A RELAPSE.
Whilst May wrote its romance in leaves and life; whilst Jacobi and
Louise wrote many sweet chapters of theirs in kisses; whilst all the
house was in motion on account of the marriage, and joy and mirth sprang
up to life like butterflies in the spring sun, one glance was ever
darker, one cheek ever paler, and that was Eva's.
People say commonly that love is a game for the man, and a
life's-business for the woman. If there be truth in this, it may arise
from this cause, that practical life makes commonly too great a demand
on the thoughts and activity of the man for him to have much time to
spend on love, whilst on the contrary the woman is too much occupied
with herself to have the power of withdrawing herself from the pangs of
love (may the Chamberlain's lady forgive us talking so much about man
and woman! It has not been our lot here in the world to scour either a
room or a kettle, though, to speak the truth, we do not consider
ourselves incapable of so doing). Eva found nothing in her peaceful home
which was powerful enough to abstract her from the thoughts and feelings
which for so long had been the dearest to her heart. The warm breezes of
spring, so full of love, fanned up that glimmering fire; so did also
that innocent life of the betrothed, so full of cordiality and
happiness; so did also a yet more poisonous wind. One piece of news
which this spring brought was the betrothal of Major R. with one of the
beauties of the capital, a former rival of Eva--news which caused a deep
wound to her heart. She wished to conceal, she wished to veil what was
yet remaining of a love which no one had favoured, and over which she
could not now do other than blush; she had determined never again to
burden and grieve her family with her weakness, her sorrows; she would
not disturb the peace, the cheerfulness, which now again began to reign
in the family after the misfortunes which had shaken it; but under the
endeavour to bear her burden alone, her not strong spirit gave way. She
withdrew more and more from the family circle; became ever more silent
and reserved; sought for solitude, and was unwilling to have her
solitude disturbed by any one. She even was reserved before Leonore;
although she, like a good angel, stood by her side, resting her soft
eyes upon her with a tender disquiet, endeavouring to remove from her
every annoyance, taking upon herself every painful occupation, and
evincing towards her all that anxious care which a mother shows to a
sick child. Eva permitted all this, and was daily more and more consumed
by her untold mental sufferings. The engrossing cares which at this time
occupied the family, prevented almost every one from paying attention to
Eva's state of mind, and thus she was often left to herself.
For several of the last evenings Eva had gone down into her own chamber
directly after tea--for in their present dwelling some of the daughters
occupied the ground-floor--and on the plea of headache had excused
herself from again returning to her family during the evening. It was a
principle of the parents never to make use of any other means of
compulsion with their children, now that they were grown up, than love,
be it in great things or in small. But then love had a great power in
this family; and as the daughters knew that it was the highest delight
of their father to see them all round him in an evening, it became a
principle with them neither to let temper nor any other unnecessary
cause keep them away. As now, however, this was the third evening on
which Eva had been absent, the father became uneasy, and the mother went
down to her, whilst the rest of the family and some friends who were
with them were performing a little concert together. But Eva was not to
be found in her chamber, and the mother was hastening back again, full
of disquiet, when she met Ulla, who was going to make the beds.
"Where is Eva?" asked she, with apparent indifference.
Ulla started, was red and then pale, and answered hesitatingly, "She
is--gone out--I fancy."
"Where is she gone?" asked Elise, suddenly uneasy.
"I fancy--to the grave of the young master," returned Ulla.
"To the grave?--so late! Has she gone there for several evenings?"
inquired the mother.
"This is now the third evening," said Ulla: "ah, best gracious lady, it
goes really to my heart--it is not justly right there!"
"What is not justly right, Ulla?"
"That Mamselle Eva goes out to the grave so late, and does not come back
again till it has struck ten, and that she will be so much alone,"
returned Ulla. "Yesterday Mamselle Leonore even cried, and begged of her
not to go, or to allow her to go with her. But Mamselle Eva would not
let her, but said she would not go, and that Mamselle Leonore should go
up-stairs, and leave her alone; but as soon as Mamselle Leonore had left
her she went out for all that, with only a thin kerchief over her head.
