THE CONSEQUENCES.
The sun of the next morning shone brightly on the glistening
snow-covered roofs round the market-place, and dyed the smoke-clouds,
which rose slowly from the ruins of the burnt-down house, with the most
gorgeous tints of purple, gold, and sulphur-blue, whilst hundreds of
little sparrows raked and picked about in the ashy flakes which were
scattered over the snow in the market-place and churchyard, with
exulting twitterings.
Mother and daughters looked with tearful eyes towards the smoking place
where had so lately stood their dearly beloved home; but yet no one gave
themselves up to sorrow. Eva alone wept much, but that from a cause of
grief concealed in her own heart. She knew that Major R. had passed the
night in the city, and yet for all that--she had not seen him!
With the morning came much bustle, and a crowd of people into the
dwelling of the Assessor. Families came who offered to the roofless
household both shelter and entertainment; young girls came with their
clothes; servants came with theirs for the servants of the family;
elegant services and furniture were sent in; the baker left great
baskets full of bread; the brewer, beer; another sent wine, and so on.
It was a scene in social life of the most beautiful description, and
which showed how greatly esteemed and beloved the Franks were.
Mrs. Gunilla came so good and zealous, ready to contend with anybody who
would contend with her, to convey her old friends in her carriage to the
dwelling which she had prepared for them in all haste. The Assessor did
not strive with her now, but saw in silence his guests depart, and with
a tear in his eye looked after the carriage which conveyed Eva away from
his house. It seemed now so dark and desolate to him.
On the evening of this same day the father returned into his family
circle, and pressed them all to his breast with tears of joy. Yes, with
tears of joy, for all were left to him!
A few days after this, he wrote thus to one of his friends:
"Till now, till after this unfortunate occurrence, I knew not how much I
possessed in my wife and children; knew not that I had so many good
friends and neighbours. I thank God, who has given me such a wife, such
children, and such friends! These last have supplied, nay, over-supplied
all the necessities of my family. I shall begin in spring to rebuild my
house on the old foundation.
"How the fire was occasioned I know not, and do not trouble myself to
discover. The misfortune has happened, and may serve as a warning for
the future, and that is enough. My house has not become impoverished in
love, even though it may be so in worldly goods, and that sustains and
heals all. The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be
the name of the Lord!"
Probably the Judge would listen to no conjectures respecting the origin
of the fire. We will venture, however, not the less on that account to
give our conjectures;--thus, it is very probable that the fire had its
origin in the chamber of the young Baron L., and that also he, in his
scarcely half sober state, might have been the occasion of it. Probably
he himself regarded the affair in this light; but this however is
certain, that this event, in connexion with the behaviour of the Franks
towards him, occasioned a great change in the temper and character of
this young man. His father came for him shortly after this, and took him
to consult a celebrated oculist in Copenhagen, in consequence of his
eyes having suffered severely in the fire.
Our eyes will see him again, only at a much later period of our history.
The daughters of the house busied themselves earnestly with the
already-spoken-of plans for discovering a means of independent
subsistence for themselves, that they might lighten the anxieties of
their parents in their present adverse circumstances, and that without
being burdensome to anybody else. Eva wished at first to accept an
invitation to a country-seat in the neighbourhood, not far from that
where Major R. was at present. Axelholm opened itself, heart, arms,
main-building and wings, for the members of the Frank family. There were
wanting no opportunities for colonisation; but the Judge besought his
children so earnestly to decline all these, and for the present to
remain altogether.
"In a few months," said he, "perhaps in spring, you can do what you
like; but now--let us remain together. It is needful to me to have you
now all around me, in order to feel that I really possess you all. I
cannot bear the thoughts of losing any one of you at present."
The thought of parting appeared likewise soon to weigh heavily upon him.
Henrik, since the night of the conflagration, had scarcely had a moment
free from suffering; a violent, incessant beating of the heart had
remained since then, and the pain of this was accompanied by dangerous
attacks of spasms, which, notwithstanding all remedies, appeared rather
to increase than otherwise. This disturbed the Judge so much the more,
as now, more than ever, he loved and valued his son. Since the night of
the fire it might be said that, for the first time, affection was warm
between father and son.
