No; I wished only to conduct my child to your door--to see it open
to her, and then to go forth--go forth quietly and die. But I
shall not reach so far! God guide the fatherless and the
motherless to you!
"And now farewell! I can write no more--it becomes dark before my
eyes. I write these last words upon my knees. Parents, sisters,
take my child to you! May it make you some time forget the errors
of its mother! Pardon all my faults! I complain of no one.
"God reward you, and be merciful to me!
"Sara."
Sara folded her letter hastily, sealed it and directed it, and then,
enfeebled by the exertion, sank down beside her sleeping child, kissed
her softly, and whispered, "for the last time!" Her feet and hands were
like ice; she felt this icy coldness run through all her veins, and
diffuse itself over her whole body; her limbs stiffened; and it seemed
to her as if a cold wind blew into her face.
"It is death!" thought Sara; "my death-bed is lonesome and miserable;
yet--I have deserved no better." Her consciousness became ever darker;
but in the depths of her soul combated still the last, perhaps the
noblest powers of life--suffering and prayer. At length they too also
became benumbed, but not for long, for new impressions waked suddenly
the slumbering life.
It appeared to Sara as if angel voices had spoken and repeated her name,
tender hands had rubbed her stiffened limbs with electrical fire; her
feet were pressed to a bosom that beat strongly; hot drops fell upon
them, and thawed the icy coldness. She felt a heart throbbing against
hers, and the wind of death upon her face vanished before warm summer
breath, kisses, tears. Oh! was it a dream? But the dream became ever
more living and clear. Life, loving, affectionate, warm life, contended
with death, and was the victor! "Sara, Sara!" cried a voice full of love
and anxiety, and Sara opened her eyes, and said, "Oh! Petrea, is it
you?"
Yes, indeed, it was our poor Petrea, whose distress at Sara's condition,
and whose joy over her now returning life, can neither of them be
described. Sara took Petrea's hand, and conveyed it to her lips, and the
humility of this action, so unlike the former Sara, penetrated Petrea's
heart.
"Give me something to drink," prayed Sara, with a feeble voice. Petrea
looked around for some refreshing liquid, but there was nothing to be
found in the cottage excepting a jug containing a little muddy water;
not a drop of milk, and the cow was lost in the wood! Petrea would have
given her heart's blood for a few drops of wine, for she saw that Sara
was ready to die from feebleness. And now, with feelings which are not
to be told, must she give Sara to drink from the muddy water, in which,
however, to make it more refreshing, she bruised some bilberries. Sara
thanked her for it as if it had been nectar.
"Is there anywhere in this neighbourhood a place where one can meet with
people, and obtain the means of life?" asked Petrea from her little
guide.
The little guide knew of none excepting in the village, and in the
public-house there they could obtain everything, "whatever they wished,"
said the child; to be sure it was a good way there, but she knew a
footpath through the wood by which they might soon reach it.
Petrea did not stop thinking for a moment; and after she had encouraged
Sara to courage and hope, she set out most speedily with the little
nimble maiden on the way to the village.
The girl went first: her white head-kerchief guided Petrea through the
duskiness of the wood. But the footway which the girl trod so lightly
and securely, was an actual way of trial for Petrea. Now and then
fragments of her clothes were left hanging on the thick bushes; now a
branch which shot outwards seized her bonnet and struck it flat; now she
went stumbling over tree-roots and stones, which, on account of the
darkness and the speed of her flight, she could not avoid; and now bats
flew into her face. In vain did the wood now elevate itself more
majestically than ever around her; in vain, did the stars kindle their
lights, and send their beams into the deep gullies of the wood; in vain
sang the waterfalls in the quiet evening as they fell from the rocks.
Petrea had now no thought for the beauty of nature; and the lights which
sparkled from the village were to her a more welcome sight than all the
suns and stars in the firmament.
More lights than common streamed in pale beams through the misty windows
of the public-house as Petrea came up to it. All was fermentation within
it as in a bee-hive; violins were playing; the _polska_ was being
danced; women's gowns swung round, sweeping the walls; iron-heeled shoes
beat upon the floor; and the dust flew up to the ceiling. After Petrea
had sought in vain for somebody outside the dancing-room, she was
compelled to go in, and then she saw instantly that there was a wedding.
The gilded crown on the head of the bride wavered and trembled amid the
attacks and the defence of the contending parties, for it was precisely
the hot moment of the Swedish peasant wedding, in which, as it is said,
the crown is danced off the head of the bride. The married women were
endeavouring to vanquish and take captive the bride, whilst the girls
were, on their part, doing their utmost to defend and hold her back. In
the other half of the great room, however, all went on more noisily and
more violently still, for there the married men strove to dance the
bridegroom from the unmarried ones, and they pulled and tore and pushed
unmercifully, amid shouts and laughter, whilst the _polska_ went on its
whirling measure.
It would be almost at the peril of her life that a delicate lady should
enter into such a tumult; but Petrea feared in this moment no other
danger than that of not being able to make herself heard in this wild
uproar. She called and demanded to speak with the host; but her voice
was perfectly swallowed up in the universal din. She then quickly turned
herself, amid the contending and round-about-swinging groups to the two
musicians, who were scraping upon their fiddles with a sort of frenzy,
and beating time with their feet. Petrea caught hold of one of them by
the arm, and prayed him in God's name to leave off for a moment, for
that her business was of life and death. But they paid not the slightest
attention to her; they heard not what she said; they played, and the
others danced with fury.
"That is very mad!" thought Petrea, "but I will be madder still!" and so
thinking, she threw down, upon the musicians, a table which stood near
them covered with bottles and glasses. With this crash the music was
suddenly still. The pause in the music astonished the dancers; they
looked around them. Petrea took advantage of this moment, went into the
crowd and called for the host. The host, who was celebrating his
daughter's wedding, came forward; he was a fat, somewhat pursy man, who
evidently had taken a glass too much.
Petrea related summarily that which had happened; prayed for people to
assist at the carriage, and for some wine and fine bread for an invalid.
She spoke with warmth and determination; but nevertheless the host
demurred, and the crowd, half intoxicated with drink and dancing,
regarded her with a distrustful look, and Petrea heard it whispered
around her--"The mad lady!" "It is the mad lady!" "No, no, it is not
she!" "Yes, it is she!"
And we must confess that Petrea's excited appearance, and the condition
of her toilet after the fatigues of her wandering, gave some occasion
for her being taken for a little crazy; this, and the circumstance of
her being mistaken for another person, may explain the disinclination to
afford her assistance, which otherwise does not belong to the character
of the Swedish peasantry.
