On leaving the abode so recently visited by death, Rudolph repaired to
a house in Bredgade, where, as he was ringing at the door, he heard,
even in the street, the sound of laughter in the drawing-room above.
Annoyed at this, he drew back a few steps, and, observing lights
blazing through the windows, he shrank from encountering the gaiety
within, and was about to go away, but when the door was opened, he
changed his mind, and slowly ascended the stairs.
Whilst he had been sitting in Aunt Francisca's deserted parlour, a gay
little party had been gathering around Mrs. Werner's tea-table. They
were all young, with the exception of the lady of the house. Flora was
making tea, and Lieutenant Arnold was by her side, rendering her what
assistance he could. Mrs. Werner sat near them, more to sanction the
attention Arnold was paying the pretty Flora, than to check it. Louise
was at the opposite side of the table, with some fancy-work in her
hand, taking little or no part in the gossiping that was going on, but
glancing from time to time anxiously at the timepiece in the room, as
its hands pointed to half-past eight, a quarter to nine, nine o'clock,
a quarter past nine, and Rudolph had not made his appearance.
The two cousins, who were mentioned on a former occasion--young
ladies--and two or three young men, relations also of the family, made
up the party. Mrs. Werner and her daughters were in slight mourning, in
consequence of the death of Miss Francisca, but the gaiety which was
going on gave no evidence of sorrow for her loss. The smiling
countenances, the well-lighted room, the open pianoforte, with some
fashionable waltzes on the stand, all formed a strong contrast to the
scene Rudolph had just quitted, and he almost frowned as he entered the
room.
Louise arose and went forward to meet him, while Flora laughingly
scolded him for being so late.
'I beg a thousand pardons,' said Rudolph, 'but it was impossible for me
to come earlier.'
'Mercy on us, what a tragical face! You look as if you were bound to
follow Aunt Francisca into the very grave itself. There, console
yourself with a cup of cold tea; it is your own fault that it is not
better. Don't pet him so, Louise. Do you not see how melancholy he is?'
'Melancholy people are just those who need to be petted,' said Louise,
moving her chair so as to make room for him by her; 'others don't
require it.'
'It is really quite touching to see the deeply-distressed heir of Aunt
Francisca's china pagodas, putting on the solemn look of an undertaker,
on account of her, alas! too early departure from this world,' said
Flora. 'Most faithful of swains, where will you find such another
interesting shepherdess of sixty-seven years of age?'
'What, is it possible,' cried one of the young men, 'that Rudolph is
grieving for old Miss Garlov? It seems to me that the best thing the
ancient skin-flint could do was to lay herself down and die. Heaven
knows there are plenty of old maids left in the world!'
'She was a worthy creature--a good soul,' said Mrs. Werner, with
perfect indifference, 'and, doubtless, is now happy in the other world.
There is no need to lament those who go to a better life; they are well
off.'
'She will be wafted, like an airy being, up to the highest heaven, on
account of her unimpeachable virtue,' said Arnold, laughing at his own
wit. Rudolph looked angrily at him, and was about to say something,
when Louise laid her hand on his arm to stop him. There was an awkward
silence for a few minutes, until one of the cousins exclaimed:
'I wonder if Miss Francisca ever had a lover.'
'I should think not,' replied Mrs. Werner, with a half smile. 'She did
not look like a person who would have admirers.'
'Admirers!' cried one of the young men. 'Fancy anybody making love to
such a prude. I don't suppose she ever had the most distant idea of
love.'
'One can have very good fun with old maids, sometimes,' said Arnold;
'one can quiz them about their youthful conquests, or persuade them
that Peter or Paul is casting, even now, sheeps' eyes at them; but it
would have been impossible to have brought Miss Garlov into this state
of happy delusion; there was no tampering with _her_.'
'What a tiresome person she was!' exclaimed cousin Ida. 'A terrible
bore!'
