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                          JOSEPH IN THE SNOW,

                                  AND

                            THE CLOCKMAKER.


                              BY AUERBACH.

                      TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.


                                VOL. II.


                                LONDON:
                       SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO.,
                   66, BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE.
                                 1861.






        LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
                            AND 14, CHARING CROSS.






                            THE CLOCKMAKER.




                          CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

                                                              PAGE


Introduction


                               CHAPTER I.

A Good Name


                              CHAPTER II.

The Mourner And His Companion


                              CHAPTER III.

Work And Good Deeds


                              CHAPTER IV.

Each One For Himself


                               CHAPTER V.

Pilgrim's Adventures


                              CHAPTER VI.

The World steps in


                              CHAPTER VII.

The Civilities of a Landlord's Pretty Daughter


                             CHAPTER VIII.

Happiness dawns, and a new Mother speaks


                              CHAPTER IX.

A Parley with Friends

                               CHAPTER X.

A Dinner with Petrowitsch


                              CHAPTER XI.

The Great Clock plays its Melodies, and fresh ones are added


                              CHAPTER XII.

A good Escort, and Thoughts of the Future


                             CHAPTER XIII.

Lion, Fox, and Magpie


                              CHAPTER XIV.

Presses, and Eyes are opened


                              CHAPTER XV.

Young Hearts.--A Proposal


                              CHAPTER XVI.

A Heart is won


                             CHAPTER XVII.

A Friend's Opinion


                             CHAPTER XVIII.

A Rebuff, and a Betrothal


                              CHAPTER XIX.

First Visit to a New House


                              CHAPTER XX.

A First Drive


                              CHAPTER XXI.

A Gay Wedding,--and a Hard Nut to crack


                             CHAPTER XXII.

A Morning Gift






                             THE CLOCKMAKER
                                   OF
                           THE BLACK FOREST.


There is a house on the declivity of a hill, on which the morning sun
long lingers, and the eyes of those who gaze on this house sparkle with
pleasure, for they augur from that glance that its inhabitants are
happy. They are so; but their happiness is of a peculiar nature, for
they have striven long and hard, before they at last acquired it. They
have stood on the very threshold of death, though eventually restored
to the living.

The wife appears at the door--her face is fair, pretty, and youthful,
but her hair is white as snow--she smiles at an old woman who is
working in the garden, and calls to the children to be less noisy; a
thriving young fir plantation forms a background to the house.

"Come in, Franzl, and you children also; 'Wilhelm is to set off to-day
on his travels," says the young woman with white hair.

The old woman comes up to her slowly; her figure is bent, and she is
already taking hold of her apron, in order to dry the tears that are
fast rising to her eyes. In a short time the husband comes out of the
house with a young lad, who has a knapsack on his shoulders.

"Wilhelm," says the father, "take leave of your mother here, and be
sure you conduct yourself so that whatever you do, you may be able to
think:--'My father and mother may know this;' and then, please God! you
will, one day, once more cross this threshold in peace."

The mother embraces the lad, and says, sobbing:--

"I have nothing more to say; your father has said all; but if you find
a plant of Edelweiss on the Swiss mountains bring it home for me."

The youth walks on, and his brothers and sisters call after him, "Good
bye, Wilhelm!" While the father, turning to his wife, says:--"Annette,
I only mean to go as far as the boundary with Wilhelm and Lorenz.
Pilgrim will go on with them to their first night's quarters. I shall
return soon."

"Quite right, but don't hurry back, and above all, don't take the
parting so to heart; and tell Lisle Faller, as you pass, that I wish
her mother and her to dine here."

The father goes forward with his son, and the mother says to the old
woman:--

"It is a great comfort to me, that young Faller goes with Wilhelm on
his travels."

We can relate why the young mother with the white hair, begged her son
to bring her home a plant of Edelweiss from his travels.

It is a hard, painful, almost cruel story, but the sun of love beams
brightly, at last, through the clouds.




                               CHAPTER I.
                              A GOOD NAME.


"She was an excellent woman."

"Few like her left."

"She was one of the good old-fashioned sort."

"Come when you would, she was always ready to bestow help and comfort."

"What trials she had gone through! she had buried four children and her
husband, and yet she was always kind and cheerful."

"Lenz will miss her sadly; he will discover now what a mother he had."

"Oh, no! he knew that well enough during her life, and always strove to
please her."

"He must marry soon, now."

"He can choose whoever he likes; any house he knocks at will gladly
throw open the door to him, he is so good and steady."

"Besides, he must have a considerable sum of money."

"And he is heir to his rich uncle, Petrowitsch."

"How well the Choral Society sung at the funeral today! it quite went
to the heart."

"How much it must have touched poor Lenz! he usually sings with them,
and he has the best voice of them all."

"Very true--he did not shed a tear during the funeral service, but when
his companions were singing, he cried and sobbed as if his heart would
break."

"This is the first funeral that Petrowitsch did not leave the village
to avoid: indeed, it would have been too bad if he had not shown this
last mark of respect to his sister-in-law."

It was thus the men were conversing while going along, through the
valley, and up the hill. They were all in black, for they were coming
from a funeral. In the churchyard below, near which a few houses
are clustered--the Inn of the Golden Lion parading itself in the
centre--they had just buried the widow of the clockmaker, Lenz of the
Morgenhalde, and all had a good word to say of the deceased, for each
individual felt they had lost a kind friend when the good woman quitted
the world.

The mourners seemed deeply affected, and sorrow was evident on every
face, for just as some fresh grief revives former ones, so those who
had just seen the earth scattered on the newly dug grave, had taken the
opportunity of visiting the graves of their own relations, shedding
tears over their silent resting place, and uttering fervent prayers.

We are in the district inhabited by the clockmakers of the Black
Forest, a wooded and mountainous tract of country, where its streams on
one side flow towards the Rhine, and on the other to the Donau, which
has its source not far from this. The men have a pious, composed air;
the number of women considerably exceeds that of the men, for a vast
proportion of the latter are dispersed through the world, pursuing
their traffic in clocks. Those who stay at home are generally pale,
bearing traces of their sedentary occupation; the women, on the
contrary, who work in the fields, are fresh coloured, and have a
quaint, original appearance from the broad black ribbons tied under
their chins, according to the fashion of the country.

The cultivation of land is however on a small scale, consisting
chiefly, with the exception of a few large farms, of gardens and meadow
land. In some spots, a narrow strip of plantation runs along the valley
down to the stream, and at intervals may be seen a solitary fir,
stripped of its branches to the crown, as if to show that both pasture
and arable land have been gained from the wood. The village, or rather
the district, is some miles in length, its cottages being scattered
along the valley and on the adjacent hills. The houses are built of
solid logs of wood, fitted together in cross beams--the windows are
placed in front in regular succession, a very bright light being
indispensable for the trade of clockmaking. The backs of the houses are
invariably sheltered from storms by a hill or a wood, and heavy
thatched roofs project far in front, as an additional defence against
wind and weather, harmonizing in colour with their background,--narrow
footpaths leading through green meadows to the dwellings of man.

Here and there a woman branches off from the group passing along the
valley, making a sign with her hymnbook towards her home, where her
children are watching from the narrow rows of windows, or running
hastily down the meadow to meet their mother; and when these good
creatures take off their Sunday clothes, they sigh heavily, thinking of
the mournful death of their kind friend, and yet they feel how good a
thing it is, that those nearest and dearest to them are still left, to
be loved and cherished. Indoor work, however, does not seem to prosper
today. The attractions of the world without, still seem to absorb the
villagers, who do not find it so easy to dismiss them from their
thoughts.

The balancemaker from Kunslingen, celebrated for his superior brass and
leaden weights, who accompanied the groups to the nearest cross road,
said in a thoughtful tone:--

"What a senseless thing it does seem, after all, to die! Lenz's good
mother had gathered such a vast store of wisdom and experience, and now
she is laid in the ground, and all her sagacity and good sense lost to
the world for ever."

"At all events her son seems to have inherited her goodness," said a
farmer.

"Yes; but experience and knowledge every man must acquire for himself,"
said a little old man, whose face was like a note of interrogation--he
was nick-named the Pröbler (experimenter) though his real name was
Zacherer, because, instead of applying steadily to the usual routine of
clockmaking, he was constantly trying all kinds of new experiments, and
consequently in very poor circumstances.

"The old customs were far better and more sensible," said an old man
who lived on the other side of the valley, Schilder-David by name. "In
those good old days, we had a substantial funeral feast, which was
greatly needed as a restorative, after such a long journey and so much
sorrow; for nothing makes a man more hungry and thirsty than the
exhaustion of grief. At that time, too, it was the schoolmaster who
pronounced the funeral exhortation, and if he was sometimes a little
lengthy, what did it matter? Now this is all done away with, and I am
so hungry, and so weary, that I can scarcely move from the spot."

"And I too!" "And I!" resounded on all sides; and Schilder-David
continued:--"And what are we to do when we get home? our day is
gone--of course we are glad to give it up, for the sake of paying
proper respect to any one we liked; but in former times it was far
better arranged, for we did not get home till night, and then we had no
occasion to think about work."

"I suspect you had little capability of thinking at all," shrewdly
observed young Faller, in his sonorous voice. He was the second bass
singer in the choral society, and carried his music books under his
arm. His mode of walking, and his general bearing, showed that he had
been a soldier. "A funeral feast," he continued, "would have been
quite contrary to the wishes of Lenz's mother. 'Everything in its due
season--joy and mourning,' was her motto. I was apprenticed to old Lenz
for five years and three quarters, and at school with young Lenz."

"I suppose you could have talked as glibly as the schoolmaster, and
have given us the funeral oration;" said Schilder-David, muttering
something of conceited singers, who imagined the world only began when
they sang from notes.

"Indeed I could," rejoined the young man, who either did not hear these
last words, or, at all events, affected not to do so. "I could have
pronounced as great a eulogium on the deceased; and, when so good a
person has just been laid in the grave, I think it is more fitting and
congenial not so immediately to discuss other matters, and all kinds of
worldly pleasures and occupations.

"My old master, Lenz, was a person, who if all men were like him, there
would be no more need for either judges, soldiers, prisons, or houses
of correction, in the world. Our old master was severe, and would allow
no apprentice to exchange his file for the turning lathe, till he could
polish an octagon with a free hand, so that it looked as if it had been
in the turning-machine; and we were all obliged to learn how to make
small clocks, for a workman who can finish small things properly is
sure not to fail in larger ones. No clocks or watches were ever sent
out of his house in which there was the smallest defect, for he said,
'It is both for my honour and that of our district, that our good name
should remain untarnished.' I will only give you one instance, to
enable you to judge of the influence he exercised over us young people.
When young Lenz and I became journeymen, we began to smoke. The old man
said: 'Very well, if you choose to smoke I cannot prevent you, and I do
not wish you to do it secretly. Unfortunately for me I also indulge in
the bad habit of smoking, but I tell you fairly, that if you smoke I
must give it up, whatever it may cost me; for it is not possible that
we should all smoke.' After this, we, of course, gave up all idea of
such a thing, for we would rather have had all our teeth drawn than
caused our old master to give up his pipe.

"His excellent wife is now on the road to heaven, and her guardian
angel is no doubt saying to her, 'You have been a worthy woman--few
better in the world. Perhaps you have had your faults; you spoiled your
son considerably, and prevented him travelling to other countries,
which would have done him good, and made him less delicate; but your
thousand good deeds, which no one knew but God, and your never
listening to evil of others, making the best of everything, and reading
the Bible to Petrowitsch, all that will not be forgotten now, and
surely you will have your reward.' And if she is offered any recompense
in heaves, I am sure she will say, 'Give it to my son; and, if there is
any to spare, there is such and such a one who stands in grievous need
of it--help them--I am weary of watching over others.' You could
scarcely believe how little she ate; her husband often laughed at her
for it, but it is sure and certain enough, that seeing others enjoy
their food seemed to satisfy her, and the son is just as good hearted
as the mother was. What a kind heart he has! I would gladly go to the
death for him."

This was the way in which the clockmaker Faller talked, and his deep
bass voice often trembled from emotion. The others, however, did not
let him have all the praise of Lenz to himself. The Pröbler declared,
that Lenz was the only one in the whole district, who understood
something more than what had been known here from time immemorial, and
Schilder-David added: "He passes no man without striving to serve him;
every year he repairs the old organ of the blind man at Fuchsberg, and
does it for nothing; he often spends an entire holiday mending it, and
he has helped me too. He came one day to visit me, and saw how hard I
was working to make my wheel revolve properly. He went straight to the
miller, and talked to him, and settled it all, and then came and
fetched me to an upper loft, where he arranged my workshop, and
fastening my wheel to that of the mill, I found I could work three
times as fast and with one half the trouble."

Every one was as eager to contribute his offering in praise of Lenz, as
if he had been an almsbox.

The balancemaker said nothing for some time, but he nodded approvingly;
but he is the wisest of them however, for at last he says, that all
that has been stated is true, but that enough has not been said, and
that he knows something more. "There is no workman better than Lenz to
work for; everything must indeed be very neat and properly finished,
but then you not only get your full wages, but kind and honest words
into the bargain, which is best of all."

Faller now left the group, and turned along the mountain path to
his house, and the others also dispersed in different directions,
after each had taken a pinch out of the Pröbler's birch snuffbox.
Schilder-David went on alone with his stout staff farther up the
valley, for he lived a good way on the other side of the country, and
was the only one of his parish who had crossed the valley to attend the
funeral.




                              CHAPTER II.
                     THE MOURNER AND HIS COMPANION.


A small footpath leads from the village to a solitary thatched house,
which is not visible till after a good quarter of an hour's quick
climbing. The path leads past the back of the church, at first between
hedges, then through unenclosed green meadows, where the rustling of
the fir plantation can be distinctly heard, that covers all the steep
hill. Behind this hill--called Spannreute--others rise perpendicularly;
the declivity is so steep, that, though cultivated, the crops on the
table-land, even to this day, can only be conveyed down to the valley
by means of sledges.

Two men were walking along singly on this footpath between the hedges:
the one in front was a little old man, most respectably dressed; he had
a staff in his hand, and, by way of precaution, had twisted the tassel
of the handle round his wrist. The old man stepped along stoutly, and
his face, which was a mass of wrinkles, moved up and down in a singular
fashion, for he was chewing a lump of white sugar, and took a fresh
piece from time to time out of his pocket. The sandy red eyebrows of
the old man were coarse and bushy, and clear sharp blue eyes looked out
from under them.

The young man walking behind his old companion was tall and slight; he
wore a long blue coat, and had crape on his arm and his hat. He was
looking down at the ground, and occasionally shaking his head
mournfully. At last he raised his head, and a fresh coloured face, and
a light beard became visible, but the eyelids of his blue eyes were red
and swollen.

"Uncle," said he, standing still: his voice sounded hoarse.

The old man, still busily crunching sugar, turned round.

"Uncle, you have come far enough; I thank you much; the way is long,
and I wish to go home alone."

"Why?"

"I don't know, but I feel that it must be so."

"No, you had far better, on the contrary, turn with me."

"I am sorry, uncle, that I cannot do so, but I cannot! I cannot go to
the 'Golden Lion' today. I am neither hungry nor thirsty; indeed, at
this moment, I feel as if I could never eat or drink again. I regret
that you have had so long a walk on my account."

"No, no, I will go with you. I am not so hard hearted as your mother
told you."

"My mother never said anything of the kind: all her life long she spoke
well of her fellow creatures, and especially of relations; and she
never could endure to hear illnatured gossip about them, from first one
and then another: indeed she always quoted the proverb, 'Don't bite off
your nose to spite your face.'"


"Yes, yes, she had a great store of proverbs; in the whole
neighbourhood it is said--'Marie Lenz said so-and-so;' we should always
speak well of the dead, and I'm sure no one could possibly speak ill of
her."

The young man looked sadly at his old uncle; even if he said a civil
thing, it always left an impression as if he had given you a pinch.

"Yes, uncle," continued the young man, "how oft enduring the last few
days of her life, did she say (and it went to my heart to hear her),
'Lenz, I ought to have died six years ago for your sake; at five and
twenty you ought to have been married, and you will find it hard to
marry, for you have become so accustomed to me, and now that must end.'
I could not persuade her to the contrary, and that was the only thing
that made her unwilling to die."

"And she was right," said the old man, still crunching his sugar, "she
was good and kind, though somewhat self willed, but that is no one's
business; but her kindness tended to ruin you; you are sadly spoiled. I
did not intend to tell you of it just at this moment, there will be
time enough for me to talk to you further on the subject some other
time, but I hope you will come with me now, and not be so childish; you
really seem scarcely to know whether you are standing on your head or
your heels. It is the law of nature that your mother should die before
you, and at all events you have no cause to reproach yourself for ever
having behaved unkindly to her."

"No, thank God! I have not."

"Very well, then, show that you are a man, and give over crying and
sobbing. In all my life I never saw anything like the way you cried in
the churchyard."

"Indeed, uncle, I really cannot say all I felt. I wept for my mother,
but for myself also. When our choir sung those hymns, which I usually
sung with them myself, and there was I, dumb and desolate, I felt as if
I were also a corpse, and they were singing me into my grave, and that
I could not raise my voice."

"You are--" said the old man, but he gulped down what he was on the
point of saying, and strode on in front; his little dog, who trotted
along before him, looked into the old man's face, and shook his head;
he had never seen such an expression before in his master's face.

After a time the old man stopped of his own accord, and said: "I am
going to turn here. I have only one thing to say to you: don't take any
relation of your mother's to live with you, whom you must send away
afterwards. They would forget all the kindness you have shown them, and
only be indignant because they could not stay with you for ever. Above
all, don't give away any of your property, come who may. If you intend
to make any presents, wait till a few weeks are past. Take the keys
into your own keeping when you go home; now God bless you, and be a
man!"

"God bless you, uncle!" said the young man, and went on towards his own
house. His eyes were still fixed on the ground, but at every step he
took he knew where he was; he knew every stone on the path. When he
came opposite the house, he felt as if he could not possibly cross
the threshold. To think of all that has happened there, now past and
gone--and what may the future have yet in store! But it must be borne.

The old maid was sitting in the kitchen beside the cold hearth, holding
her apron to her eyes, and when the young man came up to the house, she
said, sobbing: "Is that you, Lenz? God help you!"

The room seemed so empty, and yet everything was in it just as usual;
the work bench, with five partitions for the five workmen, beside the
straight rows of windows, and the materials for work hanging on the
walls by hooks and straps; the clocks ticked, the turtle doves cooed,
and yet everything looked so empty, and dead, and deserted. The easy
chair stood there with outspread arms, waiting. Lenz leaned on it and
wept bitterly; then he raised his head, and turned to the bedroom. "It
cannot be that you are really no longer there, mother," said he, almost
aloud: he shrunk from the sound of his own voice, and sunk down
exhausted into the chair, where his mother had so often sat.

At last he summoned up courage to go into the next room. "I feel as if
I must send something after you--as if you had forgotten something!"
said he again, and with a cold shudder he opened his mother's press,
into which he had never looked in his life. It seemed to him almost a
crime to dare to do so, and yet he did it. Perhaps she had left him
some sign or token. He found the godfathers' and godmothers' presents
to his deceased brothers and sisters, all marked with their separate
names, and his own also; some ancient coins, the Confirmation
Certificate of his mother, her bridal wreath, dried and withered, but
carefully preserved; her string of garnets, and, in a box by itself, in
several folds of fine paper, a small white velvety looking plant, and a
scrap of writing in his mother's hand. The son first read in a low
voice, and then as if wishing to hear his mother's words, he read
aloud: "This is a plant of Edelweiss."

"Dinner is ready," said a voice, suddenly, through the half open door.

Lenz started, as if he had heard the voice of a spirit, and yet it was
only old Franzl calling to him.

"I will come immediately," answered Lenz, shutting the door, and
bolting it. He then restored everything carefully to its place, and at
last returned into the next room. He did not observe how ominously
Franzl shook her head at such secret doings.




                              CHAPTER III.
                          WORK AND GOOD DEEDS.


The nearest neighbour--and he was a good way off--the beadle, had sent
up something to eat; for it is here the custom of the country for the
nearest neighbour to prepare food, and to send it to the mourners after
the funeral, under the idea that on such an occasion people are too
much occupied to think of it themselves; indeed, during funeral
obsequies, and for three hours afterwards, it is not customary to light
any fires. The beadle's daughter brought the dinner herself. "Thank
you, Kathrine, and thank your parents also from me. Take away the
dinner, I will eat again when I am hungry; now, I really cannot."

"You must at all events try to do so, for that is the custom," said
Franzl; "you must put it to your lips. Sit down, Kathrine; in the
presence of a mourner you must always sit, and not stand. Young people
now-a-days no longer know what is customary, and what is not. You must
talk, Kathrine, too, for it is bad luck to be silent when a mourner is
in the room, so say something."

The robust, cherry cheeked girl, blushing scarlet, stammered, "I really
can't," and then burst out crying.

Lenz fixed his eyes on her, on which she threw her apron over her face.

"Compose yourself," said he kindly; "thank God, every day of your life,
that you still have your parents. Now I have taken some of the soup."

"You must taste the other dishes also," urged Franzl.

Lenz did as she wished, though it was a painful effort; he then rose,
and the girl did the same, saying: "Do not be angry with me, Lenz, I
ought to have tried to comfort you, but--but--"

"I know; thank you. I can't speak much either, just now."

"May God preserve you! My father told me to say that he hoped you would
come to us; he cannot leave the house, as he has a bad foot."

"I will see: when I feel able I will come."

The girl left the room, and Lenz paced up and down, stretching forth
his hands, as if expecting some one to take hold of them, but no one
did so; then his eyes rested on his tools, and more particularly on a
certain file which hung on a nail by itself; he shivered as he laid
hold of it, for something was now in contact with his hand.

This file was the most precious heritage he possessed. There was an
indenture in its maple handle imprinted by his father's hand, for he
had worked with this same tool for more than forty seven years, and
liked to show it, and often said: "It seems scarcely credible that the
wooden handle should, in the course of years, become indented in this
way by the pressure of the fingers." Whenever a stranger came to call,
his mother used to exhibit the singular looking tool.

The doctor, in the valley below, who had a collection of old fashioned
clocks of the Black Forest, often begged to have the file, to hang it
up in his cabinet, but the father never would consent to part with it,
and still less the mother and son after his death. After his father's
burial, when the son was sitting alone with his mother, she said:
"Lenz, we must no longer grieve, we must bear our affliction with
patience. Take your father's file, and set to work--'Watch and pray,'
say the Scriptures, 'for the night cometh when no man can work.' Be
thankful that you have an honest trade already, and not one still to
seek. A thousand times your father used to say: 'It is such a good
thing to rise in the morning, and to know that your work is waiting for
you; and while I am filing, I file away all useless splinters out of my
head; and when I hammer, I knock on the head all sad thoughts, and away
they fly!'"

These were his mother's words, and, in recalling them at this moment,
she seemed to say them once more: "If I could only recall thus every
word she ever said to me!"

So Lenz began to work busily.

Franzl was standing outside with Kathrine, saying: "I am so glad that
you were the first person to bring food here, it is a good omen--for
the person who gives you the first morsel of food in such a case, is
sure to----, but I won't say it out; we must not forestall such
matters. Come back in the evening, for it must be you who say good
night to him; and you must say it three times over, and then it has
effect. Hush! what is that? Our Heavenly Father in the Seventh Heaven
above! I declare he is at work on the day of the funeral! No one knows
that young man thoroughly, not even I, who have been with him from his
childhood; he has singular ideas which no one can understand, but the
kindest heart in the world. But don't tell any one that he is working
to-day, for it might bring him into bad odour. Do you hear? Come back
for the dishes to-night, and then take care to speak to him properly;
you can talk well enough generally."

Franzl was interrupted by Lenz opening the door, and saying: "Franzl,
if any visitor comes, say that I can see no one but Pilgrim. So, you
are not gone yet, Kathrine?"


"I am just going," said she, and ran hastily down the hill. Lenz went
back into the room, and worked on busily, while Franzl was in a state
of incessant perplexity at the strange young man, who had been first
crying, as if his heart would break, and was now hard at work. It was
certainly not from hardheartedness, nor from avarice, so what could be
the reason?

"My old head is not wise enough to find out," said Franzl, turning to
ask her old mistress what she was to think about it; but she clasped
her hands in sorrow, on suddenly remembering that the mother was dead.

Franzl's heart sunk when she saw visitors arrive; the schoolmaster,
some of the choir, and various others. She dismissed them all, with a
sorrowful face, and would gladly have stopped their ears if she could,
that they might not hear Lenz at work. She looked out anxiously for
Pilgrim, who had great influence over him, and would, no doubt, take
the file out of his hand; but Pilgrim did not come. Franzl, however,
had now a lucky thought: there was no necessity for her to stay at
home, so she walked along the path far enough to prevent any one
hearing the filing and hammering, and she dismissed those whom she met
coming to the house.

Lenz, however, found that active employment produced calmness and
composure, and he did not leave off till evening, when he went
down into the valley, past the scattered houses, to his friend the
painter, Pilgrim; but half way he turned round suddenly, as if he
had heard some one calling him, and yet all was still around. No sound
was heard but the waterwagtail--called by the country people here
_Hockenock_--twittering incessantly in the reeds, and the yellow
hammer, perched on the young green shoots, on the top of the fir trees,
whistling its solitary note, and glancing round with its bright eyes.
There are no larks here, either in the valley or in the meadows beyond;
they only soar on the high land above, where cornfields are cultivated.

Mists were rising in the meadows, but these thin vapours are only
visible in front and behind, and never in the small space which a
person occupies standing, or walking.

Lenz went quickly along the valley, and did not stop till the sun had
gone down behind the mountains, and then he said: "It is setting for
the first time over her grave." The evening bell rung out; he took off
his hat and proceeded on his way. He paused at a bend in the valley,
and, concealed by a bush, looked up at a solitary cottage. On a
bench before the door was seated a man with whom we are already
acquainted--the clockmaker, Faller. He had a child on his knee, whom he
was playing with, and his sister was seated behind him, whose husband
had gone to foreign parts. She was nursing an infant, and fondly
kissing its little hands.

"Good evening, Faller;" said Lenz in his usual clear tenor voice.

"Oh! is that really you?" replied a bass voice; "we were just speaking
of you; Lisbeth said you would forget us in your grief, and I said, on
the contrary, it is the very thing that would make him think of us."

"You are right, I come to you for that very reason; I remembered that
Hurgel's house is to be sold to-morrow, I will be your security if you
choose to buy it. You will then also be nearer me."

"Capital! famous! so you are going to stay where you are?"

"Why not?"

"People said that you were going to travel now, for a year or more."

"Who said so?"

"I think it was your uncle; but I am not quite sure."

"Really: well perhaps I may; if I go away, you must live in my house."

"You had far better stay at home, it is too late to travel----"

"And marry soon," added the young wife.

"Yes; for then all taste for travelling is at an end--a married man has
too many links at home. There is no doubt you will prosper, Lenz, for
thinking of me in all your sorrow; your mother in heaven will bless you
for it; no single minute passes without my thinking of her; in all
things her first thought was for others, and you take after her--God
will bless you."

"Kindness brings its own blessing; my walk here, and what we have
agreed on, has lightened my heart already.--Lisbeth, have you anything
to eat in the house? I begin to feel hungry for the first time to-day."

"I will boil you a couple of eggs."

"That will be quite sufficient."

Lenz ate with a tolerable appetite, and his hosts were delighted to see
him enjoy his meal.

Faller's mother, in spite of her son's remonstrances, persisted in
asking Lenz to give her some of his mother's clothes.

Lenz promised to do so.

Faller would not be prevented walking a good part of the way home with
him; but scarcely had he gone twenty steps, when he gave a shrill
whistle. His sister asked what was the matter? He called out in answer,
that he would not return home tonight.

"Where are you to be?" said Lenz.

"With you."

The two friends walked on together in silence; the moon shone brightly,
the owls in the wood hooted, but strains of cheerful music proceeded
from the village.

"It would never do if every one lamented for one person:" said Lenz,
"God be praised that each one has his own joys and sorrows!"

"Your mother said that through you;" replied Faller.

"Stop;" said Lenz, "would you not like to tell your betrothed bride,
that you can now buy the house?"

"Indeed I should--come with me--you will see a degree of joy seldom to
be seen in this world."

"Climb up the hill alone to her cottage, for I am not in a mood for joy
today, and I feel quite exhausted. I will wait here; now go quickly,
and don't be long of returning."

