The Magic Flute began to play. "Who wound up the clock?" asked Lenz, surprised.
"I did," said the apprentice.
Lenz was silent. He must expect everything to go on in its old way. The world does not stand still because one heart has ceased to beat and another longs to be at rest forever. He worked on more quietly. The journeyman told of a young man in Triberg who had lately come home from foreign parts and wanted to set up a manufactory of musical clocks in the neighborhood.
I might sell out to him, thought Lenz, and be free to travel and see the world. But the thought awoke no enthusiasm in him now; it was only like the echo of what he had once desired. The very fact of his uncle's having spread a report of his going, wishing thereby to compel him to it, made him averse to the plan. He took his father's file once more in his hand. The man who used this file, he thought, spent his life on this spot, except for one short season of absence, and was happy. To be sure he married young; that makes a difference.
Lenz's habit was, when he had business at the foundry on the other side of the mountain, to send his apprentice. To-day he went himself, and sat but a little while at his work after his return. Before the morning hours were half over, he went down into the village and thence up the meadow to Pilgrim's. His old friend was sitting at his easel, painting. He got up, passed both hands through his long, lank, sandy hair, and offered the right to Lenz, who began at once to thank him for the joyful surprise his mother's picture had given him, as well as for his friend's kindness in thinking of it.
"Pooh, pooh!" said Pilgrim, thrusting both his hands into his wide leather breeches, "I did it for my own pleasure. It is desperately stupid work painting that blessed village from one year's end to the other; the same old church with the bishop's mitre for a steeple and a hole to put the dial-plate in; the mower with his scythe, who never budges a step; the mother and child always running towards each other and never meeting; the baby, stretching out its little hands, and never reaching its father; and that plaguy fellow with his back turned, who never lets us see what sort of a face he has. Yet hundreds and hundreds of times I am made to paint that staring grass-green thing because the world must have what it has been used to. I could paint it with my eyes shut, I do believe, and still am kept at it. For once in my life I have done myself a pleasure, and painted your mother. It is my first and last portrait; for I don't like the faces about here, and don't mean to bore future generations with the sight of them. Your uncle was right never to consent to have his picture taken. When a travelling artist some time ago asked him to sit: 'No,' said he, 'I have no idea of seeing myself one of these days hanging in a rag-shop side by side with Napoleon and old Fritz.' He has queer fancies, that old fellow. There is no telling where he will strike out next."
"Never mind my uncle now. You painted my mother's picture for me,--did you not?"
"Yes, if you want it. Come here a moment; stand just there. The eyes are the least satisfactory part of the picture to me, and the doctor said the same thing when he was here this morning. He meant to bring a friend with him who is something of an artist, but he did not get out of bed early enough. You have exactly your mother's eyes. Stand there a minute, just as you are. Now keep quiet, and think of something pleasant,--of some one you are going to do a kindness to. Remember Faller and his house, then you will have just your mother's hearty expression; not a smile, but such a kind, cordial look. So,--that is it exactly. Don't blink. Nay, I cannot paint you if you cry."
"The tears will come," apologized Lenz. "I could not help thinking how my mother's eyes--"
"Well, well; we will let it be. I know now what is needed. Let us take a recess; and high time we did too, for it is almost noon. You will eat your dinner with me, won't you?"