On the Heights: A Novel

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Oh, how delightful it is to be awakened by the song of the finch, and to find all nature refreshed by the invigorating morning air!

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(April 19th.) – A heavy fog all day. The mist forms a veil which hides nature's death and awakening from view.

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The nightingale by yonder brook, sings all day long and through the night. What unwearying power! What an inexhaustible fount of song!

While I write, its song seems to come nearer, as if it knew that I long for it.

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I see every opening bud, and wait to see the ferns unfold their leaves. Even the rough maple has a delicate blossom. Everything is blooming or singing. There is music, even in the cackling of the hens. The world is full of infinite variety.

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Oh, how delightful to watch for every green leaf, and for the opening of every bud. Nature's greatest charm is that she is never in haste. She can wait, and all we need do is-to wait upon her.

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At first, we attempt to note every stage of growth, but we soon find that an impossibility.

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It needs but a single rainy day, and all the buds burst. Bright spring is with us once again. Spring produces a sort of mental unrest which seems to move in a course parallel with the impulse at work in nature.

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The drooping birch is laden with rich clusters of blossoms, and its branches are swayed to and fro in mute yet melodious movements.

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The best self-forgetfulness is to regard the things of this world with love and attention. – Perhaps attention already presupposes love, and that of the most unselfish kind.

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A cuckoo comes quite close to the house at early morning and utters its cry.

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(Whitsuntide.) – The preparations for the festival afford much pleasure, more perhaps than the festival itself. What kneading and baking, and what joy at the successful completion of the festal cake.

Joy which we have prepared for ourselves is perfect joy. And now comes the festival. Trees and human beings seem blooming with life, and yonder forest is borne toward us in the Whitsuntide favors they bring into the house.

Hansei has a new suit of the style worn in this section of the country. When he walked over the farm to-day, the kindly "good-morning" which he bestowed upon every one seemed full of happiness.

I am very sorry that I am again unable to accompany them to church. The festal feeling reaches its climax in church-going, but, even at home, the air is laden with the fragrant odor of the birch and holiday cake.

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(May 24th.) – We have had a furious spring storm, accompanied by thunder and lightning. The trees swayed to and fro and bent as if they would break.

"That's bad," said my little pitchman, "though it's good for the rye. A storm in springtime brings cold weather, while one in midsummer makes the days warmer than before."

How well this symbolizes precocious passion.

The bright sunshine has returned. I have been out of doors. Millions of blossoms are strewn about the ground and, in the forest, lay many dead young birds. They had ventured out of their nests too soon; the rain had wet their young wings and they could not return. Besides that, the nest no longer contained room for them. Forsaken and hungry, there was nothing left them but death!

Nature is terrible. It labors long and patiently to bring forth a being which it suddenly and wantonly suffers to die.

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Sundays go hardest with me. One is used to look for something unusual on that day. We put on a particular dress and expect the world to do the same. On that day, more than on all others, I feel that I am in a strange world.

The brook murmurs and the birds sing, just as they did yesterday. What right have I to ask them to sing me a different song to-day?

Nature has no moods; they belong to man alone.

In this lies a heavy burden.

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In former days, while watching the forms and colors of the clouds, I was obliged to look up into the sky. But now I see them resting on the earth below me.

I can pass hours, watching the passing clouds and their ever-changing forms as reflected on the mountains. The earth itself was fashioned from such fluid masses. No artist can realize the extent of this cloud-world, or its wealth of form. Before our thoughts attain fixed shape, they, too, must pass through this nebulous state, in which, however, we are unable to perceive them.

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Singing birds, in great variety, have clustered at the edge of the forest. The notes of the lark, the yellowhammer, the green finch, the blackbird, the thrush, the red-tail, and the titmouse are heard all at once. Only a few of the birds that build their nests deep in the forest, sing there.

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In springtime, forest rills become brooks. In summer, naught is visible, save the dry bed of the stream. It is the same with our own lives.

