CHAPTER I.

Produced by Stacy Brown, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net

FREDRIKA BREMER'S WORKS.

THE HOME

OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN.

TRANSLATED

BY MARY HOWITT.

LONDON:

HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

1853.

C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE.

THE HOME:

OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

MORNING DISPUTE AND EVENING CONTENTION.

"My sweet friend," said Judge Frank, in a tone of vexation, "it is not

worth while reading aloud to you if you keep yawning incessantly, and

looking about, first to the right and then to the left;" and with these

words he laid down a treatise of Jeremy Bentham, which he had been

reading, and rose from his seat.

"Ah, forgive me, dear friend!" returned his wife, "but really these good

things are all somewhat indigestible, and I was thinking about----Come

here, dear Brigitta!" said Mrs. Elise Frank, beckoning an old servant to

her, to whom she then spoke in an under tone.

Whilst this was going on, the Judge, a handsome strong-built man of

probably forty, walked up and down the room, and then suddenly pausing

as if in consideration, before one of the walls, he exclaimed to his

wife, who by this time had finished her conversation with the old

servant, "See, love, now if we were to have a door opened here--and it

could very easily be done, for it is only a lath-and-plaster wall--we

could then get so conveniently into our bedroom, without first going

through the sitting-room and the nursery--it would indeed be capital!"

"But then, where could the sofa stand?" answered Elise, with some

anxiety.

"The sofa?" returned her husband; "oh, the sofa could be wheeled a

little aside; there is more than room enough for it."

"But, my best friend," replied she, "there would come a very dangerous

draft from the door to every one who sat in the corner."

"Ah! always difficulties and impediments!" said the husband. "But cannot

you see, yourself, what a great advantage it would be if there were a

door here?"

"No, candidly speaking," said she, "I think it is better as it is."

"Yes, that is always the way with ladies," returned he; "they will have

nothing touched, nothing done, nothing changed, even to obtain

improvement and convenience; everything is good and excellent as it is,

till somebody makes the alteration for them, and then they can see at

once how much better it is; and then they exclaim, 'Ah, see now that is

charming!' Ladies, without doubt, belong to the stand-still party!"

"And the gentlemen," added she, "belong to the movement party; at least

wherever building and molestation-making comes across them!"

The conversation, which had hitherto appeared perfectly

good-humoured, seemed to assume a tone of bitterness from that word

"molestation-making;" and in return the voice of the Judge was somewhat

austere, as he replied to her taunt against the gentlemen. "Yes," said

he, "they are not afraid of a little trouble whenever a great advantage

is to be obtained. But----are we to have no breakfast to-day? It is

twenty-two minutes after nine! It really is shocking, dear Elise, that

you cannot teach your maids punctuality! There is nothing more

intolerable than to lose one's time in waiting; nothing more useless;

nothing more insupportable; nothing which more easily might be

prevented, if people would only resolutely set about it! Life is really

too short for one to be able to waste half of it in waiting!

Five-and-twenty minutes after nine! and the children--are they not ready

too? Dear Elise----"

"I'll go and see after them," said she; and went out quickly.

It was Sunday. The June sun shone into a large cheerful room, and upon a

snow-white damask tablecloth, which in soft silken folds was spread over

a long table, on which a handsome coffee-service was set out with

considerable elegance. The disturbed countenance with which the Judge

had approached the breakfast-table, cleared itself instantly as a

person, whom young ladies would unquestionably have called "horribly

ugly," but whom no reflective physiognomist could have observed without

interest, entered the room. This person was tall, extremely thin, and

somewhat inclining to the left side; the complexion was dark, and the

somewhat noble features wore a melancholy expression, which but seldom

gave place to a smile of unusual beauty. The forehead elevated itself,

with its deep lines, above the large brown extraordinary eyes, and above

this a wood of black-brown hair erected itself, under whose thick stiff

curls people said a multitude of ill-humours and paradoxes housed

themselves; so also, indeed, might they in all those deep furrows with

which his countenance was lined, not one of which certainly was without

its own signification. Still, there was not a sharp angle of that face;

there was nothing, either in word or voice, of the Assessor, Jeremias

Munter, however severe they might seem to be, which at the same time did

not conceal an expression of the deepest goodness of heart, and which

stamped itself upon his whole being, in the same way as the sap clothes

with green foliage the stiff resisting branches of the knotted oak.

"Good day, brother!" exclaimed the Judge, cordially offering him his

hand, "how are you?"

"Bad!" answered the melancholy man; "how can it be otherwise? What

weather we have! As cold as January! And what people we have in the

world too: it is both a sin and shame! I am so angry to-day that----Have

you read that malicious article against you in the----paper?"

"No, I don't take in that paper; but I have heard speak of the article,"

said Judge Frank. "It is directed against my writing on the condition of

the poor in the province, is it not?"

"Yes; or more properly no," replied the Assessor, "for the extraordinary

fact is, that it contains nothing about that affair. It is against

yourself that it is aimed--the lowest insinuations, the coarsest abuse!"

"So I have heard," said the Judge; "and on that very account I do not

trouble myself to read it."

"Have you heard who has written it?" asked the visitor.

"No," returned the other; "nor do I wish to know."

"But you should do so," argued the Assessor; "people ought to know who

are their enemies. It is Mr. N. I should like to give the fellow three

emetics, that he might know the taste of his own gall!"

"What!" exclaimed Judge Frank, at once interested in the Assessor's

news--"N., who lives nearly opposite to us, and who has so lately

received from the Cape his child, the poor little motherless girl?"

"The very same!" returned he; "but you must read this piece, if it be

only to give a relish to your coffee. See here; I have brought it with

me. I have learned that it would be sent to your wife to-day. Yes,

indeed, what pretty fellows there are in the world! But where is your

wife to-day? Ah! here she comes! Good morning, my lady Elise. So

charming in the early morning; but so pale! Eh, eh, eh; this is not as

it should be! What is it that I say and preach continually? Exercise,

fresh air--else nothing in the world avails anything. But who listens to

one's preaching? No--adieu my friends! Ah! where is my snuff-box? Under

the newspapers? The abominable newspapers; they must lay their hands on

everything; one can't keep even one's snuff-box in peace for them!

Adieu, Mrs. Elise! Adieu, Frank. Nay, see how he sits there and reads

coarse abuse of himself, just as if it mattered nothing to him. Now he

laughs into the bargain. Enjoy your breakfasts, my friends!"

"Will you not enjoy it with us?" asked the friendly voice of Mrs. Frank;

"we can offer you to-day quite fresh home-baked bread."

"No, I thank you," said the Assessor; "I am no friend to such home-made

things; good for nothing, however much they may be bragged of.

Home-baked, home-brewed, home-made. Heaven help us! It all sounds very

fine, but it's good for nothing."

"Try if to-day it really be good for nothing," urged she. "There, we

have now Madame Folette on the table; you must, at least, have a cup of

coffee from her."

"What do you mean?" asked the surprised Assessor; "what is it? What

horrid Madame is it that is to give me a cup of coffee? I never could

bear old women; and if they are now to come upon the coffee-table----"

"The round coffee-pot there," said Mrs. Frank, good-humouredly, "is

Madame Folette. Could you not bear that?"

"But why call it so?" asked he. "What foolery is that?"

"It is a fancy of the children," returned she. "An honest old woman of

this name, whom I once treated to a cup of coffee, exclaimed, at the

first sight of her favourite beverage, 'When I see a coffee-pot, it is

all the same to me as if I saw an angel from heaven!' The children heard

this, and insisted upon it that there was a great resemblance in figure

between Madame Folette and this coffee-pot; and so ever since it has

borne her name. The children are very fond of her, because she gives

them every Sunday morning their coffee."

"What business have children with coffee?" asked the Assessor. "Cannot

they be thin enough without it; and are they to be burnt up before their

time? There's Petrea, is she not lanky enough? I never was very fond of

her; and now, if she is to grow up into a coffee wife, why--"

"But, dear Munter," said Mrs. Frank, "you are not in a good humour

to-day."

"Good humour!" replied he: "no, Mrs. Elise, I am not in a good humour; I

don't know what there is in the world to make people good-humoured.

There now, your chair has torn a hole in my coat-lap! Is that pleasant?

That's home-made too! But now I'll go; that is, if your doors--are they

home-made too?--will let me pass."

"But will you not come back, and dine with us?" asked she.

"No, I thank you," replied he; "I am invited elsewhere; and that in this

house, too."

"To Mrs. Chamberlain W----?" asked Mrs. Frank.

"No, indeed!" answered the Assessor: "I cannot bear that woman. She

lectures me incessantly. Lectures me! I have a great wish to lecture

her, I have! And then, her blessed dog--Pyrrhus or Pirre; I had a great

mind to kill it. And then, she is so thin. I cannot bear thin people;

least of all, thin old women."

"No?" said Mrs. Frank. "Don't you know, then, what rumour says of you

and poor old Miss Rask?"

"That common person!" exclaimed Jeremias. "Well, and what says malice of

me and poor old Miss Rask?"

"That, not many days since," said Mrs. Frank, "you met this old lady on

your stairs as she was going up to her own room; and that she was

sighing, because of the long flight of stairs and her weak chest. Now

malice says, that, with the utmost politeness, you offered her your arm,

and conducted her up the stairs with the greatest possible care; nor

left her, till she had reached her own door; and further, after all,

that you sent her a pound of cough lozenges; and----"

"And do you believe," interrupted the Assessor, "that I did that for her

own sake? No, I thank you! I did it that the poor old skeleton might not

fall down dead upon my steps, and I be obliged to climb over her ugly

corpse. From no other cause in this world did I drag her up the stairs.

Yes, yes, that was it! I dine to-day with Miss Berndes. She is always a

very sensible person; and her little Miss Laura is very pretty. See,

here have we now all the herd of children! Your most devoted servant,

Sister Louise! So, indeed, little Miss Eva! she is not afraid of the

ugly old fellow, she--God bless her! there's some sugar-candy for her!

And the little one! it looks just like a little angel. Do I make her

cry? Then I must away; for I cannot endure children's crying. Oh, for

heaven's sake! It may make a part of the charm of home: that I can

believe;--perhaps it is home-music! Home-baked, home-made,

home-music----hu!"

The Assessor sprang through the door; the Judge laughed; and the little

one became silent at the sight of a kringla,[1] through which the

beautiful eye of her brother Henrik spied at her as through an

eye-glass; whilst the other children came bounding to the

breakfast-table.

"Nay, nay, nay, my little angels, keep yourselves a little quiet," said

the mother. "Wait a moment, dear Petrea; patience is a virtue. Eva dear,

don't behave in that way; you don't see me do so."

Thus gently moralised the mother; whilst, with the help of her eldest

daughter, the little prudent Louise, she cared for the other children.

The father went from one to another full of delight, patted their little

heads, and pulled them gently by the hair.

"I ought, yesterday, to have cut all your hair," said he. "Eva has quite

a wig; one can hardly see her face for it. Give your papa a kiss, my

little girl! I'll take your wig from you early to-morrow morning."

"And mine too, and mine too, papa!" exclaimed the others.

"Yes, yes," answered the father, "I'll shear every one of you."

All laughed but the little one; which, half frightened, hid its

sunny-haired little head on the mother's bosom: the father raised it

gently, and kissed, first it, and then the mother.

"Now put sugar in papa's cup," said she to the little one; "look! he

holds it to you."

The little one smiled, put sugar in the cup, and Madame Folette began

her joyful circuit.

But we will now leave Madame Folette, home-baked bread, the family

breakfast, and the morning sun, and seat ourselves at the evening lamp,

by the light of which Elise is writing.

TO CECILIA.

I must give you portraits of all my little flock of children; who now,

having enjoyed their evening meal, are laid to rest upon their soft

pillows. Ah! if I had only a really good portrait--I mean a painted

one--of my Henrik, my first-born, my summer child, as I call

him--because he was born on a Midsummer-day, in the summer hours both of

my life and my fortune; but only the pencil of a Correggio could

represent those beautiful, kind, blue eyes, those golden locks, that

loving mouth, and that countenance all so perfectly pure and beautiful!

Goodness and joyfulness beam out from his whole being; even although his

buoyant animal life, which seldom allows his arms or legs to be quiet,

often expresses itself in not the most graceful manner. My

eleven-years-old boy is, alas! very--his father says--very unmanageable.

Still, notwithstanding all this wildness, he is possessed of a deep and

restless fund of sentiment, which makes me often tremble for his future

happiness. God defend my darling, my summer child, my only son! Oh, how

dear he is to me! Ernst warns me often of too partial an affection for

this child; and on that very account will I now pass on from portrait

No. 1 to

No. 2.--Behold then the little Queen-bee, our eldest daughter, just

turned ten years; and you will see a grave, fair girl, not handsome, but

with a round, sensible face; from which I hope, by degrees, to remove a

certain ill-tempered expression. She is uncommonly industrious, silent

and orderly, and kind towards her younger sisters, although very much

disposed to lecture them; nor will she allow any opportunity to pass in

which her importance as "eldest sister" is not observed; on which

account the little ones give her the titles of "Your Majesty" and "Mrs.

Judge." The little Louise appears to me one of those who will always be

still and sure; and who, on this account, will go fortunately though the

world.

No. 3.--People say that my little nine-years-old Eva will be very like

her mother. I hope it will prove a really splendid fac-simile. See,

then, a little, soft, round-about figure, which, amid laughter and

merriment, rolls hither and thither lightly and nimbly, with an

ever-varying physiognomy, which is rather plain than handsome, although

lit up by a pair of beautiful, kind, dark-blue eyes. Quickly moved to

sorrow, quickly excited to joy; good-hearted, flattering,

confection-loving, pleased with new and handsome clothes, and with dolls

and play; greatly beloved too by brothers and sisters, as well as by all

the servants; the best friend and playfellow, too, of her brother. Such

is little Eva.

No. 4.--Nos. 3 and 4 ought not properly to come together. Poor Leonore

had a sickly childhood, and this rather, I believe, than nature, has

given to her an unsteady and violent temper, and has unhappily sown the

seeds of envy towards her more fortunate sisters. She is not deficient

in deep feeling, but the understanding is sluggish, and it is extremely

difficult for her to learn anything. All this promises no pleasure;

rather the very opposite. The expression of her mouth, even in the

uncomfortable time of teething, seemed to speak, "Let me be quiet!" It

is hardly possible that she can be other than plain, but, with God's

help, I hope to make her good and happy.

"My beloved, plain child!" say I sometimes to her as I clasp her

tenderly in my arms, for I would willingly reconcile her early to her

fate.

No. 5.--But whatever will fate do with the nose of my Petrea? This nose

is at present the most remarkable thing about her little person; and if

it were not so large, she really would be a pretty child. We hope,

however, that it will moderate itself in her growth.

Petrea is a little lively girl, with a turn for almost everything,

whether good or bad; curious and restless is she, and beyond measure

full of failings; she has a dangerous desire to make herself observed,

and to excite an interest. Her activity shows itself in destructiveness;

yet she is good-hearted and most generous. In every kind of foolery she

is a most willing ally with Henrik and Eva, whenever they will grant her

so much favour; and if these three be heard whispering together, one may

be quite sure that some roguery or other is on foot. There exists

already, however, so much unquiet in her, that I fear her whole life

will be such; but I will early teach her to turn herself to that which

can change unrest into rest.

No. 6.--And now to the pet child of the house--to the youngest, the

loveliest, the so-called "little one"--to her who with her white hands

puts the sugar into her father's and mother's cup--the coffee without

that would not taste good--to her whose little bed is not yet removed

from the chamber of the parents, and who, every morning, creeping out of

her own bed, lays her bright curly little head on her father's shoulder

and sleeps again.

Could you only see the little two-years-old Gabriele, with her large,

serious brown eyes; her refined, somewhat pale, but indescribably lovely

countenance; her bewitching little gestures; you would be just as much

taken with her as the rest are,--you would find it difficult, as we all

do, not to spoil her. She is a quiet little child, but very unlike her

eldest sister. A predominating characteristic of Gabriele is love of the

beautiful; she shows a decided aversion to what is ugly and

inconvenient, and as decided a love for what is attractive. A most

winning little gentility in appearance and manners, has occasioned the

brother and sisters to call her in sport "the little young lady," or

"the little princess." Henrik is really in love with his little sister,

kisses her small white hands with devotion, and in return she loves him

with her whole heart. Towards the others she is very often somewhat

ungracious; and our good friend the Assessor calls her frequently "the

little gracious one," and frequently also "the little ungracious one,"

but then he has for her especially so many names; my wish is that in the

end she may deserve the surname of "the amiable."

Peace be with my young ones! There is not one of them which is not

possessed of the material of peculiar virtue and excellence, and yet not

also at the same time of the seed of some dangerous vice, which may ruin

the good growth of God in them. May the endeavours both of their father

and me be blessed in training these plants of heaven aright! But ah! the

education of children is no easy thing, and all the many works on that

subject which I have studied appear to me, whether the fault be in me

or in them I cannot tell, but small helps. Ah! I often find no other

means than to clasp the child tenderly in my arms, and to weep bitterly

over it, or else to kiss it in the fulness of my joy; and it often has

appeared to me that such moments are not without their influence.

I endeavour as much as possible not to scold. I know how perpetually

scolding crushes the free spirit and the innocent joyousness of

childhood; and I sincerely believe that if one will only sedulously

cultivate what is good in character, and make in all instances what is

good visible and attractive, the bad will by degrees fall away of

itself.

I sing a great deal to my children. They are brought up with songs; for

I wished early, as it were, to bathe their souls in harmony. Several of

them, especially my first-born and Eva, are regular little enthusiasts

in music; and every evening, as soon as twilight comes on, the children

throng about me, and then I sit down to the piano, and either accompany

myself, or play to little songs which they themselves sing. It is my

Henrik's reward, when he has been very good for the whole day, that I

should sit by his bed, and sing to him till he sleeps. He says that he

then has such beautiful dreams. We often sit and talk for an hour

instead, and I delight myself sincerely in his active and pure soul.

When he lays out his great plans for his future life, he ends

thus:--"And when I am grown up a man, and have my own house, then,

mother, thou shalt come and live with me, and I will keep so many maids

to wait on thee, and thou shalt have so many flowers, and everything

that thou art fond of, and shalt live just like a queen; only of an

evening, when I go to bed, thou shalt sit beside me and sing me to

sleep; wilt thou not?" Often too, when in the midst of his plans for the

future and my songs, he has dropped asleep, I remain sitting still by

the bed with my heart full to overflowing with joy and pride in this

angel. Ernst declares that I spoil him. Ah, perhaps I do, but

nevertheless it is a fact that I earnestly endeavour not to do so. After

all, I can say of every one of my children what a friend of mine said of

hers, that they are tolerably good; that is to say, they are not good

enough for heaven.

This evening I am alone. Ernst is away at the District-Governor's. It

is my birthday to-day; but I have told no one, because I wished rather

to celebrate it in a quiet communion with my own thoughts.

How at this moment the long past years come in review before me! I see

myself once more in the house of my parents: in that good, joyful,

beloved home! I see myself once more by thy side, my beloved and only

sister, in that large, magnificent house, surrounded by meadows and

villages. How we looked down upon them from high windows, and yet

rejoiced that the sun streamed into the most lowly huts just as

pleasantly as into our large saloons--everything seemed to us so well

arranged.

Life then, Cecilia, was joyful and free from care. How we sate and wept

over "Des Voeux Temeraires," and over "Feodor and Maria,"--such were

our cares then. Our life was made up of song, and dance, and merriment,

with our so many cheerful neighbours; with the most accomplished of whom

we got up enthusiasms for music and literature. We considered ourselves

to be virtuous, because we loved those who loved us, and because we gave

of our superfluity to those who needed it. Friendship was our passion.

We were ready to die for friendship, but towards love we had hearts of

stone. How we jested over our lovers, and thought what fun it would be

to act the parts of austere romance-heroines! How unmerciful we were,

and--how easily our lovers consoled themselves! Then Ernst Frank came on

a visit to us. The rumour of a learned and strong-minded man preceded

him, and fixed our regards upon him, because women, whether

well-informed or not themselves, are attracted by such men. Do you not

remember how much he occupied our minds? how his noble person, his calm,

self-assured demeanour, his frank, decided, yet always polite behaviour

charmed us at first, and the awed us?

One could say of him, that morally as well as physically he stood

firmly. His deep mourning dress, together with an expression of quiet

manly grief, which at times shaded his countenance, combined to make him

interesting to us; nevertheless, you thought that he looked too stern,

and I very soon lost in his presence my accustomed gaiety. Whenever his

dark grave eyes were fixed upon me, I was conscious that they possessed

a half-bewitching, half-oppressive power over me; I felt myself happy

because of it, yet at the same time filled with anxiety; my very action

was constrained, my hands became cold and did everything blunderingly,

nor ever did I speak so stupidly as when I observed that he listened.

Aunt Lisette gave me one day this maxim: "My dear, remember what I now

tell thee: if a man thinks that thou art a fool, it does not injure thee

the least in his opinion; but if he once thinks that thou considerest

him a fool, then art thou lost for ever with him!" With the last it may

be just as it will--I have heard a clever young man declare that it

would operate upon him like salt on fire--however, this is certain, that

the first part of Aunt Lisette's maxim is correct, since my stupidity in

Ernst's presence did not injure me at all in his opinion, and when he

was kind and gentle, how inexpressibly agreeable he was!

His influence over me became greater each succeeding day: I seemed to

live continually under his eyes; when they beamed on me in kindness, it

was as if a spring breeze passed through my soul; and if his glance was

graver than common, I became still, and out of spirits. It seemed to me

at times--and it is so even to this very day--that if this clear and

wonderfully penetrating glance were only once, and with its full power,

riveted upon me, my very heart would cease to beat. Yet after all, I am

not sure whether I loved him. I hardly think I did; for when he was

absent I then seemed to breathe so freely, yet at the same time, I would

have saved his life by the sacrifice of my own.

In several respects we had no sympathies in common. He had no taste for

music, which I loved passionately; and in reading too our feelings were

so different. He yawned over my favourite romances, nay he even

sometimes would laugh when I was at the point of bursting into tears; I,

on the contrary, yawned over his useful and learned books, and found

them more tedious than I could express. The world of imagination in

which my thoughts delighted to exercise themselves, he valued not in the

least, whilst the burdensome actuality which he always was seeking for

in life, had no charm for me. Nevertheless there were many points in

which we accorded--these especially were questions of morals--and

whenever this was the case, it afforded both of us great pleasure.

And now came the time, Cecilia, in which you left me; when our fates

separated themselves, although our hearts did not.

One day there were many strangers with us; and in the afternoon I played

at shuttlecock with young cousin Emil, to whom we were so kind, and who

deserved our kindness so well. How it happened I cannot tell, but before

long Ernst took his place, and was my partner in the game. He looked

unusually animated, and I felt myself more at ease with him than common.

He threw the shuttlecock excellently, and with a firm hand, but always

let it fly a little way beyond me, so that I was obliged to step back a

few paces each time to catch it, and thus unconsciously to myself was I

driven, in the merry sport, through a long suite of rooms, till we came

at last to one where we were quite alone, and a long way from the

company. All at once then Ernst left off his play, and a change was

visible in his whole countenance. I augured something amiss, and would

gladly have sprung far, far away, but I felt powerless; and then Ernst

spoke so from his heart, so fervently, and with such deep tenderness,

that he took my heart at once to himself. I laid my hand, although

tremblingly, in his, and, almost without knowing what I did, consented

to go through life by his side.

I had just then passed my nineteenth year; and my beloved parents

sanctioned the union of their daughter with a man so respectable and so

universally esteemed, and one, moreover, whom everybody prophesied would

one day rise to the highest eminences of the state--and Ernst, whose

nature it was to accomplish everything rapidly which he undertook,

managed it so that in a very short time our marriage was celebrated.

At the same time some members of my family thought that by this union I

had descended a step. I thought not; on the contrary, the very reverse.

I was of high birth, had several not undistinguished family connexions,

and was brought up in a brilliant circle, in all the superficial

accomplishments of the day, amid superfluity and thoughtlessness. He was

a man who had shaped out his own course in life, who, by his own honest

endeavours, and through many self-denials, had raised his father's house

from its depressed condition, and had made the future prospects of his

mother and sister comfortable and secure: he was a man self-dependent,

upright, and good--yes, GOOD, and that I discover more and more the

deeper knowledge I obtain of his true character, even though the outward

manner may be somewhat severe--in truth, I feel myself very inferior

beside him.

The first year of our marriage we passed, at their desire, in the house

of my parents; and if I could only have been less conscious of his

superiority, and could only have been more certain that he was satisfied

with me, nothing would have been wanting to my happiness. Everybody

waited upon me; and perhaps it was on this account that Ernst, in

comparison, seemed somewhat cold; I was the petted child of my too kind

parents; I was thankless and peevish, and ah, some little of this still

remains! Nevertheless, it was during this very time that, under the

influence of my husband, the true beauty and reality of life became more

and more perceptible to my soul. Married life and family ties, one's

country and the world, revealed their true relationships, and their holy

signification to my mind. Ernst was my teacher; I looked up to him with

love, but not without fear.

Many were the projects which we formed in these summer days, and which

floated brightly before my romantic fancy. Among these was a journey on

foot through the beautiful country west of Sweden, and this was one of

the favourite schemes of my Ernst. His mother--from whom our little

Petrea has derived her somewhat singular name--was of Norway, and many a

beloved thought of her seemed to have interwoven itself with the valleys

and mountains, which, as in a wonderfully-beautiful fairy tale, she had

described to him in the stories she told. All these recollections are a

sort of romantic region in Ernst's soul, and thither he betakes himself

whenever he would refresh his spirit, or lay out something delightful

for the future. "Next year," he would then exclaim, "will we take a

journey!" And then we laid out together our route on the map, and I

determined on the dress which I would wear as his travelling-companion

when we would go and visit "that sea-engarlanded Norway." Ah! there soon

came for me other journeys.

It was during these days also that my first-born saw the light; my

beautiful boy! who so fettered both my love and my thoughts that Ernst

grew almost jealous. How often did I steal out of bed at night in order

to watch him while he slept! He was a lively, restless child, and it

therefore was a peculiar pleasure for me to see him at rest; besides

which, he was so angelically lovely in sleep! I could have spent whole

nights bending over his cradle.

So far, Cecilia, all went with us as in the romances with which we in

our youth nourished heart and soul. But far other times came. In the

first place, the sad change in the circumstances of my parents, which

operated so severely on our position in life; and then for me so many

children--cares without end, grief and sickness! My body and mind must

both have given way under their burden, had Ernst not been the man he

is.

It suited his character to struggle against the stream; it was a sort of

pleasure to him to combat with it, to meet difficulties, and to overcome

them. With each succeeding year he imposed more business upon himself,

and by degrees, through the most resolute industry, he was enabled to

bring back prosperity to his house. And then how unwearingly kind he was

to me! How tenderly sustaining in those very moments, when without him I

must have found myself so utterly miserable! How many a sleepless night

has he passed on my account! How often has he soothed to sleep a sickly

child in his arms! And then, too, every child which came, as it were

only to multiply his cares, and increase the necessity for his labour,

was to him a delight--was received as a gift of God's mercy--and its

birth made a festival in the house. How my heart has thanked him, and

how has his strength and assurance nerved me!

When little Gabriele was born I was very near death; and it is my firm

belief that, without Ernst's care for me, I must then have parted from

my little ones. During the time of great weakness which succeeded this,

my foot scarcely ever touched the ground. I was carried by Ernst himself

wherever I would. He was unwearied in goodness and patience towards the

sick mother. Should she not now, that she is again in health, dedicate

her life to him? Ah, yes, that should she, and that will she! Alas, were

but my ability as strong as my will!

Do you know one thing, Cecilia, which often occasions me great trouble?

It is that I am not a clever housewife; that I can neither take pleasure

in all the little cares and details which the well-being of a house

really requires, nor that I have memory for these things; more

especially is the daily caring for dinner irksome to me. I myself have

but little appetite; and it is so unpleasing to me to go to sleep at

night, and to get up in the morning with my head full of schemes for

cooking. By this means, it happens that sometimes my husband's domestic

comforts are not such as he has a right to demand. Hitherto my weak

health, the necessary care of the children, and our rather narrow

circumstances, have furnished me with sufficient excuses; but these now

will avail me no longer; my health is again established, and our greater

prosperity furnishes the means for better household management.

On this account, I now exert myself to perform all my duties well; but,

ah! how pleasant it will be when the little Louise is sufficiently grown

up, that I may lay part of the housekeeping burdens on her shoulders. I

fancy to myself that she will have peculiar pleasure in all these

things.

I am to-day two-and-thirty years old. It seems to me that I have entered

a new period of my life: my youth lies behind me, I am advanced into

middle age, and I well know what both this and my husband have a right

to demand from me. May a new and stronger being awake in me! May God

support me, and Ernst be gentle towards his erring wife!

Ernst should have married a more energetic woman. My nervous weakness

makes my temper irritable, and I am so easily annoyed. His activity of

mind often disturbs me more than it is reasonable or right that it

should; for instance, I get regularly into a state of excitement, if he

only steadfastly fixes his eyes on a wall, or on any other object. I

immediately begin to fancy that we are going instantly to have a new

door opened, or some other change brought about. And oh! I have such a

great necessity for rest and quiet!

One change which is about to take place in our house I cannot anticipate

without uneasiness. It is the arrival of a candidate of Philosophy,

Jacob Jacobi, as tutor for my children. He will this summer take my wild

boy under his charge, and instruct the sisters in writing, drawing, and

arithmetic; and in the autumn conduct my first-born from the maternal

home to a great educational institution. I dread this new member in our

domestic circle; he may, if he be not amiable, so easily prove so

annoying; yet, if he be amiable and good, he will be so heartily welcome

to me, especially as assistant in the wearisome writing lessons, with

their eternal "Henrik, sit still!"--"Hold the pen properly,

Louise!"--"Look at the copy, Leonore!"--"Don't forget the points and

strokes, Eva!"--"Little Petrea, don't wipe out the letters with your

nose!" Besides this, my first-born begins to have less and less esteem

for my Latin knowledge; and Ernst is sadly discontented with his wild

pranks. Jacobi will give him instruction, together with Nils Gabriel,

the son of the District-Governor, Stjernhoek, a most industrious and

remarkably sensible boy, from whose influence on my Henrik I hope for

much good.

The Candidate is warmly recommended to us by a friend of my husband, the

excellent Bishop B.; yet, notwithstanding this, his actions at the

University did not particularly redound to his honour. Through credulity

and folly he has run through a nice little property which had been left

him by three old aunts, who had brought him up and spoiled him into the

bargain. Indeed, his career has hitherto not been quite a correct one.

Bishop B. conceals nothing of all this, but says that he is much

attached to the young man; praises his heart, and his excellent gifts as

a preceptor, and prays us to receive him cordially, with all parental

tenderness, into our family. We shall soon see whether he be deserving

of such hearty sympathy. For my part, I must confess that my motherly

tenderness for him is as yet fast asleep.

Yet, after all, this inmate does not terrify me half as much as a visit

with which I am shortly threatened. Of course you have heard of the lady

of the late Colonel S., the beautiful Emilie, my husband's "old flame,"

as I call her, out of a little malice for all the vexation her

perfections, which are so very opposite to mine, have occasioned me. She

has been now for several years a widow, has lived long abroad, and now

will pay us a visit on her return to her native land. Ernst and she have

always kept up the most friendly understanding with each other, although

she refused his hand; and it is a noble characteristic of my Ernst, and

one which, in his sex, is not often found, that this rejection did not

make him indifferent to the person who gave it. On the contrary, he

professes the most warm admiration of this Emilie, and has not ceased to

correspond with her; and I, for I read all their letters, cannot but

confess her extraordinary knowledge and acuteness. But to know all this

near is what I would indeed be very gladly excused, since I cannot help

thinking that my husband's "old flame" has something of cold-heartedness

in her, and my heart has no great inclination to become warm towards

her.

It strikes ten o'clock. Ernst will not come home before twelve. I shall

leave you now, Cecilia, that----shall I confess my secret to you? You

know that one of my greatest pleasures is the reading of a good novel,

but this pleasure I have almost entirely renounced, because whenever I

have a really interesting one in my hand, I find the most cruel

difficulty in laying it down before I reach the last page. That,

however, does not answer in my case; and since the time when through the

reading of Madame De Stael's Corinne, two dinners, one great wash, and

seventeen lesser domestic affairs all came to a stand-still, and my

domestic peace nearly suffered shipwreck, I have made a resolution to

give up all novel-reading, at least for the present. But still it is so

necessary for me to have some literary relaxation of the kind, that

since I read no more novels, I have myself--begun to write one. Yes,

Cecilia, my youthful habits will not leave me, even in the midst of the

employments and prosaic cares of every-day life; and the flowers which

in the morning-tide cast their fragrance so sweetly around me, will yet

once more bloom for me in remembrance, and encircle my drooping head

with a refreshing garland. The joyful days which I passed by your side;

the impressions and the agreeable scenes--now they seem doubly so--which

made our youth so beautiful, so lively, and so fresh,--all these I will

work out into one significant picture, before the regular flight of

years has made them perish from my soul. This employment enlivens and

strengthens me; and if, in an evening, my nervous toothache, which is

the certain result of over-exertion or of vexation, comes on, there is

nothing which will dissipate it like the going on with my little

romance. For this very reason, therefore, because this evening my old

enemy has plagued me more than common, I have recourse to my innocent

opiate.

But Ernst shall not find me awake when he returns: this I have promised

him. Good night, sweet Cecilia!

We will now, in this place, give a little description of the

letter-writer--of the mother of Henrik, Louise, Eva, Leonore, Petrea,

and Gabriele.

Beautiful she certainly was not, but nature had given to her a noble

growth, which was still as fine and delicate as that of a young girl.

The features were not regular, but the mouth was fresh and bewitching,

the lips of a lovely bright red, the complexion fair, and the clear blue

eyes soft and kind. All her actions were graceful: she had beautiful

hands--which is something particularly lovely in a lady--yet she was not

solicitous to keep them always in view, and this beautified them still

more. She dressed with much taste, almost always in light colours; this

and the soft rose scent which she loved, and which always accompanied

her, lent to her whole being a something especially mild and agreeable.

One might compare her to moonlight; she moved softly, and her voice was

low and sweet, which, as Shakspeare says, is "an excellent thing in

woman." Seeing her, as one often might do, reclining on a soft couch,

playing with a flower or caressing a child, one could scarcely fancy her

the superintendent of a large household, with all its appertaining

work-people and servants; and beyond this, as the instructor of many

children: yet love and sense of duty had led her to the performance of

all this, had reconciled her to that which her natural inclinations were

so averse to; nay, by degrees indeed, had made these very cares dear to

her--whatever concerned the children lay near to her heart, whilst

order, pleasantness, and peace, regulated the house. The contents of the

linen-press were dear to her; a snow-white tablecloth was her delight;

grey linen, dust, and flies, were hated by her, as far as she could hate

anything.

But let us now proceed with our historical sketches.

We left Elise at her manuscript, by which she became soon so deeply

occupied that the clock struck twelve unperceived by her; nor was she

aware of the flight of time till a sudden terror thrilled her as she

heard her husband return. To throw her manuscript into her drawer, and

quickly undress, had been an easy thing for her, and she was about to do

so, when the thought occurred, "I have never hitherto kept my

proceedings secret from Ernst, and to-day I will not begin to do so;"

and she remained at her writing-table till he entered the room.

"What! yet up, and writing?" said he, with a displeased glance. "Is it

thus you keep your promise, Elise?"

"Pardon me, Ernst," said she; "I had forgotten myself."

"And for what?" asked he. "What are you writing? No, let me see! What! a

novel, as I live! Now, what use is this?"

"What use is it?" returned Elise. "Ah, to give me pleasure."

"But people should have sense and reason in their pleasures," said the

Judge. "Now it gives me no pleasure at all that you should sit up at

night ruining your eyes on account of a miserable novel;--if there were

a fire here I would burn the rubbish!"

"It would be a great deal better," returned Elise, mildly, "if you went

to bed and said your prayers piously, rather than thought about such an

_auto-da-fe_. How have you amused yourself at the Governor's?"

"You want now to be mixing the cards," said he. "Look at me, Elise; you

are pale; your pulse is excited! Say my prayers, indeed! I have a great

mind to give you a lecture, that I have! Is it reasonable--is it

prudent--to sit up at night and become pale and sleepless, in order to

write what is good for nothing? It really makes me quite angry that you

can be so foolish, so childish! It certainly is worth while your going

to baths, sending to the east and to the west to consult physicians, and

giving oneself all kind of trouble to regain your health, when you go

and do every possible thing you can in the world to destroy it!"

"Do not be angry, Ernst," besought Elise; "do not look so stern on me

to-night, Ernst; no, not to-night."

"Yes, indeed!" replied he, but in a tone which had become at once

milder, "because it is two-and-thirty years to-day since you came into

the world, do you think that you have a right to be absolutely

childish?"

"Put that down to my account," said Elise, smiling, yet with a tear in

her eye.

"Put it down! put it down!" repeated the Judge. "Yes, I suppose so.

People go on putting down neck or nothing till it's a pretty fool's

business. I should like to pack all novels and novel-writers out of the

world together! The world never will be wise till that is done; nor will

you either. In the mean time, however, it is as well that I have found

you awake, else I must have woke you to prove that you cannot conceal

from me, not even for once, how old you are. Here then is the punishment

for your bad intention."

"Ah! Walter Scott's romances!" exclaimed Elise, receiving a set of

volumes from her husband; "and such a magnificent edition! Thanks!

thanks! you good, best Ernst! But you are a beautiful lawgiver; you

promote the very things which you condemn!"

"Promise me, only," returned he, "not to spend the night in reading or

writing novels. Think only how precious your health is to so many of us!

Do you think I should be so provoked, if you were less dear to me? Do

you comprehend that? In a few years, Elise," added he, "when the

children are older, and you are stronger, we will turn a summer to

really good account, and take our Norwegian journey. You shall breathe

the fresh mountain air, and see the beautiful valleys and the sea, and

that will do you much more good than all the mineral waters in the

world. But come now, let us go and see the children; we will not wake

them, however, although I have brought with me some confectionery from

the lady hostess, which I can lay on their pillows. There is a rennet

for you."

The married pair went into the children's room, where the faithful old

Fin-woman, Brigitta, lay and guarded, like the dragon, her treasures.

The children slept as children sleep. The father stroked the beautiful

curling hair of the boy, but impressed a kiss on the rosy cheek of each

girl. After this the parents returned to their own chamber. Elise lay

down to rest; her husband sate down to his desk, but so as to shade the

light from his wife. The low sounds of a pen moving on paper came to her

ear as if in sleep. As the clock struck two she awoke, and he was still

writing.

Few men required and allowed themselves so little rest as Ernst Frank.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A kind of fine curled cake.

CHAPTER II.

THE CANDIDATE.

It was in the twilight. The children were playing at "lana eld"[2] in

the great hall, swarming about in holes and corners, when the sudden

stopping of a travelling carriage before the door operated upon the wild

little flock much as a stream of cold water on a swarm of Lees. The

Queen-bee of the children-swarm, the wise little Louise, sate herself

down at the window, and four other little heads clustered themselves

about her, fervent and inquisitive, and almost pushing her away in their

impatient zeal to get a peep at the arrival.

It was a gentleman who stepped lightly out of that travelling carriage,

but whether young or old, the children could not see; this, however,

they saw, that their father came quickly to the door, shook the

traveller by the hand, and conducted him into the house; whilst a very

small portmanteau was carried after him. Seeing this, the little swarm

hastened to their mother; to whom they gave, in all possible degrees of

tone, from a low whisper to a loud annunciation, the information that

for certain "the tutor was come."

Elise, who had company with her, calmed with a "yes, yes!" and "so,

indeed!" the excited state of the children. The Queen-bee composed

herself quickly; and with mildly silencing looks seemed to observe that

she had somewhat forgotten her own dignity, and seated herself quietly

and becomingly among the "grown people," as one of them, whilst the

other children gathered themselves in a little group in one corner of

the room, whispering and wondering; and whoever had looked at them might

have seen many a time Petrea's nose peering forth from the little group.

Judge Frank sent to announce to his wife the arrival of the expected

guest, who would be introduced to her as soon as he had completed his

toilet. Presently afterwards another messenger came, desiring

curling-irons for the Candidate.

"It is a blessed long toilet!" thought Elise, many a time during a full

hour which elapsed in waiting; and it must be confessed that her nose

more than once during the hour took the same direction as Petrea's.

At last the steps of two gentlemen were heard on the hall floor, and

there advanced through the parlour door a well-shod foot and a handsome

leg, belonging to a well-formed though somewhat compressed figure, which

carried gracefully a twenty-year-old head, of a jovial, comely

appearance, with the hair dressed after the newest mode. It was the

Candidate. He cast a glance first at his foot, and then at the lady of

the house, whom he approached with the most unconstrained

self-possession, exhibiting the while a row of dazzlingly white teeth.

Odour of _eau de Portugal_ diffused itself though the room.

The Judge, who followed, and whose bearing and simple demeanour

contrasted with those of the new guest, introduced the Candidate Jacobi.

Various unimportant polite speeches were made by everybody, and then

they all took their seats. The children then came forward, and made

their bows and curtseys. Henrik eyed his future preceptor with a joyous,

confiding glance; the Queen-bee curtseyed very becomingly, and then made

several steps backward as the young man seemed inclined to take the

great liberty of kissing her; whilst Petrea turned up her nose with an

inquisitive saucy air. The Candidate took the kindest notice of them

all; shook all of them by the hand; inquired all their names; looked at

himself in the glass, and arranged his curls.

"Whom have we here?" thought Elise, with secret anxiety. "He is a fop--a

perfect fop! How in all the world could Bishop B. select him as teacher

for my poor little children? He will think much more of looking at

himself in the glass than of looking after them. The fine breast-pin

that he is wearing is of false stones. He laughs to show his white

teeth. An actual fop--a fool, perhaps! There, now, he looks at himself

again in the glass!"

Elise sought to catch her husband's eye, but he evidently avoided

meeting hers; yet something of discontent, and something of trouble too,

showed itself in his manner. The Candidate, on the contrary, appeared

not in the slightest degree troubled, but reclined perfectly at his ease

in an armchair, and cast searching glances on three ladies, who

evidently were strangers in the company. The eldest of these, who kept

on sewing incessantly, appeared to be upwards of forty, and was

distinguished by a remarkably quiet, bright, and friendly aspect. Judge

Frank and she talked much together. The other two appeared neither of

them to have attained her twentieth year: the one was pale and fair; the

other a pretty brunette; both of them were agreeable, and looked good

and happy. These ladies were introduced to Jacobi as Miss Evelina

Berndes and her adopted daughters, Laura and Karin. Laura had always one

of the children on her knee, and it was upon her that his eyes were most

particularly fixed. It was indeed a very pretty picture, which was

formed by Laura, with the lovely little Gabriele on her knee, decorated

with the flowers, bracelets, necklace, in short, with all the pretty

things that just before had ornamented herself.

The conversation soon became general, and was remarkably easy, and the

Candidate had an opportunity of taking his part well and interestingly

in it whilst speaking of certain distinguished men in the University

from which he was just come. Elise mentioned one celebrated man whom she

had a great desire to see, upon which Jacobi said he had lately made a

little sketch of him, which, on her expressing a wish to see, he

hastened to fetch.

He returned with a portfolio containing many drawings and pictures;

partly portraits, and partly landscapes, from his own pencil; they were

not deficient in talent, and afforded pleasure. First one portrait was

recognised and then another, and at last the Candidate himself. The

children were quite enchanted, and thronged with enthusiasm round the

table. The Candidate placed some of them on his knee, and seemed

particularly observant of their pleasure, and it was not long,

therefore, before they appeared entirely to forget that he was only a

new acquaintance--all at least excepting Louise, who held herself rather

_fiere_, and "the baby," which was quite ungracious towards him.

Above all the pictures which the portfolio contained, were the children

most affected and enchanted by one in sepia, which represented a girl

kneeling before a rose-bush, from which she was gathering roses, whilst

a lyre lay against a gravestone near her.

"Oh, how sweet! how divinely beautiful!" exclaimed they. Petrea seemed

as if she actually could not remove her eyes from the charming picture,

which the Candidate himself also seemed to regard with a fatherly

affection, and which was the crown of his little collection.

It was the custom at the Franks, that every evening, as soon as the

clock had struck eight, the little herd of children, conducted by the

Queen-bee, withdrew to their bed-chamber, which had once occasioned the

wakeful Petrea to say that night was the worst thing God had ever made:

for which remark she received a reproving glance from the Queen-bee,

accompanied by the maxim, "that people should not talk in that way."

In order, however, to celebrate the present day, which was a remarkable

one, the children were permitted to take supper with their parents, and

even to sit up as late as they did. The prospect of this indulgence, the

Candidate, the pictures, all combined to elevate the spirits of the

children in no ordinary degree; so much so indeed that Petrea had the

boldness, whilst they were regaling on roast chicken, to propose to the

Candidate that the picture of the girl and the rose-bush should be put

up for a prize on the breaking of a merrythought between them;

promising, that if she had the good fortune to win it, she would give as

a recompense a picture of her own composition, which should represent

some scene in a temple. The Queen-bee appeared scandalised at her

sister's proposal, and shook her little wise head at her.

The mother also violently opposed Petrea's proposition; and she, poor

girl, became scarlet, and deeply abashed, before the reproving glances

which were cast upon her; yet the Candidate was good-natured enough,

after the first astonishment was over, to yield in the most cheerful

manner to Petrea's proposal, and zealously to declare that the affair

should be managed just as she would. He accordingly set himself, with an

appearance of great accuracy and solemnity, to measure the length of

both limbs of the merrythought, and then counted three; the mother all

this time hoping within herself that he would so manage it that he

himself should retain the head--but no! the head remained in Petrea's

hand, and she uttered a loud cry of joy. After supper, the parents again

opposed what had taken place; but the Candidate was so cheerful and so

determined that it should remain as it was settled already, that Petrea,

the happiest of mortals, ventured to carry out the girl and rose-bush;

yet, she did not miss a motherly warning by the way, which mingled some

tears with her joy. The Candidate had, in the mean time, on account of

his kindness towards the children, and his good-nature towards Petrea,

made a favourable impression on the parents.

"Who knows," said Elise to her husband, "but that he may turn out very

well. He has, probably, his faults, but he has his good qualities too;

there is something really very agreeable in his voice and countenance;

but he must leave off that habit of looking at himself so continually in

the glass."

"I feel assured that he must have worth," said the Judge, "from the

recommendation of my friend B. This vanity, and these foppish habits of

his, we shall soon know how to get rid of; the man himself is

unquestionably good; and, dear Elise, be kind to him, and manage so that

he shall feel at home with us."

The children also, in their place of rest, made their observations on

the Candidate.

"I think he is much handsomer than my father," said little Petrea.

"I think," said the Queen-bee, in a tone of correction, "that nobody can

be more perfect than my father."

"That is true, excepting mamma," exclaimed Eva, out of her little bed.

"Ah," said Petrea, "I like him so much; he has given me that lovely

picture. Do you know what I shall call that girl? I shall call her Rosa;

and I'll tell you a long story about her. There was once upon a

time----"

All the sisters listened eagerly, for Petrea could relate better and

prettier stories than any of them. It was therefore said among

themselves that Petrea was very clever; but as the Queen-bee was

desirous that Petrea should not build much on this opinion, she now

listened to her history without bestowing upon it one token of applause,

although it was found to be sufficiently interesting to keep the whole

little auditorium awake till midnight.

"What will become of my preserves?" thought Elise, one day as she

remarked the quantity which vanished from the plate of the Candidate;

but when that same evening she saw the little Gabriele merrily, and

without reproof, pulling about his curls; when she saw him join the

children at their play, and make every game which they played

instructive to them; when she saw him armed with a great paper weapon,

which he called his sword, and deal about blows to those who counted

false, thereby exciting greater activity of mind as well as more mirth,

she thought to herself, "he may eat just as much preserves as he likes;

I will take care that he never goes short of them."

If, however, the Candidate rose higher in the regards of one party,

there still was another with which his actions did not place him in the

best point of view. Brigitta, to whom the care of some few things in the

house was confided, began to look troubled, and out of sorts. For

several days, whatever her cause of annoyance might be, she preserved

silence, till one evening, when expanding the nostrils of her little

snubby nose, she thus addressed her mistress:

"The gracious lady must be so good as to give out to the cook just twice

as much coffee as usual; because if things are to go on in this way, we

cannot do with less. He, the master there, empties the little coffee-pot

himself every morning! Never, in all my life, have I seen such a

coffee-bibber!"

The following evening came a new announcement of trouble.

"Now it is not alone a coffee-bibber," said poor Brigitta, with a gloomy

countenance and wide-staring eyes, "but a calf it is, and a devourer of

rusks! What do you think, gracious lady, but the rusk-basket, which I

filled only yesterday, is to-day as good as empty--only two rusks and

two or three crumbs remaining! Then for cream! Why every morning he

empties the jug!"

"Ah, it is very good," said Elise, mildly, yet evasively, "that he

enjoys things so much."

"And only look, in heaven's name!" lamented poor Brigitta another day,

"he is also quite a sugar-rat! Why, dear, gracious lady, he must put in

at least twenty pieces of sugar into one cup of coffee, or he never

could empty a sugar-basin as he does! I must beg you to give mo the key

of the chest, that I may fill it again. God grant that all this may have

a good ending!"

Brigitta could venture to say much, for she had grown old in the house;

had carried Elise as a child in her arms; and from affection to her, had

followed her when she left her father's house: besides this, she was a

most excellent guardian for the children; but as now these complaints of

hers were too frequently repeated, Elise said to her seriously: "Dear

Brigitta, let him eat and drink as much as he likes, without any

observation: I would willingly allow him a pound of sugar and coffee a

day, if he only became, as I hope he may, a good friend and preceptor

for the children."

Brigitta walked away quite provoked, and grumbling to herself: "Well,

well!" said she, "old Brita can be silent, yes, that she can;--well,

well! we shall see what will be the end of it. Sugar and rusks he eats,

and salt-fish he can't eat!--well, well!"

All this time Jacobi was passing his days in peace, little dreaming of

the clouds which were gathering over his head, or of his appellations of

coffee-bibber, calf, rusk-devourer, and sugar-rat; and with each

succeeding day it became more evident that Elise's hopes of him were

well grounded. He developed more and more a good and amiable

disposition, and the most remarkable talents as teacher. The children

became attached to him with the most intense affection; nor did their

obedience and reverence for him as preceptor prevent them, in their

freer hours, from playing him all kind of little pranks. Petrea was

especially rich in such inventions; and he was too kind, too much

delighted with their pleasure, not willingly to assist, or even at times

allow himself to be the butt of their jokes.

Breakfast, which for the elder members of the family was commonly served

at eleven o'clock, furnished the children with an excellent opportunity

for their amusement. The Candidate was particularly fond of eggs, and

therefore, when under a bulky-looking napkin he expected to find some,

and laid hasty hands on it, he not unfrequently discovered, instead of

eggs, balls of worsted, playing-balls, and other such indigestible

articles; on which discovery of his, a stifled laughter would commonly

be heard at the door, and a cluster of children's heads be visible,

which he in pretended anger assailed with the false eggs, and which

quickly withdrew amid peals of laughter. Often too, when, according to

old Swedish usage, he would take a glass of spirits, he found pure water

instead of Cognac in his mouth; and the little advocates of temperance

were always near enough to enjoy his astonishment, although sufficiently

distant, also, that not one drop of the shower which was then sent at

them should reach them, though it made them leap high enough for

delight. And really it was wonderful how often these little surprises

could be repeated, and how the Candidate let himself so constantly be

surprised. But he was too much occupied by his own thoughts (the

thoughts of course of a student of philosophy!) in order to be on his

guard against the tricks of these young merry-andrews. One day----

But before we proceed further we must observe, that although the

toilette of the Candidate seemed externally to be always so well

supplied, yet still it was, in fact, in but a very indifferent

condition. No wonder, therefore, was it, that though his hat outwardly

was always well brushed, and was apparently in good order, yet that it

had within a sadly tattered lining.

