On the Heights Part 60

"There's the play-bill. It's all there."

Walpurga read the bill; the hand with which she held it trembled. There were names which the king and Irma had mentioned that day, when she had not understood a word of what they were saying.

"And so you've had that story performed. Oh you--The whole pack of you are--I know--"

Mademoiselle Kramer's' advice stood her in good stead. Walpurga did not venture to utter the thoughts that filled her mind.

On the following evening, there was a court concert. The large hall in the main building was crowded with men wearing gay uniforms and crosses of various orders, and richly dressed ladies. The select court circle were in the hall, and the guests in the adjoining apartments and galleries.

Those who belonged to the queen's small circle, and who had been together yesterday, greeted each other with a familiar air. They did not keep together to-day. It was their duty to mingle with those guests who were less frequently invited. The king was attired in the uniform of the hussars and was in a happy mood. During the pauses, he would walk through the rooms, speaking to this one and that, and would have a pleasant word for every one. The queen looked as if suffering, and it was evident that it cost her an effort to keep up.

It was Irma's habit to enter into cheerful conversation with the singers, who were always seated on a raised platform separated from the rest of the room. The malicious a.s.serted that she did this, in order to make a parade of her affability; but Irma simply believed it her duty to be kind and affable to the artists.

Doctor Gunther was engaged in conversation with the director of the academy and intendant Schoning. They were discussing designs for paintings to decorate the new parliament house, which had recently been completed by the king's orders. The artist regretted that there was no accepted symbol of the const.i.tution. The conventional antique female figure holding a sheet of paper, was always cold and unsatisfactory.

"You re-awaken an old thought," replied the intendant. "What we lack is the myth-creating power and, if you will allow the expression in this case, the court-directing power. Just as there is a field marshal, so should there be a court director who--I mean it seriously--should always have precedence in all affairs of importance, and, at court, should always represent the const.i.tution. Believe me, the const.i.tution is not admitted at court. What I mean is, it is not represented and is, therefore, unknown there. Do you not agree with me, privy councilor Gunther?"

Gunther, rousing himself from a reverie, answered: "There's no longer any use in trying to find myths and symbols to represent things which have been weighed and measured and of which we have distinct conceptions. It would be just as unsuccessful as an attempt to represent the G.o.ddess of reason."

He spoke in an absent manner, for he was constantly watching Irma. She was about to return to the company, when he advanced toward her. She said: "Ah, nowadays everything is according to programme. In olden times, the king sent for a bard with his harp, and the old man, with his white beard, sang wondrous songs. But now, nothing less than an orchestra and a dozen singers will do, and one has the musical bill of fare in his hand."

Gunther did not seem disposed to enter upon the subject, and replied:

"I've been thinking seriously about what you said yesterday."

"I never think about what was said yesterday."

"But I'm a pendant and can't help it. You're right. Emilia would never have been happy with Appiani."

"I'm glad that you agree with me."

"Do you think that Emilia would have been happy with the prince?"

"Yes."

"And for how long?"

"That I don't know."

"She would soon have been undeceived, for this prince is only a selfish voluptuary, one who steals sweets in love and in life; in a word, a dilettante. As long as a dilettante is young, the grace which is inseparable from the vigor and elasticity of youth, lend him what is called an interesting air. But when he becomes older he copies himself, repeats the few phrases which he has heard from others or has, perhaps, blundered together for himself, and, as if disguising his soul with rouge, affects the possession of youthful enthusiasm. Beneath the surface, all is withered, empty, decayed and fragile. It is not without reason that Lessing depicted Hettore as young and handsome, and on the eve of consummating a lawful marriage. He is ready to make Appiani emba.s.sador to his father. Are you not of my opinion?" asked Gunther at last. He noticed that Irma seemed unwilling to answer.

"Oh, excuse me," said she; "I've drunk so deeply of the music of to-day that I've no memory left for the dry affairs of yesterday."

She took leave of him with a pleasant smile and disappeared in the throng.

CHAPTER XI.

Although its advent had been preceded by much gayety and merriment, there were quiet times at court during the carnival season.

The queen was ill.

The excitement of the last few weeks had greatly impaired her strength, and it was feared that her life was in danger.

Irma now spent most of her time in the queen's apartments, and when, at rare intervals, she visited Walpurga, looked pale and worn.

Walpurga still kept on spinning, and the child thrived amazingly.

"Oh, how true were our good queen's words! 'G.o.d be praised, my child!'

said she to the prince, one day, 'that you're healthy and away from me.

You live for yourself, alone.' Yes, she's looked deep into every one's heart, and I think she's too good for this world. Mother's said, a thousand times, that the Lord soon calls those who are always good, and who never get downright angry and furious. Oh, if I could only take my prince home with me! Spring'll soon be here. Oh G.o.d! if he were to lose his mother and me too!"

Thus did Walpurga express herself to Mademoiselle Kramer, who found it no easy matter to console her.

Baum so managed it that there was always something for him to do in the crown prince's apartments. He was no longer importunate, but simply grateful and obliging, in his attentions to Walpurga. He was determined to gain her sympathy, for that was worth more to him than aught else.

And now when Walpurga confided her trouble to him, he said:

"Do I wish you well?"

"Yes, I can't deny that you do," replied Walpurga.

"Then listen to what I've got to tell you. There's nothing more tiresome, or n.i.g.g.ardly, than a good, simple marriage; that is, what they call a 'good marriage.' What does one get by it? Wages, a tip, once in a while from a stranger, or a few bottles of wine which one can make away with. In Baroness Steigeneck's time, it was quite different, for then the valets de chambre and every one about the place grew rich, and had houses in the town, and owned mortgages and estates. But now, thank G.o.d, it'll soon be different again."

"I don't know what you mean," said Walpurga.

"I wish I were in your place, only for one hour," replied Baum. "She thinks more of you than she does of any one. It was here that they came to an understanding, and, if you've a mind to, you can get all the money you want, and woods and fields and meadows besides. All I ask for, is the place of steward at the summer palace."

"And how am I to do all that?"

"Oh you--" laughed Baum. "Haven't you noticed anything? Haven't you eyes in your head? If the queen dies, the king will marry your countess. She's a free countess, and can marry any king; and if the queen doesn't die, it won't matter much anyhow."

"I'd like to box your ears for saying such a thing; and the next minute you'll be cringing and bowing to them. How can you say such a thing?"

"But if it's true?"

"But it isn't true."

"But if it were true, for all?"

"It can't be true."

"But I tell you it is."

"And even if it were-- But, forgive me, good Countess! I don't believe a word of it, it's only he that says it.--If it were true, I'd rather die than ask for the wages of sin. You're a good-for-nothing fellow, and if you ever say such a thing again, I'll tell on you. Take my word for it, I will."

Baum pretended that it was all a joke. But Walpurga could see no joke in the matter, and he was glad when she, at last, promised to say nothing about it. He remarked that he required no mediator and would manage to look out for himself.