On the Heights: A Novel

"Free and true," said the king again, in a low voice. "I would like, this very day, to change the legend on my coat of arms and replace it with those words. But I will prove-and to you alone do I confess it-I will prove that they dwell within me! Yes, my friend, I read those lines many a time during the night. When they first appealed to me yesterday, I did not understand them; but now I do. Let us, as long as we live, quietly celebrate the memory of this day. You uttered an expression yesterday that startled, nay, offended me."

"Your Majesty!"

"Calm yourself. You see we are friends. I promise you never again to allow my displeasure to last over night."

"What expression?"

"It was 'constitutional king'; and while, last night, I read this letter again and again, that phrase was ever between the lines. Can one be a sovereign and yet subject to the law? Mark me, Bronnen; if I were in the presence of Eternal God, I could not open my heart more freely. This expression of yours and our friend's appeal aroused me. Can I remain a sovereign, a complete man and king, and at the same time be fettered? At last I understood it. She says: 'Be one with the law, with your wife and your people.' Is there free love in marriage? Can there be a free king in a constitutional government! There lies the difficulty. But I have conquered it. Fidelity is love awakened to itself. The life I lead, my crown, my wife, indeed all that I possess, became mine by virtue of my rank. Last night, I earned the right to call them mine. To be able, in all moods, to hold fast to what has, heretofore, only been the result of impulse; to infuse new life into one's actions, and to feel that they are in accord with one's self-Ah, you can have no idea of the spirits I wrestled with; but I conquered at last. 'Free and true,' is my motto for evermore."

Bronnen was deeply agitated, and, in his enthusiasm, rushed toward the king.

"I have never bent the knee to human being, but now I should like to-"

"No, my friend," cried the king. "Come to my heart. Let us, holding fast to one another, act and work together. I will prove that a king can act freely, and that his freedom and his friendship are something more than a mere fairy ideal. Yesterday, I felt as if you were my father-confessor. It does me good to say this. I have come to know that the man whose hand and heart are impure is unfit to labor for the highest and noblest ends. There is no greatness which is not based on true morality, and, in uttering these words, I utter a verdict upon my past life. I am not ashamed to acknowledge to you, what I have already said to myself. And now let us, as men, consider what is best to be done."

Bronnen's countenance seemed illumined with a ray of purest joy.

"A bright, unclouded spirit is with us."

"Let her memory be held in honor."

"I do not mean her," said Bronnen. "When I spoke to Count Eberhard, he said: 'Honor pledges us to morality; fame, still more so; and power, most of all.'"

The king and Bronnen discussed many other topics. With his friend, the king could frankly and unreservedly show the change which had taken place in him. But with the world, the court, and the country at large, it behooved him to avail himself of more gradual methods. A king dare not publicly repent.

Bronnen was, in secret, appointed prime minister.

They remained at the hunting-seat and joined in the chase. They deemed it best to postpone their return to court long enough to permit certain matters to settle themselves in the mean while.

CHAPTER VII

"His Majesty desires me to assure you of his sincere sympathy, and to say that if you wish to go away in order to arrange your family affairs, to pursue investigations at the lake, or to divert your thoughts by travel, you are at liberty to do so. Leave of absence, for an indefinite period, will be sent after you."

These were the words with which the lord steward, who had been sent to inform Bruno of his sister's death, concluded his message. He pressed Bruno's hand, kissed him on both cheeks, and left.

As soon as he was out of doors the lord steward fanned himself with his pocket-handkerchief. The dread task which had fallen to his lot had greatly agitated him, but still he could not help admitting that Bruno had received the terrible news with great composure.

While the lord steward remained in the room, Bruno had sat on a sofa in the corner covering his face with his handkerchief, and listening quietly and patiently to it all, as if it were the news of some strange, remote event that in no way affected him.

But now he was alone again. He sat silent for awhile, unconsciously playing with a scented note which he had received a little while before.

Suddenly, he sprang from his seat as if crazed, seized a chair and broke it. This seemed to do him good. Then, as if possessed by a demon, he threw himself on the floor and lay there, raving, writhing, and screaming fearfully.

