On the Heights: A Novel

She waited for a long while. She would kiss the boy's little hand again and again, and would look around to see if the father were not coming.

He came not.

The king was sitting in his cabinet, his hands pressed against his burning brow. He had passed the turning-point in his career, and he could no longer permit himself to be oppressed by private, personal griefs. He had repented, and that was sufficient. He was determined to effect a change in himself, and that was more than enough. Of what use were further accusations and penalties? A deep feeling of resentment against his wife arose within him. She was weak and revengeful. No, not weak; she was endowed with a power of which he had never had the faintest presentiment, and he felt deeply conscious of the grievous fault he had committed in deceiving such a wife. He was, however, unable to free himself from the thought that his punishment was an affront to his exalted position. And while his own life-fabric lay in ruins, why should he, with wondrous self-denial, set about righting the lives of others? The heart that is reconciled and at peace with itself, is the only one that can exert a reconciling and peaceful influence on others. A spirit of defiance and discontent moved him to abandon the reforms he had begun, for she who was nearest and dearest to him, his own wife, would not justly acknowledge them.

He sat there for a long while, dull and depressed. At length he arose, his face expressive of defiance and firmness. He had determined to accomplish the good, whether his efforts were appreciated or misjudged. His strength for good had conquered. Unaided, and for the sake of his own honor, he had determined to carry out the measures that he considered right, and the happiness that this would cause him must compensate for the lost pleasures of love.

There were great festivities at court that evening.

The betrothal of Princess Angelica to Prince Arnold was officially celebrated. The queen appeared, leaning on her husband's arm, and had a kind and gentle greeting for every one. She looked weak, but none the less beautiful.

No one was able to discover the faintest trace of the rupture between the royal pair, nor did any one notice that the ring was no longer on the king's hand.

The king and queen conversed with apparent cordiality, but she often looked as if she must ask him: "Has nothing happened?"

Then she would look about her fearfully, as if the specter of Irma must suddenly appear in white, dripping garments.

When the king, accompanied by the queen, had made the round of the saloons, he saluted Bronnen most cordially and remained with him for some time, engaged in lively conversation.

The queen looked on in amazement. She well knew that Bronnen had secretly admired Irma, and had even sought her hand. How had it happened that the king had become so intimate with this man, and distinguished him above all the other members of the court? There was no opportunity to obtain information on this point. The whole summer palace was illuminated; the terrace was hung with variegated lamps; vessels of burning pitch were placed in the park, sending their brightness out into the autumn night; the band of Prince Arnold's regiment played merry airs, the glow of lights and the sounds of music were wafted far out into the valley and even into the mountains, on whose lonely heights there were human dwellings.

The queen met Gunther, but simply exchanged a few hasty words with him. The king greeted him politely as he passed by.

He won't be so cruel, thought the queen. There was a strange shyness in her expression whenever her eyes rested on Gunther, and, on one occasion, the king observed this and shook his head. The queen felt that Gunther must be displeased with her, for she had not acted according to the laws that he had explained to her.

On the following day, it was reported throughout the capital that Doctor Gunther had received his dismissal.

The official gazette which contained an account of the betrothal festivities announced that "His Majesty the King has been graciously pleased to accept the resignation of his body physician, Privy Councilor Gunther, and, in token of his satisfaction, has conferred the cross of Commander of the – Order upon him."

Among the personal announcements was the following:

"I bid farewell to all my friends, and am about to remove to my native town – in the Highlands.

"Doctor William Gunther,"Privy Councilor and late Physician in Ordinary to His Majesty the King:"

A STORY OF A SOLITARY WORLDLING.

BOOK VII

(IRMA'S JOURNAL.)

Cast ashore-what is there left me, but to live on, because I am not dead?

For days and nights, this unsolved question kept me, as it were, hovering between heaven and earth, just as it was in the terrible moment when I glided down from the rock.

I have solved the problem.

I am working. I shall remain resolved, no matter what the result. I find it a relief to note down my thoughts and feelings.

I was ill, – of a fever, they tell me, – and now I am at work.

