On the Heights Part 49

"I'll tell you all about it, after awhile," answered Hansei; "but, first of all, give me a schoppen of wine."

The wine was brought, and Hansei looked around, as if wondering where he was.

He felt as if he had come from another world, and it was not until he had eaten some bread and salt, that he told them of the strange adventures he had had that day. He had gone out into the forest to load up the wood, and had lost his way, and wandered in the direction of Windenreuthe. He said this intentionally, lest some one might have seen him in that neighborhood.

They spoke of the belief in ghosts, but the innkeeper ridiculed such nursery tales. Hansei made no reply. The innkeeper remarked, very sensibly:

"You're often bewildered, nowadays, just because your Walpurga isn't with you. You're thinking of her all the time, and that's what makes you lose your way."

"Yes--quite likely."

"Do you know what they call you in the village, now?"

"Well, what?"

"The he-nurse. Your wife, who's with the crown prince, is the she-nurse, and so they call you the he-nurse."

Hansei laughed with all his might.

"Say, Hansei, what pay does your wife get?" inquired Wastl the weaver.

"I won't tell," replied Hansei, with an air of mystery.

"It's a long while since you had a letter from your wife, isn't it?"

inquired the innkeeper.

"No; I'm expecting one any hour." He had scarcely uttered the words, when the letter-carrier entered and said, "So here you are, Hansei; I've been at your house twice to-day. I've got a letter with money in it, for you."

"Let's have it," said Hansei, breaking the five seals with a trembling hand.

"A nice way of treating money," said the innkeeper, picking up a hundred florin note from the floor. "That'll suit me very well. I've use for one, and will give you the change for it."

"All right," said Hansei, leaving the money in the innkeeper's hands.

He then read his letter:

"_Dear Hansei_: This time, I write to you all alone. Here are a hundred florins that the queen has given me for a special present, because you haven't come to see me; but I must tell you all about it so that you can understand it. You've no idea what a good soul the queen is; whenever you pray, pray for her. We often sit together for hours, and she can take down everything on paper beautifully--the trees and all sorts of things, and we talk to each other as if we had gone to school together. But she's Lutheran and is very good and pious, and has such kind thoughts about all things that an ugly word couldn't pa.s.s her lips. If she weren't Lutheran, she might become a saint, but she'll get to heaven anyhow. That's my belief, and you can believe it, too; but you needn't tell any one.

"Well, the queen wanted to give me a treat. She would like to make the whole world happy; that's the way the saints must have been in the olden times. Well, as I said before, the queen wanted to give me a treat, because her husband came home well and hearty, and they're so fond of each other, and she wanted you and the child and mother to come and see me for one or two days, for she notices everything; she looks right into your heart, and I'm often homesick for you all. And when the queen talked about having you come, I said to her: 'That would be very nice, but it would cost a pretty penny,' and so I let her make me a present of the money, and we can make better use of it. You haven't the right sort of clothes, you know, and the people here might make fun of you. But with all that, I wouldn't have got the money, for that's nothing to her. She never thinks of such things. She's never counted money in all her life, and I really believe that she don't know how to reckon. The court paymaster attends to all that. Here there's an extra servant for everything--butlers and silver keepers and lots of others.

But now my good countess is back again. She's been to see her father.

They say he's a sort of a hermit who don't want to know anything of the world, and I must thank my countess that I got the money, for she knows how to manage everything. And so I send you the money. Put it out safely, and don't forget to take some of it to make a holiday for you and the child and grandmother.

"Ah, dear Hansei, the palace folk are not all saints and honest people, as I once used to think. Lots of thieving and deceit are carried on here. The father of my Mademoiselle Kramer is an honorable old man; he's the keeper of the castle here, and he's told me many things. But one can be honest everywhere, in the palace or in the cottage by the lake. And now, I beg of you dear Hansei--I always say 'dear Hansei,'

whenever I think of you, and that's very often. It was only last night that I dreamt of you, but I won't tell you about that, because we oughtn't to believe in dreams. But write to me very soon and tell me how it goes with you; send me a good, long letter, and don't let the time seem long till we meet again; and always think as kindly of me as I do of you.

"Till death, your faithful WALPURGA."

In spite of their entreaties, Hansei would not tell a word of what was in the letter; he went home quietly, and kissed his sleeping child. He felt happy that he could thus be at home again, and that his home did not reject him. A cold sweat came over him when he thought that he was sleeping in this bed, and of what a changed man he might have become.

He stretched forth his hand toward his wife's bed and, in the silent night, kissed her pillow.

