On the Heights: A Novel

Baum arrived at the manor-house. The maid told him that Irma would receive no one.

"If she only had a good cry; her silent grief will kill her."

He knocked at Irma's door. It was long before an answer came. At last she asked what was the matter, and when she recognized Baum's voice, she was obliged to support herself from falling, by holding on to the latch of the door. "Had the king come, too?" she asked herself.

Baum said that he had come as a courier to deliver a letter from their majesties. Irma opened the door just far enough to enable her to put out her hand. She took the large letter and laid it on the table. There was nothing that she cared to learn from the world, nor could it offer her any consolation. No one could. At last, toward evening, she drew back the curtains and broke the seal of the large envelope. There were two letters in it; one in the queen's handwriting, the other in the king's. She opened the queen's letter first, and read:

"My dear, good Irma";

(It was the first time that the queen had written so affectionately. Irma wiped her face with her handkerchief and went on reading.)

"You have experienced life's greatest affliction. Would that I were with you, to press your throbbing heart to mine, and to kiss away your tears. I shall not attempt to console you, but can only say that I sympathize with you as far as it is possible to sympathize with griefs one has not yet known. You are strong and noble, and I cannot help appealing to you" (Irma's hand trembled) "to think of yourself and to bear your grief purely and nobly. You are orphaned, but the world must not be a desert void to you. There are still hearts that beat with friendship for you. I am glad-that is to say-I thank fate that I am able to be of some help to you in your sorrow. I need not assure you of my friendship for you, and yet, at such moments, it does one good to tell one's self so. I do not care to spend a single hour in pleasure while you are in affliction. All feelings are shared by us." (Irma covered her face with her hands. Recovering herself, she went on reading.) "Let me know soon what I can do for you. Come to me, or remain in solitude, just as your feelings dictate. If I could only enable you to enjoy the company of yourself as we enjoy it. You don't know how much good you've done me. You have extended the domain of our perceptions and have thus enriched our lives. What nobler achievement can there be! Remain firm and remember that you may always depend upon the friendship of

"Your ever loving"Mathilde."

Irma laid the letter on the table and involuntarily pushed it far away from that of the king, which was still unopened. Years should elapse-aye, oceans should lie between the reading of the two letters; and yet how often had she listened to them both in the same breath, and looked at them with the same glance.

With a violent movement, as if in anger, she opened the king's letter and read:

"I am deeply pained to know that you, too, my charming friend, must learn that we are mortal. It grieves me to think that your lovely eyes must weep. If that which is noblest be capable of still further purification-and what mortal being is not? – this affliction must needs add to your noble-mindedness. I entreat you, do not soar too high, lest you leave us too far below you. Carry us with you, to the lofty regions in which you dwell."

Irma's features assumed a hard and bitter expression. She went on reading:

"If you mean to torment your beautiful eyes with tears, and your noble heart with sighs, for more than seven days, and desire to remain alone, pray send me word. Should you, however, wish to protract your mourning, and to recover yourself and another self, by travel, decide upon what direction you mean to take. Let it not be too far-not too far into the land of sorrow, a land to which you are a stranger. Be happy again and subdue your grief, cheerfully and speedily.

"Affectionately yours, K."

In the letter, there lay a small piece of paper with the inscription: "Burn this as soon as read."

"I cannot live without you. If I lose you, I lose myself. Your presence is my life. I cannot live, except in the light of your eyes. I want no clouds; I long for the sunlight. Remember the world of thought that dwells beneath your plumed hat. Let that world have its sway, you must not be sad; you dare not, for my sake. You must be mistress of your grief, just as you are mistress over me. Be firm, put all grief away from you, and return to your Kurt.

"The kiss of eternity! I alone can kiss away the sadness that clouds your brow. I can and I will."

Irma uttered a loud shriek, and then gave way to convulsive laughter.

"Can any lips kiss this brow? How would they relish the death-sweat which has already eaten into the flesh? How would that terrible word taste to the lips? Kiss it away! Kiss it away! I burn! I freeze!"

