On the Heights: A Novel
When Walpurga had returned to her room and had placed the child in the cradle, she walked up and down and seemed quite agitated.
"There are no angels in this world!" said she. "They're all just like the rest of us, and who knows but-" she was vexed at the queen: "Why won't she listen patiently when her child cries? We must take all our children bring us, whether it be joy or pain."
She stepped out into the passageway and heard the tones of the organ in the palace chapel. For the first time in her life, these sounds displeased her. It don't belong in the house, thought she, where all sorts of things are going on. The church ought to stand by itself.
When she returned to the room, she found a stranger there. Mademoiselle Kramer informed her that this was the tailor to the queen.
Walpurga laughed outright at the notion of a "tailor to the queen." The elegantly attired person looked at her in amazement, while Mademoiselle Kramer explained to her that this was the dressmaker to her majesty the queen, and that he had come to take her measure for three new dresses.
"Am I to wear city clothes?"
"God forbid! You're to wear the dress of your neighborhood, and can order a stomacher in red, blue, green, or any color that you like best."
"I hardly know what to say; but I'd like to have a workday suit, too. Sunday clothes on week-days-that won't do."
"At court, one always wears Sunday clothes, and when her majesty drives out again you will have to accompany her."
"All right, then. I won't object."
While the tailor took her measure, Walpurga laughed incessantly, and he was at last obliged to ask her to hold still, so that he might go on with his work. Putting his measure into his pocket, he informed Mademoiselle Kramer that he had ordered an exact model, and that the chief master of ceremonies had favored him with several drawings, so that there might be no doubt of success.
Finally, he asked permission to see the crown prince. Mademoiselle Kramer was about to let him do so, but Walpurga objected. "Before the child is christened," said she, "no one shall look at it just out of curiosity, and least of all, a tailor, or else the child will never turn out the right sort of man."
The tailor took his leave, Mademoiselle Kramer having politely hinted to him that nothing could be done with the superstition of the lower orders, and that it would not do to irritate the nurse.
This occurrence induced Walpurga to administer the first serious reprimand to Mademoiselle Kramer. She could not understand why she was so willing to make an exhibition of the child. "Nothing does a child more harm than to let strangers look at it in its sleep, and a tailor at that."
All the wild fun with which, in popular songs, tailors are held up to scorn and ridicule, found vent in Walpurga, and she began singing:
"Just list, ye braves, who love to roam!A snail was chasing a tailor home,And if Old Shears hadn't run so fast,The snail would surely have caught him at last."Mademoiselle Kramer's acquaintance with the court tailor had lowered her in Walpurga's esteem, and with an evident effort to mollify the latter, she asked:
"Does the idea of your new and beautiful clothes really afford you no pleasure?"
"To be frank with you, no! I don't wear them for my own sake, but for that of others, who dress me to please themselves. It's all the same to me, however! I've given myself up to them, and suppose I must submit."
"May I come in?" asked a pleasant voice. Countess Irma entered the room. Extending both her hands to Walpurga, she said:
"God greet you, my countrywoman! I am also from the Highlands, seven hours distance from your village. I know it well, and once sailed over the lake with your father. Does he still live?"
"Alas! no; he was drowned, and the lake hasn't given up its dead."
"He was a fine-looking old man, and you are the very image of him."
"I am glad to find some one else here who knew my father. The court tailor-I meant the court doctor-knew him, too. Yes, search the land through, you couldn't have found a better man than my father, and no one can help but admit it."
"Yes: I've often heard as much."
"May I ask your ladyship's name?"
"Countess Wildenort."
"Wildenort? I've heard the name before. Yes, I remember my mother's mentioning it. Your father was known as a very kind and benevolent man. Has he been dead a long while?"
"No, he is still living."
"Is he here, too?"
"No."
"And as what are you here, Countess?"
"As maid of honor."
"And what is that?"
"Being attached to the queen's person; or what, in your part of the country, would be called a companion!"
"Indeed! And is your father willing to let them use you that way?"
Countess Irma, who was somewhat annoyed by her questions, said:
"I wished to ask you something-can you write?"
