The two friends returned to the inn. On their way, they met one of the grooms who had brought their horses, and who now told them of a boatman who had informed him that the body of a woman had been dragged from the lake. It had been near the village, of which a few scattered houses and the church steeple were visible on the opposite shore.
The intendant embraced Bruno, who seemed staggered at the news. They sat down for a while, in the very spot where they had been when the news reached them. The groom said that, by boat, they could reach the village in one hour; but that if they went by land, it would take them several hours.
"I can't cross the water," said Bruno, "I can't to-day; Schoning, don't ask it of me! Don't force me! Why do you torment me so?" he asked impatiently.
The intendant well knew that deep grief makes men unreasonable. In the dark depths of their hearts, there still lurks a feeling of anger, even toward those who most thoroughly sympathize with them, but who, themselves, have been spared by misfortune.
"I take no offense at anything you do," he replied, "and through you treat me rudely, I shall bear it. I understand you, and am far from wishing to induce you to cross the lake. We'll ride."
Their horses were brought, and they rode off in the direction of the village that had been pointed out to them. They passed an inn where a crowd of merry wagoners, boatmen and woodcutters were sitting under the lindens, and drinking beer or brandy. Bruno felt that he was being treated like a fever patient whom they were dragging over hill and dale, and to whose clouded vision the world seemed bare and desolate. When they reached the inn, his mouth watered. He thirsted for drink; perhaps it might give him new strength and, what was still better, might enable him to forget. But he did not venture to express his wish to his friend. Was it proper for one in his position to drink brandy? A poacher, like Thomas, might do so; but it would ill befit a cavalier. While thanking the intendant for the trouble he had given him, and promising that he would never forget it, Bruno, whose tongue was parched with thirst, secretly cursed the friend who would not allow him to drink. Ah, how fortunate it is that words are always at command. It is almost as fortunate as the fact that horses are properly broken in, and keep up their pace so nicely that they give one no trouble.
The friends rode on at a rapid pace. It was high noon when they reached the village which Hansei and his family had left two days before. The landlord of the Chamois was standing at the door, and respectfully saluted the two horsemen with the groom behind them.
They alighted. Bruno handed the reins of his steaming horse to the groom. The intendant led his friend into the front garden, where they sat down. He then insisted on Bruno's taking a glass of wine. The host quickly brought a sealed bottle, and vaunted it as the best wine in the house. He also brought some roast meat and placed it on the table, and as long as he had brought it, it must be paid for, even through it were not touched.
The intendant took the host aside and, in a whisper, asked him whether it was true that the body of a woman had been cast ashore near there.
The host answered in the affirmative, and with a smile of satisfaction. The occurrence was a strange and unusual one, and it was only right that it should enure to his great profit. The intendant again asked him where the house was in which the body lay.
"I'll take you there," said the host, with a smile.
"Send for the burgomaster, also."
"There's no need of that; I'm a member of the council," said he, hurrying into the house and returning with his long coat and his medal. He meant to let the gentlemen see with whom they had to do. He felt sure that they must be people of quality, or else they wouldn't be traveling with a groom, and would have said: "Take your meat away; we shan't pay for it!" He even fancied that he knew one of them.
"Begging your pardon," said he to the intendant, "but some years ago, there was a painter here who looked enough like you to be your brother."
The intendant well knew that it was himself who was referred to, but he was not yet in the mood to renew the acquaintance.
The host accompanied the strangers to Hansei's house.
On the way there, he said: "She was a handsome creature. She was beautiful, but good-for-nothing; and her belongings were as bad as she was: particularly her one brother."
The intendant beckoned the innkeeper to be quiet. Bruno bit his lips until they bled. They found it almost impossible to force their way through the crowd which had gathered in the garden and about the road. There were wailing woman, crying children, and cursing men.
"Make way there!" cried the host. He walked on, forcing a passage for the two men, and Bruno heard some one behind him say: "The handsome man, with the large mustache, is the king."
"No, he isn't; it's his cousin!" said another.
They had entered the garden. Bruno leaned against the cherry-tree, and the intendant motioned to the host to allow his comrade to rest for a little while. Everything seemed to swim before Bruno's eyes. Something touched him, and he started with fear. It was a dead leaf which had fallen from the tree above. At last, addressing Schoning in French, he said:
"What good will it do the dead, if I look at her? And it will harm me forever, for I shall never be able to banish the sight from my memory!"
"You must go in, my friend. Remember that these people have made every effort in their power to restore to life one who was a stranger to them, and they have done this out of pure philanthropy."
"Well, we can give them money for that; but why torment ourselves with these dead remains?"
But Bruno was, nevertheless, obliged to go in; leaning on his friend's arm, he entered the house.
Black Esther now lay in the very spot where Hansei had been two days ago, when thinking of her. Her thick, glossy black hair had fallen over her face; her mouth was open--the last cry that Irma had heard still rested there.
