About the end of the last century there lived in Copenhagen a wealthy
merchant, whose name was _Kraft_. He was a proud, imperious man, who
looked upon riches as the greatest of all advantages, and their
possession as the universal, in fact, the only, passport to, or rather
source of, happiness. He was extremely rich. His housekeeper declared
that he was not able to count his money, he had so much; he measured
his ducats by the bushel, and was certainly worth hundreds of thousands
of dollars. Born in affluence, he had never seen the slightest
diminution in the fortune which surrounded him, for his father's
mercantile house was already in its third generation, having descended
from father to son, without any lessening of its capital during that
long period, as there never had been more than one son in the family.
In consequence of this, the large means of the firm had remained
undivided, and they had been enabled to extend their mercantile
transactions over half the world. Their acceptances were as good as
ready money. The present merchant Kraft had also an only son, but he
had not, in accordance with the custom of his forefathers, taken him
into partnership, for he must then have made over to him--at least in
appearance--a portion of his supreme authority, and he was too haughty
to share his power even with his only son. He had therefore established
the young man in business on his own account, though, to a certain
extent, under his own surveillance. Herr Kraft's wife had died at an
early age; she had presented him with all he wished--a son, who might,
in progress of time, carry on the affairs of the house and uphold its
name and high credit. When she afterwards presented him with a
daughter, he was so alarmed at the possibility of such gifts becoming
too abundant, that he thought it rather a fortunate circumstance that
the birth of this child cost its mother her life. The unwelcome little
girl was sent to the care of an aunt, who brought her up, and it was
not until she was a young woman that she returned to her father's
house, where, however, she found no sympathy. Her brother was just
married to a girl with a handsome fortune, and he had removed to a
house of his own. The family now consisted of Herr Kraft, senior, his
daughter, and his cousin, an old maiden lady, who was received as an
inmate of his house after his wife's death, to give her a home, said
Herr Kraft--that he might have some one to vent his ill-humour upon,
said Miss Regine herself--that there should be another torment in the
house, said the counting-house clerks and the domestic servants, who
hated her and her fat, snoring pet, 'Mops,' as much as they feared Herr
Kraft and loved his daughter. For Louise was their declared favourite,
and, if need had been, they would all have gone through fire and water
for her.
A complete contrast to the merchant was his relative, Herr Warner. He
was of a mild, unassuming character; he could easily mould his own
wishes to those of others, and he valued wealth only as a means of
doing good. In all his actions he was guided much more by his feelings
than his interests. The lives of these two gentlemen had been as
different as were their characters. Herr Warner's parents had not been
rich. His mother had made an _unfortunate_ marriage, according to the
merchant Kraft, for her husband had lost his small inheritance, and had
gone abroad to seek for fortune under foreign skies. Herr Warner, on
the contrary, considered that his mother had made a _fortunate_
marriage, for her and her husband's mutual affection outlived the loss
of their property, and if they did not become rich in the distant
country to which they had gone, they at least obtained a competence
there, and a peaceful, happy home.
After the death of his parents, their son went, with but a poor
heritage, to the East Indies, where he married a young lady without any
fortune. Good luck, however, seemed now to attend him; his cotton
plantations throve well and yielded large returns, and a beloved wife
and three fine children made his home a paradise. At the expiration of
a few years he determined to return to his native country, there to
enjoy the fruits of his labours. An infectious disease, however, just
then carried off his wife and her elder children, and with his youngest
daughter, who alone was left to him, he sailed from India. But she died
on the voyage, and was committed to the deep. Thus deprived of every
tie, friendless and hopeless, the much-afflicted man quitted the ship
in a French port, and repairing to Paris, he resided there for some few
years, endeavouring to while away his time in the pursuit of science
and literature, the pursuit of wealth having lost all interest for him,
who had no one now for whom he cared to work. At length he returned to
his native city, where he lived quietly, frugally, and in great
retirement, visiting at very few houses except at that of his cousin
Herr Kraft, in whose family he appeared to take a warm interest; the
regard, however, which he entertained for them all was only returned by
the daughter, who became much attached to him. Herr Kraft made a point
of disputing with him every day, and had so accustomed himself to this
amiable habit, that he absolutely could not do without his relative and
these demi-quarrels. There were many different opinions about the state
of his finances. 'He must have saved something in the East Indies,
where money is as plentiful as grass,' said some; but others, among
whom was Herr Kraft, declared 'that he only had enough to make shift
with, and it would be a wonder if the little he possessed should hold
out during his life--for he was one of those persons whom Dame Fortune
seldom favoured, as he did not put a proper value on her gifts, letting
his money slip through his fingers by bestowing it on everyone who came
with a whining tale to him, he was so foolishly soft-hearted.' And Herr
Kraft was right there.
