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 faithfulWalpurga."
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.
"Your Majesty," said Countess Irma to the king one day, while walking on the veranda with him--the queen was in the music-room, practicing a classical composition with one of the court performers--"it is curious that, while absence lends additional charms and greater merit to some persons, there are others who are all the more perfect and interesting when one is in constant, daily intercourse with them. And yet, when away from such, it is almost impossible to remember them just as they are; and as to describing their character, or even their personal appearance, to one who is not acquainted with them--why, that is entirely out of the question. How do you account for it?"
"I must confess that I have never reflected on the subject," replied the king, "but it seems to me that the chief characteristic of the one class is an infinitude of small details; while with the other, one is struck by the general effect of the various traits that go to make up the character. Those whose character still presents an unsolved problem, and who thus give us more to think of, would seem to belong to the class to whom absence lends importance. Does it not seem so to you?"
"Certainly; but I might also say that the one class are more impressive and thus even in the present, seem like remote historical personages. Although they die, they yet remain--indeed, absence is a sort of death. The others however, only exist as long as they breathe, and only live for us as long as we breathe the same atmosphere with them."
"Can you name examples of such imposing historical personages, and also of ephemeral ones?"
"At present, I could only recall the historical."
A slight blush passed over the king's features. "Well," said he, when he found that Irma hesitated, "I beg of you--"
"In that class, I place my father over all others. I cannot describe to Your Majesty how his great nature seems constantly before me."
"Yes, I've often heard him spoken of as a man of high character and eminent ability. It is a pity, for his sake--and, still more, for our own--that he is opposed to the government. And in which class would you count me? I have sufficient confidence in your candor to believe that you will frankly give me your opinion, and you are so sure of my--my--respect, that you can speak without reserve."
"Your Majesty is present company," replied Irma, "and yet, at the same time, absent; or your position exalts you far above the rest of us."
"Friendship does not dwell on the throne, but here where we stand on equal ground, dear Countess."
"Nor does friendship pass sentence," replied the countess. "Her place is not the judgment-seat. I know of nothing more revolting than when men who profess to be friends, constantly cast up their accounts with each other, as if to say: 'You are worth so much and I am worth so much; this is yours and this is mine--'"
"Ah, these state affairs," interposed the king, as a lackey announced the arrival of the minister. "We will speak of this subject again," he added, taking leave of Irma and politely greeting the ladies and gentlemen whom he passed on his way. He offered his hand to his prime minister and, accompanied by him, went into the palace.
Irma's friendly relations with the king seemed to have acquired new life since her return. Her daily greeting seemed filled with the joy of meeting after long separation.
When the king would say: "Good morning, Countess," and Irma would answer: "Thanks, Your Majesty," there lay a wealth of unuttered thought in those simple words. The king had never before been in so pleasing and witty a mood, and Irma, it was justly said, had brought the mountain breezes with her. The queen would never tire of telling the ladies and gentlemen of the court how pleased she was with Irma, who, although simple and unaffected, possessed the highest intellectual gifts.
Like melodies that have sunk deep into the soul and which gradually return and harmoniously blend, so did her father's words and ideas now recur to Irma. She had spent weeks in a strict school, where idle talk and trifling were of no value and where distinctness and certainty were insisted upon. Formerly, Irma had been regarded as a child of nature, freely pouring forth whatever engaged her thoughts; but now they recognized in her a mind whose groundwork was solid and comprehensive, and which, nevertheless, was full of the simplicity of nature. She was full of sympathy and kindness, but did not concern herself about prevailing modes of thought. She freely expressed her likes and dislikes, and one was obliged to admit that she was something more than a mere original or artless hoyden, and that she really possessed intellectual self-consciousness to a great degree.
Irma often changed her style of dressing her hair. This was naturally censured as coquetry, and as an attempt to draw the glances of all upon her. But it was simply a desire to appear different every day, even though it were in unimportant and subordinate matters.