"Esther!" cried Bruno, covering his face with his hands.
"It isn't your sister!" said the intendant consolingly. "Come, let us be off."
Bruno could not move from the spot.
"Yes! sister!" cried the old woman, who now rose up from beside the corpse; "yes, sister. Didn't I tell you to let her alone, even if she did help the beautiful lady? didn't I tell you she'd kill herself, if you beat her again? And now you've had your own way, and here she is, lying in this house! Oh, this house, this house! The lake will wash it away yet. Lake! take the whole house! Who are you? What do you want?" she cried, springing up and seizing Bruno's arm. "Who are you with the black hands? let me see who you are--it's you, is it? you who didn't want to see your father die--and what do you want of my Esther? Great God!--now I see it all. You were the one, you! say you were!--say it--! Don't shut your eyes, or I'll scratch them out for all. It was you--I'll drive a nail into your brain, into the cursed brain that forgot her! Oh, why didn't I know it before! But there's time enough yet. My Thomas has already aimed at you--and he'll have a chance again--"
Bruno fainted. The intendant caught him in his arms, but could not support his weight and, therefore, laid him down on the same floor on which lay the dead body of Esther. The innkeeper hurried out to fetch water, and when they opened the door, several people entered from without, among them Doctor Sixtus, Doctor Kumpan, the notary, and Baum.
Sixtus soon restored Bruno to consciousness. A glance sufficed to inform Baum of what had happened. He supported himself against a door-post, holding fast with desperate grip, lest he should fall to the ground. At the first opportunity he glided out of the room. He was not needed there, and if he were now to betray himself, all might be lost. He dragged himself as far as the cherry-tree, sat down on the bench, buttoned his gaiters, unbuttoned them, took out his watch, counted the seconds, wound it up again, held it to his ear and carelessly played with the watch-chain. He stopped to consider. One great task still remains, thought he to himself, and that I must accomplish unaided. He felt that he had a clue to Irma's whereabouts. Sixtus wouldn't listen to such a thing and ridiculed him. So much the better; the credit would all fall to his share; and for that reason, this was no time to worry about his mother. His sister was dead, and perhaps it was for the best. At any rate, he couldn't restore her to life; but, at some future day, he could, without discovering himself, provide for the old woman.
Baum felt proud of his firmness and stroked his chin with satisfaction.
Within the house, the excitement was not yet at an end. The old woman howled, shrieked, ran about the room, opened the window, and cried: "Strike him dead! Drown him, he drowned her!"
Baum let his watch drop from his hand when he heard these words. The old woman was dragged away from the window, and Doctor Kumpan held her fast. She went back to the corpse.
"Strike us all dead!" she cried, "there's no king on earth, and no God in Heaven!"
The old woman raved; then she would weep, and then would again go back to her child.
"Your lips are open! Say but a word! only one 'yes,' before these witnesses! speak his name! he ruined you and left you to perish in misery! They don't believe me. Say, you!" she exclaimed, addressing the intendant and seizing him at the same time, "say, didn't he utter her name and confess it all? Is nothing to be done to one who leads a poor creature into misery and drives her to death? Speak!" said she, turning to Bruno. "Here! take the ring your sister gave me! I want nothing from any of you!"
Shrieking and groaning, she again threw herself upon the corpse.
Bruno was at last led away. He was as pale as death; his face had been marked by his black gloves. They placed him upon the seat under the cherry-tree. Baum rose and brought some water, so that Bruno might wash his face. He was astonished when he saw the white handkerchief which had been blackened by the spots upon his face.
They went back to the inn. Like a fearful child, Bruno never relaxed his hold of the intendant's hand. At every sound he heard, he fancied that the old woman was coming to scratch out his eyes and to tear out his heart. At last he regained his composure, and asked the intendant what he had said on seeing the corpse. Schoning replied that he had called out "Schwester" (sister), and that the old woman, who had understood him to say Esther, had grown quite frantic in consequence.
Bruno felt comforted to learn that he had not betrayed himself. He, nevertheless, set aside a considerable sum for the life-long support of the old woman from whom Irma had received her last shelter.
"Oh, my friend!" said he to the intendant, "as long as I live, I shall never forget the image of that drowned girl!"
Bruno was so exhausted that he was unable to ride his horse. Doctor Sixtus's carriage was in readiness and he got into it, in order to accompany him back to the capital. The doctor gave Bruno the poor consolation that Irma's body would not be recovered. That of the abandoned girl had floated on the surface. Irma, however--as he had already said,--must have been kept down by her long riding-habit, and would, therefore, never be found.
When taking leave of Bruno, the intendant said:
"Now I know how great a heart you have."
Bruno merely nodded in reply. He did not object. It might be well if the intendant were to say the same thing at court.
