The attack was made so unexpectedly and so hurriedly, that it was not

possible for Joergen to avoid the blow or to defend himself. He uttered

a low cry, stretched out his arms, and sank backwards to the ground.

Ebbe bent over him, and listened. The blow must have been a very severe

one, for he did not hear the faintest breathing from Joergen.

'You have got this because you tried to cheat me, and packed me off to

the town, that you alone might benefit by the stranger's treasure.'

And, as if his bitter feelings were increased by this remembrance, he

added, triumphantly, 'You asserted that it was to you alone the

stranger had bequeathed his money. You would only have given me a small

portion of it; I shall take it all now. And you did not know that I

have already got it. I heard the ground reverberate under the spade--I

heard the sound of the gold--it is mine--all--all mine!'

As he said this, he took up his comrade's body in his arms, and flung

it over the edge into the pit.

'And now to go back to the churchyard!' he exclaimed. 'I must have the

money up, and be off before the dawn of day.'

He threw the spade across his shoulders, took up the wallet, and turned

to leave the place.

At that moment he fancied that he heard footsteps near: he looked

round, and perceived in the twilight a tall figure in a flowing mantle,

which stopped at a little distance from the place where he was

standing. In the extreme terror which seized him, it seemed to him that

this figure gradually grew taller and larger, and that it gazed at him

with a dark and threatening aspect; it seemed to approach nearer. It

was no longer a phantom of the imagination; he heard the heavy steps

ringing on the ground--he beheld a hand stretched out towards him--and

then fell, in accusing accents on his ear, the dreadful word

'Murderer!'

Ebbe uttered a loud cry, he dropped the spade, sprang to one side, and

fled in a direction quite opposite to that where he had so recently

sought for the unlucky treasure. He constantly thought that his unknown

pursuer was still following him, that he was gaining upon him, and even

that he felt his breath close behind him; but he dared not turn his

head, he only continued to run swiftly, and without stopping, until at

length he stumbled, and fell into one of the many hollows that were to

be met with in that neighbourhood. There he lay for several hours

exhausted and insensible, unwitting of the storm from the German Ocean

that was raging among the sandhills near its shores. When at last he

re-recovered to consciousness, the morning sun was shining on the

sandhills, and he heard the bells of Oxby church ringing for the early

service.

Eight days later, the inhabitants of Vaedersoe were thronging round a

carriage which was passing through the little town. The front seat was

occupied by a tall man, under whose overcoat was to be seen the stiff

embroidered collar of a uniform. His self-important air, also the

condescending nod with which he acknowledged the respectful obeisances

of the peasantry, betokened a person of no small consequence. Nor was

there any mistake in this, for he was the judge of the district, who

was proceeding on official duty to the sandhills.

In the back seat of the carriage sat two men, one of whom was the smith

of the village, the other a pale, emaciated, shrunken figure, in whose

features it would have been difficult to have recognized Ebbe, so great

was the change that the last eight days had wrought in him.

The smith's plump round face evinced, on the contrary, a great degree

of self-complacency; he smiled to everyone he knew, and stretched out

by turns his hand or his head from the carriage, either for a friendly

salutation, or to explain the reason of his appearance in the carriage

on that particular occasion.

The carriage passed through the village, and did not stop until it

reached the cottage which Joergen and Ebbe had occupied conjointly. Here

the judge got out, and after saying a few words to the smith, he

entered the house.

'Now, Ebbe,' said the smith, 'you must get out too; you are at home

here. We shall have a legal examination, as his honour has just very

properly declared.'

Ebbe made no reply; he seemed to have fallen into a state of speechless

apathy. He descended from the carriage, and followed the smith into the

first of the two rooms into which the hut was divided.

On entering the cottage, they found the judge, and two fishermen who

had been summoned as witnesses, already seated near the table. Ebbe

cast a rapid and reconnoitring look around him; he perceived that

everything was in its usual place; it was not the room that had changed

in these eight days.

'Place yourself at the end of the table,' said the judge. 'Listen to

what will be said, and answer minutely and truthfully the questions we

shall put to you. Speak first, smith. Let us hear what you have to

say.'

Not to fatigue the reader with the smith's long-winded story, we shall

as briefly as possible relate the substance of his communication.

However important it was to Ebbe to maintain inviolable secresy

relative to the mate's hidden treasure, he had let fall some words

which had been caught up by the smith, and which, giving rise to some

conjectures and suspicions, caused the clear-sighted man to watch

narrowly the movements of the two young fishermen. On the same day that

Joergen and Ebbe had left their home at such an early hour, the smith

had borrowed a horse from one of his neighbours, and set out in pursuit

of them, although he took all possible pains to avoid being seen by

them. Joergen had previously given out that he was going to take a

holiday to visit his aunt at Oxby.

When the smith had followed the two wayfarers as far as Aale church,

and assured himself that they were really going to the place mentioned,

he quitted the footpath, which, leading through the open heath, would

have made him run the risk of being observed, and rode another way

until he reached the cross road near Oxby church, and the shades of

evening began to fall. The fishermen had evidently taken a considerable

time to cross the wide heath. The smith had waited long, and had ridden

around the church before he saw Ebbe and Joergen looking for the spot

with the three stones.

It was his horse that Ebbe had heard neigh, but, as we have seen, he

had not sufficiently followed up the circumstance. In consequence of

this neglect on his part, the smith became acquainted with all that was

going on; for when it grew darker he ventured nearer, got over the

wall, and crept on his hands and knees close to the place where Ebbe

was digging. Arrived there, he could hear every word that was spoken

while the work proceeded. When they left the wall of the churchyard,

he followed them at some distance along the path that led to the

gravel-pits, and he had seen Joergen fall. Ebbe had not recognized the

voice of the smith in that which called after him, nor had he observed

that Harfiz was carrying Joergen in his arms to the nearest dwelling.

'Thus it all happened,' said the plaintiff, in the corrupt language in

which he spoke. 'Ebbe cannot deny a word that I have said. I know all

that passed; I saw and heard all. I took up the spade with which he had

struck Joergen, and, to wind up, your honour has only to make inquiry

here to be convinced of the truth of what I assert. Here you behold the

man who can corroborate my statement.'

As he said these words he drew aside a curtain that had concealed an

alcove, and Joergen, with his head bound up, pale and suffering, was

seen raising himself with difficulty on one arm, and gazing at those

assembled in the hut. This last action of the smith, so sudden and

unexpected, caused a great sensation and much surprise among those

present.

Ebbe, who up to this moment had stood silent and immovable, with his

hands folded and his eyes cast down, raised his head quickly, and when

his glance fell on Joergen, he stretched out his arms towards him, and,

bursting into tears, exclaimed:

'Oh, my God! Joergen--dear Joergen!'

'Yes, there you see a competent witness. I have cured him--I may safely

declare--and now he will confirm what I have said.'

'Well, what have you to say to what the smith has just been telling

us?'

'I say that he is quite mistaken,' replied Joergen. 'Ebbe had no wish to

kill me; he had no evil intention against me; I absolve him of anything

of the kind.'

Everyone was taken by surprise, and exclamations of astonishment

followed these words, which were uttered in a mild, quiet, but at the

same time decisive tone. Ebbe's eyes sparkled. The smith jumped up.

'Joergen,' he cried, 'are you out of your mind? You cannot be in your

right senses if you speak in this way. Did he not attempt to murder

you? Did I not see and hear it all myself? Did I not take you up in my

strong arms, when he cast you down into the gravel-pit?'

'You did, indeed, behave most kindly and humanely to me,' replied

Joergen, with a grateful smile. 'Without your help, I should most

probably have been dead now; but, I repeat that it was not Ebbe who

threw me into the pit. I fell in, sir, and in my fall I hurt myself

with the spade. I have now told all I have to tell--I entirely acquit

my old comrade, and I must beg you to withdraw the accusation against

him.'

After having thus spoken, Joergen laid himself down in his bed, closed

his eyes, and seemed to take no further notice of what was going on

around him. Neither did he seem to notice Ebbe, who stole softly

towards his bed, seized his hand, and carried it to his lips.

The smith was very angry, and repeated and maintained his version of

the affair, with gesticulations, oaths, and asseverations, in his

strange lingo. He could not understand why Joergen exercised such

generous forbearance: the judge, on the contrary, comprehended it all;

he called Ebbe into the other room, and had a long communication with

him; after which he broke up the meeting, dismissed the witnesses, and

left the cottage himself. Joergen and Ebbe were the only persons who

remained in it.

Some time elapsed, during which both remained perfectly silent. At

length Joergen raised himself in his bed, and asked,

'Are they gone?'

'Yes.'

'Every one of them?'

'Yes, we are alone.'

'Sit down by my bed, Ebbe; I have something to say to you.'

Ebbe obeyed. At that moment his whole appearance evinced the utmost

humility; he did not dare to raise his eyes before Joergen, who

contemplated him calmly, but with a penetrating look.

'What I said a little while ago,' began Joergen, 'was to save you, and

because I could not live under the idea that I had another man's

misfortune on my conscience. You are now free--acquitted--and no one

can do anything to you. With God's blessing, I may also become well

again, and recover my strength so as to be able to work as formerly;

but you must yourself perceive, Ebbe, that we two can never more live

and labour together. That Saturday night has rendered it necessary for

us to separate for ever. I can never banish it from my memory. You shed

tears now, indeed, and are deeply afflicted. I also have shed many

tears when I reflected that it was you, my only companion and comrade,

that had the heart to deal with me as you did. In Heaven's name, then,

let each of us go his own way. The world is surely large enough for us

both. When I am stronger, and able to work, I will pay you for the part

you own in this cottage and in the boat; for I hardly think you will

like to remain longer here. In fact, I think it would be better for you

to seek some other place to settle yourself, where people could not say

anything against you. You cannot fail to perceive that the smith does

not believe the declaration I made to the judge. He will tell the story

his way in the town yonder, and that won't be in your favour. As I have

said, when I am better you shall receive the share that belongs to you

of what we have hitherto held in partnership, and we must separate.'

'Then you have found the treasure?' asked Ebbe, hurriedly.

'No,' said Joergen, gravely. 'But the smith has promised to let me marry

his daughter, and he will advance me the money to pay you.'

'I do not care about the money,' replied Ebbe; 'you are welcome to keep

it all.'

'Oh yes--so you say _now_,' answered Joergen; 'but you would repent that

offer to-morrow. No, let the arrangement I have proposed stand. And you

had better go, Ebbe, before the smith returns. You know that he is very

passionate, and you might get into a quarrel with him. Besides, I am

weak and weary, and must get some sleep. Farewell, and may the Almighty

bestow on you kinder feelings towards those among whom you may

henceforth seek to win your bread, than you have shown to me. Shake

hands with me, Ebbe, and then go.'

Joergen sank back on his bed, and Ebbe left the cottage.

The following five years brought about a striking difference between

the fates of the two fishermen. Joergen had married the smith's

daughter. He gave up fishing, sold his boat and established himself in

the little town of Vaedersoe. There he betook himself to husbandry: he

tilled the ground, ploughed, sowed, planted; in short he laboured with

all the indefatigable activity, energy, and diligence, for which the

inhabitants of the west country are so celebrated. At the end of two

years he sold his house to buy a larger one on a thriving farm; field

after field was added, and all prospered with him. Success seemed to

smile on everything he undertook from the period that he relinquished

his partnership with Ebbe.

'You have got an excellent son-in-law, smith,' said the peasants to

Harfiz, often when they came to his smithy.

'He gets on very well,' the learned smith would reply, with a cheerful

nod, indicative of content. 'But let me tell you, and you may believe

what I say, that it was my medicine which has made him what he is. He

has been quite another sort of man since I cured him, and restored him,

I may say, to life, after Ebbe had killed him. He will be a greater man

still.'

