The Merchant of Berlin Part 41

But Gotzkowsky himself was to have occasion to remind unthankful Leipsic of her professions of grat.i.tude--not to call on her to perform reciprocal favors, but to protect himself against calumny and unfriendly suspicions. For a day came, when Leipsic forgot the affliction and grief she had suffered, and only remembered that John Gotzkowsky was her creditor, and that she owed him large sums of money. So, when at last, weary of long waiting, he pressed for payment, they accused him of self-interest, and said that he had unnecessarily mixed himself up in their affairs, and that it would have been better if he had left them to their captivity; for although they might have had much to suffer, they would have had but little to pay.

Gotzkowsky answered these accusations in a manner characteristic of his n.o.ble, proud self--he was silent about them. But hard times and oppression came again upon the rich town of Leipsic.

The Prussian king exacted fresh contributions--and now they recalled to mind the services of Gotzkowsky; again they sent him humble letters, begging him to have pity on them; and now the cunning, calculating magistracy of Leipsic saw fit to take notice of these calumnies, which they had shortly before so industriously circulated through the public newspapers, and solemnly to declare in all the journals: "We hereby certify, in compliance with truth, through these writings, that the worshipful Herr Gotzkowsky, as well in past years, as at the late Leipsic fair, out of unchanged and innate love and friendly kindness to us, this town, and its inhabitants, has given just cause for grat.i.tude."

Gotzkowsky forgot the insults, and was again of a.s.sistance to them. A second time he persuaded the king to mitigate their contribution, and guaranteed the new bonds issued by them. A second time the magistrates and merchants thanked him in the most touching words for his n.o.ble and disinterested a.s.sistance, and a second time were they destined to forget their vows of grat.i.tude.

CHAPTER V.

FOUR YEARS' LABOR.

Four years of work, of industry, of productive activity, had pa.s.sed away since the stormy year of 1760. They had produced but little alteration in the life of Gotzkowsky and his daughter.

Gotzkowsky toiled and worked as he always had done; his factories were enlarged, his wealth increased and his fame as a merchant sounded through the whole world.

But all this would he have given, if he could have seen the light on the lips, the rosy glow on the cheek of his daughter, as in bygone days. But the beautiful and impa.s.sioned young girl had altered into the pale, serious, silent young woman, who had learned to throw the veil of quiet resignation over the secret of her heart, and to suppress any manifestation of pain.

Elise had grown old _internally_--old, despite her two-and-twenty years; she looked upon the life before her as a joyless, desert waste, which she had to traverse with bleeding feet and broken heart; and in the desolation of her soul, she sometimes shuddered at the death-like apathy and quiet of her feelings, broken by no sound, no note, not even the wail of woe.

She was without a wish, without a hope. Grief had spent itself on her.

She wept no more--she wrestled no longer with her love, for she had conquered it. But she could not rise again to any new joys of life--she could only be resigned. She had accepted life, and she bore it as does the bird shut up in a gilded cage, robbed of freedom and fresh air, and given in return a brilliant prison. She, too, was an imprisoned bird; and her wounded heart lay in the cage of her breast, sorrowful and infinitely wretched. She prayed to G.o.d for peace, for resignation, no longer for happiness, for she did not believe happiness any more possible. She had sunk into that apathy which desires nothing more than a quiet, dreamy fading away. Her grief was deficient in the animating consolation of the thought that "it came from G.o.d." Real and sacred suffering, which does come from G.o.d, and is imposed upon us by fate, always carries with it the divine power of healing; and at the same time that it casts us down and humbles us, raises us again, steels our courage, and makes us strong and proud to suffer and to bear. Quite different is that misfortune which comes from man--which is laid upon us by the envy, hatred, and malice of mankind. This carries with it no consolation, no comfort--a misfortune full of bitterness and murmuring--a misfortune which abases us without elevating us again, which casts us down in the mire, from the soil of which not all the hot streams of our tears can purify and cleanse us.

Had she lost her lover, had he been s.n.a.t.c.hed away from her by death, Elise, while she gave him back to G.o.d, would have regarded this heavy and sacred affliction as her great and holy happiness; she would have accepted it as a precious promise which elevated her, and inspired her with a blissful hope.

