On the Heights: A Novel

Hansei's eyes blinked, as if there was something in them, and he pulled his hat down over his forehead. Now, while he was pulling himself up by the roots, as it were, he could not help thinking of how thoroughly he had become engrafted into the neighborhood by the work of his hands and by habit. He had felled many a tree, but he knew full well how hard it was to remove the stumps.

The foal grew restive. Gruberwaldl, who had come with them in order to hold it, was not strong enough, and one of the boatmen was obliged to go to his assistance.

"Stay with the foal," said Hansei. "I'll take the oar."

"And I, too," cried Walpurga. "Who knows when I'll have another chance? Ah! how often I've rowed on the lake with you and my blessed father."

Hansei and Walpurga sat side by side plying their oars in perfect time. It did them both good to have some employment which would enable them to work off the excitement.

"I shall miss the water," said Walpurga; "without the lake, life'll seem so dull and dry. I felt that, while I was in the city."

Hansei did not answer.

"At the summer palace, there's a pond with swans swimming about in it," said she, but still received no answer. She looked around, and a feeling of anger arose within her. When she said anything at the palace, it was always listened to.

In a sorrowful tone, she added: "It would have been better if we'd moved in the spring; it would have been much easier to get used to things."

"Maybe it would," replied Hansei, at last, "but I've got to hew wood in the winter. Walpurga, let's make life pleasant to each other, and not sad. I shall have enough on my shoulders, and can't have you and your palace thoughts besides."

Walpurga quickly answered: "I'll throw this ring, which the queen gave me, into the lake, to prove that I've stopped thinking of the palace."

"There's no need of that. The ring's worth a nice sum and, besides that, it's an honorable keepsake. You must do just as I do."

"Yes; only remain strong and true."

The mother suddenly stood up before them. Her features were illumined with a strange expression and she said:

"Children! Hold fast to the good fortune that you have. You've gone through fire and water together; for it was fire when you were surrounded by joy and love and every one greeted you with kindness-and you passed through the water, when the wickedness of others stung you to the soul. At that time, the water was up to your neck, and yet you weren't drowned. Now you've got over it all. And when my last hour comes, don't weep for me; for through you I've enjoyed all the happiness a mother's heart can have in this world."

She knelt down, scooped up some water with her hand and sprinkled it over Hansei's, and also over Walpurga's face.

They rowed on, in silence. The mother laid her head on a roll of bedding and closed her eyes. Her face wore a strange expression. After a while she opened her eyes again, and casting a glance full of happiness on her children, she said:

"Sing and be merry. Sing the song that father and I so often sang together; that one verse, the good one."

Hansei and Walpurga plied the oars while they sang:

"Ah, blissful is the tender tieThat binds me, love, to thee;And swiftly speed the hours by,When thou art near to me."

They repeated the verse again, although, at times, the joyous shouting of the child and the neighing of the foal bade fair to interrupt it.

The singing and shouting was suddenly interrupted by a young sailor, who cried out:

"There's some one floating there! it's a human being-there! the head's over water! don't you see it? there's the long, coal-black hair floating on the water. Some woman's drowned herself, or has fallen overboard."

Every one in the boat looked toward the point indicated. The object rose and fell on the waves. It appeared to be a human face that would, now and then, rise to the surface and sink again. All were dumb with terror, and Hansei rubbed his eyes, asking himself: "Was it imagination or was it reality?" He thought he had recognized the face of Black Esther rising on the waves and sinking again. It floated on, further and further, and, at last, sank out of sight.

"It's nothing," said Walpurga, "it's nothing. Don't let us make ourselves unhappy."

"You're a stupid fellow," said the old boatman, scolding his comrade. "It was nothing but a dead crow or some other bird floating on the water. Who'd say such a thing?" added he in a whisper. "If we get but little drink-money, it'll be your fault. They were so happy that they'd have given us a thaler at least, but now you can see Hansei rummaging in his purse. He's looking for small change, and it's all your fault."

