Edelweiss: A Story
by Berthold Auerbach · English · Gutenberg #33007 · 575,889 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Edelweiss: A Story
Author: Berthold Auerbach
Translator: Ellen Frothingham
Release date: June 28, 2010 [eBook #33007]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33007
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from books scans provided by Google Books
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDELWEISS: A STORY ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from books scans provided by Google Books
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EDELWEISS
[Illustration: Leontopodium Alpinum]
"There is a flower known to botanists, one of the same genus with our
summer plant called 'Life-Everlasting,' a _Gnaphalium_ like that, which
grows on the most inaccessible cliffs of the Tyrolese mountains, where
the chamois dare hardly venture, and which the hunter, tempted by its
beauty and by his love (for it is immensely valued by the Swiss
maidens), climbs the cliffs to gather, and is sometimes found dead at
the foot, with the flower in his hand. It is called by botanists the
_Gnaphalium leontopodium_, but by the Swiss _EDELWEISSE_, which
signifies _NOBLE PURITY_."
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
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ALOYS
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LANDOLIN
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* * * * *
EDELWEISS
A STORY
BY
BERTHOLD AUERBACH
Author of "On the Heights," "Waldfried," "Villa on the Rhine," &c
TRANSLATED BY
ELLEN FROTHINGHAM.
NEW YORK:
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1874
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
ROBERTS BROTHERS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
EDELWEISS.
On the sunny slope of a mountain stands a house that is a joy to every
eye; for it tells of happy inmates who have won their happiness by long
and painful struggle,--who have stood in the valley of the shadow of
death, and risen to new life.
The housewife comes to the door. Her face is young and fair, and of a
bright complexion, but her hair is white as snow. She smiles to an old
woman who is working in the garden, and calls to the children not to be
so noisy.
"Come in, Franzl; and you too, children. William is starting on his
journey," says the young white-haired mother. The bent old woman, as
she approaches, raises a corner of her apron to her eyes, to stop the
gathering tears.
Presently the father comes from the house, accompanied by a young
fellow with a knapsack on his back. "Bid your mother good by, William,"
he says. "Be careful so to conduct yourself that you need never fear
the eyes of father or mother on your actions. Then, God willing, you
shall one day cross this threshold again with a happy heart."
The young woman with the snow-white hair embraces the sturdy boy, and
says through her sobs: "I have nothing to add. Your father has said
all. Remember and bring home an Edelweiss, if you find any on the Swiss
mountains." The traveller sets off amid the shouts of his brothers and
sisters.
"Good by, William; good by, good by." They play with the word "good
by," and will not let it go.
"Mother," the father calls back, "I am only going with William and
Lorenz as far as the cross-roads. Pilgrim will keep on with them to
their first sleeping-place. I shall soon be back."
"All right; only do not hurry yourself, and do not take the parting too
much to heart. Tell Faller's wife she must come to us at noon, and
bring Lizzie with her. It is a great comfort," she continues, turning
to the old woman as father and son depart, "that Faller's Lorenz goes
abroad with our William."
Our story will tell why the young, white-haired mother asks the little
plant Edelweiss of her boy when he is starting for foreign lands. It is
a sad, a cruel history, but the sun of love breaks through at last.
CHAPTER I.
A GOOD NAME.
"She was an excellent woman."
"Yes, there are few such left."
"She was one of the old school."
"Go to her when you would, her help and counsel were always ready."
"And how much she went through! She buried her husband and four
children, yet was always brave and cheerful."
"Ah, Lenz will miss her sorely. He will find out now what a mother he
had."
"Nay, he knew that in her lifetime. His devotion to her was unbounded."
"He must be thinking of marrying soon."
"He can choose whom he will. Any house would be glad to receive such a
capable, excellent fellow."
"A pretty property he must have too."
"Besides being the only heir of his rich uncle Petrovitsch."
"How beautiful the singing of the Liederkranz was! It thrilled me
through and through."
"And how it must have affected Lenz! He has always before sung with
them, and his voice was one of the best."
"Did you notice he did not shed a tear while the minister was
preaching; but when his friends began to sing, he cried and sobbed as
if his heart would break."
"This is the first funeral that has not driven old Petrovitsch out of
the town. It would have been shameful in him not to have paid the last
honors to his own brother's wife."
So the people talked as they went their several ways through the valley
and up the mountains. All were dressed in sober clothes, for they were
coming from a funeral. Near the church in the valley, where stand a few
thinly scattered houses, the Lion Inn conspicuous among them, the widow
of the clock-maker Lenz of the Morgenhalde had been buried. All had a
good word for her; and their sad faces showed that each had met with a
personal loss in the good woman's death. As every fresh grief reopens
the old wounds, the villagers had turned from the newly covered grave
to visit those of their own loved ones, and there had prayed and
mourned for the departed.
We are in the clock-making district, among those wooded hills that send
their streams to the Rhine on one side and the Danube on the other. The
inhabitants are by nature quiet and thoughtful. The women far outnumber
the men, many of whom are scattered through all parts of the world,
engaged in the clock trade. Those who remain at home are pale from
their close confinement at work. The women, on the contrary, who labor
in the field are bright and rosy, while a pretty air of demureness is
imparted to their faces by the broad black ribbons they wear tied under
the chin.
Agriculture is practised on a small scale. With the exception of a few
large farms, it is limited to a scanty tillage of the meadows. In some
places a narrow belt of trees runs down to the brook at the very bottom
of the valley; in others, again, a tall, bare pine, on the edge of a
meadow, shows that field and garden-patch have been wrested from the
forest. The ash-trees, whose branches are stripped every year to
furnish food for the goats, look like elongated willows. The village,
or rather the parish, stretches out miles in length. The houses are
built of whole trunks of trees, dovetailed together, and are sprinkled
over mountain and valley. Their fronts present an uninterrupted row of
windows, arranged without intermediate spaces, as the object is to
admit all the light possible. The barn, when there is one, is
approached from the hill behind the house by a passage entering
directly under the roof. A heavy covering of thatch projects over the
front, and serves as a protection from the weather. The color of the
buildings harmonizes with the background of mountain and forest, while
narrow footpaths of a lighter shade lead through the green meadows to
the dwellings of the villagers.
The greater number of the mourners to-day pursued the same road up the
valley. Here and there, as a woman reached the path leading to her own
house, she turned aside from the main group, and waved her hymn-book to
the children, watching at the row of windows, or running down the
meadow lane to meet her. Each, as she laid aside her Sunday clothes,
heaved a sigh of mingled grief for the departed and thankfulness that
she and hers were still alive, and living together in love. But it was
hard to settle down at once to the every-day work. The world had been
left behind for a while, and its labors could not be easily resumed.
One of the group, whose way led him with the others as far as the next
cross-road, was the weight-manufacturer from Knuslingen, the man who
made the most exact lead and copper weights in the country. "A sorry
thing, this dying," said he; "here is all the wisdom and experience
that Mother Lenz had gathered together laid away in the ground, and the
world none the better for it."
"Her son has, at least, inherited her goodness," replied a young woman.
"And experience and judgment every one must get for himself," said a
little old man, with keen, inquiring eyes, who always went by the name
of Proebler, the experimenter, from having ruined himself in inventions
and experiments, instead of keeping to the regular routine of
clock-making.
"The old times were much wiser and better," said old David, the
case-maker, who lived in the adjacent valley. "In those days a funeral
feast was spread, at which we could refresh ourselves after our long
journey and hard crying,--for crying is hungry and thirsty work,--and
after that the minister preached his sermon. If we did rather overdo
the matter sometimes, no one was the worse for it. But all that sort of
thing is forbidden now, and I am so hungry and faint I feel ready to
sink."
"So am I, and I," cried out several voices. "What are we to do when we
get home?" continued old David; "the day is lost. We are very glad to
give it to a good friend, to be sure; but the old way was better. Then
we didn't get home till night, and had nothing more to think of."
"And could not have thought of it, if you had," interrupted the deep
voice of young Faller, the clockmaker. He was second bass in the
Liederkranz, and carried his music-book under his arm. His walk and
bearing showed him to have been a soldier. "A funeral feast," he
continued, "is a thing Mother Lenz would by no means have allowed.
Everything in its time, she used to say; mourning and merry-making,
each in its turn. I worked under old Lenz five years and three
quarters; young Lenz and I were fellow-apprentices, and set up as
journeymen together."
"You had better turn schoolmaster and preach the sermon," said old
David angrily, muttering something further about those conceited
Liederkranz fellows, who think the world didn't begin till they learned
to sing their notes.
"That I can do too," said the young man, who either had not heard the
last words, or pretended he had not. "I can make a eulogy; and a good
thing it would be to talk of something besides our own appetites and
pleasures after laying such a noble heart in the grave. What a man our
old master was! Ah, if all the world were like him, we should need no
more judges or soldiers or barracks or prisons! He was a right strict
old fellow. No apprentice was allowed to give up the file for the lathe
till he could cut by hand as perfect an octagon as any machinery could
make, and no one of us was considered a finished workman till he could
make the smallest clock; for, as the old master used to say, the man
who can make small things will be most exact in great ones. No wheel
nor weight that had the least flaw in it ever left his shop. 'My credit
is at stake, and that of the whole district,' he would say. 'We must
keep up our good name.' Let me tell you one little anecdote, to show
what an influence he had over us young men. Young Lenz and I took up
smoking when we became journeymen. 'Very well,' said the old man, 'if
you will smoke, I cannot prevent it, and I don't want you to do it
secretly. I am sorry to say I have the same bad habit myself,--I must
smoke. But one thing let me tell you,--if you smoke, I shall give it
up, hard as it will be for me. It will never do for us all to smoke.'
Of course we did not contract the habit. Rather would we have lost the
use of our mouths altogether than have required such a sacrifice of our
master.
"And the mistress,--she stands this moment before God, and God will say
to her, 'You have been upright above most women on the earth. You have
had your faults, to be sure. You have spoiled your son; you might have
made a man of him by letting him seek his fortune in the world, and you
would not. But your thousands and thousands of good deeds known to none
but me, your allowing none to be evil spoken of, your making the best
of everything and everybody, even to speaking a good word for
Petrovitsch,--not one shall be forgotten. Come, and receive your
reward.' And do you know what she will say when God offers her a
reward? 'Give it to my son,' she will say; 'and, if there is any over,
there is such a one and such a one in bitter need, help him; I am
content to look on.' You would hardly believe how little she ate. The
old master often laughed at her for it, but really she was best
satisfied by seeing others eat; and her son is just as good, heart and
soul, as the mother was. I would lay down my life for him gladly."
Such was Faller's eulogy, and his deep voice often trembled with
emotion as he delivered it. The others, however, did not let him
monopolize young Lenz's praises.
Proebler maintained that he was the only one in the whole country round
who knew any more than the generation before him. "If people were not
so obstinate and jealous, they would long ago have accepted that
standard regulator we made together; I say we made, but must honestly
confess he did the greater part of it."
Nobody paid much attention to what Proebler said, especially as he spoke
so unintelligibly--hardly above a mutter--that little could be made out
except the words "standard regulator."
With more interest did they turn to old David, who next took up the
word. "Lenz never passes a man without doing him a good turn. Every
year he takes some of his leisure Sundays for tuning the organ of the
blind old organist of Fuchsberg, and charges nothing for it. That is a
labor of love that must please our Father in heaven. I too have
profited by his help. He found me once in trouble over my barrel, that
would not turn easily. So off he started to the mill, fitted me up a
workshop in the loft, put my barrel in communication with the wheel,
and now I can accomplish three times the work with half the labor."
Every one hastened to throw in a good word for young Lenz, as if it
were a copper into the poor's box.
The weight-manufacturer had said nothing as yet, but contented himself
with approving nods. He was the wisest of the party. The truth, and
nothing but the truth, had been spoken, he very well knew, but not the
whole truth. He could tell them there was no better man to work for
than Lenz. The work must be thoroughly done, to be sure; but then you
got not only full pay, but good words besides, which were worth more
than the money.
Faller parted from the group here, and took the path towards his house
among the hills. Soon afterwards the whole party dispersed in various
directions,--each, as he went, accepting a farewell pinch from
Proebler's birch-bark snuff-box. Old David, with his stout staff, went
on alone up the valley; he was the only one from his parish who had
come to the funeral.
CHAPTER II.
THE MOURNER AND HIS COMPANION.
Narrow footpath leads from the village to a solitary thatched
cottage, only a small part of whose roof, just about the chimney, is
covered with tiles. The house does not come in sight till you have
climbed a good half-mile up the mountain. The path leads behind the
church,--between hedges at first, then across open fields, where you
hear the murmur of the pine-woods that cover the steep mountain-side.
Behind this mountain, the Spannreute, rise still other peaks; but even
this front slope is so steep that the harvest gathered on the upland
meadows has to be brought down to the valley on sledges.
Along the footpath between the hedges two men were now walking, one
behind the other. The one in front was a little old man, whose dress
showed him to be a person of property. He carried a cane in his hand,
with the tasselled string twisted about his wrist by way of precaution.
His step was still firm; his face, a perfect mass of wrinkles, moved up
and down as he mumbled lumps of white sugar, which he produced from
time to time from his pocket. His sandy eyebrows were brushed out till
they stood almost at right angles with his face, and from under them
peered a pair of shrewd, light blue eyes. The young man who walked
behind was tall and slender, with crape on his hat and on the sleeve of
his long blue coat. He kept his face turned to the ground, and shook
his head sadly as he walked. At last he stopped, and straightened
himself up, bringing to view a fresh face, with light beard and blue
eyes, whose lids were red with weeping.
"Uncle," he said, hoarsely. The sugar-eater turned round. "Uncle, you
have gone far enough. Thank you heartily; but the way is long, and I
would rather go home alone."
"Why?"
"I don't know why; but I feel it were better so."
"No, no; turn back with me."
"I am sorry not to oblige you, uncle; but I cannot,--I really cannot go
to the inn just now. I am neither hungry nor thirsty; I don't know when
I shall ever eat and drink again. It is a pity you should take this
long walk for me."
"No, no; I will go home with you. I am not so hard-hearted as your
mother tried to make you believe."
"My mother tried to make me believe no evil of you. She spoke nothing
but good of any one, and especially against her relations she would
hear no tales. 'To speak evil of a brother is to slander yourself,' she
used to say."
"Yes, yes; she had plenty of proverbs. 'Marie Lenz used to say so and
so,' is in every one's mouth. Nothing but good should be spoken of the
dead, and in fact there can no evil be said of her."
The young man cast a sad glance at his uncle. He always managed to put
a sting even into his kindliest words.
"How often she has said to me lately," continued the young man, "and
how it pained me to hear her, 'Lenz, I have lived six years too long
for you. You ought to have married at five-and-twenty; it will come
harder now. You have grown too much used to my ways, and they cannot
last.' I could not persuade her out of the idea. It imbittered her
death-bed."
"She was right," said the sugar-eater. "She was too good-natured;
self-willed she was also, but that was no matter. Her good-nature
spoiled you. I did not mean to tell you so now, though; another time
would be better. Come, do as I bid you, and don't be such a baby. You
act as if you did not know which way to turn. It is all in the course
of nature that your mother should die before you, and you have nothing
to reproach yourself with in your treatment of her."
"No, thank God!"
"Show yourself a man, then, and stop crying and bawling. I never saw
anybody cry in all my life as you did in the churchyard."
"I cannot tell you how I felt, uncle. I wept for my mother, but also
for myself. When the Liederkranz sang the songs that I had always sung
with them, and I had to stand there dumb and dead, I felt as if I were
really dead, and they were singing at my grave and I could not join
in."
"You are--" said the old man. He was about to add something, but choked
it down and walked on. The little dog that was running in front looked
up wonderingly in his master's face, as if he hardly recognized the
look he saw there.
Presently the old man stopped. "I am going back," he said. "Only one
word more with you. Take into your house none of your mother's
relations whom afterwards you will have to send away. They will forget
all your kindness, and only be vexed that it cannot continue. Neither
give anything away, no matter who asks. If you are tempted to, go off
somewhere for a week or so, and, when you come home, keep the keys to
yourself. Now good by, and be a man!"
"Good by, uncle," said the young man, and went on towards his home. He
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, but knew at every step where he was.
Every stone on the path was familiar to him. When at last he reached
the house, he could hardly bring himself to cross the threshold.
How much had happened there! and what was to come next? He must learn
to bear.
The old serving-woman sat in the kitchen with her apron over her head.
"Is that you, Lenz?" she sobbed, as the young man passed her.
The room looked empty, yet everything was there. The work-bench with
its five divisions for the five workmen stood before the unbroken row
of windows; the tools hung on straps and nails round the wall; the
clocks ticked; the doves cooed; yet all was so empty, so desolate and
dead! The arm-chair stood with outspread arms, waiting. Lenz leaned on
the back of it and wept bitterly. Then he got up and tried to go to her
chamber. "It is impossible you are not there," he said, half aloud. The
sound of his own voice startled him. He sank exhausted into the chair
where his mother had so often rested.
At last he took courage and entered the deserted chamber.
"Have you not forgotten something that I ought to have sent after you?"
he said again. With an inward shudder he opened his mother's chest,
into which he had never looked. It seemed almost a sacrilege to look
now, but he did. Perhaps she had left a word or a token for him. He
found the christening presents of his dead brothers and sisters tied up
in separate parcels and marked with their names; his own lay among
them. There were some old coins, his mother's confirmation dress, her
bridal wreath,--dried, but carefully preserved,--her garnet ornaments,
and in a little box by itself, wrapped in five thicknesses of fine
paper, a little white, velvety plant, labelled in his mother's
handwriting. The son read at first under his breath, then half aloud,
as if wishing to hear his mother's words, "This is a little plant
Edelweiss--"
"Here is something to eat," suddenly cried a voice through the open
door.
It was only old Franzl calling, but it startled Lenz like the voice of
a spirit.
"Coming," he answered, shut the door hastily, bolted it, and restored
everything carefully to its former place before going into the
sitting-room, where old Franzl was indulging in many a solemn shake of
the head at this mystery which she was not permitted to share.
CHAPTER III.
WORK AND BENEFACTION.
The bailiff, Lenz's nearest neighbor, though not a very near one, had
sent in food, as was the custom in that part of the country when a
death occurred, in the supposition that the mourners might not have
thought of preparing any. Moreover, during a funeral, and for three
hours after, no fire was allowed to be kindled on the hearth.
The bailiff's daughter brought the food into the room herself.
"Thanks to you and your parents, Katharine. Take away the food; when I
am hungry, I will eat; I cannot now," said Lenz.
"But you must try," said Franzl; "that is the custom; you must put
something to your lips. Sit down, Katharine; you should always sit down
when you visit a mourner, not keep standing. Young people nowadays
don't know what the custom is. And you must say something, Katharine;
you should talk to a mourner, not be dumb. Say something."
The sturdy, round-cheeked girl flushed crimson. "I can't," she
stammered out, bursting into a passion of tears, and covering her face
with her apron, as she became conscious that Lenz's eyes were fixed
upon her.
"Don't cry," he said, soothingly. "Thank God every day that you still
have your parents. There, I have tasted the soup."
"You must take something else," urged Franzl. He obeyed with an effort,
and then rose from the table. The girl rose too. "Forgive me, Lenz,"
she said. "I ought to have comforted you, but I--I--"
"I know; thank you, Katharine. I can't talk much yet myself."
"Good by. Father says you must come and see us; he has a lame foot, and
cannot come to you."
"I will see: I will come if I can."
When she was gone, Lenz walked up and down the room with outstretched
hands, as seeking to grasp some form, but he found no one. His eye fell
upon the tools, and was chiefly attracted by a file that hung on the
wall by itself. A sudden idea seized him as he raised his hand to take
it.
