With a firm tread, Bruno went down the steps. He had ordered the groom to lead his horse some distance from the castle and there await him. "If there only were no such thing as dying," thought he to himself. While placing his foot in the stirrup, something tugged at his coat. Was it his father's hand? or was it a spirit-hand dragging him back? He stumbled; his coat had caught in a buckle. He loosened it, and was just about to lift his riding-whip against the careless groom, when it occurred to him that such behavior was ill-timed. His father was ill, seriously ill, indeed, in spite of the family physician's reassuring words. No, it would not do to punish the servant now; it should not be said that Bruno had beaten his groom at such a moment. Fitz, who was putting the buckle to rights, stooped as if he already felt the whipstock across his shoulders, and looked up amazed when his master, in the gentlest voice, said to him: "Yes, good Fitz, I see that you've not slept any more than I have, and you're quite nervous. Lie down and rest for another hour. You need not ride out with me. Keep your horse saddled, however. I shall take the straight road through the forest clearing and, if anything should happen here, you or Anton can ride after me. At the foot of the Chamois hill, I shall turn back into the bridle-path and return by way of the valley. Do you hear? Don't forget! And now you can go sleep awhile; but don't unsaddle your horse. Don't forget what I've told you."
Bruno rode off, and the astonished Fitz stood there looking after him for some time.
Bruno took the road that led to the woods, and in the direction of a clearing which was now used as a pasture. It was easy riding over the grassy path, and the morning breezes refreshed him.
The golden glow of morning trembled on every leaf, and sparkled on every dewdrop. The woods on either side were superb, and, with a self-complacent nod, Bruno said to himself: "How well he understood forest matters. No, I shan't be so cruel. I shall have the woods well looked after, and shall not cut down the timber."
He now reached a level stretch of road. He put spurs to his horse and set off at a gallop. Suddenly he halted, for the neighborhood was one with which he was not familiar. There had formerly been a swamp and now there were broad fields, on which lay many sheaves of ripened grain.
Bruno turned towards the laborers who were binding the sheaves. The foreman told the young master that it was his father who had drained the swamp, and that this was now some of the best land on the whole estate. Offering Bruno a handful of the ripened ears, he said: "Take these to your father; I'm sure he thinks of us on his sickbed."
Bruno declined them, and gave the foreman some drink money. He rode off, leaving word that he was going toward the Chamois hill, and instructing the foreman to tell his groom as much, in case he should come after him.
The farm laborers he had left behind him were driving home with the first crop gathered from the redeemed land, and the cracking of their whips was the only sound that broke upon the silence of the forest solitude. He checked his horse's pace to a walk and, as no one could see him there, lit a cigar. When he reached the high level ground, he started off at a brisk trot. Sheep were grazing here, and Bruno did not fail to ride up to the shepherd and tell him what to say to the groom in case he should follow. It was a comfort to know that he had made it so easy to find him. After he had passed, he turned involuntarily. As if to calm himself he patted his horse's neck and, drawing a tight rein, drew himself up in his saddle. The road again led through a clearing in the forest; the valley below was bathed in golden sunshine. Suddenly it occurred to him: "There are so many miserable beings whose constant care is how to manage to keep alive. Why can't one purchase their vital power and, adding their years to his own, live forever? The masses, stupid as they are, are right when they consider us as no better than themselves, for we must die of the same diseases they are subject to.--Here, all is life; tree and beast and man. There, in the castle, lies a man whose end is drawing near, and who may be dying at this very moment. Perhaps even now, the air is wafting his last breath toward me--Where is it? Why does not a shudder pass through all that belongs to him? through every tree, and man, and beast? All that lived with him should die with him, for it is his. This wretched, miserable life--"
"I'm a poor woman, give me something," said a figure, suddenly emerging from the thicket. It was Zenza.
Bruno started as if a ghost had appeared to him. He put spurs to his horse and hurried off. His hair stood on end with fright, and it was long before he regained his composure.