But she had lost him by his own treachery, by worldly sin, and she had given him up, not to G.o.d, but to his own unrighteousness and disloyalty. She had therefore lost him irretrievably, and for always--not for a short s.p.a.ce of time, but for all eternity; and she dared not even weep for him, for her misfortune was at the same time her disgrace, and even her tears filled her with humiliation and shame. For that reason she never spoke, either with her father or with Bertram, about the sad and painful past, about the errors and disappointments of her youth; and neither of them in their pure and indulgent love ever trespa.s.sed on the silence which Elise had spread over her sorrow. Toward her father she was a careful, attentive, and submissive daughter; toward Bertram a confiding and loving sister; but to both she felt as if she were only giving what was saved from the shipwreck of her affections. They both knew that Elise could no longer offer them an entire, unbroken heart. But they were both content to rest on the embers of this ruined edifice, to gather the leaves of this rose, broken by the tempest, and to remember how beautiful it was in its bloom.

Gotzkowsky only asked of his daughter that she should live, that she should become again healthy and strong for new happiness.

Bertram, in the strength and fidelity of his affections, had no other wish than that he should some day see her cheerful and content again, and once more brightened by the beams which only love and happiness can spread over a human countenance; and in his great and self-sacrificing love he said to himself: "If I only knew that her happiness lay in the remotest corner of the world, thither would I go to fetch it for her, even if she thereby were lost to me forever!"

And thus did four years pa.s.s away--externally, bright and clear, surrounded by all the brilliancy of wealth and happiness--inwardly, silent and desolate, full of privation and deep-rooted sorrow.

CHAPTER VI.

DAYS OF MISFORTUNE.

Gotzkowsky was alone in his room. It was an elegant, brilliantly ornamented apartment, which the greatest prince might have envied.

The most select pictures by celebrated old masters hung around on the walls; the most costly Chinese vases stood on gilt tables; and between the windows, instead of mirrors, were placed the most exquisite Greek marble statues. The furniture of the room was simple. Gotzkowsky had but one pa.s.sion, on which he spent yearly many thousands, and that was for art-treasures, paintings, and antiques. His house resembled a temple of art; it contained the rarest and choicest treasures; and when Gotzkowsky pa.s.sed through the rooms on the arm of his daughter, and contemplated the pictures, or dwelt with her on one of the sublime statues of the G.o.ds, his eye beamed with blissful satisfaction, and his whole being breathed cheerfulness and calm. But at this moment his countenance was care-worn and anxious, and however pleasantly and cheerfully the pictures looked down upon him from the walls, his eye remained sad and clouded, and deep grief was expressed in his features.

He sat at his writing-table, and turned over the papers which lay piled up high before him. At times he looked deeply shocked and anxious, and his whole frame trembled, as with hasty hand he transcribed some notes from another sheet. Suddenly he let the pen drop, and sank his head on his breast.

"It is in vain," he muttered in a low voice--"yes, it is in vain. If I were to exert all my power, if I were to collect all my means together, they would not be sufficient to pay these enormous sums."

Again he turned over the papers, and pointing with his finger to one of them, he continued: "Yes, there it stands. I am a rich man on paper. Leipsic owes me more than a million. If she pays, and De Neufville comes, I am saved. But if not--if Leipsic once more, as she has already done three times, protests her inability to pay--if De Neufville does not come, what shall I do? How can I save myself from ruin and shame?"

Deeper and deeper did he bury himself silently in the papers. A terrible anxiety oppressed him, and sent his blood rushing to his heart and head. He arose and paced up and down the room, muttering occasionally a few words, betraying the anguish and terror which possessed him. Then standing still, he pressed his hands to his temples, as if to crowd back the pain which throbbed and ached there.

"Oh, it is terrible!" he uttered in a subdued voice; "with my eyes open I stand on the brink of a precipice. I see it, and cannot draw back. If no helping hand is stretched out to save me, I must fall in, and my good name must perish with me. And to be obliged to confess that not my own want of judgment, no rashness nor presumption on my part, but only love of mankind, love of my brethren, has brought me to this! To each one who held out his hand to me, I gave the hand of a friend, every one in need I helped. And for that reason, for the good I have done, I stand on the verge of an abyss."

He cast his looks toward heaven, and tears shone in his eyes. "Was it, then, wrong? O my G.o.d! was it, then, culpable to trust men, and must I atone with my honor for what I did from love?"

But this compunction, this depression, did not last long. Gotzkowsky soon arose above his grief, and bearing his head aloft as if to shake off the cares which lowered around it, he said in a determined tone: "I must not lose my courage. This day requires all my presence of mind, and the decisive moment shall not find me cowed and pusillanimous."

He was about to set himself to work again, when a repeated knocking at the door interrupted him. At his reluctant bidding it opened, and Bertram appeared on the threshold. "Pardon me," he said, almost timidly; "I knew that you wished to be alone, but I could not bear it any longer. I must see you. Only think, Father Gotzkowsky, it is a fortnight since I arrived, and I have scarcely seen you in this time; therefore do not be angry with me if I disobey your orders, and come to you, although I know that you are busy."

