Title: On the Heights - A Novel
Author: Auerbach, Berthold, 1812-1882
Language: English
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                           BY THE SAME AUTHOR


                         THE VILLA ON THE RHINE
                Leisure Hour Series, 2 vols. 16mo. $2.00


                       HENRY HOLT & CO., NEW YORK



                             ON THE HEIGHTS

                               _A NOVEL_


                                   BY

                           BERTHOLD AUERBACH


                             TRANSLATED BY
                           SIMON ADLER STERN



                                NEW YORK
                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
                                  1907



       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
                              HENRY HOLT,
       In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.



                            ON THE HEIGHTS.



                                BOOK I.



                               CHAPTER I.



Early mass was being celebrated in the chapel attached to the royal
summer palace.

The palace stood on a slight eminence in the center of the park. The
eastern slope of the hill had been planted with vineyards, and its
crest was covered with mighty, towering beeches. The park abounded with
maples, plane-trees and elms, with their rich foliage, and firs of
various kinds, while the thick clusters of needles on the fir-leaved
mountain pine showed that it had become acclimated. On grassy lawns
there were solitary tall pines of perfect growth. A charming variety of
flowers and leaf plants lent grace to the picture which, in all its
details, showed evidence of artistic design and exquisite taste.

The paths were neatly kept. The flowers were sparkling with the dews of
morning; birds were singing and the air was laden with the fragrant
perfume of the new-mown grass. Swans, and rare varieties of ducks from
foreign lands, were swimming in the large lake, on the banks of which
the bright-hued flamingo might also have been seen. The fountain in the
center of the lake sent its waters to such a height that they were lost
in spray.

A clear mountain brook, running between alders and weeping-willows, and
under many a rustic bridge, emptied into the lake, flowing thence
through the valley until it reached the river, bright glimpses of which
might here and there be caught through openings in the shrubbery.

Tables, chairs and benches of graceful form had been placed under the
trees and at various points that commanded a fine prospect.

Seated near the chapel there was a man of impressive appearance. His
dress betokened scrupulous care. His thick hair was as white as his
cravat. His eyes were blue and sparkling, and full of youthful fire. He
looked out upon the broad landscape, the valley crowded with fruit-trees,
the near-lying hills, and the mountain beyond, whose lines stood
out in bold relief against the blue sky above. He had a book in his
hand, but now laid it aside and drank in the peaceful influences of the
scene before him.

The great door of the chapel was open: the mighty sounds of the organ
were heard; a soft cloud of incense floated out on the morning air and
then vanished into space.

This impressive-looking man was the king's physician, Doctor Gunther,
who, being a Protestant, had not attended mass.

Just then, a beautiful woman, carrying an open sunshade, stepped out
from the veranda which was almost concealed by trellised vines. She
wore a full, white robe, and her headdress was a simple morning cap
with blue ribbons. Her bright, rosy face beamed with youth and beauty;
her hair was of a golden hue and she seemed the very incarnation of
glorious day.

The doctor, hearing the rustling of her dress, had at once advanced and
made his obeisance.

"Good-morning, doctor!" said the lady, whose two female companions had
kept a few steps to the rear. Her voice was not clear and bright, but
suggestive of the soulful violoncello-tone which is more properly the
vehicle of intense and fervent feeling, than of loud-voiced joy.

"What a charming day!" continued the lady; "and yet, for that very
reason, doubly sad to those who are obliged to pass it in a sick-room.
How is our dear Countess Brinkenstein?"

"The countess, may it please Your Majesty, may safely take the air for
an hour to-day."

"I'm delighted to hear you say so. Sadness and sickness should indeed
both be unknown in this lovely spot."

"The countess must regard herself as doubly fortunate, now that she is
able to perform the interesting duties that await her."

"Speak softly," suddenly said the queen, for the sounds of the organ
had ceased; the time of the consecration had arrived. "Ah, dear doctor,
I should like to confide a secret to you."

The other ladies stepped aside, while the queen and the doctor walked
up and down on the open space in front of the chapel.

"From one's physician, nothing should be kept concealed," said the
doctor; "Your Majesty credited me, not long since, with the possession
of a stethoscope by means of which I could note the movements of the
soul itself."

"Yes," replied the queen, her face mantled with blushes, "I've already
thought of applying to you for ghostly advice, but that were
impracticable; such matters I must settle for myself. But I've a
request to make of you as the physician."

"Your Majesty has but to command--"

"No, that can't be done in this instance. What I meant was--"

At that moment, the bell began to toll, and the king came out of the
chapel. He wore the simple dress of a citizen and was without
decorations of any kind. He was followed by the gentlemen and ladies of
the court, the former of whom were also in citizen's dress, and, for
the greater part, wore the picturesque costume of the mountaineers of
that region.

The king was a man of stately appearance and erect bearing. He bowed to
the queen from afar, and hastened forward to meet her. The ladies and
gentlemen composing his train remained in the background exchanging
kindly greetings. The king addressed a few words to the queen, whereat
she smiled; he, too, seemed happy, and, offering her his arm, led her
toward the pavilion. The ladies and gentlemen followed, indulging in
cheerful and unconstrained conversation by the way.

A young lady, leaving the rest of the party, joined the doctor and
grasped his hand most cordially. She was of a tall and graceful figure;
her hair and eyes were brown. She wore a simple, light-colored summer
dress and a loose jacket which was open and revealed the full
chemisette. A leather girdle studded with steel buttons encircled her
waist. Her movements were easy and graceful; her expression, half
earnest, half mischievous. "Might I ask," said she, addressing the
doctor, "the name of the book you've found worth reading on this lovely
morning?"

"It was well worth reading, although, to tell the truth, I've not
opened it," replied the doctor, while he handed the little book to her.
It was Horace.

"Oh, it's Latin!" said the lady. Her voice was as clear and bold as
that of a chaffinch. "And this, I suppose, is your mass."

The doctor briefly alluded to the success with which the ancient
writers had compressed so many weighty and enduring thoughts into so
small a volume.

The party entered the saloon, seating themselves as best pleased them,
for the order of rank or precedence was not insisted on at breakfast.
They were in the country and, with their uniforms, had laid aside many
of the vexatious requirements of etiquette.

There is nothing more cheerful than a gay and unconstrained party at
breakfast. All are still full of the new strength that refreshing sleep
has lent them; society succeeds to solitude; and the spirits of all
seem affected by the soft, dewy morn.

There were no servants at breakfast. The ladies waited on the company,
which was almost as free and unconstrained as a family party. The
doctor drank nothing but tea which he himself prepared. The lady with
the brown hair invited herself to a seat next to him and poured out
the tea for him. At her left, sat Colonel Von Bronnen, the king's
adjutant-general, and the only one, in fact, who did not seem to miss
his uniform.

The party seemed in undress, mentally as well as physically, and there
was much loud and confused talking.

"Dear me! It's Sunday!" said the young lady with the brown hair.

Uproarious laughter greeted her remark; and when the queen inquired as
to the cause of so much merriment, the doctor informed her of the
startling discovery which had just been made by Countess Irma von
Wildenort. The queen smiled.

"I had thought," said the king, addressing the countess and at the same
time lighting his cigar--he was the only one who smoked in the
saloon--"that with you every day was Sunday."

"Yes, Your Majesty, but only since I've had the honor of being here. At
the convent, Sunday was the only day on which we had cake, whilst here
we have cake every day; and so I am obliged to use some other means to
find out which is Sunday."

Von Schnabelsdorf, who had recently visited Spain on service of a
diplomatic nature and was now awaiting orders, was sitting opposite the
doctor. Addressing his conversation to the latter, he remarked that a
friend of his who lived in Madrid had written a highly interesting
work, to which he, also, had contributed a few ideas. It was soon to
appear, and its subject was "Sunday," or rather "The Sabbath."

The king had overheard his remarks and inquired as to what these ideas
were. Schnabelsdorf replied that as seven corresponded with the quarter
of the lunar month, it was a natural division, and that the institution
of the Sabbath was older than all positive religions. He had apt
quotations to support every statement and did not forget to lug in the
names of his distinguished friends.

Von Schnabelsdorf's learned discourse failed to make a deep impression
on the company, which continued in its cheerful vein until the queen
rose, beckoning the doctor to follow. The king offered her his arm and
conducted her to a lovely seat under a weeping ash, on the slope of the
lawn.

It was delightful to behold this royal pair, so tall and stately; and
the queen was doubly beautiful, for another life was budding within her
own.

The queen seated herself and the king sat down beside her. Without
waiting for orders, the doctor drew up his chair and joined them.

"Yes," said the queen, "I must speak to you about it; I must tell you
of a pain--"

"Perhaps I had better withdraw," said the king.

"No, you must remain. Once more, I ask you; if God grants me health,
may I not nurse the child that is to be mine?"

An almost imperceptible glance from the king informed the doctor what
answer he was to make to the queen.

"I have already had the honor of acquainting Your Majesty with my
opinion of the superstitious belief that the mere performance of
maternal duties preserves the mother's beauty. Your wish is inspired by
a feeling which, in itself, is beautiful. But, both for your own sake
and that of the child, it were impossible to accede to it. The duties
of a queen, the demands of etiquette, the need of your presence at
court and the various emotions which these employments must necessarily
occasion, render it out of the question. A high state of development
has effects upon the nervous system, which effects, being transmitted
to the child, must cling to it for life."

"I beg you, dear Mathilde," added the king, "to avoid distressing
yourself. Consider the prince's welfare."

"Don't always talk of a prince. Promise me that you will be just as
happy, if it be a princess--"

"Just as happy! No, that were impossible. I can't control my feelings
to that extent. But this I can promise you--if you and the child are
well, I shall be happy for all."

"Well, then, let a nurse be brought:--even now, I envy her the child's
affectionate glances and hearty caresses!"

"And what is the sorrow you were complaining of?"

"The thought of depriving another child of its mother troubles my
conscience. Even if thousands have done the same thing time and time
again, he who commits a wrong, sins for himself and as deeply as if it
were the first time the sin were ever committed. Yet, I submit. But I
shall insist on one thing: the foster-mother of my child must be an
honest married woman and must belong to a respectable family. I could
never silence my conscience if I were to deprive a child, already
wretched enough, of its all--its mother! In this I am perfectly
indifferent to worldly regulations and prescribed forms. Is the poor,
forlorn child, born into a hostile world, to be robbed of the only
source of love yet left it? And even if we take an honest married
woman, we will be depriving a child of its mother and inflicting an
injury upon a being that we do not even know. Ah! how hard it is! In
spite of our knowing better, we are yet forced to commit wrong.
However, I shall submit to necessity. But the child that we take from
its mother will be cared for by her family, has a father and, perhaps,
even a kind grandmother and affectionate brothers and sisters. A
hospitable roof will shelter its infant head--"

"Your Majesty," exclaimed the doctor, with an outburst of enthusiasm,
"at this very moment prayers are being offered up for you in thousands
of churches, and myriad voices are saying: 'Amen'!"

"Great God, what duties are thus imposed! One had needs be more than
human to bear the charge--it crushes me to the earth."

"It should elevate instead of depressing you. At this very moment the
breath issuing from millions of lips forms a cloud that supports you.
True humanity is best shown when those who are prosperous and happy and
therefore need no assistance from others, protect the suffering instead
of putting them away from them. The effect of such a mood upon the
child whose heart throbs beneath that of its mother is one of nature's
mysteries. This child must needs become a noble, beautiful being, for
its mother has instilled purest philanthropy into it before its birth."

The king, who had taken the queen's hand in his, now said:

"And so you really know nothing of the law. It isn't merely a family
law that the princes and princesses of our house must be born in
the royal palace--and for which reason, we shall return to the city
to-morrow--but it is also a law of the court that the nurse of a prince
must be a married woman."

"Great Heavens! And how I've been tormenting myself. In the future I
shall think better of the customs of the Court, since I find there are
such beautiful ones among them."

"From the depths of your soul. Your Majesty has given new life to this
law," interposed the doctor, "a law is neither free nor sacred until it
has become a living truth to us."

"Very pretty, and true besides," said the King. He dropped his cigar,
and after looking for it for a little while, said: "Excuse me, doctor,
but wouldn't you be kind enough to have cigars brought for us?"

The doctor went into the house and, after he had left, the King said:

"Pray tell me, Mathilde, was that all that troubled you? I have, for
some time past, observed that there's something on your mind--"

"Yes, there is something on my mind, but I can't speak of it, until it
becomes an actual truth. It's nothing but love for you; pray don't ask
me more at present. You'll soon know all."

When the doctor returned, he found the king alone, and sitting under
the ash. The queen had withdrawn.

"Was the compliment you've just paid the Queen prompted by professional
considerations?" asked the king, with lowering eye.

"No, Your Majesty. I spoke sincerely and from conviction."

The king remained silent for a long time, his eyes resting on the
ground. At last he arose and, moving his hand as if putting something
far away from him, said:

"Well, the queen wishes the nurse to be a young woman from the
Highlands and of a respectable family. Is there time enough left for
you to journey there and select one? Are you not a native of the
Highlands? That were--but no, you must not go now. Send Doctor Sixtus;
give him precise instructions, and let him go from village to village.
He can propose several and you can select the best of them; the others
can be sent home with a gratuity, and--but act on your own judgment;
only, don't fail to send the doctor off this very day."

"Your Majesty's wishes shall be obeyed."



                              CHAPTER II.


"How radiant you look!" said Countess Inna, as she met the doctor.

"Perhaps I do," he replied, "for I've just beheld that divine sight,--a
heart overflowing with pure love of its fellow-beings;--but excuse me
for a moment!" he said, interrupting himself and leaving the countess,
while he went into an adjoining apartment and dispatched a telegram to
Doctor Sixtus, instructing him to prepare himself for an eight days'
journey, and to come to the summer palace forthwith. He then returned
to the countess, to whom he gave an account of what had happened.

"Shall I tell you what I think?" asked the countess.

"You know very well that none dare say you 'nay'."

"Well, then, I can't help thinking that it was far better in olden
times; for then royal children were born in some lonely, out-of-the-way
palace, as quietly as if it were to be kept a secret--"

The doctor interrupted her: "You are indeed a true child of your
father. For, although my dear friend Eberhard was full of strange
fancies during his younger years, he would at times manifest sudden and
surprising diffidence."

"Ah, do tell me of my father! I know so little about him."

"I've known nothing of him for many years. Of course you know that he
has broken with me, because I am at court; but, in the olden times, in
our youthful, enthusiastic days--"

"Then you, too, were once enthusiastic!"

"I was; but not to so great a degree as your father. When I see you, it
seems as if his ideal had become realized. In those days, when I was a
young army surgeon, and he a still younger officer, we would indulge in
fantasy pictures of the future, and what it might have in store for us.
He never thought of a beloved one, or a wife, but would at one bound,
as it were, clear all that lay between, and indulge himself with brain
pictures of a child; a daughter, fresh, tender and lovely beyond
comparison. And now, when I behold you, I look upon his ideal."

"And so my father's only ideal was a child?" asked Irma with pensive
air, and looking earnestly into the doctor's eyes, "and yet for all
that, he left his children to grow up among strangers, and all that I
know of him I am obliged to learn from the lips of others. But I don't
care to speak of myself at present, dear doctor. I have a presentiment
of the queen's secret. I think I know what makes her so quiet and
reserved."

"My dear child," said the doctor, "if you really have a
presentiment,--and that, moreover, in regard to a secret of their
majesties--take my advice: Don't impart it to any one, not even to the
pillow on which you lay your head at night."

"But if your knowing would be of service to the queen? You ought to be
her guide."

"We can only lead those who desire to be led."

"All I ask of you is to have an eye on certain signs. Did the queen say
nothing when she was before the church a little while ago and heard the
mass? Wasn't she startled by a certain tone? Didn't you observe a
certain inclination--"

By a motion of his hand, the doctor signified that Irma had better
stop, and added:

"My child, if you desire to live comfortably at court, you had better
not try to solve riddles which those to whom they belong don't care to
solve for you. But, above all, let no one know--"

"Discretion, discretion; the same old text," said Irma, roguishly, her
beautifully curved lips quivering with emotion.

"You are of a creative temperament, and are therefore out of place at
court," said the doctor. "You desire to assert your individuality,
instead of giving way to prescribed forms; but it can't be done. Just
observe Councilor Schnabelsdorf, who will be used up much sooner
than he imagines. He is constantly offering or preparing something
new--cooking, roasting, or stewing all sorts of interesting information
for his masters--and his memory is an everlasting 'table, table, cover
thyself.' Take my word for it, before a year goes round, they'll all be
tired of him. He who wishes to remain a favorite must not thrust
himself forward."

Irma assented to this opinion, but saw through his attempt to change
the direction of the conversation, and at once returned to what she had
intended to say.

"Pray tell me," said she roguishly, "when one takes a false step, and,
at the same time, injures himself, is it not called a misstep?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, let me tell you that the queen is in danger of making a
misstep, which may be fraught with irreparable injury to her--"

"I'd prefer--" interrupted the doctor.

"Ah! you'd prefer. Whenever you say that, you've something to find
fault with."

"You've guessed it. I'd prefer your leaving the queen to divulge her
secrets at her own pleasure. I thought you were a friend of hers--"

"And so I am."

"Well, and since I am your morning preacher to-day, let me give you
another warning. You are in danger of becoming one of those ladies who
have no friends of their own sex."

"Is that really so dreadful?"

"Most assuredly. You must have a female friend, or there is some fault
in your disposition. Isolation, such as yours, warps one's character,
and, consciously or otherwise, results in vanity. If, from among all
the ladies here, you can't make even one your friend, the fault must
lie in yourself."

"But there's no harm in my having a male friend, a friend like
yourself."

"I couldn't wish you a truer one."

Irma walked beside the doctor in silence.

When they again reached the lawn in front of the palace, Irma said:

"Do you know that this lawn is dressed up every Saturday with false
hay?"

"Less wit and more clearness, if you please."

"Pshaw, how officinal!" said Irma, laughing. "Then allow me to tell you
that the queen once said that she was very fond of the odor of new-mown
hay; and, ever since then, the intendant of the gardens has had the
lawn mowed at least once a week. But as stubborn nature won't furnish
hay quickly enough, they bring some from one of the outlying meadows
and spread it about during the night. And yet they persist in saying
that, in our age, princes are not deceived."

"I can find nothing wrong or laughable in the matter. The intendant is
one of those who regard themselves as the pleasure-purveying providence
of their masters and--"

"'Pleasure-purveying providence!'--that's excellent. What a happy
thought! I shall hold fast to that. How can you say you've no wit? Why,
you're brimful of delicious sarcasm. Oh dear, 'pleasure-purveying
providence'!" said Irma, laughing heartily; and while laughing, more
lovely than ever.

The doctor found it no easy matter to lead the conversation back to the
point at which it had been interrupted. Whenever he attempted a serious
remark, she would look at him with a roguish expression and give way to
laughter so hearty that he could not help joining in it. But when he at
last said that he had heretofore given her credit for something more
than mere occasional flashes of wit, and that he had, until now,
supposed her capable of carrying on an argument, she quickly became the
docile scholar, willing to be led by her master. And so skillfully did
the doctor use his arguments that she soon reflected his thoughts as if
they were her own.

A tall and handsome page, with an aquiline nose and raven hair,
approached the countess.

"My lady," said he, "her majesty the queen awaits you in the
music-room."

Irma excused herself to the doctor, whose eyes followed her with a
thoughtful gaze. In a little while the rich and metallic notes of
Countess Irma's voice were heard.

"Eberhard used to sing delightfully," said the doctor, directing his
steps toward the palace. When he approached the music-room, and saw
that the canon, who had read the mass that morning, was about to enter,
he hesitated.

The morning was soft and balmy; nature seemed wrapped in bliss. Every
plant, every flower, thrives best in its native soil. Man alone is
constantly creating new torments for himself. Could it be possible that
the mischievous countess was right, after all? But why should the queen
wish to forsake the faith of her ancestors?

The doctor retired to an arbor and read his Horace.

Doctor Sixtus presented himself before the dinner hour, and, while the
company were seating themselves at table, rode off in the direction of
the mountains.

That evening--it was mild and starlight--the court drove to the
capital; for the corner-stone of the new arsenal was to be laid on the
following day, with great pomp and military display.



                              CHAPTER III.


The bells were ringing merrily. Their sounds were re-echoed by the
rugged mountains, and then floated out over the lake, the smooth,
green, glassy surface of which mirrored the forest-clad shores, the
rocky crags, and the skies above.

Crowds were issuing from the church, the only building at the upper end
of the lake. The men, donning their green hats with the black cock
plumes, took their pipes from their pockets and struck a light; the
women busied themselves with their dress, adjusted the pointed, green
hats, smoothed their aprons, and tied the broad streaming ends of their
silk kerchiefs anew. Following after the old women, who are always the
last to leave the church, there was a handsome young couple. The wife
was tall and stout, the husband slender and hardy as a pine. His
appearance showed the effects of the week's hard work. His pointed,
green hat, on which there was no hunter's badge, was worn aslant; he
took off his jacket and laid it over his shoulder, and then, with a
smile which seemed somewhat out of keeping with his weather-beaten
face, said:

"Don't you see? This is much better. Now there's no danger of your
getting squeezed in the crowd."

The young wife nodded assent.

A group of women and girls seemed to have been waiting for her. One of
the older members of the party said:

"Walpurga, you shouldn't have done such a thing as walk all the way to
church. You don't know how near you are to your time, and sometimes
there's too much of a good thing."

"It won't do me any harm," replied the young wife.

"And I've prayed for you this morning," said a young, saucy maid, who
wore a bunch of fresh flowers in her bosom. "When the priest prayed for
the queen and asked God to help her in the hour of trial, I asked
myself: What's the use of my worrying about the queen? There are enough
praying for her without me: and so I thought of you and said, Amen,
Walpurga!"

"Stasi, I'm sure you meant well," said Walpurga deprecatingly, "but I
want no share in it. You never ought to do such a thing. It's wrong to
change a prayer in that way."

"She's right," said the old woman. "Why, that 'ud be just the same as
taking a false oath."

"Let it go for nothing, then," said the girl.

"It must be fine to be a queen," said the old woman, folding her hands.
"At this very hour, in all the churches, millions are praying for her.
If such a king and queen aren't good after all that, they must be awful
wicked."

The old woman, who was the midwife of the neighborhood, was always
listened to with great attention. She accompanied husband and wife for
a part of the way, and gave them precise information as to where she
might be found at any hour during the next few days. Then, taking the
mountain path which led to her dwelling, she left them, the rest of the
church-goers dropping off in various directions as they reached the
lanes and by-paths leading to their farms. The children always kept in
front, their parents following after them.

A party of girls, who were walking along hand in hand, had much to say
to one another. But at last they, too, separated and joined their
parents.

The young couple were alone on the road. The glaring rays of the
noonday sun were reflected from the lake.

It was almost a full hour's walk to their house, and they had scarcely
gone a few hundred steps, when the wife said:

"Hansei, I oughtn't to have let Annamirl go."

"Ill run after her as fast as I can, I can catch up with her yet," said
the husband.

"For God's sake, don't!" said his wife, holding him fast. "I'd be all
alone here on the highway. Stay here! It'll soon be all right again."

"Wait a second! Hold fast to the tree! That's it."

The husband rushed into the meadow, gathered up an armful of hay,
placed it on the pile of stones by the wayside, and seated his wife
upon it.

"I feel better, already," said the wife.

"Don't talk now, rest yourself! Oh! dear me; if only a wagon were to
come along; but there's neither man nor beast in sight. Just take a
good rest, and then I'll carry you home. You're not too heavy for me.
I've carried heavier loads many a time."

"Do you mean to carry me, in broad daylight?" said the wife, laughing
so heartily that she was obliged to rest her hand on the stones, to
support herself. "You dear, good fellow! Much obliged, but there's no
need of it. I'm all right now, and can walk." She got up briskly, and
Hansei's face was radiant with joy.

"Thank God! Here comes the doctor, in the very nick of time."

The doctor, who lived in the neighboring town, was just turning the
corner. Hansei raised his hat and requested him to take his wife into
the carriage. He gladly consented, but Walpurga seemed loth to get in.

"I never rode in a carriage in all my life," said she, repeatedly.

"Everything must be tried, you know," said the doctor, laughing, as he
assisted her into the carriage. He told the husband that he might get
up on the box, but he declined.

"I'll drive slowly," said the doctor.

Hansei walked along by the side of the carriage, constantly casting
happy glances at his wife.

"Now we're two thousand paces from home; now we're a thousand," said
he, talking to himself, while his glances showed his gratitude to the
doctor, to the carriage that was kind enough to allow his wife to sit
in it; and even to the horse from which he brushed the troublesome
flies.

"Hansei is doing the horse a kindness," said the doctor to the young
wife. She did not answer, and the doctor looked pleased with the
husband, whom he had known for a long while as a wood-cutter in the
royal forest. Hansei carried his hat in his hand and would now and then
with his sleeve wipe the perspiration from his brow. His face was
sunburnt and void of expression, and, as he had not been a soldier, he
wore no mustache. A shaggy beard, extending from his temples, encircled
his long face; his forehead was, for the greater part, covered with
thick, light hair; his short leather breeches displayed his great
knees; the clocked, knitted leggins must surely have been a gift from
his wife; the heavy hobnailed shoes had been used in many a mountain
walk. Hansei walked along, beside the coach, with steady step, and at
last exclaimed: "We're home!"

The little cottage by the lake stood in the midst of a small garden; an
old woman was at the gate, and called out: "So you ride home in the
bargain."

"Yes, mother," answered the wife, who, with profuse thanks, took leave
of the doctor, while Hansei gratefully patted the horse that had safely
brought her home.

"I'm going right off for Annamirl," said he; "keep some dinner for me."

"No, let's eat together; I'm hungry, too," exclaimed the wife, while
she laid her hymn-book aside, and removed her hat and jacket. She was
good-looking, had a full, round, cheerful face, and large plaits of
light hair encircled her brow. She forced herself to remain at the
table and join in the meal with her husband and mother, but as soon as
the last morsel had passed his lips, Hansei started on his errand.

It was high time for Annamirl to come. Before the chickens had gone to
roost, the Sunday child, a screaming, fair-haired girl baby, had come.

Hansei was quite beside himself with joy, and did not know what to do.
He had not had a comfortable dinner, and it seemed a great while since
he had eaten anything. It was ever so long ago, for he had become a
father since then; and it seemed as if years, instead of hours, had
passed in the mean while. He cut off a large slice from the loaf, but
when he got out of doors, where the birds were chirping so merrily and
the starlings were so tame, he cried out: "Here! You shall have some
too; I want you to know that I'm a father, and of a Sunday child at
that!" He threw the soft bread-crumbs to them, and the crust into the
sea, saying: "Here, ye fish who feed us; to-day I'll feed you!" He
was overflowing with goodwill to the whole world, but there was no
one left on whom he could exercise it. He knew not where he should
betake himself to. Suddenly he spied the ladder leaning against the
cherry-tree; he mounted it, plucked the cherries, and kept on eating
until he quite forgot himself, and felt as if it were not he who was
eating, but as if he were giving them to some one else. He no longer
knew where or who he was, and at last began to fear that he was
bewitched and would never be able to get down again. The telegraph wire
ran by the house and almost touched the cherry-tree. Hansei looked at
it as if to say:  "Go, tell the whole world that I'm a father." He was
delighted to see swallows and starlings sitting on the wire, and nodded
to them, saying: "Don't disturb yourselves, I'll not harm ye." And so
he went on plucking cherries, and looking straight before him for ever
so long.

Then the grandmother put her head out of the window and called to him:
"Hansei, your wife wants you."

He hurried down from the tree, and when he entered the room his wife
laughed at him heartily, for his lips were black and his face was
streaked with the juice of cherries.

"So you've been pilfering. Do leave a few cherries for me!"

"I'll bring the ladder into your room, so that I shant be able to go up
into the tree again," said he, and there was merry laughter in the
little cottage by the lake until the moon and stars looked down on it.
The lamp in the little chamber was kept burning all night. The mother
soon fell into a peaceful and happy slumber, and the Sunday child would
whimper at times, but was easily quieted.

The grandmother was the only one awake--she had merely feigned
sleep--and now sat on a footstool by the cradle of the new-born babe.

A bright star was shining overhead. It flickered and sparkled, and,
within the cottage, the face of the mother was resplendent with joy as
indescribable as the radiance of the star above. A child of man had
become mother of a child of man, and she who watched over them was the
one from whom both these lives had sprung. The soft air seemed laden
with song and the sounds of heavenly music, and the room itself, as if
thronged with fluttering, smiling cherubs.

The old grandmother sat there, resting her chin on her hand and gazing
at the star above, whose rays fell upon her face. She sat there with
bated breath, feeling as if transported into another world. The glory
of the Highest had descended upon the cottage, and, like a halo, now
encircled the head of the grandmother, Walpurga, and the infant.

"Mother! How brightly the stars are shining!" said Walpurga, awaking.

"Never fear, they'll keep on shining, even if you shut your eyes. Do go
to sleep again!" answered the grandmother.

And, until the day broke, all lay hushed in slumber.



                              CHAPTER IV.


Seated in an open carriage, Doctor Sixtus journeyed toward the
Highlands.

The doctor was a man of easy and winning address. While the present
king was yet the crown prince, he had accompanied him on his travels
and, in the society of nobles, had improved on the light and graceful
manner which he had acquired during a three years' stay in Paris. Just
as princes treat their inferiors and regard their service as a right,
so, in turn, do courtiers abuse those who are under them. The court
doctor had chosen for his lackey, one of the readiest, and most
skillful at command.

"Give me a light, Baum!" said he; and the lackey, who was sitting
beside the driver on the box, handed him a lighted match. With gentle
condescension, Sixtus offered his cigar-case to the lackey, who
gratefully helped himself to a cigar. He well knew that it would prove
too strong for him, and that, if he attempted to smoke it, it would in
all likelihood throw him into a cold sweat; but he knew also that it is
a safe rule never to refuse a proffered favor.

The road was good and the ride a pleasant one. At the next station, the
royal horses were sent back to the king's stables and a relay of fleet
post-horses was taken. Doctor Sixtus had no need to trouble himself
about such matters--Baum knew what was needed and attended to it.

"Baum, where were you born?" asked the court doctor.

Although Baum was startled by the question, he acted as if he had not
heard it. He found it necessary to collect himself before he could
reply. His features were agitated for a moment, but he quickly assumed
a modest and innocent expression.

The doctor repeated his question: "Baum, where were you born?"

With a face expressive of willingness to serve him in any way, Baum
turned toward the doctor and said:

"I come from the Highlands; far over there near the border; but I've
never felt at home there."

Sixtus, whose question had been a casual one, had no desire to inquire
further into Baum's history.

He was quite affable toward Baum, who was the favorite lackey at court,
since he possessed the art of showing by his demeanor how highly he
esteemed the exalted personages whom he served.

"Keep as near the telegraph as possible," had been the instructions
given to Doctor Sixtus. "Report every morning and evening where a
dispatch will reach you, so that you may be recalled at any moment."

Doctor Sixtus looked out at the telegraph wires, running through the
valleys and climbing over the hills, and smiled to himself. "I, too, am
nothing more than an electric spark, with this difference however: the
master who has sent me does not know where I am going to. No, I am like
the spirit in the fairy-tale; I bring money and luxury to an invisible
cottage, for I cannot find a rich peasant woman. Where art thou, O
noble foster-mother?"

He looked out at the landscape with a self-complacent smile, while, in
his day-dreams, various images appeared and vanished like the smoke
clouds of his cigar.

It was after dark when they drew near to a little watering-place in the
Highlands.

While they ascended the mountain, the lackey walked on beside the
postilion. Sixtus had entrusted him with the secret reason for their
journey. They had already, in distant lands, shared in adventures of
quite a different nature. Baum engaged the postilion in conversation
about the life and ways of the neighborhood and adroitly managed to
inquire about young lying-in women. He had found the right party. The
postilion was the son of a midwife, whose only fault was that she had
died some time ago.

Sixtus was much gratified by the hint which he had just received of how
his mission might be fulfilled. He would seek information from the
midwives of every village, and, in order to avoid being overrun, would
take good care not to let them know for whom the foster-mother was
wanted.

When Baum was about to return to his seat, Sixtus quietly called him
and said: "During the whole of this journey, you're to address me
simply as 'Herr Doctor.'"

The lackey did not ask why, for that was no part of his business; nor
did he conjecture as to the reason; he was a lackey and obeyed orders.
"He who does more than he's ordered to do is good for nothing," were
the words that Baroness Steigeneck's chamberlain had often impressed
upon him, and whatever the chamberlain said was as a sacred law to
Baum.

The little watering-place was full of life. The company had just left
the table. Some were talking of the day's excursion; others, about that
projected for the morrow. A young officer in civil dress, and a stout
gentleman, appeared to be the wags of the assembly. There were jokes
and laughter, and, in the background, a party were singing to the
accompaniment of a piano that was out of tune. All seemed more or less
excited. They had repaired to the Highlands to escape from _ennui_,
and, having arrived there, found themselves bored in earnest; for
there are but few to whom the beauties of nature afford constant and
all-sufficient entertainment.

Luckily for Sixtus, no one recognized him, and Baum, who was without
his livery, allowed no information to escape him. The doctor looked
upon the doings of the gentry about him with a certain aristocratic
sense of superiority. As the neighborhood abounded with goitres, he
concluded to leave without making further inquiries. On the following
morning, they reached a small mountain village. Doctor Sixtus addressed
himself to the village doctor, rode about the country with him for
several days and, at last, left without having accomplished his
mission. He, however, made a note of the names of several of the
parties they had seen.

His knightly pride had well-nigh left him. He had looked into the
dwellings of want and had beheld so much that told of toil and misery,
that the careless indifference with which beings of the same flesh and
blood could live in palaces, seemed like a dream. In this outer world,
existence is mere toil and care, nothing more than a painful effort to
sustain life, with no other outlook than that of renewed toil and care
on the morrow.

"A truce to sentiment," said the doctor to himself. "Things happen thus
in this fine world. Men and beasts are alike. The stag in the forest
doesn't ask what becomes of the bird, and the bird, unless it be a
stork, doesn't care what becomes of the frogs! Away with sentimentality
and dreams of universal happiness!"

The doctor traveled to and fro among the Highlands, always careful to
keep near the telegraph stations, and, as instructed, reporting twice a
day. He despaired of accomplishing his mission, and wrote to his chief
that, although he could not find married women, there were lots of
excellent unmarried ones. He therefore suggested that, as it would not
do to deceive a queen, it would be well to have the most acceptable one
married to her lover at once.

While awaiting a reply, he remained at a village near the lake, the
resident physician of which had been a fellow-student of his.

The scarred face of the portly village doctor was refulgent with traces
of the student cheer which in former days they had enjoyed in common.
He was still provided with a never-failing thirst and ready for
all sorts of fun. His manners had become rustic, and it was with a
self-complacent feeling Sixtus thought of the difference in their
positions.

Doctor Kumpan--this was a nickname he had received while at the
university--looked upon his friend's excursion in search of a nurse as
if it were one of their old student escapades. He rode with him over
hill and dale, never loth to make a slight detour, if, by that means,
they might gain an inn, where he could gratify his hunger with a good
meal, and his thirst with a drop of good wine--the more drops the
better.

"So many of our customs," said Sixtus, one day, "are, at bottom,
immoral. For instance, nurse-hunting."

Doctor Kumpan roared with laughter and said:

"And you too, Schniepel,"--the college nickname of Sixtus--"so you,
also, are one of the new-fashioned friends of the people. You
gentlemen, whose gloves are ever buttoned, treat the people far too
gingerly. We, who live among them, know them far better. They're a pack
of rogues and blockheads, just like their superiors; the only
difference's that they're more honest about it. The only effect your
care for them can have will be to make matters worse. How lucky it is
that the trees in the forest grow without artificial irrigation!"

During these excursions, Doctor Kumpan gave free vent to his rough
humor, and was so delighted with his wit that he could live three days
on the recollection of one of his own wretched jokes.

Sixtus found himself ill at ease in the company of the village doctor,
with whom it was necessary to keep on the same friendly footing as of
yore; and, therefore, made an effort to hasten his departure.

He was about to take his leave--it was on the morning of the second
Sunday following--when Doctor Kumpan said:

"I'm disgusted with myself for having been so stupid. I've got it!
Mother nature herself, unconditioned and absolute--just as old
Professor Genitivius, the son of his celebrated father, used to say,
while he brought his fist down on his desk--Come along with me!"

They drove off in the direction of the lake.



                               CHAPTER V.


Sunday morning had come again, and, with it, stirring times in the
cottage by the lake. Godfather and godmother were there, and, at the
first tolling of the church bell, whose sounds floated on the air like
so many invisible yet audible waves, a procession moved from the house.
The grandmother carried the child upon a soft, downy pillow, over which
a white cover had been spread; following after her, proudly walked the
father, with a nosegay in his button-hole. Beside him, was the
godfather, mine host of the Chamois, followed by tailor Schneck's wife
and other females. A light-haired boy about five years old, and bearing
a two-pronged twig of hazel in his hand, had also joined in the
procession.

"What are you after, Waldl?" asked Hansei.

The boy did not answer. Mistress Schneck took his hand in hers and
said: "Come along, Waldl!" and then turning to Hansei, she continued:
"Don't drive the child away! It's a good sign when a young boy goes
along to the christening; the child will get a husband so much the
sooner, and who knows but--" Hansei laughed to find that they were
already thinking of a mate for his daughter.

While moving along in silent procession, they beheld another good omen.
A swallow flew directly over the heads of the grandmother and the
child, whereupon the former opened her great red umbrella and held it
over herself and the babe.

Walpurga, unable to accompany them on their long walk to church, was
obliged to remain at home. Her friend Stasi, who, on the previous
Sunday, had altered the prayer for the queen in Walpurga's favor,
remained to bear her company. Walpurga, seated in grandmother's
arm-chair, looked out of the latticed window, at the violets, the
buttercups, and the rosemary, the peaceful lake and the blue skies,
while she listened to the sound of the church bell.

"This is the first time my babe goes out into the wide, wide world, and
I'm not with it," said she; "and some day I shall go into the other
world and never be with it again. And still I feel as if it was with me
all the same."

"I don't know what makes you so downhearted today," said her companion;
"if that comes o' getting married, I'll never have a husband."

"Nonsense!" curtly replied Walpurga; her meaning was plain enough. Soon
afterward, she added in a voice tremulous with emotion: "I'm not
downhearted. It's only this. I just feel as if the baby and I had been
both born over again. I don't know how it is, but I feel as if I were
another person. Just think of it! In all my life, I've never lain abed
so quietly and peacefully as I've been doing these many days. And to be
lying there perfectly well, and with nothing to do but think and sleep,
and awake again, and nurse the baby, while kind folks are forever
bringing whatever heart can wish for--I tell you, if I'd been a hermit
in the woods for seven years, I couldn't have done more thinking. It
would keep me busy day and night to tell you all. But what's that?"
said she, suddenly interrupting herself; "just then it seemed as if the
whole house were shaking."

"I didn't notice anything. But your face is enough to give one the
blues. Let's sing something. Just try whether you're still our best
singer."

Her companion insisting, Walpurga at last began to sing, but soon
stopped. Stasi essayed another song, but Walpurga did not care for it;
indeed, none of them were to her liking that day.

"Let's be quiet," said she at last. "Don't worry me through all those
songs; I don't feel like doing anything to-day."

The bells were tolling for the third time. The two friends were sitting
together in silence.

At last Stasi said: "How kind it is of the innkeeper to let them ride
home from church in his wagon."

"Listen! I hear wheels. They can't be coming already."

"No, that's the rattle of the doctor's carriage. There he is, up there
by the willows; and there's another gentleman with him."

"Don't talk to me now, Stasi," said the young mother; "let the whole
world drive by; it's all the same to me."

She sat there silently, resting her head against the back of the chair
and looking out into the golden sunlight that seemed to infuse all
nature with new life. The grass was of a lovelier green than ever
before; the lake glittered with the soft sheen of the ever-changing
light; the waves were splashing against the shore; a gentle breeze
wafted the odors of the violets and rosemary from the window-shelf into
the room.

A carriage stopped before the cottage. First, the loud cracking of a
whip was heard; then, approaching footsteps, and at last, the jolly
doctor calling out: "Hansei! Is there no one at home?"

"No," answered Stasi, "there's nobody but Walpurga and me," whereupon
there was great laughter out of doors.

Doctor Kumpan entered the room, followed by the stranger, who started
as if amazed. Moved with admiration by the sight he beheld, he bowed
involuntarily; but, checking himself, he was more erect than before.

"Where's Hansei, the Sunday child's father?" inquired Doctor Kumpan.

The wife arose and said that he had gone to church with the child and
its sponsors, but that he would soon return.

"Keep your seat!" said the doctor. "I mean to be an unbidden guest at
your christening dinner, and my friend here, who is also a man-killer
like myself, will join us."

"What do you want of my husband? Mayn't I know?"

"The husband cuts the loaf and then helps his wife to some of it. You
know that's the custom of the country, Walpurga. We want to talk to
your husband about a matter of great importance. Don't get frightened,
it isn't a law affair. All I have to say to you is, you've a Sunday
child. Perhaps you're one yourself?"

"I am, indeed."

"So much the better; you're doubly fortunate."

"It seems to me," said Doctor Sixtus, "we might as well speak to the
wife at once. She appears to be a sensible woman and will be glad to
make her husband and child happy."

Walpurga looked about her as if imploring help.

"Well then," said Doctor Kumpan, taking a seat, "you may as well let me
tell it. Now, pay attention, Walpurga. Just keep your seat and let me
tell you a story: Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen. The
king was good and brave, and the queen was lovely, and a son was born
to them who inherited the father's virtues and the mother's beauty; it
might have been a daughter, but they would rather have it a son. Now
when the son was born, they summoned a spirit who lived in the palace,
and was called Doctor Puck; and they said to him: Puck, dear Puck, pack
up your things, and pack yourself off to the mountains as fast as you
can; for there, by the border of the lake, is a pretty little cottage
in which there sits a mother who's tidy, strong, and good, and who's to
be the foster-mother of the little prince, who is as good as his
father, and as lovely as his mother. And the foster-mother shall have
whatever her heart wishes for, and shall make her husband and child
happy; and the king and the queen and the prince, and--but look up,
Walpurga! look at this gentleman. He's the kind spirit named Doctor
Puck, and he comes from the king and the queen. Do you understand me,
Walpurga?"

The young mother rested her head upon the back of the chair and closed
her eyes. She drew a long breath and uttered not a word. At that moment
Hansei returned with the sponsor and the babe. The mother hurried to
her child and taking it in her arms, rushed out into the garden with
it, Stasi running after her.

"What's the matter?" asked Hansei, casting angry glances at the doctor
and the stranger.

"Sit down, my worthy Hansei, and I'll tell you all about it. And it's
well that you're here, too, my good friend of the Chamois: remain with
us. The rest of you may all leave the room."

Suiting the action to the words, Doctor Kumpan hurried out the
villagers, who had been drawn there by curiosity. Then, accepting a
pinch of snuff from the innkeeper, he said: "Hansei, make a bow; you
must know that this gentleman is the court physician. He's sent here by
the king, who wants you to lend him your wife for a year."

The doctor's overbearing manner so enraged Hansei, that he almost felt
like putting him and the court doctor out of the room, and was already
squaring his shoulders for the attack.

Motioning Kumpan to be silent, Sixtus told Hansei that, by the king's
orders, he had sought information in regard to him, and that it had
seemed as if the people did not know whom to praise the most--Hansei or
Walpurga. Hansei grinned self-complacently, and now Sixtus acquainted
him with the king's pleasure.

"Many thanks for the kind words," replied Hansei; "I'm much obliged to
the king for his good opinion of me. I know him well; I rowed him
across the lake twice while he was yet a merry lad, and a wide-awake
huntsman. Tell the king that I hadn't thought he'd still remember me,
but I can't part with my wife. I couldn't be so cruel to her, to
myself, and, above all, to our child."

It was the longest speech he had ever made. He wiped the perspiration
from his brow, and turned toward the table. He was as hungry as a wolf,
and, seeing the nicely cut cake, took a piece, exclaiming: "Before I do
it, may this morsel--"

"Don't swear!" cried the innkeeper, taking the cake from him. "Don't
swear; you can do as you please; no one can compel you."

"And no one wishes to," said Doctor Sixtus; "may I have a piece of
cake?"

"To be sure you may! Help yourself,--and you too, doctor! We've wine
also. Ah, doctor, this day two weeks ago, out on the road, things
looked very serious!"

There was eating and drinking, and with every morsel that Hansei
swallowed, his face grew more cheerful.

"It seems to me, Mr. Landlord, that you could explain the matter to him
better than we," said Sixtus. The innkeeper offered Hansei a pinch of
snuff, with the words: "It would be a great honor to the village and to
the whole neighborhood. Just think of it, Hansei! the king and the
crown prince--"

"Perhaps it's a princess," interrupted Sextus.

"Oh!" said Hansei laughing, "and so the child isn't born yet?" But
while laughing, he thought to himself: "There's still time to think the
matter over." Then he laughed again at the thought, for, with all his
simplicity, he was rogue enough to determine to reap the greatest
possible advantage from it; he couldn't think of such a thing for less
than a thousand--no, two thousand--and, who knows, perhaps even three
thousand florins. Hansei would probably have gone up to a hundred
thousand if the innkeeper had not resumed the conversation, and thus
interrupted the current of his thoughts.

"Hansei is perfectly right; he says neither 'yes,' nor 'no'; he says
nothing; for here the wife must decide. He's a good husband, and won't
force her to do anything against her will. Yes, gentlemen, although
we're only simple country folk, we know what's right."

"It does you credit to respect your wife so," said Doctor Sixtus. The
innkeeper took another pinch of snuff and went on to say: "Of course;
but after all, if I may be allowed to speak my mind freely, a woman's
only half a man in reason and judgment. With your permission, Herr
Court Doctor, I think we'd better say no more for the present, but call
the wife. She's ever so good."

Happiness and misery, pride and humility, were depicted in Hansei's
features.

"Whatever she says, I'll abide by," said he.

He was proud of possessing such a wife, and yet dreaded her decision.
He pulled at the buttons of his coat as if to make sure they were all
there. At last, urged by the innkeeper, he went out into the garden and
called Walpurga, who was still sitting under the cherry tree.



                              CHAPTER VI.


After Walpurga had hurried out into the garden and had pressed the babe
to her bosom, she quietly gave it to Stasi, saying:

"Take the child; I daren't feed it now. Oh, you poor, dear thing! They
want to take me away from you. What harm have you ever done that they
should treat you so? And what have I done? But they can't make me go!
And who'd dare try? But what have they come for? Why to me? Come,
darling, I'm all right again. I'm with you, and we'll not part from
each other. I'm quite calm again."

When Hansei came to call Walpurga, he found her quietly pressing the
child to her bosom and kissing its little hands.

"If you've had your talk out, do come in."

Walpurga motioned him to be quiet, lest he should disturb the child. He
stood there silently for a while; not a sound escaped father, mother,
or child; naught was heard but the starlings in the cherry-tree, who
were feeding their young. Swift as the wind itself they would fly from
their nests and return again. At last, the child, its hunger thoroughly
sated, but its lips still softly moving, dropped back on the pillow.

"Come into the house," said Hansei, in a voice far gentler than his
rough looks would have led one to expect, "Come in, Walpurga. There's
no need of being rude, and there's nothing wrong in what they ask of
us. They can't force us, you know, and we can thank them, at any rate.
You can talk to strangers much better than I can. It's your turn to
speak now; and I'll be satisfied with whatever you say or do."

Walpurga handed the child to the grandmother, and accompanied Hansei
into the house. She looked back several times, and almost stumbled at
the very threshold.

As soon as she entered the room, Doctor Sixtus came up to her, and,
addressing her in a gentle, insinuating manner, said:

"My good woman! I should think it a sin to induce you to do anything
that your heart condemns. But I feel it my duty to urge you to reflect
upon the matter calmly and dispassionately."

"Many thanks. But--I hope you won't think ill of me--I couldn't be so
cruel to my child." Her eye fell on Hansei, and she quickly added, "Nor
my husband either. I can't go away and leave them all alone."

"Why they won't be alone; your mother's here," said the innkeeper,
interrupting her. Doctor Sixtus interposed:

"Don't interrupt her, if you please, sir. Let her speak for herself,
and pour out her whole heart. Pray go on, my good woman."

"I've nothing more to say; I know nothing more. Yes, there's one thing
more. I've never been in service, except to do an odd day's work, now
and then. I was born in this cottage, and I've lived here up to this
time, and 'twas here my husband came to see me. I've never thought of
leaving it, and I can't think of doing so now. I've never slept in a
strange bed. If I had to leave here and go to the city for so long a
time, I'd die of homesickness; and what would become of my child and my
husband? I'm sure the king don't want us all to die of grief."

"I'd like to say a word, too," said Doctor Kumpan, casting an
expressive glance at Doctor Sixtus. "We've already thought of your
child. You've often wished for a cow, and we'll get you one that has
just calved."

"I've got the very thing you want," exclaimed the innkeeper, rushing to
the window and calling to a boy outside: "Go tell my man to bring my
heifer, right away. Be quick about it! Hurry yourself!--I really didn't
care to part with her," said he, addressing Doctor Sixtus and turning
his back on Hansei, who well knew that the innkeeper dealt in cattle
and pigs, all the year around. Everything in his stable had its price,
and here he was acting just as if the heifer were a member of his
family. "She's the very best beast I've got," added he, "but one ought
to give up everything for his king; and she's a bargain at forty crown
thalers." Then turning to Hansei he said, with a grin: "You're getting
a fine, plump little cow--not an empty hide."

"Not so fast, my friend," said Doctor Sixtus; "but if Hansei likes the
heifer, I'll buy it of you."

"The mother goes and the cow takes her place," muttered Walpurga,
absently.

"I never thought you could be so foolish," thundered the innkeeper.
"Why, what a fuss you're making! You ought to shout for joy, and get
down on your knees and thank God!"

Doctor Sixtus quieted him, and the village doctor now said: "Joy and
song come at no one's bidding; if Walpurga won't go with us cheerfully
we'll look further; there must be others besides her."

He arose, and took his hat as if to depart, Doctor Sixtus doing
likewise.

"How soon would I have to go, and how long would I have to be away from
home?" asked the young wife.

Seating himself again. Doctor Sixtus replied: "I can't say how soon,
but you'd have to be ready to go at a moment's notice."

"Then I wouldn't have to go right off--and how long would I have to
stay?"

"A year, or thereabouts."

"No, no! I won't go. God forgive me for giving it a moment's thought!"

"Then we'll take our leave, and may God bless you and your child," said
Doctor Sixtus, offering her his hand. With a voice full of emotion, he
added:

"It would do the royal child more harm than good if you were to leave
here regretfully, and carry a constant grief about with you. That the
mere idea pains you is quite natural. You couldn't, as a good woman and
true mother, have consented at once, and who knows whether I would have
accepted you if you had? What the queen desires is a good woman, who
has a respectable husband and a kind mother; she will have no other,
and has no thought of grieving or offending you. Therefore, if you
can't be cheerful among strangers; if it doesn't gladden your heart to
think that you may benefit the royal child, and that the king will be
kind to you, you'll do far better to remain at home and not allow
yourself to be tempted by the money. Don't let that induce you. No;
you'd better not go."

He was about to leave, when the innkeeper detained him and said:

"I've only one word more to say. Listen, Walpurga, and you, too,
Hansei. You've said: 'No, I won't go,' and the answer does you great
credit. But ask yourselves what the consequence will be? To-day,
to-morrow, perhaps even the day after to-morrow, you'll be quite
content--will take each other by the hand, kiss your child, and say:
'Thank God! we've resisted temptation; we've remained united in
poverty, and maintain ourselves honestly; we'd rather toil and suffer
together than part.' But how will it be a day or a week later? How
then? When sorrow and want and misfortune come--for we're only human
after all--and you find yourselves helpless? Won't you say to
yourselves: 'If we'd only consented.' Won't you then, by word or look,
say to one another: 'Why didn't you urge me? Why didn't you decide to
go?' I don't want to persuade you, I merely want to remind you of all
you ought to consider in the matter."

Silence ensued. The husband looked at his wife and then at the ground;
the wife looked at him for a while, and then suddenly raised her hand
to her eyes.

The cracking of a whip was heard and then a fine black-pied cow
bellowing loud and deep, as if the sound issued from a cavern. All were
startled. The sound broke upon the silence like a ghost-call at
noonday.

The innkeeper cursed and swore, and putting his head out of the window,
abused the servant for not having brought the calf, which had, in
truth, already been sold to the butcher.

The servant fastened the cow to the fence, and hurried home to bring
its calf. The cow dragged at the rope, as if trying to strangle
herself, and groaned and bellowed until she foamed at the mouth.

"That's only a beast, and see how she goes on!" cried Walpurga.

The arrival of the cow seemed to dissipate the effect of the
innkeeper's eloquence. But Walpurga suddenly composed herself. Speaking
quickly, as if addressing an unseen being, and without looking at any
one, she said:

"A man or a woman can do more than a beast!" Then, turning toward her
husband, she added: "Come here, Hansei, give me your hand. Tell me,
from the bottom of your heart, will you be satisfied with whatever I
may do or say?"

"Do you mean if you say 'no'?" replied Hansei, hesitating.

"Whether I say 'yes' or 'no' is what I mean."

Hansei could not utter a word. Had he been able to speak, his remarks
would have been very sensible. He kept looking into his hat, as if
there to read the thoughts that were running through his head. Then he
took his blue pocket-handkerchief, and twisted it up as if he were
trying to make a ball of it. When Walpurga found that Hansei did not
answer, she said:

"I can't ask you to decide. I, alone, can do that. I'm the child's
mother--I'm the wife, and ... if I go, I must, and I'm sure I can,
keep down all grief, so that I may do no harm to the other child;
and--and--here's my hand, sir--my answer is 'yes'."

It seemed as if a load had been lifted from the hearts of all present.
Hansei felt a stinging sensation in his eyes, and as if choking. To
allay this, he indulged in a fresh glass of wine and a large slice of
cake. What a strange day! If the company would only go, so that one
could get a bite of something warm. The morning seemed as if it would
never end. The two physicians had much to say to Walpurga, who promised
to keep herself as cheerful as possible. She told them that when she
had once undertaken a thing she would carry it out; that God would help
to preserve her child and that she would do all she could for the
king's child. "You can depend upon it, when I've made up my mind to do
a thing, I do it," she repeated again and again. Now that she had
decided, she seemed to have acquired wondrous self-control. Spying her
mother, who was carrying the child, she called her to her, and told her
of everything. The child slumbered peacefully, and was placed in the
cradle that stood in the bedroom. The grandmother seemed to look upon
the whole affair as if it were an unalterable decree of fate. For years
it had been her wont to allow Walpurga to decide in all things, and in
this case, moreover, the king's pleasure was to be regarded.

"Your child won't be motherless; I understand her better than you do.
We've got a cow, and we'll see that the child is well cared for."

The innkeeper hurried out and put the cow in the stable. That closed
the purchase and gave him a pretty profit. He was provoked at himself
to think that he had not asked ten thalers more. He managed to get two
thalers additional, as a gratuity for the boy, but half of this sum
found its way into his own pocket.

Hansei, who had in the mean while refreshed himself, thought it would
be well to show that he was a man. He inquired as to the pay, and was
just about to name the large sum he had been thinking of, when the
innkeeper returned, and made it clear to him that the less he bargained
the more he would get. He offered to give him five hundred florins for
the christening gifts alone, and told him that, if he left it to the
king, he would get all the more.

Walpurga now asked what she would have to take with her. Doctor Sixtus
told her that her best suit would be all that was necessary.

Many of the villagers had gathered before the window. They had heard
the news, and others, while on their way to afternoon church, stopped,
and at last there was quite a crowd. There was much merriment, for
every man said that he would gladly let the king borrow his wife for a
year.

Stasi offered to help the grandmother. It was not without pride that
she spoke of her being able to write a good hand and promised to send
Walpurga a letter once a week, about the child, the husband, and the
mother.

She then brought the plates, for it was high time they were at dinner.
Walpurga said that she would put all to rights within the next few
days.

"What I now deny my child," said she, "I can more than make up to her
for the rest of her life."

While she was thus speaking, she heard the child crying in the other
room and hurried to it.

The two physicians and the innkeeper were about to leave, when the
sounds of a post-horn were heard in the direction of the road that led
up from the lake.

The special post had arrived. The lackey whom Doctor Sixtus had left at
the telegraph station near by, was sitting in the open carriage. He
raised his hand, in which he held a letter aloft. He stopped before the
cottage and called out to the crowd:

"Shout huzza! every one of you! A crown prince was born an hour ago!"

They cheered again and again.

An old woman, bent double, suddenly turned toward the lackey and gazed
into his face with her bright, brown eyes that, in spite of her years,
were still sparkling.

"Whose voice is that?" muttered the old woman to herself.

There was an almost imperceptible change in the features of the lackey,
but the old woman had noticed it. "Clear the way, folks!" said he, "so
that I may alight!"

"Get out of the way, Zenza!" (Vincenza) "Old Zenza's always in the
way."

The old woman stood there, staring before her vacantly, as if in a
waking dream. She was shoved aside, and lost the staff with which she
had supported herself. The lackey tripped over it, but, without looking
to the right or left, hurried into the cottage.

Doctor Sixtus advanced to meet him, took the dispatch, and returned to
the room. Walpurga had come back in the mean while, and he said to her:

"It has happened sooner than we expected. I've just received a
dispatch; at ten o'clock this morning, the crown prince was born. I am
to hurry off to the capital and bring the nurse with me. Now, Walpurga,
is the time to prove your strength. We leave in an hour."

"I'm ready," said Walpurga resolutely. She felt so weak, however, that
she was obliged to sit down.



                              CHAPTER VII.


The two physicians, accompanied by the innkeeper, left the house. Stasi
brought in the soup and the roast meat for the christening dinner and
placed them on the table. The grandmother offered up a prayer, in which
the others joined; they all seated themselves at the table. Walpurga
was the first to take a spoonful of the soup from the dish, but,
finding that no one cared to eat, she filled her spoon again and said:

"Open your mouth, Hansei, and let me give you something to eat. Take
this, and may God's blessing go with it. And just as the food I now
offer you gives me more pleasure than if I were eating it myself, so,
when I'm among strangers, not a morsel will pass my lips that I
wouldn't rather give you and the child. I only go away so that we may
be able to live in peace and comfort hereafter. I shall think of you
and mother and the child, by day and night, and, God willing, I'll
return again in health and happiness. Don't forget that God might have
called me away in the hour of pain and trial, and that then you'd have
been without me all your lifetime. Mother, I've often heard you say
that a wife giving birth to a child has one foot in the grave. I'm only
going away for a year, and you all know that I'll return the same
Walpurga that I now am. Don't let our parting be sad, Hansei; you must
help me! You can, and I know you will. You're my only support. Keep
yourself tidy while I'm gone. You'd better wear a good shirt every
Sunday morning, for now you can afford it. You'll find them in the blue
closet--on the upper right-hand shelf. Do eat something; I'll eat just
as soon as you do. We need all our strength. You'll be all right
to-morrow, and so shall I. But do eat something! For every spoonful you
take, I'll take one, too:--there, that's it--but not so fast, or I
can't keep up with you!" Smiling through her tears, she went on eating.

"And now, mother," she continued, "you'll have no chance to say that
you're a burden to us. When I'm gone, you can take the two pillows off
my bed and put them on yours, so that you can sleep with your head
right high. That'll do you good. If we didn't have you, I wouldn't dare
to think of going. Don't spoil my husband, and, when I come back again,
we'll fix up a little room for you where you can live as well as the
first farmer's wife in the land."

They let her do all the talking, and when she said: "Do say something,
Hansei," he replied: "You'd better keep on talking. I can hear my voice
any time; but it'll be a long while before I listen to yours again. Who
knows but--"

He was about to take a piece of meat, but he put it back on the plate.
He could not eat another morsel; nor could the others. The grandmother
arose and said grace. Time flew by. A coach drove up to the door. The
lackey was the only one seated in it; the gentlemen intended to follow
shortly after. Baum speedily found himself on a familiar footing with
Hansei. The first step toward their intimacy was the offer of a good
cigar. He said that he envied Hansei's luck in having such a wife, and
in being so fortunate into the bargain. Hansei felt greatly flattered.
Doctor Sixtus gave orders that some bed cushions should be placed in
the coach, so that Walpurga might be comfortable and well protected
against the night air.

"Do you ride all night?" inquired Hansei.

"Oh, no! We shall reach the capital by midnight."

"But your fast driving may hurt my wife."

"Don't let that worry you. Your wife will be as well taken care of as
the queen herself."

"I don't know how it is, but when I look at this gentleman and hear him
talk," said Hansei, looking Baum straight in the face, "I feel ever so
queer."

"How so? Do I look so terrible?"

"God forbid! No, indeed! But the one I'm thinking of was a
good-for-nothing fellow. No offense, I assure you. But old Zenza--there
she is at the garden gate, watching us--had twins. One is named Thomas
and the other was Wolfgang, or Jangerl, as they say hereabouts. Well,
Jangerl joined the soldiers and went to America. It must have been some
thirteen or fourteen years ago, and no one has ever heard of him since,
and really--but you won't think ill of what I say?"

"Of course not! Go on."

"Well, Jangerl looked just like you to the very hair. No, not the hair,
for his was red and his face wasn't as fine as yours, either; but
taking it altogether, just as the devil takes the farmers"--Hansei was
delighted with his joke, and the lackey joined in his laughter--"one
might say that you look like each other. But you're sure you're not
angry at what I've said?"

"Not at all," said Baum, looking at his watch. The clock in the church
steeple was just striking five, and he said: "There's a difference of
exactly one hour between your clock and that at the capital. Did this
house belong to your parents?"

"No, I got it with my wife. That's to say, we still owe a mortgage of
two hundred florins on it, but the farmer who holds it, doesn't press
us."

"Your wife can buy you another house, and you ought to consider
yourself lucky to have so good-looking a wife."

"Yes, and that's what makes me sorry to give her up," complained
Hansei. "However, there are only three hundred and sixty-five days in a
year--but that's a good many, after all."

"And as many nights in the bargain," said Baum, laughing. Poor Hansei
shuddered.

"Yes, indeed!" said he. He felt that politeness required an answer on
his part.

In the mean while, Walpurga had asked her mother and Stasi to leave her
alone with the child. She was kneeling beside the cradle and wetted the
pillow with her tears. She kissed the child, the coverlet, and cradle,
and then, getting up, said: "Farewell! A thousand times, farewell!" She
had dried her tears, and was about to leave the room, when the door
opened from without and her mother entered.

"I'll help you," said she. "You'll be either twice as happy, or twice
as miserable, when you return, and will make us just as happy or as
miserable as you are."

Then she took Walpurga's left hand in hers, and, in a commanding voice,
said: "Put your right hand on your child's head!"

"What's that for, mother?"

"Do as I bid you. Swear by your child's head and by the hand I hold in
mine, that you'll remain good and pure, no matter what temptations may
assail you. Remember you're a wife, a mother, a daughter! Do you swear
this with all your heart?"

"I do, mother, so help me God! But there's no need of such an oath."

"Very well," said the mother. "Now walk around the cradle three times
with your face turned from it. I'll lead you; don't stumble. Now you've
taken the child's homesickness from it, and I'll take good care of it.
Take my word for that."

She then led Walpurga into the room and, handing her the great loaf of
bread and the knife, said:

"Cut a piece for yourself, before you go. May God bless it for your
sake, and when you've reached your journey's end, let the bread that
you've brought from home be the first morsel you eat. That'll kill the
feeling of strangeness; and now, farewell."

They remained there in silence, holding each other by the hand.

Walpurga found it wondrous strange that Hansei was walking about in the
garden with the lackey and forgetting her. Just then, he went up the
ladder to get him some cherries, and was smoking incessantly; after
that, he took him into the stable, where the cow had been placed.

The two physicians had returned, and Hansei had to be called into the
room, for it was here, and not out of doors in the presence of the
crowd, that the wife wished to take leave of her husband. Doctor Sixtus
put a roll of crown thalers in Hansei's pocket. After that, Hansei
constantly kept his hand there and was loth to remove it.

"Give me your hand, Hansei," said Walpurga.

He loosened his grasp of the money and gave her his hand.

"Farewell, dear Hansei, and be a good man. I'll remain a good
wife.... And now, God keep you all of you."

She kissed her mother and Stasi, and then, without once looking back,
she hurried through the garden and seated herself in the carriage. The
cow in the stable bellowed and groaned, but the sounds were drowned by
the postilion's fanfare.

During all this, old Zenza had been leaning against the garden gate; at
times passing her hand over her face and rubbing her bright and
sparkling eyes. And now, when the lackey passed her she stared at him
so, that he asked, in a rough and yet not unkind voice:

"Do you want anything, mother?"

"Yes; I'm old, and a mother in the bargain. Hi-hi-hi!" said she,
laughing, and the crowd hinted to the lackey that her mind often
wandered.

"Is there anything you want?" asked the lackey again.

"Of course there is, if you'll give it to me."

With trembling hand, the lackey drew the large purse from his pocket,
and took out a piece of gold. But no, that might betray him. After
fumbling with the money a long while, he at last gave the gold piece to
the old woman, and said:

"This is from the king."

He mounted the box and never looked back again. The coach started off.

People came up to Zenza and asked her to show them what she had
received, but her hand was closed as with a convulsive grasp. Without
answering, she went away, supporting herself upon her staff.

She walked on, constantly looking at the ruts that the carriage wheels
had made in the road, and those who passed her could hear her muttering
unintelligibly. Her staff was in her right hand, and with her left she
still clutched the gold piece.



                             CHAPTER VIII.


The carriage moved along the road by the lake, and, at last, turning
the corner at the stone-pile, was out of sight. The hay on which
Walpurga had rested a fortnight before was still lying in the same
place.

They passed a handsome girl, dressed in once genteel, but now shabby,
finery. She was of a powerful frame, tawny complexion, and her
blue-black hair was braided in thick plaits. She stared at Walpurga,
but did not greet her until after she had passed.

"That's the daughter of the old woman you gave a present to," said
Walpurga, addressing the lackey. "She goes by the name of Black Esther.
If the mother doesn't bury the money out of sight, she'll surely take
it from her."

Although Baum turned toward Walpurga, he was not looking at her, but at
the girl, who was no other than his sister. A little while ago, he had
denied his mother, while bestowing an alms upon her. And now he sat up
beside the postilion, his arms folded as if to brace himself, for he
felt as if his heart would break. His whole life passed before him,
and, now and then, he planted himself more firmly in his seat, lest he
should fall. And now the carriage passed by a farmyard where, twenty
years ago, he had, by his mother's order, stolen a goose. He was a slim
lad then and had found it easy to slip in, on all fours, through the
gap in the hedge, which had closed up in the mean while.

Thomas, his twin brother, had joined the poachers. But Baum, who was
not apt at their work, was glad when they took him for a soldier. One
day while we was on duty at the palace an old _valet de chambre_
brought a letter from Baroness Steigeneck, who was then at the height
of her power. The valet was kept waiting a long while, during which he
chatted with Baum, to whom he took a great liking. He invited Baum to
visit the Steigeneck palace, where they drank together in the servants'
room and were exceedingly jolly.

"Why is your hair so red?" said the _valet de chambre_.

"Why? Because it grew so."

"But that can be remedied."

"Indeed! How so?"

The old man gave Baum the requisite directions.

"You must also change your name. Rauhensteiner is too hard for their
lordships. It is difficult to pronounce, and particularly for those who
have false teeth. You must take some such name as Beck, or Schultz, or
Hecht, or Baum. For, mind you, a dog has no name except the one its
master sees fit to call it by."

"'Baum' would suit me very well."

"Well then, let it be Baum." On his way home that night, he kept
continually saying to himself, "Baum, Baum--that's a short and easy
name and no one will know me." The old man had made him swear that he
would have nothing more to do with his family. His recent visit to his
native village had reminded him of his pledge, and, although he
attached but little importance to an oath, he found it convenient and,
as he thought, praiseworthy to keep this one.

Through the intercession of the Steigeneck valet, his military
discharge was made out in the name of Wolfgang Rauhensteiner--surnamed
Baum. After that, he was simply known as Baum, and none knew that he
had ever borne another name. He was perfectly willing to forego his
chance of any bequests that might be left to him under the name of
Rauhensteiner.

He entered the service of the court, and his first position was as
groom to the prince, while at the university and during his subsequent
journey through Italy. As a precaution, he had gone home and obtained
an emigrant's passport, and afterward had dyed his hair black. In his
native village, all were under the impression that he had emigrated.

After he returned from his travels, he married the daughter of the
_valet de chambre_, and ever grew in favor with his masters. He was
discreet in all things, and would cough behind his raised left hand. He
was delighted with the name of "Baum." Such was his zeal to serve his
masters, that had it been possible he would, for their sakes, have
banished all harsh consonants from the language.

"That's settled," said Baum, as he sat on the box beside the postilion
and coughed behind his hand. "That's settled"--and his face assumed a
calm and determined expression as if he thought some one was watching
him. "I've emigrated to America. If I were there, I'd be dead and
buried as far as my family are concerned. Family, indeed! They'd only
ruin and beggar me, and always be at my heels. None of that for me!" He
watched the people, many of whom he knew, walking along the road. "What
a pitiful life these folks must lead--no pleasure the whole year round!
Once a week, on Sunday they get shaved and preached to, and the next
morning the squalor begins anew. Any one who has escaped, would be a
fool to think of returning to it again!"

Whilst Baum was thus recalling long-forgotten incidents of his past,
Walpurga was trying hard to repress her tears. It seemed as if some
higher power to whose sway she submitted herself had deprived her of
thought and feeling.

With wondering eyes she gazed at the brooks that hurried down from the
hills and then, as if to see what was becoming of Walpurga, would run
along beside the road. When they dashed across the wooden bridges that
overhung the roaring brook, she would tremble with fear, and would not
feel reassured until they had gained the smooth road on the other side.
She looked up at the mountains, the houses and the Alpine huts; she
knew the names of those who dwelt in every one of them. But they soon
reached a region to which she was a stranger.

At the next station where they stopped to change horses, the Sunday
idlers were astonished to see a peasant woman descend from so elegant a
carriage. A woman nursing her child was sitting under a linden tree
near by. Prompted by curiosity, she raised herself in her seat, and the
child turning its head at the same time, mother and child were staring
at Walpurga, who nodded to them kindly, while her eyes filled with
tears and her throat seemed to close. The postilion blew his horn, the
horses started off at a gallop, and Walpurga again felt as if flying
through the air.

"This is fast traveling, Walpurga, isn't it?" exclaimed Baum. When she
now looked at him, she, too, was startled by his wonderful resemblance
to Thomas.

"Yes, indeed!" said she. The doctor said but little, for he was too
deeply moved by sympathy for her. Nor did he, as usual, assert his
pride of position. This woman was so much more than a mere tool that
one might well treat her with kindness and consideration. She had found
it so hard to leave her home. He was, for some time, considering what
he should say to her, and, at last, inquired:

"Do you like your doctor?"

"Yes, indeed I do! He's very odd. He scolds and abuses everybody; but
for all that, he does good wherever he can, be it day or night; rich
and poor are all the same to him. Oh, he's a real good man!"

Doctor Sixtus smiled and asked her:

"I didn't get to see his wife. Do you know her?"

"Of course I do. It's Hedwig, the apothecary's daughter. Her family are
very nice folks, and she's a sweet, charming creature; plain in her
ways and quite a home body. They have fine children, too--five or six
of them, I believe--and so she has her hands full. He might have taken
you to his house, for it's ever so neat and tidy."

He was delighted with Walpurga's good report of his friend. And now
that he had succeeded in changing the train of her thoughts, he
concluded that he had done enough and could leave her to shift for
herself.

She saw everything as if in a dream. There were fields and meadows,
then a village, a window-shelf covered with carnations and hanging
vines. You've such at home, too, thought she, and in a moment they had
vanished from sight. Then they passed the churchyard, its black crosses
half buried in the earth and yet standing out boldly against the clear
sky. In the village there was music and dancing, and merry youths and
maidens, their faces flushed by their sport, hurried to the windows.
Then they passed more fields and meadows and houses, and saw groups
sitting together and talking. And then the postilion blew a loud blast.
A child was running in the middle of the road. With a shriek of horror,
the mother rescued it and hastened away. The carriage did not stop.
Walpurga looked back, feeling sure that they must now be thanking God
for the child's escape. And still they went on. Then they passed a cow
grazing by the wayside, a boy near by watching her. In the level
country where the climate is so much milder, the cherry-trees were
already bare of fruit. And then they came to great fields, with their
vast sea of waving grain--there were none such in the Highlands.... How
happy these people must be who live down here, where there is something
more than water, meadow and forest. In yonder fallow field, there lies
a plow as if sleeping over Sunday. It grows dark, lights begin to
twinkle; there are men and women, too. They are in their homes, but I'm
being taken away from mine.... At the next post station, both the
doctor and Walpurga remained in the carriage. The horses were quickly
changed, the old ones going, with heavy steps, into the stable; a new
postilion mounted the box, and they were off again. Walpurga saw
nothing more; her eyes were closed, and it seemed as if it were a
dream, when the carriage stopped again for a fresh relay of horses, and
she heard Baum ordering the postilion not to blow his horn lest he
might awaken those inside.

"I'm not asleep," said the doctor.

"Nor am I! Just blow your horn, postilion," said Walpurga.

The postilion blew a loud blast, and they were off again. The stars
were glittering overhead. They passed through more villages; windows
were quickly raised, but they dashed by so rapidly that they were out
of sight before the surprised villagers had time to collect their
senses. Objects at the wayside were strangely illumined by the
ever-moving glimmer of the two carriage-lamps, and at last, in the
distance, they descried a great light and, over it, a cloud of smoke.

"There's an illumination in the city!" exclaimed Baum. The horses were
urged to greater speed, and the postilion blew his horn more merrily
than before. They were, at last, in the capital.

The carriage made slow headway through the surging, joyous crowd that
filled the streets.

"Here comes the crown prince's nurse," was soon noised about, and the
merry crowd greeted Walpurga with loud cheers. Confused and abashed,
she hid her face in her hands. At last they were safely in the
courtyard of the palace.



                              CHAPTER IX.


Walpurga found herself in the interior quadrangle of the palace. She
was quite giddy, with looking at the many doors, the great windows, the
broad staircases and the coats of arms, emblazoned with figures of wild
men and beasts. All seemed wondrous strange under the glare of the gas
lamps, the strong lights, here and there, contrasting with the deep,
mysterious shadows. Walpurga stared about her with a dreamy vacant
gaze. Giving way to memories of olden legends, she thought of the young
mother whom the genii of the mountain had carried off to a subterranean
cavern, where they detained her by means of a magic charm, while she
nursed a new-born babe.

But she was recalled to herself at last. From the palace-guard, where
the muskets were stacked in two long rows and the sentry was marching
to and fro, she heard one of the songs of her home.

"The captain of the palace-guard has sent wine to the soldiers," said a
young liveried servant addressing Baum, whom he assisted to unharness
the horses: "the whole town will be drunk."

Walpurga felt like telling them that they should not permit the
soldiers to sing so loudly, because the young mother who was lying
overhead ought to sleep. She had no idea of the great size of the
palace, but was soon to find it out.

"Come with me," said Doctor Sixtus; "I'll conduct you to the first lady
of the bed-chamber. Have no fear! You will be cordially welcomed by
all."

"I'd better bring my pillows with me," answered Walpurga.

"Never mind; Baum will attend to them."

Walpurga followed after the doctor. They ascended a staircase,
brilliantly illuminated and decorated with flowers, and Walpurga felt
ashamed at the thought of her coming empty-handed, just as if there was
nothing she could call her own. "I'm not that poor, after all," said
she almost audibly.

They reached the grand corridor. It was also brilliantly illuminated
and filled with flowers. There were people in uniform, walking to and
fro, but the soft carpets prevented their footsteps from being heard.
The under-servants remained standing while Sixtus and Walpurga passed
by them. At last they stopped before a door. Addressing the servant who
was stationed there, Doctor Sixtus said:

"Inform her excellency that Doctor Sixtus is in waiting, and that he
has brought the nurse."

This was the first time that Walpurga had heard herself spoken of as
"the nurse," and as being "brought."

She again felt as if under a spell, or rather, as if sold. But she
plucked up courage, and suddenly it seemed to her as if she were
seated, as she often had been, in a boat on the lake; as if she were
plying the oars with her strong arms--a furious wind resisting her
progress, and the waves rushing wildly on high. But she was strong, and
rowed with a steady hand, and at last conquered the wind and the waves.
She stiffened her arms and clenched her fists as if to grasp the oars
more firmly.

The servant soon returned, and held the door open while Doctor Sixtus
and Walpurga entered a large, well-lighted apartment. A tall, thin
lady, clad in a dress of black satin, was seated in an arm-chair near
the table. She arose for a moment, but resumed her seat immediately. It
is no trifling matter to be first lady of the bedchamber at the birth
of a crown prince. This had been a great day with Countess
Brinkenstein. Her name had been inscribed for all time in the great
official record of the day.

Although she always judged her actions by a severe standard, she had
reason to be satisfied with herself that day. While the court and
capital were all commotion, she had been perfectly calm. She had kept
up the dignity of the court and, moreover, of the king, who had shown
himself strangely weak and excited.

She was resting on her laurels. One circumstance had greatly vexed her
and had not yet been dismissed from her mind; but as she had a firm
will, she controlled her feelings. She was always self-possessed,
because she always knew just what was to be done.

To have waited so long before securing a nurse was a thing unheard of.
Many had offered themselves, and, among them, some who belonged to good
families; that is, of the nobility who had married lower officials.
Countess Brinkenstein regarded the queen's resolve that the nurse must
be of the common people--a peasant woman, indeed--as overstrained
fastidiousness; there could be no harm in referring to princely errors
in such terms. The preserver of decorum was therefore determined to
assume the responsibility of filling the post with a nurse of her own
choice, when the doctor's telegram, informing them that he had secured
the ideal peasant woman, was received. Her displeasure at the queen's
behavior was now transferred to the peasant woman, who was as yet a
stranger to her, and who would, in all likelihood, bring trouble into
the palace. But, after all, what were rules and regulations made for?
By consistently observing them, all would yet be well.

When the peasant woman was announced. Countess Brinkenstein arose, her
stern features softened by the noble thought that this poor woman ought
not to suffer because of the queen's newly acquired love for the
people; a love which would only render its objects the more unhappy and
discontented.

The doctor presented Walpurga, and spoke of her in such terms that she
cast down her eyes, abashed at his praise.

Addressing Countess Brinkenstein in French, he told her how difficult
it had been to secure this, the fairest and best woman in the
Highlands. Answering in the same tongue, the countess congratulated him
upon his success and commented on Walpurga's healthy appearance.
Finally she inquired, still in French:

"Has she good teeth?"

The doctor turned to Walpurga, saying:

"Her ladyship thinks you can't laugh."

Walpurga smiled, and the countess praised her perfect teeth. She then
touched the bell on the table and a lackey appeared.

"Tell privy councilor Gunther," said she, "that I await him here, and
that the nurse of his royal highness has arrived."

The lackey left the room. The countess now touched the bell twice; a
tall lady, advanced in years, and wearing long, corkscrew curls,
appeared, and bowed so low that Walpurga imagined she intended to sit
down on the floor.

"Come nearer, dear Kramer," said the countess. "This is the nurse of
his royal highness; she is in your especial charge. Take her to your
room and let her have something to eat. What shall it be, doctor?"

"Good beef broth will do very well."

"Go with Kramer," said the countess, addressing Walpurga, and smiling
graciously. "Whenever you want any thing, dear child, ask her for it.
God be with you!"

The lady with the corkscrew curls, offering her hand to Walpurga, said:
"Come with me, my good woman."

Walpurga nodded a grateful assent.

And so, after all, there was some one to take her by the hand and speak
German to her. And they were kind words, too, for the old lady had
addressed her as "dear child," and mademoiselle as "my good woman."
While they were speaking French, it had seemed as if she were betrayed,
for she could not help feeling that they were talking of her.
Mademoiselle Kramer now conducted her to the second room beyond.

"And now let me bid you welcome!" said the lady, while her homely face
suddenly acquired a charming expression. "Give me both hands. Let us be
good friends, for we'll always be together, by day and by night! They
call me the chief-stewardess."

"And I'm called Walpurga."

"A pretty name, too! I think you'll keep it."

"Keep my name! Why, who can take it from me? I was christened Walpurga,
and I've been called so ever since childhood."

"Don't agitate yourself, dear Walpurga," said the stewardess, with much
feeling. "Yes, pray be calm," added she, "and whenever anything
displeases you, tell me of it, and I'll see that it is remedied. You
ought to be contented and happy always; and now, sit in this arm-chair,
or if you'd rather lie on the sofa and rest yourself, do so. Make
yourself perfectly at home."

"This will do very well," said Walpurga, ensconcing herself in the
great arm-chair and resting her hands upon her knees. Mademoiselle
Kramer now ordered one of the serving-maids to bring in some good beef
broth and wheaten bread for the nurse. Turning toward Walpurga, she saw
that she was crying bitterly.

"For God's sake, what's the matter? You're not frightened or worried
about anything? What are you crying for?"

"Let me cry. It does me good. My heart's been heavy for ever so long. I
suppose you'll let me cry when I can't help it. I didn't know what I
was doing when I said 'yes.' God's my witness, I never thought it would
be like this!"

"What has happened? Who has done anything to you? For God's sake, don't
cry; it will do you harm, and I'll be reprimanded for having allowed
it. Just tell me what you want; I'll do all I can for you."

"All I want of you is to let me cry. Oh, my child! Oh, Hansei! Oh,
mother!--But now I'm all right again. I'll be calm. I'm here now, and
must make the best of it."

The soup was brought. Mademoiselle Kramer held a spoonful to Walpurga's
lips, and said:

"Take something, my dear, and you'll soon feel better."

"I don't want any broth. Am I to be treated as if I were sick, and
forced to eat what I don't like? If there was any one in the house who
could make porridge, I'd rather have that than anything else. I'll go
into the kitchen and make some myself."

Mademoiselle Kramer was in despair. To her great relief, there was a
knock at the door. Doctor Gunther, the king's physician, entered,
accompanied by Doctor Sixtus. He held out his hand to the nurse, and
said:

"God greet you, Walpurga of the cottage by the lake! You've made a good
catch in coming to this house. Don't be alarmed by the ways of the
palace, and do just as you would at home. Take my word for it, water is
needed for cooking, all the world over. The folks here are just as they
are in your neighborhood--just as good and just as bad; just as wise
and just as stupid; with this difference, however--here they know how
to hide their wickedness and stupidity."

Doctor Gunther had, in part, used the Highland dialect while addressing
her, and her face suddenly brightened.

"Thank you! thank you! I'll remember what you tell me," said she,
cheerfully.

Mademoiselle Kramer now introduced the great question of the day--beef
broth or porridge. Doctor Gunther laughed, and said:

"Why porridge, to be sure; that's the best. In fact, Walpurga, all you
need do is to say what you've been used to at home, and you shall have
it here, provided it is neither sour nor fat."

Addressing his colleague, he added:

"We'll keep the nurse on her accustomed diet for the present, and
afterward can gradually bring about a change. Come here, Walpurga, and
let me look into your eyes. I've something to tell you. In a quarter of
an hour from now, you're to appear before the queen. Don't be alarmed,
no one will harm you. She merely wishes to see you. Don't fail to prove
that your eyes are right, when they say they belong to a clever head.
Address the queen calmly, and if, as is quite likely, you still feel a
homesick yearning for your child and the others you've left behind you,
don't show it while you are with the queen. You might cause her to weep
and make her ill, for she's very delicate. Do you quite understand me?"

"I do, indeed! I'll be very careful. I'll cheer her up."

"You must not do that either. Remain perfectly calm and composed; speak
little, and in a low voice. Try to get out of the room as soon as you
can, for she needs all the sleep she can get."

"I'll do everything just as you say. You can depend on me," said
Walpurga. "Aren't you going along?"

"No; you'll meet me there. But now, take something to eat. Here comes
the porridge. I hope it will do you good. You needn't eat it all; half
will do for the present. But wait a little while until it cools. Come
with me a moment. I suppose you're not afraid to go with me?"

"No; it seems as if I'd often heard your voice before."

"Very likely! I am also from the Highlands, and have already been in
your father's house. If I am not mistaken, your mother was from our
region. Was she not in service with the freehold farmer?"

"She was, indeed."

"Well then, your mother's a good woman, and don't forget to tell the
queen that she's taking good care of your child. That will please her.
I knew your father, too; he was a merry soul, and perfectly honest."

Walpurga felt happy to know that her parents were well thought of and
that the others had heard them so favorably mentioned. If the doctor
who had known her father had been that father himself, she could not
have been more willing to accompany him into the adjoining room. He
returned, in a few moments, and left in the company of Doctor Sixtus;
and then Walpurga came, her eyes bent on the ground. When she at last
looked up, she was glad there was no one in the room but Mademoiselle
Kramer.

Her thoughts must have been of home, for she suddenly exclaimed:

"Dear me! I've got you, yet." She then took from her pocket the piece
of bread which her mother had given her. And thus the first morsel she
ate while in the palace, was brought from home, and was of her mother's
baking. Her mother had told her that this would cure her of
homesickness; and she really found it so, for, with every mouthful, she
became more cheerful.

If seven queens were to have come just then, she would not have been
afraid of them, and her crying was at an end. She ate all the crumbs
that had fallen into her lap, as if they had some sacred potency. After
that she tried a little of the porridge.

"Can't I go somewhere to wash my face and dress my hair?" asked she.

"Of course. Doctor Gunther has given orders that you should."

"I don't need orders for everything I do!" said Walpurga, defiantly.

Mademoiselle Kramer wanted to have her maid dress Walpurga's hair. But
Walpurga would not allow it.

"No stranger's hand shall touch my head," said she.

And after a little while she presented a tidy and almost cheerful
appearance.

"There, now I'll go to the queen," said she. "How do you address her?"

"'Your majesty,' or, 'most gracious madam.'"

"In the prayers at church they call her the 'country's mother,'" said
Walpurga, "and I like that far better. That's a glorious, beautiful
name. If it were mine, no one should take it from me. And now I'll go
to the queen."

"No! you must wait. You will be sent for."

"That'll suit me just as well. But I want to ask a favor of you. Call
me 'Du'."[1]

"Quite willingly, if the first lady of the bedchamber does not object."

"And so nothing can be done here without asking leave. But now we've
done talking, let's be quiet. Ah, yes! there's one thing more. Whose
picture is that hanging up there?"

"The queen's."

"Is that the queen? Oh, how lovely! But she's very young."

"Yes, she's only eighteen years old."

Walpurga gazed at the picture for a long while. Then, turning away from
it, she sank on her knees beside the great chair, folded her hands and
softly whispered a paternoster.

Walpurga was still kneeling, when a knock at the door was heard. A
lackey entered and said:

"Her majesty has sent for his royal highness's nurse."

Walpurga arose and followed the servant. Mademoiselle Kramer
accompanying them.



                               CHAPTER X.


Preceded by a servant bearing a lantern, they passed through the long,
narrow, brilliantly lighted passage and ascending a staircase, reached
the gallery of the royal chapel. There were cushioned chairs for the
court. Walpurga looked down into the vast, dark hall. There was no
light except that in the altar lamp, the rays of which faintly
illumined the image of the Virgin.

"Thou art everywhere!" said Walpurga, half aloud, while she looked down
into the dark church and saluted the Madonna with the Child, as
familiarly as if greeting an intimate friend. A dim sense of the divine
attributes of maternity, as glorified in ages of song and picture,
prayer and sacrifice, filled her soul. She nodded to the picture once
again, and then walked on. As uncertain of her steps as if walking on
glass, she went through the throne-room, and the great ball-room. Then
they passed through other apartments which, though evidently intended
for more domestic uses, were without doors and were separated from each
other by heavy double hangings. At last they descended a wide marble
staircase with a golden balustrade. It was well-lighted and carpeted.
Here there were servants and guards. They entered other apartments,
which were filled with people, who paused in their eager conversation
to glance at Walpurga, In the third room, Dr. Gunther advanced toward
her. Taking her by the hand, he led her up to a gentleman who was
attired in a brilliant uniform and wore the crosses and medals of many
orders.

"This is his majesty, the king," said he.

"I know him; I've seen him before," replied Walpurga. "My father rowed
him across the lake, and so did my Hansei, too."

"Then, as we have known each other so long, let us improve our
acquaintance," replied the king. "And now go to the queen; but be
careful not to agitate her."

He dismissed her with a gracious inclination of the head and,
accompanied by Doctor Gunther and Countess Brinkenstein, whom they
found in attendance, she passed through several other rooms, the heavy
carpets of which deadened the sounds of their footsteps.

"Be careful not to agitate her." The words greatly troubled Walpurga.
Why should she provoke the queen to anger? for that was the only
meaning she could take from the word.

Although she did not know what they meant by the word, her being pushed
hither and thither, up and down, through passages and rooms without
number, encountering the glances of the courtiers by the way and, at
last, receiving the king's warning, had had the effect of agitating
her.

At last she stood at the threshold of a green apartment that appeared
to her like an enchanted room, hollowed out of some vast emerald. A
lamp with a green glass shade hung from the ceiling, and shed a soft,
fairy-like light on the room and its inmates. And there on the large,
canopied bed, with the glittering crown overhead, lay the queen.

Walpurga held her breath; a soft glow illumined the face of her who lay
there.

"Have you come?" asked a gentle voice.

"Yes, my queen, God greet you! Just keep yourself quiet and cheerful.
All has gone well with you, thank God!"

With these words, Walpurga advanced toward the bedside, and would not
suffer Doctor Gunther nor Countess Brinkenstein to keep her back. She
offered her hand to the queen. And thus two hands--one hardened by toil
and rough as the bark of a tree, the other as soft as the petal of a
lily--clasped each other.

"I thank you for having come. Were you glad to do so?"

"I was glad to come, but sorry to leave home."

"You surely love your child and your husband with all your heart."

"I'm my husband's wife, and my child's mother."

"And your mother nurses your child and cares for it with a loving
heart?" inquired the queen.

"The idea!" replied Walpurga.

The queen did not seem to know that her answer meant: "That's a matter
of course," and she therefore asked: "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, indeed; I understand German," replied Walpurga. "But Your Majesty
shouldn't speak so much. God willing, we'll be together in happiness
for many days to come. We'll arrange everything when we can look into
each other's eyes in broad daylight, and I'll do all I can to please
you and the child. I've got over my homesickness and now I must do my
duty. I'll be a good nurse to your child; don't let that worry you. And
now, good-night! Sleep well, and let nothing trouble you. And now let
me see our child."

"Breath of my breath, it lies here, sleeping by my side. How infinite
is God's grace, how marvelous are his works!"

Walpurga felt that some one was pulling at her dress, and hastily said:

"Good-night, dear queen. Put all idle thoughts away from you. This is
no time to busy yourself thinking. We'll have enough to think of when
the time comes. Good-night!"

"No, remain here! You must stay!" begged the queen.

"I must beg Your Majesty--" hurriedly interposed Doctor Gunther.

"Do leave her with me a little while," begged the queen, in childlike
tones. "I am sure it will do me no harm to talk with her. When she drew
near the bed, and I heard her voice, I felt as if a breath of Alpine
air, in all its dewy freshness, was being wafted toward me. Even now I
feel as if lying on a high mountain, from which I can look down into
the beautiful world."

"Your Majesty, such excitement may prove quite injurious."

"Very well; I will be calm. But do leave her with me a moment longer!
Let me have more light, so that I may see her."

The screen was removed from a lamp that stood on a side-table, and the
two mothers beheld each other, face to face.

"How beautiful you are!" exclaimed the queen.

"That doesn't matter any longer," replied Walpurga. "God be praised,
we've both got over having our heads turned by such nonsense. You're a
wife and mother, and so am I."

The screen fell again; the queen, taking Walpurga's hand in hers, said
in a gentle voice:

"Bend down to me, I want to kiss you--I must kiss you."

Walpurga did as she was bid, and the queen kissed her.

"You can go now. Keep yourself good and true," said the queen.

A tear of Walpurga's fell upon the face of the queen, who added:

"Don't weep! You, too, are a mother."

Unable to utter another word, Walpurga turned to go, and the queen
called after her.

"What is your name?"

"Walpurga," said Doctor Gunther, answering for her.

"And can you sing well?" asked the queen.

"They say so," replied Walpurga.

"Then sing often to my child, or 'our child,' as you call him.
Good-night!"

Doctor Gunther remained with the queen. It was some time before he
uttered a word. He felt that he must calm her excited feelings, and he
had a safe and simple remedy at command.

"I must request Your Majesty," said he, "to return my congratulations.
My daughter Cornelia, the wife of Professor Korn of the university, was
safely delivered of a little girl, at the very hour in which the crown
prince was born."

"I congratulate the child on having such a grandfather. You shall,
also, be the grandfather of our son."

"The congratulation that imposes a noble duty upon its recipient, is
the best that can be given," replied Gunther. "I thank you. But we must
now cease talking. Permit me to bid Your Majesty good-night!"

Gunther left the room. All was silent.

Instead of taking Walpurga back to the upper rooms, they had conducted
her to a well-furnished apartment on the other side of the palace,
where, to her great delight, she found Mademoiselle Kramer awaiting
her.

"The queen kissed me!" exclaimed she. "Oh, what an angel she is! I'd no
idea there were such creatures in the world."

Some time later, when the queen had fallen asleep, two women brought a
gilded cradle into Walpurga's room.

When they took the child from the bed, the queen, as if conscious of
what was being done, moved in her sleep.

Before taking the child to her bosom, Walpurga breathed upon it thrice.
It opened its eyes and looked at her, and then quickly closed them
again.

Throughout the palace, all was soon hushed in silence. Walpurga and the
child by her side were asleep. Mademoiselle Kramer sat up during the
night, and, in the antechamber on either side, there were doctors and
servants within call.



                              CHAPTER XI.


In the village by the lake, or, to speak more correctly, in the few
houses clustered near the Chamois inn, Walpurga's strange and sudden
departure caused great commotion.

All hurried toward the inn. The innkeeper assumed a wise air and
desired it to be understood that he knew far more than people gave him
credit for. The whole affair was, of course, of his planning; for had
it not been proven that his acquaintance included even the king
himself.

Immediately after Walpurga's departure, he urged Hansei to accompany
him to the Chamois, for he well knew that his presence there would
prove a far greater attraction than a band of musicians.

Hansei would not go at once, but promised to follow soon afterward. He
could not leave home just then.

He went through the whole house, from cellar to garret. Then he went
out into the stable, where, for a long while, he watched the cow
feeding. "Such a beast has a good time of it, after all," thought he;
"others have to provide for it, and wherever it finds a full crib, it
is at home."

He went into the room and, silently nodding to the grandmother, cast a
hurried glance at the slumbering child. He seated himself near the
table and, resting his elbows thereon, buried his face in his hands.

"It still goes," said he, looking up at the Black Forest clock that was
ticking on the wall. "She wound it up before she left."

He went out and sat down on the bench under the cherry-tree. The
starlings overhead were quite merry, and from the woods a cuckoo
called: "Yes, he goes away, too, and leaves his children to be brought
up by strangers."

Hansei laughed to himself, and looked about him. Had the wife really
gone? She must still be sitting there! How could those who belong
together be thus parted?

He kept staring at the seat next to him,--but she was not there.

Half the village had gathered before the garden gate. Young and old,
big and little, stood there, gazing at him.

Wastl (Sebastian), the weaver, who had for many years been a comrade of
Hansei's, and had worked with him in the forest, called out:

"God greet you, Hansei! Your bread has fallen with the buttered side
up."

Hansei muttered sullen thanks. Suddenly, there was a great peal of
laughter. No one knew who had been the first to utter the word
"he-nurse." It had been rapidly and quietly passed from one to another
through the crowd, until it at last reached Thomas, Zenza's son--a
bold, rawboned fellow, whose open shirt revealed a brawny chest.

"Walpurga's the crown prince's _she_-nurse, and Hansei's the
_he_-nurse."

Wastl opened the gate and entered the garden, the whole crowd following
at his heels. They went through garden, house and stable; peeped
through the windows, smelled at the violets on the window-shelf, and
sat down on the kindling-wood that lay under the shed. The house seemed
to have become the property of the whole village. When joy or sorrow
enters a home, all doors are open, and the rooms and passages become as
a public highway.

"What do they all want?" inquired Hansei of Wastl, who had sat down
beside him on the bench.

"Nothing! All they've come for is to see for themselves that the whole
thing's true, so they can tell others about it. But they're all pleased
with your good luck."

"My good luck! Well, I suppose it had to be," said Hansei, in a tone
scarcely suggestive of happiness. "Wastl, it seems as if nothing is to
go right with me. I'd just begun to think that everything would go on
smoothly as it had been doing, and now, all at once, I've got to climb
another mountain. But you're single and, of course, you can't know how
I feel."

"It's very good of you to be so fond of your wife."

"My wife? So fond?"

"I know how you must feel."

Hansei shook his head with an incredulous air.

"Cheer up!" said Wastl. "Many a husband would be glad to be rid of his
wife for a year."

"For a year."

"The longer the better, some would say," thought Wastl. "But your wife
will come back again and turn your cottage into a palace, and then
you'll be king number two!"

Hansei laughed loudly, although he was not in a laughing mood. He felt
as if he must go out into the forest, where he should neither hear nor
see anything of the world. Confound it all! Why did the wife leave? Was
it for this that we married and pledged ourselves to be one for life,
come weal come woe?

But Hansei could not get away. Half the village had gathered about him.
All spoke of his good-fortune. The owner of the great farm up the road,
he who was known as the Leithof bauer, even stopped his team at the
garden gate and alighted in order to shake hands with Hansei and wish
him joy.

"If you'd like to buy the meadow next to your garden, I'll sell it to
you. It's a little too far off for me," said the Leithof bauer. The
joiner who lived in the village, and who had long been anxious to
emigrate, quickly said:

"You'll do far better if you buy my house and farm. I'll let you have
them dirt cheap."

The starlings up in the tree could not out-chatter these people. Hansei
laughed heartily. Why, this is splendid! thought he. The whole world
comes to offer me house and farm, field and meadow.

"You were right, Walpurga!" said he suddenly. The people stared, first
at him and then at each other, and did not know what to make of him.

He stretched his limbs, as if awaking from sleep, and said:

"Many thanks, dear neighbors. If I can ever repay you, in joy or in
sorrow, I'll surely do so. But now, I'll make no change; no, I shant
move a nail in the house till my wife comes back."

"Spoken like a man, good and true," said the Leithof bauer, and greater
praise could befall no one, than to be thus spoken of by the wealthiest
farmer in the neighborhood.

"Would you like to look at my cow?" said Hansei, beckoning to the
Leithof bauer, who now seemed the only one on a level with himself.

The Leithof bauer thanked him, but had no time to stop. Before taking
his leave, he assured Hansei that he would willingly advise him how to
put out his money safely.

His money? Where could it be? Hansei trembled with fear and pressed his
hands to his head--he had lost the roll of money! Where was it? He
plunged his hand into his pocket. The roll was still there! And now
that his hand again clutched it, he was quite affable to those who
still remained, and had a kind word for every one.

At last, the villagers had all left, and Hansei could think of nothing
better to do than to climb up into his cherry-tree--the true friend
that would never desert him, and would give as long as it had aught to
give.

He plucked and ate lots of cherries, while he looked at the telegraph
wire, and thought: It runs into the palace and I could talk to my wife
through it, if I only knew how. He bent forward until he could touch
the wire, and having done so, quickly withdrew his hand, as if
frightened.

Suddenly he heard a voice calling to him:

"Hansei! where are you?

"Here I am."

"Come along!" was the answer. It was the priest who had called to him.

Hansei hurried down from the tree and now received the greatest honor
that had yet been paid him. The priest beckoned to him, and Hansei
approached, hat in hand.

"I wish you joy!" said the priest. "Come along to the inn; the host of
the Chamois has opened a fresh tap."

Hansei looked at himself to see what had come over him. To think of the
priest's inviting him to walk with him, and to drink in his company,
too!

He received the new honor with dignity. While he walked with the
priest, the people whom they met along the road would lift their hats
and he would acknowledge their greetings quite affably.

In the large room at the Chamois, where every one was either talking to
or of him, he felt so happy that he opened the roll of money, without,
however, removing from it from his pocket. He meant to offer the first
piece to the priest, so that he might say a mass for Walpurga. But the
pieces were so large. They were all crown thalers. And so Hansei merely
said:

"I wish you'd say a mass for my wife and child. I'll pay you."

It was already twilight. The guests gradually departed. But Hansei
remained sitting there, as if rooted to the spot. At last, he and the
inn-keeper were the only ones in the room.

"Now that they've all had a talk at you," said the innkeeper, "you may
as well listen to me. No one means it as kindly with you as I do, and
I'm not a fool, either. Do you know what would suit you, Hansei, and
would suit your wife still better?"

"What?"

"This is the place for you,--you and your wife! I've been landlord long
enough. When your wife comes back, you can say 'good-night' to your
cottage and settle yourselves here, where you'll find a good living for
your children and your grandchildren. We won't talk about it now; but
don't commit yourself to anything else. I'm your best friend; I think
I've proved that, this very day. I don't care to make a penny by the
affair--quite the contrary."

Oh, how kind they are when all goes well with one!

Hansei sat there for a long while, looking into his glass, and
endeavoring to satisfy himself as to who he really was. Then he began
to think of his wife again: where she might be, and how it was with
her. If he could only go to sleep that very moment and remain asleep
until the year was out; but to sit and wait.... He looked up at the
clock; it was just striking ten.

"How often you'll have to strike ten before we meet again," thought he
to himself.

Hansei almost staggered as he walked through the village. The people
who were sitting at their doors, or standing about, saluted him and
wished him joy, and he well knew that, far away among the mountains,
all were speaking of his good luck. He felt as if he must cut himself
into a thousand pieces in order to thank them all.

He was standing near his garden and looking at the hedge. How long was
it since he, who had never before known a spot which he could call his
home, had prized himself as ever so happy in the possession of a little
property! And now the grandmother was sitting in the house, and he
heard her singing his child to sleep:

           "If all the streams were naught but wine,
            And all the hills were gems so fine,
            And all were mine:
            Yet would my darling treasure be
            Dearer far than all to me.

           "And since we needs must part,
            One more kiss before I start.
            Thou remain'st, but I must leave,
            And parting sore the heart doth grieve;
            But, though life drags, we'll not despond,
            For longer far is the life beyond."

"But though life drags, we'll not despond, For longer far is the life
beyond." The words sank deep into Hansei's heart, and the fireflies
flitting about in the darkness, or resting on fence and grass, drew his
glance hither and thither, as if they were some new and startling
phenomenon. Hansei's waking dream continued for some time, and when he,
at last, passed his hand over his face, it was wet with the dew. He
felt as if some one must carry him into the house and put him to bed.
But a sudden turn caused the roll of money to touch his hip, and he was
wide awake again. He walked far out along the road, in the same
direction that Walpurga had gone, and at last reached the pile of
stones on which she had rested a fortnight ago. There was still some
hay lying there. He sat down upon it and gazed out at the broad lake,
over which the moon shed its bright rays. It was just as quiet as it
had been a fortnight before; but that was in the daytime, and now it
was night. "Where can my wife be now?" said he, springing to his feet,
so that he might run to her, though it took the whole night. "How glad
she will be to have me come to the palace the very first morning she is
there!" With giant strides he hurried on. But he could not help asking
himself: "How will it be if you have to leave again to-morrow, and what
will the folks at home say, and what will grandmother think, left all
alone with the child?"

And yet he walked on. Suddenly, he became alarmed at the thought of the
money on his person. The neighborhood was safe enough, to be sure. It
was long since any crime had been heard of in that region. But still
there might be robbers, who, after helping themselves to his treasure,
would murder him, and throw him into the lake.... Tortured by fear, he
hurriedly turned about and ran toward home.

Advancing toward him, he beheld a figure of threatening aspect. He
grasped the knife in his belt--"If there's only one, and no other's
lying in wait, I'm man enough to defend myself," thought he.

The figure advanced, greeting him from afar. The voice was that of a
woman. Could Walpurga have--No, that were impossible.

The figure halted. Hansei advanced toward it and said: "Oh! is it you,
Esther, out on the road so late?"

"And is this you, Hansei?" said Black Esther, laughing heartily. "I
thought it was some drunken fellow, because I heard you, a great way
off, talking to yourself. But, of course, now you're lonely enough, I
suppose."

"Do you walk in the woods so late at night, and all alone?"

"I must go alone, if no one goes with me," said Black Esther, with a
laugh that fell harshly upon the silent night. There was a pause.
Hansei could hear the beating of his heart. Perhaps it was caused by
his rapid walking.

"I must go home," said he, at last. "Good-night."

Laying her hand on his shoulder, Black Esther said:

"Hansei, I'm not used to begging and, if it were day, I'd rather starve
than ask you for anything. But now, you've a good heart and are doing
well; give me something, or lend it to me. I'll give it back to you
again." She spoke so persuasively that Hansei trembled. Her hand still
rested upon him; he was about to feel in his pocket for the crown
thaler he had saved from the priest, when he suddenly pushed her hand
from his shoulder, and said: "I'll give you something another time." He
then ran off toward home. Her shrill laughter rang in his ears, and it
sounded as if hundreds of voices were answering from the rocks. His
hair stood on end and he felt, by turns, as if shivering with cold and
burning with fever. She must surely have been one of the forest demons,
who had merely assumed the form of Black Esther. And there really were
such beings, for the old forest inspector had, on his deathbed,
confessed to having seen one. They wander about when the moon is at its
full. Instead of wearing clothes, they merely wind their long hair
about their bodies, and on such a night as this, when the mother is
away from her child, they can--

Hansei had never before run so fast, or found the road by the lake so
long, as on this very night.

He reached home at last and, as if to assure himself that the house was
still there, touched the walls with his hands. Nothing had been
disturbed. All was as he had left it.

He went indoors. The light in the room was still burning. The
grandmother was sitting on a low stool, and had the child on her lap.
With one hand, she hid her eyes--they were red with weeping; with the
other, she motioned Hansei to step lightly.

Hansei did not observe that there had been, and still was, something
wrong with his mother-in-law. He had taken a seat behind the table, was
thinking of no one but himself, and felt as tired and ill at ease as if
he had just returned from a long and dangerous journey. He was even
obliged to remind himself that, although he was at home, it was no
longer the right sort of a home. The grandmother placed the child in
the cradle and sat down, resting her chin upon her closed hand.
Thoughts far different from Hansei's had passed through her mind. Stasi
had remained with the grandmother for some time after Hansei left the
house. How it would fare with Walpurga, was a topic of but short
duration with them; for what could they say, or know, about that? When
it began to grow dark, Stasi spoke of going, and promised to come again
the next day. The grandmother nodded assent. She preferred being alone,
for then there would be nothing to prevent her thinking of her child.
Her prayers followed Walpurga; but the words flowed forth so easily
that her mind was elsewhere much of the time. Her first thought was:
Walpurga must be saying the same prayer and, although every word
lengthens the distance between us, we are together in spirit,
nevertheless. She felt happy that Walpurga had turned out so well in
all things, and that she could be depended upon. It was hard to be
among strangers; but they were men and women, after all. At times, her
heart would misgive her, lest Walpurga should not be able to hold out
to the end. She has lots of good notions--if she only thinks of them at
the right time. "For my sake, if for nothing else, you'll keep yourself
pure," said she aloud, as she ended her prayer. All at once, she felt
so lonely and forlorn. She had never passed a night without Walpurga,
and, looking up at the stars, she wished it were day again. Hansei
might just as well have remained at home; still, it was a great honor
to be invited by the priest. He'll surely send home a schoppen of wine
to gladden grandmother's heart; and if it be only half a schoppen,
it'll show his good heart. Her tongue seemed as if parched; she
thirsted for the wine, and listened for a long while, in the vain hope
that she might hear the footsteps of the innkeeper's servant, bringing
the bottle under her apron. At last, pity for herself made her
indescribably miserable, and she burst into tears. Oh, that her husband
were still alive! A poor widow woman is always expected to be at hand,
but no one thinks of how it fares with her. Tears came to her relief;
for, after a little while, she said to herself: "What an awful sinner
you are! Isn't it enough to have clothes and food and a home, and never
to hear a harsh word? You ought to be thankful that you're still active
enough to be of use to others."

As if ashamed of herself, she turned away, wiped the tears from her
furrowed face, and then sang cheerful songs to the child. Then she
waited silently, until Hansei, at last, returned. And thus he found
her, seated beside the cradle and resting her chin upon her clenched
hand.

"Where have you been so long?" asked the grandmother, in a low voice.

"I hardly know, myself."

"Walpurga must be in bed by this time."

"Very likely; they can travel fast, four-in-hand."

"Do you hear the cow lowing? The poor beast isn't used to be alone and,
this very evening, the butcher drove her calf by the stable. It's awful
to hear her moan. Do go and look after her."

Hansei went out to the stable, and the cow became perfectly quiet. He
walked away, and she began lowing again. He returned and spoke to her
kindly. As long as he talked to her and kept his hand upon her back,
she was quiet; but as soon as he left her, she would low more piteously
than before. In despair, he was constantly going back and forth,
between the room and the stable. He returned several times, gave her
some fodder, and then sat down on a bundle of hay. At last the cow lay
down and slept, and Hansei, overcome with fatigue, also fell asleep.
Indeed, few had ever gone through so much in one day as our poor Hansei
had.



                              CHAPTER XII.


When Walpurga awoke next morning, she fancied herself at home, and
looked at the strange surroundings as if it were all a dream that would
not vanish at her bidding. She gradually realized what had happened.
Closing her eyes again, she said her prayers and then boldly looked
about her; the same sun that shone on the cottage by the lake, shone on
the palace, too.

Full of fresh courage, she arose.

She lay at the window for a long while, looking at the scene so strange
to her.

She saw nothing of the bustling city. The palace square, encircled by
thick, bushy orange-trees, was far removed from the noise of the
streets. At the palace gate, two soldiers, with their muskets at rest,
were seen marching up and down.

But Walpurga's thoughts wandered homeward. In her mind's eye, she saw
the cottage by the lake and all within its walls. In fancy, she heard
the crackling of the wood with which her mother kindled the fire, and
saw the lamp which she took from the kitchen-shelf. We have milk in the
house, for we've got a cow. Mother will be glad to go milking again.
I'm sure they never light a fire at home without thinking of me. And
the chattering starlings, up in the cherry-tree, are saying:

"Our goodwife is gone; a cow has taken her place."

Walpurga smiled and went on thinking to herself: My Hansei's
oversleeping himself this morning. If you didn't call him, he'd sleep
till noon; he never wakes of himself. She hears her mother calling:
"Get up, Hansei; the sun is burning a hole in your bed!" He gets up and
washes his face at the pump, and now she sees them at their meal; the
child is fed with good milk. If I'd only taken a good look at the cow!
And now Hansei is getting fodder for it from the innkeeper. If he only
doesn't let the rogue cheat him; and Hansei will feel more forlorn than
the child; but, thank God, he has work enough to keep him busy. It's
fishing time, and so he doesn't go into the woods. I see him jump into
his boat; what a noise he makes! The oars are plashing, and away he
rows to catch what fish he can.

Walpurga would have gone on picturing to herself her home at noon and
at evening. Suddenly, she felt as if she had lost her reason. Absence
and death are almost one and the same. You can have no idea of how it
will be one hour after your death; you cannot imagine yourself out of
the world. Her head swam and, as if startled by an apparition, she
turned to Mademoiselle Kramer, and said:

"Let's talk!"

Mademoiselle Kramer required no second hint, and told Walpurga that
every one in the palace knew of the queen's having kissed her the night
before, and that it would be in all the newspapers of the next day.

"Pshaw!" said Walpurga; whereupon Mademoiselle Kramer declared that,
although it made no difference in her case, it was highly improper to
answer in that way, and told her, also, that she ought always express
herself distinctly and in a respectful manner.

Walpurga looked up and listened, as if waiting for Mademoiselle Kramer
to continue and, at last, said: "My dear father once said almost the
very same thing to me; but I was too young to understand it then. All I
meant to say was, that the city people must have very little to do, if
they can make a fuss about such a matter"--mentally concluding her
remarks with another "pshaw!"

The little prince awoke. Walpurga took him up and speedily put him to
sleep, while she sang in a clear voice:

           "Ah, blissful is the tender tie
              That binds me, love, to thee,
            And swiftly speed the hours by
              When thou art near to me."

When she had finished her song, and had placed the child in the cradle,
she looked toward the door and beheld the king and Doctor Gunther
standing there.

"You sing finely," said the king.

"Pshaw!" said Walpurga, and, acting as her own interpreter, she quickly
added, while casting a hurried glance at Mademoiselle Kramer: "It's
good enough for home use, but not particularly fine."

The king and Doctor Gunther were delighted with the appearance of the
child.

"The day on which one beholds his child for the first time is a
red-letter day," observed the king; and Walpurga, as if to confirm what
he had said, added:

"Yes, indeed; that makes one look at the world with different eyes. His
majesty told the truth that time."

Although her remark caused the king to smile, it was received in
silence. Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, he soon left the room. After
they had gone. Mademoiselle Kramer endeavored, as delicately as
possible, to impress Walpurga with the importance of observing the
first commandment:

"You must not speak to their majesties, unless they ask you a
question."

"That's sensible," exclaimed Walpurga, to the great surprise of
Mademoiselle Kramer. "That prevents you from hearing anything out of
the way. What a clever idea! I won't forget that."

During breakfast, in the pavilion, it was plainly to be seen that
Mademoiselle Kramer, and perhaps Walpurga, too, had spoken truly. The
various groups on the veranda and under the orange-trees were engaged
in what seemed to be confidential conversation. After they had sounded
each other, and had satisfied themselves that they could safely indulge
in scandal, the common topic was the manner in which the queen's
sentimentality had manifested itself in her behavior toward the nurse.
It was agreed that this mawkishness was an unfortunate legacy from the
house of ----. Some even went so far as to say that Countess
Brinkenstein was quite ill with anger at the queen's disregard of
etiquette.

"The queen's conduct deprives her favors of their value," said an
elderly court lady, who must have had at least a pound and a half of
false hair on her head.

"Nothing is so great a bore as mawkish sensibility," observed another
one of the ladies attached to the palace. She was corpulent, and
piously inclined withal. As if to cover her ill-natured remark with the
mantle of charity, she added:

"The queen isn't much more than a child, and really means well at
heart."

She had thus made herself safe with both parties--those who praised,
and those who abused the queen.

"You look as if you had slept but little," said an elderly lady,
addressing a very young and pale-looking one.

"You are right," sighed the latter, in reply. "I sat up to read the
last volume of ----" giving the name of a recent unequivocal French
novel--"and finished it at a single sitting. I shall return the book to
you to-day. It is very interesting."

"Please let me have it next," resounded from several quarters at once.

The pious lady, who had, indeed, read the novel in secret and was loth
to talk of such subjects, changed the conversation by introducing the
topic of Walpurga. As the latest piece of news, she acquainted them
with the report that the nurse could sing beautifully.

"Who sings beautifully?" inquired Countess Irma, joining the group.

"This will interest you, dear Wildenort. You will be able to learn many
new songs from Walpurga, and accompany them on the zither."

"I'll wait until we are in the country again. A peasant woman seems
strangely out of place in a palace. When does the court return to the
country?"

"Not for six weeks."

There was much talk about Walpurga. One lady maintained that Doctor
Gunther was a native of the Highlands, and that it was only through his
intriguing that a nurse had to be brought from the same region; that he
was constantly surrounding himself with allies, and was clever enough
to know that this person would exert a great influence upon the queen.
They also spoke of the doctor's love of intrigue, and of his affecting
to sympathize with the queen in all her extravagant fancies. Of one
thing they all felt assured: that it was impossible to retain the favor
of the court for so long a time, by fair means alone.

"The doctor isn't so very old," remarked a very thin lady. "He is only
a little over fifty. I think he must have dyed his hair white, in order
to appear venerable before his time."

Loud laughter greeted this sally.

Before breakfast, the ladies and gentlemen were in separate groups. A
knot of courtiers were discussing the telegrams which had been sent out
to various governments, and to which, in some instances, replies had
already been received.

It was not until after breakfast that a council of the royal household
was to determine who, besides the queen's parents, should be invited to
stand as sponsors. It was even reported that the christening would be
celebrated by a special papal nuncio, assisted by the bishop.

Countess Irma's brother, the king's aid-de-camp, again diverted the
conversation from such lofty topics back to Walpurga. He extolled her
beauty and her droll ways, and they smacked their lips, when they spoke
of the queen's kiss. The aid-de-camp had given vent to a joke on the
subject, at which they laughed uproariously.

"The king!" suddenly whispered several of the gentlemen.

They separated and, while making their obeisance, arranged themselves
in two rows. The king, acknowledging their salutation, passed between
the rows and entered the hall of Diana, where breakfast was served. The
frescoes on the ceiling represented the goddess with her hunting train,
and had been painted by a pupil of Rubens. The lord steward handed a
packet of telegrams to the king, who instructed him to open them, and
inform him when they contained anything more than congratulations.

They now sat down to breakfast.

The company was not so cheerful and unconstrained as it had been at the
summer palace. Indeed, no one had yet recovered from the excitement of
the previous night, and conversation was carried on in a quiet tone.

"Countess Irma," said the king, "I commend Walpurga to you; she will be
sure to please you. You will be able to learn some beautiful songs from
her, and to teach her new ones."

"Thanks, Your Majesty! If Your Majesty would only deign to order the
first lady of the bedchamber to grant me access, at all times, to the
apartments of His Royal Highness the crown prince."

"Pray see to it, dear Rittersfeld!" said the king, turning to the lord
steward.

Countess Irma, who sat at the lower end of the table, received the
congratulations of all. Walpurga had become the sole topic of
conversation.

The morning papers were brought to the king. He glanced through them
hurriedly and, throwing them aside with an angry air, said:

"This babbling press! The queen's kiss is already in all the
newspapers." His face darkened; it was evident that, as the fact itself
had displeased him, the publicity given it was doubly annoying. After a
time, he said:

"I desire you, gentlemen and ladies, to see to it that the queen does
not hear of this." He rose quickly, and left the apartment.

The breakfast party lingered for some time, and the pious lady could
now openly join the ranks of the scandalmongers. The mantle of charity
was no longer necessary--it was very evident that the king had already
tired of his sentimental wife.

If Countess Irma--? Who could tell but what this was part of a
deep-laid plan to give her free access to the crown prince's
apartments? The king could meet her there--and who knows but that--

They were quite ingenious in the malicious conjectures which they
whispered to each other with great caution and circumspection. For a
while, at least, Walpurga, the queen and even the crown prince were
completely forgotten.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


"There, my boy! Now you've seen the sun. May you see it for seven and
seventy years to come, and when they've run their course, may the Lord
grant you a new lease of life. Last night, they lit millions of lamps
for your sake. But they were nothing to the sun up in heaven, which the
Lord himself lighted for you this very morning. Be a good boy, always,
so that you may deserve to have the sun shine on you. Yes, now the
angel's whispering to you. Laugh while you sleep! That's right. There's
one angel belongs to you on earth, and that's your mother! And you're
mine, too! You're mine, indeed!"

Thus spake Walpurga, her voice soft, yet full of emotion, while she
gazed into the face of the child that lay on her lap. Her soul was
already swayed by that mysterious bond of affection which never fails
to develop itself in the heart of the foster-mother. It is a noble
trait in human nature that we love those on whom we can confer a
kindness. Their whole life gradually becomes interwoven with our own.

Walpurga became oblivious of herself and of all that was dear to her in
the cottage by the lake. She was now needed here where a young life had
been assigned to her loving charge.

She looked up at Mademoiselle Kramer, with beaming eyes, and met a
joyful glance in return.

"It seems to me," said Walpurga, "that a palace is just like a church.
One has only good and pious thoughts here; and all the people are so
kind and frank."

Mademoiselle Kramer suddenly smiled and replied:

"My dear child--"

"Don't call me 'child'! I'm not a child! I'm a mother!"

"But here, in the great world, you are only a child. A court is a
strange place. Some go hunting, others go fishing; one builds, another
paints; one studies a _rôle_, another a piece of music; a dancer learns
a new step, an author writes a new book. Every one in the land is doing
something,--cooking or baking, drilling or practicing, writing,
painting, or dancing--simply in order that the king and queen may be
entertained."

"I understand you," said Walpurga, and Mademoiselle Kramer continued:

"My family has been in the service of the court for sixteen
generations";--six would have been the right number, but sixteen
sounded so much better;--"my father is the governor of the summer
palace, and I was born there. I know all about the court, and can teach
you a great deal."

"And I'll be glad to learn," interposed Walpurga.

"Do you imagine that every one is kindly disposed toward you? Take my
word for it, a palace contains people of all sorts, good and bad. All
the vices abound in such a place. And there are many other matters of
which you have no idea and of which you will, I trust, ever remain
ignorant. But all you meet are wondrous polite. Try to remain just as
you now are, and, when you leave the palace, let it be as the same
Walpurga you were when you came here."

Walpurga stared at her in surprise. Who could change her?

Word came that the queen was awake and desired Walpurga to bring the
crown prince to her.

Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, Mademoiselle Kramer and two
waiting-women, she proceeded to the queen's bedchamber. The queen lay
there, calm and beautiful, and, with a smile of greeting, turned her
face toward those who had entered. The curtains had been partially
drawn aside and a broad, slanting ray of light shone into the
apartment, which seemed still more peaceful than during the breathless
silence of the previous night.

"Good-morning!" said the queen, with a voice full of feeling. "Let me
have my child!" She looked down at the babe that rested in her arms and
then, without noticing any one in the room, lifted her glance on high
and faintly murmured:

"This is the first time I behold my child in the daylight!"

All were silent; it seemed as if there was naught in the apartment
except the broad slanting ray of light that streamed in at the window.

"Have you slept well?" inquired the queen. Walpurga was glad that the
queen had asked a question, for now she could answer. Casting a hurried
glance at Mademoiselle Kramer, she said:

"Yes, indeed! Sleep's the first, the last, and the best thing in the
world."

"She's clever," said the queen, addressing Doctor Gunther in French.

Walpurga's heart sank within her. Whenever she heard them speak French,
she felt as if they were betraying her; as if they had put on an
invisible cap, like that worn by the goblins in the fairy tale, and
could thus speak without being seen.

"Did the prince sleep well?" asked the queen.

Walpurga passed her hand over her face, as if to brush away a spider
that had been creeping there. The queen doesn't speak of her "child" or
her "son," but only of "the crown prince."

Walpurga answered:

"Yes, quite well, thank God! That is, I couldn't hear him, and I only
wanted to say that I'd like to act toward the--" she could not say "the
prince"--"that is, toward him, as I'd do with my own child. We began
right on the very first day. My mother taught me that. Such a child has
a will of its own from the very start, and it won't do to give way to
it. It won't do to take it from the cradle, or to feed it, whenever it
pleases; there ought to be regular times for all those things. It'll
soon get used to that, and it won't harm it either, to let it cry once
in a while. On the contrary, that expands the chest."

"Does he cry?" asked the queen.

The infant answered the question for itself, for it at once began to
cry most lustily.

"Take him and quiet him," begged the queen.

The king entered the apartment before the child had stopped crying.

"He will have a good voice of command," said he, kissing the queen's
hand.

Walpurga quieted the child, and she and Mademoiselle Kramer were sent
back to their apartments.

The king informed the queen of the dispatches that had been received,
and of the sponsors who had been decided upon. She was perfectly
satisfied with all the arrangements that had been made.

When Walpurga had returned to her room and had placed the child in the
cradle, she walked up and down and seemed quite agitated.

"There are no angels in this world!" said she. "They're all just like
the rest of us, and who knows but--" she was vexed at the queen: "Why
won't she listen patiently when her child cries? We must take all our
children bring us, whether it be joy or pain."

She stepped out into the passageway and heard the tones of the organ in
the palace chapel. For the first time in her life, these sounds
displeased her. It don't belong in the house, thought she, where all
sorts of things are going on. The church ought to stand by itself.

When she returned to the room, she found a stranger there. Mademoiselle
Kramer informed her that this was the tailor to the queen.

Walpurga laughed outright at the notion of a "tailor to the queen." The
elegantly attired person looked at her in amazement, while Mademoiselle
Kramer explained to her that this was the dressmaker to her majesty the
queen, and that he had come to take her measure for three new dresses.

"Am I to wear city clothes?"

"God forbid! You're to wear the dress of your neighborhood, and can
order a stomacher in red, blue, green, or any color that you like
best."

"I hardly know what to say; but I'd like to have a workday suit, too.
Sunday clothes on week-days--that won't do."

"At court, one always wears Sunday clothes, and when her majesty drives
out again you will have to accompany her."

"All right, then. I won't object."

While the tailor took her measure, Walpurga laughed incessantly, and he
was at last obliged to ask her to hold still, so that he might go on
with his work. Putting his measure into his pocket, he informed
Mademoiselle Kramer that he had ordered an exact model, and that the
chief master of ceremonies had favored him with several drawings, so
that there might be no doubt of success.

Finally, he asked permission to see the crown prince. Mademoiselle
Kramer was about to let him do so, but Walpurga objected. "Before the
child is christened," said she, "no one shall look at it just out of
curiosity, and least of all, a tailor, or else the child will never
turn out the right sort of man."

The tailor took his leave, Mademoiselle Kramer having politely hinted
to him that nothing could be done with the superstition of the lower
orders, and that it would not do to irritate the nurse.

This occurrence induced Walpurga to administer the first serious
reprimand to Mademoiselle Kramer. She could not understand why she was
so willing to make an exhibition of the child. "Nothing does a child
more harm than to let strangers look at it in its sleep, and a tailor
at that."

All the wild fun with which, in popular songs, tailors are held up to
scorn and ridicule, found vent in Walpurga, and she began singing:

           "Just list, ye braves, who love to roam!
            A snail was chasing a tailor home,
            And if Old Shears hadn't run so fast,
            The snail would surely have caught him at last."

Mademoiselle Kramer's acquaintance with the court tailor had lowered
her in Walpurga's esteem, and with an evident effort to mollify the
latter, she asked:

"Does the idea of your new and beautiful clothes really afford you no
pleasure?"

"To be frank with you, no! I don't wear them for my own sake, but for
that of others, who dress me to please themselves. It's all the same to
me, however! I've given myself up to them, and suppose I must submit."

"May I come in?" asked a pleasant voice. Countess Irma entered the
room. Extending both her hands to Walpurga, she said:

"God greet you, my countrywoman! I am also from the Highlands, seven
hours distance from your village. I know it well, and once sailed over
the lake with your father. Does he still live?"

"Alas! no; he was drowned, and the lake hasn't given up its dead."

"He was a fine-looking old man, and you are the very image of him."

"I am glad to find some one else here who knew my father. The court
tailor--I meant the court doctor--knew him, too. Yes, search the land
through, you couldn't have found a better man than my father, and no
one can help but admit it."

"Yes: I've often heard as much."

"May I ask your ladyship's name?"

"Countess Wildenort."

"Wildenort? I've heard the name before. Yes, I remember my mother's
mentioning it. Your father was known as a very kind and benevolent man.
Has he been dead a long while?"

"No, he is still living."

"Is he here, too?"

"No."

"And as what are you here, Countess?"

"As maid of honor."

"And what is that?"

"Being attached to the queen's person; or what, in your part of the
country, would be called a companion!"

"Indeed! And is your father willing to let them use you that way?"

Countess Irma, who was somewhat annoyed by her questions, said:

"I wished to ask you something--can you write?"

"I once could, but I've quite forgotten how."

"Then I've just hit it! that's the very reason for my coming here. Now,
whenever you wish to write home, you can dictate your letter to me, and
I will write whatever you tell me to."

"I could have done that, too," suggested Mademoiselle Kramer, timidly;
"and your ladyship would not have needed to trouble yourself."

"No, the countess will write for me. Shall it be now?"

"Certainly."

But Walpurga had to go to the child. While she was in the next room,
Countess Irma and Mademoiselle Kramer engaged each other in
conversation.

When Walpurga returned, she found Irma, pen in hand, and at once began
to dictate.

"Dear husband, dear mother, and dear child. No, stop! don't write that!
Take another sheet of paper. Now I've got it, now you can go on."

"I wish to let you know, that by the help of God, I arrived here safe
and sound, in the carriage with the four horses. I don't know how. And
the queen's an angel, and there were millions of lights, and my
child--"

Walpurga covered her face with both hands--she had said "my child,"
without knowing which child she meant.

A pause ensued.

"And my child," said Countess Irma, repeating the words after her.

"No!" exclaimed Walpurga, "I can't write to-day. Excuse me; there's no
use trying. But you've promised to write for me to-morrow or the day
after. Do come and see us every day."

"And shall! bring a good friend with me?"

"Of course; any friend of yours will be welcome. Isn't it so.
Mademoiselle Kramer?"

"Certainly; Countess Irma has special permission."

"I'll bring a very good friend with me; she can sing charmingly, and
her voice is soft and gentle--but I'll not torment you with riddles; I
play the zither, and will bring mine with me."

"You play the zither?" exclaimed Walpurga, scarcely able to contain
herself for joy.

Any further expressions on her part were prevented by the presence of
the king, who entered at that moment.

With a gentle inclination of the head, he greeted Countess Irma, who
had risen from her seat and bowed so low that it seemed as though she
meant to sit down on the floor.

"What are you writing?" asked the king.

"Walpurga's secrets, may it please Your Majesty," replied Countess
Irma.

"The king may read all that's there," said Walpurga, handing him the
sheet.

He hurriedly ran his eye over it, and then, with a glance at the
countess, folded it and put it in his breast pocket.

"I shall sing with Walpurga," said Irma, "and Your Majesty will again
observe that music is the highest good on earth. Singing together,
Walpurga and I are equals. The creations of other arts, poetry
especially, may be translated by every one into his own language,
according to the measure of his knowledge and experience."

"Quite true," replied the king; "music is the universal language, the
only one that requires no translation, and in which soul speaks to
soul."

While they were thus talking, Walpurga stared at them in dumb
amazement.

The king, accompanied by Countess Irma, looked at the prince for a
little while, and then, having said: "The christening will take place
next Sunday," he withdrew.

It was with a strange expression that Walpurga's eyes followed the king
and then rested in earnest gaze upon Countess Irma.

The countess busied herself with the papers, and then, with cheerful
voice, took leave of Walpurga. Her cheerfulness almost seemed
constrained, for she laughed while there was nothing to laugh at.

For a long while, Walpurga stood looking at the curtains, behind which
the countess had disappeared, and at last said to Mademoiselle Kramer:

"You told the truth, when you said that the palace isn't a church."

She did not enter into any further explanation.

"I will teach you how to write," said Mademoiselle Kramer; "it will be
pleasant employment for us, and you will then be able to do your own
writing to your family."

"Yes, that I will," said Walpurga.



                              CHAPTER XIV.


"I want to ask a favor of you," said Walpurga to Countess Irma, the
next day. "Always tell me frankly whenever I do anything wrong."

"Quite willingly; but, in return, you must always tell me when I--"

"Then I've something on my heart, this very moment."

"Speak out."

"Some time when we're alone together, I will."

"Pray, dear Kramer, would you oblige me by retiring for a few moments?"

Mademoiselle Kramer went into the adjoining room, and Walpurga could
not help feeling astonished when she observed how, in the palace,
people were pushed hither and thither, just like so many chairs.

"And now, what is it?" inquired the countess.

"You won't think ill of me, if I say anything foolish; you're sure you
won't?"

"What is it?" asked Irma again.

"You're so beautiful, so very beautiful; more so than any one I've even
seen; you're even more beautiful than the queen--no, not more
beautiful, but more powerful, and your eyes are full of kindness--"

"Well what is it? speak out."

"I'd rather think I'm wrong; but it's best to feel sure. Well, I didn't
like the way you and the king looked at each other yesterday; while
your hand was on the cradle-rail, he placed his upon it; and he's a
husband and a father. You're an unmarried girl, and don't know what it
means when a man looks at you in that way; but I'm a married woman, and
it's my duty to warn you. You said that we'd be good friends, and now
there's a chance to test our friendship."

Irma shook her head, and replied:

"You mean well enough; but you're mistaken. The king has a noble heart
and, since the birth of his son, would like to make every one as happy
as he is himself. He loves his wife dearly and, as you have seen for
yourself, she's an angel--"

"And if she weren't an angel, she's his wife and the mother of his
child, and he must be true to her; for with every glance he gives
another woman he's a confounded adulterer, whose eyes ought to be put
out. Look here! If I were to think that my husband could do such a
thing--but the men are wicked enough to do anything--that a man could
stand by the cradle of his new-born babe, and let the same eyes with
which he had just been looking at his child tell another woman, 'I love
you,'--if I were to think that, I'd go mad. And if a man whose hand has
pressed that of a woman not his wife, can offer his hand to that wife,
or touch his child's face with it, the world in which such things could
happen ought to be burned up and the Lord ought to shower pitch and
brimstone down on it."

"Speak softly, Walpurga; don't scream so. Don't let such words pass
your lips. You are not here to look after our morals, nor is it for you
to pass judgment. What do you know of the world? You've not the
slightest idea of what politeness means."

Countess Irma's words were harsh and severe, and had deeply humbled
Walpurga.

"Now that you know who you are and what you are about, I've something
more to tell you: I forgive you for insulting the king and myself with
your silly talk. If I didn't pity your ignorance, I would never speak
to you again; but, as I feel kindly disposed toward you, and know that
you meant no harm, I shall give you a bit of advice. No matter what may
happen, don't concern yourself about it. Attend to your child, and let
no one induce you to speak ill of others. Take my word for it--here,
all are deceitful. They are ever ready to speak ill of one another, and
unless you are very careful you'll not have a friend in the whole
palace. Mind you don't forget what I've said to you. And now I must
thank you once more for having spoken to me as you did. You meant it
all well enough, and it is proper that you should be perfectly frank. I
shall always be your good friend. Although one treats the king
respectfully, he is, nevertheless, as good as your Hansei, and I'm as
good as you. And now, let's shake hands! Let bygones be bygones.
Whatever you do, not a word of this to Kramer; and don't forget that,
hereabouts, the walls have ears."

Without saying another word. Countess Irma began the melody of a
Highland song upon her zither.

Walpurga could hardly realize what had happened to her. She was
provoked at her own stupid and forward behavior, and was firmly
resolved to keep her own counsel in the future.

While Irma was playing, the king again passed through the _portière_
and stopped to listen. Irma did not look up; her eyes were fixed upon
her zither. When she had finished, the king applauded faintly. She
arose and bowed, but did not accompany the king when he went into the
adjoining chamber to look at the prince.

"Your zither is in perfect tune, dear countess, but you seem to be
somewhat out of tune," said the king, as he came back into the room.

"I am in tune. Your Majesty," replied Countess Irma. "I've just been
playing an air to Walpurga, and it has deeply affected me."

The king left very soon afterward, and without offering his hand to the
countess. Walpurga's saddest thought was that she dared not even trust
Mademoiselle Kramer.

"Oh, you poor child!" said she to the prince, one day, when no one was
by. "Oh, you poor, dear child! you're expected to grow up among people
who don't trust each other. If I could only take you with me, what a
fine boy you'd become. You're still innocent--children, until they
begin to speak, are the only innocent creatures in this world. But what
matters it? I didn't make the world, and needn't change it. The
countess is right. I'll nurse you well, care for you tenderly, and
leave the rest to God."



                              CHAPTER XV.


"Your wish is fulfilled at last," said Countess Irma to Doctor Gunther,
just as they were rising from the dinner-table.

"What wish?"

"I how have a female friend, a companion, and, in the words of the
song, 'you'll ne'er find a better.'"

"Your treatment of the peasant woman is quite amiable and does you
great credit, but she is not a friend. Your friend should be one who is
your equal. Your relation toward this peasant woman will always be that
of a patron. She never dare find fault with you, and if she were to
make the attempt, you could readily silence her. Mere common-sense is
defenseless against the armory of culture."

Without noticing how Irma started at these words, the doctor calmly
continued:

"There's just as much difference, mentally, between yourself and such a
type of popular simplicity as there is between a grown person and a
child. I fear you've neglected to secure yourself a friend who is your
equal in birth."

"My equal in birth? So you, too, are an aristocrat?"

The doctor explained that equality of rights could be conceded without
doing away with social distinctions.

"Whenever I leave you," said Irma, her face radiant with
enthusiasm--"whenever I've been under the influence of your thoughts,
all that I do or attempt seems petty and trifling. At such moments, I
feel just as I do after listening to glorious music, and long to
accomplish something out of the usual way. I wish I were gifted with
artistic talent."

"Content yourself with being one of nature's loveliest works. That's
the best thing to do."

The doctor was called away.

Irma remained seated for some time, and at last repaired to her room,
where she amused herself with her parrot. Then, after looking at her
flowers for a while, she began to copy them in colors on a slab of
marble. She evidently intended it to be a rare work. But for whom? She
knew not. A tear fell on a rose, the color in which was still wet. She
looked up and left her work. Then she dried the tear, and found herself
obliged to paint the rose anew.

On the day before the christening, Walpurga dictated the following
letter to Countess Irma:

"To-morrow will be Sunday, and I'll try to be with you, too. In
thought, I'm always there. It seems as if it were seven years since I
left home. The day's ever so long here, and there are more than three
times as many people in the palace as could get into our church. There
are lots of married servants here who have servants of their own; there
are none but tall, fine-looking men in service here. Mademoiselle
Kramer tells me that their lordships don't care to have any but
handsome people about them; and some of them are as prim and proper as
a parson. They call them lackeys, and whenever the king goes near one
of them, they bow very low and double up with a snap, just like a
pocket-knife. Oh, what lots of good things I have! If I could only send
you some of them. I'm ever so glad that we shall go to the country
palace in four weeks and stay there till autumn. But how's my child,
and how goes it with Hansei and with mother, and you too, Stasi? In my
sleep at night, I'm always with you. I can't sleep much, for my prince
is a real night-watchman, and the king's doctor said I mustn't let
him cry as much as Burgei does at home. But he has good lungs, and
to-morrow is the christening. The queen's brother and his wife are to
be godfather and godmother, and there'll be lots of princes and
princesses besides. And I've got beautiful new dresses and two green
hats with gold lace, and two silver chains for my stomacher, and I can
take them all home with me when I go, but that won't be for a long
while. If all the weeks are as long as last week, I'll be seven hundred
years old when I get home. I'm quite lively again. But, at first, it
seemed as if I could always hear the lowing of the cow in the stable.

"She who writes this is the Countess Wildenort, from over beyond the
Chamois Hill; she's a very good friend of mine. She knew our dear
father, too, and you, mother, know of her family.

"And I've something to tell you, Hansei. Don't have too much to do with
the innkeeper; he's a rogue, and he'll talk your money out of your
pocket. There are good folks and bad everywhere; at home with us and
here too; and the king's doctor says you mustn't give the cow any green
fodder, nothing but hay, or else the milk won't agree with the child.

"I'm learning to write. Indeed I'm learning a great many things here.

"And tell me what the people say about my leaving home so suddenly, and
about my having left at all.

"But I don't care what they say. I know I've done my duty by my child;
my husband, and my mother.

"And, dear mother, take a servant-girl into the house; we can afford it
now.

"And, Hansei, don't let the innkeeper wheedle you out of your money.
Put it out safely at mortgage, till we have enough to buy a few acres
of land.

"And don't forget, Wednesday's the day on which father died; have a
mass said for him.

"We've got a church in the house here, and I hear the organ every
morning, while I stand in the passage. Tomorrow will be a great day,
and I remain your ever faithful

                                   "WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN.

"I send you a little cap for my child; let her wear it every Sunday. A
thousand greetings to all of you, from your

                                               "WALPURGA."



                              CHAPTER XVI.


"Oh how lovely! How beautiful!--And is it all mine?--And is it you,
Walpurga, of the cottage by the lake?--How proud she'll be!"

Such were Walpurga's extravagant expressions of delight, while she
stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror. Mademoiselle Kramer
was indeed obliged to hold her back, lest she should rush through the
glass in her eager desire to embrace the figure she saw reflected in
it.

The court tailor had sent home the new clothes. It was difficult to
decide which was the most beautiful--the stomacher, the skirt,
the collar, the shirt with the short, wide sleeves--but no! the
narrow-rimmed hat, trimmed with flowers and gold lace and with gold
tassels, was the most beautiful of all. It fitted perfectly, and was as
light as a feather. "There, I'll just move it a little to the left.
Gracious me!--Well, you are beautiful! The folks are right!" She placed
her arms akimbo and danced about the room, like one possessed. And
then, placing herself before the mirror, she stared into it, silently,
as if lost in contemplation of her own image.

Ah, that mirror! Walpurga had never before seen her full figure, from
head to foot. What could she see in the twopenny looking-glass at home?
Nothing but the face and a little of the neck!

She lifted her hand to her throat. It was encircled by a necklace
composed of seven rows of garnets and fastened in front with an
agraffe. And how clever Mademoiselle Kramer was! How many things she
could do!

She had placed a large mirror behind Walpurga, who could now see how
she looked in the back, and on all sides. Oh, how clever these people
are! What do they know out our way? Nothing of the world, and less
about themselves!

"And this is how Walpurga looks to those who walk behind her? And so,"
turning herself on one side, "and so," turning again on the other. "I
must say, I like your looks; you're not out of the way, at all! So
that's Hansei's wife? He ought to feel satisfied with her; but then,
he's good and true and has well deserved her."

Giddy with excitement, Walpurga thus talked to herself; it was the
first time that she had ever seen a full length reflection of herself.

The first stranger who saw her thus was Baum.

He always wore shoes without heels and, putting down his whole foot at
once, managed to step so softly that you could never know when he was
coming. He always approached with a modest air, as if fearful of
disturbing you, but always kept his own counsel and was an available
tool, no matter what the nature of the service might be.

