On the Heights: A Novel

CHAPTER IX

Bruno was standing in his room, surrounded by luggage of various shapes, when a servant announced his gracious mother-in-law.

"She here? And in spite of my prohibition?" thought he to himself. "Show her in," he said to the servant, who quickly threw open the folding-doors, and closed them again when the lady had entered. "Ah, my dear mother!" exclaimed Bruno, who was about to hurry forward to embrace her, but she coolly offered him her hand and said:

"No, no," and then, seating herself on a sofa, she continued:

"Draw near; take a seat."

"Do you know-?" inquired Bruno.

"I know all; you need tell me nothing."

"I thank you for coming to offer me your sympathy."

"I'm delighted-I meant to say that I feel comforted to find you so composed. Arabella knows nothing as yet?"

"No."

"Nor need she know of it. – What is the meaning of all this luggage?"

Bruno looked at her in astonishment. Who had any right to inquire, and in such a tone? "I'm going on a journey," he answered bluntly, and then, in order to prevent a scene, he added in a gentle tone: "As her brother, I must make inquiries in regard to the accident."

"I approve of that; it's quite proper," replied the Baroness. "Have you already had an understanding with him! – You don't seem to understand me, as you don't answer; I mean with this king."

"Yes," replied Bruno boldly, "but I have pledged my word to let it go no further."

"Very well, I respect your discretion; but now, a frank word with you. Please close the portière."

Bruno did as he was ordered, but ground his teeth as he walked toward the door. When he returned again, his manner was as polite and attentive as before.

"Proceed," said he, "no one hears us; a mourner listens to you patiently."

"A mourner! We have greater cause to mourn than you have. We thought we had allied ourselves with one of the best families in the land." Bruno started as if angry.

"Pray drop your acting for the present," continued the Baroness, whose voice and appearance had changed. "We are alone now, and unmasked. In spite of the outward show of politeness, you have never treated me with the respect which I have a right to demand. Don't contradict me; please let me finish what I am about to say: When I calmly reflected on the matter, I was not angry with you on that account. I knew my position. But now, my dear son-in-law, matters have changed. I was what your sister was, but I never feigned virtue. The world esteemed me at my true value-"

Bruno heaved a deep sigh.

The Baroness continued, grinding her teeth with anger as she spoke:

"When your sister was so kind to us, I could have knelt to her in humility. She must give me back my humility, though she be in hell! It was not she who was the better; it was I-But now, my son-in-law, your disdainful behavior must cease. Let me tell you, you ought to feel glad that we've allied ourselves with you. But we shall never let you feel it; that is, if you conduct yourself in a becoming manner."

"And am I not doing so?" asked Bruno, who, during this attack, had entirely lost his self-command.

"We will see; but, first of all, let me tell you that, after this, I shall reside with Arabella as often and as long as I choose to. This insipidly moral queen has been taught a lesson, too. At present, however, I have no desire to appear at court. But the social circle is open to me-I shall enter it, arm in arm with you, my amiable, my gallant son."

The old woman rose and, bowing gracefully, offered her arm to Bruno. The latter took his mother-in-law's hand in his own and held it to his lips.

"Fie! you've been drinking wine, in your grief!" cried the old danseuse, hurriedly putting her fine and strongly perfumed handkerchief to her lips.

"Miss Mother-in-law-" the words were on the end of Bruno's tongue; he would like to have hurled them at her. Steps were heard. A moment afterward the intendant entered, his presence serving as a great relief to Bruno.

"I beg pardon! don't let me disturb you," said he, when he saw Bruno's mother-in-law.

"You're not disturbing us," replied Bruno quickly. "In spite of a violent attack of fever, our dear mother, now our grandmother, has hastened to console us. I am fortunate in still having a few faithful relatives, and a friend like yourself. I shall now live entirely for the family still left me."

The Baroness nodded a pleased assent. She was thoroughly satisfied with Bruno's first rehearsal of his new rôle.

"We shan't leave to-day?" inquired the intendant.

"Yes, yes. We must not lose another minute."

