On the Heights: A Novel

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What strange, hidden springs flow through one's soul. Ever since the sad saying of Dante's occurred to me, all my thoughts have been translating themselves into Italian.

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It often seems to me as if it were sinful thus to bury myself alive. My voice is no longer heard in song, and much more that dwells within me has become mute.

Is this right?

If my only object in life were to be at peace with myself, it would be well enough-but I long to labor and to do something for others. Yet where and what shall it be?

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When I first heard that the beautifully carved furniture of the great and wealthy is the work of prisoners, it made me shudder. And now, although I am not deprived of freedom, I am in much the same condition. Those who have disfigured life should, as an act of expiation, help to make life more beautiful for others. The thought that I am doing this comforts and sustains me.

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My work prospers. But last winter's wood is not yet fit for use. My little pitchman has brought me some that is old, excellent and well seasoned, having been part of the rafters of an old house that has just been torn down. We work together cheerfully, and our earnings are considerable.

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Vice is the same everywhere, except that here it is more open. Among the masses, vice is characterized by coarseness; among the upper classes, by meanness.

The latter shake off the consequences of their evil deeds, while the former are obliged to bear them.

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The rude manners of these people are necessary, and are far preferable to polite deceit. They must needs be rough and rude. If it were not for its coarse, thick bark, the oak could not withstand the storm.

I have found that this rough bark covers more tenderness and sincerity than does the smoothest surface.

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Jochem told me, to-day, that he is still quite a good walker, but that a blind man finds it very troublesome to go anywhere; for, at every step, he is obliged to grope about, so that he may feel sure of his ground before he firmly plants his foot on the earth.

Is it not the same with me? Am I not obliged to be sure of the ground before I take a step?

Such is the way of the fallen.

Ah! why does everything I see or hear become a symbol of my life?

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Our life here is like that of plants. Our chief care is as to the weather. Rain and sunshine affect us as they do the plants that require their aid. Hansei often complains that he does not understand the weather signs hereabouts. In his old home by the lake, he could always tell how the weather would be. His want of knowledge on this subject prevents him from feeling quite at home here. Our little pitchman, however, is a most reliable weather-prophet, and has thus come to be looked upon as quite an important personage. I am his docile scholar and he is quite proud of me. Although he is quite intimate with me, and often indulges in pleasantry, he never fails to treat me with great respect.

Those who know nothing of etiquette, often make up for the want of it by their tact. I congratulated the little pitchman last week. It was on the occasion of his birthday, and when I shook hands with him, his face grew scarlet. He thanked me heartily, and kept saying that when he got to heaven, he would bespeak good quarters for me, and that his old woman wouldn't get angry if he possessed both her and myself in the next world. He is always happy when serving me. When he builds a fire in my stove, he ogles every log, as if it ought to feel it an honor to be permitted to help keep me warm.

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The census troubled me greatly to-day. After dinner, Hansei produced the blank which he was required to fill, and handed it to Walpurga, with the words: "Do you write, or let her" – meaning me-"write her name, her age, and where she comes from?"

We were in great tribulation, until Walpurga, at last, solved the difficulty by saying that there was no need of telling everything.

The remark was quite opportune and afforded a convenient excuse to Hansei, who was greatly annoyed by another schedule, in which he was expected to state the annual yield of milk and of butter, the number of chickens on the farm, etc., etc. Hansei was angry at the officials, and felt quite sure that they meant to impose another tax. His wrath saved me, but defrauded the state out of one soul.

The people hereabouts look upon the state and its functionaries as their natural enemies, and have no scruples as to deceiving them.

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For the first time in my life, I have seen a tree felled.

I was filled with awe when I saw it topple for a moment, before the final crash. It reminded me of the fate of a man who is, at one blow, hurled from sunny heights into the depths of misery.

Hansei is having a path cut through the forest. It passes by my window, and the clearing will afford me a fine view. He was quite happy when I told him of this.

