A FRIEND'S WARNING.
Thank God, he is at home! there is a light in his room. He is playing
the guitar. O dear good Pilgrim!
May heaven keep me in my senses, and let me not die of joy! Oh, if my
good mother had but lived to see this day!
Pilgrim was playing and singing so loud as not to hear him as he
ascended the stairs. Lenz threw open the door, and, spreading out his
arms, exclaimed, "Rejoice with me, brother; I am so happy!"
"What is the matter?"
"I am betrothed."
"You are? To whom?"
"How can you ask? to her, to the truest heart in all the world, and as
wise and bright as the day. O Annele!"
"What! Annele? Annele of the Lion?"
"You wonder at her taking me, do you not? I know I am not worthy of
her, but I will deserve her. God is my witness, I will deserve her. I
will devote my life to her; she shall--"
His eyes fell upon his mother's picture. "Mother, dearest mother!" he
cried, "in thy place in the seventh heaven rejoice, for thy son is
happy!"
He fell upon his knees, and tears choked his voice. Pilgrim laid his
hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, dear Pilgrim,--forgive me," prayed
Lenz, rising; "would I could beg the whole world's forgiveness! I have
often resolved to be a stronger, firmer man. Now I shall have a wife
who deserves a manly husband. But this once I must give way. I have
been wishing, as I came here, that some hard task might be imposed upon
me,--no matter what, only something, something so difficult it would
take my whole heart and strength;--I would do it; I would prove myself
worthy of the happiness God has granted me."
"Hush, hush! other men have got other women before now. There is no
need to tear the world to pieces about it."
"If my mother had but lived to know this!"
"If your mother had lived, Annele would not have had you. It is only
because you are without encumbrances, without a mother, that she cares
for you."
"Say not that, Pilgrim! she so reveres my mother!"
"It is easy to revere her when she is no longer here. I tell you, you
were nothing to Annele till your mother died."
"You have not even wished me happiness."
"I wish you happiness! I wish you all happiness!"
"Why do you say it twice? Tell me why twice?"
"Only because the words came out so."
"No, you had a meaning in them."
"True, I had. I will tell you to-morrow, not to-night."
"Why to-morrow? tell me now; you shall not hide anything from me."
"You are drunken now; how can I speak soberly with you?"
"I am not drunken; I am perfectly sober."
"Good; tell me, then, how this all happened so suddenly."
"I cannot tell. It came upon me like a flash from heaven, and now I see
it had long been the one wish of my heart."
"I thought so; and yet I thought, too, you would do nothing without
letting me know."
"Neither will I. You shall go with me to her father to-morrow. I have
not yet laid my suit before him."
"Not yet? Thank Heaven! Then I hope it may come to nothing."
"What! would you drive me mad?"
"No need of that. Lenz, she is not yet your betrothed; she is not yet
your wife; there is still time for me to speak openly. It would be
wrong to draw back now, but it would be only one wrong. If you marry
Annele, you will be doing a thousand wrongs your life long. Lenz, she
is no wife for you,--she least of any."
"You do not know her, only joking with her as you do. But I have
learned her through and through,--her goodness, her cleverness."
"You think I do not know her? Why, I have eaten a bushel of salt with
those people. I can describe them every one to you. Annele and her
mother are so much alike they cannot bear one another, though they do
pretend to be so fond in public. They exchange sweet speeches, because
the guests eat and drink better when pleasant sounds are going on. But
none of their soft words come from the heart. They have no heart. I
never believed, till I knew them, that there could be such persons.
They talk of kindness, of love, of pity, of patriotism too, perhaps,
and religion; but these things are empty words to them, meaning
nothing, prompting them to nothing. The world, they firmly believe, has
agreed to use the names for effect, without any one attaching the least
significance to them. Annele has not a ray of heart; and without heart
I maintain there can be no right understanding. She can never enter
into another's feelings and opinions; can neither share them nor yield
to them. She can, like her mother, catch another person's words, and
make a fine show with them. They both have a peculiar faculty of
blaming, even scolding, in such a way that you cannot make out to the
end whether it is a declaration of love or of war. Father, mother, and
daughter make nice music together for the public edification. Annele
plays first fiddle, the old woman second, and mine host a growling
bass. He, I must say, is the only honest one in the house. Here, as
everywhere, the female bees are the ones that sting, and how they
sting! The landlord speaks charitably of his neighbors, and cannot bear
to hear his wife and daughter abuse them. Their special delight is to
tear to pieces the good name of wife or maid. The mother does it with a
certain hypocritical compassion, but Annele plays with the world like a
cat with a mouse; and the burden of the song always must be, you are
the fairest, the healthiest, the cleverest, and, if it is any
compliment, the best. I have often studied to make out what constitutes
the essence of ill-breeding, which may be highly polished to the eye.