"Oh! how pretty!" he exclaimed, staring at her as if quite lost with
admiration.

"It's nothing to you, sirrah, at any rate," said Walpurga; "you're a
married man and I'm a married woman."

Assuming an air of command, and acting as if these were the first words
uttered since he entered the apartment, Baum went on to say:

"It's the lord steward's pleasure that the nurse shall come to the
court chapel immediately, if His Royal Highness the crown prince, is
asleep. The rehearsal is about to begin."

"I've tried my clothes on," answered Walpurga.

Baum told her that it had nothing to do with trying on clothes, but
that, excepting the highest personages, all who were to take part in
the grand ceremonies of the morrow, were now to rehearse the order of
the procession, so that there might be no confusion.

Walpurga went with Baum.

The ladies and gentlemen of the court were assembled in the
throne-room. Most of them were eagerly engaged in conversation, and the
confused sound of many voices was strangely echoed back from the high,
vaulted ceiling. When Walpurga entered, she could hear them whispering
on all sides. Some spoke French, but others used plain German, to say
that the nurse was a fine specimen of a Highland peasant woman.
Walpurga had a smile for every one, and was quite unembarrassed.

The lord steward, bearing a gold-headed stick in his hand, now
stationed himself on the lowest step of the throne, which had been
covered with an ermine mantle. He struck the floor thrice with the
stick and then held it up. Every one was provided with a printed
programme, and Walpurga also received one. After reading it to the
company, the lord steward enjoined its strict observance on all.
The procession now moved toward the chapel, passing through the
picture-gallery and the portrait-gallery, by the way. The open space
before it presented the appearance of an enchanted garden. It was
filled with exotic trees, and the air was laden with the odor of
flowers. The chapel was also decorated with flowers and shrubbery; and
the paintings on the ceiling represented angels flying about in the
air.

Countess Brinkenstein, whose appearance was even more austere than on
the first evening, was engrossed with her official duties; this was no
time for her to be ill.

She cautioned Walpurga, who walked beside her, to be very careful how
she carried the prince, and earnestly enjoined her not to withdraw her
arms until she felt quite certain that the prince was safely in his
godfather's arms.

"Of course I won't; I'm not that stupid," said Walpurga.

"I require no answer from you." Countess Brinkenstein was vexed at
Walpurga. She was indeed displeased with the queen, who, she thought,
was spoiling the poor servant, but found it more convenient to vent her
resentment upon Walpurga than upon so exalted a personage as her
majesty.

The various groups were chatting and laughing in as careless a tone as
if they were in a ball-room instead of a church.

The lord steward, who had stationed himself at the altar, inquired
whether all were in readiness.

"Yes," was answered from various quarters, amid much laughter.

Walpurga looked up at the image of the Virgin, which she had seen by
the light of the everlasting lamp on the evening of her arrival,--it
was the first time she saw it by daylight--and said: "Thou, too, must
look on while they rehearse." She now fully understood Mademoiselle
Kramer's remark that, for royalty, everything must be arranged in
advance. But was it right to do so with sacred matters? It must be,
thought she, or they wouldn't do it. The court chaplain was there too,
but not in his ecclesiastical robes. She saw him taking a pinch from
the golden snuff-box of the lord steward, with whom he was talking just
as if they were in the street.

And so this is the rehearsal, thought Walpurga to herself, when
Countess Brinkenstein approached and said that, as she now knew her
place for the morrow, she might go. She also ordered Walpurga to wear
white cotton gloves, and said that she would send her several pairs.

Walpurga went out by way of the throne-room and the picture-gallery.
Without looking about her, she walked through numerous apartments, and
suddenly found herself standing before a large, dark room. The door was
open, but she could not see where it led to. She turned in alarm, for
she had lost her way. All was silent as death. She looked out of the
window and saw a street that she had never seen before. She knew not
where she was, and hurried on; from a distance, she could see strange
men and beasts and places on the walls, and suddenly she uttered a
shriek of terror, for the devil himself, black as pitch, came toward
her, gnashing his teeth.

"O Lord! Forgive me! I'll never be proud and vain again! I'll be good
and honest," she cried aloud, wringing her hands.

"What are you making such a noise about? who are you?" exclaimed the
devil.

"I'm Walpurga, from the lake; and I've a child and husband and mother,
at home. I was brought here to be the crown prince's nurse, but indeed,
I didn't want to come."

"Indeed! and so you're the nurse. I rather like your looks."

"But I don't want you, or any one else, to like my looks. I've a
husband of my own and want nothing to do with other men."

The black fellow laughed heartily.

"Then what were you doing in my master's apartments?"

"Who's your master? I've nothing to do with him. I and all good spirits
praise God the Lord! Speak! What is it you want of me?"

"Oh, you stupid! My master is the queen's brother. I'm his _valet de
chambre_. We arrived here last evening."

Walpurga could not understand what it all meant. Luckily for her, at
that moment, the duke and the king came out of the apartment.

Addressing the Moor in English, the duke inquired what had happened;
answering in the same tongue, the Moor said that the peasant woman had
taken him for the devil incarnate; upon hearing which, the duke and the
king laughed heartily.

"What brings you here?" inquired the king.

"I lost my way, after leaving the chapel," replied Walpurga. "My child
will cry. Do please show me the way back to him."

The king instructed one of the lackeys to conduct her to her
apartments. While going away she overheard the uncle, who was to be
chief sponsor, saying: "What a fine milch-cow you've brought from the
Highlands!"

When she had returned to her room, and again beheld herself in the
large mirror, she said:

"You're nothing but a cow that can chatter, and is dressed up in
clothes! Well, it served you right."



                             CHAPTER XVII.


The night was a bad one. The crown prince suffered because of the
fright which the Moor had given his foster-mother. Doctor Gunther sat
up all night, in the adjoining room, so as to be within ready call, and
was constant in his inquiries as to Walpurga and the child. He
instructed Mademoiselle Kramer never again to allow the nurse to leave
the room without his permission.

To Walpurga this imprisonment was welcome, as she wished to have
nothing more to do with the whole world; for the child filled her soul
and, while she lay on the sofa, she vowed to God that nothing else
should enter her mind. She looked at the new clothes that were spread
out on the large table and shook her head; she no longer cared for the
trumpery. Indeed, she almost hated it, for had it not led her into
evil? and had not the punishment quickly followed?

Walpurga's sleep was broken and fitful, and whenever she closed her
eyes, she beheld herself pursued by the Moor. It was not until near
daybreak, that she and the child slept soundly. The great ceremony
could therefore take place at the appointed time.

Baum brought the beautiful pillows and the brocaded coverlet
embroidered with two wild animals. While passing Walpurga, he softly
whispered:

"Keep a brave heart, so that you don't get sick again; for it you do,
they will discharge you at once. I mean well by you, and that's why I
say so."

He said this without moving a feature, for Mademoiselle Kramer was to
know nothing of it.

Walpurga looked after him in amazement; and Baum, indeed, presented
quite an odd appearance, in his gray linen undress uniform.

"And so they'll send you away when you get sick," thought she to
herself. "I'm a cow. They're right, There's no longer any room in the
stable for a cow that's barren."

"I and thou and the miller's cow--" said she, to the prince, as she
again took him to her bosom, while she laughed and sang:

                 "Cock a doodle doo!
                  The clock strikes two;
                  The clock strikes four.
                  While all sleep and snore.

                 "Be it palace or cot,
                  It matters not,
                  Though they cook sour beets,
                  Or eat almonds and sweets--
                  As long as they care
                  For the little ones there."

Walpurga would have said and sung much more that day, were it not for
the constant hurrying to and fro in the prince's apartments. Countess
Brinkenstein came in person, and said to Walpurga:

"Have you not all sorts of secret charms which you place under the
pillow for the child's sake?"

"Yes, a twig of mistletoe will do, or a nail dropped from a horse-shoe;
I'd get them quick enough if I were at home; but I've nothing of the
sort here."

Walpurga felt quite proud while telling what she knew of the secret
charms; but grew alarmed when she looked at Countess Brinkenstein and
saw that her face wore an expression of displeasure.

"Mademoiselle Kramer," said she, "you will be held responsible if this
peasant woman attempts to practice any of her superstitious nonsense
with the child."

Not a word of this was addressed to Walpurga, who had persuaded herself
into believing that she was the first person in the palace, and now,
for the first time, experienced the mortification of being ignored,
just as if she were nothing more than empty air.

"I won't lose my temper, in spite of you. And I won't do you the favor
to get sick, so that you may send me off," muttered Walpurga, laughing
to herself, while the countess withdrew.

And now followed a beautiful and happy hour. Two maidens came, who
dressed the prince. Walpurga also allowed them to dress her, and
greatly enjoyed being thus waited upon.

All the bells, throughout the city, were ringing; the chimes of the
palace tower joined in the merry din, and almost caused the vast
building to tremble. And now Baum came. He looked magnificent. The
richly-embroidered uniform with the silver lace, the scarlet vest
embroidered with gold, the short, gray-plush breeches, the white
stockings, the buckled shoes--all seemed as if they had come from some
enchanted closet, and Baum well knew that he was cutting a grand
figure. He smiled when Walpurga stared at him, and knew what that look
meant. He could afford to wait.

"One should not attempt to reap too soon," had been a favorite saying
of Baroness Steigeneck's valet, and he knew what he was about.

Baum announced a chamberlain and two pages, who entered soon afterward.

Heavy steps and words of command were heard from the adjoining room.
The doors were opened by a servant and a number of cuirassiers entered
the room. They were a detachment from the regiment to which the prince
would belong, as soon as he had received his name.

The procession that accompanied the prince moved at the appointed hour.
The chamberlain walked in advance and then came Mademoiselle Kramer and
Walpurga, the pages bringing up the rear. It was fortunate for Walpurga
that Baum was at her side, for she felt so timid and bashful, that she
looked about her as if imploring aid. Baum understood it all and
whimpered to her: "Keep up your courage, Walpurga!" She merely nodded
her thanks, for she could not utter a word. Bearing the child on her
arms, she passed through the crowd of cuirassiers who, with drawn
swords and glittering coats of mail, stood there like so many statues.
Suddenly, she thought of where she had been last Sunday at the same
hour. If Hansei could only see this, too. And Franz, tailor Schenck's
son, is in the cuirassiers--perhaps he, too, is among those lifeless
ones; but they must be alive, for their eyes sparkle. She looked up,
but did not recognize the tailor's son, although he was in the line.

The prince's train, with its escort, passed on to the so-called grand
center gallery, where the procession was forming.

Walpurga had been told to seat herself with the prince on the lowest
step of the throne, and when she looked about her she beheld a sea of
splendor and beauty. There were richly embroidered costumes, lovely
women, their heads adorned with flowers, and jewels that sparkled like
dew-drops on the meadow at early morn.

"Good-morning, Walpurga! Pray don't rise," said a pleasant voice,
addressing her. It was Countess Irma. But she had scarcely commenced
speaking to her, when the lord steward thrice struck the floor with his
gold-headed stick, the diamonds on which sparkled brightly.

A train of halberdiers, wearing gay plumes on their helmets, marched in
from a side apartment. And then the king came. He carried his helmet in
his left hand and at his side. His face was radiant with happiness.

At his side walked the duchess, a diamond crown on her head, and with
two pages bearing her long silk train. She was followed by a numerous
and brilliant suite.

Irma had hastened to her appropriate place. The bells were slowly
tolling, and the procession moved. At the entrance of the palace
chapel, the duchess took the child from the nurse and carried it up to
the altar, where priests, clad in splendid robes, were awaiting it, and
where countless lights were burning.

Walpurga followed, feeling as if bereft--not only as if the clothes had
been torn from her body, but as if the body had been rent from her
soul. The child cried aloud, as if aware of what was taking place, but
its voice was drowned by the tones of the organ and choir. The whole
church was filled with a mighty volume of sound, which descended from
the gallery and was echoed back from the floor beneath, like sullen,
muttering thunder. Involuntarily, Walpurga fell on her knees at the
altar--there was no need to order her to do so.

Choir, organ and orchestra burst forth with a mighty volume of sound,
and Walpurga, overwhelmed with awe and surprise, imagined that the end
of the world had come and that the painted angels on the ceiling,--aye,
the very pillars, too--were swelling the heavenly harmonies.

Suddenly all was silent again.

The child received its names. One would not suffice: there were eight;
a whole section of the calendar had been emptied for its benefit.

But from that moment until she reached her room, Walpurga knew nothing
of what had happened.

When she found herself alone with Mademoiselle Kramer, she asked:

"Well, and what am I to call my prince?"

"None of us know. He has three names until he succeeds to the throne,
when he himself selects one, under which he reigns, and which is
stamped on the coins."

"I've something to tell you," said Walpurga, "and mind you don't forget
it. You must send me the first ducat you have stamped with your name
and your picture! See! he gives me his hand on it!" cried she,
exultingly, when the child stretched out its little hand as if to grasp
hers. "Oh, you dear Sunday child! Let the first lady of the bedchamber
say it's superstition--it's true, for all. I'm a cow and you're a
Sunday child, and Sunday children understand the language of the
beasts. But that's only once a year--at midnight on Christmas eve. But
as you're a prince, I'm sure you can do more than the rest."

Walpurga was called into the queen's apartment, the dazzling beauty of
which suggested a glittering cavern in fairy-land. All was quiet; here
nothing was heard of the noisy, bustling crowd overhead. The queen
said:

"On that table you will find a roll containing a hundred gold pieces.
It is your christening present from my brother and the other sponsors.
Does it make you happy?"

"Oh, queen! If the lips on these gold pieces could speak, the hundred
together couldn't tell you how happy I am. It's too much! Why, you
could buy half our village with it! With that much you could buy--"

"Don't excite yourself! Keep calm! Come here, and I'll give you
something else, for myself. May this little ring always remind you of
me, and may your hand thus be as if it were mine, doing good to the
child."

"Oh my queen! How happy it must make you to be able to speak right out
when your heart is full of kind thoughts, and to have it in your power
to do so many great and good actions; besides, God must love you very
much, to permit so much good to be done by your hand! I thank you with
all my heart! And to Him who has given it all to you, a thousand
thanks!"

"Walpurga, your words do me more good than all that the archbishop and
the rest of them said. I shall not forget them!"

"I don't know what I've said--but it's all your fault! When I'm with
you, I--I hardly know how to say it--but I feel as if I were standing
before the holy of holies in the church. Oh, what a heavenly creature
you are! You're all heart! I'll tell the child of it, and though it
doesn't understand what I say, it'll feel it all. From me it shall get
only good thoughts of you! I beg your pardon now, if I should ever
offend you, even in thought or do anything out of the way--" She could
say no more.

The queen motioned Walpurga to be quiet and held out her hand to her;
neither spoke another word. Angels were indeed passing through the
silent room.

Walpurga went away. It was self-confidence, not boldness, that made her
look straight into the faces of the courtiers whom she passed by the
way. As far as she was concerned, they did not exist.

When she was with the child again, she said:

"Yes, drink in my whole soul! It's all yours! If you don't become a man
in whom God and the world can take delight, you don't deserve a mother
like yours!"

Mademoiselle Kramer was amazed at Walpurga's words. But the latter did
not care to tell what was passing in her mind. There was perfect
silence, and yet she sat there, motionless, as if she could still hear
the organ and the singing of the angels.

"It isn't this that makes me so happy," said she, looking at the money
once more. "It must be just this way when one gets to heaven and the
Lord says: 'I'm glad you've come!' Oh, if I could only fly there now! I
don't know what to do with myself."

She loosened all her clothes; the world seemed too close and confined
to contain her.

"God be praised! the day's over," said she, when she lay down to rest
that evening. "It was a hard day, but a beautiful one; more beautiful
than I'll ever see again."



                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                       (IRMA TO HER FRIEND EMMA.)


"You ask me how I like the great world. The great I world, dear Emma,
is but a little world, after all. But I can readily understand why they
term it 'great.' It has a firmament of its own. Two suns rise daily; I
mean their majesties, of course. A gracious glance, or a kind word,
from either--and the day is clear and bright. Should they ignore you,
the weather is dull and dreary.

"The queen is all feeling, and lives in a transcendental world of her
own into which she would fain draw every one. She suggests a 'Jean
Paul' born after his time, and is of a tender, clinging disposition,
constantly vacillating between the dawn and twilight of emotion, and
always avoiding the white light of day. She is exceedingly gracious
toward me, but we cannot help feeling that we do not harmonize.

"I know not why it is, but I have of late frequently thought of a
saying of my father's: 'Whenever you find yourself on friendly or
affectionate terms with any one, imagine how he would seem if he had
become your enemy!'

"The thought follows me like a phantom, I know not why. It must be my
evil spirit.

"All here regard me as wonderfully naïve, simply because I have the
courage to think for myself. I have not inherited the spectacles and
tight-lacing of tradition. The world seems to follow the fashion, even
in clothing the inside of their heads.

"I admire the first lady of the bedchamber most of all. She is the law
incarnate, carefully covered with _poudre de riz_. The ladies here
ridicule her, but I have only pity for those who are obliged to resort
to the use of cosmetics. Ah, you can have no idea, my dear Emma, how
stupid and bored some persons are when unable to indulge in scandal.
There are but few who know how to enjoy themselves innocently. But I am
forgetting that I intended to tell you about Countess Brinkenstein.

"She read me a lecture on etiquette. What a pity that I cannot give it
you, word for word. She said many pretty things; for instance,--that we
have as little right to doubt in matters of etiquette as in religion,
that, in either case, reasoning always led to heresy and schism, and
that one ought to feel happy to have the law ready made, instead of
being obliged to frame it.

"Countess Brinkenstein, like Socrates the peripatetic, teaches by
example. In the park of the summer palace there is a jutting rock, from
the top of which a fine view can be obtained. It is protected on all
sides by an iron rail. 'Do you observe, my dear countess,' said this
high priest of etiquette to me--for she seems to have conceived quite
an affection for your humble servant--'it is because we know there is a
railing, that we feel perfectly safe here. If it were not for that, we
should become too dizzy to remain. It is just the same with the laws of
court etiquette; remove the railing and there will be some one falling
every day.'

"The king enjoys conversing with Brinkenstein and, although decorous
and dignified demeanor best pleases him, he is not averse to
unconstrained cheerfulness. The queen is too serious; she is always
grand organ. But one cannot dance to organ music, and as we are still
young, we often feel like dancing. Brinkenstein must have commended me
to the king, for he often addresses me, and in a manner that seems to
say: 'We understand each other perfectly.'"

                                          "_June 1st_ (_at night_).

"It is a pity, dear Emma, that what I have written above bears no date.
I have completely forgotten when I wrote it--auld lang syne, as it says
in the pretty Scotch song.

"I feel the justice of your complaint, that my letters are written for
myself and not for the one to whom they are addressed; that is,
whenever I feel like writing, but not when you happen to wish for news.
But you are wrong in charging this to egotism. I am not an egotist. I
am wholly absorbed by the impressions of the moment. Ah, why are you
not here with me! There is not a day, not a night, not an hour-- But I
shall do better. That is, I mean to try, at all events.

"The king distinguishes me above all others, and I enjoy the favor of
the whole court. If it were not for the demon that ever whispers to
me--

"I send you my photograph. We are now wearing wings on our hats, and
the feather you see on mine was taken from an eagle that the king shot
with his own hand.

"Oh, what lovely days and nights we are having! If one could only do
without sleep. I am giving great attention to music and sing nothing
but Schumann. His music invests the soul with a magic veil, with a fire
that seems to consume while it fills you with happiness, and from the
spell of which none can escape, though they try ever so hard. I gladly
yield to its influence. I have just been singing 'The heavens have
kissed the earth.' It was late at night, and I felt as if I could go on
singing forever. You know my habit of repeating the same song again and
again; of all things a _pot-pourri_ of the emotions is least to my
liking. At last I lay down by the window--who was it that glided past?
I dare not say. I do not care to know. There was a humming in the
direction of the lamp on my table. A moth-fly had flown into it and had
been consumed by the flame. The moth had not wished to die; it had
imagined the light to be a glowing flower-cup, and had buried itself in
it.

"It was a beautiful death! To die in the summer night, amid song and in
the light of the fiery calyx. Good-night!"

                                                        "_June 3d_,

"No matter where I am or what I do, I am always excited, without
knowing why. But I have it, after all. I am constantly thinking that
this letter to you is still lying in my portfolio. If any one at court
knew what I have written--I have already been on the point of burning
these sheets. I beg of you, destroy them. You will,--will you not? or
else conceal them in some safe place. I cannot help it, I must tell you
all.

"The queen is very kind to me. Her present condition invests her with a
touching, I might almost say, a sacred character.

"'Man is God's temple,' said the archbishop, who paid us a visit
yesterday, 'and of no one is this so true as of a young mother; above
all, a young royal mother.'

"What a noble thought!

"I now think quite differently of the queen. When she said to me,
yesterday: 'Countess Irma, the king speaks of you with great affection,
and I am very glad of it,' I thought to myself: Blessed be the
etiquette that permits me to bend down before the queen and kiss her
hand.

"Her hand is now quite full and round."

                                                       "_June 5th_,

"The most cheerful hours are those we spend at breakfast. I do not know
how, after such Olympic moments, the rest can content themselves with
every-day matters, for I always wing my flight into the boundless realm
of music.

"The king is very kind to me. He is of a noble and earnest character.
While I was walking with him in the park, yesterday, and we both kept
step so beautifully, he said:

"'You seem like a true comrade to me, for we always walk together in
perfect step. No woman has ever walked thus with me. With the queen I
am always obliged to slacken my usual pace.'

"'That is only of late, I suppose.'

"'No, it is always so. Will you permit me, when we are alone, to
address you as my good comrade?'

"We stopped where we were, like two children who have lost their way in
the woods and do not know where they are.

"'Let us return,' was all I could say.

"We went back to the palace. I admire the king's self-control, for
he at once entered into earnest conversation with his minister. Such
self-control can only result from great education and innate mental
power.

"But there is one thing more. Let me confide it to you.

"I feel sure that the queen meditates a step which must needs be
fraught with evil to the king, to herself, and to who knows how many
more. I would have liked to acquaint him with my fears, but I dared not
speak of the queen at that time, and Doctor Gunther, the king's
physician, had made me afraid to utter a word on the subject. I am
talking in riddles, I know. I will explain all to you at some future
day, if you remind me of it. In a few weeks, all will be decided. My
lips are not sealed, for the queen has confided nothing to me. I have
simply reasoned from appearances. But enough of this. I shall no longer
torment you with riddles.

"My best friend, after all, is Doctor Gunther. He is great by nature,
and still more so by education. He is always up to his own high
standard. I have never yet seen him confused or uncertain. The
old-fashioned phrase, a 'wise man,' is, indeed, applicable to him. He
is not fond of so-called 'spirituality' or 'intellectuality,' for he is
truly wise. He has great command of language. His hands are beautiful,
almost priestly, as if formed for blessing. He never loses his
equanimity and, what is best of all, never indulges in superlatives.
When I once mentioned this to him, he agreed with me, and added: 'I
should like to deprive the world of its superlatives for the next fifty
years; that would oblige men to think and feel more clearly and
distinctly than they now do.'

"Do you not, dear Emma, perfectly agree with this? Let us found an
_anti-superlative_ society. I admire the man, but will never be able
successfully to imitate him. Through him, I have learned to believe
that there have been great and wise men on earth. While yet a surgeon
in the army, he was my father's friend. Afterward, he filled a
professorship in Switzerland, and, for the last eighteen years, has
been physician to the king. You would be delighted with him. To know
him, is to enrich one's life. If I were to write down all his sayings,
half the charm were lost, for you would lose the spell of his presence.
He has a most convincing air and a sonorous voice, and I have heard
that he used to sing very well. He is a perfect man, and loves me as if
I were his niece. I shall have much more to tell you about him. Above
all things, I am glad that he has a fine vein of humor. This furnishes
the salt and prevents him from being included among the class of
sugar-water beings.

"Colonel Bronnen is his best, perhaps his only intimate, friend, and
the doctor recently told me that the colonel's manner and appearance
greatly resemble that of my father while a young man."

                                                       _June 15th_,

"Ah, how hateful, how horrible is the thought of man's birth and death!
To die--to be laid in the earth, and to know that the eyes that once
glowed with life, and the lips that once smiled, are to decay. The very
idea is a barbarous one. Why do we know of death? We must be immortal,
or else it were terrible that we human beings should alone know that we
must die. The moth-fly did not know it. It simply thought the burning
light was a lovely flower, and died in that belief.

"Since last evening, we have been greatly concerned for the queen,
indeed, for a double life. She was so good, so angelic.--But no, she
still is, and will remain so. She will live. I have prayed for it with
all my heart. Away with doubts! My prayer must avail.

"When I met the king to-day he scarcely looked at me, and it is better
for me, that it should be thus. A feeling was beginning to bud within
me, and now I pluck it out by the roots. It dare not be. I will be his
comrade; his good, his best comrade.

"My piano, my music, my pictures, my statuettes, my bird--all seem
strange to me. A human being, a two-fold life, is in mortal danger.
What does all the trumpery in the world amount to now? All of it
together cannot save a human life. Is original sin a truth, and is it
because of that, that man must pass through the throes of death before
he can behold the light?

"I would like to read, but there is no book that can serve one in such
moments. One cannot even think. Nothing, nothing can be done. All the
wisdom in all the books is of no avail."

                                                      "_June 16th_.

"Hallelujah! I have just come from church. Oh, that my song could reach
you. I have just sung the Hallelujah as if I were pouring out my whole
soul to God above.

"Hallelujah!

"AH is well!

"The crown prince is born!

"The queen is doing well. The king is happy! the world is bright, and
the blue sky overhead is cloudless.

"God be praised, that I have so soon escaped from my perplexing doubts.
Perhaps it was all imagination, after all. There was not the slightest
ground for my alarm.

"I am but a silly cloister plant, after all, and do not yet understand
the ways of the court. Is it not so? I see you laughing at me, and see
the dimples in your cheeks. I send you many kisses. Ah, all are so good
and pious, and holy, and happy, and-- If I could only compose, I should
produce some great work. A mute Beethoven dwells within my soul."

                                                      "_July 18th_.

"The crown prince's nurse is a peasant woman from the Highlands. At the
king's desire, I paid her a visit. I was standing by the prince's
cradle, when the king approached.

"Softly he whispered to me: 'It is indeed true; there is an angel
standing by my child's cradle.'

"My hand was on the rail, and his hand rested on mine.

"The king left the room, and just imagine what happened afterward.

"The nurse, a fresh and hardy-looking peasant woman, with shrewd blue
eyes--a perfect rustic beauty, indeed, to whom I had been kind in order
to cheer up, and prevent her from growing homesick--now turned upon me
and told me harshly, and to my face: 'You're an adulteress; you've been
exchanging love-glances with the king!'

"Emma, I now feel the force of what you have often said to me: 'You
idolize the people; but they are just as sinful and corrupt as the
great world, and without education to curb and restrain them.'

"But what is the peasant woman to me, after all? Certain persons exist,
only in so far as they serve our purposes.

"No, she is a good and sensible woman, and has asked me to forgive her
boldness. I shall remain her friend. I shall, indeed."

                                                      "_June 25th_.

"The king evinces the greatest kindness toward me. It is only yesterday
that he remarked to me, while passing:

"'Should you ever have a secret, confide it to me.'

"He knows full well that I could hardly go to my brother, as a sister
should, and that my father is so far away.

"Colonel Bronnen, of the queen's regiment, is very attentive to me.
He is usually quite reserved. Ah, how I envy those who possess such
self-control. I have none. The demonstrative are always flattering
themselves that their irrepressibility is simple honesty, whereas it is
nothing but weakness.

"Bronnen tells me that you write to him at times. Can it be possible
that a single thought of yours enters this palace, without being mine?

"I am delighted to know that we return to the summer palace in a
fortnight from now. Cities ought to vanish during the summer. We ought
to be able to transport our houses into the woods, among the mountains,
or in the valleys, and in the winter they might be brought together
again.

"Last evening, while we were sitting on the verandah, we were greatly
amused by a joke of my brother Bruno's. He gave us a description of
what might happen if the feet of all the four-post bedsteads in the
city were endowed with life and, with their contents, were to come
stalking along the garden-walks. It was very droll. Of course, there
was some little that was scarcely proper; but Bruno, with all his
impertinence, has so charming a manner that he knew how to couch his
descriptions in most discreet yet piquant terms.

"It was this that suggested the idea of a migration of houses.

"It was a lively evening, full of merry jests that still seem to ring
in my ears while I write to you.

"The king has a new walking-stick--he has quite a collection of
such--and this one pays court to me.

"I am said to be intellectual, and this walking-stick is intellectual
_par excellence_, and 'birds of a feather flock together,' you know.

"It is Baron Schnabelsdorf, privy councilor of one of the legations.

"Picture to yourself a dapper, beardless bachelor, always in faultless
attire. Every one of the few hairs left him is made to do service, and
is artistically brushed up into the form of a cock's comb. He passes
for an authority in matters of statecraft. He has just returned from
Rome, and was formerly attached to the embassies at Paris and Madrid
and, if I am not mistaken, that at Stockholm, also. He is a fluent and
ready anecdotist. He must have a familiar spirit who crams for him, for
he knows everything, from the cut of Queen Elizabeth's sleeve to the
latest discoveries in the milky-way and the recent excavations at
Nineveh. The ladies and gentlemen have several times amused themselves
by reading up one or more articles in the encyclopedia, and then
directing their conversation to the subjects they had prepared
themselves upon. But the omniscient Baron was, even then, better
informed as to dates and circumstances than they were. He is always
provided with a _bonbonnière_ full of piquant anecdotes. He is almost
constantly with the king, and it is rumored that a high position will
soon be conferred upon him.

"What do you think of it? had I better marry him?

"My brother would like me to do so and, although he stoutly denies it,
I still believe that Schnabelsdorf sent him to broach the affair to me.
I could not help laughing, if I were to stand at the altar with this
learned walking-stick. But it is, nevertheless, very flattering to know
that so learned a man desires me as his spouse.

"I must be excessively learned and clever, and you ought to respect me
accordingly.

"A thousand greetings and kisses, from

                             "Your ever spoiled

                                               "Irma.

"P. S.--The queen's brother, the hereditary prince of ----, was at the
christening, and his wife was also present. She rarely utters a word,
but is beautiful. It is reported that the hereditary prince intends to
seek a divorce from her, as she is childless. If, as really seems to be
the case, she loves her husband, how terribly the poor thing must feel.
She must have noticed my interest in her, for she treats me with marked
favor, and has more to say to me than any one else. She wishes me to
ride with her. The christening ceremonies were impressive and
beautiful. At church, I wore a white moiré dress, and a veil fastened
to my _coiffure_.

"At the banquet, Baron Schoning, the chamberlain, escorted me to the
table. I am regarded here as of a highly poetic temperament, and the
chamberlain has already presented me with a copy of his poems. (You
know them. He has disguised his sublime emotions in the Highland
dialect.) He affects my company and, while at table, told me lots of
fearfully silly stuff. Well, as I was going to say, at the banquet I
wore a dress of sea-green silk, cut out square _à la madonna_, and in
my hair a simple wreath of heather. They all said that I looked very
well, and I am inclined to believe that they told the truth."



                                BOOK II.



                               CHAPTER I.


Life at the palace again moved in its wonted channel. Bulletins as to
the condition of the queen and the crown prince, were no longer issued.
The amnesty which had been proclaimed in consequence of the happy
event, had been received with satisfaction throughout the land.

Irma spent much of her time in the crown prince's apartments, and
endeavored to enter into the feelings of the peasant woman who had been
transplanted into a world that was entirely new and strange to her. She
was greatly amused by the droll conceits that this new life awakened in
Walpurga. Her peculiar way of looking at things was frequently in
accord with Walpurga's simple-minded notions, and when Irma was absent,
the nurse would speak to the child for hours, endeavoring, as it were,
to outdo herself with all sorts of droll expressions which, eccentric
as they were, failed to satisfy her.

A strong and deep spring of happiness and content, earnest resolve and
all that makes men true, welled up from Walpurga's soul and ministered
to the benefit of the babe that she had pressed to her bosom; the child
had become as a part of herself.

With constant regularity the prince was daily carried to the queen.
That was the event of the day, after which life, in the crown prince's
apartments, went on in its usual course.

Doctor Gunther now relaxed his orders; for one day, he said: "The
weather is charming, and it will do the prince good to send him out of
doors a little while. We arrange will arrange it in this way:--At
eleven o'clock, you can drive out with Walpurga and the prince, as far
as the Nymph's Grove. Arrived there, you can walk about with the child
under the pines, or can sit down, if you wish to do so. After remaining
there about half an hour, you will return and at once remove to the new
apartments. You have taken good care of yourself, Walpurga; continue to
do so. Let nothing move you from your accustomed ways, and you will
continue to afford pleasure to all of us, as well as to yourself."

Walpurga was quite beside herself with happiness. "We're going out
riding," said she to the child, when the physician had left. "God sends
you everything good while you are asleep. But you'll let me have some,
too, won't you? for you've a good heart, and I've given you mine."

Walpurga would have continued in this vein for a long while, but
Mademoiselle Kramer came up and, while gently patting her cheeks, said:
"You'll have red cheeks again. Show your love for the prince, with
calmness and moderation, and not with such extravagant expressions."

"You're right," said Walpurga. "It's true; I'm not always so. I was
always cheerful, but prudent at the same time: not so giddy as I now
am," said she, after she had walked up and down the room several
times, and at last sat down by the window. "I'll tell you what ails
me."

"Indeed, does anything ail you?"

"Yes, the worst of all ills. I've nothing to do. I don't know what to
put my hands to. This constant talking, dressing and undressing, eating
and drinking, with nothing else to do, makes me stupid. The next time
the doctor comes, tell him to give me some work. I'll carry wood or do
anything that is to be done. They're mowing the grass in the palace
garden, and if I could only be down there with them, I'd feel the
better of it. No man could beat me at mowing grass. Grubersepp often
used to say that the women sharpened their scythes seven times as often
as the men, but that never happened with me."

"Oh, that would never do. But I shall see that you get some exercise."

"Come, you're to go out of doors, into the fresh air," said Walpurga to
the prince.

                 "Thy cage is open! Fly away,
                    Far o'er land and sea.
                  But tell me, birdie; tell me pray,--
                    Where can my darling be?"

"What a pity that the birds have stopped singing. Yes, dear child, they
only sing so long as there are young ones in the nest; but I shall have
you in my nest for a whole year, and I'll sing better than the birds
could,"--and she sang:

                 "Ah, blissful is the tender tie
                  That binds me, love, to thee,
                  And swiftly speed the hours by
                  When thou art near to me.

                 "My heart doth bear a burden, love,
                  And thou hast placed it there--
                  And I would wager e'en my life
                  That none doth heavier bear."

"Brava! charming!" said Countess Irma, entering the room. "I should
like to learn that song. Sing it again."

Walpurga repeated it and, at the second verse, Irma joined in the song.

"It doesn't really suit a child," said Walpurga, "but what does such a
youngster know about lowing cows or singing birds? It's all one to him.
We're going out riding to-day. Do you go with us?"

"I would be glad to ride with you, but I may not," replied Countess
Irma.

"Then you're not allowed to do whatever you please."

Her words surprised Irma: "What do you mean?" asked she, sharply.

"Forgive me, if I've said anything stupid. I only meant to say you're
in service as well as the rest of us. You're a maid of honor, I
believe."

"All must serve some one; the king and queen serve God."

"We must all do that."

"Yes, but princes have a much harder time of it than we, for theirs is
a far greater responsibility. But what am I saying? You ought to feel
happy that you needn't know everything. I've brought some writing
copies for you. I owe you thanks for one thing, already. Ever since
I've resolved to teach you, my own writing has become far plainer than
before--"

Irma suddenly checked herself, for she realized the full force of what
she had been saying, and continued: "for you are to learn it
thoroughly."

Baum came to announce that the carriage was waiting. Irma left, saying
that she would meet Walpurga in the park.

They now went out and Baum let down the carriage steps for them.
Mademoiselle Kramer, who was the first to enter, held the child until
Walpurga had seated herself. Baum jumped up behind and took his place
beside the second lackey; the four horses stepped out and the carriage
started.

"Are we driving?" asked Walpurga.

"Certainly."

"It seems like flying. I can't hear the least rumbling of the wheels."

"Of course you can't. The tires are covered with india-rubber."

"And so they wear cloth shoes just as we do when we walk on smooth
floors. Oh, how clever they all are here. Out yonder, they don't know a
thing. They live just like cattle; the only difference is they don't
eat grass--but what's the matter?" said she, starting with fright.
"They're beating the drums and the soldiers are rushing toward us. Is
there a fire somewhere?"

"That's on our account. The guard always present arms when a member of
the royal family passes by--watch them. They're presenting arms and
after we've passed they'll lay their muskets aside and return to the
guardroom. Their regiment is known as the crown prince's, for it
belongs to him."

"And so he'll have live soldiers to play with when he grows up."

Mademoiselle Kramer showed all the self-command befitting one who could
boast of a line of sixteen ancestors. A slight start and an odd,
nervous twitching of the features, as if suppressing a yawn, were the
only visible effects of Walpurga's words. But of laughter there was not
a sign. An upper servant of the right sort must hear and see all that
is going on, and yet stand by as if he were no more than the table or
plate that can be moved about at will; and although Walpurga was not
her superior, it would not do to laugh at her, for she was nurse to his
royal highness the crown prince. Mademoiselle Kramer therefore
refrained from laughing, and, as if to evade answering, merely said:
"When we pass the guard on our way home, the same thing will happen
again."

"And may I ask what's the good of it all?"

"Certainly; there is a good reason for everything, and this serves to
accustom the people, and especially the soldiers, to show proper
respect to their superiors."

"But our prince don't know anything of that."

"We must show our respect for him, even though he know nothing of it;
and now let me tell you something which it would be well for you to
know. Whenever you speak or think of their majesties, the king and
queen, let it be as 'his majesty' or 'her majesty,' but never simply as
king and queen, so that you may never so far forget yourself as to
speak of them in a disrespectful manner. Bear this in mind."

Walpurga scarcely heard a word of what she said.

"Oh, Lord!" she exclaimed, "how wisely they've arranged everything. It
must have taken many thousand years before they could get so far."

"It has, indeed. But you needn't nod to everyone you see bowing. It
isn't meant for you."

"But I'd like to do it for my prince, until he can attend to it
himself. They all show how glad they'll be to get a look at him. They
all bow to you, my child--you're well off, indeed--oh, what a lovely
carriage this is. It's as soft as a bed, and as comfortable as a room,
and you can sit here and see all that's going on outside, and--dear me,
how fast we're going."

They turned into the park. The carriage drove slowly while they passed
the lake, and Walpurga was ever saying:

"I feel as if I were in fairyland."

They alighted by the shady and fragrant Grove of the Nymphs. As soon as
she had left the carriage, Walpurga, who was carrying the child in her
arms, said:

"Open your eyes! Look about you! The whole world's yours. There are
trees and meadows and, overhead the blue sky. But your father can't
give you that; you'll have to earn it by being good, and if you and I
both remain good, we'll meet again, up above."

"Sit down here, Walpurga, and pray cease talking," said Mademoiselle
Kramer.

She was terribly anxious about Walpurga, who talked incessantly and
incoherently, and was as unmanageable as a young foal that had just
been let loose in the meadow.

For this reason, Mademoiselle Kramer again remarked: "Speak softly, and
address all your remarks to me. I should be sorry if the lackeys behind
us were making sport of you. Do you see the outrider over there? He is
my nephew." Walpurga had not, until then, noticed that two lackeys, one
of whom was Baum, were following them. The carriage was being driven up
and down the side avenues. Suddenly Walpurga stopped, as if spellbound,
before a marble figure.

"Isn't it beautiful?" asked Mademoiselle Kramer.

"Fie!" replied Walpurga. "It's abominable; and to think of men and
women walking about here and looking at such an object."

When the old king had the statues placed in the park, Mademoiselle
Kramer had deemed them objectionable, but as their majesties had found
them beautiful, she had gradually come to look upon them in the same
light.

They went into a side avenue, where Walpurga sat down on a bench and,
falling into a reverie, soon knew as little of the world as did the
child in her arms.

"Who's there?" said she, as if awakened from sleep.

Riding between two horsemen, she beheld a lady mounted on a glossy
black steed. Her riding-habit was of blue and the long flowing veil
fastened to her hat was of the same color.

"It looks like the countess."

"It is she, and now they dismount. His majesty the king and their royal
highnesses the hereditary prince and princess, are with her. They are
coming this way," said Mademoiselle Kramer. "Keep your seat. As nurse,
you need not trouble about being polite."

But Walpurga could not help putting her hands up to her hat, in order
to feel whether the tassel at the back and the flowers in front were
still in place.

Mademoiselle Kramer begged their highnesses not to look at the sleeping
child, lest they might awaken it.

Irma was the first to speak. "How deeply significant are all of
nature's laws. The waking eye arouses the sleeping child. In the depths
of every human soul, an infant soul rests sleeping, and it is not well
to permit either sympathy or idle curiosity to disturb it."

"I would like to know how you always manage to have such original
thoughts," replied the king.

"I don't know," replied Irma, playing with her riding-whip. "I've
courage enough to say what I think, and that passes for originality.
Nearly all human beings are changelings. They were changed while in the
cradle of education."

The king laughed. Walpurga, however, quickly turned her thumbs inward,
and said:

"Changelings. It's wrong to speak of anything of that sort before a
child that's less than seven months old, for the evil spirits are all
powerful up to that time, even if the child is christened."

In order to exorcise any evil spell from the child, she breathed upon
it thrice.

The princess looked sadly at the nurse and the child, but did not utter
a word.

"I don't understand a word of what the nurse says," remarked the
hereditary prince.

Walpurga blushed scarlet.

"Why do you look at me so?" asked Countess Irma, "don't you know me?"

"Of course I do, but do you know who you look like? like the Lady of
the Lake. When she rises from the waves, her dress hangs about her in a
sea of folds just like yours."

Irma laughed, while she, in High German, told the prince and princess
what the nurse had been saying. The prince nodded to Walpurga much as
he would have done with a dumb animal to which he could not render
himself intelligible.

"But Countess Irma's feet are not swan's feet. Don't believe that,
Walpurga," said the king laughing. "Come, 'Lady of the Lake.'"

They mounted their horses and rode away.

It was time for the prince to return.

On their return, they at once repaired to the new apartments on the
ground floor, into which everything had been removed during their
absence.

They now had sunlight at all hours of the day. The apartments opened
out on the park, where the blackbird sang in the broad daylight, and
where the breezes were laden with the odor of the orange bushes. Tall
trees were whispering in the wind and a great fountain was constantly
murmuring and plashing.

Walpurga was quite happy, and the fountain was her greatest delight.

"It's far more comfortable on the first floor," she would often say; "I
feel as if I'd just returned from a long journey. The rooms are so
nice and cool, and my night-watchman sleeps in the daytime just as a
night-watchman should, and--and--"

And Walpurga, too, fell asleep, although 'twas daylight.



                              CHAPTER II.


Walpurga soon accustomed herself to her changed mode of life. She was
often concerned because she received no tidings from home.

But if there were no letters, there was a messenger at all events. A
servant entered the room and said:

"There's a woman outside, who comes from the same place as Walpurga.
She wishes to speak to you for a few moments."

"I'll go to her. Who is it?"

"No," said Mademoiselle Kramer; "receive her here."

The servant went out at once, and returned, bringing old Zenza with
him.

"Oh, is it you, Zenza? Have you brought me anything from my child, my
husband, or my mother? For God's sake, has anything happened? Are they
sick?"

"No, they're all well, thank God, and send their love to you."

Walpurga, with an affectionate glance, gazed into Zenza's cunning eyes,
which now seemed good and truthful, because they had seen her child.
Smiling, Zenza went on to say:

"I'm glad you still know me. How bad the folks are. They told me you
wouldn't recognize me, because you'd become a fine lady. But no, you
always were a good girl, and I've always said so."

"Yes, yes, that's all very well; but what do you want of me?"

"I want you to help me. If you don't, my son Thomas will take his life
and I'll drown myself in the lake. You'll help me, won't you? See, I'm
kneeling at your feet. You must help me. Your dear father and I were
almost cousins, and if your father were alive, he'd say what he's now
calling down to you from heaven--'Walpurga, if you don't help Zenza,
I'll never forgive you.'"

"Get up! What's the matter? How can I help you?"

"I won't get up. I'll die at your feet unless you promise to help me."

"I'll do all I can for you."

Mademoiselle Kramer interposed and said that unless Zenza would calm
herself, she would not be allowed to remain in the room another moment.

Zenza arose and asked:

"Is that the queen?"

Walpurga and Mademoiselle Kramer laughed at her question, and Zenza at
last made known her wish.

Her son Thomas, she said, was standing down there before the palace, as
the guard would not allow him to enter. He had been caught poaching
and, as it was his second offense, he had been sentenced to two years'
imprisonment. And yet he was not to blame. It lay in his blood. He must
go hunting. His father had been that way before him. He had only shot
one little chamois buck and for that he was to go to jail again. He had
sworn an oath that, before he would let them lock him up, he would take
his own life or else commit a murder, so that they might behead him at
once; and Zenza went on to say that Walpurga would have two,--nay,
three human lives on her conscience if she did not help them; that
Walpurga must procure her an audience with the king or queen, so that
she might, on her knees, beg them for mercy.

"Your husband and the landlord of the Chamois sent me," added Zenza,
"and they both say it'll be easy enough for you to help me, and if you
do, I'll be your slave as long as I live."

"Yes, I'd like to help you, but I can't see how. Things are not managed
here as they are at home."

"Oh, you can find a way, quick enough. You're clever, the whole
neighborhood says so; and I've known it ever so long, and said so, too,
on last St. Leonard's day. Schenck, the tailor will bear me witness,
and so will Spinnerwastl, too; 'Walpurga bears herself,' said I, 'as if
she were one of the lowliest, but she's the first in the whole
neighborhood. You'll all live to see what becomes of her. Her wisdom
and her goodness will show themselves.' Now, Walpurga, you'll help me:
won't you."

"Yes, as soon as there's a chance."

"But I can't wait. Thomas is to go to jail to-morrow, at daybreak, and,
if he's not released to-day, there will be murder."

"My dear woman," interposed Mademoiselle Kramer, "his majesty the king
declared a general amnesty at the birth of the crown prince. That
covers your son's case, does it not?"

"No; that's the very trouble. All the courts in the country are against
my Thomas. Look at this. It's all there. The innkeeper wrote it down,
better than I can tell you. The writing must reach the king before
noon, or it'll be too late. My son Thomas is walking up and down out
there, and it's an even chance whether he goes to heaven or hell. He's
got a double-barreled pistol with him, and he'll shoot the first man he
looks at and himself, too, before this very palace, if I go out there
without having done anything for him."

"Yes, but I can't run up to the king as I would to the innkeeper, or
I'd gladly do it."

"I must sit down, my knees are breaking under me," exclaimed Zenza;
and Mademoiselle Kramer hurried to bring her a chair. And while
she sat there with drooping head, great tears dropped upon the bony,
thick-veined hands that lay folded on her knees.

Walpurga motioned to Mademoiselle Kramer, who was trying to console the
old woman. She wanted to tell her that Zenza was not so very good,
after all, and that Thomas was still worse; but Mademoiselle Kramer
turned about and said:

"I have an idea. Countess Wildenort's brother is aid-de-camp
 to his
majesty, and, in half an hour from now, will present his report and get
the countersign. Now, Walpurga, go to Countess Irma at once and request
her to hand the petition to her brother, so that he may submit it to
his majesty."

"Yes, yes, do go--do! Lord, what a wise angel you have here with you,
Walpurga;--but go right off--don't lose a moment! May I stay here a
little while longer, or shall I wait down there before the palace?"

"No! you may remain here, my good woman," said Mademoiselle Kramer,
consoling her. "But hurry yourself," said she, addressing Walpurga, who
still held the letter before her, and stood there as if immovable.

Walpurga left the apartment. When she drew near to Irma's door, she
heard the countess, with fervid expression, singing Schumann's song to
Friedrich Rueckert's words:

                        He came to me,
                          In storm and rain,
                        And boldly, he
                          My heart hath ta'en.

                        Was my heart won,
                          Or his, that day?
                        Methinks both hearts
                          Did meet half-way.

The chambermaid announced Walpurga. Irma stopped in the middle of her
song.

"Welcome! What good thought brings you here?"

Walpurga hesitated, but, at last, preferred her request and handed the
paper to the countess.

"Take courage," said Irma, consolingly.

She rang for a servant, to whom she said: "Tell my brother to come here
at once." Then, addressing Walpurga, she continued: "I'll add a few
words of my own. Be calm. I am glad to be able to grant your request.
I've often wanted to ask you whether there was not some wish that you
would like to have gratified. The king will surely grant the pardon."

Walpurga would have liked to interrupt her, but everything seemed as if
bewitched. Before she could say a word, the aid-de-camp
 had come. Irma
begged him to wait while she added a few lines of her own.

The aid-de-camp
 had taken his leave. Irma passed her hand over
Walpurga's face and said: "Let me banish all your sad thoughts. Be
happy and take my word for it--the man is saved. Go to the poor woman
and quiet her in the mean while. I'll bring the answer to your room."

Walpurga could not find words, or she would have said something, even
then. But the petition had already gone. After all no one would be
harmed in the matter, and, although Thomas really was a wicked fellow,
this might make a better man of him. Walpurga left Irma's apartment.
Stopping at the door, for an instant, to recover herself, she heard
Irma singing again. When she reached her room, she was in a calmer
state and said to Zenza:

"Your Thomas will get off; depend upon it. But you must give me your
word, and promise to keep it, too, that Thomas will become an honest
man, and that you won't help him sell his stolen wares and hide his
evil ways. You needn't look at me so, for I've a right to talk to you
this way. I've risked a great deal for you."

"Yes, indeed; you've a right to say it," replied Zenza, in a
half-earnest, half-jesting tone. "You make our whole neighborhood
happy. We're all proud of you. On Sunday, before the church, I'll tell
them what influence you have here, and they'll all believe me. Your
mother was my playfellow, and if my Thomas had got an honest woman like
you for his wife, he'd been thrifty, too. He must get himself a good
wife. I'll give him no peace till he does."

Zenza was enjoying some good coffee which Mademoiselle Kramer had
prepared for her, and the kind-hearted housekeeper filled her cup again
and again.

"If I could only give my son some of this! Oh, how he must be suffering
out there! But it serves him right; that's his punishment. He's on the
lookout now, but not as a poacher. It's quite a different thing, now."
Zenza was quite voluble and Mademoiselle Kramer was charmed with the
frankness and motherly affection of the old woman.

When Zenza had emptied her cup and eaten nearly all the cake, she said:

"May I take this little bit of sugar with me? It'll always remind me
that I've drunk coffee in the king's palace."

Mademoiselle Kramer wrapped a piece of cake in a paper, and said: "Take
this to your son."

It seemed as though Zenza would never get done thanking them. She was
in great good-humor, and asked permission to see the prince; but
Walpurga refused it and well knew why; for, at home, Zenza was regarded
as a witch and, even if it were mere superstition, thought Walpurga,
who can know what might happen? She had already become so politic that
she availed herself, as an excuse, of the doctor's order that no
stranger should be allowed near the person of the crown prince.

Zenza now told them how great a commotion Walpurga's sudden departure
had created in their neighborhood. Ever since, the people would talk of
nothing else. The folks were all late at church on Sunday, because they
had stopped before Walpurga's house and stared at it as if there was
something new to be seen, and Hansei had been obliged to show his cow
to half the congregation, as if there was something strange about it.
But the thoughts of all were of Walpurga; and she also said that it was
well known that Walpurga's influence had secured Stasi's betrothed his
position as ranger. In spite of Walpurga's protestations that she knew
nothing of it, Zenza insisted on her story, and praised her the more
for her modesty.

The time passed quickly.

Countess Irma, her face radiant with joy, brought the king's letter of
pardon.

Zenza would have fallen on her knees to her and kissed her feet, but
Irma held her up and said:

"I've something more for you: take this, so that, besides being free,
you may be able to get some pleasure."

She gave her a gold piece.

Old Zenza's eyes sparkled, while she said:

"If the gracious princess should ever want any one who'd go through
fire and water to serve her, she need only think of Zenza and Thomas."

She would have said much more, but Walpurga said:

"Thomas is waiting for you at the gate; make haste and go to him."

"You see, dear princess, how good she is. She deserves to be happy."

"Walpurga," said Mademoiselle Kramer, "you might give the woman the
money for your husband."

"I'll take it for you."

"No, I'll send it. I must wait awhile," said Walpurga hesitating. She
could not well explain that she distrusted both Zenza and her son.

"Here," said Irma, handing Zenza the little golden heart which she
wore; "take this to Walpurga's child, from me." Then, removing her silk
kerchief, she added, "give her this, too."

"Oh, what a lovely neck!" exclaimed Zenza.

Walpurga again reminded her that she had better return to her son.

Irma felt happy to think that she had brought about the pardon.
Walpurga was afraid to tell them Zenza was a stranger to her and that
she almost hated her; or that Red Thomas was one of the worst men in
their neighborhood. She consoled herself with the thought that all
would yet be well. Bad men can grow better, or else all talk of
repentance would be mere lies and deceit.

In the mean while, Zenza, holding the pardon on high, had hurried out
of the palace.

"Is my reckoning settled?" asked Thomas, spitting as far as he could.

"Yes, thank God! See what a mother can do."

"I don't owe you much thanks for that, what did you bring me into the
world for? But the best of it all is it's a slap in the face for the
great snarling country justice. Now, mother, I'm as thirsty as three
bailiff's clerks. Waiting has almost used me up. Have you anything more
about you?"

"Of course I have; just look."

She showed him the gold piece, which he most dexterously removed from
her hand and into his pocket.

"What else have you got?" said he, when he noticed the little gold
heart that she had taken from her pocket at the same time.

"The beautiful princess gave me that and this silk kerchief for
Walpurga's child."

"Hansei's child will have enough with the kerchief," said Thomas,
appropriating the gold heart, while he good-naturedly allowed his
mother to retain the black cord which had been attached to it.

"There, mother; that'll do very well, and now let's take a drink for
having waited so long. While I was waiting out here, I saw a splendid
rifle at the gunsmith's. You can take it apart and put it in your
pocket, and we'll see if the greencoats catch me again."

The first thing young Thomas did was to take the chamois beard and the
black cock plume out of his pocket and stick them in his hat again.
Then he put on his hat in a defiant manner, and his whole bearing
seemed to say: I'd like to see who'd dare touch them.

Just as they were going away, Baum came in from the street. He seemed
anxious to avoid them, but Zenza went up to him and thanked him again
for the handsome present he had given her when Walpurga had been sent
for. She looked at him strangely and Baum, with a side glance, noticed
that Thomas's eyes were fixed upon him. He felt a shudder passing like
a flash of lightning, from his heart to his head. It actually made his
hair stand on end, and obliged him to raise his hat and adjust it
differently; but he took a nail-file from his pocket and began trimming
his nails, and then said: "You've thanked me already; once is enough."

"Mother! if Jangerl wasn't in America, I'd have sworn that was he."

"You're crazy," replied Zenza.

They went into the town together. Thomas always walking briskly in
front. It seemed as if it would not worry him much, were he to lose his
mother.

They repaired to an inn, where, without taking time to sit down, he
drank off a schoppen of wine. Then, telling his mother to wait, he went
off to purchase the rifle.

Meanwhile, Walpurga was sitting by the window and imagining how the
folks at home would be talking of her great power, and how, at the
Chamois, they would have so much to say about her, and that the
innkeeper's wife, who had always looked down upon her, would almost
burst with envy.

Walpurga laughed and was pleased to think that the envious and proud
would be angry at her good fortune. This, indeed, seemed her greatest
delight, and at all events, was the thought on which she dwelt longest.
Another reason may have been that the joy of the virtuous is more
quickly exhausted than the angry and evil speeches of the wicked, which
keep fermenting and sending bubbles to the surface long after they have
been uttered. Walpurga remained sitting by the window, her lips
silently moving, as if she were repeating to herself the words of those
who envied and were angry at her, until, at last, Countess Irma
addressed her:

"I can see how happy you are. Yes, Walpurga, if we could only do good
to some fellow-creature every moment, we would be the happiest beings
under the sun. Don't you see, Walpurga, the real divine grace of a
prince lies in his being able to do good at any moment?"

"I understand that quite well," answered Walpurga. "A king is like the
sun which shines down on all, and refreshes the trees near by, as well
as the flowers in the distant, hidden valley; it does good to men and
beast and everything. Such a king is a messenger from God; but he must
be careful to remain one, for being lord over all pride and lust may
overpower him. He's just given life to Thomas, and all the prison doors
open as they do in the fable when they say: '_Open sesame_,' Oh, you
good king! don't let them spoil you, and always have such kindhearted
people about you as my Countess Irma."

"Thanks," said Irma. "I now know you perfectly. Believe me, all the
books in the world contain nothing better and nothing more than does
your heart; and, although you cannot write, it has been so much the
more plainly written there.--But let us be quiet and sensible. Come,
you must take your writing lesson."

They sat down together, and Irma taught Walpurga how to use the pen.
Walpurga said that she did not care to write single letters, and that
she would prefer having a word to copy.

Irma wrote the word "pardon" for her. Walpurga filled a whole sheet
with that word, and when Irma left the room, she took the writing with
her, saying:

"I shall preserve this as a memento of this hour."



                              CHAPTER III.


"What can be the matter with the queen?--"

--"Her majesty," added Mademoiselle Kramer.

--"What can it be?" said Walpurga; "for some days, the prince--"

"His royal highness," said Mademoiselle Kramer.

--"Has hardly been noticed by her. Before that, whenever she saw the
child and held it to her heart, she always seemed lifted up to the
skies, and once said to me: 'Walpurga, didn't it make you feel as if
you'd become a girl again, free and independent of everything? To me,
the world is nothing but myself and my child'--and now she hardly looks
at it, just as if her having had a child were a dream. There must be
great trouble in a mother's heart--"

"Royal mother," said Mademoiselle Kramer.

--"When she doesn't care to look at her child."

The queen's heart was, in truth, torn by a mighty struggle.

Her feelings had, for months past, been of a most distressing and
excited nature. There was one point on which she dared not even think
aloud, and which she would have thought profaned by speaking of it to
others. It was her wish to determine for herself, and she had done so.
Ever since she had become a mother, she had felt as if separated from
the rest of the world. When she thought of her child and, above all,
when she clasped it to her heart, she felt as if nothing more remained
to be done. She and the child were her world; all else was as nothing.
And yet she loved the king with all her heart, and ardently desired
that their union should might be so complete that they be one in
feeling, in belief, and in affection.

The thought that they ought to be united in all things, constantly grew
upon her. Father, mother and child should be as one, praying to the
same God, with the same thoughts, and in the same words.

The isolation of the sick chamber only helped to strengthen these
thoughts, and, now that she was about to return to the world, she
longed to make the bond that united her to the king, perfect in the
highest sense.

She was allowed to do but little talking, and, therefore, did not
indulge in conversation. After a few days had passed, she had a
Madonna, by Filippo Lippi the younger, brought to her dimly lighted
chamber. She gazed at the picture for hours, and it seemed to be
looking at her in return--the two mothers were one in bliss.

The canon visited her and found her in this devotional frame of mind.
With trembling lips, she confided to him her desire to belong to the
church of her husband and child. He lent a ready assent to the request
that she might be spared all dogmatic teachings. When the canon had
left, she became oppressed with a sense of fear. There goes a man,
thought she, who bears my secret with him. He had promised to keep it
to himself and thus prove himself worthy her confidence. But the secret
had, nevertheless, ceased to be entirely her own.

She soon quieted her fears, and a glow of delight overspread her
features at the thought that, although she was now a mother, there was
yet another sublime and exalted function which would perfect her union
with her husband and furnish one more proof of her great love for him.

In the fullness of life, the thought of death occurred to her, and she
ordered another painting to be placed on the easel before her. It was
the Maria Ægyptica, by Riberia.

The queen often felt as if she must seek the glance of the penitent.
But those eyes, instead of beholding aught, seem as if listening: not
in alarm, for an angel is calling to her--but submissive and trustful,
for she is used to the sound of heavenly voices. Instead of
representing the penitent daughter of the king as crushed and bruised
from having mortified the flesh, the artist has made her features
expressive of restored, childlike innocence and youthful beauty--a nude
figure, divested of all raiment, wrapped in the long, fair tresses that
descend to her knees. She is kneeling beside the open grave that is to
receive her. Her blue eyes gaze into eternity; her lips are closed, as
if in pain, and above her hovers an angel who spreads the mantle of
mercy over her and exclaims: "Thou art forgiven!" Forgiven and
redeemed, she sinks into the grave.

The ascetic tone of the picture fully accorded with the queen's mood,
and the canon often found her lost in ecstatic admiration of it.

Although Doctor Gunther disapproved of this mute companionship, his
wishes and his orders were alike unavailing. It was the first time that
this man, who was so highly esteemed by the queen, had encountered
obstinacy and unyielding defiance at her hands. When Irma saw the
picture, she carelessly remarked that the position of the eyes was
faulty, but that the artist had skillfully availed himself of this
fault in order to produce a peculiar expression. The queen pressed her
hand to her heart--she was alone in her feelings and wished to remain
so.

Walpurga was successful where both Gunther and Irma had failed.

"Is that a forest-sprite?" asked she,

"What's that?"

"Out our way, they tell of the forest-sprites. They haunt the mountains
on ghost-nights, and can wrap themselves in their long hair."

The queen related the legend of Maria Ægyptica to Walpurga. She was a
princess who had led a dissolute life. Suddenly, she left the palace
and, renouncing all pleasures, went out into the desert, where she
supported herself on roots and lived many years, until all her clothes
fell from her body: and, when her dying hour arrived, an angel
descended from above and spread the mantle of mercy over her--

"That's all very good and pretty," said Walpurga, "but, no offense to
you, my queen, it seems a sin to have such a terrible picture before
one's eyes. I wouldn't want to sleep in the same room with it. It seems
as if some night it would come down and drag me into the open grave
with it. Oh, dear Lord! I'm afraid of it, even in broad daylight."

Walpurga's words were not without effect. When night came, the queen
really imagined that the picture was coming toward her. She could not
sleep, and was obliged to have it removed during the night.

Her calmness and equanimity were thus restored, and, as reading was now
permitted her, the priest provided her with suitable books.

Her whole life was possessed by the one idea. Walpurga had observed
correctly. The queen scarcely looked at her child, although the step
she contemplated taking was prompted by love for her husband and her
child.

A few days before she went out for the first time, she sent for the
king, and said:

"Kurt, next Sunday will be the first time that I go out, and the first
day that I enter your church, and that of our son. Henceforth, I shall
pray at the same altar with you and him."

"I don't understand you--"

"I have vowed that if God, in his mercy, would preserve my life and
that of the child, I would be united with you in all things. I am not
fulfilling an enforced vow, but a free and well-considered resolution.
I offer this, not as a new proof, but rather as a confirmation or final
sealing of our love. Kurt, my every thought, all that I am, is yours.
We are as one before the world; let us be as one before God.
Henceforth, we will not take separate ways, or have separate thoughts.
Let our child learn nothing of the differences between men, and, above
all, between those to whom he owes his life. I feel happy that I can do
this as a free offering and not as a sacrifice."

"Mathilde," said the king, with a strangely cold tone, "is this the
first time you speak of this, or have you already made preparations--"

"My resolution was formed in secret, and in all earnestness. Afterward,
I announced it and all is now in readiness. I had intended it as a
surprise for you. The canon almost insisted that I must tell you of it
in his presence, but I wouldn't consent."

"Thank God!" said the king, drawing a long breath, "all may again be
well!"

"'Again?' 'Well?'" inquired the queen in amazement.

The king calmly explained to her that, although he appreciated the
sacrifice, he could not accept it. The queen deprecated his terming it
a sacrifice, and the king said:

"Very well, then; you need go no further than myself, who of all
beings am most in accord with you, to discover that others may--nay,
must--judge of your actions differently from yourself. What will the
world, the courts, our subjects, think of it?"

"What need we care about that, when we know that we are right? 'What
will the world say?' is always the great question. But the world must
not force us to be different from what we are."

"Mathilde, you speak like a martyr. Your feelings are exalted and
worthy of all reverence. You are both good and noble; but, believe me,
the best actions, indeed, the only proper ones, are those which require
neither explanations nor apology. We are not hermits. Although your
motives are pure and lofty, the world will be unable and unwilling to
understand them. Nor dare we make explanations. A prince degrades
himself by stooping to explain his actions. You regard the world with
heavenly feelings; but the heaven lies in your way of looking at
things, not in the world itself. I should be sorry to reveal the
world's wickedness to you, and thus cast a gloom over your kindly views
of life. Hold fast to your belief in the Highest, but do it after the
forms of your own faith."

"And must I, all my life, walk in one path, while you and the child
take another?"

"Mathilde, we are not anchorites; we are not even private citizens. Our
position is an exposed one. A sovereign can have no private actions--"

"Do you mean that all we do is to be as an example to others?"

"I mean that, too," said the king, hesitating; "but what I meant to say
was, that, in whatever you do, it is not yourself alone, but the queen
who acts. Its effects are felt far and near. I am happy to be the
object of so much love. You feel it, do you not, Mathilde?"

"Don't speak of it. Our best and deepest feelings do not seek
expression in words."

"Bear this well in mind--the wife of a private gentleman can perform
such an action in secret. You cannot. You would be obliged to close the
Protestant court chapel, and would thus offend all throughout the land
who hold your present faith."

"I don't wish to offend any one. The world can't ask me to make such a
sacrifice. My highest, my only aim, is to be one with you, on earth and
in heaven, now and hereafter."

"Very well, then; promise me one thing."

"Whatever you wish."

"Promise me that you will defer acting on your resolve, for at least a
month. It would be wrong to allow a passing mood to change the course
of one's life."

"You're a noble creature," said the queen; "I'll obey you."

"So you give up your resolve?"

"No, I shall wait. I don't wish it to be what you imagine it--the
outgrowth of a sickly mood, engendered by the seclusion of my chamber.
I'll allow it to ripen in the sunlight, and you will then discover that
it is something more than a mere mood."

The king was satisfied with the result. But, strangely enough, he
refrained from any display of affection, and when, at parting, he took
the queen's hand in his, his manner seemed cold and distant.



                              CHAPTER IV.


The king had shown great self-command while conversing with his wife,
and, now that he was alone, felt that her words had aroused a dormant
feeling of displeasure.

He sincerely loved his wife, but he was of an heroic, active
temperament, and all that savored of pettiness, self-questioning or
sentimentality, was utterly distasteful to him. His great ambition was
to promote the happiness of his subjects, and to achieve for himself a
place in history. But a period of peaceful development, in which all
were friendly to the government and anxious to serve it, afforded no
opportunity for heroic deeds, or for new and startling measures. All
that could be done was to hold fast to what had already been achieved
and, at the same time, to encourage new growths. But such labors absorb
the work of many whose names remain unknown to fame, and it was this
that explained the king's fondness for building. The construction of
great edifices devoted to art, science, the church and the army, could
not but be regarded as proofs of a mind anxious to achieve great deeds.

The king loved his wife, and was content to have it so. The queen, on
the other hand, was ever anxious to furnish new proofs of her love, and
her deep sensibility was again displayed in this attempt to carry out a
resolve which, although prompted by the best motives, was utterly
impracticable. She idealized everything, and, in that respect, the
king's temperament was the very opposite of hers. Her apartments were
always so dimly lighted that, when he entered them, he was obliged to
grope his way. On emerging from this gloom, it seemed to him as if the
morn had dawned anew, for he dearly loved the bright light of day. This
continual worrying about religious problems that none can solve--this
constant mental excitement, incapacitates one for prompt action. He who
desires to have his life-fabric rest on a firm foundation, must be free
from over-refined self-criticism. He must subordinate all his feelings,
all his passions, to the one aim, and to no one does this so forcibly
apply as to the monarch who desires to direct the diversified and
all-embracing interests of his subjects.

The queen's aim was to realize, in her own person, her ideal of the
wife and the mother; but then she had no right to forget that she was a
queen. Something more was required than eternal trifling and weaving of
garlands, ingeniously devised as they might be. Love, such as hers, is
exacting withal, for, while it lavishes endearments, it constantly
requires a return in kind. It is exclusive and, at the same time,
wearisome. The sun shines and love exists, but why constantly worry
about either.

The lonely life the queen had been leading had produced an excited
condition that sought vent in the attempt to change her faith, and,
although the king had determined that it should be nothing more than an
attempt, her words had tended to confirm a corresponding feeling of
loneliness on his part--a result to which his recent experience had in
no slight degree contributed.

The king was alone in his cabinet. How would it have stood with him, if
his wife had possessed a great and commanding mind? The thought had
suddenly flashed upon him. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to
banish the idea; he dared not, could not think of such a thing. He sent
for Doctor Gunther, for this affair must be disposed of at once.

Gunther came.

The king, at first, cautiously sounded him, in order to discover
whether this confidant of the queen's knew aught of what had happened,
and then, under the seal of secrecy, informed him of all.

To the king's great surprise, Gunther, instead of thanking him for this
mark of confidence, politely said:

"I should much prefer that Your Majesty had graciously permitted me to
remain ignorant of secrets and troubles in which I can be of no
assistance."

The king stared at him in astonishment. This man was always obstinate
and preserved his dignity.

"I was about to ask you," said the king, harshly, "whether you believe
that you can influence the queen in this matter."

"I fear not; but if Your Majesty desires it, I am ready to make the
effort."

"Pray do."

"But I fear her majesty will be offended. I understand her
idiosyncrasies. If the matter is noised about, she will think it
profaned by the touch of others, and it will thus, in her opinion, lose
its greatest charm."

"That would be the very thing," said the king, eagerly. "Perhaps that
will be the best way to cure her of her enthusiasm. Everything is
considered a fit subject for debate, nowadays. Your friends in the
chamber of delegates debate everything, and they might as well--"

It was a constant source of annoyance to the king, that the doctor, who
never obtruded his opinions, would, when drawn into an argument on
questions of religion or politics, always espouse the liberal side;
but, with all that, he could ill afford to do without Gunther. Although
the king found him objectionable in some respects, he nevertheless had
a high regard for him. He held so high a position in the world of
science and in the esteem of his countrymen, that the presence, near
the king, of one possessed of such liberal views, reflected peculiar
glory on the court itself.

The king now formally requested Gunther to endeavor to move the queen
from her resolve.

It was a difficult undertaking.

The queen had, heretofore, made this trusted friend her confidant, and
now he was possessed of a secret of hers that had been given him by
another. Gunther endeavored to draw the queen into some allusion to her
secret resolve, but, failing in the attempt, was obliged to introduce
the subject himself.

The queen seemed surprised and grieved.

"Why has the king done this?" asked she, her features expressing
intense pain.

"Perhaps his majesty," replied Gunther, "credits me with the possession
of more powerful arguments that any which have yet been advanced."

"I know them, all," answered the queen, excitedly; "in such a matter,
no stranger should dare to breathe a word of--"

"Then, Your Majesty, I've nothing more to say, and humbly beg leave to
withdraw."

"No, no! Speak on--I must hear you."

"Must? You must not."

"Wish, or must, it's all the same. You're always saying that there's no
such thing as free will, and with monarchs it is certainly so."

"Your Majesty," said Gunther, in a gentle voice, "the high resolve you
have formed was not an act of your will. It is the natural and
inevitable consequence of a chain of events and impressions, which have
been shaped by your temperament. Fervent natures are always afraid lest
they cannot do enough for themselves and for the world. They would
like, with every hour--nay, with every breath--to make others happy, or
impress the world with some great thought."

"So you, too, can flatter."

"I never flatter. I simply take the diagnosis which, in your case, is
not flattering. This excess of sensibility is not health--"

"So you consider my mood as unhealthy--"

"We should not use that term.--But I entreat you. Your Majesty! this
tone, with either of us, is hardly--"

"Speak on. I like to hear you. I don't feel hurt that you know of this.
I regard you as part of the daylight that was to ripen my resolve."

"Well then, all that is to ripen must needs be subjected to currents of
air and even to storms. But I shall bring you no storm, and shall not
even speak of the fact that whoever deserts the faith into which he was
born, insults his parents; nor shall I tell you that the ceremonies to
which we have been accustomed from youth, are the soul's mother-tongue.
All that does not address itself to the mind. Mind and reason are the
parents of conscious man. It is our duty to live up to our convictions,
and I can, therefore, find no fault with a change of religion based
upon conviction. But it seems to me, Your Majesty, that your change of
faith is simply superficial or, if it be deeper, only from love for
your husband. You know, however, that I view all these things from an
entirely different standpoint. I believe I know the spring in paradise,
whence flows the stream that on earth is divided into so many little
rivulets; and these again, to use the words of my friend Eberhard,
Countess Irma's father, furnish the power for the mills that grind out
sermons. Your Majesty knows that the legend of the four streams that
flowed from the tree Igdrasil, which is found in the most beautiful of
all books, the Bible, is also to be found in our old German Saga."

"Very well--but I beg of you, my dear friend, spare me your literary
curiosities."

"Your Majesty," resumed Gunther, "as long as we remain in the faith of
our fathers, we can enjoy great latitude of opinion. Our thoughts can
reach far beyond its confines, and no inquisition has power over us:
but, as soon as we profess another religion, we forfeit the right to be
free. It is our duty to live up to it. One who is noble by birth can
afford to admit civil equality, but he who has had nobility conferred
on him, cannot do so. Will Your Majesty permit me to say one word more?
I regard it as fortunate for mankind in general, and our German
fatherland in particular, that there is a diversity of religious
beliefs. That of itself tends to preserve feelings of humanity, for
thus we cannot help seeing that there are different forms of soul
utterances for one and the same thing. A multiplicity of sects affords
the best protection against fanaticism and, moreover, helps to prove
that religious forms are of no consequence; that is, one can be
righteous in any faith and, indeed, without any outward show of
religion."

Gunther remained with the queen for a long while, offering further
explanations of the ideas he had advanced.

He was still with her, when the canon was announced.

The queen sent word that she desired to be excused, and requested him
to come the next day.

When Gunther left, she was still as firm in her resolve as at first.
She felt persuaded that this was an action in which no other being
should interfere, and, least of all, a man.

She was on the point of taking Irma into her confidence. She felt that
the countess was clever and, moreover, a true friend. Unconquerable
dread held her back. She feared lest she might appear weak and
vacillating in Irma's eyes.



                               CHAPTER V.


For days, the queen remained alone. Walpurga and the child were the
only ones permitted near her. She did not wish to speak to any one
else, be it her husband, Gunther, or the priest.

One afternoon, when Walpurga was with her, she felt impelled to ask:

"Walpurga, do you know that I don't belong to your faith?"

"Yes, indeed, I do; and I'm glad of it."

"Glad of it?"

"Of course I am; you're the first and only Lutheran I've ever known,
and if they're all like you, it must be a beautiful religion."

"It is beautiful, and so are all religions that make good beings of
us."

"Why, do you know, queen, that's the very thing my father used to say,
and in the very same words? Oh, if he'd only lived long enough to have
had a talk with you."

The queen was silent for a long while.

At last she asked:

"Walpurga, if your religion was different from Hansei's, would you go
to his church?"

"Why, Hansei's Catholic, as well as I am."

"But if it were otherwise?"

"But it isn't otherwise."

"But just imagine it were."

"But I can't do that," said she, as if about to cry.

The queen was again silent for some time. Presently Walpurga, of her
own accord, said:

"Yes, I can, after all. I've thought it out. Why, you're Lutheran and
your husband's Catholic. But why do you ask me that?"

"Imagine yourself in my position. If you were a Protestant, would you
not visit your husband's church?"

"No, queen, never! As long as I'd been an honest wife while a
Protestant, I'd remain one. May I tell you a little story, queen?"

"Yes; go on."

"What was I going to say?--Yes, now I know.--You see, my dear
father--the king's physician has surely told you what a good man he
was--But I'm beginning at the wrong end; I wanted to tell it to you
differently.--Well, as I was going to say, I went to school to a very
strict priest who condemned all people that didn't belong to our faith,
to the lowest depths of hell. I was once telling my father about it,
when he said: 'Purgei,'--he always called me Purgei when he wanted to
speak right to my heart--'Purgei,' said he, 'there are many millions of
people in the world, and the smallest portion of them are Christians,
and what a vile God it would be who would condemn all the rest to hell
just because they aren't Christians, when they can't help it, and were
born as they are. Don't you believe,' said he, 'that a man's damned for
his faith; as long as he's virtuous.' Well, I hold fast by that. Of
course, I didn't say anything to the priest about it, for he needn't
know everything. I'm sure he don't tell me all he knows."

The queen was silent, and Walpurga soon began again:

"And now I think of something, better than all. Oh, my dear queen, I
must tell you this, too. It's about my father, who used to think a
great deal. The old doctor, the father of the one who's living there
now, often used to say that if father had studied he'd have become a
great man. Well, one evening, on the very Sunday that I was confirmed,
I was sitting with father and mother on the bench behind our little
cottage by the lake. The evening bells were tolling; we had said our
aves and were sitting about in front of the cottage, when we heard the
Liederkranz. They were coming across the lake in a boat, and were
singing so beautifully--I can't tell you how lovely their singing was.
And then father got up from his seat, his face glowing in the sunshine,
and said: 'Now I know how our Lord in heaven must feel.' 'Don't
blaspheme,' said my mother. 'I'm not blaspheming; quite the reverse,'
said father. His voice seemed wondrous strange. 'Yes, I know it, I feel
it,' said he; 'all churches--our own, the Protestant, the Jewish, the
Turkish, and whatever their names may be--every one of them has a part
in the song, and though each sings as best he can, they go together
very well, and make a chorus that must sound glorious up there in
heaven. Let every one sing according to the voice God has given him,
for He will know how it will harmonize, and it surely does harmonize
beautifully.'"

Walpurga's beaming glance met that of the queen.

"Your father spoke wisely," said the queen; a tear glistened in her eye
and in that of the nurse, too.

Walpurga went away, taking the child with her.

The next day the queen sent for the king, and said:

"Kurt, I have courage."

"I know it."

"No. I have a courage that you do not know."

"A courage that I do not know?"

"And never will know. I have courage enough to appear weak and
vacillating; but, Kurt, you will not misjudge me on that account?"

"Pray speak more plainly, and with fewer preliminaries."

"I am determined," continued the queen, "I hardly dare utter that word,
now--but you will not misjudge me? I shall remain in the faith in which
I was born, and we shall nevertheless be as one."

The king thanked her quite cordially, and only regretted that the canon
knew of the matter. He hoped, however, to be able to silence his
tongue.

The queen was surprised to find that he manifested so little joy; but,
on second thought, this seemed quite natural to her, for why should
that which had been nothing more than a passing cloud, leave great
results in its wake? Others could know nothing of the bitter struggle
it had cost her.

She felt sensible that it would be a long while before any expression
or resolve of hers would obtain weight or authority, for it would not
soon be forgotten that she had once shown herself weak.

While she was in the Protestant court chapel, on the following Sunday,
she scarcely ventured to raise her eyes. She was thinking of how it
would have been if she now were in the other church, and of how the
eyes of the congregation would have been directed to the pew that was
thenceforward to remain vacant. In spirit, she had already deserted
this church and its congregation. Her soul trembled when she thought of
the resolve she had entertained, and, from the bottom of her heart, she
thanked her husband, whose strong arm had held her back.

When the whole congregation arose and, in the prayers for the royal
household, offered up thanks for her preservation and that of the royal
prince, she could no longer restrain her tears.

Contrary to her usual habit, she went to church again that afternoon.

Meanwhile, the king and Countess Irma were pleasantly sauntering in
that portion of the park from which the public was shut out.

The king informed Irma of the queen's resolve and of how she had been
induced to give it up. Irma replied that she had, long since, surmised
as much, but had not felt that she had a right to speak of it. She had
dropped a hint to Doctor Gunther, who had refused to have anything to
do with the matter.

The king expressed his dislike for Gunther, but Irma defended him with
great enthusiasm.

"The doctor is very fortunate," said the king, "to have so eloquent an
advocate in his absence."

"I am that to all friends whom I truly respect."

"I could wish that I, too, were accused," continued the king.

"And I believe," replied Irma, smiling, "Your Majesty could not wish
for a more earnest advocate than I would be."

A pause ensued. The king gracefully and frankly retracted his
complaints against Gunther, and this conversation seemed merely a
bridge over which they passed to another topic.

The king spoke of the queen and of her peculiar temperament.

It was the first time that the king and Irma had spoken of the queen.
That the king not only prompted, but actually called forth her remarks,
was the cause, at a later day, of incalculable suffering.

They extolled the poetic sense, the fervent feeling, the flower-like
tenderness of the queen, and while they thus depicted her in glowing
colors, they, in their own minds, found fault with her weakness and
overflowing enthusiasm.

When a husband thus speaks of his wife, to a third person, it
inevitably leads to estrangement and exposure.

Thus far, all was veiled in terms of praise. It was here just as it was
with the queen in church. With all the power of her will, she strove to
forget herself in her prayer, and to be again as she had once been; and
yet, while the sense of the words she uttered entered her soul, she
could not help being aware of a secret numbness and estrangement that
seemed to say to her: "You will never again be as you once were."

While the king and Irma were thus conversing, they appeared to each
other as equals. Their views of life were in accord, and while they
spoke of how easily one might yield to temptation, their intimacy
seemed to them a proof of strength rather than of weakness. They went
on in perfect step with each other, and Irma no longer said: "Let us
return."

The queen, since she had again appeared in society, was, if possible,
more gracious and amiable than she had ever been. She placed every one
far above her. They had none of them been as weak and vacillating as
she. She felt it her duty to do good to every one, because, although
she was no better than they, she was placed far above them. Her soul
was all humility.

A few days later, the newspapers mysteriously hinted that attempts had
been made to take advantage of the angelic purity of the queen, in
order to estrange her from herself and alienate the affections of the
people from her.

This, it was readily understood, alluded to the queen's contemplated
change of faith.

The queen had always openly acknowledged herself on the side of the
liberal opposition, and the king regarded Gunther as the mediator who
had procured her the goodwill of the press, and who, in doing so, had
not feared committing an indiscretion.

This plain and flagrant perversion of the truth only served the more to
embitter him against the press and the machinations of the queen's
party at court. Nevertheless, he dissembled his resentment, for he felt
that he could well afford to bide his time.



                              CHAPTER VI.

                       (IRMA TO HER FRIEND EMMA.)


"Let me tell you all that I did yesterday. I wanted to read--I saw the
letters but could not read a word, for they all seemed to be moving
about the page, like so many ants in an anthill. I wanted to sing, but
no song was to my liking. I wanted to play, but even Beethoven seemed
strange, and I lay for hours, dreaming. I followed the little mother
and her son beyond the mountain. The larks sang my thoughts to them.
They reach their home, and the wild, daring lad is tractable once more.
He carols his merry song to his beloved. I fancy I hear him. Ah, Emma!
what is there so glorious as making others happy? It is hard enough to
be a human being, fettered by a thousand trammels, by ailments,
consideration for others, and all sorts of misery; but to suffer want
beside! The very idea of jails is a disgrace to humanity. Ah, Emma! how
noble, how like a revelation from the great heart of the people, were
the words of the simple-minded wife of the wood-cutter. I tried to put
what she had said into verse, intending to give it to the king the next
morning; but I could not do it; nothing satisfied me. Language is worn
out, narrow, coarse. I was ever thinking of Schiller's words: 'When the
soul speaks, it has ceased to be the soul. I left my scribbling. I
passed a restless night. When the soul's depths are stirred, it wanders
about like a spirit, and can find no rest in sleep.

"While at breakfast this morning, I informed the king of what Walpurga
had said. I was annoyed to find that he did not understand more than
half of it. How else could he have answered me: 'Yes, the Highlanders
have great affection for their rulers. Pray tell that to your father.'

"The king observed that he had made a mistake, but, adroit and amiable
as he is, quickly recovered his good nature and said: 'Dear Countess, I
will give you a secret title, which is to be known only by us two. I
appoint you as spy on the popular heart. Seek and listen, and whenever
you find anything, you can always count upon unquestioning compliance
on my part. Does it not seem to you that Egeria was nothing more than a
spy on the popular heart? At the altar in the temple, she could
overhear the secret thoughts of the people, and then repeated them to
king Numa, whom they deified and adored.'

"'But our people only use prescribed prayers,' said I.

"'The thought is quite suggestive,' replied the king, and when
Schnabelsdorf entered shortly afterward, he commissioned him to make
brief notes of what fixed prayers the Grecians and Romans used in their
temples.

"And thus the whole story ended. What I had imagined would create a
deep impression, merely served to furnish amusement for an evening.

"Ah, dear Emma, _amusement_ is the point about which all revolves. If
an apostle were to appear to-day, he could not help preaching, 'Ask
not, how shall we amuse ourselves to-day, but'--etc., etc.,--finish the
sentence for yourself.

"I am no better than the rest of them. I, too, am nothing but a puppet,
wound up to run seventy years, and to dance and laugh and ride and
amuse itself in the mean while. All of us are mere singing-birds; the
only difference being that some are contented with grain and
caterpillars and flies, while others require larger morsels, such as
rabbits, bucks, deer, pheasants, fish. And the higher education of that
variety of singing-birds known as man, lies in the fact that he cooks
his food. There is terrible vacuity in many men. _To make
conversation._ Therein lies the whole art. Try to get a clear notion of
the expression: _to make conversation_, and you will find how
nonsensical it is. The people find me entertaining, but I don't _make_
conversation. I merely speak when I have somewhat to say.

"My evil spirit is constantly shouting the word '_dilettante_' in my
ear.

"'Dilettante--One who junkets or feeds on tit-bits for pastime,'--says
my dictionary. Rather rough, but there is something in it."

                                                   "_One day later_.

"The king has just sent me the following poem. I must apologize to him;
he seems to have understood my communication far better than I had
suspected. What do you think of the lines? Why should a king not write
verses? Ideality is required of him. Indeed a king should understand
all things, but be a dilettante in none.

"P. S.--I have just looked at the lines again, and find that I cannot
copy them for you."

                                                    "_A day later_.

"Don't laugh at my continually telling you of Walpurga.

"It was during our writing-lesson to-day, that the king found me with
her. He told me how much pleasure it had afforded him to be able to
pardon her relative.

"'Our relationship is very distant,' said she, 'nothing more than
forty-second cousins; and, Your Majesty, I've something on my mind. If
Red Thomas turns out badly, I can't help it.'

"The king laughed and replied: 'Nor can I.' It is hard to understand
how Walpurga never speaks of Zenza and her son except in anger, and
that she will have nothing to do with them. Strange demons jostle each
other in the hearts of the people. I fear that my office of spy on the
popular heart will prove very difficult.

"By the king's orders, I have been furnished with a copy of the church
prayers of the Greeks and Romans.

"I must write it down and then the idea will cease tormenting me. I am
constantly picturing to myself, how would it have been if Zenza had
become first lady of the bedchamber, and her son, the poacher, master
of the hounds. She would be ready enough of speech. She has exceedingly
clever and cunning eyes, and the lad would surely have been an elegant
cavalier.

"In spite of all their prating about human equality and pride of birth,
I cannot help regarding it as a sign of divine grace, that I was born a
countess, instead of Zenza's daughter; but there are two sides to that
question.

"God's creatures are not so badly off in this world, after all. The
frog croaking in the marsh is just as happy as the nightingale that
sings on the tree.

"To say to the frog, 'Thou, too, should'st dwell in the rosebush and
sing like the nightingale,' were not humane, but simply tyrannical.

"Have you ever patiently listened to the croaking of the frogs? How
expressive it is of comfort! While I write, they are having a grand
concert over in the park pond. I enjoy listening to them. We human
beings are impudent enough to judge everything by the standard of our
own taste, and yet Mistress Frog will, very justly, find no music so
sweet to her ears as the song of Master Frog.

"I feel so grateful, dear Emma, that I can write everything to you. You
cannot imagine what a relief it is to me.

"I am a spy on my own heart; there are many wild spirits in
it--adventurers and fortune-hunters and, with them all, a nun. I am
quite curious to know how so mixed a company will get on together.

"My behavior toward the whole court is so free and independent, because
I have a secret daily task: writing to you.

"But my thoughts go out to you a thousand times oftener:

            There's not an hour in the silent night.
              But what my thoughts go out to thee.

"Do you remember it? It was your favorite song. I sing it, for your
sake, at least once every day. You and my piano are all in all to me.
You patiently await my coming. All the music of all the masters that
ever were. Or ever will be, dwells within you, and you only await the
coming of the one whose touch can release those tones.

"I have a dual soul. In its one phase, the piano--in its other, the
zither. The one is easily moved from place to place; the other not. The
one requires that the fingers touch the strings. But ah, dear Emma, I
scarce know what I am writing. I wish I could get rid of the habit of
thinking. I wish I were Zenza's daughter and the poacher were my
brother. But no; our thieves and rogues who have been at school long
enough to know the seven cardinal sins and the whole of the catechism
by heart, are timid and cowardly; they drop the petition for pardon
into their mother's lap, while they stand by whining: Forgive us, we
have done nothing wrong. All the world over, there is no longer genuine
scorn of nature. Methinks the 'Italian robber behind the rock' that you
once worked in wools, has, in these days, ceased to be more than a
traditional pattern for embroidery. The arts simply serve to gloss over
life.

"Good-night--good-night."

                                                    "_A day later_,

"I never read what I have once written. I do not care to be reminded of
it again. Yesterday's sun does not shine to-day.--But that was not what
I meant. The sun is the same, but the light is ever new, and I am happy
to-day and do not care for all the churches and palaces, men and women,
frogs and crocodiles in the world.

"To-day, the king said to me:

"'I am well aware, Countess, that you have thought contemptuously of
me, during the last two days. Every withdrawal of your sympathy affects
me as sensibly as if it were an electric shock. Do not let this happen
again, I beg of you!' and while he spoke, he looked at me like a
beseeching child. Ah, he has such deep, beautiful eyes!

"I remember your once saying to me: 'There are glances without a
background, void of depth or soul'; but the glances of this friend have
unfathomed depths.

"The bonds that held me captive shall no longer restrain me! I--I--but
no--I cannot write the word.

"Oh, Emma! How I wish I were a peasant on a lonely mountain height.
Last night, it seemed to me as if my native mountains were calling out
to me, 'Come home'--'Do come'--'It is good to be with us.' Ah, I would
like to come, but cannot.

"Walpurga is a great friend to me at present. I become absorbed in her
life, so full of true, natural repose. I find it excessively amusing to
behold the court as reflected through her eyes. It seems like a very
puppet-play, and we, like two merry children at a raree-show.

"We often sing together, and I have learned some lovely songs from her.
Oh, how charmingly independent the country people are.

"'On mountain heights there dwells no sin.' The song is ever haunting
me.

"The king departs for the baths to-day: my brother is in his suite. The
king requested me to write to him, now and then. I shall not do it."

                                                 "_Two days later_,

"The king knows that I cannot live unless there be flowers in my room,
and has given orders to have a fresh bouquet placed there every day.
This displeases me. A flower that a friend has stooped to pluck for you
is worth more than a thousand artistically arranged bouquets.

"The king has also left orders that bouquets shall be sent daily to
Baroness N---- and Countess A----. I think this is only to avoid
remarks upon the attentions shown me. I am angry at the king. He shall
not have a line from me.

"I have for some time past been taking lessons in modeling, from a
professor at the academy. He has finished a bust of me, and has used it
as a model for a figure of Victory, to be placed on the new arsenal.
Have I not reason to be proud? After this, I shall ever be in the open
air, and shall see nothing but the blue sky, the sun, the moon, and the
stars, and, at noon, the guard-mounting.

"The professor says that I have talent for modeling. This has made me
quite happy. Painting and drawing are only half the battle--mere
makeshifts. Will you permit me, on my return, to make a _relievo_ of
you?

"Did I not, in one of my letters to you, speak of a secret in regard to
the queen?

"I think I did.

"The affair is now at an end. For love of the king, the queen wished to
enter our church, or rather yours--pardon me, once and for all time, I
have no church. The king behaved nobly in the matter. I shall never
forget the time he told me of it. He is, indeed, a great man. How
glorious it is, that there are princes on earth who realize our ideal
of the perfect man. Free and yet self-possessed, unspoiled, unperverted
and unbiased. If there were no kings, we could no longer know a free,
beautiful, perfect man. I use the word _beautiful_ in its highest
sense, and of course presuppose the existence of a noble mind. All are
not gods who suffer themselves to be worshiped.

"The poet and the king are, of all men, alone perfect. All others--be
they musicians or painters, sculptors or architects, artists or
scholars--have narrow, contracted vocations, solo instruments, as it
were. The poet and the king are the only ones who grasp life in all its
phases. To them, naught is devoid of meaning, because all belongs to
them. The poet creates a world; the king is a world in himself. The
poet knows and depicts the shepherd and the huntsman, the king and the
waiting-maid, the seamstress--in fact, all. But the king is hunter and
statesman, soldier and farmer, scholar and artist, all in himself. He
represents the orchestra of talents. Thus is he king, and thus does he
represent a people, an age--aye, humanity itself, and at its best.

"Ah, Emma! Call me Turandot. Schoning, the poetic chamberlain, is also
paying his addresses to me.

"Do you know what I ought to have been?

"I do.

"Queen of a tribe of savages. That is what I was created for. My true
vocation would be to found a new civilization. Don't laugh at me. I am
not joking; indeed, I'm not. I am fit for something far better than all
I have here. I am not modest. I judge others and myself, too. I know my
merits and my faults, also.

"On father's estate, there is a hammock that hangs between two elms. My
greatest pleasure was to lie in it, suspended in the air, while I
dreamt of distant woods.

"Do you know some savage tribe that would elect me as its queen? I have
procured some of the Indian melodies, if they really deserve the name.
One of the professors at the university, who spent six years among the
Indians, recently gave a lecture at court. He brought some of their
instruments with him, and had them played on. There was more noise than
music. It seemed like the lisping of a nation which, as regards
civilization, is yet in its infancy."

                                    "_Four o'clock in the morning_,

"Forget all that I have written to you, as you would the breezes and
the weather-changes of yesterday.

"I have just left my bed, in order to write to you. I cannot sleep. I
am scarcely dressed while I sit here speaking to you. Oh, that I
_could_ speak to you! Writing is a miserable makeshift--nay,
helplessness itself.

"I don't know what ails me. All that I am--my very self--seems as if
only for the time being. I feel as if waiting for something, I know not
what. I fancy that the very next moment must bring it, and that I shall
either be doing some wonderful thing, or have it happen to me--that I
shall be completely changed and become a great healing power, instead
of the puny, useless child of man that I now am. I listen and fancy
that I must hear a tone that has never yet been uttered on earth.

"There is no use trying--I cannot write. I imagined that it would
soothe me if I could force myself to think and speak of all things in
definite terms, but I know nothing definite. I only know that I am
unhappy. Not unhappy, but as if dead and yet alive. I imagine myself a
sleep-walker.

"I can write no more. I close my letter and shall go to bed. I want to
sleep. All the world about me lies hushed in slumber. Oh, that I could
dream myself into another world, even though my sleep were one from
which there is no waking!

"Good-night! Good-morning!                                    IRMA."



                              CHAPTER VII.


"To-morrow, I mean to bring Countess Irma to you," said Doctor Gunther
to his wife, one evening. "She's the daughter of my old friend."

"In voice and manner, the countess is full of majesty, but her singing
is not practical."

"Then you shall teach her. She will be glad to learn from you."

"If she be willing, I am quite at her service."

The doctor was delighted to find it so easy to bring the two ladies
together. He knew, of course, that his wife complied with his every
wish, but in this instance he was doubly anxious that all should go
smoothly.

For some time past, he had observed that Irma was in a feverish
condition which, during the last few days, had been growing worse; but
he was one of those physicians who pay great attention to mental
conditions and, instead of waiting for disease to make its appearance,
endeavor to avert it by proper changes in the mode of living. He did
not know the cause of Irma's excitement, but he knew that her
temperament was one of extremes, and felt sure that if she could only
obtain an insight into a pure home and, perhaps, become initiated into
its ways, it would have a tranquilizing effect and lead her mind to
move in quieter channels. He had enough experience to know that there
are no substitutes for sympathy and friendship, but felt that the
acquaintance of a citizen's wife, of exalted character and ripe
culture, could not fail to have an effect upon Irma, who had thus far
known no life but that of the cloister and the court.

Gunther had no need to give his wife instructions, or even a mere hint
as to the way in which she was to endeavor to gain an influence over
Irma. He felt as sure of his wife's course in the matter as if she were
a force in nature, and well knew that, if left to her own methods, the
result would be so much the more certain.

Gunther usually kept his household free from all relations with the
court; but this was the daughter of his friend--although that friend
was angry at him--and he allowed her the freedom of his house.

Some weeks before, when speaking of the Te Deum on the occasion of the
birth of the crown prince, Irma had casually referred to her having met
Gunther's wife and youngest daughter. The doctor had again, as if by
the merest chance, introduced the subject, and, almost without knowing
it, Irma had expressed a wish to improve the slight acquaintance thus
begun. This was just what he wished for, and, on the afternoon of the
day following, he conducted Irma to his beautiful, well-furnished home.

Gunther's wife was Swiss by birth, and had come from a wealthy and
cultured family. She spoke High German with a strong Alemannic accent.
She endeavored neither to retain the dialect nor to acquire the
language of books. Her easy, natural ways seemed the result of careful
culture, but there was no attempt to show off either. As a matter of
course, she was perfectly conversant with all that related to the
economy of the household, and at the same time fully alive to all that
makes for beauty and the common weal.

As a singer, Madame Gunther had been a great favorite, both in social
circles and at important vocal performances. Her voice was a full,
resonant soprano and, although she had given up singing solos, she and
her daughters would still take part when great musical works were
performed. When fresher voices had taken the solo parts, she had,
without a murmur of regret, retired to her place in the chorus.

And thus, too, was her life. Self-reliant and diligent at home, she
took an active interest in all public institutions in which women were
permitted to take part. She had preserved one priceless heirloom--she
was free from nervousness and, with her, public spirit was a duty. She
educated her children, managed her household, was a kind and attentive
hostess, and performed all this as if obeying the simple instincts of
her nature.

She honored her husband. Whatever he said was always of special weight,
but still she held fast to her own judgment. Although she had been
living in the capital for nearly twenty years, she had remained a
stranger to the whole of the hodge-podge system of caste and the
granting of favors by the grace of this or that one. She was not
opposed to the system, but she left such matters to those in whose eyes
they possessed value and importance; as for herself, she regarded them
with absolute indifference.

She was pleased at the honors shown her husband, but that seemed, to
her, a matter of course. He was a great man, and if the world had
withheld its praise, he would, in her eyes, still have been the
greatest and best of men. Her whole bearing expressed this feeling. She
had never had the slightest desire to appear at court, and when her
husband was obliged to be away from home by day or at night, and often
for weeks at a time, she accepted his absence as unavoidably incident
to his calling, and refrained from adding to his discomfort by
complaining thereat.

When the doctor returned, it was always to a well-ordered home.
Refreshed and invigorated by its influence, he would go back to the
smooth and slippery precincts of the court.

Irma was now introduced to this home. In appearance, she was all beauty
and dignity, and no one would have guessed how forlorn and homeless she
felt within her heart. In her hand, she held the bouquet which had, as
usual, been sent to her that day, by the king's orders. Gunther had
told her that this was his daughter Paula's birthday, and she had
brought the flowers for her. They were as lovely as she who brought
them. And yet what was it that clung to them? It was almost sinful to
use the bouquet as a birthday favor, for Irma felt mortified when she
received it. But the flowers were as coin that might be passed on to
another.

When Irma entered the house, she felt as if escaping from the noise and
bustle of the market-place, or the restless life and cries of the
highway, into a temple of domestic peace.

The house was on a little, narrow street, and was surrounded by a
garden full of tall, fine trees. A portion of the yard had been fenced
off and converted into an aviary. The hallway and rooms were adorned
with statuettes and pictures; the furniture was simple and massive. The
doctor's library, reception-room and study were in the upper story.

There had been no preparations of any kind for Irma's reception. The
mother had carefully enjoined her daughters not to make any change in
their dress on account of the countess's visit. They did not go out to
meet her. She was conducted through the summer house, where the flowers
and presents for Paula had been arranged, and there, on the steps, sat
Madame Gunther and her daughters, busily engaged in needlework. The
elder daughter, the wife of Professor Korn of the university, had her
child with her. Paula, the younger of the two, who, like Irma, had just
entered her twenty-first year, could not be termed beautiful, but had a
bright and cheerful countenance and a fine figure.

Irma was warmly welcomed. As it was Gunther's hour for consultation, he
soon retired and left her with the ladies. She was surprised, at first,
to find herself repeatedly accosted as the daughter of an old friend.
She was not here on her own merit, or as the most admired of all the
ladies at court, but simply as Count Eberhard's daughter, who had been
received into the house from an affectionate sense of duty. When asked
about her father's health, she thanked them, although she felt sad at
heart to think that she knew so little of him. How utterly different
from hers was the life these children led.

Music soon afforded a convenient and agreeable change. On the piano,
there lay a composition in manuscript. It was by a nephew of Madame
Gunther's, who lived in northern Germany. Madame Gunther told her that
he was a philologist by profession, but that, as he would, in all
likelihood, lose his eyesight, he had determined to cultivate his
decided musical gifts and to perfect himself as a musician.

Irma begged Madame Gunther to sing the song, but she replied that,
while her voice was no longer equal to it, that of the countess was
exactly suited to it. She gave the manuscript to Irma, who read it over
and afterward sang it with rich, full voice, to Madame Gunther's
accompaniment. The composition was pleasing, but full of suggestions of
well-known masters.

Madame Gunther now showed what she meant by practical singing. Irma did
not make the best use of the means at her command, and where there were
faults showed them too plainly. The doctor's wife instructed her in a
simple, unpretentious manner, and Irma remarked that the daughters
ought to feel happy to think that they could hear such singing every
day.

"And this is my son, the most grateful of all listeners," said Madame
Gunther, introducing a handsome young man with a full, brown beard. He
was technical director in a manufactory of chemicals, and had brought a
student with him. Female friends who lived in the neighborhood joined
them soon afterward, and there were merry times on the terrace and in
the garden.

Irma remarked the attentive glances directed upon her. It seemed to her
as if all knew the troubles that filled her soul; she had completely
forgotten how beautiful she was.

"Pardon me, Madame Gunther, for looking at you so," said Irma,
suddenly, "but I am somewhat of a dabbler in plastic art, and when I
notice the contour and color of your head, it seems as if the Holbein
Madonna, of the Dresden Gallery, had come to life and was standing
before me."

"Can you really see the resemblance, at this late day?" asked Madame
Gunther, blushing slightly; "in former days, it was often remarked and
was almost the very first thing my husband said to me in Zurich, now
well-nigh twenty-six years ago. On my mother's side I can trace my
descent from the family of Burgomaster Maier, by whose orders the
picture was originally painted."

Irma was delighted with all that she heard and saw, and especially with
Madame Gunther's reminiscences. While speaking of her own efforts in
the way of art, she looked at the doctor's wife earnestly, and only
wished she were able to model a portrait, in which case Madame Gunther
would have to sit to her. She could not help thinking, at the same
time, that there was a culture which had been handed down from earliest
times: a culture whose history, running through all ages, is entirely
different from that of the nobility, and that the best results of human
effort had been brought about, not by the nobles, but by civic liberty.

Madame Gunther asked Irma whether she had a picture of her mother.

Irma replied that her father had had a portrait taken of her mother
when in the fullness of her beauty. The picture had been a failure, and
almost seemed as if intended for some one else, and so her father had
ordered it to be destroyed. He would rather have no picture than a
false one.

"That, of itself, is enough to make one honor him for his love of
truth," said Madame Gunther. "Most people are satisfied with what is
false, and keep on saying: 'you can recognize this or that feature,'
until they, at last, persuade themselves that it must once have been a
true likeness."

The conversation now turned upon the fact that Irma had never known her
mother, and Irma's glance often dwelt upon the two daughters sitting
beside their mother.

Madame Gunther said:

"I trust that I've not awakened painful memories, but I regard it as a
duty that we should often think of our beloved dead; calmly and
peacefully, of course. I've always felt thus with regard to my departed
mother, and I hope that, when the time comes, my children may have the
same feelings toward me."

Irma pressed Madame Gunther's hand. All that she said was so full of
truth, so satisfying.

Madame Gunther told her that it was long before she had acquired a
taste for plastic art. Appreciation had, however, gradually dawned upon
her; but it was for what related to the human figure, rather than for
landscapes. The conversation continued in an easy and cheerful vein.
The carriage had long ago been announced; the half-hour which Irma had
meant to stay with Madame Gunther had been prolonged to more than an
hour. At last, she took her leave with sincere requests to repeat her
visit.



                              CHAPTER VIII.

When Irma returned to the palace, she felt as if coming from another
world--from a life far removed from her own.

Gunther was a deep student of the human heart.

In one respect, Irma's visit had had the result foreseen by him; but
there was some unknown influence at work, and, perhaps, affecting
previously existing conditions. Nothing unless it be the drop that
falls from the cloud, is free from foreign admixture, and it is from
pure thought alone that one can draw definite conclusions. The water in
the spring, and the living human heart, both contain foreign elements
within themselves, and no one can foretell how a new ingredient may
affect the invisible atoms thus held in solution.

Irma's soul was deeply agitated. Her great power had been exercised and
had sought some act in which to spend itself. She had felt happy in the
possession of the king's friendship and in the thought that she could
furnish so great a mind as his with the congenial companionship he
would otherwise be obliged to forego; but the daily bouquet, trivial
attention as it was, had aroused and offended her. "He isn't my ideal,"
said she to herself, and her heart felt lonely again, as it had been
ever since she was old enough to think.

Although she had been lonely while at the cloister, she had there found
a friend who, if she had little to impart, gratefully accepted all that
Irma could give her. At the court, she felt lonely in spite of her
wanton humors. She was always obliged to be doing something, be it
playing, singing, painting or modeling; anything but this deathlike
solitude. She was suffering the homesickness of the soul.

"Are not all in this world homeless?" she asked herself, and, while
searching her mind for an answer, Gunther had introduced her to his
household.

There, all seemed beautiful and complete. There was a home, and a
mother who showed that she understood a young and ardent life; the
daughters would never suffer as she did. The mother's glance fell upon
her and seemed to say: "I shall understand you and will soothe all
sorrows you may tell me of." But Irma could not complain, nor exclaim:
"Help me!"--and where nothing was required of her, least of all. She
could and must help herself.

Madame Gunther had touched her most tender chord: the memory of her
mother, and, although Irma gently avoided the subject, her pain was so
much the greater.

She wept, but did not know it until a tear dropped on her bosom.

There is so much comfort, so much of real and beautiful seclusion, in a
world which is content with itself, and which, in its work and
education, requires no favors from those above. How happy the lot of a
daughter in such a home, until she, in turn, becomes the head of
another household.

Irma felt humbled. All her pride had left her. Her thoughts were still
in the garden, where the people moved about in careless unconstraint
and where the men, returning from their professional labors, and the
maidens, from their domestic duties, were enjoying themselves in
common.

"One thing yet remains mine and it is the best," exclaimed Irma,
suddenly rising: "solitude is mine. I can yet be lonely, strong,
self-contained."

Her waiting-maid entered and announced a lackey sent by the queen.

"Does the queen want to see me at once?"

"Yes, gracious Countess."

"Very well, I'll be there directly."

"Walpurga was right, after all," said she to herself; "I, too, serve."

She felt vexed while she stood before the mirror to have her dress
adjusted. She assumed a cheerful expression with which to appear before
the queen. She was obliged to do so.

She hastened to obey the queen's orders. When she got near the door,
she drew herself up and again fixed her features in the cheerful,
smiling expression that she wished them to have, and then entered the
room, which, as usual, was dimly lighted.

The queen was sitting in a large arm-chair. She was clad in a dress of
snowy white, and a lace handkerchief had been twined about her golden
hair.

"Come nearer, dear Countess," said the queen. "I am delighted to see
you again. When I see my dear friends, it seems as if I'd been spending
the last few weeks in another world. Unfortunately, I am somewhat
indisposed again. I owe you special thanks, for I understand that
you've kindly interested yourself in the nurse; by keeping her
cheerful, you do the prince a service. The king quite agrees with me
that you're a real treasure to us. I shall write as much to your father
and tell him how happy we are to have you with us. That will surely put
him in a better humor with you."

Irma was glad that the queen had so much to say, for she was thus
enabled to recover her composure.

"Pray give me the letter that lies on the table," said the queen.

Irma brought it and the queen added:

"Just read these lines of the king's."

Irma read: "Pray tell Countess Irma to keep me constantly informed as
to the condition of our son. Remember me to the dear fourth petal of
our clover-leaf."

Irma returned the letter with thanks. She felt deeply humiliated to
think that the king was trying to force her to write, and at the method
he had chosen. Walpurga was right when she spoke of love-glances at the
cradle.

Irma almost fainted with grief and shame.

"Won't you do us the favor to write, dear Countess?"

Irma bowed deeply, and the queen continued:

"Of course there will be very little to write about. Man is the highest
object in creation and, for that very reason, develops far more slowly
than all other creatures."

Irma was about to suggest that, at that rate, a prince would develop
still more slowly, but she merely nodded and smiled assent.

She was not in a mood to enter into the queen's way of thinking. She
could see nothing in her but nursery thoughts, with which, at present,
she had no sympathy. Though they were vastly more important, what would
it matter to me, thought she to herself. Here, just as in Gunther's
house, there is a life separate from the world and contented with
itself. Here is a mother and her child. Of what use am I? Merely to
talk and take part in everything. All others are complete and possess a
world of their own; and am I always only to take a part--there, the
alms bestowed by friendship; here, those accorded me by royal grace? Am
I complete in myself, or am I not?

And while Irma's mind was filled with these thoughts, the queen, in her
agitated, soulful manner, went on to say:

"The miracle of life fills me with awe. Have you never thought of the
world of meaning suggested by the idea of a child drawing its first
breath and opening its eyes for the first time? Air and light are
earth's first and last messengers; the first breath and the last; the
first glance and the last. How wonderful!"

Irma now felt what it was to serve. Had she been free, and on an equal
footing with the one who addressed her, she would have said: "My dear
friend, I am not in the mood, just now, to enter into what you are
saying. Within your soul, there is the calm of early morn; in mine,
hot, burning noonday. I implore you, leave me to myself."

Irma was filled with a deep longing for boundless solitude, but she
dared not show it. She would gladly have closed her eyes, but
obsequious glances were required of her. She listened and answered, but
her soul was far away. For the first time in her life, she felt
indignant that there was a fellow-being who enjoyed rights of which she
was deprived. She felt angry at the queen. She was, several times, on
the point of mentioning her visit to Gunther's house, but felt that
life there had nothing in common with the constant gloom of the queen's
apartment. It seemed to her, moreover, that it were wrong, even in
thought, to bring hither the citizen-wife whose footsteps had never
entered the palace; and then she thought of her father and his strong
sense of independence.

And while such were her thoughts, she spoke of the prince and of
Walpurga's amusing peculiarities.

The queen saw that Irma's thoughts were slightly tinged with sadness
and, wishing to cheer her up, said:

"Ah, dear countess, I am really languishing for music. Friend Gunther
has forbidden my listening to music, lest it might affect my nerves;
but one of your little songs would do no harm. I hear that you've
learned a beautiful one from the nurse. Won't you sing it for me? May I
send for your zither?"

Irma felt more like crying, but she bowed assent and sent a servant for
the zither. He brought it, and Irma sang:

                 "Ah, blissful is the tender tie
                  That binds me, love, to thee,
                  And swiftly speed the hours by
                  When thou art near to me.

                 "My heart doth bear a burden, love,
                  And thou hast placed it there;
                  And I would wager e'en my life
                  That none doth heavier bear."

Within Irma's soul there was a shrill, discordant accompaniment to this
song, every word of which had a double meaning.

"And I must sing this to the queen," said the voice within her. "Yes,
you two are united. All happy ones are. The unhappy one is always
lonely."

Her song was full of gloomy despair; her heart, of anger. "You sing
that with deep feeling," said the queen, "and my son hears it, too. One
can scarcely say 'hears,' for all that he hears or sees is undefined.
Pray repeat the song, so that I may sing it to myself."

Irma sang it again, but this time her mind was more at ease. The queen
thanked her heartily. "The doctor has unfortunately forbidden my
conversing for any length of time, even with those who are dear to me.
I am delighted to think that we shall soon go to the summer palace.
Then we will spend much of our time together and with the child. Adieu!
dear Countess, write soon, and sing your lovely soul into the child's
heart."

Irma went away. While passing through the long corridors, she stopped
several times, as if to remember where she was. At last she reached her
room, and gave orders that her horse be saddled at once and that a
groom be in waiting.

Irma had just changed her dress when a servant brought her a letter.
She broke the seal with a trembling hand and read:

"_My child_: You have now been at court for eighteen months. I have
left you free and uncontrolled. There are many things which I would
like to say to you, but cannot write. Writing estranges. Your rooms are
ready, and flowers await you. It is now lovely summer and apples on
your tree are getting ruddy cheeks like your own, and I should like to
see yours again. Come to

                                                "YOUR FATHER."

Irma threw up her hands. "This is deliverance! Yes, I still have a
home, and there is still a heart against which I can rest my head. I am
coming, father! I am coming!"

Her brain whirled with excitement. She rang for her servant and sent
word to the groom that she would not ride out. Then, after having
ordered the waiting-maid to pack up enough clothes for several weeks,
as quickly as possible she presented herself before the queen and asked
for leave of absence.

"I am sorry that you, too, leave me," said the queen, "but I shall
gladly part with you if it only helps, as I hope it will, to make you
happy. Do all that lies in your power to be in full accord with your
father. Believe me, Irma, in the various relations of life, be it as
wife or as mother, one is sensible of a constant desire to grow and
expand with each succeeding day; the child alone is perfectly satisfied
with itself."

The queen and Irma were not in accord that day. Irma was restless and
anxious to depart. Whatever detained her, though it were only for a
second, excited her resentment.

What the queen was saying might have been interesting to one who was
not in a hurry, but not to her whose foot was already on the carriage
step.

The parting was, nevertheless, an affecting one, the queen kissing
Irma.

All that now remained was to ask Countess Brinkenstein's formal assent
That, too, was obtained.

She had not yet said farewell to Doctor Gunther and his family. She
wished to say good-by through Colonel Bronnen, or Baron Schoning, who
had told her that he often visited the doctor's house. It was also
necessary to take leave of these men and her companions at court. Now
that she was about to go, she found out how many acquaintances she had.
But where are they when you need them? They are here, simply that you
may not need them. Such is the world; but stop! There's one to whom, of
all others, you must say farewell. She hurried off to Walpurga.

"Walpurga," she exclaimed, "when you get up tomorrow, shout as loud as
you can. By that time, I'll be at our mountain home, and I'll shout
back to you until the whole world rings with laughter. I'm going to my
father."

"I'm glad of it."

"And aren't you sorry to see me go?"

"Of course; but if your father's still alive you oughtn't miss looking
into the eyes that are only once in the world for you. I'm glad, for
your father's sake, that he's able to look on such a child as you are.
Oh! if my Burgei were only as tall."

"Walpurga, I'll also go to see your husband, your child and your
mother. I'll sit down at your table and remember you to your cow and
your dog. I shall; depend upon it."

"Oh! how happy they'll be! If Hansei's only at home and not in the
woods."

"If he is, I'll have them send for him; and now farewell! don't forget
me!"

"You can rely on that," said Walpurga, while Irma hurried away.

She still found time to write to her friend Emma:


"_Dearest Emma_: Two hours ago, I received a letter from father. He
calls me home to him. I have leave of absence for a fortnight. Do you
know what that means? I was obliged to promise that I would surely
return; I don't know whether I shall keep my promise. The earth
trembles at my feet and my head swims. The world is all chaos, but
there will be light! Any one can say: 'Let there be light!' If we only
could always do our best. But I shall not write another word. It is
enough; I shall see you soon. Come to Wildenort as soon as you can, to
your

                                                             "IRMA.

"P.S.--I shall take no excuse; you must come. In return, I promise to
go to your wedding. Many greetings to all of yours, and, above all, to
your Albrecht."


The sun was already sinking toward the horizon, when Irma, accompanied
by her maid, departed for Wildenort.



                              CHAPTER IX.


So one can go away, after all, and leave the motley monotony called
"the world" behind. Farewell, thou palace, and furnish thy inmates with
their daily pleasures. Farewell, ye streets, filled with shops and
offices, towers and churches, theaters, music halls and barracks. May
fashion be gracious and favor you with customers, clients, guests,
applause, and fostering laws. Vanish, frail frippery! I feel like a
bird flying from the housetop, out into the wide world. How foolish to
remain in the cage when the door is always open. Thou, great bailiff
who holds the world captive--thy name is custom!

Thus thought Irma to herself, while seated in the carriage and driving
out into the open world.

Her thoughts again recurred to the great house which she had just left.
It was the dinner hour and they were waiting for the queen to appear.
What a pity that the lord steward had not been present at the creation
of the world, for here every one has his fixed place and the service is
simply perfect. The queen expresses her regrets at the departure of
Countess Irma. All praise her.

"Oh, she's so very good," says one.

"And so merry," says another.

"Somewhat unmanageable, but very amiable," says still another.

But what is there new? It's a bore to be talking of one subject all the
time. Help! Zamiel Schnabelsdorf!

"Away with it all!" exclaimed Irma, suddenly: "I shall not look back
again, but forward to my father."

The horses stepped out bravely, as if they knew they were carrying a
child to her father.

Irma was so impatient that she told the servant who was seated on the
box, to give a double fee to the driver so that they might get on
faster.

She could hardly wait until she saw her father, so anxious was she to
rest her head upon his breast.

What did she desire? To complain to him? How could he help her? She
knew not. All she knew was that, with him, there must be peace. She
wished to be sheltered, protected; no longer alone. To obey him and
anticipate his every wish would be her highest happiness. To be
released from herself, and to desire nothing that did not minister to
the joy of another--oh, how happy the thought! The whole earthly load
is removed. Thus must it be with the blessed spirits above! Thus should
we imagine angels to be! They want for nothing and need nothing, they
never change and never grow, are neither young nor old. They are
eternal, and are ever laboring for and through others. Their works
bring joy to the world and to themselves. They are the undying rays of
an eternal sun.

During the greater part of the journey, Irma's brain was filled with
such unintelligible dreams, and the whole world seemed to be saying:
"Father--Daughter."

She regained composure at last. It would not do to arrive at the castle
in this state.

Agitation is weakness, and it had always been her father's aim to
foster strength of mind and self-command.

Irma forced herself to observe what was going on about her.

It was twilight when they reached the first post-station. Irma fancied
she could almost feel the air of her native mountains, although they
were still far off.

They drove on at a rapid pace. The evening bells were ringing, and the
air was filled with their sounds, carrying them out to the men and
women in the fields, and measuring time and eternity for them.

What would the world be without its bells, whose pealing harmonies are
to serve as a substitute for the beautiful creations of antique art?

But these thoughts failed to satisfy Irma. They lifted her out of the
world, whilst she desired to occupy herself with what was present and
established.

In the villages through which they drove, and the fields by which they
passed, there was singing, interrupted, now and then, by the rattling
of the carriage wheels, and Irma thought: We make too much noise in
this world, and thus miss enjoying what the rest may have to tell us.

No thoughts were to her liking. No outlook pleased her.

The stars appeared in the heavens, but what were they to man? They
shine for him who is free and has naught to seek on earth. She,
however, was seeking, and, in the world's vast circle, could see
nothing but two starry eyes directed upon her; and they were her
father's.

They continued on their journey, disturbing lazy horses and sleepy
postilions at every station.

It was long after midnight when they arrived at Wildenort.

Irma alighted at the manor-house and, accompanied by the servant,
knocked at the door.

Her father had not expected her so soon. There were no lights in the
large house, or its extensive outbuildings.

Dogs barked, for strangers were coming. There was not even a dumb beast
that knew Irma, for she was a stranger in her father's house.

Two plowboys passed by. They were astonished to see the beautiful lady
at that hour, and she was obliged to tell them who she was.

She ordered her rooms to be opened. Her father slept near by. She
longed to see him, but controlled herself. He could sleep calmly and
not know that she was breathing near him. She, too, soon fell asleep
and did not wake till broad daylight.

Stepping softly, old Eberhard entered the ante-chamber where Irma's
maid was already sitting.

"My lady the countess, is still sleeping. It was three o'clock, just
about daybreak, when we arrived."

"What made you hurry so and take no rest?"

"I don't know; but the countess was quite excited on the way. They
couldn't drive fast enough for her. When my lady wishes anything, it
must be done at once."

"Who are you, dear child?"

"Her ladyship's maid."

"No, but who are your parents? What took you to court?"

"My father was riding-master to Prince Adolar, and her royal highness
had me educated in the convent school."

A chain of dependents, from generation to generation, thought the old
man to himself.

The maid looked at him wonderingly.

He was tall and broad-shouldered.

He wore the mountaineer's dress and a white horn whistle hung by a cord
from his neck. His fine head bent slightly forward and rested on a
massive neck; his gray hair and beard were thick and closely cropped;
his brown eye still sparkled, as if in youth; his expressive
countenance looked like embossed work, and his whole figure resembled
that of a knight who has just laid aside his armor and put himself at
ease.

"I wish to see my daughter," said the old man as he went into the
adjoining room. It was dark. Eberhard stepped to the window, on tiptoe,
and drew aside the green damask curtain. A broad ray of light streamed
into the room. He stood before the bed and, with bated breath, watched
the sleeping one.

Irma was beautiful to behold. Her head, encircled by the long,
loosened, golden-brown tresses; the clear, arched brow, the delicately
chiseled nose, the mouth with its exquisitely curved upper lip, the
rosy chin, the full cheeks with their peach-like glow--over all there
lay a calm and peaceful expression. The beautiful, small, white hands
lay folded on her breast.

Irma was breathing heavily, and her lips moved as if with a sad smile.
It is difficult to sleep with one's hands folded on the breast. The
hands gently loosened themselves, but the left one still rested on her
heart. The father lifted it carefully and laid it at her side. Irma
slept on quietly. Silently, the father took a chair and sat down at
her bedside. While he sat there, two doves alighted on the broad
window-sill, where they remained cooing with each other. He would have
liked to frighten them away, but he dared not stir. Irma slept on and
heard nothing.

Suddenly the pigeons flew away, and Irma opened her eyes.

"Father!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.
"Home again! Oh, how happy it makes me! Do draw the other curtain, so
that I can see you better, and pray open the window so that I may
inhale my native air! Oh, father! I've been away and now I've come back
to you, and you won't let me go away again. You will support me in your
powerful arms. Oh, now I think of what you said to me in my dream. We
were standing together up on the Chamois hill and you took me up in
your arms and, while carrying me, said: 'See, my child; so long as one
of your parents lives, there is some one to help you bear up in the
world.' Oh, father! Where have I been? Where am I now?"

"Be calm, my child. You've been at court and now you're home again.
You're excited. Calm yourself. I'll call the servant. Breakfast is
ready in the arbor."

He kissed her forehead and said:

"I kiss all your good and pure thoughts, and now let us live together
again, as plain and sensible beings."

"Oh, that voice! To be in my father's house and at home once more. Life
elsewhere is just like sleeping in one's clothes. 'Tis only at home
that one can rest; for there no bond oppresses us."

He was about to leave, but Irma detained him.

"I feel so happy," said she, "to be here and look at you; to see you
and think of you, all the time."

The father passed his hand over her forehead, and she said:

"Let your hand rest there. I now believe in the laying on of hands; my
own experience convinces me."

He remained at her bedside for some time, his hand still resting upon
her forehead.

At last he said:

"And now arise, my child. I shall expect you at breakfast."

"I am glad there is some one who can command me to 'get up.'"

"I don't command, I simply advise you. But, my dear child, something
strange must be going on with you, as you understand nothing in its
literal sense."

"Yes, father,--very strange! but that's all over, now."

"Well then, follow me as soon as you can; I shall await you."

The father went out to the arbor, where he awaited her coming. He moved
the two cups and the beautiful vase of flowers first to one position,
and then to another, and arranged the white table-cloth. Shortly after,
Irma entered, clad in a white morning dress.

"You're--you're taller than I thought you were," said the father, a
bright color suffusing his face.

He stroked his daughter's cheek, while he said:

"This white spot on your rosy cheek, extending from the jaw to the
cheek-bone, is just as your mother had it."

Irma smiled and, grasping both of her father's hands, looked into his
eyes. Her glance was so full of happiness that the old man, who, at all
times, preserved his equanimity, found his eyes filling with tears. He
endeavored to conceal them, but Irma said:

"That won't in the least detract from your heroism. Oh, father, why are
we such slaves to ourselves? Why should we be afraid to appear as we
are? Your great rule is that we should follow out our natures. Why do
we not always do so? Oh, father, let me send up a joyful shout to my
native mountains, to the forests and the lakes! I'm with ye, again, my
constant friends! Let us live together! Hold fast by me and I will be
as faithful as ye are! I greet thee, sun; and yonder hill under which
my mother rests--"

She could not go on. After some time, the old man said:

"It would be well, my child, if we could live out our life in all its
native purity; but it is neither fear of ourselves, nor self-imposed
slavery that induces us to avoid such scenes, such violent agitation.
It is a deep-seated feeling that, by contrast, the next moment must
appear bald and commonplace. It would oblige us to plunge from a life
of excessive sensibility into the every-day world. It is for this
reason that we should, and do, exercise self-control; for such emotions
should not exhaust themselves in what might be called a devout
outburst, but should extend through all our acts and thoughts, even to
the smallest and most insignificant. That is the source of our noblest
aspiration. Yes, my child, the very ones who thus, as it were, divide
their life in two, profane the one-half of it, while they secretly
flatter themselves: We have had great and noble emotions and are still
capable of feeling them."

The old housekeeper brought the coffee. Irma waited on her father and
told him that she expected Emma and her betrothed. Eberhard said:

"When Emma was here, years ago, your thoughts ran in the same vein as
at present. We were on the Chamois hill, where a fine view of the great
lake can be obtained, and were waiting to see the sunrise. Emma, in her
matter-of-fact and plain-spoken way, said: 'I don't think it worth
while to lose one's sleep and go to so much trouble for this. I find
the sunset fully as beautiful and far less troublesome.' What did you
answer her at the time?"

"I can't remember, father, dear."

"But I do. You said: 'The sunrise is far more elevating, but I don't
know what one can do to have the rest of the day in keeping with the
lofty mood thus inspired. Sunset is better for us, because the world
then veils itself and allows us to rest. After beholding the highest,
there are only two things left us--sleep and music.'"

"But, father, I've ceased to think so. Yesterday, during the whole of
my drive, I was haunted by the thought: What are we in the world for,
after all? Without us the trees would still grow; the beasts, the birds
and the fishes would still live without us. All these have a purpose in
the world; man alone is obliged to seek one. Men paint, and build, and
till the soil, and study how they may the better kill each other. The
only difference, after all, between mankind and the beast is that man
buries his dead."

"And have you ventured so far, my child? I am indeed glad that you're
with me once again. You must have had much to contend with. I trust you
will once more learn to believe that our proper destiny is, to live in
accordance with nature and reason. Look at the world!" said he, with a
smile. "A maiden twenty-one years of age, and a countess to boot, asks:
'Why am I in the world?' Ah, my child, to be beautiful, to be good, to
be as lovely as possible in mind as well as in outward form. Conduct
yourself so that you can afford to wish that every one might know you
thoroughly.--But enough of this, for the present."

The hour that father and daughter thus spent together in the arbor was
full of happiness for both, and Irma repeatedly expressed a wish that
she could thus live forever.

Oblivious of all else, each seemed to constitute the other's world.

"You've become my great tall girl," said her father. He had intended to
say: "You must have gone through a great deal, for you return to your
father and have nothing to tell about matters trifling or personal to
yourself." He had intended to say this, but simply repeated: "You've
become my great girl."

"And, father! you order me to remain with you, do you not?"

"You know very well that I've never ordered you to do anything, since
you were able to think for yourself," replied the father. "I'd have you
act according to your own convictions, and not against your will or
reason."

Irma was silent. She had not received the answer she had hoped for,
and, feeling that she must herself bring about the desired result,
determined to do so.

A forest-keeper came to receive instructions in regard to the woods.
Eberhard replied that he would ride out there himself. Irma begged to
be allowed to accompany him and, her father consenting, she soon
appeared in a hunting-dress and rode off with him across the meadows
and in the direction of the forest.

Her face glowed with animation while she felt herself moving along on
the spirited steed, through the shady, dewy forest.

While her father was giving his orders to the forest-keepers, Irma was
resting on a mossy bank under a broad spreading fir tree. Her father's
dog had already made friends with her, and now came up and licked her
hand. Thus awakened, she arose and walked over toward the field at
the edge of the forest. The first object her eyes fell upon was a
four-petaled clover-leaf. She quickly possessed herself of it. Her
father now joined her and noticed her happy looks.

"How much good it has done me to rest on the earth," said she.

He made no reply. He did not think it necessary that every feeling,
however deep, should find vent in words.

Irma looked up in surprise. In the world of conversation, small change
is paid back for every remark.

They soon returned home.

During the afternoon they were seated together in the cool library.
Cicero's words, "When I am alone, then am I least alone," were written
in letters of gold, over the door.

The father was writing and would occasionally look at his daughter, who
was engaged with a volume of Shakespeare. She was reading the noblest
thoughts, taking them up into herself, and making them a part of her
own soul.

Eberhard felt it a joy to detect his own glance in another's eye, to
hear his own thoughts from other lips, and that eye and those lips his
child's--to note that her soul reflected his, although native
temperament and peculiar impressions had served to make hers different
from and independent of his own. The ideal that had filled his youthful
dreams now stood before him, incarnate.

Eberhard soon closed his book and smiled to himself. He was not so
strong as he had imagined. Now that his child was with him, he could
not keep on with his work, as he had done the day before. He sat down
by Irma, and, pointing to Spinoza's and Shakespeare's works, that
always lay on his work-table, he said:

"To them, the whole world was revealed. Although they lived centuries
ago, they are my constant companions on these lonely mountains. I shall
pass away and leave no trace of my thoughts behind me, but I've already
lived the life eternal in the companionship of the noblest minds. The
tree and the beast live only for themselves, and during the short
period that ends with death. With life, we inherit the result of
centuries of thought and he who, within himself, has become a true man
fully embodies the idea of humanity. Thus you live on, with your father
and with all that is true and beautiful in the history of the human
race."

There was a long pause. It was, at last, broken by the father's saying:

"Didn't you come in a court carriage?"

"Certainly."

"And so you intend to return to court?"

"Father, don't let us speak of that, now. I've not, like you, strength
enough to drop from the greatest heights down to the level of every-day
life."

"My child, every-day affairs are the highest that can engage us."

"But I'd like to forget that there is such a thing as a court, or that
I've ever been, or ever shall be, anything but part of your heart and
soul."

"No, you're to live for yourself; but if you wish to remain with me,
all you need do is to send the carriage back."

"I shall have to return, though it be but for a few days. I have only
leave of absence, not a discharge. The best thing would be for you to
go with me and bring me back again."

"I can't go to court, as you well know; and I give you credit for
enough strength to take yourself away from there. I was watching you
to-day while you lay asleep. There's nothing false in you; as yet, no
evil passions cloud your brow. I know your brother is anxious to have
you marry, and I, too, wish that you may become a good wife and mother.
But I fear that you have become too much your own, ever to become
another's. Be that as it may, my child, look at the scene spread out
before you. Myriads of flowers are blooming silent and unknown. Should
a wanderer pass by and feast his eyes upon them, or even pluck a
flower, it has lived for him. Should it blossom and fade away unseen,
it has lived for itself. But, my child, don't go out of your way to
please me. How long is your leave?"

"A fortnight."

"Let us spend the time in truth and cheerfulness, and then act as your
judgment dictates."



                               CHAPTER X.


The days passed by quickly. Eberhard had little to do with his
neighbors, but was always glad to see the burgomaster of the village,
who was, also, a deputy to the Diet, and to consult with him regarding
the affairs of the community.

Irma spent much of her time alone. She read, embroidered, painted and
sang. After the first few days, a reaction set in.

"What is this life?" she asked herself, "of what use? I work for
dress--dress for my soul and for my body. And to what purpose? The
mirror sees me, the walls hear me, and I have my father for one hour at
noon and another in the evening."

She endeavored to control her flights, and, although she succeeded in
that, could not prevent herself from thinking of one who was distant.
She would look around as if she could hear his footsteps and as if the
air were filled with his presence; and that man was--the king.

She could not but think that he expected a letter from her, and what
had he received? The news of her departure. Why should she insult and
mortify him?

While at Wildenort, she was several times on the point of writing to
him. She wanted to tell him that she had meant to flee from him; nay,
from herself. Framing the sentences in her mind, she would say to
herself: Flight is not cowardice. Indeed, it requires great strength
thus to tear one's self away. She meant to make this clear to him. She
did not wish him to think ill of humanity and, least of all, of her.
His great and extended energy should not be weakened, or even
disturbed, by the consciousness that mankind had no conception of the
truly noble. She owed it, both to him and to herself, to explain this;
but it is difficult to do it all in writing. She would, therefore,
return and tell him all, and, after that, they would, although distant,
be united in the noblest thoughts. She felt satisfied that she would
find full compensation for a lonely life in the recollection of one
moment of perfect communion with a noble mind, and the consciousness of
truth and purity in thought and deed.

Irma was delighted to think that she had thus liberated herself.

She refrained, as far as possible, from speaking to her father about
the court; but a remark would, now and then, involuntarily escape her,
and she would tell how the king and the queen had praised this or that,
or had uttered such and such a remark, and it was easily to be seen
that she attached special importance to what they had said.

"That's the way with men," said Eberhard, smiling. "They know what they
are, or, at least, ought to; and yet they give a prince the right to
stamp them with a value. It is he who determines: you are worth so and
so much; you a ducat, you a thaler, you a mere brass counter, you a
privy councilor and you a colonel. The story of the creation of the
world is thus ever renewed. There it says that the Creator led the
beasts out before man so that he might give them names. Here the human
animals come to the prince and say; 'Give us a name, or we shall feel
as if naked and be afraid.'"

Irma started at these harsh words. Solitude had brought her father to
this point. She could not refrain from saying:

"You do the king great injustice; he has a noble mind and is full of
intelligence."

"Intelligence! I know all about that," replied Eberhard. "He can ask
questions without number, propound problems and, for his dessert, would
fain have an epitome of ecclesiastical history, physiology or any other
interesting department of knowledge. But he never applies himself;
never reads a work through. He requires excerpts and essences. I know
all about it. And the courtly roulade singers place their thoughts at
his service. Don't imagine, my child, that I underrate the king's
efforts. They've always told him: 'You are a genius!' They are always
persuading kings that they possess genius, either military, political
or artistic. All who approach a monarch are obliged, even in an
intellectual sense, to attire themselves in court dress. He never sees
men and things in their true colors; they all drape themselves to
please him. Nevertheless, I believe the king honestly endeavors to see
things as they are, and that's a great deal; but he can't shake off the
magic spell of set forms and phrases."

Irma's lips trembled with emotion. She did not believe that her father
meant to weaken her interest in the king, since he could not know of
its existence; but his antagonism irritated her and she saw, with
alarm, that no help was to be looked for in that quarter. She might
have shared her father's solitude, if he had honored the exalted man as
she did. He might have done homage to the noble mind, even though it
was a monarch's, without doing violence to his republican feelings, or
his sense of justice. But now he destroyed every bridge that had led to
a better understanding and to justice. If another had spoken thus of
the king, she would have made him feel her wrath, and now she felt that
her silence was a sufficient sacrifice to filial duty. Her heart seemed
to close up within itself, as if never again to be opened. She was a
stranger in her father's house, and now doubly felt that she had never
been at home there. She forced herself to appear cheerful and tranquil.

Eberhard observed that an inner conflict agitated her, and thought it
was merely a struggle between court life and solitude. He did not aid
her, for he thought that she could best gain peace if she fought the
battle for herself.

On Sunday morning--Eberhard never went to church--he said:

"Have you time to listen to a long story?"

"Certainly."

"Then let me make my will while I am yet in health."

"Pray, father, don't do that. Spare me!"

"I don't mean as to my possessions, but as to myself. We have no
picture of your dear mother, and none of you children have any idea of
her appearance--so pure, so lovely, so full of sunshine; and, for that
reason, I mean to give you a picture of my life. Treasure it. Who knows
when I may again have a chance? If there's anything that you don't
understand or that seems to you in danger of being misinterpreted, ask
me about it. I don't find such objections an interruption. I pursue my
life in its even tenor; nothing disturbs me. I've accustomed myself to
improve my estate, to give orders to my servants and to answer their
questions, and, afterward, to take up the train of thought just where
it was broken off; and so you, too, may interrupt me whenever you care
to.

"My father, who was a free count, was always proud of his direct
relations to the empire. Unto his last day, he would never acknowledge
the unity of the kingdom and would always ask; 'How goes it over
there?' He regarded his domain as distinct from the rest, and his
family as on an equality with all princely houses."

"And why, dear father," asked Irma, "would you destroy these beautiful
memories that have been handed down from generation to generation?"

"Because history itself has destroyed them, and justly too. It is
necessary for the preservation of mankind that new races should
constantly ascend to the surface; but I didn't mean to tell you about
my father. I spent a happy youth in this house. My preceptor, although
an ecclesiastic, was a man of liberal opinions. I entered the military
service a year before my father's death and, though I say it myself,
presented no mean figure while there, for I possessed good looks and an
iron frame. I was stationed with my regiment, in a fortress belonging
to the confederation. While recklessly riding one day, I fell from my
horse and dislocated my hip. It laid me up for a long time and thus
afforded me an opportunity to become better acquainted with our
regimental surgeon, Doctor Gunther. Has he never told you of the times
we passed together?"

"He has merely mentioned them. It was only a few days ago that the king
told me I was right in saying that Doctor Gunther would only furnish
verbal prescriptions when they were demanded and were really
necessary."

"Ah! and so the king said that you were right? 'You are right'--that is
a real mark of grace and should make one happy for a whole day and
perhaps even longer. Isn't it so?"

"Father--didn't you mean to tell me more about your life with Gunther?"

"Ah, my child, that was a wondrous time. As far as I was able, I dived,
with him, into the study of philosophy. I can still remember, as if it
were this very moment, the very hour and the very place by the fortress
wall--it was a dull evening in autumn; I can still see the leaves as
they fell from the trees--when Gunther for the first time, explained to
me the great saying of the all-wise one: 'Self-preservation is the
first law of nature.' I stood as if rooted to the spot; it dawned upon
me like a revelation, and has never since left me. Although at times
obscured by the events of life, 'preserve thyself,' has always been
before my mind. I have faithfully lived up to the great precept, and
alas, as I now see, too completely and selfishly. The man who lives
only for himself does not live a complete life, but I can confess this
to you, of all others, without fear. It was only later that I came
thoroughly to know the great right of sovereignty that belongs to every
human being. I had done much thinking before that, but never in logical
connection. You cannot imagine what courage it requires, on the part of
a favorite and respected officer, to venture on the study of
philosophy; how opposed it is to the very idea of military service, how
improper it seems to one's superiors, and how ridiculous to one's
comrades. Military service so exhausts the body, by daily, and for the
greater part, useless exercises, that it renders it difficult to
cultivate one's mind. I often excused myself, as unwell, and remained
in my room during the loveliest weather, simply on account of my
studies. Our regiment was ordered to the capital, and Gunther accepted
my offer of a discharge. He became a professor and I attended lectures.
But I was painfully conscious of my deficiency in knowledge and
ardently longed for a chance to devote my life to perfecting my
education. An unforeseen event helped to bring about the desired end. I
had become gentleman of the bedchamber and spent much of my time at
court. At that early day, I observed the ineradicable, servile spirit
that dwells in man. Every one rejoices that there are others lower down
in the scale than himself, and is willing, on that account, to suffer
some to stand above him. Princes are not to blame for this ladder of
nonsense. One day while at the summer palace, the king had gone out
hunting, and although it was long past the dinner hour, not a glimpse
of him was to be seen. The chamberlains and the court ladies--I forget
their titles--were walking in the park. They would sit down on the
benches, look through their spy-glasses, and endeavor, unsuccessfully
however, to keep up a sustained conversation; for the ladies and
gentlemen, both young and old, were possessed of vulgar hunger. And
still the herdsman who was to put fodder in the rack for them, did not
make his appearance. Your uncle Willibald pacified his gnawing hunger
with little biscuits, which did not destroy his appetite. Hours passed,
while they walked about like Jews on the Day of Atonement. But they
laughed and joked--at least they tried to--while their stomachs
growled. And though your uncle had thirty horses in his stable at home,
with oxen and cows and many broad acres besides, he was content to
serve and wait there, because he took great pride in being lord
chamberlain. At that time, my child, I was as old as you are now, and I
swore to myself never more to be a servant to any man. At last, the
king's hunting carriage arrived. All were profuse in their greetings
and received him with smiling faces. And yet his majesty was in a bad
humor, for while he had been unsuccessful, General Kont, who had been
one of the hunting party, had committed the impropriety of shooting a
deer with twelve antlers. The general felt very unhappy at his good
luck, and his head hung as mournfully as that of the dead beast. He
apologized again and expressed his regrets that his majesty had not
killed the stag. With rueful countenance, the monarch congratulated
him. The king looked at me and asked 'How are you?'

"'Very hungry. Your Majesty,' was my answer. The king smiled, but the
rest of the court were horror-struck at my impertinence.

"We were obliged to wait another half-hour, while the king changed his
dress and, at last, we went to dinner.