This file was his choicest heirloom. His father had used it constantly
for forty-seven years, till his thumb had worn a groove in its
maple-wood handle. "Who would believe," the old man was fond of saying,
"that many years' work of a man's hand would wear a wooden handle like
that?" The mother always exhibited this wonderful file to strangers as
a curiosity.
The doctor down in the valley had a collection of old clocks and tools,
and had often asked for this file to hang up in his cabinet; but the
father never would give it. Since his death, the mother and son
naturally set a great value on the heirloom. After the father's
funeral, when mother and son were sitting quietly together at home, she
said, "Now, Lenz, we have wept enough; we must bear our burden in
silence. Take your father's file, and work. 'Work and pray while yet it
is day,' runs the proverb. Be glad you have an honest trade, and do not
need to brood over what is past. A thousand times has your father said,
'What a help it is to get up in the morning and find your work waiting.
When I file, I file all the useless chips out of my brain; and when I
hammer, I knock all heavy thoughts on the head, and away they go.'
"Those were my mother's words then, and they ring in my ears to-day.
Would I could always be as sure of her counsel!"
Lenz set himself industriously to work. Without stood Franzl and
Katharine. "I am glad you were the first to bring the food," said the
old woman; "it is a good sign. Whoever brings the first morsel at such
a time-- But I have said nothing: no one shall say I had a hand in it.
Only come back this evening, and be the one to bid him good night. If
you bid him good night three times, something is sure to come of it.
Hark! what is that? Saints in heaven, he is working now, on such a day
as this! What a man! I have known him ever since he was a baby, but
there is no telling what queer thing he will do. Yet he is so good!
Don't tell he was working, will you? it might make people talk. Come
yourself for the dishes this evening, and be composed, so that you can
talk properly. You can generally use your tongue well enough."
Franzl was interrupted by Lenz's voice, calling from the door, "If any
visitors come, Franzl, I can see none but Pilgrim. Are you still there,
Katharine?"
"I am going this minute," said she, and ran down the hill.
Lenz returned to his seat, and worked without intermission, while
Franzl as busily racked her brain to make out this extraordinary man,
who, a moment before, was crying himself sick, and now sat quietly at
work. It could not be from want of feeling, nor from avarice, but what
could it mean?
"My old head is not wise enough," said Franzl. Her first impulse was to
go to her mistress and ask what she could make of it; but she checked
herself, and covered her face with her hands as she remembered the
mother was dead. To Franzl's consternation, visitors began now to
arrive,--various members of the Liederkranz, besides some of the older
townspeople. In great embarrassment she turned them away, talking all
the time as loud as if they were deaf. She would gladly have stopped
their ears, if she could, to keep them from hearing Lenz at work. "If
Pilgrim would only come," she thought. "Pilgrim can do anything with
him; he would not mind taking the tools out of his hand." But no
Pilgrim came. At last a happy thought struck her. There was no need of
her staying at home. She would go a little way down the hill, beyond
the sound of hammer and saw, and prevent visitors from coming up.
Lenz meanwhile was recovering composure and firmness over his work.
When he left off, towards evening, he descended the hill, and, taking
the path behind the houses, proceeded in the direction of his friend
Pilgrim's. Halfway down he turned about as suddenly as if some one had
called him; but all was still. Only the blackbird's ceaseless
twittering was heard in the bushes, and the yellowhammer's monotonous
whistle from the fresh pine-tops. There are no larks down in the valley
and meadows, but on the upland fields you hear them chattering in the
wide stretches of corn. The mists were rising from the meadows, too
light to be seen just about him, but plainly visible in the distance
behind and before.
Lenz walked rapidly up the valley, till the sun set behind the
Spannreute and turned the lowland mist into flaming clouds. "It is the
first time it has set upon her grave," he murmured. He stood still a
moment, took off his hat at the sound of the evening bells, and went on
more slowly. At a turn in the valley, just below a solitary little
house, from which a thick bush screened him, he paused again. Upon a
bench before the house sat a man whom we have seen before, the
clockmaker Fallen. He was dancing a child on his knee, while beside him
his sister, whose husband was abroad, sat nursing her baby, and kissing
its little hands.
"Good evening, Faller!" cried Lenz in his old, clear tenor voice.
"It is you,--is it?" called back Faller's bass. "We were just talking
of you. Lisbeth thought you would forget us in your sorrow; but I said,
on the contrary, you would not fail to remember our need."
"It is about that I am come. Henzel's house is to be sold to-morrow, as
you know; and if you want to buy it, I will be your security. It will
be pleasant to have you for neighbor."
"That would be fine, glorious! So you stay where you are?"
"Why not?"
"I was told you were going abroad for a year or two."
"Who told you?"
"Your uncle, I think, said so. I am not quite sure."
"Did he? maybe so. If I do go, you must move into my house."
"Better stay at home. It is too late to go abroad."
"And marry soon," added the young mother.
"Yes, that will tie you down, and put an end to your roving. But, Lenz,
whatever you do must prosper. Your mother in heaven will bless you for
remembering me in your time of grief. Not a moment goes by that I do
not think of her. You come honestly by your goodness, for she was
always thoughtful of others. God bless you!"
"He has already. The walk here and our plan together have lightened my
heart. Have you anything to eat, Lisbeth? I feel hungry for the first
time to-day."
"I will beat you up a couple of eggs."
"Thanks."
Lenz ate with an appetite that delighted his hosts.
Faller's mother, much against her son's will, asked Lenz for some of
his mother's clothes, which he readily promised. Faller insisted on
walking part way home with him; but hardly had they gone twenty steps
before he gave a shrill whistle, and called back to his sister, who
inquired what was wanted, that he should not be at home till morning.
"Where do you spend the night?" asked Lenz.
"With you."
The two friends walked on in silence. The moon shone bright, and the
owls hooted in the forest, while from the village came the sound of
music and merry voices.
"It were not well that all should mourn for one," said Lenz. "Thank God
that each of us can bear his own sorrow and his own joy."
"There spoke your mother," returned Faller.
"Stop!" cried Lenz; "don't you want to let your betrothed know you can
buy the cottage?"
"That I do. Come with me, and let me show you the happiest household in
all the world."
"No, no; you run up alone. I am not fit for joy, and am wofully tired
besides. I'll wait for you here. Run quick, and be quick back again."
Faller ran up the hill, while Lenz sat down on a pile of stones by the
roadside. As the refreshing dew was shed upon tree and shrub and every
blade of grass, so a pure influence as of dew from heaven sank into the
heart of the lonely mourner; a light flashed from the little house on
the mountain-side, which had been dark before, and light and joy shone
in hearts that had long desponded.
Faller came back breathless to tell of the great rejoicing there had
been. The old father had opened the window, and shouted down the
valley: "A thousand blessings on you, kindest of friends," and the dear
girl had laughed and wept by turns.
The friends walked on again, each silently busied with his own
thoughts. Faller's step was firm, and his whole bearing so steady and
erect that Lenz involuntarily straightened himself up as he kept pace
with him. When the path began to ascend again, he cast another glance
back at the churchyard, and sighed.
"My father lies there too," said Faller, "and was not spared as long as
yours." They went on up the mountain, Lenz taking the lead. What does
he see white moving above him? Who is it? Can it be-- His mother is not
dead! She cannot keep away from him, she has come back!
The mourner gazed with an inward fear.
"Good evening, Lenz," cried Katharine's voice.
"What are you doing there?"
"I have been with Franzl. She sent for our maid to keep her company,
for she is old and timid. I should not be afraid if your mother herself
came back. Good night, Lenz! good night! good night!"
She said good night three times, as Franzl had bidden her. There must
be some charm in the words. Who knows what may come of them?
CHAPTER IV.
EACH BEFORE HIS OWN DOOR.
The cool evening following the excessive heat of the day had tempted
the villagers out of doors. Some families sat on the bench before their
houses, but more were gathered about the stone railing of the bridge,
always a favorite place of evening resort for rest or social chat after
the day's work. Thence can be seen the passing on both sides, while the
babbling of the brook provokes conversation. Various woods were lying
seasoning in the water below. The clocks were less likely to warp or
shrink when the wood of which they were made had been thoroughly
drained of its juices. But the people on the bridge understood the
process of seasoning in all its branches. The subject of their talk
now, even as late in the day as this, was the morning's funeral, which
naturally led to a discussion of young Lenz and the necessity of his
making a speedy marriage. The women were lavish of their praises of
him, not a few of their encomiums being meant as hints to the men that
they might profitably follow his example, since virtue, when seen, was
so readily appreciated. The men, however, pronounced him a good sort of
fellow enough, only too soft-hearted. The young girls, with the
exception of those who had declared lovers, said nothing; especially as
the suggestion had been started that Lenz was to marry one of the
doctor's daughters. Some even asserted that it was a settled thing, and
would be publicly announced as soon as the proper time of mourning was
over. Suddenly, no one knew how or where it originated, the report
circulated from house to house, and among the persons on the bridge,
that Lenz had spent that day, the very day of his mother's funeral, in
uninterrupted work. The women lamented that avarice should mar a
character in other respects so good. The men, on the other hand, tried
to excuse him. But the conversation soon turned upon the weather and
the course of events,--both fruitful subjects, as nothing can be
foretold of either. They were none the less comfortably discussed,
however, till it was time to bid good night, and leave the stars in
heaven and the affairs of the world to go on their appointed courses.
But the pleasantest resting-place of all was the doctor's pretty
garden, further down the valley, whence a wonderful fragrance arose on
the evening air. And yet not wonderful either, for the garden was
stocked with all manner of medicinal plants in full blossom, the doctor
being a mixer of drugs as well as physician. He was a native of the
village, the son of a clockmaker. His wife came from the capital, but
had made herself so completely at home in her husband's native valley,
that her mother-in-law, the old mayoress, as she was called, who lived
with them, used to say she must have led a previous existence as a
child of the Black Forest, so naturally did she adopt its customs. The
doctor, like his father before him, was mayor of the village. He had
four children. The only son, contrary to general expectation, did not
learn a profession, but preferred to study the science of clock-making,
and, at the time of our story, was absent in French Switzerland. The
three daughters were the most aristocratic ladies in the place, at the
same time that they were unsurpassed in industry by any of their
humbler neighbors. Amanda, the eldest, acted as her father's assistant,
besides having the charge of the garden. Bertha and Minna took an
active part in the housekeeping, and occupied their leisure in plaiting
those fine straw braids that are sent to Italy and come to us in the
shape of Leghorn hats.
This evening, the family in the garden had a visitor,--a young
machinist, called in the village, for convenience, the engineer. His
two brothers married daughters of the landlord of the Lion. One of them
was a rich wood-merchant in the next county town, the other the owner
of one of the most frequented bathing establishments in the lower Black
Forest, as well as of a considerable private estate. It was said that
the engineer was to marry the landlord's only remaining daughter,
Annele.
"You speak well, Mr. Storr," the doctor was saying, in a voice whose
tones showed him to be hale and hearty. "We must not rejoice in the
beauties of mountain and valley, and take no thought for the people who
inhabit them. There is too much of the superficial, restless spirit of
change in the world of to-day. For my part, I have no desire to rove;
my own narrow sphere contents me, body and mind. I have even had to
give up my old hobby of botanizing, or, rather, I have voluntarily
given it up, in order to devote more time to the study of humanity. In
the general division of labor, every one should take what best suits
his capacities. That is a lesson my country-people will not learn, and
our native industry suffers in consequence."
"May I ask you to explain yourself more particularly?"
"The thing is very simple. Our clock-making, like all our home
pursuits, is the natural result of the unproductiveness of our soil,
and the indivisibility of our large, entailed estates. Younger sons,
and all whose whole capital consists in their industry, must make the
most of that, if they would earn a living. Hence that natural aptitude
for work, that strict, unresting carefulness, that are common among us.
Our forests supply the best wood for machinery and cases, and as long
as our wooden clocks found a good market, a manufacturer, with the help
of his wife and children to paint the dial-plate, could make an entire
clock in his own house. But now that metal clocks have been introduced,
and have, in a measure, supplanted the wooden ones, a division of labor
has become necessary. There is a strong competition in France, in
America, and especially in Saxony. We must give up pendulums, and take
to springs. These changes cannot be effected without the help of some
general and binding association among the workmen. The stone-cutters,
in old times, used to form themselves into a guild, presided over by a
chosen head, and that is what is wanted here. The workmen, scattered
about on the mountains, must enter into a league with one another, and
work into each other's hands. The difficulty is to bring about such a
league among our people. In Switzerland a watch passes through a
hundred and twenty hands before it is finished. But the very
perseverance of the good people here, which is undoubtedly a virtue,
makes them unwilling to adopt new ways. Only by unexampled frugality
and application could our home manufactures have been carried on as
long as they have. You would hardly believe what a morbid sensitiveness
our people have contracted by their constant and close confinement at
their work. They have to be handled as tenderly as their own clocks,
which an awkward touch will break."
"It seems to me," answered the young man, "that the first thing wanted
now is a better case for your clocks, that they may become more of a
parlor ornament."
"I quite agree with you," said Bertha, the second daughter. "I spent a
year with my aunt in the capital, and, wherever I visited, I found one
of my compatriots, a Black Forest clock, like Cinderella, in the
kitchen. In the best room, resplendent with gold and alabaster, was
sure to be a French mantel-clock, never wound up, or never right if it
was, while my compatriot in the kitchen was always going, and always
exact."
"Cinderella needs to be metamorphosed," said the young man; "but she
must keep her virtues, and tell the truth, when she gets into the best
parlor."
The doctor did not let the conversation follow the turn the young
people had given it; but entered into further explanations of the
peculiarities of his country-people. A tolerably long residence abroad
enabled him to judge them impartially, while yet he had lived years
enough at home to know and appreciate their good qualities. He spoke
High German, but with a decided provincial accent.
"Good evening to you all," cried a passer-by.
"Ah, is it you, Pilgrim? Wait a minute," cried the doctor. "How is
Lenz?" he asked, as the passer-by stopped at the garden gate.
"I have not seen him since the funeral. I am just from the Lion, where
I was fool enough to get into a quarrel about him."
"How was that?"
"They were talking about his having been at work all day to-day, and
finding fault with him for it, and calling him a miser. Lenz a miser!
Nonsense!"
"You should not let it disturb you. You and I know, and so do many
others, that Lenz is a good fellow, above all such reproaches. Was not
Petrovitsch with him to-day?"
"No. I thought he would be, and therefore did not go myself. Doctor, I
wanted to ask if you would have time to come to my house to-morrow for
a moment. I should like to show you what I have been doing."
"Certainly I will come."
"Good night to you all."
"Good night, Pilgrim; pleasant dreams."
"Send me back my songs to-morrow," cried Bertha, as he was going.
"I will bring them," returned Pilgrim; and soon after they heard his
clear musical whistle in the distance.
"That is a remarkable man," said the doctor. "He is a case-painter, and
an intimate friend of Lenz, whose mother was buried this morning. He is
quite a hidden genius, and has rather a remarkable history."
"Pray, let me hear it."
"Some other time, when we are by ourselves."
"No, we should like to hear it again," exclaimed his wife and
daughters, and the doctor began as follows.
CHAPTER V.
PILGRIM'S ADVENTURES.
Pilgrim was the son of a case-painter. Left an orphan at an early age,
he was brought up at the public expense by the old schoolmaster. But he
spent by far the greater part of his time with Lenz the clockmaker on
the Morgenhalde. In old Lenz's wife he found almost a second mother,
while their only surviving child, the Lenz who has been working to-day,
was like a brother to him. Pilgrim was always the more ready and
skilful workman of the two; for Lenz, with all his undoubted ability,
has a certain fanciful dreaminess of character. Perhaps there is a
genius for music in Lenz and for painting in Pilgrim that has never
been developed; who knows? You must hear Lenz sing some time. He is
first tenor in the Liederkranz; and it is chiefly owing to him that our
society won the prize at two musical festivals,--one at Constance and
the other at Freiburg. As the boys grew up, Lenz was apprenticed to his
father and Pilgrim to a case-painter, but they continued close friends.
Through the long summer evenings they would wander singing and
whistling over hill and valley, as sure to be together as the twin
stars in heaven. Winter nights Pilgrim had to walk up to the
Morgenhalde through snow and storm; for Lenz, being, as I have said,
the last of five children, was somewhat spoiled by his mother, and kept
at home in bad weather. There they would sit together half through the
night, reading books of travel or whatever else they could lay hands
on. Many a volume out of my library has their thirst for knowledge
devoured. Together they devised a plan for travelling abroad; for, with
all the domestic habits of our people, there is a general desire among
them to see the world. As soon as it was sure that both were exempt
from military service,--Pilgrim by lot, and Lenz as being an only
son,--they were anxious to carry their plan into execution. Lenz showed
on this subject for the first time a persistent obstinacy which had
never been suspected in him. He would not be dissuaded from the
journey. His father was for letting him go, but the very thought threw
his mother into despair. When the minister's persuasions failed, I was
called in, and enjoined to talk the boy into a whole catalogue of
diseases, if other arguments failed. Of course I pursued a different
treatment. The two friends had always admitted me into their
confidence, and now freely imparted to me their entire plan. Pilgrim,
as usual, was the instigator. Lenz, notwithstanding his sensitiveness,
has a sound practical nature, though limited to a small circle of
ideas. If not confused by arguments, his instincts generally lead him
in the right direction; and whatever he undertakes he clings to with a
perseverance amounting almost to devotion. I will show you to-morrow a
standard regulator he has set up, whose adoption would be a benefit to
the whole country. Lenz's mind was in fact not so firmly made up in
favor of Pilgrim's plan as he had given his parents to understand. He
thought his friend would do better to learn clock-making thoroughly
before going into the trade, as a merchant should be able to repair any
clock that may come in his way, as well as those he carries with him.
Pilgrim finally decided to enter on an apprenticeship. As soon,
however, as he had learned what was absolutely necessary, the plan of
his journey was resumed more resolutely than ever. The objects he
proposed to himself were numerous. At one time he wanted to make money
enough to visit an academy; at another he meant to become a great
artist on his travels; then again he only desired to discomfit the
moneyed aristocracy by coming home with a bag full of gold. In reality
he despised money, and for that very reason would gladly have had it to
throw away. There was, besides, some youthful fancy in his head at that
time, I imagine. Greece, Athens, was the goal of his desires. The very
name of Athens would make his eyes sparkle and his color rise.
"Athens!" he would say, "does not the word transport you to marble
staircases and lofty halls?" He seemed to imagine that the mere
breathing of classic air would make another man of him, change him into
a great artist. I tried to disabuse his mind of these mistaken notions,
and succeeded in making him promise he would confine himself to earning
a living, and leave all else for some future time. Old Lenz and I gave
security for the merchandise he was to take with him. He finally set
out alone, Lenz yielding to our persuasions, and remaining at home. "I
am like the wave," Pilgrim used to say, "that is drawn from the Black
Forest to the Black Sea." He hoped to introduce our domestic clocks
into Greece and the East, where they had never been so favorably
received as in northern countries and the New World. It is pleasant to
hear Pilgrim tell how he went through various foreign countries,
through cities and villages, with his Black Forest clocks hung about
him, making them strike as he went along, himself taking notice all the
while of everything on the way. That was the trouble with him. His eyes
were too busy with other things, with the landscape and beautiful
buildings and the manners and customs of the country,--a great mistake
for a merchant. As our clock-work never changes, go where it will, over
sea and land, so our people remain the same in every latitude. To make
and to save, to live frugally, and never be content till they can come
home with a full money-bag, that is the one thing they care for, let
the world wag as it may. A very good and necessary thing it is, too, in
its place. One head must not have too many projects at one time. But
the day of peddling and saving is past. We must be men of business now,
and establish permanent markets in other lands for our merchandise.
"Did Pilgrim ever reach Athens?"
