On the Heights: A Novel

He rang, but when the servant came, had forgotten what he wanted. The effort to collect his scattered thoughts seemed like plunging into chaos. At last he ordered the carriage, which was all he had wanted the servant for.

"The traveling carriage," he called out after the servant.

When he reached the library, he paused, and gazed at the door for a while. There were so many great and mighty minds in there-why did none of them come to his aid? There is no help but that we find within ourselves.

While descending the steps, he would now and then hold fast to the baluster as if to support himself. He drew himself up, as if filled with anger because of the weakness that mastered him. In the courtyard, he gave orders that the carriage should drive on and meet him down in the valley. His speech was noticeably indistinct. Half way down the mountain, he suddenly seated himself on a heap of stones and looked about him.

What was passing before his eyes? What thoughts filled his mind? He looked for the tree which he had planted on the very spot where word was brought him of Irma's birth. This is the first soil trodden by her feet; these are the first trees she ever saw. The sky, the forests, the mountains, the blooming flowers, the merry birds, the grazing cows-all, all seemed like phantoms. – None of these will ever find you pure again. Never again dare you approach a living creature, or tree or flower; for they repudiate you, they are pure and you are-the world's a paradise. You have been driven thence, and roam about, a restless fugitive. You may deaden your conscience, may smile and jest and dissemble, but the sun does not dissemble, neither does the earth, nor your own conscience. You've destroyed the world and yourself, and still live, – dead in a dead world. How is it possible? It cannot be. I am mad. I shall neither punish nor chastise you; but you must know who and what you are, and the knowledge of that will be your punishment and your cure. I shall palliate nothing; you must know, see, and acknowledge it all, yourself-

A road laborer went up to the count and asked whether he was ill. He had noticed him sitting on the stones, and supposed that something might be wrong.

"Not well!" groaned Eberhard, "not well? It would be well for me if I-"

He got up and walked away.

A grief stricken mother can shed tears; a father cannot.

His head was bowed on his chest. He saw blooming roses; they should have adorned her. He saw thorns; they should tear her brow. Anger and grief struggled within him. Anger raged; grief wept. Anger would have lent him giant strength, with which to destroy the world; but grief crushed his very soul.

Suddenly he drew himself up, and, as if driven by the storm, ran down the road, over the ditch and across the meadow, – only stopping when he reached the apple-tree.

"This is the tree-you're decked with ruddy fruit-and she- Woe is me! life is pitiless!"

A deep cry of pain escaped him. The road laborer above, and the driver who was waiting with the carriage below, heard him and ran to his help. They found him lying on the ground, face downward. He was foaming at the mouth and was unable to speak. They bore him into the castle.

CHAPTER III

Throughout the capital, schools, offices, and workshops were closed. With the exception of, now and then, a noisy group of men who soon entered a large building and disappeared from view, the streets were given over to women and children. It was election day. It seemed as if the thousand and one diversified interests and sentiments that help to make up the life of a city had converged to a single point-as if a great soul were communing with itself. Although it was in broad daylight, a wondrous silence rested upon the deserted streets. Gunther's carriage had just come from Bruno's house, and now stopped at the town-hall. The doctor alighted, went upstairs and gave in his vote. In consideration of his being a physician in active practice, he was allowed to vote before his turn. He returned to his carriage and drove home, When he entered the sitting-room, his wife handed him a telegram which had just been received. Gunther opened it.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Madame Gunther, for she had never before seen so great a change in her husband's face.

He handed her the telegram and she read:

"Count Eberhard Wildenort paralyzed. Deprived of speech. Send word to son and daughter to come at once; if possible, you also.

"Doctor Mann, District Physician."

"You are going?" said Madame Gunther in an agitated, but scarcely inquiring tone. Gunther nodded affirmatively.

"I've one request to make," continued Madame Gunther. With a slight motion of his hand, the doctor intimated that he wished her to proceed. He felt as if his tongue were palsied.

"I'd like to go with you," said she.

"I don't understand you."

