I let him have his own way.

I looked for the place where I had wandered at that time. There--there was the rock--and on it a cross, bearing, in golden characters, the inscription:

Here perished IRMA, COUNTESS VON WILDENORT, In the twenty-first year of her life.

_Traveler, pray for her and honor her memory._

I know not how long I lay there. When I revived there were several people busying themselves about me, and, among them, my little pitchman, who was quite violent in expressing his grief.

I was able to walk to the inn. My little pitchman said to the people:

"My niece isn't used to walking so far. She sits in her room all the year round. She's a wood-carver, and a mighty clever one, too."

The people were all kind to me. Guests were constantly coming and going. Some of them told the little pitchman that the beautiful monument out yonder was a great advantage to the inn; that, during the summer, it was visited by hundreds of persons; and that, every year, a nun from the convent came there, attended by another nun, and prayed at the cross.

"And who put up the monument?" asked the little pitchman.

"The brother of the unfortunate one."

"No, it was the king," said others.

The conversation often dropped off, but always began again anew.

Some said that the place must be haunted, for a beautiful creature known as Black Esther had drowned herself at the same time. She was a daughter of Zenza, who was now crazed and lived on the other side of the lake; and who could tell whether the beautiful lady--for she was very beautiful--hadn't drowned herself, too. To this the hostess angrily answered that the countess had had many gold chains and diamonds about her, and a diamond star on her forehead; that the horse which had thrown her had been seen; that her brother had wanted to shoot the horse, but it had been bewitched and, from that day, would eat nothing and at last dropped down dead. Others said that the Countess's father had commanded her to drown herself, and that she had been an obedient child and had done so.

Thus I had a glimpse of a legend in process of formation.

"And why was the father supposed to have commanded that?" inquired the little pitchman.

"Because she loved a married man. It won't do to talk of that."

"Why won't it?" whispered a sailor. "She and the king were fond of each other, and, to save herself from doing wrong, she took her life."

How can I describe my emotions, while listening to their conversation?

Years hence, perhaps, some solitary child of man may cross the lake and sing the song of the beautiful countess with the diamond star on her brow.

I do not remember how night came on, and how I at last fell asleep. I awoke and still heard the song of the drowned countess. Its sad, deep strain had filled my dream. All that I had experienced seemed but as a vision. I looked out of my window--I looked across the lake and beheld the golden characters in the rosy dawn.

What was I to do? Should I turn back?

My little pitchman was quite happy when he saw me so fresh again. The hostess offered me a picture of the monument, saying that every visitor bought one. My uncle bargained with her, got it for half the price she had asked, and then presented it to me. I carry the picture of my gravestone with me.

I felt irresistibly drawn toward another grave--my father's. While my hand rested on the mound, an inner voice said to me: "You will be reconciled."--I expiate and atone for my sin.

How the memories awakened by these different spots agitated me. I cannot write about it--my heart is breaking! Besides this, it is filled with fear. I shall be brief. I am unable to continue my recital. I shall never again look at these pages.

We went to the Frauensee and crossed over to the convent. Among the nuns, I saw my beloved Emma, who makes a yearly pilgrimage to my gravestone. For the first time in many years, I prayed with her. What difference does it make whether one still lives or is dead, as long as the thought--

My hand trembles while I write, but I will....

I had left the convent and was returning across the lake, when the thought flashed upon me: "I expiate in freedom! That is my only pride.

My will holds me as fast as the bolts of the convent gate would do, and I--I--work--"

Everything was carried out just as I had determined. I saw the whole world once more and bade it adieu.

We journeyed to the capital. The city noises and the rapid driving alarmed me.

When I again heard the rustling of a silk gown, for the first time, the sound quite affected me. I felt as if impelled to accost the first lady I met in a fashionable bonnet and veil. These people seemed to belong to me. I felt as if returning from the lower regions into sunlight.

I stopped to read the placards that were posted up at the corners of the streets. Am I still living in the same world?

There is music, singing, etc. One amuses the other. No one finds life's joys within himself.

All things in this world are related to each other. Thou hast lost the connecting link.

I was sitting in a small inn, while I looked on at the bustling life of the city.

I saw the houses here and there--and it seemed as if I beheld the ghost of a part of my life. If the people knew-- There are streets here with which I am not acquainted. Men pa.s.s without a thought for each other.

City folk all look ill-humored; I have not met one sunny, happy face.

I went to the picture-gallery. What delights the eye there feeds upon!

And besides these, there is the intoxicating wealth of color and the solemn stillness of the place itself. I saw my old teacher and heard him saying to a stranger: "A work of art does not derive its great historical character from the importance of the subject, or the size of the picture. What is required of the artist is that he should be filled with, and, at the same time, transport the beholder to, the scene that he attempts to depict. The same subject can be conceived in various ways, and may be executed either as a light, _genre_ piece, or in the grand and more enduring historical style."

While I pa.s.sed through the rooms, I felt like one intoxicated. All my old friends greeted me. They are clothed in undying colors, and have remained faithful and unchanged. The power of nature and of art lie in their truthfulness. But they do not speak; they merely exist.

No--nature alone is mute; art lends its voice. It is not by the lips alone that the human mind expresses itself. I felt as if the Maria aegyptica must suddenly turn toward me and ask: "Do you know me now?"

I grew dizzy and fearful.

While in the Raphael gallery, environed by the highest beauty earth has ever known, conceived as only the clearest eye could conceive it, I felt as if in another world.

A happy thought occurred to me: Art is the first liberator of humanity, evoking a second, joy-creating life, and--what is even a greater boon--revealing the highest realm, where every one who is called may enter. The poor son of the people says: "I and my spirit shall dwell in this lofty, this blessed abode." He reigns there eternally, surrounded by his ancestors in art. There dwells immortality; or, better still, death never enters there. The paternal mansion of free, creative art contains infinite s.p.a.ce, and is an eternal home. Let him who has lived happily, enter there.

I stood before the palace. The windows of the room that I once occupied were open. My parrot was still there in its golden cage, and called out: "G.o.d keep you! G.o.d keep you!" But it does not add my name, for it has forgotten it.

On the table before me there lay a newspaper, the first that I had seen for years. It was long before I could summon resolution to read it, but I did so at last and read as follows:

"His majesty the king has departed for the sea baths, where he will remain for six weeks. Prime minister Von Bronnen," (Von Bronnen minister!) "Count Wildenort, master of the horse," (my brother!) "and privy councilor Sixtus, the king's physician, are of his suite."

How much these few lines conveyed to me! There was no need of my reading any further. Yet there was another paragraph, saying: