On the Heights Part 147

Hansei, Walpurga, the king, the queen, Gunther, Emma--what are they all? Mere drops in the ocean of humanity. When I think of myself as a part of the whole, I forget them all. That destroys love for individuals; desire and enjoyment cease, and, with them, pa.s.sion and heartache.

And what am I? What still remains to me? We can conceive the great and complete whole, while our love can only be for the individual, for that which is nearest to us. And the nearest of all is G.o.d, the great idea of universal law.

Walpurga is quite anxious about me. She often comes to me, and it seems as if she wished to say something. She looks at me so strangely, and yet says nothing. She tells me, again and again, how lovely it will be at the shepherd's hut, and how quiet and happy I will be up there. She wishes the mountains were already cleared of snow. She would like me to be away from here, and says that I would soon become strong. And yet I do not feel ill, but she always says: "You shine so!"

I feel as if I had settled my accounts with the world. I am perfectly calm, and it may be that this feeling casts its radiance about me. I could no longer fear the world. I could again live among human beings, for I feel myself free. Nothing more can wound me.

I feel a desire for more perfect solitude. Shall I find greater seclusion, profounder silence, up there? It seems as if I were ever hearing the words, "lonely as death." (mutterseelenallein.) Oh, thou blessed, German tongue! What a blessing it is that, without effort, I bear the rich stores of my mother-tongue within me, and that, when thoughts gush forth from every nook and cranny of the brain, I have some word-vessel at command with which to receive the idea. It seems to me as if I must be always speaking and writing and rejoicing because of this possession.

I must break off. Our most mysterious, our deepest thoughts, are like the bird on the bough. He sings, but as soon as he sees an eye watching him, he flies away.

I can now accurately tell the season of the year and, often, the hour of the day by the way in which the first sunbeams fall into my room and on my workbench in the morning. My chisel hangs before me on the wall, and is my index.

The drizzling, spring showers now fall on the trees--and thus it is with me. It seems as if there were a new delight in store for me. What can it be? I shall patiently wait!

A strange feeling comes over me, as if I were lifted up from the chair on which I am sitting, and were flying, I know not whither!

What is it? I feel as if dwelling in eternity.

Everything seems flying toward me; the sunlight and the sunshine, the rustling of the forests and the forest breezes, beings of all ages and of all kinds--all seem beautiful and rendered transparent by the sun's glow.

I am!

I am in G.o.d!

If I could only die now and be wafted through this joy to dissolution and redemption!

But I will live on until my hour comes.

Come, thou dark hour, whenever thou wilt! To me, thou art light!

I feel that there is light within me. O Eternal Spirit of the universe, I am one with thee!

I was dead, and I live--I shall die and yet live.

Everything has been forgiven and blotted out.--There was dust on my wings.--I soar aloft into the sun and into infinite s.p.a.ce. I shall die singing from the fullness of my soul. Shall I sing!

Enough.

I know that I shall again be gloomy and depressed and drag along a weary existence, but I have once soared into infinity and have felt a ray of eternity within me. That I shall never lose again. I should like to go to a convent, to some quiet, cloistered cell, where I might know nothing of the world, and could live on within myself until death shall call me. But it is not to be. I am destined to live on in freedom and to labor; to live with my fellow-beings and to work for them.

The results of my handiwork and of my powers of imagination, belong to you; but what I am within myself, is mine alone.

I have taken leave of everything here; of my quiet room, of my summer bench; for I know not whether I shall ever return. And if I do, who knows but what everything may have become strange to me?

(Last page written in pencil.)--It is my wish that when I am dead, I may be wrapped in a simple, linen cloth, placed in a rough, unplaned coffin, and buried under the apple-tree, on the road that leads to my paternal mansion. I desire that my brother and other relatives may be apprised of my death at once, and that they shall not disturb my grave by the wayside.

No stone, no name, is to mark my grave.

BOOK VIII.

CHAPTER I.

Gunther received his dismissal. Sated with his experience of the world, he withdrew from its distracting and bustling turmoil. Old and endearing a.s.sociations made it no easy matter for his family to transfer their affections to a new home--and yet the change was brought about without impairing their unity of feeling and affection. Those two pure G.o.ds, love and science, followed Gunther beyond the mountains, and his heart was free from rancor.

