On the Heights: A Novel

CHAPTER IV

It was after breakfast. The queen, attended by the ladies of the court, was in the music room.

The first mist of early autumn obscured the landscape, and the morn gave promise of a lovely, bracing day.

Various journals were lying before the queen. She pushed them away, saying:

"How terrible these newspapers are! What license! This sheet is usually so unobjectionable; but even here it is stated that Count Wildenort died of grief because of the conduct of his unmarried daughter. Can such things be permitted? Was such a thing ever heard of-Ah, dear councilor!" added she, addressing her private secretary, "there's a sealed letter for Countess Irma on my desk upstairs. Let a messenger take it to her at once. If she could only be kept in ignorance of these terrible newspapers stories; I hope she may, at all events."

The ladies of the court were engaged with their embroidery. They replied their needles more nimbly than before and did not look up from their work.

Countess Brinkenstein was called away. After some time she returned, accompanied by the doctor.

"Ah, welcome!" cried the queen.

At a sign from Countess Brinkenstein, the ladies retired.

"How charming! you've come just in the nick of time," said the queen. "I am just about to send off a letter for Countess Irma; you might add a few kind words."

"Your Majesty, Countess Irma will not be able to read your letter of condolence."

"Why not?"

"The countess is-very ill."

"Very ill? You say it in such a-not dangerously, I hope?"

"I fear so."

"Doctor! your voice-what is it? The countess is not-"

"Dead-!" said the doctor, covering his face with his hands.

For a few moments there was breathless silence in the great hall. At last the queen exclaimed:

"Dead! Was it grief at her father's death?"

The doctor nodded affirmatively.

The flower-table which Irma had painted stood by the queen's side. The queen looked at it for a long while. At last, completely forgetting those about her-her gaze still fixed upon the table which, now that she was weeping bitterly, was wet with her tears-she cried out, in heart-rending accents:

"Oh, how beautiful she was; how radiant her eyes, how bright her glance, how musical her voice! Her singing was like the warbling of the lark! And all this beauty, all this love and goodness is no more! I would love to see her, even in death. She must be beautiful, a very image of peace. And you say that she died of grief at her father's death; of a broken heart? Was it one great, convulsive throb of feeling that broke her ardent, noble heart? Oh, my sister-for I loved her as such-forgive me that even the shadow of doubt-Oh, my sister! – the lovely flowers on this table were conjured up by your hand-And you are faded, withered, decayed! You were lovelier than any flower! I can still see your eye, as it followed every stroke of the pencil. You meant to give me undying flowers, and as an undying flower you shall dwell in my heart."

Her tears fell on the marble flower-table. A little dog came up to her and she said:

"She decked you, too, with flowers. It was on my birthday. She sought to adorn everything that met her eye. And you loved her, too, poor Zephyr? every creature loved her, and now she's dead." She wept in silence for some time.

"May I wear mourning for my friend?" she inquired, looking up at Countess Brinkenstein.

"Your Majesty, it is not the custom for the queen to go into mourning alone."

"Of course; we are not alone. No, never! All must mourn with us; there must needs be a mourning livery."

She had spoken harshly, and now offered her hand to Countess Brinkenstein, as if in apology, and inquired:

"When is she to be buried, and where? I should like to lay the most beautiful garland upon her grave. I will go to her myself, and my tears shall drop upon her pale face. So fair a life, and so sudden an end! Can it be possible? I must go to her!"

Her eyes seemed fixed on vacancy, while she asked:

"Has the king gone hunting?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"He, too, will weep, for he loved her as if she were his sister. I know it."

The look which Countess Brinkenstein now gave the doctor seemed to say: "I never gave the queen credit for so much tact and self-command. How naturally she acts, while trying to make us believe that she never knew or suspected that aught was wrong."

"I will go to her!" suddenly exclaimed the queen. "No one shall prevent it. I will go to her and stand by her coffin, by her grave."

Countess Brinkenstein stared at the queen.

The doctor approached and said:

"Your Majesty cannot see the countess. Grief for her father's death affected her mind-"

"Then she's not dead?"

"The countess has undoubtedly drowned herself in the lake."

The queen cast a look of horror at the doctor. She attempted to speak, but could not. Gunther added:

"She has not left us without a farewell; she left a letter, which I am to deliver to Your Majesty. It must surely be intended to atone for the frightful tidings; even in her last moments, she was true to her affectionate nature."