In spite of this interruption, and without an effort on his part, his thoughts went back to the subject that engaged them at the moment when Zenza appeared upon the scene; but the old woman's cry of: "Give me something," was ever ringing in his ears. If everything were to die with its possessor, who would inherit? What is more peculiarly a man's own than his thoughts? And even they die with him--
"I won't think any more," said Bruno to himself. "Not now; to-morrow--the day after--some other time; but now I don't want to think."
He raised his hat, as if to permit his thoughts to escape; then he whipped and spurred his horse so that it reared and started off at a furious pace. The effort to maintain himself in his saddle drove what he regarded as gloomy fancies from his mind. He sat firmly, pressed his knees against the horse's ribs, and felt the better for the exertion. But, in spite of all, his thoughts would suddenly wander off to his father again. He felt a sudden shudder--This must have been the very moment--at that instant, his father must have breathed his last--involuntarily, Bruno drew his hand back. His horse halted. He again put spurs to him, and galloped away as if to escape from his thoughts. Suddenly, a voice cried out:
"Stop, Bruno!" He shuddered. Whose voice could it be? Who would call him by name? Surprise and alarm had thrown him into a cold sweat.
"Who calls me?" he asked with pale, trembling lips.
"You can't get here."
"Who are you? Where are you?" cried Bruno. A cold shudder passed over him, and his horse snorted and snuffed the air. Was it true that witches lived in rocks? for the voice had come from the rock.
"Who are you?" repeated Bruno; "your voice seems--"
"Do you still know Black Esther? Turn back, or you're a dead man."
He heard something whizzing by him. Benumbed with terror, he sat upon his horse. At last he dropped the rein, looked at his hand, drew off his glove, as if to satisfy himself that he was still living, that it was yet day, that all was not a dream, or the product of wild imagination--
His horse went on at a gentle pace. Suddenly, it started to one side--there had been the report of a gun. Who could be hunting there?
Bruno had already gotten beyond the limits of his own domain. Who could now be hunting in the royal forests, where the chase was not to begin until next month?
With a complacent air, Bruno twirled his mustache. He again felt confidence in himself, and in his worldly wisdom. He felt for the revolver in his saddle-bag, and calmly examined it to see if it was fit for use. The horse went on. Presently he saw a gun-barrel resting on a tree and directed against him, while a voice from behind the tree called out:
"Turn back, or you're a dead man. One--two--three--"
Trembling from head to foot, Bruno turned his horse's head. Behind him was the loaded gun, and, at any moment, a bullet might pierce him. The cold sweat streamed down his face; his eyes burned; he did not venture to raise his hand, lest the poacher behind him should misinterpret the movement and shoot him in the back. It was not until he had reached the rock where Black Esther had called to him and had so mysteriously disappeared, that he ventured to breathe freely. She had not forgotten his love, and he would henceforth provide for her. He again put spurs to his horse, and hurried off without knowing whither. It was not until he reached tilled land and saw laborers at work, that he alighted and sat down on the ground.
The first feeling of safety inspired him with a good resolve. He would return and, bowing himself--in repentance, ask his father's forgiveness. He would now promise to care for Black Esther, who had been the cause of the rupture between them. But he felt so weak that he could not rise, and a voice within him said: "You can't do it, you can't stand two such shocks in one day, and, besides, there's no hurry; the end will surely not come to-day. There will be time enough to-morrow, or later."
Feeling as if every bone in his body were broken, he, at last, arose, and asked the people in the field where he was. He found that he was far away from the road.
If the groom were now to ride after him and not find him.
Bruno quieted his conscience with the knowledge that he had not meant it to be thus. Dire fate, and an almost inconceivable combination of terrors, had led him from the right road.
Here, no one knew him. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of music and saw several carriages, decorated with green boughs, driving along the road. "What's this? a wedding?" he inquired of the peasant who had already given him some information as to the road.
"I don't know, but I think they must be town folk, or else they couldn't ride about in harvest time. Maybe they're coming from the election."