"Sit down," said the wife, and when Gunther had seated himself, she placed her gentle hand upon his lofty forehead. His face brightened, and she went on to say:

"Wilhelm, this is a terrible visitation. Let me do all I can to alleviate the grief of the lost child whom this dread message will soon reach. I can imagine her feelings. Who knows? Perhaps her own actions have been the cause of this. – Although she rides in her carriage, I shall assist her as faithfully as if she were a poor outcast; and if the poor soul repels me, I shall not leave her. I don't know what may happen, but the moment may come when she will feel it a comfort to rest the head now scourged by thorns against a woman's heart. Do let me go with you?"

"I've no objection. For the present, however, you had better get everything ready for my departure." He drove to Bruno's house.

As soon as the latter noticed his sad looks, he exclaimed: "And so your party was beaten?"

"Not yet," replied Gunther, gently breaking the news to Bruno.

Bruno turned away, hurriedly gathered up several letters that were lying on the table and locked them up in his desk. He was soon ready to go with Gunther to Irma, to whom they broke the sad news as gently as possible.

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried Irma. Not another word escaped her. She went into her bedchamber and threw herself on the bed; but she had hardly touched the pillow before she sprang up as if thrust back, and then knelt on the floor and swooned away. When she returned to the reception room, her features wore a fixed, rigid expression. She gave hurried orders to her servant and her maid to prepare for the journey. The doctor withdrew, in order to ask for leave of absence, and promised to procure leave for Irma, too.

"You ought to bid adieu to the queen, before you go," said Bruno.

"No, no!" cried Irma vehemently. "I cannot; I will not."

There was no servant in the antechamber. There was a knock at the door. Irma started. "Was the king coming?"

"Come in!" said Bruno. Madame Gunther entered.

Irma could not utter a word, but her eyes seemed to ask: "You here? and now?"

Madame Gunther told her that she had heard the sad news, and would regard it as a proof of her friendship, if Irma would allow her to accompany her.

"Thank you, with all my heart," stammered Irma.

"Then you grant my request?"

"I thank you; on my knees, I'll thank you; but I beg of you, don't make me talk much now."

"There's no need of your doing so, dear Countess," said Madame Gunther. "You've apparently neglected or forgotten me; but in your heart, you've remembered me. And even if it were otherwise, there was one short hour during which we opened our hearts to each other."

Irma raised her hands as if to shield herself, – as if the kind words pierced her like so many arrows. In a soothing voice, Madame Gunther added: "I shall consider it a kindness, if you will allow me to be kind to you; you have no mother and, perhaps-you will soon have no father."

Irma groaned aloud and pressed her hands to her eyes.

"My dear child," said Madame Gunther, placing her hand upon Irma's arm. Irma started-"there are many of God's creatures on earth, so that the sympathy of those whom misfortune has spared may serve as a support to the afflicted, and as a light in the hour of darkness. I beg of you, do not be proud in your grief. Let me share in all that the next few days may have in store for you."

"Proud? proud?" asked Irma, suddenly grasping Madame Gunther's hand and as suddenly dropping it again. "No, dear honored madame. I appreciate your affectionate motives. I understand-I know-all. I could calmly accept your kindness. I know-at least I think-that I, too, would have just acted as you do, if-"

"This is the best and the only thanks," interposed Madame Gunther, but Irma motioned her to stop, and continued:

"I entreat you, do not torture me. Your husband and my brother will accompany me. I beg of you, say nothing more. I thank you; I shall never forget your kindness."

Gunther entered the room again and Irma said:

"Is everything ready? We have no time to lose."

She bowed to Madame Gunther, and would gladly have embraced her, but could not.

Madame Gunther, who had never, before this, set foot in the palace, had only come to succor a ruined one. Never had the thought of herself so filled Irma with anguish and remorse, as when this embodiment of loving-kindness had held out her hand to her.

The thought that she no longer dared approach the pure pained her as if demons were tearing her to pieces. Her first impulse was to throw herself at Madame Gunther's feet.

She controlled herself, however, and, looking at her with a fixed gaze, passed on.

The parrot in the anteroom spread out its wings, as if it, too, wanted to go along, and screamed; "God keep you, Irma!"