The queen stared at Gunther vacantly. She tried to rise, but could not. She mutely motioned him to give her the letter. Gunther handed it to her.

The queen read it and turned pale as a corpse. Her features grew rigid; her hands fell to her side, as if palsied; her eyes closed, an expression as of death lay on her lips. Presently, she shook as if in a chill, and then her face became flushed, as if burning. She sprang to her feet and exclaimed:

"No! no! Have you done this? Could you act thus, Irma? You-"

She fell back in her chair, covered her face with both hands, and exclaimed:

"And she kissed my child, and he kissed it! Oh, they kissed that which was purest of all, well knowing how impure their own lips were. They talked in the loftiest strain, and yet the words did not cut their tongues like sharp knives! Oh, how disgusting! How disgusting, how tainted everything seems! How I loathe myself! And he dared to tell me that a prince could have no private actions, for his deeds are an example to others. Shame! shame! Everything is vile, everything is despicable! Everything!"

She looked around, bewildered. She was as terrible in her indignation as she had been beautiful in her grief.

With vacant gaze she regarded every object that had once met Irma's eye, and when her glance again fell upon the flower-table, she turned away with a convulsive start, as if serpents had darted from the flowers. Again she exclaimed:

"Oh, how loathsome! Oh, how vile, how disgusting! I beg of you, leave me alone! May I not be alone?"

"Let me remain with Your Majesty," said the Doctor, taking her hand, which hung as if lifeless at her side.

Countess Brinkenstein withdrew.

For a long while, the queen did not speak a word. She seemed to be staring at vacancy, breathed heavily and would, at times, start convulsively. She was suddenly seized with a chill, and fell back insensible.

The doctor bathed her forehead and wrists with a few drops of some restorative, and then called her maid. Accompanied by the latter, he conducted the queen to her apartments, and ordered that she should be put to bed.

"I shall never again see the light of day, nor a human face; and he-and he!" cried she; then she forced her lace handkerchief into her mouth and tore it to pieces with her teeth.

She lay thus for some time, the doctor sitting silently by her bedside.

At length she heaved a deep sigh, opened her eyes, and said:

"I thank you, but I would like to sleep."

"Yes, do so," said the doctor. He was about to leave, but she called to him:

"One word more. Does the king know-?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And he went to the hunt?"

"He is king, Your Majesty."

"I know, I know! – Anything to avoid creating a sensation. Yes, yes."

"I beg of you, Your Majesty, don't think now. Don't worry about anything. Try to sleep."

"We can give ourselves the sleep eternal, but not temporal sleep."

"I entreat you. Your Majesty; don't give way to this violent excitement; do try to sleep."

"I will, I will. Good-night! Give me a sleeping draught, a drop of forgetfulness. Poison were better! Good-night!"

The doctor withdrew, but, by a faint gesture, signified to Madame Leoni, the woman in waiting, that he should remain in the next room.

CHAPTER V

It was silent and lonely at the hunting-seat in the Highlands. The walls of the great hall were hung with antlers; a stuffed boar's head stared from over the entrance. A bright fire was burning on the large hearth, for here among the mountains it was already cold. The king sat before the fire, staring at the blazing embers. The flames, intertwining, would leap on high, like so many tongues of fire. The king left his chair several times, but soon sat down again.

Under the antlers hung tablets marking the year and date of each hunt. A long line of ancestors had contributed to these proofs of victory. If all the guns that had been used in achieving these triumphs were to be fired off at the same moment; if, in addition to this, every horn that had been blown, every dog which had barked, and every creature that had cheered, were to find voice, the din thus produced could not be more confusing or bewildering than the thoughts which jostled each other in the head that now rested upon the king's hands.

He arose from his seat and read some of the inscriptions on the wall. He could boast of a mighty ancestry. They were of a lusty and powerful race, and while indulging in the pleasures of the chase and the social board, would speedily have forgotten an adventure like the one that now unnerved him.

Have we become weaker, pettier, more timid?

The king seated himself again and gazed at the fire. He was angry with himself, and yet could not master his weakness.

We are not like the men of the olden time, with their rude simplicity and fearless disregard of consequences. Why have we not inherited the strength of our ancestors, instead of mere pride in their power?

What has happened?

