On the Heights: A Novel. Auerbach Berthold
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I wish I were Zenza's daughter and the poacher were my brother. But no; our thieves and rogues who have been at school long enough to know the seven cardinal sins and the whole of the catechism by heart, are timid and cowardly; they drop the petition for pardon into their mother's lap, while they stand by whining: Forgive us, we have done nothing wrong. All the world over, there is no longer genuine scorn of nature. Methinks the 'Italian robber behind the rock' that you once worked in wools, has, in these days, ceased to be more than a traditional pattern for embroidery. The arts simply serve to gloss over life.
"Good-night-good-night."
"I never read what I have once written. I do not care to be reminded of it again. Yesterday's sun does not shine to-day. – But that was not what I meant. The sun is the same, but the light is ever new, and I am happy to-day and do not care for all the churches and palaces, men and women, frogs and crocodiles in the world.
"To-day, the king said to me:
"'I am well aware, Countess, that you have thought contemptuously of me, during the last two days. Every withdrawal of your sympathy affects me as sensibly as if it were an electric shock. Do not let this happen again, I beg of you!' and while he spoke, he looked at me like a beseeching child. Ah, he has such deep, beautiful eyes!
"I remember your once saying to me: 'There are glances without a background, void of depth or soul'; but the glances of this friend have unfathomed depths.
"The bonds that held me captive shall no longer restrain me! I-I-but no-I cannot write the word.
"Oh, Emma! How I wish I were a peasant on a lonely mountain height. Last night, it seemed to me as if my native mountains were calling out to me, 'Come home'-'Do come'-'It is good to be with us.' Ah, I would like to come, but cannot.
"Walpurga is a great friend to me at present. I become absorbed in her life, so full of true, natural repose. I find it excessively amusing to behold the court as reflected through her eyes. It seems like a very puppet-play, and we, like two merry children at a raree-show.
"We often sing together, and I have learned some lovely songs from her. Oh, how charmingly independent the country people are.
"'On mountain heights there dwells no sin.' The song is ever haunting me.
"The king departs for the baths to-day: my brother is in his suite. The king requested me to write to him, now and then. I shall not do it."
"The king knows that I cannot live unless there be flowers in my room, and has given orders to have a fresh bouquet placed there every day. This displeases me. A flower that a friend has stooped to pluck for you is worth more than a thousand artistically arranged bouquets.
"The king has also left orders that bouquets shall be sent daily to Baroness N- and Countess A-. I think this is only to avoid remarks upon the attentions shown me. I am angry at the king. He shall not have a line from me.
"I have for some time past been taking lessons in modeling, from a professor at the academy. He has finished a bust of me, and has used it as a model for a figure of Victory, to be placed on the new arsenal. Have I not reason to be proud? After this, I shall ever be in the open air, and shall see nothing but the blue sky, the sun, the moon, and the stars, and, at noon, the guard-mounting.
"The professor says that I have talent for modeling. This has made me quite happy. Painting and drawing are only half the battle-mere makeshifts. Will you permit me, on my return, to make a relievo of you?
"Did I not, in one of my letters to you, speak of a secret in regard to the queen?
"I think I did.
"The affair is now at an end. For love of the king, the queen wished to enter our church, or rather yours-pardon me, once and for all time, I have no church. The king behaved nobly in the matter. I shall never forget the time he told me of it. He is, indeed, a great man. How glorious it is, that there are princes on earth who realize our ideal of the perfect man. Free and yet self-possessed, unspoiled, unperverted and unbiased. If there were no kings, we could no longer know a free, beautiful, perfect man. I use the word beautiful in its highest sense, and of course presuppose the existence of a noble mind. All are not gods who suffer themselves to be worshiped.
"The poet and the king are, of all men, alone perfect. All others-be they musicians or painters, sculptors or architects, artists or scholars-have narrow, contracted vocations, solo instruments, as it were. The poet and the king are the only ones who grasp life in all its phases. To them, naught is devoid of meaning, because all belongs to them. The poet creates a world; the king is a world in himself. The poet knows and depicts the shepherd and the huntsman, the king and the waiting-maid, the seamstress-in fact, all. But the king is hunter and statesman, soldier and farmer, scholar and artist, all in himself. He represents the orchestra of talents. Thus is he king, and thus does he represent a people, an age-aye, humanity itself, and at its best.
"Ah, Emma! Call me Turandot. Schoning, the poetic chamberlain, is also paying his addresses to me.
"Do you know what I ought to have been?
"I do.
"Queen of a tribe of savages. That is what I was created for. My true vocation would be to found a new civilization. Don't laugh at me. I am not joking; indeed, I'm not. I am fit for something far better than all I have here. I am not modest. I judge others and myself, too. I know my merits and my faults, also.
"On father's estate, there is a hammock that hangs between two elms. My greatest pleasure was to lie in it, suspended in the air, while I dreamt of distant woods.
"Do you know some savage tribe that would elect me as its queen? I have procured some of the Indian melodies, if they really deserve the name. One of the professors at the university, who spent six years among the Indians, recently gave a lecture at court. He brought some of their instruments with him, and had them played on. There was more noise than music. It seemed like the lisping of a nation which, as regards civilization, is yet in its infancy."
"Forget all that I have written to you, as you would the breezes and the weather-changes of yesterday.
"I have just left my bed, in order to write to you. I cannot sleep. I am scarcely dressed while I sit here speaking to you. Oh, that I could speak to you! Writing is a miserable makeshift-nay, helplessness itself.
"I don't know what ails me. All that I am-my very self-seems as if only for the time being. I feel as if waiting for something, I know not what. I fancy that the very next moment must bring it, and that I shall either be doing some wonderful thing, or have it happen to me-that I shall be completely changed and become a great healing power, instead of the puny, useless child of man that I now am. I listen and fancy that I must hear a tone that has never yet been uttered on earth.
"There is no use trying-I cannot write. I imagined that it would soothe me if I could force myself to think and speak of all things in definite terms, but I know nothing definite. I only know that I am unhappy. Not unhappy, but as if dead and yet alive. I imagine myself a sleep-walker.
"I can write no more. I close my letter and shall go to bed. I want to sleep. All the world about me lies hushed in slumber. Oh, that I could dream myself into another world, even though my sleep were one from which there is no waking!
"Good-night! Good-morning! Irma."
CHAPTER VII
"To-morrow, I mean to bring Countess Irma to you," said Doctor Gunther to his wife, one evening. "She's the daughter of my old friend."
"In voice and manner, the countess is full of majesty, but her singing is not practical."
"Then you shall teach her. She will be glad to learn from you."
"If she be willing, I am quite at her service."
The doctor was delighted to find it so easy to bring the two ladies together. He knew, of course, that his wife complied with his every wish, but in this instance he was doubly anxious that all should go smoothly.
For some time past, he had observed that Irma was in a feverish condition