The prophecy was fulfilled as time passed on; for every year that went

over his head brought some addition to Joergen's prosperity. He was a

happy man in his own family, and in all his transactions he was clever,

prudent, and far-seeing.

The same space of time that seemed to have had wings for Joergen, had

crawled on slowly, unprofitably, and wearily for Ebbe. A portion of the

sum he had received for his share of the cottage and the boat was

appropriated to the purchase of the little plot of ground near Oxby

church, where the mate had said his treasure was buried. The

acquisition was not an expensive one certainly, for at that period a

large quantity of waste land could be bought for about two dollars; so

that after Ebbe had become the proprietor of the place, he had

sufficient money left to build a house for himself on a corner of the

ground he had bought.

Then commenced a course of labour which, in exertion, perseverance, and

endurance, was far beyond anything Joergen ever attempted, and yet was

productive of no good results. The three stones were taken up and

thrown aside, in order not to obstruct the work; then the elder-tree

was removed; and after every obstacle had disappeared, Ebbe dug down,

and down, until he came to the stratum of iron-hard, solid rock, which

is to be found in that part of the country.

His labours were carried on by night, and with the utmost secresy, not

to attract attention. During the day he rested, and either spent the

hours lounging by the sea-side, or he slept. But, whether waking or

sleeping, he was haunted by the thoughts of the hidden treasure, and of

the wealth he would acquire, and the consequence he would attain, when

he discovered and enjoyed it. It was shocking to see that pale and

meagre creature, when the moon shone upon the scene of his labours,

working away eagerly, bending over the spade, and listening anxiously

when every fresh heap of earth was cast up: by turns cheating himself

with hopes of success, then groaning at his disappointment, yet still

persevering in the search for a prize which continued to evade his

grasp.

In winter the ground was frozen, and as Ebbe was obliged to cease his

digging, he left his hut, and went to Hjerting, where he hired himself

out among the peasantry as a day-labourer. His history soon oozed out,

and his very shy, reserved manners prevented him from making

acquaintances, while his fellow-labourers jeered him. 'There goes the

gold-digger!' the children would cry after him when he showed himself

in the streets. These scoffers, who beheld him now in so humble a

position, by-and-by, when he had found the treasure, should witness his

triumph. 'Wait a little!' he thought; 'success will come at last, and

the day cannot be very far distant!'

When spring succeeded to winter, Ebbe left the service he had taken,

and returned to his hut, where he recommenced his labours with as much

assiduity as before, and with the same result. The small space in which

his operations were carried on soon resembled a deep pit, wherein

gravel and sand, stone and clay, were gathered together in large heaps.

But the treasure was nowhere visible.

When at length the ground had been entirely turned up, every inch

examined, and he could dig no lower down, Ebbe fell into the deepest

despair; his last hope had vanished, and with it all the strength and

energy which hope alone had sustained. He was found one day sitting on

the outside of the door of his hut, gazing on vacancy straight before

him, lost in a reverie from which nothing seemed to have the power of

rousing him.

At this very time a report was spread in the neighbourhood that

Joergen and his father-in-law had found _the shipwrecked mariner's

treasure_--for this appeared the easiest mode of accounting for the

increasing prosperity of the heretofore young fisherman. Ebbe heard

this rumour; he believed it, and this belief added greatly to the

bitterness of his disappointment, and was as poison to his mind.

Three years afterwards, a wan, wasted, spectral-looking figure might be

seen wandering about in the vicinity of Hjerting; it was the

unfortunate Ebbe, who had become deranged. The harmless lunatic was

received into the poor-house at Hjerting, but spent most of his days in

a remote and secluded valley, away among the sand hills. There he might

be heard singing and talking to himself, whilst he occupied himself

diligently in digging deep holes in the sand. One winter evening he did

not return, as usual, to the poor-house. The next morning he was found,

frozen to death, in a grave--it might be called--which he had dug in

the sand the day before.

DAMON AND PYTHIAS.

FROM THE DANISH OF CARL BERNHARD.

In the so-called good old times, when grown-up people could sometimes

be childish--now-a-days even children themselves are above such

infirmities--in these good old times one often heard a ballad, a

favourite song, which was as common as the lively popular airs that are

now repeated nightly at the casinos; but these old songs were by no

means lively, for lively music was not then in vogue; the songs were

almost all sentimental. There was one ditty about 'Friendship, Hope,

and Love,' in which Love was depicted as 'light red,' and of which I

can now remember but two lines. It was very generally sung:

'Friendship rarely doth abound.

Tell me where it can be found!'

Yes, where can it be found? All mankind seek for it; everyone wishes to

have a friend. Most people believe, for a time, that they have found

one; but when the friendship comes to be tested, it disappears, and

they discover their mistake. Why does it disappear? Who knows why? But

that it does most frequently disappear is quite certain.

Formerly, even in the grey olden times, long before anybody thought

about friendship being violated, they must have had hard work enough to

find the genuine article, else there would not surely have been such a

fuss made about the three classical pairs of friends whose names we

have all learned by heart--Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades,

Euryalus and Nisus--all of whom were never distinguished for anything,

as far as I have been able to discover, except that they lived as

friends, and ultimately died as friends.

It is surprising enough that, whilst everyone understands the words _a

friend_ in a good sense, there should be some little hesitation about

the exact meaning of _a good friend_, and that the more eulogizing and

confirmatory adjectives are added to it, the less respect it should

inspire, until _a real good old friend_ has become almost synonymous

with a stupid old blockhead, or a cunning old rogue. If one were only

to hear the following disjointed words of a conversation, 'Oh, yes, he

is a good friend enough,' nine out of ten would indubitably fancy that

the speakers were alluding to some matter in which one party had been

taken in, and would think that what had happened manifested the

credulity of that saying, in which all the ten firmly believe, 'Save me

from my friends, and I will save myself from my enemies!' Undeniably,

there is some truth in this sentence, and however little there may be,

it is sad that one must admit there is any at all.

One of my--but I may be misconstrued myself if I say one of my good

friends; I shall therefore, for the present, confine myself to calling

him a worthy acquaintance of mine--had, from his earliest childhood,

been an enthusiastic worshipper of friendship. Nothing more natural,

for friendship is so inherent a feeling in the breast of every human

being, of either sex, that it is a desire of the soul, which it strives

to realize even before it thinks of love. His predilection for

friendship was, it may be said, born with him, as people may be born

with a propensity for stealing or drunkenness; and when he was not more

than four years of age, and his grown-up relatives would have it that

his little cousin should be his 'little wife'--for big people are

always too ready to begin putting nonsense into the heads of children,

he used to get angry, and declare that she should not be his wife, but

his friend.

And when he had grown older, and had commenced his classical studies,

he raved about being a Damon to some Pythias. He was an excellent lad,

cheerful, good-natured, good-looking, and by no means deficient in

talent; in short, he was in all respects a steady schoolboy, but

perhaps he carried a little too far his ideas about friendship. He had

not, however, then attached himself to any one individual among his

companions; he was on good terms with them all, while he thirsted after

one, only one true friend, as a celebrated author is known to have

wished but one reader, but that one to be capable of understanding him

thoroughly.

I withhold his name, for he is now in so conspicuous a station that

many of my readers must know him, and it would, perhaps, annoy him to

see his name in print, for he is one of those folks who have an

old-fashioned dislike to what they call 'appearing in print;' that is

to say, being named publicly. I shall designate him by one of his first

names, which he used in his boyish years--_viz_. Mikkel; it is an ugly

name, but he is not to blame for that, since his opinion about it was

not asked. When he was christened, his parents had called him after a

rich old uncle, who, the good people thought, might, on that account,

at a future day, leave him a large legacy. It is a bad custom to make

innocent children suffer for their parents' bad taste in choosing

names, and to inflict on them ill-sounding family names, either because

these had been chosen by a generation who had queer notions, or from

selfishness and from speculation, as in the case in question. Mikkel

was grown up, and had undergone much jeering on account of his

frightful name, but his uncle did not leave him a stiver! It was a

shameful trick--a positive fraud, the parents naturally thought. No one

can blame Mikkel because he would no longer put up with the

disagreeable appellation, especially as it had come to his ears that a

young girl had given her suitor a basket solely on account of his name.

She said, 'he had such a shockingly ugly name, that she never could

bring herself to say, my sweet Morten. Dear no! the sound made her

shudder, and one really must be able to say _sweet_ to one's lover.'

Morten and Mikkel are much on a par. He renounced, therefore, the

name of the ungrateful uncle, and selected for the future one of the

high-sounding names which had also been bestowed on him at his baptism,

like that shoemaker's son who was christened Jens Napoleon Petersen.

Nevertheless, I should prefer to call him Damon, that savouring more of

the anonymous, and this I will do with the permission of my kind

readers. When he and I went to school together, we got on very well,

and were on good terms; but no sworn and patented friendship took place

between us. It happened one day, as we were walking together outside of

one of the gates of the town, on a Friday, and he was lost in his

Damon-Pythias dreams, which went in at one of my ears and out at the

other, we met a school companion, who was crying as he came out of a

house. The good-hearted Damon stopped him, and asked what was the cause

of his distress, and we were informed that our comrade had been

visiting _a good friend_. Damon could not see that there was any cause

for howling about this; he would have been glad enough to have been in

his place. Yes, but our unlucky school companion had received a sound

drubbing from his good friend, and from some of the latter's good

friends, because he would not be always their horse, and drag them in

the little carriage; he wished to take his turn to go inside of it, at

least for once, but they abused him like a pickpocket, and beat him;

this was always the way he was served, and it was a great shame, for he

had liked his friend so much; but now he would have nothing more to do

with him. And when he had told him that he was going to break with him,

the fellow had thumped him well, and turned him out of doors, and it

was almost dinner-time, and now he had no friend--and he would get no

dinner!

The soft-hearted Damon offered him forthwith his friendship and a

dinner; the boy went home with him to his parents' house, where he

dined, and immediately afterwards staunch brotherhood was sworn, and

the empty place in Damon's heart was filled up! Fate had granted his

wish, and he had providentially found a friend!

Mikkel was a happy boy; he had now truly become Damon, and the other

was Pythias. It was a strong friendship, whose not few thorns seemed to

Damon like so many roses. He had to thrash his companion's former

friend, and fight all that friend's chums, in order to revenge his

Pythias, and prove their misconduct to him; and he got many a bruise,

and many a torn jacket in these battles, which merged into a long,

lasting war--a war he had to sustain alone, for Pythias stood aloof. He

had to write all his friend's exercises, and prompt him every day in

his lessons, which Pythias, trusting to Damon's friendship, had

neglected to learn, and this cost the latter many a scold from the

master, who had observed it. But if ever he happened to require the

least help himself, he got none, for Pythias was incapable of giving

it. Damon not only shared all the nice things he had with his friend,

but he often gave him the largest portion, and, indeed, sometimes the

whole; but he never got anything in return. Pythias took care to eat

all his good things by himself; but Damon never dreamed of finding

fault with this; he was pleased and proud of being able to make various

useful presents to his friend, and loved him the better for it. Thus

passed the whole of his school-days; and in consequence of this sworn

friendship the two were called by all the boys Damon and Pythias.

They were at length to separate, and each to go his own way. 'I am

sorry I am obliged to part with you, I shall miss you very much,' said

Pythias, when the farewell moment came.

'I don't know how I shall exist without you,' said Damon. 'I am truly

wretched!'

They agreed to write to each other often. Damon did write letter after

letter, but never received an answer; that grieved him extremely. He

was taken ill about six months afterwards, but I will not say that it

was disappointed friendship that made him ill; he had caught an

epidemic which was raging then, and had a long illness. Though Pythias

knew this, he had never once inquired for his school friend. As soon as

he could hold a pen, Damon wrote to him over and over again--no reply!

Then he buried his friendship in his silent, faithful breast, until at

last it died, long after it had been buried.