Gotzkowsky nodded to him with a sad smile. "I thank you for it," said he. "I had ordered Peter not to admit any one. You are an exception, as you know, my son."

A pause ensued, during which Bertram examined Gotzkowsky with a searching look. The latter had seated himself again at his writing-table, and with troubled looks was examining his papers.

Bertram had been absent for nearly a year. The silent grief which day and night gnawed at his heart had undermined his health and exhausted his physical strength. The physicians had deemed a prolonged residence in Nice necessary. If Bertram yielded to their judgment and repaired to Nice, it was because he thought, "Perhaps Elise will think of me when I am no longer near her. Perchance absence may warm her heart, and she may forget the brother, some day to welcome the husband."

Returning after a year's absence, strengthened and restored to health, he found Elise as he had left her. She received him with the same quiet, calm look with which she had bid him farewell. She placed her hand as coolly and as friendly in his, and although she inquired cordially and sympathizingly after his welfare, Bertram still felt that her heart and her inmost soul had not part in her questioning.

Elise had not altered--but how little was Gotzkowsky like himself!

Where was the ardent man, powerful of will, whom Bertram had embraced at his departure? where was his clear, ringing voice, his proud bearing, his energy, his burning eloquence--what had become of all these? What diabolical, dismal influence had succeeded in breaking this iron will, in subduing this vital power?

Bertram felt that a deep grief was corroding Gotzkowsky's life--a grief whose destructive influence was greater because he avoided the expression of it, and sought no relief nor consolation by communicating it to others. "He shall, at least, speak to me," said Bertram. "I will compel him to make me the confidant of his grief, and to lighten his heart by imparting a portion of his burden to mine."

With this determination he had entered Gotzkowsky's room; he now stood opposite to him, and with gentle sympathy looked into his pale, sorrow-worn countenance.

But Gotzkowsky avoided his eye. He seemed entirely occupied with his papers, and turned them over again and again. Bertram could bear it no longer; he hastened to him, and taking his hand pressed it affectionately to his lips. "My father," said he, "forgive me; but when I look at you, I am possessed by a vague fear which I cannot explain to myself. You know that I love you as my father, and for that reason can read your thoughts. Gotzkowsky, since my return I have read much care and sorrow in your face."

"Have you?" said Gotzkowsky, painfully; "yes, yes, sorrow does not write in hieroglyphics. It is a writing which he who runs can read."

"You confess, then, that you have sorrow, and yet you hide it from me. You do not let me share your cares. Have I deserved that of you, father?"

Gotzkowsky arose and paced the room, thoughtful and excited. For the first time he felt that the sympathy of a loving heart did good.

Involuntarily the crust which surrounded his heart gave way, and he became gentle and eager for sympathy. He held out his hand to Bertram and nodded to him. "You are right, my son," said he, gently, "I should not have kept my sorrows from you. It is a comfort, perhaps, to unbosom one's self. Listen, then--but no! first tell me what is said of me in the city, and, above all, what is said of me at the Bourse?

Ah? you cast your eyes down--Bertram, I must and will know all. Speak out freely. I have courage to hear the utmost." But yet his voice trembled as he spoke, and his lips twitched convulsively.

Bertram answered sadly: "What do you care about the street gossip of envious people? You know that you have enemies, because you are rich and high-minded. You have long been envied because your house is the most extensive and solid in all Europe, and because your drafts stand at par in all the markets. They are jealous of the fame of your firm, and for that very reason they whisper all sorts of things that they do not dare to say aloud. But why should you let such miserable scandal worry you?"

Bertram tried to smile, but it was a sorrowful, anxious one, which did not escape Gotzkowsky. "Ah!" said he, "these light whisperings of calumny are like the single snow-flakes which finally collect together and roll on and on, and at last become an avalanche which buries up our honor and our good name. Tell me, then, Bertram, what do they whisper?"

Bertram answered in a low, timid voice: "They pretend to know that your house has suffered immense losses; that you were not able to meet your drafts; that all your wealth is unfounded; and that--but why should I repeat all the old women's and newspaper stories?"

"Even the newspapers talk about it, then?" muttered Gotzkowsky to himself.

"Yes, the _Vossian Gazette_," continued Bertram, "has an article in which it speaks mysteriously and sympathizingly of the impending failure of one of our most eminent houses. This is said to aim at you, father."