As if veiled in a cloud, Irma walked through the corridor. At the palace gate, she met the king coming out of the park with Schnabelsdorf, who had a number of dispatches in his hand, and whose cheerful looks were owing to the news of victory which he had just received.

To Irma, the king and Schnabelsdorf seemed like misty forms. She wore a double black veil, for she did not care to gratify the idle curiosity of the court, by making a show of the face on which grief had done its work.

The king drew near. She could not remove her veil. He seemed far, far away. She heard his friendly and, of course, kind words, but she knew not what he said.

The king extended his hand to Gunther, then to Bruno, and, at last, to Irma. He pressed her hand tenderly, but she did not return the pressure.

They got into the carriage. Just as they were about to start, Irma, noticing Madame Gunther's hand on the carriage door, bent down and kissed it. The next moment they were gone.

They were silent for some time. After they had passed the first village, Bruno took out a cigar, saying to Irma, who sat opposite him: "I'm a man, and a man must calmly accept the inevitable. Show that you, too, have a strong mind."

Irma did not reply. She threw back her veil and looked out of the window. Her departure had been so hurried that she was just beginning to recover herself.

"You ought to have taken leave of the queen in person," said Bruno, in a calm tone. The long silence was irksome to him. Such dark hours should be made to pass as agreeably as possible. When he found that Irma still remained silent, he added: "For you know that the queen's tender nature is so easily offended."

Irma still made no reply, but Gunther said:

"Yes; it were sacrilege to offend the queen. No one but a savage would dare to weaken her faith in human goodness and veracity."

Gunther expressed himself with unwonted energy, and his words cut Irma to the heart. Was it she who had committed sacrilege? And then the thought gradually dawned upon her; the queen is his ideal; the king is mine. Who knows whether the mask of intellectual affinity may not have served to screen-Quick as thought, she dropped her veil; her breathing was short and fast; her cheeks were burning. He who knows himself to be-must judge others-nothing is perfect-no one-She felt as if she must speak, and at last said: "The queen deserves to have a friend like you."

"I place myself beside you," said Gunther calmly. "I believe that we both deserve the friendship of that pure heart."

"And so you believe that friendship can exist between married people of different sex?" inquired Bruno.

"I know it," replied Gunther.

At the first posting-house, where they came upon noisy crowds, the postmaster informed them that the election was going on, and that the contest was quite an excited one. The "Blacks" would certainly be defeated.

Bruno, who had alighted, asked the postillion:

"My noble fellow-citizen, have you exercised your sovereign right of voting to-day?"

"Yes, and against the 'Blacks'."

They drove on.

Bruno did not get out at the other stations. They were drawing near to Eberhard's district. While they were changing horses at the assize town, they heard loud cries of: "Long live Count Eberhard! Victory!"

"What's that?" inquired Gunther, putting his head out of the carriage door.

He was informed that, in spite of the "Blacks," Count Eberhard would prove the victor. The opposition had started a contemptible rumor, intended to disgrace the old count. But, although meant to injure others, it had proved a stumbling-block to themselves; for every one had said: "A father can't help what his child does, and, for that very reason, greater respect should now be shown him." – Irma drew back into the dark corner of the carriage and held her breath.

They drove on without saying a word.

After they had started, Bruno said it was too warm for him in the carriage, and that it did not agree with him to ride backward. Still, he would not suffer Gunther to change seats with him. He ordered the carriage to stop and, telling the lackey to sit up with the driver, placed himself on the back seat, next to the waiting-maid. Irma took off her hat and laid her head back. It was heavy with sad thoughts. Now and then, when the road lay along the edge of a precipice, she would quickly raise herself in her seat. She felt as if she must plunge into the abyss; but, weak and feeble, she would fall back again. Gunther, too, remained silent; and thus they drove on through the night, without uttering a word.

At one time, the waiting-maid would have laughed out aloud, but Bruno held his hand over her mouth and prevented her.

CHAPTER IV

It was near midnight when the travelers reached castle Wildenort. The servant said that the count was sleeping, and that the physician who lived in the valley was with him. The country doctor left the sickroom and came out into the ante-chamber to welcome the new arrivals. He was about to describe the case to Gunther, who, however, requested him not to do so until he had himself seen the patient. Accompanied by Irma and Bruno, he went into the sick-room.

