Part 39 (1/2)
”How so?”
”That school! A single hour in the wretched treadmill spoils my temper for the other twenty-three hours of the day. Rather a sweeper in the streets than a teacher.”
”I knew beforehand the thing would not suit you.” said Franz, with his kindly, warm smile; ”but, Oswald, you know habit is a great thing; and then, pray, consider, every profession requires self-denial and sacrifices, even the sweeper's profession. Good-by, Oswald; I have to call here. Do, pray, come and see us soon: I have something important to tell you.”
Franz entered the house of his patient, and Oswald walked on.
”Self-denial--sacrifices!” he murmured; ”that sounds very beautiful from the lips of one who is happy in his vocation. There is nothing more intensely disagreeable than to be lectured in such general phrases, which suit our position about as well as a blow upon the eye.
Timm is right: Franz is a tiresome pedant.”
Involuntarily he turned into the street that led to his friend's lodgings. Albert lived under the shadow of the church of St. Bridget, in the house of the s.e.xton, Toby Goodheart, a man who stood in the odor of very special sanct.i.ty, so that n.o.body could comprehend why the very unholy tenant should have chosen such a landlord, and still less how the two had been able to get along so well for many years.
Albert was at home. He was lying on a sofa, reading. The fragrance of a fine Havana cigar filled the room which formed a suitable frame for the occupant in its reckless disorder.
”Ah, here you are, '_Pompei, meorum prime sodalium_,'” he said, throwing down his book as Oswald entered, and rising. ”I was just thinking of you, and wondering whether you like Horace as much when you interpret him from your desk to your boys as I enjoy him here on my sofa with a good cigar between my teeth. Isn't he a famous fellow? I always think of him as a small man with a bald head, a promise of a paunch, bright black eyes and large kissable lips, who lounges, his hands crossed behind him, through the streets of Rome, casting sheep's eyes at a pretty girl on his left and flinging a sarcasm at a citizen on his right, and whose whole moral code is contained in the words: 'Hurrah for Falernian wine and pretty girls! To live without them is not worth while!' Am I right?”
”I rather think you are.”
”Oh heavens! What a sepulchral voice. What is the matter now? Have you a note to take up?”
”This wretched college!”
”Oh, is that all? Send it to the Evil One, who invented them all!”
”'_Mais il faut vivre_,' as the tailor told M. de Talleyrand.”
”'_Je n'en vois pas la necessite_,' as M. de Talleyrand replied; at least not the necessity to live as you do.”
”How shall I live then? I have about three hundred dollars; when they are at an end--and that may be very soon--I must either work or make an end of myself too!”
”Don't be such a fool! A man like you, who has a thousand ways to make his fortune!”
”For instance?”
”For instance, by marrying the little Grenwitz, who seems to me to wish nothing more eagerly.”
”That is easier said than done.”
”Perhaps not, if you take the right road.”
”And which is that?”
”Force them to give you the girl, whether they will or not.”
”What do you mean by your riddle?”
”You are very hard of comprehension to-day.”