The maid heard the last few words, and endeavored to go to Irma's assistance, but the door was locked.

After some time, Irma raised her head and was surprised to find herself on the floor. She rose and ordered a light and writing materials. She burned the king's two letters, and then sat there for a while, with her weary head resting upon both her hands. At last she took the pen and wrote:

"Queen!

"I expiate my crime, in death. Forgive and forget.

"Irma."

On the envelope she wrote the words, "By the hand of Gunther," "For the queen herself."

Then she took another sheet and wrote:

"My Friend:

"These are the last words I shall ever address to you. We are treading the wrong path, a path full of peril. I expiate my crime. You do not belong to yourself alone; you belong to her and to your country. Death is my expiation. Life must be yours. Be at one with the law that binds you to her and to the state. You have denied both, and I have aided you to do so. Our life, our love, has dealt terribly with you. You could no longer be true to yourself. But now you must again become so; and that completely. These are my dying words, and I shall gladly die, if you will but hearken to me and to your better self. God knows we did not mean to sin; but we sinned, for all. My judgment is written on my brow; inscribe yours in your heart and live anew. All is still yours. I receive the kiss of eternity from death. Listen to this voice and forget it not, but forget her who calls to you. I do not wish to be remembered."

She sealed the letters and hurriedly hid them in the portfolio, for she was interrupted. Emma, or rather Sister Euphrosyne, was announced.

CHAPTER IX

Gunther had sent a messenger to inform Emma of Count Eberhard's death and Irma's despair. The prioress suggested that Emma should hasten to her young friend, to whom they owed so great a debt; and, as nuns were not allowed to travel alone, she was accompanied by a sister who was an experienced nun.

When the maid announced them, Irma started from her seat. This is deliverance! In the convent, shut out from the world, a living death-there shall you wait until they bear you to the grave.

Suddenly the old boatman's words flashed upon her: "A life in which nothing happens."

Her lips swelled with proud defiance. I shall not wait for the end; I'll force it. It was long before she answered the maid:

"My best thanks, but I don't care to see or hear any one."

After uttering these words, Irma felt as if inspired with new strength. That, too, was over.

All was silence and darkness again, and the clock kept on saying: Father-daughter; daughter-father.

From the valley below, she heard the sounds of the vesper bell.

"It must be," said Irma to herself. She drew back the curtains and, looking down into the valley, could see the nuns, clad in their long black gowns, walking across the meadows. Her thoughts went out after them, as she said: "Farewell, Emma!" Then she called her maid and told her to give orders that a horse should be saddled for her, as she wished to ride out. She did not turn her face to the maid. No one should ever look on that brow. The maid helped her on with her riding-habit and riding-hat, the latter ornamented with part of an eagle's wing. Irma started when her hand touched the wing. The king had shot the bird, and had given her the plumes when- It seemed like a parting, ghostly touch.

She ordered a double veil to be put on her hat, and it was not until she was in perfect disguise, that she set off. She did not look up; she took leave of no one; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

Irma's saddle-horse stood in the courtyard. At her approach, it pawed the ground and snuffed the air. She did not stop to inquire who had brought her horse from the city. She patted its neck and called it by its name: "Pluto." In thought, she was already so far removed from the world that she regarded the beast as a marvel, or as something never before seen. She mounted.

The large dog, a favorite of her father's, was there also, and barked when he saw her. She gave orders to have the dog taken back to the house.

She rode away at an easy pace. She did not look behind her, nor to the right or left. The sun was already behind the tops of the trees. Its broken rays shone through the branches, like so many threads of light, and between the boughs glowed the sky, forming a golden background.

Irma halted and beckoned to Baum, who had been following her, to come nearer. He rode up.

"How much money have you with you?"

"Only a few florins."

"I must have a hundred florins; ride back and get them for me."

Baum hesitated. He wanted to say that he was not allowed to leave the countess, but he could not muster courage enough to do so.

"Why do you hesitate? Don't you understand me?" said Irma harshly. "Ride back immediately."

