It was in the early spring. Madame Gunther and her two daughters were
sitting by the window and working. A light-haired little girl, nearly
five years old, was playing on the floor, and the three ladies often
regarded it with affectionate glances. Aunt Paula seemed to be her
favorite, and most of the child's questions were addressed to her.
Change of residence had made no alteration in Madame Gunther. She was
still as dignified and refined as of yore, and, as her friends at the
capital had been wont to say, every dress she wore seemed as if she had
put it on for the first time.
The professor's widow had grown somewhat stouter, and Paula, who had
grown in height, was the youthful image of her mother.
"May I call grandfather now?" asked little Cornelia, who noticed that
the round table in the center of the room had been set for the second
breakfast.
"Not yet, but right soon," replied Paula.
Gunther was still in his working-room. It was furnished simply,
provided with a small but choice library, and embellished with
appropriate bronzes. Gunther's dress, while at his work-table, was as
scrupulously neat as if he expected to be summoned to court at any
moment. He invariably rose at five o'clock, all the year round, and had
done a full day's work when others were just commencing the day. It was
only in unavoidable and exceptional cases that he allowed himself to be
disturbed during the morning.
He wrote a great deal. It was rumored at the capital that he was
engaged in preparing his memoirs, and he might, had he cared to do so,
have had much to tell; for who was so familiar as he with the secret
history of the last and the present government? But he felt it his duty
to write of other matters. He endeavored to construct a science of
life, using the combined results of the study of nature and practical
knowledge of the world, as a basis. A slight glow would mantle his
cheeks, and his eyes would involuntarily gaze into the far distance,
when some difficult problem, which had hitherto eluded his grasp,
became clear to his mental vision. At such moments, he would, as if
impelled by an inner force, rise from his seat, and his chest would
heave with emotion, at the thought that he was laying bare the secret
springs of character and habit, with as much indifference to side
considerations as if he were engaged on a physiological preparation.
The view from Gunther's windows, each of which consisted of a single
plate of glass, extended to the distant mountains. Far up the heights,
there was a small clearing, scarcely visible to the naked eye. Naught
was noticeable but a small break in the woods, and, although it was
known that the freehold lay there, its broad acres were out of sight.
Irma had been sitting up there, working and brooding over her troubles,
for nearly four years, while Gunther, in the mean while, had been
sitting at his oaken table, writing his "Contributions to the Science
of Life." His glance often rested on the distant heights, but he little
dreamt that, while he was calmly gathering the fruits of his
experience, another soul up there was spending its strength in the vain
endeavor to solve the enigma of life.
When he dwelt on the difficulty of assigning to nature and education
their relative share in determining conduct and character, hundreds of
varied pictures would present themselves to his imagination. In all
these investigations, the dead and living were as one. The only
question he asked himself was: To what extent do they exemplify the
eternal idea? Eberhard's form would often appear to him; sometimes, in
all the dewy freshness of youth; at others, in its last, sad aspect.
Irma was also summoned by the spirit of knowledge and, although never
mentioned by name, was made to illustrate the present disturbed state
of the public mind.
That day, many of Gunther's thoughts had been of Irma.
There was a gentle knock at the door. His grandchild entered, and
Gunther's countenance brightened at the sight of her. For hours, his
thoughts had been of grand abstractions, of past memories, and of
general laws, and now, blithe and cheerful childhood saluted him. He
went into the sitting-room with his granddaughter.
The family seated themselves at the table. Letters and newspapers were
left untouched until after the meal was finished.
"Did Adolph set out punctually?" enquired Gunther.
He received a full and explicit answer. Gunther's son, who owned the
chemical works at the capital, had been visiting his parents for
several days. He had left that morning, but Gunther had said "good-by"
the evening before. It was a peculiar, but well-weighed custom of his,
to avoid the excitement of the hour of parting. They had many visitors,
for their house was, in the best sense of the word, a hospitable one;
but Gunther would suffer nothing to disturb him during the morning
hour.
It was a merry breakfast party. Paula remarked that spring had surely
come, for the wood-carver who lived in the neighborhood had thrown his
old felt shoes out of the window, and that this was even a surer token
than the coming of the swallows.
After breakfast, Gunther took up his letters, carefully examining the
address and postmark of each, and arranging them in the order in which
they were to be read.
The first one he opened bore the seal of the state department. It was
from Bronnen, who, since his elevation to the highest office under the
government, had kept up a regular correspondence with his old friend
Gunther, and had, indeed, twice visited him in his new home.
Gunther's face brightened while he read the letter. After he had
finished it, he quietly laid it aside and said:
"Friend Bronnen intends to pay us a visit shortly."
