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On the Heights: A Novel

by Berthold Auerbach · English · Gutenberg #33294 · 1,630,826 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: On the Heights: A Novel

Author: Berthold Auerbach

Translator: Simon Adler Stern


        
Release date: July 30, 2010 [eBook #33294]
                Most recently updated: July 22, 2011

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE HEIGHTS: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





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                           BY THE SAME AUTHOR


                         THE VILLA ON THE RHINE
                Leisure Hour Series, 2 vols. 16mo. $2.00


                       HENRY HOLT & CO., NEW YORK






                             ON THE HEIGHTS

                               _A NOVEL_


                                   BY

                           BERTHOLD AUERBACH


                             TRANSLATED BY
                           SIMON ADLER STERN




                                NEW YORK
                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
                                  1907






       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
                              HENRY HOLT,
       In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.






                            ON THE HEIGHTS.





                                BOOK I.




                               CHAPTER I.



Early mass was being celebrated in the chapel attached to the royal
summer palace.

The palace stood on a slight eminence in the center of the park. The
eastern slope of the hill had been planted with vineyards, and its
crest was covered with mighty, towering beeches. The park abounded with
maples, plane-trees and elms, with their rich foliage, and firs of
various kinds, while the thick clusters of needles on the fir-leaved
mountain pine showed that it had become acclimated. On grassy lawns
there were solitary tall pines of perfect growth. A charming variety of
flowers and leaf plants lent grace to the picture which, in all its
details, showed evidence of artistic design and exquisite taste.

The paths were neatly kept. The flowers were sparkling with the dews of
morning; birds were singing and the air was laden with the fragrant
perfume of the new-mown grass. Swans, and rare varieties of ducks from
foreign lands, were swimming in the large lake, on the banks of which
the bright-hued flamingo might also have been seen. The fountain in the
center of the lake sent its waters to such a height that they were lost
in spray.

A clear mountain brook, running between alders and weeping-willows, and
under many a rustic bridge, emptied into the lake, flowing thence
through the valley until it reached the river, bright glimpses of which
might here and there be caught through openings in the shrubbery.

Tables, chairs and benches of graceful form had been placed under the
trees and at various points that commanded a fine prospect.

Seated near the chapel there was a man of impressive appearance. His
dress betokened scrupulous care. His thick hair was as white as his
cravat. His eyes were blue and sparkling, and full of youthful fire. He
looked out upon the broad landscape, the valley crowded with fruit-trees,
the near-lying hills, and the mountain beyond, whose lines stood
out in bold relief against the blue sky above. He had a book in his
hand, but now laid it aside and drank in the peaceful influences of the
scene before him.

The great door of the chapel was open: the mighty sounds of the organ
were heard; a soft cloud of incense floated out on the morning air and
then vanished into space.

This impressive-looking man was the king's physician, Doctor Gunther,
who, being a Protestant, had not attended mass.

Just then, a beautiful woman, carrying an open sunshade, stepped out
from the veranda which was almost concealed by trellised vines. She
wore a full, white robe, and her headdress was a simple morning cap
with blue ribbons. Her bright, rosy face beamed with youth and beauty;
her hair was of a golden hue and she seemed the very incarnation of
glorious day.

The doctor, hearing the rustling of her dress, had at once advanced and
made his obeisance.

"Good-morning, doctor!" said the lady, whose two female companions had
kept a few steps to the rear. Her voice was not clear and bright, but
suggestive of the soulful violoncello-tone which is more properly the
vehicle of intense and fervent feeling, than of loud-voiced joy.

"What a charming day!" continued the lady; "and yet, for that very
reason, doubly sad to those who are obliged to pass it in a sick-room.
How is our dear Countess Brinkenstein?"

"The countess, may it please Your Majesty, may safely take the air for
an hour to-day."

"I'm delighted to hear you say so. Sadness and sickness should indeed
both be unknown in this lovely spot."

"The countess must regard herself as doubly fortunate, now that she is
able to perform the interesting duties that await her."

"Speak softly," suddenly said the queen, for the sounds of the organ
had ceased; the time of the consecration had arrived. "Ah, dear doctor,
I should like to confide a secret to you."

The other ladies stepped aside, while the queen and the doctor walked
up and down on the open space in front of the chapel.

"From one's physician, nothing should be kept concealed," said the
doctor; "Your Majesty credited me, not long since, with the possession
of a stethoscope by means of which I could note the movements of the
soul itself."

"Yes," replied the queen, her face mantled with blushes, "I've already
thought of applying to you for ghostly advice, but that were
impracticable; such matters I must settle for myself. But I've a
request to make of you as the physician."

"Your Majesty has but to command--"

"No, that can't be done in this instance. What I meant was--"

At that moment, the bell began to toll, and the king came out of the
chapel. He wore the simple dress of a citizen and was without
decorations of any kind. He was followed by the gentlemen and ladies of
the court, the former of whom were also in citizen's dress, and, for
the greater part, wore the picturesque costume of the mountaineers of
that region.

The king was a man of stately appearance and erect bearing. He bowed to
the queen from afar, and hastened forward to meet her. The ladies and
gentlemen composing his train remained in the background exchanging
kindly greetings. The king addressed a few words to the queen, whereat
she smiled; he, too, seemed happy, and, offering her his arm, led her
toward the pavilion. The ladies and gentlemen followed, indulging in
cheerful and unconstrained conversation by the way.

A young lady, leaving the rest of the party, joined the doctor and
grasped his hand most cordially. She was of a tall and graceful figure;
her hair and eyes were brown. She wore a simple, light-colored summer
dress and a loose jacket which was open and revealed the full
chemisette. A leather girdle studded with steel buttons encircled her
waist. Her movements were easy and graceful; her expression, half
earnest, half mischievous. "Might I ask," said she, addressing the
doctor, "the name of the book you've found worth reading on this lovely
morning?"

"It was well worth reading, although, to tell the truth, I've not
opened it," replied the doctor, while he handed the little book to her.
It was Horace.

"Oh, it's Latin!" said the lady. Her voice was as clear and bold as
that of a chaffinch. "And this, I suppose, is your mass."

The doctor briefly alluded to the success with which the ancient
writers had compressed so many weighty and enduring thoughts into so
small a volume.

The party entered the saloon, seating themselves as best pleased them,
for the order of rank or precedence was not insisted on at breakfast.
They were in the country and, with their uniforms, had laid aside many
of the vexatious requirements of etiquette.

There is nothing more cheerful than a gay and unconstrained party at
breakfast. All are still full of the new strength that refreshing sleep
has lent them; society succeeds to solitude; and the spirits of all
seem affected by the soft, dewy morn.

There were no servants at breakfast. The ladies waited on the company,
which was almost as free and unconstrained as a family party. The
doctor drank nothing but tea which he himself prepared. The lady with
the brown hair invited herself to a seat next to him and poured out
the tea for him. At her left, sat Colonel Von Bronnen, the king's
adjutant-general, and the only one, in fact, who did not seem to miss
his uniform.

The party seemed in undress, mentally as well as physically, and there
was much loud and confused talking.

"Dear me! It's Sunday!" said the young lady with the brown hair.

Uproarious laughter greeted her remark; and when the queen inquired as
to the cause of so much merriment, the doctor informed her of the
startling discovery which had just been made by Countess Irma von
Wildenort. The queen smiled.

"I had thought," said the king, addressing the countess and at the same
time lighting his cigar--he was the only one who smoked in the
saloon--"that with you every day was Sunday."

"Yes, Your Majesty, but only since I've had the honor of being here. At
the convent, Sunday was the only day on which we had cake, whilst here
we have cake every day; and so I am obliged to use some other means to
find out which is Sunday."

Von Schnabelsdorf, who had recently visited Spain on service of a
diplomatic nature and was now awaiting orders, was sitting opposite the
doctor. Addressing his conversation to the latter, he remarked that a
friend of his who lived in Madrid had written a highly interesting
work, to which he, also, had contributed a few ideas. It was soon to
appear, and its subject was "Sunday," or rather "The Sabbath."

The king had overheard his remarks and inquired as to what these ideas
were. Schnabelsdorf replied that as seven corresponded with the quarter
of the lunar month, it was a natural division, and that the institution
of the Sabbath was older than all positive religions. He had apt
quotations to support every statement and did not forget to lug in the
names of his distinguished friends.

Von Schnabelsdorf's learned discourse failed to make a deep impression
on the company, which continued in its cheerful vein until the queen
rose, beckoning the doctor to follow. The king offered her his arm and
conducted her to a lovely seat under a weeping ash, on the slope of the
lawn.

It was delightful to behold this royal pair, so tall and stately; and
the queen was doubly beautiful, for another life was budding within her
own.

The queen seated herself and the king sat down beside her. Without
waiting for orders, the doctor drew up his chair and joined them.

"Yes," said the queen, "I must speak to you about it; I must tell you
of a pain--"

"Perhaps I had better withdraw," said the king.

"No, you must remain. Once more, I ask you; if God grants me health,
may I not nurse the child that is to be mine?"

An almost imperceptible glance from the king informed the doctor what
answer he was to make to the queen.

"I have already had the honor of acquainting Your Majesty with my
opinion of the superstitious belief that the mere performance of
maternal duties preserves the mother's beauty. Your wish is inspired by
a feeling which, in itself, is beautiful. But, both for your own sake
and that of the child, it were impossible to accede to it. The duties
of a queen, the demands of etiquette, the need of your presence at
court and the various emotions which these employments must necessarily
occasion, render it out of the question. A high state of development
has effects upon the nervous system, which effects, being transmitted
to the child, must cling to it for life."

"I beg you, dear Mathilde," added the king, "to avoid distressing
yourself. Consider the prince's welfare."

"Don't always talk of a prince. Promise me that you will be just as
happy, if it be a princess--"

"Just as happy! No, that were impossible. I can't control my feelings
to that extent. But this I can promise you--if you and the child are
well, I shall be happy for all."

"Well, then, let a nurse be brought:--even now, I envy her the child's
affectionate glances and hearty caresses!"

"And what is the sorrow you were complaining of?"

"The thought of depriving another child of its mother troubles my
conscience. Even if thousands have done the same thing time and time
again, he who commits a wrong, sins for himself and as deeply as if it
were the first time the sin were ever committed. Yet, I submit. But I
shall insist on one thing: the foster-mother of my child must be an
honest married woman and must belong to a respectable family. I could
never silence my conscience if I were to deprive a child, already
wretched enough, of its all--its mother! In this I am perfectly
indifferent to worldly regulations and prescribed forms. Is the poor,
forlorn child, born into a hostile world, to be robbed of the only
source of love yet left it? And even if we take an honest married
woman, we will be depriving a child of its mother and inflicting an
injury upon a being that we do not even know. Ah! how hard it is! In
spite of our knowing better, we are yet forced to commit wrong.
However, I shall submit to necessity. But the child that we take from
its mother will be cared for by her family, has a father and, perhaps,
even a kind grandmother and affectionate brothers and sisters. A
hospitable roof will shelter its infant head--"

"Your Majesty," exclaimed the doctor, with an outburst of enthusiasm,
"at this very moment prayers are being offered up for you in thousands
of churches, and myriad voices are saying: 'Amen'!"

"Great God, what duties are thus imposed! One had needs be more than
human to bear the charge--it crushes me to the earth."

"It should elevate instead of depressing you. At this very moment the
breath issuing from millions of lips forms a cloud that supports you.
True humanity is best shown when those who are prosperous and happy and
therefore need no assistance from others, protect the suffering instead
of putting them away from them. The effect of such a mood upon the
child whose heart throbs beneath that of its mother is one of nature's
mysteries. This child must needs become a noble, beautiful being, for
its mother has instilled purest philanthropy into it before its birth."

The king, who had taken the queen's hand in his, now said:

"And so you really know nothing of the law. It isn't merely a family
law that the princes and princesses of our house must be born in
the royal palace--and for which reason, we shall return to the city
to-morrow--but it is also a law of the court that the nurse of a prince
must be a married woman."

"Great Heavens! And how I've been tormenting myself. In the future I
shall think better of the customs of the Court, since I find there are
such beautiful ones among them."

"From the depths of your soul. Your Majesty has given new life to this
law," interposed the doctor, "a law is neither free nor sacred until it
has become a living truth to us."

"Very pretty, and true besides," said the King. He dropped his cigar,
and after looking for it for a little while, said: "Excuse me, doctor,
but wouldn't you be kind enough to have cigars brought for us?"

The doctor went into the house and, after he had left, the King said:

"Pray tell me, Mathilde, was that all that troubled you? I have, for
some time past, observed that there's something on your mind--"

"Yes, there is something on my mind, but I can't speak of it, until it
becomes an actual truth. It's nothing but love for you; pray don't ask
me more at present. You'll soon know all."

When the doctor returned, he found the king alone, and sitting under
the ash. The queen had withdrawn.

"Was the compliment you've just paid the Queen prompted by professional
considerations?" asked the king, with lowering eye.

"No, Your Majesty. I spoke sincerely and from conviction."

The king remained silent for a long time, his eyes resting on the
ground. At last he arose and, moving his hand as if putting something
far away from him, said:

"Well, the queen wishes the nurse to be a young woman from the
Highlands and of a respectable family. Is there time enough left for
you to journey there and select one? Are you not a native of the
Highlands? That were--but no, you must not go now. Send Doctor Sixtus;
give him precise instructions, and let him go from village to village.
He can propose several and you can select the best of them; the others
can be sent home with a gratuity, and--but act on your own judgment;
only, don't fail to send the doctor off this very day."

"Your Majesty's wishes shall be obeyed."




                              CHAPTER II.


"How radiant you look!" said Countess Irma, as she met the doctor.

"Perhaps I do," he replied, "for I've just beheld that divine sight,--a
heart overflowing with pure love of its fellow-beings;--but excuse me
for a moment!" he said, interrupting himself and leaving the countess,
while he went into an adjoining apartment and dispatched a telegram to
Doctor Sixtus, instructing him to prepare himself for an eight days'
journey, and to come to the summer palace forthwith. He then returned
to the countess, to whom he gave an account of what had happened.

"Shall I tell you what I think?" asked the countess.

"You know very well that none dare say you 'nay'."

"Well, then, I can't help thinking that it was far better in olden
times; for then royal children were born in some lonely, out-of-the-way
palace, as quietly as if it were to be kept a secret--"

The doctor interrupted her: "You are indeed a true child of your
father. For, although my dear friend Eberhard was full of strange
fancies during his younger years, he would at times manifest sudden and
surprising diffidence."

"Ah, do tell me of my father! I know so little about him."

"I've known nothing of him for many years. Of course you know that he
has broken with me, because I am at court; but, in the olden times, in
our youthful, enthusiastic days--"

"Then you, too, were once enthusiastic!"

"I was; but not to so great a degree as your father. When I see you, it
seems as if his ideal had become realized. In those days, when I was a
young army surgeon, and he a still younger officer, we would indulge in
fantasy pictures of the future, and what it might have in store for us.
He never thought of a beloved one, or a wife, but would at one bound,
as it were, clear all that lay between, and indulge himself with brain
pictures of a child; a daughter, fresh, tender and lovely beyond
comparison. And now, when I behold you, I look upon his ideal."

"And so my father's only ideal was a child?" asked Irma with pensive
air, and looking earnestly into the doctor's eyes, "and yet for all
that, he left his children to grow up among strangers, and all that I
know of him I am obliged to learn from the lips of others. But I don't
care to speak of myself at present, dear doctor. I have a presentiment
of the queen's secret. I think I know what makes her so quiet and
reserved."

"My dear child," said the doctor, "if you really have a
presentiment,--and that, moreover, in regard to a secret of their
majesties--take my advice: Don't impart it to any one, not even to the
pillow on which you lay your head at night."

"But if your knowing would be of service to the queen? You ought to be
her guide."

"We can only lead those who desire to be led."

"All I ask of you is to have an eye on certain signs. Did the queen say
nothing when she was before the church a little while ago and heard the
mass? Wasn't she startled by a certain tone? Didn't you observe a
certain inclination--"

By a motion of his hand, the doctor signified that Irma had better
stop, and added:

"My child, if you desire to live comfortably at court, you had better
not try to solve riddles which those to whom they belong don't care to
solve for you. But, above all, let no one know--"

"Discretion, discretion; the same old text," said Irma, roguishly, her
beautifully curved lips quivering with emotion.

"You are of a creative temperament, and are therefore out of place at
court," said the doctor. "You desire to assert your individuality,
instead of giving way to prescribed forms; but it can't be done. Just
observe Councilor Schnabelsdorf, who will be used up much sooner
than he imagines. He is constantly offering or preparing something
new--cooking, roasting, or stewing all sorts of interesting information
for his masters--and his memory is an everlasting 'table, table, cover
thyself.' Take my word for it, before a year goes round, they'll all be
tired of him. He who wishes to remain a favorite must not thrust
himself forward."

Irma assented to this opinion, but saw through his attempt to change
the direction of the conversation, and at once returned to what she had
intended to say.

"Pray tell me," said she roguishly, "when one takes a false step, and,
at the same time, injures himself, is it not called a misstep?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, let me tell you that the queen is in danger of making a
misstep, which may be fraught with irreparable injury to her--"

"I'd prefer--" interrupted the doctor.

"Ah! you'd prefer. Whenever you say that, you've something to find
fault with."

"You've guessed it. I'd prefer your leaving the queen to divulge her
secrets at her own pleasure. I thought you were a friend of hers--"

"And so I am."

"Well, and since I am your morning preacher to-day, let me give you
another warning. You are in danger of becoming one of those ladies who
have no friends of their own sex."

"Is that really so dreadful?"

"Most assuredly. You must have a female friend, or there is some fault
in your disposition. Isolation, such as yours, warps one's character,
and, consciously or otherwise, results in vanity. If, from among all
the ladies here, you can't make even one your friend, the fault must
lie in yourself."

"But there's no harm in my having a male friend, a friend like
yourself."

"I couldn't wish you a truer one."

Irma walked beside the doctor in silence.

When they again reached the lawn in front of the palace, Irma said:

"Do you know that this lawn is dressed up every Saturday with false
hay?"

"Less wit and more clearness, if you please."

