On the Heights: A Novel

CHAPTER I

Gunther received his dismissal. Sated with his experience of the world, he withdrew from its distracting and bustling turmoil. Old and endearing associations made it no easy matter for his family to transfer their affections to a new home-and yet the change was brought about without impairing their unity of feeling and affection. Those two pure gods, love and science, followed Gunther beyond the mountains, and his heart was free from rancor.

Their home circle now was once more perfect. As if returning from a journey around the world, Gunther again found himself at the starting-point-for he knew that he and his would find a free and self-dependent life the source of the most ennobling and beautiful influences.

Naturally enough, they missed the presence of a cultured circle, its refining influences and the opportunity it affords for an interchange of ideas. But he felt that they would stand the test, and would prove that they could give up all this without greatly missing it. Immediately after his dismissal, he received a most flattering offer of a professorship at one of the great universities. He declined the proffered position. It had been a long cherished idea of his, to improve his knowledge of certain branches of science and to complete certain scientific labors, of which he had thus far merely sketched the outlines. It often grieved him to think that he might quit the world, incomplete in himself and leaving much unfinished work behind him. Life at court, with its constant changes and interruptions, renders connected thought impossible. To mount guard every morning, in full armor; to be ready, at a moment's call, to discuss even the most important subject, in a light conversational manner: – such a life, if persisted in for a number of years, will, in spite of every effort to the contrary, tend to injure one's inner nature.

Fortunately for Gunther, scientific studies and home influences always lent him new vigor. But he was often alarmed lest he should fritter away his life and gradually lose his individuality. To a certain extent, he was perfectly willing to be uniformed; he even admitted that it was both necessary and pleasing, since it represented a remnant of that mental and political discipline which combines and utilizes individuals who were otherwise incongruous and scattered. But, at the same time, Gunther endeavored to prevent any change in himself. He would often, and with special stress, remark that he who suffers any of his essential traits to be thus changed has been subdued and killed by the world, and has ceased to exist as himself.

When, with each succeeding day, he presented himself at court, he came, as it were, from a strange and distant sphere. And it was this which accounted for the severe and almost unbending manner, so often observed in him. He was, nevertheless, forbearing toward the superficiality and the mere desire to please, which he encountered at court, for he well knew that where strength of character or depth of culture do not feed the spring of life, there must needs be some provision for every passing hour, and also an inevitable tendency to make all life center about the daily affairs of a small and exclusive circle.

Gunther's so-called inflexibility also lay in the fact that he never misplaced the center of gravity, and thus, when the prop seemed withdrawn, he could yet stand his ground firmly and had no need to seek for strength from without. And now, when the sudden, but by no means unexpected, rupture took place, it was easy enough to lay aside the privy councilor and remain the doctor. He had soon mastered every trace of ill-feeling produced by his great and sudden fall. He regretted to leave his many friends at the capital and the queen especially. He knew that he could still have been of great benefit to her; "but then," said he to himself, "it will be far better for her to seek and gain strength from herself, and without the aid of others."

Thus Gunther left the capital, and, in doing so, realized a life-long wish to return to his native town.

He had almost attained his seventieth year, and looked upon the remnant of life yet accorded him as a peaceful evening of rest-the reward of a well-spent manhood. He desired, as far as possible, to close his accounts with knowledge, in order that night should not overtake him, while so much was as yet incomplete.

Some years ago, Gunther had built a modest house in his native town, and had intended it as a summer retreat for his family, while his children were still young. And now this house was to serve as a resting-place for the remainder of his life. Madame Gunther and the children had cheerfully taken leave of their old associations. They bade farewell to friends who were near and dear to them. But their life lay in their home, and this home, with all its visible and invisible treasures, accompanied them to their new abode.

Gunther's sister was the only relative he possessed in the little Highland town. She was an active, bustling hostess. The father, who had been a country physician, died while Gunther was studying at the university. Wilhelm had ever been the idol of the family, and the sister-as well as the mother, up to the time of her death-had always regarded him as a sort of daring and successful navigator. With the assistance of her grown-up sons and daughters, the sister had put their new dwelling to rights. Gunther's charming home soon became the center of attraction in the little town, and was, in its way, almost as important as the royal palace at the capital.

Esteem and gratitude were the invisible sentries who guarded the house. The respectful manner in which visitors entered it proved that naught but good-breeding dare cross that threshold.

Gunther's sister, the hostess of the Rose, reaped new honors, and when, within a short time of each other, her two sons and one daughter became betrothed, it was deemed an inestimable piece of good fortune to become connected with the family of the privy councilor. Every stranger who visited the town was speedily informed of this eminent citizen and of his charming household.