"Indeed he did, and he has often told me that the joy and devotion with
which the Crusaders greeted Jerusalem could not have exceeded his on
first seeing Athens. He rubbed his eyes to convince himself it was
really Athens. He expected the marble statues to nod a greeting to him
as he went jingling through the streets. But not a single clock did he
sell. He was reduced to such extremity at last as to consider himself
lucky to get a piece of work to do; and what work! For fourteen days,
under the blue Grecian sky, in sight of the Acropolis, he had to paint
the green lattice-work fence of a beer-garden."
"What is the Acropolis?" asked Bertha.
"You can tell her, Storr," suggested the doctor.
The engineer gave a hasty sketch of the former beauty of the citadel of
Athens and its present scanty remains, promising to bring a picture of
it the next time he came, and then begged the doctor to go on with his
story.
"There is little more to tell," he resumed. "With the closest
management, Pilgrim contrived to dispose of his clocks, so that we were
no losers. It required no small courage to return poorer than he went,
to be a general laughing-stock among his old neighbors. But as his
enthusiasm led him to despise the moneyed aristocracy, as he was fond
of calling it, he put on a bold front, and let who would laugh. Of
course, he went first to the Morgenhalde. The parents were standing
with folded hands about the dinner-table. Lenz gave such a cry, his
mother used to say it would kill her to hear the like again. The two
friends fell into each other's arms. Pilgrim soon recovered his good
spirits, and laughed about his luck being better at home than anywhere
else; for there he found at least a well-spread table. Certainly he
could nowhere have found a warmer welcome than from the parents and son
at the Morgenhalde. Old Lenz wanted to take him into his house; but
Pilgrim resolutely declined. He was always jealous of his independence.
He fitted up a nice workshop at Don Bastian's, very near us. At first
he took pains to introduce new patterns of clock-cases; but he could
not succeed in changing essentially the shape of our Black Forest
clocks,--the square with a pointed arch. Not disheartened by finding
his novelties unacceptable, he cheerfully fell back on making the
old-fashioned cases, for which he gets plenty of orders. He has some
skill in coloring; but his drawing is faulty. You must know that
different countries have different tastes in clock-cases. France likes
the case well covered with bright colors; North Germany, Scandinavia,
and England prefer simpler outlines, architectural ornamentation, like
gables or columns,--at most, nothing more florid than a garland.
Shepherds and shepherdesses are for the Vorarlberg. No clocks can be
sent to the East with human figures on the dial-plate; lately Roman
numerals have been allowed, but formerly none but Turkish. America
likes no painting, but requires carving more or less elaborate.
American clocks, as they are called, have the weights raised by pulleys
on one side. Hungary and Russia fancy fruit-pieces and landscapes.
Ornaments of the best taste are not always preferred; on the contrary,
a finical style is often most popular. If you can improve the
appearance of our clocks, you will be doing Pilgrim a service. Perhaps
you can give him a fresh start in life; though he hardly needs it, for
he possesses the rare art of being happy without being prosperous."
"I should like to make his acquaintance."
"You shall call upon him with me to-morrow. Only come bright and early,
so that we can take a walk over the hills. I will show you some fine
views, and nice people beside."
After bidding the engineer a hearty good night the doctor and his
family re-entered the house.
The moon shone clear in the heavens; the flowers sent out their
fragrance into the night, with none to enjoy it, and the stars looked
down upon them. No sound was heard, save from a house here and there
the striking of a clock.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WORLD PRESENTS ITSELF.
"Good morning, Lenz! You have had a good night's rest, just as children
do who have cried themselves to sleep." Thus was Lenz greeted the next
morning by Faller's deep bass voice. "O my friend," he answered; "it
brings back all my misery to wake up and remember what happened
yesterday. But I must be calm. I will proceed at once to write the
security for you. Take it to the mayor before he starts on his round,
and greet him from me. I remember I dreamed of him last night. Go to
Pilgrim's too, if you can, and tell him I shall wait at home for him
to-day. Good luck with your house! I am glad to think you will have a
roof of your own."
Faller started off for the valley with the paper, leaving Lenz to his
work. But before sitting down to it he wound up one of his musical
clocks and made it play a choral. The piece goes well, he said to
himself, nodding his head approvingly over the wheel on which he was
filing. It was her--my mother's--favorite tune. The great musical clock
with the handsomely carved nut-wood case, as tall as a good-sized
wardrobe, was called "The Magic Flute," from the overture of that
opera, which was the longest of five pieces that it played. It was
already sold to a large tea-dealer in Odessa. A smaller clock stood
beside it, and near that a third, on which Lenz was working. At noon,
after laboring uninterruptedly all the morning, he began to feel
hungry; but no sooner had he sat down to his solitary meal than all
hunger forsook him. He asked the old serving-maid to eat with him, as
she used to do in his mother's lifetime. She consented, after a great
show of maidenly delicacy at the idea of dining alone with so young a
man; but by the time the soup was finished, she had so far recovered
her self-possession as to bring up the question of his marriage and
gave her advice against it.
"Who says I mean to marry?"
"I think, if you do, you ought to marry the bailiff's daughter
Katharine. She comes of a respectable family, and has the greatest
respect for you; she actually swears by you. That would be just the
right sort of wife,--not one who would treat you like the very ground
she walks on. Girls nowadays are so--so exacting, they care for nothing
but dress and show."
"I am not thinking of marrying; certainly not now."
"You are quite right. It is not at all necessary you should. Take my
word for it, you will never be better off than you are now. I am used
to your ways, and I will keep everything so exactly as your mother did
that you will think she is alive again. Don't your beans taste good
now? Your mother taught me to cook them so. She understood everything
from the greatest to the smallest. You will be as comfortable as can be
when we are by ourselves. You see if you are not."
"I don't think we shall keep on as we are, Franzl," said Lenz.
"So you have some one already in your mind,--have you? People fancy
Lenz thinks of nothing but his clocks and his mother. Much they know
about it! If it is only some girl that comes of a good family.
Katharine, now, would be a wife for every day in the week,--for working
days and for holidays. She can look after the house and the field, and
can spin--you'd think she would spin the very straw down from the roof.
Then, too, she swears by you; all you say and all you do is perfect.
She always says whatever comes from Lenz is right, however it may
look,--like your working yesterday, for instance. Besides, she is well
off; what she inherits from her mother alone would be a portion for one
of your children."
"I have no thought of marrying, Franzl. Perhaps--I don't know, but
perhaps--I shall sell or lease my house and go abroad."
Franzl stared at him in speechless amazement, forgetting even to carry
her spoon to her mouth.
"I will provide for you, Franzl; you shall want for nothing. But I have
never been out into the world, and should like once to see and learn
something. Perhaps I may further my art in some way; who knows?"
"It is none of my business," said Franzl; "I am only an ignorant
servant-woman, though we Knuslingers have the reputation of keeping
pretty good eyes in our heads. I don't know much about the world; but
one thing I do know, and that is, that I have not lived in service
twenty-seven years for nothing. I came into this house when you were
four years old. You were the youngest and dearest of all the children,
and your brothers and sisters in their graves,--but no matter for that
now. I have lived with your mother twenty-seven years. I cannot say I
am as wise as she was; where is the woman, far or near, who can say
that for herself? You'll never find her equal as long as the world
lasts. But I learned a good deal from her. How often I have heard her
say, 'Franzl, people rush out into the world as if somewhere, across
the Rhine or over the sea, fortune were running about the streets, and
crying to Tom, Dick, and Harry, "Good morning, Tom, Dick, and Harry; I
am glad to see you." Franzl,' your mother used to say, 'if a man can't
succeed at home, he won't succeed abroad. There are people enough
everywhere to pick up gold, if it does rain down, without waiting for
strangers to come and help them. What sort of a fortune can a man make
in the world? He can't do more than eat, drink, and sleep. Franzl,'
she'd say, 'my Lenz,'--excuse me, it was she that said it, not I,--'my
Lenz, like the rest of them, once got into his head that silly notion
of travelling; but where can he be better off than here? He is not
fitted for the wild world. One must be a robber, like Petrovitsch, a
good-for-nothing, stingy, greedy, cruel wretch.' I don't mean she said
that; she never said such a thing of anybody; but I say it and think
it. 'If my Lenz were to go abroad,' she said, 'he would give the shirt
off his body to the first beggar he met; any one could deceive him, he
is so kindhearted. Franzl,' says she, 'if the wandering spirit comes
over him when I am gone, Franzl,' says she, 'hang on to his coat, and
don't let him stir.' But, good gracious! I can't do that; how can I? I
can only speak; and I must speak, for she made me solemnly promise.
Just think how well off you are. You have a comfortable house, a good
living; you are loved and respected. If you go out into the world, who
will care for you? who will know you are Lenz of the Morgenhalde? When
you have no place to lay your head, and are obliged to spend the night
in the woods, you will think of your house at home and the seven
well-stuffed beds that are in it, and the plenty of furniture and
dishes, and the wine on tap in the cellar. Sha'n't I fetch you a glass?
I'll get you one in a minute. Always drink when you're out of spirits.
A thousand times your mother has said, 'Wine cheers a man up, and makes
him think of other things.'"
So saying, she hurried out of the room and into the cellar, soon
returning with a flagon in her hand. Lenz insisted on her bringing a
second glass, and filled it for her himself; but she was too modest to
do more than touch her lips to it till she had cleared off the table
and retreated with her wine into the kitchen.
Lenz worked on again industriously till evening. The wine or something
else made him restless, so that he was several times on the point of
throwing down his tools and going out for a walk. But upon second
thoughts he concluded to stay at home, and receive the friends who
would be sure to seek him out and relieve his loneliness. No one came,
however, except Proebler. He liked Lenz for being one of the few who did
not make fun of him, nor laugh at his constantly refusing to sell any
of his works of art. He would mortgage them till he lost all power to
redeem them. It was said that the landlord of the Lion, who carried on
a large business as commissioner and wholesale dealer, owed Proebler
quite a handsome sum on the works he had pawned to him.
Lenz used to listen with all attention and seriousness while Proebler
would talk of his great discovery of the _perpetuum mobile_, and how
he wanted nothing further to bring his work to perfection than the
twenty-four diamonds on which it needed to move. In return, the old man
willingly gave his help in setting up the standard regulator which was
to benefit the whole district; and he really contributed some valuable
suggestions, which Lenz was very glad publicly to give him credit for.
To-day, however, Proebler came neither about a new discovery nor the
_perpetuum mobile_, but to offer himself as mediator in case Lenz was
desirous of marrying. He proposed to him a whole list of marriageable
girls, among them the doctor's daughters. "You are too modest," he
added in conclusion; "all houses are open to you. Tell me honestly in
what direction your preference leads you, and I will see that you are
met half-way." Lenz hardly vouchsafed an answer to his proposition, and
the old man finally departed. The idea that he could have one of the
doctor's daughters lingered in Lenz's mind. They were three noble girls.
There was a thoughtfulness--an almost motherly carefulness--about the
eldest, while the second played and sang beautifully. How often Lenz
had stood before the house and listened to her! Music was his one
passion. He longed for it as a thirsty man for a spring of water. How
would it seem to have a wife who could play the piano? She should play
him all the pieces he wanted to put into his clocks; he could make them
sound a great deal better after he had heard them. But no; such a wife
would be too aristocratic for him. One who could play the piano would
not look after the house and the garden and the stable, as a watchmaker's
wife must. He would wait quietly.
When twilight came on, Lenz changed his clothes and went down into the
valley.
All houses are open to him, Proebler had said. All houses? that is as
bad as none at all. Unless you can enter a house without interrupting
the inmates in their occupation; unless no glance, no expression asks,
What have you come for? what plan is on foot? unless you are made to
feel at home,--you have no house open to you. Lenz went in imagination
up and down the whole village, stopping at every door. Everywhere he
would find hands stretched out to greet him, but nowhere a home. Yet he
had one friend with whom he would be as much at ease as in his own
room. Pilgrim, the case-painter, had wanted to go home with him
yesterday after his mother's funeral, but fell back because he was
joined by his uncle Petrovitsch. The two despised each other for
different reasons; Petrovitsch Pilgrim, for being a poor devil; and
Pilgrim, Petrovitsch for being a rich one. To Pilgrim's, therefore, he
would go. His friend lived down in the valley with Don Bastian, as he
called him, a man who had been a dealer in clocks and made a
considerable fortune during a twelve years' residence in Spain. On his
return home he had bought a farm, resumed his peasant's clothes, and
retained no traces of his Spanish journey except the gold and a couple
of Spanish words which he liked to air occasionally, especially in
midsummer when the travellers from all quarters of the world returned
to their native valley.
CHAPTER VII.
THE LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER PLAYS HOSTESS.
In the public room of the Lion, at a table comfortably laid before the
balcony window, sat a young man alone, eating with that relish which is
the privilege of a stout young fellow in his twenties, after a day's
walk over the mountains. Sometimes, however, his eye wandered
thoughtfully from the viands themselves to the heavy silver plate on
which they were served. It was a remnant of the good old time, when
interest-bearing investments were not the only ones allowed. At last
the young man, who was no other than the engineer who had spent the
evening before at the doctor's, lighted a cigar and, drawing a brush
from his pocket, began smoothing his full, light beard. He had a marked
countenance. A high, full forehead projected from under his brown hair,
his cheeks were fresh, and there was an expression in his deep-set blue
eyes that inspired instant confidence.
A cool evening breeze was blowing in at the open window, quickly
dispersing the blue smoke from the cigar.
"Smoking already? then you will have nothing more to eat," said a girl,
entering from an adjoining room. She wore a fresh white apron made with
a stomacher, and was peculiarly neat and nice in her whole dress. Her
figure was slender and supple; her face oval yet full, with bright,
intelligent brown eyes; and three tiers of heavy brown braids were
wound like a crown about her head.
With a ready flow of words she continued: "You must excuse us; we had
done expecting you to dinner, it was so late."
"Everything was excellent. Come and sit down by me a little while,
sister-in-law."
"In a minute; as soon as I have cleared up. I cannot sit down with the
things all standing about so."
"You must have everything as neat and orderly as yourself."
"Thank you for the compliment. I am glad you have not spent them all at
the doctor's."
"Come back as soon as you can; I've ever so much to tell you."
After leaving the guest alone again for a while, the landlord's
daughter returned with a piece of knitting-work in her hand, and took a
seat opposite him at the table. "Well, let me hear," she said.
The engineer told her how he had been accompanying the doctor on his
daily round over the mountains, and could not sufficiently praise his
wondrous insight into the life of the people. He found them as the
doctor had described, industrious and pious, yet without bigotry.
"We have been into three or four inns to-day," he said. "Generally,
when you enter a country tavern of a summer's noon, you find some
miserable creature besotting himself on a bench behind the table,
half asleep over his stale beer or schnapps, who will stare at every
new-comer, and brag and rail in some unintelligible fashion. It is a
very common sight in other places, but I saw nothing of the sort here."
"Our mayor, the doctor," said Annele, "shows no mercy to drunkards, and
we are principled against giving to one."
The engineer entered with enthusiasm into a description of the doctor's
character. Wherever he went, the day seemed to grow brighter. His
honest sympathy brought something like contentment even into the huts
of the poor, while the confidence which his character as well as his
words inspired everywhere imparted fresh courage.
The girl listened in some embarrassment to this glowing description,
and only answered as she pressed a knitting-needle to her lips, "O yes,
the doctor is a true friend of the poor."
"He is your friend too; he said a great deal of good of you."
"Did he? That was because he was out in the open air; he does not dare
speak well of me at home. His five womenkind would not let him. I must
except the old mayoress, though; she is always kind."
"And are not the others? I should have thought--"
"I don't want to speak ill of them or any one else. I desire to be
thankful I have no need to exalt myself at the expense of others, to
help myself out of another's purse, as old Marie Lenz used to say.
Thousands of persons are passing in and out here who can let the whole
world know what we are. A hotel is not like a private house, where the
family can appear most loving to one another, and keep everything in
beautiful order for two or three days, while a visitor is present, and
then, behind his back, be ready to scratch each other's eyes out, and
let the housekeeping go at sixes and sevens; or, where a young lady can
begin to sing when she sees a gentleman going by, or can take her work
into the garden and make herself ornamental. But I don't want to speak
ill of anybody, only--" here Annele slipped as by accident into the
familiar German "thou." "Oh! I beg your pardon; I forgot I was not
talking to my brother-in-law, or I should not have said 'thou.'"
"I have no objection to it. Let us say 'thou' to one another."
"Not for the world! I cannot stay, if we are to talk in that way. I
wonder what keeps father so long?" said the landlord's daughter,
blushing.
"Where is your father gone?"
"He had to see to his business, but he may be back any minute. I wish
he would give up business. What is the use of his working so hard? He
thinks he could not live without it. A man might as well die as give up
business, he says; watching and working, thinking and planning, keep
one's faculties awake. And I believe he is right. For my part, I cannot
imagine how any one in youth and health can sit and play the piano all
the morning, or dilly-dally about the house, singing. To turn your hand
to this thing and that keeps you wide awake. To be sure, if you count
what we women earn in money it is not much; but to keep a house in good
order is worth something."
"Yes, indeed," said the engineer; "the devotion of people to their work
here is wonderful. Many of the clockmakers work fourteen hours a day.
They deserve great praise for it."
The girl cast a look of surprise at him. What have those stupid
clockmakers to do with the matter? Couldn't he, or wouldn't he,
understand what she meant?
There came a pause which the engineer broke by asking about the
landlady.
"Mother is in the garden, picking beans. Let us go and find her, for
she cannot leave her work."
"No, I'd rather stay as we are. Tell me, sister-in-law,--I may call you
so without offence, I hope,--is not the doctor's oldest daughter,
Amanda, a ladylike, amiable girl?"
"Amanda? why should she not be? she is old enough. She is
high-shouldered, too, as you would see if her city dressmaker did not
pad her so skilfully." The girl bit her lip. How silly to have said
that! He was thinking of Bertha all the time he asked about Amanda.
"Bertha, now," she added, recovering herself, "is a merry--"
"Yes, a noble girl," interrupted the young man, then suddenly stooped
to pick up a needle the landlord's daughter had dropped under the
table. He seemed vexed at having betrayed himself, and hastened to
change the subject.
"The doctor told me a great deal about Pilgrim yesterday."
"What is there to tell? The doctor can make a story out of everything."
"Who is Petrovitsch? They say you know all about him."
"No more than every one knows. He dines here every day, and pays when
he is done. He is an obstinate old curmudgeon, as rich as a jewel and
as hard. He lived ever so many years abroad, and cares for nobody. Only
one thing he takes delight in, and that is the avenue of cherry-trees
leading to the town. A row of crab-apple trees used to stand there, and
Petrovitsch--"
"Why is he called Petrovitsch?"
"His name is Peter, but he lived among the Servians so long that people
got into the way of calling him Petrovitsch."
"Tell me more about the avenue."
"He was in the habit of walking about with a knife in his hand, and
lopping off the superfluous branches by the roadside. One day, the
superintendent of the roads arrested him for mutilating the trees, so
he had a new row of cherry-trees planted at his own expense, and for
six years has had the fruit picked before it ripened, that thieves
might not injure the trees. They have grown beautifully, certainly. But
he cares nothing for his fellow-men. See, there goes his only brother's
child, Lenz of the Morgenhalde, who can boast of having received no
more from his uncle than he could put on the point of a pin."
"That is Lenz,--is it? A fine-looking fellow he is, with a delicate
face, just as I had imagined him. Does he always stoop like that when
he walks?"
"No, only now, because he is feeling so badly at his mother's death. He
is a good fellow, though a little too soft-hearted. I know two eyes
that are looking out at him from a vine-covered house, wishing they
might tempt him in; and the eyes belong to Bertha."