"Pshaw, how officinal!" said Irma, laughing. "Then allow me to tell you
that the queen once said that she was very fond of the odor of new-mown
hay; and, ever since then, the intendant of the gardens has had the
lawn mowed at least once a week. But as stubborn nature won't furnish
hay quickly enough, they bring some from one of the outlying meadows
and spread it about during the night. And yet they persist in saying
that, in our age, princes are not deceived."

"I can find nothing wrong or laughable in the matter. The intendant is
one of those who regard themselves as the pleasure-purveying providence
of their masters and--"

"'Pleasure-purveying providence!'--that's excellent. What a happy
thought! I shall hold fast to that. How can you say you've no wit? Why,
you're brimful of delicious sarcasm. Oh dear, 'pleasure-purveying
providence'!" said Irma, laughing heartily; and while laughing, more
lovely than ever.

The doctor found it no easy matter to lead the conversation back to the
point at which it had been interrupted. Whenever he attempted a serious
remark, she would look at him with a roguish expression and give way to
laughter so hearty that he could not help joining in it. But when he at
last said that he had heretofore given her credit for something more
than mere occasional flashes of wit, and that he had, until now,
supposed her capable of carrying on an argument, she quickly became the
docile scholar, willing to be led by her master. And so skillfully did
the doctor use his arguments that she soon reflected his thoughts as if
they were her own.

A tall and handsome page, with an aquiline nose and raven hair,
approached the countess.

"My lady," said he, "her majesty the queen awaits you in the
music-room."

Irma excused herself to the doctor, whose eyes followed her with a
thoughtful gaze. In a little while the rich and metallic notes of
Countess Irma's voice were heard.

"Eberhard used to sing delightfully," said the doctor, directing his
steps toward the palace. When he approached the music-room, and saw
that the canon, who had read the mass that morning, was about to enter,
he hesitated.

The morning was soft and balmy; nature seemed wrapped in bliss. Every
plant, every flower, thrives best in its native soil. Man alone is
constantly creating new torments for himself. Could it be possible that
the mischievous countess was right, after all? But why should the queen
wish to forsake the faith of her ancestors?

The doctor retired to an arbor and read his Horace.

Doctor Sixtus presented himself before the dinner hour, and, while the
company were seating themselves at table, rode off in the direction of
the mountains.

That evening--it was mild and starlight--the court drove to the
capital; for the corner-stone of the new arsenal was to be laid on the
following day, with great pomp and military display.




                              CHAPTER III.


The bells were ringing merrily. Their sounds were re-echoed by the
rugged mountains, and then floated out over the lake, the smooth,
green, glassy surface of which mirrored the forest-clad shores, the
rocky crags, and the skies above.

Crowds were issuing from the church, the only building at the upper end
of the lake. The men, donning their green hats with the black cock
plumes, took their pipes from their pockets and struck a light; the
women busied themselves with their dress, adjusted the pointed, green
hats, smoothed their aprons, and tied the broad streaming ends of their
silk kerchiefs anew. Following after the old women, who are always the
last to leave the church, there was a handsome young couple. The wife
was tall and stout, the husband slender and hardy as a pine. His
appearance showed the effects of the week's hard work. His pointed,
green hat, on which there was no hunter's badge, was worn aslant; he
took off his jacket and laid it over his shoulder, and then, with a
smile which seemed somewhat out of keeping with his weather-beaten
face, said:

"Don't you see? This is much better. Now there's no danger of your
getting squeezed in the crowd."

The young wife nodded assent.

A group of women and girls seemed to have been waiting for her. One of
the older members of the party said:

"Walpurga, you shouldn't have done such a thing as walk all the way to
church. You don't know how near you are to your time, and sometimes
there's too much of a good thing."

"It won't do me any harm," replied the young wife.

"And I've prayed for you this morning," said a young, saucy maid, who
wore a bunch of fresh flowers in her bosom. "When the priest prayed for
the queen and asked God to help her in the hour of trial, I asked
myself: What's the use of my worrying about the queen? There are enough
praying for her without me: and so I thought of you and said, Amen,
Walpurga!"

"Stasi, I'm sure you meant well," said Walpurga deprecatingly, "but I
want no share in it. You never ought to do such a thing. It's wrong to
change a prayer in that way."

"She's right," said the old woman. "Why, that 'ud be just the same as
taking a false oath."

"Let it go for nothing, then," said the girl.

"It must be fine to be a queen," said the old woman, folding her hands.
"At this very hour, in all the churches, millions are praying for her.
If such a king and queen aren't good after all that, they must be awful
wicked."

The old woman, who was the midwife of the neighborhood, was always
listened to with great attention. She accompanied husband and wife for
a part of the way, and gave them precise information as to where she
might be found at any hour during the next few days. Then, taking the
mountain path which led to her dwelling, she left them, the rest of the
church-goers dropping off in various directions as they reached the
lanes and by-paths leading to their farms. The children always kept in
front, their parents following after them.

A party of girls, who were walking along hand in hand, had much to say
to one another. But at last they, too, separated and joined their
parents.

The young couple were alone on the road. The glaring rays of the
noonday sun were reflected from the lake.

It was almost a full hour's walk to their house, and they had scarcely
gone a few hundred steps, when the wife said:

"Hansei, I oughtn't to have let Annamirl go."

"Ill run after her as fast as I can, I can catch up with her yet," said
the husband.

"For God's sake, don't!" said his wife, holding him fast. "I'd be all
alone here on the highway. Stay here! It'll soon be all right again."

"Wait a second! Hold fast to the tree! That's it."

The husband rushed into the meadow, gathered up an armful of hay,
placed it on the pile of stones by the wayside, and seated his wife
upon it.

"I feel better, already," said the wife.

"Don't talk now, rest yourself! Oh! dear me; if only a wagon were to
come along; but there's neither man nor beast in sight. Just take a
good rest, and then I'll carry you home. You're not too heavy for me.
I've carried heavier loads many a time."

"Do you mean to carry me, in broad daylight?" said the wife, laughing
so heartily that she was obliged to rest her hand on the stones, to
support herself. "You dear, good fellow! Much obliged, but there's no
need of it. I'm all right now, and can walk." She got up briskly, and
Hansei's face was radiant with joy.

"Thank God! Here comes the doctor, in the very nick of time."

The doctor, who lived in the neighboring town, was just turning the
corner. Hansei raised his hat and requested him to take his wife into
the carriage. He gladly consented, but Walpurga seemed loth to get in.

"I never rode in a carriage in all my life," said she, repeatedly.

"Everything must be tried, you know," said the doctor, laughing, as he
assisted her into the carriage. He told the husband that he might get
up on the box, but he declined.

"I'll drive slowly," said the doctor.

Hansei walked along by the side of the carriage, constantly casting
happy glances at his wife.

"Now we're two thousand paces from home; now we're a thousand," said
he, talking to himself, while his glances showed his gratitude to the
doctor, to the carriage that was kind enough to allow his wife to sit
in it; and even to the horse from which he brushed the troublesome
flies.

"Hansei is doing the horse a kindness," said the doctor to the young
wife. She did not answer, and the doctor looked pleased with the
husband, whom he had known for a long while as a wood-cutter in the
royal forest. Hansei carried his hat in his hand and would now and then
with his sleeve wipe the perspiration from his brow. His face was
sunburnt and void of expression, and, as he had not been a soldier, he
wore no mustache. A shaggy beard, extending from his temples, encircled
his long face; his forehead was, for the greater part, covered with
thick, light hair; his short leather breeches displayed his great
knees; the clocked, knitted leggins must surely have been a gift from
his wife; the heavy hobnailed shoes had been used in many a mountain
walk. Hansei walked along, beside the coach, with steady step, and at
last exclaimed: "We're home!"

The little cottage by the lake stood in the midst of a small garden; an
old woman was at the gate, and called out: "So you ride home in the
bargain."

"Yes, mother," answered the wife, who, with profuse thanks, took leave
of the doctor, while Hansei gratefully patted the horse that had safely
brought her home.

"I'm going right off for Annamirl," said he; "keep some dinner for me."

"No, let's eat together; I'm hungry, too," exclaimed the wife, while
she laid her hymn-book aside, and removed her hat and jacket. She was
good-looking, had a full, round, cheerful face, and large plaits of
light hair encircled her brow. She forced herself to remain at the
table and join in the meal with her husband and mother, but as soon as
the last morsel had passed his lips, Hansei started on his errand.

It was high time for Annamirl to come. Before the chickens had gone to
roost, the Sunday child, a screaming, fair-haired girl baby, had come.

Hansei was quite beside himself with joy, and did not know what to do.
He had not had a comfortable dinner, and it seemed a great while since
he had eaten anything. It was ever so long ago, for he had become a
father since then; and it seemed as if years, instead of hours, had
passed in the mean while. He cut off a large slice from the loaf, but
when he got out of doors, where the birds were chirping so merrily and
the starlings were so tame, he cried out: "Here! You shall have some
too; I want you to know that I'm a father, and of a Sunday child at
that!" He threw the soft bread-crumbs to them, and the crust into the
sea, saying: "Here, ye fish who feed us; to-day I'll feed you!" He
was overflowing with goodwill to the whole world, but there was no
one left on whom he could exercise it. He knew not where he should
betake himself to. Suddenly he spied the ladder leaning against the
cherry-tree; he mounted it, plucked the cherries, and kept on eating
until he quite forgot himself, and felt as if it were not he who was
eating, but as if he were giving them to some one else. He no longer
knew where or who he was, and at last began to fear that he was
bewitched and would never be able to get down again. The telegraph wire
ran by the house and almost touched the cherry-tree. Hansei looked at
it as if to say:  "Go, tell the whole world that I'm a father." He was
delighted to see swallows and starlings sitting on the wire, and nodded
to them, saying: "Don't disturb yourselves, I'll not harm ye." And so
he went on plucking cherries, and looking straight before him for ever
so long.

Then the grandmother put her head out of the window and called to him:
"Hansei, your wife wants you."

He hurried down from the tree, and when he entered the room his wife
laughed at him heartily, for his lips were black and his face was
streaked with the juice of cherries.

"So you've been pilfering. Do leave a few cherries for me!"

"I'll bring the ladder into your room, so that I shant be able to go up
into the tree again," said he, and there was merry laughter in the
little cottage by the lake until the moon and stars looked down on it.
The lamp in the little chamber was kept burning all night. The mother
soon fell into a peaceful and happy slumber, and the Sunday child would
whimper at times, but was easily quieted.

The grandmother was the only one awake--she had merely feigned
sleep--and now sat on a footstool by the cradle of the new-born babe.

A bright star was shining overhead. It flickered and sparkled, and,
within the cottage, the face of the mother was resplendent with joy as
indescribable as the radiance of the star above. A child of man had
become mother of a child of man, and she who watched over them was the
one from whom both these lives had sprung. The soft air seemed laden
with song and the sounds of heavenly music, and the room itself, as if
thronged with fluttering, smiling cherubs.

The old grandmother sat there, resting her chin on her hand and gazing
at the star above, whose rays fell upon her face. She sat there with
bated breath, feeling as if transported into another world. The glory
of the Highest had descended upon the cottage, and, like a halo, now
encircled the head of the grandmother, Walpurga, and the infant.

"Mother! How brightly the stars are shining!" said Walpurga, awaking.

"Never fear, they'll keep on shining, even if you shut your eyes. Do go
to sleep again!" answered the grandmother.

And, until the day broke, all lay hushed in slumber.




                              CHAPTER IV.


Seated in an open carriage, Doctor Sixtus journeyed toward the
Highlands.

The doctor was a man of easy and winning address. While the present
king was yet the crown prince, he had accompanied him on his travels
and, in the society of nobles, had improved on the light and graceful
manner which he had acquired during a three years' stay in Paris. Just
as princes treat their inferiors and regard their service as a right,
so, in turn, do courtiers abuse those who are under them. The court
doctor had chosen for his lackey, one of the readiest, and most
skillful at command.

"Give me a light, Baum!" said he; and the lackey, who was sitting
beside the driver on the box, handed him a lighted match. With gentle
condescension, Sixtus offered his cigar-case to the lackey, who
gratefully helped himself to a cigar. He well knew that it would prove
too strong for him, and that, if he attempted to smoke it, it would in
all likelihood throw him into a cold sweat; but he knew also that it is
a safe rule never to refuse a proffered favor.

The road was good and the ride a pleasant one. At the next station, the
royal horses were sent back to the king's stables and a relay of fleet
post-horses was taken. Doctor Sixtus had no need to trouble himself
about such matters--Baum knew what was needed and attended to it.

"Baum, where were you born?" asked the court doctor.

Although Baum was startled by the question, he acted as if he had not
heard it. He found it necessary to collect himself before he could
reply. His features were agitated for a moment, but he quickly assumed
a modest and innocent expression.

The doctor repeated his question: "Baum, where were you born?"

With a face expressive of willingness to serve him in any way, Baum
turned toward the doctor and said:

"I come from the Highlands; far over there near the border; but I've
never felt at home there."

Sixtus, whose question had been a casual one, had no desire to inquire
further into Baum's history.

He was quite affable toward Baum, who was the favorite lackey at court,
since he possessed the art of showing by his demeanor how highly he
esteemed the exalted personages whom he served.

"Keep as near the telegraph as possible," had been the instructions
given to Doctor Sixtus. "Report every morning and evening where a
dispatch will reach you, so that you may be recalled at any moment."

Doctor Sixtus looked out at the telegraph wires, running through the
valleys and climbing over the hills, and smiled to himself. "I, too, am
nothing more than an electric spark, with this difference however: the
master who has sent me does not know where I am going to. No, I am like
the spirit in the fairy-tale; I bring money and luxury to an invisible
cottage, for I cannot find a rich peasant woman. Where art thou, O
noble foster-mother?"

He looked out at the landscape with a self-complacent smile, while, in
his day-dreams, various images appeared and vanished like the smoke
clouds of his cigar.

It was after dark when they drew near to a little watering-place in the
Highlands.

While they ascended the mountain, the lackey walked on beside the
postilion. Sixtus had entrusted him with the secret reason for their
journey. They had already, in distant lands, shared in adventures of
quite a different nature. Baum engaged the postilion in conversation
about the life and ways of the neighborhood and adroitly managed to
inquire about young lying-in women. He had found the right party. The
postilion was the son of a midwife, whose only fault was that she had
died some time ago.

Sixtus was much gratified by the hint which he had just received of how
his mission might be fulfilled. He would seek information from the
midwives of every village, and, in order to avoid being overrun, would
take good care not to let them know for whom the foster-mother was
wanted.

When Baum was about to return to his seat, Sixtus quietly called him
and said: "During the whole of this journey, you're to address me
simply as 'Herr Doctor.'"

The lackey did not ask why, for that was no part of his business; nor
did he conjecture as to the reason; he was a lackey and obeyed orders.
"He who does more than he's ordered to do is good for nothing," were
the words that Baroness Steigeneck's chamberlain had often impressed
upon him, and whatever the chamberlain said was as a sacred law to
Baum.

The little watering-place was full of life. The company had just left
the table. Some were talking of the day's excursion; others, about that
projected for the morrow. A young officer in civil dress, and a stout
gentleman, appeared to be the wags of the assembly. There were jokes
and laughter, and, in the background, a party were singing to the
accompaniment of a piano that was out of tune. All seemed more or less
excited. They had repaired to the Highlands to escape from _ennui_,
and, having arrived there, found themselves bored in earnest; for
there are but few to whom the beauties of nature afford constant and
all-sufficient entertainment.

Luckily for Sixtus, no one recognized him, and Baum, who was without
his livery, allowed no information to escape him. The doctor looked
upon the doings of the gentry about him with a certain aristocratic
sense of superiority. As the neighborhood abounded with goitres, he
concluded to leave without making further inquiries. On the following
morning, they reached a small mountain village. Doctor Sixtus addressed
himself to the village doctor, rode about the country with him for
several days and, at last, left without having accomplished his
mission. He, however, made a note of the names of several of the
parties they had seen.

His knightly pride had well-nigh left him. He had looked into the
dwellings of want and had beheld so much that told of toil and misery,
that the careless indifference with which beings of the same flesh and
blood could live in palaces, seemed like a dream. In this outer world,
existence is mere toil and care, nothing more than a painful effort to
sustain life, with no other outlook than that of renewed toil and care
on the morrow.

"A truce to sentiment," said the doctor to himself. "Things happen thus
in this fine world. Men and beasts are alike. The stag in the forest
doesn't ask what becomes of the bird, and the bird, unless it be a
stork, doesn't care what becomes of the frogs! Away with sentimentality
and dreams of universal happiness!"

The doctor traveled to and fro among the Highlands, always careful to
keep near the telegraph stations, and, as instructed, reporting twice a
day. He despaired of accomplishing his mission, and wrote to his chief
that, although he could not find married women, there were lots of
excellent unmarried ones. He therefore suggested that, as it would not
do to deceive a queen, it would be well to have the most acceptable one
married to her lover at once.

While awaiting a reply, he remained at a village near the lake, the
resident physician of which had been a fellow-student of his.

The scarred face of the portly village doctor was refulgent with traces
of the student cheer which in former days they had enjoyed in common.
He was still provided with a never-failing thirst and ready for
all sorts of fun. His manners had become rustic, and it was with a
self-complacent feeling Sixtus thought of the difference in their
positions.

Doctor Kumpan--this was a nickname he had received while at the
university--looked upon his friend's excursion in search of a nurse as
if it were one of their old student escapades. He rode with him over
hill and dale, never loth to make a slight detour, if, by that means,
they might gain an inn, where he could gratify his hunger with a good
meal, and his thirst with a drop of good wine--the more drops the
better.

"So many of our customs," said Sixtus, one day, "are, at bottom,
immoral. For instance, nurse-hunting."

Doctor Kumpan roared with laughter and said:

"And you too, Schniepel,"--the college nickname of Sixtus--"so you,
also, are one of the new-fashioned friends of the people. You
gentlemen, whose gloves are ever buttoned, treat the people far too
gingerly. We, who live among them, know them far better. They're a pack
of rogues and blockheads, just like their superiors; the only
difference's that they're more honest about it. The only effect your
care for them can have will be to make matters worse. How lucky it is
that the trees in the forest grow without artificial irrigation!"