In the large drawing-room, which was furnished more richly than
tastefully, and where everything looked stiff rather than comfortable,
Herr Kraft and Herr Warner were pacing up and down. Their conversation
had come to a stand. They had been disputing about some of the measures
of the government, and Herr Kraft had called the government stupid and
despotic; he said it took upon itself to be the guardian of the nation,
and to treat the burghers as if they were children under age,
prescribing for them, forsooth, what they were to do, and meddling in
their own private affairs! He was as warm a supporter of free trade for
the higher grade of merchants, as he was an advocate for restraints
upon the working classes, for he looked upon all those in an humble
sphere of life as 'trash, full of fraud and tricks,' who must have 'a
rod held over their heads.' It was the old story--liberality for the
higher, despotism for the lower; and this will be repeated till the end
of the world. Herr Warner had differed from him in opinion; he thought
confidence might be placed in a wise government, and he wished freedom
and justice for _all_, whether they were rich or poor. The argument
might have become an angry one, but Warner gave in, for he was anxious
to avoid exasperating his violent-tempered cousin, to whom he had come
that morning on a delicate mission, requiring no small degree of tact.
A very fine young man, who had been for some time much attached to
Louise, and who had won her affections, had determined to ask her hand
in a respectful letter to her father. But the reply he had received was
a flat refusal, Herr Kraft having made up his mind to listen to no
proposals for his daughter except from a suitor selected by himself.
Louise wept and was very sad. 'Aunt Regine,' as she was styled,
favoured her with sundry ill-natured dissertations upon ungrateful and
disobedient children, Mops growled and snarled as if he were taking
part with his mistress in the family disagreement, and the entire house
and household appeared even more dull and silent than usual. Herr
Warner exerted himself to the utmost to bring his cousin to reason, but
in vain. Herr Kraft was much enraged that his daughter should have
presumed, even at the house of his own sister, to have become intimate
with any person who was unknown to him, and could not forgive her
having dared even to think of anyone as a lover without _his_
permission. 'And the fellow such a poor wretch into the bargain!' For
what was a small landed property, not much bigger than a couple of
peasants' cottages and cabbage gardens? He was of an ancient and noble
family, it had been said--but what of that? He, Herr Kraft, did not
care a straw for nobility; it was merely an idea--an imagination--that
some men are to be better than others, because their forefathers,
perhaps a hundred years ago, had been people of some renown. Herr
Warner maintained that such an 'imagination' contained a moral
obligation to be also a distinguished, or at least a worthy man, not to
dishonour one's ancestors; and reminded his cousin that he himself was
by no means indifferent to his descent.
'No, in that he was certainly right,' said the merchant: 'but _he_ had
good grounds for his pride in his forefathers, because for more than a
hundred years they had been wealthy merchants, who had established and
maintained a highly-esteemed commercial house. _That_ was something
solid--not mere fancy.' And then he went on exhibiting all that
arrogance which is sometimes to be found among the rich burghers, who
are quite as proud of their wealth, and their burgher's brief of a
century old, as any nobleman of his genealogical table, or his
forefathers' wounds or scars received on the field of glory. But Herr
Warner had to go away without having disclosed his errand, and could
only console poor Louise with the uncertain hope of a brighter future,
in which, however, he himself had little confidence.
