UPS AND DOWNS.
When a new swarm is ready in a hive to attempt its own flight, warning
voices may be heard on still evenings in the little state, calling
forth, "Out! out!"
People have interpreted it to be the old queen bee, which thus warns the
young ones forth into the world to fashion their own kingdom. I should
rather imagine it to be the young ones who in this manner sing forth
their longing. But let it be with them as it may, certain it is that in
the human hive, Home, a similar cry sometimes makes itself heard. Then
also there, when the young swarm is become strong with the honey and wax
of home, it finds the house too narrow and longs to get abroad. This is
common to all homes; but it is peculiar to the good and happy home, that
the same voice which exclaims, "Out! out!" exclaims afterwards yet more
animatedly, "In! in!"
So was it in the home of the Franks.
The period to which we must now cast our eyes conducts us several years
beyond the time when we saw father and daughters on the heights of the
Dofrine Mountains, and shows us our Petrea returned home after a long
absence.
The mother, Petrea, and Gabriele, are deep in a conversation which
appears to interest them all three in a very lively manner, and the mild
voice of the mother is heard saying--
"You may freely decide for yourself, my good child, that you know
perfectly well; but as you describe Mr. M., and with the feelings, or
more properly speaking, the want of feeling you have for him, I can
never believe that you will be happy with him, and I cannot therefore
advise this marriage. See, here are some almonds in the shell, my dear
girl! We have not forgotten so soon your love for them--I set the basket
before you."
"And the Countess Solenstrale," said the lively Gabriele, archly, "has
herself spoken for her nephew, and invited you to her house. Very polite
and handsome of her! And you, Petrea, no longer covet this exaltation?"
"Ah, no, Gabriele!" answered Petrea, "this childish desire is long past;
it is another kind of exaltation than this, that I pine for."
"And this is called?" asked Gabriele, with a light in her lovely eyes,
which showed her that she very well knew that, which however she had not
pronounced in words.
"I do not know what I should call it; but there lives and moves here a
longing difficult to describe," said Petrea, laying her hand upon her
breast, and with eyes full of tears; "oh, if I could only rise upwards
to light--to a higher, freer life!"
"You do not wish to die!" said Gabriele, warmly; "not that I now fear
death. Since Henrik has trod this path, I feel so entirely different to
what I used to do. Heaven is come quite near to the grave. To die is to
me to go to him, and to his home. But I am yet so happy to be living
here with my family, and you, my Petrea, must feel so too. Ah! life on
earth, with those that we love, may indeed be so beautiful!"
"So I think, and so I feel, Gabriele," replied Petrea, "and more so than
ever when I am at home, and with my own family. On that account I will
gladly live on the earth, at least till I am more perfect. But I must
have a sense of this life having in it a certain activity, by which I
may arrive at the consciousness of that which lives within me--there
moves in me a fettered spirit, which longs after freedom!"
"Extraordinary!" said Gabriele, half displeased, "how unlike people are
one to another. I, for my part, feel, not the least desire for activity.
I, unworthy mortal, would much rather do nothing." And so saying she
leaned her pretty head with half-shut eyes against her mother, who
looked on her with an expression that seemed to say, "live only; that is
enough for thee!"
Petrea continued: "When I have read or heard of people who have lived
and laboured for some great object, for some development of human
nature, who have dedicated all their thoughts and powers to this
purpose, and have been able to suffer and to die for it; oh! then I have
wept for burning desire that it also might be granted to me to spend and
to sacrifice my life. I have looked around me, have listened after such
an occasion, have waited and called upon it; but ah! the world goes past
me on its own way--nobody and nothing has need of me."
Petrea both wept and laughed as she spoke, and with smiles and tears
also did both Gabriele and the mother listen to her, and she continued--
"As there was now an opportunity for my marrying, I thought that here
was a sphere in which I might be active--But, ah! I feel clearly that it
is not the right one for me, neither is it the one for which I am
suitable--especially with a husband whose tastes and feelings are so
different to mine."
"But, my good girl," said the mother, disconcerted, "how came it then,
that he could imagine you sympathised so well together; it seems from
his letter that he makes himself quite sure of your consent, and that
you are very well suited to each other."
"Ah!" replied Petrea, blushing, and not without embarrassment, "there
are probably two causes for that, and it was partly his fault and partly
mine. In the country, where I met him, he was quite left to himself;
nobody troubled themselves about him; he had _ennui_, and for that
reason I began to find pleasure for him."
"Very noble," said Gabriele, smiling.
"Not quite so much so as you think," replied Petrea, again blushing,
"because--at first I wished really to find pleasure for _him_, and then
also a little for myself. Yes, the truth is this--that--I--had nothing
to do, and while I busied myself about Mr. M., I did not think it so
very much amiss to busy him a little about me; and for this reason I
entered into his amusements, which turned upon all sorts of petty
social tittle-tattle; for this reason I preserved apricots for him, I
told stories to him, and sang to him in an evening in the
twilight--'Welcome, O Moon!' and let him think if he would, that he was
the moon. Mother, Gabriele, forgive me, I know how little edification
there is in all this, it is quite too----but you cannot believe how
dangerous it is to be idle, when one has an active spirit within one,
and an object before one that----You laugh! God bless you for it! the
affair is not worth anything more, for it is anything but tragic--yet it
might become so, if on account of my sins I were to punish myself by
marrying Mr. M. I should be of no worth to him, excepting as housekeeper
and plaything, and this would not succeed in the long run; for the rest
he does not love me, cannot love me seriously, and would certainly
easily console himself for my refusal."
"Then let him console himself, and do not think any further on the
affair," cried Gabriele, with animation.
"I am of Gabriele's opinion," said the mother; "for to marry merely to
be married; merely to obtain a settlement, an establishment, and all
that, is wrong; and, moreover, with your family relationships, the most
unnecessary thing in the world. You know, my dear child, that we have
enough for ourselves and for you, and a sphere of action suitable for
you will present itself in time. Your father will soon return home, and
then we can talk with him on the subject. He will assist us directly in
the best way."
"I had, indeed, presentiments," said Petrea, with a sigh, "and hopes,
and dreams, perhaps--of a way, of an activity, which would have made me
useful and happy according to my own abilities. I make now much humbler
demands on life than formerly; I have a much less opinion of myself than
I had--but, oh! if I might only ally myself, as the least atom of light,
to the beams which penetrate humanity at the same time that they animate
the soul of man, I would thank God and esteem myself happy! I have made
an attempt--you know, mother, and Gabriele--to express in a book
somewhat of that which has lived in me and which still lives; you know
that I have sent the manuscript to an enlightened printer for his
judgment, and also--if his judgment be favourable--that he should
publish it. If this should succeed, if a sphere of action should open
itself to me in this way, oh! then some time or other I might become a
more useful and happy being; should give pleasure to my connexions,
and----"
Petrea was here interrupted by the arrival of a large packet directed to
herself. A shuddering apprehension went through her; her heart beat
violently as she broke the seal, and--recognised her own manuscripts.