Bruno again mounted his horse. When he asked for the nearest road to Wildenort, the peasant looked at him in surprise, and pointed to a bridle-path on which he could not miss his way. But Bruno, who had lost all taste for the woods, preferred keeping to the highway. He passed a long string of wagons preceded by a band of music with a flag of black, red, and gold. He hurried by them, for he was not in a mood to listen to music.
Even before Gunther's arrival, Eberhard had been bled. Gunther had brought a small medicine-chest with him, and had hastily compounded some remedies which had relieved and quieted the patient. He was now sleeping. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow. Irma still sat concealed behind the screen. She could see her father, but could not be seen by him. Drawing a deep breath, he awoke and looked about him. Irma hastened to him. He gazed at her fixedly, and then motioned her to open the window.
The day was bright and sunny; the cool, balmy breezes wafted the fragrance of the woods into the room. The cracking of whips was heard. Eberhard's features acquired a pleased expression, for he knew that they were now bringing in the first sheaves from the swamp which he had redeemed.
Steps were heard in the ante-chamber, and Gunther came in, accompanied by the farm bailiff.
"Come in," said he, "it will please your master."
With a heavy tread, the bailiff walked up to the sick man's bedside. In his right hand he held some of the ripened grain, while, with his left, he beat his breast as if to force out the words:
"Master, I've brought you the first ears from our new field, and hope your health may be spared, so that you may eat the bread from it for many a year to come."
Eberhard seized the ears and, with his other hand, pressed that of the servant, who now left the room and went down to the barn, where he sat down on a sheaf and wept.
"Shall I remain with you, or would you rather be alone with your child?" asked Gunther.
Eberhard dropped the ears, and they lay upon the coverlet. He reached for Irma's hand. Gunther went out.
And now Eberhard dropped his daughter's hand, pointed to her heart and then to the ears of corn.
She shook her head and said: "Father, I don't understand you."
An expression of pain passed over Eberhard's features, and he placed his finger on his lips, as if grieved that he could not speak. Who knows but what he meant to say: "Good seed will grow from the swamp, if we rightly cultivate it; and out of your own heart, too, my child; out of your lost, ruined--"
"I'll call Gunther," said Irma; "perhaps he will understand what you mean."
Eberhard shook his head, as if in disapproval. His features betrayed something like anger at Irma's inability to understand him.
He bit his speechless lips and tried to raise himself. Irma assisted him, and he now sat up, supported by the pillows.
His face had changed. It had suddenly acquired a strange hue and an altered expression.
With a shudder, Irma realized what was taking place. She fell down by his bedside, and laid her cheek upon her father's hand. He drew his hand away.
She looked at him. With great effort he raised his hand--it was damp with the dews of death--and with outstretched finger he wrote a word upon her brow. It was a short word; but she saw, she heard, she read it. It was written in the air, on her forehead, in her brain,--aye, in her very soul. Uttering a piercing cry, she sank to the floor.
Gunther came in hurriedly. Stepping over Irma, he rushed to the bedside, lifted Eberhard's fallen hand, felt for the beating of his heart, started back--and then closed his friend's eyes.
The silence of death reigned in the room.
Suddenly, music was heard in front of the house. They were playing the melody of a national song and hundreds of voices called out: "Long live our representative, noble Count Eberhard!" Irma, who was still lying on the ground, moved at these sounds. Gunther strode past her and went out into the courtyard. The playing ceased and the voices were silenced.
Horse's steps were heard approaching, and Bruno entered the courtyard. He alighted. The sorrowful mien of Gunther and those about him, told him what had happened. He covered his face and leaned on Gunther, who led him into the house. When Gunther and Bruno entered the chamber of death, Irma had disappeared. She had shut herself up in her room.
He who destroys his life, destroys more than his own life.
The child that has afflicted a father sees his upbraiding hand rise from the grave.
My father has put the mark of Cain upon my brow; a mark that can never be effaced.
Nevermore dare I look upon my face or permit the eyes of strangers to behold it.
Can I escape from myself? My thoughts will follow me everywhere.
I am an outcast, forlorn, ruined.
