Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Sigal Alon and
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[Transcriber's Note: Some words which appear to be typos or misspelled
are printed thus in the original book.]
THE
HOME IN THE VALLEY.
By
EMILIE F. CARLÉN,
Author of "One Year Of Wedlock," "The Whimsical Woman,"
"Gustavus Lindorm," etc. etc.
From the original Swedish by
ELBERT PERCE.
New York
Charles Scribner, 145 Nassau-street.
1854.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1854, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
Tobitt's Combination-Type,
181 William St.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
A few years ago, Mrs. Carlén was comparatively unknown to readers in
this country; but the marked success which followed the publication of
"One Year of Wedlock" encouraged the translator in the endeavor to
present that lady's works to the American public.
In her writings Mrs. Carlén exhibits a versatility which may be
considered remarkable. While in one book she revels in descriptions of
home-scenes and characters, in another she presents her readers with
events and incidents that bear a strong resemblance to the startling
and melo-dramatic productions of many of the modern romance writers of
France.
This peculiarity, however, may be accounted for by the fact that she
writes--as she herself confesses--entirely from impulse.
When her mind is clouded by sorrow--and she has been oppressed with many
bitter griefs--she seeks to remove the cause of her despondency by
creating a hero or heroine, afflicted like herself, and following this
individual through a train of circumstances which, she imagines, would
naturally occur during a life of continued gloom and sorrow.
On the other hand, when life appears bright and beautiful to her, then
she tells a tale of joy; a story of domestic life, for where does pure
happiness exist except at the fireside at home?
It must have been during one of these bright intervals of her life that
Mrs. Carlén wrote "The Home in the Valley," for the work is a continued
description of the delights of home, which, although occasionally
obscured by grief, and in some instances, by folly, are rendered still
more precious by their brief absence.
_New York_, August 15th, 1854.
CHAPTER I.
THE VALLEY.
In one of father La Fontaine's books, may be found a description of a
lovely valley, the residence of a beautiful and modest maiden, and of
the heroine of this Arcadia he writes:
"There stands our heroine, as lovely as the valley, her home, and as
virtuous and good as her mother, who has devoted a lifetime to the
education of her daughter."
But with the history of this maiden he weaves the workings of an evil
genius, which in the end is triumphant; for even the pure are
contaminated after they arrive at that period when they consider that
vice has its virtues.
Our story is located near the beautiful Lake Wenner, in a valley which
much resembles that described by La Fontaine. As we enter this valley,
the first object that meets our view is a small red-colored cottage. A
vine twines itself gracefully over one of the windows, the glass panes
of which glisten through the green leaves, which slightly parted,
disclose the sober visage of an ancient black cat, that is demurely
looking forth upon the door yard. She has chosen a sunny spot on the
window sill, for the cheering beams of the sun are as grateful to a cat,
as is the genial warmth of the stove to an old man, when winter has
resumed his sway upon earth. If we should enter the cottage, we would in
all probability find the proprietor of the little estate seated in his
old arm-chair, while his daughter-in-law--but more of this anon.
From the cottage the ground descended in a slight slope, which
terminated in a white sandy beach at the margin of the lake. Near the
beach were fastened the small skiffs, which swayed to and fro amongst
the rushes, where the children delighted to sail their miniature ships.
From the rear of the house the little valley extended itself in
undulating fields and meadows, interspersed with barren hillocks and
thrifty potato patches. In the fields could be heard the tinkling of the
cow-bells, the bleating of lambs, and the barking of a dog as he
gathered together his little flock. Carlo was a fortunate dog, for the
farm was so small that he could keep his entire charge within sight at
all times.
Near the centre of the valley stood a large tree, the widely spread
branches of which shaded a spring, which gushed forth from beneath a
huge moss-covered stone. This was the favorite place of resort of a
beautiful maiden, who might be seen almost every summer evening
reclining upon the moss that bordered the verge of the spring.
"There stands our heroine, as lovely as the valley, her home, and as
virtuous and good as her mother, who has devoted a lifetime to the
education of her daughter."
But many years before the date of our story, Nanna had lost the
protection of her beloved mother; yet the loss had been partially
supplied by her sister-in-law, who occupied the places of a kind mother,
a gentle sister, and a faithful friend.
Nanna was now in her sixteenth year; but to all appearances she was much
younger. Unlike others of her years, her cheeks did not display the
bloom of maidenhood, and her countenance lacked the vivacity natural to
her age. Her features wore an expression of melancholy, which was
perfectly in keeping with the pallor of her cheeks, the pearly whiteness
of which vied in brilliancy with the hue of a lily.
Nanna was the child of poverty, and belonged to that class of beings,
who, situated between riches and nobility on the one hand, and poverty
on the other, are considered as upstarts by the wealthy as well as the
poor.
Nanna's father, when young, was placed in an entirely different position
of life than that in which we now find him. An illegitimate son, he
entered the world with a borrowed title, but with fair prospects for the
future; for his father, a man of consequence and wealth, intended to
marry his mother, and thus the son would bear no longer the stigma of
his father's crime. But death, who in this case had been forgotten,
suddenly cut the thread of his father's life, and the mother and son
were driven forth from the house of their protector, deprived of honor,
wealth, and station.