The enlightened, intelligent printer sent them back to her, accompanied
by a little note, containing the pleasant tidings that he would not
offer the merest trifle for the book, neither could he undertake the
printing of it at his own cost.
"Then this path is also closed against me!" said Petrea, bowing her head
to her hand that nobody might see how deeply she felt this. Thus then
she had deceived herself regarding her talents and her ability. But now
that this way also was closed against her--what should she undertake?
Marriage with Mr. M. began again to haunt her brain. She stumbled about
in the dark.
Gabriele would not allow, however, that the path of literature was
closed against her; she was extremely excited against the printer. "He
was certainly," she said, "a man without any taste."
"Ah!" said Petrea, readily smiling, "I also will gladly flatter myself
with that belief, and that if the book could only be printed, then we
soon--but that is not to be thought of!"
Gabriele thought it was quite worth while to think about it, and did not
doubt but that means might be found, some time or other, to make the
gentleman printer make a long face about it.
The mother agreed; spoke of the return of her husband, who, she said,
would set all right. "Keep only quietly with us, Petrea, calmly, and
don't be uneasy about the means for bringing out your book; they will be
found without difficulty, if we only give ourselves time."
"And here," added Gabriele, "you shall have as much quiet as you desire.
If you would like to spend the whole day in reading and writing, I will
take care that nobody disturbs you. I will attend to all your friends
and acquaintance, if it be needful, to insure your quiet. I will only
come in to you to tell you when breakfast is ready and when dinner; and
on the post-day, I'll only come at the post-hour and knock at your
door, and take your letters and send them off. And in the evening,
then--then we may see you amongst us--you cannot believe how welcome you
will be! Ah! certainly you will feel yourself happy among those who love
you so much! And your book! we will send it out into the world, and it
too shall succeed one of these days!"
Loving voices! domestic voices in happy families, what adversity, what
suffering is there which cannot be comforted by you!
Petrea felt their healing balsam. She wept tears of love and gratitude.
An hour afterwards, much calmer in mind, she stood at the window, and
noticed the scene without. Christmas was at hand, and every thing was in
lively motion, in order to celebrate the beautiful festival joyously.
The shops were ornamented, and people made purchases. A little bird came
and sate on the window, looked up to Petrea, twittered joyfully, and
flew away. A lively sentiment passed through Petrea's heart.
"Thou art happy, little bird," thought she; "so many beings are happy.
My mishap grieves no one, hurts no one. Wherefore, then, should it
depress me? The world is large, and its Creator rich and good. If this
path will not succeed for me, what then? I will find out another."
In the evening she was cheerful with her family. But when night came,
and she was alone; when the external world presented no longer its
changing pictures; when loving, sweet voices no more allured her out of
herself,--then anguish and disquiet returned to her breast. In no
condition to sleep, and urged by irresistible curiosity, she sate
herself down sighingly to go through her unlucky manuscripts. She found
many pencil-marks, notes of interrogation, and traces of the thumb on
the margin, which plainly proved that the reader had gone through the
manuscript with a censorious hand, and had had satisfaction in passing
his judgment of "good for nothing!"
Ah! Petrea had built so many plans for herself and her family upon this,
which was now good for nothing; had founded upon it so many hopes for
her ascent upwards. Was nothing now to come out of them all?
Petrea read; she acknowledged the justice of many marginal remarks, but
she found, more and more, that the greater part of them had reference
to single expressions, and other trifles. Petrea read and read, and was
involuntarily captivated by that which she read. Her heart swelled, her
eyes glowed, and suddenly animated by that feeling which (we say it
_sans comparaison_) gave courage to Correggio, and which comforted
Galileo, she raised herself, and struck her hand upon the manuscript
with the exclamation, "It is good for something after all!"
Animated to the depths of her heart, she ran to Gabriele, and laughing,
embraced her with the words, "You shall see that some fine day I'll
ascend upwards yet."
PART IV.
CHAPTER I.
PETREA TO IDA.
From my Hermitage in the Garret.
"'Illusions! Illusions!' you cry over all joys, all faith, all love in
life. I shout back with all my might over your own words, 'Illusions!
Illusions!' All depends upon what we fix our faith and our affections.
Must the beauty of love and worth of life be at an end to woman when her
first spring, her bloom of love, her moments of romance are past? No, do
not believe that, Ida. Nothing in this world is such an illusion as this
belief. Life is rich; its tree blossoms eternally, because it is
nourished by immortal fountains. It bears dissimilar fruits, varies in
colour and glory, but all beautiful; let us undervalue none of them, for
all of them are capable of producing plants of eternal life.
"Youthful love--the beaming passion-flower of earth! Who will belie its
captivating beauty, who will not thank the Creator that he gave it to
the children of earth? But ah! I will exclaim to all those who drink of
its nectar, and to those who must do without it--'There are flowers
which are as noble as this, and which are less in danger than it of
being paled by the frosts of the earth--flowers from whose chalices
also you may suck life from the life of the Eternal!'
"Ah! if we only understood how near to us Providence has placed the
fountains of our happiness--if we had only understood this from the days
of our childhood upwards, acted upon it, and profited by it, our lives
would then seldom lead through dry wildernesses! Happy are those
children whose eyes are early opened by parents and home to the rich
activity of life. They will then experience what sweetness and joy and
peace can flow out of family relationships, out of the heartfelt union
between brothers and sisters, between parents and children: and they
will experience how these relations, carefully cherished in youth, will
become blessings for our maturer years.
"You pray me to speak of my home and my family. But when I begin with
this subject, who can say, Ida, whether I shall know how to leave off!
This subject is so rich to me, so dear--and yet how weak will not my
description be, how lifeless in comparison with the reality!
"The dwelling-house--which may be said to have the same relation to home
as the body has to the soul--arisen, now out of its ashes, stands on the
same place on which, twelve years ago, it was burnt down. I wish you had
been with me yesterday in the library at breakfast. It was Leonore's
birthday, and the family had occasioned her a surprise by a little gift
which was exactly according to her taste--ornament combined with
convenience. It was an insignificant gift--wherefore then did it give us
all so much pleasure? wherefore were there sweet tears in her pious
eyes, and in ours also? We were all so still, and yet we felt that we
were very happy--happy because we mutually loved one another, and
mutually pleased one another so much. The sun shone at that time into
the room--and see, Ida! this sunbeam which shines day by day into the
house is the best image of its state; it is that which chases hence all
darkness, and turns all shadows into the glorification of its light!
"I will now, lively Ida, talk to you some little about the daughters of
the house, and in order that you may not find my picture too
sentimental, I will introduce first to you--'Honour to whom honour is
due!'--
'OUR ELDEST,'
well known for industry, morality, moral lecturing, cathedral airs, and
many good properties. She married eleven years ago upon a much smaller
than common capital of worldly wealth; but both she and her husband knew
how to turn their pound to account, and so, by degrees, their house,
under her careful hands, came to be what people call a well-to-do house.