Such was the dreary monotone that rang through Irma's soul, again and again.
She lay in the darkened chamber from which every ray of light was excluded. She was alone with herself and darkness. Her thoughts were like strange voices, calling her now here, now there. And it often seemed to her as if, with finger pointed at her, her father's fiery hand shone through the darkness.
She could hear Bruno's voice and Gunther's. Bruno wanted to ask her about many things, and Gunther wished to return to the city. Irma answered that she could see no one, and charged Gunther with a thousand greetings to all who loved her. Gunther cautioned the family doctor and the maid to keep a careful watch on Irma, and also sent a messenger to Emma at the convent.
Irma remained in darkness and solitude.
The tempter came to her, and said:
"Why grieve yourself to death? You are young, and the world, with all its beauty and splendor, lies before you. There is not the faintest trace of a mark upon your brow. The hand that left it is cold and stiff in death. Rise up and be yourself again! The whole world is yours! Why pine away? Why mortify yourself? Everything lives for itself; everything lives out its allotted time. Your father completed his life; do you complete yours. What is sin? The dead have no claims on the living; the living alone have rights."
While distracted by grief and doubts, she suddenly saw, arising through the darkness, the vision described in the New Testament, of Satan and the angel contending for the possession of the body of Moses.
"I'm not a corpse!" exclaimed she suddenly. "There are neither angels nor devils. It is all false! In song and story, and from generation to generation, they've been handing down all sorts of fables, just as they do with children whom they lull to sleep in the dark.
"Day has dawned. I can draw the curtain aside, and the whole world of light is mine. Are there not thousands who have erred as I have, and who still live happily?"
She felt as if buried alive in the earth. Fancy ever transported her to that one grave. She rushed to the window.
"Light! I must have light!"
She raised the curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room. She sprang back, the curtain fell and she again lay in darkness.
But she soon heard a voice that went to her heart. Colonel Bronnen had come from the capital to pay the last honors to Eberhard. He begged Irma--his powerful voice was thick with emotion--to permit him to mourn with her for the dead.
All her blood seemed to flow back to her heart. She opened the door and, through the darkness, held out her hand to her friend. He pressed it to his lips, and she heard the strong man weep. Suddenly, the thought flashed upon her that this man could save her, and that she could serve him, and look up to him. But how, could she dare?
"I thank you," said she, at last. "May it ever make you happy to know that you've been kind to the departed and to myself--"
Her voice faltered; she could say no more.
Bronnen departed, leaving her in the dark.
Irma was again alone.
The last stay left her was broken. Had she imagined that Bronnen had picked up fragments of a torn letter which he had found on the road, and that they were now in his pocket, she would have cried out for very shame.
One idea constantly possessed her. What good would it do her to see the sun rise so many thousand times more? Every eye would make the writing stand out more clearly, and certain words had become undying torments to her. Father--daughter! Who would banish these words from the language, so that he might nevermore hear them, nevermore read them?
Her ideas seemed to move in an unfathomable void. Turn it as she might, the one and only thought was ever returning with crushing weight. It seemed exhausting and yet inexhaustible.
Then ensued that numbness of the mind which is best described as the entire absence of thought. Chaos reigned, and what lay beyond surpassed conception. "Let what will come, I shall submit, like the beast led out for the sacrifice, and upon whose head the uplifted axe of the high priest is about to descend. Your destiny must be accomplished; you can do nothing but submit without shrinking."
Irma lay thus for hours.
The great clock in the hall was ticking, and seemed to be saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father. For hours, she could hear nothing but the pendulum, which seemed to utter those words again and again. She was about to give orders that the clock should be stopped, but forebore. She tried to force herself not to hear these words, but did not succeed. The pendulum still kept saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father.
What had once been subject to her caprice, now ruled her.
