"I'm going to the theater this evening," said Baum to Walpurga, in the afternoon of the 22d of January. "They're going to play a great piece. What a pity you can't go, too."
"I've seen enough of masquerading," replied Walpurga. "I shall stay with my child. He's the only one in the whole court who can't disguise himself."
Every seat in the court theater was occupied long before the beginning of the play, and the lively talking among the audience seemed like the roar of the sea. Many wondered at the words on the play-bill:
"In Commemoration of Lessing's BirthdayEMILIA GALOTTIBY ROYAL COMMAND."
They spoke in hints, but understood each other perfectly. Was the performance intended to refute certain rumors? Would the court attend, and who would form the suite?
Three dull knocks were heard. They were the signal that the court had entered the passage leading from the palace to the theater. Every eye, every opera-glass was directed to the royal box.
The queen entered, radiant with youthful beauty. The nobles who occupied the first tier arose. She bowed graciously, and then sat down, and attentively read the playbill that was fastened to the front of the box. The king entered soon after and took the seat beside her. He, too, saluted the nobles who were still standing, and who seated themselves at the same time he did, just as if they were part of himself.
The king reached back for his lorgnette, which was handed to him, and surveyed the audience, while the orchestra played the overture. Irma's wish was realized. Since the new intendant had come into power, there was music at the beginning of the play and during theentr'actes.
"Who's sitting behind the queen?"
"Countess von Wildenort."
She wore a single rose in her brown hair. She was exchanging a few complimentary remarks with Colonel Bronnen, and was smiling and showing her pearly teeth.
A young critic in the pit said to his neighbor:
"It is surely not without design that Countess Wildenort, like Emilia Galotti, wears only a single rose in her hair."
There was so much talking during the overture, that those who desired to listen to the music frequently hissed, but without avail; for it was not until the curtain rose that the audience became silent.
It is not until near the end of the first act of the play that there is any occasion for marked applause. The prince's haste and prejudice are shown in his readiness to sign the death-warrant, while the carriage waits for him. Old privy councilor Rota withdraws the document.
In order to mark the festal character of the evening's performance, the intendant had selected music by celebrated composers, for theentr'actes. The malicious maintained that this was only done in order to prevent discussion of the play, which had not been performed for many years. If this had really been the intention, the lively conversation, both in the royal box and among the rest of the audience, prevented its success.
In reply to a remark of the king's, the intendant said:
"The rôle of Rota, although insignificant, is quite a graceful one, and, in this, Lessing has proved himself the master. Another advantage is that the part can be played by a veteran."
The queen looked around in surprise--was this mere acting, instead of a living, thrilling fact?
They went on with the play. The scene between Appiani and Marinelli aroused tumultuous applause. The queen never once left her place, although it was her wont between the acts to retire to thesalonnear her box; and Irma, as first maid of honor, was obliged to remain in attendance.
Between the third and fourth acts, the lord steward met Bronnen in the corridor and said: "If they would only get through with this confounded, democratic play. The sweet rabble down there may become demonstrative." The next act was the fourth, containing the scene between Orsina and Marinelli. The queen held her fan with a convulsive grasp. She saw and heard all that passed on the stage while, with strained attention, she listened to the quickened breathing of Irma, who stood behind her. She longed to turn round suddenly and look into her face, but did not venture to do so. With one and the same glance, she saw the figures on the stage and watched her husband's countenance. Her eyes and ears did double service. It was all she could do to control herself. The play went on. Orsina and Odoardo--if Irma were now to faint--What then? What had she done in having this piece performed?--Orsina hands the dagger to her father, and at last rises into a frenzy of fury. "If we, all of us," she cried, "this whole host of forsaken ones, were transformed into bacchantes and furies, with him in our possession, and were tearing him to pieces and rending the flesh from his limbs--yea, tearing out his vitals in order to find the heart which the traitor promised to each and yet gave to none! Ah, what a dance that would be! That would--"
If Irma should cry out!--The queen clutched the rail of the box with convulsive grasp. She felt as if she, herself, must cry out to the audience.
But all was as silent as before.
