Chapter III
It seems as if, even in the quietest life, there are days in which the whole world has, as it were, agreed that visits and interruptions should never cease.
Gunther was in his room, and had scarcely had time to compose himself, after reading the queen's letter. It was evident, he thought, that the king designed to bring about a reconciliation between himself and his consort, through the agency of the dismissed friend. Gunther was willing to aid him in this, but not to have the even tenor of his life interfered with. The queen's hint in regard to Bronnen accorded with his own observations, and just then he could hear Paula singing--for the first time this year by the open window--and her voice seemed expressive of a bridal moon. He felt that Paula deserved to be happy, and that her marriage with his exalted friend would best promote the happiness of both. But he was firmly resolved, even in that event, never again to leave his birthplace.
Buried in thought, Gunther was sitting in his room.
The servant announced the freeholder's wife.
"No--Walpurga!" cried a voice, and before the servant could bring the answer, Walpurga had entered the room.
"Ah, dear Doctor, you're our neighbor! I heard, only a minute ago, that you were living here, and it's scarcely four hours' walk from our farm. Yes, that's the way people live hereabouts: alone and away from each other, just as if one were dead."
She offered her hand to Gunther, but he was busily engaged in gathering up some papers, and inquired:
"Does your mother still live?"
"Alas! no. Oh, if she had only lived to see Doctor Gunther once more! Who knows whether she wouldn't be living yet, if we could have called you when she was sick."
Walpurga wept at the remembrance of her mother. Gunther seated himself and asked:
"What is it you want?"
"How? What?" asked Walpurga, quickly, drying her tears. "And you never once ask how it fares with me?"
"You're prosperous and have changed but little."
"May I sit down?" asked Walpurga, in an anxious voice. This cold reception from one who had always been so kind to her, affected her so deeply that she could scarcely stand. She looked about her as if bewildered, and at last said:
"And is there nothing more you want to ask me? Where I live and how my husband and children are?"
"Walpurga," said Gunther, rising from his seat, "lay aside your old acting."
"What? acting? I don't know what you mean! What have I to do with acting?"
"That does not concern us now. Did you want to ask me anything? or have you anything to tell me?"
"To be sure; that's just why I came."
"What is it?"
"Yes; but you seem so strange that my thoughts are quite mixed up. Hansei doesn't know that I've come here, and not another soul in the world is to know about it but yourself. I can keep a secret; I have kept one. I can be trusted."
"I know it," said the physician, in a hard voice.
"You know it? How? You can't know it, and I shan't tell you all of it, either. I might have told you, but after such a reception, I can't."
"Do as you please; speak or be silent; but cut it short, for I have very little time."
"Then I'd rather come some other time."
"I can't receive you for mere talk. Tell me now what you have to say."
"Well then. Doctor--Oh, dear me, to think that you don't even shake hands with me. I can't get over it. But I see, that's the way it is with great folk; it's all the same--thank God, I know where I'm at home!"
"Cease your empty talk!" said Gunther, interrupting her still more sharply. "What have you to tell me? Can I help you in any way?"
"Me? Thank God, nothing ails me. I only wanted to say that under-forester Steingassinger lives out on the dairy-farm, and that his wife is my friend and companion, Stasi. Early last winter, she told me that the king was coming here this summer, and all I wanted to say was that if he cares to pay me a visit at the freehold, he's quite welcome. I might have said something more, but I see I'd better not. I'd rather not break an oath."
Gunther nodded.
"If the king wishes to pay you a visit, I will tell him what you have said."
"And isn't our dear, good queen coming, too! I've often been kept awake at nights by anger and sorrow, when I thought that she doesn't concern herself about me. And she promised me so solemnly that she would. I can't understand how it is; but it's all right, I suppose. And how is the little prince? And is it true that you are not in favor and have been dismissed from the court? And is that why you are living here in this little house?"
Gunther gave her an evasive reply, and said that he had other matters to attend to.
Walpurga arose from her seat, but could not move from the spot. She could not understand why she should be treated thus, and it was only because she had previously made up her mind to do so, that she invited Gunther to visit her, and asked permission to see Madame Gunther for a few moments. She hoped that she, at least, would receive her kindly and afford her some explanation of the Doctor's repellant manner.
"Go to her," replied Gunther, turning away and taking up a book. Walpurga left the room.
She stopped in the passageway and asked herself whether she was not dreaming. She who had once been the crown prince's nurse was now treated as if they had never known her. She, the freeholder's wife--her pride rose, as she thought of her vast homestead--was sent away like a beggar.
She no longer cared to speak with Madame Gunther. Her lips trembled with grief at the thought of how wicked the great people were. And yet they could praise this house, and she, too, had once praised it, as though none but holy persons lived in it.
She left the house, and, while walking through the garden, met Madame Gunther, who started back when she recognized Walpurga.
"Don't you remember me?" asked Walpurga, holding out her hand towards her.
"Indeed I do," said Madame Gunther, without noticing the hand that was offered her. "Where do you come from?"
"From my farm. I'm the freeholder's wife, and if you, Madame, had come to me, I wouldn't have let you stand out of doors in this way; I'd have asked you to come inside, into my room."
"But I don't ask you," replied Madame Gunther, "I put nothing in the way of those who leave the straight path, but I do not invite them into my house."
"And when did I leave the straight path? What have I done?"
"I am not your judge."
"Anyone may judge me. What have I done? You must tell me."
"I must not; but I will. You will have to answer to yourself how all the money was earned with which you bought your great farm. Good-day!"
She went into the house.
Walpurga stood there, alone. The houses, the mountains, the woods, the fields--all swam before her, and her eyes were filled with bitter tears.
Gunther had been looking out of the window, during Walpurga's interview with his wife, and, by the manner of the latter, felt satisfied that the peasant woman had been told some unpleasant truths.
He now saw Walpurga walk away; she would stop now and then, and dry her tears with her apron. The woman repents, at any rate, thought he to himself, and she's only another proof of the far-reaching and all-corroding effects of evil.
It was long before Gunther could be made to believe that Walpurga had received a large sum of money in return for wicked services, but it had been judicially proven that the farm had been paid for in new coin, such as only passes through princely hands. And just because Gunther had believed in Walpurga's simple true-heartedness, and had staked his word upon it, he was all the more embittered against her.
He was resolved to clear up the matter as soon as the opportunity offered.
Chapter IV
Proud and happy as Walpurga had been when she left home in the morning, it was with a heavy heart that she returned at evening.
She might well be proud, for no farmer's wife could present a better appearance. Franz, the late cuirassier, had broken in the foal. It was harnessed to the little Bernese wagon and looked around as if pleased when Walpurga came out, dressed in her Sunday clothes and accompanied by Burgei. Hansei helped his wife into the wagon and then gave her the child.
"Come back safe and sound," said he, "and Franz, take care of the horse."
"Never fear!" was Franz's answer, and the horse started off at a lively gait, as if it were mere child's play to draw such a load.
Hansei stood looking after his wife and child for a while and then turned about and went off to his work. He only nodded to Irma, who was looking out of her window and waving a farewell to Walpurga. Walpurga rode off, holding her hand to her heart, as if to repress the joy with which it was overflowing.
What was there better in the world than a well-arranged household like the one she was just leaving, and to feel, moreover, that the people she met would know that she was well-to-do in the world? But Walpurga was proud of something else which the people could not see.
She had, with great circumspection, arranged quite a difficult affair.--On the following morning, Irma was to go to the shepherd's hut, and all danger of discovery would be averted. It is no trifling matter to keep such a secret a whole winter, for Irma had judged rightly. Walpurga encouraged Irma's plan of spending the entire summer in deeper solitude. Stasi, whose husband had heard it from the chief forester, told her that the king intended to visit the neighboring village during the following summer. She feared for Irma, and now her fears had taken a still more decided shape. Stasi's husband had been removed to the dairy-farm and had been ordered to arrange the forest paths and drives, preparatory to the king's arrival.
Hansei was quite willing that his wife, instead of going to the neighboring village, should go to a more distant town, in order to purchase the articles of use and comfort which it would be necessary for Gundel and Irma to take with them to the shepherd's hut. This afforded her an opportunity to fulfill her promise to visit Stasi in her new home. He even consented that Burgei should go along. And thus Walpurga drove off, her heart full of happiness, and with a kindly smile of greeting for all whom she met on the road.
"I only wish," said Franz, "that we could drive along the lake, and by our old village, for we all came from there; you and I, Burgei and the horse."
Franz had bestowed especial care upon his appearance.
His face beamed with joy, for he, too, cherished a secret thought. He intended to buy a silver ring to place on Gundel's finger, before she went to the shepherd's hut.
"Be careful of that horse," replied Walpurga. "He's so very young. What a fine day it is. The cherries down here aren't in blossom yet, and the sapling we brought from home is blossoming to-day, for the first time. Didn't you see it?"
"No."
They drove on in silence.
When they drew near to the village in which Stasi lived, Franz, who drove about the country a good deal, said:
"This pretty brook flows from up near our new meadow. It comes out of the rocks scarcely a rifle-shot from there."
Walpurga smiled at the thought that a stream that flowed far through the country, had its source on her own land. Yes, no one knows what fortune may have in store for him.
Stasi was delighted at Walpurga's arrival, and was lavish in her praise of all that belonged to her friend. She declared that the king himself had not a finer horse, a better-behaved servant, a lovelier child or a better wife, than Hansei had. Wherever she took Walpurga, the laborers who were clearing the roads, or building bridges, would stop for a while to look at the farmer's handsome wife and the child who, both in dress and feature, was the very picture of her mother.
Stasi prepared an excellent meal. Walpurga had brought, as a gift, enough butter and eggs to last for a great while. In the new inspector's dwelling, as great honor was shown Walpurga as if she were the queen herself.
At last, Walpurga set about making her purchases, and showed that she was sensible and aware of what her position required. She always bought the best of everything, and did not higgle long about the price.
They had returned to the dairy-farm, and Walpurga was on the point of confiding a portion of her secret to Stasi, so as to put her on her guard as to the king, when she heard of the distinguished man who, for nearly four years past, had been living in the little town.
"Dear me! why he's the best friend I have!" said Walpurga. She handed the child to Stasi and hurried off to Gunther's house. She felt as if her heart would burst with joy, and was obliged to sit down before the house, for a while, to get her breath.
But while she walked back to the farm, she did not once raise her eyes from the ground. She could not. And what annoyed her most of all was that she had told Stasi: "He's the best friend I have."
They expected her to tell about her visit, but all she could say was:
"Don't ask me to tell you what great folks are. If I were to begin I couldn't get through before to-morrow, and I've got to go, or it'll be dark before we get home."
Walpurga became quieter and sadder, the more Stasi and her husband praised Doctor Gunther. She dared not tell what had happened to her. This is all you get, thought she, if you depend on the respect which others are to show you. Long after she had left them, Stasi and her husband spoke of how strange and changeable Walpurga was. But she was glad that she was no longer obliged to look any one in the face. And now, at this late day, she was reminded of something that she had long since forgotten. "Oh, dear mother!" said she aloud to herself. "You were right. Everything in this world must be paid for, and now the gold is to be paid for--but how?"
She seated her child upon her lap as though it was all that was left to her. She hugged and kissed it and, at last, it fell asleep, resting upon her heart. She grew calmer, although she keenly felt the wrong that had been done her, and wondered what might yet be in store for her. When, while in her old home, the envy and enmity of the villagers had annoyed her, she could easily console herself with the fact that they were simple, ignorant people; but what could she say now? Was she to experience her old troubles over again? And there was no one to whom she could confide them; her mother was gone; she could not tell Hansei and, least of all, Irmgard.
It was twilight when she at last caught a glimpse of home. Mustering up all her courage, she said to herself:
"The best thing I can do is to let suspicion rest on me until I die, or till she dies; for then no one will come near us, and I needn't have any fear for my dear Irma, who has far more to bear than I have. Thank God, I didn't betray my secret; and how lucky it is, she's now going up into the wilds where no one will find her."
Full of courage, she went into the house and told Hansei of her visit to Stasi, but nothing more.
"I have borne it alone, thus far," said she to herself. "I'll do so, hereafter."
With great self-command, she assumed a cheerful air while with Hansei and Irma, and romped with her boy, for whom she had bought a little wooden horse.
Chapter V
The evening of preparation was an unquiet one. Hansei, who had much to do, would again and again busy himself with the cow-bells, the tones of which pleased him greatly. He had purchased a well-tuned set, and Irma had praised them when he showed them to her.
They went to bed early, for, on the next morning, they would have to rise long before daybreak.
Hansei, who had been asleep for some time, awoke and heard Walpurga crying and sobbing.
"For God's sake! what's the matter?"
"Oh, if mother were only living!" said Walpurga. "If I only still had my mother!"
"Don't act so. Don't cry, now; it's sinful!"
"What? A sin to mourn for my mother?"
"It all depends on how you mourn. I've often heard it said that, so long as grass hasn't grown over the grave, you may weep for the dead without doing harm to them or the living. After that, there should be no more weeping for the dead; for, as the old proverb says: 'It wets their clothes in the other world.' Don't fall into sinful ways, Walpurga. Your mother lived out her time, and thus it is in the world. Parents must die before their children, and, although I trust that our children won't forget us when we're gone, I hope they'll be able to think of us without weeping. But now--why do you let me talk so much? Am I right, or wrong? What makes you so silent?"
"Yes, yes; it's all right. But don't, I beg of you, ask me anything more now. My head is full of all sorts of thoughts. Good-night."
"Good-night, and don't forget to say 'good-night' to your idle thoughts."
A fleeting smile passed over Walpurga's face at Hansei's kind words, but in the next moment she was again a prey to sad despair and a feeling of utter loneliness. She had wept for her mother, because she alone could have shared Irma's secret with her; but now, when a new and crushing burden oppressed her, there was no living one who could help her.
She suddenly recalled the evening when she had stood in the palace yard, feeling as if she had been transported into the heart of the enchanted mountain, and awed by the dimly lighted statues that seemed to be staring at her. She had come away, bringing golden treasure with her; but what had clung to it? Resentment at the injustice she had experienced gnawed at her heart. "That's the way with the great folk," she muttered, between her teeth. "They condemn without a hearing. I could justify myself, but I won't do it."
"Perhaps you'd rather Irmgard wouldn't move out to the hut?" asked Hansei, after a while.
"Why, I thought you were asleep, long ago," answered Walpurga. "Good-night, again."
She asked herself how it would be if Hansei were to learn what was said of her. How would he bear it? And wasn't it wonderful that, thus far, nothing had been heard of it?
All her pride in the good opinion of others' suddenly turned into shame. The peculiar gift she possessed of imagining what people were saying and thinking, again tormented her, and everything seemed confused, as if a half-waking dream.
She determined to lighten her heart by pouring out her woes to Irma. She sat up in bed and felt for her clothes, but she quickly checked the impulse. How could she inflict this on the penitent? Irma had sufficient strength of mind to renounce everything, and even to let the world regard her as dead. How trifling was Walpurga's trouble in comparison with hers!--And was not the queen also an innocent sufferer? Was not one obliged to suffer for another, all the world through?
She felt as if suddenly endowed with a strength she had never before known. She was willing to suffer for Irma, and even to sacrifice her own good name, for the sake of protecting the penitent.
She thanked fate that Doctor Gunther had treated her unkindly. How would it have been if a friendly reception on his part had induced her to betray a portion of her secret?
The elements that mingled in Walpurga's character were now in agitation, now in repose; the quiet life at home, the unquiet one at court, vanity, honor, humility, a desire to appear of consequence--all these were in a constant ferment. But at last all was clear.
"What have you done for Irma, after all?" she asked herself. "Nothing; you've only let her live with you."
For Irma's sake, she was willing to submit to disgrace.
"It isn't what people think of you, but what you really are, that's most important," thought she to herself, and breathed freely once more.
When she, at last, calmly rested her head on her pillow, she felt as if her mother's hand were stroking her brow.
Chapter VI
It was a mild spring night.
Irma was sitting by the spring and looking up at the starry heavens. She felt strangely at the thought of again wandering forth, for on the following morning she was to start for the shepherd's hut, there to spend the summer. How would it be with her when she again sat here in the night, listening to the stream rushing by?
At that moment she heard whispering. It seemed to come from the dark stable, the door of which was open.
"Yes, Gundel; our mistress is just as changeable as April weather. On the way from home, she was as jolly as she could be, and on the way back, she was just as glum as if she'd been beaten. She went to see the great doctor. Something must have happened to her. But what does she matter to us, after all? She bought pots and pans, but I got something better. Let's have your hand. There! I put this little silver ring on your finger and make you fast to me, in soul and body, for life. Now you may go wherever you choose; you're mine, all the same."
Hearty kisses were heard, and Gundel at last said:
"But you'll come up to the meadow to see us, once in a while, won't you?"
"Of course I will!" And then there was more soft and unintelligible whispering.
"Why, just look!" said Franz, suddenly; "there's cousin Irmgard, and she's heard every word of what we've said."
"That's no harm; she knows all about it, and so I'll have something to talk with her about, all summer. Come, let's go to her. You'll see how kind she is."
They went to Irma.
She took them both by the hand and said:
"Let your love be as pure, as fresh, as inexhaustible as this spring." She dipped her hand into the spring, which glittered in the moonlight, and sprinkled the two lovers with water.
"That's as good as if it came out of a holy water pot," cried Franz. "Now everything will be all right. I've no fear. You, spring, and you, elder-tree, are witnesses that we both belong together, and will never leave each other. Good-night."
Franz went back into the stable and closed the door. Gundel accompanied Irma to her room and slept on the bench, for her father, the little pitchman, had already gone before them to the shepherd's hut and had taken her bed and various household articles with him.
It was long before Irma fell asleep. She felt as if she could not help living over, in anticipation, the many days and nights she was to spend upon the mountain. She was restless, and lay there thinking, until at last her thoughts became confused and bewildered.
At last, she asked in a soft voice:
"Gundel, are you still awake?"
"Oh yes, and I'm sure Franz is awake, too. He isn't as well off as I am, and has no one to talk to as I have. Oh, how thankful I am to you! I'll make things as pleasant and as comfortable for you as I can. Oh, what a good, honest soul Franz is! Do you hear the cows lowing? They can't rest, either. I feel as if I could already hear the bells that they're going to wear to-morrow, and I think they must know all about it, too. Oh Irmgard, if you only had a sweetheart, too. I know how it will be with you. It'll be just as it says in the story--and you deserve it, too. There was once upon a time a king who rode through the forest and found a beautiful girl tending the flocks; and he put her on his horse, took her home with him, gave her clothes of gold, and put a diamond crown upon her head. And then the queen--Oh, the bells, the queen--come, White-spot, the bells--come, come, come--and so--"
Gundel slept, but Irma lay awake and looked out into the moonlight. The whole world seemed a marvel, and vague fairy pictures filled her mind. She smiled, and her eyes sparkled until they were at last closed in sleep. But the smile rested on her features, although there was none to see it, save the moon, calmly looking down from on high.
Chapter VII
We often experience sadness and hesitancy in carrying out projects which have been wisely conceived and hopefully determined on. And thus it proved when the time came to set out for the shepherd's hut.
It was before daybreak. Irma stood at the open hearth in Walpurga's room, and shivered with the cold.
Although Irma had overcome all longings since her return from her short visit to the world, a new and deep feeling of homelessness had come over her, just as if this was the first day of her solitude. She often looked about her, as if she saw a figure approaching with a light bundle under its arm--and that figure was herself, but oh! how changed. She scarcely felt a desire for food or drink; nor did she care to speak. She lived entirely in and from herself. But, although silent, she was cheerful and kind toward every one.