"What have you seen of the world?" she asked herself. "A mere corner. You must travel round the earth, and let it be a pilgrimage in which you may escape from yourself. You must become acquainted with the whole planet on which these creatures who call themselves men creep about; creatures who dig and plant, preach and sing, chisel and paint, simply to drown the thought that death awaits them all. All is drowned in stupor--"
In imagination, she transported herself far, far away, with faithful servants pitching their tent in the desert; and if some wild race were to approach--While she lay there, half awake, half asleep, she heard the sounds of the tom-tom, and fancied herself borne away on the shoulders of others, and adorned with peacocks' wings, while savage, dusky forms were dancing around her.
What had once been a wild day-dream now possessed her, and her brain whirled in fancy's maddening dance.
It was late at night. All were asleep. Irma gently opened the door and slipped out.
She went to the chamber of death. A single light had been placed near the head of the corpse, which lay in an open coffin and with a few ears of corn in its hands. A servant who was watching by the corpse, looked at Irma with surprise. He bowed to her, but did not speak a word. Irma grasped her father's hand. If that hand had rested on her head to bless her, instead of--
She knelt down and, with burning lips, kissed the cold, icy hand. A distracting thought flashed through her mind: This is the kiss of eternity. Burning flame and icy coldness had met: this is the kiss of eternity.
When she awoke in her room, she knew not whether she had really kissed her dead father's hand or whether it was all a dream. But she did feel that her heart was oppressed by a burden that could never be cast aside.
The kiss of eternity. You shall nevermore kiss warm, loving lips--you are the bride of death.
She heard the bells tolling while they bore her father to the grave. She did not leave her room. Not a sound escaped her lips; not a tear fell from her eye; all her faculties were benumbed and shattered. She lay in the dark. When she heard the pigeons on the window-sill outside, cooing and flying away, she knew that it was day.
Bruno was greatly annoyed by his sister's eccentric behavior. He wanted to leave, and wished her either to accompany him or, at all events, say what she proposed doing. But, thus far, she had not replied. At length, equipped for the journey, he went into Irma's anteroom, where he found her maid reading a book.
Bruno had just stretched out his hand to pat her under the chin, when he suddenly remembered that he was in mourning, and drew his hand back.
He gave his hat to the maid, so that she might put a mourning band on it, and, while doing so, stroked her hand, as if by accident. Then he went to his sister's door again.
"Irma!" he said; "Irma, be sensible; do give me an answer."
"What do you want of me?"
"Open the door."
"I can hear you," she replied, but did not open the door.
"Well, then, I must tell you that no will has been found. I shall arrange everything with you in a brotherly manner. Won't you come along to my house?"
"No."
"Then I must go without you! good-by!" He received no answer and, while waiting, heard steps moving away from the door. He turned toward the waiting-maid, who had in the mean while fastened the crape upon his hat. Bruno kissed her hand and gave her a handsome present.
He set out on his journey at once.
He was just as well pleased to travel without Irma's company. There would be no one to disturb him, and he could more easily give way to his own inclinations. His philosophy enjoined upon him the avoidance of all unnecessary grief; it could do no good, and would simply embitter life.
He was in a self-complacent mood. He meant to take the Wildenort estate to himself, on account of the name. It was, unfortunately, small and, unless he obtained a position under the government, it would not support him in a manner befitting his rank. If Irma should marry, which he hoped would be very soon, he would give her the assessed value of the hereditary estate as her dowry. Bruno returned to the capital, and the first time that he left his house was to visit the jockey club, which was now in session. By paying a moderate forfeit, he hoped to be able to withdraw his horses from the races which were announced to take place within a few days. He was in mourning, and they would, of course, take that into consideration. On the way, he met Gunther and turned back. The doctor was going to the palace.
Never had this man, who, at court, was looked upon as a stoic, shown such agitation as when he brought the news of old Count Wildenort's death.
He told the queen that Eberhard's last moments had renewed the spirit of his better days, and yet he could not refrain from adding that his departed friend had not attained the high point to gain which he had so honestly labored. For, at the last moment he had felt the need of support from without, and was obliged to impress his mind anew with truths he had long since made his own. The queen was astonished at the doctor, who could judge so sternly, even when most deeply afflicted.