Faller went up the hill hurriedly, and Lenz seated himself on a heap of
stones beside the path, and, like the dew now softly sinking on the
grass and the trees, making everything revive, so a sensation of pure,
heavenly dew, seemed to refresh the soul of the solitary man.

Far up the hill, a light now sparkled through the window of the cottage
which had been hitherto dark, and hope and joy passed into the hearts
of the betrothed, who had so long felt desolate and hopeless. Lenz too
was happy.

There is no greater felicity on earth than doing good to others. Faller
ran back, panting for breath, and described all the joy with which his
news was received; the old father and the bride threw open the window,
and shouted down into the valley, "May a thousand blessings attend you,
worthy man!" and the bride first cried, and then laughed.

The two friends now pursued their way for some time, each following his
own train of thought. Faller went along with a firm step: in his whole
bearing there was something vigorous and determined, and while Lenz
walked beside him, he involuntarily held himself more upright.

At the spot where the hill shuts out the valley Lenz turned to take a
last look at the churchyard, and sighed heavily.

"My father lies there also, and he was not spared to me so long as
yours;" said Faller.

Lenz went first up the hill. What is that white figure moving on the
summit of the hill? who can it be? is it possible? is it not true that
his mother is dead? She must have left the cold grave.

The mourner gazed in awe and trembling.

"Good evening, Lenz;" exclaimed a voice. It is the beadle's daughter
Kathrine.

"How is it that you are here again?"

"I have been with Franzl, for she asked our maid to sit with her, she
was so sad and solitary. She is old, so she is nervous and timid. I
would have no fear if your mother were really to come again. Good
night, Lenz; good night; good night."

Kathrine had said good night three times, just as Franzl had desired
her; this means something, and who knows what may come of it?




                              CHAPTER IV.
                         EACH ONE FOR HIMSELF.


A mild evening after a hot day was refreshing every one, and families
were assembled on benches outside their houses, but a considerable
number were sitting on the stone balustrade of the bridge; for wherever
a bridge is in or near a village, it is the place where people meet for
their evening's rest, and their evening's talk. Not only must every one
pass this way from whichever side they come, but the rippling of the
water beneath chimes in well with a pleasant flow of talk. There were
various kinds of wood lying to soak in the stream, in order that the
sap of the timber might exude from the fibres, and the wood neither
shrink nor warp when made into clock cases; the men on the bridge
understood well how to soak the timber, though each had their own
plan. They were still talking this evening--and that is saying a good
deal--of Lenz's mother, but even more of the propriety of Lenz soon
marrying. The women praised Lenz highly, and many of their panegyrics
were also intended as a hint to the other men to act in as praiseworthy
a manner; for where there is good conduct it is always thoroughly
appreciated. But the men said: "Oh! no doubt he is a very worthy man,
but--too soft hearted." The girls--with the exception of those who had
already declared lovers--said nothing. Suddenly a report was circulated
from door to door, no one knew whence it came, and also on the bridge,
that Lenz had worked incessantly on this very day, when his mother had
been buried. The women lamented the avarice shown by so good a man; the
men on the contrary tried to defend him. The conversation, however,
soon turned on the weather, and worldly matters, and these are fruitful
subjects, for no man can tell the result of either the one or the
other. They went on chatting pleasantly till they wished each other a
quiet night, leaving the stars in the sky, and the affairs in the
world, to follow their appointed course.

The most agreeable spot of all is far down the valley, in the pretty
garden of a house newly built in the style of a railway station, where
the aromatic fragrance of plants in the night air is wonderfully
pleasant. This is not surprising, for all kinds of medical herbs grow
and flourish here. We are in the Doctor's garden, who also keeps a
dispensary. The Doctor is a child of the village, the son of a
clockmaker; his wife is from the capital, but she, as well as her
husband, who seems fairly to have taken root in his native valley, has
become quite at home here, and the Doctor's old mother, who still lives
with them, often says that she thinks her daughter-in-law must have
existed long ago in the world, and been born in the Black Forest, she
is so completely at home there, and so well acquainted with all the
ways and customs of the district. The Doctor is also Mayor of the
village, and his wife likes this title the best. He has four children.
The eldest son, having no turn for what is called study, learned
watchmaking, and is now working in French Switzerland. The three
daughters are the most refined girls in the country, but not less
industrious on that account. Amanda, the eldest, is her father's chief
assistant in his dispensary, and it is also her office to keep in order
the garden, where many healing herbs are growing. Bertha and Minna are
active in the household, but also occupy themselves busily in preparing
straw plaiting, which goes to Italy, and returns thence in the shape of
the finest Leghorn bonnets.

A stranger is in the garden with the family this evening--a young
engineer--called the Techniker in the village. He is brother to the two
sons-in-law of the landlord of the "Golden Lion." One of his brothers
is a rich wood merchant in a neighbouring town, the other resides on
the south side of the Black Forest, and is proprietor of a Spa there,
and also of a considerable property. It is said that the Technicker
wishes to marry Annele, the only remaining daughter of the landlord of
the "Lion."

"Quite right, Herr Starr, I like that," said the Doctor to the
Techniker. The sound of the Doctor's voice shows that he is a corpulent
man. "It is not fair," said he, "to enjoy the beauties of the mountains
and valleys, and yet show no interest in the life and actions of those
who inhabit them. The world nowadays has far too many restless
superficial tendencies towards incessant travelling. For my part I feel
no inclination to knock about the world in distant countries; I feel
happy and contented within my own narrow circle. I have been obliged to
give up my old passion, that of collecting plants, and I did so
cheerfully, for since then I know more of my fellow creatures. Each
must take his own share in the division of labour; my countrymen will
not comprehend this, yet it is the point in which our native industry
fails."

"May I ask you to explain this more fully to me?"

"The subject is quite simple. Our clockmaking is, like all house
labour, the natural result of the want of fruitfulness in our district,
and the strict entail of property; the younger sons, and all who
possess no capital but their industry, must find an equivalent for
their labour, in order to gain their daily bread. Hence proceeds
naturally the close and steady carefulness so universal among us. Our
forest furnishes the best timber both for houses and for machinery, and
so long as the old-fashioned _Jockele_ clocks found a brisk sale, a
clockmaker, in conjunction with his wife and children who painted the
numbers on the dials, could finish a clock entirely at home. The more,
however, that metal clocks are adopted, superseding the old Jockele
clocks, the more are the profits shared by strangers. Indeed, in France
and America, and more especially in Saxony, we have now a strong rival
trade. We ought to adhere more to wooden clocks, which as you know do
not work by weights, but by springs; for this purpose close union is
necessary. The ancient engravers had a chief, whose office it was to
keep them united, and such a man is sadly required here; all those who
are now living scattered among the mountains, should unite in one close
confederacy, and work into each other's hands. This, however, will not
be easily effected here. In Switzerland a single watch passes through a
hundred and twenty hands before it is completed. Even the very
perseverance they display, which is undoubtedly a virtue in itself,
prevents my worthy countrymen making much progress. It is only by
frugality, and unparalleled industry, that our trade has been carried
on. It is difficult to make any impression on our clockmakers, who have
often shown a singular degree of susceptibility; they must be gently
dealt with; a rude or careless grasp might injure their feelings, like
the delicate works of a clock, and it is a serious matter when the
mainspring snaps."

"I think," replied the young man, "that it would be profitable to give
the clocks here a form more agreeable to the eye, and more calculated
to ornament a room."

"It would be a great improvement," said Bertha, the second daughter. "I
lived with my aunt for a year in the capital, and wherever I went I met
my countrywoman, a Black Forest clock, banished like a Cinderella to
the kitchen. French clocks in their gold and alabaster were paraded in
every drawing-room; they were often not wound up, or else I was told
they did not go well; whereas my countrywoman in the kitchen was steady
and well regulated."

"This Cinderella ought to be rescued," said the young man, "but I hope
she will retain her virtue in gay rooms, and go as correctly as ever."

The Doctor did not appear to enter into the scheme of the young people,
for he began to relate to the Techniker the various singular
peculiarities of the inhabitants of the district. He had been long
enough in other countries to perceive the eccentricities of his own,
and was yet so imbued with home feelings, that he knew how to value the
hidden qualities of his countrymen; he spoke pure German, but with the
accent of the dialect of the Black Forest.

"Good evening to you all," was the company greeted by a person passing
by.

"Oh! is that you, Pilgrim? wait a minute;" called out the Doctor. The
man remained standing beside the hedge, and the Doctor asked, "How is
Lenz?"

"I don't know. I have not seen him since the funeral to-day; I have
just come from the 'Lion,' where I stupidly got into a rage on his
account."

"Really! What was the matter?"

"They say there that Lenz has been working all day at home, and they
abuse him and declare he is miserly. Lenz miserly! it is enough to make
a man go distracted."

"Don't allow yourself to be annoyed; you and I, and many others
besides, know that Lenz is an excellent man. Was Petrowitsch with Lenz
to-day?"

"No; I thought he was, and therefore I did not go to him. Herr Doctor,
if you have time to-morrow, may I beg of you to come to see me in
passing? I want to show you something that I have made."

"Very well. I will come."

"Good night, all!"

"Good night, Pilgrim! a good night's rest to you."

The pedestrian went on his way.

"Send me my songs back to-morrow," called out Bertha to him.

"I won't fail to send them," answered Pilgrim, and soon he was heard in
the distance whistling with sweetness and skill.

"There you have a strange enough person," said the Doctor to the
Techniker. "He is a painter, and is Lenz's best friend, whose mother
was interred today. This Pilgrim has talents, which have, however,
never borne fruit. The history of his life is remarkable."

"I wish you would relate it to me."

"Another time, when we are alone."

"Oh, no! we should like to hear it again," exclaimed the wife and
daughters; and so the Doctor began.




                               CHAPTER V.
                         PILGRIM'S ADVENTURES.


"This Pilgrim is the son of a dial painter. Early left an orphan, he
was educated by the old schoolmaster at the expense of the parish. He
was, however, far more frequently with the clockmaker, Lenz of the
Morgenhalde, than with the schoolmaster. Lenz's wife, who was buried
today, was like a mother to the lad; and her only child, Lenz, was
always like his brother. Pilgrim was considered quick and clever;
whereas Lenz, with all his ability in his profession, has something
vague and dreary in his nature; and who knows whether a great musical
genius does not lie hidden in Lenz, and an equal talent for painting in
Pilgrim! but it has not come to light yet in either of them. You really
must hear Lenz sing some time: he sings the first tenor in the Choral
Society, which has him chiefly to thank for having twice gained the
Quartett Prize at a musical festival--once at Constance and another
time at Freiberg. When the two lads were still half grown boys, Lenz
became an apprentice to his father, and Pilgrim to a dial painter; but
they still clung faithfully to their old companionship.

"In summer evenings, the two were to be seen together as certainly as
the twin stars in the sky above us. They wandered together, singing and
whistling, through the valley and over the hills; and in winter
evenings, Pilgrim braved the snow and storm to go to Lenz; for the
latter was obliged to stay at home, being somewhat spoiled by his
mother--and no wonder, for he was the only child left out of five. The
boys used to read together half the night; particularly books of
travels. I have lent them many a book, for there was a great thirst for
knowledge in both lads. When Pilgrim escaped the conscription--Lenz, as
an only son, could not be drawn--they brought forward their plan to
travel together through the world; for, with all their love of home,
our people have an irrepressible desire to travel. On this occasion
Lenz showed, for the first time, a degree of wilful obstinacy which no
one had ever suspected. He refused positively to give up the journey,
and his father was quite willing that he should go, but his mother was
in despair; and as even the persuasions of the Pastor were fruitless,
my aid was called in by the parents, and, if nothing else availed, I
was to bring forward an array of medical experience to effect their
purpose. I naturally sought some other resource.

"I had always enjoyed the entire confidence of the two inseparables,
and they willingly imparted all their plans to me. Pilgrim was the
prime mover. Lenz, with all his tenderness of feeling, is of a sound
practical disposition--I mean, of course, within his own sphere--and,
if not overpersuaded by others, he has sense and acuteness enough to
know what is right, and a degree of perseverance in all he does which
almost amounts to a virtue. Lenz was far from being as resolute to his
parents, as he affected to be in Pilgrim's presence. Old Lenz wished
that Pilgrim should regularly learn clockmaking, before beginning his
travels with a stock to dispose of: for travelling merchants must of
course be able to repair the clocks they may meet with, as well as
those they dispose of. So Pilgrim learned clockmaking regularly. When,
however, he had mastered what was absolutely indispensable, the project
of the journey was all settled. Pilgrim had all sorts of plans in his
head. At one time, his intention was to earn so much money in his
travels, that he might enter the academy for painting as a pupil; then
he proposed becoming an artist at once during his journey; and at last
his grand purpose was to bring home a large sack of money, and to spend
it freely among his own people; for, in fact, he had a great contempt
for money, in so far as he was himself concerned. Moreover, at that
time there was some love affair in his head. Greece--Athens, were the
objects of his travels; and when he even named Athens, his eyes
sparkled, and his cheeks flushed bright red. 'Athens!' said he often,
'does not the very sound of that name seem to transport us into lofty
halls, where we ascend marble stairs?' He fancied that if he were to
breathe this classical atmosphere, he would become another man, and,
above all, a great artist. Of course I endeavoured to cure him of such
wild delusions; and I so far succeeded, that he promised me to occupy
himself solely in making money, and his other plans could be fulfilled
hereafter. Old Lenz and I became his securities, for the value of the
goods that he was to take with him. He set out alone on the journey,
for Lenz, by our advice, stayed at home. 'I am like the river in the
Black Forest which runs into the Black Sea!' said Pilgrim often. He
hoped to introduce our forest clocks into the East and into Greece,
where they had not hitherto met with the same success as in northern
lands, and in the New World, It is very amusing to hear Pilgrim relate
his progress through various countries, and through cities and
villages, all hung round with Black Forest clocks, making them strike
in the streets, while he eagerly looked round on every side. But this
was his great fault: he was too anxious to see everything--customs,
manners, fine buildings, beautiful landscapes; and this is a
disadvantage to a merchant. The works in a clock never vary, even when
carried over sea and land, and just as little do our countrymen, who
are to be seen wandering in every zone, change their natures. To earn,
and to save, and to live economically until they return home with a
well-filled purse, when they can make up for their privations,--these
are the fixed purposes of their hearts, and they care little how the
world goes on around them. This is both prudent and necessary--it is
impossible to carry different objects in the head at the same time."

"Did Pilgrim really arrive in Athens at last?"

"Not a doubt of it; and he often told me that the Crusaders, when they
first saw Jerusalem, could not have felt more piety and enthusiasm than
he did, when he gazed for the first time at Athens. He rubbed his eyes,
and could scarcely believe that he really saw Athens, where marble
statues were to welcome and greet him. He went along the streets
sounding his clocks, but he did not succeed in selling a single clock
in Athens. He suffered great privations, and was at last only too glad
when he got employment. But what employment it was! For fourteen long
days, under the blue Grecian sky, he was engaged in painting the
railing of a public-garden green, within sight of the Acropolis!"

"What is the Acropolis?" asked Bertha.

"Explain the word to her, Herr Starr," said the Doctor.

The Techniker described, in a lively manner, the former glories of this
grand Athenian citadel, and the few fragments that still remain. He
promised on his return, to bring a sketch of it with him, and then
begged the Doctor to go on with his story.

"I have not much more to tell," resumed the Doctor. "Pilgrim contrived
to realize sufficient, by the sale of the clocks, to prevent his
being a burden on the parish. It required no little courage to
return home even poorer than he went, and to be the derision of his
neighbours; but as his artistic nature feels the most thorough contempt
for _purse-pride_, as he calls it, he always seems quite contented and
at his ease, and pays no attention to the jeers and gibes of his
companions. He arrived naturally, first of all, at the Morgenhalde. The
family there were all seated at dinner, and were in the act of saying
grace, when Lenz uttered such a cry, that his mother often said if she
were to hear it again it would be her death. The two friends embraced
eagerly. Pilgrim was soon as merry as ever, and said that he had best
luck at home, for he had arrived just as dinner was ready, and no one
would make him so welcome as the parents and their son at the
Morgenhalde. Old Lenz wished Pilgrim to live in his house altogether,
but he is unusually jealous of his independence. He erected a neat
workshop near us, at Don Bastian's. At first he took great trouble to
introduce new patterns of clock dials. He has a very good idea of
colour, but his drawing is sadly defective: his chief mistake, however,
was endeavouring to alter the original form of our Black Forest
dials--a square with an arch above. When he discovered that he made no
progress with his novelties, he resumed making the old fashioned
timepieces to order, and is now always cheerful and good humoured. You
must know that different countries have peculiar tastes in the dials of
clocks. France likes bright colours, and the dial painted all over;
North Germany, Scandinavia, and England prefer more simple lines,
something architectural, triangular figures, columns, or at most a
wreath; America likes no ornamental painting, nothing but a wooden
clock case with more or less carving, and the weights resting on
pulleys at the sides of the clock--these are called American clocks;
Hungary and Russia approve of painted fronts or a landscape. The style
of decoration that art would sanction as beautiful has seldom good
sale; on the contrary, spirals and flourishes are generally most
admired. If you could combine that style with the embellishment of our
native clocks, you would find Pilgrim quick at executing a design; and
you might, perhaps, thus give a fresh impulse to his life."

"I beg you will make me acquainted with the man."

"Certainly--you may accompany me tomorrow--you heard him invite me; but
you must come quite early, and then you can cross the hills with me. I
will show you some beautiful points of view, and many good honest men."

The Techniker wished them a cordial good night, and the Doctor went
into the house with his family.

The moon shone bright in the sky--the flowers emitted their fragrance
for themselves alone--and the stars gazed down on them. All was still
around, save here and there, when, in passing a house, a clock was
heard to strike.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                          THE WORLD STEPS IN.


"Good morning, Lenz!--so you slept well?--you are still like a child,
who sleeps sound after crying till he is worn out," said Faller, in his
deep hollow bass voice, next morning. And Lenz replied--"Ah, my friend!
to wake, and wake again, and to remember the events of yesterday, is
only fresh misery! But I must take courage, I will first of all prepare
the security for you: take it to the mayor before he rides out, and
remember me to him. By the bye, it has just occurred to me that I
dreamt of him. Go to Pilgrim, too, if you have time, and tell him I am
waiting at home for him. May good luck attend you! I am so glad that
you will now have a roof of your own."

Faller went with the security into the valley, and Lenz began his work;
but he first wound up one of the clocks, and it played a hymn. He
nodded in unison, while filing a wheel. "That clock plays well: it was
her favourite air--my mother's," thought Lenz. The large clock, in a
beautifully carved walnut-wood case, as tall as a clothes press, was
called "The Magic Flute," for its principal piece was the overture to
that opera of Mozart's, besides five other airs: it was already sold to
a well-frequented tea-garden near Odessa. A small clock stood beside
it, and Lenz was working at a third. He worked unremittingly till noon.
He was very hungry, but when he sat down to table alone, all hunger
seemed to leave him.

He begged the old maid to sit down with him. She affected great shyness
and modesty; however she allowed her scruples at last to be overcome,
and when the soup was finished, she even volunteered the remark--"I
really see no reason why you should marry."

"Who says that I have any thoughts of marrying?"

"My opinion is that if you do marry you ought to marry the beadle's
daughter, Kathrine: she is come of good people, and has a great respect
for you--she can talk of nothing but you. Such a wife would be worth
having. It would be a bad business if you got a wife to whom you would
have to play second fiddle. Girls, now-a-days, are so stylish in their
ideas, and think of nothing but dress and vanity."

"I have no thoughts of marriage, especially at this moment."

"And you are right: it is not at all necessary--you will never better
yourself, believe me. And I know how you have been coddled all your
life, and I will take care to manage every thing so that you may almost
think your mother is still in the world. Tell me, don't you find the
beans good? I learned how to dress them from your mother--they are the
very same. She understood everything, from the greatest thing to the
least. You shall see how well pleased you will be while we live
together--as happy as the day is long."

"But, Franzl," said Lenz, "I don't think I shall be long as I am."

"Really? Have you any one in your eye already? Look there!--People had
agreed that Lenz had nothing in his head but his mother and his clocks!
I only hope she comes of a good family. As I told you, Kathrine would
be a wife for Saturdays and Sundays; she can work both in the house and
in the fields; and her spinning is so first-rate, that I do believe she
could spin the very straw off the roof. She thinks more of you than any
one, and all that you do and say is sacred in her eyes. She always
says--'All that Lenz does is right,' even when it appears otherwise,
like his working yesterday;' and she will have a nice little nest egg
of money, and a property besides from her mother, which will be an
ample provision for one of your children."

"Franzl, there is no question of marriage at all. I have some idea--I
have not yet quite made up my mind--of selling, or letting all my
property, and going to foreign parts."

Franzl stared at Lenz in dismay, pausing halfway in lifting the spoon
out of the plate to her mouth. Lenz continued--"I will take care to
provide for you, Franzl--you shall never know want; but I have never
yet seen the world, and I should like to do so, and to see and learn
something, and perhaps I may improve in my own calling; and who
knows----"

"I have no right to give an opinion," interrupted Franzl, "I am only a
foolish woman, though every one knows that we Kunslingers are far from
being jackasses. What do I know of the world! but this I do know, that
I have not served seven and twenty years in this house without some
profit. I came to this house when you were only four years old: you
were the youngest child, and the pet of all the family. As for your
brothers and sisters--now lying under the green turf;----however, don't
let us talk about them just now. I have been seven and twenty years
with your mother. I cannot say that I am as clever as she was--for who
could you find, far or near, of whom we could say that? But we shall
see her no more till the world is at an end. And how often she
said--'Franzl,' said she, 'men rush out into the world just as if in
other lands, beyond the Rhine or across the seas, Fortune ran about the
streets welcoming all comers--"Good morning, Hans, Michel, and
Christoph; I am so glad to see you," said Fortune to Hans, Michel, and
Christoph.' 'My good Franzl,' said your mother, 'he who can't get on at
home, will do just as little elsewhere; and wherever you go you will
find plenty of men; and if it was to rain gold they would take good
care to snap it up, and not wait for strangers to come and take their
share; and after all, what great good fortune do you get by going out
into the world? No one can do more than eat, and drink, and sleep.
Franzl,' said she, 'my Lenz, too,'--forgive me, but it was your mother
said so--I don't say it of myself,--'my Lenz also has got some silly
nonsense in his head about travel; but where could he be better off
than at home; and he is not a man to strive with the wide world.' A man
must be a pirate like Petrowitsch, an audacious, niggardly, miserly,
hardhearted creature to get on in the world. But, to tell the truth,
she said nothing of the kind, for she never said an ill word of any
one; but I think it and I say it--and she often appealed to my good
feelings, saying--'Franzl, if my Lenz were to leave home, he would give
away the shirt off his back if he saw some poor creature in want of
one: he is so tenderhearted, that any one who chooses can impose upon
him. Franzl,' said she, 'when I am no longer in the world, and this
longing for travel again comes across him, Franzl,' said she, 'cling to
his coat-tails, and don't let him go;' only, good gracious! I can't
possibly do that--how could I? But I must say my say, and I will, for
she charged me to look after you. Just look round you: here you have a
comfortable house and the best of food--you are respected and loved;
and if you go out into the world, who knows anything about you?--who
knows that you are Lenz of the Morgenhalde? And when you have no
shelter, and must lie all night in the woods, how often would you
think--'Bless me! to think that I had once a house, and seven
feather-beds, and plenty of good crockery, and a small cask of good
wine in the cellar.' By the bye, shall I fetch you a pint of it now?
just wait, I'll bring it in a minute. Those who are sad should drink
wine. A thousand times have I heard your mother say--'Wine cheers the
heart, and brings another train of thought.'"

Franzl hurried out of the room, and soon returned from the cellar with
a pint of wine. Lenz insisted on her having a glass herself. He poured
it out himself for her, and made his glass ring against hers. She only
put it to her lips coyly; but when she cleared the table, she did not
forget to take the glass of wine with her to the kitchen.

Lenz again worked hard till evening. Whether it was the wine or some
other cause, he was very restless at his work, and often on the point
of laying aside his tools to go out and visit some one; but again he
thought that it was better he should not leave the house, as no doubt
some of his kind friends would come to comfort him in his solitude, and
he wished they should find him at home. No one came, however, but the
Pröbler. He was much attached to Lenz; for he was one of the few who
did not turn him into ridicule, and scoff at him for refusing to sell
any of his ingenious devices--he only pawned them until he could no
longer redeem them; and it was said that the landlord of the "Lion,"
who carried on a brisk trade as a _packer_ (which in this district
means a wholesale dealer and agent), and had an extensive business,
made a good profit out of Pröbler, who had pledged his chief works to
him.

Lenz always listened with serious attention to old Pröbler, even when
he told him that he was constructing no less a piece of mechanism than
the _perpetuum mobile_; and, in order to complete it, there was nothing
wanting but forty two diamonds, on which the works must revolve.

On this occasion, however, Pröbler did not come on account of any new
discovery, nor to discuss the _perpetuum mobile_; but when Lenz had
taken the usual pinch of snuff from his box, he proposed himself as his
negociator, if he wished to marry. He brought forward a whole array of
marriageable girls, those of the Doctor included; and concluded by
saying--"All houses are open to you--but you are shy. Tell me honestly
whither your thoughts turn, and I will take care that you are met half
way."

Lenz scarcely made any answer, and Pröbler went away. That he should be
supposed to aspire to one of the Doctor's daughters, occupied Lenz for
some time. They were three excellent and charming girls. The eldest was
very prudent, and considerate beyond her years; and the second played
the piano and sung admirably. How often had Lenz stood opposite the
house listening to her! Music was, in fact, his sole passion, and his
eager longing for it was like that of a thirsty man for a clear spring
of water. How would it be if he could get a wife who could play the
piano? He would ask her to play over to him all the airs that he put in
his musical timepieces, and then they would sound very differently. But
after all, a wife from so superior a family would not be very fitting
for him; for it was not likely that, when she could play the piano, she
could undertake the management of the house, the garden, and the
stables, as all clockmakers' wives must do;--besides, he will wait
patiently yet awhile. When twilight began to fall, Lenz dressed and
went down into the valley. "All houses will be open to you," Pröbler
had said. All houses? That was saying a great deal; in fact, so much
that it meant nothing. To feel at home in entering a house, its
inhabitants must go on calmly with their various pursuits; you must
form so entirely a part of the family, that neither look nor gesture
asks,--"Why do you come here?--what do you want?--what is the matter?"
If you are not quite at home, then the house is not really open to you
at any moment; and as Lenz's thoughts travel from house to house in the
village for a couple of miles round, he knows he will be joyfully
welcomed by all--but he is nowhere really at home; and yet he has one
friend with whom he is thoroughly at home, just as much so as in his
own room. The painter Pilgrim wished to go home with him yesterday
after the funeral, but as his uncle Petrowitsch joined him, Pilgrim
remained behind, for Petrowitsch had a hearty contempt for Pilgrim,
because he was a poor devil--and Pilgrim had an equally hearty contempt
for Petrowitsch because he was a rich devil--so Lenz resolved to go to
see Pilgrim.

Pilgrim lodged far up the valley, with Don Bastian, as Pilgrim called
him. He had been originally a clockmaker, who had acquired a
considerable sum of money during a twelve years' residence in Spain.
After his return to his native country he purchased a farm, resumed his
peasant's dress, and retained nothing of his Spanish journey except his
money, and a few Spanish phrases which he brought forth ostentatiously
from time to time, especially in summer, when those who had wandered
from their homes again returned to their own district.




                              CHAPTER VII.
            THE CIVILITIES OF A LANDLORD'S PRETTY DAUGHTER.


A young man was seated alone at a well covered table in the large inn
of the "Lion," and eating with that good appetite which is sure to fall
to the share of a youth of twenty, after having roamed for a whole day
through the valley and over the hills. Sometimes he cast an observant
glance at the silver knives and forks: they are of the good old
fashioned sort, when people did not grudge a little solid silver,
though it brought no interest for their money. The young man--it
is the Techniker, with whom we were in company yesterday at the
Doctor's--lights a cigar, and smooths his thick light-brown beard with
a small pocket brush; his face has strong lines, and his light brown
hair, curls round a well-developed prominent forehead; his blue eyes
are deep set, and have an expression of hearty cordiality; and his
cheeks are full and fresh coloured.

A cool evening breeze blows in through the open oriel window, quickly
dispersing the clouds of tobacco smoke.

