ELECTIONEERING
The four millions of the balcony are
at present standing before two suits of male apparel
of the kind worn by the working class, contemplating
them with an interest one would scarcely expect from
millionaires in materials of so ordinary a quality.
Spread out on the elegant and costly table cover are
two blouses of striped gray at fifteen kreutzers
a yard. There are, besides, two pairs of trowsers
of a texture well adapted to the temperature of the
month of July. There are also two neckties, sold
at fairs for six kreutzers apiece. And,
lastly, two cheap caps with long broad peaks.
These suits were intended to serve as disguises for
Seraphin and Carl on this evening, for the banker
did not consider it becoming gentlemen to visit electioneering
meetings, dressed in a costume in which they might
be recognized. As Greifmann’s face was
familiar to every street-boy, he had provided himself
with a false beard of sandy hue to complete his incognito.
For Seraphin this last adjunct was unnecessary, for
he was a stranger, was thus left free to exhibit his
innocent countenance unmasked for the gratification
of curious starers.
“This will be a pleasant change
from the monotony of a banking house existence,”
said the banker gleefully. “I enjoy this
masquerade: it enables me to mingle without constraint
among the unconstrained. You are going to see
marvellous things to-night, friend Seraphin. If
your organs of hearing are not very sound, I advise
you to provide yourself with some cotton, so that
the drums of your ears may not be endangered from
the noise of the election skirmish.”
“Your caution is far from inspiring
confidence,” said Louise with some humor.
“I charge it upon your soul that you bring back
Mr. Gerlach safe and sound, for I too am responsible
for our guest.”
“And I, it seems, am less near
to you than the guest, for you feel no anxiety about
me,” said the brother archly.
“Eight o’clock it is our time.”
He pulled the bell. A servant
carried off the suits to the gentlemen’s rooms.
“May I beseech the men in blouses
for the honor of a visit before they go?”
“You shall have an opportunity
to admire us,” said Carl. The transformation
of the young men was more rapidly effected than the
self-satisfied mustering of Louise before the large
mirror which reflected her elegant form entire.
She laughingly welcomed her brother in his sandy beard,
and fixed a look of surprise upon Seraphin, whose
innocent person appeared to great advantage in the
simple costume.
“Impossible to recognize you,”
decided the young lady. “You, brother Redbeard,
look for all the world like a cattle dealer.”
“The gracious lady has hit it
exactly,” said the banker with an assumed voice.
“I am a horse jockey, bent on euchreing this
young gentleman out of a splendid pair of horses.”
“Friend Seraphin is most lovely,”
said she in an undertone. “How well the
country costume becomes him!” And her sparkling
eyes darted expressive glances at the subject of her
compliments.
For the first time she had called
him friend, and the word friend made him more happy
than titles and honors that a prince might have bestowed.
He felt his soul kindle at the sight of the lovely
being whose delicate and bewitching coquetry the inexperienced
youth failed to detect, but the influence of which
he was surely undergoing. His cheeks glowed still
more highly, and he became uneasy and embarrassed.
“Your indulgent criticism is
encouraging, Miss Louise,” replied he.
“I have merely told the truth,” replied
she.
“But our hands what
are we to do with our hands?” interposed Carl.
“Soft white hands like these do not belong to
drovers. First of all, away with diamonds and
rubies. Gold rings and precious stones are not
in keeping with blouses. Nor will it do, in hot
weather like this, to bring gloves to our aid that’s
too bad! What are we to do?”
“Nobody will notice our hands,” thought
Seraphin.
“My good fellow, you do not
understand the situation. We are on the eve of
the election. Everybody is out electioneering.
Whoever to-day visits a public place must expect to
be hailed by a thousand eyes, stared at, criticised,
estimated, appraised, and weighed. The deuce take
these hands! Good advice would really be worth
something in this instance.”
“To a powerful imagination like
your own,” added Louise playfully. She
disappeared for a moment and then returned with a washbowl.
Pouring the contents of her inkstand into the water,
she laughingly pointed them to the dark mass.
