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The Home; Or, Life in Sweden

by Fredrika Bremer · English · Gutenberg #20746 · 872,435 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Home; Or, Life in Sweden

Author: Fredrika Bremer

Translator: Mary Howitt


        
Release date: March 5, 2007 [eBook #20746]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20746

Credits: Produced by Stacy Brown, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOME; OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN ***




Produced by Stacy Brown, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net











FREDRIKA BREMER'S WORKS.

THE HOME

OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN.


  TRANSLATED
  BY MARY HOWITT.

  LONDON:
  HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
  1853.




C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE.




THE HOME:

OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

MORNING DISPUTE AND EVENING CONTENTION.


"My sweet friend," said Judge Frank, in a tone of vexation, "it is not
worth while reading aloud to you if you keep yawning incessantly, and
looking about, first to the right and then to the left;" and with these
words he laid down a treatise of Jeremy Bentham, which he had been
reading, and rose from his seat.

"Ah, forgive me, dear friend!" returned his wife, "but really these good
things are all somewhat indigestible, and I was thinking about----Come
here, dear Brigitta!" said Mrs. Elise Frank, beckoning an old servant to
her, to whom she then spoke in an under tone.

Whilst this was going on, the Judge, a handsome strong-built man of
probably forty, walked up and down the room, and then suddenly pausing
as if in consideration, before one of the walls, he exclaimed to his
wife, who by this time had finished her conversation with the old
servant, "See, love, now if we were to have a door opened here--and it
could very easily be done, for it is only a lath-and-plaster wall--we
could then get so conveniently into our bedroom, without first going
through the sitting-room and the nursery--it would indeed be capital!"

"But then, where could the sofa stand?" answered Elise, with some
anxiety.

"The sofa?" returned her husband; "oh, the sofa could be wheeled a
little aside; there is more than room enough for it."

"But, my best friend," replied she, "there would come a very dangerous
draft from the door to every one who sat in the corner."

"Ah! always difficulties and impediments!" said the husband. "But cannot
you see, yourself, what a great advantage it would be if there were a
door here?"

"No, candidly speaking," said she, "I think it is better as it is."

"Yes, that is always the way with ladies," returned he; "they will have
nothing touched, nothing done, nothing changed, even to obtain
improvement and convenience; everything is good and excellent as it is,
till somebody makes the alteration for them, and then they can see at
once how much better it is; and then they exclaim, 'Ah, see now that is
charming!' Ladies, without doubt, belong to the stand-still party!"

"And the gentlemen," added she, "belong to the movement party; at least
wherever building and molestation-making comes across them!"

The conversation, which had hitherto appeared perfectly
good-humoured, seemed to assume a tone of bitterness from that word
"molestation-making;" and in return the voice of the Judge was somewhat
austere, as he replied to her taunt against the gentlemen. "Yes," said
he, "they are not afraid of a little trouble whenever a great advantage
is to be obtained. But----are we to have no breakfast to-day? It is
twenty-two minutes after nine! It really is shocking, dear Elise, that
you cannot teach your maids punctuality! There is nothing more
intolerable than to lose one's time in waiting; nothing more useless;
nothing more insupportable; nothing which more easily might be
prevented, if people would only resolutely set about it! Life is really
too short for one to be able to waste half of it in waiting!
Five-and-twenty minutes after nine! and the children--are they not ready
too? Dear Elise----"

"I'll go and see after them," said she; and went out quickly.

It was Sunday. The June sun shone into a large cheerful room, and upon a
snow-white damask tablecloth, which in soft silken folds was spread over
a long table, on which a handsome coffee-service was set out with
considerable elegance. The disturbed countenance with which the Judge
had approached the breakfast-table, cleared itself instantly as a
person, whom young ladies would unquestionably have called "horribly
ugly," but whom no reflective physiognomist could have observed without
interest, entered the room. This person was tall, extremely thin, and
somewhat inclining to the left side; the complexion was dark, and the
somewhat noble features wore a melancholy expression, which but seldom
gave place to a smile of unusual beauty. The forehead elevated itself,
with its deep lines, above the large brown extraordinary eyes, and above
this a wood of black-brown hair erected itself, under whose thick stiff
curls people said a multitude of ill-humours and paradoxes housed
themselves; so also, indeed, might they in all those deep furrows with
which his countenance was lined, not one of which certainly was without
its own signification. Still, there was not a sharp angle of that face;
there was nothing, either in word or voice, of the Assessor, Jeremias
Munter, however severe they might seem to be, which at the same time did
not conceal an expression of the deepest goodness of heart, and which
stamped itself upon his whole being, in the same way as the sap clothes
with green foliage the stiff resisting branches of the knotted oak.

"Good day, brother!" exclaimed the Judge, cordially offering him his
hand, "how are you?"

"Bad!" answered the melancholy man; "how can it be otherwise? What
weather we have! As cold as January! And what people we have in the
world too: it is both a sin and shame! I am so angry to-day that----Have
you read that malicious article against you in the----paper?"

"No, I don't take in that paper; but I have heard speak of the article,"
said Judge Frank. "It is directed against my writing on the condition of
the poor in the province, is it not?"

"Yes; or more properly no," replied the Assessor, "for the extraordinary
fact is, that it contains nothing about that affair. It is against
yourself that it is aimed--the lowest insinuations, the coarsest abuse!"

"So I have heard," said the Judge; "and on that very account I do not
trouble myself to read it."

"Have you heard who has written it?" asked the visitor.

"No," returned the other; "nor do I wish to know."

"But you should do so," argued the Assessor; "people ought to know who
are their enemies. It is Mr. N. I should like to give the fellow three
emetics, that he might know the taste of his own gall!"

"What!" exclaimed Judge Frank, at once interested in the Assessor's
news--"N., who lives nearly opposite to us, and who has so lately
received from the Cape his child, the poor little motherless girl?"

"The very same!" returned he; "but you must read this piece, if it be
only to give a relish to your coffee. See here; I have brought it with
me. I have learned that it would be sent to your wife to-day. Yes,
indeed, what pretty fellows there are in the world! But where is your
wife to-day? Ah! here she comes! Good morning, my lady Elise. So
charming in the early morning; but so pale! Eh, eh, eh; this is not as
it should be! What is it that I say and preach continually? Exercise,
fresh air--else nothing in the world avails anything. But who listens to
one's preaching? No--adieu my friends! Ah! where is my snuff-box? Under
the newspapers? The abominable newspapers; they must lay their hands on
everything; one can't keep even one's snuff-box in peace for them!
Adieu, Mrs. Elise! Adieu, Frank. Nay, see how he sits there and reads
coarse abuse of himself, just as if it mattered nothing to him. Now he
laughs into the bargain. Enjoy your breakfasts, my friends!"

"Will you not enjoy it with us?" asked the friendly voice of Mrs. Frank;
"we can offer you to-day quite fresh home-baked bread."

"No, I thank you," said the Assessor; "I am no friend to such home-made
things; good for nothing, however much they may be bragged of.
Home-baked, home-brewed, home-made. Heaven help us! It all sounds very
fine, but it's good for nothing."

"Try if to-day it really be good for nothing," urged she. "There, we
have now Madame Folette on the table; you must, at least, have a cup of
coffee from her."

"What do you mean?" asked the surprised Assessor; "what is it? What
horrid Madame is it that is to give me a cup of coffee? I never could
bear old women; and if they are now to come upon the coffee-table----"

"The round coffee-pot there," said Mrs. Frank, good-humouredly, "is
Madame Folette. Could you not bear that?"

"But why call it so?" asked he. "What foolery is that?"

"It is a fancy of the children," returned she. "An honest old woman of
this name, whom I once treated to a cup of coffee, exclaimed, at the
first sight of her favourite beverage, 'When I see a coffee-pot, it is
all the same to me as if I saw an angel from heaven!' The children heard
this, and insisted upon it that there was a great resemblance in figure
between Madame Folette and this coffee-pot; and so ever since it has
borne her name. The children are very fond of her, because she gives
them every Sunday morning their coffee."

"What business have children with coffee?" asked the Assessor. "Cannot
they be thin enough without it; and are they to be burnt up before their
time? There's Petrea, is she not lanky enough? I never was very fond of
her; and now, if she is to grow up into a coffee wife, why--"

"But, dear Munter," said Mrs. Frank, "you are not in a good humour
to-day."

"Good humour!" replied he: "no, Mrs. Elise, I am not in a good humour; I
don't know what there is in the world to make people good-humoured.
There now, your chair has torn a hole in my coat-lap! Is that pleasant?
That's home-made too! But now I'll go; that is, if your doors--are they
home-made too?--will let me pass."

"But will you not come back, and dine with us?" asked she.

"No, I thank you," replied he; "I am invited elsewhere; and that in this
house, too."

"To Mrs. Chamberlain W----?" asked Mrs. Frank.

"No, indeed!" answered the Assessor: "I cannot bear that woman. She
lectures me incessantly. Lectures me! I have a great wish to lecture
her, I have! And then, her blessed dog--Pyrrhus or Pirre; I had a great
mind to kill it. And then, she is so thin. I cannot bear thin people;
least of all, thin old women."

"No?" said Mrs. Frank. "Don't you know, then, what rumour says of you
and poor old Miss Rask?"

"That common person!" exclaimed Jeremias. "Well, and what says malice of
me and poor old Miss Rask?"

"That, not many days since," said Mrs. Frank, "you met this old lady on
your stairs as she was going up to her own room; and that she was
sighing, because of the long flight of stairs and her weak chest. Now
malice says, that, with the utmost politeness, you offered her your arm,
and conducted her up the stairs with the greatest possible care; nor
left her, till she had reached her own door; and further, after all,
that you sent her a pound of cough lozenges; and----"

"And do you believe," interrupted the Assessor, "that I did that for her
own sake? No, I thank you! I did it that the poor old skeleton might not
fall down dead upon my steps, and I be obliged to climb over her ugly
corpse. From no other cause in this world did I drag her up the stairs.
Yes, yes, that was it! I dine to-day with Miss Berndes. She is always a
very sensible person; and her little Miss Laura is very pretty. See,
here have we now all the herd of children! Your most devoted servant,
Sister Louise! So, indeed, little Miss Eva! she is not afraid of the
ugly old fellow, she--God bless her! there's some sugar-candy for her!
And the little one! it looks just like a little angel. Do I make her
cry? Then I must away; for I cannot endure children's crying. Oh, for
heaven's sake! It may make a part of the charm of home: that I can
believe;--perhaps it is home-music! Home-baked, home-made,
home-music----hu!"

The Assessor sprang through the door; the Judge laughed; and the little
one became silent at the sight of a kringla,[1] through which the
beautiful eye of her brother Henrik spied at her as through an
eye-glass; whilst the other children came bounding to the
breakfast-table.

"Nay, nay, nay, my little angels, keep yourselves a little quiet," said
the mother. "Wait a moment, dear Petrea; patience is a virtue. Eva dear,
don't behave in that way; you don't see me do so."

Thus gently moralised the mother; whilst, with the help of her eldest
daughter, the little prudent Louise, she cared for the other children.
The father went from one to another full of delight, patted their little
heads, and pulled them gently by the hair.

"I ought, yesterday, to have cut all your hair," said he. "Eva has quite
a wig; one can hardly see her face for it. Give your papa a kiss, my
little girl! I'll take your wig from you early to-morrow morning."

"And mine too, and mine too, papa!" exclaimed the others.

"Yes, yes," answered the father, "I'll shear every one of you."

All laughed but the little one; which, half frightened, hid its
sunny-haired little head on the mother's bosom: the father raised it
gently, and kissed, first it, and then the mother.

"Now put sugar in papa's cup," said she to the little one; "look! he
holds it to you."

The little one smiled, put sugar in the cup, and Madame Folette began
her joyful circuit.

But we will now leave Madame Folette, home-baked bread, the family
breakfast, and the morning sun, and seat ourselves at the evening lamp,
by the light of which Elise is writing.


TO CECILIA.

I must give you portraits of all my little flock of children; who now,
having enjoyed their evening meal, are laid to rest upon their soft
pillows. Ah! if I had only a really good portrait--I mean a painted
one--of my Henrik, my first-born, my summer child, as I call
him--because he was born on a Midsummer-day, in the summer hours both of
my life and my fortune; but only the pencil of a Correggio could
represent those beautiful, kind, blue eyes, those golden locks, that
loving mouth, and that countenance all so perfectly pure and beautiful!
Goodness and joyfulness beam out from his whole being; even although his
buoyant animal life, which seldom allows his arms or legs to be quiet,
often expresses itself in not the most graceful manner. My
eleven-years-old boy is, alas! very--his father says--very unmanageable.
Still, notwithstanding all this wildness, he is possessed of a deep and
restless fund of sentiment, which makes me often tremble for his future
happiness. God defend my darling, my summer child, my only son! Oh, how
dear he is to me! Ernst warns me often of too partial an affection for
this child; and on that very account will I now pass on from portrait
No. 1 to

No. 2.--Behold then the little Queen-bee, our eldest daughter, just
turned ten years; and you will see a grave, fair girl, not handsome, but
with a round, sensible face; from which I hope, by degrees, to remove a
certain ill-tempered expression. She is uncommonly industrious, silent
and orderly, and kind towards her younger sisters, although very much
disposed to lecture them; nor will she allow any opportunity to pass in
which her importance as "eldest sister" is not observed; on which
account the little ones give her the titles of "Your Majesty" and "Mrs.
Judge." The little Louise appears to me one of those who will always be
still and sure; and who, on this account, will go fortunately though the
world.