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When old Jochem hears me rejoice because spring has come, he always says: "What does it signify? In a few weeks, the days will begin to shorten again."

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If human beings, like the trees, bore visible blossoms, these blossoms would assume a different shape and color, with each succeeding year. The blossoms of my soul were once so bright; but now-

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For the first time in my life, I have seen a pair of eagles soaring in the air. What a life theirs must be! They hovered far overhead, and described a circle in their flight. About what were they circling? Then they soared still higher and vanished in the empyrean.

The world still contains spirits whose flights are as free and as bold as that of the eagle. There is no creature that soars above the king of birds, no enemy that can approach him. But man sends forth the fatal ball and thus exerts an influence in regions which the eye alone can pierce.

He too was filled with pride when he had shot an eagle. And why? Because it was a proof of his power, and he adorned my hat with the token of his victory. Ah, woe is me!

Why does this grief constantly return to me?

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We women are never alone in nature. This is only another proof of the deep truth that lies in the old tradition. Man, created first, was alone; but woman, who came afterward, never existed alone. This repeats itself through the history of all nations, and a perplexing mystery is at last revealed to me.

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In the world of fashion, just as in the park, the traces of footsteps are effaced by obsequious servants. There must be nothing to remind us of yesterday.

And yet their life is to form a part of history.

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To cease evil, is not doing good.

I would like to accomplish some great deed. But where?

Within myself alone.

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My little pitchman is quite a changed being when among scenes of nature. He does not love nature. To use his own words, it merely amuses him. He delights in the most trifling peculiarities of bird-life, and how well he knows all the birds!

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(Many rainy days.) – I long for the sun, and am almost dying for the want of it. I feel as if I were fading, as if perishing with thirst-I cannot live without the sun. It is my debtor for the lovely May days of which I have been deprived. I must have them; they are my only comfort.

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If I remain thus dependent upon the weather, permitting every cloud to darken my mind, and every shower to chill me with the feeling that I am forsaken, it were far better I were lying at the bottom of the lake, and that the boatman were telling those whom he was ferrying across: "Far below us, lies a young maid of honor." – I have once before bade farewell to the sun, and I mean to be independent of it.

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There are beings who know nothing of rain and sunshine, and yet live.

But there are, also, others who are filled with dew-forming power-but they are the calm, self-contained, powerful natures, whose life is an inner, rather than an outer, one.

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(June 12th.) – After many hot days, there was rain last night. The drops are still glittering on every leaf and flower. Oh, the delightful morning that has succeeded the nocturnal storm! To have fully enjoyed such a morning is worth the trouble of living.

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Jochem has a lark in a cage-he must have something shut up with him.

The lark affords me great delight. There are but few of them up here, for we have nothing but meadow land. They love to hover over the fields of grain down in the valley.

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After the midsummer solstice, the woods become silent. The sun now merely ripens, and has ceased to call forth blossoms and song. The finch alone keeps up his merry lay.

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From my window, I can see the white foal grazing in the meadow. He knows me. When I look up, he stands still for a while and looks at me, and then dashes hither and thither at a furious rate. I have named him Wodan, and when I call him by that name, he comes to me.

I have sketched the foal, and am now carving it in birch. I think I shall succeed, but wood is obstinate, awkward stuff, after all. I lose my patience on slight provocation. I must try to overcome this.

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Yesterday was a year since I lay at the foot of the rock. I could not write a word. My brain whirled with the thoughts of that day; but now it is over.

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I don't think I shall write much more. I have now experienced all the seasons in my new world. The circle is complete. There is nothing new to come from without. I know all that exists about me, or that can happen. I am at home in my new world.

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Unto Jesus the scribes and pharisees brought a woman who was to be stoned to death, and he said unto them: "Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone."

Thus it is written.

But I ask: How did she continue to live? She who was saved from being stoned to death; she who was pardoned, that is, condemned to live? How did she live on? Did she return to her home? How did she stand with the world? And how with her own heart?

No answer. None.

