It was just eight o'clock, on an indescribably cold November
evening, when I was revived with this affectionate salutation on
my return from a visit to a sick person, for whom I, perhaps--
really somewhat inconsiderately, had emptied my purse.
I snuffed my sleepy, thin candle with my fingers, and glanced
around the little dark chamber, for the further use of which I
must soon see myself compelled to gold-making.
"Diogenes dwelt worse," sighed I, with a submissive mind, as I
drew a lame table from the window where the wind and rain were not
contented to stop outside. At that moment my eye fell upon a
brilliantly blazing fire in a kitchen, which lay, Tantalus-like,
directly opposite to my modest room, where the fireplace was as
dark as possible.
"Cooks, men and women, have the happiest lot of all serving
mortals!" thought I, as, with a secret desire to play that fire-
tending game, I contemplated the well-fed dame, amid iron pots and
stewpans, standing there like an empress in the glory of the
firelight, and with the fire-tongs sceptre rummaging about
majestically in the glowing realm.
A story higher, I had, through a window, which was concealed by no
envious curtain, the view into a brightly lighted room, where a
numerous family were assembled round a tea-table covered with cups
and bread baskets.
I was stiff in my whole body, from cold and damp. How empty it was
in that part which may be called the magazine, I do not say; but,
ah, good Heavens! thought I, if, however, that pretty girl, who
over there takes a cop of tea-nectar and rich splendid rusks to
that fat gentleman who, from satiety, can hardly raise himself
from the sofa, would but reach out her lovely hand a little
further, and could--she would with a thousand kisses--in vain!--
ah, the satiated gentleman takes his cup; he steeps and steeps his
rusk with such eternal slowness--it might be wine.
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