Soon after, her prospects became still darker. Herr Kraft gave notice
suddenly one day that he had promised Louise to the son of one of his
commercial friends, that the betrothal was to take place in eight days,
and the wedding in three months. The husband destined for Louise was
the son of a rich man, but he was far from handsome, and was still less
agreeable. Aunt Regine bestirred herself to make every preparation for
the betrothal; Louise implored with tears that her father would not
insist on this sacrifice; she said she would give up the man she loved,
to please him, but she could not marry another. Uncle Warner, as Louise
called him, did all he could for her, and pleaded her cause with her
father to the best of his ability; but Herr Kraft laughed--a thing he
seldom did--at hearing him speak of true and faithful love. 'Sheer
folly, childishness, absurd sentimentality and foolery, that would not
pay a shilling of interest.'
'You will make your child miserable,' said Warner.
'On the contrary, she will get a husband worth half a plum, with the
prospect of a great deal more,' said the father.
'That may be; but he squints, and has red flaming hair.'
'Bah! People don't notice these trifles after they are married.'
'But he is also dull and stupid, and obstinate and wearisome, and
unfeeling and conceited--'
'Well! and what else? However, whatever he may be, she shall take him,
and so--Basta!'
'She will not take him--she will throw herself into the sea rather.'
'Bah! It is both wet and cold in the sea. She will take him, because
she _shall_ do so. To-morrow we shall have the betrothal, as sure as my
name is Kraft, and I will not hear another word on the subject. Will
you give us the pleasure of your company at the betrothal? It will take
place at seven o'clock in the evening, precisely.'
Herr Kraft and Aunt Regine were the only persons in the house who slept
that night. Everyone else was kept awake by uneasiness and anxiety, and
the unfortunate Louise cried till her eyes were so swollen, that in the
morning she could hardly read a few lines which one of the housemaids
brought to her from her sympathizing friend, Herr Warner, who was
always anxious, as well as he could, to comfort the afflicted. After
reading them, she wept still more bitterly, and the servant girl
observed her wringing her hands in despair.
The day wore on, the evening came, and at seven o'clock precisely the
invited guests had all arrived, forming quite a family congress of the
members of the two wealthy mercantile houses. Uncle Warner was there
also. In the morning he had requested an interview with the bridegroom,
and had plainly stated to him that Louise loved another, and did not
entertain even the slightest friendly feeling towards him; but the
young man bristled up, thrust his hand conceitedly through his carotty
locks, and looked into the corner of his own eyes, while he replied
with the comforting assurance, that what he had been told was nothing
to the purpose, it gave him no concern, and that he would not give up
the match 'for any price,' as he expressed himself. Uncle Warner was
deeply disappointed at his ill-success with the self-sufficient
gentleman. They met again at the betrothal party, and the young man had
arrayed himself, as he thought, to the best advantage, and looked as
smiling as if he were awaiting a beloved and devoted bride. All was
ready, and Aunt Regine went to Louise's apartment to bring her.
Heavens and earth! She was not there! She had gone! A letter lay on a
table in her room, and that was all the information Aunt Regine could
give. But old Maren had heard some one leave the house about an hour
before, and almost at the same moment she had observed a carriage drive
away, which had been standing at least a quarter of an hour in the
street, as if the coachman were waiting for some one. There was
presently an awful hubbub in the house. Herr Kraft rushed like a madman
from room to room, Aunt Regine hobbled after him, doors were banged,
and every corner of the mansion was searched, but Louise was nowhere to
be found, and it was now certain that she had fled to escape the
threatened evil. The letter she had left was then read, and a heart of
stone might have melted at the anguish and the terror expressed in it,
as well as the earnestness with which she prayed for forgiveness; every
word breathed of a spirit that was utterly crushed and prostrate. But
her father threw the letter into the fire, and exclaimed in a firm,
harsh voice:
'I have no longer a daughter--her name shall never again be mentioned
within my doors--I disown her--I--'
Uncle Warner caught his arm, and pressed it so tightly that he
involuntarily stopped, and the curse he was about to utter was arrested
on his lips. Aunt Regine began to howl with all her might.