Baum was scarcely out of sight, when Irma whipped her horse, leaped over the ditch at the side of the road, hurried across the mountain meadow and into the woods. She rode at full gallop, over the very road Bruno had taken a few days before. The horse was spirited and fresh, and proud of its beautiful rider. They knew each other, and it galloped on right merrily, as if in the chase. And there really is a chase; for hark! there's a shot. But Pluto stands fire, and is not so easily frightened. Away he dashed, more wildly than before. The rays of the setting sun shone through the forest shades, lighting up the trees and mosses with their roseate glow. And still she rode on, ever urging her horse to greater speed.

She had reached the crest of the mountain ridge; below, lay the broad lake, glowing with purple.

"There!" cried Irma. "There thou art, cold death!"

Pluto stopped, thinking that his mistress had spoken to him. "You're right," said she, patting his neck; "it's far enough."

She alighted and turned the horse's head. He looked at her once more, with his large, faithful eyes, for she had thrown back her veil.

"Go home. You're to live; go home!"

The horse did not move. She raised her whip and struck it. It started off, with mane and tail fluttering in the evening breeze, as it hurried away along the mountain crest.

Irma paused and looked after it. Then she sat down on the edge of a projecting rock and gazed at the vast prospect and the setting sun.

"O light! O lovely sky! This is the last time I gaze upon you, before I sink into the night of death-"

For a moment, she was wholly absorbed in the view that opened before her. She no longer knew whence she had come, or whither she would go. Her eyes rested on the vast range of towering peaks, summit piled on summit, and, in the distance, a peak overtopping them all. The wooded heights seemed enveloped in a violet haze. The trembling rays of the setting sun gilded the bare and rugged cliffs. High upon the glaciers rested the rosy glow of sunset, ever assuming a brighter hue as it grew darker in the valley below. One mighty, snow-clad peak seemed as if on fire; but a cloud passed over it and, as if lifting a veil, carried the mountain's rosy glow with it. The cloud gradually disappeared in a blaze of glory, and the snowy peaks, standing out against the background of dull sky, looked cold and bleak, as if in death.

The mighty spirit of Death was passing o'er the heights.

Oh! that one might thus vanish into thin air!

A chilling breeze swept over the mountain. Irma shuddered. She passed her hand over her face, and felt that she, too, was growing pale. She rose to her feet and ascended the mountain for some distance, so that she might once more see the fiery ball. She was too late and said aloud:

"Of what avail is it to see the sun a thousand, or twice a thousand times, as long as the day must come when it sets for us, once and for all? And it has forever set to him who lies under the sod and on whose hand decay-"

She felt giddy and sank upon the mossy ground. When she got up again, it was night.

She arose and, holding up her dress, walked down into the dark and thickly wooded ravine below.

CHAPTER X

Irma advanced with a firm step. The footpath she had struck wound its way among large and lofty trees and soon opened into a broad road that had been cut through the forest. Ever and anon heat-lightning would flash in the distance, breaking up the gloom and revealing another firmament that lay beyond.

Irma scarcely looked up. She thought of nothing but how to find her way. There was perfect silence, broken now and then by a sorrowful sound, like the sobbing of a human being. It must be from some hollow tree, thought she. The groaning always seemed to advanced before her. Wherever she went she heard it. She looked for the heart-sick tree, but could not find it. With every step, she advanced further into the forest and higher up the mountain. Then she ran down the mountain, and now all was silent. The path was no longer visible, but, from afar, she caught a glimpse of the moonlit lake, the object of her search. She went on, through the pathless forest, treading down the soft moss. Sometimes she heard the twittering of birds in the tree-tops; a martin or a weasel was destroying the young in their nests. The world is full of murder, thought she; its creatures are ever preying on each other. Though man destroys and kills his fellow-men, he does not eat them. That alone distinguishes man from the beasts. And there is one thing more-man alone can kill himself. Irma grew dizzy at the thought. She supported herself against a tree for a moment and then walked on Her resolve must be carried out; there must be no weakness, no wavering. She went still further into the dense forest. Her cheeks glowed, the perspiration dripped from her forehead; but inwardly she fell as if freezing.

