"I do smoke sometimes, but I don't care much about it,"
"I will bring you one of my father's cigars—our guests never get them." She brought a cigar and a match, and held a light for Lenz.
At this moment the landlord of the "Lion" came in—a tall, stout, massive figure, most respectable in appearance; for he had thin snow white hair and a small black velvet cap on his head, just like a clergyman: moreover, he wore silver spectacles with large round glasses; he used his spectacles only for reading, so they were usually pushed back on his forehead. Placidity and benevolence seemed impressed on his brow: he was, moreover, calm and sedate, and majestically self possessed, and was considered by his neighbours a very shrewd, sensible man. To be sure he said very little, but a man must have a good deal of intelligence who had prospered like the landlord of the "Lion." His face was rather red, and inspired considerable deference; his mouth alone, which usually looked as if he were eating something good, was not so awe inspiring as the rest of his appearance. He was a serious and silent man, as if he wished, by his silence, to counterbalance the incessant tongue of his wife, and, indeed, sometimes that of his daughter likewise. When his wife talked too much, or with levity, he occasionally shook his head gravely, as much as to say, "A man with my principles cannot approve of that;" and the landlord was a man of strict principles: this was known far and wide; and he was the best in his trade, which was that of what is here called a Packer—he bought clocks from the clockmakers, and sent them to all parts of the world.
"Good evening, Lenz!" said the landlord, in a sonorous voice, as if in these few words a vast deal was included; and when Lenz respectfully rose he gave him his hand, and said, "Don't rise or be on ceremony, remember you are in an inn." Then he nodded, as much as to say—"I have a high respect for you, and you are as sure of all proper condolence on my part, as if you held a threefold security for it." Then he went to his table and read the newspapers. Annele fetched her knitting, and seated herself beside Lenz, saying, politely—"With your permission!" She spoke much and cleverly, and was thought as good as she was clever. She seems both, and no one knows better how to make her game. When Lenz at last paid his score, she said: "I must say it vexes me to receive your money, I would far rather that you had considered yourself our guest. Now, good night! and don't grieve your heart out. I only wish I could comfort you. By the bye, I had almost forgotten to ask you when your great musical clock—which is supposed to be the finest that was ever made in this country—goes to Russia?"
"I may receive a letter any day, desiring it to be sent off."
"Will you let my mother and me come up to see it and hear it before it goes?"
"I shall be highly honoured. Pray come whenever you choose."
"Now, good night! sleep sound, and remember me to Franzl, and tell her that if she wants anything, she is to come to us for it."
"Thank you very much—I won't fail to tell her."
It was a good quarter of an hour's walk to Lenz's house, and a steep hill all the way. Today he was soon at home, however. He did not know why, but when he was once more alone in his room, he became very sorrowful. He gazed long out into the summer night—he did not know what he was thinking about. Here nothing is seen or heard of the world of human beings; the only object visible in the distance, on a far away hill, is a solitary cottage, where a blacksmith lives—a light sparkles up through the windows, but soon disappears. Those men who have no grief in their hearts can sleep.