When the scene was over, the king, addressing Irma, in a careless tone, said: "Müller plays excellently, does she not?"
"Wonderfully, Your Majesty, although some parts were overacted. The passage, 'I have nothing to pardon, because I have not been offended,' she gave in too sharp a tone, and her voice seemed unnatural. The sentences of one who had been thus openly humiliated should be more like dagger thrusts; the words should prepare us for the sharp point of the dagger that follows them."
Irma's voice was firm and clear. The queen fanned herself, in order to cool her burning face and prevent herself from betraying her agitation.
One whose conscience reproved her could not have spoken thus. Her voice must have faltered and the terrible lesson of the play itself must have petrified her, thought the queen, as she turned toward Irma and nodded pleasantly.
I am stronger than I imagined, thought Irma to herself, smoothing her gloves. While she heard Odoardo's words, a mist had arisen before her eyes. If it had been her father--and it might have been he. A cry arose from her heart, but did not pass her lips; and now she was quiet and self-composed. The play progressed without interruption, and, when it was over, the audience were not content until they had twice called the Odoardo of the evening before the curtain. The king joined in the applause.
The court party returned to the palace, and retired to the queen's apartments for tea.
The queen was cheerful, as if she had escaped from some danger. For the first time in a long while her bearing was easy and vivacious. A dread load had been lifted from her heart. She was now free and vowed that she would never more think basely of any one; and, least of all, of her neighbor.
They were at tea, and the queen asked her husband: "And had you also never seen the play before?"
"Oh, yes. I saw it on my travels; I forget where it was." Turning toward the intendant, he added: "I think that the costume of the last century was very appropriate. When I saw the play before, it was in modern attire, which seemed quite out of place. In spite of its classic character, the play has a thin crust of powder which one dare not blow away, lest the whole, both scene and action, become unnatural."
The intendant was delighted.
"How do you like the piece?" asked the king of Gunther.
"Your Majesty, it is one of our classics."
"You're not always so orthodox."
"Nor am I in this case," replied Gunther; "I can safely say that I honor Lessing with all my heart and perhaps, indeed, with undue partiality. But in this play, Lessing had not yet arrived at the repose of freedom. It is the result of noblest melancholy, and might be termed fragmentary and incomplete; for the account is not closed, and at the end there still remains an unfilled breach. This, however, arises from the fact that a great historical subject taken from the age of the Romans has been transferred to the cabinet and country-seat of a petty Italian prince."
"How do you mean?" enquired the king. Gunther went on to explain:
"In this play, there is a pathos of despair which reaches its climax in the final question: 'Is it not enough that princes are men? Must they also learn that their friends are demons in disguise?' One might assume that this discovery was a punishment that would cling to the prince for life. Henceforth, he must become a changed man. But this epigrammatic confession of his own weakness and of the baseness of those who environ him, does not seem to me a full expiation. A question, and such as this, at the close of a drama whose aim should be to leave us reconciled with eternal and unchanging law, can only be explained by the fact that the keynote of the whole play is sarcastic. He whom certain things will not deprive of his reason, has none to lose. The fault of the play--Lessing's love of truth would court the boldest investigation--the gap, as it were, lay in the fact that Lessing has transferred the act of Virginius from the Roman forum to the modern stage and has given us, instead of the infuriated citizen with knife in hand, the malcontent Colonel Galotti. The act of Virginius was the turning point that led to a great political catastrophe, after which came revolution and expiation. But in Lessing's play, the deed takes place at the end, and leads to no results. It closes with a question, as it were, or rather with an unresolved dissonance."
Although this explanation had, at first, been given in a somewhat acrimonious tone, it gave great satisfaction. It elevated the subject, and the painful impressions awakened by it, into the cool, serene atmosphere of criticism.
"What struck me as peculiar, in the play," said Irma, unable to remain silent, "was that I discovered two marriage stories in it."
"Marriage stories? and two of them?"
