UNSPOKEN LOVE AND A BETROTHAL.
Lenz was gone, Pilgrim sat long alone, gazing at the light and
twirling his sandy beard. He was angry with himself. He had said
everything,--too much, in fact,--and defeated his own ends. There was
nothing to take back, all was true; but of what use had it been? He
walked restlessly up and down his room, then sat down again and stared
at the light. How strange life is! How few men work out the fate they
were meant for! The young will not believe it. They scold their elders
for grumbling, and then make botchery of their own lives. The world is
all right; only we must not expect to have everything our own way.
There was a deep, hidden life in Pilgrim. Ten years ago he had gone
abroad with a courage ready to conquer the world, and a silent
happiness in his heart that needed the assurance of no pledge or spoken
word. He loved Amanda, and the doctor's beautiful daughter had inclined
to him like a princess; like a goddess she had stooped to him. During
his holidays she let him help her in her garden work by copying the
names of her foreign plants in his neatest hand from a book on the
little wooden tallies which together they stuck into the ground to mark
the different specimens. She was an angel of mercy to the poor forsaken
boy, and even when he grew towards manhood he was frequently allowed to
assist her. Always the same gentleness he found in her. Her every look
was a blessing. When he passed the garden for the last time, on setting
out upon his lonely journey, she shook hands with him over the garden
fence, and said, "I have a whole album to remember you by in the little
slips you wrote the foreign names on. If, where you are going, you find
these foreign plants in their native soil, you must let them remind you
of our garden and the household that is so fond of you. Good by, and
come safe back!"
"Good by, and come safe back!" those words followed him over mountain
and valley, over seas and through distant lands. The name of Amanda was
shouted exultantly through many a foreign clime, and many an echo
repeated "Amanda."
Pilgrim wanted to grow rich, to become a great artist, and win Amanda.
He came home poor and in tatters. Many received him with cheap taunts,
but she said,--she had grown taller and stronger, and her brown eyes
beamed,--"Pilgrim, be thankful that you are at least strong and well,
and never lose your cheerful courage." And he did keep his happy
temper. He learned to love her as he loved the beautiful linden in his
neighbor's garden or the stars in heaven. Not even to Amanda was his
heart revealed by a word or a sign. Like those precious stones that are
said to shine in the darkness like the sun did Pilgrim's secret love
for Amanda illumine his life. Often he did not see her for weeks, and,
when they met, his bearing was as calm as with a stranger. But he often
wondered who would be her husband. For himself he would leave the world
without her suspecting what she was to him, but she must be happy. Lenz
was the only one whom he could have marry her. He would not grudge her
to him, they were so worthy of each other. He would hold their children
in his arms, and lavish all his store of songs and jests for their
amusement. Now all that was changed, and Lenz stood, as he firmly
believed, on the edge of an abyss.
Thus he sat long, gazing at the light. At last he extinguished it,
saying, with a sigh and a sad shake of the head, "I could not help
myself, neither can I help others."
Lenz, meanwhile, was on his way home. He walked slowly. He was so weary
he had to sit awhile on a heap of stones by the roadside. All was dark
when he came to the Lion inn. No star was to be seen. The heaven was
overcast with clouds. He stood by the inn till the whole building
seemed about to fall upon him.
When he reached home, Franzl was asleep. He waked her, that he might
have some one to rejoice with him. Pilgrim had strewn all his joy with
ashes.
Franzl was enchanted at the news he brought her, and made him smile by
repeating for the hundredth time, in order to prove that she also knew
but too well what love was, the story of her own "blighted love," as
she called it. She always began with tears and ended with complaints,
for both of which she had ample reason.