Something rustled through the thicket. It was a stag which she had frightened from its cover. The stag was afraid of her, and she was afraid of the stag. He fancied that she could feel its antlers piercing her. She hurried down the mountain side. For a while she could still hear the crackling of the underbrush, and at last all was silent again. The wind whistled through the treetops, and there was a sound of running water, sometimes near and sometimes afar, and then the roaring of a forest stream dashing down from the rocks. She beheld the moonlit foam, and no longer knew where she was or whither she was going-toward the lake, or away from it. If she were to lose her way in the forest-if she were to be found there and taken back to the world and misery! Mustering all her strength, she walked on. The cool night air blew against her face, but her cheeks glowed as if with fire. She pressed her hand to her brow; it seemed as if a hot spring was flowing from the spot which had been touched. She looked up to the stars and recognized the familiar constellations. She knew their position, but those great guides through infinite space do not help the lonely mortal who has lost her way in the heart of the forest. Irma thought of the nights when, under Gunther's guidance, her glance had roamed o'er the vast, starry expanse. But now all was annihilated, all greatness had fallen. Even her view of the stars was confined and obstructed. She tried to remember whether she had destroyed the letters or left them behind her. She thought she could remember having burnt that of the king; but how as to the letter to the queen? Torn by conflicting doubts, she was, at last, completely bewildered. Perhaps both letters would be found. – Be it so.

And then Walpurga's song passed through her mind.

If the good peasant woman who lives by the lake knew that her friend was thus groping her way through the woods, all alone, in darkest night, and with such dread thoughts for her companions-she would hasten to her aid, would draw her to her heart and would not let her go. Who knows but that, although far away, she is thinking of me now, dreaming of me and, perhaps, singing her song-sending it, like some invisible messenger, on the wings of night. How the poor creature will grieve when she hears of my death. Perhaps she will be the only one who will sincerely mourn for me.

Memories of many kinds floated through her mind. Years hence, some boatman like the one at the island convent, will tell the story of the drowned maid of honor. What effect will the news of my death have upon others? None of them can help me, nor can I help them. Day after to-morrow they'll be playing, dancing and singing as usual. No one can keep another in remembrance. He who is absent has no claim on our thoughts. Life is as pitiless as death. She went further into the thicket, passing wild ravines on the way. The stones loosened by her tread tumbled over the precipice, and the dull, hollow thud with which they struck the earth below, told her how far they had fallen. The rocks on either side drew closer together, the mountain torrent rushed down over them and, all at once, she reached the edge of a precipice; further, she could not go. I will take the fatal leap and dash myself to pieces. But to lie there, perhaps for days, bruised and half dead. To die a lingering death! No!

She sought a path. A branch struck her in the face just where her father's icy finger had touched her.

"No; this brow shall nevermore see the light of day," she cried, holding fast with her hands, while trying to find a way along the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, she heard the loud voice of a woman singing. Irma drew a long breath, for it was a human voice-a woman's, perhaps that of a young and lovely girl, giving her lover a signal in the night. The sounds were repeated again and again, and grew more and more piercing, and, trembling with fear, Irma sat on the rock. She answered with a scream. She was frightened at the sound of her own voice, but she cried out again and again, for now there was an answer. The other voice seemed to approach; dogs rushed forth and were already surrounding Irma and barking, as a signal that they had found the prey. The voice came nearer and nearer.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Here," answered Irma.

"Where?"

"Here."

"Up there?"

"Yes."

"How did you get up there?"

"I don't know."

"Keep quiet; don't move and I'll come."

"Yes."

Irma waited a long while, and at last some one appeared right below where she was sitting.

"So there you are," said the figure. She threw a rope to Irma, telling her to bind it round her body and then fasten the other end to a rock or tree, and slide down gently.

Irma did as she was bidden. During that one short moment, while she hovered between heaven and earth, a thousand indescribable thoughts passed through her mind. She reached the ground in safety. The woman at once seized her by the hand and led her away. She followed as if without a will of her own. In scrambling through the bushes and over the rocks, she tore herself until the blood flowed. At last they reached a narrow rocky path. Below them the brook rushed by, but the powerful woman held Irma's hand fast in hers, as if with an iron grip.