"Certainly. Emilia is the offspring of an unfortunate, or, to speak plainly, a bad marriage. Odoardo, with his rude virtue, and Claudia, so yielding, led each other a terrible life and, in the end, parted without scandal. He remained on his estate, while she took the daughter to the city, in order that she might there receive the finishing touches. Emilia was obliged to devote much of her time to the piano. Papa Appiani was, in a moral sense, always on stilts. Madame Claudia was worldly-minded and fond of society. The fruit of this marriage was Emilia, and her marriage with Appiani would have been just like that of her parents."
"Cleverly expounded," said the king, and, encouraged by his praise, Irma continued:
"Emilia's grandmother may have said: 'I am unhappy, but I would like my daughter Claudia to be happy with good Odoardo, who was then but a captain. And in turn, mother Claudia said: 'I am not happy, but my daughter shall be'; and, at a later day, Emilia would have said: 'I am not happy, but my daughter, etc., etc.' It's an everlasting round of misery and resignation. Who is this Mr. Appiani? A splenetic counselor to the embassy, who is out of employ, and merely marries for the sake of the worthy man whom he thus makes his father-in-law, and who, after marriage, would preach to his wife just as Odoardo had done before him, and with just as much effect. Appiani was worth a charge of powder, or even two, as Marinelli thought. Why had he no eye for the toilette of his betrothed? The very next winter, Emilia would have died ofennuiin the country, or, becoming transformed in spirit, would have founded an infant school on her estate. If Emilia could sing, her melodies would have been like those of Mozart's Zerlina. Masetto Appiani felt that he would not suit, and, although he could not tell why, had good reasons for feeling so bad before the betrothal. Appiani ought to have married a widow with seven children. The man's heart was tender by nature. Had he quarreled with his wife, he would have said, as he did after his dispute with Marinelli; 'Ah, that did me good. It stirred up my blood and now I feel like a new and better man.' Emilia loves the prince and, therefore, fears him. He who becomes her husband by virtue of the marriage contract, has never possessed her love. I would have chosen Appiani for a parliamentary delegate, but not for a husband. Such a man should either remain unmarried, or else take unto himself a wife who founds soup-kitchens; not an Emilia, who is enough of a coquette to know what becomes her."
Irma's cheeks glowed while she thus spoke. She felt as if riding o'er forest and field on a wild courser. She had begun in bitterness and, yielding to imagination, she went on boldly and fearlessly. She had lost all fear and felt a conscious pride in her sway over life itself and all that surrounded her.
The evening which had threatened dire storms had brought refreshing breezes and a purified atmosphere.
The queen breathed freely once more, and felt happy in the midst of this circle of good and gifted people.
Immediately after the play, Baum had hurried to Walpurga and told her: "Oh, what a play we've had. I wonder they allow them to play anything so free. There's a prince who's just about to marry a princess, and has an old love who's still good-looking. He wants to get rid of her and, in the mean while, tries to procure a new one who is very beautiful and whose marriage is to take place that very day. He has a chamberlain who is his friend, but whom he treats quite roughly if he doesn't bring him what he wants on the instant. He treats him as an inferior and calls him a fool one moment, and embraces him the next. So the chamberlain manages to have the bridegroom shot dead and the bride carried away. But, all at once, the old love comes and meets the father of Emilia Galotti and sets him on, and the father stabs his daughter, and she drops down dead."
"And what becomes of the prince and the chamberlain?" asked Walpurga.
"I don't know."
"Tell me once more," said Walpurga; "what was the bride's name?"
"There's the play-bill. It's all there."
Walpurga read the bill; the hand with which she held it trembled. There were names which the king and Irma had mentioned that day, when she had not understood a word of what they were saying.
"And so you've had that story performed. Oh you--The whole pack of you are--I know--"
Mademoiselle Kramer's' advice stood her in good stead. Walpurga did not venture to utter the thoughts that filled her mind.
On the following evening, there was a court concert. The large hall in the main building was crowded with men wearing gay uniforms and crosses of various orders, and richly dressed ladies. The select court circle were in the hall, and the guests in the adjoining apartments and galleries.
Those who belonged to the queen's small circle, and who had been together yesterday, greeted each other with a familiar air. They did not keep together to-day. It was their duty to mingle with those guests who were less frequently invited. The king was attired in the uniform of the hussars and was in a happy mood. During the pauses, he would walk through the rooms, speaking to this one and that, and would have a pleasant word for every one. The queen looked as if suffering, and it was evident that it cost her an effort to keep up.