The bridegroom and his family took their departure, and the rest of the
party speedily followed their discreet example; Uncle Warner alone
remained with the enraged father. But every attempt to mollify his
anger, or to awaken in his mind any regret for the harshness by which
he himself had driven his daughter to this desperate step, was
addressed to deaf ears. Herr Kraft's wrath was only increased by every
new argument the good Warner brought forward in the hope of allaying
it, and at length he took his leave, expressing his intention of making
every inquiry concerning the fate of the unfortunate fugitive. But just
as he had left the room, the door was suddenly opened, and Herr Kraft
roared after him, in an imperious voice:
'I desire to be troubled with no information you may gather; and with
this--Basta!'
He then slammed the door so hard that the noise resounded throughout
the whole house.
A whole year had elapsed, but time had worked no change in Herr Kraft's
vindictive feelings. Constant fretting, however, had impaired his
health, and he became ill. Uncle Warner thought it might be a good
opportunity to soften his heart, and he led the conversation to the sad
position of forsaken old age, and upon the comfort of an affectionate
nurse amidst sickness and infirmities. But Herr Kraft replied that _he_
could never be forsaken in his declining years, for he had a son, 'the
heir of his house;' and as far as concerned illness and infirmities,
the best attendant was some hired sick-nurse, for she thought only of
the good wages she was to get, and it never entered her head to
speculate upon what he might leave. He did not put any faith in
all the babbling about affection and love, and such nonsense; it was
self-interest and money that people thought of in this world, and those
who had wealth would always get plenty of attention.
'But you might lose your fortune, you might become as poor as many
others are, and then you would stand in need of affection, and learn to
know its value,' said Herr Warner.
The rich merchant stared at him with contemptuous surprise; then, with
a scornful laugh, he said:
'Yes, to be sure; the moon might fall down from the heavens, but it
would not be necessary on that account to put up an umbrella. Don't
tease me any more with such nonsense. Enough of it--Basta!'
Herr Kraft got better, and he resumed his accustomed rich man's
life--the constant yearning and busy schemes to become richer; but in
his cupidity he never thought of Providence.
The moon certainly did not fall from heaven, but within the space of
three years, one fine morning, as Herr Kraft was lounging over his
breakfast-table, and congratulating himself on being worth a very
considerable sum of money, the postman brought him a large packet of
letters. His spirits fell the moment he had read them, for they
conveyed the startling and afflicting intelligence of a commercial
crisis in a foreign country, which had caused the failure of many
houses of old standing; and their failure had brought down several
others. Among these sufferers was Herr Kraft himself. Yes, the wealthy
Kraft, dragged down by others, was now _a bankrupt!_ At that time
bankruptcy was a more serious matter than it is now-a-days; a bankrupt
never raised himself to fortune a second time, and there were _then_ no
instances of a man having failed several times, and yet being able to
live on the fat of the land. However, credit, in those days, was a very
different matter from what it is now.
Herr Kraft had failed--the honourable, ancient, commercial house was
ruined, its riches and its lustre annihilated in a moment. What during
a century, and by the zealous labour of several generations, had been
gathered, had been destroyed by a single storm, and scattered like
chaff before the wind! The cash-keeper suggested--and it was true what
he said--that the ready money which was lying in their iron chest might
be easily removed and placed somewhere else in security, and that _it_
alone would be sufficient to yield a competency to any man for life.
