On the Heights Part 162

Irma replied, telling him how well she understood and sympathized with him; and when she spoke to him of the difficulty of walking, how the groping foot first seeks the ground before the muscles are straightened to take a step, the blind man asked, with surprise:

"And how do you know that?" He again stretched out his head and bent it back in the same unpleasant manner as before.

"I once knew a blind man who told me. It is terrible to think that you're obliged to depend upon a stranger. Blind Gloster implores his guide not to forsake him."

"Maiden! Who are you? Was it you who spoke? It was your voice--or is there some one with you? How do you know that?"

"I read it once," said Irma, biting her lips till the blood almost came. "I read it once," she repeated, forcing herself to use the dialect again.

The blind man's head bent low and he held his hands between his knees.

A convulsive movement pa.s.sed over his fine youthful features, as if tears were ineffectually struggling to escape. He leaned his head back against the wall, and at last said:

"So you can read, and so intelligently. Could you--? No, I'll not ask you."

"Ask me what you will. I feel kindly toward you and have often thought of you."

"Did you? You, too?" cried he hurriedly, while he moved his head about in the same strange manner as before. "Maiden!" said he, "give me your hand once more. Tell me, could you give me this hand and let your eyes be mine?"

"Good sir," said Irma, interrupting him, "I should like to feel that your coming here and your going hence were for the best. I think that I can and ought to tell you all. This is the second time I've seen you--"

"I've seen you but once, and yet I shall never forget your face," said the blind man.

"Come with me. I'll lead you, and when we're alone I'll tell you all and prove how grateful I am for your kindness."

"There must be a spot somewhere hereabouts, from which a glimpse of the lake beyond the mountains can be obtained," replied the blind man. "Can you lead me there?"'

"Certainly," said Irma, startled at this wonderful inner life. She led him, across the meadow, to the mountain side.

"Sit down here," said she, "and I'll sit beside you. What I am about to tell you is for you alone. Remember, only for you!"

He raised his hand and exclaimed: "I swear!"

"You need no oath," replied Irma. "Know then that I am one who has vanished from the fas.h.i.+onable world. Ask not for my name. Life in all its splendor was mine, and yet I walked in darkness. I was a wretched worldling! I had sunk so low that I sought to destroy myself. If it were only possible, I would gladly fly way with you--just as the birds are flying--through the rosy, golden glow of evening, and vanish into infinite s.p.a.ce. But I've learned to know that life is a duty, and that all we have and are in this world depends upon our finding the world within ourselves and ourselves in the world. You now bear the world within you, where none can take it from you. We can call nothing ours, unless we possess it in that way. And when death comes at last, it takes nothing from us, but simply gives us back to the world--"

"Maiden!" suddenly exclaimed the blind man, "what are you doing? Who are you? No mortal speaks thus! Must I become superst.i.tious? Must I believe in angels? Is there some one with you? Who can it be? Who are you? Give me your hand!"

"Be calm: 'tis I," said Irma, offering him her hand, which he kissed again and again. She withdrew it, and, pa.s.sing it over his face, said:

"Be calm. I've merely looked out into the world just as you have already done, and while we sit here--two children of the world and yet forgotten by it--we are happy, for we belong to eternity. May you be happy, and may your soul, on wings of music, soar far above all earthly cares. Take my hand once more. Come, let me lead you hence."

Without uttering a word on the way, he suffered Irma to lead him toward the cottage.

When they reached it, he called for his guide and his servant, in a tone of authority.

"Are you going already?" asked Irma.

Leaning on his servant's arm, he left the cottage without answering her.

She again offered him her hand with the words: "The world in us, and ourselves in the world!"

His only reply was a nod, his features again twitched convulsively, as if he were trying to repress his tears.

He had already proceeded as far as the edge of the woods, when he turned around and called out:

"Come here, maiden. I've something to tell you."

She went up to him and he said:

"I'm a nephew of Doctor Gunther, who was formerly physician to the king, and now lives but a short distance from here, in yonder little town. I live with him and am pianist to the queen. If you ever need help, send to me, or to my uncle. He'll help you, I am sure. But, depend upon it, I shall mention you to no one."

Having said this, he hurriedly turned on his heel and, leaning on his servant, descended the mountain.

Irma remained there, looking after him.

Was Gunther alive? And in her very neighborhood?

And now another being carried her half-disclosed life-secret about with him.

The blind man entered the woods and soon disappeared from view. Irma, with eyes bent on the ground, returned to her resting-place, where she remained gazing into the dim distance until night approached.

Over in the woods she beheld a strange-looking, gray cloud with white, glowing edges. It stood as firmly as if it were a wall. Suddenly, as if exhaled from the earth, a gust of wind arose, so violent that the trees bent under its force.

She hurried toward the cottage, and found that the little pitchman had returned.

"I'm afraid we'll have a storm to-night," said he. "The moon isn't up yet and doesn't rise till late, and that's a sign of bad weather."

He went out again, in order to drive in the cows. The boy had gone after the goats, which had strayed off for some distance.

CHAPTER XV.

"How the wind blows!" exclaimed Gundel, quite of out breath. It had required all her strength to close the door. "What a storm! There never was such a gust before. Why, the wind's just as hot as if it were blown out of an oven."

She got up quickly and, filling a cup with water, emptied it on the fire that burned on the hearth.

"What are you doing?" cried Irma.

"We mustn't have a fire now," replied Gundel, and, after that, they sat there in the dark room, almost stifled by the smoke, for the storm raged so wildly that they dared not open a window.

"If father were only home," said Gundel; "I hope, for G.o.d's sake, he'll get home safe!"

Her last words were drowned by a sudden peal of thunder that reverberated from the mountains, with a crash as if the whole world were being destroyed. And now the wind raged and stormed more violently than before. The firmly built hut seemed to totter, the roof trembled, and one of the great boulders with which it had been secured fell to the ground.

"Give me your hand!" cried Gundel, in the dark. "If we must die--let's pray." She prayed aloud, but the cras.h.i.+ng thunder drowned her voice.

Suddenly the noise changed, and it sounded as if countless iron hammers were descending on the roof; the rattling, pounding and rumbling created a furious din.