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CHAPTER XV.
YOUNG HEARTS AFTER A WEDDING

Lenz sat at home and worked untiringly. By great good fortune the weight-maker of Knuslingen had found a purchaser for the smaller work, which was nearly finished. He worked at its completion with real pleasure, and at the same time set things in train for beginning the new clock that the landlord had as good as ordered. He often thought, as he sat working so happily: What need have I of marrying? In fact, I ought not to marry. My head and heart are so full of my art, there is no room left in them for wife and children.

Pilgrim had resumed his former pet project of devising some new patterns of clock-cases, and devoted all his evenings to it, as he could not spare the time from his working-hours. Thus the friends met but seldom, especially as Lenz no longer went to the rehearsals of the Liederkranz.

Faller's marriage at length induced him to come down into the village. The good fellow gave the author of his happiness no peace until he consented, in spite of his mourning, to go to the church. The services at the house were very quiet, with neither guests nor music; for, as the bridegroom said, he would wait and invite his guests when he had some money, and music he could make for himself.

At the house Lenz had to submit to the warmest praises and thanks for all he had done. "If you are married soon," said the old dame, – "as God grant you may be, – I will wear your mother's clothes to church. I am not ashamed to wear them; on the contrary, it is an honor, as every one tells me."

"And I have a good bed," said Faller, his deep voice sounding almost ludicrous with emotion. "O Lenz, I hardly pray for myself to-day; I pray the Lord God for you. May he keep you from danger; but, if you ever do fall into great peril, may I be the one to rescue you! I long to turn round to the congregation in church and say, 'Behold, by God's help I stand here; but he helped me through my friend, on whom and on whose parents in heaven I pray the Lord's blessing.' You must be happy yourself, Lenz, for you have made a whole household happy."

The strong, resolute Faller fell to twirling his formidable mustache; he could say no more. Lenz was almost more an object of respect at the house than the young couple themselves, and was relieved when the party adjourned to the church.

The Liederkranz was there, and sang beautifully, though perceptibly weakened by the absence of the two best voices, Faller's and Lenz's. The whole village-certainly all the women, married and single-were present at the wedding. The married were glad to hear the solemn service read again, and the unmarried tried to imagine how it would seem when their turn came, as they hoped it soon would. The matrons wept, while the maidens cast curious glances about the church. If Lenz had looked up, he would have found himself the centre of many eyes. He separated from the bridal party after the ceremony and took his lonely way homeward. At the churchyard gate stood Katharine, the bailiff's daughter, with a nice-looking young man, dressed like one of the peasants from the neighboring valley. She greeted Lenz as he passed, and blushed under his earnest gaze. The next moment he raised his hat politely to the doctor's eldest daughters, who were picking their way through the wet streets, showing their pretty laced boots.

"We thought you had gone on a journey," said Bertha, the bolder of the two sisters.

"No, I have been all the time at home," answered Lenz.

"So have we," retorted Bertha. Lenz was silent.

"Are you engaged upon any new work?" asked Amanda.

"On a new and an old one too. Our work never ceases."

"Is not such constant labor a severe strain upon you?" Amanda asked again.

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

"You clockmakers," said Bertha, archly, "are like your clocks, always wound up."

"And you are a key to wind us up," replied Lenz, inconsiderately. It was not what he had meant to say; but the right words would not come.

"I am glad you pay her back in her own coin, Mr. Lenz," said Amanda. "Our ways part here; we must say good by."

"Perhaps Mr. Lenz is going in our direction," ventured Bertha. "Were you not going to Pilgrim's?"

Lenz felt his heart beat. He wanted to say yes; he wanted to say he was going to Pilgrim's; but involuntarily, almost in fear and trembling, he said, "No, I am going home. Good by!"

"Good by!"

Lenz breathed hard as he went up the hill. He would turn back; who knows what might come of it? He could still overtake them; they were at the Lion by this time; now they must be at the churchyard wall. But all the while he kept steadily on, and, reaching home with a beating heart, fled as for safety into the house. Fled? from what? He knew not what. He was not himself to-day; he was uneasy and dissatisfied as he had never been before.

