FRIENDLY ADVICE.
When Lenz awoke the next morning, the journeyman and apprentice whom he
had sent home at the time of his mother's death were already at work in
their old places. Never before had they been on hand before their
master. He was surprised to find the sun high in the heavens when he
threw open his window, and to hear the various clocks in his room
striking seven. Had his wish that he might sleep for weeks been really
granted? Weeks seemed to lie between yesterday and to-day. Yesterday,
how long ago it was! how much had happened!
Franzl brought his breakfast and sat down with him unbidden. "What
shall I cook for your dinner to day?"
"For mine? Nothing; I shall not be at home to dinner. Cook for yourself
as usual. Only think, Franzl, that good Pilgrim--"
"Yes," interrupted Franzl; "he was here last evening, and waited a long
while for you."
"Was he? and I had gone to see him. Only think, he has been secretly
painting a picture of my mother. You would be amazed to see how
lifelike it is. She seems on the point of speaking."
"I knew what he was about. He came to me privately for your mother's
Sunday jacket, her red bodice, and fine-plaited ruff, her neckerchief
and hood. Her garnet ornaments you had locked up with those other
things that I know nothing about. It is none of my business; I don't
need to know everything. But I can keep a secret as well as another; I
would not tell if you tapped every vein in my body. Did a breath of
what Pilgrim was about escape me? Did I drop a hint of why he did not
come? You may trust me with anything."
As Lenz did not seem inclined to take her into his confidence, she
began questioning him.
"Where are you going to-day? Where did you spend last evening?"
Lenz looked at her in surprise, and made no answer.
"Were you at your uncle Petrovitsch's?"
He still made no answer beyond a shake of the head, and Franzl helped
both him and herself out of the difficulty by saying: "I have no more
time now. I must go into the garden to pick the beans for dinner. I
have engaged a woman to-day to help me dig potatoes; are you willing?"
"Certainly; only see that everything is done as it should be."
Lenz, too, went to his work, but could not fix his mind upon it. None
of his tools suited him. Even his father's file, which he was generally
so careful of, he threw roughly aside.
The Magic Flute began to play. "Who wound up the clock?" asked Lenz,
surprised.
"I did," said the apprentice.
Lenz was silent. He must expect everything to go on in its old way. The
world does not stand still because one heart has ceased to beat and
another longs to be at rest forever. He worked on more quietly. The
journeyman told of a young man in Triberg who had lately come home from
foreign parts and wanted to set up a manufactory of musical clocks in
the neighborhood.
I might sell out to him, thought Lenz, and be free to travel and see
the world. But the thought awoke no enthusiasm in him now; it was only
like the echo of what he had once desired. The very fact of his uncle's
having spread a report of his going, wishing thereby to compel him to
it, made him averse to the plan. He took his father's file once more in
his hand. The man who used this file, he thought, spent his life on
this spot, except for one short season of absence, and was happy. To be
sure he married young; that makes a difference.
Lenz's habit was, when he had business at the foundry on the other side
of the mountain, to send his apprentice. To-day he went himself, and
sat but a little while at his work after his return. Before the morning
hours were half over, he went down into the village and thence up the
meadow to Pilgrim's. His old friend was sitting at his easel, painting.
He got up, passed both hands through his long, lank, sandy hair, and
offered the right to Lenz, who began at once to thank him for the
joyful surprise his mother's picture had given him, as well as for his
friend's kindness in thinking of it.
"Pooh, pooh!" said Pilgrim, thrusting both his hands into his wide
leather breeches, "I did it for my own pleasure. It is desperately
stupid work painting that blessed village from one year's end to the
other; the same old church with the bishop's mitre for a steeple and a
hole to put the dial-plate in; the mower with his scythe, who never
budges a step; the mother and child always running towards each other
and never meeting; the baby, stretching out its little hands, and never
reaching its father; and that plaguy fellow with his back turned, who
never lets us see what sort of a face he has. Yet hundreds and hundreds
of times I am made to paint that staring grass-green thing because the
world must have what it has been used to. I could paint it with my eyes
shut, I do believe, and still am kept at it. For once in my life I have
done myself a pleasure, and painted your mother. It is my first and
last portrait; for I don't like the faces about here, and don't mean to
bore future generations with the sight of them. Your uncle was right
never to consent to have his picture taken. When a travelling artist
some time ago asked him to sit: 'No,' said he, 'I have no idea of
seeing myself one of these days hanging in a rag-shop side by side with
Napoleon and old Fritz.' He has queer fancies, that old fellow. There
is no telling where he will strike out next."
"Never mind my uncle now. You painted my mother's picture for me,--did
you not?"