"Indeed? Is there any engagement between them?" asked the engineer, the
color mounting to his forehead.
"I don't suppose they are engaged, but she would be glad enough to
catch him; for he has a pretty property, while she has nothing but a
pretty straw hat and a pair of ragged stockings."
The landlord's daughter--or Annele of the Lion, as she was commonly
called--congratulated herself on having administered this bitter pill,
and quite forgot her own vexation in delight at the pain she had
caused.
"Where are you going?" she continued, as the young man took his hat,
and prepared to depart.
"I want a farther walk, and think of going up the Spannreute."
"It is beautiful, but as steep as the side of a house."
Annele hurried into the back garden as soon as he left, and watched
him. He did, in fact, go a little way up the mountain, but soon
retraced his steps, and went down the valley towards the doctor's.
"Plague on you!" she said to herself; "not another kind word shall you
get from me."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DEPARTED SAINT AND THE NEW MOTHER.
"He is not at home," cried Don Bastian's wife, as Lenz came up the slope
to the house. "He must have gone to see you. Did you not meet him?"
"No; is his room open?"
"Yes."
"I will go up awhile," he said, and approached the familiar room. But,
on opening the door, all power to enter forsook him. There stood
his mother smiling upon him. His first thought, on recovering his
self-possession, was one of gratitude to the faithful friend who had
fixed upon the canvas those dear features, so honest and kindly, before
their memory had faded. "He is always my good angel," he said to
himself. "He was doing me service when he could not be with me, and
such a service!--the greatest in all the world."
Long and fixedly, through gathering tears, Lenz gazed at the beloved
face. "While I have eyes left, they shall look upon her. O if I could
only hear her speak! if the voice of the departed could only be brought
back!" He could hardly tear himself away. It was so strange to have his
mother there alone, looking and looking with no one to look back at
her. Not till it grew too dark to see did he leave the room. "My tears
must cease here," he said to himself, as he turned away. "Whatever I
feel shall be shut in my own breast; no one shall call me unmanly." As
he passed the doctor's house, a sound of music reached him through the
open windows. He distinguished the words of a foreign song sung by a
powerful baritone voice that belonged, he knew, to no one in the
valley. Whose could it be? A beautiful voice, to whomever it belonged.
"Now, Miss Bertha," he heard the stranger say, "you must sing to me."
"Not now, Mr. Storr; we shall be going to tea soon. Later in the
evening we will sing together. Meanwhile I want you to look over this
piece of music."
Aroused to a consciousness of his long fasting by the mention of
supper, Lenz suddenly formed a bold resolution, and with a firmer step
and more erect carriage went straight towards the town, and into the
Lion Inn.
"Good evening, Lenz. I am glad you remember your old friends in your
grief. Not a minute has passed that I have not spoken your name, and
everybody that has come in through the day has talked of you. Has not
your right ear burned? You will surely be rewarded in this life, dear
Lenz, for your devotion to your blessed mother. She and I were the best
of friends, as you know, though we did not see each other as often as
we should have liked; for she did not leave home much, nor I either.
Will you have a glass of the new wine, or the old? Better take the new;
it is right good, and will not fly into your head. You look so red and
heated!--of course, after losing such a mother"--Here the landlady of
the Lion--for she it was who thus condoled with Lenz--expressed by a
wave of her hand that her feelings would not let her say more.
"But what can we expect?" she began again, while setting the bottle and
glass on the table. "We are mortals, after all. Your mother lived to be
seventy-one,--a whole year beyond, the allotted age. To-morrow I may
have to follow her. With God's help I too will leave behind a good name
for my children. Not that I pretend to compare myself with your
mother,--who could? But now might I venture to give you a little bit of
advice? I mean it for your good."
"Certainly; I am always glad of good advice."
"I only want to warn you against your too tender heart, against
letting your grief take too entire possession of you. You won't be
offended,--will you?"
"No, no; why should I be? On the contrary, you show me, as I never knew
before, how many good friends my mother had, and how fortunate I am to
inherit them."
"You deserve them all. You are--"
"Welcome, welcome, Lenz!" interrupted a clear, youthful voice, and a
full, plump hand was held out to him, behind which appeared as full and
fresh a face. It was Annele of the Lion, who came in with lights. "Why
did you not let me know, mother, that Lenz was here?" she added,
turning to the landlady.
"You are not the only one that is privileged to talk with a young man
at twilight," replied the mother, with a meaning smile.
Annele saw that Lenz did not fancy the joke, and continued, without
heeding her mother's words: "You must see by my looks, dear Lenz, how I
have wept for your mother these last two days. I have hardly got over
it yet. Such people ought not to die. To think of all the good she did
being so suddenly swept away! I can imagine how your room seems to you;
how you look into all the corners, fancying the door must open; that
she cannot have gone away and left you; she must come back. All day I
have found myself thinking, Poor Lenz, if I could only help him! I
should be so glad to bear a little of his burden for him! We looked for
you here to dinner to-day. Your uncle fully expected you. He always
insists on having dinner served the instant the clock strikes; but
to-day he said, 'Wait a little, Annele; keep back the dinner awhile.
Lenz will surely come; he never will sit down all by himself up there.'
And Pilgrim said you would not fail to come and dine with him at his
table. Pilgrim takes his meals here, you know. He is like a brother to
me, and so fond of you! Your uncle always has his dinner served at a
little table by himself, and likes me to sit down and chat with him. He
is an odd man, but as clever as the Evil One. Don't disappoint us at
dinner to-morrow, will you? And now what will you have for supper?"
"I have no appetite for anything. I only wish I could sleep on and on
for weeks, and forget myself and all that concerns me."
"You will feel differently by and by.--Yes, I am coming!" cried Annele
to some teamsters who had just sat down at another table. She quickly
supplied their wants, and then resumed her place behind Lenz's chair,
keeping her hand on the back of it while answering the questions of the
other guests. The touch thrilled like an electric shock through his
whole frame. The sight of others at their supper presently reminded him
of his own hunger. In an instant Annele was in the kitchen, and back
again with fresh table linen. Her hands laid the cloth and set on the
dishes so invitingly, and her voice pressed him so cordially to eat,
that his supper relished as he had thought food never would relish
again.
Who so neat and nimble as Annele, so ready and quick at repartee? Pity
she lets her fondness for making fools of people spoil the charm of her
wit.
Lenz had no sooner finished his first bottle than she was ready with a
fresh one, and filling his glass herself.
"You don't smoke,--do you?"
"I ought not, but should like to."
"I will fetch you a cigar such as my father smokes. We don't let many
of the guests have them." She brought the cigar, lighted a paper by the
lamp, and handed it to him.
The landlord had entered meanwhile,--a tall, stout, imposing figure, of
venerable aspect, with thin, snow-white hair, and a little black velvet
cap like a priest's on his head. His silver-bowed spectacles, with
their big round glasses, were only meant to be used for reading, and
were therefore generally worn pushed up on his forehead, from which a
serene and quiet intelligence appeared to be gazing. Very quiet mine
host was, quiet even to solemnity, and accounted very wise. He spoke
little, but must not great wisdom have been needed to attain the
position of the landlord of the Lion? His face was rosy, and, as we
have said, venerable, except in respect to his mouth, which he had a
trick of drawing in as a person does who is smacking his lips over
something savory. He was silent and serious, as if wishing to make
amends by his lack of words for the fluency of his wife and daughter.
When the landlady was particularly talkative and complaisant, he would
shake his head, as much as to say, "That is not to the taste of a man
of honor." A man of honor the landlord was known to be through all the
country round, and a thorough business man. He had made a fortune as
packer,--that is, by buying clocks of the manufacturers, and forwarding
them to purchasers in different parts of the world.
"Good evening, Lenz," said the landlord, with a breadth of voice that
spoke volumes. Lenz respectfully rose. "Keep your seat," he said,
offering his hand; "don't stand upon ceremony; this is a public house."
His concluding nod seemed to say, "I make my respects to you; the
requisite sympathy is as safe with me as a triple mortgage." With that
he walked to his own table and took up the papers.
"By your leave," said Annele, politely, as she came up with a stocking
in her hand, on which she was knitting, and took a seat by Lenz. She
talked much and well, so that Lenz knew not which most to admire, her
kindness of heart or the readiness of her wit.
"I am sorry to have to take money from you," she said, when he was
paying for his supper; "I would much rather you had been our guest.
Good night. Don't grieve too much. I wish I could help you. By the way,
I had nearly forgotten to ask when your great musical clock, I hear so
much of, is going to Russia. It must be the finest ever made here."
"It may be sent for any day."
"May I come up with my mother, some time, to see it and hear it play?"
"I shall feel honored. Come whenever you will."
"Good night, and pleasant dreams. Remember me to Franzl. She must come
to us if she wants anything."
"Thank you; I will deliver the message."
It was a long mile to Lenz's house, and a steep one too; but he was not
conscious of the way. Not till he found himself again in his lonely
room did the former feeling of sadness come over him. He gazed out into
the summer night, thinking of he knew not what. No sight nor sound of
human life reached him, except a solitary light that shone for a moment
from the blacksmith's house on the opposite mountain, and then
vanished. The happy can sleep.
A wind-mill stood near the smith's cottage, and in the perfect
stillness of the night he could hear it working, as a gust of wind set
it in sudden motion. The stars shone bright above the dark outline of
the mountain ridge. The moon had sunk below the trees, but still tinged
the fleecy clouds, and left a trail of pale blue light behind her.
Lenz pressed his hands to his burning brow. His temples throbbed.
Everything swam before his eyes. It must be the new wine: he would
drink no more at night. "How kind and affectionate Annele was! Don't be
a fool; what is Annele to you? Good night; pleasant dreams!" he
repeated, and found in fact that night deep and quiet sleep.
CHAPTER IX.
FRIENDLY ADVICE.
When Lenz awoke the next morning, the journeyman and apprentice whom he
had sent home at the time of his mother's death were already at work in
their old places. Never before had they been on hand before their
master. He was surprised to find the sun high in the heavens when he
threw open his window, and to hear the various clocks in his room
striking seven. Had his wish that he might sleep for weeks been really
granted? Weeks seemed to lie between yesterday and to-day. Yesterday,
how long ago it was! how much had happened!
Franzl brought his breakfast and sat down with him unbidden. "What
shall I cook for your dinner to day?"
"For mine? Nothing; I shall not be at home to dinner. Cook for yourself
as usual. Only think, Franzl, that good Pilgrim--"
"Yes," interrupted Franzl; "he was here last evening, and waited a long
while for you."
"Was he? and I had gone to see him. Only think, he has been secretly
painting a picture of my mother. You would be amazed to see how
lifelike it is. She seems on the point of speaking."
"I knew what he was about. He came to me privately for your mother's
Sunday jacket, her red bodice, and fine-plaited ruff, her neckerchief
and hood. Her garnet ornaments you had locked up with those other
things that I know nothing about. It is none of my business; I don't
need to know everything. But I can keep a secret as well as another; I
would not tell if you tapped every vein in my body. Did a breath of
what Pilgrim was about escape me? Did I drop a hint of why he did not
come? You may trust me with anything."
As Lenz did not seem inclined to take her into his confidence, she
began questioning him.
"Where are you going to-day? Where did you spend last evening?"
Lenz looked at her in surprise, and made no answer.
"Were you at your uncle Petrovitsch's?"
He still made no answer beyond a shake of the head, and Franzl helped
both him and herself out of the difficulty by saying: "I have no more
time now. I must go into the garden to pick the beans for dinner. I
have engaged a woman to-day to help me dig potatoes; are you willing?"
"Certainly; only see that everything is done as it should be."
Lenz, too, went to his work, but could not fix his mind upon it. None
of his tools suited him. Even his father's file, which he was generally
so careful of, he threw roughly aside.
The Magic Flute began to play. "Who wound up the clock?" asked Lenz,
surprised.
"I did," said the apprentice.
Lenz was silent. He must expect everything to go on in its old way. The
world does not stand still because one heart has ceased to beat and
another longs to be at rest forever. He worked on more quietly. The
journeyman told of a young man in Triberg who had lately come home from
foreign parts and wanted to set up a manufactory of musical clocks in
the neighborhood.
I might sell out to him, thought Lenz, and be free to travel and see
the world. But the thought awoke no enthusiasm in him now; it was only
like the echo of what he had once desired. The very fact of his uncle's
having spread a report of his going, wishing thereby to compel him to
it, made him averse to the plan. He took his father's file once more in
his hand. The man who used this file, he thought, spent his life on
this spot, except for one short season of absence, and was happy. To be
sure he married young; that makes a difference.
Lenz's habit was, when he had business at the foundry on the other side
of the mountain, to send his apprentice. To-day he went himself, and
sat but a little while at his work after his return. Before the morning
hours were half over, he went down into the village and thence up the
meadow to Pilgrim's. His old friend was sitting at his easel, painting.
He got up, passed both hands through his long, lank, sandy hair, and
offered the right to Lenz, who began at once to thank him for the
joyful surprise his mother's picture had given him, as well as for his
friend's kindness in thinking of it.
"Pooh, pooh!" said Pilgrim, thrusting both his hands into his wide
leather breeches, "I did it for my own pleasure. It is desperately
stupid work painting that blessed village from one year's end to the
other; the same old church with the bishop's mitre for a steeple and a
hole to put the dial-plate in; the mower with his scythe, who never
budges a step; the mother and child always running towards each other
and never meeting; the baby, stretching out its little hands, and never
reaching its father; and that plaguy fellow with his back turned, who
never lets us see what sort of a face he has. Yet hundreds and hundreds
of times I am made to paint that staring grass-green thing because the
world must have what it has been used to. I could paint it with my eyes
shut, I do believe, and still am kept at it. For once in my life I have
done myself a pleasure, and painted your mother. It is my first and
last portrait; for I don't like the faces about here, and don't mean to
bore future generations with the sight of them. Your uncle was right
never to consent to have his picture taken. When a travelling artist
some time ago asked him to sit: 'No,' said he, 'I have no idea of
seeing myself one of these days hanging in a rag-shop side by side with
Napoleon and old Fritz.' He has queer fancies, that old fellow. There
is no telling where he will strike out next."
"Never mind my uncle now. You painted my mother's picture for me,--did
you not?"
"Yes, if you want it. Come here a moment; stand just there. The eyes
are the least satisfactory part of the picture to me, and the doctor
said the same thing when he was here this morning. He meant to bring a
friend with him who is something of an artist, but he did not get out
of bed early enough. You have exactly your mother's eyes. Stand there a
minute, just as you are. Now keep quiet, and think of something
pleasant,--of some one you are going to do a kindness to. Remember
Faller and his house, then you will have just your mother's hearty
expression; not a smile, but such a kind, cordial look. So,--that is it
exactly. Don't blink. Nay, I cannot paint you if you cry."
"The tears will come," apologized Lenz. "I could not help thinking how
my mother's eyes--"
"Well, well; we will let it be. I know now what is needed. Let us take
a recess; and high time we did too, for it is almost noon. You will eat
your dinner with me, won't you?"
"Don't be offended; but I must dine with my Uncle Petrovitsch to-day."
"Nothing you could do would offend me. Tell me now about yourself."
Lenz laid before his friend the plan he had half formed of going abroad
for a year or two, and urged him to carry out their boyish project of
going together. Perhaps the luck they had hoped for in those days might
be realized now.
"Don't do it; don't go," urged Pilgrim. "You and I, Lenz, were never
meant to be rich men, and it is best so. My Don Bastian is the sort of
man to make money. He has travelled over the whole world, and knows as
little about it as the cow does of the creed. Wherever he went,
whatever place he entered, his one thought was how to make money, how
to save and to cheat. So he got on everywhere. The Spanish peasant is
as cunning as the German, and likes nothing so well as to get the
better of his neighbors. When my Don Bastian came home, he brought
nothing with him but his money, and had nothing to do but to dispose of
that to the best advantage. Such a man as that will get on in the
world."
"And we?"
"He whose pleasure lies in things that cannot be had for gold needs no
money. All the superfluous chink that I have is my guitar, and it is
all I want. I heard Don Bastian's youngest boy saying the Ten
Commandments one day, and a bright thought came into my head. What is
the first commandment? 'I am the Lord thy God: thou shalt have no other
gods beside me.' Every man, then, can have but one God. You and I take
pleasure in our art. You are happy when you have accomplished a work
that harmonizes in all its parts, and so am I, though I do complain
sometimes of the everlasting village with the same old mower and the
eternal mother and child. But I am glad when it is done; and even while
I am doing it I am as gay as a bird,--as gay as the finch there on the
church-roof. Now a man that delights in his work, and puts his whole
heart and soul into it, cannot be always thinking how he can make
money, how he can speculate and cheat. And if he has a joy that money
cannot buy, what does he want of money? I am satisfied with the sight
of a beautiful group of trees,--with watching the sunbeams flicker in
and out among the branches, and play bo-peep with one another so happy
and loving. What should I gain by having the forest my own? 'Thou shalt
have no other gods beside me.' That is a good saying. A second god is
pretty sure to be the devil, as you may see by your Uncle Petrovitsch.
The apostle says the same thing: 'Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord
and the cup of devils.'"
"Come and live with me," was Lenz's only answer. "I will have our upper
room fitted up for you, and give you a chamber besides."
"Thank you, but that would be a mistake for both of us. Lenz, you are
one of a thousand. You were cut out for a husband and father; you must
marry. I imagine already the pleasure I shall take in telling your
children stories about my travels. When I am too old to work, you shall
give me a home with you, and kill me with kindness, if you will. But
now keep your eyes open. Don't seem too fond of me. I not only will not
be offended, but I advise you to put me in the background, that you may
have a chance of a place in your uncle's will. We should make capital
heirs. I have a real talent for inheriting; but unhappily my relatives
are all poor devils, rich in nothing but children. I am the only one in
the family that will have anything to leave, and I shall play the rich
uncle one of these days, like Petrovitsch."
As a passing shower, which began to fall while the friends were
talking, put a fresh brightness on the face of nature, so did Lenz's
heart grow lighter under Pilgrim's influence. They waited till the rain
was over, and then set out together for the hotel; but did not enter at
the same time, as Pilgrim was unwilling to be seen by Petrovitsch in
Lenz's company. A wagon stood before the door, and a young man was
taking leave of the landlord, who accompanied him a few steps, and
offered him his two fingers, pushing his little cap on the back of his
head as he did so. After a parting salutation to the landlady and her
daughter, the stranger ordered the coachman to drive on, and wait for
him at the doctor's.
He raised his cap in greeting to the two friends as he passed them.
"Do you know him?" asked Pilgrim.
"No."
"Nor I either," said Pilgrim. "That is odd! Who is the stranger?" he
asked of the landlord.
"The brother of my son-in-law."
"Oho!" whispered Pilgrim in Lenz's ear; "now I remember; some one told
me he was a suitor of Annele's."
He did not see the change these words wrought in his friend's
countenance; for Lenz turned hastily away and ran up the steps before
him.
CHAPTER X.
LENZ DINES WITH PETROVITSCH, AND IS KEPT WAITING
FOR THE SWEETS.
Petrovitsch had not yet come. As Lenz sat at his table waiting for him,
Pilgrim and he fell into conversation with the hosts. Annele was
strangely reserved to-day. She would not even shake hands with Lenz
when he entered, but pretended to be busy with some household work. Her
hand is promised, he thought; she can give it to no one now, even in
greeting. At last his uncle arrived, or rather his forerunner in the
shape of a mongrel cur, half terrier and half rat-catcher.
"Good day, Lenz!" said the surly voice of Petrovitsch, who followed
behind the dog. "I expected you yesterday. Did you forget I had invited
you?"
"I confess I did entirely."
"I will excuse you under the circumstances; but generally a business
man ought not to forget. I never forgot even a pocket-handkerchief in
my whole life, and never lost so much as a pin. A man should always
keep his seven senses about him. Now let us have dinner."
