Edelweiss: A Story
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!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
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."
