LENZ DINES WITH PETROVITSCH, AND IS KEPT WAITING
FOR THE SWEETS.
Petrovitsch had not yet come. As Lenz sat at his table waiting for him,
Pilgrim and he fell into conversation with the hosts. Annele was
strangely reserved to-day. She would not even shake hands with Lenz
when he entered, but pretended to be busy with some household work. Her
hand is promised, he thought; she can give it to no one now, even in
greeting. At last his uncle arrived, or rather his forerunner in the
shape of a mongrel cur, half terrier and half rat-catcher.
"Good day, Lenz!" said the surly voice of Petrovitsch, who followed
behind the dog. "I expected you yesterday. Did you forget I had invited
you?"
"I confess I did entirely."
"I will excuse you under the circumstances; but generally a business
man ought not to forget. I never forgot even a pocket-handkerchief in
my whole life, and never lost so much as a pin. A man should always
keep his seven senses about him. Now let us have dinner."
Annele brought the soup. The uncle helped himself, put some into
another plate, and told Lenz he might have what was left. Then he drew
from his pocket the paper, which he took daily from the post, cut it
open while his soup was cooling, laid his tobacco-pouch and meerschaum
upon it, and finally began his dinner.
"This is the way I like to live," said he, when the soup was removed
and he was crumbing bread into the plate for the unknown guest,--"take
my meals in a public house where I can have fresh table linen every
day, throw down my score when I am done, and remain my own master."
When the meat was brought on, Petrovitsch, with his own hand, put a
slice on Lenz's plate, took another himself, and cut again for the
third plate. It must be meant for some very intimate friend, for the
old man put his finger into it, after sprinkling some water over, and
stirred up the food. At last the mystery was explained by his calling
to his dog: "Come, Bubby, come; gently, gently, not so rough, Bubby;
quiet, quiet!" He set the plate on the floor, and the dog attacked the
dinner with a relish, licking his chops when it was over, and looking
up gratefully and contentedly in his master's face. For the rest of the
meal Bubby, as the dog was called, to the disgust of the villagers, got
nothing thrown him but an occasional crumb. Petrovitsch said little
during dinner. When he had finished, he lighted his pipe and took the
paper, which Bubby understood as a sign that he might jump up into his
master's lap. There he remained, half sitting and half standing, while
Petrovitsch read the paper over the dog's head. Lenz found his position
rather embarrassing. The old man's habits were too settled to be easily
interrupted.
"Uncle," he said at last, "what made you spread the report that I was
going abroad?"
Petrovitsch took three comfortable pulls at his cigar, blew out the
smoke, stroked his dog, pushed him gently off his lap, folded the
paper, restored it to his pocket, and finally answered: "Why, Lenz,
what a queer fellow you are! You told me yourself you wanted to renew
your youth by going out to see the world."
"I don't remember saying so."
"Very likely not; you hardly knew what you were talking about. But it
would be a good plan if you did go away awhile; you would get out of
many a rut. I have no desire and no right to force you."
Lenz was actually persuaded by his uncle's positive assertion that he
had expressed such an intention, and apologized for having forgotten
the circumstance.
"Draw your chair up closer, Lenz," whispered Petrovitsch,
confidentially. "There's no need for the world to hear our
conversation. Look here, if you take my advice, you won't marry."
"But, uncle, what makes you suppose I am thinking of marrying?"
"There is no telling what you young people won't do. Profit by my
example, Lenz. I am one of the happiest men in the world. I have been
enjoying myself for six weeks in Baden-Baden, and now everything seems
pleasant to me here again. Wherever I go, I am my own master and
command the best service. Besides, there are no girls nowadays who
are good for anything. You would die of ennui with the simple and
good-natured, while the bright and clever expect you three times a day,
at every meal, to send off fireworks for their entertainment, besides
boring you with continual complaints of 'this tiresome housekeeping
that you men know nothing about.' Then there are the crying children,
and the poor relations, and the school-bills, and the dowries."
"If every one thought as you do, the world would die out in a hundred
years."
"Pooh! there is no danger of its dying out," laughed Petrovitsch, as he
pressed his tobacco down into his pipe with a little porcelain
instrument he always kept by him for the purpose. "Look at Annele now."
A chill he could not account for struck to Lenz's heart. "She is a
natty little woman, always in harness. I call her my court jester.
Those old kings were wise in keeping a fool to make them laugh over
their dinner: it helped digestion. Annele is my court fool; she
entertains me here every day."
When Lenz looked round, Pilgrim had vanished. He seemed determined his
friend should disown him before the rich uncle. But Lenz considered it
his duty to tell Petrovitsch that he was a faithful friend to Pilgrim,
and always should be.
The old man commended his nephew for his constancy, and further
surprised him by praising Pilgrim, who, he said, was just like himself,
and cared nothing for marrying and womenfolks.
The dog became uneasy, and began to whine.
"Quiet!" said Petrovitsch, threateningly. "Be patient; we are going
home now to sleep. Come, Bubby! Are you coming too, Lenz?"
Lenz accompanied his uncle as far as his house,--a large, imposing
building, where he lived entirely alone. The door opened at their
approach as if by magic; for the servant was obliged to be on the
lookout, and open for her master without his knocking. No stranger was
admitted who could not explain his business satisfactorily. The
villagers used to say that even a fly must have a pass to enter that
house.
There the nephew bade his uncle good by, and was thanked with a yawn
for his politeness.
Lenz was happy to be at his work again that afternoon. The house, which
had seemed too desolate to live in, began to feel once more like home.
There is no true comfort to be found in outside excitements, but only
between one's own four walls. He chose a place for his mother's
portrait directly above his father's file. She would look down on him
from there as he sat at work, and he could often look up at her.
"Keep the room nice and neat," he said to Franzl. "It is always neat,"
she answered, with pardonable indignation. Lenz could not explain that
he wanted it particularly nice because he was every moment expecting
Annele and her mother to see and hear the musical clock before it was
sent to Russia. When she came, he would ask her plainly what foundation
there was for the stories about herself and the engineer. He must ask,
though he felt he had no right. Then he should know on what terms he
might stand with her.
Day after day went by, and still no Annele came. Lenz often passed the
Lion without going up, finally without even looking up.