One day, therefore, as the Candidate had laid his hat in a corner of the

room, and was sitting near the sofa in a very earnest conversation,

Henrik, Petrea, and Eva gathered themselves about that symbol of freedom

with the most suspicious airs and gestures of conspiracy. Nobody paid

any attention to them, when after awhile the Candidate rose to leave the

room, and going through the door would have put on his hat--but, behold,

a very singular revolution had taken place within it, and a mass of tin

soldiers, stones, matches, and heaven knows what besides, came rattling

down upon his head; and even one little chimney-sweeper fell astride on

his nose. Nothing could compare with the immeasurable delight of the

children at the astonishment of the Candidate, and the comic grimaces

and head-shakings with which he received this their not very polite

jest.

No wonder was it, therefore, that the children loved the Candidate so

well.

The little Queen-bee, however, who more and more began to reckon herself

as one of the grown people, and only very rarely took part in the

conspiracies against the Candidate, shook her head at this prank of her

brother and sisters, and looked out a new piece of dark silk from her

drawer (Louise was a hoarder by nature), possessed herself secretly of

the Candidate's hat, and with some little help from her mother, had then

her secret pleasure also, and could laugh in her own sleeve at his

amazement when he discovered a bran new lining in his hat.

"Our little Queen-bee is a sensible little girl," said the Judge,

well-pleased, to his wife, who had made him a third in this plot; and

after that day she was called both by father and mother "our sensible

little Queen-bee."

Scarcely had Jacobi been three weeks in the family of the Franks,

before Elise felt herself disposed to give him a new title, that of

Disputer-General, so great was the ability he discovered to dispute on

every subject, from human free-will to rules for cookery; nay, even for

the eating of eggs.

On this subject Elise wrote thus to her sister Cecilia:--"But however

polite and agreeable the Candidate may be generally, still he is just as

wearisome and obstinate in disputation; and as there is nobody in the

house that makes any pretension to rival him in certain subtleties of

argument, he is in great danger of considering himself a miracle of

metaphysical light, which he is not, I am persuaded, by any means, since

he has much more skill in rending down than in building up, in

perplexing than in making clear. Ernst is no friend of metaphysical

hair-splitting, and when Jacobi begins to doubt the most perceptible and

most certain things--'what is perceptible, what is certain?' the

Candidate will inquire--he grows impatient, shrugs his shoulders, goes

to his writing-table, and leaves me to combat it out, although, for my

part, I would gladly have nothing to do with it. Should I, however, for

awhile carry on the contest boldly, the scholar then will overwhelm me

with learned words and arguments, and then I too flee, and leave him

_maitre du champ de bataille_. He believes then that I am convinced, at

least of his power, which yet, however, is not the case; and if fortune

do not bestow upon me a powerful ally against him, he may imagine so.

Nevertheless, I am not without some curiosity to hear a system which he

has promised to explain to me this evening, and according to which

everything in the world ought to be so good and consistent. These

subjects have always an interest for me, and remind me of the time when

you and I, Cecilia, like two butterflies, went fluttering over the

earth, pausing about its flowers, and building up for ourselves pretty

theories on the origin of life and all things. Since then I had almost

forgotten them. Think only if the mythology of our youth should present

itself again in the system of the Candidate!"

Here Elise was interrupted by the entrance of the troop of children.

"Might we borrow Gabriele?" "Mother, lend us Gabriele!" besought several

coaxing little voices.

"Gabriele, wilt thou not come and play with us? Oh, yes, certainly thou

wilt!" and with these words Petrea held up a gingerbread heart, winch

so operated on the heart of the little one, that she yielded to the

wishes of brother and sisters.

"Ah, but you must take great care of her, my little angel!" said the

mother; "Louise, dear, take her under your charge; look after her, and

see that no harm befal her!"

"Yes, of course," said Louise, with a consequential countenance; and the

jubilant children carried off the borrowed treasure, and quickly was

their sport in full operation in the hall.

Elise took her work, and the Candidate, with a look of great importance,

seated himself before her, in order to initiate her into the mysteries

of his system. Just, however, at the moment when he had opened his mouth

to begin, after having hemmed a few times, a shrill little barking, and

the words "your most devoted servant," were heard at the door, and a

person entered curtseying with an air of conscious worth, said with a

little poodle in her arms--a person with whom we will have the honour to

commence a new chapter.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Borrowing fire; a Swedish child's play.

CHAPTER III.

THE CHAMBERLAIN'S LADY.

Where is there not _haute volee_? Above the heavenly hosts are outspread

the wings of cherubim and seraphim; and in the poultry-yards of earth

the geese exalt their wings high over the other lesser feathered

creatures. It belongs to the ordination of the world.

The Chamberlain's lady, Gunilla W., belonged incontestibly to the

highest _haute volee_ in the excellent city of X., where we have had the

honour of making the acquaintance of the family of the Franks. She was

the sister of Governor Stjernhoek, and inhabited the third story of the

house of which the Franks inhabited the second, and Evelina Berndes the

first.

This lady had spent her youth at court, and passed many a day of

wearisome constraint, and many a night in making those clothes which

were to conceal from the world how poor Miss Gunilla was; yet neither

night nor day did she complain either of constraint or of poverty, for

she possessed under a plain exterior a strong and quiet spirit.

An old aunt used to preach to her thus: "Eat, that thou mayst grow fat;

if thou art fat, thou wilt grow handsome; and if thou art handsome, thou

wilt get married."

Miss Gunilla, who never ate much, and who did not eat one mouthful more

for this warning, grew neither fat nor handsome; yet on account of her

excellent disposition she was beloved by every one, and especially by a

young rich Chamberlain of the court, who, through his own good qualities

and excellent heart, won her affections, and thus Miss Gunilla became

Mistress. After this, in the circle of her friends she was accustomed to

be called Mrs. Gunilla; which freedom we also shall sometimes take with

her here.

Shortly after her marriage, and in consequence of cold, her husband

became a sad invalid. For thirty years she lived separated from the

world, a faithful and lonely attendant of the sick man; and what she

bore and what she endured the world knew not, for she endured all in

silence. For several years her husband could not bear the light; she

learned, therefore, to work in darkness, and thus made a large

embroidered carpet. "Into this carpet," said she, as she once spoke

accidentally of herself, "have I worked many tears."

One of the many hypochondriacal fancies of her husband was, that he was

about to fall into a yawning abyss, and only could believe himself safe

so long as he held the hand of his wife. Thus for one month after

another she sate by his couch.

At length the grave opened for him; and thanking his wife for the

happiness he had enjoyed in the house of sickness on earth, he sank to

rest, in full belief of a land of restoration beyond. When he was gone,

it seemed to her as if she were as useless in the world as an old

almanack; but here also again her soul raised itself under its burden,

and she regulated her life with peace and decision. In course of years

she grew more cheerful, and the originality of her talents and

disposition which nature had given to her, and which, in her solitude,

had undisturbedly followed their own bent, brought a freshness with them

into social life, into which she entered at first rather from resolution

than from feeling at ease in it.

"The Lord ordains all things for the best;" that had always been, and

still remained, the firm anchorage of her soul. But it was not this

alone which gave to her the peace and gentleness which announced

themselves in her voice, and diffused a true grace over her aged and

not handsome countenance; they had yet another foundation: for even as

the sunken sun throws the loveliest light upon the earth which it has

left, so does the holy memory of a beloved but departed human being on

the remaining solitary friend. Mrs. Gunilla herself lived in such a

remembrance: she knew it not, but after the death of her husband the

dark pictures of his suffering vanished more and more, and his own form,

purified by patience and suffering, rose continually higher in its noble

glorification; it beamed into her soul, and her soul became brightened

thereby. Seldom mentioned she the name of her husband; but when she did

so, it was like a breath of summer air in voice and countenance.

She collected good people about her, and loved to promote their

happiness; and whenever there was a young couple whose narrow

circumstances, or whose fears for the future, filled them with anxiety,

or a young but indigent man who was about to fall into debt and

difficulty, Mrs. Gunilla was ever at hand, although in most cases behind

others. She had nevertheless her faults; and these, as we proceed, we

shall become acquainted with.

We now hastily sketch her portrait the size of life. Age between fifty

and sixty; figure tall, stiff, well-made, not too thin--beside Jeremias

Muntor she might be called stout--complexion, pale yellow; the nose and

chin coming together, the mouth fallen in; the eyes grey and small,

forehead smooth, and agreeably shaded by silver hair; the hands still

handsome, and between the thumb and delicate tip of the forefinger a

pinch of snuff, which was commonly held in certain perspective towards

the nose, whilst with an elbow resting on the arm of sofa or easy-chair

she gave little lectures, or read aloud, for it was one of her

weaknesses to suppose that she knew everything.

During her long hermit-life she had been accustomed wholly to neglect

her toilet, and this neglect she found it difficult afterwards to

overcome; and her old silk gown, from which the wadding peeped out from

many a hole, especially at the elbows; her often-mended collar, and her

drooping cap, the ribbons of which were flecked with many a stain of

snuff, were always a trouble to Elise's love of order and purity.

Notwithstanding all this, there was a certain air about Mrs. Gunilla

which carried off all; and with her character, rank, property, and

consideration, she was _haute volee_, spite of torn gown and

snuff-beflecked ribbons, and had great influence among the best society

of the city.

She considered herself somewhat related to Elise, was very fond of her,

and used very often to impart to her opinions on education (N. B.--Mrs.

Gunilla never had children), on which account many people in the city

accused Elise of weakness towards the _haute volee_, and the

postmistress Bask and the general-shopkeeper Suur considered it quite as

much a crime as a failing.

There was in Mrs. Gunilla's voice, manners, and bearing, a something

very imposing; her curtsey was usually very stately and low, and this

brings us again to her entrance into Elise's room. Elise, the moment she

entered, quickly rose and welcomed her, introducing Jacobi at the same

time.

At the first glance Jacobi uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise,

approached her with an appearance of the greatest cordiality, seized her

hand, which he kissed reverentially, and felicitated himself on the

happiness of seeing her again.

The little eyes of the Chamberlain's lady twinkled, and she exclaimed,

"Oh, heavens! my heart's dearest! Nay, that is very pleasant! He, he,

he, he!"

"How!" exclaimed Elise, in astonishment, "Mr. Jacobi, do you

know----Aunt W., do you know Mr. Jacobi?"

The Candidate appeared about to give an explanation of the acquaintance,

but this Mrs. Gunilla, with a faint crimson overspreading the pale

yellow cheek, and a twitch of the eyebrow, prevented, and with a quick

voice she said, "We once lived in the same house."

She then desired that the conversation which her entrance had

interrupted, and which appeared to have been very important, might

proceed. "At least," added she, with a penetrating glance on Elise and

the Candidate, "if I should not disturb you."

"Certainly not!"

The Candidate needed only the sixteenth of a hint to rush armed with

full fervour into the mysteries of his system. Mrs. Gunilla took up a

packet of old gold thread, which she set herself to unravel, whilst the

Candidate coughed and prepared himself.

CHAPTER IV.

MONADS AND NOMADS.

"All beings," commenced the Candidate, "have, as their most intrinsic

foundation and substance, a simple unity, a soul, a--in one word, a

monad."

"A--a what?" asked the Chamberlain's lady, fixing her eyes upon him.

"A monad, or a simple unity," continued he. "The monads have a common

resemblance in substance one with another; but in respect of qualities,

of power, and size, they are substantially unlike. There are the monads

of people; there are human monads, animal monads, vegetable monads; in

short, the world is full of monads--they compose the world----"

"Heart's dearest!" interrupted the old lady, in a tone of displeasure,

"I don't understand one word of all this! What stuff it is! What are

monads?--fill the world, do they?--I see no monads!"

"But you see me, dear lady," said Jacobi, "and yourself. You are

yourself a monad."

"I a monad!" exclaimed she, in disgust.

"Yes, certainly," replied he, "your Honour, just the same as any other

living creature----"

"But," interrupted she, "I must tell you, dear friend, that I am neither

a monad nor a creature, but a human being--a sinful human being it is

true--but one that God, in any case, created in his own image."

"Yes, certainly, certainly," acceded the Candidate. "I acknowledge a

principal monad, from which all other monads emanate----"

"What!" exclaimed she, "is our Lord God to be a monad also?"

"He may be so designated," said the Candidate, "on account of oneness,

and also to preserve uniformity as to name. For the rest, I believe that

the monads, from the beginning, are gifted with a self-sustaining

strength, through which they are generated into the corporeal world;

that is to say, take a bodily shape, live, act, nay even strive--that is

to say, would remove themselves from one body into another without the

immediate influence of the Principal Monad. The monads are in perpetual

motion--perpetual change, and always place and arrange themselves

according to their power and will. If, now, we regard the world from

this point of view, it presents itself to us in the clearest and most

excellent manner. In all spheres of life we see how the principal monad

assembles all the subject monads around itself as organs and members.

Thus are nations and states, arts and sciences, fashioned; thus every

man creates his own world, and governs it according to his ability; for

there is no such thing as free-will, as people commonly imagine, but the

monad in man directs what he shall become, and what in regard to----"

"That I don't believe," interrupted Mrs. Gunilla; "since, if my soul, or

monad, as you would call it, had guided me according to its pleasure, it

would have led me to do many wicked things; and if our Lord God had not

chastised me, and in his mercy directed me to something that was

good--be so good as to let alone my cotton-balls--it would have gone mad

enough with my nomadic soul--that I can tell you."

"But, your Honour," said Jacobi, "I don't deny at all the influence of a

principal monad; on the contrary, I acknowledge that; and it is

precisely this influence upon your monad which----"

"And I assert," exclaimed she, warming, and again interrupting him,

"that we should do nothing that was right if you could establish your

nomadic government, instead of the government of our Lord God. What good

could I get from your nomads?"

"Monads," said the Candidate, correcting her.

"And supposing your monads," continued Mrs. Gunilla, "do keep in such

perpetual movement, and do arrange themselves so properly, what good

will that do me in moments of temptation and need? It is far wiser and

better that I say and believe that our Lord God will guide us according

to his wisdom and good, than if I should believe that a heap of your

nomads----"

"Monads, monads!" exclaimed the Candidate.

"Monads or nomads," answered angrily Mrs. Gunilla, "it is all one--be so

good as to let my cotton alone, I want it myself--your nomads may be as

magnificent and as mighty as they please, and they may govern

themselves, and may live and strive according to their own wisdom; yet I

cannot see how the world, for all that, can be in the least the more

regular, or even one little grain the more pleasant, to look at. And why

are things so bad here? Why, precisely for this very reason, because you

good people fancy yourselves such powerful monads, and think so much of

your own strength, without being willing to know that you are altogether

poor sinners, who ought to beseech our Lord God to govern their poor

nomadic souls, in order that they might become a little better. It is

precisely such nomadic notions as these that we have to thank for all

kind of rapscallion pranks, for all uproars and broken windows. If you

had only less of nomads, and more of sensible men in you, one should

live in better peace on the earth."

The Candidate was quite confounded; he had never been used to argument

like this, and stared at Mrs. Gunilla with open mouth; whilst little

Pyrrhus, excited by the warmth of his mistress, leapt upon the table,

and barking shrilly seemed disposed to spring at the Candidate's nose.

All this appeared so comic, that Elise could no longer keep back the

merriment which she had felt during the former part of the dispute, and

Jacobi himself accompanied her hearty laugh. Mrs. Gunilla, however,

looked very bitter; and the Candidate, nothing daunted, began again.

"But, in the name of all the world," said he, "your Honour will not

understand me: we speak only of a mode of observing the world--a mode by

which its phenomena can be clearly expounded. Monadology, rightly

understood, does not oppose the ideas of the Christian religion, as I

will demonstrate immediately. Objective revelation proves to us exactly

that the subject-objective and object-subjective, which----"

"Ah!" said Mrs. Gunilla, throwing herself back, "talk what nonsense you

will for me, I know what I know. Nomads may be just what they please for

me: but I call a man, a man; I call a cat, a cat, and a flower, a

flower; and our Lord God remains to me our Lord God, and no nomad!"

"Monad, monad!" cried the Candidate, in a sort of half-comic despair;

"and as for that word, philosophy has as good a right as any other

science to make use of certain words to express certain ideas."

During the last several minutes suspicious movements had been heard at

the parlour door, the cause of which now became evident; the children

had stolen in behind the Candidate, and now cast beseeching glances

towards their mother that she should let all go on unobserved. Petrea

and Eva stole in first, carrying between them a heavy pincushion,

weighted with lead, five pounds in weight at least. The Candidate was

standing; and at the very moment when he was doing his best to defend

the rights of philosophy, the leaden cushion was dropped down into his

coat-pocket. A motion backwards was perceptible through his whole body,

and his coat was tightly pulled down behind. A powerful twitching showed

itself at the corners of his mouth, and a certain stammering might be

noticed in his speech, although he stood perfectly still, and appeared

to observe nothing; while the little rascals, who had expected a

terrible explosion from their well-laid train, stole off to a distance;

but oh, wonder! the Candidate stood stock-still, and seemed not at all

aware that anything was going on in his coat-laps.

All this while, however, there was in him such a powerful inclination to

laugh that he hastened to relate an anecdote which should give him the

opportunity of doing so. And whether it was the nomads of Mrs. Gunilla

which diverted him from his system, or the visit of the little herd of

nomads to his pockets, true it is there was an end of his philosophy for

that evening. Beyond this, he appeared now to wish by cheerful discourse

to entertain Mrs. Gunilla, in which he perfectly succeeded; and so mild

and indulgent was he towards her, that Elise began to question with

herself whether Mrs. Gunilla's mode of argument were not the best and

the most successful.

The children stood not far off, and observed all the actions of Jacobi.

"If he goes out, he will feel the cushion," said they. "He will fetch a

book! Now he comes--ah!"

The Candidate really went out for a book from his room, but he stepped

with the most stoical repose, though with a miserably backward-pulled

coat, through the astonished troop of children, and left the room.

When he returned, the coat sate quite correctly; the cushion evidently

was not there. The astonishment of the children rose to the highest

pitch, and there was no end to their conjectures. The Queen-bee imagined

that there must be a hole in his pocket, through which the pincushion

had fallen on the stairs. Petrea, in whose suggestion the joke

originated, was quite dismayed about the fate of the cushion.

Never once did it enter into the innocent heads of the children that the

Candidate had done all this in order to turn their intended surprise on

him into a surprise on themselves.

"How came you to be acquainted with Mrs. Gunilla W.?" asked Elise from

Jacobi when the lady was gone.

"When I was studying in----," replied he, "I routed a small room on the

ground-floor of the same house where she lived. As I at that time was in

very narrow circumstances, I had my dinner from an eating-house near,

where all was supplied at the lowest price; but it often was so

intolerably bad, that I was obliged to send it back untasted, and

endeavour, by a walk in the fresh air instead, to appease my hunger. I

had lived thus for some time, and was, as may be imagined, become meagre

enough, when Mrs. W., with whom I was not personally acquainted,

proposed to me, through her housekeeper, that she should provide me with

a dinner at the same low charge as the eating-house. I was astonished,

but extremely delighted, and thankfully accepted the proposal. I soon

discovered, however, that she wished in this way to become my benefactor

without its appearing so, and without my thanks being necessary. From

this day I lived in actual plenty. But her goodness did not end here.

During a severely cold winter, in which I went out in a very thin

great-coat, I received quite unexpectedly one trimmed with fur. From

whom it came I could not for some time discover, till chance gave me a

clue which led me to the Chamberlain's lady. But could I thank her for

it? No; she became regularly angry and scolded me if I spoke of the

gratitude which I felt and always shall feel for her kindness."

Tears filled the eyes of Jacobi as he told this, and both Elise's eyes

and those of her husband beamed with delight at this relation.

"It is," said Judge Prank, "a proof how much goodness there is in the

world, although at a superficial glance one is so disposed to doubt it.

That which is bad usually noises itself abroad, is echoed back from

side to side, and newspapers and social circles find so much to say

about it; whilst that which is good likes best to go--like

sunshine--quietly through the world."

CHAPTER V.

DISAGREEABLE NEWS.

The "skirmish"--as Mrs. Gunilla called the little strift she had with

the Candidate, about monads and nomads--appeared to have displeased

neither of them, but rather, on the contrary, to have excited in them a

desire for others of the same kind; and as Elise, who had no great

inclination to spend her evenings alone with him, used frequently to

invite Mrs. Gunilla to drink tea with them, it was not long before she

and the Candidate were again in full disputation together. If the

Assessor happened also to come in, there was a terrible noise. The

Candidate screamed, and leapt about almost beside himself, but was

fairly out-talked, because his voice was weak, and because Mrs. Gunilla

and the Assessor, who between them two selves never were agreed, leagued

themselves nevertheless against him. Jacobi, notwithstanding this, had

often the right side of an argument, and bore his overthrow with the

best temper in the world. Perhaps he might have lost his courage,

however, as well as his voice in this unequal contest--he himself

declared he should--had he not suddenly abandoned the field. He vanished

almost entirely from the little evening circle.

"What has become of our Candidate?" sometimes asked Mrs. Gunilla. "I

shall be much surprised if his monad or nomad has not carried him off to

the land of the nomads! He, he, he, he!"

Judge Frank and wife also began to question with some anxiety, "What has

become of our Candidate?"

Our Candidate belonged to that class of persons who easily win many

friends. His cheerful easy temper, his talents, and good social

qualifications, made him much beloved and sought after, especially in

smaller circles. It was here, therefore, as it had been in the

University--he was drawn into a jovial little company of good fellows,

where, in a variety of ways, they could amuse themselves, and where the

cheerful spirit and talents of Jacobi were highly prized. He allowed

himself, partly out of good-nature and partly out of his own folly, to

be led on by them, and to take part in a variety of pranks, which,

through the influence of some members of the Club, went on from little

to more, and our Candidate found himself, before he was aware of what he

was about, drawn into a regular carouse--all which operated most

disadvantageously upon his affairs--kept him out late at night, and only

permitted him to rise late in the morning, and then with headache and

disinclination to business.

There was, of course, no lack of good friends to bring these tidings to

Judge Frank. He was angry, and Elise was seriously distressed, for she

had begun to like Jacobi, and had hoped for so much from his connexion

with the children.

"It won't do, it won't do," grumbled Judge Frank. "There shall very soon

be an end to this! A pretty story indeed! I shall tell him--I, if

he----But, my sweet friend, you yourself are to blame in this affair;

you should concern yourself a little about him; you are so _fiere_ and

distant to him; and what amusement do you provide for him here of an

evening? The little quarrels between Mrs. Gunilla and Munter cannot be

particularly amusing to him, especially when he is always out-talked by

them. It would be a thousand times better for the young man if you would

allow him to read aloud to you; yes, if it were romances, or whatever in

the world you would. You should stimulate his talent for music; it would

give yourself pleasure, and between whiles you could talk a little sound

reason with him, instead of disputing about things which neither he nor

you understand! If you had only begun in that way at first, he would

perhaps never have been such a swashbuckler as he is, and now to get

order and good manners back into the house one must have scenes. I'll

not allow such goings on!--he shall hear about it to-morrow morning!

I'll give that pretty youth something which he shall remember!"

"Ah!" said Elise, "don't be too severe, Ernst! Jacobi is good; and if

you talk seriously yet kindly to him, I am persuaded it will have the

best effect."

Judge Frank made no reply, but walked up and down the room in very ill

humour.

"Would you like to hear some news of your neighbour the

pasquinade-writer?" asked Assessor Munter, who just then entered with a

dark countenance. "He is sick, sick to death of a galloping

consumption--he will not write any more pasquinades."

"Who looks after his little girl?" asked Elise; "I see her sometimes

running about the street like a wild cat."

"Yes, there's a pretty prospect for her," snorted out the Assessor.

"There is a person in the house--a person they call her, she ought to be

called reptile, or rather devil--who is said to look after the

housekeeping, but robs him, and ruins that child. Would you believe it?

she and two tall churls of sons that she has about her amuse themselves

with terrifying that little girl by dressing themselves up whimsically,

and acting the goblins in the twilight. It is more than a miracle if

they do not drive her mad!"

"Poor wretch!" exclaimed Judge Frank, in rage and abhorrence. "Good

heavens! how much destruction of character there is, how much crime,

which the arm of the law cannot reach! And that child's father, can he

bear that it is so treated?"

"He is wholly governed by that creature--that woman," said Munter;

"besides, sick in bed as he now is, he knows but little of what goes on

in the house."

"And if he die," asked the Judge, "is there nobody who will look after

that girl? Has he a relation or friend?"

"Nobody in this world," returned Jeremias. "I have inquired

particularly. The bird in the wood is not more defenceless than that

child. Poverty there will be in the house; and what little there is,

that monster of a housekeeper will soon run through."

"What can one do?" asked the Judge, in real anxiety. "Do you know

anything, Munter, that one could do?"

"Nothing as yet," returned he; "at present things must take their own

course. I counsel nobody to interfere; for he is possessed of the woman,

and she is possessed of the devil: and as for the girl, he will have her

constantly with him, and lets her give way to all her petulances. But

this cannot long endure. In a month, perhaps, he will be dead; and he

who sees the falling sparrow will, without doubt, take care of the poor

child. At present nobody can save her from the hands of these harpies.

Now, good night! But I could not help coming to tell you this little

history, because it lay burning at my heart; and people have the very

polite custom of throwing their burdens upon others, in order to lighten

themselves. Adieu!"

The Judge was very much disturbed this evening. "What he had just heard

weighed heavily on his heart.

"It is singular," said he, "how often Mr. N.'s course and mine have

clashed. He has really talent, but bad moral character; on that account

I have opposed his endeavours to get into office, and thus operated

against his success. It was natural that he should become my enemy, and

I never troubled myself about it! but now I wish--the unhappy man, how

miserably he lies there! and that poor, poor child! Stroem," said he,

calling to his servant, "is the Candidate at home? No? and it is nearly

eleven! The thousand! To-morrow he shall find out where he is at home!"

CHAPTER VI.

HERO-DEEDS.

On the following morning, as Judge Frank drew aside his window-curtains,

the sun--the sun, so powerful in its beams and its silence--shone into

his chamber, lighting it with its glorious splendour. Those sunbeams

went directly to his heart.

"Dear Elise," said he, when his wife was awake, "I have a great deal to

do to-day. Perhaps it would be better if you would speak with Jacobi,

and give him his lecture. Ladies, in such circumstances, have more

influence on men than we men can have. Besides this, what can be bent

must not be broken. I--in short, I fancy you will manage the affair

best. It is so beautiful to-day! Could you not take the children a long

walk? It would do both them and you good, and upon the way you would

have an excellent opportunity for an explanation. Should this be of no

avail, then I will--but I would gladly avoid being angry with him; one

has things enough to vex one without that."

The Judge was not the only person in the house whom the sun inspired

with thoughts of rambling. The Candidate had promised the children on

some "very fine day" to take them to a wood, where there were plenty of

hazel-bushes, and where they would gather a rich harvest of nuts.

Children have an incomparable memory for all such promises; and the

little Franks thought that no day could by any possibility be more

beautiful or more suitable for a great expedition than the present, and

therefore, as soon as they discovered that the Candidate and their

parents thought the same, their joy rose actually as high as the roof.

Brigitta had not hands enough for Petrea and Eva, so did they skip about

when she wished to dress them.

Immediately after noon the procession set forth; Henrik and the

Queen-bee marched first, next came Eva and Leonore, between whom was

Petrea, each one carrying a little basket containing a piece of cake, as

provision for their journey. Behind the column of children came the

mother, and near her the Candidate, drawing a little wicker-carriage, in

which sate little Gabriele, looking gravely about with her large brown

eyes.

"Little Africa"--so the children called their little dark-eyed neighbour

from the Cape--stood at her door as the little Franks tripped forth from

theirs. Petrea, with an irresistible desire to make her acquaintance,

rushed across the street and offered her the piece of cake which she had

in her basket. The little wild creature snatched the piece of cake with

violence, showed her row of white teeth, and vanished in the doorway,

whilst Elise seized Petrea's hand, in order to keep her restless spirit

in check.

As soon as they had passed the gate of the city the children were

permitted full freedom, and they were not much more composed in their

demeanour than a set of young calves turned out for the first time into

a green meadow. We must even acknowledge that the little Queen-bee fell

into a few excesses, such as jumping over ditches where they were the

broadest, and clapping her hands and shouting to frighten away

phlegmatical crows. It was not long, however, before she gave up these

outbreaks, and turned her mind to a much sedater course; and then,

whenever a stiff-necked millifolium or gaudy hip came in her way, she

carefully broke it off, and preserved it in her apron, for the use of

the family. Henrik ran back every now and then to the wicker-carriage,

in order to kiss "the baby," and give her the very least flowers he

could find. Petrea often stumbled and fell, but always sprang up

quickly, and then unaffrightedly continued her leaping and springing.

The Candidate also, full of joyous animal spirits, began to sing aloud,

in a fine tenor voice, the song, "Seats of the Vikings! Groves old and

hoary," in which the children soon joined their descant, whilst they

marched in time to the song. Elise, who gave herself up to the full

enjoyment of the beautiful day and the universal delight, had neither

inclination nor wish to interrupt this by any disagreeable explanation;

she thought to herself that she would defer it a while.

"Nay, only look, only look, sisters! Henrik, come here!" exclaimed

little Petrea, beckoning with the hand, leaping, and almost out of

herself for delight, whilst she looked through the trellis-work of a

tall handsome gate into pleasure-grounds which were laid out in the

old-fashioned manner, and ornamented with clipped trees. Many little

heads soon looked with great curiosity through the trellis-gate; they

seemed to see Paradise within it; and then up came the Candidate, not

like a threatening cherub with a flaming sword, but a good angel, who

opened the door of this paradise to the enraptured children. This

surprise had been prepared for them by Elise and the Candidate, who had

obtained permission from the Dowager Countess S * * * to take the

children on their way to the nut-wood through her park.

Here the children found endless subject for admiration and inquiry, nor

could either the Candidate or their mother answer all their questions.

Before long the hearts of the children were moved at sight of a little

leaden Cupid, who stood weeping near a dry fountain.

"Why does he cry?" asked they.

"Probably because the water is all gone," answered the Candidate,

smiling.

Presently again they were enchanted by sight of a Chinese temple, which

to their fancy contained all the magnificence in the world--instead of,

as was the case, a quantity of fowls; then they were filled with

astonishment at trees in the form of pyramids--they never had seen

anything so wonderful, so beautiful! But the most wonderful thing was

yet to come.

They reached a gloomy part of the grounds. Melancholy sounds,

incoherent, yet pleasurable, became audible, accompanied by an

uninterrupted splashing of water. The children walked slower and closer

together, in a state of excited expectation, and a kind of shuddering

curiosity. The melancholy tones and the falling water became more and

more distinct, as they found themselves inclosed in a thick fir-wood;

presently, however, an opening to the right showed itself, and then

thickly wreathed with a wild growth of plants and heavily-leaved trees,

the vault of a grotto revealed itself, within which, and in the

distance, stood a large white figure, with aged head, long beard,

crooked back, and goat's legs. To his lips he held a pandean pipe, from

which the extraordinary sounds appeared to proceed. Little waterfalls

leapt here and there from the rocks around, and then collected

themselves at the foot of the statue in a large basin, in which the

figure seemed, with a dreamy countenance, to contemplate himself and the

leaf-garlanded entrance of the grotto.

The Candidate informed them that this was the Wood-god Pan; but what

further information he gave respecting the faith of the ancients in this

deity of nature was listened to by nobody but the Queen-bee, who,

however, shook her wise head over the want of wisdom in the Grecians who

could believe on such a god; and by Elise, who loved to discover in the

belief of antiquity a God of nature, which makes itself felt also in our

days, but in a truer and, as we think, a diviner sense.

The exhibition in the grotto had produced its effect upon all the

spectators, great as well as small; but the brain of the little Petrea

seemed quite intoxicated, not to say crazed by it. The Wood-god, with

his music, his half-animal, half-human figure, although only of gypsum,

and, as the Candidate declared, the offspring only of a dim fancy, as

well as that it was without life or actuality, still remained to her

imagination a living existence, as real as wonderful. She could see

nothing, think of nothing, but the Wood-god; and the foreboding of a new

and wonderful world filled her soul with a delicious terror.

In the mean time the Candidate conducted Elise, by a path which wound

among alders and birches, up the mountain in which the grotto was. When

they reached the top, all was sunny and cheerful; and behold upon a

mound was set out, so pleasantly in the sunshine, a little collation of

berries and fruit. It was the Candidate, who had great pleasure in being

the kind-hearted host on such occasions, who had provided this little

surprise for Elise and the children; and never, indeed, was a surprise

more welcome or more joyous. It is the most thankful thing in the world

to give pleasure to children; and, moreover, the goodwill of the mother

is always obtained thereby.

The Candidate spread his cloak upon a green slope under a hedge of

roses, on which Elise's favourite flowers were still blooming, as a seat

for herself and "the baby," which now, lifted out of the

wicker-carriage, had its green silk bonnet taken off, and its golden

locks bathed in sunshine. He chose out the best fruit for her and her

mother; and then seating himself on the grass near her, played with her,

and drove away the flies from her and her mother with a spray of roses,

whilst the other children ran about at a distance, enjoying with all the

zest of childhood, gooseberries and freedom. The trees soughed in the

soft south wind, whilst the melodious sighs of the Wood-god, and the

splash of the water, mingled gently with the whispering leaves. It was a

delicious time, and its soft influence stole into the soul of Elise. The

sun, the scent of the roses, the song of the wood and of the water, and

the Syrinx, the beautiful scene before her, the happy children--all

these called up suddenly into her breast that summer of the heart, in

which all sentiments, all thoughts, are like beautiful flowers, and

which makes life seem so light and so lovely: she conceived a friendship

for that young man who had occasioned it, and whose good heart beamed

forth from his eyes, which at one moment were fixed on the blue heavens,

and then on her own soft blue eyes, with an expression of devotion and a

certain pure earnestness, which she had never observed in him before.

Elise felt that she could now undertake the explanation with him; she

felt that she could talk with him openly and warmly as a sister, and

that the truth would flow from her lips, without wounding him or giving

him pain.

Scarcely, however, had she with cordial, though with tremulous voice,

began to speak, when an uneasy movement among the children interrupted

her. Some looked in the hedges, some ran about under the trees, and the

name "Petrea! Petrea!" was repeated in every variety of tone. The mother

looked uneasily around, and the Candidate sprang up to see what was

amiss. It was nothing uncommon for Petrea to separate herself from the

rest of the children, and occupied by her own little thoughts, to lag

behind; on that account, therefore, nobody had at first troubled

themselves because she was not with them at the collation, for they

said, "she will soon come." Afterwards, Elise and the Candidate were too

much occupied by their own thoughts; and the children said as usual,

"she'll soon come." But when she did not come, they began to seek for

her, and Elise and the Candidate came to their assistance. They ran back

to the grotto; they sought and called, but all in vain--Petrea was

nowhere to be found! and uneasiness very soon changed itself into actual

anxiety.

We will now ourselves go in quest of Petrea. So enchanted was she with

the Wood-god and his music, that no sooner had she, with the others,

begun to climb the hill, than she turned back to the grotto, and there,

transported by its wonderful world, she was suddenly possessed by a

desire to acquaint her father and Brigitta, with her having seen the

Wood-god. Resolve and action are much more one with children than with

women. To be the first who should carry to the father the important

tidings, "Father, I have seen the Wood-god!" was a temptation too strong

for Petrea's ambition and craving for sympathy.

She had heard them say that they should rest on the hill; and as her

organ of locality was as feeble as her imagination was powerful, she

never doubted for a moment of being able to run home and back before

they were aware even of her absence. As for the rest, to confess the

truth, she thought nothing at all about it; but with a loudly-beating

heart, and the words, "Oh, father! we have seen the Wood-god!" on her

lips, she made a spring, and rushed forward on the wings of fancy as

fast as her little legs would carry her in a direction exactly the

opposite of that which led homeward, and which at the same time removed

her from the grotto; never thinking, the poor Petrea! that in this world

there are many ways. Before long, however, she found it necessary to

stand still, in order to rest herself: it was all so beautiful around

her; delicious odours breathed from the wild flowers; the birds sang;

the heaven was cloudless; and here, where no Cupids nor Chinese temples

dazzled her thoughts, the very remembrance of the god Pan vanished from

her soul, and instead of it a thought, or more properly speaking a

sentiment, took possession of it--a holy and beautiful sentiment, which

the mother had early instilled into the hearts of her children. Petrea

saw herself solitary, yet at the same time she felt that she was not so;

in the deliciousness of the air, in the beauty of nature, she perceived

the presence of a good spirit, which she had been taught to call Father;

and filled, as her heart seemed to be, by a sense of his goodness and

affection, which appeared never to have been so sensibly impressed upon

her mind as then, her heart felt as if it must dissolve itself in love

and happiness. She sank down on the grass, and seemed to be on the way

to heaven. But, ah! the way thither is not so easy; and these heavenly

foretastes remain only a short time in the souls of children, as well as

of grown people.

That which brought Petrea from her heavenly journey back to the earth

again was a squirrel, which sprang directly across her path, and sent

her forth immediately in chase of it. To catch such game, and to carry

it home, would be indeed in the highest degree a memorable action. "What

would Henrik and my sisters say? What would all the city say? Perhaps it

will get into the newspapers!--perhaps the king may get to hear of

it!"--thought Petrea, whilst, out of herself with ambition and

earnestness, she pursued the little squirrel over stock and stone.

Her frock was torn; her hands and feet were bruised; but that was a mere

nothing! She felt it not, more particularly--oh, height of felicity!--as

she fell down, and at that same moment grasped in her trembling hands

her little prey. Petrea cried for delight, and shouted to her mother and

sisters, who--could not hear her.

"Oh, thou little most loveable creature!" said Petrea, endeavouring at

the same time to kiss her little captive, in return for which that most

loveable little creature bit her by the chin. Surprised, and sorely

smarting from the pain, Petrea began to cry; yet for all that would not

let go the squirrel, although the blood flowed from the wound. Petrea

ran forward, wondering that she never came to the great trellis-gate,

through which she knew she must pass in order to reach home. Whilst she

thus wondered with herself, and ran, and struggled with her little

untractable prisoner, she saw a gentleman coming towards her. It never

once occurred to her that this could be any other than her father, and

almost transported for joy, she exclaimed, "Father, I have seen the

Wood-god!"

Greatly astonished to hear himself thus parentally addressed, the young

man looked up from the book in which he read, gazed at Petrea, smiled,

and replied, "Nay, my child, he is gone in that direction," pointing

with his finger towards that quarter whence Petrea had come. Imagining

at once that he meant the Candidate, Petrea replied with anxiety and a

quick foreboding that she was on a wrong track, "Oh, no, it is not he!"

and then turned suddenly back again.

She abandoned now all thoughts of running home, and was only desirous of

finding those whom she had so thoughtlessly left. She ran back,

therefore, with all her speed, the way she had come, till she reached

where two roads branched off, and there unfortunately taking the wrong

one, came into a wild region, where she soon perceived how entirely

confused she had become. She no longer knew which way to go, and in

despair threw herself into the grass and wept. All her ambition was

gone; she let the squirrel run away, and gave herself up to her own

comfortless feelings. She thought now of the uneasiness and anxiety of

her mother, and wept all the more at the thought of her own folly. But,

however, consoling thoughts, before long, chased away these desponding

ones. She dried her eyes with her dress--she had lost her

pocket-handkerchief--and looking around her she saw a quantity of fine

raspberries growing in a cleft of the hill. "Raspberries!" exclaimed

she, "my mother's favourite berries!" And now we may see our little

Petrea scrambling up the cliff with all her might, in order to gather

the lovely fruit. She thought that with a bouquet of raspberries in her

hand, she could throw herself at the feet of her mother, and pray for

forgiveness. So thought she, and tore up the raspberry bushes, and new

courage and new hope revived the while in her breast. If, thought she,

she clambered only a little way higher, could she not discover where

her home was? should she not see her mother, father, sisters, nay, the

whole world? Certainly. What a bright idea it was!

With one hand full of raspberries, the other assisted her to climb; but,

ah! first one foot slipped on the dry smooth grass, and then the other.

The left hand could no longer sustain the whole weight of her body; the

right hand would not let go the raspberries. A moment of anguish, a

violent effort, and then Petrea rolled down the cliff into a thicket of

bushes and nettles, where for the present we will leave her, in order to

look after the others.

The anxiety of the mother is not to be described, as after a whole hour

spent with Jacobi and Henrik (the little Queen-bee watched over the

other children near Pan's grotto), in seeking and calling for Petrea,

all was in vain. There were many ponds in the park, and they could not

conceal from themselves that it was possible she might have fallen into

one. It was a most horrible idea for Elise, and sent an anguish like

death into her heart, as she thought of returning in the evening to her

husband with one child missing, and that one of his favourites--missing

through her own negligence. Death itself seemed to her preferable.

Breathless, and pale as a corpse, she wandered about, and more than once

was near sinking to the earth. In vain the Candidate besought her to

spare herself; to keep herself quiet, and leave all to him. In vain! She

heard him not; and restless and unhappy, she sought the child herself.

Jacobi was afraid to leave her long alone, and kept wandering near her;

whilst Henrik ran into other parts of the park, seeking about and

calling.

It was full two hours of fruitless search after the lost one, when the

Candidate had again joined the despairing mother, that at the very same

moment their glances both fell suddenly on the same object--it was

Petrea! She lay in a thicket at the foot of the hill; drops of blood

were visible on her face and dress, and a horrible necklace--a yellow

spangled snake!--glittered in the sun around her neck. She lay

motionless, and appeared as if sleeping. The mother uttered a faint cry

of terror, and would have thrown herself upon her, had not the Candidate

withheld her.

"For heaven's sake," said he, fervently, and pale as death, "be still;

nothing perhaps is amiss; but it is the poisonous snake of our

woods--the aspic! An incautious movement, and both you and Petrea may be

lost! No, you must not; your life is too precious--but I--promise me to

be still, and----"

Elise was scarcely conscious of what she did. "Away! away!" she said,

and strove to put Jacobi aside with her weak hands; she herself would

have gone, but her knees supported her no longer--she staggered, and

fell to the ground.

In that same moment the Candidate was beside Petrea, and seizing the

snake by the neck with as much boldness as dexterity, he slung it to a

distance. By this motion awakened, Petrea shuddered, opened her

sleep-drunken eyes, and looking around her, exclaimed, "Ah, ah, father!

I have seen the Wood-god!"

"God bless thee and thy Wood-god!" cried the delighted Candidate,

rejoicing over this indisputable token of life and health; and then

clasping her to his breast he bore her to her mother. But the mother

neither heard nor saw anything; she lay in a deep swoon, and was first

recalled to consciousness by Henrik's kisses and tears. For a while she

looked about her with anguishful and bewildered looks.

"Is she dead?" whispered she.

"No, no! she lives--she is unhurt!" returned Jacobi, who had thrown

himself on his knees beside her; whilst the little Petrea, kneeling

likewise, and holding forth the bunch of raspberries, sobbed aloud, and

besought her, "Forgive! oh, mamma, forgive me!"

Light returned to the eyes of the mother; she started up, and, with a

cry of inexpressible joy, clasped the recovered child to her breast.

"God be praised and blessed!" cried she, raising her folded hands to

heaven; and then silently giving her hand to Jacobi, she looked at him

with tears, which expressed what was beyond the power of words.

"Thank God! thank God!" said Jacobi, with deep emotion, pressing Elise's

hand to his lips and to his breast. He felt himself happy beyond words.

They now hastened to remove from the dangerous neighbourhood of the

snake, after Jacobi and Henrik had given up, at the desire of the

mother, the probably ineffectual design of seeking out the poisonous but

blameless animal, and killing it on the spot.

All this time the little Queen-bee had sate alone by the grotto,

endeavouring to comfort her sisters, whilst she herself wept bitter

tears over Petrea, whom she never expected to see again: on that very

account her joy was all the greater and louder, when she saw her carried

in the arms of the Candidate; and no sooner did she learn from her

mother how he had rescued her from the fangs of death, than she threw

her arms round his neck in inexpressible gratitude. All this Petrea

heard and saw with the astonishment and curiosity of one who meets with

something unheard of; and then, thus seeing the distress which her

inconsiderateness had occasioned, she herself melted into such

despairing tears, that her mother was obliged to console and cheer her.

Of her fall into the thicket Petrea knew no more than that her head had

felt confused, that she could not get up again, had slept, and then

dreamed of the Wood-god.

In the mean time it had become so late, that the harvest of nuts was not

to be thought of, and as much on the mother's as on Petrea's account, it

was necessary to hasten home. The other children probably would have

grieved more over the unfortunate pleasure journey, had they not felt an

extraordinary desire to relate at home the remarkable occurrences of the

day. New difficulties arose on the return. Petrea--who, besides that she

was weary, was bruised and sadly dirtied by her fall--could not walk,

and therefore it was determined that she must ride in the little

carriage, while the Candidate carried Gabriele. When, however, the

little one saw that Jacobi was without gloves, she would neither allow

him to carry her nor to take hold of her, and set up the most pitiable

cry. Spite of her crying, however, he took up the "little mother," as he

called her; and what neither his nor the mother's persuasion could

effect, was brought about by Henrik's leaps and springs, and

caresses--she was diverted: the tears remained standing half-way down

her cheeks, in the dimples which were suddenly made by her hearty

laughter.

Petrea, after the paroxysm of sorrow and penitence was in measure

abated, began to think herself and her adventures particularly

interesting, and sate in her little carriage a very important personage,

surrounded by her sisters, who could not sufficiently listen to her

relation, and who emulated each other in drawing the little equipage.

As for Jacobi, he drew the carriage; he carried the baby, which soon

fell asleep on his shoulder; he sang songs; told stories, in order to

entertain Elise, who remained a long time pale and depressed, from the

danger which had threatened her, and the anxiety which she had endured.

At length they reached home. They poured forth their adventures:

Brigitta shed tears over her "Little angel-sweet Mamselle Petrea;" and

the father, from the impulse of his feelings, pressed Jacobi to his

heart.

After Petrea's scratches and bruises had been washed with Riga-balsam,

the mother permitted the children to have a supper of pancakes and

raspberry-cream, in order to console them for the unfortunate

expedition. Hereupon the children danced for joy about the table; and

Petrea, who, on account of her misfortunes, received a Benjamin's

portion, regarded it as certain that they always eat such cream in

heaven, wherefore she proposed that it should be called "Angels' food."

This proposition met with the highest approbation, and from this day

"Angels' food" became a well-known dish in the Frank family.

Yet Petrea wept some bitter tears on the breast of her father over the

gentle admonition she received from him; but spite of tears, she soon

slept sweetly in his arms.

And the lecture of the Candidate?

"Stay at home with us this evening," said Elise to him, with a kind,

beseeching glance.

The Candidate stayed with them.

CHAPTER VII.

BREAKERS.

"Stay at home with us this evening," prayed Elise the next day, and for

several other days, and the Candidate stayed.

Never before had he seen Elise so kind, so cordial towards him; never

before had she shown him so much attention as now; and this attention,

this cordiality from a lady who, in her intercourse with men, was

generally only polite and indifferent, flattered his vanity, at the same

time that it penetrated his good heart. All occasion for explanation

and lectures vanished, for the Candidate had entirely renounced his

dissipated friends and companions, and now nobody could talk more

edifying than he on the subject. He agreed so cordially with Elise, that

the fleeting champagne of the orgies foamed only for the moment, leaving

nothing but emptiness and flatness behind. "For once, nay, for a few

times," he was of opinion, "such excesses might be harmless, perhaps

even refreshing; but often repeated--ah! that would be prejudicial, and

demoralising in the highest degree!"

All this seemed to the little Queen-bee, who had heard it, remarkably

well expressed.

Nobody seemed now better pleased at home than Jacobi; he felt himself so

well in the regular course of life which he led, and there seemed so

much that was genuine and fresh in the occupations and pleasures of

those quiet days at home.

In the mean time, the fresh life of the Candidate began to develop its

weak side. Gratitude had, in the first instance, warmed Elise's heart

towards him, and then his own real amiability made it so easy to gratify

the wish of her husband respecting her behaviour towards him, and thus

it soon happened that her intercourse with Jacobi enlivened her own

existence. In many respects their tastes were similar, especially in

their love of music and polite literature, whilst his youthful

enthusiasm gave to their common occupations a higher life and interest.

Discussion lost all character of dispute, and became merely an agreeable

interchange of thought: it was no longer now of any importance to him to

be always right; there was a peculiar kind of pleasure in giving up his

opinion to hers. He knew more out of books than she did, but she knew

more of life--the mother of books, than he; and on this account she, on

her part, proceeded as the older and guiding friend. He felt himself

happy from the influence and gentle guidance of an agreeable woman, and

became more and more devoted to her from his soul.

Still there was a quietness and a charm about this connexion that made

him never forbode danger in it. He loved to be treated as a child by

Elise, and he gave, therefore, free play to his naturally

unsophisticated feelings. Her gentle reproofs were a sort of luxury to

him; he had a delight in sinning, in order to deserve them; and then,

whilst listening to them, how gladly would he have pressed her dress,

or her white and beautiful hand to his lips; there was even a sort of

painfully agreeable sensation to him in his not daring to do so.

Whenever she approached, and he heard her light footsteps, or when he

perceived the soft rose-odour which always accompanied her, it seemed to

become infinitely warm around his heart. But that which, above all the

rest, was the strongest bond between Jacobi and Elise, was her

sufferings. Whenever nervous pain, or domestic unpleasantness, depressed

her spirits; when she bore the not unfrequent ill-humour of her husband

with patience, the heart of Jacobi melted in tenderness towards her, and

he did all that lay in his power to amuse and divert her thoughts, and

even to anticipate her slightest wishes. She could not be insensible to

all this--perhaps also it flattered her vanity to observe the power she

had over this young man--perhaps even she might willingly deceive

herself as to the nature of his sentiments, because she would not

disturb the connexion which lent a sweet charm to her life.

"He loves the children and their mother," said she; "he is their friend

and mine! May he only continue such!"

And certain it is that the children had never been better conducted,

never had learned better, never been happier, than they were now, whilst

Jacobi himself developed a more and more happy ability to teach and

guide.

Adverse fate barricades the shore which the vessel is on the point of

approaching, by dangerous breakers, and interrupts the bond between the

dearest friends, which is just about to be cemented eternally. It was

this fate which, at the very time when Jacobi was exhibiting his

character in the fairest point of view, occasioned the Judge to exhibit

the darker side of his.

Judge Frank belonged to that class of persons who are always in the best

humour the more they have to do, and the more active is the life they

lead. And just now there had occurred a pause in an undertaking for the

country's good, which lay much at the Judge's heart; and delay,

occasioned by a number of little circumstances which he willingly would,

but could not, dissipate, put him into an ill humour. At home he was

often exacting and quarrelsome, particularly towards his wife; thus

placing himself, beside the kind and cheerful Jacobi, in a very

disadvantageous light. He felt this, and was displeased with himself,

and displeased with his wife too, because she seemed to pay but little

regard to his grumbling; occupying herself instead by her

singing-practice with Jacobi. This very singing-practice, too, of which

he himself had been the occasion, began to appear to him too much of a

thing. He seemed to think scolding more agreeable for the ear; in fact,

he was in that edifying state of mind which excites and angers itself

about that which a few good words alone would easily put an end to.

The reading, likewise, which at first he had so zealously recommended,

became now to him another cause of vexation. Precisely at this very time

he wished to have more of the society of his wife of an evening, and

wished her to take more interest in his undertakings and his annoyances;

but whenever he came into the parlour he found them reading, or occupied

by music; and if these ceased at his entrance, there was still an

evident damp on the spirits of all--the entertainment could not proceed;

and if, on the contrary, he said, "Go on with your music (or reading),

go on," and they did so, he was still dissatisfied; and if he did not

very soon return to his own room, he walked up and down like a

snowstorm.

It was precisely this fate, of which we have just now spoken, which

managed it so, that one evening as Judge Frank, the prey of ill humour,

was walking up and down the room, a letter was put into his hand, at

sight of which he burst into an exclamation of joyful surprise. "Nay,

that is indeed delightful," said he, in a very cheerful voice, as soon

as he had read the letter. "Elise! Mrs. S----, Emelie, is here. She is

only just this evening arrived; I must hasten to her directly. Sweet

Elise, will you not come with me? It would be polite."

"Oh, it is so late!" said Elise, much less pleased than her husband;

"and I fancy it rains. Cannot you go alone to-night? to-morrow morning I

will----"

"Well, well, then," said the Judge, suddenly breaking off; and somewhat

offended at her refusal, hastening away.

