CHAPTER X.
A DINNER WITH PETROWITSCH.
Petrowitsch was not yet arrived. In the mean time Lenz seated himself at his uncle's table, and conversed with the family and Pilgrim.
Annele was unusually sparing of her words today; indeed, when Lenz offered her his hand when he came in, she affected to be too busy to take it. No doubt her hand is promised, and she can no longer give it to any one, even in common courtesy. And yet she does not look much like a bride.
Uncle Petrowitsch now arrived; at least his dog appeared as his precursor—a mongrel, between a dachs and a terrier.
"Good day, Lenz!" said his uncle, rather crabbedly. "I expected you yesterday. Did you forget that I had invited you?"
"Indeed I did. I must confess that it quite went out of my head."
"At such a time it is allowable to forget, otherwise nothing is so inexcusable in a man of business as want of memory. During all my life I never either forgot anything, or lost anything—I never threw away a pin, or mislaid a pocket handkerchief A man ought always to make use of his seven senses. Now let us go to dinner."
Annele brought in the soup—the uncle filled two plates out of the tureen, and then said to Lenz, "You may take the remainder." Petrowitsch then took a newspaper out of his pocket, that he called for at the Post-office every day himself, and cut its leaves. While the soup was cooling, and after placing his tobacco bag and his meerschaum pipe on the paper, he began his dinner.
"You see," said he, after the soup, crumbling a quantity of bread into a plate for some one who had not yet appeared—"you see this is the way in which I like to live. If you dine at an inn, you are sure to have a clean cloth every day; and when my score is paid, day after day, then I am my own master." When the meat was put on the table, Petrowitsch cut a slice for Lenz with his own hands, then one for himself, and another for the unknown friend. He must have been on very intimate terms with him, for he put his finger into the plate, shook his head, and added some cold water to the meat. Now the friend came to light. "Come, Büble!" said Petrowitsch to his dog. "Gently, gently!—don't be in a hurry, Büble!—take it quietly." He put the plate on the floor, and the dog ate his food comfortably till he had finished the last morsel, when he looked up at his master gratefully, licking his lips and wagging his tail.
From this moment Büble only got little bits. Petrowitsch said very little, and after dinner, when he had lighted his pipe and glanced over the newspaper, Lenz asked: "Uncle, why did you spread a report that I was about to leave the country?"
Petrowitsch puffed away at his pipe for some minutes placidly, blowing away the smoke; then he called Büble, who jumped on his knee, and patted him; at last he said—"Why do you find fault with me for saying so? You told me yourself that you wished to make up for the idleness of your youth, and to visit other countries."
"I don't remember saying that."
"I don't reproach you with your supineness—you were not your own master; but it would be well worth your while to travel now—you would learn a good deal. I don't force you to go—indeed I can't."
Lenz allowed himself to be persuaded by his uncle's bold assertion, that he had really told him he wished to travel, and begged him not to take it amiss that he had forgotten he had ever said so.
"Lenz, bring your chair a little nearer," whispered Petrowitsch confidentially; "no one need hear what we are talking about. Listen! if you will take my advice, don't marry at all."
"There is little chance of my thinking of such a thing at this moment, uncle."
"Young people like you never know what they would be at—there can be no doubt of that. Now, Lenz, take example by me. I am one of the happiest men in the world. I have just been six weeks at Baden-Baden, and now I return to enjoy myself here; and wherever I go, I am my own master, and the world must serve me; and there are no girls in these days worth a farthing: those who are simple and good bore a man to death—those who are shrewd and clever, require constant amusement and excitement—all day long, at every meal, they must have some fresh diversion. And then you hear them say, day after day—'Goodness! how tiresome it is to manage a house—you men know nothing of such toil.' And then, in addition to all this, comes the plague of screaming babies, and relations, and school fees, and taxes."
"If the whole world thought like you, uncle, the human race would come to an end in a hundred years," said Lenz.
"Pooh! they would never die out," said old Petrowitsch, laughing, and filling his pipe with tobacco, pressing it down with a china stopper of antique shape. "Look, there goes Annele!" Lenz involuntarily started, he scarcely knew why; but his uncle continued, coolly—"No doubt, she is a vastly knowing little thing, always on the alert, and I call her my court jester. The kings of old were wise, for they kept jesters, whose office it was to make them laugh during meals. That is very healthy, and assists digestion. Annele is my court fool, and never fails to make me laugh."
When Lenz looked round. Pilgrim was gone. He seemed, indeed, resolved that his friend should disown him before Petrowitsch. Lenz, however, made a point of saying to his uncle, that he was a true friend of Pilgrim's, and intended always to be so.
The uncle said he was right, and commended his nephew; and Lenz was quite surprised when Petrowitsch even began to praise Pilgrim; adding, that he was something like himself, in some points, for he also disliked matrimony, and had a poor opinion of the female sex.
Büble now became very fidgety, and began to whine.
"Silence!" said Petrowitsch, angrily. "Have patience—we are going home immediately to take a nap. Down, down, Büble! Are you coming with me, Lenz?"
Lenz accompanied his uncle to his house—a large handsome building, in which no one lived but himself. The door opened of itself as if by magic, for the maid was obliged to be on the watch, and to open the door before her master had time to knock.
Lenz said—"Good bye!" to his uncle, who thanked him, yawning.
The young man was glad when he was again seated at his work the same afternoon. The house, which had seemed so desolate that he thought he could not possibly continue to live in it, now appeared to him once more like home—no real rest or peace is to be found in amusement elsewhere—a man is only really happy at home. He looked for a place to hang up his mother's picture; the best was just above his father's file, for there she could look down on him as he worked, and he could often look up at her.
"Mind you have the room tidy!" said Lenz to Franzl, who, with just indignation, replied—"It is always tidy!" Lenz did not choose to say that he had his own reasons for wishing it to be in particularly good order, for every hour he expected a visit from Annele and her mother, to see and hear his large clock, before it went forth into the wide world. Then he was resolved to ask her, in a straightforward manner—the straight way is always the best—whether the report about her and the Techniker had any foundation. He cannot tell, indeed, what gives him any right to ask such a question; but he feels that he must do so, and then he can talk to her in his own way, just as he may choose. Day after day passed and Annele did not come; and Lenz often went past the "Lion," but without going in, or even looking up at the window.