It was very fortunate for Irma that she had become so attached to Walpurga; for, on sunny afternoons, the queen would scarcely ever suffer Walpurga to leave her; and then Irma would be seated with them and would read aloud to the queen, or join Walpurga in some of the lovely mountain songs.
The king's eyes would sparkle with delight when he happened to join them at such times, and find Irma with his wife.
"You look troubled," said the queen, when the king, who had just left the ministerial council, joined her and Irma in the park.
"And so I am."
"May I ask why?"
Irma was about to withdraw, but the king said:
"Stay, Countess; the matter is one which has been brought to an issue by the case of your friend Emma." Turning to the queen, he added: "Has our countess told you of the terrible fate of her friend?"
"She has; and when I think of it, I feel as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice."
Strangely enough, the king had, thus far, neither spoken to Irma about the matter, nor alluded to her letter. Irma had had so much to engage her mind since her return, that Emma's troubles had almost escaped her memory.
"Our friend," began the king, "has informed me of the affair, and I appreciate her delicacy in refraining from pressing the subject. In matters of state, we have no right to allow personal feelings to affect us. Nevertheless, one of our greatest pleasures is to find that our friends cherish our honor as their own."
Irma looked down. He added:
"Although a prince owes thanks to his friends, for informing him of what is going on, no influence, not even the best, should affect his decision."
Irma did not dare to raise her eyes.
"The matter stands thus," continued the king. "We have provisionally suspended the right to receive new nuns, and now the ministers desire me, at the next meeting of the estates, to consent to the introduction of a law by which the convent of Frauenwörth is to be definitively placed upon the extinct list. They hope by this and additional measures, to be enabled to make a stand against the constantly increasing strength of the opposition."
The king looked at Irma while he said this, and she inquired:
"And has Your Majesty approved the draft of the law?"
"Not yet. I have no special feeling in favor of keeping up the convents, but I don't find it so easy a matter to lay the axe to a tree which is the growth of centuries. It is the special duty of royalty to establish and foster institutions that are to endure longer than a generation or even a century, and a convent--What do you think of it, Mathilde?"
"I think that a woman who has lost all, should not be prevented from devoting herself to solitude and prayer. But perhaps I ought not express an opinion on the subject. My youthful impressions, or rather instruction, in regard to convent life, may not always have been correct. It seems to me that woman alone should have the right to determine as to the continuance of a convent. What do you think of it, Countess Irma? You were educated at a convent, and Emma is your friend."
"Yes," said Irma, "I was with my friend at Frauenwörth, where she desires to live, or rather to die; for life there is a daily waiting for death. It seems terrible to me, too, to think of making what may perhaps be only a passing mood, the irrevocable law of one's life, or a fate from which there can be no escape. And yet many other holy institutions are just the same. I can now see what an exalted and difficult vocation it is to be a king. I frankly confess that if I were now called upon to decide this matter, or to suggest a law upon the subject, I could not arrive at a decision. Now, more than ever before, do I realize that we women were not born to rule."
Irma's voice, although usually so clear and firm, was now veiled and trembling. She was standing on a pinnacle where she could find no firm footing; she looked up to the king, as if to a higher being; his bearing was so firm, his eye so clear. She would gladly have fallen on her knees at his feet.
"Come nearer, Count Wildenort," exclaimed the king.
Irma started. Was her father there? She was so excited that everything seemed possible.
She had, at the moment, quite forgotten that her brother Bruno was the king's aid-de-camp. He had been standing a little distance off, and now approached, in order to take his leave of the queen, as he was about to go away for some time.
The king and queen left; after which, Irma and her brother walked away.