Without knowing why, Hansei had indeed pulled out his purse, and was fumbling in it. He was so bewildered with what he had seen-it was true, after all-but it could not be right-just now-to-day, when all was forgiven and past; and, after all, he hadn't sinned.

In order to regain his composure, he counted out several pieces of money. That restored his spirits. He was able to count; his senses had returned. He had resigned the oar and, with his piece of chalk, had actually been making some calculations on the bench. But he soon rubbed them out again.

"There's the other shore," said he, looking up and lifting his hat, "we'll soon be there. I can see the wagon and horses and Uncle Peter there already. I can see our blue chest."

"Heavens!" cried Walpurga, and the oar remained motionless in her hands. "Heavens! Who is it? Who is that figure? I can take my oath that, while we were singing, I thought to myself: If only my good Countess Irma could see us sitting in the boat together. It would have made her happy to see that, and just then it seemed to me as if-"

"I'm glad," said Hansei, interrupting her, "that we're getting to shore. If this lasts much longer, we'll all lose our wits."

On the distant shore, some one was seen running to and fro. The figure was wrapped in a flowing dress, and suddenly started when the wind wafted the sound of music across toward her. She sank to the earth and seemed to be crouching on the bank. Now that the sound had died away, she arose and fled, disappearing among the bushes.

"Didn't you see anything?" asked Walpurga again.

"Yes, indeed. If I was superstitious, and it wasn't in the day-time, I'd have thought it was the Lady of the Lake."

The boat reached the bank. Walpurga was the first to leap ashore. Leaving her people, she ran toward the bushes as fast as she could, and there, behind the willows, the figure fell on her neck and fainted.

BOOK V

CHAPTER I

The summer was almost at an end when the court returned from the baths.

The king's first official act was to sign the proclamation of the Schnabelsdorf ministry, dissolving the refractory Chamber of Deputies and ordering a new election.

The king was displeased; and yet, that which now surprised him was the inevitable consequence of his previous doings. He had returned in high spirits, but, like an importunate creditor, the state was already thrusting its claims upon him.

He felt happy that his government met with popular approval; but that, he thought, should be a matter of course. And now a great question was to be submitted to the country, and there were doubts as to what the answer might be.

Schnabelsdorf exercised his great conversational gifts, and adroitly endeavored to humor the heroic side of the king's character. But his efforts were in vain.

The whole land was in great commotion, but of this they knew little or nothing at court. The autumn maneuvers had begun, and in a few days the court expected to move to the summer palace, after which, hunting in the Highlands was to begin.

The king had seldom taken so lively an interest in the maneuvers. The ease and precision with which, on such occasions, large bodies of men were moved at will, afforded a suggestive contrast to the spirit of disorganization and breaking away from authority which seemed abroad in the land. Nothing, however, was further from his thoughts than the idea of bringing the two opposing tendencies to bear upon each other.

At the court assemblages, the king always seemed to be in an exceptionally pleasant mood. The greater his ill-humor, the more he regarded it his duty to keep up the outward semblance of cheerfulness. The habit, acquired in youth, of always keeping up his dignity; the knowledge that the eyes of all were upon him; a due consideration for the claims of those about him; the need of always speaking the right word at the right time; above all, the art of ignoring-an art in which others refrain from indulging themselves, and which, for that very reason, requires practice-and, added to this, the consciousness of possessing kingly power: – all this prevented him from betraying the slightest trace of ill-humor. He manifested a lively interest in whatever was going on, especially so, when Irma was present. She, above all, should never find him wavering, for she would have misinterpreted it. It was therefore necessary, in her presence, to keep up that exalted mood which regards dissent or contradiction as impossible, and thus esteems itself as above the law. And yet the king felt the danger of encouraging a secret passion while all his strength was required by a weighty problem, in the solution of which he would necessarily encounter great opposition.

Irma returned from her visit to the seashore refreshed and invigorated. She was more beautiful than ever, but was rarely seen at court, as she spent much of her time with Arabella. On the day after Arabella had given birth to a boy, Irma and the doctor left Bruno's house together.