“Dip your precious hands in
here, and you will make them correspond with your
blouses in color and appearance.”
“How ingenious she is!”
cried Carl, following her direction.
“Most assuredly nothing comes
up to the ingenuity of women. We are beautifully
tattooed, our hands are horrible! We must give
the stuff time to dry. Had I only thought of
it sooner, Louise, you should have accompanied us
disguised as a drover’s daughter, and have drunk
a bumper of wine with us. The adventure might
have proved useful to you, and served as an addition
to the sum of your experiences in life.”
“I will content myself with
looking on from a distance,” answered she gaily.
“The extraordinary progressionist movement that
is going on to-day might make it a difficult task
even for a drover’s daughter to keep her footing.”
The two millionaires sallied forth,
Carl making tremendous strides. Seraphin followed
mechanically, the potent charm of her parting glances
hovering around him.
“We shall first steer for the
sign of the ‘Green Hat,’” said Greifmann.
“There you will hear a full orchestra of progressionist
music, especially trumpets and drums, playing flourishes
on Hans Shund. ’The Green Hat’ is
the largest beer cellar in the town, and the proprietor
ranks among the leaders next after housebuilder Sand.
All the representatives of the city regime
gather to-day at the establishment of Mr. Belladonna that’s
the name of the gentleman of the ‘Green Hat.’
Besides the leaders, there will be upward of a thousand
citizens, big and small, to hold a preliminary celebration
of election day. There will also be ‘wild
men’ on hand,” proceeded Carl, explaining.
“These are citizens who in a manner float about
like atoms in the bright atmosphere of the times without
being incorporated in any brilliant body of progress.
The main object of the leaders this evening is to
secure these so-called ‘wild men’ in favor
of their ticket for the city council. Glib-tongued
agents will be employed to spread their nets to catch
the floating atoms to tame these savages
by means of smart witticisms. When, at length,
a prize is captured and the tide of favorable votes
runs high, it is towed into the safe haven of agreement
with the majority. Resistance would turn out a
serious matter for a mechanic, trader, shopkeeper,
or any man whose position condemns him to obtain his
livelihood from others. Opposition to progress
dooms every man that is in a dependent condition to
certain ruin. For these reasons I have no misgivings
about being able to convince you that elections are
a folly wherever the banner of progress waves triumphant.”
“The conviction with which you
threaten me would be anything but gratifying, for
I abhor every form of terrorism,” rejoined Seraphin.
“Very well, my good fellow!
But we must accustom ourselves to take things as they
are and not as they ought to be. Therefore, my
youthful Telemachus, you are under everlasting obligations
to me, your experienced Mentor, for procuring you
an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the world,
and constraining you to think less well of men than
your generous heart would incline you to do.”
They had reached the outskirts of
the city. A distant roaring, resembling the sound
of shallow waters falling, struck upon the ears of
the maskers. The noise grew more distinct as they
advanced, and finally swelled into the brawling and
hum of many voices. Passing through a wide gate-way,
the millionaires entered a square ornamented with
maple-trees. Under the trees, stretching away
into the distance, were long rows of tables lit up
by gaslights, and densely crowded with men drinking
beer and talking noisily. The middle of the square
was occupied by a rotunda elevated on columns, with
a zinc roof, and bestuck in the barbarous taste of
the age with a profusion of tin figures and plaster-of-paris
ornaments. Beneath the rotunda, around a circular
table, sat the leaders and chieftains of progress,
conspicuous to all, and with a flood of light from
numerous large gas-burners streaming upon them.
Between Sand and Schwefel was throned Hans Shund,
extravagantly dressed, and proving by his manner that
he was quite at his ease. Nothing in his deportment
indicated that he had so suddenly risen from general
contempt to universal homage. Mr. Shund frequently
monopolized the conversation, and, when this was the
case, the company listened to his sententious words
with breathless attention and many marks of approbation.
Mentor Greifmann conducted his ward
to a retired corner, into which the rays of light,
intercepted by low branches, penetrated but faintly,
and from which a good view of the whole scene could
be enjoyed.