During these excursions, Doctor Kumpan gave free vent to his rough
humor, and was so delighted with his wit that he could live three days
on the recollection of one of his own wretched jokes.

Sixtus found himself ill at ease in the company of the village doctor,
with whom it was necessary to keep on the same friendly footing as of
yore; and, therefore, made an effort to hasten his departure.

He was about to take his leave--it was on the morning of the second
Sunday following--when Doctor Kumpan said:

"I'm disgusted with myself for having been so stupid. I've got it!
Mother nature herself, unconditioned and absolute--just as old
Professor Genitivius, the son of his celebrated father, used to say,
while he brought his fist down on his desk--Come along with me!"

They drove off in the direction of the lake.




                               CHAPTER V.


Sunday morning had come again, and, with it, stirring times in the
cottage by the lake. Godfather and godmother were there, and, at the
first tolling of the church bell, whose sounds floated on the air like
so many invisible yet audible waves, a procession moved from the house.
The grandmother carried the child upon a soft, downy pillow, over which
a white cover had been spread; following after her, proudly walked the
father, with a nosegay in his button-hole. Beside him, was the
godfather, mine host of the Chamois, followed by tailor Schneck's wife
and other females. A light-haired boy about five years old, and bearing
a two-pronged twig of hazel in his hand, had also joined in the
procession.

"What are you after, Waldl?" asked Hansei.

The boy did not answer. Mistress Schneck took his hand in hers and
said: "Come along, Waldl!" and then turning to Hansei, she continued:
"Don't drive the child away! It's a good sign when a young boy goes
along to the christening; the child will get a husband so much the
sooner, and who knows but--" Hansei laughed to find that they were
already thinking of a mate for his daughter.

While moving along in silent procession, they beheld another good omen.
A swallow flew directly over the heads of the grandmother and the
child, whereupon the former opened her great red umbrella and held it
over herself and the babe.

Walpurga, unable to accompany them on their long walk to church, was
obliged to remain at home. Her friend Stasi, who, on the previous
Sunday, had altered the prayer for the queen in Walpurga's favor,
remained to bear her company. Walpurga, seated in grandmother's
arm-chair, looked out of the latticed window, at the violets, the
buttercups, and the rosemary, the peaceful lake and the blue skies,
while she listened to the sound of the church bell.

"This is the first time my babe goes out into the wide, wide world, and
I'm not with it," said she; "and some day I shall go into the other
world and never be with it again. And still I feel as if it was with me
all the same."

"I don't know what makes you so downhearted today," said her companion;
"if that comes o' getting married, I'll never have a husband."

"Nonsense!" curtly replied Walpurga; her meaning was plain enough. Soon
afterward, she added in a voice tremulous with emotion: "I'm not
downhearted. It's only this. I just feel as if the baby and I had been
both born over again. I don't know how it is, but I feel as if I were
another person. Just think of it! In all my life, I've never lain abed
so quietly and peacefully as I've been doing these many days. And to be
lying there perfectly well, and with nothing to do but think and sleep,
and awake again, and nurse the baby, while kind folks are forever
bringing whatever heart can wish for--I tell you, if I'd been a hermit
in the woods for seven years, I couldn't have done more thinking. It
would keep me busy day and night to tell you all. But what's that?"
said she, suddenly interrupting herself; "just then it seemed as if the
whole house were shaking."

"I didn't notice anything. But your face is enough to give one the
blues. Let's sing something. Just try whether you're still our best
singer."

Her companion insisting, Walpurga at last began to sing, but soon
stopped. Stasi essayed another song, but Walpurga did not care for it;
indeed, none of them were to her liking that day.

"Let's be quiet," said she at last. "Don't worry me through all those
songs; I don't feel like doing anything to-day."

The bells were tolling for the third time. The two friends were sitting
together in silence.

At last Stasi said: "How kind it is of the innkeeper to let them ride
home from church in his wagon."

"Listen! I hear wheels. They can't be coming already."

"No, that's the rattle of the doctor's carriage. There he is, up there
by the willows; and there's another gentleman with him."

"Don't talk to me now, Stasi," said the young mother; "let the whole
world drive by; it's all the same to me."

She sat there silently, resting her head against the back of the chair
and looking out into the golden sunlight that seemed to infuse all
nature with new life. The grass was of a lovelier green than ever
before; the lake glittered with the soft sheen of the ever-changing
light; the waves were splashing against the shore; a gentle breeze
wafted the odors of the violets and rosemary from the window-shelf into
the room.

A carriage stopped before the cottage. First, the loud cracking of a
whip was heard; then, approaching footsteps, and at last, the jolly
doctor calling out: "Hansei! Is there no one at home?"

"No," answered Stasi, "there's nobody but Walpurga and me," whereupon
there was great laughter out of doors.

Doctor Kumpan entered the room, followed by the stranger, who started
as if amazed. Moved with admiration by the sight he beheld, he bowed
involuntarily; but, checking himself, he was more erect than before.

"Where's Hansei, the Sunday child's father?" inquired Doctor Kumpan.

The wife arose and said that he had gone to church with the child and
its sponsors, but that he would soon return.

"Keep your seat!" said the doctor. "I mean to be an unbidden guest at
your christening dinner, and my friend here, who is also a man-killer
like myself, will join us."

"What do you want of my husband? Mayn't I know?"

"The husband cuts the loaf and then helps his wife to some of it. You
know that's the custom of the country, Walpurga. We want to talk to
your husband about a matter of great importance. Don't get frightened,
it isn't a law affair. All I have to say to you is, you've a Sunday
child. Perhaps you're one yourself?"

"I am, indeed."

"So much the better; you're doubly fortunate."

"It seems to me," said Doctor Sixtus, "we might as well speak to the
wife at once. She appears to be a sensible woman and will be glad to
make her husband and child happy."

Walpurga looked about her as if imploring help.

"Well then," said Doctor Kumpan, taking a seat, "you may as well let me
tell it. Now, pay attention, Walpurga. Just keep your seat and let me
tell you a story: Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen. The
king was good and brave, and the queen was lovely, and a son was born
to them who inherited the father's virtues and the mother's beauty; it
might have been a daughter, but they would rather have it a son. Now
when the son was born, they summoned a spirit who lived in the palace,
and was called Doctor Puck; and they said to him: Puck, dear Puck, pack
up your things, and pack yourself off to the mountains as fast as you
can; for there, by the border of the lake, is a pretty little cottage
in which there sits a mother who's tidy, strong, and good, and who's to
be the foster-mother of the little prince, who is as good as his
father, and as lovely as his mother. And the foster-mother shall have
whatever her heart wishes for, and shall make her husband and child
happy; and the king and the queen and the prince, and--but look up,
Walpurga! look at this gentleman. He's the kind spirit named Doctor
Puck, and he comes from the king and the queen. Do you understand me,
Walpurga?"

The young mother rested her head upon the back of the chair and closed
her eyes. She drew a long breath and uttered not a word. At that moment
Hansei returned with the sponsor and the babe. The mother hurried to
her child and taking it in her arms, rushed out into the garden with
it, Stasi running after her.

"What's the matter?" asked Hansei, casting angry glances at the doctor
and the stranger.

"Sit down, my worthy Hansei, and I'll tell you all about it. And it's
well that you're here, too, my good friend of the Chamois: remain with
us. The rest of you may all leave the room."

Suiting the action to the words, Doctor Kumpan hurried out the
villagers, who had been drawn there by curiosity. Then, accepting a
pinch of snuff from the innkeeper, he said: "Hansei, make a bow; you
must know that this gentleman is the court physician. He's sent here by
the king, who wants you to lend him your wife for a year."

The doctor's overbearing manner so enraged Hansei, that he almost felt
like putting him and the court doctor out of the room, and was already
squaring his shoulders for the attack.

Motioning Kumpan to be silent, Sixtus told Hansei that, by the king's
orders, he had sought information in regard to him, and that it had
seemed as if the people did not know whom to praise the most--Hansei or
Walpurga. Hansei grinned self-complacently, and now Sixtus acquainted
him with the king's pleasure.

"Many thanks for the kind words," replied Hansei; "I'm much obliged to
the king for his good opinion of me. I know him well; I rowed him
across the lake twice while he was yet a merry lad, and a wide-awake
huntsman. Tell the king that I hadn't thought he'd still remember me,
but I can't part with my wife. I couldn't be so cruel to her, to
myself, and, above all, to our child."

It was the longest speech he had ever made. He wiped the perspiration
from his brow, and turned toward the table. He was as hungry as a wolf,
and, seeing the nicely cut cake, took a piece, exclaiming: "Before I do
it, may this morsel--"

"Don't swear!" cried the innkeeper, taking the cake from him. "Don't
swear; you can do as you please; no one can compel you."

"And no one wishes to," said Doctor Sixtus; "may I have a piece of
cake?"

"To be sure you may! Help yourself,--and you too, doctor! We've wine
also. Ah, doctor, this day two weeks ago, out on the road, things
looked very serious!"

There was eating and drinking, and with every morsel that Hansei
swallowed, his face grew more cheerful.

"It seems to me, Mr. Landlord, that you could explain the matter to him
better than we," said Sixtus. The innkeeper offered Hansei a pinch of
snuff, with the words: "It would be a great honor to the village and to
the whole neighborhood. Just think of it, Hansei! the king and the
crown prince--"

"Perhaps it's a princess," interrupted Sixtus.

"Oh!" said Hansei laughing, "and so the child isn't born yet?" But
while laughing, he thought to himself: "There's still time to think the
matter over." Then he laughed again at the thought, for, with all his
simplicity, he was rogue enough to determine to reap the greatest
possible advantage from it; he couldn't think of such a thing for less
than a thousand--no, two thousand--and, who knows, perhaps even three
thousand florins. Hansei would probably have gone up to a hundred
thousand if the innkeeper had not resumed the conversation, and thus
interrupted the current of his thoughts.

"Hansei is perfectly right; he says neither 'yes,' nor 'no'; he says
nothing; for here the wife must decide. He's a good husband, and won't
force her to do anything against her will. Yes, gentlemen, although
we're only simple country folk, we know what's right."

"It does you credit to respect your wife so," said Doctor Sixtus. The
innkeeper took another pinch of snuff and went on to say: "Of course;
but after all, if I may be allowed to speak my mind freely, a woman's
only half a man in reason and judgment. With your permission, Herr
Court Doctor, I think we'd better say no more for the present, but call
the wife. She's ever so good."

Happiness and misery, pride and humility, were depicted in Hansei's
features.

"Whatever she says, I'll abide by," said he.

He was proud of possessing such a wife, and yet dreaded her decision.
He pulled at the buttons of his coat as if to make sure they were all
there. At last, urged by the innkeeper, he went out into the garden and
called Walpurga, who was still sitting under the cherry tree.




                              CHAPTER VI.


After Walpurga had hurried out into the garden and had pressed the babe
to her bosom, she quietly gave it to Stasi, saying:

"Take the child; I daren't feed it now. Oh, you poor, dear thing! They
want to take me away from you. What harm have you ever done that they
should treat you so? And what have I done? But they can't make me go!
And who'd dare try? But what have they come for? Why to me? Come,
darling, I'm all right again. I'm with you, and we'll not part from
each other. I'm quite calm again."

When Hansei came to call Walpurga, he found her quietly pressing the
child to her bosom and kissing its little hands.

"If you've had your talk out, do come in."

Walpurga motioned him to be quiet, lest he should disturb the child. He
stood there silently for a while; not a sound escaped father, mother,
or child; naught was heard but the starlings in the cherry-tree, who
were feeding their young. Swift as the wind itself they would fly from
their nests and return again. At last, the child, its hunger thoroughly
sated, but its lips still softly moving, dropped back on the pillow.

"Come into the house," said Hansei, in a voice far gentler than his
rough looks would have led one to expect, "Come in, Walpurga. There's
no need of being rude, and there's nothing wrong in what they ask of
us. They can't force us, you know, and we can thank them, at any rate.
You can talk to strangers much better than I can. It's your turn to
speak now; and I'll be satisfied with whatever you say or do."

Walpurga handed the child to the grandmother, and accompanied Hansei
into the house. She looked back several times, and almost stumbled at
the very threshold.

As soon as she entered the room, Doctor Sixtus came up to her, and,
addressing her in a gentle, insinuating manner, said:

"My good woman! I should think it a sin to induce you to do anything
that your heart condemns. But I feel it my duty to urge you to reflect
upon the matter calmly and dispassionately."

"Many thanks. But--I hope you won't think ill of me--I couldn't be so
cruel to my child." Her eye fell on Hansei, and she quickly added, "Nor
my husband either. I can't go away and leave them all alone."

"Why they won't be alone; your mother's here," said the innkeeper,
interrupting her. Doctor Sixtus interposed:

"Don't interrupt her, if you please, sir. Let her speak for herself,
and pour out her whole heart. Pray go on, my good woman."

"I've nothing more to say; I know nothing more. Yes, there's one thing
more. I've never been in service, except to do an odd day's work, now
and then. I was born in this cottage, and I've lived here up to this
time, and 'twas here my husband came to see me. I've never thought of
leaving it, and I can't think of doing so now. I've never slept in a
strange bed. If I had to leave here and go to the city for so long a
time, I'd die of homesickness; and what would become of my child and my
husband? I'm sure the king don't want us all to die of grief."

"I'd like to say a word, too," said Doctor Kumpan, casting an
expressive glance at Doctor Sixtus. "We've already thought of your
child. You've often wished for a cow, and we'll get you one that has
just calved."

"I've got the very thing you want," exclaimed the innkeeper, rushing to
the window and calling to a boy outside: "Go tell my man to bring my
heifer, right away. Be quick about it! Hurry yourself!--I really didn't
care to part with her," said he, addressing Doctor Sixtus and turning
his back on Hansei, who well knew that the innkeeper dealt in cattle
and pigs, all the year around. Everything in his stable had its price,
and here he was acting just as if the heifer were a member of his
family. "She's the very best beast I've got," added he, "but one ought
to give up everything for his king; and she's a bargain at forty crown
thalers." Then turning to Hansei he said, with a grin: "You're getting
a fine, plump little cow--not an empty hide."

"Not so fast, my friend," said Doctor Sixtus; "but if Hansei likes the
heifer, I'll buy it of you."

"The mother goes and the cow takes her place," muttered Walpurga,
absently.

"I never thought you could be so foolish," thundered the innkeeper.
"Why, what a fuss you're making! You ought to shout for joy, and get
down on your knees and thank God!"

Doctor Sixtus quieted him, and the village doctor now said: "Joy and
song come at no one's bidding; if Walpurga won't go with us cheerfully
we'll look further; there must be others besides her."

He arose, and took his hat as if to depart, Doctor Sixtus doing
likewise.

"How soon would I have to go, and how long would I have to be away from
home?" asked the young wife.

Seating himself again. Doctor Sixtus replied: "I can't say how soon,
but you'd have to be ready to go at a moment's notice."

"Then I wouldn't have to go right off--and how long would I have to
stay?"

"A year, or thereabouts."

"No, no! I won't go. God forgive me for giving it a moment's thought!"

"Then we'll take our leave, and may God bless you and your child," said
Doctor Sixtus, offering her his hand. With a voice full of emotion, he
added:

"It would do the royal child more harm than good if you were to leave
here regretfully, and carry a constant grief about with you. That the
mere idea pains you is quite natural. You couldn't, as a good woman and
true mother, have consented at once, and who knows whether I would have
accepted you if you had? What the queen desires is a good woman, who
has a respectable husband and a kind mother; she will have no other,
and has no thought of grieving or offending you. Therefore, if you
can't be cheerful among strangers; if it doesn't gladden your heart to
think that you may benefit the royal child, and that the king will be
kind to you, you'll do far better to remain at home and not allow
yourself to be tempted by the money. Don't let that induce you. No;
you'd better not go."

He was about to leave, when the innkeeper detained him and said:

"I've only one word more to say. Listen, Walpurga, and you, too,
Hansei. You've said: 'No, I won't go,' and the answer does you great
credit. But ask yourselves what the consequence will be? To-day,
to-morrow, perhaps even the day after to-morrow, you'll be quite
content--will take each other by the hand, kiss your child, and say:
'Thank God! we've resisted temptation; we've remained united in
poverty, and maintain ourselves honestly; we'd rather toil and suffer
together than part.' But how will it be a day or a week later? How
then? When sorrow and want and misfortune come--for we're only human
after all--and you find yourselves helpless? Won't you say to
yourselves: 'If we'd only consented.' Won't you then, by word or look,
say to one another: 'Why didn't you urge me? Why didn't you decide to
go?' I don't want to persuade you, I merely want to remind you of all
you ought to consider in the matter."

Silence ensued. The husband looked at his wife and then at the ground;
the wife looked at him for a while, and then suddenly raised her hand
to her eyes.

The cracking of a whip was heard and then a fine black-pied cow
bellowing loud and deep, as if the sound issued from a cavern. All were
startled. The sound broke upon the silence like a ghost-call at
noonday.

The innkeeper cursed and swore, and putting his head out of the window,
abused the servant for not having brought the calf, which had, in
truth, already been sold to the butcher.

The servant fastened the cow to the fence, and hurried home to bring
its calf. The cow dragged at the rope, as if trying to strangle
herself, and groaned and bellowed until she foamed at the mouth.

"That's only a beast, and see how she goes on!" cried Walpurga.

The arrival of the cow seemed to dissipate the effect of the
innkeeper's eloquence. But Walpurga suddenly composed herself. Speaking
quickly, as if addressing an unseen being, and without looking at any
one, she said:

"A man or a woman can do more than a beast!" Then, turning toward her
husband, she added: "Come here, Hansei, give me your hand. Tell me,
from the bottom of your heart, will you be satisfied with whatever I
may do or say?"

"Do you mean if you say 'no'?" replied Hansei, hesitating.

"Whether I say 'yes' or 'no' is what I mean."

Hansei could not utter a word. Had he been able to speak, his remarks
would have been very sensible. He kept looking into his hat, as if
there to read the thoughts that were running through his head. Then he
took his blue pocket-handkerchief, and twisted it up as if he were
trying to make a ball of it. When Walpurga found that Hansei did not
answer, she said:

"I can't ask you to decide. I, alone, can do that. I'm the child's
mother--I'm the wife, and ... if I go, I must, and I'm sure I can,
keep down all grief, so that I may do no harm to the other child;
and--and--here's my hand, sir--my answer is 'yes'."