The little pitchman was the first to note this change, and he was of the opinion that a summer spent on the mountain meadows would prove of great benefit to Irma, for he maintained that she was ill, although she always seemed well and was ever at work.
If everything had been specially arranged, Walpurga's purpose could not have been better served. Irma's wishes and the uncle's advice were in accord. Besides this, there was danger of discovery, on account of the king's visit to the neighboring village, and whatever danger lay in this, Walpurga meant to avert from Irma.
The morning found Walpurga gay and cheerful, as if after a hardly won victory. Her eyes often rested on Irma, who was looking fixedly at the open hearth-fire.
"You'll see," said she to her, "you'll be quite a different being up there. I can hear you singing already, and then we'll sing together again."
She went on humming to herself the air,
Oh! blissful is the tender tie That binds me, love, to thee.
But Irma did not join in the song.
"I shall support life as long as it supports me," said Irma, as if speaking to herself, and holding her hands before the fire.
It was not long before the two women, who were thus standing quietly by the hearth, were called away to the stable outside. Everything was in readiness. The little pitchman, who was conversant with all such mysteries, had, on the previous day, arranged everything so that the cattle might be well and hearty in their new abode. He had brought a clod of earth and three ants from the meadow, and had mixed the earth with some sweet-scented clover, St. Johnswort, lavender and salt, into which mixture he dropped some oil of tar, and this was the last food given the cattle. The little pitchman had returned from the meadow during the night and, although he had not been asked to do so, had prepared the mysterious fodder in order to oblige Hansei, who was not yet quite familiar with the ways of this section of the country.
Now that the cattle had swallowed the magic potion, they were protected against all witchcraft and sickness, and would be as much at home on the meadows as if they had been born there. And now that day began to dawn, the cows became unmanageable. Peter sprinkled every one of them with holy water; but in spite of charms and holy water, these tame, domestic creatures seemed to have been converted into wild beasts. All was confusion within the enclosure that confined them, the cows were bellowing and running about wildly, and, in the midst of the din, was heard the shouting of the cowboys. The little pitchman bade them let the cows have their own way and at last they were quiet. Gundel put the wreath on the horns of the large brown bell-cow, and fastened the leader's bell around her neck. The other cows were also provided with bells. And now the leader was surrounded by the rest of the herd, who glared at her furiously; but she seemed so proud and scornful that none ventured to challenge her.
"And now let's be off, for God's sake!" cried the little pitchman, opening the gate. The procession started. Franz came last of all, holding the powerful red bull by its strong short horns and dragged by, rather than leading it. As soon as the bull was out of the stable, he stood still and looked about him with quite a dangerous air, and then, tossing up his head, stepped off alone, in quite a dignified manner. But as soon as he was outside of the gate, he bellowed loudly.
Although everything had been quietly arranged, there was yet hurrying at the end. Walpurga and Hansei accompanied Irma for a part of the way.
Irma was silent. Her step was firm, and yet it seemed to her as if her will had nothing to do with this, and as if she were urged onward by another.
"You look more cheerful already," said Hansei to Irma.
A nod was her only reply.
They soon overtook the herd which had gone ahead. The herdsman had waited for them, for it would not do to drive the cattle through the villages unless the sennerin[5] were with them.
They might have taken the other road. It lay back of the village, and was somewhat shorter; but why should they not for once show themselves and their herds before they went into solitude? And so the cattle with their beautiful bells were driven through the village, while cheers and hurrahs resounded from all sides.
When they ascended the mountain on the other side of the village, and struck the forest road which Hansei had cut, he could not refrain from calling Irma's attention to what he had accomplished.
In the heart of the forest, where the royal arms were carved on the boundary-stone--for it was here that the royal preserves began--Hansei took leave of Irma. Walpurga, who had also said "good-by," still accompanied her for a short distance. There was so much that she wanted to tell Irma, and yet all she could say was: "Don't be afraid; I'll come to see you next Sunday. If you find it lonesome, come back to us again. Nobody forces you to stay up here; but if you can stay, you'll find it'll do you good."
Walpurga, whose heart was oppressed with her secret, bade Irma a hurried farewell and left her.
Hansei was sitting on the boundary-stone, waiting for his wife. After she had joined him, they walked on for some time in silence.
"It often seems to me as if it were all a dream," said he, at last. "We've been here four years this coming autumn, and she's been with us all the time. I can't tell you how much I like her, and still I don't know her; that is, I do know her, so to say, but I don't know her after all."
"Stop a minute, Hansei," said Walpurga.
He stood still. All was silent in the woods. A thick mist had veiled the mountains and the birds were mute. The only sound that broke upon the ear was that of the bells of the distant herd ascending the mountain. Walpurga drew a long breath.
"Hansei," said she at last, "you've stood a hard test. I never would have believed that any man could have done what you have. And now I think I must open the door to you, at last."
"Stop!" said Hansei, interrupting her, "not so fast. Did she tell you to do so, of her own accord? Say 'yes' or 'no'."
"No."
"Then I don't want to know anything about her. You hold her secret in trust, and no one has a right to touch it. Of course, to be honest with you, it has often puzzled me terribly. There's only one thing I want to know; I'm sure she hasn't injured any one and she hasn't stolen, has she? But no matter what she may have done, she's atoned for it all. Tell me only this: Has she any such trouble on her conscience?"
"God forbid! She's harmed no one on earth but herself."
"All right then; we'll say no more about it. Did you see how the deaf and dumb man in the village fell on his knees before her?"
"No."
"But I did; and I heard Babi, the root girl, say that the crazy woman from the farm would never come back again. Now Babi's crazy and Irmgard isn't, but still it frightened me. I don't know--but it seems to me that our home will seem empty, if we don't have Irmgard with us. She's become one of us."
When they had returned to the house and were sitting together in the front room, Hansei said:
"Don't you remember how she advised me to place the table differently, and how she helped to arrange everything, and told uncle to shorten the legs of the chairs, so that they might fit better to the table? I've never seen a farmer's room that looked so beautiful as ours; and she was a great help to you in everything."
Hansei had much to arrange about the house, and Walpurga would often come to him, with one of the children, and exchange a few words with him, while at work. She did not care to be alone. She missed Irma, and yet was happy to know that she was safe in her lonely retreat.
Chapter VIII
The day did not clear. At noon, the mist changed into heavy rain.
"I wonder if it rains as hard up there, too; she'll be terribly wet," thought Walpurga to herself, and, indeed, it was raining just as heavily up the mountain. Wild, rapid little streams ran across the road and bubbled and splashed down the mountain side.
With the aid of a mountain staff which Hansei had given her, Irma walked on courageously. To protect her against the rain, the little pitchman had given her his great woolen rug, in which there was only a hole to slip the head through. He managed to cover himself with empty corn sacks. He walked at her side, and often said:
"Shall I carry you?"
Irma walked on. The staff was of little use during the ascent; but, now and then, they had to go down a sharp declivity--a sink, as the uncle called it--when she was obliged to plant it firmly and swing herself by it. The little pitchman was always at hand, ready to catch Irma, in case she should slip; but she had a firm step.
As the herd were not yet used to each other, it was quite difficult to keep them together; but the little pitchman knew how to manage the animals, and the bells, ringing merrily together, seemed like a constantly ascending melody.
"The cattle are well off," said the little pitchman, "they can find their fodder along the wayside. But the mistress has given me something for ourselves. We'll soon reach the 'Witch's Table,' and there we can sit under shelter, while we take a bite."
They soon came upon a broad, projecting rock, resembling a semicircular table. Here there was dry and sandy soil, where only the lion-ant dwelt, in his funnel-shaped cell. Gundel, Franz, the little pitchman and Irma sat down under shelter of the "Witch's Table" and ate heartily, while the cows, that grazed outside, were left in charge of one of the cowboys.
"The rain will last a long time," said Franz. The little pitchman called him to account, and said that no one could tell how long the rain would last. He wanted to encourage Irma.
He caught a lion-ant and showed how clever the little creature was; how it made a pitfall in the fine sand and hid itself at the point of its funnel-shaped cell, and how the common ant, unconscious of danger, would come along and tumble into the pit, from which it could not get out again, for the fine sand rolls away from under its feet, while the rogue who is hiding blinds the captive by throwing sand in its eyes, and then catches and eats it. "And strangest of all," said he, "next year that gray worm will be a brown dragon-fly on the lake."
He well knew that such a glimpse of nature was more pleasing to her than food or inspiriting words.
With renewed vigor, they went still further up the mountain. As if invigorated by the herbage of the higher regions, the cattle became livelier. At last they drew near the clearing where the new meadow lay. The little pitchman instructed Franz to go on in advance and open the stable door. Franz obeyed at once; soon after that his call was heard, and the cows that had just reached the open meadow bellowed and rushed forward. The rain and mist were now so thick that the hut could not be distinguished until they were within a few steps of it. "That's lucky," cried the little pitchman, "the swallows have already built their nests on our cottage; now all is safe."
He stepped forward, knocked at the door three times, opened it, and offered his hand to Irma with the words: "Let joy enter and sorrow depart!" And thus they were home at last.
Oh, what a comfort to have a sheltering roof over one's head! Irma often looked up, and, her eyes seemed to express the gratitude she felt because of her being at last protected against the angry storm. Now that she was snugly housed in the cottage, it seemed far more gloomy out of doors than while they were trudging through the rain. There was soon a cheerful fire on the large hearth, and the little pitchman, muttering to himself, took something out of his pocket and threw it into the flames.
"Since the world began," said he, "no fire has ever been lighted here, and no smoke has arisen to heaven. We're the first inhabitants. But the swallows--yes, the swallows--that's lucky."
He might have said much more, if he hadn't been called away by Franz, who came to tell him that a cow out in the stable had just calved.
Irma was alone with Gundel. She quickly undressed herself and dried and warmed herself by the fire. But Gundel was called away, too, so that she might know what to do on a like occasion in the future. And now Irma, divested of her outer clothing, sat by the fire. She felt chilled at first, but the sense of cold and of fear quickly left her. She gazed calmly at the cheerful fire--a solitary child of man, alone on the heights. She had completely forgotten where she was, until she heard voices approaching. She quickly covered herself with the dried clothes. The little pitchman entered and offered his congratulations on the fact that they had been blessed with a splendid steer-calf on the very first day.
Night came on. Franz took his departure. Gundel went with him part of the way and, until she returned, they could be heard calling to each other through the drizzling rain. The inmates of the cottage soon repaired to rest. The little pitchman and the cowboy slept in the hay-loft over the stable. Irma and Gundel slept in the house.
When they awoke, on the following morning, the day was still veiled in a thick mist. "We're in a cloud," said the little pitchman.
The cows were grazing. The bells seemed scattered about, and, in the distance, had a dreamlike sound as of the humming of bees.
Irma had hoped to be alone, and here she was shut up in this little hut with its few inmates. The little pitchman had said that they were the first dwellers on this bit of earth, and it seemed as if nature resented their advances. The wind howled and drove the clouds before it, but always brought fresh ones to replace them, and, now and then, were heard the crash and roar of falling avalanches.
Irma endeavored to work, but to no purpose.
The second night and the second day found them still enveloped in impenetrable clouds. Even the cattle seemed to complain of it, their lowing sounded so sorrowful.
It was early on the third morning, when Irma awoke, feeling as if something had touched her. She arose. A soft gleam of light shone through the crevice in the window-shutter. "The sun has awakened me," said she to herself. She hurriedly dressed and went out of doors.
The fresh and dewy air of morning revived her spirits. A cow, grazing near by, raised its head and looked at her, and then went on eating again.
A silver-gray light gradually dawned in the east, and that wonderful passage from Haydn's "Creation" flashed through Irma's mind. She fancied that the tones assumed tangible, corporeal shapes, arising out of the early-gray of dawn. By degrees, the gray changed into a golden hue, and then faint streaks of red would flash through it, gradually heightening in color, while down below, stretching into the distance, like a dark and immeasurable stream, lay the darkness of night. At last, rugged cliffs, peaks, and broad mountain ridges raised their heads into the light, while their bases still lay veiled in night which was gradually changing into dark gray. The rosy tint gradually extended and gained in intensity until it covered the heavens. Meanwhile, the giant forms of the mountains stood forth more clearly and at last, dazzling the eyes, the sun appeared, bathing every height in purple and golden hues, while the rolling clouds below appeared like mighty waves. Bright day, warming and illumining the earth, had arisen. Millions of odors arose from every tree, every blade of grass, and every flower. The singing of birds was heard, and Irma opened her arms as if to embrace infinity. She did not sink on her knees, but remained standing upright. Involuntarily, her foot left the ground, as if she could not help soaring away into infinite space. She pressed both hands to her forehead, and when she touched the bandage, it seemed loosened of itself and fell to the ground.
A sunbeam shone upon her brow and she felt that it was now pure. She stood there for a long while, gazing at the sunlight. Her eye was not dazzled by its refulgence. Calm and peaceful harmonies filled her soul. A child of man had witnessed the symbol of creation and had herself been created anew.
Now come, ye days that are still left me, be ye long or short!--Where and with whom I may have to spend them, it matters not; for I am free! I am saved!
All that I now do is only preparation for the journey. The hour draws near and, be it early or late, I am prepared for it. I have lived!
"Why, Irmgard, how strange you look!" exclaimed Gundel, coming out of the hut, and carrying the milk-pail on her head. "Dear me, what a forehead you've got, so white and so beautiful! Oh, how beautiful you are! I never saw so smooth and beautiful a forehead before!"
Irma accepted a glass of milk from Gundel, and then tucked up her dress and went out into the woods. It was not until high noon that she returned to the cottage. During the whole day, she had scarcely uttered a word.
In the cottage, she found the little pitchman standing before her table, and arranging a great heap of aromatic herbs and roots.
"Just look," he cried, "I've found something already. Yes, I know a thing or two. I've been gathering clover and mountain parsley for the apothecary. I know everything growing hereabouts that they can use, and many a time has my sister said: 'In the spring everything's sweet and good; and wherever the poison lies, it takes the summer heat to bring it out.' Oh, she was a clever one! Many a time she's said: 'The best things grow up among the clouds.'"
After a short pause, he began again:
"Gundel's right; I must say, I didn't think you were so handsome. But, somehow, you don't look healthy; you must eat more; why, you hardly eat anything."
A grateful smile was Irma only reply.
"Do you know what I'd like to have been?"
"What?"
"Your father."
Irma answered him with a silent inclination of the head. Her father's spirit had been invoked, and it seemed as if he were speaking to her through the lips of this poor, simple-minded man, who continued:
"God forgive me, but I can't help feeling, once in a while, as if you had dropped down from heaven, and had neither father nor mother; and to-day you look so weak that my eyes fill with tears whenever I look at you. Now, do eat a bit!"
He went on chattering as confusedly as if he had been drinking too much, but the refrain was always the same: "Now do eat something!"
To please the good old man, Irma forced herself to do so.
Chapter IX
The days were bright and cheerful, the nights were glorious.
The air was pure, the view was clear, and all troubled thoughts seemed to have lingered below in the crowded dwellings of men.
"I think you could now sing again," said the little pitchman to Irma; "your voice isn't so hoarse as it was. But you need more sleep. When one is old, sleep runs away of itself. Don't drive it away, as long as it wants to stay with you."
The little pitchman now seemed doubly careful of her, and Irma perceived that her voice was hoarse. She would sit down and rest oftener than she had previously done. She would still roam through the woods and valleys, wherever huntsmen or woodcutter dared venture, but she would so often stop to rest herself that her wanderings resembled the flight of some young bird which, at every short distance, is obliged to stop. She now remembered that this weariness had been upon her ever since her return from the capital. During the winter she had paid no attention to it; but now she thought she could understand Walpurga's motive in urging her to go up to the shepherd's hut. It was because she was ill, and in the hope that she might become well again. And yet she felt no pain. One day, while in the heart of the forest, she tried to sing a scale, but found that she could not. Her head sank upon her breast; and thus, after all--
On Sunday morning Franz came, bringing joy with him.
"Oh, how nice it is," said Gundel, as soon as she found herself alone with Franz. Irma was quite near, however, and heard every word of what she said. "Oh, how nice it is! I used to think my arms were only for work, but now I can do something else with them; I can throw them around somebody's neck and hug and kiss him!"
Gundel, who was usually dull and sullen, had become active and sprightly. She was bustling about all day, scrubbing, washing, milking the cows, making butter and cheese, and was always singing or humming a tune to herself. With her, singing filled the place of thinking. She was just like a bird that flutters about, singing all day long. Love had awakened her soul, and the self-dependent position in which she now found herself afforded a vent to her native cheerfulness of temperament.
Irma regarded all that environed her as if she were a mere looker-on, taking no part in the life about her.
Tradition tells us of good genii who descend to the earth, remain there long enough to look about them and put things to rights, and then return to heaven. They have no share in the world's cares and troubles. And thus it often seemed to Irma as if she were withdrawing herself from human sight, conversation and sympathy, into the one great idea in which she was wholly absorbed.
She went into the hut, and with her pencil wrote these few words in her journal:
"I desire my brother to give a marriage portion to Gundel and Franz, after my death, so that they may establish a household of their own."
Thereupon she wrapped the journal in the bandage which she had worn on her brow, and, placing her hand on it, vowed that she would not write another word in it. She had recorded enough of her self-questionings and of what her eyes had beheld, to reconcile her with the friend whom she had so deeply injured, as well as with herself. The days that still remained to her, she desired to spend completely, and with herself.
Franz had brought word that Walpurga would not come that day, as her boy was unwell, but that she hoped to come without fail on the following Sunday. Irma was almost pleased at the opportunity thus afforded her to become accustomed to her present life, before being obliged to converse with any one who knew her. She was now surrounded by people to whom her past was unknown. They indulged her wish to be alone, and only addressed her when she asked them a question.
The second and third Sundays passed by, but Walpurga did not come, although she sent up some bread and salt. Irma scarcely cared to conjecture the cause of her absence.
How scornfully Irma had once repelled the thought of "a life in which nothing happens"; but now she realized it in herself, without the slightest feeling, on her part, that it might have been otherwise. She worked but little, and would lie for hours on her favorite spot on the hillside.
Nature shed its kindly influence upon her. She greeted the dews of early morn, and the dews of evening moistened her locks. Like surrounding nature, she was calm and happy and without a wish. But in the night, when she looked up at the starry skies which, from the mountain height, were clearer and brighter, her soul soared into the infinite. She gazed on the mountains, unchanged since the day of their creation, peaks which no human foot had ever trod, which only the clouds could touch and on which the eagle's eye had rested. Familiar as she was with the life of plants and birds, she now scarcely regarded them. They seemed part of herself, just as her limbs were part of her body. Nature was no longer strange to her. She felt herself a part of it. She had reached that state of calm content in which life seems a pure chain of natural consequences, in which daily doubts and questionings have ceased. The sun rises and sets, the grass grows, the cows graze, and the law of life bids man work and reflect. The world around thee is subject to law and so is thine own life. To man alone is vouchsafed the knowledge of his duty, so that he may learn freely to obey the dictates of his own nature.
This thought illumined her soul with a light as clear as the blue sky above her. It caused her to forget that she had ever lived another life, or had ever erred.