“Do you observe Hans there under
the baldachin surrounded by his vassals?” rouned
Carl into his companion’s ear. “Even
you will be made to feel that progress can lay claim
to a touching spirit of magnanimity and forgiveness.
It is disposed to raise the degraded from the dust.
The man who only yesterday was engaged in shoving a
car, sweeping streets, or even worse, to-day may preside
over the great council, provided only he has the luck
to secure the good graces of the princes of progress.
Hans Shund, thief, usurer, and nightwalker, is a most
striking illustration of my assertion.”
“What particularly disgusts
and incenses me,” replied the double millionaire
gravely, “is that, under the regime of
progress, they who are degraded, immoral, and criminal,
may rise to power without any reformation of conduct
and principles.”
“What you say is so much philosophy,
my dear fellow, and philosophy is an antique, obsolete
kind of thing that has no weight in times when continents
are being cut asunder and threads of iron laid around
the globe. Moreover, such has ever been the state
of things. In the dark ages, also, criminals
attained to power. Just think of those bloody
monarchs who trifled with human heads, and whose ministers,
for the sake of a patch of territory, stirred up horrible
wars. Compared with such monsters, Hans Shund
is spotless innocence.”
“Quite right, sir,” rejoined
the landholder, with a smile. “Those bloody
kings and their satanic ministers were monsters but
only and I beg you to mark this well only
when judged by principles which modern progress sneers
at as stupid morality and senseless dogma. I even
find that those princely monsters and their conscienceless
ministers shared the species of enlightenment that
prides itself on repudiating all positive religion
and moral obligations.”
“Thunder and lightning, Seraphin!
were not you sitting bodily before me, I should believe
I was actually listening to a Jesuit. But be
quiet! It will not do to attract notice.
Ah! splendid. There you see some of the ‘wild
men,’” continued he, pointing to a table
opposite. “The fellow with the bald head
and fox’s face is an agent, a salaried bellwether,
a polished electioneer. He has the ‘wild
men’ already half-tamed. Watch how cleverly
he will decoy them into the progressionist camp.
Let us listen to what he has to say; it will amuse
you, and add to your knowledge of the developments
of progress.”
“We want men for the city council,”
spoke he of the bald head, “that are accurately
and thoroughly informed upon the condition and circumstances
of the city. Of what use would blockheads be but
to fuss and grope about blindly? What need have
we of fellows whose stupidity would compromise the
public welfare? The men we want in our city council
must understand what measures the social, commercial,
and industrial interests of a city of thirty thousand
inhabitants require in order that the greatest good
of the largest portion of the community may be secured.
Nor is this enough,” proceeded he with increasing
enthusiasm. “Besides knowledge, experience,
and judgment, they must also be gifted with the necessary
amount of energy to carry out whatever orders the
council has thought fit to pass. They must be
resolute enough to break down every obstacle that stands
in the way of the public good. Now, who are the
men to render these services? None but independent
men who by their position need have no regard to others
placed above them free-spirited and sensible
men, who have a heart for the people. Now, gentlemen,
have you any objections to urge against my views?”
“None, Mr. Spitzkopf! Your
views are perfectly sound,” lauded a semi-barbarian.
“We have read exactly what you have been telling
us in the evening paper.”
“Of course, of course!”
cried Mr. Spitzkopf. “My views are so evidently
correct that a thinking man cannot help stumbling upon
them. None but the slaves of priests, the wily
brood of Jesuits, refuse to accept these views,”
thundered the orator with the bald head. “And
why do they refuse to accept them? Because they
are hostile to enlightenment, opposed to the common
good, opposed to the prosperity of mankind, in a word,
because they are the bitter enemies of progress.
But take my word for it, gentlemen, our city contains
but a small number of these creatures of darkness,
and those few are spotted,” emphasized he threateningly.
“Therefore, gentlemen,” proceeded he insinuatingly,
“I am convinced, and every man of intelligence
shares my conviction, that Mr. Shund is eminently
fitted for the city council eminently!