"So you are smoking already, Herr Starr?--I suppose you don't want
anything more to eat?" said a neatly dressed girl who entered the room
at that moment. She wore a white apron and an embroidered stomacher;
her figure was slender, flexible, and agile; her face full and oval,
and her complexion bright; her brown fawnlike eyes had a shrewd
expression; and three massive brown glossy plaits formed a crown on her
head. It was Annele, the landlord's daughter.

The girl went on in a pleasant flow of words, saying--"You must make
the best of it. We had no idea that you would dine at so late an hour."

"Everything is as good as possible. Sit down beside me for a few
minutes, sister-in-law."

"I will, the moment I have cleared away everything. I cannot sit down
in peace when everything is in such disorder."

"Yes, with you, everything must be as neat and tidy as yourself."

"Thank you for the compliment. I am glad you did not expend them all at
the Doctor's."

"Now do return soon, for I have got much to tell you."

The young man continued alone for some time, and then the landlord's
daughter came and seated herself opposite to him, with her knitting,
and said, "Now tell me what you have got to say."

The young man told her, that he had this day accompanied the Doctor in
his professional visits to hill and valley, and he could not
sufficiently admire the deep insight he had acquired into the nature of
the inhabitants. Their lives were, indeed, as the Doctor said,
industrious and pious, and yet without any bigotry. "We were in three
or four inns too today," said he. "Usually, when you enter a village
inn, on a summer afternoon, you are sure to find a dissipated looking
man, lolling at his ease on a bench behind the table, half asleep
beside his glass of vapid beer or brandy; and the scamp of a fellow
glares at the new arrival, and brags, and blusters, and abuses the
world in general, in a confused manner. I have often seen this--but
never here."

"Yes," said Annele, "our Doctor, who is also a magistrate, is very
severe against drunkards, and we never give them anything to drink
here."

The Techniker described the Doctor's disposition with great enthusiasm.
Wherever he appeared the day seemed brighter, and even in the huts of
poverty, his cordial sympathy brought consolation; and the confidence
his nature inspired, and that breathed in every word he uttered,
brought fresh courage everywhere.

Annele seemed rather embarrassed by this glowing description; and she
only said, while pressing her knitting needles against her lips, "Yes,
indeed, the Doctor is a true friend to his fellowcreatures."

"He is your friend, certainly, for he spoke very kindly of you."

"Really? But he only ventures to do so in the mountain paths: he dare
not speak well of me at home. His wife and daughters would not allow
him; and yet I except the wife, for she is truly kindhearted."

"And not the others? I should have thought----"

"I say nothing against any of them. I have no cause to speak ill of the
people. God be praised! I don't need to obtain praise for myself by
abusing others--'to get profit at other people's expense,' as Lenz's
mother used to say, till it passed into a proverb. Hundreds of people
are in the habit of going in and out of this house: they can proclaim
in the streets, if they like, what we do, and an inn is an open house.
We are not like many people who receive a guest for a few days only,
and make the house clean and neat, and are all amiability to each other
till the visit is over, and afterwards all is confusion and filth, and
every one anxious to scratch out each other's eyes; and yet, when any
one is passing the house, they can begin to play and sing, or seat
themselves by the window with their work in their hand, and look
amiable. I don't wish, however, to say a word against any one; I only
wish to give you a hint that you had better not go so often up yonder.
Forgive my interference, but you being the brother of my sister's
husband makes me feel interested in you."

"I am very much obliged to you for your kindness."

"Where can my father be?" said the landlord's daughter, blushing.

"By the bye, where is your father?"

"He went out on particular business: he may come home at any minute.
If he would only give up business altogether! Why should he continue
such a life of toil? But he cannot live without it; and he always
says--'Those who give up business very soon die.' Cares, and anxieties,
and business, and occupation keep a man fresh and lively; and indeed I
cannot understand how any one, with the use of their limbs, can sit
down in the morning to play the piano, or wander about the house idle,
singing silly tunes. To be always busy, and active, and stirring--that
is the way to be healthy and happy. If, indeed, we reckon up what we
women earn in money, it is certainly not much; but to know how to
manage a house is worth something, too."

"Indeed it is," said the Techniker. "There is a vast amount of
persevering industry in this country. Most of the clockmakers here
actually work fourteen hours a-day. This is highly to their credit."

The girl looked at him in surprise. What on earth does he mean by
always referring to the stupid clockmakers? Does he not understand, or
does he not choose to understand, what I am aiming at?

A pause ensued, till the Techniker again asked--"Where is your mother?"

"She is in the garden gathering her crop of beans, which cannot be
delayed. Come with me, and we will join her."

"No; let us stay where we are. Now, sister-in-law, as I venture to call
you, is not the Doctor's eldest daughter, Amanda, an excellent,
accomplished girl?"


"She!--Why should she not be excellent? She is old enough to be wise;
and no one sees how crooked she is, for her dresses are so well made by
a good milliner in the town."

Annele bit her lips when she had said this. She thought--"How stupid of
me to say such a thing! As he has named Amanda, no doubt it is Bertha
he fancies: it must be so." Breaking off, therefore, suddenly, she
continued--"But Bertha is charming----"

"Yes, indeed, a most pleasing girl," interrupted the Techniker.

One of Annele's knittingneedles fell under the table, and he picked it
up. The young man seemed to have repented having spoken out so freely;
for he now said--"The Doctor was telling me yesterday all about
Pilgrim."

"What is there to tell? The Doctor can make something out of nothing."

"Who is Petrowitsch? They tell me you know most about him."

"Not more than everyone knows. He dines here every forenoon, and pays
his score regularly. He is a singular, crabbed old fellow--very rich
and very hard. He was many, many years in foreign parts, and cares for
no man living. There is only one thing in the world which gives him
pleasure, and that is the avenue of cherry trees which line the valley
towards the town. Formerly rows of pollards stood there, and
Petrowitsch----"

"Why is he called Petrowitsch?"


"His real name is Peter; but, as he was so long in Servia, they will
call him here Petrowitsch."

"Go on, and tell me about the avenue of cherry trees."

"Petrowitsch was in the habit of walking about with a knife in his
hand, and pruning the superfluous branches off the trees; and one day
the farm servant informed against him for destroying the trees. So he
caused a whole avenue of new cherry trees to be planted at his own
expense, and for the last six years he has pulled the unripe fruit,
that the trees might not be injured by thieves, and they have made a
fine growth; but he feels no interest in any man. See! there goes
Lenz--his only brother's son, and he has never got from him as much as
would go on the point of a needle."

"So that is Lenz? A good looking youth--an agreeable countenance--just
what I had imagined him to be."

"Oh yes!--he is a very worthy young man, only rather too soft hearted.
When he is passing along there, I know that two eyes from a new house
are watching him, and would fain allure him in; and those eyes are
Bertha's."

"So they understand each other, do they?" said the Techniker, his white
forehead colouring to the roots of his hair.

"No; I never said anything of the kind. I dare say she would be very
glad to marry him, for he has a nice property, and she has nothing but
some fine Leghorn hats, and stockings in holes."

The landlord's daughter, or Lion-Annele, as she was called, inwardly
rejoiced. "So! I have put salt enough in his soup!" And this pleasant
thought restored her good humour.

The Techniker said that he was going out to take another walk.

"Where are you going?"

"Up yonder, towards the Spannreute."

"It is a very fine view from there, but as steep as the side of a
house."

The Techniker went away, and Annele ran down into the garden behind the
house and looked after him. He did, indeed, ascend the hill for a
while, but he soon turned and went rapidly down the valley towards the
Doctor's house.

"Go to the devil!" said Annele, in a rage. "From me you shall never
more receive one civil word!"




                             CHAPTER VIII.
               HAPPINESS DAWNS, AND A NEW MOTHER SPEAKS.


"He is not at home," cried out Don Bastian's wife to Lenz, as he was
crossing the meadow; "probably he is gone to your house. Did you not
meet him?"

"No. Is his room locked?"

"No."

"Then I will sit down there for a little."

Lenz went into the familiar room. But as he opened the door he almost
sank to the ground. His mother was standing opposite, smiling on him!
He quickly, however, recovered from this startled feeling, and inwardly
thanked his friend for having depicted so closely that dear, good,
loving face, before time had effaced it from his memory. Yes, just so
had she looked at him in life! "Pilgrim is, and always will be, my best
friend. As he could not be with me he was engaged in doing me a favour;
yes, the greatest favour he could have done me."

Lenz gazed long and mournfully at the beloved features. His eyes were
swimming in tears, but still he continued to look at the picture. "So
long as I have the use of my eyes I can now always see you, but I shall
never hear you again. Oh! that I could but hear your voice once more!
Oh! that we could but recall the voice of the dead!" He could scarcely
prevail on himself to leave the room. It seemed so strange to leave his
mother thus alone, looking at him as he went out, and no eyes meeting
hers....

He did not go away till darkness set in, so that he could no longer
see; and on his way he said to himself--"Now it is time that
lamentation should cease. I can cherish my grief within my own heart,
but the world shall not say that I don't bear it like a man." He heard
the sound of music as he passed the Doctor's house. The windows were
open, and a man was singing foreign songs in a fine baritone voice: it
was not a voice belonging to the village. Who can it be? Whoever it is,
he sings well.

He heard the stranger say, "Now, Mademoiselle Bertha, I hope you will
sing me something."

"No, Herr Starr, I cannot just now; we must soon go to supper, and we
can sing a duett afterwards. Look through this music in the mean time."

This allusion to supper, and the resolution he had formed to enjoy life
again, seemed to awaken a good appetite in Lenz, and he forthwith
determined to go to the "Golden Lion;" so he went towards the village
with a quick and firm step.

"Oh, Lenz, good evening! How good of you to think of your friends, even
in your sorrow!" said the landlady. "I mentioned your name only a few
minutes since, and if you had been here today, you would have heard
that all those who have been going in and out during the day, were
talking of you. I am sure your cheeks must have been burning! Yes, my
good Lenz, you will meet with your reward even in this world, for your
admirable conduct to your excellent mother. And you know that your
mother and I were always the best of friends; though it is true we did
not see much of each other, for she disliked leaving her own house, and
so did I. Will you have a pint of new wine or old? I advise the new,
for it is particularly good and not so heating. You look red and
flushed: to be sure, after losing such a mother, it is but natural. I
don't say it is not, but----;" and the good woman waved her hand, as if
emotion choked her voice.

At last, after placing the glass and bottle on the table, she
resumed:--"What can we do?--we are all mortal. Your mother was seventy
five years old--a full sheaf of years, indeed; and very possibly I may
be called away tomorrow in my turn, just like your mother. With God's
help, I, too, will leave a good name to my children. No one, indeed,
can be compared with your mother. But may I give you a piece of
advice?--I mean it well, believe me."

"Yes, yes--I am always glad to get good advice."

"I only wished to say, that I know you are tender hearted, but you must
not allow yourself to be overwhelmed with grief. You don't take this
amiss, I hope?"

"Certainly not. What is there that I could take amiss in it? On the
contrary, I did not know till now, how many true friends my mother had,
and that they intend to continue their friendship to her son."

"Oh! you deserve this for your own sake, for you are----"

"Good day to you, Lenz!"

The landlady's flattering speech was cut short suddenly by a clear
young voice, and a pretty, plump hand was offered to him, and the face
corresponded with the hand. It was Annele, who brought a lamp into the
room, which lighted it up brightly; and, turning to the landlady, she
said--"Mother, why did not you let me know that Lenz was here?"

"Surely, I may talk to a young man in the twilight just as well as
you," answered the mother, with a significant smile.

The jest did not seem to please Lenz: and Annele went on to say--"My
good Lenz, you should have seen how I cried both yesterday and to-day
about your mother. I am still trembling in every limb. Such persons
should not die; and when we think that she is no longer here to go on
doing good, it is truly heart breaking. I can just imagine you in your
own home. You look into every corner--you feel as if the door must
open; it cannot be--she could not be so cruel--she cannot be gone for
ever--she must come in soon. Good heavens, Lenz! all day long I said to
myself--Poor dear Lenz! if I could only bear part of his burden, I
would so gladly take a share of it. You were expected here without fail
this forenoon to dinner. Your uncle expected you; and, though he is
usually so particular as to dinner being served as the clock strikes,
he said to-day--'Wait a bit, Annele--put off dinner a few minutes, Lenz
is certain to come--surely he won't remain all alone at home.' And
Pilgrim too made sure that you would go to him, and dine with him. You
know Pilgrim is always with us, and just like a brother to me. In him
you have, indeed, a good and true friend. Your uncle had a small table
all to himself, and he made me sit down beside him, and talk to him. He
is a man who likes his joke, but as clever as Old Nick himself. Well,
remember that you must dine here tomorrow. What do you like best?"

"I have no great appetite for anything. I should like best of all, to
be able to sleep for seven whole days--to sleep on and on continually,
and know nothing of myself all the time."

"You will feel differently by and by.--I am coming in a moment!" said
Annele, to some waggoners who had just seated themselves at another
table. She brought them their dinner, and then returned to stand behind
Lenz; and while she answered the other guests, she continued to hold
her hand on the back of Lenz's chair, which gave him a strange
sensation, as if a stream of electricity penetrated his whole frame.
Now, however, seeing others eat, reminded him of his own hunger; and
Annele went off to the kitchen and back again like a flash of
lightning, and covered the table with a fine white cloth, and placed
the dishes so neatly on the table, and said so heartily, "May God bless
your meal!" that Lenz could not fail to enjoy his dinner.

Certainly few girls can be so active and neat as Annele. It is a pity
that she is so addicted to making fools of her admirers: she is so
quick in repartee, and has a surprising knack of introducing any
subject she likes, and carrying on a conversation in a lively manner.

Lenz had finished his first pint of wine, and Annele quickly placed
another before him, and poured it into his glass.

"I believe you don't smoke?" said she.

"I do smoke sometimes, but I don't care much about it,"

"I will bring you one of my father's cigars--our guests never get
them." She brought a cigar and a match, and held a light for Lenz.

At this moment the landlord of the "Lion" came in--a tall, stout,
massive figure, most respectable in appearance; for he had thin snow
white hair and a small black velvet cap on his head, just like a
clergyman: moreover, he wore silver spectacles with large round
glasses; he used his spectacles only for reading, so they were usually
pushed back on his forehead. Placidity and benevolence seemed impressed
on his brow: he was, moreover, calm and sedate, and majestically self
possessed, and was considered by his neighbours a very shrewd, sensible
man. To be sure he said very little, but a man must have a good deal of
intelligence who had prospered like the landlord of the "Lion." His
face was rather red, and inspired considerable deference; his mouth
alone, which usually looked as if he were eating something good, was
not so awe inspiring as the rest of his appearance. He was a serious
and silent man, as if he wished, by his silence, to counterbalance the
incessant tongue of his wife, and, indeed, sometimes that of his
daughter likewise. When his wife talked too much, or with levity, he
occasionally shook his head gravely, as much as to say, "A man with my
principles cannot approve of that;" and the landlord was a man of
strict principles: this was known far and wide; and he was the best in
his trade, which was that of what is here called a Packer--he bought
clocks from the clockmakers, and sent them to all parts of the world.

"Good evening, Lenz!" said the landlord, in a sonorous voice, as if in
these few words a vast deal was included; and when Lenz respectfully
rose he gave him his hand, and said, "Don't rise or be on ceremony,
remember you are in an inn." Then he nodded, as much as to say--"I have
a high respect for you, and you are as sure of all proper condolence on
my part, as if you held a threefold security for it." Then he went to
his table and read the newspapers. Annele fetched her knitting, and
seated herself beside Lenz, saying, politely--"With your permission!"
She spoke much and cleverly, and was thought as good as she was clever.
She seems both, and no one knows better how to make her game. When Lenz
at last paid his score, she said: "I must say it vexes me to receive
your money, I would far rather that you had considered yourself our
guest. Now, good night! and don't grieve your heart out. I only wish I
could comfort you. By the bye, I had almost forgotten to ask you when
your great musical clock--which is supposed to be the finest that was
ever made in this country--goes to Russia?"

"I may receive a letter any day, desiring it to be sent off."

"Will you let my mother and me come up to see it and hear it before it
goes?"

"I shall be highly honoured. Pray come whenever you choose."

"Now, good night! sleep sound, and remember me to Franzl, and tell her
that if she wants anything, she is to come to us for it."

"Thank you very much--I won't fail to tell her."

It was a good quarter of an hour's walk to Lenz's house, and a steep
hill all the way. Today he was soon at home, however. He did not know
why, but when he was once more alone in his room, he became very
sorrowful. He gazed long out into the summer night--he did not know
what he was thinking about. Here nothing is seen or heard of the world
of human beings; the only object visible in the distance, on a far away
hill, is a solitary cottage, where a blacksmith lives--a light sparkles
up through the windows, but soon disappears. Those men who have no
grief in their hearts can sleep.

Not far from the house of the smith, a sawmill is heard through the
stillness of the night, busily revolving from a current of air. The
stars are shining brightly over the dark line of the forest, and on the
spot where the moon has gone down behind the hills, a pale blue halo is
visible, and the fleecy clouds in the sky are gently illuminated.

Lenz supported his burning forehead on his hands: his pulses were
beating--the world seems going round with him. No doubt the new wine is
the cause of these sensations. "I ought not to have drunk wine at
night. What a clever, good girl Annele is! Don't be a fool--What is she
to you?--'Good night!--Sleep sound.'" He repeated her words gently, and
indeed he did sleep soundly all night.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                         A PARLEY WITH FRIENDS.


The journeymen and the apprentice, whom Lenz had sent home to their
parents during his domestic troubles, were already busy in the workshop
when Lenz awoke in the morning. It had never before happened that they
were before their master at their work. Indeed, when Lenz opened the
window the sun was already high in the heavens, and five or six clocks
that were in the room, struck seven at the same moment. It seemed to
Lenz as if his wish had been fulfilled, that he might sleep for a whole
week. Between yesterday and today, weeks indeed seemed to have passed.
The time appeared so long to Lenz, because such unwonted feelings had
entered his heart.

Franzl brought him his breakfast, sat down uninvited beside him, and
asked, "What shall I dress for your dinner today?"

"For me? Nothing. I don't intend to dine at home. Get what you like for
yourself. Only think, Franzl, that kind Pilgrim----"

"Yes; he was here yesterday," interrupted Franzl, "and waited for you a
long time."

"Did he? and I was at his house. What do you think, Franzl? the
kindhearted fellow painted a portrait of my mother yesterday, secretly;
you will be surprised to see how like life she looks: one might almost
fancy she must begin to speak."

"I knew that he was doing it, for he made me send him, privately, your
mother's Sunday jacket, and cap, and neckhandkerchief. You have locked
up her string of garnets with other things, of which I know nothing. It
is no affair of mine: I have no wish to know everything; but when I do
know a thing, and it is to be kept secret, you might cut me in two, and
I would not say a syllable. Has any one ferreted out of me that I knew
what Pilgrim was doing? Did I say a single word to you to account for
his not coming here? You may entrust me with anything."

As, however, Lenz did not entrust her with anything, she asked: "Where
are you going today? and where were you last night?"

Lenz looked at her with surprise, and made no answer.

"Probably you were with your uncle Petrowitsch?" continued Franzl.

Lenz shook his head, but vouchsafed no other reply, and Franzl smoothed
their mutual difficulty by saying: "I have no more time to spare; I
must go to the garden to cut beans for our dinner. I have engaged a
charwoman to help me a little; for we must collect our potatoes to-day.
You approve of this, don't you?"

"Yes, yes--do everything just as you think best."

Lenz went to his workshop, but his head today seemed in considerable
confusion. He could not please himself in the choice of his tools, and
he even threw aside, pettishly, his father's file, which he had
hitherto considered such a treasure.

The great clock played the music of the "Magic Flute."

"Who set these works again in motion?" asked Lenz quickly, in surprise.

"I did," said the apprentice.

Lenz said nothing. The usual routine must be resumed. The world does
not stand still because a heart has ceased to beat for ever, or because
a mourner would fain be still for ever, too. Lenz continued to work
assiduously. The journeyman mentioned that a young artificer in
Freiberg had come home from his travels, and that it was his intention
to erect a manufactory of clocks at his own expense, and to settle in
this vicinity.

"I might sell my whole stock to him," thought Lenz, "and then I could
see with my own eyes, at last, how the world looks." But this idea of
leaving home only recurred to his mind as a remembrance of something
that he had wished once on a time, but long ago. He no longer felt any
inward impulse in the matter; and precisely because his uncle had
spread a report of his intention to travel, in order to constrain him
to do so, he felt perverse and unwilling to go. He once more took up
his father's file and looked at it intently, as if to say--"During his
whole life, the man who guided this file, with the exception of a short
absence in his early youth, remained stationary on this spot, and lived
happily. To be sure---- he married young, which is a different thing."

Usually Lenz sent his apprentice to the Foundry on the other side of
the hill, but to-day he went himself. When he returned, he did not sit
long at his work. It would be very wrong not to go to see Pilgrim.
Before noon he went down the hill, through the village, and across the
meadow to Pilgrim. His worthy comrade was seated at his easel,
painting. He rose--run his two hands through his long straight sandy
hair, and gave Lenz his right hand; who now told him what joy the
portrait had caused him, and how kind and thoughtful he considered his
friend in giving him so agreeable a surprise.

"Pooh!" said Pilgrim, carelessly plunging both hands into his wide
pockets. "I benefit myself by it. It is so desperately tiresome, year
after year, to paint our primitive village; the church, with its mitre
for a church tower, and so large a hole that a dial-plate might go into
it; and the mower with his scythe stands there always on the same spot
everlastingly; and the woman with the child going to meet him never
reaches him; the child stretches out its hands, but it never joins its
father; and the booby of a man stands there with his back to them, and
I have no notion what kind of face he has--and yet hundreds and
hundreds of times, I have been obliged to paint this confounded
landscape of verdigris hue. So it is: the world will always have the
same thing over and over again. I do believe I could paint the thing
blindfold, and yet I must go at it again and again. Now I have pleased
myself by painting your mother, though I no longer take portraits, for
I have no fancy for any of the faces round here, and I would not be so
spiteful towards generations yet unborn, as to force them to look at
such physiognomies. Your uncle is right in positively refusing to be
painted. Not long ago, when a travelling artist applied to him, he
said--'No, no, or I shall probably be hung up in some pawnbroker's
shop, at some distant day, along with Napoleon and old Fritz.' That man
has most singular, quaint ideas!"

"What have you to do with my uncle just now? You painted my mother's
picture for me, I know."

"Certainly, if you choose to accept of it Come, place yourself here. I
am not quite satisfied with the eyes--I cannot catch the right
expression. You have exactly your mother's eyes; so sit down
there--so--just there. Now sit still, and think of something pleasant,
or of giving away something. It was famous in you to become security
for Faller, Think of that, and then you will have your mother's look
that warmed the heart. Don't smile. But she was so good, so sincere,
so--so----. Now, now I have it. Don't move an eyelash.--Now I can't
paint any more when you are crying."

"My eyes overflowed," said Lenz, in an apologetic tone, "for I could
not help thinking that my mother's eyes----"

"Never mind!--I have finished. I know now what to do. Come, let us be
done working--besides, it is noon already. You will dine with me, I
hope?"

"No--don't take it amiss; but I must dine with uncle Petrowitsch.

"I am never angry with you. Now tell me your plans."

Lenz explained--that he had half a mind to go from home for a couple of
years; and he implored his friend to fulfil their former project, which
they had been obliged to renounce, and to accompany him. Perhaps they
might now conquer fortune in the same way they had hoped then.

"It won't do;--don't go," said Pilgrim, disapprovingly. "Rely upon it,
Lenz, that neither you nor I are born to great riches, and so much the
better, probably, for us. My host, Don Bastian, is a proper man of the
world, who can gain money: the fellow has been half through the world,
and knows no more of it than a cow does of the Catechism. Wherever he
arrived, or walked, or stood, his sole thought was--'How is money to be
got here?--how can I best save or cheat?' And he is no worse than the
rest of the world. The Spanish peasants are just as cunning and as
stupid as the German ones, and their chief glory is to fleece their
neighbours. When Don Bastian came home, the only thing he had acquired
was his money, and see how profitably he has laid it out--a man like
that is sure to prosper."

"And why should not we?"

"Those who take pleasure in things that gold cannot buy, do not require
money. See! all the superfluous clinking sounds I hear proceed from my
guitar, and it is enough for me. A few days ago I heard Don Bastian's
youngest boy say the Ten Commandments, and a very sagacious thought
occurred to me--'What is the first Commandment?'--'Thou shalt have none
other gods but me.' Now, every man can have but one god. You and I love
our professions. You are happy when you have finished a work of which
the mechanism is perfect; and I too, in the same way--though it often
goes sadly against the grain with me to paint that one everlasting
village, with the same everlasting girl, and the same woman and
child--but still I am glad when it is done; and when I am painting it I
am as merry as a bird--do you see?--as that goldfinch sitting on the
roof of the church. And he who takes pleasure in what he does, and
throws his whole heart and soul into it, cannot possibly spare time to
think of how to become rich, and to speculate, and to overreach others.
'Thou shalt have none other gods but me'--that is a wise command. In
fact, the other god is generally the Devil, and you may see the truth
of that by your uncle Petrowitsch."

"Come and live with me," was the only answer that Lenz made to his
friend. "I will build a couple of rooms for you upstairs."

"You mean well and kindly, but it would not do. Lenz, you are a
singular man. You are a born husband and father of a family: you must
marry, and already I rejoice at the thoughts of telling your children
stories of my travels. And when I become old, and can no longer earn my
bread, then I shall be only too thankful if you will take me into your
house, and cram me with good things till I die. But now keep your eyes
open, and remember I shall not be offended; on the contrary, it is my
advice, that you depreciate me before your uncle, who hates me; and
then, perhaps, he will leave you something in his will. You have quite
talent enough to accept a legacy. I have a remarkable talent in that
line myself; but unluckily all my relations are poor, or at least rich
only in children. I am the only one of the family who has anything to
leave, so you see I am a rich uncle like Petrowitsch."

His friend cheered Lenz, just as a passing sunny shower at that moment
refreshed all nature. They waited till the rain was over, and then they
went together to the "Lion," at the door of which they parted, for
Pilgrim said he did not wish to go into the room where Petrowitsch was,
along with Lenz. A carriage was standing before the inn, and the
landlord accompanied a young man to the door, giving him two fingers in
token of farewell, and touching his cap.

The young man looked up, and waved his hand to the wife and daughter in
the room above, desiring the driver to drive on, and to wait for him at
the Doctor's house.

When he passed the two friends, he bowed and took off his cap.

"Do you know who that is?" asked Pilgrim.

"No."

"Nor I either," said Pilgrim. "Who is that stranger?" said he to the
Landlord.

"The brother of my son-in-law."

"Oh, oh!" whispered Pilgrim to Lenz. "Now I remember--he is one of
Annele's admirers."

Lenz went hurriedly upstairs. Pilgrim did not see the expression of his
face.




                               CHAPTER X.
                       A DINNER WITH PETROWITSCH.


Petrowitsch was not yet arrived. In the mean time Lenz seated himself
at his uncle's table, and conversed with the family and Pilgrim.

Annele was unusually sparing of her words today; indeed, when Lenz
offered her his hand when he came in, she affected to be too busy to
take it. No doubt her hand is promised, and she can no longer give it
to any one, even in common courtesy. And yet she does not look much
like a bride.

Uncle Petrowitsch now arrived; at least his dog appeared as his
precursor--a mongrel, between a _dachs_ and a terrier.

"Good day, Lenz!" said his uncle, rather crabbedly. "I expected you
yesterday. Did you forget that I had invited you?"

"Indeed I did. I must confess that it quite went out of my head."

"At such a time it is allowable to forget, otherwise nothing is so
inexcusable in a man of business as want of memory. During all my life
I never either forgot anything, or lost anything--I never threw away a
pin, or mislaid a pocket handkerchief A man ought always to make use of
his seven senses. Now let us go to dinner."

Annele brought in the soup--the uncle filled two plates out of
the tureen, and then said to Lenz, "You may take the remainder."
Petrowitsch then took a newspaper out of his pocket, that he called for
at the Post-office every day himself, and cut its leaves. While the
soup was cooling, and after placing his tobacco bag and his meerschaum
pipe on the paper, he began his dinner.