I had told the grandmother of what I could do, but there was no chance to apply it here. She took me out into the garden, and we gathered up the apples that Uncle Peter shook down from the tree. Then the old, blind pensioner, whose room is over mine, came out and told us, with angry cries, that a certain portion of the apples belonged to him. He tried to find one, so that he might taste it, and thus ascertain which tree we were shaking. I handed him an apple, and told him that I lived in the room under his.

We were still in the garden, when a man came who wanted to purchase two maple-trees that were standing by the cross road, in order to use them for carving. This seemed like a ray of hope. I told the grandmother that I knew how to mold in clay, and that I thought I could easily learn how to carve in wood. And now I'm in the workshop, as a pupil.

This is my first free Sunday, and, while all are away at church, I am writing this.

-

I once knew a man who had already been kneeling on the sand-heap, the muskets aimed at him, and-he was pardoned. I have often seen him. Oh that I had asked him how he lived on!

-

There is no mirror in my room. I have determined never to see myself again.

And since I neither have, nor desire a mirror, let these pages be the mirror of my soul.

-

Oh this repose! this solitude! It is like rising from the lake, like life regained. And yet how calm, how restful!

Up here, and in thousands of other places on this earth, 'twas ever thus, while, down below, I was about to commit a fearful sin!

-

I have just returned from the workshop. Formerly, when making excursions from the summer palace into the surrounding country, we would stop at the industrial villages and visit the large workshops, where everything was shown us. I used to feel a sense of shame-ah! that was long ago-at the thought of our merely looking on for a moment, while others were working. And when we returned to our carriages and drove off, leaving the men still at their work, what must they have thought of us?

I am now at the workbench myself.

-

Why does no religion place the command: "Thou shalt work" above all others?

-

They say that the wound sucked by living lips heals quickly. O thou who art called queen! I would like to suck up the blood that trickles from thy heart!

-

Did I destroy the letter to the queen, or did it reach her?

-

I started with fright, when the grandmother asked me why I had pained the queen by informing her that I meant to take my life.

Why? I know not why. All I know is that I could not help it; it was the last, the unavoidable tribute I owed to truthfulness.

Why is it that we only concern ourselves about what others may think of us after death when life has become but an empty sound?

-

Sad and painful days.

I regarded it as my duty to write to the queen from my place of concealment. Uncle Peter, a true-hearted and obliging little man, who is always at my service and would like to show me a kindness every moment, offered to carry a letter for me to a distant town. The queen shall not grieve on my account-not for my death, at all events. I will let her know that I am yet alive, but that my life is one of expiation. If I only felt sure that I had really burnt the letters, or that they reached him and her. Him I need tell no more. The good mother noticed that something was troubling me-something that I had kept from her. She often came to me, but asked no questions. At last I could bear it no longer, and told her what I had determined on. She took me by the hand-whenever she means to make her words additionally impressive, she does this, as if she felt that she must hold fast to me physically-and said: "Child, you've only to make up your mind clearly as to what you mean to do. Ask your own heart whether you wouldn't rather be discovered. Ask your conscience."

I started. It is true, I should not care to do anything, but if it were to happen-

"Don't give me your answer," continued the mother; "answer yourself, and then ask yourself whether, if you returned to where you once were, you wouldn't, on the morrow or the day after, wish to be away again. But let me tell you one thing: whatever you determine on, do it thoroughly. Don't write at all, and let the queen mourn you; for it's much easier to grieve for the dead than for one who, though living, is lost; or else, write to her honestly and frankly: 'Here I am.' As I said before, whatever you do, let it be done thoroughly. O my child!" she added, "I fear it will be with you as it was with the poor soul. Do you know the story of the poor soul?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell it to you. There was once a young girl who, having gone astray and died an early death, descended into hell; and there Saint Peter could always hear her crying, from amidst the flames, 'Paul! Paul!' in tones that were so heartrending that even the most wicked demons couldn't find it in their hearts to mock at her. So one day Saint Peter went up to the gates of hell and inquired: 'My dear child, why are you always crying "Paul! Paul!" in such a pitiful voice?' and the girl replied: 'Ah, dear Saint Peter, what are all of hell's torments? To me, they're nothing. Paul is worse off than I am. How will he endure life without me? I only ask for one thing; let me return to the earth once more; only for a moment, so that I may see how he's getting on, and I'll be willing to remain in hell a hundred years longer."