The servant entered and, finding his master lying on the floor, lifted him up.

"I'm ill!" said he. "No, I'm not ill! I won't be ill! Go at once to chamberlain Von Ross or to intendant Von Schoning, and request one of those gentlemen to come to me directly. If my wife inquires for me, say that I've gone out with the master of the household."

The servant went away and Bruno stood at the window, looking out into the street. The mist had disappeared and now revealed the park in all its beauty. The gardener was removing the pots that contained faded flowers, and replacing them with fresh ones. Arabella's pet greyhound was sitting on the gravel path; it looked up at its master and, in token of its joy, jumped about and ran around the arbor.

Although Bruno saw it all, he was thinking of something quite different.

"Ha ha!" he laughed, "I never thought that this world was anything but an empty farce. He who frets away an hour is a fool. Now I am quite free," said he, drawing himself up; "quite free. Now there is no one on earth for whom I need care. World, I am free and alone! And now for seventy years to come, give me all thy pleasures! Thou canst not harm me! I trample everything under foot!"

He stopped to listen-but no one came.

Bruno had always lived in society, but had never passed any time in the society of his own thoughts. Now, when he was lonely and in mourning they came to him-neglected-looking companions with an eager air and merry glances-and cried: "Leave it all; come with us! Let us be merry! What avails your grieving? You will be old before your time."

He stood before a mirror, and they said to him: "See how horrible you look."

He could not rid himself of his companions. They played merry dances; they jingled their gold and cried: "va banque"; they rattled the glasses and showed him voluptuous and seductive forms, and he could hear rude and wanton laughter. They filled the room; they seized him and wanted to dance about with him; but he stood firm, clenching his fists and unable to go. And then they cried to him: "We know you! You are a silly boy and care for what the world thinks. You have no courage! Cheer up! Let them taunt you, but be merry, nevertheless. The day you lose in fretting, no one can ever give back to you. Fie! at this begging for sympathy! Go about and say: 'I'm a poor man, my father's dead and my sister drowned herself.' Get some one to make a song for you, and another to paint a little sign, and wander about from fair to fair, asking for an alms. Fie! fie! You must do one thing or the other: despise the world, or let it pity you. Which do you choose? How often have you said: 'I despise the world'-and what makes you afraid? You are sitting there, and would like to go out; who closes the door? who has tied your horse's feet? You are alone. The dear friends, the kind-hearted beings, the sympathizing souls, will come and say: 'Be firm; be a man; conquer your grief!' And what will the dear souls do for you? They will give you the alms of sympathy and then leave you in solitude, while they go their way in search of pleasure. As long as there is playing, dancing, drinking, they are true and enduring friends; but no feast will be put off for your sake, nothing will be changed. If you mean to enjoy the world you must despise mankind. They merely say to you: 'Be a man'-but be one."

His thoughts worked him into a frenzy. The next few days seemed a yawning unfathomable abyss staring him in the face. All was empty, void, hollow, joyless, consuming solitude.

He was at last released, for the servant entered and announced the intendant.

They had not been great friends, but now Bruno embraced the intendant as if he were the only friend he had in the world, and lay on his neck sobbing and begging him not to abandon him to solitude. He raged and raved and, with a strange mixture of blasphemy and mockery, reviled his fate. "Oh, the terrible days that await me!" he exclaimed vehemently.

"Time heals all wounds," said the intendant.

"But to pass weeks, aye months, in mourning!" cried Bruno again.

The intendant started. He had received an insight into this man's character. What grieved him most was the long period during which he would have to seem to be in mourning.

It could not have happened at a more unfavorable time.

Bruno had entered two of his best horses for the races which were to come off in a few days. He had intended to ride Zuleika himself in a trotting match, and, for the great hurdle race, he had carefully trained Fitz, his groom. The name was really Fritz, but Fitz sounded better. Fitz, Baum's son, was a thorough rascal, in whom his father took great pride. His future was assured, for there was no doubt that if Fitz did not break his limbs, he would be the first jockey in the stables. He sat his horse like a cat, and it was impossible to throw him.