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Hansei was at the capital. On his return, he unwrapped a large parcel and, with conscious pride, showed us what sensible presents he had bought. They were the pictures of the king and queen.

In his kindness of heart, he offered to let me hang up the pictures in my room, and was quite provoked to find that his wife wanted to keep them for herself. I satisfied him at last by saying: "The sitting-room belongs to us all."

But the pictures seemed to be looking at me constantly, and made it unpleasant for me to remain in the room. Walpurga noticed this and, to my great relief, removed them to her bedroom. Hansei does not take notice of such matters.

The king's portrait represents him in the dress of a citizen. Is it a sign that-?

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Hansei at last reveals his plan. It is quite a clever stroke of his to begin by cutting roads through the forest, so that the beams can be brought down from far up the mountain, and thus fetch him thrice as much money as if they were cut into smaller logs.

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(April 3d.) – At first, there is so much to observe. The whole world seems like a young child, or like the first verdure of spring. Later, one grows accustomed to it all, and it seems as if things were always and everywhere alike. It seems to me that life would be insupportable, if the world were ever new and left us no repose.

Habit, our second mother, is a good mother, too.

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They have fastened a rope to the feet of my white foal, so that it cannot run away. It can now only move about slowly. The freedom and grace of its movements are gone, even before it is put in harness.

Oh, how many human beings have a like fate!

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I love to watch the rain calmly descending upon the earth. If I were not obliged to work, I could remain by my window for hours, lost in reverie and looking out and listening, for it seems to me as if I were endowed with a million eyes and could see every drop as it falls on the half-open buds. But here, we are all constantly at work. I am ashamed to sit here with my hands in my lap. The rain in springtime is soft and beautiful, lending voice, form and substance to the air, and to every tiny rill.

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Formerly, I always required a spyglass, where I no longer need it.

It is because we do not live in the open air, that we become near-sighted.

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The rose may be improved by cultivation, and the thorns growing on its stalk may become different from what they were; but they are thorns, nevertheless.

(April 15th.) – I have heard the yellow-hammer, for the first time this year. In springtime its notes are far more rapid and short than in summer.

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(April 23d.) – The first swallow has come. Now may we softly lull ourselves to rest in the consciousness that sweet spring is with us once again. The uncertain and anxious fluttering from one fair day to another, is at an end.

My little pitchman says: "Swallows and starlings come and go in the night." The idea is quite suggestive.

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(End of April.) – We have had a shower. Oh, what fragrant odors it awakened in flowers, grass and trees! And this fragrance floats off into infinite space, while we short-lived children of man imagine that it all exists for us. Everything that exists, exists for itself alone.

The immortelle is one of the earliest plants to shoot forth its leaves. It grows by the edge of the forest, and will thrive even in poor soil.

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(May 1st.) – We have had a cold, rainy day, with hail. Toward evening, when the rain had ceased and the drops on the trees and bushes sparkled in the golden sunlight, I heard the cuckoo, for the first time this year. He flew from forest to forest, from mountain to mountain, crying everywhere.

I now know why they say: "Go to the cuckoo."4 The cuckoo has no nest, no home of its own and, according to popular tradition, is obliged to sleep on a different tree every night. "Go to the cuckoo," therefore means: "be restless and fugitive; be at home nowhere."

When I told the grandmother of my discovery, she said: "You've hit it exactly. You manage to get some good out of everything. You've won it."

She meant that I had won the game of life.

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My kind little pitchman has given me an unexpected treat. He has arranged a seat for me, up by the maple tree on the projecting rock. But he cut away the bushes, and thus destroyed the privacy of my favorite haunt. Nevertheless, I find it pleasant to sit there. No human being is perfectly satisfied with what another may do for him, but we may be grateful, for all; and gratitude is the soil on which joy thrives.

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(First Sunday in May.) – On Sunday afternoons, when I may not work, I long to drive through the park in a caleche which is easy on its springs; not to be always walking or obliged to be doing something. To move through the world in the springtime, seated on soft cushions and drawn by fleet horses, or, what is still better, to ride along the turfy forest paths, while guiding and controlling a strong power-I can never forget that.