When they repaired to the carriage, the whole region was obscured by a misty rain; neither mountain nor lake were distinguishable. Just as they were starting, Bruno called Baum to him and gave him his coat with a red collar, for Baum was to mount Bruno's horse and ride it home. The intendant rode back, accompanied by Baum. He told the lackey to remain beside him, instead of following.
"These are fearful goings on," said Baum, addressing the intendant.
"Yes, terrible. I think the mother of the drowned girl must be crazed."
"Sir," resumed Baum, "there is something I should like to speak to you about. I think that maybe the countess isn't drowned, after all. The court physician has laughed at me, but I have a clue, and--"
The report of a gun was heard. Baum fell from his horse.
"I've hit you this time!" cried a voice.
Thomas rushed forth from the thicket.
"Take me!" cried he, "I caught him after--"
At that moment, he saw Baum's body lying on the ground. In a furious voice, he cried:
"I meant to shoot Bruno, and now it's you! you!"
"Brother! my brother!" gasped Baum. "I'm Wolfgang! Your brother Jangerl--Wolfgang--Zenza--my mother!"
Thomas rushed back into the thicket and, in an instant, the report of another shot was heard.
The intendant was in despair. The rain fell in torrents. Baum gave one more convulsive start. Presently, a merry crowd passed by; it was the excursion party they had met early that morning. The ladies were horror-struck and hastened away; the gentlemen remained to assist the intendant. Peasants were called from the fields to carry Baum's body back to the village; others searched the thicket; and soon brought out the lifeless body of Thomas.
The intendant met the notary in the village, and gave him a full report of all that had happened. Before long, the whole village had gathered at the Chamois. It was no unimportant event, for three of one family to be dead at once. No one would confess to surprise that Baum had turned out to be Wolfgang. They all declared that they had recognized him long ago, even when he had come with Doctor Sixtus to take Walpurga away.
The intendant and the innkeeper sat up late that night. The former had discovered himself as the painter who had been a guest at the inn in times gone by. The host had much to tell about Hansei and Walpurga, and one can readily conceive the tone in which he spoke of them.
When they told Zenza what had happened, she listened with a stolid, stupefied air; nor did she seem to understand them when they told her that the count had left money for her and had promised always to take care of her. She burst into a shrill laugh, and when food was brought, greedily ate all that was placed before her.
Baum, Thomas, and Black Esther were buried in one grave.
The king was at the hunt. The queen was ill. Life at court went on as usual. The ladies and gentlemen dined at the marshal's table, and conversed upon different subjects. They were cheerful, for it was their duty to maintain the accustomed tone.
It was the fourth day after the receipt of the terrible news. It was after dinner, and the ladies were sitting under the so-called "mushroom," a round, vine-covered arbor, situated at the edge of the mountain vineyards. The roof rested, at the center, on a column and, in the distance, resembled an open umbrella, or a gigantic mushroom. They were delighted to have a chance to talk of the preparations for the betrothal of Princess Angelica. They spoke in praise of her noble traits, although she was merely a simple, modest good-hearted girl. They had the court catechism, the genealogical calendar, before them; for dispute had arisen as to the degree in which the mediatized Prince Arnold was related, on his grandmother's side, to the reigning house. Their conversation, however, was simply a makeshift.
Some one remarked that the intendant had returned from his journey. No one, however, knew what adventures he had passed through. They all knew that there had been deaths by shooting and drowning, but as to the "who" and the "how," they were as yet ignorant.
They felt quite happy when they saw the intendant coming in person. They welcomed him in a half-pitying, half-teasing tone. He seemed quite exhausted by his recent experiences. They offered him the most comfortable chair and, placing it in the center of the group, begged him to tell them everything. Although this general homage was not without a touch of irony, the intendant felt quite flattered by it, and was, as usual, ready to play the agreeable. He was always willing to sacrifice everything, not excepting himself, for the sake of being in favor.
He began by telling them of Bruno's deep grief: but that did not interest them. Very well--"as you don't care to hear of Bruno, we'll pass him by." He then went on to give a cleverly arranged account of the terrible death of Baum, who, like a true servant, had been obliged to give up his life for another. However, the death had not been an undeserved one, for he had denied his mother and kindred, and, at last, fell by the hand of his own brother, who immediately afterward killed himself.
The intendant's audience were horror-struck, and found it wondrous strange that so much of the adventurous was concealed in a common-place, everyday lackey like Baum.
"You have at last beheld a tragedy in real life," said one of the ladies.
The intendant well knew that tragedies were no longer in favor, and, in his anxiety to please, recounted some very interesting reports about Walpurga, giving, as his authority, the host of the Chamois, an honest, upright man, who had been decorated for his services in the war.
Whether it was real or afflicted forgetfulness on their part, it is impossible to say,--but the ladies seemed to have forgotten that Walpurga had ever existed--but who can remember all one's subordinates?