Annele brought the soup. The uncle helped himself, put some into
another plate, and told Lenz he might have what was left. Then he drew
from his pocket the paper, which he took daily from the post, cut it
open while his soup was cooling, laid his tobacco-pouch and meerschaum
upon it, and finally began his dinner.
"This is the way I like to live," said he, when the soup was removed
and he was crumbing bread into the plate for the unknown guest,--"take
my meals in a public house where I can have fresh table linen every
day, throw down my score when I am done, and remain my own master."
When the meat was brought on, Petrovitsch, with his own hand, put a
slice on Lenz's plate, took another himself, and cut again for the
third plate. It must be meant for some very intimate friend, for the
old man put his finger into it, after sprinkling some water over, and
stirred up the food. At last the mystery was explained by his calling
to his dog: "Come, Bubby, come; gently, gently, not so rough, Bubby;
quiet, quiet!" He set the plate on the floor, and the dog attacked the
dinner with a relish, licking his chops when it was over, and looking
up gratefully and contentedly in his master's face. For the rest of the
meal Bubby, as the dog was called, to the disgust of the villagers, got
nothing thrown him but an occasional crumb. Petrovitsch said little
during dinner. When he had finished, he lighted his pipe and took the
paper, which Bubby understood as a sign that he might jump up into his
master's lap. There he remained, half sitting and half standing, while
Petrovitsch read the paper over the dog's head. Lenz found his position
rather embarrassing. The old man's habits were too settled to be easily
interrupted.
"Uncle," he said at last, "what made you spread the report that I was
going abroad?"
Petrovitsch took three comfortable pulls at his cigar, blew out the
smoke, stroked his dog, pushed him gently off his lap, folded the
paper, restored it to his pocket, and finally answered: "Why, Lenz,
what a queer fellow you are! You told me yourself you wanted to renew
your youth by going out to see the world."
"I don't remember saying so."
"Very likely not; you hardly knew what you were talking about. But it
would be a good plan if you did go away awhile; you would get out of
many a rut. I have no desire and no right to force you."
Lenz was actually persuaded by his uncle's positive assertion that he
had expressed such an intention, and apologized for having forgotten
the circumstance.
"Draw your chair up closer, Lenz," whispered Petrovitsch,
confidentially. "There's no need for the world to hear our
conversation. Look here, if you take my advice, you won't marry."
"But, uncle, what makes you suppose I am thinking of marrying?"
"There is no telling what you young people won't do. Profit by my
example, Lenz. I am one of the happiest men in the world. I have been
enjoying myself for six weeks in Baden-Baden, and now everything seems
pleasant to me here again. Wherever I go, I am my own master and
command the best service. Besides, there are no girls nowadays who
are good for anything. You would die of ennui with the simple and
good-natured, while the bright and clever expect you three times a day,
at every meal, to send off fireworks for their entertainment, besides
boring you with continual complaints of 'this tiresome housekeeping
that you men know nothing about.' Then there are the crying children,
and the poor relations, and the school-bills, and the dowries."
"If every one thought as you do, the world would die out in a hundred
years."
"Pooh! there is no danger of its dying out," laughed Petrovitsch, as he
pressed his tobacco down into his pipe with a little porcelain
instrument he always kept by him for the purpose. "Look at Annele now."
A chill he could not account for struck to Lenz's heart. "She is a
natty little woman, always in harness. I call her my court jester.
Those old kings were wise in keeping a fool to make them laugh over
their dinner: it helped digestion. Annele is my court fool; she
entertains me here every day."
When Lenz looked round, Pilgrim had vanished. He seemed determined his
friend should disown him before the rich uncle. But Lenz considered it
his duty to tell Petrovitsch that he was a faithful friend to Pilgrim,
and always should be.
The old man commended his nephew for his constancy, and further
surprised him by praising Pilgrim, who, he said, was just like himself,
and cared nothing for marrying and womenfolks.
The dog became uneasy, and began to whine.
"Quiet!" said Petrovitsch, threateningly. "Be patient; we are going
home now to sleep. Come, Bubby! Are you coming too, Lenz?"
Lenz accompanied his uncle as far as his house,--a large, imposing
building, where he lived entirely alone. The door opened at their
approach as if by magic; for the servant was obliged to be on the
lookout, and open for her master without his knocking. No stranger was
admitted who could not explain his business satisfactorily. The
villagers used to say that even a fly must have a pass to enter that
house.
There the nephew bade his uncle good by, and was thanked with a yawn
for his politeness.
Lenz was happy to be at his work again that afternoon. The house, which
had seemed too desolate to live in, began to feel once more like home.
There is no true comfort to be found in outside excitements, but only
between one's own four walls. He chose a place for his mother's
portrait directly above his father's file. She would look down on him
from there as he sat at work, and he could often look up at her.
"Keep the room nice and neat," he said to Franzl. "It is always neat,"
she answered, with pardonable indignation. Lenz could not explain that
he wanted it particularly nice because he was every moment expecting
Annele and her mother to see and hear the musical clock before it was
sent to Russia. When she came, he would ask her plainly what foundation
there was for the stories about herself and the engineer. He must ask,
though he felt he had no right. Then he should know on what terms he
might stand with her.
Day after day went by, and still no Annele came. Lenz often passed the
Lion without going up, finally without even looking up.
CHAPTER XI.
THE GREAT MUSICAL CLOCK PLAYS ITS OLD PIECES,
AND HAS NEW ONES ADDED.
The report that the famous Magic Flute, the great musical clock of Lenz
of the Morgenhalde, would start in a few days for its place of
destination in Russia, set the whole valley in a ferment. A perfect
pilgrimage began to Lenz's house. Every one was anxious to admire this
noble work once more, before it disappeared forever. Franzl had as much
as she could do to welcome the guests, shake hands with them,--wiping
her hands first on her apron every time,--and usher them into the
sitting-room. There were not chairs enough in the house to seat them
all. Even Uncle Petrovitsch came, and with him not only Bubby, which
was a matter of course, but Ibrahim, the old man's companion at cards,
who was said to have turned Turk during his fifty years' absence from
home. The two old men said little. Ibrahim sat smoking a long Turkish
pipe, motionless except for an occasional contraction of his eyebrows;
while Petrovitsch was as constant in his attendance upon him as Bubby
in attendance upon his master. Ibrahim was the only human being who
possessed any influence over Petrovitsch, and he preserved it only by
never exercising it. He shook off all applicants who hoped through him
to gain access to the rich man. They played cards together every
evening, cash down. Petrovitsch was stirred to special activity and
officiousness by Ibrahim's imperturbable tranquillity, and now seemed
desirous of doing the honors of his old homestead. He stood by the
work-bench during the playing of a long piece, and amused himself with
observing the tools which lay upon it, as well as those hanging upon
the wall. At last he took down the familiar file with the well-worn
handle. "Was not this his file?" he said to Lenz, when the piece was
ended.
"Yes, my poor father's."
"I will buy it of you."
"You are not in earnest, uncle. You know I could not sell it."
"Not to me?"
"Not even to you,--begging your pardon."
"Give it to me, then, and let me give you something in return."
"I hardly know how to answer you, uncle. Really, I cannot let it go out
of the house."
"Stay there then," he said to the unconscious tool, as he returned it
to its place; and shortly after he and Ibrahim went down the hill.
People came from a great distance, some from the next valley, to hear
and admire the clock. Franzl was especially delighted with the praise
bestowed upon it by the weight-maker, one of the chief men of her
village. "Such a piece of workmanship has not left our part of the
country for a hundred years," he declared. "What a pity it has got to
be silent through the journey, and cannot play from here to Odessa, to
tell every one it comes from the Black Forest, where science has been
brought to such perfection!" Franzl's face glowed with pleasure. It
takes the Knuslingers to talk like that. She told of the patience and
zeal with which Lenz had labored on this work; how he had often got up
in the night to carry out some idea that had come into his mind. There
were secrets in that clock that no one could fathom. She, of course,
was initiated into its mysteries. No maiden's heart ever beat more
tumultuously at a first declaration of love than Franzl's when the
first man of her village said, "And the house, Franzl, whence proceeds
a work so delicate and exact, the house must have been well ordered
too; you have contributed your share, Franzl."
"With all deference to others, I must say there is no one quite equal
to us Knuslingers. This is the only man who has said just the right
thing. The others stood there like cows before a new barn door. Moo!
moo! Thank Heaven, I come from Knuslingen!"--so spoke Franzl's whole
manner. You could read it in her hand, which she laid upon her beating
heart, and in the frequent raising of her eyes to heaven.
Lenz could not help laughing at her seasoning every meal with
congratulations that he was now so famous in Knuslingen.
Knuslingen was not such a small place either. It had two chapels of
ease, at Fuchsberg and at Knebringen.
"To-morrow evening I shall close the case and send off The Magic
Flute," said Lenz.
"So soon?" lamented Franzl, and cast imploring glances at the great
case, as if entreating it to stay yet a little longer in the house to
which it brought so much honor.
"I wonder," continued Lenz, "why the doctor's family has not been;
and--and--the ladies from the Lion promised to come too."
Franzl rubbed her forehead and shrugged her shoulders, lamenting her
ignorance. It was not for the like of her to know the secrets of great
houses.
Annele of the Lion had long been urging her mother to make the visit,
but the landlady would not without her husband. Majesty is wanting
where he is not present. Majesty, however, does not seek; it requires
to be sought.
But now Annele learned through certain trusty informers that on this
last day the doctor's family was going to Lenz's house. Majesty,
therefore, must consent. This was the day of all others,--the day when
the aristocracy would be present. The mother and daughter determined
not to start till they had seen the doctor's family go by. Nothing of
this diplomacy was revealed to his Majesty, whose punctiliousness and
dignity would have taken umbrage thereat.
"Here comes the thou-teacher," cried Franzl, early the next morning, as
she was looking out of her kitchen window.
The elders of the village called the young schoolmaster the
thou-teacher, because, to the great scandal of some good people, he
addressed all who were unmarried with the familiar "thou." His
companions called him the singing-master,--a title more to his taste.
He was the founder and moving spirit of the Liederkranz, and with Lenz,
Pilgrim, and Faller made the best quartette. Lenz gave him a hearty
welcome, and Franzl begged him to stay a couple of hours to help her
receive the numerous visitors who would be sure to come in the course
of the morning.
"Yes, do stay," urged Lenz. "You cannot think how badly I feel at
losing my clock; it is like bidding good by to a brother or a child."
"You carry your sentiment too far," objected the schoolmaster, "in thus
putting a piece of your heart into everything you make. You will soon
start some fresh work. For my part, I do not fancy these wound-up
organs, as you know." Franzl made a wry face, but the teacher went on.
"They are for children and for a people in its childhood. Even a piano
I don't think much of, because the tones are ready-made. A piece of
music played on the piano is not much better than the whistling of a
song that should be sung. The works of your clocks have tongues and
lungs, but no heart."
Franzl left the room in indignation. Thank Heaven, there are still
Knuslingers in the world, to rate things at their proper value. She
heard the two friends within singing the touching song, "Morgen muss
ich fort von hier." Lenz's voice was a pure, though not very strong
tenor, which the schoolmaster's powerful bass would have drowned had he
let out the full force of his voice. They were interrupted by Franzl
calling through the open door, "The doctor's family is coming."
The school-teacher, as master of ceremonies, advanced in front of the
house to receive them.
The doctor entered with his wife and three daughters, and said at once,
in his kindly way, which, without being in the least dictatorial, yet
admitted of no refusal, that Lenz must not waste his valuable time in
talking, but must set the clock going without delay.
It was done, and all were evidently delighted. When the first piece was
finished, Lenz was fairly overwhelmed by the praises bestowed upon
him,--such hearty praises, too, evidently not spoken merely from
politeness.
"Grandmother sends you her congratulations," said the eldest daughter;
while Bertha cried, "How many voices in one case!"
"Don't you wish you had as many?" replied her father, jokingly.
"You have a true talent for music," continued the eldest, her brown
eyes shining with honest pleasure.
"If my father had only let me have a violin to play on when I was a
boy, I really think I might have done something in the way of music,"
said Lenz.
"You have done something now," said the stout doctor, as he laid his
hand kindly on the young man's shoulder.
The schoolmaster, whose chief delight was in the construction of the
works, relieved Lenz of the trouble of explaining them to the ladies by
describing, better than the manufacturer himself could have done, how
the delicacies of crescendo and diminuendo were introduced, and what a
nice ear was required to make the tones powerful without harshness, and
to preserve the distinction between the long and the short notes. He
dwelt repeatedly upon the accuracy of ear and mechanical skill
necessary to produce such a work, called attention to the admirable
expression of the pathetic passages, and reminded his listeners of the
difficulty of bringing out the expression, and, at the same time,
following the strokes of the metronome. This mechanism had not the
advantage enjoyed by the performer of dispensing with the metronome
and varying the time to suit the music. He was going on to explain how
the various qualities of tone were rendered; the solidity of the
barrel-work; the necessity of fitting the cylinders so firmly together
that they could not give way; the reasons for having the soft alder
outside and various woods of different fibres inside; when his
explanations were interrupted by the voice of Franzl without, giving a
peculiarly hearty welcome to some new-comers. Lenz went to the door,
and found the landlord of the Lion, with his wife and daughter. The
landlord shook hands with him, and gave a nod at the same time, as much
as to say that no higher compliment could be paid than for a gentleman
of well-known pride and honor to spend a quarter of an hour in
examining a work to which a young man had devoted years of industry.
"So you have come at last!" was Lenz's greeting to Annele.
"Why at last?" she asked.
"Have you forgotten that you promised to come six weeks ago?"
"When? I cannot remember."
"On the day after my mother's death you said you would come soon."
"Yes, yes; so I did. I have had a feeling there was something on my
mind, I could not tell what. Yes, yes; that is it. But, dear me, you
have no idea how fast one thing crowds out another in our house." Lenz
felt a pang through his heart at Annele's light words.
But he had no time to analyze his feelings of pleasure and pain, for
the ladies now began to exchange greetings. Annele seemed inclined to
follow the city fashion and kiss the doctor's daughters,--those friends
whom, however, she hated most cordially for the reserve that always
appeared in their manner towards her. Amanda, the botanist, had taken
off her broad hat, quite as if she were at home, and Annele followed
her example. Annele's hair was more abundant than that of all the other
ladies put together, and long enough to sit on. She held up her head,
with its triple crowns of braids, and looked about her with an air of
satisfaction.
Lenz put in a new barrel, and made The Magic Flute, which was generally
rather grave, play the merry song of the Moors, "Das klinget so
herrlich, das klinget so schoen."
"H'm, h'm!" growled the landlord, and a long speech he made out of his
growl, nodding his head the while, and drawing in his under lip, as if
tasting a delicate wine.
"Very well," he added, after a pause, and spreading out both hands as
he said it, as if he would literally be openhanded in bestowing his
commendations,--"very well indeed." Those were weighty words, coming
from mine host.
The landlady folded her hands, and looked admiringly at Lenz. "To think
that such a work should be made by human hands, and by so young a man
too! and yet he acts as if he were nothing more than the rest of the
world. Keep so always; nothing becomes a great artist so well as
modesty. Go on as you have begun; make more such works. You have a
great gift, my word for it."
That poverty-stricken individual, that may-pole, cannot use such
language, said her triumphant glance at the doctor's wife, after this
speech. And, if she did, what would her words signify? It is very
different coming from me.
"Your mother's blessing rests on your noble work, Lenz," said Annele,
"for she lived to see it finished. How hard for you to part with it!
Bring me the music, won't you? and I will learn to play it on the
piano."
"I can lend you the notes," said the doctor's eldest daughter, who had
heard Annele's concluding words.
"But ours is arranged for four hands," said Bertha.
"And I have but two," said Annele, snappishly.
The girls would have gone on chatting longer, had not the doctor
commanded silence. A new barrel had been put in, and the second piece
was beginning.
When this was ended, and the guests had gone into the other room to
partake of the bread and butter, cheese and wine that Franzl had
prepared, the landlord began upon business.
"How much do you receive for your musical clock, Lenz? You need not
hesitate to tell me; I won't take any unfair advantage of it."
"Twenty-two hundred florins. I don't gain much at that price, for the
work has cost me a great outlay of time and money. If I make another, I
shall drive a better bargain."
"Have you begun another?"
"No, I have had no order."
"I cannot give you an order, for musical clocks are out of my line of
business. I cannot order one, therefore, as I say; but, if you make
another, perhaps I will buy it. I think I could dispose of it."
"If that is so, I will begin a second work at once that shall be better
than the first. The idea almost reconciles me to having this one go and
carry away all the years I have spent on it."
"Not a word more or less have I to say about the matter. I am always
accurate and precise. I give you no order, but--there is a
possibility."
"That is quite enough; I am perfectly satisfied. Annele has said just
what I was saying to Pilgrim yesterday, that I could not tell how badly
I felt at having to part with the work my mother took such delight in."
Annele cast her eyes modestly to the ground.
"I shall take the same delight in it your mother did," said the
landlady.
The doctor's wife and daughters looked at her in surprise as she spoke,
the landlord frowned threateningly at his wife, and the pause that
ensued gave additional weight to her words. Franzl relieved the general
embarrassment by hospitably pressing refreshments upon every one, and
was radiant with happiness when Annele commended her for keeping the
house in such good order that no one would imagine it was without a
mistress. The old woman put her newly washed apron to her eyes.
The landlady hit upon an excellent topic in asking Lenz if his uncle
had been to see his work, and if he were not pleased with it.
"He came," answered Lenz, "but said nothing, except that I had sold it
too cheap, and did not know how to look after my own interests."
There could not have been a happier inspiration than to turn the
conversation upon an absent friend, especially one so open to criticism
as Petrovitsch. The only question was what tone should be assumed in
speaking of him. Annele and her mother had already opened their mouths
when a warning look from the landlord silenced them. The doctor began
to praise the absent uncle. He only put on a rough exterior, said his
apologist, to hide his kind heart. "Petrovitsch," he continued, turning
to Lenz and the schoolmaster, "is like the coals which once were trees;
they have rich warmth within, and so has Petrovitsch." The schoolmaster
smiled assent, Lenz looked embarrassed, and the landlord growled.
"Petrovitsch likes music," said the doctor's eldest daughter, "and no
one who likes music can be hard-hearted." Lenz nodded approvingly, and
Annele gave a gracious smile. The landlady was not to be outdone. It
was she who had turned the conversation upon this fertile subject, and
she was not going to let it be appropriated by others. She praised
Petrovitsch's cleverness, and hinted that she possessed his entire
confidence, which naturally suggested her cleverness also in
appreciating this sage as the rest of the world could not. Annele, too,
must bring her offering of praise. Petrovitsch was so neat, she said;
he wore such fine linen and made such good jokes. A crumb even fell to
Bubby's share from this rich feast of compliments. Annele described
Petrovitsch as the perfect model of a kind, true family friend,--almost
a saint, in fact. He wanted nothing finally but a pair of wings to
become an angel outright.
The visit came to an end at last. The schoolmaster escorted the
doctor's daughters, and Lenz joined the doctor, who was walking behind.
"I have a question to ask you, doctor," said he, "but you must not seek
to know my reason for asking."
"What may it be?"
"I want to know what kind of a plant Edelweiss is."
"Don't you know, Amanda?" asked the doctor.
"It is an alpine plant," answered Amanda, blushing, "that is said to
grow on the line of perpetual snow,--in fact, under the snow. I never
saw a living specimen of it."
