On the Heights. Auerbach Berthold
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dearly and, as you have seen for yourself, she's an angel--"
"And if she weren't an angel, she's his wife and the mother of his child, and he must be true to her; for with every glance he gives another woman he's a confounded adulterer, whose eyes ought to be put out. Look here! If I were to think that my husband could do such a thing--but the men are wicked enough to do anything--that a man could stand by the cradle of his new-born babe, and let the same eyes with which he had just been looking at his child tell another woman, 'I love you,'--if I were to think that, I'd go mad. And if a man whose hand has pressed that of a woman not his wife, can offer his hand to that wife, or touch his child's face with it, the world in which such things could happen ought to be burned up and the Lord ought to shower pitch and brimstone down on it."
"Speak softly, Walpurga; don't scream so. Don't let such words pass your lips. You are not here to look after our morals, nor is it for you to pass judgment. What do you know of the world? You've not the slightest idea of what politeness means."
Countess Irma's words were harsh and severe, and had deeply humbled Walpurga.
"Now that you know who you are and what you are about, I've something more to tell you: I forgive you for insulting the king and myself with your silly talk. If I didn't pity your ignorance, I would never speak to you again; but, as I feel kindly disposed toward you, and know that you meant no harm, I shall give you a bit of advice. No matter what may happen, don't concern yourself about it. Attend to your child, and let no one induce you to speak ill of others. Take my word for it--here, all are deceitful. They are ever ready to speak ill of one another, and unless you are very careful you'll not have a friend in the whole palace. Mind you don't forget what I've said to you. And now I must thank you once more for having spoken to me as you did. You meant it all well enough, and it is proper that you should be perfectly frank. I shall always be your good friend. Although one treats the king respectfully, he is, nevertheless, as good as your Hansei, and I'm as good as you. And now, let's shake hands! Let bygones be bygones. Whatever you do, not a word of this to Kramer; and don't forget that, hereabouts, the walls have ears."
Without saying another word. Countess Irma began the melody of a Highland song upon her zither.
Walpurga could hardly realize what had happened to her. She was provoked at her own stupid and forward behavior, and was firmly resolved to keep her own counsel in the future.
While Irma was playing, the king again passed through the portière and stopped to listen. Irma did not look up; her eyes were fixed upon her zither. When she had finished, the king applauded faintly. She arose and bowed, but did not accompany the king when he went into the adjoining chamber to look at the prince.
"Your zither is in perfect tune, dear countess, but you seem to be somewhat out of tune," said the king, as he came back into the room.
"I am in tune. Your Majesty," replied Countess Irma. "I've just been playing an air to Walpurga, and it has deeply affected me."
The king left very soon afterward, and without offering his hand to the countess. Walpurga's saddest thought was that she dared not even trust Mademoiselle Kramer.
"Oh, you poor child!" said she to the prince, one day, when no one was by. "Oh, you poor, dear child! you're expected to grow up among people who don't trust each other. If I could only take you with me, what a fine boy you'd become. You're still innocent--children, until they begin to speak, are the only innocent creatures in this world. But what matters it? I didn't make the world, and needn't change it. The countess is right. I'll nurse you well, care for you tenderly, and leave the rest to God."
CHAPTER XV.
"Your wish is fulfilled at last," said Countess Irma to Doctor Gunther, just as they were rising from the dinner-table.
"What wish?"
"I how have a female friend, a companion, and, in the words of the song, 'you'll ne'er find a better.'"
"Your treatment of the peasant woman is quite amiable and does you great credit, but she is not a friend. Your friend should be one who is your equal. Your relation toward this peasant woman will always be that of a patron. She never dare find fault with you, and if she were to make the attempt, you could readily silence her. Mere common-sense is defenseless against the armory of culture."
Without noticing how Irma started at these words, the doctor calmly continued:
"There's just as much difference, mentally, between yourself and such a type of popular simplicity as there is between a grown person and a child. I fear you've neglected to secure yourself a friend who is your equal in birth."
"My equal in birth? So you, too, are an aristocrat?"
The doctor explained that equality of rights could be conceded without doing away with social distinctions.
"Whenever I leave you," said Irma, her face radiant with enthusiasm--"whenever I've been under the influence of your thoughts, all that I do or attempt seems petty and trifling. At such moments, I feel just as I do after listening to glorious music, and long to accomplish something out of the usual way. I wish I were gifted with artistic talent."
"Content yourself with being one of nature's loveliest works. That's the best thing to do."
The doctor was called away.
Irma remained seated for some time, and at last repaired to her room, where she amused herself with her parrot. Then, after looking at her flowers for a while, she began to copy them in colors on a slab of marble. She evidently intended it to be a rare work. But for whom? She knew not. A tear fell on a rose, the color in which was still wet. She looked up and left her work. Then she dried the tear, and found herself obliged to paint the rose anew.
On the day before the christening, Walpurga dictated the following letter to Countess Irma:
"To-morrow will be Sunday, and I'll try to be with you, too. In thought, I'm always there. It seems as if it were seven years since I left home. The day's ever so long here, and there are more than three times as many people in the palace as could get into our church. There are lots of married servants here who have servants of their own; there are none but tall, fine-looking men in service here. Mademoiselle Kramer tells me that their lordships don't care to have any but handsome people about them; and some of them are as prim and proper as a parson. They call them lackeys, and whenever the king goes near one of them, they bow very low and double up with a snap, just like a pocket-knife. Oh, what lots of good things I have! If I could only send you some of them. I'm ever so glad that we shall go to the country palace in four weeks and stay there till autumn. But how's my child, and how goes it with Hansei and with mother, and you too, Stasi? In my sleep at night, I'm always with you. I can't sleep much, for my prince is a real night-watchman, and the king's doctor said I mustn't let him cry as much as Burgei does at home. But he has good lungs, and to-morrow is the christening. The queen's brother and his wife are to be godfather and godmother, and there'll be lots of princes and princesses besides. And I've got beautiful new dresses and two green hats with gold lace, and two silver chains for my stomacher, and I can take them all home with me when I go, but that won't be for a long while. If all the weeks are as long as last week, I'll be seven hundred years old when I get home. I'm quite lively again. But, at first, it seemed as if I could always hear the lowing of the cow in the stable.
"She who writes this is the Countess Wildenort, from over beyond the Chamois Hill; she's a very good friend of mine. She knew our dear father, too, and you, mother, know of her family.
"And I've something to tell you, Hansei. Don't have too much to do with the innkeeper; he's a rogue, and he'll talk your money out of your pocket. There are good folks and bad everywhere; at home with us and here too; and the king's doctor says you mustn't give the cow any green fodder, nothing but hay, or else the milk won't agree with the child.
"I'm learning to write. Indeed I'm learning a great many things here.
"And