Debit and Credit Part 38

"You trust very little to my good feeling," cried Anton, indignantly; "I yesterday heard from a very singular source that your father has got into difficulties through the intrigues of an unprincipled speculator. I even heard the name of the man who is plotting his ruin."

The lieutenant looked in amazement at Anton's earnest face, and at last said, "The devil! you frighten me. But no, it is impossible. Papa has never told me any thing about his affairs being out of order."

"Perhaps he himself does not know the schemes, or the worthlessness of the men who mean to use his credit for their own ends."

"The Baron of Rothsattel is not the man to be made a tool of by any one."

"That I agree to," said Anton, readily; "and yet I must beg you to reflect that his late extensive undertakings may have brought him into contact with cunning and unprincipled traders. He who gave me this information evidently did it with a good purpose. He announced his belief, which is, I fear, widely shared by a number of inferior men of business, that your father is in grave danger of losing severely. I now request that you will go with me to the man; perhaps we shall succeed in eliciting more from him. He is the very Jew you saw with me yesterday."

The lieutenant looked down in deep dejection, and, without saying a word, took up his cap and accompanied Anton to the inn at which Tinkeles was staying.

"It will be better that you should ask for him," said Anton on the way.

So the officer entered and asked every servant that he met, and then the landlord. Schmeie had left in the middle of the previous day. They hurried from the inn to the government offices, and there found that Tinkeles had taken out his pa.s.sport for the Turkish frontier. His departure made his warning appear the more important. The longer they discussed the matter, the more excited the lieutenant became, and the less he knew what to do. At last he broke out: "My father is perhaps now distressed for money, and how am I to tell him of my debt? It is a dreadful case. Wohlfart, you are a good fellow for lending me the money, though this wandering Jew's report was in your head. You must be still more accommodating, and lend me the sum for a longer time."

"Until you yourself express a wish to repay it."

"That is kind," cried the lieutenant; "and now do one thing more: write to my father. You know best what this confounded man has told you, and it would be a great bore to me to have to tell a thing of the kind to papa."

"But your father may well consider the interference of a stranger unwarrantable impertinence," rejoined Anton, oppressed by the idea of having to write to Lenore's father.

"My father already knows you," said Eugene, persuasively; "I remember my sister talking to me about you. Just say that I entreated you to write.

It would really be better that you should do so."

Anton consented. He sat down at once, and informed the baron of the warning given by the wool-dealer. And thus he, while far away, came into new relations with the family of the baron, which were destined to have important consequences for him and them alike.

CHAPTER XXII.

Happy the foot that can roam over a wide expanse of property--happy the head which knows how to subject the forces of ever-fresh nature to an intelligent human will. All that makes man strong, healthy, worthy, is given in portion to the agriculturist: his life is a ceaseless battle and a ceaseless victory. The pure air of heaven steels the muscles of his body, and the primeval order of nature forces his thoughts too into a regular orbit. Other species of industry may become obsolete; his is enduring as the earth: other tastes may prison men in narrow walls, in the depths of the earth, or between the planks of a s.h.i.+p; his glance has only two boundaries--the blue sky above, the firm earth below. His is almost the rapture of creation; for whatever his edict demands from organic or inorganic nature, springs up beneath his hand. Even the townsman's heart is refreshed by the green blade and the golden ear, the quietly pasturing cow and the frisking colt, the shade of the woods and the perfume of the fields; but far stronger, higher, n.o.bler is the enjoyment of the man who, walking over his own land, can say, "All this is mine; all this is a blessing upon my energy and insight." For he does not merely supinely enjoy the picture before him: some definite wish accompanies every glance, some resolve every impression. Every thing has a meaning for him, and he a purpose regarding it. Daily labor is his delight, and it is a delight that quickens each faculty. So lives the man who is himself the industrious cultivator of his own soil.