It seemed as if a load had been lifted from the hearts of all present.
Hansei felt a stinging sensation in his eyes, and as if choking. To
allay this, he indulged in a fresh glass of wine and a large slice of
cake. What a strange day! If the company would only go, so that one
could get a bite of something warm. The morning seemed as if it would
never end. The two physicians had much to say to Walpurga, who promised
to keep herself as cheerful as possible. She told them that when she
had once undertaken a thing she would carry it out; that God would help
to preserve her child and that she would do all she could for the
king's child. "You can depend upon it, when I've made up my mind to do
a thing, I do it," she repeated again and again. Now that she had
decided, she seemed to have acquired wondrous self-control. Spying her
mother, who was carrying the child, she called her to her, and told her
of everything. The child slumbered peacefully, and was placed in the
cradle that stood in the bedroom. The grandmother seemed to look upon
the whole affair as if it were an unalterable decree of fate. For years
it had been her wont to allow Walpurga to decide in all things, and in
this case, moreover, the king's pleasure was to be regarded.

"Your child won't be motherless; I understand her better than you do.
We've got a cow, and we'll see that the child is well cared for."

The innkeeper hurried out and put the cow in the stable. That closed
the purchase and gave him a pretty profit. He was provoked at himself
to think that he had not asked ten thalers more. He managed to get two
thalers additional, as a gratuity for the boy, but half of this sum
found its way into his own pocket.

Hansei, who had in the mean while refreshed himself, thought it would
be well to show that he was a man. He inquired as to the pay, and was
just about to name the large sum he had been thinking of, when the
innkeeper returned, and made it clear to him that the less he bargained
the more he would get. He offered to give him five hundred florins for
the christening gifts alone, and told him that, if he left it to the
king, he would get all the more.

Walpurga now asked what she would have to take with her. Doctor Sixtus
told her that her best suit would be all that was necessary.

Many of the villagers had gathered before the window. They had heard
the news, and others, while on their way to afternoon church, stopped,
and at last there was quite a crowd. There was much merriment, for
every man said that he would gladly let the king borrow his wife for a
year.

Stasi offered to help the grandmother. It was not without pride that
she spoke of her being able to write a good hand and promised to send
Walpurga a letter once a week, about the child, the husband, and the
mother.

She then brought the plates, for it was high time they were at dinner.
Walpurga said that she would put all to rights within the next few
days.

"What I now deny my child," said she, "I can more than make up to her
for the rest of her life."

While she was thus speaking, she heard the child crying in the other
room and hurried to it.

The two physicians and the innkeeper were about to leave, when the
sounds of a post-horn were heard in the direction of the road that led
up from the lake.

The special post had arrived. The lackey whom Doctor Sixtus had left at
the telegraph station near by, was sitting in the open carriage. He
raised his hand, in which he held a letter aloft. He stopped before the
cottage and called out to the crowd:

"Shout huzza! every one of you! A crown prince was born an hour ago!"

They cheered again and again.

An old woman, bent double, suddenly turned toward the lackey and gazed
into his face with her bright, brown eyes that, in spite of her years,
were still sparkling.

"Whose voice is that?" muttered the old woman to herself.

There was an almost imperceptible change in the features of the lackey,
but the old woman had noticed it. "Clear the way, folks!" said he, "so
that I may alight!"

"Get out of the way, Zenza!" (Vincenza) "Old Zenza's always in the
way."

The old woman stood there, staring before her vacantly, as if in a
waking dream. She was shoved aside, and lost the staff with which she
had supported herself. The lackey tripped over it, but, without looking
to the right or left, hurried into the cottage.

Doctor Sixtus advanced to meet him, took the dispatch, and returned to
the room. Walpurga had come back in the mean while, and he said to her:

"It has happened sooner than we expected. I've just received a
dispatch; at ten o'clock this morning, the crown prince was born. I am
to hurry off to the capital and bring the nurse with me. Now, Walpurga,
is the time to prove your strength. We leave in an hour."

"I'm ready," said Walpurga resolutely. She felt so weak, however, that
she was obliged to sit down.




                              CHAPTER VII.


The two physicians, accompanied by the innkeeper, left the house. Stasi
brought in the soup and the roast meat for the christening dinner and
placed them on the table. The grandmother offered up a prayer, in which
the others joined; they all seated themselves at the table. Walpurga
was the first to take a spoonful of the soup from the dish, but,
finding that no one cared to eat, she filled her spoon again and said:

"Open your mouth, Hansei, and let me give you something to eat. Take
this, and may God's blessing go with it. And just as the food I now
offer you gives me more pleasure than if I were eating it myself, so,
when I'm among strangers, not a morsel will pass my lips that I
wouldn't rather give you and the child. I only go away so that we may
be able to live in peace and comfort hereafter. I shall think of you
and mother and the child, by day and night, and, God willing, I'll
return again in health and happiness. Don't forget that God might have
called me away in the hour of pain and trial, and that then you'd have
been without me all your lifetime. Mother, I've often heard you say
that a wife giving birth to a child has one foot in the grave. I'm only
going away for a year, and you all know that I'll return the same
Walpurga that I now am. Don't let our parting be sad, Hansei; you must
help me! You can, and I know you will. You're my only support. Keep
yourself tidy while I'm gone. You'd better wear a good shirt every
Sunday morning, for now you can afford it. You'll find them in the blue
closet--on the upper right-hand shelf. Do eat something; I'll eat just
as soon as you do. We need all our strength. You'll be all right
to-morrow, and so shall I. But do eat something! For every spoonful you
take, I'll take one, too:--there, that's it--but not so fast, or I
can't keep up with you!" Smiling through her tears, she went on eating.

"And now, mother," she continued, "you'll have no chance to say that
you're a burden to us. When I'm gone, you can take the two pillows off
my bed and put them on yours, so that you can sleep with your head
right high. That'll do you good. If we didn't have you, I wouldn't dare
to think of going. Don't spoil my husband, and, when I come back again,
we'll fix up a little room for you where you can live as well as the
first farmer's wife in the land."

They let her do all the talking, and when she said: "Do say something,
Hansei," he replied: "You'd better keep on talking. I can hear my voice
any time; but it'll be a long while before I listen to yours again. Who
knows but--"

He was about to take a piece of meat, but he put it back on the plate.
He could not eat another morsel; nor could the others. The grandmother
arose and said grace. Time flew by. A coach drove up to the door. The
lackey was the only one seated in it; the gentlemen intended to follow
shortly after. Baum speedily found himself on a familiar footing with
Hansei. The first step toward their intimacy was the offer of a good
cigar. He said that he envied Hansei's luck in having such a wife, and
in being so fortunate into the bargain. Hansei felt greatly flattered.
Doctor Sixtus gave orders that some bed cushions should be placed in
the coach, so that Walpurga might be comfortable and well protected
against the night air.

"Do you ride all night?" inquired Hansei.

"Oh, no! We shall reach the capital by midnight."

"But your fast driving may hurt my wife."

"Don't let that worry you. Your wife will be as well taken care of as
the queen herself."

"I don't know how it is, but when I look at this gentleman and hear him
talk," said Hansei, looking Baum straight in the face, "I feel ever so
queer."

"How so? Do I look so terrible?"

"God forbid! No, indeed! But the one I'm thinking of was a
good-for-nothing fellow. No offense, I assure you. But old Zenza--there
she is at the garden gate, watching us--had twins. One is named Thomas
and the other was Wolfgang, or Jangerl, as they say hereabouts. Well,
Jangerl joined the soldiers and went to America. It must have been some
thirteen or fourteen years ago, and no one has ever heard of him since,
and really--but you won't think ill of what I say?"

"Of course not! Go on."

"Well, Jangerl looked just like you to the very hair. No, not the hair,
for his was red and his face wasn't as fine as yours, either; but
taking it altogether, just as the devil takes the farmers"--Hansei was
delighted with his joke, and the lackey joined in his laughter--"one
might say that you look like each other. But you're sure you're not
angry at what I've said?"

"Not at all," said Baum, looking at his watch. The clock in the church
steeple was just striking five, and he said: "There's a difference of
exactly one hour between your clock and that at the capital. Did this
house belong to your parents?"

"No, I got it with my wife. That's to say, we still owe a mortgage of
two hundred florins on it, but the farmer who holds it, doesn't press
us."

"Your wife can buy you another house, and you ought to consider
yourself lucky to have so good-looking a wife."

"Yes, and that's what makes me sorry to give her up," complained
Hansei. "However, there are only three hundred and sixty-five days in a
year--but that's a good many, after all."

"And as many nights in the bargain," said Baum, laughing. Poor Hansei
shuddered.

"Yes, indeed!" said he. He felt that politeness required an answer on
his part.

In the mean while, Walpurga had asked her mother and Stasi to leave her
alone with the child. She was kneeling beside the cradle and wetted the
pillow with her tears. She kissed the child, the coverlet, and cradle,
and then, getting up, said: "Farewell! A thousand times, farewell!" She
had dried her tears, and was about to leave the room, when the door
opened from without and her mother entered.

"I'll help you," said she. "You'll be either twice as happy, or twice
as miserable, when you return, and will make us just as happy or as
miserable as you are."

Then she took Walpurga's left hand in hers, and, in a commanding voice,
said: "Put your right hand on your child's head!"

"What's that for, mother?"

"Do as I bid you. Swear by your child's head and by the hand I hold in
mine, that you'll remain good and pure, no matter what temptations may
assail you. Remember you're a wife, a mother, a daughter! Do you swear
this with all your heart?"

"I do, mother, so help me God! But there's no need of such an oath."

"Very well," said the mother. "Now walk around the cradle three times
with your face turned from it. I'll lead you; don't stumble. Now you've
taken the child's homesickness from it, and I'll take good care of it.
Take my word for that."

She then led Walpurga into the room and, handing her the great loaf of
bread and the knife, said:

"Cut a piece for yourself, before you go. May God bless it for your
sake, and when you've reached your journey's end, let the bread that
you've brought from home be the first morsel you eat. That'll kill the
feeling of strangeness; and now, farewell."

They remained there in silence, holding each other by the hand.

Walpurga found it wondrous strange that Hansei was walking about in the
garden with the lackey and forgetting her. Just then, he went up the
ladder to get him some cherries, and was smoking incessantly; after
that, he took him into the stable, where the cow had been placed.

The two physicians had returned, and Hansei had to be called into the
room, for it was here, and not out of doors in the presence of the
crowd, that the wife wished to take leave of her husband. Doctor Sixtus
put a roll of crown thalers in Hansei's pocket. After that, Hansei
constantly kept his hand there and was loth to remove it.

"Give me your hand, Hansei," said Walpurga.

He loosened his grasp of the money and gave her his hand.

"Farewell, dear Hansei, and be a good man. I'll remain a good
wife.... And now, God keep you all of you."

She kissed her mother and Stasi, and then, without once looking back,
she hurried through the garden and seated herself in the carriage. The
cow in the stable bellowed and groaned, but the sounds were drowned by
the postilion's fanfare.

During all this, old Zenza had been leaning against the garden gate; at
times passing her hand over her face and rubbing her bright and
sparkling eyes. And now, when the lackey passed her she stared at him
so, that he asked, in a rough and yet not unkind voice:

"Do you want anything, mother?"

"Yes; I'm old, and a mother in the bargain. Hi-hi-hi!" said she,
laughing, and the crowd hinted to the lackey that her mind often
wandered.

"Is there anything you want?" asked the lackey again.

"Of course there is, if you'll give it to me."

With trembling hand, the lackey drew the large purse from his pocket,
and took out a piece of gold. But no, that might betray him. After
fumbling with the money a long while, he at last gave the gold piece to
the old woman, and said:

"This is from the king."

He mounted the box and never looked back again. The coach started off.

People came up to Zenza and asked her to show them what she had
received, but her hand was closed as with a convulsive grasp. Without
answering, she went away, supporting herself upon her staff.

She walked on, constantly looking at the ruts that the carriage wheels
had made in the road, and those who passed her could hear her muttering
unintelligibly. Her staff was in her right hand, and with her left she
still clutched the gold piece.




                             CHAPTER VIII.


The carriage moved along the road by the lake, and, at last, turning
the corner at the stone-pile, was out of sight. The hay on which
Walpurga had rested a fortnight before was still lying in the same
place.

They passed a handsome girl, dressed in once genteel, but now shabby,
finery. She was of a powerful frame, tawny complexion, and her
blue-black hair was braided in thick plaits. She stared at Walpurga,
but did not greet her until after she had passed.

"That's the daughter of the old woman you gave a present to," said
Walpurga, addressing the lackey. "She goes by the name of Black Esther.
If the mother doesn't bury the money out of sight, she'll surely take
it from her."

Although Baum turned toward Walpurga, he was not looking at her, but at
the girl, who was no other than his sister. A little while ago, he had
denied his mother, while bestowing an alms upon her. And now he sat up
beside the postilion, his arms folded as if to brace himself, for he
felt as if his heart would break. His whole life passed before him,
and, now and then, he planted himself more firmly in his seat, lest he
should fall. And now the carriage passed by a farmyard where, twenty
years ago, he had, by his mother's order, stolen a goose. He was a slim
lad then and had found it easy to slip in, on all fours, through the
gap in the hedge, which had closed up in the mean while.

Thomas, his twin brother, had joined the poachers. But Baum, who was
not apt at their work, was glad when they took him for a soldier. One
day while he was on duty at the palace an old _valet de chambre_
brought a letter from Baroness Steigeneck, who was then at the height
of her power. The valet was kept waiting a long while, during which he
chatted with Baum, to whom he took a great liking. He invited Baum to
visit the Steigeneck palace, where they drank together in the servants'
room and were exceedingly jolly.

"Why is your hair so red?" said the _valet de chambre_.

"Why? Because it grew so."

"But that can be remedied."

"Indeed! How so?"

The old man gave Baum the requisite directions.

"You must also change your name. Rauhensteiner is too hard for their
lordships. It is difficult to pronounce, and particularly for those who
have false teeth. You must take some such name as Beck, or Schultz, or
Hecht, or Baum. For, mind you, a dog has no name except the one its
master sees fit to call it by."

"'Baum' would suit me very well."

"Well then, let it be Baum." On his way home that night, he kept
continually saying to himself, "Baum, Baum--that's a short and easy
name and no one will know me." The old man had made him swear that he
would have nothing more to do with his family. His recent visit to his
native village had reminded him of his pledge, and, although he
attached but little importance to an oath, he found it convenient and,
as he thought, praiseworthy to keep this one.

Through the intercession of the Steigeneck valet, his military
discharge was made out in the name of Wolfgang Rauhensteiner--surnamed
Baum. After that, he was simply known as Baum, and none knew that he
had ever borne another name. He was perfectly willing to forego his
chance of any bequests that might be left to him under the name of
Rauhensteiner.

He entered the service of the court, and his first position was as
groom to the prince, while at the university and during his subsequent
journey through Italy. As a precaution, he had gone home and obtained
an emigrant's passport, and afterward had dyed his hair black. In his
native village, all were under the impression that he had emigrated.

After he returned from his travels, he married the daughter of the
_valet de chambre_, and ever grew in favor with his masters. He was
discreet in all things, and would cough behind his raised left hand. He
was delighted with the name of "Baum." Such was his zeal to serve his
masters, that had it been possible he would, for their sakes, have
banished all harsh consonants from the language.

"That's settled," said Baum, as he sat on the box beside the postilion
and coughed behind his hand. "That's settled"--and his face assumed a
calm and determined expression as if he thought some one was watching
him. "I've emigrated to America. If I were there, I'd be dead and
buried as far as my family are concerned. Family, indeed! They'd only
ruin and beggar me, and always be at my heels. None of that for me!" He
watched the people, many of whom he knew, walking along the road. "What
a pitiful life these folks must lead--no pleasure the whole year round!
Once a week, on Sunday they get shaved and preached to, and the next
morning the squalor begins anew. Any one who has escaped, would be a
fool to think of returning to it again!"

Whilst Baum was thus recalling long-forgotten incidents of his past,
Walpurga was trying hard to repress her tears. It seemed as if some
higher power to whose sway she submitted herself had deprived her of
thought and feeling.

With wondering eyes she gazed at the brooks that hurried down from the
hills and then, as if to see what was becoming of Walpurga, would run
along beside the road. When they dashed across the wooden bridges that
overhung the roaring brook, she would tremble with fear, and would not
feel reassured until they had gained the smooth road on the other side.
She looked up at the mountains, the houses and the Alpine huts; she
knew the names of those who dwelt in every one of them. But they soon
reached a region to which she was a stranger.

At the next station where they stopped to change horses, the Sunday
idlers were astonished to see a peasant woman descend from so elegant a
carriage. A woman nursing her child was sitting under a linden tree
near by. Prompted by curiosity, she raised herself in her seat, and the
child turning its head at the same time, mother and child were staring
at Walpurga, who nodded to them kindly, while her eyes filled with
tears and her throat seemed to close. The postilion blew his horn, the
horses started off at a gallop, and Walpurga again felt as if flying
through the air.

"This is fast traveling, Walpurga, isn't it?" exclaimed Baum. When she
now looked at him, she, too, was startled by his wonderful resemblance
to Thomas.

"Yes, indeed!" said she. The doctor said but little, for he was too
deeply moved by sympathy for her. Nor did he, as usual, assert his
pride of position. This woman was so much more than a mere tool that
one might well treat her with kindness and consideration. She had found
it so hard to leave her home. He was, for some time, considering what
he should say to her, and, at last, inquired:

"Do you like your doctor?"

"Yes, indeed I do! He's very odd. He scolds and abuses everybody; but
for all that, he does good wherever he can, be it day or night; rich
and poor are all the same to him. Oh, he's a real good man!"

Doctor Sixtus smiled and asked her:

"I didn't get to see his wife. Do you know her?"

"Of course I do. It's Hedwig, the apothecary's daughter. Her family are
very nice folks, and she's a sweet, charming creature; plain in her
ways and quite a home body. They have fine children, too--five or six
of them, I believe--and so she has her hands full. He might have taken
you to his house, for it's ever so neat and tidy."