The Mahomedan says beautifully, that when the angel of death approaches
man, the shadow of his wings falls upon him from a distance. From the
beginning of his illness Henrik's soul appeared to be darkened by
unfriendly shadows, and the first serious outbreak of disease revealed
itself in depression and gloom. Oh! it was not easy for the young man,
richly gifted as he was with whatever could beautify life on earth,
standing as he did at the commencement of a path where fresh laurels and
the roses of love beckoned to him, it was not easy to turn his glance
from a future like this, to listen to the words which night and day his
beating heart whispered to him--"Thou wilt descend to thy grave! nor
will I cease knocking till the door of the tomb opens to thee!"
But to a mind like Henrik's the step from darkness to light was not
wide. There was that something in his soul which enables man to say to
the Lord of life and death--
The dreaded judgment-doom in thine own hand is writ,--
We kiss it; bow our heads, and silently submit.
Henrik had one day a long conversation with his skilful and anxious
physician Munter, who when he left him had tears in his eyes; but over
Henrik's countenance, on the contrary, when he returned to his family,
although he was paler than usual, was a peculiarly mild and solemn
repose, which seemed to diffuse itself through his whole being. From
this moment his temper of mind was changed. He was now mild and calm,
yet at the same time more joyous and amiable than ever. His eyes had an
indescribable clearness and beauty; the shadow had passed away from his
soul altogether.
But deeper and deeper lay the shadow over one person, who from the
beginning of Henrik's illness was no longer like herself--and that was
Henrik's mother. It is true that she worked and spoke as formerly, but a
gnawing anguish lived in her; she appeared absent from the passing
business of life; and every occupation which had not reference, in some
way or other, to her son, was indifferent or painful to her. The
daughters kept carefully from her any thing which might be disturbing to
her. She devoted herself almost exclusively to her son; and many hours
full of rich enjoyment were spent by these two, who soon, perhaps--must
separate for so long!
Every strong mental excitement was interdicted to Henrik; his very
illness would not admit of it. He must renounce his beloved studies: but
his living spirit, which could not sleep, refreshed itself at the
youthful fountains of art. He occupied himself much with the works of a
poet who, during his short life, had suffered much and sung much also,
and from amid whose crown of thorns the loveliest "Lilies of Sharon" had
blossomed. The works of Stagnelius[18] were his favourite reading. He
himself composed many songs, and his mother sang them to him during the
long winter evenings. According to his opinion, his mother sang better
than his sisters; and he rejoiced himself in the pure strength which
triumphantly exalted him in this poet above the anguish and fever of
life.
It was observed that about this time he often turned the conversation,
in the presence of his mother, to the brighter side of death. It seemed
as if he wished to prepare her gradually for the possibly near
separation, and to deprive it beforehand of its bitterness. Elise had
formerly loved conversations of this kind; had loved whatever tended to
diffuse light over the darker scenes of life: but now she always grew
pale when the subject was introduced; uneasiness expressed itself in her
eyes, and she endeavoured, with a kind of terror, to put an end to it.
One evening as the family, together with the Assessor, were assembled in
the confidential hour of twilight, they began to speak about dreams, and
about the nature of sleep. Henrik mentioned the ancient comparison of
sleep and death, which he said he considered less striking as regarded
its unconsciousness than in its resemblance in the awaking.
"And in what do you especially consider this resemblance to consist?"
asked Leonore.
"In the perfect retention and re-animation of consciousness, of memory,
of the whole condition of the soul," replied he, "which is experienced
in the morning after the dark night."
"Good," said the Assessor, "and possible; but what can we _know_ about
it?"
"All that revelation has made known to us," replied Henrik, with an
animated look: "do we really need any stronger light on this subject
than that afforded us by one of our own race, who was dead, and yet rose
again from the grave, and who exhibited himself after his sleep in the
dark dwelling with precisely the same dispositions, the same
friendships, and with the most perfect remembrance of the least as well
as the greatest events of his earthly existence? What a clear, what a
friendly light has not this circumstance diffused around the dark gates
of the tomb! It has united the two worlds! it has thrown a bridge over
the gloomy deep; it enables the drooping wanderer to approach it without
horror; it enables him to say to his friends on the evening of life,
'Good night!' with the same calmness with which he can speak those words
to them on the evening of the day."