And three times happy the proprietor of land where a battle with nature has been carried on for long years. The plowshare sinks deep into the well-cleaned ground, the ears hang heavy on the well-grown corn, and the turnip swells to colossal size. Then comes the time when a new form of industry is added to the old. Strange shapes of machinery are seen near the farm-buildings, giant caldrons, mighty wheels, and huge pipes, while the grinding and turning of the engines goes on ceaselessly by day and night. A n.o.ble industry, this! It springs from the energies of the soil, and increases them a hundred-fold. When the fruits of his own ground are devoted to the factory, the ancient plow without, the new steam-engine within, unite in perfect harmony to make their owner richer, stronger, and wiser. His life is linked by many ties to men of other callings, and strangers rejoice to hold out their hands to him, and unite their efforts with his. The circle of his interests goes on widening, and his influence over others increasing.

Near to the dwelling of a man like this a new race of laborers build cottages of every degree, all comes right to him, and can be turned to profit. The value of the land rises yearly, and the tempting prospect of great returns impels even the obstinate peasantry out of the old accustomed track. The wretched path becomes a good road, the marshy ditch a ca.n.a.l. Wagons pa.s.s along from field to field, red-tiled roofs rise in once desolate stations; the postman, who formerly came in twice a week, appears daily now, his bag heavy with letters and newspapers, and as he stops at some new house to bring the young wife, lately settled there, a letter from her home, he gratefully accepts the gla.s.s of milk she offers him in her delight, and tells her how long the way used to be from village to village in the summer heat. Soon new wants arise--the childish hangers on to all progress. The needle of the tailor has many a new stuff to pierce, the small shopkeeper sets up his store between the cottages, the village schoolmaster complains of the mult.i.tude of his scholars; a second school is built, an adult cla.s.s established; the teacher keeps the first germ of the lending library in a cupboard in his own room, and the bookseller in the next town sends him books for sale; and thus the life of the prosperous agriculturist is a blessing to the district, nay, to the whole country.

But woe to the landed proprietor when the ground he treads has fallen into the power of strangers. He is lost if his crops fail to satisfy their claims, and the genii of nature give their smiles to him only who confronts them freely and securely--they revolt when they discern weakness, precipitation, and half measures. No undertaking any longer prospers. The yellow blossoms of the turnip and the blue flowers of the flax wither without fruit. Rust and gangrene appear among the cattle, the shriveled potato sickens and dies; all these, long accustomed to obey skill, now cruelly avenge neglect. Then the daily walk through the fields becomes a daily curse; the very lark that springs from the corn reminds him that it is all sold as it stands; the yoke of oxen carrying the clover to the barn suggests that the whole yield of the dairy belongs to a creditor. Gloomy, morose, despairing, the man returns home.

It is natural that he should become a stranger to his farm, should seek to escape from painful thoughts in change of scene, and his absence precipitates his downfall. The one thing that might yet save him, a complete surrender of himself to his avocations, is become intolerable.

Woe, threefold woe, to the landed proprietor who has precipitately invoked the black art of steam to settle on his land, in order to educe from it energies which it does not possess! The heaviest curse that mortal man can know has fallen upon him. He not only becomes weaker himself, but he deteriorates all those whom he takes into his service.

All that still remains to him is torn to fragments by the rotation of the wheels he has madly introduced; his oxen and his horses are worn out by the heavy demands the factory makes upon them; his worthy farm-servants are transformed into a dirty, hungry proletariat. Where once the necessary work at least was obediently performed, contention, cheating, and opposition prevail. He himself is swept away in a vortex of complicated business, claims surge in upon him wave upon wave, and he, in his desperate struggle, drowning man that he is, has no choice but to cling to whatever comes within his grasp, and then, wearied by his fruitless efforts, to sink into the abyss.

Once the baron's lands had borne better crops than those of his neighbors, his herds were acknowledged to be thoroughly healthy, bad years, which crushed others, had pa.s.sed comparatively lightly over him.

Now, all this was reversed as by some evil spell. A contagious disease broke out among the cattle; the wheat grew tall indeed, but when it came to be threshed the grain was light. Every where the outgoings exceeded the incomings. Once upon a time he could have borne this calmly, now it made him positively ill. He began to hate the sight of his farm, and left it entirely to the bailiff. All his hopes centred in the factory, and if he ever visited his fields, it was only to look after the beet-root.