In the evening he changed his dress and went into the village, meaning to call on Pilgrim or the doctor, who had long ago invited him. Pilgrim was not at home, and he stood long at the doctor's door without daring to pull the bell. He walked up and down before the house, hoping that perhaps the doctor would come out, recognize him, and invite him in; but neither he nor any of his family appeared. Don Bastian came down the road. Like a thief who hears the pursuer on his track, Lenz fled to the village. There he felt easier, and rejoiced to see a house door standing open. In the Lion he would find refuge. At least one quiet place was left in the world, – a place where there were chairs to sit down on, and tables to eat at, and persons who did not make his heart beat as if it would burst his bosom, but were calm and quiet; and here comes the calmest and quietest of them all and gives him a kindly welcome.

CHAPTER XVI.
A HEART OPENS

The landlord's manner was truly fatherly, as he sat down by Lenz and entered into conversation with him. "Have you received the money for your musical clock?" he asked, incidentally.

"Yes," replied Lenz.

"You would do well to invest in the new railway; it will pay handsomely. Have you the money still idle?"

"No; I had eight hundred florins by me, and have lent three thousand to my neighbor, the bailiff, to pay his discharge."

"Have you good security? How much interest does he pay?"

"I have only his receipt. He pays five per cent."

"The bailiff is good, and five per cent is good; but, as I say, if you should want to make any investments, I shall be glad to help you with my counsel."

"I like to keep to what I understand; though, of course, I should be perfectly safe in following your advice blindfold. The new work you are to buy of me is progressing finely, and I think will be better than the first."

"Remember, Lenz, I made no promises. A man of honor goes no farther-"

"You have said quite enough. Your word I shall never-"

"As I say, plainness and accuracy should be observed among friends. I would have inscribed upon my gravestone, 'Here lies an accurate man.'"

Lenz was delighted with such solidity of character; here, at least, was pure gold.

"By your leave," said Annele, approaching, and taking a seat at the table with Lenz and her father. The landlord soon rose and left the young people to themselves. "You have reason to be proud of such a father, Annele," said Lenz; "what a man he is! it does one good to talk with him. He says but little, and for that very reason every word is-how shall I call it? – pure kernel, pure marrow."

"Nothing is pleasanter for a child than to hear such praise of a father," answered Annele. "Mine certainly deserves it. He is a grumbler, to be sure, and hard to please, as all men are."

"All men?" inquired Lenz.

"Yes, all. I may say so honestly to you; for you are one of the best of them, though you have your crotchets, too, no doubt. We need to be patient with all of you."

"That is right, Annele. Thank you for speaking so; I do not mean for your praises of me, which are quite undeserved. I cannot tell you how often I am angry with myself. I am always doing the wrong thing. I only half hear and half act because of the tunes that are running in my head. I seem clumsier than other men, and yet am not really so. I am hasty, too, and troubled by things that others make light of. I cannot help it, the devil knows. My mother often said to me, 'Lenz, in spite of all your goodness, you will not make a woman happy unless she thoroughly understands and loves you.' That is true patience and true love, – is it not? – to think, 'oh well, he is hot and hasty just this minute, but I know his heart is right.' Do not draw your hand away, Annele."

In the warmth of his speaking he had taken Annele's hand in his own, as he first perceived by the motion she made to release it. "We are not alone in the room," she said, blushing, and pressing her knitting-needle to her lips; "there are others present."

Lenz turned hot and cold in a moment. "Forgive me, Annele. I did not know what I was doing. I did not mean to be importunate. You are not angry with me, – are you?

"Angry? how can you ask me?"

"But friendly in your heart to me?"

"For Heaven's sake!" said, Annele, laying her hand on the back of Lenz's chair; "don't speak so. How did it all happen? what does it mean? I thought I might speak to you as to a brother; for, alas! I have no other."

"And I have no sister, no one."

"But every one is fond of you."

"Yet, if I need a friend, I have, none."