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At night, when I look up into the vast, starry vault, with its myriad glittering orbs, I find it difficult to sit or to walk. I think of the nights when, lying back in my carriage, I drove out into the wide world and looked up at the stars. How free everything was then! I am still much affected by trifles.

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There are days when I cannot endure the forest, when I do not wish for shade. I must then have the sun-nothing but light and sunshine. At such times, I walk along the hot and shadeless meadow paths.

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I now have a window-shelf filled with flower-pots. How different when one has to wait for the flowers to come up, instead of receiving them in full bloom from the gardener.

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The evenings are my enemy-always heavy and dull. Morn is my friend, for then everything is bright. How different it once was!

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The mental state of those who are out in the world may be likened to the physical condition of Baroness Constance. There is a constant ringing in her ears, and she knows nothing of holy repose or perfect silence. It is not until one ceases to know anything of the world, or to care for it, that this mental ringing in the ears ceases, and holy repose and calm are vouchsafed us. Every sound which then enters is as a marvel.

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The grandmother is quiet and alert, just as occasion may require. She is not one of the ever busy and excited ones, and yet she is never idle. With her great knowledge of human nature, she yet retains her kindly feelings toward all. She has thought much and yet is naïve. She treats me with affectionate frankness, and says that she has, all her life, wished to have a clever person about her-one who had learnt something and with whom she could talk about everything. And she does this to the letter. I am obliged to explain a thousand things to her, and she is sincerely grateful for any information I can give her.

"I like to get my kindling-wood ready in time," said she to-day. Translated into our language, this means that she likes to think over things beforehand.

But there are so many dark doors which we pass with closed eyes.

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While watching the foal to-day, I could not help thinking that the first man who tamed a beast-that is, subdued it so that it would bear him and support him-was the first to assert the power of humanity. Other animals can kill each other, but not one of them can guide another life to its own advantage. There are no new species of beasts to be tamed now. Men are, in truth, becoming poets. They condense the intangible forces and say to steam, to light, and to the electric spark: "Come and do my bidding."

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I have bought some sugar with which to feed my white foal. It is a great pleasure, and to-day I could not help thinking that, if any one saw us, it must have been a pretty picture.

Oh, how vain and trifling I still am!

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Every large and extended estate, be it this very farm, or the court at the capital, has its vassals, its servants, its parasites, its willing subjects. The world is the same everywhere.

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Peasant life is not the elegant world, but there must be plow horses as well as carriage horses.

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To live out of one's self, to give full sway to one's native temperament, to remain unmoved by external influences: – thus may one learn to know himself and that which is highest. It is in the desert waste that God reveals himself to the individual heart. The bush burns and yet is not consumed.

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Whenever I look at the mountains, I am impressed anew with their sublimity.

The world below me is covered by a sea of mist from which the mountain peaks here and there protrude. With every day, as it were, I behold the first day of creation.

I am beginning to understand the idea of the sublime. It is the awe of greatness, not the awe of fear. I feel as if dwelling in a temple.

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Solitude often makes one dull and torpid. I sometimes experience this even in myself.

On a rainy Sunday, Hansei will often stand looking out of the window, for hours at a time. I feel satisfied that his first thoughts are of a horse, a cow, the sale of his wood, or of some acquaintance. At last, he falls into a sort of waking dream, and thinks of nothing at all. One awakes from this childlike lying down and gazing into the world, as from strengthening and refreshing sleep. It is indeed only another form of elementary existence.

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Judging by my notes, I, at one time, thought this merely a station in my journey, where one is detained by interests or adventure; but now I see that I am at the goal.

I will lay down my load, as the grandmother advised me to do, and break the chests to pieces. I shall remain here for the rest of my life. And now that I have firmly resolved to remain-even if I were discovered to-morrow, and the whole world heaped its scorn upon me-I have a happy feeling of being at home. I am here, and here I shall remain.