"I once could, but I've quite forgotten how."
"Then I've just hit it! that's the very reason for my coming here. Now, whenever you wish to write home, you can dictate your letter to me, and I will write whatever you tell me to."
"I could have done that, too," suggested Mademoiselle Kramer, timidly; "and your ladyship would not have needed to trouble yourself."
"No, the countess will write for me. Shall it be now?"
"Certainly."
But Walpurga had to go to the child. While she was in the next room, Countess Irma and Mademoiselle Kramer engaged each other in conversation.
When Walpurga returned, she found Irma, pen in hand, and at once began to dictate.
"Dear husband, dear mother, and dear child. No, stop! don't write that! Take another sheet of paper. Now I've got it, now you can go on."
"I wish to let you know, that by the help of God, I arrived here safe and sound, in the carriage with the four horses. I don't know how. And the queen's an angel, and there were millions of lights, and my child-"
Walpurga covered her face with both hands-she had said "my child," without knowing which child she meant.
A pause ensued.
"And my child," said Countess Irma, repeating the words after her.
"No!" exclaimed Walpurga, "I can't write to-day. Excuse me; there's no use trying. But you've promised to write for me to-morrow or the day after. Do come and see us every day."
"And shall I bring a good friend with me?"
"Of course; any friend of yours will be welcome. Isn't it so. Mademoiselle Kramer?"
"Certainly; Countess Irma has special permission."
"I'll bring a very good friend with me; she can sing charmingly, and her voice is soft and gentle-but I'll not torment you with riddles; I play the zither, and will bring mine with me."
"You play the zither?" exclaimed Walpurga, scarcely able to contain herself for joy.
Any further expressions on her part were prevented by the presence of the king, who entered at that moment.
With a gentle inclination of the head, he greeted Countess Irma, who had risen from her seat and bowed so low that it seemed as though she meant to sit down on the floor.
"What are you writing?" asked the king.
"Walpurga's secrets, may it please Your Majesty," replied Countess Irma.
"The king may read all that's there," said Walpurga, handing him the sheet.
He hurriedly ran his eye over it, and then, with a glance at the countess, folded it and put it in his breast pocket.
"I shall sing with Walpurga," said Irma, "and Your Majesty will again observe that music is the highest good on earth. Singing together, Walpurga and I are equals. The creations of other arts, poetry especially, may be translated by every one into his own language, according to the measure of his knowledge and experience."
"Quite true," replied the king; "music is the universal language, the only one that requires no translation, and in which soul speaks to soul."
While they were thus talking, Walpurga stared at them in dumb amazement.
The king, accompanied by Countess Irma, looked at the prince for a little while, and then, having said: "The christening will take place next Sunday," he withdrew.
It was with a strange expression that Walpurga's eyes followed the king and then rested in earnest gaze upon Countess Irma.
The countess busied herself with the papers, and then, with cheerful voice, took leave of Walpurga. Her cheerfulness almost seemed constrained, for she laughed while there was nothing to laugh at.
For a long while, Walpurga stood looking at the curtains, behind which the countess had disappeared, and at last said to Mademoiselle Kramer:
"You told the truth, when you said that the palace isn't a church."
She did not enter into any further explanation.
"I will teach you how to write," said Mademoiselle Kramer; "it will be pleasant employment for us, and you will then be able to do your own writing to your family."
"Yes, that I will," said Walpurga.
CHAPTER XIV
"I want to ask a favor of you," said Walpurga to Countess Irma, the next day. "Always tell me frankly whenever I do anything wrong."
"Quite willingly; but, in return, you must always tell me when I-"
"Then I've something on my heart, this very moment."
"Speak out."
"Some time when we're alone together, I will."
"Pray, dear Kramer, would you oblige me by retiring for a few moments?"
Mademoiselle Kramer went into the adjoining room, and Walpurga could not help feeling astonished when she observed how, in the palace, people were pushed hither and thither, just like so many chairs.
"And now, what is it?" inquired the countess.
"You won't think ill of me, if I say anything foolish; you're sure you won't?"