A peaceful atmosphere reigned in Gunther's house. It seemed a very temple of science and beauty. It was difficult to decide whether it was more delightful in summer or in winter. In summer there was, of course, less chance to know how familiar its inmates were with all that tends to adorn home life. If the gardens in the neighborhood were less neatly arranged, their seats less comfortable and cozy, the points from which views could be obtained less artistically chosen-their hedges and trees were of just as bright a green and the prospect just as fine. But in winter, when man adorns his home, and when he has naught about him but the little world which he has himself shaped and arranged, then and then only, can we see what a lovely home may be created by those whose light and warmth are derived from themselves.

If a half-frozen traveler, descending from the snowy mountains, had been at once conducted to Gunther's home, he would have imagined that he had landed upon an oasis of civilization.

Salve! was the inscription over the doorway. Architecturally, the building was an improvement on the usual country-house. The roof projected considerably, for it was necessary to prevent the snow from piling itself before the windows; but this projecting roof was decorated with tasteful carvings. The steps were covered with winter plants, the walls were decorated with plaster copies from the Parthenon, the rooms were neatly arranged, and every piece of furniture properly placed. There were also finely engraved copies of the choicest paintings, and, alternating with them, statuettes of the great men of all ages. On every hand, there were marble, plaster, or bronze works of art which had been sent to the celebrated physician by his admirers, and principally by those of the fair sex. Two stuffed bears, which had been sent to him by a Russian princess and served as foot-stools, had been quite the talk of the town.

The rooms were never excessively warm. The temperature was a comfortable one, in which men and plants could thrive. Large leaf-plants were placed at the windows and in the corners of the room. There was also a marble bust of Gunther, made by Irma's teacher, years ago. It was standing on a console and was surrounded by flowers.

Gunther was famous as a ladies' doctor, and was thus in correspondence with many ladies of the higher classes. During the summer, some of these would occasionally visit the little town, for the sake of consulting him, and would sometimes prolong their stay beyond the time intended. The hostess of the Rose had fitted up two houses adjoining her own, and had put them in charge of two of her children, subject, of course, to her own careful supervision. And here the invalid visitors dwelt, while under treatment. Gunther gave a large share of his practice to a young physician who had married the second daughter of his sister, but retained the general superintendence in his own hands.

The little town blessed its distinguished and beneficent citizen. The best of everything always found its way to Gunther's house. Choice fish, the best game, early vegetables, and the finest fruit were brought there, and Madame Gunther was at some trouble to prevent people from overstocking the house. Even their servants were held in honor. Since they moved into the town, they had not once changed their domestics, who were constantly endeavoring to make themselves more useful and obliging. Even the dog and the mule which Gunther had procured for his mountain trips, were regarded with pleasure by the citizens.

CHAPTER II

It was in the early spring. Madame Gunther and her two daughters were sitting by the window and working. A light-haired little girl, nearly five years old, was playing on the floor, and the three ladies often regarded it with affectionate glances. Aunt Paula seemed to be her favorite, and most of the child's questions were addressed to her.

Change of residence had made no alteration in Madame Gunther. She was still as dignified and refined as of yore, and, as her friends at the capital had been wont to say, every dress she wore seemed as if she had put it on for the first time.

The professor's widow had grown somewhat stouter, and Paula, who had grown in height, was the youthful image of her mother.

"May I call grandfather now?" asked little Cornelia, who noticed that the round table in the center of the room had been set for the second breakfast.

"Not yet, but right soon," replied Paula.

Gunther was still in his working-room. It was furnished simply, provided with a small but choice library, and embellished with appropriate bronzes. Gunther's dress, while at his work-table, was as scrupulously neat as if he expected to be summoned to court at any moment. He invariably rose at five o'clock, all the year round, and had done a full day's work when others were just commencing the day. It was only in unavoidable and exceptional cases that he allowed himself to be disturbed during the morning.

He wrote a great deal. It was rumored at the capital that he was engaged in preparing his memoirs, and he might, had he cared to do so, have had much to tell; for who was so familiar as he with the secret history of the last and the present government? But he felt it his duty to write of other matters. He endeavored to construct a science of life, using the combined results of the study of nature and practical knowledge of the world, as a basis. A slight glow would mantle his cheeks, and his eyes would involuntarily gaze into the far distance, when some difficult problem, which had hitherto eluded his grasp, became clear to his mental vision. At such moments, he would, as if impelled by an inner force, rise from his seat, and his chest would heave with emotion, at the thought that he was laying bare the secret springs of character and habit, with as much indifference to side considerations as if he were engaged on a physiological preparation.

The view from Gunther's windows, each of which consisted of a single plate of glass, extended to the distant mountains. Far up the heights, there was a small clearing, scarcely visible to the naked eye. Naught was noticeable but a small break in the woods, and, although it was known that the freehold lay there, its broad acres were out of sight. Irma had been sitting up there, working and brooding over her troubles, for nearly four years, while Gunther, in the mean while, had been sitting at his oaken table, writing his "Contributions to the Science of Life." His glance often rested on the distant heights, but he little dreamt that, while he was calmly gathering the fruits of his experience, another soul up there was spending its strength in the vain endeavor to solve the enigma of life.

