The king had arrived during the night. In order to avoid the pomp of a reception, he came unannounced. He regarded himself as a guest of the queen, for whom alone he had ordered the preparation of this modest summer retreat.
On the following morning, Gunther, decorated with his orders, repaired to the farm.
He felt that the tone of their little circle must suffer a change by the advent of any new-comer, even if possessed of a more yielding disposition than that of the king.
Gunther had not seen the king since he waited upon him to thank him for the order he had conferred upon him. He was composed. One point in favor of court forms is that they are fixed and unalterable, as well as independent of passing moods.
Gunther's path led along the slope of a projecting hill, and, on the way, his thoughts involuntarily recurred to Eberhard. The early hour, the mountain air, and the close-fitting uniform--all were just as they had been years ago.
Eberhard had always maintained that unmeaning politeness is only disguised rudeness. He required that every word and act should come from the depths of one's soul, and that, at every moment, life should be truthful. During the years he had spent in solitude, Gunther came to perceive that the concessions he had made to his surroundings had, to a certain extent, involved failure to comply with this precept. He now found his greatest happiness in being perfectly truthful toward himself and the world, and for this reason, in the work in which he expected to sum up the results of his life, he had expressed his feelings without reserve or disguise.
When his eye fell on the farmhouse, he paused to collect his thoughts. He was about to pay his respects to the man who had endeavored to degrade him.
The king stood at the open window and, when he saw Gunther approach, was greatly agitated. If the dignity that befits kings had not forbidden it, he would gladly have called out a welcome to the man whom he esteemed so highly; and if kingly dignity requires this much, it also possesses one great advantage--for while he who desires admittance still waits, he who grants it maintains his natural freedom, or, in other words, is at home while the other is as a stranger.
Gunther sent in his name, and was at once admitted. The king advanced to meet him, and said:
"Welcome, my dear privy councilor! I am heartily glad--" He faltered at the words and, as if changing his mind, added: "I am delighted to have an opportunity to wish you joy! One scarcely knows whether to say that you deserve such a son as Minister Bronnen or that he deserves such a father as you. It's all the same, I suppose," he concluded, with a smile which seemed somewhat forced.
"I humbly thank Your Majesty--" Gunther also hesitated, for it was a long while since he had used this phrase--"for the interest you have graciously manifested in me and mine."
The king and Gunther met under changed and mutually embarrassing circumstances, and congratulations on Bronnen's engagement seemed to afford a convenient subject of conversation. It was, nevertheless, followed by a pause, in which the two men, who had been separated for two years, eyed each other as if each would again impress his memory with the features which, for many years, he had seen almost daily. Gunther had changed but little. His beard was short, thick, and of a snowy white. The king's figure was fuller than it had been. His face wore a deep and earnest expression which harmonized with his winning and amiable deportment. His movements seemed to have gained, rather than lost, in elasticity and vigor.
"I hear," said the king, resuming the conversation, "that you are engaged on a great philosophical work, and I feel that we have reason to congratulate ourselves thereat, for that will afford us an opportunity to enjoy those fruits of your thought which, in our daily intercourse, we are now deprived of."
"Your Majesty, I am reviewing my life and striking a balance. In some respects, there is more, in others, less than I had reason to hope for. I live within myself, and am happy to think that, when I look out into the world, I can perceive that those who are called for great purposes can show a clear balance sheet."
"Growth is slow," said the king. "While driving through the fields yesterday, I thought to myself: how long it takes before the blade of corn becomes the ripened ear. We cannot see how much it grows with each day. We can only note the result."
Smiling, and perfectly unconstrained, he added: "I am imparting my latest observations to you. It seems--it seems--as though it were but yesterday, since we last met. Let us go into the garden."
On the way, the king asked: "How do you find the prince?"
"He has a well-built frame and, as far as I can judge, his mental development is normal and healthy."
In consequence of the long years of separation and the lingering feeling of reserve, there were frequent breaks in the conversation.
"You have again been living among the people," said the king, "and has your experience satisfied you that the popular mind (or, in other words, popular simplicity in thought and manners) is the divinely appointed corrective of the errors of a higher civilization?"
Gunther looked up as if amazed. Was the question an idle one, or did a deeper significance underlie it? Had the king not succeeded in conquering his dislike of popular verdicts? Or did he--as a proof of returning royal favor--merely intend to afford the man whom he had so deeply injured, an opportunity to gratify his vanity by ventilating his opinions?
Quick as lightning, these thoughts flashed through his mind. After a short pause, he replied:
"With Your Majesty's permission, let me, before proceeding to answer you, state the question more distinctly."
