Part 40 (2/2)
From that day forward the child never saw a sad look on its mother's face.
It was only when she spoke of persons that Walpurga could talk volubly and continuously. Countess Irma was therefore frequently the topic of conversation. But this subject was soon exhausted, and when the queen would say: ”Why are you silent? I hear that you can talk to the child so prettily and carry on all sorts of fun with him,” Walpurga persistently remained silent.
The queen made Walpurga tell her her history. It required much questioning to get at the entire story for Walpurga could not narrate it in a continuous strain as she had never thought of her life as a connected whole. Everything had gone on of its own accord as it were and without requiring one to stop and think. While telling her story she was as anxious as if before a court of justice.
”How did you happen to fall in love with your husband? Do you love him with all your heart?”
”Of course. He's my husband and there isn't a bad drop of blood in him.
He's a little awkward--I mean unhandy,--but only when others are about.
He's never been much among people. He grew up in a one-storied house and until he was twenty-two years old had seen nothing but trees; but no work's too hard for him and whatever you put him to, he does his duty. He's not so dull, either; but he doesn't show it to the world; with me, he can talk well enough, and he's satisfied as long as I know he's the right sort of man. It takes my Hansei a long while to make up his mind, but when he's made it up, he's always right. You see, dear queen, I might have got a much cleverer husband; my playmate was a hunter, and his comrade was after me for a long while; but I didn't want to have anything to do with him, for he's too much in love with himself. He once rowed over the lake with me, and was all the time looking at himself in the water, and twisting his mustache and making mouths, and so thought I to myself: If your clothes were made of gold, I wouldn't have you. And when father was drowned in the lake, Hansei was at hand and did everything about the house. He'd go out in his skiff and bring in fish, and while I and mother would sell 'em, he'd work in the forest. Father was also woodcutter and fisherman, at the same time. And so Hansei was there a full half year; no one bid him come and no one told him to go, for he was there and was honest and good and never gave me an unkind word; and so we were married, and, thank G.o.d, we're happy and, through our good prince, we'll have something of our own. We've got it already, and it's no easy matter for a husband to give his wife away for a year. But Hansei didn't waste many words over it. If a thing's right and must be, he only nods--this way--and then it's done. Forgive me, dear queen, for telling you all this silly stuff, but you asked me.”
”No, I am heartily glad that there are simple-minded, happy beings in this world. The worldly-wise think they prove their infinite wisdom when they say: 'There are no simple-minded, happy people, and the country folk are not nearly so good as we imagine.'”
”No more they are,” said Walpurga, eagerly; ”there aren't any worse people than some of those out our way. There are good ones, of course; but there are wicked and envious and thieving and lazy and good-for-nothing and G.o.dless creatures besides; and Zenza and Thomas are among the worst, but I can't help it.”
Walpurga imagined that the queen must know of the pardon, and they should not say of her that she had not told the truth. The queen felt grieved at Walpurga's vehemence and the serious charges she made against the people of her neighborhood.
After a little while, she said to Walpurga:
”They tell me you sing so beautifully. Sing something for me, or, rather, for the child.”
”No, dear queen, I can't do it. I'd like to, but I can't. I don't know any but silly songs. The good ones are all church songs.”
”Sing me one of those that you call silly songs.”
”No, I can't; they're lonely songs.”
”What do you mean by lonely songs?”
”I don't know, but that's what they call 'em.”
”Ah, I understand: they can only be sung when one is solitary and alone.”
”Yes, I suppose that's it; the queen's right.”
Although the queen endeavored to induce her to sing, Walpurga protested that she could not and finally became so agitated that she burst into tears. The queen experienced some difficulty in pacifying her, but succeeded at last, and then Walpurga, taking the child with her, returned to her room.
On the following day Walpurga was again summoned to the queen, who said: ”You're right, Walpurga. You can't sing to me. I've been thinking a great deal about you. The bird on the tree doesn't sing at one's bidding. Free nature cannot be directed by a baton. You needn't sing for me. I shall not ask it of you again.”
Walpurga had intended to sing to the queen that day. She had chosen her prettiest songs and now the queen actually ordered her not to sing, and even compared her to a bird. ”Palace folk,” thought she, ”are queer folk.”
”I understand,” continued the queen, ”that in your neighborhood they believe in the Lady of the Lake. Do you believe in her, too?”
”Believe in her? I don't know, but they tell of her. Father saw her three days before he died, and that was a sure sign that he would soon die. They say, too, that she's the Lady of Waldeck.”
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