Again Petrea exhorted host and peasant to contribute their help, and
promised befitting reward.
The host set himself now in a commanding attitude, cleared his throat,
and spoke with a self-satisfied air.
"Yes, yes," said he, "that's all right-good and handsome, but I should
like to see something of this befitting reward before I put myself out
of the way about overturned carriages. In the end, maybe, one shall find
neither one nor the other. One cannot believe everything that people
say!"
Petrea recollected with uneasiness that she had no money with her; she,
however, let nothing of that be seen, but replied calmly and
collectedly, "You shall receive money when you come to the carriage. But
for heaven's sake, follow me immediately; every moment's delay may cost
a life!"
The men looked undecidedly one on another; but no one stirred from the
place; a dull murmur ran through the crowd. Almost in despair, Petrea
clasped her hands together and exclaimed, whilst tears streamed from her
eyes, "Are you Christians, and yet can hear that fellow-creatures are in
danger without hastening to help them."
She mentioned the name and office of her father, and then went from
prayers to threats.
Whilst all this was going on in the house, something was going on at the
door, of which, in all speed, we will give a glimpse.
There drew up at the inn-door a travelling-calash, accompanied by a
small Holstein carriage in which sate four boys, the eldest of whom,
probably ten years of age, and who, evidently greatly to his
satisfaction, had managed with his own hands a pair of thin travelling
horses. From the coach-box of the calash sprang nimbly a somewhat stout,
jovial-looking gentleman, and out of the carriage came, one after
another, other four little boys, with so many packets and bundles as was
perfectly wonderful; among all these moved a rather thin lady of a good
and gay appearance, who took with her own hands all the things out of
the carriage, and gave them into the care of a maid and the eldest of
the eight boys; the youngest sate in the arms of his father.
"Can you yet hold something, Jacob?" asked the lady from one of the
boys, who stood there loaded up to the very chin. "Yes, with my nose,"
replied he, merrily; "nay, nay, mamma dear, not the whole
provision-basket--that's quite impossible!"
The mother laughed, and instead of the provision-basket, two or three
books were put under the protection of the little nose.
"Take care of the bottles, young ones!" exhorted the mother, "and count
them exactly; there should be ten of them. Adam, don't stand there with
your mouth open, but hold fast, and think about what you have in your
hand, and what you are doing! Take good care of the bottle of mamma's
elixir. What a noise is there within! Does nobody come out? Come here my
young ones! Adam, look after David! Jonathan, stand here! Jacob,
Solomon, where are you? Shem and Seth, keep quiet!"
This was the moment when, by the opening of the door of the
dancing-room, they became aware of the arrival of the travellers, and
when the host hastened out to receive them. Many followed him, and among
the rest Petrea, who quickly interrupted her address to the peasants, in
order, through the interposition of the travellers, as she hoped, to
obtain speedier help.
"Good gentlefolks," cried she, in a voice which showed her agitation of
mind; "I know not, it is true, who you are" (and the darkness prevented
her from seeing it), "but I hope you are Christians, and I beseech of
you, for heaven's sake----"
"Whose voice is that?" interrupted a cheerful, well-toned, manly voice.
"Who speaks?" exclaimed Petrea in astonishment.
A few words were exchanged, and suddenly the names "Petrea! Jacobi!
Louise!" flew exultantly from the lips of the three, and they locked one
another in a heartfelt and affectionate embrace.
"Aunt Petrea! Aunt Petrea!" cried the eight boys in jubilation, and
hopped around her.
Petrea wept for joy that she had not alone met with good Christians, but
had hit upon her most Christian brother-in-law and court-preacher, and
upon "our eldest," who, with her hopeful offspring, "the Berserkers,"
were upon their journey to the paternal house and the new parsonage.
A few minutes afterwards the carriage, containing Petrea, Louise, and
Jacobi, accompanied by peasants on horseback, drove away at full gallop
into the wood, into whose gullies, as well as into Petrea's imploring
eyes, the half-moon, which now ascended, poured its comfortable light.
We leave Petrea now with her relatives, who, on their homeward journey,
fell in with her at the right moment to save her from a situation in the
highest degree painful. We are perfectly sure that the Assessor received
speedy assistance; that Sara was regaled with wine as well as with
Louise's elixir; that Petrea's heart was comforted, and her toilet
brought into order; and in confirmation of this our assurance we will
quote the following lines from a letter of Louise, which on the next day
was sent off home.
"I am quite convinced that Sara, with careful attention, befitting diet,
and above all, by being surrounded with kindness, may be called back to
life and health. But for the present she is so weak that it is
impossible to think of her travelling under several days. And in any
case, I doubt if she will come with us, unless my father come to fetch
her. She says that she will not be a burden to our family. Ah! now it is
a pleasure to open house and heart to her. She is so changed! And her
child is--a little angel! For the Assessor it might be necessary, on
account of his leg, that he go to the city; but he will not leave Sara,
who requires his help so greatly (his servant is out of all danger).
Petrea, spite of all fatigues and adventures, is quite superb. She and
Jacobi enliven us all. As things now stand we cannot fix decidedly the
day of our arrival; but if Sara continue to improve, as appearances
promise, Jacobi sets out to-morrow with the children to you. It is so
dear with them all here in the public-house. God grant that we may all
soon meet again in our beloved home!"
An hour after the receipt of this letter the Judge set off with such
haste as if his life were concerned. He journeyed from home to the
forest-village; we, on the contrary, reverse the journey, and betake
ourselves from the public-house to----
FOOTNOTES:
[21] A Day-book (Dagbok) is kept at every inn in Sweden. The name of
every traveller who takes thence horses, and the name of the next town
to which he proceeds, are entered in it; and thus when once on the
trace, nothing could be easier than to discover such a traveller. The
day-book is renewed each month.--M. H.
CHAPTER IV.
THE HOME.
Lilies were blossoming in the house on the beautiful morning of the
twentieth of September. They seemed to shoot up of themselves under
Gabriele's feet. The mother, white herself as a lily, went about softly
in her fine morning-dress, with a cloth in her hand, wiping away from
mirror or table the smallest particle of dust. A higher expression of
joy than common animated her countenance; a fine crimson tinged her
otherwise pale cheeks, and the lips moved themselves involuntarily as if
they would speak loving and joyful words.
Bergstroem adorned ante-room and steps with foliage and splendid flowers,
so that they represented a continuation of garlands along the white
walls; and not a little delighted was he with his own taste, which
Gabriele did not at all omit to praise. But although an unusually great
deal of occupation pervaded the house this morning, still it was
nevertheless unusually quiet; people only spoke in low voices, and when
the least noise was made, the mother said, "Hush! hush!"