"What is it?" asked Irma again.
"You're so beautiful, so very beautiful; more so than any one I've even seen; you're even more beautiful than the queen-no, not more beautiful, but more powerful, and your eyes are full of kindness-"
"Well what is it? speak out."
"I'd rather think I'm wrong; but it's best to feel sure. Well, I didn't like the way you and the king looked at each other yesterday; while your hand was on the cradle-rail, he placed his upon it; and he's a husband and a father. You're an unmarried girl, and don't know what it means when a man looks at you in that way; but I'm a married woman, and it's my duty to warn you. You said that we'd be good friends, and now there's a chance to test our friendship."
Irma shook her head, and replied:
"You mean well enough; but you're mistaken. The king has a noble heart and, since the birth of his son, would like to make every one as happy as he is himself. He loves his wife dearly and, as you have seen for yourself, she's an angel-"
"And if she weren't an angel, she's his wife and the mother of his child, and he must be true to her; for with every glance he gives another woman he's a confounded adulterer, whose eyes ought to be put out. Look here! If I were to think that my husband could do such a thing-but the men are wicked enough to do anything-that a man could stand by the cradle of his new-born babe, and let the same eyes with which he had just been looking at his child tell another woman, 'I love you,'-if I were to think that, I'd go mad. And if a man whose hand has pressed that of a woman not his wife, can offer his hand to that wife, or touch his child's face with it, the world in which such things could happen ought to be burned up and the Lord ought to shower pitch and brimstone down on it."
"Speak softly, Walpurga; don't scream so. Don't let such words pass your lips. You are not here to look after our morals, nor is it for you to pass judgment. What do you know of the world? You've not the slightest idea of what politeness means."
Countess Irma's words were harsh and severe, and had deeply humbled Walpurga.
"Now that you know who you are and what you are about, I've something more to tell you: I forgive you for insulting the king and myself with your silly talk. If I didn't pity your ignorance, I would never speak to you again; but, as I feel kindly disposed toward you, and know that you meant no harm, I shall give you a bit of advice. No matter what may happen, don't concern yourself about it. Attend to your child, and let no one induce you to speak ill of others. Take my word for it-here, all are deceitful. They are ever ready to speak ill of one another, and unless you are very careful you'll not have a friend in the whole palace. Mind you don't forget what I've said to you. And now I must thank you once more for having spoken to me as you did. You meant it all well enough, and it is proper that you should be perfectly frank. I shall always be your good friend. Although one treats the king respectfully, he is, nevertheless, as good as your Hansei, and I'm as good as you. And now, let's shake hands! Let bygones be bygones. Whatever you do, not a word of this to Kramer; and don't forget that, hereabouts, the walls have ears."
Without saying another word. Countess Irma began the melody of a Highland song upon her zither.
Walpurga could hardly realize what had happened to her. She was provoked at her own stupid and forward behavior, and was firmly resolved to keep her own counsel in the future.
While Irma was playing, the king again passed through the portière and stopped to listen. Irma did not look up; her eyes were fixed upon her zither. When she had finished, the king applauded faintly. She arose and bowed, but did not accompany the king when he went into the adjoining chamber to look at the prince.
"Your zither is in perfect tune, dear countess, but you seem to be somewhat out of tune," said the king, as he came back into the room.
"I am in tune. Your Majesty," replied Countess Irma. "I've just been playing an air to Walpurga, and it has deeply affected me."
The king left very soon afterward, and without offering his hand to the countess. Walpurga's saddest thought was that she dared not even trust Mademoiselle Kramer.
"Oh, you poor child!" said she to the prince, one day, when no one was by. "Oh, you poor, dear child! you're expected to grow up among people who don't trust each other. If I could only take you with me, what a fine boy you'd become. You're still innocent-children, until they begin to speak, are the only innocent creatures in this world. But what matters it? I didn't make the world, and needn't change it. The countess is right. I'll nurse you well, care for you tenderly, and leave the rest to God."
CHAPTER XV
"Your wish is fulfilled at last," said Countess Irma to Doctor Gunther, just as they were rising from the dinner-table.