I must find the answer in my own experience.

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"Let him that is without sin among you, cast the first stone." These are the noblest, the greatest words ever uttered by human lips, or heard by human ear. They divide the history of the human race into two parts. They are the "let there be light" of the second creation. They divide and heal my little life, too, and create me anew.

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Has one who is not wholly without sin, a right to offer precepts and reflections to others?

Look into your own heart. What are you?

Behold my hands. They are hardened by toil. I have done more than merely lift them in prayer.

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Since I am alone, I have not seen a letter of print. I have no book and wish for none, and this is not in order to mortify myself, but because I wish to be perfectly alone.

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She who renounces the world, and, in her loneliness, still cherishes the thought of eternity, has assumed a heavy burden.

Convent life is not without its advantages. The different voices that join in a chorale sustain each other, and when the tone at last ceases, it seems to float away on the air and vanish by degrees. But here I am quite alone. I am priest and church, organ and congregation, confessor and penitent, all in one, and my heart is often so heavy, as if I must needs have, another to help me bear the load. "Take me up and carry me, I cannot go further!" cries my soul. But then I rouse myself again, seize my scrip and my pilgrim's staff and wander on, solitary and alone; and while I wander, strength returns to me.

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For the first time in a year, I saw a carriage driving up the white road that leads through the valley. Those who were sitting in it, could not know how my eyes followed them. Whither go ye? who are ye?

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I must write again. I believe that I at last know the full meaning of the word "gemüthlich." It includes careful thought for the comfort of others even in the merest trifles, and requires one to put himself in another's place. It is the heart, expressing itself in poetry; it is feeling, clothing itself in the garb of fancy.

True culture includes this feeling; for what is culture but the power to put one's self in another's place, and "to see ourselves as others see us"?

My opinion is still unchanged. Hansei seems dull and awkward, and yet he has far more of the best culture than many a one who is decorated with orders and epaulettes and is regarded as one of the most charming of cavaliers.

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I constantly keep thinking that there is something in me which I have not yet discovered. It gives me no rest. Is it an idea, a feeling, a word, or a deed? I know not, but I feel that there is something within me that seeks a vent. Perhaps death may come before I discover it.

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Old Jochem still remembers a few verses from the hymnbook, and keeps repeating them to himself, but in such perverted shape that they are sheer nonsense. I offered to teach him the verses correctly, but this made him very angry, and he told me that I was trying to teach him something new, and that it would not answer. His nonsense seems dear to him. He does not understand it, and the air of mystery thus imparted to it renders it far more impressive.

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One who has never experienced the feeling, cannot know what it is to long for a few words of conversation with your equals. It is a consuming thirst. Any one who can speak my language would serve my purpose. I cannot endure this strain. I feel as if I were in a strange land, and were vainly listening for the beloved accents of my native tongue. It is well for me that I can work.

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As long as I had Walpurga with me in the palace, I could speak to her freely on various subjects. When I came to her, it was a change, a stepping out of the sphere in which my thoughts were accustomed to move. But here, where I have her and nothing else, it is different. It is not pride-for what have I to do with pride? Is it alienation, or is it sullen listlessness?

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Naïveté pleases us only for a short time. Wisdom always remains attractive-such wisdom as mother Beate's or Gunther's. Yes, I long for him most of all.

Wisdom is cultured naïveté or, to speak more correctly, the naïveté of genius. It is the rosy apple; naïveté the blossom from which it sprang, still dwells in the fruit, as its core.

Night and day, the various elemental influences, clear perception and the mysterious forces of nature: – all these help to perfect the finest fruit.

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I cannot look upon work as the noblest thing in life. The perfect man is he who does nothing, who cherishes himself-; such is the life of the gods, and what is man but the god of creation?

My heresy thus expresses itself. I have confessed and repented of it. But in the confessor's chair sits one who is in the right when he says: "Very well, my child! And so the noblest and most exalted life is simply existence, void of effort. But, since no one can live unless some other being labors for him, it follows that all must do something. Nothing can be had without pay. The one class has not been sent into the world merely to exist, nor the other merely to labor."