He was delighted with Walpurga's good report of his friend. And now
that he had succeeded in changing the train of her thoughts, he
concluded that he had done enough and could leave her to shift for
herself.

She saw everything as if in a dream. There were fields and meadows,
then a village, a window-shelf covered with carnations and hanging
vines. You've such at home, too, thought she, and in a moment they had
vanished from sight. Then they passed the churchyard, its black crosses
half buried in the earth and yet standing out boldly against the clear
sky. In the village there was music and dancing, and merry youths and
maidens, their faces flushed by their sport, hurried to the windows.
Then they passed more fields and meadows and houses, and saw groups
sitting together and talking. And then the postilion blew a loud blast.
A child was running in the middle of the road. With a shriek of horror,
the mother rescued it and hastened away. The carriage did not stop.
Walpurga looked back, feeling sure that they must now be thanking God
for the child's escape. And still they went on. Then they passed a cow
grazing by the wayside, a boy near by watching her. In the level
country where the climate is so much milder, the cherry-trees were
already bare of fruit. And then they came to great fields, with their
vast sea of waving grain--there were none such in the Highlands.... How
happy these people must be who live down here, where there is something
more than water, meadow and forest. In yonder fallow field, there lies
a plow as if sleeping over Sunday. It grows dark, lights begin to
twinkle; there are men and women, too. They are in their homes, but I'm
being taken away from mine.... At the next post station, both the
doctor and Walpurga remained in the carriage. The horses were quickly
changed, the old ones going, with heavy steps, into the stable; a new
postilion mounted the box, and they were off again. Walpurga saw
nothing more; her eyes were closed, and it seemed as if it were a
dream, when the carriage stopped again for a fresh relay of horses, and
she heard Baum ordering the postilion not to blow his horn lest he
might awaken those inside.

"I'm not asleep," said the doctor.

"Nor am I! Just blow your horn, postilion," said Walpurga.

The postilion blew a loud blast, and they were off again. The stars
were glittering overhead. They passed through more villages; windows
were quickly raised, but they dashed by so rapidly that they were out
of sight before the surprised villagers had time to collect their
senses. Objects at the wayside were strangely illumined by the
ever-moving glimmer of the two carriage-lamps, and at last, in the
distance, they descried a great light and, over it, a cloud of smoke.

"There's an illumination in the city!" exclaimed Baum. The horses were
urged to greater speed, and the postilion blew his horn more merrily
than before. They were, at last, in the capital.

The carriage made slow headway through the surging, joyous crowd that
filled the streets.

"Here comes the crown prince's nurse," was soon noised about, and the
merry crowd greeted Walpurga with loud cheers. Confused and abashed,
she hid her face in her hands. At last they were safely in the
courtyard of the palace.




                              CHAPTER IX.


Walpurga found herself in the interior quadrangle of the palace. She
was quite giddy, with looking at the many doors, the great windows, the
broad staircases and the coats of arms, emblazoned with figures of wild
men and beasts. All seemed wondrous strange under the glare of the gas
lamps, the strong lights, here and there, contrasting with the deep,
mysterious shadows. Walpurga stared about her with a dreamy vacant
gaze. Giving way to memories of olden legends, she thought of the young
mother whom the genii of the mountain had carried off to a subterranean
cavern, where they detained her by means of a magic charm, while she
nursed a new-born babe.

But she was recalled to herself at last. From the palace-guard, where
the muskets were stacked in two long rows and the sentry was marching
to and fro, she heard one of the songs of her home.

"The captain of the palace-guard has sent wine to the soldiers," said a
young liveried servant addressing Baum, whom he assisted to unharness
the horses: "the whole town will be drunk."

Walpurga felt like telling them that they should not permit the
soldiers to sing so loudly, because the young mother who was lying
overhead ought to sleep. She had no idea of the great size of the
palace, but was soon to find it out.

"Come with me," said Doctor Sixtus; "I'll conduct you to the first lady
of the bed-chamber. Have no fear! You will be cordially welcomed by
all."

"I'd better bring my pillows with me," answered Walpurga.

"Never mind; Baum will attend to them."

Walpurga followed after the doctor. They ascended a staircase,
brilliantly illuminated and decorated with flowers, and Walpurga felt
ashamed at the thought of her coming empty-handed, just as if there was
nothing she could call her own. "I'm not that poor, after all," said
she almost audibly.

They reached the grand corridor. It was also brilliantly illuminated
and filled with flowers. There were people in uniform, walking to and
fro, but the soft carpets prevented their footsteps from being heard.
The under-servants remained standing while Sixtus and Walpurga passed
by them. At last they stopped before a door. Addressing the servant who
was stationed there, Doctor Sixtus said:

"Inform her excellency that Doctor Sixtus is in waiting, and that he
has brought the nurse."

This was the first time that Walpurga had heard herself spoken of as
"the nurse," and as being "brought."

She again felt as if under a spell, or rather, as if sold. But she
plucked up courage, and suddenly it seemed to her as if she were
seated, as she often had been, in a boat on the lake; as if she were
plying the oars with her strong arms--a furious wind resisting her
progress, and the waves rushing wildly on high. But she was strong, and
rowed with a steady hand, and at last conquered the wind and the waves.
She stiffened her arms and clenched her fists as if to grasp the oars
more firmly.

The servant soon returned, and held the door open while Doctor Sixtus
and Walpurga entered a large, well-lighted apartment. A tall, thin
lady, clad in a dress of black satin, was seated in an arm-chair near
the table. She arose for a moment, but resumed her seat immediately. It
is no trifling matter to be first lady of the bedchamber at the birth
of a crown prince. This had been a great day with Countess
Brinkenstein. Her name had been inscribed for all time in the great
official record of the day.

Although she always judged her actions by a severe standard, she had
reason to be satisfied with herself that day. While the court and
capital were all commotion, she had been perfectly calm. She had kept
up the dignity of the court and, moreover, of the king, who had shown
himself strangely weak and excited.

She was resting on her laurels. One circumstance had greatly vexed her
and had not yet been dismissed from her mind; but as she had a firm
will, she controlled her feelings. She was always self-possessed,
because she always knew just what was to be done.

To have waited so long before securing a nurse was a thing unheard of.
Many had offered themselves, and, among them, some who belonged to good
families; that is, of the nobility who had married lower officials.
Countess Brinkenstein regarded the queen's resolve that the nurse must
be of the common people--a peasant woman, indeed--as overstrained
fastidiousness; there could be no harm in referring to princely errors
in such terms. The preserver of decorum was therefore determined to
assume the responsibility of filling the post with a nurse of her own
choice, when the doctor's telegram, informing them that he had secured
the ideal peasant woman, was received. Her displeasure at the queen's
behavior was now transferred to the peasant woman, who was as yet a
stranger to her, and who would, in all likelihood, bring trouble into
the palace. But, after all, what were rules and regulations made for?
By consistently observing them, all would yet be well.

When the peasant woman was announced. Countess Brinkenstein arose, her
stern features softened by the noble thought that this poor woman ought
not to suffer because of the queen's newly acquired love for the
people; a love which would only render its objects the more unhappy and
discontented.

The doctor presented Walpurga, and spoke of her in such terms that she
cast down her eyes, abashed at his praise.

Addressing Countess Brinkenstein in French, he told her how difficult
it had been to secure this, the fairest and best woman in the
Highlands. Answering in the same tongue, the countess congratulated him
upon his success and commented on Walpurga's healthy appearance.
Finally she inquired, still in French:

"Has she good teeth?"

The doctor turned to Walpurga, saying:

"Her ladyship thinks you can't laugh."

Walpurga smiled, and the countess praised her perfect teeth. She then
touched the bell on the table and a lackey appeared.

"Tell privy councilor Gunther," said she, "that I await him here, and
that the nurse of his royal highness has arrived."

The lackey left the room. The countess now touched the bell twice; a
tall lady, advanced in years, and wearing long, corkscrew curls,
appeared, and bowed so low that Walpurga imagined she intended to sit
down on the floor.

"Come nearer, dear Kramer," said the countess. "This is the nurse of
his royal highness; she is in your especial charge. Take her to your
room and let her have something to eat. What shall it be, doctor?"

"Good beef broth will do very well."

"Go with Kramer," said the countess, addressing Walpurga, and smiling
graciously. "Whenever you want any thing, dear child, ask her for it.
God be with you!"

The lady with the corkscrew curls, offering her hand to Walpurga, said:
"Come with me, my good woman."

Walpurga nodded a grateful assent.

And so, after all, there was some one to take her by the hand and speak
German to her. And they were kind words, too, for the old lady had
addressed her as "dear child," and mademoiselle as "my good woman."
While they were speaking French, it had seemed as if she were betrayed,
for she could not help feeling that they were talking of her.
Mademoiselle Kramer now conducted her to the second room beyond.

"And now let me bid you welcome!" said the lady, while her homely face
suddenly acquired a charming expression. "Give me both hands. Let us be
good friends, for we'll always be together, by day and by night! They
call me the chief-stewardess."

"And I'm called Walpurga."

"A pretty name, too! I think you'll keep it."

"Keep my name! Why, who can take it from me? I was christened Walpurga,
and I've been called so ever since childhood."

"Don't agitate yourself, dear Walpurga," said the stewardess, with much
feeling. "Yes, pray be calm," added she, "and whenever anything
displeases you, tell me of it, and I'll see that it is remedied. You
ought to be contented and happy always; and now, sit in this arm-chair,
or if you'd rather lie on the sofa and rest yourself, do so. Make
yourself perfectly at home."

"This will do very well," said Walpurga, ensconcing herself in the
great arm-chair and resting her hands upon her knees. Mademoiselle
Kramer now ordered one of the serving-maids to bring in some good beef
broth and wheaten bread for the nurse. Turning toward Walpurga, she saw
that she was crying bitterly.

"For God's sake, what's the matter? You're not frightened or worried
about anything? What are you crying for?"

"Let me cry. It does me good. My heart's been heavy for ever so long. I
suppose you'll let me cry when I can't help it. I didn't know what I
was doing when I said 'yes.' God's my witness, I never thought it would
be like this!"

"What has happened? Who has done anything to you? For God's sake, don't
cry; it will do you harm, and I'll be reprimanded for having allowed
it. Just tell me what you want; I'll do all I can for you."

"All I want of you is to let me cry. Oh, my child! Oh, Hansei! Oh,
mother!--But now I'm all right again. I'll be calm. I'm here now, and
must make the best of it."

The soup was brought. Mademoiselle Kramer held a spoonful to Walpurga's
lips, and said:

"Take something, my dear, and you'll soon feel better."

"I don't want any broth. Am I to be treated as if I were sick, and
forced to eat what I don't like? If there was any one in the house who
could make porridge, I'd rather have that than anything else. I'll go
into the kitchen and make some myself."

Mademoiselle Kramer was in despair. To her great relief, there was a
knock at the door. Doctor Gunther, the king's physician, entered,
accompanied by Doctor Sixtus. He held out his hand to the nurse, and
said:

"God greet you, Walpurga of the cottage by the lake! You've made a good
catch in coming to this house. Don't be alarmed by the ways of the
palace, and do just as you would at home. Take my word for it, water is
needed for cooking, all the world over. The folks here are just as they
are in your neighborhood--just as good and just as bad; just as wise
and just as stupid; with this difference, however--here they know how
to hide their wickedness and stupidity."

Doctor Gunther had, in part, used the Highland dialect while addressing
her, and her face suddenly brightened.

"Thank you! thank you! I'll remember what you tell me," said she,
cheerfully.

Mademoiselle Kramer now introduced the great question of the day--beef
broth or porridge. Doctor Gunther laughed, and said:

"Why porridge, to be sure; that's the best. In fact, Walpurga, all you
need do is to say what you've been used to at home, and you shall have
it here, provided it is neither sour nor fat."

Addressing his colleague, he added:

"We'll keep the nurse on her accustomed diet for the present, and
afterward can gradually bring about a change. Come here, Walpurga, and
let me look into your eyes. I've something to tell you. In a quarter of
an hour from now, you're to appear before the queen. Don't be alarmed,
no one will harm you. She merely wishes to see you. Don't fail to prove
that your eyes are right, when they say they belong to a clever head.
Address the queen calmly, and if, as is quite likely, you still feel a
homesick yearning for your child and the others you've left behind you,
don't show it while you are with the queen. You might cause her to weep
and make her ill, for she's very delicate. Do you quite understand me?"

"I do, indeed! I'll be very careful. I'll cheer her up."

"You must not do that either. Remain perfectly calm and composed; speak
little, and in a low voice. Try to get out of the room as soon as you
can, for she needs all the sleep she can get."

"I'll do everything just as you say. You can depend on me," said
Walpurga. "Aren't you going along?"

"No; you'll meet me there. But now, take something to eat. Here comes
the porridge. I hope it will do you good. You needn't eat it all; half
will do for the present. But wait a little while until it cools. Come
with me a moment. I suppose you're not afraid to go with me?"

"No; it seems as if I'd often heard your voice before."

"Very likely! I am also from the Highlands, and have already been in
your father's house. If I am not mistaken, your mother was from our
region. Was she not in service with the freehold farmer?"

"She was, indeed."

"Well then, your mother's a good woman, and don't forget to tell the
queen that she's taking good care of your child. That will please her.
I knew your father, too; he was a merry soul, and perfectly honest."

Walpurga felt happy to know that her parents were well thought of and
that the others had heard them so favorably mentioned. If the doctor
who had known her father had been that father himself, she could not
have been more willing to accompany him into the adjoining room. He
returned, in a few moments, and left in the company of Doctor Sixtus;
and then Walpurga came, her eyes bent on the ground. When she at last
looked up, she was glad there was no one in the room but Mademoiselle
Kramer.

Her thoughts must have been of home, for she suddenly exclaimed:

"Dear me! I've got you, yet." She then took from her pocket the piece
of bread which her mother had given her. And thus the first morsel she
ate while in the palace, was brought from home, and was of her mother's
baking. Her mother had told her that this would cure her of
homesickness; and she really found it so, for, with every mouthful, she
became more cheerful.

If seven queens were to have come just then, she would not have been
afraid of them, and her crying was at an end. She ate all the crumbs
that had fallen into her lap, as if they had some sacred potency. After
that she tried a little of the porridge.

"Can't I go somewhere to wash my face and dress my hair?" asked she.

"Of course. Doctor Gunther has given orders that you should."

"I don't need orders for everything I do!" said Walpurga, defiantly.

Mademoiselle Kramer wanted to have her maid dress Walpurga's hair. But
Walpurga would not allow it.

"No stranger's hand shall touch my head," said she.

And after a little while she presented a tidy and almost cheerful
appearance.

"There, now I'll go to the queen," said she. "How do you address her?"

"'Your majesty,' or, 'most gracious madam.'"

"In the prayers at church they call her the 'country's mother,'" said
Walpurga, "and I like that far better. That's a glorious, beautiful
name. If it were mine, no one should take it from me. And now I'll go
to the queen."

"No! you must wait. You will be sent for."

"That'll suit me just as well. But I want to ask a favor of you. Call
me 'Du'."[1]

"Quite willingly, if the first lady of the bedchamber does not object."

"And so nothing can be done here without asking leave. But now we've
done talking, let's be quiet. Ah, yes! there's one thing more. Whose
picture is that hanging up there?"

"The queen's."

"Is that the queen? Oh, how lovely! But she's very young."

"Yes, she's only eighteen years old."

Walpurga gazed at the picture for a long while. Then, turning away from
it, she sank on her knees beside the great chair, folded her hands and
softly whispered a paternoster.

Walpurga was still kneeling, when a knock at the door was heard. A
lackey entered and said:

"Her majesty has sent for his royal highness's nurse."

Walpurga arose and followed the servant. Mademoiselle Kramer
accompanying them.




                               CHAPTER X.


Preceded by a servant bearing a lantern, they passed through the long,
narrow, brilliantly lighted passage and ascending a staircase, reached
the gallery of the royal chapel. There were cushioned chairs for the
court. Walpurga looked down into the vast, dark hall. There was no
light except that in the altar lamp, the rays of which faintly
illumined the image of the Virgin.

"Thou art everywhere!" said Walpurga, half aloud, while she looked down
into the dark church and saluted the Madonna with the Child, as
familiarly as if greeting an intimate friend. A dim sense of the divine
attributes of maternity, as glorified in ages of song and picture,
prayer and sacrifice, filled her soul. She nodded to the picture once
again, and then walked on. As uncertain of her steps as if walking on
glass, she went through the throne-room, and the great ball-room. Then
they passed through other apartments which, though evidently intended
for more domestic uses, were without doors and were separated from each
other by heavy double hangings. At last they descended a wide marble
staircase with a golden balustrade. It was well-lighted and carpeted.
Here there were servants and guards. They entered other apartments,
which were filled with people, who paused in their eager conversation
to glance at Walpurga, In the third room, Dr. Gunther advanced toward
her. Taking her by the hand, he led her up to a gentleman who was
attired in a brilliant uniform and wore the crosses and medals of many
orders.

"This is his majesty, the king," said he.

"I know him; I've seen him before," replied Walpurga. "My father rowed
him across the lake, and so did my Hansei, too."

"Then, as we have known each other so long, let us improve our
acquaintance," replied the king. "And now go to the queen; but be
careful not to agitate her."

He dismissed her with a gracious inclination of the head and,
accompanied by Doctor Gunther and Countess Brinkenstein, whom they
found in attendance, she passed through several other rooms, the heavy
carpets of which deadened the sounds of their footsteps.

"Be careful not to agitate her." The words greatly troubled Walpurga.
Why should she provoke the queen to anger? for that was the only
meaning she could take from the word.

Although she did not know what they meant by the word, her being pushed
hither and thither, up and down, through passages and rooms without
number, encountering the glances of the courtiers by the way and, at
last, receiving the king's warning, had had the effect of agitating
her.

At last she stood at the threshold of a green apartment that appeared
to her like an enchanted room, hollowed out of some vast emerald. A
lamp with a green glass shade hung from the ceiling, and shed a soft,
fairy-like light on the room and its inmates. And there on the large,
canopied bed, with the glittering crown overhead, lay the queen.

Walpurga held her breath; a soft glow illumined the face of her who lay
there.