"Pray do so."
A pause ensued, just as if they were trying and tuning inner instruments which, coming from unequal temperatures, had not yet been brought into harmony with each other; for although both men were calm and self-controlled, their moods were not in accord.
"If by the term 'popular mind,' you mean those views and states of feeling which are not based upon scientific laws or art traditions, but which seem as fixed and unchangeable as the forces of nature; and if, on the other hand, you apply the term 'corrective' to that which separates us from all that is alien or effete, and leads us, as it were, back to nature--I am prepared to answer your question as well as I know how."
"I am entirely satisfied with the form in which you put the question," replied the king. "I often think that discussions are barren of results, simply because the question was vaguely or imperfectly stated at the start."
Gunther nodded a smiling approval of these words.
"And now for the answer," asked the king, all attention.
"Although I may seem to wander from the point, I shall soon return to it. The event from which it dates, forms a turning point in the history of mankind. Unlike all that went before, the central figure which later generations have idealized, and from which they have drawn inspiration, was not born on Olympic heights. Jesus was born in a manger, and yet kings performed pious pilgrimages to the spot. The fact that the Spirit which is innate with the pure man, could even be born in a manger, among the dumb animals devoted to domestic use, is an enduring proof of pure democracy, or of nobility in that which is lowly. If, however, the manger were, henceforth, to be regarded as alone holy, or the forms and surroundings of popular life be accepted as the only abode of the eternal spirit, or the embodiment of holy nature itself, it would be a perversion of truth, a new orthodoxy, another schism. This much always remains; the spirit of truth appears everywhere--in the manger and in the pillared temple, in the library of the student and on the royal throne in the glittering palace. Buddha, who was one of the greatest benefactors and regenerators of mankind, and who, in the realm of caste, maintained the equality of human rights, was the son of a king.
"And now to return to the question. Whenever a form of civilization has attained its highest development and begins to show its defects, the idea of complete revolution suggests itself. None but violent methods are thought of, and, while the only object to be gained is the bringing about of regeneration, by means of strata which have not yet been exhausted, and which bring new strength to bear, it is deemed necessary to go back to the beginning of all things. But the lower strata cannot, of themselves, effect this regeneration. What is required of them is to be constantly sending fresh strength to those above them. The great masses, considered as such, cannot renew civilization. All that they can do is to furnish new material. It is only in a limited sense that the masses are the bearers of the spirit of the people. Individual men, who have ever preserved their childlike simplicity of soul, just as they received it from nature, and through subsequent development have retained it unimpaired, will now and then rise from among the masses. But the scientific spirit must be united with this childlike feeling, and then an epoch, or an individual, forms a node by which this development is not interrupted but from which it seems to take a new start, forming, as it were, a new growth on the old stem. It is not the people, as a mass, but a certain man or circle that concentrates the spirit of the people within itself, and renews the same individually."
"Is not that aristocracy?" asked the king, in a soft, almost hesitating voice.
"Your Majesty, I dread no term or idea that seems to be the result of logical consistency. Call it an aristocracy, if you will, but it is a democratic one, ever renewing itself. For those who, from generation to generation, represent the spirit of the people, are not taken from the same sphere."
"I understand," said the king, stopping in front of a rosebush. "It is just as here, where every year brings forth new shoots that bear the roses. But pardon me, I interrupted you!"
"I have only to add," said Gunther, "that while the masses, considered as such, are the bearers of civilization, the highest development of this civilization is brought about by the few who are called and chosen for the task. To make my meaning clearer: He who is of average size, is not tall, and he who possesses general culture has naught that distinguishes or elevates him above the rest."
"But who measures and passes upon such claims to such distinction?" asked the king.
"In science and art, it is the sense of being called to do certain things, the individual impulse and energy that give shape to ideas which others have only imperfectly conceived, and which, when they have once found utterance, the masses gladly accept as their own. In state affairs, this call is conveyed by means of elections, which have never before obtained to the same extent as at present. It is of great advantage that the occasional call to vote is opposed, or rather, held in check, by the call which is founded on historic claims. But, whenever the latter fails to be at one with the former, it mistakes its strength, and at last falls."
The king walked on in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. Everything tended to prove that there is a united mind, or totality of thought, which is and must be more powerful than any individual mind. There was no longer the faintest suspicion that this conclusion was the result of an idle question.
Although the king walked on in silence, the break in the conversation was not caused by an unresolved dissonance, jarring his soul's depths.
He was lost in thought, for he had learned how to make a new truth his own by reflection, instead of dismissing it with light and trifling conversation.