It was rather late when he returned from his visit, but he was in high

spirits. "She is a most interesting lady," said he; "my best Elise, it

certainly would give you great pleasure to know her intimately."

"Ah! I question that," thought Elise.

"She talks," continued he, "of locating herself here in the city. I hope

we shall decide her to do so."

"I hope not," thought Elise.

"We will do all that we possibly can," said he, "to make her residence

here agreeable. I have invited her to dinner to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" exclaimed Elise, half terrified.

"Yes, to-morrow," answered her husband, peremptorily. "I told her that

to-morrow morning you would pay her a visit, but she insists on first

coming to you. You need not trouble yourself much about the dinner

to-morrow. Emelie will not expect much from an improvised dinner. At all

events, it may be just as good as there is any need for, if people will

only give themselves a little trouble. I hope Emelie will often come and

take up with our simple way of living."

Elise went to rest that night with a depressed heart, and with an

indefinite but most unpleasant feeling, thought of the next day's

dinner, and then dreamed that her husband's "old flame" had set the

house on fire, and robbed the whole family of its shelter.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE IMPROVISED DINNER.

You housewives who know the important meaning of a roast, who know the

difficulties which sometimes overwhelm you, especially when you must

improvise a dinner; you who know that notwithstanding all inspiration,

both of understanding and inclination--yet inspiration is necessary to

all improvisation--one cannot inspire either chickens or heath-cocks to

come flying into the important dish, when the crust is ready to put on

it;--you housewives who have spent many a long morning in thoughts of

cookery and in anguish, without daring to pray the Lord for help,

although continually tempted to do so; you can sympathise in Elise's

troubles, as she, on the morning of this important dinner, saw the

finger of the clock approach twelve without having been able to

improvise a roast.

It is true that an improvised dinner might do without a roast: this we

grant as a general law; but in the case of this particular dinner, we

deny it altogether, in proof of which we might easily give the

arrangement of the whole dinner, did we not flatter ourselves that we

are believed on our bare word. Beyond this, the Judge was a declared

lover of a roast, and of all kinds of animal food, which circumstance

increased still more Elise's difficulty; and as if to make difficulty

still greater, Elise, on this very day, was remarkably in want of

assistants, for her husband had sent out, on his own business, those

servants who, on extraordinary occasions, Elise found very good help.

The cook, too, was confused to-day in a remarkable manner; the children

were in a fermentation; Eva and Leonore quarrelled; Petrea tore a hole

in her new frock; Henrik broke a water-bottle and six glasses; the baby

cried and screamed for nothing; the clock was on the stroke of twelve,

and no roast would come!

Elise was just on the point of falling into despair over roasts, cooks,

the dinner, the child, nay, over the whole world, when the door opened,

and the words, "your most devoted servant," were spoken out shrilly and

joyously, and the widow of the Court Chamberlain--to Elise she seemed an

angel of light from heaven--stood in the room, with her beaming friendly

countenance, took out of her monstrous reticule one chicken after

another, and laid them upon the table, fixing her eye on Elise, and

making with each one a little curtsey to her, upon which she laughed

heartily. Enraptured by the sight, Elise embraced first the lady

Chamberlain, then the chickens, with which she hastily sprang into the

kitchen, and returning, poured forth her thanks and all her cares to

this friend in need.

"Well, well, patience!" exhorted Mrs. Gunilla, kindly and full of

cordial sympathy, and somewhat touched by Elise's communication.

"Best-beloved, one should not take it so much to heart--such troubles as

these soon pass away--yes, indeed, they soon pass. Now listen, and I'll

tell you something, 'when need is greatest, help is nearest.' Yes, yes,

remember that! As for the chickens, I saw them in a peasant's cart, as I

crossed the market, and as I knew what was going on here, I lost no time

in buying them and bringing them, under my cloak, and I have nearly run

myself out of breath, in my haste. He, he, he! And so now I must go,

for the dear lady must dress herself nicely, and so must I too. Adieu,

dear Elise; I wish you the happiness of getting both the dinner and the

young folks in order. He, he, he!"

Gunilla went, dinner-time came, and with it the guests and the Judge,

who had spent the whole morning in the business of his own office, out

of the house.

Emelie, the Colonel's widow, was elegant in the highest degree; looked

handsome, and distinguished, and almost outdid herself in politeness;

but still Elise, spite even of herself, felt stiff and stupid by the

side of her husband's "old flame." Beyond this, she had now a great

distraction.

"Oh, that the chickens may be nicely done!" was the incessant

master-thought of Elise's soul; and it prevailed over the Pope, the

Church of St. Peter's, Thorwaldsen and Pasta, and over every subject on

which they talked.

The hour of dinner was come, and yet the dinner kept the company

waiting. The Judge, who expected from everybody else the punctuality

which he himself practised, began to suffer from what Elise called his

"dinner-fever," and threw uneasy glances first at the dining-room door,

and then at his wife, whose situation, it must be confessed, was not a

very enviable one. She endeavoured to look quite calm, but often

whispered something to the little Louise, which sent her very

importantly in and out of the room. Elise's entertainment, both that

part which was audible, and that which was inaudible, was probably at

the moment carried on something after the following fashion:

"It must be inexpressibly pleasant to know," (ah, how unbearably long it

is!) "it must be very interesting." (I wish Ernst would fire again on

his "old flame," and forget dinner.) "Yes, indeed, that was very

remarkable." (Now are those chickens not roasted!) "Poor Spain!" (Now,

thank goodness, dinner is ready at last--if the chickens are only well

done!)

And now to dinner! A word which brightens all countenances, and enlivens

all tempers. Elise began to esteem the Colonel's widow very highly,

because she kept up such a lively conversation, and she hoped this would

divert attention from any of the dishes which were not particularly

successful. The Judge was a polite and agreeable host, and he was

particularly fond of dinner-time, when he would willingly have made all

men partakers of his good appetite, good humour, and even of his good

eating--N. B. if this really was good--but if the contrary happened to

be the case, his temper could not well sustain it.

During the dinner Elise saw now and then little clouds come over her

husband's brow, but he himself appeared anxious to disperse them, and

all went on tolerably till the chickens came. As the Judge, who adhered

to all old customs, was cutting them up, he evidently found them tough,

whereupon a glance was sent across the table to his wife which went to

her heart like the stab of a knife; but no sooner was the first pang

over than this reproachful glance aroused a degree of indignation in her

which determined her to steel herself against a misfortune which in no

case was her fault; she, therefore, grew quite lively and talkative, and

never once turned her eyes to her husband, who, angry and silent, sate

there with a very hot brow, and the knife sticking still in the fowls.

But, after all, she felt as if she could again breathe freely when the

dinner was over, and on that very account longed just to speak one word

of reconciliation with her husband; but he now seemed to have only eyes

and ears for Emelie; nor was it long before the two fell into a lively

and most interesting conversation, which certainly would have given

Elise pleasure, and in which she might have taken part, had not a

feeling of depression stolen over her, as she fancied she perceived a

something cold and depreciating in the manners of her husband towards

her. She grew stiller and paler; all gathered themselves round the

brilliant Emelie; even the children seemed enchanted by her. Henrik

presented her with a beautiful flower, which he had obtained from Louise

by flattery. Petrea seemed to have got up a passion for her father's

"old flame," took a footstool and sat near her, and kissed her hand as

soon as she could possess herself of it.

The lady devoted herself exclusively to her old worshipper, cast the

beams of her beautiful eyes upon him, and smiled bewitchingly.

"This is a great delight!" thought Elise, as she wiped away a traitorous

tear; "but I will keep a good face on it!"

The Candidate, who perceived all this, quickly withdrew from the lady's

enchanted circle, in which he also had been involved, and taking "the

baby" on his knee, began to relate a story which was calculated as much

to interest the mother as the child. The children were soon around him:

Petrea herself forsook her new flame to listen, and even Elise for the

moment was so amused by it that she forgot everything else. That was

precisely what Jacobi wanted, but it was not that which pleased the

Judge. He rose for a moment, in order to hear what it was which had so

riveted the attention of his wife.

"I cannot conceive," said he to her in a half-whisper, "how you can take

delight in such absurdity; nor do I think it good for the children that

they should be crammed with such nonsense!"

At length Emelie rose to take her leave, overwhelming Elise with a flood

of polite speeches, which she was obliged to answer as well as she

could, and the Judge, who had promised to show her the lions of the

place, accompanied her; on which the rest of the guests dispersed

themselves. The elder children accompanied the Candidate to the

school-room to spend an hour in drawing; the younger went to play;

Petrea wished to borrow Gabriele, who at the sight of a gingerbread

heart could not resist, and as a reward received a bit of it; Elise

retired to her own chamber.

Poor Elise! she dared not at this moment descend into her own heart; she

felt a necessity to abstain from thought--a necessity entirely to forget

herself and the troubling impressions with which to-day had overwhelmed

her soul. A full hour was before her, an hour of undisturbed repose, and

she hastened to her manuscript, in order to busy herself with those rich

moments of life which her pen could call up at pleasure, and to forget

the poor and weary present--in one word, to lose the lesser in the

higher reality. The sense of suffering, of which the little annoyances

of life gave her experience, made her alive to the sweet impressions of

that beauty and that harmonious state of existence which was so dear to

her soul.

She wrote and wrote and wrote, her heart was warm, her eyes filled with

tears, the words glowed upon her page, life became bright, the moments

flew. An hour and a half passed. Her husband's tea-time came; he had

such delight in coming home at this hour to find his wife and his

children all assembled round the tea-table in the family room. It very

rarely happened that Elise had not all in readiness for him; but now the

striking of seven o'clock roused her suddenly from her writing; she laid

down her pen, and was in the act of rising when her husband entered.

A strong expression of displeasure diffused itself over his countenance

as he saw her occupation.

"You gave us to-day a very bad dinner, Elise," said he, going up to her

and speaking with severity; "but when this novel-writing occupies so

much of your time, it is no wonder that you neglect your domestic

duties; you get to care really just as little about these, as you

trouble yourself about my wishes."

It would have been easy for Elise to excuse herself, and make all right

and straight; but the severe tone in which her husband spoke, and his

scornful glance, wounded her deeply. "You must have patience with me,

Ernst," said she, not without pride and some degree of vexation; "I am

not accustomed to renounce all innocent pleasures; my education, my

earlier connexions, have not prepared me for this."

This was like pricking the Judge in the eye, and with more bitterness

and severity than usual he replied:

"You should have thought about that before you gave me your hand; before

you had descended into so humble and care-full a circle. It is too late

now. Now I will----" but he did not finish his sentence, for he himself

perceived a storm rising within him, before which he yielded. He went to

the door, opened it, and said in a calm voice, yet still with an

agitated tone and glance, "I would just tell you that I have taken

tickets for the concert to-morrow, if you would wish to go. I hoped to

have found you at the tea-table; but I see that is not at all thought

of--it is just as desolate and deserted there as if the plague were in

the house. Don't give yourself any trouble, I shall drink my tea at the

club!" and thus saying he banged the door and went away.

Elise seated herself--she really could not stand--and hid her face in

her trembling hands. "Good heavens! is it come to this? Ernst, Ernst!

What words! what looks! And I, wretched being, what have I said?"

Such were Elise's broken and only half-defined thoughts, whilst tears

streamed down her cheeks.

"Words, words, words!" says Hamlet, disparagingly. But God preserve us

from the destructive power of words! There are words which can separate

hearts sooner than sharp swords--there are words whose sting can remain

in the heart through a whole life!

Elise wept long and violently; her whole soul was in excitement.

In moments of violent struggle, bad and good spirits are at hand; they

surrounded Elise and spoke to her thus:

Bad Spirits.--"Think on that which thou hast given up! think on thy own

merits! Recollect the many little acts of injustice which thou hast had

to bear, the bitter moments which the severity of thy husband has

occasioned thee! Why shouldst thou humbly crawl in the dust? Raise

thyself, depressed one! raise thyself, offended wife! think of thy own

worth, of thy own rights! Do not allow thyself to be subjected; show

some character. Requite that which thou hast endured. Thou also canst

annoy; thou also canst punish! Take refuge in thy nerves, in unkindness;

make use of thy power, and enjoy the pleasure of revenge!"

Good Spirits.--"Think on thy wants, on thy faults! Recollect all the

patience, all the kindness, all the tenderness which has been shown

thee! Think on the many beautiful moments! Think on thy husband's worth,

on his beautiful noble qualities! Think also on life, how short it is;

how much unavoidable bitterness it possesses; how much which it is easy

either to bear or to chase away; and think on the all-rectifying power

of affection. Tremble before the chains of selfish feeling; free thyself

from them by a new sacrifice of love, and purify the heaven of home.

Ascending clouds can easily expand into a destructive tempest, or can

disperse and leave not a trace in the air. Oh, chase them hence with the

powerful breath of love!"

The happiness of a long life depends, not unfrequently, upon which of

these invisible counsellors in such moments we give ear to. On this it

depends whether the gates of heaven or of hell shall be opened upon

earth to men. Elise listened to the good counsellors; she conversed long

with them, and the more pure recollections they sent into her soul the

lighter it became therein. The light of love was kindled in her, and in

its light she became clear-sighted in many directions. She saw now what

it was right for her to do respecting her novel, and this revelation

warmed her heart. She knew also that this was the only one she should

ever write, and that her husband should never again miss her from the

tea-table, and therefore be obliged to drink his tea at the club (but he

should be reconciled sometime with the sinner--the novel); and she

would, moreover, prepare a dinner for the Colonel's widow, which should

compensate for the unlucky one of this day; and--"Would that Ernst would

but come home soon," thought she, "I would endeavour to banish all his

displeasure, and make all right between us."

It was the bathing-day of the children, and the message that the hour of

bathing was come interrupted Elise's solitude. She ordered Brigitta to

commence her preparations, and when she had somewhat composed herself,

and washed away the traces of her tears with rose-water, she herself

went down into the chamber.

"God be praised for water!" thought Elise, at the first view of the

scene which presented itself. The soft glowing young forms in the clear

warm water, the glimmering of the open fire, the splashing and

jubileering of the children in their unspeakable comfort, their innocent

sport one with another in the peaceful little lake of the bath, in which

they had no fear of raising stormy waves; nay, even Brigitta's happy

face, under her white cap, her lively activity, amid the continual

phrases of "best-beloved," "little alabaster arm," "alabaster foot,"

"lily-of-the-valley bosom," and such like, whilst over the

lily-of-the-valley bosom, and the alabaster arm, she spread soap-foam

scarcely less white, or wrapped them in snowy cloths, out of which

nothing but little lively, glowing, merry faces peeped and played with

one another at bo-peep--all this united to present a picture full of

life and pleasure.

Elise, however, could not fully enjoy it; the thought of what had just

occurred, longings for reconciliation with her husband, fear that he

might remain long, that he might return too much displeased for her

easily to make all straight again--these thoughts occupied her mind; yet

still she could not help smiling as Gabriele, who had sunk down into the

bath alone, exclaimed, almost beside herself for fright, "I am drowning!

I am drowning!" In order to re-assure her, her mother stretched out her

white hands to her, and under their protection she laughed and splashed

about like a little fish in water.

A shower of flowers streamed suddenly over both mother and child, and

Gabriele screamed aloud for joy, and stretched forth her little arms to

catch gilly-flowers, roses, and carnations, which fell upon and around

her. Elise turned herself round in surprise, and her surprise changed

itself into the most delightful sensation of joy, as the lips of her

husband were pressed to her forehead.

"Ah, you!" exclaimed Elise, and threw her arms round his neck, and

caressingly stroked his cheek.

"I shall get wet through with all this," said he, laughing, yet without

leaving the bath, nay, he even stooped down his head to little Gabriele,

kissed her, and allowed her to splash him with water.

"Thank God! all is right again! and perhaps it will be best to take no

further notice of this unpleasant affair!" thought she, and prepared to

follow her husband into the parlour.

The Judge had, probably, during his bad tea at the club, held with the

invisible speakers the same conversation, with some variations, as his

wife during his absence, the consequence whereof was his visit to the

bathing-room, and the shower of flowers from the nosegay he had brought

with him for her, and the kiss of reconciliation which effaced every

thoughtless and wounding word. He felt now quite pleased that everything

was as it should be, and that the gentle and yielding temper of his wife

would require nothing further. But, perhaps, on that very account, he

was dissatisfied with himself, her eyes red with weeping grieved him,

especially as they beamed so kindly upon him, he felt that he misused

the power which circumstances had given him over his wife; he felt that

he had behaved harshly to her, and therefore he had no peace with

himself, therefore he felt a necessity to pronounce one word--one word,

which it is so hard for the lips of a man to pronounce, yet, which Ernst

Frank was too manly, too firm to shrink from.

When, therefore, his wife entered, he offered her his hand; "Forgive me,

Elise," said he, with the deepest feeling; "I have behaved severely,

nay, absurdly to-day!"

"Oh, forgive me, Ernst!" said Elise, deeply affected, whilst she pressed

his hand to her heart and----

Accursed be all disturbers of peace in this world! Such a one entered at

that moment, and undid that which would otherwise have bound them so

closely to each other. It was a messenger from the Colonel's widow with

a note, together with a book for the Judge, and two little bottles of

select Eau de rose for Elise, "of which, I know," said the note, "she is

very fond."

The Judge's cheek grew crimson as he read the note, which he did not

show to his wife.

"An extremely polite and interesting person," said he; "I will

immediately answer it."

"Ernst," said Elise, "should we not invite her to dinner to-morrow? I

thought of something very nice, which is sure to succeed; then we could

go altogether to the concert, and afterwards she might sup with us."

"Now that is a good idea, and I thank you for it, my sweet Elise," said

he, extremely pleased.

Yes, if the Colonel's widow had not been there--if the Candidate had not

been there--and if there had been no _if_ in the case, all might have

gone on quite smoothly. But it was quite otherwise.

CHAPTER IX.

ONE SWALLOW MAKES NO SUMMER.

Too many chaotic elements had collected together in the family of the

Franks for one sun-gleam to dissipate. Even the married pair did not

clearly understand their own actions.

The Judge, truly, was too much enchanted by his former beloved one; and

the beautiful Emelie did all that was in her power to enslave again her

early adorer.

Judge Frank, who would have been as cold and proud as possible, if he

had been assailed by coarse and direct flattery, was yet by no means

steeled against the refined and almost imperceptible flattery of Emelie,

who, with all her peculiar gifts of soul and understanding, made herself

subordinate to him, in order to be enlightened and instructed by him.

"An extraordinarily amiable and interesting lady," thought he still with

greater animation, although he seldom asserted so much; and exactly in

the proportion in which he found Emelie interesting, it was natural that

he should find Elise less so, especially as he found in Emelie precisely

those very qualities, the want of which he had so much regretted in his

wife; namely, an interest in his activity as a citizen, and in general

for the objects connected with which he occupied himself in the

liveliest manner.

Elise, on her part, was neither calm nor clear. The connexion between

her husband and Emelie was painful to her; and she felt a sort of

consolation from the devotion of Jacobi, even when it was beginning to

assume that passionate character which made her seriously uneasy.

A letter, which she wrote to her sister about this time, exhibits her

state of feeling:

"It is long since I wrote to you, Cecilia--I hardly know why; I hardly

know, indeed, my own feelings--all is so unquiet, so undefined. I wish

it were clear!

"Do you know she is very lovely, this 'old flame' of my husband's, and

very brilliant. I fancy I am jealous of her. Last evening I went out to

a supper-party--the first for several years. I dressed myself with great

care, for I wished to please Ernst, and had flowers in my hair. I was

greatly satisfied with my appearance when I went. My husband was to come

later. I found Emelie already there; she was beautiful, and looked most

elegant. They placed me beside her; a looking-glass was before us, on

which I threw stolen glances, and saw opposite to me--a shadow! I

thought at first it was some illusion, and looked again: but again it

revealed unmercifully to me a pale ghost beside the beautiful and

dazzling Emelie. 'It is all over, irremediably over,' thought I, 'with

my youth and my bloom! But if my husband and children only can love me,

I can then resign youth and beauty.'

"But again I felt compelled to look at the shadow in the glass, and grew

quite melancholy. Emelie also cast glances at the mirror, and drew

comparisons, but with feelings far different to mine. Then came Ernst,

and I saw that he too made comparisons between us.

"He was, all this evening, very much occupied with Emelie. I felt unwell

and weak; I longed so to support myself on his arm; but he did not come

near me the whole time: perhaps he imagined I was out of

humour--perhaps I looked so. Ah! I returned home before supper, and he

remained. As I drove home through those deserted streets in the wretched

hackney-coach, a sense of misery came over my heart such as I cannot

describe; many a bitter thought was awakened within me, before which I

trembled.

"At the door of my own home I met Jacobi; he had sate up for me, and

wished to tell me something amusing about my children. He seemed to have

foreboded my feelings this evening. My favourite fruit, which he had

provided for me, should have refreshed me. His friendship and his

devotion cheered me. There is something so beautiful in feeling oneself

beloved.

* * * * *

"Every new emotion, every new connexion, among men, has its danger, its

temptation; the most beautiful, the most noble, may have their dangerous

tendency. Oh! how is this to be prevented without a separation?--how is

the poison to be avoided without deadening the sting? Oh, Cecilia! at

this moment I need a friend; I need you, to whom I could turn, and from

whom, in these disquieting circumstances, I in my weakness could derive

light and strength. I am discontented with myself; I am discontented

with----Ah! he alone it is who, if he would, could make all right!

* * * * *

"Oh, Cecilia, this is a mist-enveloped hour of my life!--does it

announce day or night? My glance is dark; I see the path no longer! But

I will resign myself into the hand of Him who said, 'let there be

light.'

* * * * *

"All is now better and clearer! God be praised! In a few hours this day

will be over;--I long vehemently for it!

"This evening we have a children's dance at our house. Emelie will be

here also. There is not a good understanding between us two. She is cold

to me, too witty, and too----, but I will do my best to be a good

hostess; and when the day is ended, I will sit and look at my beautiful

sleeping boy, and be happy in my children."

CHAPTER X.

THE END OF THE DAY.

Evening came, and with it lights and guests. A strong, self-sacrificing

amiability governed Elise's manner this evening. She was almost cordial

towards Emelie; cared for the comfort of every one, played the piano for

the children's dance, and appeared to exist only in order to serve

others. The beautiful Emelie, on the contrary, thought of herself; was

livelier and more brilliant than ever, and, as usual, assembled all the

gentlemen around her. The conversation was lively in this group; it

turned from politics to literature, and then dwelt awhile on

theatricals, in which Emelie, equally animated and sarcastic,

characterised the Scribe and Mellesville school as a dramatic

manufactory.

"For the rest," added she, "the stage acts very prudently and sensibly

in letting the curtain fall the moment the hero and heroine approach the

altar; novels do the same, and that, also, with good reason, otherwise

nobody would be able to read them."

"How so?" asked the Judge, with great earnestness.

"Because," answered Emelie, "the illusion of life is extinguished on the

other side of this golden moment, and reality steps forward then in all

its heaviness and nakedness. Look at a young couple in the glowing

morning of their union, how warm love is then; how it penetrates and

beautifies everything; how it glows and speaks in glance and word, and

agreeable action; how its glory changes the whole of life into poetry!

'Thou, thou!' is the one thought of the young people then. But observe

the same couple a few years later--'I, I!' and 'my pleasure,' is the

phrase now. The adoring all-resigning lover is then become the exacting

married man, who will be waited on and obeyed. And the loving

all-sacrificing bride, she is become the unwieldy and care-burdened

housewife, who talks of nothing but trouble, bad saltings, and negligent

maid-servants. And what are _tete-a-tete_ communications between these

two? 'How, my dear! is the butter really used up already? Why, I gave

you money only the other day for butter! You really must look better

after things, and see what the cook does with the butter; I will not

allow such extravagance in the house! Do you want something more?' 'Yes,

indeed, my love, I and the children must have new over-dresses. Little

Peter's coat is worn out, and little Paul has grown out of his; and my

old cloak cannot last to eternity!' People," continued the sarcastic

Emilie, "may thank their stars, too, if out of such interesting

communications as these no hateful quarrels arise; and if, in the happy

repose of their homes, harmless yawnings have only taken place of the

kisses which have left it. Contracted circumstances, meannesses, and

domestic trials, destroy the happiness of marriage, even as the worm

destroys the flower, bringing bitterness and sourness into the temper;

and though the married pair may continue to the very day of their death

to address each other as 'My sweet friend,' yet, very often, _in petto_,

it is 'My sour friend.' Yet, after all, this is nothing, in fact, but

what is perfectly natural; and, in this respect, marriage only follows

the eternal law of nature in all earthly existence. Every form of life

carries in itself decay and dissolution--a poisonous snake-king[3] gnaws

even at the root of the world's tree."

Several of the listeners, and among them the Candidate, had laughed

loudly at Emelie's descriptions; but the Judge had not once moved his

lips, and replied, when she had done, with an earnestness that

confounded even her satire.

"If all this were true, Emelie," said he, "then were life, even in the

best point of view, good for nothing; and with justice might it indeed

be called an illusion. But it is not so; and you have only described

marriage in its lowest, and not either in its best or its truest sense.

I do not deny the difficulties which exist in this as in every other

circumstance of life; but I am confident that they may and must be

overcome; and this will be done if the married pair bring only right

intentions into the house. Then want and care, disturbing, nay even

bitter hours, may come, but they will also go; and the bonds of love and

truth will be consolation, nay, even will give strength. You have

spoken, Emelie, of death and separation as the end of the drama of life;

you have forgotten the awaking again, and the second youth, of which

the ancient northern Vala sings. Married life, like all life, has such a

second youth; yes, indeed, a progressive one, because it has its

foundation in the life which is eternal; and every contest won, every

danger passed through, every pain endured, change themselves into

blessings on home and on the married pair, who have thus obtained better

knowledge, and who are thus more closely united."

He spoke with unusual warmth, and not without emotion, and his

expressive glance sought and dwelt upon his wife, who had approached

unobserved, and who had listened to Emelie's bitter satire with stinging

pain, because she knew that there was a degree of truth in it.

But as her husband spoke, she felt that he perceived the full truth, and

her heart beat freer and stronger, and all at once a clearness was in

her soul. With her head bent forward, she gazed on him with a glance

full of tenderness and confidence, forgetting herself, and listening

with fervour to every word which he uttered. In this very moment their

eyes met, and there was much, inexpressibly much, in their glance; a

clear crimson of delight flushed her cheek, and made her beautiful. The

gentle happiness which now animated her being, together with her lovely

figure, her graceful movements, and the purity of her brow, made her far

more fascinating than her lovely rival. Her husband followed her with

his eyes, as kindly and attentively she busied herself among her guests,

or with the little Gabriele in her arms mingled in the children's dance,

for which Evelina's foster-daughters were playing a four-handed piece.

He had suddenly cooled towards his "old flame," nor was he at all warmed

again by the sharp tone with which the little caressing Petrea was

reproved for being too obtrusive.

"Our little Louise in time will dance very well," remarked the Judge to

his wife, as he noticed with great pleasure the little _brisees_ and

_chassees_ of his daughter whom the twelve-years-old Nils Gabriel

Stjernhoek twirled round, and with whom he conversed with great gravity,

and a certain knightly politeness.

In the mean time Mrs. Gunilla was instructing Emelie on the manners and

character of the French; and Emelie, whose countenance since the

discussion of the marriage question had worn a bitter expression,

endeavoured with a tolerably sharp tone to make her superior

information felt, and in return was mown down, as it were, at one stroke

by Mrs. Gunilla, who--had never been in France.

The Candidate followed Elise everywhere with glances of devotion, and

appeared this evening perfectly enchanted by her amiability.

"Fie, for shame!--to take all the confections to yourself!" moralised

the little Queen-bee to the little S----ne,--a fat, quiet boy, who took

the confections and the reproof with the same stoical indifference.

Louise cast a look of high indignation upon him, and then gave her share

of sweetmeats to a little girl, who complained that she had had none.

Supper came, and Emelie, whose eyes flashed unusual fire, seemed to wish

fervently to win back that regard which she, perhaps, feared to have

lost already, and with her playful and witty conversation electrified

the whole company. Jacobi, who was excited in no ordinary manner, drank

one glass of wine after another, talked and laughed very loud, and

looked between whiles upon Elise with glances which expressed his

sentiments in no doubtful manner. These glances were not the first of

the kind which the quick eye of Elise's rival observed.

"That young man," said she, in a low but significant whisper to the

Judge, and with a glance on Jacobi, "seems to be very charming; he has

really remarkably attractive talents--is he nearly related to Elise?"

"No," returned he, looking at her rather surprised; "but he has been for

nearly three months a member of our family."

"Indeed!" said she, in a significant and grave manner; "I should have

thought--but as for that," added she, in an apparently careless

tone--"Elise is really so kind and so amiable, that for him who is with

her daily, it must be very difficult not to love her."

The Judge felt the sting of the viper, and with a glance which flashed a

noble indignation, he replied to his beautiful neighbour, "You are

right, Emelie; I know no woman who deserves more love or esteem than

she!"

Emelie bit her lip and grew pale; and she would assuredly have grown yet

paler, could she only have understood the sentiment which she had

awakened in the breast of her former admirer.

Ernst Frank had a keen sense of moral meanness, and when this displayed

itself no gifts of genius or of nature had power to conceal it. He

clearly understood her intentions, and despised her for them. In his

eyes, at this moment, she was hateful. In the mean time his composure

was destroyed. He looked on Jacobi, and observed his glances and his

feelings; he looked on Elise, and saw that she was uneasy, and avoided

his eye.

A horrible spasmodic feeling thrilled through his soul; in order to

conceal what he felt he became more than usually animated, yet there was

a something hostile, a something sternly sarcastic in his words, which

still, on account of the general gaiety, remained unobserved by most.

Never before was Assessor Munter so cheerful, so comically cross with

all mankind. Mrs. Gunilla and he shouted as if desperate against each

other. The company rose from the supper-table in full strife, and

adjourned to the dancing-room.

"Music, in heaven's name! music!" exclaimed the Assessor with a gesture

of despair, and Elise and the Colonel's widow hastened to the piano. It

was a pleasant thought, after the screaming of that rough voice had been

heard, to play one of Blangini's beautiful night-pieces, which seem to

have been inspired by the Italian heaven, and which awaken in the soul

of the hearer a vision of those summer nights, with their flowery

meadows, of their love, of their music, and of all their unspeakable

delights.

"_Un' eterna constanza in amor!_" were the words which, repeated several

times with the most bewitching modulations, concluded the song.

"_Un' eterna constanza in amor!_" repeated the Candidate, softly and

passionately pressing his hand to his heart, as he followed Elise to a

window, whither she had gone to gather a rose for her rival. As Elise's

hand touched the rose, the lips of Jacobi touched her hand.

Emelie sang another song, which delighted the company extremely; but

Ernst Frank stood silent and gloomy the while. Words had been spoken

this evening which aroused his slumbering perception; and with the look

he cast upon Jacobi and his wife, he felt as if the earth were trembling

under his feet. He saw that which passed at the window, and gasped for

breath. A tempest was aroused in his breast; and at the same moment

turning his eyes, he encountered, those of another person, which were

riveted upon him with a questioning, penetrating expression. They were

those of the Assessor. Such a glance as that from any other person had

been poison to the mind of Frank, but from Jeremias Munter it operated

quite otherwise; and as shortly afterwards he saw his friend writing

something on a strip of paper, he went to him, and looking over his

shoulder, read these words:

"Why regardest thou the mote in thy brother's eye, yet seest not the

beam in thine own eye?"

"Is this meant for me?" asked he, in a low but excited voice.

"Yes," was the direct reply.

The Judge took the paper, and concealed it in his breast.

He was pale and silent, and began to examine himself. The company broke

up; he had promised Emelie to accompany her home; but now, while she,

full of animation, jested with several gentlemen, and while her servant

drew on her fur-shoes, he stood silent and cold beside his "old flame"

as a pillar of ice. Mrs. Gunilla and the Assessor quarrelled till the

last moment. Whilst all this was going on, Elise went quietly to Jacobi,

who stood somewhat apart, and said to him in a low voice, "I wish to

speak with you, and will wait for you in the parlour, when they are all

gone." Jacobi bowed; a burning crimson flashed to his cheek; the Judge

threw a penetrating glance upon them, and passed his hand over his pale

countenance.

"It gives me great pleasure," cried Mrs. Gunilla, speaking shrilly and

_staccato_--"it gives me great pleasure to see my fellow-creatures, and

it gives me great pleasure if they will see me. If they are not always

agreeable, why I am not always agreeable myself! Heart's-dearest! in

this world one must have patience one with another, and not be

everlastingly requiring and demanding from others. Heaven help me! I am

satisfied with the world, and with my own fellow-creatures, as our Lord

has been pleased to make them. I cannot endure that people should be

perpetually blaming, and criticising, and mocking, and making sour faces

at everything, and saying 'I will not have this!' and 'I will not have

that!' and 'I will not have it so! It is folly; it is unbearable; it is

wearisome; it is stupid!' precisely as if they themselves only were

endurable, agreeable, and clever! No, I have learned better manners than

that. It is true that I have no genius, nor learning, nor talents, as so

many people in our day lay claim to, but I have learned to govern

myself!"

During this moral lecture, and endeavouring all the time to overpower

it, the Assessor exclaimed, "And can you derive the least pleasure from

your blessed social life? No, that you cannot! What is social life, but

a strift to get into the world in order to discover that the world is

unbearable? but a scheming and labouring to get invited, to be offended

and put out of sorts if not invited; and if invited, then to complain of

weariness and vexation, and thus utter their lamentations. Thus people

bring a mass of folks together, and wish them--at Jericho! and all this

strift only to get poorer, more out of humour, more out of health; in

one word, to obtain the perfectly false position, _vis-a-vis_, of

happiness! See there! Adieu, adieu! When the ladies take leave, they

never have done."

"There is not one single word of truth in all that you have said," was

the last but laughing salutation of Mrs. Gunilla to the Assessor, as,

accompanied by the Candidate, she left the door. The Judge, too, was

gone; and Elise, left alone, betook herself to the parlour.

Suddenly quick steps were heard behind her--she thought "Jacobi"--turned

round, and saw her husband; but never before had she seen him looking as

then; there was an excitement, an agitation, in his countenance that

terrified her. He threw his arm violently round her waist, riveted his

eyes upon her with a glance that seemed as if it would penetrate into

her inmost soul.

"Ernst, Ernst, be calm!" whispered she, deeply moved by his state of

mind, the cause of which she imagined. He seized her hand and pressed it

to his forehead--it was damp and cold; the next moment he was gone.

We will now return to the Candidate.

Wine and love, and excited expectation, had so inflamed the imagination

of the young man, that he hardly knew what he did--whether he walked, or

whether he flew; and more than once, in descending the stairs, had he

nearly precipitated Mrs. Gunilla, who exclaimed with kindness, but some

little astonishment, "The Cross preserve me! I cannot imagine,

heart's-dearest, how either you or I go to-night! I think we are all

about to--see, now again, all's going mad.--No, I thank you, I'll take

care of my nose, crooked as it is. I think I can go safer by myself. I

can hold by----"

"A thousand thousand times pardon," interrupted the Candidate, whilst he

pressed Mrs. Gunilla's arm tightly; "it is all my fault. But now we will

go safely and magnificently; I was a little dizzy!"

"Dizzy!" repeated she. "Heart's-dearest, we should take care on that

very account; one should take care of one's head as well as one's heart;

one should take care of that, or it may go still more awry than it now

is with us! He, he, he, he--but listen to me, my friend," said Mrs.

Gunilla, suddenly becoming very grave: "I will tell you one thing, and

that is----"

"Your most gracious Honour, pardon me," interrupted he, "but I think--I

feel rather unwell--I--there, now we are at your door! Pardon me!" and

the Candidate tumbled up-stairs again.

In the hall of the Franks' dwelling he drew breath. The thought of the

mysterious meeting with Elise filled him at the same time with joy and

uneasiness. He could not collect his bewildered thoughts, and with a

wildly-beating heart went into the room where Elise awaited him.

As soon as he saw her white lovely figure standing in the magical

lamplight his soul became intoxicated, and he was just about to throw

himself at her feet, when Elise, hastily, and with dignity, drew back a

few paces.

"Listen to me, Jacobi," said she, with trembling but earnest voice.

"Listen to you!" said he, passionately--"oh, that I might listen to you

for ever!--oh, that I----"

"Silence!" interrupted Elise, with a severity very unusual to her; "not

one word more of this kind, or our conversation is at an end, and we are

separated for ever!"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Jacobi, "what have----"

"I beseech you, listen to me!" continued Elise; "tell me, Jacobi, have I

given you occasion to think thus lightly of me?"

Jacobi started. "What a question!" said he, stammering, and pale.

"Nevertheless," continued Elise, with emotion, "I must have done so;

your behaviour to me this evening has proved it. Could you think,

Jacobi, that I, a wife, the mother of many children, could permit the

sentiment which you have been so thoughtless as to avow this evening?

Could you imagine that it would not occasion me great uneasiness and

pain? Indeed, it is so, Jacobi; I fear that you have gone sadly wrong;

and if I myself, through any want of circumspection in my conduct, have

assisted thereto, may God forgive me! You have punished me for it,

Jacobi--have punished me for the regard I have felt for you and shown to

you; and if I now must break a connexion which I hoped would gladden my

life, it is your own fault. Only one more such glance--one more such

declaration, as you have made this evening, and you must remove from

this house."

The crimson of shame and indignation burned on Jacobi's cheek. "In

truth," said he, "I have not deserved such severity."

"Ah! examine yourself, Jacobi," said she, "and you will judge yourself

more severely than I have done. You say that you love me, Jacobi, and

you do not dread to destroy the peace and happiness of my life. Already,

perhaps, are poisonous tongues in activity against me. I have seen this

evening glances directed upon me and upon you, which were not mild; and

thoughts and feelings are awakened in my husband's soul, which never

ought to have been awakened there. You have disturbed the peace of a

house, into which you were received with friendship and confidence. But

I know," continued she, mildly, "that you have not intended anything

criminal!--no bad intentions have guided your behaviour; folly only has

led you to treat so lightly that relationship which is the holiest on

earth. You have not reflected on your life, on your duty, and your

situation, in this family, with seriousness."

Jacobi covered his face with his hands, and a strong emotion agitated

him.

"And seriousness," again began Elise, with warmth and deep

earnestness--"seriousness! how it clothes--how it dignifies the

man!--Jacobi, the saviour of my child--my young friend! I would not have

spoken thus to you if I had not had great faith on your better--your

nobler self;--if I had not hoped to have won a friend in you--a friend

for my whole life, for myself and my Ernst. Oh, Jacobi, listen to my

prayer!--you are thrown among people who are willing from their very

hearts to be your friends! Act so that we may love and highly esteem

you; and do not change into grief that hearty goodwill which we both

feel for you! Combat against, nay, banish from your heart, every foolish

sentiment which you, for a moment, have cherished for me. Consider me as

a sister, as a mother! Yes," continued she, pausing over this word, and

half prophetically, "perhaps you may even yet call me mother; and if you

will show me love and faith, Jacobi, as you have said, I will accept

it--from my son! Oh, Jacobi! if you would deserve my blessing, and my

eternal gratitude, be a faithful friend, a good instructor of my boy--my

Henrik! Your talents as a teacher are of no common kind. Your heart is

good--your understanding is capable of the noblest cultivation--your

path is open before you to all that which makes man most estimable and

most amiable. Oh, turn not away from it, Jacobi--tread this path with

seriousness----"

"Say not another word!" exclaimed Jacobi. "Oh, I see all! forgive me,

angelic Elise! I will do all, everything, in order to deserve hereafter

your esteem and your friendship. You have penetrated my heart--you have

changed it. I shall become a better man. But tell me that you forgive

me--that you can be my friend, and that you will!"

Jacobi, in the height of his excitement, had thrown himself on his knee

before her; Elise also was deeply affected; tears streamed from her

eyes, whilst she extended her hand to him, and bending over him said,

from the very depths of her heart, "Your friend, for ever!"

Calmly, and with cheerful countenances, both raised themselves; but an

involuntary shudder passed through both as they saw the Judge standing

in the room, with a pale and stern countenance.

Jacobi went towards him: "Judge Frank," said he, with a firm but humble

voice, "you behold here a----"

"Silence, Jacobi!" interrupted Elise, quickly; "you need not blush on

account of your bended knee, nor is any explanation needful. It is not,

is it, Ernst?" continued she, with the undaunted freshness of innocence:

"you desire no explanation; you believe me when I say that Jacobi now,

more than ever, deserves your friendship. A bond is formed between us

three, which, as I hope before God, nothing will disturb, and no

poisonous tongues censure. You believe me, Ernst?"

"Yes," said he, giving her his hand; "if I could not, then----" he did

not finish his sentence, but fixed his eyes with a stern expression

immovably on her. "I will speak with you," said he, after a moment, and

in a calmer voice. "Good night, Mr. Jacobi."

Jacobi bowed, withdrew a few steps, and then returned. "Judge Frank,"

said he, in a voice which showed the excitement of his feelings, "give

me your hand; I will deserve your friendship."

The outstretched hand was grasped firmly and powerfully, and Jacobi left

the room in haste.

"Come here, Elise," said the Judge, with warmth, leading his wife to the

sofa, and enclosing her in his arms. "Speak to me! Tell me, has anything

in my behaviour of late turned your heart from me!"

Elise's head sunk upon the breast of her husband, and she was silent.

"Ah, Ernst!" said she at length, with a painful sigh, "I also am

dissatisfied with myself. But, oh!" added she more cheerfully, "when I

lean myself on you thus, when I hear your heart beating, and know what

is within that heart, then, Ernst, I feel how I love you--how I believe

on you! Then I reproach myself with being so weak, so unthankful, so

ready to take offence, then--oh, Ernst! love me! Look on me always as

now, then life will be bright to me; then shall I have strength to

overcome all--even my own weakness; then I shall feel that only a cloud,

only a shadow of mist, and no reality can come between us. But now all

is vanished. Now I can lay open to you all the innermost loopholes of my

heart--can tell you all my weaknesses----"

"Be still, be still now," said the Judge, with a bright and affectionate

look, and laying his hand on her mouth. "I have more failings than you;

but I am awake now. Weep not, Elise; let me kiss away your tears! Do you

not feel, as I do now, that all is right? Do we not believe in the

Eternal Good, and do we not believe in each other? Let us forgive and

forget, and have peace together. Hereafter, when the error of this time

has in some measure passed from our remembrance, we will talk it over,

and wonder how it ever came between us. Now, all is so bright between

us, and we both of us see our way clearly. Our errors will serve us for

warnings. Wherefore do we live in the world, unless to become better?

Look at me, Elise. Are you friendly towards me? Can you have confidence

in me?"

"I can! I have!" said she; "there is not a grain of dust any longer

between us."

"Then we are one!" said he, with a joyful voice. "Let us, then, in God's

name, go thus together through life. What He has united, let no man, no

accident, nothing in this world, separate!"

Night came; but light had arisen in the breast both of husband and wife.

* * * * *

The furrow of disunion bears commonly thorns and thistles, but it may

likewise bear seed for the granary of heaven.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] According to the Northern mythology, Nidhoegg, the snake-king, lives

in Niflhem, the nether world.

CHAPTER XI.

JACOBI.

When Jacobi entered his room, he found a letter lying on the table near

his bed. He recognised the handwriting as that of Judge Frank, and

quickly opened it. A bank-note of considerable value fell out; and the

letter contained the following words:

"You are indebted to several persons in the city, Jacobi, with

whom I wish, for your own sake, that you should have as little to

do as possible. Within, you will find the means of satisfying

their demands. Receive it as from a paternal friend, who sincerely

wishes you to regard him as such, and who embraces with pleasure

an opportunity of making an acknowledgment to the friend and

instructor of his children. To the preserver of my child I shall

always remain indebted; but should you desire anything, or need

anything, do not apply to any other than

"Your friend, E. Frank."

"He! and he, too!" exclaimed Jacobi, deeply agitated. "Oh, the kind,

noble, excellent man! And I--I shall, I will become worthy of him! From

this day I am a new man!"

He pressed the letter to his breast, and looked up to the star-lighted

heaven with silent but fervent vows.

CHAPTER XII.

TIME GOES.

Life has its moments of strength and bloom; its bright moments of

inspiration, in which the human artist (the painter of earthly life)

seizes on, and utters the supremely pure, the supremely beautiful, the

divine. If, in such moments, everything in human life were executed; if

then sacrifices were made, work accomplished, victories won, there would

be but little difficulty in life. But the difficult part is to preserve,

through a long course of years, the flame which has been kindled by

inspiration! to preserve it while the storms come and go, while the

everlasting dust-rain of the moments falls and falls; to preserve it

still and uniform, amidst the uniform changing of uniform days and

nights. To do this, strength from above is required; repeated draughts

from the fountain of inspiration; both for the great and the small--for

all labourers on earth.

It was the good fortune of Ernst and Elise that they knew this; and knew

also how to avail themselves of it. On this account they succeeded more

and more in conquering their natural failings; on this account they came

nearer to each other by every little step, which in itself is so

unobservable, but which yet, at the same time, twines so firmly and

lovingly together the human heart and life, and which may be contained

in the rubric--_regard for mutual inclinations, interest for mutual

interests_.

Through this new-born intimacy of heart, this strengthening and pure

affection, Elise assumed a secure and noble standing with regard to

Jacobi. Her heart was vanquished by no weakness, even when she saw

suffering expressed in his youthful countenance; nay, she remained firm,

even when she saw that his health was giving way, and only besought her

husband to name an earlier day for his and Henrik's departure. This was

also her husband's wish. Like a good angel, at once gentle, yet strong,

he stood at this time by her side. No wonder was it, therefore, that,

with his support, Elise went forward successfully; no wonder was it,

therefore, that from the firm conduct of her husband, and from the

contemplation of the good understanding which existed between the

married pair, the whispered blame, which had already begun to get

abroad at their expense, died of itself, like a flame wanting

nourishment.

Of Judge Frank's "old flame," which Elise had feared so much, we must

relate how that she found herself so wounded, and so cooled likewise, by

the ice-cold behaviour of her former adorer, that she quickly left the

town, which was too monotonous for her, and abandoned all thoughts of

settling there.

"Life there would be too uniform for me, would possess too little

interest," said she, yawning, to the Judge, who was warmly counselling

her return either to France or Italy.

"In our good North," added he, "we must find that which can give

interest and enjoyment to life in ourselves and our own means,--from our

families, from our own breasts."

"She is, nevertheless, extremely beautiful and interesting," said Elise,

with a kindly feeling towards her when she was gone. The Judge made no

reply; he never was heard to speak again of his former beloved one.

Days went by. The Judge had much to do. Elise occupied herself with her

little girls, and the Candidate with Henrik and his own studies.

The children grew like asparagus in June, and the father rejoiced over

them. "The Queen-bee will grow over all our heads," prophesied he many a

time; and when he heard Eva playing "Marlbrough s'en va-t-en guerre," on

the piano, his musical sense awoke, and he said, "what a deal of feeling

there is already in her music!--is there not, Elise?"

The evenings, on which all the members of the family assembled, assumed

constantly a livelier and more comfortable character for every one;

often they played and danced with the children.

The children! What a world of pleasure and pain do they not bring with

them into a house! Of a truth all is not of as rosy a hue as their

cheeks. Elise discovered that in her children which was not always

exactly good. "Do not to others what thou wouldst not that they should

do to thee." "People should think of what they do." "Patience is a good

root." "You do not see that your father and mother do so; look at me,

and do as I do." These standing and going speeches, which have travelled

through the world from the time when "Adam delved and Eve span," down to

the present day, and which to the very end of time will be ever in

use--together with assurances to the children, whenever they were

punished, or when they must learn their lessons yet more--that all this

was done for their benefit, and that the time would come when they would

be thankful for it--which the children very seldom, if ever

believed--this citizen-of-the-world, patriarchal household-fare, which

was dealt out in the family of the Franks, as in every other worthy

family, did not always produce its proper effect.

Perhaps Elise troubled herself too much sometimes about the perpetual

recurrence of the same fault in her children--perhaps she calculated too

little on the invisible but sun-like and powerful influence of paternal

love on the little human-plants. True it is that she often was in great

anxiety on their account, and that the development and future prospects

of her daughters awoke in her soul much disquiet and trouble.

One day, when such thoughts had troubled her more than usual, she felt

the necessity of a prudent, and, in this respect, experienced female

friend, to whom she could open her mind.

"Ernst," said she, as her husband prepared himself to go out immediately

after dinner, "I shall go below for a few minutes to Evelina, but I will

be back again by the time you return."

"Don't trouble yourself about that, dear Elise," said he; "remain as

long as you like; I'll fetch you. Take my arm, and let us go down

together, that I may see exactly where you go, and whence I must fetch

you."

CHAPTER XIII.

A LITTLE EDUCATION AND COFFEE COMMITTEE.

As Elise entered Evelina's room, Pyrrhus sprang, barking, towards her,

and wagging his tail. Mrs. Gunilla was there, and she and the hostess

emulated each other in welcoming their friend.

"Nay! best-beloved, that is charming!" exclaimed Mrs. Gunilla, embracing

Elise cordially. "Now, how does the little lady?--somewhat

pale?--somewhat out of spirits, I fancy? I will tell confidentially that

I know we shall presently get some magnificent coffee, which will cheer

up little Elise."

Evelina took Elise's hand, and looked kindly and sympathising at her

with her calm sensible eyes. Pyrrhus touched her foot gently with his

nose, in order to call her attention, and then seated himself on his

hind legs before her, began growling, in order to express his sympathy

also. Elise laughed, and she and Mrs. Gunilla vied with each other in

caressing the little animal.

"Ah, let me sit down here and chat with you, where everything seems so

kind," said Elise, in reply to Evelina's glance, which spoke such a kind

"How do you do?" "Here all is so quiet and so comfortable. I do not know

how you manage, Evelina, but it seems to me as if the air in your room

were clearer than elsewhere; whenever I come to you it seems to me as if

I entered a little temple of peace."

"Yes, and so it seems to me," said Mrs. Gunilla, cordially.

"Yes, thank God," said Evelina, smiling gratefully, and with tears in

her eyes; "here is peace!"

"And at our little lady's, the young folks raise dust sometimes in the

temper, as well as in the rooms. Is it not so?" said Mrs. Gunilla, with

facetiousness. "Well, well," added she, by way of consolation,

"everything has its time, all dust will in time lay itself, only have

patience."

"Ah, teach me that best thing, Aunt," said Elise, "for I am come here

precisely with the hope of gaining some wisdom--I need it so much. But

where are your daughters to-day, Evelina?"

"They are gone to-day to one of their friends," replied she, "to a

little festival, which they have long anticipated with pleasure; and I

also expect to have my share, from their relation of it to me."

"Ah! teach me, Evelina," said Elise, "how I can make my daughters as

amiable, as good, and as happy, as your Laura and Karin. I confess that

it is the anxiety for the bringing up of my daughters which ever makes

me uneasy, and which lies so heavy on my heart this very day. I distrust

my own ability--my own artistical skill, rightly to form their

minds--rightly to unfold them."

"Ah, education, education!" said Mrs. Gunilla, angrily; "people are

everlastingly crying out now for education. One never can hear anything

now but about education. In my youth I never heard talk and outcry for

education, and yet, thank God, a man was a man in those days for all

that. I confess that when I first heard this talk of education, I

supposed that there would be two sorts, as of everything in the world. I

thought so! But now, ever since _le tiers etat_ have pushed themselves

so much forward, have made so much of themselves, and have esteemed

themselves as something exclusive in the world with their education--now

the whole world cries out, 'educate! educate!' Yes, indeed, they even

tell us now that we should educate the maid-servants. I pray God to

dispense with my living in the time when maid-servants are educated; I

should have to wait myself on them, instead of their waiting on me. Yes,

yes! things are going on towards that point at a pretty rate, that I can

promise you! Already they read Frithiof and Axel; and before one is

aware, one shall hear them talk of 'husband and wife,' and 'wife and

husband;' and that they fancy themselves 'to be vines, which must wither

if they are not supported;' and 'sacrifices,' and other such affecting

things, until they become quite incapable of cleaning a room, or

scouring a kettle. Yes, indeed, there would be pretty management in the

world with all their education! It is a frenzy, a madness, with this

education! It is horrible!"

The longer Mrs. Gunilla talked on this subject, the more she excited

herself.

Elise and Evelina laughed heartily, and then declared that they

themselves, as belonging to the _tiers etat_, must take education, nay,

even the education of maid-servants, under their protection.