"Eight wild Jacobis during this time sprung up in the house without
bringing about any revolution in it, so good were the morals which they
drew in with the mother's milk. I call them the 'Berserkers,' because
when I last saw them they were perfect little monsters of strength and
swiftness, and because we shall rely upon their prowess to overturn
certain planks--of which more anon; on which account I will inspire them
and their mother beforehand with a certain old-gothic ambition.
"So now! After the married couple had kept school eleven years--he
instructing the boys in history, Latin, and such like; and she washing,
combing, and moralising the same, and in fact, becoming a mother to many
a motherless boy, it pleased the mercy of the Almighty to call them--not
directly to heaven, but through his angel the Consistorium to the
pastoral care of the rural parish adjoining this town--the highest goal
of their wishes ever since they began to have wishes one with another.
Their approaching journey here has given rise to great pleasure--it is
hard to say in which of the two families the greatest. Thus, then,
Louise will become a pastor's wife--perhaps soon also an archdeacon's,
and then she arrives at the desired situation in which she can impart
moral lectures with power--of which sister Petrea might have the benefit
of a good part, and pay it back with interest.
"But the moral lectures of our eldest have a much milder spirit than
formerly, which is owing to the influence of Jacobi; for it has occurred
in their case, as in the case of many another happily-married couple,
they have ennobled one another; and it is a common saying in our family,
that she without him would not have become what she now is, neither
would he have been without her what he now is.
"The Rose of the Family, the daughter Eva, had once in her life a great
sorrow--a bitter conflict; but she came forth victorious. True it is
that an angel stood by her side and assisted her. Since then she has
lived for the joy of her family and her friends, beautiful, and amiable,
and happy, and has from time to time rejected lovers; but she may soon
be put out of the position to continue this course. I said that an angel
stood beside her in the bitter conflict. There was a time when this
angel was an ugly, uncomfortable girl, a trouble to herself, and
properly beloved by none. But there is no one in the family now who is
more beloved or more in favour than she is. Never, through the power of
God, did there take place a greater change than in her. Now it gives one
pleasure to look at her and to be near her. Her features, it is true,
have not improved themselves, nor has her complexion become particularly
red-and-white; but she has become lovely, lovely from the heartfelt
expression of affection and intelligence; beautiful from the quiet,
unpretending grace of her whole being. Her only pretension is that she
will serve all and help all; and thus has she attached every one, by
degrees, to her, and she is become the heart, the peace of the house;
and, for herself, she has struck deep root down into the family, and is
become happy through all these charms. She has attached herself, in the
closest manner, to her sister Eva, and these two could not live
separated from each other.
"You know the undertaking which these two sisters, while yet young,
commenced together. You know also how well it succeeded; how it obtained
confidence and stability, and how it won universal respect for its
conductors, and how also, after a course of ten years--independent of
this institution--they had realised a moderate income; so that they can,
if they are so disposed, retire from it, and it will still continue to
prosper under the direction of Annette P., who was taken as assistant
from the beginning, and who in respect of character and ability has
proved herself a person of rare worth. The name of the sisters Frank
stood estimably at the head of this useful establishment; but it is a
question whether it would have prospered to such an extent, whether it
would have developed itself so beautifully and well without the
assistance of a person who, however, has carefully concealed his
activity from the eye of the public, and whose name, for that reason,
was never praised. Without Assessor Munter's unwearied care and
assistance--so say the sisters--the undertaking could never have gone
forward. What a wonderful affectionate constancy lies in the soul of
this man! He has been, and is still, the benefactor of our family; but
if you would see and hear him exasperated, tell him so, and see how he
quarrels with all thanks to himself. The whole city is now deploring
that it is about to lose him. He is going to reside on his estate in the
country, for it is impossible that he could sustain much longer the way
in which he is at present overworked both night and day. His health has
for some time evidently declined, and we rejoice that he can now take
some rest, by which he may regain new strength. We all love him from our
hearts; but one of us has set on foot a plot to oblige another of us
to--ally herself with him, and therefore our good Assessor is now
exposed to a secret proceeding, which--but I forget that I was to write
about the daughters of the family.
"There is a peculiar little world in the house--a world into which
nothing bad can enter--where live flowers, birds, music, and Gabriele.
The morning would lose its sweetest charms, if during the same
Gabriele's birds and flowers did not play a part, and the evening
twilight would be duskier if it were not enlivened by Gabriele's guitar
and songs. Her flower-stand has extended itself by degrees into an
orangery--not large to be sure, but yet large enough to shelter a
beautiful vine, which is now covered with grapes, and many beautiful and
rare plants also, so as to present to the family a little Italy, where
they may enjoy all the charms of the south, in the midst of a northern
winter. A covered way leads from the dwelling-house down into the
orangery, and it is generally there that in winter they take their
afternoon coffee. The aviary is removed thither; and there upon a table
covered with a green cloth, lie works on botany, together with the
writings of the Swedish gardening society, which often contain such
interesting articles. There stand two comfortable armed chairs, on which
the most magnificent birds and flowers are worked, you can easily
imagine for whom. There my mother sits gladly, and reads or looks at her
'little lady' (she never grows out of this appellation) as she tends her
flowers in the sun, or plays with her tame birds. One may say, in fact,
that Gabriele strews the evening of her mother's days with flowers.
"A man dear to the Swedish heart has said, 'that the grand natural
feature of northern life is a conquered winter,' and this applies
equally to life individually, to family life, and to that of human
nature. It so readily freezes and grows stiff, snow so readily falls
upon the heart; and winter makes his power felt as much within as
without the house. In order to keep it warm within, in order that life
may flourish and bloom, it is needful to preserve the holy fire
everburning. Love must not turn to ashes and die out; if it do, then all
is labour and heaviness, and one may as well do nothing but--sleep. But
if fire be borrowed from heaven, this will not happen; then will house
and heart be warm, and life bloom incessantly, and a thousand causes
will become rich sources of joy to all. If it be so within the
house--then may it snow without--then winter thou mayst do thy worst!
"But I return to Gabriele, whose lively wit and joyous temper, united to
her affectionate and innocent heart, make her deservedly the favourite
of her parents, and the joy of every one. She asserts continually her
own good-for-nothingness, her uselessness, and incorrigible love to a
sweet '_far niente_;' but nobody is of her opinion in this respect, for
nobody can do without her, and one sees that when it is necessary, she
can be as decided and as able as any one need be. It is now some time
since Gabriele made any charades. I almost fancy that the cause of this
is a certain Baron L., who was suspected for a long time of having set
fire to a house, and who now is suspected of a design of setting fire to
a heart, and who, with certain words and glances, has put all sorts of
whims into her head--I will not say heart.