For want of some other safe topic of conversation, they listened to various droll stories about Walpurga and her dolt of a husband. Schoning, to use his own words, simply repeated all that the veracious and upright host of the Chamois had told him. Hansei was described as an awkward bumpkin, unable to use his hands or feet, and obliged to call the schoolmaster to his assistance whenever he found it necessary to count the smallest sum of money. One of these stories, introducing a wager and a chamber window, was quite piquant and greatly to the taste of the ladies. They tittered, and scolded the intendant for talking of such things, but Schoning well knew that the more they scolded, the better they were pleased with what he had told them. He found an added pleasure in the opportunity afforded him of using the dialect of the mountain region from which he had but recently returned, and cleverly imitated the voices of the peasants and peasant women who had stood before the window, on the night referred to. He introduced various forcible and unequivocal expressions, and greatly enjoyed shocking the ladies, who would, now and then, cry: "Oh, you horrid man! you terrible man!" One lady actually pricked him with her needle, but he quietly proceeded with his story, well knowing how delighted they were to listen to it.
And if there was no harm in describing Hansei as a dolt, there was just as little in heightening the colors in which Walpurga was depicted--the petticoats of the peasant women are always shorter upon the stage than they are in real life--and thus, with the kindest feeling toward all and merely yielding to his desire to please, the intendant said all sorts of strange things about Walpurga. It had been rumored, he added, that it was not without cause that the pastor had called her into the vestry-room on the first Sunday after her return.
With cautious reserve, he at last confided to him, as a great secret, the story that Walpurga had received immense sums of money from a certain lady who had been a friend of hers. It was, of course, impossible to assign a reason for such gifts, but it was well known that the money had been used to purchase a large farm. They had, indeed, been obliged to remove from their old home; for, even in the country, ill-gotten wealth disgraces its possessors. It had been the talk of the whole neighborhood. The bailiff had also confirmed the report that the whole purchase had been paid for in ready money, and that the price had been more than six times as much as Walpurga had received for her services as nurse.
The intendant again remarked that he did not mean to calumniate any one,--that really nothing was further from his intentions;--but he was determined to be interesting, even though it was at the expense of others, as well as himself.
They were delighted to know that this dressed-up specimen of rural innocence was at last exposed, and only hoped that the queen might also behold her favorite in her true colors.
Care was taken that she should not be left in ignorance of the story.
The king was hunting in the Highlands. He was a veritable sportsman, and, instead of allowing his retainers to beat up the game and drive it within shooting distance, would climb the dizziest heights while in quest of the chamois. His hardened and elastic frame enabled him to sustain any amount of fatigue or exposure, and gained sinewy strength and new ardor from the chase.
The gentlemen of the party felt sure that some important matter engaged the king's mind, and were not a little puzzled how to account for Bronnen's constant and almost exclusive attendance upon the king.
It was well known that Bronnen had declined to take charge of the war office under the Schnabelsdorf ministry, and now it was asserted that Schnabelsdorf was at a disadvantage; for he was only master of the green table and was unable to attend the hunt. Bronnen thus had the king's ear for several days.
Rifles were heard on the heights, and many a beast was killed; rifles were heard in the valley, and two brothers met their death. In the mean while, the capital was filled with murmurs that sounded like the roar of mighty ocean. The queen heard nothing of all this. In her apartments, all was quiet; not a footfall was heard, naught but occasional faint whisperings.
The queen had felt outraged by the manner in which the newspapers she had read, referred to Eberhard's death; and yet the article had been mild and reserved when compared with the utterances of the people.
They reported affairs at court as in a terrible state; it was even said that the queen had lost her reason when she heard the news of Countess Wildenort's death.
People little knew how much of truth lay in this rumor. The night that Irma had spent wandering over hill and dale, was not half so terrible as the thoughts that filled the queen's mind.
She hated and abhorred Irma, and yet envied her her death. A queen dare not commit suicide, for that were without precedent. A queen must patiently submit, while they slowly kill her according to the forms of etiquette--must suffer herself, as it were, to be embalmed while yet alive. And, even then, they do not bury her. No--they simply deposit her in a vault; dignity must not be sacrificed, and, above all, there must be no queenly suicide. They offered to bring her child; but she refused to see it, for Irma had kissed it. She would rub her cheeks again and again; they were impure, they burned,--for Irma had kissed them.
Love, friendship, faith, fidelity, nature, painting, music, eloquence--all were dead to her, for Irma had possessed them all, and now all was a lie and a caricature.
The queen started from her seat with a shudder. She had been thinking of the king, and felt sure that his remorse must goad him to self-destruction. He could not support the thought that she whom he had ruined had still enough of courage and righteousness left to give up her life. How could he live after that? How could he aim his gun at an innocent beast, instead of at himself?
He whose name is on the lips of multitudes to whom he owes duties, may not lay hands upon himself. But what right had he to indulge in conduct which must drag him down from his exalted position? To whom could he look for truth, when he himself--
The queen's thoughts almost drove her mad.