'Heavens! yes! Such an old maid as she was is positively a horror,
enough to scare one,' said Arnold, 'though I don't call myself
faint-hearted, and am certainly not apt to flee from the fair sex. But
these wrinkled, pinched-up pieces of propriety, who are always
denouncing the immorality and folly of youth, don't deserve to be
included under the head of "fair." Well, had I known that Aunt
Francisca was to be buried to-day, I certainly should have followed her
to the grave, out of gratitude to her for taking this last journey,
never more to return.'
'My cousin did not trouble you much, I think,' said Rudolph, angrily.
'She came here but seldom, and was never fond of annoying people.'
Arnold made some ill-natured answer, continuing to quiz poor Miss
Francisca. Everyone laughed except Louise, who was anxiously watching
Rudolph's countenance, and much afraid lest he should make some severe
remark.
Flora, enjoying the scene, said: 'See how Louise is labouring to keep
Rudolph quiet, for he is quite ready to do battle with us all. Ever
since I have known him, he has been the faithful knight of all forlorn
old maids.'
'And all young ladies should, therefore, feel gratitude to me,' said
Rudolph, 'for not one of them--I make no exceptions--can declare, with
certainty, that she may not one day or other become an old maid.'
Flora cast a glance towards Arnold, which plainly said that she, at
least, had nothing to do with the threatened calamity.
Rudolph continued: 'I have often observed with surprise how youth,
especially early youth, hates and despises old maids. Why is it that
age, which demands respect for all others, should, in civilized
society, exclude unmarried ladies from it? I do not allude to my
deceased relative in particular, nor will I dwell on all her kindness
to me--I will only speak of her as one of a class, one among the many
who share her fate. We were all acquainted with her, and therefore I
ask you, who have just been casting ridicule on her memory, if you have
_really_ felt the bitter contempt you have expressed for her? I think I
can answer for you, No. Not one of you is, in point of fact, so
bad-hearted as you would make yourselves appear by your thoughtless
chattering.' Rudolph looked earnestly round, but not one present
attempted to reply.
He went on: 'Is an old maid's lot so delightful, that people must try
to annoy her by scorn? _I_ should say not. Should we not rather be
sorry to see anyone excluded from what many of us value most? A life
without interest, or close domestic ties, is not to be envied; nor is
it the fault of the woman if she is not destined to become a wife and a
mother. Many single women have but to look back in their advancing
years on a wasted life; to remember names that no more must be uttered
by them; to feel the void in their hearts to which no amount of
resignation can make them insensible; and to all this must be added an
endless struggle against those who have been more fortunate than
themselves, and enforced patience with the jeers and scoffs launched so
pitilessly against them. How few girls look forward to this position
for their after-years! And yet circumstances not calculated upon, the
factitious wants entailed on us by society, the poverty which forbids
many a union, the fickle fancies of men, or an evil destiny, which
seems sometimes to delight in thwarting the dearest hopes, and
sundering those who might have been happy together, may doom them to
it. And is all this only a subject for ridicule? For my part, I
cannot laugh at an old maid, even if she loves only her cat or her
canary-bird. God has implanted affections in her heart; mankind have
rejected these, therefore she loves animals of a lower species, who
seem grateful for her kindness. Ludwig said, a few minutes ago, that
Aunt Francisca looked as if she had never had a lover. Could that be
possible, with her mild eyes, her sweet face, her amiable disposition?
She had more goodness in her little finger than most people have in
their whole person; but none of you knew her well!'
'Nonsense, Rudolph!' exclaimed Mrs. Werner. 'How can you pretend to say
we did not know her? I am sure _I_ have been acquainted with her for at
least a score of years; she was a second cousin of my lamented
husband.'
'Nevertheless, I maintain that none of you _did_ know her well. If not
disagreeable to you, I should like to tell you Aunt Francisca's history
as I have heard it from my mother, who was her most intimate friend,
and partly from herself. I have also found out much from her private
papers, which, by her own wish, I looked over this very evening. Now
that she is gone, the story of her life need no longer be a secret.'