"You see," said he, after the soup, crumbling a quantity of bread into
a plate for some one who had not yet appeared--"you see this is the way
in which I like to live. If you dine at an inn, you are sure to have a
clean cloth every day; and when my score is paid, day after day, then I
am my own master." When the meat was put on the table, Petrowitsch cut
a slice for Lenz with his own hands, then one for himself, and another
for the unknown friend. He must have been on very intimate terms with
him, for he put his finger into the plate, shook his head, and added
some cold water to the meat. Now the friend came to light. "Come,
Büble!" said Petrowitsch to his dog. "Gently, gently!--don't be in a
hurry, Büble!--take it quietly." He put the plate on the floor, and the
dog ate his food comfortably till he had finished the last morsel, when
he looked up at his master gratefully, licking his lips and wagging his
tail.

From this moment Büble only got little bits. Petrowitsch said very
little, and after dinner, when he had lighted his pipe and glanced over
the newspaper, Lenz asked: "Uncle, why did you spread a report that I
was about to leave the country?"

Petrowitsch puffed away at his pipe for some minutes placidly, blowing
away the smoke; then he called Büble, who jumped on his knee, and
patted him; at last he said--"Why do you find fault with me for saying
so? You told me yourself that you wished to make up for the idleness of
your youth, and to visit other countries."

"I don't remember saying that."

"I don't reproach you with your supineness--you were not your own
master; but it would be well worth your while to travel now--you would
learn a good deal. I don't force you to go--indeed I can't."

Lenz allowed himself to be persuaded by his uncle's bold assertion,
that he had really told him he wished to travel, and begged him not to
take it amiss that he had forgotten he had ever said so.

"Lenz, bring your chair a little nearer," whispered Petrowitsch
confidentially; "no one need hear what we are talking about. Listen! if
you will take my advice, don't marry at all."

"There is little chance of my thinking of such a thing at this moment,
uncle."

"Young people like you never know what they would be at--there can be
no doubt of that. Now, Lenz, take example by me. I am one of the
happiest men in the world. I have just been six weeks at Baden-Baden,
and now I return to enjoy myself here; and wherever I go, I am my own
master, and the world must serve me; and there are no girls in these
days worth a farthing: those who are simple and good bore a man to
death--those who are shrewd and clever, require constant amusement and
excitement--all day long, at every meal, they must have some fresh
diversion. And then you hear them say, day after day--'Goodness! how
tiresome it is to manage a house--you men know nothing of such toil.'
And then, in addition to all this, comes the plague of screaming
babies, and relations, and school fees, and taxes."

"If the whole world thought like you, uncle, the human race would come
to an end in a hundred years," said Lenz.

"Pooh! they would never die out," said old Petrowitsch, laughing, and
filling his pipe with tobacco, pressing it down with a china stopper of
antique shape. "Look, there goes Annele!" Lenz involuntarily started,
he scarcely knew why; but his uncle continued, coolly--"No doubt, she
is a vastly knowing little thing, always on the alert, and I call her
my court jester. The kings of old were wise, for they kept jesters,
whose office it was to make them laugh during meals. That is very
healthy, and assists digestion. Annele is my court fool, and never
fails to make me laugh."

When Lenz looked round. Pilgrim was gone. He seemed, indeed, resolved
that his friend should disown him before Petrowitsch. Lenz, however,
made a point of saying to his uncle, that he was a true friend of
Pilgrim's, and intended always to be so.

The uncle said he was right, and commended his nephew; and Lenz was
quite surprised when Petrowitsch even began to praise Pilgrim; adding,
that he was something like himself, in some points, for he also
disliked matrimony, and had a poor opinion of the female sex.

Büble now became very fidgety, and began to whine.

"Silence!" said Petrowitsch, angrily. "Have patience--we are going home
immediately to take a nap. Down, down, Büble! Are you coming with me,
Lenz?"

Lenz accompanied his uncle to his house--a large handsome building, in
which no one lived but himself. The door opened of itself as if by
magic, for the maid was obliged to be on the watch, and to open the
door before her master had time to knock.

Lenz said--"Good bye!" to his uncle, who thanked him, yawning.

The young man was glad when he was again seated at his work the same
afternoon. The house, which had seemed so desolate that he thought he
could not possibly continue to live in it, now appeared to him once
more like home--no real rest or peace is to be found in amusement
elsewhere--a man is only really happy at home. He looked for a place to
hang up his mother's picture; the best was just above his father's
file, for there she could look down on him as he worked, and he could
often look up at her.

"Mind you have the room tidy!" said Lenz to Franzl, who, with just
indignation, replied--"It is always tidy!" Lenz did not choose to say
that he had his own reasons for wishing it to be in particularly good
order, for every hour he expected a visit from Annele and her mother,
to see and hear his large clock, before it went forth into the
wide world. Then he was resolved to ask her, in a straightforward
manner--the straight way is always the best--whether the report about
her and the Techniker had any foundation. He cannot tell, indeed, what
gives him any right to ask such a question; but he feels that he must
do so, and then he can talk to her in his own way, just as he may
choose. Day after day passed and Annele did not come; and Lenz often
went past the "Lion," but without going in, or even looking up at the
window.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                THE GREAT CLOCK PLAYS ITS MELODIES, AND
                         FRESH ONES ARE ADDED.

It was quite an event in the valley when the news was circulated that
the large, handsome clock--the "Magic Flute," as it was called, made by
Lenz of the Morgenhalde--was to be sent off in the course of a few days
to its destination in Russia. It attracted a perfect pilgrimage to
Lenz's house--every one wished to admire the fine instrument before it
left the country for ever. Franzl had a great deal to do in welcoming
all the people, and shaking hands with them--first wiping her hands
carefully on her apron--and then escorting them a little way. There
were not chairs enough in the house, for all the people who came to sit
down at the same time.

Even uncle Petrowitsch condescended to come, and he not only brought
Büble with him--for that was a matter of course--but Ibrahim,
Petrowitsch's companion at cards--of whom people said that, during his
fifty years' absence from home, he had become a Turk. The two old men
said little; Ibrahim sat still and smoked his long Turkish pipe, and
moved his eyebrows up and down; Petrowitsch fidgeted round him, just as
Büble fidgeted round Petrowitsch. For Ibrahim was the only man who had
a certain influence over Petrowitsch, which he only retained because he
rarely exercised it. He would listen to no man who applied to him to
obtain any favour from Petrowitsch. They played cards together for
whole evenings, each paying his losses on the spot; and the restless,
lively disposition of Ibrahim made Petrowitsch more polite and
complaisant; and here, in the old family house, Petrowitsch seemed, in
some degree, inclined to assist his nephew in doing the honours.

While the clock was playing a grand piece, Petrowitsch stood beside the
work bench, examining everything that lay there or hung on the wall. At
last he took down the well known file, with its worn handle. When the
piece was finished, he said to Lenz--"This is your father's file, is it
not?"

"Yes; it belonged to my deceased father."

"I will buy it from you."

"You are not in earnest, surely, uncle: it is not likely I should sell
it."

"To me you certainly might."

"Not even to you, though I hope you will not be offended."

"Very well; then make me a present of it. I will give you something in
return some day."

"Uncle, I scarcely can tell--I really don't know what to say; but my
feeling is, that I cannot bear to part with the file."

"Very good!--'Stay there,'" said he to the tool, hanging it up again in
its place; and soon he was walking down to the valley with Ibrahim.

People came from miles distant, and from quite the other side of the
valley, to admire the clock; and Franzl was particularly pleased when
the first man out of her village, Kunslingen, the balance maker, came
and said openly--"Such an instrument has not been produced in our
country for a hundred years. It is a pity that it must be dumb while it
is travelling; and that it cannot go on playing all the way from here
to Odessa, saying--'I come from the Black Forest--clever men must live
there to complete such mechanism.'"

Franzl smiled with delight, and said--"This is the way the Kunslingen
people speak--no others, from any part of the world, are as clever as
they are." She told them how long and how eagerly Lenz had worked at
the clock, and how often he used to rise in the night to adjust some
part of the instrument, which had just struck him as requiring
improvement. There were mysteries in the trade which few could explain.
She, of course, was one of the initiated; and no girl's heart,
listening to a first declaration of love, could receive it with
greater delight than Franzl, when she heard the most esteemed man in
her village say--"Yes, Franzl; and a house from which such a work
proceeds--so accurate and so delicate--such a house must be a well
ordered one, so you have some share in the merit also."

"I hope no one will take it amiss--I don't wish to offend any one; but
I must say that nowhere in the world are people so clever as in our
village. This man is the only person who has defined the matter
properly. See how the others all stood there! just like a cow before a
new barn door. Moo! moo!--not a bit more sense than that! But the
Kunslingers! God be praised that I was born in Kunslingen!" Franzl's
gestures and looks said all this, as she placed her hand on her beating
heart, and her eyes looked devoutly up to Heaven.

Lenz could not help laughing when, at each meal, she brought in
with every dish the good news that he was now quite famous in
Kunslingen; and Kunslingen is no insignificant spot, for it has two
parishes--Fuchsberg and Knelingen.

"Tomorrow I intend to nail up the case--tomorrow evening the 'Magic
Flute' is positively to be sent off," said Lenz.

"So soon?" said Franzl sorrowfully; and she looked at the case, as if
she wished to entreat it to stay a little longer. "It looks so well
here, and brings us so much honour."

"I am only surprised," continued Lenz, "why the Doctor and his family
have not been here; and----and the family at the 'Lion' promised they
would come."

Franzl rubbed her forehead, and shrugged her shoulders, and regretted
her ignorance; but it was impossible for her to know what went on in
such fine houses.

Annele had repeatedly reminded her mother of her promise, but she
refused to go without her husband, for their dignity is sadly
diminished when the Landlord is not present; but this dignified person
never runs after other people's things--if they wish for his approval,
they must come to him.

But now, however, on this last day, Annele had heard--she always got
good information--that the Doctor and his daughters intended to go to
Lenz's; this being the very last day, the superior families reserved
themselves for that. Mother and daughter resolved not to go to the
Morgenhalde till the Doctor's family had preceded them: they said
nothing to the majestic Papa of the diplomacy here displayed, for his
sense of dignity would have been hurt.

"Here comes the Schoolmaster!" exclaimed Franzl early in the morning,
looking out of the kitchen window. His companions called this young man
the "Singing Master"--a title that he liked, for he was, in fact, the
founder of the Choral Society; and when he sung with Lenz, Faller, and
Pilgrim, they were a first rate quartett. Lenz gave him a hearty
welcome, and Franzl begged him to stay with them for a couple of hours,
to assist them in receiving the numerous visitors that were sure to
come on this last day.

"Yes, do stay," said Lenz. "You can't imagine how grieved I am to see
my work depart. I can fancy a person feeling just like that, when a
brother or a child leaves home for foreign parts."

"You go too far," said the Schoolmaster, reprovingly; "you cling with
your whole heart to everything--you have always some fresh object to
devote yourself to! You know I don't care much for musical clocks."
Franzl looked very angry, but the young man continued:--"They are for
children and childish people. I don't even like the piano, because its
tones are already made. Music on the piano is little better than
whistling a song; and as for your clocks and barrel organs, they have
tongues and lungs but no hearts."

Franzl bolted out of the room, very cross. "God be praised, that there
are still Kunslingers in the world, who understand things better!"
She heard them in the next room singing that touching song, "To-morrow
must I leave thee!" Lenz sang a clear, though not a very full, tenor;
and the Schoolmaster could not venture to put forth the energies of his
bass voice, for fear of drowning Lenz's sweeter tones. Franzl
interrupted the song by calling out through the open door--"Here come
the people from the Doctor's."

The Schoolmaster, as master of the ceremonies, went to meet them at the
door.

The Doctor came in, accompanied by his wife and his three daughters,
and immediately said, in his unceremonious way, which had nothing
imperious, but yet admitted of no denial, that Lenz was not to lose his
working hours by talking, but merely set the clock going. He did so,
and they were all evidently delighted. When the first piece was
finished, Lenz cast down his eyes on hearing so much praise, and yet it
was all said in a way which did not require deductions to be made for
politeness.

"Grandmamma desires to be remembered to you," said the eldest daughter;
and Bertha exclaimed--"Fancy a clockcase having so many voices!"

"I suppose you would like to have as many?" said her father, laughing.

The eldest, however, said to Lenz, while her brown eyes sparkled--"You
seem to have a most superior talent for music."

"If my worthy father," said Lenz, "had bought me a violin when I was a
child, so that I might have learned to play on it, I do think that I
might have been a good musician in time, and perhaps done something."

"You have done something," said the stout Doctor, laying his large hand
kindly on Lenz's shoulder.

The Schoolmaster, who was very proud of understanding the internal
mechanism of the instrument, saved Lenz the trouble of explaining it to
the ladies; and, indeed, Lenz could not so well have illustrated how
the delicate shades of _crescendo_ and _decrescendo_ were produced, and
what a quick ear it requires to produce a full tone without depriving
the instrument of sweetness, and to blend the two properly. He
repeatedly asserted that a sense of music and mechanical skill must be
united to complete such a work; and especially pointed out how
admirably Lenz had succeeded in the long drawn mournful tones. Nothing
could be more difficult than to produce feeling and harmony, while
working by the _metronome_; for a musician, playing as his sense of
music dictates, never plays with a _metronome_, and is not therefore
checked in his musical expression. He was on the point of showing how
waltzes were constructed and nailed close together, and that the
outside was made of soft alder wood, while in the inside there were
various kinds of wood, the grain of which was in different directions,
when his explanation was interrupted by hearing Franzl welcoming some
visitors outside, with more than usual eagerness. Lenz went out: it was
the Landlord of the "Lion," with his wife and Annele. The landlord
offered him his hand, and nodded with the consciousness that there was
no more to be said, when so dignified a person did a young man the
honour to survey for a quarter of an hour, a work on which he had
bestowed years of industry.

"So, you are really come at last?" was Lenz's greeting to Annele.

"Why at last?" asked she.

"What! have you forgotten that you promised me to come six weeks ago?"

"When?--I'm sure I don't remember."

"On the very day after my mother died; you said you would come soon."

"Yes, yes!--it must be so--no doubt I did. I felt that there was
something on my conscience, but I did not know what. Now this is it--of
course it is. But, good heavens! in a house like ours, you have no idea
of all the things that pass through my head." So said Annele, and Lenz
felt something like a sharp pain in his heart.

He had no leisure, however, to reflect at that moment as to what had
caused him either pain or pleasure; for now there were mutual greetings
on the part of the Doctor and the Landlord of the "Lion."

Annele had even some thoughts of following the town fashion, and
kissing the Doctors daughters, the friends whom she detested so
cordially--for they were always rather reserved with Annele.

Amanda, the daughter who cultivated herbs, had taken off her
broad-leaved hat, as if she had been at home; and now Annele did the
same, and she had much finer hair than all the other three put
together--indeed, she could sit on hers; and it was so long and so
luxuriant, that she wore it like a coronet in three thick plaits, and
looked remarkably well in it too.

Lenz first put in a pretty waltz, and then a gay melody out of Mozart's
"Magic Flute," which was set in a particular way--the "Song of the
Moor."

The Landlord growled out--"Hum! Hum!"

That was a high compliment; and he nodded and drew in his under lip, as
if he was tasting good wine.

"Very good!" said he, at last, in a pedantic tone, spreading out both
hands as if he were scattering the praise letter by letter. "Very good,
indeed!" These were important words, pronounced by such a man!

The Landlady crossed her hands on her breast, and looked at Lenz with
unparalleled admiration. "Well!--really I--to think that a man can make
a thing so cleverly, and such a young man too! and he stands there just
as if he was no better than the others. Remain just so. The best
ornament to a great artist is modesty. Go on your course--make more
instruments like that: you can do so if you like, I can tell you."

After this speech, she looked pleasantly at the Doctor's wife, inwardly
rejoicing thus:--"I suppose that stick of a woman--that hoppole--can't
speak a word; and if she were to speak, what would she say? It is
rather different, I imagine, when I say anything!"

Annele, too, took courage, and said--"You completed that fine clock
while your good mother was still alive, and her blessing rests on it. I
can easily understand how hard you must find it, to send it away into
the wide world. Do you know what has just occurred to me? You must
bring me that favourite tune of yours, and I will learn to play it on
the piano."

"I can lend you the piece," said the Doctor's eldest daughter, who had
heard Annele's last words.

"But we only have it arranged as a duett," said the second daughter.

"And I have only two hands," said Annele, pertly. The girls would have
gone on talking together if the Doctor had not looked at them gravely,
and made them a sign to be quiet, for the second piece was about to
begin.

When it was finished, they all went into the next room. Franzl had
placed on the table, cheese, wine, and bread and butter. The Landlord
said--"Lenz, tell me, honestly, for I don't mean to take advantage of
it, how much do you get for this musical instrument?"

"Two thousand two hundred gulden--money down. I don't make much by
it--I have devoted a great deal of time to it, and the outlay has also
been considerable; but when I make my next one, I expect to have more
profit."

"Do you intend to make another?"

"No; for I have not one ordered as yet."

"I cannot bespeak one, for I have no traffic with musical instruments:
so, as I say, I do not order one; but if you do make another, I think
it probable that I will buy it from you. I have a kind of idea as to
where I should dispose of it."

"Knowing that, I shall begin a new one with fresh spirit, and it shall
be even better than the last. Now I feel as if I could see this one go
with a light heart, although it takes with it the whole year that I
laboured at it."

"As I said before, I say again--not a word more, not a word less. With
me all is accurate and clear. I do not give the order; but it is
possible."

"That is quite enough for me, and makes me quite happy. Your Annele
said, just now, something of the same kind that I said to Pilgrim only
yesterday: 'I cannot tell you how it grieves me to send away a work in
which my mother felt so much interest.'"

Annele looked down modestly.

"And I will take an interest in it," said the Landlady, "just like your
mother." At these words the Doctor's wife and daughter looked at the
Landlady in surprise. The Landlord knit his brows fiercely, and cast a
glance of reproof at his wife; but the very pause that ensued, made the
words of the Landlady more insidious. Franzl, however, came to the
rescue, by pressing every one to eat and drink; and she was made quite
happy by Annele saying, that she might well be proud of having the
house so neat, that its lamented mistress was not missed in that
respect.

Franzl dried her eyes with her newly washed apron.

The Landlady soon thought of an appropriate question, and said--"Lenz,
has your uncle not been here yet? and is he not proud of your fine
clock?"

"He was here, but the only remark he made was, that I had sold it far
too cheap, and did not understand my own advantage."

Now nothing can answer better than to bring forward some absent person,
and especially one so generally disliked as Petrowitsch. The point now
was in what tone he was to be spoken of Annele and her mother had
already sharpened their tongues, when they were forced to silence by a
warning glance from the Landlord. The Doctor began to praise
Petrowitsch, saying that he affected to be rough because he dreaded
his own soft heart; and, turning to the Schoolmaster and Lenz, he
said--"Petrowitsch is like those trees that were not transformed into
coal at the Deluge, but yet have rich warm substance within: this is
just Petrowitsch." The Schoolmaster smiled assentingly, Lenz looked
puzzled, and the Landlord hemmed.

The Doctor's eldest daughter said--"Petrowitsch is fond of music, and
whoever likes music must have a good heart." Lenz nodded approvingly,
and Annele smiled sweetly. The Landlady could not stand this. She had
turned the conversation on such a fruitful subject, that she could not
permit others to snatch it from her; so she, too, praised Petrowitsch's
cleverness, and hinted that she was his confidant on most points;
whence it was pretty plainly to be seen that she was very clever
herself, so thoroughly to understand such a superior person, for it was
not every one that was capable of doing so. Annele, too, had a good
word to say, and praised Petrowitsch for his neatness, and always
wearing such fine linen, and making so many pleasant jokes; even
Büble came in for a good morsel from this rich banquet of praise.
Annele described Petrowitsch as the most devoted friend of her
family,--indeed, shortly they made him out to be a perfect saint, and
only wanting a pair of wings to become an angel altogether. At last the
visit came to an end; the Schoolmaster accompanied the Doctor; Lenz
followed the Doctor as he went out, and said--

"Herr Doctor, I have a question to put to you, but you must not inquire
why I ask it."

"What is it, pray?"

"I should like to know what kind of plant _Edelweiss_ is."

"Do you know it, Amanda?" said the Doctor.

Amanda, colouring, said, "It is an Alpine plant which grows in snowy
regions; in fact it springs up under the snow; but I never saw it
growing."

"I should think not, child," answered the Doctor, smiling; "bold Alpine
hunters and shepherds alone venture to gather this strange plant on the
spot where it grows, and it is considered a sign of a bold spirit to
secure it. It is a singular, fine, and delicately formed plant, with
very little sap, and therefore more easily preserved, like our native
_Immortelle_; the flower is edged with white velvety leaves, and the
stalk is also covered with white down. The first time you come to see
me, Lenz, I can show you a specimen of the little plant; its Latin name
is _Leontopodium Alpinum_, which is called in Germany Löwenfuss
(Lionfoot). I don't know whence its German name is derived, unless I
can find it in some book; but at all events it is a prettier one than
the Latin denomination."

Lenz thanked the Doctor, who went away with his family.

When they were all fairly gone, the Landlady stayed in the kitchen with
Franzl, and could not say enough in praise of the neatness and
regularity, and orderly state in which everything there was kept. "But,
indeed, you are now in the place of a mother in this house," said she,
with one of her magpie cackles (as Pilgrim called the worthy woman's
laugh); "you well deserve that Lenz should have a high opinion of you,
and entrust you with all his keys and belongings, and have no secret
hid from you."

"Indeed, he has none almost--only one."

"Really! is it possible? May I ask what it is?"


"I don't quite know myself: when he came home from the funeral, he was
rummaging in the next room in a press, of which his mother always kept
the key herself, and when I called out to him, he shut the door in my
face; and after searching for some time, he locked up every thing
again, and when he leaves the house he always tries the lock of the
press, to see whether it is fast. He is not at all mistrustful
naturally."

The Landlady inwardly chuckled and gave a little sharp laugh: "All
right, no doubt the old woman has hoarded up a stocking full of gold;
who knows how much? Come to see me," said the Landlady in a
condescending manner. "I hope you will come whenever you like, and if
you want to borrow anything, I shall never forgive you so long as I
live, if you go to any other house but mine for it. Your brother often
arrives at our door with his cart of shingles; can I give him any
message from you?"

"Yes! I think he might sometimes come here to look after me."

"Rely upon my telling him so; and if he has not time I will send for
you. Many Kunslingers come to us,--they are sensible people,--at least
I like to talk to them best of all. If the Kunslingers were only rich,
they would be famed far and near. They often speak of you, and are
pleased when I tell them how highly you are respected here."

The Landlady drew breath; Franzl stood looking at her, and would gladly
have lent her some of her own breath, but she had scarcely any left;
she laid her hand on her heart, to show her agitation, for speak she
could not: but what has happened all of a sudden in the kitchen? It
seems as if merry Kunslinger faces were laughing from all the crockery,
and the handsome shining copper kettle, and pans, had become trumpets,
and playing loudly, and the funnels puffing and blowing, and the pretty
white china coffeepot sticking its arm in its side, dancing like the
Bürgermeister's wife--Franzl's godmother. Heavens! it tumbles! but
Franzl luckily caught the obstreporous coffeepot before it fell.

The Landlady rose, and concluded by saying, "Now, God be with you,
Franzl! It does one good to have a chat with a good old friend once
more. I am far more at my ease with you here, than in the other room
with the Doctor, and his upsetting young ladies, who can do nothing but
play the piano, and give themselves airs. Good bye, Franzl!"

The musical clock in the next room never played more or sweeter
melodies, than at this moment sounded in Franzl's heart; she could have
sung and danced from joy--she stared at the fire and laughed, and then
she again looked out of the kitchen window after the Landlady. "What an
admirable woman that is,--the most looked up to in the whole country,
and yet she said herself, that I was her good old friend!"

When Franzl laid the cloth for dinner in the next room, she looked once
more into the glass, like a girl just come home from a ball; she wished
to see how Franzl looked--the Landlady's good old friend! She could not
swallow a morsel of the comfortable dinner she had prepared; her
appetite was satisfied--more than satisfied--for she had swallowed the
fat Landlady whole.




                              CHAPTER XII.
               A GOOD ESCORT, AND THOUGHTS OF THE FUTURE.


"It is all ready now," said Lenz aloud, though he was alone in the
room. "May you arrive safe!" He had been engaged in unscrewing the
work, as it was to be brought down into the valley in different pieces,
and the large framework to be carried on a handbarrow by men, for there
was no carriage road to Lenz's house. The two enemies, Pilgrim and
Petrowitsch, met beside the waggon in the valley, beside which Lenz was
standing, busily engaged in packing securely the different parts of the
instrument.

On one side of the waggon Petrowitsch was saying--"I know the man who
has purchased your musical clock, he is one of my best friends in
Odessa, and a most worthy respectable person. If you had any sense, you
would go too, and exhibit the instrument in Odessa; and then you would
be sure to get at least seven new orders.

"I have already got a fresh one," said Lenz.

On the other side of the waggon. Pilgrim said--"Lenz, let us escort the
'Magic Flute' part of the way, and we can return in good time this
evening."

"I should like it very much, for I feel sure I can't work any more
today."

When the two friends were walking along behind the waggon, as they
passed the "Lion" Inn, Annele looked out of the window and called out
"Good luck!"

The two friends thanked her.

In passing the Doctor's house, they were even more gratified, for a
maid came out, and running up to the waggon laid a wreath on the
packing case.

"Who sends that?" asked Pilgrim, for Lenz was too surprised to speak.

"The young ladies," said the maid, returning to the house.

The two friends looked up at the window and bowed; no one, however, was
to be seen, but when they had gone on a few steps, they heard the music
of the "Magic Flute" played in the Doctor's house.

"What excellent people they are at the Doctor's!" said Pilgrim. "I
never feel more perplexed than when I ask myself, Which of them is the
best? The one I like the most is the old grandmother; the whole
district should put up a petition to the Almighty to preserve her life.
Your mother is now dead, and if the Doctor's wife were to die also,
then the whole of the good old fashioned world would be dead--who still
know how to observe good old household customs and ways. But her
granddaughters are also excellent girls, and I don't doubt that Amanda
will one day be as admirable as her grandmother."

Lenz said nothing, and the whole way to the town he was equally silent.
When, however, they had arrived there, and, the waggon having proceeded
on its journey, the two friends were drinking their wine together, Lenz
became more cheerful and talkative, and said he now felt as if life had
revived within him.

"You really ought to marry," was again Pilgrim's admonition. "You have
two classes to choose from: either a thoroughly well educated person,
like one of the Doctor's daughters--you could marry one of them if you
chose, and I advise you to propose for Amanda. It is a pity that she
can't sing like Bertha, but she has the best heart in the world, and
will honour you if you honour her, and she will esteem your talents."

Lenz looked into the glass, and Pilgrim continued--

"Or else you must make up your mind to be satisfied with an honest
farmer's daughter--I mean the bailiffs Kathrine. Franzl is right, she
would jump over hedge and ditch after you; she would be sparing and
frugal, and you would have fine healthy children--seven sons strong
enough to uproot the old firs in the wood of the Landlord of the
'Lion;' and you would become a man of substance too; but you must not
in that case expect your wife to understand anything of your vocation,
or of the many ideas you have in your head. You have the choice, but
choose you must. When you have made up your mind, let me know, and send
me to the family. I feel quite proud already at the thoughts of my
dignity as matchmaker; I will even put on a white neckcloth for the
occasion if necessary. Can I give you a more striking proof of my wish
to serve you?"

Lenz still continued to look at himself in the glass. Pilgrim had
excluded Annele from the possibility of his choice. After a long pause
Lenz said, "I should like to be in a large town just for once; I should
so enjoy hearing music played by a whole orchestra, and to hear the
same piece played five or six times over, then I feel I could arrange
it quite differently: it always seems to me as if there were certain
tones wanting, that I can never produce. They may praise me as much as
they like, but I can tell you that the pieces I set have not the right
sound, very far from it; I know it is so, and yet I can't alter the
tone. There is something squeaking, and dry, and hard, in the
instrument, like a dumb man who has been taught to speak; it is
something like our speech, but yet it is different. If I could only
succeed in getting this tone. I know what it should be--I hear it, but
I can't produce it."

"Yes, yes, I feel just the same; I imagine that there is a style of
drawing and colour that I must aim at. I am always in hopes that I
shall seize the idea, and hold it fast. But I shall die in obscurity
without ever having succeeded. This is doomed to be our fate--both
yours and mine. Come, let us finish our wine and go home."

They went along together in a cheerful mood, this fine autumnal
evening, singing all kinds of melodies together, and when they were
tired of singing they whistled duets. Pilgrim took leave of Lenz at his
own house. Lenz, however, seeing lights in the "Lion," and hearing the
sound of loud voices, went in.

