On the Heights Part 57

The royal couple pa.s.sed on, and Irma, in spite of her splendid attire, felt as if deserted and forlorn. The king was no longer near her. In the distance she could still see him, radiant as a G.o.d.

Those who were near Irma, praised her ingenious and poetical costume.

She did not hear a word of what was said. The queen sent for her. The king had wished the queen to open the ball with him, but she had declined. He always asked her, as a matter of form, but she never danced.

She now begged Irma to open the ball in her stead.

Irma bowed her thanks, but a proud feeling of superiority filled her breast. "You have nothing to give me. It is I who am giving. It is I who am renouncing. He is mine. The priest gave him to you; nature has given him to me. You are a tender, delicate flower, but we are eagles, who soar into the clouds."

She could hardly conceive how she could bear it all. Every drop of blood in her veins had turned to fire.

The quadrille began.

Irma felt the king's warm breath against her cheek. He pressed her hand, indulged in various pleasantries, and remarked that it was charming to be able to indulge one's fancy in conjuring up a fantastic world. Irma felt that both she and the king would have liked to speak of far different things, and that, indeed, silence was even more eloquent than speech; but they were obliged to talk, and of indifferent subjects at that. Whenever the king's hand touched hers, she felt as if she must suddenly fly aloft with him; and, whenever he removed it, as if she must sink. They came near throwing the whole quadrille into confusion.

The queen left the ball at an early hour. The king accompanied her, but soon returned.

Irma went about the room, but the gay scene seemed like a confused dream. At last she met her brother and his wife, who were richly attired, and greeted them with a pleasant smile. She was forever asking herself: "Do I still live? where am I? who am I?" She had descended through the air, and was floating in a strange world, in which there were only two human beings--he and she; the first, the only human pair.

The G.o.ds have again descended upon earth, and his kiss is eternity.

She sat with her brother and his wife, in a bower under a pine-tree.

Presently, the king approached. In her heart, she rushed forth to embrace him, exclaiming: "Let us die together! Thou art mine and I am thine. We are alone in the world--" But all she did was to rise from her seat, and bow tremblingly. The king sat down beside her.

As if this were the first time he had beheld her, he gazed with delight upon her beautifully shaped head, the curls playing about her throat and descending to her shoulders, and the dimpled neck. She seemed taller than usual. The delicate, oval face; the broad forehead richly arched as if with too great a wealth of thought; the finely curved eyebrows; the brown eyes with their limpid brilliancy, and the swelling lips; all were in beautiful and harmonious proportion.

"You are beautiful, and I love you," whispered the king.

"And you are beautiful and great, and my love for you is without limit," answered her heart, although her lips did not utter a sound.

She closed her eyes and suffered his glance to rest upon her.

"Irma!" said the king. "Irma," he repeated, with a choking voice.

They sat there in silence for some time, and then, drawing a deep breath, the king said:

"Oh, Irma! There is one moment which is as eternity--there parting is unknown. In the world below, men reckon by hours and minutes, but to those who dwell in the heaven above, the earth is no longer visible."

Irma looked up. Bruno and his wife had gone. She was alone with the king.

She longed to fall on her knees before him, to clasp him in her ardent embrace. With powerful effort, she forced herself to remember her surroundings. The music, the lights, the gay figures: all was a confused jumble. She opened her lips but could not utter a word. She arose quickly and with trembling step left the room.

The king left the ball soon after.

It was late at night. Walpurga, her heart filled with sadness, stood looking out of the window of the room over Irma's apartments.

Light clouds were pa.s.sing over the sky, now covering the moon, and then again revealing it in all its splendor.

The light fell full on the figure of the Venus de Milo, and she seemed to turn her face.

Walpurga bounded away from the window, and was so frightened that she did not venture again to return to the open cas.e.m.e.nt.

The same ray of moonlight that shone upon the Venus de Milo rested tremblingly on the lips of the statue which the king had kissed.... The G.o.ds were astir that moonlight night....

CHAPTER IX.

When the small circle composed of the select of the court were at tea, the intendant announced it as his intention to celebrate the birthdays of those great minds who had contributed to the elevation of the drama, and said that he meant to begin with the approaching anniversary of Lessing's birth.