He would be a splendid acquisition in behalf of the
public interests! He understands our local concerns
thoroughly, possesses the experience of many years,
is conversant with business, knows what industrial
pursuits and social life require, and, what is better
still, he maintains an independent standing to which
he unites a rare degree of activity. Were it
possible to prevail on Mr. Shund to take upon himself
the cares of the mayoralty, the deficit of the city
treasury would soon be wiped out. We would all
have reason to consider ourselves fortunate in seeing
the interests of our city confided to such a man.”
The “wild men” looked perplexed.
“Right enough, Mr. Spitzkopf,”
explained a timid coppersmith. “Shund is
a clever, well-informed man. Nobody denies this.
But do you know that it is a question whether, besides
his clever head, he also possesses a conscience in
behalf of the commonwealth?”
“The most enlarged sort of a
conscience, gentlemen the warmest kind of
a heart!” exclaimed the bald man in a convincing
tone. “Don’t listen to stories that
circulate concerning Shund. There is not a word
of truth in them. They are sheer misconstructions inventions
of the priests and of their helots.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Spitzkopf,
they are not all inventions,” opposed the coppersmith.
“In the street where I live, Shund keeps up a
certain connection that would not be proper for any
decent person, not to say for a married man.”
“And does that scandalize you?”
exclaimed the bald-headed agent merrily. “Mr.
Shund is a jovial fellow, he enjoys life, and is rich.
Mr. Shund will not permit religious rigorism to put
restraints upon his enjoyments. His liberal and
independent spirit scorns to lead a miserable existence
under the rod of priestly bigotry. And, mark ye,
gentlemen, this is just what recommends him to all
who are not priest-ridden or leagued with the hirelings
of Rome,” concluded the electioneer, casting
a sharp look upon the coppersmith.
“But I am a Lutheran, Mr. Spitzkopf,”
protested the coppersmith.
“There are hypocrites among
the Lutherans who are even worse than the Romish Jesuits,”
retorted the man with the bald head. “Consider,
gentlemen, that the leading men of our city have, in
consideration of his abilities, concluded to place
Mr. Shund in the position which he ought to occupy.
Are you going, on to-morrow, to vote against the decision
of the leading men? Are you actually going to
make yourselves guilty of such an absurdity?
You may, of course, if you wish, for every citizen
is free to do as he pleases. But the men of influence
are also at liberty to do as they please. I will
explain my meaning more fully. You, gentlemen,
are, all of you, mechanics shoemakers, tailors,
blacksmiths, carpenters, etc. From whom do
you get your living? Do you get it from the handful
of hypocrites and men of darkness? No; you get
your living from the liberals, for they are the moneyed
men, the men of power and authority. It is they
who scatter money among the people. You obtain
employment, you get bread and meat, from the liberals.
And now to whom, do you think, will the liberals give
employment? They will give it to such as hold
their views, and not mark my word to
such as are opposed to them. The man, therefore,
that is prepared recklessly to ruin his business has
only to vote against Mr. Shund.”
“That will do the business,
that will fetch them,” said Greifmann.
“Just look how dumfounded the poor savages appear!”
“It is brutal terrorism!”
protested Seraphin indignantly.
“But don’t misunderstand
me. Mr. Spitzkopf! I am neither a hypocritical
devotee nor a Jesuit!” exclaimed the coppersmith
deprecatingly. “If Shund is good enough
for them,” pointing to the leaders under the
rotunda, “he is good enough for me.”
“For me, too!” exclaimed a tailor.
“There isn’t a worthier man than Shund,”
declared a shopkeeper.
“And not a cleverer,” said a carpenter.
“And none more demoralized,”
lauded a joiner, unconscious of the import of his
encomium.
“That’s so, and therefore
I am satisfied with him,” assured a shoemaker.
“So am I so am I,” chorussed
the others eagerly.
“That is sensible, gentlemen,”
approved the bald man. “Just keep in harmony
with liberalism and progress, and you will never be
the worse for it, gentlemen. Above all, beware
of reaction do not fall back into the immoral
morasses of the middle ages. Let us guard the
light and liberty of our beautiful age. Vote
for these men,” and he produced a package of
printed tickets, “and you will enjoy the delightful
consciousness of having disposed of your vote in the
interests of the common good.”