On the fourth Sunday, Irma started out at an early hour and walked as far as the boundary-stone, where she waited for Walpurga and Hansei. Now that they had sent word that they would surely come, Irma longed to see Walpurga, the only being who knew her past and could confirm to her who she was.
She was sitting on the boundary-stone. She had taken off her hat and her brow was bare. She sat there with her head resting on her hand, and wondering why, deep within the soul, there dwells a feeling that resents the surrender of our personality and the desire to know who and whence we are. To others, the galley-slave is only known by the number he bears, but, as to himself, he knows who he is and can never forget it. Why can we not freely lose ourselves in nature?
Her head drooped still lower. Presently, she heard voices and hurriedly arose.
"Isn't that our Irmgard?" asked Hansei.
"Yes, it is!"
Walpurga hurried up to her and held out her hand; but Hansei stood as if petrified. He had never before seen such a being. It always seemed to him as if there were something superhuman about her. Her whole face was radiant, her eyes larger, and the pure, noble forehead was as white and smooth as marble. Walpurga, who had known Irma when at the height of her beauty, now looked at her with a different feeling, for she was suffering for her sake, in a way that Irma could little dream of. Involuntarily, she pressed her hand against her trembling heart.
"Why don't you shake hands with me, Hansei?" asked Irma.
"I--I--I never saw you look this way before."
A slight blush overspread her forehead. She passed her hand over it. Then she offered her hand to Hansei, who, in his excitement, pressed it so violently that he hurt her.
They walked on together toward the hut, and had gone but a few steps before they were joined by the little pitchman. He had, as was his wont, stealthily followed Irma. He was concerned for her sake, for he saw that something was the matter with her, and was, therefore, loth to leave her alone.
"She looks splendid, don't she?" said he to Hansei, who had remained with him while Irma and Walpurga walked on in front. "But she lives on nothing but milk, just like a little child; and you can't make her remember that, up here, the nights get cold all of a sudden. She always wants to sit out of doors in the damp, night air. I often think she must be an angel and that, all of a sudden, she'll spread her wings and fly away--yes, you may laugh at it, but it ain't far from here up to heaven. 'We're the Lord's nearest neighbors, up here,' as my sister used to say."
Hansei and the uncle went off to look after the cattle. Besides the calf born on the first day, two others had come and all were doing well. It was a full hour before Hansei came to the hut, and his whole bearing expressed his satisfaction with all that had seen.
Meanwhile, Walpurga had examined everything in the hut, and she, too, had found cleanliness and order everywhere.
In the afternoon, their next neighbor, who lived at a mountain meadow about an hour's distance from Hansei's, paid them a visit and brought her zither with her.
It was no small condescension, on the part of the freeholder's wife, to sing with Gundel and the neighbor. Franz joined in, and the little pitchman was also able to take part. Hansei, however, could not sing a note; but his want of ability added to his dignity--a wealthy farmer is supposed to have given up singing.
"This is the only place where you can sing, up here. You can't do it over there, where the road leads into the village," cried Gundel, after the first song. "If you sing, or speak a loud word there, the echo drowns it all."
She ran to the spot and sang a few notes, which were echoed again and again from every mountain and ravine.
"You ought to sing, too," said Walpurga to Irma; "you've no idea how well she can sing."
"I cannot sing," replied Irma; "my voice is gone."
"Then play something for us; you can play the zither beautifully," said Walpurga.
All joined in the request, and Irma was at last obliged to play. The little pitchman held his breath. He had never heard such beautiful playing before, and not one, thought he, knew what Irma could do. She soon modulated into the familiar melody, and the little pitchman was the first to start the song:
Oh, blissful is the tender tie.
It was a happy, cheerful hour.
Hansei now conducted his wife, Irma, and the little pitchman to the spot from which they could catch a glimpse of the lake near their old home. It sparkled brightly in the sun, and Hansei remarked that it seemed like the look of a human being who had known him from youth up.
Walpurga was afraid lest the scene might awaken sad thoughts in Irma, and turned toward her; but she only said: "It pleases me, too."
Hansei now described the whole neighborhood to Irma, told her where this and that place lay, and showed her the mountain where he had planted so many trees. The forest itself could not be seen, but the rocky peak which rose from it was visible.
Walpurga, meanwhile, drew her uncle aside, and said:
"Uncle, my mother's dead--"
"Yes, I know it, and you can't think more of her than I do. Just ask Irmgard how often we talk of her. It always seems to me as if she must be in the next room. It isn't far to heaven from where we now are. She can hear every word we say."
"Yes, uncle; but let me finish what I was going to say. I've got something to tell you."
It went hard with the uncle to listen quietly, for he always had so much to say himself. Without noticing his repeated interruptions, Walpurga continued:
"Uncle, you're a sensible man--"
"May be, but it hasn't done me much good in life."
"Now I want to tell you something--"
"Very well; out with it."
"I'm in trouble about Irmgard--"
"You needn't worry about her. I watch her as if she was the apple of my eye. Make yourself quite easy on that score."
"Yes, uncle, I know all about that; but there are some awful wicked people in the world, and they'll follow you up to the very mountain-tops--"
"Yes, I know; the gend'arme often--"
"Uncle, do listen to me patiently!"
"Yes, yes; I'm not saying a word."
"Well, uncle, mother knew who Irmgard is."
"And so do I. You needn't tell me anything about that. I know her, out and out. I'm not so stupid, depend on that."
"Yes, uncle, that's all right. I wanted to confide something to you--"
"You can trust me with anything. As to that matter, I can call your mother in heaven to bear me witness--"
"There's no need of that. Well, as I was going to say, Irmgard has had a sad life--"
"I know all about it. When I was in the city with her, I made up my mind that there must be something or other of that kind. It may be that they wanted her to marry somebody that she didn't like. May be she's a left-handed child, or may be she's got a husband and left him. She looked at the big houses in such a queer way--she always seemed as if she wanted to creep out of sight."
Walpurga was surprised at her uncle, who would not permit her to say a word, and suddenly it occurred to her: I was just like him once, and thought that I must always keep chatting instead of listening to what others had to tell me. She looked at her uncle for a long while and he, taking it as a compliment, now told her, for the first time, of what he had felt on that journey with Irma, and of all that he had seen while with her--the lions, the serpents, the high priest and the "Magic Flute" were all mixed together in inextricable confusion.
Walpurga made up her mind that there was no need of divulging her secret, and contented herself by telling her uncle that he must never leave Irma alone, and that if any stranger came--no matter who he might be--he should take her secretly into the woods, so that no one should see her.
The uncle promised to do as he was bid.
"Yes," he added, "what a strange world it is. Just think of it! The herbs I take to the apothecary in the next village are for the baths of young Countess Wildenort, the daughter-in-law to the one I used to know. While I was standing in front of the apothecary's the other day, a man came riding by, on a beautiful, glossy black horse. Its legs looked as if they'd been turned in a lathe. The man had a child sitting in front of him on the horse, a boy about the size of our Peter, with a blue frock, and wearing a feather in his hat, and the boy was so like Irmgard it might have been her own child. And the apothecary said to me that it was Count Wildenort, the son of the one I used to know. And so, when he rode past, I said: 'Good-morning, Count?' He pulled up and asked: 'How do you know me?'
"And I said: 'I knew your father, and he was a good man--' And what do you think he said? Not a word. He rode off without so much as thanking me. They tell me he's not so good a man as his father was, and they say his mother-in-law has him under her thumb, so that he daren't move. But the child is beautiful and the very picture of our Irma. It's wonderful, what strange things happen in the world."
Walpurga trembled, and made her uncle promise that he would never mention Irma to a soul in the village.
The uncle also promised that he would not let Irmgard know anything of the matter.
Toward evening, Walpurga and Hansei went home again and, when night came, Franz returned also. The inmates of the shepherd's hut were once more alone. Not a word was spoken among them, for they had talked and heard enough during the day. All was silent. Not a sound was heard but the tinkling cow-bells in the woods and on the green hillside, and the stars shone overhead. Irma was seated on the spot from which the distant lake was visible, and it was long before she retired to rest.
Chapter X
Irma now spent but a small portion of the day at the workbench. Her work had become even more irksome than at first. Her eye was constantly fixed on the vast and extended mountain prospect, toward which she would ever return from her task with added zest.
The little pitchman, who was quite diplomatic in his way, begged Irma to go with him while he went out to hunt plants and roots, for he said that he was old and did not know but what he might sometime lose his footing, and it would, in that case, be well to have some one with him who could go for help.
After that, Irma spent the greater part of the day with the little pitchman, wandering through the forest and over hill and dale. Her greatest delight was whenever they reached the spot where the brook arose. It flowed smoothly from a dark, rocky cavern and then boldly galloped down the hill, striking against fragments of rock by the way, now gliding over them, now forcing its way below them, until it reached the first valley, where it formed a basin encircled by tall, silver fir-trees. Thence it flowed through the table-land and, softly murmuring, glided down over the second mountain into the valley below.
The little pitchman plainly saw how much Irma liked to be here. He even thought that he had once heard her sing, and that her voice had been audible above the rushing and roaring of the water, and it was a strange coincidence that most of the herbs of which he was in search could be found in the neighborhood. Now and then, he was fortunate enough to discover a bird's nest, and would show it to Irma, who was as delighted with it as though she were a little child. The animals here seemed as yet to be without fear of man, and the little pitchman maintained that the reason the little birds didn't fly away when Irma looked at them, was because she had such kindly eyes. They flew about her as if she were an old friend, and the mother bird in the nest looked at her affectionately, and did not take wing.
Thus Irma would spend whole afternoons, sitting by the spring and, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, would, now and then, throw some flower which she had plucked into the brook.
The brook flowed through the town in which Gunther lived. A beautiful boy was sitting on its banks, and a red-haired servant in livery was by his side.
The boy ordered the servant to fish out a beautiful flower that was floating by. The servant clambered down the steep bank and, just as he reached the edge of the stream, the boy threw a stone into the water, so that it splashed, and the servant exclaimed: "My young master, you've behaved badly again!"
"Is he at his wild tricks again?" said a tall and handsome young man, with a countenance that bore the marks of dissipation. "What are you doing, Eberhard?"
The boy looked startled and the servant said:
"Nothing, sir. My young master and I were only having a little fun together."
The young man took the boy by the hand and walked with him through the meadow and toward a beautifully situated country-house, while Fitz, the groom, followed. The man in front was Count Eberhard von Wildenort, and the boy with him was his son.
Bruno had given strict orders that his boy should not go near the water. He had a great dread of that element, for it had brought such terrible misfortune upon his family. But, as if by some evil influence, the boy was always drawn toward the wild stream, and Fitz, who always let him have his own way, secretly abetted and accompanied him.
Bruno looked back, shook his finger at Fitz, and then entered the garden of the country-house. His wife was there, sitting in a large arm-chair. A little girl was playing on the gravel path, and a nurse was carrying an infant in her arms. The matin bell was heard, and presently the mother-in-law appeared at the garden gate. She was followed by a servant who carried an embroidered cushion and a prayer-book sparkling with jewels.
The baroness greeted her family with the calm and satisfied air of one who had already fulfilled her highest duties. Bruno offered her his arm and, Arabella following, they repaired to the breakfast table, which had been set in the arbor.
"Dear me!" said the Baroness. "What shall we do with ourselves to-day? It is lovely, and I don't think the weather will change. The apothecary tells me there is a very pretty shepherd's hut a few hours distant from here, the view from which must be exquisite. How would it be if we were to send our servants up before us, to make arrangements for our dining there?"
"Permit me, gracious mother-in-law," replied Bruno, timidly.
"Very well; make a suggestion! Don't leave everything to me. What have you to propose in this deadly-lively solitude, where we are thrown upon the odious privy councilor, and the female philistines of his family. I beg of you, do propose something."
"In my humble opinion--"
"Don't be so long coming to the point!"
"I think it will be to your interest if I first go myself, to see whether the roads are fair and to prevent you from being disappointed; for, although theatrical shepherdesses are, as a rule, very charming, they are apt to be great frights au naturel."
"Thanks! you're really amiable. When will you set out on your reconnaissance?"
"To-day, if you desire it."
"He would like to get off and be a free, single man for one day," said the smiling Baroness to her daughter. "Oh, I know him! Shall we give him a day?" she asked roguishly.
"You're in a very good humor," replied Bruno. In spite of all her biting remarks, he was always studiously polite toward her. She had thrice paid his gaming and other debts, for Bruno had not yet received his sister's fortune, as the body had not been found. It was not till next year--that is, five years after her death--that he would be allowed to take legal possession of it.
"Yes, dear Bruno," at last said Arabella, who was deeply pained by her husband's position. "You'd better go by yourself. Leave Fitz here with us. Eberhard has grown so used to him, that he doesn't care to play with any one else."
Bruno repaired to the apothecary's, where he was informed that the meadow belonged to the freeholder who lived at several hours' distance. He started for the farm at once.
Walpurga was sitting by the window, and playing with the child in her lap, when she saw a horseman approaching. She involuntarily raised her hand to her eyes and leaned back, as if he were going to ride straight over her.
She saw him dismount and saw Hansei greet him and lead the horse to the stable; after that, Hansei and the stranger came into the room.
"God greet you, Count!" said Walpurga, composing herself and advancing toward him. "How kind of you, to pay us a visit."
She extended her hand to Bruno, who went on twisting his mustache, and did not offer his hand in return.
"Ah! it's you, is it? I didn't know that you were the mistress here. And so this is the farm that you paid for with gold? You're shrewd, but don't be alarmed. I shan't call you to account!"
Hansei observed that his wife was growing pale.
"Who is this man? Who is it that talks to you in this high and mighty manner?" he asked, drawing himself up.
"Be quiet!" said Walpurga. "He is one of the court gentlemen and is fond of joking."
"That's it, is it?" muttered Hansei. "I want to say a word to you, sir--what may your name be?"
"Count Wildenort."
"Well then, Count, I didn't ask who you were, and I bade you and your horse welcome. And now I'd like you to tell me what you want and leave my wife alone. In my house and home, I allow no jokes that don't please me, and if the king himself were to come and try a joke that I didn't like, I'd put him out! No offense, but every one must say what he thinks. Now, sir, take a seat."
Hansei put on his hat and pressed it down firmly, as if to show that he was master here.
Bruno said, with a smile:
"You've a good husband, Walpurga."
"That'll do," said Hansei, interrupting him. "What do you wish, Count?"
"Nothing out of the way. They tell me you have a shepherd's hut on your mountain meadow, and I hear it is the finest in all the Highlands."
"Yes, yes," said Hansei, grinning. "It isn't so bad and it's very nicely situated; but I won't sell it."
"I don't want to buy it. All I want is to spend the day up there."
"Why, how do you mean?"
"Are there good roads leading to it, and is the place clean? Is there a chance of coming back without bringing a herd along on one's body?"
"You're right, Walpurga, he's quite funny," whispered Hansei to his wife, and then, turning to Bruno, he said:
"The roads are good, and if you don't mind going an hour's distance out of the way, you can ride almost to the very spot. I can show you the way up if you wish it."
"Certainly; my wife and mother-in-law would like to see the place."
Walpurga was alarmed at the danger that threatened Irma, but quickly collecting herself she said, as if jesting:
"No, Count; women can't go up there. Such as we are can do it, of course; but, even then, we have to turn our petticoats into breeches." She laughed heartily, and Bruno laughed, too. He imagined his mother-in-law in this costume. She had tried many in her life, but never such an one.
The only object of his errand had been to enable him, under the pretext of having received authentic information, to dissuade his mother-in-law from her plan which, if carried out, would have subjected him to a day of bitter slavery. He well knew that nothing would be right, and that he would be obliged to swallow her reproaches and scoldings, just as if it were his fault that they chanced now upon a swamp, now upon a hill, and that while, at the shepherd's hut, they might feed their eyes on mountains of ice, they could not have vanilla ices with which to satisfy the palate. He knew all about these pleasure-parties, at which he generally felt as if he must die of vexation. Walpurga found an opportunity to tell her husband to use all the means in his power to dissuade the count from visiting their mountain meadow. And so when Hansei went out into the stable with the count, who was looking for his horse, he laughed till he showed every tooth in his head while he said:
"There's a relation of ours up there, and she's a little bit out of her mind."
Walpurga also came out into the stable, for she feared that her husband might betray something. Bruno asked her whether she knew what had become of her friend.
Walpurga shook her head and wept.
"Yes," said she, "I can well say no one on this earth suffered more for her sake than I did."
She wept so bitterly that Bruno offered to console her.
At last he left.
It was several days before Walpurga recovered from the effects of her fright. Again and again, it seemed to her that it might be better if Irma were found out, for perhaps she was quite ill and might die before her time. But if she were discovered, it would kill her at once. This accounted for her uneasiness, while at the hut on the previous Sunday, and for her having enjoined the greatest caution on the uncle. She was constantly pursued by the thought that there would soon be an end to it all. If one only knew how and what the end would be, and whether anything could be done. She could do nothing. All she could do was to let what would happen.
Chapter XI
The trees in Gunther's garden were decked with green and the parterre was filled with lovely flowers. The birds were singing, and the forest stream that flowed through the grounds murmured as if regretful at being obliged to leave the spot so soon.
Within doors all was joy and happiness. Bronnen and Paula were betrothed. The love that had calmly grown and ripened, now suddenly burst forth in all its glory. Bronnen wished to call Paula his own, before the arrival of the court, so that she might then feel less constrained and have an opportunity to accustom herself to the manners of the court circle. It was not without fear that Madame Gunther thought of her child entering the stirring life of the capital, a life of which she had an unconquerable dread. Bronnen told the doctor and his wife that he had found it easier to bring about reform in politics than in court etiquette. It had hitherto been a time-honored and unalterable custom that wives of the citizen class' could not be presented at court, no matter what their husbands' rank might be. He had not been able to effect a change in this until he had made it a cabinet question. Gunther smiled at this explanation. He knew how stubbornly etiquette resisted all attempts at innovation. Madame Gunther, on the other hand, was quite alarmed at the idea that, both at court and at the capital, Paula would be the first lady after the queen. She would have been far better pleased if Bronnen's position had been an humbler one; but she loved him with a maternal affection that expressed itself in her every glance. She even went so far that Gunther smilingly remarked: "You've become disloyal to your own country,--" for she had asserted that a man so noble, so dignified, and yet both firm and yielding in character, could only be developed under a monarchical government. "In a republic," said she, "there is a certain want of form and indulgence of personal inclinations. The self-respect which never fails in the respect due to others was the peculiar fruit of courts, and Bronnen had one talent which was especially calculated to place every one at ease while with him. He was a good listener, and was always willing to wait attentively until you had finished what you wanted to say."
The joy of the parents was, however, but a mild reflection of that of the betrothed. After Paula had, in all sincerity, confessed her fear that she might fail to satisfy a man like Bronnen, she soon became calm again, for she felt that there is a depth of love which, including all that is highest on earth, embraces enduring happiness. The lovers roamed through field and forest, and Bronnen was again and again reminded of the pure and radiant sentiments which the refined and elevated atmosphere of her home had firmly established in Paula. With every new chord that he touched, he struck a rich store of thought and found her gifted with an impressible and receptive mind. He rejoiced in the destiny which had thus directed his choice, and in the conviction that all individual improvement is achieved and perfected by mutual effort.
Madame Gunther was with her husband in his study, and would, now and then, look out of the window at the lovers, who were walking in the garden.
"Bronnen made a strange confession to Paula and me yesterday," said she. "If another had told me of it, I would not have believed it."