The king's behavior seemed a riddle; but for this he had his own reasons, the first and greatest of which was invincible distrust of others. "Distrust all," was the great precept which had been instilled into him from earliest youth. "One can never know what selfish purposes may lurk behind the noblest exterior." This maxim was in accord with one trait of the king's character. He desired to be strong in himself, to allow no one to guide his judgment; and that is the great secret of the heroic nature. It was this which, with all his love of freedom, had made constitutionalism repugnant to him; for the constitution destroyed great and powerful personal influence, and required that he be simply the vehicle of the spirit of the age, or the exponent of public opinion. This was opposed to his own strong self-consciousness. He distrusted every one who attempted to press him for an opinion or a decision. He even distrusted Irma. Perhaps she did not know that she was the instrument of a party; but she was, nevertheless. They had found out that he held her in great esteem, and were now availing themselves of Emma's entering the convent, to force him to a decision. He would not submit to this. Irma should be made to know that he would not allow another, even though it were his lovely friend, to lead him. The olden time could never again return. They would find him a new being; he would not permit female interference in state affairs.
It was these conflicting feelings of distrust and self-exaltation that had induced the king to refrain from mentioning Irma's letter, and at last to speak of it in the way he had.
While walking with the queen, the king still enjoyed his victory over the women and, above all, over the one whom he had believed possessed of so powerful a mind. He repeatedly spoke of Irma's petition in favor of her friend, and of his determination not to be swayed by it. His remarks betrayed a trace of ill-humor toward Irma. The queen was lavish in her praise of the countess. The king smiled.
"Don't let me wait any longer for your answer," said Bruno to his sister; "are you ready?"
"I beg your pardon. What was it? I was so preoccupied that I didn't hear you."
Bruno looked at his sister with an air of surprise. Irma had indeed not heard him. She had been puzzling her brain in regard to the king's behavior. He had plainly intimated that he would allow no one to influence his course in state affairs. It now occurred to Irma that the tone of the letter which she had written while at the convent, had been quite improper, and her heart was filled with thanks to the great and noble man, who, having it in his power to forgive her, had forgiven her so gracefully. She felt doubly grateful to him for refusing to be swayed by her ardent entreaties. She was, herself, in doubt as to the best course, and it now seemed to her, as at first, that it was the duty of the state to prevent the consummation of an irrevocable vow.
"I beg your pardon," she again said to her brother. "Do you wish anything of me?"
"You must go with me to-morrow," said Bruno; "we're going on a journey. I've already obtained leave of absence for myself, and the queen will grant you leave."
"Go on a journey? Where?"
"To witness my betrothal."
"Surely not with--?"
"Certainly; with the king's sister; or, if you'd rather have it so, his half, or quarter sister. Baroness Arabella von Steigeneck will be delighted to make your acquaintance."
Irma looked down. It was the oldest daughter of the dancer who had been ennobled by the late king. Irma spoke of the impression that this marriage would make upon her father; but Bruno jestingly answered, that he and his sister had been separated from their father, who indulged the strange whim of desiring to be a common citizen. Perceiving that his remarks displeased Irma, he changed his manner and explained to her how cruel and narrow-minded it would be to make Baroness Arabella, who had royal blood in her veins, suffer on account of a few irregularities for which she was not to blame. And when he represented to Irma, that, independent of his wishes, it was her duty to meet Arabella in a spirit of kindness and without prejudice, he touched the right chord. He added:
"You are so affectionate to the simple minded peasant woman, the crown prince's nurse. It is very cheap to practice humanity toward one of the lower classes. You will find its exercise pleasanter and more effective in this instance."
"I am glad to find that you think so," replied Irma, regarding her brother with a more cheerful glance.
Bruno was delighted. He had used the right bait, and, for a few moments, found real pleasure in conversing on such subjects as elevation of mind and nobility of soul. Irma consented to accompany him. When she applied to the queen for leave of absence, and the latter, in the most delicate manner, intimated surprise at Bruno's choice, Irma proved herself so zealous an advocate of humanity that the queen could not avoid saying to her:
"You are, and ever will be, a noble heart."
Irma imprinted a fervent kiss on the queen's hand. They started off on their journey, taking with them Bruno's two private servants, and jockey Fritz, Baum's son. Father Baum, who was both indispensable and ubiquitous, also accompanied them.