"May I ask," said the king, in a voice that betokened great diffidence--"may I ask whether the views which you have just imparted to me, and which have furnished me with much food for future thought, are to be more fully expounded in the work on which you are now employed?"
"Certainly, Your Majesty."
"Then allow me, at once, to pass to a question that concerns our little life and that portion of history which we are to help make."
The king folded his arms and continued:
"Let me be frank with you. You have refused the position of Minister of Education offered you by Minister Bronnen. I can well imagine that you do not care to sacrifice science to the labors of a bureau. Would you perhaps prefer--excuse me," said the king, with an unconstrained smile, "excuse me for using your favorite expression, I did it quite unawares--might I offer you the position of President of the Academy?"
"I humbly request Your Majesty not to consider me as ungrateful, but I have determined never again to enter the busy world. Besides that--Your Majesty knows that I have no false modesty--I frankly acknowledge that my long continued attention to work of a practical nature has, to so great an extent, prevented me from keeping up my scientific studies, that I could not do justice to the position so graciously offered me. I beg Your Majesty to permit me to spend the rest of my life in retirement. I have become an author and desire to remain one."
"I should willingly accord you perfect liberty to express your sentiments regardless of consequences."
"I know that very well, Your Majesty, and at once avail myself of it by telling you that liberty which is accorded us is not perfect liberty. In any elevated position under the state, I would be obliged to respect Your Majesty's wishes and also to have regard to my son's position. I entreat you, therefore, to permit me to be an author and remain one; nothing more."
The king's features betrayed his displeasure. He had done his utmost, had shown by deeds how glad he would be to repair the effects of his former hasty conduct, and here again he was met by the obstinacy he had so often encountered. Did the man expect to hear the king say: "I repent; pardon me?"
An angry reply rose to the king's lips, but he checked himself. Gunther quickly saw what was going on, and esteem for the changed being who was now standing before him, made his eye glisten.
The king had not once mentioned the queen's name. He had not, as would have been so natural, asked him who had been her physician for many years, what he thought of her appearance. Gunther was just on the point of mentioning her, when the king, contracting his brows, asked:
"Have you ever committed an act which you repented of?"
"Your Majesty--my name is Wilhelm Gunther. My life has been a hard struggle and I have often stumbled. I have been young and have grown old, and have come to see that all men receive their true deserts."
"And has it proven so in your case?"
"Yes, Your Majesty, I thank you for asking me that question. And now let me confess.--What I am about to say is without the slightest tinge of bitterness. When I regard a fact as accomplished, I have done with it. I therefore speak of it without embarrassment, just as if I were explaining the operation of some law of nature. Yes, Your Majesty, I have richly deserved all that has happened to me. I was most graciously dismissed from Your Majesty's favor, and it was but just that it should be so."
"That was not what I meant I had no desire to allude to it. On the contrary--"
"Permit me, Your Majesty, to explain the logical line of justice as I have understood it. Under deeply painful circumstances, I misconceived my duty as a man, as the friend and servant of Your Majesty."
"You?" asked the king.
"Yes, I! And that I meant it for the best, is no excuse. We all mean to be good, but we have all of us an equal right to be wise. I endeavored to lead the queen to an elevated plain, from which the petty events of life would appear trifling and easily borne. It was a grievous error. It was my duty to avoid all interference, unless I could avert the impending conflict. You acted rightly and, at the same time, benefited the queen by sending me away. Isolated from every influence, even that of a friend, she could not but gain strength as she has done."
A tear glistened in the king's eyes. He pressed his left hand to his heart, as if to repress a thought that he did not care to reveal.
"I am happy," said he at last, "that my life has made me acquainted with such men as you and our dear Bronnen. We only partially make ourselves what we are. Consciously or unconsciously, we are formed by those with whom we associate."
He pressed Gunther's hand in his, and Gunther was happy to feel that the king's heroic self-glorification was completely subdued--the king's confession being a convincing proof of this.
"Papa!" called a boy's voice from the terrace, "papa!"
They turned in the direction from which the voice had come. The queen, surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of her court, was sitting on the terrace. With anxious eyes, she had followed every movement of the two men. What might they be speaking of? Were these Elysian days to be disturbed by the old and unforgotten wrong?
And now, when she saw the king take Gunther's hand in his own and hold it for a long while, she embraced the prince, kissed him, and then said:
"Call papa."
The two men turned around and with calm and happy countenances, the sight of which was even more refreshing than that of the beautiful and lofty mountains, came upon the terrace. The king kissed the queen's hand, and, for the first time in years, she pressed it against his lips.
