On the Heights Part 128

But he who, besides these, possesses a quiet conscience, is the happiest of creatures.

I love the twilight--day fading into night. He who lives in communion with nature is the only one whose life does full justice to each day.

Man is the only being who lives, far into the night. Light and fire makes us what we are.

Schnabelsdorf the omniscient, once said: "The hour at which men retire is the measure of their civilization."

At court, they are just sitting down to dinner. They are joking and laughing, and telling each other anecdotes. If I were suddenly to appear among them?

No, I shall not disturb ye!

In a little while, they will be driving to the theater. Isn't to-day--?

I had almost forgotten it--yes, this is my birthday. It was to-day a year ago that I went to the ball, in the character of the Lady of the Lake, and it was there he said to me--it was in the palmhouse--I can still hear his soft voice: "I have purposely chosen this day. You alone are to know it. You and I."

Oh! that night!

I wonder if they are thinking of me there?

The Egyptians, at all their festivals, displayed mementoes of their dead. I cannot write any more--I will light the candle--I must work.

There is a deaf mute who lives down in the village and works at coa.r.s.e wood carvings. He has neither learned to read nor to write, nor has he ever had any religious instruction. He knows nothing at all; but he does know the church festivals, the holidays, and Shrove Tuesday especially. On those days he will plant himself, with his umbrella, in front of the church, and watch the peasants as they go by. If he sees one who pleases him, he walks up to him, takes off his coat and sits down at the table, and, without saying a word, they give him food and drink for three days.

And thus he happened to come to our house. Sometimes he cries, and cannot tell why, but he endeavors to express himself by dumb motions.

The little pitchman declares that he cries because he can't eat any more.

I have tried to make myself intelligible to him, but we do not understand each other.

(Ash Wednesday.)--To-day, every one in the house is silent and thoughtful. Every brow was strewn with ashes, while they repeated: "Mortal! remember that thou art dust."

Ah! mine is a long Ash Wednesday, after a mad carnival!

In my mind's eye, I often behold the picture of the Egyptian princess.

Her garments have fallen from her nude form and, with loosened hair, she kneels in prayer by her open grave.

When wilt thou receive me, all-merciful mother earth?

I am reminded of the grandeur of Antigone's answer to Creon, who has just announced to her the sentence of death:

"I knew that I should die; thou only tellest me when."

I shall quietly bear the consequences of my actions, relying on myself, looking for no aid, either material or spiritual, from without.

When the people have finished repeating the Ave Maria during the tolling of the vesper bell, they say "Good-evening" to each other. It is a beautiful custom, and deems to say that they have returned from heaven unto those whom they love on earth.

When there is no one by, Walpurga always addresses me as "Countess,"

and treats me with the deference she deems me ent.i.tled to.

Everything seems reversed. At one time, I used to address _him_ familiarly in private, and in public--

Ah! that one memory forever thrusts itself in my way!

If I were to become sensitive, it would be the most terrible thing that could happen to me. Perhaps I am so, already. The sensitive being is as one unarmed among those who are fully armed, as one unveiled where all the rest are masked.

I will, I must be strong!

Walpurga brought me some flower-pots to-day, with rosemary, geranium and oleander.

Hansei had brought them from the place of a great doctor who, he says, lives at some distance from here, in the valley. His gardener is allowed to sell plants, and Walpurga brought them to me, saying: "You've always had flowers about you, and these will last through the winter."

These few plants make me happy. The flower does not ask what sort of a pot it is in, so long as it gets its share of suns.h.i.+ne and rain. What enjoyment do those who dwell in the palace have, of the hot-house flowers? They neither planted nor tended them: they are strangers to each other.

Hansei came to me to-day and said:

"Irmgard, if I've ever wronged you--though I don't know that I have--I beg you to forgive me!"

"What makes you ask me that question?"

"Because to-morrow we go to confession and communion."

The tears that fall upon these pages are my confession, a confession that I cannot frame in words.

Why was I obliged to cross the threshold of evil before entering this circ.u.mscribed and yet peaceful existence? Why not pure and free, proud and strong?

I have somewhere read that Francis of a.s.sisi, returning, early in the morning, with the merry fellows who had been his comrades in the drinking bout of the night before, was suddenly seized by the Holy Spirit and, renouncing the world, led a holy life ever afterward.

And must it always be through paths of sin?

But far sadder is the question: Why were you, O queen! obliged to suffer thus?