The days were bright and cheerful, the nights were glorious.
The air was pure, the view was clear, and all troubled thoughts seemed
to have lingered below in the crowded dwellings of men.
"I think you could now sing again," said the little pitchman to Irma;
"your voice isn't so hoarse as it was. But you need more sleep. When
one is old, sleep runs away of itself. Don't drive it away, as long as
it wants to stay with you."
The little pitchman now seemed doubly careful of her, and Irma
perceived that her voice was hoarse. She would sit down and rest
oftener than she had previously done. She would still roam through the
woods and valleys, wherever huntsmen or woodcutter dared venture, but
she would so often stop to rest herself that her wanderings resembled
the flight of some young bird which, at every short distance, is
obliged to stop. She now remembered that this weariness had been upon
her ever since her return from the capital. During the winter she had
paid no attention to it; but now she thought she could understand
Walpurga's motive in urging her to go up to the shepherd's hut. It was
because she was ill, and in the hope that she might become well again.
And yet she felt no pain. One day, while in the heart of the forest,
she tried to sing a scale, but found that she could not. Her head sank
upon her breast; and thus, after all--
On Sunday morning Franz came, bringing joy with him.
"Oh, how nice it is," said Gundel, as soon as she found herself alone
with Franz. Irma was quite near, however, and heard every word of what
she said. "Oh, how nice it is! I used to think my arms were only for
work, but now I can do something else with them; I can throw them
around somebody's neck and hug and kiss him!"
Gundel, who was usually dull and sullen, had become active and
sprightly. She was bustling about all day, scrubbing, washing, milking
the cows, making butter and cheese, and was always singing or humming a
tune to herself. With her, singing filled the place of thinking. She
was just like a bird that flutters about, singing all day long. Love
had awakened her soul, and the self-dependent position in which she now
found herself afforded a vent to her native cheerfulness of
temperament.
Irma regarded all that environed her as if she were a mere looker-on,
taking no part in the life about her.
Tradition tells us of good genii who descend to the earth, remain there
long enough to look about them and put things to rights, and then
return to heaven. They have no share in the world's cares and troubles.
And thus it often seemed to Irma as if she were withdrawing herself
from human sight, conversation and sympathy, into the one great idea in
which she was wholly absorbed.
She went into the hut, and with her pencil wrote these few words in her
journal:
"I desire my brother to give a marriage portion to Gundel and Franz,
after my death, so that they may establish a household of their own."
Thereupon she wrapped the journal in the bandage which she had worn on
her brow, and, placing her hand on it, vowed that she would not write
another word in it. She had recorded enough of her self-questionings
and of what her eyes had beheld, to reconcile her with the friend whom
she had so deeply injured, as well as with herself. The days that still
remained to her, she desired to spend completely, and with herself.
Franz had brought word that Walpurga would not come that day, as her
boy was unwell, but that she hoped to come without fail on the
following Sunday. Irma was almost pleased at the opportunity thus
afforded her to become accustomed to her present life, before being
obliged to converse with any one who knew her. She was now surrounded
by people to whom her past was unknown. They indulged her wish to be
alone, and only addressed her when she asked them a question.
The second and third Sundays passed by, but Walpurga did not come,
although she sent up some bread and salt. Irma scarcely cared to
conjecture the cause of her absence.
How scornfully Irma had once repelled the thought of "a life in which
nothing happens"; but now she realized it in herself, without the
slightest feeling, on her part, that it might have been otherwise. She
worked but little, and would lie for hours on her favorite spot on the
hillside.
Nature shed its kindly influence upon her. She greeted the dews of
early morn, and the dews of evening moistened her locks. Like
surrounding nature, she was calm and happy and without a wish. But in
the night, when she looked up at the starry skies which, from the
mountain height, were clearer and brighter, her soul soared into the
infinite. She gazed on the mountains, unchanged since the day of their
creation, peaks which no human foot had ever trod, which only the
clouds could touch and on which the eagle's eye had rested. Familiar as
she was with the life of plants and birds, she now scarcely regarded
them. They seemed part of herself, just as her limbs were part of her
body. Nature was no longer strange to her. She felt herself a part of
it. She had reached that state of calm content in which life seems a
pure chain of natural consequences, in which daily doubts and
questionings have ceased. The sun rises and sets, the grass grows, the
cows graze, and the law of life bids man work and reflect. The world
around thee is subject to law and so is thine own life. To man alone is
vouchsafed the knowledge of his duty, so that he may learn freely to
obey the dictates of his own nature.