"Ah," said Mrs. Gunilla, impatiently, "you make all so artistical and

entangled with your education; and you cram the heads of children full

of such a many things, that they never get them quite straight all the

days of their life. In my youth, people learned to speak 'the language,'

as the French was then called, just sufficient to explain a motto;

enough of drawing to copy a pattern, and music enough to play a _contre

danse_ if it were wanted; but they did not learn, as now, to gabble

about everything in the world; but they learned to think, and if they

knew less of art and splendour, why, they had the art to direct

themselves, and to leave the world in peace!"

"But, your best Honour," said Evelina, "education in its true meaning,

as it is understood in our time, teaches us to take a clearer view of

ourselves and of the world at large, so that we may more correctly

understand our own allotted station, estimate more properly that of

others, and, in consequence, that every one may be fitted for his own

station, and contented therewith."

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Gunilla, "all that may be very good, but----" But

just then the coffee came in, with biscuits and gingerbread, which made

an important diversion in the entertainment, which now took a livelier

character. Mrs. Gunilla imparted to Elise, with jesting seriousness, a

variety of good counsel on the education of her children. She sent for

and recommended particularly a certain _Orbis Pictus_, which she herself

had studied when a child, and which began with the words, "Come here,

boy, and learn wisdom from my mouth," and in which one could see clearly

how the soul was fashioned, and how it looked. It looked like a pancake

spread out on a table round and smooth, with all the five senses

properly numbered. Mrs. Gunilla assured Elise, that if her children paid

attention to this picture, it would certainly develop and fashion their

ideas of the human soul. Furthermore, she proposed the same educational

course as had been used with such distinguished success upon her

deceased father and his brother, when they went to school, and which

consisted in every boy being combed with a fine comb every Saturday, and

well whipped, whilst an ounce of English salt was allowed per boy, in

order to drive the bad spirits out of him. Beyond this, they had, too,

on the same day, a diet of bread and beer, in which was a dumpling

called "Grammatica," so that the boys might be strengthened for the

learning of the following week.

During the merriment which these anecdotes occasioned, the Judge came

in: delighted with the merriment, and delighted with his wife, he seated

himself beside her, quite covetous of an hour's gossip with the ladies.

Mrs. Gunilla served him up the human soul in the _Orbis Pictus_, and

Elise instigated her still further to the relation of the purification

of the boys. The Judge laughed at both from the bottom of his heart, and

then the conversation turned again on the hard and disputable ground of

education; all conceding, by general consent, the insufficiency of rules

and methods to make it available.

Evelina laid great stress on the self-instruction of the teacher. "In

the degree," said she, "in which man developes in himself goodness,

wisdom, and ability, he succeeds commonly in calling out these in

children."

All the little committee, without exception, gave their most lively

approval; and Elise felt herself quite refreshed, quite strengthened by

the words which showed her so clearly the path to her great object. She

turned now, therefore, the conversation to Evelina's own history and

development. It was well known that her path through life had been an

unusual one, and one of independence, and Elise wished now to know how

she had attained to that serenity and refreshing quiet which

characterised her whole being. Evelina blushed, and wished to turn the

conversation from herself--a subject which she least of all would speak

about, and that probably because she was in harmony with herself--but as

the Judge with his earnest cordiality united in the wish of his wife and

Mrs. Gunilla, that Evelina would relate to them some passages in the

history of her life, she acceded, remarking only that what she had to

relate was in no way extraordinary; and then, after she had bethought

herself for a moment, she began, addressing herself more especially to

Elise, and in the mean time Mrs. Gunilla hastily jotted down the

narrative, which we will here designate

EVELINA'S HISTORY.

Have you ever been conscious, while listening to a beautiful piece of

music, of a deep necessity, an indescribable longing, to find in your

own soul, in your own life, a harmony like that which you perceived in

the tune?--if so, you have then an idea of the suffering and the release

of my soul. I was yet a little child when, for the first time, I was

seized upon by this longing, without at that time comprehending it.

There was a little concert in the house of my parents; the harp, piano,

horn, and clarionette, were played by four distinguished artists. In one

part of the symphony the instruments united in an indescribably sweet

and joyous melody, in the feeling of which my childish soul was seized

upon by a strong delight, and at the same time by a deep melancholy. It

seemed to me as if I had then an understanding of heaven, and I burst

into tears. Ah! the meaning of these I have learned since then. Many

such, and many far more painful, tears of longing, have fallen upon the

dark web of my life.

To what shall I compare the picture of my youthful years? All that it,

and many other such family pictures exhibit, is unclear, indefinite, in

one word, blotted as it were in the formation. It resembled a dull

autumn sky, with its grey, shapeless, intermingling cloud-masses; full

of those features without precision, of those contours without meaning,

of those shadows without depth, of those lights without clearness, which

so essentially distinguish the work of a bungler from that of a true

master.

My family belonged to the middle class, and we were especially well

content to belong to this noble class; and as we lived from our rents,

and had no rank in the state, we called ourselves, not without some

self-satisfaction, people of condition. We exhibited a certain genteel

indifference towards the _haute volee_ in the citizen society, not only

in words but sometimes also in action; yet, nevertheless, in secret we

were extremely wounded or flattered by all those who came in contact

with us from this circle; and not unfrequently too the family

conversation turned, quite accidentally as it were, on the subject of

its being ennobled on the plea of the important service which our father

could render to the state in the House of Knights; and in the hearts of

us young girls it excited a great pleasure when we were addressed as "my

lady." Beyond this agitation of the question nothing came.

The daughters of the house were taught that all pomp and pleasure of

this world was only vanity, that nothing was important and worth

striving after but virtue and inward worth; yet for all this, it so

happened that their most lively interest and endeavours, and the warmest

wishes of the hearts of all, were directed to wealth, rank, and worldly

fortune of every kind. The daughters were taught that in all things the

will of God must alone direct them; yet in every instance they were

guided by the fear of man. They were taught that beauty was nothing, and

of no value; yet they were often compelled to feel, and that painfully,

in the paternal house, that they wore not handsome. They were allowed to

cultivate some talents, and acquire some knowledge, but God forbid that

they should ever become learned women; on which account they learned

nothing thoroughly, though in many instances they pretended to

knowledge, without possessing anything of its spirit, its nourishing

strength, or its pure esteem-inspiring earnestness. But above all

things they learned, and this only more and more profoundly the more

their years increased, that marriage was the goal of their being; and in

consequence (though this was never definitely inculcated in words, but

by a secret, indescribable influence), to esteem the favour of men as

the highest happiness, denying all the time that they thought so.

We were three sisters. As children, it was deeply impressed upon us that

we must love one another; but in consequence of partiality on the side

of our teachers, in consequence of praise and blame, rewards and

punishments, which magnified little trifles into importance, envy and

bitterness were early sown among the sisters. It was said of my eldest

sister and myself, that we were greatly attached to each other; that we

could not live asunder. We were cited as examples of sisterly love; and

from constantly hearing this, we at last came to believe it. We were

compared to the carriage-horses of the family; and we were in the habit,

almost of our own accord, of seating ourselves every day after dinner on

each side of our good father, who caressed us, and called us his

carriage-horses. Yet, in fact, we did not pull together. My sister was

more richly endowed by nature than I, and won favour more easily. Never

did I envy a human being as I envied her, until in later years, and

under altered circumstances, I learned to love her rightly, and to

rejoice over her advantages.

We were not very rich, and we cast a philosophically compassionate

glance upon all who were richer than we, who lived in a more liberal

manner, had more splendid equipages, or who dressed themselves more

elegantly. "What folly--what pitiable vanity!" said we: "poor people,

who know nothing better!" We never thought that our philosophy was

somewhat akin to the fox and the grapes.

If we looked in this manner upon the advantages of the great, we

despised still more the pleasures of the crowd. (We ought to be so

all-sufficient for ourselves. Ah, alas!) And if ever a theatrical piece

was much talked of and visited, we had a kind of pride in saying, with

perfect indifference, that we never had seen it; and whenever there was

a popular festival, and the crowd went towards Haga or the Park, it was

quite as certain that our calesche--if it went out at all--would drive

on the road to Sabbatsberg, or in some other direction equally deserted

at the time; for all which, we prided ourselves on our philosophy. Yet

with all this in our hearts we really never were happy.

The daughters came out into society. The parents wished to see them

loved and wooed; the daughters wished it no less--but they were not

handsome--were dressed without any pretension. The parents saw very

little company; and the daughters remained sitting at balls, and were

nearly unobserved at suppers. Yet from year to year they slid on with

the stream.

The daughters approached to ripened youth. The parents evidently wished

them married; they wished it likewise, which was only natural,

especially as at home they were not happy; and it must be confessed that

neither did they themselves do much to make it pleasant there. They were

peevish and discontented--no one knew exactly what to do or what she

wanted; they groped about as if in a mist.

It is customary to hear unmarried ladies say that they are satisfied

with their condition, and do not desire to change it. In this pretension

there lies more truth than people in general believe, particularly when

the lively feelings of early youth are past. I have often found it so;

and above all, wherever the woman, either in one way or another, has

created for herself an independent sphere of action, or has found in a

comfortable home that freedom, and has enjoyed that pure happiness of

life, which true friendship, true education, can give.

A young lady of my acquaintance made what was with justice called a

great match, although love played but a subordinate part. As some one

felicitated her on her happiness, she replied, quite calmly, "Oh, yes!

it is very excellent to possess something of one's own." People smiled

at her for her thus lightly esteeming what was universally regarded so

great a good fortune; but her simple words, nevertheless, contain a

great and universal truth. It is this "one's own," in the world, and in

his sphere of action, which every man unavoidably requires if he would

develop his own being, and win for himself independence and happiness,

self-esteem, and the esteem of others. Even the nun has her own cell,

where she can prepare herself in peace for heaven, and in which she

possesses her true home. But in social life, the unmarried woman has

often not even a little cell which she can call her own; she goes like a

cloud of mist through life, and finds firm footing nowhere. Hence,

therefore, are there often marriages the genuine children of necessity,

which ought never to have taken place, and that deep longing after the

deep quiet of the grave, which is experienced by so many. But there is

no necessity for this, and in times, in which the middle classes are so

much more enlightened, it becomes still less so; we need, indeed, only

contemplate the masses of people who strive for a subsistence, the

crowds of neglected and uncared-for children that grow up in the world,

in order to see that whatever is one-sided in the view of the

destination of woman vanishes more and more, and opens to her a freer

sphere of action.

But I return to the _pros_ and _cons_ of my own life, one feature of

which I must particularly mention. If young ladies of our acquaintance

connected themselves by marriage with men who were rather above than

below them in property or station, we considered it, without exception,

reasonable and estimable. But if a man, whose connexions and prospects

were similar to our own, looked round him for a wife in our house, we

considered it great audacity, and treated it accordingly. We were

secretly looking out for genteeler and richer individuals, who again, on

their part, were looking out for genteeler and richer individuals than

we.--N. B. This _looking-out_ in the great world is a very useful thing,

both for gentlemen and ladies, although anybody who would be _naive_

enough to acknowledge as much, would not be greatly in favour either

with those who looked-out or those who did not.

In the mean time, a spirit was developed within me, which full of living

energy woke to the sense of its nonentity--to a sense of the enslaving

contradictions in which it moved, and to the most vehement desire to

free itself from them. As yet, however, I did not understand what I was

to do with my restless spirit. By contemplation, however, of noble works

of art, it appeared to me frequently that the enigma of my inner self

became clear to me. When I observed the antique vestal, so calm, so

assured, and yet so gentle--when I saw how she stood, self-possessed,

firm, and serene--I had a foretaste of the life which I needed, and

sought after, both outwardly and inwardly, and I wept tears of

melancholy longing.

Tortured by the distorted circumstances (many of which I have not

mentioned) under which I moved in my own family connexion, I began, as

years advanced, to come in contact with the world in a manner which, for

a temper like mine, was particularly dangerous.

We have heard of the daughters of the Husgafvel family, who grew old

yawning over the spinning-wheel and the weaving-stool; but, better so to

grow old, yes, better a thousand times to grow grey over the

spinning-wheel and the ashes of the cooking-stove, than with artificial

flowers--oh, how artificial!--in the hair, on the benches of the

ball-room, or the seat of the supper-room, smiling over the world, which

smiles over us no longer. This was the case with me.

There are mild, unpretending beings, who bow themselves quietly under

the yoke which they cannot break; move, year after year, through the

social circle, without any other object than to fill a place there--to

ornament or to disfigure a wall. Peace to such patient souls! There,

too, are joyous, fresh, ever youthful natures, who, even to old age, and

under all circumstances, bring with them cheerfulness and new life into

every circle in which they move. These belong to social life, and are

its blessings. Many persons--and it is beautiful that it should be

so--are of this description. I, however, belonged neither to the joyous

and enlivening, nor yet to the patient and unpretending. On this account

I began to shun social life, which occasioned in me, still more and

more, a moral weariness; yet, nevertheless, I was driven into it, to

avoid the disquiet and discomfort which I experienced at home. I was a

labourer who concealed his desire for labour, who had buried his talent

in the earth, as was the hereditary custom of the circle in which I

lived.

The flower yields odour and delight to man, it nourishes the insect with

its sweetness; the dewdrop gives strength to the leaf on which it falls.

In the relationships in which I lived, I was less than the flower or the

dewdrop; a being endowed with power and with an immortal soul! But I

awoke at the right time to a consciousness of my position. I say at the

right time, because there may be a time when it is too late. There is a

time when, under the weight of long wearisome years, the human soul has

become inflexible, and has no longer the power to raise itself from the

slough into which it has sunk.

I felt how I was deteriorating; I felt clearly how the unemployed and

uninterested life which I led, nourished day after day new weeds in the

waste field of my soul. Curiosity, a desire for gossip, an inclination

to malice and scandal, and an increasing irritability of temper, began

to get possession of a mind which nature had endowed with too great a

desire for action for it blamelessly to vegetate through a passive life

as so many can. Ah! if people live without an object, they stand as it

were on the outside of active life, which gives strength to the inward

occupation, even if no noble endeavour or sweet friendship give that

claim to daily life which makes it occasionally, at least, a joy to

live; disquiet rages fiercely and tumultuously in the human breast,

undermining health, temper, goodness, nay, even the quiet of conscience,

and conjuring up all the spirits of darkness: so does the corroding rust

eat into the steel-plate and deface its clear mirror with a tracery of

disordered caricatures.

I once read these words of that many-sided thinker, Steffen:--"He who

has no employment to which he gives himself with true earnestness, which

he does not love as much as himself and all men, has not discovered the

true ground on which Christianity even here brings forth fruit. Such an

occupation becomes a quiet and consecrated temple in all hours of

affliction, into which the Saviour pours out his blessing; it unites us

with all other men, so that we can sympathise in their feelings, and

makes our actions and our wills administer to their wants; it teaches us

rightly to weigh our own circumscribed condition and the worth of

others. It is the true, firm, and fruit-bearing ground of real

Christianity."

These words came like a breath of air on glowing sparks. A light was

kindled in my soul, and I knew now what I wanted, and what I ought to

do. After I had well considered all this with myself, I spoke with my

parents, and opened my whole heart to them. They were surprised, opposed

me, and besought me to think better of it. I had foreseen this; but as I

adhered firmly and decidedly to my wishes and my prayers, they surprised

me by their kindness.

I was very fond of children; my plan was, therefore, to begin

housekeeping for myself, and to undertake some work or occupation which

should, by degrees, enable me to take two or three children, for whom I

would provide, whom I would educate, and altogether adopt as my own. I

was well persuaded that I needed many of the qualifications which make a

good teacher; but I hoped that that new fountain of activity would, as

it were, give to my whole being a new birth. My goodwill, my affection

for children would, I believed, be helpful to make me a good guide to

them; and thus, though I could not become a wife, I might yet enjoy the

blessing of a mother.

"And why could you not--why could you not?" interrupted Elise.

"People say," returned Evelina, smiling, "that you had to make your

selection of a husband from many adorers; you cannot then understand a

case in which there should not even be one choice. But truly, indeed,

that was my case. But do not look at me so amazed--don't look at me as

if I were guilty of high treason. The truth is, sweet Elise, that I

never had an opportunity to say either yes or no to a lover. With my

sisters, who were much more agreeable and much more attractive than I,

it was otherwise."

But now I must return to that moment of my life when I released myself

from every-day paths--but, thank God! not with violence, not amid

discontent; but with the blessing of those who had given me life, for

which I now, for the first time, blessed them.

Touched by my steadfastness of purpose, and by the true goodwill which

they had perceived in me, my parents determined--God reward them for

it!--to bestow upon my desired domestic establishment the sum of money

which they had put aside for my dowry, in case I married. Indeed, their

and my sisters' kindness made them find pleasure in arranging all for me

in the best and most comfortable manner; and when I left the paternal

roof for my own new home, it was with tears of real pain. Yet I had too

clearly studied my own character and position to be undecided.

It was a day in April, my thirtieth birthday, when, accompanied by my

own family, I went to take possession of my new, small, but pretty

dwelling. Two young father-and-motherless girls, not quite without

means, followed me to my new habitation. They were to become my

children, I their mother.

I never shall forget the first morning of my waking in my new abode. At

this very moment it is as if I saw how the day dawned in the chamber;

how all the objects gradually assumed, as it seemed to me, an

unaccustomed definiteness. From the near church ascended the morning

hymn with its pleasant serious melody, which attuned the soul to

harmonious peace. I rose early; I had to care for house and children.

All was cheerful and festival-like in my soul; a sweet emotion

penetrated me like the enlivening breeze of spring. Also without spring

breathed. I saw the snow melt from the roofs, and fall down in

glittering drops, yet never had I seen the morning light in them so

clear as now. I saw the sparrows on the edge of the chimneys twittering

to greet the morning sun. I saw without, people going joyfully about

their employments: I saw the milk-woman going from door to door, and she

seemed to me more cheerful than any milk-woman I had ever seen before;

and the milk seemed to me whiter and more nutritious than common. It

seemed to me as if I now saw the world for the first time. I fancied

even myself to be altered as I looked in the glass; my eyes appeared to

me larger; my whole appearance to have become better, and more

important. In the chamber near me the children awoke--the little

immortals whom I was to conduct to eternal life. Yes, indeed, this was a

beautiful morning! In it the world first beamed upon me, and at the same

time my own inner world, and I became of worth and consequence in my own

estimation.

The active yet quiet life which I led from this time forth, suited me

perfectly well. From this time I became more thoroughly in harmony with

myself, and altogether happier. The day was often wearisome, but then

the evening rest was the sweeter, and the thought that I had passed a

useful day refreshed my soul. The children gave me many cares, many

troubles; but they gave likewise an interest to my life, and happiness

to my heart, and all the while, in pleasure and want, in joy and sorrow,

they became dearer and dearer to me. I cannot imagine that children can

be dearer to their own mother than Laura and Karin are to me.

In this new position I also became a better daughter, a more tender

sister than I had hitherto been; and I could now cheer the old age of my

parents far more than if I had remained an inactive and superfluous

person in their house. Now for the first time I had advantage of all

that was good in my education. Amid lively activity, and with a distinct

object in life, and in affectionate relationships, that which was vain

and false fell gradually away from my disposition; and the knowledge

which I had obtained, the truths which I had known, were productive in

heart and deed since I had, so to say, struck root in life.

* * * * *

Evelina ceased. All had heard her with sympathy, but no one more than

Ernst Frank. A new picture of life was opened to his view, and the

truest sympathy expressed itself on his manly features. He suffered by

this picture of so contracted a world, in so oppressive and gloomy a

condition, and his thoughts already busied themselves with plans for

breaking open doors, for opening windows in these premises, to free this

oppressed and captive life.

"Ah, yes!" said Mrs. Gunilla, with a gentle sigh, "everybody here in

this world has their difficult path, but if every one walks in the fear

and admonition of the Lord, all arrive in the end at their home. Our

Lord God helps us all!" And Mrs. Gunilla took a large pinch of snuff.

"Don't forget the _Orbis Pictus_," exclaimed she to Elise, who with her

husband was preparing to go; "don't forget it, and let the children be

educated from it, that they may observe how the soul looks. He, he, he,

he!"

CHAPTER XIV.

THE ORPHAN.

The day was declining, and Ernst and Elise sate in one of the parlour

windows. Mutual communications received with mutual sympathy, had made

them have joy in each other--had let them feel at peace with life. They

were now silent; but a presentiment that for the future they should be

ever happier with each other, like a harmonious tone, responded in their

hearts, and brightened their countenances. In the mean time, the shadows

of evening began to grow broader, and a soft rain pattered on the

window. The sonorous voice of the Candidate, as he told stories to the

children, interrupted occasionally by their questions and exclamations,

was heard in the saloon. A feeling of home-peace came over the heart of

the father; he took the hand of his wife affectionately between his, and

looked joyfully into her gentle countenance, whilst she was projecting

little domestic arrangements. In the midst of this sense of happiness a

cloud suddenly passed over the countenance of the Judge, and tears

filled his eyes.

"What is it, Ernst?--what is amiss, Ernst?" asked his wife tenderly,

whilst she wiped away the tears with her hand. "Nothing," said he, "but

that I feel how happy we are. I see you, I hear our children without

there, and I cannot but think on that unfortunate child opposite, which

will be ruined in that wretched home."

"Ah, yes!" sighed Elise; "God help all unfortunate little ones on the

earth!"

Both cast their eyes involuntarily towards the nearest window of the

before-mentioned house. Something was moving before the window; a female

figure mounted on the window ledge, a dark child's head peeped out from

between her feet, was kicked away, and a large white cloth, which was

quickly unrolled, hid all within.

"He is dead!" said both husband and wife, looking at each other.

The Judge sent over to inquire how it was; the messenger returned with

the tidings that Mr. N. had been dead some hours.

Lights were now kindled behind the blind, and people appeared to be busy

within the chamber. The Judge walked up and down his room, evidently

much affected. "The poor child!--the poor little girl! what will become

of her? Poor child!" were his broken exclamations.

Elise read the soul of her husband. She had now for some time, in

consequence of a wish which she had perceived in his heart, accustomed

herself to a thought, which yet at this moment her lips seemed unwilling

to express: "Ernst," at length, suppressing a sigh, she began, "the pot

which boils for six little mouths will boil also for seven."

"Do you think so?" asked he, with pleasure, and with beaming eyes. He

embraced his wife tenderly, placed her beside him, and inquired--"Have

you proved your own strength? The heaviest part of this adoption would

rest upon you. Yet if you feel that you have courage to undertake it,

you would fulfil the wish of my heart."

"Ernst," said she, repressing a tear, "my strength is small, and nobody

knows that better than you do; but my will is good;--I will undertake

the trouble--you will support me?"

"Yes, we will help one another," said he, rising up joyfully. "Thank

you, Elise--thank you, my sweet friend," continued he, kissing her hand

affectionately. "Shall I go to fetch the child immediately?--but perhaps

it will not come with me."

"Shall I go with you?"

"You!" said he; "but it gets dark--it rains."

"We can take an umbrella," replied she; "and besides that, I will put on

a wrapping cloak, and will soon be ready."

Elise went to dress herself, and her husband went to help her, put on

her cloak for her, and paid her a thousand little affectionate

attentions.

After Elise had given sundry orders to Brigitta, she and her husband

betook themselves to the house, whilst the children set their little

heads together full of curiosity and wonder.

The two crossed the street in wind and rain; and after they had ascended

the dark staircase, they arrived at the room which Mr. N. had inhabited.

The door stood half open; a small candle, just on the point of going

out, burned within, spreading an uncertain and tremulous light over

everything. No living creature was visible within the room, which had a

desolate, and, as one might say, stripped appearance, so naked did it

seem. The dead man lay neglected on his bed, near to which was no trace

of anything which might have mitigated the last struggle. A cloth

covered his face. Ernst Frank went towards the bed, and softly raising

the cloth, observed for a moment silently the terrible spectacle, felt

the pulse of the deceased, and then covering again the face, returned

silently, with a pale countenance, to his wife.

"Where can we find the child?" said she, hastily. They looked

searchingly around; a black shadow, in a human form, seemed to move

itself in one corner of the room. It was the orphan who sate there, like

a bird of night, pressing herself close to the wall. Elise approached

her, and would have taken her in her arms, when the child suddenly

raised her hand, and gave her a fierce blow. Elise drew back astonished,

and then, after a moment, approached again the half-savage girl with

friendly words; again she made a threatening demonstration, but her

hands were suddenly grasped by a strong manly hand, and a look so

serious and determined was riveted upon her, that she trembled before

it, and resigned herself to the power of the stronger.

The Judge lifted her up, and set her on his knee, whilst she trembled

violently.

"Do not be afraid of us," said Elise, caressingly; "we are your good

friends. If you will come with me this evening to my little children,

you shall have sweet milk and wheaten bread with them, and then sleep in

a nice little bed with a rose-coloured coverlet."

The white milk, the rose-coloured coverlet, and Elise's gentle voice,

seemed to influence the child's mind.

"I would willingly go with you," said she, "but what will my father say

when he wakes?"

"He will be pleased," said Elise, wrapping a warm shawl about the

shoulders of the child.

At that moment a sound was heard on the stairs; little Sara uttered a

faint cry of terror, and began to tremble anew. Mr. N.'s housekeeper

entered, accompanied by two boys. The Judge announced to her his

determination to take the little Sara, as well as the effects of her

deceased father, under his care. At mention of the last word, the woman

began to fume and swear, and the Judge was obliged to compel her to

silence by severe threats. He then sent one of the boys for the

proprietor of the house, and after he had in his presence taken all

measures for the security of the effects of the deceased, he took the

little Sara in his arms, wrapped her in his cloak, and, accompanied by

his wife, went out.

All this time an indescribable curiosity reigned among the little

Franks. Their mother had said, in going out, that perhaps, on her

return, she should bring them another sister. It is impossible to say

the excitement this occasioned, and what was conjectured and counselled

by them. The Candidate could not satisfy all the questions which were

let loose upon him. In order, therefore, somewhat to allay their

fermentation, he sent them to hop through the room like crows, placing

himself at the head of the train. A flock of real crows could not have

fluttered away with greater speed than did they as the saloon door

opened and the father and mother entered. Petrea appeared curious in

the highest degree, as her father, opening his wide cloak, softly set

down something which, at the first moment, Petrea, with terror, took for

a chimney-sweeper; but which, on closer inspection, seemed to be a very

nice thin girl of about nine years old, with black hair, dark

complexion, and a pair of uncommonly large black eyes, which looked

almost threateningly on the white and bright-haired little ones which

surrounded her.

"There, you have another sister," said the father, leading the children

towards each other;--"Sara, these are your sisters--love one another,

and be kind to one another, my children."

The children looked at each other, somewhat surprised; but as Henrik and

Louise took the little stranger by the hand, they soon all emulated each

other in bidding her welcome.

Supper was served up for the children, more lights were brought in, and

the scene was lively. Everything was sacrificed to the new comer. Louise

brought out for her two pieces of confectionery above a year old, and a

box in which they might be preserved yet longer.

Henrik presented her with a red trumpet, conferring gratuitous

instruction on the art of blowing it.

Eva gave her her doll Josephine in its new gauze dress.

Leonore lighted her green and red wax tapers before the dark-eyed Sara.

Petrea--ah, Petrea!--would so willingly give something with her whole

heart. She rummaged through all the places where she kept anything, but

they concealed only the fragments of unlucky things; here a doll without

arms; here a table with only three legs; here two halves of a sugar-pig;

here a dog without head and tail. All Petrea's playthings, in

consequence of experiments which she was in the habit of making on them,

were fallen into the condition of that which had been--and even that

gingerbread-heart with which she had been accustomed to decoy Gabriele,

had, precisely on this very day, in an unlucky moment of curiosity, gone

down Petrea's throat. Petrea really possessed nothing which was fit to

make a gift of. She acknowledged this with a sigh; her heart was tilled

with sadness, and tears were just beginning to run down her cheeks, when

she was consoled by a sudden idea--The Girl and the Rose-bush! That

jewel she still possessed; it hung still, undestroyed, framed and behind

glass, over her bed, and fastened by a bow of blue ribbon. Petrea

hesitated only a moment; in the next she had clambered up to her little

bed, taken down the picture, and hastened now with beaming eyes and

glowing cheeks to the others, in order to give away the very loveliest

thing she had, and to declare solemnly that now "Sara was the possessor

of the Girl and the Rose-bush."

The little African appeared very indifferent about the sacrifice which

the little European had made to her. She received it, it is true, but

she soon laid it down again without caring any more about it, which

occasioned Louise to propose that she should keep it for her.

In the midst of these little occurrences the Assessor came in. He looked

with an inquisitive glance round the room, showed his white teeth, and

said to himself, "Yes, it's all right; it is what I expected. So,

indeed," added he aloud, in his angry manner, whilst he cordially shook

the hand of his friend, "I see you thought you had not children enough

of your own in the house, but you must drag in those of other people!

How many do you mean to burden yourselves with? Will there not be

another to-morrow? Were you not satisfied with a whole half-dozen girls

of your own? And what will become of them? One shall presently not be

able to get into the house for children! I suppose that you have such a

superfluity of money and property, that you must go and squander it on

others! Nay! good luck to you!--good luck to you!"

The Judge and his wife replied only by smiles to the grumbling of their

friend, and by the request that he would spend the evening with them.

But he said he had not time; and then, after he had laid large pears,

which he took from his pocket, under the napkins on the children's

plates, he went out.

Every one of those pears had its own distinctive sign: round Sara's was

a gold-coloured ribbon; and upon her plate, under the pear, was found a

bank-note of considerable value. It was his gift to the fatherless, yet

he never would acknowledge it. That was his way.

As the mother took Sara by the hand, in order to conduct her to rest,

Petrea had the indescribable delight of seeing that, from all the little

presents which had been made to her, she only took with her the girl and

the rose-bush, which she appeared to regard with pleasure.

Sara was seized with violent grief in the comfortable bedroom; tears

streamed with wonderful violence from her eyes, and she called loudly

for her father. Elise held her quietly in her arms, and let her weep out

her grief on her bosom, and then gently undressing her, and laying the

weary child in bed, had the pleasure of feeling how affectionately she

clasped her arms around her neck.

The girl and the rose-bush hung over her bed, but still there seemed to

be no rest on the snow-white couch for the "little African." Her dark

eyes glanced wildly about the room, and her hands grasped convulsively

Elise's white dress.

"Don't go," whispered she, "or else they will come and murder me."

Elise took the child's hands in hers, and repeated a simple and pious

little prayer, which she had taught to all her own children. Sara said

the words after her; and though it was only mechanically, she seemed to

become calmer, though shudderings still shook her frame, and she hold

fast by Elise's dress. Elise seated herself by her, and at the request

of the other children, "Mother, sing the song of the Dove--oh, the song

of the Dove!" she sang, with a pleasant low voice, that little song

which she herself had made for her children:

There sitteth a dove so white and fair,

All on the lily-spray,

And she listeneth how, to Jesus Christ,

The little children pray.

Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,

And to heaven's gate hath sped,

And unto the Father in heaven she bears

The prayers which the children said.

And back she comes from heaven's gate,

And brings--that dove so mild--

From the Father in heaven, who hears her speak,

A blessing for every child.

Then, children, lift up a pious prayer,

It hears whatever you say,

That heavenly dove, so white and fair,

That sits on the lily-spray.

During this song, the dove of peace descended on the soul of the child.

Pleasant images passed before her mind: the girl and the rose-bush and

the singing Elise were the same person--the rose diffused pleasant

odour; and whilst the long dark lashes approached her cheek yet nearer

and nearer, it seemed to her as if a white lovely singing-bird spread

out his wings caressingly and purifyingly over her breast. By degrees

the little hand opened itself, and let go the dress which it had

grasped, the tearful eyes closed, and the sweetness of repose came over

the fatherless and the motherless.

Elise raised herself gently, and went to the beds of the other children.

The dove on the lily-spray sent sleep also to them; and after the mother

had pressed her lips to their cheeks, had spoken with Brigitta about the

new comer, and had received from the child-loving, good-natured old

woman, the most satisfactory promises, she hastened back to her husband.

He listened with curiosity to what she had to relate of Sara. This new

member of the family, this increase of his cares, seemed to have

expanded and animated his soul. His eyes beamed with a gentle emotion as

he spoke of the future prospects of the children. Evelina's history,

which was still fresh in his and Elise's mind, seemed to spur him on to

call forth for his family quite another picture of life.

"We will bring up our children," said he warmly, "not for ourselves, but

for themselves. We will seek for their good, for their happiness; we

will rightly consider what may conduce to this, as much for one child as

for another; we will endeavour to win and to maintain their full

confidence; and should there, dear Elise, be any harshness or severity

in me, which would repel the children from me, you must assist me; let

their secret desires and cares come to me through you!"

"Yes! where else could they go?" returned she, with the deepest feeling;

"you are my support, my best strength in life! Without you how weak

should I be!"

"And without you," said he, "my strength would become sternness. Nature

gave me a despotic disposition. I have had, and have still, many times

the greatest difficulty to control it; but with God's help I shall

succeed! My Elise, we will improve ever. On the children's account, in

order to make them happy, we will endeavour to ennoble our own nature."

"Yes, that we will, Ernst!" said she; "and may the peace in the house

make betimes the spirit of peace familiar to their bosoms!"

"We will make them happy," began the father again, with yet increasing

warmth; "with God's help, not one of them shall wander through life

unhappy and infirm of spirit. My little girls! you shall not grow up

like half-formed human beings; no illusions shall blind your eyes to

what are the true riches of life; no noble desires shall you experience

unsatisfied. Ah, life is rich enough to satisfy all the birds under

heaven, and no one need be neglected on earth! Your innocent life shall

not fail of strength and joy; you shall live to know the actuality of

life, and that will bring a blessing on every day, interest on every

moment, and importance on every occupation. It will give you repose and

independence in sorrow and in joy, in life and in death!"

Whilst Elise listened to these words, she felt as if a refreshing breeze

passed through her soul. Nothing more seemed to her difficult. All the

troubles of life seemed light, on account of the bright end to be

attained. And then, as she thought on the manly warm heart which lived

so entirely for her good and the children's, she felt a proud joy that

she could look up to her husband; and at the same time a sense of

humility slid into her heart, she bowed herself over his hand, and

kissed it fervently.

This did not please the Judge, because, like every other decided and

powerful man, it gratified him rather to pay homage to woman than, at

least by outward bearing, to receive homage from her. He therefore

withdrew his hand with some displeasure.

"Why may I not kiss your hand," inquired Elise, "if it give me

pleasure?"

"Because it gives me no pleasure, and you must not do it again."

"Well, well, dear friend, you need not forbid it so sternly. Perhaps I

shall never again have the desire to do it."

"All the better," said he.

"Perhaps not!" returned Elise. "But let us now go to rest."

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

THE NEW HOUSE.

"Farewell, oh house of my childhood! Farewell, you walls, insensible

witnesses of my first tears, my first smiles, and my first false steps

on the slippery path of life--of my first acquaintance with water-gruel

and A B C! Thou corner, in which I stood with lessons difficult to be

learned; and thou, in which I in vain endeavoured to tame the most

thankless of all created things, a fly and a caterpillar!--you floors,

which have sustained me sporting and quarrelling with my beloved brother

and sisters!--you papers, which I have torn in my search after imagined

treasures;--you, the theatre of my battles with carafts and

drinking-glasses--of my heroic actions in manifold ways, I bid you a

long farewell, and go to live in new scenes of action--to have new

adventures and new fate!"

Thus spake Petrea Frank, whilst, with dignified gestures, she took a

tragic-comic farewell of the home which she and her family were now

about to leave.

It was a rainy day, in the middle of April. A black silk cloak, called

merrily the "Court-preacher," a piece of property held in common by the

Frank family, and a large red umbrella, called likewise the

"Family-roof," which was common property too, were on this day seen in

active promenade on the streets of the city of X----. What all this

passing to and fro denoted might probably be conjectured if one had seen

them accompanied by a tall, fair, blue-eyed maid-servant, and a little

brown, active, servant-man, carrying bandboxes, baskets, packages, etc.,

etc.

Towards twilight might have been seen, likewise, the tall thin figure of

Jeremias Munter, holding the "family-roof" over the heads of himself and

Petrea Frank. Petrea seemed to be carrying something under her cloak,

laughed and talked, and she and the Assessor seemed to be very much

pleased with each other. Alas! this satisfaction did not endure long;

on the steps of the front-door Petrea accidentally trod on the dangling

lace of her boot, made a false step, and fell. A large paper case of

confectionery suddenly proceeded from under the "court-preacher," and

almond-wreaths, "brown sugar-candy, and iced fruits rolled in all

directions. Even amid the shock and the confusion of the first moment it

was with difficulty that Petrea restrained a loud laugh from bursting

forth when she saw the amazement of the Assessor, and the leaps which he

made, as he saw the confections hopping down the steps towards the

gutter. It was the Assessor's own tribute to the festival of the day

which was thus unluckily dispersed abroad.

"Yes, indeed, if there were no ladies," said the Assessor, vexed, "one

should be able to accomplish something in this world. But now they must

be coming and helping, and on that account things always go topsy-turvy.

'Let me only do it--let me only manage it,' say they; and they manage

and make it, so that----'Did one ever see anything so foolish!--To fall

over your foot-lace!'--but women have order in nothing; and yet people

set up such to govern kingdoms!--To govern kingdoms!!! I would ask

nothing more from them than that they should govern their feet, and keep

their boot and shoe strings tied. But from the queen down to the

charwoman, there is not a woman in this world who knows how to fasten

her boot-lace!"

Such was the philippic of Jeremias Munter, as he came into the room with

Petrea, and saw, after the great shipwreck, that which remained of the

confectionery. Petrea's excuses, and her prayers for forgiveness, could

not soften his anger. True it is, that an unfortunate disposition to

laugh, which overcame her, gave to all her professions of distress a

very doubtful appearance. Her distress, however, for all that, was real;

and when Eva came, and said, with a beseeching, flattering voice, "Dear

uncle, do not be angry any longer; poor Petrea is really quite cast

down--besides which she really has hurt her knee," the good man replied

with a very different voice:

"But has she, indeed? But why are people so clumsy--so given to tripping

and stumbling, that one----"

"One can get some more confections at any time," said Eva.

"Can one!" exclaimed Jeremias; "do they grow on trees, then? How? Shall

one then throw away one's money for confectionery, in order to see it

lie about the streets? Pretty management that would be, methinks!"

"Yet just say one kind word to Petrea," besought Eva.

"A kind word!" repeated Jeremias: "I would just tell her that another

time she should be so good as to fasten her shoestrings. Nay, I will go

now after some more confectionery; but only on your account, little Miss

Eva. Yes, yes; say I--I will now go: I can dance also, if it be

for----But how it rains! lend me the 'family-roof,' and the cloak there

I need also. Give it here handsomely! Well then, what is there to gape

at? How! will the people gape at me?--all very good; if it gives them

any pleasure, they may laugh at me, I shall not find myself any the

worse for it. Health and comfort are above all things, and one dress is

just as good as another."

The young girls laughed, and threw the "court-preacher," which hardly

reached to his knees, over the shoulders of the Assessor; and thus

apparelled he went forth with long strides.

The family had this day removed into a new house. Judge Frank had bought

it, together with a small garden, for the lifetime of himself and his

wife, and for the last two years he had been pulling down, building up,

repairing, and arranging: some doors he had built up, others he had

opened, till all was as convenient and as comfortable as he wished. His

wife, in full confidence, had left all to his good judgment, well

pleased for her own part to be spared the noise of bricklayers and

carpenters, which she escaped not without difficulty; to be spared from

going among shavings and under scaffoldings, and from clambering over

troughs full of mortar, etc. Papers for the walls and other ornamental

things had been left to the choice of herself and her daughters.

And now he went, full of pleasure, with his wife's arm in his, from one

story to another, and from one room into another, greatly pleased with

the convenient, spacious, and cheerful-looking habitation, and yet even

more so with his wife's lively gratification in all his work. And thus

she was obliged to promenade through the whole house, from the cellar up

to the roof; into the mangling-room, the wood-chamber, etc.

We will not weary the reader by following them in this promenade, but

merely make him acquainted with some of the rooms in which he will often

meet the family. We merely pass through the saloon and best parlour;

they were handsome, but resembled all such apartments; but the room

which the Judge had arranged with the most especial love, which was

designed for daily use, and as the daily assembling place of the family,

and which deserves our most intimate acquaintance, was the library, so

called. It was a large, very lively room, with three windows on one side

looking into a spacious market-place. Louise rejoiced especially over

this, for thus they could look out of the windows on market-days, and

see at once what they wished to buy; directly opposite lay the church,

with its beautiful churchyard well planted with trees; these objects

pleased Elise greatly. The side of the room opposite to the windows was

entirely covered with books; the shelves consisted of several divisions,

each one of which contained the literature of a different country. In

niches between the several divisions stood, on simple but tasteful

pedestals, busts of distinguished men, great for their heroic and

peaceful actions--standing there, said the Judge, not because they

separated the different nations of the earth, but because they united

them. Ernst Frank's library was truly a select one; it had been the

pleasure of his life, and still it was his delight to be increasing his

collection of book's. Now, for the first time, they were collected and

arranged all in one place. He rejoiced over these treasures, and

besought his daughters freely to make use of them (on this one express

condition, that every book should be restored again to its right place).

To Louise was consigned the office of librarian; to Petrea that of

amanuensis. Both mother and daughters were delighted with this room, and

began to consider where the work-table, the flower-table, and the

bird-cage should stand, and when all were arranged, they were found to

suit their places admirably. Against one of the short walls stood the

green sofa, the appointed place for the mother; and against the opposite

one the piano, and the harp, which was Sara's favourite instrument,

together with a guitar, whose strings were touched by Eva, as she sang

"Mamma mia."

An agreeable surprise awaited Elise as she was led through a curtained

door which conducted from the library into a sort of boudoir, whose one

window had the same prospect as the library--this was solely and

entirely her own consecrated room. She saw with emotion that the

tasteful furniture of the room was the work of her daughters; her

writing-table stood by the window; several beautiful pictures and a

quantity of very pretty china adorned the room. Elise saw, with thankful

delight, that all her favourite tastes, and all her little fancies, had

been studied and gratified both by husband and children.

A small curtained door, likewise, on the other side, conducted Elise

into her sleeping-room; and her husband made her observe how smoothly

these doors turned on their hinges, and how easily she, from either

side, could lock herself in and remain in quiet.

After this room, nothing gave Elise greater delight than the

arrangements for bathing, which the Judge had made particularly

convenient and comfortable; and he now turned the white taps with

remarkable pleasure, to exhibit how freely the warm water came out of

this, and the cold--no, out of this came the warm water, and out of the

other the cold. The cheerfulness and comfort of the whole arrangement

were intended to give to the bathing-day--which was almost as

religiously observed in this family as the Sunday--a double charm. In a

room adjoining that which was appropriated to dressing, the old cleanly

Brigitta had already her fixed residence. Here was she and the great

linen-press to grow old together. Here ticked her clock, and purred her

cat; here blossomed her geraniums and balsams, with the Bible and

Prayer-book lying between them.

The three light and pleasant rooms intended for the daughters lay in the

story above, and were simply but prettily furnished.

"Here they will feel themselves quite at home," said the father, as he

looked round with beaming eyes; "don't you think so, Elise? We will make

home so pleasant to our children that they shall not wish to leave it

without a really important and deserving cause. No disquiet, no

discontent with home and the world within it, shall drive them from the

paternal roof. Here they can have leisure and quiet, and be often alone,

which is a good thing. Such moments are needed by every one in order to

strengthen and collect themselves, and are good for young girls as well

as for any one else."

The mother gave her applause fully and cordially; but immediately

afterwards she was a little absent, for she had something of importance

to say to her eldest daughter; and as at that very moment Louise came

in, an animated conversation commenced between them, of which the

following reached the father's ear:

"And after them, pancakes; and, my good girl, take care that six of them

are excellently thick and savoury; you know, indeed, how Henrik likes

them."

"And should we not," suggested Louise, "have whipped cream and raspberry

jam with the pancakes?"

"Yes, with pleasure," returned the mother,--"Jacobi would unquestionably

recommend that."

Louise blushed, and the Judge besought with animation that there might

be something a little more substantial than "angels' food" for supper,

which was promised him.

The Assessor shook out the "family-roof" in the hall in indignation.

"The most miserable roof in all Christendom," said he; "it defends

neither from wind nor rain, and is as heavy as the ark! and----"

But at the very moment when he was shaking and scolding his worst, he

perceived a sound----exclamations and welcomes, in every possible

variety of joyous and cordial tones. The "court-preacher" was thrown

head and shoulders over the "family-roof," and with great leaps hastened

Jeremias forward to shake hands with the son and the friend of the

house, who were just now returned home from the University.

Tokens of condolement mingled themselves with welcomes and

felicitations.

"How wet, and pale, and cold you are!"

"Oh, we have had a magnificent shower!" said Henrik, shaking himself,

and casting a side glance on Jacobi, who looked both downcast and

doleful in his wet apparel. "Such weather as this is quite an affair of

my own. In wind and rain one becomes so--I don't know rightly how--do

you, _mon cher_?"

"A jelly, a perfect jelly!" said Jacobi, in a mournful voice; "how can

one be otherwise, knocked about in the most infamous of peasant-cars,

and storm, and pouring rain, so that one is perfectly battered and

melted! Hu, hu, u, u, u, uh!"

"Oh, according to my opinion," said Henrik, laughing heartily at the

gestures of his travelling companion, "it is a hardening sort of

weather; there is a proud exalting feeling in it, sitting there quite

calm under the raging of the elements; especially when one looks down

from one's elevation on other fellow-mortals, who go lamenting, and full

of anxiety, under their umbrellas. Thus one sits on one's car as on a

throne; nay, indeed, one gets quite a flattering idea of oneself, as if

one were a little, tiny philosopher. Apropos! I bethink myself now, as

if we had seen, as we came this way, a philosopher in a lady's cloak

walking hither. But, how are you all, sweet, sweet sisters? How long it

is since I saw you!" and he pressed their hands between his cold and wet

ones.

This scene, which took place in twilight, was quickly brought to an end

by the ladies resolutely driving the gentlemen out to their own chamber

to change their clothes. Jacobi, it is true, on his own account, did not

require much driving, and Louise found Henrik's philosophy on this

occasion not so fully adopted. Louise had already taken care that a good

blazing fire should welcome the travellers in their chamber.

In the mean time, the ladies quartered themselves in the library; lights

were kindled, the table spread; the Judge helped all, and was highly

delighted if people only called to him. The Assessor looked enraptured,

as Eva arranged his confections on little plates. Petrea did not venture

to look at them, much less to touch them.

"By Jove, my dear girls, how comfortable it is here!" exclaimed the

Judge in the joy of his heart, as he saw the library thus peopled, and

in its for-the-future every-day state. "Are you comfortable there, on

the sofa, Elise? Let me get you a footstool. No; sit still, my friend!

what are men for in the world?"

The Candidate--we beg his pardon, the Master of Arts, Jacobi--appeared

no longer to be the same person who had an hour before stood there in

his wet dress, as he made his appearance, handsomely apparelled, with

his young friend, before the ladies, and his countenance actually beamed

with delight at the joyful scene which he there witnessed.

People now examined one another nearer. They discovered that Henrik had

become considerably paler as well as thinner, which Henrik received as a

compliment to his studies. Jacobi wished also a compliment on his

studies, but it was unanimously refused to him on account of his

blooming appearance. He protested that he was flushed with the weather,

but that availed nothing. Louise thought privately to herself that

Jacobi had decidedly gained in manly bearing; that he had a simpler and

more vigorous demeanour; he was become, she thought, a little more like

her father. Her father was Louise's ideal of manly perfection.

Little Gabriele blushed deeply, and half hid herself behind her mother,

as her brother addressed her.

"How is your highness, my most gracious Princess Turandotte!" said he;

"has your highness no little riddle at hand with which to confuse weak

heads?"

Her little highness looked in the highest degree confused, and tried to

withdraw the hand which her brother kissed again and again. Gabriele was

quite bashful before the tall student.

Henrik had a little _tete-a-tete_ with every sister, but it was somewhat

short and cold with Sara; after which he seated himself by his mother,

took her hand in his, and a lively and general conversation began,

whilst Eva handed about the confectionery.

"But what is amiss now?" asked Henrik, suddenly. "Why have the sisters

all left us to take council together there, with such important

judge-like faces? Is the nation in danger? May not I go, in order to

save the native land?--If one could only first of all have eaten one's

supper in peace," added he, speaking aside, after the manner of the

stage.

But it was precisely about the supper that they were talking. There was

a great danger that the pancakes would not succeed; and Louise could not

prevent Henrik and Jacobi running down into the kitchen, where, to the

greatest amusement of the young ladies, and to the tragi-comic despair

of the cook, they acted their parts as cooks so ridiculously that Louise

was obliged at length, with an imposing air, to put an end to the

laughter, to the joking, and to the burnt pancakes, in order that she

herself might put her hand to the work. Under her eye all went well; the

pancakes turned out excellently. Jacobi besought one from her own hand,

as wages for his work; graciously obtained it, and then swallowed the

hot gift with such rapture that it certainly must have burnt him

inwardly, had it not been for another species of warmth (which we

consider very probable)--a certain well-known spiritual fire, which

counteracted the material burning, and made it harmless. Have we not

here, in all simplicity, suggested something of a homoeopathic nature?

But we will leave the kitchen, that we may seat ourselves with the

family at the supper-table, where the mother's savoury, white pancakes,

and the thick ones for Henrik, were found to be most excellent, and

where the "angels' food" was devoured with the greatest earthly

enjoyment.

After this, they drank the health of the travellers, and sang a merry

little song, made by Petrea. The father was quite pleased with his

Petrea, who, quite electrified, sang too with all her might, although

not with a most harmonious voice, which, however, did not annoy her

father's somewhat unmusical ear.

"She sings louder than they all," said he to his wife, who was

considerably less charmed than he with Petrea's musical accompaniment.

Although every one in the company had had an exciting and fatiguing day,

the young people began immediately after supper, as if according to a

natural law, to arrange themselves for the dance.

Jacobi, who appeared to be captivated by Sara's appearance, led her in

the magic circle of the waltz.

"Our sensible little Queen-bee," a rather broad-set, but very well-grown

blonde of eighteen, distinguished herself in the dance by her beautiful

steps, and her pleasing though rather too grave carriage. Everybody,

however, looked with greater admiration on Eva, because she danced with

heart and soul. Gabriele, with her golden curls, flew round like a

butterfly. But who did not dance this evening?--Everybody was actually

enthusiastic--for all were infected with the joyous animal spirits of

Henrik. Even Jeremias Munter, to the amazement of everybody, led Eva,

with most remarkable skill, through the Polska,[4] the most artificial

and perplexing of dances.

It was only at midnight that the dance was discontinued, at the

suggestion of Elise. But before they separated, the Judge begged his

wife to sing the well-known little song--"The First Evening in the New

House." She sang it in her simple, soul-touching manner, and the joy

full of peace which this song breathed penetrated every heart; even the

grave countenance of the Judge gleamed with an affectionate emotion. A

quiet glory appeared to rest on the family, and beautified all

countenances; for it is given to song, like the sun, to throw its

glorifying light upon all human circumstances, and to lend them beauty,

at least for a moment. "The spinner," and "the aged man by the

road-side," are led by song into the kingdom of beauty, even as they are

by the Gospel into the kingdom of heaven.

On taking leave for the night, all agreed upon a rendezvous the next

morning after breakfast in the orchard, in order to see what was to be

made of it.

The father conducted the daughters up into their chambers. He wanted to

see yet once more how they looked, and inquired from them again and

again--"Are you satisfied, my girls? Do they please you? Would you wish

anything besides? If you wish anything, speak out right Swedishly."

As now his daughters, assuring him of their contentment, gratefully and

affectionately hung about him, there was not a happier man on the face

of the earth than Judge Frank.

The mother, on her part, had taken her first-born with her into her

little boudoir. She had as yet not been able to speak one word to him

alone. Now she questioned him on everything, small and great, which

concerned him, and how freely and entirely he opened his whole heart to

her!

They talked of the circumstances of the family; of the purchase of this

new property; of the debt which they had thereby contracted; of the

means through which, by degrees, it would be paid off, and of the

necessity there was for greater economy on all sides. They talked, too,

of the daughters of the house.