"How does our Irma bear it?" cried she.
"Sadly and silently," replied Gunther.
"I think," said the king to the queen, "that we ought to write to our friend, and send a messenger to her."
The queen approved of his suggestion, and the king said to the captain of the palace guard:
"The queen wishes to have a courier sent to Countess Irma at once. Pray attend to the matter. Send Baum."
The queen started with fear. Why had the king said thatshedesired to send a messenger? The suggestion had been his own, and she had merely assented to it. She quickly silenced her doubts, however, and reproached herself that the suspicions she had once harbored had not yet entirely vanished. She went to her room and wrote to Irma. The king wrote, too.
Baum assumed a modest and submissive mien, while receiving orders to start at once as a courier to the Countess of Wildenort. He was to remain with the countess, to be in constant attendance upon her, and, if she desired to travel, he was to accompany her until she should return to court.
When Baum set out with the letters, his face wore a triumphant expression. He was now on the point of gaining the great prize. He had been intrusted with a delicate commission, and he knew what he was about. He felt that they appreciated him, and that he understood them. He looked back toward the palace. The submissive air had vanished. Stroking his chest with his right hand, and holding the left up to his lips, he said to himself; "I shall return as a made man; I shall be lord chamberlain at least."
Baum arrived at the manor-house. The maid told him that Irma would receive no one.
"If she only had a good cry; her silent grief will kill her."
He knocked at Irma's door. It was long before an answer came. At last she asked what was the matter, and when she recognized Baum's voice, she was obliged to support herself from falling, by holding on to the latch of the door. "Had the king come, too?" she asked herself.
Baum said that he had come as a courier to deliver a letter from their majesties. Irma opened the door just far enough to enable her to put out her hand. She took the large letter and laid it on the table. There was nothing that she cared to learn from the world, nor could it offer her any consolation. No one could. At last, toward evening, she drew back the curtains and broke the seal of the large envelope. There were two letters in it; one in the queen's handwriting, the other in the king's. She opened the queen's letter first, and read:
"My dear, good Irma";
(It was the first time that the queen had written so affectionately. Irma wiped her face with her handkerchief and went on reading.)
"You have experienced life's greatest affliction. Would that I were with you, to press your throbbing heart to mine, and to kiss away your tears. I shall not attempt to console you, but can only say that I sympathize with you as far as it is possible to sympathize with griefs one has not yet known. You are strong and noble, and I cannot help appealing to you" (Irma's hand trembled) "to think of yourself and to bear your grief purely and nobly. You are orphaned, but the world must not be a desert void to you. There are still hearts that beat with friendship for you. I am glad--that is to say--I thank fate that I am able to be of some help to you in your sorrow. I need not assure you of my friendship for you, and yet, at such moments, it does one good to tell one's self so. I do not care to spend a single hour in pleasure while you are in affliction. All feelings are shared by us." (Irma covered her face with her hands. Recovering herself, she went on reading.) "Let me know soon what I can do for you. Come to me, or remain in solitude, just as your feelings dictate. If I could only enable you to enjoy the company of yourself as we enjoy it. You don't know how much good you've done me. You have extended the domain of our perceptions and have thus enriched our lives. What nobler achievement can there be! Remain firm and remember that you may always depend upon the friendship of
"Your ever loving
"Mathilde."
Irma laid the letter on the table and involuntarily pushed it far away from that of the king, which was still unopened. Years should elapse--aye, oceans should lie between the reading of the two letters; and yet how often had she listened to them both in the same breath, and looked at them with the same glance.
With a violent movement, as if in anger, she opened the king's letter and read:
"I am deeply pained to know that you, too, my charming friend, must learn that we are mortal. It grieves me to think that your lovely eyes must weep. If that which is noblest be capable of still further purification--and what mortal being is not?--this affliction must needs add to your noble-mindedness. I entreat you, do not soar too high, lest you leave us too far below you. Carry us with you, to the lofty regions in which you dwell."