It was Irma's habit to enter into cheerful conversation with the singers, who were always seated on a raised platform separated from the rest of the room. The malicious asserted that she did this, in order to make a parade of her affability; but Irma simply believed it her duty to be kind and affable to the artists.
Doctor Gunther was engaged in conversation with the director of the academy and intendant Schoning. They were discussing designs for paintings to decorate the new parliament house, which had recently been completed by the king's orders. The artist regretted that there was no accepted symbol of the constitution. The conventional antique female figure holding a sheet of paper, was always cold and unsatisfactory.
"You re-awaken an old thought," replied the intendant. "What we lack is the myth-creating power and, if you will allow the expression in this case, the court-directing power. Just as there is a field marshal, so should there be a court director who--I mean it seriously--should always have precedence in all affairs of importance, and, at court, should always represent the constitution. Believe me, the constitution is not admitted at court. What I mean is, it is not represented and is, therefore, unknown there. Do you not agree with me, privy councilor Gunther?"
Gunther, rousing himself from a reverie, answered: "There's no longer any use in trying to find myths and symbols to represent things which have been weighed and measured and of which we have distinct conceptions. It would be just as unsuccessful as an attempt to represent the goddess of reason."
He spoke in an absent manner, for he was constantly watching Irma. She was about to return to the company, when he advanced toward her. She said: "Ah, nowadays everything is according to programme. In olden times, the king sent for a bard with his harp, and the old man, with his white beard, sang wondrous songs. But now, nothing less than an orchestra and a dozen singers will do, and one has the musical bill of fare in his hand."
Gunther did not seem disposed to enter upon the subject, and replied:
"I've been thinking seriously about what you said yesterday."
"I never think about what was said yesterday."
"But I'm a pendant and can't help it. You're right. Emilia would never have been happy with Appiani."
"I'm glad that you agree with me."
"Do you think that Emilia would have been happy with the prince?"
"Yes."
"And for how long?"
"That I don't know."
"She would soon have been undeceived, for this prince is only a selfish voluptuary, one who steals sweets in love and in life; in a word, a dilettante. As long as a dilettante is young, the grace which is inseparable from the vigor and elasticity of youth, lend him what is called an interesting air. But when he becomes older he copies himself, repeats the few phrases which he has heard from others or has, perhaps, blundered together for himself, and, as if disguising his soul with rouge, affects the possession of youthful enthusiasm. Beneath the surface, all is withered, empty, decayed and fragile. It is not without reason that Lessing depicted Hettore as young and handsome, and on the eve of consummating a lawful marriage. He is ready to make Appiani embassador to his father. Are you not of my opinion?" asked Gunther at last. He noticed that Irma seemed unwilling to answer.
"Oh, excuse me," said she; "I've drunk so deeply of the music of to-day that I've no memory left for the dry affairs of yesterday."
She took leave of him with a pleasant smile and disappeared in the throng.
Although its advent had been preceded by much gayety and merriment, there were quiet times at court during the carnival season.
The queen was ill.
The excitement of the last few weeks had greatly impaired her strength, and it was feared that her life was in danger.
Irma now spent most of her time in the queen's apartments, and when, at rare intervals, she visited Walpurga, looked pale and worn.
Walpurga still kept on spinning, and the child thrived amazingly.
"Oh, how true were our good queen's words! 'God be praised, my child!' said she to the prince, one day, 'that you're healthy and away from me. You live for yourself, alone.' Yes, she's looked deep into every one's heart, and I think she's too good for this world. Mother's said, a thousand times, that the Lord soon calls those who are always good, and who never get downright angry and furious. Oh, if I could only take my prince home with me! Spring'll soon be here. Oh God! if he were to lose his mother and me too!"
Thus did Walpurga express herself to Mademoiselle Kramer, who found it no easy matter to console her.
Baum so managed it that there was always something for him to do in the crown prince's apartments. He was no longer importunate, but simply grateful and obliging, in his attentions to Walpurga. He was determined to gain her sympathy, for that was worth more to him than aught else. And now when Walpurga confided her trouble to him, he said:
"Do I wish you well?"