An arm was thrown convulsively round Henrik, and the voice of his mother
whispered, in a tone of despair, to him, "You must not leave us, Henrik!
you must not!" and with these words she sunk unconscious on his breast.
From this evening Henrik never again introduced in the presence of his
mother a subject which was so painful to her. He sought rather to calm
and cheer her, and his sisters helped him truly in the same work. They
now had less desire than ever to leave home and to mingle in society
generally; yet notwithstanding they did so occasionally, because their
brother wished it, and it enabled them to have something to tell at
home, which could entertain and enliven both him and his mother. These
reports were generally made in Henrik's room, and how heartily did they
not laugh there! Ah! in a cordially united family, care can hardly take
firm footing there: if it come in for one moment, in the very next it
will be chased away! Eva appeared during this time to forget her own
trouble, that she also might be a flower in the garland of comfort and
tenderness which was bound around the favourite of the family; the Judge
too, tore himself more frequently than hitherto from his occupations,
and united himself to the family circle.
A more attractive sick chamber than Henrik's can hardly be imagined.
That he himself felt. Enfeebled by the influence of disease, his
beautiful eyes often became filled with tears from slight causes, and he
would exclaim "I am happy--too happy! What a blessedness to be able to
live! That is happiness! that is the summer of the soul! Even now, amid
my sufferings, I feel myself made through you so rich, so happy!" and
then he would stretch forth his hand to those of his mother or his
sisters, and press them to his lips or his bosom.
An interval of amendment occurred in Henrik's illness, and he suffered
much less. A sentiment of joy diffused itself through the house, and
Henrik himself appeared at times to entertain hopes of life. He could
now go out again and inhale the fresh winter air--his favourite air. The
Judge often accompanied him; it was then beautiful to see the powerful
vigorous father supporting with his arm the pale but handsome son,
whenever his steps became weary; to see him curbing his own peculiarly
hasty movements, and conducting him slowly homewards; it was beautiful
to see the expression in the countenance of each.
People talk a great deal about the beauty of maternal love--paternal
love has perhaps something yet more beautiful and affecting in it; and
it is my opinion that he who has had the happiness of experiencing the
careful culture of a loving, yet at the same time upright father, can,
with fuller feeling and with more inward understanding than any other,
lift his heart to heaven in that universal prayer of the human race,
"Our Father which art in heaven!"
Several weeks passed on. A lady, an intimate friend of the family, was
about this time undertaking a journey with her daughter to the city
where Petrea was visiting, and desired greatly to take Gabriele with
her, who was the dearest friend of the young Amalie. Gabriele would very
gladly have embraced this opportunity of visiting her beloved sister,
and of seeing at the same time something of the world, but now when
Henrik was ill, she could not think of it; she was quite resolved not to
separate herself from him. But Henrik was zealously bent upon Gabriele
making this journey, which would be so extremely agreeable to her.
"Don't you see," said he, "that Gabriele sits here and makes herself
pale with looking at me? and that is so utterly unnecessary, especially
now I am so much better, and when I certainly in a little time shall be
quite well again. Journey, journey away, sweet Gabriele, I beseech you!
You shall cheer us in the mean time with your letters; and when at
Easter you return with Petrea, then--then you will no longer have an
ailing suffering brother; I will manage it so that I will be quite well
by that time!"
She was talked to also on other sides, especially by the young, lively
Amalie, and at length Gabriele permitted herself to be persuaded.
Convinced that for the present all danger for her brother was over, she
commenced the journey with a jest on her lips, but with tears in her
eyes.
It was the first flight of "our little lady" from home.
Not a word was heard from Major R.; and although Eva continued reserved
towards her own family, she appeared to be so much calmer than formerly
that they all began to be easy on her account. The Judge, who, in
consequence of her behaviour evinced towards her a grateful tenderness,
endeavoured to gratify her slightest wishes, and gave his consent that
in the early commencement of spring she should go to M----s. He hoped
that by that time the Major would be far removed from the country; but
it was not long before a painful discovery was made.