"My child, if you were to tell the story to a courtier, he would
consider me intolerably stupid; but that meal was the last I ever ate
at princely table.

"I know that I'm talkative--I'm an old man. I merely wanted to say:
Look about you and see how many human sacrifices they are constantly
requiring.

"The idea of princely dignity is a noble and beautiful one. The prince
should embody the unity of the state; but, although the idea, in
itself, is beautiful, the knowledge that its realization requires a
pyramid of worn-out creatures, divested of human dignity, renders it
repulsive to me.

"Irma, I feel as if I must impress the testament of my soul upon yours.
The moment you feel that you've lost the smallest portion of your crown
of human dignity, flee, without hatred or contempt; for he who carries
such feelings in his soul is heavily laden and can never breathe
freely. I don't hate the world; neither do I despise it. It simply
appears to me strange, decayed, distant. Nor can I hate or despise any
one, because his belief is different from mine.

"But as I don't wish to teach you, I will go on with my story. I
applied for my discharge and entered the university as a student. I
soon left, however, in order to continue my education in an
agricultural school. After that, I traveled and, as you know, spent an
entire year in America. I had a great desire to become acquainted with
that new phase of history in which men are born to intellectual freedom
and are not constantly looking back toward Palestine, Greece or Rome. I
don't find the world of the future in America. All there is still, as
it were, in a state of ferment suggestive of primeval processes; but
whether a new civilization will be the result, is more than I know. I
do know, however, that all mankind is patiently waiting for a new moral
compact. But I, and many more of us, will never live to see it
realized.

"Will the world of the future be governed by pure ideas, or will it
again look up to some lofty personage as its exemplar? I should wish
for the former, but its realization seems far off.

"Now to continue with the story of my life.

"I returned home and, meeting your mother, was unutterably happy. She
was alone in the world. I have enjoyed the greatest of all happiness;
there is none other like it. Three years after you were born, your
mother died. I cannot give you particulars about her. Her whole
appearance was one of strength and purity. The world regarded her as
cold and reserved, but she was ardent and open-hearted, beautiful to
her very heart, but only for me. I know that if she had been spared to
me, I would have become one of the best and kindest of men. I dare not
think of that.

"It was not to be.

"But I feel as if sanctified through her, for since that time no base
thought has ever entered my soul; nor have I ever committed a deed that
I should feel ashamed to confess to my daughter.

"She died, and I stood alone, my violent nature confronting the enigma
of life.

"Although I could not give my children a stepmother, I became a
stepfather to them. Yes, let me speak on: I am unsparing toward myself.
I know that if others heard me, they would say that I am using too
strong language. It is the fashion to be indulgent nowadays, but I am
not in the mode. I put my children away from me. I placed you with your
aunt, until you entered the convent, and Bruno remained with me until
he went to the seminary. You were in fine institutions, with expensive
fees, but you were nevertheless put away from me. You did not know your
father; you merely knew that he was alive, but did not live with him.
You grew up like orphaned children.

"It is only two years since I confessed this to myself. For weeks, it
robbed me of sleep, of feeling and of thought, and still I adhered to
it. The demon called sophistry was ever telling me: 'You could have
been of no use to your children. You had still too much to do for
yourself, and it is better for them that they should become free human
agents through their own unaided efforts than through you.' There may
be some truth in it, but nevertheless, I've put my children away from
me."

The old man paused. Irma laid her hand upon his and gently stroked it.

"'Tis well. I've said it at last.

"I remained here, leading a solitary but not a lonely life. I communed
with the greatest minds and, at the same time, easily managed our
estate.

"I devoted myself to national affairs, but soon withdrew. I can't
belong to a party, not even to the one that calls itself the party of
freedom. It includes many noble-hearted men whom I honor and respect,
but they put up with too many frivolous comrades who, while they prate
of equality and of the highest good of man, do not hesitate to
sacrifice their fellow-beings to themselves. Aristocratic triflers are
simply vicious, but democratic triflers are corrupters of ideas. He who
dare not wish that the whole people should think and act as he does,
has no right to term himself a free and honest man.

"If liberty does not rest on morality, what is there to distinguish it
from tyranny? What is tyranny? The egotistical abuse of beings endowed
with equal rights to ourselves. A tyrant, in effect, denies his God. A
frivolous democrat blasphemes Him. By the term God, I mean the full
conception of the world's moral law. I was a hermit in the midst of the
crowd, and am happier and more consistent, when away from the world.

"And now I am here leading a solitary life."

"Isn't it sad to be so lonely?" asked Irma.

"If I felt lonely, it would be very hard," replied Eberhard; "but man
should not feel lonely, though he be alone. _Ennui_ and loneliness have
no resting-place here. Men who are nothing to themselves are lonely
wherever they be; but let me continue my story.

"Gunther's defection caused me the greatest sorrow, but I was unjust
toward him. He always was a friend of court life and regarded it as the
culmination of culture. He was always too æsthetic and would often say:
'I, too, have a claim on the luxuries, the comforts, the pleasures of
life and am determined to have my share of them.' That led him to
court and caused him to desert free science and, at the same time, to
lose both himself and me.

"You have probably been told, and have perhaps even yourself thought,
that I am a misanthrope. He who hates mankind is a vain fool. In what
respect is he better than the rest, or different from them? I don't
hate mankind. I only know that most of them, either by their own
efforts or through those of others, appear in false colors. They affect
an interest in things that do not concern them and, in most instances,
do not even know that it is affectation. I have often been deceived and
cheated, but, I frankly confess, it was because I deceived myself. I
gave forth what was best in me, and imagined that others were with me,
but it was mere politeness that induced them to assent. They were not
hypocrites; it was I who deceived myself. I imagined myself in a world
in which all was peace and harmony, while, in fact, I was alone,
completely alone. Every one who has a character of his own, is alone.
There is no such thing as perfect accord; to live out one's self is all
that remains. But most men do not care to do this, and they are best
off. They live as custom and morals require, and do not greatly concern
themselves about the present or the past. They jump or dawdle as the
case may be from mood to mood, from enjoyment to enjoyment, and as long
as they can always see the same face when they look in the glass, are
perfectly content. Such faces never change. If the human countenance
always expressed the thoughts that fill the soul, you would not be able
to recognize any one from day to day, or even from hour to hour. I do
not know, my child, where I am leading you to; I only meant to tell you
that I am not a misanthrope. I love all men. I know that, at bottom,
they cannot be different from what they are, and that honest nature
still lies concealed beneath their frizzled, overloaded, glittering
masks. They cannot reveal it, however, and in spite of their false,
cunning ways, there still remains a great and wise precept: 'Forgive
them, for they know not what they do.' And now let me add that I
forgive your brother, too. He has deeply mortified me, for the deepest
mortification that one can suffer is at the hands of one's child.

"I cannot force Bruno to act against his will, nor do I wish to. It is
a strange world. The struggle between father and son drags on through
all ages. My son defends the old, and I the new; but I must bear with
it all.

"Freedom alone accords with the dictates of nature and reason. But you
cannot force one to be free; nor do I wish to force you, in any way.
Most women would rather yield to nature than affection, but I do not
regard you as an ordinary woman, nor do I wish you to be one. You
should--"

Although Eberhard had said that he did not wish to be interrupted,
something now came which did interrupt him.

It was a messenger with a letter for Irma. She recognized the
handwriting of her friend Emma, and hurriedly opening the letter, read
as follows:


"_Irma_: I cannot come to thee. I have said farewell to the world.
Three weeks ago to-day, my Albrecht lost his life through the bite of a
mad dog. My life for this world is also at an end. I humbly submit to
the inscrutable will of the Almighty. I have vowed to take the veil. I
am here now, and shall never again leave this spot. Come, as soon as
thou canst, to thy

                             "SISTER EUPHROSYNE,

                       "_In the convent of Frauenwörth_."


Irma handed the letter to her father to read.

"And so the bite of a mad dog has destroyed two human lives. Who will
explain this?" exclaimed Irma.

"In that respect, religion is just as impotent as we are. Like reason,
she commands us to obey nature's law."

The messenger waited, and Irma went off to write an answer in which she
promised to come.

Meanwhile, Eberhard sat alone. He had confided the story of his life to
his child--and what would it avail? How often had he realized that no
teaching, be it ever so noble, can change the human mind. Life,
observation and experience can alone produce conviction. The weak point
of dogmatism is that it attempts to teach that which can only be
learned from life itself. His children had not shared in his life, and
it was now of little avail to recount it to them, in all its details,
or to explain the motives that directed it. There was enough of
contradiction implied in the fact that the father was obliged to tell
what his life had been.

In his own mind, Eberhard acknowledged that his own conduct had borne
its legitimate results. He had no real claim to filial affection; at
all events, not to the degree in which he craved it, for he had lived
for himself alone. When Irma returned and asked permission to visit her
friend Emma, he nodded assent. He had boasted that nothing could
interrupt him. He might use the rule for himself, but not for others.
He had told his child the story of his life--who knew but what this
untoward interruption would efface it all from her memory?



                              CHAPTER XI.


Seated in the open court carriage, Irma rode over hill and dale. She
lay back on the cushions; the waiting-maid and the lackey sat on the
back seat.

Emma's sad and sudden message had almost paralyzed her; but, now that
she was in the carriage, her strength returned. Travel and change of
air always exerted a magic influence over her.

The echo of her father's story followed her during a great part of the
journey. She had listened with great interest, although the story
itself had made but a faint impression upon her. An inner voice told
her: These matters are not so serious or important as he takes them. It
is his peculiar temperament that causes them to affect his course in
life. It would not be so with another. It was enough that she was able
to do justice to his eccentricity. He could hardly expect it to exert
any decided influence upon her. Emma's fate was horrible, maddening;
but her father's was not. Much of his life-trouble was mere
self-torment. He spoke of repose, and yet knew it not.

With all Irma's affection for her father, she had really so little in
common with him, that the painful expression that played about his
mouth, while he told her his story, simply served to remind her of the
Laocoön.

Irma shook her head quite petulantly.

What a chaos is the world!

A mad dog destroys a life and, here and there, solitary beings are
tormenting themselves to death. Every one is conscious of some fault or
weakness; all seek the unattainable and, in unending attempts and
trials, life is spent. In the midst of this chaos, a single figure
appears. It is full, beautiful, great, sure of life and, in truth,
controls life. Irma turned back as if to say: "Alas! it is not you,
father, although you could and ought to be the one. The king alone is
the one free being on the pinnacle of life."

A smile played about her lips while she thought of him. She looked up
at the blue heavens and, forgetting whither she was going, felt as if
gentle arms were carrying her away over hill and dale.

An eagle was winging its flight far above the mountain tops. Irma's
eyes followed it for a long while. She ordered the driver to stop the
carriage, and the servant alighted in order to receive her ladyship's
order. She motioned him to mount the box again, and, though all the
comforts wealth affords were hers, stopped in the midst of wild nature
to watch the eagle hovering in the air, until it at last disappeared in
the clouds.

"If one must die, I'd like to die thus," said an inner voice, "fly into
heaven and be no more."

They drove on. For the rest of the journey, Irma did not utter a word.
It was toward evening when the lackey said: "We've reached the place."

The road descended toward the lake, by the shore of which the carriage
stopped. The convent was on an island in the center of the lake, and
the sounds of the curfew bells filled the air. The sun was still
visible over the mountain tops, its rays were almost horizontal, and
the dancing, sparkling waves looked like so many lights swimming to and
fro. The surface of the lake was rapidly assuming a golden hue.

At the sound of the evening bells, the lackey and the postilion lifted
their hats and the waiting-maid folded her hands. Irma also folded her
hands, but did not pray. She thought to herself: The sound of the bells
is pleasant enough, if one can listen to them from without, and then
return to the happy world; but to those who are within the convent, it
is a daily death-knell; for life such as theirs, is death.

Irma's mood was not in sympathy with that of her friend, and she did
her best to feel as befitted the occasion.

While they were getting the boat ready, she overheard the lackey
speaking with another servant whose face she remembered to have seen at
court.

She heard the court lackey saying:

"My master's been here for some days and has been waiting for
something; I don't know what."

Irma would have liked to ask with whom he had come, but a sudden fear
overpowered her and she was unable to speak a word.

Accompanied by the waiting-maid, she stepped into the boat. An old
boatman and his daughter rowed the rudderless skiff. The waters of the
lake were deep and dark. The sun was setting, and the shadows of the
western mountains were reflected in dark outlines on the hills along
the shore. The fresh-fallen snow lay on the glaciers, whose white
crests contrasted sharply with the wooded hills of the foreground and
the clear blue sky. Below, all was as silent and dusky as though they
were sailing into the realm of shadows.

"Is this your daughter?" asked Irma, addressing the old boatman.

He nodded a glad assent, delighted to find her conversant with the
dialect of that portion of the country. Her intercourse with Walpurga
had kept her in practice.

"Yes," replied the boatman, "and she'd like to go into service with
some good family. She can sew well and--"

"Remain with your father; that's the best thing you can do," said Irma
to the girl.

They rowed on in silence. "How deep is the lake here?" inquired Irma.

"Sixty fathoms, at least." Irma's hand played with the water, and she
was pleased with the thought that human beings could so easily and
boldly move along over a threatening, watery grave. She leaned a little
way over the side of the boat, and the boatman called out:

"Take care, miss!"

"I can swim," replied Irma, splashing the waves.

"That's all very well," said the old man, laughing. "They can all swim
until they have to, and then all's over; and if they happen to have
clothes hanging to them, mighty few can swim."

"You're right there. Our gay frippery would drag us down."

The old man did not understand her and made no reply.

She was quite excited and asked: "Have many persons been drowned in
this lake?"

"Very few; but just below us, there's the body of a young man,
twenty-one years old."

"How was he lost?"

"They say he'd been drinking too freely, but I think that he had a
sweetheart in the convent over there. It's a good thing she don't know
of it."

Irma looked down into the waves, while the old man continued:

"And over there by the rock the trunk of a tree struck a woodcutter and
hurled him into the lake. Over there by the flood-gate, a milkmaid,
fifteen years old, happened to get into the current where the drift
logs were whirling along, and by the time her body reached the lake,
every bit of clothing had been torn from it by the logs."

"Don't tell such frightful stories," said the waiting-maid to the man.

Irma looked up at the steep mountains and asked:

"Could one climb up there?"

"Yes, but they'd find it mighty hard work; still, wherever there are
trees, man can climb."

Irma looked down into the lake, and then up at the mountains. One can
lose one's-self in the world. "How would it be if one were to do so?"
said the voice within her.

She stood up in the boat. The old man exclaimed:

"Sit down! there's danger if you stir one way or the other."

"I shall not move," said Irma, and she really stood erect in the
unsteady little boat.

"By your leave, the beautiful young lady surely doesn't mean to enter
the convent?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I'd be sorry."

"Why would you be sorry? Don't the nuns lead a pleasant, peaceful
life?"

"Oh, yes, they do; but it is a life in which nothing happens."

As if obeying a higher summons, Irma sat down and immediately stood up
again. The boat reeled.

"A life in which nothing happens"--the words touched a chord in her own
heart. With her, the pride and strength of youth rebelled against
sacrificing one's life in such a manner. It is a life in which nothing
happens: whether it be, like her father's, spent in solitary thought,
or, like that of the nun's, in common devotion. Are we not placed upon
earth so that we may call all our own--come joy, come grief; come
mirth, come sadness--a life in which nothing happens is not for me.

Filled with such thoughts she stepped ashore and, while walking up the
avenue of lindens that led to the convent, heard the boatman fastening
his skiff by the chain.

She inquired for Sister Euphrosyne. The nuns were all at vespers. Irma
also repaired to the chapel, in which the everlasting lamp was the only
light. Although the service was over, the sisters were still kneeling
on the floor. At last they arose, looking like so many ghostly figures
stepping out from chaotic darkness.

Irma returned to the parlor, where the portress told her that she would
not be allowed to speak to Emma that day, as the sisters were not
permitted to receive any communication, or converse with any one, after
vespers. Irma, in the mean while, was lodged in the convent.

It was a mild September night. Wrapped in her plaid, Irma sat out on
the landing until a late hour. Her thoughts were lost in the
illimitable. She scarcely knew what she was thinking of, and yet, as if
wafted toward her on the air, she would now and then seem to hear the
words: "A life in which nothing happens."

On the following morning, after early mass, Irma was permitted to visit
her friend. She was frightened when she saw Emma, and yet it was the
same mild countenance, only terribly disfigured by the closely fitting
hood that completely covered the hair and gave her face greater
prominence.

After the first outburst of grief and sympathy that followed the
recital of her sad affliction, Emma at last said to Irma, who had again
and again pressed her to her heart:

"Your embraces are so passionate. I know you will never be able to
learn humility. You cannot; it is not your nature. But you should
acquire equanimity. You could never enter a convent, Irma, and never
ought to; or you would long to return to the world. You must become a
good wife, but do not imagine that your ideal will ever be realized.
Our existence here is fragmentary and full of misery. Life here below
is not intended to be beautiful and complete. But, Irma, take heed you
do not attempt to loosen a barrier, or to overstep it. Draw back while
you are still on this side!"

Emma did not mention the king's name. There was a long pause. Irma felt
as if their present surroundings must stifle her.

Emma spoke of what had happened but a few weeks ago, as if decades has
passed in the mean while. She discoursed to her friend the strength
that lay in continuous devotion; how it lengthened the hours into years
full of placid victory over the world. She felt happy that it was
possible, even on earth, to lay aside one's name and memories, and lead
an existence which, without one steep step, gradually led one to
eternal bliss. Emma, however, complained that they would not allow her
to take the veil, and resented it as tyranny that she was only
permitted to remain as a serving sister without vows.

"It is right that you should not," exclaimed Irma; "I think Bronnen
loves you, but he's a man who respects existing facts. His moral
character would lead him to repress, rather than manifest, warm feeling
toward an affianced bride. He deserves you. I don't say that you should
now--How could you? How would he dare? You should remain your own
mistress and, after you've spent a year or more in the convent, you
may, with that excellent man, lead a life which, if void of transports,
will be none the less true and beautiful. All I can say to you now is:
Don't fetter your future. No one should take a vow that binds him for
life, that, on the very morrow, might seal his lips and make him a
slave, a liar, a hypocrite or a deceiver, in his own eyes."

"Irma," exclaimed Emma, "what bad advice are you giving me. Is that the
language used at court? Oh, forgive me for speaking to you so! It was
the old Emma that did it; not I. Forgive me, I pray you, forgive me!"

She threw herself on her knees at Irma's feet.

"Stand up," said Irma, "I've nothing to forgive. I will speak more
calmly. You see, dear Emma, it is fortunate for you that you cannot
take the vow. A fearful blow has prostrated you; but if you remain free
in your seclusion, your load will gradually lighten and your wounds
will heal. Then, should the world call you, you are free to return to
it. This should be a place of refuge for you, and not a prison."

"Ah yes," said Emma, with a smile, "you must of course think so, but
I--I do not care to see the world again which no longer contains him
who was dearer to me than life. You cannot realize what it is to be
betrothed on earth, and be obliged to wait for eternal union in heaven.
I have prayed God to take my heart from me and banish every selfish
desire, and He has hearkened unto me. It is tyrannical to attempt to
force our opinions upon others. Do you still remember, Irma, the first
time we read the story of Odysseus, and how he had them bind him to the
mast so that he might listen to the songs of the syrens and yet not be
able to follow them? Do you still remember the remark you then made?"

"I've quite forgotten it."

"'Much-bepraised Odysseus,' said you, 'was a weakling, not a hero. A
hero must not suffer himself to be bound by external fetters; he must
resist everything by his inner strength.' Even then, I felt how strong
you were. Odysseus was only a heathen and knew nothing of the eternal
law. I rejoice in that law; I cling to that rock. I long for the
divine, the eternal bond; it will support me if I sink. I do not wish
to return to the world. I wish to fetter myself, and can it be that men
who claim to be free dare forbid others to tread the path that leads to
perfection--to the true eternal life? Is not that tyrannical and
godless?"

"Yes; but who forbids you?"

"The law of the state. It has ordered this convent to be closed and
forbids its taking any more young nuns."

"And does the law say that?"

"Yes."

"The king shall not allow it."

Irma spoke so loudly that her words were echoed back from the vaulted
ceiling of the cell.

Emma's glance was fastened on Irma--if it only could be brought about!

The two maidens had no time to exchange a word on the subject, for, at
that moment, the abbess sent for them.

The abbess addressed Irma, just as if she had overheard the last words
of the latter. With gentle voice, but positive manner, she complained
of the tyranny of the free-thinkers--whom she did not judge, but simply
pitied--and maintained that the attempt to destroy ancient and holy
institutions was revolting.

Irma's countenance glowed with excitement. She again said that the law
must be repealed, and that she would exert all her influence to bring
about that end. She offered to write to the king at once. The abbess
gladly accepted the proffered service and Irma wrote:


"_Your Majesty_: I write to you from the convent, but I am not a nun. I
believe my talent does not lie in that way. But what laws are these
that forbid a maiden from taking the eternal vow? Is that freedom? Is
it justice? What is it? Your Majesty will, I trust, pardon my
agitation. I am writing with convent ink on convent paper, and it is
not the first time that such ink and such paper have been used in the
service of freedom.

"Is it possible that one set of human beings can forbid others to live
together in seclusion?

"Quacks cannot create life or happiness; should they, therefore, be
allowed to forbid unhappiness from effecting its own cure?

"Your Majesty's great mind cannot suffer such barbarism, and it is
barbarous, although hedged about by culture.

"I am aware, Your Majesty, that I have not yet made my meaning clear. I
shall endeavor to do so.

"I am here in the convent.

"Emma, the woman whom I love above all others--I believe I have already
spoken of her to Your Majesty--wishes to take the veil. From her point
of view, she is in the right. Dogs will go mad, although the dog-tax be
paid. A mad dog killed her affianced and she now desires to renounce
the world. Who dare prevent it? And yet the law of the state commands
that this convent shall die out, and forbids its receiving nuns.

"Your Majesty dare not permit this. Your eye takes in all at a glance;
your life is the nation's history. You must teach these journeymen to
be greater-minded than they now are. They must abolish this law;
indeed, they must.

"Pardon my language. Your Majesty; but I cannot help myself. I feel as
if I were your deputy. I feel that your great mind resents such
pettiness as an insult.

"I hope to see Your Majesty soon again, and, meanwhile, send my most
respectful greetings.

                                               "IRMA VON WILDENORT."


Without being observed, Irma inclosed the four-petaled clover-leaf with
the letter.

While Irma sat in the boat that took her back to the shore, she was
filled with pride. She felt that she had instigated, if not
accomplished, a beautiful and noble act in the service of freedom and
was determined that it should be carried out.

The old boatman was glad to see her again. He rowed lustily, but did
not speak a word. Now and then, he would smile to himself, as if happy
in the thought that he was carrying a young soul away from the realm of
shadows.

In the distance there was a skiff and, in it, a man clad in a green
hunting dress. He waved his hat and bowed.

Absorbed in thought, Irma was gazing into the lake, when her maid drew
her attention to the other boat.

Irma started.

"Is it not the king?"

Thinking that he had not yet been observed, the hunter fired off his
gun, the report of which was echoed again and again from the hills. He
then waved his hat once more. With trembling hand, Irma waved her white
handkerchief as a token of recognition.

The skiff approached. Irma's expression rapidly changed from one of joy
to that of disappointment.

It was not the king. It was Baron Schoning who greeted her.

He sprang into the boat, kissed her trembling hand and told her how
happy he was to meet her there.

They alighted. The baron offered his arm to Irma and they walked along
the bank, the maid going before. In the distance, Irma could see the
lackey who, on the previous day, had been speaking to hers. Had not the
servant said that his master had been waiting here for a long time? Had
not Baron Schoning, before this, been open in his attentions to her?
His words soon relieved her of all doubt on that score.

"We are alone here, in the presence only of the mountains, the lake and
the heavens. Dearest Countess! May I speak of something that lies near
my heart and which I have for a long while desired to tell you?"

She silently nodded assent.

"Well then, permit me to tell you that the court is not the right place
for you."

"I am not quite sure that I shall return there; but why do you think me
out of place there?"

"Because there is something in you which will always prevent you from
feeling at home there. You are surprised to hear me, the jester, the
court warbler, speak thus. I know very well I bear that title; but
believe me, Countess, while they imagine they are playing with me, I am
amusing myself at their expense. You, Countess, will never feel at home
at court. You do not accept that life and its customs, as fixed and
settled. You interpret it according to your own peculiar views; your
mind cannot wear a uniform; your soul utters its deepest feelings in
its own dialect, and when your utterances get abroad in the liveried
world, they find it exceedingly original, but strange and--no one knows
it better than I--you have not, and never will have aught in common
with those who surround you."

"I should not have believed that you could thus look into my heart; but
I thank you."

"I am not looking into your heart; I live in it. Oh, Countess! Oh! thou
child-like and all-loving heart, tremble not! Suffer me to clasp
this hand in mine, while I tell you that I, too, am a stranger there,
and have resolved to retire from court and live for myself on
yonder patrimonial estate of mine. Irma, will you render my life a
thousand-fold happier than it can otherwise be? Will you be my wife?"

It was long before Irma could answer him. At last she said:

"My friend--yes, my friend--on yonder island there lives a friend of
mine who is dead, both to herself and me. Fate deals kindly with
me and sends me another in her stead. I thank you--but--I am so
confused--perhaps more than-- But look, dear baron, at the little
cottage half-way up the mountain. I would be content to live there--to
grow my cabbages, milk my goats, plant my hemp, make my clothes--and
could be happy, desiring nothing, forgetting the world and forgotten by
it."

"You jest, dear Countess; you are creating an idea whose bright colors
will soon grow dim."

"I do not jest. I could live alone while laboring for my daily bread,
but not as the mistress of a castle and surrounded by the trifles and
frippery of the fashionable world. To dress for the mere sake of seeing
one's self in the glass, is not to my taste. In yonder cottage, I could
live without a mirror. I need not look at myself, nor need another look
at me; but if I am to live with the world, I must be wholly with it; at
the reigning center, in the metropolis, or traveling. I must have all
or nothing. Nothing else will make me happy. Nothing half-and-half or
intermediate will satisfy me."

Irma's tone was so determined that the baron saw how thoroughly in
earnest she was, and that her words meant more than mere caprice or
sport.

"I must either subject myself to the world," said she, "or, despising
it, put it beneath me. I must either be perfectly indifferent and
regardless of the impression I produce upon others, or else afraid of
every glance, even my own."

The baron was silent, and evidently at a loss for words.

At last he said:

"I would gladly have gone to your father's house, but I know that he
dislikes men of my class. I waited for you here, knowing that you would
come to your friend. Pray answer me another question: Do you intend to
return to court?"

"Yes," said Irma, now, for the first time, firmly resolved upon
returning. "It were ungrateful to act otherwise. Ungrateful to the
queen and to--the king and all my friends. I feel sure, my friend, that
I am not yet mature enough to lead a life in which nothing happens."

They came to a seat.

"Will you not sit down with me?" said Irma to the baron.

They seated themselves.

"When did you leave the capital?"

"Five days ago."

"And was everything going on as usual?"

"Alas, not everything. Doctor Gunther has met with a sad affliction.
Professor Korn, his son-in-law, died suddenly, having poisoned himself
while dissecting a corpse."

"While dissecting a corpse?" exclaimed Irma. "We all die of the poison
of decay, but not so suddenly; those on yonder island and we--all of
us."

"You are very bitter."

"Not at all. My head is filled with the strangest fancies. I became
acquainted with a great law over there.

"The law of renunciation?"

"Oh, no; the justification of fashion."

"You are mocking."

"By no means. Fashion is the charter of human liberty and the journal
of fashion is humanity's greatest boon."

"What an odd conceit!"

"Not at all. It is the simple truth. The frequency with which a man
changes the material, cut and color of his clothes, proves his claim to
culture. It is man alone who constantly clothes himself differently and
anew. The tree retains its bark, the animal its hide, and, as the
national and clerical costumes are both stereotyped, as it were, those
who use them are regarded as belonging to an inferior, or less
civilized class."

The baron looked at Irma, wonderingly. He was glad at heart, that she
had candidly given him the mitten. He could not have satisfied so
restless and exacting a nature that constantly required intellectual
fireworks for its amusement; and she, moreover, took delight in her
absurd ways. All at once, he saw nothing but the shadows in Irma's
character. An hour ago, he had seen only the bright side and had
regarded her as a vision of light itself. She had just visited a
friend about to take the veil, had just listened to a proposal of
marriage--how could she possibly indulge in such strange notions
immediately afterward?

Baron Schoning told her that he had ordered photographs of Walpurga and
the prince.

"Ah, Walpurga," said Irma, as if suddenly remembering something.

The baron politely took his leave and rowed back across the lake.

Irma took the road that led homeward. She wished to visit Walpurga's
relatives and inquired as to the route toward the lake on the other
side of the mountains. They told her that a carriage could not get
there, and that the only way to reach the point was on horseback. Irma
took the direct road for home.



                              CHAPTER XII.


"Something ails me! It always seems as if some one were calling me, and
I can't help looking round to see who it is. The countess must be
thinking of us all the time. Ah me, she's the best creature in the
world."

Whilst Walpurga, for many days, thus lamented Irma's departure, the
others at the palace rarely thought of her. The place we leave, be it
to journey in this or to the other world, is speedily filled. In the
palace, they tolerate neither vacancies nor sentiment. There, life is a
part of history; and history, as we all know, never stands still.

Mademoiselle Kramer continued to teach Walpurga how to write, and the
latter did not understand her, when she said: "The quality are fond of
taking up all sorts of things, but we must finish what we begin. I've
finished many a piece of embroidery, of which the hand that was kissed
for it scarcely worked a couple of stitches; but that's in the order of
things."

Although Mademoiselle Kramer found everything in order that was done by
the quality, she, nevertheless, had a habit of speaking of such things
to her interiors, not with the hope of being understood by them, but
merely to relieve her mind.

The child was well and hearty. Day after day passed in quiet routine,
and now Walpurga was richly recompensed for the absence of Countess
Irma. The queen was permitted to have the nurse and child about her for
several hours every day.

While Irma had gone forth to seek rest and quiet, but had found chaos
instead, the queen's life had become serene and happy; Her recent
experience of life's trials had been a novel and difficult one; but now
her mind was at rest, her health restored. She would look at her child
and, when she spoke, Walpurga would fold her hands and listen in
silence. The nurse did not understand all that was said, but,
nevertheless, sympathized with what was going on. The queen endeavored
to console Doctor Gunther in his affliction, and spoke to him of the
consolation that the mother could find in her child: "In spite of all
life's contradictions and enigmas," said she "there is yet the one glad
thought that every child bears within it the possibility of the highest
human development."

The queen while speaking looked around at her child, and Walpurga said
in a gentle voice:

"Look at our child; it's laughing for the first time. It's seven weeks
old to-day."

"I've seen my child's first smile, and its father is not here."

"Don't make such a long face," said Walpurga; "just keep on laughing
and he'll laugh too; your pleasant glances will bide in his face."

The child kept smiling until the doctor requested them not to excite it
any more. He said that Walpurga was right and that if one looks at an
infant kindly it has the effect of imprinting a sweet expression upon
its features.

From that day forward the child never saw a sad look on its mother's
face.

It was only when she spoke of persons that Walpurga could talk volubly
and continuously. Countess Irma was therefore frequently the topic of
conversation. But this subject was soon exhausted, and when the queen
would say: "Why are you silent? I hear that you can talk to the child
so prettily and carry on all sorts of fun with him," Walpurga
persistently remained silent.

The queen made Walpurga tell her her history. It required much
questioning to get at the entire story for Walpurga could not narrate
it in a continuous strain as she had never thought of her life as a
connected whole. Everything had gone on of its own accord as it were
and without requiring one to stop and think. While telling her story
she was as anxious as if before a court of justice.

"How did you happen to fall in love with your husband? Do you love him
with all your heart?"

"Of course. He's my husband and there isn't a bad drop of blood in him.
He's a little awkward--I mean unhandy,--but only when others are about.
He's never been much among people. He grew up in a one-storied house
and until he was twenty-two years old had seen nothing but trees; but
no work's too hard for him and whatever you put him to, he does his
duty. He's not so dull, either; but he doesn't show it to the world;
with me, he can talk well enough, and he's satisfied as long as I know
he's the right sort of man. It takes my Hansei a long while to make up
his mind, but when he's made it up, he's always right. You see, dear
queen, I might have got a much cleverer husband; my playmate has a
hunter, and his comrade was after me for a long while; but I didn't
want to have anything to do with him, for he's too much in love with
himself. He once rowed over the lake with me, and was all the time
looking at himself in the water, and twisting his mustache and making
mouths, and so thought I to myself: If your clothes were made of gold,
I wouldn't have you. And when father was drowned in the lake, Hansei
was at hand and did everything about the house. He'd go out in his
skiff and bring in fish, and while I and mother would sell 'em, he'd
work in the forest. Father was also woodcutter and fisherman, at the
same time. And so Hansei was there a full half year; no one bid him
come and no one told him to go, for he was there and was honest and
good and never gave me an unkind word; and so we were married, and,
thank God, we're happy and, through our good prince, we'll have
something of our own. We've got it already, and it's no easy matter for
a husband to give his wife away for a year. But Hansei didn't waste
many words over it. If a thing's right and must be, he only nods--this
way--and then it's done. Forgive me, dear queen, for telling you all
this silly stuff, but you asked me."

"No, I am heartily glad that there are simple-minded, happy beings in
this world. The worldly-wise think they prove their infinite wisdom
when they say: 'There are no simple-minded, happy people, and the
country folk are not nearly so good as we imagine.'"

"No more they are," said Walpurga, eagerly; "there aren't any worse
people than some of those out our way. There are good ones, of
course; but there are wicked and envious and thieving and lazy and
good-for-nothing and godless creatures besides; and Zenza and Thomas
are among the worst, but I can't help it."

Walpurga imagined that the queen must know of the pardon, and they
should not say of her that she had not told the truth. The queen felt
grieved at Walpurga's vehemence and the serious charges she made
against the people of her neighborhood.

After a little while, she said to Walpurga:

"They tell me you sing so beautifully. Sing something for me, or,
rather, for the child."

"No, dear queen, I can't do it. I'd like to, but I can't. I don't know
any but silly songs. The good ones are all church songs."

"Sing me one of those that you call silly songs."

"No, I can't; they're lonely songs."

"What do you mean by lonely songs?"

"I don't know, but that's what they call 'em."

"Ah, I understand: they can only be sung when one is solitary and
alone."

"Yes, I suppose that's it; the queen's right."

Although the queen endeavored to induce her to sing, Walpurga protested
that she could not and finally became so agitated that she burst into
tears. The queen experienced some difficulty in pacifying her, but
succeeded at last, and then Walpurga, taking the child with her,
returned to her room.

On the following day Walpurga was again summoned to the queen, who
said: "You're right, Walpurga. You can't sing to me. I've been thinking
a great deal about you. The bird on the tree doesn't sing at one's
bidding. Free nature cannot be directed by a baton. You needn't sing
for me. I shall not ask it of you again."

Walpurga had intended to sing to the queen that day. She had chosen her
prettiest songs and now the queen actually ordered her not to sing, and
even compared her to a bird. "Palace folk," thought she, "are queer
folk."

"I understand," continued the queen, "that in your neighborhood they
believe in the Lady of the Lake. Do you believe in her, too?"

"Believe in her? I don't know, but they tell of her. Father saw her
three days before he died, and that was a sure sign that he would soon
die. They say, too, that she's the Lady of Waldeck."

"Who is the Lady of Waldeck?"

"She's the Lady of Wörth."

"What is Wörth?"

"A bit of land in the middle of the lake, with water all round it."

"Do you mean an island?"

"Yes, an island; we sometimes call it that, too.

"And what is the story of the Lady of Waldeck?"

"Once upon a time, many thousand years ago, there was a man, and he was
a knight by the name of Waldeck, and he was a crusader. He and lots of
emperors and kings went off to our Saviour's grave in the Holy Land. He
left his wife at home and before he went away, he said to her: 'You're
good and you'll remain true to me'; and when, after many years, he
returned, quite black with the eastern sun, he found his wife with
another man, and so he bound the two together, put them in a boat and
rowed them over to Wörth where he left them; and there they lay, and
had nothing to eat, and nothing to drink, and were tied together and
died of hunger, and the birds of the air ate them. They were adulterers
and it served them right; but he was horrible for all. And even
nowadays, on spirit nights, you can often see a little blue flame on
the island of Wörth, and they say that the Lady of Waldeck's soul has
passed into a nymph and that she must wander about."

Such was Walpurga's story.

"I haven't frightened you, I hope?" said she, anxiously, as she
observed the queen's fixed gaze. "That's what they say. But may be it's
only talk, after all."

"No, no. Don't be anxious about that," cried the queen. "So many
different thoughts pass through my mind."

"Like enough; it's very hard to be the housewife, with so big a house
as this to keep, and so many folk in it."

The queen laughed heartily.

Walpurga did not know that she had said anything odd or droll and was
therefore surprised at the effect of her remarks; but she soon became
satisfied that all she said was quoted. This made her quite shy,
although she would now and then give way to fits of extravagance and
would, at such moments, delight in her own odd freaks, for they always
provoked a smile. While the queen aimed to be as simple as possible in
her intercourse with Walpurga, the latter was, with each succeeding
day, becoming more artificial and affected. She copied herself and her
whilom _naïvete_. When she knew that the queen was within hearing, she
would repeat the wondrous combination of words with which she was wont
to amuse the prince. She one day began to sing of her own accord and,
when she had finished, she felt surprised and almost hurt, because her
song had elicited no remark from the queen. Had she not sung well?

The queen had said nothing, because she feared that she might embarrass
her.

There was a strange contrast between these two women, each of whom was
trying to place herself in more perfect sympathy with the other, while
both were, with every step, adding to the distance that separated them.

It was a great day when the queen, accompanied by Walpurga and the
crown prince, rode out for the first time.

"You're a thousand times more beautiful when you're out-of-doors, in
the open air. In the darkened rooms, I never knew how beautiful you
were," said Walpurga to the queen, who immediately afterward had
something to say in French to the Countess Brinkenstein who sat beside
her.

"May I ask a favor, gracious queen?" said Walpurga.

"Certainly. What is it?"

"I think it hurts the child to talk gibberish before it. A young soul
like his understands, even if it can't speak, and it seems to me it
must confuse his little brain. I hardly know how to tell you; but I
feel it in my own head, and whatever affects me, affects the child."

"She's right," said the queen to Countess Brinkenstein, "until the
child can speak perfectly, it should hear no language but its mother
tongue."

"That's it--mother tongue," exclaimed Walpurga, "you've hit it. I had
it on my lips, but I couldn't think of it; that's the very word. I'm,
so to say, the same as a mother to the child and so--isn't it so?"

"Yes, certainly. It shall be as you say in all things. See to it, my
dear Brinkenstein, that after this, nothing but German be spoken before
the prince. No one can tell what sounds may sink into the soul which,
as yet, is but half awakened."

Walpurga was delighted. There would now be no more gibberish when she
was by for wherever the child was, there was she.

Mademoiselle Kramer added to her happiness by informing her that they
would start for the country, that is, the summer palace, within a few
days.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


In the mean while there was a special reason for detaining Walpurga and
the prince in the city.

Baron Schoning had spoken of the matter, while at breakfast one day,
and the suggestion which had been offered as a bit of pleasantry was
well received. The millions who were anxious to behold their future
ruler were to be gratified by the work of an instant. It was determined
that there should be a photograph of the crown prince borne aloft on
the hands of the people, Walpurga representing the people. She urged
various objections to the idea, and said it was wrong to let a child
less than a year old look into a mirror, and quite wrong to have its
likeness taken. "As long as you haven't let a child look in the glass,
it can see itself in the hollow of its left hand." Finding that her
opposition was of no avail, she dressed herself in her best gown. The
crown prince looked very pretty, and as he already had fair curly hair,
the artist removed his cap.

The first few attempts to get the likeness were failures. Whenever she
heard the voice issuing from the dark room, Walpurga was frightened and
imagined that witchery was going on. She became more and more agitated,
but at last, at Schoning's clever suggestion, a pianist in the
adjoining room played the air of Walpurga's favorite song. As soon
as she heard it, she could not help joining in the strain. Her
expression--and that of the child, too--became cheerful and
unconstrained. Eureka! the picture was a success.

The drives about the city had been lovely, but the most beautiful of
all was now to come.

It was a bright, balmy afternoon when they drove off. Although there
had been no rain for some time, the road was free from dust, sprinklers
having preceded the court carriage.

Walpurga was in an open carriage, with the prince and the queen. It was
the first time that she rode out among the villages and the fields. She
gazed at the people who were looking out of the windows, or sitting at
the doorsteps of the houses by the roadside, at the children who would
stop and salute them, and then, again, at the laborers in the fields.
She kept smiling, nodding and winking in all directions. The queen
asked:

"What ails you? What's the matter?"

"Oh, pardon me, queen; but here I'm riding in a carriage and four, and
over there the likes of me are working and toiling, and I know how the
women's backs ache from digging up potatoes, and while I ride by, as
though I were somebody better than they, it makes me feel as if I ought
to ask 'em all to forgive me for riding by in this way. I feel as if I
ought to say: 'Never mind; when the year's over, I'll be the same as
you are; the clothes I wear, the carriage and the horses, none of 'em
are mine; they're all borrowed.' Ah, dear queen, forgive me for saying
this to you, but you understand everything and know how to explain it
for the best. I empty my whole heart out to you," said Walpurga,
smiling.

"Yes, I understand what you mean," replied the queen; "and it is wise
of you thus to look forward to a return to your home. The thought that
you might be unable to content yourself there, has often troubled me.
Believe me, we who ride in carriages are no better off than those who
are walking barefoot through yonder stubble."

"I know it," said Walpurga. "No one can eat more than his fill, as my
father used to say, and queens must bear their children in pain and
sorrow, just like the rest of us; no one can save them from that."

The queen made no reply, and looked out of the other side of the
carriage.

Countess Brinkenstein motioned Walpurga to be silent; for, while it was
difficult to induce her to talk, when she had once begun, she did not
know when to stop.

The queen was only silent because she wished to say something in
French, to Countess Brinkenstein, and had refrained from doing so on
account of Walpurga's precious admonition.

"My dear child," said the queen at last, "I would, gladly, give up
everything, if I knew that I could thereby render mankind happy and
contented. But what good would it do! Money wouldn't help the people,
and it is not we who have brought about this inequality. God has
ordained it thus."

Walpurga could easily have answered her, but thought it best to leave
something for the morrow; for her father had often said: "It isn't well
to catch all the fish in one day." She therefore remained silent.

The queen felt greatly constrained by her promise not to speak French
in Walpurga's presence. There was much that she desired to say and with
which the peasant woman had no concern.

"How beautiful! how lovely is the world," she murmured to herself, and
then closed her eyes, as if fatigued with the splendor which had opened
before them, after her long seclusion. And while she lay there, her
head thrown back on the cushion, she looked like a sleeping angel, so
peaceful, so tender, as if mother and child in one.

"The soft cushions almost make me think I am sitting on clouds," said
Walpurga, when they reached their journey's end.

She was unspeakably happy in the country. The broad prospect, the clear
skies, the mountains, the large and beautiful garden with its
comfortable seats, the fountains, the swans--all delighted her. There
was also a fine dairy-farm, about a quarter of a mile distant, where
the cow-stable was much finer than the dancing floor at the Chamois
inn.

Walpurga was out in the open air during the greater part of the day.
The queen lived for her child alone, and Walpurga was again talkative
and natural. All the affected ways that she had acquired while in the
city, had left her.

In her first letter home--she could now write for herself--she said:
"If I only had you here for one day, to tell you about everything; for,
if the sky were nothing but paper and our lake nothing but ink, I
couldn't write it all. If it were only not so far off, Hansei; a pound
of fish here costs twice as much as with us. We're living in the summer
palace now, and just think, mother, what such a king has. He has seven
palaces, and they're all furnished, every one with a hundred beds,
rooms, kitchens and all of them filled, and when they go from one
palace to another they needn't take a fork or a spoon along. Everything
here is silver, and the doctor and the apothecary and the preacher and
the court people and the horses and the carriages, all move out here
with us. There's a whole town here in the palace, and I've the best
beer and more than I care for; and when one gets up in the morning
everything is as neat and clean as a new-laid egg. There's not a leaf
on the paths, and then there's a house all made with glass. The flowers
live in it; but I daren't go in, because it's too hot in there. They
keep it heated the whole year round, and it's filled with great palms
and other trees from the east, and, in the pond, there's a fountain,
and the water rises up as high as our church steeple. And just think of
all such a king can have. All day long, when the sun shines, there's a
rainbow there, sometimes above and sometimes below. Of course, he nor
no one else can make the sun; and they all do their best to please me.
I hardly can say I like a thing, before they give it to me at once.

"The queen is just like a companion with me. Just like you, Stasi. I
wish you much joy at your wedding. I only heard of it from Zenza. You
shall have a wedding present from me; let me know what you'd like to
have. But now I beg of you, just tell me how it goes with my child. It
didn't please me to know that you had weighed it on the butcher's
scales, and that it's so heavy. I wouldn't have thought, mother, that
you would have allowed it, or that you, Hansei, would have given way to
the innkeeper. Beware of that fellow. It was only last night that I
dreamt you and he were rowing across the lake, and that he clutched you
and dragged you into the water. Then all was over. And then the Lady of
the Lake appeared, and she looked like the good countess who is now
away. She's the best friend I have here, and promised to visit you on
her way back. You can tell her and give her everything just as if it
was myself. They've just brought me my dinner. Ah, dear mother, if I
could only give you some of it. There are so many good things here and
there's always so much left. Don't let yourself want for anything, or
Hansei either, and my child least of all, for we can now afford it,
thank God! And I want to be with you for a long while yet, dear mother.
It often makes me feel bad that I can't be a mother--I mean a true
mother; but when I come home I'll make it all up to my child; and
Hansei, put all your money out at interest until I get home; remember,
it doesn't belong to us, but to our child, whom we deprive of its
mother.

"Mademoiselle Kramer, who is with me all day, was born here. She'd
rather be in the city, and she says it used to be much prettier here
than it now is; that everything used to be like the little garden
yonder, where there are walls and rooms with doors and windows, all
made of shrubbery. It's all very pretty and I like to go there, but
when I've been there a few minutes I am almost frightened to death: for
I feel as if I and the trees were bewitched, and I get away as soon as
I can. Mademoiselle Kramer is a very good person, but nothing is
quite to her taste. She's been used all her life to riding and fine
eating and sitting about; and mother, just think of what I have eaten
here--live ice! People here are so clever they can preserve ice and
make it up so that you can eat it. Yes, if that could satisfy one's
appetite, there wouldn't be any hungry people with us in the winter, or
even in the summer, further up the mountains. And mother, you once told
me a fairy-tale about walls that have ears; but this is no fable, it's
true and quite natural. They have speaking-trumpets, running through
the whole palace, and you can speak through them, and if I want
anything in my room, all I've got to do is to go up to the wall and say
so and in a minute it's there.

"This is a beautiful day and that makes me think that you have it as
well as we, and that the same sun that shines on us here shines on you,
too.

"The main business here is taking walks. Every one must take walks
here. They call it taking exercise, so that they can get up their
appetite and keep their limbs from getting stiff. They even take the
horses out walking when there's nothing for them to do. Early in the
morning, the grooms ride out a long way with them and then come home. I
often wish the horses could only take me home for an hour. I often get
homesick, but I am well and hearty and only hope it is the same with
you. Your

                                                         "WALPURGA.

"Postscript.--Why haven't you mentioned a word about the little gold
heart which my countess sent to my Burgei? And no one is to send me any
more petitions, or to come to me. I won't receive another one. As long
as I live, I'll be sorry for having anything to do with Zenza and
Thomas; but perhaps it's all for the best and may be he's turned out
better. Don't think hard of it, dear Hansei, but I beg you, once more,
to have very little to do with the host of the Chamois. He's a rogue,
and a dangerous one at that, but you needn't tell him that I say so,
for I want the ill-will of no one. I send my love to all good friends.
I must stop now, my hand is quite stiff with writing.

"Stop! I must begin again. I send you a picture of myself and my
prince. It was taken in a sort of peepshow, before we came out here,
and now, as long as the world lasts, the prince and I will always be
together, and I'll be holding him in my arms. But I am still with you,
dear Hansei, and you, dear mother, and, most of all, with my dear child
that I bear in my heart where no one can look. Don't show the picture
to any one.

"But, dear me! what good will it do if you don't show it? Mademoiselle
Kramer tells me that they've made a hundred thousand pictures of me and
the prince, and now I am hanging up in all the shops, and wherever I go
they know me as well as the king and the queen, whose pictures hang
next to mine. I feel as if I wanted no one ever to see me again, but
when I think of it, it's really an honor after all. I am out in the
world now, and must let them do what they please with me.

"But I shall ever be true to you, and I am at home nowhere but with
you, and am always there in thought."



                              CHAPTER XIV.


"How goes it, Walpurga?" asked Baum, one morning, when the nurse was
looking out of the window of the ground floor.

"Oh, dear," replied she, "this is a real paradise."

"Indeed!"

"Could it be any finer in paradise? The people live without care and
have nothing to do but eat and drink and laugh and go out walking."

"You're right there; but still it was finer in paradise, for there
father Adam couldn't covet another man's wife, as his was the only one
in the world."

"What queer notions you have," said Walpurga, laughing; and Baum,
feeling flattered, added:

"In paradise they had no use for servants, no coachman, no cook, no
house, no clothes. There were no boots to be cleaned, because there
were none, and there were no coats and shirts to be woven, and sewed
and mended."

"You dreadful creature," exclaimed Walpurga. She felt as if Baum's
words had almost torn the clothes from her; her face was crimson. Baum
quickly answered:

"I'm sorry I look so dreadful in your eyes. In my eyes you're so
beautiful that I--" He was interrupted by a servant who called him
away.

Walpurga quickly drew back into the room. She was angry at Baum. How
could any one use such language to a married woman? "And yet," thought
she, with a self-complacent smile, "Baum's a well-mannered person,
after all; and why shouldn't one crack a joke, now and then?" She
looked in the large mirror for a moment and smiled.

"Yes, when Hansei sees you again, he'll hardly know you; it's the good
living that does it. But I'll say to myself every day: 'It won't last
long; you're only hired here for a while. But dancing's pleasant, even
if the dance doesn't last long,'" said Walpurga, as if to console
herself. All sort of dance tunes occurred to her and she kept humming
them to the prince.

Walpurga roamed about through the beautiful park as if in a dream. She
imagined that the trees, the sky and the birds were all enchanted and
in a strange world; that they would suddenly awaken and all would
vanish. But everything went on in its quiet course, each day as
beautiful as the one that preceded, like the sun rising anew every day,
the flowers that are constantly giving forth their fragrance, or the
spring that never ceases to flow.

Walpurga had a special liking for Mademoiselle Kramer's father, who was
governor of the castle. He was a venerable man who raised lovely
flowers in his little lodge, and she could talk to him as with her own
father.

Walpurga was sitting out of doors for the greater part of the day.
Mademoiselle Kramer was always with her and two servants within ready
call. The queen would also often join them.

The queen had a beautiful snow-white setter of which the child was
especially fond. Walpurga requested her to let the prince often have
the dog, because it is well for a child to have a living animal about
it.

"She is right," said the queen, addressing the court lady at her side;
"animal life awakens human consciousness."

Walpurga stared at her in surprise. The queen had said she was right,
but added words that she did not understand.

"Just look," said she to the queen, "how fond the bees are of our
child. They won't hurt him--you needn't fear. The bee is the only
creature that came out of paradise without being spoiled."

The queen manifested her pleasure at the manner in which Walpurga's
thoughts were, interwoven with tradition.

Walpurga observed that the queen had but little worldly wisdom and gave
her the benefit of hers whenever opportunity presented itself.

"Do you know what that is?" she once asked, while they sat in the
shrubbery.

"A tree."

"Yes, but do you know it's a sacred tree and that lightning doesn't
strike where it grows?"

"No, I never knew that."

"And then of course, you don't know why. Now my mother told me all
about it. The Virgin was once crossing a mountain and was caught in a
fearful storm. So she stood under a great large hazel-tree and remained
safe, and, because it had protected her she blessed it for all time.
You can make magic wands from hazel twigs. The serpent-king dwells
under the hazel-tree and, sometimes, under the weeping willow. Do you
know why the weeping willow drops its branches so sadly?"

"No, I don't know that either. You're full of wisdom," said the queen,
smiling.

"I'm not, but my mother is. I don't know half as much as she. She's
very clever, and told me about the weeping willow. The rods with which
they scourged our Saviour were made from the weeping willow, and ever
since that time she droops her branches with shame."

Walpurga was quite happy to think that she could teach the queen
something. She felt that she was quite a different being from all in
the palace and that the queen was the only one who understood her. She
was always happy and cheerful when with her and opened her whole heart
to the queen. "You're quite a stranger in the world; you've never, in
all your life, seen how the burghers and farmers sit in their rooms of
an evening, what they eat, what they talk of, what they wish for, and
what makes them happy or gives them pain. I once heard my father tell a
story. It was about a prince and a princess who grew up as shepherds,
and didn't know who they were until they were grown up, when they said
to him: 'you're a prince,' and to her: 'you're a princess,' and they
became right good and honest people. Of course they'd been out in the
world, and had learned how people live and what they need. I only wish
that we could send our prince out the same way. I think it would be
good for him and the whole country, too. If servants are running after
you all day long, it's just as if you were in a prison, the people form
a living wall around you."

"We can all be honest and good," replied the queen.

"And make good men and women of our children," added Walpurga. "Do you
know what I'd like? I'd like, as long as I live, to take all trouble
from you, and if sickness came to you, to be sick in your place."

"Yes that's very well; but let us be quiet now."

The queen was all happiness. She saw to the bottom of a simple peasant
woman's heart, and into a new world that revealed itself to her in her
child.



                              CHAPTER XV.


Baum availed himself of every opportunity to speak with Walpurga. He
was in deep affliction; his wife was seriously ill, and Walpurga
endeavored to console him. In return, Baum lent a willing ear to all
her complaints, for she had just heard from home, that Zenza denied all
knowledge of the little golden heart that Countess Irma had sent to the
child.

"Ah, and so your countess has a golden heart left to give away," said
Baum in a mocking voice. "You ought to be glad to have such a friend."

"And so I am. Oh, if she were only here again, then it would be a real
paradise. I don't worry about Zenza's making away with the golden
heart; there must be some bad people, or else the world would be too
beautiful."

"And I tell you, it's only half a life when the king's away. Just wait
till he comes back and see how it will be then. When there's no man
about, it isn't a complete house."

The queen approached and Baum withdrew.

"What was that man saying to you?" asked the queen.

"We were telling each other of our troubles; he has great longing for
the king and I, dear queen, have great longing for my Countess Irma."

"I long for her, too; but she has asked to have her leave of absence
extended for another fortnight."

Peacefully and calmly, the days passed by. Walpurga's favorite resort
was in the neighborhood of the dairy-farm; for there were cows there,
and cows are the same everywhere, and don't know that they belong to
the king, or that their milk is served at his table.

Walpurga remarked this one day to Baum, who had discovered that he
could meet her there, and he replied:

"Oh, how clever you are; if I only had got a wife like you."

"There are dozens like me."

"Oh, not so clever as you are. You could get far in the world, if you
only wanted to."

"How far should I go?" said Walpurga. "I want to go home and no
farther."

"No one will think the worse of you for that, but one can make a new
home."

"I don't understand you."

"I can't explain now. Countess Brinkenstein is coming. Meet me in the
shrubbery behind the chapel, this evening when they're all at table,
I've something good to tell you."

Walpurga had not time to reply. Baum saw Countess Brinkenstein
approaching and, in a loud voice, gave the dairy inspector an order
from the head cook, and then walked away quickly, respectfully saluting
the countess as he passed.

Countess Brinkenstein administered a severe reproof to Mademoiselle
Kramer for having allowed Walpurga to stand there with the prince, and
chatter with the servants.

Mademoiselle Kramer made no reply, and only motioned Walpurga to go
into the vine-clad arbor.

Walpurga was busy conjecturing what sort of advice Baum might have to
give her. He knew lots of things and perhaps knew of some clever
stroke, by which Hansei, her mother and the child might be brought to
the palace. But Hansei wouldn't do for a lackey. Perhaps, though, they
could make him court fisherman or chief woodsman of the royal forest.

When evening came, she was quite uneasy. It was not the right thing for
her to have a secret meeting with any man but her husband; but, perhaps
the place may be given away to-morrow, and then it would be too late.
She sat by the window and looked up at the stars. Her cheeks glowed,
she drew a deep breath.

"What ails you?" inquired Mademoiselle Kramer.

"I feel so warm and oppressed."

"I'll send for the doctor."

"I don't need the doctor. Just let me sit here quietly. But no; let me
walk up and down in the garden for a few minutes and I'll feel better."

"The maid can go with you."

"No, I don't need any one; I'll feel better if I go alone."

"But, I beg of you, don't go too far, and come back soon. You've seen,
to-day, how every misstep of yours draws reproof on me."

"Yes, I'll come back soon."

Walpurga went out at the back door. The gravel grated under her
footsteps and she trod more lightly. The air was laden with the perfume
of the flowers; the swans in the lake uttered a strange sound, like a
deep, muffled trumpet tone; the sky sparkled with countless stars and,
just as Walpurga looked up, she saw a brilliant meteor and exclaimed:
"Hansei!"

In her innermost heart she wished for nothing but her husband's
happiness. She stopped when she had uttered his name. She felt as if
she had better return. She was a married woman and oughtn't to meet a
strange man at night, even though it was by the chapel.

Something ran across the path. Was it a cat, a martin or a weasel?

"Return," said an inner voice, but she went on, nevertheless. She
reached the arbor. Baum stepped forth from behind a vine-clad column.
He held out both his hands to her and she offered him her own. He tried
to draw her closer to him but she stood firm.

"What have you to tell me?" asked Walpurga.

"Nothing but what's good. You see, we lesser folks must help each
other, and you're so much to me that I could do anything for you."

"If you can do me a good service, I shall be grateful as long as I
live--I and my husband and my child. Tell me quick; I'm in a hurry."

"Then we can leave it for some other time."

"No, tell me now. What do you mean?"

"I really meant nothing at all, but you see we must always wait on
others, and so I thought that we might have a quarter of an hour to
ourselves. I only wanted to tell you that you are the light of my life,
my happiness. When I look at you, and listen to you, I'd like to do--I
don't know what, and I can't tell."

"It isn't necessary, either; and let me tell you, this is very wicked
of you."

"Is it wicked that I love you to distraction?"

"Yes, and doubly wicked that you fooled me here and made me believe
that you had something good to tell me."

"And so I have," said Baum, quickly; "forgive me for what I've done; if
you do, I'll tell you the rest."

"Yes, I'll forgive you, but make haste."

"Well," said Baum with great composure, "it's simply this. He who
stands at the manger and doesn't eat, is a fool. Do you understand me?"

"Of course; it doesn't take much to know that."

"Yes, but you don't take my meaning. A court like this is a full
manger, and you'll be a great fool if you go away without having taken
enough to satisfy yourself and your child for life."

"I'd like to know how that can be done. You've got to eat every day,
and can't stuff yourself with enough to last for a lifetime."

"You're clever, but you might be more so. Just listen! What I mean is
this. A good position, or a profitable situation, should give one a
chance to make himself comfortable for life. The tenant of the
dairy-farm will have to leave next spring or, at the latest, in the
fall, and I think you ought to manage it with the queen and the rest of
them, so that your husband should get the position, and then you could
be here all your life and you and yours would be well provided for.
Take my word for it, I know what the quality are. If you leave here
without having secured a good situation, not a cat will remember you.
But if you remain here, you'll be well taken care of to the end of your
days, and the older the prince gets, the more he'll think of you; and
when he becomes king, he'll provide for you, your family, your child
and even your grandchildren. Is that wicked advice?"

"No; on the contrary, it's very good and I'll remember it. That,
indeed, would be bread and lots of butter."

"Oh, I've never seen or heard so sensible a woman as you are. You
deserve a better lot; but that can't be helped, and if you remain here,
I'll often have the pleasure of seeing you and speaking a word with
you, for I hope we'll be good friends; shall we not?"

"Yes, indeed, and my Hansei will also be a good friend to you. There's
not a false drop of blood in his body and he's clever, too, only he's
not much of a talker; and he loves me just as much as gold; he's true
and kindhearted, and I won't let any one say a word against him."

"I haven't said anything against him," replied Baum, and Walpurga was
obliged to admit that this was the case; nevertheless, she could not
help feeling that any offer of love to another man's wife is an insult
to her husband, for it implies as plainly as words can express it: "He
is not the right man, for he has such and such faults; I alone am
worthy of you."

Sighing deeply, Baum answered:

"Oh, if one could only double his life."

"I should think one life was enough for any man."

"Certainly, if one hasn't wasted it. One can only live once, you know."

"Yes, in this world; but in the next it begins anew."

"I mean in this world, too. But it's very hard, let me tell you, if
one's whole life has been wasted through a stupid blunder. Must one
bear with it and make no attempt to change it? We've both of us
blundered."

"Who?"

"While I was a soldier, I became acquainted with the valet of the late
king. He was very fond of me and took great pleasure in helping me
forward; but he well knew what he was about. I thought it a wonderful
piece of luck, when I found I was to marry his daughter. It was only
too late, when I discovered that she was sickly and irritable and
without a healthy drop of blood in her body. And is my whole life to be
wasted, because of this blunder? And is no love left for me in the
world? And with you, it's just the same; with both of us, you and
I--but why should it be too late, even now?"

"Pretty jokes, indeed! but they're not to my taste. It's wrong to talk
about such things."

"I'm not joking. Are all of earth's joys to be lost to us, just because
we have once blundered? In that case, we'd be doubly fools."

"I see you're in earnest."

"Certainly I am," said Baum, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Very well, then. Just listen to what I've got to say. How can you dare
insult my Hansei, that way? If it were so--and it isn't--but suppose it
were; do you think, even if you were better looking or better mannered
than my Hansei, and you're far from being that, let me tell you.--But
that doesn't matter one way or the other. There's not a better man
living than my Hansei, and even if there be one, he's nothing to me;
we're husband and wife and belong to each other.--But it was only a
joke, after all, wasn't it? and a mighty stupid one at that. Say that
you only meant it for fun, for if I thought you were in earnest, I'd
never speak another word to you; and now--Good-night."

"No, wait a moment. Now that I know how good you are, I think so much
the more of you. If I only had a wife like you!"

Baum was greatly agitated. He had at first only dallied with kind
words, but his voice had gradually assumed an agitated and touching
tone.

"I'll give you something," said Walpurga, placing her hand on his
shoulder.

"What is it; a kiss?"

"Get out! Don't talk so. You've just been behaving so well. Now I'll
tell you something that my mother taught me. She always says, that he
who is not contented with what he has, would be dissatisfied even if he
had what he wished for."

"Did your mother tell you that?"

"Yes, and she knows many other good sayings, and I am glad that this
one will be of use to you; it'll do you good."

"Of course--but now give me just one kiss, because I've been so good."

"What a foolish fellow you are," said Walpurga; "you say you're good,
and, the very next minute, want something wicked as a reward. I'm a
married woman and, if you were to give me a whole palace with all
that's in it and seven palaces besides, I'd not kiss any man but my
husband. There, I'll shake hands with you--and now--good-night."

They parted, with a mutual promise to remain good friends.

Walpurga found Mademoiselle Kramer in great trouble. The child was
crying, and would not be pacified until Walpurga sang to it.

Meanwhile, Baum returned to the palace. He bit his lips with vexation
and thought to himself: What a simple, stupid creature such a peasant
woman is. And she is beautiful; I can wait; I know the long road; she
shall be tamed yet.

For many days, Walpurga would pass Baum without looking up, and he,
too, seemed shy; but one day, when she was sitting on the bench, he
quickly said while passing:

"You needn't be angry at me; I didn't know I'd offended you and, if I
have, I ask your pardon."

Walpurga looked up as if relieved. Baum nodded to her and hurried away.



                              CHAPTER XVI.


The king had returned from the baths. He was received with great
ceremony, but he and the queen soon withdrew from the company and
repaired to the crown prince's apartments. The parents, clasping hands,
stood by the cradle of the sleeping child. Their glances rested upon
each other and then upon the prince.

"Can there be a higher joy than thus to behold the babe whose life
belongs to and is a part of our own?" softly whispered the queen.

The king embraced her.

The child awoke; his cheeks were glowing, his eyes were bright.

In the mean while, Walpurga had been sitting in a corner, weeping
silently; but now she was obliged to go to the child. The king left;
the queen remained with her.

"You've been crying?" asked the queen.

"It was for joy, nothing but joy. Could anything be more beautiful than
the way you stood together there?"

"I'll have your husband come to you," replied the queen; "write him to
come, and say that your mother and child may come too."

"Yes, dear queen, it would be very nice, but it would cost a pretty
penny." Surprised that any one was obliged to deny himself a pleasure,
because of the expense, the queen looked up and said:

"Go to the paymaster and get the money. Would a hundred florins be
enough?"

"Oh! More than enough! But if the queen would give me the money, we
could make better use of it."

The queen looked at Walpurga, as if shocked to think that, even in
simple hearts, avarice can destroy the noblest emotions.

Walpurga observed the change in the queen's expression and said:

"I'll tell you, honestly, why I don't want it, even if it cost nothing.
My husband's a good man, but he's just a little bit awkward, and it
would grieve him to the heart if any one were to laugh at him. And it
would be too much to expect of mother, for she's over sixty years old,
and hasn't been out of the village since her wedding-day--that is, not
farther than Hohenheiligen, three miles from our place, where she went
on a pilgrimage. Though it would only be a day's journey, she hasn't
even once gone home in all that time; and so I think it might do her
harm if she were taken anywhere else, even it were only for a few days.
The best thing would be if we could all of us remain near the king. I'm
sure we'd take good care of the dairy-farm. My husband knows all about
cattle; he was cowboy for many years, and, afterward, herdsman on the
mountain meadows."

Walpurga spoke as if the queen knew all about the plan, but the queen
was so possessed with the thought of her domestic happiness, that she
did not hear a word of what was said.

Days passed by, and Walpurga, who had received none of the traveling
money that the queen had promised her, did not venture to ask the court
paymaster for it. Desirous of showing Baum that she was still on
friendly terms with him, she told him what had happened.

"The best thing you can do," said he, with a shrewd air, "is not to
take so small a gift. If you do, they'll think they've done with you;
don't lose sight of the main chance, and that's the farm."

Walpurga was sincerely grateful to Baum. It was very fortunate, she
thought, to have a friend at the palace, who, while the king was yet a
prince, had traveled with him through Italy and France, and who knew
how one ought to deal with such high folk.

The palace seemed to have thrown off its tranquil ways of the last few
weeks. All was life and bustle. Sounds of laughter and of song could be
heard from early morn until late at night. Gay colored lamps hung from
the trees and, at night, the sparkling lights seemed, in the distance,
as if part of a fairy-scene.

Early in the morning, wagons laden with provisions could be seen going
hither and thither. To-day, the court would dine on some wooded height;
to-morrow, in a ravine, or near a waterfall.

The king was all kindness and attention to his wife, and the queen had
never seemed more lovely in his eyes, than now, elevated as she was by
maternal happiness and conjugal affection.

In the apartments occupied by Walpurga and Mademoiselle Kramer, none of
this bustle of preparation or departure was heard. They simply knew
that "all had gone off, for the day."

In the morning, while the day was still young, and in the evening,
while the soft dews were falling, the king and queen, arm in arm, might
often have been seen sauntering in the park, and at such times the
ladies and gentlemen would remain near the palace.

One evening, while the king and queen were thus walking together,
engaged in familiar conversation, the queen said:

"How delightful it is to be thus leaning on your arm; to close one's
eyes and be led by you. You can't imagine what good it does me."

Although the king expressed himself delighted with her devotion, an
inner voice told him that such sensibility was unqueenly. How
differently--

No, he would not permit himself to think of it.

The queen had much to tell him of the gradual dawning of sense in the
prince. He listened attentively, but rather through politeness than
sympathy. After the first week, the queen excused herself from taking
part in the frequent excursions, for she found no pleasure in all the
bustle.

The queen had Walpurga and the child with her, either in the park or on
the rising ground behind the palace, where she would sketch groups of
trees, the lake and the swans, the castle, the chapel, and various
distant views.

One morning, while at breakfast, the king said:

"What charming rivalry it was when you and Countess Irma were drawing
together. Your dispositions were both illustrated by the way in which
you treated the same subjects."

"Yes, we often remarked that. Perhaps I worked in the details more
correctly and sharply, while Countess Irma sketched with far greater
ease and freedom. I greatly miss the dear countess."

"Then let us write to her and tell her that she must return, and that
at once. Let us send her a joint letter. Ladies and gentleman, we shall
now, all of us, write a letter to Countess Irma."

"Order the writing materials to be brought," said he to one of the
gentlemen in waiting. His request was speedily complied with and he
wrote:


"Beautiful Countess! Fugitive bird! At last I know what bird you
are:--The wild dove. Does this contradiction describe you? Wild, and
yet a dove? Come, do come to us; your forest companions hang their
heads because of your absence. Hasten to us, on wings of song."


The king offered the sheet to the queen and said: "What will you
write?"

"I can't write when any one is present," replied the queen. "I can't
write a word now; I shall send her a separate letter."

An almost imperceptible expression of displeasure passed over the
king's countenance, but he subdued it.

"As you please," said he courteously, although, at heart, angry at this
everlasting sentimentalism.

The courtiers and ladies all wrote, each adding a few lines of a light,
jesting character.

Countess Brinkenstein, however, had slipped away.

Amid jests and laughter, the whole sheet was at last filled, and then
the king said:

"The chief one is still missing. Walpurga must also write to the
countess, for the voice of the people has most influence with her. Send
Walpurga here."

Baum was at once sent to bring Walpurga. On the way, he explained to
her what was going on. Walpurga was not shy, in the midst of the
assembled court.

"Would you rather be alone in your room while you write?" asked the
king, betraying his vexation, in spite of himself.

"I'll write wherever you want me to, but I can't do it well."

Walpurga seated herself and wrote:

"If your noble father will allow it, I shall be heartily glad when my
dear Countess Irma is here again. My heart longs for her.

                                       "WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN."

The king, having read it, said: "Write also--'it will do me and the
prince much good to have you here again. You make us both happier'."

"Dear king," said Walpurga, "how clever you are. What you say is quite
true. Now be so kind as to dictate it to me. I can't put it into such
good words, but I can write quite well from dictation. I learned it
from Mademoiselle Kramer. I used to know how at school, but forgot it
afterward."

"No," replied the king, "write as your feelings prompt you. Ladies and
gentlemen, let us leave Walpurga alone, and go to the veranda."

Walpurga was sitting alone, in the great breakfast-room, biting the end
of her pen and vainly endeavoring to remember the king's words.
Suddenly she heard a slight noise near her and, looking up, saw Baum
who was standing in the doorway.

"Come here," she exclaimed, "you can help me, for you must have heard
it all."

"Certainly," replied Baum and dictated the king's words to Walpurga.
She went out and handed the letter to the king.

He praised her for having put the words so nicely. She was about to say
that Baum had helped her, but one need not tell everything, and why not
receive praise for what might have been?

When Walpurga returned to her room, she smiled at her own shrewdness.
The king would now surely give her the farm, for he had seen that she
could write down everything and could keep accounts.

The queen came into the garden with her hastily written note.

It was unsealed. She gave it to the king saying:

"Will you read it?"

"It isn't necessary," said the king, closing the letter.

After the letter was written there was endless tittering among the
court ladies. They chirruped and chattered and teased each other, and
hopped about like a flock of sparrows that have just discovered an open
sack of corn. They soon scattered, and ladies who at other times could
not endure each other were now good friends and, arm in arm, would walk
up and down the park, while others would stand gathered in little
groups. All seemed loth to separate. They had so much to tell each
other that none seemed willing to leave. They all spoke kindly of Irma.
Every one was still her best friend, but, nevertheless, careful to
leave a loophole of escape open, for things might change.

Within a few days, a great change had come over the feelings of all at
the summer palace. The king and queen had, at first, greeted each other
as if newly married, as if unspeakably happy; but, soon afterward, came
the first distinct sense of uncongeniality which, in a word, betokened
that the king wearied of the queen. He did full justice to her noble
and exalted appearance. Her every word and thought was an outgush of
purest emotion. But this exaltation of feeling, which, to an every-day
world, appears strange and incomprehensible and yet exacts constant
consideration for its peculiarities; this endeavor to give intense and
exhaustive thought to every casual subject; this utter absence of all
cheerful or sportive traits; this cathedral-like solemnity of
character; this constant dwelling on the heights: though beautiful and
engaging at times, had become monotonous and distasteful to the king.
The queen's conversation lacked that sparkling effervescence which,
though it be only for a moment, charms and animates the listener.

The king who was fond of change, delighted in what was sportive,
capricious, or enigmatical in character, and in the conquering of
difficulties.

The remembrance of Irma supplied all that he missed in the queen. He
felt sure of his faithful love for his wife, but admired the frank and
lovely disposition of Irma, and why should he not, therefore, enjoy her
society?

"She will come and remain with us, and bring new and fresh life with
her," thought he to himself when he saw the courier who bore the letter
to Irma, hurrying along the road.

In the afternoon, the king and queen drove out together; he sat at her
side and held the reins. Their only attendants were the two grooms who
followed on horseback.

The king was quite amiable; the queen happy. He felt inwardly conscious
of having, in ever so slight a degree, swerved from the right path, and
this made him doubly affectionate. With a frank gaze, he looked into
the brightly beaming eyes of his beautiful wife.

Thus should it ever be. Thus, purely and frankly, shouldst thou ever be
able to look into those eyes.



                              CHAPTER XVII.


"Your Majesty," said Countess Brinkenstein, on the following morning
when they were sauntering in the park, "I owe you an explanation for
not having signed the letter to the queen's maid of honor."

"You did not?" replied the king.

The rigid yet refined features of the old lady showed no change at
these words, although she might have felt wounded at the intimation
that the absence of her signature had not been remarked. But, in all
things, she obeyed the highest law of the courtier; that is, to repress
all personal feeling and thus avoid all sensitiveness. Couching her
censure in terms of praise, in according with courtly fashion, she
calmly added:

"The idea of the invitation was quite original, but genius must ever
stand alone. Your Majesty has often honored me by addressing me as your
motherly friend and, as such, you will, I trust, permit me to remark
that it does not become either the gentlemen or the ladies to put their
names to an extraordinary jest of Your Majesty's. There should not be
the slightest cause for suspicion that this invitation was designedly
open and informal, because secretly intended and wished for."

The king looked at the old lady in surprise, but acted as if
unconscious of her having seen through his disguise.

"I must again tell you, my lady, that you ought to have gone to the
baths. You take such somber and serious views of everything; but when
one has been at the baths, as I have, everything looks gay and happy."

"Your Majesty, it is simply my duty to emphasize the rules that govern
Your Majesty's high position."

"Are you not overdoing it?"

"Your Majesty, etiquette, although invisible, is none the less
valuable. Treasures of artistic and great historical value are not
melted over to make new coins, but are carefully handed down from
century to century. The palace is the highest point in the land, where
one is in full view of all, and where we should so live that we can
afford to have all our actions seen."

The king was listless, for his mind wandered to Irma, who must now be
receiving the letter. "She has awakened," thought he, "and is standing
alone, or sitting beside her misanthropic father, on the balcony of the
mountain castle. The letter comes, and she feels as if surrounded by a
flock of chirruping, singing birds, that alight on her hands, her
shoulders and her head. What a pity that one cannot behold her charming
smile!"

The king's vision had been a true one. Irma was sitting beside her
father and dreamily gazing into the distance. What was to become of
her? If her father, would only say: "You must stay here." But this
being obliged to decide for herself was the trouble. If she had a
husband to command her--but Baron Schoning would have been her subject,
and that would have made life's load a doubled one. At that moment, the
housekeeper announced a messenger who had just arrived on horseback.

The courier entered, delivered his letter and said that he would await
an answer. Irma read it and laughed aloud. She laid the letter on her
lap, took it up again, and read and laughed again. Her father looked at
her in surprise.

"What's the matter?"

"Read this."

The father read it; his expression did not change in the least.

"What do you mean to do?" he asked.

"I think I must obey such requests; but can I return without incurring
your reproof?"

"Always; if there be nothing in your own heart to reprove you."

Irma rang for the housekeeper and told her to order the maid to make
the necessary preparations for her departure; she also ordered them to
treat the courier with hospitality, and to inform him that a part of
the journey was to be accomplished the same evening. "Are you angry at
me, father?"

"I am never angry. I am only sorry that so few persons allow their
reason to guide them. But be calm, my child. If your resolve is
dictated by reason you must follow it and bear the consequences calmly,
just as I do. But let us spend the few hours yet left us, in peace and
quiet; life lies in the present."

Irma gave many instructions to her maid and the courier, although it
always seemed to her as if she were forgetting something which would
not occur to her until after she had left.

Father and daughter were still at dinner. The carriage, laden with the
luggage, had been sent forward a short distance to await them in the
valley. The father accompanied Irma down the mountain. He spoke with
her in a cheerful strain. While passing the apple-tree, on the way, he
said:

"My child, let us take leave of each other here. This is the tree that
I planted on the day you were born. It often marks the limit of my
evening walk."

They stood there in silence. An apple fell from the tree and struck the
ground at their feet. The father picked it up and gave it to his
daughter.

"Take this fruit of your native soil with you. The apple falls from the
tree because it is ripe, and because the tree has nothing more to give
it. In the same way, man leaves home and kindred; but a human being is
more than the fruit of the tree. And now, my child, take off your hat,
and let me once more place my hands upon your head. No one knows when
his hour will come. Nay, my child, do not weep. Nay, weep; and may you,
through life, only have to weep for others, but never for yourself."
His voice faltered, but, recovering himself, he continued:

"And just as I now rest my hands upon your head and would fain place
them on all your thoughts, do you ever remain true unto yourself. I
would like to give you all my thoughts, but, for the present, keep this
one in your memory: Indulge in no pleasures but those which you can
remember with pleasure. Take this kiss--you kiss passionately--may you
never give a kiss in which your soul is less pure than at this moment.
Farewell!"

The father turned away and walked up the mountain road. He did not look
back again.

Irma looked after him, trembling and feeling as if something drew her
toward home and bade her remain there forever. But she felt ashamed of
her indecision; she thought of the next hour and of how strange it
would seem to the servants and to her father, to see her trunks
unpacked and all the preparation for the journey undone. No, it was too
late, and she went on. She seated herself in the carriage and was soon
on her journey. She was no longer her own mistress; a strange power had
taken possession of her.

It was on the following day, at noon, that Irma reached the summer
palace. All was quiet; no one came to meet her but the old steward, who
hurriedly laid aside his long pipe.

"Where are their highnesses?" asked the courier.

"They dine at the Devil's Pulpit to-day."

From the garden, there resounded a cry.

"Oh, my countess! My countess is here!" exclaimed Walpurga, kissing
Irma's hands and weeping for joy. "Now we'll have sunshine! Now we'll
have day!"

Irma quieted the excited woman, who said:

"I'll go and tell the queen at once. She's the only one at home, and is
up on yonder hill, painting; she doesn't care to go on these holiday
excursions, and here every day seems a holiday."

Irma instructed Walpurga not to tell the queen, and said that she would
join her. She went to her room and sat there for a long while, buried
in thought. She felt as if she had extended a friendly hand and that no
one had clasped it in return.

In the hallway, they were moving trunks about. Suddenly, she thought of
the time when she sat in her room, an orphan child, clad in black, and
heard them moving her mother's coffin about in the adjoining apartment.

Why had it occurred to her at that moment? She arose--she could no
longer endure being alone. She hastily changed her dress and went to
the queen.

The queen saw her coming and advanced to meet her.

Irma bent low and made an effort to kiss her hand.

The queen held her up and, embracing her, imprinted a tender kiss upon
her lips.

"You're the only one who dare touch the lips that my father has
kissed," said Irma--that is, she did not say it aloud, but simply moved
her lips as if forming the words. Deep within her soul, arose a
thought: I'd rather die I a thousand deaths, than sadden that guileless
heart.

The thought illumined her countenance with a noble expression, and the
queen, all delight, exclaimed:

"Oh how beautiful, how radiant you are, Countess Irma!"

Irma dropped her eyes and knelt down beside the child's cradle. Her
eyes were so lustrous that the child put out its hand as if to seize
them.

"He's right," said Walpurga, "he tries to catch the light already, but
I think your eyes have grown larger than they used to be."

Irma went with Walpurga and excused herself for not having visited the
cottage by the lake. She then told her of her friend in the convent.

"And how's your father?" asked Walpurga.

Irma was startled. The queen had not even inquired about her father.
Walpurga was the only one who had asked about him.

She told her that he knew her mother, and also her uncle, who often
burnt pitch in the forest.

"Yes, he's my mother's brother; so you know him, too?"

"I don't, but my father does."

Walpurga told her about her uncle Peter, who was known as the "little
pitchman," and vowed that she would send him something, one of these
days, for the poor old fellow had a hard time of it in this world. Old
Zenza had had the courage to come to the palace, but the little
pitchman would starve to death before he would do such a thing.

While Walpurga was speaking, the queen went to the cradle, and when the
prince saw her, he struggled, with hands and feet, as if trying to get
to her. She bent down and raised him up, and Walpurga exclaimed:

"Dear me! on the very day our countess returns, our prince sits up for
the first time. Yes, she can make everything go right."

The queen and Irma remained together in cheerful and unconstrained
conversation. In the evening, there were joyful greetings on the part
of those who had returned from the excursion to the Devil's Pulpit.
Irma now, for the first time, learned that her brother was not at
court. While at the baths, he had made the acquaintance of Baroness
Steigeneck and her daughter and was now visiting them.

The king's greeting of Irma was quite formal. Even Countess
Brinkenstein could have found nothing to object to in it; but how could
he well have done otherwise, when the queen said:

"I can't tell you how happy our dear countess's return has made me;
we've already spent several delightful hours together."

In the evening, there were fireworks which the king had ordered to be
prepared in honor of Irma's arrival. Far and near, the people were
looking at the lights and the gay-colored sheets of fire ascending
heavenward. At last, Countess Irma's name stood forth in letters of
fire, held aloft by mountaineers. The flame crackled, and, from behind
the shrubbery, there issued strains of music which were echoed back
from the distance. In the midst of all this noise and splendor, Irma
was ever asking herself: "How fares it now with your father?"

Count Eberhard, in his mountain castle, was sitting by the window and,
looking out into the starry night, said to himself: "Just as the stars
above are separate and distinct from each other, so is every human soul
solitary and alone. Each travels in its own orbit, its course
determined by the attraction and repulsion of the heavenly bodies that
environ it."

That night, Irma dreamt that a star descended from heaven and fell upon
her bosom. She tried to grasp it, but it eluded her and transformed
itself into a human figure which, with averted glance, exclaimed:
"Thou, too, art solitary."



                               BOOK III.



                               CHAPTER I.


Hansei was looking out of the window, holding his pipe with both hands
and smoking away, while the morning passed. Near by, a day-laborer was
cutting a load of wood. Hansei looked on, calmly nodding approval when
the woodcutter made a clever stroke and, like a true judge, smiling at
the awkward fellow when an obstinate branch would oblige him to turn it
again and again before he succeeded in chopping it up. The grandmother
was carrying the chopped wood into the shed at the gable end of the
house and was there piling it up. Every time she passed, she would look
at Hansei, who did not stir. At last, with an armful of wood, she
stopped before him and said: "Well?"

"Of course," he replied and puffed on. The grandmother's exclamation
had meant: "What's this? Are you only here to look on? Can't you, at
least, pile up the cut wood?"

Hansei had fully understood her and had answered as if to say: "Of
course I shan't help; I don't feel a mind to."

The grandmother was about to throw down the armful of wood before his
very face, but she reflected that the day-laborer outside need not see
that. She carried the wood into the shed and then went into the room
and said:

"Look here, Hansei! I've got something to tell you."

"I can hear you," he replied, still looking out of the window.

"I don't know what to make of you. What's got into you?"

Hansei did not deem it necessary to make any reply, but went on smoking
while the grandmother continued:

"It's shame enough that you have the wood brought to the house, instead
of going and getting it yourself. You're a woodcutter, and yet you must
have another come and cut your wood for you. Such a thing never
happened before. As long as this house stands, the axe-handle has never
grown warm in the hands of a stranger. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"There's no need of my doing it," replied Hansei.

"Very well, I suppose you know your needs, better than I do," cried the
old woman, angrily; "but I'll not scold. Do just as you please; let
yourself and everything else go to ruin. As you make your bed, so
you'll have to lie on it. Oh, if Walpurga knew of this! She's gone away
among strangers, for our sake, while you--"

"There! I've had enough of it," said Hansei, closing the window and
turning round. "Mother-in-law, I don't interfere in anything; I let you
manage just as you please, and so I don't mean to let anybody interfere
with me."

"I don't want to interfere with you. You're father and husband."

"A fine husband, indeed, whose wife leaves him for a year."

"Perhaps she's having a harder time of it than you."

"May be so; but she has pleasure and enjoyment, and what have I? I
wander about as if lost, and that's why I'm not ashamed. The best thing
left me is the tavern. One can feel at home there, when he can't in his
own house. I don't need to cut or haul wood any longer, and I want to
have some good of my wife's being--"

Hansei could not finish what he was about to say, for, at that moment,
the door opened and Zenza entered.

"What are you doing here? Who sent for you?" inquired the grandmother
of Zenza, who replied:

"Good-morning to you--I didn't come to see you; I want to see this man.
Who's master here? you or he?"

"Speak out; what's the matter?" said Hansei, winking at his
mother-in-law.

"I was to bring you the smith's compliments and tell you that the gun's
ready for you, at his workshop."

"And so you're going to be a sportsman?" inquired the grandmother; "are
you going a-hunting?"

"I suppose I'll have to go if you don't carry me," replied Hansei,
laughing loudly at his joke.

The grandmother left the room, slamming the door after her. As nimbly
as a cat, Zenza sprang toward Hansei and said:

"She'll wait for you up there, at dusk." Then, in a loud voice, she
added: "God keep you, Hansei," and left the house.

The grandmother went out to the woodcutter and told him that he mustn't
think they were used to having such wicked people as Zenza come to the
house; but that, no matter how often they forbade her coming, she would
force herself upon them, in order to show her gratitude for Walpurga's
having procured the pardon of her son Thomas. It had been a foolish
action; for Red Thomas would have been much better taken care of under
lock and key. But Walpurga had meant it for the best. The woodcutter
was satisfied; he well knew that it was a respectable house, and it was
quite by accident that he remarked: "I wonder why Zenza's without Black
Esther. They're generally together in the daytime."

The grandmother's eyes flashed when she heard his words. She bent down
hurriedly, took up an armful of wood and carried it up to the house.
When she reached the gable side, she found Hansei there, piling up the
wood and whistling cheerfully. The grandmother kept on carrying wood,
while Hansei piled it up, neither of them speaking a word. At noon,
Hansei paid the woodcutter and said: "I'll cut the rest myself; you
needn't come to-morrow."

"He's a good fellow, after all," thought the grandmother to herself.
"He don't like to give in, in so many words, but afterward he does what
you tell him, for all. He soon finds out what's right."

After dinner she brought the child to him and said:

"Just look here! Just feel! There's a tooth coming already. It's very
soon, but it was just the same way with your wife. Just see how it puts
its little hands in its mouth. God be praised that our child is
thriving so nicely! Since you've been using hay for fodder, and since
it's been getting the new cow's milk, you can see the child growing
before your very eyes. If Walpurga could only see it, just for an hour.
Take it; I'll give it to you carefully. See, it's laughing at you. It
knows you. Ah, dear me! but it doesn't know its mother yet."

"I can't take the child on my arms; I'm afraid I'd hurt it," replied
Hansei.

The grandmother felt like saying: "If you let yourself go to ruin,
you'll surely harm the child--" but checked herself. When a man is
getting back into the right road, it isn't well to keep preaching at
him. Let him go on quietly in his own way, or else he will lose all
pleasure in it.--Thus thought the grandmother to herself, and, although
she had already opened her lips to speak, she swallowed her words.

Hansei looked about him, with an unsteady glance, and said:

"Mother-in-law, you were going to say something else."

"There's no need of saying everything. But yes!--you lower yourself
when you let Zenza bring messages to you. I noticed the woodcutter
making a queer face when he saw that Zenza was allowed to enter our
house. Don't go to the Windenreuthe; the place has a bad name, and it
does no one credit to go there. If you do want to go hunting, and have
bought yourself a gun, you can give a boy a penny to go there and get
it for you."

"Yes, indeed," thought Hansei, smiling, "grandmother's right; but one
needn't tell all one's thoughts."

"I'm going into the forest now. I want to be about when they load up my
wood."

He took his hat and mountain-staff, donned his hunter's pouch and
provided himself with a piece of bread. The grandmother, carrying the
child on her arm, accompanied him as far as the cherry-tree, from which
the withered leaves were already beginning to fall.

Hansei went into the forest; but, as soon as he was out of sight, he
turned about and took the road that led to Windenreuthe.

He felt quite strangely while on his way. He had never before known
that he breathed so hard and was so easily frightened. He was terrified
by every sound, by the nutpecker flying from the tree, the chattering
magpie, the hooting hawk-owl on the rocky ridge, and the bellowing cow
in the meadow.

"I oughtn't to go, and I won't go," he exclaimed, bringing his staff
down with such force that the pointed ferrule struck sparks from the
stones in the road, and yet he went on.

Fortunately, a mist was ascending the mountain, but he walked on,
farther and farther, through the clouds.

Windenreuthe consists of a few poor-looking, scattered houses. Hansei
stopped in front of the first house, as if riveted to the spot. He was
seized with fright as sudden as if a bullet had struck him, and yet
what had alarmed him was nothing, after all. He had merely heard a
child crying in the house before which he stood. "Your child cries just
like this one," said an inner voice. "How will you be, when you see it
and hear it and kiss it again? How will you be, when you pass this
house on your way back.... How will you be, in the spring, when your
wife returns and you walk with her and meet Black Esther? And at every
merry-making, either at home or at the inn, Black Esther will come and
say: 'Make room for me; I belong here too.'"

Hansei's brain reeled. He looked into the future--days and years passed
before him in an instant. And yet he went on. Indeed, he snapped his
fingers and said to himself: "You're a foolish fellow; a perfect
simpleton; you haven't a bit of courage. Other people are merry and
lead a happy life, and don't care a deuce about it and--what jolly
stories the innkeeper tells of such and such a one, and what pranks the
hunters tell of.... To enjoy all you can and lead a loose life into the
bargain, does one credit with those who're not obliged to earn a
living."

He removed his hat; his head seemed as if burning. He put his hat on
again, pressing it down over his eyes, and went on through the dreary
village.

Night had come on. Zenza lived in a so-called herb-hut, in the woods
and at some distance from the village. It was there that her deceased
husband had distilled brandy from various herbs, but principally of
gentian. His master-wort was still noted.

The light from a large fire shone through the open door of the hut. At
that moment, some one came to the threshold and leaned against the
doorpost. She was full of wild beauty and power. Behind her, the flames
were brightly burning. Hansei was now quite free from the fear he
had experienced on the night when he still believed in the fabled
forest-sprites. The figure now placed its hand to its cheek and uttered
a shrill shout, which might be compared to a tone-rocket ascending on
high and then bursting into all sorts of carols. Hansei trembled, and
then he heard Zenza say:

"You needn't shout so. Don't scream to the whole world that you're at
home. Wait till the horse is in the stable--"

"Hallo!" thought Hansei to himself, while he stood there, trembling,
"she means to make a prisoner of you, and will drag every kreutzer from
your pocket, if you act meanly or badly with her.... She'll make a
beggar of you, and disgrace you in the bargain. No, you shan't rob me
of my money. I won't put myself in your clutches. I'll do no such
thing. You shan't have a right to stand up before my wife, and look her
in the face and talk to her, while I'll have to thank you, in the
bargain, if you don't do it. No, a thousand times no. I won't be
wicked. I'd rather--"

As if pursued by an enemy, Hansei hurried back with mighty strides, and
the unbarked oaken staff which he held with both hands served to
support him in his flight. It was long since he had bounded down the
rocks with such energy and rapidity. He again passed the house where he
heard the child crying. It had not yet been hushed, but he who heard it
was a different man from what he had been a little while ago. He
hurried on as if pursued. The perspiration trickled down his cheeks and
dropped on his hands, but he did not once stop. He felt as if Zenza,
Black Esther and Red Thomas had followed and overtaken him, and were
tearing the clothes from his body. It was not until he had gone far
into the forest, that he ventured to sit down on the stump of a tree.
He felt as tired as if he had been running ten miles. He rested his
hands on his naked knees, and it seemed as if they were grasping a
strange body. He touched the stockings that Walpurga had knit for him,
and the first word that left his lips was: "Walpurga, I've only once
trodden such a path. It shall never happen again. I swear it,
Walpurga," and taking the last letter he had received from her out of
his pocket, he said: "I put your letter in my shoe, and these feet
shall never tread the path of evil again. Thank God! I've only been
wicked in thought." He took off his shoe, placed the letter in it, and
had just stood up again, when he once more heard the loud shout issuing
from Zenza's house.

"Scream on, as long as you've a mind to," said he to himself, while he
went farther into the wood. He tried to light his pipe, but always
struck his fingers with the steel; and, besides, his tinder was damp.
"You don't need any fire, you wicked fellow," said he at last, while he
put the pipe into his pocket. "You don't need fire; there's one burning
up there, that would have been hell-fire for you. You may be right glad
that you're out of it; it's more than you deserve."

If Hansei, at that moment, could have laid hands on the Hansei of an
hour ago he would have strangled him.

The mist had become so thick that it was almost like a drizzling rain.
The forest seemed to be growing vaster, and a path was nowhere to be
found.

"You've lost your way, and it serves you right," said Hansei,
speaking to himself. "You're no longer fit to be with decent men, you
good-for-nothing wretch. It's only a pity that your wife and child are
innocent sufferers by it--"

Two men in one were lost in the mist. Hansei cursed and swore at
himself, but soon grew frightened, for his mind became filled with
stories of the evil spirits that lead the solitary traveler up and down
hill, and round and about, through the livelong night. He was about to
turn back. It would be easier to find the way to Windenreuthe.

"Wait, you accursed devil," said he, addressing the invisible companion
who had thus advised him; "all you want is to get me back there again.
No, you shan't catch me."

He again tried to strike a light and, this time, with success. Just as
he drew the first puff, he heard the tones of the bell, and pressed his
hand to his forehead, for it seemed to him as if the clapper of the
bell were striking against his head.

"That's the vesper bell of the chapel by the lake. The sounds seem so
near. Can I be on this side? No, it's the mist that makes it sound so."

Uncovering his head, and clinging with both hands to the staff which
now stood firmly planted in the ground, he cast aside all other
thoughts and breathed a silent prayer.

While praying, he could not help thinking: O God! I can still pray,
although I could so far forget myself and go astray.

The immortal words which an inspired mind drew from the depths of the
human heart and its never-ending struggles, thousands of years ago,
have been, and still are, the source of blessings innumerable. They are
a guide to the lonely wanderer who has lost his way in the mist and
darkness of the forest, and lead him back to the right path. The bell
utters its sounds and, though it does not speak in words, it yet fills
the soul with those immortal words which serve as a staff to the weary
and a guide to the blind. When Hansei finished his prayer, the bell was
still tolling, and it seemed to him as if the whole village, every soul
in it,--and above all, his wife and child--were calling to him. And now
he found the path. He descended the stony bed of a dried mountain
current which led into the valley. He had gone far out of his way, for
when he descended the mountain, he found himself back of the Chamois
inn. Evil desires, fright, devotion, and losing his way had made him
both hungry and thirsty.

"Ah! God greet you, Hansei," exclaimed the host. "God greet you! God be
with you!" stammered out Hansei, confusedly.

"What's the matter with you? You're as pale as death. What's happened
to you? Where do you come from?" inquired the host.

"I'll tell you all about it, after awhile," answered Hansei; "but,
first of all, give me a schoppen of wine."

The wine was brought, and Hansei looked around, as if wondering where
he was.

He felt as if he had come from another world, and it was not until he
had eaten some bread and salt, that he told them of the strange
adventures he had had that day. He had gone out into the forest to load
up the wood, and had lost his way, and wandered in the direction of
Windenreuthe. He said this intentionally, lest some one might have seen
him in that neighborhood.

They spoke of the belief in ghosts, but the innkeeper ridiculed such
nursery tales. Hansei made no reply. The innkeeper remarked, very
sensibly:

"You're often bewildered, nowadays, just because your Walpurga isn't
with you. You're thinking of her all the time, and that's what makes
you lose your way."

"Yes--quite likely."

"Do you know what they call you in the village, now?"

"Well, what?"

"The he-nurse. Your wife, who's with the crown prince, is the
she-nurse, and so they call you the he-nurse."

Hansei laughed with all his might.

"Say, Hansei, what pay does your wife get?" inquired Wastl the weaver.

"I won't tell," replied Hansei, with an air of mystery.

"It's a long while since you had a letter from your wife, isn't it?"
inquired the innkeeper.

"No; I'm expecting one any hour." He had scarcely uttered the words,
when the letter-carrier entered and said, "So here you are, Hansei;
I've been at your house twice to-day. I've got a letter with money in
it, for you."

"Let's have it," said Hansei, breaking the five seals with a trembling
hand.

"A nice way of treating money," said the innkeeper, picking up a
hundred florin note from the floor. "That'll suit me very well. I've
use for one, and will give you the change for it."

"All right," said Hansei, leaving the money in the innkeeper's hands.
He then read his letter:

"_Dear Hansei_: This time, I write to you all alone. Here are a hundred
florins that the queen has given me for a special present, because you
haven't come to see me; but I must tell you all about it so that you
can understand it. You've no idea what a good soul the queen is;
whenever you pray, pray for her. We often sit together for hours, and
she can take down everything on paper beautifully--the trees and all
sorts of things, and we talk to each other as if we had gone to school
together. But she's Lutheran and is very good and pious, and has such
kind thoughts about all things that an ugly word couldn't pass her
lips. If she weren't Lutheran, she might become a saint, but she'll get
to heaven anyhow. That's my belief, and you can believe it, too; but
you needn't tell any one.

"Well, the queen wanted to give me a treat. She would like to make the
whole world happy; that's the way the saints must have been in the
olden times. Well, as I said before, the queen wanted to give me a
treat, because her husband came home well and hearty, and they're so
fond of each other, and she wanted you and the child and mother to come
and see me for one or two days, for she notices everything; she looks
right into your heart, and I'm often homesick for you all. And when the
queen talked about having you come, I said to her: 'That would be very
nice, but it would cost a pretty penny,' and so I let her make me a
present of the money, and we can make better use of it. You haven't the
right sort of clothes, you know, and the people here might make fun of
you. But with all that, I wouldn't have got the money, for that's
nothing to her. She never thinks of such things. She's never counted
money in all her life, and I really believe that she don't know how to
reckon. The court paymaster attends to all that. Here there's an extra
servant for everything--butlers and silver keepers and lots of others.
But now my good countess is back again. She's been to see her father.
They say he's a sort of a hermit who don't want to know anything of the
world, and I must thank my countess that I got the money, for she knows
how to manage everything. And so I send you the money. Put it out
safely, and don't forget to take some of it to make a holiday for you
and the child and grandmother.

"Ah, dear Hansei, the palace folk are not all saints and honest people,
as I once used to think. Lots of thieving and deceit are carried on
here. The father of my Mademoiselle Kramer is an honorable old man;
he's the keeper of the castle here, and he's told me many things. But
one can be honest everywhere, in the palace or in the cottage by the
lake. And now, I beg of you dear Hansei--I always say 'dear Hansei,'
whenever I think of you, and that's very often. It was only last night
that I dreamt of you, but I won't tell you about that, because we
oughtn't to believe in dreams. But write to me very soon and tell me
how it goes with you; send me a good, long letter, and don't let the
time seem long till we meet again; and always think as kindly of me as
I do of you.

           "Till death, your faithful                     WALPURGA."

In spite of their entreaties, Hansei would not tell a word of what was
in the letter; he went home quietly, and kissed his sleeping child. He
felt happy that he could thus be at home again, and that his home did
not reject him. A cold sweat came over him when he thought that he was
sleeping in this bed, and of what a changed man he might have become.
He stretched forth his hand toward his wife's bed and, in the silent
night, kissed her pillow.

"Now I'm all right again," said he. He arose, struck a light, and
removed the letter which he had put into his shoe. Then, cutting the
passage, "until death, your faithful Walpurga," out of the letter last
received, he loosened the inner sole, placed the little paper
underneath it, and fastened the sole down again. After that, he soon
fell into a sound sleep.



                              CHAPTER II.


"Your Majesty," said Countess Irma to the king one day, while walking
on the veranda with him--the queen was in the music-room, practicing a
classical composition with one of the court performers--"it is curious
that, while absence lends additional charms and greater merit to some
persons, there are others who are all the more perfect and interesting
when one is in constant, daily intercourse with them. And yet, when
away from such, it is almost impossible to remember them just as they
are; and as to describing their character, or even their personal
appearance, to one who is not acquainted with them--why, that is
entirely out of the question. How do you account for it?"

"I must confess that I have never reflected on the subject," replied
the king, "but it seems to me that the chief characteristic of the one
class is an infinitude of small details; while with the other, one is
struck by the general effect of the various traits that go to make up
the character. Those whose character still presents an unsolved
problem, and who thus give us more to think of, would seem to belong to
the class to whom absence lends importance. Does it not seem so to
you?"

"Certainly; but I might also say that the one class are more impressive
and thus even in the present, seem like remote historical personages.
Although they die, they yet remain--indeed, absence is a sort of death.
The others however, only exist as long as they breathe, and only live
for us as long as we breathe the same atmosphere with them."

"Can you name examples of such imposing historical personages, and also
of ephemeral ones?"

"At present, I could only recall the historical."

A slight blush passed over the king's features. "Well," said he, when
he found that Irma hesitated, "I beg of you--"

"In that class, I place my father over all others. I cannot describe to
Your Majesty how his great nature seems constantly before me."

"Yes, I've often heard him spoken of as a man of high character and
eminent ability. It is a pity, for his sake--and, still more, for our
own--that he is opposed to the government. And in which class would
you count me? I have sufficient confidence in your candor to believe
that you will frankly give me your opinion, and you are so sure of
my--my--respect, that you can speak without reserve."

"Your Majesty is present company," replied Irma, "and yet, at the same
time, absent; or your position exalts you far above the rest of us."

"Friendship does not dwell on the throne, but here where we stand on
equal ground, dear Countess."

"Nor does friendship pass sentence," replied the countess. "Her place
is not the judgment-seat. I know of nothing more revolting than when
men who profess to be friends, constantly cast up their accounts with
each other, as if to say: 'You are worth so much and I am worth so
much; this is yours and this is mine--'"

"Ah, these state affairs," interposed the king, as a lackey announced
the arrival of the minister. "We will speak of this subject again," he
added, taking leave of Irma and politely greeting the ladies and
gentlemen whom he passed on his way. He offered his hand to his prime
minister and, accompanied by him, went into the palace.

Irma's friendly relations with the king seemed to have acquired new
life since her return. Her daily greeting seemed filled with the joy of
meeting after long separation.

When the king would say: "Good morning, Countess," and Irma would
answer: "Thanks, Your Majesty," there lay a wealth of unuttered thought
in those simple words. The king had never before been in so pleasing
and witty a mood, and Irma, it was justly said, had brought the
mountain breezes with her. The queen would never tire of telling the
ladies and gentlemen of the court how pleased she was with Irma, who,
although simple and unaffected, possessed the highest intellectual
gifts.

Like melodies that have sunk deep into the soul and which gradually
return and harmoniously blend, so did her father's words and ideas now
recur to Irma. She had spent weeks in a strict school, where idle talk
and trifling were of no value and where distinctness and certainty were
insisted upon. Formerly, Irma had been regarded as a child of nature,
freely pouring forth whatever engaged her thoughts; but now they
recognized in her a mind whose groundwork was solid and comprehensive,
and which, nevertheless, was full of the simplicity of nature. She was
full of sympathy and kindness, but did not concern herself about
prevailing modes of thought. She freely expressed her likes and
dislikes, and one was obliged to admit that she was something more than
a mere original or artless hoyden, and that she really possessed
intellectual self-consciousness to a great degree.

Irma often changed her style of dressing her hair. This was naturally
censured as coquetry, and as an attempt to draw the glances of all upon
her. But it was simply a desire to appear different every day, even
though it were in unimportant and subordinate matters.

It was very fortunate for Irma that she had become so attached to
Walpurga; for, on sunny afternoons, the queen would scarcely ever
suffer Walpurga to leave her; and then Irma would be seated with them
and would read aloud to the queen, or join Walpurga in some of the
lovely mountain songs.

The king's eyes would sparkle with delight when he happened to join
them at such times, and find Irma with his wife.

"You look troubled," said the queen, when the king, who had just left
the ministerial council, joined her and Irma in the park.

"And so I am."

"May I ask why?"

Irma was about to withdraw, but the king said:

"Stay, Countess; the matter is one which has been brought to an issue
by the case of your friend Emma." Turning to the queen, he added: "Has
our countess told you of the terrible fate of her friend?"

"She has; and when I think of it, I feel as if I were standing on the
edge of a precipice."

Strangely enough, the king had, thus far, neither spoken to Irma about
the matter, nor alluded to her letter. Irma had had so much to engage
her mind since her return, that Emma's troubles had almost escaped her
memory.

"Our friend," began the king, "has informed me of the affair, and I
appreciate her delicacy in refraining from pressing the subject. In
matters of state, we have no right to allow personal feelings to affect
us. Nevertheless, one of our greatest pleasures is to find that our
friends cherish our honor as their own."

Irma looked down. He added:

"Although a prince owes thanks to his friends, for informing him of
what is going on, no influence, not even the best, should affect his
decision."

Irma did not dare to raise her eyes.

"The matter stands thus," continued the king. "We have provisionally
suspended the right to receive new nuns, and now the ministers desire
me, at the next meeting of the estates, to consent to the introduction
of a law by which the convent of Frauenwörth is to be definitively
placed upon the extinct list. They hope by this and additional
measures, to be enabled to make a stand against the constantly
increasing strength of the opposition."

The king looked at Irma while he said this, and she inquired:

"And has Your Majesty approved the draft of the law?"

"Not yet. I have no special feeling in favor of keeping up the
convents, but I don't find it so easy a matter to lay the axe to a tree
which is the growth of centuries. It is the special duty of royalty to
establish and foster institutions that are to endure longer than a
generation or even a century, and a convent--What do you think of it,
Mathilde?"

"I think that a woman who has lost all, should not be prevented from
devoting herself to solitude and prayer. But perhaps I ought not
express an opinion on the subject. My youthful impressions, or rather
instruction, in regard to convent life, may not always have been
correct. It seems to me that woman alone should have the right to
determine as to the continuance of a convent. What do you think of it,
Countess Irma? You were educated at a convent, and Emma is your
friend."

"Yes," said Irma, "I was with my friend at Frauenwörth, where she
desires to live, or rather to die; for life there is a daily waiting
for death. It seems terrible to me, too, to think of making what may
perhaps be only a passing mood, the irrevocable law of one's life, or a
fate from which there can be no escape. And yet many other holy
institutions are just the same. I can now see what an exalted and
difficult vocation it is to be a king. I frankly confess that if I were
now called upon to decide this matter, or to suggest a law upon the
subject, I could not arrive at a decision. Now, more than ever before,
do I realize that we women were not born to rule."

Irma's voice, although usually so clear and firm, was now veiled and
trembling. She was standing on a pinnacle where she could find no firm
footing; she looked up to the king, as if to a higher being; his
bearing was so firm, his eye so clear. She would gladly have fallen on
her knees at his feet.

"Come nearer, Count Wildenort," exclaimed the king.

Irma started. Was her father there? She was so excited that everything
seemed possible.

She had, at the moment, quite forgotten that her brother Bruno was the
king's aid-de-camp. He had been standing a little distance off, and now
approached, in order to take his leave of the queen, as he was about to
go away for some time.

The king and queen left; after which, Irma and her brother walked away.

The king's behavior seemed a riddle; but for this he had his own
reasons, the first and greatest of which was invincible distrust of
others. "Distrust all," was the great precept which had been instilled
into him from earliest youth. "One can never know what selfish purposes
may lurk behind the noblest exterior." This maxim was in accord with
one trait of the king's character. He desired to be strong in himself,
to allow no one to guide his judgment; and that is the great secret of
the heroic nature. It was this which, with all his love of freedom, had
made constitutionalism repugnant to him; for the constitution destroyed
great and powerful personal influence, and required that he be simply
the vehicle of the spirit of the age, or the exponent of public
opinion. This was opposed to his own strong self-consciousness. He
distrusted every one who attempted to press him for an opinion or a
decision. He even distrusted Irma. Perhaps she did not know that she
was the instrument of a party; but she was, nevertheless. They had
found out that he held her in great esteem, and were now availing
themselves of Emma's entering the convent, to force him to a decision.
He would not submit to this. Irma should be made to know that he would
not allow another, even though it were his lovely friend, to lead him.
The olden time could never again return. They would find him a new
being; he would not permit female interference in state affairs.

It was these conflicting feelings of distrust and self-exaltation that
had induced the king to refrain from mentioning Irma's letter, and at
last to speak of it in the way he had.

While walking with the queen, the king still enjoyed his victory over
the women and, above all, over the one whom he had believed possessed
of so powerful a mind. He repeatedly spoke of Irma's petition in favor
of her friend, and of his determination not to be swayed by it. His
remarks betrayed a trace of ill-humor toward Irma. The queen was lavish
in her praise of the countess. The king smiled.



                              CHAPTER III.


"Don't let me wait any longer for your answer," said Bruno to his
sister; "are you ready?"

"I beg your pardon. What was it? I was so preoccupied that I didn't
hear you."

Bruno looked at his sister with an air of surprise. Irma had indeed not
heard him. She had been puzzling her brain in regard to the king's
behavior. He had plainly intimated that he would allow no one to
influence his course in state affairs. It now occurred to Irma that the
tone of the letter which she had written while at the convent, had been
quite improper, and her heart was filled with thanks to the great and
noble man, who, having it in his power to forgive her, had forgiven her
so gracefully. She felt doubly grateful to him for refusing to be
swayed by her ardent entreaties. She was, herself, in doubt as to the
best course, and it now seemed to her, as at first, that it was the
duty of the state to prevent the consummation of an irrevocable vow.

"I beg your pardon," she again said to her brother. "Do you wish
anything of me?"

"You must go with me to-morrow," said Bruno; "we're going on a journey.
I've already obtained leave of absence for myself, and the queen will
grant you leave."

"Go on a journey? Where?"

"To witness my betrothal."

"Surely not with--?"

"Certainly; with the king's sister; or, if you'd rather have it so, his
half, or quarter sister. Baroness Arabella von Steigeneck will be
delighted to make your acquaintance."

Irma looked down. It was the oldest daughter of the dancer who had been
ennobled by the late king. Irma spoke of the impression that this
marriage would make upon her father; but Bruno jestingly answered, that
he and his sister had been separated from their father, who indulged
the strange whim of desiring to be a common citizen. Perceiving that
his remarks displeased Irma, he changed his manner and explained to her
how cruel and narrow-minded it would be to make Baroness Arabella, who
had royal blood in her veins, suffer on account of a few irregularities
for which she was not to blame. And when he represented to Irma, that,
independent of his wishes, it was her duty to meet Arabella in a spirit
of kindness and without prejudice, he touched the right chord. He
added:

"You are so affectionate to the simple minded peasant woman, the crown
prince's nurse. It is very cheap to practice humanity toward one of the
lower classes. You will find its exercise pleasanter and more effective
in this instance."

"I am glad to find that you think so," replied Irma, regarding her
brother with a more cheerful glance.

Bruno was delighted. He had used the right bait, and, for a few
moments, found real pleasure in conversing on such subjects as
elevation of mind and nobility of soul. Irma consented to accompany
him. When she applied to the queen for leave of absence, and the
latter, in the most delicate manner, intimated surprise at Bruno's
choice, Irma proved herself so zealous an advocate of humanity that the
queen could not avoid saying to her:

"You are, and ever will be, a noble heart."

Irma imprinted a fervent kiss on the queen's hand. They started off on
their journey, taking with them Bruno's two private servants, and
jockey Fritz, Baum's son. Father Baum, who was both indispensable and
ubiquitous, also accompanied them.

Bruno was in high spirits. Like all other epicures, he was not averse
to occasional tender scenes. He played the piano excellently and, at
times, would indulge in a sentimental adagio. Irma now seemed
sentimental in his eyes. But he soon tired of the melting mood and in
his flippant, jesting manner, exclaimed:

"I am better than the world of cavaliers that surround us. You
smile--and wonder what sort of cavaliers they must be among whom I am
the best.--Yes, dear sister Krimhilde, it is so nevertheless. I
honestly confess that I only marry this lady in order to be enabled to
lead as jolly a life as possible, and am I not better than those who
act the hypocrite in such a case?"

"Yes, if you think that makes you better. But I think you're simply
ashamed of being in love, and are afraid of appearing sentimental."

"Thanks! You're a profound judge of human nature."

Bruno, at heart, desired his sister to imagine that he was in love; for
that would render the demeanor of both of them more natural and more
befitting the occasion. He blushed and smiled with a bashful air.

Baroness Steigeneck lived in a little town and occupied a castle which
had once been a retreat of a sister of the late king.

They reached the castle. A bright peacock stood on the high wall, and
filled the air with its shrill cry.

Rooms had been prepared for Bruno and Irma, who retired to change their
dress. Bruno appeared in full uniform, and with all his medals and
orders. They were conducted to Baroness Steigeneck's salon by two
servants, who opened the folding doors. Baroness Steigeneck, who was
clad in studiously simple attire, came forward to meet Bruno and Irma,
and received them with a graceful bow. Bruno kissed her, and then
embraced his betrothed, who, in form and feature, presented a pleasing
appearance. He introduced her to his sister, who embraced and kissed
her.

The furniture of the castle was splendid, but in somewhat gaudy taste,
with more regard to show than comfort. A life-size picture of the late
king was displayed in the great _salon_.

Irma felt alarmed when she first beheld the old baroness. Her boudoir
was hung with pictures of herself, taken while she was yet a young,
beautiful and voluptuous creature, and representing her in various bold
poses, such as Psyche, Eros, and the Fairy Queen. And could this heavy
woman, with rigid features, be the same person? Her chief employment
was card-playing, and it was here, for the first time in her life, that
Irma saw people who would sit at cards by the hour, out in the open
air, under the trees, and amid the singing of birds. What would become
of some people, how empty their lives would be, if there were no cards!

The time was pleasantly spent with music--for Baroness Arabella sang
beautifully,--merry dinners and excursions in the neighborhood. Irma
could not help watching the servants, and wondering how they felt, and
what their thoughts must be, while serving such a mistress. But she saw
the same respect shown as at court; and when they drove through the
little town, the people would stop and lift their hats in token of
respect, for the baroness had brought life and money to the place.
Everything in this world, even respect, can be purchased.

Three days sped by quickly. Baroness Steigeneck held a little court,
quite modest in appearance. An old and exceedingly eccentric French
legitimist was the special attraction of this, and French was the only
language spoken.

The formal betrothal was speedily settled by the notary, whom Bruno had
brought with him from the capital. He had been carefully instructed,
and it fared hard with the old Baroness. There were all sorts of
devilishly close clauses in reference to death or separation. Bruno had
made himself secure. The Baroness jestingly spoke of love, and said
that she had not imagined such enthusiasm possible at the present day.
Bruno agreed with her, for they both well knew that it was simply a
question of money.

Arabella had the air of a well-bred lady and possessed that degree of
education that can be purchased from teachers. She could sing and
sketch, and spoke three foreign languages, which, at her mother's
bidding, she was obliged to make a parade of. But all of this showed
application, rather than native talent. She had also read a great deal,
but affected ignorance of certain works, passages in which might be
applied to herself or her mother.

Irma was exceedingly kind to her sister-in-law, and Bruno heartily
thanked her. And yet Irma's mind was not at ease. The house seemed
under the influence of a peculiar spell--it was just as if in
fairy-land. People would go about, and laugh and joke and sing and
play, but there was one word they dared not utter; for, at the very
mention of it, the castle, with all its pomp and splendor, would
disappear. And that word was: "father." But it was here that Irma was
the more impelled to think of her father. When alone in her room, she
began a letter to him, and when she wrote the words; "Dear Father," she
looked about her. She regarded it as her duty, and thought herself
better able than Bruno, to inform her father of the betrothal, and to
invoke his forbearance for this unfortunate, though wealthy, girl.
Never before had she made so many unsuccessful attempts to write a
letter. She had begun again and again, and had always ended by tearing
up the sheet and throwing it into the fire. She found it impossible to
finish her letter, and at last concluded to wait until she returned to
the summer palace. But she could not get rid a desire to speak of
parents, and when Baum came to her with a message, she detained him
with the question:

"Baum, are your parents still living?"

"No."

"Did you know them long?"

Baum coughed behind his raised hand and answered: "I never knew my
father; and my mother--my mother was taken from me long ago."

Baum, who still held his hand before his face, bit his lips and at last
ventured to ask: "May I inquire, my lady, why you put that question to
me?"

"I desire to acquaint myself with the life and history of those whom I
know personally."

Baum dropped his hand and his face was as smooth and void of expression
as before.

The strictest decorum was observed during their stay at the castle. On
one occasion, however, Irma felt offended, and that was when the old
lady--they called her "Her Grace"--declared the relation of an
affianced couple the silliest of all conventionalities--the most
natural and proper course would be to have marriage follow immediately
upon the betrothal--yes, in the very same hour.

These remarks were accompanied by a peculiar change in the expression
of the old lady's features. Irma was startled and did not get over her
fright, for when, at parting, the baroness impressed a kiss upon her,
Irma could not help shuddering.

Irma had been in the carriage for some time, when Bruno at last came,
and again stopped to throw a kiss to his betrothed, who was standing at
the window.

They drove off, and when Irma found herself alone with her brother she
said, in a loud voice and with a strange expression:

"Oh, father! father!" She drew a long and deep breath, as if relieved
from some dread spell.

"What ails you?" said Bruno.

Irma did not care to tell him what she felt, and merely replied:

"As soon as we get back to the palace, you must write to father, or,
what would be better, must go to him. Let him scold you, if it must be.
He's our father, after all, and will be kind to you once more and
accept what is past."

"We had better write," said Bruno.

"No!" exclaimed Irma, clasping both his hands, "you must do it, for
Arabella's sake."

"For her sake?"

"Yes. I wish her to feel that there is some one whom she can address as
'father'; that would be the happiest moment she had ever known."

Bruno drew back. After a little while, he said: "Let us speak softly.
You know, I suppose, that you've touched me in a tender spot. Arabella
couldn't call any one father, and can't do so now. Irma, you're strong
enough to look the truth in the face. What is it that forms the
indissoluble bond between father and child? It is not nature alone, but
history. By rejecting our rank, our father has denied father and mother
and our long line of ancestors. It was he who broke the strong and
glittering chain that, through him, linked us to our house. We have
renewed the connection which was thus broken, but, in doing so, have
become sundered from our father. He separated himself from us; in the
sense in which you mean, we can neither of us say 'father.'"

Irma turned pale. She had never thought of the matter in that light,
and had never dreamt that Bruno would thus defend his course. She had
thought his life naught but frivolity, and now, for the first time,
beheld the deep chasm that separated them. She was about to reply that
her father had remained true to all that was noble, to all that the
best of their ancestors had transmitted to him, and that he had simply
cast aside the external prerogatives of rank. But, for the first time,
she felt that she could not maintain her ground against her brother.
She too, had separated herself from her father. She was silent. They
drove on and, for hours, neither spoke a word. They reached the summer
palace. To all who congratulated her on her brother's betrothal, Irma
offered most courteous thanks. She felt strangely embarrassed in the
presence of the court jeweler, who had been requested to present
himself at the palace with various caskets of gems. She was to join
Bruno in selecting a rich present for Arabella. She did so, but would
not suffer any of the jewels to be tried on herself. Her maid was
present for that purpose, and, at last, they decided on a rich set of
diamonds, which was at once dispatched to Bruno's betrothed.



                              CHAPTER IV.


Irma recovered her wonted cheerfulness and was the merriest sprite of
the whole court, teasing and bantering every one except Colonel
Bronnen, with whom alone she was always serious and reserved. She rode
out a great deal and often accompanied the king in the chase, in which
the other court ladies were also glad to join. The advance of autumn
rendered the air fresh and bracing, and there was no lack of variety in
their amusements. The queen was obliged to remain at home. She had
Walpurga and the prince about her for a great part of the time, and was
made happy by every new proof of the child's dawning intelligence. He
already knew his mother and had begun to notice many objects. She
deplored her husband's restless mind, which constantly craved new and
violent excitement, and thus deprived him of many delightful moments
with his child.

They would often take their meals in the woods or on the mountains,
whither their viands and cooking utensils were quickly transported on
the backs of mules.

The idea had originated with Baron Schoning, and he was not a little
vain of it. It was, indeed, a surprise that almost savored of magic, to
find a banquet spread in the heart of the forest, or on some height
that commanded a lovely view; and at the end of the feast all of their
paraphernalia would as quickly disappear.

Ever since his return from the lake, Baron Schoning had treated Irma
with as much forbearance and consideration as if he had refused her,
instead of having been refused by her, and he really felt as if he were
the one who had said "no." The idea of his ever entertaining thoughts
of marriage now seemed to him sheer madness. The baron endeavored,
withal, to assume an air of dignity, but, in doing so, acted very
cautiously, lest too sudden a change in his deportment might awaken
unpleasant comment. He had told Irma that the court imagined it was
trifling with him, while he in reality was playing with it. The bold
change which he was now attempting to consummate had, in truth, only
suggested itself to him during the conversation referred to.

Schoning was an odd character at court. He had, at the start, entered
the diplomatic service, but soon left it, in order to become a
landscape artist. His achievements in his new vocation proving of
slight merit, he sought, and found it an easy matter to obtain, a
position at court. He became one of the directors of the royal gardens
and chief in the office of the lord steward and, by virtue of his
position, chamberlain also.

In familiar moments, he was fond of telling his intimate friends--and
these, of course, included every lady and gentleman at court--that his
real vocation was art; that he had only sacrificed it for the sake of
the king, whom he loved above all beings; and maintained that this was
a duty that the nobles owed their sovereign. A landscape of his,
showing a view of the lake, on the borders of which lay Walpurga's
birthplace, was  hanging in the summer palace. It was a clever picture,
but malicious tongues asserted that one of his friends, at the academy,
had painted the landscape, and that another had done the figures.

On their mountain excursions, Schoning paid marked attention to Irma,
who could freely indulge her wanton humor with him, for it was well
understood, at court, that no one could have a love affair with
Schoning. He was the butt of every one, and knew how to take, as well
as give a joke.

Schoning would, many a time, have liked to avoid taking part in these
excursions, for he well knew that his attempts to acquire dignity were
far from being successful. But even pretended illness did not serve as
an excuse; for, without Schoning, there was no target for their jests.

What was he to do? He put the best face possible on the matter and,
with feigned willingness, accompanied them.

Notwithstanding the wide difference in their stations, Schoning and
Baum were both indispensable.

Baum was the favorite servant at court. He was fortunate enough to be
useful in every way, and no country party, no dinner in the woods, no
excursion on the water, was considered complete without him. Actors are
often vexed when they are not sufficiently employed, or are cast for
unimportant parts, and lackeys, in the same way, have a jealous desire
to be kept ever busy. It follows, as a matter of course, that Baum had
his favorites, whom he would, when occasion offered, mention
approvingly to the lord steward, and they obeyed him as if he were
their natural superior. The queen's shawl, or the king's paletot, were
never so well carried as by Baum. While hanging on his arm, they would
almost seem to say: "Oh, how warm and soft we are, and we are ready, at
any time, to protect and warm you. Your Majesties have only to command
us."

The evenings were pleasantly spent. After tea, they would usually
repair to the inner palace yard and, by the light of torches, look at
the wild beasts that had been shot during the day's hunt. The queen,
although loth to behold such sights, would always join the party, lest
they might regard her as being sentimental. Success in the chase always
put the king in a good humor. They would then return to the open
saloons, where they would have instrumental and vocal music, play cards
or have some one read to them. Irma was an excellent billiard player,
and won many a game from the king. Her every movement was full of grace
and every pose that she assumed while playing was worthy of an artist's
pencil.

"How beautiful she is," the queen would often say to her husband, who
would nod assent. There was much merriment in the great billiard-room.
Before parting for the night, the inner circle of the court would
gather, as if for rest and retrospection; for, every evening, the
chronicle of the day was read aloud. Baron Schoning had conducted this
daily journal for many years. It was written in verse and, what was
still better, in the Highland dialect. Countess Irma was often
mentioned in it, under the name of the "Rock-maiden." All the little
events of the day were presented in a comic dress, and, as the company
knew all the personages referred to, the reading of the journal always
occasioned great merriment. The king was usually referred to as Nimrod,
or Artus. Nor were the dogs forgotten, and one of the standing jokes
was: "Foster-mother Walpurga ate heartily, and Romulus drank copiously.
Aunt Lint"--meaning Mademoiselle Kramer--"began to recount her family
history, but has not yet reached the end."

After the king and queen had retired, the court would break up into
small parties. Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, Irma would often ascend
some neighboring height or descend into the valley. Gunther taught her
the constellations: and here, in the stilly night, he would explain to
her the great laws that govern the universe; how the planets move in
infinite space, attracted and repelled, so that none described a
perfect circle. They would often speak of Irma's father, who, Gunther
maintained, would be able to complete his circle, because he had
isolated himself. The doctor, however, maintained that his own case was
different; that it had been his lot to remain in the world; that an
elliptical course was the only one in which he could move; and that,
being a physician, he was obliged to influence others and was unable to
escape their influence on himself. Thus absorbed in the secrets of the
universe, the old man and the maiden would forget themselves until
fatigue warned them that it was time to return and seek repose.

Irma would often say that she intended to spend much of her time with
the Gunthers, during the winter. The young widow and her child had now
come home to live with the father.

Irma would rarely retire for the night, without first visiting
Walpurga, who would generally lie awake and wait for her, and who, if
she had fallen asleep, would, as if conscious of her presence, awaken
as soon as Irma drew near. They would sit talking to each other for
some time. Walpurga had always much to relate about her clever prince,
and still more about the good queen.

The days grew shorter, the evenings longer. The gardeners were kept
busy, clearing the fallen leaves from the paths, before the court
awoke. It was said they would soon leave the summer palace and return
to the capital. The king had preceded them thither. Surrounded by a new
ministry, of which Schnabelsdorf was president, he opened the
parliament in person.

Gunther felt sorry, and expressed his regrets to Irma, that the king,
in appointing a reactionary and ultramonnate ministry, had taken a step
fraught with serious consequences. In firm and measured language, he
inveighed against all the romance of the convent. Irma had not enough
courage to confess how much she was to blame in all this, and consoled
herself with the thought that the king had, in the queen's presence,
rejected all outside influence. For the first time, she became
conscious of a feeling of antagonism to the doctor, who, in her eyes,
now seemed illiberal and filled with the fanaticism of unbelief. He was
a stranger to the greatest glory in life, the flights of a soaring
soul, and anathematized them by the words "romance" and
"sentimentalism." The king, solitary and alone while breasting the
torrent of public opinion, seemed to her greater than ever before. The
idea that she had once expressed in a letter to Emma, gradually became
clearer to her. No one but a king, and such a one as he, has the large
and comprehensive mind that will not suffer itself to be cramped by the
systems of the schools. Logic is only part of the human mind. The
complete man alone possesses a complete mind.

Even such a mind and such a man as the doctor, seemed to her to suffer
by comparison with the only one.

Walpurga was quite uneasy on account of the second change of residence,
and complained to Irma that it was a fearful life. "Why, it's nothing
but living in carriages. You never get a chance to feel settled
anywhere. It don't seem right to go and come in this way. Of course,
they drive the cattle away from the mountain-meadows when the grass is
gone, but cattle aren't human beings. I can't help pitying my poor
prince, for there's nothing in his youth worth remembering. When he
gets older, he won't be able to say: 'I used to be at home here, and
saw these trees blossom and bear fruit; and then the snow covered them,
and, after that, the spring came'--and if the poor child hasn't that,
where'll it ever have a home?"

At breakfast, Irma repeated Walpurga's words, and found much that was
affecting and poetical in this identifying one's-self with nature, and
in this attachment to lifeless objects. The ladies and gentlemen in the
breakfast-room could not understand where the poetry lay, for to them,
it seemed narrow-mindedness. Baron Schoning interposed, and reminded
them that this attachment to the soil possessed its advantages; for it
was thus alone that solitary heights and valleys were inhabited. He
maintained that the common people could only be governed by the force
of habit; that man, as a free agent, must rid himself of such
restraint; and that the true poetic idea was that of Pegasus resting on
the earth, but yet able to wing his flight aloft.

Schoning looked about him as if he expected applause for his profound
remark. It failed, however, to produce an impression. He had so
constantly ministered to the amusement of the court, that all his
attempts to be serious were failures, suggesting the success with which
a well-known comedian or country bumpkin would undertake a tragic
_rôle_, Schoning imagined that Irma understood him better than any of
the others, but even she was not in a humor to assent that day. Gunther
was the first to take up the conversation, saying that the present
desire for incessant travel constituted a new impulse in the history of
mankind, and one which no former age had known to the same extent. The
generation which, even in its cradle, had heard the whistle of the
locomotive, must, of necessity, be different from its predecessors. But
yet poetry would never die, for every mother would teach her child to
sing, and time, the everlasting mother, would teach unto the children
of a new generation, new songs, different from those of the past but
none the less full of beauty and feeling.

The queen nodded to Gunther, and her face was mantled with blushes,
while she said that she agreed with Walpurga, and would rather remain
in one place and become settled there.

The gentlemen and ladies of the court were loud in their praise of the
queen's beautiful and feeling remarks, while, in their hearts, many
considered them just as foolish as Walpurga's.

When they had left the table, the queen said to Irma:

"Dear Countess, you shouldn't say such things at table, or in the
presence of company. Let me assure you, they are out of place there.
Walpurga's thoughts are like fresh wild-flowers, which, when plucked
and bound into a bouquet, soon wither and die. It is only artificially
cultivated flowers that are adapted for the _salon_, and the best of
all are those made of tulle and gauze. Hereafter, confide such things
to me alone."

Irma was delighted with this agreement; but when, at noon, the queen
told Walpurga what she had heard about her, the latter was angry at
Irma. It won't do, thought she, to repeat everything you hear. She felt
ashamed of herself, and became shy and reserved in Irma's presence. It
was only when she was alone with the prince, that she whispered: "Yes,
my little wanderer; after this, you shall be the only one to whom I'll
tell everything. You're the cleverest in the whole house, and the only
one who holds his tongue. You won't say a word to any one, will you?"

Walpurga was quite troubled by the idea of leaving, and Baum was the
only one who knew how to pacify her. He said:

"Don't be foolish. What do the furniture and the trees and all the rest
matter to you? They remain here. You step into the carriage and ride to
the city and, when you get there, find all you need, ready for you.
There are hands and feet enough to attend to all that."

Walpurga gradually quieted herself. They waited for the first sunny
day, and then the queen, the prince, Walpurga and the royal suite drove
to the capital. The summer palace was once more lonely and deserted;
dead leaves filled the paths in the park and were no longer swept away.
The great colored lamps of the veranda were put away for safe-keeping,
and the large windows were covered with layers of straw. The summer
palace entered on its winter sleep, and, in the mean while, new life
awakened at the city palace.



                               CHAPTER V.


The royal palace was in the center of the city, and was without walls
or fosse. Although its windows looked down on the busy streets, it
seemed as if it stood on some fortified height, and as if outworks for
offense and defense surrounded it for some distance. It was only at
rare intervals, and in indistinct utterances, that a stray echo of
popular feeling penetrated so far. There were hundreds of human beings,
from the lowest kitchen servant up to the major-domo, who served in
place of wall or fosse, and prevented all except the favored few from
entering the royal presence.

The king was in a happy mood and yet his cheerfulness seemed forced. He
was a prey to a restless disposition which would not permit him to
dwell long on any one subject. From morning till night, he required
constant change and gay excitement.

If he had been asked to answer on his conscience, he would frankly have
said: "I respect the constitution and am faithful to it"--and yet, at
heart, he was unconquerably opposed to it, for it cramped his
individuality. It was in the same way that he loved his wife, while his
heart paid homage to her friend; but that he should be subjected to the
law, or even to his own desires, was equally distasteful to him--for
that, too, would retard the full development of his new individuality.
He regarded all that savored of opposition, whether it was the
constitution of the state or the opinion of a kind friend, as an
attempt to subjugate him. He desired to be perfectly free and yet not
without law and affection. He could not forego the approbation of those
to whom he was, at the same time, unwilling to accord the right to
dissent. He would have liked his own people to regard him with as loyal
an affection as that which the English bestow upon their rulers, but
did not care to have it interfere with his following the dictates of
his own judgment. He studied the laws of the state, but favored such
interpretations thereof as rendered them nugatory. He loved the
constitution, much as he did his wife; that is, he prized her virtues,
and aimed to be faithful to her without sacrificing his inclinations.

The journals of the day reached the king in the form of an abstract,
which was prepared in the literary court-kitchen. By his orders,
stenographic reports of the proceedings of the Chamber of Deputies were
brought to his cabinet, but for the greater part they remained unread.
There was too much to be done, too much of ceremonious receptions,
parading and exercises. The new arsenal was now under roof, and they
were engaged in supplying the decorations, devices for some of which
were prepared by the king himself.

The great autumn maneuvers took place near the palace. There was much
talk of changes, and, among the soldiers, great enthusiasm thereat. The
queen and Irma, attired in the uniform of the queen's guards, appeared
on horseback. The queen looked like a patron saint, while Irma, with
her triumphant air, looked like a commander.

At the word of command, the huzzas of the soldiers filled the air, and
it seemed as if their joyous shouts would never end.

Colonel Bronnen was quite devoted in his attentions to Irma. It was
generally believed that he would, before long, sue for her hand. Some
even went so far as to assert that they were already secretly
betrothed, and that Irma's father, the old misanthrope, had refused his
consent, but that the beautiful countess would be of age within a
month. No regiment could have wished for a more beautiful colonel's
wife.

Irma's life seemed to glide on in ecstatic happiness. She did not even
know that the world had betrothed her. When she met the doctor, she
would say: "I think of visiting your dear family, every day, but there
is always something to prevent me; I'll surely come to-morrow or the
day after."

Weeks passed before she paid the visit, and when she did call, the
servant informed her that the family were not at home. Irma had
intended to call again, and finally concluded that they had treated her
rudely in neglecting to return her visit. She waited, and, at last,
dropped all intercourse with them. It is far better, she thought in
one's own sphere; aside from this, they were in mourning at the
doctor's, and Irma was not in the mood to seek sorrowful scenes. The
doctor himself even appeared ill at ease, for he had recently said to
her:

"Most persons, even those who are matured and self-conscious, exhaust
their joys, just as children do. Like them, they indulge their love of
pleasure without stint, and then follows the reaction, when joy is
followed by tears."

Irma avoided all further discussion with him.

Rainy days came, and no one could leave the house. Walpurga would go
about as if a prisoner, longing to be at the summer palace, although if
she had been there at that season of the year, she would have been
obliged to remain indoors. "Uncle was right," said she, jestingly, to
Mademoiselle Kramer. "At the christening, he said I was a cow, and now
I can fancy how a cow must feel, when it comes down from the mountain
meadows to its stall in the valley. Grubersepp, who lives at our place,
has a mountain meadow, and whenever his cows are brought home, they
keep on lowing for three days, and won't eat a thing. If I only knew
how things are at home; if I only felt sure that they keep my child
indoors; but I'll write at once."

Walpurga wrote an anxious, sorrowful letter and was not content until
good tidings came in return.

Whenever Irma entered the crown prince's apartments, even in the
gloomiest weather, her presence seemed like sunshine. There was rarely
a day that she did not come, although her visits were shorter than they
had been. She said that the preparations for her brother's wedding took
up so much of her time.

"I'd like to see your father," said Walpurga, one day; "he must be a
splendid man to have such good and beautiful children."

Irma pressed her hand to her heart.

"If father comes I'll bring him to you," said she, as if to silence
her. The innocent remark of this simpleminded woman had deeply moved
her, and the anticipation of brilliant festivities gave way to sad and
sombre thoughts. She was often in the city, either alone or attended by
her brother, while making purchases for a complete and luxuriously
furnished household. Women in large towns find as much pleasure in
shopping as children in the woods do in gathering wild-flowers. To go
from shop to shop, to compare, to select, to purchase--it is just like
plucking flowers. Irma was enough of a child and woman of the world to
delight in this, and to enjoy the pleasure of furnishing a house
according to her own taste. The workmen and shopkeepers exaggerated
nothing when they said that they had never before met one whose orders
showed such excellent judgment. Irma was not amiable and gracious, she
was simply courteous. She never apologized for the trouble she gave the
shopkeepers and workmen, for that was part of their business. She
addressed them respectfully, freely expressed her approval, when their
suggestions were in good taste, and thanked them for correcting her,
when her demands were impracticable.

Could Irma have heard how sewing-women, workmen and shopmen praised
her, it would have gladdened her heart.

It struck her as very singular that every one would make the mistake of
speaking of the new establishment as her own, and not as her brother's.

The wedding was solemnized. Irma had no opportunity of introducing her
father to Walpurga, for he did not come. During those few days, she
neglected to visit the crown prince's apartments, and when she again
went--she had dreaded Walpurga's questions--the nurse made no allusions
to the wedding or to her father.

Irma felt that Mademoiselle Kramer had informed Walpurga of the state
of affairs. She would gladly have placed matters before her in their
true light, but that were impracticable. The common people could only
understand simple relations, and an involved and complicated story,
such as hers, would pass Walpurga's comprehension. Irma forced herself
to appear the same to Walpurga as she had always been. The latter
observed this, although she said nothing about it. She, too, had become
strangely reserved.

Winter came in all its might. Walpurga could not go out into the open
air, but found pleasure in taking long walks with the crown prince,
inside the palace. A whole suite of apartments had been thrown open and
heated for this purpose.

"You may sing if you like," the doctor had said to her. But Walpurga
could not utter a sound in the grand saloons, for she was afraid of the
pictures of men in coats of mail, and of women with stiff ruffs or
bare-necks, who were looking down upon her.

"I know what I am going to say is very stupid, and you must promise not
to repeat it," said she, one day, in confidence to Irma.

"What is it? You can always tell me everything."

"It's very silly, I'm sure, but it seems to me as if those men and
women can't find rest in the other world and have got to be here all
the time and look on at what happens."

"That isn't at all stupid," said Irma, smiling. "But, pay attention,
Walpurga, to what I am about to tell you. To stand here, and feel that
your father, your great-grandfather, and others still further back, are
looking at you--that's what is meant by nobility. Thus, we are always
in the company of our ancestors."

"I understand; it's just the same as if, in your heart, you were always
saying a mass for the repose of their souls."

"That's it, exactly."

Irma thought of repeating this conversation to the queen. But, no; she
would tell it to the king. His was a truly poetic and exalted
conception of all things. Irma had accustomed herself to tell the king
all that happened to her. She spoke to him of all her thoughts, and of
every book that she read, and thus found all her experiences invested
with a twofold interest. He was so grateful, so appreciative, so happy,
and was, moreover, so burdened down with the cares of state that it was
a duty to cheer him with other thoughts.

At the summer palace, the trees were covered with snow and the windows
were protected with straw; but in the palace at the capital, pleasure
reigned supreme. Here all was fragrance, splendor, glitter, and, in
Bruno's house, it seemed as if the feasting would never end. The
court had honored the opening fête with their presence, and, throughout
the city, all spoke of the queen's great kindness, in visiting a
sister-in-law of so peculiar a kind, and of her having, in the most
affable and friendly manner, actually sat on the same sofa with her.
The old baroness had also wished to attend the first fête given by her
children, but, having been informed that, in that case, the queen would
not come, she remained at her castle in the little country town.

Arabella had written to Bruno's father. Her husband had not forbidden
her doing so, but he had told her, beforehand, that she would receive
no answer. He had every reason to feel assured of this, for he had
never forwarded the letter.

Irma consoled her, and found it painful to offer such a description of
her father's peculiarities as would satisfactorily account for his
silence. It seemed like treachery, but she could not help it, for why
should the poor child be made to suffer. But fête succeeded fête with
such rapidity, that the father, the whilom dancer--aye, even her own
thoughts, were soon forgotten.

The Chamber of Deputies was not far from the royal stables, and, while
the delegates were heatedly discussing so-called decisive questions,
the royal riding school was the scene of a rehearsal for a tournament
in the knightly costume of the Middle Ages. Prince Arnold who, as the
story went, was wooing princess Angelica, was chief of the gentlemen,
and Irma of the ladies.

Although it was merely by accident that the tournament opened on the
evening of the day on which the Chamber was dissolved, the circumstance
occasioned much ironical comment throughout the capital.

Irma was the central figure in the brilliant scene. When she entered
the royal box, the king lavished loud praise upon her beauty and skill.

The queen added her praises to his and said:

"You must feel happy. Countess Irma, to think that you afford us so
much pleasure."

Irma bowed low and kissed the queen's hand.