When Gunther was taking his leave, the king said:
"Present my compliments to your wife. I shall pay you a visit to-day, before dinner."
Madame Gunther was amazed when her husband informed her that the king was coming. In spite of all explanations, she could not understand how her husband could thus forgive and forget the injury that had been put upon him--for she could not help looking upon it as an injury and an affront, even though Gunther did not so regard it. For the first time in her life, he was unable to change her opinion. In Gunther's forgiving mood, she thought she detected a spirit of submissiveness which was only possible under a monarchy. Her old republican feelings were aroused.
The king and the queen came. The king found Madame Gunther's behavior shy and reserved. He could not know that she still regarded him with suppressed wrath. Was this the man, and ought there really to be one on earth, who could appoint or dismiss Gunther at will? They were standing by the stream that flowed through the garden, when the king said to Gunther:
"I am told that the crown prince's nurse lives in this neighborhood. Will you not have her come here some time?"
"Her majesty the queen does not wish to see her," replied Gunther.
"Do you know why?"
"It lies in the echo of certain sad memories," replied Gunther; and this passing allusion to Irma was the only time she was mentioned. In the short pause that followed these words, the stream murmured louder than before, as if it, too, had something to say.
On the second evening after the king's arrival, Bronnen came, accompanied by the intendant, and found the whole circle happy and complete.
A certain observance of form lent an added charm to country life. With constant freedom, there was yet the protecting presence of the accompanying court circle and servants. Wherever they fixed their resting-place, and wherever they lighted a fire in the forest, for the little prince's amusement, a numerous body of servants was always present, forming a ring to keep off intruding strangers. Paula's manner was calm and composed. Her every movement evinced power and grace. She neither thrust herself forward nor shunned observation. The knowledge that she was in her own home lent charming confidence to her deportment.
During the evening, Gunther's blind nephew, whose appointment as pianist to the queen had been confirmed, played in a masterly manner.
On the following morning he took his first leave of absence, in order, as he said with a smile, to look about the neighborhood and visit old acquaintances.
The king prepared to go hunting.
It was in the morning. Gundel was telling her father how strange cousin Irmgard was. She hardly ever spoke a word; she tasted scarcely anything but a little milk, fresh from the cow: and she seemed so strange. She would lie for hours out on the cliff where she could get a glimpse of the distant lake. The little pitchman was also puzzled by Irma's behavior. For some time past she had done no work, and had given up going with him when he went out to gather herbs.
"I'd like to ask the great doctor down there--the one I fetch the herbs for--what I ought to do," said he, "but Walpurga says I shan't. Besides that, I don't see that there's anything the matter with our Irmgard. I thought of trying something, but I don't know whether it would do any good with a human being. Now if a beast gets sick, all you've got to do is to cut out the sod that he's lying on and turn it, and then the beast will get well again. I wish I knew whether that would help a human being."
"Oh father!" replied Gundel, "that's awful. I'm afraid they'll soon put the sod on our dear Irmgard. She's so good; and when you speak to her it seems as if she has to stop to think of what you're saying, and make up her mind what to answer."
Thus they talked together, and then separated to go about their work for the day, while Irma lay on her blue rug, now looking out at the wide world, now closing her eyes and thinking and dreaming to herself. Her life was a voiceless calm, as if she were part of the animate and inanimate world about her; as if she always had been and ever would remain here: a child of man, to whom no flower, no living thing on earth, nor bird soaring in the air was unknown. The mountains, the clouds, the bright day, the starry night--all were dear and familiar to her.
Irma, as was her wont, was lying on the mossy slope. She gazed into the distance, and then her eyes sought the ground to watch the busy life stirring among the blades of grass and the mosses. Now and then, she would unconsciously raise the mold with her finger and find pine-needles which had accumulated for years and years, and, below them, thedébrisof plants that had been decayed since the world began; hers was the first human eye that rested upon them.
The cows often approached, and grazed near by without disturbing her. She could hear their breathing, and yet did not move. Now and then, the leading cow would stand before her and, with head lifted on high, gaze at the distant landscape. Then it would go on feeding, and, at times, would keep the fodder in its mouth as if it had, while looking at the prostrate form, forgotten that it wanted to eat.
Awake or dreaming, a wonderful life opened up to Irma. The more she rested, the greater was her yearning for rest. Indescribable weariness seemed to have seized upon her. Work and thought wearied her as they had never done in all the years she had passed in the world. She often tried to arouse herself, but could not. She found a peculiar pleasure in this feeling of heaviness, in this resting on the ground. Hundreds of songs and entire musical works passed through her mind. Myriad thoughts arose and floated away with the light breath of air. Nothing could be seized and retained.