"I believe you, child," replied the doctor, smiling; "only the boldest
alpine goatherds and hunters venture to pick the hardy little plant
from its native soil. The possession of one is a proof of unusual
daring. It is a peculiar plant of delicate construction, and containing
very little sap, so that it can be preserved a long while, like our
everlasting. The blossom is surrounded by white velvety leaves, and
even the stem has a down upon it. I can show you the plant if you will
come to my house. The Latin name is _Leontopodium alpinum_, which means
Alpine lion's-foot. I don't know where the German name comes from, but
it is certainly prettier than the Latin."
Lenz expressed his thanks, and took leave of the doctor and his family,
who continued down the mountain.
The landlady lingered in the kitchen with Franzl after the rest had
gone. She could not find words to express her admiration of the old
woman's neatness and orderliness. "You are like a mother in the house,"
she said with her magpie laugh, as Pilgrim called it; "Lenz ought to
hold you in great honor, and confide everything to you. He should have
no secret from you."
"He does not; that is--only one."
"So there is one! May I know what it is?"
"I don't know myself. When he came home from his mother's funeral, he
rummaged in the chest that the mistress would never let any one have
the key of; and when I called him, he pushed to the door and rummaged
awhile longer, locking everything up again tight. Whenever he goes out
now he always tries the lid, to see that it is fast locked. Yet he is
not naturally suspicious."
The landlady cleared her throat and gave utterance to another little
magpie laugh. The old mistress must have laid by a stocking full of
gold, she thought; who knows how much? "Come and see me," she said,
condescendingly; "come whenever you like. If you should want anything,
do not fail to come to me for it. I should never forgive you if you
were to apply to any one else. Your brother often comes to us with his
wares; have you any message for him?"
"Yes; I should think he might come up and see me sometimes."
"Be sure I will tell him so, and if he has not time to come so far, I
will send for you to come down. We have a great many Knuslingers at our
house, and very sensible people they are; at least I like to talk with
them better than with any one else. If the Knuslingers were only rich,
they would be famous the country round. We often speak of you, and your
townspeople like to hear of the esteem in which you are held."
When the landlady paused for breath, Franzl gazed at her with rapture,
and would gladly have supplied her with her own, had she had any to
spare; but hers too was exhausted. She could only lay her hand on her
heart; to speak was quite out of her power. What a change had come over
the kitchen! Merry Knuslingen faces seemed to be laughing from all
the pots and pans; the shining copper kettles turned into drums and
began to play; the tin funnels blew a blast, and the beautiful white
coffee-pot stuck its arms akimbo and danced just like her godmother,
the old burgomaster's wife: oh, it has danced itself off its feet!
Franzl seized the excitable coffee-pot just in time to save it from
falling.
"Good by, Franzl," concluded the landlady, rising. "It does one good to
chat with an old friend. I enjoy myself far better with you than in the
doctor's parlor, with his affected daughters, who can do nothing but
play the piano and make up faces. Good by, Franzl."
The musical clock played no sweeter melodies than were sounding in
Franzl's heart at this moment. She could have sung and danced for joy.
She looked at the fire and smiled, and then turned again to the kitchen
window to watch the landlady's retreating figure. What a fine woman she
is, the first in the whole town, and yet she called herself your good
old friend! While Franzl was laying the cloth, she stole a glance at
herself in the glass, as a maiden might who is returning from her first
ball. So looks Franzl, the best friend of the landlady of the Lion. She
could not taste a morsel of the good things she had provided; she was
satisfied,--more than satisfied.
CHAPTER XII.
GOOD WISHES, AND A FAIR START ON THE JOURNEY.
Now it is ready, said Lenz to himself, casting a last look upon his
work before taking it to pieces; God bless you! The various parts were
carried down separately into the valley; the great carved case in a
barrow, there being no carriage-road to Lenz's house.
The two enemies, Petrovitsch and Pilgrim, met at the wagon on which
Lenz was standing, packing together the detached pieces, each of which,
in its turn, was carefully wrapped in a stout covering.
On one side stood Petrovitsch. "I know the man and the house," he said,
"that your work is going to. One of my best friends lives in Odessa.
Your clock will be in capital hands. Why don't you go with it and set
it up yourself in Odessa? You would get half a dozen more orders."
"I have a new order already," answered Lenz.
"Lenz," said Pilgrim on the other side of the wagon; "let us go a
little way with The Magic Flute; we can be back in good season this
evening."
"I am willing. I could not work to-day, at any rate."
As the wagon, followed by the two friends, was passing the Lion inn,
Annele looked out of the window and cried, "Good luck to you!"
The young men thanked her.
A still pleasanter greeting awaited them at the doctor's. The
servant-maid ran out and laid a wreath of flowers on the wagon.
"Who sends it?" asked Pilgrim, for Lenz was mute with astonishment.
"My young mistress," answered the girl, and disappeared into the house.
The two friends looked up at the window and saluted, but saw no one. A
few minutes afterwards they heard The Magic Flute played from the
doctor's parlor.
"It is a grand family, that of the doctor's," said Pilgrim. "I never
know my own mind so little as when I ask myself which one of them all
is the best. My favorite is the old mayoress. The neighborhood ought to
sign a petition to God that she might live forever. Now that your
mother is gone, she is the last one left of that generation of
dignified, motherly old ladies. But the granddaughters are fine women
too. Amanda will make just such a grandmother as the old mayoress, one
of these days."
Lenz was silent, and remained so during the whole walk to the city. But
there, when the wagon had gone on, and the friends were sitting over
their wine, he recovered his spirits, and felt, as he said, that he was
beginning life anew.
"Now you must marry," was again Pilgrim's verdict. "There are
two choices open to you; one is to marry a woman of thorough
education,--one of the doctor's daughters, for instance. You can have
one, if you will, and I advise you to take Amanda. It is a pity she
cannot sing, like Bertha, but she is good and true. She will honor you,
if you honor her, and will appreciate your art." Lenz looked down into
his glass, and Pilgrim continued: "Or you will make your home
comfortable by marrying an honest peasant, the bailiff's daughter
Katharine. As Franzl says, the girl would jump to get you, and she
would make a good, economical housewife. You would have half a dozen
stout children tearing down the landlord's pine-trees behind your
house, and you would grow a rich man. But, in that case, you must
expect no sympathy from your wife in your art or in any of your great
plans. You can have which you like, but you must decide. If your mind
is made up, send me to which you will. I rejoice already in my dignity
as suitor. I will even put on a white neckcloth, if necessary. Can the
power of friendship go further?"
Lenz still looked down into his glass. Pilgrim's alternative excluded
Annele. After a long pause, he said: "I should like to be for once in a
great city, that I might hear such a piece of music as The Magic Flute
played by a full orchestra over and over again. I am sure my pieces
could be made to sound much better than they do. I am haunted by the
idea of a tone I cannot produce. People may praise me as much as they
like, but I know my pieces have not the right sound. I am sure of it,
and yet I cannot make them better. There is something squeaking, dry,
harsh about them, like the sounds made by a deaf and dumb person, which
are like words, but yet are not words. If I could only bring out the
right tone! I know it, I hear it, but I cannot produce it."
"I understand; I feel just so myself. I am conscious of a color, a
picture which I ought to be able to paint. I seem on the point of
seizing and fixing it, but I shall die without succeeding. That is our
fate, yours and mine. You will never produce your ideal. It cannot be
otherwise. Bellows and wheels cannot take the place of human breath and
human hands; they bring tones from a flute and a violin which your
machinery never can. It must be so. Come, let us empty our glasses and
be off."
They finished their wine, and went merrily homeward through the autumn
night, singing all sorts of songs, and, when they were tired of
singing, varying their music by whistling. At Pilgrim's house they
parted. Lenz's way led him past the Lion inn; and, as he saw it was
still lighted, and heard a sound of voices within, he entered.
"I am glad you are come," said Annele, giving him her hand; "I was
thinking you must be as lonely at home, now that your clock is gone, as
you were when your mother died."
"Not quite that, but something like it. Ah! Annele, people may praise
my work as much as they like, I know it is not what it should be. But
one thing I may say of myself without conceit,--I do know how to hear
music, and to hear music aright is something."
Annele stared at him. Know how to hear music! Indeed, what art is there
in that? Any one can hear music who has ears, and does not plug them
up! Still, she fancied that Lenz must have some hidden meaning.
Experience had taught her, that, when a man wants to bring out an idea
of which his mind is full, his first utterances are apt to be rather
disconnected; so she threw another wondering glance at Lenz, and said,
"To be sure, that is something."
"You know what I mean," cried Lenz, delighted.
"Yes, but I cannot express it."
"That is just it; neither can I. When I come to that I am a wretched
bungler. I never regularly learned music; I cannot play the violin or
piano; but when I see the notes, I hear exactly what the composer meant
to say. I cannot interpret music, but I can hear it."
"That is well said," chimed in Annele. "I shall remember that as long
as I live. To interpret music and to hear it are two different things.
You show me so clearly what I have always felt, and yet never could
express."
Lenz drank in the good wine, the kind words, and the kind looks of
Annele, and went on: "Especially with Mozart; I hear him, and I think I
hear him right. If I could but once in my life have shaken hands with
him! If he had lived in my day, it seems to me I should have died of
grief at his death; but, now that he is in heaven, I should like to do
him some service. At other times, I think it is fortunate I cannot play
any instrument, for I never could have learned to render music as I
hear it. The hearing is a natural gift, for which I have to thank God.
My grandfather is said to have had a wonderful understanding of music.
If my playing were necessarily below my hearing and my conception, I
should want to tear my ears out."
"That is the way with me," said Annele. "I like to hear music, but am
too unskilful a performer. When one has to be busy about the house, and
cannot devote much time to practising, there is no use in trying to
play. I have given up the piano altogether, much to my father's
vexation, for he spared no pains to have all his children taught; but I
think what cannot be done thoroughly had better not be done at all.
Your musical clocks are meant for people like me, who like to hear
music, but cannot make it. If I were master here, I should never allow
your greatest work to go to Russia, but should buy it myself. It ought
to stand in the public room to entertain the guests. It would bring you
in ever so many orders there. Since I was up at your house, I have had
constantly running in my head that beautiful melody, 'Das klinget so
herrlich, das klinget so schoen!'"
Beautiful and brave were the melodies playing in Lenz's heart. He tried
to explain to Annele how the notes might be followed exactly, all the
pins be put in the right places, and even the time in certain passages
changed, and yet, unless the man himself felt the music, he would make
nothing but a hurdy-gurdy, after all. The piano passages must be taken
slower, the forte faster. A performer would naturally render them so;
he could hardly help being more subdued at the piano passages and more
animated at the forte. The same effect must be wrought by the pins; but
the hurrying and slackening needs to be very slight. In the forte
passages especial care is needed; for in them the works necessarily
labor and are retarded, so that they have to be, in some way, favored.
"I cannot tell you, Annele," he concluded, "how happy my art, my work,
makes me. As Pilgrim says, I sit there in my room, and set up pieces
lively or solemn, which play themselves, and make happy hundreds and
hundreds of people that I never saw."
Annele listened intelligently to the end. "You deserve to be happy,"
she said, when he had finished. "Your beautiful words show me how
beautiful your work is. Thank you very much for explaining it to me so
thoroughly. Some people would be jealous if they knew you talked so to
me."
Lenz passed his hand across his brow as she spoke, and said, "Annele,
may I ask you a question?"
"Yes, I will tell you anything."
"Don't be angry with me, but is it true that you are as good as engaged
to the engineer?"
"Thank you for asking me so plainly. There is my hand upon it, there is
no word of truth in the story; nothing has ever passed between us."
Lenz held her hand firmly, and said, "Permit me one question more."
"Ask what you will, you shall have an honest answer."
"Why is your manner towards me so different when Pilgrim is here? Has
anything ever passed between you and him?"
"May this wine be poison to me, if I do not speak the truth," replied
Annele, seizing Lenz's glass, and putting her lips to it, in spite of
his assuring her there was no need to swear; that he could not bear
oaths. "If all men were like you," she continued, "there would be no
need of oaths. Pilgrim and I are always teasing and bantering each
other, but he does not really understand me; and, when you are by, I
cannot endure his jesting and nonsense. But now I must ask you a favor.
If you want to know anything about me, no matter what, ask no one but
myself. Promise me; give me your hand on it!"
They grasped each other's hand.
"I am a landlord's daughter," continued Annele, sadly. "I am not so
fortunate as other girls, who do not have to receive every one that
comes, and laugh and talk with him. I carry the thing through as well
as I can, but am not always what I seem. I know I may say this to you.
I might often be depressed; but the only way is to put on a bold face,
and laugh sadness away."
"I should never have imagined you could have a sad thought pass through
your mind. I fancied you as merry as a bird the whole day long."
"I like better to be merry," answered Annele, with a sudden change of
tone and expression. "I like nothing sad, not even sad music. 'Das
klinget so herrlich, das klinget so schoen!' that is a merry tune to
jump and dance to."
The conversation returned to the subject of music, and the clock
that had been sent off that day. Lenz liked to tell of his having
accompanied The Magic Flute through part of its long journey, and how
he wanted to call out to every porter and driver and sailor on the way:
"Take care! pity you cannot hear what you have got packed up there."
Lenz had never before been the last guest in the inn. He could not make
up his mind to get up and go home. The great clock in the public room
struck the hour noisily and admonishingly, the weights rattled angrily,
but Lenz did not hear. The landlord was the only other person in the
room, his wife having long since gone to bed. He left his seat at the
adjoining table, where he had been reading the paper, and signed to
Annele to put up her work. She could not have understood him, for she
went on talking eagerly. He put out his light with a clatter, but even
that failed to rouse the pair. He walked up and down the room in his
creaking boots; Lenz paid no attention. Never before had the landlord's
presence been thus ignored. He struck his repeater; Lenz gave no heed.
At last--for mine host was not accustomed to put restraint upon himself
for any man--he spoke: "Lenz, if you mean to spend the night here, I
will show you a room."
Lenz roused himself, shook hands with Annele, and would have liked to
do the same with the landlord; but that was too great a liberty to take
unless invited. Revolving many thoughts in his mind, he left the house,
and silently took his way homeward.
CHAPTER XIII.
LION, FOX, AND MAGPIE.
In the early winter, as in the early spring, the Morgenhalde was the
pleasantest place in the whole country. Old Lenz was right in saying
that the morning sun lay on his house and meadow all day long. But
little fire was needed half the day. Flowers blossomed in the garden
behind the house long after they had disappeared everywhere else, and
put out their leaves again in the spring, when everything else was
bare. This garden was as sheltered as a room, and in it grew, what was
rare in those parts, a chestnut-tree, which attracted many an unwelcome
squirrel and nutpecker from the neighboring forest. The house protected
the garden on one side without keeping from it the sun after ten
o'clock; and the mighty forest which covered the upper part of the
steep mountain seemed to take special pleasure in both house and
garden, and had stationed two of its tallest pines as sentinels at the
gate.
Had there been many promenaders in the town, they certainly, in these
first chilly winter months, would have often taken the path up the
meadow, past Lenz's house into the wood, and returned along the
mountain ridge. But there was only one promenader, or rather there were
only two, in the town,--Petrovitsch and his dog Bubby. Every day before
dinner Petrovitsch got up an appetite by walking through the meadow,
past the house, and over the ridge of the mountain. Bubby doubled and
trebled the distance by leaping back and forth across the gullies which
to the right of Lenz's house the water had channelled down into the
valley. The gullies were dry at this season, but served in spring and
summer to carry off the rushing water. Petrovitsch was very loving
towards his dog, and in moments of special affection would call him
Sonny. The old man had come home rich from his foreign journeyings. His
neighbors naturally estimated his property at three times its actual
value, but it was really considerable. The longing for home which the
inhabitants of the mountains and of Upper Germany never outgrow had
brought him, in his old age, back to his native valley, where he
lived, after his fashion, a contented life. His happiest time was
in midsummer, when the merchants from all quarters of the world
assembled at the Lion, and all the tongues of the earth were spoken
there,--Spanish, Italian, English, Russian, and Dutch,--while in the
midst of them, from the very same men, would be heard good Black Forest
German. Then was Petrovitsch a person of consequence, and great was his
pride at being able to show off his knowledge of Spanish and Russian.
Whereas in ordinary times he always left the Lion punctually at an
appointed hour, then he would spend whole days there, staying sometimes
even into the night. And when the market was over he stayed behind, and
amused himself with calculating how far on their way such and such
merchants were who had gone to the Lower Danube.
Petrovitsch kept the whole country in suspense. It was generally
understood, though he had not said so, that he meant to found a great
charitable institution for the neighborhood. Every room of the great
house he had built for himself had a stove in it, signifying, according
to the common report, which he neither denied nor confirmed, that he
designed the building as a home for invalid workmen. Lenz, his only
heir, was left in uncertainty also; for it was naturally taken for
granted that a considerable part of the fortune would be left to him.
Lenz himself, however, counted not much upon it. He paid his uncle all
proper respect, but was man enough to take care of himself. He bade his
apprentice keep always in good order the path where his uncle liked to
walk, without any reference having been made to the attention on either
side. The cackling of Lenz's hens and geese, and the barking of a dog,
were the signal every noon of his uncle's approach. He nodded to him
through the window where he sat at work. His uncle returned the
greeting and passed on. Neither ever entered the house of the other.
One day the old man remained standing before the window. Bubby seemed
to guess his thoughts; for whereas he was usually contented with
driving Lenz's geese, cackling, behind the garden fence, and then
returning in triumph to his master, to-day he pursued them through the
garden and even into the house, where, however, they found a sufficient
protector in Franzl. Petrovitsch administered a stern rebuke to his
dog, and went on, thinking to himself, It is Lenz's place to come to
me, there is no use in my troubling myself about him. As soon as a man
begins to trouble himself about his neighbors there is an end of his
comfort. He has to keep wondering whether they will do this or whether
they will do that. I desire to be thankful I have nobody's business to
mind but my own. But still he could not help questioning, What is this
matter about the forest? Yesterday at dinner the landlady had taken a
seat by him, and, after talking of a variety of subjects, had quite
unexpectedly launched forth into praises of Petrovitsch's habit of
taking a daily walk. It kept him in good health, she said; he might
live to be a hundred, in fact had every appearance of it. She heartily
wished he might; he had had a hard time in life and deserved some
amends for it. Petrovitsch was wise enough to know that there was
something behind this unwonted friendliness. He attributed it, perhaps
not unjustly, to her having designs upon his nephew. She said nothing
about that, however, but once more turned the conversation upon his
daily walk, and said what a good thing it would be for him to buy of
her husband the beautiful Spannreuter forest by the Morgenhalde. To be
sure he would be sorry to sell it; indeed, she did not know whether he
would consent to sell at all, but she should like to give Petrovitsch
the gratification of walking every day in his own wood. Petrovitsch
thanked her for her exceedingly delicate attention, but ended the
matter by saying he liked quite as well to walk in another man's
forest; in fact, rather better, because then it did not vex him to see
persons stealing the wood, and to lose one's temper before dinner was
bad for the digestion. The landlady smiled intelligently, and replied
that no one could have a bright idea without Petrovitsch's having a
brighter. Petrovitsch again made his acknowledgments, and the two were
as sweet to each other as possible, much sweeter than the lump of sugar
that Petrovitsch pocketed from dessert.
The thought passed through the old man's mind that the forest would be
a good purchase for Lenz to make, he furnishing the means; for the
landlord would ask him too high a price for it. That was what he wanted
to tell his nephew, when he remembered his noble principle of not
troubling himself about other men's concerns, and he desisted. He had
done too much already in busying his head in the matter. He noticed
that the ascent was more difficult to-day than usual; so much for
thinking when you are going up a mountain; you should do nothing but
breathe. "Here, you stupid fellow!" he called to Bubby, who was
grubbing after a mole when a good cooked dinner was preparing for him;
"what is a mole to you? let him dig!" The dog obeyed, and walked close
at his master's side. "Back!" ordered Petrovitsch again, and with the
dog put all unnecessary thoughts behind him. He would know nothing; his
tranquillity must be undisturbed.
