“Alas, I am no sturdy oak!
Alas, I’m but the flower
That wakes the kiss of May!
And when has fled its little hour,
Will voice of Death obey.”--RUCKERT.
The following afternoon came visitors--two young ladies from Nyborg,
friends of Sophie and Louise. Before dinner they would take a walk
through the wood to an inclosure where the flax was in bloom. Otto was
to accompany them.
“I am also of the party!” said the Kammerjunker, who just galloped into
the court-yard as the ladies, with Otto, were about setting out on
their excursion. Thus the whole company consisted of five ladies and two
gentlemen.
“The cows are not in the field over which we must go, are they?” asked
Eva.
“No, my good girl!” returned Sophie; “you may be quite easy! Besides, we
have two gentlemen with us.”
“Yes; but they would not be able to protect us from the unruly
bullocks!” said Louise. “But we have nothing to fear. Where we are
going the cows do not go until after they are milked. I am no heroine!
Besides, it is not long since one bullock nearly gored the cowherd to
death. He also gored Sidsel a great hole in her arm just lately: you
remember the girl with her eyebrows grown together?”
“There is also in the wood a wild sow, with eleven sucking pigs!” said
Sophie, in ironical gravity; “it would not be agree able to meet with
her!”
“She is almost as dangerous as the bullocks!” said the Kammerjunker, and
laughed at Eva.
The conversation took another turn.
“Shall we not visit Peter Cripple?” asked Sophie. “The gentlemen can
then see the smith’s pretty daughter; she is really too beautiful to be
his wife!”
“Is Peter Cripple married?” inquired Otto.
“No, the wedding will be held on Sunday!” replied the Kammerjunker; “but
the bride is already in the house. The bans were published last Sunday,
and they immediately commenced housekeeping together. This often takes
place even earlier, when a man cannot do without a wife. She has taken
him on account of his full money-bags!”
“Yes, with the peasant it is seldom love which brings about the affair!”
said Louise. “Last year there was quite a young girl who married a
man who might have been her grandfather. She took him only, she said,
because he had such a good set of earthenware.”
“These were very brittle things to marry upon!” remarked Otto.
Meantime they were nearly come to the edge of the wood. Here stood a
little house; hops hung luxuriantly over the hedge, the cat stood with
bent back upon the crumbling edge of the well.
Sophie, at the head of the whole company, stepped into the room, where
Peter Cripple sat on the table sewing; but, light and active as an
elf, he sprang down from the table to kiss her hand. The smith’s pretty
daughter was stirring something in an iron pot in the hearth. St. John’s
wort, stuck between the beams and the ceiling, shot forth in luxuriant
growth, prophesying long life to the inhabitants of the house. On the
sooty ceiling glittered herrings’ souls, as a certain portion of the
herring’s entrails is called, and which Peter Cripple, following the
popular belief, had flung up to the ceiling, convinced that so long as
they hung there he should be freed from the ague.
Otto took no part in the conversation, but turned over a quantity of
songs which he found; they were stitched together in a piece of blue
tobacco-paper. The principal contents were, “New, Melancholy Songs,”
“Of the Horrible Murder,” “The Audacious Criminal,” “The Devil in Salmon
Lane,” “Boat’s Fall,” and such things; which have now supplanted, among
the peasants, the better old popular songs.
With Louise, Eva, and one of the ladies from Nyborg, Otto slowly
preceded the others, who had still some pleasantries to say before
leaving Peter Cripple and his bride.
“Shall we not go over the inclosure to the cairn?” said Louise. “It is
clear to-day; we shall see Zealand. The others will follow us; here,
from the foot-path, they will immediately discover us.”
Otto opened the gate and they went through the inclosure. They had
already advanced a considerable way, when the Kammerjunker and his
ladies reached the foot-path from which they could see the others.
“They are going to the cairn,” said he.
“Then they will have a little fright!” said Sophie. “Down in the corner
of the inclosure lie the young cattle. They may easily mistake them for
cows, and the wild bullocks!”
“Had we not better call them back?” asked the other lady.