"I am so glad that you have come again to see us," said Annele,
stretching out her hand to him. "I could not help thinking that you
must feel it very solitary at home, now that your work is gone; almost
as bad as the day you lost your poor mother."

"Oh! not quite so bad as that, though something of the same kind; but,
Annele, people may praise my musical clock as much as they like, but I
know it should be very different. I don't wish to praise myself, but
this I will say, that I understand how to listen to music, and really
to understand that, is no small merit."

Annele looked at him in surprise, and thought: "To know how to listen
to music; what knowledge does that require? any one can do that who has
ears, if they do not put cotton into them." She, however, had a
suspicion that Lenz meant something more; she knew well, from long
experience, that people often begin with some very opposite subject
when they have something to communicate which they are full of; she
therefore cast a sympathising glance at Lenz, saying, "Yes, indeed; it
is no small merit."

"You understand then what I mean?" cried Lenz with enthusiasm.

"Yes; but I don't exactly know how to express it."

"That is precisely my case. When I come to this point I get puzzled. I
never learned the science of music, I can neither play on the violin
nor on the piano; but when I hear the notes, I seem to know at once
what the composer meant. I cannot express music, but I can listen to
it."

"That is a capital expression," said Annele joyfully. "I shall never
forget that phrase so long as I live; to express music and to listen to
it are two different things; it is easy to learn from you, for though I
feel just so myself, I could not explain it as you do."

Lenz drank in the good wine, the good words, and the good looks of
Annele at the same time, and then continued, "Mozart especially I seem
to hear without losing a note, and I think I hear him correctly. Oh! if
I could only have given him my hand once while he was alive! but I
think I should have died of grief when he died, if he had lived in my
day; but I should like to serve him even now that he is in Heaven; and
I often think it is better that I can't play on any instrument, for I
should never have learned to express music as I can feel it. Hearing is
a gift of nature, for which I have to thank God. My grandfather, too,
had great knowledge of music. If I had not played in harmony, with my
sense of hearing and feeling, it would certainly have grated
distractingly on my nerves."

"It is just the same with me," interrupted Annele. "I like to listen to
music, but I have no skill; and besides, when there is so much to do in
the house I have no time to myself, so there is no chance of my
improving. I have entirely given up the piano; my father is very angry
with me for it, for he spared no money, and made all his children learn
music, but I think if you can't do a thing really well it is better to
let it alone altogether; and then for people like myself, who know how
to hear music though not to speak it, we have you and the instruments
you make. If I were master in this house, I would buy your best organ
from you, and not let any more go to Russia: I would have it in the
public room, where it would amuse all the guests, and you would in this
way receive plenty of orders. Since I was up at your house, no matter
where I go, I have always ringing in my ears that pretty melody with
the bells, from the 'Magic Flute.'"

A pretty melody sounded in Lenz's ears also. He tried to explain to
Annele that a person who had no true feeling for music, might indeed
place the pegs in the instrument in the same order in which the notes
were written; but that was not all; no, not even when attending to
change of time as it was marked: where feeling does not exist, the
instrument will never be anything better than a barrel-organ.

A person playing of his own accord makes the Piano slower and the Forte
quicker; and a similar effect must be obtained by the mechanism of the
instrument, but those shades in the time must be delicately managed.
Though the _forte_ should be well marked, the instrument having so much
stress on it already, in the _fortissimo_ a reinforcement of power
should be given.

Annele listened to him with a very intelligent face, and at last said:
"I am very much obliged to you for giving me all these details. If some
people knew that you had been telling me all this, they might be
jealous."

At these words Lenz passed his hands across his eyes, and said:
"Annele, may I venture to ask you a question?"

"Yes, I would tell you anything."

"Don't take it amiss; but is it true that you are as good as betrothed
to the Techniker?"

"Thank you for asking me that in a straightforward way. There, you have
my hand as a pledge that there is not a word of truth in it;--there is
nothing between us."

Lenz held her hand fast, and said: "May I ask you one thing more?"

"Ask whatever you choose, you shall have an honest answer."

"Tell me why your manner is so different to me when Pilgrim is present?
have you and he had any quarrel?"

"May this be poison that I am drinking if I don't tell you the truth,"
said Annele, taking up Lenz's glass and sipping out of it; though Lenz
assured her that there was no need of such strong asseverations--he
could not bear them.

She continued: "If all men were like you, no asseverations would be
necessary. Pilgrim and I are constantly teasing and tormenting each
other, but he does not know me thoroughly; and when you are here I
cannot bear all these silly jokes, and mountebank ways: but now you
must promise me one thing: if there is anything you want to know about
me, ask no one but myself; give me your hand on it."

They clasped each other's hands, and Annele continued in a sorrowful
tone: "I am the daughter of the landlord of an inn; I am not so well
off as most girls: they are not obliged to receive any one who chooses
to come in, and to speak to them and answer them; so I often say sharp
things, but I am not always what I appear--I may tell you that, and I
do tell it to you."

"I never should have thought that; I never could have believed that any
sorrowful thought had ever crossed your mind; I always supposed that
all day long you were as merry as a bird."

"Yes, indeed, I would much rather be merry," answered Annele, her face
quickly changing; "I don't like sad music either. How pretty and gay
that air was from the 'Magic Flute'! it almost made one dance."

The conversation now turned again on the subject of music, and the
instrument that had today left the village. Lenz liked to talk
about it, and mentioned his having giving it a convoy part of the
way. He would gladly have called out to all packers, waggoners, and
sailors--"Be cautious with it! it is a pity you can't hear what it
contains."

Never till this evening had Lenz been the last remaining guest in the
inn; but he felt no inclination to rise and go home: the large clock in
the room struck loudly, and in a warning tone, its weights rolling down
angrily, but Lenz did not hear them. The Landlord walked up and down
the room with creaking boots, but Lenz took no notice of them. It had
never yet occurred that any one should act as if the Landlord was not
in the room. He struck his repeater loudly, but Lenz did not appear to
notice it; at last--the Landlord is not a man to stand on ceremony with
any one--he spoke out: "Lenz, if you choose to stay here all night, I
will have a room prepared for you."

Lenz started, and gave Annele his hand; he would gladly have done the
same to the Landlord, but that is a liberty no man ventures to take,
unless that potentate first offers his. Lenz walked home in silence,
and buried in thought.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                         LION, FOX, AND MAGPIE.



In the first winter months, as well as in those of early spring, no
spot in the whole country was so beautiful as the Morgenhalde. Old Lenz
was quite right; the mornings sun shone on it during half the day, and
stoves were not much required. In the small garden behind the house,
flowers were still blooming, when everywhere else no more were to be
seen; and they sprung up there, too, when every other place was barren.
This garden, however, was as much sheltered as a room, and, which is
very rare in this country, a sweet-chesnut tree stood here, to which,
however, the squirrels and woodpeckers in the neighbouring wood paid
many unwelcome visits. The garden was sheltered by the house on one
side, without being deprived by it, however, of the sun, after ten
o'clock; and the large wood, which clothed the steep hill behind the
house, seemed particularly to rejoice in the garden, two of its finest
firs standing at the entrance.

If there had been many people who liked walking in the cold early
winter months, they would certainly have crossed the meadow, gone
through the wood, and taken the path to Lenz's house, and then returned
by the crest of the mountain. There was, however, only one habitual
pedestrian in the village, or rather we may say two, namely,
Petrowitsch and his dog Büble. Every day before dinner, Petrowitsch
ensured a good appetite by following the path along the meadow, past
the house, and over the hill.

Büble took double and triple exercise, by jumping backwards and
forwards over all the little stony channels on the hill side, leading
down to the valley from Lenz's house. These channels were at present
dry, but in spring and summer they served to carry off the rushing
mountain springs to the valley beneath. Petrowitsch was always on the
best terms with his dog, and in his fits of good humour he used to call
him "my son." Petrowitsch had returned home from foreign parts a
wealthy man; of course his riches were estimated in the country at
threefold their real value, but what he really did possess made him
very independent. That longing which never leaves the Swabians and the
sons of the mountains to return to their homes, had also brought
Petrowitsch back to his native country, where he lived a very pleasant
life in his own fashion. His most stirring time was, however, at
Midsummer, when merchants assembled from every part of the world, and
in the "Lion" might be heard Spanish, Italian, English, Russian, and
Dutch, in fact every European language; and amid all these foreign
tongues, good, wholesome, old fashioned German, in the dialect of the
Black Forest, spoken by the very same men who could speak every other
language. Petrowitsch at such times was much sought after. Though
usually leaving the "Lion Inn" at a particular hour, at such times as
these he sometimes remained there for days, and even nights; and when
the fair was over he was left alone, and occupied himself, especially
with regard to those who were bound for the Lower Donau, where he had
long resided, by guessing how far they had proceeded on their journey.

Petrowitsch kept the whole country in a state of excitement, for though
he did not say so himself, still it was pretty well known that he
intended to found a hospital for the district. There was a stove in
every room of the large house he had built, which seemed to denote (and
he neither said "Yes" or "No" when it was pointed out to him) that he
intended to found a hospital for sick labourers.

Lenz, his only heir, was not less excited than the others, for it
seemed naturally a settled point, that he should inherit the greatest
part of his uncle's property. Lenz, however, never reckoned on it. He
showed his uncle the proper respect due to him; still he had spirit
enough to provide for himself. He made his apprentice keep his uncle's
favourite walk in good order, but neither he nor Petrowitsch ever
exchanged a word on the subject. Every forenoon, when Lenz's geese and
hens made a commotion, and a dog barked, it was the signal of uncle
Petrowitsch's approach. Lenz nodded through the window, where he always
sat working; his uncle nodded in return and passed on. Lenz did not go
to his uncle's house, nor did his uncle come to him.

One day Petrowitsch stood still before Lenz's window, and Büble seemed
to guess his master's thoughts, for though in general he only chased
Lenz's poultry as far as the garden, and was satisfied when they flew
cackling behind the hedge, and returned content to his master; still,
on this particular occasion, he chased the hens into the garden as far
as the house, where they took refuge with Franzl. Petrowitsch scolded
his dog angrily, and passed on, saying to himself, "Lenz must come to
me, why should I trouble myself about him? best let him alone. When any
man begins to feel an interest in another, all peace is at an end; for
then it is perpetually--Will he do this? will he do that. None of that
for me! Heaven be praised: I care for no man living." The thought now
recurred to him, that he had heard something about the wood.

On the day before the Landlady of the "Lion" had sat down beside him,
and after having talked on various matters she suddenly began to
congratulate Petrowitsch on taking his quiet walk every day; it kept
him in good health, and in this way he might live to be a hundred; in
fact he looked as if he would. She honestly hoped he might, he had
worked hard enough, and deserved rest and prosperity now. Petrowitsch
was shrewd enough to know that there was more than met the ear in all
this; he thought, and probably he was right, that the Landlady was so
particularly civil to him, because she had designs on his nephew; but
she did not say a word of this. She resumed the subject of his daily
walk, and said it would be an excellent plan if Petrowitsch would
purchase the fine Spannreuter wood at the Morgenhalde, from her
husband; he was by no means anxious to part with it, in fact she did
not know whether he could be persuaded to sell it at all, but she would
like to be the means of procuring for Petrowitsch, the great pleasure
of walking in his own wood, which would certainly be much more
satisfactory.

Petrowitsch thanked her for her singularly delicate attention, but
finally said he was quite as well pleased to walk in woods belonging to
other people; in fact, on the contrary, at present he had no cause for
irritation when he met people stealing the wood, and nothing was more
unwholesome before dinner than irritation.

The Landlady smiled significantly, saying, "If any one had a clever
idea in their head, Petrowitsch was sure to be still more clever."

He thanked her again, and both were as sweet as possible to each other,
far sweeter in fact, than the pieces of sugar that Petrowitsch, had
pocketed from the coffee he had after dinner.

It now occurred to Petrowitsch, that the wood would be a very suitable
purchase for Lenz, if he could manage to buy it through a third person,
for the Landlord would be sure to set a high price on it to himself.
This was what he wanted to say to him; an intention which he however
gave up, because, as we have seen, he wished to follow the noble
principle of caring for no one but himself. His taking any trouble at
all on the subject was too much.

He found the hill much steeper to climb than usual; for in going up a
hill people should not have their thoughts occupied, but only think of
breathing freely. Büble was busy scratching out a mole, although he was
sure of a comfortable well dressed dinner very soon, but his master
called out to him, "Here! you stupid fellow! what business have you
with a mole? Let it burrow as much as it chooses;" and when the dog was
trotting by his side he said, "Back!" The dog slunk behind his master,
and in the same way the latter cast behind him all intrusive thoughts;
he was resolved to banish them altogether, and not disturb the peaceful
routine of his life.

Petrowitsch found the family at the "Lion" rather disturbed. The wife
had told her husband that she had offered the wood at the Morgenhalde
to Petrowitsch, and that he would have nothing to do with it.

The Landlord was furious at this overhasty confidential communication,
and ended by saying, "Petrowitsch will no doubt now spread a report
that I am in want of money."

"But you said that you were in want of money," said his wife
snappishly.

"If it were so, I don't want your interference; only I don't wish to
sell any of my securities at the present rate of exchange;" cried the
Landlord in an unusually loud voice, just as Petrowitsch came into the
room. The latter secretly chuckled, and thought to himself, "You talk
so loudly and so pompously that I feel sure you are in want of money!"


Just as they were sitting down to table, the postman brought several
letters, and some registered ones among them; the Landlord signed the
receipt for these, but did not open the letters, saying in a loud voice
as he seated himself at dinner, what indeed he frequently had said
before: "I never read my letters before dinner, for whether agreeable
or disagreeable, they are equally bad for digestion. Railway scrip
shall never disturb me."

There was, however, a malicious scoffer at another table, who was not
taken in by this superior wisdom, and who thought--"A steam-engine is
driving round and round you for all that, in spite of your
indifference;" and this scoffer was, of course, Petrowitsch.

After dinner, Pilgrim passed the table repeatedly at which Petrowitsch
was seated, and several times stood opposite to it: four eyes stared at
him with amazement. Büble, who was perched on his master's knee, fixed
his eyes on him suspiciously and growled, for he had a perception that
some service was to be claimed from his master, and Petrowitsch glanced
up repeatedly from his newspaper: "What does the man want--has he a
wood, too, that he wishes to sell?"

Pilgrim ran his fingers restlessly through his long thin hair, but this
did not help him any nearer to Petrowitsch, who at this moment rose,
paid his score, and went away. Pilgrim hurried after him into the
street, saying, "Herr Lenz! pray allow me a couple of words."

"Good day,--that is exactly a couple of words."

"Herr Lenz! I want nothing for myself; but I consider it my duty
to----"

"Your duty is nothing to me."

"But it does concern you, Herr Lenz. Just imagine that another person
is telling you what I am about to say; it is right you should know it."

"I am not at all curious."

"Briefly,--it concerns your nephew, Lenz."

"Really? I suspected as much."

"But more than that; you may secure his happiness for life."

"Each man must secure his own."

"It will only cost you a visit to the Doctor."

"Is Lenz ill?"

"No! the case is shortly this. He must marry, and he wishes to do so;
and the best wife for him is the Doctor's Amanda. I have reflected on
the matter in every point of view. It seems difficult to persuade him
to pluck up courage to go himself. He also thinks--he did not say so,
but I know it--that he is not rich enough; but if his uncle would only
make the proposal for him, and at the same time promise----"

"Really? I thought that was the point you were coming to. If my
brother's son wants a wife and chooses one, he may get one himself; I
am an old bachelor, and know nothing of such affairs."

"If his friends do nothing in the matter, Amanda will marry some one
else. I know an apothecary who admires her extremely."

"And a very fitting wife she would be for him; but I am not Lenz's
keeper."

"And suppose your nephew is taken in by a far less eligible person?"

"That is his own affair."

"Herr Lenz! I don't believe that you are so hard as you pretend."

"I pretend nothing. Good morning, Herr Pilgrim!"

He walked away, and left Pilgrim boiling over with rage; at last,
however, he went home to rub colours for the following day, which he
hoped might be brighter, for this afternoon was dark and dismal.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                      PRESSES AND EYES ARE OPENED.


"Welcome, Franzl! So we have you here at last? We hoped to have seen
you sooner." Thus was Franzl received by the Landlady, when she came
into the public room.

"I beg your pardon, but did not you send for me? My brother I
understood was here?" said Franzl in a hesitating voice.

The Landlady knew nothing of it. Her brother had certainly been here,
but had been gone a long time. She had indeed told her errandboy to
mention this to Franzl the first opportunity, but not particularly
today.

Franzl apologised, and wished to return home immediately, for she felt
as if she were an intruder; this seemed to satisfy the Landlady. She
did not wish the simple creature to perceive what was going on, and
thought that Franzl should feel herself highly honoured if she bestowed
a few minutes on her. It was far better that she should give them a
thousand thanks, than that they should owe her one. As Franzl was
actually here, the Landlady insisted on her coming into the back
parlour, to wait there for a little, till the busy lady could find time
to come to her. Franzl did not venture to take a chair, but stood
respectfully at the door, staring up at the huge presses that reached
the ceiling.

At last the Landlady came and said, smoothing her gown: "So, now I have
made all right, and I can have a nice quiet hour's chat with an old
friend. What is more precious in the world, no matter how rich one may
be?"

Franzl felt herself highly honoured. She was desired to sit down beside
the Landlady, close to her in fact, on the sofa, and a maid brought in
coffee and pastry.

Franzl simpered as in duty bound, and indeed far more than there was
the slightest occasion for, and tried her best to pour all the cream
that the Landlady wished to give her into her hostess's cup, till the
latter said, "I shall be really quite angry if you stand on such
ceremony."

At the second cup, Franzl had to tell how matters were going on up at
the Morgenhalde, and she declared--that Lenz worked as hard as if he
had no bread in the house, and yet they had stores of everything; he
seldom left the house except to go to Faller's, whom he was assisting
to furnish his house, for the purchase of which he had become security;
that he had given Faller a bed and bedding, and sent his mother's
Sunday dress to Faller's mother. If he did not soon get some one to
take the keys from him, he would give away everything; but he was most
frugal, and even parsimonious, where he was himself concerned. "He
neither smokes nor drinks; he neither takes snuff nor gambles; he
requires very little for himself;" said Franzl to his honour.

After the Landlady had once more sufficiently sung the praises of the
Kunslingers, who know everything, she said cursorily:--"Do you know, my
good Franzl, it is said that your master--or rather I should say your
son, for he is more like your son than your master--intends to marry
the Doctors daughter; I mean the one who is always sorting herbs. Is
there anything in it?"

"I think there is."

"Really?"

"That is, I don't think it well can be; but Pilgrim has been talking to
him about it, but Lenz does not seem to care, and I believe they are at
two about it."

"So! well, I am not sorry. I always say that Lenz knows what he wishes.
It would be much better if he did as you wish, and married the
Bailiff's Kathrine."

"There! you see," exclaimed Franzl triumphantly, smiling into the air
and nodding, as if Lenz was standing before her. "Do you see? the
prudent, experienced Landlady of the 'Lion' also says that I am right.
There! and yet you always will have it that she was too uncouth for
you, and that nothing could be made of her. I will tell him, however,
that you also advise him to marry her; that will help me on. I have
been long looking out for some one to give me a lift in this business."

"No, Franzl; God forbid! You are not to say one word from me, when you
go home; indeed he is quite right; Kathrine is not fit for so well
educated a man; he deserves a superior wife."

"Yes, it's very well talking, but where is he to find one?"

"Good day, Franzl!" said Annele, coming in suddenly. "It is very
pleasant to see you here again--sit still. To look at you, one would
think you were the wife of some rich farmer, and you might well be, you
are such a good manager. Drink your coffee, or it will get cold. Is it
sweet enough?"

"Oh! more than enough;" and Annele's words were like a loaf of sugar in
the cup.

"I should like to stay with you, and to hear some of your pleasant
talk, but I must go back into the public room, for one of us must be
there. Come back soon, and then I will sit with you."

"Oh! what a dear, good girl that is!" exclaimed Franzl when Annele left
the room. "You have heaven on earth in this house."

"We have our cares also. She is our last remaining child, and we often
wish we could see her well provided for."

Franzl opened her eyes very wide, then smiled in shy surprise, but she
did not venture to say a word.

The Landlady laughed and rattled her cup, and Franzl thought it her
duty to laugh also. She knows what is proper when you go to drink
coffee with a friend; indeed, the natives of Kunslingen, be they where
they will, are sure to fall on their feet. The Landlady, however, did
not try to enlighten Franzl further, clever as she was, and she had her
reasons for that.

"Tell me, Franzl, have you any fancy for looking at fine linen?"

"Nothing in the world that I like so much. If I were rich I would have
at least seven chests full of linen. Do you know the wife of the
balancemaker at Kunslingen? she has ..."

"There, just look!" said the Landlady, throwing open the doors of a
huge press, where everything was heaped up to the top by dozens, tied
up with blue, green, and red silk ribbons.

"Is this all for the use of your inn?" asked Franzl, when she had taken
breath after all her exclamations of admiration.

"Heaven forbid! This is part of the dowry of my Annele; from their
seventh year I have laid by a stock like this, for each of my three
daughters. You never can tell with girls how soon such things may be
wanted, and then I should have no occasion to apply either to the
weaver, or the sempstress. I should like, however, if the trousseau of
one daughter at all events should remain in this village, and that we
should keep one child near us. My children are all, thank God! doing
well, and more than well, but to see with your own eyes is better than
hearing."

To Franzl all this was like a sudden revelation; the press with all its
linen danced before her eyes, and the blue, red, green, and yellow
ribbons, seemed to melt into one bright rainbow. "May I venture to say
something? if I am indiscreet I beg your pardon a thousand times over.
How would it do? May I speak plainly? If--my Lenz ...?"


"I say nothing, for I am the mother, and my child is here, and can
answer for herself--do you understand? I think--I scarcely know--but--"

"Oh! that is enough; more than enough! Good heavens! I must fly home! I
carried him in my arms when he was a baby, I must carry him here again
forthwith; but such news will make him jump over seven hedges, and
houses. I am simple and stupid; don't be offended with me."

"How? you simple? You have a way of getting at one's most secret
thoughts. You might put seven councillors to shame; but now, Franzl, we
are quite alone and confidential together, like two good old friends; I
have not said a word, you found it out for yourself. My husband
naturally looks higher; but I am resolved to have one child in this
place, if God will! I tell you fairly, that I cannot be insincere or
deny my meaning. I shall not forget your hint."

"That is enough. I will show that we Kunslingers deserve our
reputation."

"But, how do you intend to set about it?"

"How? I will snatch his tools from his hand, and pack him off
instantly. He must come here this very day: but you must encourage him,
for he is rather shy with strangers."

The Landlady tried to quiet the excited Franzl, who first stood up, and
then sat down again; at one moment raising her hands to heaven, and the
next clasping them devoutly. She desired Franzl to show her good sense,
by not betraying that Annele's mother was well disposed towards him.
She also gave her other cunning directions, especially as to speaking
ill of other girls; that is, to warn Lenz against them; and scarcely to
mention Annele's name; for, concluded the Landlady, such a proposal
must be received with proper coyness, and there is a proverb: "No man
ought to point at a flash of lightning."

Franzl every instant said she was going, and yet she never went. At
last she had the handle of the door in her hand, and took a last fond
look at the large press, and her glance said:--"You will soon come to
us;" and, nodding to all the furniture, "all this is ours, and it is I
who have got it for Lenz;" and she went home as if all the linen had
become sails, and wafted her across the hills in the sharp harvest
wind.

Annele, however, said to her mother in the bar:--"Mother, what on earth
do you mean by gossiping with that stupid old cow? If anything ever
comes of the affair, must we pay court to that old woman? or if we
don't, have her crying out about ingratitude! And what's the great
hurry after all?"

"Don't pretend to know nothing. It is good and necessary to dispose of
you."

"I am not pretending, and I do know nothing; formerly you would not
hear of Lenz; why do you want him now?"

The mother looked straight in Annele's face; did the forward minx
really guess nothing? she only said:--"Now it is very different, Lenz
is alone, and has a well stocked house. I could not have given you over
to a mother-in-law." The Landlady left the room, and thought;--"If you
play false with me, I will play false with you, too."

At the Morgenhalde, Franzl went about in a perpetual giggle, while with
smiling lips she disparaged every girl in the neighbourhood, especially
the Doctor's daughters and Kathrine; she did not name Annele at all,
but gave dark mysterious hints about mountains of fine linen, and
people well to do in the world. Lenz almost thought that solitude was
beginning to turn the old woman's brain; she, however, did her work
steadily, and was more cheerful than ever, and he was himself in much
better spirits at his own occupation, and was a long time without once
going near the village.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                      YOUNG HEARTS.--A BETROTHAL.


Lenz stayed at home and worked incessantly. By the intervention of the
balancemaker in Kunslingen, he had the good fortune to dispose of a
smaller musical clock, that he had nearly finished. He worked with
great eagerness at its completion, and was busy preparing for the new
one that the Landlord of the "Lion" had as good as bespoken; he was so
happy thus constantly occupied that he often thought--"I don't care to
marry, and I cannot. How can I find room for thoughts of wife or
children, when my heart and head are so full of my business?"

Pilgrim had resumed his old plans and designs for new models for
clocks, and worked at them incessantly in the evening hours, for he
could not spend his regular work hours in this manner. Thus the friends
saw each other less frequently, and Lenz now no longer came on the
evenings when the Choral Society practised singing.

Faller's wedding, however, brought Lenz once more into the village. His
worthy companion never rested, till the founder of his happiness
promised to go to church with him, in spite of his mourning.

The wedding was not numerous, and without guests or music, for Faller
declared:--"When the time comes that I have anything to spare, I will
then invite my friends, and the music I can make myself."

Lenz was obliged to hear himself much praised at the wedding for all he
had done, and the old mother said:--"If you, God willing, soon marry,
then I will wear your mother's Sunday clothes in church. I am not
ashamed of wearing her things; on the contrary, everyone says that I
ought to feel it a great honour."

"And what a capital bed I have now!" said Faller, and his strong, loud
voice sounded almost musical, as it trembled with emotion:--"Oh, Lenz!
I pray to God now oftener for you, than for myself. May God preserve
you from all harm! but I can't help wishing that if ever you were to be
in difficulty or danger, I might be the means of rescuing you. I should
like to turn to the people in church and call out:--'It is through the
goodness of God that I stand here, but He assisted me through my
friend, and I hope the good Lord will bless him for it, and his parents
in heaven.' Lenz, you cannot fail to be happy, for you have made a
whole family happy."

Honest, rough Faller could not say another word, but twirled his
soldierly moustaches.

Lenz was an object of more respect and attention at the wedding, than
even the young couple, and he was glad when it was time to go to
church.

The Choral Society sang beautifully in church, but the two principal
voices were wanting--that of Lenz and also of Faller.

Nearly the whole village, above all, the women and girls, were present
at the wedding; those that were married were glad to hear again the
exhortation to the newly wedded pair, and the unmarried wished to take
a lesson how to behave when it came to their turn, which they fervently
hoped might be soon. The women cried, and the girls glanced curiously
round the church, and if Lenz had looked up, he would have met many
eyes fixed on him.

After the ceremony was over Lenz left them, and went alone towards his
home. At the hedge of the churchyard he was greeted by Kathrine,
standing with a handsome young man, who, from his costume, seemed to be
the son of a farmer in the neighbouring valley. She coloured as Lenz
looked earnestly at her, and passed on. He next took off his hat in
courteous greeting. The Doctor's two eldest daughters were walking on
the road, and they wore neat laced boots, which their short dresses in
the wet weather fully displayed.

"We really thought that you had gone on a journey," said Bertha, the
boldest of the two.

"No; I have never left home," answered Lenz.

"Nor we either," continued Bertha. Lenz did not say a word.

"Are you engaged in some new great work?" asked Amanda.

"Both in new and old; in our calling work never comes to an end."

"Is it not very fatiguing, such incessant labour?" asked Amanda again.

"Oh! no; I don't know what I should do without it."

"Yes, indeed, clockmakers," said Bertha, playfully, "are like their own
clocks, they always want winding up."

"And you are like the key that winds them;" answered Lenz, quickly.

He would have liked to have made some other reply, but could not think
of one.

"Quite right, Herr Lenz, to pay her back in her own coin," said Amanda;
"but our paths separate here, so now we must say good-bye."

"Perhaps Herr Lenz is going our way," said Bertha; "perhaps you are
going to see Pilgrim?"

