Chapter XIII
Hansei hastened to the landing-place. The whole village had congregated there and, with it, the full band of music. Tailor Schneck's son, he who had been one of the cuirassiers at the christening of the crown prince, had arranged, and was now conducting, the parting ceremonies. Schneck, who was scraping his bass viol, was the first to see Hansei, and he called out, in the midst of the music:
"Long live farmer Hansei and the one he loves best! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
The early dawn resounded with their cheers. There was a flourish of trumpets, and the salutes fired from several small mortars were echoed back from the mountains. The large boat in which their household furniture, the two cows and their fowls were placed, was adorned with wreaths of fir and oak. Walpurga was standing in the middle of the boat, and with both hands held the child aloft, so that it might see the great crowd of friends and the lake sparkling in the rosy dawn.
"My master's best respects," said one of Grubersepp's servants, leading a snow-white colt by the halter, "he sends you this to remember him by."
Grubersepp was not present. He disliked noise and crowds. He was of a solitary and self-contained temperament. Nevertheless, he sent a present which was not only of intrinsic value, but was also a most flattering souvenir; for a colt is usually given by a rich farmer to a younger brother when about to depart. In the eyes of all the world, that is to say, the whole village, Hansei appeared as the younger brother of Grubersepp.
Little Burgei shouted for joy when she saw them leading the snow-white foal into the boat.
Gruberwaldl, who was but six years old, stood by the whinnying colt stroking it, and speaking kindly to it.
"Would you like to go to the farm with me and be my servant?" asked Hansei of Gruberwaldl.
"Yes indeed, if you'll take me."
"See, what a boy he is," said Hansei to his wife. "What a boy!"
Walpurga made no answer, but busied herself with the child.
Hansei shook hands with every one at parting. His hand trembled, but he did not forget to give a couple of crown thalers to the musicians.
At last he got into the boat and exclaimed:
"Kind friends! I thank you all. Don't forget us, and we shan't forget you. Farewell! may God protect you all."
Walpurga and her mother were in tears.
"And now, in God's name, let us start." The chains were loosened; the boat put off. Music, shouting, singing, and the firing of cannon resounded while the boat quietly moved away from the shore. The sun burst forth in all his glory.
The mother sat there, with her hands clasped. All were silent. The only sound heard was the neighing of the foal.
Walpurga was the first to break the silence. "O dear Lord! if people would only show each other half as much love during life as they do when one dies or moves away."
The mother, who was in the middle of a prayer, shook her head. She quickly finished her prayer and said: "That's more than one has a right to ask. It won't do to go about all day long with your heart in your hand. But remember, I've always told you that the people are good enough at heart, even if there are a few bad ones among them."
Hansei bestowed an admiring glance upon his wife, who had so many different thoughts about almost everything. He supposed it was caused by her having been away from home. But his heart was full too, although in a different way.
"I can hardly realize," said Hansei, taking a long breath and putting the pipe which he had intended to light back into his pocket, "what has become of all the years that I spent there and all that I went through during the time. Look, Walpurga! the road you see there leads to my home. I know every hill and every hollow. My mother's buried there. Do you see the pines growing on the hill over yonder? That hill was quite bare; every tree was cut down when the French were here; and see how fine and hardy the trees are now. I planted most of them myself. I was a little boy about eleven or twelve years old when the forester hired me. He had fresh soil brought for the whole place and covered the rocky spots with moss. In the spring, I worked from six in the morning till seven in the evening, putting in the little plants. My left hand was almost frozen, for I had to keep putting it into a tub of wet loam with which I covered the roots. I was scantily clothed into the bargain, and had nothing to eat, all day long, but a piece of bread. In the morning it was cold enough to freeze the marrow in one's bones, and at noon I was almost roasted by the hot sun beating on the rocks. It was a hard life. Yes, I had a hard time of it when I was young. Thank God, it hasn't harmed me any. But I shan't forget it; and let's be right industrious and give all we can to the poor. I never would have believed that I'd live to call a single tree or a handful of earth my own; and now that God has given me so much, let's try and deserve it all."
Hansei's eyes blinked, as if there was something in them, and he pulled his hat down over his forehead. Now, while he was pulling himself up by the roots, as it were, he could not help thinking of how thoroughly he had become engrafted into the neighborhood by the work of his hands and by habit. He had felled many a tree, but he knew full well how hard it was to remove the stumps.
The foal grew restive. Gruberwaldl, who had come with them in order to hold it, was not strong enough, and one of the boatmen was obliged to go to his assistance.
"Stay with the foal," said Hansei. "I'll take the oar."
"And I, too," cried Walpurga. "Who knows when I'll have another chance? Ah! how often I've rowed on the lake with you and my blessed father."
Hansei and Walpurga sat side by side plying their oars in perfect time. It did them both good to have some employment which would enable them to work off the excitement.
"I shall miss the water," said Walpurga; "without the lake, life'll seem so dull and dry. I felt that, while I was in the city."
Hansei did not answer.
"At the summer palace, there's a pond with swans swimming about in it," said she, but still received no answer. She looked around, and a feeling of anger arose within her. When she said anything at the palace, it was always listened to.
In a sorrowful tone, she added: "It would have been better if we'd moved in the spring; it would have been much easier to get used to things."
"Maybe it would," replied Hansei, at last, "but I've got to hew wood in the winter. Walpurga, let's make life pleasant to each other, and not sad. I shall have enough on my shoulders, and can't have you and your palace thoughts besides."
Walpurga quickly answered: "I'll throw this ring, which the queen gave me, into the lake, to prove that I've stopped thinking of the palace."
"There's no need of that. The ring's worth a nice sum and, besides that, it's an honorable keepsake. You must do just as I do."
"Yes; only remain strong and true."
The mother suddenly stood up before them. Her features were illumined with a strange expression and she said:
"Children! Hold fast to the good fortune that you have. You've gone through fire and water together; for it was fire when you were surrounded by joy and love and every one greeted you with kindness--and you passed through the water, when the wickedness of others stung you to the soul. At that time, the water was up to your neck, and yet you weren't drowned. Now you've got over it all. And when my last hour comes, don't weep for me; for through you I've enjoyed all the happiness a mother's heart can have in this world."
She knelt down, scooped up some water with her hand and sprinkled it over Hansei's, and also over Walpurga's face.
They rowed on, in silence. The mother laid her head on a roll of bedding and closed her eyes. Her face wore a strange expression. After a while she opened her eyes again, and casting a glance full of happiness on her children, she said:
"Sing and be merry. Sing the song that father and I so often sang together; that one verse, the good one."
Hansei and Walpurga plied the oars while they sang:
"Ah, blissful is the tender tie That binds me, love, to thee; And swiftly speed the hours by, When thou art near to me."
They repeated the verse again, although, at times, the joyous shouting of the child and the neighing of the foal bade fair to interrupt it.
The singing and shouting was suddenly interrupted by a young sailor, who cried out:
"There's some one floating there! it's a human being--there! the head's over water! don't you see it? there's the long, coal-black hair floating on the water. Some woman's drowned herself, or has fallen overboard."
Every one in the boat looked toward the point indicated. The object rose and fell on the waves. It appeared to be a human face that would, now and then, rise to the surface and sink again. All were dumb with terror, and Hansei rubbed his eyes, asking himself: "Was it imagination or was it reality?" He thought he had recognized the face of Black Esther rising on the waves and sinking again. It floated on, further and further, and, at last, sank out of sight.
"It's nothing," said Walpurga, "it's nothing. Don't let us make ourselves unhappy."
"You're a stupid fellow," said the old boatman, scolding his comrade. "It was nothing but a dead crow or some other bird floating on the water. Who'd say such a thing?" added he in a whisper. "If we get but little drink-money, it'll be your fault. They were so happy that they'd have given us a thaler at least, but now you can see Hansei rummaging in his purse. He's looking for small change, and it's all your fault."
Without knowing why, Hansei had indeed pulled out his purse, and was fumbling in it. He was so bewildered with what he had seen--it was true, after all--but it could not be right--just now--to-day, when all was forgiven and past; and, after all, he hadn't sinned.
In order to regain his composure, he counted out several pieces of money. That restored his spirits. He was able to count; his senses had returned. He had resigned the oar and, with his piece of chalk, had actually been making some calculations on the bench. But he soon rubbed them out again.
"There's the other shore," said he, looking up and lifting his hat, "we'll soon be there. I can see the wagon and horses and Uncle Peter there already. I can see our blue chest."
"Heavens!" cried Walpurga, and the oar remained motionless in her hands. "Heavens! Who is it? Who is that figure? I can take my oath that, while we were singing, I thought to myself: If only my good Countess Irma could see us sitting in the boat together. It would have made her happy to see that, and just then it seemed to me as if--"
"I'm glad," said Hansei, interrupting her, "that we're getting to shore. If this lasts much longer, we'll all lose our wits."
On the distant shore, some one was seen running to and fro. The figure was wrapped in a flowing dress, and suddenly started when the wind wafted the sound of music across toward her. She sank to the earth and seemed to be crouching on the bank. Now that the sound had died away, she arose and fled, disappearing among the bushes.
"Didn't you see anything?" asked Walpurga again.
"Yes, indeed. If I was superstitious, and it wasn't in the day-time, I'd have thought it was the Lady of the Lake."
The boat reached the bank. Walpurga was the first to leap ashore. Leaving her people, she ran toward the bushes as fast as she could, and there, behind the willows, the figure fell on her neck and fainted.
Chapter I
The summer was almost at an end when the court returned from the baths.
The king's first official act was to sign the proclamation of the Schnabelsdorf ministry, dissolving the refractory Chamber of Deputies and ordering a new election.
The king was displeased; and yet, that which now surprised him was the inevitable consequence of his previous doings. He had returned in high spirits, but, like an importunate creditor, the state was already thrusting its claims upon him.
He felt happy that his government met with popular approval; but that, he thought, should be a matter of course. And now a great question was to be submitted to the country, and there were doubts as to what the answer might be.
Schnabelsdorf exercised his great conversational gifts, and adroitly endeavored to humor the heroic side of the king's character. But his efforts were in vain.
The whole land was in great commotion, but of this they knew little or nothing at court. The autumn maneuvers had begun, and in a few days the court expected to move to the summer palace, after which, hunting in the Highlands was to begin.
The king had seldom taken so lively an interest in the maneuvers. The ease and precision with which, on such occasions, large bodies of men were moved at will, afforded a suggestive contrast to the spirit of disorganization and breaking away from authority which seemed abroad in the land. Nothing, however, was further from his thoughts than the idea of bringing the two opposing tendencies to bear upon each other.
At the court assemblages, the king always seemed to be in an exceptionally pleasant mood. The greater his ill-humor, the more he regarded it his duty to keep up the outward semblance of cheerfulness. The habit, acquired in youth, of always keeping up his dignity; the knowledge that the eyes of all were upon him; a due consideration for the claims of those about him; the need of always speaking the right word at the right time; above all, the art of ignoring--an art in which others refrain from indulging themselves, and which, for that very reason, requires practice--and, added to this, the consciousness of possessing kingly power:--all this prevented him from betraying the slightest trace of ill-humor. He manifested a lively interest in whatever was going on, especially so, when Irma was present. She, above all, should never find him wavering, for she would have misinterpreted it. It was therefore necessary, in her presence, to keep up that exalted mood which regards dissent or contradiction as impossible, and thus esteems itself as above the law. And yet the king felt the danger of encouraging a secret passion while all his strength was required by a weighty problem, in the solution of which he would necessarily encounter great opposition.
Irma returned from her visit to the seashore refreshed and invigorated. She was more beautiful than ever, but was rarely seen at court, as she spent much of her time with Arabella. On the day after Arabella had given birth to a boy, Irma and the doctor left Bruno's house together.
Irma was about to say: "I am beginning to get tired of this everlasting nursery," but checked herself in time.
The doctor did not utter a word, while accompanying her down the carpeted stairs. His features wore a serious expression. He had been living in the great world for many years, but, even now, it offended his sense of justice when he saw the joys of paternity fall to the share of one who, like Bruno, had led what is mildly termed a "fast life." The doctor pressed the ivory handle of his cane against his lips, as if thus to prevent his thoughts from finding vent in words. Silently, he seated himself in the carriage with Irma. They drove to the palace.
"My sister-in-law has imposed a difficult task upon me," said Irma.
Gunther did not inquire as to the nature of the task, and Irma was obliged to continue of herself:
"She made me promise that I'd inform father of the birth of his grandson. If you were still on former terms of intimacy with him, you would be the best mediator."
"I can do nothing," replied Gunther, curtly. He was unusually reserved in his manner toward Irma. She felt conscious of this, and felt, too, that she no longer had a right to claim unreserved confidence on the part of her friends. But as she did not wish to break with those whom she esteemed, it was necessary to maintain relations of courtesy with them.
"I believe that Bruno's better nature will now assert itself," said Irma. She forced herself to speak, and trembled when she thought that the man who sat beside her might suddenly ask her: "What have you done with your better nature?"
The carriage stopped before the palace. Irma alighted and Gunther drove home.
Once in her room, Irma pressed both hands to her heart as if to allay the storm within. "Must I beg every one to prove his friendly feeling by silence, or to admit that I am right? Those who despise the world's laws and have soared above them, had better cease to live." She aroused herself by a violent effort and began the letter to her father. She complained that she had had no news from him for a long while. She wrote about Arabella, informed him that Bruno had become a steady paterfamilias, and, at last, mentioned the birth of the grandson. She also wrote that Arabella begged for a few lines from the grandfather, and that they would render her happy.
Irma found her letter a difficult task. Her pen usually responded to every varying phase of feeling; but, that day, it seemed to stumble and hesitate. She leaned back in her chair, and picked up a letter that she had found lying there. It was Walpurga's. She smiled while reading it, and enjoyed the satisfaction of having benefited a fellow-creature who, although distant, held her in faithful remembrance.
The waiting-maid announced Bruno's groom. Irma had him come in. He had come to express his master's desire that the gracious countess should at once dispatch the letter she had promised to write, and said that he had been ordered to take it to the post-office himself. Irma sealed it and gave it to him.
Bruno, seated in his dog-cart, was waiting at the corner of the palace square. The groom handed him the letter. Bruno put it in his pocket. He drove to the post-office and, with his own hands, dropped a letter into the box. This epistle, however, was directed to a lady. The one intended for his father he retained in his possession. He was determined not to humble himself, either through his sister or his wife.
The box into which Bruno dropped the perfumed billet-doux contained letters for old Eberhard,--letters which Bruno could not intercept.
Chapter II
On the very morning that his first grandchild was born, Count Eberhard was returning, with a light heart, from a walk in the fields. They had begun, that day, to gather the first harvest from a large, tray-formed tract of land which had once been a swamp. Eberhard had drained the desolate tract with great care and judgment, and now it produced unequaled crops. The sight of the ripened grain waving in the gentle breeze, inspired him with pure and happy feelings, and he thought of the generations to come, who would derive sustenance from a tract of land rendered fertile by him.
He felt no desire to impart his happiness to another. He had accustomed himself, in the past, to live within himself. His one real life-burden he had confessed to his daughter. He thoroughly enjoyed the repose which solitude alone affords. He imagined that pure reflection had conquered all passion. He always obeyed the inner voice of nature; there was no one for whose sake he was obliged to repress it. He had faithfully endeavored to perfect himself, and, while placing himself beyond the reach of temptation, had, at the same time, withdrawn from social activity.
When he left his work in field or forest, it was to commune with those great ones who had long since left the world, and with whose profoundest thoughts he felt himself in full accord.
He had just come in from the fields and was about to repair to his library, there to converse with a spirit that had long since left this world. His step was steady, his mind was calm and placid. He could, at will, preserve a certain state of feeling, or resign himself to the guidance of a spirit living in another sphere. His life lay in two distinct spheres, and yet the transition from one to the other was never violent.
The impressions of the moment had already clothed themselves in words, and he was about to note them down in a little book which bore the inscription: "Self-redemption."
Entering the manor-house, he found a number of persons waiting for him in the great, long, harvest hall, which was hung with garlands and wreaths. They saluted him as he approached. The village burgomaster, who had, hitherto, represented that district at the Diet, and many other persons of local importance were assembled there. The burgomaster was the spokesman of the party, and stated that, in the forthcoming election, it would be necessary to relinquish the field to blockheads and bigots, unless they could nominate a candidate whose high personal character and influence would secure them victory. Colonel Bronnen, who had been recommended by Count Eberhard, had refused to stand, and now Count Eberhard was the only one who could defeat the enemy. The electors said that they well knew what a sacrifice it would be for him to take part in the canvass. They had, therefore, waited until now, the day of the election, and they urgently entreated him not to withdraw at the eleventh hour.
"Yes," added the burgomaster, "you've drained a swamp and carried off the foul water; and now you must help us in this, too."
To their great surprise and delight, Eberhard, without further objection, declared his willingness to stand. He had succeeded in one undertaking, and, from a sense of duty, felt that he had no right to avoid assuming the greater trust now offered him. The old enemy was still in force, and it was meet that the old warriors should go forth to battle against him.
The friends left and, after giving a few orders to the servants, Eberhard followed. He rode a large, powerful horse, such as a large, strong man requires. He caught up with his friends before they reached the town, and thus made his entry with quite a following.
He presented himself before the assembled electors. The hall was almost full. The people were astonished to see the count, but the glances turned toward him were soon withdrawn, and much whispered conversation ensued. Making his way through the crowd, Eberhard walked up to the speaker's stand. Few stood up or greeted him. Why was it? At other times, the crowd would always make way for him; but to-day, he had to push his way through them. It almost vexed him, but he controlled himself. "This is the true effect of free thought; homage should not be bestowed according to custom and precedence; it should only be for those who have earned it. You are still an aristocrat at heart, and are still filled with pride of ancestry--pride in your own past." Such were the thoughts that passed through his mind, while, with a smile, he rejoiced in the victory he had won over himself.
The first one to mount the speaker's stand was the candidate of the "Blacks," as the popular party termed their opponents. He spoke with cleverness, but without fervor, and it was evident that his address had been carefully studied. He made several clever points, however, which were received with loud applause.
The retiring delegate came forward and, stating that he declined a re-election, proposed Count Eberhard of Wildenort, the tried champion of freedom and popular rights.
The assembly seemed taken by surprise. There was but little clapping of hands, and few bravos were heard.
Count Eberhard was quite taken aback by this cold reception, and looked about him in astonishment. The burgomaster whispered to him that this was a sure sign of victory, and that the enemy was confounded. Eberhard merely nodded. A strange feeling of embarrassment arose within him. He repressed it, and mounted the speaker's stand. With every step, he gained in courage and became more fully persuaded that it was his duty to defend the new trust without regard to thought of self. He began his speech by giving an account of his past life and struggles, adding, with a smile, that there were many present who, like himself, had gray hairs, and that there was no need of telling them what he desired. He was glad, however, to find that, there were so many younger men present. They listened with considerable patience. Among the opposition there was, now and then, loud talking, which was, however, soon silenced. Eberhard went on speaking. Suddenly loud peals of laughter resounded through the assembly, and the words "left-handed father-in-law" were heard. Eberhard did not know what it meant, and went on with his remarks. The talking in the crowd grew louder. Drops of cold sweat stood on his brow. The burgomaster mounted the stand and exclaimed: "Whoever isn't willing to listen to a man like Count Eberhard, doesn't deserve to have a vote."
Breathless silence ensued. Eberhard concluded with the words:
"I am proud enough to tell you that I don't ask you for your votes. I simply say that I accept the nomination."
He left the assembly, but, before doing so, begged his friends to remain. He rode home, filled with the thought that he had separated himself from the world, instead of having conquered it.
He alighted as soon as he came to his own land in the valley, and gave orders to some of the laborers. When he returned to the road, he met the postman, who handed him several letters. Eberhard opened the first and read:
"Your daughter has fallen into disgrace, and yet stands in high grace as the mistress of the king. To her the country owes the restoration of the ecclesiastical ministry. If you still doubt, ask the first person you meet in the streets of the capital. Unhappy father of a happy daughter." It was signed "The Public Voice."
Eberhard tore up the letter and gave the shreds to the winds, which carried them far away over the fields.
"Anonymous letters," said he, "are the meanest things conceivable. They are far lower than cowardly assassination, and yet--" It seemed as if the breeze which carried the shreds away had now returned, laden with the expression that he had heard at the meeting. Had they not said "left-handed father-in-law"?
