On the Heights Part 161

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 pa.s.sing 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.

CHAPTER XIV.

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 gra.s.s and the mosses. Now and then, she would unconsciously raise the mold with her finger and find pine-needles which had acc.u.mulated for years and years, and, below them, the _debris_ of 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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.

"G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s. 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."