"How pleasant it was then at home, up there in the valley! He was our
neighbor's son, good, and industrious, and handsome,--oh, far handsomer
than any one nowadays, begging your pardon. But he--I hardly need
mention his name, for every one knows it was Anton Striegler--he was
bent upon going abroad, and he went abroad on business. There at the
brook we said good by. 'Franzl,' he said, 'as long as that brook runs,
my heart will be true to you. Keep yours true to me.' He had beautiful
ways of talking, and he could write beautifully too. It is always so
with those false men. I could not have believed it. I received
seventeen letters from him during the first four years,--from France,
from England, and from Spain. The letter from England cost in all a
crown-piece; for Napoleon would allow no tea or coffee to come into our
country, and so the letter, as our curate said, had to go by way of
Constantinople through Austria, and, by the time it reached me, cost a
whole crown-piece. Since that no letter has come. I waited fourteen
years, and then learned that he had married a black woman in Spain. I
would have nothing more to do with the base man,--the basest man that
ever lived,--and I burned the beautiful letters, the lying letters that
he had written me. My love went up the chimney in the smoke."
Franzl always concluded her story with the selfsame words. To-day she
had had a good listener,--the best of listeners. He had but one fault,
that of not hearing a word she said. His eyes were fixed on her and his
thoughts on Annele. Out of gratitude Franzl came at last to speak of
her. "I will tell Annele what you are. No one knows you as well as I
do. In all your life you never harmed a child; and how good you have
always been to me! Don't look so sorrowful. Be merry! I know,--ah, too
well I know!--when so great happiness comes to us, we feel crushed
under it. But, thank God! you are in earnest; you will stay quietly at
home together and bid each other good morning and good night every day
that God gives you. And now I must say good night, for it is late."
It was past midnight before Lenz went to bed, and then with a "Good
night, Annele! good night, dear heart!" he fell asleep.
He awoke the next morning with a strange weight on his heart. He
remembered he had dreamed, and in his dream he stood upon the high
mountain ridge behind his house with one foot raised to step off into
space.
"I never let a dream trouble me before," he said, and tried to forget
it in admiration of his yesterday's gold coin, and of the still greater
treasure he possessed in Annele's little shoes and first frock. They
were holy relics, to be carefully preserved with those he had received
from his mother.
A message came from the landlady that he was to be at the Lion at
eleven o'clock. He put on his Sunday clothes and hastened to his uncle
Petrovitsch's. After pulling the bell several times he was admitted and
received by his uncle in no very amiable mood.
"What do you want so early?"
"Uncle, you are my father's brother--"
"To be sure I am, and when I went abroad I left everything to your
father. All I now have I earned for myself."
"I have not come for money, but to ask you to fulfil the office of a
father for me."
"How? What?"
"Uncle, Annele of the Lion and I love one another. Her mother knows it
and sanctions it. Now I am to ask her of her father, according to the
custom, and I want you to go with me as my father's brother."
"So?" said Petrovitsch, putting a lump of white sugar in his mouth and
walking up and down the carpeted room.
"So?" he repeated as he faced about. "You will have an energetic wife,
and I must say you have good courage. I should not have given you
credit for having the courage to take such a wife."
"Courage! What do you mean by that?"
"No harm; but I would not have believed you had the presumption to take
such a wife."
"Presumption? What presumption is there in it?"
Petrovitsch smiled, and made no answer.
"You know her, uncle. She is frugal and orderly and comes of an honest
house."
"That is not my meaning. It is presumption in you to think that in your
solitary house on the Morgenhalde you can make up to a girl who has
spent the twenty-two years of her life in an inn for a room full of
flattering guests. It is presumption to want to keep to yourself a
woman who can manage a whole hotel full. A wise man does not choose a
wife who would consume half his life were he to live as she would have
him. It is no trifle to govern such a wife. You had better try to
manage four wild horses from the coach-box."
"I do not want to govern her."