"'A hundred years!' said St. Peter. 'Consider, my child; a hundred years is a long time.'

"'Not to me. Oh, I implore you to let me see my Paul once more! After that, I'll certainly be quiet and submit patiently to everything.'

"Saint Peter resisted for a long while, but the poor soul gave him no peace, and at last he said: 'Well, you may go, for all I care; but you'll be sorry for it.'

"And so the poor soul returned to the earth, in order to see her beloved Paul. And when she got there, and saw him feasting and enjoying himself with others, she quietly went back to eternity and, shaking her head sadly, said: 'Now I'll return to hell and repent.' And then Saint Peter said to her: 'The hundred years you promised are forgiven you. During the one minute you passed on earth, you suffered more than you would have done in a hundred years of hell.'

"And that's the story of the poor soul."

-

I thirst for some spring outside of me, which would refresh and redeem me. I long for music, for faith, for some soul-liberating dedication of myself! I find it not. I must seek the spring within myself.

-

In deepest grief it often seems to me as if it were not I who have suffered thus. I go my way, and it seems as if some one were telling me the story of what had happened to another.

-

For the first time in my life, I know what it is to feel that I am being borne with and favored. I really ought not to be here. I am eating the bread of charity. Now I know how the poor homeless ones must feel. If Hansei cared to do so, he could send me out of his house this very day, and what would become of me then?

-

I am obliged to eat in the company of my hospitable friends, and I find it no easy matter to do so. I pity Hansei, most of all. To him, it must seem as if a strange apparition-the phantom of one whom he knows not, was seated at his table. I destroy his happiness.

-

I have punctured my hand with the gimlet, just because, while at work, I am busy thinking of other things. My little pitchman has brought me a healing salve.

-

Antique forms of beauty cannot be worked in wood. It is inflexible, stubborn stuff, and can, with difficulty, be made to yield to the designs of art. It is naught but a makeshift material.

-

"Oh, how glorious it must be to live up here!" How often is this expression heard during country excursions! But we forget that the atmosphere of country parties and that of home are two very different things. How different when the wind whistles over the stubble fields and rages among the leafless forest trees; when dull and heavy mists creep over the mountains; when, for days and days, the clouds hang upon the heights, and, now and then, suffer a summit to appear in phantom-like outline, only to hide it again; when, at night, the storms disturb your sleep, and it seems as if day would never come. Yes, ye picnic spirits, with garlands of fresh leaves on your hats! spend weeks up here without a sofa, without fresh bread; only think of it-without a sofa!

-

Solitude with happy, cheerful memories, must needs be peaceful and placid. It suggests the lonely tree that sends its roots through the rich soil and into the clear stream in the valley. But solitude with sad and dark memories reminds me of the tree whose roots, ever striking against rocks, must pass over and clamber around them. Thus, holding a rock in their embrace, they are like a heart laden with a heavy burden that it can never rid itself of.

-

Perfect solitude is when, for a whole day, no human eye has beheld your face. It does one good to know that no human eye has seen you, and that the glass that mirrors your features is, as yet, unsullied by the breath of another.

-

Solitude is apt to make one superstitious. One naturally casts about him for some external support.

It always alarms me when, on beginning work in the morning, one of my tools drops from my hand. I feel that the day which begins thus will prove a sad and troubled one. I fight down this superstitious feeling.

-

He who possesses a firm faith, although in solitude, is not alone.

-

My master is always out of humor. His wife and three daughters assist him at his work. Hansei has advanced the pay for my lessons. I am an apt pupil.

I notice that these people regard me as slightly demented. The little pitchman informed me that Hansei had given out this report, intending that it should serve as a sort of invisible cap. This gives me liberty and yet protects me, but at times it makes me feel uneasy.

My master also thinks that I am out of my mind. He addresses me cautiously, and is delighted when he finds that I have understood him.