* * * * *
On a dark evening at the beginning of March, two persons stood in deep
but low discourse under a tree in St. Mary's churchyard.
"How childish you are, Eva!" said the one, "with your fears and your
doubts! and how pusillanimous is your love. If you would learn, lovely
angel! how true love speaks, listen to me:--
"Pourquoi fit on l'amour, si son pouvoir n'affronte,
Et la vie et la mort, et la haine et la honte!
Je ne demande, je ne veux pas savoir
Si rien a de ton coeur terni le pur miroir:
Je t'aime! tu le sais! Que l'importe tout le reste?"
"Oh Victor," answered the trembling voice of Eva, "my fault is not the
having too little love for you. Ah, I feel indeed, and I evince it by my
conduct, that my love to you is greater than my love for father and
mother and sisters, more than for all the world! And yet I know that it
is wrong! my heart raises itself against me--but I cannot resist your
power."
"On that account am I called Victor, my angel," said he; "heaven itself
has sanctioned my power. And _your_ Victor am I also, my sweet Eva; is
it not so?"
"Ah! only too much so," sighed Eva. "But now, Victor, spare my weakness;
do not desire to see me again till I go in spring in a month's time to
M----s. Do not demand----"
"Demand no such promises from Victor, Eva," said he; "he will not bind
himself so! but you--you must do what your Victor wills, else he cannot
believe that you love him. What--you will refuse to take a few steps in
order to gladden his eyes and his heart--in order to see and to hear
him--in truth you do not love him!"
"Ah, I love you, I adore you," returned Eva; "I could endure anything on
your account--even the pangs of my own conscience; but my parents, my
brother and sisters! ah, you know not what it costs me to deceive them!
they are so good, so excellent; and I! Yet sometimes the love which I
have for them contends with the love which I have for you. Do not string
the bow too tightly, Victor! And now--farewell, beloved, farewell! In a
month's time you will see me, your Eva, again, in M----s."
"Stop!" said he, "do you think you are to leave me in that way? Where is
my ring?"
"On my heart," returned she, "day and night it rests there--farewell!
ah, let me go!"
"Say once more that you love me above every thing in this world!" said
he, "that you belong only to me!"
"Only to you! farewell!" and with these words Eva tore herself away from
him, and hastened with flying feet, like one terrified, across the
churchyard. The Major followed her slowly. A dark form stepped at that
moment hastily forward, as if it had arisen from one of the graves, and
met the Major face to face. It seemed to him as if a cold wind passed
through his heart, for the form tall and silent, and at that dark hour,
and in the churchyard, had something in it ominous and spectre-like, and
as it had evidently advanced to him with design, he paused suddenly, and
asked, sharply, "Who are you?"
"Eva's father!" replied a suppressed but powerful voice, and by the
up-flaring light of a lamp which the wind drove towards them, the Major
saw the eyes of the Judge riveted upon him with a wrathful and
threatening expression. His heart sank for a moment; but in the next he
said, with all his accustomed haughty levity:
"Now there is no necessity for me to watch longer after her;" and so
saying he turned hastily aside, and vanished in the darkness.
The Judge followed his daughter without nearing her. When he came home,
such a deep and painful grief lay on his brow as had never been observed
there before.
For the first time in his life the powerful head of the Judge seemed
actually bowed.
* * * * *
At this time Stjernhoek came to the city quite unexpectedly. He had heard
of the misfortune which had befallen the Franks, as well as of the part
which Henrik acted on this occasion, and of the illness which was the
consequence of it, and he came now in order to see him before he
travelled abroad. This visit, which had occasioned Stjernhoek to diverge
as much as sixty English miles out of his way, surprised and deeply
affected Henrik, who as he entered the room met him with the most candid
expression of cordial devotion. Stjernhoek seized his outstretched hand,
and a sudden paleness overspread his manly countenance as he remarked
the change which a few weeks' illness had made in Henrik's appearance.
"It is very kind of you to come to me--my thanks for it, Stjernhoek!"
said Henrik from his heart; "otherwise," continued he, "you would
probably have seen me no more in this world; and I have wished so much
to say one word to you before we separated thus."