"I believe you. But you must either govern or be governed. I will do
her the justice to say she is good-natured,--only, however, to those
who flatter her or submit to her. She is the sole good one in the
house. As for the two old people, they are hypocrites, each in his own
way; the woman with much talking, the husband with little. When he
speaks he gives it to be understood that every one of his words weighs
a pound. You can weigh it if you like. You will find it exact, no atom
short. When he puts his foot down to the ground, every step says, 'Here
comes a man of honor.' When he takes a fork in his hand, 'So eats a man
of honor,' it says. When he looks out of the window, he expects God in
heaven to call down to him, 'Good morning, thou man of honor!' And for
all that I would bet my head he is in debt for the fork in his hand and
the creaking boots on his feet."
"I did not come to hear that, uncle."
"I suppose not."
"I only came to ask you, in all respect, if you would act as my
father's representative, and go with me to urge my suit."
"I don't know why I should. You are of age. You did not seek my advice
beforehand."
"Excuse me for having asked you."
"Certainly. Stop," he cried, as Lenz turned to go, "a word more." For
the first time in his life he laid his hand on his nephew's shoulder.
The touch sent a strange thrill through the young man, and still more
did the words which Petrovitsch spoke in a voice of deep emotion: "I
would not have lived in vain for my own flesh and blood. I will give
you that which many a man would have laid down his life to have
had before it was too late. Lenz, a man must not drink when he is
heated;--he might drink his death. Whoever should strike the glass from
his hand at such a moment would be doing him good service. But a man
may be heated in other ways, and then he should drink nothing--should
do nothing, I mean--which will affect his whole life. He might contract
a disease which would be a lingering death to him. You ought not to
decide on any marriage yet, even if it were not with Annele. You are
heated, excited. Let your present fever pass off, and six months from
now think of this matter again. I will make your excuses to the
landlord. He and all of them may abuse me as much as they please; it
won't hurt me. Will you follow my advice, and give the thing up? You
are drinking in a malady that no doctor can cure."
"I am betrothed. There is no use in further words," answered Lenz.
The cold sweat stood upon his brow as he left his uncle's house.
"That is the way with these old bachelors. Their hearts have turned to
stone. Pilgrim and my uncle, they are just alike. Much they know about
it! Here Pilgrim says no one of them is good for anything except the
father, and my uncle says no one is good for anything but Annele. A
third will come presently and say no one is good for anything but the
landlady. They may say what they like. We need no witness. I am man
enough to act for myself. It is time to put an end to this meddling of
outsiders in my affairs. One hour more and I shall be firmly
established in a good old family."
The hour was not over before he was so established. Neither the
warnings of Pilgrim nor his uncle had moved him. One effect they did
have. As he so confidently, with so much pride and firmness, laid his
suit before Annele's father, something within him said, "She will
understand and thank me for giving way to no opposition." It was not a
noble thought.
During the betrothal Annele held her apron to her eyes with one hand,
and with the other kept tight hold of Lenz. The landlord walked up and
down the room in his creaking new boots. The landlady wept, actually
shed tears, as she cried: "O dear Heaven! to have to give up our last
child! When I lie down and when I rise up what shall I do without my
Annele? I insist, at least, that she shall not be married for a year.
Need we tell you that we love you, Lenz, after giving you our last
child? If your mother had but lived to see this day! But she will
rejoice in heaven above, and will intercede for you at the throne of
God."
Lenz could not keep back his tears. If the landlord's boots had creaked
displeasure at his wife's words, they creaked still harder now. At
length the sound of them ceased, and his voice began: "Enough of this.
We are men. Lenz, control yourself and look up! so, that is well. What
do you expect for a dowry with your wife?"
"I have never thought about the dowry. Annele is your child; you will
not stint her."
"Quite right. We stand by the old proverb, 'So many mouths, so many
pounds,'" replied the landlord, and said no more. He had no need to use
many words.
Lenz continued: "I am not rich. My art is my chief possession. But,
thanks to my parents, all wants are provided for. Nothing is lacking.
We have our honest bread, and a little butter with it."
"That is well said, to the point. I like that. Now how about the
marriage contract?"
"Nothing about it; the laws of the land provide for that."
