Philip had gone the round of the room, and must now pay a visit to the conservatory which opened out of the room. He came here at once upon a large table surrounded by young men, who received him with such enthusiasm that he seemed quite to overlook a smaller table close by, and with a wave of his hand and a jesting word to the young men was passing on farther, when a hoarse well-known voice said: “Now then, Schmidt, are not we to have the honour?” Philip’s face quivered, but it was beaming as if in joyful surprise as he turned round and threw up his arms, crying, “At last! Why, Lübbener, Councillor! Where the deuce have you been hiding? I really thought I was to be deprived of this pleasure. And you are quite alone, too! Like the lions, you keep apart!”
“We were late comers,” said the Councillor, touching Philip’s extended glass with his; “it was a mere matter of chance!”
“As long as you are amusing yourselves,” said Philip.
“Certainly,” answered Lübbener. “We can see here into both rooms. It is the best place of all.”
“Then it belongs to you by right,” cried Philip. “The best place in the room. The best in the house! Where would room and house be without you, my good Hugo? Dear old man!”
And, as if overcome with emotion, he took the little man in his arms, and held him, not daring to resist, pressed to his breast, when a loud voice a few steps from them cried, “Gentlemen!”
“Oh, horror!” exclaimed Philip, letting Lübbener out of his embrace.
“Ladies and gentlemen—”
The speaker was a bank clerk from the young men’s table, famed among his companions for his extraordinary talent for after-dinner speeches. He had so placed himself, glass in hand, between the dining-room and the conservatory that he might have been heard in both rooms, if, in the noise which increased every moment, one man’s voice had not been as much lost as a drop in the ocean.
“Stand on a chair, Norberg!”
“Hear, hear!”
“Stand on two chairs, Norberg; one is of no use.”
“Ladies and gentlemen—”
“Louder, louder! Silence! Hear, hear!”
Nobody could hear anything, but here and there people could see someone standing on a chair gesticulating, and apparently making an attempt to speak; they drew the attention of their neighbours, and though silence was not attained, Herr Norberg, with renewed hopes, exerted the full force of his lungs, so far overpowering the noise as to make himself audible, at least to the circle which had gathered round him, and which was increasing every moment.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Our German proverb says that every man forges his own fortune—”
“Bravo! hear, hear!”
“But, unfortunately, everyone does not understand smith’s work, and the work fails in consequence. For the smith’s work we need a Schmidt—”1
“Very good! Hear! Silence there!”
“And if a smith forges his fortune, we may be assured that it is a work which he need not be ashamed of before masters or apprentices.”
“Capital! Bravo! Bravissimo!”
“And, ladies and gentlemen, the masters, and more particularly we young apprentices who have still much to learn, and who wish to learn, will watch his fingers in order to find out how and with what tools he works; for the tools are the first consideration!”
“Bravo! Bravo!”
There was almost perfect silence. Herr Norberg, now sure of his effect, continued in a pathetic tone of voice:
“But what are his tools? First, of course, the anvil—the immovable anvil, formed of the cast steel of honesty—”
“Hear! hear!”
“Of honesty, which can bear every blow and shock, because it rests on its own merits, and tested as it is by the enduring and flattering confidence of the initiated, and, if I may so express myself, polished by the good report of all honest people—”
“Bravo! bravo!”
“May laugh to scorn the rust of slanderous tongues which are raised against it and its like, if such there be, even should it proceed from the tribune of a certain great House—”
The last words were scarcely to be heard in the indescribable uproar which arose at the first allusion to the great event of the day, with which the minds of all were still filled, or at least occupied. Whether the opprobrious word was approved or condemned by the majority of the company, it was impossible to decide. Encouraging, even enthusiastic acclamations, in which Norberg’s particular friends were the loudest, words of dissatisfaction, of disapproval, even of the greatest indignation, all this buzzed, resounded, and reverberated, till almost suddenly the storm abated, as if all, friends and foes, were curious to hear what the man would utter further, as they all took it for granted that he would not rest satisfied with this one sally.
But the prudent Norberg was careful not to stake the issue of his well-considered speech by another impromptu. He spoke again in the flowery language in which he had begun, of the “Heavy hammer of Strength,” which the master he honoured could wield better than any other; of the indefatigable “Pincers of Energy,” with which he held fast to plans that he had once made; even of the “Bellows of strong breathing Courage,” which ever renewed in his own breast and in the hearts of his fellow-workmen the flame of inspiration which belongs to all creative power. Provided with these tools, and gifted with these qualities, it had been possible for the master to attain to this imposing result; to carry through his vast plans in spite of the indifference of the public, in spite of the ignorant opposition of the authorities; to make new roads for trade, convenient ways for commerce, towards the completion of which he was now working, it might reasonably be hoped