Eberhard pressed his hand to his brow--the thought was like a burning arrow piercing his brain. He opened the second letter and read: "You do not care to believe how it stands with your daughter. Ask him who was once your friend. Ask the king's physician, on his honor and conscience. He will tell you the truth. Save what may yet be saved. Then will the writer of these lines divulge his name. From one who greatly esteems you. ----"
Eberhard did not destroy this letter; he held it in his trembling hand. A mist suddenly rose before him. He passed his hands over his eyes as if to brush it away; but it still remained, growing denser with each succeeding moment. He tried to read the letter again, but could not distinguish a word of it. He crumpled up the paper and put it in his breast-pocket, where it lay like a burning coal against his heart. His head swam and he sat down by the wayside. What could he do? They would smile if he went to court to fetch her. They would be very gracious and would say: "Let there be no scenes, no noise. Let everything be arranged quietly; let there be no scandal; decorum must be maintained." And one must smile, though his heart is bursting. We live in a civilized world, and this they call culture and good manners. Oh! you are well off. With you, all is pastime. You can afford to be ever polite, ever cool and reserved. Oh, why did I come home to waste my powers in this miserable nook! It's all my own fault. I meant to rescue myself from the hurly-burly of the world. I've lost my children, instead. A satanic sophist lurks in us all. I persuaded myself that it was better, and more in accordance with nature, to let my children grow up, free from all control; and yet it was only a vain excuse for my own weakness. Because the duty of incessantly watching over them was distasteful to me, I suffered them to go to ruin, while persuading myself that their nature could thus best develop itself. And here I stand, and must fetch my child--
The sudden neighing of the horse, hitched to a tree near by, so startled Eberhard that he almost fell back. A laborer who was bringing two horses in from the field, stopped and asked: "What ails you, master?"
The laborer unhitched the horse. Eberhard rose hastily and, without saying a word, walked up the hill in the direction of the manor-house. He felt as if the air was filled with intangible, electric clouds that drew him back; but he forced his way through them. He reached the house and held fast by the doorposts. He was giddy, but still he did not give up. He went through the stables and barns, saw the men storing away the fodder, and remained looking at them for a long while. Then he went through the whole house and looked at every object with an inquiring gaze. In the great room with the bay-window, he lingered long before a picture of Irma, painted when she was but seven years old, a beautiful, large-eyed child. The attitude was natural, a mixture of childlike awkwardness and grace. The painter had wanted to put a nosegay in the child's hand, but she had said: "I won't have dead flowers; give me a pot with living flowers in it." Ah, she had had such pretty conceits! There she stood, the very picture of childish grace, with rosy cheeks, and with blooming roses in her hand. "A rose plucked before the storm could scatter its petals." These last words of Emilia Galotti passed through his mind. "No, I am not that strong."
He rang, but when the servant came, had forgotten what he wanted. The effort to collect his scattered thoughts seemed like plunging into chaos. At last he ordered the carriage, which was all he had wanted the servant for.
"The traveling carriage," he called out after the servant.
When he reached the library, he paused, and gazed at the door for a while. There were so many great and mighty minds in there--why did none of them come to his aid? There is no help but that we find within ourselves.
While descending the steps, he would now and then hold fast to the baluster as if to support himself. He drew himself up, as if filled with anger because of the weakness that mastered him. In the courtyard, he gave orders that the carriage should drive on and meet him down in the valley. His speech was noticeably indistinct. Half way down the mountain, he suddenly seated himself on a heap of stones and looked about him.
What was passing before his eyes? What thoughts filled his mind? He looked for the tree which he had planted on the very spot where word was brought him of Irma's birth. This is the first soil trodden by her feet; these are the first trees she ever saw. The sky, the forests, the mountains, the blooming flowers, the merry birds, the grazing cows--all, all seemed like phantoms.--None of these will ever find you pure again. Never again dare you approach a living creature, or tree or flower; for they repudiate you, they are pure and you are--the world's a paradise. You have been driven thence, and roam about, a restless fugitive. You may deaden your conscience, may smile and jest and dissemble, but the sun does not dissemble, neither does the earth, nor your own conscience. You've destroyed the world and yourself, and still live,--dead in a dead world. How is it possible? It cannot be. I am mad. I shall neither punish nor chastise you; but you must know who and what you are, and the knowledge of that will be your punishment and your cure. I shall palliate nothing; you must know, see, and acknowledge it all, yourself--
A road laborer went up to the count and asked whether he was ill. He had noticed him sitting on the stones, and supposed that something might be wrong.
"Not well!" groaned Eberhard, "not well? It would be well for me if I--"
He got up and walked away.
A grief stricken mother can shed tears; a father cannot.
His head was bowed on his chest. He saw blooming roses; they should have adorned her. He saw thorns; they should tear her brow. Anger and grief struggled within him. Anger raged; grief wept. Anger would have lent him giant strength, with which to destroy the world; but grief crushed his very soul.
Suddenly he drew himself up, and, as if driven by the storm, ran down the road, over the ditch and across the meadow,--only stopping when he reached the apple-tree.
"This is the tree--you're decked with ruddy fruit--and she-- Woe is me! life is pitiless!"
A deep cry of pain escaped him. The road laborer above, and the driver who was waiting with the carriage below, heard him and ran to his help. They found him lying on the ground, face downward. He was foaming at the mouth and was unable to speak. They bore him into the castle.
Chapter III
Throughout the capital, schools, offices, and workshops were closed. With the exception of, now and then, a noisy group of men who soon entered a large building and disappeared from view, the streets were given over to women and children. It was election day. It seemed as if the thousand and one diversified interests and sentiments that help to make up the life of a city had converged to a single point--as if a great soul were communing with itself. Although it was in broad daylight, a wondrous silence rested upon the deserted streets. Gunther's carriage had just come from Bruno's house, and now stopped at the town-hall. The doctor alighted, went upstairs and gave in his vote. In consideration of his being a physician in active practice, he was allowed to vote before his turn. He returned to his carriage and drove home, When he entered the sitting-room, his wife handed him a telegram which had just been received. Gunther opened it.
"What's the matter?" exclaimed Madame Gunther, for she had never before seen so great a change in her husband's face.
He handed her the telegram and she read:
"Count Eberhard Wildenort paralyzed. Deprived of speech. Send word to son and daughter to come at once; if possible, you also.
"DOCTOR MANN, District Physician."
"You are going?" said Madame Gunther in an agitated, but scarcely inquiring tone. Gunther nodded affirmatively.
"I've one request to make," continued Madame Gunther. With a slight motion of his hand, the doctor intimated that he wished her to proceed. He felt as if his tongue were palsied.
"I'd like to go with you," said she.
"I don't understand you."
"Sit down," said the wife, and when Gunther had seated himself, she placed her gentle hand upon his lofty forehead. His face brightened, and she went on to say:
"Wilhelm, this is a terrible visitation. Let me do all I can to alleviate the grief of the lost child whom this dread message will soon reach. I can imagine her feelings. Who knows? Perhaps her own actions have been the cause of this.--Although she rides in her carriage, I shall assist her as faithfully as if she were a poor outcast; and if the poor soul repels me, I shall not leave her. I don't know what may happen, but the moment may come when she will feel it a comfort to rest the head now scourged by thorns against a woman's heart. Do let me go with you?"
"I've no objection. For the present, however, you had better get everything ready for my departure." He drove to Bruno's house.
As soon as the latter noticed his sad looks, he exclaimed: "And so your party was beaten?"
"Not yet," replied Gunther, gently breaking the news to Bruno.
Bruno turned away, hurriedly gathered up several letters that were lying on the table and locked them up in his desk. He was soon ready to go with Gunther to Irma, to whom they broke the sad news as gently as possible.
"I knew it! I knew it!" cried Irma. Not another word escaped her. She went into her bedchamber and threw herself on the bed; but she had hardly touched the pillow before she sprang up as if thrust back, and then knelt on the floor and swooned away. When she returned to the reception room, her features wore a fixed, rigid expression. She gave hurried orders to her servant and her maid to prepare for the journey. The doctor withdrew, in order to ask for leave of absence, and promised to procure leave for Irma, too.
"You ought to bid adieu to the queen, before you go," said Bruno.
"No, no!" cried Irma vehemently. "I cannot; I will not."
There was no servant in the antechamber. There was a knock at the door. Irma started. "Was the king coming?"
"Come in!" said Bruno. Madame Gunther entered.
Irma could not utter a word, but her eyes seemed to ask: "You here? and now?"
Madame Gunther told her that she had heard the sad news, and would regard it as a proof of her friendship, if Irma would allow her to accompany her.
"Thank you, with all my heart," stammered Irma.
"Then you grant my request?"
"I thank you; on my knees, I'll thank you; but I beg of you, don't make me talk much now."
"There's no need of your doing so, dear Countess," said Madame Gunther. "You've apparently neglected or forgotten me; but in your heart, you've remembered me. And even if it were otherwise, there was one short hour during which we opened our hearts to each other."
Irma raised her hands as if to shield herself,--as if the kind words pierced her like so many arrows. In a soothing voice, Madame Gunther added: "I shall consider it a kindness, if you will allow me to be kind to you; you have no mother and, perhaps--you will soon have no father."
Irma groaned aloud and pressed her hands to her eyes.
"My dear child," said Madame Gunther, placing her hand upon Irma's arm. Irma started--"there are many of God's creatures on earth, so that the sympathy of those whom misfortune has spared may serve as a support to the afflicted, and as a light in the hour of darkness. I beg of you, do not be proud in your grief. Let me share in all that the next few days may have in store for you."
"Proud? proud?" asked Irma, suddenly grasping Madame Gunther's hand and as suddenly dropping it again. "No, dear honored madame. I appreciate your affectionate motives. I understand--I know--all. I could calmly accept your kindness. I know--at least I think--that I, too, would have just acted as you do, if--"
"This is the best and the only thanks," interposed Madame Gunther, but Irma motioned her to stop, and continued:
"I entreat you, do not torture me. Your husband and my brother will accompany me. I beg of you, say nothing more. I thank you; I shall never forget your kindness."
Gunther entered the room again and Irma said:
"Is everything ready? We have no time to lose."
She bowed to Madame Gunther, and would gladly have embraced her, but could not.
Madame Gunther, who had never, before this, set foot in the palace, had only come to succor a ruined one. Never had the thought of herself so filled Irma with anguish and remorse, as when this embodiment of loving-kindness had held out her hand to her.
The thought that she no longer dared approach the pure pained her as if demons were tearing her to pieces. Her first impulse was to throw herself at Madame Gunther's feet.
She controlled herself, however, and, looking at her with a fixed gaze, passed on.
The parrot in the anteroom spread out its wings, as if it, too, wanted to go along, and screamed; "God keep you, Irma!"
As if veiled in a cloud, Irma walked through the corridor. At the palace gate, she met the king coming out of the park with Schnabelsdorf, who had a number of dispatches in his hand, and whose cheerful looks were owing to the news of victory which he had just received.
To Irma, the king and Schnabelsdorf seemed like misty forms. She wore a double black veil, for she did not care to gratify the idle curiosity of the court, by making a show of the face on which grief had done its work.
The king drew near. She could not remove her veil. He seemed far, far away. She heard his friendly and, of course, kind words, but she knew not what he said.
The king extended his hand to Gunther, then to Bruno, and, at last, to Irma. He pressed her hand tenderly, but she did not return the pressure.
They got into the carriage. Just as they were about to start, Irma, noticing Madame Gunther's hand on the carriage door, bent down and kissed it. The next moment they were gone.
They were silent for some time. After they had passed the first village, Bruno took out a cigar, saying to Irma, who sat opposite him: "I'm a man, and a man must calmly accept the inevitable. Show that you, too, have a strong mind."
Irma did not reply. She threw back her veil and looked out of the window. Her departure had been so hurried that she was just beginning to recover herself.
"You ought to have taken leave of the queen in person," said Bruno, in a calm tone. The long silence was irksome to him. Such dark hours should be made to pass as agreeably as possible. When he found that Irma still remained silent, he added: "For you know that the queen's tender nature is so easily offended."
Irma still made no reply, but Gunther said:
"Yes; it were sacrilege to offend the queen. No one but a savage would dare to weaken her faith in human goodness and veracity."
Gunther expressed himself with unwonted energy, and his words cut Irma to the heart. Was it she who had committed sacrilege? And then the thought gradually dawned upon her; the queen is his ideal; the king is mine. Who knows whether the mask of intellectual affinity may not have served to screen--Quick as thought, she dropped her veil; her breathing was short and fast; her cheeks were burning. He who knows himself to be--must judge others--nothing is perfect--no one--She felt as if she must speak, and at last said: "The queen deserves to have a friend like you."
"I place myself beside you," said Gunther calmly. "I believe that we both deserve the friendship of that pure heart."
"And so you believe that friendship can exist between married people of different sex?" inquired Bruno.
"I know it," replied Gunther.
At the first posting-house, where they came upon noisy crowds, the postmaster informed them that the election was going on, and that the contest was quite an excited one. The "Blacks" would certainly be defeated.
Bruno, who had alighted, asked the postillion:
"My noble fellow-citizen, have you exercised your sovereign right of voting to-day?"
"Yes, and against the 'Blacks'."
They drove on.
Bruno did not get out at the other stations. They were drawing near to Eberhard's district. While they were changing horses at the assize town, they heard loud cries of: "Long live Count Eberhard! Victory!"
"What's that?" inquired Gunther, putting his head out of the carriage door.
He was informed that, in spite of the "Blacks," Count Eberhard would prove the victor. The opposition had started a contemptible rumor, intended to disgrace the old count. But, although meant to injure others, it had proved a stumbling-block to themselves; for every one had said: "A father can't help what his child does, and, for that very reason, greater respect should now be shown him."--Irma drew back into the dark corner of the carriage and held her breath.
They drove on without saying a word.
After they had started, Bruno said it was too warm for him in the carriage, and that it did not agree with him to ride backward. Still, he would not suffer Gunther to change seats with him. He ordered the carriage to stop and, telling the lackey to sit up with the driver, placed himself on the back seat, next to the waiting-maid. Irma took off her hat and laid her head back. It was heavy with sad thoughts. Now and then, when the road lay along the edge of a precipice, she would quickly raise herself in her seat. She felt as if she must plunge into the abyss; but, weak and feeble, she would fall back again. Gunther, too, remained silent; and thus they drove on through the night, without uttering a word.
At one time, the waiting-maid would have laughed out aloud, but Bruno held his hand over her mouth and prevented her.
Chapter IV
It was near midnight when the travelers reached castle Wildenort. The servant said that the count was sleeping, and that the physician who lived in the valley was with him. The country doctor left the sickroom and came out into the ante-chamber to welcome the new arrivals. He was about to describe the case to Gunther, who, however, requested him not to do so until he had himself seen the patient. Accompanied by Irma and Bruno, he went into the sick-room.
Eberhard lay in bed, his head propped up by pillows. His eyes were wide open, and, without showing the slightest emotion, he stared at those who entered, as if they were figures in a dream.
"I greet you, Eberhard, with all my heart," said Gunther. The sick man's features twitched convulsively, and his eyelids rose quickly and as quickly fell again, while he gropingly put forth his hand toward his old friend. But the hand sank powerless on the coverlet. Gunther grasped it and held it fast.
Irma stood as if rooted to the spot, unable to move or utter a word.
"How are you, papa?" asked Bruno.
With a sudden start, as if a shot had whizzed by his ear, Eberhard turned toward Bruno and motioned to him to leave the room.
Irma knelt down at his bedside, while Eberhard passed his trembling hand over her face. It became wet with her tears. Suddenly, he drew it back, as if it had been touching a poisonous reptile. He averted his face and pressed his brow against the wall; and thus he lay for a long while.
Neither Gunther nor Irma spoke a word. Their voices failed them in the presence of him who had been deprived of speech. And now Eberhard turned again and gently motioned his daughter to leave the room. She did so.
Gunther remained alone with Eberhard. It was the first time in thirty years that the two friends had met. Eberhard passed Gunther's hand across his eyes, and then shook his head.
Gunther said: "I know what you mean; you would like to weep, but cannot. Do you understand all I say to you?"
The patient nodded affirmatively.
"Then just imagine," continued Gunther, and his voice has a rich and comforting tone, "that the years we've been separated from each other were but one hour. Our measure of time is a different one. Do you still remember how you would often in enthusiastic moments exclaim: 'We've just been living centuries'?"
There was again a convulsive twitching of the patient's features, just as when a weeping one is enlivened by a cheerful thought and would fain smile, but cannot.
Eberhard attempted to trace letters on the coverlet, but Gunther found it difficult to decipher them.
The sick man pointed to a table on which there lay books and manuscripts. Gunther brought several of them, but none was the right one. At last he brought a little manuscript book, the cover of which was inscribed with the title, "Self-redemption." The sick man seemed pleased, as if welcoming a fortunate occurrence.
"You wrote this yourself. Shall I read some of it to you?"
Eberhard nodded assent. Gunther sat down by the bed and read:
"May this serve to enlighten me on the day and in the hour when my mind becomes obscured.
"I have been much given to introspection. I have endeavored to study myself, without regard to the outward conditions of time, standpoint, or circumstance. I perceive it, but, as yet, I cannot grasp it. It is a dew-drop shut up in the heart of a rock.
"There are moments when I am fully up to the ideal I have formed for myself, but there are many more when I am merely the caricature of my better self. How am I to form a conception of my actual self? What am I?
"I perceive that I am a something belonging to the universe and to eternity.
"During the blessed moments, sometimes drawn out into hours, in which I realize this conception, there is naught but life for me--no such thing as death, either for me or the world.
"In my dying hour, I should like to be as clearly conscious as I now am that I am in God, and that God is in me.
"Religion may claim warmth of feeling and glory of imagination as her portion. We, on the other hand, have attained to that clear vision which includes both feeling and imagination.
"In troubled, restless days, when I endeavored to grasp the Infinite, I felt as if melting away, vanishing, disappearing. I longed to know: What is God?
"And now I possess our master's answer: Although we cannot picture God to ourselves, yet we have a clear idea or conception of Him.
"For us, the old commandment: 'Thou shalt not make unto thyself any image of God,' signifies thou canst not make to thyself any image of God. Every image is finite; the idea of God is that of infinity.
"Spinoza teaches that we must regard ourselves as a part of God--
"While endeavoring to grasp the idea of the whole, I came to understand what is meant by the words: 'The human mind is part of the divine mind.'
"A single drop rises on the surface of the stormy ocean of life. It lasts but a second--though men term it threescore years and ten--and then, glowing with the light it receives and imparts, sinks again.
"Man, regarded as an individual, is both by birth and education a thought entering upon the threshold of the consciousness of God. At death, he simply sinks below that threshold, but he does not perish. He remains a part of eternity, just as all thought endures in its consequences.
"When I combine a number of such individuals or thoughts and term them a nation, the genius of that nation enters upon the threshold of such consciousness as soon as the nation begins to have a history of its own.
"Combining the nations into a whole, we have mankind or the totality of thought, the consciousness of God and of the world.
"I have often felt giddy at the mere thought of standing firm and secure, on the highest pinnacle of thought.
"May these thoughts inspire and deliver me in the hour of dissolution. There is no separation of mortal and immortal life, they flow into each other and are one.
"The knowledge that we are one and the same with God and the universe is the highest bliss. He who possess this, never dies, but lives the life eternal.
"Come to me once more, thou spirit of Truth, at the moment when I sink--
"Dust cleaves to my wings, just as it does to yonder lark, winging its flight from the furrowed field into ether. The furrow is as pure as the ether, the worm as pure as the lark,--God yet dwells in that which, to us seems lost and ruined. And should my eye be dimmed in death--I have beheld the Eternal One--My eyes have penetrated eternity. Free from distortion and self-destruction, the immortal spirit soars aloft--"
When Gunther had read thus far, Eberhard laid his hand on his lips as if to silence him, and gazed intently into his eyes.
"You have honestly wrestled with yourself and the highest ideas," said Gunther, whose voice was tremulous with something more than grief at approaching death.
Eberhard closed his eyes. When Gunther saw that he was asleep, he rose from his seat.
He now noticed that Irma had been sitting behind the bed-screen. He beckoned to her, and she left the room with him.
"Did you hear everything?" asked Gunther.
"I only came a few minutes ago." Irma wanted to know the whole truth in regard to her father's position. Gunther admitted that there was no hope of recovery, but that the hour of death was uncertain. Irma covered her face with both hands and returned to the sick-room, where she again took her seat behind the bed-screen.
Bruno was with the country physician, in the great hall. As soon as Gunther entered, Bruno hastily arose and, advancing to meet him, hurriedly said: "Our friend here has already quieted me. The danger, thank God"--his tongue faltered at the words "thank God"--"is not imminent. Pray quiet my sister's fears."