"Yes, but a special contract can be made, if desired. You know a widow
receives only half the property. She will need to have her portion
helped out. If you should die before your wife, and leave no heirs--"
"Father," cried Annele, "if you are going to talk so, you must let me
leave the room. I cannot stay and hear you."
Even Lenz changed color. But the landlord went on ruthlessly: "Don't be
so silly. That is the way with you women; you can't hear anything said
about money. O dear me!--no, not a word! You squirm as if a frog had
hopped on your foot. But if there is no money forthcoming, you can
clamor for it finely. You have never experienced the want of it, your
life long, and I don't mean you ever shall; therefore, in case of life
or death--"
"I will hear no more. Is this the joy of a betrothal that I have heard
so much of?" remonstrated Annele.
"Your father is right," urged the mother; "be reasonable. It will soon
be over, and then you will feel all the merrier."
"Annele is right," said Lenz, with unwonted decision. "We will be
married according to the laws of the land, and there is no more to be
said about it. Life and death, indeed! It is all life for us now. Your
pardon, father and mother; we understand each other perfectly. Every
moment now is worth a million? Do you remember the song, Annele?--
"Honor lies not in a golden store,
Shame lies not in poverty;
And so would I had a thousand dollars more,
And had my own true love by me."
Thus singing he was about to dance with Annele out of the room, when
her father laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and in a solemn
voice said, "Stop; one word more."
Lenz stood in as much amazement as if a dagger had been put to his
lips, instead of the expected kiss. "We have pledged our troth. There
is no need of anything further!" cried Annele, remonstratingly.
"We men have still some matters to settle," replied the landlord,
decisively. "Yes, let your father speak," said Lenz.
Mine host took off his velvet cap, looked into it, put it on his head
again, and began: "Your intentions have been true and honest. If you
are laughed at behind your back, you need not mind; and if you are
ruined, you are responsible to none but yourself." Here he made a long
pause. Lenz looked at him like a man in a dream, and finally asked what
he had done, or what he meant to do, that was so dreadful.
"As I say, your intentions are honest and good; that I have always
maintained," returned the oracle. "You and Proebler have made a standard
regulator together,--is that what you call it? I don't pay much
attention to such things; some work for the common good. You
understand, of course, that you can have no further partnership with
Proebler. The name of my son-in-law and that of Proebler must not be
coupled together; so that is settled and done with. Now we come to the
main point. You are thinking about establishing an association,--is
that what you call it? Whatever you call it, that too must be settled
and done with." Here the landlady wanted to interpose, but her husband
stamped his foot angrily, and went on: "Let me finish, wife! Lenz, I
tell you, this thing must never enter your mind again. You will not
think I speak thus from regard to my own interest. I fear no union or
association whatever. Even if I did, my interest is now yours. But you
will get neither praise nor thanks for it. I know mankind better than
you do. If this plan were ever put into execution, your whole property
would be sacrificed, and you reduced to beggary. Give me your hand upon
it, that from this hour you lay aside all thoughts of this
association."
Lenz stood hesitating, his eyes fixed on the ground. "Yes," cried the
landlady, "give him your hand. He means well, he means right, by you;
his intentions are those of a father towards you; he is your father";
and she nodded approvingly at her husband.
Lenz drew himself up. His face was crimson. "I will not give my hand,"
said he, with sharp decision. "Rather be it maimed, and unfit to hold a
tool for the rest of my life!"
"Do not swear. You said we must not swear," interposed Annele. She
seized his hand, and tried to put it into her father's, but he
resisted. "Let be," he said, sharply, "let be! I will not abjure my
faith; and it would be abjuring my faith to make such a promise. I will
not do it, though you should drive me out of this house, where I had
hoped to find a home. Landlord, I believe you mean well by me, but
every man must follow his own reason. I have no partnership with
Proebler; but, if I had, I am Lenz; I have a right to associate with
whom I please. You force me to say what I would rather not have said. I
do not dishonor myself; on the contrary, I confer honor on others, and
rejoice that it is so. As for this association,--it is called an
association, you are quite right in the name,--I have thought it over
night and day for years, and should understand it better than you do.