The new buildings rose behind the trees of the park. The voices of many busy laborers sounded shrill around it. The first crop of beet was brought in and heaped up ready for the mill. On the following day the regular factory was to begin, and yet the coppersmith was still hammering there, mechanics were working away at the great engine, and busy women carrying off chips and fragments of mortar, and scouring the scenes of their future labor. The baron stood before the building, listening impatiently to the beating of the hammer which had been so dilatory in completing its task. The morrow was to be to him the beginning of a new era. He stood now at the door of his treasure-house.

He might now cast all his old cares away. During the next year he should be able to pay off what he owed, and then he would begin to put by. But, while he thus speculated, his eye fell upon his over-worked horses, and the anxious face of his old bailiff, and a vague fear crept, like a loathly insect, over the fluttering leaves of his hopes; for he had staked all on this cast; he had so mortgaged his land that at this moment he hardly knew how much of it was his own; and all this to raise still higher the social dignity of his family tree!

The baron himself was much altered during the last few years. A wrinkled brow, two fretful lines around the mouth, and gray hair on the temples: these were the results of his eternal thought about capital, his family, and the future aggrandizement of the property. His voice, which once sounded strong and full, had become sharp and thin, and every gesture betrayed irritation and impatience.

The baron had, indeed, had heavy cares of late. He had thoroughly learned the misery of extensive building operations combined with a scarcity of money. Ehrenthal was now become a regular visitor at the castle. Every week his horses consumed the baron's good hay; every week he brought out his pocket-book, and reckoned up the account or paid off bills. His hand, which at first so readily and reverentially sought his purse, did so now tardily and reluctantly; his bent neck had become stiff, his submissive smile had changed into a dry greeting; he walked with a scrutinizing air through the farm, and, instead of fervent praises, found many a fault. The humble agent had grown into the creditor, and the baron had to bear, with still increasing aversion, the pretensions of a man with whom he could no longer dispense. And not Ehrenthal alone, but many a strange figure besides knocked at the baron's study, and had private dealings with him there. The broad shape of the uncouth Pinkus appeared every quarter, and each time that his heavy foot ascended the castle stairs discord and dissatisfaction followed.

Every week, as we said, Ehrenthal had visited the estate: now came the most anxious time of all, and no eye beheld him. They said in the town that he was gone off upon a journey, and the baron was listening restlessly to the noise of every carriage that pa.s.sed, wondering whether it brought the tardy, the hated, yet the indispensable visitor.

Lenore now joined her father, a radiant beauty, full in form and tall in stature, but somewhat shadowed by life's cares, as her thoughtful eyes and the anxious glance she cast at the baron plainly proved. "The post is come in," said she, reaching him a packet of letters and newspapers; "I dare say there is no letter from Eugene again."

"He has many other things to do," replied her father; but he himself looked eagerly for the handwriting of his son. Then he saw a direction in a strange hand, and on the letter the postmark of the very town in which Eugene was quartered. It was Anton's letter. The baron tore it open. When he had seen from its respectful tenor how well it was meant, and had read the name of Itzig in it, he put it up in his pocket. The secret terror which had so often shot through his heart fell upon him again, and then followed the unwelcome thought that his embarra.s.sments were the subject of conversation even in foreign towns. Ill-timed warnings were the last thing that he wanted; they only humbled. He stood long in gloomy silence by his daughter. But, as the letter contained tidings of Eugene, he forced himself at length to speak. "A Mr. Wohlfart has written to me. He is now traveling in his mercantile capacity on the other side of the frontier, and has made Eugene's acquaintance."

"He!" cried Lenore.

"He seems to be an estimable kind of man," said the baron, with an effort. "He speaks affectionately of Eugene."

"Yes," cried Lenore, in delight; "one learns to know what conscientiousness and stability mean when one a.s.sociates with him. What a strange coincidence! The sister and the brother. What has he written to you about, father!"

"Matters of business, kindly meant, no doubt, but not of any present use to me. The foolish boys have heard some idle rumor, and have unnecessarily troubled themselves about my affairs." And, so saying, he gloomily walked toward his factory.

