ancy for any of the faces round here, and I would not be so
spiteful towards generations yet unborn, as to force them to look at
such physiognomies. Your uncle is right in positively refusing to be
painted. Not long ago, when a travelling artist applied to him, he
said--'No, no, or I shall probably be hung up in some pawnbroker's
shop, at some distant day, along with Napoleon and old Fritz.' That man
has most singular, quaint ideas!"

"What have you to do with my uncle just now? You painted my mother's
picture for me, I know."

"Certainly, if you choose to accept of it Come, place yourself here. I
am not quite satisfied with the eyes--I cannot catch the right
expression. You have exactly your mother's eyes; so sit down
there--so--just there. Now sit still, and think of something pleasant,
or of giving away something. It was famous in you to become security
for Faller, Think of that, and then you will have your mother's look
that warmed the heart. Don't smile. But she was so good, so sincere,
so--so----. Now, now I have it. Don't move an eyelash.--Now I can't
paint any more when you are crying."

"My eyes overflowed," said Lenz, in an apologetic tone, "for I could
not help thinking that my mother's eyes----"

"Never mind!--I have finished. I know now what to do. Come, let us be
done working--besides, it is noon already. You will dine with me, I
hope?"

"No--don't take it amiss; but I must dine with uncle Petrowitsch.

"I am never angry with you. Now tell me your plans."

Lenz explained--that he had half a mind to go from home for a couple of
years; and he implored his friend to fulfil their former project, which
they had been obliged to renounce, and to accompany him. Perhaps they
might now conquer fortune in the same way they had hoped then.

"It won't do;--don't go," said Pilgrim, disapprovingly. "Rely upon it,
Lenz, that neither you nor I are born to great riches, and so much the
better, probably, for us. My host, Don Bastian, is a proper man of the
world, who can gain money: the fellow has been half through the world,
and knows no more of it than a cow does of the Catechism. Wherever he
arrived, or walked, or stood, his sole thought was--'How is money to be
got here?--how can I best save or cheat?' And he is no worse than the
rest of the world. The Spanish peasants are just as cunning and as
stupid as the German ones, and their chief glory is to fleece their
neighbours. When Don Bastian came home, the only t