But Itzig was only the more furious.  “You wish our ruin,” said he, angrily.  “You will be ungrateful.  The Jews, who made you a present of a handsome ring, have not deserved that of you.  What will the world say?”

“The world will learn the cause of my ruin, and condemn you,” said Gotzkowsky.  “Go, take all that I have; I will reserve nothing; I despise riches and estate.  I wish to be poor; for in poverty is peace.  I turn my back upon this house, and I take nothing with me but this laurel-wreath and you, my children.”

Smilingly he gave his hands to Bertram and Elise.  “Come, my children! let us wander out in the happiness of poverty.  We shake the dust from our feet, and are light and free, for though we are poor, we are rich in love.  Yes, we are poor; but poverty means freedom.  We are no longer dependent upon prejudices, conventionalities, and forms.  We have nothing more to conceal or hide.  We need not be ashamed of our poverty, for we dare to show it to all the world; and when we go through the streets as ragged beggars, these rich people will cast down their eyes in shame, for our poverty will accuse them, and our rags testify against them.  Come, my children, let us begin our life of poverty.  But when death comes to take me away, crown my cold brow with this laurel-wreath, given me by the city of Berlin, and write on my coffin:  ‘This is the world’s reward!’"[1]

And firm and erect, leaning on his children, Gotzkowsky crossed the room.  No one dared to detain him.  Shame and remorse, anger and terror, kept them all spell-bound.  “Let us go, let us go; I have a horror of this house, and this splendor sickens me.”

“Yes! let us go,” said Elise, throwing her arms around her father’s neck.  They went out into the street.  How refreshing did the cool air seem to them, and how soft and sweet did the calm blue sky look down upon them!  Gotzkowsky gazed up at it.  He did not perceive the multitude of people which stood before his own door, or rather he did not wish to see them, because he took them for a portion of the idle, curious populace, which follows misfortune everywhere, and finds a spectacle for the amusement of its ennui in the suffering of others.

But for this once, Gotzkowsky was mistaken; it was indeed only poor people who were standing in the street, but their countenances bore the marks of sympathy, and their looks were sad.  They had heard of his misfortunes, and had hastened hither, not from curiosity, but from interest in him.  They were only factory-hands, to whom Gotzkowsky had been benefactor, friend, and adviser; they were the poor whom he had supported and comforted, who now stood before his house, to bid him a last farewell.  To be sure, they could render him no assistance—­they had no money, no treasures—­but they brought their love with their tears.

At the head of the workmen stood Balthazar, with his young wife, and although his eyes were dimmed with tears, he still recognized his master who had done him so much kindness; and although his breast was stifled with grief, yet he controlled himself, and cried out, “Long live Gotzkowsky, our father!”