When he dwelt on the difficulty of assigning to nature and education their relative share in determining conduct and character, hundreds of varied pictures would present themselves to his imagination. In all these investigations, the dead and living were as one. The only question he asked himself was: To what extent do they exemplify the eternal idea? Eberhard's form would often appear to him; sometimes, in all the dewy freshness of youth; at others, in its last, sad aspect. Irma was also summoned by the spirit of knowledge and, although never mentioned by name, was made to illustrate the present disturbed state of the public mind.

That day, many of Gunther's thoughts had been of Irma.

There was a gentle knock at the door. His grandchild entered, and Gunther's countenance brightened at the sight of her. For hours, his thoughts had been of grand abstractions, of past memories, and of general laws, and now, blithe and cheerful childhood saluted him. He went into the sitting-room with his granddaughter.

The family seated themselves at the table. Letters and newspapers were left untouched until after the meal was finished.

"Did Adolph set out punctually?" enquired Gunther.

He received a full and explicit answer. Gunther's son, who owned the chemical works at the capital, had been visiting his parents for several days. He had left that morning, but Gunther had said "good-by" the evening before. It was a peculiar, but well-weighed custom of his, to avoid the excitement of the hour of parting. They had many visitors, for their house was, in the best sense of the word, a hospitable one; but Gunther would suffer nothing to disturb him during the morning hour.

It was a merry breakfast party. Paula remarked that spring had surely come, for the wood-carver who lived in the neighborhood had thrown his old felt shoes out of the window, and that this was even a surer token than the coming of the swallows.

After breakfast, Gunther took up his letters, carefully examining the address and postmark of each, and arranging them in the order in which they were to be read.

The first one he opened bore the seal of the state department. It was from Bronnen, who, since his elevation to the highest office under the government, had kept up a regular correspondence with his old friend Gunther, and had, indeed, twice visited him in his new home.

Gunther's face brightened while he read the letter. After he had finished it, he quietly laid it aside and said:

"Friend Bronnen intends to pay us a visit shortly."

Paula turned away quickly, and bent down to kiss her little niece. Although Gunther was still reading, her movement did not escape his notice. After he had looked through the rest of his letters, he took up the newspapers. He was in a thoughtful mood, and would now and then ask Paula to read certain passages aloud to him.

"One often wishes," said he, " – that is, I have often heard others express the desire-to be able, after death, to look down upon the world again. It is a mere phrase, however, which seems deep only to those who have not weighed it properly. All that we possess, see, or understand, lies in the world in which we live and move."

The remark seemed a singular one, and Paula was about to follow it up with a question, when a sign from her mother hinted that she had better not. The idea had evidently separated itself from a chain of reasoning which had engaged the mind of the solitary philosopher.

"You will have to answer several letters for me," said Gunther to Paula, who acted as his secretary. "Come along!"

He was about to leave the room, when a special messenger arrived with a letter for him. It was written in blue ink and was from the queen. Gunther opened it and read as follows:

"Your letter seems laden with fresh mountain breezes. If I were not afraid lest you might deem it inconsistent with the dignity of the subject, I should request you to give me the summary of your philosophy of life, in an epistolary form. What cannot be given in that way, has not yet acquired communicable shape. In a letter we have the effect of the personal presence of the writer. And believe me, for I know of what I speak, you cannot imagine how much your ideas lose in impressiveness, when you thus, as it were, put them away from yourself and cause it to seem that another might have said the self-same thing. A letter has a voice of its own, and, while I write, I am reminded that your friend Horace wrote letters in verse and that the apostles also availed themselves of the epistolary form.

"Your remark that the myriad forms of life which you have from time to time beheld, now throng about your bark as if it were Charon's, has made me quite uncomfortable. I cannot imagine that you are only leading us into the realms of darkness. The problem before you is the knowledge of life. I must have misunderstood your meaning. I suppose that you are treating each group or epoch as if it were an individual, and that, with delicate touch, you note its every pulsation.

"It is quite charming to think that you can even find place for my modest doings in the grand march of human development. I am well aware that my interest in beneficent institutions is episodical and incomplete; and yet my whole heart is enlisted in their behalf. And this I owe to you. We know how small and imperfect our life is, but we must aim at greatness and perfection, and can best contribute to it by faithfully discharging the small duties that lay near at hand. Working for others rescues one from introspection, and thus expands the mind. When busied with self-contemplation, we are apt to put either too flattering, or too disparaging an estimate upon ourselves. It is only by what we are able to accomplish that we can really measure our value. I often ask myself whether I should ever have realized all this, if I had remained possessed of perfect happiness. My bent lay in another direction. I had a taste, and perhaps some talent, for the cultivation of the beautiful, and aimed to adorn life with festivals. Fate has decreed otherwise, and it is well. There should be no feasting, while there is so much suffering to alleviate. I felt so happy while wearing the one crown-and now I must bear the other willingly.