"And so then we have nothing bad to say of 'this Petrea,' as one of the
friends of the house still calls her, but no longer in anger. This
Petrea has had all kind of botherations in the world: in the first place
with her own nose, with which she could not get into conceit, and then
with various other things, as well within her as without her, and for a
long time it seemed as if her own world would never come forth out of
chaos.
"It has however. With eyes full of grateful tears I will dare to say
this, and some time I may perhaps more fully explain how this has been
done. And blessed be the home which has turned back her wandering steps,
has healed the wounds of her heart, and has offered her a peaceful
haven, an affectionate defence, where she has time to rest after the
storms, and to collect and to know herself. Without this home, without
this influence, Petrea certainly might have become a witch, and not, as
now, a tolerably reasonable person.
"You know my present activity, which, whilst it conducts me deeper into
life, discovers to me more beauty, more poetry, than I had ever
conceived of it in the dreams of my youth. Not merely from this cause,
although greatly owing to it, a spring has began to blossom for me on
the other side of my thirty years, which, were it ever to wither, would
be from my own fault. And if even still a painful tear may be shed over
past errors or present faults; if the longing after what is yet
unattainably better, purer, and brighter, may occasion many a pang--what
matters it? What matter if the eye-water burn, so that the eye only
become clear; if heaven humiliate, so that it only draw us upwards?
"One of Petrea's means of happiness is, to require very few of the
temporal things of earth. She regards such things as nearly related to
the family of illusions, and will, on that account, have as little as
possible to do with them. And thus has she also the means of obtaining
for herself many a hearty and enduring pleasure. I will not, however, be
answerable for her not very soon being taken by a frenzy of giving a
feast up in her garret, and thereby producing all kinds of illusions;
such, for example, as the eating little cakes, the favourite illusion of
my mother, and citron-souffle, the almost perfect earthly felicity of
'our eldest,' in which a reconciliation skal with the frenzy-feast might
be proposed to her beloved 'eldest.'
"Would you now make a _summa summarum_ of Petrea's state, it stands
thus: that which was a fountain of disquiet in her is now become a
fountain of quiet. She believes in the actuality of life, and in her own
part therein. She does not allow her peace to be disturbed by accidental
troubles, be they from within or from without; she calls them
mist-clouds, passing storms, after which the sun will come forth again.
And should her little garret tumble to pieces one of these days, she
would regard even that as a passing misfortune, and hold herself ready,
in all humility--to mount up yet a little higher.
"But enough of Petrea and her future ascension.
"Yet one daughter dwelt in the family, and her lovely image lives still
in the remembrance of all, but a mourning veil hangs over it; for she
left home, but not in peace. She was not happy, and for many years her
life is wrapped in darkness. People think that she is dead; her friends
have long believed so, and mourned her as such; but one among them
believes it not. _I_ do not believe that she is dead. I have a strong
presentiment that she will return; and it would gladden me to show her
how dear she is to me. I have built plans for her future with us, and I
expect her continually, or else a token where I may be able to find her;
and be it in Greenland or in Arabia Deserta whence her voice calls me, I
will find out a way to her.
"I would that I could now describe to you the aged pair, to whom all in
the house look up with love and reverence, who soon will have been a
wedded couple forty years, and who appear no longer able to live the one
without the other--but my pen is too weak for that. I will only venture
upon a slight outline sketch. My father is nearly seventy years old--but
do you think he indulges himself with rest? He would be extremely
displeased if he were to sleep longer in a morning than usual: he rises
every morning at six, it being deeply impressed upon him to lose as
little of life as possible. It is unpleasant to him that his declining
sight compels him now to less activity. He likes that we should read
aloud to him in an evening, and that--romances. My mother smilingly
takes credit to herself for having seduced him to that kind of reading;
and he confesses, with smiles, that it is really useful for old people,
because it contributes to preserve the heart young. For the rest, he is
in all respects equally, perhaps more, good, more noble-hearted than
ever; and from that cause he is to us equally respect-inspiring and
dear. Oh, Ida, it is a happy feeling to be able intrinsically to honour
and love those who have given us life!
"And now must I, with a bleeding heart, throw a mournful shadow over
the bright picture of the house, and that shadow comes at the same time
from a beautiful image--from my mother! I fear, I fear, that she is on
the way to leave us! Her strength has been declining for two years. She
has no decided malady, but she becomes visibly weaker and feebler, and
no remedy, as yet, has shown itself availing for her. They talk now of
the air of next spring--of Selzer-water, and a summer journey;--my
father would travel to the world's end with her--they hope with
certainty that she will recover; she hopes so herself, and says
smilingly yes, to the Selzer-water, and the journey, and all that we
propose; says she would gladly live with us, that she is happy with
us,--yet nevertheless there is a something about her, and even in her
smiles, that tells me that she herself does not cherish full faith in
the hope which she expresses. Ah! when I see daily her still paler
countenance; the unearthly expression in her gentle features--when I
perceive her ever slower gait, as she moves about, still arranging the
house and preparing little gratifications for her family; then comes the
thought to me that she perhaps will soon leave us, and it sometimes is
difficult to repress my tears.
"But why should I thus despair? Why not hope like all the rest? Ah, I
will hope, and particularly for the sake of him who, without her, could
no more be joyful on earth. For the present she is stronger and livelier
than she has been for a long time. The arrival of Louise and her family
have contributed to this, as also another day of joy which is
approaching, and which has properly reference to my father. She goes
about now with such joy of heart, with the almanack in her hand, and
prepares everything, and thinks of everything for the joyful festival.
My father has long wished to possess a particular piece of building land
which adjoins our little garden, in order to lay it out for a great and
general advantage; but he has sacrificed so much for his children, that
he has nothing remaining wherewith to carry out his favourite plan. His
children in the mean time have, during the last twelve years, laid by a
sum together, and now have latterly borrowed together what was wanting
for the purchase of the land. On the father's seventieth birthday
therefore, with the joint help of the 'Berserkers,' will the wooden
fence be pulled down, and the genius of the new place, represented by
the graceful figure of Gabriele, will deliver over to him the
purchase-deed, which is made out in his name. How happy he will be! Oh,
it makes us all happy to think of it! How he will clear away, and dig,
and plant! and how it will gladden and refresh his old age. May he live
so long that the trees which he plants may shake their leafy branches
over his head, and may their rustling foretel to him the blessing, which
his posterity to the third and fourth generation will pronounce upon his
beneficent activity.
"I would speak of the circle of friends which has ever enclosed our home
most cordially, of the new Governor Stejernhoek and his wife, whom we
like so much, and whose removal here was particularly welcome to my
father, who almost sees a son in him. I would speak also of the servants
of the house, who are yet more friends than servants--but I fear
extending my letter to too great a length.