The mother-in-law undertook to tell Arabella of Bruno's departure, and to inform her that he had been sent away on public business.

While slowly drawing on his black gloves, Bruno thanked his mother-in-law. He thanked her sincerely, for while he well knew that he was about to enter upon a state of dependence, and that her presence in his house would prove distasteful to him in many ways, he, at the same time, consoled himself with the hope that she would prove a companion to his wife, and that he could thus absent himself from home more frequently, and for longer periods, than he had before done; for he felt it not a little irksome to be obliged to spend so much of his time with his wife. The leave-taking was short, but hearty. Bruno was permitted to kiss his mother-in-law's cheek. After he got into the carriage, he rubbed his lips till they were almost sore, in order to wipe the rouge off of them.

It was already evening when they drove off, and they passed the night at the first posting-house. Bruno lay down on the bed to rest himself "for a little while," but he did not awake until late the following morning.

CHAPTER X

The queen, overcome with grief, lay sleeping in her apartment.

The court ladies were gathered together on the terrace under the weeping ash, and did not care to leave one another. It seemed as if a fear of ghosts oppressed them all. It was but a few days since Irma had been in their midst. She had been sitting in the chair without a back-she never leaned against anything. The seat she had occupied remained empty, and if the paths were not freshly raked every morning, her footprint would still be there. And now she had vanished from the world. Her light had been extinguished, and in so terrible a manner. Who could tell how long her ghost might haunt the palace and what mischief it might do. The world, at last, knew what had been going on.

The ladies were busily engaged at their embroidery. At other times, they would take turns in reading aloud; but to-day their book-it was a French novel, of course-remained untouched. They were intensely interested in the story, but no one ventured to propose that the reading should be gone on with, nor did sustained conversation seem possible. Now and then a voice was heard: "Dear Clotilde," "Dearest Hannah, can you lend me some violet, or some pale green?" "Oh, I tremble so, that I cannot thread my needle; have you a needle-threader?"

It was, fortunately, at hand. They were, none of them, willing to appear so little moved as to be able to thread a needle.

They deplored Irma's fate, and it did them good to be able to show how kind and merciful they were. They felt happy in being able to accord their pious forgiveness to the unhappy one, and, since they had been so gentle and forgiving, they felt it their right to denounce her crime the more severely. It was thus they avenged themselves for the self-humiliation they had endured; for, while Irma was the prime favorite, they had paid greater homage to her than to the queen.

They never mentioned the royal couple except in terms of respect-with all their apparent confidence, they distrusted each other. They felt that there was trouble ahead, but that it was best for them to appear unconscious of it.

Countess Brinkenstein was the only one Who had a good word to say for Irma.

"Her father was greatly to blame," said she; "it was he who instilled this belief in Irma."

"And yet he had her educated at the convent."

"But she inherited from him a contempt for all forms and traditions, and that was her misfortune. She had a lovely disposition, was richly endowed by nature, and her heart was free from the slightest trace of envy or ill-nature."

No one ventured to contradict Countess Brinkenstein; Perhaps, thought they, etiquette requires us to speak well of Irma and to forget her terrible deed.

"Who knows whether her brother would have married the Steigeneck, if he had known that he was to inherit everything!" softly whispered a delicate and languishing little lady to her neighbor, while she bent over her wool-basket.

The one whom she had addressed looked at her with a sad, yet grateful expression. She had once loved Count Bruno, and still loved him.

"I have a book of hers."

"And I have one of her drawings."

"And I have some of her music."

They shuddered at the thought of possessing articles which had once been hers, and determined that everything should be sent to her brother.

"I passed her rooms, early this morning," said Princess Angelica's maid of honor-she always seemed as if half-frozen, and rubbed her hands and breathed on her fingertips while she spoke-"the windows were open. I saw the lonely parrot in his cage, and he kept calling out, 'God keep you, Irma.' It was dreadful."

