“Do you think so?” Aunt Rikchen had let her knitting fall into her lap, and her eyes once more filled with tears, which this time did not disappear. “Do you know,” said she, “that is what I have often thought, I often think that it is impossible that he should love no one, for he cannot bear to see an animal suffer, and he delights in lending a hand in moving the great blocks of marble so that the strong horses may not be overworked. But in that way he overworks himself, and cares and works for everyone whoever it may be, and they often do not deserve it, and repay him with the basest ingratitude. And then he must needs drink wine, for no Christian man could get through what he undertakes, and I have no objection to a glass or so; I often drink one myself when I am quite overdone, and it does me a great deal of good and comforts my old bones; but two bottles—or three—I am convinced that he will have a fit of apoplexy.”
The tears broke through their former restraint and fell in torrents down her sunken cheeks. Reinhold too was touched; there was so much true love in this acknowledgment of her brother’s good qualities, in this anxiety for him—an anxiety which he secretly felt was not without grounds.
“My dear aunt,” said he, “you need not be so anxious. We Schmidts are a hardy race, and my uncle may do more than most people. Besides anyone coming as I do fresh and unaccustomed amongst you, can see I think better and clearer what he really is; and I don’t mind saying, my dear aunt, that I should not be surprised if my uncle purposely showed the rough side of his nature so that all the world should not know how soft and sympathising his heart really is. I have known more than one man like that.”
“Have you?” said Aunt Rikchen eagerly, as her tears once more dried up. “Well, you have been a great deal about the world and have seen a great many people: heathens, and negroes, and Turks, and amongst them you may often see things that are not proper for a Christian; and even my stupid mind can understand things of that sort, but can you explain to me how it is possible that a father with a heart such as you speak of, could be on the terms with his son that he is on with Philip? explain that to me!”
“But I don’t know on what sort of terms he is with his son, my dear aunt! There seems to be a complete break between them.”
“Yes! is not it dreadful?” said Aunt Rikchen. “And the scenes that take place! Goodness me! when I think of it! But that is all over now; they have not met for two years, and Philip does not need our help now! he is getting so fearfully rich, he has made millions, Justus says, and is now building a house in the Wilhelmstrasse, where every square yard costs five thalers, or five hundred, or five thousand—I never can remember figures; and Anders has got to make four—or four and twenty statues for the hall and staircase, and the steps are to be of canary marble—that is what they call it, is it not? And I do not see the disgrace of that when a man has raised himself from being an ordinary builder as he was. Do you?”
“Till I know how he has raised himself, my dear aunt—”
“What! what!” cried Aunt Rikchen, “are you beginning to ask that already? What can he have done so very bad? Has he stolen it? Has he committed a burglary somewhere? or turned incendiary? or footpad? Wait till he does—wait till he does!”
“But indeed I have said nothing against Philip; I am utterly unprejudiced!” cried Reinhold.
“Yes, quite unprejudiced!” answered Aunt Rikchen, “when you take every earthly opportunity of flattering him and buttering him up till he is as proud as the grand Turk! And though Philip may sometimes be a little reckless and selfish, he has always been kind to me; and only yesterday when I met him in the Potsdamerstrasse he said: ‘If ever you are in want of money, aunt, come to me; you can have as much as ever you want.’ I do not want any, thank heaven! for he supplies me with all that is needful; but a nephew, who, meeting his poor old aunt in the Potsdamerstrasse in broad daylight, offers her any amount of money, is no robber, and no murderer, say I. And now you must manage to meet him; he does not generally inquire after or interest himself in anyone, but he has always taken the greatest interest in you, and always marks your journeys on the map with a red pencil. And that is just as it should be. I don’t mean about the pencil, but that clinging to one’s family. I could go through fire and water for him! for him! for all of them, it is all the same to me; either a man is a Schmidt or he is not a Schmidt—he has either got the Schmidt blood in his veins or he has not. Perhaps that is rather a narrow view to take—borné, don’t you call it? but it is my view, and I shall live and die in it. And when I am dead and buried you will then begin to see what a good old aunt I was to you all. But what I wanted to say was that Ferdinanda and Justus were talking of going to the exhibition today and wanted to know whether you would go with them? Of course I shall stop at home. I don’t understand these sort of things; in fact, I don’t understand anything.”
The spectacles had fallen to their lowest possible point; the needles worked