Eberhard lay in bed, his head propped up by pillows. His eyes were wide open, and, without showing the slightest emotion, he stared at those who entered, as if they were figures in a dream.

"I greet you, Eberhard, with all my heart," said Gunther. The sick man's features twitched convulsively, and his eyelids rose quickly and as quickly fell again, while he gropingly put forth his hand toward his old friend. But the hand sank powerless on the coverlet. Gunther grasped it and held it fast.

Irma stood as if rooted to the spot, unable to move or utter a word.

"How are you, papa?" asked Bruno.

With a sudden start, as if a shot had whizzed by his ear, Eberhard turned toward Bruno and motioned to him to leave the room.

Irma knelt down at his bedside, while Eberhard passed his trembling hand over her face. It became wet with her tears. Suddenly, he drew it back, as if it had been touching a poisonous reptile. He averted his face and pressed his brow against the wall; and thus he lay for a long while.

Neither Gunther nor Irma spoke a word. Their voices failed them in the presence of him who had been deprived of speech. And now Eberhard turned again and gently motioned his daughter to leave the room. She did so.

Gunther remained alone with Eberhard. It was the first time in thirty years that the two friends had met. Eberhard passed Gunther's hand across his eyes, and then shook his head.

Gunther said: "I know what you mean; you would like to weep, but cannot. Do you understand all I say to you?"

The patient nodded affirmatively.

"Then just imagine," continued Gunther, and his voice has a rich and comforting tone, "that the years we've been separated from each other were but one hour. Our measure of time is a different one. Do you still remember how you would often in enthusiastic moments exclaim: 'We've just been living centuries'?"

There was again a convulsive twitching of the patient's features, just as when a weeping one is enlivened by a cheerful thought and would fain smile, but cannot.

Eberhard attempted to trace letters on the coverlet, but Gunther found it difficult to decipher them.

The sick man pointed to a table on which there lay books and manuscripts. Gunther brought several of them, but none was the right one. At last he brought a little manuscript book, the cover of which was inscribed with the title, "Self-redemption." The sick man seemed pleased, as if welcoming a fortunate occurrence.

"You wrote this yourself. Shall I read some of it to you?"

Eberhard nodded assent. Gunther sat down by the bed and read:

"May this serve to enlighten me on the day and in the hour when my mind becomes obscured.

"I have been much given to introspection. I have endeavored to study myself, without regard to the outward conditions of time, standpoint, or circumstance. I perceive it, but, as yet, I cannot grasp it. It is a dew-drop shut up in the heart of a rock.

"There are moments when I am fully up to the ideal I have formed for myself, but there are many more when I am merely the caricature of my better self. How am I to form a conception of my actual self? What am I?

"I perceive that I am a something belonging to the universe and to eternity.

"During the blessed moments, sometimes drawn out into hours, in which I realize this conception, there is naught but life for me-no such thing as death, either for me or the world.

"In my dying hour, I should like to be as clearly conscious as I now am that I am in God, and that God is in me.

"Religion may claim warmth of feeling and glory of imagination as her portion. We, on the other hand, have attained to that clear vision which includes both feeling and imagination.

"In troubled, restless days, when I endeavored to grasp the Infinite, I felt as if melting away, vanishing, disappearing. I longed to know: What is God?

"And now I possess our master's answer: Although we cannot picture God to ourselves, yet we have a clear idea or conception of Him.

"For us, the old commandment: 'Thou shalt not make unto thyself any image of God,' signifies thou canst not make to thyself any image of God. Every image is finite; the idea of God is that of infinity.

"Spinoza teaches that we must regard ourselves as a part of God-

"While endeavoring to grasp the idea of the whole, I came to understand what is meant by the words: 'The human mind is part of the divine mind.'

"A single drop rises on the surface of the stormy ocean of life. It lasts but a second-though men term it threescore years and ten-and then, glowing with the light it receives and imparts, sinks again.