There was hardly time to rest from one fête, before another succeeded
it. The grand sleighing-party, which was especially brilliant, excited
the whole city. The king and the queen drove in an open sleigh, and, in
spite of their dissatisfaction with the policy of the government, the
citizens were delighted to see the royal couple so happy. Following
immediately after the sleigh of the prince of the house came that of
Bruno and his handsome wife; but, rich as were the trappings and
handsome as were the couple, all glances were quickly turned to the
next sleigh in which sat Irma and Baron Schoning. She had pitched upon
him as the most convenient dummy. The countenances of the lookers-on
were expressive of mingled surprise and derision.

"If Hansei could only see it! How I wish he could! One would hardly
believe it!" said Walpurga, as she looked out of her window at the
sleighing-party.

No one had noticed her but Irma, who nodded to her. How radiant she
was; she had never looked so beautiful. The clear cold air of winter
had wondrously animated her features. She was sitting in a swan, drawn
by two white horses, and Walpurga said to herself: "Oh, you dear
creature! You just look as if you couldn't help riding to heaven; but
you'll never marry that clown aside of you." The last words she had
uttered in quite a loud voice.

"She won't marry at all," said a voice behind her.

Walpurga looked around, startled. Baum had been standing behind her.

"What an everlasting eavesdropper you are," said she. All her joy had
been embittered, but this did not last long, for Irma soon came and
said:

"Walpurga, I can only warm myself with you. It is bitter cold, and
you're like a good warm stove. You're growing as fat and as broad as a
Dutch oven."

Walpurga was delighted with her friend. She was always coming to see
her and allowing her to share in all her pleasures.

But Walpurga started with fright, when the king suddenly entered.
Courteously bowing to Irma, he said:

"A letter has just come for you; I thought I would bring it myself."

Irma looked down, while she took the letter.

"Pray open it," said the king while he motioned Walpurga to follow him
into the prince's room. When he came out again, the king said:

"Did the letter bring you good news?"

Irma looked at him with surprise, and at last said: "It was from my
dearest friend."

The king nodded, as if pleased that the letter, which had been written
by himself, should receive such an answer. He added, in a careless
tone:

"Dear Countess, you will, of course, feel sad at parting from Walpurga,
but her situation must necessarily end with time. Think of some other
position for her, so that you may keep her near you."

Walpurga drew a long breath. "Give me the farm," lay on her lips, but
she could not utter the words. She felt as if her tongue clave to the
roof of her mouth.

The king soon took his leave. He always came and went so quickly.

"No, you shall not remain here," said Irma when she was alone with
Walpurga. "It is better, a thousand times better for you, that you
should go home again. Next summer, I'll come to see you. I'll never
forget you. Rely upon it."

Walpurga now felt bold enough to express her wishes in regard to the
farm; but Irma was immovable. "You know nothing about these things.
Take my word for it--it will be far better for you, if you go home
again."



                              CHAPTER VI.


"How do you live in the country in winter?" asked the queen while she
sat by the cradle of her child. "Well enough," replied Walpurga, "but
wood is getting to be quite dear. We're glad when spring returns. To be
sure, my Hansei has good earnings in the winter, when the wood can be
brought down the snow road to the valley. Mother always says our Lord's
the greatest of all road-masters, for He can make roads and make it
easy to bring the wood where no man can."

"You have a good mother. Give her my love, and when I again go to the
mountains, I shall visit her."

"Oh, if you only would!"

"And now," resumed the queen, "tell me how you pass your time during
the winter."

"When the housework for the day is done, the women spin. The men spend
the day in the forest, cutting wood, and, when night comes, they're so
tired that they hardly ever cut kindling-wood."

"And do you sing much at such times?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"And do you never read to each other?"

"No, never. But we like to tell stories, and frighten each other as
much as we can."

"And do you sometimes dance?"

"Yes, at carnival time; but there's not much of that nowadays. They say
it used to be much better in old times."

"Do you never find the day hang heavy on your hands?"

"No, never; we've no time for that."

The queen smiled when she looked at the astral lamp that stood on the
table, and thought of the many expedients that society employed to kill
time.

The queen at length said: "And do you feel quite sure that your husband
is always true to you? Do you never think of his being otherwise?"

"Mother often says that the men are all good for nothing, but she says
my Hansei's not like the rest of 'em. He'd be heartily ashamed of
himself if he spoke a loving word to another woman. It would haunt him
day and night, and he'd never be able to look any one in the face
again. He's not one of your sharp, clever folks--far from it; but he's
good, thoroughly good at heart; a little bit close in money matters,
and he's always afraid that, some time or other, we might come to want.
However, one who has to save every kreutzer can easily get used to
that. But, thank God, that's over, now."

When Walpurga had once begun to talk, she would, unless interrupted,
run on like a mountain spring. She had a thousand and one little
stories to tell.--How she had, for the first time, bought three geese,
two white and one gray; how many feathers she got from them, and what a
good price she obtained for the feathers; and that she now had eight
ducks--they were much more useful than geese, and required but little
food; and that her goat was wondrous clever. They had once had a sheep,
but that was nothing. They belong in flocks and don't thrive well
alone. At last, Walpurga said that she could hardly believe that they
really had two cows of their own in the stable. She had never, in all
her life, even wished for so much. And then she spoke of the innkeeper
and said that, although one couldn't trust him, it was necessary to
keep on good terms with him, for, if he was your enemy, you might as
well be put out of the village and the principal house would be closed
to you. The innkeeper would, once in a while, do you a favor, if he
lost nothing by it. He had paid a good price for her ducks and fish,
and if you should happen to need it, you could always get a little from
him on trust. She didn't want to speak ill of him, but he had once been
impudent to her; but she had taught him a lesson that he'd remember as
long as he lived. She hoped the queen wouldn't do anything to him for
that; he was good enough, after all, considering that he was an
innkeeper. But there were ever so many good people in their
neighborhood. They didn't give anything away, and she wouldn't want
their gifts, but when you know that on every hillside there are people
who feel kindly toward you, it makes the whole neighborhood seem as if
it were one warm room.

The queen smiled.

Walpurga went on talking. The more she talked, the more the child
prattled and crowed and clapped its hands; the sound of his nurse's
voice pleased him, and Walpurga said:

"He's just like a canary-bird; when there's lots of chattering in the
room, he joins in with his merry song. Isn't it so, you canary-bird?"
said she, shaking her head at the child, while it crowed yet more
lustily than before.

Buried in thought, the queen passed her hand over her face several
times. Walpurga's words had transported her into another world. And so,
thought she, there are other beings, beneath me and far away, who pass
their days in work and care and yet are happy.

"What makes you look so sad?" asked Walpurga.

Her question had recalled the queen to herself. No one had ever read
her face in this way. No one could, or would have questioned her thus.

The queen made no answer, and Walpurga continued:

"Oh, my dear queen, I can't help thinking you must have a hard time of
it. To have plenty of everything isn't so good for one after all. It's
like having your heaven on earth. Have you never felt lonely and lorn?
When one wakes to sorrow and thinks that one still has sound limbs, and
can work, and can see the sun and know that there are still good people
in the world--it's then that you really feel at home in the world. Oh,
my dear queen, don't be sad. You couldn't, if you knew how happy you
ought to feel."

The queen was silent for a long while. There must have been something
in Walpurga that suggested the thought, for she at last said: "They
play William Tell to-night. I would like you to go to the theater, for
once."

Walpurga said:

"I'd like to go, well enough. Mademoiselle Kramer has told me a great
deal about it; it must be splendid, but I can't take the child with me,
and I can't leave it alone for so long a time. See how he listens, and
what a cross voice he has already. He understands everything we say,
I'll bet my head on it."

The boy began to cry. Walpurga took him up in her arms, fondled him and
sang:

                  I won't leave you a minute,
                  To see the finest play;
                  It's better far, and safer,
                  If at home with you I stay.

The little prince was soon quieted and fell asleep.

"Yes, you're right," said the queen, after a pause. "Remain just as you
are, and when you go home again, don't think of what is past. Only
think that your lot is the best in the world."

The queen left. Walpurga felt like telling Mademoiselle Kramer that the
queen was very sad, and was about to ask what could be the matter; but,
with clever tact, she refrained from alluding to the subject. The queen
had been so confiding and so sisterly with her, that it would not do to
speak of it to any one else; and perhaps, too, the queen did not wish
others to know that she was sad.

For many days, there was a pilgrimage of court ladies and gentlemen to
Walpurga for the sake of seeing something that was quite new to them.
Doctor Gunther had given Walpurga permission to get a distaff and spin.
To see a spinning-wheel in use seemed like a fairy-tale. Few of the
ladies and gentlemen had ever seen such a thing before, and now they
came and looked on wonderingly. Walpurga, however, always laughed
merrily when she wound a fresh thread on the spindle. All the court
came to look at the distaff, and Schoning declared that this was the
implement with which Little Thomrose had injured herself.

Irma was again the object of envy, for she, too, knew how to spin and,
like a village neighbor, would sometimes come and join threads for
Walpurga. They both sat spinning at the same distaff, and, while they
worked, their voices joined in merry songs.

"What's to be done with what we spin?" asked Irma.

Walpurga was vexed, for the question had destroyed the charm. She said:
"Little shirts for my prince; but they must only be of my spinning."
After that, she laid the bobbins which Irma had filled in a separate
place. The threads which she had moistened with her own lips, should be
the only ones used by the prince.

Irma could not help telling Baron Schoning of Walpurga's plan, and it
suggested to him a poem, in which he alluded to the legend of a fairy,
or enchanted princess, who was spinning flax for her darling. The queen
was delighted with the poem, and, for the first time, and with perfect
sincerity, praised the Baron's verses.

Walpurga was sitting at her distaff and telling the prince in the
cradle the story of the King of the Carps, who swims about at the
bottom of the lake. He's more than seven thousand years old, wears a
crown on his head, has a great long beard and, up over him, millions of
fishes are swimming about and playing tag with each other and when
one's naughty and envious and quarrelsome and disobedient, the naughty
pike comes and eats him, and then comes the fisherman who catches the
pike, and then comes the cook who cuts up the pike, and then all the
little fishes jump out and go back into the lake and come to life and
tell all that's happened to them, how dark it was in the pike's belly,
and how much brighter it is in the sea and, in the mean while, the pike
is cut in pieces and eaten, and if one's not very careful, he'll get a
fish-bone in his mouth, and that'll make him cough, and Walpurga
coughed with great skill.

The door suddenly opened and, to Walpurga's great alarm, a handsome
young officer entered, went straight up to her, saluted her in military
fashion, and, while twirling his mustache, asked:

"Have I the honor of addressing the magic spinner, named Walpurga
Andermatten, from the cottage by the lake?"

"Yes; dear me, what can be the matter?"

"I am sent by the spirit Kussschmatzky, and he commands me to kiss you
three times in order to break, a spell."

Walpurga trembled. It was her own fault. Why had she told the child so
many fairy-tales, and now it had all come true. All at once, the
officer threw his arms about her neck, and kissed her with all his
might, and then laughed until he could no longer stand, and seating
himself, exclaimed:

"And so you really don't know me? That's splendid. Don't you know your
friend Irma, any more?"

"You rogue! You good-for-nothing rogue," burst out Walpurga. "Pardon
me. Countess Irma, but who'd have thought of such a thing; and you
threw me into such a fright! What's it all about? Is it carnival time
already?"

"Walpurga, if you understood the language, you might see me in a French
play this evening. The king is also going to act. I'm sorry, for I'd
rather had you in the audience than any of the rest. But I've had
sufficient applause already; you didn't know me. I'm glad of that at
all events."

"And I'm heartily sorry," said Walpurga, becoming quite serious. "Oh,
dear Countess, do you know what you're doing? It's the greatest sin to
put on men's clothes, for then the devil's master over one. Don't laugh
at me! I'm not so silly as you think. It's just as true as can be.
Grubersepp's grandfather had a daughter, and she had a sweetheart who
was off at the wars, and while she was sitting in the room spinning,
just as I was a little while ago, a girl dressed herself up in
soldier's clothes, and went into the room and acted just as if she was
the sweetheart himself. Grubersepp's daughter fainted, but got over it
again and the disguised girl ran away. And as soon as she got out of
the house, there were hundreds of men with whips and horses' heads, and
they chased her ever so far and, at last, the devil caught her, tore
her to pieces and threw her into the lake. Yes, it's a true story; you
can take my word for it. There are people enough living to this day who
knew her."

"You're enough to make one quite melancholy," said Irma.

"Perhaps such things only happen with us," said Walpurga, as if to
console her. "The soldiers out there, with their swords and muskets,
wouldn't let the devil enter here; but, my dear, good Countess, don't
you feel ashamed to wear those clothes before so many people?"

"You belong to a different world from ours. You're right, and so are
we," said Irma, walking up and down the room quickly and rattling her
spurs. "No, Walpurga, don't alarm yourself about me, and don't take
your fright so much to heart."

She was again the same careless, true-hearted creature that she had
ever been, and Walpurga could not help saying:

"Oh, how beautiful! you look just like a prince."

Walpurga's eyes rested on the door long after Irma had left. It seemed
to her as if it had all been a dream.

Many days passed by, and Irma was always blithe and cheerful when with
Walpurga. They would sing and spin, and the king and queen once came
together--they had never done so before--and seated themselves by the
child's cradle, while they looked at, and listened to, the workers.
Walpurga was timid at first, but, after a while, sang quite cheerfully.

A veritable surprise was in store for Walpurga. Christmas eve arrived.
The manner in which it was observed at her home, had been transplanted
hither by the queen. Walpurga and the child were conducted into the
great saloon, where the Christmas tree was all ablaze with lights, and
where there also were many rich presents.

It seemed to her as if she were in a fairy grotto; there was so much
glitter and sparkle, and the presents were so rich and varied. The
child shouted for joy and was ever putting out its little hands to
grasp the lights. Walpurga received lavish gifts, but, although the
dazzling gold and the rich garnet necklace with golden clasp delighted
her, a well-arranged table covered with clothing pleased her more than
all the rest. There was a complete winter suit for Walpurga's mother,
another, with a beautiful green hat, for Hansei, and many articles of
clothing for little Burgei.

"Does it all please you?" asked the queen. "I sent to your village to
get the measure."

"Oh, how it does please me!" said Walpurga; "If I could thank you as
many times as there are threads in these clothes, it wouldn't be
enough."

A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she sent Baum to her room to
get the yarn which was hanging there. He soon returned with it and,
presenting it to the queen, in the king's presence, she said: "As often
as I've wetted each thread with my lips, do I thank you. I shall pray
for you as long as I can move my lips, and all will go well with you."

The king held out his hand to her and said: "You're a good soul, but
don't excite yourself so." She pressed his hand firmly.

Walpurga was sitting in her room, late at night, when the queen came to
her.

"I'm glad you've come," said Walpurga, softly.

"Why? Does anything ail the child?"

"No; thank God, he's quiet. See how he clenches his little fists while
he sleeps. But, on this night, at twelve, a Sunday child sees
everything. He can hear all that the angels in heaven and the beasts in
the wood are saying. One must always be with him at that time, and keep
on saying the paternoster, and then no harm will come to him."

"Yes, I'll stay with you; that can do no harm. But you must not torment
yourself so with your belief."

Walpurga looked at the queen with a strange expression.

"Ah, she knows nothing of this," she thought to herself. "She wasn't
born in our faith." The queen said: "I'm glad that I can make so many
people happy, just as I've made you happy, to-day."

"But you must be happy, too," said Walpurga. "Take my word for it--I'd
put my hand in the fire as a pledge--there's nothing wrong with Irma.
She's true, and so is the king."

The queen started convulsively. And had it come to this pass? Must she
receive consolation from such a quarter? She sat there motionless, for
some time. The clock struck twelve, and, at the same instant, bells
were heard ringing from every tower filling the air with their merry
sounds.

The child in the cradle began to mutter in its sleep. Walpurga made a
sign to the queen and went on repeating the Lord's Prayer, in a firm
voice. The queen moved her lips and silently joined in the prayer. When
it was repeated for the third time, she said aloud: "And forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'" Then she
knelt down by the child's cradle, and buried her face in the pillow.

Walpurga was filled with reverence for the mother who thus knelt
silently at her child's cradle. She went on praying in a low voice. The
queen arose, nodded to Walpurga, and waved both her hands to her. She
looked almost like a spirit, and, without uttering another word, she
left the room. The sound of the bells died on the air, and the child
slept on quietly.



                              CHAPTER VII.


Strange things were always happening during the days and nights of
Christmas week. Some mortals maintain that the kingdom of the fairies
has vanished, but it still exists.

In a large building, standing back from the king's street, there are
silent workmen, placing strange wedges side by side, which wedges are
afterward handed over to a huge monster. It is still at rest, but as
soon as it receives them, it suddenly moves, creaks, groans and puffs,
and, in an instant, hundreds of human beings are, as it were, created
anew.--In other words, it is the government printing-office, and they
are printing the official gazette, which at the beginning of every
year, announces the promotion and the orders conferred upon hundreds of
individuals.

What is New Year's day to most mortals? Retrospection, reflections that
life is but transitory, succeeded by joy at what is still left us, and
good resolutions for the future; and yet to-morrow is a mere repetition
of yesterday.

How different with those whose importance depends upon their station,
and who can be elevated into something more than they now are.

The official gazette appeared, with its list of New Year's gifts. One
pleasure fell to the lot of the queen. Her English teacher, an
estimable and noble hearted old man, whom she had brought with her as
her private secretary, received the title of privy councilor, and was
thus, in a social sense, rendered capable of being presented at court.

But of all the promotions, none excited so much comment at court and in
the capital, as the appointment of Baron Schoning to the office of
intendant-general of the royal theater, and he, himself, was more
surprised than all others. Although he had been greatly applauded for
his share in the French play, in which Irma had also taken part, he had
not anticipated such a result. When he read the announcement, he rubbed
his eyes, to make sure of being awake. Was it a bit of royal
pleasantry? He would willingly submit to any joke, but then it must be
in a confined circle, not in the eyes of the world. But it was not a
joke, it was the simple truth, for, side by side with his own, he could
read of the appointment and the promotion of many distinguished men to
important positions.

It was an actual fact--beautiful reality.

In the city it was said, with a significant smile, that the baron had
received the appointment in order to place him in the proper position
to marry Countess Irma. Others, who were less kindly disposed, asserted
that it was freely offered to the gallant court fool, as the court had
always regarded theatrical matters as a sort of time-honored
buffoonery, furnishing amusement of a light and trivial character.

But Baron Schoning--or, as he must now be styled, the
intendant--received the visits of his subordinates with great dignity
and then drove to the palace.

On the way, he was obliged to pass Countess Irma's apartments. He
stopped and sent in his card.

The countess received him kindly, and offered him her sincere
congratulations. He plainly intimated that he, in a great measure, owed
his promotion to her, and he remarked that a lady of good taste and
true artistic feeling could be his greatest aid and support in his new
calling. She affected not to understand him and assented, in an absent
manner. Her thoughts were wandering. She would often look out of the
window that opened on the park. The snow had almost disappeared and the
marble statues of gods and goddesses had thrown off their winter
covering. Nearest her window, and in a position which showed its
profile, stood the Venus de Milo.

"Pardon me," said she, at last, as if collecting her thoughts, "I am
delighted that you have again resumed your connection with art, and
would be very glad to have a talk with you on the subject. Above all
things, let me beg of you to let us have music again at the theater: if
not during the _entr'actes_, before the performance, at all events."

"The musicians are all opposed to such a course."

"I know that very well. Each art endeavors to isolate itself, to remain
independent of all others. But a play without music is like a feast
without wine. Music cleanses the soul from the dust and dross of
every-day life and seems to say to every one: 'You are no longer in
your office, in the barracks, or in the workshop.' If it could be done,
I would prescribe a special costume for all who frequent the theater.
Their uncovered heads should be a token of spiritual reverence, and,
besides that, I would have theatrical performances only once a week."

"You are perfectly right as regards the music," interposed the
intendant. "If you have any other suggestion, dear Countess--"

"Some other time. I know of nothing at present. Just now, my mind is
full of the _bal costumé_, which is to take place next week."

The ball was to be given in the palace and the adjoining winter garden.
The intendant now informed Irma of his plan, and was delighted to find
that she approved of it. At the end of the garden, he intended to erect
a large fountain, ornamented with antique groups. In the foreground, he
meant to have trees and shrubbery and various kinds of rocks, so that
none could approach too closely, and the background was to be a Grecian
landscape, painted in the grand style.

Irma promised to keep his secret. Suddenly, she exclaimed: "We are, all
of us, no better than lackeys and kitchen-maids. We are kept busy,
stewing, roasting and cooking for weeks, in order to prepare a dish
that may please their majesties."

The intendant made no reply.

"Do you remember," continued Irma, "how, when we were at the lake, we
spoke of the fact that man possessed the advantage of being able to
change his dress, and thus to alter his appearance? While yet a child,
masquerading was my greatest delight. The soul wings its flight in
callow infancy. A _bal costumé_ is, indeed, one of the noblest fruits
of culture. The love of coquetry which is innate with all of us, there
displays itself undisguised."

The intendant took his leave; while walking away, his mind was filled
with his old thoughts about Irma.

"No," said he to himself, "such a woman would be a constant strain, and
would require one to be brilliant and intellectual all day long. She
would exhaust one," said he, almost aloud.

No one knew what character Irma intended to appear in, although many
supposed that it would be as Victoria, since it was well known that she
stood for the model of the statue that surmounted the arsenal. They
were busy conjecturing how she could assume that character, without
violating the social proprieties.

Irma spent much of her time in the atelier and worked assiduously. She
was unable to escape a feeling of unrest, far greater than that she had
experienced years ago, when looking forward to her first ball. She
could not reconcile herself to the idea of preparing for the fête, so
long beforehand, and would like to have had it take place in the very
next hour, so that something else might be taken up at once. The long
delay tried her patience. She almost envied those beings to whom the
preparation for pleasure affords the greatest part of the enjoyment.
Work alone calmed her unrest. She had something to do, and this
prevented the thoughts of the festival from engaging her mind during
the day. It was only in the evenings that she would recompense herself
for the day's work, by giving full swing to her fancy.

The statue of Victory was still in the atelier and was almost finished.
High ladders were placed beside it. The artist was still chiseling at
the figure and would, now and then, hurry down to observe the general
effect and then hastily mount the ladder again in order to add a touch
here or there. Irma scarcely ventured to look up at this effigy of
herself in Grecian costume--transformed and yet herself. The idea of
being thus translated into the purest of art's forms filled her with a
tremor--half joy, half fear.

It was on a winter afternoon. Irma was working assiduously at a copy
of a bust of Theseus, for it was growing dark.

Near her, stood her preceptor's marble bust of Doctor Gunther. All was
silent; not a sound was heard save, now and then, the picking or
scratching of the chisel. At that moment, the master descended the
ladder and, drawing a deep breath, said:

"There--that will do. One can never finish. I shall not put another
stroke to it. I am afraid that retouching would only injure it. It is
done."

In the master's words and manner, struggling effort and calm content
seem mingled. He laid the chisel aside. Irma looked at him earnestly
and said:

"You are a happy man; but I can imagine that you are still unsatisfied.
I don't believe that even Raphael or Michael Angelo were ever satisfied
with the work they had completed. The remnant of dissatisfaction which
an artist feels at the completion of a work, is the germ of a new
creation."

The master nodded his approval of her words. His eyes expressed his
thanks. He went to the hydrant and washed his hands. Then he placed
himself near Irma and looked at her, while telling her that, in every
work, an artist parts with a portion of his life; that the figure, will
never again inspire the same feelings that it did while in the
workshop. Viewed from afar, and serving as an ornament, no regard would
be had to the care bestowed upon details. But the artist's great
satisfaction in his work is in having pleased himself; and yet no one
can accurately determine how, or to what extent, a conscientious
working up of details will influence the general effect.

While the master was speaking, the king was announced. Irma hurriedly
spread a damp cloth over her clay model.

The king entered. He was unattended, and begged Irma not to allow
herself to be disturbed in her work. Without looking up, she went on
with her modeling. The king was earnest in his praise of the master's
work.

"The grandeur that dwells in this figure will show posterity what our
days have beheld. I am proud of such contemporaries."

Irma felt that the words applied to her as well. Her heart throbbed.
The plaster of Paris which stood before her suddenly seemed to gaze at
her with a strange expression.

"I should like to compare the finished work with the first models,"
said the king to the artist.

"I regret that the experimental models are in my small atelier. Does
Your Majesty wish me to have them brought here?"

"If you will be good enough to do so."

The master left. The king and Irma were alone. With rapid steps, he
mounted the ladder and exclaimed, in a tremulous voice:

"I ascend into heaven--I ascend to you. Irma, I kiss you, I kiss your
image, and may this kiss forever rest upon those lips, enduring beyond
all time. I kiss thee, with the kiss of eternity."

He stood aloft and kissed the lips of the statue. Irma could not help
looking up, and, just at that moment, a slanting sunbeam fell on the
king and on the face of the marble figure, making it glow as if with
life.

Irma felt as if wrapped in a fiery cloud, bearing her away into
eternity.

The king descended and placed himself beside her. His breathing was
short and quick--she did not dare to look up--she stood as silent and
as immovable as the statue. Then the king embraced her--she lay in his
arms and living lips kissed each other.

When the artist returned, the king was alone. Irma crossed the street,
on her way to the palace, as if dreaming. She felt herself borne on
wings, and likened herself to Semele whom the ardent kisses of Jupiter
had made immortal.

"The greatest happiness has been mine," said she to herself. "I can
easily give up all else, for the kiss of eternity rests upon my lips."

The people and the houses seemed like so many shadowy forms, and she
felt as if flying through the air above them.

It was not until she had gained her apartment and beheld her costume,
that she was reminded of the ball that was to take place that very
night. Her lips were wreathed in smiles, while her maid attired her in
the full, cloudlike, white robe, trimmed with rushes set with diamonds.

"My lady promised the crown prince's nurse," said the maid, "that she
should see her in her ball-dress. Shall I send for her now?"

Irma nodded assent. All that she heard seemed as if in a dream; all
that she saw, as if in a cloud. She felt it a torture to be obliged to
display herself to so many people. She wished to appear to him only. To
him who was all the world to her.

Walpurga came, and gazed upon her like one entranced. There stood a
maiden, so beautiful, so charming, so brilliantly and wonderfully
encircled with reeds, and with diamond drops hanging from those reeds
and from red coral branches. The girdle was a green serpent, with large
glittering diamond eyes that sparkled so that it dazzled one's eyes to
look at them. Her long hair was loosened, and fell down over her bare
neck. It was held together at the top by a wreath of water-lilies
glittering with dew-drops, and on her brow was a star which flashed and
sparkled, while the face of the beautiful maiden was more radiant than
all her jewels. Irma had never before looked so beautiful. She seemed
so noble, so far away, as if smiling, from the clouds above, upon
mortals below.

"Dear me! Why, you're the Lady of the Lake," exclaimed Walpurga.

"Ah! So you recognize me," said Irma, holding out her hand. Her voice
sounded strangely.

Walpurga pressed her hand to her heart. She felt grieved that Irma
should assume this character. It was defying God, and would end in
evil. But Walpurga said nothing; she merely folded her hands and moved
her lips in silent prayer for Irma.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, after passing her hand across her eyes, "dear
me, how the people can fix themselves up. Where do they get everything
from? How is it possible?" She walked round and round Irma.

"When I tell 'em at home, they'll never believe I've seen anything like
this. The Lady of the Lake wears an undergarment of sea-foam and loose
hair just like this. If only mother and Hansei were here."

Irma made no reply. She walked about the room, and when she saw herself
reflected in the great mirrors her own figure seemed like a strange
apparition, and the rustling of the reeds bewildered her.

"I would like to jump into the lake, just as I am, and quench the
burning flames," thought she to herself.

Walpurga seemed dazzled by so much splendor, and returned to her
apartments.

"I can easily imagine," she said to herself, "that the people here
don't understand the world, and that the queen herself doesn't
understand it, either. They make a new world every day, and turn
everything upside down and inside out, and disguise and mask
themselves. How are they ever to get rest and keep their senses? The
queen's right; it's better that I should go home again. I'd go crazy
here."

When Walpurga reached her room, she found a letter from home awaiting
her. She had been joyfully looking forward to this letter for weeks.
She had fancied how delighted her mother and Hansei would be, and
how the villagers would come and admire their new clothes, and
express their astonishment. She had placed a cheerful letter in the
breast-pocket of Hansei's jacket, and this was the answer. Stasi had
written it, but the mother had dictated every word. It read thus:

"Oh, child, I'm sure you meant well enough, but it didn't turn out
well. I and Hansei wore the beautiful clothes when we went to church on
New Year's day. I didn't want to; I felt sure something would happen;
but Hansei said we must put them on, for the king would think ill of
it, if we didn't wear the clothes he sent us, and so, for peace's sake,
I went to church with him. But the people kept looking at us so
strangely, and didn't say a word; and after church, they were standing
together in crowds and we could hear them say, while they pointed their
fingers at us: 'It's all very fine. Such things can be got at the
capital, but every one knows how; not in an honest way, that's certain.
The old fool and that blockhead there are proud of it in the bargain,
and show off their new clothes.' Old Zenza was worse than any of them,
and people who never listen to her at other times, were quite willing
to hear all she had to say, and urged her to go on.

"Oh, my dear child! you don't know how bad people can be. I know that
you're good, but some people are bad and begrudge one everything, and
what they can't take from you they befoul. You meant well enough, I'm
sure, but I won't even venture out of the house in my own clothes now.
The people are so envious, so cunning and so willing to speak evil. As
long as you're poor you know nothing of it, but now I see it. And, dear
child, that's not the worst of it. The worst of all is that they want
to fill one's heart with mistrust, but I have none toward you; I know
you're good. Remain so, and bear in mind, that if your heart is
troubled you can't find rest, though you sleep in a golden bed and on
pillows of silk. It were far better to lie on thorns, or in the grave.
The innkeeper came and offered to buy the clothes for himself and his
wife, but I won't let him have them. And now, dear child, keep honest,
and don't touch a thread or a penny to which any evil clings. I know
you wouldn't do it, but I can't help telling you; and don't take it so
much to heart that people are so bad, and I shan't either."

Walpurga cried bitterly while she read the letter. "The peasants are
the worst people in the world," thought she. "Of course, there are bad
people among the court folk, but they're not that bad. Just let one of
'em come again and ask for pardon. I'll send them home again." She felt
like asking the king to have a sound thrashing administered to every
one of the villagers. She only wished that the king's power could be
hers for one short hour, so that she might show these silly, infamous
people who really was their master.



                             CHAPTER VIII.


Walpurga was sitting in her room, weeping with anger. Now and then she
would clench her fists and speak her mind to the folks at home, in such
a manner that they would have trembled with fear, if they could only
have heard her.

But she soon regained her self-control and repressed all emotion, lest
the excitement occasioned by the wicked folk at home should injuriously
affect the child.

Meanwhile, there were sounds of music far away in the brightly
illuminated and elegant apartments of the palace, and also in the
winter garden. There were thousands of lights, a perfect sea of velvets
and silks, pearls and diamonds, flowers and wreaths, and smiling,
joyous faces; but the king outshone them all.

He knew that he was handsome, and took an almost childlike delight in
the fact. He was always in a good humor when attired in becoming
uniform. At the great _fêtes_ which were given on the various
regimental anniversaries, he always wore the uniform of the regiment
thus honored. He was best pleased with himself, when in the dress of
the hussars, for that displayed his fine figure to great advantage. On
this occasion, he appeared in the fantastic costume of the mythic king
Artus, in a golden coat of mail and flowing purple mantle. At his side,
was the queen, refined and delicate as a lily, and wearing a light,
flowing white veil.

The king observed the pleased expression of all who beheld him. He was
happy, for he knew that their admiration was not flattery. When Irma
first saw him and made her obeisance to the royal couple, it required
all her self-command, to refrain from sinking on her knees at his feet.
Then she looked up into his face, with a happy, beseeching air.

She could scarce refrain from expressing her admiration and devotion.

The queen greeted her cordially, and said:

"I am sorry, Irma, that you can't see yourself; you're enough to make
one believe in miracles."

The king said nothing, but Irma felt his glance resting upon her. She
could not conceive how it was that his glances and the queen's words
did not destroy her. With an effort to regain her composure, she said:

"Ah, Your Majesty, I find my costume oppressive. A spirit should stay
but a minute and then vanish in a burst of flame."

"There is a minute which is as eternity."

Irma had, indeed, felt a conscious pride in her beautiful appearance,
but now she experienced a higher joy. He who was so tall and handsome,
a knight more perfect than fancy could devise, could give the kiss of
eternity; for he alone, was the highest embodiment of the idea of
royalty.

Irma scarcely noticed what was going on about her.

The royal couple passed on, and Irma, in spite of her splendid attire,
felt as if deserted and forlorn. The king was no longer near her. In
the distance she could still see him, radiant as a god.

Those who were near Irma, praised her ingenious and poetical costume.
She did not hear a word of what was said. The queen sent for her. The
king had wished the queen to open the ball with him, but she had
declined. He always asked her, as a matter of form, but she never
danced.

She now begged Irma to open the ball in her stead.

Irma bowed her thanks, but a proud feeling of superiority filled her
breast. "You have nothing to give me. It is I who am giving. It is I
who am renouncing. He is mine. The priest gave him to you; nature has
given him to me. You are a tender, delicate flower, but we are eagles,
who soar into the clouds."

She could hardly conceive how she could bear it all. Every drop of
blood in her veins had turned to fire.

The quadrille began.

Irma felt the king's warm breath against her cheek. He pressed her
hand, indulged in various pleasantries, and remarked that it was
charming to be able to indulge one's fancy in conjuring up a fantastic
world. Irma felt that both she and the king would have liked to speak
of far different things, and that, indeed, silence was even more
eloquent than speech; but they were obliged to talk, and of indifferent
subjects at that. Whenever the king's hand touched hers, she felt as if
she must suddenly fly aloft with him; and, whenever he removed it, as
if she must sink. They came near throwing the whole quadrille into
confusion.

The queen left the ball at an early hour. The king accompanied her, but
soon returned.

Irma went about the room, but the gay scene seemed like a confused
dream. At last she met her brother and his wife, who were richly
attired, and greeted them with a pleasant smile. She was forever asking
herself: "Do I still live? where am I? who am I?" She had descended
through the air, and was floating in a strange world, in which there
were only two human beings--he and she; the first, the only human pair.
The gods have again descended upon earth, and his kiss is eternity.

She sat with her brother and his wife, in a bower under a pine-tree.
Presently, the king approached. In her heart, she rushed forth to
embrace him, exclaiming:  "Let us die together! Thou art mine and I am
thine. We are alone in the world--" But all she did was to rise from
her seat, and bow tremblingly. The king sat down beside her.

As if this were the first time he had beheld her, he gazed with delight
upon her beautifully shaped head, the curls playing about her throat
and descending to her shoulders, and the dimpled neck. She seemed
taller than usual. The delicate, oval face; the broad forehead richly
arched as if with too great a wealth of thought; the finely curved
eyebrows; the brown eyes with their limpid brilliancy, and the swelling
lips; all were in beautiful and harmonious proportion.

"You are beautiful, and I love you," whispered the king.

"And you are beautiful and great, and my love for you is without
limit," answered her heart, although her lips did not utter a sound.
She closed her eyes and suffered his glance to rest upon her.

"Irma!" said the king. "Irma," he repeated, with a choking voice.

They sat there in silence for some time, and then, drawing a deep
breath, the king said:

"Oh, Irma! There is one moment which is as eternity--there parting is
unknown. In the world below, men reckon by hours and minutes, but to
those who dwell in the heaven above, the earth is no longer visible."

Irma looked up. Bruno and his wife had gone. She was alone with the
king.

She longed to fall on her knees before him, to clasp him in her ardent
embrace. With powerful effort, she forced herself to remember her
surroundings. The music, the lights, the gay figures: all was a
confused jumble. She opened her lips but could not utter a word. She
arose quickly and with trembling step left the room.

The king left the ball soon after.

It was late at night. Walpurga, her heart filled with sadness, stood
looking out of the window of the room over Irma's apartments.

Light clouds were passing over the sky, now covering the moon, and then
again revealing it in all its splendor.

The light fell full on the figure of the Venus de Milo, and she seemed
to turn her face.

Walpurga bounded away from the window, and was so frightened that she
did not venture again to return to the open casement.

The same ray of moonlight that shone upon the Venus de Milo rested
tremblingly on the lips of the statue which the king had kissed.... The
gods were astir that moonlight night....



                              CHAPTER IX.


When the small circle composed of the select of the court were at tea,
the intendant announced it as his intention to celebrate the birthdays
of those great minds who had contributed to the elevation of the drama,
and said that he meant to begin with the approaching anniversary of
Lessing's birth.

"What play will you give us?" inquired the queen.

"I should feel highly honored if Your Majesty would decide which it
shall be."

"I?" asked the queen, looking toward the king, who was sitting opposite
to her. Although apparently engaged with an illustrated newspaper, he
must have felt that the queen's eye was upon him, for he looked up and
said:

"Yes, please yourself."

"Then I should like 'Emilia Galotti.'"

All looked up, for this work, as well as Schiller's "Love and
Intrigue," had, during the last reign, been placed on the list of
forbidden plays.

A pause ensued. It was the king's turn to speak, and what would he say?

He remained silent. A moment later, he showed Schnabelsdorf, who was
sitting near him, a portrait of a foreign scholar who had recently
died, and asked whether it was a good likeness.

Schnabelsdorf replied affirmatively.

The king's voice seemed so harsh and strange that the queen felt
greatly alarmed.

At that moment, Baum was about to hand a cup to the queen. She turned
quickly, with a frightened look, just as if a cat had sprung upon her
shoulders, and, while turning, struck against the proffered cup, which
fell to the floor. If a bomb had suddenly burst, it could not have
produced greater consternation. Baum picked up the fragments, and felt
so terribly unhappy, that he would gladly have prostrated himself; but
it would not do for him to speak or even ask pardon, for that would
have been a still more heinous breach of discipline. The queen turned
toward him and said:

"It was my fault, not yours."

She requested the ladies who had hurriedly left their seats, in order
to satisfy their curiosity and rectify the damage that had been done,
to be seated again. The lord steward beckoned Baum to approach, and
whispered him to withdraw and leave the rest to the other servants.

It required all the queen's power of self-command to preserve the
appearance of unconcern which etiquette demanded. Although her brain
whirled with contending emotions, she sat erect and smiling, while her
eyes followed the servant who was carrying away the broken fragments,
just as if he were bearing with him something else which had been
shattered forever.

Baum went out to the landing, and stood by the stair-rail. He felt as
if stunned, and was so ashamed of himself that he would gladly have
hurled himself down to the floor below. Such a thing had never happened
to him before. It would disgrace him for life, and, although the queen
had taken the blame upon herself, he would have to suffer for it all
the same. He looked at the fragments of the cup, and only wished that
he, too, had been dashed into pieces.

Order was speedily restored. Schnabelsdorf, who, in the new ministry,
held the position of foreign secretary and temporarily conducted the
department of education, proved himself a friend in need. With
consummate tact, he succeeded in engaging the company with subjects
that interested them, and thus restored their good-humor. Taking the
play of "Emilia Galotti," as an instance, he said that the names which
poets had assigned to their _dramatis personæ_ would furnish the
subject of interesting investigations, or rather hypotheses. It was his
opinion that in naming his intriguant Marinelli, Lessing had intended
an allusion to Machiavelli, to whose character the last century had not
been able to do justice. The vowels were the same in both names; and
the name of Orsina reminded one of a dagger leaping from its sheath.
The full round O followed by the sharp I. He continued in this vein,
and afforded much interesting information in regard to the names of
poetic characters. Lessing had acted wisely, substituting for the name
of Melchisedek--Boccaccio's Jew--that of Nathan, for the very name
reminds one of an all-embracing garment. How appropriate are the names
which Goethe has given his female characters--Gretchen, Clärchen,
Dorothea, Natalie. Even Schiller had frequently been happy in his
choice of names, as, for instance, Franz Mohr--Posa--how sonorous are
the O and the A.

Schnabelsdorf's conversation was both fluent and pleasing. How
fortunate it is to be so well informed, and to be able to impart one's
knowledge to others, without troubling one's-self about moods, broken
cups, or ill-humored people looking at illustrated papers.

As no one seemed inclined to assist Schnabelsdorf, he was obliged to
monopolize the conversation. At last Irma took pity on him and
carelessly remarked how strange it was that no proper names were
invented in our day, and that all we could do was to borrow, combine,
or abbreviate those which already existed.

This suggested various unsuccessful, but mirth-provoking, attempts to
invent new names.

The intendant told them of a peasant whom he knew and who had named the
first of his daughters Prima, the second Secunda, the third Tertia, and
so on.

The king scarcely ever looked up from the illustrated papers that lay
before him, but the queen was affable and kindly toward all who took
part in the conversation. She felt grateful to every one who spoke, for
something had happened to her which she had really not desired. She
was, even now, as ignorant of the false construction which might be put
upon her motive in selecting "Emilia Galotti," as she was of having
intended to break the cup. It was evident that the king's mind was
agitated, for he frequently passed his hand over his brows as if to
smooth them, and it was his wont to indulge in this movement whenever
he felt it necessary to repress his excitement. His first thought had
been: Is she really ignorant that the play has, for many years, been a
forbidden one? Perhaps she is, for those who measure life by their own
feelings have no sense for historic data. But suddenly a thought
occurred to him--and he again stroked his eyebrows--it is an intrigue,
and she is capable of it. She means to lay a trap _á la_ Hamlet, in
order to see what effect the play will have upon us. But no, thought he
to himself, in that case, she would be obliged to surprise us, and
that's not her way. But anger and violence and a rebuking conscience
struggled within him. His persistent devotion to the illustrated
journals made it seem as if, while in the midst of the company, he had
withdrawn into a private box. The king had never before, while in his
private circle, read so uninterruptedly. It had been his wont to look
now at this, and now at another picture, and to hand it to others for
notice or comparison. But, on this evening, he read and yet knew not
what he read. He would gladly have caught Irma's eye, and felt happy
when he heard her expressing herself so unconstrainedly. He admired
her, and would gladly have looked round to her, but dared not even
smile approval of her words. He had left Schnabeldorf's remarks
unanswered, and must, therefore, seem not to have heard Irma's.

The queen arose. All stood up with a sense of relief, for every one had
felt opposed, although the evening had proven a cheerful one. Before
withdrawing, the queen made Schnabelsdorf happy by telling him how
grateful they ought to feel toward him, since he was always able to
introduce such charming subjects of conversation. Then, addressing the
intendant, she said in a voice louder than was her wont:

"If it is any trouble to study 'Emilia Galotti'--"

"Oh, no, Your Majesty."

"I mean if the time's too short."

"There's ample time," replied the intendant. He had already determined
how he would cast the play, and intended to try the novel experiment of
using the costume of the last century.

"I think," said the queen, while her voice assumed an expression which
was foreign to it, "that you might give us 'Nathan the Wise' or 'Minna
von Barnhelm,' if you think they can be produced more effectively."

"Let it be as it is," exclaimed the king, suddenly. "Let 'Emilia
Galotti' be the play, and have the bills read: 'By royal command.'"

The king offered his arm to the queen, and, accompanied by her,
withdrew. The rest of the company bowed low and soon afterward
separated for the night. Those who lived without the palace got into
their carriages; the rest retired to their apartments, and, although
indifferent and unimportant topics had but recently engaged them, every
one was busied with his own thoughts on one and the same subject.

Irma dismissed her maid as soon as possible; then, taking up a
dust-covered volume of Lessing, she opened and closed the book several
times in order to shake off the dust, and, at one sitting, read the
whole of "Emilia Galotti."

She did not fall asleep until near morning, and, when she awoke, hardly
knew where she was. The open book still lay before her; the lights had
gone out of themselves, for she had forgotten to put them out, and the
air in her apartment was close and almost stifling.

At about the same time that Irma awoke, bitter tears were being shed in
the theater. The intendant had assigned "Emilia Galotti" to a new cast,
had taken the _rôle_ of Emilia from the leading actress, who had looked
upon the part as hers in perpetuity, and had given it to a more
youthful performer. The _rôle_ of Claudia had been assigned to the
elder actress, who sat weeping behind a side-scene, exclaiming; "Pearls
mean tears, but tears do not mean pearls." The intendant, though
generally kind and amiable, was unrelenting.

But Baum was far more unhappy than the dissatisfied actress. For she
was still permitted to take part in the performance, while he, on
account of the mishap with the cup, was no longer allowed to remain
near their majesties. He deplored his misfortune to Walpurga, and she
begged the queen that Baum might again be restored to favor. On the
second evening, the queen inquired if the lackey Baum was ill. He was
saved. Full of gratitude, he went to Walpurga and said:

"I'll never forget you for this: you've served me for life."

"I'm glad I've been able, for once, to do you a favor."

"I'll repay you some time or other, depend upon it."

Baum hurriedly withdrew, for Irma entered the room. The king came in
soon afterward. He was about to speak French with Irma, but she begged
him not to do so, saying:

"Simplicity is very susceptible."

"And so-called good-nature," replied the king, "is often full of malice
and intrigue. Weakness all at once fancies itself obliged to be very
strong."

"We must be gentle for all that," replied Irma. Although they had
spoken German before Walpurga, she had not understood a word of what
they said.

"I admire the power of my spy," said the king, "and confess that I bow
to her, in all humility. I would never have believed such greatness
possible."

Irma nodded gently, and replied: "The hero is Hettore Gonzaga, but the
true Emilia Galotti loves him with a power which is worthy of him."

"And the true Hettore is neither dilettante nor weakling, and needs no
Marinelli."

The relation born of shame and passion received added strength through
the cunning and intriguing opposition of the queen, for the choice of
the proscribed play was regarded as part of a well-considered plan. It
was like a breath of wind, which, instead of extinguishing the flame,
fans it. Deep within their hearts, lurked the self-extenuating plea
that the queen was not the pure angel she pretended to be.

"I am firmly convinced," said the king, "that Hippocrates conjured the
fatal crystal cup into Nausikaa's hand."

"No, Your Majesty," replied Irma, eagerly, "Hippocrates is a thoroughly
noble man; somewhat of a pedant, indeed, but too good and too wise to
do anything like that."

The king soon left and, after he had gone, Walpurga said:

"Now, Countess, you might open every vein in my body and I couldn't
repeat one word of what you've been saying. I don't understand a word
of it."

"Yes, Walpurga," said Irma, "the king's a very learned man, and we have
just been talking about a book which was read yesterday."

Walpurga was satisfied.

"I had expected to meet the queen here," said Irma, after a while,
passing her hand over her face, as if to change its expression.

"The queen isn't coming to-day," replied Walpurga. "She sent word that
she isn't very well. At other times, she never misses being here when
we bathe the child, and there's nothing more beautiful either, than
such a child in its bath, or right after the bath. It's like a newborn
babe, and splashes and shouts and crows. Won't you stop and see it for
once? It's a real treat."

Irma declined and soon afterward left the room. Silent and alone, the
queen lay in her room. Her heart still trembled with fear of the
consequences of what she had done; no, of what had happened without her
having really desired it. A dagger had been forced into her hand, as if
by invisible fate. She could not, dared not use it; and yet suspicion
filled her soul. Suspicion! The word suddenly seemed as if she had
never heard it before, just as she had in truth never felt what it
meant. Purity and innocence no longer exist. Every joyful word, every
cheerful expression, every smile is equivocal. Every harmless remark
has a new meaning. It were better to die than cherish suspicion. The
blessed gift of fancy which enables its possessor faithfully to realize
to himself, and sympathize with, the actions and thoughts of others,
now became a consuming flame. Specters appeared before her waking eyes
and would not be laid. If the dread truth were only determined. One can
take his position against a manifest wrong, but against suspicion there
is none. It renders one weak and unsteady; nothing is fixed; the very
earth under one's feet seems to tremble.

The queen was not ill. She could easily enough have gone to the
apartments of her son; but she could not have looked into his face and
smiled--for her heart was filled with a bitter thought against the
father.

She arose quickly, and was about to send for the king. She would tell
him all. She wished him to release her from the torment of suspicion.
She would believe him. She would only ask him honestly to acknowledge
whether he was still true and at one with her. "At heart he's frank and
truthful," said she to herself, and love for her husband welled up from
the depths of her heart. Still, if he but swerved from himself, he has
already been untrue: and would he acknowledge it? Can one expect a man
to answer on his conscience, when he has already denied that
conscience? And if he were to acknowledge the horrible fact, she would
still bear it in silence. Anything was better than this suspicion that
poisoned her heart and hardened her soul. Could it be that evil, nay,
the mere suspicion of evil, destroys everything that lies within its
reach?

She sat down again; she could not ask the king.

"Be it so," said she at last; "I must overcome this temptation, and the
spirit of truth will lend me strength."

She thought for a moment of making Gunther her confidant. He was her
fatherly friend. "But no," she exclaimed to herself, "I am not weak. I
will not seek help from others. If I must learn the terrible truth, I
will do it by myself; and if it is a delusion, I mean to conquer it
unaided."

At table and in the social circle, the queen's behavior toward the king
and Irma was more loving than ever. When she looked at her friend, she
felt as if she ought to ask forgiveness for having, even for a moment,
thought basely of her; but when she was alone she felt her soul carried
away toward him and her. She longed to know what they were thinking of,
what they were doing or saying.--They were speaking of her, smiling at
and ridiculing her. Who knows? perhaps wishing her dead.

She, indeed, wished that she were dead.



                               CHAPTER X.


"I'm going to the theater this evening," said Baum to Walpurga, in the
afternoon of the 22d of January. "They're going to play a great piece.
What a pity you can't go, too."

"I've seen enough of masquerading," replied Walpurga. "I shall stay
with my child. He's the only one in the whole court who can't disguise
himself."

Every seat in the court theater was occupied long before the beginning
of the play, and the lively talking among the audience seemed like the
roar of the sea. Many wondered at the words on the play-bill:


               "_In Commemoration of Lessing's Birthday_
                             EMILIA GALOTTI
                           BY ROYAL COMMAND."


They spoke in hints, but understood each other perfectly. Was the
performance intended to refute certain rumors? Would the court attend,
and who would form the suite?

Three dull knocks were heard. They were the signal that the court had
entered the passage leading from the palace to the theater. Every eye,
every opera-glass was directed to the royal box.

The queen entered, radiant with youthful beauty. The nobles who
occupied the first tier arose. She bowed graciously, and then sat down,
and attentively read the playbill that was fastened to the front of the
box. The king entered soon after and took the seat beside her. He, too,
saluted the nobles who were still standing, and who seated themselves
at the same time he did, just as if they were part of himself.

The king reached back for his lorgnette, which was handed to him, and
surveyed the audience, while the orchestra played the overture. Irma's
wish was realized. Since the new intendant had come into power, there
was music at the beginning of the play and during the _entr'actes_.

"Who's sitting behind the queen?"

"Countess von Wildenort."

She wore a single rose in her brown hair. She was exchanging a few
complimentary remarks with Colonel Bronnen, and was smiling and showing
her pearly teeth.

A young critic in the pit said to his neighbor:

"It is surely not without design that Countess Wildenort, like Emilia
Galotti, wears only a single rose in her hair."

There was so much talking during the overture, that those who desired
to listen to the music frequently hissed, but without avail; for it was
not until the curtain rose that the audience became silent.

It is not until near the end of the first act of the play that there is
any occasion for marked applause. The prince's haste and prejudice are
shown in his readiness to sign the death-warrant, while the carriage
waits for him. Old privy councilor Rota withdraws the document.

In order to mark the festal character of the evening's performance, the
intendant had selected music by celebrated composers, for the
_entr'actes_. The malicious maintained that this was only done in order
to prevent discussion of the play, which had not been performed for
many years. If this had really been the intention, the lively
conversation, both in the royal box and among the rest of the audience,
prevented its success.

In reply to a remark of the king's, the intendant said:

"The rôle of Rota, although insignificant, is quite a graceful one,
and, in this, Lessing has proved himself the master. Another advantage
is that the part can be played by a veteran."

The queen looked around in surprise--was this mere acting, instead of a
living, thrilling fact?

They went on with the play. The scene between Appiani and Marinelli
aroused tumultuous applause. The queen never once left her place,
although it was her wont between the acts to retire to the _salon_ near
her box; and Irma, as first maid of honor, was obliged to remain in
attendance.

Between the third and fourth acts, the lord steward met Bronnen in the
corridor and said: "If they would only get through with this
confounded, democratic play. The sweet rabble down there may become
demonstrative." The next act was the fourth, containing the scene
between Orsina and Marinelli. The queen held her fan with a convulsive
grasp. She saw and heard all that passed on the stage while, with
strained attention, she listened to the quickened breathing of Irma,
who stood behind her. She longed to turn round suddenly and look into
her face, but did not venture to do so. With one and the same glance,
she saw the figures on the stage and watched her husband's countenance.
Her eyes and ears did double service. It was all she could do to
control herself. The play went on. Orsina and Odoardo--if Irma were
now to faint--What then? What had she done in having this piece
performed?--Orsina hands the dagger to her father, and at last rises
into a frenzy of fury. "If we, all of us," she cried, "this whole host
of forsaken ones, were transformed into bacchantes and furies, with him
in our possession, and were tearing him to pieces and rending the flesh
from his limbs--yea, tearing out his vitals in order to find the heart
which the traitor promised to each and yet gave to none! Ah, what a
dance that would be! That would--"

If Irma should cry out!--The queen clutched the rail of the box with
convulsive grasp. She felt as if she, herself, must cry out to the
audience.

But all was as silent as before.

When the scene was over, the king, addressing Irma, in a careless tone,
said: "Müller plays excellently, does she not?"

"Wonderfully, Your Majesty, although some parts were overacted. The
passage, 'I have nothing to pardon, because I have not been offended,'
she gave in too sharp a tone, and her voice seemed unnatural. The
sentences of one who had been thus openly humiliated should be more
like dagger thrusts; the words should prepare us for the sharp point of
the dagger that follows them."

Irma's voice was firm and clear. The queen fanned herself, in order to
cool her burning face and prevent herself from betraying her agitation.

One whose conscience reproved her could not have spoken thus. Her voice
must have faltered and the terrible lesson of the play itself must have
petrified her, thought the queen, as she turned toward Irma and nodded
pleasantly.

I am stronger than I imagined, thought Irma to herself, smoothing her
gloves. While she heard Odoardo's words, a mist had arisen before her
eyes. If it had been her father--and it might have been he. A cry arose
from her heart, but did not pass her lips; and now she was quiet and
self-composed. The play progressed without interruption, and, when it
was over, the audience were not content until they had twice called the
Odoardo of the evening before the curtain. The king joined in the
applause.

The court party returned to the palace, and retired to the queen's
apartments for tea.

The queen was cheerful, as if she had escaped from some danger. For the
first time in a long while her bearing was easy and vivacious. A dread
load had been lifted from her heart. She was now free and vowed that
she would never more think basely of any one; and, least of all, of her
neighbor.

They were at tea, and the queen asked her husband: "And had you also
never seen the play before?"

"Oh, yes. I saw it on my travels; I forget where it was." Turning
toward the intendant, he added: "I think that the costume of the last
century was very appropriate. When I saw the play before, it was in
modern attire, which seemed quite out of place. In spite of its classic
character, the play has a thin crust of powder which one dare not blow
away, lest the whole, both scene and action, become unnatural."

The intendant was delighted.

"How do you like the piece?" asked the king of Gunther.

"Your Majesty, it is one of our classics."

"You're not always so orthodox."

"Nor am I in this case," replied Gunther; "I can safely say that I
honor Lessing with all my heart and perhaps, indeed, with undue
partiality. But in this play, Lessing had not yet arrived at the repose
of freedom. It is the result of noblest melancholy, and might be termed
fragmentary and incomplete; for the account is not closed, and at the
end there still remains an unfilled breach. This, however, arises from
the fact that a great historical subject taken from the age of the
Romans has been transferred to the cabinet and country-seat of a petty
Italian prince."

"How do you mean?" enquired the king. Gunther went on to explain:

"In this play, there is a pathos of despair which reaches its climax in
the final question: 'Is it not enough that princes are men? Must they
also learn that their friends are demons in disguise?' One might assume
that this discovery was a punishment that would cling to the prince for
life. Henceforth, he must become a changed man. But this epigrammatic
confession of his own weakness and of the baseness of those who environ
him, does not seem to me a full expiation. A question, and such as
this, at the close of a drama whose aim should be to leave us
reconciled with eternal and unchanging law, can only be explained by
the fact that the keynote of the whole play is sarcastic. He whom
certain things will not deprive of his reason, has none to lose. The
fault of the play--Lessing's love of truth would court the boldest
investigation--the gap, as it were, lay in the fact that Lessing has
transferred the act of Virginius from the Roman forum to the modern
stage and has given us, instead of the infuriated citizen with knife in
hand, the malcontent Colonel Galotti. The act of Virginius was the
turning point that led to a great political catastrophe, after which
came revolution and expiation. But in Lessing's play, the deed takes
place at the end, and leads to no results. It closes with a question,
as it were, or rather with an unresolved dissonance."

Although this explanation had, at first, been given in a somewhat
acrimonious tone, it gave great satisfaction. It elevated the subject,
and the painful impressions awakened by it, into the cool, serene
atmosphere of criticism.

"What struck me as peculiar, in the play," said Irma, unable to remain
silent, "was that I discovered two marriage stories in it."

"Marriage stories? and two of them?"

"Certainly. Emilia is the offspring of an unfortunate, or, to speak
plainly, a bad marriage. Odoardo, with his rude virtue, and Claudia, so
yielding, led each other a terrible life and, in the end, parted
without scandal. He remained on his estate, while she took the daughter
to the city, in order that she might there receive the finishing
touches. Emilia was obliged to devote much of her time to the piano.
Papa Appiani was, in a moral sense, always on stilts. Madame Claudia
was worldly-minded and fond of society. The fruit of this marriage was
Emilia, and her marriage with Appiani would have been just like that of
her parents."

"Cleverly expounded," said the king, and, encouraged by his praise,
Irma continued:

"Emilia's grandmother may have said: 'I am unhappy, but I would like my
daughter Claudia to be happy with good Odoardo, who was then but a
captain. And in turn, mother Claudia said: 'I am not happy, but my
daughter shall be'; and, at a later day, Emilia would have said: 'I am
not happy, but my daughter, etc., etc.' It's an everlasting round of
misery and resignation. Who is this Mr. Appiani? A splenetic counselor
to the embassy, who is out of employ, and merely marries for the sake
of the worthy man whom he thus makes his father-in-law, and who, after
marriage, would preach to his wife just as Odoardo had done before him,
and with just as much effect. Appiani was worth a charge of powder, or
even two, as Marinelli thought. Why had he no eye for the toilette of
his betrothed? The very next winter, Emilia would have died of _ennui_
in the country, or, becoming transformed in spirit, would have founded
an infant school on her estate. If Emilia could sing, her melodies
would have been like those of Mozart's Zerlina. Masetto Appiani felt
that he would not suit, and, although he could not tell why, had good
reasons for feeling so bad before the betrothal. Appiani ought to have
married a widow with seven children. The man's heart was tender by
nature. Had he quarreled with his wife, he would have said, as he did
after his dispute with Marinelli; 'Ah, that did me good. It stirred up
my blood and now I feel like a new and better man.' Emilia loves the
prince and, therefore, fears him. He who becomes her husband by virtue
of the marriage contract, has never possessed her love. I would have
chosen Appiani for a parliamentary delegate, but not for a husband.
Such a man should either remain unmarried, or else take unto himself a
wife who founds soup-kitchens; not an Emilia, who is enough of a
coquette to know what becomes her."

Irma's cheeks glowed while she thus spoke. She felt as if riding o'er
forest and field on a wild courser. She had begun in bitterness and,
yielding to imagination, she went on boldly and fearlessly. She had
lost all fear and felt a conscious pride in her sway over life itself
and all that surrounded her.

The evening which had threatened dire storms had brought refreshing
breezes and a purified atmosphere.

The queen breathed freely once more, and felt happy in the midst of
this circle of good and gifted people.

Immediately after the play, Baum had hurried to Walpurga and told her:
"Oh, what a play we've had. I wonder they allow them to play anything
so free. There's a prince who's just about to marry a princess, and has
an old love who's still good-looking. He wants to get rid of her and,
in the mean while, tries to procure a new one who is very beautiful and
whose marriage is to take place that very day. He has a chamberlain who
is his friend, but whom he treats quite roughly if he doesn't bring him
what he wants on the instant. He treats him as an inferior and calls
him a fool one moment, and embraces him the next. So the chamberlain
manages to have the bridegroom shot dead and the bride carried away.
But, all at once, the old love comes and meets the father of Emilia
Galotti and sets him on, and the father stabs his daughter, and she
drops down dead."

"And what becomes of the prince and the chamberlain?" asked Walpurga.

"I don't know."

"Tell me once more," said Walpurga; "what was the bride's name?"

"There's the play-bill. It's all there."

Walpurga read the bill; the hand with which she held it trembled. There
were names which the king and Irma had mentioned that day, when she had
not understood a word of what they were saying.

"And so you've had that story performed. Oh you--The whole pack of you
are--I know--"

Mademoiselle Kramer's' advice stood her in good stead. Walpurga did not
venture to utter the thoughts that filled her mind.

On the following evening, there was a court concert. The large hall in
the main building was crowded with men wearing gay uniforms and crosses
of various orders, and richly dressed ladies. The select court circle
were in the hall, and the guests in the adjoining apartments and
galleries.

Those who belonged to the queen's small circle, and who had been
together yesterday, greeted each other with a familiar air. They did
not keep together to-day. It was their duty to mingle with those guests
who were less frequently invited. The king was attired in the uniform
of the hussars and was in a happy mood. During the pauses, he would
walk through the rooms, speaking to this one and that, and would have a
pleasant word for every one. The queen looked as if suffering, and it
was evident that it cost her an effort to keep up.

It was Irma's habit to enter into cheerful conversation with the
singers, who were always seated on a raised platform separated from the
rest of the room. The malicious asserted that she did this, in order to
make a parade of her affability; but Irma simply believed it her duty
to be kind and affable to the artists.

Doctor Gunther was engaged in conversation with the director of the
academy and intendant Schoning. They were discussing designs for
paintings to decorate the new parliament house, which had recently been
completed by the king's orders. The artist regretted that there was no
accepted symbol of the constitution. The conventional antique female
figure holding a sheet of paper, was always cold and unsatisfactory.

"You re-awaken an old thought," replied the intendant. "What we lack is
the myth-creating power and, if you will allow the expression in this
case, the court-directing power. Just as there is a field marshal, so
should there be a court director who--I mean it seriously--should
always have precedence in all affairs of importance, and, at court,
should always represent the constitution. Believe me, the constitution
is not admitted at court. What I mean is, it is not represented and is,
therefore, unknown there. Do you not agree with me, privy councilor
Gunther?"

Gunther, rousing himself from a reverie, answered: "There's no longer
any use in trying to find myths and symbols to represent things which
have been weighed and measured and of which we have distinct
conceptions. It would be just as unsuccessful as an attempt to
represent the goddess of reason."

He spoke in an absent manner, for he was constantly watching Irma. She
was about to return to the company, when he advanced toward her. She
said: "Ah, nowadays everything is according to programme. In olden
times, the king sent for a bard with his harp, and the old man, with
his white beard, sang wondrous songs. But now, nothing less than an
orchestra and a dozen singer? will do, and one has the musical bill of
fare in his hand."

Gunther did not seem disposed to enter upon the subject, and replied:

"I've been thinking seriously about what you said yesterday."

"I never think about what was said yesterday."

"But I'm a pendant and can't help it. You're right. Emilia would never
have been happy with Appiani."

"I'm glad that you agree with me."

"Do you think that Emilia would have been happy with the prince?"

"Yes."

"And for how long?"

"That I don't know."

"She would soon have been undeceived, for this prince is only a selfish
voluptuary, one who steals sweets in love and in life; in a word, a
dilettante. As long as a dilettante is young, the grace which is
inseparable from the vigor and elasticity of youth, lend him what is
called an interesting air. But when he becomes older he copies himself,
repeats the few phrases which he has heard from others or has, perhaps,
blundered together for himself, and, as if disguising his soul with
rouge, affects the possession of youthful enthusiasm. Beneath the
surface, all is withered, empty, decayed and fragile. It is not without
reason that Lessing depicted Hettore as young and handsome, and on the
eve of consummating a lawful marriage. He is ready to make Appiani
embassador to his father. Are you not of my opinion?" asked Gunther at
last. He noticed that Irma seemed unwilling to answer.

"Oh, excuse me," said she; "I've drunk so deeply of the music of to-day
that I've no memory left for the dry affairs of yesterday."

She took leave of him with a pleasant smile and disappeared in the
throng.



                              CHAPTER XI.


Although its advent had been preceded by much gayety and merriment,
there were quiet times at court during the carnival season.

The queen was ill.

The excitement of the last few weeks had greatly impaired her strength,
and it was feared that her life was in danger.

Irma now spent most of her time in the queen's apartments, and when, at
rare intervals, she visited Walpurga, looked pale and worn.

Walpurga still kept on spinning, and the child thrived amazingly.

"Oh, how true were our good queen's words! 'God be praised, my child!'
said she to the prince, one day, 'that you're healthy and away from me.
You live for yourself, alone.' Yes, she's looked deep into every one's
heart, and I think she's too good for this world. Mother's said, a
thousand times, that the Lord soon calls those who are always good, and
who never get downright angry and furious. Oh, if I could only take my
prince home with me! Spring'll soon be here. Oh God! if he were to lose
his mother and me too!"

Thus did Walpurga express herself to Mademoiselle Kramer, who found it
no easy matter to console her.

Baum so managed it that there was always something for him to do in the
crown prince's apartments. He was no longer importunate, but simply
grateful and obliging, in his attentions to Walpurga. He was determined
to gain her sympathy, for that was worth more to him than aught else.
And now when Walpurga confided her trouble to him, he said:

"Do I wish you well?"

"Yes, I can't deny that you do," replied Walpurga.

"Then listen to what I've got to tell you. There's nothing more
tiresome, or niggardly, than a good, simple marriage; that is, what
they call a 'good marriage.' What does one get by it? Wages, a tip,
once in a while from a stranger, or a few bottles of wine which one can
make away with. In Baroness Steigeneck's time, it was quite different,
for then the valets de chambre and every one about the place grew rich,
and had houses in the town, and owned mortgages and estates. But now,
thank God, it'll soon be different again."

"I don't know what you mean," said Walpurga.

"I wish I were in your place, only for one hour," replied Baum. "She
thinks more of you than she does of any one. It was here that they came
to an understanding, and, if you've a mind to, you can get all the
money you want, and woods and fields and meadows besides. All I ask
for, is the place of steward at the summer palace."

"And how am I to do all that?"

"Oh you--" laughed Baum. "Haven't you noticed anything? Haven't you
eyes in your head? If the queen dies, the king will marry your
countess. She's a free countess, and can marry any king; and if the
queen doesn't die, it won't matter much anyhow."

"I'd like to box your ears for saying such a thing; and the next minute
you'll be cringing and bowing to them. How can you say such a thing?"

"But if it's true?"

"But it isn't true."

"But if it were true, for all?"

"It can't be true."

"But I tell you it is."

"And even if it were-- But, forgive me, good Countess! I don't believe
a word of it, it's only he that says it.--If it were true, I'd rather
die than ask for the wages of sin. You're a good-for-nothing fellow,
and if you ever say such a thing again, I'll tell on you. Take my word
for it, I will."

Baum pretended that it was all a joke. But Walpurga could see no joke
in the matter, and he was glad when she, at last, promised to say
nothing about it. He remarked that he required no mediator and would
manage to look out for himself.

In Countess Irma's apartment, which was just below that of the crown
prince and Walpurga, a scene of quite a different nature was going on.

Bruno was there, and thus addressed Irma:

"I'm in trouble, and I can't help saying that it's your fault. Mother
Sylph has inflicted herself upon me, and is very much in my way.

"Whom do you mean?"

"My mother-in-law has come and has told me with a smile, that as long
as my sister--she, too, might just as well be here."

Irma covered her face with both her hands.

"And do you, too, believe it?"

"What matters it what I believe? It's the town-talk, and that's
enough."

"It isn't enough; I shall teach them to talk differently."

"Very well. Go into every house, to every man and every woman, and tell
them to think differently. But there's one thing you can do. Shall I
tell you what it is?"

Irma nodded a silent assent.

"I know that the intendant sued for your hand last summer. He would
feel it an honor to be able to call you his wife. Make up your mind to
accept him."

A servant entered and announced the intendant.

"What a strange coincidence! Make up your mind at once."

The intendant entered. Bruno greeted him most cordially, and Irma's
welcome was a friendly one.

Bruno soon took his leave. The intendant handed Irma a manuscript play
and requested her to read it and give him her opinion of it. She
accepted it with thanks, and laid it on a table.

"Ah, when spring returns, I shall not care to hear the theater
mentioned. Our theater is a winter plant."

"This piece is intended for next winter."

"I can't tell you how I long for summer. When everything is barren and
desolate at present, one can hardly realize that there ever were
sunshine and green trees and sparkling seas. Do you remember the balmy
day last summer, when we met on the lake?"

"I do, indeed; very well."

A long pause ensued. Irma waited for the intendant to speak, but he
remained silent. Not a sound was heard but that made by the parrot
hopping about in its cage and pecking at the golden wires.

"I long," said Irma, "to visit my friend Emma next summer. I would like
to revel in solitude. This winter has been too noisy and exciting."

"Yes, and besides that, the queen's illness."

The parrot tugged at the golden wires, and Irma slightly loosened the
red velvet ribbon on her morning dress.

"Do you intend to visit the lake again?" said Irma, trembling.

"No, dear Countess; I shall visit the various theaters of Germany, in
order to engage a second basso and, above all, a young person for the
lover's parts. You would hardly believe how scarce youthful lovers have
become in the German world."

Irma laughed heartily, while the blood mounted to her temples. She felt
quite faint.

The servant announced Baroness Steigeneck.

"I'm not at home," was Irma's hurried reply. "Pray remain a moment
longer," said she, addressing the intendant.

He remained for some time longer, and referred to the manuscript,
mentioning that the passages to be omitted were marked with a red
pencil. Irma promised to read the play, thanked him for the compliment
paid her judgment, and conversed in a light and careless tone, until he
had left the room. As soon as he had gone, she threw herself on a sofa,
where she lay for a long while, weeping bitterly. At last, she looked
up, as if bewildered, for she thought she had heard a voice saying:
"You meant to--Is there no other course left? Must one who has
swerved from the straight path, necessarily sink into the mire of
self-abasement?"

Suddenly, she arose, shook her head defiantly and brushed the hair from
her face. She ordered her carriage, intending to drive to the
sculptor's atelier and resume her work. The servant announced Colonel
von Bronnen. "Let him enter," said Irma. A moment later, Irma was
apologizing for receiving him in her hat. She was just about to drive
out.

"I can call again, dear Countess, and will only leave the messages I
have for you."

"Messages?"

"Yes, from your father."

"From my father? Where did you meet him?"

"At Wildenort."

"Were you there?"

"Yes, I had some matters to attend to in the neighborhood, and, without
further introduction, called on your father. I felt that I had a right
to call myself an intimate friend of yours."

"And how fares it with my father?"

"As it should with the father of such a daughter."

"Of such a daughter--"

"Pardon me, dearest Countess. You are in a hurry, and I am still so
impressed by your father's great and noble nature, that I would rather
we were both calm--"

"I am quite calm now; pray tell me, have you a message for me?"

"I have not. But it seems to me, dear Countess, as if I were just
beginning to understand you.--Oh, what a man your father is!"

Irma looked up in surprise. She thought of Appiani speaking to Odoardo.

The colonel continued, calmly:

"Dear Countess, I am not an enthusiastic youth; but, during the short
time I was permitted to spend with your father, I felt as if the
exalted existence which had once been my ideal had become a real,
living fact. Such perfect communings are impossible unless one feels
sure that he is looked upon with favor, and I feel that I have had the
good fortune to gain your father's good opinion."

"You fully deserve it. Excuse me, while I lay off my hat. Pray take a
seat and tell me more about father." She removed her hat; her
excitement had only added to her beauty.

She rang for a servant and ordered him to send the carriage away.

The colonel seated himself.

Irma was all attention. "Now tell me all," said she, brushing back her
curls.

"You, of all others, will understand me, when I say that I passed
sublime hours with your father. And yet I can recount nothing definite
in regard to them. If, while rambling through the woods, I pluck a
spray and fasten it to my hat, what can the spray tell of the rustling
of the forest, or of the free mountain air? It is merely a symbol, both
for us and to those we meet, of the joy that pervades our whole being."

"I understand you," said Irma. They sat opposite each other, and
neither of them spoke for some time.

"Did my father mention my brother?"

"No. The word 'son' never passed his lips. Oh, Countess! the man to
whom pure love vouchsafes the happiness of becoming a son--"

Emotion seemed to choke his utterance. Irma trembled; her heart beat
quickly. Here was a man, noble and highly esteemed, who offered her his
heart and hand. Yea, his heart, and she had none to give him in return.
She felt a pang that pierced her very soul.

"I feel happy," said she, "that father, in his solitude, has once more
seen that this stirring, bustling court contains some worthy men; men
like yourself, who stand for that which is best in all things. Do not,
I beg of you, reject my honest praise. I know that true merit is always
modest, because it is never satisfied with itself."

"Your father expressed the same thought, in the very same words."

"I believe he must have taught it tome; if not in words, at all events
by his example. I would have liked to see you and him together. Your
presence must have restored his faith in humanity. You are a messenger
of goodness, and since you are good, you believe in the virtue of
others."

"Where I have once felt respect and love," replied Bronnen, "I am
unchangeable. I should like to write to your father at an early day. I
should love, dear Countess, to send him the best of news, and in the
best words that language affords. Countess Irma, I long to tell him--"

"My dear friend," interposed Irma, "I am, like my father, of a solitary
nature. I thank you. You do not know how greatly your visit and all
that you have told me, has benefited me. I thank you with all my heart.
Let us remain friends. Give me your hand as a pledge. Let us remain
friends, just as we have been. I thank you--"

Her voice was choked with tears.

The colonel took his leave. Irma was alone. She lay kneeling near the
sofa. Her heart was filled with unutterable sorrow. The coxcomb had
rejected her. Then came a man worthy of the best of wives. He loved and
trusted her, and she had refused him. His kind and honest heart had a
right to ask for full, unbounded love. She shook off the mingled
feeling of distress and mortification. The thought that she had acted
honorably, soothed her and seemed like refreshing dew to her whirling
brain. But then, again, it galled her when she asked herself: "How far
have you sunk, that you are obliged to make a show of simple honesty?
And where lives the girl who, if not bound by love, has a right to
reject the man whom you have just refused? He cannot but esteem you and
your love."

She knew not how long she lay there. She laughed and wept, lamented and
rejoiced.

Her maid entered. It was time to dress for dinner.



                              CHAPTER XII.


The queen was ill. Her life was saved, but a hope was lost.

It was on a stormy morning in spring, that Baum, caring a little coffin
that contained the corpse of a still-born babe, descended the back
stairs of the palace. He walked so softly that he did not hear his own
footsteps. He was followed by Madame Leoni, the queen's waiting-woman,
who held a white handkerchief to her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, a
carriage was in waiting. Baum was obliged to tell the coachman, who was
not in court livery, where to drive to. Scarcely any one in the palace
knew of what was going on.

They drove out of town and toward the church-yard. An unnamed child is
not placed in the vault, but is buried in the public cemetery. The
grave-digger was waiting for them. The little corpse was lowered into
the open grave, without a name or sign to mark its place of burial.
About the same time that Baum and Madame Leoni were out at the
churchyard, Walpurga was thus writing home:

".... Thank God! all's over. Now I can look forward to happier days.
We've had a terrible time here. If all goes well, there are only seven
Sundays more till I come home again. I can hardly believe it possible
that I've got to go away from here again, and yet I'll thank God a
thousand times, when I'm with you once more. If I stay here, I shall
grow quite stupid from thinking so much. There's misery everywhere and
people take pleasure in each other's wickedness, and, even if it isn't
true, they imagine it is and find pleasure in it, besides.

"There was some talk about our getting a place here, where we could all
be comfortable for life; but the queen said that it would be better for
me to go home, and whatever she says, is right. She's a true queen,
just as a queen ought to be. God has made her so, on purpose.

"I'd only like to know why she has to suffer so much.

"Oh, what a time we've had. Every minute, we thought the
queen-- There's not another soul like her in the world, and she had so
much to bear, and we're all human after all. But now, thank God, all's
over. The king's doctor says the danger's over. But, of course, what we
hoped for, is gone. I can't tell you how it made me feel, to think that
I was so well, and I felt as if I must go to the queen and give up
every drop of my blood to save her.

"Whenever I had a chance, I went down to the church--they have their
church in the house here--and prayed for the queen. My countess has
never once come to me. They say she looks like a shadow. All the
passages here are heated and the whole house is just like one warm
room, and the people in the palace would pass each other, without
taking notice of any one.

"On the evening that the queen thought she was going to die, she sent
for me and the child. She didn't say much, but her eyes told it all.

"And now, Hansei, keep yourself ready; you must come for me. Next time
I write, I'll tell you the very day when you're to come.

"I feel as if I couldn't wait; and yet it makes my heart ache to think
that I must leave my prince, for he loves me so. But I can't help it.
I've got a child, a husband and a mother of my own, at home, and am
tired of being in service and among strangers.

"Does the storm rage so terribly with you? Oh, how the wind blows. If
it would only bear me home. Last night it blew down a tree in front of
my window. It was a fine, large tree, and fell on a figure which it
broke to pieces. Every one said it was very beautiful, but I couldn't
see any beauty in such a thing. It seemed ever so impudent as it stood
there, and was enough to make one blush. I could see the tree and the
figure from my window, and people are already there, putting things to
rights, and carrying all that's damaged out of the way.

"They're very quick about such things here, whether it be a tree, a
marble figure, or a dead child.

"Forgive me for writing such a mixed-up letter. When I get home again,
I can never tell you all that I've gone through here, if I live to be a
hundred years old.

"And when you come, dear Hansei, just put on the clothes that the king
sent, and one of the fine shirts that I made for you when we were
married. They're in the blue closet on the upper shelf on the left-hand
side with the red ribbon. Forgive me for writing all this to you, but
you've had to take care of yourself almost a year, and I haven't been
able to help you, or get your things for you. Now that will all come
right again. I feel as if I were at home already, pulling your
shirt-collar straight, as we go to church of a Sunday morning. I feel
as if it was some one else who had gone through all this, and as if the
days were a high mountain that one can never cross. But all will be
right again, and we'll be merry and happy together, for, thank God,
we've sound limbs, and true hearts. Forgive me, all of you, if I've
ever said a single word to offend you.

"If I had you here, dear Hansei, I'd put my arms round your neck and
kiss you to my heart's content. You and the child and mother are all
the world to me. I'm just beginning to feel how much I love you all,
and I can't understand how I could stay away from you so long, without
dying of grief and homesickness.

"Don't forget to bring a large chest with you, for they've given me
ever so many things.

"And bring me something out of our garden; one of my pinks, and also
one of the child's shoes. But I'll tell you more plainly about this, in
my next letter.

"I can't fall into the ways of the court folk. I'm told that they can't
touch or dress their own dead. They have it all done by strangers, who
are paid for it.

"I've been spinning flax this winter, for shirts for my prince. They
were all pleased with it, and came to my room to look on and seemed as
much astonished as if it were something wonderful.

"I like to think of working in the fields again, it makes one much
healthier. But don't worry, for nothing ails me except that I am
terribly homesick.

"And now farewell; a thousand times farewell!

                 "Your        WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN."


While Walpurga, with slow and heavy hand, toiled at her letter,
Countess Irma sat at her desk, in the room below, and dashed off the
following lines:


"_My dearest Emma_: What a night I've passed--I must be endowed with
herculean strength, or I should not have lived through it. I have
looked into the fiery eyes of the glaring monsters who dwell above and
below our daily life and who suddenly, and without warning, burst upon
us. You must suffer me to return to you,--to write to you once more. I
don't know how long it is since I've done so. You are my fortress, my
rock, my shelter. You are firm, immovable, steadfast, patient. When in
distress, I come to you. I flee to you.

"It was a terrible night. The tree still stands, but a young blossom
was broken off. I came from the queen's apartment; I could not pray,
but stood by the window, and thought while I looked out into the night:
Thou who renewest everything, who awakenest the earth from its wintry
sleep, breathing new life into trees and flowers and all that faded and
withered last year--suffer a human heart to renew itself; let past
deeds be destroyed and forgotten. Suffer a child of man, regenerate and
redeemed, to begin life anew. I stood at the casement, while the wind
howled without. Suddenly there was a fearful crash. A tall oak before
my window had been broken by the angry wind. The tree toppled and, in
its fall, dashed a statue of Venus, which stood beneath it, into
fragments. It all seemed like a feverish dream, and when I realized
what had happened, my only wish was: Oh that I had been in the statue's
place! Oh that I had been dashed to atoms--It would have been far
better for me.

"I hardly know what to tell you. I only know that I may again be with
you--perhaps to-day, to-morrow, at night or in the daytime, I shall
fall on my knees to you and you will lift me up. I shall rest on your
heart, and you will protect me. You will save me from the demons; you
will not question me; you will give food and drink and rest to the
stranger soul, and will not ask whence it comes.

"What are we? What is the world? We see and know all, and yet--

"How ingenious the devices with which the world lulls its conscience
into slumber--If there were only no awakening! The awakening--the
morrow--that is the most terrible thought of all.

"An eternal kiss rests upon a statue at the arsenal, and the stars, the
moon and the sun look down upon it. If I could but climb up there, hurl
myself to the earth and destroy myself--the world--everything!

"Should you hear the bells tolling loudly, know that it is my funeral.
If there be a gentle knock at your door, think that it is a poor soul
that was once so rich--might still be--aye, is. Who can restore a human
being to himself? Who draws him out of the lake--out of the lake--

"Why is it that the lake is constantly before my eyes? I see myself in
it--I sink! Help me! Save me, Emma! Help me, I sink--!"


Irma suddenly uttered a loud shriek. The maid hurried into the room.
Her mistress had fainted and lay on the floor. When she revived, she
asked what had happened to her. Doctor Gunther sat at her bedside and
said:

"You've been writing; here is the letter. I took charge of it, as I
supposed it was this that had so excited you. I read the first six
lines. I was obliged to, but I assure you, on my honor, that I did not
read a word more. I took charge of the letter, so that no other eye
should see it. And now, keep yourself quiet; here it is."

Irma sat up and read the letter. Then she looked at the Doctor
earnestly, and said:

"I believe you." She called for a light and consigned the letter to the
flames.

"Will you promise me one thing?"

"What is it?"

"That you will give me poison, if I lose my mind."

"You are playing with extremes," replied the physician, "and that can't
be done with impunity."

After a long pause, Gunther said:

"Above all things, you must control yourself, and must not imagine that
these wild, wandering thoughts are your true self. I thought that you
would take my advice, but I was mistaken. You are your best, your only,
physician; force yourself to rest and let calm and happy thoughts alone
engage you."

Irma rested her head on her hand. Her eyes glowed with feverish fire.
She closed them, but suddenly arose and, seizing her loosened hair with
both hands, exclaimed: "I will have my hair cut off."

"That is another of your wild thoughts," said Gunther, calming her and
taking her hand in his. "You always wish to accomplish your desires by
violent methods. You must acquire repose."

"Yes, life is a slow and gradual growth, and death, yes, death in life,
takes but a moment," said Irma, with a wild and vacant stare.

"And now go to sleep, and you will soon be well again," said Gunther.
He was about to leave, but Irma detained him, and inquired.

"How is your wife--your family?"

"Thank you," said he. "They are calm and resigned."

Irma was about to beg that Gunther's wife might visit her, but could
not force herself to do so. Gunther left. He, himself, thought that if
Irma would frankly open her mind to his wife, the good sense of the
latter would gradually help the distracted one. But he knew that his
wife would not visit Irma. With all her kindness of heart, she had no
mercy for arrogance, and Irma, in her prosperous days, had neglected to
revisit the house in which she had received so hearty a welcome. Ever
since Irma had again left her father and returned to court, its doors
were closed to her. Irma, moreover, was regarded as having promoted the
revival of the convents and the appointment of the reactionary
ecclesiastical ministry of which Schnabelsdorf was premier.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


Walpurga's thoughts were of home, and she tried to picture to herself
how it would be when her letter arrived there. But she had been away so
long that she found it difficult to do so. The letter had arrived at
dusk, and Hansei, who was out in the backyard, chopping wood, was
called in. He hurriedly lit the lamp, and Stasi read the letter to
them. The grandmother wept, and the child on her lap moved about
restlessly, as if it felt that the words it heard were its mother's.
Nor could they help noticing that it had twice pulled the letter out of
Stasi's hand, and that, in order to finish reading it, she had been
obliged to move her seat. The child had, nevertheless, remained
restless as before. At last, the grandmother dried her tears and said:
"Thank God, that I have such a child. I don't mean you," said she to
her granddaughter, "I mean your mother. You may be glad if you turn out
as good as she is." Hansei listened with mouth agape, and smiled all
over his face when they came to the passage about Walpurga's embracing
him.

When she had finished the letter, Stasi said:

"It's a sad letter for all; but she'll be so much the happier when she
gets home again. I'm only sorry that I shan't meet her when she does
come."

Stasi was to be married on the following Sunday, to a forest-keeper,
who lived near the frontier, on the other side of the mountain.

Hansei took the letter again and was about to go away.

"Leave the letter here," whispered the mother to him. "That's not the
sort of a letter to read aloud at the Chamois. There are things in it
which only man and wife ought to tell each other when they're alone."

"Yes, you're right," said Hansei. "Here's the letter." He was,
nevertheless, sorry that the folks would not be able to see what a
pretty letter his wife could write, and how much she loved him, and how
good she was, and that none in the whole village deserved to be spoken
to by her, for his Walpurga was the pride of his life.

"Yes, grandmother," said he, while he stood in the doorway, "thank God,
the longest time's over. I can hardly understand how we managed to live
without each other so long, or how it'll be when she sits in this low
room again. But that'll be all right, and there are other houses
besides this."

Hansei spoke these last words quite rapidly. He wanted his
mother-in-law to understand that he was about to purchase a house. It
was proper that she should know of it, but there was no need of her
interference, lest she should rule him. The innkeeper was quite in the
right.

Hansei could hardly wait until he was again with his privy counselor,
and this privy counselor was, of course, the innkeeper. He looked up at
the house and the trees, as if to say: "Just keep still, and don't be
afraid. She'll come back again in good time, and she still thinks of
you all. She knows many a thing, and would make a better queen than
many another woman, and could reign better than the strongest man--"
When Hansei arrived in front of the inn, he waited for a little while,
in order to get his breath, and compose himself. It is no light matter
to have such an extraordinary wife; one is very apt to be thrown into
the background and to be less thought of. He was proud of his wife, but
he was the husband, nevertheless. He went into the inn quietly, and sat
down to a schoppen of wine, as calmly as if nothing had happened.

"That's the way a man should be," thought he to himself, while he took
a comfortable draught. "It won't do to tell the world everything. Keep
things to yourself. That makes the master; and that's what the women
can't do."

Hansei patted Dachsel and Wachsel, the landlord's two dogs, who seemed
to be fond of him, for they knew their master's favorites.

"Is it long since you've heard from your queen?" asked the host,
casually.

"No. Only to-day."

"What does she say?"

"All sorts of things," said Hansei, discreetly, adding, in a careless
manner, "I want to ask your advice about something presently."

The other guests looked up in surprise, to find Hansei the woodcutter
addressing the innkeeper in this familiar one, and were none the less
astonished that the latter did not object.

"If you've got more paper money it would be quite convenient," replied
the innkeeper.

"I've none this time, but I want to talk to you about another matter."

The host went into the back room, sent his wife out to wait on the
guests, and exclaimed: "Come in, Hansei." A secret council was held in
the back room.

Hansei told him that his wife would return in seven weeks from
yesterday, that she had written to him to come for her, and that, while
he knew how to carry himself in the world--

"Yes, that you do," said the host, "it was only yesterday that the
chief forester--he was sitting in the very seat you're in, now--said:
'That Hansei's a sharp fellow'."

Hansei smiled his thanks for the compliment.

"But I want to ask you about something."

"What is it?"

"Look here. You're so much--how shall I say it?--so much readier with
your mouth, and more mannerly than I am, and if I have to go to the
capital and stand up before the king and queen and all the grand
gentlemen, why--why--why, look here, whenever I think of it, even now,
it chokes me, and my opinion is that you'd better go along as my
mouthpiece and say everything properly. One doesn't have such a chance
more than once in a lifetime, and it won't do to forget anything."

"That's a clever thought of yours," said the innkeeper.

"You shan't do it for nothing and the journey shan't cost you a
groschen."

"No, I can't go with you. At court, it won't do to say: 'This is my
child's godfather, my comrade, and he's to come in, too, and speak for
me.' The one who has the audience is the only one who's allowed to
speak. If you want to have a little fun, and your wife's agreed, I
might go as Walpurga's husband--that would do."

"No," cried Hansei, "I won't do any such thing, and my wife wouldn't,
either. That won't do at all."

"Well, my dear fellow, all that remains is to go and speak for
yourself."

Hansei was sad. He felt as if thrust out of doors. He had not been
brought up and schooled for such things as talking to the king and
queen and their courtiers, and was afraid of what he might do to them
if they were to laugh at and ridicule him, for he wouldn't stand that.
He would allow no one to make sport of him, in his wife's presence, for
he was the husband and she only the wife.

"Don't be so faint-hearted--a man like you--" said the innkeeper
consolingly, while Hansei rubbed his forehead as if to make another
head out of his own. "Just pretend I was the king. What would you say?"

"You speak first."

"All right." The innkeeper placed himself in position, put his hand in
the breast of his coat, balanced himself on one foot, threw his head
back, and said gravely:

"Ah, and so you're the husband of--ah, what's her name--of Walpurga?"

"Yes, she's my wife."

"Have you been a soldier?"

"No, by your leave."

"You needn't say 'by your leave,' but you must add 'Your Majesty,' and
always as short as possible. The high folk never have any time to
spare; they're always in a hurry and everything is counted out to the
very minute. But what's the use of worrying ourselves already? We'd
better settle our little business now. You buy my house and fields.
I'll let you have them cheap, and then when the king asks how it goes
with you, you can answer: 'Your Majesty, it would go very well with me;
but I still owe three thousand florins on my house and farm and they
trouble me greatly.' And when you say that, you'll see that the king
will give you the three thousand florins at once. But if you didn't owe
it, you couldn't say it. I know you. You're an honest fellow and can't
tell a lie, and you know you might just as well say four thousand, or
five thousand--it's all the same--and you'll have some money over to
build with. But there's no need of that, and so you can lay in a stock
of wine instead."

"Yes, yes, you're right, but I think we'll make it a sham sale, for I
oughtn't do it without my wife's consent. The money really comes from
her, and I don't even know whether she's willing to have the inn. We'll
just make it a sham sale, and, if the king gives me the money and my
wife's agreed, it'll be all right."

The host had, before that, flattered Hansei on account of his
cleverness, but now, when there was real occasion for his doing so,
held his peace. After a pause, he said: "While the clever fellow makes
up his mind, the fool has time to make up his. I'll think about it."

They returned to the inn-parlor. Hansei felt ill at ease and soon went
home. On the way, old Zenza greeted him. He made believe that he
neither saw nor heard her, and hurried on. How glad he was that he had
not become wicked, and how would he have felt now, if he had allowed
himself to be tempted. Nothing would have been left him but to drown
himself in the lake before Walpurga's return.

When he reached home, he said to himself: "I can still enter here with
a good conscience and, God be praised, I can bid her welcome with a
good conscience." After he got into bed, he kept on repeating the
words: "God be praised," to himself, until he at last fell asleep. When
he awoke, the first thing he said was: "Good-morning, Walpurga." He
addressed his words to the empty air, but he felt as if she must hear
him, as if she were at home already, for she had sent so good a
messenger in advance. The letter was like a postillion playing welcome
melodies. Hansei lay there dreaming, with his eyes wide open, until
late in the day. But the day was both a good and an evil one. He had
promised his comrades to go out hunting with them. All at once, it
occurred to him that it was time to give up such sport. He would gladly
have remained at home, but feared the talk of the innkeeper and, though
the hills were far away, he felt as if he could distinctly hear the
innkeeper telling his comrades: "Ha! Ha! His wife's coming home, and
she's the master, and Hansei will have to lie down as she bids him." He
fancied that he heard his laughing comrades walking about in the woods
and calling out: "Lie down, Hansei; lie down," as if he were a dog.

An advocate at the provincial court,--for Hansei now had such
distinguished companions--was also with the hunting party, and would
laugh and jeer more than any of them. And then, to add to the fun, the
innkeeper would tell a fine story about the letter. Thank God, he
hadn't had a chance to read it. That would have been too bad. If I only
hadn't mentioned it; but I'm too stupid and can't keep a thing to
myself. If the innkeeper knew nothing of the letter, I could turn back
without feeling ashamed and without minding their jeers. But my mind's
made up. I shan't go with them again. I used to get along by myself,
and I will again, when she comes back. We'll need no one, then. Hansei
was busy thinking, that morning. He looked back upon how he had been
living all this time. He felt so homesick about his wife at first, that
he could not remain in the house and was unable to eat, drink sleep, or
work. So he went to the inn, where they wished him joy because his wife
had brought him such good luck, and this had pleased him; and when
others stopped talking about it, he would renew the subject; and
the innkeeper would take him along to fairs, target-shootings and
pleasure-parties. One could not help but admit it was all very pleasant
and entertaining, and the folks would say: "There goes Hansei, whose
wife is the crown prince's nurse." Wherever he went they showed him
great respect, and it's very pleasant to be received with respect
wherever you go. Before allowing him to sit down, the hostess would
always wipe off the chair with her apron, and considered it a pleasure
to do so. At last, a happy thought occurred to him, and he still held
fast to it. He would be the very man to keep an inn, and his wife would
be the best hostess from one end of the land to the other. She would
know how to talk to the people; and, after all, what is there
pleasanter in the world than keeping an inn?

Hansei was so long in getting up that the grandmother came to the door
and asked: "Is anything the matter? Are you sick?"

"Oh no, God forbid. I'm coming directly," replied Hansei. He soon came
and, in a kindly tone, said: "Good-morning. Is the child hearty?"

"Yes. All's well, thank God," said the grandmother. She was always the
same, whether Hansei was rude and taciturn, or talkative and
confidential.

During her daughter's absence, she had never interfered with him but
once, and then she had said: "You're the husband and the father, and
should know what to do, and what to let alone." She knew very well that
if she attempted to induce Hansei to give up his free life and his
comrades, he would be less likely to do so, if it were only to avoid
the appearance of being ruled by the old woman.

"Will you be at home at noon, or are you going across the field."

"I'll stay at home," said he, "I want to split wood. We'll clear up
things and make it look tidy about the house, by the time she returns."

The grandmother nodded a pleasant assent. Hansei would gladly have said
more, but he always thought that another ought to speak first, and so
he sat there, stuffing potato after potato into his mouth, just as if
every one were an answer he had received. With every potato that he
pared, he thought of the clever things he would say to the king. He
felt that the latter could not escape him. Six thousand florins could
be counted on; and of five thousand he felt quite sure.

"If the king gives us a good farm on a royal estate, or any other
appointment, we'll move away from here," said Hansei aloud. He thought
that the grandmother must know that he would gladly break loose from
his comrades and begin a changed life, elsewhere.

"Yes, yes," was all that the grandmother said.

"I think we must soon write an answer, and I'll write to her, too. She
seems so sad."

"Yes, yes; do so. I must go to the child."

In promising to write to his wife, Hansei had imposed a difficult task
upon himself. He would have liked to write kind, consoling, hearty
words; to have cautioned her not to worry so much about the few weeks
that still remained, and thus, perhaps, lost sight of what advantages
might present themselves. Now was the time to be in good spirits, for
pay-day was fast approaching. He had all these thoughts in his head,
and she would respect him for the manly advice he was about to offer.
But to get these ideas out of his head and on paper, was a difficult
task.

Consoling himself with the words: "There's no need of my writing. I'll
see her soon, and can tell her everything far better," he gave up the
attempt.

While the grandmother went into the room in which the child lay, Hansei
remained sitting at the table and emptied the whole dish of potatoes,
while he was, in imagination, explaining to the king how well he
understood forest matters. When the last potato was eaten, he went out,
took axe, mallet and wedge and, with mighty strokes, split the stumps
which had been piled up along the road in front of the garden. He had
just taken off his coat, for, in spite of the keen spring breeze, he
didn't feel cold, when a voice said, "Ah, you're still here." The
innkeeper stood behind him with his rifle slung over his shoulder and
accompanied by his two dogs, Dachsel and Wachsel. "You must have
overslept yourself, just as I did. If we take the road through the
valley and the ravine, we can still catch up with our comrades. Come,
hurry and dress yourself, and get your gun."

As if this were a command which he must obey, Hansei carried axe,
mallet and wedge into the house, dressed himself, took his gun and said
to the grandmother: "I think I'll go along, after all." He would have
liked to say; "I shall only go this once, so that they don't think that
I stay at home on account of my wife's letter," but he held his peace.
It isn't necessary to tell everything, and those to whom you do tell
all, have a right to interfere in all. I want to arrange everything
myself, and she must respect me for doing it.

Hansei accompanied the innkeeper to the hunt. He was in a good humor
and more cheerful than ever.



                              CHAPTER XIV.


           "How was it once? How will it be?"
            I prithee, darling, ask not me.
            Our life's the Present--hold it fast,
            And let each hour in joy be passed.

            Lift up thine eyes, so bright and clear;
            To search my heart, thou need'st not fear.
            Come, let us gather Flora's sweets,
            Ere wintry storm around us beats.

Thus sang Irma, with clear, ringing voice. Nature was again decked in
beauteous array. The sharp winds of early spring were still blowing,
and the sunlight was often suddenly obscured by floating snow-clouds.
But the grass had begun to grow in the meadows, and here and there
spring flowers were blooming.

Irma had recovered, after a few days. The bulletins respecting the
queen's health had ceased, and Gunther, who had lived in the palace for
weeks, now returned to his own house.

The queen, who was now permitted to leave her apartment, spent much of
her time in the winter-garden, where the last fête had been celebrated.
The trees and flowers were again in their wonted places; the fountains
plashed, the fish swam about in the marble basin, and the birds
twittered in their great cages. Walpurga and the prince were allowed to
remain with the queen for hours at a time. All vied with each other in
offering her delicate attentions which were inspired by something more
than a mere sense of what was due her rank. Irma had shown so much
devotion to the queen that the latter felt like begging her pardon. She
often had the words upon her lips, but could not utter them. Friendship
suffers from mere suspicion, and the queen well knew that she was
looked upon as weak-minded and vacillating. She determined that she
would be thus no longer. She felt that the great mark of a strong
character is to prevent the world from knowing every change and phase
of thought and feeling, and to give it naught but results.

No one should ever know what had so troubled her heart. She would be
strong.

She kept Irma about her much of the time, and the hours they spent in
the green, flowering, winter-garden, reading, working, conversing or
singing, were serene and blissful.

Irma, who was an excellent reader, read Goethe's Tasso to them. It
accorded with their present mood, and one day, Irma said:

"Your Majesty resembles Princess Leonora in many things. You have the
advantage, however, of being able to accomplish in a few weeks what, in
her case, it required years to bring about."

"I don't understand you."

"What I mean is, that long confinement to the sickroom and careful
nursing are apt to produce, in the invalid, a certain sensitiveness and
an almost imperceptible change in manner. It is well to escape from
this hothouse mood into the open air; to be once again among the
trees which are proof against all weathers, and to inhale the fresh,
life-giving breeze."

The king was often present during these readings, and frequently felt
moved to express his thoughts on the weightiest and most beautiful
passages in Tasso. Irma often trembled. Every word she uttered seemed
wicked. She felt that she no longer had a right to speak of pure and
holy subjects, but the king was so cheerful and unconstrained that she
speedily dismissed all concern.

"You are spoiling me, and will make me quite vain," said the queen, one
day. "I have another wish. I long to go from flowers to works of art. I
often feel like visiting the picture-gallery and the collection of
antiques. When we move among the achievements of art the deepest
impression we receive is, that human beings who lived long ago, have
bequeathed their best possessions to us, and that eyes long since
closed in death, look down upon us with their undying glances, and are
still with us."

At the words "undying glances," the king and Irma looked at each other
with involuntary surprise. To them, the words were suggestive. Irma
composed herself and replied:

"I cannot help joining in Your Majesty's wish: from flowers and trees
to works of art! Surrounded by pictures and statues, the soul dwells in
an ideal atmosphere; life everlasting environs us; we inhale the very
breath of genius which, although its possessors may have vanished from
earth, endures for ever. When I was forced to the conclusion that I was
without real artistic talent, I envied the monarchs to whom is
vouchsafed the happiness of encouraging talent and genius in others.
That is a great compensation."

"How beautifully she interprets everything," said the queen, addressing
her husband; and it was with a mingled expression of delight and pain
that the king regarded the two ladies. What was passing in his mind? He
admired and loved Irma; he respected and loved his wife. He was untrue
to both. Irma and the queen went through the galleries and the
collection of antiques, and would sit for hours, looking at the
pictures and statues. Every remark of the queen's was met by an
observation of Irma's, which was in full accord with hers.

"When I look at and listen to you two," said the king, "and think of
where you resemble each other and where you differ, it seems as if I
saw the daughters of Schiller and Goethe before me."

"How singular!" interposed the queen, and the king continued:

"Goethe saw the world through brown, and Schiller through blue eyes;
and so it is with you two. You look through blue eyes, like Schiller's,
and our friend through brown eyes, like those of Goethe's."

"It won't do to let any one know that we flatter each other so," said
the queen, smiling. Irma looked up to the ceiling, where painted angels
were hovering in the air. There is a world of infinite space where no
one can supplant another; it is only in the everyday world that
exclusiveness exists, thought she to herself.

The more the queen gained in strength, the more marked was the change
from a subdued, to a bright and cheerful vein.

It seemed as if Irma's wish was about to be realized. The life-renewing
power of spring which reanimates the trees and the plants, seemed to
extend its influence over human life. It seemed as if the past were
buried and forgotten.

It was on the first mild day of spring, and they were walking together
in the palace garden, when the queen said:

"I can't imagine that there ever was a time when we did not know each
other, dear Irma." She stopped and looked into Irma's eyes with an
expression radiant with joy. "You once told me about a Greek
philosopher," said she, addressing Doctor Gunther, who was walking
after them with the captain of the palace-guard, "who thought that our
souls had a previous existence, and that our best experience, in this
world, is merely the recollection of what we have experienced or
imagined to ourselves in some earlier state of being."

"Without accepting this fanciful theory," replied Gunther, "there is
much in life which may be regarded as destiny. I believe that all
living truths which we take up into ourselves, and which thus, as it
were, become a part of our being, were intended for us. Our mind, the
whole constitution of our being, is destined for and attuned to it.
There is thus perfect correspondence between our destiny and our
capacity. But I beg Your Majesty to regard yourself as destined, at
present, to step into your carriage. We must not let the first walk be
too long."

The queen and Irma seated themselves in the carriage which awaited them
at the Nymph's Grove. They drove on slowly, and the queen said:

"You cannot imagine, dear Irma, how timid and fearful I was when I
first came here." She told her how she had looked into the eyes of the
multitude that surrounded her, and had asked herself: "Who of all these
does, in truth, belong to you?" and how encouraged she had felt when
Irma spoke to her, as it were, with her warm, brown eyes.

"And they were speaking to you," replied Irma. "I should have liked to
say to you: 'Sweet being! imagine that we have known each other for
years, and feel just as if we had been friends forever.' I fancy that
we both felt thus because we were both timid and fearful. It was the
first time I had ever been at court, and I felt as if I couldn't help
taking the lord steward's staff out of his hand, and supporting myself
on it."

"How strange! I had the very same thought," said the queen, "and, now
that I think of it, I can still recollect that the lord steward looked
at me incessantly."

The affection of the two ladies was cemented by a hundred little
memories. The carriage drove on slowly, but their thoughts took in days
and months. There was a turn in the road; they had just reached the
place where the statue had been shattered.

"It was a terrible night," said the queen, "when that happened, and it
seems to me that simple-minded Walpurga is right when she says that it
is wrong for us thus to expose the undraped human figure."

"I must be permitted to differ with Your Majesty," replied Irma. "The
free--why should we mince words?--the nude, beautiful human form is the
only one in accord with free nature. All frippery is subject to changes
of taste and fashion. The human form as shaped by the hand of nature,
is alone fitted to stand in her temple."

"You are a free soul; far freer than I am," said the queen. They
alighted. Irma accompanied the queen to her apartments and then
returned to her own. When she found herself alone she threw up her
hands, exclaiming:

"What is the greatest punishment? It is not hell, where other guilty
ones suffer with us! No; to be conscious of guilt and yet condemned to
remain beside a pure and happy creature; that is far worse than all the
torments of hell!"

"God keep you, Irma! God keep you!" shrieked the parrot. Irma started
with a shudder.



                              CHAPTER XV.


Spring returned, ushered in by the merry singing of larks and finches,
and bringing with it the latest Paris fashions. The queen now appeared
in public, and the ladies of the capital were delighted to pattern
their costumes after hers.

The queen drove out, with Irma beside her, and Walpurga and the prince
opposite.

"You must not worry when you're at home again," said the queen to
Walpurga.

Addressing the queen in French, Irma said, with a smile: "Countess
Brinkenstein would disapprove of your manifesting any interest in the
future fortunes of one whose term of service is at an end."

With a degree of boldness that surprised her two well-wishers, Walpurga
said: "There'll be one advantage at any rate, for, at home, they won't
treat me as if I were deaf and dumb."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, they wouldn't, while I was about, say things that I can't
understand."

Irma endeavored to pacify her, but without avail. Walpurga's longing
for home had made her exacting and dissatisfied. She felt ill at ease
everywhere, and felt sure that the very people who had done so much to
humor and spoil her would soon get along without her.

There was another and a deeper cause for her feeling annoyed when Irma
spoke French. A youthful-looking nurse from one of the French cantons
of Switzerland had become a member of the prince's household. She could
not understand a word of German, and that had been the principal reason
for engaging her. The prince was to speak French before he acquired any
other language.

Walpurga and the new-comer were, as regarded each other, like two
mutes. Nor was she otherwise favorably disposed toward the tall,
handsome girl with the French cap. She was, indeed, quite jealous of
her. What had the foreigner to do with the child? She was, at times,
angry at the child itself.

"You'll soon _parlez vous_ so that I shan't be able to understand a
word," she would say, when alone with him, and would feel quite angry;
and, the very next minute, she would exclaim: "God forgive me! How well
it is that I'll soon be home again. I can count the days on my
fingers."

Mademoiselle Kramer now told Walpurga that a chamber[2] had been
prepared for the crown prince.

"He has rooms enough already," said Walpurga.

Mademoiselle Kramer was again obliged to undertake the difficult task
of explaining the court custom, in such matters, to Walpurga, who made
her go over the various names again and again. She would always begin
thus:

"The crown prince will have an ayah--"

"Ayah? what sort of a word's that? what does that mean?"

"It means the prince's waiting-maid. And when his royal highness
becomes four years old, he will have a new set of officers; and so on,
as he grows older, only the new set will always be of higher rank than
those who precede them."

"Yes, I can easily understand it," thought Walpurga; "new people and
new palaces, constant change; how lucky that your eyes and your limbs
are fast to you; if it wasn't for that, they'd be getting you new ones
every year or two."

Walpurga felt reassured when she learned that Frau von Gerloff, a lady
of noble birth and, hitherto, first waiting-woman to the queen, had
been appointed as ayah to the prince. Walpurga had known her for a long
while and said to her:

"If any one had asked me who should take charge of the prince, you'd
have been my first choice. This is only another proof of the queen's
wisdom and her kind heart. She gives up her dearest friend for the sake
of her son."

Walpurga deemed it necessary to give Frau von Gerloff various
directions as to the management of the prince. The good lady listened
to her patiently. When Walpurga next saw the queen, she felt it
necessary to express her satisfaction with the arrangements which had
been made.

"You'd have done very well," said she to Madame Leoni, the queen's
second waiting-maid; "but our good queen can't afford to part with both
hands at once."

Madame Leoni smiled her thanks, although she really felt mortified and
thought that she had been slighted because of her being a commoner. But
the first law of court life is: "Take offense at nothing."

The slumbering infant-prince had no idea of the jealous feelings which
already played about his cradle.

By degrees, Walpurga got her effects ready, and, when packing up
certain articles, she would say: "No one would dream that heart's blood
is clinging to you."

Doctor Gunther had given orders that Walpurga should often leave the
prince for a while, in order that he might gradually grow accustomed to
her absence.

Mademoiselle Kramer, who, during the first few days accompanied her on
her walks, found the occupation a difficult one, for Walpurga wanted to
stop at every shop window, and whenever she saw men or women whose
costume resembled that worn at her home, wanted to go up to them and
inquire whence they had come, and whether they knew her husband, her
child and her mother. Mademoiselle Kramer soon wearied of the office of
guide, and would sometimes allow Walpurga to go out alone, on which
occasions she would entrust her with her watch, so that she might
return at the proper time. Walpurga's great delight was to watch the
soldiers parading at guard-mounting, and her route generally led her
beyond the city gates. She would walk along the highway that led to her
home. This comforted her, and she would often think of how she had felt
when coming to the palace by that very road. It seemed to her as if
ages had passed since then, and it was not without an effort, at times,
that she induced herself to retrace her steps. She would often stand
there listening, and imagining that she could hear her child's voice
borne on the breeze. Which child? Her heart was divided and she hurried
back to the prince. It was well he rested so quietly in the arms of the
Frenchwoman. Walpurga, however, was vexed at this circumstance, and
laughed triumphantly when he wanted to be taken by her as soon as he
noticed her.

"Yes, you're a true soul," said she. "When men are good, they're a
great deal better than women. Your other father, my Hansei, is very
good, too, and he's coming, day after to-morrow, and you'll shake hands
with him when he comes,--so."

Walpurga observed that the ayah was almost beside herself at this mode
of treating the child, and that it cost Mademoiselle Kramer an effort
to prevent her from putting a veto upon it; but this only made Walpurga
the more wanton in her mad pranks with the prince.

"Now don't forget," said she, "that I gave you myself to feast upon.
The others only give you what comes from the kitchen. We two are one,
and day after tomorrow my Hansei will come, and then I'll go home, and
when you're a big boy you must come and see me; and if it's in cherry
time, I'll give you the best cherries. And my Hansei will go hunting
with you and will carry your gun for you, and you'll shoot a great big
stag and a roe, and a chamois, and we'll roast them. I'll stick a
nosegay on your hat, and then we'll row over the lake together, and
I'll give you a kiss, and then I'll bid you good-by."

The child laughed heartily, while Walpurga looked into his eyes and
spoke to him thus. Then it laid its little head on her cheek, and
Walpurga cried out:

"Mademoiselle Kramer! Mademoiselle Kramer! he knows how to kiss
already: he's kissing me now. Yes, you're the right sort of a man and a
king's son to boot; they always begin betimes."

It seemed as if she wanted to make known all the love she had for the
child during the few days that yet remained to her at the palace, and
she did this both from affection and spite, for she desired to show the
Frenchwoman how very much she and the child loved one another. He would
never grow to love the foreigner as much as he loved Walpurga, and then
she would sing:

                 "Standing by yon willow tree,
                  Scarcely weeping, thou dost see
                  My bark put off from shore.

                 "As long as willows grow,
                  As long as waters flow,
                  Thou'lt see me nevermore."

While she sang, the boy crowed and laughed, and Walpurga protested to
Mademoiselle Kramer, that she would wager her head he understood
everything already.

"And besides," said she, with an angry glance at the Frenchwoman, "the
language that little children speak is the same all the world over.
Isn't it so? The French don't come into the world speaking gibberish."
Then she would sing and dance about, and kiss the child again. It
seemed as if she must repress all her sadness, and, in one outburst,
give vent to all her joy.

"You excite the child too much; you will do it harm," said Mademoiselle
Kramer, endeavoring to quiet her.

"That won't harm him; he's got the right stuff in him. No Frenchwoman
can spoil him."

Walpurga was in a restless and contradictory mood. She had long known
that the tie would be broken, and had often wished and hoped for that
end. But now when the moment of separation approached, all painful
memories vanished. She felt that she could never again live alone. She
would always miss something, even the trouble and excitement; and,
besides, everything had always come all right again. She felt hurt,
moreover, that the others seemed so indifferent about her leaving them.
And the child--why hadn't it sense enough to speak and say: "Father and
mother, you mustn't do this; you mustn't take my Walpurga away?"

But now others controlled the child. What would they do with him? Why
should she no longer be allowed to interfere, and to say things should
be thus and so? She had nursed him from the first day of his life, and
they had been together day and night. And how would the days and nights
be when they were no longer together?

When Walpurga had finished her supper, she held up the empty dish to
the child and, with a bitter tone, said:

"Do you see this? I'm of no more use now than this empty platter."

Nor did she care to sleep. She felt that she could not lose a minute of
the time that was yet left her with the child. Although she did at
times drop asleep, she would wake up in a fright; for, in her dream,
she had heard children crying--one far off by the lane, and another
beside her--and had thought she was standing between them, and that she
must divide herself: must be there and here. And then, too, she had
heard the cow bellowing and pulling at the rope, just as it had when
fastened to the garden hedge. Walpurga saw it all, quite distinctly;
and the cow had such large eyes, and she could feel its warm breath
against her face. Then she would wake up and rub her eyes and all would
be quiet again, and she would know that it was a dream.

It was the day before her departure. Walpurga bitterly regretted that
she had not told Hansei to come sooner. He might have remained there a
day, and she would then have had some one to stretch out his hand in
welcome, while now she could only offer hers in farewell.

She walked the streets and looked up into the blue sky--the same blue
sky that rested over her home. She went through the little street in
which Doctor Gunther lived. She read the name on the door-plate and
walked in. A servant conducted her into the doctor's ante-room, where
many patients were waiting to see him. Walpurga gave her name to the
servant. All looked at her in astonishment. She was asked to come in
without waiting for her turn, and said that she had only come to say
good-by. Gunther told her to go into the garden and wait there for him
until his office hours were over. She did so. Madame Gunther was
sitting on the steps that led into the garden. She called the peasant
woman to her, and when she learned who she was, told her she might wait
there. Walpurga sat down. Madame Gunther went on with her work and did
not speak a word. She had a decided prejudice against the nurse. Her
husband had often told her of Walpurga's peculiarities, and Madame
Gunther had concluded that they were full of coquetry, and that she was
trying to make a show of her simplicity. Walpurga's appearance only
confirmed her in this opinion.

"You are going home again, aren't you?" asked Madame Gunther, at last;
for she did not wish to be uncivil.

Walpurga told her how happy she would be at home again.

Madame Gunther looked up. She was one of those persons who are rendered
truly happy when freed from a prejudice. Entering into conversation
with Walpurga, she soon found that the nurse had been led to exaggerate
certain traits of her strong nature, but that it was just this strength
of character that had prevented her from losing herself in the new
scenes through which she had passed.

Madame Gunther now urged her to keep a stout heart and to avoid making
herself unhappy by comparing her home with what she had left behind her
in the palace.

"How is that you know all about it?" asked Walpurga; "have you ever
been among strangers?"

"I can put myself in your place," said Madame Gunther with a smile. She
was rapidly winning her way to Walpurga's heart.

She asked her into the room; and, when Gunther came down, he found
Walpurga on the steps, with his fatherless little grandchild on her
lap.

"And now you know my wife, too," said Gunther.

"Yes; but too late."

Gunther also advised Walpurga to keep up her spirits after she got
home, and, as he, too, was a native of the Highlands, he gave her a
merry description of what her welcome would be.

Gunther said he would see her once more, at the palace, and his wife
shook hands with her, saying:

"May you be happy at home."

"I mean to send your mother a present," said the doctor. "Tell her to
try and think of the young student who danced with her at the
Kirchweih[3] many years ago, when she was betrothed to your father.
I'll send you six bottles of wine to-day. Tell her to drink them in
remembrance of me, but not to take too much at a time."

"I thank you for my mother, and I feel already as if I had been
drinking the best of wine," said Walpurga. "My Countess Irma was right,
for she always said Madame Gunther would be a lady after my own heart,
and now all that I can wish you is, that, to the end of your days, you
may be as happy as you've made me."

No notice was taken of her allusion to Irma. Encouraged and
strengthened, Walpurga returned to the palace.



                              CHAPTER XVI.


The queen came to Walpurga that evening and said: "I shall not say
farewell to you. Don't let us speak of parting. I only wish to thank
you with all my heart, for the love you've shown me and my child."

"Oh, queen! how can you thank me. I'll tell no one on earth that the
queen has thanked me," cried Walpurga. "But it's only because you're so
kind and want to make parting easy to me. Believe me, I'd gladly give
every drop of blood in my veins for you and our child. Oh good God! our
child--I daren't say that any longer. I, must go; but when I get home,
I'll have my own child again."

"Yes, Walpurga; that is what I was about to tell you. The greatest
happiness on earth is to be at home, and, by this time, you must have
seen that it is all one, whether that home be a palace or a cottage."

"You're right there; you can't get more than your fill of eating and
sleeping, anywhere. My Hansei'll be here to-morrow morning. May I bring
him to the queen and to the king, and to the good ladies and gentlemen
of the court, so that he may thank them, too?"

"Never mind that, Walpurga. There's no need of it. Indeed, Doctor
Gunther forbade my taking leave of you; but I may, for all that, say
good-by to you again, to-morrow. Believe me, I feel very sorry to part
with you."

"If the queen wishes it, I'll remain, and my husband and my whole brood
can come too."

"No, you had better go home again. If I ever get into your
neighborhood, I will pay you a visit. I shall not fail to tell my son
how kind you've been to him. He shall never forget you."

Walpurga had put the child in the cradle and cried out;

"Just look! he's talking. We grown-up folks don't understand what the
children say, but he understands us." Walpurga now joyfully related
that the prince had kissed her, and tried to persuade him to give his
mother a kiss, but he would not.

"I shall leave something good for you behind me," said Walpurga to the
queen. "I've found something that'll be good for you." Her face glowed
with pleasure, and the queen asked:

"What is it?"

"I've found a friend, one of the best of friends, for you. Madame
Gunther can speak right to one's heart; just as you do, but in a
different way. I think you ought to visit her right often. It would do
you good if you could, once in a while, spend an hour in a good
neighbor's house. You'd always feel much better after it."

Walpurga eagerly told how delightful it was to visit one's neighbors.
The queen smiled at Walpurga's ignorance of the conditions of court
life, and explained to her that she could only have intercourse with
those who visited the palace. Walpurga was very sorry that she could
not bring about a meeting of the two ladies.

The queen retired.

"Now she's gone," said Walpurga. "I've said nothing at all; and I feel
as if I had ever so much to say to her." She felt as if she ought not
to leave the queen--as if she were her only true friend, a faithful
companion who, if others were to menace her queen with harm, would
hasten to her aid.

She thought of the time the queen had kissed her. How much they had
experienced together since that time. Could it be possible that it was
scarcely a year ago.

Cowering beside the cradle, she was silent for a long while. At last
she softly sang:

                 "My heart doth bear a burden,
                  And thou hast placed it there;
                  And I would warn e'en my life
                  That none doth heavier bear."

Her voice trembled with emotion. The child slept. She got up and told
Mademoiselle Kramer that she intended to take leave of all in the
palace. Mademoiselle Kramer dissuaded her from doing this. So Walpurga
only went in search of Countess Irma, but did not find her, as she had
gone to a party at her brother's house. Walpurga told the maid that she
intended to leave early the next morning, and that she would be very
sorry if she did not have a chance to say good-by. Meanwhile, she took
leave of the maid, and recommended her to take great care of the good
countess so that she might always keep well. Walpurga held out her hand
to the maid, but was obliged to draw it back again, for the latter had
both hands in the pockets of her silk apron, and, as if mocking
Walpurga, merely curtsied to her.

"The higher people are, the better they are," said Walpurga, when she
got back to her room. "The queen's the highest and best of them all."

Walpurga was sent for by Countess Brinkenstein, who was standing in the
same place and in the same position as when she had received the nurse,
nearly a year ago. She had seen this rigid lady almost every day. In
all that time she had not become more familiar, but had treated
Walpurga with unvarying kindness. It now seemed as if her disposition,
or perhaps her office, required her to dismiss Walpurga in a formal
manner.

"You have behaved well," said Countess Brinkenstein, with a kindly
motion of the hand; "their majesties are satisfied with you. And now,
farewell; and keep yourself good."

She did not rise, nor offer her hand to Walpurga. She merely nodded in
token of farewell, and Walpurga left.

Although this mode of dismissal was by no means over-gentle or
courteous, it, nevertheless, afforded Walpurga great satisfaction. She
felt as if she had received a sort of honorable discharge. Although
Countess Brinkenstein had ruled with almost military severity, she had
always been the same and could always be relied upon. And this
consistency was not without its due influence on Walpurga's mind.

In Walpurga's room stood two large chests, filled to the very top and
locked. She had received many presents during the year, and enough
money to buy a moderate-sized farm. She would sit down, now on one and
now on the other chest, and when she at last lay down to rest, she
still cast a wistful eye on her treasures. Like wandering spirits, her
thoughts roved through the apartments of the palace, and then to her
cottage at home, through the garden and over the mountains, until she
was suddenly awakened by the crying of the child. She was obliged to
ask herself whether it was her own, or a strange child. She speedily
quieted the prince, but remained beside his cradle. "Sleep shan't steal
another minute of the time that's left us," said she softly.

Day dawned. Walpurga nursed the child for the last time. A tear dropped
on its head; it looked up at her and then fell asleep, resting against
her heart. She whispered softly into its little left hand, which she
held to her lips.

She put the child in the cradle again, fixed one more sad look upon it,
then, with her back turned, walked around the cradle thrice, and, at
last, said to Mademoiselle Kramer:

"I'm going now; it's time."

The servants came and carried the chests away. Walpurga was in so
forgiving a mood, that she even took leave of the Frenchwoman. She did
not look back toward the cradle, but went downstairs, and ordered the
boxes to be carried to an inn near the palace, where she had asked
Hansei to meet her. She thought he would surely be on hand by that
time, for she had told him the very hour when he could meet her. But
Hansei was not there.

Although it was early in the day, there was life and bustle at the inn,
which was frequented by the court servants. There was loud carousing,
and some liveried servants were inveighing against their masters who,
at Count Wildenort's soirée of the previous' night, had kept them
waiting in the porter's lodge, and the coachman on the box, for nearly
three hours. It was said that Count Wildenort had obtained royal
permission to set up a roulette table, that there had been high play,
and that the king had also been there, but not the queen.

Walpurga sat behind the screen with the hostess, and was seated on the
largest of the chests. She went to the front of the house to look for
Hansei, but he did not come. Baum brought her a message that she was to
go to Countess Irma, but not until nine o'clock. Walpurga wandered
about town as if lost. "How the people run past each other," thought
she; "no one knows who the other is, and hasn't time to ask." At that
hour of the day, round hats are not seen on the streets. None but the
cap-wearing population is now represented. Bakers' men and butchers'
boys whistling merrily while at their work, are serving bread and meat.
Servant-maids stand at the street corners waiting while milk is
measured out to them, and market-women from the country hurry to their
posts, with baskets and hand-barrows.

"It'll be just the same to-morrow again, and you'll be gone. Indeed, it
don't concern you to-day," said Walpurga to herself, while she looked
on at their busy doings. Just then a large bookseller's shop was
opened, and her picture hung in the window. What did it matter to her?
No one concerned himself about her feelings.

"To-morrow the picture will still be hanging there; it'll be all the
same, whether you're here or not. I believe it's all the same, whether
you're in the world or out of it," added Walpurga, as a hearse went by
and no one cared to inquire whom they were burying. Every one went his
own way.

With heavy heart, Walpurga walked on, feeling as if something were
drawing her back to the palace and to the child. She went on until she
reached the gate by which Hansei must come. But still he came not.

"If he doesn't come at all--if the child at home is ill--if it is
dead!" Walpurga was almost frightened to death with thoughts of what
might be. She seated herself on a bench near the gate. Horsemen were
galloping past, and a blind invalid soldier was playing a merry waltz
on his organ.

A clock struck nine, and Walpurga walked through the town. At the
palace gate she found Hansei, and his first words were:

"God greet you, Walpurga; you're here at last. Where have you been
running to? I've been looking for you, the last two hours."

"Come in here," said Walpurga, leading Hansei into a covered way. "They
don't speak so loud here."

It turned out that, in her last letter, Walpurga had told Hansei to
come to the palace, and not to the inn. She begged him to forgive her,
for she had been so confused while writing, and then she said: "Now let
me give you a kiss of welcome. Thank God, all are well. I need lots of
love and kindness."

She asked him to wait at the door of Irma's apartment, while she went
in. Irma was still in bed, but, as soon as she heard Walpurga's voice,
asked her to enter. The countess looked lovely in deshabille, but she
was quite pale, and her loosened hair lay in wild profusion on the
pillow.

"I wanted to give you something to remember me by," said Irma, raising
herself, "but I thought the best thing I could give you would be money.
Take what's lying there. Take it all; I want none of it. Take
it; don't be afraid, it's real gold, won in honest play. I always
win--always--Take out your handkerchief and wrap the money up in it."

Irma's voice was hoarse. The room was so dimly lighted that Walpurga
looked about in fear, as if she were in some enchanted apartment; and
yet she knew the maid, the tables, the chairs, and could hear the
screaming of the parrot in the next room. She knew all this, but she
could not help thinking that there might be something wrong about the
money. She hurriedly made the sign of the cross over it, and then put
it in her pocket.

"And now, farewell," said Irma; "may you be happy; a thousand times
happy. You are happier than all of us. When I don't know where to go in
this world, I shall come to you. You'll receive me, won't you? and will
make room for me at your hearth? Now go! go! I must sleep. Farewell,
Walpurga, don't forget me. No thanks; not a word. I'll soon come to
you, and then we'll sing again; aye, sing. Farewell!"

"I beg of you, let me say only one single word!" cried Walpurga,
grasping her hands. "We can't, either of us, know which of us may die,
and then it would be too late."

Irma pressed her hand over her eyes, and nodded assent. Walpurga
continued:

"I don't know what ails you. Something's going wrong with you, and it
may go worse yet. Your hands are often so cold and your cheeks so hot.
I wronged you that day--the second day after I came here. Forgive me!
I'll never wrong you again, even in thought; and no one shall. No one
shall ever slander you to me; but, I beg of you, leave the palace as
soon as you can! Go home to--"

"Enough, enough," said Irma, deprecatingly, and holding her hands
before her face as if Walpurga's words were stones hurled at her.
"Enough," added she, "farewell; do not forget me."

She held out her hand to Walpurga, who kissed it. The hand was hot, as
if with fever.

Walpurga left. The parrot in the ante-room was still crying: "God keep
you, Irma." Walpurga started with terror, and hurried away as if some
one were after her.



                              CHAPTER XVII.


When Walpurga came out to Hansei, he asked:

"Shall I go in, too?"

"No, we're ready."

"I think I ought to go to the king and queen. I've got a good deal to
say to them."

"No; that won't do at all."

"Why not? I know how to talk to them."

He had frequently rehearsed what he intended to say to the king and
queen. He would let them know that he deserved something more for
giving up his wife for so long a time.

Walpurga found it difficult to make him understand that it would not do
to press the matter. Hansei was not inclined to give up the point, and
was, moreover, ashamed of confessing to the innkeeper that he had not
sat at the same table with their majesties, and that he had not even
seen them.

Walpurga, who herself needed support, was now obliged to make a double
effort in order to pacify Hansei, who threatened to become rude and
troublesome.

"But I may see your prince? You still have a right to take me there?"
asked Hansei.

"Yes, yes," replied Walpurga, "that can be done." She, too, was herself
glad to have a chance to see the child once more, and this would
furnish a good excuse. "What matters it if Mademoiselle Kramer or Frau
von Gerloff make sport of Hansei? Day after to-morrow all these people
will be nothing to me, and I shall be nothing to them." Her cheeks
glowed with excitement, while she hurriedly led Hansei toward the
prince's apartments. She was met at the door by Mademoiselle Kramer,
who, when Walpurga stated her wish, answered:

"No; it can't be done. You must not go in again. Doctor Gunther is
there and the child is crying and screaming terribly. Go; in God's
name, go."

Mademoiselle Kramer disappeared, closing the door after her. Walpurga
heard the child cry, and was not allowed to go in and help it. She was
shut out--thrust out of doors. Shame at the treatment she had received
in Hansei's presence, and anger at these cruel, ungrateful people
struggled within her. At last, she said:

"Come, Hansei; we mustn't demean ourselves."

"Of course not," said Hansei. "It's plain enough that this is the way
they treat folks when they have no further need for them."

"Nor do we need them any more. Thank God, that's over," said Walpurga.

She left the palace in an angry mood, and Hansei muttered to himself
that he would thrash the first man he met on the way.

They returned to the inn where the chests had been left. They met Baum
there, and Hansei again said:

"I'd swear that he's no one but Zenza's Jangerl."

"Jangerl's in America," insisted Walpurga. "I beg of you, don't trouble
yourself about other matters. Let's hurry and get away from here."

"I've arranged to stay for another day. I'd like to see the sights, and
would like to go to the theater for once in my life, and then--"

"Some other time--I want to get home to my child."

"You've been away so long that you needn't mind waiting a day longer."

Walpurga insisted and Hansei was obliged to yield.

"Why do you always look at me?" asked Hansei. "It seems as if you
scarcely know me any more."

"I'd forgotten what true, blue eyes you have."

"Well, and so I've been so little in your thoughts that you didn't even
remember how I look."

"Be quiet; I thought of you always. What sort of eyes has the child?"

"Bright and clear ones, and there's never been anything the matter with
them."

Walpurga wanted to know what color its eyes were, and whether their
color had changed, as had been the case with the prince. But Hansei did
not know, and was quite vexed that his wife asked him questions about
matters that he knew nothing of.

At last they mounted the wagon.

It drove by the palace, and, in spite of the rattling of the wheels
over the stones, it seemed to Walpurga as if she could hear the prince
crying.

"I, too, must wean myself," said Walpurga, weeping silently.

As soon as they had passed the city gates, Hansei began abusing the
court. "They might have sent us home in a coach; but that's the way
with them. They'd rather fetch our wives than take 'em back again."
Whenever he said anything, he would look about as if his boon
companions were present to nod their approval. "They might have let us
have a pair of horses at least; indeed, they ought to have told us to
keep them, for they've got more than they know what to do with, in the
royal stables," said he.

Walpurga had so often told every one that her husband was coming to
take her home in a wagon, that no arrangements had been made for that
purpose; and now when Hansei grumbled at their want of consideration,
she remembered her mistake and, without confessing it, endeavored to
quiet him.

"I beg you, for all the world," said she, "don't say anything against
the court. They can't help it. If the king or queen knew of these
things, they'd gladly do everything. But you've no idea how little the
queen knows of the world; of what costs money, of what has to be
bought, or earned, or paid, she has no notion at all. She's just like
the angels. They can't count money any more than she can, and have
nothing to do with it. She's as dear as an angel, too. She takes the
words out of your heart, and gives you such good ones in return." When
she stopped and found that Hansei made no reply, she bit her lips with
vexation. How she would have been praised if she had uttered such
remarks to Countess Irma or Mademoiselle Kramer. But he behaved as if
what she had said were nothing at all. A feeling of discontent
struggled within her, but she repressed it. "Yes, I, too, must get used
to the change," thought she to herself. "It's all over. Where I'm
going, they'll not make much of everything I say." For a long while she
was silent. She felt that looking into life-size double-mirrors was now
at end. At last she thought of what the queen had told her: "When you
get home, be patient with your people. The way to have peace on earth
is to be patient with one another, and to do good to others without
hope of recompense. Those who look for no reward are repaid sevenfold."
When she left home her mother had given her a piece of bread, with
which to deaden her homesickness while at the palace, but the queen had
given her words and thoughts that were as bread, for they, too, were
life sustaining and, moreover, long-enduring.

It seemed as if a ray from the queen's sunny nature rested upon
Walpurga's countenance. She regained her composure, and calm and gentle
thoughts now filled her mind. Suddenly she seized her husband's hand
and said:

"Now, God be praised, we hold fast to each other again. You must have
lots of patience with me. I've been among strangers, but you'll soon
see that I'll be all right again at home."

"Yes, yes, it's all right," said Hansei.

Wherever they alighted by the way, Hansei would tell the folk at the
inn:

"This is my wife: she's been nurse to the crown prince, and now, thank
God, we're well to do."

He had become boastful, but Walpurga remained silent in the presence of
others. It was only when they were in the wagon that she became
talkative. She asked many questions and Hansei had much to relate, but
she heard little of what was said. She was forever thinking of her
child, which seemed to be dancing on the mountain peaks; just like the
moon which stood in the sky in broad daylight, it ever seemed to move
along with them.

"And has it blue eyes?" asked she suddenly, while Hansei was giving her
a circumstantial account of the cow that was again giving milk.

"I don't know what color the calf's eyes are," said Hansei, laughing.

"Oh, don't think hard of me. I can't think of anything but our child.
If we traveled as fast as my thoughts, we'd be home in a twinkling, as
tailor Schneck says."

She smiled and checked herself and, soon after, continued: "Oh, how
could I ever have stayed away from you so long? It isn't true. I've
always been at home and now I'm coming. I'm coming to you, my child.
Didn't you hear some one cry, Hansei?" said she, looking round. "I hear
some one crying; it sounds like a child."

"Do be quiet. You're enough to frighten one out of his senses."

Walpurga would often look back, for it seemed to her as if she could
hear a child crying.

In the city a child _was_ crying, and those who were about it could not
quiet it. Their diamonds, their gold, their soldiers, were all of no
avail. Behind her and before her, Walpurga heard nothing but the crying
of a child.

"Why do you shut your eyes?" asked Hansei.

"Oh," replied Walpurga, "I feel like the father of Wastl the weaver.
When he was cured of his blindness, he used to say that the trees came
toward him, and that everything blinded him. I too, feel as if I had
seen nothing during this whole time. Look! there's the first man with a
green hat, and he has his game-bag on his back; and the trees have kept
on growing of themselves, while I was away. I don't know how I'll go
through it all and not die, for I shouldn't like to die just now. I
want to walk about with my child. Oh dear, good Hansei, don't give her
a stepmother."

"Wife, wife," said Hansei, quieting her, "you're making fools of both
of us. I'm quite sure that comes of your not having eaten a thing all
day."

He insisted upon stopping at the next inn, where Walpurga was obliged
to drink some wine. There was, indeed, wine in her chest, that is, the
six bottles with silver foil, which the doctor had sent. But she wished
to take that to her mother.

Although it was in broad daylight, Walpurga fell asleep in the wagon.
When she awoke, she silently took her husband's hand in hers and held
it for a long while. In the last little town this side of their
village, they stopped again, in spite of Walpurga's protests. Hansei
asserted that the grandmother did not expect them before the next day,
and that they would find nothing to eat at home. He ordered a bounteous
meal, as if he were laying in a supply for several days. Walpurga fell
to heartily, and at last they quite forgot themselves, for Doctor
Kumpan entered the inn. He was quite affable toward Walpurga and drank
heartily with Hansei. He then called him aside and enjoined him to
treat his wife considerately.

When they at last got into the wagon, half of the town had gathered
about the inn, in order to have a look at the crown prince's nurse.
Doctor Kumpan ordered the postillion, who was not in uniform, to take
his post-horn with him, and the handsome, dark-eyed, lively fellow blew
his horn while they drove through the little town and along the road.
The merry echoes resounded from the mountains and through the forests.
Walpurga was almost ashamed to drive in this style, while the people
were at work along the road; but Hansei felt a childish delight in the
sound of the horn.

At last they caught a glimpse of the lake. Evening was already setting
in.

"Those are swallows from home," said Walpurga. "The next village is
ours. I see the church, and--hark! I hear the bells! I hear them
with you, my child, and soon you'll hear them, in my arms; and your
voice--your voice--coachman, drive faster; no, drive gently; drive just
as you please, so that we don't upset. Stop here; we'll get out now.
Stop! I tell you." She alighted, but as soon as she had done so, she
exclaimed: "No, I'll get in again. We'll get home sooner if we ride.
But why don't mother and the child come out to meet me?"

"She thinks we won't be home till to-morrow," cried Hansei.

"Then maybe she isn't at home at all, and has gone off with the child
to visit some neighbor."

"Maybe so; but I think not."

"Don't you see a child there, running across the road? Is that it? Is
it?"

"No, that's not our child. It can't run yet; but it can crawl about
like a young dog."

"Who cut down the willow?" suddenly asked Walpurga.

"It was blown down by the storm, last spring."

Walpurga asked questions, but heeded not what she asked nor the answers
she received. "Just see, how clear the brook is, and how swiftly it
flows. I think it never used to flow so quickly. And they've built a
new house here, and there they've felled the trees, and, just look at
the beautiful little water-wagtails. They're larger and more beautiful
with us than anywhere else."

They met a boy on a gray mare which he was riding to water. "That's
Grubersepp's Waldl. How stout he's growing!"

"And it's a good beginning, that the first one to meet us should be a
boy," said Hansei. "Waldl!" he called out to the lad, "come over to our
house this evening and I'll give you some cherries." The boy made no
reply and rode on.

"The two cows grazing there near the little girl, are ours," said
Hansei.

Everything comes; everything except the mother and the child.

"Mother's at home," cried Walpurga, suddenly. "Mother's at home. I see
smoke rising from our chimney; and there she stands by the fire with
the child on her arms. Oh mother! Oh child! How is it possible that you
don't notice anything? I'm coming! I'm here! I'm home! I'm coming!"

The wagon stopped before the house.

"Mother! Child!" cried Walpurga from the depths of her heart. The
mother came out of the house, with the child on her arm.

Walpurga embraced her mother and kissed her child, but it cried and
would not go to her.

Walpurga went into the room and sat down beside the stove. Her hands
were folded on her lap, and she was weeping. She looked about her as if
she were in a strange world.

"Leave her to herself for a little while; give her a breathing spell,"
said the grandmother to Hansei, who had gone out of the house, and who,
with the driver's assistance, had been unloading the chests.

It was but a short time that Walpurga remained in the room, a prey to
sad thoughts. The sun stood high over the opposite mountains, its rays
making every blade of grass in the garden glitter like burnished gold.
The mountains in the west were all aglow with light, and those opposite
were reflected half-way across the lake. The day had been one of great
excitement to Walpurga. What she had hoped for was now realized. There
was nothing more to come. She felt as if she must start off again, as
if she must be up and doing. And then it suddenly occurred to her that
it was wrong to remain sitting there alone, while her mother and her
child were out of doors, and that it was almost a crime to pass a
moment away from them.

She went into the kitchen. The grandmother, with the child on her arm,
was standing by the hearth in which there was a bright fire.

"Does my child eat broth?" asked Walpurga. Attracted by the voice, the
child stared at her; but, as soon as Walpurga fixed her glance upon it,
it nestled close to its grandmother, as if to hide itself.

"Yes, indeed. It eats anything, and is just like you. You did so, too.
It would like to take a spoon and help itself, but it can't find its
mouth. I'm making soup for you, you must eat something warm."

Walpurga's looks became more cheerful. The grandmother soon brought her
some soup. Walpurga ate it and said:

"Ah, mother; the first soup I eat at home. Nothing on earth tastes like
it. They can't make such soup as this at the palace."

The grandmother smiled, and stroked Walpurga's head with her hand, as
if blessing her. She felt that Walpurga's joy at being home again
affected her every thought and action.

"The home soup--yes, indeed," said she at last, and smiled; and, moved
thereto by the grandmother's cheerful looks, the child laughed, too.



                                BOOK IV.



                               CHAPTER I.


The soft glimmer of early dawn stole through the heart-shaped opening
in the shutters of their little room. Down by the reedy bank the
water-ousel piped its matin song. Walpurga awoke and listened to the
breathing of her husband and child. Her life, now, is a threefold
breath.

"Good-morrow, day. I'm home again," said she, softly. She felt so happy
at the thought of being in her own bed. Suddenly, she folded her hands
and said:

"I thank Thee, Lord! Now I know how it must be to wake in heaven and
feel as if home were reached at last, to have all your loved ones with
you, to know that parting's at an end, and that all will remain
together forever. Now we'll live happily, in kindness and in
righteousness. Grant us all good health, and put all evil away from
us."

She closed her eyes and indulged in retrospection. Last night the
grandmother had beckoned her to follow her into the little grassy
garden back of the house. When they reached there, her mother had said:
"Look up to those stars and tell me: Can you still kiss your husband
and your child, with pure lips? If--God forbid--it be otherwise--"

"Mother!" Walpurga had cried. "Mother, I can. I raise my hand and call
God to bear me witness, I am just as I was when I left home."

Said the mother: "That makes me happy. Now I'm content to die."

"No, mother; let's live together in happiness for many years to come."

"I'm content. And now let me give you a piece of advice; and mind what
I tell you. You've been out in the wide world for nearly a year. You've
been riding about in carriages, while I've been here in the cottage and
garden, taking care of your child. But, for all that, my thoughts went
out into the world, and far beyond, where coach and four never get to.
Now listen to me and obey me."

"Yes, mother; with all my heart."

"Then mind what I tell you. Give yourself time to get used to things
again, and don't ask for anything out of reason. You can't expect your
child to love you yet. You've been away from it so long that it doesn't
know you, and has become estranged. And so you must expect to find it
with everything else. Your husband's been alone for nearly a year; his
lot has been much harder than yours."

Here they were interrupted. Hansei called from the window and asked
them what they were doing out there so late, in the dark.

"And now go to sleep," said the mother. "I've had your bed aired these
three days. Sleep well. Goodnight."