"Yes, I can't deny that you do," replied Walpurga.
"Then listen to what I've got to tell you. There's nothing more tiresome, or niggardly, than a good, simple marriage; that is, what they call a 'good marriage.' What does one get by it? Wages, a tip, once in a while from a stranger, or a few bottles of wine which one can make away with. In Baroness Steigeneck's time, it was quite different, for then the valets de chambre and every one about the place grew rich, and had houses in the town, and owned mortgages and estates. But now, thank God, it'll soon be different again."
"I don't know what you mean," said Walpurga.
"I wish I were in your place, only for one hour," replied Baum. "She thinks more of you than she does of any one. It was here that they came to an understanding, and, if you've a mind to, you can get all the money you want, and woods and fields and meadows besides. All I ask for, is the place of steward at the summer palace."
"And how am I to do all that?"
"Oh you--" laughed Baum. "Haven't you noticed anything? Haven't you eyes in your head? If the queen dies, the king will marry your countess. She's a free countess, and can marry any king; and if the queen doesn't die, it won't matter much anyhow."
"I'd like to box your ears for saying such a thing; and the next minute you'll be cringing and bowing to them. How can you say such a thing?"
"But if it's true?"
"But it isn't true."
"But if it were true, for all?"
"It can't be true."
"But I tell you it is."
"And even if it were-- But, forgive me, good Countess! I don't believe a word of it, it's only he that says it.--If it were true, I'd rather die than ask for the wages of sin. You're a good-for-nothing fellow, and if you ever say such a thing again, I'll tell on you. Take my word for it, I will."
Baum pretended that it was all a joke. But Walpurga could see no joke in the matter, and he was glad when she, at last, promised to say nothing about it. He remarked that he required no mediator and would manage to look out for himself.
In Countess Irma's apartment, which was just below that of the crown prince and Walpurga, a scene of quite a different nature was going on.
Bruno was there, and thus addressed Irma:
"I'm in trouble, and I can't help saying that it's your fault. Mother Sylph has inflicted herself upon me, and is very much in my way.
"Whom do you mean?"
"My mother-in-law has come and has told me with a smile, that as long as my sister--she, too, might just as well be here."
Irma covered her face with both her hands.
"And do you, too, believe it?"
"What matters it what I believe? It's the town-talk, and that's enough."
"It isn't enough; I shall teach them to talk differently."
"Very well. Go into every house, to every man and every woman, and tell them to think differently. But there's one thing you can do. Shall I tell you what it is?"
Irma nodded a silent assent.
"I know that the intendant sued for your hand last summer. He would feel it an honor to be able to call you his wife. Make up your mind to accept him."
A servant entered and announced the intendant.
"What a strange coincidence! Make up your mind at once."
The intendant entered. Bruno greeted him most cordially, and Irma's welcome was a friendly one.
Bruno soon took his leave. The intendant handed Irma a manuscript play and requested her to read it and give him her opinion of it. She accepted it with thanks, and laid it on a table.
"Ah, when spring returns, I shall not care to hear the theater mentioned. Our theater is a winter plant."
"This piece is intended for next winter."
"I can't tell you how I long for summer. When everything is barren and desolate at present, one can hardly realize that there ever were sunshine and green trees and sparkling seas. Do you remember the balmy day last summer, when we met on the lake?"
"I do, indeed; very well."
A long pause ensued. Irma waited for the intendant to speak, but he remained silent. Not a sound was heard but that made by the parrot hopping about in its cage and pecking at the golden wires.
"I long," said Irma, "to visit my friend Emma next summer. I would like to revel in solitude. This winter has been too noisy and exciting."
"Yes, and besides that, the queen's illness."
The parrot tugged at the golden wires, and Irma slightly loosened the red velvet ribbon on her morning dress.
"Do you intend to visit the lake again?" said Irma, trembling.
"No, dear Countess; I shall visit the various theaters of Germany, in order to engage a second basso and, above all, a young person for the lover's parts. You would hardly believe how scarce youthful lovers have become in the German world."