They all shuddered, and yet they felt a secret satisfaction in dwelling on the subject. The pious court lady joined the circle, and mentioned that Doctor Sixtus had just taken leave of her, that he had started for the Highlands, that Fein, the notary, had accompanied him, that he had also taken Baum along, and that they meant to search for the body of Countess Irma.

"Will he bring her here, or to Wildenort castle?"

"How terrible, to be gaped at in death by common people!"

"Horrible! it makes me shudder."

"Pray let me have your vinaigrette."

A bottle of English smelling-salts was passed round the circle.

"And to have every bystander volunteer a funeral sermon!"

"How improper to take one's life in so public a manner!"

"If there were no horrid newspapers," whined the freezing court lady.

The conversation gradually assumed a more cheerful tone.

"Ah me!" exclaimed a pert and pretty court lady, "how we were all obliged to 'enthuse' about the beauties of nature and the genial traits of the lower orders during her life and reign. Now, I imagine one may at last venture to say that nature's a bore, and that the lower orders are horrid, without being regarded as a heretic."

In spite of the malice that flavored it, they found the remark both just and appropriate. In a little while they were all conversing and laughing, just as if nothing had happened.

A wanton boy has shot a sparrow. The rest of the flock are very sad, and pipe and prate about the matter for a while; but soon they hop about again, and chirrup as merrily as before.

To give truth its due, it is necessary to state that many of the ladies would have been glad to speak well of Irma, but they kept such feelings in the background. Of all things in the world they dreaded showing themselves sentimental.

It was not until Countess Brinkenstein again began to speak, that the rest of the company became more calm and dignified than they had been.

Countess Brinkenstein's demeanor seemed to say: "I am, unfortunately, the one who prophesied it all; and now that it has all come to pass as I said it would, I am not in the least proud of it." It was both her right and her duty to speak compassionately of Irma, and yet, at the same time, mildly to point a moral.

"Eccentricity. Ah, yes, eccentricity!" said she. "Poor Countess Wildenort! The publicity of her deed is, in itself, a serious offense; but do not let us, while thinking of her terrible fate, forget that she was undeniably possessed of many good traits. She was beautiful, anxious to please every one, and yet without a trace of coquetry. She possessed intellect and wit, but she never used them to slander others. A poor eccentric creature!"

This disposed of Irma, and the other court ladies had, at the same time, received a lesson.

The eyes of all were directed toward the valley.

"There goes the carriage!" they said. Doctor Sixtus saw the ladies and saluted them. The notary sat by his side, and Baum sat opposite. He was too tired to sit up on the box. "It is scarcely a year since we made this same journey together," said Sixtus to Baum.

Baum was not in a talkative mood; he was too tired. After great preparations, he had that day passed his examination, and could say to himself that he had not come off without honors. Although he was not accustomed to find himself inside of the carriage, he yet thought he might take it for granted that this would henceforth be his place. He was about to become a different, a more exalted personage. He had, indeed, become such already-all that was needed was the outward token. He would have been willing to remain a simple lackey. Perhaps the king desired to have it so, lest he might betray himself. He was willing to let him have his own way, even in this. He and the king knew how they stood toward each other. He smiled to himself, and felt like a girl whose lover has declared his affection for her; the formal wooing can take place at any time.

When Doctor Sixtus helped himself to a cigar, Baum was at once ready with a light. That, however, was, for the present, his last act of service. Nature was not to be overcome, and Baum was impolite enough to fall asleep in the presence of the gentlemen. But he was so well schooled that, even while asleep, he sat upright and ready at any moment to obey their commands.

It was not until they halted that Baum awoke. The notary's searching questions greatly disturbed his comfort. What matters the death of a countess, thought he, if one can rise by means of it. He was greatly annoyed that his family-his mother, his brother and his sister-were mixed up in the affair; and hadn't Thomas said something about the death of Esther, or was it merely a dream? Events had succeeded each other so rapidly that they quite bewildered him.

Doctor Sixtus apologized to the notary for Baum's disconnected narrative.

Baum looked at him in amazement. Did he already know that Baum was about to be advanced, and did he mean to curry favor with him? He was cunning enough to think of such a thing.