This thought illumined her soul with a light as clear as the blue sky
above her. It caused her to forget that she had ever lived another
life, or had ever erred.
On the fourth Sunday, Irma started out at an early hour and walked as
far as the boundary-stone, where she waited for Walpurga and Hansei.
Now that they had sent word that they would surely come, Irma longed to
see Walpurga, the only being who knew her past and could confirm to her
who she was.
She was sitting on the boundary-stone. She had taken off her hat and
her brow was bare. She sat there with her head resting on her hand, and
wondering why, deep within the soul, there dwells a feeling that
resents the surrender of our personality and the desire to know who and
whence we are. To others, the galley-slave is only known by the number
he bears, but, as to himself, he knows who he is and can never forget
it. Why can we not freely lose ourselves in nature?
Her head drooped still lower. Presently, she heard voices and hurriedly
arose.
"Isn't that our Irmgard?" asked Hansei.
"Yes, it is!"
Walpurga hurried up to her and held out her hand; but Hansei stood as
if petrified. He had never before seen such a being. It always seemed
to him as if there were something superhuman about her. Her whole face
was radiant, her eyes larger, and the pure, noble forehead was as white
and smooth as marble. Walpurga, who had known Irma when at the height
of her beauty, now looked at her with a different feeling, for she was
suffering for her sake, in a way that Irma could little dream of.
Involuntarily, she pressed her hand against her trembling heart.
"Why don't you shake hands with me, Hansei?" asked Irma.
"I--I--I never saw you look this way before."
A slight blush overspread her forehead. She passed her hand over it.
Then she offered her hand to Hansei, who, in his excitement, pressed it
so violently that he hurt her.
They walked on together toward the hut, and had gone but a few steps
before they were joined by the little pitchman. He had, as was his
wont, stealthily followed Irma. He was concerned for her sake, for he
saw that something was the matter with her, and was, therefore, loth to
leave her alone.
"She looks splendid, don't she?" said he to Hansei, who had remained
with him while Irma and Walpurga walked on in front. "But she lives on
nothing but milk, just like a little child; and you can't make her
remember that, up here, the nights get cold all of a sudden. She always
wants to sit out of doors in the damp, night air. I often think she
must be an angel and that, all of a sudden, she'll spread her wings and
fly away--yes, you may laugh at it, but it ain't far from here up to
heaven. 'We're the Lord's nearest neighbors, up here,' as my sister
used to say."
Hansei and the uncle went off to look after the cattle. Besides the
calf born on the first day, two others had come and all were doing
well. It was a full hour before Hansei came to the hut, and his whole
bearing expressed his satisfaction with all that had seen.
Meanwhile, Walpurga had examined everything in the hut, and she, too,
had found cleanliness and order everywhere.
In the afternoon, their next neighbor, who lived at a mountain meadow
about an hour's distance from Hansei's, paid them a visit and brought
her zither with her.
It was no small condescension, on the part of the freeholder's wife, to
sing with Gundel and the neighbor. Franz joined in, and the little
pitchman was also able to take part. Hansei, however, could not sing a
note; but his want of ability added to his dignity--a wealthy farmer is
supposed to have given up singing.
"This is the only place where you can sing, up here. You can't do it
over there, where the road leads into the village," cried Gundel, after
the first song. "If you sing, or speak a loud word there, the echo
drowns it all."
She ran to the spot and sang a few notes, which were echoed again and
again from every mountain and ravine.
"You ought to sing, too," said Walpurga to Irma; "you've no idea how
well she can sing."
"I cannot sing," replied Irma; "my voice is gone."
"Then play something for us; you can play the zither beautifully," said
Walpurga.
All joined in the request, and Irma was at last obliged to play. The
little pitchman held his breath. He had never heard such beautiful
playing before, and not one, thought he, knew what Irma could do. She
soon modulated into the familiar melody, and the little pitchman was
the first to start the song:
Oh, blissful is the tender tie.
It was a happy, cheerful hour.
Hansei now conducted his wife, Irma, and the little pitchman to the
spot from which they could catch a glimpse of the lake near their old
home. It sparkled brightly in the sun, and Hansei remarked that it
seemed like the look of a human being who had known him from youth up.