"Have you come?" asked a gentle voice.

"Yes, my queen, God greet you! Just keep yourself quiet and cheerful.
All has gone well with you, thank God!"

With these words, Walpurga advanced toward the bedside, and would not
suffer Doctor Gunther nor Countess Brinkenstein to keep her back. She
offered her hand to the queen. And thus two hands--one hardened by toil
and rough as the bark of a tree, the other as soft as the petal of a
lily--clasped each other.

"I thank you for having come. Were you glad to do so?"

"I was glad to come, but sorry to leave home."

"You surely love your child and your husband with all your heart."

"I'm my husband's wife, and my child's mother."

"And your mother nurses your child and cares for it with a loving
heart?" inquired the queen.

"The idea!" replied Walpurga.

The queen did not seem to know that her answer meant: "That's a matter
of course," and she therefore asked: "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, indeed; I understand German," replied Walpurga. "But Your Majesty
shouldn't speak so much. God willing, we'll be together in happiness
for many days to come. We'll arrange everything when we can look into
each other's eyes in broad daylight, and I'll do all I can to please
you and the child. I've got over my homesickness and now I must do my
duty. I'll be a good nurse to your child; don't let that worry you. And
now, good-night! Sleep well, and let nothing trouble you. And now let
me see our child."

"Breath of my breath, it lies here, sleeping by my side. How infinite
is God's grace, how marvelous are his works!"

Walpurga felt that some one was pulling at her dress, and hastily said:

"Good-night, dear queen. Put all idle thoughts away from you. This is
no time to busy yourself thinking. We'll have enough to think of when
the time comes. Good-night!"

"No, remain here! You must stay!" begged the queen.

"I must beg Your Majesty--" hurriedly interposed Doctor Gunther.

"Do leave her with me a little while," begged the queen, in childlike
tones. "I am sure it will do me no harm to talk with her. When she drew
near the bed, and I heard her voice, I felt as if a breath of Alpine
air, in all its dewy freshness, was being wafted toward me. Even now I
feel as if lying on a high mountain, from which I can look down into
the beautiful world."

"Your Majesty, such excitement may prove quite injurious."

"Very well; I will be calm. But do leave her with me a moment longer!
Let me have more light, so that I may see her."

The screen was removed from a lamp that stood on a side-table, and the
two mothers beheld each other, face to face.

"How beautiful you are!" exclaimed the queen.

"That doesn't matter any longer," replied Walpurga. "God be praised,
we've both got over having our heads turned by such nonsense. You're a
wife and mother, and so am I."

The screen fell again; the queen, taking Walpurga's hand in hers, said
in a gentle voice:

"Bend down to me, I want to kiss you--I must kiss you."

Walpurga did as she was bid, and the queen kissed her.

"You can go now. Keep yourself good and true," said the queen.

A tear of Walpurga's fell upon the face of the queen, who added:

"Don't weep! You, too, are a mother."

Unable to utter another word, Walpurga turned to go, and the queen
called after her.

"What is your name?"

"Walpurga," said Doctor Gunther, answering for her.

"And can you sing well?" asked the queen.

"They say so," replied Walpurga.

"Then sing often to my child, or 'our child,' as you call him.
Good-night!"

Doctor Gunther remained with the queen. It was some time before he
uttered a word. He felt that he must calm her excited feelings, and he
had a safe and simple remedy at command.

"I must request Your Majesty," said he, "to return my congratulations.
My daughter Cornelia, the wife of Professor Korn of the university, was
safely delivered of a little girl, at the very hour in which the crown
prince was born."

"I congratulate the child on having such a grandfather. You shall,
also, be the grandfather of our son."

"The congratulation that imposes a noble duty upon its recipient, is
the best that can be given," replied Gunther. "I thank you. But we must
now cease talking. Permit me to bid Your Majesty good-night!"

Gunther left the room. All was silent.

Instead of taking Walpurga back to the upper rooms, they had conducted
her to a well-furnished apartment on the other side of the palace,
where, to her great delight, she found Mademoiselle Kramer awaiting
her.

"The queen kissed me!" exclaimed she. "Oh, what an angel she is! I'd no
idea there were such creatures in the world."

Some time later, when the queen had fallen asleep, two women brought a
gilded cradle into Walpurga's room.

When they took the child from the bed, the queen, as if conscious of
what was being done, moved in her sleep.

Before taking the child to her bosom, Walpurga breathed upon it thrice.
It opened its eyes and looked at her, and then quickly closed them
again.

Throughout the palace, all was soon hushed in silence. Walpurga and the
child by her side were asleep. Mademoiselle Kramer sat up during the
night, and, in the antechamber on either side, there were doctors and
servants within call.




                              CHAPTER XI.


In the village by the lake, or, to speak more correctly, in the few
houses clustered near the Chamois inn, Walpurga's strange and sudden
departure caused great commotion.

All hurried toward the inn. The innkeeper assumed a wise air and
desired it to be understood that he knew far more than people gave him
credit for. The whole affair was, of course, of his planning; for had
it not been proven that his acquaintance included even the king
himself.

Immediately after Walpurga's departure, he urged Hansei to accompany
him to the Chamois, for he well knew that his presence there would
prove a far greater attraction than a band of musicians.

Hansei would not go at once, but promised to follow soon afterward. He
could not leave home just then.

He went through the whole house, from cellar to garret. Then he went
out into the stable, where, for a long while, he watched the cow
feeding. "Such a beast has a good time of it, after all," thought he;
"others have to provide for it, and wherever it finds a full crib, it
is at home."

He went into the room and, silently nodding to the grandmother, cast a
hurried glance at the slumbering child. He seated himself near the
table and, resting his elbows thereon, buried his face in his hands.

"It still goes," said he, looking up at the Black Forest clock that was
ticking on the wall. "She wound it up before she left."

He went out and sat down on the bench under the cherry-tree. The
starlings overhead were quite merry, and from the woods a cuckoo
called: "Yes, he goes away, too, and leaves his children to be brought
up by strangers."

Hansei laughed to himself, and looked about him. Had the wife really
gone? She must still be sitting there! How could those who belong
together be thus parted?

He kept staring at the seat next to him,--but she was not there.

Half the village had gathered before the garden gate. Young and old,
big and little, stood there, gazing at him.

Wastl (Sebastian), the weaver, who had for many years been a comrade of
Hansei's, and had worked with him in the forest, called out:

"God greet you, Hansei! Your bread has fallen with the buttered side
up."

Hansei muttered sullen thanks. Suddenly, there was a great peal of
laughter. No one knew who had been the first to utter the word
"he-nurse." It had been rapidly and quietly passed from one to another
through the crowd, until it at last reached Thomas, Zenza's son--a
bold, rawboned fellow, whose open shirt revealed a brawny chest.

"Walpurga's the crown prince's _she_-nurse, and Hansei's the
_he_-nurse."

Wastl opened the gate and entered the garden, the whole crowd following
at his heels. They went through garden, house and stable; peeped
through the windows, smelled at the violets on the window-shelf, and
sat down on the kindling-wood that lay under the shed. The house seemed
to have become the property of the whole village. When joy or sorrow
enters a home, all doors are open, and the rooms and passages become as
a public highway.

"What do they all want?" inquired Hansei of Wastl, who had sat down
beside him on the bench.

"Nothing! All they've come for is to see for themselves that the whole
thing's true, so they can tell others about it. But they're all pleased
with your good luck."

"My good luck! Well, I suppose it had to be," said Hansei, in a tone
scarcely suggestive of happiness. "Wastl, it seems as if nothing is to
go right with me. I'd just begun to think that everything would go on
smoothly as it had been doing, and now, all at once, I've got to climb
another mountain. But you're single and, of course, you can't know how
I feel."

"It's very good of you to be so fond of your wife."

"My wife? So fond?"

"I know how you must feel."

Hansei shook his head with an incredulous air.

"Cheer up!" said Wastl. "Many a husband would be glad to be rid of his
wife for a year."

"For a year."

"The longer the better, some would say," thought Wastl. "But your wife
will come back again and turn your cottage into a palace, and then
you'll be king number two!"

Hansei laughed loudly, although he was not in a laughing mood. He felt
as if he must go out into the forest, where he should neither hear nor
see anything of the world. Confound it all! Why did the wife leave? Was
it for this that we married and pledged ourselves to be one for life,
come weal come woe?

But Hansei could not get away. Half the village had gathered about him.
All spoke of his good-fortune. The owner of the great farm up the road,
he who was known as the Leithof bauer, even stopped his team at the
garden gate and alighted in order to shake hands with Hansei and wish
him joy.

"If you'd like to buy the meadow next to your garden, I'll sell it to
you. It's a little too far off for me," said the Leithof bauer. The
joiner who lived in the village, and who had long been anxious to
emigrate, quickly said:

"You'll do far better if you buy my house and farm. I'll let you have
them dirt cheap."

The starlings up in the tree could not out-chatter these people. Hansei
laughed heartily. Why, this is splendid! thought he. The whole world
comes to offer me house and farm, field and meadow.

"You were right, Walpurga!" said he suddenly. The people stared, first
at him and then at each other, and did not know what to make of him.

He stretched his limbs, as if awaking from sleep, and said:

"Many thanks, dear neighbors. If I can ever repay you, in joy or in
sorrow, I'll surely do so. But now, I'll make no change; no, I shant
move a nail in the house till my wife comes back."

"Spoken like a man, good and true," said the Leithof bauer, and greater
praise could befall no one, than to be thus spoken of by the wealthiest
farmer in the neighborhood.

"Would you like to look at my cow?" said Hansei, beckoning to the
Leithof bauer, who now seemed the only one on a level with himself.

The Leithof bauer thanked him, but had no time to stop. Before taking
his leave, he assured Hansei that he would willingly advise him how to
put out his money safely.

His money? Where could it be? Hansei trembled with fear and pressed his
hands to his head--he had lost the roll of money! Where was it? He
plunged his hand into his pocket. The roll was still there! And now
that his hand again clutched it, he was quite affable to those who
still remained, and had a kind word for every one.

At last, the villagers had all left, and Hansei could think of nothing
better to do than to climb up into his cherry-tree--the true friend
that would never desert him, and would give as long as it had aught to
give.

He plucked and ate lots of cherries, while he looked at the telegraph
wire, and thought: It runs into the palace and I could talk to my wife
through it, if I only knew how. He bent forward until he could touch
the wire, and having done so, quickly withdrew his hand, as if
frightened.

Suddenly he heard a voice calling to him:

"Hansei! where are you?

"Here I am."

"Come along!" was the answer. It was the priest who had called to him.

Hansei hurried down from the tree and now received the greatest honor
that had yet been paid him. The priest beckoned to him, and Hansei
approached, hat in hand.

"I wish you joy!" said the priest. "Come along to the inn; the host of
the Chamois has opened a fresh tap."

Hansei looked at himself to see what had come over him. To think of the
priest's inviting him to walk with him, and to drink in his company,
too!

He received the new honor with dignity. While he walked with the
priest, the people whom they met along the road would lift their hats
and he would acknowledge their greetings quite affably.

In the large room at the Chamois, where every one was either talking to
or of him, he felt so happy that he opened the roll of money, without,
however, removing it from his pocket. He meant to offer the first
piece to the priest, so that he might say a mass for Walpurga. But the
pieces were so large. They were all crown thalers. And so Hansei merely
said:

"I wish you'd say a mass for my wife and child. I'll pay you."

It was already twilight. The guests gradually departed. But Hansei
remained sitting there, as if rooted to the spot. At last, he and the
inn-keeper were the only ones in the room.

"Now that they've all had a talk at you," said the innkeeper, "you may
as well listen to me. No one means it as kindly with you as I do, and
I'm not a fool, either. Do you know what would suit you, Hansei, and
would suit your wife still better?"

"What?"

"This is the place for you,--you and your wife! I've been landlord long
enough. When your wife comes back, you can say 'good-night' to your
cottage and settle yourselves here, where you'll find a good living for
your children and your grandchildren. We won't talk about it now; but
don't commit yourself to anything else. I'm your best friend; I think
I've proved that, this very day. I don't care to make a penny by the
affair--quite the contrary."

Oh, how kind they are when all goes well with one!

Hansei sat there for a long while, looking into his glass, and
endeavoring to satisfy himself as to who he really was. Then he began
to think of his wife again: where she might be, and how it was with
her. If he could only go to sleep that very moment and remain asleep
until the year was out; but to sit and wait.... He looked up at the
clock; it was just striking ten.

"How often you'll have to strike ten before we meet again," thought he
to himself.

Hansei almost staggered as he walked through the village. The people
who were sitting at their doors, or standing about, saluted him and
wished him joy, and he well knew that, far away among the mountains,
all were speaking of his good luck. He felt as if he must cut himself
into a thousand pieces in order to thank them all.

He was standing near his garden and looking at the hedge. How long was
it since he, who had never before known a spot which he could call his
home, had prized himself as ever so happy in the possession of a little
property! And now the grandmother was sitting in the house, and he
heard her singing his child to sleep:

           "If all the streams were naught but wine,
            And all the hills were gems so fine,
            And all were mine:
            Yet would my darling treasure be
            Dearer far than all to me.

           "And since we needs must part,
            One more kiss before I start.
            Thou remain'st, but I must leave,
            And parting sore the heart doth grieve;
            But, though life drags, we'll not despond,
            For longer far is the life beyond."

"But though life drags, we'll not despond, For longer far is the life
beyond." The words sank deep into Hansei's heart, and the fireflies
flitting about in the darkness, or resting on fence and grass, drew his
glance hither and thither, as if they were some new and startling
phenomenon. Hansei's waking dream continued for some time, and when he,
at last, passed his hand over his face, it was wet with the dew. He
felt as if some one must carry him into the house and put him to bed.
But a sudden turn caused the roll of money to touch his hip, and he was
wide awake again. He walked far out along the road, in the same
direction that Walpurga had gone, and at last reached the pile of
stones on which she had rested a fortnight ago. There was still some
hay lying there. He sat down upon it and gazed out at the broad lake,
over which the moon shed its bright rays. It was just as quiet as it
had been a fortnight before; but that was in the daytime, and now it
was night. "Where can my wife be now?" said he, springing to his feet,
so that he might run to her, though it took the whole night. "How glad
she will be to have me come to the palace the very first morning she is
there!" With giant strides he hurried on. But he could not help asking
himself: "How will it be if you have to leave again to-morrow, and what
will the folks at home say, and what will grandmother think, left all
alone with the child?"

And yet he walked on. Suddenly, he became alarmed at the thought of the
money on his person. The neighborhood was safe enough, to be sure. It
was long since any crime had been heard of in that region. But still
there might be robbers, who, after helping themselves to his treasure,
would murder him, and throw him into the lake.... Tortured by fear, he
hurriedly turned about and ran toward home.

Advancing toward him, he beheld a figure of threatening aspect. He
grasped the knife in his belt--"If there's only one, and no other's
lying in wait, I'm man enough to defend myself," thought he.

The figure advanced, greeting him from afar. The voice was that of a
woman. Could Walpurga have--No, that were impossible.

The figure halted. Hansei advanced toward it and said: "Oh! is it you,
Esther, out on the road so late?"

"And is this you, Hansei?" said Black Esther, laughing heartily. "I
thought it was some drunken fellow, because I heard you, a great way
off, talking to yourself. But, of course, now you're lonely enough, I
suppose."

"Do you walk in the woods so late at night, and all alone?"

"I must go alone, if no one goes with me," said Black Esther, with a
laugh that fell harshly upon the silent night. There was a pause.
Hansei could hear the beating of his heart. Perhaps it was caused by
his rapid walking.

"I must go home," said he, at last. "Good-night."

Laying her hand on his shoulder, Black Esther said:

"Hansei, I'm not used to begging and, if it were day, I'd rather starve
than ask you for anything. But now, you've a good heart and are doing
well; give me something, or lend it to me. I'll give it back to you
again." She spoke so persuasively that Hansei trembled. Her hand still
rested upon him; he was about to feel in his pocket for the crown
thaler he had saved from the priest, when he suddenly pushed her hand
from his shoulder, and said: "I'll give you something another time." He
then ran off toward home. Her shrill laughter rang in his ears, and it
sounded as if hundreds of voices were answering from the rocks. His
hair stood on end and he felt, by turns, as if shivering with cold and
burning with fever. She must surely have been one of the forest demons,
who had merely assumed the form of Black Esther. And there really were
such beings, for the old forest inspector had, on his deathbed,
confessed to having seen one. They wander about when the moon is at its
full. Instead of wearing clothes, they merely wind their long hair
about their bodies, and on such a night as this, when the mother is
away from her child, they can--

Hansei had never before run so fast, or found the road by the lake so
long, as on this very night.

He reached home at last and, as if to assure himself that the house was
still there, touched the walls with his hands. Nothing had been
disturbed. All was as he had left it.

He went indoors. The light in the room was still burning. The
grandmother was sitting on a low stool, and had the child on her lap.
With one hand, she hid her eyes--they were red with weeping; with the
other, she motioned Hansei to step lightly.

Hansei did not observe that there had been, and still was, something
wrong with his mother-in-law. He had taken a seat behind the table, was
thinking of no one but himself, and felt as tired and ill at ease as if
he had just returned from a long and dangerous journey. He was even
obliged to remind himself that, although he was at home, it was no
longer the right sort of a home. The grandmother placed the child in
the cradle and sat down, resting her chin upon her closed hand.
Thoughts far different from Hansei's had passed through her mind. Stasi
had remained with the grandmother for some time after Hansei left the
house. How it would fare with Walpurga, was a topic of but short
duration with them; for what could they say, or know, about that? When
it began to grow dark, Stasi spoke of going, and promised to come again
the next day. The grandmother nodded assent. She preferred being alone,
for then there would be nothing to prevent her thinking of her child.
Her prayers followed Walpurga; but the words flowed forth so easily
that her mind was elsewhere much of the time. Her first thought was:
Walpurga must be saying the same prayer and, although every word
lengthens the distance between us, we are together in spirit,
nevertheless. She felt happy that Walpurga had turned out so well in
all things, and that she could be depended upon. It was hard to be
among strangers; but they were men and women, after all. At times, her
heart would misgive her, lest Walpurga should not be able to hold out
to the end. She has lots of good notions--if she only thinks of them at
the right time. "For my sake, if for nothing else, you'll keep yourself
pure," said she aloud, as she ended her prayer. All at once, she felt
so lonely and forlorn. She had never passed a night without Walpurga,
and, looking up at the stars, she wished it were day again. Hansei
might just as well have remained at home; still, it was a great honor
to be invited by the priest. He'll surely send home a schoppen of wine
to gladden grandmother's heart; and if it be only half a schoppen,
it'll show his good heart. Her tongue seemed as if parched; she
thirsted for the wine, and listened for a long while, in the vain hope
that she might hear the footsteps of the innkeeper's servant, bringing
the bottle under her apron. At last, pity for herself made her
indescribably miserable, and she burst into tears. Oh, that her husband
were still alive! A poor widow woman is always expected to be at hand,
but no one thinks of how it fares with her. Tears came to her relief;
for, after a little while, she said to herself: "What an awful sinner
you are! Isn't it enough to have clothes and food and a home, and never
to hear a harsh word? You ought to be thankful that you're still active
enough to be of use to others."