“But we must frighten them a little,” said Sophie. “Shout to them that
there are the cows!”
“Yes, that I can do with a clear conscience!” said the Kammerjunker;
and he shouted as loud as he could, “There are the cows! Turn back! turn
back!”
Eva heard it the first. “O God!” said she, “hear what they are calling
to us!”
Otto glanced around, but saw no cows.
“They are standing still!” said Sophie; “call once again!”
The Kammerjunker shouted as before, and Sophie imitated the lowing of
the cows. At this noise the young cattle arose.
Louise now became aware of them. “O heavens!” exclaimed she; “there,
down in the corner of the inclosure, are all the cows!”
“Let us run!” cried Eva, and took to flight.
“For God’s sake, do not run!” cried Otto; “walk slowly and quietly,
otherwise they may come!”
“Come away, away!” resounded from the wood.
“O Lord!” shrieked Eva, when she saw the creatures raise their tails in
the air as soon as they perceived the fugitives.
“Now they are coming!” cried the lady who accompanied them, and sent
forth a loud scream.
Eva fled first, as if borne by the wind; the lady followed her, and
Louise ran on after them.
Otto now really saw all the cattle, which, upon the ladies flight, had
instinctively followed, chasing over the field after them in the same
direction.
Nothing now remained for him but, like the others, to reach the gate.
This he opened, and had just closed again, when the cattle were close
upon them, but no one had eyes to see whether the cattle were little or
big.
“Now there is no more danger!” cried Otto, as soon as he had well closed
the gate; but the ladies still fled on, passing among the trees until
they reached the spot where the Kammerjunker and his two ladies awaited
them with ringing laughter.
Sophie was obliged to support herself against a tree through all the
amusement. It had been a most remarkable spectacle, this flight; Eva at
the head, and Mr. Thostrup rushing past them to open the gate. Louise
was pale as death, and her whole body trembled; the friend supported her
arm and forehead on a tree, and drew a long breath.
“Bah!” again cried Sophie, and laughed.
“But where is Eva?” asked Otto, and shouted her name.
“She ran here before me!” said Louise; “she is doubtless leaning against
a tree, and recovering her strength.”
“Eva!” cried Sophie. “Where is my hero: ‘I want a hero!’” [Author’s
Note: Byron’s Don Juan.]
Otto returned to seek her. At this moment Wilhelm arrived.
The Kammerjunker regretted that he had not seen the race with them, and
related the whole history to him.
“O come! come!” they heard Otto shout. They found him kneeling in the
high grass. Eva lay stretched out on the ground; she was as pale as
death; her head rested in Otto’s lap.
“God in heaven!” cried Wilhelm, and flung himself down before her. “Eva!
Eva! O, she is dead! and thou art to blame for it, Sophie! Thou hast
killed her!” Reproachfully he fixed his eyes on his sister. She burst
into tears, and concealed her face in her hands.
Otto ran to the peasant’s cottage and brought water. Peter Cripple
himself hopped like a mountain-elf behind him through the high nettles
and burdocks, which closed above and behind him again.
The Kammerjunker took Eva in his strong arms and carried her to the
cottage. Wilhelm did not leave hold of her hand. The others followed in
silence.
“Try and get her home,” said Wilhelm; “I myself will fetch the
physician!” He rushed forth, and hastened through the wood to the ball,
where he ordered the men to bring out a sedan-chair for the invalid;
then had horses put into one of the lightest carriages, seated himself
in it as coachman, and drove away to Nyborg, the nearest town, which,
however, was distant almost twenty miles.
Sophie was inconsolable. “It is my fault!” she said, and wept.
Otto found her sitting before the house, under an elder-tree. She could
not endure to see Eva’s paleness.
“You are innocent,” said Otto. “Believe me, to-morrow Eva will be
completely restored! She herself,” added he, in an assuaging tone,
“behaved in an imprudent manner. I warned her not to run. Her own terror
is to blame for all.”
“No, no,” returned Sophie; “my folly, my extravagance, has caused the
whole misfortune!”