"Perhaps you blame me secretly for painting my picture in colours too
uniformly bright, perhaps you will ask, 'Come there then not into this
house those little knocks, disturbances, rubs, overhastinesses,
stupidities, procrastinations, losses, and whatever those spiritual
mosquitoes may be called, which occasion by their stings irritation,
unquiet, and vexation, and whose visits the very happiest families
cannot avoid?'
"Yes, certainly. They come, but they vanish as quickly as they come, and
never leave a poisonous sting behind, because a universal remedy is
employed against them, which is called 'Forgive, forget, amend!' and
which the earlier applied the better, and which makes also the visits of
these ugly fiends of rarer occurrence; they come, indeed, in pure and
mild atmospheres never properly forth.
"Would you, dearest Ida, be convinced of the truth of the picture, come
here and see for yourself. We should all like it so much. Come, and let
our house provide for you the divertisement, perhaps also the rest which
is so needful to your heart. Come, and believe me, Ida, that when one
observes the world from somewhat of an elevation--as for instance, a
garret--one sees illusions like mist, passing over the earth, but above
it heaven vaulting itself in eternal brightness."
CHAPTER II.
A MORNING HOUR
"Good morning!" said Jeremias Munter, as with his pockets full of books
he entered Petrea's garret, which was distinguished from all other rooms
merely by its perfect simplicity and its lack of all ornament. A glass
containing beautiful fresh flowers was its only luxury.
"Oh, so heartily welcome!" exclaimed Petrea as she looked with beaming
eyes on her visitor and on his valuable appendages.
"Yes, to-day," said he, "I am of opinion that I am welcome! Here's a
treat for Miss Petrea. See here, and see here!"
So saying, the Assessor laid one book after another upon the table,
naming at the same time their contents. They belonged to that class of
books which open new worlds to the eye of reflecting minds. Petrea took
them up with a delight which can only be understood by such as have
sought and thirsted after the same fountains of joy, and who have found
them. The Assessor rejoiced quietly in her delight, as she looked
through the books and talked about them.
"How good, how cordially good of you," said Petrea, "to think about me.
But you must see that I also have expected you to-day;" and with eyes
that beamed with the most heartfelt satisfaction she took out of a
cupboard two fine china-plates, on one of which lay cakes of light
wheaten bread, and on the other, piled up, the most magnificent grapes
reposing amid a garland of their own leaves, which were tastefully
arranged in various shades against the golden border of the plate. These
Petrea placed upon a little table in the window, so that the sun shone
upon them.
The Assessor regarded them with the eye of a Dutch fruit painter, and
appeared to rejoice himself over a beautiful picture after his own
manner.
"You must not only look at your breakfast, but you must eat it," said
the lively Petrea; "the bread is home-baked, and--Eva has arranged the
grapes on the plate and brought them up here."
"Eva!" said he, "now, she could not know that I was coming here to-day?"
"And precisely because she thought so as well as I, would she provide
your breakfast." With these words Petrea looked archly at the Assessor,
who did not conceal a pleasurable sensation--broke off a little grape,
seated himself, and--said nothing.
Petrea turned herself to her books: "Oh," said she, "why is life so
short, when there is such an infinite deal to learn? Yet this is not
right, and it evidences ignorance to imagine the time of learning
limited; besides, this remark about the shortness of time and the length
of art proceeds from the heathen writer Hippocrates. But let us praise
God for the hope, for the certainty, that we may be scholars to all
eternity. Ah, Uncle Munter, I rejoice myself heartily over the
industrial spirit of our age! It will make it easy for the masses to
clothe and feed themselves, and then will they begin also to live for
mind. For true is that sentiment, which is about two thousand years old,
'When common needs are satisfied, man turns himself to that which is
more universal and exalted.' Thus when the great week of the world is
past, the Sabbath will commence, in which a people of quiet worshippers
will spread themselves over the earth, no more striving after decaying
treasures, but seeking after those which are eternal; a people whose
life will be to observe, to comprehend, and to adore, revering their
Creator in spirit and in truth. Then comes the day of which the angels
sung 'Peace on earth!'"
"Peace on earth!" repeated Jeremias in a slow and melancholy voice,
"when comes it? It must first enter into the human heart; and there,
there live so many demons, so much disquiet and painful longing--but
what--what is amiss now?"
"Ah, my God!" exclaimed Petrea wildly, "she lives! she lives!"
"What her? who lives? No, really Petrea all is not right with you," said
the Assessor, rising.
"See! see!" cried Petrea, trembling with emotion, and showing to the
Assessor a torn piece of paper, "see, this lay in the book!"
"Well, what then? It is indeed torn from a sepia picture--a hand
strewing roses on a grave, I believe. Have I not seen this somewhere
already?"
"Yes, certainly; yes, certainly! It is the girl by the rose-bush which
I, as a child, gave to Sara! Sara lives! see, here has she written!"
The back of the picture seemed to have been scrawled over by a child's
hand; but in one vacant spot stood these words, in Sara's own remarkably
beautiful handwriting:
No rose on Sara's grave!
Oh Petrea! if thou knew'st----
The sentence was unfinished, whilst several drops seemed to prove that
it had been closed by tears.
"Extraordinary!" said the Assessor: "these books which I purchased
yesterday were bought in U. Could she be there? But----"
"Certainly! certainly she is there," exclaimed Petrea, "look at the book
in which the picture lay--see, on the first page is the name, Sara
Schwartz--although it has been erased. Oh! certainly she is in U., or
there we can obtain intelligence of her! Oh, Sara, my poor Sara! She
lives, but perhaps in want, in sorrow! I will be with her to-day if she
be in U.!"
"That Miss Petrea will hardly manage," said the Assessor, "unless she
can fly. It is one hundred and two (English) miles from here to U."
"Alas, that my father should at this time be absent, should have the
carriage with him; otherwise he would have gone with me! But he has an
old chaise, I will take it----"
"Very pretty, indeed," returned he, "for a lady to be travelling alone
in an old chaise, especially when the roads are spoiled with rain;--and
see what masses of clouds are coming up with the south wind--you'll have
soaking rain the whole day through in the chaise."
"And if it rain pokers," interrupted Petrea, warmly, "I must go. Oh,
heavens! she was indeed my sister, she is so yet, and she shall not call
on me in vain! I will run down to my mother in this moment and----"
Petrea took her bonnet and cloak in her hand.
"Calm yourself a little, Miss Petrea," he said; "I tell you, you could
not travel in this way. The chaise would not hold together. Alas, I have
tried it myself--you could not go in it!"
"Now then," exclaimed Petrea determinately, "I will go; and if I cannot
go I'll creep--but go I will!"
"Is that then your firm determination?"
"My firm and my last."
"Well, then, I must creep with you!" said the Assessor, smiling, "if it
be only to see how it goes with you. I'll go home now, but will be back
in an hour's time. Promise me only to have patience for so long, and not
without me to set off--creep off, I should say!"