Irma laughed heartily, while the blood mounted to her temples. She felt quite faint.
The servant announced Baroness Steigeneck.
"I'm not at home," was Irma's hurried reply. "Pray remain a moment longer," said she, addressing the intendant.
He remained for some time longer, and referred to the manuscript, mentioning that the passages to be omitted were marked with a red pencil. Irma promised to read the play, thanked him for the compliment paid her judgment, and conversed in a light and careless tone, until he had left the room. As soon as he had gone, she threw herself on a sofa, where she lay for a long while, weeping bitterly. At last, she looked up, as if bewildered, for she thought she had heard a voice saying: "You meant to--Is there no other course left? Must one who has swerved from the straight path, necessarily sink into the mire of self-abasement?"
Suddenly, she arose, shook her head defiantly and brushed the hair from her face. She ordered her carriage, intending to drive to the sculptor's atelier and resume her work. The servant announced Colonel von Bronnen. "Let him enter," said Irma. A moment later, Irma was apologizing for receiving him in her hat. She was just about to drive out.
"I can call again, dear Countess, and will only leave the messages I have for you."
"Messages?"
"Yes, from your father."
"From my father? Where did you meet him?"
"At Wildenort."
"Were you there?"
"Yes, I had some matters to attend to in the neighborhood, and, without further introduction, called on your father. I felt that I had a right to call myself an intimate friend of yours."
"And how fares it with my father?"
"As it should with the father of such a daughter."
"Of such a daughter--"
"Pardon me, dearest Countess. You are in a hurry, and I am still so impressed by your father's great and noble nature, that I would rather we were both calm--"
"I am quite calm now; pray tell me, have you a message for me?"
"I have not. But it seems to me, dear Countess, as if I were just beginning to understand you.--Oh, what a man your father is!"
Irma looked up in surprise. She thought of Appiani speaking to Odoardo.
The colonel continued, calmly:
"Dear Countess, I am not an enthusiastic youth; but, during the short time I was permitted to spend with your father, I felt as if the exalted existence which had once been my ideal had become a real, living fact. Such perfect communings are impossible unless one feels sure that he is looked upon with favor, and I feel that I have had the good fortune to gain your father's good opinion."
"You fully deserve it. Excuse me, while I lay off my hat. Pray take a seat and tell me more about father." She removed her hat; her excitement had only added to her beauty.
She rang for a servant and ordered him to send the carriage away.
The colonel seated himself.
Irma was all attention. "Now tell me all," said she, brushing back her curls.
"You, of all others, will understand me, when I say that I passed sublime hours with your father. And yet I can recount nothing definite in regard to them. If, while rambling through the woods, I pluck a spray and fasten it to my hat, what can the spray tell of the rustling of the forest, or of the free mountain air? It is merely a symbol, both for us and to those we meet, of the joy that pervades our whole being."
"I understand you," said Irma. They sat opposite each other, and neither of them spoke for some time.
"Did my father mention my brother?"
"No. The word 'son' never passed his lips. Oh, Countess! the man to whom pure love vouchsafes the happiness of becoming a son--"
Emotion seemed to choke his utterance. Irma trembled; her heart beat quickly. Here was a man, noble and highly esteemed, who offered her his heart and hand. Yea, his heart, and she had none to give him in return. She felt a pang that pierced her very soul.
"I feel happy," said she, "that father, in his solitude, has once more seen that this stirring, bustling court contains some worthy men; men like yourself, who stand for that which is best in all things. Do not, I beg of you, reject my honest praise. I know that true merit is always modest, because it is never satisfied with itself."
"Your father expressed the same thought, in the very same words."
"I believe he must have taught it to me; if not in words, at all events by his example. I would have liked to see you and him together. Your presence must have restored his faith in humanity. You are a messenger of goodness, and since you are good, you believe in the virtue of others."
"Where I have once felt respect and love," replied Bronnen, "I am unchangeable. I should like to write to your father at an early day. I should love, dear Countess, to send him the best of news, and in the best words that language affords. Countess Irma, I long to tell him--"
"My dear friend," interposed Irma, "I am, like my father, of a solitary nature. I thank you. You do not know how greatly your visit and all that you have told me, has benefited me. I thank you with all my heart. Let us remain friends. Give me your hand as a pledge. Let us remain friends, just as we have been. I thank you--"
Her voice was choked with tears.
