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If I shall get thee back thy place wilt thou promise me never to kill thyself any more?" Lieders had not once looked up at her during the slow, difficult sentences with their half choked articulation; but he was experiencing some strange emotions, and one of them was a novel respect for his wife. All he said was: "'Taint no use talking. I won't never ask him to take me back, once."
With its keen sensitive-ness and its undefined melancholy it was a dreamer's face. One meets such faces, sometimes, in incongruous places and wonders what they mean. In fact, Kurt Lieders, head cabinet maker in the furniture factory of Lossing & Co., was an artist. He was, also, an incomparable artisan and the most exacting foreman in the shops.
Lieders began to be on the lookout for signs of waning consideration, to watch his own eyes and hands, drearily wondering when they would begin to play him false; at the same time because he was unhappy he was ten times as exacting and peremptory and critical with the younger workmen, and ten times as insolently independent with the young master.
Olsen asked Carl what Lieders said; Carl answered simply, "Say, Freda, that man feels terrible bad." Meanwhile Thekla seemed easily satisfied. She made no outcry as Lieders had dreaded, over his leaving the shop. "Well, then, papa, you don't need git up so early in the morning no more, if you aint going to the shop," was her only comment; and Lieders despised the mind of woman more than ever.
Lossing but I always called him Harry because he learned his trade of me, Thekla, but he don't think of that now and you tell him old Lieders that worked for him thirty years is dead, but he didn't hold no hard feelings, he knowed he done wrong 'bout that mantel. Mind you tell him." "Yes, papa," said Thekla, which was a surprise to Kurt; he had dreaded a weak flood of tears and protestations.
That always is so. And now I never can any more sleep nights, for you is always maybe git up and do something to yourself. So now, I got to talk to you, papa. Papa, how could you done so?" Lieders twisted his feet under the rungs of his chair; he opened his mouth, but only to shut it again with a click of his teeth. "I got my mind made up, papa. I tought and I tought.
Lieders," said he in his slow, undecided tones, "please excuse me," with which he gathered up the little man into his strong arms and slung him over his shoulders, as easily as he would sling a sack of meal. It was a vent for Mrs. Olsen's bubbling indignation to make a dive for Lieders's heels and hold them, while Carl backed down-stairs. But Lieders did not make the least resistance.
Some of Schubert's parts for violoncello had positively left him panting, in the grip of hysteria. But it was particularly Schubert's lieders that had immeasurably excited him, causing him to experience similar sensations as after a waste of nervous fluid, or a mystic dissipation of the soul. This music penetrated and drove back an infinity of forgotten sufferings and spleen in his heart.
The memory of it all, the cruel sense of injustice, returned with such poignant force that Lieders groaned aloud. Instantly, Thekla was bending over him. He did not know whether to laugh at her or to swear, for she began fumbling at the ropes, half sobbing. "Yes, I knowed they was hurting you, papa; I'm going to loose one arm. Then I put it back again and loose the other. Please don't be bad!"
And Olsen told him very kindly, meaning only to warn him, that he was suspected to be there for no good purpose. Lieders confirmed a lurking suspicion of the good Carl's own, by the clouding of his face. Yet he would have chopped his hand off rather than have lifted it against the shop. That was Tuesday night, this was Wednesday morning.
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