But Herr Kraft was a rigidly honest man, and had not the fall of the
house thrown the cash-keeper also out of bread, he would have
discharged him for advising such a fraudulent measure. Everything was
given up, and as an honourable and respected, but a poor and ruined
man, the lately so wealthy and so envied Herr Kraft took his departure
from his forefathers' abode.
Herr Warner showed the warmest sympathy in his misfortunes. He
immediately proposed that his cousin should come to his house, although
he knew that he would have also to receive Aunt Regine and her pet,
Mops. But Herr Kraft had already accepted his son's invitation to spend
some time with him. This invitation to his house was perhaps not more
than was due to a father who had placed him in so independent a
position that he was now in easy circumstances, and had not lost
anything by the failure of the house. But yes, he had lost the expected
rich inheritance, the succession to the firm, &c. &c.; and as he was
his father's son, and brought up in his ways, he was very well versed
in the calculation of the interest of money, and in book-keeping by
single and double entry, but knew little about humanity and kind
feeling, which, from his earliest infancy, he had heard his father
ridicule.
His failure was a cruel trial to old Herr Kraft; his pride was
severely wounded, but his heart was not at all softened. During these
sorrowful days, a letter was brought to him by the post, but, as he
recognized his daughter's writing, he laid it aside, and when 'Uncle
Warner' came, he handed it to him unopened, saying, 'If you know where
the writer lives, be so good as to see that this is returned; and
therewith--Basta!'
His residence in his son's house was destined to be another heavy
trial. The son's wife was the ruler there, and she was far from
amiable. Aunt Regine had always been an eyesore to her. Her long-winded
prosing was now cut short and ridiculed, and her Mops dare scarcely put
his nose outside the good lady's petticoats, under the shelter of which
he lay snoring from morning till night. The endless talking about what
everything cost, and the eternal reference to the advantage of having
money, which formerly had never annoyed Herr Kraft, were now
exceedingly disagreeable to him, and drew many a sigh from his
oppressed heart. It was given out that everything was to be done to
please him, and be heard several times a day these words: 'Whatever
papa likes--our only desire is that papa may be comfortable in our
house.' But he felt as often that these were empty phrases, a mere
_facon de parler_, and that his wishes, in reality, were never
consulted. Had he known what _heart_ was, he would have deplored their
want of it; as it was, he only grieved for the loss of his fortune.
When a bubble that has been blown is nearly exhausted, an atom will
make it burst. The life Herr Kraft led in his son's house was such,
that he only waited for some event to form an excuse for leaving it; he
could stand it no longer. The opportunity was not long wanting. His
son's wife purchased a dog, which was double the size of Aunt Regine's
Mops, and was a very pugnacious animal. It was a great amusement to the
young couple to set the two dogs at each other, and they enjoyed
exceedingly the terror which Hector's entrance into the room soon
seemed to cause Mops, who, with as much speed as his fat would allow,
would always waddle towards his mistress, and rush for protection under
her garments, which she hospitably raised to admit him, sometimes, in
her anxiety on his account, to a most ludicrous height. One day Herr
Kraft was sitting on a sofa reading the newspapers, Aunt Regine was
taking a quiet nap in an arm-chair, near, and Mops, seduced by the
stillness and the warm sunshine, was stretched full length upon the
carpet, as happy as dog could be. Suddenly the door of the room was
opened, and the son's wife entered, accompanied by Hector. As quick as
lightning the animal sprang forward and pounced upon the half-sleeping
Mops, Aunt Regine started from her slumbers, and lifted her dress in
her hurry up to her very knees, but before Mops could take flight to
that open temple of peace, Hector had rendered the asylum useless--he
had put an end to the poor favourite's existence, and Mops lay dead
upon the floor! The son's wife was shaking with laughter at Aunt
Regine's comical appearance, and was so amused that she forgot to call
off her dog from Mops, and even when she saw the calamity that had
occurred she could scarcely stop laughing. Herr Kraft witnessed this
scene over his newspaper; his knitted eyebrows foretold a coming storm,
but he mastered his anger, and taking Aunt Regine by the hand, he led
her out of the room.