The cause of this was, that the lost but again-found child slept in the
house of her parents.
Sara had arrived there the evening before, and we have passed over this
scene, for the great change in her, and her shaken condition, had made
it sorrowful; yet we wish indeed that the feeling reader had seen the
manly tears which flowed down the cheeks of the Judge, as he laid the
found-again daughter on the bosom of her mother. We should like to have
shown him the unfortunate one, as she rested with her hands crossed over
her breast on the snow-white couch, over which the mother herself had
laid the fine coverlet; have shown him how she looked upon the child,
whose bed stood near her own; upon the beloved ones, who full of
affection surrounded her--and then up to heaven, without being able to
utter one word! And how glad should we have been could he have seen the
Jacobian pair this evening in the paternal home, and how there sate
eating around them, Adam and Jacob, the twin brothers Jonathan and
David, ditto Shem and Seth, together with Solomon and little Alfred.
They were well-trained children, and looked particularly well, all
dressed alike in a blouse of dark stuff, over which fell back the white
shirt collar, leaving free the throat with its lively tint of health,
whilst the slender waist was girded with a narrow belt of white leather.
Such was the light troop of "the Berserkers."
But we return to our bright morning hour. Eva and Leonore were in the
garden, and gathered with their own hands some select Astracan apples
and pears, which were to ornament the dinner table. They were still
glittering with dew, and for the last time the sun bathed them with
purple by the song of the bulfinch. The sisters had spoken of Sara; of
the little Elise, whom they would educate; of Jacobi--and their
conversation was cheerful; then they went to other subjects.
"And to-day," said Leonore, "your last answer goes to Colonel R----,
your last, no! And you feel quite satisfied that it should be so?"
"Yes, quite!" returned Eva; "how the heart changes! I cannot now
conceive how I once loved him!"
"It is extraordinary how he should still solicit your hand, and this
after so long a separation. He must have loved you much more than any of
the others to whom he made court."
"I do not think so, but--ah, Leonore! do you see the beautiful apple
there? It is quite bright. Can you reach it? No? Yes, if you climb on
this bough."
"Must I give myself so much trouble?" asked Leonore; "that is indeed
shocking! Well, but I must try, only catch me if I should fall!"
The sisters were here interrupted by Petrea, whose appearance showed
that she had something interesting to communicate.
"See, Eva," said she, giving to her a written piece of paper, "here you
have something for morning-reading. Now you must convince yourself of
something of which till now you would not believe. And I shall call you
a stock, a stone, an automaton without heart and soul, if you do
not--yes, smile! You will not laugh when you have read it. Leonore!
come, dear Leonore, you must read it also, you will give me credit for
being right. Read, sisters, read!"
The sisters read the following remarks, in the handwriting of the
Assessor.
"'Happy is the lonely and the lowly! He may ripen and refresh himself in
peace!' Beautiful words, and what is better, true.
"The foundling has proved their truth. He was sick in mind, heart, and
sick of the world and of himself, but he belonged to the lowly and to
the unnoticed, and so he could be alone; alone, in the fresh, quiet
wood, alone with the Great Physician, who only can heal the deep wounds
of the heart--and it is become better with him.
"Now I begin to understand the Great Physician, and the regimen which he
has prescribed for me. I feared the gangrene selfishness, and would
drink myself free therefrom by the nectar of love; but he said,
'Jeremias, drink not this draught, but that of self-denial--it is more
purifying.'
"I have drunk it. I have loved her for twenty years without pretension
and without hope.
"To-day I have passed my three-and-sixtieth year; the increasing pain in
my side commands me to leave the steps of the patients, and tells me
that I have not many more paces to count till I reach my grave. May it
be permitted to me to live the remainder of my days more exclusively for
her!
"At the 'Old Man's Rose' will I live for her--for it stands in my will
that it belongs to her, it belongs to Eva Frank.
"I will beautify it for her. I will cultivate there beautiful trees and
flowers for her; vines and roses will I bring there. Old age will some
time seize on her, wither her, and consume her. But then 'the rose of
age' will bloom for her, and the odour of my love bless her, when the
ugly old man wanders on the earth no more. She will take her dear
sisters to her there; there hear the songs of the birds, and see the
glory of the sun upon the lovely objects of nature.
"I will repose on these thoughts during the solitary months or years
that I must pass there. Truly, many a day will be heavy to me; and the
long solitary evenings; truly, it were good to have there a beloved and
gentle companion, to whom one might say each day, 'Good morning, the sun
is beautiful;' or in whose eyes--if it were not so--one could see a
better sun;--a companion with whom one could enjoy books, nature--all
that God has given us of good; whose hand, in the last heavy hour one
could press, and to whom one could say, 'Good night! we meet
again--to-morrow--with love itself--with God!'
"But--but--the foundling shall find no home upon earth!
"Now he will soon find another home, and will say to the master there,
'Father, have mercy on my rose!' and to the habitation of men will he
say, 'Wearisome wast thou to me, O world! but yet receive my thanks for
the good which thou hast given me!'"
* * * * *
When the sisters had ceased to read, several bright tears lay upon the
paper, and shone in the light of the sun. Leonore dried her tears, and
turning herself to Petrea, inquired, "But, Petrea, how came this paper
into your hands?"
"Did I not think that would come?" said Petrea. "You should not ask such
difficult questions, Leonore. Nay, now Eva's eyes are inquiring too--and
so grave. Do you think that the Assessor has put it into my hands? Nay,
he must be freed from that suspicion even at my expense. You want to
know how I came by this paper? Well then--I stole it, sisters--stole it
on our journey--on the very morning after it was written."
"But, Petrea!"
"But, Petrea! yes, you good ones! it is too late now to cry, 'but,
Petrea!' now you know the Assessor's secret; you now may do what your
consciences command, mine is hardened--you may start before my act, and
be horrified; I don't ask about it. The whole world may excommunicate
me--I don't trouble myself!--Eva! Leonore! Sisters!"
Petrea laid an arm round the neck of each sister, kissed them, smiling
with a tear in her eye, and vanished.
* * * * *
Somewhat later in the morning we find Eva and Gabriele on a visit at the
beautiful parsonage-house immediately in the vicinity of the town, where
Mrs. Louise is in full commotion with all her goods and chattels, whilst
the little Jacobis riot with father and grandfather over fields and
meadows. The little four-years-old Alfred, an uncommonly lively and
amiable child, is alone with the mother at home; he pays especial court
to Gabriele, and believing that he must entertain her, he brings out his
Noah's Ark to introduce to her, in his low, clear, young voice, Ham and
Hamina, Shem and Shemina, Japhet and Japhetina.