"Louise is superb," said Henrik, "but her complexion is rather muddy;

could she not use some kind of wash for it? She would be so much

handsomer if she had a fresher complexion; and then she looks, the least

in the world, cathedral-like. What a solemn air she had to-night, as

Jacobi made some polite speech to her! Do you know, mother, I think the

sisters sit too much; it is in that way that people get such grave

cathedral-like looks. We must make them take more exercise; we must find

out some lively exhilarative exercise for them. And Eva! how she is

grown, and how kind and happy she looks! It is a real delight to see

her--one can actually fall in love with her! But what in all the world

is to be done with Petrea's nose? It does, indeed, get so large and

long, that I cannot tell what is to be done! It is a pity, though, for

she is so good-hearted and merry. And Leonore! How sickly and unhappy

she looks at times! We must endeavour to cheer her up."

"Yes, that we will," said the mother; "if she were but healthy, we could

soon manage that; but how does little Gabriele please you?"

"Ah! she is very lovely, with her high-bred little airs--quite

fascinating," said Henrik.

"And Sara!" asked she.

"Yes," said he, "she is lovely--very lovely, I think; but still there is

something, at least to my taste, very unpleasant in her. She is not like

my sisters; there is something about her so cold, so almost repulsive."

"Yes," said the mother, sighing; "there is at times something very

extraordinary about her, more particularly of late. I fear that a

certain person has too great, and that not a happy, influence over her.

But Sara is a richly gifted and truly interesting girl, out of whom

something very good may be made, if--if----She gives us, indeed, anxiety

at times, for we are as much attached to her as if she were our own

child. She has a most extraordinary talent for music--you must hear her.

There really is much that is very distinguished and truly amiable in

her; you will see it, as you remain so much longer time with us."

"Yes, thank God!" said Henrik, "I can now reckon on that, on remaining

some months at home."

The conversation now turned on Henrik's future prospects. His father

wished him to devote himself to mining, and with this end in view he had

studied, but he felt ever, more and more, a growing inclination to

another profession, and this had become a ground of dissatisfaction in

the family. The mother now besought her first-born to prove himself

carefully and seriously before he deserted the path to which his father

was attached, and which Henrik himself had selected in common council

with his father. Henrik promised this solemnly. His soul was warm and

noble. His young heart possessed every fine sentiment, a pure enthusiasm

for virtue and for his country, a glowing desire to live for them, this

belonged to his heart in the richest measure. The wish to be useful to

the community generally, united itself with all his views of

self-advantage, and he only saw his own prosperity in connexion with

that of his family. These thoughts and sentiments poured themselves

forth in that sweet confidential hour freely and fully to his

mother--the happy mother, whose heart beat with joy and with proudest

hope of her first-born, the favourite of her soul, her summer child!

"And when I have made my own way in the world," added Henrik, joyfully

kissing the hand of his mother, "and have a house of my own, then,

mother, you shall come to me, and live with me, will you not?"

"And what would your father say to that?" said she, in a tone like his

own.

"Oh! he has all the sisters who can keep house for him," said Henrik,

"and----"

"Do you intend to sit up here the whole night?" asked a voice at the

door. It was the voice of the Judge, and both mother and son rose up as

if they had been caught in the fact of conspiracy. The conspiracy,

however, was immediately imparted to the Judge, whereupon he declared

that all this would lead to such fearful consequences that they had

better say no more about it.

Both mother and son laughed, and said "Good night" to each other. But as

Henrik conveyed the hand of his mother towards his lips, he fell into a

sort of ecstasy over it.

"Heavens! what a white hand! and what small fingers! nay, how can people

have such small fingers?" And with a sort of comic devotion he kissed

the little finger of that beautiful hand.

"I see I must carry you off forcibly, if I would have you to myself,"

said the Judge merrily, and taking his wife's arm in his, led her out.

But her thoughts still hovered around her first-born, her handsome and

richly endowed son. She uttered a glowing prayer for his perfecting in

all good, whilst all were sleeping sweetly the first night in the new

house.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] A wild and animated Swedish national dance.

CHAPTER II.

THE MORROW.

How pleasant it must have been to the family the next morning to

assemble round the amply-supplied breakfast-table in a handsome and

spacious drawing-room. But drawing-room, and breakfast-table, and all

outward comforts, signify nothing, if the inward are wanting; if

affectionate dispositions and kind looks do not make the room bright,

and the breakfast well-flavoured. But nothing was wanting on this

morning to the family of the Franks--not even the sun. It shone in

brightly to illumine the bright scene.

Henrik made a speech to Madame Folette, in testimony of his love and

reverence for her, and of his joy on meeting her again in so good a

state of preservation.

Louise, with the help of Eva, served tea and coffee, bread and butter,

etc., taking particular care that everybody had just what they liked

best. The basket which held sugar-biscuits was constantly in the

neighbourhood of Jacobi.

"How glorious this is!" exclaimed Henrik, rubbing his hands, and casting

a glance of pleasure around on his parents and sisters, "it is quite

paradisiacal! What does your Majesty desire? Ah, your most devoted

servant! Coffee, if I might ask it, excellent Madame Folette!"

"After breakfast," said the mother, "I have something for you to guess."

"Something to guess?" said Henrik, "what can it be? Tell me, what is it

like, sweet mamma? what name does it bear?"

"A wedding," replied she.

"A wedding? A most interesting novelty! I cannot swallow another morsel

till I have made it out! Jacobi, my best fellow, can I possess myself of

a biscuit? A wedding! Do I know the parties?"

"Perfectly well."

"It cannot possibly be our excellent Uncle Munter, himself?" suggested

he. "He seems to me very odd, and, as it were, a little touched in the

heart."

"Oh, no, no! He'll not marry."

"He is already so horribly old," said Eva.

"Old!" exclaimed the Judge. "He is something above forty, I fancy; you

don't call that so horribly old, my little Eva. But it is true he has

always had an old look."

"Guess better," said the mother.

"I have it! I have it!" said Petrea, blushing. "It is Laura! Aunt

Evelina's Laura!"

"Ah, light breaks in," said Henrik; "and the bridegroom is Major Arvid

G. Is it not?"

"Precisely," said his mother. "Laura makes a very good match. Major G.

is a very good-looking, excellent young man; and beyond this, has a good

property. He has persuaded Evelina to remove with Karin to his beautiful

seat at Axelholm, and to consider Laura's and his home as theirs for the

future. Eva dear, set the ham before Henrik. What do you want, my angel

Gabriele? Another rusk? Heavens! how quick you are! Leonore, may I give

you some more bread and butter, my child? No?"

"But I hope," exclaimed Henrik, "that we shall be invited to the

wedding. Evelina, who is such a sensible woman, must have the good sense

to invite us. Most gracious sister Queen-bee, these rolls--very

nourishing and estimable rolls--were they baked before or after the

Flood?"

"After," replied Louise, a little piqued, yet with a smile.

"Oh! I humble myself in the dust," said he. "I pray your Majesty most

graciously to pardon me--[_aside_--but after all they taste remarkably

either of the ark or of a cupboard]. But what in all the world sort of

breakfast are you making, Petrea? Nay, dear sister, such, a superfluity

in eating never can prosper. I pray you do not eat yourself ill!"

Petrea, who had her curious fancies, or as Louise called them,

her "raptures," had now for some time had the fancy to take only a

glass of cold water and a piece of dry bread for her breakfast. On

account of this abstinence, Henrik now jested, and Petrea answered

him quite gaily; Louise, on the contrary, took up the matter quite

seriously, and thought--as many others did--that this whim of Petrea's

had a distant relationship to folly; and folly, Louise--the sensible

Louise--considered the most horrible of horrors; Louise, who was so very

sensible!

"Now, really, you must not sit gossiping any longer!" exclaimed the

father, when he saw their mouths only put in motion by conversation,

"else I must go away and leave you; and I should very much like to go

into the garden with you first."

A general rising followed these words, and all betook themselves to the

garden, with the exception of Leonore, who was unwell, and the little

Gabriele, who had to be careful on account of the damp.

In the mean time the garden had its own extraordinary circumstances, and

all here did not go on in the usual mode; for although the place was yet

not laid out, and the April snow covered the earth, and still hung in

great masses on the low fruit-trees, which were the only wealth of the

garden, yet these, not at all according to the commonly established laws

of nature, were covered with fruit the most beautiful; rennets and

oranges clustered the twigs, and shone in the sun. Exclamations were

uttered in every variety of tone; and although both Jacobi and Henrik

protested that they could not discover any way of accounting for this

supernatural phenomenon, still they did not escape the suspicion of

being instrumental in the witchcraft, spite of all the means they used

to establish their innocence. The opinion, however, was universally

adopted, that good and not bad elves had been thus busily at work; and

the fruit, therefore, was gathered without fear of bad consequences, and

laid in baskets. The elves were praised both in prose and verse; and

there never was a merrier harvest-feast.

The Judge had some trouble to get anybody to listen to all his plans of

lilac-hedges, strawberry-beds, of his arbour, and his garden-house. The

narrow space, however, in which he had to work troubled him.

"If one could only get possession of the piece of land beyond this!"

said he, striking with his stick upon the tall red-boarded fence which

bounded one side of the garden. "Look here, Elise, peep through that

gap; what a magnificent site it is for building--it extends down to the

river!--what a magnificent promenade it would make, properly laid out

and planted! It might be a real treasure to the whole city, which needs

a regular walk in its neighbourhood; and now it lies there desolate, and

useful to nobody, but only for a few cows, because the proprietor does

not know how to make use of it; and our good men of the city have not

public spirit enough to purchase it out of the common fund for the

general good. If I were but rich enough to buy the place, it should soon

have a different appearance, and instead of cows human beings should be

walking there; these boards should be torn down, and our garden should

be united to the great promenade. What a situation it would be!"

"Would not beehives answer very well here?" asked our sensible

Queen-bee; "the sun strikes directly on these boards."

"You are perfectly right, Louise," said her father, well pleased; "that

is a good thought; this is an excellent place for beehives: to-morrow

I'll see about some. Two or three we must have, and that directly, that

the bees may have the advantage of the apple and cherry bloom. Thus we

can see them working altogether, and learn wisdom from them, and watch

how they collect honey for us. That will be a pleasure--don't you think

so, Elise?"

Elise rejoiced sincerely over the bees, and over the garden. It would

give her great pleasure to lay it out. She would set Provence-roses as

soon as possible; and forcing houses also should be erected. Eva thought

she should give herself up to gardening.

But it was necessary to leave for the present the future home of

radishes and roses, because it was wet and uncomfortable out of doors.

Gabriele made large eyes when she saw the basketful of fruit which had

been gathered in the garden. But the little Princess Turandotte could

not unravel the riddle respecting them, as Henrik presented it to her.

The forenoon was spent in clearing away, and in arranging things in the

house. Sara alone took no part in it, but took lessons on the harp from

a distinguished young musician of the name of Schwartz, who had come a

stranger to the city. She sate the whole morning at her music, which she

loved passionately; in the mean time, Petrea had promised to enact the

part of lady's-maid to her, and to put all her clothes and things in

order.

Henrik sate perfectly happy in his sisters' rooms, and nearly killed

himself with laughing while he watched in part their clearing away and

bustling about, and in part taking a share in all. The quantities of

bundles of pieces, old bonnets, cloaks, dresses, etc., which were here

in motion, and played their parts, formed a singular contrast to his

student-world, in which such a thing as a piece of printed cotton or a

pin might be reckoned quite a curiosity. Then the seriousness with which

all these things were treated, and the jokes and merriment which arose

out of all this seriousness, were for him most delicious things.

Nothing, however, amused him more than Louise and all her "properties,"

as well as the great care which, with a half-comic, half-grave

earnestness, she took of them; but he declared solemnly that he would

disclaim all relationship with her if ever he should see her wearing a

certain pale green shawl, called jokingly "spinage," and a pale grey

dress, with the surname of "water-gruel." None of the sisters had so

many possessions as Louise, and none treated them with so much

importance; for she had in the highest degree that kind of passion which

we will call property-passion. Her bandboxes and bundles burst

themselves out of the space in which she wished to stow them, and came

tumbling down upon her head. She accused Henrik of being guilty of these

accidents; and certain it is that he helped her, not without some

mischievous pleasure, to put them up again in their places.

Louise was well known in the family for her love of what was old; the

more shabby a dress was, the more distinguished she seemed to think it;

and the more faded a shawl, the more, according to her, it resembled a

Cashmere. This affection for old things extended itself sometimes to

cakes, biscuits, creams, etc., which often occasioned Henrik to inquire

whether an article of a doubtful date had its origin before or after the

Flood. We will here add to the description of Louise a few touches,

which may make the reader more fully acquainted with her character.

Pure was she both in Heart and intention, with great love of truth, and

a high moral sense, although too much given to lecturing, and sometimes

a little wanting in charity towards erring fellow-mortals. She had much

of her father's understanding and prudence, but came, of course, far

short of him in knowledge of mankind and in experience, although now, in

her eighteenth year, she considered herself to have a perfect knowledge

of mankind. The moral worth of her soul mirrored itself in her exterior,

which, without her being handsome, pleased, and inspired a degree of

confidence in her, because good sense expressed itself in her calm

glance, and her whole demeanour was that of a decided and well-balanced

character. A certain comic humour in her would often dissolve her solemn

mien and important looks into the most hearty laughter; and when Louise

laughed, she bore a charming resemblance to her mother, for she

possessed Elise's beautiful mouth and teeth.

She was as industrious as an ant, and in the highest degree helpful to

those who were deserving of help, but less merciful than Lafontaine's

ants were to thoughtless crickets and their fellows. Louise had three

hobby-horses, although she never would confess that she had a single

one. The first was to work tapestry; the second, to read sermons; and

the third, to play Patience, and more especially Postillion. A fourth

had of late began to discover itself, and that was for medicine--for the

discovering and administering of useful family medicines; nay, she had

herself decocted a certain elixir from nine bitter herbs, which Henrik

declared would be very serviceable in sending people to the other world.

Louise was no way disturbed by all this, for she did not allow herself

to be annoyed by remarks.

She prized, enjoyed, and sought, above all things, after "the right;"

but she also set a high value on "respectability" and "property," and

seemed to think that these were hers of course. She had the excellent

peculiarity of never undertaking anything that she could not creditably

get through with; but she had a great opinion of her own ability, in

which her family participated, although they sometimes attempted to set

her down. In the mean time she was in many instances the adviser and

support of the family; and she had a real genius for the mighty

department of housekeeping.

The parents called her, with a certain satisfaction--the father with a

secret pride--"our eldest daughter." The sisters styled her rather

waggishly "our eldest sister," and sometimes simply "our eldest;" and

"our eldest" knew exceedingly well how to regard her own dignity in

respect to rank and priority. Beyond this, she had a high idea of the

value of woman.

Louise had an album, in which all her friends and acquaintance had

written down their thoughts or those of others. It was remarkable what a

mass of morality this book contained.

We fear that our readers may be somewhat weary of hearing the names of

Sara, Louise, Eva, Leonore, Petrea, Gabriele, repeated so often one

after another, and we are very sorry that we find it unavoidable yet

once more to present the whole array in connexion with Louise. But we

will see what little variety we can make by taking them at hap-hazard,

and therefore now steps forward

PETREA.

We are all of us somewhat related to chaos; Petrea was very closely so.

Momentary bursts of light and long periods of confusion alternated in

her. There was a great dissimilarity between Louise and Petrea. While

Louise required six drawers and more to contain her possessions, there

needed scarcely half a one for the whole wardrobe of Petrea; and this

said wardrobe too was always in such an ill-conditioned case, that it

was, according to Louise, quite lamentable, and she not unfrequently

lent a helping hand to its repair. Petrea tore her things, and gave away

without bounds or discrimination, and was well known in the sisterly

circle for the bad state of her affairs. Petrea had no turn for

accumulation; on the contrary, she had truly, although Louise would not

allow it, a certain turn for art.

She was always occupied by creations of one kind or another, either

musical, or architectural, or poetical. But all her creations contained

something of that which is usually called trash. At twelve years old she

wrote her first romance: "Annette and Belis loved each other tenderly;

they experienced adversity in their love; were at last, however, united,

and lived henceforth in a charming cottage, surrounded with hedges of

roses, and had eight children in one year," which we may call a very

honourable beginning. A year afterwards she began a tragedy, which was

to be called "Gustavus Adolphus and Ebba Brahe," and which opened with

these verses spoken by one Delagardie:

Now from Germania's coast returned,

I see again the much-loved strand;

From war I come, without a wound,

Once more into my native land.

Say, Banner say, what woe has caused these tears,

Am I not true to thee, or is it idle hope alone that will befool my years?

Whether no sheet of paper was broad enough to contain the lengthened

lines, or any other cause interfered to prevent the completion of the

piece, we know not; but certain it is that it was soon laid aside.

Neither did a piece of a jocular nature, which was intended to emulate

the fascinating muse of Madame Lenngren,[5] advance much further--the

beginning was thus:

Within the lordly castle Elfvakolastie,

Which lay, in sooth, somewhere in Sverge,[6]

There lived of yore the lovely Melanie,

The only daughter of Count Stjerneberge.

At the present time Petrea was engaged on a poem, the title of which,

written in large letters, ran thus--"The Creation of the World!"

The Creation of the World began thus:

CHAOS.

Once in the depths etern of darkness lying,

This mighty world

Waited expectantly the moments flying

When light should be unfurled.

The world was nothing then, which now is given

To crowds of busy men;

And all our beautiful star-spangled heaven

Was desolate darkness then;

Yet He was there, who before time existed,

Who will endure for ever.

The creation of the world ceased with this faint glimmering of light,

and was probably destined under Petrea's hand never to be brought forth

from chaos. Petrea had an especially great inclination for great

undertakings, and the misfortune to fail in them. This want of success

always wounded her deeply, but in the next moment the impulse of an

irresistibly vigorous temperament raised her above misfortune in some

new attempt. The blood rushed up to her young head, and filled it with a

mass of half-formed thoughts, fancies, and ideas; her mind and her

character were full of disquiet. At times joyous and wild beyond bounds,

she became on the other hand wretched and dispirited without reason.

Poor Petrea! She was wanting in every kind of self-regulation and

ballast, even outwardly; she walked ill--she stood ill--she curtseyed

ill--sate ill--and dressed ill; and occasioned, in consequence, much

pain to her mother, who felt so acutely whatever was unpleasing; and

this also was very painful to Petrea, who had a warm heart, and who

worshipped her mother.

Petrea also cherished the warmest affection and admiration for Sara, but

her manner even of evidencing her affection was commonly so entirely

without tact, as rather to displease than please the object of it. The

consciousness of this fact embittered much of Petrea's life; but it

conducted her by degrees to a love in which tact and address are of no

consequence, and which is never unreturned.

Sometimes Petrea was seized with a strong consciousness of the

chaoticness of her state; but then, again, at other times she would have

a presentiment that all this would clear itself away, and then that

something which was quite out of the common way would come forth; and

then she was accustomed to say, half in jest and half in earnest, to her

sisters, "You'll see what I shall turn out sometime!" But in what this

extraordinary turning out should consist nobody knew, and least of all

poor Petrea herself. She glanced full of desire towards many suns, and

was first attracted by one and then by another.

Louise had for Petrea's prophesyings great contempt, but the little

Gabriele believed in them all. She delighted herself, moreover, so

heartily in all that her sister began, that Petrea sacrificed to her her

most beautiful gold-paper temple; her original picture of shepherdesses

and altars; and her island of bliss in the middle of peaceful waters,

and in the bay of which lay a little fleet of nut-shells, with rigging

of silk, and laden with sugar-work, and from the motion of which, and

the planting of its wonderful flowers, and glorious fruit-bearing trees,

Petrea's heart had first had a foretaste of bliss.

Petrea's appearance imaged her soul;--for this too was very variable;

this too had its "raptures;" and here too at times also a glimmering

light would break through the chaos. If the complexion were muddled, and

the nose red and swollen, she had a most ordinary appearance; but in

cooler moments, and when the rose-hue confined itself merely to the

cheeks, she was extremely good-looking; and sometimes too, and that even

in her ugly moments, there would be a gleam in her eye, and an

expression in her countenance, which had occasioned Henrik to declare

that "Petrea was after all handsome!"

To a chaotic mind, the desire for controversy is in-born; it is the

conflict of the elements with each other. There was no subject upon

which Petrea had not her conjectures, and nothing upon which she was not

endeavouring to get a clear idea; on this account she discussed all

things, and disputed with every one with whom she came in contact;

reasoned, or more properly made confusion, on politics, literature,

human free-will, the fine arts, or anything else; all which was very

unpleasant to the tranquil spirit of her mother, and which, in connexion

with want of tact, especially in her zeal to be useful, made poor Petrea

the laughing-stock of every one; a bitter punishment this, on earth,

although before the final judgment-seat of very little, or of no

consequence at all.

LEONORE.

Spite of the mother's embraces, and the appellation, "thou beloved,

plain child!" the knowledge by degrees had come painfully to Leonore

that she was ugly, and that she was possessed of no charm--of no fine

endowment whatever; she could not help observing what little means she

had of giving pleasure to others, or of exciting interest; she saw very

plainly how she was set behind her more gifted sisters by the

acquaintance and friends of the family; this, together with feeble

health, and the discomfort which her own existence occasioned to her,

put her in a discordant state with life and mankind. She was prone to

think everything troublesome and difficult; she fell easily into a state

of opposition to her sisters, and her naturally quick temper led her

often into contentions which were not without their bitterness. All this

made poor Leonore feel herself very unhappy.

But none, no! none, suffer in vain, however for a while it may appear

so. Suffering is the plough which turns up the field of the soul, into

whose deep furrows the all-wise Husbandman scatters his heavenly seed;

and in Leonore, also, it already began to sprout, although, as yet, only

under the earth. She was not aware of it herself yet; but all that she

experienced in life, together with the spirit which prevailed in her

family, had already awakened the beauty of her soul. She was possessed

of deep feeling, and the consciousness of her many wants made her, by

degrees, the most unpretending and humble of human beings; and these are

virtues which, in private life, cannot be exceeded. If you come near a

person of this character, the influence on you is as if you came out of

the sun's heat into refreshing shadow: a soft coolness is wafted over

your soul, which refreshes and tranquillises you at the same time.

In the period at which we have now to meet Leonore, she had just

recovered from the scarlet fever, which had left behind it such an

obstinate and oppressive headache as compelled her almost constantly to

remain in her own room; and although her parents and her sisters visited

her there, it afforded her but little pleasure, for as yet she had not

learned how, by goodness and inward kindness, to make herself agreeable

to others.

But, poor Leonore! when I see thee sitting there in deep thought, thy

weak head supported by thy hand, sunk in sorrowful reflections, I am

ready to lay thy head on my bosom, and to whisper a prophesying in thy

ear--but this may as well remain to a future time. We leave thee now,

but will return another time to thy silent chamber.

And now step forth, thou, the joy and ornament of home, the beautiful

EVA!

Eva was called in the family, "our rose," "our beauty." There are many

in the world like Eva, and it is well that it is so; they are of a

pleasing kind. It is delightful to look upon these blooming young girls,

with smiles on their lips, and goodness and joy of life beaming from

their beautiful eyes. All wish them so well, and they wish so well to

all; everything good in life seems as if it came from themselves. They

have favourable gales in life--it was so with Eva. Even her weakness, a

desire to please, which easily went too far, and an instability of

character which was very dangerous to her, exhibited themselves only on

their pleasing side, within the circle of her family and of her

acquaintance, and helped to make her more beloved.

Eva, although perhaps, strictly speaking, not beautiful, was yet

bloomingly lovely. Her eyes were not large, but were of the most

exquisite form, and of the clearest dark blue colour, and their glance

from under their long black lashes was at once modest, lively, and

amiable. The silky chestnut brown hair was parted over a not lofty but

classically-formed brow. Her skin was white, fine, and transparent, and

the mouth and teeth perfectly beautiful; add to all this, Eva had the

fine figure of her mother, with her light and graceful action. Excellent

health, the happiest temper, and a naturally well-tuned soul, gave a

beautiful and harmonious expression to her whole being. Whatever she

did, she did well, and with grace; and whatever she wore became her; it

was a kind of proverb in the family, that if Eva were to put a black cat

on her head it would be becoming.

A similarity in understanding and talent, as well as companionship

together, had made Louise and Eva hitherto "_les inseparables_," both at

home and abroad; of late, however, without separating herself from

Louise, Eva had been drawn, as it were, by a secret power to Leonore.

Louise, with all her possessions, was so sufficient for herself. Leonore

was so solitary, so mournful, up there, that the good heart of Eva was

tenderly drawn towards her.

But it seems to us as if Gabriele looks rather poutingly, because she

has been so long, as it were, pushed aside. _We_ will therefore hastily

turn to

THE LITTLE LADY.

It did not please "our little lady" to be neglected at all. Gabriele

was, in truth, a spoiled child, and often made "_la pluie_" and the

"_beau temps_" in the house. She was defended from cold, and wind, and

rain, and vexation, and faddled with and indulged in all possible ways,

and praised and petted as if for the best behaviour, if she were only

gracious enough to take a cup of bouillon, or the wing of a chicken for

dinner. She herself is still like the chicken under the mother's wing;

yet she will sometimes creep from under, and attempt little flights on

her own account. Then she is charming and merry, makes enigmas and

charades, which she gives mostly to her mother and Petrea to guess. It

gives her particular pain to be treated as a little girl; and nothing

worse can happen to her than for the elder sisters to say, "Go out just

for a little while, Gabriele, dear!" in order that they may then impart

to each other some important affair, or read together some heart-rending

novel. She will willingly be wooed and have homage paid to her; and the

Assessor is always out of favour with her, because he jokes with her,

and calls her "little Miss Curlypate," and other such ugly names.

Learning and masters are no affairs of hers. She loves a certain "_far

niente_," and on account of delicate health her tastes are indulged. Her

greatest delight is in dancing, and in the dance she is captivating. In

opposition to Petrea, she has a perfect horror of all great

undertakings; and in opposition to Louise, a great disinclination to

sermons, be they by word of mouth or printed. The sun, the warm wind,

flowers, but above all, beloved and amiable human beings, make Gabriele

feel most the goodness of the Creator, and awaken her heart to worship.

She has a peculiar horror of death, and will neither hear it, nor indeed

anything else dark or sorrowful, spoken of; and, happily for Gabriele,

true parental love has a strong resemblance to the Midsummer sun of the

North, which shines as well by night as by day.

If we turn from the bright-haired Gabriele to Sara, to "that Africa," as

the Assessor called her, we go from day to night. Sara was like a

beautiful dark cloud in the house--like a winter night with its bright

stars, attractive, yet at the same time repulsive. To us, nevertheless,

she will become clear, since we possess the key to her soul, and can

observe it in the following

NOTICES FROM SARA'S JOURNAL.

"Yesterday evening Macbeth was read aloud; they all trembled before Lady

Macbeth: I was silent, for she pleased me. There was power in the

woman."

"Life! what is life? When the tempest journeys through space on strong

free pinions, it sings to me a song which finds an echo in my soul. When

the thunder rolls, when the lightning flames, then I divine something of

life in its strength and greatness. But this tame every-day life--little

virtues, little faults, little cares, little joys, little

endeavours--this contracts and stifles my spirit. Oh, thou flame which

consumest me in the silent night, what wilt thou? There are moments in

which thou illuminest, but eternities in which thou tormentest and

burnest me!"

"This narrow sphere satisfies _them_; they find interest in a thousand

trifles; they are able to exert themselves in order to obtain little

enjoyments for each other. Well for them! I was made for something

different."

"Why should I obey? Why should I submit my inclination--my will, to

gratify others?--Why? Ah, freedom--freedom!"

"I have obtained 'Volney's Ruins' from S----. I conceal the book from

these pious fearful people, who tremble at shadows; but

to-night!--to-night!--when their eyes are closed in sleep, mine shall

wake and read it. The frontispiece to this book gives me extraordinary

pleasure. A wreck combats with stormy waves; the moon goes down amid

black clouds; on the shore, among the ruins of a temple, sits a

Mussulman--a beautiful and thoughtful figure--and surveys the scene. I

likewise observe it, and an agreeable shudder passes through me. A vast

ruin is better and far more beautiful than a small and an empty

happiness."

"The book pleases me. It expresses what has long lain silent in me. It

gives clear light to my dark anticipations. Ah! what a day dawns upon

me! A dazzling light that clears away all misty illusions, but my eyes

are strong enough to bear it! Let the net of prejudice, let the

miserable bond of custom be rent asunder, let the fettering supports

fall! My own strength is sufficient for me."

"Why am I a woman? As a man my life and my conduct would have been clear

and easy; as a woman, I must bow myself in order to clear myself.

Miserable dependence! Miserable lot of woman!"

"I do not love S----, but he makes a certain impression upon me. The

dark strength in his eye pleases me, the reckless strong will that will

bow itself only to me; and when he takes the harp in his arms, with what

powerful strength he compels it to express all that which the heart has

dreamt and dreams. Then he grasps the strings of my heart--then I

acknowledge in him my master; but never, he shall never govern me.

"His spirit is not powerful enough for that. He never can be other to me

than as a means to my end. Nor will I herein deceive him. I am too proud

for a hypocrite. I know well whom I could love. I know well the man who

could be the aim of my ambition."

"Nature never created me for this narrow sphere--for this narrow

foot-track through life. S---- shows me another, which captivates my

mind; I feel that I am created for it.

"I have observed myself in the glass, and it tells me, as well as the

glance of mankind, that I am handsome. My growth is strong, and accords

with the character of my countenance. I cannot doubt the assurance of

S----. My person, in connexion with the powers of my mind, and my

talent, will ensure me a brilliant future."

"What purpose would it serve to create illusions? Away with all

illusions! I stand upon a higher point than those around me--than they

who consider themselves entitled to censure my faults, to exalt

themselves in secret above me, perhaps because they have taken me out of

compassion. Taken me out of compassion! Subjecting, humiliating thought!

"Yet, at the same time, they are good; yes, angelically good to me. I

wish they were less so!"

"To-night, now for the second time in my life, I have had the same

extraordinary dream. It appeared to me that I was in my chamber, and saw

in heaven vast masses of black cloud above my head driving towards the

horizon, accompanied with a strong rushing sound in the air.

"'Save thyself, Sara!' cried the voices of my sisters; 'come, come with

us!' But I felt in my limbs that peculiar sluggishness which one

perceives in dreams when one wishes to hasten. My chamber-window flew

open before the tempest, and impelled by a strong curiosity I looked

out. The sun stood opposite to me, pale, watery, without beams; but the

whole firmament around me seemed to burn; a glow of fire passed over all

things. Before me stood a tall aspen, whose leaves trembled and

crackled, whilst sparks of fire darted forth from them. Upon one twig of

the tree sate a huge black bird, looking on me with a fiery glance, and

singing hoarsely and tunelessly, while the tempest and flame rioted

around him. I heard the voices of my adopted mother and sisters

anxiously calling on me from a distance ever further and further

removed.

"I leaned myself out of the window to hear what the black bird with the

wonderful voice sang. I no longer had any fear. I awoke; but the dream

has a charm for me."

"The black bird sings to me, out of my dream. My adopted mother has wept

to-day on my account. I am sorry for it, but----it is best that I go.

They do not love me here--they cannot do it. They do not need me, nor I

them any longer. It is best that we separate."

Thus Sara.

We will now cast a glance on the parents themselves, who were not

greatly altered, excepting that Elise's whole appearance exhibited much

more health and strength than formerly. The energetic countenance of the

Judge had more wrinkles, but it had, besides, an expression of much

greater gentleness. A slight, but perhaps not wholly unpardonable,

weakness might be observed in him. He was completely captivated with his

daughters. God bless the good father!

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Anna Lenngren, a distinguished Swedish poetess, admired especially

for her Idyls. She died in 1817.

[6] Sweden.

CHAPTER III.

THE OBJECT.

We must now say how the family grouped themselves in the new house.

Since the arrival of Henrik and Jacobi, the liveliness of the family had

visibly increased, Henrik zealously followed up his purpose of making

his sisters take more active exercise, and Jacobi assisted him with his

whole heart. Long walks were arranged, but, to Henrik's annoyance, it

seldom was possible to induce Louise to take exercise of that kind

which, according to his opinion, she needed so much. Louise had always

such a vast deal to do at home; Sara lived only for her harp and her

singing; Leonore was not strong enough; and for Gabriele, it was

generally either too cold, or too dirty, or too windy, or she was not in

the humour to walk. Eva, on the contrary, was always in the humour, and

Petrea had always the desire to speed away. It was Henrik's greatest

pleasure to give one of his sisters his arm, especially when they were

well and handsomely dressed.

At seven o'clock in the evening all the members of the family assembled

themselves in the library, where the tea-table was prepared, at which

Louise presided. The evenings were uncommonly cheerful, particularly

when the family were alone. Between tea and supper they either talked,

or read aloud, or had music; after supper they mostly danced, and then

Louise exercised herself with remarkable grace. Sometimes they had

charades or social games. Henrik and Petrea had always some new flash of

merriment or other. It was the greatest delight of the Judge to see all

his children around him, especially in an evening, and to see them happy

too. The door of his study, which adjoined the library, always stood

open, in an evening, and, whether he read or wrote there, he still was

conscious of all that went forward among them. Sometimes he would come

out and take part in their entertainment, or would sit on the green sofa

beside his wife, and watch the dance, rejoicing himself over his

daughters, and sometimes was even taken out into the dance, where he was

in much request.

The young people remarked, that whatever might for the time occupy

Jacobi, he was somewhat absent and incomprehensible; he sighed

frequently, and seemed rather to enjoy quiet conversation with the

ladies than charades and other amusements. It was discovered, between

Henrik and Petrea, that these fits of absence, and these sighs, must

have an object; but it was a long time, that is to say, three or four

days, before they could decide who it really was.

"It cannot be our mamma," said Petrea, "because she is married; and

besides this, she is so much older than any of us, although, prettier

than all of us together; and though Master Jacobi has such pleasure in

talking with her, and conducts himself towards her as if he were her

son, still it cannot be she. Do you know, Henrik, I fancy Sara is the

object--he looks at her so much; or perhaps Eva, for he is always so

lively with her; and I heard him say yesterday to Uncle Munter, that she

was so uncommonly charming. But it is rather improper that he should

pass 'our eldest' so!"

Henrik was greatly amused by Petrea's difficulty and conjectures, for he

had his own peculiar notions about the object, and by degrees Petrea

herself began to have a clearer foreknowledge, and to think that

perhaps, after all, the true object might be no other than "our eldest"

herself. After this insight into things, which Petrea was not slow in

circulating among her sisters, Louise was called, in their jocular

phraseology, "the object." All this while, however, "the object"

herself appeared to pay very little attention to the speculations which

had thus reference to herself. Louise was at the present time greatly

occupied by setting up a piece of weaving, and had in consequence,

greatly to Henrik's horror, brought again into use the dress surnamed

"water-gruel." She had absolutely a sort of rage to wear out her old

clothes--and as it happened, moreover, that the piece of weaving was of

a pattern which was much perplexed and difficult to arrange, she assumed

almost constantly the "cathedral demeanour," which occasioned her to

look all the less attractive. But so it happened, Jacobi looked a great

deal at Sara, joked with Eva, and remained sitting beside Louise, as if

he found by her side only true happiness and satisfaction.

In vain did Petrea draw him into all kind of controversial subjects, in

order to make him, during the contest, somewhat forgetful of "the

object." He did not become abstracted; and it was particularly

observable that the Master had much less desire for disputation than the

Candidate had had; and when Mrs. Gunilla took the field against him more

than once with a whole host of monads and nomads, he only laughed. Now,

indeed, Jacobi had a favourite topic of conversation, and that was his

Excellency O----. The distinguished personal qualities of his

Excellency, his noble character, his goodness, his spirit, his

commanding carriage, his imposing exterior, could not be sufficiently

celebrated and exalted by Jacobi; nay, even his broad lion-like

forehead, his strong glance, and his beautiful patrician hands, were

many a time described.

Jacobi had for some time been attached to his Excellency as his

secretary, and he had now the hope of his assistance in his future

prospects. In the mean time his Excellency had shown him the greatest

kindness; had given him many opportunities of increasing his knowledge,

and had offered to take him with him on a journey to foreign countries;

besides all which, he had himself practised him in French. In one word,

Excellency O---- was the most excellent excellency in all the world, an

actual excellentissimus. Jacobi was devoted to him heart and soul, was

rich in anecdotes about Excellency O----, and in anecdotes which he had

heard of his Excellency.

Louise, more than any member of the family, had the property of being a

good listener, and therefore she heard more than any one else of his

Excellency O----, but yet not alone of him; Jacobi had always a

something to relate to her, a something on which he wanted her

consideration, and if Louise were not too much occupied with her

thoughts about the weaving, he was always quite sure, not only of her

sincere sympathy, but of her most deliberate judgment, as well on moral

questions as on questions of economical arrangement, dress, plans for

the future, and so forth. He himself imparted to her good advice--which,

however, was not often followed--for playing Postillion. He drew

patterns for her embroidery, and read aloud to her gladly, and that

novels in preference to sermons.

But he was not long permitted to sit in peace by her side, for very soon

the seat on the other side of her was occupied by a person whom we will

call "the Landed-proprietor," from the circumstance of his most eminent

distinction being the possession of an estate in the neighbourhood of

the town.

The Landed-proprietor appeared to the Candidate--we will for the future

adhere to this our old appellation, for, in a certain sense, in this

world, all men are Candidates--quite disposed to make a quarrel about

the place he was inclined to take.

Beside his large estate, the Landed-proprietor was possessed of a large

portly body, round cheeks, plump from excess of health, a pair of large

grey eyes remarkable for their unmeaning expression, a little ruddy

mouth, which, preferred eating rather than speaking, which laughed

without meaning, and which now directed to Cousin Louise--he considered

himself related to her father--sundry speeches which we will string

together in our next chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

STRANGE QUESTIONS.

"Cousin Louise, are you fond of fish? for example, bream?" asked the

Landed-proprietor one evening as he seated himself beside Louise, who

was industriously working a landscape in her embroidery-frame.

"Oh, yes! bream is good fish," replied she, very phlegmatically, and

without looking up from her work.

"Oh, with red-wine sauce," said the Landed-proprietor, "delicate! I

have magnificent fishing on my estate at Oestanvik. Big fellows of

bream! I catch them myself."

"Who is that great fish there?" asked Jacobi from Henrik, with an

impatient sneer, "and what matters it to him whether your sister Louise

likes bream or not?"

"Because in that case she might like him, _mon cher_," replied Henrik;

"a most respectable and substantial fellow is my Cousin Thure of

Oestanvik. I advise you to cultivate his acquaintance. Well, now,

Gabriele dear, what wants your highness?--Yes, what is it?--I shall lose

my head about the riddle.--Mamma dear, come and help your stupid son!"

"No, no, mamma knows it already! Mamma must not tell," exclaimed

Gabriele, terrified.

"What king do you set up above all other kings, Master Jacobi?" for the

second time asked Petrea, who this evening had a sort of question mania.

"Charles the Thirteenth," replied he, and listened to Louise's answer to

the Landed-proprietor.

"Cousin Louise, are you fond of birds?" asked the Landed-proprietor.

"Oh, yes, particularly of fieldfares," answered Louise.

"Nay, that's capital!" said the Landed-proprietor. "There are

innumerable fieldfares on my estate of Oestanvik. I often go out myself

with my gun and shoot them for my dinner; piff-paff! with two shots I

have killed a whole dishful!"

"Don't you imagine, Master Jacobi, that the people before the Flood were

much wickeder than those of our time?" asked Petrea, who wished to

occupy the Candidate, nothing deterred by his evident abstraction, and

whom nobody had asked if she liked fieldfares.

"Oh, much--much better," answered Jacobi.

"Cousin Louise, are you fond of roast hare?" asked the

Landed-proprietor.

"Master Jacobi, are you fond of roast hare?" whispered Petrea,

waggishly, to the Candidate.

"Bravo, Petrea!" whispered her brother to her.

"Cousin Louise, are you fond of cold meat?" asked the Landed-proprietor,

as he handed Louise to the supper-table.

"Should you like to be a landed-proprietor?" whispered Henrik to her as

she left it.

Louise answered exactly as a cathedral would have answered--looked very

solemn, and was silent.

Petrea, like something let quite loose, after supper would not let

anybody remain quiet who by any possibility could be made to answer her.

"Is reason sufficient for mankind?" asked she. "What is the foundation

of morals? What is the proper meaning of revelation? Why is the nation

always so badly off? Why must there be rich and poor?" etc., etc.

"Dear Petrea," said Louise, "what can be the use of asking such

questions?"

It was an evening for questions; there was not even an end to them when

people separated for the night.

"Do you not think," asked the Judge from his wife when they were alone

together, "that our little Petrea begins to be quite disagreeable with

her perpetual questions and disputations? She leaves nobody at peace,

and is at times in a sort of unceasing disquiet. She will, some time or

other, make herself quite ridiculous if she goes on so."

"Yes," replied Elise, "_if_ she goes on so; but I think she will not. I

have observed Petrea narrowly for some time, and do you know I fancy

there is something out of the common way in that young girl."

"Yes, yes," said he, "in the common way she certainly is not; the

merriment and the everlasting joviality which she occasions, and the

comical devices that she has----"

"Yes," replied the mother, "do they not indicate a decided turn for art?

And then she has a remarkable thirst for knowledge. Every morning she is

up between three and four, in order to read or write, or to work at her

Creation. It is, in fact, quite uncommon; and may not this unrest, this

zeal to question and dispute, arise from a sort of intellectual hunger?

Ah! from such hunger, which many a woman for want of fitting aliment

suffers through the whole of her life! From such an emptiness of the

soul proceed unrest, discontentedness, nay, innumerable faults!"

"I believe you are right, Elise," said her husband; "and no condition in

life is more melancholy, particularly in advanced years. But this shall

not be the lot of my Petrea--that we will prevent. What do you think now

would be good for her?"

"I fancy," said Elise, "that a course of serious and well-directed

study would assist in regulating her mind. She is too much left to

herself, with her disarranged bent--with her enthusiasm and her

attempts. I myself have too little knowledge to instruct her, you have

too little time, and there is no one here who would undertake the

guidance of her young unsettled mind. I am sometimes extremely grieved

about her; for her sisters do not understand the workings of her mind,

which I must confess sometimes give me pain. I wish I were better able

to help her. Petrea requires a ground on which to take her stand--as yet

she has none; her thoughts require some firm holding-place; from the

want of this comes her unrest. She is like a flower without roots, which

is driven about by wind and wave."

"She shall be firmly rooted; she shall find firm ground to stand upon,

if such is to be found in the world!" said the Judge, with a grave yet

beaming eye, and striking his hand at the same time with such violence

on a volume of West-Gotha law, that it fell to the ground. "We will

think about it," continued he; "Petrea is yet too young for one to say

with certainty what is her decided bent; but we will strengthen her

powers! she shall no longer know hunger of any kind, so long as I live

and can get my own bread. You know my friend, the excellent Bishop

B----. Perhaps we can at first confide Petrea to his guidance. After a

few years we shall see----as yet she is only a child. But don't you

think we might speak with Jacobi, whether he could not read with her and

talk with her--apropos! how is it with Jacobi? I fancy he begins to

think about Louise."

"Yes, yes, you are not wrong," said Elise; "and our Cousin Thure of

Oestanvik--have you remarked nothing there?"

"Yes, I did remark something," replied he. "The thousand! What stupid

questions were those that he put to her! 'Does Cousin like this?' or,

'Does Cousin like that?' But I don't like that! not I! Louise is not yet

grown up, and already shall people come and ask her, does Cousin like?

Nay, perhaps, after all it means nothing; that would please me best.

What a pity it is, however, that our Cousin Thure is not more of a man!

A most beautiful estate he has, and so near us."

"Yes, a pity," said Elise; "because such as he is now, I am quite

convinced Louise would find it impossible to endure him."

"You do not think she would like Jacobi?" asked the father.

"To tell the truth," returned she, "I think it probable she might."

"Nay," said he, "that would be very unpleasant, and very imprudent: I am

very fond of Jacobi, but he has nothing, and he is nothing."

"But, my love," reasoned his wife, "he may become something, and he may

get something. I confess, dear Ernst, that he would suit Louise better

for a husband than almost any one else, and I would willingly call him

son."

"Would you, Elise!" exclaimed the Judge, "then I suppose I must prepare

myself to do the same. You have had most trouble, most labour, with the

children, and you have, therefore, most to say in their affairs."

"You are so good, Ernst," said Elise.

"Say reasonable--nothing more than reasonable," said he; "beyond this I

have the belief that our thoughts and our inclinations do not differ

much. I confess that I consider Louise as a great treasure, and I know

nobody whom, of my own will, I would confer her upon; still, if Jacobi

obtains her affections, I could not find in my heart to oppose a union

between them, although, on account of his uncertain prospects, it would

make me anxious. I am much attached to Jacobi, and on Henrik's account

we have much to thank him for. His excellent heart, his honesty, his

good qualities, will make him as good a citizen as husband and father,

and he belongs at the same time to that class of persons with whom it is

most pleasant to have daily intercourse. But, God forbid! I am talking

just as if I wished the union, and I am a long way from that yet. I

would much rather keep my daughters with me as long as they could feel

themselves happy with me; but when girls grow up, one cannot reckon on

peace. I wish all wooers and question-askers at Jericho! Now, we could

live here as in a kingdom of heaven, since we have got all into such

nice order--some little improvements, it is true, I could yet make,

though things are well enough, if we could be at peace. I have been

thinking that we could so easily make a wardrobe. See on this side, in

the wall; don't you think that if we here opened----Heavens! are you

already asleep, my dear?"

CHAPTER V.

AN INVITATION.

About this time the sisters of the house began to dream a great deal

about conflagrations, and there was no end of the meanings of dreams,

hints, little jokes, and communications among the sisters, none of whom

dreamt more animated or more significant dreams than Petrea. Gabriele,

who, in her innocence, did not dream at all, wondered what all this

extraordinary talk about conflagration meant; but she could not learn

much, for as often as she desired to have her part in the mysteries, it

was said, "Go out for a little while, Gabriele dear."

One evening Sara, Louise, Eva, and Petrea were sitting together at a

little table, where they were deep in the discussion of something which

seemed to possess extraordinary interest for them, when Gabriele came

and asked just for a little place at the table for herself and her

books; but it was impossible, there was no room for the little one.

Almost at the same moment Jacobi and Henrik came up; they too sought for

room at the circle of young ladies, and now see! there was excellent

room for them both, whereupon Gabriele stuck her little head between

Louise and Petrea, and prayed her sisters to solve the following riddle:

"What is that at which six places may be found, but not five?"

The sisters laughed; Louise kissed the little refined moralist; and

Petrea left the table, the gentlemen, and a political discussion, which

she had begun with Henrik, in order to sit on one side and relate to

Gabriele the Travels of Thiodolf, which was one of the greatest

enjoyments of our little lady.

"Apropos!" cried Henrik, "will there not be a wedding celebrated the day

after to-morrow, to which we ought naturally to be invited.--N. B.

According to my reckoning, Aunt Evelina has far less genius than I gave

her credit for, if----"

"Aunt Evelina stands here now ready, if possible, to vindicate her

genius," said a friendly voice, and to the amazement of all Aunt Evelina

stood in the middle of the room.

After the first salutations and questions, Evelina presented an

invitation, not as Henrik expected for the marriage, but for the

entertainment after the marriage.[7]

Laura's marriage with Major G. was to be celebrated in the quietest

manner, at her adopted mother's house, and only in the presence of a few

relations. But the mother of the bridegroom, one of those joyous persons

who in a remarkable manner lightens the world of its cares--and for

which the world thanks them so little--one of those who, if possible,

would entertain and make glad all mankind, and whom mankind on that

account very willingly slanders;--she, the stout and cordial widow of a

Councillor of War, was determined to celebrate the marriage of her only

and beloved son in a festive and cheerful manner, and to make the whole

country partakers of the joy which she herself felt.

The great marriage-festival was to last eight days, and already the

great doors of Axelholm were standing wide open to receive a

considerable party of the notables of the place. The bride and

bridegroom were to invite their respective friends and acquaintances,

and commissioned now by the bride and her future mother-in-law, Evelina

brought a written invitation from her; she came now to beseech the

family--the whole family, Jacobi included, to honour the festivity with

their presence; above all things, desiring that _all_ the daughters

might come--every one of them was wanted for one thing or another. They

reckoned on Petrea, she said, who had a great turn for theatricals, to

take a character in a play which was to be acted; and the others were

wanted for dancing and for _tableaux vivants_. Gabriele must allow

herself to be made an angel of--and naturally they hoped, that out of

all this the young people would find amusement.

They wished and prayed that the whole family would establish themselves

at Axelholm, where everything was prepared for them during the whole

time of the festival, and, if possible, longer, which would contribute

so much to their friends' satisfaction there.

Pitt, Fox, Thiers, Lafitte, Platen, Anckarsvaerd, nay, one may even

assert that all the orators in the world never made speeches which were

considered more beautiful by their hearers, nor which were received with

warmer or more universal enthusiasm than this little oration of Aunt

Evelina. Henrik threw himself on his knee before the excellent, eloquent

Aunt; Eva clapped her hands, and embraced her; Petrea cried aloud in a

fit of rapture, and in leaping up threw down a work-table on Louise;

Jacobi made an _entrechat_, freed Louise from the work-table, and

engaged her for the first _anglaise_ of the first ball.

The Judge, glad from his heart that his children should have so much

enjoyment, was obliged, for his part, to give up the joyful festivity.

Business! Judge Frank had seldom time for anything but business! yet he

would manage it so that at least he would take them there, and on the

following day he would return. Elise sent back her compliments, but

could not take more than two, or at most three, of her daughters with

her; Evelina, however, overruled this, as did also her husband, who

insisted that they _all_ should go.

"Perhaps," said he, "they may never have such another opportunity to

enjoy themselves."

Seldom, indeed, does it happen that people beg and pray and counsel a

mother to take all her six daughters with her. Long may such counsellors

live! But then it must be acknowledged, that the daughters of the Franks

were universally beloved on account of their kind, agreeable manners,

and their many good qualities.

Elise must promise to take them all with her--Sara, Louise, Eva,

Leon----no! It is true Leonore could not go with her; the poor Leonore

must remain at home, on account of indisposition; and very soon,

therefore, Eva and Petrea emulated each other as to which should remain

with her. Leonore declared coldly and peevishly that nobody should stay

at home on her account; she needed nobody; she would much rather be

alone; the sisters might all go, without hesitation; there was no fear

of her not living through it! Poor Leonore had become changed by her

sickness and her sedentary life;--her better self had become hidden

under a cloud of vexation and ill-humour, which chilled the kindliness

and friendliness that people otherwise would have shown to her.

In the mean time there was a stir among the young people of the family;

for much had to be bought, much to be made, and much to be put in order,

that they might be able to make an honourable appearance at the marriage

festival. What a review was there then of dresses, flowers, ribbons,

gloves, etc.! what counsel-takings and projects regarding the new

purchases! what calculations, so that the present of money which the

good father had, all unsolicited, made to each daughter might not be

exceeded. Louise was invaluable to everybody; she had counsel and

contrivance for everybody; besides all this, she was unwearied in

shopping, and never disheartened in buying. She made very few

compliments--would let them in a shop open all they had, if she wanted

only an ell of cloth; and would go to twelve places in order to get a

piece of ribbon cheaper or of better quality--she paid great regard to

_quality_. According to her own opinion, as well as that of her family,

she was an excellent hand at getting good bargains; that is, for

obtaining good wares at unheard-of low prices. With all this our Louise

was held in great consideration in all the shops of the city, and was

served with the greatest zeal and respect; whilst, on the contrary,

Petrea, who never bargained about anything, and always took that which

was first offered to her, at all events when she was alone, was not

esteemed in the least, and always obtained bad, and at the same time

dear goods. True it is that Petrea went a-shopping as little as

possible; whilst Louise, on the contrary, who took the difficult part of

commissioner for all her friends and acquaintance, was about as much at

home in a shop as in her own wardrobe.

It was unanimously decided that Sara, Louise, and Eva should all wear

the same dress on the evening of the great ball at Axelholm, which would

be given on the day they arrived there; namely, that they should wear

white muslin dresses, with pale pink sashes, and roses in their hair.

