Berthold Auerbach, a German poet and author of Jewish
descent, was born at Nordstetten, in Würtemberg, on February
28, 1812. On the completion of his studies at the universities
of Tübingen, Munich and Heidelberg he immediately devoted
himself to literature. His first publication dealt with
"Judaism and Recent Literature," and was to be followed by a
series of novels taken from Jewish history. Of this intended
series he actually published, with considerable success,
"Spinoza" and "Poet and Merchant." But real fame and
popularity came to him when he began to occupy himself with
the life of the general people which forms the subject of his
best-known works. In these later books, of which "On the
Height" is perhaps the most characteristic and certainly the
most famous, he revealed an unrivalled insight into the soul
of the Southern German country folk, and especially of the
peasants of the Black Forest and the Bavarian Alps. His
descriptions are remarkable for their fresh realism, graceful
style and humour. In addition to these qualities, his last
books are marked by great subtlety of psychological analysis.
"On the Height" was first published at Stuttgart in 1861, and
has been translated into several languages. Auerbach died at
Cannes on February 8, 1882, when all Germany was preparing to
celebrate his 70th birthday.
_I.--A Peasant Nurse in a Royal Palace_
Walpurga was as in a dream. It had all happened so quickly! Only a
fortnight ago, on the walk home from Sunday Mass at the village church,
her Hanseï had to make a hay bed for her on a stone-heap by the
roadside. She had thought she could not get back to the cottage in time,
but she recovered after a while and bravely walked home. Her mother was
with her in the hour of suffering, as she had been with her through all
the joys and sorrows of her simple life. Then came the supreme joy of
the awakening, with a new life by her side, a baby-girl groping
helplessly for the mother's breast. Then--was it only yesterday?--when
she was waiting for the return of the christening party, a carriage
drove up with the village doctor and an elegant stranger. There was much
beating about the bush, and then it came out like a thunderbolt. The
stranger was a great doctor from the capital, entrusted with the mission
to find in the mountains an honest, comely peasant woman, and married
she must be, to act as wet-nurse for the expected crown prince or
princess.
Then Hanseï came home with the merry party--there was much storming and
angry refusal; but finally the practical sense of the peasant folk
prevailed. It was, after all, only for a year, and it would mean comfort
and wealth, instead of hunger and grinding poverty. And scarcely had
their consent been wrung from them, when shouting and cheering announced
the great event of the crown prince's birth. Then came that strange,
long drive over hill and dale, through the dark night; and now, in the
Royal Palace, she tried to collect herself, to grasp the meaning of all
that splendour, the unintelligible ceremonious talk and bearing of those
about her. She was to be taken at once to see the queen and her precious
charge.
Walpurga was full of happiness when she left the queen's bedroom.
Touched by the comely young peasant-woman's naive and familiar
kindliness, the queen, who seemed to her beautiful as an angel, had
kissed her, and, on noticing a tear, had said: "Don't cry, Walpuga! You
are a mother, too, like myself!" The little prince took to his nurse
without much trouble, and she soon became accustomed to her new life,
although her thoughts often dwelt longingly on her native mountains, her
own child and mother and husband. How they would miss her! She knew her
Hanseï was a good man at heart, but not particularly shrewd, and easily
gulled or led astray.
Meanwhile, her high spirits, her artless bluntness, the quaint
superstitions of the mountain child, gained her the goodwill and
approval of the king and queen, of Dr. Gunther, the court physician, of
the whole royal household, and, above all, of the lady-in-waiting,
Countess Irma Wildenort.
_II.--The Love Affairs of a King_
Countess Irma's letters to Emmy, her only convent friend, contained
little of idle gossip and of things that had happened. They had no
continuity. They were introspective, and took the form of a diary taken
up at odd moments and left again to be continued, sometimes the
following day, sometimes after a week. They revealed intellectual
development far in advance of her years, and clear perception of
character.
"The queen lives in an exclusive world of sentiment and would like to
raise everybody to her exalted mood--liana-like, in the morning-glow and
evening-glow of sentiment, never in white daylight. She is most gracious
towards me, but we feel it instinctively--there is something in her and
in me that does not harmonise....