His student-days arrived, and found him full of the enthusiasm of

youth. Damon longed for all that was beautiful and noble, but

especially for friendship. Love had not yet touched him. I believe that

he looked upon it as a sickly, unmanly feeling, which could not be

indulged in without relinquishing the energy and the strength of mind

that ought to characterize a man! Poor Damon! I verily believe such was

his opinion.

Well, Damon found at length his Pythias; but not the old Pythias, for

whom he had toiled and fought, and who had repaid him with such

ingratitude. No; a bran new Pythias had he stumbled upon, one who, like

himself, was 'a master in the kingdom of mind;' one who like himself,

was devoted to the true and the beautiful; one who, he thought, could

sympathize with him in everything, and to whom he attached himself with

the strongest ties of friendship--a really good friend.

And this friendship lasted for some years--during the whole time they

were at the university--and they were nicknamed Damon and Pythias, to

the great satisfaction of one of the friends at least. Damon was

certainly a kind and trustworthy friend. He wrote with untiring

patience all the tedious college manuscripts; Pythias used them almost

always, and, moreover, lent them to strangers, so that Damon never

could get them when he wanted them himself. Damon bought all the books

they both required, for Pythias needed his own money for other

purposes; and when Pythias wanted them no longer he sold them. Damon

remained at home from balls, that Pythias might borrow his dress-coat,

as he did not think his own good enough; and Damon rejoiced that he had

a good coat which fitted Pythias so well. Not a week passed that

Pythias did not borrow money from Damon, of which he never made any

memorandum. Pythias was fond of going to the theatre, and he always

went to the boxes. One day, when Damon suggested that it would be

better for him to go to the pit with him, for the money which one box

ticket cost would pay two pit tickets, and they might go there and

amuse themselves together, as he really could not afford the more

expensive places, Pythias replied that he by no means wished his friend

to spend his money in going to the theatre on his account, that he only

wanted _to borrow_ the money for his own ticket, as he was out of cash

at the moment, but he could not think of going to such a place as the

pit. And the good-natured Damon gave him the last shilling he had, and

remained at home, rejoicing that his dear friend was amusing himself in

the boxes.

At length they were both to graduate, and Pythias held his ground only

because Damon had been an unwearied grinder for him, and had devoted

himself, early and late, to cramming him in order to pull him through.

His success delighted Damon much more than his own.

There was some talk of a foreign tour--and they were both candidates

for the stipend accorded for that purpose--what a pleasure if they

could travel together! But this year there was only _one_ stipend to be

given away; Damon was sure of getting it, having been the cleverest

student. Pythias adjured him, of course in the name of friendship, to

resign his claim, because, for many important reasons, it was necessary

for him--Pythias--to get away for a time; in fact, he could hold out no

longer, while Damon had many other resources. Damon pondered on the

subject, but could not find out what these resources were;

nevertheless, he withdrew his petition, and left the field open to

Pythias, but he endeavoured in vain, also in friendship's name, to

induce him to confide to him the important reasons which had influenced

his dear Pythias to demand the sacrifice he had made for him. He was

enlightened as to the truth, however, afterwards. When Pythias had

obtained the stipend, and was off, it came out that he had been, for a

long time, in the habit of gambling, and that he had lost a great deal

at play. The debts he had left he transferred to his friend in an

affected, high-flown, bombastic epistle to his 'dear, faithful Damon,'

and in order that the latter, to whom he bade farewell for ever, might

still more highly honour friendship, he had drawn without asking leave

a few little bills of exchange in his name, wherein his writing was so

cleverly imitated, that Damon himself had the utmost difficulty in

distinguishing it from his own!

To one who had for so many years put entire confidence in the

reciprocity of the ardent and sincere friendship he himself had felt,

it was a severe blow to meet such scandalous treachery. Damon took

measures to have the bills of exchange paid, and, with a bleeding

heart, he buried Pythias the Second!

Damon now forswore friendship, and withdrew himself from society; it

was easy to do this, for his circle had been principally composed of

Pythias's acquaintances, and he did not much relish seeing them now--he

did not like to hear them pulling Pythias to pieces, and recounting the

many dirty tricks he had played them, to whom he had also pretended to

have been a good friend. Damon commenced his professional career, and

found comfort in his occupations; but his heart was lonely.

One evening he read in the work of a celebrated philosopher the

following sentence:

'The dog is man's best friend--it alone is faithful.'

These words made a deep impression on him. Within eight days he had

purchased a dog, a large handsome Newfoundlander, of a good breed. It

was then only in its puppy years, and had to be brought up to obedience

and cleanliness; this cost him the trouble of bestowing sundry good

thrashings on the animal, but Damon knew that he who loves the child

spares not the rod, and he loved his dog as if it had been his child,

until it should be educated to become his friend. Hector would receive

his caning, steal up to his master's feet, lick his hand, sigh deeply,

and at the slightest glance of encouragement would spring up joyfully

and wag his tail. When Damon looked up from his employment, he always

encountered Hector's friendly gaze. When he took his hat and stick, the

dog would start up from his place near the stove, if he were even in

the soundest sleep, to follow him through thick and thin, by day or by

night. Truly, the philosopher was right; the dog is man's faithful

friend, and Hector was not troublesome, and he obeyed no other being in

this world but his master--they were friends.

This friendship lasted for a couple of years, and it filled up in a

certain degree the vacancy in Damon's heart, and cheered his lonely

hours.

But gradually this friendship took the same turn as love often

does--the one loves, and the other allows himself or herself to be

loved. The parts they played changed gradually; Damon assumed the dog's

part, and became humble, obedient, and faithful, whilst Hector took the

master's part, and turned capricious, tyrannical, and ungrateful. The

four-footed creature had become almost like a man, from being the

constant companion of his two-legged friend. Damon put up with all

this, and the dog imposed upon him in his canine fashion, exactly as

the schoolboy and the student had imposed on him formerly in their

human fashion.

Damon had had many disagreeables to encounter latterly. One day he came

home very much fretted, with his head full of some tiresome business

papers, which absolutely required his immediate attention. He patted

his favourite, spoke to him as to a friend who could understand him,

complained to Hector of the provoking chief of the department who had

annoyed him, and Hector fixed on him a thoughtful look; it was as if

the dog comprehended how hard it is to be annoyed. This did his heart

good; he recovered his spirits, and began to work away vigorously at

the papers he had brought home with him. But Hector got angry at

finding himself neglected, and also he wanted to go out to walk. 'No,

my friend, it is impossible--don't disturb me--down, down--there is

no time for walking just now!' The dog became importunate, and was

patted, and dismissed; he then became obstinate, and laid his clumsy

paw upon the table, so that the inkstand was upset over the numerous

half-finished papers. For that he got a slap; he became enraged, and

tried to drag his master off of his chair; Damon kicked him away,

expecting that he would then be quiet, but it made him worse, and he

rushed upon him. Damon also got angry; he seized the ruler, and struck

Hector with it, who, however, dragged the chair from under him with his

teeth and paws. The one swore, the other growled; it was, certes,

anything but friendship that was displayed in this scene, which

collected all the inhabitants of the house on the outside of Damon's

door, in terror at this unusual dog-fight.

I arrived at that moment, having come to speak to Damon on some

business. It was an awful plight in which I found him: excited, bitten,

and with his clothes torn; whilst the dog stood snarling over the

broken chair, with a brutal, triumphant look, flashing eyes, and teeth

set. It was evident that he knew he was the master there, and he looked

with anything but a friendly expression at the subdued Damon.

'And this illusion has fled also!' he said to me, when we had taken

up the overturned chair, and gathered together the scattered and

ink-stained papers.

'And thou also, Brutus!' he exclaimed with a comical degree of gravity,

and a melancholy glance at the sullen-looking dog.

'The bestia bruta!' said I. 'This comes of choosing four-footed

friends.' And I seized, the opportunity of bestowing upon him a lecture

about his animal mania, which had made him quite an oddity, and had

withdrawn him from the society of rational beings. Shame, suffering,

and anger brought him over to my way of thinking; he made a threatening

gesture towards Hector, who instantly rose up and showed his teeth; he

was evidently ready to renew the battle at any moment. It was really

too absurd.

After a great deal of persuasion, I prevailed on Damon to go home with

me, and conclude that uncomfortable evening among my family circle.

Before we left his lodgings, I privately requested the landlord to have

Hector removed to an inn, where he could be tied up till the next day,

when I should come to say what was to be done with him.

The evening passed off tolerably well; it succeeded in dissipating his

chagrin. I accompanied him home towards midnight, and before I left him

I had obtained his permission to send Hector into the country, to a

relation of mine, where he would be well treated and be useful as a

chained dog, for Damon himself perceived that he could not be made a

friend of, and that he was too ill-tempered and dangerous to be allowed

to go about loose. And thus was Pythias the Third, the four-footed,

deposed.

It was very strange that though he wanted sadly to have his Pythias's

place refilled, he never made the slightest overture to me to occupy

it. Nevertheless, we were very intimate. He often visited me, and found

pleasure in the society of my family, and more especially in that of a

young girl, who was a frequent guest at my house, and who was both

pretty and good, though, perhaps, being a country girl, she wanted a

little of that finer polish which can only be acquired in the capital.

I have no doubt it was her being so open, straightforward,

unsophisticated, and natural, that charmed him with her; oddly enough,

love was never mentioned by either of them; they always spoke of

friendship alone, up to the very day of their betrothal. And, indeed,

after they were betrothed there was no change in their manners to each

other. I never saw him show her any of the usual little attentions, or

bestow on her any of the little endearments so common during this

period; he always spoke to her as if she had been a male friend; it

seemed as if he could not perceive that she belonged to womankind.

This engagement delighted us all, especially my sensible wife, who

augured a peaceful future for them, a life devoid of passion's storms,

calm and even, and rendered comfortable by a competence sufficient for

all their wants, though it could not be called a fortune, according to

the common acceptation of the word.

The damsel's parents gladly gave their consent, and as Damon very

justly considered a long engagement a wearisome affair, before six

months had passed they were man and wife.

The young girl was certainly a sweet pretty bride, and I really cannot

imagine how Damon could be satisfied with calling her 'my friend,' as

he led her from the altar; and I was still more surprised next day to

find that she had already begun to look after her household matters.

There was nothing to be found fault with in this, to be sure, and

neither of them seemed to think this out of the usual way. The young

couple appeared to be quite happy, and it was to be supposed that

Damon's heart had at last found its haven of rest. He had his young

wife, all went as she wished, and his house was, therefore, a pleasant

one; it was evident that it was under the care of a good and kind

spirit.

I have observed that there is one thing which is a stumbling-block in

almost all young _menages_--that is, the continued intimacy, after

marriage, of the husband's young men friends. Most young wives seem to

think that they must keep a watchful eye upon these friends, and

quietly strive to put an end to their baneful influence over the

husband! for they suppose that these former companions will withdraw

his thoughts from the sanctity of domestic life and lead him into

naughty ways. These suspicions seem to be deeply rooted in the minds of

newly-married women. I sincerely believe they are suggested by young

wives, who ought to know better by experience, and might have perceived

that their husbands' earlier associates would, in general, be glad to

be received as members of the family circle. The wives imagine that

their dominion is insecure so long as these suspicious persons are on

board; they think that when such is the case the ship of matrimony may

be at any moment upset, or stranded on unknown shores, that they must

steer with a skilful hand, and that they cannot be safe until they have

had the husbands' early friends cast overboard. I can assert this from

experience, for I have myself been cast overboard more than once on

account of such groundless suspicions.

But a house can hardly be without visitors, and what is more natural

than that these should consist of the young wife's friends and

connections? She believes she can depend upon them; she is accustomed

to them; she likes to display to them her notable housekeeping; it is

so very natural, and therefore one generally sees the husband's friends

and relations by degrees supplanted by those of the wife.