"What play will you give us?" inquired the queen.

"I should feel highly honored if Your Majesty would decide which it shall be."

"I?" asked the queen, looking toward the king, who was sitting opposite to her. Although apparently engaged with an ill.u.s.trated newspaper, he must have felt that the queen's eye was upon him, for he looked up and said:

"Yes, please yourself."

"Then I should like 'Emilia Galotti.'"

All looked up, for this work, as well as Schiller's "Love and Intrigue," had, during the last reign, been placed on the list of forbidden plays.

A pause ensued. It was the king's turn to speak, and what would he say?

He remained silent. A moment later, he showed Schnabelsdorf, who was sitting near him, a portrait of a foreign scholar who had recently died, and asked whether it was a good likeness.

Schnabelsdorf replied affirmatively.

The king's voice seemed so harsh and strange that the queen felt greatly alarmed.

At that moment, Baum was about to hand a cup to the queen. She turned quickly, with a frightened look, just as if a cat had sprung upon her shoulders, and, while turning, struck against the proffered cup, which fell to the floor. If a bomb had suddenly burst, it could not have produced greater consternation. Baum picked up the fragments, and felt so terribly unhappy, that he would gladly have prostrated himself; but it would not do for him to speak or even ask pardon, for that would have been a still more heinous breach of discipline. The queen turned toward him and said:

"It was my fault, not yours."

She requested the ladies who had hurriedly left their seats, in order to satisfy their curiosity and rectify the damage that had been done, to be seated again. The lord steward beckoned Baum to approach, and whispered him to withdraw and leave the rest to the other servants.

It required all the queen's power of self-command to preserve the appearance of unconcern which etiquette demanded. Although her brain whirled with contending emotions, she sat erect and smiling, while her eyes followed the servant who was carrying away the broken fragments, just as if he were bearing with him something else which had been shattered forever.

Baum went out to the landing, and stood by the stair-rail. He felt as if stunned, and was so ashamed of himself that he would gladly have hurled himself down to the floor below. Such a thing had never happened to him before. It would disgrace him for life, and, although the queen had taken the blame upon herself, he would have to suffer for it all the same. He looked at the fragments of the cup, and only wished that he, too, had been dashed into pieces.

Order was speedily restored. Schnabelsdorf, who, in the new ministry, held the position of foreign secretary and temporarily conducted the department of education, proved himself a friend in need. With consummate tact, he succeeded in engaging the company with subjects that interested them, and thus restored their good-humor. Taking the play of "Emilia Galotti," as an instance, he said that the names which poets had a.s.signed to their _dramatis personae_ would furnish the subject of interesting investigations, or rather hypotheses. It was his opinion that in naming his intriguant Marinelli, Lessing had intended an allusion to Machiavelli, to whose character the last century had not been able to do justice. The vowels were the same in both names; and the name of Orsina reminded one of a dagger leaping from its sheath.

The full round O followed by the sharp I. He continued in this vein, and afforded much interesting information in regard to the names of poetic characters. Lessing had acted wisely, subst.i.tuting for the name of Melchisedek--Boccaccio's Jew--that of Nathan, for the very name reminds one of an all-embracing garment. How appropriate are the names which Goethe has given his female characters--Gretchen, Clarchen, Dorothea, Natalie. Even Schiller had frequently been happy in his choice of names, as, for instance, Franz Mohr--Posa--how sonorous are the O and the A.

Schnabelsdorf's conversation was both fluent and pleasing. How fortunate it is to be so well informed, and to be able to impart one's knowledge to others, without troubling one's-self about moods, broken cups, or ill-humored people looking at ill.u.s.trated papers.

As no one seemed inclined to a.s.sist Schnabelsdorf, he was obliged to monopolize the conversation. At last Irma took pity on him and carelessly remarked how strange it was that no proper names were invented in our day, and that all we could do was to borrow, combine, or abbreviate those which already existed.

This suggested various unsuccessful, but mirth-provoking, attempts to invent new names.

The intendant told them of a peasant whom he knew and who had named the first of his daughters Prima, the second Secunda, the third Tertia, and so on.