The colonel took his leave. Irma was alone. She lay kneeling near the sofa. Her heart was filled with unutterable sorrow. The coxcomb had rejected her. Then came a man worthy of the best of wives. He loved and trusted her, and she had refused him. His kind and honest heart had a right to ask for full, unbounded love. She shook off the mingled feeling of distress and mortification. The thought that she had acted honorably, soothed her and seemed like refreshing dew to her whirling brain. But then, again, it galled her when she asked herself: "How far have you sunk, that you are obliged to make a show of simple honesty? And where lives the girl who, if not bound by love, has a right to reject the man whom you have just refused? He cannot but esteem you and your love."
She knew not how long she lay there. She laughed and wept, lamented and rejoiced.
Her maid entered. It was time to dress for dinner.
The queen was ill. Her life was saved, but a hope was lost.
It was on a stormy morning in spring, that Baum, caring a little coffin that contained the corpse of a still-born babe, descended the back stairs of the palace. He walked so softly that he did not hear his own footsteps. He was followed by Madame Leoni, the queen's waiting-woman, who held a white handkerchief to her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, a carriage was in waiting. Baum was obliged to tell the coachman, who was not in court livery, where to drive to. Scarcely any one in the palace knew of what was going on.
They drove out of town and toward the church-yard. An unnamed child is not placed in the vault, but is buried in the public cemetery. The grave-digger was waiting for them. The little corpse was lowered into the open grave, without a name or sign to mark its place of burial. About the same time that Baum and Madame Leoni were out at the churchyard, Walpurga was thus writing home:
".... Thank God! all's over. Now I can look forward to happier days. We've had a terrible time here. If all goes well, there are only seven Sundays more till I come home again. I can hardly believe it possible that I've got to go away from here again, and yet I'll thank God a thousand times, when I'm with you once more. If I stay here, I shall grow quite stupid from thinking so much. There's misery everywhere and people take pleasure in each other's wickedness, and, even if it isn't true, they imagine it is and find pleasure in it, besides.
"There was some talk about our getting a place here, where we could all be comfortable for life; but the queen said that it would be better for me to go home, and whatever she says, is right. She's a true queen, just as a queen ought to be. God has made her so, on purpose.
"I'd only like to know why she has to suffer so much.
"Oh, what a time we've had. Every minute, we thought the queen-- There's not another soul like her in the world, and she had so much to bear, and we're all human after all. But now, thank God, all's over. The king's doctor says the danger's over. But, of course, what we hoped for, is gone. I can't tell you how it made me feel, to think that I was so well, and I felt as if I must go to the queen and give up every drop of my blood to save her.
"Whenever I had a chance, I went down to the church--they have their church in the house here--and prayed for the queen. My countess has never once come to me. They say she looks like a shadow. All the passages here are heated and the whole house is just like one warm room, and the people in the palace would pass each other, without taking notice of any one.
"On the evening that the queen thought she was going to die, she sent for me and the child. She didn't say much, but her eyes told it all.
"And now, Hansei, keep yourself ready; you must come for me. Next time I write, I'll tell you the very day when you're to come.
"I feel as if I couldn't wait; and yet it makes my heart ache to think that I must leave my prince, for he loves me so. But I can't help it. I've got a child, a husband and a mother of my own, at home, and am tired of being in service and among strangers.
"Does the storm rage so terribly with you? Oh, how the wind blows. If it would only bear me home. Last night it blew down a tree in front of my window. It was a fine, large tree, and fell on a figure which it broke to pieces. Every one said it was very beautiful, but I couldn't see any beauty in such a thing. It seemed ever so impudent as it stood there, and was enough to make one blush. I could see the tree and the figure from my window, and people are already there, putting things to rights, and carrying all that's damaged out of the way.
"They're very quick about such things here, whether it be a tree, a marble figure, or a dead child.
"Forgive me for writing such a mixed-up letter. When I get home again, I can never tell you all that I've gone through here, if I live to be a hundred years old.