There was a long pause.

"Do you know," said Annele at length, "that the bailiff's daughter Katharine is engaged to a young fellow from the next valley? They have just, sent for the betrothal wine."

"So?" said Lenz. "I saw her standing with some one to-day, as I came from church. She is a good, honest girl. I wish her all happiness. Were you at the wedding in the church to-day, Annele?"

"Yes, and I saw you there. You deserve to go to heaven for your kindness to Faller?"

"Heaven is easily won then. How well the minister preached, did he not? There was some good lesson for every one, married or single. The word of God is like music. Every hearer, though there should be hundreds and hundreds of them, takes the whole without robbing his neighbor."

"I assure you, I would almost rather hear you than the minister. Every word you speak is so clear, so-I hardly know how to tell what I mean. I sometimes think it is a pity you are only a clockmaker."

"Only a clockmaker? I am glad I am a clockmaker; it is a noble calling. I could preach you a sermon upon it. The world is a clock, wound up by God from everlasting to everlasting. The stars circle in the heavens, one about another. There are no clocks in Paradise, Pilgrim says. That may be; but from the hour when men had to labor they had to divide the time. Just think, we should be like children and fools if we could not tell the hours!"

"You make all so clear to me! I never thought of that before."

Lenz grew more eloquent under this praise.

"I shall hold fast to my trade of clockmaker. If I can do no better, I will make the old-fashioned wooden clocks; they will at least secure me bread. Musical clocks bring in more money, to be sure, but they can only be made when ordered; and, as lovers of music do not turn up every day, I might find myself with nothing in my pocket. My pet project is to form a clockmaker's union, so that all could work together for the benefit of each. If I could but accomplish that, I would engage to make nothing but standard regulators for the next seven years, – for all the rest of my life, if need be."

"You are very good, I am sure," said Annele; "but your specialty is music."

"Ah, music! when I leave clocks and get back to that I am so happy, so-"

"Your heart dances for joy and keeps high holiday."

"Dear Annele, you are so-ah! if I only knew-"

"Well? what would you know?" There was a warmth, a tenderness, in the simple words that brought the hot blood to his face.

"I cannot tell," he stammered. "If you do not know, I cannot tell you. I am-Annele-"

"Children, what are you about? The whole room is looking at you," broke in the landlady. "I can perfectly trust you, Lenz; if you have anything so very special to say to Annele, I will have a lamp lighted in the private sitting-room, and you can have your talk out there."

"Oh no, mother," cried Annele, trembling; but the landlady was already gone. Annele flew after her. Lenz sat motionless, while the whole room swam before his eyes. He got up at length, stole out, saw the door of the sitting-room open, and was alone with Annele. She hid her face.

"Look at me," he entreated; "look at me while I speak to you. Annele, I am but a foolish, simple fellow; but-" he pressed his hand to his heart, hardly able to go on-"but if you think me worth it, you can make me happy."

"You are worth more than the whole world; you are too good; you do not know how bad the world is."

"The world is not bad, for you are in it. Answer me; answer me truly: Will you stand by me? will you help me to be industrious and good? will you be mother, wife, all to me? Say yes, and my whole life shall be yours."

"Yes, a thousand and a thousand times yes!" She fell upon his breast, and he held her fast.

"Mother, O my mother!" cried Lenz, as the landlady appeared. "Dear landlady, forgive me!" he added, apologetically.