"Man, regarded as an individual, is both by birth and education a thought entering upon the threshold of the consciousness of God. At death, he simply sinks below that threshold, but he does not perish. He remains a part of eternity, just as all thought endures in its consequences.

"When I combine a number of such individuals or thoughts and term them a nation, the genius of that nation enters upon the threshold of such consciousness as soon as the nation begins to have a history of its own.

"Combining the nations into a whole, we have mankind or the totality of thought, the consciousness of God and of the world.

"I have often felt giddy at the mere thought of standing firm and secure, on the highest pinnacle of thought.

"May these thoughts inspire and deliver me in the hour of dissolution. There is no separation of mortal and immortal life, they flow into each other and are one.

"The knowledge that we are one and the same with God and the universe is the highest bliss. He who possess this, never dies, but lives the life eternal.

"Come to me once more, thou spirit of Truth, at the moment when I sink-

"Dust cleaves to my wings, just as it does to yonder lark, winging its flight from the furrowed field into ether. The furrow is as pure as the ether, the worm as pure as the lark, – God yet dwells in that which, to us seems lost and ruined. And should my eye be dimmed in death-I have beheld the Eternal One-My eyes have penetrated eternity. Free from distortion and self-destruction, the immortal spirit soars aloft-"

When Gunther had read thus far, Eberhard laid his hand on his lips as if to silence him, and gazed intently into his eyes.

"You have honestly wrestled with yourself and the highest ideas," said Gunther, whose voice was tremulous with something more than grief at approaching death.

Eberhard closed his eyes. When Gunther saw that he was asleep, he rose from his seat.

He now noticed that Irma had been sitting behind the bed-screen. He beckoned to her, and she left the room with him.

"Did you hear everything?" asked Gunther.

"I only came a few minutes ago." Irma wanted to know the whole truth in regard to her father's position. Gunther admitted that there was no hope of recovery, but that the hour of death was uncertain. Irma covered her face with both hands and returned to the sick-room, where she again took her seat behind the bed-screen.

Bruno was with the country physician, in the great hall. As soon as Gunther entered, Bruno hastily arose and, advancing to meet him, hurriedly said: "Our friend here has already quieted me. The danger, thank God" – his tongue faltered at the words "thank God" – "is not imminent. Pray quiet my sister's fears."

Gunther made no reply. He saw that Bruno merely affected ignorance of the imminent danger, and Gunther was enough of a courtier to refrain from forcing the truth upon unwilling ears. He returned to Irma. Bruno followed him and endeavored to cheer his sister; but she shook her head incredulously. He paid no heed to this, but said that he wanted to gain strength and endurance for the sad trial that awaited them. What he really wanted was to ride out, so that he might be absent at the terrible moment. Since his presence could not make things any better, why should he expose himself to such a shock?

The morning began to dawn. The sick man still lay there, motionless.

"His breathing is easier," faintly whispered Irma.

A gentle, reassuring nod was Gunther's reply.

CHAPTER V

With a firm tread, Bruno went down the steps. He had ordered the groom to lead his horse some distance from the castle and there await him. "If there only were no such thing as dying," thought he to himself. While placing his foot in the stirrup, something tugged at his coat. Was it his father's hand? or was it a spirit-hand dragging him back? He stumbled; his coat had caught in a buckle. He loosened it, and was just about to lift his riding-whip against the careless groom, when it occurred to him that such behavior was ill-timed. His father was ill, seriously ill, indeed, in spite of the family physician's reassuring words. No, it would not do to punish the servant now; it should not be said that Bruno had beaten his groom at such a moment. Fitz, who was putting the buckle to rights, stooped as if he already felt the whipstock across his shoulders, and looked up amazed when his master, in the gentlest voice, said to him: "Yes, good Fitz, I see that you've not slept any more than I have, and you're quite nervous. Lie down and rest for another hour. You need not ride out with me. Keep your horse saddled, however. I shall take the straight road through the forest clearing and, if anything should happen here, you or Anton can ride after me. At the foot of the Chamois hill, I shall turn back into the bridle-path and return by way of the valley. Do you hear? Don't forget! And now you can go sleep awhile; but don't unsaddle your horse. Don't forget what I've told you."