After all how-do-ye-do's between the sisters had been answered, Gabriele
loosened the paper from a basket which Ulla had brought in, and asked
Louise to be pleased to accept some roast veal and patties. "We
thought," said she, "that you would need something fresh after the
journey, before you get your store-room in order. Just taste a patty!
they are filled with mince-meat, and I assure you are baked since the
Flood."
"Really!" replied Louise, laughing, "they are delicate too! See, there's
one for you, my little manikin; but another time don't come and set
yourself forward and look so hungry! Thanks! thanks, dear sister! Ah,
how charming that we are come again into your neighbourhood! How fresh
and happy you all look! And Petrea! how advantageously she has altered;
she is come to have something quiet and sensible about her; she has
outgrown her nose, and dresses herself neatly; she is just like other
people now. And see--here I have a warm, wadded morning-dress for her,
that will keep her warm up in her garret; is it not superb? And it cost
only ten thalers courant."
"Oh, extraordinary!--out of the common way!--quite unheard of!" said
they, "is it not so?--why it is a piece of clothing for a whole life!"
"What a beautiful collar Eva has on! I really believe she is grown
handsomer," said Louise. "You were and are still the rose of the family,
Eva; you look quite young, and are grown stout. I, for my part, cannot
boast of that; but how can anybody grow stout when they have eight
children to work for! Do you know sisters, that in the last week before
I left Stockholm, I cut out a hundred and six shirts! I hope I can meet
with a good sempstress here; at home; look at my finger, it is quite
hard and horny with sewing. God bless the children! one has one's
trouble with them. But tell me, how is it with our mother? They have
always been writing to me that she was better--and yet I find her
terribly gone off; it really grieves me to see her. What does the
Assessor say?"
"Oh," replied Gabriele warmly, "he says that she will recover. There is
really no danger; she improves every day."
Eva did not look so hopeful as Gabriele, and her eyes were filled with
tears as she said, "When autumn and winter are only over, I hope that
the spring----"
"And do you know," interrupted Louise, with animation, "what I have been
thinking of? In the spring she shall come to us and try the milk cure:
she shall occupy this room, with the view towards the beautiful birch
grove, and shall enjoy the country air, and all the good things which
the country affords and which I can obtain for her--certainly this will
do her good. Don't you think that then she will recover? Don't you think
that it is a bright idea of mine?"
The sisters thought that really it was bright, and Louise continued:
"Now I must show you what I have brought for her. Do you see these two
damask breakfast cloths, and these six breakfast napkins?--all spun in
the house. I have had merely to pay for the weaving. Now, how do they
please you?"
"Oh, excellently! excellently!" said one sister.
"How very handsome! How welcome they will be!" said the other.
"And you must see what I have bought for my father--ah! Jacobi has it in
his carpet-bag--one thing lies here and another there--but you will see
it, you will see it."
"What an inundation of things!" said Gabriele, laughing. "One can see,
however, that there is no shortness of money."
"Thank God!" said Louise, "all is comfortable in that respect, though
you may very well believe that it was difficult at first; but we began
by regulating the mouths according to the dishes. Ever since I married I
have had the management of the money. I am my husband's treasurer; he
gives over to me whatever comes in, and he receives from me what he
wants, and in this way all has gone right. Thank God, when people love
one another all does go right! I am happier than I deserve to be, with
such a good, excellent husband, and such well-disposed children. If our
little girl, our little Louise, had but lived! Ah! it was a happiness
when she was born, after the eight boys; and then for two years she was
our greatest delight. Jacobi almost worshipped her; he would sit for
whole hours beside her cradle, and was perfectly happy if he only had
her on his knee. But she was inexpressibly amiable--so good, so clever,
so quiet; an actual little angel! Ah! it was hard to lose her. Jacobi
grieved as I have never seen a man grieve; but his happy temperament and
his piety came to his help. She has now been dead above a year. Ah!
never shall I forget my little girl!"
Louise's tears flowed abundantly; the sisters could not help weeping
with her. But Louise soon collected herself again, and said, whilst she
wiped her eyes, "Now we have also anxiety with little David's ankles;
but there is no perfect happiness in this world, and we have no right to
expect it. Pardon me that I have troubled you; and now let us speak of
something else, whilst I get my things a little in order. Tell me
something about our acquaintance--Aunt Evelina is well?"
"Yes, and sits as grandmother of five nephews at Axelholm, beloved and
honoured by all. It is a very sweet family that she sees about her, and
she has the happiest old age."
"That is pleasant to hear. But she really deserved to be loved and
honoured. Is her Karin also married?"
"Ah, no! Karin is dead! and this has been her greatest sorrow; they were
so happy together."
"Ah, thou heaven! Is she dead? Ah, yes, now I remember you wrote to me
that she was dead----Look at this dress, sisters--a present from my dear
husband; is it not handsome? and then quite modern. Yes, yes, dear
Gabriele, you need not make such an ambiguous face; it is very handsome,
and quite in the fashion, that I can assure you. But, _a propos_, how is
the Court-preacher? Exists still in a new form, does it? Now that is
good! I'll put it on this afternoon on purpose to horrify Jacobi, and
tell him that for the future I intend to wear it in honour of his
nomination to the office of court-preacher."
All laughed.
"But tell me," continued Louise, "how will our 'great astonishment' go
on? how have you arranged it?"
"In this manner," returned one of the sisters. "We shall all meet for a
great coffee-drinking in the garden, and during this we shall lead the
conversation in a natural sort of way to the piece of ground on the
other side the fence, and then peep through the cracks in it, and then
express that usual wish that this fence might come down. And then, at
this signal, your eight boys, Louise, are to fall on the fence and----"
"How can you think," said Louise--"to be sure my boys are nimble and
strong, but it would require the power of Berserkers to----"
"Don't be alarmed," answered the sisters, laughing, "the fence is sawn
underneath, and stands only so firm that a few pushes will produce the
effect--the thing is not difficult. Besides, we'll all run to the
attack, if it be needful."
"Oh, heaven help us! if it be only so, my young ones will soon manage
the business--and _a propos_! I have a few bottles of select white
sugar-beer with me, which would certainly please my father, and which
will be exactly the right thing if we, as is customary on such
occasions, have to drink healths."