"What was it?"
"He told us, with a voice full of emotion, that he had once loved Countess Wildenort. Did you know of it?"
"No, but I can't find anything wrong in it. If she only could have controlled her impulses, she would have been worthy of the best of men, and my dear Eberhard deserved to have such a man for his son."
"Tell me," asked Madame Gunther, "I've never found the slightest thing to object to in him, but do you think it right of him to tell Paula of this? It will make her still more anxious; she will compare herself with the brilliant countess, and--"
"Don't let that trouble you," said Gunther, interrupting her; "a heart which, like our child's, is conscious of the full power of love, possesses an inexhaustible fund of happiness which no rival, be she ever so great and brilliant, can disturb. If it were possible, I would think even more of him than I now do, for having told her of this. It is not every man who is so fortunate as I have been, and whose first love is his only love. Most of us are obliged to pass through disappointment and loss, and he who, like Bronnen, has come out of the ordeal, pure and unscathed, may praise his lot. The more I regard the world from a distance, as it were, the greatest misfortune which has befallen mankind is, that a life soiled by vice should go on parallel with that which is termed regular and domestic, creating discord among men, as well as in the individual mind. If the race is to be saved, a great revolution must take place in the minds of men. We have watched over our child so long and so faithfully that, in spite of all worldly happiness, it would deeply grieve me to see her bestow her hand on a man who, according to the counterfeit expression coined by society, has led a fast life."
Madame Gunther regarded her husband with a look of unspeakable joy. "I find that Bronnen has converted you from your aversion to the military profession," she said, in a soft voice.
"By no means," replied Gunther, "but Bronnen has not been injured by it. With resolute courage and an easy sway over others, he combines a deep and earnest mind. It is almost miraculous that, just when I desire to produce in my work the image of a pure and active man of the present day, the very traits I seek are found in the man who, in the free course of nature, is to belong to me. It seems as if mysterious agencies provided us with that which the poetic eye endeavors to portray to itself. Bronnen seems as if stepping forth from my work."
Gunther had never before spoken thus of his work. "Don't misunderstand me," he added; "I do not look upon any one as representing the ideal of perfect manhood, but I can find some traits in every one, and many of them in Bronnen. Humanity, as I find it in the actual world, is filled with beauty; but, in truth, it is still more beautiful, and I am glad to think that the next generation will be better than our own. And yet we may truly say that the good we have achieved, lives on with them. Their enthusiasm will be less than ours, but their moderation will render it more enduring. But I do not care to go too far into this subject, at present. All I wanted to say was, that the feeling of discord, in modern times, arises from the fact that religion has exalted faith above morals, that art has pursued a similar course with beauty, and politics with freedom. And yet they are one and inseparable, and must ever remain so. I trust that I may yet be able to make this clear to the world, and thus contribute somewhat to the union of true piety, beauty and freedom, with the morality which is, at present, so graciously tolerated."
Their conversation was interrupted, for Count von Wildenort, his wife and mother-in-law were announced. The servant was instructed to ask them to the garden saloon, and, shortly afterward, the visitors, Gunther and his wife, Bronnen and his betrothed, were engaged in lively conversation. Madame Gunther confined her attentions to the young countess, who had greatly improved under Gunther's treatment, while Baroness Steigeneck engaged the lovers in conversation. Madame Gunther would often look at Bronnen and Paula as if she would fain brush away a caterpillar crawling over them. Bruno addressed Gunther quite cheerfully, and told him that during the royal visit he would probably return by command of their majesties. This may have been intended as a hint to Gunther to bring about such an order, for the baroness, greatly annoyed by her exclusion from court, intended to return to her castle, with her children and grandchildren, and then to visit some fashionable watering-place. She was eager to reach the gaming-table.
They were quite long in taking their leave, and expressed their gratitude for the pleasures they had enjoyed during their stay, as well as their envy of those who could live here, as on some happy island. At last they stepped into their carriage and drove off.
After the visitors had left, Madame Gunther opened all the windows, in order that a current of fresh air might carry away the strong perfumes of the baroness.
Bronnen left the same evening. The family accompanied him for a short distance. He and Paula walked in front, Gunther and his wife behind. The empty carriage followed after them, and Bronnen did not enter it until he had taken leave of his friends. The parting was simple and affectionate. They were full of the joyful memories of the day just past, and looked forward to future happy days, for Bronnen intended to return with the king.
On the way home, Paula walked between her parents, her cheeks glowing with excitement. Gunther, however, left his wife and daughter before reaching home, for he was obliged to repair to Count Wildenort's lodgings, in order to give further directions to his wife.
Mother and daughter went on alone, and when Madame Gunther looked at her daughter, she saw that a silent tear was in her eye, although her face was radiant with joy.
"You have a right to feel happy," said Madame Gunther, "you will have a husband fit to be compared to your father. I can wish you nothing better than to enjoy such happiness as has been mine, and that the joy I have had in my children, and in you especially, may some day be yours."
"Ah mother!" said Paula, "I can't realize how I could let him go away alone, nor, on the other hand, that I am to leave you and father and sister. But Bronnen--" she always mentioned him by his surname--"says that he hopes father will again return to the capital; that he might select any post he pleases, for the king wishes it."
"I don't think your father will consent. But let nothing of that kind distress you, my dear child. You may well be happy, for your happiness is shared by us."
Before reaching home, they saw several beautiful horses and carriages sent in advance of the queen, whose arrival was expected within the next few days. The highway had suddenly become full of life, and the little town was filled with wondering and delighted crowds. The court was coming, and to Gunther they were indebted for all this. The wife and daughter were respectfully greeted by all whom they met, and, even in the distance, one could see the townsfolk pointing them out to the recently arrived court servants, who also greeted them quite obsequiously.
Further on, they met a vehicle which seemed as if it belonged to fairyland. Two tiny bay ponies, with short-clipped black manes and gay trappings, were harnessed to a little, low-wheeled carriage. As if divining what was going on, the children appeared at the farmhouses and rushed across the meadows and fields, to admire the crown prince's fairy-like equipage, and followed it through the town, where the crowd of joyous, shouting children grew larger and larger, until they at last reached the dairy-farm.
Paula looked on with a smile. She stopped with her mother before a house, the signboard on which announced that it was the new telegraph office. Here, thought she to herself, the messages she would send, and those she would receive after leaving her paternal home, would pass.
The telegraph poles which Irma had seen the workmen putting up near the farm, had been erected on account of the queen's intended summer sojourn in the neighborhood.
Early on the following morning, the first telegram reached the little town. It was addressed to Paula and was as follows:
"I dedicate the electric spark to the service of love. I am well, and send greetings to you, your father, mother and sister.
"BRONNEN."
Chapter XII
The school children were ranged under the fruit-trees on either side of the road. Bells were ringing, music resounding, cannon firing, and the rugged mountains echoed back the merry din.
It was the queen's entry.
She sat in an open carriage drawn by four white horses. The prince, a boy with golden hair and fresh complexion, sat by her side. The carriage stopped at the boundary line. A maiden dressed in the becoming costume of the country, welcomed the queen in a poem of the schoolmaster's composition, and presented her with a bouquet of Alpine flowers. The queen graciously accepted the bouquet. She bowed in all directions and held out her hand to the child. The prince followed her example, saying in a voice loud enough to be heard by the town council and all the catholic and evangelical ministers present: "God greet you!"
Cheers resounded again and again, and their path was strewn with flowers.
The queen drove through the little town, which was decorated with flags and garlands. On her arrival, she found that the court cavaliers who had preceded her were in waiting, and that Gunther was among them. For the first time since his return, he wore the marks of the various grand orders to which he belonged. After passing under a triumphal arch, the carriage stopped and the queen alighted.
She held out her hand to Gunther, who would gladly have kissed it; but he turned to the prince and kissed him. He was so agitated that he could not speak a word. At last he said:
"I bid Your Majesty welcome to my home!"
"Wherever you are, there is home," replied the queen.
She passed, leading her boy by the hand.
Countess Brinkenstein, Lady Constance, and other court ladies, also exchanged greetings with Gunther. There were others, however, who were more recently appointed and whom Gunther did not know.
The queen and her immediate suite soon reached the great terrace, which commanded a delightful view of mountain and valley. Gunther pointed out the direction of the mountain range and the intervening valleys. He also told her the names of the principal peaks and would, here and there, add a few items of historical interest. He was presenting the chiefs of his native home to the queen. Evening soon set in and the lofty heights were bathed in the warm hues of the glorious sunset. They were silent for a few moments, while they gazed up at the heights, and little did they think of her who had been dreamily looking thence out into the wide world, and who had just been startled by the echo of the gun from the neighboring cliffs. There must be some joyous feast going on down there, she thought, and she who had once moved among this circle, and had not been the least admired in it, lived within herself, in silence and solitude.
It seemed as if the whole population of the town and the outlying neighborhood had gathered at the park railing, in order to catch a glimpse of the queen. All that pertained to her, be it her horses, her carriages, or her servants, inspired them with wonder and admiration.
At the sound of the evening bell, the men took off their hats and, after a silent prayer, all proceeded homeward.
It was soon night. The party had dispersed, and the queen asked Gunther if there was not some way to get to his house without going through the town. Gunther replied that the king had had a path made around the hill.
The queen looked down. The king's thoughtful care pleased her. Had he been present at that moment, she would have spoken to him more kindly than she had done for many a day.
"I should like to visit your family," said the queen.
"I shall have the honor of bringing them to Your Majesty to-morrow."
"The evening is so charming; let us go to them now."
The queen, attended by Gunther and numerous ladies and gentlemen of the court, took the new path that led to the doctor's dwelling.
"Had you not better send word to your ladies that the queen is about to visit them?" said Countess Brinkenstein to Gunther. Although the laws of etiquette were sometimes relaxed during her visit to the country, the informal manner in which the queen set about paying this visit seemed opposed to all rules.
Gunther graciously declined following out her suggestion.
He was proudly conscious of the fact that, at whatever time the queen and her suite might enter his house, they would find his wife, his house and his children prepared to receive them.
Clever Stasi, the inspector's wife, had, however, heard where they were going, and hurried to tell Madame Gunther who was coming.
When the visitors arrived, the garden saloon was brilliantly lighted and, at the garden gate, they were met by Madame Gunther, who was attended by both of her daughters. Their reception of the queen was respectful and reverential, although it may not have been strictly in accordance with that prescribed by court forms.
"I could not wait," said the queen.--Her voice seemed clearer and brighter than before.--"I felt that I must see you to-day and offer you my congratulations. You, I presume, are the affianced of Minister Bronnen?" said she, addressing Paula.
Paula bowed so correctly that Countess Brinkenstein could not repress a nod of approval. The queen extended her hand to Paula and kissed her on the forehead.
"I shall now see you often," she added, "and it will be pleasant to remember that I've known you in your home."
She beckoned Madame Gunther to draw near, and, accompanied by her, walked about the garden.
"And so I see you to-day, for the first time," said the queen. "I trust that you do not look upon me as a stranger?"
"Your Majesty, it is the first time in my life that I address a queen, and I entreat you--"
"Your husband has been as a father to me, and I wish that you, too-- But let us leave it to the future to determine our impressions of each other. Permit me, however, to request you to cast aside a little of your Swiss prejudice against royalty."
"Your Majesty, I am a citizen of your country."
"I am delighted that our first meeting is in your own house. Do you still sing much? I've been told that you used to sing beautifully."
"Your Majesty, I've left that to the younger voices of my children. Paula sings."
"How charming! I have long regretted that none of the ladies of our more immediate circle sing well."
Like a passing shadow, the thought of Irma flashed through the queen's mind. She was standing by the stream that flowed down from the mountain meadow, and which here noisily rushed by.
The queen remained in the pavilion but a short time. When she was about to leave, she said to Madame Gunther:
"Will you not accompany me part of the way?"
"No, I thank Your Majesty."
"Then I shall see you to-morrow. Good-night. Let us be good neighbors."
The queen left.
Gunther well knew how the ladies of the court would discuss his wife's great breach of decorum in declining to comply with the queen's expressed wish. But he did not say a word to his wife about it, for he knew that he could permit her to have her own way. He felt sure that she would always do what was right, and that, if she did disregard certain conventionalities, she would nevertheless manage everything for the best. Indeed, the very fact of her having gently repelled the queen's exceedingly gracious advances, was doubly reassuring to him.
"I am glad," said Madame Gunther to her husband, when they were together in the drawing-room, "that Paula becomes introduced to court life while yet in her father's house. The queen really impresses me as a noble creature."
Gunther assented, and added that Paula had already proven how well she had profited by Bronnen's advice. For Bronnen had told her that, in order to be free at court, one must make its trifling forms a sort of second nature, so that they can be practiced without special stress or difficulty; and that, in fact, they must be mastered just as one masters the grammar of his native tongue.
In the silent moonlight night, Paula was heard singing, with full voice and passionate expression, the concluding verses of the song of Goethe's, the song that Bronnen admired above all others:
Crown of existence, Joy without rest, Love art thou.
On yonder heights, whither no voice from below reached, there sat a solitary one, and through her mind there passed a song of the same master's--the song of songs, in which the soul is freed from all its burdens, and is again united with enduring nature:
O'er hill and dale, Thy splendor falls; No longer care My heart enthralls.
The court ladies at the dairy-farm kept up their talk until a late hour. Those who had not been permitted to accompany the queen envied the others, who had enjoyed an early opportunity of meeting Bronnen's affianced. What could there have been in the citizen's daughter to tempt Bronnen, who might have had the hand of the highest in the land? Some pronounced her awkward, others too confident, and doubts were expressed as to her beauty. The younger ladies were jokingly informed that, for many days to come, Doctor Gunther would have a parade of sentiment and universal ideas, and this, too, au grand serieux.
The moon shone brightly on the mountains and the valleys. Everything was hushed in slumber. The only sounds heard were the gurgling of the springs, the murmuring of the stream and, now and then, a mountain cry from the heights above.
A bright day dawned.
Gunther visited the queen at an early hour. For the next few weeks, he had determined to sacrifice his quiet mornings. He was quite willing to devote himself entirely to his friend, and looked forward to a resumption of his wonted employments, after her departure.
He was again sitting on the terrace, as he had been one morning five years ago; but this time, instead of looking at the distant mountains, he was surrounded by them, and, as she had then done, the queen now again appeared in a white morning robe and greeted him. But her whole being had changed; her step was freer, her words more decided.
"We shall make no programme of what we intend to do here," said she, as she walked up and down the garden with Gunther; "we'll take life as it comes."
She told him how pleased she was to have made the acquaintance of his wife and daughters, and that she thought he had done wisely, while at the capital, in keeping his home life and his life at court, as far as possible, distinct from each other. Memories of Irma again seemed to cast a passing shadow over the bright morning, for the queen well knew that Gunther had introduced her to his family. It seemed as if the memory of Irma were not yet fully banished and buried.
"I trust Your Majesty will, nevertheless, permit me to draw up a little programme," said Gunther. "It has but one paragraph. Permit me to explain it. I've never been able to express myself in writing on this matter. I can only do so in person. I have to accuse myself of having done you a great wrong."
"You? A great wrong?"
"Yes, and it relieves me to confess it to you. Your Majesty, I do not inquire as to your present relations with your royal consort. The fact that he has prepared all this for you, and the manner in which it has been done, proves his delicate feeling."
"And I admit it willingly, but still I cannot--"
"I am obliged to interrupt you, Your Majesty, for that which I request of you is that we shall never more speak of your relations to his majesty. Long ago, when you were torn by an inner struggle, I believed that if I could only induce you to encourage freer and more liberal views, a clearer mental vision would better enable you to be just toward others, and would be followed by returning love. And it was just there that I was wrong, for I offended against a simple but fundamental principle: feelings cannot be governed by thought. And were it otherwise, the interference of a third party should always be rejected. The attempted mediator only widens the breach. Husband and wife can alone repair it. And now, Your Majesty, let us speak no more of this matter, for thus only can we, without feeling embarrassed, meet each other, or the king himself. Your own heart is your only confidant. Follow its dictates, and do not be frightened back by any apparent alienation or change of feeling! Will you grant me the favor I ask?"
"Yes. And now not another word on the subject."
They conversed freely and cheerfully, as if they had both laid aside a burden which had heavily rested upon them.
The crown prince was brought in. Gunther was delighted with his healthy appearance, and promised him a playmate who was born on the same day as himself.
"Mamma, why haven't I a little sister?" asked the crown prince.
The color rose to the queen's cheeks.
"Little Cornelia is to be your sister," she replied, and gave orders that they should take the prince to visit the child at the doctor's house.
Gunther's parting instructions to Madame von Gerloff were that the children should be shown the bird's nest in the rosebush. The prince asked permission to take Schnipp and Schnapp with him, and the two children were soon driving through the valley in the pretty little carriage, a little groom managing the horses and a little outrider in front. At noon, Madame Gunther and her daughters visited the queen. Little by little, a common interest in their pleasures, aided by the invigorating influences of nature, helped to bring about a uniform tone of feeling, and thus to level distinctions which would be more closely observed in city circles.
The days sped by pleasantly. The queen felt no craving for unwonted pleasures; and every hour was complete in itself.
The queen, one day, told Madame Gunther that she was the first citizen's wife with whom she had been on terms of familiar intimacy, and that she could not help admiring her clear, good sense.
"I must tell you something of my youth," replied Madame Gunther, to whom this condescending praise was quite a surprise.
"Pray do so," said the queen, encouragingly.
"Your Majesty, I was betrothed and happy. Wilhelm was traveling during his vacation and we often wrote to each other. One day, I received a letter from him which offended my pride and, indeed, deeply wounded me. I had indulged in excessive sensibility and, in reply, he quoted the words of Lessing which Nathan addresses to the Knight Templar: 'Mediocrity, like ours, can be found in abundance everywhere!'"
"And did that offend you?"
"Yes, Your Majesty; it offended me deeply. Gunther is without a trace of that false modesty which is all the more vain, the more modest it appears. He stood so high in my esteem that I felt he had, by using this expression, committed an offense against himself and, I may confess it, against myself, as well. I did not regard myself as mediocre, but as a highly gifted being. But from that time, I began to perceive that most suffering arises from the fact that those who have understanding, culture, and some talent, regard themselves as belonging to a higher order of beings, privileged to disregard ordinary barriers and to step beyond their allotted sphere of duty. To acknowledge myself as mediocre and to shape my own actions, and my judgment of others, accordingly, has ever been my rule in life; and I must beg Your Majesty to regard me in the same way. There are thousands of women like me. It is just as it is in singing. I've sung in a chorus, and know there are many good voices who never aspire to solos."
The queen was silent. The words which Madame Gunther had uttered in perfect sincerity, might be applied in so many different ways--to herself, to the king, and to her who was still unforgotten.
At last she looked up frankly.
"I have a request to make of you," she said, with faltering voice, while she took out a breastpin with a large pearl. "Oblige me by accepting this memento of this hour and of the truth which you have just imparted to me."
"Your Majesty," replied Madame Gunther, "I have never in all my life, accepted a present of this kind. But I can easily understand that you, as a queen, are accustomed to experience the joy of bestowing gifts on others and of thus making them happy. I accept it as a symbol, as if it were an unfading flower from your garden."
Madame Gunther wended her way homeward in a calm and contented mood. When she arrived before the house, she suddenly stopped. The windows of the large drawing-room were open. Some one was playing the piano with powerful, masterly touch and expression. It could not be Paula. Who could it be?