Spitzkopf distributed the tickets
on which were the names of the councilmen elect.
At the head of the list appeared in large characters
the name of Mr. Hans Shund.
“The curtain falls, the farce
is ended,” said Greifmann. “What you
have here heard and seen has been repeated at every
table where ‘wild men’ chanced to make
their appearance. Everywhere the same arguments,
the same grounds of conviction.”
Seraphin had become quite grave, and
cast his eyes to the ground in silence.
“By Jove, the rogue is going
to try his hand on us!” said Carl, nudging the
thoughtful young man. “The bald-headed fellow
has spied us, and is getting ready to bag a couple
of what he takes to be ‘wild men.’
Come, let us be off.”
They left the beer cellar and took
the direction of the city.
“Now let us descend a little
lower, to what I might call the amphibia of society,”
said Greifmann. “We are going to visit a
place where masons, sawyers, cobblers, laborers, and
other small fry are in the habit of slaking their
thirst. You will there find going on the same
sort of electioneering, or, as you call it, the same
sort of terrorism, only in a rougher style. There
beer-jugs occasionally go flying about, and bloody
heads and rough-and-tumble, fights may be witnessed.”
“I have no stomach for fisticuffs
and whizzing beer-mugs,” said Gerlach.
“Never mind, come along.
I have undertaken to initiate you into the mysteries
of elections, and you are to get a correct idea of
the life action of a cultivated state.”
They entered an obscure alley where
a fetid, sultry atmosphere assailed them. Greifmann
stopped before a lofty house, and pointed to a transparency
on which a brimming beer-tankard was represented.
A wild tumult was audible through the windows, through
which the cry of “Shund!” rose at times
like the swell of a great wave from the midst of corrupted
waters. As they were passing the doorway a dense
fog of tobacco smoke mingled with divers filthy odors
assailed their nostrils. Seraphin, who was accustomed
to inhaling the pure atmosphere of the country, showed
an inclination to retreat, and had already half-way
faced about when his companion seized and held him.
“Courage, my friend! wade into the slough boldly,”
cried he into the struggling youth’s ear.
“Hereafter, when you will be riding through woodland
and meadows, the recollection of this subterranean
den will enable you to appreciate the pure atmosphere
of the country twice as well. Look at those sodden
faces and swollen heads. Those fellows are literally
wallowing and seething in beer, and they feel as comfortable
as ten thousand cannibals. It is really a joy
to be among men who are natural.”
The millionaires, having with no little
difficulty succeeded in finding seats, were accosted
by a female waiter.
“Do the gentlemen wish to have election beer?”
“No,” replied Gerlach.
His abrupt tone in declining excited
the surprise of the fellows who sat next to them.
Several of them stared at the landholder.
“So you don’t want any
election beer?” cried a fellow who was pretty
well fired.
“Why not? May be it isn’t good enough
for you?”
Oh, yes! oh, yes! replied the banker hastily. You see, Mr. Shund
“That’s good! You
call me Shund,” interrupted the fellow with a
coarse laugh. “My name isn’t Shund my
name is Koenig yes, Koenig with
all due respect to you.”
“Well, Mr. Koenig you
see, Mr. Koenig, we decline drinking election beer
because we are not entitled to it we do
not belong to this place.”
“Ah, yes well, that’s
honest!” lauded Koenig. “Being that
you are a couple of honest fellows, you must partake
of some of the good things of our feast. I say,
Kate,” cried he to the female waiter, “bring
these gentlemen some of the election sausages.”
Greifmann, perceiving that Seraphin
was about putting in a protest, nudged him.
“What feast are you celebrating
to-day?” inquired the banker.
“That I will explain to you.
We are to have an election here to-morrow; these men
on the ticket, you see, are to be elected.”
And he drew forth one of Spitzkopf’s tickets.