People said that the queen was crazed--it seemed as if a vague feeling had informed them of the yawning abyss that opened before her.
She gave orders that no one should be admitted. She smiled at the thought that she could still command, and that there were still some left to obey her. After some time, she sent for Doctor Gunther. He appeared at once, for he had been waiting in the anteroom.
The queen found it a great relief to confide to him the thoughts that so bewildered and confused her, but she could not force herself to say that she still felt how the king loved her--that is, as far as his wavering, restless nature would permit the existence of what might be termed love. She confessed everything to Gunther, except that--she felt ashamed that she could still associate the thought of love with that of the king.
"Ah, my friend!" said she at last, in a sad tone, "is there no chloroform for the soul, or for a part of it?--a few drops of Lethe? Teach me to forget things, to blunt my sensibility; my thoughts will kill me."
According to his usual practice, Gunther thought it best to produce an entire change of tone, instead of attempting to patch and mend the constitution at every fresh attack. He felt that, as soon as the queen had learned to think and feel differently, his path would be clear. Instead of offering to console her, he simply aided her in developing her thoughts, while he revealed to her the causes that underlie all human action. He treated the subject according to the great maxim of the solitary philosopher who claimed that all human actions are directed by the laws of nature. With those who have attained to a proper conception and understanding of these laws, the idea of forgiveness is out of the question. It may, indeed, be regarded as included in the admission of necessity.
It was thus that Gunther endeavored, as it were, to clear away the rubbish and the smoking ruins that were left after a fire. The fitful flames would, however, still burst forth, here and there.
The queen complained that all seemed chaos to her, and even went so far as to declare the desire to be virtuous as mere folly. The only comfort that Gunther offered her, was that he also knew the utter wretchedness of despair. He was not as one who, feeling himself secure from danger, calls out to him who wrestles with the agony of death: "Come to me: it is pleasant to be here." He was a companion of misery. He told her that there had been a period when he had not only despaired of his heart, and believed neither in cures nor in health, but had even lost all faith in the wisdom that rules the universe.
He acted on the principle that the only way to treat the despondent is to show them what others have suffered and yet have learned to live.
When the consciousness of this truth has dawned upon the afflicted, there is new light, and he enters upon the first stage of deliverance.
"I will impart the saddest confession of my life to you," said Gunther.
"You?"
"There was a time when I envied the frivolous, and even the vicious, their light-heartedness. I desired to be like them. Why burden one's soul with moral considerations, when one may live so pleasantly while seizing the joys the world affords us?"
Gunther paused, and the queen looked up at him in astonishment. He continued calmly:
"I have saved myself, and my rich experience has convinced me that every one of us, even though he strive for excellence, has, so to say, a skeleton closet somewhere in his soul. There must have been a time, if only a moment, when his thoughts were impure, or when he was on the point of committing a sin."
As if reflecting on what he had said, the queen was silent for a long while, and at last said:
"Tell me; are there any happy beings in this world?"
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, are there beings in whom inclination and destiny are in accord, and who are, at the same time, conscious of this harmony?"
"I thank you! I see that you are endeavoring to express yourself with precision. Your Majesty knows that, to a certain extent, I judge persons by their mode of forming sentences. It is not so important to display what is called cleverness, as to be clear and concise in what one has to say."
The queen observed that her friend endeavored to lead her to take a larger view of affairs, and to assist her in acquiring self-command; and, with a sad smile, she asked:
"And do you know the answer to my question?"
"I think I do; Your Majesty knows the story of the shirt of the happy one?"
"I do not quite remember it."
"Well, then, to tell it in as few words as possible: A certain king was ill, and it was said that he could not recover until the shirt of a happy man was procured for him. They searched and searched, and at last found a man who was unspeakably happy, and--he had no shirt to his back. I change the story according to my own conviction. Were I a poet, I would, in fancy, wander from house to house, from town to town, from country to country, describe the life of men in various conditions, and point out that, with all their complaining, they were, nevertheless, happy, or, at all events, as happy as they could be. Every human being is endowed with a certain capacity for happiness, the measure of which is regulated by his nature. It is this which determines how high or how deep, his joys or misfortunes; how blunt or how keen, his sensibility. The measure of happiness assigned to every human being corresponds to the requirements of his nature. Unhappiness is necessary in order that we may appreciate happiness, just as we need shadows to help us distinguish the light."
"And so you think that all people are happy?"
"They are so in truth, but not in reality. The reason is, they are not in accord with the requirements of their nature, and are ever seeking for happiness in that which they have not, or rather that which they are not."
"I do not quite comprehend that, but will endeavor to do so," replied the queen; "but, tell me, can he who is conscious of guilt also be happy?"
"Yes, if he acts freely, and if the knowledge of his guilt makes him more forgiving and more active in good works. Errors, irregularities, or what are termed faults, are the result of excessive or defective endowment, and may, to a certain extent, be described as thebasso relievooralto relievoof character. Faults of excess may be remedied by education and knowledge, but not those of deficiency. Most of us, however, require those who belong to us, and all whom we wish to be noble and great, to fill up the defects of their nature; and that is simply requiring the impossible."