During this conversation little Alfred had gone round ineffectually
offering two kisses, and was just on the point of growing angry because
his wares found no demand, when all at once, summoning resolution, he
threw his arms round Gabriele's neck, and exclaimed, "Now I see really
and thoroughly, that Aunt Gabriele has need of a kiss!" And it was not
Aunt Gabriele's fault if the dear child was not convinced how wholly
indispensable his gift was.
But Louise still turned over her things. "Here," said she, "I have a
waistcoat-piece for Bergstroem, and here a neck-kerchief for Ulla, as
well as this little brush with which to dust mirrors and tables. Is it
not superb? And see, a little pair of bellows, and these trifles for
Brigitta."
"Now the old woman," said the sisters, "will be happy! She is now and
then out of humour, but a feast of coffee, and some little present,
reconcile her with all the world; and to-day she will get both."
"And see," continued Louise, "how capitally these bellows blow: they can
make the very worst wood burn--see how the dust flies!"
"Uh! one can be blown away oneself," said Gabriele, laughing.
While the sisters were still occupied with cleaning and dusting, and
Louise was admiring her own discoveries, the Judge came in, happy and
warm.
"What a deal of business is going forward!" exclaimed he, laughing. "I
must congratulate you," said he, "Louise; your boys please me entirely.
They are animated boys, with, intellects all alive--but, at the same
time, obedient and polite. Little David is a regular hairbrain, and a
magnificent lad--what a pity it is that he will be lame!"
Louise crimsoned from heartfelt joy over the praise of her boys, and
answered quickly to the lamentation over the little David, "You should
hear, father, what a talent he has for the violoncello; he will be a
second Gehrman."
"Nay, that is good," returned the Judge; "such a talent as that is worth
his two feet. But I have hardly had time to notice you properly yet,
Louise. Heavens! it's glorious that you are come again into our
neighbourhood; now I think I shall be able to see you every day! and you
can also enjoy here the fresh air of the country. You have got thin, but
I really think you have grown!"
Louise said laughingly, that the time for that was over with her.
The sisters also, among themselves, made their observations on Louise.
They were rejoiced to see her, among all her things, so exactly herself
again.
Handsomer she certainly had not become--but people cannot grow handsomer
to all eternity. She looked well and she looked good, had no more of the
cathedral about her; she was an excellent Archdeacon's lady.
* * * * *
We transport ourselves now to Sara's chamber.
When a beloved and guiltless child returns, after sufferings overcome,
to the bosom of parents into a beloved home, who can describe the sweet
delight of its situation? The pure enjoyment of all the charms of home;
the tenderness of the family; the resigning themselves to the heavenly
feeling of being again at home? But the guilty----
We have seen a picture of the prodigal son which we shall never forget!
It is the moment of reconciliation: the father opens his arms to the
son; the son falls into them and hides his face. Deep compunction of the
heart bows down his head, and over his pale cheek--the only part of his
countenance which is visible, runs a tear--a tear of penitence and pain,
which says everything. The golden ring may be placed upon his hand; the
fatted calf may be killed and served up before him--he cannot feel gay
or happy--embittering tears gush forth from the fountains of memory.
Thus was it with Sara, and exactly to that degree in which her heart was
really purified and ennobled. As she woke out of a refreshing sleep in
her new home, and saw near her her child sleeping on the soft snow-white
bed; as she saw all, by the streaming in light of the morning sun, so
festally pure and fresh; as she saw how the faithful memory of affection
had treasured up all her youthful predilections; as she saw her
favourite flowers, the asters, beaming upon the stove, in an alabaster
vase; and as she thought how all this had been--and how it now was--she
wept bitterly.
Petrea, who was reading in the window of Sara's room waiting for her
awaking, stood now with cordial and consoling words near her bed.
"Oh, Petrea!" said Sara, taking her hand and pressing it to her breast,
"let me speak with you. My heart is full. I feel as if I could tell you
all, and you would understand me. I did not come here of my own
will--your father brought me. He did not ask me--he took me like a
child, and I obeyed like a child. I was weak; I thought soon to die; but
this night under this roof has given me strength. I feel now that I
shall live. Listen, to me, Petrea, and stand by me, for as soon as my
feet will carry me I must go away from here. I will not be a burden to
this house. Stained and despised by the world, as I am, I will not
pollute this sanctuary! Already have I read aversion towards me in
Gabriele's look. Oh, my abode here would be a pain to myself! Might my
innocent little one only remain in this blessed house. I must away from
here! These charms of life; this abundance, they are not for me--they
would wake anguish in my soul! Poverty and labour beseem me! I will
away hence. I must!--but I will trouble nobody: I will not appear
ungrateful. Help me, Petrea--think for me; what I should do and where I
should go!"
"I have already thought," replied Petrea.
"Have you?" said Sara, joyfully surprised, and fixed upon her
searchingly her large eyes.
"Come and divide my solitude," continued Petrea, in a cordial voice.
"You know that I, although in the house of my parents, yet live for
myself alone, and have the most perfect freedom. Next to my room is
another, a very simple but quiet room, which might be exactly according
to your wishes. Come and dwell there! There you can live perfectly as
you please; be alone, or see only me, till the quiet influence of calm
days draw you into the innocent life of the family circle."
"Ah, Petrea," returned Sara, "you are good--but you cannot approach a
person of ill-report--and you do not know----"
"Hush! hush!" interrupted Petrea; "I know very well--because I see and
hear you again! Oh, Sara! who am I that I should turn away from you? God
sees into the heart, and he knows how weak and erring mine is, even if
my outward life remain pure, and if circumstances and that which
surrounds me have protected me, and have caused my conduct to be
blameless. But I know myself, and I have no more earnest prayer to God
than that: 'Forgive me my trespasses!' May I not pray by your side?
Cannot we tread together the path which lies before us? Both of us have
seen into many depths of life--both of us now look up humbly to the
cheerful heaven! Give me your hand--you were always dear to me, and now,
even as in the years of childhood do I feel drawn to you! Let us go; let
us try together the path of life. My heart longs after you; and does not
yours say to you that we are fit for one another, and that we can be
happy together?"
"Should I be a burden to you?" said Sara: "were I but stronger, I would
wait upon you; could I only win my bread by my hands, as in the latter
years I have done--but now!"
"Now give yourself up to me blindly," said Petrea. "I have enough for
us both. In a while, when you are stronger, we will help one another."
"Will not my wasted life--my bitter remembrances make my temper gloomy
and me a burden?" asked Sara; "and do not dark spirits master those who
have been so long in their power?"