Damon's wife, however, was not obliged to man[oe]uvre at all to get rid

of his especial friends, for, with the exception of myself, who had my

own house, and was already a sedate and discreet person, he never

invited a single old associate. It was not necessary for her to throw

anyone overboard to make room for her friends and relations; these were

self-elected intimates at Mikkel's house, and all went on well there.

There was one of her cousins in particular to whom Damon soon attached

himself. He was a young man who had exactly the qualities which were

wanting in Damon. He was, among other things, witty, lively, amusing;

he was at all times ready for anything, and knew how to make the best

of everything. Damon soon found that he could not do without him, and

he became a daily guest at his house, which there was nothing in the

way of business to prevent his being, as he lived in a state of _il

dolce far niente_, waiting until some good appointment might offer

itself, which might suit a person of his talents and pretensions.

Before the expiration of a year, I observed that by degrees a change

had taken place in their relative positions. Damon had by this time

nearly undermined his own happiness. His old Pythias folly had awoke

again in him, almost without his being conscious of it. His interest in

his young wife was actually cast into the shade by his friendship for

her cousin, who had become Pythias the Fourth. She discovered at length

that she was quite set aside, and was jealous of this neglect; at the

same time she grew more and more intimate with her cousin, whose lively

conversation pleased her. That he had fallen in love with his young

cousin I will not assert, but he paid her at times such marked

attention, that I often thought this was the only reasonable inference

to be drawn from his conduct; at other times there was so much levity

and carelessness in his manners, so much flightiness in his way of

talking, that I felt myself compelled to discard the supposition.

Certain it is, however, that he was always hovering around her; that

her reputation might run the risk of being injured by his demeanour

towards her, and that dangerous consequences really might arise from

their being so much together in the intimacy of daily life, yet--who

was to blame except Damon?

With his accustomed blindness, the husband could not see anything of

this; he made quite sure that it was entirely for _his_ sake that the

young man played chess, talked politics, smoked tobacco, and went out

to walk or to fish whenever Damon wished to go. In order that they

might manage to be still more together, he had prevailed upon the

cousin to come out and stay with him at a country-house he had hired at

a few miles from town, where they had plenty of room. This invitation

was given much against the wishes of his wife, who had tried to prevent

it, but she had consented to it when she found that Damon had set his

heart on it. He said, jestingly, that he could not do without some male

society, and a trio would be pleasant in their pastoral life. In this

trio he himself voluntarily assigned the second part to the cousin,

while he took the third to himself.

Damon, however, was a little changed; he felt no longer inclined to be

_quite_ so subservient in his friendship as he had formerly been with

his two-and his four-footed friends. By degrees, a desire had crept

into his mind to take his revenge, and for once become himself the

domineering party. He began to be somewhat importunate in his claims on

the time and companionship of the cousin, who, on his side, showed

decided symptoms of wishing to emancipate himself, especially from the

tiresome and frequent fishing expeditions to the neighbouring lake; but

fishing was perhaps Damon's greatest pleasure, especially when he had

the company of a good friend. Damon was annoyed that the cousin had

several times latterly excused himself from accompanying him, and, not

caring to go alone, he had been obliged to relinquish his favourite

amusement. One day--it was too bad--on a beautiful evening in the very

height of summer, he refused to go fishing, when there could be no

earthly reason for his doing so--none that Damon could discover, except

that he preferred to parade up and down the alley of linden-trees at

the other end of the garden with his wife--while he himself sat at the

top of the stone stairs, and fretted until he was quite out of humour.

He could see that they spoke eagerly to each other, and laughed, and

amused themselves, while he was wearying himself; and neither of them

seemed to be thinking of him or his _ennui_. What were they going to do

now? So! They were actually setting off to walk in the very direction

of the lake, where he would so gladly have gone to fish; but _then_, it

was too far to go, forsooth!--now, they could go notwithstanding the

distance. It was almost like defying him; that was probably the

cousin's intention.

A disagreeable light seemed to dawn on his mind. And when this

operation first begins to take place, a man is apt to fancy more than

he has valid grounds for supposing. And this was the case with Damon.

In an exceedingly unpleasant state of mind, he returned to the usual

sitting-room in search of some employment to make time pass less

heavily. The comfortable room spoke volumes to his excited mind, with

its quiet and peace. It was arranged by his wife's taste, everything

bore witness in her favour. There stood her work-table, there lay her

work, the half-finished embroidery which she was preparing for his

birthday, and at which he therefore avoided looking. Upon a table close

by hers lay the cousin's portfolios and drawing materials. There was no

necessity for the tables being so near each other, and he pushed the

table with the drawings a little way from the work-table. The young man

certainly had talent--there were comical sketches and little

landscapes, thrown off as illustrations of poems, not without genius;

he thought he would just look into the portfolios, when, in opening one

of them, a sheet of paper, with pencil drawings, slipped out of it.

What were these? He must see. They were a whole row of caricatures,

in doing which the cousin excelled. There was a man with his nightcap

on, evidently asleep and snoring; a man with a pipe in his mouth,

half-asleep over a fishing-rod; a man half-asleep over a chessboard; a

man half-asleep over a Berlin newspaper; and lastly, a man half asleep

over his tobacco-pipe, while his pretty young wife seemed dreaming over

the work she had in her hand. Of what was _she_ dreaming while _he_ was

dozing? This question forced itself upon him. The sleepy-headed man was

no other than himself, caricatured in the most laughable manner; the

young wife might have been taken from nature: it was a charming

likeness. Damon sat as if he had fallen from the skies, with the sheet

of paper in his hand; he could scarcely conceive the ingratitude which

had suggested these sketches, or the barefaced impudence of leaving

them in an open portfolio, in his own daily sitting-room, where anyone

might see them--not only himself and his wife, but his guests and his

servants also.

Fate brought me to him for a second time at a critical moment. I came

accidentally to pay him a visit, and found him somewhat in the same

state as on the evening Hector had been doing battle with him. I

entered into his angry feelings, but nevertheless could hardly refrain

from bursting into a fit of laughter at the exceedingly impertinent,

but very droll drawings. We had a serious conversation on the position

in which he was placed; with great difficulty I brought him, at length,

to perceive that much of the blame rested with himself, and that his

young wife had nothing to reproach herself with. I combated his

assertion that she must have been cognizant of the existence of these

caricatures, and must have sat for the likeness of herself; and I even

went so far as to promise to prove to him her ignorance of the

drawings, though I did not know how that was to be effected without

occasioning a _scene_--and I had the greatest horror of scenes.

We had a long conversation, we two, for the wife and the cousin

remained a good while absent--longer than I thought was exactly right,

especially as it was getting late; but Damon did not seem to think

about it; he was engaged in speculating on the theme I had suggested

for his consideration--namely, that a husband who never makes the

slightest effort to find amusement for his young wife, but, without the

least compunction, leaves her to solitude or weariness, has himself to

blame if another succeeds in interesting and amusing her. It is this

unfortunate transition from the devoted assiduity of the days of

courtship, to the sleepy security of married life, that so often

undermines love, and renders the heart empty; and nature has decreed

that a woman's heart can never remain long perfectly vacant.

At last the truants returned. It was evident that the lady, at least,

felt it was not quite right to have stayed out till so long after the

usual hour for tea; she bustled about to get the tea ready, and was

very attentive in helping us to it. Damon maintained a grave silence,

and I felt somewhat embarrassed; the cousin alone seemed quite at his

ease, and not at all _gene_; I could not make out whether this was

nature or art. Perhaps it was politic to appear as if he had no idea

that there could be any cause for animadversion on account of their

unusually long walk. My confidence in her began to waver a little,

whilst my anger at him increased.

After tea the conversation fell, by mere accident, on portrait

painting. It was the lady who brought the subject forward, by speaking

of a picture of a female which she had observed in passing, hanging

like a sign, over the open door of a garden. Nothing could have been

more _a propos_. I hastened to ask the young wife if she had ever had

her likeness taken. No, she never had, and she never intended to have

it taken, for she could not bear the idea that anyone should sit down

and stare at her. The cousin declared this was a silly objection, and

appealed to me if he were not right.

'Oh! that is because he wants to make a sketch of me himself,' she

said, in rather a hurried manner; 'he has often begged me to permit it,

but I won't do so.'

The cousin remarked that there was no question of permission, only of

complaisance; if he chose to make a portrait of her, he could do it

without asking her leave; he could take her likeness without her

knowing anything about it; he could do it from memory. His cousin

laughed at these assertions, and laughed so naturally, that I felt

quite convinced I was right about her. Damon, on the contrary, looked

more and more distressed as this conversation proceeded; it was quite

apparent to me that he was miserable, and in a painful state of doubt,

and I had promised him a proof of his wife's innocence. Without

uttering a word, I laid hold of a corner of the paper on which were the

treacherous drawings, drew it out of the portfolio, and handed it to

her. I admit that this was very hard on the cousin, but why should I

spare the young jackanapes, from whom no mercy for others was to be

expected, as his caricatures showed plainly enough?

She evidently did not know what I meant by showing the drawings to her,

or what she was to do with them. On the first glance at the paper, she

seemed about to burst into a fit of laughter, and no one who had seen

these capital caricatures of Damon could have blamed the child of

nature for doing so. But on the second look, her eye had had time to

run over the whole sheet, and she had beheld her own likeness; the

contrast was too glaring, and there now did not linger the slightest

trace of a smile on her countenance. She blushed crimson, threw the

sketches far away from her, as if they had burned her hand, which for a

short time she placed over her eyes, as one does when suddenly coming

to the brink of a precipice. And her womanly tact had assuredly told

her that such had been her position. It was a moment for a painter of

scenes from domestic life to have taken a sketch. In the background

were the open doors leading from the pretty sitting-room to the garden,

whose trees seemed drawn on the clear evening skies in their full

beauty. On the sofa sat a man, apparently very unhappy, with his cheek

resting on his hand, and a look expressive of the deepest anxiety fixed

upon a young woman, whose guiltless countenance rivalled the glow of

the evening sky; whose whole bearing evinced mingled anger and

humility, innocence and embarrassment, while her eyes were riveted

on the paper she had cast from her, which had revealed to her one

of the dark shades of life. At a little distance from her stood a

grave-looking man, whose face expressed perfect confidence in, and

esteem for, the young wife; he stood as if he wished to inspire her

with courage to follow the dictates of her own heart. And nearest the

door leading to the entrance-hall sat a young gentleman, whose assured,

careless deportment formed a strong contrast to his perplexed and

irresolute glances; no one could have doubted that he was the cause of

the dismal mood which had seized upon all the rest of the party, and

that he was aware of this himself.

But it was only for a few short moments that the young wife stood as

described. Presently she looked up fearlessly, although tears were

streaming down her cheeks; without vouchsafing a single glance to the

young gentleman, she swept past him, threw her arms round her husband's

neck, and sank, weeping, by his side on the sofa. And this charming,

natural act found a response in his heart; he flung his arm round her

waist, and pressed her to his breast. It was a dumb and yet an eloquent

scene!

The friend and the cousin were now _de trop_. I made a sign to him, and

he left the room with me, without the others appearing to notice our

departure.

It was rather an embarrassing situation in which we two found ourselves

placed as we walked along the high road together. But as I have always

considered that 'honesty is the best policy,' I did not, on this

occasion, depart from my general rule. I began by telling him frankly

that the ingratitude which he had displayed towards my friend, who

was also his friend, and his cousin's husband, by caricaturing him so

ill-naturedly, and his hardihood in leaving the drawings in an open

portfolio in a sitting-room common to all the family, as if he wished

them to be seen by at least _one_ member of it, had convinced me that

his remaining in that house would be productive of unhappiness to his

host, and would be disagreeable to all parties. It was Damon himself

who by accident had found the caricatures. It was impossible, of

course, that he could pass them over in silence, and their discovery

might have caused an extremely unpleasant scene. I had sought to avoid

this, as I knew that no explanation or apology could have been

accepted; in fact, none satisfactorily could have been offered. I

pointed out to the young man that it was not likely his intercourse

with the family could be renewed; that it would be necessary for him to

determine what he was to do with himself for the future, as he could no

longer reckon on their kindness.