Unfaithfulness cannot be blotted out, nor can the dead be called back to life.

The memory of the days passed in intoxicating happiness rose up before him, as if to say: It dare not, it cannot be.

Has she a right, while destroying her life, to destroy mine, too? And she has destroyed it. Her death will ever remain an inseparable part of myself. I bear a corpse about with me. The guilt of murder dwells within my heart!

He suddenly held his hands before the fire, for they were cold. The flames burned brightly, but they did not warm his hands, and his heart seemed freezing.

Is Bronnen right in refusing to see anything in this terrible affair but the inevitable results of my actions?

He uttered a short laugh, for it had suddenly occurred to him that the world would present a wondrous chaos of bloodshed and murder, if every similar misstep were to produce like result. How many thousands-

A few words uttered on a lovely morning and during happy times, floated through his mind. It was like suddenly recollecting a long forgotten melody. It was scarcely more than a year ago, that the queen had said, while sitting under the weeping ash: "He who commits a wrong sins for himself, and as deeply as if it were the first time the sin were ever committed."

Ah! why is it that our actions fall so far short of our ideal?

The king was still gazing into the fire. The image of his wife, fading from his mind, was replaced by that of the friend, whom, in fancy, he followed to the bottom of the lake.

He hastily arose, opened the window, inhaled the bracing mountain air and looked out into the dark night.

There, wrapped in slumber, lies the world, the palace with its rich and varied life, your wife, your child; and beyond, as far as the eye can reach, the rich land over which you rule. And while millions of beings cry to you in their hour of need, are you to be dragged down by one mortal?

The king turned round, with the intention of sending for Bronnen.

It is not well to give one's-self up to solitude and the company of evil spirits.

And yet he hesitated. From out of the darkness, there rose a demon with a thousand glittering, cunning eyes. He had known him from youth and his name was-distrust. Who knows that this gentleman, with his high-sounding phrases, is not availing himself of your humility and the tender mood which has unmanned you, for his own selfish ends? for all men are selfish, especially when dealing with royalty. He means to rule me and, through me, the country. Who knows whether he ever loved her or declared his passion to her. She neither could nor would have dared conceal that from me. The story was a ready invention of his, intended to make him my companion in grief. But I know no companion. I will have none. If I cannot do all by myself, I am not a king, and if I am not a king, what am I? No, my wise and noble-hearted gentleman-

An inner voice admonished him that it was wrong to judge Bronnen as he judged other men, but he would not listen to it. He drew himself up as if conscious of his power and dignity. Suddenly, a sound from the forest broke upon his ear. It was the first wild, mournful cry of the stag. The huntsman in him was now aroused. His hand quickly sought his weapon, but the thought vanished with the swiftness of the stag's flight through the forest, and gave way to another that raised a smile on the king's countenance. The stag, thought he, was crying to him. Nature knows nothing of such unfaithfulness as that with the thought of which you are now tormenting yourself. The laws of nature do not recognize unfaithfulness; it is simply a violent and arbitrary creation of man. But neither does nature's law recognize a king, or the right of any creature to rule others of the same species. But it is not nature alone that directs human life. There is also another law that dwells within man. At the birth of each beast, the law of its life seems born anew. Man, however, inherits that which has gone before, for he has a history. And a king more than all others-

The king stood there in silence for a long time. Feeling chilled again, he closed the window and sat down before the fire in which the embers were still burning. Although he found it irksome to be alone, he yet forced himself to remain so.

The fire was still flickering, and now and then a sharp tongue of flame would dart forth. The king's hand still clasped the silver handle of the tongs long after the fire had ceased to burn. For the first time in his life, he felt conscious of a void within himself-a void which could not be filled. What could it be? Hunting or drilling, jesting or commanding, loving or ruling, none of these filled the aching void. What could it be? this constant unrest, this longing for something that was yet to come.

He had spent a happy youth. The free tone at his father's court had not affected him. He had lived in an ideal world. He was on his travels and far away from home, when the sudden news of his father's death reached him. He had hardly arrived at man's estate, when he was called to the throne. Others might test their affections, might choose-his consort had been selected for him-there was no wooing; a throne, a country, a wife were given to him. His wife was graceful and pretty. He was fond of her, and she loved him intensely. Suddenly Irma entered their circle, and the husband, the father, the king, became seized with ardent love. And now she was dead, destroyed by her own rash deed.