Lenz's heart beat; he wished to say yes, and that he meant to go to
Pilgrim's; but involuntarily he said in a shy voice, "No, I am going
home--Adieu!"

"Adieu!"

Lenz went up the hill breathing hard: he thought of turning back, and
who knows what might come of it! he could still overtake them; but
while thinking thus, he went on and on, and at last reached his own
door, his heart still beating restlessly, and he felt as if he were
taking refuge in his own house. Refuge! from what? He cannot say; but
he was very restless all this day--he had never felt so uneasy or out
of sorts.

Towards evening he dressed, and went to the village; he wished to call
on Pilgrim and on the Doctor also, who had long since asked him to
come. Pilgrim was not at home; and Lenz stood for some minutes at the
Doctor's door without having courage to pull the bell. He walked up and
down several times. Perhaps the Doctor may come out and speak to him,
and take him into the house, but no one came. Don Bastian went past,
and Lenz fled like a thief into the village: he was better there, and
one house was sure to be open. The "Lion" Inn is a capital place of
refuge.

Lenz was thankful that there was still a quiet resting place to be
found in the world; chairs on which people can sit down, and tables on
which you can put your hat and stick; and those who live here don't
know what it means to have your heart beat as if it would choke you;
they are calm and composed; and here comes the most cool and
indifferent of them all, and welcomes Lenz kindly.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                            A HEART IS WON.


The Landlord seated himself beside Lenz, and was very fatherly. "You
have got the money for your musical work?" asked he, abruptly.

"Yes," answered Lenz.

"You would be wise," began the Landlord again, "if you secured shares
in the New Railway Loan: they will become very profitable soon. You
have still the money in hard cash, I presume?"

"No; I had eight hundred over, and I lent three thousand gulden in one
round sum to my neighbour, the bailiff. He required it to pay his
redemption money."

"Really? Have you any good security, and what interest does he pay?"

"I have merely an acknowledgment, and he gives five per cent."

"The bailiff is a solid man, and five per cent. solid also; but, as I
said before, if you wish to make money, my advice is at your service."

"I prefer keeping to what I understand; though, of course, I should be
quite willing to follow your advice blindfold. I am pretty far advanced
already with the new work that you intend to buy from me, and I believe
it will be the best I have yet finished."

"Lenz, don't forget that I said nothing positive--an upright man goes
no further than----"

"Not another syllable; I can never----"

"As I said, even with one's best friends, a man can never be too clear
and precise. I hope there will be one day written on my tombstone,
'Here lies an honest and accurate man.'"

Lenz was quite delighted with the just and equitable character of the
worthy Landlord; he was indeed pure gold.

Annele came in, saying, "By your leave," and seated herself at the
table with her father and Lenz. In a short time the Landlord rose, and
Lenz said: "Annele, you may well be proud of such a father--he is a man
of a thousand. It does one good to converse with him; and just because
he says little, every word is--what shall I say?--sound grain,
unadulterated ore."

"True," said Annele; "and there is nothing more pleasing to a child
than to hear her father spoken of in such a manner; and he deserves it,
too. To be sure he is often cross and perverse, like all men."

"All men?" asked Lenz.

"Yes, all--I may say it to your face; you are one of the best of them,
but I dare say you have your humours also; but we must have patience
with them, I suppose."

"That is very good of you, Annele; I must say it pleases me exceedingly
to hear you praise me, though I don't deserve it, I know. I can't tell
you how often I feel angry with myself; I mismanage many things, and
music is so constantly in my head, that I often only hear half what is
said, or do half of what I ought to do. I am not so clever as many
others, and yet I am not without talent; and I am passionate besides,
and many things weigh on my heart that others take lightly enough on
their shoulders; so I fear I shall never get the better of such
brooding. My mother said to me a thousand times, 'Lenz, with all your
goodness, it would not be always easy to live with you, unless a person
were both very forbearing, and very fond of you.' And it is a proof of
true love, and true patience, when a person can say: 'He is in one of
his tantrums, but I know him, and what he really is.' Let me hold your
hand--why do you draw it away?"

In the heat of his description of his own shortcomings, Lenz had seized
Annele's hand, but he was not aware of it till she snatched it from
him.

With a modest, sly glance, Annele said: "We are not alone in the room;
there are still people here."

Lenz all at once felt burning hot, and then as cold as ice, and said:
"Do not be offended, I did not mean it, and you know I did not, Annele;
I never wished to be importunate; I hope you are not angry?"

"Not in the most remote degree. Angry? how can you say such a thing?"

"Then you feel kindly towards me?" and Lenz's face beamed with joy.

"For Heaven's sake," said Annele, leaning forward on the arm of Lenz's
chair, "don't go on talking in that manner! What makes you do so? What
does it mean? I always thought that I might speak to you like a
brother. Alas! I have none."

"And I have no sister, nor, indeed, anyone to care for me."

"Everyone likes you."

"If, however, I have not the one I want to care for me, I have no one."

A long pause ensued, and Annele asked: "Have you heard that the
bailiff's Kathrine is betrothed to a young man named Holdersepp, from
the other side of the valley? They have just sent to us for the
betrothal wine."

"So," said Lenz, "when I came out of church I saw her standing with
some one. She will make a good farmer's wife; I wish her all happiness.
Tell me, Annele, were you in church at the wedding today?"


"Yes, and I saw you there: your conduct to Faller must help you on the
road to heaven."

"I should win it easily in that case. The Pastor did preach admirably;
everyone present might profit by it, married and single. The Holy
Scriptures are like music,--out of the hundreds and hundreds who
listen, not one deprives his neighbour of any share of it--each one has
it entire for himself."

"And I can tell you that I like to listen to you almost better than to
our Pastor; with you everything seems to have a firm and clear
foundation. I can't quite explain what I mean:--I often think it is a
sad pity that you are only a clockmaker."

"Only a clockmaker! I rejoice at being one, for it is a fine calling. I
could preach a sermon on that text. The whole world is a clock, wound
up by God from all Eternity. There the stars revolve, and run their
appointed course. Pilgrim once said that there was no clock in
Paradise; certainly not, but from the hour when men were forced to
work, they were obliged to divide the time; and just imagine what it
would be to us if we no longer knew the different hours; we should be
like children or lunatics."

"You can expound everything so well; I had never thought of that
before."

This remark inspired Lenz with fresh eloquence.

"I am devoted to clockmaking; and if I cannot succeed with my musical
timepieces, I can at least make the common clocks of the Black Forest:
a sure mode of getting money. I can always have recourse to that. I
earn much more by the musical instruments, but I cannot trust to them
for a livelihood, for I can only make them when they are bespoke, and I
might some fine day discover that I had nothing, for lovers of music
are not to be met with every day,--and when I do leave my common clocks
for my musical ones, I feel so happy that----"

"Your heart jumps for joy,--you feel as if a blessing rested on your
labours."

"Oh! Annele, how clever and loveable you are! If I only knew----"

"Knew what--what then?"

There was so much warmth and tenderness in these simple words, that
Lenz, flushed with emotion, stammered,--

"I cannot say it--if you don't know it I cannot say; Annele, I
feel----"

"My children, all the people in the room are staring at you. What are
you saying to each other?" said the Landlady, suddenly coming up to
them. "Lenz, if you have anything confidential to say to Annele, I
place entire trust in you, for you are a high principled man; I will
put lights into the back parlour, and you can talk together there at
your ease."

"Oh, no, mother!" exclaimed Annele, trembling, but the Landlady went
hastily out of the room, and Annele hurried after her. Lenz sat
still--the whole room seemed to go round with him; at last he rose and
slipped out; the back parlour door was open, and he was alone now with
Annele. She hid her face with her hands.

"Look at me," said he; "Annele! Now may I speak out? You see, Annele, I
am a plain man--a very plain man, but--" putting his hand on his heart,
he could scarcely go on, "if you really think that I am worthy of you,
you could make me very happy."

"You are more worthy than any man in the whole world--you are only too
good; you have no idea of the wickedness of the world."

"The world is not all evil, as you are in it. Now, tell me, is it also
your wish, your honest wish?--Will you stand by me, and be my helper in
joy and sorrow, and be good, and industrious,--and will you be my
mother, my wife, and my all? Say yes--and I will be yours for life and
death!"

"Yes--a thousand times, yes!" She sank into his arms.

"Mother, dear mother!" cried Lenz. The Landlady came in. "Forgive me,"
said he, "for my presumption!"

"You have nothing but good to expect from me," said the Landlady; "but,
children, I have one thing to beg of you. Annele can tell you who
always spoke well of you, and always said, 'Lenz is sure to do well,
for his mother's blessing rests on his head.' But I entreat of you to
keep quiet; you don't know my husband as I do. All his children are
wound round his heartstrings, and he is always vexed when one is taken
from him. God be praised! if this event comes to pass; we shall have
one child in our native place, and not estranged from us like the
others." At these words the Landlady wept bitterly, but continued,
after violently blowing her nose. "My husband must know nothing of it
just at present. Let me, my children, prepare him for it by degrees,
and I know well how to do it, and when you ought to make your proposals
to him in due form; don't return to this house till then, and bring
your uncle with you, for it is only proper that you should pay him the
respect, to ask him to represent your father. Hitherto, my children
have always entered families of note; we are accustomed to observe the
same forms as the gentry. Lenz, God has given me no son of my own, and
I must honestly say I am rejoiced that you are to become my son. I have
a great regard for my other sons-in-law, but they are too genteel and
too high for me. Now go, Lenz, for my husband may come in at any
moment, and then who knows what might happen?--but stop, take this:
give it to him, Annele." She opened the double doors of the huge press,
and gave Annele a gold coin, saying, "Look! this is what your
godfather, our worthy minister, placed in your cradle--an ancient coin;
so it is quite suitable for the purpose: but, no--you must first give
her a pledge."

"I have nothing--but yes, I have. There, Annele! that is my watch, made
by my deceased father in Switzerland, and he gave it to my mother; and
on our marriage day, please God, I will give you something else of my
mother's, which will please you. There, take the watch; hear how it
ticks,--it has lain on my heart for many years. I only wish I could
take out my heart, and entrust it to your faithful hands."

They mutually exchanged pledges; the Landlady, who must always put in
her word, declared: "Yes! a heart and a watch are like each other, and
love is the watchkey." She smiled at her own cleverness--as no one else
did so. She rummaged in the press, and said--"See! here is the first
frock Annele wore, and her first shoe." Lenz begged he might have them;
she gave them to him, and began again. "But now, Lenz! you really
must go; I can't allow you to stay a moment longer. Go through the
kitchen,--there is my hand as a pledge. Good night, Lenz!"

"May Annele go with me a little way?"

"No! I cannot permit it; you must not be displeased, but that is just
what I am--I mean very strict. I have brought up three daughters, and
no one can say a word against one of them; that is my pride. If it be
God's will you may see enough of each other yet, with our sanction and
knowledge."

"Goodnight, Lenz!"

"Good night, Annele!"

"Once more--good night!"

"Good night, my precious treasure!"

"Good-bye, dear Lenz I sleep sound!"

"And you, too, a thousand times!"

"Now, come along; you have said 'good night' often enough!" said the
mother laughing.

When Lenz was in the street, the whole world seemed turning round with
him, and the stars in the sky dancing, "Annele, the daughter of the
Landlord of the 'Lion' is mine!" He hurried home,--he must tell it
without delay to Franzl, for she had praised Annele so highly. "Oh! how
she will rejoice! If I could shout it out from house to house--" But
when he had got to the top of the hill, and was close to his own house,
he checked himself, saying--"No! I must not tell it to Franzl; not till
it is all settled, or it would not long remain a secret: but I must
tell it to somebody." He retraced his steps, and stood for some time
opposite the "Lion" Inn. "Now, I stand here as a stranger; but tomorrow
I hope to be at home there." At last he tore himself away, and
proceeded to Pilgrim's house.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                          A FRIEND'S OPINION.


"Heaven be praised he is at home! I see lights in his room, and he is
playing the guitar. Oh! my good Pilgrim! my dear Pilgrim! God keep me
in life and health, and prevent me dying from joy! Oh! that my dearest
mother had only lived to see this hour!"

Pilgrim sang and played loud, so he did not hear his friend
coming upstairs. Lenz opened the door, and spreading his arms,
exclaimed--"Rejoice with me, brother of my heart--I am so happy."

"What is it?"

"I am betrothed."

"To whom?"

"How can you ask? To her,--the most charming creature; and prudent, and
clever as the day! Oh! Annele!"

"What Annele--Annele of the 'Lion'?"


"So you are surprised that she should accept me! I know I am not worthy
of her, but I will try to deserve her. God is my witness that I will do
my best; I will lay my head under her feet, and----" Lenz looking up at
his mother's picture, said, "Good mother! dear loving mother! rejoice
in the seventh heavens, for your son is happy."

He could not say another word, for tears choked his voice, and he knelt
before the picture. Pilgrim went up to him, and placed his hand on his
shoulder.

"Forgive me, dear Pilgrim," said Lenz. "I had resolved to be such a
strong iron man! I am to have a wife who well deserves a strong-minded
husband; but on this day I feel quite overcome--but for this day only.
On the way here I thought to myself, I wish some one would come and
impose on me a severe task--I don't know what--but something--something
that I might put my whole heart in, and, however difficult, I would
accomplish it. I will show that I deserve the happiness God has sent
me.

"Be quiet, do be quiet; other men besides you have got wives, and there
is no occasion to turn the world upside down on that account."

"Oh! if my mother had only lived to see this day!"

"If your mother had lived, Annele would not have accepted you. You did
not please her till you were quite alone, and without any mother."

"Don't say that; how highly she honoured my mother!"

"She finds it easy enough to do that, as she is no longer in the world,
and I tell you that you are only in the world for Annele, since you
have no mother."

"You have not once even wished me joy yet."

"I wish you joy--I wish you much joy."

"Why do you say that twice over--why twice?"

"Oh! it only chanced so."

"No! you meant something by it"

"It is true, I did. I will tell you what it was tomorrow, but not
today."

"Why tomorrow? I must hear it now, you must tell me now."

"Remember you are now in a state of intoxication; how can I speak
soberly to you?"

"I am not intoxicated, I am perfectly sober."

"Very well, then tell me how has this been so quickly brought about?"

"I don't myself very well know; it came on me like an inspiration from
heaven, and now it is plain enough to me, that for a long time past I
have thought of nothing else."

"I suspected as much, but I did think you would do nothing without me."

"Nor will I; you must go with me tomorrow, to propose in due form on my
behalf to her father."

"So! I am glad of that, for then I hope the affair will soon be at an
end."

"What! do you wish to drive me crazy?"

"No need for that; as yet she is neither your betrothed, nor your wife,
So I may speak freely. Lenz, it would be an indiscretion were you now
to draw back, but only an indiscretion; but if you marry Annele, you
will do wrong during your whole life. Lenz, she is no wife for you."

"You do not know her. You always teaze each other; but I know her
inmost heart, and I know her to be thoroughly good and amiable."

"I don't know her, do you say? and yet I have eaten at least a bushel
of salt with these people. I will tell you exactly how it is. Annele
and her mother are very much alike, and for this very reason they can't
bear each other, however loving they may appear before the world. All
their talk is nothing but flimsy music. People eat and drink better
when they have music; not a note proceeds from their hearts,--they have
no hearts. I never could have believed that there were such people in
the world, but it is so; they can talk away glibly about kindness,
love, and pity, and even sometimes of religion, and of their
Fatherland,--but all these are mere words; they have no serious
thoughts, they don't care for these things, and firmly believe that all
men are accustomed to converse in that manner; but the facts themselves
never trouble them in the slightest degree. Annele herself has not a
spark of real feeling, and I maintain that a person who has no heart
can have no understanding, nor be capable of entering into the feelings
of another, of sharing their joys and their sorrows, or yielding to
their wishes. Annele, like her mother, has the knack of listening to
others, and then cleverly repeating their words; and she has also a
peculiar talent for depreciating and harshly censuring her neighbour,
but in such a way that it is difficult to discern whether she is
praising or blaming. Father, mother, and daughter, make a fine trio of
frivolous music; Annele plays the first violin, the old woman the
second, and the pompous old Landlord, the great bass; still I must say
he is the best of the family. It is a well known fact, that it is only
female bees that can sting--and how they can sting to be sure! The
Landlord talks well of everyone, and can't bear to hear his wife and
daughter abuse people--for no occupation is more grateful to them, than
blighting the good name of any girl or married woman. The mother does
so with a kind of hypocritical compassion, but Annele likes to sport
with slander, as a cat does with a mouse. The burden of their song is
always to show that they are best and cleverest, and they think this
redounds to their credit.

"I have often reflected in what the most cruel barbarity in this world
consists, and I feel convinced it is in malignity towards others, and
yet it often assumes a very polite mask. Oh, Lenz! you don't know the
key in which that house is set, and no knowledge of music will help you
to know it. There is nothing there but scoffing and lies."

"Pilgrim, what a man must you be yourself! For the last eight years,
you have daily frequented the house of the very people of whom you are
speaking so harshly; you have eaten with them at the same table, and
have been the best friends with them. What can I think of you?"

"That I go to an inn, and eat and drink and pay ready money. I pay my
score every day, and then have no more to do with them."

"I cannot understand a person doing that."

"I believe you. I have paid dear enough for it, however; I would much
rather be like you. It is no treat to know men as they really are.
There are some, however, who----"


"I suppose you consider yourself one of the good."

"Not altogether; but I expected that you would fly out at me. I must
bear it. Abuse me, do with me what you will, hack off my hand; I will
beg my bread, and at least know that I have saved a friend. Give up
Annele! I implore you to do so! You have not yet made your proposals to
the Landlord of the 'Lion;' you are not yet bound."

"These are your worldly subterfuges! I am not so clever as you, and I
have never mixed with the world like you, but I know what is right. I
betrothed myself to Annele in her mother's presence, and I will keep my
word. God grant I may get her from her father! And, now I say to you
for the last time, I did not ask your advice, and I know well what I am
doing."

"Hear me, Lenz. I shall only be too glad if I have been in error: but,
no! My dear Lenz, for God's sake listen to me; it is still time. You
cannot say that I ever tried to dissuade you from marrying."

"No, you never did."

"You are just the man to be a good husband, but I was a fool not to say
to you sooner, that you ought to marry one of the Doctor's daughters."

"Do you think I would have gone to them and said:--'My guardian,
Pilgrim, desires his compliments, and bids me say that he thinks I
ought to marry one of you: Amanda, if possible.' No, no; these young
ladies are too high and refined for me."

"They are, indeed, refined; while Annele only pretends to be so. The
fact is, you were shy with the Doctor's daughters, but not with Annele;
you could go into the 'Lion,' without anyone asking you why you came
there. Oh! I see it all! Annele talked to you about your sorrow, for
she can talk on any subject, and that softened your heart. Annele wears
a leather pocket in every one of her gowns, and her heart is nothing
but leather, where she has always small coin ready to give every guest
his change in full."

"You are committing a sin, a great sin!" said Lenz, his lip quivering
from anger and grief; and to prove to Pilgrim how cruelly unjust he was
towards Annele, he related to him how kindly and touchingly Annele had
spoken to him, both about the death of his mother, and at the time when
he sent away his clock; he had cherished every word like a revelation.

"My own money! my own coin!" cried Pilgrim. "She has plundered a
beggar! What a confounded, stupid idiot I have been! Every syllable she
said to you she picked up from my lips. I was such a fool as to say
these very words before her, from time to time. I well deserve it all!
but how could I possibly guess that she was to entrap you with my
words? Oh! my poor coins!"

The two friends remained silent for a time. Pilgrim bit his lips till
they bled, and Lenz shook his head incredulously; at last Pilgrim
resumed the discussion by saying:--"Do you know Annele's principal
reason for accepting you? Not from your tall figure nor your good
heart; not for your property either! No, these are all very secondary
considerations. Her real motive is to prevent one of the Doctor's
daughters getting you. 'Aha! you shan't get him, but I shall!' Believe
me, Annele is a creature that you cannot judge of; you cannot believe
that there are people who have no real delight or happiness, unless
their enjoyment makes some one else miserable; or unless they can
triumph in the thought that they are envied for their riches, their
beauty, or their good fortune. I never knew there were such people in
the world till I knew Annele. My Lenz, don't you try to know anything
further of her, for she will make you miserable. Why do you look so
strangely at me, and never say a word? Attack me, do what you will, say
what you choose to me, only give up Annele, for she is poison! I
implore of you to renounce her. One very important point, too, I quite
forgot: think of it, and God grant that you may not think of it too
late; I do not wish to be a prophet of evil, but Annele will never live
to be old."

"Ha, ha! I suppose you intend now to make out that she has bad health:
her face is like the rose and the lily blended."

"That is not what I meant; but something very different: remember your
mother; was there ever any one who was so pleasant to look at? because
her kind heart was seen in her face; kindness for everyone, and her
love for you, and anxiety about you: that makes an old face charming,
and it does one's heart good to look at it. As for Annele, when she can
no longer plait her hair in a coronet, and has lost her fresh
complexion, and cannot show her white teeth when she laughs, what will
remain? She has nothing to grow old on; she has no soul, she has only
plausible speeches; no good heart, no good sense; all she can do is to
scoff at others; when she is an old woman, she will be nothing but the
devil's grandmother!"

Lenz pressed his teeth violently against his lips, and at last
said:--"You have said enough; far too much, indeed! Not another word!
But I must exact one thing from you, which is, that you are not
to speak of her in such a way except to me, and even to me this
day for the last time, and to no one else; no one! I love my Annele,
and--and--you also; you may say what you will in your jealousy. I
no longer wish that you should go with me when I make my offer.
Fortunately these four walls alone have heard what has passed. Good
night, Pilgrim!"

"Good night, Lenz!"




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                       A REBUFF AND A BETROTHAL.


When Lenz was gone, Pilgrim sat for a long time alone, staring at the
lamp and twisting his moustaches. He was vexed with himself, he had
said all he wanted, but he had said too much, and consequently failed
in his object. He could not recall it, for it was all true; but what
good had he done? He paced his room restlessly, and then sat down again
and fixed his eyes on the light. What a strange world this is! How
seldom a man attains his original object in life! We cannot believe
this when we are young, and we think the old grumbling and morose, and
at last we become just the same ourselves, and find that we must submit
to this patchwork existence: no use complaining, we must not expect to
have all we wish.

Pilgrim could not help recalling distant memories of his hidden life.
When he left his native home ten years ago, he felt as if he had
courage to conquer the whole world, and was inspired with a sensation
of tranquil happiness. He had said nothing, he had made no sign, he had
received no pledge, and yet he had no doubts nor difficulties in his
mind. He loved the fair, slender Amanda, the Doctor's daughter, and she
had deigned to regard him, as a princess would have done. She had
condescended merely to glance down on him like a goddess; he helped her
in holiday time to affix labels to the foreign plants, on which he had
himself written the names distinctly, copied out of a book. She treated
the poor forsaken boy like a good and benevolent spirit, and even when
he grew to manhood, she often asked him to assist her in her garden;
she was always equally amiable and kind in manner, and her every glance
was treasured by Pilgrim. And when the day of his leaving home arrived,
when he was passing the Doctor's garden, she held out her hand to him
over the hedge, saying:--"I have a whole collection of remembrances of
you in the flower labels, on which you wrote all the names. When you
find these plants in the course of your travels, in their native soil,
you will often think of our garden, and our house, where everyone feels
an interest in you. Farewell! and return to us soon!"

Farewell! and return soon! These were words that went with the
traveller over hill and dale, across the ocean and to foreign lands,
and many an echo repeated the name of Amanda, with unconscious gladness
in the air.

Pilgrim wished to become rich, to be a great artist, and thus one
day to aspire to Amanda. He came home poor, and in tatters. Many
received him with unfeeling derision, but Amanda said--she was grown
taller and less slender, but her brown eyes still sparkled with
kindness:--"Pilgrim, be thankful that you have not lost your health,
and don't be downhearted, but keep up your spirits."

And he did keep up his spirits. From that time he accustomed himself to
love her, and to admire her, in the same way that he did the stately
old limetree in his neighbour's garden, or the stars in heaven. No one
ever heard a word, or saw the slightest indication of his love, not
even Amanda herself; and, like the legend of certain precious gems
which shine in the night like the sun, so did his secret passion for
Amanda, light up the life of Pilgrim. Often he did not see her for
weeks, and when he did see her, his manner was as calm as if he had met
a stranger. One thought, however, constantly occupied him; that of
whose home she was to brighten. He wished to leave the world without
her ever having divined what she had been to him; but he hoped to see
her happy. Lenz was the only man to whom he could willingly give her
up, for they were worthy of each other, and he wished to nurse their
children, and to amuse them by his whole stock of jests. Now this hope
was gone for ever, and Pilgrim firmly believed that Lenz stood on the
brink of an abyss.

So he sat absorbed in a painful reverie, shaking his head from time to
time mournfully, till he put out the lamp, saying:--"I never was of use
to myself, so what chance have I to be of use to others?"

In the meanwhile Lenz was on his way homewards. He walked slowly. He
was so weary, that he was forced to rest on a heap of stones beside the
road. When he reached the "Lion" inn all was dark, and no star was
shining, for the sky was covered with heavy clouds. Lenz stood still,
and he felt as if the house must fall on him and crush him.

He went home: Franzl was asleep: he awoke her; he must positively have
one human being to rejoice with him; Pilgrim seemed to have strewed
ashes on all his glad hopes.

Franzl was delighted with the news she heard, and Lenz could not help
smiling when Franzl, as a proof that she knew what love was,--alas! she
knew it only too well!--related, for the hundredth time at least, her
"unhappy love," as she always called it. She invariably began by tears
and ended by scolding; and she was well entitled to both.

"How pretty and fresh our home was then, in the valley yonder! He was
our neighbour's son, and honest, and industrious, and handsome. No one
now-a-days is half so handsome. People may be offended with me if they
like, but so it is;--but he--I cannot name his name, though everyone
knows, all the same, that he was called Anton Striegler. He was
resolved to go to travel, and so he went off to foreign parts with
merchandise; and by the brookside he took leave of me, and said,
'Franzl,' said he, 'so long as that brook runs, I will be faithful and
true at heart to you; and be you the same to me.' He could say all
these fine words, and write them down too; that is the way with these
false men; I could never have believed it. In the course of four years,
I got seventeen letters from him--from France, England, and Spain. The
letter from England cost me at the time a crown dollar, for it came at
the moment when Napoleon did not choose us to receive either foreign
letters, or coffee; so our Pastor said the letter had come round by
Constantinople and Austria, but at all events it cost a whole crown
dollar. For a long, long time after, I never got one. I waited fourteen
years, then I heard that he had married a black woman, in Spain. I
never wanted to hear any more of the bad man, and none could be worse.
And then I took out of my drawer the fine letters, the fine lying
letters that he had written to me, and I burned them all, my love going
off with them in smoke, up the chimney."

Franzl always finished her tale of woe with these heroic words. On this
occasion she had a good listener,--there could not be a better; he had
but one fault, which was that, in fact, he did not hear one word she
said; he only looked intently at her, and thought of Annele. At last
Franzl, through gratitude, began to talk of her. "Yes, yes, I will take
care to tell Annele what an excellent creature you are, and how kind
you have always been to me. Don't look so grave and gloomy,--you ought
to be so merry. I know well--oh, heavens! but too well--that when we
have just secured such great happiness, we seem quite upset by it God
be praised! you are in luck;--you can stay quietly at home together,
and can say good morning, and good night, to each other every day that
God gives you. Now I must say good night! It is very late."

It was past midnight when at length Lenz went to rest, and he fell
asleep with a "Good night, Annele! good night, you dear creature!"

He had strange sensations in the morning. He remembered what he had
dreamt. His dream placed him on the top of the high rock on the crest
of the hill behind his house, and he was always lifting his foot, and
trying to soar into the air.

"What nonsense to allow myself to be plagued by a mere dream!" So he
tried to forget it, and, quickly effacing it from his memory, he looked
at Annele's coin.

A messenger presently arrived from the Landlady, to say that Lenz was
to come there at eleven o'clock. Lenz dressed himself in his Sunday
suit, and hurried to his uncle Petrowitsch.

After he had repeatedly rung at the bell, and was at last admitted, his
uncle came towards him, looking considerably disturbed.

"What brings you here at this early hour?"

"Uncle, you are my father's brother."

"Yes; and when I left the country I left everything to your father. All
that I possess, I earned for myself."

"I don't want any money from you, but to represent my father for me."

"How? what?"