“Every one of us has received a ticket like
this, and we are all going to vote according to the
ticket of course, you know, we don’t
do it for nothing. To-day and to-morrow, what
we eat and drink is free of charge. And if Satan’s
own grandmother were on the ticket, I would vote for
her.”
“The first one on the list is
Mr. Hans Shund. What sort of a man is he?”
asked Seraphin. “No doubt he is the most
honorable and most respectable man in the place!”
“Ha! ha! that’s funny!
The most honorable man in the place! Really you
make me laugh. Never mind, however, I don’t
mean to be impolite. You are a stranger hereabout,
and cannot, of course, be expected to know anything
of it. Shund, you see, was formerly that,
is a couple of days ago Shund was a man
of whom nobody knew any good. For my part, I
wouldn’t just like to be sticking in Shund’s
hide. Well, that’s the way things are:
you know it won’t do to babble it all just as
it is. But you understand me. To make a
long story short, since day before yesterday Shund
is the honestest man in the world. Our men of
money have made him that, you know,” giving
a sly wink. “What the men of money do,
is well done, of course, for the proverb says, ’Whose
bread I eat, his song I sing.’”
“Shut your mouth, Koenig!
What stuff is that you are talking there?” said
another fellow roughly. “Hans Shund is a
free-spirited, clever, first-class, distinguished
man. Taken altogether, he is a liberal man.
For this reason he will be elected councilman to-morrow,
then mayor of the city, and finally member of the
assembly.”
“That’s so, that’s
so, my partner is right,” confirmed Koenig.
“But listen, Flachsen, you will agree that formerly you
know, formerly he was an arrant scoundrel.”
“Why was he? Why?” inquired Flachsen.
“Why? Ha, ha! I say,
Flachsen, go to Shund’s wife, she can tell you
best. Go to those whom he has reduced to beggary,
for instance, to Holt over there. They all can
tell you what Shund is, or rather what he has been.
But don’t get mad, brother Flachsen! Spite
of all that, I shall vote for Shund. That’s
settled.” And he poured the contents of
his beer-pot down his throat.
“As you gentlemen are strangers,
I will undertake to explain this business for you,”
said Flachsen, who evidently was an agent for the
lower classes, and who did his best to put on an appearance
of learning by affecting high-sounding words of foreign
origin.
“Shund is quite a rational man,
learned and full of intelligence. But the priests
have calumniated him horribly because he will not howl
with them. For this reason we intend to elect
him, not for the sake of the free beer. When
Shund will have been elected, a system of economy will
be inaugurated, taxes will be removed, and the encyclical
letter with which the Pope has tried to stultify the
people, together with the syllabus, will be sent to
the dogs. And in the legislative assembly the
liberal-minded Shund will manage to have the priests
excluded from the schools, and we will have none but
secular schools. In short, the dismal rule of
the priesthood that would like to keep the people in
leading-strings will be put an end to, and liberal
views will control our affairs. As for Shund’s
doings outside of legitimate wedlock, that is one
of the boons of liberty it is a right of
humanity; and when Koenig lets loose against Shund’s
money speculations, he is only talking so much bigoted
nonsense.”
Flachsen’s apologetic discourse
was interrupted by a row that took place at the next
table. There sat a victim of Shund’s usury,
the land-cultivator Holt. He drank no beer, but
wine, to dispel gloomy thoughts and the temptations
of desperation. It had cost him no ordinary struggle
to listen quietly to eulogies passed on Shund.
He had maintained silence, and had at times smiled
a very peculiar smile. His bruised heart must
have suffered a fearful contraction as he heard men
sounding the praises of a wretch whom he knew to be
wicked and devoid of conscience. For a long time
he succeeded in restraining himself. But the
wine he had drunk at last fanned his smouldering passion
into a hot flame of rage, and, clenching his fist,
he struck the table violently.
“The fellow whom you extol is a scoundrel!”
cried he.
“Who is a scoundrel?” roared several voices.
“Your man, your councilman,
your mayor, is a scoundrel! Shund is a scoundrel!”
cried the ruined countryman passionately.
“And you, Holt, are a fool!”