"Yes, if you want it. Come here a moment; stand just there. The eyes
are the least satisfactory part of the picture to me, and the doctor
said the same thing when he was here this morning. He meant to bring a
friend with him who is something of an artist, but he did not get out
of bed early enough. You have exactly your mother's eyes. Stand there a
minute, just as you are. Now keep quiet, and think of something
pleasant,--of some one you are going to do a kindness to. Remember
Faller and his house, then you will have just your mother's hearty
expression; not a smile, but such a kind, cordial look. So,--that is it
exactly. Don't blink. Nay, I cannot paint you if you cry."
"The tears will come," apologized Lenz. "I could not help thinking how
my mother's eyes--"
"Well, well; we will let it be. I know now what is needed. Let us take
a recess; and high time we did too, for it is almost noon. You will eat
your dinner with me, won't you?"
"Don't be offended; but I must dine with my Uncle Petrovitsch to-day."
"Nothing you could do would offend me. Tell me now about yourself."
Lenz laid before his friend the plan he had half formed of going abroad
for a year or two, and urged him to carry out their boyish project of
going together. Perhaps the luck they had hoped for in those days might
be realized now.
"Don't do it; don't go," urged Pilgrim. "You and I, Lenz, were never
meant to be rich men, and it is best so. My Don Bastian is the sort of
man to make money. He has travelled over the whole world, and knows as
little about it as the cow does of the creed. Wherever he went,
whatever place he entered, his one thought was how to make money, how
to save and to cheat. So he got on everywhere. The Spanish peasant is
as cunning as the German, and likes nothing so well as to get the
better of his neighbors. When my Don Bastian came home, he brought
nothing with him but his money, and had nothing to do but to dispose of
that to the best advantage. Such a man as that will get on in the
world."
"And we?"
"He whose pleasure lies in things that cannot be had for gold needs no
money. All the superfluous chink that I have is my guitar, and it is
all I want. I heard Don Bastian's youngest boy saying the Ten
Commandments one day, and a bright thought came into my head. What is
the first commandment? 'I am the Lord thy God: thou shalt have no other
gods beside me.' Every man, then, can have but one God. You and I take
pleasure in our art. You are happy when you have accomplished a work
that harmonizes in all its parts, and so am I, though I do complain
sometimes of the everlasting village with the same old mower and the
eternal mother and child. But I am glad when it is done; and even while
I am doing it I am as gay as a bird,--as gay as the finch there on the
church-roof. Now a man that delights in his work, and puts his whole
heart and soul into it, cannot be always thinking how he can make
money, how he can speculate and cheat. And if he has a joy that money
cannot buy, what does he want of money? I am satisfied with the sight
of a beautiful group of trees,--with watching the sunbeams flicker in
and out among the branches, and play bo-peep with one another so happy
and loving. What should I gain by having the forest my own? 'Thou shalt
have no other gods beside me.' That is a good saying. A second god is
pretty sure to be the devil, as you may see by your Uncle Petrovitsch.
The apostle says the same thing: 'Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord
and the cup of devils.'"
"Come and live with me," was Lenz's only answer. "I will have our upper
room fitted up for you, and give you a chamber besides."
"Thank you, but that would be a mistake for both of us. Lenz, you are
one of a thousand. You were cut out for a husband and father; you must
marry. I imagine already the pleasure I shall take in telling your
children stories about my travels. When I am too old to work, you shall
give me a home with you, and kill me with kindness, if you will. But
now keep your eyes open. Don't seem too fond of me. I not only will not
be offended, but I advise you to put me in the background, that you may
have a chance of a place in your uncle's will. We should make capital
heirs. I have a real talent for inheriting; but unhappily my relatives
are all poor devils, rich in nothing but children. I am the only one in
the family that will have anything to leave, and I shall play the rich
uncle one of these days, like Petrovitsch."
As a passing shower, which began to fall while the friends were
talking, put a fresh brightness on the face of nature, so did Lenz's
heart grow lighter under Pilgrim's influence. They waited till the rain
was over, and then set out together for the hotel; but did not enter at
the same time, as Pilgrim was unwilling to be seen by Petrovitsch in
Lenz's company. A wagon stood before the door, and a young man was
taking leave of the landlord, who accompanied him a few steps, and
offered him his two fingers, pushing his little cap on the back of his
head as he did so. After a parting salutation to the landlady and her
daughter, the stranger ordered the coachman to drive on, and wait for
him at the doctor's.
He raised his cap in greeting to the two friends as he passed them.
"Do you know him?" asked Pilgrim.
"No."
"Nor I either," said Pilgrim. "That is odd! Who is the stranger?" he
asked of the landlord.
"The brother of my son-in-law."
"Oho!" whispered Pilgrim in Lenz's ear; "now I remember; some one told
me he was a suitor of Annele's."
He did not see the change these words wrought in his friend's
countenance; for Lenz turned hastily away and ran up the steps before
him.