"I forgot to tell you, little mother, I have just had a letter from your
relations in Bohemia. Your great-uncle is dead. His son, you know, died
before him. A little orphan girl is left with no one to take care of
her. I have desired them to send her to us. I could do no less. It was
an act, not of charity, but of the plainest duty. And besides," he
added, apologetically, "in the end it may make our fortunes. There is
property somewhere in the family, if we could get it; and this little
Eva is the descendant of the eldest branch. Indeed, I do not know but
that she may bring many valuable family heirlooms with her."
These last observations he addressed especially to my grandmother,
hoping thereby to make it clear to her that the act was one of the
deepest worldly wisdom. Then turning to the mother, he concluded,--
"Little mother, thou wilt find a place for the orphan in thy heart, and
Heaven will no doubt bless us for it."
"No doubt about the room in my daughter's heart!" murmured our
grandmother; "the question, as I read it, is not about hearts, but about
larders and wardrobes. And, certainly," she added, not very pleasantly,
"there is room enough there for any family jewels the young heiress may
bring."
As usual, the mother came to the rescue.
"Dear grandmother," she said, "Heaven, no doubt, will repay us; and
besides, you know, we may now venture on a little more expense, since we
are out of debt."
"There is no doubt, I suppose," retorted our grandmother, "about Heaven
repaying you; but there seems to me a good deal of doubt whether it will
be in current coin."
Then, I suppose fearing the effect of so doubtful a sentiment on the
children, she added rather querulously, but in a gentler tone,--
"Let the little creature come. Room may be made for her soon in one way
or another. The old creep out at the church-yard gate, while the young
bound in at the front door."
And in a few days little Eva came; but, unfortunately without the family
jewels. But the saints forbid I should grow mercenary or miserly, and
grudge the orphan her crust!
And who could help welcoming little Eva? As she lies on my bed asleep,
with her golden hair on the pillow, and the long lashes shading her
cheek, flushed with sleep and resting on her dimpled white hand, who
could wish her away? And when I put out the lamp (as I must very soon)
and lie down beside her, she will half awake, just to nestle into my
heart, and murmur in her sleep, "Sweet cousin Else!" And I shall no more
be able to wish her gone than my guardian angel. Indeed I think she is
something like one.
She is not quite ten years old; but being an only child, and always
brought up with older people, she has a quiet, considerate way, and a
quaint, thoughtful gravity, which sits with a strange charm on her
bright, innocent, child-like face.
At first she seemed a little afraid of our children, especially the
boys, and crept about everywhere by the side of my mother, to whom she
gave her confidence from the beginning. She did not so immediately take
to our grandmother, who was not very warm in her reception; but the
second evening after her arrival, she deliberately took her little stool
up to our grandmother's side, and seating herself at her feet, laid her
two little, soft hands on the dear, thin, old hands, and said,--
"You must love me, for I shall love you very much. You are like my
great-aunt who died."
And, strange to say, our grandmother seemed quite flattered; and ever
since they have been close friends. Indeed she commands us all, and
there is not one in the house who does not seem to think her notice a
favour. I wonder if Fritz would feel the same!
Our father lets her sit in his printing-room when he is making
experiments, which none of us ever dared to do. She perches herself on
the window-sill, and watches him as if she understood it all, and he
talks to her as if he thought she did.
Then she has a wonderful way of telling the legends of the saints to the
children. When our grandmother tells them, I think of the saints as
heroes and warriors. When I try to relate the sacred stories to the
little ones, I am afraid I make them too much like fairy tales. But when
little Eva is speaking about St. Agnes or St. Catherine, her voice
becomes soft and deep, like church music; and her face grave and
beautiful, like one of the child-angels in the pictures; and her eyes as
if they saw into heaven. I wish Fritz could hear her. I think she must
be just what the saints were when they were little children, except for
that strange, quiet way she has of making every one do what she likes.
If our St. Elizabeth had resembled our little Eva in that, I scarcely
think the Landgravine-mother would have ventured to have been so cruel
to her. Perhaps it is little Eva who is to be the saint among us; and by
helping her we may best please God, and be admitted at last to some
humble place in heaven.
EISENACH, _December_.
It is a great comfort that Fritz writes in such good spirits. He seems
full of hope as to his prospects, and already he has obtained a place in
some excellent institution, where, he says, he lives like a cardinal,
and is quite above wanting assistance from any one. This is very
encouraging. Martin Luther, also, is on the way to be quite a great man,
Fritz says. It is difficult to imagine this; he looked so much like any
one else, and we are all so completely at home with him, and he talks in
such a simple, familiar way to us all--not in learned words, or about
difficult, abstruse subjects, like the other wise men I know. Certainly
it always interests us all to hear him, but one can understand all he
says--even I can; so that it is not easy to think of him as a
philosopher and a great man. I suppose wise men must be like the saints:
one can only see what they are when they are at some distance from us.
What kind of great man will Martin Luther be, I wonder? As great as our
burgomaster, or as Master Trebonius? Perhaps even greater than these; as
great, even, as the Elector's secretary, who came to see our father
about his inventions. But it is a great comfort to think of it,
especially on Fritz's account; for I am sure Martin will never forget
old friends.
I cannot quite comprehend Eva's religion. It seems to make her happy. I
do not think she is afraid of God, or even of confession. She seems to
enjoy going to church as if it were a holiday in the woods; and the name
of Jesus seems not terrible, but dear to her, as the name of the sweet
Mother of God is to me. This is very difficult to understand. I think
she is not even very much afraid of the judgment-day; and this is the
reason why I think so:--The other night, when we were both awakened by
an awful thunder-storm, I hid my face under the clothes, in order not to
see the flashes, until I heard the children crying in the next room, and
rose of course, to soothe them, because our mother had been very tired
that day, and was, I trusted, asleep. When I had sung and talked to the
little ones, and sat by them till they were asleep, I returned to our
room, trembling in every limb; but I found Eva kneeling by the bed-side,
with her crucifix pressed to her bosom, looking as calm and happy as if
the lightning flashes had been morning sunbeams.
She rose from her knees when I entered; and when I was once more safely
in bed, with my arm around her, and the storm had lulled a little, I
said,--
"Eva, are you not afraid of the lightning?"
"I think it might hurt us, Cousin Else," she said; "and that was the
reason I was praying to God."
"But, Eva," I said, "supposing the thunder should be the archangel's
voice! I always think every thunder-storm may be the beginning of the
day of wrath--the dreadful judgment-day. What should you do then?"