Bruno was in high spirits. Like all other epicures, he was not averse to occasional tender scenes. He played the piano excellently and, at times, would indulge in a sentimental adagio. Irma now seemed sentimental in his eyes. But he soon tired of the melting mood and in his flippant, jesting manner, exclaimed:
"I am better than the world of cavaliers that surround us. You smile--and wonder what sort of cavaliers they must be among whom I am the best.--Yes, dear sister Krimhilde, it is so nevertheless. I honestly confess that I only marry this lady in order to be enabled to lead as jolly a life as possible, and am I not better than those who act the hypocrite in such a case?"
"Yes, if you think that makes you better. But I think you're simply ashamed of being in love, and are afraid of appearing sentimental."
"Thanks! You're a profound judge of human nature."
Bruno, at heart, desired his sister to imagine that he was in love; for that would render the demeanor of both of them more natural and more befitting the occasion. He blushed and smiled with a bashful air.
Baroness Steigeneck lived in a little town and occupied a castle which had once been a retreat of a sister of the late king.
They reached the castle. A bright peacock stood on the high wall, and filled the air with its shrill cry.
Rooms had been prepared for Bruno and Irma, who retired to change their dress. Bruno appeared in full uniform, and with all his medals and orders. They were conducted to Baroness Steigeneck's salon by two servants, who opened the folding doors. Baroness Steigeneck, who was clad in studiously simple attire, came forward to meet Bruno and Irma, and received them with a graceful bow. Bruno kissed her, and then embraced his betrothed, who, in form and feature, presented a pleasing appearance. He introduced her to his sister, who embraced and kissed her.
The furniture of the castle was splendid, but in somewhat gaudy taste, with more regard to show than comfort. A life-size picture of the late king was displayed in the greatsalon.
Irma felt alarmed when she first beheld the old baroness. Her boudoir was hung with pictures of herself, taken while she was yet a young, beautiful and voluptuous creature, and representing her in various bold poses, such as Psyche, Eros, and the Fairy Queen. And could this heavy woman, with rigid features, be the same person? Her chief employment was card-playing, and it was here, for the first time in her life, that Irma saw people who would sit at cards by the hour, out in the open air, under the trees, and amid the singing of birds. What would become of some people, how empty their lives would be, if there were no cards!
The time was pleasantly spent with music--for Baroness Arabella sang beautifully,--merry dinners and excursions in the neighborhood. Irma could not help watching the servants, and wondering how they felt, and what their thoughts must be, while serving such a mistress. But she saw the same respect shown as at court; and when they drove through the little town, the people would stop and lift their hats in token of respect, for the baroness had brought life and money to the place. Everything in this world, even respect, can be purchased.
Three days sped by quickly. Baroness Steigeneck held a little court, quite modest in appearance. An old and exceedingly eccentric French legitimist was the special attraction of this, and French was the only language spoken.
The formal betrothal was speedily settled by the notary, whom Bruno had brought with him from the capital. He had been carefully instructed, and it fared hard with the old Baroness. There were all sorts of devilishly close clauses in reference to death or separation. Bruno had made himself secure. The Baroness jestingly spoke of love, and said that she had not imagined such enthusiasm possible at the present day. Bruno agreed with her, for they both well knew that it was simply a question of money.
Arabella had the air of a well-bred lady and possessed that degree of education that can be purchased from teachers. She could sing and sketch, and spoke three foreign languages, which, at her mother's bidding, she was obliged to make a parade of. But all of this showed application, rather than native talent. She had also read a great deal, but affected ignorance of certain works, passages in which might be applied to herself or her mother.