No. 3.--People say that my little nine-years-old Eva will be very like
her mother. I hope it will prove a really splendid fac-simile. See,
then, a little, soft, round-about figure, which, amid laughter and
merriment, rolls hither and thither lightly and nimbly, with an
ever-varying physiognomy, which is rather plain than handsome, although
lit up by a pair of beautiful, kind, dark-blue eyes. Quickly moved to
sorrow, quickly excited to joy; good-hearted, flattering,
confection-loving, pleased with new and handsome clothes, and with dolls
and play; greatly beloved too by brothers and sisters, as well as by all
the servants; the best friend and playfellow, too, of her brother. Such
is little Eva.

No. 4.--Nos. 3 and 4 ought not properly to come together. Poor Leonore
had a sickly childhood, and this rather, I believe, than nature, has
given to her an unsteady and violent temper, and has unhappily sown the
seeds of envy towards her more fortunate sisters. She is not deficient
in deep feeling, but the understanding is sluggish, and it is extremely
difficult for her to learn anything. All this promises no pleasure;
rather the very opposite. The expression of her mouth, even in the
uncomfortable time of teething, seemed to speak, "Let me be quiet!" It
is hardly possible that she can be other than plain, but, with God's
help, I hope to make her good and happy.

"My beloved, plain child!" say I sometimes to her as I clasp her
tenderly in my arms, for I would willingly reconcile her early to her
fate.

No. 5.--But whatever will fate do with the nose of my Petrea? This nose
is at present the most remarkable thing about her little person; and if
it were not so large, she really would be a pretty child. We hope,
however, that it will moderate itself in her growth.

Petrea is a little lively girl, with a turn for almost everything,
whether good or bad; curious and restless is she, and beyond measure
full of failings; she has a dangerous desire to make herself observed,
and to excite an interest. Her activity shows itself in destructiveness;
yet she is good-hearted and most generous. In every kind of foolery she
is a most willing ally with Henrik and Eva, whenever they will grant her
so much favour; and if these three be heard whispering together, one may
be quite sure that some roguery or other is on foot. There exists
already, however, so much unquiet in her, that I fear her whole life
will be such; but I will early teach her to turn herself to that which
can change unrest into rest.

No. 6.--And now to the pet child of the house--to the youngest, the
loveliest, the so-called "little one"--to her who with her white hands
puts the sugar into her father's and mother's cup--the coffee without
that would not taste good--to her whose little bed is not yet removed
from the chamber of the parents, and who, every morning, creeping out of
her own bed, lays her bright curly little head on her father's shoulder
and sleeps again.

Could you only see the little two-years-old Gabriele, with her large,
serious brown eyes; her refined, somewhat pale, but indescribably lovely
countenance; her bewitching little gestures; you would be just as much
taken with her as the rest are,--you would find it difficult, as we all
do, not to spoil her. She is a quiet little child, but very unlike her
eldest sister. A predominating characteristic of Gabriele is love of the
beautiful; she shows a decided aversion to what is ugly and
inconvenient, and as decided a love for what is attractive. A most
winning little gentility in appearance and manners, has occasioned the
brother and sisters to call her in sport "the little young lady," or
"the little princess." Henrik is really in love with his little sister,
kisses her small white hands with devotion, and in return she loves him
with her whole heart. Towards the others she is very often somewhat
ungracious; and our good friend the Assessor calls her frequently "the
little gracious one," and frequently also "the little ungracious one,"
but then he has for her especially so many names; my wish is that in the
end she may deserve the surname of "the amiable."

Peace be with my young ones! There is not one of them which is not
possessed of the material of peculiar virtue and excellence, and yet not
also at the same time of the seed of some dangerous vice, which may ruin
the good growth of God in them. May the endeavours both of their father
and me be blessed in training these plants of heaven aright! But ah! the
education of children is no easy thing, and all the many works on that
subject which I have studied appear to me, whether the fault be in me
or in them I cannot tell, but small helps. Ah! I often find no other
means than to clasp the child tenderly in my arms, and to weep bitterly
over it, or else to kiss it in the fulness of my joy; and it often has
appeared to me that such moments are not without their influence.

I endeavour as much as possible not to scold. I know how perpetually
scolding crushes the free spirit and the innocent joyousness of
childhood; and I sincerely believe that if one will only sedulously
cultivate what is good in character, and make in all instances what is
good visible and attractive, the bad will by degrees fall away of
itself.

I sing a great deal to my children. They are brought up with songs; for
I wished early, as it were, to bathe their souls in harmony. Several of
them, especially my first-born and Eva, are regular little enthusiasts
in music; and every evening, as soon as twilight comes on, the children
throng about me, and then I sit down to the piano, and either accompany
myself, or play to little songs which they themselves sing. It is my
Henrik's reward, when he has been very good for the whole day, that I
should sit by his bed, and sing to him till he sleeps. He says that he
then has such beautiful dreams. We often sit and talk for an hour
instead, and I delight myself sincerely in his active and pure soul.
When he lays out his great plans for his future life, he ends
thus:--"And when I am grown up a man, and have my own house, then,
mother, thou shalt come and live with me, and I will keep so many maids
to wait on thee, and thou shalt have so many flowers, and everything
that thou art fond of, and shalt live just like a queen; only of an
evening, when I go to bed, thou shalt sit beside me and sing me to
sleep; wilt thou not?" Often too, when in the midst of his plans for the
future and my songs, he has dropped asleep, I remain sitting still by
the bed with my heart full to overflowing with joy and pride in this
angel. Ernst declares that I spoil him. Ah, perhaps I do, but
nevertheless it is a fact that I earnestly endeavour not to do so. After
all, I can say of every one of my children what a friend of mine said of
hers, that they are tolerably good; that is to say, they are not good
enough for heaven.

This evening I am alone. Ernst is away at the District-Governor's. It
is my birthday to-day; but I have told no one, because I wished rather
to celebrate it in a quiet communion with my own thoughts.

How at this moment the long past years come in review before me! I see
myself once more in the house of my parents: in that good, joyful,
beloved home! I see myself once more by thy side, my beloved and only
sister, in that large, magnificent house, surrounded by meadows and
villages. How we looked down upon them from high windows, and yet
rejoiced that the sun streamed into the most lowly huts just as
pleasantly as into our large saloons--everything seemed to us so well
arranged.

Life then, Cecilia, was joyful and free from care. How we sate and wept
over "Des Voeux Temeraires," and over "Feodor and Maria,"--such were
our cares then. Our life was made up of song, and dance, and merriment,
with our so many cheerful neighbours; with the most accomplished of whom
we got up enthusiasms for music and literature. We considered ourselves
to be virtuous, because we loved those who loved us, and because we gave
of our superfluity to those who needed it. Friendship was our passion.
We were ready to die for friendship, but towards love we had hearts of
stone. How we jested over our lovers, and thought what fun it would be
to act the parts of austere romance-heroines! How unmerciful we were,
and--how easily our lovers consoled themselves! Then Ernst Frank came on
a visit to us. The rumour of a learned and strong-minded man preceded
him, and fixed our regards upon him, because women, whether
well-informed or not themselves, are attracted by such men. Do you not
remember how much he occupied our minds? how his noble person, his calm,
self-assured demeanour, his frank, decided, yet always polite behaviour
charmed us at first, and the awed us?

One could say of him, that morally as well as physically he stood
firmly. His deep mourning dress, together with an expression of quiet
manly grief, which at times shaded his countenance, combined to make him
interesting to us; nevertheless, you thought that he looked too stern,
and I very soon lost in his presence my accustomed gaiety. Whenever his
dark grave eyes were fixed upon me, I was conscious that they possessed
a half-bewitching, half-oppressive power over me; I felt myself happy
because of it, yet at the same time filled with anxiety; my very action
was constrained, my hands became cold and did everything blunderingly,
nor ever did I speak so stupidly as when I observed that he listened.
Aunt Lisette gave me one day this maxim: "My dear, remember what I now
tell thee: if a man thinks that thou art a fool, it does not injure thee
the least in his opinion; but if he once thinks that thou considerest
him a fool, then art thou lost for ever with him!" With the last it may
be just as it will--I have heard a clever young man declare that it
would operate upon him like salt on fire--however, this is certain, that
the first part of Aunt Lisette's maxim is correct, since my stupidity in
Ernst's presence did not injure me at all in his opinion, and when he
was kind and gentle, how inexpressibly agreeable he was!

His influence over me became greater each succeeding day: I seemed to
live continually under his eyes; when they beamed on me in kindness, it
was as if a spring breeze passed through my soul; and if his glance was
graver than common, I became still, and out of spirits. It seemed to me
at times--and it is so even to this very day--that if this clear and
wonderfully penetrating glance were only once, and with its full power,
riveted upon me, my very heart would cease to beat. Yet after all, I am
not sure whether I loved him. I hardly think I did; for when he was
absent I then seemed to breathe so freely, yet at the same time, I would
have saved his life by the sacrifice of my own.

In several respects we had no sympathies in common. He had no taste for
music, which I loved passionately; and in reading too our feelings were
so different. He yawned over my favourite romances, nay he even
sometimes would laugh when I was at the point of bursting into tears; I,
on the contrary, yawned over his useful and learned books, and found
them more tedious than I could express. The world of imagination in
which my thoughts delighted to exercise themselves, he valued not in the
least, whilst the burdensome actuality which he always was seeking for
in life, had no charm for me. Nevertheless there were many points in
which we accorded--these especially were questions of morals--and
whenever this was the case, it afforded both of us great pleasure.

And now came the time, Cecilia, in which you left me; when our fates
separated themselves, although our hearts did not.

One day there were many strangers with us; and in the afternoon I played
at shuttlecock with young cousin Emil, to whom we were so kind, and who
deserved our kindness so well. How it happened I cannot tell, but before
long Ernst took his place, and was my partner in the game. He looked
unusually animated, and I felt myself more at ease with him than common.
He threw the shuttlecock excellently, and with a firm hand, but always
let it fly a little way beyond me, so that I was obliged to step back a
few paces each time to catch it, and thus unconsciously to myself was I
driven, in the merry sport, through a long suite of rooms, till we came
at last to one where we were quite alone, and a long way from the
company. All at once then Ernst left off his play, and a change was
visible in his whole countenance. I augured something amiss, and would
gladly have sprung far, far away, but I felt powerless; and then Ernst
spoke so from his heart, so fervently, and with such deep tenderness,
that he took my heart at once to himself. I laid my hand, although
tremblingly, in his, and, almost without knowing what I did, consented
to go through life by his side.

I had just then passed my nineteenth year; and my beloved parents
sanctioned the union of their daughter with a man so respectable and so
universally esteemed, and one, moreover, whom everybody prophesied would
one day rise to the highest eminences of the state--and Ernst, whose
nature it was to accomplish everything rapidly which he undertook,
managed it so that in a very short time our marriage was celebrated.

At the same time some members of my family thought that by this union I
had descended a step. I thought not; on the contrary, the very reverse.
I was of high birth, had several not undistinguished family connexions,
and was brought up in a brilliant circle, in all the superficial
accomplishments of the day, amid superfluity and thoughtlessness. He was
a man who had shaped out his own course in life, who, by his own honest
endeavours, and through many self-denials, had raised his father's house
from its depressed condition, and had made the future prospects of his
mother and sister comfortable and secure: he was a man self-dependent,
upright, and good--yes, GOOD, and that I discover more and more the
deeper knowledge I obtain of his true character, even though the outward
manner may be somewhat severe--in truth, I feel myself very inferior
beside him.

The first year of our marriage we passed, at their desire, in the house
of my parents; and if I could only have been less conscious of his
superiority, and could only have been more certain that he was satisfied
with me, nothing would have been wanting to my happiness. Everybody
waited upon me; and perhaps it was on this account that Ernst, in
comparison, seemed somewhat cold; I was the petted child of my too kind
parents; I was thankless and peevish, and ah, some little of this still
remains! Nevertheless, it was during this very time that, under the
influence of my husband, the true beauty and reality of life became more
and more perceptible to my soul. Married life and family ties, one's
country and the world, revealed their true relationships, and their holy
signification to my mind. Ernst was my teacher; I looked up to him with
love, but not without fear.

Many were the projects which we formed in these summer days, and which
floated brightly before my romantic fancy. Among these was a journey on
foot through the beautiful country west of Sweden, and this was one of
the favourite schemes of my Ernst. His mother--from whom our little
Petrea has derived her somewhat singular name--was of Norway, and many a
beloved thought of her seemed to have interwoven itself with the valleys
and mountains, which, as in a wonderfully-beautiful fairy tale, she had
described to him in the stories she told. All these recollections are a
sort of romantic region in Ernst's soul, and thither he betakes himself
whenever he would refresh his spirit, or lay out something delightful
for the future. "Next year," he would then exclaim, "will we take a
journey!" And then we laid out together our route on the map, and I
determined on the dress which I would wear as his travelling-companion
when we would go and visit "that sea-engarlanded Norway." Ah! there soon
came for me other journeys.

It was during these days also that my first-born saw the light; my
beautiful boy! who so fettered both my love and my thoughts that Ernst
grew almost jealous. How often did I steal out of bed at night in order
to watch him while he slept! He was a lively, restless child, and it
therefore was a peculiar pleasure for me to see him at rest; besides
which, he was so angelically lovely in sleep! I could have spent whole
nights bending over his cradle.

So far, Cecilia, all went with us as in the romances with which we in
our youth nourished heart and soul. But far other times came. In the
first place, the sad change in the circumstances of my parents, which
operated so severely on our position in life; and then for me so many
children--cares without end, grief and sickness! My body and mind must
both have given way under their burden, had Ernst not been the man he
is.

