Lenz said nothing, and the whole way to the town he was equally silent. When, however, they had arrived there, and, the waggon having proceeded on its journey, the two friends were drinking their wine together, Lenz became more cheerful and talkative, and said he now felt as if life had revived within him. "You really ought to marry," was again Pilgrim's admonition. "You have two classes to choose from: either a thoroughly well educated person, like one of the Doctor's daughters--you could marry one of them if you chose, and I advise you to propose for Amanda. It is a pity that she can't sing like Bertha, but she has the best heart in the world, and will honour you if you honour her, and she will esteem your talents." Lenz looked into the glass, and Pilgrim continued-- "Or else you must make up your mind to be satisfied with an honest farmer's daughter--I mean the bailiffs Kathrine. Franzl is right, she would jump over hedge and ditch after you; she would be sparing and frugal, and you would have fine healthy children--seven sons strong enough to uproot the old firs in the wood of the Landlord of the 'Lion;' and you would become a man of substance too; but you must not in that case expect your wife to understand anything of your vocation, or of the many ideas you have in your head. You have the choice, but choose you must. When you have made up your mind, let me know, and send me to the family. I feel quite proud already at the thoughts of my dignity as matchmaker; I will even put on a white neckcloth for the occasion if necessary. Can I give you a more striking proof of my wish to serve you?" Lenz still continued to look at himself in the glass. Pilgrim had excluded Annele from the possibility of his choice. After a long pause Lenz said, "I should like to be in a large town just for once; I should so enjoy hearing music played by a whole orchestra, and to hear the same piece played five or six times over, then I feel I could arrange it quite differently: it always seems to me as if there were certain tones wanting, that I can never produce. They may praise me as much as they like, but I can tell you that the pieces I set have not the right sound, very far from it; I know it is so, and yet I can't alter the tone. There is something squeaking, and dry, and hard, in the instrument, like a dumb man who has been taught to speak; it is something like our speech, but yet it is different. If I could only succeed in getting this tone. I know what it should be--I hear it, but I can't produce it." "Yes, yes, I feel just the same; I imagine that there is a style of drawing and colour that I must aim at. I am always in hopes that I shall seize the idea, and hold it fast. But I shall die in obscurity without ever having succeeded. This is doomed to be our fate--both yours and mine. Come, let us finish our wine and go home."