As if ashamed of herself, she turned away, wiped the tears from her
furrowed face, and then sang cheerful songs to the child. Then she
waited silently, until Hansei, at last, returned. And thus he found
her, seated beside the cradle and resting her chin upon her clenched
hand.

"Where have you been so long?" asked the grandmother, in a low voice.

"I hardly know, myself."

"Walpurga must be in bed by this time."

"Very likely; they can travel fast, four-in-hand."

"Do you hear the cow lowing? The poor beast isn't used to be alone and,
this very evening, the butcher drove her calf by the stable. It's awful
to hear her moan. Do go and look after her."

Hansei went out to the stable, and the cow became perfectly quiet. He
walked away, and she began lowing again. He returned and spoke to her
kindly. As long as he talked to her and kept his hand upon her back,
she was quiet; but as soon as he left her, she would low more piteously
than before. In despair, he was constantly going back and forth,
between the room and the stable. He returned several times, gave her
some fodder, and then sat down on a bundle of hay. At last the cow lay
down and slept, and Hansei, overcome with fatigue, also fell asleep.
Indeed, few had ever gone through so much in one day as our poor Hansei
had.




                              CHAPTER XII.


When Walpurga awoke next morning, she fancied herself at home, and
looked at the strange surroundings as if it were all a dream that would
not vanish at her bidding. She gradually realized what had happened.
Closing her eyes again, she said her prayers and then boldly looked
about her; the same sun that shone on the cottage by the lake, shone on
the palace, too.

Full of fresh courage, she arose.

She lay at the window for a long while, looking at the scene so strange
to her.

She saw nothing of the bustling city. The palace square, encircled by
thick, bushy orange-trees, was far removed from the noise of the
streets. At the palace gate, two soldiers, with their muskets at rest,
were seen marching up and down.

But Walpurga's thoughts wandered homeward. In her mind's eye, she saw
the cottage by the lake and all within its walls. In fancy, she heard
the crackling of the wood with which her mother kindled the fire, and
saw the lamp which she took from the kitchen-shelf. We have milk in the
house, for we've got a cow. Mother will be glad to go milking again.
I'm sure they never light a fire at home without thinking of me. And
the chattering starlings, up in the cherry-tree, are saying:

"Our goodwife is gone; a cow has taken her place."

Walpurga smiled and went on thinking to herself: My Hansei's
oversleeping himself this morning. If you didn't call him, he'd sleep
till noon; he never wakes of himself. She hears her mother calling:
"Get up, Hansei; the sun is burning a hole in your bed!" He gets up and
washes his face at the pump, and now she sees them at their meal; the
child is fed with good milk. If I'd only taken a good look at the cow!
And now Hansei is getting fodder for it from the innkeeper. If he only
doesn't let the rogue cheat him; and Hansei will feel more forlorn than
the child; but, thank God, he has work enough to keep him busy. It's
fishing time, and so he doesn't go into the woods. I see him jump into
his boat; what a noise he makes! The oars are plashing, and away he
rows to catch what fish he can.

Walpurga would have gone on picturing to herself her home at noon and
at evening. Suddenly, she felt as if she had lost her reason. Absence
and death are almost one and the same. You can have no idea of how it
will be one hour after your death; you cannot imagine yourself out of
the world. Her head swam and, as if startled by an apparition, she
turned to Mademoiselle Kramer, and said:

"Let's talk!"

Mademoiselle Kramer required no second hint, and told Walpurga that
every one in the palace knew of the queen's having kissed her the night
before, and that it would be in all the newspapers of the next day.

"Pshaw!" said Walpurga; whereupon Mademoiselle Kramer declared that,
although it made no difference in her case, it was highly improper to
answer in that way, and told her, also, that she ought always express
herself distinctly and in a respectful manner.

Walpurga looked up and listened, as if waiting for Mademoiselle Kramer
to continue and, at last, said: "My dear father once said almost the
very same thing to me; but I was too young to understand it then. All I
meant to say was, that the city people must have very little to do, if
they can make a fuss about such a matter"--mentally concluding her
remarks with another "pshaw!"

The little prince awoke. Walpurga took him up and speedily put him to
sleep, while she sang in a clear voice:

           "Ah, blissful is the tender tie
              That binds me, love, to thee,
            And swiftly speed the hours by
              When thou art near to me."

When she had finished her song, and had placed the child in the cradle,
she looked toward the door and beheld the king and Doctor Gunther
standing there.

"You sing finely," said the king.

"Pshaw!" said Walpurga, and, acting as her own interpreter, she quickly
added, while casting a hurried glance at Mademoiselle Kramer: "It's
good enough for home use, but not particularly fine."

The king and Doctor Gunther were delighted with the appearance of the
child.

"The day on which one beholds his child for the first time is a
red-letter day," observed the king; and Walpurga, as if to confirm what
he had said, added:

"Yes, indeed; that makes one look at the world with different eyes. His
majesty told the truth that time."

Although her remark caused the king to smile, it was received in
silence. Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, he soon left the room. After
they had gone. Mademoiselle Kramer endeavored, as delicately as
possible, to impress Walpurga with the importance of observing the
first commandment:

"You must not speak to their majesties, unless they ask you a
question."

"That's sensible," exclaimed Walpurga, to the great surprise of
Mademoiselle Kramer. "That prevents you from hearing anything out of
the way. What a clever idea! I won't forget that."

During breakfast, in the pavilion, it was plainly to be seen that
Mademoiselle Kramer, and perhaps Walpurga, too, had spoken truly. The
various groups on the veranda and under the orange-trees were engaged
in what seemed to be confidential conversation. After they had sounded
each other, and had satisfied themselves that they could safely indulge
in scandal, the common topic was the manner in which the queen's
sentimentality had manifested itself in her behavior toward the nurse.
It was agreed that this mawkishness was an unfortunate legacy from the
house of ----. Some even went so far as to say that Countess
Brinkenstein was quite ill with anger at the queen's disregard of
etiquette.

"The queen's conduct deprives her favors of their value," said an
elderly court lady, who must have had at least a pound and a half of
false hair on her head.

"Nothing is so great a bore as mawkish sensibility," observed another
one of the ladies attached to the palace. She was corpulent, and
piously inclined withal. As if to cover her ill-natured remark with the
mantle of charity, she added:

"The queen isn't much more than a child, and really means well at
heart."

She had thus made herself safe with both parties--those who praised,
and those who abused the queen.

"You look as if you had slept but little," said an elderly lady,
addressing a very young and pale-looking one.

"You are right," sighed the latter, in reply. "I sat up to read the
last volume of ----" giving the name of a recent unequivocal French
novel--"and finished it at a single sitting. I shall return the book to
you to-day. It is very interesting."

"Please let me have it next," resounded from several quarters at once.

The pious lady, who had, indeed, read the novel in secret and was loth
to talk of such subjects, changed the conversation by introducing the
topic of Walpurga. As the latest piece of news, she acquainted them
with the report that the nurse could sing beautifully.

"Who sings beautifully?" inquired Countess Irma, joining the group.

"This will interest you, dear Wildenort. You will be able to learn many
new songs from Walpurga, and accompany them on the zither."

"I'll wait until we are in the country again. A peasant woman seems
strangely out of place in a palace. When does the court return to the
country?"

"Not for six weeks."

There was much talk about Walpurga. One lady maintained that Doctor
Gunther was a native of the Highlands, and that it was only through his
intriguing that a nurse had to be brought from the same region; that he
was constantly surrounding himself with allies, and was clever enough
to know that this person would exert a great influence upon the queen.
They also spoke of the doctor's love of intrigue, and of his affecting
to sympathize with the queen in all her extravagant fancies. Of one
thing they all felt assured: that it was impossible to retain the favor
of the court for so long a time, by fair means alone.

"The doctor isn't so very old," remarked a very thin lady. "He is only
a little over fifty. I think he must have dyed his hair white, in order
to appear venerable before his time."

Loud laughter greeted this sally.

Before breakfast, the ladies and gentlemen were in separate groups. A
knot of courtiers were discussing the telegrams which had been sent out
to various governments, and to which, in some instances, replies had
already been received.

It was not until after breakfast that a council of the royal household
was to determine who, besides the queen's parents, should be invited to
stand as sponsors. It was even reported that the christening would be
celebrated by a special papal nuncio, assisted by the bishop.

Countess Irma's brother, the king's aid-de-camp, again diverted the
conversation from such lofty topics back to Walpurga. He extolled her
beauty and her droll ways, and they smacked their lips, when they spoke
of the queen's kiss. The aid-de-camp had given vent to a joke on the
subject, at which they laughed uproariously.

"The king!" suddenly whispered several of the gentlemen.

They separated and, while making their obeisance, arranged themselves
in two rows. The king, acknowledging their salutation, passed between
the rows and entered the hall of Diana, where breakfast was served. The
frescoes on the ceiling represented the goddess with her hunting train,
and had been painted by a pupil of Rubens. The lord steward handed a
packet of telegrams to the king, who instructed him to open them, and
inform him when they contained anything more than congratulations.

They now sat down to breakfast.

The company was not so cheerful and unconstrained as it had been at the
summer palace. Indeed, no one had yet recovered from the excitement of
the previous night, and conversation was carried on in a quiet tone.

"Countess Irma," said the king, "I commend Walpurga to you; she will be
sure to please you. You will be able to learn some beautiful songs from
her, and to teach her new ones."

"Thanks, Your Majesty! If Your Majesty would only deign to order the
first lady of the bedchamber to grant me access, at all times, to the
apartments of His Royal Highness the crown prince."

"Pray see to it, dear Rittersfeld!" said the king, turning to the lord
steward.

Countess Irma, who sat at the lower end of the table, received the
congratulations of all. Walpurga had become the sole topic of
conversation.

The morning papers were brought to the king. He glanced through them
hurriedly and, throwing them aside with an angry air, said:

"This babbling press! The queen's kiss is already in all the
newspapers." His face darkened; it was evident that, as the fact itself
had displeased him, the publicity given it was doubly annoying. After a
time, he said:

"I desire you, gentlemen and ladies, to see to it that the queen does
not hear of this." He rose quickly, and left the apartment.

The breakfast party lingered for some time, and the pious lady could
now openly join the ranks of the scandalmongers. The mantle of charity
was no longer necessary--it was very evident that the king had already
tired of his sentimental wife.

If Countess Irma--? Who could tell but what this was part of a
deep-laid plan to give her free access to the crown prince's
apartments? The king could meet her there--and who knows but that--

They were quite ingenious in the malicious conjectures which they
whispered to each other with great caution and circumspection. For a
while, at least, Walpurga, the queen and even the crown prince were
completely forgotten.




                             CHAPTER XIII.


"There, my boy! Now you've seen the sun. May you see it for seven and
seventy years to come, and when they've run their course, may the Lord
grant you a new lease of life. Last night, they lit millions of lamps
for your sake. But they were nothing to the sun up in heaven, which the
Lord himself lighted for you this very morning. Be a good boy, always,
so that you may deserve to have the sun shine on you. Yes, now the
angel's whispering to you. Laugh while you sleep! That's right. There's
one angel belongs to you on earth, and that's your mother! And you're
mine, too! You're mine, indeed!"

Thus spake Walpurga, her voice soft, yet full of emotion, while she
gazed into the face of the child that lay on her lap. Her soul was
already swayed by that mysterious bond of affection which never fails
to develop itself in the heart of the foster-mother. It is a noble
trait in human nature that we love those on whom we can confer a
kindness. Their whole life gradually becomes interwoven with our own.

Walpurga became oblivious of herself and of all that was dear to her in
the cottage by the lake. She was now needed here where a young life had
been assigned to her loving charge.

She looked up at Mademoiselle Kramer, with beaming eyes, and met a
joyful glance in return.

"It seems to me," said Walpurga, "that a palace is just like a church.
One has only good and pious thoughts here; and all the people are so
kind and frank."

Mademoiselle Kramer suddenly smiled and replied:

"My dear child--"

"Don't call me 'child'! I'm not a child! I'm a mother!"

"But here, in the great world, you are only a child. A court is a
strange place. Some go hunting, others go fishing; one builds, another
paints; one studies a _rôle_, another a piece of music; a dancer learns
a new step, an author writes a new book. Every one in the land is doing
something,--cooking or baking, drilling or practicing, writing,
painting, or dancing--simply in order that the king and queen may be
entertained."

"I understand you," said Walpurga, and Mademoiselle Kramer continued:

"My family has been in the service of the court for sixteen
generations";--six would have been the right number, but sixteen
sounded so much better;--"my father is the governor of the summer
palace, and I was born there. I know all about the court, and can teach
you a great deal."

"And I'll be glad to learn," interposed Walpurga.

"Do you imagine that every one is kindly disposed toward you? Take my
word for it, a palace contains people of all sorts, good and bad. All
the vices abound in such a place. And there are many other matters of
which you have no idea and of which you will, I trust, ever remain
ignorant. But all you meet are wondrous polite. Try to remain just as
you now are, and, when you leave the palace, let it be as the same
Walpurga you were when you came here."

Walpurga stared at her in surprise. Who could change her?

Word came that the queen was awake and desired Walpurga to bring the
crown prince to her.

Accompanied by Doctor Gunther, Mademoiselle Kramer and two
waiting-women, she proceeded to the queen's bedchamber. The queen lay
there, calm and beautiful, and, with a smile of greeting, turned her
face toward those who had entered. The curtains had been partially
drawn aside and a broad, slanting ray of light shone into the
apartment, which seemed still more peaceful than during the breathless
silence of the previous night.

"Good-morning!" said the queen, with a voice full of feeling. "Let me
have my child!" She looked down at the babe that rested in her arms and
then, without noticing any one in the room, lifted her glance on high
and faintly murmured:

"This is the first time I behold my child in the daylight!"

All were silent; it seemed as if there was naught in the apartment
except the broad slanting ray of light that streamed in at the window.

"Have you slept well?" inquired the queen. Walpurga was glad that the
queen had asked a question, for now she could answer. Casting a hurried
glance at Mademoiselle Kramer, she said:

"Yes, indeed! Sleep's the first, the last, and the best thing in the
world."

"She's clever," said the queen, addressing Doctor Gunther in French.

Walpurga's heart sank within her. Whenever she heard them speak French,
she felt as if they were betraying her; as if they had put on an
invisible cap, like that worn by the goblins in the fairy tale, and
could thus speak without being seen.

"Did the prince sleep well?" asked the queen.

Walpurga passed her hand over her face, as if to brush away a spider
that had been creeping there. The queen doesn't speak of her "child" or
her "son," but only of "the crown prince."

Walpurga answered:

"Yes, quite well, thank God! That is, I couldn't hear him, and I only
wanted to say that I'd like to act toward the--" she could not say "the
prince"--"that is, toward him, as I'd do with my own child. We began
right on the very first day. My mother taught me that. Such a child has
a will of its own from the very start, and it won't do to give way to
it. It won't do to take it from the cradle, or to feed it, whenever it
pleases; there ought to be regular times for all those things. It'll
soon get used to that, and it won't harm it either, to let it cry once
in a while. On the contrary, that expands the chest."

"Does he cry?" asked the queen.

The infant answered the question for itself, for it at once began to
cry most lustily.

"Take him and quiet him," begged the queen.

The king entered the apartment before the child had stopped crying.

"He will have a good voice of command," said he, kissing the queen's
hand.

Walpurga quieted the child, and she and Mademoiselle Kramer were sent
back to their apartments.

The king informed the queen of the dispatches that had been received,
and of the sponsors who had been decided upon. She was perfectly
satisfied with all the arrangements that had been made.

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.

Countess Brinkenstein, whose appearance was even more austere than on
the first evening, was engrossed with her official duties; this was no
time for her to be ill.

She cautioned Walpurga, who walked beside her, to be very careful how
she carried the prince, and earnestly enjoined her not to withdraw her
arms until she felt quite certain that the prince was safely in his
godfather's arms.

"Of course I won't; I'm not that stupid," said Walpurga.

"I require no answer from you." Countess Brinkenstein was vexed at
Walpurga. She was indeed displeased with the queen, who, she thought,
was spoiling the poor servant, but found it more convenient to vent her
resentment upon Walpurga than upon so exalted a personage as her
majesty.

The various groups were chatting and laughing in as careless a tone as
if they were in a ball-room instead of a church.

The lord steward, who had stationed himself at the altar, inquired
whether all were in readiness.

"Yes," was answered from various quarters, amid much laughter.

Walpurga looked up at the image of the Virgin, which she had seen by
the light of the everlasting lamp on the evening of her arrival,--it
was the first time she saw it by daylight--and said: "Thou, too, must
look on while they rehearse." She now fully understood Mademoiselle
Kramer's remark that, for royalty, everything must be arranged in
advance. But was it right to do so with sacred matters? It must be,
thought she, or they wouldn't do it. The court chaplain was there too,
but not in his ecclesiastical robes. She saw him taking a pinch from
the golden snuff-box of the lord steward, with whom he was talking just
as if they were in the street.

And so this is the rehearsal, thought Walpurga to herself, when
Countess Brinkenstein approached and said that, as she now knew her
place for the morrow, she might go. She also ordered Walpurga to wear
white cotton gloves, and said that she would send her several pairs.