It suited his character to struggle against the stream; it was a sort of
pleasure to him to combat with it, to meet difficulties, and to overcome
them. With each succeeding year he imposed more business upon himself,
and by degrees, through the most resolute industry, he was enabled to
bring back prosperity to his house. And then how unwearingly kind he was
to me! How tenderly sustaining in those very moments, when without him I
must have found myself so utterly miserable! How many a sleepless night
has he passed on my account! How often has he soothed to sleep a sickly
child in his arms! And then, too, every child which came, as it were
only to multiply his cares, and increase the necessity for his labour,
was to him a delight--was received as a gift of God's mercy--and its
birth made a festival in the house. How my heart has thanked him, and
how has his strength and assurance nerved me!

When little Gabriele was born I was very near death; and it is my firm
belief that, without Ernst's care for me, I must then have parted from
my little ones. During the time of great weakness which succeeded this,
my foot scarcely ever touched the ground. I was carried by Ernst himself
wherever I would. He was unwearied in goodness and patience towards the
sick mother. Should she not now, that she is again in health, dedicate
her life to him? Ah, yes, that should she, and that will she! Alas, were
but my ability as strong as my will!

Do you know one thing, Cecilia, which often occasions me great trouble?
It is that I am not a clever housewife; that I can neither take pleasure
in all the little cares and details which the well-being of a house
really requires, nor that I have memory for these things; more
especially is the daily caring for dinner irksome to me. I myself have
but little appetite; and it is so unpleasing to me to go to sleep at
night, and to get up in the morning with my head full of schemes for
cooking. By this means, it happens that sometimes my husband's domestic
comforts are not such as he has a right to demand. Hitherto my weak
health, the necessary care of the children, and our rather narrow
circumstances, have furnished me with sufficient excuses; but these now
will avail me no longer; my health is again established, and our greater
prosperity furnishes the means for better household management.

On this account, I now exert myself to perform all my duties well; but,
ah! how pleasant it will be when the little Louise is sufficiently grown
up, that I may lay part of the housekeeping burdens on her shoulders. I
fancy to myself that she will have peculiar pleasure in all these
things.

I am to-day two-and-thirty years old. It seems to me that I have entered
a new period of my life: my youth lies behind me, I am advanced into
middle age, and I well know what both this and my husband have a right
to demand from me. May a new and stronger being awake in me! May God
support me, and Ernst be gentle towards his erring wife!

Ernst should have married a more energetic woman. My nervous weakness
makes my temper irritable, and I am so easily annoyed. His activity of
mind often disturbs me more than it is reasonable or right that it
should; for instance, I get regularly into a state of excitement, if he
only steadfastly fixes his eyes on a wall, or on any other object. I
immediately begin to fancy that we are going instantly to have a new
door opened, or some other change brought about. And oh! I have such a
great necessity for rest and quiet!

One change which is about to take place in our house I cannot anticipate
without uneasiness. It is the arrival of a candidate of Philosophy,
Jacob Jacobi, as tutor for my children. He will this summer take my wild
boy under his charge, and instruct the sisters in writing, drawing, and
arithmetic; and in the autumn conduct my first-born from the maternal
home to a great educational institution. I dread this new member in our
domestic circle; he may, if he be not amiable, so easily prove so
annoying; yet, if he be amiable and good, he will be so heartily welcome
to me, especially as assistant in the wearisome writing lessons, with
their eternal "Henrik, sit still!"--"Hold the pen properly,
Louise!"--"Look at the copy, Leonore!"--"Don't forget the points and
strokes, Eva!"--"Little Petrea, don't wipe out the letters with your
nose!" Besides this, my first-born begins to have less and less esteem
for my Latin knowledge; and Ernst is sadly discontented with his wild
pranks. Jacobi will give him instruction, together with Nils Gabriel,
the son of the District-Governor, Stjernhoek, a most industrious and
remarkably sensible boy, from whose influence on my Henrik I hope for
much good.

The Candidate is warmly recommended to us by a friend of my husband, the
excellent Bishop B.; yet, notwithstanding this, his actions at the
University did not particularly redound to his honour. Through credulity
and folly he has run through a nice little property which had been left
him by three old aunts, who had brought him up and spoiled him into the
bargain. Indeed, his career has hitherto not been quite a correct one.
Bishop B. conceals nothing of all this, but says that he is much
attached to the young man; praises his heart, and his excellent gifts as
a preceptor, and prays us to receive him cordially, with all parental
tenderness, into our family. We shall soon see whether he be deserving
of such hearty sympathy. For my part, I must confess that my motherly
tenderness for him is as yet fast asleep.

Yet, after all, this inmate does not terrify me half as much as a visit
with which I am shortly threatened. Of course you have heard of the lady
of the late Colonel S., the beautiful Emilie, my husband's "old flame,"
as I call her, out of a little malice for all the vexation her
perfections, which are so very opposite to mine, have occasioned me. She
has been now for several years a widow, has lived long abroad, and now
will pay us a visit on her return to her native land. Ernst and she have
always kept up the most friendly understanding with each other, although
she refused his hand; and it is a noble characteristic of my Ernst, and
one which, in his sex, is not often found, that this rejection did not
make him indifferent to the person who gave it. On the contrary, he
professes the most warm admiration of this Emilie, and has not ceased to
correspond with her; and I, for I read all their letters, cannot but
confess her extraordinary knowledge and acuteness. But to know all this
near is what I would indeed be very gladly excused, since I cannot help
thinking that my husband's "old flame" has something of cold-heartedness
in her, and my heart has no great inclination to become warm towards
her.

It strikes ten o'clock. Ernst will not come home before twelve. I shall
leave you now, Cecilia, that----shall I confess my secret to you? You
know that one of my greatest pleasures is the reading of a good novel,
but this pleasure I have almost entirely renounced, because whenever I
have a really interesting one in my hand, I find the most cruel
difficulty in laying it down before I reach the last page. That,
however, does not answer in my case; and since the time when through the
reading of Madame De Stael's Corinne, two dinners, one great wash, and
seventeen lesser domestic affairs all came to a stand-still, and my
domestic peace nearly suffered shipwreck, I have made a resolution to
give up all novel-reading, at least for the present. But still it is so
necessary for me to have some literary relaxation of the kind, that
since I read no more novels, I have myself--begun to write one. Yes,
Cecilia, my youthful habits will not leave me, even in the midst of the
employments and prosaic cares of every-day life; and the flowers which
in the morning-tide cast their fragrance so sweetly around me, will yet
once more bloom for me in remembrance, and encircle my drooping head
with a refreshing garland. The joyful days which I passed by your side;
the impressions and the agreeable scenes--now they seem doubly so--which
made our youth so beautiful, so lively, and so fresh,--all these I will
work out into one significant picture, before the regular flight of
years has made them perish from my soul. This employment enlivens and
strengthens me; and if, in an evening, my nervous toothache, which is
the certain result of over-exertion or of vexation, comes on, there is
nothing which will dissipate it like the going on with my little
romance. For this very reason, therefore, because this evening my old
enemy has plagued me more than common, I have recourse to my innocent
opiate.

But Ernst shall not find me awake when he returns: this I have promised
him. Good night, sweet Cecilia!

We will now, in this place, give a little description of the
letter-writer--of the mother of Henrik, Louise, Eva, Leonore, Petrea,
and Gabriele.

Beautiful she certainly was not, but nature had given to her a noble
growth, which was still as fine and delicate as that of a young girl.
The features were not regular, but the mouth was fresh and bewitching,
the lips of a lovely bright red, the complexion fair, and the clear blue
eyes soft and kind. All her actions were graceful: she had beautiful
hands--which is something particularly lovely in a lady--yet she was not
solicitous to keep them always in view, and this beautified them still
more. She dressed with much taste, almost always in light colours; this
and the soft rose scent which she loved, and which always accompanied
her, lent to her whole being a something especially mild and agreeable.
One might compare her to moonlight; she moved softly, and her voice was
low and sweet, which, as Shakspeare says, is "an excellent thing in
woman." Seeing her, as one often might do, reclining on a soft couch,
playing with a flower or caressing a child, one could scarcely fancy her
the superintendent of a large household, with all its appertaining
work-people and servants; and beyond this, as the instructor of many
children: yet love and sense of duty had led her to the performance of
all this, had reconciled her to that which her natural inclinations were
so averse to; nay, by degrees indeed, had made these very cares dear to
her--whatever concerned the children lay near to her heart, whilst
order, pleasantness, and peace, regulated the house. The contents of the
linen-press were dear to her; a snow-white tablecloth was her delight;
grey linen, dust, and flies, were hated by her, as far as she could hate
anything.

But let us now proceed with our historical sketches.

We left Elise at her manuscript, by which she became soon so deeply
occupied that the clock struck twelve unperceived by her; nor was she
aware of the flight of time till a sudden terror thrilled her as she
heard her husband return. To throw her manuscript into her drawer, and
quickly undress, had been an easy thing for her, and she was about to do
so, when the thought occurred, "I have never hitherto kept my
proceedings secret from Ernst, and to-day I will not begin to do so;"
and she remained at her writing-table till he entered the room.

"What! yet up, and writing?" said he, with a displeased glance. "Is it
thus you keep your promise, Elise?"

"Pardon me, Ernst," said she; "I had forgotten myself."

"And for what?" asked he. "What are you writing? No, let me see! What! a
novel, as I live! Now, what use is this?"

"What use is it?" returned Elise. "Ah, to give me pleasure."

"But people should have sense and reason in their pleasures," said the
Judge. "Now it gives me no pleasure at all that you should sit up at
night ruining your eyes on account of a miserable novel;--if there were
a fire here I would burn the rubbish!"

"It would be a great deal better," returned Elise, mildly, "if you went
to bed and said your prayers piously, rather than thought about such an
_auto-da-fe_. How have you amused yourself at the Governor's?"

"You want now to be mixing the cards," said he. "Look at me, Elise; you
are pale; your pulse is excited! Say my prayers, indeed! I have a great
mind to give you a lecture, that I have! Is it reasonable--is it
prudent--to sit up at night and become pale and sleepless, in order to
write what is good for nothing? It really makes me quite angry that you
can be so foolish, so childish! It certainly is worth while your going
to baths, sending to the east and to the west to consult physicians, and
giving oneself all kind of trouble to regain your health, when you go
and do every possible thing you can in the world to destroy it!"

"Do not be angry, Ernst," besought Elise; "do not look so stern on me
to-night, Ernst; no, not to-night."

"Yes, indeed!" replied he, but in a tone which had become at once
milder, "because it is two-and-thirty years to-day since you came into
the world, do you think that you have a right to be absolutely
childish?"

"Put that down to my account," said Elise, smiling, yet with a tear in
her eye.

"Put it down! put it down!" repeated the Judge. "Yes, I suppose so.
People go on putting down neck or nothing till it's a pretty fool's
business. I should like to pack all novels and novel-writers out of the
world together! The world never will be wise till that is done; nor will
you either. In the mean time, however, it is as well that I have found
you awake, else I must have woke you to prove that you cannot conceal
from me, not even for once, how old you are. Here then is the punishment
for your bad intention."

"Ah! Walter Scott's romances!" exclaimed Elise, receiving a set of
volumes from her husband; "and such a magnificent edition! Thanks!
thanks! you good, best Ernst! But you are a beautiful lawgiver; you
promote the very things which you condemn!"

"Promise me, only," returned he, "not to spend the night in reading or
writing novels. Think only how precious your health is to so many of us!
Do you think I should be so provoked, if you were less dear to me? Do
you comprehend that? In a few years, Elise," added he, "when the
children are older, and you are stronger, we will turn a summer to
really good account, and take our Norwegian journey. You shall breathe
the fresh mountain air, and see the beautiful valleys and the sea, and
that will do you much more good than all the mineral waters in the
world. But come now, let us go and see the children; we will not wake
them, however, although I have brought with me some confectionery from
the lady hostess, which I can lay on their pillows. There is a rennet
for you."

The married pair went into the children's room, where the faithful old
Fin-woman, Brigitta, lay and guarded, like the dragon, her treasures.
The children slept as children sleep. The father stroked the beautiful
curling hair of the boy, but impressed a kiss on the rosy cheek of each
girl. After this the parents returned to their own chamber. Elise lay
down to rest; her husband sate down to his desk, but so as to shade the
light from his wife. The low sounds of a pen moving on paper came to her
ear as if in sleep. As the clock struck two she awoke, and he was still
writing.

Few men required and allowed themselves so little rest as Ernst Frank.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A kind of fine curled cake.




CHAPTER II.

THE CANDIDATE.


It was in the twilight. The children were playing at "lana eld"[2] in
the great hall, swarming about in holes and corners, when the sudden
stopping of a travelling carriage before the door operated upon the wild
little flock much as a stream of cold water on a swarm of Lees. The
Queen-bee of the children-swarm, the wise little Louise, sate herself
down at the window, and four other little heads clustered themselves
about her, fervent and inquisitive, and almost pushing her away in their
impatient zeal to get a peep at the arrival.

It was a gentleman who stepped lightly out of that travelling carriage,
but whether young or old, the children could not see; this, however,
they saw, that their father came quickly to the door, shook the
traveller by the hand, and conducted him into the house; whilst a very
small portmanteau was carried after him. Seeing this, the little swarm
hastened to their mother; to whom they gave, in all possible degrees of
tone, from a low whisper to a loud annunciation, the information that
for certain "the tutor was come."