The Assessor vanished, and Petrea hastened down to her mother and
sisters.
But before her communications and consultations were at an end, a light
travelling carriage drew up at the door. The Assessor alighted from it,
came in, and offered Petrea his arm. Soon again was he seated in the
carriage, Petrea by his side, and was protesting vehemently against the
bag of provisions, and the bottle of wine, which Leonore thrust in,
spite of his protestations, and so away they went.
CHAPTER III.
ADVENTURES.
It was now the second time in their life that the Assessor and Petrea
were out together in such a manner, and now as before it seemed as if no
favourable star would light their journey, for scarcely had they set out
when it began to rain, and clouds as heavy and dark as lead gathered
together above their heads. It is rather depressing when in answer to
the inquiring glances which one casts upwards at the commencement of an
important journey, to be met by a heaven like this. Other omens also
little less fortunate added themselves; the horses pranced about as if
they were unwilling to go farther, and an owl took upon itself to attend
the carriage, set itself on the tree-branches and points of the palings
by the wayside, and then on the coming up of the carriage flew a little
farther, there to await its coming up at a little distance.
As the travellers entered a wood, where on account of the deep road they
were compelled to travel slowly, they saw on the right hand a little
black-grey old woman step forth, as ugly, witch, and Kobold like in
appearance as an old woman ever can be. She stared at the travellers for
a moment, and then vanished among the trunks of the trees.
The Assessor shuddered involuntarily at the sight of her, and remarked,
"What a difference is there between woman and woman--the loveliest upon
earth and the most horrible is yet--woman!"
After he had seen the old witch he became almost gloomy. In the meantime
the owl vanished with her; perhaps, because "birds of a feather flock
together."
Yet it may be that I am calumniating all this time the little old mother
in the most sinful manner; she may be the most good-tempered woman in
the world. It is well that our Lord understands us better than we do
ourselves.
All this time Petrea sate silent, for however enlightened and
unprejudiced people may be, they never can perfectly free themselves
from the impression of certain circumstances, such as presentiments,
omens, apparitions, and forebodings, which, like owls on noiseless
wings, have flown through the world ever since the time of Adam, when
they first shouted their ominous "Too-who! too-whit!" People know that
Hobbes, who denied the resurrection in the warmest manner, never could
sleep in the neighbourhood of a room in which there had been a corpse.
Petrea, who had not the least resemblance in the world to Hobbes, was
not inclined to gainsay anything within the range of probability. Her
temperament naturally inclined her to superstition; and like most people
who sit still a great deal, she felt always at the commencement of a
journey a degree of disquiet as to how it would go on. But on this day,
under the leaden heaven, and the influence of discomforting forebodings,
this unquiet amounted to actual presentiment of evil; whether this had
reference to Sara or to herself she knew not; but she was disposed to
imagine the latter, and asked herself, as she often had done, whether
she were prepared for any occasion which might separate her for ever
from all those whom she loved on earth. By this means Petrea most
livingly discovered--discovered almost with horror, how strongly she
was fettered to her earthly existence, how dear life had become to her.
All human souls have their heights, but then they have also their
morasses, their thickets, their pits (I will not speak of abysses,
because many souls are too shallow to have these). A frequent mounting
upwards, or a more constant abode upon these heights, is the stipulated
condition of man's proximity to heaven. Petrea's soul was an uneven
ground, as is the case with most people; but there existed in her
nature, as we have before seen, a most determined desire to ascend
upwards; and at this time, in which she found her affections too much
bound to earthly things, she strove earnestly to ascend up to one of
those heights where every limited attraction vanishes before more
extended views, and where every fettered affection will become free, and
will revive in what is loftier. The attempt succeeded--succeeded by
making her feel that whatever was most valuable in this life was
intimately connected with that life which only first begins when this
ends. Her lively imagination called forth, one after another, a great
variety of scenes of misfortune and death; and she felt that in the
moment before she resigned life, her heart would be able to raise itself
with the words, "God be praised in all eternity."
With this feeling, and convinced by it that her present undertaking was
good and necessary, whatever its consequences might be, Petrea's heart
became light and free. She turned herself with lively words and looks to
her travelling companion, and drew him by degrees into a conversation
which was so interesting to them both, that they forgot weather and
ways, forebodings, evil omens, and preparations for death. The journey
prospered as well as any autumn journey could prosper. Not a trace of
danger met them by the way. The wind slumbered in the woods; and in the
public-houses they only heard one and another sleepy peasant open his
mouth with a "devil take me!"
In the forenoon of the following day our travellers arrived happily at
U. Petrea scarcely allowed herself time to take any refreshments before
she commenced her inquiries. The result of all her and the Assessor's
labours we give shortly thus:
It soon became beyond a doubt to them that Sara, together with a little
daughter, had been in the city, and had resided in the very inn in which
Petrea and the Assessor now were, although they travelled under a
foreign name. She was described as being in the highest degree weak and
sickly; and, as might be expected in her circumstances, it appeared that
she had besought the host to sell some books for her, which he had done.
One of these books it was which, with its forgotten mark, had fallen
into the hands of Petrea. Sara, on account of her debility, had been
compelled to remain several days in that place, but she had been gone
thence probably a week; and they saw by the Day-book[21] that it had been
her intention to proceed thence to an inn which lay on the road to
Petrea's native place; not, however, on the road by which they had
travelled to U., but upon one which was shorter, although much worse.
Sara then also was on her way home--yes, perhaps might be there already!
This thought was an indescribable consolation for Petrea's heart, which
from the account she had received of Sara's condition, was anxious in
the highest degree. But when she thought on the long time which had
passed since Sara's journey from the city, she was filled with anxiety,
and feared that Sara might be ill upon the road.
Willingly would Petrea have turned back again on the same evening to
seek out traces of Sara; but care for her old friend prevented her from
doing more than speaking of it. The Assessor, indeed, found himself
unwell, and required rest. The cold and wet weather had operated
prejudicially upon him, both mind and body. It was adopted as
unquestionable that they could not continue the journey till the
following morning.
The Assessor had told Petrea that this was his birthday, and perhaps it
was this thought which caused him to be uncommonly melancholy the whole
day. Petrea, who was infinitely desirous of cheering him, hastened,
whilst he was gone out to seek an acquaintance, to prepare a little
festival for his return.
With flowers and foliage which Petrea obtained, heaven knows how!--but
when people are resolutely bent on anything they find out the means to
do it--with these, then, with lights, a good fire, with a table covered
with his favourite dishes and such like, although in a somewhat
disagreeably public-house room, such a picture of comfort and
pleasantness was presented as the Assessor much loved.
Fathers and mothers, and all the members of happy families, are
accustomed to birthday festivals, flower-garlands, and well-covered
tables; but nobody had celebrated the birthday of the Assessor during
his solitary wandering; he had not been indulged with those little
flower-surprises of life--if one may so call them; hence it happened
that he entered from the dark, wet street into this festal room with an
exclamation of astonishment and heartfelt pleasure.