Madame Gunther's nephew, the young man whose song Irma had sung years before, and who, on a previous visit to his relatives, had sought the freeholder's dwelling as a refuge from the storm, and had there met Irma without knowing who she was, had now, as had been foretold him, become totally blind. He had become a master of the piano, and bore his sad fate with manly fortitude. The meeting between Madame Gunther and her nephew was deeply affecting.
That evening, she introduced him to the queen, who, as her first act of friendship to the doctor's wife, appointed him "pianist to the queen." All that remained was to submit the appointment to the approval of the king, who was expected to arrive in a few days.
Chapter XIII
The king had arrived during the night. In order to avoid the pomp of a reception, he came unannounced. He regarded himself as a guest of the queen, for whom alone he had ordered the preparation of this modest summer retreat.
On the following morning, Gunther, decorated with his orders, repaired to the farm.
He felt that the tone of their little circle must suffer a change by the advent of any new-comer, even if possessed of a more yielding disposition than that of the king.
Gunther had not seen the king since he waited upon him to thank him for the order he had conferred upon him. He was composed. One point in favor of court forms is that they are fixed and unalterable, as well as independent of passing moods.
Gunther's path led along the slope of a projecting hill, and, on the way, his thoughts involuntarily recurred to Eberhard. The early hour, the mountain air, and the close-fitting uniform--all were just as they had been years ago.
Eberhard had always maintained that unmeaning politeness is only disguised rudeness. He required that every word and act should come from the depths of one's soul, and that, at every moment, life should be truthful. During the years he had spent in solitude, Gunther came to perceive that the concessions he had made to his surroundings had, to a certain extent, involved failure to comply with this precept. He now found his greatest happiness in being perfectly truthful toward himself and the world, and for this reason, in the work in which he expected to sum up the results of his life, he had expressed his feelings without reserve or disguise.
When his eye fell on the farmhouse, he paused to collect his thoughts. He was about to pay his respects to the man who had endeavored to degrade him.
The king stood at the open window and, when he saw Gunther approach, was greatly agitated. If the dignity that befits kings had not forbidden it, he would gladly have called out a welcome to the man whom he esteemed so highly; and if kingly dignity requires this much, it also possesses one great advantage--for while he who desires admittance still waits, he who grants it maintains his natural freedom, or, in other words, is at home while the other is as a stranger.
Gunther sent in his name, and was at once admitted. The king advanced to meet him, and said:
"Welcome, my dear privy councilor! I am heartily glad--" He faltered at the words and, as if changing his mind, added: "I am delighted to have an opportunity to wish you joy! One scarcely knows whether to say that you deserve such a son as Minister Bronnen or that he deserves such a father as you. It's all the same, I suppose," he concluded, with a smile which seemed somewhat forced.
"I humbly thank Your Majesty--" Gunther also hesitated, for it was a long while since he had used this phrase--"for the interest you have graciously manifested in me and mine."
The king and Gunther met under changed and mutually embarrassing circumstances, and congratulations on Bronnen's engagement seemed to afford a convenient subject of conversation. It was, nevertheless, followed by a pause, in which the two men, who had been separated for two years, eyed each other as if each would again impress his memory with the features which, for many years, he had seen almost daily. Gunther had changed but little. His beard was short, thick, and of a snowy white. The king's figure was fuller than it had been. His face wore a deep and earnest expression which harmonized with his winning and amiable deportment. His movements seemed to have gained, rather than lost, in elasticity and vigor.
"I hear," said the king, resuming the conversation, "that you are engaged on a great philosophical work, and I feel that we have reason to congratulate ourselves thereat, for that will afford us an opportunity to enjoy those fruits of your thought which, in our daily intercourse, we are now deprived of."
"Your Majesty, I am reviewing my life and striking a balance. In some respects, there is more, in others, less than I had reason to hope for. I live within myself, and am happy to think that, when I look out into the world, I can perceive that those who are called for great purposes can show a clear balance sheet."
"Growth is slow," said the king. "While driving through the fields yesterday, I thought to myself: how long it takes before the blade of corn becomes the ripened ear. We cannot see how much it grows with each day. We can only note the result."
Smiling, and perfectly unconstrained, he added: "I am imparting my latest observations to you. It seems--it seems--as though it were but yesterday, since we last met. Let us go into the garden."
On the way, the king asked: "How do you find the prince?"
"He has a well-built frame and, as far as I can judge, his mental development is normal and healthy."
In consequence of the long years of separation and the lingering feeling of reserve, there were frequent breaks in the conversation.
"You have again been living among the people," said the king, "and has your experience satisfied you that the popular mind (or, in other words, popular simplicity in thought and manners) is the divinely appointed corrective of the errors of a higher civilization?"
Gunther looked up as if amazed. Was the question an idle one, or did a deeper significance underlie it? Had the king not succeeded in conquering his dislike of popular verdicts? Or did he--as a proof of returning royal favor--merely intend to afford the man whom he had so deeply injured, an opportunity to gratify his vanity by ventilating his opinions?
Quick as lightning, these thoughts flashed through his mind. After a short pause, he replied:
"With Your Majesty's permission, let me, before proceeding to answer you, state the question more distinctly."
"Pray do so."
A pause ensued, just as if they were trying and tuning inner instruments which, coming from unequal temperatures, had not yet been brought into harmony with each other; for although both men were calm and self-controlled, their moods were not in accord.
"If by the term 'popular mind,' you mean those views and states of feeling which are not based upon scientific laws or art traditions, but which seem as fixed and unchangeable as the forces of nature; and if, on the other hand, you apply the term 'corrective' to that which separates us from all that is alien or effete, and leads us, as it were, back to nature--I am prepared to answer your question as well as I know how."
"I am entirely satisfied with the form in which you put the question," replied the king. "I often think that discussions are barren of results, simply because the question was vaguely or imperfectly stated at the start."
Gunther nodded a smiling approval of these words.
"And now for the answer," asked the king, all attention.
"Although I may seem to wander from the point, I shall soon return to it. The event from which it dates, forms a turning point in the history of mankind. Unlike all that went before, the central figure which later generations have idealized, and from which they have drawn inspiration, was not born on Olympic heights. Jesus was born in a manger, and yet kings performed pious pilgrimages to the spot. The fact that the Spirit which is innate with the pure man, could even be born in a manger, among the dumb animals devoted to domestic use, is an enduring proof of pure democracy, or of nobility in that which is lowly. If, however, the manger were, henceforth, to be regarded as alone holy, or the forms and surroundings of popular life be accepted as the only abode of the eternal spirit, or the embodiment of holy nature itself, it would be a perversion of truth, a new orthodoxy, another schism. This much always remains; the spirit of truth appears everywhere--in the manger and in the pillared temple, in the library of the student and on the royal throne in the glittering palace. Buddha, who was one of the greatest benefactors and regenerators of mankind, and who, in the realm of caste, maintained the equality of human rights, was the son of a king.
"And now to return to the question. Whenever a form of civilization has attained its highest development and begins to show its defects, the idea of complete revolution suggests itself. None but violent methods are thought of, and, while the only object to be gained is the bringing about of regeneration, by means of strata which have not yet been exhausted, and which bring new strength to bear, it is deemed necessary to go back to the beginning of all things. But the lower strata cannot, of themselves, effect this regeneration. What is required of them is to be constantly sending fresh strength to those above them. The great masses, considered as such, cannot renew civilization. All that they can do is to furnish new material. It is only in a limited sense that the masses are the bearers of the spirit of the people. Individual men, who have ever preserved their childlike simplicity of soul, just as they received it from nature, and through subsequent development have retained it unimpaired, will now and then rise from among the masses. But the scientific spirit must be united with this childlike feeling, and then an epoch, or an individual, forms a node by which this development is not interrupted but from which it seems to take a new start, forming, as it were, a new growth on the old stem. It is not the people, as a mass, but a certain man or circle that concentrates the spirit of the people within itself, and renews the same individually."
"Is not that aristocracy?" asked the king, in a soft, almost hesitating voice.
"Your Majesty, I dread no term or idea that seems to be the result of logical consistency. Call it an aristocracy, if you will, but it is a democratic one, ever renewing itself. For those who, from generation to generation, represent the spirit of the people, are not taken from the same sphere."
"I understand," said the king, stopping in front of a rosebush. "It is just as here, where every year brings forth new shoots that bear the roses. But pardon me, I interrupted you!"
"I have only to add," said Gunther, "that while the masses, considered as such, are the bearers of civilization, the highest development of this civilization is brought about by the few who are called and chosen for the task. To make my meaning clearer: He who is of average size, is not tall, and he who possesses general culture has naught that distinguishes or elevates him above the rest."
"But who measures and passes upon such claims to such distinction?" asked the king.
"In science and art, it is the sense of being called to do certain things, the individual impulse and energy that give shape to ideas which others have only imperfectly conceived, and which, when they have once found utterance, the masses gladly accept as their own. In state affairs, this call is conveyed by means of elections, which have never before obtained to the same extent as at present. It is of great advantage that the occasional call to vote is opposed, or rather, held in check, by the call which is founded on historic claims. But, whenever the latter fails to be at one with the former, it mistakes its strength, and at last falls."
The king walked on in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. Everything tended to prove that there is a united mind, or totality of thought, which is and must be more powerful than any individual mind. There was no longer the faintest suspicion that this conclusion was the result of an idle question.
Although the king walked on in silence, the break in the conversation was not caused by an unresolved dissonance, jarring his soul's depths.
He was lost in thought, for he had learned how to make a new truth his own by reflection, instead of dismissing it with light and trifling conversation.
"May I ask," said the king, in a voice that betokened great diffidence--"may I ask whether the views which you have just imparted to me, and which have furnished me with much food for future thought, are to be more fully expounded in the work on which you are now employed?"
"Certainly, Your Majesty."
"Then allow me, at once, to pass to a question that concerns our little life and that portion of history which we are to help make."
The king folded his arms and continued:
"Let me be frank with you. You have refused the position of Minister of Education offered you by Minister Bronnen. I can well imagine that you do not care to sacrifice science to the labors of a bureau. Would you perhaps prefer--excuse me," said the king, with an unconstrained smile, "excuse me for using your favorite expression, I did it quite unawares--might I offer you the position of President of the Academy?"
"I humbly request Your Majesty not to consider me as ungrateful, but I have determined never again to enter the busy world. Besides that--Your Majesty knows that I have no false modesty--I frankly acknowledge that my long continued attention to work of a practical nature has, to so great an extent, prevented me from keeping up my scientific studies, that I could not do justice to the position so graciously offered me. I beg Your Majesty to permit me to spend the rest of my life in retirement. I have become an author and desire to remain one."
"I should willingly accord you perfect liberty to express your sentiments regardless of consequences."
"I know that very well, Your Majesty, and at once avail myself of it by telling you that liberty which is accorded us is not perfect liberty. In any elevated position under the state, I would be obliged to respect Your Majesty's wishes and also to have regard to my son's position. I entreat you, therefore, to permit me to be an author and remain one; nothing more."
The king's features betrayed his displeasure. He had done his utmost, had shown by deeds how glad he would be to repair the effects of his former hasty conduct, and here again he was met by the obstinacy he had so often encountered. Did the man expect to hear the king say: "I repent; pardon me?"
An angry reply rose to the king's lips, but he checked himself. Gunther quickly saw what was going on, and esteem for the changed being who was now standing before him, made his eye glisten.
The king had not once mentioned the queen's name. He had not, as would have been so natural, asked him who had been her physician for many years, what he thought of her appearance. Gunther was just on the point of mentioning her, when the king, contracting his brows, asked:
"Have you ever committed an act which you repented of?"
"Your Majesty--my name is Wilhelm Gunther. My life has been a hard struggle and I have often stumbled. I have been young and have grown old, and have come to see that all men receive their true deserts."
"And has it proven so in your case?"
"Yes, Your Majesty, I thank you for asking me that question. And now let me confess.--What I am about to say is without the slightest tinge of bitterness. When I regard a fact as accomplished, I have done with it. I therefore speak of it without embarrassment, just as if I were explaining the operation of some law of nature. Yes, Your Majesty, I have richly deserved all that has happened to me. I was most graciously dismissed from Your Majesty's favor, and it was but just that it should be so."
"That was not what I meant I had no desire to allude to it. On the contrary--"
"Permit me, Your Majesty, to explain the logical line of justice as I have understood it. Under deeply painful circumstances, I misconceived my duty as a man, as the friend and servant of Your Majesty."
"You?" asked the king.
"Yes, I! And that I meant it for the best, is no excuse. We all mean to be good, but we have all of us an equal right to be wise. I endeavored to lead the queen to an elevated plain, from which the petty events of life would appear trifling and easily borne. It was a grievous error. It was my duty to avoid all interference, unless I could avert the impending conflict. You acted rightly and, at the same time, benefited the queen by sending me away. Isolated from every influence, even that of a friend, she could not but gain strength as she has done."
A tear glistened in the king's eyes. He pressed his left hand to his heart, as if to repress a thought that he did not care to reveal.
"I am happy," said he at last, "that my life has made me acquainted with such men as you and our dear Bronnen. We only partially make ourselves what we are. Consciously or unconsciously, we are formed by those with whom we associate."
He pressed Gunther's hand in his, and Gunther was happy to feel that the king's heroic self-glorification was completely subdued--the king's confession being a convincing proof of this.
"Papa!" called a boy's voice from the terrace, "papa!"
They turned in the direction from which the voice had come. The queen, surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of her court, was sitting on the terrace. With anxious eyes, she had followed every movement of the two men. What might they be speaking of? Were these Elysian days to be disturbed by the old and unforgotten wrong?
And now, when she saw the king take Gunther's hand in his own and hold it for a long while, she embraced the prince, kissed him, and then said:
"Call papa."
The two men turned around and with calm and happy countenances, the sight of which was even more refreshing than that of the beautiful and lofty mountains, came upon the terrace. The king kissed the queen's hand, and, for the first time in years, she pressed it against his lips.
When Gunther was taking his leave, the king said:
"Present my compliments to your wife. I shall pay you a visit to-day, before dinner."
Madame Gunther was amazed when her husband informed her that the king was coming. In spite of all explanations, she could not understand how her husband could thus forgive and forget the injury that had been put upon him--for she could not help looking upon it as an injury and an affront, even though Gunther did not so regard it. For the first time in her life, he was unable to change her opinion. In Gunther's forgiving mood, she thought she detected a spirit of submissiveness which was only possible under a monarchy. Her old republican feelings were aroused.
The king and the queen came. The king found Madame Gunther's behavior shy and reserved. He could not know that she still regarded him with suppressed wrath. Was this the man, and ought there really to be one on earth, who could appoint or dismiss Gunther at will? They were standing by the stream that flowed through the garden, when the king said to Gunther:
"I am told that the crown prince's nurse lives in this neighborhood. Will you not have her come here some time?"
"Her majesty the queen does not wish to see her," replied Gunther.
"Do you know why?"
"It lies in the echo of certain sad memories," replied Gunther; and this passing allusion to Irma was the only time she was mentioned. In the short pause that followed these words, the stream murmured louder than before, as if it, too, had something to say.
On the second evening after the king's arrival, Bronnen came, accompanied by the intendant, and found the whole circle happy and complete.
A certain observance of form lent an added charm to country life. With constant freedom, there was yet the protecting presence of the accompanying court circle and servants. Wherever they fixed their resting-place, and wherever they lighted a fire in the forest, for the little prince's amusement, a numerous body of servants was always present, forming a ring to keep off intruding strangers. Paula's manner was calm and composed. Her every movement evinced power and grace. She neither thrust herself forward nor shunned observation. The knowledge that she was in her own home lent charming confidence to her deportment.
During the evening, Gunther's blind nephew, whose appointment as pianist to the queen had been confirmed, played in a masterly manner.
On the following morning he took his first leave of absence, in order, as he said with a smile, to look about the neighborhood and visit old acquaintances.
The king prepared to go hunting.
Chapter XIV
It was in the morning. Gundel was telling her father how strange cousin Irmgard was. She hardly ever spoke a word; she tasted scarcely anything but a little milk, fresh from the cow: and she seemed so strange. She would lie for hours out on the cliff where she could get a glimpse of the distant lake. The little pitchman was also puzzled by Irma's behavior. For some time past she had done no work, and had given up going with him when he went out to gather herbs.
"I'd like to ask the great doctor down there--the one I fetch the herbs for--what I ought to do," said he, "but Walpurga says I shan't. Besides that, I don't see that there's anything the matter with our Irmgard. I thought of trying something, but I don't know whether it would do any good with a human being. Now if a beast gets sick, all you've got to do is to cut out the sod that he's lying on and turn it, and then the beast will get well again. I wish I knew whether that would help a human being."
"Oh father!" replied Gundel, "that's awful. I'm afraid they'll soon put the sod on our dear Irmgard. She's so good; and when you speak to her it seems as if she has to stop to think of what you're saying, and make up her mind what to answer."
Thus they talked together, and then separated to go about their work for the day, while Irma lay on her blue rug, now looking out at the wide world, now closing her eyes and thinking and dreaming to herself. Her life was a voiceless calm, as if she were part of the animate and inanimate world about her; as if she always had been and ever would remain here: a child of man, to whom no flower, no living thing on earth, nor bird soaring in the air was unknown. The mountains, the clouds, the bright day, the starry night--all were dear and familiar to her.
Irma, as was her wont, was lying on the mossy slope. She gazed into the distance, and then her eyes sought the ground to watch the busy life stirring among the blades of grass and the mosses. Now and then, she would unconsciously raise the mold with her finger and find pine-needles which had accumulated for years and years, and, below them, the débris of plants that had been decayed since the world began; hers was the first human eye that rested upon them.
The cows often approached, and grazed near by without disturbing her. She could hear their breathing, and yet did not move. Now and then, the leading cow would stand before her and, with head lifted on high, gaze at the distant landscape. Then it would go on feeding, and, at times, would keep the fodder in its mouth as if it had, while looking at the prostrate form, forgotten that it wanted to eat.
Awake or dreaming, a wonderful life opened up to Irma. The more she rested, the greater was her yearning for rest. Indescribable weariness seemed to have seized upon her. Work and thought wearied her as they had never done in all the years she had passed in the world. She often tried to arouse herself, but could not. She found a peculiar pleasure in this feeling of heaviness, in this resting on the ground. Hundreds of songs and entire musical works passed through her mind. Myriad thoughts arose and floated away with the light breath of air. Nothing could be seized and retained.
It was hot noonday. The heat was intense. There was not a breath of air, even up among the mountains, and the cows were resting in the shade. Irma had walked out alone. The little pitchman had gone to town to deliver some parcels of herbs. Irma wandered on further and further, and at last reached the source of the brook. She was sitting by the broad basin into which the water fell, and which reflected the dark shadows of the overhanging trees. Irma bent forward and saw her image reflected in the water. It was the first time, in many years, that she had seen it, and she now greeted it with a smile. Not a breath of air was stirring; not a sound was heard.
Irma looked about her, and then, hurriedly undressing herself, plunged into the water. She swam about, dived and rose to the surface again, and a feeling of unexpected delight came over her. Only the sun that shone through the branches for a moment, beheld that wondrous lovely form.
All was silent again. Irma had dressed herself and lay dreamily at the edge of the woods, while sweet melodies passed through her soul.
Suddenly, she heard her name called again and again, and in a loud voice. She answered as loud as she could, and at last Gundel came up and said:
"Irmgard, come to the cottage right away. There's a gentleman there with a servant, and he wants to speak to you."