'Soft and fair goes far,' says the proverb, and its truth was shown

here. My words were taken in good part; the cousin and I continued to

walk back and forwards on the high road half the night. He accompanied

me at length to town, and then there was nothing for it--if he were to

have a roof over his head at all--but to give him a bed at my house. We

laid our heads together to think of what could be done to procure a

situation for him, which might give him some profitable employment for

the present, and some prospect of advantage for the future; and at last

we both agreed that he had better look after an appointment in one of

the provincial towns, which had just become vacant, and in the disposal

of which I had some influence. Security, however, to a certain small

extent, would be required, but I would help him to obtain this. I was

quite certain, I said, that if I asked Damon, he would be his security,

for he had a most amiable and forgiving temper. I wished Damon to have

this satisfaction, and the cousin this humiliation; _that_ should be

his only punishment. I am now inclined to believe, however, that he

found the punishment tolerably light, and bore it with great

equanimity, notwithstanding that he vapoured a great deal about

obligation, mortification, contrition, &c. &c.

To cut a long story short, the plan we had hit upon that night was

carried out. The cousin went to the country town and obtained the

situation, Damon became his security, and was not sorry to have this

little revenge upon him. And his young wife, who, through my

indiscretion, found out afterwards what Damon had done, was quite

overcome by her husband's generosity, and thought more of him than

ever. A man is never sorry that his wife should entertain the belief

that he is generous and noble-minded; that raises him much more in her

estimation than if he gave her occasion for the vain satisfaction of

admiring his wit. That, certainly, Damon's wife had no opportunity of

doing, for he possessed neither wit nor genius, but he was a good,

kind-hearted person. Their married life, which had been so nearly

rendered unhappy, after the cloud above referred to had cleared off,

glided on in a calm and even tenour, and nothing occurred to disturb

their serenity.

But man is his own worst enemy, an old philosopher has said, and not

without truth. Before twelve months had expired Damon's old whim had

revived: he longed again for a friend, and began to lament that he had

no one to whom he might speak on many subjects on which he could not

converse with his wife.

'To speak the honest truth,' he said to me one day, 'I miss my wife's

cousin exceedingly. He was a pleasant, sociable young man as could be,

and I really do believe that we did him injustice--at least as far as

my wife was concerned--and that she never would have troubled herself

about him if he had remained in our house till doomsday. I really do

miss him often.'

I opened my eyes in amazement at hearing this speech. But he was in

earnest. Notwithstanding his domestic comforts, and all his previous

unfortunate' experience, he longed for--his phantom, his patented

friend, his Pythias the Fifth! The old fixed idea was again in the

ascendant! His folly almost made me ill, but it also made me very

angry, and this time I did not let him off easily. I remonstrated with

him on the injustice with which he had during his whole life treated

me, who had always been his true friend, a fact which no one could

deny, though he had scarcely considered me as such, while he had run up

friendship after friendship with a set of worthless creatures. His

Pythias-fancy was a positive frenzy with him, approaching to insanity.

But he had never had the least idea of what friendship _really was_.

And as he was ignorant of it, I would tell him that friendship is the

reward of affection, and it is not to be found in the street, like

acquaintances, the mere result of chance. But what had he gained by his

various friendships? Had they not been for a long time a wretched

slavery, and in the last instance an equally wretched attempt at

governing? The absurdity had merged at length into a perfect monomania,

which deserved no mercy, for it had nearly made his poor wife

thoroughly unhappy. If he could not give up the indulgence of this

caprice, I advised him to engage a Pythias by the month for certain

stipulated wages; some poor devil whom he could order to go with him to

fish, or sit down to a chessboard whenever he pleased, for he required

no other companion. Such an arrangement would be very convenient,

because he could dismiss the hired Pythias when he pleased without

further ado. As to myself, I said, I should continue to visit at his

house only on his wife's account, for, as she was to be so neglected by

him, she might require in her isolation the occasional society of a

sincere friend. I should not come any longer for his sake, as he had

shown me plainly enough how little he cared, or had ever cared, for me.

Damon was quite dumbfounded at the warmth with which I spoke, and at

the unvarnished truths with which I overwhelmed him; his conscience

must have told him that my accusations were not without foundation. He

gave in, and concord was restored between us upon the condition that,

for the future, he should renounce all search after his Pythias

puppets. It was further resolved that the pacification should be 'firm

and lasting,' as it is called in all treaties of peace.

I had been two or three months travelling abroad, when I received a

letter from Damon, giving me to understand that an event was expected

in his house which was looked forward to with much pleasure. I was

delighted to hear it, hoping that it would add so much to the happiness

of my friends in the future. At length, to my joy, came another letter,

announcing the birth of a son, his exact image, and he was so expansive

in his descriptions of the little stranger, whom he seemed to look upon

as a prodigy, that he scarcely left himself room to mention his wife.

As soon as I returned home, I went to see him, and found him, like a

fond papa, in the nursery' where he was pacing up and down, holding a

monologue about the boy's education and future prospects. The young

mother was sitting on the sofa with that languid, touching expression

of heartfelt joy, which is so becoming to young mothers, and with a

dreamy look, as if she, too, were beholding in her mind's eye the

future for her child, and in thought were bestowing on him the cherub

form more meet for an angel than a child of mortality. I congratulated

them both with all my heart. Damon lifted his 'exact image' from the

cradle, raised the infant high in the air, and exclaimed with pleasure

and pride:

'See here! here is my new born friend--my rightful Pythias!'

I could not help smiling at this truly unexpected outburst. What

obstinacy!

The young mother held out her arms, and cried: 'Oh, give him to

me--give me my child, my own little man, my darling!'

And when the infant was placed in her arms she caressed him with that

tenderness which only a mother can show.

'My Pythias!--My darling!' They had both spoken from their hearts, and

found the word which made them happiest.

When the boy was to be christened, the mother proposed that he should

be named Charles, and the father that he should also be called Pythias.

Charles was after me; Pythias was after him, the other--the phantom. I

could not refrain from whispering to Damon, if it would not be well to

have the child also christened 'the Fifth.' He laughed, and pushed me

so, that I had nearly gone head-foremost into the cradle, to 'the

new-born Pythias.'

And Charles Pythias united in his own person that which makes the

happiness of marriage--love and friendship. I do not believe that

either of the parents bethought them how long these feelings had been

shared among various individuals, so entirely were they now united and

concentrated in this one little child.

But I pleaded earnestly that the boy should on no account be called

Pythias, and insisted that it was quite enough for him to bear my name,

as his father's friend. I was determined to free myself from hearing

anything more of Pythias. Happily I carried my point, and I _did_ hear

no more of him. The new-born Pythias, however, took, in due time, his

rightful place, though he had escaped bearing the ridiculous name.

THE FATAL CHAIN.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF UNCLE ADAM.

One dreary autumn evening, shortly after I had taken possession

of my living (thus my friend, the Rev. Mr. Z., began his narrative),

I was sitting alone in my study, the same which I occupy to this day,

and from which I overlook the church and the churchyard, when a

servant-girl entered, and announced that a strange gentleman was

waiting in the drawing-room, who wished to speak to me. I hastened

downstairs, and found a good-looking young man, although he appeared to

be unusually pale, with an expression of wild grief in his eyes, which

led me to conclude that he was the bearer of some unpleasant

intelligence.

'I come to beg you for the key of the Lejonswaerd'schen family vault,'

said he; 'I believe you have it.'

'What!' I demanded in astonishment, 'do you wish it now, at this late

hour?'

'Yes; I must have it,' said the stranger, impatiently, 'for a corpse.

Alas! a corpse is to be interred immediately.'

The stranger's manners seemed to me to be so very peculiar that I still

hesitated. On perceiving this he cried,

'You appear to be unwilling to give it, sir. You need not hesitate; my

name is Lejonswaerd, and the corpse which is to be laid in the narrow

tomb is that of my wife. I have one key, but require the other from

you. Will you still refuse it to me?'

I gave him the key, and with scarcely a word of thanks he hastened

away. I returned to my chamber, and gazed forth into the darkness which

shrouded the churchyard. I soon perceived lights moving over the graves

towards the vaults; the vault lies here, on this side, and the wall at

the entrance is ornamented by a lion holding in its paw a pierced

heart. The tomb was opened, and I saw the torchlight through the

grating. It was a gloomy sight, which I shall never forget.

The simple burial was over, and immediately afterwards a servant

brought me back the key.

Several years had passed, when the same gentleman entered my room one

morning.

'Do you recollect me?' he asked. I answered in the affirmative. 'It is

well,' continued he; 'I am going to become your parishioner, yonder at

Lejonsnaes.'

'Are you going to live at Lejonsnaes? Surely you are not in earnest,

Herr Count! No one has resided there for nearly a hundred years.'

'So much the better! I will turn it once more into a human dwelling;

but I shall lead a very secluded life; my servant is to be my

major-domo, my coachman, and my valet; that will be a quiet household!

Will you accompany me?' continued he. 'Though the proprietor of the

estate, I am perfectly ignorant of its situation. Will you accompany

me, and instal me among my dear forefathers who are there in effigy?'

Having acquainted my wife with my intended journey, I seated myself

along with the count in his carriage, and set off, driven by the much

experienced domestic, who, besides his knowledge of the mysteries of

the kitchen and the bed-chamber, was also skilled in managing a pair of

horses.

We soon arrived at the estate. A large, heavy building, to which, wings

had been added, stood, with its dingy windows, in gloomy grandeur; a

double row of ancient trees skirted the spacious court-yard, in the

centre of which, surrounded by a wild and partly withered hedge of box,

arose a dried-up fountain. This is a slight description of the place.

The count smiled and looked at me. 'How does the house please you?'

said he. 'To me it looks like the abode of spectres. It is strange,'

continued he, 'that people are always anxious to attach a more intimate

connection with the world of spirits to places such as this, as if

spirits could not reveal their presence anywhere. You doubt my words.

You shake your head. Why? If there be no communication with the world

of spirits, why have we an inward voice which tells us that there is?'

'All have not such a voice,' I answered, smiling.

'There you are mistaken, dear sir,' replied the count, eagerly. 'You

cannot deny that there are things which pass our comprehension, which

therefore originate from a higher power; and there scarcely exists a

man who, once in his life at least, has not been placed in a situation

which has forced him to believe in the influence of a world of spirits.

Tell me, what is it that consoles him who has lost all that he held

dear? For instance, a--'--he was silent a moment, as if struggling with

inward emotion--'a wife,' continued he, 'and child. What is that--when,

crushed by the cruel hand of Fate, one kneels before a coffin--which

illumines the soul like a clear stream of light from a better world, or

whispers sweet comfort to the half-paralyzed heart?'

'Religion,' I replied; 'the consolation of religion, Herr Count.'

'No, no, Herr Pastor; religion has nothing to do with _this_. Religion

is a sentiment embracing duty and devotion, which is founded on faith,

and directed by reason. The sensation to which I allude is something

outward, something which affects the soul as suddenly as a flash of

lightning, without the thoughts having had time to dwell on the

possibility of consolation. It is as if a stream of light broke

unexpectedly upon the mind, Herr Pastor. It is not religion, but the

spirit of the beloved departed which bestows on the mourner a portion

of its own bliss.'

Just then the inspector arrived with the keys of the castle, and

interrupted our conversation. He also was of the same opinion as

myself, that the castle was not fit to be inhabited; but the count

remained firm to his intention of taking up his abode there.

'Give me the keys, inspector. You need not accompany us; my friend and

I will be able to find our way, I do not doubt. You need only tell us

to which doors the keys belong.'