I was not reminded of all this until to-day, when my little pitchman said: "You look so pleased, so-I don't know how, but-you never looked so before."

Yes, my dear little pitchman, you are right; it was not until to-day that I felt myself truly at home. I have struck root, like the cherry sapling before my window.

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The old pensioner said to me to-day: "Behold, my child, age takes much from us; but I can still dream as beautifully as I did in my youth."

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Of all the flowers, I find the heaviest dew on the rose. Is that because of the rich perfume? Does the perfume form dew? No green leaf ever has so much dew upon it, as the leaf of a flower.

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I often feel tempted to tell the story of Leah to the whole household, Jochem included.

It often annoys me, when I think that I do not impart all I have to my friends; but how much more it would annoy me, if I were misunderstood by them.

Even in our day, art and religion are far asunder.

The latter can be imparted to all; the former cannot.

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It is impossible to interest the masses in refined pleasures. During the week, they have nothing but hard work; and on Sunday, they find recreation at ninepins, or in dancing in heavy boots. They require rude pleasures and a rude faith.

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(On Sunday, while the bells are ringing.) – Art does not enter into the life of the masses. For them, plastic or dramatic art, or the higher order of music or literature, do not exist.

The only idea they have of another life, over and above the trivial present, is embodied by the church, and yet that which is best in all religions is the poetry they contain.

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What must become of one who, for years, does not read a serious book, or does not read at all, and thus takes in no great or well worked-out ideas? If he be rich and noble, his life becomes vain play; if he be poor and lowly, it becomes vain labor. And, for this reason, nature has given us song and history, has established religion which offers its jewels to all, so that every one may drink of the fermented wine of all knowledge and all art. But new wine must always be added, or-

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(July 30th.) – The whole world was veiled in mist, and the sun was hidden from view. It seemed as if the artistic creative eye were brooding over the form it was about to usher into life. And then the cloud-flakes were rent asunder. For a moment, the mountain world was free. The mists disappear; but new ones arise from the earth.

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Out in the world the fear of being ridiculed prevents people from expressing enthusiastic admiration of moonlight. When the whole world is illumined its soft glow, and no sound is heard save the murmur of the sparkling brook, I am filled with ecstatic delight.

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Temptation returns, and says: "You offend against nature by wasting your rich gifts on tasks that others could accomplish as well as you. Go out into the worlds and consider your present life merely as a state of transition."

No! I shall remain!

When I stand on the mountain and gaze out into the world, I often ask myself: "Art thou still the same Irma? What vestige is left of thy past glittering life?"

Nothing but the heavy burden that oppresses my soul.

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Weather-talk is considered a bore, and yet there is no subject more important. Plants and animals feel the changes, for they determine their fate from day to day. And are there not men whose whole life is bound up in the question: "Will the day be clear or cloudy?"

The cloud that, like a girdle, encircles yonder peak, has rested there, motionless, the whole day; and thus, too, there are days when a mist seems to be resting upon one's soul, enveloping our inner being in darkness.

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Play of the features is distinctively a human attribute. The human face reveals changing emotions; that of the beast does not.

The beast, moreover, has always but one and the same tone. The bark of a dog is ever the same, be it in joy or anger; the only change is in the temper. Or is it only to our ears that these tones seem alike?

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If a human being were to utter such inharmonious and disconnected tones as those produced by the mavis overhead, it would drive me to distraction. But why do these tones not affect me in the same way? Why do they almost please me? Because they are natural to the bird. But man, having the power to choose, must see to it that his tones are melodious.

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What is all our knowledge? We do not even know what to-morrow's weather will be. There is no infallible indicator of the changes in this most essential condition of life. Nor do the farmers, although they are so fond of talking on the subject, know anything about it.

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Harvest time is the dramatic turning-point of the year. At that time, all is haste and suspense, and men and women are alike uncongenial.

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One need but listen to the pensioner, to learn how thoroughly corrupt the world is. His expletives have all the force of cudgels. He is constantly trying to sound me in regard to Hansei and Walpurga, and would like me to tell him of their faults. It worries him to hear them well spoken of.