"Here all of them think me boundlessly naïve, because I have the courage
to think for myself....
"The king loves reserve, but also gay freeness. The queen is too
serious--eternal organ sound; but you cannot dance to an organ, and we
are young and love to dance.
"A peasant woman from the mountains is nurse to the crown prince. I was
with her at the king's request. I stood by the cot when the king
arrived. He said to me gently: 'It is true, an angel stands by the
child's cradle.' He laid his hand upon mine, which rested on the rail of
the cot. The king went. And just imagine what occurred. The nurse, a
fresh, merry person with blue eyes, buxom and massive, a perfect peasant
beauty, to whom I showed friendliness, so as to cheer her up and save
her from feeling homesick, the nurse tells me in bald words: 'You are an
adulteress! You have exchanged loving glances with the king!'
"Emmy! How you were right in telling me that I idealise the people, and
that they are as corrupt as the great world, and, moreover, without the
curb of culture.
"No! she is a good, intelligent woman. She begged my pardon for her
impertinence; I remain friendly towards her. Yes, I will."
Irma's devotion to her king had something of hero-worship. And the king,
who loved his wife sincerely, but was, and wanted to be, of a heroic
nature, and who was averse to all that savoured of self-torment and
sentimentality, was attracted by Countess Irma's intellectual freedom
and _esprit_. He felt in her a kindred spirit. Her company was
stimulating; it could not affect the even tenour of his conjugal love.
But the queen, in her sentimental exultation, sought ever for new
"documents" to demonstrate the depth of her affection. And now she
wanted to give the supreme proof by renouncing her Lutheran faith to
enter into a yet closer union with her Catholic husband. To the king
this sacrifice seemed not only sentimentally weak, but politically
unwise. He received the confidence coldly, and begged her to reconsider
the matter. He sent Dr. Gunther, who, in spite of his democratic
tendencies, was held in high esteem by the king, and had great influence
over the queen, to exercise his persuasive powers--with no result.
Where wisdom and experience had failed, the voice of Nature, speaking
out of Walpurga's childish chatter, succeeded. Walpurga told the queen
of her father--how one day on the lake, on hearing the choral singing of
the peasants, he had said: "Now I know how the Almighty feels up there
in Heaven! All the Churches, ours, and the Lutheran, and the Jewish, and
the Turkish, they are all voices in the song. Each sings as he knows,
and yet it sounds well together up there." The queen was radiant next
day, when she informed her spouse that she had the courage of her own
inconsistency and that she had resolved to do his will. The sacrifice
was received with coolness. Was it that her noble act was construed as
further evidence of weakness?
The king had left town for some distant watering-place, and had
requested Irma to write to him at times. Knowing her love of flowers, he
had given orders for a fresh bouquet to be placed every day in her room,
and, perhaps to conceal the favour, in the rooms of two other ladies of
the court. Irma considered both the thought and the expedient unworthy
of her hero, and resolved not to write to him. She spent much of her
time at the studio of a professor of the academy, who not only modelled
a bust of her for a figure of Victory to be placed on the new arsenal,
but gave her instruction in his art. In spite of this new occupation,
she found herself in a state of feverish excitement, which became almost
unbearable when the queen showed her a passage in a letter just received
from the king. "Please make Countess Irma send me regular reports about
our son. Remember me to the dear fourth leaf of our clover-leaf."
She was indignant at this unworthy attempt at forcing her to write. Was
Walpurga right after all? Were lovers' glances to be exchanged over the
child's cradle? She longed for solitude and peace. On the way to her
room she had to stop to think where she was. A gallop might cool her
feverish head. She ordered her horse to be saddled, but had scarcely
changed into her riding-habit when a letter was handed to her, which was
unsealed with trembling fingers. It was a simply worded invitation from
her father, who wished to see her again after her long absence at court.
Here was salvation, balm for her aching heart! She gave a few orders,
then hurried to the queen's apartments to obtain leave of absence; and,
accompanied by her maid, sped to her paternal home the same evening as
fast as the horses would carry her.
