Part 30 (1/2)
”'Dilettante--One who junkets or feeds on t.i.t-bits for pastime,'--says my dictionary. Rather rough, but there is something in it.”
”_One day later_.
”The king has just sent me the following poem. I must apologize to him; he seems to have understood my communication far better than I had suspected. What do you think of the lines? Why should a king not write verses? Ideality is required of him. Indeed a king should understand all things, but be a dilettante in none.
”P. S.--I have just looked at the lines again, and find that I cannot copy them for you.”
”_A day later_.
”Don't laugh at my continually telling you of Walpurga.
”It was during our writing-lesson to-day, that the king found me with her. He told me how much pleasure it had afforded him to be able to pardon her relative.
”'Our relations.h.i.+p is very distant,' said she, 'nothing more than forty-second cousins; and, Your Majesty, I've something on my mind. If Red Thomas turns out badly, I can't help it.'
”The king laughed and replied: 'Nor can I.' It is hard to understand how Walpurga never speaks of Zenza and her son except in anger, and that she will have nothing to do with them. Strange demons jostle each other in the hearts of the people. I fear that my office of spy on the popular heart will prove very difficult.
”By the king's orders, I have been furnished with a copy of the church prayers of the Greeks and Romans.
”I must write it down and then the idea will cease tormenting me. I am constantly picturing to myself, how would it have been if Zenza had become first lady of the bedchamber, and her son, the poacher, master of the hounds. She would be ready enough of speech. She has exceedingly clever and cunning eyes, and the lad would surely have been an elegant cavalier.
”In spite of all their prating about human equality and pride of birth, I cannot help regarding it as a sign of divine grace, that I was born a countess, instead of Zenza's daughter; but there are two sides to that question.
”G.o.d's creatures are not so badly off in this world, after all. The frog croaking in the marsh is just as happy as the nightingale that sings on the tree.
”To say to the frog, 'Thou, too, should'st dwell in the rosebush and sing like the nightingale,' were not humane, but simply tyrannical.
”Have you ever patiently listened to the croaking of the frogs? How expressive it is of comfort! While I write, they are having a grand concert over in the park pond. I enjoy listening to them. We human beings are impudent enough to judge everything by the standard of our own taste, and yet Mistress Frog will, very justly, find no music so sweet to her ears as the song of Master Frog.
”I feel so grateful, dear Emma, that I can write everything to you. You cannot imagine what a relief it is to me.
”I am a spy on my own heart; there are many wild spirits in it--adventurers and fortune-hunters and, with them all, a nun. I am quite curious to know how so mixed a company will get on together.
”My behavior toward the whole court is so free and independent, because I have a secret daily task: writing to you.
”But my thoughts go out to you a thousand times oftener:
There's not an hour in the silent night.
But what my thoughts go out to thee.
”Do you remember it? It was your favorite song. I sing it, for your sake, at least once every day. You and my piano are all in all to me.
You patiently await my coming. All the music of all the masters that ever were. Or ever will be, dwells within you, and you only await the coming of the one whose touch can release those tones.
”I have a dual soul. In its one phase, the piano--in its other, the zither. The one is easily moved from place to place; the other not. The one requires that the fingers touch the strings. But ah, dear Emma, I scarce know what I am writing. I wish I could get rid of the habit of thinking. I wish I were Zenza's daughter and the poacher were my brother. But no; our thieves and rogues who have been at school long enough to know the seven cardinal sins and the whole of the catechism by heart, are timid and cowardly; they drop the pet.i.tion for pardon into their mother's lap, while they stand by whining: Forgive us, we have done nothing wrong. All the world over, there is no longer genuine scorn of nature. Methinks the 'Italian robber behind the rock' that you once worked in wools, has, in these days, ceased to be more than a traditional pattern for embroidery. The arts simply serve to gloss over life.
”Good-night--good-night.”
”_A day later_,
”I never read what I have once written. I do not care to be reminded of it again. Yesterday's sun does not s.h.i.+ne to-day.--But that was not what I meant. The sun is the same, but the light is ever new, and I am happy to-day and do not care for all the churches and palaces, men and women, frogs and crocodiles in the world.