For the first time in his life he felt a sort of longing for a
sympathizing friend, and sent to ask Herr Warner to come to him. That
gentleman had been much engaged in the affairs of his cousin's
bankruptcy, and had been striving to make the best possible arrangement
with his creditors for him. Herr Kraft wished to know if he thought it
would be possible to rescue as much as would enable him to live with
great economy in some retired country place, for the short period of
time he might still remain in this world. Nothing would induce him, he
said, to remain longer in his son's house, or in Copenhagen, and he
would not forsake Aunt Regine. Herr Warner encouraged him in this
judicious plan, and promised to do his best to find a residence fur him
that would suit, in all respects, 'an amiable family,' he added, 'where
you can have the society of worthy people, and yet be as much alone as
you choose. For in the days of adversity it is kind-hearted people to
whom we cling, and in your son's house, though everything is very
handsome and in the nicest order, there is no disposition to make
anyone happy, and no trace of real hospitality.' Herr Kraft made no
reply to these observations, and when his cousin was gone, he fell into
deep thought.
A few days afterwards, the indefatigable friend brought him the
information that he had been so fortunate as to find a family at some
distance in the country who were willing to receive Herr Kraft and Aunt
Regine. The terms were very reasonable, and the size of the house would
admit of the host and his guest being quite independent of each other.
The family was small, the gentleman was clever and well-educated, his
wife, indeed, was absent from home for a time, having gone to some
German baths on account of her health, but the house, nevertheless, was
well managed. The country round was pretty, though the situation was
rather lonely. 'The person in question is named Warner, like me,' said
the cousin, 'but we are not at all of the same family. I take it for
granted that his name will not be disagreeable to you.' Herr Kraft
shook his hand with a friendly smile, and agreed to the arrangement.
Two days after this he quitted his son's house, and went into the
country, accompanied by Herr Warner, Aunt Regine, and old Maren, who
for many years had been Herr Kraft's especial attendant, and was
acquainted with all his ways. She was the only human being of whom he
would have felt the want, she knew so well how he liked his bed made.
Uncle Warner's namesake received the travellers very politely on their
arrival at their future home, and regretted that his wife was not there
to welcome her guests; 'she was at present at the baths of Pyrmont,' he
said, 'but would be back ere long.' Two fine children, half hidden by
their father, gazed with curiosity at the strangers who were
thenceforth to live with them. By the kind care of Uncle Warner, a
portion of Herr Kraft's own furniture had been brought thither from
Copenhagen, and he immediately found himself quite at home in his new
sitting-room; every arrangement had been made with a view to his
convenience, and the indulgence of his former habits. Aunt Regine's
tastes and comforts had also been sedulously attended to; her
bed-chamber contained all her favourite articles of furniture, and she
had a delightful surprise on finding in a basket near the stove a
second Mops, who licked her hand affectionately, and was so like her
defunct pet 'of blessed memory,' that she instantly took a fancy to
him.
Uncle Warner spent a few days with them, and then returned to town with
the pleasing conviction that his cousin could not fail to be
comfortable in his new abode. And so he certainly was. Herr Kraft began
by degrees to associate with his host, whom he found to be a sensible,
pleasant man, and whom he began gradually to like and respect. Before a
month had elapsed, Herr Kraft had become so much accustomed to the
quiet, secluded life he led, that he would have regretted leaving the
peaceful home where he had found so much hitherto unknown comfort, and
where he felt that, though stripped of his fortune, he was treated with
much more attention than had ever been paid to him in the days of his
affluence. Nature had hitherto been a sealed book to him; he now
studied it in his wanderings amidst the charming scenery of the
neighbourhood, and it spoke to him in language which he could never
before have dreamed of understanding. He had never formerly taken any
notice of children, but his host's two sweet children managed to
insinuate themselves so much into his good graces, that he was always
happy to see them, and have them about him. He could not imagine why he
took such interest in them, but they were such good-tempered, pretty,
clever little creatures, that it was impossible not to be pleased with
them. And Aunt Regine liked them almost as much as her new Mops, and
_it_ almost as much as her first canine favourite, so that old Maren
was right in saying:
'Well, this is really a blessed house we are in; we seem to have all
become better-tempered since we have been here; even the master himself
is quite a different creature, and does not find fault with his bed as
he used to do; formerly, there was no making it to please him. And
really now, when he sits leaning his cheek on his hand, wrapt up in his
own thoughts, he looks quite a good old man.'
