The Poor Plutocrats | Page 5

nobody loved
anybody.
But no, I am mistaken. She had a brother, Koloman by name, who was
a somewhat simple but thoroughly good-natured youth. He used to
appear very rarely among his relations because they always fell foul of
him. The poor fellow's sole fault was that he was in the habit of
regularly selling his new clothes. Still, I am doubtful, after all, whether
this can fairly be imputed to him as a fault at all, for although it was
always being dinned into his ears that his family was immensely rich,
he was never blessed with a penny to spend in amusing himself with
his comrades, and therefore had to do the best he could to raise the
wind. Another failing of Koloman's was that he would not learn Latin,
and in consequence thereof he had to suffer many things. Old Lapussa
and his son John indeed had no notion whatever of the Latin tongue.
The former in his youthful days had never gone to school at all,
because he was occupied in building up a business. The latter had not
gone to school in his youth because by that time his people were
already rich and he considered it beneath him. The consequence was

that neither father nor son had a proper idea on the simplest subjects,
except what they picked up on their travels. Still that was no reason
why Koloman should not learn, but as the tutor had his hands full
already with little Maksi, Koloman was obliged to go to the national
school in order to become a wiser man than his forbears.
Poor Henrietta often slaved away for hours at a time with her younger
brother sitting at the table by her side, helping him to struggle through
the genders, declensions, conjugations, or whatever else the infernal
things were called; and the end of it all was that, at last, she learnt to
know Latin better than Koloman, and secretly translated all his
exercises from Cornelius Nepos and the Bucolics of Virgil for him.
But we must not linger any longer over these Latin lessons, for a much
more important event claims our attention--Mr. John is coming home,
and we must hasten forward to admire him.
Mr. John Lapussa was a perfect prototype of the whole family. His
extraordinarily lanky pinched figure seemed even lankier than it was by
nature because he always carried his head so high: he peered down
from that elevation upon humanity at large as if there was something
the matter with his eyes which prevented him from properly raising the
lids. In him the dimensions of the family nose were made still more
remarkable by an inordinately tiny chin and thin compressed lips. His
moustache was shaved down to the very corners of his mouth, only a
little mouse-tail sort of arrangement being left on each side, which was
twisted upwards and dyed black with infinite skill. His costume was
elegant and ultra-refined, and only differed from the fashion in being
extra stiff and tight-fitting. Moreover, all the buttons of his shirt and his
waistcoat were precious stones, and he had a plenitude of rings on his
fingers which he delighted to show off by ostentatiously adjusting his
cravat in the course of conversation, or softly stroking the surface of his
superfine coat.
Mr. John entered the room without looking at a soul, and paced up and
down it with his hands behind his back. Then he suddenly caught sight
of his father, kissed his hand and resumed his dignified saunter. It was
evident that he was bursting for some one to speak and ask him what

was the matter.
Clementina was the first to speak.
"Your honour!" said she.
"What is it?" he asked, lifting his head still higher.
"I have finished the embroidery for your shirt front which your honour
was pleased to command."
His honour with a haughty curl of the lip condescended to glance down
upon the proffered embroidery. I am afraid Clementina was a poor
physiognomist, she might have noticed from his face how utterly
indifferent he was to her and her embroidery, which he regarded with
puckered eyes and screwed-up mouth.
"No good. Those flowers are too big; it is the sort of thing the
Wallachian peasants stitch on to their shirts." And with that he took up
Clementina's scissors from the work-table and deliberately snipped into
little bits the whole of the difficult piece of work which the worthy
woman had been slaving away at for a week and more, finally pitching
it away contemptuously while she sat there and stared at him
dumfoundered.
"John, John!" said the old man in mild remonstrance.
"To show me such rubbish when I am mad! When I am wroth! When I
am beside myself with fury!"