'Hark ye, Rudolph,' said Mrs. Werner, stretching across, and whispering
to him. 'In regard to _that_ secret, I would rather you did not touch
upon it; her imprudence in early life, which caused so much annoyance
to her family, had better not be related in the presence of young girls
like my daughters and their cousins. It was fortunate the child died.
Her friends would have been awkwardly placed had he lived, for they
could scarcely have received her. It was surprising that she made so
light of it herself.'
But Arnold had overheard what Mrs. Werner had whispered to Rudolph, and
exclaimed exultingly,
'So! Is that how matters stood? The old lady deserves our thanks, even
though she is in her grave, for the sins of her youth; without them we
should have been forced to listen to some most insipid story, but we
may now hope to hear something interesting.'
'Give over interrupting him,' said Flora, 'or we shall not hear a word.
Now, Rudolph, do begin!'
'I am obedience itself, and shall be mute as a fish,' said Arnold,
bowing gallantly to his fair enslaver. The male and female cousins all
placed themselves in attitudes of attention, perhaps because they
shared in the young officer's expectation of hearing some scandal, and
Rudolph commenced his narration:--
There is little to be told of Aunt Francisca's childhood. Her father
held a situation in one of the colleges, and the first eight years of
her life were passed principally in close rooms, away from green fields
and fresh air. Her father was much occupied, therefore her education
was conducted entirely by her mother, a clever and amiable woman, but
with one peculiarity, that she had the greatest horror of sick people,
and was morbidly afraid of infection. Francisca, perceiving this
weakness, determined to avoid it, but fell into the opposite extreme,
and would scarcely believe that any complaint could be infectious, or
if the fact were proved, she had not the slightest fear of it. When the
family removed to an estate her father had purchased near a town where
he had received a good appointment, the little girl took much pleasure
in visiting the poor in the neighbourhood when they were ill, and
administering to their comforts, which, of course, caused her to be
greatly beloved among them.
It was at this period of her life that my mother and she became
intimate. The cousins were much together, for my mother used to spend
almost every summer at the Garlovs', and their mutual affection ripened
with their years. At sixteen Francisca could not have been called
beautiful, but she was pretty, with an animated countenance, a sweet
smile, a light, graceful figure, and pleasing manners. It was about
this time that a dreadful fever broke out in the part of the country
where the Garlovs lived; it raged more particularly among the
peasantry, but persons of all classes were attacked; the servants in
almost every house were ill, and, to crown the evil, the doctors in the
provincial town were seized with the fever. In this state of things,
Francisca's father wrote to Copenhagen to request that some young
physician might be sent to their assistance in the existing time of
need. Little did he imagine that this letter was to be the first cast
of the die which was to determine his daughter's fate!
Two young doctors accordingly soon arrived, one of whom was settled for
the time being in the little town, the other taking up his abode at Mr.
Garlov's country house. This latter was a handsome young man, about
three-and-twenty years of age, who had just passed a brilliant
examination, and was glad to obtain some employment. I will show you
his likeness some day, which will prove to you that he was handsome and
prepossessing in appearance, and that the impression he made on Aunt
Francisca was not to be wondered at.
He was successful in his practice, and saved so many lives that Mrs.
Garlov looked upon him absolutely as their good genius, while his
lively conversation amused her husband. He had been a favourite with
the belles of his own circle in Copenhagen, among whom he had been
considered quite an Adonis, therefore he had no lack of confidence in
his powers of pleasing, and he thought it his duty to pay marked
attention to the young lady of the family by whom he had been so
hospitably received.
But Francisca soon interested him. He found her very different from his
fair Copenhagen friends, and then she was the only damsel with whom he
associated; and in the country, as everybody knows, people become
better acquainted in three days than in three years in town. It cannot
be denied that as time wore on Theodore Ancker made rapid advances in
the good graces of the youthful and unsophisticated Francisca, and by
the time nature had put on its richest summer garb her heart was fairly
in the keeping of the young doctor. Ah! what a summer that was for her.
Never before had the sun shone so brightly--never had the skies looked
so blue, or the trees wore so brilliant a green! And yet, had Mr.