True coarseness is pleasure in the misfortunes of others. O Lenz, you
have not the key-note of that household; all your knowledge of music
will not help you find it. It is nothing but mocking and lies. These
people will never understand you, your wants and your tastes. I tell
you, only he that is of the truth can understand and love the truth.
You will be always a stranger to them."
"I am ashamed of you, Pilgrim. You are saying these things of persons
whose house you have entered daily for eight years, at whose table you
eat, and with whom you are apparently on friendly terms. What must I
think of you?"
"That I go to an inn, eat, drink, and pay my money. I pay daily, and am
done with them daily."
"I cannot understand you."
"I believe you. I have had to pay dear for my knowledge, and would
rather have remained ignorant, like you. It is not pleasant to know
people as they are. Yet the world has some--"
"And you think yourself one of the good ones?"
"Not exactly that. I thought you would turn against me. I must bear it.
Abuse me, do with me what you will, cut my hand off,--I will gladly
beg, if I may know that thus I have saved a man like you. Give up
Annele, I entreat you. You have not asked her yet of her father. You
are not bound."
"Those are the tricks your knowledge of the world teaches you,--are
they? I am not so clever as you; I never travelled abroad, as you have;
but I know what is right. I have betrothed myself to Annele in the
presence of her mother, and I will keep my word. God grant I may
receive her from her father! I tell you, for the last time, I did not
ask your advice. I am quite able to act for myself."
"I shall rejoice with all my heart if I have been mistaken. But no;
Lenz, for Heaven's sake, be persuaded! There is still time. You cannot
say I have ever dissuaded you from marrying."
"No."
"You were born to be a husband. I was a fool not to urge you more
strongly to marry one of the doctor's daughters."
"Do you think I would have gone to them, and said, 'My guardian,
Pilgrim, sends his compliments, and says I am to marry one of
you,--Amanda, if I can'? No: they are too fine ladies for me."
"They are, indeed, fine ladies, while Annele only acts the fine lady.
Because the doctor's daughters are not on familiar terms with all the
world, you thought it would be difficult to become intimate with them.
It was easier with Annele. Oh, I see it all. Annele talked with you of
your grief, as she knows how to talk of every thing, and that opened
your heart. Annele has in every gown a pocketful of small coin. Her
heart is such a pocket, from which she brings out change for every
guest."
"Pilgrim, you are doing a wrong, a great wrong!" cried Lenz, his lips
trembling with sorrow and anger. To convince his friend how sincere and
true-hearted Annele was, he told him her words after the death of his
mother and after the departure of his great work. Every one had been to
him a revelation.
"My pennies! my coppers!" cried Pilgrim. "My poor coppers! She robbed a
beggar-man to get her pennies! O fool, cursed fool that I was! All she
said, every word, she stole from me. She is like a corkscrew for
getting things out of one. I was fool enough to say those very words to
her. It serves me right. Yet how could I think she would trap you with
them? O my poor pennies!" The two friends sat long in silence. Pilgrim
bit his lips till they bled. Lenz shook his head, doubtingly. "Do you
know Annele's chief motive for taking you?" resumed Pilgrim at length.
"It was not your tall figure, not your good heart, not even your money.
Those were minor considerations. Her chief delight is that the doctor's
daughter did not get you. He is not yours, but mine. You cannot
understand a character like Annele's, to whom no pleasure, no happiness
is complete that does not wound another; whose greatest triumph is to
imagine another's vexation at seeing her so handsome, so rich, so
happy. I did not believe there were such persons till I knew Annele.
Brother, seek not to know her better; it would be your ruin. Why do you
look so at me? why don't you speak? Break out at me, do what you will,
do with me what you will, only give up Annele; she is poison! I pray
you give up Annele! Think,--I have forgotten the crowning argument of
all,--think, and God grant you may not think too late! I desire to be
no prophet of evil--Annele cannot grow old."
"Ha, ha! now you would try to make her out sickly. She is sound to the
core. Her complexion is of milk and roses."
"Not that; I do not mean that. Was there ever a woman whom it did one
more good to be with than with your mother? And why? Because her heart
shone in her face, her kindliness towards all men, her joy and care
that they should be happy; that makes an old face beautiful, and all
who look upon it blessed. But Annele! when she has no more hair to
braid into a crown, and no more red cheeks, and no more white teeth to
show when she laughs, what is left? She has nothing to grow old; no
soul in her body, only pretty phrases; no true heart, no honest
intelligence, only a spirit of mockery. When she grows old, she will be
no better than the devil's grandmother."
Lenz pressed his lips hard between his teeth. "It is enough, more than
enough," he said at last; "not another word. One thing, however, I have
a right to demand,--that as you have spoken to me you speak to no one
else, no one, and never to me after this day. Only these four walls
have heard you. I love my Annele,--and--and--I love you, too, in spite
of your jealousy. I no longer desire you to go with me when I ask for
her hand. Good night, Pilgrim!"
"Good night, Lenz!"