ition of
ancient conditions, the Roman saturnalia, or, what amounts to the same
thing, a case where the servants temporarily lord it over the
so-called lords." When he had thus classified the occurrence
historically he was satisfied, the more so as the maids always amused
him the following morning by lowering their eyes in a most unusually
modest fashion. Then he would make fantastically extravagant remarks,
as though _Gil Blas_ had been his favorite book. That was not the
case, however. He read Walter Scott exclusively, for which I am
grateful to him even to this day, since, even then, a few crumbs fell
from his table for me. His favorite among all the works was _Quintin
Durward_, probably on account of its French subject.

I have here further to add that the terrors of this goose-killing time
were by no means ended with the slaughter night and the mournful
melodies. On the contrary, they lasted at least three or four days
longer, for the slaughtering time was also the time when the giblets
dressed with goose-blood were served daily at our table, a dish which,
according to the Pomeranian view, stands unrivaled in the realm of
cookery. Furthermore my father considered it his duty to support the
view peculiar to this region, and, when the great steaming platter
appeared, would say: "Ah, that is fine! Just eat some of this; it is
the black soup of the Spartans, full of strength and stamina." But I
observed that he, along with the rest of us, picked out the dried
fruit and almond dumplings, leaving the nourishing gravy for the
servants outside, above all for the slaughtering and mourning women,
who by their boring operations had established the most legitimate
claim to it.

About a fortnight later came the pig-killing, toward which my feeling
remained exactly the same as on that occasion when, hardly seven
years of age, I had fled from the city toward Alt-Ruppin, in
order to escape, not only the spectacle, but a whole gamut of
ear-and-heart-rending sounds. But I had meanwhile grown out of
childhood into boyhood, and a boy, whether he will or no, feels
honor-bound manfully to take everything that comes along, even if his
own deepest nature revolts against it. That the prospect of rice
pudding with raisins in it was a contributing factor in this comedy of
bravery, I am unable to say, for fond as I am of good things to eat, I
was always, during the weeks just preceding Christmas, half upset by
the smell of hot grease that