Garlov's guest taken his departure then, as he thought of doing,
Francisca might have missed him terribly for a time, passed a
melancholy autumn, and a lonely winter; but when spring came round, and
the storks had returned to their nests on the roofs, she would have
recovered her spirits, and remembered her intimacy with him only as a
pleasant episode in her life. It was otherwise ordained.
It had been deemed that the fever had entirely disappeared, but a
peasant was attacked by it, and in visiting him, Theodore, who had
escaped as if by magic before, was seized with the dreaded symptoms,
and soon became dangerously ill. The family--indeed the whole
neighbourhood--were thrown into the greatest consternation, for
Theodore was a general favourite; but no one seemed sufficiently
collected to pay the invalid the attention he required except
Francisca, who, calm in the midst of her distress, and heedless of
infection, took upon herself to be his chief nurse, and waited on him
day and night with untiring assiduity. Her father was often her
companion in the sick-room, but Mrs. Garlov's uncontrollable fears
prevented her from assisting personally in her daughter's benevolent
labours, though she was not remiss in praying for the patient's
recovery.
He _did_ recover, and when the autumnal tints were stealing over the
woods, he was able to stroll in the garden, or saunter to the verge of
the adjacent forest. How happy Francisca was! And when Theodore turned
to her, and said, in a voice still languid from weakness,
'How delicious the air is to-day! I owe it to you, Miss Francisca, that
I breathe it again. Without your kind care I never more should have
beheld these beautiful woods.'
A thrill of delight passed through Francisca's frame at these words,
and she trembled so that Theodore exclaimed:
'I fear I am leaning too heavily on you; you are fatigued, I see. Let
us sit down here to rest awhile--here, where the sun shines so brightly
through the leaves that they seem to be all of gold. Ah! how good, how
kind you have been to me! It seems to me as if my own character had
improved since I became acquainted with you.'
The harvest was gathered in--the harvest-home was to be held--and there
was more than usual merriment, for the dreaded epidemic had passed
away, and the very last who had suffered from it, Theodore, was now
only somewhat feeble. The peasantry were enjoying their games, and the
Garlov family, with a few friends, were looking on at a little distance
beyond the gates of the chateau, when a succession of fearful shrieks
were heard, and a number of peasants, some armed with sticks, others
with stones, were to be seen running along, though no one could tell
what was the cause of the uproar. But presently a large dog, with a
broken chain around his neck, rushed from behind some bushes, and ran
across the field towards the Garlov party, who at the same moment
distinctly heard the warning cry, 'A mad dog! a mad dog!'
Seized with a sudden panic, every one of the little group endeavoured
to escape, and Francisca caught hold of Theodore's hand and hurried him
towards the gate; but he could not run fast enough, the large stick on
which he had been leaning impeded his movements, and, stumbling, he
fell to the ground. Francisca was in despair when she found he had
struck his head against a stone, and lay motionless; in vain her father
called to her to quicken her pace, she would not leave Theodore.
Meanwhile the dog came nearer and nearer--she could hear the rattling
of his chain, as with open mouth and protruding tongue he ran towards
them. She sprang before Theodore, and with outstretched arms stood as
if guarding him. The dog rushed on her--she felt his damp paw upon her
throat, his warm breath upon her cheek, his glaring eyes close to her
own, and she sank senseless by the side of him she had endeavoured to
save.
'Oh, fie! Rudolph,' cried cousin Ida; 'your description is too
horrible--his wet paw upon her throat--shocking! How could she be so
foolish! I think she must have been as mad as the dog.'
'I should have fainted at the first cry of the peasants,' said
Charlotte, Ida's sister.
'Master Theodore must have been a miserable creature,' exclaimed
Arnold. 'I would have defended the ladies to the last drop of my blood.
But, to be sure, he was only a doctor, and dealt in potions and
plasters instead of valorous deeds--that is some excuse for the
fellow.'
'I thought the bite of a mad dog was always fatal,' said Mrs. Werner,
quietly. 'Yet Francisca must have outlived it--how was that?'