Walpurga went out by way of the throne-room and the picture-gallery.
Without looking about her, she walked through numerous apartments, and
suddenly found herself standing before a large, dark room. The door was
open, but she could not see where it led to. She turned in alarm, for
she had lost her way. All was silent as death. She looked out of the
window and saw a street that she had never seen before. She knew not
where she was, and hurried on; from a distance, she could see strange
men and beasts and places on the walls, and suddenly she uttered a
shriek of terror, for the devil himself, black as pitch, came toward
her, gnashing his teeth.

"O Lord! Forgive me! I'll never be proud and vain again! I'll be good
and honest," she cried aloud, wringing her hands.

"What are you making such a noise about? who are you?" exclaimed the
devil.

"I'm Walpurga, from the lake; and I've a child and husband and mother,
at home. I was brought here to be the crown prince's nurse, but indeed,
I didn't want to come."

"Indeed! and so you're the nurse. I rather like your looks."

"But I don't want you, or any one else, to like my looks. I've a
husband of my own and want nothing to do with other men."

The black fellow laughed heartily.

"Then what were you doing in my master's apartments?"

"Who's your master? I've nothing to do with him. I and all good spirits
praise God the Lord! Speak! What is it you want of me?"

"Oh, you stupid! My master is the queen's brother. I'm his _valet de
chambre_. We arrived here last evening."

Walpurga could not understand what it all meant. Luckily for her, at
that moment, the duke and the king came out of the apartment.

Addressing the Moor in English, the duke inquired what had happened;
answering in the same tongue, the Moor said that the peasant woman had
taken him for the devil incarnate; upon hearing which, the duke and the
king laughed heartily.

"What brings you here?" inquired the king.

"I lost my way, after leaving the chapel," replied Walpurga. "My child
will cry. Do please show me the way back to him."

The king instructed one of the lackeys to conduct her to her
apartments. While going away she overheard the uncle, who was to be
chief sponsor, saying: "What a fine milch-cow you've brought from the
Highlands!"

When she had returned to her room, and again beheld herself in the
large mirror, she said:

"You're nothing but a cow that can chatter, and is dressed up in
clothes! Well, it served you right."




                             CHAPTER XVII.


The night was a bad one. The crown prince suffered because of the
fright which the Moor had given his foster-mother. Doctor Gunther sat
up all night, in the adjoining room, so as to be within ready call, and
was constant in his inquiries as to Walpurga and the child. He
instructed Mademoiselle Kramer never again to allow the nurse to leave
the room without his permission.

To Walpurga this imprisonment was welcome, as she wished to have
nothing more to do with the whole world; for the child filled her soul
and, while she lay on the sofa, she vowed to God that nothing else
should enter her mind. She looked at the new clothes that were spread
out on the large table and shook her head; she no longer cared for the
trumpery. Indeed, she almost hated it, for had it not led her into
evil? and had not the punishment quickly followed?

Walpurga's sleep was broken and fitful, and whenever she closed her
eyes, she beheld herself pursued by the Moor. It was not until near
daybreak, that she and the child slept soundly. The great ceremony
could therefore take place at the appointed time.

Baum brought the beautiful pillows and the brocaded coverlet
embroidered with two wild animals. While passing Walpurga, he softly
whispered:

"Keep a brave heart, so that you don't get sick again; for if you do,
they will discharge you at once. I mean well by you, and that's why I
say so."

He said this without moving a feature, for Mademoiselle Kramer was to
know nothing of it.

Walpurga looked after him in amazement; and Baum, indeed, presented
quite an odd appearance, in his gray linen undress uniform.

"And so they'll send you away when you get sick," thought she to
herself. "I'm a cow. They're right, There's no longer any room in the
stable for a cow that's barren."

"I and thou and the miller's cow--" said she, to the prince, as she
again took him to her bosom, while she laughed and sang:

                 "Cock a doodle doo!
                  The clock strikes two;
                  The clock strikes four.
                  While all sleep and snore.

                 "Be it palace or cot,
                  It matters not,
                  Though they cook sour beets,
                  Or eat almonds and sweets--
                  As long as they care
                  For the little ones there."

Walpurga would have said and sung much more that day, were it not for
the constant hurrying to and fro in the prince's apartments. Countess
Brinkenstein came in person, and said to Walpurga:

"Have you not all sorts of secret charms which you place under the
pillow for the child's sake?"

"Yes, a twig of mistletoe will do, or a nail dropped from a horse-shoe;
I'd get them quick enough if I were at home; but I've nothing of the
sort here."

Walpurga felt quite proud while telling what she knew of the secret
charms; but grew alarmed when she looked at Countess Brinkenstein and
saw that her face wore an expression of displeasure.

"Mademoiselle Kramer," said she, "you will be held responsible if this
peasant woman attempts to practice any of her superstitious nonsense
with the child."

Not a word of this was addressed to Walpurga, who had persuaded herself
into believing that she was the first person in the palace, and now,
for the first time, experienced the mortification of being ignored,
just as if she were nothing more than empty air.

"I won't lose my temper, in spite of you. And I won't do you the favor
to get sick, so that you may send me off," muttered Walpurga, laughing
to herself, while the countess withdrew.

And now followed a beautiful and happy hour. Two maidens came, who
dressed the prince. Walpurga also allowed them to dress her, and
greatly enjoyed being thus waited upon.

All the bells, throughout the city, were ringing; the chimes of the
palace tower joined in the merry din, and almost caused the vast
building to tremble. And now Baum came. He looked magnificent. The
richly-embroidered uniform with the silver lace, the scarlet vest
embroidered with gold, the short, gray-plush breeches, the white
stockings, the buckled shoes--all seemed as if they had come from some
enchanted closet, and Baum well knew that he was cutting a grand
figure. He smiled when Walpurga stared at him, and knew what that look
meant. He could afford to wait.

"One should not attempt to reap too soon," had been a favorite saying
of Baroness Steigeneck's valet, and he knew what he was about.

Baum announced a chamberlain and two pages, who entered soon afterward.

Heavy steps and words of command were heard from the adjoining room.
The doors were opened by a servant and a number of cuirassiers entered
the room. They were a detachment from the regiment to which the prince
would belong, as soon as he had received his name.

The procession that accompanied the prince moved at the appointed hour.
The chamberlain walked in advance and then came Mademoiselle Kramer and
Walpurga, the pages bringing up the rear. It was fortunate for Walpurga
that Baum was at her side, for she felt so timid and bashful, that she
looked about her as if imploring aid. Baum understood it all and
whimpered to her: "Keep up your courage, Walpurga!" She merely nodded
her thanks, for she could not utter a word. Bearing the child on her
arms, she passed through the crowd of cuirassiers who, with drawn
swords and glittering coats of mail, stood there like so many statues.
Suddenly, she thought of where she had been last Sunday at the same
hour. If Hansei could only see this, too. And Franz, tailor Schenck's
son, is in the cuirassiers--perhaps he, too, is among those lifeless
ones; but they must be alive, for their eyes sparkle. She looked up,
but did not recognize the tailor's son, although he was in the line.

The prince's train, with its escort, passed on to the so-called grand
center gallery, where the procession was forming.

Walpurga had been told to seat herself with the prince on the lowest
step of the throne, and when she looked about her she beheld a sea of
splendor and beauty. There were richly embroidered costumes, lovely
women, their heads adorned with flowers, and jewels that sparkled like
dew-drops on the meadow at early morn.

"Good-morning, Walpurga! Pray don't rise," said a pleasant voice,
addressing her. It was Countess Irma. But she had scarcely commenced
speaking to her, when the lord steward thrice struck the floor with his
gold-headed stick, the diamonds on which sparkled brightly.

A train of halberdiers, wearing gay plumes on their helmets, marched in
from a side apartment. And then the king came. He carried his helmet in
his left hand and at his side. His face was radiant with happiness.

At his side walked the duchess, a diamond crown on her head, and with
two pages bearing her long silk train. She was followed by a numerous
and brilliant suite.

Irma had hastened to her appropriate place. The bells were slowly
tolling, and the procession moved. At the entrance of the palace
chapel, the duchess took the child from the nurse and carried it up to
the altar, where priests, clad in splendid robes, were awaiting it, and
where countless lights were burning.

Walpurga followed, feeling as if bereft--not only as if the clothes had
been torn from her body, but as if the body had been rent from her
soul. The child cried aloud, as if aware of what was taking place, but
its voice was drowned by the tones of the organ and choir. The whole
church was filled with a mighty volume of sound, which descended from
the gallery and was echoed back from the floor beneath, like sullen,
muttering thunder. Involuntarily, Walpurga fell on her knees at the
altar--there was no need to order her to do so.

Choir, organ and orchestra burst forth with a mighty volume of sound,
and Walpurga, overwhelmed with awe and surprise, imagined that the end
of the world had come and that the painted angels on the ceiling,--aye,
the very pillars, too--were swelling the heavenly harmonies.

Suddenly all was silent again.

The child received its names. One would not suffice: there were eight;
a whole section of the calendar had been emptied for its benefit.

But from that moment until she reached her room, Walpurga knew nothing
of what had happened.

When she found herself alone with Mademoiselle Kramer, she asked:

"Well, and what am I to call my prince?"

"None of us know. He has three names until he succeeds to the throne,
when he himself selects one, under which he reigns, and which is
stamped on the coins."

"I've something to tell you," said Walpurga, "and mind you don't forget
it. You must send me the first ducat you have stamped with your name
and your picture! See! he gives me his hand on it!" cried she,
exultingly, when the child stretched out its little hand as if to grasp
hers. "Oh, you dear Sunday child! Let the first lady of the bedchamber
say it's superstition--it's true, for all. I'm a cow and you're a
Sunday child, and Sunday children understand the language of the
beasts. But that's only once a year--at midnight on Christmas eve. But
as you're a prince, I'm sure you can do more than the rest."

Walpurga was called into the queen's apartment, the dazzling beauty of
which suggested a glittering cavern in fairy-land. All was quiet; here
nothing was heard of the noisy, bustling crowd overhead. The queen
said:

"On that table you will find a roll containing a hundred gold pieces.
It is your christening present from my brother and the other sponsors.
Does it make you happy?"

"Oh, queen! If the lips on these gold pieces could speak, the hundred
together couldn't tell you how happy I am. It's too much! Why, you
could buy half our village with it! With that much you could buy--"

"Don't excite yourself! Keep calm! Come here, and I'll give you
something else, for myself. May this little ring always remind you of
me, and may your hand thus be as if it were mine, doing good to the
child."

"Oh my queen! How happy it must make you to be able to speak right out
when your heart is full of kind thoughts, and to have it in your power
to do so many great and good actions; besides, God must love you very
much, to permit so much good to be done by your hand! I thank you with
all my heart! And to Him who has given it all to you, a thousand
thanks!"

"Walpurga, your words do me more good than all that the archbishop and
the rest of them said. I shall not forget them!"

"I don't know what I've said--but it's all your fault! When I'm with
you, I--I hardly know how to say it--but I feel as if I were standing
before the holy of holies in the church. Oh, what a heavenly creature
you are! You're all heart! I'll tell the child of it, and though it
doesn't understand what I say, it'll feel it all. From me it shall get
only good thoughts of you! I beg your pardon now, if I should ever
offend you, even in thought or do anything out of the way--" She could
say no more.

The queen motioned Walpurga to be quiet and held out her hand to her;
neither spoke another word. Angels were indeed passing through the
silent room.

Walpurga went away. It was self-confidence, not boldness, that made her
look straight into the faces of the courtiers whom she passed by the
way. As far as she was concerned, they did not exist.

When she was with the child again, she said:

"Yes, drink in my whole soul! It's all yours! If you don't become a man
in whom God and the world can take delight, you don't deserve a mother
like yours!"

Mademoiselle Kramer was amazed at Walpurga's words. But the latter did
not care to tell what was passing in her mind. There was perfect
silence, and yet she sat there, motionless, as if she could still hear
the organ and the singing of the angels.

"It isn't this that makes me so happy," said she, looking at the money
once more. "It must be just this way when one gets to heaven and the
Lord says: 'I'm glad you've come!' Oh, if I could only fly there now! I
don't know what to do with myself."

She loosened all her clothes; the world seemed too close and confined
to contain her.

"God be praised! the day's over," said she, when she lay down to rest
that evening. "It was a hard day, but a beautiful one; more beautiful
than I'll ever see again."




                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                       (IRMA TO HER FRIEND EMMA.)


"You ask me how I like the great world. The great world, dear Emma,
is but a little world, after all. But I can readily understand why they
term it 'great.' It has a firmament of its own. Two suns rise daily; I
mean their majesties, of course. A gracious glance, or a kind word,
from either--and the day is clear and bright. Should they ignore you,
the weather is dull and dreary.

"The queen is all feeling, and lives in a transcendental world of her
own into which she would fain draw every one. She suggests a 'Jean
Paul' born after his time, and is of a tender, clinging disposition,
constantly vacillating between the dawn and twilight of emotion, and
always avoiding the white light of day. She is exceedingly gracious
toward me, but we cannot help feeling that we do not harmonize.

"I know not why it is, but I have of late frequently thought of a
saying of my father's: 'Whenever you find yourself on friendly or
affectionate terms with any one, imagine how he would seem if he had
become your enemy!'

"The thought follows me like a phantom, I know not why. It must be my
evil spirit.

"All here regard me as wonderfully naïve, simply because I have the
courage to think for myself. I have not inherited the spectacles and
tight-lacing of tradition. The world seems to follow the fashion, even
in clothing the inside of their heads.

"I admire the first lady of the bedchamber most of all. She is the law
incarnate, carefully covered with _poudre de riz_. The ladies here
ridicule her, but I have only pity for those who are obliged to resort
to the use of cosmetics. Ah, you can have no idea, my dear Emma, how
stupid and bored some persons are when unable to indulge in scandal.
There are but few who know how to enjoy themselves innocently. But I am
forgetting that I intended to tell you about Countess Brinkenstein.

"She read me a lecture on etiquette. What a pity that I cannot give it
you, word for word. She said many pretty things; for instance,--that we
have as little right to doubt in matters of etiquette as in religion,
that, in either case, reasoning always led to heresy and schism, and
that one ought to feel happy to have the law ready made, instead of
being obliged to frame it.

"Countess Brinkenstein, like Socrates the peripatetic, teaches by
example. In the park of the summer palace there is a jutting rock, from
the top of which a fine view can be obtained. It is protected on all
sides by an iron rail. 'Do you observe, my dear countess,' said this
high priest of etiquette to me--for she seems to have conceived quite
an affection for your humble servant--'it is because we know there is a
railing, that we feel perfectly safe here. If it were not for that, we
should become too dizzy to remain. It is just the same with the laws of
court etiquette; remove the railing and there will be some one falling
every day.'

"The king enjoys conversing with Brinkenstein and, although decorous
and dignified demeanor best pleases him, he is not averse to
unconstrained cheerfulness. The queen is too serious; she is always
grand organ. But one cannot dance to organ music, and as we are still
young, we often feel like dancing. Brinkenstein must have commended me
to the king, for he often addresses me, and in a manner that seems to
say: 'We understand each other perfectly.'"

                                          "_June 1st_ (_at night_).

"It is a pity, dear Emma, that what I have written above bears no date.
I have completely forgotten when I wrote it--auld lang syne, as it says
in the pretty Scotch song.

"I feel the justice of your complaint, that my letters are written for
myself and not for the one to whom they are addressed; that is,
whenever I feel like writing, but not when you happen to wish for news.
But you are wrong in charging this to egotism. I am not an egotist. I
am wholly absorbed by the impressions of the moment. Ah, why are you
not here with me! There is not a day, not a night, not an hour-- But I
shall do better. That is, I mean to try, at all events.

"The king distinguishes me above all others, and I enjoy the favor of
the whole court. If it were not for the demon that ever whispers to
me--

"I send you my photograph. We are now wearing wings on our hats, and
the feather you see on mine was taken from an eagle that the king shot
with his own hand.

"Oh, what lovely days and nights we are having! If one could only do
without sleep. I am giving great attention to music and sing nothing
but Schumann. His music invests the soul with a magic veil, with a fire
that seems to consume while it fills you with happiness, and from the
spell of which none can escape, though they try ever so hard. I gladly
yield to its influence. I have just been singing 'The heavens have
kissed the earth.' It was late at night, and I felt as if I could go on
singing forever. You know my habit of repeating the same song again and
again; of all things a _pot-pourri_ of the emotions is least to my
liking. At last I lay down by the window--who was it that glided past?
I dare not say. I do not care to know. There was a humming in the
direction of the lamp on my table. A moth-fly had flown into it and had
been consumed by the flame. The moth had not wished to die; it had
imagined the light to be a glowing flower-cup, and had buried itself in
it.

"It was a beautiful death! To die in the summer night, amid song and in
the light of the fiery calyx. Good-night!"

                                                        "_June 3d_,

"No matter where I am or what I do, I am always excited, without
knowing why. But I have it, after all. I am constantly thinking that
this letter to you is still lying in my portfolio. If any one at court
knew what I have written--I have already been on the point of burning
these sheets. I beg of you, destroy them. You will,--will you not? or
else conceal them in some safe place. I cannot help it, I must tell you
all.

"The queen is very kind to me. Her present condition invests her with a
touching, I might almost say, a sacred character.

"'Man is God's temple,' said the archbishop, who paid us a visit
yesterday, 'and of no one is this so true as of a young mother; above
all, a young royal mother.'

"What a noble thought!

"I now think quite differently of the queen. When she said to me,
yesterday: 'Countess Irma, the king speaks of you with great affection,
and I am very glad of it,' I thought to myself: Blessed be the
etiquette that permits me to bend down before the queen and kiss her
hand.

"Her hand is now quite full and round."

                                                       "_June 5th_,

"The most cheerful hours are those we spend at breakfast. I do not know
how, after such Olympic moments, the rest can content themselves with
every-day matters, for I always wing my flight into the boundless realm
of music.

"The king is very kind to me. He is of a noble and earnest character.
While I was walking with him in the park, yesterday, and we both kept
step so beautifully, he said:

"'You seem like a true comrade to me, for we always walk together in
perfect step. No woman has ever walked thus wi

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