Elise, who had company with her, calmed with a "yes, yes!" and "so,
indeed!" the excited state of the children. The Queen-bee composed
herself quickly; and with mildly silencing looks seemed to observe that
she had somewhat forgotten her own dignity, and seated herself quietly
and becomingly among the "grown people," as one of them, whilst the
other children gathered themselves in a little group in one corner of
the room, whispering and wondering; and whoever had looked at them might
have seen many a time Petrea's nose peering forth from the little group.

Judge Frank sent to announce to his wife the arrival of the expected
guest, who would be introduced to her as soon as he had completed his
toilet. Presently afterwards another messenger came, desiring
curling-irons for the Candidate.

"It is a blessed long toilet!" thought Elise, many a time during a full
hour which elapsed in waiting; and it must be confessed that her nose
more than once during the hour took the same direction as Petrea's.

At last the steps of two gentlemen were heard on the hall floor, and
there advanced through the parlour door a well-shod foot and a handsome
leg, belonging to a well-formed though somewhat compressed figure, which
carried gracefully a twenty-year-old head, of a jovial, comely
appearance, with the hair dressed after the newest mode. It was the
Candidate. He cast a glance first at his foot, and then at the lady of
the house, whom he approached with the most unconstrained
self-possession, exhibiting the while a row of dazzlingly white teeth.
Odour of _eau de Portugal_ diffused itself though the room.

The Judge, who followed, and whose bearing and simple demeanour
contrasted with those of the new guest, introduced the Candidate Jacobi.
Various unimportant polite speeches were made by everybody, and then
they all took their seats. The children then came forward, and made
their bows and curtseys. Henrik eyed his future preceptor with a joyous,
confiding glance; the Queen-bee curtseyed very becomingly, and then made
several steps backward as the young man seemed inclined to take the
great liberty of kissing her; whilst Petrea turned up her nose with an
inquisitive saucy air. The Candidate took the kindest notice of them
all; shook all of them by the hand; inquired all their names; looked at
himself in the glass, and arranged his curls.

"Whom have we here?" thought Elise, with secret anxiety. "He is a fop--a
perfect fop! How in all the world could Bishop B. select him as teacher
for my poor little children? He will think much more of looking at
himself in the glass than of looking after them. The fine breast-pin
that he is wearing is of false stones. He laughs to show his white
teeth. An actual fop--a fool, perhaps! There, now, he looks at himself
again in the glass!"

Elise sought to catch her husband's eye, but he evidently avoided
meeting hers; yet something of discontent, and something of trouble too,
showed itself in his manner. The Candidate, on the contrary, appeared
not in the slightest degree troubled, but reclined perfectly at his ease
in an armchair, and cast searching glances on three ladies, who
evidently were strangers in the company. The eldest of these, who kept
on sewing incessantly, appeared to be upwards of forty, and was
distinguished by a remarkably quiet, bright, and friendly aspect. Judge
Frank and she talked much together. The other two appeared neither of
them to have attained her twentieth year: the one was pale and fair; the
other a pretty brunette; both of them were agreeable, and looked good
and happy. These ladies were introduced to Jacobi as Miss Evelina
Berndes and her adopted daughters, Laura and Karin. Laura had always one
of the children on her knee, and it was upon her that his eyes were most
particularly fixed. It was indeed a very pretty picture, which was
formed by Laura, with the lovely little Gabriele on her knee, decorated
with the flowers, bracelets, necklace, in short, with all the pretty
things that just before had ornamented herself.

The conversation soon became general, and was remarkably easy, and the
Candidate had an opportunity of taking his part well and interestingly
in it whilst speaking of certain distinguished men in the University
from which he was just come. Elise mentioned one celebrated man whom she
had a great desire to see, upon which Jacobi said he had lately made a
little sketch of him, which, on her expressing a wish to see, he
hastened to fetch.

He returned with a portfolio containing many drawings and pictures;
partly portraits, and partly landscapes, from his own pencil; they were
not deficient in talent, and afforded pleasure. First one portrait was
recognised and then another, and at last the Candidate himself. The
children were quite enchanted, and thronged with enthusiasm round the
table. The Candidate placed some of them on his knee, and seemed
particularly observant of their pleasure, and it was not long,
therefore, before they appeared entirely to forget that he was only a
new acquaintance--all at least excepting Louise, who held herself rather
_fiere_, and "the baby," which was quite ungracious towards him.

Above all the pictures which the portfolio contained, were the children
most affected and enchanted by one in sepia, which represented a girl
kneeling before a rose-bush, from which she was gathering roses, whilst
a lyre lay against a gravestone near her.

"Oh, how sweet! how divinely beautiful!" exclaimed they. Petrea seemed
as if she actually could not remove her eyes from the charming picture,
which the Candidate himself also seemed to regard with a fatherly
affection, and which was the crown of his little collection.

It was the custom at the Franks, that every evening, as soon as the
clock had struck eight, the little herd of children, conducted by the
Queen-bee, withdrew to their bed-chamber, which had once occasioned the
wakeful Petrea to say that night was the worst thing God had ever made:
for which remark she received a reproving glance from the Queen-bee,
accompanied by the maxim, "that people should not talk in that way."

In order, however, to celebrate the present day, which was a remarkable
one, the children were permitted to take supper with their parents, and
even to sit up as late as they did. The prospect of this indulgence, the
Candidate, the pictures, all combined to elevate the spirits of the
children in no ordinary degree; so much so indeed that Petrea had the
boldness, whilst they were regaling on roast chicken, to propose to the
Candidate that the picture of the girl and the rose-bush should be put
up for a prize on the breaking of a merrythought between them;
promising, that if she had the good fortune to win it, she would give as
a recompense a picture of her own composition, which should represent
some scene in a temple. The Queen-bee appeared scandalised at her
sister's proposal, and shook her little wise head at her.

The mother also violently opposed Petrea's proposition; and she, poor
girl, became scarlet, and deeply abashed, before the reproving glances
which were cast upon her; yet the Candidate was good-natured enough,
after the first astonishment was over, to yield in the most cheerful
manner to Petrea's proposal, and zealously to declare that the affair
should be managed just as she would. He accordingly set himself, with an
appearance of great accuracy and solemnity, to measure the length of
both limbs of the merrythought, and then counted three; the mother all
this time hoping within herself that he would so manage it that he
himself should retain the head--but no! the head remained in Petrea's
hand, and she uttered a loud cry of joy. After supper, the parents again
opposed what had taken place; but the Candidate was so cheerful and so
determined that it should remain as it was settled already, that Petrea,
the happiest of mortals, ventured to carry out the girl and rose-bush;
yet, she did not miss a motherly warning by the way, which mingled some
tears with her joy. The Candidate had, in the mean time, on account of
his kindness towards the children, and his good-nature towards Petrea,
made a favourable impression on the parents.

"Who knows," said Elise to her husband, "but that he may turn out very
well. He has, probably, his faults, but he has his good qualities too;
there is something really very agreeable in his voice and countenance;
but he must leave off that habit of looking at himself so continually in
the glass."

"I feel assured that he must have worth," said the Judge, "from the
recommendation of my friend B. This vanity, and these foppish habits of
his, we shall soon know how to get rid of; the man himself is
unquestionably good; and, dear Elise, be kind to him, and manage so that
he shall feel at home with us."

The children also, in their place of rest, made their observations on
the Candidate.

"I think he is much handsomer than my father," said little Petrea.

"I think," said the Queen-bee, in a tone of correction, "that nobody can
be more perfect than my father."

"That is true, excepting mamma," exclaimed Eva, out of her little bed.

"Ah," said Petrea, "I like him so much; he has given me that lovely
picture. Do you know what I shall call that girl? I shall call her Rosa;
and I'll tell you a long story about her. There was once upon a
time----"

All the sisters listened eagerly, for Petrea could relate better and
prettier stories than any of them. It was therefore said among
themselves that Petrea was very clever; but as the Queen-bee was
desirous that Petrea should not build much on this opinion, she now
listened to her history without bestowing upon it one token of applause,
although it was found to be sufficiently interesting to keep the whole
little auditorium awake till midnight.

"What will become of my preserves?" thought Elise, one day as she
remarked the quantity which vanished from the plate of the Candidate;
but when that same evening she saw the little Gabriele merrily, and
without reproof, pulling about his curls; when she saw him join the
children at their play, and make every game which they played
instructive to them; when she saw him armed with a great paper weapon,
which he called his sword, and deal about blows to those who counted
false, thereby exciting greater activity of mind as well as more mirth,
she thought to herself, "he may eat just as much preserves as he likes;
I will take care that he never goes short of them."

If, however, the Candidate rose higher in the regards of one party,
there still was another with which his actions did not place him in the
best point of view. Brigitta, to whom the care of some few things in the
house was confided, began to look troubled, and out of sorts. For
several days, whatever her cause of annoyance might be, she preserved
silence, till one evening, when expanding the nostrils of her little
snubby nose, she thus addressed her mistress:

"The gracious lady must be so good as to give out to the cook just twice
as much coffee as usual; because if things are to go on in this way, we
cannot do with less. He, the master there, empties the little coffee-pot
himself every morning! Never, in all my life, have I seen such a
coffee-bibber!"

The following evening came a new announcement of trouble.

"Now it is not alone a coffee-bibber," said poor Brigitta, with a gloomy
countenance and wide-staring eyes, "but a calf it is, and a devourer of
rusks! What do you think, gracious lady, but the rusk-basket, which I
filled only yesterday, is to-day as good as empty--only two rusks and
two or three crumbs remaining! Then for cream! Why every morning he
empties the jug!"

"Ah, it is very good," said Elise, mildly, yet evasively, "that he
enjoys things so much."

"And only look, in heaven's name!" lamented poor Brigitta another day,
"he is also quite a sugar-rat! Why, dear, gracious lady, he must put in
at least twenty pieces of sugar into one cup of coffee, or he never
could empty a sugar-basin as he does! I must beg you to give mo the key
of the chest, that I may fill it again. God grant that all this may have
a good ending!"

Brigitta could venture to say much, for she had grown old in the house;
had carried Elise as a child in her arms; and from affection to her, had
followed her when she left her father's house: besides this, she was a
most excellent guardian for the children; but as now these complaints of
hers were too frequently repeated, Elise said to her seriously: "Dear
Brigitta, let him eat and drink as much as he likes, without any
observation: I would willingly allow him a pound of sugar and coffee a
day, if he only became, as I hope he may, a good friend and preceptor
for the children."

Brigitta walked away quite provoked, and grumbling to herself: "Well,
well!" said she, "old Brita can be silent, yes, that she can;--well,
well! we shall see what will be the end of it. Sugar and rusks he eats,
and salt-fish he can't eat!--well, well!"

All this time Jacobi was passing his days in peace, little dreaming of
the clouds which were gathering over his head, or of his appellations of
coffee-bibber, calf, rusk-devourer, and sugar-rat; and with each
succeeding day it became more evident that Elise's hopes of him were
well grounded. He developed more and more a good and amiable
disposition, and the most remarkable talents as teacher. The children
became attached to him with the most intense affection; nor did their
obedience and reverence for him as preceptor prevent them, in their
freer hours, from playing him all kind of little pranks. Petrea was
especially rich in such inventions; and he was too kind, too much
delighted with their pleasure, not willingly to assist, or even at times
allow himself to be the butt of their jokes.

Breakfast, which for the elder members of the family was commonly served
at eleven o'clock, furnished the children with an excellent opportunity
for their amusement. The Candidate was particularly fond of eggs, and
therefore, when under a bulky-looking napkin he expected to find some,
and laid hasty hands on it, he not unfrequently discovered, instead of
eggs, balls of worsted, playing-balls, and other such indigestible
articles; on which discovery of his, a stifled laughter would commonly
be heard at the door, and a cluster of children's heads be visible,
which he in pretended anger assailed with the false eggs, and which
quickly withdrew amid peals of laughter. Often too, when, according to
old Swedish usage, he would take a glass of spirits, he found pure water
instead of Cognac in his mouth; and the little advocates of temperance
were always near enough to enjoy his astonishment, although sufficiently
distant, also, that not one drop of the shower which was then sent at
them should reach them, though it made them leap high enough for
delight. And really it was wonderful how often these little surprises
could be repeated, and how the Candidate let himself so constantly be
surprised. But he was too much occupied by his own thoughts (the
thoughts of course of a student of philosophy!) in order to be on his
guard against the tricks of these young merry-andrews. One day----

But before we proceed further we must observe, that although the
toilette of the Candidate seemed externally to be always so well
supplied, yet still it was, in fact, in but a very indifferent
condition. No wonder, therefore, was it, that though his hat outwardly
was always well brushed, and was apparently in good order, yet that it
had within a sadly tattered lining.

One day, therefore, as the Candidate had laid his hat in a corner of the
room, and was sitting near the sofa in a very earnest conversation,
Henrik, Petrea, and Eva gathered themselves about that symbol of freedom
with the most suspicious airs and gestures of conspiracy. Nobody paid
any attention to them, when after awhile the Candidate rose to leave the
room, and going through the door would have put on his hat--but, behold,
a very singular revolution had taken place within it, and a mass of tin
soldiers, stones, matches, and heaven knows what besides, came rattling
down upon his head; and even one little chimney-sweeper fell astride on
his nose. Nothing could compare with the immeasurable delight of the
children at the astonishment of the Candidate, and the comic grimaces
and head-shakings with which he received this their not very polite
jest.

No wonder was it, therefore, that the children loved the Candidate so
well.