It was a false alarm (replied Rudolph). The dog was not mad. With
that instinct which led all distressed creatures to her, it had
run to Francisca for protection from the crowd of peasants who were
ill-treating it. She soon got over her fainting fit, and Theodore also
recovered consciousness, but the contusion in his head brought on
fever, and he raved incessantly about the mad dog which had destroyed
Francisca. The old doctor, who had resumed his practice, happening
fortunately to call, ordered leeches to be applied to Theodore's head,
and a certain medicine to be administered to him. Both had to be
obtained from the apothecary in the nearest little town, and the only
man-servant who had remained at home--the others having been permitted
to join the merry-making among the villagers--was sent for them. After
a long absence he returned with the leeches, but did not bring the
so-much-needed draught. It would have been a useless attempt to send
him back, for he had been drinking freely in the town, and could not be
roused from the heavy sleep into which he had fallen after tumbling
down in a state of intoxication on the floor of the servants' hall.
Should the poor patient be deprived of the prescribed draught? No;
Francisca determined to go for it herself, even though it was getting
dark, and she would have to pass through the dreary wood. Leaving her
mother and an old woman busy putting on the leeches on Theodore's brow,
she slipped out of the room and out of the house; she almost ran until
she reached the gate which opened upon the road that led to the wood;
there for a moment she stopped, and hesitated to proceed; yet the
doctor had said that the medicine was of great importance, and though
she had never been alone in the wood after dark, she conquered her
fears and went forwards. But her heart beat wildly, her knees trembled
under her, and she often started at the rustling of the leaves, and the
pale gleams of uncertain light that penetrated here and there through
the thick foliage from the rising moon; the scudding of the deer, whom
even her light tread awoke, increased her alarm; and the hoarse cry of
the owl seemed terrible to her.
'Young ladies,' said Rudolph, interrupting his narrative, 'is there one
among you who will now doubt that Aunt Francisca could feel love?'
'Oh, Heaven defend me from such love!' cried Ida. 'I would die of
fright if I were to go alone through a dark wood at night.'
She reached the town safely (continued Rudolph), procured the
medicine at the apothecary's, and bravely returned alone through the
wood, though her excited imagination conjured up all manner of
phantasies--such as dim figures gliding amidst the trees, footsteps
pursuing her, and goblin laughter greeting her ear. Still she struggled
against the terror that had almost overcome her, until, having gained
her home and the invalid's chamber, she sank down, nearly fainting, by
her mother's side, and murmured, 'The wood--the wood!'
The dampness of her dress, wet with the heavy dew--her exhaustion, and
the medicine which she could just hold up--told the history of her
exploit more quickly than her words would have done. Her mother threw
her arms round her, and Theodore, who was somewhat better, and who was
amazed at what she had done for his sake, exclaimed, 'Francisca, and
you ventured all this for _me!_' During the long, sleepless night which
followed, she heard again and again, as it were like the tones of an
AEolian harp, these, to her, thrilling words; 'Francisca, and you
ventured all this for _me!_'
In the course of a few weeks after this event, Theodore being again
quite well, found that it was necessary for him to return to
Copenhagen. But he felt reluctant to leave Francisca, and put off the
dreaded parting to the latest day possible. He knew how much he was
indebted to her; twice she had saved his life, or striven to do so,
with a devoted abnegation of self which only affection could have
prompted. His vanity whispered to him that she surely loved him, and
flattered by this idea, and also feeling grateful to her, he fancied
that he entertained the same sentiments towards her. Francisca was so
retiring in her manners, however, that Theodore had had no opportunity
of communicating to her what he thought or felt, except by his looks;
and even these seemed to alarm her, for she feared that she had
permitted him to read too deeply in her heart.