And this evening she is gone out also. Ah! it must be a great grief
which consumes her, for she gets paler every day!"
Greatly disturbed by what she had heard, Elise hastened to seek her
husband. She found him deeply engaged over his books and papers, but he
left all the moment he saw the troubled countenance of his wife. She
related to him what she had heard from Ulla, and informed him that it
was her intention to go now immediately to the churchyard.
"I will go with you," said the Judge, "only tell Louise to defer supper
for us till we come back; I fancy nobody will miss us, they are so
occupied by their music."
No sooner said than done. The husband and wife went out together; it was
half-past nine in the middle of May, but the air was cold, and a damp
mist fell.
"Good heavens!" said the Judge softly, "she'll get her death of cold if
she stops in the churchyard so late, and in air like this!"
As they approached the churchyard, they saw that a female form passed
hastily through the gate. It was not Eva, for she sat on the grave of
her brother! she sat there immovably upon the earth, and resembled a
ghost. The churchyard was, with this exception, deserted. The figure
which had entered before them, softly approached the grave, and remained
standing at the distance of a few paces.
"Eva!" said a beseeching mournful voice; it was Leonore. The parents
remained standing behind some thick-leaved fir-trees. On precisely the
same spot had the father stood once before, and listened to a
conversation of a very different kind.
"Eva!" repeated Leonore, with an expression of the most heartfelt
tenderness.
"What do you want with me, Leonore?" asked Eva impatiently, but without
moving. "I have already prayed you to let me alone."
"Ah! I cannot leave you, dear Eva," replied her sister, "why do you sit
here on the ground, on this cold, wet evening? Oh, come home, come home
with me!"
"Do you go home, Leonore! this air is not proper for you! Go home to the
happy, and be merry, with them," returned Eva.
"Do you not remember," tenderly pleaded Leonore, "how I once, many years
ago, was sick both in body and mind? Do you know who it was then that
left the gay in order to comfort me? I prayed her to leave me--but she
went not from me--neither will I now go away from you."
"Ah, go! leave me alone!" repeated Eva, "I stand now alone in the
world!"
"Eva, you distress me!" said her sister, "you know that there is no one
in this world that I love like you: I mourned so much when you left us;
the house without you seemed empty, but I consoled myself with the
thought that Eva will soon come back again. You came, and I was so
joyful, for I believed that we should be so happy together. But I have
seen since then of how little consequence I am to you! still I love you
as much as ever, and if you think that I have not sympathised in your
sorrows, that I have not wept with you and for you, you do me certainly
injustice! Ah, Eva, many a night when you have believed perhaps that I
lay in sweet sleep, have I sat at your door, and listened how you wept,
and have wept for you, and prayed for you, but I did not dare to come in
to you because I imagined your heart to be closed to me!" And so saying,
Leonore wept bitterly.
"You are right, Leonore," answered Eva, "much has become closed in me
which once was opened. This feeling, this love for him--oh, it has
swallowed up my whole soul! For some time I believed I should be able to
conquer it--but now I believe so no longer----"
"Do you repent of your renunciation?" asked Leonore;--"it was so noble
of you! Would you yet be united to him!"
"No! no! the time for that is gone by," said Eva. "I would rather die
than that; but you see, Leonore, I loved him so--I have tasted love, and
have felt how rapturous, how divine life might be!--Oh, Leonore, the
bright sun-warm summer-day is not more unlike this misty evening hour,
than the life which I lived for a season is unlike the future which now
lies before me!"
"It seems so to you now, Eva--you think so now," answered her sister;
"but let a little time pass over, and you will see that it will be quite
otherwise; that the painful feelings will subside, and life will clear
up itself before you. Think only how it has already afforded you
pleasure to look up to heaven when the clouds separated themselves, and
you said, 'see how bright it will be! how beautiful the heaven is!' and
your blue eyes beamed with joy and peace, because it was so. Believe me,
Eva, the good time will come again, in which you will thus look up to
heaven, and feel thus joyful, and thus gay!"