Irma was exceedingly kind to her sister-in-law, and Bruno heartily thanked her. And yet Irma's mind was not at ease. The house seemed under the influence of a peculiar spell--it was just as if in fairy-land. People would go about, and laugh and joke and sing and play, but there was one word they dared not utter; for, at the very mention of it, the castle, with all its pomp and splendor, would disappear. And that word was: "father." But it was here that Irma was the more impelled to think of her father. When alone in her room, she began a letter to him, and when she wrote the words; "Dear Father," she looked about her. She regarded it as her duty, and thought herself better able than Bruno, to inform her father of the betrothal, and to invoke his forbearance for this unfortunate, though wealthy, girl. Never before had she made so many unsuccessful attempts to write a letter. She had begun again and again, and had always ended by tearing up the sheet and throwing it into the fire. She found it impossible to finish her letter, and at last concluded to wait until she returned to the summer palace. But she could not get rid a desire to speak of parents, and when Baum came to her with a message, she detained him with the question:
"Baum, are your parents still living?"
"No."
"Did you know them long?"
Baum coughed behind his raised hand and answered: "I never knew my father; and my mother--my mother was taken from me long ago."
Baum, who still held his hand before his face, bit his lips and at last ventured to ask: "May I inquire, my lady, why you put that question to me?"
"I desire to acquaint myself with the life and history of those whom I know personally."
Baum dropped his hand and his face was as smooth and void of expression as before.
The strictest decorum was observed during their stay at the castle. On one occasion, however, Irma felt offended, and that was when the old lady--they called her "Her Grace"--declared the relation of an affianced couple the silliest of all conventionalities--the most natural and proper course would be to have marriage follow immediately upon the betrothal--yes, in the very same hour.
These remarks were accompanied by a peculiar change in the expression of the old lady's features. Irma was startled and did not get over her fright, for when, at parting, the baroness impressed a kiss upon her, Irma could not help shuddering.
Irma had been in the carriage for some time, when Bruno at last came, and again stopped to throw a kiss to his betrothed, who was standing at the window.
They drove off, and when Irma found herself alone with her brother she said, in a loud voice and with a strange expression:
"Oh, father! father!" She drew a long and deep breath, as if relieved from some dread spell.
"What ails you?" said Bruno.
Irma did not care to tell him what she felt, and merely replied:
"As soon as we get back to the palace, you must write to father, or, what would be better, must go to him. Let him scold you, if it must be. He's our father, after all, and will be kind to you once more and accept what is past."
"We had better write," said Bruno.
"No!" exclaimed Irma, clasping both his hands, "you must do it, for Arabella's sake."
"For her sake?"
"Yes. I wish her to feel that there is some one whom she can address as 'father'; that would be the happiest moment she had ever known."
Bruno drew back. After a little while, he said: "Let us speak softly. You know, I suppose, that you've touched me in a tender spot. Arabella couldn't call any one father, and can't do so now. Irma, you're strong enough to look the truth in the face. What is it that forms the indissoluble bond between father and child? It is not nature alone, but history. By rejecting our rank, our father has denied father and mother and our long line of ancestors. It was he who broke the strong and glittering chain that, through him, linked us to our house. We have renewed the connection which was thus broken, but, in doing so, have become sundered from our father. He separated himself from us; in the sense in which you mean, we can neither of us say 'father.'"
Irma turned pale. She had never thought of the matter in that light, and had never dreamt that Bruno would thus defend his course. She had thought his life naught but frivolity, and now, for the first time, beheld the deep chasm that separated them. She was about to reply that her father had remained true to all that was noble, to all that the best of their ancestors had transmitted to him, and that he had simply cast aside the external prerogatives of rank. But, for the first time, she felt that she could not maintain her ground against her brother. She too, had separated herself from her father. She was silent. They drove on and, for hours, neither spoke a word. They reached the summer palace. To all who congratulated her on her brother's betrothal, Irma offered most courteous thanks. She felt strangely embarrassed in the presence of the court jeweler, who had been requested to present himself at the palace with various caskets of gems. She was to join Bruno in selecting a rich present for Arabella. She did so, but would not suffer any of the jewels to be tried on herself. Her maid was present for that purpose, and, at last, they decided on a rich set of diamonds, which was at once dispatched to Bruno's betrothed.