The little Queen-bee, however, who more and more began to reckon herself
as one of the grown people, and only very rarely took part in the
conspiracies against the Candidate, shook her head at this prank of her
brother and sisters, and looked out a new piece of dark silk from her
drawer (Louise was a hoarder by nature), possessed herself secretly of
the Candidate's hat, and with some little help from her mother, had then
her secret pleasure also, and could laugh in her own sleeve at his
amazement when he discovered a bran new lining in his hat.

"Our little Queen-bee is a sensible little girl," said the Judge,
well-pleased, to his wife, who had made him a third in this plot; and
after that day she was called both by father and mother "our sensible
little Queen-bee."

Scarcely had Jacobi been three weeks in the family of the Franks,
before Elise felt herself disposed to give him a new title, that of
Disputer-General, so great was the ability he discovered to dispute on
every subject, from human free-will to rules for cookery; nay, even for
the eating of eggs.

On this subject Elise wrote thus to her sister Cecilia:--"But however
polite and agreeable the Candidate may be generally, still he is just as
wearisome and obstinate in disputation; and as there is nobody in the
house that makes any pretension to rival him in certain subtleties of
argument, he is in great danger of considering himself a miracle of
metaphysical light, which he is not, I am persuaded, by any means, since
he has much more skill in rending down than in building up, in
perplexing than in making clear. Ernst is no friend of metaphysical
hair-splitting, and when Jacobi begins to doubt the most perceptible and
most certain things--'what is perceptible, what is certain?' the
Candidate will inquire--he grows impatient, shrugs his shoulders, goes
to his writing-table, and leaves me to combat it out, although, for my
part, I would gladly have nothing to do with it. Should I, however, for
awhile carry on the contest boldly, the scholar then will overwhelm me
with learned words and arguments, and then I too flee, and leave him
_maitre du champ de bataille_. He believes then that I am convinced, at
least of his power, which yet, however, is not the case; and if fortune
do not bestow upon me a powerful ally against him, he may imagine so.
Nevertheless, I am not without some curiosity to hear a system which he
has promised to explain to me this evening, and according to which
everything in the world ought to be so good and consistent. These
subjects have always an interest for me, and remind me of the time when
you and I, Cecilia, like two butterflies, went fluttering over the
earth, pausing about its flowers, and building up for ourselves pretty
theories on the origin of life and all things. Since then I had almost
forgotten them. Think only if the mythology of our youth should present
itself again in the system of the Candidate!"

Here Elise was interrupted by the entrance of the troop of children.

"Might we borrow Gabriele?" "Mother, lend us Gabriele!" besought several
coaxing little voices.

"Gabriele, wilt thou not come and play with us? Oh, yes, certainly thou
wilt!" and with these words Petrea held up a gingerbread heart, winch
so operated on the heart of the little one, that she yielded to the
wishes of brother and sisters.

"Ah, but you must take great care of her, my little angel!" said the
mother; "Louise, dear, take her under your charge; look after her, and
see that no harm befal her!"

"Yes, of course," said Louise, with a consequential countenance; and the
jubilant children carried off the borrowed treasure, and quickly was
their sport in full operation in the hall.

Elise took her work, and the Candidate, with a look of great importance,
seated himself before her, in order to initiate her into the mysteries
of his system. Just, however, at the moment when he had opened his mouth
to begin, after having hemmed a few times, a shrill little barking, and
the words "your most devoted servant," were heard at the door, and a
person entered curtseying with an air of conscious worth, said with a
little poodle in her arms--a person with whom we will have the honour to
commence a new chapter.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Borrowing fire; a Swedish child's play.




CHAPTER III.

THE CHAMBERLAIN'S LADY.


Where is there not _haute volee_? Above the heavenly hosts are outspread
the wings of cherubim and seraphim; and in the poultry-yards of earth
the geese exalt their wings high over the other lesser feathered
creatures. It belongs to the ordination of the world.

The Chamberlain's lady, Gunilla W., belonged incontestibly to the
highest _haute volee_ in the excellent city of X., where we have had the
honour of making the acquaintance of the family of the Franks. She was
the sister of Governor Stjernhoek, and inhabited the third story of the
house of which the Franks inhabited the second, and Evelina Berndes the
first.

This lady had spent her youth at court, and passed many a day of
wearisome constraint, and many a night in making those clothes which
were to conceal from the world how poor Miss Gunilla was; yet neither
night nor day did she complain either of constraint or of poverty, for
she possessed under a plain exterior a strong and quiet spirit.

An old aunt used to preach to her thus: "Eat, that thou mayst grow fat;
if thou art fat, thou wilt grow handsome; and if thou art handsome, thou
wilt get married."

Miss Gunilla, who never ate much, and who did not eat one mouthful more
for this warning, grew neither fat nor handsome; yet on account of her
excellent disposition she was beloved by every one, and especially by a
young rich Chamberlain of the court, who, through his own good qualities
and excellent heart, won her affections, and thus Miss Gunilla became
Mistress. After this, in the circle of her friends she was accustomed to
be called Mrs. Gunilla; which freedom we also shall sometimes take with
her here.

Shortly after her marriage, and in consequence of cold, her husband
became a sad invalid. For thirty years she lived separated from the
world, a faithful and lonely attendant of the sick man; and what she
bore and what she endured the world knew not, for she endured all in
silence. For several years her husband could not bear the light; she
learned, therefore, to work in darkness, and thus made a large
embroidered carpet. "Into this carpet," said she, as she once spoke
accidentally of herself, "have I worked many tears."

One of the many hypochondriacal fancies of her husband was, that he was
about to fall into a yawning abyss, and only could believe himself safe
so long as he held the hand of his wife. Thus for one month after
another she sate by his couch.

At length the grave opened for him; and thanking his wife for the
happiness he had enjoyed in the house of sickness on earth, he sank to
rest, in full belief of a land of restoration beyond. When he was gone,
it seemed to her as if she were as useless in the world as an old
almanack; but here also again her soul raised itself under its burden,
and she regulated her life with peace and decision. In course of years
she grew more cheerful, and the originality of her talents and
disposition which nature had given to her, and which, in her solitude,
had undisturbedly followed their own bent, brought a freshness with them
into social life, into which she entered at first rather from resolution
than from feeling at ease in it.

"The Lord ordains all things for the best;" that had always been, and
still remained, the firm anchorage of her soul. But it was not this
alone which gave to her the peace and gentleness which announced
themselves in her voice, and diffused a true grace over her aged and
not handsome countenance; they had yet another foundation: for even as
the sunken sun throws the loveliest light upon the earth which it has
left, so does the holy memory of a beloved but departed human being on
the remaining solitary friend. Mrs. Gunilla herself lived in such a
remembrance: she knew it not, but after the death of her husband the
dark pictures of his suffering vanished more and more, and his own form,
purified by patience and suffering, rose continually higher in its noble
glorification; it beamed into her soul, and her soul became brightened
thereby. Seldom mentioned she the name of her husband; but when she did
so, it was like a breath of summer air in voice and countenance.

She collected good people about her, and loved to promote their
happiness; and whenever there was a young couple whose narrow
circumstances, or whose fears for the future, filled them with anxiety,
or a young but indigent man who was about to fall into debt and
difficulty, Mrs. Gunilla was ever at hand, although in most cases behind
others. She had nevertheless her faults; and these, as we proceed, we
shall become acquainted with.

We now hastily sketch her portrait the size of life. Age between fifty
and sixty; figure tall, stiff, well-made, not too thin--beside Jeremias
Muntor she might be called stout--complexion, pale yellow; the nose and
chin coming together, the mouth fallen in; the eyes grey and small,
forehead smooth, and agreeably shaded by silver hair; the hands still
handsome, and between the thumb and delicate tip of the forefinger a
pinch of snuff, which was commonly held in certain perspective towards
the nose, whilst with an elbow resting on the arm of sofa or easy-chair
she gave little lectures, or read aloud, for it was one of her
weaknesses to suppose that she knew everything.

During her long hermit-life she had been accustomed wholly to neglect
her toilet, and this neglect she found it difficult afterwards to
overcome; and her old silk gown, from which the wadding peeped out from
many a hole, especially at the elbows; her often-mended collar, and her
drooping cap, the ribbons of which were flecked with many a stain of
snuff, were always a trouble to Elise's love of order and purity.
Notwithstanding all this, there was a certain air about Mrs. Gunilla
which carried off all; and with her character, rank, property, and
consideration, she was _haute volee_, spite of torn gown and
snuff-beflecked ribbons, and had great influence among the best society
of the city.

She considered herself somewhat related to Elise, was very fond of her,
and used very often to impart to her opinions on education (N. B.--Mrs.
Gunilla never had children), on which account many people in the city
accused Elise of weakness towards the _haute volee_, and the
postmistress Bask and the general-shopkeeper Suur considered it quite as
much a crime as a failing.

There was in Mrs. Gunilla's voice, manners, and bearing, a something
very imposing; her curtsey was usually very stately and low, and this
brings us again to her entrance into Elise's room. Elise, the moment she
entered, quickly rose and welcomed her, introducing Jacobi at the same
time.

At the first glance Jacobi uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise,
approached her with an appearance of the greatest cordiality, seized her
hand, which he kissed reverentially, and felicitated himself on the
happiness of seeing her again.

The little eyes of the Chamberlain's lady twinkled, and she exclaimed,
"Oh, heavens! my heart's dearest! Nay, that is very pleasant! He, he,
he, he!"

"How!" exclaimed Elise, in astonishment, "Mr. Jacobi, do you
know----Aunt W., do you know Mr. Jacobi?"

The Candidate appeared about to give an explanation of the acquaintance,
but this Mrs. Gunilla, with a faint crimson overspreading the pale
yellow cheek, and a twitch of the eyebrow, prevented, and with a quick
voice she said, "We once lived in the same house."

She then desired that the conversation which her entrance had
interrupted, and which appeared to have been very important, might
proceed. "At least," added she, with a penetrating glance on Elise and
the Candidate, "if I should not disturb you."

"Certainly not!"

The Candidate needed only the sixteenth of a hint to rush armed with
full fervour into the mysteries of his system. Mrs. Gunilla took up a
packet of old gold thread, which she set herself to unravel, whilst the
Candidate coughed and prepared himself.




CHAPTER IV.

MONADS AND NOMADS.


"All beings," commenced the Candidate, "have, as their most intrinsic
foundation and substance, a simple unity, a soul, a--in one word, a
monad."

"A--a what?" asked the Chamberlain's lady, fixing her eyes upon him.

"A monad, or a simple unity," continued he. "The monads have a common
resemblance in substance one with another; but in respect of qualities,
of power, and size, they are substantially unlike. There are the monads
of people; there are human monads, animal monads, vegetable monads; in
short, the world is full of monads--they compose the world----"

"Heart's dearest!" interrupted the old lady, in a tone of displeasure,
"I don't understand one word of all this! What stuff it is! What are
monads?--fill the world, do they?--I see no monads!"

"But you see me, dear lady," said Jacobi, "and yourself. You are
yourself a monad."

"I a monad!" exclaimed she, in disgust.

"Yes, certainly," replied he, "your Honour, just the same as any other
living creature----"

"But," interrupted she, "I must tell you, dear friend, that I am neither
a monad nor a creature, but a human being--a sinful human being it is
true--but one that God, in any case, created in his own image."

"Yes, certainly, certainly," acceded the Candidate. "I acknowledge a
principal monad, from which all other monads emanate----"

"What!" exclaimed she, "is our Lord God to be a monad also?"

"He may be so designated," said the Candidate, "on account of oneness,
and also to preserve uniformity as to name. For the rest, I believe that
the monads, from the beginning, are gifted with a self-sustaining
strength, through which they are generated into the corporeal world;
that is to say, take a bodily shape, live, act, nay even strive--that is
to say, would remove themselves from one body into another without the
immediate influence of the Principal Monad. The monads are in perpetual
motion--perpetual change, and always place and arrange themselves
according to their power and will. If, now, we regard the world from
this point of view, it presents itself to us in the clearest and most
excellent manner. In all spheres of life we see how the principal monad
assembles all the subject monads around itself as organs and members.
Thus are nations and states, arts and sciences, fashioned; thus every
man creates his own world, and governs it according to his ability; for
there is no such thing as free-will, as people commonly imagine, but the
monad in man directs what he shall become, and what in regard to----"

"That I don't believe," interrupted Mrs. Gunilla; "since, if my soul, or
monad, as you would call it, had guided me according to its pleasure, it
would have led me to do many wicked things; and if our Lord God had not
chastised me, and in his mercy directed me to something that was
good--be so good as to let alone my cotton-balls--it would have gone mad
enough with my nomadic soul--that I can tell you."

"But, your Honour," said Jacobi, "I don't deny at all the influence of a
principal monad; on the contrary, I acknowledge that; and it is
precisely this influence upon your monad which----"

"And I assert," exclaimed she, warming, and again interrupting him,
"that we should do nothing that was right if you could establish your
nomadic government, instead of the government of our Lord God. What good
could I get from your nomads?"

"Monads," said the Candidate, correcting her.

"And supposing your monads," continued Mrs. Gunilla, "do keep in such
perpetual movement, and do arrange themselves so properly, what good
will that do me in moments of temptation and need? It is far wiser and
better that I say and believe that our Lord God will guide us according
to his wisdom and good, than if I should believe that a heap of your
nomads----"

"Monads, monads!" exclaimed the Candidate.

