In The Blue Pike | Page 9

everything?"
The distance which separated them and the loud talking of the guests
prevented the waiter's hearing her reply, "The captive bird can not
endure the cage long, Herr Lienhard," far less the words, added in a
lower tone:
"Yet flight has been over since my fall at Augsburg. My foot lies buried
there with many other things which will never return. I can only move
on wheels behind the person who takes me." Then she paused and
ventured to look him full in the face. Her eyes met his beaming with a
radiant light, but directly after they were dimmed by a mist of tears.
Yet she forced them back, though the deep suffering from which they
sprung was touchingly apparent in the tone of her voice, as she
continued:
"I have often wished, Herr Lienhard, that the cart was my coffin and
the tavern the graveyard."
Dietel noticed the fit of coughing which followed this speech, and the
hasty movement with which the Nuremberg patrician thrust his hand
into his purse and tossed Kuni three coins. They did not shine with the
dull white lustre of silver, but with the yellow glitter of gold. The
waiter's eyes were sharp and he had his own ideas about this
unprecedented liberality.
The travelling companions of the aristocratic burgomaster and
ambassadors of the proud city of Nuremberg had also noticed this
incident.
After they had taken their seats at the handsomely ornamented table,

Wilibald Pirckheimer bent toward the ear of his young friend and
companion in office, whispering:
"The lovely wife at home whom you toiled so hard to win, might, I
know, rest quietly, secure in the possession of all the charms of foam-
born Aphrodite, yet I warn you. Whoever is as sure of himself as you
cares little for the opinion of others. And yet we stand high, friend
Lienhard, and therefore are seen by all; but the old Argus who watches
for his neighbour's faults has a hundred sharp eyes, while among the
gods three are blind--Justice, Happiness, and Love. Besides, you flung
gold to yonder worthless rabble. I would rather have given it to the
travelling musicians. They, like us humanists, are allied to the Muses
and, moreover, are harmless, happy folk."
Lienhard Groland listened till his older friend had finished. Then, after
thanking him for his well-meant counsel, he answered, turning to the
others also:
"In better days rope-dancing was the profession of yonder poor,
coughing creature. Now, after a severe accident, she is dragging herself
through life on one foot. I once knew her, for I succeeded in saving her
from terrible disgrace."
"And," replied Wilibald Pirckheimer, "we would rather show kindness
a second and a third time to any one on whom we have be stowed a
favour than to render it once to a person from whom we have received
one. This is my own experience. But the wise man must guard against
nothing more carefully than to exceed moderation in his charity. How
easily, when Caius sees Cnejus lavish gold where silver or copper
would serve, he thinks of Martial's apt words: 'Who gives great gifts,
expects great gifts again.'--[Martial, Epigram 5, 59, 3.]--Do not
misunderstand me. What could yonder poor thing bestow that would
please even a groom? But the eyes of suspicion scan even the past. I
have often seen you open your purse, friend Lienhard, and this is right.
Whoever hath ought to give, and my dead mother used to say that: 'No
one ever became a beggar by giving at the proper time.'"
"And life is gladdened by what one gives to another," remarked Conrad

Peutinger, the learned Augsburg city clerk, who valued his Padua title
of doctor more than that of an imperial councillor. "It applies to all
departments. Don't allow yourself to regret your generosity, friend
Lienhard. 'Nothing becomes man better than the pleasure of giving,'
says Terentius.--[Terenz. Ad. 360]--Who is more liberal than the
destiny which adorns the apple tree that is to bear a hundred fruits, with
ten thousand blossoms to please our eyes ere it satisfies our appetite?"
"To you, if to any one, it gives daily proof of liberality in both learning
and the affairs of life," Herr Wilibald assented.
"If you will substitute 'God, our Lord,' for 'destiny,' I agree with you,"
observed the Abbot of St. AEgidius in Nuremberg.
The portly old prelate nodded cordially to Dr. Peutinger as he spoke.
The warm, human love with which he devoted himself to the care of
souls in his great parish consumed the lion's share of his time and
strength. He spent only his leisure hours in the study of the ancient
writers, in whom he found pleasure, and rejoiced in the work of the
humanists without sharing their opinions.
"Yes, my dear