Gunther made no reply. He saw that Bruno merely affected ignorance of the imminent danger, and Gunther was enough of a courtier to refrain from forcing the truth upon unwilling ears. He returned to Irma. Bruno followed him and endeavored to cheer his sister; but she shook her head incredulously. He paid no heed to this, but said that he wanted to gain strength and endurance for the sad trial that awaited them. What he really wanted was to ride out, so that he might be absent at the terrible moment. Since his presence could not make things any better, why should he expose himself to such a shock?
The morning began to dawn. The sick man still lay there, motionless.
"His breathing is easier," faintly whispered Irma.
A gentle, reassuring nod was Gunther's reply.
Chapter V
With a firm tread, Bruno went down the steps. He had ordered the groom to lead his horse some distance from the castle and there await him. "If there only were no such thing as dying," thought he to himself. While placing his foot in the stirrup, something tugged at his coat. Was it his father's hand? or was it a spirit-hand dragging him back? He stumbled; his coat had caught in a buckle. He loosened it, and was just about to lift his riding-whip against the careless groom, when it occurred to him that such behavior was ill-timed. His father was ill, seriously ill, indeed, in spite of the family physician's reassuring words. No, it would not do to punish the servant now; it should not be said that Bruno had beaten his groom at such a moment. Fitz, who was putting the buckle to rights, stooped as if he already felt the whipstock across his shoulders, and looked up amazed when his master, in the gentlest voice, said to him: "Yes, good Fitz, I see that you've not slept any more than I have, and you're quite nervous. Lie down and rest for another hour. You need not ride out with me. Keep your horse saddled, however. I shall take the straight road through the forest clearing and, if anything should happen here, you or Anton can ride after me. At the foot of the Chamois hill, I shall turn back into the bridle-path and return by way of the valley. Do you hear? Don't forget! And now you can go sleep awhile; but don't unsaddle your horse. Don't forget what I've told you."
Bruno rode off, and the astonished Fitz stood there looking after him for some time.
Bruno took the road that led to the woods, and in the direction of a clearing which was now used as a pasture. It was easy riding over the grassy path, and the morning breezes refreshed him.
The golden glow of morning trembled on every leaf, and sparkled on every dewdrop. The woods on either side were superb, and, with a self-complacent nod, Bruno said to himself: "How well he understood forest matters. No, I shan't be so cruel. I shall have the woods well looked after, and shall not cut down the timber."
He now reached a level stretch of road. He put spurs to his horse and set off at a gallop. Suddenly he halted, for the neighborhood was one with which he was not familiar. There had formerly been a swamp and now there were broad fields, on which lay many sheaves of ripened grain.
Bruno turned towards the laborers who were binding the sheaves. The foreman told the young master that it was his father who had drained the swamp, and that this was now some of the best land on the whole estate. Offering Bruno a handful of the ripened ears, he said: "Take these to your father; I'm sure he thinks of us on his sickbed."
Bruno declined them, and gave the foreman some drink money. He rode off, leaving word that he was going toward the Chamois hill, and instructing the foreman to tell his groom as much, in case he should come after him.
The farm laborers he had left behind him were driving home with the first crop gathered from the redeemed land, and the cracking of their whips was the only sound that broke upon the silence of the forest solitude. He checked his horse's pace to a walk and, as no one could see him there, lit a cigar. When he reached the high level ground, he started off at a brisk trot. Sheep were grazing here, and Bruno did not fail to ride up to the shepherd and tell him what to say to the groom in case he should follow. It was a comfort to know that he had made it so easy to find him. After he had passed, he turned involuntarily. As if to calm himself he patted his horse's neck and, drawing a tight rein, drew himself up in his saddle. The road again led through a clearing in the forest; the valley below was bathed in golden sunshine. Suddenly it occurred to him: "There are so many miserable beings whose constant care is how to manage to keep alive. Why can't one purchase their vital power and, adding their years to his own, live forever? The masses, stupid as they are, are right when they consider us as no better than themselves, for we must die of the same diseases they are subject to.--Here, all is life; tree and beast and man. There, in the castle, lies a man whose end is drawing near, and who may be dying at this very moment. Perhaps even now, the air is wafting his last breath toward me--Where is it? Why does not a shudder pass through all that belongs to him? through every tree, and man, and beast? All that lived with him should die with him, for it is his. This wretched, miserable life--"
"I'm a poor woman, give me something," said a figure, suddenly emerging from the thicket. It was Zenza.
Bruno started as if a ghost had appeared to him. He put spurs to his horse and hurried off. His hair stood on end with fright, and it was long before he regained his composure.
In spite of this interruption, and without an effort on his part, his thoughts went back to the subject that engaged them at the moment when Zenza appeared upon the scene; but the old woman's cry of: "Give me something," was ever ringing in his ears. If everything were to die with its possessor, who would inherit? What is more peculiarly a man's own than his thoughts? And even they die with him--
"I won't think any more," said Bruno to himself. "Not now; to-morrow--the day after--some other time; but now I don't want to think."
He raised his hat, as if to permit his thoughts to escape; then he whipped and spurred his horse so that it reared and started off at a furious pace. The effort to maintain himself in his saddle drove what he regarded as gloomy fancies from his mind. He sat firmly, pressed his knees against the horse's ribs, and felt the better for the exertion. But, in spite of all, his thoughts would suddenly wander off to his father again. He felt a sudden shudder--This must have been the very moment--at that instant, his father must have breathed his last--involuntarily, Bruno drew his hand back. His horse halted. He again put spurs to him, and galloped away as if to escape from his thoughts. Suddenly, a voice cried out:
"Stop, Bruno!" He shuddered. Whose voice could it be? Who would call him by name? Surprise and alarm had thrown him into a cold sweat.
"Who calls me?" he asked with pale, trembling lips.
"You can't get here."
"Who are you? Where are you?" cried Bruno. A cold shudder passed over him, and his horse snorted and snuffed the air. Was it true that witches lived in rocks? for the voice had come from the rock.
"Who are you?" repeated Bruno; "your voice seems--"
"Do you still know Black Esther? Turn back, or you're a dead man."
He heard something whizzing by him. Benumbed with terror, he sat upon his horse. At last he dropped the rein, looked at his hand, drew off his glove, as if to satisfy himself that he was still living, that it was yet day, that all was not a dream, or the product of wild imagination--
His horse went on at a gentle pace. Suddenly, it started to one side--there had been the report of a gun. Who could be hunting there?
Bruno had already gotten beyond the limits of his own domain. Who could now be hunting in the royal forests, where the chase was not to begin until next month?
With a complacent air, Bruno twirled his mustache. He again felt confidence in himself, and in his worldly wisdom. He felt for the revolver in his saddle-bag, and calmly examined it to see if it was fit for use. The horse went on. Presently he saw a gun-barrel resting on a tree and directed against him, while a voice from behind the tree called out:
"Turn back, or you're a dead man. One--two--three--"
Trembling from head to foot, Bruno turned his horse's head. Behind him was the loaded gun, and, at any moment, a bullet might pierce him. The cold sweat streamed down his face; his eyes burned; he did not venture to raise his hand, lest the poacher behind him should misinterpret the movement and shoot him in the back. It was not until he had reached the rock where Black Esther had called to him and had so mysteriously disappeared, that he ventured to breathe freely. She had not forgotten his love, and he would henceforth provide for her. He again put spurs to his horse, and hurried off without knowing whither. It was not until he reached tilled land and saw laborers at work, that he alighted and sat down on the ground.
The first feeling of safety inspired him with a good resolve. He would return and, bowing himself--in repentance, ask his father's forgiveness. He would now promise to care for Black Esther, who had been the cause of the rupture between them. But he felt so weak that he could not rise, and a voice within him said: "You can't do it, you can't stand two such shocks in one day, and, besides, there's no hurry; the end will surely not come to-day. There will be time enough to-morrow, or later."
Feeling as if every bone in his body were broken, he, at last, arose, and asked the people in the field where he was. He found that he was far away from the road.
If the groom were now to ride after him and not find him.
Bruno quieted his conscience with the knowledge that he had not meant it to be thus. Dire fate, and an almost inconceivable combination of terrors, had led him from the right road.
Here, no one knew him. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of music and saw several carriages, decorated with green boughs, driving along the road. "What's this? a wedding?" he inquired of the peasant who had already given him some information as to the road.
"I don't know, but I think they must be town folk, or else they couldn't ride about in harvest time. Maybe they're coming from the election."
Bruno again mounted his horse. When he asked for the nearest road to Wildenort, the peasant looked at him in surprise, and pointed to a bridle-path on which he could not miss his way. But Bruno, who had lost all taste for the woods, preferred keeping to the highway. He passed a long string of wagons preceded by a band of music with a flag of black, red, and gold. He hurried by them, for he was not in a mood to listen to music.
Chapter VI
Even before Gunther's arrival, Eberhard had been bled. Gunther had brought a small medicine-chest with him, and had hastily compounded some remedies which had relieved and quieted the patient. He was now sleeping. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow. Irma still sat concealed behind the screen. She could see her father, but could not be seen by him. Drawing a deep breath, he awoke and looked about him. Irma hastened to him. He gazed at her fixedly, and then motioned her to open the window.
The day was bright and sunny; the cool, balmy breezes wafted the fragrance of the woods into the room. The cracking of whips was heard. Eberhard's features acquired a pleased expression, for he knew that they were now bringing in the first sheaves from the swamp which he had redeemed.
Steps were heard in the ante-chamber, and Gunther came in, accompanied by the farm bailiff.
"Come in," said he, "it will please your master."
With a heavy tread, the bailiff walked up to the sick man's bedside. In his right hand he held some of the ripened grain, while, with his left, he beat his breast as if to force out the words:
"Master, I've brought you the first ears from our new field, and hope your health may be spared, so that you may eat the bread from it for many a year to come."
Eberhard seized the ears and, with his other hand, pressed that of the servant, who now left the room and went down to the barn, where he sat down on a sheaf and wept.
"Shall I remain with you, or would you rather be alone with your child?" asked Gunther.
Eberhard dropped the ears, and they lay upon the coverlet. He reached for Irma's hand. Gunther went out.
And now Eberhard dropped his daughter's hand, pointed to her heart and then to the ears of corn.
She shook her head and said: "Father, I don't understand you."
An expression of pain passed over Eberhard's features, and he placed his finger on his lips, as if grieved that he could not speak. Who knows but what he meant to say: "Good seed will grow from the swamp, if we rightly cultivate it; and out of your own heart, too, my child; out of your lost, ruined--"
"I'll call Gunther," said Irma; "perhaps he will understand what you mean."
Eberhard shook his head, as if in disapproval. His features betrayed something like anger at Irma's inability to understand him.
He bit his speechless lips and tried to raise himself. Irma assisted him, and he now sat up, supported by the pillows.
His face had changed. It had suddenly acquired a strange hue and an altered expression.
With a shudder, Irma realized what was taking place. She fell down by his bedside, and laid her cheek upon her father's hand. He drew his hand away.
She looked at him. With great effort he raised his hand--it was damp with the dews of death--and with outstretched finger he wrote a word upon her brow. It was a short word; but she saw, she heard, she read it. It was written in the air, on her forehead, in her brain,--aye, in her very soul. Uttering a piercing cry, she sank to the floor.
Gunther came in hurriedly. Stepping over Irma, he rushed to the bedside, lifted Eberhard's fallen hand, felt for the beating of his heart, started back--and then closed his friend's eyes.
The silence of death reigned in the room.
Suddenly, music was heard in front of the house. They were playing the melody of a national song and hundreds of voices called out: "Long live our representative, noble Count Eberhard!" Irma, who was still lying on the ground, moved at these sounds. Gunther strode past her and went out into the courtyard. The playing ceased and the voices were silenced.
Horse's steps were heard approaching, and Bruno entered the courtyard. He alighted. The sorrowful mien of Gunther and those about him, told him what had happened. He covered his face and leaned on Gunther, who led him into the house. When Gunther and Bruno entered the chamber of death, Irma had disappeared. She had shut herself up in her room.
Chapter VII
He who destroys his life, destroys more than his own life.
The child that has afflicted a father sees his upbraiding hand rise from the grave.
My father has put the mark of Cain upon my brow; a mark that can never be effaced.
Nevermore dare I look upon my face or permit the eyes of strangers to behold it.
Can I escape from myself? My thoughts will follow me everywhere.
I am an outcast, forlorn, ruined.
Such was the dreary monotone that rang through Irma's soul, again and again.
She lay in the darkened chamber from which every ray of light was excluded. She was alone with herself and darkness. Her thoughts were like strange voices, calling her now here, now there. And it often seemed to her as if, with finger pointed at her, her father's fiery hand shone through the darkness.
She could hear Bruno's voice and Gunther's. Bruno wanted to ask her about many things, and Gunther wished to return to the city. Irma answered that she could see no one, and charged Gunther with a thousand greetings to all who loved her. Gunther cautioned the family doctor and the maid to keep a careful watch on Irma, and also sent a messenger to Emma at the convent.
Irma remained in darkness and solitude.
The tempter came to her, and said:
"Why grieve yourself to death? You are young, and the world, with all its beauty and splendor, lies before you. There is not the faintest trace of a mark upon your brow. The hand that left it is cold and stiff in death. Rise up and be yourself again! The whole world is yours! Why pine away? Why mortify yourself? Everything lives for itself; everything lives out its allotted time. Your father completed his life; do you complete yours. What is sin? The dead have no claims on the living; the living alone have rights."
While distracted by grief and doubts, she suddenly saw, arising through the darkness, the vision described in the New Testament, of Satan and the angel contending for the possession of the body of Moses.
"I'm not a corpse!" exclaimed she suddenly. "There are neither angels nor devils. It is all false! In song and story, and from generation to generation, they've been handing down all sorts of fables, just as they do with children whom they lull to sleep in the dark.
"Day has dawned. I can draw the curtain aside, and the whole world of light is mine. Are there not thousands who have erred as I have, and who still live happily?"
She felt as if buried alive in the earth. Fancy ever transported her to that one grave. She rushed to the window.
"Light! I must have light!"
She raised the curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room. She sprang back, the curtain fell and she again lay in darkness.
But she soon heard a voice that went to her heart. Colonel Bronnen had come from the capital to pay the last honors to Eberhard. He begged Irma--his powerful voice was thick with emotion--to permit him to mourn with her for the dead.
All her blood seemed to flow back to her heart. She opened the door and, through the darkness, held out her hand to her friend. He pressed it to his lips, and she heard the strong man weep. Suddenly, the thought flashed upon her that this man could save her, and that she could serve him, and look up to him. But how, could she dare?
"I thank you," said she, at last. "May it ever make you happy to know that you've been kind to the departed and to myself--"
Her voice faltered; she could say no more.
Bronnen departed, leaving her in the dark.
Irma was again alone.
The last stay left her was broken. Had she imagined that Bronnen had picked up fragments of a torn letter which he had found on the road, and that they were now in his pocket, she would have cried out for very shame.
One idea constantly possessed her. What good would it do her to see the sun rise so many thousand times more? Every eye would make the writing stand out more clearly, and certain words had become undying torments to her. Father--daughter! Who would banish these words from the language, so that he might nevermore hear them, nevermore read them?
Her ideas seemed to move in an unfathomable void. Turn it as she might, the one and only thought was ever returning with crushing weight. It seemed exhausting and yet inexhaustible.
Then ensued that numbness of the mind which is best described as the entire absence of thought. Chaos reigned, and what lay beyond surpassed conception. "Let what will come, I shall submit, like the beast led out for the sacrifice, and upon whose head the uplifted axe of the high priest is about to descend. Your destiny must be accomplished; you can do nothing but submit without shrinking."
Irma lay thus for hours.
The great clock in the hall was ticking, and seemed to be saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father. For hours, she could hear nothing but the pendulum, which seemed to utter those words again and again. She was about to give orders that the clock should be stopped, but forebore. She tried to force herself not to hear these words, but did not succeed. The pendulum still kept saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father.
What had once been subject to her caprice, now ruled her.
"What have you seen of the world?" she asked herself. "A mere corner. You must travel round the earth, and let it be a pilgrimage in which you may escape from yourself. You must become acquainted with the whole planet on which these creatures who call themselves men creep about; creatures who dig and plant, preach and sing, chisel and paint, simply to drown the thought that death awaits them all. All is drowned in stupor--"
In imagination, she transported herself far, far away, with faithful servants pitching their tent in the desert; and if some wild race were to approach--While she lay there, half awake, half asleep, she heard the sounds of the tom-tom, and fancied herself borne away on the shoulders of others, and adorned with peacocks' wings, while savage, dusky forms were dancing around her.
What had once been a wild day-dream now possessed her, and her brain whirled in fancy's maddening dance.
Chapter VIII
It was late at night. All were asleep. Irma gently opened the door and slipped out.
She went to the chamber of death. A single light had been placed near the head of the corpse, which lay in an open coffin and with a few ears of corn in its hands. A servant who was watching by the corpse, looked at Irma with surprise. He bowed to her, but did not speak a word. Irma grasped her father's hand. If that hand had rested on her head to bless her, instead of--
She knelt down and, with burning lips, kissed the cold, icy hand. A distracting thought flashed through her mind: This is the kiss of eternity. Burning flame and icy coldness had met: this is the kiss of eternity.
When she awoke in her room, she knew not whether she had really kissed her dead father's hand or whether it was all a dream. But she did feel that her heart was oppressed by a burden that could never be cast aside.
The kiss of eternity. You shall nevermore kiss warm, loving lips--you are the bride of death.
She heard the bells tolling while they bore her father to the grave. She did not leave her room. Not a sound escaped her lips; not a tear fell from her eye; all her faculties were benumbed and shattered. She lay in the dark. When she heard the pigeons on the window-sill outside, cooing and flying away, she knew that it was day.
Bruno was greatly annoyed by his sister's eccentric behavior. He wanted to leave, and wished her either to accompany him or, at all events, say what she proposed doing. But, thus far, she had not replied. At length, equipped for the journey, he went into Irma's anteroom, where he found her maid reading a book.
Bruno had just stretched out his hand to pat her under the chin, when he suddenly remembered that he was in mourning, and drew his hand back.
He gave his hat to the maid, so that she might put a mourning band on it, and, while doing so, stroked her hand, as if by accident. Then he went to his sister's door again.
"Irma!" he said; "Irma, be sensible; do give me an answer."
"What do you want of me?"
"Open the door."
"I can hear you," she replied, but did not open the door.
"Well, then, I must tell you that no will has been found. I shall arrange everything with you in a brotherly manner. Won't you come along to my house?"
"No."
"Then I must go without you! good-by!" He received no answer and, while waiting, heard steps moving away from the door. He turned toward the waiting-maid, who had in the mean while fastened the crape upon his hat. Bruno kissed her hand and gave her a handsome present.
He set out on his journey at once.
He was just as well pleased to travel without Irma's company. There would be no one to disturb him, and he could more easily give way to his own inclinations. His philosophy enjoined upon him the avoidance of all unnecessary grief; it could do no good, and would simply embitter life.
He was in a self-complacent mood. He meant to take the Wildenort estate to himself, on account of the name. It was, unfortunately, small and, unless he obtained a position under the government, it would not support him in a manner befitting his rank. If Irma should marry, which he hoped would be very soon, he would give her the assessed value of the hereditary estate as her dowry. Bruno returned to the capital, and the first time that he left his house was to visit the jockey club, which was now in session. By paying a moderate forfeit, he hoped to be able to withdraw his horses from the races which were announced to take place within a few days. He was in mourning, and they would, of course, take that into consideration. On the way, he met Gunther and turned back. The doctor was going to the palace.
Never had this man, who, at court, was looked upon as a stoic, shown such agitation as when he brought the news of old Count Wildenort's death.
He told the queen that Eberhard's last moments had renewed the spirit of his better days, and yet he could not refrain from adding that his departed friend had not attained the high point to gain which he had so honestly labored. For, at the last moment he had felt the need of support from without, and was obliged to impress his mind anew with truths he had long since made his own. The queen was astonished at the doctor, who could judge so sternly, even when most deeply afflicted.
"How does our Irma bear it?" cried she.
"Sadly and silently," replied Gunther.
"I think," said the king to the queen, "that we ought to write to our friend, and send a messenger to her."
The queen approved of his suggestion, and the king said to the captain of the palace guard:
"The queen wishes to have a courier sent to Countess Irma at once. Pray attend to the matter. Send Baum."