Walpurga was afraid lest the scene might awaken sad thoughts in Irma,
and turned toward her; but she only said: "It pleases me, too."
Hansei now described the whole neighborhood to Irma, told her where
this and that place lay, and showed her the mountain where he had
planted so many trees. The forest itself could not be seen, but the
rocky peak which rose from it was visible.
Walpurga, meanwhile, drew her uncle aside, and said:
"Uncle, my mother's dead--"
"Yes, I know it, and you can't think more of her than I do. Just ask
Irmgard how often we talk of her. It always seems to me as if she must
be in the next room. It isn't far to heaven from where we now are. She
can hear every word we say."
"Yes, uncle; but let me finish what I was going to say. I've got
something to tell you."
It went hard with the uncle to listen quietly, for he always had so
much to say himself. Without noticing his repeated interruptions,
Walpurga continued:
"Uncle, you're a sensible man--"
"May be, but it hasn't done me much good in life."
"Now I want to tell you something--"
"Very well; out with it."
"I'm in trouble about Irmgard--"
"You needn't worry about her. I watch her as if she was the apple of my
eye. Make yourself quite easy on that score."
"Yes, uncle, I know all about that; but there are some awful
wicked people in the world, and they'll follow you up to the very
mountain-tops--"
"Yes, I know; the gend'arme often--"
"Uncle, do listen to me patiently!"
"Yes, yes; I'm not saying a word."
"Well, uncle, mother knew who Irmgard is."
"And so do I. You needn't tell me anything about that. I know her, out
and out. I'm not so stupid, depend on that."
"Yes, uncle, that's all right. I wanted to confide something to you--"
"You can trust me with anything. As to that matter, I can call your
mother in heaven to bear me witness--"
"There's no need of that. Well, as I was going to say, Irmgard has had
a sad life--"
"I know all about it. When I was in the city with her, I made up my
mind that there must be something or other of that kind. It may be that
they wanted her to marry somebody that she didn't like. May be she's a
left-handed child, or may be she's got a husband and left him. She
looked at the big houses in such a queer way--she always seemed as if
she wanted to creep out of sight."
Walpurga was surprised at her uncle, who would not permit her to say a
word, and suddenly it occurred to her: I was just like him once, and
thought that I must always keep chatting instead of listening to what
others had to tell me. She looked at her uncle for a long while and he,
taking it as a compliment, now told her, for the first time, of what he
had felt on that journey with Irma, and of all that he had seen while
with her--the lions, the serpents, the high priest and the "Magic
Flute" were all mixed together in inextricable confusion.
Walpurga made up her mind that there was no need of divulging her
secret, and contented herself by telling her uncle that he must never
leave Irma alone, and that if any stranger came--no matter who he might
be--he should take her secretly into the woods, so that no one should
see her.
The uncle promised to do as he was bid.
"Yes," he added, "what a strange world it is. Just think of it! The
herbs I take to the apothecary in the next village are for the baths of
young Countess Wildenort, the daughter-in-law to the one I used to
know. While I was standing in front of the apothecary's the other day,
a man came riding by, on a beautiful, glossy black horse. Its legs
looked as if they'd been turned in a lathe. The man had a child sitting
in front of him on the horse, a boy about the size of our Peter, with a
blue frock, and wearing a feather in his hat, and the boy was so like
Irmgard it might have been her own child. And the apothecary said to me
that it was Count Wildenort, the son of the one I used to know. And so,
when he rode past, I said: 'Good-morning, Count?' He pulled up and
asked: 'How do you know me?'
"And I said: 'I knew your father, and he was a good man--' And what do
you think he said? Not a word. He rode off without so much as thanking
me. They tell me he's not so good a man as his father was, and they say
his mother-in-law has him under her thumb, so that he daren't move. But
the child is beautiful and the very picture of our Irma. It's
wonderful, what strange things happen in the world."
Walpurga trembled, and made her uncle promise that he would never
mention Irma to a soul in the village.
The uncle also promised that he would not let Irmgard know anything of
the matter.
Toward evening, Walpurga and Hansei went home again and, when night
came, Franz returned also. The inmates of the shepherd's hut were once
more alone. Not a word was spoken among them, for they had talked and
heard enough during the day. All was silent. Not a sound was heard but
the tinkling cow-bells in the woods and on the green hillside, and the
stars shone overhead. Irma was seated on the spot from which the
distant lake was visible, and it was long before she retired to rest.