"Penitence," said Petrea, "is a goddess--she protects the erring. And if
a heathen can say this, how much more a Christian!--Oh, Sara!
annihilating repentance itself--I know it--can become a strength for
him, by which he can erect himself. It can raise up to new life; it can
arouse a will which can conquer all things--it has raised me erect--it
will do the same for you! You stand now in middle life--a long future is
before you--you have an amiable child; have friends; have to live for
eternal life! Live for these! and you will see how, by degrees, the
night vanishes, the day ascends, and all arranges itself and becomes
clear. Come, and let us two unitedly work at the most important business
of life--improvement!"
Sara, at these words, raised herself in the bed, and new beams were
kindled in her eyes. "I will," said she, "Petrea; an angel speaks
through you; your words strengthen and calm me wonderfully--I will begin
anew----"
Petrea pressed Sara to her breast, and spoke warm and heartfelt
"thanks," and then added softly, "and now be a good child, Sara!--all
weak and sick people are children. Now submit, calmly and resignedly, to
be treated and guided like such a one; gladden by so doing those who are
around you, and who all wish you well! We cannot think of any change
before you are considerably better--it would trouble every one."
At this moment the door was opened, and the mother looked in
inquiringly; she smiled so affectionately as she locked Sara in her
arms. Leonore followed her; but as she saw Sara's excited state, she
went quickly back and returned with a breakfast-tray covered with all
kinds of good things; and now cheerful and merry words emulated one
another to divert the again-found-one, old modes of speech were again
reverted to, and old acquaintances renewed.
"Do you know Madame Folette again? She has been lately repaired. Can she
have the honour of giving you a cup of coffee? There is your old cup
with the stars; it was saved with Madame Folette from the fire, and the
little one here with the rose-buds is allotted to our little Elise. You
must really taste these rusks--they never were in the Ark--they came
with the blushing morning out of the oven. Our 'little lady' has herself
selected and filled the basket with the very best for you; you shall see
whether these home-baked would not please even the Assessor;"--and so
on.
In the mean time the little Elise had awoke, and looked with bright blue
eyes up to great Elise, who bent down to her. They were really like each
other, as often daughter's daughters and grandmothers are, and appeared
to feel related already. When Sara saw her child in Elise's arms, tears
of pure joy filled her eyes for the first time.
* * * * *
I do not know whether my lady-readers have nerves to stand by while "the
Berserkers" overthrow the garden-fence. I fancy not; and therefore, with
my reader's permission, I make a little leap over the great event of the
day--the thrown-down wooden fence, which fell so hastily that the
Berserkers themselves tumbled all together over it,--and go into the new
piece of land, where we shall find the family-party assembled, sitting
on a flower-decorated moss-seat, under a tall birch-tree, which waved
over them its crown, tinged already with autumnal yellow. The September
sun, which was approaching its setting, illuminated the group, and
gleamed through the alders on the brook, which softly murmuring among
blue creeks, flowed around the new piece of land, and at once beautified
and bounded it.
Tears shone in the eyes of the family-father; but he spoke not. To see
himself the object of so much love; the thoughts on the future; on his
favourite plan; fatherly joy and pride; gratitude towards his
children--towards heaven, all united themselves to fill his heart with
the most pleasurable sensations which can bless a human bosom.
The mother, immediately after the great surprise, and the explosion of
joy which followed it, had gone into the house with Eva and Leonore.
Among those who remained behind, we see the friend of the family
Jeremias Munter, who wore on the occasion the grimmest countenance in
the world; the Baron L., who was no more the wild extravagant youth,
but a man, and beyond this, a landed-proprietor, whose grave demeanour
was beautified by a certain, agreeable sobriety, particularly visible
when he spoke with "our little lady," at whose feet he was seated.
Louise handed about white-sugar beer, which nobody praised more highly
than herself. She found that it had something unearthly in it, something
positively exalting; but when Gabriele, immediately after she had drank
a half glass, gave a spring upwards, "our eldest" became terrified, for
such a strong working of her effervescing white-beer she had by no means
expected. Nevertheless she was soon surrounded by the eight, who cried
altogether, "Mamma, may I have some beer?" "And I too?" "And I?" "And I
too?" "And I?" "And I?" "Send a deal of foam for me, mamma dear!"
"Nay, nay, nay, dear boys! people must not come clamouring and storming
thus--you don't see that I or the father do so. Solomon must wait to the
very last now. Patience is a good herb. There, you have it; now drink,
but don't wet yourselves!"
After the little Jacobis had all enjoyed the foaming, elevating liquor,
they became possessed by such a buoyant spirit of life, that Louise was
obliged to command them to exhibit their mighty deeds at a distance.
Hereupon they swarmed forth on journeys of discovery, and began to
tumble head over heels round the place. David hobbled along with his
little crutch over stock and stone, whilst Jonathan gathered for him all
sorts of flowers, and plucked the bilberry plants, to which he pointed
with his finger; little nosegays were then made out of them, with which
they overwhelmed their aunts, especially Gabriele, their chosen friend
and patron. The serious Adam, the eldest of the eight, a boy of
exceedingly staid demeanour, sate quietly by the side of his
grandfather, and appeared to consider himself one of the elderly people;
the little Alfred hopped about his mother.
The Judge looked around him with an animated countenance; he planted
alleys and hedges; set down benches and saw them filled with happy
people, and communicated his plans to Jacobi.
Jeremias observed the scene with a bitter, melancholy, and, to him,
peculiar smile. As little David came limping up to him with the
fragrant wood-flowers, he exclaimed suddenly, "Why not rather make here
a botanic garden than a common park? Flowers are indeed the only
pleasant thing here in the world, and because people go all about
snuffing with the nose, it might be as well to provide them with
something to smell at. A water-establishment also could be united with
it, and thus something miserable might get washed away from the pitiable
wretches here in this world."
The Judge seized on the idea with joy. "So we will," said he; "we will
unite pleasure with profit. This undertaking will cost more than a
simple public pleasure-ground, but that need not prevent it. In this
beautiful time of peace, and with the prospect of its long continuance,
people may take works in hand, and hope to complete them, even if they
should require a long time."
"And such works," said Jacobi, "operate ennoblingly on life in times of
peace. Peace requires even as great a mass of power as war, but against
another kind of foe. Every ennobling of this earthly existence,
everything which exalts the mind to a more intellectual life, is a
battery directed against the commoner nature in man, and is a service
done to humanity and one's native land."
"Bah!" cried Jeremias with vexation, "humanity and native land! You have
always large words in the mouth; if a fence is thrown down or a bush
planted, it is immediately called a benefit for one's native land. Plant
your fields and throw down your fences, but let the native land rest in
peace! for it troubles itself just as little about you, as you about it.