“Now it is much better,” said the Kammerjunker, coming out of the house.
“She must be devilish tender to fly before a few calves! I really must
laugh when I think of it, although it did come to such an end!”
The men now arrived whom Wilhelm had sent with the sedan-chair.
Eva thought she could walk, if she might lean upon some one; but it
would be better, her friends thought, if she were carried.
“Dost thou feel any pain?” asked Louise, and gave her a sisterly kiss on
the brow.
“No, none at all,” replied Eva. “Do not scold me for having frightened
you so. I am so fearful, and the bullock were close behind us.”
“They were, God help me, only calves!” answered the Kammerjunker; “they
wished to play, and only ran because you ran!”
“It was a foolish joke of mine!” said Sophie, and seized Eva’s hand. “I
am very unhappy about it!”
“O no!” said Eva, and smiled so pensively, yet happily. “To-morrow I
shall be quite well again!” Her eye seemed to seek some one.
Otto understood the glance. “The physician is sent for. Wilhelm has
himself driven over for him.”
Toward the middle of the wood the mother herself approached them; she
was almost as pale as Eva.
All sought to calm her; Eva bowed her head to kiss the good lady’s hand.
The Kammerjunker told the story to her, and she shook her head. “What an
imprudent, foolish joke!” said she; “here you see the consequences!”
Not before late in the afternoon did Wilhelm return with the physician;
he found his patient out of all danger, but prescribed what should still
be done. Quiet and the warm summer air would do the most for her.
“See,” said Otto, when, toward evening he met Sophie in the garden,
“to-day Wilhelm did not conceal his feelings!”
“I fear that you are right!” returned Sophie. “He loves Eva, and that is
very unfortunate. Tell me what you know about it.”
“I know almost nothing!” said Otto, and told about little Jonas and the
first meeting with Eva.
“Yes, that he has told us already himself! But do you know nothing
more?” Her voice became soft, and her eyes gazed full of confidence into
Otto’s.
He related to her the short conversation which he had had last autumn
with Wilhelm, how angry he had been with his candid warning, and how
since then they had never spoken about Eva.
“I must confide my fear to our mother!” said Sophie. “I almost now am
glad that he will travel in two months, although we shall then lose you
also!”
And Otto’s heart beat; the secret of his heart pressed to his lips;
every moment he would speak it. But Sophie had always still another
question about her brother; they were already out of the garden, already
in the court-yard, and yet Otto had said nothing.
Therefore was he so quiet when, late in the evening, he and Wilhelm
entered their chamber. Wilhelm also spoke no word, but his eye
repeatedly rested expectantly on Otto, as if waiting for him to break
the silence. Wilhelm stepped to the open window and drank in the fresh
air, suddenly he turned round, flung his arms round Otto, and exclaimed,
“I can no longer endure it! I must say it to some one! I love her, and
will never give her up, let every one be opposed! I have now silently
concealed my feelings for some months; I can do so no longer, or I shall
become ill, and for that I am not made!”
“Does she know this?” asked Otto.
“No, and yes! I do not know what I should answer! Here at home I have
never spoken alone with her. The last time when Weyse played on the
organ at Roeskelde I had bought a pretty silk handkerchief, and this
I took with me for her; I know not, but I wished to give her pleasure.
There came a woman past with lovely stocks; I stood at the open window;
she offered me a bouquet, and I bought it. ‘Those are lovely flowers!’
said Eva, when she entered. ‘They will fade with me!’ said I; ‘put them
in water and keep there for yourself!’ She wished only to have a few,
but I obliged her to take them all: she blushed, and her eyes gazed
strangely down into my soul. I know not what sort of a creature I
became, but it was impossible for me to give her the handkerchief; it
seemed to me that this would almost be an offense. Eva went away with
the flowers, but the next morning it seemed to me that she was uneasy; I
fancied I saw her color come and go when I bade her adieu! She must have
read the thoughts in my soul!”
“And the handkerchief?” interrupted Otto.
“I gave it to my sister Sophie,” said Wilhelm.