Much perturbed, Lenore followed him. At length he opened the newspaper, and carelessly turned it over till his eye fell upon a certain advertis.e.m.e.nt. His face flushed deeply, the paper fell out of his hand, and, catching hold of one of the wagons, he leaned his head upon it.

Lenore, much shocked, took up the paper, and saw the name of the Polish estate on which she knew that her father had a large mortgage. A day was specified for the sale of that estate by auction on behalf of a concourse of creditors.

The intelligence fell like a thunderbolt upon the baron. Since he had burdened his own property, the sum that he had invested in Poland was his last hope of well-doing. He had often doubted whether he was not foolish to leave his money in the hands of strangers abroad, and to pay so high an interest to strangers at home; but he had always had a horror of being led to invest this round sum in his undertakings, considering it in the light of his wife's jointure and his daughter's portion. Now it, too, was endangered, the last security had vanished. Every thing around him reeled. Ehrenthal had deceived him. It was he who had carried on the correspondence with the lawyer of the Polish count. He had punctually paid him the interest when it was last due. There was no doubt that he had known the precarious nature of this foreign investment, and had kept back the knowledge from his client.

"Father," cried Lenore, raising him as she spoke, "speak with Ehrenthal; go to your solicitor; he may be able to suggest some remedy."

"You are right, my child," said the baron, with a toneless voice; "it is possible that the danger may not yet be imminent. Tell them to put the horses to; I will go to town at once. Conceal what you have read from your mother, and you, dear Lenore, come with me."

When the carriage drove up, the baron was still in the very same place where he had first read the fatal tidings. During the journey he sat silently in a corner of the carriage. Arrived in town, he took his daughter to his lodgings, which he had not yet given up, for fear of leading his wife or his acquaintance to suspect that his means were impaired. He himself drove to Ehrenthal's. He entered the office in angry mood, and, after a dry salutation, held out the newspaper to the trader. Ehrenthal rose slowly, and said, nodding his head, "I know it; Lowenberg has written to me about it."

"You have deceived me, Mr. Ehrenthal," cried the baron, striving hard for composure.

"To what purpose?" replied Ehrenthal. "Why should I hide from you what the newspapers must needs reveal? This may happen in the case of any estate, any mortgage; what great misfortune is there in this?"

"The property is deeply involved, it seems: you must long have known this; you have deceived me."

"What are you saying there about deceit?" cried Ehrenthal, indignantly; "have a care that no stranger hear your words. I have left my money standing with you; what interest can I have in lowering you and increasing your difficulties? I myself am only too deeply involved in them," and he pointed to the place occupied in most men by a heart. "Had I known that your factory would devour my good money, one thousand after another, even as the lean kine of Egypt devoured the fat, I should have taken more time to consider, and would not have paid you a single dollar. A herd of elephants will I feed with my substance, but never more a factory. How then can you say that I have deceived you?"

continued he, in increasing dudgeon.

"You have known the state of matters," cried the baron, "and have disguised the count's position from me."

"Was it I who sold you the mortgage?" inquired the offended Ehrenthal.

"I have paid you the interest half-yearly--that is my offense; I have paid you much money besides--that is my deceit." He then continued more conciliatingly: "Look at the matter calmly, baron: another creditor has offered to purchase the estate; the lawyers have not apprised us of it, or they have sent the advertis.e.m.e.nt to a wrong address. What of that?

You will now be paid your capital, and then you can pay off the mortgages on your own land. I hear that this estate in Poland is a very valuable one, so you have nothing to fear for your capital."

The baron had only to depart with this uncertain hope. As he dejectedly entered his carriage, he called out to the coachman, "To the Councilor Horn;" but on the way thither he gave counter orders, and returned to his lodgings. A coolness had sprung up between him and his former legal adviser; he shrunk from disclosing to him his never-ceasing embarra.s.sments, and had been offended by Horn's well-meant warnings. He had often, therefore, applied for advice to other lawyers.

Itzig, in the tenderness of his heart, had rushed out of the office as soon as he beheld the baron's horses, but now he put in his head again.

"How was he?" he inquired from Ehrenthal.