For one's country and humanity!--that should sound very affecting--all
mere talk!"
"No, now you are in fact too severe," said the Judge, smiling at the
outbreak of his friend; "and I, as far as regards myself," continued he,
gravely, but cheerfully, "wish that a clearer idea of one's country
accompanied every step of human activity. If there be a love which is
natural and reasonable, it is the love of one's country. Have I not to
thank my country for everything that I have? Are they not its laws, its
institutions, its spiritual life, which have developed my whole being,
as man and as a citizen? And are they not the deeds of my fathers which
have fashioned these; which have given them their power and their
individual life? In fact, love and gratitude towards one's parents is
no greater duty than love and gratitude towards one's native land; and
there is no one, be he man or woman, high or low, but who, according to
his own relationships, can and must pay this holy debt. And this is
exactly the signification of a christianly constituted state, that every
one shall occupy with his pound so as to benefit, at the same time, both
the individual and the community at large."
"Thus," added Petrea, "do the rain-drops swell the brook, which pours
its water into the river, and may, even though it be nameless,
communicate benefit in its course."
"So it is, my dear child," said her father, and extended to her his
hand.
"It is a gladdening thought," said Louise, with tearful eyes. "Pay
attention, Adam, to what grandfather and aunt say, and keep it in your
mind;--but don't open your mouth so wide; a whole frigate could sail
into it."
At these words little Alfred began to laugh so shrilly and so heartily
that all the elderly folks irresistibly bore him company. Adam laughed
too; and at the sound of this peal of laughter came bounding forward
from all ends and corners Shem and Seth, Jacob and Solomon, Jonathan and
David, just as a flock of sparrows comes flying down over a handful of
scattered corn. They came laughing because they heard laughter, and
wished to be present at the entertainment.
In the mean time the sun had set, and the cool elves of evening began to
wander over the place as the family, amid the most cheerful talk, arose
in order to return to the house. As they went into the city the ball on
St. Mary's church glimmered like fire in the last beams of the sun, and
the moon ascended like a pale but gentle countenance over the roof of
their house. There was a something in this appearance which made a
sorrowful impression on Gabriele. The star of the church tower glittered
over the grave of her brother, and the look of the moon made her
involuntarily think on the pale, mild countenance of her mother. For the
rest, the evening was so lovely, the blackbird sang among the alders by
the brook, and the heaven lay clear and brightly blue over the earth,
whilst the wind and every disturbing sound became more and more hushed.
Gabriele walked on, full of thought, and did not observe that Baron L.
had approached her; they were almost walking together as he said, "I am
very glad; it was very pleasant to me to see you all again so happy!"
"Ah, yes," answered Gabriele, "now we can all be together again. It is a
great happiness that Louise and her family are come here."
"Perhaps," continued the Baron--"perhaps it might be audacity to disturb
such a happily united life, and to wish to separate a daughter and
sister from such a family--but if the truest----"
"Ah!" hastily interrupted Gabriele, "don't speak of disturbing anything,
of changing anything--everything is so good as it now is!"
He was silent, with an expression of sorrow.
"Let us be all happy together," said Gabriele, bashfully and cordially;
"you will stop some time with us. It is so charming to have friends and
sisters--this united life is so agreeable with them."
The Baron's countenance brightened. He seized Gabriele's hand, and would
have said something, but she hastened from him to her father, whose arm
she took.
Jacobi conducted Petrea; they were cheerful and confidential together,
as happy brother and sister. She spoke to him of her present happiness,
and of the hope which made up her future. He took the liveliest interest
in it, and spoke with her of his plans; of his domestic happiness; and
with especial rapture of his boys; of their obedience to the slightest
word of their parents; of their mutual affection to each other--and
see--all this was Louise's work! And Louise's praise was sung forth in a
harmonious duet--ever a sweet scent for "our eldest," who appeared,
however, to listen to no one but her father.
They soon reached home. The mother stood with the silver ladle in her
hand, and the most friendly smile on her lips, in the library, before a
large steaming bowl of punch, and with look and voice bade the entering
party welcome.
"My dear Elise," said the Judge, embracing her, "you are become twenty
years younger to-day."
"Happiness makes one young," answered she, looking on him
affectionately.
People seated themselves.
"Don't make so much noise, children!" said Louise to her eight, seating
herself with the little Elise on her knees; "can't you seat yourselves
without so much noise and bustle."
Jeremias Munter had placed himself in a corner, and was quiet, and
seemed depressed.
On many countenances one saw a sort of tension, a sort of consciousness
that before long a something uncommon was about to happen. The Judge
coughed several times; he seemed to have an unusual cause for making his
throat clear. At length he raised his voice and spoke, but not without
evident emotion, "Is it true that our friend Jeremias Munter thinks of
soon leaving us, in order to seat himself down in solitude in the
country? Is it true, as report says, that he leaves us so soon as
to-morrow morning, and that this is the last evening which brings him
into our circle as a townsman of ours?"
The Assessor made an attempt to reply, but it was only a sort of low
grunting tone without words. He looked fixedly upon the floor, and
supported his hands upon his stick.
"In this case," continued the Judge, "I am desired to ask him a
question, which I would ask from no one else, and which nearly sticks in
my throat,--Will our friend Munter allow that any one--any one of us
should follow him into his solitude?"
"Who would accompany me?" snorted Jeremias grumblingly and doubtingly.
"I!" answered a soft, harmonious voice; and Eva, as beautiful and
graceful at this moment as ever, approached him, conducted by her
father. "I," repeated she, blushing and speaking softly but sincerely,
"I will accompany you if you will."
On the countenances of the family it might be read that this to the
members of it was no surprise. Louise had gentle tears in her eyes, and
did not look the least in the world scandalised at this step--so
contrary to the dignity of woman. The Assessor drew himself together,
and looked up with a sharp and astonished look.
"Receive from my hand," said the Judge, with a voice which showed his
feeling, "a companion for whom you have long wished. Only to you,
Munter, would I so resign my beloved child."
"Do you say no to me?" asked Eva, blushing and smiling, as she extended
her white hand to the still stupified Jeremias.
He seized the extended hand hastily, pressed it with both hands to his
breast, and said softly as he bent over it, "Oh, my rose!" When he
raised his head, his eyes were wet; but there was anxiety and disquiet
in his whole being. "Brother," said he to the Judge, "I cannot yet thank
you--I don't know--I don't understand--I must first prove her."
He took Eva by the hand and conducted her into the boudoir adjoining the
library, seated himself opposite to her, and said warmly, "Whence
proceeds this? What jokes are these? How does it arise? Tell me, in
God's name, Eva, with what sentiments do you thus come and woo me? Is it
with true love?--yes, I say, true love; don't be startled at the word!