"Never!" exclaimed Eva, weeping; "oh, never will that time return! Then
I was innocent, and from that cause I saw heaven above me clear;--now so
much that is bad, so much that is impure has stained my soul--stains it
yet!--Oh, Leonore, if you only knew all that I have felt for some time
you would never love me again! Would you believe it that Louise's
innocent happiness has infused bitterness into my soul; that the gaiety
which has again began to exist in the family has made me feel
bitterness--bitterness towards my own family--my own beloved ones! Oh, I
could detest myself! I have chastised myself with the severest words--I
have prayed with bitter tears, and yet----"
"Dear Eva, you must have patience with yourself," said Leonore, "you
will not----"
"Ah! I am already weary of myself--of my life!" hastily interrupted Eva;
"I am like some one who has already travelled far, who is already spent,
but who must still go on, and can never come to his journey's end. It
seems to me as if I should be a burden to all who belong to me; and when
I have seen you all so happy, so gay one with another, I have felt my
heart and my head burn with bitterness; then have I been obliged to go
out--out into the cold evening dew, and I have longed to repose in the
earth upon which it fell--I have longed to be able to hide myself from
every one--deep, deep in the grave below!"
"But from me," said Leonore, "you will not be able to hide yourself--nor
to go from me, since where you go there will I follow. Oh, what were
life to me if you were to leave it in despair! You would not go alone to
the grave, Eva! I would follow you there--and if you will not allow that
I sit by your side, I will seat myself on the churchyard wall, that the
same evening damps which penetrate you may penetrate me also; that the
same night wind which chills your bosom may chill mine; that I may be
laid by your side and in the same grave with you! And willingly would I
die for you, if--you will not live for me, and for the many who love you
so much! We will try all things to make you happier! God will help us;
and the day will come in which all the bitter things of this time will
seem like a dream, and when all the great and beautiful feelings, and
all the agreeable impressions of life will again revive in you. You will
again become innocent--nay, become more, because virtue is a higher, a
glorified innocence! Oh, Eva! if he whose dust reposes beneath us, if
his spirit invisibly float around us--if he who was better and purer
than all of us, could make his voice audible to us at this moment, he
would certainly join with me in the prayer--'Oh, Eva! live--live for
those who love thee! Mortal life, with all its anguish and its joy, is
soon past--and then it is so beautiful that our life should have caused
joy to one another on earth--it causes joy in heaven! The great
Comforter of all affliction will not turn from thee--only do not thou
turn from _Him!_ Have patience! tarry out thy time! Peace comes, comes
certainly----'"
The words ceased; both sisters had clasped their arms around each other,
and mingled their tears. Eva's head rested on Leonore's shoulder as she,
after a long pause, spoke in a feeble voice:
"Say no more, Leonore; I will do what you wish. Take me--make of me what
you will--I am too weak to sustain myself at this moment--support me--I
will go with you--you are my good angel!"
Other guardian angels approached just then, and clasped the sisters in a
tender embrace. Conducted by them, Eva returned home. She was
altogether submissive and affectionate, and besought earnestly for
forgiveness from all. She was very much excited by the scenes which had
just occurred, drank a composing draught which her mother administered,
and then listened to Leonore, who read to her, as she lay in bed, till
she fell asleep.
The Judge paced up and down his chamber uneasily that night, and spoke
thus to his wife, who lay in bed:
"A journey to the baths, and that in company with you, would be quite
the best thing for her. But I don't know how I can now do without you;
and more than that, where the money is to come from! We have had great
losses, and see still great expenses before us: in the first place
Louise's marriage--and then, without a little money in hand, we cannot
let our girls go from home; and the rebuilding of our house. But we must
borrow more money--I see no other way. Eva must be saved; her mind must
be enlivened and her body strengthened, let it cost what it may. I must
see and borrow----"
"It is not necessary, Ernst," said Elise; and the Judge, making a sudden
pause, gazed at her with astonishment; whilst she, half raising herself
in bed, looked at him with a countenance beaming with joy. "Come,"
continued she, "and I will recall something to your memory which
occurred fifteen years ago."
