CHAPTER I.

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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 Irma, 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 Sixtus.

"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 he 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 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 I 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 if 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 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!

"All 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 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 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 Ribera.

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 inferiors, 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 was 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 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