The Merchant of Berlin | Page 2

remarked the people in the street to one another; and as they passed on
they envied with a sigh those who were able at the same time to enjoy a
merry day in the rich and brilliant halls of the great manufacturer, and

admire the splendor of the rich man's house.
The mansion of Gotzkowsky was indeed one of the handsomest and
most magnificent in all Berlin, and its owner was one of the richest
men of this city, then, despite the war, so wealthy and thriving. But it
was not the splendor of the furniture, of the costly silver ware, of the
Gobelin tapestry and Turkish carpets which distinguished this house
from all others. In these respects others could equal the rich merchant,
or even surpass him.
But Gotzkowsky possessed noble treasures of art, costly paintings,
which princes and even kings might have envied. Several times had he
travelled to Italy by commission from the king to purchase paintings,
and the handsomest pieces in the Royal Gallery had been brought from
the land of art by Gotzkowsky. But the last time he returned from Italy
the war of 1756 had broken out, and the king could then spare no
money for the purchase of paintings: he needed it all for his army.
Therefore Gotzkowsky was obliged to keep for himself the splendid
originals of Raphael, Rubens, and other great masters which he had
purchased at enormous prices, and the wealthy manufacturer was just
the one able to afford himself the luxury of a picture gallery.
The homely artisans and workmen who this day had dined in
Gotzkowsky's halls felt somewhat constrained and uncomfortable, and
their countenances did not wear a free, joyous expression until they had
risen from table, and the announcement was made that the festival
would continue in the large garden immediately adjacent to the house,
to which they at once repaired to enjoy cheerful games and steaming
coffee.
Bertram, Gotzkowsky's head book-keeper, had been commissioned by
him to lead the company, consisting of more than two hundred persons,
into the garden, where Gotzkowsky would follow them, having first
gone in search of his daughter.
With lively conversation and hearty laugh the people retired, the halls
were emptied, and now the deep silence of these state-apartments was
only interrupted by the gentle ticking of the large clock which stood

over the sofa on its handsomely ornamented stand.
When Gotzkowsky found himself at last alone, he breathed as if
relieved. The quiet seemed to do him good. He sank down into one of
the large chairs covered with gold-embroidered velvet, and gazed
earnestly and thoughtfully before him. The expression of his
countenance was anxious, and his large dark eyes were not as clear and
brilliant as usual.
John Gotzkowsky was still a handsome man, despite his fifty years; his
noble intellectual countenance, his tall proud figure, his full black hair,
which, contrary to the custom of that period, he wore unpowdered,
made an imposing and at the same time pleasing impression.
And certainly it was not because of his personal appearance that
Gotzkowsky, notwithstanding the early death of his wife, had never
contracted a second marriage, but had preferred to remain a solitary
widower. Nor did this occur from indifference or coldness of heart, but
solely from the love for that little, helpless, love-needing being, whose
birth had cost his young wife her life, to whom he had vowed at the
bedside of her dead mother to stand in stead of that mother, and never
to make her bend under the harsh rule of a step-mother. Gotzkowsky
had faithfully fulfilled his vow; he had concentrated all his love on his
daughter, who under his careful supervision had increased in strength
and beauty, so that with the pride and joy of a father he now styled her
the handsomest jewel of his house.
Where then was this daughter whom he loved so dearly? Why was she
not near him to smile away the wrinkles from his brow, to drive with
light chat serious and gloomy thoughts from his mind? She it was,
doubtless, whom his wandering glance sought in these vast, silent
rooms; and finding her not, and yearning in vain for her sweet smiles,
her rosy cheeks, he sighed.
Where was she then?
Like her father, Gotzkowsky's daughter sat alone in her room--her gaze,
as his, fixed upon empty space. The sad, melancholy expression of her

face, scarcely tinged with a delicate blush, contrasted strangely with her
splendid dress, her mournful look with the full wreath of roses which
adorned her hair.
Elise was the daughter of the wealthiest man in Berlin, the world
proclaimed her the handsomest maiden, and yet there she sat solitary in
her beautiful chamber, her eyes clouded with tears. Of a sudden she
drew a golden