The inspector bowed, and began as he was requested to sort the keys.

'This one belongs to the large house-door; this, to the suite of rooms

occupied by the councillor of blessed memory; and this, to the

apartments which the councillor's wife inhabited. This key belongs to

the young count's rooms; or,' continued he, rather embarrassed, 'to the

rooms in the western wing, which belonged to your grandfather, Herr

Count, when he was a young man.'

'Enough, good sir. We shall find our way,' said the count, as he

smilingly interrupted him.

We approached the castle. 'Did you hear,' said the count, '_the young

count's rooms?_' The young count was my grandfather. This shows that

traditions never grow old. He is still called THE YOUNG COUNT here,

although it is about fifty years since he died, old and infirm.'

As we entered the lofty arched entrance-hall, a chill, dank air met us.

Here and there a portion of the ornamental gilding from the walls had

fallen away, and several large oil-paintings, representing bear-hunts,

had become spotted with mould and dust.

'The entrance-hall is not particularly inviting,' said the count; 'but

let us proceed farther.'

The key was placed into the heavy, elaborately ornamented door, leading

to the apartments of the councillor above mentioned. We entered an

antechamber, hung with several portraits and landscapes of the Dutch

school; here, in a richly-gilt frame, which the hand of time had

partially robbed of its brilliancy, was a lady dressed as a

shepherdess, with a broad-brimmed straw hat upon her powdered head, and

a shepherd's crook in her hand; a lovely smile played round the rosy

lips, and the bright and speaking eyes sparkled with gaiety.

'That,' said the count, 'is my grandmother. She is smiling to us. She

was painted as a bride, and there she still sits in her youthful

beauty. It is the same with portraits as with the soul--they never grow

old.'

We went on, and entered a room with a polished oaken floor, and the

walls hung with gilded leather in richly-gilt partitions; there was a

stiff grandeur about the room, which was rendered more formal by the

old-fashioned furniture. The mouldings of the ceilings were decorated

by groups of clumsy figures, a remnant of the grotesque taste, and

accumulation of ornaments so prevalent in the seventeenth century. This

had formerly been the chamber in which the councillor had studied, and

it had been left untouched, just as it was during his lifetime. A

clock, in a large stand of Chinese painting, in black and gold, stood

silent and covered with dust in a corner, and a thick bell-rope with

ponderous silk tassels still hung in another corner near the heavy

writing-table, before which was placed, as if the student had only a

moment before arisen from it, a narrow, high-backed chair, with legs

curved outwards. Beyond this room came a bed-chamber, decorated in the

style as the one we had just left.

'By Heavens,' said the count, 'it almost seems as if you were

right. I cannot reconcile myself to these rooms, and to this furniture.

Rooms and furniture--if I may so express myself--are our nearest

acquaintances--a chair, a table, a sofa, are often our most intimate

companions.'

At length we arrived at two small rooms, the windows of which looked

out upon the garden; they seemed to have been more recently occupied,

and were more simply furnished.

'I shall pitch my tent here!' said the count. 'The arrangements cannot

be said to be of the newest fashion, but, at any rate, there is a more

cheerful aspect about this place than in any other part of the castle.'

Before the table stood an arm-chair, which formerly had been gilded,

but now the white grounding was visible in many places; the red velvet

with which it was covered was not faded; indeed, upon the whole, the

colours were better preserved in this room than in the others. I was

surprised at it, but the count, who regarded everything in his own

peculiar way, merely remarked that the chamber lay on the northern side

of the house.

'You see, Herr Pastor, where the full glare of the sun cannot

penetrate, anything old is better preserved. It is a well-known fact,

that what is ancient is best preserved in darkness; this holds good as

well in the material as in the moral world, for light is only required

by that which is growing. Objects that decay are more easily destroyed

in light than in twilight. Hence,' he added, with a satirical curl of

his lip, 'darkness is so necessary for the preservation of what is

old.'

These apartments having been brought into some sort of order, the count

established himself in them; from the time he had taken possession of

his paternal property, his temper appeared to have become more equable.

The castle harmonized with his restless soul, which cared not for the

present, but loved rather to live amidst the memory of the past, which

was crowded with familiar acquaintances; or, to endeavour to seek a

dark and mysterious intercourse with another and to us unknown, world.

He was a visionary, but a noble visionary, with a deep sense of

everything that is good and grand. I frequently visited him, and found

him often engaged in reading, but he always hid his book when I

entered. Once, however, I happened to catch a glimpse of it; it was

Jung Stilling's works.

'I see, count,' said I, 'that you are reading about ghosts and

apparitions. You surely do not believe in them?'

'Why should I not? Is there anything absurd in that belief, or do you

suppose that man is the only being in the creation intellectually

endowed? That he stands next to God? Do you not believe in the

possibility that the human soul, when freed from its vile earthly

garment, can receive a more perfect, an ethereal body, suited to its

new state? _I_ believe in it, and find comfort in the thought. What

were man if he did not, even here below, penetrate, however dimly, into

a future existence, and acquire a slight knowledge of its mysteries?

What were we did we not all believe in this, to a greater or lesser

extent? I maintain that there does not exist a man who has not some

belief in spirits, even though he may ridicule the idea to others. When

Death steals away the best beloved of a man's heart, seizes her in his

bony arms, and draws her down into the gloom of the grave--when the

hand of Providence lies heavily upon him--rest assured, my friend,

_that_ man will believe in a spiritual world.'

'Assuredly; and he ought to do so. No one should dare to doubt the

future existence of the soul.'

'I speak of the atmosphere as being peopled with spirits; to that

belief the soul of man clings when sorrowing for the dead.'

'Sorrow often leads to wild ideas,' I remarked.

'Sorrow!' repeated the count. 'You are partly right; sorrow constitutes

the night in the fate of mankind. When we are prosperous we heed not

the noiseless, measured movement of the wheel of fate; the earthy

element asserts its right over us, and cheats us into the belief that

we are happy. True happiness and sorrow are more in unison than we are

apt to fancy. If we sit on a peaceful evening with a beloved wife and

her children, and thank the Lord for all the blessings we enjoy, it is

their presence which constitutes our happiness; or, if we fall upon our

knees by the side of their inanimate corpses, though we are bowed down

with grief for their loss at first, after a time we cease to feel that

we are alone. There is a something invisible, inaudible, and yet

intelligible to our inmost soul that tells us restoration succeeds to

dissolution, and life succeeds to death; and this something I call a

mysterious intercourse with the spirit world.'

'But, count,' I suggested, 'reason points out to us--'

'Reason!' repeated he, impetuously interrupting me. 'Speak not of cold

reason! What is that power which some possess of divining every

feeling, every thought of those near them? What is feeling in

comparison with foreboding--judgment in comparison with faith? He who

acknowledges the existence of a higher world--who sincerely and

earnestly believes in a connection between his feelings and their

author--God--is a person of elevated mind; the man, on the contrary,

who in his pride of intellect detracts from the Holy One, and divides

the indivisible, is grovelling and limited in his ideas. I never could

endure that over-wise reason, which would force itself into everything,

fancying that it could take part in everything, without doing so in

reality. Do not say, therefore, Herr Pastor, what reason points out to

us. I contend that reason knows nothing about the matter.'

I found it was not worth while to dispute with the count, for as he

would not admit the right of reason, I had nothing to advance against

his vague and undefinable notions.

'It is a comfort,' said the count, one day, 'to believe in spiritual

visits. I live alone here; my servants inhabit the second story, and

you may possibly fancy that my time often hangs heavily on my hands.

Far from it; when my candles begin to burn dimly in the evening, and

the thick foliage is rustling gently--when the old furniture creaks,

and a distant sound is heard, which may either be taken for the

ringing of bells or the chanting of low murmuring voices, then my true

life begins. I saunter up and down the room, and at times stand still

and listen. Ah, then, often do I feel as if a flood of joy were rushing

on my wounded heart--there is a flitting sound in the adjoining

chamber--"Julia, Julia! thou hast not forgotten me!" I exclaim; and,

calm and happy, I retire to rest and fall asleep dreaming of her.'

The count sank into deep thought, but he soon raised his dark eyes

again, and gazing into my face, he said,

'You are my friend, are you not, even though you do not approve of my

chimeras, as you reasonable people call them? I speak of my Julia; you

do not know her, although she has for year belonged to your parish. She

it was who, on the evening that I saw you for the first time, was

conveyed to her last resting-place--she, my wife. I will tell you about

my Julia, and you must not endeavour to dissuade me, by reasoning, from

a belief which has become so necessary to me.'

The count seated himself in a large arm-chair, and began his narrative

as follows:

The house of Baron Lindesparre, in Stockholm, was, at the period from

which my story dates, the rendezvous of all the talent and beauty of

the capital. His soirees were noted for the distinguished tone which

pervaded them, for their unconstrained mirth, and their elegance

without ostentation. His splendid apartments were tastefully arranged,

without a single article being placed so as to appear more prominent

than the rest; where all was luxury the profusion was not observable.

It was only when one analyzed the magnificence of the house that one

found it _was_ magnificent.

The baron had been many years a widower: his wife, a Spaniard by birth,

I never saw, but she had left a daughter, beautiful and gentle, a being

formed partly of the glowing roses of the South, and partly of the snow

of the North. She was the fairy of the place, and hundreds vied for a

smile from her lips. This was Julia. She became my wife.

We had been married half a year, and had a separate residence, but on

every soiree Julia went to her father's to do the honours of the house.

On one of these evenings the company was more numerous than usual, and

I observed a gentleman among the crowd whom I did not know, and who

kept his eyes continually fixed upon my wife. He was tall and thin,

with a countenance pale and attenuated, the features were almost stiff

and inanimate, and the flashing eyes alone, which he fixed with a sort

of scornful look upon my Julia, betrayed life. He was dressed in black,

but a small star of brilliants sparkled from his button-hole, showing

that he was in the service of some government. The man appeared to be

about fifty years of ago, and a few grey hairs peeped out here and

there among his otherwise black locks. I know not why I took such a

strong interest in him; I fancied him disagreeable, and yet I was

attracted to him. His was a sort of spell such as certain snakes are

said to exercise over their victims.

My father-in-law came towards me. 'Who is that gentleman dressed in

black?' I asked.

'Ah,' answered the old man, 'I had almost forgotten to introduce you;

he is a Spaniard, a countryman of my beloved wife. Come.'

I followed him, and soon stood before the strange-looking guest.

'Don Caldero,' began my father-in-law; 'allow me to have the honour of

introducing to you my son-in-law, Count Lejonswaerd--Don Caldero,

attache to the Spanish Embassy.'

The stranger in the black dress said a few polite words to my

father-in-law, who then moved on.

'As far as I can judge from observation, count, you are the happiest

husband in all cold Sweden. I am glad to have made your acquaintance,'

said the Spaniard; 'I have long remarked you, and intended to have

inquired your name. You, like myself, appear to pay attention not only

to the outward but also to the inward properties of mankind. I rejoice

to have met a kindred spirit.'

Thus began my acquaintance with a man who, notwithstanding his cold,

severe, repulsive manners, possessed a fiery soul, and a mind capable

of conceiving grand ideas. From this evening Don Caldero became

intimate with me, and his clear understanding, the captivating warmth

which he too well knew how to mingle with his elegant conversation,

guided my ideas and feelings into a direction for which I was already

predisposed by character, but in which, without Don Caldero, I probably

never would have gone so far. He often visited at our house, and I

became more and more attached to the highly-talented and well-informed

Spaniard, and he, too, seemed disposed to like me. It was he who, with

a clearness which I am not capable of imitating, pointed out to me the

connection between God and man, between the visible and the invisible

world, who proved to me the existence of a communication between a

spiritual world and ours, manifested in dreams, forebodings, and in

mysterious intimations of the influence of a higher power, which we

experience in moments of grave importance. It was he who placed before

me the truth of apparitions, purified from all superstition--that is to

say, denying them to be gross, material manifestations, but receiving

them as produced through the interposition of beings endowed with

greater powers of intellect than ourselves. You should have heard him,

sir, and though you are so great a sceptic, you would have believed him

as I did.