"Monads or nomads," answered angrily Mrs. Gunilla, "it is all one--be so
good as to let my cotton alone, I want it myself--your nomads may be as
magnificent and as mighty as they please, and they may govern
themselves, and may live and strive according to their own wisdom; yet I
cannot see how the world, for all that, can be in the least the more
regular, or even one little grain the more pleasant, to look at. And why
are things so bad here? Why, precisely for this very reason, because you
good people fancy yourselves such powerful monads, and think so much of
your own strength, without being willing to know that you are altogether
poor sinners, who ought to beseech our Lord God to govern their poor
nomadic souls, in order that they might become a little better. It is
precisely such nomadic notions as these that we have to thank for all
kind of rapscallion pranks, for all uproars and broken windows. If you
had only less of nomads, and more of sensible men in you, one should
live in better peace on the earth."

The Candidate was quite confounded; he had never been used to argument
like this, and stared at Mrs. Gunilla with open mouth; whilst little
Pyrrhus, excited by the warmth of his mistress, leapt upon the table,
and barking shrilly seemed disposed to spring at the Candidate's nose.
All this appeared so comic, that Elise could no longer keep back the
merriment which she had felt during the former part of the dispute, and
Jacobi himself accompanied her hearty laugh. Mrs. Gunilla, however,
looked very bitter; and the Candidate, nothing daunted, began again.

"But, in the name of all the world," said he, "your Honour will not
understand me: we speak only of a mode of observing the world--a mode by
which its phenomena can be clearly expounded. Monadology, rightly
understood, does not oppose the ideas of the Christian religion, as I
will demonstrate immediately. Objective revelation proves to us exactly
that the subject-objective and object-subjective, which----"

"Ah!" said Mrs. Gunilla, throwing herself back, "talk what nonsense you
will for me, I know what I know. Nomads may be just what they please for
me: but I call a man, a man; I call a cat, a cat, and a flower, a
flower; and our Lord God remains to me our Lord God, and no nomad!"

"Monad, monad!" cried the Candidate, in a sort of half-comic despair;
"and as for that word, philosophy has as good a right as any other
science to make use of certain words to express certain ideas."

During the last several minutes suspicious movements had been heard at
the parlour door, the cause of which now became evident; the children
had stolen in behind the Candidate, and now cast beseeching glances
towards their mother that she should let all go on unobserved. Petrea
and Eva stole in first, carrying between them a heavy pincushion,
weighted with lead, five pounds in weight at least. The Candidate was
standing; and at the very moment when he was doing his best to defend
the rights of philosophy, the leaden cushion was dropped down into his
coat-pocket. A motion backwards was perceptible through his whole body,
and his coat was tightly pulled down behind. A powerful twitching showed
itself at the corners of his mouth, and a certain stammering might be
noticed in his speech, although he stood perfectly still, and appeared
to observe nothing; while the little rascals, who had expected a
terrible explosion from their well-laid train, stole off to a distance;
but oh, wonder! the Candidate stood stock-still, and seemed not at all
aware that anything was going on in his coat-laps.

All this while, however, there was in him such a powerful inclination to
laugh that he hastened to relate an anecdote which should give him the
opportunity of doing so. And whether it was the nomads of Mrs. Gunilla
which diverted him from his system, or the visit of the little herd of
nomads to his pockets, true it is there was an end of his philosophy for
that evening. Beyond this, he appeared now to wish by cheerful discourse
to entertain Mrs. Gunilla, in which he perfectly succeeded; and so mild
and indulgent was he towards her, that Elise began to question with
herself whether Mrs. Gunilla's mode of argument were not the best and
the most successful.

The children stood not far off, and observed all the actions of Jacobi.
"If he goes out, he will feel the cushion," said they. "He will fetch a
book! Now he comes--ah!"

The Candidate really went out for a book from his room, but he stepped
with the most stoical repose, though with a miserably backward-pulled
coat, through the astonished troop of children, and left the room.

When he returned, the coat sate quite correctly; the cushion evidently
was not there. The astonishment of the children rose to the highest
pitch, and there was no end to their conjectures. The Queen-bee imagined
that there must be a hole in his pocket, through which the pincushion
had fallen on the stairs. Petrea, in whose suggestion the joke
originated, was quite dismayed about the fate of the cushion.

Never once did it enter into the innocent heads of the children that the
Candidate had done all this in order to turn their intended surprise on
him into a surprise on themselves.

"How came you to be acquainted with Mrs. Gunilla W.?" asked Elise from
Jacobi when the lady was gone.

"When I was studying in----," replied he, "I routed a small room on the
ground-floor of the same house where she lived. As I at that time was in
very narrow circumstances, I had my dinner from an eating-house near,
where all was supplied at the lowest price; but it often was so
intolerably bad, that I was obliged to send it back untasted, and
endeavour, by a walk in the fresh air instead, to appease my hunger. I
had lived thus for some time, and was, as may be imagined, become meagre
enough, when Mrs. W., with whom I was not personally acquainted,
proposed to me, through her housekeeper, that she should provide me with
a dinner at the same low charge as the eating-house. I was astonished,
but extremely delighted, and thankfully accepted the proposal. I soon
discovered, however, that she wished in this way to become my benefactor
without its appearing so, and without my thanks being necessary. From
this day I lived in actual plenty. But her goodness did not end here.
During a severely cold winter, in which I went out in a very thin
great-coat, I received quite unexpectedly one trimmed with fur. From
whom it came I could not for some time discover, till chance gave me a
clue which led me to the Chamberlain's lady. But could I thank her for
it? No; she became regularly angry and scolded me if I spoke of the
gratitude which I felt and always shall feel for her kindness."

Tears filled the eyes of Jacobi as he told this, and both Elise's eyes
and those of her husband beamed with delight at this relation.

"It is," said Judge Prank, "a proof how much goodness there is in the
world, although at a superficial glance one is so disposed to doubt it.
That which is bad usually noises itself abroad, is echoed back from
side to side, and newspapers and social circles find so much to say
about it; whilst that which is good likes best to go--like
sunshine--quietly through the world."




CHAPTER V.

DISAGREEABLE NEWS.


The "skirmish"--as Mrs. Gunilla called the little strift she had with
the Candidate, about monads and nomads--appeared to have displeased
neither of them, but rather, on the contrary, to have excited in them a
desire for others of the same kind; and as Elise, who had no great
inclination to spend her evenings alone with him, used frequently to
invite Mrs. Gunilla to drink tea with them, it was not long before she
and the Candidate were again in full disputation together. If the
Assessor happened also to come in, there was a terrible noise. The
Candidate screamed, and leapt about almost beside himself, but was
fairly out-talked, because his voice was weak, and because Mrs. Gunilla
and the Assessor, who between them two selves never were agreed, leagued
themselves nevertheless against him. Jacobi, notwithstanding this, had
often the right side of an argument, and bore his overthrow with the
best temper in the world. Perhaps he might have lost his courage,
however, as well as his voice in this unequal contest--he himself
declared he should--had he not suddenly abandoned the field. He vanished
almost entirely from the little evening circle.

"What has become of our Candidate?" sometimes asked Mrs. Gunilla. "I
shall be much surprised if his monad or nomad has not carried him off to
the land of the nomads! He, he, he, he!"

Judge Frank and wife also began to question with some anxiety, "What has
become of our Candidate?"

Our Candidate belonged to that class of persons who easily win many
friends. His cheerful easy temper, his talents, and good social
qualifications, made him much beloved and sought after, especially in
smaller circles. It was here, therefore, as it had been in the
University--he was drawn into a jovial little company of good fellows,
where, in a variety of ways, they could amuse themselves, and where the
cheerful spirit and talents of Jacobi were highly prized. He allowed
himself, partly out of good-nature and partly out of his own folly, to
be led on by them, and to take part in a variety of pranks, which,
through the influence of some members of the Club, went on from little
to more, and our Candidate found himself, before he was aware of what he
was about, drawn into a regular carouse--all which operated most
disadvantageously upon his affairs--kept him out late at night, and only
permitted him to rise late in the morning, and then with headache and
disinclination to business.

There was, of course, no lack of good friends to bring these tidings to
Judge Frank. He was angry, and Elise was seriously distressed, for she
had begun to like Jacobi, and had hoped for so much from his connexion
with the children.

"It won't do, it won't do," grumbled Judge Frank. "There shall very soon
be an end to this! A pretty story indeed! I shall tell him--I, if
he----But, my sweet friend, you yourself are to blame in this affair;
you should concern yourself a little about him; you are so _fiere_ and
distant to him; and what amusement do you provide for him here of an
evening? The little quarrels between Mrs. Gunilla and Munter cannot be
particularly amusing to him, especially when he is always out-talked by
them. It would be a thousand times better for the young man if you would
allow him to read aloud to you; yes, if it were romances, or whatever in
the world you would. You should stimulate his talent for music; it would
give yourself pleasure, and between whiles you could talk a little sound
reason with him, instead of disputing about things which neither he nor
you understand! If you had only begun in that way at first, he would
perhaps never have been such a swashbuckler as he is, and now to get
order and good manners back into the house one must have scenes. I'll
not allow such goings on!--he shall hear about it to-morrow morning!
I'll give that pretty youth something which he shall remember!"

"Ah!" said Elise, "don't be too severe, Ernst! Jacobi is good; and if
you talk seriously yet kindly to him, I am persuaded it will have the
best effect."

Judge Frank made no reply, but walked up and down the room in very ill
humour.

"Would you like to hear some news of your neighbour the
pasquinade-writer?" asked Assessor Munter, who just then entered with a
dark countenance. "He is sick, sick to death of a galloping
consumption--he will not write any more pasquinades."

"Who looks after his little girl?" asked Elise; "I see her sometimes
running about the street like a wild cat."

"Yes, there's a pretty prospect for her," snorted out the Assessor.
"There is a person in the house--a person they call her, she ought to be
called reptile, or rather devil--who is said to look after the
housekeeping, but robs him, and ruins that child. Would you believe it?
she and two tall churls of sons that she has about her amuse themselves
with terrifying that little girl by dressing themselves up whimsically,
and acting the goblins in the twilight. It is more than a miracle if
they do not drive her mad!"

"Poor wretch!" exclaimed Judge Frank, in rage and abhorrence. "Good
heavens! how much destruction of character there is, how much crime,
which the arm of the law cannot reach! And that child's father, can he
bear that it is so treated?"

"He is wholly governed by that creature--that woman," said Munter;
"besides, sick in bed as he now is, he knows but little of what goes on
in the house."

"And if he die," asked the Judge, "is there nobody who will look after
that girl? Has he a relation or friend?"

"Nobody in this world," returned Jeremias. "I have inquired
particularly. The bird in the wood is not more defenceless than that
child. Poverty there will be in the house; and what little there is,
that monster of a housekeeper will soon run through."

"What can one do?" asked the Judge, in real anxiety. "Do you know
anything, Munter, that one could do?"

"Nothing as yet," returned he; "at present things must take their own
course. I counsel nobody to interfere; for he is possessed of the woman,
and she is possessed of the devil: and as for the girl, he will have her
constantly with him, and lets her give way to all her petulances. But
this cannot long endure. In a month, perhaps, he will be dead; and he
who sees the falling sparrow will, without doubt, take care of the poor
child. At present nobody can save her from the hands of these harpies.
Now, good night! But I could not help coming to tell you this little
history, because it lay burning at my heart; and people have the very
polite custom of throwing their burdens upon others, in order to lighten
themselves. Adieu!"

The Judge was very much disturbed this evening. "What he had just heard
weighed heavily on his heart.

"It is singular," said he, "how often Mr. N.'s course and mine have
clashed. He has really talent, but bad moral character; on that account
I have opposed his endeavours to get into office, and thus operated
against his success. It was natural that he should become my enemy, and
I never troubled myself about it! but now I wish--the unhappy man, how
miserably he lies there! and that poor, poor child! Stroem," said he,
calling to his servant, "is the Candidate at home? No? and it is nearly
eleven! The thousand! To-morrow he shall find out where he is at home!"




CHAPTER VI.

HERO-DEEDS.


On the following morning, as Judge Frank drew aside his window-curtains,
the sun--the sun, so powerful in its beams and its silence--shone into
his chamber, lighting it with its glorious splendour. Those sunbeams
went directly to his heart.

"Dear Elise," said he, when his wife was awake, "I have a great deal to
do to-day. Perhaps it would be better if you would speak with Jacobi,
and give him his lecture. Ladies, in such circumstances, have more
influence on men than we men can have. Besides this, what can be bent
must not be broken. I--in short, I fancy you will manage the affair
best. It is so beautiful to-day! Could you not take the children a long
walk? It would do both them and you good, and upon the way you would
have an excellent opportunity for an explanation. Should this be of no
avail, then I will--but I would gladly avoid being angry with him; one
has things enough to vex one without that."

The Judge was not the only person in the house whom the sun inspired
with thoughts of rambling. The Candidate had promised the children on
some "very fine day" to take them to a wood, where there were plenty of
hazel-bushes, and where they would gather a rich harvest of nuts.
Children have an incomparable memory for all such promises; and the
little Franks thought that no day could by any possibility be more
beautiful or more suitable for a great expedition than the present, and
therefore, as soon as they discovered that the Candidate and their
parents thought the same, their joy rose actually as high as the roof.
Brigitta had not hands enough for Petrea and Eva, so did they skip about
when she wished to dress them.

Immediately after noon the procession set forth; Henrik and the
Queen-bee marched first, next came Eva and Leonore, between whom was
Petrea, each one carrying a little basket containing a piece of cake, as
provision for their journey. Behind the column of children came the
mother, and near her the Candidate, drawing a little wicker-carriage, in
which sate little Gabriele, looking gravely about with her large brown
eyes.