The queen started with fear. Why had the king said that she desired to send a messenger? The suggestion had been his own, and she had merely assented to it. She quickly silenced her doubts, however, and reproached herself that the suspicions she had once harbored had not yet entirely vanished. She went to her room and wrote to Irma. The king wrote, too.
Baum assumed a modest and submissive mien, while receiving orders to start at once as a courier to the Countess of Wildenort. He was to remain with the countess, to be in constant attendance upon her, and, if she desired to travel, he was to accompany her until she should return to court.
When Baum set out with the letters, his face wore a triumphant expression. He was now on the point of gaining the great prize. He had been intrusted with a delicate commission, and he knew what he was about. He felt that they appreciated him, and that he understood them. He looked back toward the palace. The submissive air had vanished. Stroking his chest with his right hand, and holding the left up to his lips, he said to himself; "I shall return as a made man; I shall be lord chamberlain at least."
Baum arrived at the manor-house. The maid told him that Irma would receive no one.
"If she only had a good cry; her silent grief will kill her."
He knocked at Irma's door. It was long before an answer came. At last she asked what was the matter, and when she recognized Baum's voice, she was obliged to support herself from falling, by holding on to the latch of the door. "Had the king come, too?" she asked herself.
Baum said that he had come as a courier to deliver a letter from their majesties. Irma opened the door just far enough to enable her to put out her hand. She took the large letter and laid it on the table. There was nothing that she cared to learn from the world, nor could it offer her any consolation. No one could. At last, toward evening, she drew back the curtains and broke the seal of the large envelope. There were two letters in it; one in the queen's handwriting, the other in the king's. She opened the queen's letter first, and read:
"My dear, good Irma";
(It was the first time that the queen had written so affectionately. Irma wiped her face with her handkerchief and went on reading.)
"You have experienced life's greatest affliction. Would that I were with you, to press your throbbing heart to mine, and to kiss away your tears. I shall not attempt to console you, but can only say that I sympathize with you as far as it is possible to sympathize with griefs one has not yet known. You are strong and noble, and I cannot help appealing to you" (Irma's hand trembled) "to think of yourself and to bear your grief purely and nobly. You are orphaned, but the world must not be a desert void to you. There are still hearts that beat with friendship for you. I am glad--that is to say--I thank fate that I am able to be of some help to you in your sorrow. I need not assure you of my friendship for you, and yet, at such moments, it does one good to tell one's self so. I do not care to spend a single hour in pleasure while you are in affliction. All feelings are shared by us." (Irma covered her face with her hands. Recovering herself, she went on reading.) "Let me know soon what I can do for you. Come to me, or remain in solitude, just as your feelings dictate. If I could only enable you to enjoy the company of yourself as we enjoy it. You don't know how much good you've done me. You have extended the domain of our perceptions and have thus enriched our lives. What nobler achievement can there be! Remain firm and remember that you may always depend upon the friendship of
"Your ever loving
"MATHILDE."
Irma laid the letter on the table and involuntarily pushed it far away from that of the king, which was still unopened. Years should elapse--aye, oceans should lie between the reading of the two letters; and yet how often had she listened to them both in the same breath, and looked at them with the same glance.
With a violent movement, as if in anger, she opened the king's letter and read:
"I am deeply pained to know that you, too, my charming friend, must learn that we are mortal. It grieves me to think that your lovely eyes must weep. If that which is noblest be capable of still further purification--and what mortal being is not?--this affliction must needs add to your noble-mindedness. I entreat you, do not soar too high, lest you leave us too far below you. Carry us with you, to the lofty regions in which you dwell."
Irma's features assumed a hard and bitter expression. She went on reading:
"If you mean to torment your beautiful eyes with tears, and your noble heart with sighs, for more than seven days, and desire to remain alone, pray send me word. Should you, however, wish to protract your mourning, and to recover yourself and another self, by travel, decide upon what direction you mean to take. Let it not be too far--not too far into the land of sorrow, a land to which you are a stranger. Be happy again and subdue your grief, cheerfully and speedily.
"Affectionately yours, K."
In the letter, there lay a small piece of paper with the inscription: "Burn this as soon as read."
"I cannot live without you. If I lose you, I lose myself. Your presence is my life. I cannot live, except in the light of your eyes. I want no clouds; I long for the sunlight. Remember the world of thought that dwells beneath your plumed hat. Let that world have its sway, you must not be sad; you dare not, for my sake. You must be mistress of your grief, just as you are mistress over me. Be firm, put all grief away from you, and return to your KURT.
"The kiss of eternity! I alone can kiss away the sadness that clouds your brow. I can and I will."
Irma uttered a loud shriek, and then gave way to convulsive laughter.
"Can any lips kiss this brow? How would they relish the death-sweat which has already eaten into the flesh? How would that terrible word taste to the lips? Kiss it away! Kiss it away! I burn! I freeze!"
The maid heard the last few words, and endeavored to go to Irma's assistance, but the door was locked.
After some time, Irma raised her head and was surprised to find herself on the floor. She rose and ordered a light and writing materials. She burned the king's two letters, and then sat there for a while, with her weary head resting upon both her hands. At last she took the pen and wrote:
"Queen!
"I expiate my crime, in death. Forgive and forget.
"IRMA."
On the envelope she wrote the words, "By the hand of Gunther," "For the queen herself."
Then she took another sheet and wrote:
"My Friend:
"These are the last words I shall ever address to you. We are treading the wrong path, a path full of peril. I expiate my crime. You do not belong to yourself alone; you belong to her and to your country. Death is my expiation. Life must be yours. Be at one with the law that binds you to her and to the state. You have denied both, and I have aided you to do so. Our life, our love, has dealt terribly with you. You could no longer be true to yourself. But now you must again become so; and that completely. These are my dying words, and I shall gladly die, if you will but hearken to me and to your better self. God knows we did not mean to sin; but we sinned, for all. My judgment is written on my brow; inscribe yours in your heart and live anew. All is still yours. I receive the kiss of eternity from death. Listen to this voice and forget it not, but forget her who calls to you. I do not wish to be remembered."
She sealed the letters and hurriedly hid them in the portfolio, for she was interrupted. Emma, or rather Sister Euphrosyne, was announced.
Chapter IX
Gunther had sent a messenger to inform Emma of Count Eberhard's death and Irma's despair. The prioress suggested that Emma should hasten to her young friend, to whom they owed so great a debt; and, as nuns were not allowed to travel alone, she was accompanied by a sister who was an experienced nun.
When the maid announced them, Irma started from her seat. This is deliverance! In the convent, shut out from the world, a living death--there shall you wait until they bear you to the grave.
Suddenly the old boatman's words flashed upon her: "A life in which nothing happens."
Her lips swelled with proud defiance. I shall not wait for the end; I'll force it. It was long before she answered the maid:
"My best thanks, but I don't care to see or hear any one."
After uttering these words, Irma felt as if inspired with new strength. That, too, was over.
All was silence and darkness again, and the clock kept on saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father.
From the valley below, she heard the sounds of the vesper bell.
"It must be," said Irma to herself. She drew back the curtains and, looking down into the valley, could see the nuns, clad in their long black gowns, walking across the meadows. Her thoughts went out after them, as she said: "Farewell, Emma!" Then she called her maid and told her to give orders that a horse should be saddled for her, as she wished to ride out. She did not turn her face to the maid. No one should ever look on that brow. The maid helped her on with her riding-habit and riding-hat, the latter ornamented with part of an eagle's wing. Irma started when her hand touched the wing. The king had shot the bird, and had given her the plumes when-- It seemed like a parting, ghostly touch.
She ordered a double veil to be put on her hat, and it was not until she was in perfect disguise, that she set off. She did not look up; she took leave of no one; her eyes were fixed on the ground.
Irma's saddle-horse stood in the courtyard. At her approach, it pawed the ground and snuffed the air. She did not stop to inquire who had brought her horse from the city. She patted its neck and called it by its name: "Pluto." In thought, she was already so far removed from the world that she regarded the beast as a marvel, or as something never before seen. She mounted.
The large dog, a favorite of her father's, was there also, and barked when he saw her. She gave orders to have the dog taken back to the house.
She rode away at an easy pace. She did not look behind her, nor to the right or left. The sun was already behind the tops of the trees. Its broken rays shone through the branches, like so many threads of light, and between the boughs glowed the sky, forming a golden background.
Irma halted and beckoned to Baum, who had been following her, to come nearer. He rode up.
"How much money have you with you?"
"Only a few florins."
"I must have a hundred florins; ride back and get them for me."
Baum hesitated. He wanted to say that he was not allowed to leave the countess, but he could not muster courage enough to do so.
"Why do you hesitate? Don't you understand me?" said Irma harshly. "Ride back immediately."
Baum was scarcely out of sight, when Irma whipped her horse, leaped over the ditch at the side of the road, hurried across the mountain meadow and into the woods. She rode at full gallop, over the very road Bruno had taken a few days before. The horse was spirited and fresh, and proud of its beautiful rider. They knew each other, and it galloped on right merrily, as if in the chase. And there really is a chase; for hark! there's a shot. But Pluto stands fire, and is not so easily frightened. Away he dashed, more wildly than before. The rays of the setting sun shone through the forest shades, lighting up the trees and mosses with their roseate glow. And still she rode on, ever urging her horse to greater speed.
She had reached the crest of the mountain ridge; below, lay the broad lake, glowing with purple.
"There!" cried Irma. "There thou art, cold death!"
Pluto stopped, thinking that his mistress had spoken to him. "You're right," said she, patting his neck; "it's far enough."
She alighted and turned the horse's head. He looked at her once more, with his large, faithful eyes, for she had thrown back her veil.
"Go home. You're to live; go home!"
The horse did not move. She raised her whip and struck it. It started off, with mane and tail fluttering in the evening breeze, as it hurried away along the mountain crest.
Irma paused and looked after it. Then she sat down on the edge of a projecting rock and gazed at the vast prospect and the setting sun.
"O light! O lovely sky! This is the last time I gaze upon you, before I sink into the night of death--"
For a moment, she was wholly absorbed in the view that opened before her. She no longer knew whence she had come, or whither she would go. Her eyes rested on the vast range of towering peaks, summit piled on summit, and, in the distance, a peak overtopping them all. The wooded heights seemed enveloped in a violet haze. The trembling rays of the setting sun gilded the bare and rugged cliffs. High upon the glaciers rested the rosy glow of sunset, ever assuming a brighter hue as it grew darker in the valley below. One mighty, snow-clad peak seemed as if on fire; but a cloud passed over it and, as if lifting a veil, carried the mountain's rosy glow with it. The cloud gradually disappeared in a blaze of glory, and the snowy peaks, standing out against the background of dull sky, looked cold and bleak, as if in death.
The mighty spirit of Death was passing o'er the heights.
Oh! that one might thus vanish into thin air!
A chilling breeze swept over the mountain. Irma shuddered. She passed her hand over her face, and felt that she, too, was growing pale. She rose to her feet and ascended the mountain for some distance, so that she might once more see the fiery ball. She was too late and said aloud:
"Of what avail is it to see the sun a thousand, or twice a thousand times, as long as the day must come when it sets for us, once and for all? And it has forever set to him who lies under the sod and on whose hand decay--"
She felt giddy and sank upon the mossy ground. When she got up again, it was night.
She arose and, holding up her dress, walked down into the dark and thickly wooded ravine below.
Chapter X
Irma advanced with a firm step. The footpath she had struck wound its way among large and lofty trees and soon opened into a broad road that had been cut through the forest. Ever and anon heat-lightning would flash in the distance, breaking up the gloom and revealing another firmament that lay beyond.
Irma scarcely looked up. She thought of nothing but how to find her way. There was perfect silence, broken now and then by a sorrowful sound, like the sobbing of a human being. It must be from some hollow tree, thought she. The groaning always seemed to advanced before her. Wherever she went she heard it. She looked for the heart-sick tree, but could not find it. With every step, she advanced further into the forest and higher up the mountain. Then she ran down the mountain, and now all was silent. The path was no longer visible, but, from afar, she caught a glimpse of the moonlit lake, the object of her search. She went on, through the pathless forest, treading down the soft moss. Sometimes she heard the twittering of birds in the tree-tops; a martin or a weasel was destroying the young in their nests. The world is full of murder, thought she; its creatures are ever preying on each other. Though man destroys and kills his fellow-men, he does not eat them. That alone distinguishes man from the beasts. And there is one thing more--man alone can kill himself. Irma grew dizzy at the thought. She supported herself against a tree for a moment and then walked on Her resolve must be carried out; there must be no weakness, no wavering. She went still further into the dense forest. Her cheeks glowed, the perspiration dripped from her forehead; but inwardly she fell as if freezing.
Something rustled through the thicket. It was a stag which she had frightened from its cover. The stag was afraid of her, and she was afraid of the stag. He fancied that she could feel its antlers piercing her. She hurried down the mountain side. For a while she could still hear the crackling of the underbrush, and at last all was silent again. The wind whistled through the treetops, and there was a sound of running water, sometimes near and sometimes afar, and then the roaring of a forest stream dashing down from the rocks. She beheld the moonlit foam, and no longer knew where she was or whither she was going--toward the lake, or away from it. If she were to lose her way in the forest--if she were to be found there and taken back to the world and misery! Mustering all her strength, she walked on. The cool night air blew against her face, but her cheeks glowed as if with fire. She pressed her hand to her brow; it seemed as if a hot spring was flowing from the spot which had been touched. She looked up to the stars and recognized the familiar constellations. She knew their position, but those great guides through infinite space do not help the lonely mortal who has lost her way in the heart of the forest. Irma thought of the nights when, under Gunther's guidance, her glance had roamed o'er the vast, starry expanse. But now all was annihilated, all greatness had fallen. Even her view of the stars was confined and obstructed. She tried to remember whether she had destroyed the letters or left them behind her. She thought she could remember having burnt that of the king; but how as to the letter to the queen? Torn by conflicting doubts, she was, at last, completely bewildered. Perhaps both letters would be found.--Be it so.
And then Walpurga's song passed through her mind.
If the good peasant woman who lives by the lake knew that her friend was thus groping her way through the woods, all alone, in darkest night, and with such dread thoughts for her companions--she would hasten to her aid, would draw her to her heart and would not let her go. Who knows but that, although far away, she is thinking of me now, dreaming of me and, perhaps, singing her song--sending it, like some invisible messenger, on the wings of night. How the poor creature will grieve when she hears of my death. Perhaps she will be the only one who will sincerely mourn for me.
Memories of many kinds floated through her mind. Years hence, some boatman like the one at the island convent, will tell the story of the drowned maid of honor. What effect will the news of my death have upon others? None of them can help me, nor can I help them. Day after to-morrow they'll be playing, dancing and singing as usual. No one can keep another in remembrance. He who is absent has no claim on our thoughts. Life is as pitiless as death. She went further into the thicket, passing wild ravines on the way. The stones loosened by her tread tumbled over the precipice, and the dull, hollow thud with which they struck the earth below, told her how far they had fallen. The rocks on either side drew closer together, the mountain torrent rushed down over them and, all at once, she reached the edge of a precipice; further, she could not go. I will take the fatal leap and dash myself to pieces. But to lie there, perhaps for days, bruised and half dead. To die a lingering death! No!
She sought a path. A branch struck her in the face just where her father's icy finger had touched her.
"No; this brow shall nevermore see the light of day," she cried, holding fast with her hands, while trying to find a way along the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, she heard the loud voice of a woman singing. Irma drew a long breath, for it was a human voice--a woman's, perhaps that of a young and lovely girl, giving her lover a signal in the night. The sounds were repeated again and again, and grew more and more piercing, and, trembling with fear, Irma sat on the rock. She answered with a scream. She was frightened at the sound of her own voice, but she cried out again and again, for now there was an answer. The other voice seemed to approach; dogs rushed forth and were already surrounding Irma and barking, as a signal that they had found the prey. The voice came nearer and nearer.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Here," answered Irma.
"Where?"
"Here."
"Up there?"
"Yes."
"How did you get up there?"
"I don't know."
"Keep quiet; don't move and I'll come."
"Yes."
Irma waited a long while, and at last some one appeared right below where she was sitting.
"So there you are," said the figure. She threw a rope to Irma, telling her to bind it round her body and then fasten the other end to a rock or tree, and slide down gently.
Irma did as she was bidden. During that one short moment, while she hovered between heaven and earth, a thousand indescribable thoughts passed through her mind. She reached the ground in safety. The woman at once seized her by the hand and led her away. She followed as if without a will of her own. In scrambling through the bushes and over the rocks, she tore herself until the blood flowed. At last they reached a narrow rocky path. Below them the brook rushed by, but the powerful woman held Irma's hand fast in hers, as if with an iron grip.
"A chamois hunter wouldn't dare go where you've, been. Now we're up here, and there's our hut," said she, at last. "It's a wonder you didn't stumble over the rock with your long dress."
"Who are you?" asked Irma.
"Tell me first, who you are, and how you got here."
"I can't tell you that."
"No matter. They call me Black Esther."
"Who are you bringing there?" called out a grim-looking woman, who appeared at the door of the hut. Behind her glowed the fire on the hearth.
"I don't know; it's a woman."
Irma went toward the hut with Black Esther. The old woman crossed herself and exclaimed:
"Let all good spirits praise the Lord! it's the Lady of the Lake--"
"I'm not a spirit," said Irma. "I'm a weary mortal. Let me rest here for a while, and then let your daughter go with me and show me the way to the lake. All I ask for now is a drop of water."
"No, that 'ud be the death of you. You mustn't drink water now. I'll cook some warm soup for you, and bring it to you right off."
She led Irma into the room, and when she saw her hand and the diamond rings sparkling on it, she grinned with delight.
"Oh what a beautiful ring! That's from your sweetheart."
"Take it and keep it," said Irma, holding out her hand.
With great dexterity, the old woman removed the ring from Irma's finger.
"Good heavens!" cried the old woman suddenly, "I've seen you before--yes, yes, it was you. Didn't you once wear a little golden heart and send it to a child? Didn't you once, at the palace, order them to get something to eat for an old woman and have her son set free, and didn't you give her money besides? Good heavens! you're the--"
"Don't mention my name! Only let me rest a moment; ask me nothing, and say nothing more."
"As you don't want me to, certainly not. I'll hurry and get the soup ready for you."
She went out, leaving Irma alone.
Irma lay on the bed, which was nothing more than a sack of leaves that crackled strangely whenever she turned her head. The leaves seemed to say: "Ah! when we were green, we had a better time of it--" The moon shone in through the window; everything seemed dancing before her eyes; she felt as if she were on the open sea. But she soon fell asleep.--When she awoke, she heard a man's voice.
Chapter XI
Out on the porch, which also served as a kitchen, were Thomas and his mother. He had removed his false beard, was cleaning his black face, and now said:
"Mother, do you know what I'm sorry for?"
"What for?"
"Why, that I didn't shoot the young count the other day. I won't have as good a chance at him again. I could have shot him through the back of the neck and that would have been the last of him. I'd have given the daylight a chance to shine through him."
"You're a nice fellow to talk repentance."
"Yes, and I'd have done a good deed if I'd shot the fellow. Just think, mother, that's the kind of people the grand folks are who own the forest and all the game in it. Just think of it, mother! I'm a good fellow, after all."
"How so?"
"Only think, mother! Do you know why the count was in the forest? He wanted to be out of the way while his father was dying; and so he rode off and let the old man end his days alone. I promise you, if you were going to die, and I were about, I'd stay with you to the last. I'd deserve to go to heaven, if I'd put that fellow out of the way. If I'd known all about it at the time, I'd have done it, too. Indeed, I did want to, just for the fun of the thing. But it's great fun to think how the fellow must have shook, to be riding in front of me while I had a ball ready for him and could have shot him at any minute. Oh, you Wildenort!"
At the mention of her family name, Irma fell over as if shot and, with bated breath, listened while Thomas continued:
"Since then, I've been as if bewitched. I haven't chanced across a bit of game and I feel like a fool. Something happened to me about twilight--the devil take it, one can't help believing in spirits. Mother, I saw a beautiful horse, and no one was on it. If it had only been a real horse, one that would fetch money! But I, like a fool, was frightened when it galloped past me, with its flying mane and clattering hoofs. But, before I'd made up my mind that it was a real horse and that ghost stories were stupid stuff--heigho, it was gone."
"Nay, Thomas, take care! There's something in those stories after all. Come, stand here, hold your hand over the fire and swear that you'll keep quiet, and I'll tell you something."
"What do you happen to know?"