It was hot noonday. The heat was intense. There was not a breath of air, even up among the mountains, and the cows were resting in the shade. Irma had walked out alone. The little pitchman had gone to town to deliver some parcels of herbs. Irma wandered on further and further, and at last reached the source of the brook. She was sitting by the broad basin into which the water fell, and which reflected the dark shadows of the overhanging trees. Irma bent forward and saw her image reflected in the water. It was the first time, in many years, that she had seen it, and she now greeted it with a smile. Not a breath of air was stirring; not a sound was heard.
Irma looked about her, and then, hurriedly undressing herself, plunged into the water. She swam about, dived and rose to the surface again, and a feeling of unexpected delight came over her. Only the sun that shone through the branches for a moment, beheld that wondrous lovely form.
All was silent again. Irma had dressed herself and lay dreamily at the edge of the woods, while sweet melodies passed through her soul.
Suddenly, she heard her name called again and again, and in a loud voice. She answered as loud as she could, and at last Gundel came up and said:
"Irmgard, come to the cottage right away. There's a gentleman there with a servant, and he wants to speak to you."
Irma, who had partly raised herself, lay down again. She felt a heart pang. What could it be? Had her time come? and must she again return to the busy world?
She arose to her feet and asked:
"Don't you know who it is?"
"No, but he says he spent the night with us some years ago. He's a tall, handsome young man; but, poor man, he's stone blind."
"The blind man wandering?" thought Irma to herself, turning toward the hut.
"God greet you!" cried she, while still distant.
"Yes, that's your voice," replied the blind man, stretching out his arms and opening and closing his hands. "Come! Come nearer. Give me your hand!" He quickly drew off his gloves with his teeth, and his face wore a strange expression. Irma drew near and took his delicate, white hand in hers.
"Your hand trembles!" he exclaimed. "Does it frighten you to see me blind?"
Irma could not speak, and nodded as if the blind man could see what she did.
The sun's rays fell directly upon the face of the unfortunate one, and his sightless eyes stared into vacancy.
"You've grown thinner than you were," said the blind man. "May I pass my hand over your face?"
"Yes," replied Irma, closing her eyes.
"You're not as beautiful as you were two years ago. Your eyelids are hot and heavy. You must have been grieving. Can I help you? I'm not rich, but I can still do something."
"Thank you. I've learned to help myself." Being addressed in High German, Irma had involuntarily replied in pure German, without a trace of dialect.
The stranger started, turned his head to the right and left, and, while doing so, stretched out his neck so far that it was almost unpleasant to look at him.
Taking him by the hand, Irma led him to the bench in front of the cottage. She felt a tremor while holding this fine and delicate hand in hers, but, gathering all her strength, she repressed it. She sat down by the blind man, and asked him how he had happened to come there.
"You remember," said he, "that when I was with you last, I knew what my fate would be. I wrestled with myself for a long while and learned to know how to bear it. We know that we must all die, and yet we can be cheerful; and I knew that I must lose my sight and became cheerful, too."
Irma heaved a deep sigh.
"Do you understand what I mean?" asked the blind man.
"Yes, indeed. Go on, I like to hear your voice."
"I knew it, and that's why I have come to you. I was down at the farm, but they were all out harvesting, and the child's maid told me that you were up here and so I came to you. I walked a good part of this way before, when I was overtaken by the storm, and I can now, in memory, renew the pleasure with which I once beheld these mountains. What I then told you I intended to do, has come to pass. I have all the beautiful landscapes within me. I can see the sparkling sunlight, the brook leaping over the rocks, the sparkling lake, and the trees standing side by side in the peaceful forest. I kept constantly telling my guide where we were. He was quite beside himself to think that I knew it all so well. But the best of it all is that I have beautiful human images in my mind. My greatest desire was to see you once more. I say 'to see you,'--I mean, to hear you speak, but I see you when you speak."
Irma replied, telling him how well she understood and sympathized with him; and when she spoke to him of the difficulty of walking, how the groping foot first seeks the ground before the muscles are straightened to take a step, the blind man asked, with surprise:
"And how do you know that?" He again stretched out his head and bent it back in the same unpleasant manner as before.
"I once knew a blind man who told me. It is terrible to think that you're obliged to depend upon a stranger. Blind Gloster implores his guide not to forsake him."
"Maiden! Who are you? Was it you who spoke? It was your voice--or is there some one with you? How do you know that?"
"I read it once," said Irma, biting her lips till the blood almost came. "I read it once," she repeated, forcing herself to use the dialect again.