"You have nothing to fear from me," returned the landlady. "But, children, I must beg one thing. Annele can tell you I have always been a good friend to you. 'Lenz must prosper,' I have always said, 'for his mother's blessing rests upon him.' But I pray you, children, to act with caution. You do not know my husband. He so worships his children that he is angry with every man that tries to take them from him. Thank God, we shall keep one near us, if it be his will. They will not all grow to be such strangers." Here the landlady wept bitterly, but after a vigorous wiping of her eyes and nose was able to continue. "For the present my husband must observe nothing. I will break the matter to him first, and let you know, Lenz, when you may regularly lay your suit before him. Till that time you must not enter the house. Bring your uncle with you to the betrothal. It will be showing him no more than proper respect to allow him to take your father's place. All my other daughters were received into large families with all the ceremony that is observed in the highest circles. God gave me no son, Lenz, and I rejoice that I am to find one in you. I am fond of my other sons-in-law, but they are too fine, too aristocratic for me. It is time now for you to go, Lenz. My husband may come any minute, and I would not answer for the consequences. Yet no; stop a moment. Take this. Give him this, Annele." She opened both doors of the great linen-press, and took out a gold coin. "Your godfather, our blessed minister, laid this in your cradle. It is an old medal, just the thing for you to give Lenz. But you must give her a present first."

"I have nothing to give. Oh yes, here is my watch, Annele. My dear father made it himself in Switzerland, and gave it to my mother. When we are married, please God, I will give you something else of my mother's that will please you. Here, take the watch. It has lain next my heart. Would I could take out my heart, and lay it in your faithful hand!"

They exchanged pledges. "Very good," explained the mother, who thought it her duty to say something. "A heart and a watch; they resemble one another, and love is the key that winds them up." She smiled at her own cleverness, since no one else did. "See," she continued, after rummaging in the chest, "this was the first little frock my Annele wore, and these were her shoes." Lenz looked with rapture at these mementos of her childhood, and begged permission to keep them, which was granted. "Now you must really go, Lenz," said the landlady, returning to her old theme. "I cannot let you stay. Go this way through the kitchen. There is my hand. Good night, Lenz!"

"May not Annele go a little way with me?"

"By no means. Don't be offended if I am somewhat strict. I have brought up three daughters, and take pride in the thought that no word of blame has ever rested on either of them. God willing, you can have enough of each other by and by, in all honor and with the parents' knowledge."

"Good night, Lenz!"

"Good night, Annele!"

"Once more, good night!"

"Good night, my heart's treasure!"

"Good night, dear Lenz! pleasant dreams!"

"The same to you a thousand-fold!"

"That will do, that will do!" admonished the landlady, laughing.

Lenz stood in the street. The whole world turned round with him. The stars in heaven danced. Annele-Annele of the Lion-was his! He hurried homewards; he must tell Franzl, who always praised Annele so warmly. How she will rejoice! If I could only shout it out from house to house! He checked himself, however, when he had almost reached his door. He must not tell Franzl; nothing was certain yet, and she could not keep a secret. But he must tell some one. He retraced his steps, and remained long standing before the Lion. To-night he must stand a stranger there; to-morrow he would be one of the family. He tore himself away at last, and went in search of Pilgrim.

CHAPTER XVII.
A FRIEND'S WARNING

Thank God, he is at home! there is a light in his room. He is playing the guitar. O dear good Pilgrim!

May heaven keep me in my senses, and let me not die of joy! Oh, if my good mother had but lived to see this day!

Pilgrim was playing and singing so loud as not to hear him as he ascended the stairs. Lenz threw open the door, and, spreading out his arms, exclaimed, "Rejoice with me, brother; I am so happy!"

"What is the matter?"

"I am betrothed."

"You are? To whom?"

"How can you ask? to her, to the truest heart in all the world, and as wise and bright as the day. O Annele!"

"What! Annele? Annele of the Lion?"

"You wonder at her taking me, do you not? I know I am not worthy of her, but I will deserve her. God is my witness, I will deserve her. I will devote my life to her; she shall-"

His eyes fell upon his mother's picture. "Mother, dearest mother!" he cried, "in thy place in the seventh heaven rejoice, for thy son is happy!"

He fell upon his knees, and tears choked his voice. Pilgrim laid his hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, dear Pilgrim, – forgive me," prayed Lenz, rising; "would I could beg the whole world's forgiveness! I have often resolved to be a stronger, firmer man. Now I shall have a wife who deserves a manly husband. But this once I must give way. I have been wishing, as I came here, that some hard task might be imposed upon me, – no matter what, only something, something so difficult it would take my whole heart and strength; – I would do it; I would prove myself worthy of the happiness God has granted me."