Their home circle now was once more perfect. As if returning from a journey around the world, Gunther again found himself at the starting-point--for he knew that he and his would find a free and self-dependent life the source of the most enn.o.bling and beautiful influences.

Naturally enough, they missed the presence of a cultured circle, its refining influences and the opportunity it affords for an interchange of ideas. But he felt that they would stand the test, and would prove that they could give up all this without greatly missing it.

Immediately after his dismissal, he received a most flattering offer of a professorship at one of the great universities. He declined the proffered position. It had been a long cherished idea of his, to improve his knowledge of certain branches of science and to complete certain scientific labors, of which he had thus far merely sketched the outlines. It often grieved him to think that he might quit the world, incomplete in himself and leaving much unfinished work behind him. Life at court, with its constant changes and interruptions, renders connected thought impossible. To mount guard every morning, in full armor; to be ready, at a moment's call, to discuss even the most important subject, in a light conversational manner:--such a life, if persisted in for a number of years, will, in spite of every effort to the contrary, tend to injure one's inner nature.

Fortunately for Gunther, scientific studies and home influences always lent him new vigor. But he was often alarmed lest he should fritter away his life and gradually lose his individuality. To a certain extent, he was perfectly willing to be uniformed; he even admitted that it was both necessary and pleasing, since it represented a remnant of that mental and political discipline which combines and utilizes individuals who were otherwise incongruous and scattered. But, at the same time, Gunther endeavored to prevent any change in himself. He would often, and with special stress, remark that he who suffers any of his essential traits to be thus changed has been subdued and killed by the world, and has ceased to exist as himself.

When, with each succeeding day, he presented himself at court, he came, as it were, from a strange and distant sphere. And it was this which accounted for the severe and almost unbending manner, so often observed in him. He was, nevertheless, forbearing toward the superficiality and the mere desire to please, which he encountered at court, for he well knew that where strength of character or depth of culture do not feed the spring of life, there must needs be some provision for every pa.s.sing hour, and also an inevitable tendency to make all life center about the daily affairs of a small and exclusive circle.

Gunther's so-called inflexibility also lay in the fact that he never misplaced the center of gravity, and thus, when the prop seemed withdrawn, he could yet stand his ground firmly and had no need to seek for strength from without. And now, when the sudden, but by no means unexpected, rupture took place, it was easy enough to lay aside the privy councilor and remain the doctor. He had soon mastered every trace of ill-feeling produced by his great and sudden fall. He regretted to leave his many friends at the capital and the queen especially. He knew that he could still have been of great benefit to her; "but then," said he to himself, "it will be far better for her to seek and gain strength from herself, and without the aid of others."

Thus Gunther left the capital, and, in doing so, realized a life-long wish to return to his native town.

He had almost attained his seventieth year, and looked upon the remnant of life yet accorded him as a peaceful evening of rest--the reward of a well-spent manhood. He desired, as far as possible, to close his accounts with knowledge, in order that night should not overtake him, while so much was as yet incomplete.

Some years ago, Gunther had built a modest house in his native town, and had intended it as a summer retreat for his family, while his children were still young. And now this house was to serve as a resting-place for the remainder of his life. Madame Gunther and the children had cheerfully taken leave of their old a.s.sociations. They bade farewell to friends who were near and dear to them. But their life lay in their home, and this home, with all its visible and invisible treasures, accompanied them to their new abode.

Gunther's sister was the only relative he possessed in the little Highland town. She was an active, bustling hostess. The father, who had been a country physician, died while Gunther was studying at the university. Wilhelm had ever been the idol of the family, and the sister--as well as the mother, up to the time of her death--had always regarded him as a sort of daring and successful navigator. With the a.s.sistance of her grown-up sons and daughters, the sister had put their new dwelling to rights. Gunther's charming home soon became the center of attraction in the little town, and was, in its way, almost as important as the royal palace at the capital.

Esteem and grat.i.tude were the invisible sentries who guarded the house.