"Little Africa"--so the children called their little dark-eyed neighbour
from the Cape--stood at her door as the little Franks tripped forth from
theirs. Petrea, with an irresistible desire to make her acquaintance,
rushed across the street and offered her the piece of cake which she had
in her basket. The little wild creature snatched the piece of cake with
violence, showed her row of white teeth, and vanished in the doorway,
whilst Elise seized Petrea's hand, in order to keep her restless spirit
in check.

As soon as they had passed the gate of the city the children were
permitted full freedom, and they were not much more composed in their
demeanour than a set of young calves turned out for the first time into
a green meadow. We must even acknowledge that the little Queen-bee fell
into a few excesses, such as jumping over ditches where they were the
broadest, and clapping her hands and shouting to frighten away
phlegmatical crows. It was not long, however, before she gave up these
outbreaks, and turned her mind to a much sedater course; and then,
whenever a stiff-necked millifolium or gaudy hip came in her way, she
carefully broke it off, and preserved it in her apron, for the use of
the family. Henrik ran back every now and then to the wicker-carriage,
in order to kiss "the baby," and give her the very least flowers he
could find. Petrea often stumbled and fell, but always sprang up
quickly, and then unaffrightedly continued her leaping and springing.

The Candidate also, full of joyous animal spirits, began to sing aloud,
in a fine tenor voice, the song, "Seats of the Vikings! Groves old and
hoary," in which the children soon joined their descant, whilst they
marched in time to the song. Elise, who gave herself up to the full
enjoyment of the beautiful day and the universal delight, had neither
inclination nor wish to interrupt this by any disagreeable explanation;
she thought to herself that she would defer it a while.

"Nay, only look, only look, sisters! Henrik, come here!" exclaimed
little Petrea, beckoning with the hand, leaping, and almost out of
herself for delight, whilst she looked through the trellis-work of a
tall handsome gate into pleasure-grounds which were laid out in the
old-fashioned manner, and ornamented with clipped trees. Many little
heads soon looked with great curiosity through the trellis-gate; they
seemed to see Paradise within it; and then up came the Candidate, not
like a threatening cherub with a flaming sword, but a good angel, who
opened the door of this paradise to the enraptured children. This
surprise had been prepared for them by Elise and the Candidate, who had
obtained permission from the Dowager Countess S * * * to take the
children on their way to the nut-wood through her park.

Here the children found endless subject for admiration and inquiry, nor
could either the Candidate or their mother answer all their questions.
Before long the hearts of the children were moved at sight of a little
leaden Cupid, who stood weeping near a dry fountain.

"Why does he cry?" asked they.

"Probably because the water is all gone," answered the Candidate,
smiling.

Presently again they were enchanted by sight of a Chinese temple, which
to their fancy contained all the magnificence in the world--instead of,
as was the case, a quantity of fowls; then they were filled with
astonishment at trees in the form of pyramids--they never had seen
anything so wonderful, so beautiful! But the most wonderful thing was
yet to come.

They reached a gloomy part of the grounds. Melancholy sounds,
incoherent, yet pleasurable, became audible, accompanied by an
uninterrupted splashing of water. The children walked slower and closer
together, in a state of excited expectation, and a kind of shuddering
curiosity. The melancholy tones and the falling water became more and
more distinct, as they found themselves inclosed in a thick fir-wood;
presently, however, an opening to the right showed itself, and then
thickly wreathed with a wild growth of plants and heavily-leaved trees,
the vault of a grotto revealed itself, within which, and in the
distance, stood a large white figure, with aged head, long beard,
crooked back, and goat's legs. To his lips he held a pandean pipe, from
which the extraordinary sounds appeared to proceed. Little waterfalls
leapt here and there from the rocks around, and then collected
themselves at the foot of the statue in a large basin, in which the
figure seemed, with a dreamy countenance, to contemplate himself and the
leaf-garlanded entrance of the grotto.

The Candidate informed them that this was the Wood-god Pan; but what
further information he gave respecting the faith of the ancients in this
deity of nature was listened to by nobody but the Queen-bee, who,
however, shook her wise head over the want of wisdom in the Grecians who
could believe on such a god; and by Elise, who loved to discover in the
belief of antiquity a God of nature, which makes itself felt also in our
days, but in a truer and, as we think, a diviner sense.

The exhibition in the grotto had produced its effect upon all the
spectators, great as well as small; but the brain of the little Petrea
seemed quite intoxicated, not to say crazed by it. The Wood-god, with
his music, his half-animal, half-human figure, although only of gypsum,
and, as the Candidate declared, the offspring only of a dim fancy, as
well as that it was without life or actuality, still remained to her
imagination a living existence, as real as wonderful. She could see
nothing, think of nothing, but the Wood-god; and the foreboding of a new
and wonderful world filled her soul with a delicious terror.

In the mean time the Candidate conducted Elise, by a path which wound
among alders and birches, up the mountain in which the grotto was. When
they reached the top, all was sunny and cheerful; and behold upon a
mound was set out, so pleasantly in the sunshine, a little collation of
berries and fruit. It was the Candidate, who had great pleasure in being
the kind-hearted host on such occasions, who had provided this little
surprise for Elise and the children; and never, indeed, was a surprise
more welcome or more joyous. It is the most thankful thing in the world
to give pleasure to children; and, moreover, the goodwill of the mother
is always obtained thereby.

The Candidate spread his cloak upon a green slope under a hedge of
roses, on which Elise's favourite flowers were still blooming, as a seat
for herself and "the baby," which now, lifted out of the
wicker-carriage, had its green silk bonnet taken off, and its golden
locks bathed in sunshine. He chose out the best fruit for her and her
mother; and then seating himself on the grass near her, played with her,
and drove away the flies from her and her mother with a spray of roses,
whilst the other children ran about at a distance, enjoying with all the
zest of childhood, gooseberries and freedom. The trees soughed in the
soft south wind, whilst the melodious sighs of the Wood-god, and the
splash of the water, mingled gently with the whispering leaves. It was a
delicious time, and its soft influence stole into the soul of Elise. The
sun, the scent of the roses, the song of the wood and of the water, and
the Syrinx, the beautiful scene before her, the happy children--all
these called up suddenly into her breast that summer of the heart, in
which all sentiments, all thoughts, are like beautiful flowers, and
which makes life seem so light and so lovely: she conceived a friendship
for that young man who had occasioned it, and whose good heart beamed
forth from his eyes, which at one moment were fixed on the blue heavens,
and then on her own soft blue eyes, with an expression of devotion and a
certain pure earnestness, which she had never observed in him before.
Elise felt that she could now undertake the explanation with him; she
felt that she could talk with him openly and warmly as a sister, and
that the truth would flow from her lips, without wounding him or giving
him pain.

Scarcely, however, had she with cordial, though with tremulous voice,
began to speak, when an uneasy movement among the children interrupted
her. Some looked in the hedges, some ran about under the trees, and the
name "Petrea! Petrea!" was repeated in every variety of tone. The mother
looked uneasily around, and the Candidate sprang up to see what was
amiss. It was nothing uncommon for Petrea to separate herself from the
rest of the children, and occupied by her own little thoughts, to lag
behind; on that account, therefore, nobody had at first troubled
themselves because she was not with them at the collation, for they
said, "she will soon come." Afterwards, Elise and the Candidate were too
much occupied by their own thoughts; and the children said as usual,
"she'll soon come." But when she did not come, they began to seek for
her, and Elise and the Candidate came to their assistance. They ran back
to the grotto; they sought and called, but all in vain--Petrea was
nowhere to be found! and uneasiness very soon changed itself into actual
anxiety.

We will now ourselves go in quest of Petrea. So enchanted was she with
the Wood-god and his music, that no sooner had she, with the others,
begun to climb the hill, than she turned back to the grotto, and there,
transported by its wonderful world, she was suddenly possessed by a
desire to acquaint her father and Brigitta, with her having seen the
Wood-god. Resolve and action are much more one with children than with
women. To be the first who should carry to the father the important
tidings, "Father, I have seen the Wood-god!" was a temptation too strong
for Petrea's ambition and craving for sympathy.

She had heard them say that they should rest on the hill; and as her
organ of locality was as feeble as her imagination was powerful, she
never doubted for a moment of being able to run home and back before
they were aware even of her absence. As for the rest, to confess the
truth, she thought nothing at all about it; but with a loudly-beating
heart, and the words, "Oh, father! we have seen the Wood-god!" on her
lips, she made a spring, and rushed forward on the wings of fancy as
fast as her little legs would carry her in a direction exactly the
opposite of that which led homeward, and which at the same time removed
her from the grotto; never thinking, the poor Petrea! that in this world
there are many ways. Before long, however, she found it necessary to
stand still, in order to rest herself: it was all so beautiful around
her; delicious odours breathed from the wild flowers; the birds sang;
the heaven was cloudless; and here, where no Cupids nor Chinese temples
dazzled her thoughts, the very remembrance of the god Pan vanished from
her soul, and instead of it a thought, or more properly speaking a
sentiment, took possession of it--a holy and beautiful sentiment, which
the mother had early instilled into the hearts of her children. Petrea
saw herself solitary, yet at the same time she felt that she was not so;
in the deliciousness of the air, in the beauty of nature, she perceived
the presence of a good spirit, which she had been taught to call Father;
and filled, as her heart seemed to be, by a sense of his goodness and
affection, which appeared never to have been so sensibly impressed upon
her mind as then, her heart felt as if it must dissolve itself in love
and happiness. She sank down on the grass, and seemed to be on the way
to heaven. But, ah! the way thither is not so easy; and these heavenly
foretastes remain only a short time in the souls of children, as well as
of grown people.

That which brought Petrea from her heavenly journey back to the earth
again was a squirrel, which sprang directly across her path, and sent
her forth immediately in chase of it. To catch such game, and to carry
it home, would be indeed in the highest degree a memorable action. "What
would Henrik and my sisters say? What would all the city say? Perhaps it
will get into the newspapers!--perhaps the king may get to hear of
it!"--thought Petrea, whilst, out of herself with ambition and
earnestness, she pursued the little squirrel over stock and stone.

Her frock was torn; her hands and feet were bruised; but that was a mere
nothing! She felt it not, more particularly--oh, height of felicity!--as
she fell down, and at that same moment grasped in her trembling hands
her little prey. Petrea cried for delight, and shouted to her mother and
sisters, who--could not hear her.

"Oh, thou little most loveable creature!" said Petrea, endeavouring at
the same time to kiss her little captive, in return for which that most
loveable little creature bit her by the chin. Surprised, and sorely
smarting from the pain, Petrea began to cry; yet for all that would not
let go the squirrel, although the blood flowed from the wound. Petrea
ran forward, wondering that she never came to the great trellis-gate,
through which she knew she must pass in order to reach home. Whilst she
thus wondered with herself, and ran, and struggled with her little
untractable prisoner, she saw a gentleman coming towards her. It never
once occurred to her that this could be any other than her father, and
almost transported for joy, she exclaimed, "Father, I have seen the
Wood-god!"

Greatly astonished to hear himself thus parentally addressed, the young
man looked up from the book in which he read, gazed at Petrea, smiled,
and replied, "Nay, my child, he is gone in that direction," pointing
with his finger towards that quarter whence Petrea had come. Imagining
at once that he meant the Candidate, Petrea replied with anxiety and a
quick foreboding that she was on a wrong track, "Oh, no, it is not he!"
and then turned suddenly back again.

She abandoned now all thoughts of running home, and was only desirous of
finding those whom she had so thoughtlessly left. She ran back,
therefore, with all her speed, the way she had come, till she reached
where two roads branched off, and there unfortunately taking the wrong
one, came into a wild region, where she soon perceived how entirely
confused she had become. She no longer knew which way to go, and in
despair threw herself into the grass and wept. All her ambition was
gone; she let the squirrel run away, and gave herself up to her own
comfortless feelings. She thought now of the uneasiness and anxiety of
her mother, and wept all the more at the thought of her own folly. But,
however, consoling thoughts, before long, chased away these desponding
ones. She dried her eyes with her dress--she had lost her
pocket-handkerchief--and looking around her she saw a quantity of fine
raspberries growing in a cleft of the hill. "Raspberries!" exclaimed
she, "my mother's favourite berries!" And now we may see our little
Petrea scrambling up the cliff with all her might, in order to gather
the lovely fruit. She thought that with a bouquet of raspberries in her
hand, she could throw herself at the feet of her mother, and pray for
forgiveness. So thought she, and tore up the raspberry bushes, and new
courage and new hope revived the while in her breast. If, thought she,
she clambered only a little way higher, could she not discover where
her home was? should she not see her mother, father, sisters, nay, the
whole world? Certainly. What a bright idea it was!

With one hand full of raspberries, the other assisted her to climb; but,
ah! first one foot slipped on the dry smooth grass, and then the other.
The left hand could no longer sustain the whole weight of her body; the
right hand would not let go the raspberries. A moment of anguish, a
violent effort, and then Petrea rolled down the cliff into a thicket of
bushes and nettles, where for the present we will leave her, in order to
look after the others.

The anxiety of the mother is not to be described, as after a whole hour
spent with Jacobi and Henrik (the little Queen-bee watched over the
other children near Pan's grotto), in seeking and calling for Petrea,
all was in vain. There were many ponds in the park, and they could not
conceal from themselves that it was possible she might have fallen into
one. It was a most horrible idea for Elise, and sent an anguish like
death into her heart, as she thought of returning in the evening to her
husband with one child missing, and that one of his favourites--missing
through her own negligence. Death itself seemed to her preferable.

Breathless, and pale as a corpse, she wandered about, and more than once
was near sinking to the earth. In vain the Candidate besought her to
spare herself; to keep herself quiet, and leave all to him. In vain! She
heard him not; and restless and unhappy, she sought the child herself.
Jacobi was afraid to leave her long alone, and kept wandering near her;
whilst Henrik ran into other parts of the park, seeking about and
calling.

