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 G.o.ddess; 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sion 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 ent.i.tled 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 grat.i.tude, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 gla.s.s 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 ap.r.o.n 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!"