Petrea was enraptured by this project, and did not doubt but that her

sisters would be universally known by the appellation of "the three

Graces." For her own part, she would willingly have been called Venus,

but, alas! that was not to be thought of. She studied her face in all

the glasses in the house--"It is not so very bad-looking," thought she,

"if the nose were only different." Petrea was to appear at the ball in

sky-blue; and "the little lady" was quite enraptured by the

rose-coloured gauze dress which her mother was making for her.

The toilet occupied every one, body and soul.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Hemkommeoel, literally, coming-home-ale. The names of many of the

domestic festivities of Sweden remind us very much of those of our own

old festivities; as church-ales, christening-ales, etc.: thus, barnsoel,

the christening-feast; grafoel, burial-feast; arfoel, the feast given by

the heir on descent of property, etc.--M. H.

CHAPTER VI.

CONFUSION.

A fine mizzling rain fell without; and Jacobi, with secret horror,

beheld Louise equipped in the "court-preacher," which became her so ill,

ready to go out with Eva, under shelter of the "family-roof," in order

to make good bargains. In the mean time Sara took her music lesson with

Schwartz, but had promised Petrea to go out with her in the afternoon,

in order to make good bargains likewise.

"Henrik!" said Jacobi to his young friend, "I fancy that we too are

going out on a 'good bargain' expedition. I want a pair of gloves,

and----"

"And perhaps we shall meet the sisters in the shop," said Henrik,

waggishly.

"Quite right," returned Jacobi, smiling; "but, Henrik, cannot you tell

your sister Louise that she should not wear that horrible black cloak? I

declare she does not look as----indeed she does not look well in it."

"Don't you think that I have told her so already?" replied Henrik. "I

have preached so long against the 'court-preacher,' that he ought long

ago to have been banished from respectable society; but it is all to no

purpose. He has worked himself so completely into the good graces of our

gracious oldest, that depend upon it, my brother, we must endure him all

our lives long. And what think you? I almost fancy our Cousin of

Oestanvik likes him!"

"Nay," said Jacobi, "one can very well see that that creature has a

wretched taste--a true Hottentot taste!"

"And is that the reason," remarked Henrik, "that he likes Louise?"

"Hum!" said Jacobi.

At dinner-time the bargaining young ladies came back, attended by the

bargaining gentlemen, who had, after all, gone about peacefully with the

"court-preacher." Louise was quite full of glory; never in her whole

life before had she made more lucky bargains.

"Look, sisters," said she, "this muslin for a crown-banco[8] the ell! Is

it not a charming colour? I have saved in it alone twelve shillings.[9]

And see these ribbons which I have got for four-and-twenty shillings the

ell--thirty were asked. Are they not beautiful?--will they not look

magnificently?--is it not a real discovery?--did you ever hear of

anything like it? Sara, if you will go to the same shop as I do, you

will get all at the same price. I have made that agreement for you at

three places: at Bergvall's, and at Astroem's, and Madame Florea's for

the flowers."

Sara thanked her, but said she had altered her plans; she did not intend

to have the same dress as Louise and Eva, but another, which pleased her

better.

The sisters were astonished, and rather vexed; Louise quite offended.

Had they not already agreed about it? What was to become of the Three

Graces?

Sara answered, that the third Grace might be whoever she would, but for

her part she should not have that honour.

The sisters thought her very ungracious.

Eva ran up to Leonore in order to show her her purchases.

"Look at this rose, Leonore," said she, "is it not very pretty? just as

if it were natural! And these ribbons!"

"Yes, yes," said Leonore, with a depressed voice, regarding these

ornaments with a gloomy look; and then pushing them from her so hastily

that they fell on the floor, burst into tears. Eva was quite concerned;

a book had fallen on her beautiful rose and had crushed it. For one

moment Eva shed tears over her flower, the next over her sister.

"Why have you done so, Leonore?" said she; "you must be very ill, or are

you displeased with me?"

"No, no!" said poor Leonore; "forgive me, and leave me."

"Why?" asked Eva. "Ah, do not weep--do not distress yourself. It was

quite thoughtless of me to come here and----But I will bid farewell to

all the magnificence; I will not go to the ball; I will stop at home

with you, only tell me that you love me, and that you would like me to

do so. Just say so--say so!"

"No, no!" said Leonore, passionately, and turning away from the

affectionate comforter; "I do not like it! You teaze me, all of you,

with this talk of stopping at home on my account. I know very well that

I am not such as any one would wish to please--I am neither merry nor

good. Go, Eva, to those who are merry, and follow them. Leave me, leave

me in peace, that is all that I desire."

Eva retired weeping, and with the crushed rose in her hand.

In the afternoon, when Petrea was ready to go out on the promised

expedition, she found Sara also was in an ill-humour. She would go, but

only on Petrea's account; she had no intention of buying anything; she

had not money enough wherewith to make purchases; she would not go to

the festival; she could not have any pleasure if she did; nothing in the

world gave one any pleasure when one had not things exactly to one's own

wishes.

Petrea was quite confounded by this sudden change, and sought in all

possible ways to discover the cause of it.

"But why," asked she, with tears in her eyes, "will you not go with us?"

"Because I will not go," answered Sara, "if I cannot go with honour, and

in my own way! I will not be mixed up in a mass of every-day mediocre

people! It is in my power to become distinguished and uncommon. That is

now, for once, my humour. I will not live to be trammelled. I would

rather not live at all!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Petrea, who now comprehended what was working in Sara,

whilst her eyes flashed with sudden joy--"ah, is it nothing more than

that? Dear Sara, take all that I possess; take it, I beseech you! Do you

not believe that it gives me a thousand times the pleasure if I see you

happy and beautiful, than if I possessed the most glorious things in the

world? Take it, best, dearest Sara! I pray you, on my knees, to take it,

and then if there be enough you can buy what you like and go with

us--else the whole splendour will be good for nothing!"

"Ah, Petrea, and you?" asked Sara.

"Ah," said Petrea, "I'll just furbish up my gauze dress, and keep a

little money for some ribbon, and then all is done; and as for the rest,

it does not matter how I look. Be only contented, Sara, and do as I bid

you."

"But ought I? Can I?" asked Sara. "Ah, no, Petrea, I could not do it!

Your little all! And then it would not be sufficient."

"Ah, yes," said Petrea, "make it sufficient. We can go to Louise's

shops, and one gets everything so cheap there. I shall never be happy

again if you do not do as I pray you. See now, you are my good, dear

Sara! Thank you, thank you! Ah, now am I so light at heart! Now I need

not trouble myself about the blessed toilet. And that is a great gain

for me!"

The bird that sits on the swinging bough is not lighter of mood than

Petrea was as she went out with Sara, who was far less cheerful, but who

still had never been more friendly towards Petrea.

It went thus with Petrea's purchase of ribbon:--In passing a

gingerbread-booth she saw a little chimney-sweeper, who was casting the

most loving glances on some purple-red apples, and Petrea, with the

money in her hand, could not resist the desire of making him a present

of them, and felt more than rewarded as she saw the boy's white teeth

shining forth from their black neighbourhood, first in smiles at her,

and then as they attacked the juicy fruit. Her own mouth watered at it,

and as she now cast her eyes round the booth, and saw such beautiful

bergamotte-pears--the favourite fruit of her mother--and such

magnificent oranges, that would please Leonore so much!--the result was,

that Petrea's reticule was filled with fruit, and the ribbon--for that

there was not now money enough.

"But," consoled herself Petrea, "Louise has such a deal of old

ribbon--she can very well lend me some." Petrea thought like all bad

managers.

When Sara and Petrea returned from the shopping expedition, Louise saw

directly that the things which Sara had bought must far have exceeded

her means; and besides this, Louise justly thought that they were

unseemly for a young girl of her station. She saw without saying one

word the white silk; the blue gauze for the tunic; the beautiful white

and yellow asters for the hair, and the other ornaments which Sara, not

without vanity, displayed.

"And what have you bought, Petrea?" now asked Louise; "let us see your

bargains."

Petrea replied, with a blush, that she--had bought nothing yet.

Not long afterwards Petrea came to Louise, and besought her, with a

certain bashfulness, to lend her some ribbon.

"Good Petrea," said Louise, displeased, "I want my ribbons myself, and

you have had money just as well as I or any of the others, to buy what

you may want."

Petrea was silent, and tears were in her eyes.

"I did not think, Louise," said Sara, hotly, "that you would have been

so covetous as to refuse Petrea some old ribbons which you are certain

not to want yourself."

"And I, Sara," returned Louise in the same tone, "I could not have

believed that you would have so abused Petrea's good-nature and weakness

towards you as to take from her her little share, just to indulge your

own vanity! It appears to me especially blameworthy, as it has led to

expenses which far exceed the means of our parents."

"Sara did not desire anything from me," said Petrea, with warmth; "I

insisted upon it; I compelled her."

"And above all, Sara," continued Louise, with stern seriousness, "I must

tell you that the dress you have chosen appears to me neither modest nor

becoming. I am quite persuaded that Schwartz has induced you to deviate

from our first project; and I must tell you, dear Sara, that were I in

your place I would not allow such a person to have such an influence

with me; nor is this the only instance in which your behaviour to him

has not appeared to me what it ought to be, not such as becomes the

dignity of a woman, or what I should wish in a sister _of mine_. I am

very sorry to say this."

"Oh, you are quite too good!" returned Sara, throwing back her head, and

with a scornful smile; "but don't trouble yourself, Louise, for I assure

you that it gives me very little concern what pleases you or what does

not."

"So much the worse for you, Sara," said Louise, "that you concern

yourself so little for those who are your true friends. I, besides, am

not the only one whom your behaviour to Schwartz displeases. Eva----"

"Yes, Sara," interrupted Eva, blushing, "I think too that you do not

conduct yourself towards him as is becoming, for----"

"Sisters," said Sara, with warmth and pride, "you cannot judge of what

is seemly for me. You have no right to censure my conduct, and I will

not endure----"

"I think, too," said Petrea, warmly, "that if our mother has said

nothing, nobody else has any right----"

"Silence, dear Petrea," said Louise; "you are silly and blind to----"

At this moment of disunion and confusion, when all the sisters were

beginning to speak at once, and that with the tongues of indignation and

reproof, a deep and mournful sigh was suddenly heard, which silenced

all, and turned every eye to the door of the little boudoir. The mother

stood there, with her hands clasped against her breast, pale, and with

an expression of pain on her countenance, which sent a quick pang of

conscience through the hearts of the daughters. As all remained silent,

she came softly forward, and said, with a voice of emotion:

"Why? ah, why, my dear girls, is all this? No! Now, no explanations;

there is error and blame on one side, perhaps also on more. But why this

bitterness, this incautious outbreak of injurious words? Ah, you know

not what you are doing! You know not what a hell sisters can make for

one another, if they cherish such tempers. You know not how bitterness

and harshness may grow among you to a dreadful habit; how you may become

tormenting spirits to each other, and embitter each others' lives. And

it could be so different! Sisters might be like good angels the one to

the other, and make the paternal home like a heaven upon earth! I have

seen both the one and the other in families: a greater contrast is not

to be found on earth. Ah, think, think only that every day, nay, every

hour, you are working to shape the future. Reflect that you may gladden

and beautify your lives, or embitter them, according as you now act. My

dear girls, bethink you that it is in your power to make your parents,

your family, yourselves, either very happy or very unhappy!"

The daughters were silent, and were penetrated by the deep emotion which

expressed itself in the words of their mother, in her pale countenance,

and in her tearful looks. They felt strongly the truth of all that she

had said. With a torrent of tears, Petrea ran out of the room; Sara

followed her silently; Eva threw herself caressingly on her mother's

neck; but Louise said:

"I have only spoken the truth to Sara. It is not my fault if it be

unpleasant for her to hear it."

"Ah, Louise!" returned her mother, "this is constantly said in the

world, and yet so much division and hatred prevail between those who say

it. It is the blind belief in our own faultlessness, it is the hard and

assuming spirit of correction, which excite the temper, and make the

truth unproductive of good. Why should we present truth in a disfiguring

dress, when she is in herself so pure and beautiful? I know, my dear

girl, that you only wish to do that which is right and good, and whoever

aims rightly at that object will not fail of the means also."

"Must I then dissimulate?" asked Louise. "Must I conceal my thoughts,

and be silent respecting that which I think wrong? That may indeed be

prudent, but it certainly is not Christian."

"Become Christian in temper, my child," said the mother, "and you will

easily discover the means of doing what is right in a proper and

effectual manner. You will learn to speak the truth without wounding; a

truly pure, truly affectionate spirit wounds no one, not even in

trifles. For that reason, one need not to be silent when one should

speak, but----"

"'_C'est le ton qui fait la chanson!_' Is it not so? he, he, he!"

interposed the shrill voice of Mrs. Gunilla, who had come in unobserved,

and who thus put an end to the discourse. Soon afterwards the Assessor

made his appearance, and they two fell into conversation, though not, as

commonly, into strife with each other. Mrs. Gunilla lamented to him

respecting Pyrrhus; she was quite in trouble about the little animal,

which had now for some time had a pain in the foot, which it always lay

and licked, and which, spite of that and of other means, got rather

worse than better. She did not know what she was to do with the little

favourite. The Assessor besought her, in the kindest manner, to allow

him to undertake his treatment. He said he had always been much more

successful in curing dogs than men, and that dogs were far more

agreeable, and far nicer patients than their masters. Mrs. Gunilla

thanked him much, and was heartily glad of his offer, and the following

morning, she said, Pyrrhus should be conveyed to him.

The family assembled themselves for tea, and the quick eyes of Mrs.

Gunilla soon discovered that all was not quite as it should be.

"Listen, now," said she, "my little Elise. I know that there will be

festivities, and balls, and banquets, given there at----_chose_! what do

they call it? and of course the young people here should all be at them

and figure a little. If there be any little embarrassments about the

toilet in which I can help, tell me candidly. Good heavens! one can

imagine that easily. Young girls!--a rosette is wanted here, and a

rosette is wanted there, and one thing and another--heart's-dearest! it

is so natural. I know it all so well. Now tell me----"

Elise thanked her cordially, but must decline this offer; her daughters,

she said, must learn betimes to moderate their desires to their means.

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Gunilla, "but I must tell you, my dear friend,

there is no rule without its exception, and if any trifles are wanted,

so--think on me."

Mrs. Gunilla was to-day in such a happy humour; she looked like somebody

who was determined to make some fellow-creature happy. The Assessor

could not get into dispute with her. She rejoiced herself in the

country, to which she should soon remove; in the spring which was at

hand, and in the greenness which was approaching. The Assessor rejoiced

himself not at all. "What had one to rejoice about in such a hateful

spring? It was quite impossible to live in such a climate, and it must

be the will of our Lord God that man should not live, or he would not

have sent such springs. How could people plant potatoes in ice? and how

otherwise could they be planted at all this year? And if people could

get no potatoes, they must die of hunger, which was then perhaps the

best part of the history of life."

On her side, Mrs. Gunilla bethought herself that she would willingly

live. "Our Lord God," she said, "would take care that people had

potatoes!" and then she looked with an expression of cordial sympathy on

the troubled and distressed countenances of the young girls.

"When Eva, dear, is as old as I," said she, patting her gently on her

white neck, "she will know nothing more of all that which so distresses

her now."

"Ah! to be sixty years old!" exclaimed Eva, smiling, though with a tear

in her eye.

"You'll get well on to sixty--well on; he, he, he, he!" said Mrs.

Gunilla, consolingly. "Heart's-dearest! it goes before one thinks of it!

But only be merry and cheerful. Amuse yourselves at----_chose_! what do

you call it? and then come and tell me all about it. Do that nicely, and

then I shall get my share of the fun though I am not there. That comes

of the so-to-be envied sixty years, Eva, dear! he, he, he, he!"

The sun set bright and glorious. Mrs. Gunilla went to the window, and

sent a little greeting towards the sun, whose beams, glancing through

the trees of the opposite churchyard, seemed to salute her in return.

"It looks as if one should have a fine day to-morrow," said Mrs. Gunilla

to herself, gently, and looking very happy.

People place youth and age opposite to each other, as the light and

shade in the day of life. But has not every day, every age, its own

youth--its own new attractive life, if one only sets about rightly to

enjoy them? Yes, the aged man, who has collected together pure

recollections for his evening companions, is many degrees happier than

the youth who, with a restless heart, stands only at the beginning of

his journey. No passions disturb the coffee-cup of the other--no

restless endeavours disturb the cheerful gossip of the evening twilight;

all the little comforts of life are then so thoroughly enjoyed; and we

can then, with more confidence, cast all our cares and anxieties on God.

We have then proved Him.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Crown-banco, equal to one shilling and sixpence English money.

[9] A shilling Swedish is equal to about one farthing English.

CHAPTER VII.

DISENTANGLING.

"There are certainly too many bitter almonds in this almond-mass;

nothing tastes good to me this afternoon," said Elise, who set down a

glass of almond-milk, and sighed--but not for the almond-milk.

"Be pleased with us, dear mother," whispered Eva, tenderly; "we are all

friends again!"

The mother saw it in their beautiful beaming eyes; she read it in

Louise's quiet glance as she turned round from the table, where she was

helping Sara with her tunic, and looked at her mother. Elise nodded

joyfully both to her and Eva, and drank to them the glass of

almond-milk, which now appeared to have become suddenly sweet, so

pleased did she look as she again set down the glass.

"Mamma, dear," said Gabriele, "we must certainly do something towards

poor Petrea's toilet, otherwise she will not be presentable."

But Louise took Petrea's gauze-dress secretly in hand, and sate up over

it till midnight, and adorned it so with her own ribbons and lace that

it was more presentable than it had ever been before.

Petrea kissed her skilful hands for all that they had done. Eva--yet we

will, for the present, keep silent on her arrangements.

But dost thou know, oh, reader!--yes, certainly thou dost!--the zephyrs

which call forth spring in the land of the soul--which call forth

flowers, and make the air pure and delicious? Certainly thou knowest

them--the little easy, quiet, unpretending, almost invisible, and yet

powerful--in one word, human kindnesses.

Since these have taken up their abode in the Franks' family we see

nothing that can prevent a general joyful party of pleasure. But

yes!--it is true--

PETREA'S NOSE!

This was, as we have often remarked, large and somewhat clumsy. Petrea

had great desire to unform it, particularly for the approaching

festivities.

"What _have_ you done to your nose? What is amiss with your nose?" were

the questions which assailed Petrea on all sides, as she came down to

breakfast on the morning of the journey.

Half laughing and half crying, Petrea related how she had made use of

some innocent machinery during the night, by which she had hoped

somewhat to alter the form of this offending feature, the consequence of

which had unfortunately been the fixing a fiery red saddle across it,

and a considerable swelling beside.

"Don't cry, my dear girl," said her mother, bathing it with

oatmeal-water, "it will only inflame your nose the more."

"Ah," burst forth poor Petrea, "anybody is really unfortunate who has

such a nose as mine! What in the world can they do with it? They must go

into a convent."

"It is very much better," said the mother, "to do as one of my friends

did, who had a very large nose, much larger than yours, Petrea."

"Ah, what did she do?" asked Petrea, eagerly.

"She made herself so beloved, that her nose was beloved too," said her

mother. "Her friends declared that they saw nothing so gladly as her

nose as it came in at the door, and that without it she would have been

nothing."

Petrea laughed, and looked quite cheerful. "Ah," said she, "if my nose

can but be beloved, I shall be quite reconciled to it."

"You must endeavour to grow above it!" said the good, prudent mother,

jestingly, but significantly.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAY OF THE JOURNEY.

On the morning of the important day all was in lively motion. The

Assessor sent Eva a large bouquet of most remarkably beautiful natural

flowers, which she immediately divided among her sisters. The Judge

himself, in a frenzy of activity, packed the things of his wife and

daughters, and protested that nobody could do it better than he, and

that nobody could make so many things go into one box as he could. The

last was willingly conceded to him, but a little demur arose as to the

excellency of the packing. The ladies asserted that he rumpled their

dresses; the Judge asserted that there was no danger on that account,

that everything would be found remarkably smooth, and stood zealous and

warm in his shirt-sleeves beside the travelling-case, grumbling a little

at every fresh dress that was handed to him, and then exclaiming

immediately afterwards, "Have you more yet, girls? I have more room. Do

give me more! See now! that? and that? and that? and----now, in the name

of all weathers, is there no end of your articles? Give them here, my

girls! Let that alone, child! I shall soon lay it straight! What?

rumple them, shall I? Well, they can be unrumpled again, that's all! Are

there no smoothing-irons in the world? What? so, so, my girls! Have you

any more? I can yet put something more in."

They were to set off immediately after dinner, in order to be at

Axelholm, which lay about two miles[10] from the city, ready for the ball

in the evening. By dinner-time all boxes were packed, and all tempers

cleared, more especially that of the Judge, who was so contented with

his morning's work that he almost imparted his delight to those who at

first were not altogether satisfied with it.

Petrea ate nothing but a pancake, with a little snow milk to it, in

order that she might dance all the lighter.

"Above all things, my friends," prayed the Judge, "be precise, and be

ready at half-past three; the carriages come then to the door, do not

let me have to wait for you."

Precisely at half-past three the Judge went to the doors of his wife and

daughters.

"Mamma! girls! it is time to go!" said he. "The clock has struck

half-past three! The carriages are here!"

"Directly, directly!" was answered from all sides. The Judge waited; he

knew from experience what this "directly" meant.

In the fever of his punctuality his blood began to boil, and he walked

up and down the hall with great steps, talking with himself: "It is

shocking, though," argued he, "that they never are ready! but I won't be

angry! Even if they make me angry, I will not spoil their pleasure. But

patience is necessary, more than Job had!"

Whilst he was thus moralising with himself, he heard the voice of his

wife saying, with decision, in the library, "Come now, dear girls! In

heaven's name, don't keep the father waiting! I know, indeed, how it

annoys him----!"

"But he said nothing the day before yesterday," Petrea's voice was heard

to return, "though he had then to wait for us. (I can't think what I

have done with my gloves!)"

"And precisely on that account he shall not wait a moment longer for

us," said the mother; "and never again, if I can help it; so, if you are

not ready girls, I shall run away without you!"

The mother ran, and all the daughters ran merrily after her.

The father remarked with pleasure, that love has a far more effectual

power than fear, and all were soon seated in the carriage.

We will allow them to roll away, and will now pay a little visit to

LEONORE'S CHAMBER.

Leonore sate solitary. She supported her sick head on her hand. She had

impelled herself to answer kindly the leave-taking kiss of her mother

and sisters; she had seen how they sought to repress their joy before

her; and she had particularly remarked a sort of half-concealed roguish

joy in the glance which was exchanged between Eva and her mother, which

had pained her. She had heard their happy voices on the stairs, and then

the driving away of the carriages. Now they were gone; now all was still

and desolate in the house, and large tears traced their way down

Leonore's cheeks. She seemed to herself so forlorn, so uncared for, so

solitary in the world!

At that moment the door was softly opened, a smiling face looked in, and

a light fascinating figure sprang forward through the chamber towards

her, kissed her, laughed, and glanced with roguish and ardent affection

into her astonished face.

"Eva!" exclaimed Leonore, scarcely trusting her eyes; "Eva, are you

here? How! whither came you? Are you not gone with the others?"

"No, as you see," returned Eva, embracing her, laughing, and looking

quite happy; "I am here, and mean to stay here."

"But why? What is the meaning of it?" asked Leonore.

"Because I would much rather remain here with you than go anywhere

else," said Eva. "I have bid Axelholm with all its splendours good day."

"Ah! why have you done so? I would much rather you had not!" said

Leonore.

"See you! I knew that," returned her sister, "and therefore I put on a

travelling dress, like the rest, and took leave of you with them. I

wanted to take you by surprise, you see. You are not angry with me, are

you? You must now be contented with it--you can't get rid of me! Look a

little happy on me, Leonore!"

"I cannot Eva," said Leonore, "because you have robbed yourself of a

great pleasure on my account, and I know that it must have been

difficult for you. I know that I am neither agreeable nor pleasing, and

that you cannot love me, nor yet have pleasure with me, and on that

account I cannot have pleasure in your sacrifice. It becomes you to be

with the joyful and the happy. Ah! that you had but gone with them!"

"Do not talk so, unless you would make me weep," said Eva; "you do not

know how the thought of giving up all these festivities in order to

remain alone with you has given me pleasure for many days, and this

precisely because I love you, Leonore! yes, because I feel that I could

love you better than all the rest! Nay, do not shake your head--it is

so. One cannot help one's feelings."

"But why should you love me?" argued the poor girl; "I am, indeed, so

little amiable, nobody can endure me, nobody has pleasure in me; I would

willingly die. Ah! I often think it would be so beautiful to die!"

"How can you talk so, Leonore?" said her sister; "it is not right! Would

you wish such horrible grief to papa and mamma, and me, and all of us?"

"Ah!" said Leonore, "you and the sisters would soon comfort yourselves.

Mamma does not love me as much as any of you others; nor papa either.

Ottil R. said the other day that everybody talked of it--that I was

beloved neither by father nor mother."

"Fie!" exclaimed Eva, "that was wicked and unjust of Ottil. I am quite

certain that our parents love us all alike. Have you ever observed that

they unjustly make any difference between us?"

"That I never have," said Leonore; "they are too good and perfect for

that. But, do you think I have not observed with how different an

expression my father regards me to that with which he looks on you or

Louise? Do you think that I do not feel how cold, and at times

constrained, is the kiss which my mother gives me, to the two, the

three, yes, the many, which, out of the fulness of her heart, she gives

to you or to Gabriele? But I do not complain of injustice. I see very

well that it cannot be otherwise. Nature has made me so disagreeable,

that it is not possible people can bear me. Ah! fortunate indeed are

they who possess an agreeable exterior! They win the good-will of people

if they only show themselves. It is so easy for them to be amiable, and

to be beloved! But difficult, very difficult is it for those who are

ill-favoured as I!"

"But, dear Leonore, I assure you, you are unjust towards yourself. Your

figure, for example, is very good; your eyes have something so

expressive, something at the same time so soft and so earnest; your hair

is fine, and is of a beautiful brown;--it would become you so if it were

better dressed; but wait awhile, when you are better I will help you to

do it, and then you shall see."

"And my mouth," said poor Leonore, "that goes from ear to ear, and my

nose is so flat and so long--how can you mend that?"

"Your mouth?" replied Eva, "why yes, it is a little large; but your

teeth are regular, and with a little more care, would be quite white.

And your nose?--let me see--yes, if there were a little elevation, a

little ridge in it, it would be quite good, too! Let me see, I really

believe it begins to elevate itself!--yes, actually, I see plainly

enough the beginning of a ridge! and do you know, if it come, and when

you are well, and have naturally a fresh colour, I think that you will

be really pretty!"

"Ah! if I can ever believe that!" said Leonore, sighing, at the same

time that an involuntary smile lit up her countenance.

"And even if you are not so very lovely," continued Eva, "you know that

yet you can be infinitely agreeable; you have something peculiarly so in

your demeanour. I heard papa say so this very day to mamma."

"Did he really say so?" said Leonore, her countenance growing brighter

and brighter.

"Yes, indeed he did!" replied her sister. "But, ah! Leonore, after all,

what is beauty? It fades away, and at last is laid in the black earth,

and becomes dust; and even whilst it is blooming, it is not

all-sufficient to make us either beloved or happy! It certainly has not

an intrinsic value."

Never was the power of beauty depreciated by more beautiful lips!

Leonore looked at her and sighed.

"No, Leonore," continued she, "do not trouble yourself to be beautiful.

This, it is true, may at times be very pleasant, but it certainly is not

necessary to make us either beloved or happy. I am convinced that if you

were not in the least prettier than you are, yet that you might if you

would, in your own peculiar way, be as much in favour and as much

beloved as the prettiest girls in the world."

"Ah!" said Leonore, "if I were only beloved by my nearest connexions!

What a divine thing it must be to be beloved by one's own family!"

"But that you can be--that you will be, if you only will! Ah! if you

only were always as you are sometimes--and you are more and more so--and

I love you more and more--infinitely I love you!"

"Oh, beloved Eva," said Leonore, deeply affected, whilst she leaned

herself quietly on her sister, "I have very little deserved this from

you; but, for the future, I will be different--I will be such as you

would have me. I will endeavour to be good and amiable."

"And then you will be so lovely, so beloved, and so happy!" said Eva,

"that it would be a real delight. But now you must come down into

Louise's and my room. There is something there for you; you must change

the air a little. Come, come!"

"Ah, how charming!" was Leonore's exclamation as she entered Eva's

chamber; and in fact nothing could be imagined more charming than that

little abode of peace, adorned as it now was by the coquetry of

affection. The most delicious odour of fruit and flowers filled the air,

and the sun threw his friendly beams on a table near the sofa, on which

a basket filled with beautiful fruit stood enticingly in the midst of

many pretty and tastefully arranged trifles.

"Here, dear Leonore," said Eva, "you will remain during this time. It

will do you good to leave your room a little. And look, they have all

left you an offering! This gothic church of bronze is from Jacobi. It is

a lamp! do you see? Light comes through the church window;--how

beautiful! We will light it this evening. And this fruit here--do you

see the beautiful grapes? All these are a plot between Henrik and

Petrea. The copperplate engravings are from my father; Louise has worked

you the slippers; and the little lady, she----"

Leonore clasped her hands. "Is it possible," said she, "that you all

have thought so much about me! How good you are--ah, too good!"

"Nay, do not weep, sweet Leonore," said Eva; "you should not weep, you

should be joyful. But the best part of the entertainment remains yet

behind. Do you see this new novel of Miss Edgeworth's? Mamma has given

us this, for us to read together. I will read to you aloud till

midnight, if you will. A delicate little supper has been prepared for us

by Louise, and we shall sup up here. We'll have a banquet in our own

way. Take now one of those big grapes which grow two on one stem, and I

will take the other. The king's health! Oh, glorious!"

Whilst the two sisters are banqueting at their own innocent feast, we

will see how it goes on in the great company at

AXELHOLM.

Things are not carried on in so enviably easy and unconstrained a manner

at every ball as at that of the citizens in the good little city of

* * * ping, where one saw the baker's wife and the confectioner's wife

waltzing together, but altogether in a wrong fashion, to which the rest

only said, "It does not signify, if they only go on!" Oh, no! such

simplicity as that is very rarely met with, and least of all among those

of whom we write.

At Axelholm, as at other great balls, the rocky shores of

conventionality made it impossible to move without a thousand

ceremonies, proprieties, dubiosities, formalities, and all the rest,

which, taken together, make up a vast sum of difficulties. The great

ball at Axelholm was not without pretension, and on that account not

without its stiff difficulties. Among these may be reckoned that several

of the young gentlemen considered themselves too old, or too----to dance

at all, and that, in consequence, many of the dance-loving ladies could

not dance at all either, because, on account of the threatening

eye-glasses of the gentlemen, they had not courage to dance with one

another. Nevertheless the scene looked like one of pure delight. The

great saloon so splendidly lighted, and a vast assembly collected there!

It is now the moment just before the dancing begins; the gentlemen stand

in a great group in the middle of the room, spreading themselves out in

direct or wavy lines towards the circle of ladies. These sit, like

flowers in the garden beds, on the benches round the room, mostly in

bashful stillness; whilst a few, in the consciousness of zephyr-like

lightness, float about the room like butterflies. All look happy; all

talk one with another, with all that animation, that reciprocal

good-will, which the sight of so much beauty, united to the

consciousness that they themselves are wearing their best looks, as well

as the expectation of pleasure, infuses.

Now the music begins to sound; now young hearts beat with more or less

disquiet; now go the engaged ones, amid the jostlings of the servants,

who are perpetually soliciting the young ladies to partake of the now

disdained tea. There one saw several young girls numerously surrounded,

who were studying the promised dances which were inscribed on the ivory

of their fans, declining fervent solicitations for the third, fourth,

fifth--nay, even up to the twelfth dance; but, fascinatingly-gracious,

promising themselves for the thirteenth, which perhaps may never be

danced; whilst others in their neighbourhood sit quiet and undisturbed,

waiting for the first invitation, in order thereto to say a willing and

thankful yes. Among the many-surrounded and the much-solicited, we may

see Sara and even Louise. With these emulated the three Misses

Aftonstjerna--Isabella, Stella, and Aurora--who stood constantly round

the chair of the Countess Solenstrale, which was placed before the great

mirror at the far end of the saloon. Among those who sat expectantly, in

the most beautiful repose, we shall discover our Petrea, who

nevertheless, with her bandeau of pearls in her hair, and a certain

bloom of innocence and goodness in her youthful countenance, looked

uncommonly well. Her heart beat with an indescribable desire to be

engaged.

"Ah!" sighed she, as she saw two most elegant young men, the two

brothers B----, walking round the circle of ladies, with their

eye-glasses in their hands. Their eye-glasses rested for a moment on

Petrea; the one whispered something in the ear of the other; both

smiled, and went on. Petrea felt humiliated, she knew not why.

"Now!" thought she, as Lieutenant S---- approached her quickly. But

Lieutenant S---- came to engage Miss T----, and Petrea remained sitting.

The music played the liveliest _anglaise_, and Petrea's feet were all in

agitation to be moving.

"Ah!" thought she, "if I were but a man I would engage Petrea."

The _anglaise_ streamed past Petrea's nose.

"Where is Eva?" asked Jeremias Munter, in a hasty and displeased tone,

from Louise, in the pause between the _anglaise_ and the waltz.

"She has remained at home with Leonore," said Louise; "she was

determined upon it."

"How stupid!" exclaimed he; "why did I come here then."

"Nay, that I really cannot tell!" returned Louise, smiling.

"Not!" retorted the Assessor. "Now then I will tell you, sister Louise,

I came here entirely to see Eva dance--solely and altogether on that

account, and for nothing else. What a stupid affair it was that she

should stop at home! You had a great deal better, all the rest of you,

have stopped at home together; you yourself, dear sister, reckoned into

the bargain! Petrea, there! what has she to do here? She was always a

vexation to me, but now I cannot endure her, since she has not

understanding enough to stay at home in Eva's place; and this little

curly-pate, which must dance with grown people just as if she were a

regular person; could not she find a piece of sugar to keep her at home,

instead of coming here to be in a flurry! You are all wearisome

together; and such entertainments as these are the most horrible things

I know."

Louise floated away in the waltz with Jacobi, laughing over this sally;

and the Countess Solenstrale, the sun of the ball, said as she passed

her chair, "Charmant, charmant!"

Besides this couple, who distinguished themselves by their easy

harmonious motion, there was another, which whirled past in wild

circles, and drew all eyes upon them likewise: this was Sara and the

boisterous Schwartz. Her truly beaming beauty, her dress, her haughty

bearing, her flashing eyes, called forth a universal ah! of astonishment

and admiration. Petrea forgot that she was sitting while she looked upon

her. She thought that she had never seen anything so transporting as

Sara in the whirl of the dance. But the Countess Solenstrale, as she

sate in her chair, said of this couple--nothing; nay, people even

imagined that they read an expression of displeasure in her countenance.

The Misses Aftonstjerna sailed round with much dignity.

"My dear girl," said Elise kindly, but seriously, to Sara after the

waltz, "you must not dance thus; your chest will not allow it. How warm

you are! You really burn!"

"It is my climate," answered Sara; "it agrees with me excellently."

"I beseech you sit this dance. It is positively injurious to you to heat

yourself thus," said Elise.

"This dance?" returned Sara; "impossible! I am engaged for it to Colonel

H----."

"Then, do not dance the next," besought Elise; "if you would do me a

pleasure, do not dance it with Schwartz. He dances in such a wild manner

as is prejudicial to the health; besides which, it is hardly becoming."

"It gives me pleasure to dance with him," answered Sara, both with pride

and insolence, as she withdrew; and the mother, wounded and displeased,

returned to her seat.

The Countess Solenstrale lavished compliments on Elise on account of her

children. "They are positively the ornament of the room," said

she;--"_charmant!_ and your son a most prepossessing young man--so

handsome and _comme il faut_! A charming ball!"

Isabella Aftonstjerna threw beaming glances on the handsome Henrik.

"What madness this dancing is!" said Mr. Munter, as with a strong

expression of weariness and melancholy he seated himself beside Evelina.

"_Nay_, look how they hop about and exert themselves, as if without this

they could not get thin enough; then, good heavens! how difficult it

seems, and how ugly it is! As if this could give them any pleasure! For

some of them it seems as if it were day-labour, and as if it were a

frenzy to others; and for a third, a kind of affectation; nay, I must go

my ways, for I shall become mad or splenetic if I look any longer on

this super-extra folly!"

"If Eva Frank were dancing too, you would not think it so," said

Evelina, with a well-bred smile.

"Eva!" repeated he, whilst a light seemed to diffuse itself over his

countenance, and his eyes suddenly beamed with pleasure--"Eva! no! I

believe so too. To see her dance is to see living harmony. Ah! it

enlivens my mind if I only see her figure, her gait, her slightest

movement; and then to know that all this harmony, all this beauty, is

not mere paint--not mere outside; but that it is the true expression of

the soul! I find myself actually better when I am near her; and I have

often a real desire to thank her for the sentiments which she instils

into me. In fact, she is my benefactress; and I can assure you that it

reconciles me to mankind and to myself, that I can feel thus to a

fellow-creature. I cannot describe how agreeable it is, because commonly

there is so much to vex oneself about in this so-called masterpiece of

the Creator!"

"But, best friend," said Evelina, "why are you so vexed? Most people

have still----"

"Ah, don't go and make yourself an _ange de clemence_ for mankind," said

he, "in order to exalt secretly yourself over me, otherwise I shall be

vexed with you; and you belong to the class that I can best endure. Why

do I vex myself? What a stupid question! Why are people stupid and

wearisome, and yet make themselves important with their stupidity? And

wherefore am I myself such a melancholy personage, worse than anybody

else, and should have withal such a pair of quick eyes, as if only on

purpose to see the infirmities and perversions of the world? There may,

however, in my case be sufficient reason for all this. When one has had

the fancy to come into the world against all order and Christian usage;

has seen neither father nor mother beside one's cradle; heard nothing,

seen nothing, learned nothing, which is in the least either beautiful or

instructive--one has not entered upon life very merrily. And then, after

all, to be called Munter![11] Good heavens! Munter! Had I been called

Blannius, or Skarnius, or Brummerius, or Grubblerius, or Rhabarberius,

there might have been some sense in the joke; but Munter! I ask you now,

is it not enough to make a man splenetic and melancholy all the days of

his life? And then, to have been born into the world with a continual

cold, and since then never to have been able to look up to heaven

without sneezing--do you find that merry or edifying. Well, and then!

after I had worked my way successfully through the schools, the dust of

books, and the hall of anatomy, and had come to hate them all

thoroughly, and to love that which was beautiful in nature and in art,

am I to thank my stars that I must win my daily bread by studying and

caring for all that is miserable and revolting in the world, and hourly

to go about among jaundice, and colic, and disease of the lungs? On this

account I never can be anything but a melancholy creature! Yes, indeed,

if there were not the lilies on the earth, the stars in heaven, and

beyond all these some one Being who must be glorious--and were there not

among mankind the human-rose Eva--the beautiful, fascinating Eva,

then----"

He paused; a tear stood in his eye; but the expression of his

countenance soon was changed when he perceived no less than five young

girls--they danced now the "free choice"--and among them the three

enchanting Miss Aftonstjernas, who, all locked together, came dancing

towards him with a roguish expression. He cast towards them the very

grimmest of his glances, rose up suddenly, and hastened away.

Sara danced the second waltz with Schwartz, yet wilder than the first.

Elise turned her eyes away from her with inward displeasure; but

Petrea's heart beat with secret desire for a dance as wild, and she

followed their whirlings with sparkling eyes.

"Oh," thought she, "if one could only fly through life in a joyful whirl

like that!"

It was the sixth dance, and Petrea was sitting yet. She felt her nose

red and swollen. "See now!" thought she, "farewell to all hopes of

dancing! It must be that I am ugly, and nobody will look at me!" At the

same moment she was aware of the eye of her mother fixed upon her with a

certain expression of discomfort, and that glance was to her like a stab

at the heart; but the next moment her heart raised itself in opposition

to that depressing feeling which seemed about to overcome her. "It is

unpleasant," thought she, "but it cannot be altered, and it is no fault

of mine! And as nobody will give me any pleasure, I will even find some

for myself."

Scarcely had Petrea made this determination, than she felt herself quite

cheered; a spring of independence and freedom bubbled up within her; she

felt as if she were able even to take down the chandelier from the

ceiling, and all the more so when she saw so many life-enjoying people

skipping around her.

At this moment an old gentleman rose up from a bench opposite Petrea,

with a tea-cup in his hand. In a mania of officiousness she rushed

forward in order to assist him in setting it aside. He drew himself

back, and held the cup firmly, whilst Petrea, with the most firm and

unwearying "Permit me, sir," seemed determined to take it. The strife

about the cup continued amid the unending bows of the gentleman, and the

equally unending curtseys of Petrea, until a passing waltzing couple

gave a jostle, without the least ceremony whatever to the

compliment-makers, which occasioned a shake of the tea-cup, and revealed

to Petrea the last thing in the world which she had imagined, that the

cup was not empty! Shocked and embarrassed, she let go her hold, and

allowed the old gentleman, with what remained of his cup of tea, to go

and find out for himself a securer place. Petrea seated herself, she

hardly knew how, on a bench near an elderly lady, who looked at her very

good-naturedly, and who helped very kindly to wipe off the ablution of

tea which she had received. Petrea felt herself quite confidential with

this excellent person, and inquired from her what was her opinion of

Swedenborg, beginning also to give her own thoughts on spectral visions,

ghosts, etc. The lady looked at her, as if she thought she might be a

little deranged, and then hastened to change her place.

A stout military gentleman sat himself down ponderously, with a deep

sigh, on the seat which the old lady had left, as if he were saying to

himself, "Ah, thank God! here I can sit in peace!" But, no! he had not

sate there three minutes and a half when he found himself called upon by

Petrea to avow his political faith, and invited by her to unite in the

wish of speedy war with Russia. Lieutenant-Colonel Uh----turned rather a

deaf ear to the battery by which his neighbour assailed him, but for all

that he probably felt it not the less heavy, because after several

little sham coughs he rose up, and left our Petrea alone with her

warlike thoughts.

She also rose, from the necessity she felt of looking elsewhere for more

sympathy and interest.

"In heaven's name, dear Petrea, keep your seat!" whispered Louise, who

encountered her on her search for adventures.

Petrea now cast her eyes on a young girl who seemed to have had no

better dancing fortune than herself, but who seemed to bear it much

worse, appeared weary of sitting, and could hardly refrain from tears.

Petrea, in whose disposition it lay to impart to others whatever she

herself possessed--sometimes overlooking the trifling fact that what she

possessed was very little desired by others--and feeling herself now in

possession of a considerable degree of prowess, wished to impart some of

the same to her companion in misfortune, and seated herself by her for

that purpose.

"I know not a soul here, and I find it so horribly wearisome," was the

unasked outpouring of soul which greeted Petrea, and which went directly

to her sympathising heart.

Petrea named every person she knew in the company to the young

unfortunate, and then, in order to escape from the weight of the

present, began to unfold great plans and undertakings for the future.

She endeavoured to induce her new acquaintance to give her her _parole

d'honneur_ that she would sometime conduct a social theatre with her,

which would assist greatly to make social life more interesting; and

further than that, that they should establish together a society of

Sisters of Charity in Sweden, and make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem;

furthermore, that they would write novels together; and that on the

following day, or more properly in the night, they would rise at

half-past two o'clock, and climb to the top of a high mountain in order

to see the sun rise; and finally, after all these, and sundry other

propositions, Petrea suggested to her new acquaintance a thee-and-thou

friendship between them! But, ah! neither Petrea's great prowess, nor

her great plans; neither the social theatre, nor the pilgrimage to

Jerusalem, least of all the thee-and-thou friendship, availed anything

towards enlivening the churlish young girl. Petrea saw plainly that an

invitation to dance would avail more than all her propositions, so,

sighing deeply because she was not a man to offer so great a pleasure,

she rose up, and left the object of her vain endeavours.

She looked round for a new subject, and her eye fell on the Countess

Solenstrale. Petrea was dazzled, and became possessed of the frenzied

desire to become acquainted with her, to be noticed by her; in short, in

some kind of way to approach the sun of the ball, fancying thereby that

a little glory would be reflected upon herself. But how was she to

manage it? If the Countess would but let fall her handkerchief, or her

fan, she might dart forward and pick it up, and then deliver it to her

with a compliment in verse. Petrea, hereupon, began to improvise to

herself; there was something, of course, about the sun in it.

Undoubtedly this would delight the Countess, and give occasion to more

acquaintance, and perhaps--but, ah! she dropped neither handkerchief nor

fan, and no opportunity seemed likely to occur in which she could make

use of her poem with effect. In the mean time she felt drawn as by a

secret influence (like the planet to the sun) ever nearer and nearer to

the queen of the saloon. The Aftonstjernas were now standing, beaming

around her, bending their white and pearl-ornamented necks to listen to

her jesting observations, and between whiles replying with smiles to the

politeness and solicitations of elegant gentlemen. It looked magnificent

and beautiful, and Petrea sighed from the ardent longing to ascend to

the _haute volee_.

At this moment Jacobi, quite warm, came hastening towards her to engage

her for the following quadrille.

Petrea joyfully thanked him; but suddenly reddening to the resemblance

of a peony with her mania of participation, she added, "Might I accept

your invitation for another person? Do me the great pleasure to ask that

young girl that sits there in the window at our left."

"But why?" asked Jacobi; "why will not you?"

"I earnestly beseech you to do it!" said Petrea. "It would give me

greater pleasure to see her dancing than if I danced myself."

Jacobi made some friendly objections, but did in the end as she

requested.

It was a great pleasure to Petrea to perceive the influence of this

engagement on her young friend. But Fate and the Candidate seemed

determined to make Petrea dance this quadrille; and a young officer

presented himself before her in splendid uniform, with dark eyes, dark

hair, large dark moustache, martial size, and very martial mien. Petrea

had no occasion, and no disposition either, to return anything but a

"yes" to this son of Mars. In fact, she never expected to receive a more

honourable invitation; and a few minutes later she found herself

standing close beside the chair of the Countess Solenstrale, dancing in

the same quadrille with the Aftonstjernas, and _vis-a-vis_ with the

Candidate. Petrea felt herself highly exalted, and would have been

perfectly prosperous had it not been for her restless demon, which

incessantly spurred her with the desire of coming in closer contact with

the beautiful, magnificent lady to whom she stood so near. To tread upon

her foot or her dress, might, it is true, have furnished an easy

occasion for many fine and reverential excuses; but, at the same time,

this would be neither polite nor agreeable. To fall in some kind of way

before her feet, and then, when graciously raised by the Countess, to

thank her in a verse, in which the _sun_ played a conspicuous part,

would have been incontestibly better; but now--Petrea must dance on!

Was it that our Petrea really was so addled (if people will graciously

allow us such an expression) that she had no right power over her limbs,

or did it happen from want of ballast, in consequence of the slender

dinner she had eaten, or was it the result of her usual distraction--we

know not; but this much is certain, that she in _chassee_-ing on the

right hand, on which she had to pass her _vis-a-vis_, made an error, and

came directly up to him. He withdrew to the other side, but Petrea was

already there: and as the Candidate again withdrew to the right, there

was she again; and amid all this _chassee_-ing her feet got so entangled

with his, that as he made a despairing attempt to pass her, it so

happened that both fell down in the middle of the quadrille!

When Petrea, with tears in her eyes, again stood upright, she saw before

her the eye-glass gentlemen, the two brothers B., who were nearly dying

with laughter. A hasty glance convinced Petrea that her mother saw

nothing of it; and a second glance, that she had _now_ attracted the

attention of the Countess Solenstrale, who was smiling behind her fan.

The first observation consoled her for the last; and she fervently

assured Jacobi, who was heartily distressed on her account, that she had

not hurt herself; that it signified nothing; that it was her fault,

etc., etc.; cast a tranquil glance on the yet laughing gentlemen, and

_chasseed_ boldly back again. But what, however, made the deepest

impression on Petrea, was the conduct of her partner, and his suddenly

altered behaviour. He brought the continued and unbecoming merriment of

the brothers B. to an end by one determined glance; and he who hitherto

had been parsimonious of words, and who had only answered all her

attempts at being entertaining by a yes or a no, now became quite

conversable, polite, and agreeable, and endeavoured in every possible

way to divert her attention from the unpleasant accident which had just

occurred, engaging her moreover for the _anglaise_ after supper.

Petrea understood his kindness; tears came into her eyes, and her heart

beat for joy at the thought of hastening to her mother after the

quadrille, and saying, "Mamma, I am engaged for the _anglaise_ after

supper."

But no thought, no feeling, could remain in tranquillity with the poor

little "Chaos;" so many others came rushing in, that the first were

quite effaced. Her first impression of the kindness of Lieutenant Y.

was, "how good he is!" the second was, "perhaps he may endure me!" And

hereupon a flood of imagined courtesy and courtship poured in, which

almost turned her head. But she would not marry, heaven forbid! yet

still it would be a divine thing to have a lover, and to be oneself "an

object" of passion, like Sara and Louise. Perhaps the young Lieutenant

Y. might be related to the Countess Solenstrale, and, oh heavens! how

well it would sound when it was said, "A nephew of the Countess

Solenstrale is a passionate admirer of Petrea Frank!" What a coming

forth that would be! A less thing than that might make one dizzy. Petrea

was highly excited by these imaginings, and was suddenly changed by them

into an actual coquette, who set herself at work by all possible means

to enslave "her object;" in which a little, and for the moment very

white, hand (for even hands have their moments), figuring about the

head, played a conspicuous part. Petrea's amazing animation and

talkativeness directed the eye-glass of her mother--for her mother was

somewhat short-sighted--often in this direction, and called forth

glances besides from Louise, which positively would have operated with a

very subduing effect, had not Petrea been too much excited to remark

them. The observations and smiles of her neighbours Petrea mistook for

tokens of applause; but she deceived herself, for they only amused

themselves with the little coquetting, but not very dangerous lady.

Lieutenant Y., nevertheless, seemed to find pleasure in her liveliness,

for when the quadrille was ended, he continued a dispute which had

commenced during it, and for this purpose conducted her into one of the

little side rooms, which strengthened her in the idea of having made a

conquest. Isabella Aftonstjerna was singing there a little French song,

the refrain of which was--

Hommage a la plus belle,

Honneur au plus vaillant!

The world was all brightness to Petrea: the song carried her back to the

beautiful days of knighthood: Lieutenant Y. appeared to her as the ideal

of knightly honour, and the glass opposite showed her own face and nose

in such an advantageous light, that she, meeting herself there all

beaming with joy, fancied herself almost handsome. A beautiful rose-tree

was blossoming in the window, and Petrea, breaking off a flower,

presented it to the Lieutenant, with the words--

Honneur au plus vaillant.

Petrea thought that this was remarkably striking and apropos, and

secretly expected that her knight would lay the myrtle-spray with which

he was playing at her feet, adding very appropriately--

Hommage a la plus belle.

"Most humble thanks!" said Lieutenant Y., taking the rose with

misfortune-promising indifference. But Fate delivered Petrea from the

unpleasantness of waiting in vain for a politeness she desired, for

suddenly there arose a disturbance in the ball-room, and voices were

heard which said, "She is fainting! Gracious heaven! Sara!"

Myrtle-spray, knight, conquest, all vanished now from Petrea's mind, and

with a cry of horror she rushed from Lieutenant Y. into the ball-room at

the very moment when Sara was carried out fainting. The violent dancing

had produced dizziness; but taken into a cool room, and sprinkled with

eau de Cologne and water, she soon recovered, and complained only of

horrible headache. This was a common ailment of Sara's, but was quickly

removed when a certain remedy was at hand.

"My drops!" prayed Sara, in a faint voice.

"Where? where?" asked Petrea, with a feeling as if she would run to

China.

"In the little box in our chamber," said Sara.

Quick as thought sped the kind Petrea across the court to the east wing.

She sought through the chamber where their things were, but the box was

not to be found. It must have been left in the carriage. But where was

the carriage? It was locked up in the coach-house. And where was the key

of the coach-house?

Great was Petrea's fatigue before she obtained this; before she reached

the coach-house; and then before, with a lantern in her hand, she had

found the missing box. Great also, on the other hand, was her joy, as

breathless, but triumphant, she hastened up to Sara with the little

bottle of medicine in her hand, and for reward she received the not less

agreeable commission of dropping out sixty drops for Sara. Scarcely,

however, was the medicine swallowed, when Sara exclaimed with violence:

"You have killed me, Petrea! You have given me poison! It is

unquestionably Louise's elixir!"