At length he could no longer defer his departure, and with a
countenance full of woe he informed the family at dinner that he would
have to leave them the following day. Francisca turned deadly pale, and
as soon as she could make her escape from table she rushed into the
garden to vent her grief in solitude. Theodore had followed her,
unperceived by her. He found her leaning against a tree, holding a
handkerchief to her eyes, while her whole frame was agitated by her
emotion. In another moment his arm was round her waist, while he
exclaimed:
'What! weeping, Francisca? Are you ill? What can affect you thus? Is
there any secret grief pressing upon your mind? I had hoped to carry
away with me the image of the happy Francisca I have known here. Ah!
you cannot guess how dear your happiness is to me. To you I owe my life
twice over. I owe you more than ten lives could repay. Dearest
Francisca! say, will you think kindly of me when I am far away? Oh,
every golden cloud, every waving tree, every lovely flower I behold
will lead my thoughts to you--or rather, you will be my only thought.'
Francisca's tears flowed more freely even than before. She was silent;
but there is a silence more eloquent than words. However, young ladies,
you all know, or have dreamed, of what might pass during such a scene,
and I shall not, with my prosy words, attempt to describe what your
poetical imaginations can so much better conceive.
It was under that linden-tree that the happy Theodore received the
assurance of Francisca's love, and heard her, for the first time, call
him 'Dear Theodore!' They strolled on towards the wood, and Theodore
there took up a small quantity of the earth, which he said he would
keep as an amulet--a preservative against all manner of witchcraft.
'Do so,' said Francisca, with a sad smile, 'for you will assuredly need
that amulet. You are leaving me now; you will forget me soon among the
many beautiful and fascinating you will see in the gay world. But,
after all, you had better throw back the earth whence it came,
Theodore. I would not be remembered as an evil genius.'
'Can you fancy that I could possibly forget you, or cease to remember
all you have been to me? May Heaven forget me if I ever change towards
you!'
The earnestness of his manner convinced Francisca of his sincerity. We
are always prone to believe what we wish, and this is why a heart that
loves is so easily deceived.
When he was going away, Theodore whispered with his farewell a request
that he might be allowed to write to her, and that she would answer his
letters.
'No, do not write,' she said; 'our faith in each other does not require
to be kept alive by letter. We shall meet again.'
'In spring, I trust. Oh, how long it will be till then!'
Love and gratitude! What a wide difference there is between these two
feelings. Love is the offspring of our own heart--its darling, its
heir; gratitude is but an adopted child--a poor orphan, admitted but
not tenderly cherished. What Francisca felt was _love_. Theodore had
always _gratitude_ starting up in the background to recall his
wandering feelings; yet he believed, when he left the Garlovs' house
for Copenhagen, that he was really in love with Francisca.
It is a pity that no natural philosopher has ever invented an
instrument by which to measure love--its depth and solidity. Had such a
test been available, Theodore would soon have found out his own state.
But still there are proofs without philosophical instruments; for he
who does not find the image of his beloved in every corner of his
heart, has never loved; he who does not clearly remember every, even
the most minute turnings, in the winding-path by which the little blind
deity may have led him, has never loved; he whose beloved is not his
all in the future, the object of his dreams, his hopes, his thoughts in
the present, he has never loved. Ye gentlemen lovers! I advise you to
examine your own hearts by these tests, and see how your affections
really stand.
Rudolph paused for a moment--Louise glanced at him as if she felt sure
he had passed the proof--Arnold indulged in a sneering smile, and the
other gentlemen looked innocently apathetic.
There is an old French saying (continued Rudolph), which signifies
that absence has the same effect upon love that a high wind has upon
fire--it extinguishes the weak, but makes the strong burn more
intensely. Thus, while Francisca's ardent love gained strength in
absence, and in her sleeping and waking dreams she invested Theodore
with every possible good quality and charm, his feeble love became more
and more languid, and the image of Francisca lost by degrees all the
attractions he had fancied it possessed.
Francisca had communicated all her feelings by letter to her friend, my
mother, and the correspondence between them, on a subject so
interesting, helped to while away the tedium of the winter months.