The mother led her daughter by the hand as if she were a little child,
and when they had passed the threshold, she fell upon Walpurga's neck
and hugged and kissed her in the dark.

Walpurga had closed her eyes, and, in thought, recalled all that had
happened during the preceding night. Everything seemed double, just as
with the stars that are reflected in the lake at night, making it seem
as if there were two skies, one above and one in the waters below.

At the thought of the lake, Walpurga arose, quietly dressed herself,
bent over her child and husband for a moment, softly opened the door,
left the room, and went out of the house. She passed through the
garden. The air was filled with the fragrance of the elder-bushes in
the hedge The finch on the cherry-tree warbled merrily, and she would
fain have called out to him: "Be quiet; wake no one till I return."

She passed on. From the reedy banks of the lake, where the water-ousel
and the reed-sparrow were chirping their song, there flew up a flock of
wild ducks, twittering while on the wing.

The sun rose, and the whole lake shone as if a softly undulating golden
mantle had been spread over it.

Walpurga looked about her in all directions, and then, undressing
herself in a trice, jumped into the lake. She dived and rose again,
brushed her hair from her face and plashed about, as happy as if she
were a fish at the bottom of the lake. The golden mantle of the lake
assumed a purple hue, and Walpurga looked up at the purple sun, and
over the glowing lake. "Thus it is," said she, "and thus it's right.
I'm here again and yours again, and everything else is put away from
me. I've never been away." Under the clustering willows, she hurriedly
dressed herself, and felt so happy and cheerful that it cost her an
effort to refrain from singing aloud. Blue and green dragon-flies
hovered over the water. Swallows were flying over the lake and dipping
their bills into the waters, which were gradually acquiring a paler
hue, and from yonder forest resounded the cuckoo's note. A stork among
the reeds seemed to watch Walpurga while she dressed herself. She
noticed the bird rattling its great bill and waved it away. She hurried
back to the house. The finch in the cherry-tree was still warbling its
morning song, the two cows in the stable were lowing, but everything
else about the house was still wrapped in silence. For a long while,
Walpurga stood gazing at the flowers on the window-sill, and was
delighted with the fragrance of the pinks and the rosemary. She had
planted them while still a child, and before she had had a garden of
her own. All the earth that she could then call her own, was contained
in these flower-pots. Now she was able to buy many abroad field, but
who could say whether they would give her as much joy as she now
derived from these dingy, broken pots.

It seemed as if the pinks had purposely blossomed, in honor of the
return of her who had planted and cared for them. There were scarcely
any buds left, but even these few were putting out their little red
tongues. Walpurga returned to her pinks again and again, and could not
get enough of their fragrance. Suddenly, she laughed to herself at the
thought of an old story that her mother had told her about blessed
Susanna, who, when hungry and thirsty, could satisfy herself by
smelling a flower. "Yes, but that wouldn't satisfy my folks," said she
with a smile, and went back into the house.

Mother, husband and child were still asleep. Walpurga sat by the cradle
for a little while. Then she went out to the kitchen, and kindled the
first fire on her own hearth. Silently she watched at the rising flame,
while the sounds of the matin bell of the chapel by the lake fell on
her ear. She pressed both hands firmly against her heart, as if to hold
fast the happiness with which it was overflowing.



                              CHAPTER II.


"What! at work already?" said Hansei, entering the kitchen, and bearing
in his arms the child, whose only garment was its little shirt.

"Good-morning! Good-morning to both of you," exclaimed Walpurga, with
joyful voice. Her every tone and every word seemed to say that she
could feed and satisfy them all with her love.

"Good-morning, my child!" said she. The baby stretched out its arms
toward her, but, when she offered to take it, turned its back on her
and laid its head upon Hansei's shoulder.

"Have patience with it; it doesn't know you right yet," said Hansei;
"after all, such a young child is just like an animal, and don't know
its mother if she's been living away from it."

As if to refute Hansei's humiliating philosophy, the child turned round
again, stared at the fire, pursed up its little mouth, and blew just as
when one does when blowing the fire.

"Grandmother taught her that," said Hansei. "It can do lots of other
clever things. Grandmother never slept so late as she does to-day. She
seems to feel that she's no longer obliged to draw the cart all by
herself. No one'll grudge it to her. Yes, there never was a better
woman in all the wide world, than your mother."

"Never was! isn't she so still?" asked Walpurga, in alarm.

Her mother had been so unutterably happy yesterday. Who knows but what
her joy had killed her? They had been so happy that perhaps misfortune
must come, for nothing is perfect in this world.

Walpurga trembled with fear while these thoughts flashed through her
mind.

"I'll go look after mother," said she, and went to her room.

Hansei followed, carrying the child on his arm. And now, when the
mother awoke, she said: "Well, and so they have to awaken me. Am I
still a young girl who sleeps late and dreams when the elder-flower is
in blossom? Yes, now I remember my dream. I dreamt that I was young
again and was a servant at the farm on the other side of the mountains,
and that your father came. It was on a Sunday, and he and I went off
together to my brother's, in the pitch hut. We were standing by the
brook where the elder grows, and father was on the other side, reaching
out his hand to me, so that I could jump across, when you woke me. I
can feel his hand in mine yet."

"God be praised that you're awake again," interposed Walpurga. The
mother smiled and continued:

"And now, Walpurga, I've only one thing to ask of you. If you don't
mind doing so, give me a florin or two. I'd like to go home once more,
to the place where I was born and was in service, and where my brother
lives; and I would like to have a few pence about me, to give to the
poor people who are still there."

"Yes, mother; you shall have all you want. We've plenty, thank God."

"I'd like to know," said the mother, "why I dreamt of my home last
night."

"That's plain enough," said Hansei. "A few days ago, when the
wood-carver from your village was here, they were saying that the owner
of the freehold farm there would like to sell his place. But who's got
money enough to buy that?"

"You see," said the old woman to Walpurga, "what a heretic and believer
in dreams your husband has become. He learned all that from the
innkeeper. And now give me the child and hurry out of here. Come, you
little chamois-kid, jump about and dance."

She sang to the child, and it stretched forth its arms toward her, just
like a bird glad to return to its nest.

Hansei and Walpurga left the room. The child lay beside the
grandmother, and the two were quite happy together.

"And now I'll milk the cow," said Hansei.

"You?"

"Yes. Who else? Mother can't do everything."

"No; let me do that now."

Walpurga went out to the stable with her husband; she wanted to relieve
him of the task, but it would not do, and Hansei said:

"There's no need of it, either; that'll all soon be different. When you
become landlady, we'll have two servants, at least, and they can see to
the milking. We'll have room for six cows besides our own, and will be
entitled to have as many more on the mountain meadow. Then you can make
butter and cheese, and do what you like."

Hansei seemed to be talking to the cow. He did not care to see what
sort of a face his wife would make. But now she had, at all events,
heard of the matter, and they could talk it over, afterward.

Walpurga was about to reply, when the stable door opened, and a girl
entered, carrying a cake on a large platter.

She removed the cloth with which it was covered, and said:

"My master, the landlord of the Chamois, sends this with his kind
greetings, and his welcome to the wife."

"You silly thing!" exclaimed Hansei, jumping to his feet, and looking
quite oddly with the milk-pail buckled fast to him. "You silly thing!
People don't carry cakes into a stable. Take it into the room, and when
you get home, give them my best thanks, and tell the innkeeper, our
godfather, to honor us with a visit soon--no, we'll come to see him
this forenoon; and now you may go."

Walpurga remembered that her mother advised her not to attempt to
change things at once. She determined, for the present, to listen to
everything, and let affairs go on in their own way, keeping her eyes
open in the mean while. Time would show how the land lay.

Hansei went on milking the cows, and Walpurga said nothing.

"One can't always have the world all to one's-self, the way it was down
at the lake this morning; but while there's such a bustle about my ears
I must keep my own counsel," thought she.

When Hansei had finished milking, and stood there with a pail in each
hand, he said:

"What do you think of it?"

"It's splendid milk; and there's lots of it, too."

"No, I mean what do you think of the landlord of the Chamois?"

"It's very polite of him, and I'm much obliged to him for it. We must
try to get even with him."

"There's no need of that; we'll have to pay dear enough for the cake.
But we're not so stupid, either. You'll soon see, Walpurga, I know
which side my bread's buttered on as well as he does. Yes," continued
Hansei, "if I'd only had a chance to talk to the king, you'd have soon
have found out that Hansei's not the dullest fellow in the world."

"I knew that long ago. I don't need the king to tell me that."

At breakfast, Walpurga was delighted to find that the child would take
a few spoonfuls of porridge from her: but it would not go to her, and
cried as if its heart would break when she tried to take it.

"Have you counted up all we're worth? Of all the money you sent, not
one penny's been taken. That is, I took fifteen florins to buy me a
rifle."

"That was right," said Walpurga. And with all her confidence in him,
she resolved that she would not hand Hansei the money that Irma had
given her on the day she left the palace. She knew not why, but she
felt a dread of the gold that had come to her in so strange a manner.
She had not yet looked at it herself. Besides, she felt that it might
be well to keep something in reserve for a rainy day. It might be
better if all were not displayed at once. She promised to reckon it all
up before noon, and expressed her regret that she had no closet in
which to pack away all the pretty things she had brought with her in
the chest.

"I wouldn't unpack at all, if I were you," said Hansei. "You might as
well wait till we have our inn. You'll find enough chests and trunks
there."

Walpurga made no answer. Hansei looked at her curiously, but she
remained silent.

"Why don't you say something about the matter?" he inquired at last.

"Because you haven't told me about it right. Come now, what do you
really mean?"

Hansei informed her that every one said the most sensible thing he
could do would be to buy out the landlord of the Chamois. There
couldn't be a better hostess in the world than Walpurga, and they would
have a larger custom than any house in the land. They could alter the
sign--that would be a clever stroke and would draw more than anything
else. It should no longer be "The Chamois," but the "The King's Nurse,"
or "The Prince's Nurse," instead. There was a painter thereabouts, who
would make a new sign, representing Walpurga with the prince in her
arms. People would be drawn together from all parts of the
neighborhood; there wouldn't be tables and chairs enough, and money
would pour in on them from all sides. The bargain was a fair one; the
innkeeper had named a reasonable price. "Every one says so," said
Hansei, "and now what have you to say? for it's for you to decide."

"I don't care for what the people say," began Walpurga, "but tell me,
frankly, have you concluded the purchase? If you have, I've nothing to
say. I wouldn't have you break your word nor disgrace yourself, for all
the world. You're the husband and your word must be kept."

"That's right; if only every one could have heard that."

"What need you care whether they hear it or not?"

"Why, the stupid people think that you rule everything, because the
money comes from you. To be frank with you, the bargain isn't
concluded; it all depends upon your consent."

"And if I were to say 'no,' would you be angry? Answer me; why are you
silent now?"

"Well, it would grieve me to the heart if you did."

"I don't say 'no,'" answered his wife, soothingly. "But there's one
thing we'd better have an understanding about, at once. I never want to
hear another word as to where the money comes from. You were alone all
that time; you've had to suffer for it, as well as I, and, take my word
for it, I shan't forget it. But, as I told you before, I don't say
'no.' We're husband and wife and will talk over and settle everything
together. If the money's to bring discord, I'd rather throw the whole
of it into the lake and myself in after it."

Walpurga wept, and Hansei, with choking voice, said: "For God's sake,
don't weep. I feel as if my heart would break when you cry. I wouldn't
have you cry, no, not for ten inns. Oh Lord! to cry on the very first
morning! Depend on it nothing shall be done, unless you're perfectly
satisfied."

Walpurga held out her hand to him, and, with the other, wiped away the
tears which had relieved her overflowing heart. They heard visitors
approaching. Walpurga hurried to the bedroom, for she would have no one
see that she had been weeping. While in the room, she put the gold that
Irma had given her into a pillow-case, and then hid it. One piece of
the money had dropped on the floor. She picked it up and looked at the
image of the king stamped upon it. "Such a king's head goes
everywhere," said she. "If he could only be everywhere in thought, so
as to set everything to rights. But that's more than any man can do.
God alone can do that--How are they getting on in the palace? What will
become of them all? Is it only a day since I left there?"

Lost in reverie, Walpurga remained in the room for a long while. At
last, with a deep sigh, she awakened to the fact that, in this world,
none can afford to give all his thoughts to others. It was now her duty
to take care of herself. Various neighbors and friends dropped in to
welcome Walpurga. Hansei, who was all impatience, said that she had
just gone to her room and would return in a little while. At last
Walpurga came, radiant with joy and health. They all expressed
themselves delighted to see her looking so well, spoke of the excellent
reputation she enjoyed, and assured her that they took as much pleasure
in her good fortune as if it were their own.

Walpurga thanked them heartily. The great cake which the innkeeper had
sent was soon eaten up, for she offered some of it to every visitor.

"How goes it with old Zenza?" asked Walpurga.

"Just to think how good she is; she even remembers the old torment.
Yes, your kindness was thrown away on her and her offspring," said
several voices. She was soon informed that Zenza, with her son and
Black Esther, had left the neighborhood. No one knew where they had
gone, but the root-hut on the Windenreuthe now stood empty.

Nor did troops of beggars from the village and the neighboring country
fail to present themselves. It must have been quickly noised about that
Walpurga had returned, bringing a whole chestful of gold with her.

Walpurga was astonished to learn how many relations she had in the
neighborhood. Many claimed relationship with her father, but were
unable to state exactly in what degree, and some of the beggars, who
disputed each other's claims, were soon involved in quarrels with each
other. Walpurga dispensed modest gifts to all of them. They left in an
ill-humor. What they had received had hardly been worth the trouble of
going for it, and the highways and byways resounded with imprecations
launched against Walpurga, who, they said, had become proud and stingy.
But there were soon fresh troops of beggars. It was like scattering
wheat among sparrows; more were constantly coming.

"Take your whip and drive the whole pack of beggars away," suddenly
cried a loud voice from the road.

It was the innkeeper, accompanied by his two dogs Dachsel and Wachsel,
who added their voices to that of their master, until at last a beggar
gave one of the dogs a kick that sent him off yelping. The innkeeper
now swore more violently than before, but Walpurga went out and, in
quite a determined tone, requested him not to interfere, and then
doubled her gifts to all of them. She thus escaped a confidential and
patronizing familiarity on the part of the innkeeper. She was, as yet,
uncertain how she ought to behave toward him. He was evidently Hansei's
seducer. If she were to show herself angry at him at the start, it
might lead to much vexation and would destroy all her influence. On the
other hand, she found it difficult to force herself to greet him in a
friendly manner.

When he had entered the room, he asked Hansei:

"Have you told her everything?"

"Of course."

"And is she agreed?"

"She says she'll be satisfied with anything I do."

Walpurga came into the room, and with the words, "Welcome, and many
congratulations to the hostess of the Chamois," the innkeeper extended
his hand to her.

"Thanks for the first; but, before I accept the second, my husband must
be landlord of the Chamois."

"Heigho!" exclaimed the innkeeper, "how clever! how studied! how
dignified and polite! Look here, Hansei! haven't I always told you that
you've got a wife who might be a queen?"

"And why not, if my husband were a king?"

The innkeeper's fist descended on the table, and he laughed so heartily
at this clever sally, that his two dogs began to bark and thus
accompanied his laughter with their applause. He showed the other
visitors that it would not do to weary their hosts. He left soon
afterward, the rest of the company going with him.



                              CHAPTER III.


"And for your mother I'll build a snug room looking toward the garden,
where she can take her comfort. I always knew it before, but it wasn't
till you were away, that I found out what a treasure she is to us. If
the Lord only lets us keep her with us for many a year to come. Yes,
your mother shall have the best room in the house."

Thus spake Hansei, with gleeful countenance. Walpurga inquired: "Where
do you mean to build?"

Hansei looked around as if to express his surprise at her asking such a
question. He had yielded so far as to promise that nothing should be
done without his wife's consent. He thought that this was all that
could in reason be expected of him, and that it was best to finish up
the business at once.

With great self-command, he said:

"Why, at our inn, to be sure. I shan't do anything to this tumble-down
cottage. But I've already told them that they mustn't disturb the
nut-tree. You'll be surprised when you see how full it is. We shall get
three measures of nuts this year, and a nut year is a good one for
boys."

Walpurga clapped her hand to his mouth and, with downcast eyes, said:
"You're a dear, good fellow: but, believe me, I know you better than
you do yourself. I'm glad that you're much sharper than you used to.
be. I often used to tell you not to be so bashful and forever keeping
in the background. You've so much common sense; more, indeed, than all
the rest of them. If you could only have been behind the door, when I
told the queen about you; and she promised me faithfully that she'll
come to see us when she visits the mountains next year."

Hansei complacently swallowed the praise that his wife bestowed upon
him, and kept on smiling to himself for some time afterward.

Husband and wife praised and extolled each other--a custom more honored
in the breach than the observance, at least among peasants, who would
feel ashamed if they knew of it. Their coming together, after so long a
separation, seemed like a new wooing and wedding. The question of the
purchase of the inn prevented them, however, from fully realizing this,
and even threatened to imperil their domestic happiness.

"So you're agreed that we'll be host and hostess of the Chamois?"
inquired Hansei.

"I've told you already that we'd talk it over; and so you think you'll
make a good landlord?"

"Not so good a landlord as you will a landlady. That's what everybody
says; and the landlady's always the chief point. You'd be the best
landlady, for you can earn your bread with your tongue, just as the
parson does; and that'll help us to get a penny or two more for our
wine and everything else. You've got a way of looking right into
people's hearts, and can give and take, and that's the best sign that
you're made to be a landlady."

Hansei did not understand how Walpurga could still hesitate. The
highest ideal of the young mountaineer is to be an innkeeper; to supply
every one with meat and drink, and to live by the profits of it; to
give feasts and, at the same time, be the merriest one at them; to
receive money while others spend it; to have his house the rendezvous
of all, no matter how varied their pursuits and interests; to be the
helper and adviser of every one; the man with whom all keep on good
terms, who knows all that is going on, all about bargains and prices,
and who, like the lord of the manor in the olden time, receives a
profit whenever cow, or farm, or house change hands. And besides, what
others eat and drink tickles his palate, too, and he doesn't grow thin
upon it. And then, like the parson, he would derive profit from
baptisms, marriages and funerals; to say nothing of the strangers who
would come during the summer and would be obliged to pay tribute to the
landlord, because the mountains are so high and the lake so deep,
and because he allows them to see it all. Yes, an inn is like a great
lake--all the little streams that flow from the different mountain
rills concentrate there.

Walpurga stared at her husband in surprise, while she listened to his
animated and yet detailed description of the advantages of innkeeping.
She almost felt inclined to favor his plan, and thought to herself:
"Perhaps it would be the most sensible thing after all; for I'll never
feel quite at home again in the old, narrow ways of life that I once
used to lead. I've grown different, and must have something different."
Frankly and sincerely, she again assured him that she was not opposed
to the project, but that it would be well to go about it cautiously.

"And do you know what's best of all?" asked Hansei. "We're to have a
post-office here--the judge himself says so--and if it should fail us,
you could easily bring it about. You'll give the village a great name.
Indeed, you'll make a town of it, and the houses will be worth twice as
much as they now are."

He wanted his wife to go up to the village with him at once, in order
to look at the inn; but Walpurga said:

"Let me get a good rest in our old house before we go up there. The inn
won't run away. I can't tell you how happy I am to be in our house
again. I feel as if I must try every chair. Everything seems so good at
home. It's just as if every chair and every table had eyes, and was
looking at me and saying: 'Yes, we still know you, and have waited for
you'; and now, I beg of you, do let me rest awhile."

"Yes, yes; just stay," replied Hansei, walking up and down the room.
Suddenly, as if called by some one, he went out and split several logs
which he had laid aside.

Walpurga came out and looked at him with evident satisfaction.

"Yes," said he, "work will be kept up just as it always was. I shan't
be a lazy landlord--rest assured of that; and I won't take to drinking,
either. Are you going up to the village with me?" he inquired at last.

"Yes; but do come in."

Hansei was soon on the road, and was not a little proud to be seen
entering the village with his wife. At the fountain near the town hall,
there were women and girls with their tubs. As soon as they saw
Walpurga, they came up to her and offered their greetings and
congratulations.

The children were just leaving school. Walpurga called several of them
to her, shook hands with them, and gave them kind messages to their
parents. With saddened heart, she would hear of the death of such and
such a one. The other children were gathered in groups, and would stand
about, staring at her with surprise. Walpurga's being sent for and
taken to the palace had been as a fairy-tale to the village children;
and now the fairy herself was standing there in broad daylight, and
talking just as other people did.

At last Walpurga left them, but the children kept calling out her name,
in order to prove that they still knew her.

When she and her husband walked on, the latter pointed toward the town
hall. "Look!" said he, "I'll soon be there, too. It's almost certain
that they'll elect me as one of the town council. I might even become a
burgomaster. But I won't take that, for that would get an innkeeper
into lots of trouble."

Walpurga observed that the idea of becoming a host had taken deep root
in Hansei. She simply replied: "I find that you've seen a great deal of
the world this year, but you must certainly have learned that it's
every one's duty to care for his own, and that when one's poor and
unfortunate, no one lends a helping hand."

"Certainly; but thank God! we don't need any one now; quite the
contrary."

They were passing the house of Grubersepp, the wealthy farmer and,
indeed, the richest man in the community. He was a tall, lean man,
whose features always wore a sour expression. He was standing on the
steps before his house, and Hansei greeted him civilly. Grubersepp,
however, turned on his heel and walked off toward the stable. It would
not do for a rich farmer like him to welcome a day laborer's child like
Walpurga. The whole village might make fools of themselves on her
account, but a rich farmer like Grubersepp knows his own importance too
well. It would be mighty fine, indeed, if he were known to trouble
himself about a creature who used to be glad if he would let her have a
pint or two of milk on trust.

Hansei cried out aloud: "Good-day, Grubersepp! my wife's come back
again."

Grubersepp acted as if he had not heard him, and went toward the
stable.

The joy that Walpurga had experienced while receiving the greetings of
the villagers was not enough to compensate her for her pain at
the slight thus put upon her. After all, as it was only a silly,
narrow-minded farmer displaying his stupid peasant pride. Hadn't the
king spoken to her, and had he ever spoken to such a dolt as he? But
this did not satisfy her. Grubersepp was the first in the village, and
to be slighted by him, or to incur his ill-will, was no trifling matter
after all.

"I'll never be hostess to you, you old pitchfork," said Walpurga,
looking toward the house; "I'll never pour out a glass of wine for you
and say, 'God bless you!' with it."

"What are you saying?" said Hansei, as Walpurga uttered these words to
herself.

"If we could buy that silly old pitchfork's land, I'd like it much
better than the inn," she answered.

"Of course, that would be much finer; but we haven't enough money for
that; and, even if we had, Grubersepp wouldn't sell. On the contrary,
when a poor man has his eye on a field, he buys it up before he gets a
chance at it."

When Hansei and Walpurga arrived at the inn, they found quite a crowd
there. A new purchase of wine had just been opened, and, as usual on
such occasions, the drinking was at the host's expense.

"Ah! here comes the new landlady," exclaimed several voices.

"Thank you," said Walpurga, "my husband hasn't concluded the bargain
yet."

The hunter from Zell was there also, and Walpurga saw, at a glance,
that her husband was caught in a net of flatterers. She soon got out of
the room. The host and his wife showed her and Hansei through all the
rooms and the cellars. Walpurga found it all very good, but kept saying
that they would have to build and arrange everything anew.

"You're spoiled," said the innkeeper. "Here in the country, things are
different from what they are in your palace. You seem to forget that
one needn't drive a nail into this house for the next fifty years."
Walpurga would not permit herself to be drawn into any discussion of
the subject. On the way home, she remarked to her husband, that it
would be well to have the house examined by some one who knew all about
building matters, for neither of them understood anything about it, and
to make anything out of the innkeeper, was like drawing blood from a
stone.

Hansei was vexed that the bargain had not been concluded on the spot.
He felt as if he could not remain in the old house another hour.
Walpurga, on the other hand, wished to stave off the matter for a
while. Besides that, as Hansei was obliged to admit, she suggested many
points that required careful consideration.

That afternoon, Walpurga reckoned up all that belonged to her. It was a
handsome amount. There was almost enough to pay for the inn, with the
fields, meadows and woods belonging to it. One or two prosperous years
would enable them to clear off the mortgage which they might be obliged
to leave remaining on the property.



                              CHAPTER IV.


It was evening. The grandmother was in the room and, in a tremulous
voice, was singing her granddaughter to sleep. She, too, was singing
the song:

           "Oh, blissful is the tender tie
            That binds me, love, to thee."

Walpurga and Hansei were the only ones at the table, and he could
scarcely eat the potatoes as fast as she pared them. She would always
put the best and finest before him. "Just think of it, Hansei," said
she, looking so happy while she spoke; "the best things in the
world--sleep, sunlight, water, eggs, boiled potatoes and salt--are all
the same in the palace and in the cottage. The king and the queen can't
have them better than we, and the very best of all is the same
everywhere. And do you know what it is?"

"Yes; a good kiss. It wouldn't be any better from the queen's lips than
from yours; and there I'm like the king, too, especially when I'm as
nicely shaved as today," he added, taking his wife's hand and passing
it over his smooth chin.

"You're right; but I didn't mean to say it that way. Love's the same,
too. It can't be different up there from what it is here."

"I don't know what's come over you," said Hansei. "I never thought you
were such a witch, so clever and so wide-awake. It provokes me that
people should be so familiar with you, and treat you as if you were
still the same old Walpurga."

"You ought to be glad that I'm still the same, or else I shouldn't be
your wife."

Hansei stopped chewing the potato that was in his mouth and stared at
his wife in surprise. At last he hurriedly bolted down the potato and
said: "Now that joke don't please me at all. It's wrong to joke about
such things." Both were silent.

In the next room sat the mother singing:

                 "My heart doth bear a burden,
                  And thou hast placed it there";

And the song seemed to touch them both.

"I've got something to tell you," said Hansei, at last. "It's been my
habit, for the last year, to go up to the Chamois after supper, and
especially on Saturday evenings. Sometimes I've taken a drop, and
sometimes not; and as this is Saturday and as they'll all be there, I
think I'd better go up once more, just for your sake."

"For my sake?"

"Yes, for fear the people might say: 'Now he's got to duck under, for
his gracious wife has come home.'"

"Why do you always worry about what the people say? Suppose they were
to say: 'What sort of a man is this? His wife was gone for a year, and
on the second night after her return, he runs off to the inn'?"

Hansei, unable to parry this thrust, stared at her in surprise. At last
he said: "I think I'll go, after all. You won't think hard of it, will
you?"

"Go, if you like," replied Walpurga, and Hansei hurried off. Walpurga
looked after him, while her eyes filled with tears. "Is this what I've
so longed for?" thought she to herself. "Was it for this that I thought
the minutes would never end, and felt as if I must chase the hours
away?"

Her mother came in and, gently closing the door, said: "She sleeps
sweetly."

The ruddy glow of the rosy setting sun illumined Walpurga's
countenance, in which, it was plainly to be seen, a great change had
taken place since that sun rose.

The child again began to cry. The grandmother went in to it, and
Walpurga stealthily hurried in the direction of the lake. It was night.
The waves were softly beating on the shore; the reed-sparrow was still
chattering, and the water-hens kept up their twittering. Far up on the
mountain, bright fires were burning; for it was Saturday night, and the
mountain lasses were looking out for their swains. And now the moon
rose over the summit of the Chamois hill and shone upon the lake.
Walpurga, as if lost in reverie, stood there for some time, gazing into
the lake. Then she turned toward home, but, instead of going into the
room, quietly stole into the cellar. With almost superhuman strength,
she moved the stone cabbage-tub from its place, dug a hole in the
ground, placed the money that Irma had given her in it, and shoved the
cabbage-tub back into its place again.

She was washing her hands at the pump, when she noticed that her mother
was lighting the lamp in the room. She went in, staring at the light.

"Why do you stare at the light so?" asked her mother.

"Well, mother, I'm not used to a single light any more; in the palace,
there are ever so many."

"But the people there have only one pair of eyes," replied the mother.
"No, my child; that's not why you look so troubled. Tell me honestly,
what's the matter?"

Walpurga frankly confessed that it almost broke her heart to think that
her husband couldn't stay at home on the second evening after her
return, but must go to the inn.

"Give me your hand," said the mother. "Yes, I've been thinking about
your hands. I've noticed that you wash them whenever you've touched
anything. That's very nice, but it won't do here. Your hand's become
soft and tender this last year, while mine's as hard as leather; and
you'll soon have to harden your hands too. For God's sake, don't make
your husband skittish, and don't give him an ugly word. Take my word
for it, he couldn't help going up there to-night, and it's Saturday
night besides. It was just as if six horses were dragging him. He's got
used to it, and habits are strong things that can't be changed at will.
He's not bad; I'm sure of that. Let him have his own way, just as he's
used to, and he'll soon be all right again."

Walpurga made no answer. She busied herself paring potatoes for her
mother, who went on to say:

"The things that are God's gifts we have just as good as they have them
in the palace."

"There! we've saved one poor soul," replied Walpurga with a smile, "I
said the very same words to Hansei, a little while ago."

When they had finished paring the potatoes for the next day, the mother
said:

"I'll tell you what. Let's close the front door, and sit on the little
seat your father was so fond of, in the grassy garden back of the
house. There we can talk to each other without being disturbed, and, as
the lights are out, we'll have no visitors. Nor do we want any, for
we're enough by ourselves."

"Oh God! if only my husband felt so, too."

"Let him alone at the inn. Thank God that we're alone together. Don't
act like a deposed queen; it only makes it so much the harder for you."

Mother and daughter went out through the back door that led to the
little garden, where they seated themselves on a bench which stood
against the wall and opposite the stable window, and left the back door
ajar so that they might hear the child if it should cry. They heard
nothing, however, except the noise, made by the cows while feeding. The
moon was high, and the shimmering surface of the lake reflected its
rays. Now and then, the _yodel_ of some distant mountaineer, the
barking of a dog, or the soft splash of an oar, were the only sounds
that broke the silence.

"If the first two weeks were only over," said Walpurga, "I'd be better
used to it."

"Don't wish for time to pass. It comes and goes of itself."

"Yes, mother; tell me everything I'm to do, I don't care to have my own
will now."

"That won't do, either. Those who can walk alone must fall alone."

"I'll try to do my best."

"Very well. Tell me one thing: how is it in the palace about now?"

"About now? Dear me, it seems two years since I left there. By this
time, the lamps have been lit in all the passageways, and downstairs,
where the king and the queen are, they're just about leaving the table.
But we have nothing to do with that. Mademoiselle Kramer is reading her
book. She reads a book through every day; and my prince. O you poor
child--"

Walpurga burst into tears. At the same moment, her own child began to
cry and the two women hurried in.

"It was only dreaming," said the mother softly. "The child must feel
that the right mother is come."

Walpurga again felt conscious of the double life she was leading.

Although she was at home, her thoughts were still at the palace.
Everything seemed confused and indistinct, and when she found herself
again sitting on the bench at her mother's side, she was obliged to
stop and consider where she was.

"It seems to me," said the mother, "that those who possess so many
worldly gifts as the king and queen and the quality have, can't take
much time to think of the heavenly life hereafter."

Walpurga told her how pious they all were at court, and that the queen,
although a Protestant, was especially so.

They conversed with each other in calm and gentle tones. Walpurga
rested her head against her mother's heart and, at last, fell asleep
there. The mother held her in her embrace, scarcely venturing to
breathe, lest she might waken her. After they had been sitting there
awhile, she awakened Walpurga and told her that she might catch cold
and had better go to bed. Walpurga scarcely knew where she was and,
while still rubbing her eyes, she asked: "Isn't my husband home yet?"

"Just go to bed, I'll help you," said the mother, and she undressed
Walpurga, as if she were a little child. Then she sat down by the bed
and, taking her daughter's hand in hers, said: "You see, it's a queer
thing when people who belong together have lived apart for a long time.
They've become used to getting along without each other, and the only
thing to do is to wait till they grow used to each other again. Take
precious good care that you never speak an unkind word, and don't dare
to think to yourself: 'If I only were away again, and out in the
world.' If you harbor such thoughts, you'll be like a tree cut off at
its roots and transplanted--it must die. Mind what I tell you! Whenever
you can change anything according to your own notion, do so; but you'd
better not attempt to alter what can't be altered. Make up your mind
that it's got to be as it is, and submit. There's nothing so silly, in
all the world, as to wish for what you can't have. When the wind blows
and the rain descends, you'll often hear people say: 'If it were only
fine weather to-day.' We can't change the weather outside of us; but we
can see to it that there's fair weather inside. And what I was going to
say is: see that you have fair weather within yourself and then all
will be well."

"Yes; but what am I to do?"

"Make an effort this very night. Promise me, faithfully, that if you're
awake when your husband comes home, you'll say to him, cheerfully, 'God
greet you, Hansei!'"

"I can't do that, mother; indeed, I can't."

"But I tell you you must be able to do it, or else you're not a true
wife and mother, and every piece of gold you've brought home with you
will be as if a fiery demon were lurking in it. You promised to obey
me, and at the very start you refuse."

"Yes, mother; I'll try my best."

"Well, then, good-night," said the mother, and returned to her room.

Walpurga lay there in silence. Anger and sorrow kept her awake. Her
child had become estranged from her, her husband had acquired bad
habits and preferred the society of his comrades to hers. For whose
sake had she imposed the heavy burden upon herself? For whose sake had
she gone among strangers to earn all that she had brought home with
her, and for whom had she kept herself so pure? She wet her pillow with
bitter tears. But suddenly an inner voice said to her: "Do you mean to
take credit to yourself for having been honest? Were you honest for
yourself, or for others? and weren't they obliged to suffer, too, in
taking everything upon themselves? Oughtn't you to thank God that they
didn't die of grief?--Yes, that was all very well; but now they ought
to be heartily glad and grateful--I can't expect it of the child, for
that's too young to know; but my husband--he has sense enough when he
feels like it. And have I gained all this only to be a hostess to the
whole world? No, I've earned it, and I've a right--For God's sake! A
right? There's the trouble. When the one always insists upon claiming
his rights from the other, it's just like hell itself--I don't want any
rights; I've got no rights; I want nothing at all. All I wish is to be
an obedient wife and a good mother--Dear Lord, assist me if I'm not
one."

Heavy steps were heard approaching. Hansei entered and, with cheerful
voice, Walpurga exclaimed: "God greet you, Hansei! I'm glad that you've
found me still awake."

"I've won the bet! I've won it!" exclaimed Hansei with a loud voice.
"There's two men standing out there under the window. We had a wager
together and I've won six measures of wine from them. They said that
the best proof of a wife is the way she receives her husband when he
returns from the tavern, or when he awakes her out of her sleep. I told
them: 'I know my wife. When I get home, she'll be kind and friendly to
me.' But they wouldn't believe a word of it. And so we've had a wager,
and I've won it; and if all the wine in the whole world were mine, it
wouldn't please me half so much as to know that I was right."

Hansei opened the shutters of the window toward the lake, and called
out: "Now you've heard it, friends. You can go now; I've won the wine.
Good night!"

Walpurga pulled the cover over her head. There was laughter outside,
and the two men departed. For a minute or two, the bright moonlight
shone into the lowly cottage, and then the shutter was closed again.



                               CHAPTER V.


When Hansei awoke the next morning, the cows were already milked, and
the house looked so bright and clean that it seemed as if one of the
kind fairies that dwelt on the mountains had been putting things to
rights. A pot of blooming, scarlet pinks stood in the center of the
table, over which a neat, white cloth had been spread; and, as if to
hide the dingy flower-pot from view, a garland of leaves had been
twined around it.

"You've been industrious," said Hansei, and Walpurga answered: "Yes, my
thoughts wandered far away into the world, and have come back again.
You see, the quality have all that one can wish for, but do you know
what they haven't got?"

"No."

"They've no Sunday; and do you know why?"

"I don't know that, either."

"Because they've no real workdays. In the palace, when you get up in
the morning, your boots and shoes are ready at your door just as if
they had blackened themselves. The coffee is ready of itself, the bread
has baked itself, the paths have swept themselves clean, and everything
is attended to, one hardly knows how. But to do everything with your
own hands--Just see! to-day, I've already put my hand under your feet;
I've cleaned your shoes."

"You mustn't do that; that's no work for you. Don't you do it again."

"Very well, I won't do it again. But to-day I've done everything, and I
can hardly tell you how happy I felt when I went after the first pail
of water. It went hard at first, but I managed it, after all. And now
I'm longing for breakfast. Since the day I left home, I've never once
been so hungry as I now am."

When the grandmother came, bringing the child with her, she, too, was
surprised, and said: "Walpurga, you'll turn our cottage into a palace."

With joyful mien, Hansei told her of all that Walpurga had been doing,
and the mother said: "She's right; an industrious home is the happiest
home, and now, just because you've got some means, you must work so
much the more. For where there's idleness riches take wings to
themselves; but if you're always adding something, no matter how
little, to your store, the old is likely to stay."

"I don't think we need go to church to-day," said Hansei, "mother's
giving us the best benediction."

"Yes, but we'll go to church, for all that," replied Walpurga. "All the
time I was away, I've looked forward to this first going to church.
What a fine day it is! I don't believe there ever was such lovely
weather." Their intercourse was full of happiness. The only drawback
was that the child still refused to go to Walpurga.

Walpurga told her mother that everything had been well attended to
during her absence, but she was displeased at one thing.

"What is it? what have I done?"

"Why, you didn't get yourself a servant."

The old woman smiled. She could never do that. She didn't know how she
could ever order a servant about. And now Hansei said he wouldn't allow
his wife to overwork herself, and that there must be a servant in the
house.

The grandmother recommended one of her brother's children from over the
mountains. So it was decided that they should send word to Uncle Peter
to come, and bring one of his daughters with him.

The morning was clear and bracing, and Hansei, who had put on his
snow-white shirt, said, while lighting his pipe:

"Walpurga, let your mother work a little while, and come out into the
garden."

He was sitting on the bench under the cherry-tree. Walpurga soon joined
him and, after the fashion of women, said that she could only remain
for a short time, that she had various matters to attend to, and that
they ought to be at church in good season.

She sat down beside him, and Hansei said: "Why don't you say something?
you must have lots to tell about."

"I can't think of anything now. Just wait, it'll all come in time. It's
happiness enough that we're together again. If we, all of us, only keep
well. I think our cherry-tree has grown."

"And now that I think of it, you've had no cherries from it this year.
I'll climb up and get some for you, and if I could get up, way beyond
the tree, and bring down the blue sky for you, I'd do it."

He climbed up the tree, and cried out: "Shoo! you sparrows, you've had
enough. My old woman's here again, but she's a young one, still, and
wants some, too. You've had your wives with you the whole year, and I
haven't." He hurriedly plucked the finest cherries, singing the while:

                 "In cherry time, you left me, dear;
                  In cherry time, again you're here.
                  The cherries they are black and red,
                  And I'll love my darling till I'm dead."

Suddenly he called out: "Walpurga, I must come down, I can't get any
more for you, I'm so giddy."

He was soon on the ground again and said: "That never happened to me
before, in all my life, and I've been up there many a half-day at a
time. I suppose it's our good fortune that makes me so giddy. I'll
never climb a tree again, I promise you that. It would be a terrible
thing if I were to fall down. We must take care that we keep well and
hearty, and stick to each other. I don't want to break my legs. I want
to dance with you yet. I'll dance with you at Burgei's wedding. It
seems as if I could hear the music already. Hark! don't you hear
anything?"

"No. It'll be a long while before the music for Burgei's wedding is
struck up."

"And she must get a good husband; I won't have it otherwise. What do
you think of a prince? but I'll be quiet, for I'm talking nothing but
silly stuff. I scarcely know what I'm saying, where I am, or who I am,
and--"

"We're at home, and you're my husband and that's all of it. You'll see,
I have something else good in store for you."

"Tell me nothing, and promise me nothing more. I've got enough already.
I can hardly believe that we've a child. It seems as if we were just
married."

In a soft voice, too low for any passer-by to hear it and just loud
enough for them to know they were singing, they sang:

                 "Oh, blissful is the tender tie
                  That binds me, love, to thee.
                  And swiftly speed the hours by,
                  When thou art near to me."

Just like the finch who never wearies of repeating his song, they sang
the same words over and over again. They had nothing more to tell each
other, for they were unspeakably happy. The church bell now began
tolling. Its sounds, floating over the lake, were echoed back from the
forests and mountains. A wagon was seen coming from the village and
Walpurga said: "We must get ready for church."

They went into the house. The mother had already brought Hansei his
royal Sunday suit. They soon heard the cracking of a whip and a voice
cried out: "Are you coming?" Hansei put his head out of the window and
asked: "What's the matter?" Covering herself with a large sheet,
Walpurga looked out of the low window. The innkeeper's head-servant,
who was standing by the wagon out in the road, answered:

"My master sends you his wagon, so that you may drive to church."

"Walpurga, do you wish to ride?" asked Hansei, at the closed chamber
door.

"No, I'll walk. I beg of you, Hansei, send the wagon away; I've had
enough riding." Hansei went out. At the same moment the innkeeper, with
his military medal glittering on his breast, arrived.

Hansei thanked him, but said that his wife didn't care to ride. But it
was not so easy to deny the innkeeper, who waited until Walpurga came
out of the house.

She was not long dressing herself, and that is saying a great deal; for
this was to be her first appearance at church and she knew that all
eyes would be directed upon her. When she came out, clad in tasteful
attire, the innkeeper said:

"You must do me the honor of letting me drive you and your husband to
church."

"I'm still quite sound on my feet, and shall be glad to have a good
walk again."

"You can do that, too; but not on the first Sunday. We'd feel ashamed
before the folks who live in the wilderness and out at the
Windenreuthe, if we didn't show them that we know how to treat a woman
like yourself with proper respect. We're all proud of you."

"Thanks. Don't think hard of it, but I won't ride."

Walpurga was not to be moved. The innkeeper was about to give vent to
his anger, but, fearing the consequences, he restrained himself, and,
with smiling mien, said:

"I ought to have known as much. Walking's a great treat to the quality.
Yes, indeed!" He laughed at his own cleverness and sent the wagon home
again. He kept smiling till he had a chance to turn his back on Hansei
and Walpurga, when his face assumed quite an angry expression. He went
home, took off his coat with the medal, hung it up in the closet, and
wished he could hang himself in the same manner. Who could tell but
what Walpurga would interfere both with all his fun and the handsome
receipts he expected that day.

Walpurga and Hansei started off by the road along the lake, the
grandmother, with the child on her arm, standing at the garden hedge
and looking after them. She softly repeated to the child: "mother," and
it suddenly called out "mother" in a loud voice. Walpurga turned round
and wanted to hug the child, but it again tried to hide from her, and
cried when she attempted to kiss it. Hansei stood by, and was so vexed
that he raised his hand as if to strike the child, but Walpurga
pacified him and said: "We must wait."

The second bell was ringing, and they hurried on. On the way, they were
joined by men, women and children coming from the village and various
farms in the neighborhood. Hansei longed to drive them away, and he
once said, softly, "I'd like to go with you, alone."

"Be patient," said Walpurga, "don't begrudge them their delight in our
happiness." She was affable to all. Hansei looked out over the lake,
then up at the sky, and then again at his wife, as if to say: "She's
here again." He smiled when he heard the children saying: "She's the
grandest peasant now--she comes right after the queen."

The third bell, or the ringing in, which generally lasts a full quarter
of an hour, had just begun, when Hansei and his wife reached the
church. Many churchgoers were standing about in groups and welcomed
them. There was still time to remain there, chatting for awhile; but
Walpurga took her husband's hand and went into the church with him.
They were the first to enter. Walpurga took her usual seat in the place
allotted to the women, and Hansei went into that assigned to the men.
Thus they were together and yet apart. The bells overhead were still
ringing out their merry peal, while they sat there in silent
introspection. Once only did Hansei nod to his wife, but she shook her
head deprecatingly.

The playing of the organ began, and the people poured into church.
Walpurga knew that such and such a one was near her, but she did not
wish to be welcomed or greeted by any one in such a place. She felt
that the eye of the Invisible One was resting upon her.

The pastor preached of the return to the everlasting home. It seemed as
if his words were intended for Hansei and Walpurga; as if he were
speaking only to them.

When the sermon was over and prayers were offered for the king, the
queen and the royal family, there was strange whispering in the church.
Walpurga felt that all eyes were directed upon her, and did not look
up.

The service was over. The congregation left the church, and Walpurga
was now welcomed by the latecomers.

The sexton came to Walpurga and Hansei, and said that the pastor wished
to see them in the vestry. They went in. The pastor again welcomed
them, spoke of their good fortune, and admonished them to be humble.

"Yes, yes," said Hansei, "my mother-in-law said almost the same thing."

The pastor promised to visit them before long, and said that he was
proud to have such a woman among his parishioners. Hansei put out his
hand as if to check him, and felt like answering: "What's the use of
your warning us against pride when you tell us such things yourself?"
The pastor motioned him to be quiet, and went on to say: "I shall visit
the capital next week, and you must do me the favor, Walpurga, to give
me a letter to Countess von Wildenort."

"With all my heart," said Walpurga.

When they were out of doors again, Hansei looked at his wife from head
to foot. And so even the pastor would ask his wife to intercede for
him. Yes, she was a splendid wife, if all that couldn't turn her head.

"Oh Hansei," said Walpurga suddenly, "what a pack of fools they all
are. They do all they can to make one proud, and if one were to become
so, they'd do nothing but abuse you."

Hansei was on the point of saying that he had thought the very same
thing, but, before he had a chance to do so, he saw Schneck the tailor
coming down the mountainside, and carrying his great bass viol. The
weak and delicate-looking man, with the great instrument on his back,
presented quite an odd appearance.

"Heigho! why here's the wedding party," exclaimed the tailor, while he
left the meadow path and ran up the road to shake hands with Hansei and
Walpurga.

"What's the matter? what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to play for you to-day."

"For us? Who ordered you?"

"What a pity my wife didn't live to see this day. How happy it would
have made her. Don't you know about it? There's going to be a great
feast at the Chamois, in honor of your return, Walpurga, and the
innkeeper has engaged me and six other musicians. The forest keeper,
the chief forester, all the judges of the court, and everybody for six
leagues around, have been invited. How stupid that I've only got my
bass viol with me, or else I'd play you a piece, right here on the
road."

"There you have it," whispered Walpurga to her husband, "the innkeeper
makes money out of everything. If he only could do it, he'd have
fiddle-strings stretched over my back, and have the skin drawn off of
you to make drum-heads with."

"Go on; we'll follow," said Hansei to the tailor. He was annoyed when
others joined them on their way home. He wanted to be alone with his
wife. No one should have a share of her; she belonged to him alone.

"It'll soon be a year since we sat on this pile of stones. Do you
remember? It must have been somewhat about here," exclaimed Hansei,
with joyous voice.

Walpurga gave an evasive answer. She told Hansei that she thought it a
stupid piece of business for the innkeeper to make a festival of her
return, but that she wouldn't put foot in the Chamois for all his
music.

Hansei had not thought so ill of the projected entertainment; on the
contrary, he had found pleasure in the idea of sitting in the midst of
the crowd, with his wife by his side and all the people frisking about
him. That was more than Grubersepp, with all his money, could get. It
was not without a struggle, that he, at last, said: "Just as you
please; you ought to know best whether it's proper for you."

As soon as the afternoon service was over, crowds, on their way to the
Chamois, were seen hurrying through the village in carriages, on
horseback, or afoot. The sound of the music could be heard from afar,
and the tones of tailor Schneck's bass viol were heard over all.

"If I could only hide myself from them," said Walpurga.

"That's easily done," said Hansei, triumphantly, "that's all right. Let
us go off together, by ourselves."

He went out through the back door and into the back garden and loosened
the boat from the spile. While the chain rattled over its side,
Walpurga laid her hand on her heart and said:

"You've loosened a chain from my heart."

They got into the boat and pushed oft, and, like an arrow, the slender
bark shot out over the smooth water of the lake.

"The pastor meant to come," said Walpurga, when they had gone some
distance.

"He can come some other time; he won't run away," thought Hansei.
"We're rowing together, just as we did when we were betrothed."

Walpurga also seized the oars. She and Hansei sat face to face. The
four oars rose and fell as if it were a single hand that plied them.
Neither spoke a word; there was nothing to be said. The happy glances
they bestowed on each other were full of eloquence, and the equal
stroke of the oars told the whole story.

When they reached the middle of the lake, they heard loud music from
the shore, and, looking back, saw a great crowd, accompanied by the
band, in front of their house.

"Thank God! We've escaped that," said Hansei.

They rowed on, further and further, and went ashore on the opposite
bank where, holding each other by the hand, they walked up the hill.
They soon reached a bluff, where they rested for awhile. At last,
Hansei said:

"Walpurga, it seems to me that you don't want to be the landlady of the
Chamois. Tell me frankly, is it so?"

"No, I don't; but if you're really bent upon it--"

"I want nothing that doesn't suit you."

"Nor do I want anything that displeases you."

"And so we'll let the innkeeper go his own way?"

"Gladly."

"We can wait."

"We can remain as we are, for the present."

"We'll soon find a good chance."

"The money won't grow moldy."

"Nor will you. I've got a bran-new wife. Hurrah! hurrah!"

Their voices joined in merry song, and they felt as if relieved from a
self-imposed burden.

"They may make sport of me, as much as they please, as long as we're
happy together," said Hansei.

"Hansei, I'll never forget you for that. There's something else coming,
too."

"There needn't be anything more. All I ask for is that we may keep what
we have."

They sat there for a long while, and at last Walpurga said:

"Oh! how beautiful the world is. If we could only always remain
together thus. There's nothing more beautiful than to sit here and look
at the lake, through the green leaves and the gray boughs. There are
two skies, one above and one below. Hansei, we have two heavens, too,
and I almost think that the one on earth is the lovelier of the two."

"Yes, but joy has made me hungry and thirsty; I must have something to
eat."

They descended to a quiet, desolate-looking village that lay near by.
Here and there people were seated before their doors, chatting and
yawning, to while away the sultry hour of noon. But Walpurga said:

"Oh, Hansei, how beautiful everything is! Just look at that
wheelbarrow, and that pile of wood, and that house--I don't know what's
the matter with me, but I feel quite dizzy, and as if everything were
smiling at me."

"You must have something to eat and drink; you're quite beside
yourself."

They found the inn-parlor untenanted except by myriads of flies.

"They've got lots of guests here, but they don't pay anything," said
Hansei, and they both laughed with all their might. They were so happy
that the merest trifle provoked them to laughter.

After repeated calls the landlady appeared, bringing some sour wine and
stale bread; but it was quite palatable, nevertheless.

They left and, when evening came on, rowed about the lake for a long
while. The evening dews were already falling, when Hansei, pointing
toward a distant bare spot in the forest, said: "That's our meadow."

Walpurga seemed busied with other thoughts. She rested her oars and
exclaimed:

"The little house over there is our home, and there's our child. I
don't know how it is--" She could not express her feelings, but it
seemed as if she must fly away and hover over the sea and the
mountains, with all that belonged to her. She gazed earnestly at
Hansei, until he at last said:

"Of course it's our little house; and our cows, and our tables, and our
chairs, and our beds, are all there. Walpurga, you've become a foolish
thing; everything seems strange to you."

"You're right, Hansei. Only have patience with me. I'm just coming home
to it all again."

She had, at first, almost felt mortified at Hansei's words. He had
taken her expressions so literally, and had not appreciated her
high-strung feelings. But she quickly regained her self-control, and
realized how changed she had become, and that all this was out of place
here.

They returned home, and slipped into the house through the back door.
They found everything quiet and in good order. They did not care for
the people outside, or for their merry-making. They were enough to each
other.



                              CHAPTER VI.


Were these the same villagers who had talked so scandalously of
Walpurga when, at Christmas time, the new clothes had come for Hansei
and the mother? Had they suddenly become kind and loving?

It seemed, at first, as if they had really raised themselves to the
noblest height, that of pure sympathy.

But now-- If there had been a weathercock to mark the feelings of men,
it would have turned quite suddenly.

It all came about quite naturally.

There were few amusements still left to the villagers. The church and
state authorities had ruled with a severe hand. It was, therefore, no
trifle that the members of the provincial court would permit music in
midsummer, in honor of the prince's nurse, for the sanction of the
authorities was required, even for music.

All were delighted except, of course, Grubersepp, who made a wry face
at their noisy doings, and, after he had taken his comfortable
afternoon nap, went out to his fields. Such a noise and fuss about
nothing at all, would do very well for the little farmers, the
woodcutters, the boatmen and the fishermen; but it should not interest
a rich, sober-minded farmer.

But when they found that Walpurga and Hansei had gone away, and that
the cream of the joke was thus spoiled; when even the country justice
said that their behavior was shameful, there was quite a revulsion of
sentiment, and many who had gone to the cottage by the lake in order to
do honor to its inmates, now began to think of what tricks they might
play Hansei and his haughty wife. There were many ways of annoying
them, such as cutting off the cows' tails, nailing up the doors,
breaking the windows--they were quite ingenious in inventing all sorts
of mean tricks, but the presence of the justice acted as an
uncomfortable restraint. So the crowd returned to the inn and amused
themselves by inveighing against the he-nurse and his stupid wife. By
degrees, however, another change in feeling took place. There are many
who rejoice in another's misfortunes, and they chuckled over the
landlord's disappointment. The feast, and the great earnings he had
expected, had both been failures, for the better portion of the company
soon drove off, leaving him enough roast meats and cakes on hand to
last a week. Out in the kitchen, the hostess was weeping with anger and
vexation, which she would gladly have vented upon her husband. There
was lively talking on all sides, and they found it a great joke to make
sport of the innkeeper, and to advise him to add the day's loss to the
price of the house.

"I shan't sell at all," said the host. "Such people shan't enter my
house again."

When Walpurga awoke, early on Monday morning, Hansei was nowhere to be
seen. The week's work had begun. Before daylight, he had taken his
scythe and gone out to his mountain meadow, where he was now mowing the
dewy grass. He worked with such joy, such pleasure and calmness, that
it seemed as if an invisible power were guiding his hand. When the
breakfast was ready and Walpurga had searched for her husband
everywhere, and thinking that he might have gone fishing, had called
out for him back of the house and down by the lake, she went out into
the garden again and looked up into the cherry-tree. Perhaps he was up
there, although this constant plucking of cherries would be too much of
a good thing. At the same moment, she looked toward the hill, and saw
Hansei coming home, his scythe glittering in the sun. Walpurga beckoned
to him. He quickened his pace and told her how much he had already
done. "Ah!" said he, stretching his limbs while he seated himself at
the breakfast-table, "it does one good to work before breakfast, and
then come home and find wife and child and mother, with something warm
and good to eat, waiting for you--Ah! that tastes good. Sunday's
beautiful, but a workday's much finer. I wouldn't care to be one of
your quality, who have Sunday all the year round. If I only had lots of
fields and meadows and forests, so that I could always work on my own
land."

"We'll have them, God willing," answered Walpurga.

They were a happy party at breakfast, and the child was full of life.
They had been sitting together for a little while, when the innkeeper's
servant entered and brought Hansei his beer-mug with his name engraved
on the pewter lid, and signified that the innkeeper desired no further
visits on his part.

Hansei sent word to the host that he had better return the two hundred
florins that he still owed him. He did not like to send such a message
by the servant, but he felt that he ought to give him tit for tat.

"And tell him, besides," he called out to the servant, "he's often been
warned that he might get hold of the wrong fellow. Just tell him that
I'm the wrong fellow."

Hansei could not help feeling sad while he looked at the empty
beer-mug. Who knew how long it would remain empty. Perhaps forever. And
it's no trifling matter to be excluded from the village inn. It's
almost as hard as to live in a small capital where the prince gives
entertainments, and to be unable to take part in them because you are
not admitted at court. "There's a new tap," they'd say; "there's a new
wine purchase; there are entertaining strangers there--" He was now
excluded from the best thing there was in the village. When he looked
at his tankard it was with sad thoughts, and with a prophetic sense of
the thirst which in future he would be unable to quench.

Before long, woodcutters, on their way to the forest, stopped to see
Hansei and tell him of all that had been said of him and his wife on
the previous day. They roundly abused those who, in order to please the
innkeeper, had spoken ill of an honest man, one against whom nothing
could be said.

"There's no harm done," replied Hansei; "on the contrary, it makes one
wiser to see how people will talk when their tongues are loosened."

"And your comrades, the huntsmen, said they had only let you go with
them in order to have fun at your expense."

"That doesn't matter. I'll soon show them that I've learnt wisdom from
them."

"Wasn't there one who spoke well of us?" inquired Walpurga.

"Yes, yes," replied Wastl the weaver, who felt kindly inclined toward
Hansei, but feared to incur the displeasure of the innkeeper--"the
doctor. He's a real friend of yours. He said: 'Walpurga was perfectly
right; it's the most sensible thing she's ever done'--and he also said
that he and his wife would soon come on purpose to welcome you."

And now the woodcutters cautioned Hansei, and told him that there were
others who thought just as they did, that the old inn had been of
little account for a great while, and that he would do well to apply
for a license. He couldn't fail to get one, and then he could run the
host of the Chamois so dry that the hoops would fall from his casks.

Hansei nodded his cheerful approval. "Just wait, we'll show you, yet,"
he muttered to himself, clenching his fists, stretching out his arms,
and raising his shoulders as if he would fell the innkeeper to the
earth with a blow that would make him forget to rise again. But
Walpurga said: "We'll harm no one, and we'll let no one harm us."

"Haven't you something to drink?" inquired the woodcutters. They wanted
a reward for the news they had brought.

"No, I've nothing," replied Hansei. "I must be off to the meadow to
turn the hay."

The men left, and had gone a great ways before they ceased abusing
Hansei. "That's the way with a beggar on horseback. He won't even give
you a drink when you bring him news."

Wastl the weaver had not the courage to contradict them, although he
knew that Hansei would gladly have given him something to drink if the
rest of the company had not been present.

Hansei gazed at his forlorn tankard for some time. At last he said:

"I don't care. I wanted to be all alone with you, Walpurga, and now we
are alone, I ask nothing of the world."

"The innkeeper's not the whole world," said Walpurga, consolingly.

Hansei shook his head, as if to say that a woman can't understand what
it is to be shut out of the inn, just like a drunkard whom the law
prevents from going there.

"He's got no right to keep me out," said he, angrily. "I know my
rights. The landlord must give drink to every guest who enters his
house. But I shan't do him the honor to go there."

Walpurga, whose thoughts followed the woodcutters, conjectured they
were speaking ill of them.

"We ought to have given the woodcutters something to drink. They're
surely abusing us now."

"We can't stop every one's mouth," replied Hansei. "Let them talk; and
don't begin to repent now. We must be firm. What's done is done." With
a changed tone he added:

"The sun's burning hot on the mountain, and if we stick at our work, we
can get our hay in this very evening. In such weather as this, the
grass turns into hay as fast as it falls from the scythe. But there's
something brewing in the lake. There may be a storm before we know it;
and so I'd like to get the hay in under cover. Won't you go along?"

Walpurga was delighted to go. The mother also wished to accompany them,
and so, taking their dinner with them, the whole family set out for the
mountain meadow. Hansei carried the child, Walpurga took the barrow,
and the grandmother carried the dinner basket. As soon as the dog saw
them start, he followed after them, and was constantly running backward
and forward, from one to the other of the party. The dew had already
disappeared from field and meadow, when they entered the shady forest.

"I'd rather push a barrow," said Walpurga, "than ride in a coach."

When they began to ascend the hill, they changed about. The grandmother
took the child, Walpurga the dinner, and Hansei the wheelbarrow. It was
not until the child was asleep that Walpurga could take it on her arm,
and she felt happy while carrying it through the green wood. Once, it
opened its eyes and looked at her, but soon closed them again and went
to sleep.

When they reached the meadow, they laid the child in a shady spot,
where they could always have it in sight, and the dog remained there
guarding it. Hansei and the two women worked assiduously. Hansei called
out to Walpurga that she must not turn the hay so quickly, or she would
soon tire herself, for she was no longer used to such work. So she went
about it more slowly.

"This meadow was bought with your money," said Hansei.

"Don't say that. Promise me you'll never say such a thing again."

"I promise."

They found it warm work, and when Hansei came near Walpurga again, she
said:

"The same sun that dries the grass makes us wet with perspiration. At
the summer palace, they mow the grass every week. They never let it
grow high, and take great care that there are no flowers in the grass;
but they tell me that it doesn't make good fodder."

"You think of so many things," replied Hansei. "Aren't you tired yet?"

"Oh no; I've been resting so long. Do you know what pleases me most of
all? Just look," said she, showing him that her hands were becoming
hardened by labor.

They heard the bell down in the valley striking the hour of eleven.
This was the signal to prepare dinner. Hansei hurriedly brought some
wood, a bright fire was kindled, and the child was so lively that the
grandmother had to exert all her strength to keep it on her lap. While
the soup was being warmed, Hansei sat by smoking his pipe. The three
sat on the ground eating out of one dish. After dinner, Hansei
stretched himself out and said: "I'll sleep for a quarter of an hour."

Walpurga also lay down, but the mother remained awake, watching the
child.

Hansei slept but a short time. He looked pleased when he saw his wife
lying on the ground, sleeping by his side. He motioned to the mother
that she should not awaken Walpurga. The child was placed in the basket
beside its mother, who slept on quietly, while Hansei and the
grandmother were at work further down the hillside. The sun was already
sinking when Walpurga awoke. She felt something touching her which
thrilled her strangely. She opened her eyes, and they met those of her
child. Its hands were stroking her cheeks. The child had crept out of
its basket and had crawled up to her. Walpurga kept perfectly still.
She scarcely ventured to breathe, and closed her eyes, lest she should
frighten the child away. "Mother," cried the child. She still
restrained herself, though she felt as if her heart must burst.
"Mother! Mother!" it cried, more eagerly than before; and now she
raised herself and embraced the child, and it let her do with it as she
liked. Her heart overflowing with happiness, she sank on her knees and
held her little, laughing child on high.

She sprang to her feet, held the child up with both her hands, and,
hurrying to her people, exclaimed: "Hansei! mother! the child's mine!"
and the little one held her tightly in its arms.

"Moderate yourself!" said her mother. "You'll spoil the child if you
show that you care for it so much. That's enough, Burgei," said she to
the little one. "Put it down, Walpurga, and come help us."

Walpurga followed her mother's advice, but could not help looking
toward the child. It did not turn toward her. It was playing with the
dog, who had made good friends with it. Presently it tumbled down from
the pile of hay. Walpurga shrieked; but the mother exclaimed, "let it
alone!" The child lifted its head, laughed, crawled over to the
grandmother, and then looked over at its mother.

The hay was dry. Hansei hurried off to fetch his cow team, as he was
anxious to get the load home betimes. The wagon could not come nearer
than the road, and so they were obliged to carry the hay down the hill
and to pile it up in heaps. Walpurga said that she had slept enough and
had been idle for a long while, and allowed her mother to help her but
little.

Hansei returned. They loaded the wagon. Grandmother, Walpurga and child
sat on top of the load of hay, and Hansei, at last, got up, too.
Evening had set in. The lake began to assume a darker hue, and it was
only here and there that a streak of light played upon its surface.

"And now the people may say whatever they please," said Walpurga,
"here, we're far above them all."

The mother and Hansei looked at each other, and their glance meant:
"How wonderful it is that Walpurga should have such strange thoughts
about everything."

It was soon quiet in the little cottage by the lake. Its tired but
happy inmates were sleeping, and the whole house was fragrant with the
odor of the new-mown hay.



                              CHAPTER VII.


The folks in the cottage slept on peacefully, knowing nothing of the
whirlwind of dust, the dark clouds that overcast the sky, the mighty
storm, or the violent rain that followed. When Hansei put his head out
of the window next morning, it was still raining. He turned to Walpurga
and said: "Do you see? I was right, yesterday. The weather's changed.
Thank God! our hay's under cover."

"Yes," replied Walpurga. "What a day it was. It was all sunshine."

It rained all day. A sharp wind was blowing, the waves of the lake rose
on high and lashed themselves against the shore.

"How good it is to have a roof over one's head," said Walpurga. Hansei
again looked at his wife with surprise. Walpurga discovered everything
anew. But now she was happy, for her child clung to her. It called her
"mother," and called the grandmother "mamma."

Walpurga, with the child on her arm, was standing at the stable door
and throwing bread-crumbs to the finches, who could find no food that
day. The birds picked up the crumbs and flew away to their nests with
them.

"They've got young ones at home, too," said she. Suddenly, she
interrupted herself and said: "Burgei, we've been in the sun together,
now we'll go into the rain together." She ran out into the warm rain
with her child and then back again into the stable. She dried herself
and the child and said: "There! wasn't it lovely? and now it's raining
on our meadow and fresh grass will grow, and my child must grow too,
and when we gather the aftermath, you'll be able to run alone."

Walpurga felt so happy that the child had become attached to her that
she hardly knew what to do for joy. The child, too, was happier than it
had ever been before. The young mother could play with it far better
than the grandmother could. Her laugh was so bright, and she would
count its little fingers and renew all those wondrous, childish plays
which overflowering maternal love invented.

Walpurga did not care to eat anything all that day. She merely tasted a
spoonful of the broth before giving it to her child. It rained
incessantly. Hansei was out in the shed, chopping wood. Suddenly, he
came into the room and said: "How careless we were yesterday. They all
know that you brought home so much money with you, and we went off and
left the house alone. Have you looked to see if it's still here?"

Walpurga was filled with alarm, but speedily satisfied herself that all
was still there.

"It must be put in a safe place before long. At all events, one of us
must always stay at home, now," said Hansei, and returned to his work.

Time passes slowly on rainy days, and what better employment is there
in such seasons than to sit together and abuse those who are absent? At
noon, Hansei said: "The Chamois must be crowded, all day long." It
worried him to think that he could not be there. What a merry time he
might have had. They might have drunk those six measures of wine, and
now he must let the rogues get off without paying their wager.

Walpurga added: "Yes, and, from what I know of the people, I'm quite
sure they're abusing us, because, thank God, we're doing well. It seems
as if I'd never known people before, except by their outsides; but now
I can see through them."

"Didn't you say that you wouldn't care what people thought?" replied
Hansei.

Walpurga had a wonderful knack of divining the ideas of others. Her
thoughts now penetrated every house, wandered to the pump by the
courthouse, and into the inn itself, in order to discover what the
people there were saying against her and hers. She was not obliged to
wait long for confirmation. The joiner who, on the day of Walpurga's
departure, had offered to sell his house and farm, now came to borrow
money from Hansei, as he had received notice to pay off his mortgage.
As an introduction, he thought it best to assure Hansei that he was his
only friend, and the only well-wisher left him in the village.

Hansei plainly told him that he wouldn't lend money to any one, for
that changed one's friends into foes. The friendly tale-bearer soon
took his leave.

Living in the village had ceased to be a pleasure to them. The closing
of the inn doors against Hansei was only the beginning. No one, of his
own accord, bade him or his wife "good-day," and their greetings were
scarcely returned. Walpurga, who had grown accustomed to being praised
and esteemed by those about her, was often very sad. What vexed her
most of all was that the story of the wager had been passed from mouth
to mouth, and had become so distorted that it was scarcely fit to be
repeated. It seemed as if the privacy of the marital chamber had been
revealed to the world and discussed in the market-place. She felt
insecure in her own house. Every noise frightened her, though it were
merely a barking dog, or the elder-bush brushing against the roof.
Every night, before going to sleep, she would try the window-shutters,
to see that they were firmly closed.

"I don't believe," said she, "that great folk are half so bad as
villagers."

"Indeed!" said the mother. "I don't know anything about them; but from
what I've heard, the quality are just as good and just as bad as the
common folk. It don't depend on the clothes."

"You're just like Countess Brinkenstein. If you'd been obliged to spend
all your life in the palace, you'd have been just like her." thought
Walpurga to herself, while she looked at her mother.

Walpurga's mind was agitated by contending emotions. She was obliged to
reconcile two distinct spheres of life; the court and the village, and,
in imagination, would often transplant villagers to the court and _vice
versa_.

She was sometimes quite bewildered, and scarcely able to distinguish
what she had only imagined from what she had really experienced.

Hansei would listen to his wife and her mother discussing people and,
with a smile, would think to himself:

"How changeable the women are; there's nothing consistent about them."

After Hansei had, for two or three evenings, resisted his inclination
to go to the inn, he was merrier than ever.

"I'm glad," said he, "that I can give up a habit, if necessary. I
really think I could give up smoking, too."

Those dull days served to show the difference between the dispositions
of Hansei and his wife. To the superficial observer, Walpurga, so
cheerful and wide-awake, would seem the superior of her sullen, awkward
husband. Her temperament was suggestive of life among the mountains;
for there, when it is dull and rainy, everything is covered with
darkness, but, as soon as the sun breaks forth, every object is lighted
up afresh--the green meadows are brighter, the lake acquires a darker
blue, very mountain height and every forest stream is revealed anew in
clear and perfect lines. Like a beautiful flower, opening and revealing
all its beauty in the glowing sunshine, Walpurga was always better and
brighter in fair weather. Hansei remained steady and, indeed, gained in
firmness while the bad weather lasted. When the storm raged, swaying
branches and boughs to and fro, he resisted, as it were, and maintained
his ground. He had something in common with the rough-barked,
weather-beaten oak. The monarch of the forest does not don its robes of
green with the first mild rays of the spring sun. Its boughs remain
bare long after its neighbors are decked with foliage, but, in the end,
it surpasses them all in strength and beauty.

The past year had indeed wrought a greater change in Hansei than in
Walpurga.

The tree growing on a rock, drawing scanty nourishment from the thin
crust of earth around it, and exposed to wind and storm, will, when
transplanted to a rich soil, seem to languish at first; but it will
soon shoot forth with new strength. Thus had it been with Hansei. The
sudden transition, from a life of care and toil into a new sphere, had
almost ruined him. But in a little while, all was well with him again.
And now his firmness and self-possession stood him in good stead, for
he was obliged to prevent Walpurga's kind but strongly self-conscious
nature from gaining ascendency over his.

Walpurga was, at first, almost vexed at her husband's insensibility.
She would go about in an angry mood, would curl her lips and clench her
fists. She felt as if she must do something to punish the villagers.
Hansei remained calm; it was not his habit to trouble his head with
much thinking. It gradually dawned upon Walpurga's mind that Hansei was
far stronger than she. Like a plant deprived of sunshine, and in spite
of her happy home, she would have withered and languished because of
the averted glances of her neighbors. She was so possessed by her anger
that she was only sensible to that which, feeding it, provoked her the
more. Hansei was quite calm, and Walpurga, for the first time, became
fully aware of his strength of character. No one could make him change
his gait. He was like a horse which jogs on, regardless of the dog
barking at its heels, or which, when going up hill, will suffer no one
to urge it into a trot.

In true humility, Walpurga bowed to her husband. He might have been
wittier, readier, and more sprightly, but none could be better nor
steadier than he.



                             CHAPTER VIII.


The village council were in session.

Hansei was summoned to the town hall. The messenger who came for him
told him that there was to be a new assessment, and that higher taxes
were to be levied upon him, now that he had come into property.

"You needn't tell everything to the last kreutzer," said he.

"I'll tell them all. Thank God, I've got something to pay taxes for,"
replied Hansei.

Walpurga listened with eager interest. She had been boiling with rage
for many days, and now the time had come when her anger could find vent
in words. She said she would go along to the town hall where they were
all assembled, and would, then and there, tell them what she thought of
them. Hansei persuaded her that that wouldn't do, and now the messenger
seemed the very man to serve her purpose. She burst forth in a torrent
of abuse of the villagers, and asked the messenger to go to them and
repeat every word he had heard. She threatened them with the house of
correction and the king, as if both were at her service, besides
mentioning other punishments which were quite new and of her own
invention.

"Come along," said Hansei to the messenger. While on the way, he gave
him some drink-money, and told him that his wife had not yet become
used to things at home, and that, naturally enough, many a thing
worried her. The messenger reassured Hansei by saying that, in an
office like his, one was obliged to hear and see much which it was best
to seem ignorant of afterward, and that women were very queer. Their
great delight was to unburden themselves; after that, they were all
right again.

Hansei was detained at the town hall for a long time. The innkeeper,
who was one of the councilmen, was seated at the table, and found great
pleasure in trying to get him into a tight place. His office protected
him as with a shield. He tried to provoke Hansei to insult him, so that
he might put him in jail and thus, at one stroke, disgrace the haughty
beggar and his wife. Hansei saw what was in the wind, and every one was
astonished at the polite manner in which he expressed himself. He never
addressed the innkeeper except as "Mr. Councilman." "He must have
learned that from his wife, who got her education at the palace,"
whispered the councilmen to each other.

In spite of the pouring rain that lasted during the whole of the
meeting, Walpurga waited and watched outside of the town hall. If there
should be any trouble up there, thought she to herself, she would go up
and tell them all what they were. She was insensible to the rain
penetrating her clothes, for she was all aglow with excitement. At last
she heard a noise on the stairs. Many were coming down, and she hurried
home.

Hansei returned home, full of self-confidence. He had conquered
himself, and the victory had been a greater one than if he had laid
about him with cudgels. At home, he found everything in great
confusion.

Walpurga, after walking about in the rain, had suddenly hurried home as
if some one was after her, and had fainted as soon as she entered the
room where her mother was sitting. She had recovered, but was still in
a high fever, and her teeth were chattering. Once she opened her eyes,
but quickly closed them again.

Hansei wanted to go for the doctor at once, but the mother advised him
to stay at home and send a messenger in his stead. Before the doctor
came, Walpurga was sitting up in bed and telling her own story.

Hansei informed her how he had killed the innkeeper with politeness.
Walpurga's face suddenly lit up with joy, and she held out her hand to
him, saying:

"You're--you're a splendid fellow," and then she wept until the tears
streamed down her cheeks.

"That's right," said the grandmother to Hansei; "that'll clear her
head. I was afraid it had gone to her head, but now it's all right. You
can go now."

Hansei left the room. He stood at the window for a while, looking out
at the rain. "If your wife were to die, or if she should live and be
worse than dead. If she--" He did not dare to think of the word.

The mother came out into the room and said: "Thank God! she's sleeping.
When this is well over, the danger's past. It was no trifle to leave
the palace as she's done, where they all petted her and showed her
great respect, and to come here among these coarse, spiteful people.
She'd become filled with anger and hatred, and it had to come out some
day. Thank God, it's out now. It's lucky for us that the people have
shown themselves so mean. Take my word for it--with all her goodness,
she would have found fault with everything in the house, and nothing
would have suited her, if this hadn't come in the way."

The mother thus consoled Hansei, who nodded approval of her words.

Walpurga slept. Her cheeks were scarlet. Hansei, with the child in his
arms, stood at his wife's bedside for a long time, looking at her.

The doctor did not come until the next morning. He found Walpurga
lively, but very weak. He prescribed drastic remedies, and, in the
course of a few days, she was quite restored. She now saw what danger
she had been in, and how luckily she had escaped it.

It was not until then that she felt quite at home and perfectly happy.

Walpurga and her mother were down by the lake, washing clothes.

"Yes, it's our business to keep things clean," said Walpurga. "When I
look up at the mountains, I see the rocks and forests which only men,
with their chisels and axes, can shape into houses. Men's work is with
whatever's strong and powerful. Even if others do flatter us, and we
persuade ourselves that we're ever so great, we women are less than
they are."

The mother smiled and said: "Oh child, your thoughts are far-fetched,
but you're right, for all."

"My Hansei's a real steady man," continued Walpurga.

"That he is," answered the mother, with joyful mien.

"He doesn't talk as much as others do, but when it comes to a pinch, he
knows what he has to do and how to do it, and that's just the way your
blessed father was. You're very lucky to find this out so soon after
the birth of your first child. I didn't know it till after my third,
or, indeed, till I'd lost all my children except yourself."

"Good-day to you all!" suddenly said a little needy-looking man.

"Why, it's Peter!" cried the grandmother; "you here already? That's
good. And is this your daughter? What's her name?"

"Gundel."

"God greet you both," said the grandmother, who kept wetting and wiping
her hand again and again, before offering it to her brother.

The little man's features expressed great surprise. It was long since
any one had been so glad to see him; but, of course, he had come to a
house that was overflowing with joy.

The grandmother took her brother by the hand, and led him toward the
house. She felt sad when she looked at the poor little man, for his
appearance betokened great poverty.

She forthwith gave her brother and her niece something to eat. When
they had finished, she took Gundel out to the wash-tub by the lake.

"Just work there till dinner-time, and then you'll know where you
belong." She went back to her brother and again bade him welcome. The
little man complained that life went hard with him. The grandmother
went into the other room with Walpurga, and asked her:

"How much money did you mean to give me for my journey home?"

"As much as you want."

"No.--Tell me how much."

"Would ten florins be enough?"

"More than enough. Give them to me at once."

Walpurga gave her a ten florin piece and said:

"Mother, I haven't given you a present since I came back."

She gave her mother several florins in addition to the ten which she
had already handed her, and said: "Take this and give it away. I know
that your greatest pleasure is in giving to others."

"Oh, my child! you know me well. Oh God! I can now give something to
others; that's the best thing in the world. You see, I've never been
able to do anything for the poor."

"Don't say that, mother; how often you've watched, day and night, by
the sick."

"That's nothing; that's not money."

"It's far better than money."

"May be it is with God, but with men-- Just think of it!--to be able to
give money and money's worth to others! You make me ever so happy. I've
had gifts, too, in my time. You don't know how it is, when the hands of
the giver and the receiver touch. And some gifts are like hot bread in
one's stomach. It stills your hunger, but it lies there like so much
molten lead. But there are some good people whose gifts do one good.
Grubersepp's father once came to me and gave me something, and so did
Count Eberhard Wildenort, who lives on the other side of the Chamois
hill."

"Why, that's the father of my countess," said Walpurga, interrupting
her.

"Thank God! Then he'll live to be rewarded for it by his children. I
never forget a name. Yes, I received presents from them both, and now
they're again bestowing gifts through me. My child, I'll never forget
you for this. To be able to give is heaven on earth. But while we stand
here chattering, my poor brother's waiting out there like a poor soul
at heaven's gate. Come along."

They went into the room. The mother put the ten florin piece into her
brother's hand, and said:

"There, take it. I needn't go to my home now, for it has come to me,
and if I never get there again, it's enough for me that I've seen my
brother once more. There, Peter; that was to have been the money for my
journey."

"Tsch-st-st-st--" with these sounds, resembling the hissing of a pot on
a fire, did the little pitchman receive the gift.

"What does that mean?" asked Walpurga and her mother, in one breath.

"Tsch-st-st-st," answered Peter.

"What's the matter with you? are you crazy?" asked the mother, whose
face had suddenly assumed a serious expression.

"Tsch-st-st-st," replied the little pitchman again.

And now it was Walpurga's turn to become angry and to inquire: "What do
you mean by such capers?"

"Oh, you piece of palace wisdom!" said Peter at last, "don't you know
how it hisses when a drop falls on a hot stone, and, d'ye see? it's
just the same with me and the money."

The mother told him that he was ungrateful, and that the people thought
that Walpurga had now enough money to make every one rich. He ought to
feel very happy, for he had never before had so much at any one time.
But the little pitchman, without making further answer, continued to
repeat the strange, hissing noise. Walpurga went out and soon returned
with another ten florin piece, which she gave to the little pitchman,
who then said:

"There! it's out now; I can pay all my debts and buy me a goat,
besides," and, striking the pieces of money together, he sang:

                 "What's the best? aye, what's the best?
                  To be free from debt or care,
                  And have a little money to spare--
                  That's the best; aye, that's the best."

The mother was now quite happy again. She resolved to be prudent and
economical in dispensing her gifts. In imagination, she already saw the
people whose want she could now alleviate, and perhaps remove. The
joyful glances of those who were to be gladdened by her bounty seemed
reflected in her calm and happy face.

"Oh you women!" said the little pitchman, as if sermonizing, while he
looked with sparkling eyes at his two pieces of money, "you women can't
know what money is. I shall put small change for a florin in my pocket,
and always keep it with me. Hurrah! what a jolly life I'll lead. What
do you know of such things? You go by a public-house on Sunday, put
your hand in your pocket and there's nothing there. But I'll go in and
won't begrudge myself a treat, and wherever there's an inn, I can make
myself at home. Wine and beer await me, and host, hostess, daughter and
servant treat me kindly, and ask how it goes with me, where I've come
from and where I'm going to; and when I leave, they go with me part of
the way, and ask me to come again. And why do they do so? Just because
I've got money in my pocket."

The old man shouted for joy. The grandmother cautioned him not to
become dissipated, and Peter laughed until his face was nothing but
wrinkles. He declared that he had made it all up, and that now he was
less likely to go to the public-house than before. "When you've got
money in your pocket," he said, "it's great fun to go and quench your
thirst at the pump in front of the inn."

"My countess told me," said Walpurga, seating herself near her uncle,
"that you knew her father."

"And what countess is it?"

"Wildenort."

"Of course I know him. He's a man; the right sort of a man; a German of
the old sort; a gentleman, a real gentleman. He ought to be king,
he--" Heavy footsteps were heard approaching. Hansei entered. Peter
quickly put the money in his pocket and whispered: "I shan't say
anything to Hansei about it."

"You needn't tell him; we'll do it, ourselves," replied Walpurga.



                               CHAPTER IX.


Hansei did not stand on ceremony with his uncle. He had known him for a
long while. They had often met up in the mountains, where Hansei had
worked as a woodsman and Peter had gathered pitch. But they had not
made much ado of their friendship; an occasional charge of tobacco had
been the only exchange of courtesy between them.

Hansei now had something more important to relate.

"I was working out by the garden hedge that the band and the rest of
the crowd almost tore down last Sunday, and, all at once, I heard some
one say: 'You're quite industrious, Hansei'; and, when I looked round,
who do you think it was? You can't guess."

"Not the innkeeper?"

"You'll never guess. It was Grubersepp, and he said: 'I hear you've
stopped going to the Chamois,' and I said: 'That's nobody's business
but my own.'"

"Why did you answer so rudely?" asked Walpurga, interrupting him.

"Because I know him. If you don't show your teeth to such a fellow,
he'll hold you mighty cheap--'See here,' said he. 'It'll be six years,
come Michaelmas--ever since Waldl was born--and in all that time I've
never once set foot in the Chamois, and I'm still alive for all. You'll
find it'll do you good to stay away, just as it did me. I've laid in
beer of my own, and if you ever feel like having a glass, send for it,
or come yourself. Maybe you'll want a word of advice as to what you'd
better do with your money, and let me tell you one thing, lend nothing
to any one--' Now tell me, mother, tell me, wife, who'd have thought of
such a thing? Who'd ever expect as much from old Grubersepp, who's
always afraid he might waste a word? Now, Walpurga, you can see that
the people aren't all wicked; good and bad are mixed together in the
palace as well as in the village. When they find that Grubersepp keeps
company with me, they'll come flocking back, just like bees to a mellow
pear."

It was indeed a great event. A resident of the capital could not feel
more highly favored if accosted by the king in the public street, than
Hansei and his whole family now were.

Walpurga wanted to go up to Grubersepp's at once, and to acknowledge
that she had done him wrong, but Hansei said:

"There's no need of being in such a hurry about it. I'll wait till he
comes again; I won't go one step to meet him."

"You're right," replied Walpurga, "you're the right sort of a man."

"I've got my full growth," said he. "Isn't it so, uncle? I'm done
growing."

"Yes," replied the uncle, "you've got your full size. But do you know
what you ought to be? You ought to own a large farm. You'd be the very
man, and Walpurga the very woman for it; and now that I think of it,
have you heard that the owner of the freehold at our place wants to
sell? They say he's obliged to. You ought to go there; you'd be better
off than the king, then. If you've got the ready money, you can buy the
farm at half-price."

The uncle now praised the farm, with its fields and its meadows, and
said the soil was so rich and in such good condition that it was almost
good enough to eat; and as to the timber, no one knew how much it was
worth. The only trouble was that one couldn't get at it everywhere.

The uncle was a pitchburner, and knew the woods well.

Walpurga was quite happy, and said:

"It won't do to lose sight of this."

Hansei seemed quite indifferent about the matter. Walpurga took his
hand in hers, and whispered: "I've something more for you."

"I don't need anything. There's only one thing I ask of you: let me
attend to the purchase of the farm, and don't let uncle see that you
snuff at it so. I really think the farmer must have sent him here. We
must be hard, and make believe we don't care for it at all. I shan't
neglect the matter, you may depend upon that. And, besides, I've been a
woodcutter long enough to know something about timber land."

Hansei let the uncle go away alone and merely said, in a casual manner,
that he would take a look at the farm some time or other.

Grubersepp came that evening, according to promise. A maid-servant,
carrying a large stone jug of beer, followed him. A wealthy farmer
visiting the cottage by the lake, and bringing his beer there of an
evening--such a thing had never been heard of as long as the village
existed.

His whole manner seemed to say: "I've got sixty cows pasturing on the
mountain meadows." No one had ever heard a word of praise pass his
lips. He was a sour-visaged fellow, and was chary of his words. He was
what is called a drudging farmer. All that he cared for was incessant
work, and he never concerned himself about others.

Walpurga kept out of sight. She was afraid lest she might humble
herself too much, and thus vex Hansei, who behaved as if Grubersepp had
been visiting the family for years.

Grubersepp inquired for Walpurga. Hansei called her, and when she came,
the rich farmer shook hands with her and bade her welcome.

After Walpurga had left the room, they spoke of the best way of
investing the money.

Grubersepp was a great enemy of the public funds.

"Yes," said Hansei, at last. "I've had an offer of the farm on the
other side of the lake, six leagues inland. My mother-in-law is from
that neighborhood."

"I know the farm. I was there once. I was to have married the farmer's
daughter, but nothing came of it. They tell me that the property is in
a poor condition. If you want to reap good from land, you must give it
something in return. The soil requires it, and, if you should purchase,
don't forget that a good portion of the meadow land had best be sold.
My father always used to say that the meadows of a farm are like a
cow's udder."

Hansei was astonished at the amount of wisdom which Grubersepp had
inherited, and marveled at his carrying it all about with him and
making so little ado of it.

Grubersepp added: "The matter will bear thinking over, at all events,
and I'd be glad if some one from our village should get so fine a
property."

"But you wouldn't let me have anything toward it?"

"No. I don't owe you anything. But if you can use me in any other
way--"

"Well, how? Will you go bail for me?"

"No; that I won't either. But I understand the matter better than you
do, and I'll give you a whole day of my time. I'll drive over there
with you and value the whole property for you. I'm glad that you've
concluded not to take the inn. The weather's clearing, and I'll have
all my hay under cover by to-morrow noon. If you need me for a day, I'm
at your service, and we'll ride over there. You know that when I say a
thing it's so, for I'm Grubersepp."

"I accept it," said Hansei.

Radiant with joy, Walpurga stood at the garden hedge the next day,
watching the wagon in which Hansei and Grubersepp were sitting. She was
glad that so many people happened to be coming from work at about the
time the two drove off together.

"Now let 'em burst with anger; the first man in the village is my
Hansei's comrade."

It was no small matter for Grubersepp thus to give a whole day of his
time, and in midsummer at that. He meant it kindly enough, but his main
object was to show that the innkeeper and his pack could not make a man
of one, while he, Grubersepp, could. He felt quite indifferent as to
what people thought of him, but, nevertheless, it does one good to let
them know who's the master, as long as it costs nothing to do so. When
it costs nothing--that was the chief point in all that Grubersepp did.

The nearest route lay across the lake and straight up the mountain on
the other side. But Grubersepp had an unconquerable aversion to the
water, and so they drove round the lake and then up the mountain.

It was late on the following evening when Hansei and Grubersepp
returned. Hansei reported that the farm was a fine one, and that it
would be quite a fair purchase, although not so wonderfully cheap as
the uncle had vaunted it to be. The place had been sadly neglected; but
that wouldn't stand in the way, for he could put all that to rights
again. Still, he wouldn't buy, because he'd be obliged to leave too
much remaining on mortgage, and he'd rather own a smaller farm and be
out of debt.

Then Walpurga said:

"Come, I've been wanting to tell you something for a great while, and
you'd never listen to me. I've something more for you."

She led Hansei down into the cellar and, with a mighty effort, removed
the stone cabbage-tub, after which she dug up the earth with her hands,
and displayed to the astonished eyes of Hansei the pillow-case filled
with gold pieces.

"What's that?"

"Gold! Every bit of it."

"Good God! you're a witch; that's--that's enchanted gold!" exclaimed
Hansei. He was so startled that he upset the oil lamp which Walpurga
had placed on an inverted pail.

They both stood there in the dark, shuddering with fear.

"Are you still here?" cried Hansei, trembling.

"Of course I am. Don't be--don't be--so--so superstitious. Strike a
light. Have you no matches about you?"

"Of course I have."

He drew them from his pocket, but let them all fall on the ground.
Walpurga gathered them up. Several of them caught fire, but immediately
went out again. The sudden flash of blue light seemed weird and dismal.
At last they succeeded in lighting the lamp, and went upstairs into the
room, where Walpurga lit a second lamp, lest the darkness might again
frighten them. Hansei hurriedly removed the pillow-case, and the
glittering gold met his eyes.

"Now tell me," said he, passing his hand over his face, "have you any
more? Don't try that again."

Walpurga assured him that this was all. Hansei spread the gold out on
the table, piled it up in little heaps, and counted it with his
fingers. He always had a piece of chalk in his pocket, and he now took
it out and reckoned up the money. When he had finished, he turned and
said:

"Come here, Walpurga. Come, there's your first kiss as mistress of the
freehold."

Hansei put the gold back into the pillow-case, and when he went to bed
he placed it under his pillow, saying: "Oh, what a good pillow; one can
sleep sweetly on it."



                               CHAPTER X.


When Walpurga awoke the next morning, she found the sack of gold in bed
beside her, but Hansei had disappeared.

"Where is he? What's become of him?"

She dressed herself in a hurry, hunted for him, and went all over the
house calling for him; but he was not there. She hurried over to
Grubersepp's, but they had seen nothing of him. She returned home, but
Hansei had not yet arrived.

What could it be? If Hansei had done some harm to himself--If having so
much money had turned his head--Oh, that terrible money! It had been
lying in the earth, and there was now nothing wrong about it, for what
has once been in the ground is purified.

She went out to the lake. It was still storming; its waves were high,
and the sky was covered with dark gray clouds.

Maybe Hansei's destroyed himself--maybe he's floating in there.

She stood by the water's edge and cried "Hansei" with all her might.

There was no answer. She returned to the house, and, as coherently as
she could, told her mother of her grief. Her mother consoled her.

"Do be quiet. Hansei took his axe with him--the one that always hangs
up there. I suppose he had something to do in the forest. He never
shirks work. When he comes home don't tell him how foolish you've been.
The palace still clings to you. You worry too much about everything.
Take my word for it, the world's quiet and peaceful enough as long as
we're quiet and orderly. Hush! I hear him coming. He's whistling."

Hansei approached whistling, and bearing his axe on his shoulder.

Walpurga could not go forward to meet him. She felt so weak in her
limbs that she was obliged to sit down.

"Good-morning, Mistress Freeholder!" cried Hansei from afar.
"Good-morning, Freeholder!" replied Walpurga. "Where have you been?"

"Out in the woods. I cut down a pine-tree, a splendid one that must
have felt my strokes. It did me good. But, first of all, give me
something to eat, for I'm hungry."

"He can still eat; thank God for that," thought Walpurga to herself,
while she hurried to fetch the porridge. She sat down beside him,
delighting in every spoonful which he took. She had much to tell and to
ask about, but she didn't wish to disturb him while he was eating, and
when the dish was half empty she held it up for him, so that he could
fill his spoon.

"Now tell me," said she, when the dish was emptied, "why did you go out
so early and steal away so?"

"Well, I'll tell you. When I awoke, I thought it was all a dream, and
when, after that, I found the money, so much of it, I thought I'd go
crazy. Hansei, the poor fellow who used to save for months at a time,
and felt so happy when he could buy himself a shirt and a pair of
shoes, had all at once become rich, and it seemed as if some one were
turning me round and round and driving me crazy. Then I felt like
waking you up, that we might consider what I'd better do with myself.
But you sleep so soundly that I thought--Pshaw! is your wife to help
you? Just you wait, Hansei; I'll show you--and so I got out and took my
axe and went up the mountain. Day was just breaking. Although I was
quite alone, I felt, all the time, as if there was a great crowd of
people after me. Still I went on till I reached the pine. It was marked
out to be felled long ago. I threw off my jacket and set to work, and
when the chips began to fly, I felt better. Afterward, Wastl came up
and helped me, but he kept saying, all the time: 'Hansei, you never
worked as you do to-day'; and he spoke the truth. We felled the tree
and it came down with a crash. That did me, good, and I felt better and
better. We chopped off the branches and did three times as much as we
generally do in the same time, and so, little by little, all the
foolish notions and giddiness left my head. Now I'm here again and
happy, and I'm with you, Walpurga, my old sweetheart. I've been a
woodcutter again, in downright earnest, and now I'm to become a
farmer--that is, if all goes right."

And it all came to pass.

The mother had a wonderful way of disappearing when she knew that
Hansei and Walpurga had anything to settle between themselves. One
could almost have fancied that the cottage was provided with secret
doors and subterranean passages, so suddenly would she vanish. She
would reappear just as suddenly, and no one would know where she had
been or how she had returned.

According to her wont, she had disappeared. Walpurga and Hansei
searched through the house for her, but found her nowhere. When they
returned to the room, she was there.

"Mother, we've good news for you," said Walpurga.

"I see what's best of all, already," she replied, "and that is that your
hearts are truly united. I don't care to know any more."

"No, mother, you must know this. Did you ever imagine that you might be
mistress of the freehold at which you once were a servant?"

"No, never."

"But now it is so."

Walpurga and Hansei, relieving each other by turns, told her that they
had enough money to pay the cash down for the farm, and that the
purchase was as good as concluded, because Hansei had obtained the
refusal of it for eight days.

Mother Beate could not utter a word in reply. She folded her hands, and
her features assumed an expression of sadness.

"Mother, aren't you pleased at it?" asked Walpurga.

"Not pleased? You'll soon see. But I'm old, my child, and can't jump
about, the way you do. Look at the mountains over there. As long as
they've been standing there, no one has ever felt happier than I do.
I don't know what the Lord means by giving me so much happiness on
earth. He knows what He is doing and I accept it calmly and patiently.
When you came home to us again, I thought my cup of happiness was full,
but now I see there's more coming. Well, let what will come, I'm going
home again."

The mother was obliged to stop, but Hansei said:

"Yes, mother; you shall see something that you've never seen before in
all your life." He went into the room, returned with the sack of gold,
and opened it.

"Just look at that!" said he. "How it shines and sparkles. You can hold
it all in two hands, and yet there's enough there to buy a farm, with
house and fields and forests, and cattle and tools and everything."

"That's a great deal of money," said the mother. She laid her hand on
the gold, while her lips moved silently.

"Put your hand into it," urged Hansei. "Oh, how good it feels to stir
about in the gold that way."

The grandmother did not comply with his wish, but kept murmuring to
herself.

The child in the next room cried, and Hansei called out:

"The freeholder's daughter's awake. Good morning, freeholder's
daughter!" said he, while the two women went out to the child. Then he
took up the bag of gold, shook it, and said:

"Just listen; you never heard such music before."

The grandmother lifted the child out of the bed and said: "Hansei, just
do as I tell you, and put the gold in the warm crib of the innocent
child. That'll bless it, and no matter whose hands the gold may have
been in, that consecrates it and brings a blessing with it."

"Yes, mother; we can do that." Turning to Walpurga, he added: "Mother
always has such pretty notions. You know it'll do the gold good in the
warm nest. Yes," said he to the little child, "they've put lots of gold
in your cradle. We'll take one piece and have a hole drilled through
it, and you shall get it when you become confirmed. Only keep good."

"But now I must go over to Grubersepp's," said he, at last.

Walpurga was obliged to tell that she had already been looking for him
there, that morning. She now realized how prone she was to give way to
exaggerated fears, and determined to break herself of the habit.

The grandmother, Walpurga and the child were happy together at home,
and the mother related that just three months before Walpurga was born,
she had been at the farm for the last time, and that was to attend her
brother's wedding.

"They can bury me up there," added she. "It's a pity I can't rest
beside your father, for the lake never gave him up again. Oh if he'd
only lived to see this!"

Our highest joys and our deepest sorrows are closely allied.

Grubersepp came back with Hansei, and was the first to congratulate
Walpurga and the grandmother. He advised them, however, to say nothing
of the matter until the purchase was legally consummated.



                              CHAPTER IX.


On Sunday, Hansei, Walpurga, and the mother, went to church together.
The child remained at home with Gundel. They walked along the shore of
the lake in silence, thinking of how often they had gone that way in
joy and in sorrow, and how they would feel when walking along another
path and to another church.

The churchgoers whom they met on the way greeted them coldly, and the
grandmother said:

"Don't let us take evil thoughts against others into church with us. We
must leave them outside."

"But when one comes out again, they're there all the same, just like
the dogs that wait at the church door," replied Walpurga sharply. The
mother looked at her and she shook her head, while she said: "Take my
word for it, the people are not nearly so bad as they make believe to
be. They think it makes them look grander and more important, if they
show that they can be angry and spiteful; but let that be as it may, if
we can't make others good, we can make ourselves better."

"Give me the umbrella, mother--I can carry it better than you," said
Hansei. This was his manner of expressing his assent.

The innkeeper drove by. Hansei saluted him, but the only answer he
heard was the cracking of the whip.

"That's the way," said Hansei. "If he's angry, it's no reason why I
should be."

The mother nodded her approval.

Although the service had both edified and satisfied them, it did not
prevent Hansei from having a mighty appetite at dinner that day, and he
said:

"I think the freeholder can eat more than ever, but I'll see to it that
he works right bravely, too."

Hansei was quite merry, but he did not climb the cherry-tree again.

The doctor and his wife paid them a visit that afternoon. Walpurga
showed the pretty gifts she had received, and Frau Hedwig was all
admiration.

"I shall lay this beautiful dress aside for my child's wedding. You
can't begin thinking of the outfit too soon."

The doctor had brought a good supply of bottle food. He placed the
bottles on the table and said:

"Hansei, they tell me that you're doing dry penance, and as I'm a
heretic, I'll pour out the wine for you."

He proceeded to do so most generously.

Walpurga brought one of the silver-sealed bottles of wine that Doctor
Gunther had given her.

Doctor Kumpan knew how to open the bottles. He praised the wine, but
bestowed still greater praise on Gunther.

"I think," said Walpurga, "that we ought to tell our honored guests
what we have in view. They're honorable people and won't carry it
further."

"You're right," said Hansei, and told them about the farm. The doctor
and his wife congratulated them, and were only sorry that such good
people were about to leave the neighborhood. Encouraged by the wine,
Hansei asked:

"Doctor, might I--be so free--? You see, you're really the cause of our
good fortune. Would you do us the honor to accept a present from us?"

"Let's hear what it is. How many thousand florins will you spend on
me?"

Hansei was quite frightened; he had not meant to go that far.

"You're a merry gentleman; you're full of fun," said he, collecting his
wits. "What I meant to say was--I've got three cords of wood out in the
forest. I only finished cutting it last week, and I'd like to take it
to your house."

"I'll do you the favor of accepting it. I see you're a real farmer
already. You have an itching palm and money clings to it. Take care to
remain so."

That Sunday had other honors in store for them, for when the afternoon
service was over, the pastor called. He told them that he intended to
leave for the capital on the following day, and reminded Walpurga of
her promise to give him a letter to Countess Wildenort. Laughing
heartily. Doctor Kumpan exclaimed:

"Ah! so her highness Countess Wildenort is your friend, and the
pastor--"

"Doctor, I'd like to speak a word with you," said Walpurga,
interrupting him. "Come, as quickly as you can."

She had learned one lesson at court: viz., that a firm yet polite
manner enables one to check or avert many an ill-natured remark. There
was a certain grandeur in her manner when she told the doctor that, in
her house, she would allow no one to speak ill of Countess Irma, just
as she would allow no one to say anything against the doctor. That
would be just as false as what was said about the countess, who, while
she was merry enough to be his comrade, was just as good as he was.
Walpurga added that she hoped he would not grieve her by speaking ill
of the countess.

The doctor looked at Walpurga in astonishment. When he came back into
the room, he said to Hansei:

"You've got a great wife; one whose friendship is an honor to any one."

Walpurga went to her room and wrote:


"_My Dearly Beloved Countess_:

"I take this opportunity to write to you. Our pastor is going to the
city, and has promised to be kind enough to take the letter with him
and deliver it to you. I don't know what else he wishes to do, but rest
assured that whatever he wants is all right. He's very kind to me, and
particularly so since I've come home again. And now I'd like to write
you how things are going with me. I couldn't ask God to make them
better. To have one's husband, mother, child, and one's daily work
besides! We've already made our hay, but not make-believe, as it used
to be with us on the lawn at the summer palace. Don't you remember?

"Dear me! I say with _us_, and who knows whether any one at the palace
still thinks of me?

"Yes, I am sure you do, my good countess; and my child, I mean the
prince, and the queen and Mademoiselle Kramer and her father too.

"Pray give my love to them all, the doctor and Baron Schoning and
Countess Brinkenstein. She's good, too, and Madame Gunther, also, if
you should meet her. Oh, what a woman she is! I'm sorry enough that I
only made her acquaintance the day before I left. You ought to go to
see her every day. Your blessed mother must have been just such a woman
as she is; and do me the favor and write me how my prince is getting
on. He's fond of you, too, and if you get married, let me know, and, if
there's an opportunity. Mademoiselle Kramer might send me the beautiful
distaff. It would be a great pity if it had to lie up there in the
garret.

"My husband was very sorry that he didn't get to see you, and I was
sorry, too. I must always try to forget how you looked that morning,
and when I try to picture my beautiful countess and good friend to
myself, I have to pass over that.

"My mother sends her respects; she remembers your mother and says that
when one looked into her face it was like looking at the sun.

"My child was quite stubborn at first. You saw, by the prince, how
stubborn children can be when they don't like a person; but my child
and I are very good friends, and the best thing in the world, after
all, is to have a child, something to do, and a little property
besides. Ah! to walk about with one's child is to have a fountain of
life with you; one from which you can drink pure happiness at any
moment.

"It often seems like a dream, when I think that I've been away; and
it's well that it's past. I feel that I couldn't go through it again,
and all that I wish for now is to live happy.

"I kiss this sheet, for your hands will touch it.

                             "From your true friend,

                                   "WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN.

"Postscript.--I've got some new songs here, but they're not pretty.
I've no time to sing during the day, and if I didn't sing my child to
sleep of an evening, I'd never have a chance to sing at all.

"Excuse me for writing so badly, but my hands have become hard already,
and the paper and ink are very bad. Yes, that's what all bad writers
say. Once more, farewell! I'm writing in haste and the pastor's waiting
in the other room, and the doctor and his wife are here too. They're
mighty good people, and if there are many wicked and envious folks in
the world, they harm themselves more than they do others. My dear
Countess, you can't imagine how much good you've done us. You'll be
rewarded for it--you, your children, and your grandchildren. It's as
good as certain that we won't stay here; but there's the same sky
everywhere. And when you see your father, give him my mother's
respects. She hasn't forgotten his kindness to her, and you are his
daughter, and have your good heart from him and your mother. All that I
wish is that you still had such a mother as mine. But mother's right:
she says that there's no use wishing for what you can't have. I feel as
if I had to write you a great deal more, but I can't think of anything
else, and they're calling for me from the other room. Farewell! my best
wishes, thousandfold, for your health and happiness. From my very
heart, I wish you all that's good. Oh, if I could only go to you with
this letter. But I'm glad to be home and mean to remain as long as I
live. Farewell, all you good people out in the world."


Walpurga handed the letter to the pastor, who left soon afterward. He
was not fond of being with the doctor, who was a sad heretic. Toward
evening the doctor and his wife left, and Walpurga was not a little
proud of the fact that all the villagers knew of the distinguished
visitors who had called at the cottage. None of their neighbors could
boast of like honor.

The week went by quietly. Hansei was absent for several days, during
which time he concluded the purchase.

The little pitchman had asked permission to be present when the money
for the farm was paid, and had requested this as an especial favor. His
face brightened when he saw the heaps of gold, and when Grubersepp
asked: "Do you like it?" he answered, as if waking from a dream:

"Yes, it's true; I couldn't have believed it. I've often heard, in old
stories, of such heaps of gold. The whole lot of stuff doesn't weigh
more than a couple of pounds, and you can get the whole farm for it.
Yes, yes. I'll remember that to the end of my days."

Grubersepp laughed heartily. The little, gray-haired man must have
thought himself quite young to talk thus of the end of his days as a
thing of the remote future.

On Friday, the pastor returned. He had not seen Countess Irma, as she
had accompanied the court to a watering-place. He had left the letter
at the palace, and was told that it would be forwarded to her.



                              CHAPTER XII.


The weathercock turned again and indicated fair weather. The sky was
almost cloudless. With men's minds it was just the same. It was rumored
in the village that Hansei had bought the farm on the other side of the
lake, and that he had paid for it in ready money. How could any one
harbor ill-feeling against a man who was able to do that? No; it was
shameful, on the part of the innkeeper, to drive a man like Hansei, and
such a woman as Walpurga, from the village. They were a credit to every
one, to say nothing of the advantage it is to have such rich and good
people in the place--people, moreover, who have themselves been poor
and know how the poor feel.

Hansei and Walpurga now received kindly greetings wherever they went,
and all spoke of their intended departure as if it grieved them to
think of it.

The ringleader on the Sunday that the band had come to the house, the
very one, indeed, who wanted to play a trick on Hansei, now came and
offered to engage with him as a farm-hand. Hansei replied that, for the
present, he would keep the servants who were at the farm, and that, in
the beginning, he would require people who knew all about the
neighborhood and the farm itself. He said that he might be able to
employ him later. Hansei was obliged to travel back and forth quite
frequently. There were many legal matters to be arranged, and, besides,
there was an old resident on the property who had a life-claim against
the estate, for maintenance and support, and whom money would not
induce to quit the house.

"And do you know," said Hansei, one day, "who helped me ever so much?
We had quite forgotten that Stasi lives up there near the frontier,
about three leagues from the farm. Her husband is the under-forester at
that district. He showed me the forest, and he's quite right when he
says that paths can be made, so that beams and planks may be brought
down. Won't you go with me some time, and take a look at our new home?"

"I'll wait till we go there for good," answered Walpurga. "Wherever you
take me to, I'll be satisfied, for we'll be together, and you can't
imagine how happy mother is."

Although the grandmother had, before this, rarely thought of dying, she
often complained that she wouldn't live long enough to move to the farm
with them, and thus, as mother of the farmer's wife, return to where
she had once been a servant.

All day long, she would tell Walpurga of the beautiful apple-trees in
the great garden there, and of the brook whose water was such that the
articles washed in it would become as white as snow, and that, too,
without using a particle of soap. She also extolled the virtue of the
people who were living there, and cautioned Walpurga to use good
judgment in dispensing the gifts which it would now be her duty to
bestow on others. She knew the old pensioner, and was indeed distantly
related to him. They must treat him kindly, and thus bring blessings on
the house.

Time sped by, and the hour of departure gradually drew near.

Walpurga had already packed the clothing and household utensils, but
was obliged to unpack them again, as they were needed.

As the time for their departure drew near, the villagers became even
more kindly and affable toward them, and Walpurga complained to her
mother:

"I feel just as I did when I was about to leave the palace. I was
always anxious to get away, and when the time came, I felt worried
about leaving."

"Yes, child," said the mother, consoling her, "it will be just the same
when you leave the world. How often one would like to go, but when the
time comes, one isn't anxious to leave. Oh, my child! I feel as if the
whole world were speaking to me and as if I understood it all.
Everything, men and women especially, seems at its best when you have
to part from it. That's the way it is when one parts with life. For it
isn't till then that we begin to understand how beautiful the world is,
after all, and how many good hearts we leave behind us."

Walpurga and her mother were now able to talk with each other to their
heart's content, for they no longer got an hour of Hansei's company. He
spent much of his time with Grubersepp, whom he accompanied into the
fields, and from whom he received much advice and instruction.

One evening a messenger came, asking Hansei to come to Grubersepp's at
once. He hurried off and did not return until late. Walpurga and her
mother, curious to know what was going on, sat up for him. It was near
midnight when he returned, and Walpurga asked: "What's the matter?"

"Grubersepp has got a colt."

Walpurga and her mother almost split their sides with laughter.

"What is there to laugh at?" asked Hansei, almost angry. "And besides,
the signs are that it'll be a white one."

They burst out laughing again, and Hansei looked amazed. He told them,
in great earnest, that Grubersepp had sent for him, so that he might
learn all about it, and he was just about to acquaint them with the
latest bit of information he had acquired: namely, that foals are never
born white. But he thought better of it; for it occurred to him that it
wouldn't do to tell the women all he knew, for they laughed so stupidly
at everything. Besides, a rich farmer ought to be on his dignity with
the women; he wouldn't forget that Grubersepp was so.

Hansei received various offers for his cottage, and was always provoked
when it was spoken of as a tumbledown old shanty. He always looked as
if he meant to say: "Don't take it ill of me, good old house; the
people only abuse you so that they may get you cheap." Hansei stood his
ground. He wouldn't sell his home for a penny less than it was worth;
and, besides that, he owned the fishing right, which was also worth
something. Grubersepp at last took the house off his hands, with the
design of putting a servant of his, who intended to marry in the fall,
in possession of the place.

All the villagers were kind and friendly to them--nay, doubly so, since
they were about to leave--and Hansei said:

"It hurts me to think that I must leave a single enemy behind me. I'd
like to make it up with the innkeeper."

Walpurga agreed with him, and said that she would go along; that she
had really been the cause of the trouble, and that if the innkeeper
wanted to scold any one, he might as well scold her, too.

Hansei did not want his wife to go along, but she insisted upon it.

It was on the last evening in August, that they went up into the
village. Their hearts beat violently while they drew near to the inn.
There was no light in the room. They groped about the porch, but not a
soul was to be seen. Dachsel and Wachsel, however, were making a
heathenish racket. Hansei called out:

"Is there no one at home?"

"No. There's no one at home," answered a voice from the dark room.

"Well, then, tell the host, when he returns, that Hansei and his wife
were here, and that they came to ask him to forgive them if they've
done him any wrong, and to say that they forgive him, too, and wish him
luck."

"All right; I'll tell him," said the voice. The door was again slammed
to, and Dachsel and Wachsel began barking again.

Hansei and Walpurga returned homeward.

"Do you know who that was?" asked Hansei.

"Why, yes; 'twas the innkeeper himself."

"Well, we've done all we could."

They found it sad to part from all the villagers. They listened to the
lovely tones of the bell which they had heard every hour since
childhood. Although their hearts were full, they did not say a word
about the sadness of parting. Hansei at last broke silence:

"Our new home isn't out of the world, we can often come here."

When they reached the cottage they found that nearly all of the
villagers had assembled, in order to bid them farewell, but every one
added: "I'll see you again in the morning."

Grubersepp also came again. He had been proud enough before; but now he
was doubly so, for he had made a man of his neighbor, or had, at all
events, helped to do so. He did not give way to tender sentiment. He
condensed all his knowledge of life into a couple of sentences, which
he delivered himself of most bluntly.

"I only want to tell you," said he, "you'll now have lots of servants.
Take my word for it, the best of them are good for nothing; but
something may be made of them, for all. He who would have his servants
mow well, must himself take the scythe in hand. And since you got your
riches so quickly, don't forget the proverb: 'Light come, light go.'
Keep steady, or it'll go ill with you."

He gave him much more good advice, and Hansei accompanied him all the
way back to his house. With a silent pressure of the hand, they took
leave of each other.

The house seemed empty, for quite a number of chests and boxes had been
sent in advance by a boat that was already crossing the lake. On the
following morning, two teams would be in waiting on the other side.

"So this is the last time that we go to bed in this house," said the
mother. They were all fatigued with work and excitement, and yet none
of them cared to go to bed. At last, however, they could not help doing
so, although they all slept but little.

The next morning, they were up and about at an early hour.

Having attired themselves in their best clothes, they bundled up the
beds and carried them into the boat. The mother kindled the last fire
on the hearth. The cows were led out and put into the boat, the
chickens were also taken along in a coop, and the dog was constantly
running to and fro.

The hour of parting had come.

The mother uttered a prayer and then called all of them into the
kitchen. She scooped up some water from the pail and poured it into the
fire, with these words: "May all that's evil be thus poured out and
extinguished, and let those who light a fire after us, find nothing but
health in their home."

Hansei, Walpurga and Gundel were, each of them, obliged to pour a
ladleful of water into the fire, and the grandmother guided the child's
hand, while it did the same thing.

After they had all silently performed this ceremony, the grandmother
prayed aloud:

"Take from us, O Lord our God! all heartache and homesickness and all
trouble, and grant us health and a happy home where we next kindle our
fire."

She was the first to cross the threshold. She had the child in her arms
and covered its eyes with her hands, while she called out to the
others:

"Don't look back when you go out."

"Just wait a moment," said Hansei to Walpurga, when he found himself
alone with her. "Before we cross this threshold for the last time, I've
something to tell you. I must tell it. I mean to be a righteous man and
to keep nothing concealed from you. I must tell you this, Walpurga.
While you were away and Black Esther lived up yonder, I once came very
near being wicked and unfaithful--thank God, I wasn't. But it torments
me to think that I ever wanted to be bad; and now, Walpurga, forgive
me, and God will forgive me too. Now I've told you and have nothing
more to tell. If I were to appear before God this moment, I'd know of
nothing more."

Walpurga embraced him and, sobbing, said: "You're my dear, good
husband," and they crossed the threshold for the last time.

When they reached the garden, Hansei paused, looked up at the
cherry-tree, and said:

"And so you remain here. Won't you come with us? We've always been good
friends and spent many an hour together. But wait! I'll take you with
me, for all," cried he, joyfully, "and I'll plant you in my new home."

He carefully dug out a shoot that was sprouting up from one of the
roots of the tree. He stuck it in his hatband and went down to join his
wife at the boat.

From the landing-place on the bank, were heard the merry sounds of
fiddles, clarionets and trumpets.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


Hansei hastened to the landing-place. The whole village had congregated
there and, with it, the full band of music. Tailor Schneck's son, he
who had been one of the cuirassiers at the christening of the crown
prince, had arranged, and was now conducting, the parting ceremonies.
Schneck, who was scraping his bass viol, was the first to see Hansei,
and he called out, in the midst of the music:

"Long live farmer Hansei and the one he loves best! Hip, hip, hurrah!"

The early dawn resounded with their cheers. There was a flourish of
trumpets, and the salutes fired from several small mortars were echoed
back from the mountains. The large boat in which their household
furniture, the two cows and their fowls were placed, was adorned with
wreaths of fir and oak. Walpurga was standing in the middle of the
boat, and with both hands held the child aloft, so that it might see
the great crowd of friends and the lake sparkling in the rosy dawn.

"My master's best respects," said one of Grubersepp's servants, leading
a snow-white colt by the halter, "he sends you this to remember him
by."

Grubersepp was not present. He disliked noise and crowds. He was of a
solitary and self-contained temperament. Nevertheless, he sent a
present which was not only of intrinsic value, but was also a most
flattering souvenir; for a colt is usually given by a rich farmer to a
younger brother when about to depart. In the eyes of all the world,
that is to say, the whole village, Hansei appeared as the younger
brother of Grubersepp.

Little Burgei shouted for joy when she saw them leading the snow-white
foal into the boat.

Gruberwaldl, who was but six years old, stood by the whinnying colt
stroking it, and speaking kindly to it.

"Would you like to go to the farm with me and be my servant?" asked
Hansei of Gruberwaldl.

"Yes indeed, if you'll take me."

"See, what a boy he is," said Hansei to his wife. "What a boy!"

Walpurga made no answer, but busied herself with the child.

Hansei shook hands with every one at parting. His hand trembled, but he
did not forget to give a couple of crown thalers to the musicians.

At last he got into the boat and exclaimed:

"Kind friends! I thank you all. Don't forget us, and we shan't forget
you. Farewell! may God protect you all."

Walpurga and her mother were in tears.

"And now, in God's name, let us start." The chains were loosened; the
boat put off. Music, shouting, singing, and the firing of cannon
resounded while the boat quietly moved away from the shore. The sun
burst forth in all his glory.

The mother sat there, with her hands clasped. All were silent. The only
sound heard was the neighing of the foal.

Walpurga was the first to break the silence. "O dear Lord! if people
would only show each other half as much love during life as they do
when one dies or moves away."

The mother, who was in the middle of a prayer, shook her head. She
quickly finished her prayer and said: "That's more than one has a right
to ask. It won't do to go about all day long with your heart in your
hand. But remember, I've always told you that the people are good
enough at heart, even if there are a few bad ones among them."

Hansei bestowed an admiring glance upon his wife, who had so many
different thoughts about almost everything. He supposed it was caused
by her having been away from home. But his heart was full too, although
in a different way.

"I can hardly realize," said Hansei, taking a long breath and putting
the pipe which he had intended to light back into his pocket, "what has
become of all the years that I spent there and all that I went through
during the time. Look, Walpurga! the road you see there leads to my
home. I know every hill and every hollow. My mother's buried there. Do
you see the pines growing on the hill over yonder? That hill was quite
bare; every tree was cut down when the French were here; and see how
fine and hardy the trees are now. I planted most of them myself. I was
a little boy about eleven or twelve years old when the forester hired
me. He had fresh soil brought for the whole place and covered the rocky
spots with moss. In the spring, I worked from six in the morning till
seven in the evening, putting in the little plants. My left hand was
almost frozen, for I had to keep putting it into a tub of wet loam with
which I covered the roots. I was scantily clothed into the bargain, and
had nothing to eat, all day long, but a piece of bread. In the morning
it was cold enough to freeze the marrow in one's bones, and at noon I
was almost roasted by the hot sun beating on the rocks. It was a hard
life. Yes, I had a hard time of it when I was young. Thank God, it
hasn't harmed me any. But I shan't forget it; and let's be right
industrious and give all we can to the poor. I never would have
believed that I'd live to call a single tree or a handful of earth my
own; and now that God has given me so much, let's try and deserve it
all."

Hansei's eyes blinked, as if there was something in them, and he pulled
his hat down over his forehead. Now, while he was pulling himself up by
the roots, as it were, he could not help thinking of how thoroughly he
had become engrafted into the neighborhood by the work of his hands and
by habit. He had felled many a tree, but he knew full well how hard it
was to remove the stumps.

The foal grew restive. Gruberwaldl, who had come with them in order to
hold it, was not strong enough, and one of the boatmen was obliged to
go to his assistance.

"Stay with the foal," said Hansei. "I'll take the oar."

"And I, too," cried Walpurga. "Who knows when I'll have another chance?
Ah! how often I've rowed on the lake with you and my blessed father."

Hansei and Walpurga sat side by side plying their oars in perfect time.
It did them both good to have some employment which would enable them
to work off the excitement.

"I shall miss the water," said Walpurga; "without the lake, life'll
seem so dull and dry. I felt that, while I was in the city."

Hansei did not answer.

"At the summer palace, there's a pond with swans swimming about in it,"
said she, but still received no answer. She looked around, and a
feeling of anger arose within her. When she said anything at the
palace, it was always listened to.

In a sorrowful tone, she added: "It would have been better if we'd
moved in the spring; it would have been much easier to get used to
things."

"Maybe it would," replied Hansei, at last, "but I've got to hew wood in
the winter. Walpurga, let's make life pleasant to each other, and not
sad. I shall have enough on my shoulders, and can't have you and your
palace thoughts besides."

Walpurga quickly answered: "I'll throw this ring, which the queen gave
me, into the lake, to prove that I've stopped thinking of the palace."

"There's no need of that. The ring's worth a nice sum and, besides
that, it's an honorable keepsake. You must do just as I do."

"Yes; only remain strong and true."

The mother suddenly stood up before them. Her features were illumined
with a strange expression and she said:

"Children! Hold fast to the good fortune that you have. You've gone
through fire and water together; for it was fire when you were
surrounded by joy and love and every one greeted you with kindness--and
you passed through the water, when the wickedness of others stung you
to the soul. At that time, the water was up to your neck, and yet you
weren't drowned. Now you've got over it all. And when my last hour
comes, don't weep for me; for through you I've enjoyed all the
happiness a mother's heart can have in this world."

She knelt down, scooped up some water with her hand and sprinkled it
over Hansei's, and also over Walpurga's face.

They rowed on, in silence. The mother laid her head on a roll of
bedding and closed her eyes. Her face wore a strange expression. After
a while she opened her eyes again, and casting a glance full of
happiness on her children, she said:

"Sing and be merry. Sing the song that father and I so often sang
together; that one verse, the good one."

Hansei and Walpurga plied the oars while they sang:

                 "Ah, blissful is the tender tie
                  That binds me, love, to thee;
                  And swiftly speed the hours by,
                  When thou art near to me."

They repeated the verse again, although, at times, the joyous shouting
of the child and the neighing of the foal bade fair to interrupt it.

The singing and shouting was suddenly interrupted by a young sailor,
who cried out:

"There's some one floating there! it's a human being--there! the head's
over water! don't you see it? there's the long, coal-black hair
floating on the water. Some woman's drowned herself, or has fallen
overboard."

Every one in the boat looked toward the point indicated. The object
rose and fell on the waves. It appeared to be a human face that would,
now and then, rise to the surface and sink again. All were dumb with
terror, and Hansei rubbed his eyes, asking himself: "Was it imagination
or was it reality?" He thought he had recognized the face of Black
Esther rising on the waves and sinking again. It floated on, further
and further, and, at last, sank out of sight.

"It's nothing," said Walpurga, "it's nothing. Don't let us make
ourselves unhappy."

"You're a stupid fellow," said the old boatman, scolding his comrade.
"It was nothing but a dead crow or some other bird floating on the
water. Who'd say such a thing?" added he in a whisper. "If we get but
little drink-money, it'll be your fault. They were so happy that they'd
have given us a thaler at least, but now you can see Hansei rummaging
in his purse. He's looking for small change, and it's all your fault."

Without knowing why, Hansei had indeed pulled out his purse, and was
fumbling in it. He was so bewildered with what he had seen--it was
true, after all--but it could not be right--just now--to-day, when all
was forgiven and past; and, after all, he hadn't sinned.

In order to regain his composure, he counted out several pieces of
money. That restored his spirits. He was able to count; his senses had
returned. He had resigned the oar and, with his piece of chalk, had
actually been making some calculations on the bench. But he soon rubbed
them out again.

"There's the other shore," said he, looking up and lifting his hat,
"we'll soon be there. I can see the wagon and horses and Uncle Peter
there already. I can see our blue chest."

"Heavens!" cried Walpurga, and the oar remained motionless in her
hands. "Heavens! Who is it? Who is that figure? I can take my oath
that, while we were singing, I thought to myself: If only my good
Countess Irma could see us sitting in the boat together. It would have
made her happy to see that, and just then it seemed to me as if--"

"I'm glad," said Hansei, interrupting her, "that we're getting to shore.
If this lasts much longer, we'll all lose our wits."

On the distant shore, some one was seen running to and fro. The figure
was wrapped in a flowing dress, and suddenly started when the wind
wafted the sound of music across toward her. She sank to the earth and
seemed to be crouching on the bank. Now that the sound had died away,
she arose and fled, disappearing among the bushes.

"Didn't you see anything?" asked Walpurga again.

"Yes, indeed. If I was superstitious, and it wasn't in the day-time,
I'd have thought it was the Lady of the Lake."

The boat reached the bank. Walpurga was the first to leap ashore.
Leaving her people, she ran toward the bushes as fast as she could, and
there, behind the willows, the figure fell on her neck and fainted.



                                BOOK V.



                              CHAPTER I.


The summer was almost at an end when the court returned from the baths.

The king's first official act was to sign the proclamation of the
Schnabelsdorf ministry, dissolving the refractory Chamber of Deputies
and ordering a new election.

The king was displeased; and yet, that which now surprised him was the
inevitable consequence of his previous doings. He had returned in high
spirits, but, like an importunate creditor, the state was already
thrusting its claims upon him.

He felt happy that his government met with popular approval; but that,
he thought, should be a matter of course. And now a great question was
to be submitted to the country, and there were doubts as to what the
answer might be.

Schnabelsdorf exercised his great conversational gifts, and adroitly
endeavored to humor the heroic side of the king's character. But his
efforts were in vain.

The whole land was in great commotion, but of this they knew little or
nothing at court. The autumn maneuvers had begun, and in a few days the
court expected to move to the summer palace, after which, hunting in
the Highlands was to begin.

The king had seldom taken so lively an interest in the maneuvers. The
ease and precision with which, on such occasions, large bodies of men
were moved at will, afforded a suggestive contrast to the spirit of
disorganization and breaking away from authority which seemed abroad in
the land. Nothing, however, was further from his thoughts than the idea
of bringing the two opposing tendencies to bear upon each other.

At the court assemblages, the king always seemed to be in an
exceptionally pleasant mood. The greater his ill-humor, the more he
regarded it his duty to keep up the outward semblance of cheerfulness.
The habit, acquired in youth, of always keeping up his dignity; the
knowledge that the eyes of all were upon him; a due consideration for
the claims of those about him; the need of always speaking the right
word at the right time; above all, the art of ignoring--an art in which
others refrain from indulging themselves, and which, for that very
reason, requires practice--and, added to this, the consciousness of
possessing kingly power:--all this prevented him from betraying the
slightest trace of ill-humor. He manifested a lively interest in
whatever was going on, especially so, when Irma was present. She, above
all, should never find him wavering, for she would have misinterpreted
it. It was therefore necessary, in her presence, to keep up that
exalted mood which regards dissent or contradiction as impossible, and
thus esteems itself as above the law. And yet the king felt the danger
of encouraging a secret passion while all his strength was required by
a weighty problem, in the solution of which he would necessarily
encounter great opposition.

Irma returned from her visit to the seashore refreshed and invigorated.
She was more beautiful than ever, but was rarely seen at court, as she
spent much of her time with Arabella. On the day after Arabella had
given birth to a boy, Irma and the doctor left Bruno's house together.

Irma was about to say: "I am beginning to get tired of this everlasting
nursery," but checked herself in time.

The doctor did not utter a word, while accompanying her down the
carpeted stairs. His features wore a serious expression. He had been
living in the great world for many years, but, even now, it offended
his sense of justice when he saw the joys of paternity fall to the
share of one who, like Bruno, had led what is mildly termed a "fast
life." The doctor pressed the ivory handle of his cane against his
lips, as if thus to prevent his thoughts from finding vent in words.
Silently, he seated himself in the carriage with Irma. They drove to
the palace.

"My sister-in-law has imposed a difficult task upon me," said Irma.

Gunther did not inquire as to the nature of the task, and Irma was
obliged to continue of herself:

"She made me promise that I'd inform father of the birth of his
grandson. If you were still on former terms of intimacy with him, you
would be the best mediator."

"I can do nothing," replied Gunther, curtly. He was unusually reserved
in his manner toward Irma. She felt conscious of this, and felt, too,
that she no longer had a right to claim unreserved confidence on the
part of her friends. But as she did not wish to break with those whom
she esteemed, it was necessary to maintain relations of courtesy with
them.

"I believe that Bruno's better nature will now assert itself," said
Irma. She forced herself to speak, and trembled when she thought that
the man who sat beside her might suddenly ask her: "What have you done
with _your_ better nature?"

The carriage stopped before the palace. Irma alighted and Gunther drove
home.

Once in her room, Irma pressed both hands to her heart as if to allay
the storm within. "Must I beg every one to prove his friendly feeling
by silence, or to admit that I am right? Those who despise the world's
laws and have soared above them, had better cease to live." She aroused
herself by a violent effort and began the letter to her father. She
complained that she had had no news from him for a long while. She
wrote about Arabella, informed him that Bruno had become a steady
_paterfamilias_, and, at last, mentioned the birth of the grandson. She
also wrote that Arabella begged for a few lines from the grandfather,
and that they would render her happy.

Irma found her letter a difficult task. Her pen usually responded to
every varying phase of feeling; but, that day, it seemed to stumble and
hesitate. She leaned back in her chair, and picked up a letter that she
had found lying there. It was Walpurga's. She smiled while reading it,
and enjoyed the satisfaction of having benefited a fellow-creature who,
although distant, held her in faithful remembrance.

The waiting-maid announced Bruno's groom. Irma had him come in. He had
come to express his master's desire that the gracious countess should
at once dispatch the letter she had promised to write, and said that he
had been ordered to take it to the post-office himself. Irma sealed it
and gave it to him.

Bruno, seated in his dog-cart, was waiting at the corner of the palace
square. The groom handed him the letter. Bruno put it in his pocket. He
drove to the post-office and, with his own hands, dropped a letter into
the box. This epistle, however, was directed to a lady. The one
intended for his father he retained in his possession. He was
determined not to humble himself, either through his sister or his
wife.

The box into which Bruno dropped the perfumed _billet-doux_ contained
letters for old Eberhard,--letters which Bruno could not intercept.



                              CHAPTER II.


On the very morning that his first grandchild was born, Count Eberhard
was returning, with a light heart, from a walk in the fields. They had
begun, that day, to gather the first harvest from a large, tray-formed
tract of land which had once been a swamp. Eberhard had drained the
desolate tract with great care and judgment, and now it produced
unequaled crops. The sight of the ripened grain waving in the gentle
breeze, inspired him with pure and happy feelings, and he thought of
the generations to come, who would derive sustenance from a tract of
land rendered fertile by him.

He felt no desire to impart his happiness to another. He had accustomed
himself, in the past, to live within himself. His one real life-burden
he had confessed to his daughter. He thoroughly enjoyed the repose
which solitude alone affords. He imagined that pure reflection had
conquered all passion. He always obeyed the inner voice of nature;
there was no one for whose sake he was obliged to repress it. He had
faithfully endeavored to perfect himself, and, while placing himself
beyond the reach of temptation, had, at the same time, withdrawn from
social activity.

When he left his work in field or forest, it was to commune with those
great ones who had long since left the world, and with whose
profoundest thoughts he felt himself in full accord.

He had just come in from the fields and was about to repair to his
library, there to converse with a spirit that had long since left this
world. His step was steady, his mind was calm and placid. He could, at
will, preserve a certain state of feeling, or resign himself to the
guidance of a spirit living in another sphere. His life lay in two
distinct spheres, and yet the transition from one to the other was
never violent.

The impressions of the moment had already clothed themselves in words,
and he was about to note them down in a little book which bore the
inscription: "Self-redemption."

Entering the manor-house, he found a number of persons waiting for him
in the great, long, harvest hall, which was hung with garlands and
wreaths. They saluted him as he approached. The village burgomaster,
who had, hitherto, represented that district at the Diet, and many
other persons of local importance were assembled there. The burgomaster
was the spokesman of the party, and stated that, in the forthcoming
election, it would be necessary to relinquish the field to blockheads
and bigots, unless they could nominate a candidate whose high personal
character and influence would secure them victory. Colonel Bronnen, who
had been recommended by Count Eberhard, had refused to stand, and now
Count Eberhard was the only one who could defeat the enemy. The
electors said that they well knew what a sacrifice it would be for him
to take part in the canvass. They had, therefore, waited until now, the
day of the election, and they urgently entreated him not to withdraw at
the eleventh hour.

"Yes," added the burgomaster, "you've drained a swamp and carried off
the foul water; and now you must help us in this, too."

To their great surprise and delight, Eberhard, without further
objection, declared his willingness to stand. He had succeeded in one
undertaking, and, from a sense of duty, felt that he had no right to
avoid assuming the greater trust now offered him. The old enemy was
still in force, and it was meet that the old warriors should go forth
to battle against him.

The friends left and, after giving a few orders to the servants,
Eberhard followed. He rode a large, powerful horse, such as a large,
strong man requires. He caught up with his friends before they reached
the town, and thus made his entry with quite a following.

He presented himself before the assembled electors. The hall was almost
full. The people were astonished to see the count, but the glances
turned toward him were soon withdrawn, and much whispered conversation
ensued. Making his way through the crowd, Eberhard walked up to the
speaker's stand. Few stood up or greeted him. Why was it? At other
times, the crowd would always make way for him; but to-day, he had to
push his way through them. It almost vexed him, but he controlled
himself. "This is the true effect of free thought; homage should not be
bestowed according to custom and precedence; it should only be for
those who have earned it. You are still an aristocrat at heart, and are
still filled with pride of ancestry--pride in your own past." Such were
the thoughts that passed through his mind, while, with a smile, he
rejoiced in the victory he had won over himself.

The first one to mount the speaker's stand was the candidate of the
"Blacks," as the popular party termed their opponents. He spoke with
cleverness, but without fervor, and it was evident that his address had
been carefully studied. He made several clever points, however, which
were received with loud applause.

The retiring delegate came forward and, stating that he declined a
re-election, proposed Count Eberhard of Wildenort, the tried champion
of freedom and popular rights.

The assembly seemed taken by surprise. There was but little clapping of
hands, and few bravos were heard.

Count Eberhard was quite taken aback by this cold reception, and looked
about him in astonishment. The burgomaster whispered to him that this
was a sure sign of victory, and that the enemy was confounded. Eberhard
merely nodded. A strange feeling of embarrassment arose within him. He
repressed it, and mounted the speaker's stand. With every step, he
gained in courage and became more fully persuaded that it was his duty
to defend the new trust without regard to thought of self. He began his
speech by giving an account of his past life and struggles, adding,
with a smile, that there were many present who, like himself, had gray
hairs, and that there was no need of telling them what he desired. He
was glad, however, to find that, there were so many younger men
present. They listened with considerable patience. Among the
opposition there was, now and then, loud talking, which was, however,
soon silenced. Eberhard went on speaking. Suddenly loud peals of
laughter resounded through the assembly, and the words "left-handed
father-in-law" were heard. Eberhard did not know what it meant, and
went on with his remarks. The talking in the crowd grew louder. Drops
of cold sweat stood on his brow. The burgomaster mounted the stand and
exclaimed: "Whoever isn't willing to listen to a man like Count
Eberhard, doesn't deserve to have a vote."

Breathless silence ensued. Eberhard concluded with the words:

"I am proud enough to tell you that I don't ask you for your votes. I
simply say that I accept the nomination."

He left the assembly, but, before doing so, begged his friends to
remain. He rode home, filled with the thought that he had separated
himself from the world, instead of having conquered it.

He alighted as soon as he came to his own land in the valley, and gave
orders to some of the laborers. When he returned to the road, he met
the postman, who handed him several letters. Eberhard opened the first
and read:

"Your daughter has fallen into disgrace, and yet stands in high grace
as the mistress of the king. To her the country owes the restoration of
the ecclesiastical ministry. If you still doubt, ask the first person
you meet in the streets of the capital. Unhappy father of a happy
daughter." It was signed "The Public Voice."

Eberhard tore up the letter and gave the shreds to the winds, which
carried them far away over the fields.

"Anonymous letters," said he, "are the meanest things conceivable. They
are far lower than cowardly assassination, and yet--" It seemed as if
the breeze which carried the shreds away had now returned, laden with
the expression that he had heard at the meeting. Had they not said
"left-handed father-in-law"?

Eberhard pressed his hand to his brow--the thought was like a burning
arrow piercing his brain. He opened the second letter and read: "You do
not care to believe how it stands with your daughter. Ask him who was
once your friend. Ask the king's physician, on his honor and
conscience. He will tell you the truth. Save what may yet be saved.
Then will the writer of these lines divulge his name. From one who
greatly esteems you. ----"

Eberhard did not destroy this letter; he held it in his trembling hand.
A mist suddenly rose before him. He passed his hands over his eyes as
if to brush it away; but it still remained, growing denser with each
succeeding moment. He tried to read the letter again, but could not
distinguish a word of it. He crumpled up the paper and put it in his
breast-pocket, where it lay like a burning coal against his heart. His
head swam and he sat down by the wayside. What could he do? They would
smile if he went to court to fetch her. They would be very gracious and
would say: "Let there be no scenes, no noise. Let everything be
arranged quietly; let there be no scandal; decorum must be maintained."
And one must smile, though his heart is bursting. We live in a
civilized world, and this they call culture and good manners. Oh! you
are well off. With you, all is pastime. You can afford to be ever
polite, ever cool and reserved. Oh, why did I come home to waste my
powers in this miserable nook! It's all my own fault. I meant to rescue
myself from the hurly-burly of the world. I've lost my children,
instead. A satanic sophist lurks in us all. I persuaded myself that it
was better, and more in accordance with nature, to let my children grow
up, free from all control; and yet it was only a vain excuse for my own
weakness. Because the duty of incessantly watching over them was
distasteful to me, I suffered them to go to ruin, while persuading
myself that their nature could thus best develop itself. And here I
stand, and must fetch my child--

The sudden neighing of the horse, hitched to a tree near by, so
startled Eberhard that he almost fell back. A laborer who was bringing
two horses in from the field, stopped and asked: "What ails you,
master?"

The laborer unhitched the horse. Eberhard rose hastily and, without
saying a word, walked up the hill in the direction of the manor-house.
He felt as if the air was filled with intangible, electric clouds that
drew him back; but he forced his way through them. He reached the house
and held fast by the doorposts. He was giddy, but still he did not give
up. He went through the stables and barns, saw the men storing away the
fodder, and remained looking at them for a long while. Then he went
through the whole house and looked at every object with an inquiring
gaze. In the great room with the bay-window, he lingered long before a
picture of Irma, painted when she was but seven years old, a beautiful,
large-eyed child. The attitude was natural, a mixture of childlike
awkwardness and grace. The painter had wanted to put a nosegay in the
child's hand, but she had said: "I won't have dead flowers; give me a
pot with living flowers in it." Ah, she had had such pretty conceits!
There she stood, the very picture of childish grace, with rosy cheeks,
and with blooming roses in her hand. "A rose plucked before the storm
could scatter its petals." These last words of Emilia Galotti passed
through his mind. "No, I am not that strong."

He rang, but when the servant came, had forgotten what he wanted. The
effort to collect his scattered thoughts seemed like plunging into
chaos. At last he ordered the carriage, which was all he had wanted the
servant for.

"The traveling carriage," he called out after the servant.

When he reached the library, he paused, and gazed at the door for a
while. There were so many great and mighty minds in there--why did none
of them come to his aid? There is no help but that we find within
ourselves.

While descending the steps, he would now and then hold fast to the
baluster as if to support himself. He drew himself up, as if filled
with anger because of the weakness that mastered him. In the courtyard,
he gave orders that the carriage should drive on and meet him down in
the valley. His speech was noticeably indistinct. Half way down the
mountain, he suddenly seated himself on a heap of stones and looked
about him.

What was passing before his eyes? What thoughts filled his mind? He
looked for the tree which he had planted on the very spot where word
was brought him of Irma's birth. This is the first soil trodden by her
feet; these are the first trees she ever saw. The sky, the forests,
the mountains, the blooming flowers, the merry birds, the grazing
cows--all, all seemed like phantoms.--None of these will ever find you
pure again. Never again dare you approach a living creature, or tree or
flower; for they repudiate you, they are pure and you are--the world's
a paradise. You have been driven thence, and roam about, a restless
fugitive. You may deaden your conscience, may smile and jest and
dissemble, but the sun does not dissemble, neither does the earth, nor
your own conscience. You've destroyed the world and yourself, and still
live,--dead in a dead world. How is it possible? It cannot be. I am
mad. I shall neither punish nor chastise you; but you must know who and
what you are, and the knowledge of that will be your punishment and
your cure. I shall palliate nothing; you must know, see, and
acknowledge it all, yourself--

A road laborer went up to the count and asked whether he was ill. He
had noticed him sitting on the stones, and supposed that something
might be wrong.

"Not well!" groaned Eberhard, "not well? It would be well for me if
I--"

He got up and walked away.

A grief stricken mother can shed tears; a father cannot.

His head was bowed on his chest. He saw blooming roses; they should
have adorned her. He saw thorns; they should tear her brow. Anger and
grief struggled within him. Anger raged; grief wept. Anger would have
lent him giant strength, with which to destroy the world; but grief
crushed his very soul.

Suddenly he drew himself up, and, as if driven by the storm, ran down
the road, over the ditch and across the meadow,--only stopping when he
reached the apple-tree.

"This is the tree--you're decked with ruddy fruit--and she-- Woe is me!
life is pitiless!"

A deep cry of pain escaped him. The road laborer above, and the driver
who was waiting with the carriage below, heard him and ran to his help.
They found him lying on the ground, face downward. He was foaming at
the mouth and was unable to speak. They bore him into the castle.



                              CHAPTER III.


Throughout the capital, schools, offices, and workshops were closed.
With the exception of, now and then, a noisy group of men who soon
entered a large building and disappeared from view, the streets were
given over to women and children. It was election day. It seemed as if
the thousand and one diversified interests and sentiments that help to
make up the life of a city had converged to a single point--as if a
great soul were communing with itself. Although it was in broad
daylight, a wondrous silence rested upon the deserted streets.
Gunther's carriage had just come from Bruno's house, and now stopped at
the town-hall. The doctor alighted, went upstairs and gave in his vote.
In consideration of his being a physician in active practice, he was
allowed to vote before his turn. He returned to his carriage and drove
home, When he entered the sitting-room, his wife handed him a telegram
which had just been received. Gunther opened it.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Madame Gunther, for she had never before
seen so great a change in her husband's face.

He handed her the telegram and she read:


"Count Eberhard Wildenort paralyzed. Deprived of speech. Send word to
son and daughter to come at once; if possible, you also.

                             "DOCTOR MANN, _District Physician_."

"You are going?" said Madame Gunther in an agitated, but scarcely
inquiring tone. Gunther nodded affirmatively.

"I've one request to make," continued Madame Gunther. With a slight
motion of his hand, the doctor intimated that he wished her to proceed.
He felt as if his tongue were palsied.

"I'd like to go with you," said she.

"I don't understand you."