Irma was about to say: "I am beginning to get tired of this everlasting nursery," but checked herself in time.

The doctor did not utter a word, while accompanying her down the carpeted stairs. His features wore a serious expression. He had been living in the great world for many years, but, even now, it offended his sense of justice when he saw the joys of paternity fall to the share of one who, like Bruno, had led what is mildly termed a "fast life." The doctor pressed the ivory handle of his cane against his lips, as if thus to prevent his thoughts from finding vent in words. Silently, he seated himself in the carriage with Irma. They drove to the palace.

"My sister-in-law has imposed a difficult task upon me," said Irma.

Gunther did not inquire as to the nature of the task, and Irma was obliged to continue of herself:

"She made me promise that I'd inform father of the birth of his grandson. If you were still on former terms of intimacy with him, you would be the best mediator."

"I can do nothing," replied Gunther, curtly. He was unusually reserved in his manner toward Irma. She felt conscious of this, and felt, too, that she no longer had a right to claim unreserved confidence on the part of her friends. But as she did not wish to break with those whom she esteemed, it was necessary to maintain relations of courtesy with them.

"I believe that Bruno's better nature will now assert itself," said Irma. She forced herself to speak, and trembled when she thought that the man who sat beside her might suddenly ask her: "What have you done with your better nature?"

The carriage stopped before the palace. Irma alighted and Gunther drove home.

Once in her room, Irma pressed both hands to her heart as if to allay the storm within. "Must I beg every one to prove his friendly feeling by silence, or to admit that I am right? Those who despise the world's laws and have soared above them, had better cease to live." She aroused herself by a violent effort and began the letter to her father. She complained that she had had no news from him for a long while. She wrote about Arabella, informed him that Bruno had become a steady paterfamilias, and, at last, mentioned the birth of the grandson. She also wrote that Arabella begged for a few lines from the grandfather, and that they would render her happy.

Irma found her letter a difficult task. Her pen usually responded to every varying phase of feeling; but, that day, it seemed to stumble and hesitate. She leaned back in her chair, and picked up a letter that she had found lying there. It was Walpurga's. She smiled while reading it, and enjoyed the satisfaction of having benefited a fellow-creature who, although distant, held her in faithful remembrance.

The waiting-maid announced Bruno's groom. Irma had him come in. He had come to express his master's desire that the gracious countess should at once dispatch the letter she had promised to write, and said that he had been ordered to take it to the post-office himself. Irma sealed it and gave it to him.

Bruno, seated in his dog-cart, was waiting at the corner of the palace square. The groom handed him the letter. Bruno put it in his pocket. He drove to the post-office and, with his own hands, dropped a letter into the box. This epistle, however, was directed to a lady. The one intended for his father he retained in his possession. He was determined not to humble himself, either through his sister or his wife.

The box into which Bruno dropped the perfumed billet-doux contained letters for old Eberhard, – letters which Bruno could not intercept.

CHAPTER II

On the very morning that his first grandchild was born, Count Eberhard was returning, with a light heart, from a walk in the fields. They had begun, that day, to gather the first harvest from a large, tray-formed tract of land which had once been a swamp. Eberhard had drained the desolate tract with great care and judgment, and now it produced unequaled crops. The sight of the ripened grain waving in the gentle breeze, inspired him with pure and happy feelings, and he thought of the generations to come, who would derive sustenance from a tract of land rendered fertile by him.

He felt no desire to impart his happiness to another. He had accustomed himself, in the past, to live within himself. His one real life-burden he had confessed to his daughter. He thoroughly enjoyed the repose which solitude alone affords. He imagined that pure reflection had conquered all passion. He always obeyed the inner voice of nature; there was no one for whose sake he was obliged to repress it. He had faithfully endeavored to perfect himself, and, while placing himself beyond the reach of temptation, had, at the same time, withdrawn from social activity.