"And when you come, dear Hansei, just put on the clothes that the king sent, and one of the fine shirts that I made for you when we were married. They're in the blue closet on the upper shelf on the left-hand side with the red ribbon. Forgive me for writing all this to you, but you've had to take care of yourself almost a year, and I haven't been able to help you, or get your things for you. Now that will all come right again. I feel as if I were at home already, pulling your shirt-collar straight, as we go to church of a Sunday morning. I feel as if it was some one else who had gone through all this, and as if the days were a high mountain that one can never cross. But all will be right again, and we'll be merry and happy together, for, thank God, we've sound limbs, and true hearts. Forgive me, all of you, if I've ever said a single word to offend you.
"If I had you here, dear Hansei, I'd put my arms round your neck and kiss you to my heart's content. You and the child and mother are all the world to me. I'm just beginning to feel how much I love you all, and I can't understand how I could stay away from you so long, without dying of grief and homesickness.
"Don't forget to bring a large chest with you, for they've given me ever so many things.
"And bring me something out of our garden; one of my pinks, and also one of the child's shoes. But I'll tell you more plainly about this, in my next letter.
"I can't fall into the ways of the court folk. I'm told that they can't touch or dress their own dead. They have it all done by strangers, who are paid for it.
"I've been spinning flax this winter, for shirts for my prince. They were all pleased with it, and came to my room to look on and seemed as much astonished as if it were something wonderful.
"I like to think of working in the fields again, it makes one much healthier. But don't worry, for nothing ails me except that I am terribly homesick.
"And now farewell; a thousand times farewell!
"YourWalpurga Andermatten."
While Walpurga, with slow and heavy hand, toiled at her letter, Countess Irma sat at her desk, in the room below, and dashed off the following lines:
"My dearest Emma: What a night I've passed--I must be endowed with herculean strength, or I should not have lived through it. I have looked into the fiery eyes of the glaring monsters who dwell above and below our daily life and who suddenly, and without warning, burst upon us. You must suffer me to return to you,--to write to you once more. I don't know how long it is since I've done so. You are my fortress, my rock, my shelter. You are firm, immovable, steadfast, patient. When in distress, I come to you. I flee to you.
"It was a terrible night. The tree still stands, but a young blossom was broken off. I came from the queen's apartment; I could not pray, but stood by the window, and thought while I looked out into the night: Thou who renewest everything, who awakenest the earth from its wintry sleep, breathing new life into trees and flowers and all that faded and withered last year--suffer a human heart to renew itself; let past deeds be destroyed and forgotten. Suffer a child of man, regenerate and redeemed, to begin life anew. I stood at the casement, while the wind howled without. Suddenly there was a fearful crash. A tall oak before my window had been broken by the angry wind. The tree toppled and, in its fall, dashed a statue of Venus, which stood beneath it, into fragments. It all seemed like a feverish dream, and when I realized what had happened, my only wish was: Oh that I had been in the statue's place! Oh that I had been dashed to atoms--It would have been far better for me.
"I hardly know what to tell you. I only know that I may again be with you--perhaps to-day, to-morrow, at night or in the daytime, I shall fall on my knees to you and you will lift me up. I shall rest on your heart, and you will protect me. You will save me from the demons; you will not question me; you will give food and drink and rest to the stranger soul, and will not ask whence it comes.
"What are we? What is the world? We see and know all, and yet--
"How ingenious the devices with which the world lulls its conscience into slumber--If there were only no awakening! The awakening--the morrow--that is the most terrible thought of all.
"An eternal kiss rests upon a statue at the arsenal, and the stars, the moon and the sun look down upon it. If I could but climb up there, hurl myself to the earth and destroy myself--the world--everything!
"Should you hear the bells tolling loudly, know that it is my funeral. If there be a gentle knock at your door, think that it is a poor soul that was once so rich--might still be--aye, is. Who can restore a human being to himself? Who draws him out of the lake--out of the lake--
"Why is it that the lake is constantly before my eyes? I see myself in it--I sink! Help me! Save me, Emma! Help me, I sink--!"