"Sit down," said the wife, and when Gunther had seated himself, she
placed her gentle hand upon his lofty forehead. His face brightened,
and she went on to say:

"Wilhelm, this is a terrible visitation. Let me do all I can to
alleviate the grief of the lost child whom this dread message will soon
reach. I can imagine her feelings. Who knows? Perhaps her own actions
have been the cause of this.--Although she rides in her carriage, I
shall assist her as faithfully as if she were a poor outcast; and if
the poor soul repels me, I shall not leave her. I don't know what may
happen, but the moment may come when she will feel it a comfort to rest
the head now scourged by thorns against a woman's heart. Do let me go
with you?"

"I've no objection. For the present, however, you had better get
everything ready for my departure." He drove to Bruno's house.

As soon as the latter noticed his sad looks, he exclaimed: "And so your
party was beaten?"

"Not yet," replied Gunther, gently breaking the news to Bruno.

Bruno turned away, hurriedly gathered up several letters that were
lying on the table and locked them up in his desk. He was soon ready to
go with Gunther to Irma, to whom they broke the sad news as gently as
possible.

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried Irma. Not another word escaped her. She
went into her bedchamber and threw herself on the bed; but she had
hardly touched the pillow before she sprang up as if thrust back, and
then knelt on the floor and swooned away. When she returned to the
reception room, her features wore a fixed, rigid expression. She gave
hurried orders to her servant and her maid to prepare for the journey.
The doctor withdrew, in order to ask for leave of absence, and promised
to procure leave for Irma, too.

"You ought to bid adieu to the queen, before you go," said Bruno.

"No, no!" cried Irma vehemently. "I cannot; I will not."

There was no servant in the antechamber. There was a knock at the door.
Irma started. "Was the king coming?"

"Come in!" said Bruno. Madame Gunther entered.

Irma could not utter a word, but her eyes seemed to ask: "You here? and
now?"

Madame Gunther told her that she had heard the sad news, and would
regard it as a proof of her friendship, if Irma would allow her to
accompany her.

"Thank you, with all my heart," stammered Irma.

"Then you grant my request?"

"I thank you; on my knees, I'll thank you; but I beg of you, don't make
me talk much now."

"There's no need of your doing so, dear Countess," said Madame Gunther.
"You've apparently neglected or forgotten me; but in your heart, you've
remembered me. And even if it were otherwise, there was one short hour
during which we opened our hearts to each other."

Irma raised her hands as if to shield herself,--as if the kind words
pierced her like so many arrows. In a soothing voice, Madame Gunther
added: "I shall consider it a kindness, if you will allow me to be kind
to you; you have no mother and, perhaps--you will soon have no father."

Irma groaned aloud and pressed her hands to her eyes.

"My dear child," said Madame Gunther, placing her hand upon Irma's arm.
Irma started--"there are many of God's creatures on earth, so that the
sympathy of those whom misfortune has spared may serve as a support to
the afflicted, and as a light in the hour of darkness. I beg of you, do
not be proud in your grief. Let me share in all that the next few days
may have in store for you."

"Proud? proud?" asked Irma, suddenly grasping Madame Gunther's hand and
as suddenly dropping it again. "No, dear honored madame. I appreciate
your affectionate motives. I understand--I know--all. I could calmly
accept your kindness. I know--at least I think--that I, too, would have
just acted as you do, if--"

"This is the best and the only thanks," interposed Madame Gunther, but
Irma motioned her to stop, and continued:

"I entreat you, do not torture me. Your husband and my brother will
accompany me. I beg of you, say nothing more. I thank you; I shall
never forget your kindness."

Gunther entered the room again and Irma said:

"Is everything ready? We have no time to lose."

She bowed to Madame Gunther, and would gladly have embraced her, but
could not.

Madame Gunther, who had never, before this, set foot in the palace, had
only come to succor a ruined one. Never had the thought of herself so
filled Irma with anguish and remorse, as when this embodiment of
loving-kindness had held out her hand to her.

The thought that she no longer dared approach the pure pained her as if
demons were tearing her to pieces. Her first impulse was to throw
herself at Madame Gunther's feet.

She controlled herself, however, and, looking at her with a fixed gaze,
passed on.

The parrot in the anteroom spread out its wings, as if it, too, wanted
to go along, and screamed; "God keep you, Irma!"

As if veiled in a cloud, Irma walked through the corridor. At the
palace gate, she met the king coming out of the park with
Schnabelsdorf, who had a number of dispatches in his hand, and whose
cheerful looks were owing to the news of victory which he had just
received.

To Irma, the king and Schnabelsdorf seemed like misty forms. She wore a
double black veil, for she did not care to gratify the idle curiosity
of the court, by making a show of the face on which grief had done its
work.

The king drew near. She could not remove her veil. He seemed far, far
away. She heard his friendly and, of course, kind words, but she knew
not what he said.

The king extended his hand to Gunther, then to Bruno, and, at last, to
Irma. He pressed her hand tenderly, but she did not return the
pressure.

They got into the carriage. Just as they were about to start, Irma,
noticing Madame Gunther's hand on the carriage door, bent down and
kissed it. The next moment they were gone.

They were silent for some time. After they had passed the first
village, Bruno took out a cigar, saying to Irma, who sat opposite him:
"I'm a man, and a man must calmly accept the inevitable. Show that you,
too, have a strong mind."

Irma did not reply. She threw back her veil and looked out of the
window. Her departure had been so hurried that she was just beginning
to recover herself.

"You ought to have taken leave of the queen in person," said Bruno, in
a calm tone. The long silence was irksome to him. Such dark hours
should be made to pass as agreeably as possible. When he found that
Irma still remained silent, he added: "For you know that the queen's
tender nature is so easily offended."

Irma still made no reply, but Gunther said:

"Yes; it were sacrilege to offend the queen. No one but a savage would
dare to weaken her faith in human goodness and veracity."

Gunther expressed himself with unwonted energy, and his words cut Irma
to the heart. Was it she who had committed sacrilege? And then the
thought gradually dawned upon her; the queen is his ideal; the king is
mine. Who knows whether the mask of intellectual affinity may not have
served to screen--Quick as thought, she dropped her veil; her breathing
was short and fast; her cheeks were burning. He who knows himself to
be--must judge others--nothing is perfect--no one--She felt as if she
must speak, and at last said: "The queen deserves to have a friend like
you."

"I place myself beside you," said Gunther calmly. "I believe that we
both deserve the friendship of that pure heart."

"And so you believe that friendship can exist between married people of
different sex?" inquired Bruno.

"I know it," replied Gunther.

At the first posting-house, where they came upon noisy crowds, the
postmaster informed them that the election was going on, and that the
contest was quite an excited one. The "Blacks" would certainly be
defeated.

Bruno, who had alighted, asked the postillion:

"My noble fellow-citizen, have you exercised your sovereign right of
voting to-day?"

"Yes, and against the 'Blacks'."

They drove on.

Bruno did not get out at the other stations. They were drawing near to
Eberhard's district. While they were changing horses at the assize
town, they heard loud cries of: "Long live Count Eberhard! Victory!"

"What's that?" inquired Gunther, putting his head out of the carriage
door.

He was informed that, in spite of the "Blacks," Count Eberhard would
prove the victor. The opposition had started a contemptible rumor,
intended to disgrace the old count. But, although meant to injure
others, it had proved a stumbling-block to themselves; for every one
had said: "A father can't help what his child does, and, for that very
reason, greater respect should now be shown him."--Irma drew back into
the dark corner of the carriage and held her breath.

They drove on without saying a word.

After they had started, Bruno said it was too warm for him in the
carriage, and that it did not agree with him to ride backward. Still,
he would not suffer Gunther to change seats with him. He ordered the
carriage to stop and, telling the lackey to sit up with the driver,
placed himself on the back seat, next to the waiting-maid. Irma took
off her hat and laid her head back. It was heavy with sad thoughts. Now
and then, when the road lay along the edge of a precipice, she would
quickly raise herself in her seat. She felt as if she must plunge into
the abyss; but, weak and feeble, she would fall back again. Gunther,
too, remained silent; and thus they drove on through the night, without
uttering a word.

At one time, the waiting-maid would have laughed out aloud, but Bruno
held his hand over her mouth and prevented her.



                              CHAPTER IV.


It was near midnight when the travelers reached castle Wildenort. The
servant said that the count was sleeping, and that the physician who
lived in the valley was with him. The country doctor left the sickroom
and came out into the ante-chamber to welcome the new arrivals. He was
about to describe the case to Gunther, who, however, requested him not
to do so until he had himself seen the patient. Accompanied by Irma and
Bruno, he went into the sick-room.

Eberhard lay in bed, his head propped up by pillows. His eyes were wide
open, and, without showing the slightest emotion, he stared at those
who entered, as if they were figures in a dream.

"I greet you, Eberhard, with all my heart," said Gunther. The sick
man's features twitched convulsively, and his eyelids rose quickly and
as quickly fell again, while he gropingly put forth his hand toward his
old friend. But the hand sank powerless on the coverlet. Gunther
grasped it and held it fast.

Irma stood as if rooted to the spot, unable to move or utter a word.

"How are you, papa?" asked Bruno.

With a sudden start, as if a shot had whizzed by his ear, Eberhard
turned toward Bruno and motioned to him to leave the room.

Irma knelt down at his bedside, while Eberhard passed his trembling
hand over her face. It became wet with her tears. Suddenly, he drew it
back, as if it had been touching a poisonous reptile. He averted his
face and pressed his brow against the wall; and thus he lay for a long
while.

Neither Gunther nor Irma spoke a word. Their voices failed them in the
presence of him who had been deprived of speech. And now Eberhard
turned again and gently motioned his daughter to leave the room. She
did so.

Gunther remained alone with Eberhard. It was the first time in thirty
years that the two friends had met. Eberhard passed Gunther's hand
across his eyes, and then shook his head.

Gunther said: "I know what you mean; you would like to weep, but
cannot. Do you understand all I say to you?"

The patient nodded affirmatively.

"Then just imagine," continued Gunther, and his voice has a rich and
comforting tone, "that the years we've been separated from each other
were but one hour. Our measure of time is a different one. Do you still
remember how you would often in enthusiastic moments exclaim: 'We've
just been living centuries'?"

There was again a convulsive twitching of the patient's features, just
as when a weeping one is enlivened by a cheerful thought and would fain
smile, but cannot.

Eberhard attempted to trace letters on the coverlet, but Gunther found
it difficult to decipher them.

The sick man pointed to a table on which there lay books and
manuscripts. Gunther brought several of them, but none was the right
one. At last he brought a little manuscript book, the cover of which
was inscribed with the title, "Self-redemption." The sick man seemed
pleased, as if welcoming a fortunate occurrence.

"You wrote this yourself. Shall I read some of it to you?"

Eberhard nodded assent. Gunther sat down by the bed and read:

"May this serve to enlighten me on the day and in the hour when my mind
becomes obscured.

"I have been much given to introspection. I have endeavored to study
myself, without regard to the outward conditions of time, standpoint,
or circumstance. I perceive it, but, as yet, I cannot grasp it. It is a
dew-drop shut up in the heart of a rock.

"There are moments when I am fully up to the ideal I have formed for
myself, but there are many more when I am merely the caricature of my
better self. How am I to form a conception of my actual self? What am
I?

"I perceive that I am a something belonging to the universe and to
eternity.

"During the blessed moments, sometimes drawn out into hours, in which I
realize this conception, there is naught but life for me--no such thing
as death, either for me or the world.

"In my dying hour, I should like to be as clearly conscious as I now am
that I am in God, and that God is in me.

"Religion may claim warmth of feeling and glory of imagination as her
portion. We, on the other hand, have attained to that clear vision
which includes both feeling and imagination.

"In troubled, restless days, when I endeavored to grasp the Infinite, I
felt as if melting away, vanishing, disappearing. I longed to know:
What is God?

"And now I possess our master's answer: Although we cannot picture God
to ourselves, yet we have a clear idea or conception of Him.

"For us, the old commandment: 'Thou shalt not make unto thyself any
image of God,' signifies _thou canst_ not make to thyself any image of
God. Every image is finite; the idea of God is that of infinity.

"Spinoza teaches that we must regard ourselves as a part of God--

"While endeavoring to grasp the idea of the whole, I came to understand
what is meant by the words: 'The human mind is part of the divine
mind.'

"A single drop rises on the surface of the stormy ocean of life. It
lasts but a second--though men term it threescore years and ten--and
then, glowing with the light it receives and imparts, sinks again.

"Man, regarded as an individual, is both by birth and education a
thought entering upon the threshold of the consciousness of God. At
death, he simply sinks below that threshold, but he does not perish. He
remains a part of eternity, just as all thought endures in its
consequences.

"When I combine a number of such individuals or thoughts and term them
a nation, the genius of that nation enters upon the threshold of such
consciousness as soon as the nation begins to have a history of its
own.

"Combining the nations into a whole, we have mankind or the totality of
thought, the consciousness of God and of the world.

"I have often felt giddy at the mere thought of standing firm and
secure, on the highest pinnacle of thought.

"May these thoughts inspire and deliver me in the hour of dissolution.
There is no separation of mortal and immortal life, they flow into each
other and are one.

"The knowledge that we are one and the same with God and the universe
is the highest bliss. He who possess this, never dies, but lives the
life eternal.

"Come to me once more, thou spirit of Truth, at the moment when I
sink--

"Dust cleaves to my wings, just as it does to yonder lark, winging its
flight from the furrowed field into ether. The furrow is as pure as the
ether, the worm as pure as the lark,--God yet dwells in that which, to
us seems lost and ruined. And should my eye be dimmed in death--I have
beheld the Eternal One--My eyes have penetrated eternity. Free from
distortion and self-destruction, the immortal spirit soars aloft--"

When Gunther had read thus far, Eberhard laid his hand on his lips as
if to silence him, and gazed intently into his eyes.

"You have honestly wrestled with yourself and the highest ideas," said
Gunther, whose voice was tremulous with something more than grief at
approaching death.

Eberhard closed his eyes. When Gunther saw that he was asleep, he rose
from his seat.

He now noticed that Irma had been sitting behind the bed-screen. He
beckoned to her, and she left the room with him.

"Did you hear everything?" asked Gunther.

"I only came a few minutes ago." Irma wanted to know the whole truth in
regard to her father's position. Gunther admitted that there was no
hope of recovery, but that the hour of death was uncertain. Irma
covered her face with both hands and returned to the sick-room, where
she again took her seat behind the bed-screen.

Bruno was with the country physician, in the great hall. As soon as
Gunther entered, Bruno hastily arose and, advancing to meet him,
hurriedly said: "Our friend here has already quieted me. The danger,
thank God"--his tongue faltered at the words "thank God"--"is not
imminent. Pray quiet my sister's fears."

Gunther made no reply. He saw that Bruno merely affected ignorance of
the imminent danger, and Gunther was enough of a courtier to refrain
from forcing the truth upon unwilling ears. He returned to Irma. Bruno
followed him and endeavored to cheer his sister; but she shook her head
incredulously. He paid no heed to this, but said that he wanted to gain
strength and endurance for the sad trial that awaited them. What he
really wanted was to ride out, so that he might be absent at the
terrible moment. Since his presence could not make things any better,
why should he expose himself to such a shock?

The morning began to dawn. The sick man still lay there, motionless.

"His breathing is easier," faintly whispered Irma.

A gentle, reassuring nod was Gunther's reply.



                               CHAPTER V.


With a firm tread, Bruno went down the steps. He had ordered the groom
to lead his horse some distance from the castle and there await him.
"If there only were no such thing as dying," thought he to himself.
While placing his foot in the stirrup, something tugged at his coat.
Was it his father's hand? or was it a spirit-hand dragging him back? He
stumbled; his coat had caught in a buckle. He loosened it, and was just
about to lift his riding-whip against the careless groom, when it
occurred to him that such behavior was ill-timed. His father was ill,
seriously ill, indeed, in spite of the family physician's reassuring
words. No, it would not do to punish the servant now; it should not be
said that Bruno had beaten his groom at such a moment. Fitz, who was
putting the buckle to rights, stooped as if he already felt the
whipstock across his shoulders, and looked up amazed when his master,
in the gentlest voice, said to him: "Yes, good Fitz, I see that you've
not slept any more than I have, and you're quite nervous. Lie down and
rest for another hour. You need not ride out with me. Keep your horse
saddled, however. I shall take the straight road through the forest
clearing and, if anything should happen here, you or Anton can ride
after me. At the foot of the Chamois hill, I shall turn back into the
bridle-path and return by way of the valley. Do you hear? Don't forget!
And now you can go sleep awhile; but don't unsaddle your horse. Don't
forget what I've told you."

Bruno rode off, and the astonished Fitz stood there looking after him
for some time.

Bruno took the road that led to the woods, and in the direction of a
clearing which was now used as a pasture. It was easy riding over the
grassy path, and the morning breezes refreshed him.

The golden glow of morning trembled on every leaf, and sparkled on
every dewdrop. The woods on either side were superb, and, with a
self-complacent nod, Bruno said to himself: "How well he understood
forest matters. No, I shan't be so cruel. I shall have the woods well
looked after, and shall not cut down the timber."

He now reached a level stretch of road. He put spurs to his horse and
set off at a gallop. Suddenly he halted, for the neighborhood was one
with which he was not familiar. There had formerly been a swamp and now
there were broad fields, on which lay many sheaves of ripened grain.

Bruno turned towards the laborers who were binding the sheaves. The
foreman told the young master that it was his father who had drained
the swamp, and that this was now some of the best land on the whole
estate. Offering Bruno a handful of the ripened ears, he said: "Take
these to your father; I'm sure he thinks of us on his sickbed."

Bruno declined them, and gave the foreman some drink money. He rode
off, leaving word that he was going toward the Chamois hill, and
instructing the foreman to tell his groom as much, in case he should
come after him.

The farm laborers he had left behind him were driving home with the
first crop gathered from the redeemed land, and the cracking of their
whips was the only sound that broke upon the silence of the forest
solitude. He checked his horse's pace to a walk and, as no one could
see him there, lit a cigar. When he reached the high level ground, he
started off at a brisk trot. Sheep were grazing here, and Bruno did not
fail to ride up to the shepherd and tell him what to say to the groom
in case he should follow. It was a comfort to know that he had made it
so easy to find him. After he had passed, he turned involuntarily. As
if to calm himself he patted his horse's neck and, drawing a tight
rein, drew himself up in his saddle. The road again led through a
clearing in the forest; the valley below was bathed in golden sunshine.
Suddenly it occurred to him: "There are so many miserable beings whose
constant care is how to manage to keep alive. Why can't one purchase
their vital power and, adding their years to his own, live forever? The
masses, stupid as they are, are right when they consider us as no
better than themselves, for we must die of the same diseases they are
subject to.--Here, all is life; tree and beast and man. There, in the
castle, lies a man whose end is drawing near, and who may be dying at
this very moment. Perhaps even now, the air is wafting his last breath
toward me--Where is it? Why does not a shudder pass through all that
belongs to him? through every tree, and man, and beast? All that lived
with him should die with him, for it is his. This wretched, miserable
life--"

"I'm a poor woman, give me something," said a figure, suddenly emerging
from the thicket. It was Zenza.

Bruno started as if a ghost had appeared to him. He put spurs to his
horse and hurried off. His hair stood on end with fright, and it was
long before he regained his composure.

In spite of this interruption, and without an effort on his part, his
thoughts went back to the subject that engaged them at the moment when
Zenza appeared upon the scene; but the old woman's cry of: "Give me
something," was ever ringing in his ears. If everything were to die
with its possessor, who would inherit? What is more peculiarly a man's
own than his thoughts? And even they die with him--

"I won't think any more," said Bruno to himself. "Not now;
to-morrow--the day after--some other time; but now I don't want to
think."

He raised his hat, as if to permit his thoughts to escape; then he
whipped and spurred his horse so that it reared and started off at a
furious pace. The effort to maintain himself in his saddle drove what
he regarded as gloomy fancies from his mind. He sat firmly, pressed his
knees against the horse's ribs, and felt the better for the exertion.
But, in spite of all, his thoughts would suddenly wander off to his
father again. He felt a sudden shudder--This must have been the
very moment--at that instant, his father must have breathed his
last--involuntarily, Bruno drew his hand back. His horse halted. He
again put spurs to him, and galloped away as if to escape from his
thoughts. Suddenly, a voice cried out:

"Stop, Bruno!" He shuddered. Whose voice could it be? Who would call
him by name? Surprise and alarm had thrown him into a cold sweat.

"Who calls me?" he asked with pale, trembling lips.

"You can't get here."

"Who are you? Where are you?" cried Bruno. A cold shudder passed over
him, and his horse snorted and snuffed the air. Was it true that
witches lived in rocks? for the voice had come from the rock.

"Who are you?" repeated Bruno; "your voice seems--"

"Do you still know Black Esther? Turn back, or you're a dead man."

He heard something whizzing by him. Benumbed with terror, he sat upon
his horse. At last he dropped the rein, looked at his hand, drew off
his glove, as if to satisfy himself that he was still living, that it
was yet day, that all was not a dream, or the product of wild
imagination--

His horse went on at a gentle pace. Suddenly, it started to one
side--there had been the report of a gun. Who could be hunting there?

Bruno had already gotten beyond the limits of his own domain. Who could
now be hunting in the royal forests, where the chase was not to begin
until next month?

With a complacent air, Bruno twirled his mustache. He again felt
confidence in himself, and in his worldly wisdom. He felt for the
revolver in his saddle-bag, and calmly examined it to see if it was fit
for use. The horse went on. Presently he saw a gun-barrel resting on a
tree and directed against him, while a voice from behind the tree
called out:

"Turn back, or you're a dead man. One--two--three--"

Trembling from head to foot, Bruno turned his horse's head. Behind him
was the loaded gun, and, at any moment, a bullet might pierce him. The
cold sweat streamed down his face; his eyes burned; he did not venture
to raise his hand, lest the poacher behind him should misinterpret the
movement and shoot him in the back. It was not until he had reached the
rock where Black Esther had called to him and had so mysteriously
disappeared, that he ventured to breathe freely. She had not forgotten
his love, and he would henceforth provide for her. He again put spurs
to his horse, and hurried off without knowing whither. It was not until
he reached tilled land and saw laborers at work, that he alighted and
sat down on the ground.

The first feeling of safety inspired him with a good resolve. He would
return and, bowing himself--in repentance, ask his father's
forgiveness. He would now promise to care for Black Esther, who had
been the cause of the rupture between them. But he felt so weak that he
could not rise, and a voice within him said: "You can't do it, you
can't stand two such shocks in one day, and, besides, there's no
hurry; the end will surely not come to-day. There will be time enough
to-morrow, or later."

Feeling as if every bone in his body were broken, he, at last, arose,
and asked the people in the field where he was. He found that he was
far away from the road.

If the groom were now to ride after him and not find him.

Bruno quieted his conscience with the knowledge that he had not meant
it to be thus. Dire fate, and an almost inconceivable combination of
terrors, had led him from the right road.

Here, no one knew him. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of music and saw
several carriages, decorated with green boughs, driving along the road.
"What's this? a wedding?" he inquired of the peasant who had already
given him some information as to the road.

"I don't know, but I think they must be town folk, or else they
couldn't ride about in harvest time. Maybe they're coming from the
election."

Bruno again mounted his horse. When he asked for the nearest road to
Wildenort, the peasant looked at him in surprise, and pointed to a
bridle-path on which he could not miss his way. But Bruno, who had lost
all taste for the woods, preferred keeping to the highway. He passed a
long string of wagons preceded by a band of music with a flag of black,
red, and gold. He hurried by them, for he was not in a mood to listen
to music.



                              CHAPTER VI.


Even before Gunther's arrival, Eberhard had been bled. Gunther had
brought a small medicine-chest with him, and had hastily compounded
some remedies which had relieved and quieted the patient. He was now
sleeping. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow. Irma still sat
concealed behind the screen. She could see her father, but could not be
seen by him. Drawing a deep breath, he awoke and looked about him. Irma
hastened to him. He gazed at her fixedly, and then motioned her to open
the window.

The day was bright and sunny; the cool, balmy breezes wafted the
fragrance of the woods into the room. The cracking of whips was heard.
Eberhard's features acquired a pleased expression, for he knew that
they were now bringing in the first sheaves from the swamp which he had
redeemed.

Steps were heard in the ante-chamber, and Gunther came in, accompanied
by the farm bailiff.

"Come in," said he, "it will please your master."

With a heavy tread, the bailiff walked up to the sick man's bedside. In
his right hand he held some of the ripened grain, while, with his left,
he beat his breast as if to force out the words:

"Master, I've brought you the first ears from our new field, and hope
your health may be spared, so that you may eat the bread from it for
many a year to come."

Eberhard seized the ears and, with his other hand, pressed that of the
servant, who now left the room and went down to the barn, where he sat
down on a sheaf and wept.

"Shall I remain with you, or would you rather be alone with your
child?" asked Gunther.

Eberhard dropped the ears, and they lay upon the coverlet. He reached
for Irma's hand. Gunther went out.

And now Eberhard dropped his daughter's hand, pointed to her heart and
then to the ears of corn.

She shook her head and said: "Father, I don't understand you."

An expression of pain passed over Eberhard's features, and he placed
his finger on his lips, as if grieved that he could not speak. Who
knows but what he meant to say: "Good seed will grow from the swamp, if
we rightly cultivate it; and out of your own heart, too, my child; out
of your lost, ruined--"

"I'll call Gunther," said Irma; "perhaps he will understand what you
mean."

Eberhard shook his head, as if in disapproval. His features betrayed
something like anger at Irma's inability to understand him.

He bit his speechless lips and tried to raise himself. Irma assisted
him, and he now sat up, supported by the pillows.

His face had changed. It had suddenly acquired a strange hue and an
altered expression.

With a shudder, Irma realized what was taking place. She fell down by
his bedside, and laid her cheek upon her father's hand. He drew his
hand away.

She looked at him. With great effort he raised his hand--it was damp
with the dews of death--and with outstretched finger he wrote a word
upon her brow. It was a short word; but she saw, she heard, she read
it. It was written in the air, on her forehead, in her brain,--aye, in
her very soul. Uttering a piercing cry, she sank to the floor.

Gunther came in hurriedly. Stepping over Irma, he rushed to the
bedside, lifted Eberhard's fallen hand, felt for the beating of his
heart, started back--and then closed his friend's eyes.

The silence of death reigned in the room.

Suddenly, music was heard in front of the house. They were playing the
melody of a national song and hundreds of voices called out: "Long live
our representative, noble Count Eberhard!" Irma, who was still lying on
the ground, moved at these sounds. Gunther strode past her and went out
into the courtyard. The playing ceased and the voices were silenced.

Horse's steps were heard approaching, and Bruno entered the courtyard.
He alighted. The sorrowful mien of Gunther and those about him, told
him what had happened. He covered his face and leaned on Gunther, who
led him into the house. When Gunther and Bruno entered the chamber of
death, Irma had disappeared. She had shut herself up in her room.



                              CHAPTER VII.


He who destroys his life, destroys more than his own life.

The child that has afflicted a father sees his upbraiding hand rise
from the grave.

My father has put the mark of Cain upon my brow; a mark that can never
be effaced.

Nevermore dare I look upon my face or permit the eyes of strangers to
behold it.

Can I escape from myself? My thoughts will follow me everywhere.

I am an outcast, forlorn, ruined.

Such was the dreary monotone that rang through Irma's soul, again and
again.

She lay in the darkened chamber from which every ray of light was
excluded. She was alone with herself and darkness. Her thoughts were
like strange voices, calling her now here, now there. And it often
seemed to her as if, with finger pointed at her, her father's fiery
hand shone through the darkness.

She could hear Bruno's voice and Gunther's. Bruno wanted to ask her
about many things, and Gunther wished to return to the city. Irma
answered that she could see no one, and charged Gunther with a thousand
greetings to all who loved her. Gunther cautioned the family doctor and
the maid to keep a careful watch on Irma, and also sent a messenger to
Emma at the convent.

Irma remained in darkness and solitude.

The tempter came to her, and said:

"Why grieve yourself to death? You are young, and the world, with all
its beauty and splendor, lies before you. There is not the faintest
trace of a mark upon your brow. The hand that left it is cold and stiff
in death. Rise up and be yourself again! The whole world is yours! Why
pine away? Why mortify yourself? Everything lives for itself;
everything lives out its allotted time. Your father completed his life;
do you complete yours. What is sin? The dead have no claims on the
living; the living alone have rights."

While distracted by grief and doubts, she suddenly saw, arising through
the darkness, the vision described in the New Testament, of Satan and
the angel contending for the possession of the body of Moses.

"I'm not a corpse!" exclaimed she suddenly. "There are neither angels
nor devils. It is all false! In song and story, and from generation to
generation, they've been handing down all sorts of fables, just as they
do with children whom they lull to sleep in the dark.

"Day has dawned. I can draw the curtain aside, and the whole world of
light is mine. Are there not thousands who have erred as I have, and
who still live happily?"

She felt as if buried alive in the earth. Fancy ever transported her to
that one grave. She rushed to the window.

"Light! I must have light!"

She raised the curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room.
She sprang back, the curtain fell and she again lay in darkness.

But she soon heard a voice that went to her heart. Colonel Bronnen had
come from the capital to pay the last honors to Eberhard. He begged
Irma--his powerful voice was thick with emotion--to permit him to mourn
with her for the dead.

All her blood seemed to flow back to her heart. She opened the door
and, through the darkness, held out her hand to her friend. He pressed
it to his lips, and she heard the strong man weep. Suddenly, the
thought flashed upon her that this man could save her, and that she
could serve him, and look up to him. But how, could she dare?

"I thank you," said she, at last. "May it ever make you happy to know
that you've been kind to the departed and to myself--"

Her voice faltered; she could say no more.

Bronnen departed, leaving her in the dark.

Irma was again alone.

The last stay left her was broken. Had she imagined that Bronnen had
picked up fragments of a torn letter which he had found on the road,
and that they were now in his pocket, she would have cried out for very
shame.

One idea constantly possessed her. What good would it do her to see the
sun rise so many thousand times more? Every eye would make the writing
stand out more clearly, and certain words had become undying torments
to her. Father--daughter! Who would banish these words from the
language, so that he might nevermore hear them, nevermore read them?

Her ideas seemed to move in an unfathomable void. Turn it as she might,
the one and only thought was ever returning with crushing weight. It
seemed exhausting and yet inexhaustible.

Then ensued that numbness of the mind which is best described as the
entire absence of thought. Chaos reigned, and what lay beyond surpassed
conception. "Let what will come, I shall submit, like the beast led out
for the sacrifice, and upon whose head the uplifted axe of the high
priest is about to descend. Your destiny must be accomplished; you can
do nothing but submit without shrinking."

Irma lay thus for hours.

The great clock in the hall was ticking, and seemed to be saying:
Father--daughter; daughter--father. For hours, she could hear nothing
but the pendulum, which seemed to utter those words again and again.
She was about to give orders that the clock should be stopped, but
forebore. She tried to force herself not to hear these words, but did
not succeed. The pendulum still kept saying: Father--daughter;
daughter--father.

What had once been subject to her caprice, now ruled her.

"What have you seen of the world?" she asked herself. "A mere corner.
You must travel round the earth, and let it be a pilgrimage in which
you may escape from yourself. You must become acquainted with the whole
planet on which these creatures who call themselves men creep about;
creatures who dig and plant, preach and sing, chisel and paint, simply
to drown the thought that death awaits them all. All is drowned in
stupor--"

In imagination, she transported herself far, far away, with faithful
servants pitching their tent in the desert; and if some wild race were
to approach--While she lay there, half awake, half asleep, she heard
the sounds of the tom-tom, and fancied herself borne away on the
shoulders of others, and adorned with peacocks' wings, while savage,
dusky forms were dancing around her.

What had once been a wild day-dream now possessed her, and her brain
whirled in fancy's maddening dance.



                             CHAPTER VIII.


It was late at night. All were asleep. Irma gently opened the door and
slipped out.

She went to the chamber of death. A single light had been placed near
the head of the corpse, which lay in an open coffin and with a few ears
of corn in its hands. A servant who was watching by the corpse, looked
at Inna with surprise. He bowed to her, but did not speak a word. Irma
grasped her father's hand. If that hand had rested on her head to bless
her, instead of--

She knelt down and, with burning lips, kissed the cold, icy hand. A
distracting thought flashed through her mind: This is the kiss of
eternity. Burning flame and icy coldness had met: this is the kiss of
eternity.

When she awoke in her room, she knew not whether he had really kissed
her dead father's hand or whether it was all a dream. But she did feel
that her heart was oppressed by a burden that could never be cast
aside.

The kiss of eternity. You shall nevermore kiss warm, loving lips--you
are the bride of death.

She heard the bells tolling while they bore her father to the grave.
She did not leave her room. Not a sound escaped her lips; not a tear
fell from her eye; all her faculties were benumbed and shattered. She
lay in the dark. When she heard the pigeons on the window-sill outside,
cooing and flying away, she knew that it was day.

Bruno was greatly annoyed by his sister's eccentric behavior. He wanted
to leave, and wished her either to accompany him or, at all events, say
what she proposed doing. But, thus far, she had not replied. At length,
equipped for the journey, he went into Irma's anteroom, where he found
her maid reading a book.

Bruno had just stretched out his hand to pat her under the chin, when
he suddenly remembered that he was in mourning, and drew his hand back.

He gave his hat to the maid, so that she might put a mourning band on
it, and, while doing so, stroked her hand, as if by accident. Then he
went to his sister's door again.

"Irma!" he said; "Irma, be sensible; do give me an answer."

"What do you want of me?"

"Open the door."

"I can hear you," she replied, but did not open the door.

"Well, then, I must tell you that no will has been found. I shall
arrange everything with you in a brotherly manner. Won't you come along
to my house?"

"No."

"Then I must go without you! good-by!" He received no answer and, while
waiting, heard steps moving away from the door. He turned toward the
waiting-maid, who had in the mean while fastened the crape upon his
hat. Bruno kissed her hand and gave her a handsome present.

He set out on his journey at once.

He was just as well pleased to travel without Irma's company. There
would be no one to disturb him, and he could more easily give way to
his own inclinations. His philosophy enjoined upon him the avoidance of
all unnecessary grief; it could do no good, and would simply embitter
life.

He was in a self-complacent mood. He meant to take the Wildenort estate
to himself, on account of the name. It was, unfortunately, small and,
unless he obtained a position under the government, it would not
support him in a manner befitting his rank. If Irma should marry, which
he hoped would be very soon, he would give her the assessed value of
the hereditary estate as her dowry. Bruno returned to the capital, and
the first time that he left his house was to visit the jockey club,
which was now in session. By paying a moderate forfeit, he hoped to be
able to withdraw his horses from the races which were announced to take
place within a few days. He was in mourning, and they would, of course,
take that into consideration. On the way, he met Gunther and turned
back. The doctor was going to the palace.

Never had this man, who, at court, was looked upon as a stoic, shown
such agitation as when he brought the news of old Count Wildenort's
death.

He told the queen that Eberhard's last moments had renewed the spirit
of his better days, and yet he could not refrain from adding that his
departed friend had not attained the high point to gain which he had so
honestly labored. For, at the last moment he had felt the need of
support from without, and was obliged to impress his mind anew with
truths he had long since made his own. The queen was astonished at the
doctor, who could judge so sternly, even when most deeply afflicted.

"How does our Irma bear it?" cried she.

"Sadly and silently," replied Gunther.

"I think," said the king to the queen, "that we ought to write to our
friend, and send a messenger to her."

The queen approved of his suggestion, and the king said to the captain
of the palace guard:

"The queen wishes to have a courier sent to Countess Irma at once. Pray
attend to the matter. Send Baum."

The queen started with fear. Why had the king said that _she_ desired
to send a messenger? The suggestion had been his own, and she had
merely assented to it. She quickly silenced her doubts, however, and
reproached herself that the suspicions she had once harbored had not
yet entirely vanished. She went to her room and wrote to Irma. The king
wrote, too.

Baum assumed a modest and submissive mien, while receiving orders to
start at once as a courier to the Countess of Wildenort. He was to
remain with the countess, to be in constant attendance upon her, and,
if she desired to travel, he was to accompany her until she should
return to court.

When Baum set out with the letters, his face wore a triumphant
expression. He was now on the point of gaining the great prize. He had
been intrusted with a delicate commission, and he knew what he was
about. He felt that they appreciated him, and that he understood them.
He looked back toward the palace. The submissive air had vanished.
Stroking his chest with his right hand, and holding the left up to his
lips, he said to himself; "I shall return as a made man; I shall be
lord chamberlain at least."

Baum arrived at the manor-house. The maid told him that Irma would
receive no one.

"If she only had a good cry; her silent grief will kill her."

He knocked at Irma's door. It was long before an answer came. At last
she asked what was the matter, and when she recognized Baum's voice,
she was obliged to support herself from falling, by holding on to the
latch of the door. "Had the king come, too?" she asked herself.

Baum said that he had come as a courier to deliver a letter from their
majesties. Irma opened the door just far enough to enable her to put
out her hand. She took the large letter and laid it on the table. There
was nothing that she cared to learn from the world, nor could it offer
her any consolation. No one could. At last, toward evening, she drew
back the curtains and broke the seal of the large envelope. There were
two letters in it; one in the queen's handwriting, the other in the
king's. She opened the queen's letter first, and read:


"_My dear, good Irma_";

(It was the first time that the queen had written so affectionately.
Irma wiped her face with her handkerchief and went on reading.)

"You have experienced life's greatest affliction. Would that I were
with you, to press your throbbing heart to mine, and to kiss away your
tears. I shall not attempt to console you, but can only say that I
sympathize with you as far as it is possible to sympathize with griefs
one has not yet know. You are strong and noble, and I cannot help
appealing to you" (Irma's hand trembled) "to think of yourself and to
bear your grief purely and nobly. You are orphaned, but the world must
not be a desert void to you. There are still hearts that beat with
friendship for you. I am glad--that is to say--I thank fate that I am
able to be of some help to you in your sorrow. I need not assure you of
my friendship for you, and yet, at such moments, it does one good to
tell one's self so. I do not care to spend a single hour in pleasure
while you are in affliction. All feelings are shared by us." (Irma
covered her face with her hands. Recovering herself, she went on
reading.) "Let me know soon what I can do for you. Come to me, or
remain in solitude, just as your feelings dictate. If I could only
enable you to enjoy the company of yourself as we enjoy it. You don't
know how much good you've done me. You have extended the domain of our
perceptions and have thus enriched our lives. What nobler achievement
can there be! Remain firm and remember that you may always depend upon
the friendship of

                 "Your ever loving

                                         "MATHILDE."


Irma laid the letter on the table and involuntarily pushed it far
away from that of the king, which was still unopened. Years should
elapse--aye, oceans should lie between the reading of the two letters;
and yet how often had she listened to them both in the same breath, and
looked at them with the same glance.

With a violent movement, as if in anger, she opened the king's letter
and read:

"I am deeply pained to know that you, too, my charming friend, must
learn that we are mortal. It grieves me to think that your lovely eyes
must weep. If that which is noblest be capable of still further
purification--and what mortal being is not?--this affliction must needs
add to your noble-mindedness. I entreat you, do not soar too high, lest
you leave us too far below you. Carry us with you, to the lofty regions
in which you dwell."

Irma's features assumed a hard and bitter expression. She went on
reading:

"If you mean to torment your beautiful eyes with tears, and your noble
heart with sighs, for more than seven days, and desire to remain alone,
pray send me word. Should you, however, wish to protract your mourning,
and to recover yourself and another self, by travel, decide upon what
direction you mean to take. Let it not be too far--not too far into the
land of sorrow, a land to which you are a stranger. Be happy again and
subdue your grief, cheerfully and speedily.

                       "Affectionately yours,                  K."


In the letter, there lay a small piece of paper with the inscription:
"Burn this as soon as read."

"I cannot live without you. If I lose you, I lose myself. Your presence
is my life. I cannot live, except in the light of your eyes. I want no
clouds; I long for the sunlight. Remember the world of thought that
dwells beneath your plumed hat. Let that world have its sway, you must
not be sad; you dare not, for my sake. You must be mistress of your
grief, just as you are mistress over me. Be firm, put all grief away
from you, and return to your                          KURT.

"The kiss of eternity! I alone can kiss away the sadness that clouds
your brow. I can and I will."


Irma uttered a loud shriek, and then gave way to convulsive laughter.

"Can any lips kiss this brow? How would they relish the death-sweat
which has already eaten into the flesh? How would that terrible word
taste to the lips? Kiss it away! Kiss it away! I burn! I freeze!"

The maid heard the last few words, and endeavored to go to Irma's
assistance, but the door was locked.

After some time, Irma raised her head and was surprised to find herself
on the floor. She rose and ordered a light and writing materials. She
burned the king's two letters, and then sat there for a while, with her
weary head resting upon both her hands. At last she took the pen and
wrote:


"_Queen_!

"I expiate my crime, in death. Forgive and forget.

                                                       "IRMA."


On the envelope she wrote the words, "By the hand of Gunther," "For the
queen herself."

Then she took another sheet and wrote:


"_My Friend_:

"These are the last words I shall ever address to you. We are treading
the wrong path, a path full of peril. I expiate my crime. You do not
belong to yourself alone; you belong to her and to your country. Death
is my expiation. Life must be yours. Be at one with the law that binds
you to her and to the state. You have denied both, and I have aided you
to do so. Our life, our love, has dealt terribly with you. You could no
longer be true to yourself. But now you must again become so; and that
completely. These are my dying words, and I shall gladly die, if you
will but hearken to me and to your better self. God knows we did not
mean to sin; but we sinned, for all. My judgment is written on my brow;
inscribe yours in your heart and live anew. All is still yours. I
receive the kiss of eternity from death. Listen to this voice an J
forget it not, but forget her who calls to you. I do not wish to be
remembered."


She sealed the letters and hurriedly hid them in the portfolio, for she
was interrupted. Emma, or rather Sister Euphrosyne, was announced.



                              CHAPTER IX.


Gunther had sent a messenger to inform Emma of Count Eberhard's death
and Irma's despair. The prioress suggested that Emma should hasten to
her young friend, to whom they owed so great a debt; and, as nuns were
not allowed to travel alone, she was accompanied by a sister who was an
experienced nun.

When the maid announced them, Irma started from her seat. This is
deliverance! In the convent, shut out from the world, a living
death--there shall you wait until they bear you to the grave.

Suddenly the old boatman's words flashed upon her: "A life in which
nothing happens."

Her lips swelled with proud defiance. I shall not wait for the end;
I'll force it. It was long before she answered the maid:

"My best thanks, but I don't care to see or hear any one."

After uttering these words, Irma felt as if inspired with new strength.
That, too, was over.

All was silence and darkness again, and the clock kept on saying:
Father--daughter; daughter--father.

From the valley below, she heard the sounds of the vesper bell.

"It must be," said Irma to herself. She drew back the curtains and,
looking down into the valley, could see the nuns, clad in their long
black gowns, walking across the meadows. Her thoughts went out after
them, as she said: "Farewell, Emma!" Then she called her maid and told
her to give orders that a horse should be saddled for her, as she
wished to ride out. She did not turn her face to the maid. No one
should ever look on that brow. The maid helped her on with her
riding-habit and riding-hat, the latter ornamented with part of an
eagle's wing. Irma started when her hand touched the wing. The king had
shot the bird, and had given her the plumes when-- It seemed like a
parting, ghostly touch.

She ordered a double veil to be put on her hat, and it was not until
she was in perfect disguise, that she set off. She did not look up; she
took leave of no one; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

Irma's saddle-horse stood in the courtyard. At her approach, it pawed
the ground and snuffed the air. She did not stop to inquire who had
brought her horse from the city. She patted its neck and called it by
its name: "Pluto." In thought, she was already so far removed from the
world that she regarded the beast as a marvel, or as something never
before seen. She mounted.

The large dog, a favorite of her father's, was there also, and barked
when he saw her. She gave orders to have the dog taken back to the
house.

She rode away at an easy pace. She did not look behind her, nor to the
right or left. The sun was already behind the tops of the trees. Its
broken rays shone through the branches, like so many threads of light,
and between the boughs glowed the sky, forming a golden background.

Irma halted and beckoned to Baum, who had been following her, to come
nearer. He rode up.

"How much money have you with you?"

"Only a few florins."

"I must have a hundred florins; ride back and get them for me."

Baum hesitated. He wanted to say that he was not allowed to leave the
countess, but he could not muster courage enough to do so.

"Why do you hesitate? Don't you understand me?" said Irma harshly.
"Ride back immediately."

Baum was scarcely out of sight, when Irma whipped her horse, leaped
over the ditch at the side of the road, hurried across the mountain
meadow and into the woods. She rode at full gallop, over the very road
Bruno had taken a few days before. The horse was spirited and fresh,
and proud of its beautiful rider. They knew each other, and it galloped
on right merrily, as if in the chase. And there really is a chase; for
hark! there's a shot. But Pluto stands fire, and is not so easily
frightened. Away he dashed, more wildly than before. The rays of the
setting sun shone through the forest shades, lighting up the trees and
mosses with their roseate glow. And still she rode on, ever urging her
horse to greater speed.

She had reached the crest of the mountain ridge; below, lay the broad
lake, glowing with purple.

"There!" cried Irma. "There thou art, cold death!"

Pluto stopped, thinking that his mistress had spoken to him. "You're
right," said she, patting his neck; "it's far enough."

She alighted and turned the horse's head. He looked at her once more,
with his large, faithful eyes, for she had thrown back her veil.

"Go home. You're to live; go home!"

The horse did not move. She raised her whip and struck it. It started
off, with mane and tail fluttering in the evening breeze, as it hurried
away along the mountain crest.

Irma paused and looked after it. Then she sat down on the edge of a
projecting rock and gazed at the vast prospect and the setting sun.

"O light! O lovely sky! This is the last time I gaze upon you, before I
sink into the night of death--"

For a moment, she was wholly absorbed in the view that opened before
her. She no longer knew whence she had come, or whither she would go.
Her eyes rested on the vast range of towering peaks, summit piled on
summit, and, in the distance, a peak overtopping them all. The wooded
heights seemed enveloped in a violet haze. The trembling rays of the
setting sun gilded the bare and rugged cliffs. High upon the glaciers
rested the rosy glow of sunset, ever assuming a brighter hue as it grew
darker in the valley below. One mighty, snow-clad peak seemed as if on
fire; but a cloud passed over it and, as if lifting a veil, carried the
mountain's rosy glow with it. The cloud gradually disappeared in a
blaze of glory, and the snowy peaks, standing out against the
background of dull sky, looked cold and bleak, as if in death.

The mighty spirit of Death was passing o'er the heights.

Oh! that one might thus vanish into thin air!

A chilling breeze swept over the mountain. Irma shuddered. She passed
her hand over her face, and felt that she, too, was growing pale. She
rose to her feet and ascended the mountain for some distance, so that
she might once more see the fiery ball. She was too late and said
aloud:

"Of what avail is it to see the sun a thousand, or twice a thousand
times, as long as the day must come when it sets for us, once and for
all? And it has forever set to him who lies under the sod and on whose
hand decay--"

She felt giddy and sank upon the mossy ground. When she got up again,
it was night.

She arose and, holding up her dress, walked down into the dark and
thickly wooded ravine below.



                               CHAPTER X.


Irma advanced with a firm step. The footpath she had struck wound its
way among large and lofty trees and soon opened into a broad road that
had been cut through the forest. Ever and anon heat-lightning would
flash in the distance, breaking up the gloom and revealing another
firmament that lay beyond.

Irma scarcely looked up. She thought of nothing but how to find her
way. There was perfect silence, broken now and then by a sorrowful
sound, like the sobbing of a human being. It must be from some hollow
tree, thought she. The groaning always seemed to advanced before her.
Wherever she went she heard it. She looked for the heart-sick tree, but
could not find it. With every step, she advanced further into the
forest and higher up the mountain. Then she ran down the mountain, and
now all was silent. The path was no longer visible, but, from afar, she
caught a glimpse of the moonlit lake, the object of her search. She
went on, through the pathless forest, treading down the soft moss.
Sometimes she heard the twittering of birds in the tree-tops; a martin
or a weasel was destroying the young in their nests. The world is full
of murder, thought she; its creatures are ever preying on each other.
Though man destroys and kills his fellow-men, he does not eat them.
That alone distinguishes man from the beasts. And there is one thing
more--man alone can kill himself. Irma grew dizzy at the thought. She
supported herself against a tree for a moment and then walked on Her
resolve must be carried out; there must be no weakness, no wavering.
She went still further into the dense forest. Her cheeks glowed, the
perspiration dripped from her forehead; but inwardly she fell as if
freezing.

Something rustled through the thicket. It was a stag which she had
frightened from its cover. The stag was afraid of her, and she was
afraid of the stag. He fancied that she could feel its antlers piercing
her. She hurried down the mountain side. For a while she could still
hear the crackling of the underbrush, and at last all was silent again.
The wind whistled through the treetops, and there was a sound of
running water, sometimes near and sometimes afar, and then the roaring
of a forest stream dashing down from the rocks. She beheld the moonlit
foam, and no longer knew where she was or whither she was going--toward
the lake, or away from it. If she were to lose her way in the
forest--if she were to be found there and taken back to the world and
misery! Mustering all her strength, she walked on. The cool night air
blew against her face, but her cheeks glowed as if with fire. She
pressed her hand to her brow; it seemed as if a hot spring was flowing
from the spot which had been touched. She looked up to the stars and
recognized the familiar constellations. She knew their position, but
those great guides through infinite space do not help the lonely mortal
who has lost her way in the heart of the forest. Irma thought of the
nights when, under Gunther's guidance, her glance had roamed o'er the
vast, starry expanse. But now all was annihilated, all greatness had
fallen. Even her view of the stars was confined and obstructed. She
tried to remember whether she had destroyed the letters or left them
behind her. She thought she could remember having burnt that of the
king; but how as to the letter to the queen? Torn by conflicting
doubts, she was, at last, completely bewildered. Perhaps both letters
would be found.--Be it so.

And then Walpurga's song passed through her mind.

If the good peasant woman who lives by the lake knew that her friend
was thus groping her way through the woods, all alone, in darkest
night, and with such dread thoughts for her companions--she would
hasten to her aid, would draw her to her heart and would not let her
go. Who knows but that, although far away, she is thinking of me now,
dreaming of me and, perhaps, singing her song--sending it, like some
invisible messenger, on the wings of night. How the poor creature will
grieve when she hears of my death. Perhaps she will be the only one who
will sincerely mourn for me.

Memories of many kinds floated through her mind. Years hence, some
boatman like the one at the island convent, will tell the story of the
drowned maid of honor. What effect will the news of my death have
upon others? None of them can help me, nor can I help them. Day after
to-morrow they'll be playing, dancing and singing as usual. No one can
keep another in remembrance. He who is absent has no claim on our
thoughts. Life is as pitiless as death. She went further into the
thicket, passing wild ravines on the way. The stones loosened by her
tread tumbled over the precipice, and the dull, hollow thud with which
they struck the earth below, told her how far they had fallen. The
rocks on either side drew closer together, the mountain torrent rushed
down over them and, all at once, she reached the edge of a precipice;
further, she could not go. I will take the fatal leap and dash myself
to pieces. But to lie there, perhaps for days, bruised and half dead.
To die a lingering death! No!

She sought a path. A branch struck her in the face just where her
father's icy finger had touched her.

"No; this brow shall nevermore see the light of day," she cried,
holding fast with her hands, while trying to find a way along the edge
of the cliff. Suddenly, she heard the loud voice of a woman singing.
Irma drew a long breath, for it was a human voice--a woman's, perhaps
that of a young and lovely girl, giving her lover a signal in the
night. The sounds were repeated again and again, and grew more and more
piercing, and, trembling with fear, Irma sat on the rock. She answered
with a scream. She was frightened at the sound of her own voice, but
she cried out again and again, for now there was an answer. The other
voice seemed to approach; dogs rushed forth and were already
surrounding Irma and barking, as a signal that they had found the prey.
The voice came nearer and nearer.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Here," answered Irma.

"Where?"

"Here."

"Up there?"

"Yes."

"How did you get up there?"

"I don't know."

"Keep quiet; don't move and I'll come."

"Yes."

Irma waited a long while, and at last some one appeared right below
where she was sitting.

"So there you are," said the figure. She threw a rope to Irma, telling
her to bind it round her body and then fasten the other end to a rock
or tree, and slide down gently.

Irma did as she was bidden. During that one short moment, while she
hovered between heaven and earth, a thousand indescribable thoughts
passed through her mind. She reached the ground in safety. The woman at
once seized her by the hand and led her away. She followed as if
without a will of her own. In scrambling through the bushes and over
the rocks, she tore herself until the blood flowed. At last they
reached a narrow rocky path. Below them the brook rushed by, but the
powerful woman held Irma's hand fast in hers, as if with an iron grip.

"A chamois hunter wouldn't dare go where you've, been. Now we're up
here, and there's our hut," said she, at last. "It's a wonder you
didn't stumble over the rock with your long dress."

"Who are you?" asked Irma.

"Tell me first, who you are, and how you got here."

"I can't tell you that."

"No matter. They call me Black Esther."

"Who are you bringing there?" called out a grim-looking woman, who
appeared at the door of the hut. Behind her glowed the fire on the
hearth.

"I don't know; it's a woman."

Irma went toward the hut with Black Esther. The old woman crossed
herself and exclaimed:

"Let all good spirits praise the Lord! it's the Lady of the Lake--"

"I'm not a spirit," said Irma. "I'm a weary mortal. Let me rest here
for a while, and then let your daughter go with me and show me the way
to the lake. All I ask for now is a drop of water."

"No, that 'ud be the death of you. You mustn't drink water now. I'll
cook some warm soup for you, and bring it to you right off."

She led Irma into the room, and when she saw her hand and the diamond
rings sparkling on it, she grinned with delight.

"Oh what a beautiful ring! That's from your sweetheart."

"Take it and keep it," said Irma, holding out her hand.

With great dexterity, the old woman removed the ring from Irma's
finger.

"Good heavens!" cried the old woman suddenly, "I've seen you
before--yes, yes, it was you. Didn't you once wear a little golden
heart and send it to a child? Didn't you once, at the palace, order
them to get something to eat for an old woman and have her son set
free, and didn't you give her money besides? Good heavens! you're
the--"

"Don't mention my name! Only let me rest a moment; ask me nothing, and
say nothing more."

"As you don't want me to, certainly not. I'll hurry and get the soup
ready for you."

She went out, leaving Irma alone.

Irma lay on the bed, which was nothing more than a sack of leaves that
crackled strangely whenever she turned her head. The leaves seemed to
say: "Ah! when we were green, we had a better time of it--" The moon
shone in through the window; everything seemed dancing before her
eyes; she felt as if she were on the open sea. But she soon fell
asleep.--When she awoke, she heard a man's voice.



                              CHAPTER XI.


Out on the porch, which also served as a kitchen, were Thomas and his
mother. He had removed his false beard, was cleaning his black face,
and now said:

"Mother, do you know what I'm sorry for?"

"What for?"

"Why, that I didn't shoot the young count the other day. I won't have
as good a chance at him again. I could have shot him through the back
of the neck and that would have been the last of him. I'd have given
the daylight a chance to shine through him."

"You're a nice fellow to talk repentance."

"Yes, and I'd have done a good deed if I'd shot the fellow. Just think,
mother, that's the kind of people the grand folks are who own the
forest and all the game in it. Just think of it, mother! I'm a good
fellow, after all."

"How so?"

"Only think, mother! Do you know why the count was in the forest? He
wanted to be out of the way while his father was dying; and so he rode
off and let the old man end his days alone. I promise you, if you were
going to die, and I were about, I'd stay with you to the last. I'd
deserve to go to heaven, if I'd put that fellow out of the way. If I'd
known all about it at the time, I'd have done it, too. Indeed, I did
want to, just for the fun of the thing. But it's great fun to think how
the fellow must have shook, to be riding in front of me while I had a
ball ready for him and could have shot him at any minute. Oh, you
Wildenort!"

At the mention of her family name, Irma fell over as if shot and, with
bated breath, listened while Thomas continued:

"Since then, I've been as if bewitched. I haven't chanced across a bit
of game and I feel like a fool. Something happened to me about
twilight--the devil take it, one can't help believing in spirits.
Mother, I saw a beautiful horse, and no one was on it. If it had only
been a real horse, one that would fetch money! But I, like a fool, was
frightened when it galloped past me, with its flying mane and
clattering hoofs. But, before I'd made up my mind that it was a real
horse and that ghost stories were stupid stuff--heigho, it was gone."

"Nay, Thomas, take care! There's something in those stories after all.
Come, stand here, hold your hand over the fire and swear that you'll
keep quiet, and I'll tell you something."

"What do you happen to know?"

"More than your thick head can hold. I tell you there are spirits, and
the Lady of the Lake is lying on the bed in there."

"Mother, you've gone crazy."

"Take care! she's ordered me to cook some soup for her."

"And so the water-fairies eat soup. I'm not afraid of any creature that
eats cooked victuals. I'd like to take a look at the Lady of the Lake."

The old woman tried to keep him back, but he forced his way into the
room. When he beheld Irma, he stood still, as if rooted to the spot.
Suddenly he exclaimed:

"She's a woman like yourself, only she's much handsomer. If she were
the Lady of the Lake, she'd have swan's feet, as far as I know. Mother,
who is it?"

"I don't know."

"Then I'll ask her."

The old woman tried to restrain him, but Irma had already risen to her
feet. She looked about her with a vacant stare and opened her lips, but
could not speak.

"It's you!" cried Thomas suddenly. "That's splendid."

He wanted to seize her, but Zenza held him back.

"It's you!" he cried again. "You've lost your way and here you are;
that's splendid."

"Do you know me?"

"Why, who doesn't know you? you're the king's sweetheart and now
you're--"

Irma's loud shriek of despair drowned the last words of the brutal
fellow.

"Hurrah!" shouted Thomas. "Out with you, mother; and you, too, Esther.
I don't need either of you."

"Let her go! You shan't touch her," cried the mother.

"Shan't I? and who's to hinder me?"

The mother struggled with him, but he hurled her aside. Unable to think
of any other expedient, she seized the vessel of boiling broth and
swore that she would dash it in his face. He warded it off and
staggered back, bellowing like a bull.

Esther rushed up to Irma and hurriedly whispered:

"Come, come! I'll save you, for your father's sake. Come! Away!"

She dragged Irma away with her, and with breathless haste they ran down
the hill. Irma was out of breath and wanted to rest. Esther, however,
dragged her a little further, until they reached a spring, where they
seated themselves. Dipping up some water in her hands, she bathed
Irma's brow and her own.

For some time, neither of them spoke a word. At last, Irma asked:

"Do you know the way to the lake?"

"Very well. That's my path, too--the only one left me."

"How? what do you mean?"

"I want to do just what you mean to do, and I suppose I'll have to."

"What do I mean to do?"

"To drown yourself."

Irma started with surprise when she found her purpose known.

"I don't know why," continued Esther, "but I can easily guess. My
brother spoke bitter words to you; but, I beg of you, don't do it. Just
think of it! You're so beautiful, so young, so rich. You may live for
many years, and things may be much better for you in the world. Don't
do it.--Hush!" said she, interrupting herself, "don't you hear
something? We'll stop talking, so as to hear every sound. He's
following us, and won't leave us. Get up! we must be off."

They got up and walked on further through the gloomy forest.

A vision of hell passed through Irma's mind. Through all eternity, the
noble and the lowly would be linked to each other and suffer a like
fate; for sin, like virtue, knows no such distinctions.

They were passing a wild, roaring stream, when Esther asked:

"So you're his sister?"

"Who's sister?"

"My Bruno's. How goes it with him? I saw him the other day, when I was
looking for ants' eggs, but he didn't see me. Is it true that he's
married happily?"

"Yes. But why do you call him your Bruno?"

"Well, I'll tell you. You're the first one who's heard his name pass my
lips since that day. Has he never mentioned it to you himself?"

"No."

"He can't have forgotten it. Come on! Thomas might find us here. Take
my hand and go backward; then the dogs will lose the scent."

Esther took Irma by the hand and led her away. After they had seated
themselves under a projecting rock. Black Esther thus told her story:

"My mother knows nothing of it, nor does my brother. No one knows the
right story; but I can tell you. This isn't our real home, but we're
often here in the summer, looking for gentian, and herbs, and ants'
eggs. I was fifteen years old, a merry devil of a girl, and could have
run a race with any stag, when your brother found me in the woods. He
was handsome--very handsome. There never was another man in all the
world so beautiful as he was. He was so clever and so good, and we
loved each other so much; and I cried every time I had to go home to my
mother again. I would have liked to stay out in the woods, just as the
deer did; and it almost pleased me when I got home and mother gave me a
beating, for then I could cry without having to give a reason for it. I
longed for him every moment, and never wanted to leave him. He once
told me who he was, and that his father was a very stern man, and that,
if it weren't for that, he'd take me home to his castle, and make a
countess of me. And what do you think I did--I've thought a thousand
times since of how foolish I was, but I'm sure I meant no harm. As
Bruno had complained so bitterly, I thought this bad father might be
brought around; so I went to the castle, and went right up to him
and told him that he oughtn't to be so cruel and hard-hearted, and
that he ought to allow Bruno to marry me, and I'd surely be a good
daughter-in-law, and that there had never, in all the world, been truer
love than ours. And your father gave me a glance--I'll never forget his
eyes. I can see them before me now, so large and bright. And a little
while ago, when Thomas started toward you, you had just such eyes, and
that made me take pity on you and help you away."

"Go on," said Irma, after a long pause.

"Ah, yes," replied Esther, collecting her thoughts. "And then your
father came toward me. I stooped, for I thought he was going to strike
me; but he put his hand on my head and said: 'You're a good child, even
if you've done wrong, and it shan't be my fault if you don't keep
good.' Then he called a servant and ordered him to go for Bruno. When
Bruno came in and saw me, he was frightened; but I said: 'Don't be
afraid; you're father's a kind-hearted man, and he'll let me have you
for a husband.' Bruno didn't stir from the spot; his face was as white
as the cloth on the table he was leaning against. And then your
father said: 'Very well, so I'll come to you. You've not acted
honorably, but you shall still have chance to do so. I permit you--nay,
I command you--to take this child of the forest for your wife--' Bruno
laughed--it was a devilish laugh, and I'll never forget it--and your
father said: 'Speak, Bruno.' Then he said: 'Father, don't be
ridiculous,' and your father's face changed as suddenly as if he had
grown thirty years older in that one minute. He could hardly stand, and
sat down on a chair. 'What do you say?' he asked. 'Repeat it once more!
Speak!' And Bruno repeated his words, twisting his mustache while he
spoke. Your father tried to persuade him, and told him that he'd teach
me, that I should learn to read, and write, and do everything else, as
well as any countess, and that Bruno had better not take a load upon
his conscience which he'd never get rid of as long as he lived. And
Bruno answered: 'If you don't send that girl away, I'll leave the room.
Go, Esther. Leave the room, and don't come again till I send for you.'
He said something to your father, in a language I didn't understand.
Your father grew pale, came up to me, gave me his hand, and said: 'Go,
Esther.' He didn't say another word, but that he said kindly. And so I
went away. That was the last time I ever saw Bruno. I heard, afterward,
that there had been terrible goings on between your father and him,
but I kept out of sight, after that. I didn't want to be the cause of
ill-feeling between father and son; I saw that it wouldn't do. Our
child meant kindly toward us, for it was born dead. That was far better
than to find only misery in the world, and die at last. Don't you think
so, too?"

Irma did not answer, but she felt for Esther's hand.

Esther continued:

"Mother and Thomas don't know that I ever knew your brother. But Thomas
is a terrible fellow, and he hates your brother just as if he had a
notion of it; but I don't say a word. I'm lost; but what does it
matter? There's no need of his being ruined too. Oh! how I loved him. I
can't forget it, even now."

Esther, who had, thus far, told her story in a calm and quiet tone,
suddenly cried out:

"He's got a beautiful, fine, rich, noble wife! Yes, that's all we are
here for--so that nothing may happen to you in your silken beds out
yonder. Ha! ha! ha! And when they get a child in wedlock, they get some
poor woman to suckle it. Walpurga's well off; her milk's turned to
gold. Oh, if I could only stop thinking."

She tore her hair and gritted her teeth. "It's a wonder that the wild
and burning thoughts that pass through my brain haven't burned away the
stupid black hair long ago. Oh, my head's burning, and I get blows on
it every day. But it's hard--just feel--it's as hard as steel."

Irma stood there, as if rooted to the spot.

"Hush!" said Esther. "Hush. I hear the dogs. I told you he'd hunt for
us. Fly! fly! There, to the right! that's the path; but, I beg of you,
for the sake of everything in the world, don't do it--don't do it. You
haven't gone far enough for that. But, be off. Down there you'll come
to a small, wooden bridge. Cross it and hurry on. I'll stay here; the
dogs will come to me and I'll detain them. You're saved. Away! Away!"

She urged Irma away, and remained behind.

Irma hurried on, alone. She often pressed her hand to her brow.
Grateful remembrance of her father had saved her from unspeakable
horror. When his hand rested on Esther's head, it had been in token of
forgiveness. But the characters he had branded on Irma's brow, told her
that he had forever put her away from him. "The brand upon my brow can
only be cooled by the waters of the deep lake," she kept saying to
herself, while she hurried across the wooden bridge, and then over the
rising ground until she again entered the dark forest.

Black Esther stood her ground quietly, and waited for the dogs to
approach. She called them, and they ran toward her. She heard
Thomas whistling, and the dogs answering. He was still far off, but he
was on the right track. She counted every pulsation; for with every
heart-beat, Irma was one step further from where her pursuer must halt.
She was willing to suffer all. What did it matter?

"Yes, yes; I know you're fond of me," said she to the great wolf-dog,
that fawned upon her. "Yes, you're the only creature in this world that
loves me. I wish I'd been a dog, too. Why wasn't I born a dog? If it
were only true, as mother says, that there once were times when people
were changed into other beings."

Thomas's whistle and cry were again heard. The dogs answered. He drew
nearer and soon stood beside her.

"So it's you, is it? I thought as much. Where's the other one?"

"Where you'll never find her."

A cry of pain resounded from the woods.

"Kill me at once!" cried Esther. The dogs howled, but knew not which of
the two they would help.

Thomas went off, leaving Esther lying where she had fallen.



                              CHAPTER XII.


On the soft moss under the trees near the border of the forest, a
beautiful female, clad in blue, lay stretched in sleep. The trembling
sunbeams played about her face. She awoke, and, resting her head upon
her hand, gazed about her with the air of one to whom all is lost.

The air was laden with the odor of pines, and fresh, cooling breezes
were wafted from the lake. The bells of the browsing cattle were heard
from the neighboring hills. The dew glistened; every object was radiant
with light; but to her, all was night. It was long before she realized
that she was awake, or where she was. At last, she became conscious of
herself; but still she moved not. Sad and gloomy thoughts passed
through her mind. Why awake? Oh, pitiless nature! why cannot the soul's
anguish destroy thee? Why is it necessary to use another force--fire,
water, steel, or poison--to oppose thee? Why is it that the soul can
ruin the body, and yet cannot destroy it? Sun! what dost thou want of
me? I want thee no longer! My father's writing burns my brow.
Conscience hammers at me, as if with a thousand fists, and yet does not
destroy me!--Why is this? Why?

She closed her eyes and turned away from the sun. Something whispered
to her: "There's time yet. It may all prove to be a hellish adventure,
a waking dream. Turn back! You can, you may. You have fully expiated
all."

As if moved by some invisible power, she again turned toward the sun.
Below her lay the glittering lake, and its waves seemed to say; "In
these depths, all thought, all trouble, all fear, all doubt is at an
end."

She arose, and when she saw the impression her figure had made in the
moss, she looked at it for a long while. Thus, thought she, does the
stag look at his nightly couch when the fatal shot has struck him. Are
we better than the hunted beasts of the forest? All is vanity! What use
is there in torturing ourselves? One bold plunge will end all. She put
on her hat and walked away, alone in the world with the one idea that
possessed her. No voice dissuaded her; she was mistress over life and
death.

The blackberry bushes caught her dress and held her fast, and, while
extricating herself, the thorns scratched her hands and feet.

She felt a sense of gnawing hunger, and wept like a forsaken child.

Tears came to her relief.

Just then, she saw more berries, which she plucked and ate with eager
appetite. Startled by her, a bird and its mate flew up from among the
blackberry bushes. There was the empty nest. Every creature has its
home. Irma stood there for some time, quite forgetting herself. She
turned her head,--and, behold! beside the blackberries there were
poison berries, belladonna--he who hungers for death can feed on these.
Irma did not pluck the deadly fruit. She did not care to die a death of
slow torture, perhaps to swoon away, to fall into the hands of men
again. No; it must be in the bottomless lake.

Irma now hurried off, as if she had been loitering by the way. The dew
moistened her wounded feet; she shivered with cold.

Suddenly the bright sounds of music and the flourish of trumpets were
borne upon the breeze. Irma pressed her hand to her brow--it isn't
music, it is only the play of my frenzied imagination. The world's
pleasures are tempting me, and calling me back with violin, clarionet
and trumpet. "Come, soothe yourself with our sounds; be merry and enjoy
the days allotted to you." But listen! The sound is heard again,
accompanied by the discharge of cannon, whose reports are echoed back
from the mountains, again and again. Perhaps they are celebrating a
wedding in some quiet village on yonder shore. A youth and a maiden who
have loved each other truly, have to-day become united, and music and
cannon call out to the mountains: "Rejoice with us; love's happiness is
as eternal as ye are--" Irma walked on, lost in reverie and looking
down on the ground. Her thoughts were with the happy ones. In
imagination, she saw the glad looks of parents, of comrades, of
friends, and heard the priest's benediction; while she walked on
through the dewy grass and briars. Her hand was firmly clenched, as if
she felt obliged thus to hold fast to the resolve that urged her
onward. She walked along by the lake. The shore was flat, a mere reedy
swamp. There could be no sudden ending there; only a slow, miserable
death. She walked round and round, ran to and fro with hasty step and
bated breath. At last she saw a rock extending to the water's edge. It
was steep, almost perpendicular. She climbed up to the top, raised her
hands, leaned over the edge. But hark! Who called to her from the
water? She heard a shriek of anguish, a cry for help, a splash. In her
excitement, she dropped her hat. It rolled over the edge of the rock
and into the water. She saw a human figure wrestling with the waves. It
rose to the surface--it was Black Esther! It rose once more and then
sank out of sight.... Uttering a wild shriek, Irma sank upon the rock.
She had seen the deed she purposed enacted before her very eyes. Her
limbs seemed palsied, and she lay there as if at the bottom of the
lake. She was conscious, and yet could not raise herself. A voice
called within her, but no sound passed her lips.

And while she lay there, she heard voices singing:

                 "Ah, blissful is the tender tie
                  That binds me, love, to thee;
                  And swiftly speed the hours by,
                  When thou art near to me."

She sprang to her feet. What could it be?

As if impelled by some unseen power, she hurried down from the rock.
She wiped the tears from her eyes, and blood was streaming from her
face. Had she been weeping tears of blood? A large boat was
approaching. It drew nearer and nearer.

It. is Walpurga's voice. It is she who calls. She comes--she recognizes
her friend. Irma flees. Walpurga leaps ashore--pursues her--Irma tries
to escape--Walpurga at last overtakes her and clasps her in her arms,
while Irma falls fainting upon her breast.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


The blood was streaming from a wound in Irma's forehead. Walpurga knelt
down beside her and, divesting herself of her neckcloth, bound the
bleeding brow. She then gathered some wet grass and shook the dew in
Irma's face. In despair, she cried:

"Dearest Countess! dear, good, beloved Countess! do wake up! For God's
sake, what's the matter? Oh! for God's sake, wake up! Irma! Irma!" Irma
opened her eyes.

Hansei's voice was heard calling: "Walpurga! Walpurga, where are you?"

"Is that your husband? Don't let him come here. He must not see me,"
said Irma.

"Stay there!" cried Walpurga. "Send mother here, and tell her to bring
some of the wine along that I brought home with me. It's in the blue
chest, with the child's things. Be quick about it!" In a few hurried
words, Irma told her that her father was dead, and that she had sought
to drown herself in the lake. She put her hand to her brow, and drew it
back in alarm.

"Woe's me! How is this?"

"You've been bleeding. You must have fallen and struck your head
against a stone. Just look!" said she, forcing herself to assume a
cheerful tone; "this is the green kerchief you sent my child."

Irma tore off the bandage, and silently looked at the blood-stained
handkerchief.

"That quenches the fire; let it run," said she to herself. Then, with a
sudden access of emotion, she said:

"Oh, Walpurga! I can't die! I can't kill myself--and yet I can't live.
I've--I've been wicked--"

She hid her face against Walpurga's heart, which beat loud and
violently.

"Help me! tell me what to do! Tell me quickly, before your mother
comes!"

"I don't know--I don't know at all--but mother will know. She knows how
to help every one. See there, it's stopped bleeding, already. Only keep
calm."

The mother joined them. Irma looked at her, as if she were an angel
come to save her. With a voice free from the slightest trace of doubt
and hesitation, the mother said:

"Walpurga, this is your Countess!"

"Yes, mother."

"Then you're a thousand times welcome," said the old woman. "I offer
you both my hands. Sad things must have happened to you. You must have
fallen. Or has some one struck you in the forehead?"

Irma made no reply. She sat between the two women who supported her,
and her gaze was as fixed as though she were lifeless.

"Mother, help her; say something to her," whispered Walpurga.

"No; let her quietly recover herself. Every wound must bleed itself
out."

Irma grasped her hands, kissed them and cried:

"Mother! you've saved me. Mother! I'll remain with you; take me with
you!"

"Yes, that I will. You'll find it ever so healthy up in my home. The
air and the trees there are better than anywhere else in this world.
There you'll become well again, all this will fall away from you. Does
your father know that you've run away, out into the wide world? and
does he know why?"

"He did know. He's dead. Walpurga, tell her how it is with me."

"There's time enough for that; for, God willing, we'll be together a
long while. You can tell me all when you're calm and composed. But now,
drink something."

After considerable effort, the two women succeeded in drawing the
silver-foiled cork. Walpurga finished the operation by taking the cork
between her teeth and pulling it out. Irma drank some of the wine.

"Drink," said Walpurga. "It must be wholesome, for Doctor Gunther sent
it to mother. But she won't drink it. She says she'll wait till she
grows old and needs the strength that wine gives."

A melancholy smile passed over Irma's face at the thought that the aged
woman before her meant to wait until she grew old.

Irma was obliged to take a few more mouthfuls of the wine. When she
complained of the pain in her foot, the mother skillfully extracted a
thorn. Irma felt as if a gentle angel were attending her, and offered
to kiss the old woman's hands once more. "My hands were never kissed
before you kissed 'em," said the old woman deprecatingly; "but I know
how you mean it. I never touched a countess before in all my life; but
they're human beings, just like the rest of us."

Irma heaved a deep sigh. She told her rescuers that she would go with
them, but only on condition that no one except themselves was to know
who she was. She wished to live concealed and unknown, and, if she were
discovered, she would take her life.

"Don't do that again," said the old woman, with a stern voice. "Don't
say that again. It won't do to trifle with such things. That's no
threat. But here you have my hand and my word of honor that not a word
shall pass my lips."

"Nor mine either!" exclaimed Walpurga, laying her hand, with that of
her mother, in Irma's.

"Tell me one thing," asked the mother. "Why didn't you go to a convent?
One can do that nowadays."

"I mean to expiate in freedom," said she.

"I understand you. You're right."

Not another word was spoken. The mother held her hand upon Irma's
forehead, on which she now bound a white handkerchief. "It'll be well in
a week, and there won't be a scar left," she said, consolingly.

"The white cloth shall remain there as long as I live," replied Irma.
She now asked them to provide her with other clothes, before she showed
herself in Hansei's presence.

Walpurga hurried back to the inn near the landing-place. Here she found
Hansei in an angry mood, and scolding terribly. Every interruption
annoyed him. He had enough to look after, as it was. There was more
work put upon him than upon the horses in the wagon. He was in that
excited state, often produced by travel and change of abode, in which
one's better self seems to disappear, and when a restless and homeless
feeling renders its possessor excessively irritable. Besides that, the
foal, beautiful as it was, had put him to considerable trouble. It had
run away, and had almost got under the wheels of one of the wagons.

Hansei was very angry. Walpurga found it difficult to pacify him, and
at last she burst into tears and said:

"Sooner than move to our new home in anger and hatred, I'd rather we'd
all gone to the bottom in the boat."

"Yes, yes; I'm quiet; just try to be so, too," said Hansei, recovering
himself and looking toward the lake as if Black Esther's head were
again rising on the waves. He continued:

"But we must hurry on, or else it'll be pitch dark before we get there.
We've a good distance before us, and the horses have a heavy load. What
are you about there? Whom have you got over there among the willows?"

"You'll know all about it in a little while. Just take my word for it,
that mother and I are doing something that'll be a satisfaction to us
as long as we live. I am glad that God has given me a chance to do
something at this moment, when I would have liked to ask Him what I
could do to prove my gratitude. She's a dear, kind creature, and you'll
be satisfied."

Walpurga spoke so earnestly and impressively that Hansei replied:

"I'll drive on with the household goods, and, if it suits you, you can
follow in the covered wagon. Come as soon as you can. Uncle's here and
he'll drive."

Walpurga nodded to Hansei, who started up the mountain with the loaded
wagon. Then she went to a chest and took out a full suit. She carried
the clothes into the thicket, where she found Irma sitting beside the
mother, Inna's head resting against the breast of the old woman, who
had wound her arms around her.

"Irmgard will be quite happy with us; we know each other, already,"
said the mother.

No one on earth knows what Irma confessed to old Beate, down among the
willows by the lake. The old woman breathed thrice on her brow, as if
her warm breath could dispel the charm.

"And now put on your clothes," said Beate. In the thicket, Irma
exchanged her dress for the peasant's garb.

When she left the thicket and returned to the path, she kept her eyes
fixed on the ground. She was now entering upon a new world--a new life.

She looked at the beings and the objects in the parlor of the inn, as
if it were all a dream. She had come back to the world again from the
depths of the lake. Here, life was going on as usual; there was eating
and drinking, laughing and talking, singing, driving, riding--all this
she had already left far behind her. She was as one risen from the
dead. Silent, and with folded hands, she sat upon the bench, caring
nothing for the world about her, longing for only perfect solitude. And
yet her ear was so acute that she overheard the hostess whisper to
Walpurga: "A kinswoman, I suppose," and, significantly putting her
finger to her forehead, "she don't seem to be in her right wits."

"Maybe you're right," replied Walpurga. A smile, as of pain, passed
over Irma's beautiful lips: "There's one protecting disguise--and it is
madness."

She felt if a net of thorns had descended upon her head. Insanity may,
indeed, sometimes serve as an invisible cap, concealing, or rather
disguising, the sorrow-stricken wearer.



                              CHAPTER XIV.


The grandmother was out of doors, arranging a bed in the covered wagon.
She told her brother to drive carefully, and not crack his whip so
often; for Uncle Peter, known as the little pitchman, was so elated at
the idea of having a whip and two horses under his charge, that he
cracked his whip incessantly.

"The stranger's puttings on airs, I think. Who is she, anyhow?" asked
the little pitchman, taking the thong between his teeth, as if he could
only thus prevent himself from cracking the whip.

"A poor, sick creature," said Beate. It went hard with her to say this,
and yet it was not a lie.

Hansei had gone on with the large team. And now the women, too, agreed
that it was time to start. Irma now saw Walpurga's child for the first
time, and, as soon as it caught Irma's eye, it shouted and wanted to go
to her.

"Oh! that's lovely," exclaimed Walpurga and her mother at the same
time. "She's always so shy."

Irma took the child in her arms and hugged and kissed it. She felt as
if again embracing the childlike purity which, in herself, had withered
and died. Her expression changed from one of joy to that of sadness,
and the grandmother said:

"You've a good, honest heart; children feel and know that. But now
you'd better give the child to Walpurga and get into the wagon."

A bed had been prepared for Irma. The grandmother got up into the wagon
and, taking the child in her arms, sat down beside Irma. Walpurga and
Gundel sat in front, looking about them. The uncle walked beside the
horses, and would, now and then, cast a sorrowful look at the whip that
he was not allowed to crack. No one spoke a word; but the child laughed
and prattled and wanted Irma to play with her.

"Go to sleep now," said the grandmother, and in a soft voice she sang
both child and Irma to sleep.

"Who's that coming down the hill?" suddenly asked Walpurga of the
uncle.

"The one's a forester, and the other must be a nobleman's servant."

Walpurga was alarmed. When the horsemen drew near, she recognized Baum.
Swift as thought she slipped into the wagon and left Gundel sitting
alone in front.

The horsemen drew nearer, and at last halted by the wagon. The child
awoke and cried, and thus awakened Irma. A thin curtain was all that
separated her from him. The horse that Baum rode distended its
nostrils, threw its head back, and reared so that it was difficult to
hold it in check. Irma recognized it. It was Pluto, her own horse; and
so it had been captured and brought back again. If the horse could have
spoken, it would have said: "Here is my mistress; here is the one whom
you seek."

Irma could hear Baum asking the uncle:

"Did you meet a young lady in a blue riding-habit?"

"No."

"Did you hear any one mention such a person?"

"Not a word."

"Whom have you in the wagon there?"

Irma trembled. Walpurga grasped her hand. It was as cold as ice. The
child cried again.

"You can hear it; there's a little child in there," said the forester
to Baum. "Let's go on."

The horseman rode off, and Irma, looking after them, could see her
feathered hat hanging from the pommel of the saddle.

The wagon slowly ascended the hill, while the horsemen hurried off in
the opposite direction.

Irma kissed the child, and said:

"Oh you darling! you've saved me, for the second time. Let roe get out,
too. I want to walk."

The mother dissuaded her and begged her to remain with her. Irma
yielded; she had hardly lain down before she fell asleep again, and no
longer knew that she was crossing the mountains in a farmer's wagon.

It was already past noon when they overtook Hansei, far up the
mountain, where he had stopped to rest his horses.

"Let's keep together," said he. His anger had vanished, and he now was
twice as kindly as before. "I think we oughtn't to enter our new home
in such a straggling way. I've given the servants strict orders to
drive slowly. We can easily catch up with 'em, for our wagons are
light, and then we'll all be together. I want mother and wife and child
to be with me when we enter on the farm."

"That's right! I'm glad you've come to your senses again. Oh! I know
you. When you're excited, the only thing to do is to leave you alone
for a little while, and you soon get homesick after your folks and the
good Hansei that's in you; and then you're all right again. But come
here. I want to tell you something. To-day, you'll have to prove
whether you're a real, strong man; and if you do, I'll never, in all my
life, deny that men are stronger than we."

"Well! what is it?"

She led him into the inn garden, and said:

"You've often heard tell of the household fairies they used to have in
olden times? They were good, peaceful spirits that brought blessings
and wealth and good fortune to whatever house they visited. But there
was one condition. As long as they stayed, no one dared ask their name,
or where they'd come from."

"Yes, yes! I've heard that often enough; but I don't believe a word of
it."

"You needn't believe it; I don't ask you to. I want to put you to the
test. Listen! Mother and I have ever so tender and delicate a creature
in the wagon there. She's strong and powerful, but quite strange in her
ways. She means to stay with us, but she won't be a burden. And now,
Hansei, tell me; have you strength enough never to ask her who and
whence she is, or any other question? You must take my word for it. I
know her and know what I'm doing in keeping her with us; and on the
strength of that, will you be good and faithful and kind to her? Tell
me; can you, will you be this?"

"Is that the way I'm to prove whether I'm a strong man, or not?"

"Yes, that's it; nothing more."

"I can do that; and here's my hand on it."

"Let me have it."

"You'll see. I'll keep my promise; that's easy enough."

"It isn't as easy as you think for, Hansei."

"For the sake of getting you, for the rest of your life, to admit that
a man has more strength of mind than a woman, and can easier undertake
a thing, and carry it out, too, I'll show you what I can do. Your good
friend shall be mine, too. But she isn't crazy, nor doesn't bite, does
she?"

"No, you needn't worry about that."

"All right, then; that settles it."

Hansei went out to the wagon with Walpurga, who drew the curtain aside
and said:

"My husband wants to bid you welcome."

"Welcome!" said Irma, offering her hand to Hansei.

He stared at her in mute astonishment, and it was not until Walpurga
raised his hand that he offered it to Irma.

They had taken up their journey once more, and Hansei, who, with his
wife, was walking up hill in advance of the wagons, said:

"Wife! if it wasn't daylight, and you and mother and the child weren't
here,--if I wasn't quite sure that I'm in my right senses, and that
it's all true--I'd really believe that you had a fairy in the wagon
there. Is she lame? can't she walk?"

"She can walk very well."

Walpurga turned back toward the wagon, and said:

"Irmgard, don't you want to get out for a little while and walk up the
hill with us? It's so beautiful here."

"Yes, gladly," was the answer.

Irma alighted and walked with them for a while. Hansei regarded her
with timid side-glances. The stranger limped. Perhaps it's true after
all; the Lady of the Lake has a swan's foot and can't walk well. He
cast sly looks at her feet, but they were just like those of other
people. Gradually, he ventured to raise his eyes. He saw that the
clothes she had on were his wife's, and that she was wondrously
beautiful. His head grew so warm that he lifted his hat now and then.
What's real in the world and what isn't? he would ask himself. Had his
wife a double? and could she appear in another form?

Walpurga lingered behind and left the two walking by themselves. Irma
asked herself what she had better say to Hansei, and how she should
address him. It was the first time in her life that she found herself
in an humble position. "How should I address one of an inferior class?"
thought she. At last she said:

"You're a happy man; you have a wife and child and mother-in-law as
good as one can wish for in this world?"

"Yes, yes, they'll do very well," said Hansei.

Although she had not intended it, Irma's praise was, to a certain
extent, patronizing, and Hansei had observed this. He would have
confirmed her opinion by his answer, and would have liked to ask: "Have
you known her long?" but he remembered that he had promised to ask no
questions. Walpurga was right; it was a hard task. He rolled his tongue
about in his mouth, and felt as if the one-half of it were tied.

"The country's pretty rough hereabouts; further up, when you reach our
new home, it's much better," said he, at last. It was long before he
could say that. He had intended to ask whether the stranger had ever
been in that neighborhood before; but he had promised to ask no
questions, and to transpose one's questions is not so easy a task.

Irma felt that she must say something that would put the man at his
ease, and she began: "Hansei!"--his face brightened when he heard her
calling him by name--"Hansei, try to think that you've known me for
ever so long; don't look at me as a stranger. I don't like to ask
anything of others; but I do ask this of you. I know you'll do it; for
you've a good, kind face. And it couldn't be otherwise; Walpurga's
husband, with whom she is so happy, must be a good man. I beg of you,
therefore, don't be concerned; I'll not be a burden to you."

"Oh, there's no idea of such a thing. We've enough, thank God. One cow
more in the stable, or one person more in the house, won't make any
difference; so you needn't worry about that.--And we've also taken
charge of an old pensioner on the estate and--I don't want to know what
you don't want to tell, and if any one in this world offers to harm
you, call me, and I'll defend you with my life. But it seems you
haven't been much among the mountains; so let me give you a piece of
advice. In climbing mountains, the rule is: Go right on, and never
stop."

They waited for the wagon. Hansei drew a long breath after his long
speech. He felt satisfied with himself, and looked about him with a
self-complacent air.

Irma sat down by the wayside. She was now on the heights which, on the
evening before, she had seen all aglow with the rosy sunset, and then
fading away in the pale mists. The giant peaks that she had beheld from
afar were now near, and seemed still vaster than before. Here and there
in the woods, there was a clearing of meadow and field, and now and
then, a house was visible. Looking down, she caught glimpses of the
foaming, sparkling forest stream, so far below them that they could
scarcely hear its roar.

Hansei walked at Irma's side without uttering a word.

The wagon overtook them. Irma got in again, Hansei assisting her quite
politely. He was about to lift his hat to her, when, with cheerful word
and glance, she thanked him.

"She's a very decent person," said Hansei to his wife, "and we've a nice
little room for her, too, if she isn't afraid of the old pensioner."

Walpurga felt happy that the great point was gained.

As Hansei had talked with the stranger, the little pitchman thought
himself entitled to say something, too; and, as the first sign of his
resolve, he cracked his whip so loudly that the sound was echoed back
from the valley and the mountains.

"Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" said the old woman.

"She--she's well again," replied the little pitchman. "Isn't it so?"
said he, addressing Irma. "The noise don't hurt you?"

Irma told him not to put himself out on her account, and, emboldened by
her answer, he inquired:

"What's your name?"

"Irmgard."

"Indeed! why, that was my wife's name, and, if you've no objection,
I'll marry an Irmgard again. I've got half of a house and a whole goat.
I owe something on the house, but the goat's paid for. Say! will you
have me?"

"Don't make such jokes, Peter," cried Beate, nothing loth, however, to
hear pleasantry from some quarter.

The little pitchman laughed heartily, and was well pleased with
himself. Yes, Hansei was now the freehold farmer, but still he couldn't
talk to people the way he could. The little pitchman was quite
entertaining. When he had nothing more to say, he would gather
strawberries, which grew by the wayside and, in this high region, did
not ripen until late. He laid them on a hazel leaf and offered them to
Irma. Yes, Peter has good manners; he could tell that by his sister's
face, for she smiled her approval.

The journey to their new home proceeded without further adventure. When
they came in sight of their native village, and before they had had
reached the boundary line, the grandmother requested them to stop. She
alighted, went into the woods, knelt down until her face touched the
ground, and exclaimed:

"God be praised, I'm with thee again! Keep me well, let me and mine
pass many peaceful, happy days on thee, and, when my last hour comes,
receive me kindly."

She went back to the wagon, and said: "God be with you all! now we're
at home. Do you see that house up there, with the big linden tree?
That's the freehold farm, where we're to live."

Gundel and the child alighted, Irma alone remaining in the wagon. All
the others walked the rest of the way.

They passed through the valley and reached the village, where they were
still an hour's walk from the farm. As they entered the village, the
little pitchman cracked his whip loudly. He wanted every one to see his
kindred, and the amount of property he was now moving with. They passed
by a little cottage.

"I was born there"; said the grandmother to Hansei.

"I'll take off my hat to that house," replied Hansei, suiting his
action to the word.

The wagons which had preceded them were stopping at the inn which was
near the town hall and the church. The people had gathered there to get
a look at the new freeholder and his family. The little pitchman acted
as master of ceremonies, and pointed out the burgomaster's wife to
Walpurga. Walpurga went up to her, and Beate felt truly happy, for the
mother of the burgomaster's wife, she in whose house Beate, while yet
in her school-days, had served as nursemaid, was also there. She
inquired for the boy whom she had then taken care of. "He's dead," they
said, "but there's his son." A stalwart lad was called, but when Beate
told him that she had taken care of his father while he was yet a
little child, he had not a word to say.

Half the village had gathered about the new arrivals, and they remained
there chatting for a long while.

Irma lay there in the wagon in the open market-place, forgotten by
those whom she had joined. The grandmother was the first to think of
her; she hurried out and said:

"Forgive us for forgetting you so, but we'll soon be home."

Irma replied that they need not trouble themselves about her. The
grandmother did not quite understand the tone in which she spoke.

Here on the public road, while she lay in the covered farm wagon and
could hear the loud talking of the crowd, she felt a pang of grief to
think that she was an object of charity, and that she to whom the world
had once done homage, was now forgotten. But she quickly regained her
self-command. It is better thus, for thus you are alone.

At last they drove on. The road again lay up the mountain. The
grandmother was quite happy and greeted every one. The plum-trees were
laden with fruit, and the apple-trees along the road--she had, while
yet a girl, seen them planted--had grown so large that they bent under
the weight of the ruddy fruit. The grandmother often said: "I never
thought it was so far; no, I meant to say, I thought it was further
than this. Dear me, how I'm talking. It seems as if the world had
shrunk together. Children, I tell you what, you'll live to see great,
and good, and beautiful things come to pass. Come, give me the child,"
said she to Gundel, and she took Burgei in her arms, her face radiant
with joy.

"Burgei, I've sung here, and so will you; and here I carried your
mother on my arms, just as I'm carrying you, now. There! give that to
the bird."

She had taken a piece of bread from her pocket and gave the child some
crumbs to scatter to the birds on the way, while she, too, kept
throwing crumbs to the right and the left.

She did not speak another word, but her lips moved silently.



                              CHAPTER XV.


As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighing of the white
foal.

"That's a good beginning," cried Hansei.

The grandmother placed the child on the ground, and got her hymn-book
out of the chest. Pressing the book against her breast with both hands,
she went into the house, being the first to enter. Hansei, who was
standing near the stable, took a piece of chalk from his pocket and
wrote the letters C. M. B., and the date, on the stable-door. Then he,
too, went into the house, his wife, Irma and the child following him.

Before going into the sitting-room, the grandmother knocked thrice at
the door. When she had entered, she placed the open hymn-book upon the
open window-sill, so that the sun might read in it. There were no
tables or chairs in the room.

Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, "God be with you,
freeholder's wife."

From that moment, Walpurga was known as the "freeholder's wife," and
was never called by any other name.

And now they showed Irma her room. The view extended over meadow and
brook and the neighboring forest. She examined the room. There was
naught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had brought
nothing with her. In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there
were chairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here--

None of these follow the dead.

Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadow and forest, where
the sun was now singing.

How was it yesterday--was it only yesterday?--when you saw the sun go
down?

Her thoughts were confused and indistinct. She pressed her hand to her
forehead; the white handkerchief was still there. A bird looked up to
her from the meadow, and, when her glance rested upon it, it flew away
into the woods.

"The bird has its nest," said she to herself, "and I--"

Suddenly she drew herself up. Hansei had walked out to the grass plot
in front of Irma's window, removed the slip of the cherry-tree from his
hat, and planted it in the ground.

The grandmother stood by and said: "I trust that you'll be alive and
hearty, long enough to climb this tree and gather cherries from it, and
that your children and grandchildren may do the same."

There was much to do and to set to rights in the house, and, on such
occasions, it usually happens that those who are dearest to one another
are as much in each other's way as closets and tables which have not
yet been placed where they belong. The best proof of the amiability of
these folks was that they assisted each other cheerfully, and, indeed,
with jest and song.

Walpurga moved her best furniture into Irma's room. Hansei did not
interpose a word. "Aren't you too lonely here?" asked Walpurga, after
she had arranged everything as well as possible in so short a time.

"Not at all. There is no place in all the world lonely enough for me.
You've so much to do now; don't worry about me. I must now arrange
things within myself. I see how good you and yours are; fate has
directed me kindly."

"Oh, don't talk that way. If you hadn't given me the money, how could
we have bought the farm? This is really your own."

"Don't speak of that," said Irma, with a sudden start, "never mention
that money to me again."

Walpurga promised, and merely added that Irma needn't be alarmed at the
old man who lived in the room above hers, and who, at times, would talk
to himself and make a loud noise. He was old and blind. The children
teased and worried him, but he wasn't bad and would harm no one.
Walpurga offered, at all events, to leave Gundel with Irma for the
first night; but Irma preferred to be alone.

"You'll stay with us; won't you?" said Walpurga hesitatingly. "You
won't have such bad thoughts again?"

"No, never. But don't talk now, my voice pains me and so does yours,
too. Good-night! leave me alone."

Irma sat by the window and gazed out into the dark night.

Was it only a day since she had passed through such terrors? Suddenly
she sprang from her seat with a shudder. She had seen Black Esther's
head rising out of the darkness, had again heard her dying shriek, had
beheld the distorted face and the wild, black tresses.--Her hair stood
on end. Her thoughts carried her to the bottom of the lake, where she
now lay dead. She opened the window and inhaled the soft, balmy air.
She sat by the open casement for a long while, and suddenly heard some
one laughing in her room above her.

"Ha! ha! I won't do you the favor! I won't die! I won't die! Pooh,
pooh! I'll live till I'm a hundred years old and then I'll get a new
lease of life."

It was the old pensioner. After a while, he continued:

"I'm not so stupid; I know that it's night now and the freeholder and
his wife are come. I'll give them lots of trouble. I'm Jochem. Jochem's
my name, and what the people don't like, I do for spite. Ha! ha! ha! I
don't use any light and they must make me an allowance for that. I'll
insist on it, if I have to go to the king himself about it."

Irma started, when she heard the king mentioned.

"Yes, I'll go to the king, to the king! to the king!" cried the old man
overhead, as if he knew that the word tortured Irma.

She heard him close the window and move a chair. The old man went to
bed.

Irma looked out into the dark night. Not a star was to be seen. There
was no light anywhere; nothing was heard but the roaring of the
mountain stream and the rustling of the trees. The night seemed like a
dark abyss.

"Are you still awake?" asked a soft voice without. It was the
grandmother.

"I was once a servant at this farm," said she. "That was forty years
ago; and now I'm the mother of the freeholder's wife, and almost the
head one on the farm. But I keep thinking of you all the time. I keep
trying to think how it is in your heart. I've something to tell you.
Come out again. I'll take you where it'll do you good to be. Come!"

Irma went out into the dark night with the old woman. How different
this guide from the one she had had the day before!

The old woman led her to the fountain. She had brought a cup with her
and gave it to Irma. "Come, drink; good cold water's the best. Water
comforts the body; it cools and quiets us; it's like bathing one's
soul. I know what sorrow is, too. One's insides burn as if they were
afire."

Irma drank some of the water of the mountain spring. It seemed like a
healing dew, whose influence was diffused through her whole frame.

The grandmother led her back to her room and said: "You've still got
the shirt on that you wore at the palace. You'll never stop thinking of
that place till you've burned that shirt."

The old woman would listen to no denial, and Irma was as docile as a
little child. The grandmother hurried to get a coarse shirt for her
and, after Irma had put it on, brought wood and a light, and burnt the
other at the open fire. Irma was also obliged to cut off her long nails
and throw them into the fire. Then Beate disappeared for a few moments,
and returned with Irma's riding-habit. "You must have been shot; for
there are balls in this," said she, spreading out the long, blue habit.

A smile passed over Irma's face, as she felt the balls that had been
sewed into the lower part of the habit, so that it might hang more
gracefully. Beate had also brought something very useful--a deerskin.

"Hansei sends you this," said she. "He thinks that maybe you're used to
having something soft for your feet to rest on. He shot the deer
himself."

Irma appreciated the kindness of the man who could show such affection
to one who was both a stranger and a mystery to him.

The grandmother remained at Irma's bedside until she fell asleep. Then
she breathed thrice on the sleeper and left the room.

It was late at night when Irma awoke.

"To the king! to the king! to the king!" The words had been uttered
thrice in a loud voice. Was it hers, or that of the man overhead? Irma
pressed her hand to her forehead and felt the bandage. Was it sea grass
that had gathered there? Was she lying alive at the bottom of the lake?
Gradually all that had happened became clear to her.

Alone, in the dark and silent night, she wept. And these were the first
tears she had shed since the terrible events through which she had
passed.

It was evening when Irma awoke. She put her hand to her forehead. A wet
cloth had been bound round it. She had been sleeping nearly twenty-four
hours. The grandmother was sitting by her bed.

"You've a strong constitution," said the old woman, "and that helped
you. It's all right now."

Irma arose. She felt strong and, guided by the grandmother, walked over
to the dwelling-house.

"God be praised, that you're well again," said Walpurga, who was
standing there with her husband; and Hansei added: "Yes, that's right."

Irma thanked them, and looked up at the gable of the house. What words
there met her eye?

"Don't you think the house has a good motto written on its forehead?"
asked Hansei.

Irma started. On the gable of the house, she read the following
inscription:


           EAT AND DRINK: FORGET NOT GOD: THINE HONOR GUARD:
                        OF ALL THY STORE,
                        THOU'LT CARRY HENCE
                        A WINDING-SHEET
                        AND NOTHING MORE.



                                BOOK VI.



                               CHAPTER I.


Through Irma's sudden flight, Baum's occupation was gone. He returned
to where she was to have waited for him, and found that she had
disappeared. He gazed into the distance, but saw nothing. A dog
following its master's track was better off than he, for while instinct
would help it, man could only guess.

Had she flown? and if so, whither? Why had she done so? and what, under
such circumstances, was the duty of a subordinate? Ought he to pursue
her who had sent him back? She had honestly and frankly sent the dog
home; but the servant was only human and must therefore be imposed
upon.

"For shame, Countess! Thus to fool a poor servant who dare not
disobey!" said Baum, speaking to himself. He felt that now, for the
first time, he was put to the great test, and that this was the time to
prove himself a reasoning servant. Perhaps the letters he had brought
contained an appointment for this evening. They are at the hunt and, as
if by chance, meet in the woods; for it would not do to visit Wildenort
openly, as it was but a short time since they had gone into mourning
there. And so they mean to keep even the servant in ignorance of their
plans. But why should they? He could have been depended upon.

But perhaps the countess had escaped after all.

But why? and whither?

They had shown so much confidence in him. The head chamberlain had
told him before leaving: "You're always to remain near the countess,
always--do you understand? And you are to conduct her back to court."
Could they have dreamt that she meant to escape? and if so, why should
they only half trust him?

"I am innocent!" exclaimed Baum; but what avails innocence? It was more
important to be clever and sensible.

Baum's master, Baroness Steigeneck's chief chamberlain, had imparted
some valuable precepts to him. "There are two things," said he, "that a
good servant should always have with him--a sharp knife and a good
watch. When anything happens that disconcerts you, take out your watch,
count off ten seconds, and then make up your mind what is best to be
done."

One disadvantage possessed by this precept, in common with many other
good ones, is the great danger of your forgetting it when excited.

Baum rode back to the castle. Perhaps the countess had returned by some
other road; perhaps her maid could tell him where she had intended to
ride to. He asked the maid: "Is your mistress here?"

"No; she rode out with you."

"Don't you know where she intended going?"

"Has she left you? Oh, God! now she'll do it, for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"I've already told the count, that I believed she'd take her life. I
believe she has either poison or a dagger with her; she'll kill
herself."

"If she meant to take her life that way, she might have done so in her
room," replied Baum.

"Yes, yes! It was only last night that she cried out in her sleep,
'Deep in the lake!' Oh gracious heavens! my dear, lovely countess is
dead! Oh, what an unhappy creature I am! what will become of me!"

Baum endeavored to pacify her, and inquired whether the countess had
left any papers anywhere.

The writing-desk was open and papers were strewn about on it. They
found a letter directed to the queen. Baum wanted to take it, but the
maid would not give it up. She would not suffer a stranger to pry into
her mistress's secrets.

In the midst of the dispute, Baum suddenly took out his watch. The
chamberlain's advice had occurred to him. He looked fixedly at
the dial, and when he had finished counting ten, he nodded with a
self-satisfied air, for he had regained his presence of mind.

Very well, the maid might deliver the letter herself; that would
neither help nor hinder matters. But he would now show himself worthy
of the greatest confidence. His task was to institute inquiries;
perhaps he might yet save the countess.

While the maid, who was hastily putting the letter into her pocket, had
turned her back upon him, he saw another letter addressed "To my
friend." He quickly perceived that this was of far greater value than
the other, and put it into his own pocket. He well knew that there was
only one person for whom it could be intended and he knew who that
person was. The maid had heard the rustling of the paper, and now asked
him to give it to her. Baum ran out of the room and summoned the
servants. The maid followed him, and he now quickly changed the
attitude of defense for one of attack, and demanded the letter to the
queen, in order that he might open it and thus obtain some clue as to
the countess's whereabouts. He said that he would hold the maid
responsible for the consequences. She ran away, and he made no further
attempt to carry out his plan, for he did not know whether he had a
right to open the letter. At any rate, he had undisputed possession of
the more important epistle to the king. He ordered the groom to saddle
another horse and accompany him.

The rosy sunset was already gilding the windows of the castle when the
two horsemen rode forth. But whither?

They questioned a laborer working on the road, but he had seen nothing
of the countess. They saw a shepherd driving his flock homeward, and,
riding up to him, they inquired whether he had seen her. He nodded
affirmatively, but the loud bleating of the sheep prevented them from
hearing what he said. Baum alighted, and learned from him that the
countess had been seen riding full tilt along the road that led to the
Chamois hill.

"She sits her horse firmly, and rides very well," said the shepherd,
praising her.

This was a clue, at all events. They rode off, at full gallop, in the
direction indicated. When they reached the drained marsh, they heard
the neighing of a horse. They rode up to it, and found that it was
Irma's saddle-horse, quietly grazing, but bridle and girth were covered
with thick foam. "The countess has been thrown. Who knows where she may
be lying, weak and faint?" said Baum. He meant to be discreet, and was
in no hurry to tell all to the groom.

They searched for her everywhere, and called out her name again and
again. They found nothing, nor did they receive any answer. Baum
discovered the horse's tracks, but was somewhat confused by them, as it
had taken the same path going and returning. They took the horse with
them, but did not mount, for it was necessary to find out where
the track led to. Baum's keen eye enabled him to distinguish the
hoof-prints in the twilight.

"If we only had the dog with us; he knows her. Why didn't you bring the
dog with you?" he asked angrily.

"You didn't say anything about it."

"Ride back and bring him. No, stay; I can't be here alone."

They reached the Chamois hill. "Let's turn aside, into the wood," cried
Baum.

He now found use for his good knife. He gathered some of the brushwood,
bound it together into a torch, kindled it, and its light enabled him
to find the track. It was here that the horse had turned. There were
also prints of a woman's foot going in the opposite direction. He
followed them for a few paces and then lost the track.

"She must be here," said Baum. "It was from here that she went down
into the wood; I know every spot about here. Keep to the left with the
two horses, but always near enough to hear my voice. I'll keep to the
right with one."

They searched and shouted, but found nothing. At last they met again. A
stag rushed by. Could it have spoken, it might have told them where
Irma had startled it from its resting-place--a full hour's walk from
where they then were.

"If you find her, you'll be handsomely rewarded," said Baum to the
groom. He addressed him in the way he thought his royal master would
have done.

They spent the greater part of the night wandering in the forest. At
last they were obliged to lie down and wait for the daylight, for there
was no longer a path by which to lead the horses.

The day was far advanced when Baum and the groom awoke. They could see
the sparkling lake from afar, and could hear the sounds of distant
music, while the rock near which they stood echoed the reports of
cannon.

Baum took the pistols from the saddle-pouch and fired them off in rapid
succession. Then he listened with bated breath, thinking that if Irma
were anywhere in the neighborhood, she would hear the shots and give
some sign of her whereabouts; but not a sound was heard.

They now found a forest-path leading down toward the lake. They reached
the water's edge. At their feet lay the lake, smooth as a mirror and
stretching away for miles. Who knew what lay concealed within its
depths? In the distance, there was a boat with people and beasts
aboard, and now the boat reached the shore. Baum's companion turned to
the other side, where there were a few scattered farmhouses and
fishermen's huts. Man and beast were worn out and needed rest. Baum
asked every one he met whether they had seen a lady in a blue
riding-habit and wearing a hat with a feather; but he could find no
trace of her anywhere.

"Stop!" at last said a little old man who was cutting willows by the
lake: "I've seen her."

"Where? When?"

"Over there in the tavern. It's almost a year ago; she lived there a
good many weeks."

Baum cursed the peasant folk for a stupid set.

Fortunately, he met a gend'arme and told him who he was and whom he was
looking for. He then sent the groom back to Wildenort with the lady's
saddle. Placing his own saddle on Pluto, he rode along the edge of the
lake with the gend'arme. On a rock near the shore, they soon saw a
figure holding out a hat with a feather on it. They made for the spot,
at full speed, Baum recognized his brother Thomas, and was so startled
that he lost his stirrup.

If it were he who had robbed and murdered the countess!

The gend'arme knew the wild fellow. Thomas stared and grinned at them
both. His hair was wet and his clothes were dripping.

"What are you doing there?" cried the gend'arme. "Whose hat is that?"

"That's none of your business," replied Thomas, his teeth chattering
with the cold.

Baum offered the shivering man his brandy flask, and Thomas took a long
draught. Then, with mingled rage and sorrow, he told them that the
king's sweetheart had lost her way the night before and had come to
their hut, and that she had led away his sister to plunge into the lake
with her. He had come too late; he had seen something floating on the
water and had jumped in to save her, but the hat was all he had found.

The gend'arme was not inclined to believe Thomas's story, and would
have arrested him forthwith, if Baum had not whispered to him that
there was no doubt that the lady had drowned herself, and that there
was no murder in the case. He was moved by a feeling akin to pity for
his brother, and did not wish to have him arrested.

"Come here!" said Baum to Thomas. "Let's make an exchange. I'll give
you my flask--there's a good deal in it yet--for the hat."

"Oh no! I know who the hat belongs to: it's worth a lot, and I'll take
it to the king."

                 "He still has got his sweetheart's hat,
                    Though she lies in the lake;
                  And since she's drowned, another love
                    Right gladly will he take,"

sang Thomas, with heavy voice, while he threw the hat up into the air
and caught it again.

The gend'arme wanted to give Thomas a beating; Baum restrained him,
however, and then walked up to Thomas and placed his hand upon his
shoulder. Thomas started, but suddenly grew quiet, and looked at Baum
as if afraid of him. Baum spoke to him with a condescending air, and
Thomas listened, with mouth agape, as if trying to recollect something,
he knew not what. The voice, and the hand upon his shoulder, made quite
another man of him, and the savage, murderous fellow wept.

"Will you give me the hat for a gold piece, or must it be taken from
you by force? You see we're two to one, and can master you," said Baum.

Without saying a word, Thomas handed him the hat, and when Baum gave
him the gold piece, Thomas could not close his hand on it. As if quite
bewildered, he looked now at the gold piece, now at the giver.

Baum spoke to him earnestly, and told him that he ought to give some of
the money to his mother, if he still had one.

"A mother?" stammered Thomas, looking at Baum with a glassy eye. "A
mother!" he repeated, as if reminded of something long forgotten.

The gend'arme was touched by the lackey's generosity. "He must be a
very fine man," thought he.

Thomas again told them that Irma had been at their hut the night
before, and that his mother knew more about her than he did, for she
had been alone with her. Baum and the gend'arme said they would like to
talk with his mother, and Thomas guided them to the hut.

On the way there, the gend'arme informed Baum of Thomas's family
history. "You see, the fellow's a brawler, and has often been convicted
of poaching. I've often advised him to emigrate to America, for there
he can hunt as much as he pleases. He has a brother in America--a twin
brother, but he must be a good-for-nothing fellow; that is, if he isn't
dead. He's never yet written a line to his mother or his brother, and
has never sent home as much as you could put in your eye. But that's
the way they all become, after they get to America. A good many have
gone there from my place, but they're all selfish, good-for-nothing
fellows."

Baum smiled. He had need of all his self-command. He scarcely spoke a
word, for he was nerving himself for the meeting with his mother, and
felt annoyed that she, too, was mixed up in this affair. He had enough
to think of without that.

The gend'arme knew many stories about poachers and other outlaws and,
in order to beguile the time and entertain Baum, recounted some of
them. Such stories, however, have one unpleasant feature. It is rather
uncomfortable to listen to them, unless one's hands are free from
guilt. Baum nodded to him graciously, for it would not do, by look or
manner, to betray that he was in the least related to the abandoned
wretch who was walking ahead of them. The gend'arme said that he had
once been bitten in the finger by a murderer, whom he had helped to
arrest, and he showed Baum the scar.

Baum, at last, endeavored to put an end to these terrible stories. He
asked the gend'arme what regiment he had served in, and put the
question as graciously as if he were about to draw a medal from his
pocket and bestow it on the man. Now nothing can be pleasanter than to
recount one's military experiences. The forester told of his many
exploits, laughing heartily at his own stories, and Baum, seeing no
help for it, joined in the laughter. Thomas, who was walking on before,
turned around and grinned, and then went on. They reached the hut. It
was empty. Old Zenza had disappeared.

"She's looking for Esther, I'm sure," said Thomas.

"What's the matter with Black Esther?" asked the gend'arme.

"Black Esther!" repeated Thomas; "ha! ha! the lake'll wash her white
now. If any one would pay me well for it, I'd jump in, too."

He threw himself on the sack of leaves, and silently looked at the
hands with which he had beaten Esther last night. Then he threw his
head back and fell into a heavy sleep, and they could not get a word
out of him. Baum and the gend'arme rode away, intending to return to
the lake, in order to pursue their inquiries, and to leave directions
everywhere that the search should be kept up. Emerging from the forest,
they gained the highway, and here it was that they had met the covered
wagon.

They were again riding along the lake at a quiet pace. A large red cow
was walking along ahead of them. It stopped now and then to nibble the
grass and would look across the lake. When it came to a thicket, it
started, turned about quickly and ran so fast that it almost rushed
against Baum's horse.

"That cow has shied at something. There must be something lying there,"
said Baum, quickly alighting. His dyed hair rose on end, for he felt
sure that they would find Irma's dead body the next moment. And he
really did find something; for there lay Irma's torn shoes. He knew
them. There were blood stains, too, and the grass was crushed, as if a
human being had lain there and rolled about in pain.

Baum's hand trembled as he took up the shoes, and he trembled still
more when he plucked a little flower. It was a simple leaf cup--the
so-called "our-lady's-man tie," the best mountain fodder--and in this
little flower there were drops of blood which were still moist.

If she had drowned herself, how had the blood got there? and whence the
shoes? and why should the shoes be so far from where Thomas had found
the hat? and besides, there were the footprints of larger shoes. If
Irma had been murdered, after all! If his brother--

"She's dead, that's the main point," said Baum, consoling himself, "and
I have the proofs. What good would it do to draw another being into
trouble?" He put the little blood-besprinkled plant away with the
letter addressed "To my friend."

Accompanied by the gend'arme, he went to the inn at the landing-place
where the wanderers had halted that morning.

The gend'arme again inquired about the lady in the blue riding-habit.

The manner of the hostess showed that the gend'arme's question had set
her thinking. Could it have been the crazy woman who was with the
travelers? There had been so much running hither and thither and
carrying of bundles of clothes, and she had such a queer look about
her.

"Do you know anything about it?" said the gend'arme, looking her
straight in the face, "speak out!"

"I don't know a thing," said the hostess. "Did I say a word? What do
you want of me?"

There is nothing which the country people dread so much as being called
into court in order to bear witness, and so the hostess was careful not
to utter a single word that might lead to such a result.

Baum saw that he had made a mistake in taking the gend'arme with him,
for his presence alarmed those who might really have something to tell.
He, therefore, sent him off, so that he might make further inquiries on
his own account.

Baum stood before a looking-glass, combing and brushing his dyed hair
which, that day, was unusually refractory. For the first time in his
life he was perfectly modest. He admitted to himself that, after all,
he was not the right man to follow up such an affair, and that he had
wasted too much time already. Others would be before him in profiting
by whatever advantage was to be gained from Irma's death. He felt that
he had better hurry back to the palace, and that there were others
there, enough of them, too, who could work up such a case far better
than he.

He endeavored to sound the hostess, who, he still thought, knew
something of the affair. But he was unsuccessful, for she had not
forgotten his comrade, the gend'arme, nor did it help, in the least,
when he pointed to his buttons and informed her that he was the king's
lackey.

It suddenly occurred to him that Walpurga lived in the neighborhood. It
was scarcely a year since he had been here with Doctor Sixtus. Irma had
always been a friend of Walpurga's, and perhaps was now hiding with
her--such high-flown people were capable of anything.

The large boat still lay before the inn. Baum, taking his horse with
him, went on board and ordered them to put off at once. He permitted a
laborer who arrived with a great barrow-load of hay, which he had
gathered on the most dangerous crags, to cross in the same boat with
him. They put off. Baum lay down on the wild hay, feeling completely
worn out.

He asked the boatman whether they had seen anything of a drowned
person. They answered that, in the morning, a human head with long hair
had been seen rising to the surface, and that, in all likelihood, it
was a woman.

Baum suddenly drew himself up and, with a bewildered look, gazed over
the sparkling surface of the lake. "If the gentleman would like to
wait," said the elder boatman to Baum, "the lake will give up its dead
at the end of three days." Baum did not care to hear any more; he
merely felt in his pocket, to make sure that he still possessed the
letter and the blood-stained flower. Having satisfied himself on this
point, he stretched himself still more comfortably than before and fell
asleep. It was not until the boat struck against the shore that he
awoke.

There was no longer any need of hunting up Walpurga; but he did so,
nevertheless, in order to show that he had left nothing undone. He went
up to the cottage by the lake and knocked at the door. There was no
answer. He looked in at the window. Two large cat's eyes were staring
at him. The cat was sitting on the ledge. She was the only one who had
remained behind. The room was completely dismantled; not a table or
even a chair was to be seen. As if in a dream, or under the influence
of a magic spell, he walked back again through the garden.

A chattering magpie sat up in the leafless cherry-tree; but not a human
being was visible. At last a man passed by. Baum recognized him; it was
tailor Schneck.

"Say!" he called out, "what's become of Hansei and Walpurga?"

"They're gone over the mountains. They've moved away and bought a great
farm. They call it the freehold; it's way down by the frontier."

Tailor Schneck was in a talkative mood, and inquired whether the
gentleman had brought anything from the king and queen. But Baum was
sparing of his words. He mounted his horse and rode off in the
direction of the summer palace.

In the midst of the hurry and excitement, he had retained enough
composure to calculate how this event might serve as a springing-board
from which he could bound into a higher position. Henceforth, he would
be the king's confidant. He alone knew what had happened and how it had
all come about. He looked at the hand which the king would press in
gratitude, and felt as if the king had done so already. The head
chamberlain was old and decrepit; he would surely step into his place.
It would have been better, of course, if he could have reported that
Irma had been murdered--the gend'arme, like a sleuth-hound, had found a
clue--But no; that wouldn't do; it was his brother, after all--although
it might be better for him if he were obliged to spend the rest of his
days behind the prison bars. He resolved that he would be very good to
his mother and brother--that is, after he had become head chamberlain.
His sister was dead,--and it was a great pity, too--but he would surely
do this, if he got on and if the king should give him lots of money and
a good life annuity. Baum was bold enough to tell God that he ought to
aid him in obtaining what he wanted, as he meant to do good with it.

As he rode on through the darkness, he would sometimes catch himself
falling asleep, for it was the second night he had spent in such
unrest--his thoughts were confused and bewildered.

At the last post-house, he left his horse and took a post-chaise.

It was early in the morning when the carriage arrived at the summer
palace. They found it difficult to arouse Baum, and it was some time
before he was fully awake and could recollect where he was and what he
had brought with him.

Various court carriages were in waiting, and fine saddle-horses were
being led from the stables. Baum scarcely heard the salutations of his
comrades and the grooms. He entered the palace and ascended the
staircase. He was so completely worn out that he felt as if his knees
would sink under him. He entered the king's ante-chamber. The old head
chamberlain hastily took the pinch of snuff which he had been holding
between his fingers, and offered his hand to Baum. Baum sank into a
chair, and expressed a wish to be forthwith announced to his majesty.

"I can't yet. You must wait," replied the head chamberlain.

It was only by a violent effort that Baum was enabled to keep his seat
and prevent himself from falling asleep.



                              CHAPTER II.


The king was in his cabinet at an early hour. He avoided all enervating
self-indulgence, and his powers of endurance surpassed those of any
other member of the court. It was his custom to take a cold bath every
morning, all the year round, and this always gave him new life and
strength. He knew nothing of deshabille, and always left his bath-room
fully dressed for the day.

There was to be a hunt that day, and the king was in hunting costume.
He had repaired to the cabinet, for the purpose of dispatching various
matters of business that required his immediate attention.

His office was situated in the central building, in the so-called
Elector's Tower. It was a large, lofty apartment, and comfortable
withal. Its walls were covered with a sort of handy-volume library,
military maps and various favorite specimens of plastic art, mostly
antiques, of which he had procured copies while yet a prince. There
was also a letter-weight, formed of balls from the battle-field of
Leipsic. The oaken furniture was in the Renaissance style--the large
writing-table stood in the center of the room. A water-color picture,
representing the queen as a bride, hung on his right.

The king entered and touched the bell which stood on the writing-table;
the privy councilor presented himself.

He handed several papers to the king, who hurriedly read and signed
them. The councilor presented a report in regard to the household
ministry. The king, meanwhile, walked up and down the room. Suddenly he
exclaimed:

"What's that?"

From the adjoining room, he heard sounds as if moving and lifting, and
also scraping footsteps, just as if a coffin were being borne away. He
touched the bell. In an instant, the door opened and the head
chamberlain appeared.

"What insufferable noise is that in the gallery?"

"Your Majesty ordered the large picture to be removed."

The king remembered having given the order the day before.

Although he had, for a long while, been accustomed to seeing the
picture in that place, it had yesterday suddenly become repugnant to
him. The painting represented Belshazzar seated on his throne and
surrounded by his creatures, while a hand issuing from the clouds is
writing "Mene Tekel" on the wall. The figures were all in life size.
The king had given directions that the picture should be removed to the
public gallery.

"I am awkwardly served," said the king impatiently. "It would have been
time to do that while I was at the hunt."

The head chamberlain trembled when he heard these words. His hands
dropped, and his head bent as if with shame. It was with difficulty
that he dragged himself out through the opposite door. Instant silence
ensued. Noiselessly, the painting was placed on the floor and the
servants retired.

The chamberlain came around, from the other side, into the anteroom. He
sat down in an arm-chair and took a pinch of snuff between his fingers,
but was so absorbed in thought that he forgot to use it until the very
moment when Baum entered the room.

He sat opposite Baum. All was silent. Now and then he would shake his
head mournfully and look at his large arm-chair. "Yes, he'll soon be
sitting here, and I'll be dismissed," thought he. When the privy
councilor passed through the ante-chamber, the old chamberlain forgot
to bring him his hat. Baum did it in his stead, for Baum was fresh
again. This was no time to show signs of fatigue. He felt that he held
the winning card, and that now was the time to play it.

The bell in the cabinet was again heard.

"Is there any one else in the anteroom?" inquired the king of the
chamberlain.

"Yes, Your Majesty; Baum is here."

"Let him enter."

Baum felt fully conscious of his importance. The king had not ordered
him to report to the chamberlain, but had said, "Let him enter." He
desired to confer with him in person. The confidential position which
he had craved was already his.

Baum's usually grave and submissive manner seemed more impressive than
ever before.

"Have you a message?" asked the king.

"No, Your Majesty."

"What have you there?"

"Your Majesty," replied Baum, placing his bundle on the chair and
untying it, "I found this hat of Countess von Wildenort in the lake,
and these shoes among the willows on the shore."

The king put forth his hand, as if to grasp these tokens, and then drew
it back and pressed it to his heart. He stared at Baum and seemed lost
in surprise.

"What does it all mean?" he asked, raising his hand to his head, as if
to smooth down his hair which stood on end.

"Your Majesty," continued Baum, who himself trembled when he saw the
king's agitated manner, "the countess wore these articles when she rode
out with me and ran away."

"Ran away? and--"

Baum laid his hand on his watch, and, although he could not see the
dial, he counted the seconds, nevertheless; after which he softly
answered:

"The countess drowned herself in the lake last night--no, it was night
before last. The boatman saw the body of a female rise on the waters
and sink again; and tomorrow, which is the third day, the lake will
give her up."

The king motioned him to stop--it was enough--his hand trembled; he
grasped the back of a chair to support himself, and stared at the hat
and shoes.

Baum dropped his eyes. He felt that the king's gaze was fixed upon him,
but he still kept looking on the floor, which seemed to be rising and
lifting the lackey to the level of the throne. In his mind's eye, he
already beheld himself at the king's side, and as the confidant of
royalty. Baum modestly inclined his head still lower. He heard the king
pacing the room, but still he did not look up.

"A downcast air," thought he, "betokens perfect obedience and
unqualified devotion." The king now stopped before him.

"How do you know it was suicide?"

"I don't know. If it is Your Majesty's pleasure, the countess was
drowned by others--"

"My pleasure? I? How?"

"I humbly beg Your Majesty's permission--may I tell all?"

"You must--!"

Summoning all his strength, Baum now said:

"Your Majesty, I found the shoes myself, but I got the hat from a man
who is fit to do anything--the gend'arme thinks--that it may perhaps be
good for the man--he might be pardoned at the end of a year and sent to
America--a brother of his--is said to be--there--"

"You speak incoherently."

Baum regained his self-command.

"She may have been murdered by some poacher. The worst of it all is
that she sent a letter to her majesty the queen."

"A letter to the queen! Where is it? Give it to me!"

"I haven't it, the maid snatched it from me."

The king sat down.

For a long while, not a sound was heard but the rapid ticking of the
clock that stood on the writing-table.

The king arose from his seat and walked up and down the room. Then he
came toward Baum, who felt as if the hour of judgment had come--as if
his life hung in the balance. He tried to loosen his cravat; it seemed
too tight for him. He almost felt as if a sword were passing through
him.

"Do you know what was in the letter to the queen?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Was it sealed?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And have you nothing more?"

"Yes, Your Majesty; I was almost obliged to use violence to get this
from the maid; and here, Your Majesty, there is something more. Beside
the shoes, there was a pool of blood, and on this little plant there
are drops of her blood."

A heart-rending cry of pain escaped the king; then, taking the letter
and the plant with him, he went into the adjoining room.

Baum remained standing there waiting.

In the next room, the king sat reading, with tearful eyes.

"She loved me intensely. She was great and beautiful," said he to
himself, with pale and trembling lips. His mind was filled with
thoughts of her beauty, her voice, her gait, and all her varied charms.
And were they all now dead?

The king looked at his hand; the hand which she had so fondly kissed.
He took up the letter again and once more read the words: "To my
friend." He knew not how it came about, but when he again became
conscious of himself, he was kneeling by the chair.

What was to come next?

He remembered that the lackey was waiting in the cabinet. The king felt
deeply humbled at the thought of his being obliged to take such a
creature into his confidence; but had not men of all kinds long known
of his crime? They knew of it, but were silent. A thousand eyes were
upon him, a thousand lips were speaking--and all were telling this
terrible story. The king looked about him, bewildered. He could
scarcely rise. And among the many thousands who had laid their hands in
his, and who looked up to him, there was one--Ah! how heavily her hand
and her glance now weighed upon him. And her lips; what might they say?

How was he now to approach the queen? If she only knew his deep
contrition, she would fall weeping on his neck; for she was divine
goodness itself. And yet, how had he acted toward her!

He was on the point of sending Irma's last words to the queen. He meant
to add some words expressive of his contrition--to lay bare his
thoughts and feelings. It is best, thought he to himself, not to act
precipitately, and when he was again on his feet, the consciousness of
strength returned. One must be able to fulfill the most difficult
duties, even that of repentance, without sacrificing dignity.

The king saw himself in the large mirror. He had forgotten that he was
in hunting costume, and started at the reflection of himself, as though
it were a stranger.

His face was pale, his eyes inflamed. He had shed tears for his friend,
and that was enough. What, with some natures, requires months or years,
great minds achieve in a few moments. Their years had become as ages.
It seemed to him as if the words: "The kiss of eternity," were being
wafted toward him on the air, and his mind was filled with memories of
that day in the atelier of the ball, and--

"It was given to thee to live the highest life and then die; to force
death to do your bidding. But I cannot do so. I do not live for myself
alone!" said he, apostrophizing his friend, and feeling as if a new
source of life flowed forth from the depths of his grief.

"And this is thy work," said an inner voice, while his thoughts were of
the dead. "In all that's good, your spirit will ever abide with me.
Without thee--I would confess it to God, were I now to appear before
him--I should never have discovered the deepest springs of my being. If
I only knew of some deed which could serve as a fit memorial of thy
life."

The king again remembered that the lackey was waiting for him. He felt
annoyed that there was not an hour he could call his own, in which to
calm his agitated feelings, and, for the first time in his life, it
flashed upon him: He who commands the services of others, has duties to
them, too. They lead a life of their own, extending beyond the time and
act of service.

The influence of Irma's last words seemed to hover over his soul like a
mist.

He returned to his cabinet. Baum was still standing where he had left
him, as silent and as quiet as if he were a chair or table.

"When did you leave there?" asked the king.

Baum told him all.

"You must be fatigued," said the king.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Well then, take a rest. Anything else you may know, you must tell no
one but myself--do you understand?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty. I thank you, humbly."

The king had drawn a large emerald ring from his finger, and, while he
turned it from side to side, the bright gem sparkled in the sunlight.

Baum thought that the king was about to bestow the ring upon him as a
mark of his favor, but his majesty put the ring on again, and asked:
"Are you married?"

"I was, Your Majesty."

"Have you any children?"

"An only son, Your Majesty."

"Very well. Hold yourself in readiness; I shall soon have further
orders for you."

Baum went out. While hurrying through the anteroom, he graciously
addressed the chamberlain with: "Pray don't rise!" There was no need
that any one should see what was plainly to be read in every line of
his face. The king had addressed him familiarly, and had even inquired
about his family. He was, at last, the confidant of royalty; the
highest honors now awaited him.

He went to his quarters in the side wing of the palace.

The king was alone. Naught was near him save Irma's hat and shoes. He
gazed at them for a long while. What a poem it would make--to bring to
the lover the shoes and the hat of his beloved--what a song it would be
to sing in the twilight. Such were his thoughts and yet his brain
whirled. With trembling hands, he took up the hat and shoes, and locked
up the tokens of death in his writing-desk.

The feather on the hat broke as he closed the door. A light was burning
on the writing-table. The king lit a cigar. When his eye fell on the
water-color portrait of the queen, he started. He went on smoking
violently.

It was not till some after that, that the king rang the bell and gave
directions that the lord steward should be called, but that no one else
should be admitted.



                              CHAPTER III.


When the lord steward entered, the king had recovered his self-command
and had settled upon the course he should pursue.

"Have you heard the terrible news?"

"I have, Your Majesty. The countess's maid has arrived; her mistress
was drowned in the lake."

"And--?" asked the king, when he found the lord steward paused.

"And it is also said that, after her father's death, the countess
neither saw nor spoke to any one. But she, nevertheless, wrote a few
words to the queen, with the request that Doctor Gunther should deliver
them."

"And was it done without previously informing me?"

The lord steward shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well; I know--" continued the king. "Is everything in readiness
for the hunt?"

"At Your Majesty's pleasure. The hunting party has been waiting for an
hour."

"I'm coming," said the king. "Send Doctor Sixtus to the lake and tell
him to take Baum with him, for he knows all about the affair. Let him
also take the notary with him, and tell him to see that the body, if
found, be suitably interred. I know that you will have everything
properly attended to; act on your own good judgment in the matter."

The king laid especial stress on the last words. Everything was to be
managed discreetly; every appearance of undue interest, on his part,
was to be avoided.

The king knit his brows, as if trying to think of something he had
forgotten. "One thing more," added he, hastily. "Go to the poor
countess's brother, and break the news to him as gently as you can.
Should he desire leave of absence, you may inform him that it is
granted for an indefinite time."

The king passed out through the anteroom and down the staircase. Rest
and quiet had been prescribed for the queen, and, in order to avoid
arousing her early in the morning, he had bade adieu to her the night
before.

The hunting party assembled in the palace yard greeted the king, who
graciously returned their salutation. In an instant, and as if by word
of command, the covers were removed from the carriage-horses.

"Colonel Bronnen," exclaimed the king, "come sit with me."

Bronnen bowed in respectful acknowledgment of the compliment, and
stepped up to the king's carriage. The gentlemen of the party, amazed
at the honor paid the colonel, got into their carriages. Bronnen had
bowed respectfully--for the highest honor of the day had been conferred
upon him--but there was a struggle within his heart. Had the king the
faintest idea that Bronnen felt himself the avenger of old Eberhard, or
that he was wrestling with himself as to whether or not he should take
up the vendetta? He started when he involuntarily touched the hanger at
his side. Was the royal carriage to be the scene of a tragedy, such as
history had never yet known? Had Irma vauntingly told the king that he
was a rejected suitor for her hand? and was he now to receive the alms
of sympathy?

The party drove on into the open country. The king was silent for a
long time. At last, he said:

"You were also a true friend of hers. There were few--indeed, there was
no one--who she honored and esteemed as she did you. Her constant wish
was that we should be more closely united."

Bronnen drew a long breath. There was no occasion for his saying
anything. The king offered him his cigar case.

"Ah, you don't smoke," he said.

There was another long pause, which was at last broken by the king's
asking:

"How long had you known Countess Irma?"

"From childhood. She was the friend of my cousin Emma, with whom she
was at the convent."

"It comforts me to be able to speak to you of our friend. You
understood her character. It was great, almost supernaturally so.
Suffer me to inherit your friendship for her."

"Your Majesty--" replied Bronnen with constrained composure; for his
heart was boiling with indignation at the man who had corrupted this
noble creature and had driven her to self-destruction. But his military
feeling of respect for his superiors held him in check.

"Ah, dearest Bronnen!" continued the king, "no death has ever affected
me so. Did she ever speak to you of death? She hated it. And yet, when
I look about me, all is life. When a great heart ceases to beat, the
whole world should pause, though it were but for a moment. What are we,
after all?"

"Each of us is but a small, limited portion of the world. Everything
about us has its due sphere of development and right. We are masters
only of ourselves, and how few of us can claim to be even that!"

The king looked at Bronnen in surprise. Every one has a sphere of
right--What could he have meant by it? Hastily collecting himself, the
king replied: "She might have used the very same words. I can easily
imagine how much you sympathized with each other. If I understand
rightly, you regard suicide as the greatest of crimes?"

"If that which is most unnatural is, therefore, the greatest crime, I
certainly do. 'Self-preservation is the first law of nature.' I shall
never forget a conversation I had with old Count Eberhard, last winter,
upon this very subject."

"Ah yes, you knew him. Was he really a great man?"

"He was a man of one idea, of grand one-sidedness. But perhaps this is
a necessary condition of greatness."

"When did you speak with Countess Irma for the last time?"

"After her father's death, when she had shut herself up in impenetrable
darkness. I spoke to her, but could not see her, although she extended
her hand to me. I believe that I am the last man who held her hand in
his."

"Then let me take your hand in mine!" exclaimed the king.

He held Bronnen's hand in his for a long time, until the latter said:

"Your Majesty, confession for confession.--I loved Irma!"

He spoke in a curt and bitter tone. The king hastily withdrew his hand.

"I see," continued Bronnen, gathering all his strength, "that the
countess has mentioned nothing of my suit. I thank her, even now, for
this proof of her noble, generous heart. Since she could not honestly
return my love, she frankly declined it."

"You? my dear Bronnen!" exclaimed the king, in a tone that betrayed his
painful agitation. He could not help thinking of the happy life which,
as the wife of this man, Irma might have led. "My poor friend!" he
added, in a voice full of feeling.

"Yes, Your Majesty, I have a right to mourn with you, and it seems as
if her powerful, all-embracing mind were still potent, and had caused
Your Majesty to call me to your side."

"I never dreamt of such a thing. If I had, I would not have inflicted
this pain upon you."

"And I thank Your Majesty for permitting me to share in your grief.
Because I share it with you, I am able to comfort you; that is, as far
as another can. Since Your Majesty is so frank with me, I must needs be
as frank in return."

The king was silent for a long time. Although Bronnen had opened his
heart to him, the immediate effect upon him was to rouse a deep feeling
of jealousy. He could not brook the thought that another had dared to
cast his eye upon Irma; aye, actually to woo her. She seemed no longer
entirely his own, since another had stretched out his hand toward her.

Bronnen waited for the king's answer. He could not understand what his
silence meant. Had the king repented of his frankness? Did it offend
him to find that another had placed himself on a level with him and
answered him frankly and fearlessly? The consciousness of royalty
trenches upon that of manhood, and perhaps it never happens that a
prince thinks of himself simply as a human being. Bronnen felt vexed at
the king's silence and averted looks. He could stand it no longer and,
at last, feeling that, at such a moment etiquette could be disregarded,
he said:

"I think that few men are great-minded enough to keep all knowledge of
their conquests to themselves."

This remark had a double meaning, and Bronnen would not have been
surprised if the king had turned upon him with a crushing reply. He
felt defiant and yet composed. The man to whom he had revealed his
soul's secret, must not act as if nothing had happened; he must answer
for himself.

The king still remained silent.

"Is Your Majesty not of my opinion?" asked Bronnen, trembling with
emotion.

The king turned toward him.

"You are my friend. I thank you, and when we reach Wolfswinkel, you
shall receive the highest proof of my confidence."

"There is something more which I think I ought to communicate to Your
Majesty."

"Proceed."

"I think I can see the connection between certain recent events. During
the late election for deputies, some friends of mine in the Highlands
thought of me. They knew of my sincere devotion to my constitutional
king."

The king's features betrayed the faintest expression of disgust, while
Bronnen continued calmly:

"I informed the voters that I would never accept an election which
would range me with the opposition. Count Eberhard was, therefore,
proposed on the very last day, and, to the great surprise of all,
accepted the nomination. In order to cast a stigma upon the father, the
friends of the present ministry--I am now giving Your Majesty facts,
not mere opinions--were not above introducing the relation between
Countess Irma and yourself into the canvass."

The king threw his cigar away, and quickly said:

"Go on; tell me more!"

"Count Eberhard was elected in spite of them. While I was at Wildenort,
to attend the funeral, I was informed that the first intimation he had
received of his daughter's position was conveyed to him at the meeting
of electors. On his way home, he received letters which affected him
deeply. Nay more, for I have inquired into the matter. I found this
piece of a torn letter on the road, and the laborer who worked there
told me that the count had torn up letters at the time mentioned."

Bronnen handed him a paper on which stood the words: "Your daughter has
fallen into disgrace, and yet stands in high grace as the king's
mistress."

"That may have been written by our saintly Hippocrates," muttered the
king to himself.

"I beg Your Majesty's pardon, but if you harbor the slightest suspicion
against Doctor Gunther, you do him injustice. I will stake my honor for
him, and time will show that I am right."

"Go on!" said the king impatiently. He felt displeased that Bronnen
could read his very thoughts, as it were, and understand what he had
only half muttered; and that, understanding it, he had not, as in duty
bound, ignored it. He was only to hear what was directly addressed to
him.

"On his return from the meeting," continued Bronnen, calmly, "Count
Eberhard was attacked by a paralytic stroke which deprived him of the
power of speech. During his last moments. Countess Irma was the only
one with him. She was heard to utter a terrible cry--when they entered
the room, she lay on the floor, and Count Eberhard was dead. Who knows
what may have happened there! But whatever it may have been, I feel
sure it was the cause that drove her to this terrible resolve."

"And what purpose does this ingenious combination serve?" asked the
king.

Bronnen looked at him with astonishment.

"Its only purpose is to aid in clearing up the mystery."

The long pause which followed Bronnen's remark added to its
impressiveness.

"Yes," said the king, resuming the conversation, "how much better it is
to clear up all things! That was just her own way of doing; so natural,
and yet so clear, so conscious, and yet so strong. Well be it so.
Bronnen, why should I conceal it? I may tell you everything. I loved
the countess. And now--I must say it, for the thought tortures me--I am
almost angry at her. Her suicide has imposed a heavy life-burden upon
me. I shall never, to the end of my days, be able to lay it aside. She
must have known how it would weigh me down. Tell me, frankly--I beg of
you, tell me--is this feeling not a justifiable one?"

"I am not addressing the king, now. I am speaking to the clear-headed,
warm-hearted man."

Bronnen paused. It shocked the king to find himself thus divested of
his inborn dignity. What would this stern man, whom he had ordered to
forget his rank, say?

"Speak on!" said the king, encouragingly.

"Then I shall speak frankly," began Bronnen, "as between man and man.
When you reproach yourself for feeling that your friend has aggrieved
you in imposing this life-burden upon you, it is simply a proof that
your true self has been deeply affected. What really torments you,
however, is the ghost of your own act. Although our friend, who
deserved so well of fate may, in a fine frenzy, have willingly
sacrificed herself, the stern truth still confronts you: you invaded,
nay destroyed, her sphere of right, and now you reap the inevitable
consequence of what was then begun. The ghost of your own actions
disturbs you and will continue to do so, until you perceive the truth.
Every human being has its own rights, presenting a barrier which no
one, however exalted his position, dare invade. When you fully realize
this in yourself, and by your knowledge of sin have overcome sin, then,
and not until then, will you be free--no matter what may have gone
before. Superstition uses the formula: 'All good spirits praise the
Lord,' with which to exorcise phantoms. Our good spirit is that inner
perception of truth to which we appeal, or rather to whose appeal we
give utterance."

There was a long pause. Bronnen's face glowed with excitement. The king
was chilly, and wrapped himself in his mantle. His eyes were closed. At
last he sat up and said:

"I thank her; she has given me a friend, a true man. You will remain to
me."

The king's voice was hoarse. He wrapped his mantle yet more closely
about him, lay back in the corner of the carriage, and closed his eyes.
Not another word was uttered until they reached the hunting-seat. The
king told his suite that he felt unwell and would not take part in the
hunt. The rest of the party plunged into the forest, while the king
remained alone with Bronnen.



                              CHAPTER IV.


It was after breakfast. The queen, attended by the ladies of the court,
was in the music room.

The first mist of early autumn obscured the landscape, and the morn
gave promise of a lovely, bracing day.

Various journals were lying before the queen. She pushed them away,
saying:

"How terrible these newspapers are! What license! This sheet is usually
so unobjectionable; but even here it is stated that Count Wildenort
died of grief because of the conduct of his unmarried daughter. Can
such things be permitted? Was such a thing ever heard of--Ah, dear
councilor!" added she, addressing her private secretary, "there's a
sealed letter for Countess Irma on my desk upstairs. Let a messenger
take it to her at once. If she could only be kept in ignorance of these
terrible newspapers stories; I hope she may, at all events."

The ladies of the court were engaged with their embroidery. They
replied their needles more nimbly than before and did not look up from
their work.

Countess Brinkenstein was called away. After some time she returned,
accompanied by the doctor.

"Ah, welcome!" cried the queen.

At a sign from Countess Brinkenstein, the ladies retired.