Irma, who had partly raised herself, lay down again. She felt a heart pang. What could it be? Had her time come? and must she again return to the busy world?
She arose to her feet and asked:
"Don't you know who it is?"
"No, but he says he spent the night with us some years ago. He's a tall, handsome young man; but, poor man, he's stone blind."
"The blind man wandering?" thought Irma to herself, turning toward the hut.
"God greet you!" cried she, while still distant.
"Yes, that's your voice," replied the blind man, stretching out his arms and opening and closing his hands. "Come! Come nearer. Give me your hand!" He quickly drew off his gloves with his teeth, and his face wore a strange expression. Irma drew near and took his delicate, white hand in hers.
"Your hand trembles!" he exclaimed. "Does it frighten you to see me blind?"
Irma could not speak, and nodded as if the blind man could see what she did.
The sun's rays fell directly upon the face of the unfortunate one, and his sightless eyes stared into vacancy.
"You've grown thinner than you were," said the blind man. "May I pass my hand over your face?"
"Yes," replied Irma, closing her eyes.
"You're not as beautiful as you were two years ago. Your eyelids are hot and heavy. You must have been grieving. Can I help you? I'm not rich, but I can still do something."
"Thank you. I've learned to help myself." Being addressed in High German, Irma had involuntarily replied in pure German, without a trace of dialect.
The stranger started, turned his head to the right and left, and, while doing so, stretched out his neck so far that it was almost unpleasant to look at him.
Taking him by the hand, Irma led him to the bench in front of the cottage. She felt a tremor while holding this fine and delicate hand in hers, but, gathering all her strength, she repressed it. She sat down by the blind man, and asked him how he had happened to come there.
"You remember," said he, "that when I was with you last, I knew what my fate would be. I wrestled with myself for a long while and learned to know how to bear it. We know that we must all die, and yet we can be cheerful; and I knew that I must lose my sight and became cheerful, too."
Irma heaved a deep sigh.
"Do you understand what I mean?" asked the blind man.
"Yes, indeed. Go on, I like to hear your voice."
"I knew it, and that's why I have come to you. I was down at the farm, but they were all out harvesting, and the child's maid told me that you were up here and so I came to you. I walked a good part of this way before, when I was overtaken by the storm, and I can now, in memory, renew the pleasure with which I once beheld these mountains. What I then told you I intended to do, has come to pass. I have all the beautiful landscapes within me. I can see the sparkling sunlight, the brook leaping over the rocks, the sparkling lake, and the trees standing side by side in the peaceful forest. I kept constantly telling my guide where we were. He was quite beside himself to think that I knew it all so well. But the best of it all is that I have beautiful human images in my mind. My greatest desire was to see you once more. I say 'to see you,'--I mean, to hear you speak, but I see you when you speak."
Irma replied, telling him how well she understood and sympathized with him; and when she spoke to him of the difficulty of walking, how the groping foot first seeks the ground before the muscles are straightened to take a step, the blind man asked, with surprise:
"And how do you know that?" He again stretched out his head and bent it back in the same unpleasant manner as before.
"I once knew a blind man who told me. It is terrible to think that you're obliged to depend upon a stranger. Blind Gloster implores his guide not to forsake him."
"Maiden! Who are you? Was it you who spoke? It was your voice--or is there some one with you? How do you know that?"
"I read it once," said Irma, biting her lips till the blood almost came. "I read it once," she repeated, forcing herself to use the dialect again.
The blind man's head bent low and he held his hands between his knees. A convulsive movement passed over his fine youthful features, as if tears were ineffectually struggling to escape. He leaned his head back against the wall, and at last said:
"So you can read, and so intelligently. Could you--? No, I'll not ask you."
"Ask me what you will. I feel kindly toward you and have often thought of you."
"Did you? You, too?" cried he hurriedly, while he moved his head about in the same strange manner as before. "Maiden!" said he, "give me your hand once more. Tell me, could you give me this hand and let your eyes be mine?"
"Good sir," said Irma, interrupting him, "I should like to feel that your coming here and your going hence were for the best. I think that I can and ought to tell you all. This is the second time I've seen you--"
"I've seen you but once, and yet I shall never forget your face," said the blind man.
"Come with me. I'll lead you, and when we're alone I'll tell you all and prove how grateful I am for your kindness."
"There must be a spot somewhere hereabouts, from which a glimpse of the lake beyond the mountains can be obtained," replied the blind man. "Can you lead me there?"'
"Certainly," said Irma, startled at this wonderful inner life. She led him, across the meadow, to the mountain side.
"Sit down here," said she, "and I'll sit beside you. What I am about to tell you is for you alone. Remember, only for you!"
He raised his hand and exclaimed: "I swear!"
"You need no oath," replied Irma. "Know then that I am one who has vanished from the fashionable world. Ask not for my name. Life in all its splendor was mine, and yet I walked in darkness. I was a wretched worldling! I had sunk so low that I sought to destroy myself. If it were only possible, I would gladly fly way with you--just as the birds are flying--through the rosy, golden glow of evening, and vanish into infinite space. But I've learned to know that life is a duty, and that all we have and are in this world depends upon our finding the world within ourselves and ourselves in the world. You now bear the world within you, where none can take it from you. We can call nothing ours, unless we possess it in that way. And when death comes at last, it takes nothing from us, but simply gives us back to the world--"
"Maiden!" suddenly exclaimed the blind man, "what are you doing? Who are you? No mortal speaks thus! Must I become superstitious? Must I believe in angels? Is there some one with you? Who can it be? Who are you? Give me your hand!"
"Be calm: 'tis I," said Irma, offering him her hand, which he kissed again and again. She withdrew it, and, passing it over his face, said:
"Be calm. I've merely looked out into the world just as you have already done, and while we sit here--two children of the world and yet forgotten by it--we are happy, for we belong to eternity. May you be happy, and may your soul, on wings of music, soar far above all earthly cares. Take my hand once more. Come, let me lead you hence."
Without uttering a word on the way, he suffered Irma to lead him toward the cottage.
When they reached it, he called for his guide and his servant, in a tone of authority.
"Are you going already?" asked Irma.
Leaning on his servant's arm, he left the cottage without answering her.
She again offered him her hand with the words: "The world in us, and ourselves in the world!"
His only reply was a nod, his features again twitched convulsively, as if he were trying to repress his tears.
He had already proceeded as far as the edge of the woods, when he turned around and called out:
"Come here, maiden. I've something to tell you."
She went up to him and he said:
"I'm a nephew of Doctor Gunther, who was formerly physician to the king, and now lives but a short distance from here, in yonder little town. I live with him and am pianist to the queen. If you ever need help, send to me, or to my uncle. He'll help you, I am sure. But, depend upon it, I shall mention you to no one."
Having said this, he hurriedly turned on his heel and, leaning on his servant, descended the mountain.
Irma remained there, looking after him.
Was Gunther alive? And in her very neighborhood?
And now another being carried her half-disclosed life-secret about with him.
The blind man entered the woods and soon disappeared from view. Irma, with eyes bent on the ground, returned to her resting-place, where she remained gazing into the dim distance until night approached.
Over in the woods she beheld a strange-looking, gray cloud with white, glowing edges. It stood as firmly as if it were a wall. Suddenly, as if exhaled from the earth, a gust of wind arose, so violent that the trees bent under its force.
She hurried toward the cottage, and found that the little pitchman had returned.
"I'm afraid we'll have a storm to-night," said he. "The moon isn't up yet and doesn't rise till late, and that's a sign of bad weather."
He went out again, in order to drive in the cows. The boy had gone after the goats, which had strayed off for some distance.
Chapter XV
"How the wind blows!" exclaimed Gundel, quite of out breath. It had required all her strength to close the door. "What a storm! There never was such a gust before. Why, the wind's just as hot as if it were blown out of an oven."
She got up quickly and, filling a cup with water, emptied it on the fire that burned on the hearth.
"What are you doing?" cried Irma.
"We mustn't have a fire now," replied Gundel, and, after that, they sat there in the dark room, almost stifled by the smoke, for the storm raged so wildly that they dared not open a window.
"If father were only home," said Gundel; "I hope, for God's sake, he'll get home safe!"
Her last words were drowned by a sudden peal of thunder that reverberated from the mountains, with a crash as if the whole world were being destroyed. And now the wind raged and stormed more violently than before. The firmly built hut seemed to totter, the roof trembled, and one of the great boulders with which it had been secured fell to the ground.
"Give me your hand!" cried Gundel, in the dark. "If we must die--let's pray." She prayed aloud, but the crashing thunder drowned her voice. Suddenly the noise changed, and it sounded as if countless iron hammers were descending on the roof; the rattling, pounding and rumbling created a furious din.
"That's hail!" shrieked Gundel, putting her mouth to Irma's ear.
The thunder and hail continued, and, ever and anon, the lightning would flash through the smoke and darkness, causing the two girls to appear, in each other's eyes, as if transported to the infernal regions. The hailstones seemed to impel each other forward. Now they would descend with mighty force; then the fury of the storm would abate and they would fall more gently and steadily than before, as if the raging mountain demon had stopped to take breath, before again venting his ire on the mortals who had ventured to build a cottage on his lofty domain.
The lowing of the cows and the ringing of their bells were heard above the rattling hail.
"I opened the stable door, but the wind must have blown it shut," exclaimed Gundel; and, forgetting her own trouble, she hurried out. She came back in a hurry, and, placing an inverted pail on her head, went out again. Irma followed her example, and the two of them ducked their heads while the great hailstones rattled against the pails. Gundel tried to open the stable door, but the cows crowded about her so that she was thrown to the ground. In the midst of the noise, Irma heard Gundel's piercing cry. The bellowing, trembling leader cow was standing near Irma.
"Come along!" said Irma, seizing the cow by one of its horns. It obeyed her, and the other cows made way. Irma found Gundel, and, having helped her up, the two opened the stable door, but were almost crushed to death, for the cows all tried to get in at once. They each had but one hand free, as the other was needed to hold the pail. They succeeded in getting to the wall and, at last, when all the cows were in the stable, the two girls waded through the hail with which the ground was thickly covered, and regained the cottage. They groped about until they found the hearth and sat down by it. And the two lonely, forlorn children sat there in the dark, while the storm raged without.
"I feel sure," cried Gundel, "that father must have found shelter somewhere. He knows every overhanging rock and--O God!" she suddenly cried, "just think of the poor blind man, out in such weather! Has the hail cut your hand and back, the way it did mine?" said she, crying, and nestling close to Irma.
"No, I feel nothing," replied Irma, and it really seemed as if physical pain could not affect her. She, too, had thought of the blind man, and also of the king whom filial ingratitude had turned out into the stormy night. But hail or wind were not half so violent as her regret that, yielding to pity, she had allowed a man to pass his hand across her face.
Is all lost again? Is all that has cost so great a struggle, sacrificed? wofully asked an inner voice--and yet she felt conscious of her purity.
"Thank God! it's only raining now," said Gundel at last. She struck a light, and the two looked at each other, as if they had just emerged from depths of darkness. The floor was wet with the water that had dripped from their clothes.
"Are you at home?" exclaimed a voice from without. The door opened and the little pitchman entered, carrying a young kid in his arms.
"Thank God you're safe and sound," he exclaimed, laying the kid down by the empty fireplace. With his sleeve, which was far wetter that either, he wiped the water from his eyes and forehead. Then he took a bottle of gentian brandy from the upper shelf and, after taking a drink, and forcing Gundel and Irma to do likewise, he went on to say: "I've gone through a good deal in my time, but never anything like this. I know every tree and every rock for miles, but I seemed to have lost my way. While I stood there in the midst of the storm, I heard a chamois doe bleating pitifully, and I went up to her and there she stood, with the young kid that had just been born. It had hardly come into the world, before the hail tried to beat it to death. When the mother saw me, she ran away, but came back again and placed herself over the young kid, so that the hail shouldn't strike it, but her instead. I went near her, but the mother ran away again. I picked up the young one and, just as we were going on to look for shelter, I heard human voices. Two people were calling to a third one, who was roaring and screaming. When the lightning flashed, I saw that he was lying on the ground, unable to move.
"'Honored master, just lean on us; we'll soon find shelter,' I heard them saying, and when the lightning flashed again, I saw that we were near the Witches' Table. So I called out to them: 'The Witches' Table is over yonder.' Then there was another flash, and I saw that the two men who had been standing had also fallen down. They told me, afterward, that they had been afraid of me, and I couldn't think hard of them. In such a storm, and on such a night, one would almost believe in anything. I went up to them, told them who I was, and offered to lead them. It was hard work, though, to get along, for the blind man went on as if crazed, and kept talking about a lost child. At last, safe and sound, but dripping with water, we got under the Witches' Table, and there we lay. And whenever it lightened we could see the hailstones dancing on the rocks and beating against the trees. We waited until it stopped hailing, and the blind man told me that the next time I came down to the apothecary's, in the town, he would give me a gold piece. The king's there and so is the queen. He promised to see to it that I should get the medal for saving a life, and a pension, in the bargain, for the rest of my days. And now, children, get to bed, for you're soaking wet. What ails you, Irmgard? Why do you shiver so?"
The little pitchman scolded Gundel for having let cousin Irmgard sit about in her wet clothes. Now and then the little kid would cry piteously and shiver all over, so that the little pitchman brought down his bed-cover from the hay-loft and wrapped the kid in it. Then, with three fingers, he cleverly fed it with milk from a dish.
The little kid was soon asleep, and, in the room within, Irma was sleeping too.
"Thank God, you've had a good sleep," said Gundel, who was standing at Irma's bedside, late on the following morning. "How strange it seems! The hail didn't hurt you a bit and just see how I look." She showed the marks, but quickly added: "That's no matter; it'll soon be over. Just look at the sky! Don't it look as if it never could do any harm. Over by the stream, the lightning struck a tree and split it in two, and places where it used to be dry are covered with water. If I didn't feel it in every bone of my body, and couldn't see it, I'd hardly believe there had ever been a storm. But we were lucky, after all. None of the cattle were hurt, and the cowboy is here, too. He crept away, down the valley, where there was no storm at all."
It was a clear, bracing morning. Here and there, there were still some large hailstones lying in the crevices of the rocks. The cows were grazing on the meadow, and the cowboy was singing merrily. He was proud that the goats were the best judges of the weather; while grazing, they had moved down toward the valley, and that was the surest sign that a storm was brewing.
At noon, Franz came up from the farm. The torrents of water that had rushed down into the valley, had led them to suppose that something had happened, and Walpurga had sent Franz to find out all about it. The hot, midday sun soon dried up everything, and the waters did not long remain on the heights. Irma went out to her favorite resting-place and, spreading her blue rug on the ground, lay down.
Suddenly, she heard the sounds of a bugle horn. What was it? Was it royalty, or a dream?
The sounds were repeated. Irma's heart beat violently. Something drew near. She could hear it panting, as it forced its way through the crackling brush. She looked up and saw a stag rushing through the clearing near by, and the huntsmen pursuing and gaining upon it. Irma passed her hand over her eyes--she looked once more-- It was the king and his suite.
Springing from his horse, the chief piqueur exclaimed: "The stag broke through here. Your Majesty. Here is the trail." He dipped his finger in the blood and showed it to the king. The king looked around--did he feel the glance directed upon him from the thicket? The glance that had once made him so happy, but that had, for him, been so long extinguished? He missed his stirrup; the horse reared wildly. Irma bent down, with her face against the mossy turf. She felt as if the whole hunt, as if all the horses' hoofs, were passing over her. She bit the grass on which she lay. She dug her hands into the earth. She feared to shriek aloud.
When she got up, all was quiet. She stared about her. Had it been a dream? In the distance, she heard the report of a gun and the sound of the bugle. The stag had fallen.
If one could die in that way, thought Irma to herself, sinking back on the moss, and weeping.
She arose. A storm-laden cloud had once more arisen within her soul, but it was for the last time. About her, all was clear and sunny. Hail and storm and lightning were forgotten. She went back to the hut, and often turned to look at the sun sinking in the west. And now, for the first time, she repaired to rest before nightfall. She was shivering with a fever-chill, and soon her cheeks were hot and red. She called the little pitchman to her bedside and asked him to give her a sheet of paper. Her hand trembled, while she wrote in pencil:
"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."
She told the little pitchman to hurry to town, to give this paper to the great doctor in person, and to conduct him to her at once. Then she turned away and was calm again.
"I'll give you something good," said the little pitchman, while, with broad-brimmed hat on his head, and mountain-staff in his hand, he stood before her. "You'll see, It'll do you good. I'll lay the kid down here at your feet; that'll do both o' you good. Shall I?"
Irma nodded assent.
The little pitchman did as he said he would. The kid looked up sleepily at Irma, and she smiled on it in return. Both soon closed their eyes.
Wandering in the dark, the little pitchman descended into the valley.
Chapter XVI
Down in the valley, it had been raining all day long. What had been hail and thunder up among the mountains, had turned to rain, and occasional gleams of blue sky served to show that there was fair weather above.
Toward evening, the storm cleared away. The queen, accompanied by the ladies of her court, among whom Madame Gunther and Paula were now included, was sitting in the large music-room, the doors of which were open. Paula had been singing to the queen, for the first time, and, on account of her embarrassment, Madame Gunther begged that she might not be asked to sing again that day.
The relation between the queen and Madame Gunther was a peculiar one. The queen was charmed with her sincerity and thoroughness, but she found it difficult to accustom herself to the presence of one who was so independent of her. She was, at one time, tempted to regard this as pettiness, for, on the very day that Madame Gunther had accepted the breastpin, she had said to the queen: "Your Majesty, it will never do, unless you accept a present from me in return," saying which, she gave the queen a handsomely bound book, which a brother of hers, a physician residing in America, had written, on the subject of slavery. The queen accepted it with thanks, and Madame Gunther felt quite relieved, although it frequently cost her an effort to translate, as it were, all that she wished to say, in order to clothe it in the proper court costume, for she took a pride in rejecting prescribed forms.
The queen inquired why they saw so little of the elder daughter, the professor's widow. Madame Gunther replied that, as Bronnen and their nephew were visiting them, and as there was much to look after in the house, Cornelia had gladly assumed these duties. It always seemed like a new truth to the queen, or like tidings from some strange world, to find that the daily wants of life required special attention and did not provide for themselves.
The weather exerted a depressing influence on the spirits of all. Here in the country, and especially in this little dairy-farm, where they missed many comforts, and where, on account of the small amount of room, they were prevented from scattering and seeking various diversions, the effects of the weather were all the more noticeable and unpleasant.
Their delight in anticipation of the morrow was all the greater, as it promised to be a bright day.
It was agreed that they should all meet, at dinner, near the second waterfall, and that the king would join them there.
The king was in his cabinet, engaged with Bronnen. The new telegraph was carrying many messages to and fro. Gunther, the intendant, Sixtus and several other gentlemen were smoking their cigars and walking under the drooping trees of the avenue, which the evening sun was now lighting up with a thousand brilliant hues.
The ladies in the music-room maintained that the Alpine glow (Alpenglühen) could be seen that day. They naturally expected to see it daily, although it is an exceedingly rare phenomenon.
The night had come on, and the king was sitting at the card-table, with Gunther and two of the gentlemen-in-waiting.
A servant came in and informed Gunther that there was a man outside who wished to speak with him at once. Gunther gave his cards to the ever-obliging intendant, and went out where, leaning on his great Alpine staff, his broad-brimmed, crumpled hat in his hand, and his rug thrown over him, stood the little pitchman. He kept his left hand in his pocket, and when Gunther came up to him, he said:
"Here's a paper for you."