And Herr Kraft often sat with his cheek resting on his hand, wrapt up
in his own thoughts, but what these were he communicated to no living
being; perhaps they were hardly clear to himself, for they were
frequently new and unaccustomed thoughts that came to him in his
solitude.
Herr Warner occasionally paid him a short visit, and when he began to
speak of commercial matters and the affairs of his late house, the old
merchant would heave a deep sigh, and say: 'If everyone has been paid,
and no one has lost anything by me, my wishes are fulfilled. I desire
nothing more--my time is over--and therewith--Basta!'
But the word came forth like the echo of a sound--the ghost of a habit
now almost forgotten; and this conclusion, which had so often caused
consternation by its irrevocable vigour, seemed now almost sad.
About the time that the mistress of the house was expected back from
Pyrmont, Herr Kraft felt very much indisposed, and when she reached
home, he was labouring under a fever, the violence of which had made
him delirious. In his delirium he sometimes fancied himself the rich
man, whose commercial influence extended over half the world--sometimes
impoverished and destitute, a dependant on those around him; but it was
always on money that his fevered dreams dwelt, and the demons of gold
fought their unhallowed battles in his clouded mind. In the course of a
week or two this state of morbid excitement passed away, and was
succeeded by an utter prostration of strength, an extreme degree of
weakness, in which he lay, for the most part, with his eyes closed, as
if sleeping. With how much kindness and solicitude was he not tended
during that long illness! Day and night was his anxious hostess in his
sick-room, and whenever he opened his eyes, they always rested on the
same form. And when the crisis was over, the greatest danger was past,
and all the family would assemble round his bed, anyone would have
thought that he was a dear member of it, they treated him with so much
affectionate attention.
One evening, in the dusk, when they had all left his room for a short
time, and old Maren alone was sitting by his bedside, he suddenly
opened his eyes and gazed around him, as if he were trying to recollect
where he was, and what had happened to him. He then asked about the
children. Maren clasped her hands in joy that her master had recovered
to consciousness again, while he repeated his question, and added:
'Is it not true, Maren, that the boy is called Ludvig, and the girl
Georgia? These are both my own names--'
'Well, that is very natural,' said Maren, significantly. 'What else
should they be called?'
'Is my cousin Warner here?' asked the invalid soon after.
He was there, and Maren went immediately to call him. Herr Kraft made a
sign to him to sit down near his couch, and another to Maren to leave
them by themselves.
'Cousin,' he said, 'I see now how things are--I am in my daughter's
house. I have been very ill, but I did not lose the use of my eyes, and
Louise has watched by my bed, and attended me.'
Herr Warner nodded in affirmation of what he had said.
'You knew it all along. You took the place of her father when I threw
her off--is it not so?'
Warner nodded again; he was so surprised to hear a person generally so
stern and overbearing speak thus gently, that he could not utter a word
for a moment.
'But her husband was not named Warner, and he had only a very small
property, not such a large place as this? How are all these
discrepancies to be reconciled?'
