manda will make just such a grandmother as the old mayoress, one
of these days."

Lenz was silent, and remained so during the whole walk to the city. But
there, when the wagon had gone on, and the friends were sitting over
their wine, he recovered his spirits, and felt, as he said, that he was
beginning life anew.

"Now you must marry," was again Pilgrim's verdict. "There are
two choices open to you; one is to marry a woman of thorough
education,--one of the doctor's daughters, for instance. You can have
one, if you will, and I advise you to take Amanda. It is a pity she
cannot sing, like Bertha, but she is good and true. She will honor you,
if you honor her, and will appreciate your art." Lenz looked down into
his glass, and Pilgrim continued: "Or you will make your home
comfortable by marrying an honest peasant, the bailiff's daughter
Katharine. As Franzl says, the girl would jump to get you, and she
would make a good, economical housewife. You would have half a dozen
stout children tearing down the landlord's pine-trees behind your
house, and you would grow a rich man. But, in that case, you must
expect no sympathy from your wife in your art or in any of your great
plans. You can have which you like, but you must decide. If your mind
is made up, send me to which you will. I rejoice already in my dignity
as suitor. I will even put on a white neckcloth, if necessary. Can the
power of friendship go further?"

Lenz still looked down into his glass. Pilgrim's alternative excluded
Annele. After a long pause, he said: "I should like to be for once in a
great city, that I might hear such a piece of music as The Magic Flute
played by a full orchestra over and over again. I am sure my pieces
could be made to sound much better than they do. I am haunted by the
idea of a tone I cannot produce. People may praise me as much as they
like, but I know my pieces have not the right sound. I am sure of it,
and yet I cannot make them better. There is something squeaking, dry,
harsh about them, like the sounds made by a deaf and dumb person, which
are like words, but yet are not words. If I could only bring out the
right tone! I know it, I hear it, but I cannot produce it."

"I understand; I feel just so myself. I am conscious of a color, a
picture which I ought to be able to paint. I seem on the point of
seizing and fixing it, but I shall die without succeeding. That is our
fate, yours and mine. You will never produce your ideal. It