"How charming! you've come just in the nick of time," said the queen. "I
am just about to send off a letter for Countess Irma; you might add a
few kind words."

"Your Majesty, Countess Irma will not be able to read your letter of
condolence."

"Why not?"

"The countess is--very ill."

"Very ill? You say it in such a--not dangerously, I hope?"

"I fear so."

"Doctor! your voice--what is it? The countess is not--"

"Dead--!" said the doctor, covering his face with his bands.

For a few moments there was breathless silence in the great hall. At
last the queen exclaimed:

"Dead! Was it grief at her father's death?"

The doctor nodded affirmatively.

The flower-table which Irma had painted stood by the queen's side. The
queen looked at it for a long while. At last, completely forgetting
those about her--her gaze still fixed upon the table which, now that
she was weeping bitterly, was wet with her tears--she cried out, in
heart-rending accents:

"Oh, how beautiful she was; how radiant her eyes, how bright her
glance, how musical her voice! Her singing was like the warbling of the
lark! And all this beauty, all this love and goodness is no more! I
would love to see her, even in death. She must be beautiful, a very
image of peace. And you say that she died of grief at her father's
death; of a broken heart? Was it one great, convulsive throb of feeling
that broke her ardent, noble heart? Oh, my sister--for I loved her as
such--forgive me that even the shadow of doubt--Oh, my sister!--the
lovely flowers on this table were conjured up by your hand--And you are
faded, withered, decayed! You were lovelier than any flower! I can
still see your eye, as it followed every stroke of the pencil. You
meant to give me undying flowers, and as an undying flower you shall
dwell in my heart."

Her tears fell on the marble flower-table. A little dog came up to her
and she said:

"She decked you, too, with flowers. It was on my birthday. She sought
to adorn everything that met her eye. And you loved her, too, poor
Zephyr? every creature loved her, and now she's dead." She wept in
silence for some time.

"May I wear mourning for my friend?" she inquired, looking up at
Countess Brinkenstein.

"Your Majesty, it is not the custom for the queen to go into mourning
alone."

"Of course; we are not alone. No, never! All must mourn with us; there
must needs be a mourning livery."

She had spoken harshly, and now offered her hand to Countess
Brinkenstein, as if in apology, and inquired:

"When is she to be buried, and where? I should like to lay the most
beautiful garland upon her grave. I will go to her myself, and my tears
shall drop upon her pale face. So fair a life, and so sudden an end!
Can it be possible? I must go to her!"

Her eyes seemed fixed on vacancy, while she asked:

"Has the king gone hunting?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"He, too, will weep, for he loved her as if she were his sister. I know
it."

The look which Countess Brinkenstein now gave the doctor seemed to say:
"I never gave the queen credit for so much tact and self-command. How
naturally she acts, while trying to make us believe that she never knew
or suspected that aught was wrong."

"I will go to her!" suddenly exclaimed the queen. "No one shall prevent
it. I will go to her and stand by her coffin, by her grave."

Countess Brinkenstein stared at the queen.

The doctor approached and said:

"Your Majesty cannot see the countess. Grief for her father's death
affected her mind--"

"Then she's not dead?"

"The countess has undoubtedly drowned herself in the lake."

The queen cast a look of horror at the doctor. She attempted to speak,
but could not. Gunther added:

"She has not left us without a farewell; she left a letter, which I am
to deliver to Your Majesty. It must surely be intended to atone for the
frightful tidings; even in her last moments, she was true to her
affectionate nature."

The queen stared at Gunther vacantly. She tried to rise, but could not.
She mutely motioned him to give her the letter. Gunther handed it to
her.

The queen read it and turned pale as a corpse. Her features grew rigid;
her hands fell to her side, as if palsied; her eyes closed, an
expression as of death lay on her lips. Presently, she shook as if in a
chill, and then her face became flushed, as if burning. She sprang to
her feet and exclaimed:

"No! no! Have you done this? Could you act thus, Irma? You--"

She fell back in her chair, covered her face with both hands, and
exclaimed:

"And she kissed my child, and he kissed it! Oh, they kissed that which
was purest of all, well knowing how impure their own lips were. They
talked in the loftiest strain, and yet the words did not cut their
tongues like sharp knives! Oh, how disgusting! How disgusting, how
tainted everything seems! How I loathe myself! And he dared to tell me
that a prince could have no private actions, for his deeds are an
example to others. Shame! shame! Everything is vile, everything is
despicable! Everything!"

She looked around, bewildered. She was as terrible in her indignation
as she had been beautiful in her grief.

With vacant gaze she regarded every object that had once met Irma's
eye, and when her glance again fell upon the flower-table, she turned
away with a convulsive start, as if serpents had darted from the
flowers. Again she exclaimed:

"Oh, how loathsome! Oh, how vile, how disgusting! I beg of you, leave
me alone! May I not be alone?"

"Let me remain with Your Majesty," said the Doctor, taking her hand,
which hung as if lifeless at her side.

Countess Brinkenstein withdrew.

For a long while, the queen did not speak a word. She seemed to be
staring at vacancy, breathed heavily and would, at times, start
convulsively. She was suddenly seized with a chill, and fell back
insensible.

The doctor bathed her forehead and wrists with a few drops of some
restorative, and then called her maid. Accompanied by the latter, he
conducted the queen to her apartments, and ordered that she should be
put to bed.

"I shall never again see the light of day, nor a human face; and
he--and he!" cried she; then she forced her lace handkerchief into her
mouth and tore it to pieces with her teeth.

She lay thus for some time, the doctor sitting silently by her bedside.

At length she heaved a deep sigh, opened her eyes, and said:

"I thank you, but I would like to sleep."

"Yes, do so," said the doctor. He was about to leave, but she called to
him:

"One word more. Does the king know--?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And he went to the hunt?"

"He is king, Your Majesty."

"I know, I know!--Anything to avoid creating a sensation. Yes, yes."

"I beg of you, Your Majesty, don't think now. Don't worry about
anything. Try to sleep."

"We can give ourselves the sleep eternal, but not temporal sleep."

"I entreat you. Your Majesty; don't give way to this violent
excitement; do try to sleep."

"I will, I will. Good-night! Give me a sleeping draught, a drop of
forgetfulness. Poison were better! Good-night!"

The doctor withdrew, but, by a faint gesture, signified to Madame
Leoni, the woman in waiting, that he should remain in the next room.



                              CHAPTER V.


It was silent and lonely at the hunting-seat in the Highlands. The
walls of the great hall were hung with antlers; a stuffed boar's head
stared from over the entrance. A bright fire was burning on the large
hearth, for here among the mountains it was already cold. The king sat
before the fire, staring at the blazing embers. The flames,
intertwining, would leap on high, like so many tongues of fire. The
king left his chair several times, but soon sat down again.

Under the antlers hung tablets marking the year and date of each hunt.
A long line of ancestors had contributed to these proofs of victory. If
all the guns that had been used in achieving these triumphs were to be
fired off at the same moment; if, in addition to this, every horn that
had been blown, every dog which had barked, and every creature that had
cheered, were to find voice, the din thus produced could not be more
confusing or bewildering than the thoughts which jostled each other in
the head that now rested upon the king's hands.

He arose from his seat and read some of the inscriptions on the wall.
He could boast of a mighty ancestry. They were of a lusty and powerful
race, and while indulging in the pleasures of the chase and the social
board, would speedily have forgotten an adventure like the one that now
unnerved him.

Have we become weaker, pettier, more timid?

The king seated himself again and gazed at the fire. He was angry with
himself, and yet could not master his weakness.

We are not like the men of the olden time, with their rude simplicity
and fearless disregard of consequences. Why have we not inherited the
strength of our ancestors, instead of mere pride in their power?

What has happened?

Unfaithfulness cannot be blotted out, nor can the dead be called back
to life.

The memory of the days passed in intoxicating happiness rose up before
him, as if to say: It dare not, it cannot be.

Has she a right, while destroying her life, to destroy mine, too? And
she has destroyed it. Her death will ever remain an inseparable part of
myself. I bear a corpse about with me. The guilt of murder dwells
within my heart!

He suddenly held his hands before the fire, for they were cold. The
flames burned brightly, but they did not warm his hands, and his heart
seemed freezing.

Is Bronnen right in refusing to see anything in this terrible affair
but the inevitable results of my actions?

He uttered a short laugh, for it had suddenly occurred to him that the
world would present a wondrous chaos of bloodshed and murder, if every
similar misstep were to produce like result. How many thousands--

A few words uttered on a lovely morning and during happy times, floated
through his mind. It was like suddenly recollecting a long forgotten
melody. It was scarcely more than a year ago, that the queen had said,
while sitting under the weeping ash: "He who commits a wrong sins for
himself, and as deeply as if it were the first time the sin were ever
committed."

Ah! why is it that our actions fall so far short of our ideal?

The king was still gazing into the fire. The image of his wife, fading
from his mind, was replaced by that of the friend, whom, in fancy, he
followed to the bottom of the lake.

He hastily arose, opened the window, inhaled the bracing mountain air
and looked out into the dark night.

There, wrapped in slumber, lies the world, the palace with its rich and
varied life, your wife, your child; and beyond, as far as the eye can
reach, the rich land over which you rule. And while millions of beings
cry to you in their hour of need, are you to be dragged down by one
mortal?

The king turned round, with the intention of sending for Bronnen.

It is not well to give one's-self up to solitude and the company of
evil spirits.

And yet he hesitated. From out of the darkness, there rose a demon with
a thousand glittering, cunning eyes. He had known him from youth and
his name was--distrust. Who knows that this gentleman, with his
high-sounding phrases, is not availing himself of your humility and the
tender mood which has unmanned you, for his own selfish ends? for all
men are selfish, especially when dealing with royalty. He means to rule
me and, through me, the country. Who knows whether he ever loved her or
declared his passion to her. She neither could nor would have dared
conceal that from me. The story was a ready invention of his, intended
to make him my companion in grief. But I know no companion. I will have
none. If I cannot do all by myself, I am not a king, and if I am not a
king, what am I? No, my wise and noble-hearted gentleman--

An inner voice admonished him that it was wrong to judge Bronnen as he
judged other men, but he would not listen to it. He drew himself up as
if conscious of his power and dignity. Suddenly, a sound from the
forest broke upon his ear. It was the first wild, mournful cry of the
stag. The huntsman in him was now aroused. His hand quickly sought his
weapon, but the thought vanished with the swiftness of the stag's
flight through the forest, and gave way to another that raised a smile
on the king's countenance. The stag, thought he, was crying to him.
Nature knows nothing of such unfaithfulness as that with the thought of
which you are now tormenting yourself. The laws of nature do not
recognize unfaithfulness; it is simply a violent and arbitrary creation
of man. But neither does nature's law recognize a king, or the right of
any creature to rule others of the same species. But it is not nature
alone that directs human life. There is also another law that dwells
within man. At the birth of each beast, the law of its life seems born
anew. Man, however, inherits that which has gone before, for he has a
history. And a king more than all others--

The king stood there in silence for a long time. Feeling chilled again,
he closed the window and sat down before the fire in which the embers
were still burning. Although he found it irksome to be alone, he yet
forced himself to remain so.

The fire was still flickering, and now and then a sharp tongue of flame
would dart forth. The king's hand still clasped the silver handle of
the tongs long after the fire had ceased to burn. For the first time in
his life, he felt conscious of a void within himself--a void which
could not be filled. What could it be? Hunting or drilling, jesting or
commanding, loving or ruling, none of these filled the aching void.
What could it be? this constant unrest, this longing for something that
was yet to come.

He had spent a happy youth. The free tone at his father's court had not
affected him. He had lived in an ideal world. He was on his travels and
far away from home, when the sudden news of his father's death reached
him. He had hardly arrived at man's estate, when he was called to the
throne. Others might test their affections, might choose--his consort
had been selected for him--there was no wooing; a throne, a country, a
wife were given to him. His wife was graceful and pretty. He was fond
of her, and she loved him intensely. Suddenly Irma entered their
circle, and the husband, the father, the king, became seized with
ardent love. And now she was dead, destroyed by her own rash deed.

Is it still possible for you to subordinate yourself to the law?

You have submitted to it reluctantly, as if it were a clog and a
fetter; but it is not submission to the law the highest, aye, the only
source of indestructible power? Yes, there is an eternal law that binds
you to your wife and to your people; in that alone dwells the life
eternal.

He was filled with the thought. It was like a deliverance; like the
first free breathing of the convalescent. He could not fully grasp the
idea, and yet it seemed to him as if he must cry aloud: I am free! free
and yet in accord with the law.

He rose quickly. He meant to send for Bronnen, but restrained himself.
He had wrestled with himself and would now bear this within himself. He
felt as if the aching void, the restless longing for change, had
suddenly been filled. He pressed his hand to his throbbing heart.

He rang the bell and sent word to Bronnen that he might retire. He sent
his body-servant away and retired to his room alone.

Bronnen had been waiting for hours, expecting to be sent for at any
moment, and was now busy conjecturing why this had not been done.

Could Irma's death have had more than a mere passing influence upon the
king, or had it really helped to reconcile him with the law of life?
What proof of his confidence did the king mean to bestow upon him? And
when Bronnen had waited for hours, without receiving a message from the
king, he could not repress a feeling of resentment. Who could tell?
Perhaps the king had forgotten him? He had joined him for a while in a
plaintive duet; but now all was over. That piece had been played and,
as with a concert programme, a new one was to come.

One of old Eberhard's sayings occurred to him: "When you are not in the
presence of royalty," were the old man's words, "it esteems you as
little better than the servants who wait out in the vestibules, or on
the steps, with warm mantles for their masters. They go on playing,
dancing, laughing and jesting; but which of them stops to think of
those who are waiting outside, who have aching legs and are overcome
with sleep. But, nevertheless, there you must be, and that without a
murmur."

He felt a touch of Eberhard's deep scorn. He, too, was a servant, who,
while waiting in the ante-chamber, had been forgotten by his master.

When, at a late hour, the king sent him word that he might retire, he
nodded his thanks. He has remembered you after all, thought he to
himself. Many thanks. Of course they would be less ashamed of a
companion in crime.



                              CHAPTER VI.


The mountains were still covered with the mists of morning, when the
king sent for Colonel Bronnen. The latter entered with a respectful
air. The king advanced toward him and said:

"Good-morning, dear Bronnen!" His voice was hoarse; he looked pale and
unrefreshed. He took a sheet of paper from the table and said:

"There is the proof that I promised you. Read it." Bronnen read it and
looked at the king in astonishment.

"Do you know the handwriting?" asked the king. "I do not recognize the
handwriting, but the great mind seems familiar. I believe--"

"You are right--they are the last words that our lost friend left for
me."

With a certain air of solemnity, Bronnen again placed the letter upon
the table. He did not venture to say a word.

"Be seated; I see that you are agitated."

"Certainly, Your Majesty; but, in spite of everything, these lines only
confirm my presentiment."

"Your presentiment?"

"Yes, Your Majesty; a presentiment that Countess Irma is not dead."

"Not dead? and why?"

"I know not what to say, but the proofs that were found in the lake and
on the shore serve rather to confirm than refute my theory. They are
too complete--"

"You loved our friend, I believe it," said the king; "but you did not
fully understand her. Countess Irma was incapable of deceit; and have I
not told you that boatmen saw the body of a woman floating in the
lake?"

"Who knows what they may have seen? Nothing has been found as yet."

"On what do you base your presentiments?"

"It is fully consistent with my exalted opinion of that great woman, to
conceive of her having withdrawn to some convent, in order to leave
Your Majesty free. Yea, free and true."

"Free and true," said the king, repeating the words to himself. "You
utter words which seem irreconcilable, and yet they must be reconciled.
Bronnen, you mean to show me a new life-path, and to remove the corpse
that obstructs the way, so that, relieved of my burden, I may pass on.
But I have strength to listen to the whole truth, and to decline all
soothing deceit."

"Your Majesty, I have addressed you in all frankness, and with an utter
disregard of all other considerations."

The king nodded gently, and Bronnen added:

"Be that as it may, these lines are the utterance of a great soul, and
the realization of these thoughts is an end worth dying for. Now, Your
Majesty, the weight must be lifted from your soul. Your friend's death
or disappearance has not imposed a burden upon you; it has liberated
you. For the sake of our country and the realization of the highest
laws, she has departed."

"Free and true," said the king again, in a low voice. "I would like,
this very day, to change the legend on my coat of arms and replace it
with those words. But I will prove--and to you alone do I confess it--I
will prove that they dwell within me! Yes, my friend, I read those
lines many a time during the night. When they first appealed to me
yesterday, I did not understand them; but now I do. Let us, as long as
we live, quietly celebrate the memory of this day. You uttered an
expression yesterday that startled, nay, offended me."

"Your Majesty!"

"Calm yourself. You see we are friends. I promise you never again to
allow my displeasure to last over night."

"What expression?"

"It was 'constitutional king'; and while, last night, I read this
letter again and again, that phrase was ever between the lines. Can one
be a sovereign and yet subject to the law? Mark me, Bronnen; if I were
in the presence of Eternal God, I could not open my heart more freely.
This expression of yours and our friend's appeal aroused me. Can I
remain a sovereign, a complete man and king, and at the same time be
fettered? At last I understood it. She says: 'Be one with the law, with
your wife and your people.' Is there free love in marriage? Can there
be a free king in a constitutional government! There lies the
difficulty. But I have conquered it. Fidelity is love awakened to
itself. The life I lead, my crown, my wife, indeed all that I possess,
became mine by virtue of my rank. Last night, I earned the right to
call them mine. To be able, in all moods, to hold fast to what has,
heretofore, only been the result of impulse; to infuse new life into
one's actions, and to feel that they are in accord with one's self--Ah,
you can have no idea of the spirits I wrestled with; but I conquered at
last. 'Free and true,' is my motto for evermore."

Bronnen was deeply agitated, and, in his enthusiasm, rushed toward the
king.

"I have never bent the knee to human being, but now I should like to--"

"No, my friend," cried the king. "Come to my heart. Let us, holding
fast to one another, act and work together. I will prove that a king
can act freely, and that his freedom and his friendship are something
more than a mere fairy ideal. Yesterday, I felt as if you were my
father-confessor. It does me good to say this. I have come to know that
the man whose hand and heart are impure is unfit to labor for the
highest and noblest ends. There is no greatness which is not based on
true morality, and, in uttering these words, I utter a verdict upon my
past life. I am not ashamed to acknowledge to you, what I have already
said to myself. And now let us, as men, consider what is best to be
done."

Bronnen's countenance seemed illumined with a ray of purest joy.

"A bright, unclouded spirit is with us."

"Let her memory be held in honor."

"I do not mean her," said Bronnen. "When I spoke to Count Eberhard, he
said: 'Honor pledges us to morality; fame, still more so; and power,
most of all.'"

The king and Bronnen discussed many other topics. With his friend, the
king could frankly and unreservedly show the change which had taken
place in him. But with the world, the court, and the country at large,
it behooved him to avail himself of more gradual methods. A king dare
not publicly repent.

Bronnen was, in secret, appointed prime minister.

They remained at the hunting-seat and joined in the chase. They deemed
it best to postpone their return to court long enough to permit certain
matters to settle themselves in the mean while.



                              CHAPTER VII.


"His Majesty desires me to assure you of his sincere sympathy, and to
say that if you wish to go away in order to arrange your family
affairs, to pursue investigations at the lake, or to divert your
thoughts by travel, you are at liberty to do so. Leave of absence, for
an indefinite period, will be sent after you."

These were the words with which the lord steward, who had been sent to
inform Bruno of his sister's death, concluded his message. He pressed
Bruno's hand, kissed him on both cheeks, and left.

As soon as he was out of doors the lord steward fanned himself with his
pocket-handkerchief. The dread task which had fallen to his lot had
greatly agitated him, but still he could not help admitting that Bruno
had received the terrible news with great composure.

While the lord steward remained in the room, Bruno had sat on a sofa in
the corner covering his face with his handkerchief, and listening
quietly and patiently to it all, as if it were the news of some
strange, remote event that in no way affected him.

But now he was alone again. He sat silent for awhile, unconsciously
playing with a scented note which he had received a little while
before.

Suddenly, he sprang from his seat as if crazed, seized a chair and
broke it. This seemed to do him good. Then, as if possessed by a demon,
he threw himself on the floor and lay there, raving, writhing, and
screaming fearfully.

The servant entered and, finding his master lying on the floor, lifted
him up.

"I'm ill!" said he. "No, I'm not ill! I won't be ill! Go at once to
chamberlain Von Ross or to intendant Von Schoning, and request one of
those gentlemen to come to me directly. If my wife inquires for me, say
that I've gone out with the master of the household."

The servant went away and Bruno stood at the window, looking out into
the street. The mist had disappeared and now revealed the park in all
its beauty. The gardener was removing the pots that contained faded
flowers, and replacing them with fresh ones. Arabella's pet greyhound
was sitting on the gravel path; it looked up at its master and, in
token of its joy, jumped about and ran around the arbor.

Although Bruno saw it all, he was thinking of something quite
different.

"Ha ha!" he laughed, "I never thought that this world was anything but
an empty farce. He who frets away an hour is a fool. Now I am quite
free," said he, drawing himself up; "quite free. Now there is no one on
earth for whom I need care. World, I am free and alone! And now for
seventy years to come, give me all thy pleasures! Thou canst not harm
me! I trample everything under foot!"

He stopped to listen--but no one came.

Bruno had always lived in society, but had never passed any time in the
society of his own thoughts. Now, when he was lonely and in mourning
they came to him--neglected-looking companions with an eager air and
merry glances--and cried: "Leave it all; come with us! Let us be merry!
What avails your grieving? You will be old before your time."

He stood before a mirror, and they said to him: "See how horrible you
look."

He could not rid himself of his companions. They played merry dances;
they jingled their gold and cried: "va banque"; they rattled the
glasses and showed him voluptuous and seductive forms, and he could
hear rude and wanton laughter. They filled the room; they seized him
and wanted to dance about with him; but he stood firm, clenching his
fists and unable to go. And then they cried to him: "We know you! You
are a silly boy and care for what the world thinks. You have no
courage! Cheer up! Let them taunt you, but be merry, nevertheless. The
day you lose in fretting, no one can ever give back to you. Fie! at
this begging for sympathy! Go about and say: 'I'm a poor man, my
father's dead and my sister drowned herself.' Get some one to make a
song for you, and another to paint a little sign, and wander about from
fair to fair, asking for an alms. Fie! fie! You must do one thing or
the other: despise the world, or let it pity you. Which do you choose?
How often have you said: 'I despise the world'--and what makes you
afraid? You are sitting there, and would like to go out; who closes the
door? who has tied your horse's feet? You are alone. The dear friends,
the kind-hearted beings, the sympathizing souls, will come and say: 'Be
firm; be a man; conquer your grief!' And what will the dear souls do
for you? They will give you the alms of sympathy and then leave you in
solitude, while they go their way in search of pleasure. As long as
there is playing, dancing, drinking, they are true and enduring
friends; but no feast will be put off for your sake, nothing will be
changed. If you mean to enjoy the world you must despise mankind. They
merely say to you: 'Be a man'--but be one."

His thoughts worked him into a frenzy. The next few days seemed a
yawning unfathomable abyss staring him in the face. All was empty,
void, hollow, joyless, consuming solitude.

He was at last released, for the servant entered and announced the
intendant.

They had not been great friends, but now Bruno embraced the intendant
as if he were the only friend he had in the world, and lay on his neck
sobbing and begging him not to abandon him to solitude. He raged and
raved and, with a strange mixture of blasphemy and mockery, reviled his
fate. "Oh, the terrible days that await me!" he exclaimed vehemently.

"Time heals all wounds," said the intendant.

"But to pass weeks, aye months, in mourning!" cried Bruno again.

The intendant started. He had received an insight into this man's
character. What grieved him most was the long period during which he
would have to seem to be in mourning.

It could not have happened at a more unfavorable time.

Bruno had entered two of his best horses for the races which were to
come off in a few days. He had intended to ride Zuleika himself in a
trotting match, and, for the great hurdle race, he had carefully
trained Fitz, his groom. The name was really Fritz, but Fitz sounded
better. Fitz, Baum's son, was a thorough rascal, in whom his father
took great pride. His future was assured, for there was no doubt that
if Fitz did not break his limbs, he would be the first jockey in the
stables. He sat his horse like a cat, and it was impossible to throw
him.

The weather was charming. There were just enough clouds to shield one
from the burning rays of the sun, and during the night there had been a
gentle rain which had improved the course. Fitz, in his green and white
suit, would surely win the first prize. Bruno was not a little proud of
Fitz's livery. He had, as it were, divided him in two, from the crown
of his head to his feet his dress was grass-green on the right and
snow-white on the left. What a pity that there are but seven cardinal
colors, thus affording so little chance to indulge one's love of
variety. But still, persistence can accomplish much, and while Bruno
held his handkerchief before his face, he smiled at the thought of Fitz
with one boot green and the other white.

"Of course, I shan't ride," he said to the intendant. "Do you think I
ought to allow my jockey to do so? I may do that; may I not?" he
hastily added, as if fearing a negative reply. "They would think it
mean of me, if I didn't. I have a large amount staked on the race. I
shall let Fitz ride. Yes, I must; there's no harm in that." He had
scarcely finished speaking, when Fitz entered the room. In a harsh
voice Bruno told him to go away. He was determined to act as though he
had forgotten all about the races. That would prove his sorrow far more
effectually than if he were to withdraw his engagement. He would submit
to the fine for non-appearance, and the world would thus perceive that
his grief was deep enough to make him forget everything.



                             CHAPTER VIII.

The intendant sat on the sofa with Bruno. He held Bruno's hand in
his--it was hot with fever.

Now that he had found the key to Bruno's character and present mood, he
knew what was meant when the mourner exclaimed:

"I know how it is in the world. To-day and to-morrow there is hunting
at Wolfswinkel; and day after to-morrow, the races. I am only surprised
that I didn't forget everything in that one hour. His excellency Von
Schnabelsdorf is now 'intellectualizing' with the handsome wife of
ambassador Von N----. After that comes guard-mounting, and, this
evening, there will be a _banque_ at Prince Arnold's.--Ah! the world
goes on in its beaten track. If I could only forget it; for it forgets
me.--Who has a thought for the solitary mourner? Oh, forgive me, my
beloved, my only friend in this world. You will stay with me. You will
never, never leave me. Don't leave me alone, or I shall go mad?"

The intendant felt sincere pity for the poor man. He had been invited
to dine with the master of the horse, and merely wished to leave for a
few moments in order to present his excuses in person. But Bruno would
not permit him to go, and induced him to send his excuse in writing.

"Of course I'll stay with you," said the intendant consolingly. "At
such moments, the presence of a friend is like a light in the night,
obliging or, at all events, enabling one to see surrounding objects; it
teaches us that the world has not yet ceased to exist, and that we do
wrong to bury ourselves in solitude."

"Oh, you understand me! Tell me what to do, what to begin? I know
nothing. I am like a child that has lost its way in the dark woods."

"Yes, that you are."

Bruno started. The intendant's confirmation of his opinion of himself
rather displeased him.

"I am so weak now," said he. "Just think of what I've had to suffer
during the last few days."

There was a strange mixture of gentleness and bitterness in his tone.

"May I smoke?" he asked.

"Certainly. Do anything that pleases you."

"Ah, no, nothing pleases me. And yet I should like to smoke."

He lit a cigar.

The world had, however, not quite forgotten him, as he had said in his
anger. A visitor was announced. He hurriedly put the cigar away. The
world was not to see him smoking, and was not to imagine that he was
unfeeling, or that he did not mourn for his father and sister.

There were many visitors, and Bruno was again and again obliged to
display his grief and to accept the sympathy offered him. He now saw
how the rumor of Irma's death had spread throughout the city, from the
palace to the hovel. People whom he hardly knew, and others who were
even ill-disposed toward him, came. He was obliged to receive all
politely, to thank them, and to accept their assurances of sympathy,
while he fancied he could detect malicious pleasure in many an eye. But
he was obliged to ignore this and, although now and then a nervous
twitching of his features almost betrayed him, he managed to keep up
the semblance of all-absorbing grief.

His companions in pleasure also visited him, and it was quite curious
to witness the grave air which the young cavaliers assumed, now and
then casting a glance at the great mirror in order to see whether the
serious expression became them well.

It seemed almost comical to think that the man who was always the
merriest in the party, and who could make the best and most unequivocal
jokes, should now be so downcast. They seated themselves; they
straddled the chairs and rested their arms on the backs; they lit their
cigars, and much was said of their respective "papas."

"My papa has been dead this two years."

"My papa is ill."

"My papa intends to retire on his pension."

Some one asked: "Bruno, how old was your father?"

He did not know, but answered at a venture:

"Sixty-three."

They also spoke of the races; at first cautiously and almost in a
whisper, but afterward in a loud voice. They spoke of Baron
Wolfsbuchen's great loss.

"What happened to him?"

"Fatima, his splendid black mare, wouldn't obey him, and he struck her
over the mouth with his sword. He had forgotten that the blade was
sharp."

They spoke of the loss that he had incurred by forfeiting the stakes,
and of the damage done his horse; but no one found fault with his
cruelty.

At last his comrades left. As soon as they were out of doors, they
stretched themselves. "Well, well; that's over." A visit of condolence
is a sort of funeral parade, and one's words are like muffled drums.
Before they left the carpeted staircase, they began to whisper scandal,
and to tell that Bruno had forbidden his mother-in-law to come to the
capital, as their majesties had been gracious enough to stand as
sponsors to his young scion. The whole party concluded to lunch
together, and have some wine. There were merry goings on at the French
restaurant, and Bruno was often the topic of conversation.

"He will be enormously rich, for he inherits a double share."

"If he had known as much a year ago, who knows whether he would have
married Steigeneck. His debts were not so heavy but that he could have
held out for another year."

"He also inherits his sister's jewels, and they are of immense value."

As if he were two beings in one, the one here and the other there,
Bruno's thoughts followed the companions who had left him.

He surmised what they were saying, and once started as if he had heard
laughing behind him. It was nothing, however, but his sister's parrot,
which he had ordered to be brought into his anteroom. He had it taken
back to Irma's apartment, as he did not know whether it really belonged
to her, and its eternal "God keep you, Irma," annoyed him.

He walked about the room for a long while, with his thumbs stuck into
his closely buttoned coat, and his fingers playing a merry but
inaudible tune upon his breast. The visits of condolence really annoyed
him. It is so irksome to put on a sorrowful look, to listen to words of
consolation, to offer thanks for sympathy, while all is a lie or, at
most, an empty form-- It is simply one's duty to express sympathy with
the afflicted. Perhaps people regret that they cannot, in such cases,
send their empty carriages, as they do at funerals-- Is it not enough
to let the world know what that the grief was great and general, and
that the funeral was a large one? These were Bruno's angry and
ill-natured thoughts. "Then they go off," thought he, "the young and
the old, in uniform and in citizen's dress, twisting their mustaches
and stroking their chins, with a self-complacent air, while they say to
themselves: 'You've done a good deed; you are a man of politeness and
feeling--' and when they get home they tell their wives and daughters:
'The king's aid-de-camp is thus and so--' and then they eat and drink
and drive out, and when they reach the house they say: 'We ought to
feel satisfied when everything goes well with us, and our family
escapes misfortune.' They use the misfortunes of others as they would a
platform, from which to get a better view of their own prosperity."
Bruno's fingers moved yet more quickly than before--death, grief,
sickness were intended for the lower orders, and not for the higher
classes. The world is miserably arranged after all, since there is no
preservative against such ills, and since one cannot purchase immunity
from them.

His excellency Von Schnabelsdorf also came. Bruno hated him at heart,
for it was he who had invented the sobriquet of "Miss Mother-in-law"
for Baroness Steigeneck, the whilom dancer. Bruno, however, felt
obliged to act as if he knew nothing of it, to take his hand in the
most polite and grateful manner, and to receive a kiss from the lips
which had put a stigma upon his family; for Von Schnabelsdorf stood
highest at court, and Bruno could not do without his friendship, which
was doubly necessary, now that his main support, his sister, had been
taken from him.

Thus Bruno felt annoyed at the visits of condolence he received, as
well as at those which were withheld. The world was considerate enough
to refrain from alluding to anything more than Irma's sudden and
unfortunate death; how she was thrown from her horse and fell into the
lake. The vice-master of the horse maintained that Pluto had never
properly been broken in. Bruno, himself, behaved as if he really
believed that Irma had met with her death by accident.

But it seemed as if he delighted to picture to himself the scene of the
suicide, and to think of Irma at the bottom of the lake, held fast to
the rocks by her long hair. He could not banish the awful picture, and
at last threw open the window, so that he might divert himself with
external objects.

Bruno did not care to eat or drink anything; the intendant could only
induce him to take some food, by ordering dinner for himself. Bruno
felt obliged to sit down with him, and, at every mouthful, he said: "I
can't eat." At last, however, he ordered some champagne.

"I must build a fire in my engine!" said he, gnashing his teeth, while
he thrust the bottle into the wine-cooler. "I derive as little pleasure
from this as the engine does from the coals."

He drank down the wine hastily, and went on eating with a woe-begone
expression, as if he would, at any moment, burst into tears.

He ordered more champagne.

"Did you see that?" said he, looking out of the window. His eyes were
inflamed. "There's Kreuter, the merchant, riding Count Klettenheim's
chestnut gelding. They must have played high last night, that the count
should give up his horse; why, it's the pride of his life, his honor.
What is Klettenheim without his gelding. A mere cipher, a double zero.
Ah, my dear friend, excuse me! I am feverish, I am ill. But I won't be
ill! I shall say nothing more. Go on; say whatever you please."

The intendant had nothing to say. He felt as ill-at-ease as if he were
shut up in a dungeon with a maniac.

"I wish to speak with lackey Baum," cried Bruno suddenly. The intendant
was obliged to dispatch a telegram to the summer palace, asking that
Baum should be sent to the king's aid-de-camp.

Bruno let down the curtains, ordered lights and more wine, and gave
orders that no one should be admitted. The intendant was in despair,
but Bruno exclaimed:

"My dear friend, everything on earth is suicide, with this difference,
however--here, one can always come to life again. The hour one kills is
the only one that is rightly spent."

The intendant feared an outbreak of delirium, but Bruno was not one of
those cavaliers who have only as much mind as the champagne they have
just tossed down inspires them with, and who, at best, can only write a
gallant billet-doux or devise a witty impropriety. At other times,
Bruno would have laughed at the man who would ask him to adopt a system
as his own, and yet he now asserted that he had one, and, filling his
glass again, exclaimed: "Yes, my friend; there are only two kinds of
human beings in the world."

"Men and women?" said the intendant, who thought it best to fall in
with his vein, in order more easily to divert him from it.

"Pshaw!" interrupted Bruno. "Who is speaking of such things? Listen, my
friend; the two human species are those who enjoy and those who suffer.
He who lives for so-called ideas--for the good, the beautiful, the
true. The man with an ideal may sacrifice his life, or be burnt at the
stake. It is his duty. His life is a short and uneventful one, but is
compensated by the long and enduring remembrance in which he is held by
posterity. That balances the reckoning. Is it not so?"

The intendant was obliged to assent. What could he do?

"And the second species," added Bruno, "includes ourselves--those who
enjoy. The best thing in the world is enjoyment without consequences.
After I have been smoking, gaming or listening to music, I can do
anything; nothing disturbs me then. Other pleasures unfortunately have
consequences. One ought to have no family--no family--by all means, no
family."

Bruno suddenly burst into tears. The intendant was at a loss how to
help him, and reproached himself for not having induced Bruno to
refrain from drinking and talking. Bruno threw his head back, and the
intendant wrapped a piece of ice in a handkerchief and laid it on his
forehead.

"Thanks!" said Bruno, closing his eyes; "thanks!"

He was soon asleep.

The servant entered. Bruno awoke. The intendant drew aside the curtains
and opened the windows. It was high noon.

Word came that Baum had already started off with Doctor Sixtus, the
court physician. "Then we will go without them," said Bruno, who had
regained his composure.

"We?"

"You see, my grief makes me think that I have already told you
everything. We must go to the lake to look for traces of my unfortunate
sister. Have I really said nothing of this to you before?"

"No--but I am at your service. I will ask for leave of absence for
myself and for you, too."

"There's no need of that. His majesty has already offered it to me.
Your Majesty is very gracious--very. Do you think we serve you? Ha, ha!
we only serve you because we can enjoy ourselves better, and in more
varied ways, at your court. You are our host, and do not mind
stealthily taking a tit-bit yourself, behind the bar--I beg of you, my
dear friend--what did I say? You heard nothing--did you? It was
delirium! I am growing mad! I must go out! Let us start this very day!"

The intendant consented and left him for an hour, in order to arrange
various matters before his departure.

Bruno ordered his trunks to be packed, and gave instructions that two
saddle-horses should be sent to the lake at once.



                              CHAPTER IX.


Bruno was standing in his room, surrounded by luggage of various
shapes, when a servant announced his gracious mother-in-law.

"She here? And in spite of my prohibition?" thought he to himself.
"Show her in," he said to the servant, who quickly threw open the
folding-doors, and closed them again when the lady had entered. "Ah, my
dear mother!" exclaimed Bruno, who was about to hurry forward to
embrace her, but she coolly offered him her hand and said:

"No, no," and then, seating herself on a sofa, she continued:

"Draw near; take a seat."

"Do you know--?" inquired Bruno.

"I know all; you need tell me nothing."

"I thank you for coming to offer me your sympathy."

"I'm delighted--I meant to say that I feel comforted to find you so
composed. Arabella knows nothing as yet?"

"No."

"Nor need she know of it.--What is the meaning of all this luggage?"

Bruno looked at her in astonishment. Who had any right to inquire, and
in such a tone? "I'm going on a journey," he answered bluntly, and
then, in order to prevent a scene, he added in a gentle tone: "As her
brother, I must make inquiries in regard to the accident."

"I approve of that; it's quite proper," replied the Baroness. "Have you
already had an understanding with him!--You don't seem to understand
me, as you don't answer; I mean with this king."

"Yes," replied Bruno boldly, "but I have pledged my word to let it go
no further."

"Very well, I respect your discretion; but now, a frank word with you.
Please close the _portière_."

Bruno did as he was ordered, but ground his teeth as he walked toward
the door. When he returned again, his manner was as polite and
attentive as before.

"Proceed," said he, "no one hears us; a mourner listens to you
patiently."

"A mourner! We have greater cause to mourn than you have. We thought we
had allied ourselves with one of the best families in the land." Bruno
started as if angry.

"Pray drop your acting for the present," continued the Baroness, whose
voice and appearance had changed. "We are alone now, and unmasked. In
spite of the outward show of politeness, you have never treated me with
the respect which I have a right to demand. Don't contradict me; please
let me finish what I am about to say: When I calmly reflected on the
matter, I was not angry with you on that account. I knew my position.
But now, my dear son-in-law, matters have changed. I was what your
sister was, but I never feigned virtue. The world esteemed me at my
true value--"

Bruno heaved a deep sigh.

The Baroness continued, grinding her teeth with anger as she spoke:

"When your sister was so kind to us, I could have knelt to her in
humility. She must give me back my humility, though she be in hell! It
was not she who was the better; it was I--But now, my son-in-law, your
disdainful behavior must cease. Let me tell you, you ought to feel glad
that we've allied ourselves with you. But we shall never let you feel
it; that is, if you conduct yourself in a becoming manner."

"And am I not doing so?" asked Bruno, who, during this attack, had
entirely lost his self-command.

"We will see; but, first of all, let me tell you that, after this, I
shall reside with Arabella as often and as long as I choose to. This
insipidly moral queen has been taught a lesson, too. At present,
however, I have no desire to appear at court. But the social circle is
open to me--I shall enter it, arm in arm with you, my amiable, my
gallant son."

The old woman rose and, bowing gracefully, offered her arm to Bruno.
The latter took his mother-in-law's hand in his own and held it to his
lips.

"Fie! you've been drinking wine, in your grief!" cried the old
danseuse, hurriedly putting her fine and strongly perfumed handkerchief
to her lips.

"Miss Mother-in-law--" the words were on the end of Bruno's tongue; he
would like to have hurled them at her. Steps were heard. A moment
afterward the intendant entered, his presence serving as a great relief
to Bruno.

"I beg pardon! don't let me disturb you," said he, when he saw Bruno's
mother-in-law.

"You're not disturbing us," replied Bruno quickly. "In spite of a
violent attack of fever, our dear mother, now our grandmother, has
hastened to console us. I am fortunate in still having a few faithful
relatives, and a friend like yourself. I shall now live entirely for
the family still left me."

The Baroness nodded a pleased assent. She was thoroughly satisfied with
Bruno's first rehearsal of his new _rôle_.

"We shan't leave to-day?" inquired the intendant.

"Yes, yes. We must not lose another minute."

The mother-in-law undertook to tell Arabella of Bruno's departure, and
to inform her that he had been sent away on public business.

While slowly drawing on his black gloves, Bruno thanked his
mother-in-law. He thanked her sincerely, for while he well knew that he
was about to enter upon a state of dependence, and that her presence in
his house would prove distasteful to him in many ways, he, at the same
time, consoled himself with the hope that she would prove a companion
to his wife, and that he could thus absent himself from home more
frequently, and for longer periods, than he had before done; for he
felt it not a little irksome to be obliged to spend so much of his time
with his wife. The leave-taking was short, but hearty. Bruno was
permitted to kiss his mother-in-law's cheek. After he got into the
carriage, he rubbed his lips till they were almost sore, in order to
wipe the rouge off of them.

It was already evening when they drove off, and they passed the night
at the first posting-house. Bruno lay down on the bed to rest himself
"for a little while," but he did not awake until late the following
morning.



                               CHAPTER X.


The queen, overcome with grief, lay sleeping in her apartment.

The court ladies were gathered together on the terrace under the
weeping ash, and did not care to leave one another. It seemed as if a
fear of ghosts oppressed them all. It was but a few days since Irma
had been in their midst. She had been sitting in the chair without a
back--she never leaned against anything. The seat she had occupied
remained empty, and if the paths were not freshly raked every morning,
her footprint would still be there. And now she had vanished from the
world. Her light had been extinguished, and in so terrible a manner.
Who could tell how long her ghost might haunt the palace and what
mischief it might do. The world, at last, knew what had been going on.

The ladies were busily engaged at their embroidery. At other times,
they would take turns in reading aloud; but to-day their book--it
was a French novel, of course--remained untouched. They were intensely
interested in the story, but no one ventured to propose that the
reading should be gone on with, nor did sustained conversation
seem possible. Now and then a voice was heard: "Dear Clotilde,"
"Dearest Hannah, can you lend me some violet, or some pale green?"
"Oh, I tremble so, that I cannot thread my needle; have you a
needle-threader?"

It was, fortunately, at hand. They were, none of them, willing to
appear so little moved as to be able to thread a needle.

They deplored Irma's fate, and it did them good to be able to show how
kind and merciful they were. They felt happy in being able to accord
their pious forgiveness to the unhappy one, and, since they had been
so gentle and forgiving, they felt it their right to denounce her
crime the more severely. It was thus they avenged themselves for the
self-humiliation they had endured; for, while Irma was the prime
favorite, they had paid greater homage to her than to the queen.

They never mentioned the royal couple except in terms of respect--with
all their apparent confidence, they distrusted each other. They felt
that there was trouble ahead, but that it was best for them to appear
unconscious of it.

Countess Brinkenstein was the only one Who had a good word to say for
Irma.

"Her father was greatly to blame," said she; "it was he who instilled
this belief in Irma."

"And yet he had her educated at the convent."

"But she inherited from him a contempt for all forms and traditions,
and that was her misfortune. She had a lovely disposition, was richly
endowed by nature, and her heart was free from the slightest trace of
envy or ill-nature."

No one ventured to contradict Countess Brinkenstein; Perhaps, thought
they, etiquette requires us to speak well of Irma and to forget her
terrible deed.

"Who knows whether her brother would have married the Steigeneck, if he
had known that he was to inherit everything!" softly whispered a
delicate and languishing little lady to her neighbor, while she bent
over her wool-basket.

The one whom she had addressed looked at her with a sad, yet grateful
expression. She had once loved Count Bruno, and still loved him.

"I have a book of hers."

"And I have one of her drawings."

"And I have some of her music."

They shuddered at the thought of possessing articles which had once
been hers, and determined that everything should be sent to her
brother.

"I passed her rooms, early this morning," said Princess Angelica's maid
of honor--she always seemed as if half-frozen, and rubbed her hands and
breathed on her fingertips while she spoke--"the windows were open. I
saw the lonely parrot in his cage, and he kept calling out, 'God keep
you, Irma.' It was dreadful."

They all shuddered, and yet they felt a secret satisfaction in dwelling
on the subject. The pious court lady joined the circle, and mentioned
that Doctor Sixtus had just taken leave of her, that he had started for
the Highlands, that Fein, the notary, had accompanied him, that he had
also taken Baum along, and that they meant to search for the body of
Countess Irma.

"Will he bring her here, or to Wildenort castle?"

"How terrible, to be gaped at in death by common people!"

"Horrible! it makes me shudder."

"Pray let me have your vinaigrette."

A bottle of English smelling-salts was passed round the circle.

"And to have every bystander volunteer a funeral sermon!"

"How improper to take one's life in so public a manner!"

"If there were no horrid newspapers," whined the freezing court lady.

The conversation gradually assumed a more cheerful tone.

"Ah me!" exclaimed a pert and pretty court lady, "how we were all
obliged to 'enthuse' about the beauties of nature and the genial traits
of the lower orders during her life and reign. Now, I imagine one may
at last venture to say that nature's a bore, and that the lower orders
are horrid, without being regarded as a heretic."

In spite of the malice that flavored it, they found the remark both
just and appropriate. In a little while they were all conversing and
laughing, just as if nothing had happened.

A wanton boy has shot a sparrow. The rest of the flock are very sad,
and pipe and prate about the matter for a while; but soon they hop
about again, and chirrup as merrily as before.

To give truth its due, it is necessary to state that many of the ladies
would have been glad to speak well of Irma, but they kept such feelings
in the background. Of all things in the world they dreaded showing
themselves sentimental.

It was not until Countess Brinkenstein again began to speak, that the
rest of the company became more calm and dignified than they had been.

Countess Brinkenstein's demeanor seemed to say: "I am, unfortunately,
the one who prophesied it all; and now that it has all come to pass as
I said it would, I am not in the least proud of it." It was both her
right and her duty to speak compassionately of Irma, and yet, at the
same time, mildly to point a moral.

"Eccentricity. Ah, yes, eccentricity!" said she. "Poor Countess
Wildenort! The publicity of her deed is, in itself, a serious offense;
but do not let us, while thinking of her terrible fate, forget that she
was undeniably possessed of many good traits. She was beautiful,
anxious to please every one, and yet without a trace of coquetry. She
possessed intellect and wit, but she never used them to slander others.
A poor eccentric creature!"

This disposed of Irma, and the other court ladies had, at the same
time, received a lesson.

The eyes of all were directed toward the valley.

"There goes the carriage!" they said. Doctor Sixtus saw the ladies and
saluted them. The notary sat by his side, and Baum sat opposite. He was
too tired to sit up on the box. "It is scarcely a year since we made
this same journey together," said Sixtus to Baum.

Baum was not in a talkative mood; he was too tired. After great
preparations, he had that day passed his examination, and could say to
himself that he had not come off without honors. Although he was not
accustomed to find himself inside of the carriage, he yet thought he
might take it for granted that this would henceforth be his place. He
was about to become a different, a more exalted personage. He had,
indeed, become such already--all that was needed was the outward token.
He would have been willing to remain a simple lackey. Perhaps the king
desired to have it so, lest he might betray himself. He was willing to
let him have his own way, even in this. He and the king knew how they
stood toward each other. He smiled to himself, and felt like a girl
whose lover has declared his affection for her; the formal wooing can
take place at any time.

When Doctor Sixtus helped himself to a cigar, Baum was at once ready
with a light. That, however, was, for the present, his last act of
service. Nature was not to be overcome, and Baum was impolite enough to
fall asleep in the presence of the gentlemen. But he was so well
schooled that, even while asleep, he sat upright and ready at any
moment to obey their commands.

It was not until they halted that Baum awoke. The notary's searching
questions greatly disturbed his comfort. What matters the death of a
countess, thought he, if one can rise by means of it. He was greatly
annoyed that his family--his mother, his brother and his sister--were
mixed up in the affair; and hadn't Thomas said something about the
death of Esther, or was it merely a dream? Events had succeeded each
other so rapidly that they quite bewildered him.

Doctor Sixtus apologized to the notary for Baum's disconnected
narrative.

Baum looked at him in amazement. Did he already know that Baum was
about to be advanced, and did he mean to curry favor with him? He was
cunning enough to think of such a thing.

Baum resolved, for the present, only to show the spot where he had
found the hat and shoes, and to leave his mother and brother entirely
out of the affair. At all events, he would not drag them into it, and
suggested that they should take the forester with them. They found him
at last, and then wended their way toward the assize town in which
Doctor Kumpan lived.

Sixtus sent for the latter. He soon came to the inn, and the jolly
fellow was lavish in his praise of Countess Irma. He thought it greatly
to her credit that she had had courage to live and die as she chose.
Besides that, Kumpan delighted in joking his friend, in regard to the
great missions on which he had been employed, looking up wet nurses and
hunting corpses. He asked for the privilege of being permitted to
dissect the countess.

Doctor Sixtus did not in the least relish the coarse humor of his
former fellow-student. Doctor Kumpan told him of the great change that
had taken place in Walpurga's circumstances, that she and the rest of
her family had moved far away to the Highlands, near the frontier. He
also told him several very funny stories at Hansei's expense, and
especially about the wager for six measures of wine.

Sixtus informed his comrade that Walpurga was no longer a favorite at
court, and that it would soon be proven that she had been the mediator.
Although he spoke in an undertone, Baum heard every word. After Sixtus
had made this disclosure to Kumpan, he felt sorry for what he had done,
but it was just because they had so few subjects in common, that he had
told him the very matters he desired to keep from him. All that
remained was to make his friend promise not to mention a word of the
affair, and Kumpan always was a man of his word.

After Kumpan had left, Baum went up to Sixtus again and told him that
he thought it would be well to go to Walpurga, as she might know
something of the affair; but Sixtus replied that the journey would be a
useless one, and that Baum was to remain with him.



                              CHAPTER XI.


On the following morning, Bruno would have liked to return. What was
the use of it all? Was he to act the fable of the little brother and
sister over again, and to be the little brother who had gone in search
of his sister? And what would be the result? A dreadful, agitating
sight--one which he could never banish from his memory. It would haunt
him in his dreams--a bloated, disfigured corpse with open mouth.

Bruno cast an injured look upon the friend who congratulated him on
having slept so well, and on having thus gained new strength for the
trials the day might have in store for him. Bruno looked at the
intendant with feelings of anger and distrust. He felt almost certain
that this man regarded the whole occurrence as a tragic drama, which
would have to be mounted for the stage. It was evident to him that the
intendant was using this as a study, of which he would avail himself in
future scenic representations, and that he was observing his every
gesture and feature, so that he might be able to instruct the actors
under him; so that he might say: "Thus does one pose himself, and thus
does one groan when he finds his sister's corpse-- Am I to be this
puppet's puppet? No, never!"

Bruno would have liked, best of all, to have journeyed back to his
mother-in-law, even if he had to succumb to her. He could convert his
humility into gallantry, and, at all events, would be spared these
terrible sights. But here was his friend encouraging him to neglect
nothing which fraternal duty demanded of him. Oh! these people of
feeling are the most abominable of mortals, for they take everything so
seriously. Do they really mean all they say? Who knows? Every one in
the world is merely playing a part, after all.

He must go on, and he saw what was in store for him. This terrible
friend with the strong sense of duty--and, after all, he was not his
friend--this man, whom he had inflicted on himself, would force him to
spend days, searching for horrors which he had no desire to find. They
drove on, in an ill-humor.

The intendant, finding that Bruno would formally thank him for every
little service, declared:

"I beg of you, don't thank me. I am only doing my duty to my friend and
to myself. You know that I once loved your sister, and that she
rejected my suit."

He was discreet enough to refrain from adding that he had afterward
rejected her offer, and Bruno groaned inwardly at his cruel discretion.

The intendant found Bruno quiet and reserved. Concluding that this was
the natural reaction from the excitement of the previous day, he, too,
remained silent. Bruno often looked at the intendant, as if he were a
jailer leading him to the place of punishment. They drove on rapidly.
At the different post-houses, where they stopped to change horses, the
intendant would fluently converse with the postillions and the
innkeepers in their native dialect. Several of them knew him.

To his great alarm, it suddenly occurred to Bruno that he had the
saloon warbler with him. He was perfectly at home here, and would now
have a chance to display the treasures of his dialect wardrobe, to
pursue his studies, and revel in the pleasure which the rude dialect of
the region afforded him.

His friend, for this was the only term by which he dared characterize
him, was now in his element, and found it no easy matter to refrain
from expressing his delight thereat.

At length they reached the last mountain and saw, from afar, the
mirror-like surface of the lake, surrounded by gigantic mountains and
sparkling in the golden sunshine.

"Do you see that maple tree, over there?" said the intendant, no longer
able to contain himself, "there to the left, by the small rock--that is
the point from which I sketched the painting that hangs in her
majesty's music-room."

The friend had imagined that this remark might help to create a calmer
mood in Bruno, so that the terrible idea of his sister's having sought
her death below that very spot, might not at once obtrude itself.

Bruno looked at him with an impatient air. Every one thinks of himself,
said an inner voice, and this coxcomb is now thinking of his daubs. He
remained silent, however, for silence was more expressive of grief than
words could be. He rubbed his eyes, for the dazzling reflection of the
sun's rays on the surface of the lake had made them ache. His friend
grasped his hand and silently pressed it. He had understood this
fraternal heart, and his glance meant: others may think you superficial
and frivolous, but I know you better.

From the landing near by, they could hear the neighing of Bruno's
horses, which were there in charge of his grooms. And now, for the
first time, Bruno felt a sense of shame in the presence of his
servants. They, of course, knew everything, and how they must have
talked about it in the tap-room. He was full of anger at the sister who
had inflicted all this upon him.

The first information they received at the inn was that old Zenza had
been there. She had endeavored to sell or to pawn the ring which the
maid of honor had given her on the night before she had drowned
herself. As they all regarded the ring as stolen, she could obtain
nothing for it. It was now decided that Zenza must know more. They took
a guide and walked along the mountain path that led toward her hut.

Bruno, being a huntsman, was usually a good climber, but to-day he felt
as if he would break down at every step, and was often obliged to stop
and rest.

His friend encouraged him, and they walked on through the sunny forest,
where the light shone brightly on the soft moss, while many a hawk
uttered its shrill cry overhead.

At the crossing of the roads, they encountered a party of ladies and
gentlemen; they were in city dress and had adorned their hats with
green branches and garlands. Bruno hurriedly stepped aside from the
path. The intendant, however, was recognized by a former colleague of
his, and Bruno heard him say that the guests of a little watering-place
in the neighborhood were making an excursion to see the place where
Countess Wildenort had drowned herself. The party passed on, and their
loud and cheerful talk was heard from afar.

At last they reached the hut. It was closed. They knocked at the door.
A growl was the only answer they received, and the next moment they
heard some one dashing a bolt back.

A neglected looking, yet powerful man, with a wild, disheveled
appearance, stood before them.

Thomas recognized Bruno at once, and exclaimed:

"Ah, Wildenort! it's well you've come. I take my hat off to you, for
you're an out-and-out man. What matters one's father! When he's dying,
ride off; one can't help him die, you know. Ho, ho! you're a splendid
fellow. No one cares for the old lumber any more."

"What do you want of me?" asked Bruno, with tremulous voice.

"I shan't harm you; there's my hand on it. I'll do you no harm. You let
the king do what he chooses and make no fuss about it, and so I shall
do you no harm, for what you've done in the same line of business.
You're my king. I got it out of her at the very last, that you were the
one, and that, because it was you, she had helped your sister. You know
what I mean, well enough. I shan't say a word. The stupid world needn't
know what there is between us. Sister, king; poacher, count--it's all
as it should be."

"This man seems crazed," said the intendant to the guide. "What do you
want? Let go of the gentleman!" he called out to Thomas.

"Is that your lackey? Where's the one with the coal-black hair?--Let us
alone," said Thomas, turning to the intendant, "we understand each
other very well. Don't we, brother? You're a brother, and I'm one, too.
Ha! the world's wisely arranged! You mustn't think I've been drinking;
I've taken something, it's true, but that doesn't hurt me--I'm as sober
as a judge. Now let me tell you what my plan is: I'll listen to reason,
to anything that's fair and just; I can see that you're a decent
fellow, for you come to me of your own accord."

"We wish to inquire whether you know anything of the lady in the blue
riding-habit who was here?" said the intendant in the proper dialect.

"Ho, ho!" cried Thomas, "how finely he talks; but I can understand
priest German, and judge's German, too. I've had enough to do with
those people already. But you'd better not interfere"; and then,
turning to Bruno, he added: "Let us two talk together, alone. Now
listen, brother; this is what we'll do: You needn't make a count of me;
all you need do is to give me servants and horses, and enough money and
chamois and deer, and you'll soon see how clever and strong and hearty
I am. Would you like to wrestle with me? or come out into the woods,
and I'll show you that I can shoot better than you can. Now, all you
need do is to give me either your sister's inheritance or my sister's,
and you'll see we'll be a couple of merry brothers!"

Bruno hardly knew whether he was dreaming or awake. Some of the
insolent fellow's words were clear enough to him, others he could not
understand. He motioned the intendant to withdraw, and then said in a
gentle voice:

"Thomas, I know you now; sit down."

Thomas seated himself on the bench, and, raising the brandy jug which
he had bought with the money received for the hat, said:

"Won't you drink something?"

Bruno declining, Thomas took a long draught.

The intendant said to Bruno, in French, that there was no information
to be obtained from that quarter, and that he had secretly charged the
guide to hold fast to the wild fellow, so that, unmolested, they might
return to the valley.

"What sort of gibberish is the simpleton talking, there?" cried Thomas,
preparing to rush at the intendant. At the same moment, the guide threw
himself on Thomas, and held him fast, while the two gentlemen left the
hut and hurried down the mountain.

It was not until the guide again came up with them, that they paused,
and Bruno ventured to draw a long breath. The guide now told them how
Thomas had raged, and how he had called out for the gun which he
had hidden in the wood, and that he had said he must shoot his
brother-in-law.

"The best thing the fellow could do," said the guide, "would be to
drink himself to death, so as to save himself from being hanged."

After some time, Bruno ventured to ask the intendant, in a whisper,
whether they had not proceeded far enough with their investigation, and
whether it was not best to return at once.

The intendant was silent. Bruno looked at him again with that bitter
expression which might also pass for grief.

The intendant, who saw that Bruno was almost broken down, consented to
return.



                              CHAPTER XII.


The two friends returned to the inn. On their way, they met one of the
grooms who had brought their horses, and who now told them of a boatman
who had informed him that the body of a woman had been dragged from the
lake. It had been near the village, of which a few scattered houses and
the church steeple were visible on the opposite shore.

The intendant embraced Bruno, who seemed staggered at the news. They
sat down for a while, in the very spot where they had been when the
news reached them. The groom said that, by boat, they could reach the
village in one hour; but that if they went by land, it would take them
several hours.

"I can't cross the water," said Bruno, "I can't to-day; Schoning, don't
ask it of me! Don't force me! Why do you torment me so?" he asked
impatiently.

The intendant well knew that deep grief makes men unreasonable. In the
dark depths of their hearts, there still lurks a feeling of anger, even
toward those who most thoroughly sympathize with them, but who,
themselves, have been spared by misfortune.

"I take no offense at anything you do," he replied, "and through you
treat me rudely, I shall bear it. I understand you, and am far from
wishing to induce you to cross the lake. We'll ride."

Their horses were brought, and they rode off in the direction of the
village that had been pointed out to them. They passed an inn where a
crowd of merry wagoners, boatmen and woodcutters were sitting under the
lindens, and drinking beer or brandy. Bruno felt that he was being
treated like a fever patient whom they were dragging over hill and
dale, and to whose clouded vision the world seemed bare and desolate.
When they reached the inn, his mouth watered. He thirsted for drink;
perhaps it might give him new strength and, what was still better,
might enable him to forget. But he did not venture to express his wish
to his friend. Was it proper for one in his position to drink brandy? A
poacher, like Thomas, might do so; but it would ill befit a cavalier.
While thanking the intendant for the trouble he had given him, and
promising that he would never forget it, Bruno, whose tongue was
parched with thirst, secretly cursed the friend who would not allow him
to drink. Ah, how fortunate it is that words are always at command. It
is almost as fortunate as the fact that horses are properly broken in,
and keep up their pace so nicely that they give one no trouble.

The friends rode on at a rapid pace. It was high noon when they reached
the village which Hansei and his family had left two days before. The
landlord of the Chamois was standing at the door, and respectfully
saluted the two horsemen with the groom behind them.

They alighted. Bruno handed the reins of his steaming horse to the
groom. The intendant led his friend into the front garden, where they
sat down. He then insisted on Bruno's taking a glass of wine. The host
quickly brought a sealed bottle, and vaunted it as the best wine in the
house. He also brought some roast meat and placed it on the table, and
as long as he had brought it, it must be paid for, even through it were
not touched.

The intendant took the host aside and, in a whisper, asked him whether
it was true that the body of a woman had been cast ashore near there.

The host answered in the affirmative, and with a smile of satisfaction.
The occurrence was a strange and unusual one, and it was only right
that it should enure to his great profit. The intendant again asked him
where the house was in which the body lay.

"I'll take you there," said the host, with a smile.

"Send for the burgomaster, also."

"There's no need of that; I'm a member of the council," said he,
hurrying into the house and returning with his long coat and his medal.
He meant to let the gentlemen see with whom they had to do. He felt
sure that they must be people of quality, or else they wouldn't be
traveling with a groom, and would have said: "Take your meat away; we
shan't pay for it!" He even fancied that he knew one of them.

"Begging your pardon," said he to the intendant, "but some years ago,
there was a painter here who looked enough like you to be your
brother."

The intendant well knew that it was himself who was referred to, but he
was not yet in the mood to renew the acquaintance.

The host accompanied the strangers to Hansei's house.

On the way there, he said: "She was a handsome creature. She was
beautiful, but good-for-nothing; and her belongings were as bad as she
was: particularly her one brother."

The intendant beckoned the innkeeper to be quiet. Bruno bit his lips
until they bled. They found it almost impossible to force their way
through the crowd which had gathered in the garden and about the road.
There were wailing woman, crying children, and cursing men.

"Make way there!" cried the host. He walked on, forcing a passage for
the two men, and Bruno heard some one behind him say: "The handsome
man, with the large mustache, is the king."

"No, he isn't; it's his cousin!" said another.

They had entered the garden. Bruno leaned against the cherry-tree, and
the intendant motioned to the host to allow his comrade to rest for a
little while. Everything seemed to swim before Bruno's eyes. Something
touched him, and he started with fear. It was a dead leaf which had
fallen from the tree above. At last, addressing Schoning in French, he
said:

"What good will it do the dead, if I look at her? And it will harm me
forever, for I shall never be able to banish the sight from my memory!"

"You must go in, my friend. Remember that these people have made every
effort in their power to restore to life one who was a stranger to
them, and they have done this out of pure philanthropy."

"Well, we can give them money for that; but why torment ourselves with
these dead remains?"

But Bruno was, nevertheless, obliged to go in; leaning on his friend's
arm, he entered the house.

Black Esther now lay in the very spot where Hansei had been two days
ago, when thinking of her. Her thick, glossy black hair had fallen over
her face; her mouth was open--the last cry that Irma had heard still
rested there.

"Esther!" cried Bruno, covering his face with his hands.

"It isn't your sister!" said the intendant consolingly. "Come, let us
be off."

Bruno could not move from the spot.

"Yes! sister!" cried the old woman, who now rose up from beside the
corpse; "yes, sister. Didn't I tell you to let her alone, even if she
did help the beautiful lady? didn't I tell you she'd kill herself, if
you beat her again? And now you've had your own way, and here she is,
lying in this house! Oh, this house, this house! The lake will wash it
away yet. Lake! take the whole house! Who are you? What do you want?"
she cried, springing up and seizing Bruno's arm. "Who are you with the
black hands? let me see who you are--it's you, is it? you who didn't
want to see your father die--and what do you want of my Esther? Great
God!--now I see it all. You were the one, you! say you were!--say it--!
Don't shut your eyes, or I'll scratch them out for all. It was
you--I'll drive a nail into your brain, into the cursed brain that
forgot her! Oh, why didn't I know it before! But there's time enough
yet. My Thomas has already aimed at you--and he'll have a chance
again--"

Bruno fainted. The intendant caught him in his arms, but could not
support his weight and, therefore, laid him down on the same floor on
which lay the dead body of Esther. The innkeeper hurried out to fetch
water, and when they opened the door, several people entered from
without, among them Doctor Sixtus, Doctor Kumpan, the notary, and Baum.

Sixtus soon restored Bruno to consciousness. A glance sufficed to
inform Baum of what had happened. He supported himself against a
door-post, holding fast with desperate grip, lest he should fall to the
ground. At the first opportunity he glided out of the room. He was not
needed there, and if he were now to betray himself, all might be lost.
He dragged himself as far as the cherry-tree, sat down on the bench,
buttoned his gaiters, unbuttoned them, took out his watch, counted the
seconds, wound it up again, held it to his ear and carelessly played
with the watch-chain. He stopped to consider. One great task still
remains, thought he to himself, and that I must accomplish unaided. He
felt that he had a clue to Irma's whereabouts. Sixtus wouldn't listen
to such a thing and ridiculed him. So much the better; the credit would
all fall to his share; and for that reason, this was no time to worry
about his mother. His sister was dead, and perhaps it was for the best.
At any rate, he couldn't restore her to life; but, at some future day,
he could, without discovering himself, provide for the old woman.

Baum felt proud of his firmness and stroked his chin with satisfaction.

Within the house, the excitement was not yet at an end. The old woman
howled, shrieked, ran about the room, opened the window, and cried:
"Strike him dead! Drown him, he drowned her!"

Baum let his watch drop from his hand when he heard these words. The
old woman was dragged away from the window, and Doctor Kumpan held her
fast. She went back to the corpse.

"Strike us all dead!" she cried, "there's no king on earth, and no God
in Heaven!"

The old woman raved; then she would weep, and then would again go back
to her child.

"Your lips are open! Say but a word! only one 'yes,' before these
witnesses! speak his name! he ruined you and left you to perish in
misery! They don't believe me. Say, you!" she exclaimed, addressing the
intendant and seizing him at the same time, "say, didn't he utter her
name and confess it all? Is nothing to be done to one who leads a poor
creature into misery and drives her to death? Speak!" said she, turning
to Bruno. "Here! take the ring your sister gave me! I want nothing from
any of you!"

Shrieking and groaning, she again threw herself upon the corpse.

Bruno was at last led away. He was as pale as death; his face had been
marked by his black gloves. They placed him upon the seat under the
cherry-tree. Baum rose and brought some water, so that Bruno might wash
his face. He was astonished when he saw the white handkerchief which
had been blackened by the spots upon his face.

They went back to the inn. Like a fearful child, Bruno never relaxed
his hold of the intendant's hand. At every sound he heard, he fancied
that the old woman was coming to scratch out his eyes and to tear out
his heart. At last he regained his composure, and asked the intendant
what he had said on seeing the corpse. Schoning replied that he had
called out "Schwester" (sister), and that the old woman, who had
understood him to say Esther, had grown quite frantic in consequence.

Bruno felt comforted to learn that he had not betrayed himself. He,
nevertheless, set aside a considerable sum for the life-long support of
the old woman from whom Irma had received her last shelter.

"Oh, my friend!" said he to the intendant, "as long as I live, I shall
never forget the image of that drowned girl!"

Bruno was so exhausted that he was unable to ride his horse. Doctor
Sixtus's carriage was in readiness and he got into it, in order to
accompany him back to the capital. The doctor gave Bruno the poor
consolation that Irma's body would not be recovered. That of the
abandoned girl had floated on the surface. Irma, however--as he had
already said,--must have been kept down by her long riding-habit, and
would, therefore, never be found.

When taking leave of Bruno, the intendant said:

"Now I know how great a heart you have."

Bruno merely nodded in reply. He did not object. It might be well if
the intendant were to say the same thing at court.

When they repaired to the carriage, the whole region was obscured by a
misty rain; neither mountain nor lake were distinguishable. Just as
they were starting, Bruno called Baum to him and gave him his coat with
a red collar, for Baum was to mount Bruno's horse and ride it home. The
intendant rode back, accompanied by Baum. He told the lackey to remain
beside him, instead of following.

"These are fearful goings on," said Baum, addressing the intendant.

"Yes, terrible. I think the mother of the drowned girl must be crazed."

"Sir," resumed Baum, "there is something I should like to speak to you
about. I think that maybe the countess isn't drowned, after all. The
court physician has laughed at me, but I have a clue, and--"

The report of a gun was heard. Baum fell from his horse.

"I've hit you this time!" cried a voice.

Thomas rushed forth from the thicket.

"Take me!" cried he, "I caught him after--"

At that moment, he saw Baum's body lying on the ground. In a furious
voice, he cried:

"I meant to shoot Bruno, and now it's you! you!"

"Brother! my brother!" gasped Baum. "I'm Wolfgang! Your brother
Jangerl--Wolfgang--Zenza--my mother!"

Thomas rushed back into the thicket and, in an instant, the report of
another shot was heard.

The intendant was in despair. The rain fell in torrents. Baum gave one
more convulsive start. Presently, a merry crowd passed by; it was the
excursion party they had met early that morning. The ladies were
horror-struck and hastened away; the gentlemen remained to assist the
intendant. Peasants were called from the fields to carry Baum's body
back to the village; others searched the thicket; and soon brought out
the lifeless body of Thomas.

The intendant met the notary in the village, and gave him a full report
of all that had happened. Before long, the whole village had gathered
at the Chamois. It was no unimportant event, for three of one family to
be dead at once. No one would confess to surprise that Baum had turned
out to be Wolfgang. They all declared that they had recognized him long
ago, even when he had come with Doctor Sixtus to take Walpurga away.

The intendant and the innkeeper sat up late that night. The former had
discovered himself as the painter who had been a guest at the inn in
times gone by. The host had much to tell about Hansei and Walpurga, and
one can readily conceive the tone in which he spoke of them.

When they told Zenza what had happened, she listened with a stolid,
stupefied air; nor did she seem to understand them when they told her
that the count had left money for her and had promised always to take
care of her. She burst into a shrill laugh, and when food was brought,
greedily ate all that was placed before her.

Baum, Thomas, and Black Esther were buried in one grave.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


The king was at the hunt. The queen was ill. Life at court went on as
usual. The ladies and gentlemen dined at the marshal's table, and
conversed upon different subjects. They were cheerful, for it was their
duty to maintain the accustomed tone.

It was the fourth day after the receipt of the terrible news. It was
after dinner, and the ladies were sitting under the so-called
"mushroom," a round, vine-covered arbor, situated at the edge of the
mountain vineyards. The roof rested, at the center, on a column and, in
the distance, resembled an open umbrella, or a gigantic mushroom. They
were delighted to have a chance to talk of the preparations for the
betrothal of Princess Angelica. They spoke in praise of her noble
traits, although she was merely a simple, modest good-hearted girl.
They had the court catechism, the genealogical calendar, before them;
for dispute had arisen as to the degree in which the mediatized Prince
Arnold was related, on his grandmother's side, to the reigning house.
Their conversation, however, was simply a makeshift.

Some one remarked that the intendant had returned from his journey. No
one, however, knew what adventures he had passed through. They all knew
that there had been deaths by shooting and drowning, but as to the
"who" and the "how," they were as yet ignorant.

They felt quite happy when they saw the intendant coming in person.
They welcomed him in a half-pitying, half-teasing tone. He seemed quite
exhausted by his recent experiences. They offered him the most
comfortable chair and, placing it in the center of the group, begged
him to tell them everything. Although this general homage was not
without a touch of irony, the intendant felt quite flattered by it, and
was, as usual, ready to play the agreeable. He was always willing to
sacrifice everything, not excepting himself, for the sake of being in
favor.

He began by telling them of Bruno's deep grief: but that did not
interest them. Very well--"as you don't care to hear of Bruno, we'll
pass him by." He then went on to give a cleverly arranged account of
the terrible death of Baum, who, like a true servant, had been obliged
to give up his life for another. However, the death had not been an
undeserved one, for he had denied his mother and kindred, and, at last,
fell by the hand of his own brother, who immediately afterward killed
himself.

The intendant's audience were horror-struck, and found it wondrous
strange that so much of the adventurous was concealed in a
common-place, everyday lackey like Baum.

"You have at last beheld a tragedy in real life," said one of the
ladies.

The intendant well knew that tragedies were no longer in favor, and, in
his anxiety to please, recounted some very interesting reports about
Walpurga, giving, as his authority, the host of the Chamois, an honest,
upright man, who had been decorated for his services in the war.

Whether it was real or afflicted forgetfulness on their part, it is
impossible to say,--but the ladies seemed to have forgotten that
Walpurga had ever existed--but who can remember all one's subordinates?

For want of some other safe topic of conversation, they listened to
various droll stories about Walpurga and her dolt of a husband.
Schoning, to use his own words, simply repeated all that the veracious
and upright host of the Chamois had told him. Hansei was described as
an awkward bumpkin, unable to use his hands or feet, and obliged to
call the schoolmaster to his assistance whenever he found it necessary
to count the smallest sum of money. One of these stories, introducing a
wager and a chamber window, was quite piquant and greatly to the taste
of the ladies. They tittered, and scolded the intendant for talking of
such things, but Schoning well knew that the more they scolded, the
better they were pleased with what he had told them. He found an added
pleasure in the opportunity afforded him of using the dialect of the
mountain region from which he had but recently returned, and cleverly
imitated the voices of the peasants and peasant women who had stood
before the window, on the night referred to. He introduced various
forcible and unequivocal expressions, and greatly enjoyed shocking the
ladies, who would, now and then, cry: "Oh, you horrid man! you terrible
man!" One lady actually pricked him with her needle, but he quietly
proceeded with his story, well knowing how delighted they were to
listen to it.

And if there was no harm in describing Hansei as a dolt, there was just
as little in heightening the colors in which Walpurga was depicted--the
petticoats of the peasant women are always shorter upon the stage than
they are in real life--and thus, with the kindest feeling toward all
and merely yielding to his desire to please, the intendant said all
sorts of strange things about Walpurga. It had been rumored, he added,
that it was not without cause that the pastor had called her into the
vestry-room on the first Sunday after her return.

With cautious reserve, he at last confided to him, as a great secret,
the story that Walpurga had received immense sums of money from a
certain lady who had been a friend of hers. It was, of course,
impossible to assign a reason for such gifts, but it was well known
that the money had been used to purchase a large farm. They had,
indeed, been obliged to remove from their old home; for, even in the
country, ill-gotten wealth disgraces its possessors. It had been the
talk of the whole neighborhood. The bailiff had also confirmed the
report that the whole purchase had been paid for in ready money, and
that the price had been more than six times as much as Walpurga had
received for her services as nurse.

The intendant again remarked that he did not mean to calumniate any
one,--that really nothing was further from his intentions;--but he was
determined to be interesting, even though it was at the expense of
others, as well as himself.

They were delighted to know that this dressed-up specimen of rural
innocence was at last exposed, and only hoped that the queen might also
behold her favorite in her true colors.

Care was taken that she should not be left in ignorance of the story.



                              CHAPTER XIV.


The king was hunting in the Highlands. He was a veritable sportsman,
and, instead of allowing his retainers to beat up the game and drive it
within shooting distance, would climb the dizziest heights while in
quest of the chamois. His hardened and elastic frame enabled him to
sustain any amount of fatigue or exposure, and gained sinewy strength
and new ardor from the chase.

The gentlemen of the party felt sure that some important matter engaged
the king's mind, and were not a little puzzled how to account for
Bronnen's constant and almost exclusive attendance upon the king.

It was well known that Bronnen had declined to take charge of the war
office under the Schnabelsdorf ministry, and now it was asserted that
Schnabelsdorf was at a disadvantage; for he was only master of the
green table and was unable to attend the hunt. Bronnen thus had the
king's ear for several days.

Rifles were heard on the heights, and many a beast was killed; rifles
were heard in the valley, and two brothers met their death. In the mean
while, the capital was filled with murmurs that sounded like the roar
of mighty ocean. The queen heard nothing of all this. In her
apartments, all was quiet; not a footfall was heard, naught but
occasional faint whisperings.

The queen had felt outraged by the manner in which the newspapers she
had read, referred to Eberhard's death; and yet the article had been
mild and reserved when compared with the utterances of the people.

They reported affairs at court as in a terrible state; it was even said
that the queen had lost her reason when she heard the news of Countess
Wildenort's death.

People little knew how much of truth lay in this rumor. The night that
Irma had spent wandering over hill and dale, was not half so terrible
as the thoughts that filled the queen's mind.

She hated and abhorred Irma, and yet envied her her death. A queen dare
not commit suicide, for that were without precedent. A queen must
patiently submit, while they slowly kill her according to the forms of
etiquette--must suffer herself, as it were, to be embalmed while yet
alive. And, even then, they do not bury her. No--they simply deposit
her in a vault; dignity must not be sacrificed, and, above all, there
must be no queenly suicide. They offered to bring her child; but she
refused to see it, for Irma had kissed it. She would rub her cheeks
again and again; they were impure, they burned,--for Irma had kissed
them.

Love, friendship, faith, fidelity, nature, painting, music,
eloquence--all were dead to her, for Irma had possessed them all, and
now all was a lie and a caricature.

The queen started from her seat with a shudder. She had been thinking
of the king, and felt sure that his remorse must goad him to
self-destruction. He could not support the thought that she whom he had
ruined had still enough of courage and righteousness left to give up
her life. How could he live after that? How could he aim his gun at an
innocent beast, instead of at himself?

He whose name is on the lips of multitudes to whom he owes duties, may
not lay hands upon himself. But what right had he to indulge in conduct
which must drag him down from his exalted position? To whom could he
look for truth, when he himself--

The queen's thoughts almost drove her mad.

People said that the queen was crazed--it seemed as if a vague feeling
had informed them of the yawning abyss that opened before her.

She gave orders that no one should be admitted. She smiled at the
thought that she could still command, and that there were still some
left to obey her. After some time, she sent for Doctor Gunther. He
appeared at once, for he had been waiting in the anteroom.

The queen found it a great relief to confide to him the thoughts that
so bewildered and confused her, but she could not force herself to say
that she still felt how the king loved her--that is, as far as his
wavering, restless nature would permit the existence of what might be
termed love. She confessed everything to Gunther, except that--she felt
ashamed that she could still associate the thought of love with that of
the king.

"Ah, my friend!" said she at last, in a sad tone, "is there no
chloroform for the soul, or for a part of it?--a few drops of Lethe?
Teach me to forget things, to blunt my sensibility; my thoughts will
kill me."

According to his usual practice, Gunther thought it best to produce an
entire change of tone, instead of attempting to patch and mend the
constitution at every fresh attack. He felt that, as soon as the queen
had learned to think and feel differently, his path would be clear.
Instead of offering to console her, he simply aided her in developing
her thoughts, while he revealed to her the causes that underlie all
human action. He treated the subject according to the great maxim of
the solitary philosopher who claimed that all human actions are
directed by the laws of nature. With those who have attained to a
proper conception and understanding of these laws, the idea of
forgiveness is out of the question. It may, indeed, be regarded as
included in the admission of necessity.

It was thus that Gunther endeavored, as it were, to clear away the
rubbish and the smoking ruins that were left after a fire. The fitful
flames would, however, still burst forth, here and there.

The queen complained that all seemed chaos to her, and even went so far
as to declare the desire to be virtuous as mere folly. The only comfort
that Gunther offered her, was that he also knew the utter wretchedness
of despair. He was not as one who, feeling himself secure from danger,
calls out to him who wrestles with the agony of death: "Come to me: it
is pleasant to be here." He was a companion of misery. He told her that
there had been a period when he had not only despaired of his heart,
and believed neither in cures nor in health, but had even lost all
faith in the wisdom that rules the universe.

He acted on the principle that the only way to treat the despondent is
to show them what others have suffered and yet have learned to live.

When the consciousness of this truth has dawned upon the afflicted,
there is new light, and he enters upon the first stage of deliverance.

"I will impart the saddest confession of my life to you," said Gunther.

"You?"

"There was a time when I envied the frivolous, and even the vicious,
their light-heartedness. I desired to be like them. Why burden one's
soul with moral considerations, when one may live so pleasantly while
seizing the joys the world affords us?"

Gunther paused, and the queen looked up at him in astonishment. He
continued calmly:

"I have saved myself, and my rich experience has convinced me that
every one of us, even though he strive for excellence, has, so to say,
a skeleton closet somewhere in his soul. There must have been a time,
if only a moment, when his thoughts were impure, or when he was on the
point of committing a sin."

As if reflecting on what he had said, the queen was silent for a long
while, and at last said:

"Tell me; are there any happy beings in this world?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, are there beings in whom inclination and destiny are in
accord, and who are, at the same time, conscious of this harmony?"

"I thank you! I see that you are endeavoring to express yourself with
precision. Your Majesty knows that, to a certain extent, I judge
persons by their mode of forming sentences. It is not so important to
display what is called cleverness, as to be clear and concise in what
one has to say."

The queen observed that her friend endeavored to lead her to take a
larger view of affairs, and to assist her in acquiring self-command;
and, with a sad smile, she asked:

"And do you know the answer to my question?"

"I think I do; Your Majesty knows the story of the shirt of the happy
one?"

"I do not quite remember it."

"Well, then, to tell it in as few words as possible: A certain king was
ill, and it was said that he could not recover until the shirt of a
happy man was procured for him. They searched and searched, and at last
found a man who was unspeakably happy, and--he had no shirt to his
back. I change the story according to my own conviction. Were I a poet,
I would, in fancy, wander from house to house, from town to town, from
country to country, describe the life of men in various conditions, and
point out that, with all their complaining, they were, nevertheless,
happy, or, at all events, as happy as they could be. Every human being
is endowed with a certain capacity for happiness, the measure of which
is regulated by his nature. It is this which determines how high or how
deep, his joys or misfortunes; how blunt or how keen, his sensibility.
The measure of happiness assigned to every human being corresponds to
the requirements of his nature. Unhappiness is necessary in order that
we may appreciate happiness, just as we need shadows to help us
distinguish the light."

"And so you think that all people are happy?"

"They are so in truth, but not in reality. The reason is, they are not
in accord with the requirements of their nature, and are ever seeking
for happiness in that which they have not, or rather that which they
are not."

"I do not quite comprehend that, but will endeavor to do so," replied
the queen; "but, tell me, can he who is conscious of guilt also be
happy?"

"Yes, if he acts freely, and if the knowledge of his guilt makes him
more forgiving and more active in good works. Errors, irregularities,
or what are termed faults, are the result of excessive or defective
endowment, and may, to a certain extent, be described as the _basso
relievo_ or _alto relievo_ of character. Faults of excess may be
remedied by education and knowledge, but not those of deficiency. Most
of us, however, require those who belong to us, and all whom we wish to
be noble and great, to fill up the defects of their nature; and that is
simply requiring the impossible."

The queen was silent for some time. She was evidently making the
doctor's thoughts her own.

"I, too, have a bas-relief fault," said she, at last. "My desire to
forsake the religion of my fathers and to embrace a strange faith
subjected me to deceit and estrangement, and I regard this as a
punishment visited upon me by God or nature. It was this that made the
king look upon me as weak and vacillating, and impelled him to leave
me. I was the first to think of defection, and defection at last became
my punishment!"

The queen wept while uttering these words, and her tears were in pity
for herself.

Gunther remained calm and quiet.

The queen was on the threshold of the second stage of knowledge.

"The mere idea of renouncing your faith--and Your Majesty may remember
that I never approved of it--" said Gunther, after a long pause, "only
served to show that Your Majesty felt the need of possessing
convictions which were not alone in accord with your nature, but were
also the outgrowth of it. Every clear perception of truth, every
conquest over pain, is a transformation, a remodeling of existence, or,
as it is sometimes termed, a purification."

"I understand," replied the queen. "Oh, that I knew the system by which
the world is governed, and the reasons that underlie human destiny! Why
was I obliged to experience this? Has it made me any better? Will it
inspire me to nobler actions? Would I not have been far better if my
life had remained unclouded? I was full of love for all human beings.
Ah, it was so delightful to know of no one on earth who was my enemy,
and still more delightful to know no one whom I must hate and detest!
And what am I to-day? I feel as if, where'er I turn, a corpse lies in
my path. There is no free spot left me on earth! You are a wise man;
help me to banish these terrible thoughts!"

"I am not wise; and, if I were, I could not bestow my wisdom upon you.
It was a saying of the ancients, that others can show you the apples of
the Hesperides, but cannot gather them for you."

"Well, well! be it so. But tell me, would it not be better to grow
greater and nobler and stronger in virtue, and in our faith in
humanity?"

"Childlike innocence is happiness, but a clear perception of truth
is a great gain and, according to my opinion, a necessary and enduring
joy--"

"You avoid my question. It seems to me that you, too, are without the
key."

"I do not possess it--life is inexorable. All that we can do is to bend
to the descending storm, and yet remain steadfast. Sunshine will come
again. We are subject to the lesser law of our own nature, and the
greater law that embraces the universe. There is not a star that
completes its course without deviation. Surrounding planets attract or
repel it; but yet it moves on, in its appointed course, teaching
mankind the lesson of perseverance."

"You offer remedies, and yet place your trust in the healing powers of
nature?"

"Certainly," replied Gunther, "nature alone can help us."

After a while, he added:

"To one who is bowed down by grief, it were useless to suggest
refreshing wanderings on the heights. With returning strength, the
desire will return; for the will is merely the outward manifestation of
inner power. Now, while bending to the blow which has just descended
upon you, you are clothed and sustained by the life-giving power of
nature. It is this that sustains existence until we again awaken to
life and free action. My good mother, in her devout manner, used to
say: 'May God help us, until we can help ourselves.'"

"I thank you!" said the queen. "I thank you," she repeated, and closed
her eyes.



                              CHAPTER XV.


On the same morning on which the king and Bronnen were closeted
together at the hunting-seat, the queen sent for Gunther. He found her
clad in white and resting on her couch. She looked pale and feeble, and
told him how provoked she felt at the vanity and conceit which had
induced her, a young queen, to regard herself as wise and good, and had
led her to imagine herself as gifted with unusual endowments.

"Did you know of what was going on here?" she asked the physician.

"No; I would not have believed it possible, and it is only now that I
understand the terrible death of my dear friend Eberhard. A father in
such grief--"

The queen did not enter into this view of the matter and went on, as if
speaking to herself:

"When I recall the days, the hours, in which she sung, I must
ask myself, can it be possible to sing such songs and such
words,--breathing naught but love, kindness, exaltation, purity--and
at the same time have nothing in one's soul? Aye, worse than
nothing--falseness and hypocrisy? Every word seems false. Have we a
right to be princes, to regard ourselves as superior to others and
entitled to rule them, if we do not elevate ourselves above them by
purity and greatness of soul? I have become a changed being since
yesterday. My soul then lay at the bottom of the sea, and the waves of
death and despair raged above me; but now I wish to live. Only tell me
how to endure it all. You've been at court so long and despise
everything. Don't shake your head; you despise it all--! Tell me, how
is one to endure it? How can one manage to live on and yet remain here?
You surely possess the mystery; impart it to me, for that alone can
save me."

"Your Majesty," replied the physician, "you are still feverish and
excited."

"Indeed, is that the sum of all your science? Princes are right when
they abuse their fellow-creatures, for even the best of men are naught
but polite shadows. I had placed all my dependence upon you; I had
looked up to you as one exalted far above me; and where I had hoped to
clasp a hand, you offer me an empty glove. You smile; I am not
delirious, I've merely awakened to the truth; I have just passed
through hours in which the beautiful world--ah! how full of beauty it
was--seemed filled with naught but creeping worms and loathsome
corruption. Oh, it is terrible! I fancied there was one free being to
whom I could tell all, and from whom I could ask everything in return;
but you are not the man. Ah! there are no real men in this world. The
best are nothing more than title-bearing creatures!"

"You shall not have goaded me in vain!" muttered Gunther half aloud,
and rising from his seat.

"I didn't mean to offend you!" cried the queen. "Ah, thus it is; in
pain and sorrow, we wound those who are nearest to us!"

"Calm yourself, Your Majesty," replied Gunther, seating himself. "If
there is anything for which I may claim credit, it is that I do not
indulge my sensitiveness. I am severe toward others, because I am
severe toward myself."

The queen closed her eyes, but presently she looked at him intently and
said:

"I fear nothing more."

Thus encouraged, Gunther went on to say:

"Human fancy cannot realize how much of vice and misery, nor, on the
other hand, how much of beauty, holiness, grandeur and sublimity there
is in life.

"Your Majesty, I am here at the palace, which is a world in miniature,
a world in itself. All that is terrible, and all that is noble, is
attracted hither--and yet, with every returning spring, the flowers
bloom and the trees deck themselves in robes of green, while the stars
shine over all. There is a blooming flower, a shining star even in the
most despicable of beings. A drop descends from the clouds and falls
upon the dusty road. The drop and the dust uniting, become the mire of
the highway; but to the eye that looks deeper, the drop is still pure,
although divided and subdivided until it is almost impalpably minute,
and inseparable from the dust that darkens it. But even this image does
not suffice. No image directed to the senses, can convey an adequate
conception of the Deity. God exists even in the grain of dust. To our
eyes, it is dust; but to the eye of God, it is as pure as the water and
is equally the abode of infinity. The very people whom you regard as so
false would like to be good, if it did not entail so much trouble and
involve so many sacrifices. Most men would like to win virtue, but do
not care to earn it. They all desire to draw the great prize in the
lottery of morality. 'Oh, if I were only good!' said a lost creature to
me, one day. Your Majesty, truth tells us that hatred and contempt are
not good for they injure the soul. The true art of living requires us
to recognize that which is base in its true colors, but at the same
time, to avoid debasing ourselves by violent or passionate feelings
against that which is wicked or vulgar. You must remove hatred from
your heart, and be at peace with yourself. Hatred destroys the soul.
You must grow to feel that, viewed in the proper light, vice and crime
are simply defects. They may lead to a thousand sad consequences, but,
of themselves, have no existence; virtue alone is a reality. Come up
higher, unto where I stand, and you will find that you have been
tormenting yourself with mere shadows."

"I see the steps," said the queen; "help me up!"

"Naught can avail but self-help. Each must learn to be monarch of
himself, even though he wear a kingly crown. The law teaches us that,
in order to retain this command over ourselves, we must not permit
anger and hatred to dwell in our souls, or to poison so much of the
world as is given us to enjoy, be our share great or small."

"I had too much faith in virtue and kindness."

"Very likely. As long as one believes in mankind, there will be
deception and despair. We persist in judging our fellow-creatures by
what they are as regards us, instead of what they are as regards
themselves. And thus, as long as we believe in human virtue, we may, at
times, be perplexed at finding ourselves disappointed where we least
expect it. As soon, however, as we recognize the Divine in everything,
even though the possessor himself is unconscious of it, we have
attained a lofty standpoint, from which we feel sure both of ourselves
and of the world."

The queen hurriedly raised herself and, extending both hands to
Gunther, exclaimed:

"You are a worker of miracles."

"No, I am not that. I am only a physician who has held many a hand hot
with fever, or stiff in death, in his own. The healing art might serve
as an illustration. We help all who need our help, and do not stop to
ask who they are, whence they come, or whether, when restored to
health, they persist in their evil courses. Our actions are incomplete,
fragmentary; thought alone is complete and all-embracing. Our deeds and
ourselves are but fragments--the whole is God."

"I think I grasp your meaning. But our life, as you say, is indeed a
mere fraction of life as a whole, and how is each one to bear up under
the portion of suffering that falls to his individual lot? Can one--I
mean it in its best sense--always be outside of one's-self?"

"I am well aware, Your Majesty, that passions and emotions cannot be
regulated by ideas; for they grow in a different soil, or, to express
myself correctly, move in entirely different spheres. It is but a few
days since I closed the eyes of my old friend Eberhard. Even he never
fully succeeded in subordinating his temperament to his philosophy;
but, in his dying hour, he rose beyond the terrible grief that broke
his heart--grief for his child. He summoned the thoughts of better
hours to his aid--hours when his perception of the truth had been
undimmed by sorrow or passion--and he died a noble, peaceful death.
Your Majesty must still live and labor, elevating yourself and others,
at one and the same time. Permit me to remind you of the moment when,
seated under the weeping ash, your heart was filled with pity for the
poor child that, from the time it enters into the world, is doubly
helpless. Do you still remember how you refused to rob it of its
mother? I appeal to the pure and genuine impulse of that moment. You
were noble and forgiving then, because you had not yet suffered. You
cast no stone at the fallen; you loved and, therefore, you forgave."

"Oh God!" cried the queen, "and what has happened to me? The woman on
whose bosom my child rested is the most abandoned of creatures. I loved
her, just as if she belonged to another world--a world of innocence.
And now I am satisfied that she was the go-between, and that her
_naïveté_ was a mere mask concealing an unparalleled hypocrite. I
imagined that truth and purity still dwelt in the simple rustic
world--but everything is perverted and corrupt. The world of simplicity
is base; aye, far worse than that of corruption!"

"I am not arguing about individuals. I think you mistaken in regard to
Walpurga; but, admitting that you are right, of this, at least, we can
be sure: morality does not depend upon so-called education or
ignorance, belief or unbelief. The heart and mind which have regained
purity and steadfastness alone possess true knowledge. Extend your view
beyond details and take in the whole--that alone can comfort and
reconcile you."

"I see where you are, but I cannot get up there. I can't always be
looking through your telescope that shows naught but blue sky. I am too
weak. I know what you mean; you say, in effect: 'Rise above these few
people, above this span of space known as a kingdom--compared with the
universe, they are but as so many blades of grass, or a mere clod of
earth.'"

Gunther nodded a pleased assent, but the queen, in a sad voice, added:

"Yes, but this space and these people constitute my world. Is purity
merely imaginary? If it be not about us, where can it be found?"

"Within ourselves," replied Gunther. "If it dwell within us, it is
everywhere; if not, it is nowhere. He who asks for more, has not yet
passed the threshold. His heart is not yet what it should be. True love
for the things of this earth, and for God, the final cause of all, does
not ask for love in return. We love the divine spark that dwells in
creatures themselves unconscious of it: creatures who are wretched,
debased and, as the church has it, unredeemed. My master taught me that
the purest joys arise from this love of God or of eternally pure
nature. I made this truth my own, and you can and ought to do likewise.
This park is yours; but the birds that dwell in it, the air, the light,
its beauty, are not yours alone, but are shared with you by all. So
long as the world is ours, in the vulgar sense of the word, we may love
it; but when we have made it our own, in a purer and better sense, no
one can take it from us. The great thing is to be strong and to know
that hatred is death, that love alone is life, and that the amount of
love that we possess is the measure of the life and the divinity that
dwells within us."

Gunther rose and was about to withdraw. He feared lest excessive
thought might over-agitate the queen, who, however, motioned him to
remain. He sat down again.

"You cannot imagine--" said the queen, after a long pause, "but that is
one of the cant phrases that we have learned by heart. I mean just the
reverse of what I have said. You can imagine the change that your words
have effected in me."

"I can conceive it."

"Let me ask a few more questions. I believe--nay, I am sure--that on
the height you occupy, and toward which you would fain lead me, there
dwells eternal peace. But it seems so cold and lonely up there. I am
oppressed with a sense of fear, just as if I were in a balloon
ascending into a rarer atmosphere, while more and more ballast was ever
being thrown out. I don't know how to make my meaning clear to you. I
don't understand how to keep up affectionate relations with those about
me, and yet regard them from a distance, as it were--looking upon their
deeds as the mere action and reaction of natural forces. It seems to me
as if, at that height, every sound and every image must vanish into
thin air."

"Certainly, Your Majesty. There is a realm of thought in which hearing
and sight do not exist, where there is pure thought and nothing more."

"But are not the thoughts that there abound projected from the realm
of death into that of life, and is that any better than monastic
self-mortification?"

"It is just the contrary. They praise death, or, at all events, extol
it, because, after it, life is to begin. I am not one of those who deny
a future life. I only say, in the words of my master: 'Our knowledge is
of life and not of death,' and where my knowledge ceases, my thoughts
must cease. Our labors, our love, are all of this life. And because God
is in this world and in all that exist in it, and only in those things,
have we to liberate the divine essence, wherever it exists. The law of
love should rule. What the law of nature is in regard to matter, the
moral law is to man."

"I cannot reconcile myself to your dividing the divine power into
millions of parts. When a stone is crushed, every fragment still
remains a stone; but when a flower is torn to pieces, the parts are no
longer flowers."

"Let us take your simile as an illustration, although in truth no
example is adequate. The world, the firmament, the creatures that live
on the face of the earth, are not divided--they are one; thought
regards them as a whole. Take, for instance, the flower. The idea of
divinity which it suggests to us, and the fragrance which ascends from
it, are yet part and parcel of the flower: attributes without which it
is impossible for us to conceive of its existence. The works of all
poets, all thinkers, all heroes, may be likened to streams of
fragrance, wafted through time and space. It is in the flower that they
live forever. Although the eternal spirit dwells in the cell of every
tree or flower, and in every human heart, it is undivided and, in its
unity, fills the world. He whose thoughts dwell in the infinite,
regards the world as the mighty corolla from which the thought of God
exhales."

For some time, the queen kept her face buried in her hands. Gunther
quietly withdrew.



                              CHAPTER XVI.


The king returned from the hunt. His courageous wanderings among the
Highlands had reinvigorated him. He, too, was in a changed frame of
mind. He had already received a full account of what had happened at
the lake. "That's over," thought he; "I can't always be dragging the
past about with me."

He was informed that the queen had not left her apartments since the
receipt of the dreadful news. He sent for Gunther, who informed him of
the queen's condition, and recommended that she be treated with great
indulgence.

The king fancied that the doctor's manner was more reserved than usual.
He would have liked to ask him as to the queen's thoughts, how she had
received the sad news, and whether she had conquered her grief; but it
was Gunther's duty to tell him all this, without waiting to be
questioned. At last, the king asked him:

"Is the queen's mind composed?"

"It is noble and beautiful as ever," replied Gunther.

"Has she been reading of late? Did she send for the court chaplain?"

"Not to my knowledge, Your Majesty."

The king, who, at other times, found the observance of etiquette so
convenient, now found it irksome.

He would have liked the doctor to speak of his own accord, and explain
much that was yet unclear, instead of simply answering the questions
put to him.

"You have had a great trial; in Count Eberhard, you lost an old
friend."

"He lives in my memory, just as he did before he died," replied
Gunther.

The king's heart was filled with anger. He had been very friendly in
his advances toward this man, had even inquired after an event in his
private life, and yet Gunther, while preserving perfect decorum,
remained as reserved and as repelling as ever.

His old aversion toward this man, who, in the midst of the excitement
at court, always remained unmoved, was again aroused. He dismissed
Gunther, with a gracious wave of his hand; but when he had gone, his
eye followed him with a sinister expression.

A thought occurred to him which made his cheeks glow, and determined
him upon another line of action. It was now clear to him that the real
cause of his misstep lay in the fact that a third person had stood
between him and his wife. This should no longer be the case, no matter
how well it was meant. Instead of asking Gunther for information as to
his wife's thoughts and feelings, she should tell him all, in person
and alone. He felt a deep affection for her, and thought that, since he
had conquered so much within himself, he was again worthy of her.

The king sent for Countess Brinkenstein. Since the sad occurrence, the
king had only moved among men, by whom affairs of this nature are
treated more lightly and, in fact, are scarcely alluded to. And now,
for the first time, he stood face to face with a woman; one indeed in
whom a noble mind was combined with the most orthodox observance of
court etiquette. The king's demeanor was dignified, although his heart
trembled with emotion.

"We have had sad experiences," said he to her.

With great tact, Countess Brinkenstein managed to turn the conversation
into another channel and thus avert any explanation on the king's part.
She thought it unbecoming a king to justify himself or to show himself
weak or perplexed; and, besides that, she regarded it as the duty of
those about him, to smooth over all that was unpleasant as gracefully
as possible.

The king appreciated her considerateness. He asked her whether she had
often seen the queen during the last few days, and who was now waiting
on her. The countess informed him that she had only once been with the
queen, who had expressed a wish in regard to his royal highness the
crown prince.

"Ah, how is the prince?" asked the king. During all these days, he had
scarcely thought of his child, and now, as if with renewed
consciousness of the fact, he remembered that he had a son.

"Remarkably well," replied the countess, who went on to name the
various ladies and gentlemen of the court who were now in attendance
upon her majesty the queen. No one had seen her during the last few
days, except Madame Leoni, who had been with her constantly, and the
doctor, who had conversed with her for hours.

The king gave orders to have the prince brought into his apartments. He
kissed the boy, whose round and delicate little hand played with his
father's face.

"Thou shalt honor thy father--if I could only wipe away that one
reproach," said he to himself.

He felt as if his child's touch had endowed him with new strength, and
was about to proceed to the queen's apartments when Schnabelsdorf was
announced. The king was obliged to remain and receive him.

The prime minister informed him that the result of all the elections
was now known, and that his position would be a difficult one, for the
majority had been on the side of the opposition.

The king shrugged his shoulders and said:

"We must await events."

Schnabelsdorf looked astounded at this indifference. What could have
happened?

"There is only one new election necessary," said he. "Your Majesty is
aware that Count Eberhard Wildenort was elected as a deputy?"

"I know," said the king. "Why mention this?"

Schnabelsdorf dropped his eyes and added: "I am informed that Colonel
von Bronnen, Your Majesty's adjutant-general, whose name has already
been mentioned in that connection, is to be brought forward as a
candidate."

"Bronnen will refuse to stand," said the king.

Schnabelsdorf received this remark with an almost imperceptible bow. He
had a presentiment of what was going on.

The king permitted his minister to inform him of what was most urgent,
but begged him to be brief.

Schnabelsdorf was very brief.

The king dismissed him. His intention was to have Schnabelsdorf open
the new chamber. If, as was to be expected, the majority were against
him, Bronnen would form a new cabinet.

It was no slight struggle on the part of the king, to suffer that which
ought to have emanated from his own will to appear as a yielding, on
his part, to the popular voice; but he felt that it was the first real
proof of his subjection to the law, and he meant to find his highest
glory in giving expression to the voice of the people.

His new motto: "True and free," again impressed itself upon him. Calm
and self-possessed, he repaired to the queen's apartments.



                             CHAPTER XVII.


The queen had been informed of the king's return, and the calmness and
self-command that she had regained seemed to vanish. As long as he
remained at a distance, she felt herself secure in the lofty realm of
thought; but now that he was near her, the thought of meeting him face
to face made her tremble with fear. Her sense of injury loosened the
weak foundations of the principles it had cost her such an effort to
make her own. It was already night when the queen heard her husband's
voice in the ante-chamber. He wished to see her, he said, even if she
were asleep. He entered softly. She kept her eyes closed and forced
herself to breathe as gently as possible. It was the first deceit of
her life. She was only feigning sleep, and how often had he who now
stood before her feigned sincerity and truth--? Her breathing became
heavier; it required all her self-command to remain quiet. Horror at
the idea of feigning death now possessed her.

She lay there motionless, with her hands folded, and her husband stood
before her. She imagined that she felt his loving, affectionate glance,
but what could his love or affection be? She felt his warm breath
against her face. And now he felt her pulse, and yet she did not stir.
She felt the kiss that he imprinted upon her hand, and yet she did not
move. She heard him turn to Madame Leoni and say: "She sleeps quietly,
thank God! don't tell her that I was here." She heard his words, and
his soft footsteps while he left the room, and yet she did not move.
Lest her attendant should discover the deception, she was obliged to
keep up the appearance of being asleep and to affect entire ignorance
of what had passed.

When the king reached the anteroom, he said to the waiting-woman:

"I thank you, dear Leoni!"

"Your Majesty," replied Madame Leoni, with a profound bow.

"You have of late afforded fresh proofs of your attachment to the
queen. I shall not forget it. It is a comfort to me to know that she is
surrounded by such careful attendants. My dear Leoni, do all you can to
secure the queen as much repose as possible; and if she should wish for
anything particular, which you think that the ladies of the court or
Countess Brinkenstein need know nothing of, address yourself to me. Has
the queen spoken much during the last few days?"

"Oh yes! unfortunately, too much; that's what makes her so exhausted.
She talked for hours, incessantly."

"Was it with you that she talked so much?"

"Oh no!"

"Then it was with the doctor?"

"It was. But pardon me, Your Majesty, it seems to me that his medicines
consist of words."

The king remembered that Madame Leoni owned a grudge to the queen, and
a still greater one to Gunther, because the position of ayah to the
crown prince had been given to Madame von Gerloff, instead of her. He
was not disposed to take advantage of this, and only said:

"The physician, dear Leoni, should always be the confidant."

"Certainly, Your Majesty; but our noble queen is so despondent, and it
seems to me it would be far better to cheer her up and make her laugh,
instead of conversing about such difficult and terrible subjects. Your
Majesty will surely not understand me, but I should like to help our
noble queen, and her best, indeed her only helper, is Your Majesty.
Whoever thrusts himself between you and her does more harm than good."

The king felt concerned. He had never indulged in espionage, and now
that he felt himself purified and elevated, was doubly averse to it.
Nevertheless, he asked:

"Pray, tell me what has happened!"

"Ah! Your Majesty; I'd rather die than wrong my royal mistress, but
what I am doing can't harm her; it is only meant to aid her."

"Confide all to me," said the king, in a soft voice,--himself
displeased at what he was saying,--"you could not so demean yourself as
to be a spy on the words and actions of others, nor could I desire or
permit you to do so; but it is necessary for me to know how the queen
can be helped out of her present trouble, and, therefore, I ought to be
informed of what is told her, and how matters are discussed here."

"Certainly, Your Majesty," replied Madame Leoni, and, having apologized
for the ugly words, she informed him how the physician had spoken of
the origin of the mud in the highways, how a pure drop from the
heavenly clouds mingles with the dust of the road; and that they had
gone on to talk of sculpture, of _haut relief_ and _bas relief_.

Madame Leoni could only furnish a disconnected statement, but the king
already knew enough.



                             CHAPTER XVIII.


On the following morning, the king sent word to the queen that he must
see her.

He hastened to her.

They were both alone in the apartment.

The king was about to embrace his wife.

She begged him to be seated.

"As you please," said he, in a gentle voice. He was resolved to win her
back to him, in candor and love.

"Will you speak first, or shall I?" he asked, after a pause.

His voice was clear and distinct, and startled her. She observed his
fresh appearance, and grew still paler. She pressed her hand to her
heart; she could not speak.

"Well, then let me speak. Mathilde, we won each other in sincere love.
I frankly confess that I have sinned deeply against you and others, and
now I beg you to believe in my sincere repentance. Don't judge me
meanly, or in a narrow sense!"

"Not meanly? O yes, I understand! To great minds like yourself,
morality is narrow-mindedness. Yours are the large, the world-embracing
hearts, and I am a bigoted, self-opinionated creature!"

"Mathilde, don't say that; I didn't mean to wound you."

"Oh no! you didn't mean to wound me; certainly not, never!"

"Mathilde, with that tone we shall never arrive at perfect harmony. Ask
anything of me, as a proof of my repentance and conversion. You have
the right to do so; I swear to you--"

"Don't swear. I pity you,--there's nothing left by which you can swear.
Swear by the head of your child--the child at whose cradle you
exchanged adulterous words and glances with her!"

"Let the future efface all recollection of the past!"

"Very well. Issue a royal mandate: The world and, above all, my wife,
are to forget that there ever was a Countess Irma; such is my royal
will."

The king gazed at his wife in astonishment. Was this the same tender,
sensitive being? What great change had come over her?

"Let the dead rest!" said he, at last.

"But the dead do not let us rest. She looks at me through your eyes,
speaks to me with your lips, touches me with your hand; for your hand,
your lips, your eyes, were hers."

"I will withdraw until you regain your composure."

"No, stay! I am quite composed. Perhaps you would rather not hear what
I have to say?"

"I will listen to it all," said the king, seating himself; "proceed."

"Well, then let me tell you that you have desecrated a sanctuary,
lovelier and more beautiful than any that ever existed on earth--the
sanctuary in which you were worshiped. I may tell you this, for the
temple is no more and you are no longer in it. I desired to be one with
you in everything; in every breath, in every word, in every glance,
even though it was directed to Him who is on high. It was for that,
that I offered to sacrifice my faith--"

"Do you wish to balance accounts between us? Then remember that I
didn't ask you to make that sacrifice; it would have been a burden. The
idea of its being a sacrifice is out of the question."

"Very well; I'll say no more about that. I merely wished to tell you
that what I regarded as a sacrifice, you looked upon as weakness.
Enough of that, however. You were false to your marriage vow, and that,
too, with her whom I regarded as my friend! I know the way of the
world, in such matters. The Steigeneck whom your father--"

"Don't insult my father's memory! Say what you choose of me, but don't
insult my father!"

"I don't insult him; I honor him. Compared with you, he was pure and
virtuous. He was free, from all affectation of morality, from lying,
deceit and treachery!"

"Who is it that speaks?" said the king, interrupting her. "Is this my
wife? Is it a queen who utters these words?"

"They ought not to be my words; you have forced them upon me. But let
us not dispute about words. Your father bestowed his affections on a
stranger who lived at a distance, and who did not know his wife.
Compared with your conduct, his was virtue itself. You were false to
me, and that, too, with a friend who was constantly at my side; we
conversed together of love, of the stars, of the trees, the mountains
and the valleys, and our thoughts seemed as one. Side by side, we
beheld the works of art, we sang, we played together--and yet you could
both act thus, while at my side, and enter the inner sanctuary of that
which is highest in life. The sky, the earth, all that was pure and
noble in thought or word--you have destroyed them all. I would like to
know the day when, by word or glance, you both ventured to begin your
false game! With every kiss you gave her, you must have said; 'Ah,
my wife--how unhappy I am--she's so narrow-minded, so devoid of
grandeur--'Don't interrupt me! Of one thing I am sure: no husband or
wife can ever touch the hand of another in love, without feeling: 'I am
miserable.' It isn't hatred and revenge that now speak through me, it
is justice! As long as I still loved you, I could hate you; but now I
simply judge you. You must bear the consequences of your actions.
Justice requires that. I pity and deplore your lot. How will you ever
delight in the forest, when she whom you loaded with sin fled through
the forest unto death? How can you look at the lake into which her sin
plunged her? The whole world is annihilated to you, you poor creature!
How your pen must tremble when you again sign a death sentence--you've
murdered both the dead and the living! You may write 'pardon,' but who
will pardon you, 'king by the grace of God'?"

"Mathilde, I once believed you incapable of even alluding to that which
is unseemly."

"Did you believe it? and what would you call unseemly in your case?"

"Speak on, speak on!" said the king, as the queen now paused and heaved
a sigh. He saw the fire consuming all that was dearest to him on earth,
and, at the same time, recognized the beauty of the flame. There are
strange chords in the human soul, and the king, although filled with
shame and indignation, could not but admire the power revealed by his
wife. He had never dreamed of its existence. She was greater and
stronger than he had ever imagined, and his appeal to her seemed to
acknowledge her supremacy. This made her the more indignant and, with
forced composure, she continued:

"No one has a right to demand of another, of a prince, or even of
yourself, that he should be a genius; but every one has a right to ask
that you should be an upright man, a true husband and father. You could
be that, just as easily as any peasant or day-laborer can."

Pain and resentment were depicted in the king's countenance.

"Mathilde," said he, at last, in a tremulous voice, "Mathilde, I am not
speaking of myself; but consider how these words must injure you."

"I've considered all that. I know that the thousand little pleasures of
life are no longer mine. I shall bear a burden which death alone can
remove! I know that. But I've no pity for myself. Where love is dead,
justice must reign!"

"Love? The love that could die was not love!"

"Don't let us dispute. We've ceased to understand one another. Listen
to my last, my irrevocable words. What is left me? to despise you, or
to become despicable myself. Here I stand," said she, drawing herself
up, and appearing taller than before, while a dark flush overspread her
countenance, "here I stand and tell you that I despise you. I will live
with you and by your side, as long as life remains; but I despise you!
Know that, and now leave me. I shall appear with you this evening, at
the court festival. You shall have no reason to complain of any breach
of decorum. Once, love for you was all my life--that memory is mine;
you need it not!"

The king arose. He wanted to speak, but it was long before he could
utter a word.

"Does anyone know of your sentiments toward me?" he asked, at last, in
a hoarse voice.

"No; we owe it to our son that no one should know of it."

"Mathilde, I never would have believed that you could speak thus to me.
But it does not come from you; another has forced himself between us.
He taught you to think and speak thus!"

"You are the great master who has taught me to substitute hatred for
love, and contempt for adoration."

"Does your friend, the doctor, know nothing of what you are now
inflicting upon me?"

"I cannot swear to you--you can no longer believe an oath--but this I
can say: if Gunther knew that I had suffered myself to be carried away
by the ardor of my past love for you, it would grieve him deeply, for
anger, hatred, and revenge, are foreign to his great nature!"

"His great nature may be made very small."

"You will not, you dare not, rob me of my only friend! I implore you!
I'll ask for nothing more as long as I live. I'll be obedient and
submissive. I can no longer offer you love. Grant me but this one
request: leave me my only friend!"

"Your only friend? I don't know that title. As far as I know, there is
no such position at court."

"On my knees, I implore you! Don't mortify him! let me keep this one
friend. He's great, pure, noble; it is he alone who reconciles me to
life!"

The queen was about to throw herself on her knees before the king. He
touched her--she shuddered and drew herself up.

"Be proud!" exclaimed the king. "Be so! and bear the consequences! Be
the exalted one, the pure drop from the heavenly cloud mingling with
me, the dust of the highway--"

The queen looked up amazed. What was it she had heard? The words of her
noble friend thus repeated and distorted. Her head swam.

"Be what you will!" continued the king. "Be alone, and seek support in
yourself!"

He pulled at the betrothal ring on his finger. It was difficult to get
it off, and his face grew red while he pulled at it with all his
strength. At last, he drew it over his knuckle. Without saying a word,
he laid the ring on the table before the queen.

He walked to the door. He stopped for a moment, as if listening for a
word from her--a word to which he would have replied from the depths of
his heart, a word which would have saved and reconciled them both.

The queen looked after him. Would he not turn again? would he not once
more, with heart-piercing tone, cry: "Forgive me!" The love that still
dwelt in her impelled her toward him. It was but for a moment that
the king paused. Involuntarily, the queen stretched her arms toward
him--the moment had passed and, with it, the king had left.

The queen walked to the _portière_, and stared fixedly at it. Then she
fell back on the sofa and wept. She lay there weeping for a long while.



                              CHAPTER XIX.


The queen was now doubly unhappy. She felt unutterable grief because of
her lost love, and had, moreover, suffered herself to be led away by
wicked and hateful passion. The sense of freedom and of elevation,
which Gunther had awakened in her, had vanished. And now that the
heart-rending separation had taken place, it seemed to her like a death
that had been foreseen. But, although we behold its approach from afar,
death ever brings new and unlooked-for woe in its train.

The queen went to the crown prince's apartments. On her way, she passed
by the king's cabinet. She paused for a moment, and asked herself how
it would be if she were to enter here, clasp him in her arms and say:
"Let all be forgotten; you are unhappy as well as I, and I will help
you to bear your lot."

She passed on, for she felt afraid lest she might again appear to him
as weak and wavering, while she meant to be strong.

When she saw her child, her eyes regained a bright expression. The
child had not seen its mother weeping and wrestling with her sorrow,
and now she was with him again. "He, too, will come here," said an
inner voice that she was almost loth to listen to. She trembled when
she learned that the king had had the prince brought to his apartments
that very day.

She waited for a long while. She would kiss the boy's little hand again
and again, and would look around to see if the father were not coming.

He came not.

The king was sitting in his cabinet, his hands pressed against his
burning brow. He had passed the turning-point in his career, and he
could no longer permit himself to be oppressed by private, personal
griefs. He had repented, and that was sufficient. He was determined to
effect a change in himself, and that was more than enough. Of what use
were further accusations and penalties? A deep feeling of resentment
against his wife arose within him. She was weak and revengeful. No, not
weak; she was endowed with a power of which he had never had the
faintest presentiment, and he felt deeply conscious of the grievous
fault he had committed in deceiving such a wife. He was, however,
unable to free himself from the thought that his punishment was an
affront to his exalted position. And while his own life-fabric lay in
ruins, why should he, with wondrous self-denial, set about righting the
lives of others? The heart that is reconciled and at peace with itself,
is the only one that can exert a reconciling and peaceful influence on
others. A spirit of defiance and discontent moved him to abandon the
reforms he had begun, for she who was nearest and dearest to him, his
own wife, would not justly acknowledge them.

He sat there for a long while, dull and depressed. At length he arose,
his face expressive of defiance and firmness. He had determined to
accomplish the good, whether his efforts were appreciated or misjudged.
His strength for good had conquered. Unaided, and for the sake of his
own honor, he had determined to carry out the measures that he
considered right, and the happiness that this would cause him must
compensate for the lost pleasures of love.

There were great festivities at court that evening.

The betrothal of Princess Angelica to Prince Arnold was officially
celebrated. The queen appeared, leaning on her husband's arm, and had a
kind and gentle greeting for every one. She looked weak, but none the
less beautiful.

No one was able to discover the faintest trace of the rupture between
the royal pair, nor did any one notice that the ring was no longer on
the king's hand.

The king and queen conversed with apparent cordiality, but she often
looked as if she must ask him: "Has nothing happened?"

Then she would look about her fearfully, as if the specter of Irma must
suddenly appear in white, dripping garments.

When the king, accompanied by the queen, had made the round of the
saloons, he saluted Bronnen most cordially and remained with him for
some time, engaged in lively conversation.

The queen looked on in amazement. She well knew that Bronnen had
secretly admired Irma, and had even sought her hand. How had it
happened that the king had become so intimate with this man, and
distinguished him above all the other members of the court? There was
no opportunity to obtain information on this point. The whole summer
palace was illuminated; the terrace was hung with variegated lamps;
vessels of burning pitch were placed in the park, sending their
brightness out into the autumn night; the band of Prince Arnold's
regiment played merry airs, the glow of lights and the sounds of music
were wafted far out into the valley and even into the mountains, on
whose lonely heights there were human dwellings.

The queen met Gunther, but simply exchanged a few hasty words with him.
The king greeted him politely as he passed by.

He won't be so cruel, thought the queen. There was a strange shyness in
her expression whenever her eyes rested on Gunther, and, on one
occasion, the king observed this and shook his head. The queen felt
that Gunther must be displeased with her, for she had not acted
according to the laws that he had explained to her.

On the following day, it was reported throughout the capital that
Doctor Gunther had received his dismissal.

The official gazette which contained an account of the betrothal
festivities announced that "His Majesty the King has been graciously
pleased to accept the resignation of his body physician, Privy
Councilor Gunther, and, in token of his satisfaction, has conferred the
cross of Commander of the ---- Order upon him."

Among the personal announcements was the following:


"I bid farewell to all my friends, and am about to remove to my native
town ---- in the Highlands.

                             "DOCTOR WILLIAM GUNTHER,

          "_Privy Councilor and late Physician in Ordinary
              to His Majesty the King_:"



                                A STORY

                                   OF


                         A SOLITARY WORLDLING.



                               BOOK VII.



                           (IRMA'S JOURNAL.)


Cast ashore--what is there left me, but to live on, because I am not
dead?

For days and nights, this unsolved question kept me, as it were,
hovering between heaven and earth, just as it was in the terrible
moment when I glided down from the rock.

I have solved the problem.

I am working. I shall remain resolved, no matter what the result. I
find it a relief to note down my thoughts and feelings.

I was ill,--of a fever, they tell me,--and now I am at work.

I had told the grandmother of what I could do, but there was no chance
to apply it here. She took me out into the garden, and we gathered up
the apples that Uncle Peter shook down from the tree. Then the old,
blind pensioner, whose room is over mine, came out and told us, with
angry cries, that a certain portion of the apples belonged to him. He
tried to find one, so that he might taste it, and thus ascertain which
tree we were shaking. I handed him an apple, and told him that I lived
in the room under his.

We were still in the garden, when a man came who wanted to purchase two
maple-trees that were standing by the cross road, in order to use them
for carving. This seemed like a ray of hope. I told the grandmother
that I knew how to mold in clay, and that I thought I could easily
learn how to carve in wood. And now I'm in the workshop, as a pupil.

This is my first free Sunday, and, while all are away at church, I am
writing this.

                                   *

I once knew a man who had already been kneeling on the sand-heap, the
muskets aimed at him, and--he was pardoned. I have often seen him. Oh
that I had asked him how he lived on!

                                   *

There is no mirror in my room. I have determined never to see myself
again.

And since I neither have, nor desire a mirror, let these pages be the
mirror of my soul.

                                   *

Oh this repose! this solitude! It is like rising from the lake, like
life regained. And yet how calm, how restful!

Up here, and in thousands of other places on this earth, 'twas ever
thus, while, down below, I was about to commit a fearful sin!

                                   *

I have just returned from the workshop. Formerly, when making
excursions from the summer palace into the surrounding country, we
would stop at the industrial villages and visit the large workshops,
where everything was shown us. I used to feel a sense of shame--ah!
that was long ago--at the thought of our merely looking on for a
moment, while others were working. And when we returned to our
carriages and drove off, leaving the men still at their work, what must
they have thought of us?

I am now at the workbench myself.

                                   *

Why does no religion place the command: "Thou shalt work" above all
others?

                                   *

They say that the wound sucked by living lips heals quickly. O thou who
art called queen! I would like to suck up the blood that trickles from
thy heart!

                                   *

Did I destroy the letter to the queen, or did it reach her?

                                   *

I started with fright, when the grandmother asked me why I had pained
the queen by informing her that I meant to take my life.

Why? I know not why. All I know is that I could not help it; it was the
last, the unavoidable tribute I owed to truthfulness.

Why is it that we only concern ourselves about what others may think of
us after death when life has become but an empty sound?

                                   *

Sad and painful days.

I regarded it as my duty to write to the queen from my place of
concealment. Uncle Peter, a true-hearted and obliging little man, who
is always at my service and would like to show me a kindness every
moment, offered to carry a letter for me to a distant town. The queen
shall not grieve on my account--not for my death, at all events. I will
let her know that I am yet alive, but that my life is one of expiation.
If I only felt sure that I had really burnt the letters, or that they
reached him and her. Him I need tell no more. The good mother noticed
that something was troubling me--something that I had kept from her.
She often came to me, but asked no questions. At last I could bear it
no longer, and told her what I had determined on. She took me by the
hand--whenever she means to make her words additionally impressive, she
does this, as if she felt that she must hold fast to me physically--and
said: "Child, you've only to make up your mind clearly as to what you
mean to do. Ask your own heart whether you wouldn't rather be
discovered. Ask your conscience."

I started. It is true, I should not care to do anything, but if it were
to happen--

"Don't give me your answer," continued the mother; "answer yourself, and
then ask yourself whether, if you returned to where you once were, you
wouldn't, on the morrow or the day after, wish to be away again. But
let me tell you one thing: whatever you determine on, do it thoroughly.
Don't write at all, and let the queen mourn you; for it's much easier
to grieve for the dead than for one who, though living, is lost; or
else, write to her honestly and frankly: 'Here I am.' As I said before,
whatever you do, let it be done thoroughly. O my child!" she added, "I
fear it will be with you as it was with the poor soul. Do you know the
story of the poor soul?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell it to you. There was once a young girl who, having gone
astray and died an early death, descended into hell; and there Saint
Peter could always hear her crying, from amidst the flames, 'Paul!
Paul!' in tones that were so heartrending that even the most wicked
demons couldn't find it in their hearts to mock at her. So one day
Saint Peter went up to the gates of hell and inquired: 'My dear child,
why are you always crying "Paul! Paul!" in such a pitiful voice?' and
the girl replied: 'Ah, dear Saint Peter, what are all of hell's
torments? To me, they're nothing. Paul is worse off than I am. How will
he endure life without me? I only ask for one thing; let me return to
the earth once more; only for a moment, so that I may see how he's
getting on, and I'll be willing to remain in hell a hundred years
longer."

"'A hundred years!' said St. Peter. 'Consider, my child; a hundred
years is a long time.'

"'Not to me. Oh, I implore you to let me see my Paul once more! After
that, I'll certainly be quiet and submit patiently to everything.'

"Saint Peter resisted for a long while, but the poor soul gave him no
peace, and at last he said: 'Well, you may go, for all I care; but
you'll be sorry for it.'

"And so the poor soul returned to the earth, in order to see her
beloved Paul. And when she got there, and saw him feasting and enjoying
himself with others, she quietly went back to eternity and, shaking her
head sadly, said: 'Now I'll return to hell and repent.' And then Saint
Peter said to her: 'The hundred years you promised are forgiven you.
During the one minute you passed on earth, you suffered more than you
would have done in a hundred years of hell.'

"And that's the story of the poor soul."

                                   *

I thirst for some spring outside of me, which would refresh and redeem
me. I long for music, for faith, for some soul-liberating dedication of
myself! I find it not. I must seek the spring within myself.

                                   *

In deepest grief it often seems to me as if it were not I who have
suffered thus. I go my way, and it seems as if some one were telling me
the story of what had happened to another.

                                   *

For the first time in my life, I know what it is to feel that I am
being borne with and favored. I really ought not to be here. I am
eating the bread of charity. Now I know how the poor homeless ones must
feel. If Hansei cared to do so, he could send me out of his house this
very day, and what would become of me then?

                                   *

I am obliged to eat in the company of my hospitable friends, and I find
it no easy matter to do so. I pity Hansei, most of all. To him, it must
seem as if a strange apparition--the phantom of one whom he knows not,
was seated at his table. I destroy his happiness.

                                   *

I have punctured my hand with the gimlet, just because, while at work,
I am busy thinking of other things. My little pitchman has brought me a
healing salve.

                                   *

Antique forms of beauty cannot be worked in wood. It is inflexible,
stubborn stuff, and can, with difficulty, be made to yield to the
designs of art. It is naught but a makeshift material.

                                   *

"Oh, how glorious it must be to live up here!" How often is this
expression heard during country excursions! But we forget that the
atmosphere of country parties and that of home are two very different
things. How different when the wind whistles over the stubble fields
and rages among the leafless forest trees; when dull and heavy mists
creep over the mountains; when, for days and days, the clouds hang
upon the heights, and, now and then, suffer a summit to appear in
phantom-like outline, only to hide it again; when, at night, the storms
disturb your sleep, and it seems as if day would never come. Yes, ye
picnic spirits, with garlands of fresh leaves on your hats! spend weeks
up here without a sofa, without fresh bread; only think of it--without
a sofa!

                                   *

Solitude with happy, cheerful memories, must needs be peaceful and
placid. It suggests the lonely tree that sends its roots through the
rich soil and into the clear stream in the valley. But solitude with
sad and dark memories reminds me of the tree whose roots, ever striking
against rocks, must pass over and clamber around them. Thus, holding a
rock in their embrace, they are like a heart laden with a heavy burden
that it can never rid itself of.

                                   *

Perfect solitude is when, for a whole day, no human eye has beheld your
face. It does one good to know that no human eye has seen you, and that
the glass that mirrors your features is, as yet, unsullied by the
breath of another.

                                   *

Solitude is apt to make one superstitious. One naturally casts about
him for some external support.

It always alarms me when, on beginning work in the morning, one of my
tools drops from my hand. I feel that the day which begins thus will
prove a sad and troubled one. I fight down this superstitious feeling.

                                   *

He who possesses a firm faith, although in solitude, is not alone.

                                   *

My master is always out of humor. His wife and three daughters assist
him at his work. Hansei has advanced the pay for my lessons. I am an
apt pupil.

I notice that these people regard me as slightly demented. The little
pitchman informed me that Hansei had given out this report, intending
that it should serve as a sort of invisible cap. This gives me liberty
and yet protects me, but at times it makes me feel uneasy.

My master also thinks that I am out of my mind. He addresses me
cautiously, and is delighted when he finds that I have understood him.

                                   *

The swallows are departing. Ah! I cannot deny that I fear the
approaching winter. If I only do not become ill. That were terrible! It
would force me to betray myself or--no, I dare not be ill. But I am
still so nervous. It is hard for me to mention it, but it is hard to
bear it. A cow in the stable near by has a bell on her neck, and day
and night it keeps up its unrhythmic tinkling. But I must get used to
it.

                                   *

I really dread the winter. If it were only spring time, instead of
autumn. Nature would be my friend. Nature is the same everywhere. But
now winter faces me. I must reconcile myself to it, however, for we
cannot arrange the seasons to suit ourselves. I will learn which is the
stronger, my temperament or my will. I shall impose no thoughts upon my
mind but those which ought to engage it.

I have determined upon this.

                                   *

The shoemaker means to recognize Cinderella by her foot--he finds mine
unusually small for that of a peasant girl.

I trust that the fairy tale may remain a fairy tale.

That touching air from Isouard's Cinderella:

                  Good child, thou must contented be,
                  A better lot's in store for thee,

has been haunting me, all day long.

How simple the words! Music is the fairy that invests Cinderella's
accents with royal robes, and enthrones them on the lips of all
mankind.

                                   *

O happy nursery tale! Thou askest not how the princess lived as
poultry-maid. Thy fancy uttered its creative: "Let there be--" and
behold! it was.

But, in life, such transformations are not brought about without great
effort.

Walpurga has rightly divined my feelings. It was but to-day that she
said:

"You can't get used to things here. Life here must seem almost as
strange to you as it did to me in the palace, but, of course, it's
easier to get used to a silken bed than to a sack of leaves."

I felt like saying: "And if one means to go home again, it's far easier
to put up with such discomfort," but I repressed it. One ought not to
torment such people with logical consequences. Their thoughts and
feelings are like the singing of birds, without rhythm and, at best,
like the folk-songs, whose melodies close on the third, instead of on
the key-note.

                                   *

Since the alluring, glittering life of the great world could at any
time have been mine, I find it easy to forego it.

Had I entered a convent and were living there, fettered by a vow and
subject to restraint, I know that I should have mourned away my days
behind the bars.

                                   *

To be without gloves! I never knew that one's hands could become so
cold. I cannot realize that I am without gloves. When he drew off my
glove, a shudder passed through me.--Was it a presentiment?

                                   *

In the mornings I feel the want of a thousand little conveniences, with
which use had so familiarized me that I scarcely knew I possessed them.
I am obliged to learn the affairs of everyday life from the good
mother. It is just these things that we forget to learn. We are taught
dancing, before we are really able to walk.

From cleaning our shoes in the morning to putting out the lamps at
night, how many are our wants, how many the helping hands we need! What
with cooking, washing, scouring, drawing of water, and carrying wood,
man finds no time to think of himself. Nature furnishes clothing and
food to the beasts; but man must spin and cook for himself.

I have imposed a difficult task upon myself, for I have determined to
allow no one to wait upon me. An anchorite cannot afford to be too
cleanly or fastidious; but then I was not intended for an anchorite.

                                   *

At first it oppressed me to think that I had become a Robinson Crusoe
in spirit, but now I am proud of it.

He who is thrown upon himself, and is no longer able to live in
accordance with custom, is cast away on a desert island, and must
create everything anew for himself.

But why should I, whose heart was already borne down with its burdens,
be obliged to suffer shipwreck, too?

                                   *
When I look out into the night and all is dark, and there is no light
to tell me: "Here are other beings like yourself," I feel oppressed
with fear, as if I were alone upon the earth!

                                   *

(October.)--This evening--ah! the evenings are already long--it
suddenly occurred to me: There are thousands who lead a life of
affluence and pleasure, who move in society, and yet--

Why should I alone renounce the world, deprive myself of its pleasures,
and bury myself in solitude?

Because I must and shall! I live only by the favor and charity of
others. I have wasted my life, trifled it away. Shall I try to regain
it in bitter earnest? I once trifled with words, but now they fetter
and judge me!

                                   *

"You're still too heavily laden?" said the grandmother.

"How so?"

"If a wagon's loaded too heavily, you can't grease its wheels so as to
stop their creaking. You must wait till it's empty. Then you can raise
it with a jack-screw, take off the wheels and grease the axles. The
burden you still bear is the thoughts of the past; lay them aside, and
you'll soon feel relieved."

                                   *

At last I know why I get up in the mornings. Something seems to say to
me: "Thou shalt labor. To-day, this will be finished; to-morrow, that."
And when I lie down to rest, there is always something more in the
world than there was at daybreak.

                                   *

"Work!" "Work!" is the daily, hourly watchword here. They think of
nothing but work. It is a necessity of their being, just as growth is
to the tree. It is this that makes them so self-reliant.

                                   *

There is misery and discord, even here.

In the kindness of her heart, Walpurga said that she could not endure
the thought of the old blind pensioner's being obliged to eat his meals
alone, and that she meant to have him at the table with the rest.

"I won't have it!" said Hansei. "Not a word more about it; I won't have
it."

"Why not?"

"Why? You ought to know that yourself. If Jochem has once been at the
table, you can never get rid of him again. So we'd better not have him
at all. You don't know how an old blind man eats."

After that, not a word was spoken during the meal. Walpurga made
believe that she was eating, but she was merely choking down her tears,
and left the table soon afterward. She is keenly sensitive to such
rudeness and cruelty; but she never complains, not even to me.

                                   *

(During a violent storm.)

What a fright I have had to-day! My little pitchman told me that a man
had hanged himself somewhere in the vicinity.

"It had to come," thought he. "The man had hanged himself fifteen years
ago, but they cut him down, and he lived on. But it was just as if he
always had a rope around his neck--people who've once tried anything of
that sort, never die a natural death."

How his words startled me.

Can it be that such dread fate is yet in store for me?

I answer: No! It shall not be!

                                   *

To sit in my warm room and look out at the driving snowstorm, is like
going back in thought to the hurly-burly of the great world.

Nine weeks have passed already.

I still have a dull, heavy feeling, as if I had been struck in the head
with a hammer. I merely exist, but it seems as if life were again
dawning upon me. When I awake in the mornings, I am obliged to ask
myself who and where I am, and to recall all my woe. But then work soon
summons me away.

                                   *

I have nothing more to look for, be it from the outer world, or the
morrow. I am forced back upon myself and the present. For me, there are
neither letters nor books, and the very roads are closed. To arise in
the morning and know that no tidings, whether of joy or sadness, can
come from without; to have nothing to fall back upon but one's self and
the undying laws of nature: he who can lead such a life, self-contained
and yet contented, must be like the child illuminated by its own
radiance--the child painted by Correggio.

Hammer and axe, file and saw, all that once seemed to me instruments of
torture for poor enslaved humanity, I have found the instruments of
deliverance. They banish the demons that dwell within us. Where these
tools are wielded by industrious hands, evil spirits cannot tarry. The
redeemer who will consecrate labor, is yet to come.

                                   *

At last, I find myself obliged to be content without doing anything in
the way of art.

Although wood is useful, and in many respects indispensable, it cannot
be applied to serve beauty apart from usefulness. The substance with
which my art, or rather trade, employs itself, is unequal to the
demands of art, except for decorative purposes. Bronze and marble speak
a universal language, but a wooden image always retains a provincial
character. It addresses us in dialect, as it were, and never attains to
the perfect expression of the ideal. We can make wooden effigies of
animals or plants with which we are familiar, and can even carve angels
in _relievo_, but to make a life-size bust, or human figure, of wood,
were entirely out of the question.

Wood carving is only the beginning of art, and is faltering, or, at
best, monotonous, in its expression.

What has once existed as an organism cannot be transformed into a new
organic structure. Stone and bronze, however, do not acquire organic
shape, except at the hands of man.

If a Greek of the days of Pericles were to behold our images of the
saints, how he would shudder at our barbarism.

                                   *

This journal is a comfort to me. I can express myself in my own
language and feel perfectly at home. I cannot, at times, avoid
regarding my constant use of the dialect of this region as a sort of
affectation. Everything that I say appears to me distorted. I feel as
if wearing a strange costume, and as if my soul were concealed behind
an iron mask. Although I am a child of the mountains, the words I utter
seem strange and foreign. A dialect proves poverty of resources. It is
an imperfect instrument; a kettle-drum, for instance, on which one can
play neither concertos nor fantasias. Or, to put it differently, the
language of Lessing and Goethe is like the beautiful butterfly that has
left the chrysalis to which it can never more return.

Alas! The one terrible thought confronts me at every turn. I have
offended and denied you, ye who represent the spirit of my people and
of humanity. You fostered me, and I have abused the gifts which
education bestowed upon me. I must remain in exile.

                                   *

The fire that still smolders within me must be extinguished.

My heart is so heavy that it seems to drag me down, as if weights were
hanging to me.

                                   *

I am so weary, so exhausted, that I feel as though my limbs must break
under me! I should like to do nothing but sleep; to sleep always.

                                   *

I should like to perform a pilgrimage to some place or person, as an
act of expiation.

I now understand the basis of a religion of symbols--a religion that
speaks to the eye.

I will go hence--to Italy, to Spain, to Paris, to the East, to America.
I will go to Rome and become an artist. I must be one. If I am still to
live on in the wide world, I must enjoy it fully and deny myself
nothing, for I am not of a self-sacrificing temperament. I could hurl
the full cup of life into the abyss, but to see it before my eyes, and
yet languish and mortify myself--that I cannot do. I will, I must go.
Something calls me hence. Naples lies before me. I see a villa on the
shore; merry excursions by water; a crowd of laughing, singing, gayly
attired creatures--I plunge into the current of life. Better there than
in that of death. And yet--I cannot--

                                   *

A gloomy, terrible, twilight hour. Something urges me to turn back, and
tells me that the whole world is mine. What has happened? Are there not
thousands like me, who live honored, oblivious of themselves? What is
it within me that whispers; "You must expiate?" I can go hence. It will
seem as if nothing had occurred. "A piquant adventure," "a
disappearance for a few weeks."--What more can they say? All I need is
to be bold--the carriage rolls along, all salute me. I am beautiful,
and no one will see the writing on my brow, for a diadem sparkles
there.

But the terrible words are written there--it seems as if I could behold
my own soul face to face.

                                   *

There is a childhood of the soul and, with all her experience, the
grandmother possesses it. Oh, that I could gain that childlike feeling!
But have not those who seek it, forever lost it?

                                   *

Old Jochem often brings his money to me, and makes me count it for him,
piece by piece. He maintains that one is so often cheated in money
matters.

My little pitchman told me that the peasants almost always treat their
aged parents who have given up their property to them, with great
unkindness, and then he asked me: "Why must Jochem live so long? He has
nothing in the world but hatred and mistrust." I know no answer.

Old Jochem is a veritable peasant Lear, but as he is able to complain
at the court of justice, and has actually done so, his case is not pure
tragedy.

But there is no court of justice at which a king can complain; nor does
he desire one; and hence his fate is great and tragic.

My friend, call me when thou standest in judgment upon thyself. I am
the only one who dare accuse thee, and yet I accuse not thee, but
myself. And I am expiating my guilt.

                                   *

The open hearth-fire affords me many happy moments. How beautiful a
fire is! What are all jewels, compared with it? Poor old Jochem cannot
see the fire. It is the most beautiful thing in every house-- Men
should be fire-worshipers.

"You've had good thoughts," said Hansei to me, when I was sitting by
the open window to-day. "I could tell it by your looks."

He evidently longed to put a question to me, but he is determined to
keep his resolution. He never asks me anything and, to avoid doing so
often changes the form of his sentences. I told him my thoughts, and
his manner seemed to imply: "It isn't worth while to think of such
things."

"Yes," said Hansei at last, "that's true enough. When one sits by the
fire, his thoughts will roam."

To Hansei's notion, nothing in the world is so objectionable as taking
a walk. He cannot conceive why one should roam about, where there is
nothing to seek and nothing to do, and why, under such circumstances,
one would not rather lie down on the long bench and go to sleep.

                                   *

When I think of good Kent, I always imagine him as having a rich, full
voice, like that of Bronnen, whom, in his youth, he must have
resembled.

Certain figures pass in procession before my mind's eye. The queen and
Bronnen are the only ones ever present; the king vanished with the
forgotten past. In my dreams, many visit me, but he never comes. Why, I
know not. I cannot solve the enigma.

To one who, when alone, stops to think, many things lose in value,
human beings among the rest. Personally, Gunther was no more to me than
another would have been. Emma was a mere echo.

If we thus reckon over our possessions, we find them little enough, and
I have left but little behind me in the world.

                                   *

The ringing of the sleigh bells is the only sound one hears. The woods
are full of busy workmen. Snow and ice, which block the roads
elsewhere, here serve as highways.

                                   *

Labor, by sending its fruits out into the world, places our vital force
at the disposal of others. The work which I have fashioned goes out
among men, and yet I am left undisturbed in my solitude and
concealment.

Man's work leaves him. It seems to me that I once met with the same
idea in Ottilia's journal.

                                   *

The dog is the friend and confidant of solitary man. Lonely, deserted
spots, like this, aid one to appreciate his faithfulness, for he fails
not to give notice of every unwonted occurrence.

                                   *

I often rush to the window when the dog barks--who knows what stranger
may have come?

Suppose the intendant or Gunther were suddenly to come, and ask me to
follow them back into the world?

The very thought makes me tremble.

Would I be obliged to obey?

                                   *

To know that I had, at one time, renounced the world, and that it was
but a step and a leap--makes it easier to bear with life. I am now
beyond misfortune's reach.

And yet--if life were to claim me again--

                                   *

I am but an ant dragging a pine-needle.

                                   *

I am not quite forsaken. I bear, within me, memories of melodies and
pictures, and, above all, songs of our great master, Goethe.

                 "On every height there lies repose."