Is it still possible for you to subordinate yourself to the law?

You have submitted to it reluctantly, as if it were a clog and a fetter; but it is not submission to the law the highest, aye, the only source of indestructible power? Yes, there is an eternal law that binds you to your wife and to your people; in that alone dwells the life eternal.

He was filled with the thought. It was like a deliverance; like the first free breathing of the convalescent. He could not fully grasp the idea, and yet it seemed to him as if he must cry aloud: I am free! free and yet in accord with the law.

He rose quickly. He meant to send for Bronnen, but restrained himself. He had wrestled with himself and would now bear this within himself. He felt as if the aching void, the restless longing for change, had suddenly been filled. He pressed his hand to his throbbing heart.

He rang the bell and sent word to Bronnen that he might retire. He sent his body-servant away and retired to his room alone.

Bronnen had been waiting for hours, expecting to be sent for at any moment, and was now busy conjecturing why this had not been done.

Could Irma's death have had more than a mere passing influence upon the king, or had it really helped to reconcile him with the law of life? What proof of his confidence did the king mean to bestow upon him? And when Bronnen had waited for hours, without receiving a message from the king, he could not repress a feeling of resentment. Who could tell? Perhaps the king had forgotten him? He had joined him for a while in a plaintive duet; but now all was over. That piece had been played and, as with a concert programme, a new one was to come.

One of old Eberhard's sayings occurred to him: "When you are not in the presence of royalty," were the old man's words, "it esteems you as little better than the servants who wait out in the vestibules, or on the steps, with warm mantles for their masters. They go on playing, dancing, laughing and jesting; but which of them stops to think of those who are waiting outside, who have aching legs and are overcome with sleep. But, nevertheless, there you must be, and that without a murmur."

He felt a touch of Eberhard's deep scorn. He, too, was a servant, who, while waiting in the ante-chamber, had been forgotten by his master.

When, at a late hour, the king sent him word that he might retire, he nodded his thanks. He has remembered you after all, thought he to himself. Many thanks. Of course they would be less ashamed of a companion in crime.

CHAPTER VI

The mountains were still covered with the mists of morning, when the king sent for Colonel Bronnen. The latter entered with a respectful air. The king advanced toward him and said:

"Good-morning, dear Bronnen!" His voice was hoarse; he looked pale and unrefreshed. He took a sheet of paper from the table and said:

"There is the proof that I promised you. Read it." Bronnen read it and looked at the king in astonishment.

"Do you know the handwriting?" asked the king. "I do not recognize the handwriting, but the great mind seems familiar. I believe-"

"You are right-they are the last words that our lost friend left for me."

With a certain air of solemnity, Bronnen again placed the letter upon the table. He did not venture to say a word.

"Be seated; I see that you are agitated."

"Certainly, Your Majesty; but, in spite of everything, these lines only confirm my presentiment."

"Your presentiment?"

"Yes, Your Majesty; a presentiment that Countess Irma is not dead."

"Not dead? and why?"

"I know not what to say, but the proofs that were found in the lake and on the shore serve rather to confirm than refute my theory. They are too complete-"

"You loved our friend, I believe it," said the king; "but you did not fully understand her. Countess Irma was incapable of deceit; and have I not told you that boatmen saw the body of a woman floating in the lake?"

"Who knows what they may have seen? Nothing has been found as yet."

"On what do you base your presentiments?"

"It is fully consistent with my exalted opinion of that great woman, to conceive of her having withdrawn to some convent, in order to leave Your Majesty free. Yea, free and true."

"Free and true," said the king, repeating the words to himself. "You utter words which seem irreconcilable, and yet they must be reconciled. Bronnen, you mean to show me a new life-path, and to remove the corpse that obstructs the way, so that, relieved of my burden, I may pass on. But I have strength to listen to the whole truth, and to decline all soothing deceit."

"Your Majesty, I have addressed you in all frankness, and with an utter disregard of all other considerations."

The king nodded gently, and Bronnen added:

"Be that as it may, these lines are the utterance of a great soul, and the realization of these thoughts is an end worth dying for. Now, Your Majesty, the weight must be lifted from your soul. Your friend's death or disappearance has not imposed a burden upon you; it has liberated you. For the sake of our country and the realization of the highest laws, she has departed."