On the Heights: A Novel. Auerbach Berthold
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Come to Wildenort as soon as you can, to your
"P.S. – I shall take no excuse; you must come. In return, I promise to go to your wedding. Many greetings to all of yours, and, above all, to your Albrecht."
The sun was already sinking toward the horizon, when Irma, accompanied by her maid, departed for Wildenort.
CHAPTER IX
So one can go away, after all, and leave the motley monotony called "the world" behind. Farewell, thou palace, and furnish thy inmates with their daily pleasures. Farewell, ye streets, filled with shops and offices, towers and churches, theaters, music halls and barracks. May fashion be gracious and favor you with customers, clients, guests, applause, and fostering laws. Vanish, frail frippery! I feel like a bird flying from the housetop, out into the wide world. How foolish to remain in the cage when the door is always open. Thou, great bailiff who holds the world captive-thy name is custom!
Thus thought Irma to herself, while seated in the carriage and driving out into the open world.
Her thoughts again recurred to the great house which she had just left. It was the dinner hour and they were waiting for the queen to appear. What a pity that the lord steward had not been present at the creation of the world, for here every one has his fixed place and the service is simply perfect. The queen expresses her regrets at the departure of Countess Irma. All praise her.
"Oh, she's so very good," says one.
"And so merry," says another.
"Somewhat unmanageable, but very amiable," says still another.
But what is there new? It's a bore to be talking of one subject all the time. Help! Zamiel Schnabelsdorf!
"Away with it all!" exclaimed Irma, suddenly: "I shall not look back again, but forward to my father."
The horses stepped out bravely, as if they knew they were carrying a child to her father.
Irma was so impatient that she told the servant who was seated on the box, to give a double fee to the driver so that they might get on faster.
She could hardly wait until she saw her father, so anxious was she to rest her head upon his breast.
What did she desire? To complain to him? How could he help her? She knew not. All she knew was that, with him, there must be peace. She wished to be sheltered, protected; no longer alone. To obey him and anticipate his every wish would be her highest happiness. To be released from herself, and to desire nothing that did not minister to the joy of another-oh, how happy the thought! The whole earthly load is removed. Thus must it be with the blessed spirits above! Thus should we imagine angels to be! They want for nothing and need nothing, they never change and never grow, are neither young nor old. They are eternal, and are ever laboring for and through others. Their works bring joy to the world and to themselves. They are the undying rays of an eternal sun.
During the greater part of the journey, Irma's brain was filled with such unintelligible dreams, and the whole world seemed to be saying: "Father-Daughter."
She regained composure at last. It would not do to arrive at the castle in this state.
Agitation is weakness, and it had always been her father's aim to foster strength of mind and self-command.
Irma forced herself to observe what was going on about her.
It was twilight when they reached the first post-station. Irma fancied she could almost feel the air of her native mountains, although they were still far off.
They drove on at a rapid pace. The evening bells were ringing, and the air was filled with their sounds, carrying them out to the men and women in the fields, and measuring time and eternity for them.
What would the world be without its bells, whose pealing harmonies are to serve as a substitute for the beautiful creations of antique art?
But these thoughts failed to satisfy Irma. They lifted her out of the world, whilst she desired to occupy herself with what was present and established.
In the villages through which they drove, and the fields by which they passed, there was singing, interrupted, now and then, by the rattling of the carriage wheels, and Irma thought: We make too much noise in this world, and thus miss enjoying what the rest may have to tell us.
No thoughts were to her liking. No outlook pleased her.
The stars appeared in the heavens, but what were they to man? They shine for him who is free and has naught to seek on earth. She, however, was seeking, and, in the world's vast circle, could see nothing but two starry eyes directed upon her; and they were her father's.
They continued on their journey, disturbing lazy horses and sleepy postilions at every station.
It was long after midnight when they arrived at Wildenort.
Irma alighted at the manor-house and, accompanied by the servant, knocked at the door.
Her father had not expected her so soon. There were no lights in the large house, or its extensive outbuildings.
Dogs barked, for strangers were coming. There was not even a dumb beast that knew Irma, for she was a stranger in her father's house.
Two plowboys passed by. They were astonished to see the beautiful lady at that hour, and she was obliged to tell them who she was.
She ordered her rooms to be opened. Her father slept near by. She longed to see him, but controlled herself. He could sleep calmly and not know that she was breathing near him. She, too, soon fell asleep and did not wake till broad daylight.
Stepping softly, old Eberhard entered the ante-chamber where Irma's maid was already sitting.
"My lady the countess, is still sleeping. It was three o'clock, just about daybreak, when we arrived."
"What made you hurry so and take no rest?"
"I don't know; but the countess was quite excited on the way. They couldn't drive fast enough for her. When my lady wishes anything, it must be done at once."
"Who are you, dear child?"
"Her ladyship's maid."
"No, but who are your parents? What took you to court?"
"My father was riding-master to Prince Adolar, and her royal highness had me educated in the convent school."
A chain of dependents, from generation to generation, thought the old man to himself.
The maid looked at him wonderingly.
He was tall and broad-shouldered.
He wore the mountaineer's dress and a white horn whistle hung by a cord from his neck. His fine head bent slightly forward and rested on a massive neck; his gray hair and beard were thick and closely cropped; his brown eye still sparkled, as if in youth; his expressive countenance looked like embossed work, and his whole figure resembled that of a knight who has just laid aside his armor and put himself at ease.
"I wish to see my daughter," said the old man as he went into the adjoining room. It was dark. Eberhard stepped to the window, on tiptoe, and drew aside the green damask curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room. He stood before the bed and, with bated breath, watched the sleeping one.
Irma was beautiful to behold. Her head, encircled by the long, loosened, golden-brown tresses; the clear, arched brow, the delicately chiseled nose, the mouth with its exquisitely curved upper lip, the rosy chin, the full cheeks with their peach-like glow-over all there lay a calm and peaceful expression. The beautiful, small, white hands lay folded on her breast.
Irma was breathing heavily, and her lips moved as if with a sad smile. It is difficult to sleep with one's hands folded on the breast. The hands gently loosened themselves, but the left one still rested on her heart. The father lifted it carefully and laid it at her side. Irma slept on quietly. Silently, the father took a chair and sat down at her bedside. While he sat there, two doves alighted on the broad window-sill, where they remained cooing with each other. He would have liked to frighten them away, but he dared not stir. Irma slept on and heard nothing.
Suddenly the pigeons