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How happy I might become if there were no past. A life hereafter, filled with memories-how sad the thought! And yet without memories, would it be a second life?

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True joy at last dwells with us. Whenever we partake of anything, Walpurga always says: "We planted this ourselves; on such a day, we set our beans. I put them in Burgei's hand, and she dropped them on the garden beds."

And thus it seems to be with all things. The past is being renewed to us.

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I have found it difficult to go over the same task, again and again. But the constant repetition is what constitutes labor. Without that, it is mere amusement.

Nature constantly repeats herself, and we must serve her by imitating her. She repeats herself through her laws; man, through his duties.

I have, nevertheless, indulged in variations, and not without success. While walking through the stable, I observed the cow lowing and turning toward her sucking calf. I have carved the figures in wood.

I should like to imitate every object in nature-to create the world anew, as it were, so that men might see all things as I see them.

I thank Thee, Eternal Spirit, for bestowing these gifts upon me.

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The chief aim of life is not joy, nor is it repose. It must be labor. Perhaps there is no chief aim, after all.

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Love and labor are the body and soul of mankind. Happy is he in whom they are united. I have forfeited love-nothing is left me but labor.

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My white foal! It looks at me, and I look at it in return. Free and uncontrolled, it scampers about the field, and yet I seize it and send it out into the world, so that others, too, may delight in the pretty, playful animal.

I have sketched it in various positions. Its every movement is replete with strength and grace.

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I have carved the figure of my white foal, and have completed it with incredible rapidity. My friends are astonished, and so am I. I look upon it as a success.

My little pitchman-why should I dislike to mention it? – carried the figure down to the dealer. It grieved me to part with my work, but the little magic horse must, and does, support me. It was sold at a good price, and I received a large order, besides.

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Sometimes, I find myself wondering what Countess Brinkenstein, pious Constance, Schnabelsdorf, or Bronnen, would say if they were to see me now; and at such moments, I am obliged to look around, in order to satisfy myself that they are not present.

So long as I cannot govern my imagination, I am not free. Fancy is the most powerful of despots.

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Our fountain gushes and bubbles the whole night through, and when the moonlight rests upon it, it is lovelier and more peaceful than ever. The earth bounteously gives forth its healing waters. They flow unceasingly. All that we need do is to go to the spring and drink. My favorite seat is near there. Its waters sometimes suddenly increase in volume and swiftness, as if they were bringing me a special message. Perhaps it is all caused by the currents of air, and I may be mistaken after all. One easily gives way to reverie when by the spring.

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Gundel, the little pitchman's daughter, affords me much much pleasure. The honest, kind-hearted, simpleminded creature is now full of joy; she loves, and is loved in return.

One of the farm hands is a native of Hansei's birthplace. He was once in the cuirassiers, and this faithful, but rough and ill-favored lad, is Gundel's lover. A girl whom no one has noticed, whose life has been constant drudgery, is invested with new importance, both in her own eyes and in those of others, as soon as she becomes the object of a man's love. All that she does is regarded as good and pretty, and she is at once lifted up out of her lowly and forgotten state.

Love is the crown of every life, a diadem even on the lowliest head.

When Gundel goes about her rough work-to draw water, or to feed the cattle-she seems radiant with newborn happiness.

Although I have said nothing, she notices that I am interested in her, and she often ask whether there is anything she can do for me.

I wish that riches were again mine, so that I might make these lovers happy.

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How foolish is the desire to be ever original. Nature constantly repeats herself. The rose of to-day is like that of yesterday.

Men determine for themselves-and in this lies their torment.

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I have not yet put vanity away from me. I am still moved to delight whenever a happy expression flows from my pen. But is this really vanity? I think not. Although alone in my cell, I adorn myself for my own sake. Beauty has become a necessity to me. I must be surrounded by objects of beauty, and must also possess it in myself. Uncouthness does not offend me, but ugliness, affects me just as discords do. In the so-called cultivated world, a rude expression excites a deprecatory "Ah!" while elegant vulgarity is smiled upon.

