For weeks he never went into the village, and Annele was often with her parents.

A particular occurrence at last caused him to leave his house. Pilgrim was dangerously ill. Lenz sat up with him night after night, and it was a great effort of friendship to do so, for Annele had said to him:--"Your good deeds towards Pilgrim are only a cloak for your laziness, and for your slovenly, indolent nature. You fancy that you have played a good part in the world, whereas you have done nothing, and succeed in nothing. What are you good for?" He breathed more hurriedly when he heard these insulting words; he felt as if a stone had fallen on his heart and crushed it, and the stone was not to be moved.

"Now," said he, "there is nothing more that you can say to me, except that I behaved badly to my mother."

"Yes! and so you did--so you did! Horger Toni, your cousin, who is now in America, often said before us, that a greater hypocrite than you did not exist, and that he was called in a thousand times to make up your quarrels with your mother."

"You say that simply because you would like to see me in a rage again, but you shall not succeed; it does not distress me in the least. Why do you quote a person in America? Why not some one here? But you only wish to sting me--good night!"

He went to Pilgrim, who was now convalescent, and stayed all night with him. As Pilgrim was getting better, he was naturally in good spirits, and Lenz was unwilling to destroy his cheerfulness; on the contrary, he listened patiently when Pilgrim related to him:--"During my illness, I learned to comprehend how it is that a bird all his life long only twitters a couple of notes. In the half life of a dreamy state, even one tone is sufficient. During four long weeks, my soul was haunted by this solitary notion. Man has no wings, but he has got lungs, and even with one lung left, I may still live to eat potatoes for seventy seven years, and if I had been a bird I would have incessantly whistled, like a silly bird, 'one lung, two lungs, two lungs, one lung,' just like a gra.s.shopper."

The words that haunted Lenz were also few but sad. No one should hear them.

"A reference to the Bible," continued Pilgrim cheerfully, "quite confirmed my fixed resolution to remain a bachelor and alone, for it is clearly written there, that man was at first alone in the world,--the woman never was alone,--and that it is good that man _can_ live alone.

Only I change one little word, and say it is good that man _should_ be alone."

Lenz smiled, but he felt the application.

Next morning Lenz, having sat up all night, went home weary and as pale as death to his work, and when he saw his children, he said:--

"I scarcely knew that I had children."

"No doubt you forget them utterly," said Annele.

Lenz again felt a stab in his heart, but he did not feel it so acutely as formerly, and when he looked up at his mother's picture, he exclaimed:--

"Mother! mother! She has slandered you too! can you not speak? Do not punish her, intercede with G.o.d not to visit her with a judgment for her sin. If he punishes her, my poor children and I must suffer also. Help me, dear mother, and influence her no longer to crush my heart. You know me--you alone--beloved mother!"

"I can't listen to such mummery," said Annele, and went with the two children to the kitchen.

The stress on the mainspring was severe.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE AXE IS PUT TO THE ROOT OF LIFE, AND TEARS ARE SHED.

It had been a sultry day, and was still a close, sultry evening, when the Landlord of the Lion, who had driven to the town in an open caleche with his pair of chesnuts, returned home. When he was driving through the village, he looked round in a strange manner to the right and to the left, and greeted every one with unusual politeness. Gregor, who had driven him, was in his postilion's dress, but had no horn, got down and unharnessed the horses, and yet the Landlord still sat motionless in the caleche. He was gazing thoughtfully at his Inn, and then again at the carriage and horses. When, at last, he alighted and stood on the ground, he sighed deeply, for he knew it was the last time he should ever drive in an equipage of his own. All seems just as usual, and only one single man, besides himself, knows what will soon be. He went upstairs with a heavy step; his wife was on the landingplace above, and whispered to him:--

"How is it settled?"

"All will be arranged," answered the Landlord, pushing quickly past his wife to the public room, and not going first into the back parlour, as he usually did when he came home. He gave the maid his hat and stick, and joined the guests present. His dinner was brought to him at the guests' table by his own desire, but he did not seem to relish it.

The guests stayed till late at night, and he stayed with them; he spoke little, but even his sitting with them was considered a great attention and pleasure.