“You are drunk, Holt!”
“Holt is an ass,” maintained
Flachsen. “He cannot read, otherwise he
would have seen in the Evening Gazette that
Shund is a man of honor, a friend of the people, a
progressive man, a liberal man, a brilliant genius,
a despiser of religion, a death-dealer to superstition,
a a I don’t remember what
all besides. Had you read all that in the evening
paper, you fool, you wouldn’t presume to open
your foul mouth against a man of honor like Hans Shund.
Yes, stare; if you had read the evening paper, you
would have seen the enumeration of the great qualities
and deeds of Hans Shund in black and white.”
“The evening paper, indeed!”
cried Holt contemptuously. “Does the evening
paper also mention how Shund brought about the ruin
of the father of a family of eight children?”
“What’s that you say,
you dog?” yelled a furious fellow. “That’s
a lie against Shund!”
“Easy, Graeulich, easy,”
replied Holt to the last speaker, who was about to
set upon him. “It is not a lie, for I am
the man whom Shund has strangled with his usurer’s
clutches. He has reduced me to beggary me
and my wife and my children.”
Graeulich lowered his fists, for Holt
spoke so convincingly, and the anguish in his face
appealed so touchingly, that the man’s fury was
in an instant changed to sympathy. Holt had stood
up. He related at length the wily and unscrupulous
proceedings through which he had been brought to ruin.
The company listened to his story, many nodded in token
of sympathy, for everybody was acquainted with the
ways of the hero of the day.
“That’s the way Shund
has made a beggar of me,” concluded Holt.
“And I am not the only one, you know it well.
If, then, I call Shund a usurer, a scoundrel, a villain,
you cannot help agreeing with me.”
Flachsen noticed with alarm that the
feeling of the company was becoming hostile to his
cause. He approached the table, where he was
met by perplexed looks from his aids.
“Don’t you perceive,”
cried he, “that Holt is a hireling of the priests?
Will you permit yourselves to be imposed upon by this
salaried slave? Hear me, you scapegrace, you
rascal, you ass, listen to what I have to tell you!
Hans Shund is the lion of the day the greatest
man of this century! Hans Shund is greater than
Bismarck, sharper than Napoleon. Out of nothing
God made the universe: from nothing Hans Shund
has got to be a rich man. Shund has a mouthpiece
that moves like a mill-wheel on which entire streams
fall. In the assembly Shund will talk down all
opposition. He will talk even better than that
fellow Voelk, over in Bavaria, who is merely a lawyer,
but talks upon everything, even things he knows nothing
about. And do you, lousy beggar, presume to malign
a man of this kind? If you open that filthy mouth
of yours once more, I will stop it for you with paving-stones.”
“Hold, Flachsen, hold! I
am not the man that is paid; you are the one that
is paid,” retorted the countryman indignantly.
“My mouth has not been honey-fed like yours.
Nor do I drink your election beer or eat your election
sausages. But with my last breath I will maintain
that Shund is a scoundrel, a usurer, a villain.”
“Out with the fellow!”
cried Flachsen. “He has insulted us all,
for we have all been drinking election beer.
Out with the helot of the priests!”
The progressionist mob fell upon the
unhappy man, throttled him, beat him, and drove him
into the street.
“Let us leave this den of cutthroats,”
said Gerlach, rising.
Outside they found Holt leaning against
a wall, wiping the blood from his face. Seraphin
approached him. “Are you badly hurt, my
good man?” asked he kindly. The wounded
man, looking up, saw a noble countenance before him,
and, whilst he continued to gaze hard at Seraphin’s
fine features, tears began to roll from his eyes.
“O God! O God!” sighed
he, and then relapsed into silence. But in the
tone of his words could be noticed the terrible agony
he was suffering.
“Is the wound deep is
it dangerous?” asked the young man.
“No, sir, no! The wound
on my forehead is nothing signifies nothing;
but in here,” pointing to his breast “in
here are care, anxiety, despair. I am thankful,
sir, for your sympathy; it is soothing. But you
may go your way; the blows signify nothing.”