You can take it as I mean it. Is it love, or is it--pity? As a gift of
mercy I cannot take you. Thus much I can tell you. Do not deceive
yourself--do not deceive me! In the name of God, who proves all hearts,
answer me, and speak the truth. Is it from the full and entire heart
that you come thus to me? Do you think, Eva, angel of God, that I, the
ugly, infirm, ill-tempered old man can make you happy?"
He spoke with a heartfelt anxiety, yet he now looked handsome with love
and feeling.
"My friend, my benefactor," answered Eva, and wiped away some tears
which rolled down her cheeks, "see into--read my inmost heart. Gratitude
led me to the acknowledgment of your worth, and both have led me to
love; not the passionate love which I once felt--but never more can
feel--but a deep inward devotion, which will make me and, as I also
hope, you happy, and which nothing further can disturb. To live for you,
and next to you for my family, is the highest wish that I have on earth.
I can candidly say that in this moment there is no one whom I love more
than you. Is that enough for you?"
The Assessor riveted his deep eyes searchingly and penetratingly on Eva.
"Kiss me!" said he, at once short and sharp.
With an indescribably charming submission, Eva bowed her blushing face
and kissed him.
"Lord God!" said Jeremias, "and you are mine! In his name then!" and
with unspeakable emotion clasped he his long beloved to his heart. He
held her long, and only deep sighs arose from his heart overflowing with
happiness. At length he tore himself from her, and as if animated with
new youth he sprang forward, and exclaimed to the company assembled in
the library, "Nay, now it is all made up--I take her--she shall have
me--she shall have me! She is worthy to be my wife, and I am worthy to
be her husband! Now then, you without there, will not you drink our
healths?"
All gathered around the bowl--Louise with the rest--the eight following
her--it was all a joyful bustle. Leonore and Petrea kept back the little
tumultuous ones amid laughter, and promised to carry the glasses to them
if they would only keep their places.
At length quiet returned to the assembly, the glasses were filled, and
the skal began.
No. 1, which the Judge proposed, was "for the newly betrothed."
No. 2, which Jacobi spoke eloquently, was "for the Parents; for their
happiness and well-being," said he, with emotion, "through which I, and
so many others as well as I, are blessed!"
No. 3, was drunk to "the prosperity of the new Pastor's family."
No. 4, for "the new purchased land."
No. 5, for "the old--ever-new Home."
No. 6, was "the health of all good children!" The eight seemed as if
they could not return thanks enough.
After this yet a many other particular toasts were given. The young
Jacobis drank incessantly to the aunts--Gabriele must continually make
her glass clink against those of her little nephews.
In the mean time Jeremias Munter made with love-warm looks the following
speech to his bride. "That was a joke now! that you should have made me
of such consequence! How did she know that I would have her? To woo me
yourself, and to take me so by surprise! To give me no time to think.
What then? It is quite unheard of! Was the thing arranged beforehand?
No, that is too troublesome. Nay, nay, nay, nay then, nay say I! But now
I think about it, it was quite for the best that I accept you--but
indeed you were a little hasty; I've a good mind to----What now? What is
fresh in hand? Comes her little grace, the little sister-in-law, without
any ceremony and kisses me. Heavens! the world is very merry!"
But nobody in the whole circle found the world so merry as Petrea.
"Are you now satisfied with me, Petrea?" asked Eva, archly laughing.
Petrea clasped her warmly in her arms.
Now the voice of Mother Louise was heard saying, "Nay, nay, children,
you must not drink a drop more! What do you say, my little David? A
thee-and-thou toast with Uncle Munter? No, thank you greatly, my dear
fellow, you can propose that another time. You have drunk to-day toasts
enough--more, perhaps, than your little heads can carry."
"I beg for the boys, sister Louise," said the Assessor; "I will propose
a skal, and they must drink it with me. Fill, yet once more, the
glasses, little carousers!--I propose a skal for peace! peace in our
country, and peace in our homes! A skal for love and knowledge, which
alone can make peace a blessing! A skal, in one word, for--Peace upon
Earth!"
"Amen! amen!" cried Jacobi, drank off his glass, and threw it behind
him. Louise looked at her mother somewhat astonished, but the mother
followed Jacobi's example; she too was carried away.
"All glasses to the ground after this skal!" cried the Judge, and sent
his ringing against the ceiling. With an indescribable pleasure the
little Jacobis threw their glasses up, and endeavoured to make the skal
for Peace as noisy and tumultuous as possible.
* * * * *
We leave now the joyful circle, from which we have seen the mother
softly steal away. We see her go into the boudoir, where reposing in
comfortable quiet she writes the following lines to her friend and
sister:
"I have left them now for a few minutes, in order to rest, and to say a
few words to you, my Cecilia. Here it is good and quiet; and joyful
voices--truly festival voices, echo to me here. The heart of my Ernst
enjoys the highest pleasure, for he sees all his children happy around
him. And the children, Cecilia, he has reason to be joyful over them and
proud; they stand all around him, good and excellent human beings; they
thank him that existence has been given to them, and that they have
learned its worth; They are satisfied with their lot. The lost and
again-found-one has come home, in order to begin a new life, and her
charming child is quite established on the knees of the grandfather.
"I hear Gabriele's guitar accompanied by a song. I fancy now they dance.
Louise's eight boys make the floor shake. Jacobi's voice is heard above
all. The good, ever-young man. I also should be joyful, for all in my
house is peaceful and well-arranged. And I am so; my heart is full of
thankfulness, but my body is weary--very weary.
"The fir-trees on the grave wave and beckon me. I see their tops
saluting me in the clear moonlight, and pointing upwards. Dost thou
beckon me, my son? Dost thou call me to come home to thee? My
first-born, my summer-child! Let me whisper to thee that this is my
secret wish. The earth was friendly towards me; friendly was my home:
when thou wast gone, my favourite! I began to follow. Perhaps the day of
my departure is at hand. I feel in myself as if I were able to go to
rest. And might a really bright and beautiful moment be enjoyed by me
before my last sleep, I would yet once more press my husband's hand to
my lips, look around me on earth with a blessing, and upwards towards
heaven with gratitude, and say as now, out of the depths of my heart,
'Thank God for the home here, and the home there.'"
END OF THE HOME.
Transcriber's Notes:
I inserted 'a' into sentence, Never did I envy [a] human being as I
envied her, on Page 90.
In Footnote 3, the word appears to be Niflhem, but the more common
spelling is Niflheim.