It was so! The wrong bottle had been brought, and great was the

perplexity.

"You do everything so left-handedly, Petrea!" exclaimed Sara, in

ill-humour; "you are like the ass in the fable, that would break the

head of his friend in driving away a fly!"

These were hard words for poor Petrea, who was just about to run off

again in order to redeem her error. This, added to other agitation of

mind, brought tears to her eyes, and blood to her head. Her nose began

violently to bleed. Louise, excited against Sara by her severity to

Petrea, and some little also by her calling her elixir poison, threw

upon her a look of great displeasure, and devoted herself to the weeping

and bleeding Petrea.

Whether it was the spirit of anger that dispersed Sara's headache, or

actually Louise's elixir (Louise was firmly persuaded that it was the

latter), we know not; but certain it was that Sara very soon recovered

and returned to the company, without saying one consoling word to

Petrea.

Petrea was in no condition to appear at the supper-table, and Louise

kindly remained with her. Aunt Evelina, Laura, Karin, and even the lady

of the War-Councillor herself, brought them delicacies. Amid so much

kindness, Petrea could not do otherwise than become again tranquil and

lively. She should, she thought, after all, dance the _anglaise_ after

supper with "le plus vaillant," as she called the Lieutenant, who had

truly captivated her evidently not steeled heart.

The _anglaise_ had already begun as the sisters entered the ball-room.

The Candidate hastened to meet them quite in an uneasy state of mind; he

had engaged Louise for this dance, and they now stood up together in the

crowd of dancers. Petrea expected, likewise, that "le plus vaillant"

would rush up to her and seize her hand; but as she cast a hasty glance

around, she perceived him, not rushing towards her, but dancing with

Sara, who was looking more beautiful and brilliant than ever. The rose

which Petrea had given him--faithless knight!--together with the

myrtle-sprig on which she had speculated, were both of them placed in

Sara's bosom. The eyes of "le plus vaillaut" were incessantly riveted

upon "la plus belle," as Sara was then unanimously declared to be. The

glory of the Aftonstjernas paled in the night, as they were too much

heated by dancing, but Sara's star burned brighter and brighter. She was

introduced to the Countess Solenstrale, who paid her charming

compliments, and called her "la reine du bal," at which the

Aftonstjernas looked displeased.

"Thousand devils, how handsome she is!" exclaimed the old gentleman who

had striven with Petrea about the tea-cup, and who now, without being

aware of it, trod upon her foot as he thrust himself before her to get a

better view of "la reine du bal."

Overlooked, humiliated, silent, and dejected, Petrea withdrew into

another room. The scenes of the evening passed in review before her

soul, and appeared now quite in an altered light. The mirror which a few

hours before had flattered her with the notion that she might be called

_la plus belle_, now showed her her face red and unsightly; she thought

herself the most ridiculous and unfortunate of human beings. She felt at

this moment a kind of hostility against herself. She thought on

something which she was preparing for Sara, and which was to be an

agreeable surprise to her, and which was to be made known to her in a

few days--she thought of this, and in that moment of trouble the thought

of it, like a sunbeam on dark clouds, brightened the night in her soul.

The thought of gratifying one, who on this evening had so deeply

wounded her, gave a mild and beneficial turn to her mind.

After supper, a balcony in the saloon adjoining the ball-room was

opened, in order somewhat to cool the heated atmosphere of the room.

Two persons, a lady and gentleman, stepped into the balcony; a light

white shawl was thrown over the lady's shoulders; stars garlanded her

dark hair; stars flashed in her black eyes, which glanced fiercely

around into free space.

There lay over the landscape the deliciously mysterious half-darkness of

a May-night, a magical veil which half hides and half reveals its

beauty, and which calls forth mysterious forebodings. A mighty and

entrancing revelation of the gloriousness of life seemed to sing in the

wind, which passed tranquilly murmuring through space, shone in the

stars, and wandered high above earth.

"Ah, life! life!" exclaimed she, and stretched forth her arms towards

space, as if she would embrace it.

"Enchanting girl!" said he, while he seized her hand, "my life belongs

to you!"

"Conduct me forth into free, fresh life," said she, without withdrawing

her hand, and looking haughtily at him all the while, "and my hand

belongs to you! But remember you this, that I will be free--free as the

wind which now kisses your forehead, and lifts those topmost branches of

the tree! I love freedom, power, and honour! Conduct me to these, help

me to obtain these, and my gratitude will secure to you my love; will

fetter me to you with stronger bonds than those of ceremony and

prejudice, to which I only submit out of regard to those who otherwise

would weep over me, and whom I would not willingly distress more than

there is need for. It shall not bind us more than we ourselves wish.

Freedom shall be the knitting and the loosening of our bond!"

"Beautiful woman!" answered he, "raised above the hypocrisy of

weakness--above the darkness of prejudice--I admire you and obey you!

Only to such a woman can my will submit! My beautiful scholar is become

my teacher! Well, then, let the hand of the priest unite us; my hand

shall conduct you up to that brilliant throne which your beauty and your

talents deserve! I will only elevate you in order, as now, to fall

before your feet the most devoted of your servants!"

He dropped upon one knee before her; and she, bending herself towards

him, let her lips touch his forehead. He threw his arms round her, and

held her for one moment bent towards him. A supercilious, scornful

expression, unobserved by her, played upon his lips.

"Release me, Hermann! some one comes," said she; he did so, and as she

raised her proud neck against his will, a dark flash of indignation

burned in her eyes.

They withdrew, and another couple stepped out into the balcony.

He. Wait, let me wrap my cloak better round you; the wind is cool.

She. Ah, how beautiful to feel how it wraps us both! Do you see how we

are here standing between heaven and earth, separated from all the

world?

He. I do not see it--I see my lovely world in my arms! I have you,

Laura! Laura, tell me, are you happy?

She. Ah, no!

He. How?

She. Ah, I am not happy because I am too happy! I fancy I never can have

deserved this happiness. I cannot conceive how it came to my share. Ah,

Arvid! to live thus with you, with my mother, my sister, all that I most

love--and then to be yours ever, ever!

He. Say eternally, my Laura! Our union belongs as much to heaven as to

earth, here as there; to all eternity I am yours, and you are mine!

She. Hush, my Arvid! I hear my mother's voice--she calls me. Let us go

to her.

They returned into the room, and presently another couple stepped on the

balcony.

He. Cousin Louise, do you like evening air? Cousin Louise, I fancy, is

rather romantic. Cousin, do you like the stars? I am a great friend of

the stars too; I think on what the poet sings:

----silently as Egypt's priests

They move.

Look, Cousin Louise, towards the corner, in the west there lies

Oestanvik. If it would give you any pleasure to make a little tour

there, I would beg that I might drive you there in my new landau. I

really think, Cousin Louise, that Oestanvik would please you: the

peaches and the vines are just now in full bloom; it is a beautiful

sight.

A deep sigh is heard.

She. Who sighs so?

A Voice. Somebody who is poor, and who now, for the first time, envies

the rich.

He. Oh rich! rich! God forbid! rich I am not exactly. One has one's

competency, thank God! One has wherewith to live. I can honestly

maintain myself and a family. I sow two hundred bushels of wheat; and

what do you think, Cousin Louise--but where is Cousin Louise?

A Voice. It seemed to her, no doubt, as if a cold wind came over here

from Oestanvik.

At the moment when the gentlemen returned to the room, a girl came into

the balcony. She was alone. The misfortunes of the evening depressed her

heart, and were felt to be so much more humiliating because they were of

such a mean kind. Some burning tears stole quickly and silently over her

cheeks. The evening wind kissed them gently away. She looked up to

heaven; never had it seemed to her so high and glorious. Her soul raised

itself, mounted even higher than her glance, up to the mighty friend of

human hearts; and He gave to hers a presentiment that a time would come,

when, in his love, she would be reconciled to and forget all adversities

of earth.

* * * * *

The days at Axelholm wore on merrily amid ever-varying delights. Petrea

wrote long letters, in prose and in verse, to her sisters at home, and

imparted to them all that occurred here. Her own misfortunes, which she

even exaggerated, she described in such a comic manner that those very

things which were at first distressing to her, were made a spring of

hearty merriment both to herself and to her family.

She received one day a letter from her father, which contained the

following words:

"My good Child,

"Your letters, my dear child, give me and your sisters great

pleasure; not merely on account of the lively things which they

contain, but more especially on account of your way of bearing

that which is anything but lively. Continue to do thus, my child,

and you--my heart rejoices in the thought--will advance on the way

to wisdom and happiness, and you will have joyfully to acknowledge

the blessed truth which the history of great things, as well as of

small, establishes, that there is nothing evil which may not be

made conducive to good; and thus our own errors may be made steps

on our way to improvement.

"Greet your sisters cordially from their and your tenderly devoted

"Father."

Petrea kissed these lines with tears of grateful joy. She wore them for

several days near her heart; she preserved them through her whole life

as one of the endeared means by which she had gone happily through the

chromatic scale of existence.

Louise was joked much about Cousin Thure; Cousin Thure was joked much

about Louise; it pleased him very much to be joked about her, to be told

that Oestanvik wanted a mistress, that he himself wanted a pretty wife,

and that without doubt Louise Frank was one of the most sensible as well

as one of the prettiest girls in the country; and more than this, was

besides of such a respectable family! The Landed-proprietor received

already felicitations on his betrothal.

What the bride-elect, however, thought on the matter was more difficult

to fathom. She was certainly always polite to Cousin Thure; still this

politeness seemed expressive rather of indifference than friendship; and

she declined, with a decision amazing to many people, his pressing and

often repeated solicitations to make an excursion to Oestanvik in his

new landau, drawn by what he styled "his foxes--his four horses in one

rein." Many people asserted that the agreeable and cordial Jacobi was

much nearer to Louise's heart than the rich Landed-proprietor! but even

towards Jacobi her conduct was so equal, so tranquil, so unconstrained,

that nobody could exactly tell how it might be. Nobody knew so well as

we do, that Louise considered it consistent with the dignity of woman to

show only perfect indifference to the attentions or _doux-propos_ of

men, until they had been openly and fully declared. Louise despised

coquetry so far as to dread anything which bordered on the very limits

of it. Her young female friends joked with her upon her strict notions

on this head, and fancied that she would remain unmarried.

"That may be," said Louise, calmly.

They told her one day of a gentleman who said "I will not stand up

before any girl who is not some little of a coquette."

"Then he may remain sitting," answered Louise, with much dignity.

Louise's views of the dignity of woman, her grave and decided

principles, and her manner of expressing them, amused her young friends,

whilst at the same time they inspired for her a true esteem, and gave

occasion for many little contentions and discussions, in which Louise

intrepidly, though not without some little warmth, maintained the rights

of the cause. These contentions, however, which began in merriment, did

not always terminate so.

A young and rather coquettish lady was one day wounded by the severity

with which Louise spoke of the coquetry of her sex, and particularly of

married ladies, and in revenge she used an expression which excited

Louise's astonishment and anger. An explanation followed between the

two, the result of which was not only their perfect estrangement, but an

altered state of mind in Louise which she in vain endeavoured to

conceal.

During the first days of her stay at Axelholm she had been uncommonly

joyous and lively; now she was quiet, thoughtful, often absent, and

towards the Candidate, as it seemed, less friendly than formerly, whilst

she lent a more willing ear to the Landed-proprietor, although she still

resolutely withstood his proposal of a drive to Oestanvik.

On the evening of the day after this explanation, Elise was engaged in a

lively conversation with Jacobi on the balcony.

"And if," said he, "I endeavour to win her heart, would her

parents--would her mother see it without displeasure? Ah, speak candidly

with me; the well-being of my life depends upon it."

"You have my accordance, my good wishes, Jacobi," returned Elise. "I say

to you what I have already said to my husband, that I should willingly

call you son."

"Oh!" exclaimed Jacobi, deeply moved, and falling on one knee, whilst he

pressed her hand to his lips--"oh that my whole life might evidence to

you my gratitude and my love--!"

At this very moment, Louise, who had been seeking her mother, approached

the balcony; she saw Jacobi's action, and heard his words: she withdrew

quickly, as if she had been stung by a snake.

From this time a great change was more and more perceptible in her.

Still, reserved, and very pale, she moved about like one in a dream,

amid the lively circles of Axelholm, and agreed willingly to the

proposition which her mother, who was uneasy on her account, made of

their stay being shortened. Jacobi, as much astonished as distressed by

the sudden unfriendliness of Louise towards him, began to think that the

place must in some kind of way be bewitched, and desired more than

anybody else to get away from it.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] A mile Swedish is equal to six English miles.

[11] Merry, in Swedish.

CHAPTER IX.

THE RETURN HOME.

What was it that Jacobi and Henrik had so much to arrange together

before their departure from Axelholm, and even whilst they were there?

Petrea's curiosity was terribly excited, but she could not come at any

clue by which to satisfy it. Some kind of plot which concerned the

family, seemed to be in agitation.

Henrik and his friend had long intended to give a little entertainment

to the family, and the opportunity to do so now seemed favourable, as

well as also to combine it with an agreeable surprise; the scene of

which should be a pretty and good Inn, half way between Axelholm and the

city. Here, on their return, they would halt under pretence of some

repair being necessary to one of the carriages, and the ladies should be

persuaded to enter the house, where, in the mean time, all should be

prepared.

The two friends had greatly delighted themselves over this scheme, and

in order to obtain for Louise her favourite luxury of ices, Jacobi had

drained his already reduced purse.

In going to Axelholm the family had so divided themselves that Louise

with Petrea went in what is called a Medewi-carriage, the Judge's own

equipage, which was driven by Jacobi, with whom Henrik sate on the

driving-box, whilst the mother and the other daughters went in a covered

hired carriage, driven by the Judge himself. On the return, the same

arrangement was to be observed, with the difference of Jacobi driving

the large carriage, and Henrik driving his sisters.

The mother, and even the young gentlemen, declared with becoming

discretion that they would not confide the reins to less skilful hands,

because the road was rough and hilly, and moreover bad from rain.

Notwithstanding all this, however, Jacobi intrigued so that, contrary to

the established arrangement, he mounted the coach-box of the young

ladies, and Henrik that of his mother. But the Candidate had not much

pleasure from so doing, since "the object" was no longer such as she was

during the drive thither. At that time she was more cheerful than

common; rejoiced so heartily over the spring air, over the song of the

lark; over fields, and cows, and cottages, and over everything that she

saw, communicating all her delight to Jacobi, who sate all the way on

the driving-box with his face turned towards the carriage (Henrik

solemnly advised him to fix himself in this reversed position), and

their blue eyes then rested on each other with a spring of pure

devotion. Now, everything was otherwise: "the object" appeared to give

attention to nothing. She leaned back in the carriage with her veil over

her face, and a cathedral is far more conversable than she; for it

speaks through the tongue in its tower, but Louise's tongue was

perfectly dumb, and Petrea's, which once never ceased, enlivened her

not. In vain Jacobi sought to catch Louise's eye. She avoided him, and

he was quite cast down.

After having been many times most properly jogged and shaken, they

arrived fortunately at the wayside inn; yet no! not so fortunately

either, one of the carriage-wheels was discovered to be somewhat broken:

it was not dangerously so, oh no, heaven forbid that! but it must of

necessity be mended before they could proceed further. Henrik prayed his

mother and sisters while this was doing to alight and enter the inn, the

host and hostess of which now stood at the door, and with bows and

curtseys besought the travellers to enter. The host came himself and

opened the carriage-doors. Elise was startled, and uttered an

exclamation of surprise;--the host really and truly must be her husband;

and the hostess, the very prettiest hostess in the world, was bodily her

daughter Eva! The travelling daughters, too, were as much astonished,

made all kinds of exclamations, and recognised in host and hostess

father and sister. But neither host nor hostess were confounded, nor

allowed themselves to be confused by the confusion of the travellers;

they knew themselves too well who they were, and knew, too, how to

conduct themselves in their office. They led their guests, with many

apologies and politenesses, up to two large and handsome rooms, and here

the host, quite in despair, began to bustle about, and to summon both

maid and waiter. At last the waiter came in his blue apron. A new

miracle! He was a living image of the Candidate! And now came the maid.

A new amazement! A handsomer person, or one that more nearly resembled

Henrik it would have been impossible to find! But she went about

clumsily, and had nearly fallen down, stumbling first with this, and

then with that. The host scolded her vehemently on account of her

clumsiness, and scolded the waiter also till he made them both cry, at

least so it seemed; whereupon he chased them both out with the order to

return instantly with refreshments. The host, now again in brilliant,

excellent, polite humour, let fly with his own hand the corks of two

champagne bottles, poured out, and drank with the ladies. After they had

refreshed themselves with all kinds of delicious eating, amid the most

lively conversation, some person, who called himself Noah's grandson,

was announced, requesting permission to exhibit to the company various

strange animals and other beautiful curiosities, which had been found in

the ark. The grandson of Noah was called in by a great majority of

voices, and a face presented itself at the door which, with the

exception of a certain grey beard, bore a great resemblance to Jeremias

Munter. His menagerie, and his cabinet of art, were set out in another

room, into which the company were conducted; and there many

strangely-formed creatures were exhibited, and little scenes

represented, to which Noah's grandson gave explanations and made

speeches which were almost as humorous and witty (to be quite so was

impossible) as those of Japhet, in that wonderful and exquisite book,

"Noah's Ark."[12] Two other grandsons of Noah, who bore no resemblance to

any acquaintance of the family, assisted at this exhibition, at the end

of which Noah's learned grandson gave to each of the spectators a little

souvenir from the contents of the ark, and that with so much tact, that

every one received precisely the thing which gave him pleasure. Louise,

moreover, received a remarkable sermon, which was preached by Father

Noah himself on the first Sunday of his abode in the ark. But near the

title-page of this same sermon she found a piece of poetry which

evidently bore a later date. Louise did not, however, read it then, but

blushing very deeply, put it carefully by.

The whole affair might have been as merry as it was droll, had not

Louise--herself the most important person in the entertainment--been in

no state of mind to enjoy it. But although she used her utmost endeavour

to take part in all the diversion, and to appear cheerful, she became

every moment more depressed; and when at last the ices came, and the

waiter, with the utmost cordiality beaming from his eyes, urged her to

take a vanilla-ice, she was only just able to taste it, upon which she

set it down, rushed out of the room, and burst into a convulsive fit of

weeping. This was a thing so unusual with Louise, that it occasioned a

general perplexity. Host, hostess, maid, waiter, Noah's grandson, all

threw off their characters; and all illusion, as well as all reality of

festivity, were at an end. It is true that Louise composed herself

speedily, besought pardon, and assigned as the cause of her emotion

sudden spasm in the chest. Elise and Eva, and more particularly Petrea,

endeavoured, on account of Henrik and Jacobi, to jest back again the

former merriment, but it would not come, and nothing more could succeed.

Everybody, but more especially Jacobi, were out of tune, and they now

began to speak of returning home.

But now all at once the heavy trampling of horses, and a bustle at the

inn door was heard, and at the same moment a splendid landau, drawn by

four prancing bays, drew up before it. It was the Landed-proprietor,

who, unacquainted with returning there after a short absence, and who

had drawn up at this inn for a moment's breathing-time for his horses,

and to order for himself a glass of the beer for which the place was

renowned. The company which he here so unexpectedly encountered

occasioned an alteration in his first plan. He determined to accompany

the family to the city, and besought his aunt and cousins to make use of

his landau. It would certainly please them so much; it went with such

unexampled ease; was so comfortable that one could sleep therein with

perfect convenience even on the heaviest roads, etc., etc. Elise, who

really had suffered from the merciless shaking of the hired carriage,

was inclined to accept the offer; and as it immediately began to rain,

and as the Judge preferred the carriage to the chaise in which he had

driven with Eva, the affair was quickly arranged. Elise and some of the

daughters were to go in the landau, which was turned in the mean time

into a coach; and the Judge and the rest of the company were to divide

themselves among the other carriages. As these were ready to receive the

company, Jacobi drove his Medewi-carriage close on the landau of the

Landed-proprietor, who looked more than once with a dark countenance to

see whether any profane or injurious contact had taken place between the

great and the little carriage.

Jacobi's heart beat violently as Louise came out on the steps of the inn

door. The Landed-proprietor stood on one side offering her his hand, and

Jacobi on the other offering his also, to conduct her to her former

seat. She appeared faint, and moved slowly. She hesitated for one

moment, and then gave, with downcast eyes, her hand to the

Landed-proprietor, who assisted her triumphantly into the carriage to

her mother, and mounting the box himself, away the next moment dashed

the landau with its four prancing bays. Jacobi laid his hand on his

heart, a choking sensation seemed to deprive him of breath, and with

tears in his eyes he watched the handsome departing carriage. He was

roused out of his painful observations by the voice of Petrea, who

jestingly announced to him that the enviable happiness awaited him of

driving herself and the Assessor in the Medewi-carriage. He took his

former seat in silence; his heart was full of disquiet; and

intentionally he remained far behind the others, in order that he might

not have the least glimpse of the landau.

Scarcely had the Medewi-carriage again made acquaintance with the ruts

of the road, than a violent shock brought off one of the fore wheels,

and the Candidate, Petrea, and the Assessor, were tumbled one over the

other into the mud. Quickly, however, they were all three once again on

their feet; Petrea laughing, and the Assessor scolding and fuming. When

Jacobi had discovered that all which had life was unhurt, he looked

lightly on the affair, and began to think how best it might be remedied.

A short council was held in the rain, and it was concluded that Jacobi

should remain with the carriage till some one came to his assistance,

and that in the mean time Petrea and the Assessor should make the best

of their way on foot towards the city, and send, as soon as possible,

some people to his help. A labourer, who came by immediately afterwards,

promised to do the same, and Petrea and Assessor Munter, who, however,

was anything but consistent with his name, began their walk through rain

and mud. All this while, however, Petrea became more joyful and happy:

firstly, all this was an adventure for her; secondly, she never before

had been out in such weather; thirdly, she felt herself so light and

unencumbered as she scarcely ever had done before; and because she

looked upon her clothes as given up to fate--to a power against which

none other on earth could contend, she walked on in joy of heart,

splashing through the puddles, and feeling with great delight how the

rain penetrated her dress, and seeing how the colour was washed away

both from shawl and bonnet. She held her nose high in the air, in order

to enjoy the glorious rain.

Petrea had in all this a resemblance to her brother, and flattered

herself also that she might have some resemblance to Diogenes; and as

her inclination lay towards extremes, she would very willingly be

Diogenes, since she could not, as she very well knew, be Alexander. Now

she perceived that in reality she needed very little of outward comforts

to make her happy; she felt herself in her adverse circumstances so free

and rich; she had become on thee-and-thou terms with the rain-drops,

with the wind, with the shrubs and grass, with all nature in short; she

had not here the mishaps and the humiliations to fear which annoyed her

so often in company. If the magpies laughed at her, she laughed at them

in return. Long life to freedom!

With all these feelings, Petrea got into such excessively high spirits,

that she infected therewith her companions in misfortune; or, according

to her vocabulary, good fortune. But now, however, came on a horrible

tempest, with hail, whose great stones made themselves _thou_ to such a

degree with Petrea's nose as astonished and almost offended her. The

Assessor looked out for shelter; and Petrea, quite charmed that she was

nearly blown away, followed him along a narrow footpath that led into

the wood, onward in the direction of a smoke, which, driven towards them

by the storm, seemed to announce that a hospitable hut was at hand where

they might obtain shelter from the tempest. Whilst they were wandering

about to discover this, Petrea's fancy, more unrestrained than the

storm, busied itself with unbounded creations of robbers' castles, wise

hermits, hidden treasures, and other splendours, to which the smoke was

to conduct her. But ah! they were altogether built up of smoke, since it

arose from no other than a charcoal-burner's kiln, and Petrea had not

the smallest desire to make a nearer acquaintance with the hidden

divinity of which this smoke was the evidence. The small hut of the

charcoal-burner, in the form of a sugar-loaf, stood not far from the

kiln, the unbolted door of which was opened by the Assessor. No hermit,

nor even robber, had his abode therein; the hut was empty, but clean and

compact, and it was with no little pleasure that the Assessor took

possession of it, and seated himself with Petrea on the only bench which

it possessed. Petrea sighed. What a miserable metamorphosis of her

glorious castle in the air!

The prospect which the open door of the hut presented, and which had no

interest for Petrea, appeared, on the contrary, captivating to her

companion. He was there deep in the wood, in a solitude wild, but still

of an elevating character. The hut stood in an open space, but round

about it various species of pine-trees stood boldly grouped, and bowed

themselves not before the storm which howled in their tops. Several lay

fallen on the ground, but evidently from age; grass and flowers grew on

the earth, which these patriarchs of the wood had torn up with their

powerful roots. Among others, two tall pine-trees stood together: the

one was decayed, and seemed about to separate itself from its root; but

the other, young, green, and strong, had so entwined it in its

branches, that it stood upright, mingling its withered arms with the

verdure of the other, and yielding not, although shook by the tempest.

The expressive glance of the Assessor rested long on these trees; his

eyes filled with tears; his peculiar, beautiful, but melancholy smile

played about his lips, and kindly sentiments seemed to fill his breast.

He spoke to Petrea of a people of antiquity who dwelt in deserts; he

spoke of the pure condition of the Essenes, a morning dawn of

Christendom, and his words ran thus:

"A thirst after holiness drove men and women out of the tumult of the

world, out of great cities, into desert places, in order that they might

dedicate themselves to a pure and perfect life. There they built for

themselves huts, and formed a state, whose law was labour and devotion

to God. No earthly possession was enjoyed merely on account of pleasure,

but only as the means of a higher life. They strove after purity in soul

and body; tranquillity and seriousness characterised their demeanour.

They assembled together at sunrise, and lifted up hymns and prayers to

the Supreme Being. Seventeen hours of each day were devoted to labour,

study, and contemplation. Their wants were few, and therefore life was

easy. Their discourse was elevated, and was occupied by subjects of the

sublime learning which belonged to their sect. They believed on one

Eternal God, whose existence was light and purity. They sought to

approach him by purity of heart and action, by renunciation of the

pleasures of the world, and by humility of heart and mind to understand

the works of the allwise Creator. They believed in quiet abodes on the

other side of the desert pilgrimage, where clear waters ran and soft

winds blew, where spring and peace had their home; there they hoped to

arrive at the end of their journey through life."

There is no want of rays of light on earth; they penetrate its misty

atmosphere in manifold directions, although human perception is not as

much aware of them at one time as at another. The words of the Assessor

made at this moment an indescribable impression on Petrea. She wept from

the sweet emotion excited by the description of a condition which was so

perfect, and of endeavours which were so holy. It appeared to her as if

she knew her own vocation, her own path through life; one which would

release her soul from all trifles, all vanities, all disquiets, and

which would speed her on to light and peace. Whilst these thoughts, or

rather sentiments, swelled in her breast, she looked through her tears

on her companion, as he sate there with his expressive countenance and

his large beautiful eyes fixed on the scene before him, and she saw in

him, not Jeremias Munter, but a wise hermit, with a soul full of sublime

and holy knowledge. She longed to throw herself at his feet, and beseech

his blessing; to propose to him that he should remain in this solitude,

in this hut, with her; that he should teach her wisdom; and she would

wait upon him as a daughter, or as a servant, would rise with him and

pray at sunrise, and do in all things like the Essenes. Thus would they

die to the world, and live only for heaven.

Overpowered by her excited feelings, surrendered to the transports of

the moment, and nearly choked with tears, Petrea sank on the breast of

Jeremias, stammering forth her undefined wishes.

If a millstone had fallen round his neck, our good Assessor could not

have been more confounded than he was at that moment. Deeply sunk in his

own thoughts, he had quite forgotten that Petrea was there, till

reminded of her presence in this unexpected manner. But he was a man,

nevertheless, who could easily understand the excitement of mind in a

young girl, and with a pure fervour of eye, whilst a good-humoured

satire played about his mouth, he endeavoured to tranquillise her

over-wrought feelings. Beautiful, then, was the discourse he held with

her on all that which calms and sanctifies life; on all that on which

man may found his abode whether in the desert or in the human crowd. He

spoke words then which Petrea never forgot, and which often, in a future

day, broke the chaotic state of her soul like beams of pure light.

In the mean time the tempest had dispersed itself, and the Assessor

began to think of a return; for Petrea thought nothing about it, but

would willingly have seen herself compelled to pass the night in the

gloomy wood. But now the thought of relating her adventures at home

attracted her, and before she got out of the wood these adventures were

increased, since fate presented her with the good fortune of assisting,

with the help of her companion, an old woman, who had fallen with her

bundle of sticks, upon her legs again, and of carrying the said bundle

to her cottage, and of lighting her fire for her; with releasing two

sparrows which a boy had made captive; and, last of all, with releasing

the Assessor himself from a thorn-bush, which, as it appeared, would

have held him with such force as vexed even himself. Petrea's hands bled

in consequence of this operation, but that only made her the livelier.

When they came out of the wood, the rain had ceased altogether, the wind

had abated, and the setting sun illumined the heavens, and diffused over

the landscape a peculiar and beautiful radiance. The countenance of

Jeremias Munter was cheerful; he listened to the ascending song of the

lark, and said, "That is beautiful!" He looked upon the rain-drops which

hung on the young grass, and saw how heaven reflected itself in them,

and smiled, and said, "That is pure indeed!" Petrea gave to little

children that she met with all her savings from the feast at Axelholm,

and would willingly also have given them some of her clothes, had she

not had the fear of Louise and her mother before her eyes. She wished in

her bravery for more adventures, and more particularly for a longer way

than it at this time appeared to be; she thought she arrived at home too

soon; but the Assessor thought not, neither did the rest of the party,

who were beginning to be very uneasy on account of their long absence.

In the mean time Petrea and her companion had become very good friends

on the walk; Petrea was complimented for her courage, and Henrik

pathetically declaimed in her praise--

Not every one such height as Xenophon can gain,

As scholar and as hero, a laurel-wreath obtain;

and they laughed.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] half-dramatic poem, remarkable for its wit and humour, from the pen

of the Swedish poet Fahlcrantz.

CHAPTER X.

FIRESIDE SCENES.

"From home may be good, but at home is best!" said Elise from the bottom

of her heart, as she was once more in her own house, and beside her own

husband.

The young people said nothing in opposition to this sentiment as they

returned to their comfortable every-day life, which they now enlivened

with recollections and relations out of the lately-past time. They hoped

that Louise would become pleasant and contented with her calm activity

in the house and family as formerly, but it was not so; a gnawing pain

seemed to consume her; she became perceptibly thinner; her good humour

had vanished, and her eyes were often red with weeping. In vain her

parents and sisters endeavoured, with the tenderest anxiety, to fathom

the occasion of the change; she would confess it to no one. That the

root of her grief lay at her heart she would not deny, but she appeared

determined to conceal it from the eye of day. Jacobi also began to look

pale and thin, since he lamented deeply her state of feeling, and her

altered behaviour, especially towards himself, which led him to the

belief that he unconsciously had wounded her, or in some other way that

he was the cause of her displeasure; and never had he felt more than now

what a high value he set upon her, nor how much he loved her. This

tension of mind, and his anxiety to approach Louise, and bring back a

friendly understanding between them, occasioned various little scenes,

which we will here describe.

FIRST SCENE.

Louise sits by the window at her embroidery-frame: Jacobi seats himself

opposite to her.

Jacobi (sighing). Ah, Mamselle Louise!

Louise looks at her shepherdess, and works on in silence.

Jacobi. Everything in the world has appeared to me for some time

wearisome and oppressive.

Louise works on, and is silent.

Jacobi. And you could so easily make all so different. Ah, Louise! only

one kind word, one friendly glance!--Cannot you bestow one friendly

glance on him who would gladly give everything to see you happy?

[_Aside._ She blushes--she seems moved--she is going to speak! Ah, what

will she say to me!]

Louise. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten

stitches to the nose--the pattern is here not very distinct.

Jacobi. You will not hear me, will not understand me; you play with my

distress! Ah, Louise!

Louise. I want some more wool;--I have left it in my room. [She goes.]

SECOND SCENE.

The family is assembled in the library; tea is just finished. Louise, at

Petrea's and Gabriele's urgent request, has laid out the cards on a

little table to tell them their fortunes. The Candidate seats himself

near them, and appears determined to amuse himself with them, and to be

lively; but "the object" assumes all the more her "cathedral air." The

Landed-proprietor steps in, bows, snorts, and kisses the hand of the

"gracious aunt."

Landed-proprietor. Very cold this evening; I fancy we shall have frost.

Elise. It is a gloomy spring. We have lately read a most affecting

account of the famine in the northern provinces. It is the misfortune of

these late springs.

Landed-proprietor. Oh, yes, the famine up there. No, we'll talk of

something else--that's too gloomy. I've had my peas covered with straw.

Cousin Louise, are you fond of playing Patience? I am very fond of it

too; it is so composing. At my seat at Oestanvik I have little, little

patience-cards. I fancy really that they would please my cousin.

The Landed-proprietor seats himself on the other side of Louise: the

Candidate gives some extraordinary shrugs.

Louise. This is not patience, but a little witchcraft, by which I read

Fate. Shall I prophesy to you, Cousin Thure?

Landed-proprietor. Oh, yes! prophesy something to me. Nothing

disagreeable! If I hear anything disagreeable in an evening, I always

have bad dreams at night. Prophesy me prettily--a little wife--a wife as

lovely and as amiable as Cousin Louise.

The Candidate (with a look as if he would send the Landed-proprietor

head-over-heels to Oestanvik). I don't know whether Mamselle Louise

likes flattery.

Landed-proprietor (who seems as if he neither heard nor saw his rival).

Cousin Louise, are you fond of blue?

Louise. Blue? That is truly a lovely colour; but yet I prefer green.

Landed-proprietor.. Nay, that is good! that is excellent! At Oestanvik

my dressing-room furniture is blue, beautiful light blue silk damask;

but in my sleeping-room I have green moreen. I fancy really, Cousin

Louise, that----

The Candidate coughs, and then rushes out of the room. Louise looks

after him, sighs, and then examines the cards, in which she finds so

many misfortunes for Cousin Thure that he is quite terrified: the peas

frosted, conflagration in the dressing-room, and last of all a

rejection! The Landed-proprietor declares, notwithstanding, that he

finds nothing of this unpleasant. The sisters smile, and make remarks.

THIRD SCENE.

The family assembled after supper:

The Assessor puts the question--What is the bitterest affliction?

Jacobi. Unreturned love.

Petrea. Not to know what one shall be.

Eva. To have offended some one that one loves beyond reconciliation.

The Mother. I am of Eva's opinion; I think nothing can be more painful.

Louise. Ah! there is yet something more painful than that--something

more bitter--and that is to lose one's faith in those whom one has

loved; to doubt--(Louise's lip trembles, she can say no more, becomes

pale, rises, and goes out quickly; a general sensation ensues).

The Father. What is amiss with Louise? Elise, we must know what it is!

She should, she must tell us! I cannot bear any longer to see her thus;

and I will go this moment and speak with her, if you will not rather do

it. But you must not be satisfied till you know her very inmost

feelings. The most horrible thing, I think, is mystery and vapours!

The Mother. I will go directly to her. I have now an idea what it is,

dearest Ernst; and if I am somewhat long with her, let the others go to

bed; I shall then find you alone. [She goes out.]

FOURTH SCENE.

_The Mother and Daughter._

The daughter on her knees, her face buried in her hands; the mother

goes softly up to her and throws her arms around her.

Mother. Louise, my good girl, what is amiss with you? I have never seen

you thus before. You must tell me what is at your heart--you must!

Louise. I cannot! I ought not!

Mother. You can! you ought! Will you make me, will you make all of us

wretched by going on in this way? Ah, Louise, do not let false shame, or

false tenderness mislead you. Tell me, do you break any oath, or violate

any sacred duty, by confessing what it is which depresses you?

Louise. No oath; no sacred duty--and yet----yet----

Mother. Then speak, in heaven's name, my child! Unquestionably some

unfounded suspicion is the cause of your present state. What do the

words mean with which you left us this evening? You weep! Louise, I

pray, I beseech of you, if you love me, conceal nothing from me! Who is

it that you love, yet can no more have faith in--no longer highly

esteem? Answer me--is it your mother?

Louise. My mother! my mother! Ah, while you look on me thus I feel a

pain, and yet a confidence! Ah, my God! all may be an error--a miserable

slander, and I----Well then, it shall out--that secret which has gnawed

my heart, and which I conceived it my duty to conceal! But forgive me,

my mother, if I grieve you; forgive me if my words disturb your peace;

forgive me, if in my weakness, if in my doubt I have done you injustice,

and remove the grief which has poisoned my life! Ah, do you see, mother,

it was mine, it was my sisters' happiness, to consider you so

spotless--so angelically pure! It was my pride that you were so, and

that you were my mother! And now----

Mother. And now, Louise?

Louise. And now it has been whispered to me----Oh, I cannot speak the

words!

Mother. Speak them--I demand it! I desire it from you! We both stand

before the Judgment-seat of God!

Louise. I have been led to believe that even my mother was not

blameless--that she----

Mother. Go on, Louise!

Louise. That she and Jacobi loved one another--that evil tongues had not

blamed them without cause, and that still--I despised these words, I

despised the person who spoke them! I endeavoured to chase these

thoughts as criminal from my soul. On this account it happened that I

went one day to find you--and I found Jacobi on his knee before you--I

heard him speaking of his love. Now you know all, my mother!

Mother. And what is your belief in all this?

Louise. Ah, I know not what I ought to believe! But since that moment

there has been no peace in my soul, and I have fancied that it never

would return--that I should never lose the doubt which I could make

known to no one.

Mother. Let peace return to your soul, my child! Good God! how

unfortunate I should be at this moment if my conscience were not pure!

But, thank heaven, my child, your mother has no such fault to reproach

herself with; and Jacobi deserves your utmost esteem, your utmost

regard. I will entirely and freely confess to you the entire truth of

that which has made you so uneasy. For one moment, when Jacobi first

came to us, a warmer sentiment towards me awoke in his young,

thoughtless heart, and in part it was returned by me. But you will not

condemn me on account of an involuntary feeling which your father looked

on with pardoning eyes. In a blessed hour we opened to each other our

hearts, and it was his love, his strength and gentleness, which gave me

power to overcome my weakness. Jacobi, at the same moment, woke to a

consciousness of his error, struggled against it, and overcame it. We

separated soon after, and it was our mutual wish not to meet again for

several years. In the mean time Henrik was committed to his care, and

Jacobi has been for him an exemplary friend and instructor. Three years

later, when I again met him, I extended my hand to him as a sister; and

he----yes, my dear girl! and I err greatly if he did not then begin in

his heart to love me as a mother. But that which then had its beginning,

has since then had its completion--it was in the character of a son that

you saw him kneel to me; thanking me that I would favour his love to my

daughter--to my Louise, who, therefore, has so unnecessarily conjured up

a spectre to terrify herself and us all.

In the latter part of this conversation the mother spoke in a quiet

jesting tone, which, perhaps, did more even than her simple explanation

to reassure the heart of her daughter. She pressed her hands on her

heart, and looked thankfully up to heaven.

"And if," continued her mother, "you yet entertain any doubt, talk with

your father, talk with Jacobi, and their words will strengthen mine. But

I see you need it not--your heart, my child, is again at peace!"

"Ah, thank God! thank God!" exclaimed Louise, sinking on her knees

before her mother, and covering her hands and even her dress with

kisses. "Oh, that I dared look up again to you, my mother! Oh, can you

forgive my being so weak: my being so easy of belief? Never, never shall

I forgive myself!"

Louise was out of herself, her whole frame trembled violently; she had

never before been in a state of such agitation. Her mother was obliged

to apply remedies both for mind and body, tender words and soothing

drops--to tranquillise her excited state. She besought her therefore to

go to rest, seated herself beside her bed, took her hands in hers, and

then attempted to divert her mind from the past scene, endeavouring with

the utmost delicacy to turn her mind on the Candidate and on the

Landed-proprietor as lovers. But Louise had only one thought, one

sentiment--the happy release from her doubt, and thankfulness for it.

When her mother saw that she was calmer, she embraced her, "And now go

to sleep, my dear girl," said she; "I must now leave you, in order to

hasten to one who waits impatiently for me, and that is your father. He

has been extremely uneasy on your account, and I can now make him easy

by candidly communicating all that has passed between us. For the rest I

can assure you that you have said nothing that can make us uneasy. That

I was calumniated by one person, and am so still, he knows as well as I

do. He has assisted me to bear it calmly, he is truly so superior, so

excellent! Ah, Louise, it is a great blessing when husband and wife,

parents and children, cherish an entire confidence in each other! It is

so beautiful, so glorious, to be able to say everything to each other in

love!"

FIFTH SCENE.

The garden. It is morning! the larks sing, the jonquils fill the air

with odour; the bird's cherry-tree waves in the morning breeze; the

cherry blossoms open themselves to the bees which hum about in their

bosom. The sun shines on all its children.

Louise is walking in the middle alley, Father Noah's sermon in her hand,

but with her eyes fixed on the little poem appended to it, which by no

means had anything to do with Father Noah. The Candidate comes towards

her from a cross walk, with a gloomy air, and with a black pansy in his

hand.

The two meet, and salute each other silently.

Jacobi. Might I speak one moment with you? I will not detain you long.

Louise bows her head, is silent, and blushes.

Jacobi. In an hour's time I shall take my departure, but I must beseech

of you to answer me one question before I say farewell to you!

Louise. You going! Where? Why?

Jacobi. Where, is indifferent to me, so that I leave this place; why,

because I cannot bear the unkindness of one person who is dear to me,

and who, I once thought, cherished a friendship for me! For fourteen

days you have behaved in such a way to me as has embittered my life; and

why? Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you, or to excite your

displeasure? Why then delay explaining the cause to me? Is it right to

sentence any one unheard, and that one a friend--a friend from

childhood? Is it right--pardon me, Louise--is it Christian, to be so

severe, so immovable? In the sermons which you are so fond of rending,

do you find nothing said of kindness and reconciliation!

Jacobi spoke with a fervour, and with such an almost severe seriousness,

as was quite foreign to his gentle and cheerful spirit.

"I have done wrong," replied Louise, with a deep emotion, "very wrong,

but I have been misled; at some future time, perhaps, I may tell you

how. Since last evening, I know how deceived I have been, how I have

deceived myself; and now God be thanked and praised, I know that nobody

is to blame in this affair but myself. I have much, very much, to

reproach myself with, on account of my reserve towards my own family,

and towards you also. Forgive me, best Jacobi," continued she, offering

her hand with almost humility; "forgive me, I have been very unkind to

you; but believe me," added she, "neither have I been happy either!"

"Thanks! thanks, Louise!" exclaimed Jacobi, grasping her hand, and

pressing it to his breast and to his lips; "oh, how happy this kindness

makes me! Now I can breathe again! Now I can leave you with a cheerful

heart!"

"But why will you leave us?" asked she, in a half-discontented tone.

"Because," answered Jacobi, "it would not give me pleasure to witness a

betrothal which will soon be celebrated; because, from your late

behaviour, I must be convinced you cannot entertain any warmer

sentiments towards me."

"If that were the case," replied she, in the same tone as before, "I

should not have been depressed so long."

"How!" exclaimed Jacobi, joyfully. "Ah, Louise, what words! what bold

hopes may they not excite! Might I mention them to you? might I venture

to say to you what I some time have thought, and still now think?"

Louise was silent, and Jacobi continued:

"I have thought," said he, "that the humble, unprovided-for Jacobi could

offer you a better fortune than your rich neighbour of Oestanvik. I have

hoped that my love, the true dedication of my whole life, might make you

happy; that a smaller portion of worldly wealth might satisfy you, if it

were offered you by a man who know deeply your worth, and who desired

nothing better than to be ennobled by your hand. Oh, if this beloved

hand would guide me through life, how bright, how peaceful would not

life be! I should fear neither adversity nor temptation! and how should

I not endeavour to be grateful to Providence for his goodness to me! Ah,

Louise! it is thus that I have thought, and fancied, and dreamed! Oh,

tell me, was it only a dream, or may not the dream become a reality?"

Louise did not withdraw the hand which he had taken, but looked upon the

speaker with infinite kindness.

"One word," besought Jacobi, "only one word! Might I say _my_ Louise?

Louise--mine?"

"Speak with my parents," said Louise, deeply blushing, and turning aside

her head.

"My Louise!" exclaimed Jacobi, and, intoxicated with tenderness and joy,

pressed her to his heart.

"Think of my parents," said Louise, gently pushing him back; "without

their consent I will make no promise. Their answer shall decide me."

"We will hasten together, my Louise," said he, "and desire their

blessing."

"Go alone, dear Jacobi," said Louise. "I do not feel myself calm enough,

nor strong enough. I will wait your return here."

* * * * *

With this fifth scene we conjecture that the little drama has arrived at

the desired conclusion, and therefore we add no further scene to that

which naturally follows.

As the Candidate hastened with lover's speed to Louise's parents he

struck hard against somebody in the doorway, who was coming out. The two

opponents stepped back each a few paces, and the Candidate and the

Landed-proprietor stared in astonishment on each other.

"Pardon me," said the Candidate, and was advancing; but the

Landed-proprietor held him back, whilst he inquired with great

earnestness, and with a self-satisfied smile, "Hear you, my friend: can

you tell me whether Cousin Louise is in the garden? I came this moment

from her parents, and would now speak with her. Can you tell me where

she is?"

"I--I don't know!" said Jacobi, releasing himself, and hastening with a

secret anxiety of mind up to her parents.

In the mean time the Landed-proprietor had caught a glimpse of "Cousin

Louise's" person in the garden, and hastened up to her.

It was, in fact, no surprise to Louise, when, after all the preliminary

questions, "Cousin, do you like fish? do you like birds?" there came at

last the principal question, "Cousin, do you like me?"

To this question, it is true, she gave a somewhat less blunt, but

nevertheless a decided negative reply, although it was gilded over with

"esteem and friendship."

The Candidate, on his side, in the fulness and warmth of his heart, laid

open to Louise's parents his love, his wishes, and his hopes. It is true

that Jacobi was now without any office, as well as without any property;

but he had many expectations, and amid these, like a sun and a support,

his Excellency O----. The Judge was himself no friend to such supports,

and Elise did not approve of long engagements: but then both of them

loved Jacobi; both of them wished, above all things, the true happiness

and well-being of their daughter; and so it happened that, after much

counsel, and after Louise had been questioned by her parents, and they

found that she had sincerely the same wishes as Jacobi, and that she

believed she should be happy with him, and after Jacobi had combated

with great fervency and effect every postponement of the

betrothal--that, after all this had been brought to a fortunate issue,

he received a formal yes, and he and Louise, on the afternoon of the

same day, whose morning sun had seen their explanation, were betrothed.

Jacobi was beyond description happy; Louise tranquil but gentle. Henrik

declared that her Majesty appeared too merciful. Perhaps all this

proceeded from her thoughts being already occupied with the increasing

and arranging of Jacobi's wardrobe. She began already to think about

putting in hand a fine piece of linen-weaving. She actually had

consented to the quick betrothal, principally, as she herself confessed

to Eva, "in order to have him better under her hands."

Good reader--and if thou art a Candidate, good Candidate--pardon "our

eldest" if she gave her consent somewhat in mercy. We can assure thee,

that our Jacobi was no worse off on that account; so he himself seemed

to think, and his joy and cordiality seemed to have great influence in

banishing "the cathedral" out of Louise's demeanour.

This view of the connexion, and the hearty joy which Louise's brother

and sisters expressed over this betrothal, and which proved how beloved

Jacobi was by them all, smoothed the wrinkles from the brow of the

Judge, and let Elise's heart feel the sweetest satisfaction. Henrik,

especially, declared loudly his delight in having his beloved friend and

instructor for a brother-in-law--an actual brother.

"And now listen, brother-in-law," said he, fixing his large eyes on

Louise; "assume your rights as master of the house properly, brother

dear; and don't let the slippers be master of the house. If you marry a

queen, you must be king, you understand that very well, and must take

care of your majesty; and if she look like a cathedral, why then do you

look like the last judgment, and thunder accordingly! You laugh; but

you must not receive my advice so lightly, but lay it seriously to

heart, and----but, dear friend, shall we not have a little bowl this

evening? shall we not, mamma dear? Yes, certainly we will! I shall have

the honour of mixing it myself. Shall we not drink the health of your

majesties? I shall mix a bowl--sugar and oranges!--a bowl! a bowl!"

With this exclamation Henrik rushed with outstretched arms to the door,

which at that moment opened, and he embraced the worthy Mrs. Gunilla.

"He! thou--good heaven! Best-beloved!" exclaimed she, "he, he, he, he!

what is up here? He never thought, did he, that he should take the old

woman in his arms! he, he, he, he!"

Henrik excused himself in the most reverential and cordial manner,

explained the cause of his ecstasy, and introduced to her the

newly-betrothed. Mrs. Gunilla at first was astonished, and then affected

to tears. She embraced Elise, and then Louise, and Jacobi also. "God

bless you!" said she, with all her beautiful quiet cordiality, and then,

somewhat pale, seated herself silently on the sofa, and seemed to be

thinking sorrowfully how often anxious, dispiriting days succeed the

cheerful morning of a betrothal. Whether it was from these thoughts, or

that Mrs. Gunilla really felt herself unwell, we know not, but she

became paler and paler. Gabriele went out to fetch her a glass of water,

and as she opened the door ran against the Assessor, who was just then

entering.

With a little cry of surprise she recovered from this unexpected shock.

He looked at her with an astonished countenance, and the next moment was

surrounded by the other young people.

"Now, see, see! what is all this?" exclaimed he; "why do you overwhelm

me thus? Cannot one move any longer in peace? I am not going to dance,

Monsieur Henricus! Do not split my ears, Miss Petrea! What? betrothed!

What? Who? Our eldest? Body and bones! let me sit down and take a pinch

of snuff. Our eldest betrothed! that is dreadful! Usch!--usch! that is

quite frightful! uh, uh, uh, uh! that is actually horrible! Hu, u, u,

hu!"

The Assessor took snuff, and blew his nose for a good while, during

which the family, who knew his way so well, laughed heartily, with the

exception of Louise, who reddened, and was almost angry at his

exclamations, especially at that of horrible.

"Nay," said he, rising up and restoring the snuff-box again to his

pocket, "one must be contented with what cannot be helped. What is

written is written. And, as the Scripture says, blessed are they who

increase and multiply the incorrigible human race, so, in heaven's name,

good luck to you! Good luck and blessing, dear human beings!" And thus

saying, he heartily shook the hands of Jacobi and Louise, who returned

his hand-pressure with kindness, although not quite satisfied with the

form of his good wishes.

"Never in all my life," said Henrik, "did I hear a less cheerful

congratulation. Mrs. Gunilla and good Uncle Munter to-day might be in

melancholy humour: but now they are sitting down by each other, and we

may hope that after they have had a comfortable quarrel together, they

will cheer up a little."

But no; no quarrel ensued this evening between the two. The Assessor had

tidings to announce to her which appeared difficult for him to

communicate, and which filled her eyes with tears--Pyrrhus was dead!

"He was yesterday quite well," said the Assessor, "and licked my hand as

I bade him good night. To-day he took his morning coffee with a good

appetite, and then lay down on his cushion to sleep. As I returned home,

well pleased to think of playing with my little comrade, he lay dead on

his cushion!"

Mrs. Gunilla and he talked for a long time about the little favourite,

and appeared in consequence to become very good friends.

Jeremias Munter was this evening in a more censorious humour than

common. His eyes rested with a sad expression on the newly betrothed.

"Yes," said he, as if speaking to himself, "if one had only confidence

in oneself; if one was only clear as to one's own motives--then one

might have some ground to hope that one could make another happy, and

could be happy with them."

"One must know oneself thus well, so far," said Louise, not without a

degree of confidence, "that one can be certain of doing so, before one

would voluntarily unite one's fate with that of another."

"_Thus well!_" returned he, warmly. "Yes, prosit! Who knows thus well?

You do not, dear sister, that I can assure you. Ah!" continued he, with

bitter melancholy, "one may be horribly deceived in oneself, and by

oneself, in this life. There is no one in this world who, if he rightly

understand himself, has not to deplore some infidelity to his

friend--his love--his better self! The self-love, the miserable egotism

of human nature, where is there a corner that it does not slide into?