The queen was silent for some time. She was evidently making the doctor's thoughts her own.
"I, too, have a bas-relief fault," said she, at last. "My desire to forsake the religion of my fathers and to embrace a strange faith subjected me to deceit and estrangement, and I regard this as a punishment visited upon me by God or nature. It was this that made the king look upon me as weak and vacillating, and impelled him to leave me. I was the first to think of defection, and defection at last became my punishment!"
The queen wept while uttering these words, and her tears were in pity for herself.
Gunther remained calm and quiet.
The queen was on the threshold of the second stage of knowledge.
"The mere idea of renouncing your faith--and Your Majesty may remember that I never approved of it--" said Gunther, after a long pause, "only served to show that Your Majesty felt the need of possessing convictions which were not alone in accord with your nature, but were also the outgrowth of it. Every clear perception of truth, every conquest over pain, is a transformation, a remodeling of existence, or, as it is sometimes termed, a purification."
"I understand," replied the queen. "Oh, that I knew the system by which the world is governed, and the reasons that underlie human destiny! Why was I obliged to experience this? Has it made me any better? Will it inspire me to nobler actions? Would I not have been far better if my life had remained unclouded? I was full of love for all human beings. Ah, it was so delightful to know of no one on earth who was my enemy, and still more delightful to know no one whom I must hate and detest! And what am I to-day? I feel as if, where'er I turn, a corpse lies in my path. There is no free spot left me on earth! You are a wise man; help me to banish these terrible thoughts!"
"I am not wise; and, if I were, I could not bestow my wisdom upon you. It was a saying of the ancients, that others can show you the apples of the Hesperides, but cannot gather them for you."
"Well, well! be it so. But tell me, would it not be better to grow greater and nobler and stronger in virtue, and in our faith in humanity?"
"Childlike innocence is happiness, but a clear perception of truth is a great gain and, according to my opinion, a necessary and enduring joy--"
"You avoid my question. It seems to me that you, too, are without the key."
"I do not possess it--life is inexorable. All that we can do is to bend to the descending storm, and yet remain steadfast. Sunshine will come again. We are subject to the lesser law of our own nature, and the greater law that embraces the universe. There is not a star that completes its course without deviation. Surrounding planets attract or repel it; but yet it moves on, in its appointed course, teaching mankind the lesson of perseverance."
"You offer remedies, and yet place your trust in the healing powers of nature?"
"Certainly," replied Gunther, "nature alone can help us."
After a while, he added:
"To one who is bowed down by grief, it were useless to suggest refreshing wanderings on the heights. With returning strength, the desire will return; for the will is merely the outward manifestation of inner power. Now, while bending to the blow which has just descended upon you, you are clothed and sustained by the life-giving power of nature. It is this that sustains existence until we again awaken to life and free action. My good mother, in her devout manner, used to say: 'May God help us, until we can help ourselves.'"
"I thank you!" said the queen. "I thank you," she repeated, and closed her eyes.
On the same morning on which the king and Bronnen were closeted together at the hunting-seat, the queen sent for Gunther. He found her clad in white and resting on her couch. She looked pale and feeble, and told him how provoked she felt at the vanity and conceit which had induced her, a young queen, to regard herself as wise and good, and had led her to imagine herself as gifted with unusual endowments.
"Did you know of what was going on here?" she asked the physician.
"No; I would not have believed it possible, and it is only now that I understand the terrible death of my dear friend Eberhard. A father in such grief--"
The queen did not enter into this view of the matter and went on, as if speaking to herself:
"When I recall the days, the hours, in which she sung, I must ask myself, can it be possible to sing such songs and such words,--breathing naught but love, kindness, exaltation, purity--and at the same time have nothing in one's soul? Aye, worse than nothing--falseness and hypocrisy? Every word seems false. Have we a right to be princes, to regard ourselves as superior to others and entitled to rule them, if we do not elevate ourselves above them by purity and greatness of soul? I have become a changed being since yesterday. My soul then lay at the bottom of the sea, and the waves of death and despair raged above me; but now I wish to live. Only tell me how to endure it all. You've been at court so long and despise everything. Don't shake your head; you despise it all--! Tell me, how is one to endure it? How can one manage to live on and yet remain here? You surely possess the mystery; impart it to me, for that alone can save me."
"Your Majesty," replied the physician, "you are still feverish and excited."
"Indeed, is that the sum of all your science? Princes are right when they abuse their fellow-creatures, for even the best of men are naught but polite shadows. I had placed all my dependence upon you; I had looked up to you as one exalted far above me; and where I had hoped to clasp a hand, you offer me an empty glove. You smile; I am not delirious, I've merely awakened to the truth; I have just passed through hours in which the beautiful world--ah! how full of beauty it was--seemed filled with naught but creeping worms and loathsome corruption. Oh, it is terrible! I fancied there was one free being to whom I could tell all, and from whom I could ask everything in return; but you are not the man. Ah! there are no real men in this world. The best are nothing more than title-bearing creatures!"
