must do;--besides, he will wait
patiently yet awhile. When twilight began to fall, Lenz dressed and
went down into the valley. "All houses will be open to you," Proebler
had said. All houses? That was saying a great deal; in fact, so much
that it meant nothing. To feel at home in entering a house, its
inhabitants must go on calmly with their various pursuits; you must
form so entirely a part of the family, that neither look nor gesture
asks,--"Why do you come here?--what do you want?--what is the matter?"
If you are not quite at home, then the house is not really open to you
at any moment; and as Lenz's thoughts travel from house to house in the
village for a couple of miles round, he knows he will be joyfully
welcomed by all--but he is nowhere really at home; and yet he has one
friend with whom he is thoroughly at home, just as much so as in his
own room. The painter Pilgrim wished to go home with him yesterday
after the funeral, but as his uncle Petrowitsch joined him, Pilgrim
remained behind, for Petrowitsch had a hearty contempt for Pilgrim,
because he was a poor devil--and Pilgrim had an equally hearty contempt
for Petrowitsch because he was a rich devil--so Lenz resolved to go to
see Pilgrim.

Pilgrim lodged far up the valley, with Don Bastian, as Pilgrim called
him. He had been originally a clockmaker, who had acquired a
considerable sum of money during a twelve years' residence in Spain.
After his return to his native country he purchased a farm, resumed his
peasant's dress, and retained nothing of his Spanish journey except his
money, and a few Spanish phrases which he brought forth ostentatiously
from time to time, especially in summer, when those who had wandered
from their homes again returned to their own district.

CHAPTER VII.
THE CIVILITIES OF A LANDLORD'S PRETTY DAUGHTER.

A young man was seated alone at a well covered table in the large inn
of the "Lion," and eating with that good appetite which is sure to fall
to the share of a youth of twenty, after having roamed for a whole day
through the valley and over the hills. Sometimes he cast an observant
glance at the silver knives and forks: they are of the good old
fashioned sort, when people did not grudge a little solid silver,
though it brought no interest for their money. The young man--it
is the Techniker, with whom we were in company yesterday at the
Doctor's--lights a cigar, and smooths his thick