On the Heights. Auerbach Berthold
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she presented herself before the queen and asked for leave of absence.
"I am sorry that you, too, leave me," said the queen, "but I shall gladly part with you if it only helps, as I hope it will, to make you happy. Do all that lies in your power to be in full accord with your father. Believe me, Irma, in the various relations of life, be it as wife or as mother, one is sensible of a constant desire to grow and expand with each succeeding day; the child alone is perfectly satisfied with itself."
The queen and Irma were not in accord that day. Irma was restless and anxious to depart. Whatever detained her, though it were only for a second, excited her resentment.
What the queen was saying might have been interesting to one who was not in a hurry, but not to her whose foot was already on the carriage step.
The parting was, nevertheless, an affecting one, the queen kissing Irma.
All that now remained was to ask Countess Brinkenstein's formal assent That, too, was obtained.
She had not yet said farewell to Doctor Gunther and his family. She wished to say good-by through Colonel Bronnen, or Baron Schoning, who had told her that he often visited the doctor's house. It was also necessary to take leave of these men and her companions at court. Now that she was about to go, she found out how many acquaintances she had. But where are they when you need them? They are here, simply that you may not need them. Such is the world; but stop! There's one to whom, of all others, you must say farewell. She hurried off to Walpurga.
"Walpurga," she exclaimed, "when you get up tomorrow, shout as loud as you can. By that time, I'll be at our mountain home, and I'll shout back to you until the whole world rings with laughter. I'm going to my father."
"I'm glad of it."
"And aren't you sorry to see me go?"
"Of course; but if your father's still alive you oughtn't miss looking into the eyes that are only once in the world for you. I'm glad, for your father's sake, that he's able to look on such a child as you are. Oh! if my Burgei were only as tall."
"Walpurga, I'll also go to see your husband, your child and your mother. I'll sit down at your table and remember you to your cow and your dog. I shall; depend upon it."
"Oh! how happy they'll be! If Hansei's only at home and not in the woods."
"If he is, I'll have them send for him; and now farewell! don't forget me!"
"You can rely on that," said Walpurga, while Irma hurried away.
She still found time to write to her friend Emma:
"Dearest Emma: Two hours ago, I received a letter from father. He calls me home to him. I have leave of absence for a fortnight. Do you know what that means? I was obliged to promise that I would surely return; I don't know whether I shall keep my promise. The earth trembles at my feet and my head swims. The world is all chaos, but there will be light! Any one can say: 'Let there be light!' If we only could always do our best. But I shall not write another word. It is enough; I shall see you soon. Come to Wildenort as soon as you can, to your
"Irma.
"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