"You shall not have goaded me in vain!" muttered Gunther half aloud, and rising from his seat.
"I didn't mean to offend you!" cried the queen. "Ah, thus it is; in pain and sorrow, we wound those who are nearest to us!"
"Calm yourself, Your Majesty," replied Gunther, seating himself. "If there is anything for which I may claim credit, it is that I do not indulge my sensitiveness. I am severe toward others, because I am severe toward myself."
The queen closed her eyes, but presently she looked at him intently and said:
"I fear nothing more."
Thus encouraged, Gunther went on to say:
"Human fancy cannot realize how much of vice and misery, nor, on the other hand, how much of beauty, holiness, grandeur and sublimity there is in life.
"Your Majesty, I am here at the palace, which is a world in miniature, a world in itself. All that is terrible, and all that is noble, is attracted hither--and yet, with every returning spring, the flowers bloom and the trees deck themselves in robes of green, while the stars shine over all. There is a blooming flower, a shining star even in the most despicable of beings. A drop descends from the clouds and falls upon the dusty road. The drop and the dust uniting, become the mire of the highway; but to the eye that looks deeper, the drop is still pure, although divided and subdivided until it is almost impalpably minute, and inseparable from the dust that darkens it. But even this image does not suffice. No image directed to the senses, can convey an adequate conception of the Deity. God exists even in the grain of dust. To our eyes, it is dust; but to the eye of God, it is as pure as the water and is equally the abode of infinity. The very people whom you regard as so false would like to be good, if it did not entail so much trouble and involve so many sacrifices. Most men would like to win virtue, but do not care to earn it. They all desire to draw the great prize in the lottery of morality. 'Oh, if I were only good!' said a lost creature to me, one day. Your Majesty, truth tells us that hatred and contempt are not good for they injure the soul. The true art of living requires us to recognize that which is base in its true colors, but at the same time, to avoid debasing ourselves by violent or passionate feelings against that which is wicked or vulgar. You must remove hatred from your heart, and be at peace with yourself. Hatred destroys the soul. You must grow to feel that, viewed in the proper light, vice and crime are simply defects. They may lead to a thousand sad consequences, but, of themselves, have no existence; virtue alone is a reality. Come up higher, unto where I stand, and you will find that you have been tormenting yourself with mere shadows."
"I see the steps," said the queen; "help me up!"
"Naught can avail but self-help. Each must learn to be monarch of himself, even though he wear a kingly crown. The law teaches us that, in order to retain this command over ourselves, we must not permit anger and hatred to dwell in our souls, or to poison so much of the world as is given us to enjoy, be our share great or small."
"I had too much faith in virtue and kindness."
"Very likely. As long as one believes in mankind, there will be deception and despair. We persist in judging our fellow-creatures by what they are as regards us, instead of what they are as regards themselves. And thus, as long as we believe in human virtue, we may, at times, be perplexed at finding ourselves disappointed where we least expect it. As soon, however, as we recognize the Divine in everything, even though the possessor himself is unconscious of it, we have attained a lofty standpoint, from which we feel sure both of ourselves and of the world."
The queen hurriedly raised herself and, extending both hands to Gunther, exclaimed:
"You are a worker of miracles."
"No, I am not that. I am only a physician who has held many a hand hot with fever, or stiff in death, in his own. The healing art might serve as an illustration. We help all who need our help, and do not stop to ask who they are, whence they come, or whether, when restored to health, they persist in their evil courses. Our actions are incomplete, fragmentary; thought alone is complete and all-embracing. Our deeds and ourselves are but fragments--the whole is God."
"I think I grasp your meaning. But our life, as you say, is indeed a mere fraction of life as a whole, and how is each one to bear up under the portion of suffering that falls to his individual lot? Can one--I mean it in its best sense--always be outside of one's-self?"
"I am well aware, Your Majesty, that passions and emotions cannot be regulated by ideas; for they grow in a different soil, or, to express myself correctly, move in entirely different spheres. It is but a few days since I closed the eyes of my old friend Eberhard. Even he never fully succeeded in subordinating his temperament to his philosophy; but, in his dying hour, he rose beyond the terrible grief that broke his heart--grief for his child. He summoned the thoughts of better hours to his aid--hours when his perception of the truth had been undimmed by sorrow or passion--and he died a noble, peaceful death. Your Majesty must still live and labor, elevating yourself and others, at one and the same time. Permit me to remind you of the moment when, seated under the weeping ash, your heart was filled with pity for the poor child that, from the time it enters into the world, is doubly helpless. Do you still remember how you refused to rob it of its mother? I appeal to the pure and genuine impulse of that moment. You were noble and forgiving then, because you had not yet suffered. You cast no stone at the fallen; you loved and, therefore, you forgave."