-

The swallows are departing. Ah! I cannot deny that I fear the approaching winter. If I only do not become ill. That were terrible! It would force me to betray myself or-no, I dare not be ill. But I am still so nervous. It is hard for me to mention it, but it is hard to bear it. A cow in the stable near by has a bell on her neck, and day and night it keeps up its unrhythmic tinkling. But I must get used to it.

-

I really dread the winter. If it were only spring time, instead of autumn. Nature would be my friend. Nature is the same everywhere. But now winter faces me. I must reconcile myself to it, however, for we cannot arrange the seasons to suit ourselves. I will learn which is the stronger, my temperament or my will. I shall impose no thoughts upon my mind but those which ought to engage it.

I have determined upon this.

-

The shoemaker means to recognize Cinderella by her foot-he finds mine unusually small for that of a peasant girl.

I trust that the fairy tale may remain a fairy tale.

That touching air from Isouard's Cinderella:

Good child, thou must contented be,A better lot's in store for thee,

has been haunting me, all day long.

How simple the words! Music is the fairy that invests Cinderella's accents with royal robes, and enthrones them on the lips of all mankind.

-

O happy nursery tale! Thou askest not how the princess lived as poultry-maid. Thy fancy uttered its creative: "Let there be-" and behold! it was.

But, in life, such transformations are not brought about without great effort.

Walpurga has rightly divined my feelings. It was but to-day that she said:

"You can't get used to things here. Life here must seem almost as strange to you as it did to me in the palace, but, of course, it's easier to get used to a silken bed than to a sack of leaves."

I felt like saying: "And if one means to go home again, it's far easier to put up with such discomfort," but I repressed it. One ought not to torment such people with logical consequences. Their thoughts and feelings are like the singing of birds, without rhythm and, at best, like the folk-songs, whose melodies close on the third, instead of on the key-note.

-

Since the alluring, glittering life of the great world could at any time have been mine, I find it easy to forego it.

Had I entered a convent and were living there, fettered by a vow and subject to restraint, I know that I should have mourned away my days behind the bars.

-

To be without gloves! I never knew that one's hands could become so cold. I cannot realize that I am without gloves. When he drew off my glove, a shudder passed through me. – Was it a presentiment?

-

In the mornings I feel the want of a thousand little conveniences, with which use had so familiarized me that I scarcely knew I possessed them. I am obliged to learn the affairs of everyday life from the good mother. It is just these things that we forget to learn. We are taught dancing, before we are really able to walk.

From cleaning our shoes in the morning to putting out the lamps at night, how many are our wants, how many the helping hands we need! What with cooking, washing, scouring, drawing of water, and carrying wood, man finds no time to think of himself. Nature furnishes clothing and food to the beasts; but man must spin and cook for himself.

I have imposed a difficult task upon myself, for I have determined to allow no one to wait upon me. An anchorite cannot afford to be too cleanly or fastidious; but then I was not intended for an anchorite.

-

At first it oppressed me to think that I had become a Robinson Crusoe in spirit, but now I am proud of it.

He who is thrown upon himself, and is no longer able to live in accordance with custom, is cast away on a desert island, and must create everything anew for himself.

But why should I, whose heart was already borne down with its burdens, be obliged to suffer shipwreck, too?

-

When I look out into the night and all is dark, and there is no light to tell me: "Here are other beings like yourself," I feel oppressed with fear, as if I were alone upon the earth!

-

(October.) – This evening-ah! the evenings are already long-it suddenly occurred to me: There are thousands who lead a life of affluence and pleasure, who move in society, and yet-

Why should I alone renounce the world, deprive myself of its pleasures, and bury myself in solitude?

Because I must and shall! I live only by the favor and charity of others. I have wasted my life, trifled it away. Shall I try to regain it in bitter earnest? I once trifled with words, but now they fetter and judge me!

-

"You're still too heavily laden?" said the grandmother.

"How so?"

"If a wagon's loaded too heavily, you can't grease its wheels so as to stop their creaking. You must wait till it's empty. Then you can raise it with a jack-screw, take off the wheels and grease the axles. The burden you still bear is the thoughts of the past; lay them aside, and you'll soon feel relieved."

