Part 142 (1/2)

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--