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.