There is something sad and mournful about an auction.  It speaks always of the ruin and breaking up of a man’s life and the happiness of his family, of the wreck of a shattered existence, and the sad remains of what was once, perhaps, a brilliant destiny.  On the day of an auction there ceases to be a home, the sacred secrets of family life vanish; home is no longer the abode of peace, and the long-cherished penates hide their heads in grief.

Then the gates are opened, and the curious multitude rushes in, and with callous eye spies into each corner and every room; tries the sofas on which, perhaps, yesterday some poor widow sat weeping for her lost husband; throws itself down on the bed which once had been the sacred temple of their love; and coldly and unfeelingly examines the furniture of parlor and boudoir, which yet retains the appearance of comfort and of genial repose, though soon to be scattered to the winds, to proclaim aloud its sad and secret story in the gaudy show-room of some second-hand dealer.  All the beauty and splendor of Gotzkowsky’s former days were now to be displayed at auction.  For this reason there stood so many carriages before his door; for this reason did so many noble and wealthy persons come to his house, and, mixed with brokers and speculators, crowd into those halls, which they had formerly trod with friendly smiles and in costly dresses.

No one took any heed of the figure of a man crouching, leaning against the staircase, with his hat pressed down over his brow, and the collar of his cloak drawn up high over his face.  No one perceived how he shuddered when the auctioneer handled the beautiful articles and called on the public to bid.  It was to him a terrible grief to assist at these obsequies of his past life, and yet he could not tear himself away.  He felt fascinated, as it were, by some supernatural power, and forced to remain in the house and attend this horrible ceremony.  In the tediousness of his lonesome, inactive, idle misery, it was a species of diversion to him, something to arouse him from his dull rumination, to be present at this disintegration and demolition of his own house.

As Jeremiah once sat among the ruins of Jerusalem, so sat Gotzkowsky with concealed face at the threshold of his house, listening with savage joy to the strokes of the auctioneer’s hammer—­albeit each blow struck him to the heart, and made its wounds smart still more keenly.  At times, when a well-known voice fell on his ear, he would raise his head a little, and look at the bidders, and examine their cold, unsympathizing faces.  How many were there among them whom he had once called his friends, and to whom he had done good!  And now, like vultures, they flocked to the carcass of his past; they bought his treasures, while their eyes glistened with malicious joy.  They were delighted to be able to boast that they possessed a souvenir of the rich Gotzkowsky.