Part 40 (1/2)
”You are very bitter.”
”Not at all. My head is filled with the strangest fancies. I became acquainted with a great law over there.
”The law of renunciation?”
”Oh, no; the justification of fas.h.i.+on.”
”You are mocking.”
”By no means. Fas.h.i.+on is the charter of human liberty and the journal of fas.h.i.+on is humanity's greatest boon.”
”What an odd conceit!”
”Not at all. It is the simple truth. The frequency with which a man changes the material, cut and color of his clothes, proves his claim to culture. It is man alone who constantly clothes himself differently and anew. The tree retains its bark, the animal its hide, and, as the national and clerical costumes are both stereotyped, as it were, those who use them are regarded as belonging to an inferior, or less civilized cla.s.s.”
The baron looked at Irma, wonderingly. He was glad at heart, that she had candidly given him the mitten. He could not have satisfied so restless and exacting a nature that constantly required intellectual fireworks for its amus.e.m.e.nt; and she, moreover, took delight in her absurd ways. All at once, he saw nothing but the shadows in Irma's character. An hour ago, he had seen only the bright side and had regarded her as a vision of light itself. She had just visited a friend about to take the veil, had just listened to a proposal of marriage--how could she possibly indulge in such strange notions immediately afterward?
Baron Schoning told her that he had ordered photographs of Walpurga and the prince.
”Ah, Walpurga,” said Irma, as if suddenly remembering something.
The baron politely took his leave and rowed back across the lake.
Irma took the road that led homeward. She wished to visit Walpurga's relatives and inquired as to the route toward the lake on the other side of the mountains. They told her that a carriage could not get there, and that the only way to reach the point was on horseback. Irma took the direct road for home.
CHAPTER XII.
”Something ails me! It always seems as if some one were calling me, and I can't help looking round to see who it is. The countess must be thinking of us all the time. Ah me, she's the best creature in the world.”
Whilst Walpurga, for many days, thus lamented Irma's departure, the others at the palace rarely thought of her. The place we leave, be it to journey in this or to the other world, is speedily filled. In the palace, they tolerate neither vacancies nor sentiment. There, life is a part of history; and history, as we all know, never stands still.
Mademoiselle Kramer continued to teach Walpurga how to write, and the latter did not understand her, when she said: ”The quality are fond of taking up all sorts of things, but we must finish what we begin. I've finished many a piece of embroidery, of which the hand that was kissed for it scarcely worked a couple of st.i.tches; but that's in the order of things.”
Although Mademoiselle Kramer found everything in order that was done by the quality, she, nevertheless, had a habit of speaking of such things to her inferiors, not with the hope of being understood by them, but merely to relieve her mind.
The child was well and hearty. Day after day pa.s.sed in quiet routine, and now Walpurga was richly recompensed for the absence of Countess Irma. The queen was permitted to have the nurse and child about her for several hours every day.
While Irma had gone forth to seek rest and quiet, but had found chaos instead, the queen's life had become serene and happy; Her recent experience of life's trials had been a novel and difficult one; but now her mind was at rest, her health restored. She would look at her child and, when she spoke, Walpurga would fold her hands and listen in silence. The nurse did not understand all that was said, but, nevertheless, sympathized with what was going on. The queen endeavored to console Doctor Gunther in his affliction, and spoke to him of the consolation that the mother could find in her child: ”In spite of all life's contradictions and enigmas,” said she ”there is yet the one glad thought that every child bears within it the possibility of the highest human development.”
The queen while speaking looked around at her child, and Walpurga said in a gentle voice:
”Look at our child; it's laughing for the first time. It's seven weeks old to-day.”
”I've seen my child's first smile, and its father is not here.”
”Don't make such a long face,” said Walpurga; ”just keep on laughing and he'll laugh too; your pleasant glances will bide in his face.”
The child kept smiling until the doctor requested them not to excite it any more. He said that Walpurga was right and that if one looks at an infant kindly it has the effect of imprinting a sweet expression upon its features.