"Well, if Ferdinand comes back he can be a director here with me; and he is already useful to others by spending seventy-eight thousand and thirty-one roubles--and certainly to himself!" "But he does not work." "That is true, but I work for him and for myself. I have done the work of five all my life; why shouldn't he enjoy himself? He won't do it later on; I know that by my own experience. Work is a curse; I have borne it all these years, and I have borne it well, as my fortune proves. If Ferdinand was meant to work hard, as I have done, why should God have given him the money? What will the boy get out of it if he spends his life in adding ten millions to the one I have made, and his son in adding another ten? God has created rich and poor; the rich enjoy life. I myself shall probably never enjoy it; I am too old, and I don't know how to. But why shouldn't my boy enjoy it?" "My dear Gottlieb," said the pastor, "a good Christian----" "Johann," interrupted the cotton-spinner, addressing the returning footman and observing that the engine went more slowly, "take a bottle of hock and some cakes into the summer-house. Martin----" He tapped Boehme's shoulder with his heavy hand and guffawed. On their way into the garden a wretched-looking woman stopped them and threw herself at their feet. "Please, sir, give me three roubles for the funeral," she sobbed. Adler calmly drew away. "Go to the publican," he said; "that's where your fool of a husband wastes his money." "Oh, sir----" "Business matters are attended to in the office, not here," interrupted Adler. "Go there." "I have been there, sir, but they turned me out." Again she stretched out her arms to embrace his feet. "Go away!" shouted the manufacturer. "You won't come to work, but you know where to beg for your christenings and funerals." "How could I come to work, sir, just after my confinement?" "Well then, don't have children if you have no money for their funerals." With this he pushed the pastor, who was indignant at this scene, through the garden gate. When he had closed it, Boehme stood still. "I would rather not drink, Gottlieb," he said. "Oh!" said Adler, wondering. "The tears of the poor spoil the taste of the wine." "You need not be afraid; the glasses are clean and the bottles well corked," Adler guffawed. The pastor flushed, turned away, and hurried into the courtyard without a word. "Come back, you silly woman!" Adler shouted to the miserable creature, who was crying near the gate. "Here is a rouble, and be off with you!" He threw her a paper rouble. "Martin! Boehme!... Come back, the wine is in the summer-house." But the pastor had got into his cart without his overcoat, and was driving out of the gateway. "He is a madman," Adler observed to himself. He was not angry with the pastor, who frequently treated him to such scenes.