Theodore, on the contrary, concealed his little love affair in the
country from his friends in town. At first, it seemed a topic
too sacred to enter upon, and afterwards he thought it would be
ridiculous--he would only expose himself to be laughed at by his
companions. Balls, and all sorts of amusements occupied his leisure
hours. He was one of the best dancers in Copenhagen, and could have as
many pretty partners as he liked. Time flew fast with him; he sometimes
forgot that such a being as Francisca existed, and in a fit of
vexation, as it reminded him of his duty, he hid away the amulet that
was to have been so potent a talisman. Early in spring, however, he had
an illness, which confined him to his room for a few days; during that
short period of seclusion Francisca assumed a more prominent part in
his recollection. Which of all the girls he had been flirting with
during the winter would have risked so much, done so much for him as
she had done? Not one among them. The country and Francisca were again
in the ascendant for a time, and it was at this period that he had his
likeness taken. He would give it to her. How much _she_ would value it!
That was a pleasant idea, for even in love men seldom forget vanity.
Indeed, what love is to be compared, in general, to self-love?
Armed with the miniature of himself, and a small plain gold ring on his
little finger, Theodore set off for Mr. Garlov's. The wood was already
clothed in its mantle of green. How anxiously had not Francisca watched
the budding leaves, and longed for the arrival of spring, which would
bring back to her him she loved so much! She had gone out to meet him,
and when he caught a glimpse of her, springing from the carriage he
threw himself at her feet. She was happy, for she had never doubted his
constancy. Mr. Garlov welcomed him as an old friend, but he did not
look upon him in any other light, as Mrs. Garlov, who knew of her
daughter's attachment, had never yet found a suitable opportunity
to communicate the matter to her husband, though she was aware
that he intended Francisca to marry a wealthy proprietor in their
neighbourhood, who, although somewhat advanced in years, was a very
worthy man, and would be a good match.
The evenings were still cold, and were consequently passed within
doors, but were enlivened by conversation, music, and reading aloud,
for Theodore excelled in the latter accomplishment, and also sang well.
A happy time it was to Francisca, and even Theodore felt the pleasing
influence of these quiet evenings; but when summer came, with its long
days and warm nights, and the lovers could stroll out arm-in-arm,
Francisca was still happier, and would sometimes exclaim, 'I could not
have thought it possible for this world to afford so much felicity as I
experience at this moment!' With her the days flew like hours, and the
hours like minutes! At length Theodore spoke of returning to his home.
But he was assailed by father, mother, and daughter, with entreaties to
remain a little longer, as guests were expected, and his society would
enliven the party very much.
'If you will only stay,' said Francisca, 'you shall be rewarded by
seeing a most beautiful girl.'
'Is your cousin Kitty so beautiful?' asked Theodore.
'No, she is only amiable; but a Miss Angel is to accompany her, who is
over from Holstein on a visit to my cousin. She is called Aurora
Angel--two ominous names, are they not? But they are not misapplied.'
'Do you think I would stay for anybody's sake if not for yours, dear
Francisca?' said Theodore. 'No; the goddess of the dawn of day shall
have no such triumph. Since you wish it, I will remain longer; but I
should only be too happy if this blooming damsel would stay away.'
She came, however, along with my mother and my grandmother, and very
beautiful she was both in face and figure, with remarkably fine arms,
and the prettiest feet in the world. She looked lovely as she played
the harp, and her voice was one of that peculiar sweetness that, once
heard, could never be forgotten. Her slight foreign accent gave a
piquancy to her simplest words--in short, she was altogether a most
attractive little creature.
Mrs. Garlov and Theodore Ancker were the only persons who did not
seem quite captivated by the fascinations of the fair Aurora; every
one else was enchanted with her, Francisca most of all. Theodore
insisted that the glances of her bright eyes had, when she thought she
was not observed, something sinister in them that caused involuntary
mistrust; he accused her of being coquettish, cold, and heartless,
notwithstanding her affection of feeling. In fact, he evinced a strange
repugnance to her society, and much annoyance that the arrival of other
guests had thrown a sort of barrier between himself and Francisca, with
whom he could no longer be frequently alone, and more than once he
expressed a wish that he had gone when first he proposed doing so. He
was at all times a little given to variations of temper, but now he
appeared to be always out of humour, and when he was compelled to show
any attention to Aurora, he did it with a very bad grace, and looked as
awkward as a dancing bear.