"Uncle, Annele of the 'Lion' and I are attached to each other, truly
attached; and Annele's mother knows about it, and has given her
consent; and I am to propose for her to-day, at eleven o'clock, in due
form to her father, according to custom; and I wish you to go with me,
as you are my father's brother."

"So?" said Petrowitsch, cramming a large piece of white sugar into his
mouth, and walking up and down the carpeted room.

"Really?" said he, after a few turns. "You will get a sharp, quick
wife, and I must say you show considerable nerve. I never should have
imagined that you had sufficient courage, to take such a wife."

"Why courage? What has that to do with it?"

"Nothing bad; but I had no idea you were so vain as to try for such a
wife."

"Vain? What vanity is there in it?"

Petrowitsch smiled, and made no reply.

Lenz continued: "You know her, uncle. She is prudent and frugal, and
her family most respectable."

"That is not what I mean. It is vanity on your part to imagine that you
can supply to a girl of twenty two the place of the numerous guests
that swarm in the Inn, all complimenting her and flattering her. It is
vanity in you to wish to secure for yourself alone, a woman who can
conduct a large inn. A prudent man takes no wife who will make him
spend half his substance, if he wishes to please her. And to rule such
a woman is no trifle. It is far more difficult than to drive four wild
horses on the steppes."

"I don't intend to rule her."

"Perhaps! But one of the two must be: to rule or to be ruled. I must
say, however, that she is good tempered: only, indeed, towards those
who praise her, or are submissive to her will. She is the only good one
in the house. Both the old people are hypocrites in their various ways;
the woman with her incessant talk, the man with his few words. Every
step the Landlord takes has a solid sound: 'Here comes a honest man.'
When he takes up his knife and fork, 'This is the way an honest man
eats;' when he looks out of the window, 'This is the way an honest man
looks:' and I would stake my life that neither his boots, nor his knife
and fork are paid for."

"It is very painful, uncle, to hear you say such things."

"I should think it was."

"I only wished to ask you, from proper respect, whether you would take
the place of a father, and go with me to make my proposals?"

"It does not suit me. You are of age. You never asked my opinion
beforehand."

"Do not be displeased with me for asking you now."

"Oh, not at all! Stop!" cried Petrowitsch, as Lenz was about to
withdraw. "One word; only one word!"

Lenz turned round, and Petrowitsch, for the first time in his life,
laid his hand on his nephew's shoulder, who seemed moved by this
action, and still more by the words Petrowitsch uttered with
considerable emotion.

"I should like not to have lived entirely in vain for those who belong
to me. I will give you what many men would have given their lives to
have had, if given to them in time--good advice. Lenz, when a man is
overheated and excited, he must not venture to drink, for he may cause
his death; and he who dashes the glass out of his hand does him a
service. There is, however, a different kind of excitement, when a man
must equally avoid drinking; that is, doing anything which is to affect
the whole course of his life. He may thus also incur death--a low,
lingering sickness. You ought not to decide on any marriage at present,
even if you had not chosen Annele. You are overheated; pause till you
have recovered your breath, and six months hence talk over the matter
with yourself. Let me go to the Landlord, and break off the affair for
you. They may abuse me as much as they like--I don't care. Will you
take my advice, and put an end to the thing? If not, you will bring on
a chronic disease, which no doctor can ever cure."

"I am betrothed. It is too late now for advice," answered Lenz.

The cold perspiration stood on his forehead when he left his uncle's
house.

"But this is only the way of old bachelors--their hearts get hard.
Pilgrim and my uncle are very much alike. One thing is diverting!
Pilgrim thinks the father the only honest one among them, and my uncle
says the same of Annele. I suppose the third person I speak to on the
subject, will tell me the old woman is the best of the lot. They may
one and all go to the deuce! I need no one to back me; I am quite man
enough to act for myself. I must put an end to every one interfering in
this manner with my concerns. An hour hence I hope to be accepted as a
member of a highly considered family."

An hour had not elapsed when Lenz was accepted. Pilgrim's speeches, and
those of his uncle, had no influence over him; but that was their own
fault. When he went straight to Annele's father, unshaken by all
remonstrances, to ask for Annele's hand, he hoped inwardly that she
would be aware of this, and thank him for having stood firm in spite of
every dissuasion.

Annele held her muslin apron to her eyes with one hand, and clasped
Lenz's hand with the other, when pledges were exchanged. The Landlord
walked up and down the room, his new boots creaking loudly. The
Landlady imagined that she was shedding real tears, and exclaimed:
"Good heavens! must I give my last child away? When I go to rest, or
when I rise in the morning, I shall feel utterly helpless. Where is my
Annele? But one thing I distinctly say now, I won't hear of the
marriage for a year to come. We don't need to tell you, Lenz, that you
are dear to us, when we are bestowing our last child on you! Oh, if
your mother had only lived to see this day! But she will rejoice over
it in heaven!"

These words were so touching, that Lenz shed tears. If the Landlord's
boots involuntarily creaked as an accompaniment to his wife's speech,
they now creaked louder and quicker than ever. At last the Landlord's
boots were silent, and his lips began.

"Enough for the present. Let us be men, Lenz;--compose yourself;--quite
right. Now tell me what portion you expect with your wife."

"I never asked about her portion; she is your child, and you will do
all you can. I am not rich, my profession is my chief source of income,
but I have my parents to thank, for having provided against any evil
day. There is no lack: we can have our daily bread, and to spare."

"Well said, and to the point,--just what I like. Now as to the marriage
contract, what do you intend to do?"

"I can give no opinion on the subject: the law of the land will decide
that."

"Yes, but I must have a particular settlement. You see a widow loses
half her original value, and money must make up for that. Now if you
die without children of your own--"

"Father!" cried Annele, "if you mean to say such things, let me leave
the room, for I really cannot stay and listen to them."

The Landlord, however proceeded coolly: "Don't be so affected. Just
like you women! 'Oh, pray don't talk of money!' Ah! bah! You shrink
from it, just as if a frog were crawling about your feet. But if there
was no money, you would wish for it often enough. God be praised! you
never in your life knew what it was to be without it, and I hope you
never may. So as to the survivor--"

"I will not listen to you. Is this like the happiness of a betrothal,
to talk of such things?" said Annele, indignantly.

"Your father is right," said her mother, gently. "Show your good sense,
and hold your tongue. These matters will soon be settled, and then you
can be as merry as you please."

"My Annele is right," said Lenz, in an unusually loud, firm tone; "we
shall marry according to the law of the land, and so not another word
on the subject. Come, Annele! What! to talk of dying just now! At this
moment we only think of living. Don't take it amiss, father and mother.
We are all agreed, and every minute now is worth a million."

So saying, he ran down into the garden, holding Annele's hand clasped
in his.

"A singular young man!" said the Landlord, looking after him: "but so
it is. All musical geniuses have their whims. A moment ago he was
sobbing like a child, and now he is singing like a lark; but he is an
excellent creature, and when I win my Brazilian lawsuit, or gain the
chief prize in the lottery, Lenz shall be paid a handsome marriage
portion."

With this admirable and satisfactory project, the Landlord went
creaking about the public room, receiving with dignity the
congratulations of friends and strangers. He said little, but
insinuated that a wealthy connection was of no great importance to him.
"If the man is only healthy and high principled, that is my chief
object;" and every one nodded approvingly. Great wisdom may be
contained in few words.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                      FIRST VISIT TO A NEW HOUSE.


The first person who came to wish Annele joy was Faller. She, indeed,
looked down with considerable condescension on the poor creature; but
his humility pleased her; and Faller could not make a sufficient number
of apologies for coming so soon, but he had no rest till he came, for
he was attached with all his heart to Lenz, for whom he would give his
life.

"I am glad that my bridegroom has such good friends, but every man can
provide for himself in this world, be he whom he may."

Faller did not perceive this last hit at him, or affected not to do so,
and began enthusiastically to depict the excellence of Lenz's heart.
Tears stood in his eyes, and he ended by saying:--"Annele, he has a
heart like an angel!--like that of a newly born child. For God's sake
never be harsh to him, or you would sin against God. Never forget that
you have a husband to whom every sharp word is like a stab from a
knife. He is not passionate, but his feelings are very sensitive. Do
not take amiss my telling you this--I do so from the best of motives. I
would gladly serve him if I could, and I don't know how. You are indeed
favoured by God to be chosen by such a man; but go gently to work with
him--very gently and kindly."

"Have you done at last?" asked Annele, her eyes flashing; "or have you
got anything more to say?"

"No; I have finished."

"Now I will say something to you in return. You have been so forward
and impertinent, that you deserve to have the door shut in your face.
What do you mean?--how dare you speak in such a manner to me?--who
asked you to interfere?--how can you suspect me of being hard? But it
is lucky, very lucky that I know this so soon; now I see what sort of
beggars hang about my Lenz. But I will soon make a clean sweep of the
whole lot. The day when you could wheedle him by your hypocrisy and
fine words is at an end. I make you a present of the wine you have
drunk. Now go along, I will, however, repeat to my Lenz what you have
presumed to say to me, and it shall be stored up against you."

In vain did Faller protest his innocence of all evil intentions: he
begged pardon, and conjured her to listen to him; but it was all no
use. Annele showed him the door--so at last he left her, and Annele did
not vouchsafe him even a parting glance.

Soon after Faller came Franzl, beaming with joy. The mother took her
forthwith into the back parlour. Franzl had been rejoicing that she had
managed this affair, and thought she could now die happy; but it
proved, to her consternation, that she had ascribed to herself much
more merit than she deserved, and now she got none at all. The Landlady
soon made her feel her mistake by saying--"Well, Franzl, what do you
think about this? You had nothing to do with the affair, and I quite as
little. The young people were sharper than we were. You and I were
talking a few days ago as to what might come to pass, and all the time
behind our backs they had settled everything. I could have believed
this of Annele, but not of Lenz. But it is better so; and as God has
willed it, let us thank him for his goodness."

Franzl stood with her mouth and eyes wide open, but she was obliged to
go home without a scrap of praise or anything else, and Annele scarcely
condescended to notice her.--Then Pilgrim came.

Annele behaved in a very different manner to Pilgrim than she had done
to Faller. She knew that he did not like her; but before he had said a
single word she thanked him for his warm sympathy, and Pilgrim treated
the whole affair in a good-humoured and facetious manner, hinting that
no man was to be trusted, or Lenz would not have kept the matter so
close. He thought he thus saved his conscience, and yet did not disturb
what was now a settled thing.

But the toughest wood to saw through, yet remained: this was
Petrowitsch; and the father resolved to be present. When Petrowitsch
came as usual to dinner, he affected to know nothing. The Landlord
communicated the fact to him officially, and said that Lenz was
expected every minute to dinner. Annele was very childlike and
submissive to the old man, and seemed almost as if she intended to
throw herself on her knees to ask his blessing. He stretched out his
hand kindly to her. The Landlady, too, wished to get hold of his hand,
but she only succeeded in grasping two fingers of his left hand. Lenz
was glad when he came, to find all going on so smoothly. He was only
vexed that Pilgrim, who had spoken so much against them all, should be
seated at the same table; but Pilgrim seemed quite unconcerned, so Lenz
was soon the same.

The sky looked down sourly on Lenz's betrothal: it rained incessantly
for several days following. The rain kept trickling on like one of
those incessant talkers who chatter without ceasing. Lenz was of course
constantly at the "Lion" Inn, where everything was so comfortable, and
every one as well cared for as in his own house. One day, when there
were sixteen different tables in the large public room, Lenz told
Annele it was like a well frequented marketplace.

"You are witty," said she. "I must tell my father that--it will amuse
him."

"Don't do that. What I say to you, I don't intend to go farther."

Lenz was overflowing with happiness. He went backwards and forwards
along the distant, and almost impassable road, just as if he had been
passing from one room to another. He was often congratulated on his way
by different people; and many said--"Don't think us impertinent, but we
never believed that Annele would stay in this village. It was always
said she would marry a landlord in Baden-Baden, or the Techniker. You
may laugh, but you have fallen on your feet."

Lenz was not at all offended by being considered inferior to Annele; on
the contrary, he was proud that she was so modest in her views as to
choose him. When Lenz was sitting in the back parlour with Annele and
her mother, and the old man sometimes came in, uttering some pious
sentiment in his deep, sonorous voice, Lenz would say--"How grateful I
ought to be to the good Lord, who has given me parents again! and such
parents too! I seem to have come into the world a second time. I can
scarcely realize that I am actually at home in the 'Lion' Inn, when I
remember what I thought when, as a child, I saw the upper storey built,
and plate glass in all the windows! I am sure the Palace at Carlsruhe
cannot be finer, we children used to say to each other. And I was
standing by when the Golden Lion itself was hung up. I little thought,
then, that the day would come when I should be quite at home in such a
palace! It is hard that my mother did not live to see it!"

The two women were touched by these words, although Annele did not
leave off counting the stitches in a pair of slippers that she had
begun to work for Lenz. Neither of them spoke for some little time,
till the mother said--"Yes! besides, what first-rate connections you
will have in my other two sons-in-law. I told you already that I love
and respect them, but differently from you, I have known you from the
time you were a child, and I feel towards you as if you had been my own
flesh and blood. But you have seen them, and know what well bred,
genteel young men they both are--and men of business, into the bargain.
Many a one would be glad, if they had as much capital as they make in a
single year."

After a pause, however, Annele said--"If that tiresome rain would only
cease, then, Lenz, we would go out driving together at once."

"I should, indeed, enjoy being with you alone under God's spacious sky.
The house seems too confined for my sense of happiness. Annele, we
would drive to the town."

"Wherever you like."

Presently Lenz said again:--"I am very glad my 'Magic Flute' was so
safely packed, for I should so grieve if it was injured."

"That is very needless anxiety," said the mother. "The thing is now
sold, and of course the purchaser runs all risks."

"No, mother, that's not at all the case. I understand my Lenz better.
He is attached to a work that cost him so much anxiety, and he would
have been glad never to have parted with it. If one has passed days and
nights, month after month, engrossed with one object, it would be very
distressing to know that it was injured."

"Yes, dear Annele; you are indeed my own!" cried Lenz, joyfully. How
well and thoroughly this excellent girl understood his feelings and
explained them!

The mother chided them playfully:--"It's no good talking to you lovers;
anyone who is not in love, is sure to be wrong in your eyes." She went
in and out, for Lenz had begged that, at all events at first, Annele
might be released from her attendance in the public room. "I am not
jealous," said he, "far from it; but I should like to intercept every
look you cast on others, for they all belong to me, and me only."

One afternoon the rain ceased for an hour. Lenz did not desist from
urging Annele, till she consented to go with him to his own house. "I
feel as if everything there was expecting you. All the stores, and
presses, and china, and other things that you will like to see."

Annele resisted for some time, and at last said--"My mother must go
too."

The old lady was very speedily equipped. They went through the village.
Every one greeted them. They had scarcely gone a hundred steps when
Annele complained--"What a horrid footpath, Lenz--it is so heavy and
deep. You must repair it thoroughly. But I'll tell you what would be
better: you must make a carriage road, so that people may be able to
drive up to our door."

"That would be difficult," answered Lenz: "it would cost a large sum of
money, and I should have to buy the ground. Do you see? Up there from
the hazel hedge the meadow is my own, and I require no carriage road
for my business. You know well, Annele dear, that I would do anything
to please you, but I cannot do that."

Annele was silent and walked on. The mother, however, whispered to
Lenz--"What's the good of discussing things? You ought to have
said--'Oh yes, dear Annele! I will see about it'--or something of that
kind, and afterwards you could have done just as you liked. She is a
mere child, and that is the way to manage children. If you are shrewd,
you can manage her perfectly; but you must not make too much of a
thing, and snap up every word. Let the subject drop for a few days, and
don't renew it immediately; don't promise rashly, if you are not sure
about a thing: she will either think it over alone, or more probably
forget it. She is but a child."

Lenz looked at her disapprovingly, and said, "Annele is no child; she
is capable of discussing any subject, and she understands everything."

"Oh! you think so, of course," said the mother, shrugging her
shoulders.

When they were half way across the meadow Annele exclaimed again: "Good
heavens! I had no idea it was so far, or so steep! what a distance it
is! it will be an age before we get there!"

"I can't make the distance shorter," said Lenz, in a displeased, dry
tone.

Annele turned, and looked at him inquisitively.

He continued, stammering, "I am sure that, for all that, you will be
rather glad that the distance is so far. Remember, that shows how large
our meadow must be. I could keep three cows on it, if it were not so
much trouble."

Annele smiled in a forced manner. At last they arrived at the house.
Annele panted for breath, and complained that she was sadly overheated.

"Welcome home, in God's name," said Lenz, seizing her hand as she
crossed the threshold.

She looked at him kindly, and suddenly said, "You are really a kind
soul, and take everything with good humour!"

Lenz was pleased, and what a happy woman Franzl was. First the mother
gave her her hand, and then Annele did the same. And both praised up to
the skies the kitchen, the parlour, and the whole house, as so clean
and neatly arranged.

The mother stood with Franzl below, while Lenz took Annele all over the
house, and showed her the seven beds, and their stock of bedding, and
two large feather beds besides, which could make at least three more.
He opened trunks, and chests, in which stores of fine white linen were
closely packed, and said, "Now Annele, what do you think of these? You
are a little surprised, I should think? Can any one see a prettier
sight?"

"Yes, it is all very orderly and nice. But I don't say anything of my
sister Therese's stock of linen; for, of course, when there are often a
hundred guests there at a time, come to drink the waters, a vast
quantity of linen is required,--it forms part of their business. But
you should really see the presses of Babet's mother-in-law; these would
appear very scanty beside hers."

Lenz looked very much annoyed, and said, "Annele, don't say such
things, even in jest."

"I am not jesting--I am quite in earnest. I am not in the least
surprised, for I have seen both finer and better linen, and in far
greater quantities too. Do show some sense: you surely can't expect me
to be in ecstasies with what is just neat and tidy, and no more. I have
seen a good deal more of the world than you, remember that."

"No doubt! It may be so," said Lenz, with trembling lips.

Annele stroked his face laughingly, and said, "My good Lenz, what need
you care whether I am lost in admiration or not? Your mother made a
good provision, a very fair one indeed, considering her position in
life. No one can say otherwise. But, dear Lenz, I do not marry you for
your property; I like you for your own sake,--that is the chief point."

This speech was both sweet and bitter, but the bitter seemed to Lenz to
predominate, and he felt as if gall had touched his lips.

They returned to the sitting-room, where Franzl had prepared a
plentiful repast. Annele said she had no appetite; but when Lenz said,
"That won't do at all, you must eat something the first time you come
to my house," she at last consented to take a crust of bread.

Lenz was obliged to silence Franzl repeatedly, as she thought she could
not sufficiently praise him. "You must have done something very good in
the world, to get such a husband," said she to Annele.

"And he must have done the same," said the mother, looking at Annele.
Probably she meant maliciously to insinuate, that Lenz was fully as
fortunate as her daughter.

"Come here, Annele, and sit down beside me," said Lenz; "you often said
you would like to see how I put together a musical timepiece. I kept
this one on purpose to show it to you the first time you came here. Now
I will place it properly, and then it will play of itself. It is a
beautiful melody of Spohr's. I can sing it to you, but it is far, far
finer than I can show you by my singing."

He sung the air from "Faust," "Love is a tender flower." Then Annele
sat down by him, and he began to place the different pegs skilfully,
according to the music before him, taking them out of their case, just
as printers do types, and placing them with quickness and dexterity.

Annele was full of admiration, and Lenz continued to work on gaily; but
he begged her not to speak, for he was obliged to give his attention to
the metronome which he had set going.

The mother knew that it would be hard work for Annele to sit quiet, and
to look on silently. She therefore said, with a gracious smile, "Every
one knows how clever you are, Lenz; but we must now go home, it is near
our dinner hour, and we expect some strangers. It is quite enough that
you began the work while we were here."

Annele rose, and Lenz ceased working.

Franzl kept watching Annele's hands, and also those of the Landlady,
and when either placed them in their pockets she became agitated, and
hid her hands quickly behind her back, to show that she would not
accept any present. She must be persuaded by gentle force to take
anything. "Now it is sure to come,--a gold chain, or a handsome ring,
or perhaps a hundred new dollars. Who knows?--such people give
handsomely."

But they gave neither handsomely nor shabbily--indeed, scarcely their
hand in farewell; and Franzl went into the kitchen, and snatching up
one of her largest and most favourite old pipkins, she held it up in
the air, and would gladly have hurled it at the heads of those saucy,
ungrateful women, but she could not bear to destroy her old favourite.
"Did ever any one hear of such a thing?--not to bring her even an
apron! Poor, poor Lenz! you have fallen into the hands of a fine shabby
set! Heaven be praised that I had nothing to do with it! I should be
very grieved to have any profit from such an affair,--every farthing
would burn me!"

Lenz escorted his bride and his mother-in-law beyond the boundary of
his meadow, and then returned home, after arranging that, if the next
day was fine, they were to drive together to sister Babet's.

Lenz had a good deal to prepare, besides giving instructions to his
workpeople.

His feelings were strange when he was once more alone, and two hours
had scarcely elapsed when he wished to go down to see Annele. He felt
anxious and nervous, he did not know why. Annele alone could, and
would, drive away these nervous sensations. He stayed at home, however;
and when, before going to rest, he again closed the chests that had
remained open, he felt as if he were about to hear something, he knew
not what. There lay the webs prepared by his mother, moistened by her
lips, and spun by her fingers. Strange! but he almost seemed to feel as
if a spirit were gliding by his side, and a mournful voice breathing
out of the open chests.

Franzl, in the mean time, was in her room, sitting bolt upright in bed.
She was muttering all kinds of imprecations against Annele and her
mother; but then prayed to God to let her recall her words, and to
consider them unsaid, as every evil wish that was realised on Annele,
affected Lenz also.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                             A FIRST DRIVE.


On the morning after, the long wished for day arrived. The sun shone
down gladly on the earth below, and Lenz felt gladdened also. He
immediately sent off his apprentice to Annele, to beg her to be ready,
for he would be with her in the course of an hour. And within that
time, dressed in his best attire, he was on his way to the "Lion."

Annele, however, was not yet dressed, though at his earnest and
repeated entreaty, she gave him one hand through the door of her room.
She would not let him see her, but handed him out red ribbons and
cockades, to give to the servant to put on the harness and the whip. At
last--at last she appeared, so smartly dressed!

"Is the carriage ready?" was her first word.

"No."

"Why did you not see that it was ready? Tell Gregor to put on his
postilion's livery, and take his horn with him."

"Oh, no! don't! Why should he do that?"

"We are to show ourselves to everybody, we have no leave to ask of any
one, and every one must look round as we pass."

At last they got in. When they passed the Doctor's house, Annele said
to Gregor: "Blow now! blow loud! The Doctor's daughters are sure to
look out, and they shall see that we are driving out together. I
declare! not a living creature to be seen, and the window in the corner
room shut. They are there sure enough, however. They are bursting with
rage inside there, and they must take some notice of us, in spite of
themselves, for I know that the old grandmother is quite sure to ask,
'Who is blowing that horn?' I should like to be behind the door to hear
them all discussing us."

"Annele, you are in a strange mood to-day!"

"Why not? I think you so goodlooking today. People are right in saying
that you have such honest bright eyes. I really did not know till today
that you were so goodlooking."

Lenz's face beamed with delight, which made him look still handsomer.
"I ought to get a new fashionable set of clothes, don't you think so?"
said Lenz.

"No, remain as you are. You look more solid and respectable as you
are."

"It does not only look so, but it is really so."

"Yes, indeed it is so. But pray don't speak as if every word were a
prong in a watchwheel."

"You are right."

They drove through the next village, and Annele again desired Gregor to
blow his horn with all his might! "Look! look! there is Ernestine, the
grocer's wife. She is a cousin of mine, and was long a servant in our
house, and then married a tailor, who afterwards became a grocer. She
can't bear me; she will be so spiteful that her green face will turn
blue, when she sees us drive past without our calling on her. Ah, ha!
there she comes to the window. Oh, yes! stare out your pig eyes, and
gape till you show your long teeth. Yes, it is Lenz and I,--look well
at my bridegroom! Much good may it do you!" They drove on.

"Now, does that give you any pleasure, Annele?" asked Lenz.

"Why not? We ought to be spiteful to spiteful people, and kind to the
good. Both are right."

"Perhaps; but I can't be so."

"You ought to be glad, then that you have got me. They shall all creep
into a mousehole before us, and be glad if we only look at them."

When they arrived in the town Annele gave her bridegroom fresh
directions for his deportment:--"If my brother-in-law's brother is
there, be sure you are very stiff to him. He would be glad to play you
a trick, for he is very malicious, because I did not take him; but I
did not care about him. And if my sister begins complaining, take it
coolly; you need not try to comfort her, it does no good, and is not
required. She has lots of money, and yet does nothing but grumble and
complain; her health is very bad. Our family in general are healthy
enough, you may see that by me."

The sister could not receive the betrothed couple at all, for she
was confined to bed by illness, and neither the husband nor the
brother-in-law were at home. They had both gone down the Rhine with a
large raft.

"I suppose you would like to stay with your sister, for I have some
business in the town."

"May I not go with you?"

"No; I have something to get for you."

"I had far better go with you in that case, for you men never know how
to choose."

"No, no; you must not be with me," insisted Lenz. He took a large-sized
packet out of the carriage and went with it into the town; for Babet's
house was down by the river, close to a large wood yard.

Without Annele having observed it, Lenz brought back what he had taken
with him, only rather larger in bulk, and put it into the carriage.

"What have you bought for me?" asked Annele.

"I will give it to you when we get home."

Annele was not a little provoked that she could not show the handsome
present to her sister; but she had already perceived that there were
points on which Lenz went his own way, and was not to be persuaded out
of it.

They had refreshments in the inn, and Annele told Lenz that the son
of the landlord, a superior young man, who had now a large hotel in
Baden-Baden, had wished to marry her, but she would not have him.

"There was no need to tell me that," said Lenz. "I am quite jealous
enough already of past days; but not of the future: here is my hand on
that. I know you. It pains me to think that others should ever have
raised their eyes to you. Let bygones be bygones; and let us commence
life afresh."

A pleasant, warm smile lit up Annele's face at these words, as if a
certain reflection of Lenz's kindness and simplicity beamed on her, and
she was gentle and loving in her manner.

She could not express this, according to her ideas, better than by
saying:--"Lenz, there is no need for you to buy me a bridal gift; you
don't require to do what others do: I know you; there is something more
precious than gold chains." Tears stood in her eyes as she said this,
and Lenz never had been happier than at this moment.

The church clock was striking five; when they set off home in the
carriage.

"My deceased father made that clock, and Faller helped him," said Lenz.
"Stop! it is lucky that it struck me: Faller says that you were
offended by some incautious expression of his; he will not tell me what
it was. Do not be angry with him, he is often awkward and abrupt, a
precise soldier, but an excellent man."

"Possibly; but, Lenz, you have a vast deal too many burrs sticking to
you; you must shake them off."

"I will never give up my friends."

"I don't wish you to do so; God forbid! I only meant that you should
not act so that everyone can come and persuade you to anything."

"There you are right; that is my failing; remind me of it as often as
you like, that I may cure myself by degrees."

Just as Lenz had said this in a humble manner, Annele suddenly stood up
in the carriage.

"What is it? what is the matter?" asked Lenz.

"Nothing, nothing at all; I don't know why I stood up. I mean I am not
comfortably seated; now I am more at ease. It is very agreeable to
drive in our carriage, is it not?"

"Yes, very; it is as easy as an armchair, and yet you can see round you
in all directions. It is so pleasant to drive, and it is the first time
I ever was in a carriage of my own; for your father's seems mine also."

"Certainly."

The first excursion of the betrothed couple had not been quite so
amusing as they had expected, but still both brought home with them
much that was pleasant. Annele said very little, and it was evident
that something unusual was occupying her mind.

It was still bright daylight when they arrived at home. Lenz assisted
Annele out of the carriage, and let her go in first by herself. He then
took out the parcel he had so carefully wrapped up, and when he was in
the house he called Annele into the back parlour.

There the mystery was unravelled by these words:--"Annele, I here
present you with the nearest and dearest object I possess on earth; my
excellent friend Pilgrim gave it to me, and now it shall be yours."

Annele gazed intently at the portrait, for which Lenz had secretly
ordered a frame in the town.

"Ah! I see you cannot speak, because my mother is looking at you!"

