‘Sit in ze carriage—zere is room enough, ant I will trag you,’ he says.
‘Bot why have you nosing about you? Your boots is dirty, ant your beart not shaven.’ I seated wis him, ant says,
‘Ich bin one poor man, ant I would like to pusy myself wis somesing in a manufactory. My tressing is dirty because I fell in ze mud on ze roat.’
“‘You tell me ontruse, young man,’ says he. ‘Ze roat is kvite dry now.’
I was silent.
‘Tell me ze whole truse,’ goes on ze goot man—‘who you are, ant vere you go to? I like your face, ant ven you is one honest man, so I will help you.’
Ant I tell all.
“‘Goot, young man!’ he says.
‘Come to my manufactory of rope, ant I will give you work ant tress ant money, ant you can live wis os.’
I says,
‘Goot!’
“I go to ze manufactory of rope, ant ze goot man says to his voman,
‘Here is one yong man who defented his Vaterland, ant ron away from prisons. He has not house nor tresses nor preat.
He will live wis os.
Give him clean linen, ant norish him.’
“I livet one ant a half year in ze manufactory of rope, ant my lantlort loaft me so much zat he would not let me loose.
Ant I felt very goot.
“I were zen handsome man—yong, of pig stature, with blue eyes and romische nose—ant Missis L— (I like not to say her name—she was ze voman of my lantlort) was yong ant handsome laty.
Ant she fell in loaf wis me.”
Here Karl Ivanitch made a long pause, lowered his kindly blue eyes, shook his head quietly, and smiled as people always do under the influence of a pleasing recollection.
“Yes,” he resumed as he leant back in his arm-chair and adjusted his dressing-gown, “I have experiencet many sings in my life, pot zere is my witness,”—here he pointed to an image of the Saviour, embroidered on wool, which was hanging over his bed—“zat nopoty in ze worlt can say zat Karl Ivanitch has been one dishonest man, I would not repay black ingratitude for ze goot which Mister L— dit me, ant I resoluted to ron away.
So in ze evening, ven all were asleep, I writet one letter to my lantlort, ant laid it on ze table in his room. Zen I taket my tresses, tree Thaler of money, ant go mysteriously into ze street.
Nopoty have seen me, ant I go on ze roat.”
X. CONCLUSION OF KARL’S NARRATIVE
“I had not seen my Mamma for nine year, ant I know not whether she lived or whether her bones had long since lain in ze dark grave.
Ven I come to my own country and go to ze town I ask, ‘Where live Kustaf Mayer who was farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat?’ ant zey answer me,
‘Graf Zomerblat is deat, ant Kustaf Mayer live now in ze pig street, ant keep a public-house.’
So I tress in my new waistcoat and one noble coat which ze manufacturist presented me, arranged my hairs nice, ant go to ze public-house of my Papa.
Sister Mariechen vas sitting on a pench, and she ask me what I want.
I says,
‘Might I trink one glass of pranty?’ ant she says,
‘Vater, here is a yong man who wish to trink one glass of pranty.’
Ant Papa says,
‘Give him ze glass.’
I set to ze table, trink my glass of pranty, smoke my pipe, ant look at Papa, Mariechen, ant Johann (who also come into ze shop).
In ze conversation Papa says,
‘You know, perhaps, yong man, where stants our army?’ and I say,
‘I myself am come from ze army, ant it stants now at Wien.’
‘Our son,’ says Papa, ‘is a Soldat, ant now is it nine years since he wrote never one wort, and we know not whether he is alive or dead.
My voman cry continually for him.’
I still fumigate the pipe, ant say,
‘What was your son’s name, and where servet he? Perhaps I may know him.’
‘His name was Karl Mayer, ant he servet in ze Austrian Jagers.’
‘He were of pig stature, ant a handsome man like yourself,’ puts in Mariechen.
I say,
‘I know your Karl.’
‘Amalia,’ exclaimet my Vater. ‘Come here! Here is yong man which knows our Karl!’—ant my dear Mutter comes out from a back door.
I knew her directly.
‘You know our Karl?’ says she, ant looks at me, ant, white all over, trembles.
‘Yes, I haf seen him,’ I says, without ze corage to look at her, for my heart did almost burst.