This is an old, very old and thread-bare story, and not more novel is
that which generally follows. First comes melancholy, then great
exertions on the part of the injured party; next dashed hope, and
finally gloomy resignation.
The mother died, the son lived to pass through the life we have above
described, but which was ended, however, by matrimony. He married after
he had passed his fortieth year.
Before his marriage, Carl Lonner passed through the various gradations
in society, from the nobleman to the simple gentleman. He supported
himself by revenues he derived from a small business, and by drawing up
legal papers for the surrounding peasantry and fishermen. For a wife he
had chosen the daughter of a half pay sergeant, and in this case his
fortunate star was in the ascendant, for she not only brought him a
loving heart, but also the little farm on which he resided at the date
of our story.
We will now, however, turn our attentions to Nanna, who is sitting
beneath the tree near the spring, in which she has been bathing her
feet.
* * * * *
As Nanna glanced into the clear water of the spring, she shuddered
convulsively, although the air was warm, for it was a June evening, but
it was a shudder from within that shook her slight form. Nanna had
lately perceived that her dear sister-in-law, Magde, when she thought
herself unseen, had shed tears, and the poor girl's heart beat with a
sensation of undefined fear, for when Magde weeps, thought she, there
must have been a great cause.
"Why is the world so formed as it is? Some flowers are so modest and
little that they would be trodden under foot unless great care is taken,
while others elevate their great and gaudy heads above the grass. The
latter are the rich, while the little down-trodden blossoms are the
poor. And so it is with even the birds! one is greater than the other,
and mankind is not behind them. We belong to the poor; there," she
continued, turning her deep eyes towards a distant point in the horizon,
on the other side of the lake, "there lives the rich; they take no
notice of us. Even the poor fishermen and peasants say, 'Our children
cannot be the play-fellows of Mademoiselle Nanna.' Mademoiselle,
Mademoiselle," she repeated slowly, "it is shameful to call me so! and
how much better it would be to call Magde good mother, than to give her
the title of My Lady! To be poor is not so bad, but to be friendless is
bitter indeed."
As she thus sat, with her eyes fixed mournfully upon the distant object
which was the roof of an elegant house, which was barely visible over
the brow of a hill, she was startled by the noise of approaching
footsteps. She had scarcely cast her mantle over her white shoulders,
which she had uncovered during her ablutions, when, to her great
astonishment, she discovered a stranger rapidly approaching towards her.
He was clothed in a light frock coat; a knapsack was fastened upon his
shoulders, and in his hand he swung a knotted stick. Nanna had never
before beheld a personage who resembled the stranger. His face, browned
in the sun, until it resembled that of a gipsy, wore an honest and frank
expression, and his dark curling hair, which fell in thick clusters from
his black felt hat, added to the pleasing aspect of his countenance.
Nanna, who at her first glance at the youth, had thought him a gipsy,
which wild tribe she greatly feared, was reassured by a second look.
The stranger, on his side, appeared greatly astonished at the sudden
appearance of the beautiful water nymph, for such a goddess Nanna much
resembled, as she stood, with her garments flowing gracefully around her
slight figure; her tiny white feet playing with the moist grass, and her
pale and mournful face, encircled with golden locks, that fell
negligently upon her white and well rounded shoulders.
The youth thus addressed her:
"Pardon me, lovely naiad. It appears that I have taken the wrong path,
although I supposed that I had chosen the right direction."
"Whither are you going?" inquired Nanna, in a voice sweet and melodious.
"To Almvik," replied the stranger.
"Alas!" said the maid, casting a peculiar glance at his knapsack, "I
hoped that you were not a member of the aristocracy."
"Oh, my little sylph, for I know not what else to call you, is my face
so poor a recommendation, that I cannot be considered a man because I
carry a pack on my back?"
"Are those of noble birth the only men?" inquired Nanna, and a gloomy
expression fell upon her lips, which a moment before had been illumined
with a sunny smile.
"Ah," replied the youth, "the longer I gaze upon your dear face, the
more I esteem you. Far be it from me to wound your sensitive nature. If
it will comfort you, I will say that no man can long more earnestly
than I do for the time when all mankind shall be equal."
"Do you speak from your heart?"
"I do, earnestly; but tell me your name."
"Nanna, Nanna of the Valley, I am called."
"That is poetical; but have you no other name?"
"I am sometimes called Mademoiselle Nanna; but that grieves me, for we
are poor people."
"Ah! I thought that you were something more than a peasant girl. Pardon
me, I have spoken too familiarly. I knew not your station."
"Familiarly!"
"I addressed you too warmly."
"Your words sounded well when you thus spoke."
"Possibly; but henceforth I shall address you as Mademoiselle Nanna."
"Shall we then see each other again?"
"Yes, yes, quite probably--we are to be neighbors."
"You intend, then, to reside at Almvik?"
"Yes, for a few weeks, perhaps during the whole summer; but I pray you
come with me a few steps on my road, I need your guidance."
Nanna sprang to her feet, and as she stood before the young man, her
eyes sparkling with unusual brilliancy, her garments falling in graceful
folds over her sylph-like limbs, he gazed at her as if enchained by her
almost superhuman beauty. To the youthful stranger's request she
answered by putting her little white feet in such active motion, that
they seemed to tread upon the air instead of the green sward.