Paula turned away quickly, and bent down to kiss her little niece.
Although Gunther was still reading, her movement did not escape his
notice. After he had looked through the rest of his letters, he took up
the newspapers. He was in a thoughtful mood, and would now and then ask
Paula to read certain passages aloud to him.
"One often wishes," said he, "--that is, I have often heard others
express the desire--to be able, after death, to look down upon the
world again. It is a mere phrase, however, which seems deep only to
those who have not weighed it properly. All that we possess, see, or
understand, lies in the world in which we live and move."
The remark seemed a singular one, and Paula was about to follow it up
with a question, when a sign from her mother hinted that she had better
not. The idea had evidently separated itself from a chain of reasoning
which had engaged the mind of the solitary philosopher.
"You will have to answer several letters for me," said Gunther to
Paula, who acted as his secretary. "Come along!"
He was about to leave the room, when a special messenger arrived with a
letter for him. It was written in blue ink and was from the queen.
Gunther opened it and read as follows:
"... _April 5th_.
"Your letter seems laden with fresh mountain breezes. If I were not
afraid lest you might deem it inconsistent with the dignity of the
subject, I should request you to give me the summary of your philosophy
of life, in an epistolary form. What cannot be given in that way, has
not yet acquired communicable shape. In a letter we have the effect of
the personal presence of the writer. And believe me, for I know of what
I speak, you cannot imagine how much your ideas lose in impressiveness,
when you thus, as it were, put them away from yourself and cause it to
seem that another might have said the self-same thing. A letter has a
voice of its own, and, while I write, I am reminded that your friend
Horace wrote letters in verse and that the apostles also availed
themselves of the epistolary form.
"Your remark that the myriad forms of life which you have from time to
time beheld, now throng about your bark as if it were Charon's, has
made me quite uncomfortable. I cannot imagine that you are only leading
us into the realms of darkness. The problem before you is the knowledge
of life. I must have misunderstood your meaning. I suppose that you are
treating each group or epoch as if it were an individual, and that,
with delicate touch, you note its every pulsation.
"It is quite charming to think that you can even find place for my
modest doings in the grand march of human development. I am well aware
that my interest in beneficent institutions is episodical and
incomplete; and yet my whole heart is enlisted in their behalf. And
this I owe to you. We know how small and imperfect our life is, but we
must aim at greatness and perfection, and can best contribute to it by
faithfully discharging the small duties that lay near at hand. Working
for others rescues one from introspection, and thus expands the mind.
When busied with self-contemplation, we are apt to put either too
flattering, or too disparaging an estimate upon ourselves. It is only
by what we are able to accomplish that we can really measure our value.
I often ask myself whether I should ever have realized all this, if I
had remained possessed of perfect happiness. My bent lay in another
direction. I had a taste, and perhaps some talent, for the cultivation
of the beautiful, and aimed to adorn life with festivals. Fate has
decreed otherwise, and it is well. There should be no feasting, while
there is so much suffering to alleviate. I felt so happy while wearing
the one crown--and now I must bear the other willingly.
"I was, at first, pleased with your remark that the lists of the
members of beneficent institutions are the only true church record of
modern times; but, on second thought, I could not help finding that you
free-thinkers are terrorists as well. The church has rights, too, as
long as she is willing modestly to place herself side by side with
other educational and charitable institutions, and accord them equal
rights with herself.
"As patron of various charitable institutions, I have been brought into
personal contact with ladies of the middle class, and find many of them
exceptionally cultured and well-bred. As you can readily imagine, it
cost quite an effort to get some burgher names to be used for more than
mere show. Minister Bronnen has been of great assistance to me. My
committee for the blind asylum includes a charming Jewess, Madame ----,
who is just as modest as she is firm and decided in character. I think
you once mentioned her to me.
"At the last examination of the blind, I was quite indignant at the
clergyman, who referred to their fate as a wise dispensation of
Providence. The only way in which I could show my displeasure at this
piece of unctuous barbarism, was to ignore his presence.
"I read much religious history, and when I review past ages, I feel as
if sitting by the waterfall which we have so often looked at together.
The stream flows unceasingly and, though the water is ever changing,
its source and its channel are ever the same. Its waves and its eddies
remain in the same place; the rocky masses, where they were on the day
of their creation. In time, the rocks become covered with mosses and
flowers, and in the course of many thousand years, new channels become
hollowed out by the gradual action of the waters or by some sudden
convulsion of nature. Such is the course of history. We are mere drops
flowing down the foaming, bubbling stream.