The wretched little _I_, how it thrusts itself forward! how thoughts of

self, designs for self, blot actions which otherwise might be called

good!"

"Do you then acknowledge no virtue? Is there, then, no magnanimity, no

excellence, which you can admire?" asked some one. "Does not history

show us----"

"History!" interrupted he, "don't speak of history--don't bring it

forward! No, if I am to believe in virtue, it is such as history cannot

meddle with or understand; it is only in that which plays no great part

in the world, which never, never could have been applauded by it, and

which is not acted publicly. Of this kind it is possible that something

entirely beautiful, something perfectly pure and holy, might be found. I

will believe in it, although I do not discover it in myself. I have

examined my own soul, and can find nothing pure in it; but that it _may_

be found in others, I believe. My heart swells with the thought that

there may exist perfectly pure and unselfish virtue. Good heaven, how

beautiful it is! And wherever such a soul may be found in the world, be

it in palace or in hut, in gold or in rags, in man or in woman, which,

shunning the praise of the world, fearing the flattery of its own heart,

fulfils unobserved and with honest zeal its duties, however difficult

they may be, and which labours and prays in secrecy and stillness--such

a being I admire and love, and set high above all the Caesars and Ciceros

of the world!"

During this speech the Judge, who had silently risen from his seat,

approached his wife, laid his hand gently on her shoulder, and looked

round upon his children with glistening eyes.

"Our time," continued the Assessor, with what was an extraordinary

enthusiasm for him, "understands but very little this greatness. It

praises itself loudly, and on that account it is the less worthy of

praise. Everybody will be remarkable, or at least will appear so.

Everybody steps forward and shouts I! I! Women even do not any longer

understand the nobility of their incognito; they also come forth into

notoriety, and shout out their _I!_ Scarcely anybody will say, from the

feeling of their own hearts, _Thou!_--and yet it is this same _Thou_

which occasions man to forget that selfish _I_, and in which lies his

purest part; his best happiness! To be sure it may seem grand, it may be

quite ecstatic, even if it be only for a moment, to fill the world with

one's name; but as, in long-past times, millions and millions of men

united themselves to build a temple to the Supreme, and then themselves

sank silently, namelessly, to the dust, having only inscribed His name

and His glory; certainly that was greater, that was far worthier!"

"You talk like King Solomon himself, Uncle Munter!" exclaimed Petrea,

quite enraptured. "Ah, you must be an author: you must write a book

of----"

"Write!" interrupted he, "on what account should I write? Only to

increase the miserable vanity of men? Write!--Bah!"

"Every age has its wise men to build up temples," said Henrik, with a

beautiful expression of countenance.

"No!" continued the Assessor, with evident abhorrence, "I will not

write! but I will live! I have dreamed sometimes that I could live----"

He ceased; a singular emotion was expressed in his countenance; he

arose, and took up a book, into which he looked without reading, and

soon after stepped quietly out of the house.

The entertainment in the family this evening was, spite of all that had

gone before, very lively; and the result, which was expressed in jesting

earnestness, was, that every one, in the spirit which the Assessor had

praised, should secretly labour at the temple-building, every one with

his own work-tool, and according to his own strength.

The Judge walked up and down in the room, and took only occasional part

in the entertainment, although he listened to all, and smiled

applaudingly. It seemed as if the Assessor's words had excited a

melancholy feeling in him, and he spoke warmly in praise of his friend.

"There does not exist a purer human soul than his," said he, "and he

has thereby operated very beneficially on me. Many men desire as much

good, and do it also; but few have to the same extent as he the pure

mind, the perfectly noble motive."

"Ah! if one could only make him happier, only make him more satisfied

with life!" said Eva.

"Will you undertake the commission?" whispered Petrea, waggishly.

Rather too audible a kiss suddenly turned all eyes on the Candidate and

Louise; the latter of whom was punishing her lover for his daring by a

highly ungracious and indignant glance, which Henrik declared quite

pulverised him. As they, however, all separated for the night, the

Candidate besought and was permitted, in mercy, a little kiss, as a

token of reconciliation and forgiveness of his offence regarding the

great one.

"My dear girl," said the mother to Louise as the two met, impelled by a

mutual desire to converse together that same night in her boudoir, "how

came Jacobi's wooing about so suddenly? I could not have believed that

it would have been so quickly decided. I am perfectly astonished even

yet that you should be betrothed."

"So am I," replied Louise; "I can hardly conceive how it has happened.

We met one another this morning in the garden; Jacobi was gloomy, and

out of spirits, and had made up his mind to leave us because he fancied

I was about to be betrothed to Cousin Thure. I then besought him to

forgive my late unkindness, and gave him some little idea of my

friendliness towards him; whereupon he spoke to me of his own feelings

and wishes so beautifully, so warmly, and then--then I hardly know how

it was myself, he called me _his_ Louise, and I--told him to go and

speak with my parents."

"And in the mean time," said the mother, "your parents sent another

wooer to their daughter, in order for him to receive from her a yes or

no. Poor Cousin Thure! He seemed to have such certain hope. But I trust

he may soon console himself! But do you know, Louise, of late I have

fancied that Oestanvik and all its splendour might be a little

captivating to you! And now do you really feel that you have had no loss

in rejecting so rich a worldly settlement?"

"Loss!" repeated Louise, "no, not now, certainly; and yet I should say

wrong if I denied that it has had temptations for me; and for that

reason I never would go to Oestanvik, because I knew how improper it

would be if I allowed it to influence me, whilst I never could endure

such a person as Cousin Thure; and, besides that, I liked Jacobi so

much, and had done so for many years! Once, however, the temptation was

very powerful, and that was on our return from Axelholm. As I rode along

in Cousin Thure's easy landau, it seemed to me that it must be very

agreeable to travel through life so comfortably and pleasantly. But at

that time I was very unhappy in myself; life had lost its best worth for

me; my faith in all that I loved most was poisoned! Ah! there arose in

me then such a fearful doubt in all that was good in the world, and I

believed for one moment that it would be best to sleep out life, and

therefore the easy rocking of the landau seemed so excellent. But now,

now is this heavy dream vanished! now life is again bright, and I

clearly see my own way through, it. Now I trouble myself no more about a

landau than I do about a wheelbarrow; nay, I would much rather now that

my whole life should be a working day, for which I could thank God! It

is a delight to work for those whom one highly esteems and loves; and I

desire nothing higher than to be able to live and work for my own

family, and for him who is to-day become my promised husband before

God!"

"God will bless you, my good, pure-hearted girl!" said the mother,

embracing her, and sweet affectionate tears were shed in the still

evening.

CHAPTER XI.

YET MORE WOOING.

Early on the following morning Eva received a nosegay of beautiful

moss-roses, among which was a letter to herself; she tore it open, and

red the following words:

"I have dreamed that I could live; and truly a life more beautiful

and more perfect than any romance makes one dream of. Little Miss

Eva, whom I have so often carried in my arms--good young girl,

whom I would so willingly sustain on my breast through, life, thou

must hear what I have dreamed, what I sometimes still dream.

"I dreamed that I was a rough, unsightly rock, repulsive and

unfruitful. But a heart beat in the rock--a chained heart. It beat

against the walls of its prison till it bled, because it longed to

be abroad in the sunshine, but it could not break its bonds. I

could not free myself from myself. The rock wept because it was so

hard, because it was a prison for its own life. There came a

maiden, a light gentle angel, wandering through the wood, and laid

her warm lily-white hand on the rock, and pressed her pure lips

upon it, breathing a magical word of freedom. The rocky wall

opened itself, and the heart, the poor captive heart, saw the

light! The young girl went into the chamber of the heart, and

called it her home; and suddenly beautiful roses, which diffused

odours around, sprang forth from that happy heart towards its

liberator, whilst the chambers of the heart vaulted itself high

above her into a temple for her, clothing its walls with fresh

foliage and with precious stones, upon which the sunbeams played.

"I awoke from a sense of happiness that was too great to be borne

on earth; I awoke, and ah! the roses were vanished, the lovely

girl was vanished, and I was once again the hard, unsightly, and

joyless rock. But do you see, young maiden, the idea will not

leave me, that those roses which I saw in my dream are hidden in

me; that they may yet bloom, yet rejoice and make happy. The idea

will remain with me that this reserved, melancholy heart might yet

expand itself by an affectionate touch; that there are precious

stones within it, which would beam brightly for those who called

them forth into light.

"Good young maiden, will you not venture on the attempt? Will you

not lay your warm hand on the rock? Will you not breathe softly

upon it? Oh, certainly, certainly under your touch it would

soften--it would bring forth roses for you--it would exalt itself

into a temple for you, a temple full of hymns of thanksgiving,

full of love!

"I know that I am old, old before my time; that I am ugly and

disagreeable, unpleasant, and perhaps ridiculous; but I do not

think that nature intended me to be so. I have gone through life

in such infinite solitude; neither father nor mother, brother nor

sister, have followed my path; no sunshine fell upon my childhood

or my youth; I have wandered solitarily through life, combating

with difficulties. Once I bound myself to a friend--he deserted

me, and thence grew the rock about my heart; thence became my

demeanour severe, unattractive, and rough. Is it to remain so

always? Will my life never bloom upon earth? Will no breath of

heaven call forth my roses?

"Do you fear my melancholy temperament? Oh, you have not seen how

a glance, a word of yours chases every cloud from my brow; not

because you are beautiful, but because you are good and pure. Will

you teach me to be good? I will learn willingly from you! From you

I would learn to love mankind, and to find more good in the world

than I have hitherto done. I will live for you, if not for the

world. By my wish the world should know nothing of me till the

cross upon my grave told 'here rests----'

"Oh, it is beautiful to live nameless under the poisoned glance of

the world; poisoned, whether it praise or blame; beautiful, not to

be polluted by its observation, but more beautiful to be

intimately known to one--to possess one gentle and honest friend,

and that one a wife! Beautiful to be able to look into her pure

soul as in a mirror, and to be aware there of every blot on one's

own soul, and to be able thus to purify it against the day of the

great trial.

"But I speak only of myself and my own happiness. Ah, the

egotist--the cursed egotist! Can I make you happy also, Eva? Is it

not audacity in me to desire--ah, Eva, I love you inexpressibly!

"I leave the egotist in your hand: do with him what you will, he

will still remain

"Yours."

This letter made Eva very anxious and uneasy. She would so willingly

have said yes, and made so good a man happy, but then so many voices

within her said no!

She spoke with her parents, with her brother and sisters. "He is so

good, so excellent!" said she. "Ah, if I could but properly love him!

But I cannot--and then he is so old; and I have no desire to marry; I am

so happy in my own home."

"And do not leave it!" was the unanimous chorus of all the family. The

father, indeed, was actually desperate with all this courtship; and the

mother thought it quite absurd that her blooming Eva and Jeremias Munter

should go together. No one voice spoke for the Assessor but the little

Petrea's, and a silent sigh in Eva's own bosom. The result of all this

consideration was, that Eva wrote with tearful eyes the following answer

to her lover:

"My best, my truly good Friend!

"Ah! do not be angry with me that I cannot become for you that

which you wish. I shall certainly not marry. I am too happy in my

own home for that. Ah! this to be sure is egotistical, but I

cannot do otherwise. Forgive me! I am so very much, so heartily

attached to you; and I should never be happy again if you love not

hitherto as formerly

"Your little "Eva."

In the evening Eva received a beautiful and costly work-box, with the

following lines:

"Yes, yes, I can very well believe that the rough rock would be

appalling. You will not venture to lay your delicate white hand

upon it, little Miss Eva; will not trouble yourself to breathe

warmth upon my poor roses! Let them then remain in their grave!

"I shall now make a journey, nor see you again for a year and a

day. But, good heavens! as you have given me a basket,[13] you

shall receive in return a little box. I bought it for my--bride,

Eva! Yet now, after all, Eva shall have it; shall keep it for my

sake. She may return it when I cease to be

"Her true and devoted Friend."

"Do you think she is sorry for what she has done?" asked the Judge

anxiously from his wife, as he saw Eva's hot tears falling on the

work-box;--"but it cannot be helped. She marry! and that too with

Munter! She is indeed nothing but a child! But that is just the way;

when one has educated one's daughters, and taught them something of good

manners, just when one has begun to have real pleasure in them, that one

must lose them--must let them go to China if the lover chance to be a

Chinese! It is intolerable! It is abominable! I would not wish my worst

enemy the pain of having grown-up daughters. Is not Schwartz already

beginning to draw a circle about Sara? Good gracious! if we should yet

have the plague of another lover!"

FOOTNOTES:

[13] To say that "a gentleman has received a basket," is the same as

saying he is a rejected lover.--M. H.

CHAPTER XII.

MORE COURTSHIP STILL.

Judge Frank had, unknown to himself, spoken a striking word. It was true

that Schwartz had drawn ever narrower and darker circles around Sara,

and at the very time when she would appear free from his influence her

temper became more uncertain and suspicious. The mother, uneasy about

this connexion, no longer allowed her to be alone with him during the

music lesson, and this watchfulness excited Sara's pride, as well as the

grave yet gentle remonstrances which were made on account of her

behaviour were received with much impatience and disregard. The Judge

was the only person before whom Sara did not exhibit the dark side of

her character. His glance, his presence, seemed to exercise a certain

power over her; besides which, she was, perhaps, more beloved by him

than by all the other members of the family, with the exception of

Petrea.

One evening, Sara sate silent by one of the windows in the library,

supporting her beautiful head on her hand. Petrea sate at her feet on a

low stool; she also was silent, but every now and then looked up to Sara

with a tender troubled expression, whilst Sara sometimes looked down

towards her thoughtfully, and almost gloomily.

"Petrea," said she, quickly, "what would you say if I should leave you

suddenly to go into the wide world, and should never return?"

"What should I say?" answered Petrea, with a violent gush of tears: "ah,

I should say nothing at all, but should lie down and die of grief!"

"Do you really love me then so, Petrea?" asked she.

"Do I love you!" returned Petrea; "ah, Sara, if you go away, take me

with you as maid, as servant--I will do everything for you!"

"Good Petrea!" whispered Sara, laying her arm round her neck, and

kissing her weeping eyes, "continue to love Sara, but do not follow

her!"

"It seems terribly sultry to me this evening!" said Henrik, wearily: "we

cannot manage any family assembling to-night; not a bit of music; not a

bit of entertainment. The air seems as if an earthquake were at hand. I

fancy that Africa sends us something of a tempest. Petrea is weeping

like the cataract of Trollhaetten; and there go the people in

twos-and-twos and weep, and set themselves in corners and whisper and

mutter, and kiss one another, from my God-fearing parents down to my

silly little sisters! The King and Queen, they go and seat themselves

just has it happens, on living or dead things; they had nearly seated

themselves on me as I sate unoffensively on the sofa; but I made a turn

about _tout d'un coup_.--Betrothed! horribly wearisome folks! Are they

not, Gabriele? They cannot see, they cannot hear; they could not speak,

I fancy, but with one another!"

A light was burning in Sara's chamber far into the night. She was busied

for a long time with her journal; she wrote with a flying but unsteady

hand.

"So, to-morrow; to-morrow all will be said, and I----shall be bound.

"I know that is but of little importance, and yet I have such a horror

of it! Oh, the power of custom and of form.

"I know very well whom I could love; there is a purity in his glance, a

powerful purity which penetrates me. But how would he look on me if he

saw----

"I must go! I have no choice left! S. has me in his net--the money which

I have borrowed from him binds me so fast!--for I cannot bear that they

should know it, and despise me. I know that they would impoverish

themselves in order to release me, but I will not so humiliate myself.

"And why do I speak of release? I go hence to a life of freedom and

honour. I bow myself under the yoke but for a moment, only in order to

exalt myself the more proudly. Now there is no more time to tremble and

to waver--away with these tears! And thou, Volney, proud, strong

thinker, stand by me! Teach me, when all others turn away, how I may

rely on my own strength!"

Sara now exchanged the pen for the book, and the hour of midnight struck

before she closed it, and arose tranquil and cold in order to seek the

quiet of sleep.

* * * * *

The earthquake of which Henrik had spoken came the next day, the signal

of which was a letter from Schwartz to the Judge, in which he solicited

the hand of Sara. His only wealth was his profession; but with this

alone he was convinced that his wife would want nothing: he was just

about to undertake a journey through Europe, and wished to be

accompanied by Sara, of whose consent and acquiescence he was quite

sure.

A certain degree of self-appreciation in a man was not at any time

displeasing to Judge Frank, but this letter breathed a supercilious

assurance, a professional arrogance, which were extremely repugnant to

him. Besides this, he was wounded by the tone of pretension in which

Schwartz spoke of one who was as dear to him as his own daughter; and

the thought of her being united to a man of Schwartz's character was

intolerable to him. He was almost persuaded that Sara did not love him,

and burned with impatience to repel his pretensions, and to remove him

at the same time from his house.

Elise agreed perfectly in the opinion of her husband, but was less

confident than he regarding Sara's state of feeling with respect to the

affair. She was summoned to their presence. The Judge handed to her

Schwartz's letter, and awaited impatiently her remarks upon it. Her

colour paled before the grave and searching glance which was riveted

upon her, but she declared herself quite willing to accept Schwartz's

proposal.

Astonishment and vexation painted themselves on the countenance of her

adopted father.

"Ah, Sara," said the mother, after a short silence, "have you well

considered this? Do you think that Schwartz is a man who can make a wife

happy?"

"He can make me happy," returned Sara; "happy according to my own mind."

"You can never, never," said the mother, "enjoy domestic happiness with

him!"

"He loves me," returned Sara, "and he can give me a happiness which I

never enjoyed here. I lost early both father and mother, and in the home

into which I was received out of charity, all became colder and colder

towards me!"

"Ah, do not think so, Sara!" said the mother. "But even if this were

the case, may not some little of it be your own fault? Do you really do

anything to make yourself beloved? Do you strive against that which

makes you less amiable?"

"I can renounce such love," said Sara, "as will not love me with my

faults. Nature gave me strong feelings and inclinations, and I cannot

bring them into subjection."

"You will not, Sara," was the reply.

"I cannot! and it may be that I will not," said she, "submit myself to

the subjugation and taming which has been allotted as the share of the

woman. Why should I? I feel strength in myself to break up a new path

for myself. I will lead a fresh and an independent life! I will live a

bright artiste-life, free from the trammels and the Lilliputian

considerations of domestic life. I will be free! I will not, as now, be

watched and suspected, and be under a state of espionage! I will be free

from the displeasure and blame which now dog my footsteps! This

treatment it is, mother, which has determined my resolution."

"If," answered the mother, in a tremulous voice, and deeply affected by

Sara's words and tone, "I have erred towards you--and I may have done

so--I know well that it has not been from temper, or out of want of

tenderness towards you. I have spoken to and warned you from the best

conviction; I have sincerely endeavoured and desired that which is best

for you, and this you will some time or other come to see even better

than now.[14] You will perhaps come to see that it would have been good

for you if you had lent a more willing ear to my maternal counsellings;

will perhaps come to deplore that you rewarded the love I cherished for

you with reproaches and bitterness!"

"Then let me go!" said Sara, with gentler voice; "we do not accord well

together. I embitter your life, and you make--perhaps you cannot make

mine happy. Let me go with him who will love me with all my faults, who

can and will open a freer scope to my powers and talents than I have

hitherto had."

"Ah, Sara," returned Elise, "will you obtain in this freer field a

better happiness than can be afforded you by a domestic circle, by the

tenderness of true friends, and a happy domestic life?"

"Are you then so happy, my mother?" interrupted Sara with an ironical

smile, and a searching glance; "are you then so happy in this circle,

and this domestic life, which you praise so highly, that you thus repeat

what has been said on the subject from the beginning of the world. Those

perpetual cares in which you have passed your days, those trifling cares

and thoughts for every-day necessities, which are so opposite to your

own nature, are they then so pleasant, so captivating? Have you not

renounced many of your beautiful gifts--your pleasure in literature and

music--nay, in short, what is the most lovely part of life, in order to

bury yourself in concealment and oblivion, and there, like the silkworm,

to spin your own sepulchre of the threads which another will wind off?

You bow your own will continually before that of another; your innocent

pleasures you sacrifice daily either to him or to others: are you so

very happy amid all these renunciations?"

The Judge rose up passionately; went several times up and down the room,

and placed himself at last directly opposite to Sara, leaning his back

to the stove, and listening attentively for the answer of his wife.

"Yes, Sara, I am happy!" answered she, with an energy very unusual in

her; "yes, I am happy! Whenever I make any sacrifice, I receive a rich

return. And if there be moments when I feel painfully any renunciation

which I have made, there are others, and far more of them, in which I

congratulate myself on all that I have won. I am become improved through

the husband whom God has given to me; through my children, through my

duties, through the desires and the wants which I have overcome at his

side--yes, Sara, above all things, through him, his affection, his

excellence, am I improved, and feel myself happier every day. Love,

Sara, love changes sacrifice into pleasure, and makes renunciation

sweet! I thank God for my lot, and only wish that I were worthier of

it!"

"It may be!" said Sara, proudly; "every one has his own sphere. But the

tame happiness of the dove suits not the eagle!"

"Sara!" exclaimed the Judge, in a tone of severe displeasure.

The mother, unable longer to repress the outbreak of excited feeling,

left the room with her handkerchief to her eyes.

"For shame, Sara," said the Judge with severe gravity, and standing

before her with a reproving glance, "for shame! this arrogance goes too

far!"

She trembled now before his eye as she had done once before; a

remembrance from the days of her childhood awoke within her; her eyelids

sunk, and a burning crimson covered her face.

"You have forgotten yourself," continued he, calmly, but severely, "and

in your childish haughtiness have only shown how far you are below that

worth and excellence which you cannot understand, and which, in your

present state of mind, you never can emulate. Your own calm judgment

will make the sharpest reproaches on this last scene, and will, nay,

must lead you to throw yourself at the feet of your mother. All,

however, that I now ask from you is, that you think over your intentions

rationally. How is it possible, Sara, that you overlook your own

inconsistency? You argue zealously against domestic life--against the

duties of marriage, and yet, at the same time, wilfully determine to tie

those bonds with a man who will make them actual fetters for you."

"He will not fetter me," returned she; "he has promised it--he has sworn

it! I shall not subject myself to him as a wife, but I shall stand at

his side as an equal, as an artiste, and step with him into a world

beautiful and rich in honours, which he will open to me."

"Ah, mere talk!" exclaimed the Judge. "Folly, folly! How can you be so

foolish, and believe in such false show? The state gives your husband a

power over you which he will not fail to abuse--that I can promise you

from what I know of his character, and from what I now discover of

yours. No woman can withdraw from a connexion of this kind unpunished,

more especially under the circumstances in which you are placed. Sara,

you do not love the man to whom you are about to unite yourself, and it

is impossible that you can love him. No true esteem, no pure regard

binds you to him."

"He loves me," answered Sara, with trembling lips; "I admire his power

and artistical genius;--he will conduct me to independence and honour!

It is no fault of mine that the lot of woman is so contracted and

miserable--that she must bind herself in order to become free!"

"Only as a means?" asked he; "the holiest tie on earth only as a means,

and for what? For a pitiable and ephemeral chase after happiness, which

you call honour and freedom. Poor, deceived Sara! Are you so misled, so

turned aside from the right? Is it possible that the miserable book of a

writer, as full of pretension as weak and superficial, has been able

thus to misguide you?" and with these words he took Volney's Ruins out

of his pocket, and threw it upon the table.

Sara started and reddened. "Ah," said she, "this is only another

instance of espionage over me."

"Not so," replied the Judge, calmly. "I was this day in your room; you

had left the book lying on the table, and I took it, in order that I

might speak with you about it, and prevent Petrea's young steps from

treading this path of error without a guide."

"People may think what they please," said Sara, "of the influence of the

book, but I conceive that author deserves least of all the epithet

weak."

"When you have followed his counsel," returned he, "and resemble the

wreck which the waves have thrown up here, then you may judge of the

strength and skill of the steersman! My child, do not follow him. A more

mature, a more logical power of mind, will teach you how little he knows

of the ocean of life, of its breakers and its depths--how little he

understands the true compass."

"Ah!" said Sara, "these storms, these dangers, nay, even shipwreck

itself, appear to me preferable to the still, windless water which the

so-much-be-praised haven of domestic life represents. You speak, my

father, of chimeras; but tell me, is not the so-lauded happiness of

domestic life more a chimera than any other? When the saloon is set in

order, one does not see the broom and the dusting-brush that have been

at work in it, and the million grains of dust which have filled the air;

one forgets that they have ever been there. So it is with domestic and

family life; one persists wilfully in only seeing its beautiful moments,

and in passing over, in not noticing at all, what are less beautiful, or

indeed are 'repulsive.'"

"All depends upon which are the predominant," replied he, half smiling

at Sara's simile. "Thus, then, if it be more frequently disorderly than

orderly, if the air be more frequently filled with dust than it is pure

and fresh, then the devil may dwell there, but not I! I know very well

that there are homes enough on earth where there are dust-filled rooms,

but that must be the fault of the inhabitants. On them alone depends the

condition of the house; from those which may not unjustly be called

ante-rooms of hell, to those again which, spite of their earthly

imperfections, spite of many a visitation of duster and dusting-brush,

yet may deserve the names of courts of heaven. And where, Sara, where in

this world will you find an existence free from earthly dust? And is

that of which you complain so bitterly anything else than the earthly

husk which encloses every mortal existence of man as well as of

woman?--it is the soil in which the plant must grow; it is the chrysalis

in which the larva becomes ripe for its change of life! Can you actually

be blind to that higher and nobler life which never developes itself

more beautifully than in a peaceful home? Can you deny that it is in the

sphere of family and friendship where man lives most perfectly and best,

as citizen of an earthly and of a heavenly kingdom? Can you deny how

great and noble is the efficacy of woman in private life, be she married

or single, if she only endeavour----"

"Ah," said Sara, interrupting him, "the sphere of private life is too

narrow for me. I require a larger one, in order to breathe freely and

freshly."

"In pure affection," replied the Judge, "in friendship, and in the

exercise of kindness, there is large and fresh breathing space; the air

of eternity plays through it. In intellectual development--and the very

highest may be arrived at in private life--the whole world opens itself

to the eye of man, and infinite treasures are offered to his soul, more,

far more, than he can ever appropriate to himself!"

"But the artist," argued Sara--"the artist cannot form himself at

home--he must try himself on the great theatre of the world. Is his bent

only a chimera, my father? And are those distinguished persons who

present the highest pleasures to the world through their talents; to

whom the many look up with admiration and homage; around whom the great,

and the beautiful, and the agreeable collect themselves, are they

fools?--are they blind hunters after happiness? Ah, what lot can well be

more glorious than theirs! Oh, my father, I am young; I feel a power in

myself which is not a common one--my heart throbs for a freer and more

beautiful life! Desire not that I should constrain my own nature: desire

not that I should compress my beautiful talents into a sphere which has

no charms for me!"

"I do not depreciate, certainly, the profession of the artist," replied

the Judge, "nor the value of his agency: in its best meaning, his is as

noble as any; but is it this pure bent, this noble view of it, which

impels you, which animates you? Sara, examine your own heart; it is

vanity and selfish ambition which impel you. It is the arrogance of your

eighteen years, and some degree of talent, which make you overlook all

that is good in your present lot, which make you disdain to mature

yourself nobly and independently in the domestic circle. It is a deep

mistake, which will now lead you to an act blamable in the eyes of God

and man, and which blinds you to the dark side of the life which you

covet. Nevertheless, there is none darker, none in which the changes of

fortune are more dependent on miserable accidents. An accident may

deprive you of your beauty, or your voice, and with these you lose the

favour of the world in which you have placed your happiness. Besides

this, you will not always continue at eighteen, Sara: by the time you

are thirty all your glory will be past, and then--then what will you

have collected for the remaining half of life? You will have rioted for

a short time in order then to starve; since, so surely as I stand here,

with this haughty and vain disposition, and with the husband whom you

will have chosen, you will come to want; and, too late, you will look

back in your misery, full of remorse, to the virtue and to the true life

which you have renounced."

Sara was silent; she was shaken by the words and by the countenance of

her adopted father.

"And how perfectly different it might be!" continued he, with warmth;

"how beautiful, how full of blessing might not your life and your

talents be! Sara! I have loved you, and love you still, like my own

daughter--will you not listen to me as to a father? Answer me--have you

had to give up anything in this house, which, with any show of reason,

you might demand? and have we spared any possible care for your

education or your accomplishments?"

"No," replied Sara, sighing; "all have been kind, very kind to me."

"Well, then," exclaimed the Judge, with increasing warmth and

cordiality, "depend upon your mother and me, that you will have no cause

of complaint. I am not without property and connexions. I will spare no

means of cultivating your talents, and then if your turn for art is a

true one, when it has been cultivated to its utmost it shall not be

concealed from a world which can enjoy and reward it. But remain under

our protection, and do not cast yourself, inexperienced as you are, on a

world which will only lead you more astray. Do not, in order to win an

ideal liberty, give your hand to a man inferior to you in

accomplishments; to a man whom you do not love, and whom, morally

speaking, you cannot esteem. Descend into your own heart, and see its

error while there is yet time to retrieve it, before you are crushed by

your own folly. Do not fly from affectionate, careful friends--do not

fly from the paternal roof in blind impatience of disagreeables, to

remove which depends perhaps only on yourself! Sara, my child! I have

not taken you under my roof in order to let you become the victim of

ruin and misfortune! Pause, Sara, and reflect, I pray you, I conjure

you! make not yourself wretched! When I took you from the death-bed of

your father, I threw my arms around _you_ to shield you from the winds

of autumn--I clasp them once again around you, in order to shield you

from far more dangerous winds--Sara, my child, fly not from this house!"

Sara trembled; she was violently agitated, and leaned her head with

indescribable emotion against her adopted father, who clasped her

tenderly to his bosom.

It is not difficult to say whether they were good or bad angels who

triumphed in Sara, as she, after a moment of violent inward struggle,

pushed from her the paternal friend, and said, with averted countenance,

"It is in vain; my determination is taken. I shall become the wife of

Schwartz, and go where my fate leads me!"

The Judge started up, stamped on the floor, and pale with anger,

exclaimed, with flashing eyes, "Obdurate one! since neither love nor

prayers have power over you, you must listen to another mode of speech!

I have the right of a guardian over you, and I forbid this unholy

marriage! I forbid you to leave my house! You hear me, and you shall

obey!"

Sara stood up as pale as death, and with an insolent expression riveted

her large eyes upon him, whilst he, too, fixed his upon her with all the

force of his peculiar earnestness and decision. It seemed as if each

would look the other through--as if each in this contest would measure

his strength against the other.

Suddenly her arms were flung wildly round his neck, a burning kiss was

pressed upon his lips, and the next moment she was out of the room.

Elise sate in her boudoir. She still wept bitter tears. It was twilight,

and her knees were suddenly embraced, and her hands and her dress were

covered with kisses and with tears. When she put forth her hands to

raise the one who embraced her, she had vanished. "Sara, Sara! where are

you?" exclaimed she, full of anxiety.

Petrea came down from her chamber; she met some one, who embraced her,

pressed her lips to her forehead, and whispered, "Forget me!"

"Sara, Sara! where are you going?" exclaimed she, terrified, and running

after her to the house door.

"Where is Sara?" inquired the Judge, violently, above in the chambers of

his daughters. "Where is Sara?" inquired he, below in the library.

"Ah!" exclaimed Petrea, who now rushed in weeping, "she is this moment

gone out--out into the street; she almost ran. She forbade me to follow

her. Ah, she certainly never will come back again!"

"The devil!" said the Judge, hastening from the room, and taking up his

hat, went out. Far off in the street he saw a female figure, which, with

only a handkerchief thrown over her head and shoulders, was hastening

onward, and who, spite of the twilight, he recognised to be Sara. He

hastened after her; she looked round, saw him, and fled. Certain now

that he was not mistaken, he followed, and was almost near enough to

take hold of her, when she suddenly turned aside, and rushed into a

house--it was that of Schwartz. He followed with the quickness of

lightning; followed her up the steps, and was just laying his hand on

her, when she vanished through a door. The next moment he too opened it,

and saw her--in the arms of Schwartz!

The two stood together embracing, and evidently prepared to defy him. He

stood for some moments silent before them, regarding them with an

indescribable look of wrath, contempt, and sorrow. He looked upon the

pale breathless Sara, and covered his eyes with his hand; the next

moment, however, he seemed to collect himself, and with all the calm and

respect-commanding dignity of a parent, he grasped her hand, and said,

"You now follow me home. On Sunday the banns shall be proclaimed."

Sara followed. She took his arm, and with a drooping head, and without a

word, accompanied him home.

All there was disquiet and sorrow. But, notwithstanding the general

discontent with Sara and her marriage, there was not one of the family

who did not busy themselves earnestly in her outfit. Louise, who blamed

her more than all the rest, gave herself most trouble about it.

Sara behaved as if she never observed how everybody was working for her,

and passed her time either over her harp, or solitary in her own room.

Any intercourse with the members of the family seemed to have become

painful to her, whilst Petrea's tenderness and tears were received with

indifference--nay, even with sternness.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] All mothers speak thus--but not all, nay, not many with the same

right as Elise.

CHAPTER XIII.

DEPARTURE.

Sara's joyless marriage was over; and the hour was come in which she was

to leave that home and family which had so affectionately received her,

and which now with solicitude and the tenderest care provided for her

wants in her new position.

In the hour of separation, the crust of ice which had hitherto

surrounded her being broke, she sank, weeping violently, at the feet of

her foster-parents.

The Judge was deeply affected. "You have had your own will, Sara," said

he, in a firm but mournful voice, "may you be happy! Some few warnings I

have given you, do not forget them; they are the last! If you should be

deceived in the hopes which now animate you--if you should be

unfortunate--unfortunate, or criminal, then remember--then remember,

Sara, that here you have father and mother, and sisters, who will

receive you with open arms; then remember that you have here family and

home!"

He ceased: drew her a little aside, took her hand, and pressed a

bank-note in it. "Take this," said he, tenderly, "as a little help in

the hour of need. No, you must not refuse it from your foster-father.

Take it for his love's sake, you will some time need it!"

It was with difficulty that the Judge had so far preserved his calmness;

he now pressed her violently to his breast; kissed her brow and lips,

whilst his tears flowed abundantly. The mother and sisters too

surrounded her weeping. At that moment the door opened, and Schwartz

entered.

"The carriage waits," said he, with a dark glance on the mournful group.

Sara tore herself from the arms which would have held her fast, and

rushed out of the room.

A few seconds more, and the travelling carriage rolled away.

"She is lost!" exclaimed the Judge to his wife with bitter pain. "I feel

it in myself that she is lost! Her death would have been less painful to

me than this marriage."

For many days he continued silent and melancholy.

CHAPTER XIV.

LITTLE SCENES.

The past episode had gone through the house like a whirlwind. When it

was over, the heaven cleared itself anew, and they were able to confess

that a more joyful tranquillity had diffused itself over all. There was

no one who did not think of Sara with sympathy, who did not weep

sometimes at her violent separation from the family; but there was no

one, with the exception of the Judge and Petrea, who did not feel her

absence to be a secret relief; for one unquiet temper, and one full of

pretension, can disturb a whole household, and make the most exquisite

natural gifts of no account.

The Judge missed a daughter from the beloved circle; missed that

beautiful, richly-endowed girl, and could not think of her future

prospects without bitter anxiety. Petrea wept the object of her youthful

admiration and homage, but consoled herself with the romantic plans she

formed for seeing her again, in all of which she gave to herself the

province of guardian angel, either as the queen of a desert island, or

as a warrior bleeding for her, or as a disguised person who unloosed

her bonds in the depths of a dungeon in order to put them on herself: in

short, in all possible ways in the world except the possible one.

Sara wrote soon after her separation from her friends; she spoke of the

past with gratitude, and of the future with hope. The letter exhibited a

certain decision and calmness; a certain seriousness, which diffused

through the family a satisfactory ease of mind with regard to her future

fate. Elise was ever inclined to hope for the best, and young people are

always optimists: the Judge said nothing which might disturb the peace

of his family, whilst Louise alone shook her head and sighed.

After the many disturbing circumstances which had lately occurred in the

family, all seemed now to long after repose, and the ability to enjoy a

quieter domestic life. Occupations of all kinds--those simple but

cheerful daughters of well-regulated life, went on cheerfully and

comfortably under the eye of Louise. There was no want in the house of

joyful hours, sunshine of every kind, and entertainment full of

interest. The newspapers which the Judge took in, and which kept the

family _au courant_ of the questions of the day, furnished materials for

much development of mind, for much conversation and much thought,

especially among the young people. The father had great pleasure in

hearing thus their interchange of opinion, although he himself seldom

mingled in their discussions, with the exception of now and then a

guiding word.

"I fancy all is going on quite right," said he, joyfully, to his wife

one day. "The children live gaily at home, and are preparing themselves

for life. Indeed, if they only once open their eyes and ears, they will

find subjects enough on which to use them; and will be astonished at all

that life will present them with. It is well when home furnishes

nourishment for mind as well as heart and body. I rejoice too,

extremely, over our new house. Every land, every climate, has its own

advantages as well as its own difficulties, and the economy of life must

be skilfully adjusted if it is to be maintained with honour and

advantage. Our country, which compels us to live so much in the house,

seems thereby to admonish us to a more concentrated, and at the same

time more quiet and domestic life, on which account we need, above all

things, comfortable houses, which are able to advance and advantage

soul as well as body. Thank God! I fancy ours is pretty good for that

purpose, and in time may yet be better; the children too look happy;

Gabriele grows now every day, and Louise has grown over all our heads!"

The young people were very much occupied with plans for the future. Eva

and Leonore built all their castles in the air together. A great

intimacy had grown up between these two sisters since they were alone

during the absence of the others at Axelholm. One might say, that ever

since that evening, when they sate together eating grapes and reading a

novel, the seed of friendship which had long been sprouting in their

hearts, shot forth thence its young leaves. Their castles in the air

were no common castles of romance; they had for their foundation the

prosaic but beautiful thought of gaining for themselves an independent

livelihood in the future--for the parents had early taught their

daughters to direct their minds to this object--and hence beautiful

establishments were founded, partly for friendship and partly for

humanity: for young girls are always great philanthropists.

Jacobi also had many schemes for the future of himself and his wife, and

Louise many schemes how to realise them. In the mean time there were

many processes about kisses. Louise wished to establish a law that not

more than three a day should be allowed, against which Jacobi protested

both by word and deed, on which occasions Gabriele always ran away

hastily and indignantly.

Petrea read English with Louise, arranged little festivities for her and

the family; wept every evening over Sara, and beat her brains every

morning over "the Creation of the World," whilst the good parents

watched ever observantly over them all.

No one, however, enjoyed the present circumstances of the family so much

as Henrik. After he had succeeded in inducing his sisters to use more

lively exercise and exhilaration, he devoted himself more exclusively to

his favourite studies, history and philosophy. Often he took his book

and wandered with it whole days in the country, but every evening at

seven he punctually joined the family circle, and was there the merriest

of the merry.

"We live now right happily," said he one evening in confidential

discourse with his mother; "and I, for my part, never enjoyed life so

much. I feel now that my studies will really mend, and that something

can be made of me. And when I have studied for a whole day, and that not

fruitlessly either, and then come of an evening to you and my sisters,

and see all here so friendly, so bright and cheerful, life seems so

agreeable! I feel myself so happy, and almost wish it might always

remain as it is now."

"Ah, yes!" answered the mother, "if we could always keep you with us, my

Henrik! But I know that won't do; you must soon leave us again; and

then, when you have finished your studies, you must have your own

house."

"And then, mother, you shall come to me!" This had been years before,

and still was Henrik's favourite theme, and the mother listened

willingly to it.

Several poems which Henrik wrote about this time seemed to indicate the

most decided poetical talent, and gave his mother and sisters the

greatest delight, whilst they excited, at the same time, great attention

among the friends of the family. The Judge alone looked on gloomily.

"You will spoil him," exclaimed he one evening to his wife and

daughters, "if you make him fancy that he is something extraordinary,

before he is in anything out of the common way. I confess that his

poetising is very much against my wish. When one is a man, one should

have something much more important to do than to sigh, and sing about

this and that future life. If he were likely to be a Thorild,[15] or any

other of our greatest poets----but I see no signs of that! and this

poetasterism, this literary idleness, which perpetually either lifts

young people above the clouds, or places them under the earth, so that

for pure cloud and dust they are unable to see the good noble gifts of

actual life--I would the devil had it! The direction which Henrik is now

taking grieves me seriously. I had rejoiced myself so in the thought of

his being a first-rate miner; in his being instrumental in turning to

good account our mines, our woods and streams, those noblest foundations

of Sweden's wealth, and to which it was worth while devoting a good

head; and now, instead of that, he hangs his on one side; sits with a

pen in his hand, and rhymes 'face' and 'grace,' 'heart' and 'smart!' It

is quite contrary to my feelings! I wish Stjernhoek would come here soon.

Now there's a fellow! he will turn out something first-rate! I wish he

were coming soon; perhaps he might influence Henrik, and induce him to

give up this verse-making, which, perhaps, at bottom, is only vanity."

Elise and the daughters were silent. For a considerable time now, Elise

had accustomed herself to silence when her husband grumbled. But

often--whenever it was necessary--she would return to the subject of his

discontent at a time when he was calm, and then, talk it over with him;

and this line of tactics succeeded admirably. She made use of them on

the present occasion.

"Ernst," said she to him in the evening, "it grieves me that you are so

displeased with Henrik's poetical bent. Ah! it has delighted me so much,

precisely because I fancied that it is real, and that in this case it

may be as useful as any other can be. Still I never will encourage

anything in him which is opposed to your wishes."

"My dear Elise," returned he mildly, "manage this affair according to

your own convictions and conscience. It is very probable that you are

right, and that I am wrong. All that I beseech of you is, that you watch

over yourself, in order that affection to your first-born may not

mislead you to mistake for excellence that which is only mediocre, and

his little attempts for masterpieces. Henrik may be, if he can, a

distinguished poet and literary man; but he must not as yet imagine

himself anything; above all things, he must not suppose it possible to

be a distinguished man in any profession without preparing himself by

serious labour, and without first of all becoming a thinking being. If

he were this, I promise you that I should rejoice over my son, let him

be what profession he would--a worker in thought or a worker in

mountains. And for this very reason one must be careful not to value too

highly these poetical blossoms. If vanity remains in him he never will

covet serious renown in anything."

"You are right, Ernst," said his wife, with all the cordiality of inward

conviction.

* * * * *

Henrik also longed earnestly for Stjernhoek's arrival. He wished to show

him his work; he longed to measure his new historical and philosophical

knowledge against that of his friend; he longed, in one word, to be

esteemed by him; for Henrik's gentle and affectionate nature had always

felt itself powerfully attracted by the energetic and, as one may say,

metallic nature of the other, and ever since the years of their boyhood

had the esteem and friendship of Stjernhoek been the goal of Henrik's

endeavours, and of his warm, although till now unattainable, wishes.

Stjernhoek had hitherto always behaved towards Henrik with a certain

friendly indifference, never as a companion and friend.

Stjernhoek came. He was received by the whole family with the greatest

cordiality, but by no one with a warmer heart than Henrik.

There was even externally the greatest dissimilarity between these two

young men. Henrik was remarkable for extraordinary, almost feminine

beauty; his figure was noble but slender, and his glance glowing though

somewhat dreamy. Stjernhoek, some years Henrik's senior, had become early

a man. All with him was muscular, firm, and powerful; his countenance

was intelligent without being handsome, and a star as it were gleamed in

his clear, decided eye; such a star as is often prophetic of fate, and

over whose path fortunate stars keep watch.

Some days after Stjernhoek's arrival Henrik became greatly changed. He

had become quiet, and there was an air of depression on his countenance.

Stjernhoek now, as he had always done, did not appear unfriendly to

Henrik, but still paid but little attention to him. He occupied himself

very busily, partly with trying chemical experiments with Jacobi and the

ladies, and partly in the evening, and even into the night, in making

astronomical observations with his excellent telescope. One of the

beaming stars to which the observations of the young astronomer were

industriously directed was called afterwards in the family Stjernhoek's

star. All gathered themselves around the interesting and well-informed

young man. The Judge took the greatest delight in his conversation, and

asserted before his family more than once his pleasure in him, and the

hopes which the nation itself might have of him. The young student of

Mining was a favourite with the Judge also because, besides his

extraordinary knowledge, he behaved always with the greatest respect

towards older and more experienced persons.

"See, Henrik," said his father to him one day, after a conversation with

Stjernhoek, "what _I_ call poetry, real poetry; it is this--to tame the

rivers, and to compel their wild falls to produce wealth and comfort,

whilst woods are felled on their banks and corn-fields cultivated; human

dwellings spring up, and cheerful activity and joyful voices enliven the

country. Look! that may be called a beautiful creation!"

Henrik was silent.

"But," said Gabriele, with all her natural refinement, "to be happy in

these homes, they must be able to read a pleasant book or to sing a

beautiful song, else their lives, spite of all their waterfalls, would

be very dry!"

The Judge smiled, kissed his little daughter, and tears of delight

filled his eyes.

Henrik, in the mean time, had gone into another room and seated himself

at a window. His mother followed him.

"How do you feel, my Henrik?" said she affectionately, gently taking

away the hand which shaded his eyes. His hand was concealing his tears.

"My good, good youth!" exclaimed she, her eyes also overflowing with

tears, and throwing her arms around him. "Now see!" began she

consolingly, "you should not distress yourself when your father speaks

in a somewhat one-sided manner. You know perfectly well how infinitely

good and just he is, and that if he be only once convinced of the

genuineness of your poetic talent, he will be quite contented. He is

only now afraid of your stopping short in mediocrity. He would be

pleased and delighted if you obtained honour in your own peculiar way."

"Ah!" said Henrik, "if I only knew whether or not I had a peculiar

way--a peculiar vocation. But since Stjernhoek has been here, and I have

talked with him, everything, both externally and internally, seems

altered. I don't any longer understand myself. Stjernhoek has shown me

how very little I know of that which I supposed myself to know a great

deal, and what bungling my work is! I see it now perfectly, and it

distresses me. How strong-minded and powerful Stjernhoek is! I wish I

were able to resemble him! But it is impossible, I feel myself such a

mere nothing beside him! And yet, when I am alone, either with my books,

or out in the free air with the trees, the rocks, the waters, the winds

around me, and with heaven above, thoughts arise in me, feelings take

possession of me, nameless sweet feelings, and then expressions and

words speak in me which affect me deeply, and give me inexpressible

delight; then all that is great and good in humanity is so present with

me; then I have a foretaste of harmony in everything, of God in

everything; and it seems to me as if words thronged themselves to my

lips to sing forth the gloriousness of that which I perceive. In such

moments I feel something great within me, and I fancy that my songs

would find an echo in every heart. Yes, it is thus that I feel

sometimes; but when I see Stjernhoek all is vanished, and I feel so

little, so poor, I am compelled to believe that I am a dreamer and a

fool!"

"My good youth," said the mother, "you mistake yourself. Your gifts and

Stjernhoek's are so dissimilar: but if you employ your talents with

sincerity and earnestness, they will in their turn bring forth fruit. I

confess to you, Henrik, that it was, and still is, one of my most lively

wishes that one of my children might become distinguished in the fields

of literature. Literature has furnished to me my most beautiful

enjoyments; and in my younger years I myself was not without my ambition

in this way. I see in you my own powers more richly blossoming. I myself

bloom forth in them, my Henrik, and in my hopes of you. Ah! might I live

to the day in which I saw you honoured by your native land; in which I

saw your father proud of his son, and I myself able to gladden my heart

with the fruit of your genius, your work--oh, then I would gladly die!"

Enthusiastic fire flamed in Henrik's looks and on his cheeks, as whilst,

embracing his mother, he said, "No, you shall live, mother, to be

honoured on account of your son. He promises that you shall have joy in

him!"

The sunbeam which just then streamed into the room fell upon Henrik's

beautiful hair, which shone like gold. The mother saw it--saw silently a

prophesying in it, and a sun-bright smile diffused itself over her

countenance.

* * * * *

Petrea read the "Magic King." She ought properly to have read it aloud

to the family circle in an evening, and then its dangerous magic would

have been decreased; but she read it beforehand, privately to herself

during the night, and it drew her into the bewildering magic circle. She

thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing, but wonderful adventure;

wonderfully beautiful ladies, and wonderfully brave heroes! She was

herself always one of them, worshipped or worshipping; now combating,

cross in hand, against witches and dragons; now wandering in dreamy

moonlight among lilies in the Lady Minnetrost's Castle. It seemed as if

the chaotic confusion of Petrea's brain had here taken shape and

stature, and she now took possession with redoubled force of the

phantasy world, which once before, under the guise of the Wood-god, had

carried away her childish mind and conducted her into false tracks; and

it was so even now; for while she moved night and day in a dream-world

in which she luxuriated to exultation, in magnificent and wonderful

scenes, in which she herself always played a part, she got on but

lamentably in real and every-day life. The head in which so many

splendid pictures and grand schemes were agitating, looked generally

something like a bundle of flax; she never noticed the holes and specks

in her dress, nor her ragged stockings and trodden-down shoes; she

forgot all her little, every-day business, and whatever she had in her

hand she either lost or dropped.

She had, besides, a passion for cracking almonds. "A passion," Louise

said, "as expensive as it was noisy, and which never was stronger than

when she went about under the influence of the magic ring; and that

perpetual crack! crack! which was heard wherever she went, and the

almond shells on which people trod, or which hung to the sleeve of

whoever came to the window, were anything but agreeable."

Whenever Petrea was deservedly reproved or admonished for these things,

she fell out of the clouds, or rather out of her heaven, down to the

earth, which seemed to her scarcely anything else than a heap of nettles

and brambles, and very gladly indeed would she have bought with ten

years of her life one year of the magic power of the "Magic Ring,"

together with beauty, magic charms, power, and such-like things, which

she did not possess, except in her dreams.

Petrea's life was a cleft between an ideal and a real world, of both of

which she knew nothing truly, and which, therefore, could not become

amalgamated in her soul. Rivers of tears flowed into the separating

gulf, without being able to fill it or to clear her vision, while she

now complained of circumstances, and now of her own self, as being the

cause of what she endured.

It was at this time that, partly at the wish of the parents, and partly

also out of his own kind-heartedness, Jacobi began seriously to occupy

himself with Petrea; and he occupied her mind in such a manner as

strengthened and practised her thinking powers, whereby the fermentation

in her feelings and imagination was in some measure abated. All this was

indescribably beneficial to her, and it would have been still more so

had not the teacher been too----but we will leave the secret to future

years.

* * * * *

The Judge received one day a large letter from Stockholm, which, after

he had read, he silently laid before his wife. It came from the highest

quarter, contained most honourable and flattering praise of the services

of Judge Frank, of which the government had long been observant, and now

offered him elevation to the highest regal court of justice.

When Elise had finished the letter she looked up inquiringly to her

husband, who stood beside her. "What think you of it, Ernst?" asked she,

with a constrained and uneasy glance.

The Judge walked more quickly up and down the room, as was his custom

when anything excited him. "I cannot feel indifferent," said he; "I am

affected by this mark of confidence in my sovereign. I have long

expected this occurrence; but I feel, I see that I cannot leave my

present sphere of operation. My activity is suited to it; I know that I

am of service here, and the confidence of the Governor gives me

unrestrained power to work according to my ability and views. It is

possible that he, instead of me, may get the credit of the good which is

done in the province; but, in God's name, let it be so! I know that what

is good and beneficial is actually done, and that is enough; but there

is a great deal which is only begun which must be completed, and a great

deal, an infinite great deal, remains yet to be done. I cannot leave a

half-finished work--I cannot and I will not! One must complete one's

work, else it is good for nothing! And I know that here I am--but I am

talking only of myself. Tell me, Elise, what you wish--what you would

like."

"Let us remain here!" said Elise, giving her hand to her husband, and

seating herself beside him. "I know that you would have no pleasure in a

higher rank, in a larger income, if you on that account must leave a

sphere where you feel yourself in your place, and where you can work

according to the desire of your own heart, and where you are surrounded

by persons who esteem and love you! No; let us remain here!"

"But you, you Elise," said he; "speak of yourself, not of me."

"Yes, you!" answered she, with the smile of a happy heart, "that is not