The days passed quickly at the manor house, where Irma, for the first
time, gained an insight into the noble mind and firm character of her
father. In his many soothing talks Count Eberhard told her of his
regrets at having been forced by circumstances--her mother's death
before Irma had reached the age of three, and his inability to give her
a proper education in his mountain retreat--to send her first to her
aunt, then to the convent, and thus neglecting his duties as father. A
word from him would have decided her to remain under his roof, but the
old philosopher held that each intelligent being must work out its own
destiny, and would not influence her decision. His slighting remarks
about the monarchic system, about the impossibility of the king, with
all his noble intentions, being able to see the world as it is, since
everybody approaches him in pleasing costume, struck the final jarring
note and destroyed the complete understanding between father and
daughter. A half jocular joint letter from the king and his _entourage_,
in which the signatories expressed in exaggerated terms their longing
for her presence at court, decided her to return.
The carriage having been sent to the valley in advance, Count Eberhard
walked down with Irma, until they came to the apple-tree which he had
planted on the day of his daughter's birth. He stopped, and picked up a
fallen apple. "Let us part here," he said. "Take this fruit from your
native soil. The apple has left the tree because it has ripened; because
the tree cannot give any more to it. So man leaves home and family. But
man is more than the fruit of a tree. Come, my child, I hold your dear
head; don't weep--or weep! May you never weep for yourself, and only for
others! Remain faithful to yourself! I would give you all my thoughts;
remember but the one: Yield only to such pleasures as will be pleasure
in recollection. Take this kiss. You kiss passionately. May you never
give a kiss that does not leave your soul as pure and full as it is now.
Farewell!"
_III.--Walpurga Returns Home_
Twelve months had passed since Walpurga's arrival at court. Her trunks
were now packed; she had given a last kiss to the boy prince; and now
she asked her Hanseï, who had brought a carriage from the village to
take her home, to wait in the corridor while she took leave from
Countess Irma. She found Irma still in her bed, very pale, with her hair
in loose strains on the pillow.
"I wanted to give you a souvenir," said Irma, "but I think money will be
best for you. Look on the table, and take it all. I don't want any of
it. Take it, and don't be afraid; it is real money, won honestly at the
tables. I always win, always!... Take your kerchief and wrap it up." The
room was so dusky that Walpurga looked around in superstitious fear. The
money might be evil; she quickly made the sign of the Cross over it, and
put it into her ample pocket. "And now, farewell," said Irma. "Be happy.
You are happier than any of us. If ever I don't know where to go, I
shall come to you. You'll have me, won't you? Now go--go! I must sleep.
And don't forget me, Walpurga. Don't thank me, don't speak!"
"Oh, please let me speak, just one word! We both can't know which of us
will die, and then it would be too late. I don't know what's the matter
with you. You are not well, and you may get worse. You often have cold
hands and hot cheeks. I wronged you that day, soon after I arrived. I'll
never think bad of you again, no one shall say evil of you; but, please,
get away from the castle! Go home, to----"
"Enough," exclaimed Irma, thrusting forth her hands as though Walpurga's
words were stones thrown at her. "Farewell; and don't forget me." She
held out her hand for Walpurga to kiss; it was hot and feverish.
Walpurga went. The parrot in the ante-room screamed: "Good-bye, Irma."
Walpurga was frightened, and ran away as though she were chased.
Walpurga's homecoming was not pleasure unalloyed. She did not miss the
luxuries to which she had become accustomed. She rather relished the
hard, manual labour, to which she applied herself with full energy. But
her baby was a stranger to her, cried when she wished to take her up,
and became only gradually accustomed to her. Her faculties had been
sharpened, too; she felt a certain shyness in her husband, noticed his
weaknesses, and was deeply hurt when, on the second evening after her
return, he went to the inn, "so that people should not say he was under
her thumb." Then, Hanseï, coaxed by the shrewd innkeeper, had set his
heart upon acquiring the inn, now that they had "wealth," and upon thus
becoming the most important man in the village. But with much tact and
cleverness Walpurga made him give up the plan, thereby arousing the
innkeeper's hostility, which became rampant when the reunited couple did
not appear at a kind of fete which he gave, ostensibly in their honour,
but really to benefit by the proceeds. By this slight the esteem and
admiration of the whole village were turned to ill-will and spite.