"I observe that I have left several of your inquiries unanswered. You
express a wish to learn my views of the various charitable
institutions. But here I experience both the advantages and the
disadvantages of my position. I am never quite sure whether my visit
has not been announced in advance and prepared for. The advantage of my
position, however, is, that the poor and unfortunate are rendered happy
by my very presence, or by a few words from me. Yes, the first duty of
those who are so highly favored, is to be kind to the unfortunate. But
there is one thought that ever disturbs me. It is both right and
necessary, and perhaps expedient, that these children should be
educated and cared for in common--but this method unfortunately
deprives them of that which most strengthens the young soul:--solitude.
"You find that I have become cheerful, and you hope that it may be
something more than a passing mood. I myself believe that the key-note
of my inner life has changed from a minor to a major mood, but the
great dissonance still remains. Do not, I beg of you, imagine that I
encourage this feeling. I have a right to claim that the great precept:
'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,' expresses my inner nature. I
understand it thus:--if there be aught in your desires and efforts
which might harm yourself or the world, be unmerciful toward yourself,
and, instead of regarding it as an essential element of your being,
pluck it out.
"But, my friend, I cannot find the offense. I must bear the one great
sorrow of my life. How often I long for deliverance! He, too, suffers,
and doubly, because of his guilt. The thought often overwhelms me, and,
even now, while I write these lines, I shudder--for the shadow of death
stands between us. How can it be exorcised?"
"_April 6th_.
"I have not yet thanked you for that which is best in your letter. That
you, too, are delighted with the free and consistent changes in the
government, affords me great comfort. I read much that is good about
the new rule, but I read and heard just as much in praise of the old,
and there are many who maintain that there has been no break, and that,
although the key is changed, the tune is still the same.
"What makes human beings take such a pride in never changing?
"But, never mind; as long as the good and the right are brought about,
it matters not.
"Those who form our immediate circle look upon the disbanding of the
guard as an actual revolution. I have just begun to realize that it
formed a privileged caste, which, although we scarcely knew of its
existence, had come to be looked upon as a matter of course.
"Do you remember my once asking you whether there are any really happy
beings on earth? Your life is the answer to my question, and your
greatest happiness lies in the fact that you have no false part to
perform, nothing which is opposed to your judgment and convictions.
"I now see my error in regarding your mode of thought as the philosophy
of solitude. You hold fast to the harmony of life. But I have not yet
rid myself of a fear lest that which is real should, as it were, become
volatilized, causing the living forms of the vast human multitude to
disappear. In that case, the spirit alone would remain, or, if I
understand aright, would lose itself in matter, when all individuality
and all participation in actual life would cease.
"I cannot help interesting myself in individual inmates of these
institutions. I can help the cause as a whole, but I can only love
individuals.
"I am greatly comforted by one piece of information you give me:--that,
in all history, there is no age that was satisfied with itself. We
fondly dream of a golden age, but the golden age is to-day or never.
"But now as to matters that concern us more nearly. You ask me to tell
you of my little Woldemar. I do so with pleasure, but must be careful
not to weary you with a thousand and one of his little sayings and
traits. I follow your advice and endeavor to interest myself in his
questions, instead of teaching him that which he does not care to know.
He is quite decided, both in his likes and dislikes. I think that this
is well, and let him have his own way. His disposition, is, to a marked
degree, that of the king; he is quite fond of music. I think it good
for him that he was, literally speaking, sung to while in his cradle,
although the songs were from the lips of such hypocritical specimens of
culture and simplicity. Ah, my dear friend, that one sad memory still
casts its dark shadow over all my thoughts and all that I behold."
"_April 7th_.
"And now this tiresome letter is nearly at an end. We are coming to
you, my dear friend. Woldemar and I, I and Woldemar.
"I told Woldemar, and he at once added in a decided tone:
"'But Schnipp and Schnapp' (his two ponies) 'must go, too.'
"To be brief--the king has granted my request. For the benefit of my
health, I may pay you a visit of four weeks during midsummer and take
Woldemar with me. Orders have already been given, and Minister von
Bronnen has, I understand, made all the necessary arrangements to have
the dairy-farm in your neighborhood prepared for a small suite.
"This year, we shall walk together, on Goethe's birthday.
"But my letter is long enough already, and I shall not begin another
sheet. If, as I am willing to admit, you really possess a power over
your native mountains, let them be bright and cloudless, while
welcoming to you and yours, your friend,
"MATHILDE.
"Postscript.--Bronnen has visited you. He had much to tell me, and when
I inquired about your youngest daughter, his features seemed to betray
his emotion. Was I mistaken? Remember me to your wife and children. I
trust that the queen's presence will not embarrass them."