"What wish?"
"I how have a female friend, a companion, and, in the words of the song, 'you'll ne'er find a better.'"
"Your treatment of the peasant woman is quite amiable and does you great credit, but she is not a friend. Your friend should be one who is your equal. Your relation toward this peasant woman will always be that of a patron. She never dare find fault with you, and if she were to make the attempt, you could readily silence her. Mere common-sense is defenseless against the armory of culture."
Without noticing how Irma started at these words, the doctor calmly continued:
"There's just as much difference, mentally, between yourself and such a type of popular simplicity as there is between a grown person and a child. I fear you've neglected to secure yourself a friend who is your equal in birth."
"My equal in birth? So you, too, are an aristocrat?"
The doctor explained that equality of rights could be conceded without doing away with social distinctions.
"Whenever I leave you," said Irma, her face radiant with enthusiasm-"whenever I've been under the influence of your thoughts, all that I do or attempt seems petty and trifling. At such moments, I feel just as I do after listening to glorious music, and long to accomplish something out of the usual way. I wish I were gifted with artistic talent."
"Content yourself with being one of nature's loveliest works. That's the best thing to do."
The doctor was called away.
Irma remained seated for some time, and at last repaired to her room, where she amused herself with her parrot. Then, after looking at her flowers for a while, she began to copy them in colors on a slab of marble. She evidently intended it to be a rare work. But for whom? She knew not. A tear fell on a rose, the color in which was still wet. She looked up and left her work. Then she dried the tear, and found herself obliged to paint the rose anew.
On the day before the christening, Walpurga dictated the following letter to Countess Irma:
"To-morrow will be Sunday, and I'll try to be with you, too. In thought, I'm always there. It seems as if it were seven years since I left home. The day's ever so long here, and there are more than three times as many people in the palace as could get into our church. There are lots of married servants here who have servants of their own; there are none but tall, fine-looking men in service here. Mademoiselle Kramer tells me that their lordships don't care to have any but handsome people about them; and some of them are as prim and proper as a parson. They call them lackeys, and whenever the king goes near one of them, they bow very low and double up with a snap, just like a pocket-knife. Oh, what lots of good things I have! If I could only send you some of them. I'm ever so glad that we shall go to the country palace in four weeks and stay there till autumn. But how's my child, and how goes it with Hansei and with mother, and you too, Stasi? In my sleep at night, I'm always with you. I can't sleep much, for my prince is a real night-watchman, and the king's doctor said I mustn't let him cry as much as Burgei does at home. But he has good lungs, and to-morrow is the christening. The queen's brother and his wife are to be godfather and godmother, and there'll be lots of princes and princesses besides. And I've got beautiful new dresses and two green hats with gold lace, and two silver chains for my stomacher, and I can take them all home with me when I go, but that won't be for a long while. If all the weeks are as long as last week, I'll be seven hundred years old when I get home. I'm quite lively again. But, at first, it seemed as if I could always hear the lowing of the cow in the stable.
"She who writes this is the Countess Wildenort, from over beyond the Chamois Hill; she's a very good friend of mine. She knew our dear father, too, and you, mother, know of her family.
"And I've something to tell you, Hansei. Don't have too much to do with the innkeeper; he's a rogue, and he'll talk your money out of your pocket. There are good folks and bad everywhere; at home with us and here too; and the king's doctor says you mustn't give the cow any green fodder, nothing but hay, or else the milk won't agree with the child.
"I'm learning to write. Indeed I'm learning a great many things here.
"And tell me what the people say about my leaving home so suddenly, and about my having left at all.
"But I don't care what they say. I know I've done my duty by my child; my husband, and my mother.
"And, dear mother, take a servant-girl into the house; we can afford it now.
"And, Hansei, don't let the innkeeper wheedle you out of your money. Put it out safely at mortgage, till we have enough to buy a few acres of land.
"And don't forget, Wednesday's the day on which father died; have a mass said for him.