Hanseï and Walpurga were almost boycotted; but their isolation made them
draw closer together, work harder, and enjoy to the fullest the harmony
of their domestic life. Moreover, the freehold farmer, Grubersepp, who
was a personage in the district, and had never before deigned to take
much notice of Hanseï, now called at the cottage and offered his advice
on many questions. When on a Sunday the village doctor and the priest
were seen to visit the cottage, opinion began to veer around once more
in the good people's favour.
It was Walpurga's old uncle Peter, a poor pitch-burner, who was known in
the district as the "pitch-mannikin," who brought the first news that
the freehold farm, where Walpurga's mother had in her young days served
as a maid, was for sale at a very low price for ready money. It was six
hours from the lake, in the mountains--splendid soil, fine forest,
everything perfect. Hanseï decided to have a look at it, and Grubersepp
went with him to value it. The uncle's description was found to be
highly coloured; but after some bargaining the purchase was effected,
and soon the news was bruited about the village that Hanseï had paid "in
clinking golden coin."
The whole village, with a brass band, was assembled on the shore when
Hanseï and Walpurga, with their family and worldly possessions, embarked
to cross the lake on the first stage of their "flitting." All vexations
were forgotten in the hearty send-off, and as the boat glided across the
silent lake it was followed by music, cheering, jodling, and the booming
of mortars.
They approached the opposite shore and Hanseï pointed out the figure of
Uncle Peter waiting for them with the cart and the furniture, when
Walpurga suddenly ceased rowing, and gave a startled cry.
"Heavens! What's that? I could swear, when I was singing I thought if
only my good Countess Irma could see us here together, how happy she
would be. And just now it seemed to me as though----"
"Come on, let's land," said Hanseï.
On the shore a figure in a fluttering garment was running up and down.
It suddenly collapsed when the wind carried a full sound of music across
the lake. Then it rose again, and vanished in the reeds.
"Have you seen nothing?" asked Walpurga.
"Rather! If it were not broad daylight, and if it were not superstition,
I should think it was the mermaid, herself."
The boat at last touched the shore. Walpurga was the first to jump out.
She hurried to the reed-bank, away from her people, and there, behind
the willows, the apparition fell on her neck and broke down.
_IV.--The Countess Irma's Atonement_
Dr. Gunther received the first telegraphic news of his friend, Count
Eberhard, having lost the power of speech through a stroke of paralysis.
He was to break the news to Irma. For some time she had felt, through
the physician's reserve and sympathetic kindness, that he could read her
secret. And now she realised that sudden knowledge of her disgrace alone
could have struck down her father, whose vigorous constitution had
always kept illness at arm's length.
They arrived at the manor house before midnight, and were shown into the
sufferer's room. Count Eberhard's eyelids moved quickly when he
recognised Dr. Gunther's voice, and he tried to extend his hand towards
his friend, but it fell heavily on the coverlet. Dr. Gunther seized it
and held it in a firm grasp. Irma knelt down before the bed, and her
father's trembling hand felt over her face, and was wetted by her tears.
Then he quickly withdrew it, as though he had touched a poisonous
animal; he turned away his face and pressed his forehead against the
wall. Now he turned round again, and with a gentle movement indicated
that he wished her to leave the room.
She was with him again next day. He tried painfully to say something to
her, to make her understand by signs--she could not understand. He bit
upon his lips and tried to sit up. His face was changed--it assumed a
strange colour, a strange expression. Irma saw with a shudder what was
happening. She knelt down and laid her cheek upon his hand. He withdrew
the hand. With supreme effort he wrote a word, a short word, with his
finger upon her forhead. She saw, she heard, she read it--in the air, on
her forehead, on her brain, in her soul--she gave a scream, and fell
senseless to the ground. Dr. Gunther entered quickly, stepped over Irma,
closed his friend's eyes, and all was silence.