Both were silent for some minutes.
"What would you say to me, Henrik?" at length asked Stjernhoek, whilst an
extraordinary emotion was depicted in his countenance.
"I would thank you," returned Henrik, cordially, "thank you for your
severity towards me, and tell you how sincerely I now acknowledge it to
have been just, and wholesome for me also. I would thank you, because by
that means you have been a more real friend, and I am now perfectly
convinced how honestly and well you have acted towards me. This
impression, this remembrance of our acquaintance, is the only one which
I will take away with me when I leave this world. You have not been able
to love me, but that was my own fault. I have sorrowed over the
knowledge of that, but now I have submitted to it. In the mean time it
would be very pleasant to me to know that my faults--that my late
behaviour towards you, had not left behind it too repulsive an
impression; it would be very pleasant for me to believe that you were
able to think kindly of me when I am no more!"
A deep crimson flamed on Stjernhoek's countenance, and his eyes glistened
as he replied, "Henrik, I feel more than ever in this moment that I have
not shown justice towards you. Several later circumstances have opened
my eyes, and now--Henrik, can you give me your friendship! mine you have
for ever!"
"Oh, this is a happy moment!" said Henrik, with increasing emotion;
"through my whole life I have longed for it, and now for the first time
it is given me--now when--but God be praised even for this!"
"But why," said Stjernhoek, warmly, "why speak so positively about your
death? I will hope and believe that your condition is not so dangerous.
Let me consult a celebrated foreign physician on your case--or better
still, make the journey with me, and put yourself under the care of Dr.
K----. He is celebrated for his treatment of diseases of the heart; let
me conduct you to him; certainly you can and will recover!"
Henrik shook his head mournfully. "There lies his work," said he,
pointing to an open book in the window, "and from it I know all
concerning my own condition. Do you see, Nils Gabriel," continued he,
with a beautiful smile, as he placed his arm on the shoulder of his
friend, and pointed with his other towards heaven, gazing on him the
while with eyes which seemed larger than ever--for towards death the
eyes increase in size and brilliancy--"do you see," said he, "there
wanders your star. It ascends! for certain a bright path lies before
you; but when it beams upon your renown it will look down upon my grave!
I have no doubt whatever on this point. Some time ago this thought was
bitter to me; it is so now no more! When the knowledge depresses me that
I have accomplished so very little on earth, I will endeavour to console
myself with the conviction that you will be able to do so much more, and
that either in this world or the next I shall rejoice over your
usefulness and your happiness!"
Stjernhoek answered not a word; large tears rolled down his cheeks, and
he pressed Henrik warmly to his breast.
On Henrik's account he endeavoured to give the conversation a calmer
turn, but the heart of his poor friend swelled high, and it was now too
full of life and feeling to find rest in anything but the communication
of these.
The connexion between the two young men seemed now different to what it
had ever been before. It was Henrik who now led the conversation, and
Stjernhoek who followed him, and listened to him with attention and the
most unequivocal sympathy, whilst the young man gave such free scope to
his thoughts and presentiments as he had never ventured to do before in
the presence of the severe critic. But the truth is, there belongs to a
dweller on the borders of the kingdom of death a peculiar rank, a
peculiar dignity, and man believes that the whispering of spirits from
the mysterious land reaches the ear which bows itself to them; on this
account the wise and the strong of earth listen silently like disciples,
and piously like little children, to the precepts which are breathed
forth from dying lips.
The entrance of the Judge gave another turn to the conversation, which
Stjernhoek soon led to Henrik's last works. He directed his discourse
principally to the Judge, and spoke of them with all the ability of a
real connoisseur, and with such entire and cordial praise as surprised
Henrik as much as it cheered him.
It is a very great pleasure to hear oneself praised, and well praised
too, by a person whom one highly esteems, and particularly when, at the
same time, this person is commonly niggardly of his praise. Henrik
experienced at that moment this feeling in its highest degree; and this
pleasure was accompanied by the yet greater pleasure of seeing himself
understood, and in such a manner by Stjernhoek as made himself more clear
to himself. In this moment he seemed, now for the first time, to
comprehend in a perfectly intelligible manner his own talents, and what
he wished to do, and what he was able to do. The fountain of life
swelled forth strongly in his breast.