"We've got a church in the house here, and I hear the organ every morning, while I stand in the passage. Tomorrow will be a great day, and I remain your ever faithful
"Walpurga Andermatten."I send you a little cap for my child; let her wear it every Sunday. A thousand greetings to all of you, from your
"Walpurga."CHAPTER XVI
"Oh how lovely! How beautiful! – And is it all mine? – And is it you, Walpurga, of the cottage by the lake? – How proud she'll be!"
Such were Walpurga's extravagant expressions of delight, while she stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror. Mademoiselle Kramer was indeed obliged to hold her back, lest she should rush through the glass in her eager desire to embrace the figure she saw reflected in it.
The court tailor had sent home the new clothes. It was difficult to decide which was the most beautiful-the stomacher, the skirt, the collar, the shirt with the short, wide sleeves-but no! the narrow-rimmed hat, trimmed with flowers and gold lace and with gold tassels, was the most beautiful of all. It fitted perfectly, and was as light as a feather. "There, I'll just move it a little to the left. Gracious me! – Well, you are beautiful! The folks are right!" She placed her arms akimbo and danced about the room, like one possessed. And then, placing herself before the mirror, she stared into it, silently, as if lost in contemplation of her own image.
Ah, that mirror! Walpurga had never before seen her full figure, from head to foot. What could she see in the twopenny looking-glass at home? Nothing but the face and a little of the neck!
She lifted her hand to her throat. It was encircled by a necklace composed of seven rows of garnets and fastened in front with an agraffe. And how clever Mademoiselle Kramer was! How many things she could do!
She had placed a large mirror behind Walpurga, who could now see how she looked in the back, and on all sides. Oh, how clever these people are! What do they know out our way? Nothing of the world, and less about themselves!
"And this is how Walpurga looks to those who walk behind her? And so," turning herself on one side, "and so," turning again on the other. "I must say, I like your looks; you're not out of the way, at all! So that's Hansei's wife? He ought to feel satisfied with her; but then, he's good and true and has well deserved her."
Giddy with excitement, Walpurga thus talked to herself; it was the first time that she had ever seen a full length reflection of herself.
The first stranger who saw her thus was Baum.
He always wore shoes without heels and, putting down his whole foot at once, managed to step so softly that you could never know when he was coming. He always approached with a modest air, as if fearful of disturbing you, but always kept his own counsel and was an available tool, no matter what the nature of the service might be.
"Oh! how pretty!" he exclaimed, staring at her as if quite lost with admiration.
"It's nothing to you, sirrah, at any rate," said Walpurga; "you're a married man and I'm a married woman."
Assuming an air of command, and acting as if these were the first words uttered since he entered the apartment, Baum went on to say:
"It's the lord steward's pleasure that the nurse shall come to the court chapel immediately, if His Royal Highness the crown prince, is asleep. The rehearsal is about to begin."
"I've tried my clothes on," answered Walpurga.
Baum told her that it had nothing to do with trying on clothes, but that, excepting the highest personages, all who were to take part in the grand ceremonies of the morrow, were now to rehearse the order of the procession, so that there might be no confusion.
Walpurga went with Baum.
The ladies and gentlemen of the court were assembled in the throne-room. Most of them were eagerly engaged in conversation, and the confused sound of many voices was strangely echoed back from the high, vaulted ceiling. When Walpurga entered, she could hear them whispering on all sides. Some spoke French, but others used plain German, to say that the nurse was a fine specimen of a Highland peasant woman. Walpurga had a smile for every one, and was quite unembarrassed.
The lord steward, bearing a gold-headed stick in his hand, now stationed himself on the lowest step of the throne, which had been covered with an ermine mantle. He struck the floor thrice with the stick and then held it up. Every one was provided with a printed programme, and Walpurga also received one. After reading it to the company, the lord steward enjoined its strict observance on all. The procession now moved toward the chapel, passing through the picture-gallery and the portrait-gallery, by the way. The open space before it presented the appearance of an enchanted garden. It was filled with exotic trees, and the air was laden with the odor of flowers. The chapel was also decorated with flowers and shrubbery; and the paintings on the ceiling represented angels flying about in the air.