"So that is your mother? It is certainly her gown, and her cap and
handkerchief, but as for your mother herself? No, it might just as well
be old Annelise the carpenter's wife, or Faller's wife; indeed, I think
it is very like the latter. What makes you look so pale all of a
sudden? as if every drop of blood had left your cheeks? My good Lenz,
would you have me tell an untruth? I am sure you would not; and how can
you help it? Pilgrim never could do a thing well in his life. He has no
talent for anything, except for painting his everlasting church
towers."

"When I heard you speak, I felt as if my mother had died a second
time," said Lenz.

"Don't be so melancholy all of a sudden," said Annele more graciously.
"I will show all respect for the portrait, and hang it up over my bed.
Come, you are no longer sad? You have been so loveable to-day, and
really now, when I look again at the picture, I think it does remind me
of your mother."

Just as Lenz first became as hot as fire, and then as cold as ice, so
could Annele influence him as she chose, making him at one moment feel
the happiest of men, and the next giving him deadly offence.

And thus it went on for weeks and months; but the prevailing feeling,
however, was happiness, for Annele showed a degree of gentleness that
no one had ever suspected she possessed. Even Pilgrim came one day to
Lenz and said:--"Some men are happy when they see how wise they have
been; I rejoice that I have been a fool."

"Really? on what subject?"

"No one can understand a young girl's disposition. I do think that in
Annele's character, there is something that can make you entirely
happy. It is, perhaps, fortunate that she is not so tender hearted as
you."

"I thank you, Pilgrim; I am truly glad that you think so," cried Lenz,
and the two friends grasped each other's hands affectionately.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                A GAY WEDDING,--AND A HARD NUT TO CRACK.


Lenz of the Morgenhalde is going to be married to Annele of the "Golden
Lion!" This report quickly spread through the whole valley, and far
beyond it, and often in the same house first Annele was discussed and
then Lenz, for their names were not yet coupled together till after the
wedding, when Annele of the "Golden Lion" will be called Lenz Annele.

There had been deep snow, and now the sky had cleared up, bringing
genuine bright sledging weather, and from every hill and valley bells
and cracking of whips resounded, and a hundred sledges at least were
standing before the door of the "Golden Lion" on the wedding morning;
every stall had its share of strange company, and many a solitary cow
could not comprehend how it came to pass, that a pair of such handsome
horses should suddenly come to pay her a visit. To be sure a cow
passing the winter in retirement, is not likely to know what is going
on in the world, but men know all about it; an event is about to take
place of no small importance in the village, and even bedridden old
women never rest till they are dressed, and able to sit at the window,
though they live far from the highroad, so that they can see nothing,
and can only catch distant sounds of the bells on the horses' necks,
and the cracking of whips.

Ernestine, the grocer's wife, had been helping for several days before
the wedding in the "Lion." She would not show any symptoms of
displeasure at not being particularly visited or invited; the head of
the family was celebrating a feast, and all its branches must rally
round their chief.

Ernestine had left her children in a neighbour's house; her husband in
the mean time was to keep house, attend to the shop, and dress his
food, as best he could: when the "Golden Lion" sends forth a summons no
one can stand on their rights.

Ernestine knew every nook and corner of the house, and gave everyone
what they wanted in a moment; she had unlimited authority both in
kitchen and cellar, and exulted in her own importance. On the wedding
morning Annele dressed herself, for she had no particular friend to
assist her.

Lenz would have preferred, from his retiring disposition, to have had a
very quiet wedding; but Annele was right in saying:--"I am quite aware
of what you would have preferred; but it is our duty to our neighbours
to provide some pleasure for them also, and we have only one wedding
day in our lives. Year after year we have plague enough from these
people, let us give them an opportunity of showing their gratitude to
us. There are very few weddings during the year in the whole country
that we do not attend, and take gifts with us. Two thousand gulden
would not cover what we have laid out on such occasions. It is but fair
that the neighbours should give in their turn. I don't want to gain by
my wedding; I shall be quite satisfied if we get back the half of what
we sent in this way."

And in truth the marriage gifts were very valuable, both in money and
in money's worth. They were not satisfied with one day, but the
marriage feast continued during two whole days; one day for friends and
relations, and the other for strangers.

On the wedding morning Pilgrim arrived with his hair well oiled, and a
bunch of rosemary tied with a ribbon in the button hole of his coat,
and he said:--"I bring you no wedding present."

"You have already given me enough: the portrait of my mother."

"Oh! that does not count; I know very well what I ought to do, but I
cannot. No, Lenz. I have given myself something, however, on the
occasion of your marriage. See here! with this paper I am like
Siegfried, whom you and I have read of: I have now a skin of callous
horn, which nothing can pierce."

"What is it?"

"It is a bond which secures to me a hundred gulden annually, from the
age of sixty; and till then I shall manage to get through; and then,
when I can no longer live alone, you must give me an attic in your
house, and a warm corner behind your stove, where I can play with your
grandchildren, and make drawings for them, which they are sure to
be pleased with. It cost me a good deal to make the first payment, and
no wonder, for though I can gain my livelihood, I have nothing to
spare. So I hit upon a good plan: for a whole year I gave up my
breakfast,--the Landlord of the 'Lion,' I think, suspected that my
dinner and breakfast were combined,--and in this way I contrived
to get the money. I intend to give up my dinner presently. It would be
a very good idea, in this way by degrees to close gently all the
shutters,--and then, good night, world!"

While talking thus, he was assisting Lenz to dress in an entirely new
suit of clothes. Lenz thanked his friend for telling him his scheme,
and reminded him that all the members of the annuity society formed one
family, with the sole exception of not wishing each other joy on their
birthday, and that not from any negligence or ill will, but merely
because they were not acquainted with each other.

Pilgrim had in his head all the statistics of the Annuity Society, and
he began detailing them, to prevent Lenz giving way to emotion.

When Lenz was dressed in his bridal attire, Petrowitsch came of his own
accord to act as best man. He said, with a mysterious face--"You will
get no marriage present from me, Lenz; you know why; but it shall be
made up to you some day." With this bait, and hint that Lenz was to be
his chief heir,--which, however, he never said plainly--Petrowitsch
became, of course, the most highly considered person at the marriage
festivities. This was just what he liked; to sit in the place of
honour, with all the others flocking round him, and yet to have the
agreeable consciousness, "I have the keys of my house in my pocket, and
my fireproof money-box safe at home." This was quite characteristic of
the man. Two such festive days were a grand break, in the midst of the
monotony of the winter season.

The Landlord of the "Lion" carried his apostolic head even higher than
usual on this occasion, and stroked with dignity his newly shaved chin.

Music, and firing, and shouting, resounded in the bright wintry
morning, as the wedding party were going to church, which could not
contain all the curious and sympathizing crowd. There was, besides, as
great a collection of people round the church door, as within the
sacred building. The Pastor gave an appropriate exhortation, not
resembling a public store of uniforms for recruits, supposed to fit all
chance comers, but made to measure. He spoke most impressively on
family respectability, and on the honour of the husband and the wife
being identical. Children inherit the good name of their parents, but
when they turn out badly, the parents are free from blame in the sight
of God and man,--they did their best, they could do no more. The
children of disreputable parents may attain respectability by their own
efforts,--they have their life before them. The brother shares the
honour of his brother, but he can leave him, and pursue his own path.
But the honour of married people is different: here they are, in the
purest sense of the word, one flesh; here harmony is a mutual object.
When the one aspires to honour at the cost of the other, nothing can
ensue but discord, disunion, and death. It is a holy and wise ordinance
that the woman, though she preserves her baptismal name, receives a new
family name from her husband. She adopts the man's name, and the man's
honour. The Pastor commended the good qualities of the couple now
standing before the altar, though Lenz came in for the largest share of
praise; but Annele too had a fair portion; and he reminded them that no
man living had any cause to be proud of his good qualities; that the
slow and the quick should mutually esteem and regard each other; that
marriage was not only according to the law of the land--a mere
community of temporal goods,--but still more according to the law of
God--a community of spiritual good, where _mine_ and _thine_ cease, and
where every possession is called _ours_, and not only _ours_, but as
belonging to the world at large, and, above all, to God.

Under cover of generalities, and yet easily applicable to the young
couple, the Pastor gave utterance to the anxious wish of their mutual
friends, that two persons so unlike in disposition, and in worldly
occupations, might live henceforth in peaceful and happy union
together.

Pilgrim, who was sitting with the singers in the gallery, nodded to the
leader of the choir, who nodded back significantly. Faller did not once
look up; he pressed his hand to his eyes, and thought, "It was thus I
spoke myself to Annele; who knows what she would say to our Pastor, if
she dared speak! But I pray thee, good Lord! who once performed so many
miracles on this earth, do this one more,--implant good thoughts in her
heart, and place good words on her lips, for my excellent Lenz, the
most admirable--"

No voice sounded louder than that of Faller when he joined in the hymn,
after the ceremony was over. The leader of the choir made him a sign to
moderate his deep bass voice, for the tenor was very weak, and Lenz's
voice was wanting; but Faller utterly refused to suppress his tones,
which fairly overpowered both the organ and his fellow-singers, in the
hymn, "Oh Lord, bless this bond!"

When the wedding was over, the women who were so fortunate as to see
and hear the ceremony, had plenty to talk about when they left the
church. Never before had the bridegroom been heard sobbing audibly; no
man had ever done such a thing till now. To be sure, the Pastor had
spoken in a most touching way, especially when he had alluded to Lenz's
mother, and implored her blessing, which had caused Lenz to sob so
violently that they really thought he must have fallen down, and all
present had cried along with him; indeed, those who were talking of it
had cried too; they had come to attend the marriage, and had a right to
have a share of all that was going, whether it was crying or rejoicing.
The men said to the strangers present--"No other village can have a
more admirable Pastor than ours! His words come out so smoothly and
glibly, and not stiff or precise; just as if he wished to discuss the
matter quietly with us all. Oh, yes! our Pastor! few like him!"

Neither men nor women made any allusion, however, to the matter of the
exhortation.

When Lenz left the church, escorted on one side by Petrowitsch, and on
the other by the Landlord, Faller's mother came up to him, and said, "I
have done what I intended--your mother's clothes have been in the
church, and she could not have prayed from her heart for you more
earnestly than I did."

Lenz could not answer, for the Landlord reproved the old woman for
being the first to speak to the bridegroom,--although he condemned the
foolish superstition, that saw an evil omen in being addressed by an
old woman first; but, however, he called forward a handsome young lad
to give Lenz his hand first.

From this moment, however, all was gaiety and merriment. It was not
easy to believe that any one present had shed a single tear.

Lenz now shook hands with his sisters-in-law, and then with their
husbands, in the back parlour. The Doctor, too, and his daughters
came,--and very kind it was in them to come,--one after another came in
and went out, wishing the young couple joy; while Annele sat in a
chair, with a white handkerchief pressed to her eyes; and Lenz said, "I
could not help crying so much, but you know for all that how happy I
am; and we will remember to keep our honour one and the same, and, with
the help of God, we shall preserve it entire. And when I see what a
family you connect me with, I can never forget it. And, please God!
these shall be the last tears we ever shed together. Take off your
gloves, dear Annele, I have none."

Annele shook her head, but said nothing.

Dinner! dinner! dinner! was called out three times, and certainly
people seemed to eat threefold. There was only one person who
complained, "I can't eat, I cant swallow a single mouthful; it is a sad
pity when there are so many good things before me; but I can't!" and
this was Franzl.

Even before every one had dined, dancing had begun in the room above,
and the bride and bridegroom went backwards and forwards from the
dancing room to the dinner table.

"It is too bad in the Techniker to come to my wedding," said Annele to
Lenz, on the stairs. "No one invited him; pray don't speak to him."

"Oh, never mind him! I wish to see no one dissatisfied to-day," said
Lenz, kindly. "I am only vexed that Faller is not here. I sent a
messenger to him, but I see he is not come."

Pilgrim danced the first dance with Annele, who said to him, "You are a
first-rate dancer."

"But not a first-rate painter, you think?"

"I never said so."

"At all events, you won't be painted by me; and yet I had rather a
fancy to-day to take your portrait. Besides, I don't think you would be
easy to take: you are pretty so long as you are talking, but when you
are silent there is something in your face I don't like. I can't say
what it is."

"If you could only paint as well as you can chatter!"

"Well! well! you shall never be painted by me!

"I have no wish to go down to posterity painted by you," said Annele,
who soon recovered her good humour.

The bridal pair were summoned to the lower room, where the most
respectable of the connexions had assembled round Petrowitsch. They
wished him to declare distinctly what sum he intended to bequeath to
Lenz. Don Bastian, Pilgrim's cunning landlord, was the principal
speaker. He had a good opportunity of larding his shabby wedding gift
with another man's bacon, and he drove Petrowitsch into such a corner,
that he could scarcely slip through his fingers. The blacksmith, who
valued himself on being Lenz's only neighbour,--he lived about a mile
from him, but his house was the only one to be seen from the
Morgenhalde,--had been a schoolfellow of Petrowitsch, and knew how to
put him into good humour, by recalling old times.

The Landlady thought that the presence of the young couple might do
good, so she had sent for them. When they joined the circle,
Petrowitsch, who was by this time at his wit's end, said--"Here is
Lenz; he knows what my intentions are. In our family we don't send the
public crier about to announce our affairs. You know, Lenz, how we
stand, don't you?"

"Certainly, uncle," said Lenz.

"Now, I am not going to say one word more on the subject!" cried
Petrowitsch, impatiently starting up. He was in mortal fear lest any
one, his old schoolfellow the blacksmith especially, should discover
that this was his sixty-fifth birthday, in which case he would no doubt
have been congratulated on all sides, and been obliged to pay for their
good wishes by making some settlement on his nephew. He pushed his way
through the circle out of the room. Büble, who followed closely at his
heels, howled loudly, having received a hearty kick from some invisible
foot.

Lenz looked after his retreating uncle, rather disconcerted, for he
felt he had not perhaps acted very prudently in helping him out of his
dilemma. Petrowitsch might possibly have been induced to say something
decided, and now all hope of such a thing was at an end.

But Lenz soon dismissed all such thoughts from his mind, and was as gay
as possible the whole evening. Those relations who lived at a distance
had already gone away. It was now time for Lenz and Annele to go home,
as it is customary for a bridal pair to arrive in their own house
before midnight; and Lenz said, "Annele, you were quite right; how
vexed I am now that there is no carriage road to our home. Be sure you
wrap yourself well up."

"You will see many a time yet that I am right in most things," said
Annele.

Pilgrim had arranged the procession very artistically. The musicians
went in front, and two torchbearers behind the young couple; and a
number of children brought up the rear, carrying the handsomest of the
wedding presents,--china, glass, trays and goblets,--and burning pine
torches. When they began to ascend the hill the procession became less
orderly, for they were obliged to go one by one. Lenz said to Annele,
"Go on in front; I like you to take precedence in everything."

At last they reached Lenz's house at the top of the hill. The bridal
gifts were delivered up, the musicians played a merry dance, and three
loud shouts were given in honour of the happy pair. Then the music was
heard dying away down the hill into the valley.

"We are in heaven, and know that men on earth below are rejoicing over
us," said Lenz.

"I had no idea that you could talk in this way," said Annele. "How
hushed and quiet it seems here all at once!"

"Wait a minute; I can welcome you with melody, and, Heaven be praised I
it is for you and me alone." He wound up a large musical clock, and it
played Beethoven's "Calm of the ocean!" It continued to play for long
and long, and all was still in the house.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                            A MORNING GIFT.


"I wish we had another wedding-feast to-day, don't you, darling
Annele."

"No; why do you wish that?"

"Because my agitation yesterday destroyed great part of my pleasure in
our wedding gaieties; but today I feel in such a happy mood; I feel as
if I were invited to a wedding."

"You are a strange creature!" said Annele, with a smile.

"I must not forget, however," said Lenz, starting up, "that I have
something to give you. Wait a moment."

He went to the next room, and remained there some time.

"What is he going to give me? No doubt it occurred to him that it is
customary to present one's bride with a nice gold chain, or earrings.
But then he ought to have done that yesterday: why today?" Annele had
plenty of time to think it over. At last Lenz came back, and said--"At
last I have found it; I had mislaid it. Here is my beloved mother's
garnet necklace; they are good old fashioned stones, and they will look
so well round your pretty throat. Come! try it on."

"No, Lenz; garnets are quite old fashioned; I can't wear them; besides,
they scratch my throat. As I can't wear them, I will exchange them at
some jeweller's."

"No, you must not do that."

"Just as you choose. But what can be your objection? What have you
there besides?"

"What I would give to no living creature but you. It belonged to my
poor mother. It is of no value, but still it has a charm attached to
it."

"Well, show me this wonder."

"Here it is; look at it."

"What is it?"

"This is Edelweiss, a little plant that grows under the snow. Read what
my mother wrote on the paper in which it is folded."

"I can't read it, the writing is so bad."

Lenz winced at this remark, though Annele only followed the custom of
the country in calling an indistinct hand bad writing. She continued:
"Read it to me yourself."

Lenz read aloud:--"This is a plant of Edelweiss, which grew on one of
the highest mountains in Switzerland, under the snow. My husband found
it himself, and thought of me when he saw it, so he brought it home
with him from his wanderings, and gave it to me on our wedding day. I
wish it to be placed in my hand when I am laid in the earth. If,
however, this is overlooked or forgotten, my son is to give it to his
wife the day after their marriage; and, so long as she preserves it
carefully, it will bring a blessing with it, though it has no magic
properties. This plant is named Edelweiss.--MARIE LENZIN."

When Lenz had finished reading the paper he said:--"Does it not go to
your heart to hear the dead thus speak? Don't be agitated, but be gay
and happy. She liked every one to be gay and happy, and was always
cheerful herself, though she had known so much sorrow."

Annele smiled, and laid the plant, wrapped in paper, beside the row of
garnets.

The young people talked to each other so long, that at last a message
came from the "Golden Lion," that they were to make haste, as a great
many guests had arrived.

Franzl made a very awkward lady's maid. Lenz was obliged to go himself
first to the "Lion," to send one of the maids there to Annele. He said,
also, that he would take the opportunity to go to Faller's, and press
him to come to the "Lion" to-day. He must positively come, and Annele
must be kind to him, and forget if he had said anything disagreeable.

Annele said: "Yes, yes; only go along, and send me Margaret as quick as
you can; or Ernestine, which would be still better."

At last Annele appeared in her parents' house. The mother rushed up to
her, and hugged her, as if she had not seen her for a whole year, and
Annele was as gentle and respectful, as if she had never said one cross
word to her mother in all her life.

In the back parlour, however, when she and her mother were alone,
Annele said that Lenz had given her, a bridal present, an old string of
garnets, and a withered plant; and she really could not bear to show
herself among all her friends without a gold chain. "He is a skinflint;
a poor stingy bit of a clockmaker!" said Annele, indignantly.

The mother showed her good sense--and if that had been the only white
lie she ever uttered she would have been snow white when she got to
heaven--by saying: "Annele, he is certainly not covetous; he never
asked a question about your marriage portion, never gave a hint on the
subject; and he is far from stupid, believe me. He is, in fact, rather
too shrewd. Last night a travelling jeweller from Pforzheim came here
with a large, well filled box. I saw at once that Lenz had desired him
to come. He will choose for you what takes his fancy most." The mother
knew that Annele did not believe this invention of hers, and Annele
knew that her mother did not consider her such a fool as to credit such
a fable. They both affected, however, to believe that they were
mutually truthful, and the result was very happy.

Lenz was absent for some little time. He was standing beside Ernestine
on the dark steps of the cellar. Presently he returned, and, exactly as
her mother had predicted, he brought Annele a gold chain from the
pedlar, who was in the house. To allow her to choose for herself--to
say, "My darling, what do you like best?"--never occurred to him, in
spite of many hints; so he did not receive many thanks for his dilatory
present.

Annele, however, was soon as lively and gay as was expected. A
landlord's daughter must always be merry and good-humoured, and
anything that occurs in the back parlour of the family, does not extend
to the public room.

If there had been numbers of carriages yesterday, there was a vast
number more to-day, for all the innkeepers far and near arrived, with
ringing bells round the necks of their handsome well fed horses. On
such an occasion, it is but proper that people should show who they
are, and what they have. The various landlords, and their wives and
daughters, went about as proud of their possessions, as if they had
brought their houses on their backs. Every glance seemed to say, "At
home I have everything just the same, and, though I may not be as rich
as the Landlord of the 'Golden Lion,' still I have every reason to be
satisfied."

There were fine greetings, and friendly speeches, and thanks
innumerable for handsome presents!--"Oh! that is really too much! No!
this is far too handsome! No one but the Landlady of the 'Bear' would
ever have thought of such a thing!" And then--"No one has so much taste
as the Landlady of the 'Eagle.'--And the Landlady of the 'Angel'--I do
hope we may one day act as handsomely, though we can scarcely hope to
equal this!" It was truly marvellous, to hear the many hundred clever
little speeches Annele made. Lenz was sometimes standing beside her,
but he could not bring out a single word. Those who did not know him,
thought him shy and simple; but he had a great aversion to this giving
and accepting of presents, and all the fine speeches it entailed.

It was now the turn of the poor clockmakers, tributaries of the
Landlord, whom he kept well under his thumb, and whose work he bought,
to send off to distant countries. Annele took no notice of them, but
they addressed Lenz respectfully, and expressed their great
satisfaction that a clockmaker had now become the son-in-law of the
Landlord of the "Lion." Many hoped, on this account, to get better
terms from the Landlord, and others asked Lenz direct if he intended to
give up his business, and to become a partner in the Inn. They smiled
when Lenz declared he meant to remain just what he always had been.
When these poor people, who even by their daily labour of fourteen
hours, could only manage to live at all by the most extraordinary
frugality and self-denial, and who looked thin and ill,--when even
these worthy people, thought it indispensable to thrust their
half-gulden pieces, and even smaller coin into Lenz's hand, as their
bridal gifts, he felt as if he were handling burning coals. He would
gladly have given back the money to the poor people, but he dared not
offend them. He mentioned this feeling to Annele, when he could succeed
in speaking to her for a moment.

She looked at him in surprise, and said, shaking her head: "My father
is right,--you are no man of business. You can work and gain your
own living, but you don't understand letting others work for your
advantage. You are too fond of asking, 'How does so and so get on?' and
that is no use. We must all drive straight on in this world, and never
stop to inquire who it is that we pass on the road barefooted. But this
is not the moment to lecture you. Oh! here comes the dear Landlady of
the 'Lamb!' Better late than never! Though last, not least! I have been
thinking of you all day, and only a few moments since I said to my
mother: What can have become of that excellent Landlady of the 'Lamb,'
from Edelshof? Half my pleasure would have been destroyed if you had
not come to my wedding-feast! I suppose this is your daughter-in-law?
Where is her husband?"

"He is still below with the horses. We scarcely know how to find stable
room today."

"Yes; I am thankful to say we have many kind friends. On such a day as
this, we find out how full the world is of well wishers and friends.
Lenz, conduct the Landlady of the 'Lamb' to the upper table--I have
kept one of the best seats for her there." And then Annele went on to
welcome others.

It was only a passing hint, but still Lenz did not at all like Annele
reproaching him already with thinking too much about others; and yet he
was obliged inwardly to confess that it was true; and that for this
very reason he was less energetic than his neighbours, and considered
less shrewd than he really was. A single word or animadversion would
dwell in his thoughts for days--he could not help brooding over it. At
this very moment he thought--"Most men are far wiser than I am: they
live for themselves, they clutch what they can get, and never ask how
others fare. I must learn to do this also, and then we shall get on
well together."

Lenz stood for a while absorbed in these thoughts like a stranger, as
if quite unconnected with all the house and rejoicings. Soon, however,
he was moving again among the throng, as the centre point of all,
according to the duty of the bridegroom.

The assemblage was very crowded, and yet it was pleasant to see so many
persons collected together, to rejoice in the good fortune of one happy
couple. They were all so merry, that toward evening, when the guests
wished to drive home, the Landlord had prepared a practical joke,
having ordered Gregor to unfasten, and to hide the poles and shafts of
all the sledges; so the worthy guests could not get away, and were
forced to remain till long after midnight; but they consoled themselves
with one accord, by the fact that the moon rose at midnight. The poor
clockmakers were not detained, but some were anxious to get home, or
they would lose another day's work; others, however, wished to receive
the value of their wedding presents, and sat eating and drinking, as if
they intended to satisfy their appetite for a year to come. Indeed,
from early morning till far on in the night, fresh provisions were
placed on the table--meat, and sausages, and sauerkraut without end.

Faller went about among the guests looking very stiff and awkward, but
was at last relieved by Ernestine coming to assist him in serving the
company. "I only do this for Lenz's sake," said he to himself, and he
would have liked to say this to every person to whom he brought
anything to eat. He scarcely ate or drank himself. When he was close to
Lenz once, he said to him--"I have not brought you any wedding gift; I
could not bear to give you little, and much I have not to give; but I
would gladly give you my life if you required it."

Lenz enjoined on his worthy friend to take care of himself, and said he
had now done enough for others. Just in good time he remembered that he
had intended to invite old Pröbler. Faller offered to go and fetch him.
Old Pröbler came, but he would not be persuaded to go into the public
room, as he had no Sunday suit; so Lenz gave him a dish heaped up with
meat, enough to last three days at least, and a good bottle of wine
into the bargain. The old man was so surprised, that he almost forgot
to offer his usual pinch of snuff; and all he said was, "I will bring
back the bottle." Lenz said he might keep it, which pleased old Pröbler
immensely, and he quickly took himself off.

When Lenz and Annele were on their way home, morning was almost
breaking; and though the moon was up, it was again covered with heavy
clouds. On this occasion they were without either escort or torches.
Annele complained that it was frightfully dark, and that she was so
weary she could scarcely stand. "I ought to have stayed at home
to-night," said she.

"Home?--how do you mean? Your home is up on the hill there."

Annele was silent, and the two walked on together quietly for a time.

"Did you count the money we got today?" said Annele at last.

"No--I can do that at home. I know there must be a good deal, for it is
such a weight. It was lucky that your father lent me one of his empty
purses."

"What do you mean by empty purses? He has plenty full enough," said
Annele quickly.

"I neither inquired about that, nor even once thought about it."

She now pressed forward up the hill, so that Lenz might get home to
count the money. When they arrived he did so, but too slowly according
to her ideas, and she soon showed him that a landlord's daughter knew
better how to set about it. While she was counting, Lenz said:--"I take
a different view of the case. It is just as well that we should have
accepted presents from these poor people: it does them credit in the
eyes of others, and enables them, one and all, to accept assistance
from us in any difficulty without hesitation." Annele looked up at him
in the midst of her reckoning.

Lenz had always his own peculiar reasons for everything. He never
agreed to anything simply because it appeared to be so to others, but
delayed his assent till he was convinced himself of the fact, and then
he was thoroughly converted. Annele said nothing, but kept repeating
the number she had arrived at, for fear of forgetting it. There were
exactly one hundred and twenty gulden collected, deducting four bad
smaller coins. Annele railed violently at those unprincipled men, who
could deceive by giving base money. Lenz tried to pacify her by
saying--"Don't say that--perhaps they were poor men who had nothing
else to give," Annele's eyes flashed, and she replied testily:--"It
appears that you know everything, and that I know nothing."

"I did not in the least mean that. Don't be so hasty."

"I never was ill-tempered in my life, and you are the first person that
ever said so. Ask any one; and indeed you had pretty good proofs this
very day what people think of me."

"Yes, yes! it is surely no use our quarrelling on such a subject."

"I am not quarrelling; and I am sure I don't care what the sum is--if
it were only three farthings, it is all the same to me; but I don't
choose to be snubbed every word I say."

"Now do be less hasty, Franzl will really think we are quarrelling."

"She may think just what she pleases; and it is just as well to tell
you at once, that Franzl can't possibly stay in this house."

"You don't mean, I suppose, that she is to go tonight?"

"Not tonight, but either tomorrow or very soon."

"We will talk about it tomorrow; I am tired, and you said you were
tired also."

"Yes; but when people are unjust to me, and attack me, I no longer feel
tired. I have no idea of giving in."

"I neither attacked you nor wished to attack you. Remember what our
Pastor said:--our honour is the same."

"You need not repeat to me what our Pastor said; and I don't think it
was at all pleasant on his part, to preach as if he were reconciling
two people who had already been at strife."

"God forbid he should ever have cause to do that for us. We shall, I
trust, bear with each other, and live together in faithful love, both
in joy and sorrow, so long as we live, as my mother used to say."

"Yes; let us show the world that we know how to keep house."

"Shall I set the musical timepiece going?"

"No; we have had enough of turmoil today."



                            END OF VOL. II.




      LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
                           AND CHARING CROSS.