Annele only knew of the smaller debts, and said:--"Go to your uncle, he must a.s.sist you."

Yes, to his uncle! Petrowitsch made a point of invariably leaving the village when a funeral took place there--not from compa.s.sion--but it was a disagreeable sight--and the very day after the ruin of the Landlord, Petrowitsch left home, yielding up on this occasion the unripe cherries in his avenue, as a harvest to the pa.s.sers by, and he did not return till winter had fairly set in, and a new landlord settled in the "Golden Lion," the old proprietors having gone to live in a house adjoining that of their son-in-law, the wood merchant, in a neighbouring town. The old Landlord of the "Lion" had borne his fate with almost admirable equanimity; once only, at a little distance from the village, when the Techniker drove past him in his caleche, with his two chesnuts, the Landlord lost his usual phlegmatic composure, but no one saw him stagger and stumble into a ditch, where he lay for a long time, till at last he managed to scramble out.

Petrowitsch walked now in a different direction. He no longer pa.s.sed Lenz's house, nor went to the wood, which was, indeed, by this time nearly cut down.

Lenz used to sit up late calculating; he could devise nothing, and soon a sum was offered to him, but it seemed to him as burning as if it had been coined in the Devil's workshop.

Ernestine's husband came one day with a stranger to the Morgenhalde, and said:--"Lenz, here is a person who will buy your house."

"What do you mean? my house?"

"Yes, you said so yourself; it is of much less value now that it formerly was, for since the wood has been felled, its situation is very dangerous, but still proper precautions may be taken."

"Who, pray, said I wished to sell my house?"

"Your wife."

"What? my wife? Come in: Annele, did you say I would sell my house?"

"Not exactly; I only said to Ernestine, that if her husband knew of a respectable inn in a good situation, we would buy it, and then sell our house here."

"But it is more prudent," said the Grocer, "to dispose of your house first; with ready money in hand, you will easily get a suitable inn."

Lenz looked pale and agitated, but simply said:--"I have no intention whatever of selling my house."

The Grocer and his friend were angry and displeased at such capricious people, who would take no advice, and caused so much trouble for nothing.

Lenz nearly got into a rage with them, but he had sufficient command over himself to say nothing in reply. When he was at last left alone with Annele, she did not speak a word, though he looked at her several times; he at length said:--"Why did you do this to me?"

"To you? I did nothing to you; but it must be so--we shall have no peace till we leave this place. I won't stay here any longer, and I am determined to keep an inn, and you shall see that I will make more by it in a single year, ay, three times as much as you, with all your worry about your pegs and wheels."

"And do you really think you can force me to take such a step?"

"You will thank me one day for insisting on it; it is not easy to force you to give up your old ways, and to leave this house."

"I am leaving it now, this minute," said Lenz in a low voice; and, hastily drawing on his coat, he left the house.

Annele ran after him a few steps.

"Where are you going to, Lenz?"

He made no answer, but proceeded to climb the hill.

When he reached the crest of the hill, he looked round once. There lay his paternal house; no longer sheltered by trees, it looked bleak and naked, and he felt as if his whole life had been also laid bare. He turned again, and rushed on further. His idea was to go far, far away, and when he returned he might be different, and the world also. He plodded on further and further, and yet an irresistible impulse urged him to turn back. At last he sat down on the stump of a tree, and covered his face with both his hands. It was a still, mild, autumnal afternoon, the sun had kindly intentions towards the earth, and more especially to the Morgenhalde; he still shed warm rays on the felled trees which he had shone on, and renovated, for so many long years. The magpies were chattering fluently on the chesnut trees below, and the woodp.e.c.k.e.r sometimes put in his word. All was night and death within Lenz's soul. A child suddenly said: "Man! come, and help me with this."

Lenz rose and helped Faller's eldest little girl, who had been collecting chips, to place her basket on her shoulder. The child started when she recognized Lenz, and ran down the hill. Lenz gazed long after her.

It was quite night when he came home. He did not say a word, and sat for more than an hour looking down fixedly. He then glanced up at his tools hanging on the wall, with a singular, earnest expression, as if he were trying to remember what they were, and what purpose they were meant to serve.

The child in the next room began to cry; Annele went to it, and the only way she could pacify it was by singing.

A mother will sing for the sake of her child, even if her heart is crushed by a burden of sorrow. Lenz then rose and went into the next room, and said:--

"Annele, I was on the point of leaving the country for ever--yes, you may laugh: I knew that you would laugh."

"I am not laughing; it already occurred to me, that perhaps it would be a good thing if you could travel for a year, and try to retrieve our fortunes; possibly you might return with some sense, and things would go on more smoothly."

It cut Lenz to the heart that Annele should be eager for him to leave her, but he only said--"I could not make up my mind to go, when everything went well with me, still less can I do so now, when I am so miserable at heart. I am nothing, and good for nothing, if I have not a single happy thought in my soul."

"Now I must laugh at you," said Annele, "you could not travel, either when you were happy, or unhappy."

"I don't understand you; I never did understand you, or you me."

"The worst of all is, that there is not only misery without, but misery within."

"Put an end to it then, and be kind and good."

"Don't speak so loud, you will wake the child again," said Annele; as soon as this subject engaged her thoughts, she would not utter a syllable.

Lenz returned to the next room; and when Annele came in, leaving the door ajar, he said:--"Now that we are in sorrow, we should love and cherish each other more than ever; it is the only comfort left to us, and yet you will not--why will you not?"

"Love cannot be forced."

"Then I must go away."

"And I will stay at home," said Annele, in a desponding voice, "I will stay with my children."

"They are as much mine as yours."

"No doubt;" said Annele, in a hard tone.

"There is the clock beginning to play its old melodies," said Lenz, hurriedly, "I cannot bear to hear a single tone--never again! If one of them could dash out my brains, it would be best, for I cannot get a single thought out of them. Can't you say a kind word to me, Annele?"

"I don't know any."

"Then I will say one--Let us make peace, and all will be well."

"I am quite content to do so."

"Can't you throw your arms round my neck, and rejoice that I am here again?"

"Not tonight; perhaps tomorrow I may."

"And if I were to die this very night?"

"Then I should be a widow."

"And marry another?"