Irma's features assumed a hard and bitter expression. She went on reading:
"If you mean to torment your beautiful eyes with tears, and your noble heart with sighs, for more than seven days, and desire to remain alone, pray send me word. Should you, however, wish to protract your mourning, and to recover yourself and another self, by travel, decide upon what direction you mean to take. Let it not be too far--not too far into the land of sorrow, a land to which you are a stranger. Be happy again and subdue your grief, cheerfully and speedily.
"Affectionately yours,K."
In the letter, there lay a small piece of paper with the inscription: "Burn this as soon as read."
"I cannot live without you. If I lose you, I lose myself. Your presence is my life. I cannot live, except in the light of your eyes. I want no clouds; I long for the sunlight. Remember the world of thought that dwells beneath your plumed hat. Let that world have its sway, you must not be sad; you dare not, for my sake. You must be mistress of your grief, just as you are mistress over me. Be firm, put all grief away from you, and return to yourKurt.
"The kiss of eternity! I alone can kiss away the sadness that clouds your brow. I can and I will."
Irma uttered a loud shriek, and then gave way to convulsive laughter.
"Can any lips kiss this brow? How would they relish the death-sweat which has already eaten into the flesh? How would that terrible word taste to the lips? Kiss it away! Kiss it away! I burn! I freeze!"
The maid heard the last few words, and endeavored to go to Irma's assistance, but the door was locked.
After some time, Irma raised her head and was surprised to find herself on the floor. She rose and ordered a light and writing materials. She burned the king's two letters, and then sat there for a while, with her weary head resting upon both her hands. At last she took the pen and wrote:
"Queen!
"I expiate my crime, in death. Forgive and forget.
"Irma."
On the envelope she wrote the words, "By the hand of Gunther," "For the queen herself."
Then she took another sheet and wrote:
"My Friend:
"These are the last words I shall ever address to you. We are treading the wrong path, a path full of peril. I expiate my crime. You do not belong to yourself alone; you belong to her and to your country. Death is my expiation. Life must be yours. Be at one with the law that binds you to her and to the state. You have denied both, and I have aided you to do so. Our life, our love, has dealt terribly with you. You could no longer be true to yourself. But now you must again become so; and that completely. These are my dying words, and I shall gladly die, if you will but hearken to me and to your better self. God knows we did not mean to sin; but we sinned, for all. My judgment is written on my brow; inscribe yours in your heart and live anew. All is still yours. I receive the kiss of eternity from death. Listen to this voice and forget it not, but forget her who calls to you. I do not wish to be remembered."
She sealed the letters and hurriedly hid them in the portfolio, for she was interrupted. Emma, or rather Sister Euphrosyne, was announced.
Gunther had sent a messenger to inform Emma of Count Eberhard's death and Irma's despair. The prioress suggested that Emma should hasten to her young friend, to whom they owed so great a debt; and, as nuns were not allowed to travel alone, she was accompanied by a sister who was an experienced nun.
When the maid announced them, Irma started from her seat. This is deliverance! In the convent, shut out from the world, a living death--there shall you wait until they bear you to the grave.
Suddenly the old boatman's words flashed upon her: "A life in which nothing happens."
Her lips swelled with proud defiance. I shall not wait for the end; I'll force it. It was long before she answered the maid:
"My best thanks, but I don't care to see or hear any one."
After uttering these words, Irma felt as if inspired with new strength. That, too, was over.
All was silence and darkness again, and the clock kept on saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father.
From the valley below, she heard the sounds of the vesper bell.
"It must be," said Irma to herself. She drew back the curtains and, looking down into the valley, could see the nuns, clad in their long black gowns, walking across the meadows. Her thoughts went out after them, as she said: "Farewell, Emma!" Then she called her maid and told her to give orders that a horse should be saddled for her, as she wished to ride out. She did not turn her face to the maid. No one should ever look on that brow. The maid helped her on with her riding-habit and riding-hat, the latter ornamented with part of an eagle's wing. Irma started when her hand touched the wing. The king had shot the bird, and had given her the plumes when-- It seemed like a parting, ghostly touch.