"More than your thick head can hold. I tell you there are spirits, and the Lady of the Lake is lying on the bed in there."
"Mother, you've gone crazy."
"Take care! she's ordered me to cook some soup for her."
"And so the water-fairies eat soup. I'm not afraid of any creature that eats cooked victuals. I'd like to take a look at the Lady of the Lake."
The old woman tried to keep him back, but he forced his way into the room. When he beheld Irma, he stood still, as if rooted to the spot. Suddenly he exclaimed:
"She's a woman like yourself, only she's much handsomer. If she were the Lady of the Lake, she'd have swan's feet, as far as I know. Mother, who is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then I'll ask her."
The old woman tried to restrain him, but Irma had already risen to her feet. She looked about her with a vacant stare and opened her lips, but could not speak.
"It's you!" cried Thomas suddenly. "That's splendid."
He wanted to seize her, but Zenza held him back.
"It's you!" he cried again. "You've lost your way and here you are; that's splendid."
"Do you know me?"
"Why, who doesn't know you? you're the king's sweetheart and now you're--"
Irma's loud shriek of despair drowned the last words of the brutal fellow.
"Hurrah!" shouted Thomas. "Out with you, mother; and you, too, Esther. I don't need either of you."
"Let her go! You shan't touch her," cried the mother.
"Shan't I? and who's to hinder me?"
The mother struggled with him, but he hurled her aside. Unable to think of any other expedient, she seized the vessel of boiling broth and swore that she would dash it in his face. He warded it off and staggered back, bellowing like a bull.
Esther rushed up to Irma and hurriedly whispered:
"Come, come! I'll save you, for your father's sake. Come! Away!"
She dragged Irma away with her, and with breathless haste they ran down the hill. Irma was out of breath and wanted to rest. Esther, however, dragged her a little further, until they reached a spring, where they seated themselves. Dipping up some water in her hands, she bathed Irma's brow and her own.
For some time, neither of them spoke a word. At last, Irma asked:
"Do you know the way to the lake?"
"Very well. That's my path, too--the only one left me."
"How? what do you mean?"
"I want to do just what you mean to do, and I suppose I'll have to."
"What do I mean to do?"
"To drown yourself."
Irma started with surprise when she found her purpose known.
"I don't know why," continued Esther, "but I can easily guess. My brother spoke bitter words to you; but, I beg of you, don't do it. Just think of it! You're so beautiful, so young, so rich. You may live for many years, and things may be much better for you in the world. Don't do it.--Hush!" said she, interrupting herself, "don't you hear something? We'll stop talking, so as to hear every sound. He's following us, and won't leave us. Get up! we must be off."
They got up and walked on further through the gloomy forest.
A vision of hell passed through Irma's mind. Through all eternity, the noble and the lowly would be linked to each other and suffer a like fate; for sin, like virtue, knows no such distinctions.
They were passing a wild, roaring stream, when Esther asked:
"So you're his sister?"
"Who's sister?"
"My Bruno's. How goes it with him? I saw him the other day, when I was looking for ants' eggs, but he didn't see me. Is it true that he's married happily?"
"Yes. But why do you call him your Bruno?"
"Well, I'll tell you. You're the first one who's heard his name pass my lips since that day. Has he never mentioned it to you himself?"
"No."
"He can't have forgotten it. Come on! Thomas might find us here. Take my hand and go backward; then the dogs will lose the scent."
Esther took Irma by the hand and led her away. After they had seated themselves under a projecting rock. Black Esther thus told her story:
"My mother knows nothing of it, nor does my brother. No one knows the right story; but I can tell you. This isn't our real home, but we're often here in the summer, looking for gentian, and herbs, and ants' eggs. I was fifteen years old, a merry devil of a girl, and could have run a race with any stag, when your brother found me in the woods. He was handsome--very handsome. There never was another man in all the world so beautiful as he was. He was so clever and so good, and we loved each other so much; and I cried every time I had to go home to my mother again. I would have liked to stay out in the woods, just as the deer did; and it almost pleased me when I got home and mother gave me a beating, for then I could cry without having to give a reason for it. I longed for him every moment, and never wanted to leave him. He once told me who he was, and that his father was a very stern man, and that, if it weren't for that, he'd take me home to his castle, and make a countess of me. And what do you think I did--I've thought a thousand times since of how foolish I was, but I'm sure I meant no harm. As Bruno had complained so bitterly, I thought this bad father might be brought around; so I went to the castle, and went right up to him and told him that he oughtn't to be so cruel and hard-hearted, and that he ought to allow Bruno to marry me, and I'd surely be a good daughter-in-law, and that there had never, in all the world, been truer love than ours. And your father gave me a glance--I'll never forget his eyes. I can see them before me now, so large and bright. And a little while ago, when Thomas started toward you, you had just such eyes, and that made me take pity on you and help you away."
"Go on," said Irma, after a long pause.
"Ah, yes," replied Esther, collecting her thoughts. "And then your father came toward me. I stooped, for I thought he was going to strike me; but he put his hand on my head and said: 'You're a good child, even if you've done wrong, and it shan't be my fault if you don't keep good.' Then he called a servant and ordered him to go for Bruno. When Bruno came in and saw me, he was frightened; but I said: 'Don't be afraid; you're father's a kind-hearted man, and he'll let me have you for a husband.' Bruno didn't stir from the spot; his face was as white as the cloth on the table he was leaning against. And then your father said: 'Very well, so I'll come to you. You've not acted honorably, but you shall still have chance to do so. I permit you--nay, I command you--to take this child of the forest for your wife--' Bruno laughed--it was a devilish laugh, and I'll never forget it--and your father said: 'Speak, Bruno.' Then he said: 'Father, don't be ridiculous,' and your father's face changed as suddenly as if he had grown thirty years older in that one minute. He could hardly stand, and sat down on a chair. 'What do you say?' he asked. 'Repeat it once more! Speak!' And Bruno repeated his words, twisting his mustache while he spoke. Your father tried to persuade him, and told him that he'd teach me, that I should learn to read, and write, and do everything else, as well as any countess, and that Bruno had better not take a load upon his conscience which he'd never get rid of as long as he lived. And Bruno answered: 'If you don't send that girl away, I'll leave the room. Go, Esther. Leave the room, and don't come again till I send for you.' He said something to your father, in a language I didn't understand. Your father grew pale, came up to me, gave me his hand, and said: 'Go, Esther.' He didn't say another word, but that he said kindly. And so I went away. That was the last time I ever saw Bruno. I heard, afterward, that there had been terrible goings on between your father and him, but I kept out of sight, after that. I didn't want to be the cause of ill-feeling between father and son; I saw that it wouldn't do. Our child meant kindly toward us, for it was born dead. That was far better than to find only misery in the world, and die at last. Don't you think so, too?"
Irma did not answer, but she felt for Esther's hand.
Esther continued:
"Mother and Thomas don't know that I ever knew your brother. But Thomas is a terrible fellow, and he hates your brother just as if he had a notion of it; but I don't say a word. I'm lost; but what does it matter? There's no need of his being ruined too. Oh! how I loved him. I can't forget it, even now."
Esther, who had, thus far, told her story in a calm and quiet tone, suddenly cried out:
"He's got a beautiful, fine, rich, noble wife! Yes, that's all we are here for--so that nothing may happen to you in your silken beds out yonder. Ha! ha! ha! And when they get a child in wedlock, they get some poor woman to suckle it. Walpurga's well off; her milk's turned to gold. Oh, if I could only stop thinking."
She tore her hair and gritted her teeth. "It's a wonder that the wild and burning thoughts that pass through my brain haven't burned away the stupid black hair long ago. Oh, my head's burning, and I get blows on it every day. But it's hard--just feel--it's as hard as steel."
Irma stood there, as if rooted to the spot.
"Hush!" said Esther. "Hush. I hear the dogs. I told you he'd hunt for us. Fly! fly! There, to the right! that's the path; but, I beg of you, for the sake of everything in the world, don't do it--don't do it. You haven't gone far enough for that. But, be off. Down there you'll come to a small, wooden bridge. Cross it and hurry on. I'll stay here; the dogs will come to me and I'll detain them. You're saved. Away! Away!"
She urged Irma away, and remained behind.
Irma hurried on, alone. She often pressed her hand to her brow. Grateful remembrance of her father had saved her from unspeakable horror. When his hand rested on Esther's head, it had been in token of forgiveness. But the characters he had branded on Irma's brow, told her that he had forever put her away from him. "The brand upon my brow can only be cooled by the waters of the deep lake," she kept saying to herself, while she hurried across the wooden bridge, and then over the rising ground until she again entered the dark forest.
Black Esther stood her ground quietly, and waited for the dogs to approach. She called them, and they ran toward her. She heard Thomas whistling, and the dogs answering. He was still far off, but he was on the right track. She counted every pulsation; for with every heart-beat, Irma was one step further from where her pursuer must halt. She was willing to suffer all. What did it matter?
"Yes, yes; I know you're fond of me," said she to the great wolf-dog, that fawned upon her. "Yes, you're the only creature in this world that loves me. I wish I'd been a dog, too. Why wasn't I born a dog? If it were only true, as mother says, that there once were times when people were changed into other beings."
Thomas's whistle and cry were again heard. The dogs answered. He drew nearer and soon stood beside her.
"So it's you, is it? I thought as much. Where's the other one?"
"Where you'll never find her."
A cry of pain resounded from the woods.
"Kill me at once!" cried Esther. The dogs howled, but knew not which of the two they would help.
Thomas went off, leaving Esther lying where she had fallen.
Chapter XII
On the soft moss under the trees near the border of the forest, a beautiful female, clad in blue, lay stretched in sleep. The trembling sunbeams played about her face. She awoke, and, resting her head upon her hand, gazed about her with the air of one to whom all is lost.
The air was laden with the odor of pines, and fresh, cooling breezes were wafted from the lake. The bells of the browsing cattle were heard from the neighboring hills. The dew glistened; every object was radiant with light; but to her, all was night. It was long before she realized that she was awake, or where she was. At last, she became conscious of herself; but still she moved not. Sad and gloomy thoughts passed through her mind. Why awake? Oh, pitiless nature! why cannot the soul's anguish destroy thee? Why is it necessary to use another force--fire, water, steel, or poison--to oppose thee? Why is it that the soul can ruin the body, and yet cannot destroy it? Sun! what dost thou want of me? I want thee no longer! My father's writing burns my brow. Conscience hammers at me, as if with a thousand fists, and yet does not destroy me!--Why is this? Why?
She closed her eyes and turned away from the sun. Something whispered to her: "There's time yet. It may all prove to be a hellish adventure, a waking dream. Turn back! You can, you may. You have fully expiated all."
As if moved by some invisible power, she again turned toward the sun. Below her lay the glittering lake, and its waves seemed to say; "In these depths, all thought, all trouble, all fear, all doubt is at an end."
She arose, and when she saw the impression her figure had made in the moss, she looked at it for a long while. Thus, thought she, does the stag look at his nightly couch when the fatal shot has struck him. Are we better than the hunted beasts of the forest? All is vanity! What use is there in torturing ourselves? One bold plunge will end all. She put on her hat and walked away, alone in the world with the one idea that possessed her. No voice dissuaded her; she was mistress over life and death.
The blackberry bushes caught her dress and held her fast, and, while extricating herself, the thorns scratched her hands and feet.
She felt a sense of gnawing hunger, and wept like a forsaken child.
Tears came to her relief.
Just then, she saw more berries, which she plucked and ate with eager appetite. Startled by her, a bird and its mate flew up from among the blackberry bushes. There was the empty nest. Every creature has its home. Irma stood there for some time, quite forgetting herself. She turned her head,--and, behold! beside the blackberries there were poison berries, belladonna--he who hungers for death can feed on these. Irma did not pluck the deadly fruit. She did not care to die a death of slow torture, perhaps to swoon away, to fall into the hands of men again. No; it must be in the bottomless lake.
Irma now hurried off, as if she had been loitering by the way. The dew moistened her wounded feet; she shivered with cold.
Suddenly the bright sounds of music and the flourish of trumpets were borne upon the breeze. Irma pressed her hand to her brow--it isn't music, it is only the play of my frenzied imagination. The world's pleasures are tempting me, and calling me back with violin, clarionet and trumpet. "Come, soothe yourself with our sounds; be merry and enjoy the days allotted to you." But listen! The sound is heard again, accompanied by the discharge of cannon, whose reports are echoed back from the mountains, again and again. Perhaps they are celebrating a wedding in some quiet village on yonder shore. A youth and a maiden who have loved each other truly, have to-day become united, and music and cannon call out to the mountains: "Rejoice with us; love's happiness is as eternal as ye are--" Irma walked on, lost in reverie and looking down on the ground. Her thoughts were with the happy ones. In imagination, she saw the glad looks of parents, of comrades, of friends, and heard the priest's benediction; while she walked on through the dewy grass and briars. Her hand was firmly clenched, as if she felt obliged thus to hold fast to the resolve that urged her onward. She walked along by the lake. The shore was flat, a mere reedy swamp. There could be no sudden ending there; only a slow, miserable death. She walked round and round, ran to and fro with hasty step and bated breath. At last she saw a rock extending to the water's edge. It was steep, almost perpendicular. She climbed up to the top, raised her hands, leaned over the edge. But hark! Who called to her from the water? She heard a shriek of anguish, a cry for help, a splash. In her excitement, she dropped her hat. It rolled over the edge of the rock and into the water. She saw a human figure wrestling with the waves. It rose to the surface--it was Black Esther! It rose once more and then sank out of sight.... Uttering a wild shriek, Irma sank upon the rock. She had seen the deed she purposed enacted before her very eyes. Her limbs seemed palsied, and she lay there as if at the bottom of the lake. She was conscious, and yet could not raise herself. A voice called within her, but no sound passed her lips.
And while she lay there, she heard voices singing:
"Ah, blissful is the tender tie That binds me, love, to thee; And swiftly speed the hours by, When thou art near to me."
She sprang to her feet. What could it be?
As if impelled by some unseen power, she hurried down from the rock. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and blood was streaming from her face. Had she been weeping tears of blood? A large boat was approaching. It drew nearer and nearer.
It is Walpurga's voice. It is she who calls. She comes--she recognizes her friend. Irma flees. Walpurga leaps ashore--pursues her--Irma tries to escape--Walpurga at last overtakes her and clasps her in her arms, while Irma falls fainting upon her breast.
Chapter XIII
The blood was streaming from a wound in Irma's forehead. Walpurga knelt down beside her and, divesting herself of her neckcloth, bound the bleeding brow. She then gathered some wet grass and shook the dew in Irma's face. In despair, she cried:
"Dearest Countess! dear, good, beloved Countess! do wake up! For God's sake, what's the matter? Oh! for God's sake, wake up! Irma! Irma!" Irma opened her eyes.
Hansei's voice was heard calling: "Walpurga! Walpurga, where are you?"
"Is that your husband? Don't let him come here. He must not see me," said Irma.
"Stay there!" cried Walpurga. "Send mother here, and tell her to bring some of the wine along that I brought home with me. It's in the blue chest, with the child's things. Be quick about it!" In a few hurried words, Irma told her that her father was dead, and that she had sought to drown herself in the lake. She put her hand to her brow, and drew it back in alarm.
"Woe's me! How is this?"
"You've been bleeding. You must have fallen and struck your head against a stone. Just look!" said she, forcing herself to assume a cheerful tone; "this is the green kerchief you sent my child."
Irma tore off the bandage, and silently looked at the blood-stained handkerchief.
"That quenches the fire; let it run," said she to herself. Then, with a sudden access of emotion, she said:
"Oh, Walpurga! I can't die! I can't kill myself--and yet I can't live. I've--I've been wicked--"
She hid her face against Walpurga's heart, which beat loud and violently.
"Help me! tell me what to do! Tell me quickly, before your mother comes!"
"I don't know--I don't know at all--but mother will know. She knows how to help every one. See there, it's stopped bleeding, already. Only keep calm."
The mother joined them. Irma looked at her, as if she were an angel come to save her. With a voice free from the slightest trace of doubt and hesitation, the mother said:
"Walpurga, this is your Countess!"
"Yes, mother."
"Then you're a thousand times welcome," said the old woman. "I offer you both my hands. Sad things must have happened to you. You must have fallen. Or has some one struck you in the forehead?"
Irma made no reply. She sat between the two women who supported her, and her gaze was as fixed as though she were lifeless.
"Mother, help her; say something to her," whispered Walpurga.
"No; let her quietly recover herself. Every wound must bleed itself out."
Irma grasped her hands, kissed them and cried:
"Mother! you've saved me. Mother! I'll remain with you; take me with you!"
"Yes, that I will. You'll find it ever so healthy up in my home. The air and the trees there are better than anywhere else in this world. There you'll become well again, all this will fall away from you. Does your father know that you've run away, out into the wide world? and does he know why?"
"He did know. He's dead. Walpurga, tell her how it is with me."
"There's time enough for that; for, God willing, we'll be together a long while. You can tell me all when you're calm and composed. But now, drink something."
After considerable effort, the two women succeeded in drawing the silver-foiled cork. Walpurga finished the operation by taking the cork between her teeth and pulling it out. Irma drank some of the wine.
"Drink," said Walpurga. "It must be wholesome, for Doctor Gunther sent it to mother. But she won't drink it. She says she'll wait till she grows old and needs the strength that wine gives."
A melancholy smile passed over Irma's face at the thought that the aged woman before her meant to wait until she grew old.
Irma was obliged to take a few more mouthfuls of the wine. When she complained of the pain in her foot, the mother skillfully extracted a thorn. Irma felt as if a gentle angel were attending her, and offered to kiss the old woman's hands once more. "My hands were never kissed before you kissed 'em," said the old woman deprecatingly; "but I know how you mean it. I never touched a countess before in all my life; but they're human beings, just like the rest of us."
Irma heaved a deep sigh. She told her rescuers that she would go with them, but only on condition that no one except themselves was to know who she was. She wished to live concealed and unknown, and, if she were discovered, she would take her life.
"Don't do that again," said the old woman, with a stern voice. "Don't say that again. It won't do to trifle with such things. That's no threat. But here you have my hand and my word of honor that not a word shall pass my lips."
"Nor mine either!" exclaimed Walpurga, laying her hand, with that of her mother, in Irma's.
"Tell me one thing," asked the mother. "Why didn't you go to a convent? One can do that nowadays."
"I mean to expiate in freedom," said she.
"I understand you. You're right."
Not another word was spoken. The mother held her hand upon Irma's forehead, on which she now bound a white handkerchief. "It'll be well in a week, and there won't be a scar left," she said, consolingly.
"The white cloth shall remain there as long as I live," replied Irma. She now asked them to provide her with other clothes, before she showed herself in Hansei's presence.
Walpurga hurried back to the inn near the landing-place. Here she found Hansei in an angry mood, and scolding terribly. Every interruption annoyed him. He had enough to look after, as it was. There was more work put upon him than upon the horses in the wagon. He was in that excited state, often produced by travel and change of abode, in which one's better self seems to disappear, and when a restless and homeless feeling renders its possessor excessively irritable. Besides that, the foal, beautiful as it was, had put him to considerable trouble. It had run away, and had almost got under the wheels of one of the wagons.
Hansei was very angry. Walpurga found it difficult to pacify him, and at last she burst into tears and said:
"Sooner than move to our new home in anger and hatred, I'd rather we'd all gone to the bottom in the boat."
"Yes, yes; I'm quiet; just try to be so, too," said Hansei, recovering himself and looking toward the lake as if Black Esther's head were again rising on the waves. He continued:
"But we must hurry on, or else it'll be pitch dark before we get there. We've a good distance before us, and the horses have a heavy load. What are you about there? Whom have you got over there among the willows?"
"You'll know all about it in a little while. Just take my word for it, that mother and I are doing something that'll be a satisfaction to us as long as we live. I am glad that God has given me a chance to do something at this moment, when I would have liked to ask Him what I could do to prove my gratitude. She's a dear, kind creature, and you'll be satisfied."
Walpurga spoke so earnestly and impressively that Hansei replied:
"I'll drive on with the household goods, and, if it suits you, you can follow in the covered wagon. Come as soon as you can. Uncle's here and he'll drive."
Walpurga nodded to Hansei, who started up the mountain with the loaded wagon. Then she went to a chest and took out a full suit. She carried the clothes into the thicket, where she found Irma sitting beside the mother, Irma's head resting against the breast of the old woman, who had wound her arms around her.
"Irmgard will be quite happy with us; we know each other, already," said the mother.
