"Mr. Steighton," said he, "show Mr. William the letters from
Voss, Brothers, and give him English copies of the answers; he
will translate them."
Mr. Steighton, a man of about thirty-five, with a face at once
sly and heavy, hastened to execute this order; he laid the
letters on the desk, and I was soon seated at it, and engaged in
rendering the English answers into German. A sentiment of keen
pleasure accompanied this first effort to earn my own living--a
sentiment neither poisoned nor weakened by the presence of the
taskmaster, who stood and watched me for some time as I wrote. I
thought he was trying to read my character, but I felt as secure
against his scrutiny as if I had had on a casque with the visor
down-or rather I showed him my countenance with the confidence
that one would show an unlearned man a letter written in Greek;
he might see lines, and trace characters, but he could make
nothing of them; my nature was not his nature, and its signs were
to him like the words of an unknown tongue. Ere long he turned
away abruptly, as if baffled, and left the counting-house; he
returned to it but twice in the course of that day; each time he
mixed and swallowed a glass of brandy-and-water, the materials
for making which he extracted from a cupboard on one side of the
fireplace; having glanced at my translations--he could read both
French and German--he went out again in silence.
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