For many hours Irma was in her room, shut in with her despair, her
remorse. No one could gain admission. She thought furiously, she raved,
and then fell into a troubled sleep. When she awake her resolution was
made. She asked for light and writing material, and wrote: "My queen,--
With death I atone for my guilt. Forgive and forget! IRMA." On the
envelope she wrote: "To be handed to the queen herself by Dr. Gunther."
Then she took another sheet, and wrote:
"My friend,--For the last time I speak to you. We have gone
astray--terribly. The atonement is mine. You belong to her and to the
people. Your atonement is in life; mine in death. Be calm, be one with
the law that ties you to her and to the people. You have denied both and
I have aided you. Be true again to yourself! This is my dying word, and
I die willingly, if you but listen. Listen to this voice, and do not
forget it! But forget her who speaks to you. I will not be remembered."
She sealed the letters, left them in her writing-case, and asked for her
horse to be saddled. She rode out, followed by a groom, whom, some
distance from home, she sent back on some pretext. When he was out of
sight, she galloped off at full speed, dismounted, struck her horse with
the whip to make it run away, and lost herself in the wood in the
direction of the lake.
_V.--A Court Scandal_
Irma's torn boots were found on a rock by the lake, her hat floating on
the waters. Although her body could not be recovered, there was no doubt
that the countess had committed suicide. Her father's death must have
bereft her of reason.
When the news was first brought to the king he trembled violently, and
had to seize the back of a chair for support. Then he requested to be
left alone, and with dim eyes he read Irma's farewell message. On the
impulse of the moment, he wanted to send the queen the last words of his
friend; he wanted to write under them, to pour out his whole heart, his
whole repentance. He decided not to act hastily. Even the heaviest task
must be fulfilled without loss of dignity. A chase had been arranged for
the morning. The hunting-party were waiting in the courtyard. With an
effort he pulled himself together, descended with firm step, and entered
his carriage, returning smilingly the salutations of his guests.
The queen was scarcely less shaken by the terrible news, which was
gently broken to her by Dr. Gunther. Her heart was filled with profound
pity for the unfortunate child, and she gave vent to her grief in sobs
and touching lamentations. Dr. Gunther tried to comfort her. "She is not
gone without farewell. She has left this letter for your majesty--surely
a letter that will bring balm in this terrible hour. Even to the last
she proved her loving nature."
The queen seized the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale, then
burning red. When she found words, she exclaimed: "And she has kissed my
child, and he has kissed his child! They talk of the sublime, and their
words do not cut their tongues! Everything is soiled! And he dared say
to me: A prince has no private actions. His doings and his neglects set
the example! Fie! Everything is soiled, everything filthy! Everything!"
She became unconscious. Dr. Gunther sprinkled her forehead with
eau-de-cologne, and had her taken to bed. He sat by the bedside for some
time, until she opened her eyes, thanked him, and expressed her desire
to sleep. He spoke some soothing words, and retired, leaving
instructions with the lady of the bed-chamber in the ante-room.
Some days passed before the king sought his wife's forgiveness. The
interview was brief and decisive. The king spoke nobly, manly and
sincerely; the queen was bitter, sharp and irreconcilable. Her duty as a
queen demanded that the rift should not appear in public; her injured
pride as a woman refused to admit more. He demanded to know whether her
friend and adviser, Dr. Gunther, knew of her decision. She replied he
was too noble to let thoughts of anger or revenge enter his great heart.
"This great being can be made small!"
"You will not rob me of my only friend?"
"Your only friend? I do not know this title. To my knowledge there is no
such office at court. Be what you will! Be alone and seek for support in
yourself."
He stripped the wedding-ring from his hand, placed it on the table, and
moved towards the door. He hesitated a moment--will she call him back?
She looked after him--will he turn around? The moment passed. The door
closed.
In the evening a court was held, and the queen appeared, pale, but
smiling, on her husband's arm. They spoke confidentially, and nobody
noticed the missing ring.
Next day the journals announced that the king's physician had tendered
his resignation.
And court gossip had it that Walpurga had bought a farm with the gold
she had earned as intermediary between the king and the unfortunate
Countess Wildenort.
