Edelweiss: A Story. Auerbach Berthold

into its mysteries. No maiden's heart ever beat more tumultuously at a first declaration of love than Franzl's when the first man of her village said, "And the house, Franzl, whence proceeds a work so delicate and exact, the house must have been well ordered too; you have contributed your share, Franzl."

      "With all deference to others, I must say there is no one quite equal to us Knuslingers. This is the only man who has said just the right thing. The others stood there like cows before a new barn door. Moo! moo! Thank Heaven, I come from Knuslingen!" – so spoke Franzl's whole manner. You could read it in her hand, which she laid upon her beating heart, and in the frequent raising of her eyes to heaven.

      Lenz could not help laughing at her seasoning every meal with congratulations that he was now so famous in Knuslingen.

      Knuslingen was not such a small place either. It had two chapels of ease, at Fuchsberg and at Knebringen.

      "To-morrow evening I shall close the case and send off The Magic Flute," said Lenz.

      "So soon?" lamented Franzl, and cast imploring glances at the great case, as if entreating it to stay yet a little longer in the house to which it brought so much honor.

      "I wonder," continued Lenz, "why the doctor's family has not been; and-and-the ladies from the Lion promised to come too."

      Franzl rubbed her forehead and shrugged her shoulders, lamenting her ignorance. It was not for the like of her to know the secrets of great houses.

      Annele of the Lion had long been urging her mother to make the visit, but the landlady would not without her husband. Majesty is wanting where he is not present. Majesty, however, does not seek; it requires to be sought.

      But now Annele learned through certain trusty informers that on this last day the doctor's family was going to Lenz's house. Majesty, therefore, must consent. This was the day of all others, – the day when the aristocracy would be present. The mother and daughter determined not to start till they had seen the doctor's family go by. Nothing of this diplomacy was revealed to his Majesty, whose punctiliousness and dignity would have taken umbrage thereat.

      "Here comes the thou-teacher," cried Franzl, early the next morning, as she was looking out of her kitchen window.

      The elders of the village called the young schoolmaster the thou-teacher, because, to the great scandal of some good people, he addressed all who were unmarried with the familiar "thou." His companions called him the singing-master, – a title more to his taste. He was the founder and moving spirit of the Liederkranz, and with Lenz, Pilgrim, and Faller made the best quartette. Lenz gave him a hearty welcome, and Franzl begged him to stay a couple of hours to help her receive the numerous visitors who would be sure to come in the course of the morning.

      "Yes, do stay," urged Lenz. "You cannot think how badly I feel at losing my clock; it is like bidding good by to a brother or a child."

      "You carry your sentiment too far," objected the schoolmaster, "in thus putting a piece of your heart into everything you make. You will soon start some fresh work. For my part, I do not fancy these wound-up organs, as you know." Franzl made a wry face, but the teacher went on. "They are for children and for a people in its childhood. Even a piano I don't think much of, because the tones are ready-made. A piece of music played on the piano is not much better than the whistling of a song that should be sung. The works of your clocks have tongues and lungs, but no heart."

      Franzl left the room in indignation. Thank Heaven, there are still Knuslingers in the world, to rate things at their proper value. She heard the two friends within singing the touching song, "Morgen muss ich fort von hier." Lenz's voice was a pure, though not very strong tenor, which the schoolmaster's powerful bass would have drowned had he let out the full force of his voice. They were interrupted by Franzl calling through the open door, "The doctor's family is coming."

      The school-teacher, as master of ceremonies, advanced in front of the house to receive them.

      The doctor entered with his wife and three daughters, and said at once, in his kindly way, which, without being in the least dictatorial, yet admitted of no refusal, that Lenz must not waste his valuable time in talking, but must set the clock going without delay.

      It was done, and all were evidently delighted. When the first piece was finished, Lenz was fairly overwhelmed by the praises bestowed upon him, – such hearty praises, too, evidently not spoken merely from politeness.

      "Grandmother sends you her congratulations," said the eldest daughter; while Bertha cried, "How many voices in one case!"

      "Don't you wish you had as many?" replied her father, jokingly.

      "You have a true talent for music," continued the eldest, her brown eyes shining with honest pleasure.

      "If my father had only let me have a violin to play on when I was a boy, I really think I might have done something in the way of music," said Lenz.

      "You have done something now," said the stout doctor, as he laid his hand kindly on the young man's shoulder.

      The schoolmaster, whose chief delight was in the construction of the works, relieved Lenz of the trouble of explaining them to the ladies by describing, better than the manufacturer himself could have done, how the delicacies of crescendo and diminuendo were introduced, and what a nice ear was required to make the tones powerful without harshness, and to preserve the distinction between the long and the short notes. He dwelt repeatedly upon the accuracy of ear and mechanical skill necessary to produce such a work, called attention to the admirable expression of the pathetic passages, and reminded his listeners of the difficulty of bringing out the expression, and, at the same time, following the strokes of the metronome. This mechanism had not the advantage enjoyed by the performer of dispensing with the metronome and varying the time to suit the music. He was going on to explain how the various qualities of tone were rendered; the solidity of the barrel-work; the necessity of fitting the cylinders so firmly together that they could not give way; the reasons for having the soft alder outside and various woods of different fibres inside; when his explanations were interrupted by the voice of Franzl without, giving a peculiarly hearty welcome to some new-comers. Lenz went to the door, and found the landlord of the Lion, with his wife and daughter. The landlord shook hands with him, and gave a nod at the same time, as much as to say that no higher compliment could be paid than for a gentleman of well-known pride and honor to spend a quarter of an hour in examining a work to which a young man had devoted years of industry.

      "So you have come at last!" was Lenz's greeting to Annele.

      "Why at last?" she asked.

      "Have you forgotten that you promised to come six weeks ago?"

      "When? I cannot remember."

      "On the day after my mother's death you said you would come soon."

      "Yes, yes; so I did. I have had a feeling there was something on my mind, I could not tell what. Yes, yes; that is it. But, dear me, you have no idea how fast one thing crowds out another in our house." Lenz felt a pang through his heart at Annele's light words.

      But he had no time to analyze his feelings of pleasure and pain, for the ladies now began to exchange greetings. Annele seemed inclined to follow the city fashion and kiss the doctor's daughters, – those friends whom, however, she hated most cordially for the reserve that always appeared in their manner towards her. Amanda, the botanist, had taken off her broad hat, quite as if she were at home, and Annele followed her example. Annele's hair was more abundant than that of all the other ladies put together, and long enough to sit on. She held up her head, with its triple crowns of braids, and looked about her with an air of satisfaction.

      Lenz put in a new barrel, and made The Magic Flute, which was generally rather grave, play the merry song of the Moors, "Das klinget so herrlich, das klinget so schön."

      "H'm, h'm!" growled the landlord, and a long speech he made out of his growl, nodding his head the while, and drawing in his under lip, as if tasting a delicate wine.

      "Very well," he added, after a pause, and spreading out both hands as he said it, as if he would literally be openhanded in bestowing his commendations, – "very well indeed." Those were weighty words, coming from mine host.

      The landlady folded