No one on earth knows what Irma confessed to old Beate, down among the willows by the lake. The old woman breathed thrice on her brow, as if her warm breath could dispel the charm.
"And now put on your clothes," said Beate. In the thicket, Irma exchanged her dress for the peasant's garb.
When she left the thicket and returned to the path, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She was now entering upon a new world--a new life.
She looked at the beings and the objects in the parlor of the inn, as if it were all a dream. She had come back to the world again from the depths of the lake. Here, life was going on as usual; there was eating and drinking, laughing and talking, singing, driving, riding--all this she had already left far behind her. She was as one risen from the dead. Silent, and with folded hands, she sat upon the bench, caring nothing for the world about her, longing for only perfect solitude. And yet her ear was so acute that she overheard the hostess whisper to Walpurga: "A kinswoman, I suppose," and, significantly putting her finger to her forehead, "she don't seem to be in her right wits."
"Maybe you're right," replied Walpurga. A smile, as of pain, passed over Irma's beautiful lips: "There's one protecting disguise--and it is madness."
She felt if a net of thorns had descended upon her head. Insanity may, indeed, sometimes serve as an invisible cap, concealing, or rather disguising, the sorrow-stricken wearer.
Chapter XIV
The grandmother was out of doors, arranging a bed in the covered wagon. She told her brother to drive carefully, and not crack his whip so often; for Uncle Peter, known as the little pitchman, was so elated at the idea of having a whip and two horses under his charge, that he cracked his whip incessantly.
"The stranger's puttings on airs, I think. Who is she, anyhow?" asked the little pitchman, taking the thong between his teeth, as if he could only thus prevent himself from cracking the whip.
"A poor, sick creature," said Beate. It went hard with her to say this, and yet it was not a lie.
Hansei had gone on with the large team. And now the women, too, agreed that it was time to start. Irma now saw Walpurga's child for the first time, and, as soon as it caught Irma's eye, it shouted and wanted to go to her.
"Oh! that's lovely," exclaimed Walpurga and her mother at the same time. "She's always so shy."
Irma took the child in her arms and hugged and kissed it. She felt as if again embracing the childlike purity which, in herself, had withered and died. Her expression changed from one of joy to that of sadness, and the grandmother said:
"You've a good, honest heart; children feel and know that. But now you'd better give the child to Walpurga and get into the wagon."
A bed had been prepared for Irma. The grandmother got up into the wagon and, taking the child in her arms, sat down beside Irma. Walpurga and Gundel sat in front, looking about them. The uncle walked beside the horses, and would, now and then, cast a sorrowful look at the whip that he was not allowed to crack. No one spoke a word; but the child laughed and prattled and wanted Irma to play with her.
"Go to sleep now," said the grandmother, and in a soft voice she sang both child and Irma to sleep.
"Who's that coming down the hill?" suddenly asked Walpurga of the uncle.
"The one's a forester, and the other must be a nobleman's servant."
Walpurga was alarmed. When the horsemen drew near, she recognized Baum. Swift as thought she slipped into the wagon and left Gundel sitting alone in front.
The horsemen drew nearer, and at last halted by the wagon. The child awoke and cried, and thus awakened Irma. A thin curtain was all that separated her from him. The horse that Baum rode distended its nostrils, threw its head back, and reared so that it was difficult to hold it in check. Irma recognized it. It was Pluto, her own horse; and so it had been captured and brought back again. If the horse could have spoken, it would have said: "Here is my mistress; here is the one whom you seek."
Irma could hear Baum asking the uncle:
"Did you meet a young lady in a blue riding-habit?"
"No."
"Did you hear any one mention such a person?"
"Not a word."
"Whom have you in the wagon there?"
Irma trembled. Walpurga grasped her hand. It was as cold as ice. The child cried again.
"You can hear it; there's a little child in there," said the forester to Baum. "Let's go on."
The horseman rode off, and Irma, looking after them, could see her feathered hat hanging from the pommel of the saddle.
The wagon slowly ascended the hill, while the horsemen hurried off in the opposite direction.
Irma kissed the child, and said:
"Oh you darling! you've saved me, for the second time. Let me get out, too. I want to walk."
The mother dissuaded her and begged her to remain with her. Irma yielded; she had hardly lain down before she fell asleep again, and no longer knew that she was crossing the mountains in a farmer's wagon.
It was already past noon when they overtook Hansei, far up the mountain, where he had stopped to rest his horses.
"Let's keep together," said he. His anger had vanished, and he now was twice as kindly as before. "I think we oughtn't to enter our new home in such a straggling way. I've given the servants strict orders to drive slowly. We can easily catch up with 'em, for our wagons are light, and then we'll all be together. I want mother and wife and child to be with me when we enter on the farm."
"That's right! I'm glad you've come to your senses again. Oh! I know you. When you're excited, the only thing to do is to leave you alone for a little while, and you soon get homesick after your folks and the good Hansei that's in you; and then you're all right again. But come here. I want to tell you something. To-day, you'll have to prove whether you're a real, strong man; and if you do, I'll never, in all my life, deny that men are stronger than we."
"Well! what is it?"
She led him into the inn garden, and said:
"You've often heard tell of the household fairies they used to have in olden times? They were good, peaceful spirits that brought blessings and wealth and good fortune to whatever house they visited. But there was one condition. As long as they stayed, no one dared ask their name, or where they'd come from."
"Yes, yes! I've heard that often enough; but I don't believe a word of it."
"You needn't believe it; I don't ask you to. I want to put you to the test. Listen! Mother and I have ever so tender and delicate a creature in the wagon there. She's strong and powerful, but quite strange in her ways. She means to stay with us, but she won't be a burden. And now, Hansei, tell me; have you strength enough never to ask her who and whence she is, or any other question? You must take my word for it. I know her and know what I'm doing in keeping her with us; and on the strength of that, will you be good and faithful and kind to her? Tell me; can you, will you be this?"
"Is that the way I'm to prove whether I'm a strong man, or not?"
"Yes, that's it; nothing more."
"I can do that; and here's my hand on it."
"Let me have it."
"You'll see. I'll keep my promise; that's easy enough."
"It isn't as easy as you think for, Hansei."
"For the sake of getting you, for the rest of your life, to admit that a man has more strength of mind than a woman, and can easier undertake a thing, and carry it out, too, I'll show you what I can do. Your good friend shall be mine, too. But she isn't crazy, nor doesn't bite, does she?"
"No, you needn't worry about that."
"All right, then; that settles it."
Hansei went out to the wagon with Walpurga, who drew the curtain aside and said:
"My husband wants to bid you welcome."
"Welcome!" said Irma, offering her hand to Hansei.
He stared at her in mute astonishment, and it was not until Walpurga raised his hand that he offered it to Irma.
They had taken up their journey once more, and Hansei, who, with his wife, was walking up hill in advance of the wagons, said:
"Wife! if it wasn't daylight, and you and mother and the child weren't here,--if I wasn't quite sure that I'm in my right senses, and that it's all true--I'd really believe that you had a fairy in the wagon there. Is she lame? can't she walk?"
"She can walk very well."
Walpurga turned back toward the wagon, and said:
"Irmgard, don't you want to get out for a little while and walk up the hill with us? It's so beautiful here."
"Yes, gladly," was the answer.
Irma alighted and walked with them for a while. Hansei regarded her with timid side-glances. The stranger limped. Perhaps it's true after all; the Lady of the Lake has a swan's foot and can't walk well. He cast sly looks at her feet, but they were just like those of other people. Gradually, he ventured to raise his eyes. He saw that the clothes she had on were his wife's, and that she was wondrously beautiful. His head grew so warm that he lifted his hat now and then. What's real in the world and what isn't? he would ask himself. Had his wife a double? and could she appear in another form?
Walpurga lingered behind and left the two walking by themselves. Irma asked herself what she had better say to Hansei, and how she should address him. It was the first time in her life that she found herself in an humble position. "How should I address one of an inferior class?" thought she. At last she said:
"You're a happy man; you have a wife and child and mother-in-law as good as one can wish for in this world?"
"Yes, yes, they'll do very well," said Hansei.
Although she had not intended it, Irma's praise was, to a certain extent, patronizing, and Hansei had observed this. He would have confirmed her opinion by his answer, and would have liked to ask: "Have you known her long?" but he remembered that he had promised to ask no questions. Walpurga was right; it was a hard task. He rolled his tongue about in his mouth, and felt as if the one-half of it were tied.
"The country's pretty rough hereabouts; further up, when you reach our new home, it's much better," said he, at last. It was long before he could say that. He had intended to ask whether the stranger had ever been in that neighborhood before; but he had promised to ask no questions, and to transpose one's questions is not so easy a task.
Irma felt that she must say something that would put the man at his ease, and she began: "Hansei!"--his face brightened when he heard her calling him by name--"Hansei, try to think that you've known me for ever so long; don't look at me as a stranger. I don't like to ask anything of others; but I do ask this of you. I know you'll do it; for you've a good, kind face. And it couldn't be otherwise; Walpurga's husband, with whom she is so happy, must be a good man. I beg of you, therefore, don't be concerned; I'll not be a burden to you."
"Oh, there's no idea of such a thing. We've enough, thank God. One cow more in the stable, or one person more in the house, won't make any difference; so you needn't worry about that.--And we've also taken charge of an old pensioner on the estate and--I don't want to know what you don't want to tell, and if any one in this world offers to harm you, call me, and I'll defend you with my life. But it seems you haven't been much among the mountains; so let me give you a piece of advice. In climbing mountains, the rule is: Go right on, and never stop."
They waited for the wagon. Hansei drew a long breath after his long speech. He felt satisfied with himself, and looked about him with a self-complacent air.
Irma sat down by the wayside. She was now on the heights which, on the evening before, she had seen all aglow with the rosy sunset, and then fading away in the pale mists. The giant peaks that she had beheld from afar were now near, and seemed still vaster than before. Here and there in the woods, there was a clearing of meadow and field, and now and then, a house was visible. Looking down, she caught glimpses of the foaming, sparkling forest stream, so far below them that they could scarcely hear its roar.
Hansei walked at Irma's side without uttering a word.
The wagon overtook them. Irma got in again, Hansei assisting her quite politely. He was about to lift his hat to her, when, with cheerful word and glance, she thanked him.
"She's a very decent person," said Hansei to his wife, "and we've a nice little room for her, too, if she isn't afraid of the old pensioner."
Walpurga felt happy that the great point was gained.
As Hansei had talked with the stranger, the little pitchman thought himself entitled to say something, too; and, as the first sign of his resolve, he cracked his whip so loudly that the sound was echoed back from the valley and the mountains.
"Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" said the old woman.
"She--she's well again," replied the little pitchman. "Isn't it so?" said he, addressing Irma. "The noise don't hurt you?"
Irma told him not to put himself out on her account, and, emboldened by her answer, he inquired:
"What's your name?"
"Irmgard."
"Indeed! why, that was my wife's name, and, if you've no objection, I'll marry an Irmgard again. I've got half of a house and a whole goat. I owe something on the house, but the goat's paid for. Say! will you have me?"
"Don't make such jokes, Peter," cried Beate, nothing loth, however, to hear pleasantry from some quarter.
The little pitchman laughed heartily, and was well pleased with himself. Yes, Hansei was now the freehold farmer, but still he couldn't talk to people the way he could. The little pitchman was quite entertaining. When he had nothing more to say, he would gather strawberries, which grew by the wayside and, in this high region, did not ripen until late. He laid them on a hazel leaf and offered them to Irma. Yes, Peter has good manners; he could tell that by his sister's face, for she smiled her approval.
The journey to their new home proceeded without further adventure. When they came in sight of their native village, and before they had had reached the boundary line, the grandmother requested them to stop. She alighted, went into the woods, knelt down until her face touched the ground, and exclaimed:
"God be praised, I'm with thee again! Keep me well, let me and mine pass many peaceful, happy days on thee, and, when my last hour comes, receive me kindly."
She went back to the wagon, and said: "God be with you all! now we're at home. Do you see that house up there, with the big linden tree? That's the freehold farm, where we're to live."
Gundel and the child alighted, Irma alone remaining in the wagon. All the others walked the rest of the way.
They passed through the valley and reached the village, where they were still an hour's walk from the farm. As they entered the village, the little pitchman cracked his whip loudly. He wanted every one to see his kindred, and the amount of property he was now moving with. They passed by a little cottage.
"I was born there"; said the grandmother to Hansei.
"I'll take off my hat to that house," replied Hansei, suiting his action to the word.
The wagons which had preceded them were stopping at the inn which was near the town hall and the church. The people had gathered there to get a look at the new freeholder and his family. The little pitchman acted as master of ceremonies, and pointed out the burgomaster's wife to Walpurga. Walpurga went up to her, and Beate felt truly happy, for the mother of the burgomaster's wife, she in whose house Beate, while yet in her school-days, had served as nursemaid, was also there. She inquired for the boy whom she had then taken care of. "He's dead," they said, "but there's his son." A stalwart lad was called, but when Beate told him that she had taken care of his father while he was yet a little child, he had not a word to say.
Half the village had gathered about the new arrivals, and they remained there chatting for a long while.
Irma lay there in the wagon in the open market-place, forgotten by those whom she had joined. The grandmother was the first to think of her; she hurried out and said:
"Forgive us for forgetting you so, but we'll soon be home."
Irma replied that they need not trouble themselves about her. The grandmother did not quite understand the tone in which she spoke.
Here on the public road, while she lay in the covered farm wagon and could hear the loud talking of the crowd, she felt a pang of grief to think that she was an object of charity, and that she to whom the world had once done homage, was now forgotten. But she quickly regained her self-command. It is better thus, for thus you are alone.
At last they drove on. The road again lay up the mountain. The grandmother was quite happy and greeted every one. The plum-trees were laden with fruit, and the apple-trees along the road--she had, while yet a girl, seen them planted--had grown so large that they bent under the weight of the ruddy fruit. The grandmother often said: "I never thought it was so far; no, I meant to say, I thought it was further than this. Dear me, how I'm talking. It seems as if the world had shrunk together. Children, I tell you what, you'll live to see great, and good, and beautiful things come to pass. Come, give me the child," said she to Gundel, and she took Burgei in her arms, her face radiant with joy.
"Burgei, I've sung here, and so will you; and here I carried your mother on my arms, just as I'm carrying you, now. There! give that to the bird."
She had taken a piece of bread from her pocket and gave the child some crumbs to scatter to the birds on the way, while she, too, kept throwing crumbs to the right and the left.
She did not speak another word, but her lips moved silently.
Chapter XV
As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighing of the white foal.
"That's a good beginning," cried Hansei.
The grandmother placed the child on the ground, and got her hymn-book out of the chest. Pressing the book against her breast with both hands, she went into the house, being the first to enter. Hansei, who was standing near the stable, took a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the letters C. M. B., and the date, on the stable-door. Then he, too, went into the house, his wife, Irma and the child following him.
Before going into the sitting-room, the grandmother knocked thrice at the door. When she had entered, she placed the open hymn-book upon the open window-sill, so that the sun might read in it. There were no tables or chairs in the room.
Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, "God be with you, freeholder's wife."
From that moment, Walpurga was known as the "freeholder's wife," and was never called by any other name.
And now they showed Irma her room. The view extended over meadow and brook and the neighboring forest. She examined the room. There was naught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had brought nothing with her. In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there were chairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here--
None of these follow the dead.
Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadow and forest, where the sun was now singing.
How was it yesterday--was it only yesterday?--when you saw the sun go down?
Her thoughts were confused and indistinct. She pressed her hand to her forehead; the white handkerchief was still there. A bird looked up to her from the meadow, and, when her glance rested upon it, it flew away into the woods.
"The bird has its nest," said she to herself, "and I--"
Suddenly she drew herself up. Hansei had walked out to the grass plot in front of Irma's window, removed the slip of the cherry-tree from his hat, and planted it in the ground.
The grandmother stood by and said: "I trust that you'll be alive and hearty, long enough to climb this tree and gather cherries from it, and that your children and grandchildren may do the same."
There was much to do and to set to rights in the house, and, on such occasions, it usually happens that those who are dearest to one another are as much in each other's way as closets and tables which have not yet been placed where they belong. The best proof of the amiability of these folks was that they assisted each other cheerfully, and, indeed, with jest and song.
Walpurga moved her best furniture into Irma's room. Hansei did not interpose a word. "Aren't you too lonely here?" asked Walpurga, after she had arranged everything as well as possible in so short a time.
"Not at all. There is no place in all the world lonely enough for me. You've so much to do now; don't worry about me. I must now arrange things within myself. I see how good you and yours are; fate has directed me kindly."
"Oh, don't talk that way. If you hadn't given me the money, how could we have bought the farm? This is really your own."
"Don't speak of that," said Irma, with a sudden start, "never mention that money to me again."
Walpurga promised, and merely added that Irma needn't be alarmed at the old man who lived in the room above hers, and who, at times, would talk to himself and make a loud noise. He was old and blind. The children teased and worried him, but he wasn't bad and would harm no one. Walpurga offered, at all events, to leave Gundel with Irma for the first night; but Irma preferred to be alone.
"You'll stay with us; won't you?" said Walpurga hesitatingly. "You won't have such bad thoughts again?"
"No, never. But don't talk now, my voice pains me and so does yours, too. Good-night! leave me alone."
Irma sat by the window and gazed out into the dark night.
Was it only a day since she had passed through such terrors? Suddenly she sprang from her seat with a shudder. She had seen Black Esther's head rising out of the darkness, had again heard her dying shriek, had beheld the distorted face and the wild, black tresses.--Her hair stood on end. Her thoughts carried her to the bottom of the lake, where she now lay dead. She opened the window and inhaled the soft, balmy air. She sat by the open casement for a long while, and suddenly heard some one laughing in her room above her.
"Ha! ha! I won't do you the favor! I won't die! I won't die! Pooh, pooh! I'll live till I'm a hundred years old and then I'll get a new lease of life."
It was the old pensioner. After a while, he continued:
"I'm not so stupid; I know that it's night now and the freeholder and his wife are come. I'll give them lots of trouble. I'm Jochem. Jochem's my name, and what the people don't like, I do for spite. Ha! ha! ha! I don't use any light and they must make me an allowance for that. I'll insist on it, if I have to go to the king himself about it."
Irma started, when she heard the king mentioned.
"Yes, I'll go to the king, to the king! to the king!" cried the old man overhead, as if he knew that the word tortured Irma.
She heard him close the window and move a chair. The old man went to bed.
Irma looked out into the dark night. Not a star was to be seen. There was no light anywhere; nothing was heard but the roaring of the mountain stream and the rustling of the trees. The night seemed like a dark abyss.
"Are you still awake?" asked a soft voice without. It was the grandmother.
"I was once a servant at this farm," said she. "That was forty years ago; and now I'm the mother of the freeholder's wife, and almost the head one on the farm. But I keep thinking of you all the time. I keep trying to think how it is in your heart. I've something to tell you. Come out again. I'll take you where it'll do you good to be. Come!"
Irma went out into the dark night with the old woman. How different this guide from the one she had had the day before!
The old woman led her to the fountain. She had brought a cup with her and gave it to Irma. "Come, drink; good cold water's the best. Water comforts the body; it cools and quiets us; it's like bathing one's soul. I know what sorrow is, too. One's insides burn as if they were afire."
Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring. It seemed like a healing dew, whose influence was diffused through her whole frame.
The grandmother led her back to her room and said: "You've still got the shirt on that you wore at the palace. You'll never stop thinking of that place till you've burned that shirt."
The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irma was as docile as a little child. The grandmother hurried to get a coarse shirt for her and, after Irma had put it on, brought wood and a light, and burnt the other at the open fire. Irma was also obliged to cut off her long nails and throw them into the fire. Then Beate disappeared for a few moments, and returned with Irma's riding-habit. "You must have been shot; for there are balls in this," said she, spreading out the long, blue habit.
A smile passed over Irma's face, as she felt the balls that had been sewed into the lower part of the habit, so that it might hang more gracefully. Beate had also brought something very useful--a deerskin.
"Hansei sends you this," said she. "He thinks that maybe you're used to having something soft for your feet to rest on. He shot the deer himself."
Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who could show such affection to one who was both a stranger and a mystery to him.
The grandmother remained at Irma's bedside until she fell asleep. Then she breathed thrice on the sleeper and left the room.
It was late at night when Irma awoke.
"To the king! to the king! to the king!" The words had been uttered thrice in a loud voice. Was it hers, or that of the man overhead? Irma pressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage. Was it sea grass that had gathered there? Was she lying alive at the bottom of the lake? Gradually all that had happened became clear to her.