"Hush, hush! other men have got other women before now. There is no need to tear the world to pieces about it."

"If my mother had but lived to know this!"

"If your mother had lived, Annele would not have had you. It is only because you are without encumbrances, without a mother, that she cares for you."

"Say not that, Pilgrim! she so reveres my mother!"

"It is easy to revere her when she is no longer here. I tell you, you were nothing to Annele till your mother died."

"You have not even wished me happiness."

"I wish you happiness! I wish you all happiness!"

"Why do you say it twice? Tell me why twice?"

"Only because the words came out so."

"No, you had a meaning in them."

"True, I had. I will tell you to-morrow, not to-night."

"Why to-morrow? tell me now; you shall not hide anything from me."

"You are drunken now; how can I speak soberly with you?"

"I am not drunken; I am perfectly sober."

"Good; tell me, then, how this all happened so suddenly."

"I cannot tell. It came upon me like a flash from heaven, and now I see it had long been the one wish of my heart."

"I thought so; and yet I thought, too, you would do nothing without letting me know."

"Neither will I. You shall go with me to her father to-morrow. I have not yet laid my suit before him."

"Not yet? Thank Heaven! Then I hope it may come to nothing."

"What! would you drive me mad?"

"No need of that. Lenz, she is not yet your betrothed; she is not yet your wife; there is still time for me to speak openly. It would be wrong to draw back now, but it would be only one wrong. If you marry Annele, you will be doing a thousand wrongs your life long. Lenz, she is no wife for you, – she least of any."

"You do not know her, only joking with her as you do. But I have learned her through and through, – her goodness, her cleverness."

"You think I do not know her? Why, I have eaten a bushel of salt with those people. I can describe them every one to you. Annele and her mother are so much alike they cannot bear one another, though they do pretend to be so fond in public. They exchange sweet speeches, because the guests eat and drink better when pleasant sounds are going on. But none of their soft words come from the heart. They have no heart. I never believed, till I knew them, that there could be such persons. They talk of kindness, of love, of pity, of patriotism too, perhaps, and religion; but these things are empty words to them, meaning nothing, prompting them to nothing. The world, they firmly believe, has agreed to use the names for effect, without any one attaching the least significance to them. Annele has not a ray of heart; and without heart I maintain there can be no right understanding. She can never enter into another's feelings and opinions; can neither share them nor yield to them. She can, like her mother, catch another person's words, and make a fine show with them. They both have a peculiar faculty of blaming, even scolding, in such a way that you cannot make out to the end whether it is a declaration of love or of war. Father, mother, and daughter make nice music together for the public edification. Annele plays first fiddle, the old woman second, and mine host a growling bass. He, I must say, is the only honest one in the house. Here, as everywhere, the female bees are the ones that sting, and how they sting! The landlord speaks charitably of his neighbors, and cannot bear to hear his wife and daughter abuse them. Their special delight is to tear to pieces the good name of wife or maid. The mother does it with a certain hypocritical compassion, but Annele plays with the world like a cat with a mouse; and the burden of the song always must be, you are the fairest, the healthiest, the cleverest, and, if it is any compliment, the best. I have often studied to make out what constitutes the essence of ill-breeding, which may be highly polished to the eye. True coarseness is pleasure in the misfortunes of others. O Lenz, you have not the key-note of that household; all your knowledge of music will not help you find it. It is nothing but mocking and lies. These people will never understand you, your wants and your tastes. I tell you, only he that is of the truth can understand and love the truth. You will be always a stranger to them."

"I am ashamed of you, Pilgrim. You are saying these things of persons whose house you have entered daily for eight years, at whose table you eat, and with whom you are apparently on friendly terms. What must I think of you?"

"That I go to an inn, eat, drink, and pay my money. I pay daily, and am done with them daily."

"I cannot understand you."

"I believe you. I have had to pay dear for my knowledge, and would rather have remained ignorant, like you. It is not pleasant to know people as they are. Yet the world has some-"

"And you think yourself one of the good ones?"