We often amused ourselves with playing at chess, game that has always

interested me greatly. Don Caldero shared my taste, and we sometimes

fought a whole evening over one game.

'Chess pleases me,' he used to say, 'because it depends less than

anything else upon the chance of fate. Fate makes itself visible

everywhere, hence one must seek a pastime which excludes it as much as

possible; our pastimes ought to be such, that spirits cannot interfere

and amuse themselves at our expense.'

Don Caldero frequented my father-in-law's soirees, and my house, but

hitherto he had never invited me to visit him. He resided in a large

mansion quite by himself, and never received any strangers. His

character did not attract people, it rather caused him to be avoided;

for few knew, or could understand, his great worth, and fewer still

were inclined to follow him in his bold flights through the vast

regions of fancy.

After praising his friend at some length, the count concluded his

eulogy by saying:

In a word, Herr Pastor, there is but one such man in the world, and

that man is called Caldero.

At length, one evening, Caldero _did_ invite me. He lived at the

farther end of the northern suburb, in a house which he had furnished

according to his own taste. On entering the saloon I found no one, the

apartment was empty, and merely lighted by a single handsome lamp,

which hung from the ceiling, and which cast a subdued light around. I

went farther: everywhere I encountered the same silence, the same

twilight, the same heavy grandeur, which was to be traced in every

object. I stood still, a strange feeling creeping over me, the nursery

legends about enchanted castles flashed across my mind, and I fancied

myself transported into one whose owner, with all his retainers, lay in

one of the inner chambers, buried for many centuries in a profound

magical slumber. These thoughts were soon, however, chafed away by soft

steps upon the rich carpet, and Caldero's gloomy figure stood before

me.

'Welcome, count!' he said, courteously. 'I thank you for coming to my

hermitage, where, you must know, I have never invited anyone but

yourself. I longed for one evening to take entire possession of you;

pardon my selfishness.'

He led me into the inner cabinet. This was a small chamber, but lofty,

and fitted up in a still more gloomy style than the others. The walls,

hung with dark-red velvet, contrasted strangely with the white and gold

pilasters which stood at the four corners. In the middle of the room

was a table, upon which was placed a chessboard between a pair of tall

wax candles. We seated ourselves upon the sofa, and my host appeared to

be reflecting upon something; at length he exclaimed:

'Count! perhaps you may think it extraordinary that the Spaniard

Caldero has formed such an affection for you. He considers it his duty

to explain why; but in order to do so, I must give you a slight sketch

of my history.'

I listened with great attention to what this strange introduction might

lead, and Don Caldero continued:

'I was born and educated in Madrid; my father was a poor but excellent

man, belonging to the ancient nobility, and I imbibed from my earliest

infancy high notions of the value of rank. Latterly it has fallen in my

estimation, although I cannot even now entirely free myself from a

prejudice in favour of the advantages of good birth. I was, as I said

before, poor, but proud, as every Spaniard should be, and an ardent

longing to obtain honour and distinction dwelt in my youthful breast.

This longing was increased tenfold by my passion for a lovely girl as

poor as myself, but even more richly endowed with ancestors. The slight

difference which existed in the ancientness of our lineage, combined

with my poverty, prevented our love from becoming anything more than a

hopeless passion; for her parents, proud of their pure Christian blood,

which for centuries had remained unmixed, could not endure the idea of

their daughter uniting herself to me, whose early ancestor was a Moor,

a scion of that noble race who once occupied a portion of Spain. Still

youth and love easily forget these small differences, and Maria, so the

young lady was called, loved me most fervently. Often when she left

mass she bestowed upon me a few minutes undisturbed by witnesses. Ah!

how happy I then was! I fancied my own individual merit would, in time,

convince Maria's parents that I was worthy of her hand; I therefore

sought to be appointed to the diplomatic corps, a path which, under our

weak government, was a sure road to distinction; nor was it long before

I was named attache to the mission to Vienna.

'I met my beloved; it was for the last time; and never shall that

moment pass from my memory.

'"Do not forget your faithful Alphonso," I whispered, as I pressed her

in my arms. I felt how her tears rolled down her blooming cheeks.

'"See, beloved Maria," I said, at length, giving her a small golden

chain, which I had received from my mother--"see, here is something as

a remembrance of me; keep it faithfully. If, however, you should

forsake me, then return it to me, and I will wear it, and die thinking

of, and praying for, you."'

'"Never, never!" murmured Maria, as she took the chain.

'"Never, never!" I repeated, pressing her to my heart. "But, Maria!" I

continued after I had become more composed, "you might perhaps, forget

me; will you, as a proof of our eternal union, share a consecrated

wafer with your lover?" I had one, which I broke in two. "God is our

witness!" we both said. The clock in the adjoining cloister struck

eleven.

'"I must go," cried Maria. "For ever yours; for ever and for ever!"

'Long after she had disappeared I stood rooted to the spot, striving to

catch a glimpse of her in the moonlight. "For ever--for ever!" sounded

in my ears, and, midst golden dreams of a future full of bliss and

honour, I wended my way home.

'I had been about a year in Vienna, when one evening a stranger brought

me a packet. It contained the chain. I was horrified.

'"Deceived!--forsaken!--forgotten!" I cried. "But no, it is

impossible!" A slip of paper which was enclosed, contained, to my

comfort, the following words: "I remember my oath, but am _forced_ to

break it. Do not despise Maria."'

Don Caldero showed me a locket, which he wore near his heart. 'Do you

know this face?' said he. I started; they were the features of my wife.

'My wife!' I cried, in an agitated voice.

'No, my friend,' replied Caldero, with a bitter smile; 'it was her

mother. On this account I attached myself to you, for I still love the

mother in her child. I have suffered, I have become resigned, but I

have never _forgotten_: and I willingly cling to the belief, that

necessity and compulsion alone robbed me of my Maria. Let us play,

count.'

I silently seated myself at the chess-table, on which was ranged a

splendid set of chessmen; the board was of black-and-white stone,

and the men of one party were of silver, with tops of clear

crystal, diamond cut, while those of the other side were of a dark

steel-coloured metal, with dark red-tops.

'It is not usual,' began Don Caldero, 'to play chess for money; yet why

should we not at least venture something? I should like--I have often

very strange ideas--I should like to give your Julia the chain which

her mother possessed for a time; it is neither valuable nor modern, but

perhaps if she hears its history, she may kindly wear it in remembrance

of Don Caldero. I will stake the necklace, and you, count, will you

stake a lock of the dark hair of your Julia? She will doubtless give

it, if you ask for it. You must forgive an old, despised lover, for

fancying he sees the mother when he gazes on your wife.'

'I consent willingly to this arrangement,' I replied, smiling.

We played; but it seemed as though Don Caldero took pains to lose, and

he speedily succeeded in his endeavours.

'I am vanquished,' he said quietly, as he went towards a casket, which

I had not hitherto observed. 'Here, count, is the chain; I shall be

more calm when it is no longer in my hands.'

The chain was more costly than I had imagined, and I was pleased at the

idea of Julia wearing it when Caldero visited us. I instantly wrote a

note to Julia, in which, without mentioning anything about her mother,

I told her of Caldero's and my bet, and begged her for a lock of her

hair, in case, against my expectation, I should lose the next game. I

sent a servant to my house with this note and the chain to my wife,

after which we again returned to the chess-table. Now Caldero became

more cautious; I, on the contrary, was seized by a secret anxiety, an

uneasiness which I could not explain. I did not perceive the false

moves I was too evidently making. Don Caldero drew my attention to my

carelessness and more than once, made me take back my move; all was in

vain, I was as though bewitched, and could no longer calculate my

position. At length the servant returned, bringing a small note from

Julia. She jested at the taste of our Spanish friend, yet sent the lock

of hair, at the same time entreating me not again, not even for more

costly ornaments than the chain, to stake the ringlets of my wife. I

showed Caldero the note; he read it, and seemed to turn pale.

'Her handwriting resembles her mother's,' he said, and laid the note

upon the table. 'Let us continue.'

We played on, but I soon found myself completely surrounded by his men;

my strange uneasiness increased at each moment; I felt as though a

drawn sword were suspended by a hair over my head; the candles seemed

to burn blue; the white tops of my kings appeared to assume a pale

milk-white colour, whereas the dark-red of Calderos men glowed like

fiery coals, radiant with some inward light.

'Checkmated,' he said, in a low tone. 'Checkmated, count,' he repeated,

louder; but I sat immovable, staring fixedly at the chessmen. I

experienced a horrible sensation, as though an evil spirit were

standing behind me, with his burning hot hand upon my head;

nevertheless I was shivering--a death-like coldness had crept over my

whole body, and yet--At length I ventured to glance at Don Caldero; his

gloomy countenance was more pale than usual, he looked like a corpse,

and his dark hollow eyes were intently fixed upon me. 'This is the 12th

of August,' he murmured, as if to himself. 'Reconciliation with the

dead. Count, give me the lock of hair.'

I handed it to him, and then, rising from my seat as one intoxicated, I

staggered out of the house. I was conscious of nothing that was going

on; but Caldero followed me.

'Forgive me, count, my strange behaviour; but it is exactly twenty

years this day since Maria and I shared the consecrated wafer. I have

kept my oath. Good night, count. Do not forget your friend.'

I hastened home. Never in my life have I so distinctly beard a voice of

warning in the inmost depths of my soul. 'Hasten! hasten! hasten!'

cried the voice; and I flew rather than walked.

'Is Julia up still?' I asked of the servant who let me in.

'The countess?' he inquired. 'Yes, yes; the countess!'

'The countess must be still up; she dismissed her maid only a few

minutes ago.'

I ran to my wife's room. Julia was sitting in an arm-chair before her

toilet-table, and quite calmly, as though she had not heard my hasty

steps.

'God be praised that my foreboding of evil has not proved true!' I

exclaimed.

No answer.

'Julia!' I cried, in an agony of anxiety--'Julia, do you not hear me?'

Still the same silence. She sat immovable before the mirror, and her

lovely features were reflected in the glass; the trinket which I had

won was round her neck, and a gentle expression was in her tender black

eyes.

'Julia! Julia!' I cried, seizing her hand. It was cold, but not rigid.

God! my God! She was dead! I know not what further happened, but a

fortnight later I was with you, Herr Pastor, to place the remains of my

Julia in my family vault.'

The count had risen, and strode up and down the room in great

agitation. The clock struck eleven.

'Art thou there, Julia?' he cried, while his eyes roved wildly round.

'Come in! come in!' He opened the door leading to the adjoining room,

and called out into the darkness, 'Julia, I am here! here is thy

husband!' A cold draught of air alone was wafted into the room, and a

slight rustling noise was discernible. 'She passes on,' said the count.

He slammed the door, and sank into an arm-chair. 'She will not come to

me! My God! my God! let me go to her!'

The count sat for awhile lost in deep thought; at length he sprang up,

gazed at me with eyes beaming with joy, and exclaimed,

'Pastor Z., it is glorious to hope!'

When I left him I actually found myself trembling, and I was right glad

that the servant lighted me along the deserted apartments, so powerful

is the effect of the imagination when excited.

I continued to visit the count from time to time. His grief had, I

fancied, calmed down, but his health was beginning to suffer,

imperceptibly to himself perhaps, but not so to those who saw him now

and then. I remarked that he was gradually becoming more strange; he

often laughed at things which were not at all ludicrous; nevertheless,

he was always the same amiable man I had ever known him, and his

judgment was clear on every subject except when the mystic world was

touched upon, then his thoughts used to wander, and Julia, his beloved

Julia, was always the pivot round which his ideas turned.