The weather was charming. There were just enough clouds to shield one from the burning rays of the sun, and during the night there had been a gentle rain which had improved the course. Fitz, in his green and white suit, would surely win the first prize. Bruno was not a little proud of Fitz's livery. He had, as it were, divided him in two, from the crown of his head to his feet his dress was grass-green on the right and snow-white on the left. What a pity that there are but seven cardinal colors, thus affording so little chance to indulge one's love of variety. But still, persistence can accomplish much, and while Bruno held his handkerchief before his face, he smiled at the thought of Fitz with one boot green and the other white.

"Of course, I shan't ride," he said to the intendant. "Do you think I ought to allow my jockey to do so? I may do that; may I not?" he hastily added, as if fearing a negative reply. "They would think it mean of me, if I didn't. I have a large amount staked on the race. I shall let Fitz ride. Yes, I must; there's no harm in that." He had scarcely finished speaking, when Fitz entered the room. In a harsh voice Bruno told him to go away. He was determined to act as though he had forgotten all about the races. That would prove his sorrow far more effectually than if he were to withdraw his engagement. He would submit to the fine for non-appearance, and the world would thus perceive that his grief was deep enough to make him forget everything.

CHAPTER VIII

The intendant sat on the sofa with Bruno. He held Bruno's hand in his-it was hot with fever.

Now that he had found the key to Bruno's character and present mood, he knew what was meant when the mourner exclaimed:

"I know how it is in the world. To-day and to-morrow there is hunting at Wolfswinkel; and day after to-morrow, the races. I am only surprised that I didn't forget everything in that one hour. His excellency Von Schnabelsdorf is now 'intellectualizing' with the handsome wife of ambassador Von N-. After that comes guard-mounting, and, this evening, there will be a banque at Prince Arnold's. – Ah! the world goes on in its beaten track. If I could only forget it; for it forgets me. – Who has a thought for the solitary mourner? Oh, forgive me, my beloved, my only friend in this world. You will stay with me. You will never, never leave me. Don't leave me alone, or I shall go mad?"

The intendant felt sincere pity for the poor man. He had been invited to dine with the master of the horse, and merely wished to leave for a few moments in order to present his excuses in person. But Bruno would not permit him to go, and induced him to send his excuse in writing.

"Of course I'll stay with you," said the intendant consolingly. "At such moments, the presence of a friend is like a light in the night, obliging or, at all events, enabling one to see surrounding objects; it teaches us that the world has not yet ceased to exist, and that we do wrong to bury ourselves in solitude."

"Oh, you understand me! Tell me what to do, what to begin? I know nothing. I am like a child that has lost its way in the dark woods."

"Yes, that you are."

Bruno started. The intendant's confirmation of his opinion of himself rather displeased him.

"I am so weak now," said he. "Just think of what I've had to suffer during the last few days."

There was a strange mixture of gentleness and bitterness in his tone.

"May I smoke?" he asked.

"Certainly. Do anything that pleases you."

"Ah, no, nothing pleases me. And yet I should like to smoke."

He lit a cigar.

The world had, however, not quite forgotten him, as he had said in his anger. A visitor was announced. He hurriedly put the cigar away. The world was not to see him smoking, and was not to imagine that he was unfeeling, or that he did not mourn for his father and sister.

There were many visitors, and Bruno was again and again obliged to display his grief and to accept the sympathy offered him. He now saw how the rumor of Irma's death had spread throughout the city, from the palace to the hovel. People whom he hardly knew, and others who were even ill-disposed toward him, came. He was obliged to receive all politely, to thank them, and to accept their assurances of sympathy, while he fancied he could detect malicious pleasure in many an eye. But he was obliged to ignore this and, although now and then a nervous twitching of his features almost betrayed him, he managed to keep up the semblance of all-absorbing grief.

His companions in pleasure also visited him, and it was quite curious to witness the grave air which the young cavaliers assumed, now and then casting a glance at the great mirror in order to see whether the serious expression became them well.

It seemed almost comical to think that the man who was always the merriest in the party, and who could make the best and most unequivocal jokes, should now be so downcast. They seated themselves; they straddled the chairs and rested their arms on the backs; they lit their cigars, and much was said of their respective "papas."