The blind man's head bent low and he held his hands between his knees. A convulsive movement passed over his fine youthful features, as if tears were ineffectually struggling to escape. He leaned his head back against the wall, and at last said:
"So you can read, and so intelligently. Could you--? No, I'll not ask you."
"Ask me what you will. I feel kindly toward you and have often thought of you."
"Did you? You, too?" cried he hurriedly, while he moved his head about in the same strange manner as before. "Maiden!" said he, "give me your hand once more. Tell me, could you give me this hand and let your eyes be mine?"
"Good sir," said Irma, interrupting him, "I should like to feel that your coming here and your going hence were for the best. I think that I can and ought to tell you all. This is the second time I've seen you--"
"I've seen you but once, and yet I shall never forget your face," said the blind man.
"Come with me. I'll lead you, and when we're alone I'll tell you all and prove how grateful I am for your kindness."
"There must be a spot somewhere hereabouts, from which a glimpse of the lake beyond the mountains can be obtained," replied the blind man. "Can you lead me there?"'
"Certainly," said Irma, startled at this wonderful inner life. She led him, across the meadow, to the mountain side.
"Sit down here," said she, "and I'll sit beside you. What I am about to tell you is for you alone. Remember, only for you!"
He raised his hand and exclaimed: "I swear!"
"You need no oath," replied Irma. "Know then that I am one who has vanished from the fashionable world. Ask not for my name. Life in all its splendor was mine, and yet I walked in darkness. I was a wretched worldling! I had sunk so low that I sought to destroy myself. If it were only possible, I would gladly fly way with you--just as the birds are flying--through the rosy, golden glow of evening, and vanish into infinite space. But I've learned to know that life is a duty, and that all we have and are in this world depends upon our finding the world within ourselves and ourselves in the world. You now bear the world within you, where none can take it from you. We can call nothing ours, unless we possess it in that way. And when death comes at last, it takes nothing from us, but simply gives us back to the world--"
"Maiden!" suddenly exclaimed the blind man, "what are you doing? Who are you? No mortal speaks thus! Must I become superstitious? Must I believe in angels? Is there some one with you? Who can it be? Who are you? Give me your hand!"
"Be calm: 'tis I," said Irma, offering him her hand, which he kissed again and again. She withdrew it, and, passing it over his face, said:
"Be calm. I've merely looked out into the world just as you have already done, and while we sit here--two children of the world and yet forgotten by it--we are happy, for we belong to eternity. May you be happy, and may your soul, on wings of music, soar far above all earthly cares. Take my hand once more. Come, let me lead you hence."
Without uttering a word on the way, he suffered Irma to lead him toward the cottage.
When they reached it, he called for his guide and his servant, in a tone of authority.
"Are you going already?" asked Irma.
Leaning on his servant's arm, he left the cottage without answering her.
She again offered him her hand with the words: "The world in us, and ourselves in the world!"
His only reply was a nod, his features again twitched convulsively, as if he were trying to repress his tears.
He had already proceeded as far as the edge of the woods, when he turned around and called out:
"Come here, maiden. I've something to tell you."
She went up to him and he said:
"I'm a nephew of Doctor Gunther, who was formerly physician to the king, and now lives but a short distance from here, in yonder little town. I live with him and am pianist to the queen. If you ever need help, send to me, or to my uncle. He'll help you, I am sure. But, depend upon it, I shall mention you to no one."
Having said this, he hurriedly turned on his heel and, leaning on his servant, descended the mountain.
Irma remained there, looking after him.
Was Gunther alive? And in her very neighborhood?
And now another being carried her half-disclosed life-secret about with him.
The blind man entered the woods and soon disappeared from view. Irma, with eyes bent on the ground, returned to her resting-place, where she remained gazing into the dim distance until night approached.
Over in the woods she beheld a strange-looking, gray cloud with white, glowing edges. It stood as firmly as if it were a wall. Suddenly, as if exhaled from the earth, a gust of wind arose, so violent that the trees bent under its force.
She hurried toward the cottage, and found that the little pitchman had returned.
"I'm afraid we'll have a storm to-night," said he. "The moon isn't up yet and doesn't rise till late, and that's a sign of bad weather."
He went out again, in order to drive in the cows. The boy had gone after the goats, which had strayed off for some distance.
"How the wind blows!" exclaimed Gundel, quite of out breath. It had required all her strength to close the door. "What a storm! There never was such a gust before. Why, the wind's just as hot as if it were blown out of an oven."
She got up quickly and, filling a cup with water, emptied it on the fire that burned on the hearth.
"What are you doing?" cried Irma.