The old man found the family at the Lion out of temper. The landlord
was in great wrath at hearing from his wife that she had offered the
forest to Petrovitsch, who had refused it. "Now the report will get
abroad that I am in want of money," he complained.
"Well, you said you wanted money," retorted his wife, pouting.
"I don't need you to do my business for me. I shall sell no paper at
the exchange to-day!" he exclaimed in an unusually loud tone just as
Petrovitsch was entering. The old man gave a knowing smile and thought
to himself, You would not boast so loud if you were not in want of
money. Just as dinner was ready, the post-boy brought in a number of
letters, some marked "Important." The landlord signed a receipt, but
sat down to table without opening them, loudly repeating what he had
often said before, "I read no letters before dinner. Whether they are
good or bad they spoil one's appetite. I am not going to have my
comfort disturbed by the railroads."
A wicked scoffer, sitting at another table, refused the due tribute of
admiration to this piece of wisdom, and profanely thought, There is a
locomotive running about in your body, put as good a face on the matter
as you will. This scoffer, it is needless to say, was Petrovitsch.
After dinner Pilgrim walked several times past Petrovitsch's table with
the evident desire of stopping at it. Four eyes looked at him
wonderingly. Bubby, sitting in his master's lap, stared and growled as
if he scented a beggar, while Petrovitsch's occasional glance up from
his paper said plainly: What is he after? He has not a forest to sell
too,--has he? None, certainly, but the one on his head, if he does not
owe for that.
Pilgrim frequently passed his hand through his long lank hair, but
found thereby no approach to Petrovitsch, who, so far from encouraging
him, got up now, paid his score, and departed. Pilgrim hurried after
him. "A couple of words with you, if you please, Mr. Lenz," he said,
when he overtook him in the street.
"Good day; that is just a couple of words."
"I want nothing for myself, Mr. Lenz; but I consider it my duty--"
"Your duties are nothing to me."
"Imagine that some one else is speaking my words. So that you hear
them, the rest is nothing."
"I am not curious."
"It concerns your nephew Lenz."
"I knew that."
"Yet more; you may make his happiness for life."
"Every man must make that for himself."
"It would only cost you a walk to the doctor's."
"Is Lenz ill?"
"No. The state of the case is this: he ought to marry and wants to
marry. Now the best wife for him is the doctor's daughter Amanda, as I
am convinced, after thinking the matter over on all sides. But he lacks
the necessary courage. He thinks, too,-he has not told me so, but I am
sure of it,--that he is not rich enough. Now, if the uncle makes the
proposal, and thereby promises--"
"So? I knew it would come to that. If my brother's son wants a wife,
let him get her himself. I am an old bachelor, and don't understand
such things."
"If his friends do not exert themselves, Amanda will marry some one
else. I know that an apothecary is paying his addresses to her."
"Good! she would be just the wife for him. I am not the disposer of the
world."
"But if your nephew should foolishly get into trouble in some other
quarter?"
"He must get out the best way he can."
"Mr. Lenz, you are not as hard-hearted as you set up for being."
"I am not setting at all, I am going. Good day, Mr. Pilgrim." And go he
did. Pilgrim drew his breath hard as he looked after him, but presently
turned homeward. In this gloomy weather, with no ray of sunshine, he
could at least be grinding his colors for brighter days.
CHAPTER XIV.
PRESSES AND EYES ARE OPENED.
"Good day, Franzl! So you let us have a look at you at last! That is
right; I am glad to see you." Thus was Franzl greeted by the landlady,
as she entered the public room.
"I beg your pardon," stammered Franzl; "did you not send for me? My
brother was said to be here."
The landlady knew nothing of any message having been sent. The brother
had been there, indeed, but had left a long while ago. She had given
the servant orders to notify Franzl when occasion offered, but knew
nothing about today.
Franzl begged pardon for intruding, and was anxious to go back at once,
feeling herself quite out of place. This mood suited the landlady
exactly. The stupid servant-woman must suspect nothing, but esteem
herself highly favored by having a few moments devoted to her. It was
better to put her a thousand thanks in debt than owe her one. Franzl
must stay, since she had come, and must wait a few minutes in the
family sitting-room until the busy mistress was at leisure. The poor
woman did not venture to sit down, but remained standing at the door,
staring at the great clothes-presses that reached up to the ceiling.
"At last I have despatched everything," said the landlady, entering,
and smoothing her gown; "and now I will have a good hour with an old
friend,--the best possession in the world, after all."
Franzl felt highly flattered. She was made to sit down by the landlady,
close to her on the sofa, while a servant-maid handed coffee and cakes.
She put on all the airs of modesty that the occasion required, perhaps
a few more; such as insisting upon turning into the landlady's cup the
cream the latter had already poured into hers, until the hostess was
obliged to tell her she should be angry if she stood so much upon
ceremony.
At the second cup, Franzl began to tell how things looked on the
Morgenhalde. Lenz worked as hard, she said, as if there was not a crumb
of bread in the house, and yet there were abundant stores of all kinds.
He scarcely ever went from home, except to see Faller, whose house he
was helping to fit up. He had signed a security for the purchase of the
house in the first place, and now he had contributed a bed, besides
giving the old woman his mother's Sunday clothes. If some one did not
come soon, and take his keys, he would give away everything he owned.
But for himself he was as economical as could be. He neither smoked nor
took snuff, nor drank, nor played; he spent nothing at all on himself,
concluded Franzl, approvingly.
After the landlady had again bestowed fitting commendations on the
Knuslingers, who knew everything, she added incidentally: "Only think,
Franzl, of this report that your young master is to marry the doctor's
botanical daughter! Is there any truth in it?"
"Yes, indeed."
"So?"
"That is, I mean, there is no truth at all in it. Pilgrim tried to
persuade him to, but he would not; and I believe there has been a
quarrel in consequence."
"So? That is a different matter. I always said that Lenz knew his own
mind. He would do far better to follow your advice and marry the
bailiff's Katharine."
"Do you hear that?" said Franzl, triumphantly, smiling and nodding her
head as if Lenz were standing before her. "Do you hear that? The wise
landlady of the Lion agrees with me. And here you thought she would be
too rough for you; that nothing could be made of her. I will tell him
you advise him to marry Katharine. That will be a help to me. I have
been wishing to find some one on my side."
"No, Franzl; God forbid! You must not speak a word of me at home.
Besides, he is quite right; Katharine would not be suitable for a man
so refined as he. He should have a superior woman, one above the common
run."
"Yes; but where is such a one to be found?"
"Good day, Franzl," said Annele, suddenly entering. "I am glad to see
you once more in our house. Don't get up. You look, as you sit there,
like the well-to-do mistress of some great farm, and you know as much
as if you were. But finish your coffee; it is growing cold. Is it sweet
enough?"
"Oh, too sweet!"
Annele's words acted like whole sugar-loaves upon it.
"I wish I could stay and hear you talk, but I must go back to the
public room. One of us is needed there. Come again soon, won't you? and
let me have something of you."
"Oh, what a dear, dear girl!" exclaimed Franzl in praise of the
departing Annele. "She must make you a perfect heaven upon earth."
"We have our cares too. She is our last child; if she were only well
provided for!"
Franzl opened her eyes wide, and gave a vacant smile, but did not
venture to say a word. The landlady tapped her finger on her nose with
her magpie laugh, at which Franzl considered it her duty to laugh too.
She knew what were proper manners at a coffee lunch. Put a Knuslinger
where you will, he will always do the right thing. The landlady now,
with all her cleverness, did not seem to know what the right thing was.
"Do you like to see nice linen, Franzl?"
"O my heart! it is the one thing I delight in. If I were rich, I would
have seven chests of the finest linen. The weight-maker's wife in
Knuslingen has--"
"See there," said the landlady, opening the folding-doors of a great
clothes-press and showing packages of linen in dozens, piled up to the
ceiling, each tied with a bright-colored ribbon.
"Is that for the hotel?" asked Franzl, when her first exclamations of
admiration were over.
"Heaven forbid! that is my Annele's dowry. As soon as my daughters were
seven years old I began to put by their wedding outfit, for you never
can tell how suddenly it may be needed. Then it is finished, and there
is no further need of weaver or seamstress. I only wish the dowry of
one of my daughters might remain in the town. It would be pleasant,
too, to keep one child near us. Thank Heaven, all my children are well
married,--more than well; but seeing their prosperity is better than
hearing of it."
A sudden revelation broke upon Franzl's mind. The press with its wealth
of linen danced before her eyes, and the blue, red, green, and yellow
ribbons melted together into a rainbow. "O dear landlady, may I speak?
I beg a thousand pardons if I am presuming, but--O dear Heaven, where
such linen is how much else there must be! How would it do--might I say
it?--if my Lenz--?"
"I have nothing to say. I am the mother, and my child is well known;
you can easily inquire about her. You understand? I think--I don't
know--"
"Oh, that is enough, quite enough! I fly home; I have borne him in my
arms, I will bear him again hither. But there will be no need, he will
leap over the house-tops. I am but a poor silly thing, dear landlady;
don't be angry with me."
"You silly? You can draw one's inmost thoughts out of one. You are
wiser than the seven wise men. But look you, Franzl, this is all
between ourselves; between two trusty friends. I have said nothing; you
have made your own discoveries. My husband naturally looks higher; but
I should like to keep one child near me, God willing. I tell you
honestly--for I know not how to speak falsely or to take back my
word--that I do not reject your proposal."
"That is enough. I will show that we Knuslingers do not bear the name
for nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"Ho, ho!" cried Franzl in a decided tone, and putting on a knowing
look. "You will soon see. I shall take his tools away from him and
drive him out of the house. He must be here this very day. You will
help him out,--won't you? for he is shy with strangers."
The landlady soothed the excited Franzl, who in her enthusiasm
alternately got up and sat down, raised her hands to heaven and folded
them upon her breast. She advised her to show her wisdom by betraying
to Lenz in no possible way that Annele's mother favored his cause; and
further enjoined upon her, as the best means of success, to throw out
warnings against every one else, while Annele's name should be scarcely
mentioned. "Such matters should be delicately handled," concluded she.
"'You must not point your finger at the lightning,' as the old proverb
runs."
Franzl was always going, and never went. When at last she had the
handle of the door in her hand, her lingering glance at the great
linen-press said as plainly as words: We shall soon have you at our
house. To every piece of household goods she nodded: You are ours now,
and it is I who make you so. Then home she went in the keen autumn
wind, as if every sheet and tablecloth had become a sail to waft her up
the mountain.
"Mother," said Annele from behind the sideboard, "why do you tow
that stupid old cow into the house? If anything comes of it, we shall
have to pay court to her or else she will be crying out against our
ingratitude. What is your great hurry?"
"Don't make believe you are ignorant of how matters stand. It is
necessary and right that you should be soon provided for."
"I am not making believe, for I really know nothing. A little while ago
you would not hear of Lenz; why have you changed your mind?"
The mother looked at her in amazement. Could the girl be really
ignorant of their household affairs?
"Circumstances have changed," she answered, simply; "Lenz is alone
now, and has a well-furnished house. I would never give you to a
mother-in-law." Be false with me, she thought, as she left the room,
and I will be false to you.
At the Morgenhalde Franzl went about with a smile on her face.
Smilingly she abused all the girls of the village; the doctor's
daughters, the bailiff's Katharine, every one but Annele. Her she did
not mention, but threw out misterious hints about mountains of linen
and persons who were of the right sort. Lenz thought the old woman's
loneliness was beginning to affect her mind. She went quietly about her
duties, however, and was merrier than ever. Lenz, too, grew daily more
contented over his work, and a long time passed without his going into
the town.
CHAPTER XV.
YOUNG HEARTS AFTER A WEDDING.
Lenz sat at home and worked untiringly. By great good fortune the
weight-maker of Knuslingen had found a purchaser for the smaller work,
which was nearly finished. He worked at its completion with real
pleasure, and at the same time set things in train for beginning the
new clock that the landlord had as good as ordered. He often thought,
as he sat working so happily: What need have I of marrying? In fact, I
ought not to marry. My head and heart are so full of my art, there is
no room left in them for wife and children.
Pilgrim had resumed his former pet project of devising some new
patterns of clock-cases, and devoted all his evenings to it, as he
could not spare the time from his working-hours. Thus the friends met
but seldom, especially as Lenz no longer went to the rehearsals of the
Liederkranz.
Faller's marriage at length induced him to come down into the village.
The good fellow gave the author of his happiness no peace until he
consented, in spite of his mourning, to go to the church. The services
at the house were very quiet, with neither guests nor music; for, as
the bridegroom said, he would wait and invite his guests when he had
some money, and music he could make for himself.
At the house Lenz had to submit to the warmest praises and thanks for
all he had done. "If you are married soon," said the old dame,--"as God
grant you may be,--I will wear your mother's clothes to church. I am
not ashamed to wear them; on the contrary, it is an honor, as every one
tells me."
"And I have a good bed," said Faller, his deep voice sounding almost
ludicrous with emotion. "O Lenz, I hardly pray for myself to-day; I
pray the Lord God for you. May he keep you from danger; but, if you
ever do fall into great peril, may I be the one to rescue you! I long
to turn round to the congregation in church and say, 'Behold, by God's
help I stand here; but he helped me through my friend, on whom and on
whose parents in heaven I pray the Lord's blessing.' You must be happy
yourself, Lenz, for you have made a whole household happy."
The strong, resolute Faller fell to twirling his formidable mustache;
he could say no more. Lenz was almost more an object of respect at the
house than the young couple themselves, and was relieved when the party
adjourned to the church.
The Liederkranz was there, and sang beautifully, though perceptibly
weakened by the absence of the two best voices, Faller's and Lenz's.
The whole village--certainly all the women, married and single--were
present at the wedding. The married were glad to hear the solemn
service read again, and the unmarried tried to imagine how it would
seem when their turn came, as they hoped it soon would. The matrons
wept, while the maidens cast curious glances about the church. If Lenz
had looked up, he would have found himself the centre of many eyes. He
separated from the bridal party after the ceremony and took his lonely
way homeward. At the churchyard gate stood Katharine, the bailiff's
daughter, with a nice-looking young man, dressed like one of the
peasants from the neighboring valley. She greeted Lenz as he passed,
and blushed under his earnest gaze. The next moment he raised his hat
politely to the doctor's eldest daughters, who were picking their way
through the wet streets, showing their pretty laced boots.
"We thought you had gone on a journey," said Bertha, the bolder of the
two sisters.
"No, I have been all the time at home," answered Lenz.
"So have we," retorted Bertha. Lenz was silent.
"Are you engaged upon any new work?" asked Amanda.
"On a new and an old one too. Our work never ceases."
"Is not such constant labor a severe strain upon you?" Amanda asked
again.
"Oh no; I don't know what I should do without it."
"You clockmakers," said Bertha, archly, "are like your clocks, always
wound up."
"And you are a key to wind us up," replied Lenz, inconsiderately. It
was not what he had meant to say; but the right words would not come.
"I am glad you pay her back in her own coin, Mr. Lenz," said Amanda.
"Our ways part here; we must say good by."
"Perhaps Mr. Lenz is going in our direction," ventured Bertha. "Were
you not going to Pilgrim's?"
Lenz felt his heart beat. He wanted to say yes; he wanted to say he was
going to Pilgrim's; but involuntarily, almost in fear and trembling, he
said, "No, I am going home. Good by!"
"Good by!"
Lenz breathed hard as he went up the hill. He would turn back; who
knows what might come of it? He could still overtake them; they were at
the Lion by this time; now they must be at the churchyard wall. But all
the while he kept steadily on, and, reaching home with a beating heart,
fled as for safety into the house. Fled? from what? He knew not what.
He was not himself to-day; he was uneasy and dissatisfied as he had
never been before.
In the evening he changed his dress and went into the village, meaning
to call on Pilgrim or the doctor, who had long ago invited him. Pilgrim
was not at home, and he stood long at the doctor's door without daring
to pull the bell. He walked up and down before the house, hoping that
perhaps the doctor would come out, recognize him, and invite him in;
but neither he nor any of his family appeared. Don Bastian came down
the road. Like a thief who hears the pursuer on his track, Lenz fled to
the village. There he felt easier, and rejoiced to see a house door
standing open. In the Lion he would find refuge. At least one quiet
place was left in the world,--a place where there were chairs to sit
down on, and tables to eat at, and persons who did not make his heart
beat as if it would burst his bosom, but were calm and quiet; and here
comes the calmest and quietest of them all and gives him a kindly
welcome.
CHAPTER XVI.
A HEART OPENS.
The landlord's manner was truly fatherly, as he sat down by Lenz and
entered into conversation with him. "Have you received the money for
your musical clock?" he asked, incidentally.
"Yes," replied Lenz.
"You would do well to invest in the new railway; it will pay
handsomely. Have you the money still idle?"
"No; I had eight hundred florins by me, and have lent three thousand to
my neighbor, the bailiff, to pay his discharge."
"Have you good security? How much interest does he pay?"
"I have only his receipt. He pays five per cent."
"The bailiff is good, and five per cent is good; but, as I say, if you
should want to make any investments, I shall be glad to help you with
my counsel."
"I like to keep to what I understand; though, of course, I should be
perfectly safe in following your advice blindfold. The new work you are
to buy of me is progressing finely, and I think will be better than the
first."
"Remember, Lenz, I made no promises. A man of honor goes no farther--"
"You have said quite enough. Your word I shall never--"
"As I say, plainness and accuracy should be observed among friends. I
would have inscribed upon my gravestone, 'Here lies an accurate man.'"
Lenz was delighted with such solidity of character; here, at least, was
pure gold.
"By your leave," said Annele, approaching, and taking a seat at the
table with Lenz and her father. The landlord soon rose and left the
young people to themselves. "You have reason to be proud of such a
father, Annele," said Lenz; "what a man he is! it does one good to
talk with him. He says but little, and for that very reason every word
is--how shall I call it?--pure kernel, pure marrow."
"Nothing is pleasanter for a child than to hear such praise of a
father," answered Annele. "Mine certainly deserves it. He is a
grumbler, to be sure, and hard to please, as all men are."
"All men?" inquired Lenz.
"Yes, all. I may say so honestly to you; for you are one of the best of
them, though you have your crotchets, too, no doubt. We need to be
patient with all of you."
"That is right, Annele. Thank you for speaking so; I do not mean for
your praises of me, which are quite undeserved. I cannot tell you how
often I am angry with myself. I am always doing the wrong thing. I only
half hear and half act because of the tunes that are running in my
head. I seem clumsier than other men, and yet am not really so. I am
hasty, too, and troubled by things that others make light of. I cannot
help it, the devil knows. My mother often said to me, 'Lenz, in spite
of all your goodness, you will not make a woman happy unless she
thoroughly understands and loves you.' That is true patience and true
love,--is it not?--to think, 'oh well, he is hot and hasty just this
minute, but I know his heart is right.' Do not draw your hand away,
Annele."
In the warmth of his speaking he had taken Annele's hand in his own,
as he first perceived by the motion she made to release it. "We
are not alone in the room," she said, blushing, and pressing her
knitting-needle to her lips; "there are others present."
Lenz turned hot and cold in a moment. "Forgive me, Annele. I did not
know what I was doing. I did not mean to be importunate. You are not
angry with me,--are you?
"Angry? how can you ask me?"
"But friendly in your heart to me?"
"For Heaven's sake!" said, Annele, laying her hand on the back of
Lenz's chair; "don't speak so. How did it all happen? what does it
mean? I thought I might speak to you as to a brother; for, alas! I have
no other."
"And I have no sister, no one."
"But every one is fond of you."
"Yet, if I need a friend, I have, none."