Aurora herself never appeared to observe anything odd in his manners,
but the rest of the party could not fail to be surprised at him.
One evening, after Theodore had been all day looking quite cross
because he had not been able to have some private chat with Francisca,
though his own bad humour had made him neglect more than one
opportunity that had presented itself, the little party were assembled
in the music-room which opened on the garden. Aurora was singing and
accompanying herself on the harp. Theodore seemed annoyed at the praise
bestowed upon her, and she had scarcely finished her song when he began
vehemently to press Francisca to sing. She declined, though she really
sang very nicely, and her admirer was so vexed that he was leaving the
room, when she called him back, that he might hear Aurora sing
Claerchen's Lied from Goethe's 'Egmont,' which was then quite new. After
preluding for a moment or two, with a sweet smile Aurora commenced the
romance, and the expression of her countenance changed suddenly to
sadness as she sang,
Freudvoll
Und leidvoll
Gedankenvoll seyn;
while she seemed powerfully affected by the two last lines:
Gluecklich allein
Ist die Seele, die liebt;
for her voice sank almost to a whisper, and her eyes filled with tears.
At that moment her glance met that of Theodore, and she coloured
deeply, while he in vain strove to look indifferent. Mrs. Garlov
entered on a disquisition touching the tragedy of 'Egmont' and the
character of Claerchen, while Aurora sought to conceal her annoyance by
speaking of the song.
'I do not know any song that has prettier words than these. Do you not
agree with me, Mr. Ancker?'
'I think,' replied Theodore, 'that Claerchen's mother pronounced a very
proper judgment on the words when she said, "Ah, it is the same eternal
nonsense."'
'And I will answer you in Claerchen's own words', said Aurora,
good-humouredly: '"Nay, do not abuse it; 'tis a song of marvellous
virtue. Many a time I have lulled a grown child to sleep with it."'
This reply in her own language--the German--came so prettily from
Aurora's coral lips, that Theodore did violence to his own feelings
when he answered:
'Yes, "schlafen wiegen," that was perhaps Claerchen's art. Probably you
admire Claerchen's character. I would swear that you did.'
'Yes, I admire it; it is a faithful and pleasing sketch of the female
character.'
'Of _one_ female character, say rather. God be praised, not of all,'
replied Theodore. 'Claerchen is capricious, coquettish, inconsiderate,
heartless. She makes a mere tool of the man who wishes to marry her--a
mere hack and errand boy--and she repays the poor fellow's services by
the coquetry which holds him in her chains. Does she not say herself,
"Often, without a thought, I return the gentle loving pressure of his
hand? I reproach myself that I am deceiving him--that I am nourishing
in his heart a vain hope."'
Aurora listened to him with a smile, complimented him on his admirable
pronunciation of German (a compliment which evidently pleased him), and
then went on to defend Claerchen, quoting sentences from the drama
itself, and wound up by assuring him that men could not understand
love--at least not such deep, all-absorbing love as a Claerchen could
feel.
Mr. Garlov remarked that the fair damsel was very severe upon their
sex, and Theodore shrugged his shoulders in silence.
Again Aurora spoke. 'Claerchen,' she said, 'was placed, as it were,
between Life's cold prose and Eternity's warm poetry. It was the battle
between these that consumed her, as it had consumed many another heart.
_You_ have no conception of that struggle: and may you never feel it.
May you never have to say, like Claerchen, "I am in a strange
position."'
Aurora rose, put away her harp, and hurried into the garden. The other
ladies followed her, and Theodore was left alone with Mr. Garlov, who
said,
'You have got into a scrape, my good friend. One must be very guarded
in speaking to these German ladies, they are so deucedly sensitive. I
can't conceive, though, what made you fall upon her as you did; it was
really an unwarrantable attack.'