The wife had gone to bed, and after she had been long asleep, the Landlord also retired to rest--but rest he found none, for an invisible power drew away the pillow from under his head: this bed, this house, all here will be no longer yours tomorrow! His thoughts chiefly turned on the caleche and the chesnut horses. He hastily rubbed his eyes, for he suddenly thought that the two horses were in his room, stretching out their heads over his bed, breathing hard, and staring at him with their great eyes. He tried to compose his nerves, especially dwelling on the fact, that he had borne his sorrows like a man. He had said nothing to his wife, she should sleep soundly this night at least; it will be time enough for her to hear the bad news in the morning, and then not till after breakfast. When we have had a good night's rest, and are thus strengthened and refreshed, and bright day is shining on us, we can bear even the worst tidings with more fort.i.tude.

Day dawned at last, and the landlord, who was quite worn out, begged his wife, for once, to breakfast alone. At last he came downstairs, ate a good breakfast, and, as his wife urged him to tell her what arrangements had been made, he said:--

"Wife, I let you enjoy a peaceful night and morning, so now show some strength of mind, and hear my tidings with composure and resignation.

At this very hour, my lawyer is announcing my bankruptcy in the next town."

The Landlady sat for a time dumb and motionless; at last she said:--

"And pray why did you not tell me this last night?"

"From the wish to spare you, and to let you pa.s.s the night in peace and quiet."

"Spare me? You? A greater simpleton does not live! If you had told me all this last night, I might have contrived to put out of the way a vast deal of property, that would have stood us in good stead for years to come, but now the thing is impossible. Help! Help! Oh Heavens!"

screamed the landlady, suddenly, in the midst of their calm conversation, sinking back into a chair, apparently fainting.

The maids from the kitchen, and Gregor the postilion, rushed into the room. The Landlady started up and said, sobbing and turning to her husband:--

"You hid it from me, you never told me a word about it, or that you are now a bankrupt. All the shame, and all the disgrace rest on you; I am innocent, wretched creature that I am!"

It would now have been the Landlord's turn to faint away, if his determined will had not supported him; his spectacles fell down from his forehead over his eyes of their own accord, to let him see plainly if what was pa.s.sing here was really true: this woman, who had never rested till he, the experienced baker and brewer, went into partnership with her brother in a large concern for selling clocks, and when his brother-in-law died, almost forced him to continue the business alone, although he understood very little of such a traffic;--this woman, who had always urged him on to fresh speculations, and knew his involvements even better than he did himself;--this woman had now summoned the rabble as witnesses, in order to devolve the whole shame and blame on him.

It was not till this minute that the Landlord of the Lion fully realized the extent of his misery; they had lived together thirty-five years, on looking back,--and on looking forwards, who knows how many more were to come?--and in order to save herself, and expose him to all the blame, his wife could carry her hypocrisy to such an extent as this.

His spectacles were dimmed, so that he could no longer see through them; he first quietly wiped his gla.s.ses with his handkerchief, and then his eyes.

At this moment he felt a degree of resentment and rancour that was never afterwards effaced; but the proud Landlady soon resumed her wonted calmness and composure.

When the maids and the postilion had left the room, the Landlord said:--

"You know best why you have done this; I have no idea what good it can do, but I shall not say one word more on the subject."

He persisted in this resolution and maintained entire silence, and let his wife lament and complain as she thought fit. It had always rather amused him to see how placid and amiable his wife affected to be in the world. He almost became now, in reality, the wise man he had hitherto been considered, for during all the violent speeches of his wife, he thought--

"It is marvellous what people can arrive at! practice makes perfection."

The unwise world, however, did not take the sudden downfall of the Landlord of the Lion so coolly. It rolled like a thunderclap over hill and valley--the Landlord of the Lion is bankrupt!

It cannot be! it is impossible! who can be sure to stand fast, if the Landlord of the Lion falls? Even the very Golden Lion itself, on the sign, seemed to fight against such an idea, and the hooks, by which the painting was suspended, creaked loudly; but the commissioners of bankruptcy tame even lions, and do not, in the least, pay respect to them because they are golden ones. The sign was taken down. The lion looked very melancholy, one eye being hid by the wall, and the other seemed dim and sad, as if it wished to be also closed for ever, from feelings of grief and shame.

There was a great commotion in the village, and a great commotion in the Morgenhalde also.

Lenz ran down into the village, and then up the hill again to the Lion.

The Landlord was still pacing the public room, looking very grave, and saying, with an air of dignity:--

"I must bear it like a man."

He very nearly said--"like a man of honour."

The Landlady bewailed and lamented; she had known nothing of it, and vowed that she would put an end to herself.