"A chamois hunter wouldn't dare go where you've, been. Now we're up here, and there's our hut," said she, at last. "It's a wonder you didn't stumble over the rock with your long dress."

"Who are you?" asked Irma.

"Tell me first, who you are, and how you got here."

"I can't tell you that."

"No matter. They call me Black Esther."

"Who are you bringing there?" called out a grim-looking woman, who appeared at the door of the hut. Behind her glowed the fire on the hearth.

"I don't know; it's a woman."

Irma went toward the hut with Black Esther. The old woman crossed herself and exclaimed:

"Let all good spirits praise the Lord! it's the Lady of the Lake-"

"I'm not a spirit," said Irma. "I'm a weary mortal. Let me rest here for a while, and then let your daughter go with me and show me the way to the lake. All I ask for now is a drop of water."

"No, that 'ud be the death of you. You mustn't drink water now. I'll cook some warm soup for you, and bring it to you right off."

She led Irma into the room, and when she saw her hand and the diamond rings sparkling on it, she grinned with delight.

"Oh what a beautiful ring! That's from your sweetheart."

"Take it and keep it," said Irma, holding out her hand.

With great dexterity, the old woman removed the ring from Irma's finger.

"Good heavens!" cried the old woman suddenly, "I've seen you before-yes, yes, it was you. Didn't you once wear a little golden heart and send it to a child? Didn't you once, at the palace, order them to get something to eat for an old woman and have her son set free, and didn't you give her money besides? Good heavens! you're the-"

"Don't mention my name! Only let me rest a moment; ask me nothing, and say nothing more."

"As you don't want me to, certainly not. I'll hurry and get the soup ready for you."

She went out, leaving Irma alone.

Irma lay on the bed, which was nothing more than a sack of leaves that crackled strangely whenever she turned her head. The leaves seemed to say: "Ah! when we were green, we had a better time of it-" The moon shone in through the window; everything seemed dancing before her eyes; she felt as if she were on the open sea. But she soon fell asleep. – When she awoke, she heard a man's voice.

CHAPTER XI

Out on the porch, which also served as a kitchen, were Thomas and his mother. He had removed his false beard, was cleaning his black face, and now said:

"Mother, do you know what I'm sorry for?"

"What for?"

"Why, that I didn't shoot the young count the other day. I won't have as good a chance at him again. I could have shot him through the back of the neck and that would have been the last of him. I'd have given the daylight a chance to shine through him."

"You're a nice fellow to talk repentance."

"Yes, and I'd have done a good deed if I'd shot the fellow. Just think, mother, that's the kind of people the grand folks are who own the forest and all the game in it. Just think of it, mother! I'm a good fellow, after all."

"How so?"

"Only think, mother! Do you know why the count was in the forest? He wanted to be out of the way while his father was dying; and so he rode off and let the old man end his days alone. I promise you, if you were going to die, and I were about, I'd stay with you to the last. I'd deserve to go to heaven, if I'd put that fellow out of the way. If I'd known all about it at the time, I'd have done it, too. Indeed, I did want to, just for the fun of the thing. But it's great fun to think how the fellow must have shook, to be riding in front of me while I had a ball ready for him and could have shot him at any minute. Oh, you Wildenort!"

At the mention of her family name, Irma fell over as if shot and, with bated breath, listened while Thomas continued:

"Since then, I've been as if bewitched. I haven't chanced across a bit of game and I feel like a fool. Something happened to me about twilight-the devil take it, one can't help believing in spirits. Mother, I saw a beautiful horse, and no one was on it. If it had only been a real horse, one that would fetch money! But I, like a fool, was frightened when it galloped past me, with its flying mane and clattering hoofs. But, before I'd made up my mind that it was a real horse and that ghost stories were stupid stuff-heigho, it was gone."

"Nay, Thomas, take care! There's something in those stories after all. Come, stand here, hold your hand over the fire and swear that you'll keep quiet, and I'll tell you something."