When he left his work in field or forest, it was to commune with those great ones who had long since left the world, and with whose profoundest thoughts he felt himself in full accord.

He had just come in from the fields and was about to repair to his library, there to converse with a spirit that had long since left this world. His step was steady, his mind was calm and placid. He could, at will, preserve a certain state of feeling, or resign himself to the guidance of a spirit living in another sphere. His life lay in two distinct spheres, and yet the transition from one to the other was never violent.

The impressions of the moment had already clothed themselves in words, and he was about to note them down in a little book which bore the inscription: "Self-redemption."

Entering the manor-house, he found a number of persons waiting for him in the great, long, harvest hall, which was hung with garlands and wreaths. They saluted him as he approached. The village burgomaster, who had, hitherto, represented that district at the Diet, and many other persons of local importance were assembled there. The burgomaster was the spokesman of the party, and stated that, in the forthcoming election, it would be necessary to relinquish the field to blockheads and bigots, unless they could nominate a candidate whose high personal character and influence would secure them victory. Colonel Bronnen, who had been recommended by Count Eberhard, had refused to stand, and now Count Eberhard was the only one who could defeat the enemy. The electors said that they well knew what a sacrifice it would be for him to take part in the canvass. They had, therefore, waited until now, the day of the election, and they urgently entreated him not to withdraw at the eleventh hour.

"Yes," added the burgomaster, "you've drained a swamp and carried off the foul water; and now you must help us in this, too."

To their great surprise and delight, Eberhard, without further objection, declared his willingness to stand. He had succeeded in one undertaking, and, from a sense of duty, felt that he had no right to avoid assuming the greater trust now offered him. The old enemy was still in force, and it was meet that the old warriors should go forth to battle against him.

The friends left and, after giving a few orders to the servants, Eberhard followed. He rode a large, powerful horse, such as a large, strong man requires. He caught up with his friends before they reached the town, and thus made his entry with quite a following.

He presented himself before the assembled electors. The hall was almost full. The people were astonished to see the count, but the glances turned toward him were soon withdrawn, and much whispered conversation ensued. Making his way through the crowd, Eberhard walked up to the speaker's stand. Few stood up or greeted him. Why was it? At other times, the crowd would always make way for him; but to-day, he had to push his way through them. It almost vexed him, but he controlled himself. "This is the true effect of free thought; homage should not be bestowed according to custom and precedence; it should only be for those who have earned it. You are still an aristocrat at heart, and are still filled with pride of ancestry-pride in your own past." Such were the thoughts that passed through his mind, while, with a smile, he rejoiced in the victory he had won over himself.

The first one to mount the speaker's stand was the candidate of the "Blacks," as the popular party termed their opponents. He spoke with cleverness, but without fervor, and it was evident that his address had been carefully studied. He made several clever points, however, which were received with loud applause.

The retiring delegate came forward and, stating that he declined a re-election, proposed Count Eberhard of Wildenort, the tried champion of freedom and popular rights.

The assembly seemed taken by surprise. There was but little clapping of hands, and few bravos were heard.

Count Eberhard was quite taken aback by this cold reception, and looked about him in astonishment. The burgomaster whispered to him that this was a sure sign of victory, and that the enemy was confounded. Eberhard merely nodded. A strange feeling of embarrassment arose within him. He repressed it, and mounted the speaker's stand. With every step, he gained in courage and became more fully persuaded that it was his duty to defend the new trust without regard to thought of self. He began his speech by giving an account of his past life and struggles, adding, with a smile, that there were many present who, like himself, had gray hairs, and that there was no need of telling them what he desired. He was glad, however, to find that, there were so many younger men present. They listened with considerable patience. Among the opposition there was, now and then, loud talking, which was, however, soon silenced. Eberhard went on speaking. Suddenly loud peals of laughter resounded through the assembly, and the words "left-handed father-in-law" were heard. Eberhard did not know what it meant, and went on with his remarks. The talking in the crowd grew louder. Drops of cold sweat stood on his brow. The burgomaster mounted the stand and exclaimed: "Whoever isn't willing to listen to a man like Count Eberhard, doesn't deserve to have a vote."