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A remark of Gunther's occurred to me to-day.

"We are all passionate; the difference between individuals being only a difference in rhythm. He who goes downstairs at one bound, may break his neck; he whose descent is gradual and careful, will remain uninjured."

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I never look at the clock. With me, life is no longer divided into hours. I hear the bell in the valley at morning, noon and evening, and regulate my actions accordingly. The clock is in the church tower. The church tells us the time of day.

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Old Jochem is ill. The physician who attends him is quite a jovial character, and maintains that Jochem would live many years longer if he had only been able to feed his anger and keep his lawsuits, for these furnished him with excitement and amusement, at the same time. As long as he had these, there was still something left to fight for in the world and some one to abuse, and it was this that had kept him up. Now that his life was a peaceful one, he would, in all likelihood, die of ennui.

"You smile," said the physician to me. "Believe me, I am quite serious. An infant in the cradle that does not cry, and a chained dog that does not bark, have neither life nor energy and will surely die."

He may be right, to a certain extent.

I feel under restraint when with the physician; for he regards me with such a strange, scrutinizing air.

"Oh, Thou good God! The grass is coming up! But they'll bury me in the earth and I'll never come up again!" was Jochem's lament.

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The old man is dead. This very night he passed away in his sleep. No one was with him at the time.

He died like a forest tree which has lost its power of absorbing nourishment.

Little Burgei now sleeps with me. My friends will listen to nothing else, and will not suffer me to be alone at night.

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I am filled with dread. A corpse lies on the floor above. Beside it, is a solitary lamp that is left to burn until the dead man is buried. And yet I feel that I must conquer this feeling of dread! Yes, I shall.

It still moves me deeply to think of how the old man remembered me. He sent for me yesterday; and, when I went up to his bedside, he said: "Irmgard, you were a stranger and yet were kind to me-I'd like to leave you something. I've been thinking the matter over and find that I still have something to give you. It's the best of all that I own. It would do me no good to have it buried with me, and it will be of great benefit to you, for there's a charm in it. Here it is-take it-it's the bullet that struck me on the third rib. Take good care of it. He who bears with him a bullet that has once hit a man, is in no danger of sudden, unexpected death. You can rely on that! And now I've something to ask you: Tell me, what was your father's name? You've told me that he's dead. When I get to heaven, I'll hunt him up and tell him that you're quite a good girl; a little bit queer, perhaps, but right good for all. I'll tell your father that, and it'll be good news for him."

I could not tell him the name-how could I? All I could do was to thank him for giving me what had been so precious in his own eyes. And, strange to say, when I take the bullet in my hand and look at it, it agitates me greatly.

I will now prepare myself to follow the old man to his grave.

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I was at the churchyard while the old man was buried. I shall lie there, too, some day.

I feel as if death might be conquered by the will. I am determined to live; I will not die. Is force of will the hidden thing within me, that I am ever seeking? And yet, I have no will. No one has. All our life, all our thoughts, are simply the necessary result of events and experiences, of waking perception and nocturnal dreams. Like the beasts, we may change the scene; but, the greater one, the prison that confines us, we cannot change. We cannot quit the earth. The laws of gravitation and attraction hold our souls fast as well as our bodies. Far above me, move the stars, and I am nothing more than a flower or a blade of grass clinging to the earth. The stars look down at me and I look up to them, and yet we cannot join each other.

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A reigning prince has visited our farm. His highness Grubersepp, of whom Walpurga has often spoken to me, has arrived, bringing his little son, or-to speak more correctly-his two black horses and his son with him. The house is all bustle, and every one seems as proud and happy as if a reigning prince had actually come.

Grubersepp looked at me with a curious air.

"Is that prim-looking girl," said he to Hansei, while pointing backward with his thumb, "one of your wife's relations?"

"Yes; my wife-" Hansei muttered something-I saw that it went hard with him to tell a lie, and, above all, to the great farmer to whom he was showing his property.