Petrea, on her part, was inexpressibly cordial, and was quite happy when
she saw the pains which she had taken to entertain her old friend
succeed so well. The two spent a pleasant evening together. They made
each other mutually acquainted with the evil omens and the impressions
which they had occasioned, and bantered one another a little thereon;
but decided positively that such fore-tokenings for the most
part--betoken nothing at all.
As they separated for the night the Assessor pressed Petrea's hand with
the assurance that very rarely had a day given him such a joyous
evening. Grateful for these words, and grateful for the hope of soon
finding again the lost and wept friend of her youth, Petrea went to
rest, but the Assessor remained up late--midnight saw him still writing.
Man and woman! There is a deal, especially in novels, said about man and
woman, as of separate beings. However that may be, human beings are they
both--and as human beings, as morally sentient and thinking creatures,
they influence one another for life. Their ways and means are different;
and it is this very difference which, by mutual benefits, and mutual
endeavours to sweeten life to one another, produces what is so beautiful
and so perfect.
The clearest sun brightened the following morning; but the eyes of the
Assessor were troubled, as if he had enjoyed but little repose. Whilst
he and Petrea were breakfasting, he was called out to inspect something
relative to the carriage.
Was it now the hereditary sin of mother Eve, or was it any other cause
which induced Petrea at this moment to approach the table on which the
Assessor's money lay, together with papers ready to be put into a
travelling writing-case. Enough! she did it--she did certainly what no
upright reader will pardon her for doing, quickly ran her eyes over one
of the papers which seemed just lately to have received from the pen
impressions of thought, and she took it. Shortly afterwards the Assessor
entered, and as it was somewhat late, he hastily put together his
papers, and they set off on their journey.
The weather was glorious, and Petrea rejoiced like--nay, even more than
a child, over the objects which met her eyes, and which, after the rain,
stood in the bright sunshine, as if in the glory of a festive-day. The
world was to her now more than ever a magic ring; not the perplexing,
half-heathenish, but the purely Christian, in which everything, every
moment has its signification, even as every dewdrop receives its beaming
point of light from the splendour of the sun. Autumn was, above all,
Petrea's favourite season, and its abundance now made her soul overflow
with joyful thoughts. It is the time in which the earth gives a feast to
all her children, and joyous and changing scenes were represented by the
waysides. Here the corn-field raised to heaven its golden sheaves, and
the harvesters sang; there, around the purple berries of the
service-tree, circled beautiful flocks of the twittering silktails;
round the solitary huts, the flowering potato-fields told that the fruit
was ripe, and merry little barefooted children sprang into the wood to
gather bilberries. Petrea thanked heaven in her heart for all the
innocent joys of earth. She thought of her home, of her parents, of her
sisters, of Sara, who would soon again be one of their circle, and of
how she (Petrea) would cherish her, and care for her, and reconcile her
to life and to happiness. In the blessed, beautiful morning hour, all
thoughts clothed themselves in light. Petrea felt quite happy, and the
joke which she thought of playing on her friend the Assessor with the
stolen piece of paper, contributed not a little to screw up her life's
spirit to greater liveliness. "From the fulness of the heart the mouth
speaketh," and Petrea involuntarily influenced her travelling companion
so far that they both amused themselves with bombarding little children
on the waysides with apples and pears, whereby they were not at all
terrified.
They had now taken the same road upon which Sara had travelled, and in
the first inn at which they stopped, their hopes were strengthened; for
Sara had been there, and had taken thence a horse to the next
public-house. All was on the way towards home. So continued it also at
the three following stations; but at the fifth, they suddenly lost all
traces of her. No one there had seen a traveller answering to her
description, nor was her name to be found in the Travellers' Day-book.
No! a great uneasiness for Petrea. After some deliberation, she and the
Assessor determined to return to the public-house whence they were just
come, in order to discover clearly in what direction Sara had gone
thence.
In the mean time the evening had come on, and the sun was descending as
our friends were passing through one of the gloomiest woods in Sweden,
and one in such ill-report that not long ago a writer speaking of it,
said, "The forest shrouds memories as awful as itself, and monuments of
murder stand by the wayside. Probably the mantle of the mountains falls
not now in such thick folds as formerly, but yet there still are valleys
where the stroke of the axe has never yet been heard, and rocky ranges
which have never yet been smitten by the rays of the sun."
"Here two men murdered the one the other," said the postilion with the
gayest air in the world, whilst the carriage stopped to give the horses
breath, on account of the heaviness of the road, and as he spoke he
pointed with his whip to a heap of twigs and pieces of wood which lay to
the left of the road, directly before the travellers, and which
presented a repulsive aspect. It is customary for every passer-by to
throw a stone or a piece of wood upon such a blood-stained spot, and
thus the monument of murder grows under the continued curse of society.
Thus it now stands there, hateful and repulsive amid the beautiful
fir-trees, and it seemed as if the earth had given forth the ugliest of
its mis-shaped boughs, and the most distorted of its twisted roots,
wherewith to build up the heap. From the very midst of this abomination,
however, a wild-rose had sprung forth and shot upwards its living twigs
from among the dry boughs, whilst, like fresh blood-drops above the
pile, shone its berries illuminated by the sun, which now in its descent
threw a path of light over the broad road.
"When this wild-rose is full of flowers," said Jeremias, as he regarded
it with his expressive glance, "it must awaken the thought, that that
which the state condemns with justice, a Higher Power can cover with the
roses of his love."
The sun withdrew his beams. The carriage set itself again in motion, but
at the very moment when the horses passed the heap, they shyed so
violently that the carriage was backed into a ditch and overturned.
"Farewell life!" cried Petrea, internally; but before she herself knew
how, she was out of the carriage, and found herself standing not at all
the worse upon the soft heather. With the Assessor, however, it did not
fare so well; a severe blow on the right leg made it impossible for him
to support himself upon it without great suffering. His old servant,
who had acted as coachman on the journey, lay in a fainting fit at
a few paces from him, bleeding profusely from a wound in the head,
whilst the little post-boy stood by his horses and cried. Time and
situation were not the most agreeable. But Petrea felt herself after
the fright of the first moment perfectly calm and collected. By the
help of the rain-water, which was there in abundance, she brought the
fainting man back to consciousness, and bound up his head with her
pocket-handkerchief. She then helped him to sit up--to stand he was not
able from dizziness. Soon sate master and man by each other, with their
backs by a strong fir-tree, and looked sadly troubled; for although the
Assessor was far more concerned on account of his servant than himself,
and asserted that his own accident was a mere trifle, still he was quite
pale from the pain which it occasioned him. What was to be done? Could
the carriage have been raised out of the ditch and the two wounded men
put into it, Petrea would have placed herself on the coach-box and have
driven them as well as anybody; nothing could be easier, she thought;
but the accomplishing of the two first conditions was the difficulty,
and in the present circumstances an impossibility, for our poor Petrea's
arms and hands were not able to second her good-will and courage. The
post-boy said that at about three-quarters of a mile (English) there lay
a peasant's hut in the wood by the road side; but it was impossible to
induce him to run there, or under any condition to leave his horses.