"My papa has been dead this two years."

"My papa is ill."

"My papa intends to retire on his pension."

Some one asked: "Bruno, how old was your father?"

He did not know, but answered at a venture:

"Sixty-three."

They also spoke of the races; at first cautiously and almost in a whisper, but afterward in a loud voice. They spoke of Baron Wolfsbuchen's great loss.

"What happened to him?"

"Fatima, his splendid black mare, wouldn't obey him, and he struck her over the mouth with his sword. He had forgotten that the blade was sharp."

They spoke of the loss that he had incurred by forfeiting the stakes, and of the damage done his horse; but no one found fault with his cruelty.

At last his comrades left. As soon as they were out of doors, they stretched themselves. "Well, well; that's over." A visit of condolence is a sort of funeral parade, and one's words are like muffled drums. Before they left the carpeted staircase, they began to whisper scandal, and to tell that Bruno had forbidden his mother-in-law to come to the capital, as their majesties had been gracious enough to stand as sponsors to his young scion. The whole party concluded to lunch together, and have some wine. There were merry goings on at the French restaurant, and Bruno was often the topic of conversation.

"He will be enormously rich, for he inherits a double share."

"If he had known as much a year ago, who knows whether he would have married Steigeneck. His debts were not so heavy but that he could have held out for another year."

"He also inherits his sister's jewels, and they are of immense value."

As if he were two beings in one, the one here and the other there, Bruno's thoughts followed the companions who had left him.

He surmised what they were saying, and once started as if he had heard laughing behind him. It was nothing, however, but his sister's parrot, which he had ordered to be brought into his anteroom. He had it taken back to Irma's apartment, as he did not know whether it really belonged to her, and its eternal "God keep you, Irma," annoyed him.

He walked about the room for a long while, with his thumbs stuck into his closely buttoned coat, and his fingers playing a merry but inaudible tune upon his breast. The visits of condolence really annoyed him. It is so irksome to put on a sorrowful look, to listen to words of consolation, to offer thanks for sympathy, while all is a lie or, at most, an empty form- It is simply one's duty to express sympathy with the afflicted. Perhaps people regret that they cannot, in such cases, send their empty carriages, as they do at funerals- Is it not enough to let the world know that the grief was great and general, and that the funeral was a large one? These were Bruno's angry and ill-natured thoughts. "Then they go off," thought he, "the young and the old, in uniform and in citizen's dress, twisting their mustaches and stroking their chins, with a self-complacent air, while they say to themselves: 'You've done a good deed; you are a man of politeness and feeling-' and when they get home they tell their wives and daughters: 'The king's aid-de-camp is thus and so-' and then they eat and drink and drive out, and when they reach the house they say: 'We ought to feel satisfied when everything goes well with us, and our family escapes misfortune.' They use the misfortunes of others as they would a platform, from which to get a better view of their own prosperity." Bruno's fingers moved yet more quickly than before-death, grief, sickness were intended for the lower orders, and not for the higher classes. The world is miserably arranged after all, since there is no preservative against such ills, and since one cannot purchase immunity from them.

His excellency Von Schnabelsdorf also came. Bruno hated him at heart, for it was he who had invented the sobriquet of "Miss Mother-in-law" for Baroness Steigeneck, the whilom dancer. Bruno, however, felt obliged to act as if he knew nothing of it, to take his hand in the most polite and grateful manner, and to receive a kiss from the lips which had put a stigma upon his family; for Von Schnabelsdorf stood highest at court, and Bruno could not do without his friendship, which was doubly necessary, now that his main support, his sister, had been taken from him.

Thus Bruno felt annoyed at the visits of condolence he received, as well as at those which were withheld. The world was considerate enough to refrain from alluding to anything more than Irma's sudden and unfortunate death; how she was thrown from her horse and fell into the lake. The vice-master of the horse maintained that Pluto had never properly been broken in. Bruno, himself, behaved as if he really believed that Irma had met with her death by accident.

But it seemed as if he delighted to picture to himself the scene of the suicide, and to think of Irma at the bottom of the lake, held fast to the rocks by her long hair. He could not banish the awful picture, and at last threw open the window, so that he might divert himself with external objects.