You are right in saying there are plenty of fools and knaves who will
laugh at me. I know that. But who, since the world began, tried to do
it a service and was not laughed at? That does not disturb me. I thank
you for your kind concern lest I should sacrifice my property. But I
have carried on our entire business, had the whole house in my hands,
for more than ten years. I will show you my books. You shall see for
yourself if I have made any unlucky ventures. A man does not
necessarily ruin himself by investing in a work for the common good.
Once for all, the very morning of the day when I can bring about this
union I shall put into it whatever portion of my property I judge best.
I speak thus plainly to you, because you have spoken plainly to me. I
will not give my hand. I am willing to take good advice, but must know
best my own concerns. I will not give my hand in pledge of that which
you desire, though my highest happiness upon earth depended on it."
Lenz felt a pressure and a shivering at his heart as he spoke, but he
spoke sharply and firmly to the end.
"Unclench your fist. Will you not give me your hand? You are a brave
man, my own proud, noble Lenz!" cried Annele, and threw herself on his
neck, and wept and laughed convulsively.
"I felt it my duty to caution you. Now I wash my hands of the whole
concern," said the landlord, somewhat dejectedly.
"Husband," returned his wife, "you have done a good thing, a very good
thing. We never knew before what firmness our Lenz possessed. I confess
I should never have suspected it in him, but am all the more rejoiced."
Lenz had as much as he could do to soothe Annele, who lay helpless in
his arms. He was obliged to make her drink some wine before she would
raise herself.
"Now go together into the garden, and I will set out the wine in the
arbor," ordered the landlady. She preceded with a bottle and glasses,
followed by the lovers in a close embrace.
"A strange being!" said the landlord to himself, as Lenz left the room.
"These musicians have an engine constantly on hand. He bawls like a
baby at the mention of his mother, the next minute he will sing like a
lark, and wind up with a sermon, like an old Anabaptist. But he is a
good fellow, after all; and when I win my Brazilian suit, or draw my
prize in the lottery, I will pay him his marriage portion the first
thing. He shall have it down in hard gold. No one shall get a copper
till he has had his share."
With this comforting resolution mine host returned to the public room,
where he refreshed himself after his unwonted exertions, and received
with dignity the congratulations of friends and strangers. He spoke
little, but gave it to be understood that a man in his position could
afford to dispense with great riches in a son-in-law. If the man be but
sound and honest,--that was the burden of his remarks, to which all
nodded assent. There lay wisdom in a nutshell.
Lenz and Annele meanwhile were sitting in the garden, full of delight,
and bestowing on one another the fondest caresses. "I feel as if I had
not been at home all this time," said Lenz, "but had been away in
foreign countries, and had just returned from a long journey."
"You have been nowhere but at home," answered Annele, "only you have
been strongly excited by talking with my father. I cannot tell you how
I rejoiced to hear you speak as you did. I wish the whole world could
have heard you and learned to honor you. But really you had no need to
get into such a heat with my father."
"What do you mean?"
"He was not so much in earnest with his warnings and advice as he
seemed. He likes to pretend he can see farther into a millstone than
the rest of the world. If he had been in earnest, he would have brought
up the matter before the betrothal instead of afterwards. He only
wanted to make a show of wisdom before you; but I was glad you proved
yourself to be the wiser."
Lenz looked about him at these words as if seeking something half
forgotten. As a flock of pigeons in swift flight wheeled at that moment
above the heads of the lovers, and threw their transient shadows on the
ground; so did a swarm of thoughts that Pilgrim had conjured up pass in
still swifter flight, throwing shadows that vanished more swiftly away.
"Others may be wiser, cleverer, and more respected than I, for aught I
care," answered Lenz, "but no man in the world shall love his wife more
tenderly and truly."