"Her majesty the queen, accompanied by his royal highness the crown prince, has removed to the summer palace."

I walked about the city and looked into the shop windows and at the many objects which I no longer require. In one of the windows, I found some of my carvings on exhibition. "That's our work!" exclaimed the little pitchman, who boldly went into the shop and inquired as to the price, and also asked by whom they had been done. The price named was a high one, and the merchant added: "These works of art"--yes, he spoke of them as works of art--"are made by a half-crazy peasant girl, who lives in the Highlands."

I looked at my little pitchman. He was terribly afraid. His glance seemed to implore me not to lose my senses while away from home. His fear was not without good grounds, for, in spite of my self-control, my faithful guide must have found much that was strange in my behavior.

I bought several small plaster casts of gems of Greek art; and now I have types of undying beauty ever with me. It required clever management to effect such unusual purchases, and I only ventured to attempt it during the twilight hour.

I saw many familiar faces, but always quickly averted mine. I would so gladly have spoken to Mademoiselle Kramer. She has become quite aged.

She was carrying a book with the yellow label of the circulating library. How many thousands of books the dear old woman must have read!

She reads book after book, just as men smoke cigars.

I went to Gunther's house. The courtyard gate was open. There is now a factory there, and the lovely trees have all been felled.

On the head of the figure of Victory at the a.r.s.enal, there sat a pigeon with glossy plumage--Although without eye-gla.s.ses, I could see the figure quite distinctly.

The evening afforded me pure delight--the purest I ever knew, or, as I firmly believe, ever will know.

Mozart's "Magic Flute" was performed at the theater.

I went there with my little pitchman. We sat in the uppermost tier. I saw no one, although the crowded house must have contained many whom I knew. All my senses were held captive by music's magic spell.

It is past midnight. My little pitchman and I are stopping at a teamster's inn. I cannot rest until I put my feelings into words.

Mozart's "Magic Flute" is one of those immortal creations that dwell in purest ether, in a region beyond the pa.s.sions and struggles of mankind.

I have often heard the text objected to as puerile, but, at that height, all action, all understanding, all personages, all surroundings, must needs be allegorical. All that is hard and narrow is cast aside, and man becomes a bird, his life pure and natural, full of love and wisdom. The childlike or childish character of the text is singularly true to nature. It is only the _blase_ who can find it dull and insipid.

It is Mozart's last dramatic work, and in it he appears at his best, in all the fullness of his genius, as if already transfigured. His various figures pa.s.s before him in review, created anew, as it were; less fixed and individualized, but all the more pure and ethereal. Using the word in its best sense, there is something supernatural in the way in which he has here gathered and combined the chords that else were scattered, into one harmonious whole.

The opening chorus of priests is the march of humanity, and the "O Isis!" is full of the sunshine of blissful peace. This is the fabled paradise--a life above this, in the free ether, beyond the reach of storm or tempest; a region to which music alone can transport us.

For hours, I felt as if thus transported, and know not how I descended again. Thoughts without number hover about me. This music breathes a spirit of n.o.ble, self-conscious repose, and is free from all oppressed humility. It is a life that can never fade; nay, it is the odor of ripened fruit.

This last work of Mozart's has a companion piece in Lessing's last work: "Nathan the Wise." In both of them the soul wings its flight far beyond the disjointed, struggling world and dwells in the pure region beyond, where peace and piety have become actual existences, and where the vexations of narrow, circ.u.mscribed, finite humanity provoke but a smile. The great treasure of humanity is not buried in the past; it must be dug out, fashioned and created from the future.

"Nathan" and the "Magic Flute" abound with precious gems. They prove that happiness is not an illusion, but they speak in a language unintelligible to him who does not bear within himself a sense of things above this life.

To have lived such hours is life eternal.

The song of the three boys is full of divine bliss. If the angels in Raphael's Sistine Madonna were to sing, such would be their melodies, and in this register would their voices move.

I would like to hear such sounds at my dying hour, for that would be an ecstatic death.

If such ecstasy could only continue without interruption.

After the opera was over, I sat in the park for a long time. All was dark and silent.

Filled with this music, I would gladly fly back to my forest solitude, have nothing more to do with the world, and silently pa.s.s away. After these, no other tones should fall upon my ear and disturb me.

But I was obliged to return to the world.

And here I sit, late at night, the whole world resting in sleep and self-oblivion, while I am awake in self-oblivion.

O ye eternal spirits! Could one but be with you and utter a word, a sound, that should pa.s.s into infinity! In yonder gallery, eyes that never close, look down upon the coming and departing generations. And here there are undying harmonies and imperishable words.

Oh ye blessed spirits, ye who through art create a second world! The world confuses and perplexes us, but ye make everything clear as the light of day. Ye are the blessed genii who ever offer mankind the wine of life in the golden chalice which, though millions drink from it, is never emptied.

It is with deep pain that I depart from the realm of color and that of sound. This, and this only, is indeed a deprivation.

And now for the last halting-place.

We wandered on in the direction of the summer palace. We walked up and down before the park railing. Up by the chapel, and under the weeping ash, I could see the court ladies sitting on the ornamented chairs and busy with their embroidery. Ah, there is many a one there, no better than I am, and yet she jests and laughs, is happy and respected. Aye, there lies the misery. We are constantly blunting our moral sense and saying to ourselves: "Look about you; others are no better than you are."

Presently they all arose and bowed profoundly. The gates were opened and the queen drove out, the prince sitting beside her. She looked at me and the little pitchman, and greeted us. My eyes failed me.

I know not. Did I see aright? The queen looked cheerful.

The prince has become a fine boy. He has kept the promise of his infancy.

My little pitchman conversed with a stone-breaker, who was working on the road. He was loud in his praises of the queen and her only child, the crown prince. So she has only one child--

I was so weary that I was obliged to rest by the wayside. In former days, I had so often proudly pa.s.sed by the spot where I was now sitting. No matter! It is well that it is so. The little pitchman was delighted when I told him that our path now lay homeward. He must have felt quite alarmed about me, and must have thought to himself: "The folks who say that you're not quite right, were not so far out after all."

Those who see me not, think me dead; those who do see me, think me crazed.

I had determined that, in case of discovery, I would tell all to the king and queen, and, after that, quietly return to my retreat.

It is better thus.

We returned home. When I reached the foot of the mountain on which we live, and had begun to ascend it, I asked myself: "Is this your home?"

And yet, absence makes it seem like a new home. The life I lead here is a real life.

Since I have noted down this thought, I feel as if a weight were lifted from my heart. While writing, I often feel as giddy as if standing on the edge of a precipice; but I shall remain firm. I will not look at these pages again. But now work begins once more, and my head will cease to be filled with thoughts of repentance. The next minute is ours; the pa.s.sing moment is scarcely so; and the past one not at all.

There is much work awaiting me. I am glad that it is so. Walpurga and the children are quite happy to have me with them again.

During my absence, Walpurga had my room painted a pale red. It is in wretched taste, and yet I must needs show myself grateful. She thought that I would not return.

These people const.i.tute my whole world, and yet I could leave them any minute. Will it be thus when I, too, leave the world?