"Let us wait," said the Assessor, patiently and calmly, "probably
somebody will soon come by from whom we can beg assistance." They
waited, but nobody came, and every moment the shades became darker; it
seemed as if people avoided this horrible wood at this hour.
Petrea, full of anxiety for her old friend, if he must remain much
longer on the damp ground, and in the increasing coolness of evening,
determined with herself what she would do. She wrapped up the Assessor
and his old servant in every article of clothing of which she could gain
possession, amongst which was her own cloak, rejoicing that this was
unobserved by her friend, and then said to him decidedly, "Now I go
myself to obtain help! I shall soon be back again!" And without
regarding the prohibitions, prayers, and threats, with which he
endeavoured to recal her, she ran quickly away in the direction of the
hut, as the post-boy had described it. She hastened forward with quick
steps, endeavouring to remove all thoughts of personal danger, and only
to strengthen herself by the hope of procuring speedy help for her
friend.
The haste with which she went compelled her after some time to stand
still to recover breath. The quick motion which set her blood in rapid
circulation, the freshness of the air, the beautiful and magnificent
repose of the wood, diffused through her, almost in opposition to her
own will and heart, an irresistible feeling of satisfaction and
pleasure, which however quickly left her as she heard a something
crackling in the wood. The wind it could not be? perhaps it was an
animal! Petrea held her panting breath. It crackled; it
whispered;--there were people in the wood! However bold, or more
properly speaking, rash, Petrea might be at certain moments, her heart
now drew itself together, when she thought on her solitary, defenceless
situation, and on the scenes of horror for which this wood was so
fearfully renowned. Beyond this, she was now no longer in those years
when one stands in life on a flying foot, careless and presumptuous:
she had planted herself firmly in life; had her own quiet room; her
peaceful sphere of activity, which she now loved more than the most
brilliant adventures in the world! It was not therefore to be wondered
at, that she recoiled tremblingly from the unlovely and hateful which is
at home by the road sides.
Petrea listened with a strongly beating heart; the rustling came nearer
and nearer; for one moment she thought of concealing herself on the
opposite side of the way, but in the next she boldly demanded "Who is
there?"
All was still. Petrea strained her eyes to discover some one in the
direction of the sound, but in vain: the wood was thick, and it had
become quite dark. Once again, exclaimed Petrea, "If any one be there
let him come to the help of unfortunate travellers!"
Even the heart of robbers, thought she, would be mollified by
confidence; and prayers for help might remove thoughts of murder. The
rustling in the wood began afresh, and now were heard the voices
of--children. An indescribable sensation of joy went through Petrea's
heart. A whole army, with Napoleon at their head, could not at this
moment have given that feeling of security and protection which came
from those children's voices; and soon came issuing from the wood two
little barefooted human creatures, a boy and a girl, who stared on
Petrea with astonishment. She quickly made herself acquainted with them,
and they promised to conduct her to the cottage, which lay at a little
distance. On their way they gave Petrea bilberries out of their full
birch-wood measure, and related to her that the reason of their being
out so late was, that they had been looking for the cow which was lost
in the wood; that they should have driven her home, but had not been
able to find her; which greatly troubled the little ten-years-old girl,
because, she said, the sick lady could not have any milk that evening.
Whilst Petrea, led by her little guardian-angels, wandered through the
wood, we will make a little flight, and relate what had occurred there a
few days before.
A few days before, a travelling-car drove along this road, in which sate
a lady and a little girl. As they came within sight of a small cottage,
which with its blossoming potato-field looked friendly in the wood, the
lady said to the peasant boy who drove, "I cannot go farther! Stop! I
must rest!" She dismounted, and crawled with his help to the cottage,
and besought the old woman, whom she found there, for a glass of water,
and permission to rest upon the bed for a moment. The voice which prayed
for this was almost inaudible, and the countenance deathly pale. The
little girl sobbed and cried bitterly. Scarcely had the poor invalid
laid herself upon the humble and hardly clean bed, when she fell into a
deep stupor, from which she did not revive for three hours.
On her return to consciousness she found that the peasant had taken her
things into the cottage; taken his horse out of the car, and left her.
The invalid made several ineffectual attempts during three days to leave
the bed, but scarcely had she taken a few steps when she sunk back upon
it; her lips trembled, and bitter tears flowed over her pale cheeks. The
fourth day she lay quite still; but in the afternoon besought the old
woman to procure her an honest and safe person, who, for a suitable sum,
would conduct the little girl to a place which would be made known to
him by a letter that would be given with her. The old woman proposed her
brother's son as a good man, and one to be relied on for this purpose,
and promised in compliance with the prayer of the sick woman to seek him
out that same day and speak with him; but as he lived at a considerable
distance she feared that she should only be able to return late in the
evening. After she was gone, the invalid took paper and a lead pencil,
and with a weak and trembling hand wrote as follows:
"I cannot arrive--I feel it! I sink before I reach the haven. Oh,
foster-parents, good sisters, have mercy on my little one, my
child, who knocks at your door, and will deliver to you my humble,
my last prayer! Give to her a warm home, when I am resting in my
cold one! See, how good she looks! Look at her young countenance,
and see that she is acquainted with want--she is not like her
mother! I fancy her mild features resemble hers whose name she
bears, and whose angelic image never has left my soul.
"Foster-mother, foster-father! good sisters! I had much to say,
but can say only a little! Forgive me! Forgive me the grief which
I have occasioned you! Greatly have I erred, but greatly also have
I suffered. A wanderer have I been on the earth, and have had
nowhere a home since I left your blessed roof! My way has been
through the desert; a burning simoom has scorched, has consumed my
cheek----
"About to leave the world in which I have erred so greatly and
suffered so much, I call now for your blessing. Oh, let me tell
you that that Sara, which you once called daughter and sister, is
yet not wholly unworthy! She is sunk deep, but she has endeavoured
to raise herself; and your forms, like good angels, have floated
around the path of her improvement.
"It will do your noble hearts good to know that she dies now
repentant, but hopeful--she has fixed her humble hope upon the
Father of Mercy.
"The hand of mercy cherished on earth the days of my
childhood--later, it has lifted my dying head, and has poured into
my heart a new and a better life; it has conducted me to hope in
the mercy of heaven. Foster-father, thou who wast His image to me
on earth, thou whom I loved much--gentle foster-mother, whose
voice perhaps could yet call forth life in this cold breast--have
mercy on my child--call it your child! and thanks and blessings be
upon you!