"You make me well again, Nils Gabriel!" exclaimed he; "you give me new
life. I will recover; recover in order again to live, in order to work
better and more confidently than I have hitherto done. As yet I have
done nothing; but now, now I could--I feel new life in me--I have never
yet felt myself so well as now! Certainly I shall now recover, or
indeed--is the best wine reserved for me till the last?"
The evening sped on agreeably, and with animation in the family circle.
The blessed angels of heaven were not more beautiful or more joyous than
Henrik. He joked with his mother and sisters, nay, even with Stjernhoek,
in the gayest manner, and was one of the liveliest who partook of the
citron-souffle which Louise served up for supper, and which she herself
had helped to prepare, and of which she was not a little proud. Yes,
indeed, she was almost ready to believe that it was this which had given
new life to Henrik, and the power of which she considered to be
wonderfully operative. But ah!----
At the very moment when Henrik jested with Louise on this very subject,
he was seized by the most violent suffering.
This suffering continued interruptedly for three days, and deprived the
sick young man of consciousness; whilst it seemed to be leading him
quickly to that bound which mercy has set to human sufferings. On the
second day after this paroxysm Henrik was seized with that desire for
change of resting-place which may be commonly regarded as the sign that
the soul is preparing for its great change of abode. The Judge himself
bore his son in his arms from room to room, and from bed to bed. No
sleep visited the eyes of his family during these terrible days; whilst
his mother, with eyes tearless and full of anguish riveted upon her son,
followed him from room to room, and from bed to bed; now hanging over
his pillow, now seated at the foot of his bed, and smiling tenderly upon
him when he appeared to know her, and articulating his name in a low and
almost inaudible voice.
On the evening of the third day the poor youth regained his
consciousness. He recognised his family again, and spoke kindly to them.
He saw that they were pale and weary, and besought them incessantly to
go to rest. The Assessor, who was present, united earnestly in this
request, and assured them that, according to all appearances, Henrik
would now enjoy an easy sleep, and that he himself would watch by him
through the night. The father and daughters retired to rest; but when
they endeavoured to persuade the mother, she only waved with her hand,
whilst a mournful smile seemed to say, "It is of no use whatever to talk
to me about it."
"I may remain with you, Henrik?" said she, beseechingly.
He smiled, took her hand, and laid it on his breast; and in the same
moment closing his eyes, a calm refreshing sleep stole over him. The
Assessor sate silently beside them, and observed them both: it was not
long, however, before he was obliged to leave them, being summoned
suddenly to some one who was dangerously ill. He left them with the
promise to return in the course of the night. Munter was called in the
city the night-physician, because there was no one like him who appeared
earnestly willing to give his help by night as by day.
The mother breathed deeply when she saw herself alone with her son. She
folded her hands, and raised her eyes to heaven with an expression which
through the whole of the foregoing days had been foreign to them. It was
no longer restless, almost murmuring anxiety; it was a mournful, yet at
the same time, deep, perfect, nay, almost loving resignation. She bent
over her son, and spoke in a low voice out of the depths of her
affectionate heart.
"Go, my sweet boy, go! I will no longer hold thee back, since it is
painful to thee! May the deliverer come! Thy mother will no longer
contend with him to retain thee! May he come as a friendly angel and
make an end of thy sufferings! I--will then be satisfied! Go then, my
first-born, my summer-child; go, and if there may never more come a
summer to the heart of thy mother--still go! that thou mayst have rest!
Did I make thy cradle sweet, my child! so would I not embitter by my
lamentations thy death-bed! Blessed be thou! Blessed be He also who gave
thee to me, and who now takes thee from me to a better home! Some time,
my son, I shall come home to thee; go thou beforehand, my child! Thou
art weary, so weary! Thy last wandering was heavy to thee; now thou wilt
rest. Come thou good deliverer, come thou beloved death, and give rest
to his heart; but easily, easily. Let him not suffer more--let him not
endure more. Never did he give care to his parents----"
At this moment Henrik opened his eyes, and fixed them calmly and full of
expression on his mother.