Bruno did not care to eat or drink anything; the intendant could only induce him to take some food, by ordering dinner for himself. Bruno felt obliged to sit down with him, and, at every mouthful, he said: "I can't eat." At last, however, he ordered some champagne.

"I must build a fire in my engine!" said he, gnashing his teeth, while he thrust the bottle into the wine-cooler. "I derive as little pleasure from this as the engine does from the coals."

He drank down the wine hastily, and went on eating with a woe-begone expression, as if he would, at any moment, burst into tears.

He ordered more champagne.

"Did you see that?" said he, looking out of the window. His eyes were inflamed. "There's Kreuter, the merchant, riding Count Klettenheim's chestnut gelding. They must have played high last night, that the count should give up his horse; why, it's the pride of his life, his honor. What is Klettenheim without his gelding. A mere cipher, a double zero. Ah, my dear friend, excuse me! I am feverish, I am ill. But I won't be ill! I shall say nothing more. Go on; say whatever you please."

The intendant had nothing to say. He felt as ill-at-ease as if he were shut up in a dungeon with a maniac.

"I wish to speak with lackey Baum," cried Bruno suddenly. The intendant was obliged to dispatch a telegram to the summer palace, asking that Baum should be sent to the king's aid-de-camp.

Bruno let down the curtains, ordered lights and more wine, and gave orders that no one should be admitted. The intendant was in despair, but Bruno exclaimed:

"My dear friend, everything on earth is suicide, with this difference, however-here, one can always come to life again. The hour one kills is the only one that is rightly spent."

The intendant feared an outbreak of delirium, but Bruno was not one of those cavaliers who have only as much mind as the champagne they have just tossed down inspires them with, and who, at best, can only write a gallant billet-doux or devise a witty impropriety. At other times, Bruno would have laughed at the man who would ask him to adopt a system as his own, and yet he now asserted that he had one, and, filling his glass again, exclaimed: "Yes, my friend; there are only two kinds of human beings in the world."

"Men and women?" said the intendant, who thought it best to fall in with his vein, in order more easily to divert him from it.

"Pshaw!" interrupted Bruno. "Who is speaking of such things? Listen, my friend; the two human species are those who enjoy and those who suffer. He who lives for so-called ideas-for the good, the beautiful, the true. The man with an ideal may sacrifice his life, or be burnt at the stake. It is his duty. His life is a short and uneventful one, but is compensated by the long and enduring remembrance in which he is held by posterity. That balances the reckoning. Is it not so?"

The intendant was obliged to assent. What could he do?

"And the second species," added Bruno, "includes ourselves-those who enjoy. The best thing in the world is enjoyment without consequences. After I have been smoking, gaming or listening to music, I can do anything; nothing disturbs me then. Other pleasures unfortunately have consequences. One ought to have no family-no family-by all means, no family."

Bruno suddenly burst into tears. The intendant was at a loss how to help him, and reproached himself for not having induced Bruno to refrain from drinking and talking. Bruno threw his head back, and the intendant wrapped a piece of ice in a handkerchief and laid it on his forehead.

"Thanks!" said Bruno, closing his eyes; "thanks!"

He was soon asleep.

The servant entered. Bruno awoke. The intendant drew aside the curtains and opened the windows. It was high noon.

Word came that Baum had already started off with Doctor Sixtus, the court physician. "Then we will go without them," said Bruno, who had regained his composure.

"We?"

"You see, my grief makes me think that I have already told you everything. We must go to the lake to look for traces of my unfortunate sister. Have I really said nothing of this to you before?"

"No-but I am at your service. I will ask for leave of absence for myself and for you, too."

"There's no need of that. His majesty has already offered it to me. Your Majesty is very gracious-very. Do you think we serve you? Ha, ha! we only serve you because we can enjoy ourselves better, and in more varied ways, at your court. You are our host, and do not mind stealthily taking a tit-bit yourself, behind the bar-I beg of you, my dear friend-what did I say? You heard nothing-did you? It was delirium! I am growing mad! I must go out! Let us start this very day!"