She ordered a double veil to be put on her hat, and it was not until she was in perfect disguise, that she set off. She did not look up; she took leave of no one; her eyes were fixed on the ground.
Irma's saddle-horse stood in the courtyard. At her approach, it pawed the ground and snuffed the air. She did not stop to inquire who had brought her horse from the city. She patted its neck and called it by its name: "Pluto." In thought, she was already so far removed from the world that she regarded the beast as a marvel, or as something never before seen. She mounted.
The large dog, a favorite of her father's, was there also, and barked when he saw her. She gave orders to have the dog taken back to the house.
She rode away at an easy pace. She did not look behind her, nor to the right or left. The sun was already behind the tops of the trees. Its broken rays shone through the branches, like so many threads of light, and between the boughs glowed the sky, forming a golden background.
Irma halted and beckoned to Baum, who had been following her, to come nearer. He rode up.
"How much money have you with you?"
"Only a few florins."
"I must have a hundred florins; ride back and get them for me."
Baum hesitated. He wanted to say that he was not allowed to leave the countess, but he could not muster courage enough to do so.
"Why do you hesitate? Don't you understand me?" said Irma harshly. "Ride back immediately."
Baum was scarcely out of sight, when Irma whipped her horse, leaped over the ditch at the side of the road, hurried across the mountain meadow and into the woods. She rode at full gallop, over the very road Bruno had taken a few days before. The horse was spirited and fresh, and proud of its beautiful rider. They knew each other, and it galloped on right merrily, as if in the chase. And there really is a chase; for hark! there's a shot. But Pluto stands fire, and is not so easily frightened. Away he dashed, more wildly than before. The rays of the setting sun shone through the forest shades, lighting up the trees and mosses with their roseate glow. And still she rode on, ever urging her horse to greater speed.
She had reached the crest of the mountain ridge; below, lay the broad lake, glowing with purple.
"There!" cried Irma. "There thou art, cold death!"
Pluto stopped, thinking that his mistress had spoken to him. "You're right," said she, patting his neck; "it's far enough."
She alighted and turned the horse's head. He looked at her once more, with his large, faithful eyes, for she had thrown back her veil.
"Go home. You're to live; go home!"
The horse did not move. She raised her whip and struck it. It started off, with mane and tail fluttering in the evening breeze, as it hurried away along the mountain crest.
Irma paused and looked after it. Then she sat down on the edge of a projecting rock and gazed at the vast prospect and the setting sun.
"O light! O lovely sky! This is the last time I gaze upon you, before I sink into the night of death--"
For a moment, she was wholly absorbed in the view that opened before her. She no longer knew whence she had come, or whither she would go. Her eyes rested on the vast range of towering peaks, summit piled on summit, and, in the distance, a peak overtopping them all. The wooded heights seemed enveloped in a violet haze. The trembling rays of the setting sun gilded the bare and rugged cliffs. High upon the glaciers rested the rosy glow of sunset, ever assuming a brighter hue as it grew darker in the valley below. One mighty, snow-clad peak seemed as if on fire; but a cloud passed over it and, as if lifting a veil, carried the mountain's rosy glow with it. The cloud gradually disappeared in a blaze of glory, and the snowy peaks, standing out against the background of dull sky, looked cold and bleak, as if in death.
The mighty spirit of Death was passing o'er the heights.
Oh! that one might thus vanish into thin air!
A chilling breeze swept over the mountain. Irma shuddered. She passed her hand over her face, and felt that she, too, was growing pale. She rose to her feet and ascended the mountain for some distance, so that she might once more see the fiery ball. She was too late and said aloud:
"Of what avail is it to see the sun a thousand, or twice a thousand times, as long as the day must come when it sets for us, once and for all? And it has forever set to him who lies under the sod and on whose hand decay--"
She felt giddy and sank upon the mossy ground. When she got up again, it was night.
She arose and, holding up her dress, walked down into the dark and thickly wooded ravine below.