Alone, in the dark and silent night, she wept. And these were the first tears she had shed since the terrible events through which she had passed.
It was evening when Irma awoke. She put her hand to her forehead. A wet cloth had been bound round it. She had been sleeping nearly twenty-four hours. The grandmother was sitting by her bed.
"You've a strong constitution," said the old woman, "and that helped you. It's all right now."
Irma arose. She felt strong and, guided by the grandmother, walked over to the dwelling-house.
"God be praised, that you're well again," said Walpurga, who was standing there with her husband; and Hansei added: "Yes, that's right."
Irma thanked them, and looked up at the gable of the house. What words there met her eye?
"Don't you think the house has a good motto written on its forehead?" asked Hansei.
Irma started. On the gable of the house, she read the following inscription:
EAT AND DRINK: FORGET NOT GOD: THINE HONOR GUARD: OF ALL THY STORE, THOU'LT CARRY HENCE A WINDING-SHEET AND NOTHING MORE.
Chapter I
Through Irma's sudden flight, Baum's occupation was gone. He returned to where she was to have waited for him, and found that she had disappeared. He gazed into the distance, but saw nothing. A dog following its master's track was better off than he, for while instinct would help it, man could only guess.
Had she flown? and if so, whither? Why had she done so? and what, under such circumstances, was the duty of a subordinate? Ought he to pursue her who had sent him back? She had honestly and frankly sent the dog home; but the servant was only human and must therefore be imposed upon.
"For shame, Countess! Thus to fool a poor servant who dare not disobey!" said Baum, speaking to himself. He felt that now, for the first time, he was put to the great test, and that this was the time to prove himself a reasoning servant. Perhaps the letters he had brought contained an appointment for this evening. They are at the hunt and, as if by chance, meet in the woods; for it would not do to visit Wildenort openly, as it was but a short time since they had gone into mourning there. And so they mean to keep even the servant in ignorance of their plans. But why should they? He could have been depended upon.
But perhaps the countess had escaped after all.
But why? and whither?
They had shown so much confidence in him. The head chamberlain had told him before leaving: "You're always to remain near the countess, always--do you understand? And you are to conduct her back to court." Could they have dreamt that she meant to escape? and if so, why should they only half trust him?
"I am innocent!" exclaimed Baum; but what avails innocence? It was more important to be clever and sensible.
Baum's master, Baroness Steigeneck's chief chamberlain, had imparted some valuable precepts to him. "There are two things," said he, "that a good servant should always have with him--a sharp knife and a good watch. When anything happens that disconcerts you, take out your watch, count off ten seconds, and then make up your mind what is best to be done."
One disadvantage possessed by this precept, in common with many other good ones, is the great danger of your forgetting it when excited.
Baum rode back to the castle. Perhaps the countess had returned by some other road; perhaps her maid could tell him where she had intended to ride to. He asked the maid: "Is your mistress here?"
"No; she rode out with you."
"Don't you know where she intended going?"
"Has she left you? Oh, God! now she'll do it, for sure."
"What do you mean?"
"I've already told the count, that I believed she'd take her life. I believe she has either poison or a dagger with her; she'll kill herself."
"If she meant to take her life that way, she might have done so in her room," replied Baum.
"Yes, yes! It was only last night that she cried out in her sleep, 'Deep in the lake!' Oh gracious heavens! my dear, lovely countess is dead! Oh, what an unhappy creature I am! what will become of me!"
Baum endeavored to pacify her, and inquired whether the countess had left any papers anywhere.
The writing-desk was open and papers were strewn about on it. They found a letter directed to the queen. Baum wanted to take it, but the maid would not give it up. She would not suffer a stranger to pry into her mistress's secrets.
In the midst of the dispute, Baum suddenly took out his watch. The chamberlain's advice had occurred to him. He looked fixedly at the dial, and when he had finished counting ten, he nodded with a self-satisfied air, for he had regained his presence of mind.
Very well, the maid might deliver the letter herself; that would neither help nor hinder matters. But he would now show himself worthy of the greatest confidence. His task was to institute inquiries; perhaps he might yet save the countess.
While the maid, who was hastily putting the letter into her pocket, had turned her back upon him, he saw another letter addressed "To my friend." He quickly perceived that this was of far greater value than the other, and put it into his own pocket. He well knew that there was only one person for whom it could be intended and he knew who that person was. The maid had heard the rustling of the paper, and now asked him to give it to her. Baum ran out of the room and summoned the servants. The maid followed him, and he now quickly changed the attitude of defense for one of attack, and demanded the letter to the queen, in order that he might open it and thus obtain some clue as to the countess's whereabouts. He said that he would hold the maid responsible for the consequences. She ran away, and he made no further attempt to carry out his plan, for he did not know whether he had a right to open the letter. At any rate, he had undisputed possession of the more important epistle to the king. He ordered the groom to saddle another horse and accompany him.
The rosy sunset was already gilding the windows of the castle when the two horsemen rode forth. But whither?
They questioned a laborer working on the road, but he had seen nothing of the countess. They saw a shepherd driving his flock homeward, and, riding up to him, they inquired whether he had seen her. He nodded affirmatively, but the loud bleating of the sheep prevented them from hearing what he said. Baum alighted, and learned from him that the countess had been seen riding full tilt along the road that led to the Chamois hill.
"She sits her horse firmly, and rides very well," said the shepherd, praising her.
This was a clue, at all events. They rode off, at full gallop, in the direction indicated. When they reached the drained marsh, they heard the neighing of a horse. They rode up to it, and found that it was Irma's saddle-horse, quietly grazing, but bridle and girth were covered with thick foam. "The countess has been thrown. Who knows where she may be lying, weak and faint?" said Baum. He meant to be discreet, and was in no hurry to tell all to the groom.
They searched for her everywhere, and called out her name again and again. They found nothing, nor did they receive any answer. Baum discovered the horse's tracks, but was somewhat confused by them, as it had taken the same path going and returning. They took the horse with them, but did not mount, for it was necessary to find out where the track led to. Baum's keen eye enabled him to distinguish the hoof-prints in the twilight.
"If we only had the dog with us; he knows her. Why didn't you bring the dog with you?" he asked angrily.
"You didn't say anything about it."
"Ride back and bring him. No, stay; I can't be here alone."
They reached the Chamois hill. "Let's turn aside, into the wood," cried Baum.
He now found use for his good knife. He gathered some of the brushwood, bound it together into a torch, kindled it, and its light enabled him to find the track. It was here that the horse had turned. There were also prints of a woman's foot going in the opposite direction. He followed them for a few paces and then lost the track.
"She must be here," said Baum. "It was from here that she went down into the wood; I know every spot about here. Keep to the left with the two horses, but always near enough to hear my voice. I'll keep to the right with one."
They searched and shouted, but found nothing. At last they met again. A stag rushed by. Could it have spoken, it might have told them where Irma had startled it from its resting-place--a full hour's walk from where they then were.
"If you find her, you'll be handsomely rewarded," said Baum to the groom. He addressed him in the way he thought his royal master would have done.
They spent the greater part of the night wandering in the forest. At last they were obliged to lie down and wait for the daylight, for there was no longer a path by which to lead the horses.
The day was far advanced when Baum and the groom awoke. They could see the sparkling lake from afar, and could hear the sounds of distant music, while the rock near which they stood echoed the reports of cannon.
Baum took the pistols from the saddle-pouch and fired them off in rapid succession. Then he listened with bated breath, thinking that if Irma were anywhere in the neighborhood, she would hear the shots and give some sign of her whereabouts; but not a sound was heard.
They now found a forest-path leading down toward the lake. They reached the water's edge. At their feet lay the lake, smooth as a mirror and stretching away for miles. Who knew what lay concealed within its depths? In the distance, there was a boat with people and beasts aboard, and now the boat reached the shore. Baum's companion turned to the other side, where there were a few scattered farmhouses and fishermen's huts. Man and beast were worn out and needed rest. Baum asked every one he met whether they had seen a lady in a blue riding-habit and wearing a hat with a feather; but he could find no trace of her anywhere.
"Stop!" at last said a little old man who was cutting willows by the lake: "I've seen her."
"Where? When?"
"Over there in the tavern. It's almost a year ago; she lived there a good many weeks."
Baum cursed the peasant folk for a stupid set.
Fortunately, he met a gend'arme and told him who he was and whom he was looking for. He then sent the groom back to Wildenort with the lady's saddle. Placing his own saddle on Pluto, he rode along the edge of the lake with the gend'arme. On a rock near the shore, they soon saw a figure holding out a hat with a feather on it. They made for the spot, at full speed, Baum recognized his brother Thomas, and was so startled that he lost his stirrup.
If it were he who had robbed and murdered the countess!
The gend'arme knew the wild fellow. Thomas stared and grinned at them both. His hair was wet and his clothes were dripping.
"What are you doing there?" cried the gend'arme. "Whose hat is that?"
"That's none of your business," replied Thomas, his teeth chattering with the cold.
Baum offered the shivering man his brandy flask, and Thomas took a long draught. Then, with mingled rage and sorrow, he told them that the king's sweetheart had lost her way the night before and had come to their hut, and that she had led away his sister to plunge into the lake with her. He had come too late; he had seen something floating on the water and had jumped in to save her, but the hat was all he had found.
The gend'arme was not inclined to believe Thomas's story, and would have arrested him forthwith, if Baum had not whispered to him that there was no doubt that the lady had drowned herself, and that there was no murder in the case. He was moved by a feeling akin to pity for his brother, and did not wish to have him arrested.
"Come here!" said Baum to Thomas. "Let's make an exchange. I'll give you my flask--there's a good deal in it yet--for the hat."
"Oh no! I know who the hat belongs to: it's worth a lot, and I'll take it to the king."
"He still has got his sweetheart's hat, Though she lies in the lake; And since she's drowned, another love Right gladly will he take,"
sang Thomas, with heavy voice, while he threw the hat up into the air and caught it again.
The gend'arme wanted to give Thomas a beating; Baum restrained him, however, and then walked up to Thomas and placed his hand upon his shoulder. Thomas started, but suddenly grew quiet, and looked at Baum as if afraid of him. Baum spoke to him with a condescending air, and Thomas listened, with mouth agape, as if trying to recollect something, he knew not what. The voice, and the hand upon his shoulder, made quite another man of him, and the savage, murderous fellow wept.
"Will you give me the hat for a gold piece, or must it be taken from you by force? You see we're two to one, and can master you," said Baum.
Without saying a word, Thomas handed him the hat, and when Baum gave him the gold piece, Thomas could not close his hand on it. As if quite bewildered, he looked now at the gold piece, now at the giver.
Baum spoke to him earnestly, and told him that he ought to give some of the money to his mother, if he still had one.
"A mother?" stammered Thomas, looking at Baum with a glassy eye. "A mother!" he repeated, as if reminded of something long forgotten.
The gend'arme was touched by the lackey's generosity. "He must be a very fine man," thought he.
Thomas again told them that Irma had been at their hut the night before, and that his mother knew more about her than he did, for she had been alone with her. Baum and the gend'arme said they would like to talk with his mother, and Thomas guided them to the hut.
On the way there, the gend'arme informed Baum of Thomas's family history. "You see, the fellow's a brawler, and has often been convicted of poaching. I've often advised him to emigrate to America, for there he can hunt as much as he pleases. He has a brother in America--a twin brother, but he must be a good-for-nothing fellow; that is, if he isn't dead. He's never yet written a line to his mother or his brother, and has never sent home as much as you could put in your eye. But that's the way they all become, after they get to America. A good many have gone there from my place, but they're all selfish, good-for-nothing fellows."
Baum smiled. He had need of all his self-command. He scarcely spoke a word, for he was nerving himself for the meeting with his mother, and felt annoyed that she, too, was mixed up in this affair. He had enough to think of without that.
The gend'arme knew many stories about poachers and other outlaws and, in order to beguile the time and entertain Baum, recounted some of them. Such stories, however, have one unpleasant feature. It is rather uncomfortable to listen to them, unless one's hands are free from guilt. Baum nodded to him graciously, for it would not do, by look or manner, to betray that he was in the least related to the abandoned wretch who was walking ahead of them. The gend'arme said that he had once been bitten in the finger by a murderer, whom he had helped to arrest, and he showed Baum the scar.
Baum, at last, endeavored to put an end to these terrible stories. He asked the gend'arme what regiment he had served in, and put the question as graciously as if he were about to draw a medal from his pocket and bestow it on the man. Now nothing can be pleasanter than to recount one's military experiences. The forester told of his many exploits, laughing heartily at his own stories, and Baum, seeing no help for it, joined in the laughter. Thomas, who was walking on before, turned around and grinned, and then went on. They reached the hut. It was empty. Old Zenza had disappeared.
"She's looking for Esther, I'm sure," said Thomas.
"What's the matter with Black Esther?" asked the gend'arme.
"Black Esther!" repeated Thomas; "ha! ha! the lake'll wash her white now. If any one would pay me well for it, I'd jump in, too."
He threw himself on the sack of leaves, and silently looked at the hands with which he had beaten Esther last night. Then he threw his head back and fell into a heavy sleep, and they could not get a word out of him. Baum and the gend'arme rode away, intending to return to the lake, in order to pursue their inquiries, and to leave directions everywhere that the search should be kept up. Emerging from the forest, they gained the highway, and here it was that they had met the covered wagon.
They were again riding along the lake at a quiet pace. A large red cow was walking along ahead of them. It stopped now and then to nibble the grass and would look across the lake. When it came to a thicket, it started, turned about quickly and ran so fast that it almost rushed against Baum's horse.
"That cow has shied at something. There must be something lying there," said Baum, quickly alighting. His dyed hair rose on end, for he felt sure that they would find Irma's dead body the next moment. And he really did find something; for there lay Irma's torn shoes. He knew them. There were blood stains, too, and the grass was crushed, as if a human being had lain there and rolled about in pain.
Baum's hand trembled as he took up the shoes, and he trembled still more when he plucked a little flower. It was a simple leaf cup--the so-called "our-lady's-man tie," the best mountain fodder--and in this little flower there were drops of blood which were still moist.
If she had drowned herself, how had the blood got there? and whence the shoes? and why should the shoes be so far from where Thomas had found the hat? and besides, there were the footprints of larger shoes. If Irma had been murdered, after all! If his brother--
"She's dead, that's the main point," said Baum, consoling himself, "and I have the proofs. What good would it do to draw another being into trouble?" He put the little blood-besprinkled plant away with the letter addressed "To my friend."
Accompanied by the gend'arme, he went to the inn at the landing-place where the wanderers had halted that morning.
The gend'arme again inquired about the lady in the blue riding-habit.
The manner of the hostess showed that the gend'arme's question had set her thinking. Could it have been the crazy woman who was with the travelers? There had been so much running hither and thither and carrying of bundles of clothes, and she had such a queer look about her.
"Do you know anything about it?" said the gend'arme, looking her straight in the face, "speak out!"
"I don't know a thing," said the hostess. "Did I say a word? What do you want of me?"
There is nothing which the country people dread so much as being called into court in order to bear witness, and so the hostess was careful not to utter a single word that might lead to such a result.
Baum saw that he had made a mistake in taking the gend'arme with him, for his presence alarmed those who might really have something to tell. He, therefore, sent him off, so that he might make further inquiries on his own account.
Baum stood before a looking-glass, combing and brushing his dyed hair which, that day, was unusually refractory. For the first time in his life he was perfectly modest. He admitted to himself that, after all, he was not the right man to follow up such an affair, and that he had wasted too much time already. Others would be before him in profiting by whatever advantage was to be gained from Irma's death. He felt that he had better hurry back to the palace, and that there were others there, enough of them, too, who could work up such a case far better than he.
He endeavored to sound the hostess, who, he still thought, knew something of the affair. But he was unsuccessful, for she had not forgotten his comrade, the gend'arme, nor did it help, in the least, when he pointed to his buttons and informed her that he was the king's lackey.
It suddenly occurred to him that Walpurga lived in the neighborhood. It was scarcely a year since he had been here with Doctor Sixtus. Irma had always been a friend of Walpurga's, and perhaps was now hiding with her--such high-flown people were capable of anything.
The large boat still lay before the inn. Baum, taking his horse with him, went on board and ordered them to put off at once. He permitted a laborer who arrived with a great barrow-load of hay, which he had gathered on the most dangerous crags, to cross in the same boat with him. They put off. Baum lay down on the wild hay, feeling completely worn out.
He asked the boatman whether they had seen anything of a drowned person. They answered that, in the morning, a human head with long hair had been seen rising to the surface, and that, in all likelihood, it was a woman.
Baum suddenly drew himself up and, with a bewildered look, gazed over the sparkling surface of the lake. "If the gentleman would like to wait," said the elder boatman to Baum, "the lake will give up its dead at the end of three days." Baum did not care to hear any more; he merely felt in his pocket, to make sure that he still possessed the letter and the blood-stained flower. Having satisfied himself on this point, he stretched himself still more comfortably than before and fell asleep. It was not until the boat struck against the shore that he awoke.
There was no longer any need of hunting up Walpurga; but he did so, nevertheless, in order to show that he had left nothing undone. He went up to the cottage by the lake and knocked at the door. There was no answer. He looked in at the window. Two large cat's eyes were staring at him. The cat was sitting on the ledge. She was the only one who had remained behind. The room was completely dismantled; not a table or even a chair was to be seen. As if in a dream, or under the influence of a magic spell, he walked back again through the garden.
A chattering magpie sat up in the leafless cherry-tree; but not a human being was visible. At last a man passed by. Baum recognized him; it was tailor Schneck.
"Say!" he called out, "what's become of Hansei and Walpurga?"
"They're gone over the mountains. They've moved away and bought a great farm. They call it the freehold; it's way down by the frontier."
Tailor Schneck was in a talkative mood, and inquired whether the gentleman had brought anything from the king and queen. But Baum was sparing of his words. He mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of the summer palace.
In the midst of the hurry and excitement, he had retained enough composure to calculate how this event might serve as a springing-board from which he could bound into a higher position. Henceforth, he would be the king's confidant. He alone knew what had happened and how it had all come about. He looked at the hand which the king would press in gratitude, and felt as if the king had done so already. The head chamberlain was old and decrepit; he would surely step into his place. It would have been better, of course, if he could have reported that Irma had been murdered--the gend'arme, like a sleuth-hound, had found a clue--But no; that wouldn't do; it was his brother, after all--although it might be better for him if he were obliged to spend the rest of his days behind the prison bars. He resolved that he would be very good to his mother and brother--that is, after he had become head chamberlain. His sister was dead,--and it was a great pity, too--but he would surely do this, if he got on and if the king should give him lots of money and a good life annuity. Baum was bold enough to tell God that he ought to aid him in obtaining what he wanted, as he meant to do good with it.
As he rode on through the darkness, he would sometimes catch himself falling asleep, for it was the second night he had spent in such unrest--his thoughts were confused and bewildered.
At the last post-house, he left his horse and took a post-chaise.
It was early in the morning when the carriage arrived at the summer palace. They found it difficult to arouse Baum, and it was some time before he was fully awake and could recollect where he was and what he had brought with him.
Various court carriages were in waiting, and fine saddle-horses were being led from the stables. Baum scarcely heard the salutations of his comrades and the grooms. He entered the palace and ascended the staircase. He was so completely worn out that he felt as if his knees would sink under him. He entered the king's ante-chamber. The old head chamberlain hastily took the pinch of snuff which he had been holding between his fingers, and offered his hand to Baum. Baum sank into a chair, and expressed a wish to be forthwith announced to his majesty.
"I can't yet. You must wait," replied the head chamberlain.
It was only by a violent effort that Baum was enabled to keep his seat and prevent himself from falling asleep.
Chapter II
The king was in his cabinet at an early hour. He avoided all enervating self-indulgence, and his powers of endurance surpassed those of any other member of the court. It was his custom to take a cold bath every morning, all the year round, and this always gave him new life and strength. He knew nothing of deshabille, and always left his bath-room fully dressed for the day.
There was to be a hunt that day, and the king was in hunting costume. He had repaired to the cabinet, for the purpose of dispatching various matters of business that required his immediate attention.
His office was situated in the central building, in the so-called Elector's Tower. It was a large, lofty apartment, and comfortable withal. Its walls were covered with a sort of handy-volume library, military maps and various favorite specimens of plastic art, mostly antiques, of which he had procured copies while yet a prince. There was also a letter-weight, formed of balls from the battle-field of Leipsic. The oaken furniture was in the Renaissance style--the large writing-table stood in the center of the room. A water-color picture, representing the queen as a bride, hung on his right.
