"My son!... My son!... My son!..."
Someone had sent for the pastor, and he now came hurrying into the room, weeping.
"Gottlieb!" he cried, "G.o.d has greatly afflicted you; but let us trust His mercy."
Adler gave him a lingering glance, then pointed to his son"s dead body and said:
"Look, Martin! that is myself; it is not his corpse, it is my own.
There lies my factory, my fortune, my hope. But no! ... he is alive!... Tell me that, and I shall be calm. How my heart aches!..."
The pastor led him away into the garden, the doctor and the seconds left, the servants dispersed.
"Do you know what is the worst of it?" continued Adler. "In a year"s time, or perhaps sooner, the doctors will discover a way of curing such wounds; but what will be the good of that to me? I would have given everything now for such a discovery."
The pastor took his hand.
"Gottlieb, how long is it since you have prayed?"
"I don"t know ... thirty--forty years."
"Do you remember your prayers?"
"I remember that I had a son."
"Your son is with the Lord."
Adler"s head dropped.
"How greedy he is, this Lord!"
"Do not blaspheme. The time will come when you will meet Him."
"When?"
"When your hour strikes."
The old man looked thoughtful. Then he took his watch from his pocket, wound it up, listened to the ticking and said:
"My hour has struck already.... Now you go home, Martin; your wife and daughter and your church are waiting for you. Go and enjoy yourself, look after your services, drink your hock, and leave me alone. I am waiting for the collapse of the whole world, and I shall perish with it. I have no need of friends, and still less of a pastor. Your frightened face bores me."
"Gottlieb, be calm! Pray!"
"Go to the devil!"
Adler jumped up, slipped through the garden gate and ran into the fields. The pastor did not know what to do. He returned to the villa, feeling that Adler ought to be watched; but the servants were afraid of their master. He sent for the old book-keeper, and told him he feared the mill-owner had gone out of his mind and run away.
"Oh, that doesn"t mean anything," said the book-keeper; "he will tire himself out and come back in a better frame of mind. He often does that when he is upset."
The hours pa.s.sed and evening came, but the old cotton-spinner did not appear. Never had there been anything like the present excitement in the factory. Goslawski"s death had shaken them, brought home to them the wrongs they were suffering, and set them against their merciless employer. But now their feelings were of a different kind.
The first impression that Ferdinand"s sudden death made upon the mill hands was dismay and fright. They felt as if a thunderbolt had struck the factory and it were trembling in its foundations, as if the sun had stood still in the sky. Ferdinand dead? He--so young and strong, a man who had never had to work, never attended to a machine--the son of their almighty employer? Quicker than a miserable workman like Goslawski, he had perished, shot like a hare! To these poor, simple, dependent people Adler was a severe deity, and more powerful than the State. They were seized with fear. It seemed to them that this small landowner and country judge, Zapora, had committed a sacrilege in shooting Ferdinand. How dared he shoot him, before whom even the boldest of them had to give way?
And a strange thing happened. These same people who had daily cursed the mill-owner and his son now cursed his destroyer. Some of them shouted that this fiend ought to be shot like a dog. But had the "fiend" suddenly appeared in their midst, they would certainly have run away.
As the discussions went on, some of the foremen explained that Zapora had not murdered Ferdinand, but that there had been a fight, and Ferdinand had been the first to shoot. It even transpired that the cause had been a quarrel about the workpeople--that Ferdinand had been killed because he spent the money which had been got by wronging the people. G.o.d had punished Adler; their curses had been heard.
Thus within a few hours a legend was formed round the incident. The voice of human blood had gone up to the throne of the Almighty, and a miracle had been worked. They were filled with awe.
What would happen now? Would their employer cease to wrong them?
Someone suggested that the machinery should be stopped under these unusual circ.u.mstances, but the old book-keeper fell upon him. Stop the machinery and irritate the boss even more, when he is not quite in his right mind? He himself had felt quite odd when the machinery had been stopped before, and they had all gone up to the house. When there is the clatter it makes one feel easier, and one thinks nothing has happened.
The others agreed.
In the evening Adler returned, and entered the office like a ghost.
n.o.body knew when he had come. He was covered with mud, as if he had been rolling on the ground. His eyes were bloodshot, and his short flaxen hair stood on end: he was gasping for breath. Hurriedly he ran through the offices, snapping his fingers. The frightened clerks pretended to go on with their work. A young man was reading a wire.
Adler went up to him, and asked in a quiet though changed voice:
"What is that?"
"Cotton is still going up," the clerk replied. "To-day we have made six thousand----"
He did not finish. Adler had torn the message from his hands and thrown it in his face.
"You low vermin!" he shouted. "How dare you tell me such a thing! The very dogs run away from my grief with their tails between their legs, and you talk to me of six thousand roubles!... Can you bring back a day--even half a day--to me?"
Boehme came running into the office.
"Gottlieb," he cried, "the carriage is waiting; come to my house with me."
The mill-owner drew himself up to his full height and put both his hands in his pockets.
"Oh, you are there, St. Martin!" he said ironically. "No, I will not go with you to your house! I will say even more. Not a single farthing shall I leave to you or your Jzio! Do you hear? I dare say you are a servant of the Lord, and His wisdom speaks through your tongue, but not a farthing will you get from me. My fortune belongs to my son."
"What are you talking about, Gottlieb?" the pastor said, shocked.
"I am talking plainly. This is a plot to put your son in here to order the factory people about.... You have killed my son, and you would like to kill me; but I am not one of those fools who want to spend their money on the salvation of their souls...."
"Gottlieb, you suspect me--_me_?"
Adler seized his hands and looked into his eyes with hatred.
"Do you remember, Boehme, that you threatened me with G.o.d"s punishment? Formerly the Jesuits used to do the same to trick people"s fortune out of them. But I was too clever!... I would not be tricked; therefore G.o.d has punished me. It is not long ago since you threw corks and sticks on the water, and said the wave would return. But my poor son will not return."
Adler had never been so eloquent as at the moment when his reason was leaving him. He seized the pastor by the shoulders and pushed him out of the door. Restlessly he began to walk up and down again, and at last left the office. The gloom of dusk swallowed him up, and the noise of the machinery drowned his footfalls.
The clerks were panic-stricken. No one thought of watching him--they had all lost their heads. They knew how to attend mechanically to their duties, but no one would have dared to take any responsibility.
Pastor Boehme dared not give orders either. To whom should he have given them? Who would have listened to him?