Baum resolved, for the present, only to show the spot where he had found the hat and shoes, and to leave his mother and brother entirely out of the affair. At all events, he would not drag them into it, and suggested that they should take the forester with them. They found him at last, and then wended their way toward the assize town in which Doctor Kumpan lived.

Sixtus sent for the latter. He soon came to the inn, and the jolly fellow was lavish in his praise of Countess Irma. He thought it greatly to her credit that she had had courage to live and die as she chose. Besides that, Kumpan delighted in joking his friend, in regard to the great missions on which he had been employed, looking up wet nurses and hunting corpses. He asked for the privilege of being permitted to dissect the countess.

Doctor Sixtus did not in the least relish the coarse humor of his former fellow-student. Doctor Kumpan told him of the great change that had taken place in Walpurga's circumstances, that she and the rest of her family had moved far away to the Highlands, near the frontier. He also told him several very funny stories at Hansei's expense, and especially about the wager for six measures of wine.

Sixtus informed his comrade that Walpurga was no longer a favorite at court, and that it would soon be proven that she had been the mediator. Although he spoke in an undertone, Baum heard every word. After Sixtus had made this disclosure to Kumpan, he felt sorry for what he had done, but it was just because they had so few subjects in common, that he had told him the very matters he desired to keep from him. All that remained was to make his friend promise not to mention a word of the affair, and Kumpan always was a man of his word.

After Kumpan had left, Baum went up to Sixtus again and told him that he thought it would be well to go to Walpurga, as she might know something of the affair; but Sixtus replied that the journey would be a useless one, and that Baum was to remain with him.

CHAPTER XI

On the following morning, Bruno would have liked to return. What was the use of it all? Was he to act the fable of the little brother and sister over again, and to be the little brother who had gone in search of his sister? And what would be the result? A dreadful, agitating sight-one which he could never banish from his memory. It would haunt him in his dreams-a bloated, disfigured corpse with open mouth.

Bruno cast an injured look upon the friend who congratulated him on having slept so well, and on having thus gained new strength for the trials the day might have in store for him. Bruno looked at the intendant with feelings of anger and distrust. He felt almost certain that this man regarded the whole occurrence as a tragic drama, which would have to be mounted for the stage. It was evident to him that the intendant was using this as a study, of which he would avail himself in future scenic representations, and that he was observing his every gesture and feature, so that he might be able to instruct the actors under him; so that he might say: "Thus does one pose himself, and thus does one groan when he finds his sister's corpse- Am I to be this puppet's puppet? No, never!"

Bruno would have liked, best of all, to have journeyed back to his mother-in-law, even if he had to succumb to her. He could convert his humility into gallantry, and, at all events, would be spared these terrible sights. But here was his friend encouraging him to neglect nothing which fraternal duty demanded of him. Oh! these people of feeling are the most abominable of mortals, for they take everything so seriously. Do they really mean all they say? Who knows? Every one in the world is merely playing a part, after all.

He must go on, and he saw what was in store for him. This terrible friend with the strong sense of duty-and, after all, he was not his friend-this man, whom he had inflicted on himself, would force him to spend days, searching for horrors which he had no desire to find. They drove on, in an ill-humor.

The intendant, finding that Bruno would formally thank him for every little service, declared:

"I beg of you, don't thank me. I am only doing my duty to my friend and to myself. You know that I once loved your sister, and that she rejected my suit."

He was discreet enough to refrain from adding that he had afterward rejected her offer, and Bruno groaned inwardly at his cruel discretion.

The intendant found Bruno quiet and reserved. Concluding that this was the natural reaction from the excitement of the previous day, he, too, remained silent. Bruno often looked at the intendant, as if he were a jailer leading him to the place of punishment. They drove on rapidly. At the different post-houses, where they stopped to change horses, the intendant would fluently converse with the postillions and the innkeepers in their native dialect. Several of them knew him.

To his great alarm, it suddenly occurred to Bruno that he had the saloon warbler with him. He was perfectly at home here, and would now have a chance to display the treasures of his dialect wardrobe, to pursue his studies, and revel in the pleasure which the rude dialect of the region afforded him.