The king entered and touched the bell which stood on the writing-table; the privy councilor presented himself.
He handed several papers to the king, who hurriedly read and signed them. The councilor presented a report in regard to the household ministry. The king, meanwhile, walked up and down the room. Suddenly he exclaimed:
"What's that?"
From the adjoining room, he heard sounds as if moving and lifting, and also scraping footsteps, just as if a coffin were being borne away. He touched the bell. In an instant, the door opened and the head chamberlain appeared.
"What insufferable noise is that in the gallery?"
"Your Majesty ordered the large picture to be removed."
The king remembered having given the order the day before.
Although he had, for a long while, been accustomed to seeing the picture in that place, it had yesterday suddenly become repugnant to him. The painting represented Belshazzar seated on his throne and surrounded by his creatures, while a hand issuing from the clouds is writing "Mene Tekel" on the wall. The figures were all in life size. The king had given directions that the picture should be removed to the public gallery.
"I am awkwardly served," said the king impatiently. "It would have been time to do that while I was at the hunt."
The head chamberlain trembled when he heard these words. His hands dropped, and his head bent as if with shame. It was with difficulty that he dragged himself out through the opposite door. Instant silence ensued. Noiselessly, the painting was placed on the floor and the servants retired.
The chamberlain came around, from the other side, into the anteroom. He sat down in an arm-chair and took a pinch of snuff between his fingers, but was so absorbed in thought that he forgot to use it until the very moment when Baum entered the room.
He sat opposite Baum. All was silent. Now and then he would shake his head mournfully and look at his large arm-chair. "Yes, he'll soon be sitting here, and I'll be dismissed," thought he. When the privy councilor passed through the ante-chamber, the old chamberlain forgot to bring him his hat. Baum did it in his stead, for Baum was fresh again. This was no time to show signs of fatigue. He felt that he held the winning card, and that now was the time to play it.
The bell in the cabinet was again heard.
"Is there any one else in the anteroom?" inquired the king of the chamberlain.
"Yes, Your Majesty; Baum is here."
"Let him enter."
Baum felt fully conscious of his importance. The king had not ordered him to report to the chamberlain, but had said, "Let him enter." He desired to confer with him in person. The confidential position which he had craved was already his.
Baum's usually grave and submissive manner seemed more impressive than ever before.
"Have you a message?" asked the king.
"No, Your Majesty."
"What have you there?"
"Your Majesty," replied Baum, placing his bundle on the chair and untying it, "I found this hat of Countess von Wildenort in the lake, and these shoes among the willows on the shore."
The king put forth his hand, as if to grasp these tokens, and then drew it back and pressed it to his heart. He stared at Baum and seemed lost in surprise.
"What does it all mean?" he asked, raising his hand to his head, as if to smooth down his hair which stood on end.
"Your Majesty," continued Baum, who himself trembled when he saw the king's agitated manner, "the countess wore these articles when she rode out with me and ran away."
"Ran away? and--"
Baum laid his hand on his watch, and, although he could not see the dial, he counted the seconds, nevertheless; after which he softly answered:
"The countess drowned herself in the lake last night--no, it was night before last. The boatman saw the body of a female rise on the waters and sink again; and tomorrow, which is the third day, the lake will give her up."
The king motioned him to stop--it was enough--his hand trembled; he grasped the back of a chair to support himself, and stared at the hat and shoes.
Baum dropped his eyes. He felt that the king's gaze was fixed upon him, but he still kept looking on the floor, which seemed to be rising and lifting the lackey to the level of the throne. In his mind's eye, he already beheld himself at the king's side, and as the confidant of royalty. Baum modestly inclined his head still lower. He heard the king pacing the room, but still he did not look up.
"A downcast air," thought he, "betokens perfect obedience and unqualified devotion." The king now stopped before him.
"How do you know it was suicide?"
"I don't know. If it is Your Majesty's pleasure, the countess was drowned by others--"
"My pleasure? I? How?"
"I humbly beg Your Majesty's permission--may I tell all?"
"You must--!"
Summoning all his strength, Baum now said:
"Your Majesty, I found the shoes myself, but I got the hat from a man who is fit to do anything--the gend'arme thinks--that it may perhaps be good for the man--he might be pardoned at the end of a year and sent to America--a brother of his--is said to be--there--"
"You speak incoherently."
Baum regained his self-command.
"She may have been murdered by some poacher. The worst of it all is that she sent a letter to her majesty the queen."
"A letter to the queen! Where is it? Give it to me!"
"I haven't it, the maid snatched it from me."
The king sat down.
For a long while, not a sound was heard but the rapid ticking of the clock that stood on the writing-table.
The king arose from his seat and walked up and down the room. Then he came toward Baum, who felt as if the hour of judgment had come--as if his life hung in the balance. He tried to loosen his cravat; it seemed too tight for him. He almost felt as if a sword were passing through him.
"Do you know what was in the letter to the queen?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Was it sealed?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And have you nothing more?"
"Yes, Your Majesty; I was almost obliged to use violence to get this from the maid; and here, Your Majesty, there is something more. Beside the shoes, there was a pool of blood, and on this little plant there are drops of her blood."
A heart-rending cry of pain escaped the king; then, taking the letter and the plant with him, he went into the adjoining room.
Baum remained standing there waiting.
In the next room, the king sat reading, with tearful eyes.
"She loved me intensely. She was great and beautiful," said he to himself, with pale and trembling lips. His mind was filled with thoughts of her beauty, her voice, her gait, and all her varied charms. And were they all now dead?
The king looked at his hand; the hand which she had so fondly kissed. He took up the letter again and once more read the words: "To my friend." He knew not how it came about, but when he again became conscious of himself, he was kneeling by the chair.
What was to come next?
He remembered that the lackey was waiting in the cabinet. The king felt deeply humbled at the thought of his being obliged to take such a creature into his confidence; but had not men of all kinds long known of his crime? They knew of it, but were silent. A thousand eyes were upon him, a thousand lips were speaking--and all were telling this terrible story. The king looked about him, bewildered. He could scarcely rise. And among the many thousands who had laid their hands in his, and who looked up to him, there was one--Ah! how heavily her hand and her glance now weighed upon him. And her lips; what might they say?
How was he now to approach the queen? If she only knew his deep contrition, she would fall weeping on his neck; for she was divine goodness itself. And yet, how had he acted toward her!
He was on the point of sending Irma's last words to the queen. He meant to add some words expressive of his contrition--to lay bare his thoughts and feelings. It is best, thought he to himself, not to act precipitately, and when he was again on his feet, the consciousness of strength returned. One must be able to fulfill the most difficult duties, even that of repentance, without sacrificing dignity.
The king saw himself in the large mirror. He had forgotten that he was in hunting costume, and started at the reflection of himself, as though it were a stranger.
His face was pale, his eyes inflamed. He had shed tears for his friend, and that was enough. What, with some natures, requires months or years, great minds achieve in a few moments. Their years had become as ages. It seemed to him as if the words: "The kiss of eternity," were being wafted toward him on the air, and his mind was filled with memories of that day in the atelier of the ball, and--
"It was given to thee to live the highest life and then die; to force death to do your bidding. But I cannot do so. I do not live for myself alone!" said he, apostrophizing his friend, and feeling as if a new source of life flowed forth from the depths of his grief.
"And this is thy work," said an inner voice, while his thoughts were of the dead. "In all that's good, your spirit will ever abide with me. Without thee--I would confess it to God, were I now to appear before him--I should never have discovered the deepest springs of my being. If I only knew of some deed which could serve as a fit memorial of thy life."
The king again remembered that the lackey was waiting for him. He felt annoyed that there was not an hour he could call his own, in which to calm his agitated feelings, and, for the first time in his life, it flashed upon him: He who commands the services of others, has duties to them, too. They lead a life of their own, extending beyond the time and act of service.
The influence of Irma's last words seemed to hover over his soul like a mist.
He returned to his cabinet. Baum was still standing where he had left him, as silent and as quiet as if he were a chair or table.
"When did you leave there?" asked the king.
Baum told him all.
"You must be fatigued," said the king.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Well then, take a rest. Anything else you may know, you must tell no one but myself--do you understand?"
"Certainly, Your Majesty. I thank you, humbly."
The king had drawn a large emerald ring from his finger, and, while he turned it from side to side, the bright gem sparkled in the sunlight.
Baum thought that the king was about to bestow the ring upon him as a mark of his favor, but his majesty put the ring on again, and asked: "Are you married?"
"I was, Your Majesty."
"Have you any children?"
"An only son, Your Majesty."
"Very well. Hold yourself in readiness; I shall soon have further orders for you."
Baum went out. While hurrying through the anteroom, he graciously addressed the chamberlain with: "Pray don't rise!" There was no need that any one should see what was plainly to be read in every line of his face. The king had addressed him familiarly, and had even inquired about his family. He was, at last, the confidant of royalty; the highest honors now awaited him.
He went to his quarters in the side wing of the palace.
The king was alone. Naught was near him save Irma's hat and shoes. He gazed at them for a long while. What a poem it would make--to bring to the lover the shoes and the hat of his beloved--what a song it would be to sing in the twilight. Such were his thoughts and yet his brain whirled. With trembling hands, he took up the hat and shoes, and locked up the tokens of death in his writing-desk.
The feather on the hat broke as he closed the door. A light was burning on the writing-table. The king lit a cigar. When his eye fell on the water-color portrait of the queen, he started. He went on smoking violently.
It was not till some after that, that the king rang the bell and gave directions that the lord steward should be called, but that no one else should be admitted.
Chapter III
When the lord steward entered, the king had recovered his self-command and had settled upon the course he should pursue.
"Have you heard the terrible news?"
"I have, Your Majesty. The countess's maid has arrived; her mistress was drowned in the lake."
"And--?" asked the king, when he found the lord steward paused.
"And it is also said that, after her father's death, the countess neither saw nor spoke to any one. But she, nevertheless, wrote a few words to the queen, with the request that Doctor Gunther should deliver them."
"And was it done without previously informing me?"
The lord steward shrugged his shoulders.
"Very well; I know--" continued the king. "Is everything in readiness for the hunt?"
"At Your Majesty's pleasure. The hunting party has been waiting for an hour."
"I'm coming," said the king. "Send Doctor Sixtus to the lake and tell him to take Baum with him, for he knows all about the affair. Let him also take the notary with him, and tell him to see that the body, if found, be suitably interred. I know that you will have everything properly attended to; act on your own good judgment in the matter."
The king laid especial stress on the last words. Everything was to be managed discreetly; every appearance of undue interest, on his part, was to be avoided.
The king knit his brows, as if trying to think of something he had forgotten. "One thing more," added he, hastily. "Go to the poor countess's brother, and break the news to him as gently as you can. Should he desire leave of absence, you may inform him that it is granted for an indefinite time."
The king passed out through the anteroom and down the staircase. Rest and quiet had been prescribed for the queen, and, in order to avoid arousing her early in the morning, he had bade adieu to her the night before.
The hunting party assembled in the palace yard greeted the king, who graciously returned their salutation. In an instant, and as if by word of command, the covers were removed from the carriage-horses.
"Colonel Bronnen," exclaimed the king, "come sit with me."
Bronnen bowed in respectful acknowledgment of the compliment, and stepped up to the king's carriage. The gentlemen of the party, amazed at the honor paid the colonel, got into their carriages. Bronnen had bowed respectfully--for the highest honor of the day had been conferred upon him--but there was a struggle within his heart. Had the king the faintest idea that Bronnen felt himself the avenger of old Eberhard, or that he was wrestling with himself as to whether or not he should take up the vendetta? He started when he involuntarily touched the hanger at his side. Was the royal carriage to be the scene of a tragedy, such as history had never yet known? Had Irma vauntingly told the king that he was a rejected suitor for her hand? and was he now to receive the alms of sympathy?
The party drove on into the open country. The king was silent for a long time. At last, he said:
"You were also a true friend of hers. There were few--indeed, there was no one--who she honored and esteemed as she did you. Her constant wish was that we should be more closely united."
Bronnen drew a long breath. There was no occasion for his saying anything. The king offered him his cigar case.
"Ah, you don't smoke," he said.
There was another long pause, which was at last broken by the king's asking:
"How long had you known Countess Irma?"
"From childhood. She was the friend of my cousin Emma, with whom she was at the convent."
"It comforts me to be able to speak to you of our friend. You understood her character. It was great, almost supernaturally so. Suffer me to inherit your friendship for her."
"Your Majesty--" replied Bronnen with constrained composure; for his heart was boiling with indignation at the man who had corrupted this noble creature and had driven her to self-destruction. But his military feeling of respect for his superiors held him in check.
"Ah, dearest Bronnen!" continued the king, "no death has ever affected me so. Did she ever speak to you of death? She hated it. And yet, when I look about me, all is life. When a great heart ceases to beat, the whole world should pause, though it were but for a moment. What are we, after all?"
"Each of us is but a small, limited portion of the world. Everything about us has its due sphere of development and right. We are masters only of ourselves, and how few of us can claim to be even that!"
The king looked at Bronnen in surprise. Every one has a sphere of right--What could he have meant by it? Hastily collecting himself, the king replied: "She might have used the very same words. I can easily imagine how much you sympathized with each other. If I understand rightly, you regard suicide as the greatest of crimes?"
"If that which is most unnatural is, therefore, the greatest crime, I certainly do. 'Self-preservation is the first law of nature.' I shall never forget a conversation I had with old Count Eberhard, last winter, upon this very subject."
"Ah yes, you knew him. Was he really a great man?"
"He was a man of one idea, of grand one-sidedness. But perhaps this is a necessary condition of greatness."
"When did you speak with Countess Irma for the last time?"
"After her father's death, when she had shut herself up in impenetrable darkness. I spoke to her, but could not see her, although she extended her hand to me. I believe that I am the last man who held her hand in his."
"Then let me take your hand in mine!" exclaimed the king.
He held Bronnen's hand in his for a long time, until the latter said:
"Your Majesty, confession for confession.--I loved Irma!"
He spoke in a curt and bitter tone. The king hastily withdrew his hand.
"I see," continued Bronnen, gathering all his strength, "that the countess has mentioned nothing of my suit. I thank her, even now, for this proof of her noble, generous heart. Since she could not honestly return my love, she frankly declined it."
"You? my dear Bronnen!" exclaimed the king, in a tone that betrayed his painful agitation. He could not help thinking of the happy life which, as the wife of this man, Irma might have led. "My poor friend!" he added, in a voice full of feeling.
"Yes, Your Majesty, I have a right to mourn with you, and it seems as if her powerful, all-embracing mind were still potent, and had caused Your Majesty to call me to your side."
"I never dreamt of such a thing. If I had, I would not have inflicted this pain upon you."
"And I thank Your Majesty for permitting me to share in your grief. Because I share it with you, I am able to comfort you; that is, as far as another can. Since Your Majesty is so frank with me, I must needs be as frank in return."
The king was silent for a long time. Although Bronnen had opened his heart to him, the immediate effect upon him was to rouse a deep feeling of jealousy. He could not brook the thought that another had dared to cast his eye upon Irma; aye, actually to woo her. She seemed no longer entirely his own, since another had stretched out his hand toward her.
Bronnen waited for the king's answer. He could not understand what his silence meant. Had the king repented of his frankness? Did it offend him to find that another had placed himself on a level with him and answered him frankly and fearlessly? The consciousness of royalty trenches upon that of manhood, and perhaps it never happens that a prince thinks of himself simply as a human being. Bronnen felt vexed at the king's silence and averted looks. He could stand it no longer and, at last, feeling that, at such a moment etiquette could be disregarded, he said:
"I think that few men are great-minded enough to keep all knowledge of their conquests to themselves."
This remark had a double meaning, and Bronnen would not have been surprised if the king had turned upon him with a crushing reply. He felt defiant and yet composed. The man to whom he had revealed his soul's secret, must not act as if nothing had happened; he must answer for himself.
The king still remained silent.
"Is Your Majesty not of my opinion?" asked Bronnen, trembling with emotion.
The king turned toward him.
"You are my friend. I thank you, and when we reach Wolfswinkel, you shall receive the highest proof of my confidence."
"There is something more which I think I ought to communicate to Your Majesty."
"Proceed."
"I think I can see the connection between certain recent events. During the late election for deputies, some friends of mine in the Highlands thought of me. They knew of my sincere devotion to my constitutional king."
The king's features betrayed the faintest expression of disgust, while Bronnen continued calmly:
"I informed the voters that I would never accept an election which would range me with the opposition. Count Eberhard was, therefore, proposed on the very last day, and, to the great surprise of all, accepted the nomination. In order to cast a stigma upon the father, the friends of the present ministry--I am now giving Your Majesty facts, not mere opinions--were not above introducing the relation between Countess Irma and yourself into the canvass."
The king threw his cigar away, and quickly said:
"Go on; tell me more!"
"Count Eberhard was elected in spite of them. While I was at Wildenort, to attend the funeral, I was informed that the first intimation he had received of his daughter's position was conveyed to him at the meeting of electors. On his way home, he received letters which affected him deeply. Nay more, for I have inquired into the matter. I found this piece of a torn letter on the road, and the laborer who worked there told me that the count had torn up letters at the time mentioned."
Bronnen handed him a paper on which stood the words: "Your daughter has fallen into disgrace, and yet stands in high grace as the king's mistress."
"That may have been written by our saintly Hippocrates," muttered the king to himself.
"I beg Your Majesty's pardon, but if you harbor the slightest suspicion against Doctor Gunther, you do him injustice. I will stake my honor for him, and time will show that I am right."
"Go on!" said the king impatiently. He felt displeased that Bronnen could read his very thoughts, as it were, and understand what he had only half muttered; and that, understanding it, he had not, as in duty bound, ignored it. He was only to hear what was directly addressed to him.
"On his return from the meeting," continued Bronnen, calmly, "Count Eberhard was attacked by a paralytic stroke which deprived him of the power of speech. During his last moments. Countess Irma was the only one with him. She was heard to utter a terrible cry--when they entered the room, she lay on the floor, and Count Eberhard was dead. Who knows what may have happened there! But whatever it may have been, I feel sure it was the cause that drove her to this terrible resolve."
"And what purpose does this ingenious combination serve?" asked the king.
Bronnen looked at him with astonishment.
"Its only purpose is to aid in clearing up the mystery."
The long pause which followed Bronnen's remark added to its impressiveness.
"Yes," said the king, resuming the conversation, "how much better it is to clear up all things! That was just her own way of doing; so natural, and yet so clear, so conscious, and yet so strong. Well be it so. Bronnen, why should I conceal it? I may tell you everything. I loved the countess. And now--I must say it, for the thought tortures me--I am almost angry at her. Her suicide has imposed a heavy life-burden upon me. I shall never, to the end of my days, be able to lay it aside. She must have known how it would weigh me down. Tell me, frankly--I beg of you, tell me--is this feeling not a justifiable one?"
"I am not addressing the king, now. I am speaking to the clear-headed, warm-hearted man."
Bronnen paused. It shocked the king to find himself thus divested of his inborn dignity. What would this stern man, whom he had ordered to forget his rank, say?
"Speak on!" said the king, encouragingly.
"Then I shall speak frankly," began Bronnen, "as between man and man. When you reproach yourself for feeling that your friend has aggrieved you in imposing this life-burden upon you, it is simply a proof that your true self has been deeply affected. What really torments you, however, is the ghost of your own act. Although our friend, who deserved so well of fate may, in a fine frenzy, have willingly sacrificed herself, the stern truth still confronts you: you invaded, nay destroyed, her sphere of right, and now you reap the inevitable consequence of what was then begun. The ghost of your own actions disturbs you and will continue to do so, until you perceive the truth. Every human being has its own rights, presenting a barrier which no one, however exalted his position, dare invade. When you fully realize this in yourself, and by your knowledge of sin have overcome sin, then, and not until then, will you be free--no matter what may have gone before. Superstition uses the formula: 'All good spirits praise the Lord,' with which to exorcise phantoms. Our good spirit is that inner perception of truth to which we appeal, or rather to whose appeal we give utterance."
There was a long pause. Bronnen's face glowed with excitement. The king was chilly, and wrapped himself in his mantle. His eyes were closed. At last he sat up and said:
"I thank her; she has given me a friend, a true man. You will remain to me."
The king's voice was hoarse. He wrapped his mantle yet more closely about him, lay back in the corner of the carriage, and closed his eyes. Not another word was uttered until they reached the hunting-seat. The king told his suite that he felt unwell and would not take part in the hunt. The rest of the party plunged into the forest, while the king remained alone with Bronnen.