Gunther read the note, and then rubbed his eyes and passed his hand across his face, as if to awaken himself.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
"I guess that'll tell you--our Irmgard."
Gunther started at the mention of the name, here before the very door, when within sat the king and the queen--
He went up to the lamp in the corridor, and read the note again. There it stood:
"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."
This man, who had a right to boast that he was always calm and composed, was obliged to support himself by the balusters, and it was some time before he could utter a word. When he looked up, his glance met that of the little pitchman.
"Who are you?" he asked, at last.
"I'm from the freehold farm. Walpurga's my niece--"
"Very well; go outside and wait for me. I'll be there directly."
The little pitchman went out, and Gunther summoned all his self-command, in order to return to the card-room to excuse himself, and say that he had been summoned to the bedside of one who was dangerously ill. He scarcely knew how he could, without betraying his emotion, mention this to those who were so directly concerned, but he hoped to do so, nevertheless.
At that moment, he fortunately met Paula and Bronnen, who had been walking in the garden and were just about to enter the house.
"The very thing!" exclaimed Gunther, addressing them. "Paula, send me my hat; and you, dear Bronnen, present my excuses to their majesties, and tell them I am required instantly, by one who is dangerously ill. Pray do this without exciting attention; and, Paula, don't mention it to your mother until you're on the way home. I shall be gone all night."
"Can't Dr. Sixtus go?" asked Bronnen.
"No. Pray ask me no more. I shall be home early to-morrow morning; but if I don't come, I will meet you by the waterfall, at dinner-time."
Bronnen and Paula went into the house, and, a few moments later, a lackey brought Gunther his hat.
Gunther hurried off with the little pitchman. Only once did he turn back to look at the brilliantly lighted windows, and to think of those who were sitting within, void of care and foreboding naught. How startled they would be if they had heard the tidings that affected him so powerfully. On the way to his house, he had but little to say to the little pitchman. He did not care to question him more closely, for he feared lest some answer might be overheard, and thus prematurely betray the secret. He was still, in his own mind, endeavoring to devise some plan by which all could be arranged and adjusted.
It was not until they drew near the house, that Gunther asked:
"What ails the patient? What does she complain of?"
"She don't complain of anything. She's got a hot fever, and she has been coughing for a long time."
"Has she her perfect senses?"
"Just the same as ever; but Gundel, my daughter, says she sometimes calls out in her sleep: 'Victory!'"
"Just wait here," said Gunther, when they reached the house. "I'll send you something to eat and drink; but tell no one who sent you here."
Cornelia was sitting near the lamp and reading to her blind cousin. He had only told her of the terrors of the hailstorm; his heart-sufferings he had kept to himself. He had been sleeping nearly all day, and now felt refreshed. Cornelia was alarmed when she saw her father, but he soon quieted her. His medicine-chest and some well-sealed packages of refreshing and strengthening food, were soon in readiness, and were packed upon the mule. Gunther rode off, the little pitchman walking by his side. The face of the latter was scarcely visible, for his broad-brimmed hat had not yet recovered from the effects of yesterday's storm. It was not until they had left the town behind them, that Gunther asked:
"How far have we to go?"
"It takes three hours on foot, but on horseback it's a full hour more."
When they entered the forest, Gunther halted and said:
"Come near. So you are Walpurga's uncle?"
"To be sure. I'm her mother's own and only brother, for the two others died young."
"What do you call the sick girl?"
"Irmgard; that's her name."
"And how long has she been with you?"
"Ever since Hansei bought the farm. She came with us then from the lake. She was sick, and they say she's a little bit out of her mind; but I don't believe a word of it. She's got her right senses; rather too much than too little."
"And don't you know her family name?" asked Gunther.
"I never asked," and the little pitchman, with great volubility, went on to tell all he knew of Irmgard's life and how, for years, she had worn a bandage on her forehead, and had never taken it off until she had gone up to the mountain meadow. He described her life so touchingly that Gunther stopped and, taking the old man by the hand, said:
"You're a good man."
Uncle Peter did not dispute this, but maintained that, in all the world, there was no one so good as Irmgard.
Rapid rivulets crossed their path in many places, and the little pitchman told Gunther of the storm of the previous night; how terrible it is when, all of a sudden, the air seems filled with stones that pound away at one, and how he had helped the blind man, and also what had been promised him. He would often take hold of the mule's bridle and guide it down some steep descent, through a brook and then up the hill again.
"You must have gone through a good deal yourself, Doctor," said the little pitchman. He would have liked his companion to entertain him by the way. He thought that one sitting on the mule could talk far more comfortably than he who was walking by his side. He could feel it in his chest that to talk while going up hill, was no easy matter. As if divining this, Gunther alighted when they reached a level place, and made the little pitchman mount. After much persuasion, Uncle Peter at last consented and got up; but as soon as they began to ascend again, he dismounted, and insisted on Gunther's riding.
"If our Irmgard wants to leave us now," said the little pitchman, "I'd willingly give her up to you, Doctor. She can play the zither splendidly, and when she's well again, you can teach her anything. Everything comes easy to her. But I hope she'll stay with us. She's shy and doesn't like to go among people."
It seemed as if he had divined Gunther's very thoughts, for the doctor had been asking himself how he could take Irma to his house, and yet keep the court ignorant of her existence. In his mind's eye, he already saw her sitting beside his wife and Cornelia, and he felt that he had gained a daughter who would fill Paula's place.
It was dark in the forest and the stars were gleaming overhead. "It's past midnight," said the little pitchman, when they reached the crest of a projecting hill. "The moon's coming up over there."
Gunther looked back and saw the half-moon rising and looking like a ruin suspended in the vast firmament.
"There's some of our cows already," said the little pitchman, and his voice grew brighter. "That's Blackbird, with the ding-dong bell. She always strays furthest of all; but we'll be home in less than half an hour, at any rate."
They went on in silence, and at last reached the hut. A ray of light shone through the opening in the closed window-shutter.
Gunther entered.
"I'll go in first and tell her the gentleman's here," said the little pitchman, softly.
Gunther assented.
He soon came out again and said:
"She's asleep, but her cheeks are as red as fire, and Gundel says that she often called out, in her sleep: 'Father!' and sometimes, 'Victory.' She must be having pleasant dreams."
Gunther entered the cottage. .
At the sight of Irma he seemed as if paralyzed. "What's that?" he asked the little pitchman, when the kid at Irma's feet raised its head and stared at him.
"It's a little chamois kid that I found yesterday. She's very fond of it," answered the little pitchman in a whisper.
Gunther requested the little pitchman and Gundel to leave the room, and then sat down silently at Irma's bedside. He felt her pulse and touched her forehead, and the little pitchman, who had lingered in the room, asked: "How is she?"
Gunther shrugged his shoulders and beckoned him to go out.
The little pitchman hurried up to the hay-loft, awakened Franz, and ordered him to hurry down to his master and mistress and tell them to come up directly, for Irmgard was very sick.
He lay down on the hay, feeling as if every bone in his body were broken. He had never before been so tired, but he could neither rest nor sleep, and was soon standing in front of the cottage, listening at the window.
Meanwhile, Gunther remained with the patient. She moved now and then, but did not open her eyes. The kid at her feet was also sleeping again.
Gunther had removed the light from the room, and now sat in the dark.
"The day is coming, let me see the daylight!" cried Irma, suddenly starting up.
A gray streak of light fell through the opening in the shutter.
"Let me see the daylight," said Irma again, and the little pitchman outside opened the shutters. A flood of light poured into the chamber. A radiant glow passed over Irma's countenance. She stretched out both hands to Gunther. He clasped them, and she kissed his hands with her feverish lips.
"You have achieved great results," said Gunther. "You have shown a power that I cannot but admire. Hold fast to it."
"I thank you! Through you, my father returns to me. Lay your hand upon my forehead."
"I place my hand upon your forehead, and in your father's spirit I bless you, and with this kiss I kiss away all your burdens. You are free!"
Irma lay there quietly, and Gunther's hand lay on her brow, while, out of doors, the rosy tint of morn ascended higher and higher, and at last the light flooded the room with its golden glow.
Gunther went out and brought a tonic draught for Irma. It revived and refreshed her.
"I know that I am about to die," she said in a clear voice, "and I am happy that I have lived in consciousness and can die in consciousness."
She gave her journal to Gunther and told him that the wish she had there expressed, in relation to her place of burial, need not be regarded; that the uncle knew which had been her favorite spot, and that she wished to be buried there, with nothing to mark her grave.
Gunther had, before this, said that he had held many a dying hand in his--he had never sat by a death-bed like that of Irma's.
Chapter XVII
"I knew it! I felt it must come!" cried Walpurga when Franz brought the news of Irma's illness. "I knew she'd never come back!" she repeated again and again, weeping, wringing her hands, and praying by turns.
"That won't help any," said Hansei, laying his hand on her shoulder. "Get up; you're not like this at other times. Come, may be it isn't so bad after all; and even if it should be, this is no time to cry and weep; we must do all that can be done."
"What can I do? What shall I do?" said Walpurga, turning her tearful face to Hansei.
He helped her up and said:
"Franz says there's a doctor up there, who has a medicine chest with him. And now let's eat something and then go up to her."
"Oh dear Lord, I can't walk three steps; I feel as if my limbs were broken."
"Then you'd better stay here and I'll go up."
"Would you leave me here alone? What am I to do, then?"
"I don't know what. Go to bed; perhaps you can sleep."
"I don't want to go to bed; I don't want to sleep; I don't want anything. I'll go along, too, and, if I die on the way, I can't help it."
"Don't talk so! you wrong me and the children when you do," Hansei was about to say, but he made a rapid movement, as if to repress the words. "There's no need of saying that," thought he; "when women, filled with pity for themselves, begin to complain of their lot, they don't know what they say."
Hansei brought his wife her best clothes, for she was so agitated that she scarcely knew where they were, or how to put them on. Hansei proved quite a clever valet.
"Now you must put your shoes on yourself," said he, at last.
Walpurga could not help smiling through her tears. It was not until then that she perceived how kindly and faithfully he had helped her, and, with a bright voice, she said: "Yes, so I can; you've helped me, and now I feel that I can walk."
Hansei had the meal brought in and, after placing his mountain staff, his hunting-bag and his hat in readiness, he sat down to eat. Walpurga was also obliged to sit down, although she ate but little. One of Hansei's great virtues was that he could eat heartily at any time. He did full justice to the meal, and his manner seemed to say that when one has satisfied his hunger, he is better prepared for any undertaking.
Before leaving, he cut off a large piece of bread and put it in his pocket.
The children were consigned to the care of the upper servant, and one of the laboring women was also charged to remain in the house. Hansei and his wife started for the meadow.
They had already gone some distance, when Burgei came running after them, crying: "I want to go along; I want to go to Cousin Irmgard."
There was no help for it. They were obliged to take the child with them, for they were afraid to let her go back alone and neither of them cared to take her back.
"You're a naughty child, a very naughty child! And now I've got to carry you, a big girl like you," said Walpurga, taking the child in her arms. Hansei nodded, with a pleased air. It was well the child was with them, for then his wife, who was apt to go off into extremes, would not become so violent if the worst should happen.
Walpurga, who had at first thought that she could not walk alone, now carried the child and stepped out bravely.
"Let Burgei walk for a while, and when she gets tired again. I'll carry her," said Hansei.
As long as the path was wide enough, the child walked between its parents, and when it grew narrower, they let her run on ahead. When they found that they could get on but slowly, on account of the child, Hansei took her up in his arms, where she soon fell asleep.
Walpurga then softly whispered to Hansei:
"I must tell you now who our Irmgard is."
"And I tell you I don't want to know. She must tell me herself, if she lives; and if she's dead, you can tell me then, just as well."
"Dead!" cried Walpurga, "Do you know more than I do? Did Franz tell you anything in secret?"
"Franz told me nothing but what you've heard."
"But why do you talk about death in that way?"
"Because one who's very sick can easily die. But do be calm."
"Yes, yes; I hardly know that we are in the woods, and I feel as if I couldn't see a thing. Stop a moment! There's a doctor up there. He knows her, and others who know her will come, too. The man who came to see us the other day is her brother, and now they'll go and take our Irmgard away with them."
"If she's in her right mind, and wants to go of her own free will, we can't say anything against it," said Hansei, "but this I do say, and no one will move me from it. As long as she's so sick that she can't say what she wants, I won't let them do a thing to her. I'm Hansei, and I'm her protector; nothing shall happen to her--All I ask of you, is to stand by me and not interfere. You know when I say a thing, I mean it."
"Yes, yes, you're right!" said Walpurga. Hansei's resolute words seemed to infuse her with new strength, for she went up the steep mountain path without the slightest difficulty. It almost seemed as if Hansei had been carrying her as well as the child. Moved by this thought, she suddenly said:
"Do you remember when you once wanted to carry me, at home by the lake? Oh, dear me, it seems as if we must have been very different beings then, for we knew nothing at all of the world."
"We're none the worse off, for knowing and having some of it!" replied Hansei, in a loud voice, and awakening the child. "There, now; run along again," said he to Burgei.
They rested for a little while. Hansei remembered the piece of bread that he had put in his pocket and, cutting off a bit of it, he said while pointing toward the valley with his knife: "Our brook runs down through there, and it's only an hour's distance from here to the little town where Stasi lives."
"Only an hour from here?" exclaimed Walpurga.
"Then I'll walk over there. She's the best, the only help. You go on with the child, straight up to the hut. I'll soon follow you by way of the town, and I'll bring something good with me."
"Wife! Have you gone mad? Don't make me crazy, too. Do you want to run off, when you're so near the dying one?"
"Then I must tell you. The queen is down there and she alone can help her. God be with you, Hansei, and with you too, Burgei. I'll soon follow after you."
Away she ran, through the forest, along the stream, and toward the town.
"Where's mother? Mother! mother!" cried the child.
"Be quiet!" said Hansei. "Mother has another child down there, and he's a prince and will send you golden clothes."
"Is it an enchanted prince that mother is going to free from a spell?" asked the child.
"Yes, he's enchanted," said Hansei, endeavoring to quiet her.
"But what was he changed into?" asked the child.
"Into a cuckoo; but not another word now; be quiet."
Filled with strange thoughts, the father and child went up the mountain. Hansei could not understand how, at such a moment, his wife could leave her friend and go to the queen--. Perhaps they were bound together in some way? He shook his head. Matters that he could not disentangle, he always put away from him. The only thing was to see what could be done for the sick one; that was the most important matter. He squared his shoulders and was ready, if the physician thought well of it, to carry Irmgard in his arms, all the way down to the farm.
The child ran along, looking about it with wondering eyes. "He's calling! he's calling!" whispered she. "My mother will free you."
A cuckoo was really crying in the wood, through which the noonday sun was gleaming. His cry was sometimes near and then more distant, and at last, uttering his peculiar note, he flew over the travelers' heads.
Hansei, with the child, at last reached the shepherd's hut, where the uncle and Gundel, with sorrowful countenances, came forward to meet him.
"She's still alive, but she can't last long," said the uncle, wiping away his tears with his sleeve. "The doctor won't let any of us go in to her. But where's Walpurga?"
"She'll soon be here," replied Hansei. It was all he could do to keep off the cows, who knew their master and came up to him, as was their wont, in order to get a handful of salt. But he had forgotten to bring it with him, and all the salt they had up here was in the room that no one was permitted to enter.
Hansei ordered the cowboy to drive the cows off for some distance, so that the sick one might not hear the sound of the bells. That was all he could do for Irma.
He sat down sadly on the bench before the hut, and taking up a piece of carved wood which lay on the ground, he looked at it as carefully as if it were marble and turned it again and again. He sat there for a long time. Then he put Burgei in Gundel's charge, and, hoping to meet his wife, went out alone along the road that led toward the little town. But it was long before she came. He went further into the forest, and was vexed, as he always was whenever he came up here, to think of yonder fine trees that were his own property, but which could not be felled, because no one could get up to the rocks on which they were. A chattering magpie, sitting on the high branches of a beautiful pine, seemed to be making sport of him. After he had again and again passed his hand over his face, Hansei became conscious of the thoughts that had engaged him in the midst of all this trouble. There was nothing wrong in it--he was sure of that; but this was not the time to think of such things, and, as if the trouble were now dawning on him for the first time, he was overwhelmed with grief.
He turned back and went toward the hut. The doctor was just coming out.
"You are the freehold farmer, I suppose?"
"Yes; and you're the doctor?"
"Yes."
"How is she?"
"I don't think she will die before evening."
Hansei's eyes filled with tears.
The uncle asked Gunther to allow him to fetch out the little kid. He granted his request. Stepping softly, he brought it out, gave it something to drink and, carrying it back again, placed it at the sick girl's feet.
"She opened her eyes and nodded to me, but she didn't say a word; and then she closed her eyes again," said the uncle.
Hansei begged that he might be permitted to see Irmgard once more. He was allowed to look through the crevice in the shutter. When Gunther again returned to the sick-room, Hansei, weeping as if his heart would break, walked out along the road that led toward the town.
"Uncle's right: she's become like an angel," said he to himself.
The calf that was born on the first day that they had come up to the shepherd's hut seemed conscious of its special claims on Hansei. In spite of all he could do it kept running after him for salt. Hansei succeeded in satisfying it, by giving it the last morsel of bread that he had about him.
When he reached the woods, he was obliged to sit down; and there he wept and would, now and then, look about him as if bewildered. How could it be possible that the sun was still shining, the cuckoo crying, and the hawk screaming, while she who was up there was breathing her last--
What could Walpurga want of the queen? "Her place is up there," thought he to himself, again and again.
Chapter XVIII
Following the course of the brook, Walpurga had hurried down the mountain-side. She soon saw the little town and the farmhouse, on the roof of which a bright flag was fluttering.
Walpurga sat down on a rock by the stream, to recover her breath and rest for a few moments. A cuckoo flew over her head and up the mountain.
"That's a bad beginning," said she to herself.
She walked on toward the dairy-farm. Looking through the iron railing, she saw a boy playing about the garden. His hair fell over his shoulders, in long, fair curls.
He wore a light dress and a hat with a feather. She felt as if her heart must burst and, with convulsive grip, she held fast to one of the iron rails of the fence in order to support herself. Then she walked on toward the garden-gate.
"Frau von Gerloff--the prince--my child! my child!" she cried, while she rushed toward the prince and, kneeling down in the grass, kissed and embraced him.
The boy screamed.
"Oh, that's his voice!" cried Walpurga.
Startled for a moment, Frau von Gerloff stood there as if rooted to the spot. Then she approached and ordered Walpurga away. The servants also advanced and ordered her to go. The prince nestled against Frau von Gerloff, as if to hide himself.
Walpurga was still kneeling in the grass, and could not rise.
"He don't know me any more, and I'm his nurse!" she cried, looking around confusedly at those about her. Her voice seemed to exert an influence on the child. It turned its face toward her. It was flushed with red and a tear still hung on his eyelashes, although his face was wreathed in smiles.
"God greet you!" said he. He had been taught this expression, on account of their sojourn in the country.
"He can say 'God greet you'--oh, he can speak! Dear me, he can speak! Now just say, 'Walpurga,' child. Can you say, 'Walpurga'?"
"Walpurga," repeated the child.