"Thank God!" said he, "I feel no more pain."
"Thanks and praise be given to God, my child!" said she.
Mother and son looked on each other with deep and cheerful love! they
understood each other perfectly.
"When I am no more," said he, with a faint and broken voice, "then--tell
it to Gabriele, prudently; she has such tender feelings--and she is not
strong. Do not tell it to her on a day--when it is cold and
dull--but--on a day--when the sun shines warm--when all things look
bright and kindly--then, then tell her--that I am gone away--and greet
her--and tell her from me--that it is not difficult--to die!--that there
is a sun on the other side----"
He ceased, but with a loving smile on his lips, and his eyes closed
their lids as if from very weariness.
Presently afterwards he spoke again, but in a very low voice. "Sing me
something, mother," said he, "I shall then sleep more calmly, 'They
knock! I come!'"
These words were the beginning of a song which Henrik had himself
written, and set to music some time before, during a night of suffering.
The genius of poetry seemed to have deserted him during the latter part
of his illness; this was painful to him; but his mind remained the same,
and the spirit of poetry lived still in the hymn which his mother now,
at his request, sang in a trembling voice:
They knock! I come! yet ere on the way
To the night of the grave I am pressing,
Thou Angel of Death, give me yet one lay--
One hymn of thanksgiving and blessing.
Have thanks, O Father! in heaven high,
For thy gift, all gifts exceeding;
For life! and that grieved or glad I could fly
To thee, nor find thee unheeding.
Oh thanks for life, and thanks too for death,
The bound of all trouble and sighing;
How bitter! yet sweet 't is to yield our breath
When thine is the heart of the dying!
By our path of trial thou plantest still
Thy lilies of consolation;
But the loveliest of all--to do thy will--
Be it done in resignation!
Farewell, lovely earth, on whose bosom I lay;
Farewell, all ye dear ones, mourning;
Farewell, and forgive all the faults of my day:
My heart now in death is burning!
"It is burning!" repeated Henrik in a voice of suffering. "It is
terrible! Mother! Mother!" said he, looking for her with a restless
glance.
"Your mother is here!" said she, bending over him.
"Ah! then all is right!" said he again, calmly. "Sing, my mother," added
he, again closing his eyes--"I am weary."
She sang--
We part! but in parting our steps we bend
Alone towards that glorious morrow,
Where friend no more shall part from friend,
Where none knoweth heart-ache or sorrow!
Farewell! all is dark to my failing sight,
Your loved forms from my faint gaze rending,
'T is dark, but oh!--far beyond the night
I see light o'er the darkness ascending!
"Oh! if you only knew how serene it is! It is divine!" said the dying
one, as he stretched forth his arms, and then dropped them again.
A change passed over the countenance of the young man; death had touched
his heart gently, and its pulsations ceased. At the same moment a
wonderful inspiration animated the mother; her eyes beamed brightly, and
never before had her voice had so beautiful, so clear a tone as whilst
she sang
Thou callest, O Father! with glad accord
I come!--Ye dear ones we sever!--
Now the pang is past!--now behold I the Lord--
Praise be thine, O Eternal, for ever!
Judge Frank was awoke out of his uneasy sleep by the song, whose tone
seemed to have a something supernatural in it. A few moments passed
before he could convince himself that the voice which he heard was
really that of his wife.
He hastened with indescribable anxiety to the sick room; Elise yet sang
the last verse as he entered, and casting his eyes on her countenance,
he exclaimed "My God!" and clasped his hands together.
The song ceased: a dreadful consciousness thrust itself like a sword
through the heart of the mother. She saw before her the corpse of her
son, and with a faint cry of horror she sank, as if lifeless, upon the
bed of death.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Eric Stagnelius, who was born in 1793, and died in 1823, would have
been, it is probable, had a longer life been granted to him, one of the
most distinguished poets of the age. His poems, epic, dramatic, and
lyric, fill three volumes. "Liljor i Saron"--Lilies of Sharon, is the
general title of his lyrics.