"We mustn't have a fire now," replied Gundel, and, after that, they sat there in the dark room, almost stifled by the smoke, for the storm raged so wildly that they dared not open a window.
"If father were only home," said Gundel; "I hope, for God's sake, he'll get home safe!"
Her last words were drowned by a sudden peal of thunder that reverberated from the mountains, with a crash as if the whole world were being destroyed. And now the wind raged and stormed more violently than before. The firmly built hut seemed to totter, the roof trembled, and one of the great boulders with which it had been secured fell to the ground.
"Give me your hand!" cried Gundel, in the dark. "If we must die--let's pray." She prayed aloud, but the crashing thunder drowned her voice. Suddenly the noise changed, and it sounded as if countless iron hammers were descending on the roof; the rattling, pounding and rumbling created a furious din.
"That's hail!" shrieked Gundel, putting her mouth to Irma's ear.
The thunder and hail continued, and, ever and anon, the lightning would flash through the smoke and darkness, causing the two girls to appear, in each other's eyes, as if transported to the infernal regions. The hailstones seemed to impel each other forward. Now they would descend with mighty force; then the fury of the storm would abate and they would fall more gently and steadily than before, as if the raging mountain demon had stopped to take breath, before again venting his ire on the mortals who had ventured to build a cottage on his lofty domain.
The lowing of the cows and the ringing of their bells were heard above the rattling hail.
"I opened the stable door, but the wind must have blown it shut," exclaimed Gundel; and, forgetting her own trouble, she hurried out. She came back in a hurry, and, placing an inverted pail on her head, went out again. Irma followed her example, and the two of them ducked their heads while the great hailstones rattled against the pails. Gundel tried to open the stable door, but the cows crowded about her so that she was thrown to the ground. In the midst of the noise, Irma heard Gundel's piercing cry. The bellowing, trembling leader cow was standing near Irma.
"Come along!" said Irma, seizing the cow by one of its horns. It obeyed her, and the other cows made way. Irma found Gundel, and, having helped her up, the two opened the stable door, but were almost crushed to death, for the cows all tried to get in at once. They each had but one hand free, as the other was needed to hold the pail. They succeeded in getting to the wall and, at last, when all the cows were in the stable, the two girls waded through the hail with which the ground was thickly covered, and regained the cottage. They groped about until they found the hearth and sat down by it. And the two lonely, forlorn children sat there in the dark, while the storm raged without.
"I feel sure," cried Gundel, "that father must have found shelter somewhere. He knows every overhanging rock and--O God!" she suddenly cried, "just think of the poor blind man, out in such weather! Has the hail cut your hand and back, the way it did mine?" said she, crying, and nestling close to Irma.
"No, I feel nothing," replied Irma, and it really seemed as if physical pain could not affect her. She, too, had thought of the blind man, and also of the king whom filial ingratitude had turned out into the stormy night. But hail or wind were not half so violent as her regret that, yielding to pity, she had allowed a man to pass his hand across her face.
Is all lost again? Is all that has cost so great a struggle, sacrificed? wofully asked an inner voice--and yet she felt conscious of her purity.
"Thank God! it's only raining now," said Gundel at last. She struck a light, and the two looked at each other, as if they had just emerged from depths of darkness. The floor was wet with the water that had dripped from their clothes.
"Are you at home?" exclaimed a voice from without. The door opened and the little pitchman entered, carrying a young kid in his arms.
"Thank God you're safe and sound," he exclaimed, laying the kid down by the empty fireplace. With his sleeve, which was far wetter that either, he wiped the water from his eyes and forehead. Then he took a bottle of gentian brandy from the upper shelf and, after taking a drink, and forcing Gundel and Irma to do likewise, he went on to say: "I've gone through a good deal in my time, but never anything like this. I know every tree and every rock for miles, but I seemed to have lost my way. While I stood there in the midst of the storm, I heard a chamois doe bleating pitifully, and I went up to her and there she stood, with the young kid that had just been born. It had hardly come into the world, before the hail tried to beat it to death. When the mother saw me, she ran away, but came back again and placed herself over the young kid, so that the hail shouldn't strike it, but her instead. I went near her, but the mother ran away again. I picked up the young one and, just as we were going on to look for shelter, I heard human voices. Two people were calling to a third one, who was roaring and screaming. When the lightning flashed, I saw that he was lying on the ground, unable to move.
