She gave orders that no one should be admitted. She smiled at the thought that she could still command, and that there were still some left to obey her. After some time, she sent for Doctor Gunther. He appeared at once, for he had been waiting in the anteroom.
The queen found it a great relief to confide to him the thoughts that so bewildered and confused her, but she could not force herself to say that she still felt how the king loved her--that is, as far as his wavering, restless nature would permit the existence of what might be termed love. She confessed everything to Gunther, except that--she felt ashamed that she could still associate the thought of love with that of the king.
"Ah, my friend!" said she at last, in a sad tone, "is there no chloroform for the soul, or for a part of it?--a few drops of Lethe? Teach me to forget things, to blunt my sensibility; my thoughts will kill me."
According to his usual practice, Gunther thought it best to produce an entire change of tone, instead of attempting to patch and mend the constitution at every fresh attack. He felt that, as soon as the queen had learned to think and feel differently, his path would be clear. Instead of offering to console her, he simply aided her in developing her thoughts, while he revealed to her the causes that underlie all human action. He treated the subject according to the great maxim of the solitary philosopher who claimed that all human actions are directed by the laws of nature. With those who have attained to a proper conception and understanding of these laws, the idea of forgiveness is out of the question. It may, indeed, be regarded as included in the admission of necessity.
It was thus that Gunther endeavored, as it were, to clear away the rubbish and the smoking ruins that were left after a fire. The fitful flames would, however, still burst forth, here and there.
The queen complained that all seemed chaos to her, and even went so far as to declare the desire to be virtuous as mere folly. The only comfort that Gunther offered her, was that he also knew the utter wretchedness of despair. He was not as one who, feeling himself secure from danger, calls out to him who wrestles with the agony of death: "Come to me: it is pleasant to be here." He was a companion of misery. He told her that there had been a period when he had not only despaired of his heart, and believed neither in cures nor in health, but had even lost all faith in the wisdom that rules the universe.
He acted on the principle that the only way to treat the despondent is to show them what others have suffered and yet have learned to live.
When the consciousness of this truth has dawned upon the afflicted, there is new light, and he enters upon the first stage of deliverance.
"I will impart the saddest confession of my life to you," said Gunther.
"You?"