"Oh God!" cried the queen, "and what has happened to me? The woman on whose bosom my child rested is the most abandoned of creatures. I loved her, just as if she belonged to another world--a world of innocence. And now I am satisfied that she was the go-between, and that hernaïvetéwas a mere mask concealing an unparalleled hypocrite. I imagined that truth and purity still dwelt in the simple rustic world--but everything is perverted and corrupt. The world of simplicity is base; aye, far worse than that of corruption!"
"I am not arguing about individuals. I think you mistaken in regard to Walpurga; but, admitting that you are right, of this, at least, we can be sure: morality does not depend upon so-called education or ignorance, belief or unbelief. The heart and mind which have regained purity and steadfastness alone possess true knowledge. Extend your view beyond details and take in the whole--that alone can comfort and reconcile you."
"I see where you are, but I cannot get up there. I can't always be looking through your telescope that shows naught but blue sky. I am too weak. I know what you mean; you say, in effect: 'Rise above these few people, above this span of space known as a kingdom--compared with the universe, they are but as so many blades of grass, or a mere clod of earth.'"
Gunther nodded a pleased assent, but the queen, in a sad voice, added:
"Yes, but this space and these people constitute my world. Is purity merely imaginary? If it be not about us, where can it be found?"
"Within ourselves," replied Gunther. "If it dwell within us, it is everywhere; if not, it is nowhere. He who asks for more, has not yet passed the threshold. His heart is not yet what it should be. True love for the things of this earth, and for God, the final cause of all, does not ask for love in return. We love the divine spark that dwells in creatures themselves unconscious of it: creatures who are wretched, debased and, as the church has it, unredeemed. My master taught me that the purest joys arise from this love of God or of eternally pure nature. I made this truth my own, and you can and ought to do likewise. This park is yours; but the birds that dwell in it, the air, the light, its beauty, are not yours alone, but are shared with you by all. So long as the world is ours, in the vulgar sense of the word, we may love it; but when we have made it our own, in a purer and better sense, no one can take it from us. The great thing is to be strong and to know that hatred is death, that love alone is life, and that the amount of love that we possess is the measure of the life and the divinity that dwells within us."
Gunther rose and was about to withdraw. He feared lest excessive thought might over-agitate the queen, who, however, motioned him to remain. He sat down again.
"You cannot imagine--" said the queen, after a long pause, "but that is one of the cant phrases that we have learned by heart. I mean just the reverse of what I have said. You can imagine the change that your words have effected in me."
"I can conceive it."
"Let me ask a few more questions. I believe--nay, I am sure--that on the height you occupy, and toward which you would fain lead me, there dwells eternal peace. But it seems so cold and lonely up there. I am oppressed with a sense of fear, just as if I were in a balloon ascending into a rarer atmosphere, while more and more ballast was ever being thrown out. I don't know how to make my meaning clear to you. I don't understand how to keep up affectionate relations with those about me, and yet regard them from a distance, as it were--looking upon their deeds as the mere action and reaction of natural forces. It seems to me as if, at that height, every sound and every image must vanish into thin air."
"Certainly, Your Majesty. There is a realm of thought in which hearing and sight do not exist, where there is pure thought and nothing more."
"But are not the thoughts that there abound projected from the realm of death into that of life, and is that any better than monastic self-mortification?"
"It is just the contrary. They praise death, or, at all events, extol it, because, after it, life is to begin. I am not one of those who deny a future life. I only say, in the words of my master: 'Our knowledge is of life and not of death,' and where my knowledge ceases, my thoughts must cease. Our labors, our love, are all of this life. And because God is in this world and in all that exist in it, and only in those things, have we to liberate the divine essence, wherever it exists. The law of love should rule. What the law of nature is in regard to matter, the moral law is to man."
"I cannot reconcile myself to your dividing the divine power into millions of parts. When a stone is crushed, every fragment still remains a stone; but when a flower is torn to pieces, the parts are no longer flowers."
"Let us take your simile as an illustration, although in truth no example is adequate. The world, the firmament, the creatures that live on the face of the earth, are not divided--they are one; thought regards them as a whole. Take, for instance, the flower. The idea of divinity which it suggests to us, and the fragrance which ascends from it, are yet part and parcel of the flower: attributes without which it is impossible for us to conceive of its existence. The works of all poets, all thinkers, all heroes, may be likened to streams of fragrance, wafted through time and space. It is in the flower that they live forever. Although the eternal spirit dwells in the cell of every tree or flower, and in every human heart, it is undivided and, in its unity, fills the world. He whose thoughts dwell in the infinite, regards the world as the mighty corolla from which the thought of God exhales."
For some time, the queen kept her face buried in her hands. Gunther quietly withdrew.