This passage has occurred to me hundreds of times, refreshing me just
as if it were a gentle, cooling dew, falling upon a parched field. I
delight in the harmonious cadence and in the simple words!

I could not rest until I had repeated the song to some one. I recited
it to the old pensioner; he understood it, and my little pitchman has
already gotten it by heart. How fortunate is the poet! One short hour
of his life becomes undying to thousands after him. How I delight in
these precious memories! I am like the old pensioner, who has learnt a
few songs and quietly sings them to himself.

                                   *

I am beginning to feel something like veneration for the old pensioner.

Early this morning, he came to me, dressed in his Sunday clothes, and
wearing the medal which he received in the war of liberation. It was
not without a certain air of pride that he said: "They're reading a
mass for me at church to-day. I served under Napoleon in those days,
just as the king did, too. It was in the year 'nine' and, on this very
day, up to three o'clock--that is, some time between three and four--I
was sound and hearty, when, all at once, I was struck by a ball, here
in the third rib--that's why I wear my medal on the right side. I fell
to the earth, thinking: Good-night, world! God keep thee, my dear
sweetheart! She who was afterward my wife, was my sweetheart at that
time. They extracted the ball with a crossbill, and I kept on smoking
while they were at work. My pipe never went out once, and I was soon
all right again. But one doesn't easily forget such a day, and so I
arranged it, at the church, that they should read a mass for me on this
day. See, this is the ball and, when they bury me, I want them to lay
it on my third rib."

He showed me the ball. He carried it in a leather purse. After that a
child that he had hired for the purpose led him down into the village.

I will now be more patient with the unfortunate old man. His life was a
drop in the ocean of history--struck by the enemy's bullet--! A leaden
ball can be extracted, why cannot also--

When I reflect on the daily events of the life I now lead, all my
thoughts seem to lose themselves in the one unsolvable problem.

The grandmother told me a strange truth to-day. I had been telling her
that, even in the past, I had never been perfectly happy, when she
replied:

"You've deceived yourself. It's always so in the world. Those who are
deceived, have deceived themselves, but they're never willing honestly
to confess it."

                                   *

Uncle Peter is the very embodiment of cheerful poverty. He is always in
a good humor, and I have been the means of making him quite happy. He
brings my work, carries away what I have finished, and, between us, we
have quite a handsome profit. He also assists me in preparing the wood,
and he handles saw and axe as deftly as a bird does its claws and beak.

                                   *

To-day I received the first money that I ever earned by the work of my
hands. Uncle Peter counted it out to me on the table. He refuses paper
money. Nothing but silver will satisfy him. "Ready money smiles," said
he, with a laugh in which I could not help joining. How small are these
gains, and yet how encouraging. I have earned them. All my life long, I
have merely enjoyed what others have offered me. It was a privilege,
inherited from my ancestors, that others should labor for me.

I can now manage to pay Walpurga something for my support. She refused
to receive pay, but I shall insist upon it.

                                   *

It is well that my employment is, to a great extent, a mechanical one,
comprising much which is necessary and requires neither reflection nor
contrivance. Certain things must be done, and there is but one way of
doing them. If I were obliged to do anything that required great mental
exertion, it would be the death of me.

                                   *

It is now four months since I came here.

My hands have become hardened.

The treatment I receive from those about me, satisfies me that their
affection for me is sincere.

                                   *

If one could only always remain the same--that is, in the full
possession of one's powers.

I often give way to fits of depression and feel completely undone,
forsaken, weak and helpless, and as if help must come from somewhere.
But whence? and from who?

I am obliged, with each succeeding day, to overcome the melancholy that
oppresses me during the mornings. In the evenings, I am calm--for I am
weary then.

                                   *

We hear the falling rain, but not the snow. Bitter grief is violent;
resignation, calm and silent.

                                   *

It is bitter cold up here; but the woods are near us, and my monster of
a tile stove is a faithful friend who preserves his warmth.

                                   *

Literally speaking, when Hansei returns from the forest it often takes
him an hour to thaw, and regain control of his voice and movements.
Until then, it is best not to talk with him, for he is easily offended;
but when he has thawed, he is quite happy again, and always says: "I
thank God that I've been a woodsman!"

He is evidently thinking of some method of improving the forests, but
he does not say what it is.

The lower orders always have overheated rooms. They enjoy intoxication,
even that of heat.

                                   *

I have no mirror. There is no need of my knowing how I look. A mirror
is the beginning and the cause of self-consciousness. A beast does not
see itself,--it is only seen by others--and yet, whether it be the bird
on yonder bough, or the cat that sits before my window, it adorns
itself. I, too, dress myself carefully, and for my own sake, and am ill
at ease when my clothes are loose and ill-fitting.

                                   *

When I first came here, I found it quite difficult to associate with
those about me, but now I find comfort and self-forgetfulness in my
intercourse with them. I should not like to darken their existence, but
to brighten it, instead. They feel that while I partake, I also
contribute my share.

I think the idea is Goethe's.

                                   *

There was great joy in the house to-day, owing to the unexpected visit
of Walpurga's friend and companion Stasi, with her husband, a forester.
What happiness, what joy, and what an interchange of experiences!

Hansei at once invited the forester to be sponsor to his boy, for boy
it must be. Walpurga quickly said that she would like to show her
friend through the house, and I was obliged to go with her.

Among the higher classes, love may be greater, may possess more energy,
more depth, and more of all that is allied to passion; but the lower
orders seem to possess greater faithfulness and constancy. Work teaches
us to be faithful.

                                   *

I have been out in the forest with Hansei. Oh how beautiful! We passed
a frozen waterfall; the crystal columns sparkled in the sunshine.
Hansei pointed out two trees that were far up the mountain. He means to
have them felled for me, so that I may have the best wood for my work.
Am I expected to work up two whole trees?

Hansei was quite amused, when I told him I had not forgotten his rule
of the mountain: "Go right on and never stop."

Mountain-climbing in winter has made me very tired, but I feel quite
well.

                                   *

I have often wondered why I never heard any mention of Hansei's family.
The little pitchman has just told me that his mother died an early
death, and that he never knew his father.

This accounts for much in Hansei's behavior, and only renders it the
more beautiful.

                                   *

We are feasting on meat broth.

Great is Hansei, the dispenser of good!

Yes, he is great. How all our illusions vanish! An Homeric hero who
cuts up swine and cooks and roasts them, remains a hero for all, and
Hansei is as good as any of them, although it be not with the sword.

There is Homeric feasting throughout the farm. They all bite with teeth
as good as those of Menelaus.

                                   *

The greatest blessings are pure blood, steeled sinews and strong
nerves.

But he who, besides these, possesses a quiet conscience, is the
happiest of creatures.

                                   *

I love the twilight--day fading into night. He who lives in communion
with nature is the only one whose life does full justice to each day.

Man is the only being who lives, far into the night. Light and fire
makes us what we are.

Schnabelsdorf the omniscient, once said: "The hour at which men retire
is the measure of their civilization."

At court, they are just sitting down to dinner. They are joking and
laughing, and telling each other anecdotes. If I were suddenly to
appear among them?

No, I shall not disturb ye!

In a little while, they will be driving to the theater. Isn't to-day--?
I had almost forgotten it--yes, this is my birthday. It was to-day a
year ago that I went to the ball, in the character of the Lady of the
Lake, and it was there he said to me--it was in the palmhouse--I can
still hear his soft voice: "I have purposely chosen this day. You alone
are to know it. You and I."

Oh! that night!

I wonder if they are thinking of me there?

The Egyptians, at all their festivals, displayed mementoes of their
dead. I cannot write any more--I will light the candle--I must work.

                                   *

There is a deaf mute who lives down in the village and works at coarse
wood carvings. He has neither learned to read nor to write, nor has he
ever had any religious instruction. He knows nothing at all; but he
does know the church festivals, the holidays, and Shrove Tuesday
especially. On those days he will plant himself, with his umbrella, in
front of the church, and watch the peasants as they go by. If he sees
one who pleases him, he walks up to him, takes off his coat and sits
down at the table, and, without saying a word, they give him food and
drink for three days.

And thus he happened to come to our house. Sometimes he cries, and
cannot tell why, but he endeavors to express himself by dumb motions.
The little pitchman declares that he cries because he can't eat any
more.

I have tried to make myself intelligible to him, but we do not
understand each other.

                                   *

(Ash Wednesday.)--To-day, every one in the house is silent and
thoughtful. Every brow was strewn with ashes, while they repeated:
"Mortal! remember that thou art dust."

Ah! mine is a long Ash Wednesday, after a mad carnival!

In my mind's eye, I often behold the picture of the Egyptian princess.
Her garments have fallen from her nude form and, with loosened hair,
she kneels in prayer by her open grave.

When wilt thou receive me, all-merciful mother earth?

I am reminded of the grandeur of Antigone's answer to Creon, who has
just announced to her the sentence of death:

"I knew that I should die; thou only tellest me when."

                                   *

I shall quietly bear the consequences of my actions, relying on myself,
looking for no aid, either material or spiritual, from without.

                                   *

When the people have finished repeating the Ave Maria during the
tolling of the vesper bell, they say "Good-evening" to each other. It
is a beautiful custom, and deems to say that they have returned from
heaven unto those whom they love on earth.

                                   *

When there is no one by, Walpurga always addresses me as "Countess,"
and treats me with the deference she deems me entitled to.

Everything seems reversed. At one time, I used to address _him_
familiarly in private, and in public--

Ah! that one memory forever thrusts itself in my way!

If I were to become sensitive, it would be the most terrible thing that
could happen to me. Perhaps I am so, already. The sensitive being is as
one unarmed among those who are fully armed, as one unveiled where all
the rest are masked.

I will, I must be strong!

                                   *

Walpurga brought me some flower-pots to-day, with rosemary, geranium
and oleander.

Hansei had brought them from the place of a great doctor who, he says,
lives at some distance from here, in the valley. His gardener is
allowed to sell plants, and Walpurga brought them to me, saying:
"You've always had flowers about you, and these will last through the
winter."

These few plants make me happy. The flower does not ask what sort of a
pot it is in, so long as it gets its share of sunshine and rain. What
enjoyment do those who dwell in the palace have, of the hot-house
flowers? They neither planted nor tended them: they are strangers to
each other.

                                   *

Hansei came to me to-day and said:

"Irmgard, if I've ever wronged you--though I don't know that I have--I
beg you to forgive me!"

"What makes you ask me that question?"

"Because to-morrow we go to confession and communion."

The tears that fall upon these pages are my confession, a confession
that I cannot frame in words.

                                   *

Why was I obliged to cross the threshold of evil before entering this
circumscribed and yet peaceful existence? Why not pure and free, proud
and strong?

I have somewhere read that Francis of Assisi, returning, early in the
morning, with the merry fellows who had been his comrades in the
drinking bout of the night before, was suddenly seized by the Holy
Spirit and, renouncing the world, led a holy life ever afterward.

And must it always be through paths of sin?

But far sadder is the question: Why were you, O queen! obliged to
suffer thus?

                                   *

I often wander about the fields in the pouring rain, and feeling like a
prisoner. What keeps me here? what lures me hence?

                                   *

I lead the life of a prisoner, confined by walls and iron gratings
formed by my own will.

I endure all the pain of exile!

I live in a state of torpor. Why must I wait for death?

It often seems to me as if I were lying at the edge of a precipice, and
yet cannot awake and rise.

Whither should I go?

                                   *

The thought sometimes flashes across the desert waste that fills my
soul, and drags me along, like a powerless rider mounted on some
enchanted steed: "You know nothing of the world you have left behind
you: those who are about you conceal what knowledge they may possess,
and you dare not ask."

How would it be if the queen were dead, and he who once loved you and
whom you loved in return--ah, so deeply!--were doubly alone and
forsaken, and grieving because of thee? Let him have but the faintest
token that you are still alive, and he will come for you, and, mounted
on a white palfrey, you shall again enter the palace as queen. All will
be expiated, all will be forgiven. You will be a friend to the people.
You know them, for you have lived and suffered with them--This thought
often seizes me and envelops me, as it were, in an enchanted net. I
cannot rid myself of it, and I seem to hear voices and trumpet tones,
calling me hence. I have not yet quieted the wild brood that dwells in
my soul.

                                   *

Mysterious demons slumber within our souls. At the faintest call, they
raise their heads and crawl from their hiding-place. They have cunning
eyes and can readily change their shapes. They can appear as virtues,
and, borrowing priestly robes, can speak the language of sympathy:
"Have pity on yourself and others." They make a show of their power and
love of action, and say: "You can bestow happiness on one and on many.
You can do great and good service to one and to the multitude."

I annihilated them. I held the light up to their eyes, and they
vanished.

Thou livest, queen! Friend whom I have so deeply injured, thou livest!
I do not ask, nor do I wish to know, whether thou art dead.

Thou livest, and my only wish is that thou mightst know of the life of
repentance that I am now leading, and how little compassion I have for
myself.

                                   *

The Greek drama, "Prometheus Bound," occurs to me. Prometheus was the
first anchorite. He was fettered from without; we fetter ourselves by
vows or the rules of an order.

I am neither a Prometheus, nor a nun.

                                   *

There is but one thing, which the outer world might afford me, that I
still long for, and that is the music of a large orchestra.
Fortunately, I often hear it in my dreams. How strange! While sleeping,
my soul plays on all instruments, and performs great orchestral works
which I never entirely succeeded in committing to memory.

We lead a dual life after all.

                                   *

Freedom and labor are the noblest prerogatives of man. Solitude and
industry constitute my all in all.

                                   *

Walpurga has never referred to the warning she once gave me. With a
rude hand, she snatched me from the edge of the precipice and, in
return, I scolded and deceived her, while deceiving myself. She
represses everything that might remind me of that scene.

                                   *

To-day, Jochem confided to me the one grief that clouds his life: "They
lead old oxen and cows to the slaughter-house," said he; "old horses
and old dogs they shoot, and old men they feed to death--that's all the
difference."

                                   *

The dwelling-house on our farm has been neglected and is sadly in need
of repair; but Hansei is not inclined to begin building at once.

"We must make shift with the old house," he says, "the work must be
done first." And, besides this, he has a certain dread of what people
may say. The house had been good enough for those who had been there
before him--why shouldn't it be good enough for him?

Even the farmer, on his lonely estate, is not perfectly independent. He
who cares for the opinion of others, must allow it to affect his
actions.

These are the chains that make slaves of us all.

                                   *

(March 1st.)--Joy and happiness have entered the house. New light has
awakened in me, too, as if my life were something more than mere
darkness. Walpurga has a boy. Hansei's happiness is complete, and he
never mentions the boy except as "the young freeholder."

                                   *

The christening is over. I felt sorry that I was unable to accompany
them to church, but I could not.

                                   *

I have laid the peasant's garb aside. It was in place while I was a
fugitive, but now I have no further need of it. I wear dresses of
simple calico, like those worn by many of the country people who employ
themselves with housework. All that I have retained is my green hat,
which I find quite useful, as it helps to hide my face.

I have laid aside many outer garments; how many inner ones must I still
put off?

                                   *

Fear and anxiety are gradually leaving me.

I have been at the village, and for the first time. The houses stand
apart, on the mountain meadows. Viewed from above, they almost look
like a scattered flock of sheep.

                                   *

The rushing of the waters and the rustling of the forests sound so
strangely at night, and yet the rushing and rustling are unceasing. How
vain, how small is the child of man!

                                   *

Oh, how delightful it is to be awakened by the song of the finch, and
to find all nature refreshed by the invigorating morning air!

                                   *

(April 19th.)--A heavy fog all day. The mist forms a veil which hides
nature's death and awakening from view.

                                   *

The nightingale by yonder brook, sings all day long and through the
night. What unwearying power! What an inexhaustible fount of song!

While I write, its song seems to come nearer, as if it knew that I long
for it.

                                   *

I see every opening bud, and wait to see the ferns unfold their leaves.
Even the rough maple has a delicate blossom. Everything is blooming or
singing. There is music, even in the cackling of the hens. The world is
full of infinite variety.

                                   *

Oh, how delightful to watch for every green leaf, and for the opening
of every bud. Nature's greatest charm is that she is never in haste.
She can wait, and all we need do is--to wait upon her.

                                   *

At first, we attempt to note every stage of growth, but we soon find
that an impossibility.

                                   *

It needs but a single rainy day, and all the buds burst. Bright spring
is with us once again. Spring produces a sort of mental unrest which
seems to move in a course parallel with the impulse at work in nature.

                                   *

The drooping birch is laden with rich clusters of blossoms, and its
branches are swayed to and fro in mute yet melodious movements.

                                   *

The best self-forgetfulness is to regard the things of this world with
love and attention.--Perhaps attention already presupposes love, and
that of the most unselfish kind.

                                   *

A cuckoo comes quite close to the house at early morning and utters its
cry.

                                   *

(Whitsuntide.)--The preparations for the festival afford much pleasure,
more perhaps than the festival itself. What kneading and baking, and
what joy at the successful completion of the festal cake.

Joy which we have prepared for ourselves is perfect joy. And now comes
the festival. Trees and human beings seem blooming with life, and
yonder forest is borne toward us in the Whitsuntide favors they bring
into the house.

Hansei has a new suit of the style worn in this section of the country.
When he walked over the farm to-day, the kindly "good-morning" which he
bestowed upon every one seemed full of happiness.

I am very sorry that I am again unable to accompany them to church. The
festal feeling reaches its climax in church-going, but, even at home,
the air is laden with the fragrant odor of the birch and holiday cake.

                                   *

(May 24th.)--We have had a furious spring storm, accompanied by thunder
and lightning. The trees swayed to and fro and bent as if they would
break.

"That's bad," said my little pitchman, "though it's good for the rye. A
storm in springtime brings cold weather, while one in midsummer makes
the days warmer than before."

How well this symbolizes precocious passion.

The bright sunshine has returned. I have been out of doors. Millions of
blossoms are strewn about the ground and, in the forest, lay many dead
young birds. They had ventured out of their nests too soon; the rain
had wet their young wings and they could not return. Besides that, the
nest no longer contained room for them. Forsaken and hungry, there was
nothing left them but death!

Nature is terrible. It labors long and patiently to bring forth a being
which it suddenly and wantonly suffers to die.

                                   *

Sundays go hardest with me. One is used to look for something unusual
on that day. We put on a particular dress and expect the world to do
the same. On that day, more than on all others, I feel that I am in a
strange world.

The brook murmurs and the birds sing, just as they did yesterday. What
right have I to ask them to sing me a different song to-day?

Nature has no moods; they belong to man alone.

In this lies a heavy burden.

                                   *

In former days, while watching the forms and colors of the clouds, I
was obliged to look up into the sky. But now I see them resting on the
earth below me.

I can pass hours, watching the passing clouds and their ever-changing
forms as reflected on the mountains. The earth itself was fashioned
from such fluid masses. No artist can realize the extent of this
cloud-world, or its wealth of form. Before our thoughts attain fixed
shape, they, too, must pass through this nebulous state, in which,
however, we are unable to perceive them.

                                   *

Singing birds, in great variety, have clustered at the edge of the
forest. The notes of the lark, the yellowhammer, the green finch, the
blackbird, the thrush, the red-tail, and the titmouse are heard all at
once. Only a few of the birds that build their nests deep in the
forest, sing there.

                                   *

In springtime, forest rills become brooks. In summer, naught is
visible, save the dry bed of the steam. It is the same with our own
lives.

                                   *

When old Jochem hears me rejoice because spring has come, he always
says: "What does it signify? In a few weeks, the days will begin to
shorten again."

                                   *

If human beings, like the trees, bore visible blossoms, these blossoms
would assume a different shape and color, with each succeeding year.
The blossoms of my soul were once so bright; but now--

                                   *

For the first time in my life, I have seen a pair of eagles soaring in
the air. What a life theirs must be! They hovered far overhead, and
described a circle in their flight. About what were they circling? Then
they soared still higher and vanished in the empyrean.

The world still contains spirits whose flights are as free and as bold
as that of the eagle. There is no creature that soars above the king of
birds, no enemy that can approach him. But man sends forth the fatal
ball and thus exerts an influence in regions which the eye alone can
pierce.

_He_ too was filled with pride when he had shot an eagle. And why?
Because it was a proof of his power, and he adorned my hat with the
token of his victory. Ah, woe is me!

Why does this grief constantly return to me?

                                   *

We women are never alone in nature. This is only another proof of the
deep truth that lies in the old tradition. Man, created first, was
alone; but woman, who came afterward, never existed alone. This repeats
itself through the history of all nations, and a perplexing mystery is
at last revealed to me.

                                   *

In the world of fashion, just as in the park, the traces of footsteps
are effaced by obsequious servants. There must be nothing to remind us
of yesterday.

And yet their life is to form a part of history.

                                   *

To cease evil, is not doing good.

I would like to accomplish some great deed. But where?

Within myself alone.

                                   *

My little pitchman is quite a changed being when among scenes of
nature. He does not love nature. To use his own words, it merely amuses
him. He delights in the most trifling peculiarities of bird-life, and
how well he knows all the birds!

                                   *

(Many rainy days.)--I long for the sun, and am almost dying for the
want of it. I feel as if I were fading, as if perishing with thirst--I
cannot live without the sun. It is my debtor for the lovely May days of
which I have been deprived. I must have them; they are my only comfort.

                                   *

If I remain thus dependent upon the weather, permitting every cloud to
darken my mind, and every shower to chill me with the feeling that I am
forsaken, it were far better I were lying at the bottom of the lake,
and that the boatman were telling those whom he was ferrying across:
"Far below us, lies a young maid of honor."--I have once before bade
farewell to the sun, and I mean to be independent of it.

                                   *

There are beings who know nothing of rain and sunshine, and yet live.

But there are, also, others who are filled with dew-forming power--but
they are the calm, self-contained, powerful natures, whose life is an
inner, rather than an outer, one.

                                   *

(June 12th.)--After many hot days, there was rain last night. The drops
are still glittering on every leaf and flower. Oh, the delightful
morning that has succeeded the nocturnal storm! To have fully enjoyed
such a morning is worth the trouble of living.

                                   *

Jochem has a lark in a cage--he must have something shut up with him.

The lark affords me great delight. There are but few of them up here,
for we have nothing but meadow land. They love to hover over the fields
of grain down in the valley.

                                   *

After the midsummer solstice, the woods become silent. The sun now
merely ripens, and has ceased to call forth blossoms and song. The
finch alone keeps up his merry lay.

                                   *

From my window, I can see the white foal grazing in the meadow. He
knows me. When I look up, he stands still for a while and looks at me,
and then dashes hither and thither at a furious rate. I have named him
Wodan, and when I call him by that name, he comes to me.

I have sketched the foal, and am now carving it in birch. I think I
shall succeed, but wood is obstinate, awkward stuff, after all. I lose
my patience on slight provocation. I must try to overcome this.

                                   *

Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could not
write a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but now
it is over.

                                   *

I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the
seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new
to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can
happen. I am at home in my new world.

                                   *

Unto Jesus the scribes and pharisees brought a woman who was to be
stoned to death, and he said unto them: "Let him that is without sin
among you, cast the first stone."

Thus it is written.

But I ask: How did she continue to live? She who was saved from being
stoned to death; she who was pardoned, that is, condemned to live? How
did she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with the
world? And how with her own heart?

No answer. None.

I must find the answer in my own experience.

                                   *

"Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone." These
are the noblest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or
heard by human ear. They divide the history of the human race into two
parts. They are the "let there be light" of the second creation. They
divide and heal my little life, too, and create me anew.

                                   *

Has one who is not wholly without sin, a right to offer precepts and
reflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil. I have done more than
merely lift them in prayer.

                                   *

Since I am alone, I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and
wish for none, and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because
I wish to be perfectly alone.

                                   *

She who renounces the world, and, in her loneliness, still cherishes
the thought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden.

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that
join in a chorale sustain each other, and when the tone at last ceases,
it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But here I am
quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor
and penitent, all in one, and my heart is often so heavy, as if I must
needs have, another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and carry me,
I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again,
seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and
alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me.

                                   *

For the first time in a year, I saw a carriage driving up the white
road that leads through the valley. Those who were sitting in it, could
not know how my eyes followed them. Whither go ye? who are ye?

                                   *

I must write again. I believe that I at last know the full meaning of
the word "gemüthlich." It includes careful thought for the comfort of
others even in the merest trifles, and requires one to put himself in
another's place. It is the heart, expressing itself in poetry; it is
feeling, clothing itself in the garb of fancy.

True culture includes this feeling; for what is culture but the power
to put one's self in another's place, and "to see ourselves as others
see us"?

My opinion is still unchanged. Hansei seems dull and awkward, and yet
he has far more of the best culture than many a one who is decorated
with orders and epaulettes and is regarded as one of the most charming
of cavaliers.

                                   *

I constantly keep thinking that there is something in me which I have
not yet discovered. It gives me no rest. Is it an idea, a feeling, a
word, or a deed? I know not, but I feel that there is something within
me that seeks a vent. Perhaps death may come before I discover it.

                                   *

Old Jochem still remembers a few verses from the hymnbook, and keeps
repeating them to himself, but in such perverted shape that they are
sheer nonsense. I offered to teach him the verses correctly, but this
made him very angry, and he told me that I was trying to teach him
something new, and that it would not answer. His nonsense seems dear to
him. He does not understand it, and the air of mystery thus imparted to
it renders it far more impressive.

                                   *

One who has never experienced the feeling, cannot know what it is to
long for a few words of conversation with your equals. It is a
consuming thirst. Any one who can speak my language would serve my
purpose. I cannot endure this strain. I feel as if I were in a strange
land, and were vainly listening for the beloved accents of my native
tongue. It is well for me that I can work.

                                   *

As long as I had Walpurga with me in the palace, I could speak to her
freely on various subjects. When I came to her, it was a change, a
stepping out of the sphere in which my thoughts were accustomed to
move. But here, where I have her and nothing else, it is different. It
is not pride--for what have I to do with pride? Is it alienation, or is
it sullen listlessness?

                                   *

_Naïveté_ pleases us only for a short time. Wisdom always remains
attractive--such wisdom as mother Beate's or Gunther's. Yes, I long for
him most of all.

Wisdom is cultured _naïveté_ or, to speak more correctly, the _naïveté_
of genius. It is the rosy apple; _naïveté_ the blossom from which it
sprang, still dwells in the fruit, as its core.

Night and day, the various elemental influences, clear perception and
the mysterious forces of nature:--all these help to perfect the finest
fruit.

                                   *

I cannot look upon work as the noblest thing in life. The perfect man
is he who does nothing, who cherishes himself--; such is the life of
the gods, and what is man but the god of creation?

My heresy thus expresses itself. I have confessed and repented of it.
But in the confessor's chair sits one who is in the right when he says:
"Very well, my child! And so the noblest and most exalted life is
simply existence, void of effort. But, since no one can live unless
some other being labors for him, it follows that all must do something.
Nothing can be had without pay. The one class has not been sent into
the world merely to exist, nor the other merely to labor."

                                   *

How happy I might become if there were no past. A life hereafter,
filled with memories--how sad the thought! And yet without memories,
would it be a second life?

                                   *

True joy at last dwells with us. Whenever we partake of anything,
Walpurga always says: "We planted this ourselves; on such a day, we set
our beans. I put them in Burgei's hand, and she dropped them on the
garden beds."

And thus it seems to be with all things. The past is being renewed to
us.

                                   *

I have found it difficult to go over the same task, again and again.
But the constant repetition is what constitutes labor. Without that, it
is mere amusement.

Nature constantly repeats herself, and we must serve her by imitating
her. She repeats herself through her laws; man, through his duties.

I have, nevertheless, indulged in variations, and not without success.
While walking through the stable, I observed the cow lowing and turning
toward her sucking calf. I have carved the figures in wood.

I should like to imitate every object in nature--to create the world
anew, as it were, so that men might see all things as I see them.

I thank Thee, Eternal Spirit, for bestowing these gifts upon me.

                                   *

The chief aim of life is not joy, nor is it repose. It must be labor.
Perhaps there is no chief aim, after all.

                                   *

Love and labor are the body and soul of mankind. Happy is he in whom
they are united. I have forfeited love--nothing is left me but labor.

                                   *

My white foal! It looks at me, and I look at it in return. Free and
uncontrolled, it scampers about the field, and yet I seize it and send
it out into the world, so that others, too, may delight in the pretty,
playful animal.

I have sketched it in various positions. Its every movement is replete
with strength and grace.

                                   *

I have carved the figure of my white foal, and have completed it with
incredible rapidity. My friends are astonished, and so am I. I look
upon it as a success.

My little pitchman--why should I dislike to mention it?--carried the
figure down to the dealer. It grieved me to part with my work, but the
little magic horse must, and does, support me. It was sold at a good
price, and I received a large order, besides.

                                   *

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what Countess Brinkenstein, pious
Constance, Schnabelsdorf, or Bronnen, would say if they were to see me
now; and at such moments, I am obliged to look around, in order to
satisfy myself that they are not present.

So long as I cannot govern my imagination, I am not free. Fancy is the
most powerful of despots.

                                   *

Our fountain gushes and bubbles the whole night through, and when the
moonlight rests upon it, it is lovelier and more peaceful than ever.
The earth bounteously gives forth its healing waters. They flow
unceasingly. All that we need do is to go to the spring and drink. My
favorite seat is near there. Its waters sometimes suddenly increase in
volume and swiftness, as if they were bringing me a special message.
Perhaps it is all caused by the currents of air, and I may be mistaken
after all. One easily gives way to reverie when by the spring.

                                   *

Gundel, the little pitchman's daughter, affords me much much pleasure.
The honest, kind-hearted, simpleminded creature is now full of joy; she
loves, and is loved in return.

One of the farm hands is a native of Hansei's birthplace. He was once
in the cuirassiers, and this faithful, but rough and ill-favored lad,
is Gundel's lover. A girl whom no one has noticed, whose life has been
constant drudgery, is invested with new importance, both in her own
eyes and in those of others, as soon as she becomes the object of a
man's love. All that she does is regarded as good and pretty, and she
is at once lifted up out of her lowly and forgotten state.

Love is the crown of every life, a diadem even on the lowliest head.

When Gundel goes about her rough work--to draw water, or to feed the
cattle--she seems radiant with newborn happiness.

Although I have said nothing, she notices that I am interested in her,
and she often ask whether there is anything she can do for me.

I wish that riches were again mine, so that I might make these lovers
happy.

                                   *

How foolish is the desire to be ever original. Nature constantly
repeats herself. The rose of to-day is like that of yesterday.

Men determine for themselves--and in this lies their torment.

                                   *

I have not yet put vanity away from me. I am still moved to delight
whenever a happy expression flows from my pen. But is this really
vanity? I think not. Although alone in my cell, I adorn myself for my
own sake. Beauty has become a necessity to me. I must be surrounded by
objects of beauty, and must also possess it in myself. Uncouthness does
not offend me, but ugliness, affects me just as discords do. In the
so-called cultivated world, a rude expression excites a deprecatory
"Ah!" while elegant vulgarity is smiled upon.

                                   *

I am obliged to read old Jochem's bond to him, at least once a week.
Although he knows it by heart, he insists upon hearing it again and
satisfying himself that it is all right, and properly signed and
sealed. He does not suffer it to leave his hands. I am obliged to read
it while he holds it. He trusts no one.

The old man almost seems to regret that he has nothing to complain of,
and is constantly urging me to prepare a memorial to the king, so that
he may have it at hand when required. How strange that the king should
always seem to him the personification of right and justice.

He has much to tell me about the late king, under whom he served. He
describes him as a perfect gentleman, and says that he often hunted in
this region. He has been informed that the present king is not much of
a hunter, and that he sticks to the priests, who, in return, grant him
absolution. He always concludes by asking whether I have ever seen the
king, and, although I have answered "No" a hundred times, he keeps on
repeating the same question.

                                   *

Hansei was right, after all! I feel as if I ought to crave his pardon.
It is a disgusting sight to behold the old pensioner at his meals; and
if one does not intend to have him at table for the remainder of his
life, one had better not begin with him. Hansei's objection was kind
and clever, not rude and ill-natured. Kind resolves that cannot be
fully carried out, had better not be attempted.

When I spoke of this to Walpurga to-day, she answered me, through her
tears, saying: "I'd a thousand times rather hear you praise him than
me."

                                   *

It is not until humanity becomes a duty that we can truly know whether
its exercise is a pleasure or a sacrifice.

Naturally enough, I have treated Jochem kindly, have often had him
visit me, and have tried to entertain him. Now he will not leave me to
myself, and robs me of my only possession--solitude. Although it cost
me an effort, I was obliged to insist upon his only visiting me during
certain hours. But even that is irksome, for I am no longer perfect
mistress of my time. When the bell in the valley tolls the hour of
twelve, the old man comes and sits with me. Our conversations are not
very fruitful or suggestive. His stock of ideas is but a limited one,
and topics that are not related to them fail to excite his interest.
Besides that, he coughs a great deal, and is always asking me to tell
him about my father. He seems to forget that I have already told him
that I never knew my father. It was the saddest thing I ever said, but
I did not know my father while he lived. I understood him not, although
he attempted to reveal himself to me. From the depths of my soul, I cry
out to him: "My poor father! you tried to perfect yourself, but your
last action, although it was meant to arouse me, was the act of one who
was in fetters. I now accomplish what you falteringly began. While
laboring for you, my love for you has become full and complete. You are
now near to me, and have become what you longed to be--my preserver."

                                   *

I have at last made it a rule that the old man shall only come when I
send for him. I could not do otherwise. And this I find almost worse
than to have fixed hours for his visits, for now I am often obliged to
stop and ask myself: "Isn't it time to call the old man? He won't
disturb me now." He thus engages my thoughts more than before.

I must learn to bear with him patiently, and Jochem will surely
improve. When I say to him: "I can't talk now," he is satisfied. All
that he asks is to be permitted to sit there in silence.

                                   *

How well one sleeps when tired with work. How good it is to have hunger
and fatigue, when one is safely able to satisfy their demands.

In the great world, they eat and sleep, but are never tired or hungry.

I never knew how much I used to talk, and how necessary conversation
had become to me. But now that I have learned how to be silent, and
live alone with my own thoughts, I do know; I now see that the presence
of others exerted an electric influence upon me, overcharging my
nature. I was never unreal, but was more than I really am. I made
others cheerful, but how rarely was I so!

                                   *

Labor is the consoling friend and companion of solitude.

He who has not lived alone, does not know what labor is.

                                   *

I am often reminded of Dante's: "There can be no greater suffering
than, in one's misery, to remember happier days." But why does he not
tell us what kind of happiness he means? It must always be delightful
to remember innocent joys, though the unhappiness that follows be ever
so great.

But Francesca refers to happiness allied with guilt. And I know that
she is right.

I still remember my father's parting advice: "Indulge only in such
pleasures as it will afford you pleasure to look back upon."

                                   *

What strange, hidden springs flow through one's soul. Ever since the
sad saying of Dante's occurred to me, all my thoughts have been
translating themselves into Italian.

                                   *

It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My
voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me
has become mute.

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be
well enough--but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet
where and what shall it be?

                                   *

When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the great
and wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder. And now,
although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition.
Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help to
make life more beautiful for others. The thought that I am doing this
comforts and sustains me.

                                   *

My work prospers. But last winter's wood is not yet fit for use. My
little pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent and well
seasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has just
been torn down. We work together cheerfully, and our earnings are
considerable.

                                   *

Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open. Among
the masses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper
classes, by meanness.

The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while the
former are obliged to bear them.

                                   *

The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferable
to polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not for
its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity
than does the smoothest surface.

                                   *

Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that
a blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for, at every
step, he is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his
ground before he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground
before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?

                                   *

Our life here is like that of plants. Our chief care is as to the
weather. Rain and sunshine affect us as they do the plants that require
their aid. Hansei often complains that he does not understand the
weather signs hereabouts. In his old home by the lake, he could always
tell how the weather would be. His want of knowledge on this subject
prevents him from feeling quite at home here. Our little pitchman,
however, is a most reliable weather-prophet, and has thus come to be
looked upon as quite an important personage. I am his docile scholar
and he is quite proud of me. Although he is quite intimate with me, and
often indulges in pleasantry, he never fails to treat me with great
respect.

Those who know nothing of etiquette, often make up for the want of it
by their tact. I congratulated the little pitchman last week. It was on
the occasion of his birthday, and when I shook hands with him, his face
grew scarlet. He thanked me heartily, and kept saying that when he got
to heaven, he would bespeak good quarters for me, and that his old
woman wouldn't get angry if he possessed both her and myself in the
next world. He is always happy when serving me. When he builds a fire
in my stove, he ogles every log, as if it ought to feel it an honor to
be permitted to help keep me warm.

                                   *

The census troubled me greatly to-day. After dinner, Hansei produced
the blank which he was required to fill, and handed it to Walpurga,
with the words: "Do you write, or let her"--meaning me--"write her
name, her age, and where she comes from?"

We were in great tribulation, until Walpurga, at last, solved the
difficulty by saying that there was no need of telling everything.

The remark was quite opportune and afforded a convenient excuse to
Hansei, who was greatly annoyed by another schedule, in which he was
expected to state the annual yield of milk and of butter, the number of
chickens on the farm, etc., etc. Hansei was angry at the officials, and
felt quite sure that they meant to impose another tax. His wrath saved
me, but defrauded the state out of one soul.

The people hereabouts look upon the state and its functionaries as
their natural enemies, and have no scruples as to deceiving them.

                                   *

For the first time in my life, I have seen a tree felled.

I was filled with awe when I saw it topple for a moment, before the
final crash. It reminded me of the fate of a man who is, at one blow,
hurled from sunny heights into the depths of misery.

Hansei is having a path cut through the forest. It passes by my window,
and the clearing will afford me a fine view. He was quite happy when I
told him of this.

                                   *

Hansei was at the capital. On his return, he unwrapped a large parcel
and, with conscious pride, showed us what sensible presents he had
bought. They were the pictures of the king and queen.

In his kindness of heart, he offered to let me hang up the pictures in
my room, and was quite provoked to find that his wife wanted to keep
them for herself. I satisfied him at last by saying: "The sitting-room
belongs to us all."

But the pictures seemed to be looking at me constantly, and made it
unpleasant for me to remain in the room. Walpurga noticed this and, to
my great relief, removed them to her bedroom. Hansei does not take
notice of such matters.

The king's portrait represents him in the dress of a citizen. Is it a
sign that--?

                                   *

Hansei at last reveals his plan. It is quite a clever stroke of his to
begin by cutting roads through the forest, so that the beams can be
brought down from far up the mountain, and thus fetch him thrice as
much money as if they were cut into smaller logs.

                                   *

(April 3d.)--At first, there is so much to observe. The whole world
seems like a young child, or like the first verdure of spring. Later,
one grows accustomed to it all, and it seems as if things were always
and everywhere alike. It seems to me that life would be insupportable,
if the world were ever new and left us no repose.

Habit, our second mother, is a good mother, too.

                                   *

They have fastened a rope to the feet of my white foal, so that it
cannot run away. It can now only move about slowly. The freedom and
grace of its movements are gone, even before it is put in harness.

Oh, how many human beings have a like fate!

                                   *

I love to watch the rain calmly descending upon the earth. If I were
not obliged to work, I could remain by my window for hours, lost in
reverie and looking out and listening, for it seems to me as if I were
endowed with a million eyes and could see every drop as it falls on the
half-open buds. But here, we are all constantly at work. I am ashamed
to sit here with my hands in my lap. The rain in springtime is soft and
beautiful, lending voice, form and substance to the air, and to every
tiny rill.

                                   *

Formerly, I always required a spyglass, where I no longer need it.

It is because we do not live in the open air, that we become
near-sighted.

                                   *

The rose may be improved by cultivation, and the thorns growing on its
stalk may become different from what they were; but they are thorns,
nevertheless.

                                   *

(April 15th.)--I have heard the yellow-hammer, for the first time this
year. In springtime its notes are far more rapid and short than in
summer.

                                   *

(April 23d.)--The first swallow has come. Now may we softly lull
ourselves to rest in the consciousness that sweet spring is with us
once again. The uncertain and anxious fluttering from one fair day to
another, is at an end.

My little pitchman says: "Swallows and starlings come and go in the
night." The idea is quite suggestive.

                                   *

(End of April.)--We have had a shower. Oh, what fragrant odors it
awakened in flowers, grass and trees! And this fragrance floats off
into infinite space, while we short-lived children of man imagine that
it all exists for us. Everything that exists, exists for itself alone.

The _immortelle_ is one of the earliest plants to shoot forth its
leaves. It grows by the edge of the forest, and will thrive even in
poor soil.

                                   *

(May 1st.)--We have had a cold, rainy day, with hail. Toward evening,
when the rain had ceased and the drops on the trees and bushes sparkled
in the golden sunlight, I heard the cuckoo, for the first time this
year. He flew from forest to forest, from mountain to mountain, crying
everywhere.

I now know why they say: "Go to the cuckoo."[4] The cuckoo has no nest,
no home of its own and, according to popular tradition, is obliged to
sleep on a different tree every night. "Go to the cuckoo," therefore
means: "be restless and fugitive; be at home nowhere."

When I told the grandmother of my discovery, she said: "You've hit it
exactly. You manage to get some good out of everything. You've won it."

She meant that I had won the game of life.

                                   *

My kind little pitchman has given me an unexpected treat. He has
arranged a seat for me, up by the maple tree on the projecting rock.
But he cut away the bushes, and thus destroyed the privacy of my
favorite haunt. Nevertheless, I find it pleasant to sit there. No human
being is perfectly satisfied with what another may do for him, but we
may be grateful, for all; and gratitude is the soil on which joy
thrives.

                                   *

(First Sunday in May.)--On Sunday afternoons, when I may not work, I
long to drive through the park in a caleche which is easy on its
springs; not to be always walking or obliged to be doing something. To
move through the world in the springtime, seated on soft cushions and
drawn by fleet horses, or, what is still better, to ride along the
turfy forest paths, while guiding and controlling a strong power--I can
never forget that.

                                   *

At night, when I look up into the vast, starry vault, with its myriad
glittering orbs, I find it difficult to sit or to walk. I think of the
nights when, lying back in my carriage, I drove out into the wide world
and looked up at the stars. How free everything was then! I am still
much affected by trifles.

                                   *

There are days when I cannot endure the forest, when I do not wish for
shade. I must then have the sun--nothing but light and sunshine. At
such times, I walk along the hot and shadeless meadow paths.

                                   *

I now have a window-shelf filled with flower-pots. How different when
one has to wait for the flowers to come up, instead of receiving them
in full bloom from the gardener.

                                   *

The evenings are my enemy--always heavy and dull. Morn is my friend,
for then everything is bright. How different it once was!

                                   *

The mental state of those who are out in the world may be likened to
the physical condition of Baroness Constance. There is a constant
ringing in her ears, and she knows nothing of holy repose or perfect
silence. It is not until one ceases to know anything of the world, or
to care for it, that this mental ringing in the ears ceases, and holy
repose and calm are vouchsafed us. Every sound which then enters is as
a marvel.

                                   *

The grandmother is quiet and alert, just as occasion may require. She
is not one of the ever busy and excited ones, and yet she is never
idle. With her great knowledge of human nature, she yet retains her
kindly feelings toward all. She has thought much and yet is _naïve_.
She treats me with affectionate frankness, and says that she has, all
her life, wished to have a clever person about her--one who had learnt
something and with whom she could talk about everything. And she does
this to the letter. I am obliged to explain a thousand things to her,
and she is sincerely grateful for any information I can give her.

"I like to get my kindling-wood ready in time," said she to-day.
Translated into our language, this means that she likes to think over
things beforehand.

But there are so many dark doors which we pass with closed eyes.

                                   *

While watching the foal to-day, I could not help thinking that the
first man who tamed a beast--that is, subdued it so that it would bear
him and support him--was the first to assert the power of humanity.
Other animals can kill each other, but not one of them can guide
another life to its own advantage. There are no new species of beasts
to be tamed now. Men are, in truth, becoming poets. They condense the
intangible forces and say to steam, to light, and to the electric
spark: "Come and do my bidding."

                                   *

I have bought some sugar with which to feed my white foal. It is a
great pleasure, and to-day I could not help thinking that, if any one
saw us, it must have been a pretty picture.

Oh, how vain and trifling I still am!

                                   *

Every large and extended estate, be it this very farm, or the court at
the capital, has its vassals, its servants, its parasites, its willing
subjects. The world is the same everywhere.

                                   *

Peasant life is not the elegant world, but there must be plow horses as
well as carriage horses.

                                   *

To live out of one's self, to give full sway to one's native
temperament, to remain unmoved by external influences:--thus may one
learn to know himself and that which is highest. It is in the desert
waste that God reveals himself to the individual heart. The bush burns
and yet is not consumed.

                                   *

Whenever I look at the mountains, I am impressed anew with their
sublimity.

The world below me is covered by a sea of mist from which the mountain
peaks here and there protrude. With every day, as it were, I behold the
first day of creation.

I am beginning to understand the idea of the sublime. It is the awe of
greatness, not the awe of fear. I feel as if dwelling in a temple.

                                   *

Solitude often makes one dull and torpid. I sometimes experience this
even in myself.

On a rainy Sunday, Hansei will often stand looking out of the window,
for hours at a time. I feel satisfied that his first thoughts are of a
horse, a cow, the sale of his wood, or of some acquaintance. At last,
he falls into a sort of waking dream, and thinks of nothing at all. One
awakes from this childlike lying down and gazing into the world, as
from strengthening and refreshing sleep. It is indeed only another form
of elementary existence.

                                   *

Judging by my notes, I, at one time, thought this merely a station in
my journey, where one is detained by interests or adventure; but now I
see that I am at the goal.

I will lay down my load, as the grandmother advised me to do, and break
the chests to pieces. I shall remain here for the rest of my life. And
now that I have firmly resolved to remain--even if I were discovered
to-morrow, and the whole world heaped its scorn upon me--I have a happy
feeling of being at home. I am here, and here I shall remain.

I was not reminded of all this until to-day, when my little pitchman
said: "You look so pleased, so--I don't know how, but--you never looked
so before."

Yes, my dear little pitchman, you are right; it was not until to-day
that I felt myself truly at home. I have struck root, like the cherry
sapling before my window.

                                   *

The old pensioner said to me to-day: "Behold, my child, age takes much
from us; but I can still dream as beautifully as I did in my youth."

                                   *

Of all the flowers, I find the heaviest dew on the rose. Is that
because of the rich perfume? Does the perfume form dew? No green leaf
ever has so much dew upon it, as the leaf of a flower.

                                   *

I often feel tempted to tell the story of Leah to the whole household,
Jochem included.

It often annoys me, when I think that I do not impart all I have to my
friends; but how much more it would annoy me, if I were misunderstood
by them.

Even in our day, art and religion are far asunder.

The latter can be imparted to all; the former cannot.

                                   *

It is impossible to interest the masses in refined pleasures. During
the week, they have nothing but hard work; and on Sunday, they find
recreation at ninepins, or in dancing in heavy boots. They require rude
pleasures and a rude faith.

                                   *

(On Sunday, while the bells are ringing.)--Art does not enter into the
life of the masses. For them, plastic or dramatic art, or the higher
order of music or literature, do not exist.

The only idea they have of another life, over and above the trivial
present, is embodied by the church, and yet that which is best in all
religions is the poetry they contain.

                                   *

What must become of one who, for years, does not read a serious book,
or does not read at all, and thus takes in no great or well worked-out
ideas? If he be rich and noble, his life becomes vain play; if he be
poor and lowly, it becomes vain labor. And, for this reason, nature has
given us song and history, has established religion which offers its
jewels to all, so that every one may drink of the fermented wine of all
knowledge and all art. But new wine must always be added, or--

                                   *

(July 30th.)--The whole world was veiled in mist, and the sun was
hidden from view. It seemed as if the artistic creative eye were
brooding over the form it was about to usher into life. And then the
cloud-flakes were rent asunder. For a moment, the mountain world was
free. The mists disappear; but new ones arise from the earth.

                                   *

Out in the world the fear of being ridiculed prevents people from
expressing enthusiastic admiration of moonlight. When the whole world
is illumined its soft glow, and no sound is heard save the murmur of
the sparkling brook, I am filled with ecstatic delight.

                                   *

Temptation returns, and says: "You offend against nature by wasting
your rich gifts on tasks that others could accomplish as well as you.
Go out into the worlds and consider your present life merely as a state
of transition."

No! I shall remain!

When I stand on the mountain and gaze out into the world, I often ask
myself: "Art thou still the same Irma? What vestige is left of thy past
glittering life?"

Nothing but the heavy burden that oppresses my soul.

                                   *

Weather-talk is considered a bore, and yet there is no subject more
important. Plants and animals feel the changes, for they determine
their fate from day to day. And are there not men whose whole life is
bound up in the question:  "Will the day be clear or cloudy?"

The cloud that, like a girdle, encircles yonder peak, has rested there,
motionless, the whole day; and thus, too, there are days when a mist
seems to be resting upon one's soul, enveloping our inner being in
darkness.

                                   *

Play of the features is distinctively a human attribute. The human face
reveals changing emotions; that of the beast does not.

The beast, moreover, has always but one and the same tone. The bark of
a dog is ever the same, be it in joy or anger; the only change is in
the temper. Or is it only to our ears that these tones seem alike?

                                   *

If a human being were to utter such inharmonious and disconnected tones
as those produced by the mavis overhead, it would drive me to
distraction. But why do these tones not affect me in the same way? Why
do they almost please me? Because they are natural to the bird. But
man, having the power to choose, must see to it that his tones are
melodious.

                                   *

What is all our knowledge? We do not even know what to-morrow's weather
will be. There is no infallible indicator of the changes in this most
essential condition of life. Nor do the farmers, although they are so
fond of talking on the subject, know anything about it.

                                   *

Harvest time is the dramatic turning-point of the year. At that time,
all is haste and suspense, and men and women are alike uncongenial.

                                   *

One need but listen to the pensioner, to learn how thoroughly corrupt
the world is. His expletives have all the force of cudgels. He is
constantly trying to sound me in regard to Hansei and Walpurga, and
would like me to tell him of their faults. It worries him to hear them
well spoken of.

                                   *

A remark of Gunther's occurred to me to-day.

"We are all passionate; the difference between individuals being only a
difference in rhythm. He who goes downstairs at one bound, may break
his neck; he whose descent is gradual and careful, will remain
uninjured."

                                   *

I never look at the clock. With me, life is no longer divided into
hours. I hear the bell in the valley at morning, noon and evening, and
regulate my actions accordingly. The clock is in the church tower. The
church tells us the time of day.

                                   *

Old Jochem is ill. The physician who attends him is quite a jovial
character, and maintains that Jochem would live many years longer if he
had only been able to feed his anger and keep his lawsuits, for these
furnished him with excitement and amusement, at the same time. As long
as he had these, there was still something left to fight for in the
world and some one to abuse, and it was this that had kept him up. Now
that his life was a peaceful one, he would, in all likelihood, die of
_ennui_.

"You smile," said the physician to me. "Believe me, I am quite serious.
An infant in the cradle that does not cry, and a chained dog that does
not bark, have neither life nor energy and will surely die."

He may be right, to a certain extent.

I feel under restraint when with the physician; for he regards me with
such a strange, scrutinizing air.

"Oh, Thou good God! The grass is coming up! But they'll bury me in the
earth and I'll never come up again!" was Jochem's lament.

                                   *

The old man is dead. This very night he passed away in his sleep. No
one was with him at the time.

He died like a forest tree which has lost its power of absorbing
nourishment.

Little Burgei now sleeps with me. My friends will listen to nothing
else, and will not suffer me to be alone at night.

                                   *

I am filled with dread. A corpse lies on the floor above. Beside it, is
a solitary lamp that is left to burn until the dead man is buried. And
yet I feel that I must conquer this feeling of dread! Yes, I shall.

It still moves me deeply to think of how the old man remembered me. He
sent for me yesterday; and, when I went up to his bedside, he said:
"Irmgard, you were a stranger and yet were kind to me--I'd like to
leave you something. I've been thinking the matter over and find that I
still have something to give you. It's the best of all that I own. It
would do me no good to have it buried with me, and it will be of great
benefit to you, for there's a charm in it. Here it is--take it--it's
the bullet that struck me on the third rib. Take good care of it. He
who bears with him a bullet that has once hit a man, is in no danger of
sudden, unexpected death. You can rely on that! And now I've something
to ask you: Tell me, what was your father's name? You've told me that
he's dead. When I get to heaven, I'll hunt him up and tell him that
you're quite a good girl; a little bit queer, perhaps, but right good
for all. I'll tell your father that, and it'll be good news for him."

I could not tell him the name--how could I? All I could do was to thank
him for giving me what had been so precious in his own eyes. And,
strange to say, when I take the bullet in my hand and look at it, it
agitates me greatly.

I will now prepare myself to follow the old man to his grave.

                                   *

I was at the churchyard while the old man was buried. I shall lie
there, too, some day.

I feel as if death might be conquered by the will. I am determined to
live; I will not die. Is force of will the hidden thing within me, that
I am ever seeking? And yet, I have no will. No one has. All our life,
all our thoughts, are simply the necessary result of events and
experiences, of waking perception and nocturnal dreams. Like the
beasts, we may change the scene; but, the greater one, the prison that
confines us, we cannot change. We cannot quit the earth. The laws of
gravitation and attraction hold our souls fast as well as our bodies.
Far above me, move the stars, and I am nothing more than a flower or a
blade of grass clinging to the earth. The stars look down at me and I
look up to them, and yet we cannot join each other.

                                   *

A reigning prince has visited our farm. His highness Grubersepp, of
whom Walpurga has often spoken to me, has arrived, bringing his little
son, or--to speak more correctly--his two black horses and his son with
him. The house is all bustle, and every one seems as proud and happy as
if a reigning prince had actually come.

Grubersepp looked at me with a curious air.

"Is that prim-looking girl," said he to Hansei, while pointing backward
with his thumb, "one of your wife's relations?"

"Yes; my wife--" Hansei muttered something--I saw that it went hard
with him to tell a lie, and, above all, to the great farmer to whom he
was showing his property.

Among the peasants, it is just the same as elsewhere. Only the great
ones know each other. But their intercourse is beautiful and
impressive, and, although they exchange no friendly words, they serve
each other by friendly actions.

The family have been made happy, for Grubersepp has said that the farm
was in good order; and when Grubersepp says that, it is as much as if
the intendant should say: "divine."

During the two days Grubersepp spent here, there was no rest in the
house; that is, every one was busy thinking of him. Now everything is
running in its accustomed groove, and every face is radiant with joy.
No matter how well satisfied one may be with himself, it is something
quite different to receive words of approval from the lips of another,
and especially so, when the words of commendation come from a man so
exalted as Grubersepp.

                                   *

I am still trembling with fright. I was in the woods to-day. I was
sitting on my bench, and saw some one walking among the trees. Now and
then he would stop to gather a flower or pick up a stone. He came near
and--who was it?

It was Gunther, the friend for whose presence I had so often longed. He
asked me, in his deep, clear voice: "Child, does this road lead down to
the village?"

I felt as if choking, and could not utter a word. I pointed to the
footpath and, in fear and trembling, arose from my seat. He asked me:
"Are you dumb, poor child?"--This saved me. I am dumb; I cannot speak.
Without uttering a word, I fled from him and, when I found myself
alone, I wept longer than I have for many years. I wanted to hurry
after him, but he had gone. I could not support myself. My limbs gave
way under me. At last I was calm--all is over--all must be over.

                                   *

I have had long and troubled days. My work did not go as smoothly as it
should have done, and much went amiss with me. The world without has
aroused me.

                                   *

I thank fate that I have learned to use my eyes. Wherever I look, I see
something that delights me and gives me food for thought. The noblest
joys and the most widely diffused are those the eye affords us.

                                   *

I am delighted to find that the little pitchman knows every bird by its
song. The proverb says: "A bird is known by its feathers." That is a
matter of course, for few know them by their song. Their plumage is
permanent; their song is fleeting and fitful. The former is fixed; the
latter is not.

                                   *

I now listen, with perfect unconcern, to the groaning of the forest
trees, which so alarmed me during that night of terrors. And how
strange! as soon as a bird begins to sing, the groaning ceases. What
causes this?

                                   *

I have received fresh orders, and am all right again. But my little
pitchman keeps ailing. At first, it almost vexed me, but I conquered
the selfish habits that tyrannized over me. I have served him
faithfully, in requital for the services he has done me. I nursed him
carefully, and now he is quite well again.

I am not so selfish, after all; for I have gained the friendship of
good human beings. But I cannot do good to those who do not concern me.
I belong to myself and to an infinitely small circle; beyond that I
cannot go.

                                   *

When I sit here in silence and solitude, and look at the one room in
which I live and hope to die, I sometimes give way to horrible fits of
depression. Here is my chair, my table, my workbench, my bed. These are
mine until I am laid in the grave; but there is not one human soul that
belongs to me.

I feel so oppressed, at such moments, that I would like to cry out
aloud, and it is with difficulty that I regain my composure. Work,
however, aids me.

                                   *

For one brief hour, I have imagined myself possessed of omniscience.

It was yesterday morning, during the hour from eleven until twelve. A
light sun-shower passed over us, and then all grew bright again, and,
in my mind's eye, I saw how thousands of beings were spending that
hour. I saw the laborer in the forest, the king in his cabinet, the
sewing-woman in her garret, the miner in the shaft, the bird on the
tree, the lizard on the rock. I saw the child sitting in school, and
the dying old man drawing his last breath. I saw the ship, the coquette
rouging herself, and the poor working-woman weeding in the fields. I
saw all--everything. I passed one hour of infinity.

And now I am fettered again--a small, isolated, miserable, stammering
child. The one great thought of eternity passes like a fugitive through
my mind, and finds no resting-place there. I must again hold fast to
trifles.

I shall return to my workbench.

I have read, somewhere, that the Arabians wash their hands before
prayer; when in the desert, where they can find no water, they wash
them in sand and dust. The dust of labor purifies us.

                                   *

The masses should have no books, but should talk with, and listen to,
each other.

Books serve to isolate man; that which is told us by word of mouth is
far more potent.

                                   *

The teachings--or, rather, the experiences--of a ruined worldling have
two things in their favor. She who has gone astray has become observant
of everything, and is, therefore, the best guide. And, besides that, it
seems to me that those who receive a precept from the lips of one who
is perfectly pure have no, choice left them; for purity is the highest
authority, and its teachings must be accepted. But when a ruined being
speaks to us, every word must be tested. It will not do to reject it at
once; and this is well, for it makes one free.

                                   *

The swallows are departing. They gather in flocks which, like thick
clouds, darken the air and, with lightning speed, they move in their
zig-zag course. How they can keep together in such irregular movements
passes our comprehension. When, or by what means, do they signify to
each other when a sharp turn is to be taken?

The thought of flying suggests a sphere of life of which we can form no
conception. And yet we imagine that we understand the world. What is
fixed, we may comprehend; at least, the portion that is fixed.--Beyond
that, all is conjecture.

                                   *

I overheard Franz, Gundel's lover, saying to her: "A woman who looked
just like Irmgard was once with the queen at the military maneuvers;
and she wore the uniform of our regiment, and rode up and down the
line."

If the soldier were to recognize and betray me?

How the confused feelings that fill the human heart seem to play at
hide and seek with each other. With all my misery, it is not without a
certain feeling of triumph that I learn that my image has impressed
itself on a thousand memories.

                                   *

I have not yet accustomed myself to go out alone, and it often seems to
me as if a servant must be walking after me. Ah! what an artificial
life we all lead.

I have spent a whole day alone in the woods. Oh, how happy I was! I lay
on the ground listening to the rustling of the leaves overhead, and the
prattling of the brook below. If I could but end my days here like a
wounded doe--for I am one, and drops of blood mark my track.--No, I am
well again. I was once in the world; that is, in another world; and now
I lead a new life.

                                   *

The little pitchman knew my father. During one summer, he worked in our
forest, gathering pitch, and my father, who understood everything, went
up to him and taught him how to boil the pitch in order to obtain a
better and purer article than he would otherwise have got.

"Oh, what a man he was! I only wish you'd known him," said the little
pitchman to me. "He was so good. Many a one has told me, since then,
how he used to help everybody. He knew all about everything. He taught
me that you can get the best turpentine from the larches. He never
liked to give anything to people, but he wasn't stingy. He helped all
who'd work, and showed them how things might be done with less trouble
and with greater profit, and that was better than giving them money.
Every year he would lend them some money, so that they could buy a pig,
and when they'd sold it, they had to pay him back. They often laughed
at him and gave him a nickname, too, but it was an honor to him.
Yes--and would you believe it?--he had a great misfortune. His children
deserted him."

How these words rent my heart!

During the whole evening, the terrible mark on my forehead burned like
fire.

                                   *

This is the anniversary of my return to the summer palace.

At that time, I dreamt that a star had fallen down on me, and that a
man, with averted gaze, was saying: "Thou too, art alone!"

There are depths of the soul, which no safety-lamp ever enters, and
where all light is extinguished. I turn away--for naught dwells there
but the angry storm-wind.

                                   *

My thoughts go back to my childhood. I was three years old when my
mother died. I have nothing to remind me of it, except that the moving
about and pushing in the next room greatly frightened me. Oh mother!
why did you die so soon? How different I would have been--

I? Who is this I? If it could have been different, it were not I. It
was to be thus.

They put black clothes on me and my brother, and I only remember that
father went with us. He said that it would be better if we did not
remain with him, and that it was not well for us to grow up in
solitude. He kissed us at parting. He kissed me and my brother, then he
kissed me once more. It seemed as if he wished to retain my kiss for
the last.

What are the memories of my childhood? A silent convent, my aunt the
lady abbess, and my friend Emma. I remember this much, however: when
strangers came, they would turn to me and say: "Oh, what a pretty
child! what large brown eyes!" Emma told me that I was not pretty, and
that the visitors were only laughing at and mocking me; but my mirror
told me that I was pretty. I frankly said so to Emma and she confessed
that I was. My father came--he had been in America--and he looked at me
for a long while. "Father, I am pretty, am I not?" said I to him.

"Yes, my child, you are, and much is required of one who is beautiful.
Beauty is a heavy charge. Always bear yourself that others may justly
feel proud of you."

I did not know what he meant at the time, but now I understand it all.

I do not remember how the years passed by. I went back to father.
Bruno, who was intended for an agriculturist, entered the army against
father's wishes. Father, absorbed by his work and his studies, lived
entirely for himself, and left us to do as we pleased. He was proud of
this, and often said that he did not wish to exercise his authority
over us, and that he meant to allow us to develop our characters freely
and without restraint. I returned to the convent, and remained there
until my aunt died.

And there--forgive me, great and pure spirit!--there lay your great
error. You cast aside your paternal majesty and meant to live in love
alone. And we? Bruno would not, and I could not. And thus, while you
were lonely, we were miserable.

Bruno went to court. He was handsome, gay and full of life. He
presented me at court, also. Father had allowed me to follow my own
choice, and there my troubles began. I knew that I was beautiful, and I
had the courage to think differently from others. I had become the free
nature which my father had meant me to be; but to what purpose?

                                   *

When I look over what I have written, I cannot help thinking of how
much one has lived and labored during a year, and how small the yield
is, after all. But then flowers, too, require a long time before they
blossom, and fruit ripens but slowly; many sunny days and dewy nights
have helped to perfect them.

                                   *

A rainbow! Rest and peace are intangible. They exist nowhere except in
our own imagination and in the view we take of things around us. Now I
understand why the rainbow that followed the deluge was described as a
token of peace. The seven colors have no real existence. They only
appear to the eye that receives the broken rays at the proper angle of
refraction. Rest and peace cannot be conquered by force; they are free
gifts of the heaven within us--smiles and tears meeting like the rain
cloud and the sunshine.

                                   *

I am often oppressed with a fear that I shall lose what culture I
possess, because of my having no one with whom I can speak in my own
language, and--I hardly know how to express myself--in whom I can find
my own nature reflected. And yet, that which makes man human is
possessed by those about me, as much as by the most cultured. This
being the case, whence this fear? and of what benefit is culture? Do I
still mean to use it in the world? I do not understand myself.

Our fashionable culture cannot supplant religion, because, while
religion makes all men equal, education produces inequality. But there
must be a system of culture that will equalize all men, and that is the
only right and true system. We are, as yet, at the threshold.

                                   *

I have a great work before me, and am determined to succeed.

Hansei put little Peter on the white horse and let him ride a few
steps. How happy the little fellow was! and how Wodan looked around at
father and son! I retained the scene in my memory, and am now working
at the group--Hansei, Peter, and the white foal, all together. If I
only succeed! I can scarcely sleep for thinking of it.

                                   *

The group has proved a success, although not so great a one as I had
wished for. The human figures are stiff and without expression; but the
horse is full of life, and every one in the house is delighted with my
achievement.

Hansei wishes me to accompany him when he goes out hunting, so that I
may copy stags, deer, and chamois. Those, he thinks, are the best
subjects, after all.

                                   *

I have tried to copy the animals in the forest, but did not succeed as
I did with the horse. I can only hold fast to that which has no fear of
me and which I, therefore, love. I shall stick to my horses and cows.

                                   *

All the mountain summits that I see, have such strange and yet
appropriate names. Who bestowed them upon them? And who accepted them?
What names could we invent nowadays? The earth and language have both
become rigid and unyielding. I think I once heard the same thought
expressed one evening, while we were at tea with the queen.

                                   *

The carnival is a great festival--the very realization of jollity.
Peasants from the village come to visit us. They often come on Sundays,
but I never heard them speak of anything but cattle, the crops, or the
price of grain. I sometimes remain in the room to listen to them, for I
love to hear the sound of human voices.

The stories they tell each other seem simple, but, after all, none
better are told in the _salon_.

                                   *

Why did I not live out my life in purity? I was intended for a noble
and beautiful existence.

                                   *

My white foal is running about, while I sit here modeling it. The power
of giving permanent shape to impressions received by the eye is the
prerogative of man alone. We have words for everything about us and can
imitate all objects, and, over and above that, we have music and pure
thought. What rich stores of knowledge and delight are at man's
disposal.

                                   *

We have passed three sad, sorrowful days. The grandmother was ill. The
whole household was in alarm. Hansei feared the worst and did not
venture to leave the farm. It was a comfort to me to find that my
nursing did the grandmother so much good.

                                   *

Hansei, proud as he is of being a great farmer, was so anxious to do
something for the mother, that he chopped the wood with which to make a
fire in her room, and carried it in, himself.

                                   *

He always told the doctor to spare no expense. Nothing was too dear, or
too good for the grandmother.

The doctor explained the grandmother's illness to me, just as if I were
a physician.

She often sent Uncle Peter out into the woods to me. It was still raw
out there, and we soon returned.

The grandmother is well again, and is sitting in the spring sunshine.

"Yes, one must have been out of the world, to be grateful for coming
back again," said she. "One who doesn't get away doesn't know what it
is to come back." She had much to tell me about the deaths of her five
children. "This one would have been so old, and this one so old," she
kept on saying. In imagination, they had grown up with her. Then she
told me of her husband's death: how he had been dragged into the lake
by the driftwood, and drowned; and how Hansei had remained with them
afterward. "He was a strange man," she always said of her husband, "but
good-hearted."

During his sister's illness, the little pitchman was in great despair.

"She was the pride of our family," he kept on saying, as if she were
already dead. But now he is the happiest of us all, and when the
grandmother sat on my bench under the maple tree, for the first time,
he said: "I'll get a golden seat in heaven for making that bench. The
king hasn't got a finer place than that, and he can't get any one to
paint bluer skies or greener woods for him than we can see from here."

                                   *

I am quite distressed by what the little pitchman tells me. He brings
me word that the man who purchases my work intends to pay me a visit.
He has just received an order to furnish carved wainscotings for the
palace at the king's new hunting-seat, and wishes to see me about them.

How shall I avoid meeting him?

                                   *

The good mother has helped me out of my trouble. She received him when
he came, and told him that I would see no one. She would not consent to
tell a falsehood, a point on which Walpurga would have had less
scruples.

I now have the working designs, and beautiful woods with which to carry
them out, for I have undertaken to execute a portion of the order.

                                   *

It matters little what manner of life one leads, so long as there is
self-awakening and self-consciousness. All arts, all science, merely
exist in order that our own consciousness may be acted upon and aroused
by that of others. He who can do this unaided is fortunate. He who
awakes of himself when it is time to go to work in the morning, has no
need of a watchman to call him.

Hansei has become a juryman. Walpurga is quite proud of it, and when he
took leave of us, it was with a certain air of pride and importance.
The idea of appealing to the conscience of the people for the verdict
of justice, is a beautiful one.

                                   *

Hansei has returned, and had many terrible stories to tell.

It seems to me as if our lives and destinies were nothing more than
shadows playing on the wall.

Hansei was deeply affected when he said to us:

"Yes, all my sins came back to me, and I felt as if I were doing
penance when I pronounced judgment on others. It's nothing but good
luck that prevents us from falling into sinful ways and keeps us off of
the anxious bench."

                                   *

(Sunday, May 28th.)--The grandmother is dead.

I cannot write of it. My hand seems as if paralyzed.

She kissed my eyes and said: "I kiss your eyes, and hope they may never
weep again."

Two hours before her death, she said to Hansei:

"Make a sled for Burgei. She is so anxious to have one. It'll please me
if you do. You needn't fear, she won't harm herself. I beg of you, do
it."

"Yes, yes, grandmother!" replied Hansei, with thick voice, and deeply
affected by the thought that, even then, the grandmother's only care
was for Burgei's pleasure.

                                   *

The fear of death lies heavily upon me, and yet I feel an inward sense
of freedom. I have beheld a beautiful end. My hand closed her eyes in
death. I had not believed that I could do it. There was a time when I
could not, when I lay on the floor feeling as if I were buried far
under the earth, and beside me lay my father, cold in death.

The grandmother's death has relieved me of all fear. I am able to
assist Walpurga. Her lamentations are excessive. "Now I'm an orphan
like you!" she cried, throwing herself on my bosom. Then she cried to
the dead one: "Oh mother! how can you be so cruel as to leave me? Oh
God! and there's the bird still hopping about its cage. Yes, you can
jump about! but mother never will again!"

She took a cloth and covered the crossbill's cage with it, saying: "I'd
like to let you fly, you dear little creature, but I can't. Mother
loved you so much that I can't let you go." And then, addressing the
corpse, she said: "Oh mother! can there ever be sunshine when you're
not here? Yes, the clock ticks and keeps on going, and can be wound up.
But, oh! the hours that will come and go without you! God forgive me
for the many hours I was away from you!"

The door of the clothes-press suddenly flew open and startled Walpurga.
Regain her self-command, she said: "Yes, yes; I'll wear your clothes.
I'll wear them for the sake of good. No evil thought shall enter my
heart, no evil word pass my lips. Help me, so that I may always be
yours! Oh God! there's no one left to say 'child' to me! I remember how
you said: 'So long as you can say, father, and mother, there is yet a
love that bears you in its arms. It's only when the parents are gone,
that one is set down on the cold ground.' I'll hold fast to all you've
told me to do, and so shall my children. And, Irmgard, you remember
many other wise sayings, don't you?"

Such was the burden of Walpurga's lament, and I could only reply:

"Yes, and hold fast to one thing she said: 'One may sin even in
speech.' Don't give way to your grief."

                                   *

Walpurga took down her mother's prayer-book and read the prayer for the
soul of the departed.

After that, she handed me the book, and what I read there filled me
with gratitude and devotion. When our feelings are most violently
agitated, we cannot give definite shape to our ideas. We, too, sing
melodies that have been arranged by others. Our lips repeat the words
of poets who have sung and suffered for us; for the poet's heart, in
truth, contains the New Jerusalem of civilization. The great gulf that
separates man from the beast, the plant, or the stone, is the
possession of sympathy, by means of which men are enabled to
anticipate, or to follow, each other's emotions. From the beginning
until now, humanity has been chanting an undying melody in which my
voice, too, forms a part. An everlasting sun, of whose rays I am one,
has been lighting the path from generation to generation. The silent
mountains outlast the races of men and no new one is added to their
number; but, from generation to generation, new watch-towers of thought
arise from the soul of humanity.

                                   *

A happy death is the greatest good. Wondrous power of religion! Over
the couch of the sick, there are bell-pulls, reaching into heaven, by
which the patient is enabled to draw himself up and support himself. He
imagines them there, even in their absence, and, supported by faith,
thinks that he is holding fast to them.

                                   *

After the grandmother's death, a strange feeling of quiet rested on the
house. It was a great comfort to Walpurga to know that there were so
many people at the funeral.

"Yes, they all honored her; but they really didn't know her. You and I
knew her. Do you remember, Hansei, when the potatoes were stolen from
the field, and she said; 'If one only knew who stole them,' and I said:
'Mother, would you inform against them?' 'You foolish thing,' she
answered, reproachfully, 'how could you think I'd mean that? What I
mean is: if we only knew who the people are that stole our potatoes
during the night. They must know that we have but little, ourselves;
and they must be very unfortunate people, whom we ought to help as much
as we can afford to.' Yes, she said that; was there ever another
creature who'd think of such a thing? That's the way the saints must
have been who thought so kindly of all. She had no fear of the sick,
nor hatred of the wicked. Her only thought was, how much they must have
suffered before they got so sick or so wicked. If I could only grow to
be like her. Remind me of it all, Irmgard, when I get cross and scold.
You'll help me, won't you? to become like my mother, so that, some day,
my children will think of me as I do of her. Ah! if one were only
always as good as one can be. Yes, she was right when she used to say:
'Wishing in the one hand and blowing into the other, amount to about
the same thing.'"

                                   *

I shall now return to my work. At such times, there is hardship and yet
comfort in labor. Hansei and Walpurga are obliged to work. They cannot
afford to give themselves up to grief, for too much depends on them. Be
it with king or beggar, poet or peasant, the key-note of the highest
emotions is always the same.

Walpurga's lament was pitched in the same key as that of Lear for
Cordelia, and yet how different. To a father who loses his child, the
future is dead. To a child losing a parent, the past is dead. Ah! how
weak is language.

                                   *

I was quite alarmed by something that Hansei said to-day. Has doubt
entered even these simple hearts? And they do their duty in this world
without a firm belief in a future state.

In his funeral sermon, the preacher had said: "Behold the trees! A few
weeks ago, they were dead. But with the spring, they return to life."
"The pastor oughtn't to have said that," remarked Hansei; "not that
way, at any rate. He might convert children by that, but not us. What
does he mean by talking about trees in that fashion? The trees that
still have life in them will get new leaves in the spring, but the dead
ones won't; they'll be cut down and others will be planted in their
place."

                                   *

We all of us have a strange feeling of loneliness--a feeling that
something is missing. Uncle Peter is the most inconsolable of all.

"Now I must wander about the world alone; I haven't brother or sister
left. She was the pride of our family," he repeats again and again.

Heretofore, he always slept in the garret, with the servants; but now
Hansei has placed the old pensioner's room at his disposal. He is quite
proud of it, but often complains, saying: "Why did I have to wait so
long for all this? How stupid it was of my sister and me. We might have
moved in there. Could we have found a prettier place? Oh, how nicely we
would have lived there, and you could have gone along with us. Oh, how
stupid old age is. We don't see the good nests till the trees are bare
and there's nothing more left in them. 'One gets nothing to eat, till
there are no teeth to bite it with,' as my sister used to say."

He always uses the words:  "As my sister used to say," when he is on
the point of making a statement which he does not wish contradicted,
and I imagine he really thinks his sister did say it. He inherited her
closet and, before opening it, he always knocks at the door.

                                   *

My little pitchman is a good bee-master. He knows how to take care of
bees and he calls them the poor man's pasture cattle.

"Since my sister's death," said he to me to-day, "I've had nothing but
bad luck with my bees. They won't have anything more to do with me."

                                   *

I have written nothing for months. For whom are these pages? Why do I
torment my mind by recording every trifling incident or passing
emotion? These questions unsettled and perplexed me, but now I am calm
again. For months I have done nothing but work.

It seems to me that I must soon die, and yet I feel that I am in the
fulness of my strength. I am often rendered uneasy by the thought that
people trifle with my supposed madness.

                                   *

At last I feel that my rest here was never complete, and that it might
have been disturbed at any moment. But now, let what will come, I shall
remain.

                                   *

A storm! To us who note the sun, the moon, and every change of weather,
a storm is quite a different affair from what it is to those who only
look to see what weather it is when they are idle, or have a pleasure
party in prospect.

One feels as if transported back to the time of creation, as if all
were chaos once more; for the voice of the Infinite is heard in the
thunder, and His glory blazes forth in the lightning.

At a public gaming-table, while the thunder was pealing and the
lightning flashing, and the frivolous throng had withdrawn from the
game, I once saw a lady of noble birth who insisted upon going on with
the game after all the others had been frightened away. The croupiers
were obliged to keep at their work. This lady gives elegant
entertainments, and a servant who stole a silver spoon from her, was
sent to gaol. How low, to steal a spoon--! But what of her mistress?

There is, of course, one circumstance that I must not omit to mention.
Every morning, before repairing to the gaming-table, she attends mass.

                                   *

To be killed by lightning, must surely be the most beautiful death of
all. On a lovely summer's day, to be suddenly struck down by the great
marksman!

                                   *

I have seen a man who moves in the polite world. He is a musician;
young, good-looking, lively, and with delicate, well-cared-for hands.
The storm had overtaken him, and he passed the night in our farmhouse.
While here, he told us:

"I am already blind in this eye, and my physician tells me that I shall
lose the other in less than a year, and so I have determined to see the
great, vast, beautiful world. He who has not seen the Alps, does not
know how beautiful our earth is. And so I take it up within me once
more. I fix the sun, the mountains, the forests, the meads, the
streams, the lakes and, above all, the human face, in my memory. Yes,
child," said he to me, "I shall preserve my memory of your face, for
you are the loveliest peasant girl I have ever seen. I shall learn your
face by heart, just as I have learnt poems, so that I may repeat them
to myself and call them back to me when darkness and solitude close in
around me."

I felt quite constrained, but he was exceedingly cheerful. Now and
then, he cast a curious glance at the bandage over my brow. What may he
have thought of it?

I should like to have told him that I had once, at Gunther's house,
sung a song of his, but he did not mention Gunther's name.

I cannot find words to describe the impression that this handsome young
man made upon me. He seemed so full of power, and without the least
trace of weakly sensibility. He comes from the north, and possesses
somewhat of the austere beauty of the northern races. He has breathed
the salt sea air, and that is what makes him so sturdy, as they call it
there. Such natures impress and arouse me; one cannot remain languid,
brooding or self-complacent, while in his society.

Oh, what cannot a strong will do! How the human mind wrestles with the
powers of nature and conquers them!

                                   *

To-day, I have wept for the first time since the grandmother's death. I
now feel light and free again.

The young musician has left, and I could hear him sing while on his way
down the valley.

If I could still be aught to another human being--I could feel doubly
as kind toward one who could neither see my brow, nor praise my beauty.

It is over--

What strange shadows does the game of life project, even unto us up
here!

                                   *

This visit has satisfied me that there is a large share of vanity still
remaining in Walpurga. She could not help gradually directing the
conversation to the subject, and, at last, told the stranger that she
had been the crown prince's nurse, and had lived at the palace nearly a
year. There is something in her that reminds me of the man who has many
orders of merit, and who, like a general in citizen's dress, goes about
without his medals and decorations. He modestly deprecates being
addressed as "your excellency," but nevertheless enjoys it. The one
year spent in the atmosphere of the court, has not been without its
effect upon Walpurga.

Hansei, who felt kindly toward the stranger, and evinced great pity for
him, was evidently annoyed by his wife's ostentation; but, with his
usual great self-command, refrained from expressing his annoyance. But
to-day, when they were going to church, Hansei asked:

"Wouldn't you like to have a ribbon around your neck and wear a picture
of yourself and the crown prince, so that no one may ever forget what
you once were?"

I do not think that Walpurga will ever again allude to her brilliant
past.

                                   *

The grandmother's death and funeral afforded me an opportunity to
become better acquainted with the village schoolmaster. He has a
tolerably fair education, but delights in making a display of it, and
is fond of using big words, in order to impress the listener and to
imply: "You don't quite understand me, after all." But the hearty
feeling with which he entered into our grief, has raised him in my
esteem, and I have frankly let him know as much. And so one day he said
to me: "Your skill in wood carving is as good as a marriage portion.
You can earn much money by it." I had no idea what he meant by the
remark.

Last Sunday, however, I was enlightened.

He came here, dressed in a black coat and white cotton gloves, and made
me a formal offer of marriage.

He could not be induced to believe that I would never marry, and he
urgently repeated his offer, saying that he would only desist if I
really loved another.

Walpurga fortunately came to the rescue. The good man seemed as if
utterly crushed by his rejection, and went away. Why must I fill yet
another heart with pain? Of my own, I do not care to speak.

                                   *

I have not yet done with the schoolmaster's suit.

Walpurga asked me why I wished to remain so lonely. As long as I did
not care to return to the great world, I might as well make this good
man happy, and would be able to do much good to the children and the
poor of the village. I have thus come to know myself anew. I am not
made for beneficence. I am not a sister of mercy. I cannot visit the
sick, unless I know and love them. I could nurse the grandmother, but
no one else. I dislike peasant rooms, and the dull, heavy atmosphere of
these abodes of simplicity. I am not a beneficent fairy. My senses are
too easily offended. I do not care to make myself better than I am;
that is, I should like to make myself better, but all one can do is to
improve the good traits that already exist, and that one good trait I
do not possess. I must be honest about the matter. I could find it
easier to live in a convent. This confession does not make me unhappy,
but melancholy. The desire to enjoy life, and to commune with myself is
so strong.

                                   *

Franz, Gundel's betrothed, had been summoned to join his regiment.

My little pitchman has just returned from the town, and brings me news
that "there'll be war with the French." He tells me, too, that our
business will become poor, that the people do not care to buy, and that
our employer offers only half the usual price; and so I will be working
for stock.--I, too, must help to bear the world's burden.

How strange it seems that I no longer know anything about my country
and the age in which we live. One consolation is left me. In such
warlike times, they will not seek the lost one.

                                   *

We are all, unconsciously, on heights from which the graves of our
beloved dead are invisible. Were they ever present, there would be
neither work nor song in this world.

Self-oblivion or self-knowledge--about this, everything revolves.

                                   *

Even in hottest summer, I can always see the snowcapped mountains
before me. I do not know how to express it, but they always inspire me
with strange and confused emotions. I pay no regard to the date or the
seasons, for I have them all at once.

In my heart there is also a spot on which rest eternal snows.

                                   *

I have now been here between two and three years. I have formed a
resolve which it will be difficult to carry out. I shall go out into
the world once more. I must again behold the scenes of my past life. I
have tested myself severely.

May it not be a love of adventure, that genteel yet vulgar desire to
undertake what is unusual or fraught with peril. Or is it a morbid
desire to wander through the world after having died, as it were?

No; far from it. What can it be? An intense longing to roam again, if
it be only for a few days. I must kill the desire, lest it kill me.

Whence arises this sudden longing?

Every tool that I use while at work, burns my hand.

I must go.

I shall obey the impulse, without worrying myself with speculations as
to its cause. I am subject to the rules of no order. My will is my only
law. I harm no one by obeying it. I feel myself free; the world has no
power over me.

I dreaded informing Walpurga of my intention. When I did so, her tone,
her words, her whole manner, and the fact that she, for the first time,
called me "child," made it seem as if her mother were still speaking to
me.

"Child," said she, "you're right! Go! It'll do you good. I believe that
you'll come back and will stay with us, but if you don't, and another
life opens up to you--your expiation has been a bitter one, far heavier
than your sin."

Uncle Peter was quite happy when he learned that we were to be gone
from one Sunday to the Sunday following. When I asked him whether he
was curious as to where we were going, he replied:

"It's all one to me. I'd travel over the whole world with you, wherever
you'd care to go; and if you were to drive me away, I'd follow you like
a dog and find you again."

I shall take my journal with me, and will note down every day.

                                   *

(By the lake.)--I find it difficult to write a word. The threshold I am
obliged to cross, in order to go out into the world, is my own
gravestone.

I am equal to it.

How pleasant it was to descend toward the valley. Uncle Peter sang, and
melodies suggested themselves to me, but I did not sing. Suddenly he
interrupted himself and said:

"In the inns, you'll be my niece, won't you?"

"Yes."

"But you must call me 'uncle' when we're there?"

"Of course, dear uncle."

He kept nodding to himself, for the rest of the way, and was quite
happy.

We reached the inn at the landing. He drank, and I drank, too, from the
same glass.

"Where are you going?" asked the hostess.

"To the capital," said he, although I had not said a word to him about
it. Then, in a whisper, he said to me:

"If you intend to go elsewhere, the people needn't know everything."

I let him have his own way.

I looked for the place where I had wandered at that time. There--there
was the rock--and on it a cross, bearing, in golden characters, the
inscription:


                             Here perished
                     IRMA, COUNTESS VON WILDENORT,
                        In the twenty-first year
                              of her life.
            _Traveler, pray for her and honor her memory._

                               *   *   *

I know not how long I lay there. When I revived there were several
people busying themselves about me, and, among them, my little
pitchman, who was quite violent in expressing his grief.

I was able to walk to the inn. My little pitchman said to the people:

"My niece isn't used to walking so far. She sits in her room all the
year round. She's a wood-carver, and a mighty clever one, too."

The people were all kind to me. Guests were constantly coming and
going. Some of them told the little pitchman that the beautiful
monument out yonder was a great advantage to the inn; that, during the
summer, it was visited by hundreds of persons; and that, every year, a
nun from the convent came there, attended by another nun, and prayed at
the cross.

"And who put up the monument?" asked the little pitchman.

"The brother of the unfortunate one."

"No, it was the king," said others.

The conversation often dropped off, but always began again anew.

Some said that the place must be haunted, for a beautiful creature
known as Black Esther had drowned herself at the same time. She was a
daughter of Zenza, who was now crazed and lived on the other side of
the lake; and who could tell whether the beautiful lady--for she was
very beautiful--hadn't drowned herself, too. To this the hostess
angrily answered that the countess had had many gold chains and
diamonds about her, and a diamond star on her forehead; that the horse
which had thrown her had been seen; that her brother had wanted to
shoot the horse, but it had been bewitched and, from that day, would
eat nothing and at last dropped down dead. Others said that the
Countess's father had commanded her to drown herself, and that she had
been an obedient child and had done so.

Thus I had a glimpse of a legend in process of formation.

"And why was the father supposed to have commanded that?" inquired the
little pitchman.

"Because she loved a married man. It won't do to talk of that."

"Why won't it?" whispered a sailor. "She and the king were fond of each
other, and, to save herself from doing wrong, she took her life."

How can I describe my emotions, while listening to their conversation?

Years hence, perhaps, some solitary child of man may cross the lake and
sing the song of the beautiful countess with the diamond star on her
brow.

I do not remember how night came on, and how I at last fell asleep. I
awoke and still heard the song of the drowned countess. Its sad, deep
strain had filled my dream. All that I had experienced seemed but as a
vision. I looked out of my window--I looked across the lake and beheld
the golden characters in the rosy dawn.

What was I to do? Should I turn back?

My little pitchman was quite happy when he saw me so fresh again. The
hostess offered me a picture of the monument, saying that every visitor
bought one. My uncle bargained with her, got it for half the price she
had asked, and then presented it to me. I carry the picture of my
gravestone with me.

I felt irresistibly drawn toward another grave--my father's. While my
hand rested on the mound, an inner voice said to me: "You will be
reconciled."--I expiate and atone for my sin.

How the memories awakened by these different spots agitated me. I
cannot write about it--my heart is breaking! Besides this, it is filled
with fear. I shall be brief. I am unable to continue my recital. I
shall never again look at these pages.

We went to the Frauensee and crossed over to the convent. Among the
nuns, I saw my beloved Emma, who makes a yearly pilgrimage to my
gravestone. For the first time in many years, I prayed with her. What
difference does it make whether one still lives or is dead, as long as
the thought--

My hand trembles while I write, but I will....

I had left the convent and was returning across the lake, when the
thought flashed upon me: "I expiate in freedom! That is my only pride.
My will holds me as fast as the bolts of the convent gate would do, and
I--I--work--"

Everything was carried out just as I had determined. I saw the whole
world once more and bade it adieu.

We journeyed to the capital. The city noises and the rapid driving
alarmed me.

When I again heard the rustling of a silk gown, for the first time, the
sound quite affected me. I felt as if impelled to accost the first lady
I met in a fashionable bonnet and veil. These people seemed to belong
to me. I felt as if returning from the lower regions into sunlight.

I stopped to read the placards that were posted up at the corners of
the streets. Am I still living in the same world?

There is music, singing, etc. One amuses the other. No one finds life's
joys within himself.

All things in this world are related to each other. Thou hast lost the
connecting link.

I was sitting in a small inn, while I looked on at the bustling life of
the city.

I saw the houses here and there--and it seemed as if I beheld the ghost
of a part of my life. If the people knew-- There are streets here with
which I am not acquainted. Men pass without a thought for each other.
City folk all look ill-humored; I have not met one sunny, happy face.

                                   *

I went to the picture-gallery. What delights the eye there feeds upon!
And besides these, there is the intoxicating wealth of color and the
solemn stillness of the place itself. I saw my old teacher and heard
him saying to a stranger: "A work of art does not derive its great
historical character from the importance of the subject, or the size of
the picture. What is required of the artist is that he should be filled
with, and, at the same time, transport the beholder to, the scene that
he attempts to depict. The same subject can be conceived in various
ways, and may be executed either as a light, _genre_ piece, or in the
grand and more enduring historical style."

While I passed through the rooms, I felt like one intoxicated. All my
old friends greeted me. They are clothed in undying colors, and have
remained faithful and unchanged. The power of nature and of art
lie in their truthfulness. But they do not speak; they merely exist.
No--nature alone is mute; art lends its voice. It is not by the lips
alone that the human mind expresses itself. I felt as if the Maria
Ægyptica must suddenly turn toward me and ask: "Do you know me now?"

I grew dizzy and fearful.

While in the Raphael gallery, environed by the highest beauty earth has
ever known, conceived as only the clearest eye could conceive it, I
felt as if in another world.

A happy thought occurred to me: Art is the first liberator of humanity,
evoking a second, joy-creating life, and--what is even a greater
boon--revealing the highest realm, where every one who is called may
enter. The poor son of the people says: "I and my spirit shall dwell in
this lofty, this blessed abode." He reigns there eternally, surrounded
by his ancestors in art. There dwells immortality; or, better still,
death never enters there. The paternal mansion of free, creative art
contains infinite space, and is an eternal home. Let him who has lived
happily, enter there.

                                   *

I stood before the palace. The windows of the room that I once occupied
were open. My parrot was still there in its golden cage, and called
out: "God keep you! God keep you!" But it does not add my name, for it
has forgotten it.

                                   *

On the table before me there lay a newspaper, the first that I had seen
for years. It was long before I could summon resolution to read it, but
I did so at last and read as follows:

"His majesty the king has departed for the sea baths, where he will
remain for six weeks. Prime minister Von Bronnen," (Von Bronnen
minister!) "Count Wildenort, master of the horse," (my brother!) "and
privy councilor Sixtus, the king's physician, are of his suite."

How much these few lines conveyed to me! There was no need of my
reading any further. Yet there was another paragraph, saying:

"Her majesty the queen, accompanied by his royal highness the crown
prince, has removed to the summer palace."

                                   *

I walked about the city and looked into the shop windows and at the
many objects which I no longer require. In one of the windows, I found
some of my carvings on exhibition. "That's our work!" exclaimed the
little pitchman, who boldly went into the shop and inquired as to the
price, and also asked by whom they had been done. The price named was a
high one, and the merchant added: "These works of art"--yes, he spoke
of them as works of art--"are made by a half-crazy peasant girl, who
lives in the Highlands."

I looked at my little pitchman. He was terribly afraid. His glance
seemed to implore me not to lose my senses while away from home. His
fear was not without good grounds, for, in spite of my self-control, my
faithful guide must have found much that was strange in my behavior.

I bought several small plaster casts of gems of Greek art; and now I
have types of undying beauty ever with me. It required clever
management to effect such unusual purchases, and I only ventured to
attempt it during the twilight hour.

I saw many familiar faces, but always quickly averted mine. I would so
gladly have spoken to Mademoiselle Kramer. She has become quite aged.
She was carrying a book with the yellow label of the circulating
library. How many thousands of books the dear old woman must have read!
She reads book after book, just as men smoke cigars.

I went to Gunther's house. The courtyard gate was open. There is now a
factory there, and the lovely trees have all been felled.

On the head of the figure of Victory at the arsenal, there sat a pigeon
with glossy plumage--Although without eye-glasses, I could see the
figure quite distinctly.

                                   *

The evening afforded me pure delight--the purest I ever knew, or, as I
firmly believe, ever will know.

Mozart's "Magic Flute" was performed at the theater.

I went there with my little pitchman. We sat in the uppermost tier. I
saw no one, although the crowded house must have contained many whom I
knew. All my senses were held captive by music's magic spell.

It is past midnight. My little pitchman and I are stopping at a
teamster's inn. I cannot rest until I put my feelings into words.

Mozart's "Magic Flute" is one of those immortal creations that dwell in
purest ether, in a region beyond the passions and struggles of mankind.
I have often heard the text objected to as puerile, but, at that
height, all action, all understanding, all personages, all
surroundings, must needs be allegorical. All that is hard and narrow is
cast aside, and man becomes a bird, his life pure and natural, full of
love and wisdom. The childlike or childish character of the text is
singularly true to nature. It is only the _blasé_ who can find it dull
and insipid.

It is Mozart's last dramatic work, and in it he appears at his best, in
all the fullness of his genius, as if already transfigured. His various
figures pass before him in review, created anew, as it were; less fixed
and individualized, but all the more pure and ethereal. Using the word
in its best sense, there is something supernatural in the way in which
he has here gathered and combined the chords that else were scattered,
into one harmonious whole.

The opening chorus of priests is the march of humanity, and the "O
Isis!" is full of the sunshine of blissful peace. This is the fabled
paradise--a life above this, in the free ether, beyond the reach of
storm or tempest; a region to which music alone can transport us.

For hours, I felt as if thus transported, and know not how I descended
again. Thoughts without number hover about me. This music breathes a
spirit of noble, self-conscious repose, and is free from all oppressed
humility. It is a life that can never fade; nay, it is the odor of
ripened fruit.

This last work of Mozart's has a companion piece in Lessing's last
work: "Nathan the Wise." In both of them the soul wings its flight far
beyond the disjointed, struggling world and dwells in the pure region
beyond, where peace and piety have become actual existences, and where
the vexations of narrow, circumscribed, finite humanity provoke but a
smile. The great treasure of humanity is not buried in the past; it
must be dug out, fashioned and created from the future.

"Nathan" and the "Magic Flute" abound with precious gems. They prove
that happiness is not an illusion, but they speak in a language
unintelligible to him who does not bear within himself a sense of
things above this life.

To have lived such hours is life eternal.

The song of the three boys is full of divine bliss. If the angels in
Raphael's Sistine Madonna were to sing, such would be their melodies,
and in this register would their voices move.

I would like to hear such sounds at my dying hour, for that would be an
ecstatic death.

If such ecstasy could only continue without interruption.

After the opera was over, I sat in the park for a long time. All was
dark and silent.

Filled with this music, I would gladly fly back to my forest solitude,
have nothing more to do with the world, and silently pass away. After
these, no other tones should fall upon my ear and disturb me.

But I was obliged to return to the world.

And here I sit, late at night, the whole world resting in sleep and
self-oblivion, while I am awake in self-oblivion.

O ye eternal spirits! Could one but be with you and utter a word, a
sound, that should pass into infinity! In yonder gallery, eyes that
never close, look down upon the coming and departing generations. And
here there are undying harmonies and imperishable words.

Oh ye blessed spirits, ye who through art create a second world! The
world confuses and perplexes us, but ye make everything clear as the
light of day. Ye are the blessed genii who ever offer mankind the wine
of life in the golden chalice which, though millions drink from it, is
never emptied.

It is with deep pain that I depart from the realm of color and that of
sound. This, and this only, is indeed a deprivation.

                                   *

And now for the last halting-place.

We wandered on in the direction of the summer palace. We walked up and
down before the park railing. Up by the chapel, and under the weeping
ash, I could see the court ladies sitting on the ornamented chairs and
busy with their embroidery. Ah, there is many a one there, no better
than I am, and yet she jests and laughs, is happy and respected. Aye,
there lies the misery. We are constantly blunting our moral sense and
saying to ourselves: "Look about you; others are no better than you
are."

Presently they all arose and bowed profoundly. The gates were opened
and the queen drove out, the prince sitting beside her. She looked at
me and the little pitchman, and greeted us. My eyes failed me.

I know not. Did I see aright? The queen looked cheerful.

The prince has become a fine boy. He has kept the promise of his
infancy.

My little pitchman conversed with a stone-breaker, who was working on
the road. He was loud in his praises of the queen and her only child,
the crown prince. So she has only one child--

I was so weary that I was obliged to rest by the wayside. In former
days, I had so often proudly passed by the spot where I was now
sitting. No matter! It is well that it is so. The little pitchman was
delighted when I told him that our path now lay homeward. He must have
felt quite alarmed about me, and must have thought to himself: "The
folks who say that you're not quite right, were not so far out after
all."

                                   *

Those who see me not, think me dead; those who do see me, think me
crazed.

I had determined that, in case of discovery, I would tell all to the
king and queen, and, after that, quietly return to my retreat.

It is better thus.

                                   *

We returned home. When I reached the foot of the mountain on which we
live, and had begun to ascend it, I asked myself: "Is this your home?"
And yet, absence makes it seem like a new home. The life I lead here is
a real life.

Since I have noted down this thought, I feel as if a weight were lifted
from my heart. While writing, I often feel as giddy as if standing on
the edge of a precipice; but I shall remain firm. I will not look at
these pages again. But now work begins once more, and my head will
cease to be filled with thoughts of repentance. The next minute is
ours; the passing moment is scarcely so; and the past one not at all.

There is much work awaiting me. I am glad that it is so. Walpurga and
the children are quite happy to have me with them again.

During my absence, Walpurga had my room painted a pale red. It is in
wretched taste, and yet I must needs show myself grateful. She thought
that I would not return.

These people constitute my whole world, and yet I could leave them any
minute. Will it be thus when I, too, leave the world?

                                   *

Courageously to forego the world--I think I have read the expression
somewhere; but now I understand it. I feel it within myself and am
carrying it out; not timidly, not sadly,--but courageously.

                                   *

I am no longer sad. The calm satisfaction with which I resign the world
emancipates me.

When I look at life, I ask myself: "Why all these struggles and all
these barriers, until we come to the last barrier of all, unto death
itself?" The great heroes of history and my little pitchman--not one of
them had the odds of fortune in his favor. No destiny is completely and
purely fulfilled.

Old Jochem said his prayers every day, and would often pass whole hours
thus employed; yet he would curse mankind and his own fate. And I have
known ladies of quality, who, after listening in rapt ecstasy to the
music of Beethoven, would dispute and wrangle after the most vulgar
fashion.

"Courageously to forego." The words are ever haunting me. Thanks for
this precept, kind spirit, whoever thou mayst be! To live out the day
and not allow it to be darkened by the knowledge that night must come,
to forego with courage--that is the sum of all.

I never would have believed that I could live without joy, without
pleasures; but now I see that I can. Joy and pleasure are not the
conditions upon which my life is based.

We have it in our power to attune the mind to cheerfulness; that is, to
calmness and clearness.

                                   *

How many years was it that Hermione, of the "Winter's Tale," remained
hidden? I have quite forgotten.

                                   *

I am constantly reminded, while at work, of various passages, of the
solos, the great choruses, and even the instrumental accompaniments, in
Mozart's "Magic Flute." They fill the silent air with their sounds, and
bear me aloft.

Above all, the appeal, "Be steadfast!" with the three short notes, d,
e, d, and the trumpet-blast that follows, is ever sounding in my ears
like some spiritual watchword. The highest truths should be conveyed by
music alone, and would thus become more forcible and enduring. Be
steadfast--

I am again trying to solve the enigma of life.

Man may not do all that he can, or to which he feels impelled. Since he
is human, he must recognize the limit of his rights before he reaches
the limit of his powers.

At court they often discussed the saying:  "Right before might." I have
melted down the phrase in the alembic of thought. I have coined it
anew.

How beautiful is the legend of paradise! The first human pair were
placed there; as far as their powers went, everything, with a single
exception, was permitted to them--and the fruit tempted them. But there
is no paradise. The beast alone possesses what may be termed paradise.
It is free to do whatever it can. As long, however, as there is a
prohibition which man, as a moral being, must know, there can be no
paradise, for perfect freedom is at an end.

What I mean is this: self-consciousness is gained by overstepping the
barrier. It is eating of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. From that
moment, man's joys are no longer provided for him. He must create them,
either from within himself or from his surroundings. Now he begins to
wrestle with nature, and his life becomes one of deeds. Work, whether
directed to self-perfection or intended to benefit the world, is a
second creation.

My every thought seems as if it were an inarticulate, stammering
attempt to express the words of knowledge.

The little world around me and the so-called great world that still
lives in my memory, now seem to me as if illumined and rendered
transparent by the golden sunlight.

To perceive the barriers, and thus recognize the necessity of law, is
liberty. I am free at last.

                                   *

I did well in going out into the world again. Or do I merely think so
because I feel that I have done right? I am a freer being now. I have
ceased to be the poor soul that longed to return to the world. My life
is no longer a hell. I could now return to the world without fear. Now
that I can courageously forego it, I do not feel the privation. Oh, how
presumptuous we are to imagine that others need us! I, too, no longer
need any one.

                                   *

The telegraph wires are being put up between here and my forest view.
The busy doings of the great world are now to pass by me. I can see men
on the ladders, fastening the wires to the high poles.

                                   *

Walpurga tells me that my voice is quite hoarse, but I feel quite well.
Perhaps it is because I speak so little, sometimes passing whole days
without uttering a word.

The cool, pure breezes that I inhale every morning are like a
refreshing draught, and the blue of the sky is far deeper up here.

                                   *

Gunther once told me that I am of an unrhythmic temperament. He was in
the right. If I were not, I would now express my deepest thoughts in
melodious words. I feel so happy, so free, that my thoughts could find
proper expression in poetry alone.

                                   *

Although Hansei has now been in possession for a long while, he seems
grateful for everything. It makes him happy to know that he is able to
buy fine cows and pretty bells for them, and this gratitude for his
good fortune lends an inner tenderness to his rough exterior.

                                   *

(August 28th.)--After long, sunless days of deathlike torpor, the sky
is bright and clear again. The snowy peaks, the green hills and the
valleys are bathed in sunshine. I feel as if I must fly away and soar
through space; but I remain here and work; for, as my work was faithful
to me in dark days, so shall I remain faithful to it in bright ones. I
shall only wander forth when evening comes and work is at an end. This
is Goethe's birthday. I think Goethe would have been friendly toward
me, if I had lived in his time and near him.

It is pleasant, after all, that we know the hour of his birth. It was
at noon. I write these lines during the very hour, and my thoughts are
of him.

What would he have counseled me to do with my lost life?

Is it a lost life?--It is not.

                                   *

Franz has returned from the target-shooting and was the hero of the
occasion. What shouts of joy and triumph! He gained the first prize, a
fine rifle. The target, riddled with bullets, is displayed before our
house.

                                   *

A falling leaf in autumn--how many bright summer days and mild nights
were required to perfect it? What was it while it hung on the tree?
What is it now, when it falls to the ground?

And what is the result of a whole human life, when summed up in a few
sentences?

                                   *

How many feet is our farm above the level of the sea? I do not know,
and Hansei would smile to think of one's asking such a question. We
perform our duty on the little spot of earth on which we dwell. Its
effect flows out into the great sea of humanity and of history, without
any interference of ours. The brook goes on in its course, driving the
mill-wheels, irrigating the meadows, and is at last swallowed up in the
ocean, whence come the clouds and storms that again feed the brook.

                                   *

In spite of all that I grew up to, all that, in a course of years, I
have practiced, acted, or thought, I cannot help regarding myself as a
block of wood--even now, I know not what will become of me, or who will
hew me into shape.

I have a beautiful task on hand--a piece of work that will remain and
be a constant pleasure to me--work for our own house.

When the additions were made to the dwelling, I succeeded, with the
assistance of the carpenter, in giving greater symmetry to the dwelling
itself. The piazza running round the house received a more open roof,
and the balustrade a more pleasing form.

Hansei has often said that the forest clearing would make a beautiful
meadow. Yesterday he came home and said:

"I have it! I'm having the trees on the hillside felled, and have left
four fine trunks standing. They form a square and I'll have a hut built
there, and then we'll have a mountain meadow of our own. The farm can't
thrive without one. It's far up, to be sure--about two hours' walk; but
we can see the clearing from here."

"And just think of it," said Hansei, who was delighted with his plan,
"where the trees have been cut down in front, you can see ever so far,
way off to the lake where we used to live. To be sure, it's nothing
more than a little sparkling spot of blue, but it looks at one so
kindly, just like a faithful eye from home, or like one who has known
you from childhood. It was beautiful at our home, but it's more
beautiful here; so don't let us sin by being ungrateful."

I have made the drawing for the shepherd's hut. My little pitchman is
quite clever in cutting everything. We are working at our Noah's ark,
and are as merry as apprentices.

I am also carving a horse's head in life size, for the gable of the
roof.

                                   *

Hansei and I have just returned from where the new shepherd's hut is
being built.

After the invigorating mountain ascent of to-day, I feel as if I had
been present at the dawning of creation; a new road, a new dwelling,
and a spot where human being had never been before. I feel as if
experience had nothing more in store for me; as if all earthly burdens
had fallen from me.

                                   *

When, after a day of great exertion and mountain climbing, one awakes
on the following morning, the fatigue has passed away. One feels
refreshed and invigorated, and satisfied with the test to which he has
subjected himself; for it has proved his power of endurance and his
ability to impose tasks upon himself. For a while, I had left my past
and possessed nothing but myself. Now that I have returned to familiar
scenes, they welcome me again. I can easily realize the calm
peacefulness of those who thus picture to themselves the awakening to
the eternal life.

                                   *

The shepherd's hut is empty. The walls are bare, except where the
picture of our Saviour hangs in the corner, waiting for the beings who
are to come there. It is, and ever will remain, a blessing that men can
thus bear with them, to desert wastes and lonely heights, the image of
pure and perfect man. It is this which enables a more perfect
civilization and a great history to take possession of the modern
world.

If only the pure knowledge of the pure spirit always went with it.

                                   *

(October.)--Now that winter approaches, my thoughts are always of the
lonely shepherd's hut upon the mountain. I am always there in my
dreams, alone and undergoing strange experiences. I think I must move
up there next spring. I feel that life will be incomplete until I have
spent a whole summer with plants and beasts, with mountain and brook,
with the sun, the moon and the stars.

Art thou still dissatisfied, insatiate heart, always longing for
something else? What can it be? I must and will have rest!

                                   *

He who needs nothing but himself to be happy, is happy indeed.

                                   *

Here, once again, I am like the first human being that walked the
earth.

Man, of himself, is pure and unsullied, and out of him flows the world.
There lies the secret which I shall not name.

                                   *

It makes me happy to think that I am to go still higher; further up the
mountain, where it is even quieter and more lonely than here. I feel as
if something were calling me there. It is neither a voice nor a sound.
I know not what it is, and yet it calls me, draws me, allures me, with
its: "Come! come!"--Yes, I am coming!

                                   *

I know that I am not dying. I would sooner doubt that I am living. The
world is no longer an enigma to me.

                                   *

From my mountain height I look down on those I have wronged. They are
my father, my queen, and, worst of all, myself!

                                   *

Of all things in this world, untruth is the surest to avenge itself.
When I wrote to the king, from the convent, I vaunted my truthfulness
and yet, at the same time, I was thoroughly untruthful. I aimed at
bringing about an act of freedom and yet, at heart, my only desire was
to write to him and impress him by my love of liberty. I felt proud of
my opposition to popular opinion, and hoped thus to show him that I was
his strong friend. He declined my proffered advice, and yet it was I
who again opened the convents.

Falsehood avenges itself.

Purity and freedom can only exist where there is perfect truthfulness.

                                   *

If I could only find words to express the delight with which to-day's
sunset filled me. It is night, and as surely as the sun shone on my
face, so surely does a ray of sunlight shine within me. I am a ray of
eternity. Compared with it, what are days or years? What is a whole
human life?

                                   *

I never rightly knew why I was always dissatisfied, and yearning for
the next hour, the next day, the next year, hoping that it would bring
me that which I could not find in the present. It was not love, for
love does not satisfy. I desired to live in the passing moment, but
could not. It always seemed as if something were waiting for me without
the door, and calling me. What could it have been?

I know now; it was a desire to be at one with myself, to understand
myself. Myself in the world, and the world in me.

                                   *

The vain man is the loneliest of human beings. He is constantly longing
to be seen, understood, acknowledged, admired and loved.

I could say much on the subject, for I, too, was once vain. It was
only in actual solitude that I conquered the loneliness of vanity. It
is enough for me that I exist.

How far removed this is from all that is mere show.

                                   *

Now I understand my father's last act. He did not mean to punish me.
His only desire was to arouse me, to lead me to self-consciousness, to
the knowledge that, teaching us to become different from what we are,
saves us.

                                   *

I understand the inscription in my father's library: "When I am alone,
then am I least alone."

Yes; when alone, one can more perfectly lose himself in the life
universal. I have lived and have come to know the truth. I can now die.

                                   *

He who is at one with himself, possesses all.

                                   *

What will people say?--These few words represent the world's tyranny,
the power that perverts our nature and temperaments, and account for
our mental obliquity of vision. These four words rule everywhere.
Walpurga is swayed by them, while Hansei has quite a different
standard, the only true one. Without knowing it, he acts just as
Gunther would have done.

Man's first and only duty is to preserve his peace of mind. He should
be utterly indifferent as to "what the people will say." That question
makes the mind homeless. Do right and fear naught! Rest assured that
with all your consideration for the world, you can never satisfy it.
But if you will go on in your own way, indifferent to the praise or
blame of others, you have conquered the world, and it cheerfully
subjects itself to you. As long as you care for "what the people will
say," so long are you the slave of others.

                                   *

I believe that I know what I have done. I have no compassion for
myself. This is my full confession.

I have sinned--not against nature, but against the world's rules. Is
that sin? Look at the tall pines in yonder forest. The higher the tree
grows, the more do the lower branches die away, and thus the tree in
the thick forest is protected and sheltered by its fellows, but can,
nevertheless, not perfect itself in all directions.

I desired to lead a full and complete life and yet to be in the forest,
to be in the world and yet in society. But he who means to live thus,
must remain in solitude. As soon as we become members of society, we
cease to be mere creatures, of nature. Nature and morality have equal
rights and must form a compact with each other, and where there are two
powers with equal rights, there must be mutual concessions.

Herein lies my sin.

_He who desires to live a life of nature alone, must withdraw himself
from the protection of morality, I did not fully desire either the one
or the other; hence I was crushed and shattered._

My father's last action was right. He avenged the moral law, which is
just as human as the law of nature. The animal world knows neither
father nor mother, so soon as the young is able to take care of itself.
The human world does know them and must hold them sacred.

I see it all quite clearly. My sufferings and my expiation are
deserved. I was a thief! I stole the highest treasures of all:
confidence, love, honor, respect, splendor.

How noble and exalted the tender souls appear to themselves when a poor
rogue is sent to jail for having committed a theft! But what are all
possessions which can be carried away, when compared with those that
are intangible!

Those who are summoned to the bar of justice are not always the basest
of mankind.

I acknowledge my sin, and my repentance is sincere.

My fatal sin, the sin for which I now atone, was that I dissembled,
that I denied and extenuated that which I represented to myself as a
natural right. Against the queen, I have sinned worst of all. To me,
she represents that moral order which I violated and yet wished to
enjoy.

To you, O queen, to you--lovely, good, and deeply injured one--do I
confess all this!

If I die before you--and I hope that I may--these pages are to be given
to you.

                                   *

We cannot take nature for our only guide. He who follows its law has no
share, no inheritance in the world of history. He knows nothing of the
beings who lived before him, and who helped to make the world what it
is. With him, the world is barren; with him, it dies. He who follows
naught but nature's law and persuades himself that he is thus doing
right, denies humanity and, at the same time, denies that the human
race has a history which is not represented by himself alone, but has
existed before him and now exists without him. In spite of gloss and
varnish, he who denies humanity is but a savage. He stands without the
pale of civilization. All that he does, or wears, or enjoys, of the
fruits of culture, is but a theft. He should sing no song but that
which is natural to him, like the bird which brings its plumage and its
song into the world with it, and has no special garb or tones; for
there all is species, all is the law of nature.

In this alone lies the truth.

                                   *

Above all right and all duty, is love, leading lover and beloved to the
pure unfolding of their natures.

Woe to those who desecrate its divine mission!

                                   *

My father's fate is also clear to me, now. He wished to live for and
perfect himself; and yet he had children whose love and affection he
claimed. His death was one of the terrible consequences of the life he
had led. That, however, does not make me innocent, and he dealt justly
toward me.

I have no desire to offer excuses for anything I have done. I mean to
be perfectly truthful. That is my only happiness, my only pride.

                                   *

Your worth depends upon what you are; not upon what you have.

                                   *

I have found the center about which my mind revolves.

                                   *

During the last few days, it has seemed to me as if my father's
terrible punishment had never been executed, as if it were only the
guilty presentiment of my own imagination.

What has induced this sudden thought that will not leave me?

I know! I know! Whatever may have happened is now atoned for! There can
be a renewed life, a deliverance achieved by ourselves, and I feel that
this has been vouchsafed me. I am once more free! I can return to the
world and remove the bandage from my brow!

To the world! What is the world? I have it within me. I am in the
world, and the world is in me. I am!

                                   *

I have sung again for the first time. Oh, how much good it did me! No
one heard me but myself.

No bird sings for itself; it sings for its mate. Man alone can sing and
think for himself. He alone possesses self-consciousness.

                                   *

The calm of morn, which is always so dear to me, now seems to last
during the whole day.

                                   *

Yonder brook often seems to roar much more loudly than at other times.
It is because a sudden wind catches it and bears the sound-waves toward
me.

                                   *

(At work.)--When the material on which we work is hard and unyielding,
we learn to make a virtue of necessity. I often chance upon changes in
the fiber or grain which necessitate new beauties or deformities. I
often bring out touches which I did not intend, and those that I did
intend become quite different from what I had expected, just because
the wood is master, as well as my hand. Varnish, blessed friend in
need, covers both beauties and defects.

                                   *

We create nothing. We merely shape and discover that which already
exists and which, without our assistance, cannot release itself from
chaos.

Oh, I feel as if I at last understand the whole world and all of art
and work. I feel that my longings for the infinite are satisfied.

I now know the cause of the clashing between our lofty thoughts and our
lives of petty detail.

Hansei, Walpurga, the king, the queen, Gunther, Emma--what are they
all? Mere drops in the ocean of humanity. When I think of myself as a
part of the whole, I forget them all. That destroys love for
individuals; desire and enjoyment cease, and, with them, passion and
heartache.

And what am I? What still remains to me? We can conceive the great and
complete whole, while our love can only be for the individual, for that
which is nearest to us. And the nearest of all is God, the great idea
of universal law.

                                   *

Walpurga is quite anxious about me. She often comes to me, and it seems
as if she wished to say something. She looks at me so strangely, and
yet says nothing. She tells me, again and again, how lovely it will be
at the shepherd's hut, and how quiet and happy I will be up there. She
wishes the mountains were already cleared of snow. She would like me to
be away from here, and says that I would soon become strong. And yet I
do not feel ill, but she always says: "You shine so!"

I feel as if I had settled my accounts with the world. I am perfectly
calm, and it may be that this feeling casts its radiance about me. I
could no longer fear the world. I could again live among human beings,
for I feel myself free. Nothing more can wound me.

                                   *

I feel a desire for more perfect solitude. Shall I find greater
seclusion, profounder silence, up there? It seems as if I were ever
hearing the words, "lonely as death." (mutterseelenallein.) Oh, thou
blessed, German tongue! What a blessing it is that, without effort, I
bear the rich stores of my mother-tongue within me, and that, when
thoughts gush forth from every nook and cranny of the brain, I have
some word-vessel at command with which to receive the idea. It seems to
me as if I must be always speaking and writing and rejoicing because of
this possession.

I must break off. Our most mysterious, our deepest thoughts, are like
the bird on the bough. He sings, but as soon as he sees an eye watching
him, he flies away.

                                   *

I can now accurately tell the season of the year and, often, the hour
of the day by the way in which the first sunbeams fall into my room and
on my workbench in the morning. My chisel hangs before me on the wall,
and is my index.

                                   *

The drizzling, spring showers now fall on the trees--and thus it is
with me. It seems as if there were a new delight in store for me. What
can it be? I shall patiently wait!

                                   *

A strange feeling comes over me, as if I were lifted up from the chair
on which I am sitting, and were flying, I know not whither!

What is it? I feel as if dwelling in eternity.

Everything seems flying toward me; the sunlight and the sunshine, the
rustling of the forests and the forest breezes, beings of all ages and
of all kinds--all seem beautiful and rendered transparent by the sun's
glow.

I am!

I am in God!

If I could only die now and be wafted through this joy to dissolution
and redemption!

But I will live on until my hour comes.

Come, thou dark hour, whenever thou wilt! To me, thou art light!

I feel that there is light within me. O Eternal Spirit of the universe,
I am one with thee!

I was dead, and I live--I shall die and yet live.

Everything has been forgiven and blotted out.--There was dust on my
wings.--I soar aloft into the sun and into infinite space. I shall die
singing from the fullness of my soul. Shall I sing!

Enough.

                                   *

I know that I shall again be gloomy and depressed and drag along a
weary existence, but I have once soared into infinity and have felt a
ray of eternity within me. That I shall never lose again. I should like
to go to a convent, to some quiet, cloistered cell, where I might know
nothing of the world, and could live on within myself until death shall
call me. But it is not to be. I am destined to live on in freedom and
to labor; to live with my fellow-beings and to work for them.

The results of my handiwork and of my powers of imagination, belong to
you; but what I am within myself, is mine alone.

                                   *

I have taken leave of everything here; of my quiet room, of my summer
bench; for I know not whether I shall ever return. And if I do, who
knows but what everything may have become strange to me?

                                   *

(Last page written in pencil.)--It is my wish that when I am dead, I
may be wrapped in a simple, linen cloth, placed in a rough, unplaned
coffin, and buried under the apple-tree, on the road that leads to my
paternal mansion. I desire that my brother and other relatives may be
apprised of my death at once, and that they shall not disturb my grave
by the wayside.

No stone, no name, is to mark my grave.



                              BOOK VIII.



                              CHAPTER I.


Gunther received his dismissal. Sated with his experience of the world,
he withdrew from its distracting and bustling turmoil. Old and
endearing associations made it no easy matter for his family to
transfer their affections to a new home--and yet the change was brought
about without impairing their unity of feeling and affection. Those two
pure gods, love and science, followed Gunther beyond the mountains, and
his heart was free from rancor.

Their home circle now was once more perfect. As if returning from
a journey around the world, Gunther again found himself at the
starting-point--for he knew that he and his would find a free and
self-dependent life the source of the most ennobling and beautiful
influences.

Naturally enough, they missed the presence of a cultured circle, its
refining influences and the opportunity it affords for an interchange
of ideas. But he felt that they would stand the test, and would prove
that they could give up all this without greatly missing it.
Immediately after his dismissal, he received a most flattering offer of
a professorship at one of the great universities. He declined the
proffered position. It had been a long cherished idea of his, to
improve his knowledge of certain branches of science and to complete
certain scientific labors, of which he had thus far merely sketched the
outlines. It often grieved him to think that he might quit the world,
incomplete in himself and leaving much unfinished work behind him. Life
at court, with its constant changes and interruptions, renders
connected thought impossible. To mount guard every morning, in full
armor; to be ready, at a moment's call, to discuss even the most
important subject, in a light conversational manner:--such a life, if
persisted in for a number of years, will, in spite of every effort to
the contrary, tend to injure one's inner nature.

Fortunately for Gunther, scientific studies and home influences always
lent him new vigor. But he was often alarmed lest he should fritter
away his life and gradually lose his individuality. To a certain
extent, he was perfectly willing to be uniformed; he even admitted that
it was both necessary and pleasing, since it represented a remnant of
that mental and political discipline which combines and utilizes
individuals who were otherwise incongruous and scattered. But, at the
same time, Gunther endeavored to prevent any change in himself. He
would often, and with special stress, remark that he who suffers any of
his essential traits to be thus changed has been subdued and killed by
the world, and has ceased to exist as himself.

When, with each succeeding day, he presented himself at court, he came,
as it were, from a strange and distant sphere. And it was this which
accounted for the severe and almost unbending manner, so often observed
in him. He was, nevertheless, forbearing toward the superficiality and
the mere desire to please, which he encountered at court, for he well
knew that where strength of character or depth of culture do not feed
the spring of life, there must needs be some provision for every
passing hour, and also an inevitable tendency to make all life center
about the daily affairs of a small and exclusive circle.

Gunther's so-called inflexibility also lay in the fact that he never
misplaced the center of gravity, and thus, when the prop seemed
withdrawn, he could yet stand his ground firmly and had no need to seek
for strength from without. And now, when the sudden, but by no means
unexpected, rupture took place, it was easy enough to lay aside the
privy councilor and remain the doctor. He had soon mastered every trace
of ill-feeling produced by his great and sudden fall. He regretted to
leave his many friends at the capital and the queen especially. He knew
that he could still have been of great benefit to her; "but then," said
he to himself, "it will be far better for her to seek and gain strength
from herself, and without the aid of others."

Thus Gunther left the capital, and, in doing so, realized a life-long
wish to return to his native town.

He had almost attained his seventieth year, and looked upon the remnant
of life yet accorded him as a peaceful evening of rest--the reward of a
well-spent manhood. He desired, as far as possible, to close his
accounts with knowledge, in order that night should not overtake him,
while so much was as yet incomplete.

Some years ago, Gunther had built a modest house in his native town,
and had intended it as a summer retreat for his family, while his
children were still young. And now this house was to serve as a
resting-place for the remainder of his life. Madame Gunther and the
children had cheerfully taken leave of their old associations. They
bade farewell to friends who were near and dear to them. But their life
lay in their home, and this home, with all its visible and invisible
treasures, accompanied them to their new abode.

Gunther's sister was the only relative he possessed in the little
Highland town. She was an active, bustling hostess. The father, who had
been a country physician, died while Gunther was studying at the
university. Wilhelm had ever been the idol of the family, and the
sister--as well as the mother, up to the time of her death--had always
regarded him as a sort of daring and successful navigator. With the
assistance of her grown-up sons and daughters, the sister had put their
new dwelling to rights. Gunther's charming home soon became the center
of attraction in the little town, and was, in its way, almost as
important as the royal palace at the capital.

Esteem and gratitude were the invisible sentries who guarded the house.
The respectful manner in which visitors entered it proved that naught
but good-breeding dare cross that threshold.

Gunther's sister, the hostess of the Rose, reaped new honors, and when,
within a short time of each other, her two sons and one daughter became
betrothed, it was deemed an inestimable piece of good fortune to become
connected with the family of the privy councilor. Every stranger who
visited the town was speedily informed of this eminent citizen and of
his charming household.

A peaceful atmosphere reigned in Gunther's house. It seemed a very
temple of science and beauty. It was difficult to decide whether it was
more delightful in summer or in winter. In summer there was, of course,
less chance to know how familiar its inmates were with all that tends
to adorn home life. If the gardens in the neighborhood were less neatly
arranged, their seats less comfortable and cozy, the points from which
views could be obtained less artistically chosen--their hedges and
trees were of just as bright a green and the prospect just as fine. But
in winter, when man adorns his home, and when he has naught about him
but the little world which he has himself shaped and arranged, then and
then only, can we see what a lovely home may be created by those whose
light and warmth are derived from themselves.

If a half-frozen traveler, descending from the snowy mountains, had
been at once conducted to Gunther's home, he would have imagined that
he had landed upon an oasis of civilization.

_Salve_! was the inscription over the doorway. Architecturally, the
building was an improvement on the usual country-house. The roof
projected considerably, for it was necessary to prevent the snow from
piling itself before the windows; but this projecting roof was
decorated with tasteful carvings. The steps were covered with winter
plants, the walls were decorated with plaster copies from the
Parthenon, the rooms were neatly arranged, and every piece of furniture
properly placed. There were also finely engraved copies of the choicest
paintings, and, alternating with them, statuettes of the great men of
all ages. On every hand, there were marble, plaster, or bronze works of
art which had been sent to the celebrated physician by his admirers,
and principally by those of the fair sex. Two stuffed bears, which had
been sent to him by a Russian princess and served as foot-stools, had
been quite the talk of the town.

The rooms were never excessively warm. The temperature was a
comfortable one, in which men and plants could thrive. Large
leaf-plants were placed at the windows and in the corners of the room.
There was also a marble bust of Gunther, made by Irma's teacher, years
ago. It was standing on a console and was surrounded by flowers.

Gunther was famous as a ladies' doctor, and was thus in correspondence
with many ladies of the higher classes. During the summer, some of
these would occasionally visit the little town, for the sake of
consulting him, and would sometimes prolong their stay beyond the time
intended. The hostess of the Rose had fitted up two houses adjoining
her own, and had put them in charge of two of her children, subject, of
course, to her own careful supervision. And here the invalid visitors
dwelt, while under treatment. Gunther gave a large share of his
practice to a young physician who had married the second daughter of
his sister, but retained the general superintendence in his own hands.

The little town blessed its distinguished and beneficent citizen. The
best of everything always found its way to Gunther's house. Choice
fish, the best game, early vegetables, and the finest fruit were
brought there, and Madame Gunther was at some trouble to prevent people
from overstocking the house. Even their servants were held in honor.
Since they moved into the town, they had not once changed their
domestics, who were constantly endeavoring to make themselves more
useful and obliging. Even the dog and the mule which Gunther had
procured for his mountain trips, were regarded with pleasure by the
citizens.



                              CHAPTER II.


It was in the early spring. Madame Gunther and her two daughters were
sitting by the window and working. A light-haired little girl, nearly
five years old, was playing on the floor, and the three ladies often
regarded it with affectionate glances. Aunt Paula seemed to be her
favorite, and most of the child's questions were addressed to her.

Change of residence had made no alteration in Madame Gunther. She was
still as dignified and refined as of yore, and, as her friends at the
capital had been wont to say, every dress she wore seemed as if she had
put it on for the first time.

The professor's widow had grown somewhat stouter, and Paula, who had
grown in height, was the youthful image of her mother.

"May I call grandfather now?" asked little Cornelia, who noticed that
the round table in the center of the room had been set for the second
breakfast.

"Not yet, but right soon," replied Paula.

Gunther was still in his working-room. It was furnished simply,
provided with a small but choice library, and embellished with
appropriate bronzes. Gunther's dress, while at his work-table, was as
scrupulously neat as if he expected to be summoned to court at any
moment. He invariably rose at five o'clock, all the year round, and had
done a full day's work when others were just commencing the day. It was
only in unavoidable and exceptional cases that he allowed himself to be
disturbed during the morning.

He wrote a great deal. It was rumored at the capital that he was
engaged in preparing his memoirs, and he might, had he cared to do so,
have had much to tell; for who was so familiar as he with the secret
history of the last and the present government? But he felt it his duty
to write of other matters. He endeavored to construct a science of
life, using the combined results of the study of nature and practical
knowledge of the world, as a basis. A slight glow would mantle his
cheeks, and his eyes would involuntarily gaze into the far distance,
when some difficult problem, which had hitherto eluded his grasp,
became clear to his mental vision. At such moments, he would, as if
impelled by an inner force, rise from his seat, and his chest would
heave with emotion, at the thought that he was laying bare the secret
springs of character and habit, with as much indifference to side
considerations as if he were engaged on a physiological preparation.

The view from Gunther's windows, each of which consisted of a single
plate of glass, extended to the distant mountains. Far up the heights,
there was a small clearing, scarcely visible to the naked eye. Naught
was noticeable but a small break in the woods, and, although it was
known that the freehold lay there, its broad acres were out of sight.
Irma had been sitting up there, working and brooding over her troubles,
for nearly four years, while Gunther, in the mean while, had been
sitting at his oaken table, writing his "Contributions to the Science
of Life." His glance often rested on the distant heights, but he little
dreamt that, while he was calmly gathering the fruits of his
experience, another soul up there was spending its strength in the vain
endeavor to solve the enigma of life.

When he dwelt on the difficulty of assigning to nature and education
their relative share in determining conduct and character, hundreds of
varied pictures would present themselves to his imagination. In all
these investigations, the dead and living were as one. The only
question he asked himself was: To what extent do they exemplify the
eternal idea? Eberhard's form would often appear to him; sometimes, in
all the dewy freshness of youth; at others, in its last, sad aspect.
Irma was also summoned by the spirit of knowledge and, although never
mentioned by name, was made to illustrate the present disturbed state
of the public mind.

That day, many of Gunther's thoughts had been of Irma.

There was a gentle knock at the door. His grandchild entered, and
Gunther's countenance brightened at the sight of her. For hours, his
thoughts had been of grand abstractions, of past memories, and of
general laws, and now, blithe and cheerful childhood saluted him. He
went into the sitting-room with his granddaughter.

The family seated themselves at the table. Letters and newspapers were
left untouched until after the meal was finished.

"Did Adolph set out punctually?" enquired Gunther.

He received a full and explicit answer. Gunther's son, who owned the
chemical works at the capital, had been visiting his parents for
several days. He had left that morning, but Gunther had said "good-by"
the evening before. It was a peculiar, but well-weighed custom of his,
to avoid the excitement of the hour of parting. They had many visitors,
for their house was, in the best sense of the word, a hospitable one;
but Gunther would suffer nothing to disturb him during the morning
hour.

It was a merry breakfast party. Paula remarked that spring had surely
come, for the wood-carver who lived in the neighborhood had thrown his
old felt shoes out of the window, and that this was even a surer token
than the coming of the swallows.

After breakfast, Gunther took up his letters, carefully examining the
address and postmark of each, and arranging them in the order in which
they were to be read.

The first one he opened bore the seal of the state department. It was
from Bronnen, who, since his elevation to the highest office under the
government, had kept up a regular correspondence with his old friend
Gunther, and had, indeed, twice visited him in his new home.

Gunther's face brightened while he read the letter. After he had
finished it, he quietly laid it aside and said:

"Friend Bronnen intends to pay us a visit shortly."

Paula turned away quickly, and bent down to kiss her little niece.
Although Gunther was still reading, her movement did not escape his
notice. After he had looked through the rest of his letters, he took up
the newspapers. He was in a thoughtful mood, and would now and then ask
Paula to read certain passages aloud to him.

"One often wishes," said he, "--that is, I have often heard others
express the desire--to be able, after death, to look down upon the
world again. It is a mere phrase, however, which seems deep only to
those who have not weighed it properly. All that we possess, see, or
understand, lies in the world in which we live and move."

The remark seemed a singular one, and Paula was about to follow it up
with a question, when a sign from her mother hinted that she had better
not. The idea had evidently separated itself from a chain of reasoning
which had engaged the mind of the solitary philosopher.

"You will have to answer several letters for me," said Gunther to
Paula, who acted as his secretary. "Come along!"

He was about to leave the room, when a special messenger arrived with a
letter for him. It was written in blue ink and was from the queen.
Gunther opened it and read as follows:


                                               "... _April 5th_.

"Your letter seems laden with fresh mountain breezes. If I were not
afraid lest you might deem it inconsistent with the dignity of the
subject, I should request you to give me the summary of your philosophy
of life, in an epistolary form. What cannot be given in that way, has
not yet acquired communicable shape. In a letter we have the effect of
the personal presence of the writer. And believe me, for I know of what
I speak, you cannot imagine how much your ideas lose in impressiveness,
when you thus, as it were, put them away from yourself and cause It to
seem that another might have said the self-same thing. A letter has a
voice of its own, and, while I write, I am reminded that your friend
Horace wrote letters in verse and that the apostles also availed
themselves of the epistolary form.

"Your remark that the myriad forms of life which you have from time to
time beheld, now throng about your bark as if it were Charon's, has
made me quite uncomfortable. I cannot imagine that you are only leading
us into the realms of darkness. The problem before you is the knowledge
of life. I must have misunderstood your meaning. I suppose that you are
treating each group or epoch as if it were an individual, and that,
with delicate touch, you note its every pulsation.

"It is quite charming to think that you can even find place for my
modest doings in the grand march of human development. I am well aware
that my interest in beneficent institutions is episodical and
incomplete; and yet my whole heart is enlisted in their behalf. And
this I owe to you. We know how small and imperfect our life is, but we
must aim at greatness and perfection, and can best contribute to it by
faithfully discharging the small duties that lay near at hand. Working
for others rescues one from introspection, and thus expands the mind.
When busied with self-contemplation, we are apt to put either too
flattering, or too disparaging an estimate upon ourselves. It is only
by what we are able to accomplish that we can really measure our value.
I often ask myself whether I should ever have realized all this, if I
had remained possessed of perfect happiness. My bent lay in another
direction. I had a taste, and perhaps some talent, for the cultivation
of the beautiful, and aimed to adorn life with festivals. Fate has
decreed otherwise, and it is well. There should be no feasting, while
there is so much suffering to alleviate. I felt so happy while wearing
the one crown--and now I must bear the other willingly.

"I was, at first, pleased with your remark that the lists of the
members of beneficent institutions are the only true church record of
modern times; but, on second thought, I could not help finding that you
free-thinkers are terrorists as well. The church has rights, too, as
long as she is willing modestly to place herself side by side with
other educational and charitable institutions, and accord them equal
rights with herself.

"As patron of various charitable institutions, I have been brought into
personal contact with ladies of the middle class, and find many of them
exceptionally cultured and well-bred. As you can readily imagine, it
cost quite an effort to get some burgher names to be used for more than
mere show. Minister Bronnen has been of great assistance to me. My
committee for the blind asylum includes a charming Jewess, Madame ----,
who is just as modest as she is firm and decided in character. I think
you once mentioned her to me.

"At the last examination of the blind, I was quite indignant at the
clergyman, who referred to their fate as a wise dispensation of
Providence. The only way in which I could show my displeasure at this
piece of unctuous barbarism, was to ignore his presence.

"I read much religious history, and when I review past ages, I feel as
if sitting by the waterfall which we have so often looked at together.
The stream flows unceasingly and, though the water is ever changing,
its source and its channel are ever the same. Its waves and its eddies
remain in the same place; the rocky masses, where they were on the day
of their creation. In time, the rocks become covered with mosses and
flowers, and in the course of many thousand years, new channels become
hollowed out by the gradual action of the waters or by some sudden
convulsion of nature. Such is the course of history. We are mere drops
flowing down the foaming, bubbling stream.

"I observe that I have left several of your inquiries unanswered. You
express a wish to learn my views of the various charitable
institutions. But here I experience both the advantages and the
disadvantages of my position. I am never quite sure whether my visit
has not been announced in advance and prepared for. The advantage of my
position, however, is, that the poor and unfortunate are rendered happy
by my very presence, or by a few words from me. Yes, the first duty of
those who are so highly favored, is to be kind to the unfortunate. But
there is one thought that ever disturbs me. It is both right and
necessary, and perhaps expedient, that these children should be
educated and cared for in common--but this method unfortunately
deprives them of that which most strengthens the young soul:--solitude.

"You find that I have become cheerful, and you hope that it may be
something more than a passing mood. I myself believe that the key-note
of my inner life has changed from a minor to a major mood, but the
great dissonance still remains. Do not, I beg of you, imagine that I
encourage this feeling. I have a right to claim that the great precept:
'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,' expresses my inner nature. I
understand it thus:--if there be aught in your desires and efforts
which might harm yourself or the world, be unmerciful toward yourself,
and, instead of regarding it as an essential element of your being,
pluck it out.

"But, my friend, I cannot find the offense. I must bear the one great
sorrow of my life. How often I long for deliverance! He, too, suffers,
and doubly, because of his guilt. The thought often overwhelms me, and,
even now, while I write these lines, I shudder--for the shadow of death
stands between us. How can it be exorcised?"


                                                      "_April 6th_.

"I have not yet thanked you for that which is best in your letter. That
you, too, are delighted with the free and consistent changes in the
government, affords me great comfort. I read much that is good about
the new rule, but I read and heard just as much in praise of the old,
and there are many who maintain that there has been no break, and that,
although the key is changed, the tune is still the same.

"What makes human beings take such a pride in never changing?

"But, never mind; as long as the good and the right are brought about,
it matters not.

"Those who form our immediate circle look upon the disbanding of the
guard as an actual revolution. I have just begun to realize that it
formed a privileged caste, which, although we scarcely knew of its
existence, had come to be looked upon as a matter of course.

"Do you remember my once asking you whether there are any really happy
beings on earth? Your life is the answer to my question, and your
greatest happiness lies in the fact that you have no false part to
perform, nothing which is opposed to your judgment and convictions.

"I now see my error in regarding your mode of thought as the philosophy
of solitude. You hold fast to the harmony of life. But I have not yet
rid myself of a fear lest that which is real should, as it were, become
volatilized, causing the living forms of the vast human multitude to
disappear. In that case, the spirit alone would remain, or, if I
understand aright, would lose itself in matter, when all individuality
and all participation in actual life would cease.

"I cannot help interesting myself in individual inmates of these
institutions. I can help the cause as a whole, but I can only love
individuals.

"I am greatly comforted by one piece of information you give me:--that,
in all history, there is no age that was satisfied with itself. We
fondly dream of a golden age, but the golden age is to-day or never.

"But now as to matters that concern us more nearly. You ask me to tell
you of my little Woldemar. I do so with pleasure, but must be careful
not to weary you with a thousand and one of his little sayings and
traits. I follow your advice and endeavor to interest myself in his
questions, instead of teaching him that which he does not care to know.
He is quite decided, both in his likes and dislikes. I think that this
is well, and let him have his own way. His disposition, is, to a marked
degree, that of the king; he is quite fond of music. I think it good
for him that he was, literally speaking, sung to while in his cradle,
although the songs were from the lips of such hypocritical specimens of
culture and simplicity. Ah, my dear friend, that one sad memory still
casts its dark shadow over all my thoughts and all that I behold."

                                                      "_April 7th_.

"And now this tiresome letter is nearly at an end. We are coming to
you, my dear friend. Woldemar and I, I and Woldemar.

"I told Woldemar, and he at once added in a decided tone:

"'But Schnipp and Schnapp' (his two ponies) 'must go, too.'

"To be brief--the king has granted my request. For the benefit of my
health, I may pay you a visit of four weeks during midsummer and take
Woldemar with me. Orders have already been given, and Minister von
Bronnen has, I understand, made all the necessary arrangements to have
the dairy-farm in your neighborhood prepared for a small suite.

"This year, we shall walk together, on Goethe's birthday.

"But my letter is long enough already, and I shall not begin another
sheet. If, as I am willing to admit, you really possess a power over
your native mountains, let them be bright and cloudless, while
welcoming to you and yours, your friend,

                                        "MATHILDE.

"Postscript.--Bronnen has visited you. He had much to tell me, and when
I inquired about your youngest daughter, his features seemed to betray
his emotion. Was I mistaken? Remember me to your wife and children. I
trust that the queen's presence will not embarrass them."



                              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_.

                              JOSEPH VANCE

By William De Morgan. 4th Printing. $1.75.

A notable novel of life near London in the fifties.

From Mr. Melville's article in the _Times Review_: "It is epic in its
conception, magnificent in its presentment.... 'Joseph Vance' is a book
for laughter and for tears, and for smiles mingled with an occasional
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                           *   *   *   *   *

                            ALICE-FOR-SHORT

By William De Morgan. 4th Printing. $1.75.

The experiences, some of them decidedly dramatic, of a London waif, the
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_Dial_: "'Joseph Vance' was far and away the best novel of the year,
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                           *   *   *   *   *

                H e n r y  H o l t  a n d  C o m p a n y

Publishers                     (vi, '07)                    New York



                            By MAY SINCLAIR

                           *   *   *   *   *

                              THE HELPMATE

                              12mo. $1.50

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As the plot develops the canvas is filled in with other characters as
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                            THE DIVINE FIRE

The story of the regeneration of a London poet and the degeneration of
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Mary Moss in the _Atlantic Monthly_: "Certain it is that in all our new
fiction I have found nothing worthy to compare with 'The Divine Fire,'
nothing even remotely approaching the same class."


                             AUDREY CRAVEN

The story of a pretty little woman with the soul of a spoiled child,
who had a fatal fascination for most men. 3d printing. $1.50.

_Literary Digest_: "Humor is of the spontaneous sort and rings true,
and the lancet of her wit and epigram, tho keen, is never cruel.... An
author whose novels may be said to make waste paper of most of the
fiction of a season."


                               SUPERSEDED

The story of two highly contrasted teachers in a girls' school. 2d
printing. $1.25.

_New York Sun_: "It makes one wonder if in future years the quiet
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                               THE TYSONS

                   (Mr. and Mrs. Nevill Tyson)

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                           *   *   *   *   *

                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

Publishers                                                  New York



                      HALE'S DRAMATISTS OF TO-DAY

                                Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann,
                                Pinero, Shaw, Phillips, Maeterlinck

By Prof. EDWARD EVERETT HALE. Jr. of Union College. With gilt top.
$1.50 net. (By mail, $1.60.)

An informal discussion of their principal plays and of the performances
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_Magda_, _Ulysses_, _Letty_, _Iris_, and _Pelleas_ and _Melisande_. The
volume opens with a paper "On Standards of Criticism," and concludes
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author, with dates of their first performance or publication.

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things chiefly at their face value, but he describes them so accurately
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_New York Evening Post_: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical
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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
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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."

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The scholarly introduction deserves unqualified praise."

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ever published in our language."

                           *   *   *   *   *

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.)

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                                    378 Wabash Ave., CHICAGO





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