left off watching Fink's bearing to Sabine; although he did not name her to him, he was always expecting to hear of some important event: a betrothal, or a quarrel between Fink and the merchant, or something extraordinary. But nothing of the kind occurred; the solemn daily meals went on, and Sabine's behavior to both friends was the same as before.

Another year had passed away, the second since our apprentice's arrival, and again the roses blossomed. One evening Anton bought a large nosegay of them, and knocked with them at the door of Jordan, who was a great lover of flowers. He was surprised to find all the clerks assembled, as they had been on the day of his arrival, and he saw at a glance that they were embarrassed by his appearance. Jordan hurried to meet him, and, with a slight degree of confusion, requested that he would leave them for about an hour, as they were discussing a subject into which he, as an apprentice, could not enter. It was the first time that these kind-hearted men had ever allowed him to feel any difference between his position and theirs, and therefore his banishment slightly depressed him. He carried back his nosegay, placed it with a resigned air upon his own table, and took up a book.

Meanwhile a solemn deliberation was going on in Jordan's room. He rose, struck the table with a ruler, and went on to state that a colleague having, as they all knew, left the business, a vacancy had occurred, which Mr. Schröter himself wished should be filled by Wohlfart; but as his case would thus be made exceptional—he having been an apprentice only two years instead of four—the principal kindly referred the decision to the body of the clerks.

An imposing silence succeeded to these words, which was at length interrupted by Mr. Pix proposing punch, and that they should order in the kettle for the tea-drinkers.

The other gentlemen preserved a dignified silence, looked with solemnity at the preparations going forward, and each felt his responsibility and his importance as a man and a clerk.

The next question was, "How shall we vote?"

It was decided that the youngest should begin.

Specht was the youngest. "First of all, I have to remark that Herr von Fink is not present," said he, looking around in some excitement.

A general murmur arose, "He does not belong to us; he is a volunteer."

"In that case," continued Specht, somewhat taken down by this universal opposition, "I am of opinion that Anton ought, according to custom, to remain an apprentice for four years; but, as he is a good fellow, and likely to prove useful, I am also of opinion that an exception should be made in his favor; while I propose that, in order to remind him of his former position, he be appointed to make tea for us during a year, and to mend a hundred pens for each of his colleagues."

"Stuff and nonsense!" muttered Pix; "you have always such overstrained notions."

"What do you mean by overstrained notions?" inquired Specht, angrily.

"I must call you to order," said Mr. Jordan.

The rest of the colleagues proceeded to give in their adherence to the plan. Baumann did so with enthusiasm. At last it came to the turn of Pix. "Gentlemen," said he, "what is the use of much talking? His knowledge of business is fair, considering that he is but a young fellow; his manner is pleasant—the servants respect him. According to my notions, he is too tender and considerate; but it is not given to all to manage others. He is a poor hand at cards, and can make little or nothing of punch—that's about what he is. But, as these last peculiarities have nothing to do with the present proposal, I see no reason why he should not, from the present date, become our colleague."

Then came Purzel and Liebold, who each gave his vote in his own characteristic way, and the affair was settled. Baumann was about to rush off and call Anton, when Specht insisted upon the solemnity of a deputation, and Liebold and Pix were appointed to escort the astonished youth, who could not conceive what it all meant, till Jordan, advancing to meet him, said, with the utmost cordiality, "Dear Wohlfart, you have now worked with us two years; you have taken pains to learn the business, and have won the friendship of us all. It is the will of the principal, and our united wish, that the term of your apprenticeship should be abridged, and that you should to-morrow enter upon your duties as a clerk. We congratulate you sincerely, and hope that, as our colleague, you will show us the same friendly regard that you have hitherto shown." So said worthy Mr. Jordan, and held out his hand.

Anton stood for a moment as if stupefied, and then there followed an amount of hand-shaking and congratulation never witnessed before in that apartment. Next came toasts, speeches, and, after an evening of most hearty enjoyment, the colleagues separated at a late hour.

Anton could not go to bed, however, without imparting his good fortune to his friend Fink. So he went to meet him on his return home, and told him the important event in the bright moonlight. Fink made a grand flourish in the air with his riding-whip, and said, "Bravo! bravo! I should not have given our despot credit for such contempt of precedent. You will be launched a year the sooner into life."

The following day the principal called the new clerk into his own sanctuary, and received his thanks with a smile.

Last of all, at dinner, the ladies congratulated the new official. Sabine even came down the whole length of the table to where Anton stood, and greeted him in the kindest terms. A bottle of wine was placed beside each cover; while the merchant, raising his glass, and bowing to our happy hero, said, with earnest kindness, "Dear Wohlfart, we drink to the memory of your excellent father."