Herr Warner then related to him in a few words that his son-in-law had
assumed _his_ citizen-like name out of gratitude, because he had
presented Louise with a considerable sum of money he had received from
the East Indies, for which he had no use himself, but which had enabled
the young couple to purchase this large property, where they had lived
as happily as they could do while under the ban of his displeasure, and
without having obtained his forgiveness. But now he would surely not
longer withhold that, and they would all be happy together, for which
he thanked God from the bottom of his heart.
To Herr Kraft it seemed all a romance. The discarded daughter had
received and devotedly attended in his illness her harsh and
unforgiving father; the scorned son-in-law had won his friendship and
esteem; the poor cousin had been able to give away a fortune; and the
rich merchant lay there an impoverished and repentant man.
'Money was in your hands only an instrument of doing good--to me it was
an idol!' he exclaimed, after a silence of some duration. 'But I have
learned to know that our Lord did not will money to be a primary
consideration. It is all gone now, however!'
Herr Warner assured him that it was not all gone; there would be a
surplus left for him after all the creditors were paid, and that he
himself had a little money laid by, and they would commence business
together; they would soon increase the capital, as Herr Kraft
understood mercantile affairs so well. The bankrupt shook his head at
these smiling prospects, and replied that his hours were numbered, and
he had other employments for the few that might remain of them.
'Whilst I was so ill,' he continued, 'I had very singular dreams. It
appeared to me as if an angel and a devil were contending which should
get possession of me; the angel always resembled Louise, and at last
she drove the devil away, and as he was going, I seemed to hear piles
of money falling down, as it were, with a crash. It was a dreadful
sound. But just then I heard a voice singing solemn hymns, and, lulled
by the soothing melody, I felt a sense of peace and happiness steal
over me. I sank into a deep sleep, and had such a charming dream--so
charming that I cannot describe it.'
Herr Kraft folded his hands and fell back on his pillow somewhat
exhausted, but apparently tranquil. In a few minutes, however, he
became restless, and moved uneasily from side to side on his bed.
Suddenly he raised himself till he sat upright, and cried, in an
excited tone, 'Where is my daughter? Bring her to me--and her
children--and her husband.'
Herr Warner summoned them all. Louise knelt by her father's bed, and
kissed his hand, over which her tears fell fast. He took her hand and
placed it in that of her husband, and then pressed his own hand on her
head, as if invoking a blessing upon her. Warner brought the children
to him, and he kissed them on their foreheads; he then stretched out
both his hands to his cousin, but before the latter had time to clasp
them, the invalid had fallen back on his pillow exhausted. It was a
solemn moment, and one of entire reconciliation, without a word having
been spoken; but they understood each other without words, for language
is not always so necessary as many think.
A state of extreme exhaustion succeeded this exertion, and Herr Kraft
lay for a long time perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed as if he were
sleeping. The party who surrounded his bed felt relieved from a load of
sorrow, and, full of hope that he would recover, they whispered
cheerfully to each other. Late in the evening he awoke, and spoke of
his son. 'Tell him,' said he, 'that I always loved him, but I was
foolish in my way of showing my affection. Tell him that, exclusive of
a provision for poor Maren, all that can be saved from the wreck of my
fortune shall be divided between him and Aunt Regine. Louise, you have
had more of a father in Uncle Warner than in me, and may God bless him
for his kindness to you! You will all remember me, I know, with
affection!'
He held out his hands to them all, and smiled cordially to them, but he
retained Herr Warner's and Louise's hands in his. He then lay for a few
moment in silence; his lips moved, however, though no sound was heard.
Perhaps he was engaged in prayer. A little after he exclaimed half
aloud:
'Is it not declared in the Bible, that "it is easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the
kingdom of God?" The Almighty had placed much in my power. But He will
be merciful to me! Everyone has got his own--I have defrauded none, and
I possess nothing. Yet God has made me rich--and with that--Basta!'
A happy smile flitted over his countenance--a pleading remembrance for
those who survived him. By midnight all was over; he had passed into
the deep, dark sleep of death.