_VI.--Forgiving and Forgiven_
Irma had passed four years at Hanseï's mountain farm. Her secret had
been well kept. Even Hanseï, who had promised his wife never to ask any
questions about their permanent guest, was in complete ignorance about
her identity. Irma, who, after having tried her hand at various domestic
occupations, had taken up wood-carving with considerable success,
enabling her to discharge at least the material part of her debt of
gratitude, was generally held to be a half-witted relation of
Walpurga's.
Her despair and remorse had gradually given way to resigned sadness.
Self-communion had to make up for lack of intellectual intercourse, and
sharpened her perception. In her diary she entered the profound thoughts
suggested to her active intelligence by her observation of events in
themselves insignificant, and analysed with cool aloofness the working
of her mind. She never entertained the thought of finding a refuge in
the convent--her atonement was to be wrought, not by compulsion, but by
free will. And so the weeks passed, and the months, and the years.
They had all helped in the building of a wooden cowherd's hut on the
height of the mountain, a few hours' climb from the farm. Now Irma felt
the need for more complete solitude, away even from her simple friends.
Up there, on the height, she would find peace and complete her
atonement. And so it was decided to let her have her way, and to let her
stay in the hut, with Peter and his daughter.
The first two days and nights a cloud lingered around them, forming a
veil of dense fog; but on the third day Irma was awakened by the sun and
stepped out to see the awakening of nature. The grandeur, the immensity
of it all, the pure-scented air, the voices of the birds, filled her
heart with gladness. A sunray struck her forehead--the forehead was
pure, she felt it.
Irma now gave up her wood-carving; she had to be urged to eat, and only
took her food to please the kind old "pitch-mannikin." Immovably she
would lie for hours in her favorite meadow, and think and breathe the
pure air. Her life was slowly ebbing from her. A sudden vision of the
king with his companions of the chase galloping past her in pursuit of a
stag gave her the final shock. She cowered on the ground. She bit into
the moss, scraped the earth with her hands--she feared to scream aloud.
She staggered back to the hut, shaken by fever, and threw herself upon
her bed. Then she asked Peter for some paper. She had heard that Dr.
Gunther was living with his family at the summer resort at the foot of
the mountain. She wrote with shaking hand: "Eberhard's daughter calls
Dr. Gunther," and sent Peter to speed down with the message.
In the little town all was excitement and commotion owing to the sojourn
of the royal court. Dr. Gunther, now in favour again, was with the king
when the message arrived. He read the note and was left speechless with
amazement. Then he collected his wits, and hurried with Peter to the
dying penitent's bedside. Irma was sleeping, and he sat by her side
until she awoke. She saw Gunther--pleasure illumined her face, and she
held out both hands towards him. He took them, and she pressed her
feverish lips upon his hands.
Walpurga, to whom the news of Irma's impending end had been brought,
took a quick resolution. She hurried to the little town to seek her
queen. The matter was not easy, for suspicion rested heavily upon her;
but her determination removed all obstacles, and the queen, profoundly
moved by Walpurga's jerky explanation and passionate appeal, and stirred
to the very depths of her soul by Irma's heroism, demanded to be led at
once to her. She was followed in a short while by the king, to whom the
whole incident had been reported.
Gunther sat for hours by Irma's bedside, listening to her heavy
breathing. The door flew open and the queen appeared.
"At last, you have come!" breathed Irma, raising herself and kneeling in
her bed. Then, with a heart-breaking voice, she exclaimed: "Forgive,
forgive!"
"Forgive me, Irma, my sister!" sobbed the queen, and took her in her
arms and kissed her. A smile spread over Irma's face; then with a cry of
pain she fell back dead.
When the king arrived he found his wife kneeling before the bed. He
quietly knelt down by her side. The queen arose, placed her hand upon
his head. "Kurt," she said, "forgive me, as I have forgiven you." Then
she spread a white kerchief over the dead, and they left the hut. They
walked hand in hand through the wood, until they reached the road, where
carriages were waiting.
During the night the "pitch-mannikin" dug a grave on the spot where Irma
had loved to lie in the sun. She was buried there early next morning.
Hanseï and Peter and Dr. Gunther carried the corpse, and Walpurga with
her child formed the procession.
* * * * *