"What sort of a history can that be?" said he, smiling gaily, whilst he
seated himself on the bed, and took the hand which Elise extended to
him.
"Five-and-twenty years ago," began she.
"Five-and-twenty years!" interrupted he, "Heaven help me! you promised
to go no farther back than fifteen."
"Patience, my love!--this is part the first of my story. Do you not
remember, then," said she, "how, five-and-twenty years ago, at the
commencement of our married life, you made plans for a journey into the
beautiful native land of your mother? I see now, Ernst, that you
remember it. And how we should wander there you planned, and enjoy our
freedom and God's lovely nature. You were so joyful in the prospect of
this; but then came adversity, and cares, and children, and never-ending
labour for you, so that our Norwegian journey retreated year by year
more into the background. Nevertheless, it remained like a point of
light to you in the future; but now, for some time, you seem to have
forgotten it; yes, for you have given up all your own pleasures in
labouring for your family; have forsaken all your own enjoyments, your
own plans, for your own sphere of activity and your home. But I have not
forgotten the Norwegian journey, and in fifteen years have obtained the
means of its accomplishment."
"In fifteen years!--what do you mean?" asked he.
"Now I am arrived," she answered, "at part the second of my history. Do
you still remember, Ernst, that fifteen years ago we were not so happy
as we are now? You have forgotten? Well, so much the better; I scarcely
remember it myself any more, for the expansive rind of love has grown
over the black scar. What I, however, know is, that at that time I was
not so properly at home in actual life, and did not rightly understand
all the good that it offered me, and that to console myself on that
account I wrote a romance. But now it happened that by reason of my
novel I neglected my duties to my lord and husband--for the gentlemen
are decidedly unskilled in serving themselves----"
"Very polite!" interposed the Judge, smiling.
"Be content!" continued she: "now it happened that one evening his tea
and my novel came into collision--a horrible history followed. But I
made a vow in my heart that one of these days the two rivals should
become reconciled. Now you see my manuscript--you had the goodness to
call it rubbish--I sent to a very enlightened man, to a man of
distinguished taste and judgment, and thus it befel, he found taste in
the rubbish; and, what say you to it? paid me a pretty little sum for
permission to bring it before the world. Do not look so grave, Ernst; I
have never again taken up the pen to write novels; my own family has
found me enough to do; and besides, I never again could wish to do
anything which was not pleasant to you. You have displaced all rivals,
do you see! But this one I decided should be the means of your taking
the Norwegian journey. The little sum of two hundred crowns banco which
it produced me have I placed in the savings' bank for this purpose; and
in fifteen years it has so much augmented itself, that it will perfectly
accomplish that object; and if ever the time for its employment will
come, it is now. The desire for travelling is gone from me--I covet now
only rest. But you and----"
"And do you think," said the Judge, "that I shall take your----"
"Oh, Ernst! why should you not?" exclaimed she; "if you could but know
what joy the thought of this has prepared for me! The money, which from
year to year increased, in order to give you pleasure, has been to me
like a treasure of hidden delight, which has many a time strengthened
and animated my soul! Make me only perfectly happy by allowing yourself
to have enjoyment from it. Take it, my Ernst, and make yourself pleasure
with it, this summer; I pray you to do so, on account of our children.
Take Eva with you, and if possible Leonore also. Nothing would refresh
Eva's soul more than such a journey with you and Leonore in a
magnificent and beautiful country. The money can be obtained in a
month's time, and a few months' leave of absence cannot possibly be
denied to one who has spent more than thirty years in incessant service
for the state; and when Louise and her husband have left us, and spring
and nature are in their very loveliest, then you shall set out: you
shall be refreshed after so many years of painful labour, and the
wounded heart of our sick child shall be healed."