Breathless silence ensued. Eberhard concluded with the words:

"I am proud enough to tell you that I don't ask you for your votes. I simply say that I accept the nomination."

He left the assembly, but, before doing so, begged his friends to remain. He rode home, filled with the thought that he had separated himself from the world, instead of having conquered it.

He alighted as soon as he came to his own land in the valley, and gave orders to some of the laborers. When he returned to the road, he met the postman, who handed him several letters. Eberhard opened the first and read:

"Your daughter has fallen into disgrace, and yet stands in high grace as the mistress of the king. To her the country owes the restoration of the ecclesiastical ministry. If you still doubt, ask the first person you meet in the streets of the capital. Unhappy father of a happy daughter." It was signed "The Public Voice."

Eberhard tore up the letter and gave the shreds to the winds, which carried them far away over the fields.

"Anonymous letters," said he, "are the meanest things conceivable. They are far lower than cowardly assassination, and yet-" It seemed as if the breeze which carried the shreds away had now returned, laden with the expression that he had heard at the meeting. Had they not said "left-handed father-in-law"?

Eberhard pressed his hand to his brow-the thought was like a burning arrow piercing his brain. He opened the second letter and read: "You do not care to believe how it stands with your daughter. Ask him who was once your friend. Ask the king's physician, on his honor and conscience. He will tell you the truth. Save what may yet be saved. Then will the writer of these lines divulge his name. From one who greatly esteems you. – "

Eberhard did not destroy this letter; he held it in his trembling hand. A mist suddenly rose before him. He passed his hands over his eyes as if to brush it away; but it still remained, growing denser with each succeeding moment. He tried to read the letter again, but could not distinguish a word of it. He crumpled up the paper and put it in his breast-pocket, where it lay like a burning coal against his heart. His head swam and he sat down by the wayside. What could he do? They would smile if he went to court to fetch her. They would be very gracious and would say: "Let there be no scenes, no noise. Let everything be arranged quietly; let there be no scandal; decorum must be maintained." And one must smile, though his heart is bursting. We live in a civilized world, and this they call culture and good manners. Oh! you are well off. With you, all is pastime. You can afford to be ever polite, ever cool and reserved. Oh, why did I come home to waste my powers in this miserable nook! It's all my own fault. I meant to rescue myself from the hurly-burly of the world. I've lost my children, instead. A satanic sophist lurks in us all. I persuaded myself that it was better, and more in accordance with nature, to let my children grow up, free from all control; and yet it was only a vain excuse for my own weakness. Because the duty of incessantly watching over them was distasteful to me, I suffered them to go to ruin, while persuading myself that their nature could thus best develop itself. And here I stand, and must fetch my child-

The sudden neighing of the horse, hitched to a tree near by, so startled Eberhard that he almost fell back. A laborer who was bringing two horses in from the field, stopped and asked: "What ails you, master?"

The laborer unhitched the horse. Eberhard rose hastily and, without saying a word, walked up the hill in the direction of the manor-house. He felt as if the air was filled with intangible, electric clouds that drew him back; but he forced his way through them. He reached the house and held fast by the doorposts. He was giddy, but still he did not give up. He went through the stables and barns, saw the men storing away the fodder, and remained looking at them for a long while. Then he went through the whole house and looked at every object with an inquiring gaze. In the great room with the bay-window, he lingered long before a picture of Irma, painted when she was but seven years old, a beautiful, large-eyed child. The attitude was natural, a mixture of childlike awkwardness and grace. The painter had wanted to put a nosegay in the child's hand, but she had said: "I won't have dead flowers; give me a pot with living flowers in it." Ah, she had had such pretty conceits! There she stood, the very picture of childish grace, with rosy cheeks, and with blooming roses in her hand. "A rose plucked before the storm could scatter its petals." These last words of Emilia Galotti passed through his mind. "No, I am not that strong."