"Now I'm all right again," said he. He arose, struck a light, and removed the letter which he had put into his shoe. Then, cutting the pa.s.sage, "until death, your faithful Walpurga," out of the letter last received, he loosened the inner sole, placed the little paper underneath it, and fastened the sole down again. After that, he soon fell into a sound sleep.

CHAPTER II.

"Your Majesty," said Countess Irma to the king one day, while walking on the veranda with him--the queen was in the music-room, practicing a cla.s.sical composition with one of the court performers--"it is curious that, while absence lends additional charms and greater merit to some persons, there are others who are all the more perfect and interesting when one is in constant, daily intercourse with them. And yet, when away from such, it is almost impossible to remember them just as they are; and as to describing their character, or even their personal appearance, to one who is not acquainted with them--why, that is entirely out of the question. How do you account for it?"

"I must confess that I have never reflected on the subject," replied the king, "but it seems to me that the chief characteristic of the one cla.s.s is an infinitude of small details; while with the other, one is struck by the general effect of the various traits that go to make up the character. Those whose character still presents an unsolved problem, and who thus give us more to think of, would seem to belong to the cla.s.s to whom absence lends importance. Does it not seem so to you?"

"Certainly; but I might also say that the one cla.s.s are more impressive and thus even in the present, seem like remote historical personages.

Although they die, they yet remain--indeed, absence is a sort of death.

The others however, only exist as long as they breathe, and only live for us as long as we breathe the same atmosphere with them."

"Can you name examples of such imposing historical personages, and also of ephemeral ones?"

"At present, I could only recall the historical."

A slight blush pa.s.sed over the king's features. "Well," said he, when he found that Irma hesitated, "I beg of you--"

"In that cla.s.s, I place my father over all others. I cannot describe to Your Majesty how his great nature seems constantly before me."

"Yes, I've often heard him spoken of as a man of high character and eminent ability. It is a pity, for his sake--and, still more, for our own--that he is opposed to the government. And in which cla.s.s would you count me? I have sufficient confidence in your candor to believe that you will frankly give me your opinion, and you are so sure of my--my--respect, that you can speak without reserve."

"Your Majesty is present company," replied Irma, "and yet, at the same time, absent; or your position exalts you far above the rest of us."

"Friends.h.i.+p does not dwell on the throne, but here where we stand on equal ground, dear Countess."

"Nor does friends.h.i.+p pa.s.s sentence," replied the countess. "Her place is not the judgment-seat. I know of nothing more revolting than when men who profess to be friends, constantly cast up their accounts with each other, as if to say: 'You are worth so much and I am worth so much; this is yours and this is mine--'"

"Ah, these state affairs," interposed the king, as a lackey announced the arrival of the minister. "We will speak of this subject again," he added, taking leave of Irma and politely greeting the ladies and gentlemen whom he pa.s.sed on his way. He offered his hand to his prime minister and, accompanied by him, went into the palace.

Irma's friendly relations with the king seemed to have acquired new life since her return. Her daily greeting seemed filled with the joy of meeting after long separation.

When the king would say: "Good morning, Countess," and Irma would answer: "Thanks, Your Majesty," there lay a wealth of unuttered thought in those simple words. The king had never before been in so pleasing and witty a mood, and Irma, it was justly said, had brought the mountain breezes with her. The queen would never tire of telling the ladies and gentlemen of the court how pleased she was with Irma, who, although simple and unaffected, possessed the highest intellectual gifts.

Like melodies that have sunk deep into the soul and which gradually return and harmoniously blend, so did her father's words and ideas now recur to Irma. She had spent weeks in a strict school, where idle talk and trifling were of no value and where distinctness and certainty were insisted upon. Formerly, Irma had been regarded as a child of nature, freely pouring forth whatever engaged her thoughts; but now they recognized in her a mind whose groundwork was solid and comprehensive, and which, nevertheless, was full of the simplicity of nature. She was full of sympathy and kindness, but did not concern herself about prevailing modes of thought. She freely expressed her likes and dislikes, and one was obliged to admit that she was something more than a mere original or artless hoyden, and that she really possessed intellectual self-consciousness to a great degree.

Irma often changed her style of dressing her hair. This was naturally censured as coquetry, and as an attempt to draw the glances of all upon her. But it was simply a desire to appear different every day, even though it were in unimportant and subordinate matters.

It was very fortunate for Irma that she had become so attached to Walpurga; for, on sunny afternoons, the queen would scarcely ever suffer Walpurga to leave her; and then Irma would be seated with them and would read aloud to the queen, or join Walpurga in some of the lovely mountain songs.

The king's eyes would sparkle with delight when he happened to join them at such times, and find Irma with his wife.

"You look troubled," said the queen, when the king, who had just left the ministerial council, joined her and Irma in the park.

"And so I am."