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I am obliged to read old Jochem's bond to him, at least once a week. Although he knows it by heart, he insists upon hearing it again and satisfying himself that it is all right, and properly signed and sealed. He does not suffer it to leave his hands. I am obliged to read it while he holds it. He trusts no one.

The old man almost seems to regret that he has nothing to complain of, and is constantly urging me to prepare a memorial to the king, so that he may have it at hand when required. How strange that the king should always seem to him the personification of right and justice.

He has much to tell me about the late king, under whom he served. He describes him as a perfect gentleman, and says that he often hunted in this region. He has been informed that the present king is not much of a hunter, and that he sticks to the priests, who, in return, grant him absolution. He always concludes by asking whether I have ever seen the king, and, although I have answered "No" a hundred times, he keeps on repeating the same question.

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Hansei was right, after all! I feel as if I ought to crave his pardon. It is a disgusting sight to behold the old pensioner at his meals; and if one does not intend to have him at table for the remainder of his life, one had better not begin with him. Hansei's objection was kind and clever, not rude and ill-natured. Kind resolves that cannot be fully carried out, had better not be attempted.

When I spoke of this to Walpurga to-day, she answered me, through her tears, saying: "I'd a thousand times rather hear you praise him than me."

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It is not until humanity becomes a duty that we can truly know whether its exercise is a pleasure or a sacrifice.

Naturally enough, I have treated Jochem kindly, have often had him visit me, and have tried to entertain him. Now he will not leave me to myself, and robs me of my only possession-solitude. Although it cost me an effort, I was obliged to insist upon his only visiting me during certain hours. But even that is irksome, for I am no longer perfect mistress of my time. When the bell in the valley tolls the hour of twelve, the old man comes and sits with me. Our conversations are not very fruitful or suggestive. His stock of ideas is but a limited one, and topics that are not related to them fail to excite his interest. Besides that, he coughs a great deal, and is always asking me to tell him about my father. He seems to forget that I have already told him that I never knew my father. It was the saddest thing I ever said, but I did not know my father while he lived. I understood him not, although he attempted to reveal himself to me. From the depths of my soul, I cry out to him: "My poor father! you tried to perfect yourself, but your last action, although it was meant to arouse me, was the act of one who was in fetters. I now accomplish what you falteringly began. While laboring for you, my love for you has become full and complete. You are now near to me, and have become what you longed to be-my preserver."

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I have at last made it a rule that the old man shall only come when I send for him. I could not do otherwise. And this I find almost worse than to have fixed hours for his visits, for now I am often obliged to stop and ask myself: "Isn't it time to call the old man? He won't disturb me now." He thus engages my thoughts more than before.

I must learn to bear with him patiently, and Jochem will surely improve. When I say to him: "I can't talk now," he is satisfied. All that he asks is to be permitted to sit there in silence.

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How well one sleeps when tired with work. How good it is to have hunger and fatigue, when one is safely able to satisfy their demands.

In the great world, they eat and sleep, but are never tired or hungry.

I never knew how much I used to talk, and how necessary conversation had become to me. But now that I have learned how to be silent, and live alone with my own thoughts, I do know; I now see that the presence of others exerted an electric influence upon me, overcharging my nature. I was never unreal, but was more than I really am. I made others cheerful, but how rarely was I so!

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Labor is the consoling friend and companion of solitude.

He who has not lived alone, does not know what labor is.

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I am often reminded of Dante's: "There can be no greater suffering than, in one's misery, to remember happier days." But why does he not tell us what kind of happiness he means? It must always be delightful to remember innocent joys, though the unhappiness that follows be ever so great.

But Francesca refers to happiness allied with guilt. And I know that she is right.

I still remember my father's parting advice: "Indulge only in such pleasures as it will afford you pleasure to look back upon."