In the middle of winter I suddenly received a message, to the effect

that I was wanted immediately at the castle. The messenger could not

tell the reason why I had been summoned, but said that the count's

valet had ordered him to saddle a horse and to ride as fast as he could

to me. I suspected some misfortune, so set off instantly.

When I entered the count's room he was seated at a table.

'Ah, is it you, Pastor Z.?' he said, when he perceived me. 'Have you

come to preach peace to my soul? Begin, sir; it will be amusing to

listen--ha, ha, ha!--to hope in God? God? what is that? No, pastor, now

I am wise--I believe in nothing, not even in myself, nor in you,

priest, you black-skinned slug! You are one of those who wind

themselves round mankind, and lie with a double tongue! Speak on, sir!'

His flashing eyes and uplifted arm, which threatened to strike, caused

me to start back: he was evidently deranged. His pale lips trembled

with rage, and his black hair hung in disorder about his brow, from

which drops of perspiration rolled down his cheeks. I perceived that

here I could be of no use; I therefore went to the bell to summon the

servant. He made his appearance, pale, and with eyes red from weeping.

'Look!' cried the count, wildly laughing--'only look, Pastor Z.! The

livelong night he has been borrowing from the fountain of tears, and

talking no end of nonsense, merely because I told the fool the simple

fact that neither he nor I possessed a soul, and that there is no such

thing as right or wrong. Well? How comical you look--ha, ha, ha! You,

and my man yonder, look like a couple of frightened sheep. You may rely

on what I say, he would have come if it had been in his power; but all

is over, he cannot come. Yes, look yonder, stare at your heaven: it is

air, mere air, nothing but empty air. Do you understand? The earth is a

solid lump, upon which cabbages, long-tailed monkeys, men, and other

plants grow; and above is heaven, that is to say, sensibly speaking,

air, atmosphere. Well? Are you not capable of comprehending this? it is

as clear as the day. Just listen,' he continued; 'mankind is a sort of

animal of prey, which, even when tamed, do not lose their natural

propensities; they are worse than beasts of prey, for even the tiger

loves its mate and its young, but look, man murders them--murders, do

you hear?'

He hid his face in his hands, and wept aloud.

'I do not know what the letter could have contained,' whispered the

servant. 'The count received it yesterday evening; he seemed overjoyed

when he beheld the handwriting, and before I left the room; when I

returned, however, he was just as you now see him. The poor count!' he

continued; 'he was such an excellent master!'

The count sprang to his feet as if he had been terrified by something.

'Ho!' he cried, and his wild eyes wandered round the room. 'So much

blood, so much poison were flowing over the earth; then a serpent

stretched out its scaly head from the bottomless pit and seized the

white dove. She fluttered her wings, the poor little thing, but first

one part of her and then the other was crushed in the serpent's throat.

It was her dead mother who devoured her: it was horrible! Look

yonder--look, Herr Pastor! A thick darkness overspread the earth; not a

single ray of hope could penetrate through the bloody vapour to her!

Nay, good pastor, it was merely a freak of fancy, but at the same time

a picture of the truth. Her mother and her husband murdered her. Do you

now understand?'

In this strain the unhappy man continued to rave for several days. I

remained in the castle, for I hoped he might rally. A doctor was called

in: he applied many remedies, none of which, however, seemed to afford

the sufferer any relief. The count continued to be insane, and never

for an instant did he close his eyes in sleep. At length, however, he

became exhausted, and was obliged to be carried to his bed. I was then

called to him. How much he had changed! his dark eyes had sunken

greatly? and looked like flames half extinguished; his cheeks had

fallen in, and his brow was full of wrinkles. He lay apparently in a

state of complete exhaustion, and when I addressed him he did not

answer.

His servant privately handed me the fatal letter. It was from Don

Caldero, and ran as follows:

'DEAR COUNT,--When this letter reaches you, I shall be no more. It

shall be laid in my desk, ready to be sent to you after my death. I owe

you an explanation to divest you of your erroneous ideas respecting

another world. For a long time past I have not believed in a future

life, but it has been one of my favourite amusements to observe the

faith of enthusiasts. It gave me pleasure when I perceived a man misled

by his faith, and I laughed in my sleeve at such folly. I influenced

your opinions, as I found you to be a fit subject for my experiments.

'I am a Catholic; from my youth upwards my eye has been accustomed to

weeping Madonnas; I have heard the miracles respecting the saints

narrated, and was expected to believe all I heard. The consequence is,

that I have ended by believing nothing, The whole of religion rests

upon the conviction of the present and eternal existence of the

immortal soul; but there is no proof that man possesses a soul, any

more than there is proof of the truth of the above-mentioned miracles.

Man is an animal like the other inhabitants of the globe, with this

exception only, that he has a more perfectly-developed brain, and a

greater number of intellectual organs. Life is quite independent of

soul. I have studied these subjects, and have become convinced that the

theory about the soul is a fabrication of the priesthood, invented to

enable them the more easily to govern the body. There can be no Divine

disposer of human events, else wickedness would not prosper in this

world as it does, whilst uprightness suffers. There is a governing law

in nature which dooms mankind to death, just as the trees are compelled

annually to shed their leaves. I saw how oaths were broken with

impunity; I shared with a maiden, whom I loved more than my life, a

consecrated wafer, the most sacred thing I then knew: _she_ broke the

oath and became happy, while _I_, who kept it, became miserable. Hence

I began to believe in fate, and not in Providence, and learned to

despise mankind to prevent myself from hating them.

'I met you and your Julia; she was _her_ daughter. She was beautiful,

and as yet nothing had occurred to try her character. For awhile my old

dreams of faithful love revived, and for the daughter's sake I forgave

the mother, who had so deeply wounded the most sacred of all feelings,

if anything can be termed sacred. To be brief, count, I fancied myself

once more in my enthusiastic youthful days; I forgot the sentiments

experience had induced me to adopt, and faith in Maria's love blossomed

anew in my heart, like the flowers which take root in the loose ashes

of a volcano. I fancied my innocent Maria would meet me in another

world with a kind welcome, and joyfully traverse with me the regions of

space. You see, count, that the notion of eternity and God proceeds

from our conceptions of love, and that, where there is no love, faith

is also wanting.

'Your wife died suddenly on the anniversary of the day on which Maria

and I had taken the oath. I considered this event as a sign from

Heaven, from her who, yonder above the skies, still loved me. I thought

the mother had called her daughter to herself, for she was the only

being on earth who testified to her broken oath. I deceived myself.

'I had scarcely returned to Spain, when I received a visit from a monk.

'"Pardon me, senor," said he, "if I take the liberty of putting a

question to you. Have you a chain, which you once received from a

distinguished lady whom you loved?"

'I gazed at the man in astonishment, and answered, "Yes; what can you

know about it?"

'"Senor, I prepared an old woman for death who had been engaged in some

cases of poisoning, and she confessed the following, which she gave me

permission to repeat, if by so doing any advantage might be gained:

'One evening,' these were her words, 'I was summoned to a young and

beautiful lady, she was called Maria Viso'--was that the name of your

beloved?--'and she begged me to insert a powerful poison in the clasp

of a chain.'

'"Although the wretched woman was accustomed to such commissions, she

nevertheless asked who was to wear the chain? The lady answered that it

had been given to her by an importunate suitor who was called Caldero,

and she now wished to send back the chain to him. She also said that

her feelings towards him were changed, and she now preferred another,

but that her parents, who formerly opposed her marriage with him, had

become anxious for it, and wished to force it on her, and she was

determined to get rid of him.

'"The woman thereupon inserted the poison into the clasp. The lady had

afterwards married a heretic, and this act of hers it was which had

roused the poisoner's conscience, for notwithstanding her being so

great a criminal, she was an orthodox Catholic. She sought to find you

out, in the hope that the scheme had not succeeded according to the

lady's intentions. The Lord be praised and thanked that you did not

wear that chain, you would undoubtedly have died if you had; the best

thing you can do with it will be to present it to our poor monastery,

for with the pure everything is pure, and the poison might be expunged

by melting the gold."

'I stood like one turned into a statue of stone. It was, then, the

decree of fate that the mother should be accessary to the daughter's

death, and the latter be sacrificed for the crime of the former!

'Picture to yourself now, if you can, count, blessed spirits: imagine

to yourself, now, a heaven on earth with a woman you love; cling to a

belief in another world; if you can do all this, then you are indeed a

perfect fool. I have relapsed into my old views: the earth remains

earth, and nothing more. When you are reading this I shall be dead,

cold, and buried. If, however, I have an immortal soul, you will know

the contents of this letter before it arrives, otherwise you must

believe that nothing remains of him who once was your friend.

'CALDERO.'

The much-to-be-pitied victim of Caldero's cold atheism and contempt of

mankind still sat in the same position, staring gloomily before him,

without uttering a syllable, but now and then heaving a deep-drawn

sigh. It was evident that he would soon be at rest, for every day he

became weaker and weaker.

I scarcely ever left the bedside of the unfortunate young man, in the

hope that he might, if only for a few minutes, regain his senses, when

I could speak peace to his soul.

One evening, after this sad state of affairs had continued without

interruption for a fortnight, I was sitting at a table reading, with my

back turned to the count, when I heard a low whispering behind me; it

was his voice. I listened--it was a fervent, humble prayer for peace in

death, and pardon for all his sins. I let him finish his prayer

undisturbed.

'Who is there?' asked the count, in a feeble tone.

I drew near to the bed.

'Is it you, Pastor Z.?' he said mildly. 'Still up? It is late. I am

happy now, my friend, for it will soon be day; I have had a long night.

I am dying, but I bear within me a strong voice crying, 'Love is

faith,' and I pray, bowing myself in humility before the God of Love. I

have wandered from the right path, I was misled, misfortune pursued me,

and I became, through my thoughtlessness, Julia's murderer. The

crushing intelligence contained in Caldero's letter shook my trust in

everything, for it is a relief to a guilty soul not to believe in a

Judge. But my presumptuous folly was punished, my understanding became

obscured. A light has burst upon me now, and since I have prayed I feel

at peace. I prayed--for many years I neglected to do so--yes, I prayed

with clasped hands, as my mother used to teach me when I was an

innocent child. Alas, I ought always to have prayed thus.'

He ceased speaking, and leaning his head against his pillow, he looked

steadfastly at me with a mild, glorified expression of countenance. I

had sunk upon my knees at the side of his bed, and poured forth thanks

to my God for the ray of light and hope which he had permitted to

penetrate the darkened mind of the poor sufferer.

'Lord!' I entreated, 'grant him light!'

'Light,' he repeated, in a low whisper, 'Lord! more light. God be

praised! there _is_ light!'

He closed his eyes, heaved a long sigh, and in another world he

received an explanation of that secret, the solution of which he had

only grasped in his last hour.

He now reposes in the family vault by the side of his beloved Julia;

the receptacle of the dead is full. The pieces of his shattered

escutcheon lie scattered upon the floor around his coffin,[7] and the

key of the vault will be needed no more!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: "_Too Old_"--"For gammel"--is from a Danish work entitled

"Haabloes"--"_Hopeless_"--by Carit Etlar. The volume, which contains

three tales, was published in Copenhagen in 1857.]

[Footnote 2: Councillor of state. Etatsraad is a Danish title, and an

etatsraad's wife is styled Etatsraadinde.]

[Footnote 3: From a collection of Tales, in one volume, entitled

'Haablos'--'Hopeless.']

[Footnote 4: See 'Eventyr og Folkesagn.'--_Espen til Ahner_.]

[Footnote 5: Krigsraad--a Danish title.]

[Footnote 6: One mile Danish is equal to more than four English miles.]

[Footnote 7: At the death of the last representative of a noble family

in Sweden, the escutcheon is usually broken over his coffin.]

END OF VOL. II.

LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,

AND CHARING CROSS.