There was a long pause.
"Do you know," said Annele at length, "that the bailiff's daughter
Katharine is engaged to a young fellow from the next valley? They have
just, sent for the betrothal wine."
"So?" said Lenz. "I saw her standing with some one to-day, as I came
from church. She is a good, honest girl. I wish her all happiness. Were
you at the wedding in the church to-day, Annele?"
"Yes, and I saw you there. You deserve to go to heaven for your
kindness to Faller?"
"Heaven is easily won then. How well the minister preached, did he not?
There was some good lesson for every one, married or single. The word
of God is like music. Every hearer, though there should be hundreds and
hundreds of them, takes the whole without robbing his neighbor."
"I assure you, I would almost rather hear you than the minister. Every
word you speak is so clear, so--I hardly know how to tell what I mean.
I sometimes think it is a pity you are only a clockmaker."
"Only a clockmaker? I am glad I am a clockmaker; it is a noble calling.
I could preach you a sermon upon it. The world is a clock, wound up by
God from everlasting to everlasting. The stars circle in the heavens,
one about another. There are no clocks in Paradise, Pilgrim says. That
may be; but from the hour when men had to labor they had to divide the
time. Just think, we should be like children and fools if we could not
tell the hours!"
"You make all so clear to me! I never thought of that before."
Lenz grew more eloquent under this praise.
"I shall hold fast to my trade of clockmaker. If I can do no better, I
will make the old-fashioned wooden clocks; they will at least secure me
bread. Musical clocks bring in more money, to be sure, but they can
only be made when ordered; and, as lovers of music do not turn up every
day, I might find myself with nothing in my pocket. My pet project is
to form a clockmaker's union, so that all could work together for the
benefit of each. If I could but accomplish that, I would engage to make
nothing but standard regulators for the next seven years,--for all the
rest of my life, if need be."
"You are very good, I am sure," said Annele; "but your specialty is
music."
"Ah, music! when I leave clocks and get back to that I am so happy,
so--"
"Your heart dances for joy and keeps high holiday."
"Dear Annele, you are so--ah! if I only knew--"
"Well? what would you know?" There was a warmth, a tenderness, in the
simple words that brought the hot blood to his face.
"I cannot tell," he stammered. "If you do not know, I cannot tell you.
I am--Annele--"
"Children, what are you about? The whole room is looking at you," broke
in the landlady. "I can perfectly trust you, Lenz; if you have anything
so very special to say to Annele, I will have a lamp lighted in the
private sitting-room, and you can have your talk out there."
"Oh no, mother," cried Annele, trembling; but the landlady was already
gone. Annele flew after her. Lenz sat motionless, while the whole room
swam before his eyes. He got up at length, stole out, saw the door of
the sitting-room open, and was alone with Annele. She hid her face.
"Look at me," he entreated; "look at me while I speak to you. Annele, I
am but a foolish, simple fellow; but--" he pressed his hand to his
heart, hardly able to go on--"but if you think me worth it, you can
make me happy."
"You are worth more than the whole world; you are too good; you do not
know how bad the world is."
"The world is not bad, for you are in it. Answer me; answer me truly:
Will you stand by me? will you help me to be industrious and good? will
you be mother, wife, all to me? Say yes, and my whole life shall be
yours."
"Yes, a thousand and a thousand times yes!" She fell upon his breast,
and he held her fast.
"Mother, O my mother!" cried Lenz, as the landlady appeared. "Dear
landlady, forgive me!" he added, apologetically.
"You have nothing to fear from me," returned the landlady. "But,
children, I must beg one thing. Annele can tell you I have always been
a good friend to you. 'Lenz must prosper,' I have always said, 'for his
mother's blessing rests upon him.' But I pray you, children, to act with
caution. You do not know my husband. He so worships his children that
he is angry with every man that tries to take them from him. Thank God,
we shall keep one near us, if it be his will. They will not all grow to
be such strangers." Here the landlady wept bitterly, but after a
vigorous wiping of her eyes and nose was able to continue. "For the
present my husband must observe nothing. I will break the matter to him
first, and let you know, Lenz, when you may regularly lay your suit
before him. Till that time you must not enter the house. Bring your
uncle with you to the betrothal. It will be showing him no more than
proper respect to allow him to take your father's place. All my other
daughters were received into large families with all the ceremony
that is observed in the highest circles. God gave me no son, Lenz,
and I rejoice that I am to find one in you. I am fond of my other
sons-in-law, but they are too fine, too aristocratic for me. It is time
now for you to go, Lenz. My husband may come any minute, and I would
not answer for the consequences. Yet no; stop a moment. Take this. Give
him this, Annele." She opened both doors of the great linen-press, and
took out a gold coin. "Your godfather, our blessed minister, laid this
in your cradle. It is an old medal, just the thing for you to give
Lenz. But you must give her a present first."
"I have nothing to give. Oh yes, here is my watch, Annele. My dear
father made it himself in Switzerland, and gave it to my mother. When
we are married, please God, I will give you something else of my
mother's that will please you. Here, take the watch. It has lain next
my heart. Would I could take out my heart, and lay it in your faithful
hand!"
They exchanged pledges. "Very good," explained the mother, who thought
it her duty to say something. "A heart and a watch; they resemble one
another, and love is the key that winds them up." She smiled at her own
cleverness, since no one else did. "See," she continued, after
rummaging in the chest, "this was the first little frock my Annele
wore, and these were her shoes." Lenz looked with rapture at these
mementos of her childhood, and begged permission to keep them, which
was granted. "Now you must really go, Lenz," said the landlady,
returning to her old theme. "I cannot let you stay. Go this way through
the kitchen. There is my hand. Good night, Lenz!"
"May not Annele go a little way with me?"
"By no means. Don't be offended if I am somewhat strict. I have brought
up three daughters, and take pride in the thought that no word of blame
has ever rested on either of them. God willing, you can have enough of
each other by and by, in all honor and with the parents' knowledge."
"Good night, Lenz!"
"Good night, Annele!"
"Once more, good night!"
"Good night, my heart's treasure!"
"Good night, dear Lenz! pleasant dreams!"
"The same to you a thousand-fold!"
"That will do, that will do!" admonished the landlady, laughing.
Lenz stood in the street. The whole world turned round with him. The
stars in heaven danced. Annele--Annele of the Lion--was his! He hurried
homewards; he must tell Franzl, who always praised Annele so warmly.
How she will rejoice! If I could only shout it out from house to house!
He checked himself, however, when he had almost reached his door. He
must not tell Franzl; nothing was certain yet, and she could not keep a
secret. But he must tell some one. He retraced his steps, and remained
long standing before the Lion. To-night he must stand a stranger there;
to-morrow he would be one of the family. He tore himself away at last,
and went in search of Pilgrim.
CHAPTER XVII.
A FRIEND'S WARNING.
Thank God, he is at home! there is a light in his room. He is playing
the guitar. O dear good Pilgrim!
May heaven keep me in my senses, and let me not die of joy! Oh, if my
good mother had but lived to see this day!
Pilgrim was playing and singing so loud as not to hear him as he
ascended the stairs. Lenz threw open the door, and, spreading out his
arms, exclaimed, "Rejoice with me, brother; I am so happy!"
"What is the matter?"
"I am betrothed."
"You are? To whom?"
"How can you ask? to her, to the truest heart in all the world, and as
wise and bright as the day. O Annele!"
"What! Annele? Annele of the Lion?"
"You wonder at her taking me, do you not? I know I am not worthy of
her, but I will deserve her. God is my witness, I will deserve her. I
will devote my life to her; she shall--"
His eyes fell upon his mother's picture. "Mother, dearest mother!" he
cried, "in thy place in the seventh heaven rejoice, for thy son is
happy!"
He fell upon his knees, and tears choked his voice. Pilgrim laid his
hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, dear Pilgrim,--forgive me," prayed
Lenz, rising; "would I could beg the whole world's forgiveness! I have
often resolved to be a stronger, firmer man. Now I shall have a wife
who deserves a manly husband. But this once I must give way. I have
been wishing, as I came here, that some hard task might be imposed upon
me,--no matter what, only something, something so difficult it would
take my whole heart and strength;--I would do it; I would prove myself
worthy of the happiness God has granted me."
"Hush, hush! other men have got other women before now. There is no
need to tear the world to pieces about it."
"If my mother had but lived to know this!"
"If your mother had lived, Annele would not have had you. It is only
because you are without encumbrances, without a mother, that she cares
for you."
"Say not that, Pilgrim! she so reveres my mother!"
"It is easy to revere her when she is no longer here. I tell you, you
were nothing to Annele till your mother died."
"You have not even wished me happiness."
"I wish you happiness! I wish you all happiness!"
"Why do you say it twice? Tell me why twice?"
"Only because the words came out so."
"No, you had a meaning in them."
"True, I had. I will tell you to-morrow, not to-night."
"Why to-morrow? tell me now; you shall not hide anything from me."
"You are drunken now; how can I speak soberly with you?"
"I am not drunken; I am perfectly sober."
"Good; tell me, then, how this all happened so suddenly."
"I cannot tell. It came upon me like a flash from heaven, and now I see
it had long been the one wish of my heart."
"I thought so; and yet I thought, too, you would do nothing without
letting me know."
"Neither will I. You shall go with me to her father to-morrow. I have
not yet laid my suit before him."
"Not yet? Thank Heaven! Then I hope it may come to nothing."
"What! would you drive me mad?"
"No need of that. Lenz, she is not yet your betrothed; she is not yet
your wife; there is still time for me to speak openly. It would be
wrong to draw back now, but it would be only one wrong. If you marry
Annele, you will be doing a thousand wrongs your life long. Lenz, she
is no wife for you,--she least of any."
"You do not know her, only joking with her as you do. But I have
learned her through and through,--her goodness, her cleverness."
"You think I do not know her? Why, I have eaten a bushel of salt with
those people. I can describe them every one to you. Annele and her
mother are so much alike they cannot bear one another, though they do
pretend to be so fond in public. They exchange sweet speeches, because
the guests eat and drink better when pleasant sounds are going on. But
none of their soft words come from the heart. They have no heart. I
never believed, till I knew them, that there could be such persons.
They talk of kindness, of love, of pity, of patriotism too, perhaps,
and religion; but these things are empty words to them, meaning
nothing, prompting them to nothing. The world, they firmly believe, has
agreed to use the names for effect, without any one attaching the least
significance to them. Annele has not a ray of heart; and without heart
I maintain there can be no right understanding. She can never enter
into another's feelings and opinions; can neither share them nor yield
to them. She can, like her mother, catch another person's words, and
make a fine show with them. They both have a peculiar faculty of
blaming, even scolding, in such a way that you cannot make out to the
end whether it is a declaration of love or of war. Father, mother, and
daughter make nice music together for the public edification. Annele
plays first fiddle, the old woman second, and mine host a growling
bass. He, I must say, is the only honest one in the house. Here, as
everywhere, the female bees are the ones that sting, and how they
sting! The landlord speaks charitably of his neighbors, and cannot bear
to hear his wife and daughter abuse them. Their special delight is to
tear to pieces the good name of wife or maid. The mother does it with a
certain hypocritical compassion, but Annele plays with the world like a
cat with a mouse; and the burden of the song always must be, you are
the fairest, the healthiest, the cleverest, and, if it is any
compliment, the best. I have often studied to make out what constitutes
the essence of ill-breeding, which may be highly polished to the eye.
True coarseness is pleasure in the misfortunes of others. O Lenz, you
have not the key-note of that household; all your knowledge of music
will not help you find it. It is nothing but mocking and lies. These
people will never understand you, your wants and your tastes. I tell
you, only he that is of the truth can understand and love the truth.
You will be always a stranger to them."
"I am ashamed of you, Pilgrim. You are saying these things of persons
whose house you have entered daily for eight years, at whose table you
eat, and with whom you are apparently on friendly terms. What must I
think of you?"
"That I go to an inn, eat, drink, and pay my money. I pay daily, and am
done with them daily."
"I cannot understand you."
"I believe you. I have had to pay dear for my knowledge, and would
rather have remained ignorant, like you. It is not pleasant to know
people as they are. Yet the world has some--"
"And you think yourself one of the good ones?"
"Not exactly that. I thought you would turn against me. I must bear it.
Abuse me, do with me what you will, cut my hand off,--I will gladly
beg, if I may know that thus I have saved a man like you. Give up
Annele, I entreat you. You have not asked her yet of her father. You
are not bound."
"Those are the tricks your knowledge of the world teaches you,--are
they? I am not so clever as you; I never travelled abroad, as you have;
but I know what is right. I have betrothed myself to Annele in the
presence of her mother, and I will keep my word. God grant I may
receive her from her father! I tell you, for the last time, I did not
ask your advice. I am quite able to act for myself."
"I shall rejoice with all my heart if I have been mistaken. But no;
Lenz, for Heaven's sake, be persuaded! There is still time. You cannot
say I have ever dissuaded you from marrying."
"No."
"You were born to be a husband. I was a fool not to urge you more
strongly to marry one of the doctor's daughters."
"Do you think I would have gone to them, and said, 'My guardian,
Pilgrim, sends his compliments, and says I am to marry one of
you,--Amanda, if I can'? No: they are too fine ladies for me."
"They are, indeed, fine ladies, while Annele only acts the fine lady.
Because the doctor's daughters are not on familiar terms with all the
world, you thought it would be difficult to become intimate with them.
It was easier with Annele. Oh, I see it all. Annele talked with you of
your grief, as she knows how to talk of every thing, and that opened
your heart. Annele has in every gown a pocketful of small coin. Her
heart is such a pocket, from which she brings out change for every
guest."
"Pilgrim, you are doing a wrong, a great wrong!" cried Lenz, his lips
trembling with sorrow and anger. To convince his friend how sincere and
true-hearted Annele was, he told him her words after the death of his
mother and after the departure of his great work. Every one had been to
him a revelation.
"My pennies! my coppers!" cried Pilgrim. "My poor coppers! She robbed a
beggar-man to get her pennies! O fool, cursed fool that I was! All she
said, every word, she stole from me. She is like a corkscrew for
getting things out of one. I was fool enough to say those very words to
her. It serves me right. Yet how could I think she would trap you with
them? O my poor pennies!" The two friends sat long in silence. Pilgrim
bit his lips till they bled. Lenz shook his head, doubtingly. "Do you
know Annele's chief motive for taking you?" resumed Pilgrim at length.
"It was not your tall figure, not your good heart, not even your money.
Those were minor considerations. Her chief delight is that the doctor's
daughter did not get you. He is not yours, but mine. You cannot
understand a character like Annele's, to whom no pleasure, no happiness
is complete that does not wound another; whose greatest triumph is to
imagine another's vexation at seeing her so handsome, so rich, so
happy. I did not believe there were such persons till I knew Annele.
Brother, seek not to know her better; it would be your ruin. Why do you
look so at me? why don't you speak? Break out at me, do what you will,
do with me what you will, only give up Annele; she is poison! I pray
you give up Annele! Think,--I have forgotten the crowning argument of
all,--think, and God grant you may not think too late! I desire to be
no prophet of evil--Annele cannot grow old."
"Ha, ha! now you would try to make her out sickly. She is sound to the
core. Her complexion is of milk and roses."
"Not that; I do not mean that. Was there ever a woman whom it did one
more good to be with than with your mother? And why? Because her heart
shone in her face, her kindliness towards all men, her joy and care
that they should be happy; that makes an old face beautiful, and all
who look upon it blessed. But Annele! when she has no more hair to
braid into a crown, and no more red cheeks, and no more white teeth to
show when she laughs, what is left? She has nothing to grow old; no
soul in her body, only pretty phrases; no true heart, no honest
intelligence, only a spirit of mockery. When she grows old, she will be
no better than the devil's grandmother."
Lenz pressed his lips hard between his teeth. "It is enough, more than
enough," he said at last; "not another word. One thing, however, I have
a right to demand,--that as you have spoken to me you speak to no one
else, no one, and never to me after this day. Only these four walls
have heard you. I love my Annele,--and--and--I love you, too, in spite
of your jealousy. I no longer desire you to go with me when I ask for
her hand. Good night, Pilgrim!"
"Good night, Lenz!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
UNSPOKEN LOVE AND A BETROTHAL.
Lenz was gone, Pilgrim sat long alone, gazing at the light and
twirling his sandy beard. He was angry with himself. He had said
everything,--too much, in fact,--and defeated his own ends. There was
nothing to take back, all was true; but of what use had it been? He
walked restlessly up and down his room, then sat down again and stared
at the light. How strange life is! How few men work out the fate they
were meant for! The young will not believe it. They scold their elders
for grumbling, and then make botchery of their own lives. The world is
all right; only we must not expect to have everything our own way.
There was a deep, hidden life in Pilgrim. Ten years ago he had gone
abroad with a courage ready to conquer the world, and a silent
happiness in his heart that needed the assurance of no pledge or spoken
word. He loved Amanda, and the doctor's beautiful daughter had inclined
to him like a princess; like a goddess she had stooped to him. During
his holidays she let him help her in her garden work by copying the
names of her foreign plants in his neatest hand from a book on the
little wooden tallies which together they stuck into the ground to mark
the different specimens. She was an angel of mercy to the poor forsaken
boy, and even when he grew towards manhood he was frequently allowed to
assist her. Always the same gentleness he found in her. Her every look
was a blessing. When he passed the garden for the last time, on setting
out upon his lonely journey, she shook hands with him over the garden
fence, and said, "I have a whole album to remember you by in the little
slips you wrote the foreign names on. If, where you are going, you find
these foreign plants in their native soil, you must let them remind you
of our garden and the household that is so fond of you. Good by, and
come safe back!"
"Good by, and come safe back!" those words followed him over mountain
and valley, over seas and through distant lands. The name of Amanda was
shouted exultantly through many a foreign clime, and many an echo
repeated "Amanda."
Pilgrim wanted to grow rich, to become a great artist, and win Amanda.
He came home poor and in tatters. Many received him with cheap taunts,
but she said,--she had grown taller and stronger, and her brown eyes
beamed,--"Pilgrim, be thankful that you are at least strong and well,
and never lose your cheerful courage." And he did keep his happy
temper. He learned to love her as he loved the beautiful linden in his
neighbor's garden or the stars in heaven. Not even to Amanda was his
heart revealed by a word or a sign. Like those precious stones that are
said to shine in the darkness like the sun did Pilgrim's secret love
for Amanda illumine his life. Often he did not see her for weeks, and,
when they met, his bearing was as calm as with a stranger. But he often
wondered who would be her husband. For himself he would leave the world
without her suspecting what she was to him, but she must be happy. Lenz
was the only one whom he could have marry her. He would not grudge her
to him, they were so worthy of each other. He would hold their children
in his arms, and lavish all his store of songs and jests for their
amusement. Now all that was changed, and Lenz stood, as he firmly
believed, on the edge of an abyss.
Thus he sat long, gazing at the light. At last he extinguished it,
saying, with a sigh and a sad shake of the head, "I could not help
myself, neither can I help others."
Lenz, meanwhile, was on his way home. He walked slowly. He was so weary
he had to sit awhile on a heap of stones by the roadside. All was dark
when he came to the Lion inn. No star was to be seen. The heaven was
overcast with clouds. He stood by the inn till the whole building
seemed about to fall upon him.
When he reached home, Franzl was asleep. He waked her, that he might
have some one to rejoice with him. Pilgrim had strewn all his joy with
ashes.
Franzl was enchanted at the news he brought her, and made him smile by
repeating for the hundredth time, in order to prove that she also knew
but too well what love was, the story of her own "blighted love," as
she called it. She always began with tears and ended with complaints,
for both of which she had ample reason.
"How pleasant it was then at home, up there in the valley! He was our
neighbor's son, good, and industrious, and handsome,--oh, far handsomer
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