The queen approached, attended by Countess Brinkenstein and Paula. Walpurga was about to hasten toward her, but the queen motioned her away, and ordered Frau von Gerloff to remove the prince. The prince was led out of the garden, but he looked back at Walpurga, who nodded to him and quite forgot that she was in the presence of the queen, until the latter said:
"You have thrust yourself in here. You must certainly be aware that we did not desire to see you, and you know why."
"I don't want to defend myself now. I've come for something else," urged poor Walpurga.
"What is it?" asked the queen.
Breathing heavily, and with frequent pauses, Walpurga hurriedly said:
"Your Majesty, one may be looked upon as wicked, or may not be looked upon at all, and yet be honest. You and I are both of us in good health and can settle that some other time. But I have a few words to tell you--quite alone. Dear queen! for mercy's sake!--you'll be glad of it to your dying hour. Dear queen, you must die as well as the rest of us--I beg you, for pity's sake, listen to me alone, only for one minute! Send the others away, there's no time to lose!"
The queen motioned Countess Brinkenstein and Paula to withdraw. She was alone with Walpurga, and the latter, with throbbing heart, said:
"Irma lives!"
"What do you say?"
"She's dying; perhaps she's dead by this time!"
"I don't understand you. Are you mad?"
"No, dear queen. Sit down here on this seat. You're trembling all over. I've been awkward about it, but I couldn't help it. But it doesn't matter about me, now. Do with me what you choose--Irma lives--perhaps only this day, perhaps not even that long. Dear queen, you must go with me. You must go to her. It's all that's left her on earth--A single word--a hand--"
Countess Brinkenstein and Paula, who saw that the queen was leaning back, as pale as death, hurried to her assistance. As soon as she heard the rustling of their dresses, she raised herself and said:
"Walpurga, repeat what you have just told me."
Walpurga repeated that Irma was still alive, and added that she had been concealed with her for nearly four years, and that Gunther was now with her.
The two ladies seemed dumb with surprise, but Walpurga again turned to the queen and exclaimed:
"For God's sake, don't lose a minute! Come with me. Stasi, who once turned a prayer for the queen to me, lives in there. Dear queen, if you can't forgive others, how can they still pray for you? Just think how you felt in that solemn night, dear queen. Stand up, put all else away from you and hold fast to your good heart alone! Dear queen--"
"Do not annoy her majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, interrupting her.
But Walpurga continued:
"Your Majesty, when you die, neither court ladies, nor anything else can help you. Leave all behind you, for one short hour of your life! Come with me alone, and ask me nothing more. She'll be dead before night. This very day, you can perform a good deed which will last for ever."
"I will--I must go to her!" said the queen, rising from her seat and walking toward the house. Her step was quick, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"Your Majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, remonstrating, "the gracious king is out riding, and will be at the waterfall at dinner-time. Will Your Majesty not wait until then?"
"No," replied the queen, in a determined voice, as if the question had interrupted a train of thought. "I desire," said she, "to be permitted to act upon my own responsibility."
"Your Majesty, there is no carriage-road to the mountain meadow," mildly added Countess Brinkenstein.
"But there's a bridle-path almost all the way up to the cottage," replied Walpurga. "And there's Stasi's husband; he's a forester and knows all the roads; I'll call him."
She hurried to the inspector's office and brought him out with her. He confirmed her statement that they could drive for a good distance, and that then they could ride.
The queen ordered him to precede them with saddle-horses. She retired to her apartments, and soon afterward, accompanied by Paula, Sixtus, and Walpurga, drove up the mountain. Two lackeys were sitting upon the rumble.
The betrothed of the man who had once loved Irma, and the wife of him whose love Irma had returned, sat side by side, hurrying to her death-bed. It was not until they were well on their way that they regained their composure.
There was but little that Walpurga could tell them about Irma's simple life, and she, therefore, made so much the more of the uncle's account of how Irma had traveled to the capital with him, in disguise, and how, at the summer palace, she had once more beheld the queen and the prince. Her recital was frequently interrupted by tears, while she went on to tell them how Irma had nursed her dying mother, and how her mother, who had known all, had, on her death-bed, given Irma her blessing.
The queen held her handkerchief to her eyes and silently extended her hand to Walpurga.
The more Walpurga told them, the more pure and exalted did Irma appear. Turning to Paula, the queen said:
"That is life in death--it must have required inconceivable courage."
"There are saints even in our days," replied Paula. "All that olden times knew of the great, the beautiful and the true, still exists in the world, even though it be scattered and hidden from view."
In the depth of her sorrow, the queen's eye beamed with conscious delight at the thought that, although Gunther was no longer with her, that which was best in him was now beside her in his child.
Walpurga was again obliged to tell them of that morning by the lake. And then she went on to speak of Irma's beautiful work, but she soon noticed that the queen was not listening, and stopped.
They drove on in silence.
They reached the end of the carriage road, and now continued the journey on horseback.
Soon after the queen's departure, the king and Bronnen returned from the chase. They felt refreshed and invigorated by the sport, and the king inquired whether the queen had already repaired to the waterfall, for she had expressed a desire to sketch there.
For the first time in her life. Countess Brinkenstein was so embarrassed that she almost lost her presence of mind. She, of course, felt a proper sympathy for Irma, but as long as she had lived in concealment she should have died in concealment. Why should she thus agitate them all anew? She shook her head in deprecation of this eccentric being who, long after one had mourned and forgotten her, was not even decently dead.
With faltering voice, she informed the king of what had happened, and scarcely ventured to tell him that on her own responsibility, and contrary to all court regulations, the queen had gone away, attended by no one but Paula and privy councilor Sixtus.
For some moments, the king neither moved nor uttered a word, but stood there with his eyes bent on the ground. The very earth at his feet seemed to tremble. Everything seemed unsteady as if in an earthquake, and terrors and despair overwhelmed him.
All that he had experienced, during long years of suffering and expiation, now rose before him again. He had striven and wrestled and made sacrifices, and no one had thanked him for all this; least of all his own heart, for he was burdened with guilt and yet anxious to do good, and forced to acknowledge, in all humility, that the power to do good was yet left him.
Trembling with agitation, he pressed his clenched hand against his brow. His cheeks burned, while his limbs shook with a feverish chill. God be thanked, she still lives! The guilt of death is lifted from my soul; and she, too, will see what I have suffered, and what I have become--
During the last few moments, he had lived the secret torments of past years over again. He now looked about him, as if emerging from another world. There had been no earthquake; the trees, the houses, the mountains still stood in their old places. He looked at Bronnen and, offering his icy cold hand, whispered almost inaudibly:
"And so the presentiment that you expressed at the hunting-seat, is true."
His voice was thick. He ordered fresh saddle-horses and a second carriage to be sent after him.
A few moments later, Bronnen and he were following in the wake of the queen.
Chapter XIX
The queen rode up the mountain, while Walpurga walked on by her side. The sun was already sinking in the west. Its slanting rays shone through the tree-tops and on the road which Gunther and the little pitchman had taken on the night before, and there were now but few signs of the rivulets that had yesterday traversed the path.
The queen did not utter a word, but she often gazed at Walpurga, and many old memories and associations were awakened in her mind. There, walking along beside me, is a woman who was brought from her home at my request. In those days, when, with the king and Gunther, I was sitting under the weeping ash, I was gentle and forgiving toward the fallen, and Gunther said I deserved that thousands should pray for me. Did I really deserve it then? Do I deserve it now? At that time, no one had ever offended or injured me, and it was easy to appear forgiving. But as soon as I was wronged, I gave way to scorn and hatred, and pride in my own virtue, and encouraged myself in that feeling. He changed his whole life, put all that was trivial and vain away from him, and devoted his whole mind to faithful labors for the sake of his people, while I became more and more austere and inflexible just because I was so virtuous. Are you so virtuous, after all? What is the virtue that lives for itself alone? And she who erred so bitterly; has she not expiated still more bitterly? Sinner though she be, she stands far above me. She died for my sake, and yet what has her death profited me? I have left my husband to achieve his difficult work unaided and alone, deserted him in the hour of greatest need. I have lived for myself alone, for to live for my child was to live for myself. I have had charity for the poor and helpless. But how as to my first duty? I could not conquer myself--and am I the one who dares say that I am capable of the highest, and "if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out?" Gunther was right. No one can save you but yourself, for no one else can so often tell you the truth.
During the many years in which she has been striving to perfect herself, and in which he has strengthened himself in noble deeds for his people, what have I been doing? It is I who have sinned. You shall not die, Irma! You must still live, so that I can tell you that I am lost if you die without having forgiven me.
The queen gladly gave way to these thoughts, for they gradually lightened the burden which had so long exerted a depressing influence upon her.
"Have we much further to go?" she asked Walpurga.
Fear again seized her. If Irma were dead! If it were too late for the meeting that would free them both!--She pressed her hand to her throbbing heart, as if it too must cease to beat when the heart up there had ceased to live. In her mind's eye, she beheld Irma, as if glorified and transfigured, while she herself seemed so pitifully small.
"We'll soon be there," said Walpurga.
A voice above was heard, calling:
"Walpurga!"
The sound was echoed again and again from the mountains.
"That's my husband," said Walpurga to the queen, and, in an equally loud voice, she called out:
"Hansei!"
He answered again from above.
Hansei drew near, and when he saw the grand gentlemen, the ladies on horseback, and the liveried servants, he took off his hat and passed his hand over his eyes, as if to satisfy himself that he saw aright.
"How is it with her?" asked Walpurga.
"She's still alive, but she won't last long. I left about an hour ago, and who knows what may have happened since then? The doctor's with her, though."
"We can't ride any farther," said the inspector. The queen and Paula alighted. Sixtus and the servants followed, while they climbed the last hill.
"That's the queen there, in the light silk shawl," said Walpurga, addressing Hansei with a significant gesture.
"It's all the same to me," he answered. "Our Irmgard's better than any of them. What matters the queen? When death comes we're pretty much the same all around. We'll all of us have to die one of these days, and then it won't matter what we've been in these few years."
Bestowing a hurried glance on Hansei, and beckoning Paula to remain behind, the queen hastened forward. She was unattended, but yet, at her right and her left, before and behind her, were the spirits of fear and of deliverance. Fear cried: "Irma is dead; you are too late--" and it seemed as if this would arrest her steps and deprive her of her breath. Deliverance cried: "Hurry on--why loiter? You are free, you bring freedom with you, and shall gain freedom for yourself."
She put forth her hands, as if to wave off the powers that were contending within and about her.
Fear gained the mastery and, with a wailing shriek for help, she cried out:
"Irma! Irma!" and "Irma, Irma," was echoed again and again from the mountains. The whole world was shouting Irma's name.
Irma was still lying within the room, and Gunther was sitting at her bedside. Her breathing was difficult. She scarcely ever turned her head, and only now and then slightly opened her eyes.
Gunther had taken Eberhard's note-book with him, and found an opportunity to read these words of his to Irma: "May this serve to enlighten me on the day and in the hour when my mind becomes obscured."
When he read the words: "God yet dwells in that which, to us, seems lost and ruined," Irma raised herself, but she soon leaned back again and beckoned him to proceed. He read: "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."
Gunther stopped and laid the note-book on Irma's bed. She rested her hand upon it. After a while she raised her hand and, pressing it to her brow, said, while she closed her eyes:
"And yet he chastised me!"
"Whatever he may have done to you, was not done with his free, pure will. A paroxysm, a relapse into mortality, affected it. In the spirit of your father, and as surely as I hope that truth may dwell with me in my own dying hour, I forgive you. You have achieved your own pardon. Forgive him, as he has surely forgiven you. He would bless you now, as I bless you. Remember him lovingly, for the sake of the love he bore you."
Irma seized the hand which Gunther had laid upon her brow, and kissed it. Then, without turning around, and as if speaking to herself, she said: "Stay with me," again and again.
For hours, Gunther sat by her bedside. Not a sound was heard but her painful breathing, which was gradually becoming more and more difficult.
And now, when the mountains echoed her name again and again, Irma raised her head and looked to right and left. "Do you hear it, too?" she asked. "My name--voices, voices everywhere! Voices--" The door opened, and the queen entered the room.
"Oh! at last you are here!" gasped Irma, with a deep sigh. Gathering all the strength yet left her, she raised herself up and knelt in the bed. Her long hair fell over her, her eyes sparkled with a strange luster. She folded her hands and, stretching out her arms, she cried, in heart-rending tones:
"Forgive me! Forgive me!"
"Forgive me, Irma! My sister!" sobbed the queen, clasping Irma in her arms and kissing her.
A smile passed over Irma's face. Then, uttering a loud cry, she fell back and was no more.
The queen knelt at her bedside and Walpurga, who had stood in the background, stepped forward and closed Irma's eyes.
All was hushed. Not a sound was heard, save the sobbing of the queen and Walpurga.
Steps were heard approaching.
"Where? Where is she?" cried the king.
Gunther opened the door and with both hands motioned to him to be silent.
"Dead!" cried the king.
Gunther nodded affirmatively. He beckoned to Walpurga, and she left the room with him.
The king knelt down silently beside the corpse.
The queen arose and, placing her hand on her husband's head, said:
"Forgive me, Kurt, as I am forgiven!"
He seized the proffered hand, and, hand in hand, they stood there for a long while, gazing at Irma, on whose face there rested a gentle smile, even in death. It seemed as if they could not turn away from the sight. At last, the queen removed her white shawl and spread it over Irma.
They left the hut. The sun was setting in purple glory, and all about them was hushed in silence.
Gunther approached the queen, gave her the journal wrapped in the bandage, and said: "This is Irma's bequest to Your Majesty."
The queen went up to Walpurga, silently offered her hand, and kissed the child that she was carrying in her arms.
The king offered his hand to Hansei and said: "I thank you; I shall see you again."
The little pitchman went up to the king and queen and said:
"May God reward you for having come to her. She deserved it."
The king and queen walked away in the direction of the forest. Their retinue kept in the background.
Chapter XX
The king and queen went into the forest.
They were walking hand in hand.
Night drew on. The wind rustled through the tree-tops.
The queen stood still for a moment and then, impelled by the ardent love she had so long repressed, embraced her husband, kissing his eyes, his mouth and his brow, and said:
"I've asked the departed one to forgive me! She died with my kiss on her lips. I now ask you who still live, to forgive me. You have both expiated--she, alone, by herself; you, alone, while at my side!"
She took out an amulet which she had worn hidden next to her heart. It was the betrothal ring which the king had given to her.
"Take this ring, and put it on your hand," she said.
"We are united anew," replied the king, while he put the ring on his finger and embraced the queen. He clasped her in his arms and her head rested against his heart.
With a firm step, they descended the mountain unto where their carriages were waiting for them.
Followed by the servants, Bronnen, Sixtus, and Paula also descended the mountain.
The king and queen were in the first carriage; Paula and Sixtus in the second. Bronnen went back with Gunther to the cottage.
The newly espoused arrived at the dairy-farm. The first thing they did was to go to the crown prince's apartments and, while they stood at the child's bed, the king said:
"He sleeps, and his innocent, infant mind knows nothing of our differences. It is well for us that, with his dawning powers, he will see in us only love and harmony, enduring unto death."
During all that night, the king and queen sat by the lamp, reading the journal of the solitary worldling.
Gunther and Bronnen had lingered in the hut above. Gunther sat with Walpurga for a while, holding her hand in his, while he told her that her perfect innocence had now been brought to light. A silent nod was her only reply.
The cows gathered about the hut. Their bellowing and snorting proved that their unerring instinct told them of the presence of death, and scarcely were they driven away, before they returned again.
The little pitchman dug a grave during the night. It was up at the spot where Irma had so often rested. He shed many a tear over his work, and once, when he paused to take breath, said to himself: "When the kid is old enough to run of itself, I'll let it go back into the woods."
Irma was buried at early dawn. Hansei, the little pitchman, Gunther and Bronnen carried her, Walpurga and the child following after them. Gundel and Franz had covered the sides and the bottom of the grave with Alpine roses. Wrapped in the queen's white mantle, Irma was silently laid to rest, just as the rosy dawn appeared in the east.
Down in the valley, the king and queen had been reading Irma's journal. Day was breaking. They gazed at the rosy dawn and lifted their eyes to the mountains--to where Irma was being buried on the heights.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The familiar "thou."]
[Footnote 2: Kammer--meaning here the chamberlain and other officers composing the household.]
[Footnote 3: Church festival.]
[Footnote 4: "Geh zum Kukuk!"]
[Footnote 5: "He who goes up with the cattle into the mountains, during the good season, is a 'Senn.' In Switzerland, this is done by men; in the Eastern Alps, in the Bavarian highlands, and in Austria, generally by women--the 'Sennerin,' 'Almerin.'"
(The Alps--H. BERLEPSCH.)]
"The first great English novel that has appeared in the 20th century."--Lewis Melville in N. Y. Times Saturday Review.
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A notable novel of life near London in the fifties.
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Bookman: "He writes in a pleasant, free-and-easy way.... He accepts things chiefly at their face value, but he describes them so accurately and agreeably that he recalls vividly to mind the plays we have seen and the pleasure we have found in them."
New York Evening Post: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical book can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full index ... uncommonly useful for reference."
Dial: "Noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the most interesting of literary fields.... Provides a varied menu of the most interesting character.... Prof. Hale establishes confidential relations with the reader from the start.... Very definite opinions, clearly reasoned and amply fortified by example.... Well worth reading a second time."
New York Tribune: "Both instructive and entertaining."
Brooklyn Eagle: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting' himself with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic.... Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound critic.... Most people will be surprised and delighted with Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity, and ingenuousness."
New York Dramatic Mirror: "Though one may not always agree with Mr. Hale's opinions, yet one always finds that he has something interesting to say, and that he says it well. Entertaining and generally instructive without being pedantic."
The Theatre: "A pleasing lightness of touch.... Very readable book."
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HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
Publishers New York
THE NIBELUNGENLEID
Translated into rhymed verse in the metre of the original by George Henry Needler, of University College, Toronto. Gilt top, 335 pp. 12mo. $1.75 net (by mail $1.87).
Prof. H. C. G. Brandt, Hamilton College, Clinton, N. Y.: "It is the best English translation, without question. The translator shows his good judgment when he retains the original strophe, the characteristic last half-verse with its four ictus included. That a Germanist could write an introduction of only 36 pages to such a much-discussed epic will be a marvel to his fellows. But it contains all the general reader wants and needs to know."
N. Y. Evening Post: "At last we have an English translation of the Nibelungenlied which is in every way worthy of the original."
N. Y. Times Review: "The book stands in no need of any apology.... The scholarly introduction deserves unqualified praise."
Buffalo Commercial: "This version, it is safe to say, is the best ever published in our language."
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AUS DEUTSCHEN MEISTERWERKEN (Nibelungen, Parcival, Gudrun, Tristan und Isolde). Erzählt von Sigmon M. Stern. With a full vocabulary, xxvii + 225 pp. 16mo. $1.20.
A simple version in German of those great German legends which every educated person should know. Under Parcival, the legend of Lohengrin is also told. The stories are broken up into short easy chapters, and written in such simple German that no editorial matter, beyond a few words of introduction, has been thought necessary.
WAGNER'S RING OF THE NIBELUNG
By G. T. Dippold. Revised Edition, 12mo. $1.50.
The mythological basis is explained. (76 pp.) Then the stories of the four music dramas are given with translations of many passages and some description of the music. (160 pp.)
HENRY HOLT & CO., 29 W. 23d St., NEW YORK 378 Wabash Ave., CHICAGO