"'Honored master, just lean on us; we'll soon find shelter,' I heard them saying, and when the lightning flashed again, I saw that we were near the Witches' Table. So I called out to them: 'The Witches' Table is over yonder.' Then there was another flash, and I saw that the two men who had been standing had also fallen down. They told me, afterward, that they had been afraid of me, and I couldn't think hard of them. In such a storm, and on such a night, one would almost believe in anything. I went up to them, told them who I was, and offered to lead them. It was hard work, though, to get along, for the blind man went on as if crazed, and kept talking about a lost child. At last, safe and sound, but dripping with water, we got under the Witches' Table, and there we lay. And whenever it lightened we could see the hailstones dancing on the rocks and beating against the trees. We waited until it stopped hailing, and the blind man told me that the next time I came down to the apothecary's, in the town, he would give me a gold piece. The king's there and so is the queen. He promised to see to it that I should get the medal for saving a life, and a pension, in the bargain, for the rest of my days. And now, children, get to bed, for you're soaking wet. What ails you, Irmgard? Why do you shiver so?"
The little pitchman scolded Gundel for having let cousin Irmgard sit about in her wet clothes. Now and then the little kid would cry piteously and shiver all over, so that the little pitchman brought down his bed-cover from the hay-loft and wrapped the kid in it. Then, with three fingers, he cleverly fed it with milk from a dish.
The little kid was soon asleep, and, in the room within, Irma was sleeping too.
"Thank God, you've had a good sleep," said Gundel, who was standing at Irma's bedside, late on the following morning. "How strange it seems! The hail didn't hurt you a bit and just see how I look." She showed the marks, but quickly added: "That's no matter; it'll soon be over. Just look at the sky! Don't it look as if it never could do any harm. Over by the stream, the lightning struck a tree and split it in two, and places where it used to be dry are covered with water. If I didn't feel it in every bone of my body, and couldn't see it, I'd hardly believe there had ever been a storm. But we were lucky, after all. None of the cattle were hurt, and the cowboy is here, too. He crept away, down the valley, where there was no storm at all."
It was a clear, bracing morning. Here and there, there were still some large hailstones lying in the crevices of the rocks. The cows were grazing on the meadow, and the cowboy was singing merrily. He was proud that the goats were the best judges of the weather; while grazing, they had moved down toward the valley, and that was the surest sign that a storm was brewing.
At noon, Franz came up from the farm. The torrents of water that had rushed down into the valley, had led them to suppose that something had happened, and Walpurga had sent Franz to find out all about it. The hot, midday sun soon dried up everything, and the waters did not long remain on the heights. Irma went out to her favorite resting-place and, spreading her blue rug on the ground, lay down.
Suddenly, she heard the sounds of a bugle horn. What was it? Was it royalty, or a dream?
The sounds were repeated. Irma's heart beat violently. Something drew near. She could hear it panting, as it forced its way through the crackling brush. She looked up and saw a stag rushing through the clearing near by, and the huntsmen pursuing and gaining upon it. Irma passed her hand over her eyes--she looked once more-- It was the king and his suite.
Springing from his horse, the chief piqueur exclaimed: "The stag broke through here. Your Majesty. Here is the trail." He dipped his finger in the blood and showed it to the king. The king looked around--did he feel the glance directed upon him from the thicket? The glance that had once made him so happy, but that had, for him, been so long extinguished? He missed his stirrup; the horse reared wildly. Irma bent down, with her face against the mossy turf. She felt as if the whole hunt, as if all the horses' hoofs, were passing over her. She bit the grass on which she lay. She dug her hands into the earth. She feared to shriek aloud.
When she got up, all was quiet. She stared about her. Had it been a dream? In the distance, she heard the report of a gun and the sound of the bugle. The stag had fallen.
If one could die in that way, thought Irma to herself, sinking back on the moss, and weeping.
She arose. A storm-laden cloud had once more arisen within her soul, but it was for the last time. About her, all was clear and sunny. Hail and storm and lightning were forgotten. She went back to the hut, and often turned to look at the sun sinking in the west. And now, for the first time, she repaired to rest before nightfall. She was shivering with a fever-chill, and soon her cheeks were hot and red. She called the little pitchman to her bedside and asked him to give her a sheet of paper. Her hand trembled, while she wrote in pencil:
"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."
She told the little pitchman to hurry to town, to give this paper to the great doctor in person, and to conduct him to her at once. Then she turned away and was calm again.
"I'll give you something good," said the little pitchman, while, with broad-brimmed hat on his head, and mountain-staff in his hand, he stood before her. "You'll see, It'll do you good. I'll lay the kid down here at your feet; that'll do both o' you good. Shall I?"
Irma nodded assent.
The little pitchman did as he said he would. The kid looked up sleepily at Irma, and she smiled on it in return. Both soon closed their eyes.
Wandering in the dark, the little pitchman descended into the valley.