-

At last I know why I get up in the mornings. Something seems to say to me: "Thou shalt labor. To-day, this will be finished; to-morrow, that." And when I lie down to rest, there is always something more in the world than there was at daybreak.

-

"Work!" "Work!" is the daily, hourly watchword here. They think of nothing but work. It is a necessity of their being, just as growth is to the tree. It is this that makes them so self-reliant.

-

There is misery and discord, even here.

In the kindness of her heart, Walpurga said that she could not endure the thought of the old blind pensioner's being obliged to eat his meals alone, and that she meant to have him at the table with the rest.

"I won't have it!" said Hansei. "Not a word more about it; I won't have it."

"Why not?"

"Why? You ought to know that yourself. If Jochem has once been at the table, you can never get rid of him again. So we'd better not have him at all. You don't know how an old blind man eats."

After that, not a word was spoken during the meal. Walpurga made believe that she was eating, but she was merely choking down her tears, and left the table soon afterward. She is keenly sensitive to such rudeness and cruelty; but she never complains, not even to me.

-

(During a violent storm.)

What a fright I have had to-day! My little pitchman told me that a man had hanged himself somewhere in the vicinity.

"It had to come," thought he. "The man had hanged himself fifteen years ago, but they cut him down, and he lived on. But it was just as if he always had a rope around his neck-people who've once tried anything of that sort, never die a natural death."

How his words startled me.

Can it be that such dread fate is yet in store for me?

I answer: No! It shall not be!

-

To sit in my warm room and look out at the driving snowstorm, is like going back in thought to the hurly-burly of the great world.

Nine weeks have passed already.

I still have a dull, heavy feeling, as if I had been struck in the head with a hammer. I merely exist, but it seems as if life were again dawning upon me. When I awake in the mornings, I am obliged to ask myself who and where I am, and to recall all my woe. But then work soon summons me away.

-

I have nothing more to look for, be it from the outer world, or the morrow. I am forced back upon myself and the present. For me, there are neither letters nor books, and the very roads are closed. To arise in the morning and know that no tidings, whether of joy or sadness, can come from without; to have nothing to fall back upon but one's self and the undying laws of nature: he who can lead such a life, self-contained and yet contented, must be like the child illuminated by its own radiance-the child painted by Correggio.

Hammer and axe, file and saw, all that once seemed to me instruments of torture for poor enslaved humanity, I have found the instruments of deliverance. They banish the demons that dwell within us. Where these tools are wielded by industrious hands, evil spirits cannot tarry. The redeemer who will consecrate labor, is yet to come.

-

At last, I find myself obliged to be content without doing anything in the way of art.

Although wood is useful, and in many respects indispensable, it cannot be applied to serve beauty apart from usefulness. The substance with which my art, or rather trade, employs itself, is unequal to the demands of art, except for decorative purposes. Bronze and marble speak a universal language, but a wooden image always retains a provincial character. It addresses us in dialect, as it were, and never attains to the perfect expression of the ideal. We can make wooden effigies of animals or plants with which we are familiar, and can even carve angels in relievo, but to make a life-size bust, or human figure, of wood, were entirely out of the question.

Wood carving is only the beginning of art, and is faltering, or, at best, monotonous, in its expression.

What has once existed as an organism cannot be transformed into a new organic structure. Stone and bronze, however, do not acquire organic shape, except at the hands of man.

If a Greek of the days of Pericles were to behold our images of the saints, how he would shudder at our barbarism.

-

This journal is a comfort to me. I can express myself in my own language and feel perfectly at home. I cannot, at times, avoid regarding my constant use of the dialect of this region as a sort of affectation. Everything that I say appears to me distorted. I feel as if wearing a strange costume, and as if my soul were concealed behind an iron mask. Although I am a child of the mountains, the words I utter seem strange and foreign. A dialect proves poverty of resources. It is an imperfect instrument; a kettle-drum, for instance, on which one can play neither concertos nor fantasias. Or, to put it differently, the language of Lessing and Goethe is like the beautiful butterfly that has left the chrysalis to which it can never more return.