"Not exactly that. I thought you would turn against me. I must bear it. Abuse me, do with me what you will, cut my hand off, – I will gladly beg, if I may know that thus I have saved a man like you. Give up Annele, I entreat you. You have not asked her yet of her father. You are not bound."

"Those are the tricks your knowledge of the world teaches you, – are they? I am not so clever as you; I never travelled abroad, as you have; but I know what is right. I have betrothed myself to Annele in the presence of her mother, and I will keep my word. God grant I may receive her from her father! I tell you, for the last time, I did not ask your advice. I am quite able to act for myself."

"I shall rejoice with all my heart if I have been mistaken. But no; Lenz, for Heaven's sake, be persuaded! There is still time. You cannot say I have ever dissuaded you from marrying."

"No."

"You were born to be a husband. I was a fool not to urge you more strongly to marry one of the doctor's daughters."

"Do you think I would have gone to them, and said, 'My guardian, Pilgrim, sends his compliments, and says I am to marry one of you, – Amanda, if I can'? No: they are too fine ladies for me."

"They are, indeed, fine ladies, while Annele only acts the fine lady. Because the doctor's daughters are not on familiar terms with all the world, you thought it would be difficult to become intimate with them. It was easier with Annele. Oh, I see it all. Annele talked with you of your grief, as she knows how to talk of every thing, and that opened your heart. Annele has in every gown a pocketful of small coin. Her heart is such a pocket, from which she brings out change for every guest."

"Pilgrim, you are doing a wrong, a great wrong!" cried Lenz, his lips trembling with sorrow and anger. To convince his friend how sincere and true-hearted Annele was, he told him her words after the death of his mother and after the departure of his great work. Every one had been to him a revelation.

"My pennies! my coppers!" cried Pilgrim. "My poor coppers! She robbed a beggar-man to get her pennies! O fool, cursed fool that I was! All she said, every word, she stole from me. She is like a corkscrew for getting things out of one. I was fool enough to say those very words to her. It serves me right. Yet how could I think she would trap you with them? O my poor pennies!" The two friends sat long in silence. Pilgrim bit his lips till they bled. Lenz shook his head, doubtingly. "Do you know Annele's chief motive for taking you?" resumed Pilgrim at length. "It was not your tall figure, not your good heart, not even your money. Those were minor considerations. Her chief delight is that the doctor's daughter did not get you. He is not yours, but mine. You cannot understand a character like Annele's, to whom no pleasure, no happiness is complete that does not wound another; whose greatest triumph is to imagine another's vexation at seeing her so handsome, so rich, so happy. I did not believe there were such persons till I knew Annele. Brother, seek not to know her better; it would be your ruin. Why do you look so at me? why don't you speak? Break out at me, do what you will, do with me what you will, only give up Annele; she is poison! I pray you give up Annele! Think, – I have forgotten the crowning argument of all, – think, and God grant you may not think too late! I desire to be no prophet of evil-Annele cannot grow old."

"Ha, ha! now you would try to make her out sickly. She is sound to the core. Her complexion is of milk and roses."

"Not that; I do not mean that. Was there ever a woman whom it did one more good to be with than with your mother? And why? Because her heart shone in her face, her kindliness towards all men, her joy and care that they should be happy; that makes an old face beautiful, and all who look upon it blessed. But Annele! when she has no more hair to braid into a crown, and no more red cheeks, and no more white teeth to show when she laughs, what is left? She has nothing to grow old; no soul in her body, only pretty phrases; no true heart, no honest intelligence, only a spirit of mockery. When she grows old, she will be no better than the devil's grandmother."

Lenz pressed his lips hard between his teeth. "It is enough, more than enough," he said at last; "not another word. One thing, however, I have a right to demand, – that as you have spoken to me you speak to no one else, no one, and never to me after this day. Only these four walls have heard you. I love my Annele, – and-and-I love you, too, in spite of your jealousy. I no longer desire you to go with me when I ask for her hand. Good night, Pilgrim!"

"Good night, Lenz!"