His friend, for this was the only term by which he dared characterize him, was now in his element, and found it no easy matter to refrain from expressing his delight thereat.

At length they reached the last mountain and saw, from afar, the mirror-like surface of the lake, surrounded by gigantic mountains and sparkling in the golden sunshine.

"Do you see that maple tree, over there?" said the intendant, no longer able to contain himself, "there to the left, by the small rock-that is the point from which I sketched the painting that hangs in her majesty's music-room."

The friend had imagined that this remark might help to create a calmer mood in Bruno, so that the terrible idea of his sister's having sought her death below that very spot, might not at once obtrude itself.

Bruno looked at him with an impatient air. Every one thinks of himself, said an inner voice, and this coxcomb is now thinking of his daubs. He remained silent, however, for silence was more expressive of grief than words could be. He rubbed his eyes, for the dazzling reflection of the sun's rays on the surface of the lake had made them ache. His friend grasped his hand and silently pressed it. He had understood this fraternal heart, and his glance meant: others may think you superficial and frivolous, but I know you better.

From the landing near by, they could hear the neighing of Bruno's horses, which were there in charge of his grooms. And now, for the first time, Bruno felt a sense of shame in the presence of his servants. They, of course, knew everything, and how they must have talked about it in the tap-room. He was full of anger at the sister who had inflicted all this upon him.

The first information they received at the inn was that old Zenza had been there. She had endeavored to sell or to pawn the ring which the maid of honor had given her on the night before she had drowned herself. As they all regarded the ring as stolen, she could obtain nothing for it. It was now decided that Zenza must know more. They took a guide and walked along the mountain path that led toward her hut.

Bruno, being a huntsman, was usually a good climber, but to-day he felt as if he would break down at every step, and was often obliged to stop and rest.

His friend encouraged him, and they walked on through the sunny forest, where the light shone brightly on the soft moss, while many a hawk uttered its shrill cry overhead.

At the crossing of the roads, they encountered a party of ladies and gentlemen; they were in city dress and had adorned their hats with green branches and garlands. Bruno hurriedly stepped aside from the path. The intendant, however, was recognized by a former colleague of his, and Bruno heard him say that the guests of a little watering-place in the neighborhood were making an excursion to see the place where Countess Wildenort had drowned herself. The party passed on, and their loud and cheerful talk was heard from afar.

At last they reached the hut. It was closed. They knocked at the door. A growl was the only answer they received, and the next moment they heard some one dashing a bolt back.

A neglected looking, yet powerful man, with a wild, disheveled appearance, stood before them.

Thomas recognized Bruno at once, and exclaimed:

"Ah, Wildenort! it's well you've come. I take my hat off to you, for you're an out-and-out man. What matters one's father! When he's dying, ride off; one can't help him die, you know. Ho, ho! you're a splendid fellow. No one cares for the old lumber any more."

"What do you want of me?" asked Bruno, with tremulous voice.

"I shan't harm you; there's my hand on it. I'll do you no harm. You let the king do what he chooses and make no fuss about it, and so I shall do you no harm, for what you've done in the same line of business. You're my king. I got it out of her at the very last, that you were the one, and that, because it was you, she had helped your sister. You know what I mean, well enough. I shan't say a word. The stupid world needn't know what there is between us. Sister, king; poacher, count-it's all as it should be."

"This man seems crazed," said the intendant to the guide. "What do you want? Let go of the gentleman!" he called out to Thomas.

"Is that your lackey? Where's the one with the coal-black hair? – Let us alone," said Thomas, turning to the intendant, "we understand each other very well. Don't we, brother? You're a brother, and I'm one, too. Ha! the world's wisely arranged! You mustn't think I've been drinking; I've taken something, it's true, but that doesn't hurt me-I'm as sober as a judge. Now let me tell you what my plan is: I'll listen to reason, to anything that's fair and just; I can see that you're a decent fellow, for you come to me of your own accord."