It was full two hours of fruitless search after the lost one, when the
Candidate had again joined the despairing mother, that at the very same
moment their glances both fell suddenly on the same object--it was
Petrea! She lay in a thicket at the foot of the hill; drops of blood
were visible on her face and dress, and a horrible necklace--a yellow
spangled snake!--glittered in the sun around her neck. She lay
motionless, and appeared as if sleeping. The mother uttered a faint cry
of terror, and would have thrown herself upon her, had not the Candidate
withheld her.

"For heaven's sake," said he, fervently, and pale as death, "be still;
nothing perhaps is amiss; but it is the poisonous snake of our
woods--the aspic! An incautious movement, and both you and Petrea may be
lost! No, you must not; your life is too precious--but I--promise me to
be still, and----"

Elise was scarcely conscious of what she did. "Away! away!" she said,
and strove to put Jacobi aside with her weak hands; she herself would
have gone, but her knees supported her no longer--she staggered, and
fell to the ground.

In that same moment the Candidate was beside Petrea, and seizing the
snake by the neck with as much boldness as dexterity, he slung it to a
distance. By this motion awakened, Petrea shuddered, opened her
sleep-drunken eyes, and looking around her, exclaimed, "Ah, ah, father!
I have seen the Wood-god!"

"God bless thee and thy Wood-god!" cried the delighted Candidate,
rejoicing over this indisputable token of life and health; and then
clasping her to his breast he bore her to her mother. But the mother
neither heard nor saw anything; she lay in a deep swoon, and was first
recalled to consciousness by Henrik's kisses and tears. For a while she
looked about her with anguishful and bewildered looks.

"Is she dead?" whispered she.

"No, no! she lives--she is unhurt!" returned Jacobi, who had thrown
himself on his knees beside her; whilst the little Petrea, kneeling
likewise, and holding forth the bunch of raspberries, sobbed aloud, and
besought her, "Forgive! oh, mamma, forgive me!"

Light returned to the eyes of the mother; she started up, and, with a
cry of inexpressible joy, clasped the recovered child to her breast.

"God be praised and blessed!" cried she, raising her folded hands to
heaven; and then silently giving her hand to Jacobi, she looked at him
with tears, which expressed what was beyond the power of words.

"Thank God! thank God!" said Jacobi, with deep emotion, pressing Elise's
hand to his lips and to his breast. He felt himself happy beyond words.

They now hastened to remove from the dangerous neighbourhood of the
snake, after Jacobi and Henrik had given up, at the desire of the
mother, the probably ineffectual design of seeking out the poisonous but
blameless animal, and killing it on the spot.

All this time the little Queen-bee had sate alone by the grotto,
endeavouring to comfort her sisters, whilst she herself wept bitter
tears over Petrea, whom she never expected to see again: on that very
account her joy was all the greater and louder, when she saw her carried
in the arms of the Candidate; and no sooner did she learn from her
mother how he had rescued her from the fangs of death, than she threw
her arms round his neck in inexpressible gratitude. All this Petrea
heard and saw with the astonishment and curiosity of one who meets with
something unheard of; and then, thus seeing the distress which her
inconsiderateness had occasioned, she herself melted into such
despairing tears, that her mother was obliged to console and cheer her.
Of her fall into the thicket Petrea knew no more than that her head had
felt confused, that she could not get up again, had slept, and then
dreamed of the Wood-god.

In the mean time it had become so late, that the harvest of nuts was not
to be thought of, and as much on the mother's as on Petrea's account, it
was necessary to hasten home. The other children probably would have
grieved more over the unfortunate pleasure journey, had they not felt an
extraordinary desire to relate at home the remarkable occurrences of the
day. New difficulties arose on the return. Petrea--who, besides that she
was weary, was bruised and sadly dirtied by her fall--could not walk,
and therefore it was determined that she must ride in the little
carriage, while the Candidate carried Gabriele. When, however, the
little one saw that Jacobi was without gloves, she would neither allow
him to carry her nor to take hold of her, and set up the most pitiable
cry. Spite of her crying, however, he took up the "little mother," as he
called her; and what neither his nor the mother's persuasion could
effect, was brought about by Henrik's leaps and springs, and
caresses--she was diverted: the tears remained standing half-way down
her cheeks, in the dimples which were suddenly made by her hearty
laughter.

Petrea, after the paroxysm of sorrow and penitence was in measure
abated, began to think herself and her adventures particularly
interesting, and sate in her little carriage a very important personage,
surrounded by her sisters, who could not sufficiently listen to her
relation, and who emulated each other in drawing the little equipage.
As for Jacobi, he drew the carriage; he carried the baby, which soon
fell asleep on his shoulder; he sang songs; told stories, in order to
entertain Elise, who remained a long time pale and depressed, from the
danger which had threatened her, and the anxiety which she had endured.

At length they reached home. They poured forth their adventures:
Brigitta shed tears over her "Little angel-sweet Mamselle Petrea;" and
the father, from the impulse of his feelings, pressed Jacobi to his
heart.

After Petrea's scratches and bruises had been washed with Riga-balsam,
the mother permitted the children to have a supper of pancakes and
raspberry-cream, in order to console them for the unfortunate
expedition. Hereupon the children danced for joy about the table; and
Petrea, who, on account of her misfortunes, received a Benjamin's
portion, regarded it as certain that they always eat such cream in
heaven, wherefore she proposed that it should be called "Angels' food."
This proposition met with the highest approbation, and from this day
"Angels' food" became a well-known dish in the Frank family.

Yet Petrea wept some bitter tears on the breast of her father over the
gentle admonition she received from him; but spite of tears, she soon
slept sweetly in his arms.

And the lecture of the Candidate?

"Stay at home with us this evening," said Elise to him, with a kind,
beseeching glance.

The Candidate stayed with them.




CHAPTER VII.

BREAKERS.


"Stay at home with us this evening," prayed Elise the next day, and for
several other days, and the Candidate stayed.

Never before had he seen Elise so kind, so cordial towards him; never
before had she shown him so much attention as now; and this attention,
this cordiality from a lady who, in her intercourse with men, was
generally only polite and indifferent, flattered his vanity, at the same
time that it penetrated his good heart. All occasion for explanation
and lectures vanished, for the Candidate had entirely renounced his
dissipated friends and companions, and now nobody could talk more
edifying than he on the subject. He agreed so cordially with Elise, that
the fleeting champagne of the orgies foamed only for the moment, leaving
nothing but emptiness and flatness behind. "For once, nay, for a few
times," he was of opinion, "such excesses might be harmless, perhaps
even refreshing; but often repeated--ah! that would be prejudicial, and
demoralising in the highest degree!"

All this seemed to the little Queen-bee, who had heard it, remarkably
well expressed.

Nobody seemed now better pleased at home than Jacobi; he felt himself so
well in the regular course of life which he led, and there seemed so
much that was genuine and fresh in the occupations and pleasures of
those quiet days at home.

In the mean time, the fresh life of the Candidate began to develop its
weak side. Gratitude had, in the first instance, warmed Elise's heart
towards him, and then his own real amiability made it so easy to gratify
the wish of her husband respecting her behaviour towards him, and thus
it soon happened that her intercourse with Jacobi enlivened her own
existence. In many respects their tastes were similar, especially in
their love of music and polite literature, whilst his youthful
enthusiasm gave to their common occupations a higher life and interest.
Discussion lost all character of dispute, and became merely an agreeable
interchange of thought: it was no longer now of any importance to him to
be always right; there was a peculiar kind of pleasure in giving up his
opinion to hers. He knew more out of books than she did, but she knew
more of life--the mother of books, than he; and on this account she, on
her part, proceeded as the older and guiding friend. He felt himself
happy from the influence and gentle guidance of an agreeable woman, and
became more and more devoted to her from his soul.

Still there was a quietness and a charm about this connexion that made
him never forbode danger in it. He loved to be treated as a child by
Elise, and he gave, therefore, free play to his naturally
unsophisticated feelings. Her gentle reproofs were a sort of luxury to
him; he had a delight in sinning, in order to deserve them; and then,
whilst listening to them, how gladly would he have pressed her dress,
or her white and beautiful hand to his lips; there was even a sort of
painfully agreeable sensation to him in his not daring to do so.
Whenever she approached, and he heard her light footsteps, or when he
perceived the soft rose-odour which always accompanied her, it seemed to
become infinitely warm around his heart. But that which, above all the
rest, was the strongest bond between Jacobi and Elise, was her
sufferings. Whenever nervous pain, or domestic unpleasantness, depressed
her spirits; when she bore the not unfrequent ill-humour of her husband
with patience, the heart of Jacobi melted in tenderness towards her, and
he did all that lay in his power to amuse and divert her thoughts, and
even to anticipate her slightest wishes. She could not be insensible to
all this--perhaps also it flattered her vanity to observe the power she
had over this young man--perhaps even she might willingly deceive
herself as to the nature of his sentiments, because she would not
disturb the connexion which lent a sweet charm to her life.

"He loves the children and their mother," said she; "he is their friend
and mine! May he only continue such!"

And certain it is that the children had never been better conducted,
never had learned better, never been happier, than they were now, whilst
Jacobi himself developed a more and more happy ability to teach and
guide.

Adverse fate barricades the shore which the vessel is on the point of
approaching, by dangerous breakers, and interrupts the bond between the
dearest friends, which is just about to be cemented eternally. It was
this fate which, at the very time when Jacobi was exhibiting his
character in the fairest point of view, occasioned the Judge to exhibit
the darker side of his.

Judge Frank belonged to that class of persons who are always in the best
humour the more they have to do, and the more active is the life they
lead. And just now there had occurred a pause in an undertaking for the
country's good, which lay much at the Judge's heart; and delay,
occasioned by a number of little circumstances which he willingly would,
but could not, dissipate, put him into an ill humour. At home he was
often exacting and quarrelsome, particularly towards his wife; thus
placing himself, beside the kind and cheerful Jacobi, in a very
disadvantageous light. He felt this, and was displeased with himself,
and displeased with his wife too, because she seemed to pay but little
regard to his grumbling; occupying herself instead by her
singing-practice with Jacobi. This very singing-practice, too, of which
he himself had been the occasion, began to appear to him too much of a
thing. He seemed to think scolding more agreeable for the ear; in fact,
he was in that edifying state of mind which excites and angers itself
about that which a few good words alone would easily put an end to.

The reading, likewise, which at first he had so zealously recommended,
became now to him another cause of vexation. Precisely at this very time
he wished to have more of the society of his wife of an evening, and
wished her to take more interest in his undertakings and his annoyances;
but whenever he came into the parlour he found them reading, or occupied
by music; and if these ceased at his entrance, there was still an
evident damp on the spirits of all--the entertainment could not proceed;
and if, on the contrary, he said, "Go on with your music (or reading),
go on," and they did so, he was still dissatisfied; and if he did not
very soon return to his own room, he walked up and down like a
snowstorm.

It was precisely this fate, of which we have just now spoken, which
managed it so, that one evening as Judge Frank, the prey of ill humour,
was walking up and down the room, a letter was put into his hand, at
sight of which he burst into an exclamation of joyful surprise. "Nay,
that is indeed delightful," said he, in a very cheerful voice, as soon
as he had read the letter. "Elise! Mrs. S----, Emelie, is here. She is
only just this evening arrived; I must hasten to her directly. Sweet
Elise, will you not come with me? It would be polite."

"Oh, it is so late!" said Elise, much less pleased than her husband;
"and I fancy it rains. Cannot you go alone to-night? to-morrow morning I
will----"

"Well, well, then," said the Judge, suddenly breaking off; and somewhat
offended at her refusal, hastening away.

It was rather late when he returned from his visit, but he was in high
spirits. "She is a most interesting lady," said he; "my best Elise, it
certainly would give you great pleasure to know her intimately."

"Ah! I question that," thought Elise.

"She talks," continued he, "of locating herself here in the city. I hope
we shall decide her to do so."

"I hope not," thought Elise.

"We will do all that we possibly can," said he, "to make her residence
here agreeable. I have invited her to dinner to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" exclaimed Elise, half terrified.

"Yes, to-morrow," answered her husband, peremptorily. "I told her that
to-morrow morning you would pay her a visit, but she insists on first
coming to you. You need not trouble yourself much about the dinner
to-morrow. Emelie will not expect much from an improvised dinner. At all
events, it may be just as good as there is any need for, if people will
only give themselves a little trouble. I hope Emelie will often come and
take up with our simple way of living."

Elise went to rest that night with a depressed heart, and with an
indefinite but most unpleasant feeling, thought of the next day's
dinner, and then dreamed that her husband's "old flame" had set the
house on fire, and robbed the whole family of its shelter.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE IMPROVISED DINNER.


You housewives who know the important meaning of a roast, who know the
difficulties which sometimes overwhelm you, especially when you must
improvise a dinner; you who know that notwithstanding all inspiration,
both of understanding and inclination--yet inspiration is necessary to
all improvisation--one cannot inspire either chickens or heath-cocks to
come flying into the important dish, when the crust is ready to put on
it;--you housewives who have spent many a long morning in thoughts of
cookery and in anguish, without daring to pray the Lord for help,
although continually tempted to do so; you can sympathise in Elise's
troubles, as she, on the morning of this important dinner, saw the
finger of the clock approach twelve without having been able to
improvise a roast.

It is true that an improvised dinner might do without a roast: this we
grant as a general law; but in the case of this particular dinner, we
deny it altogether, in proof of which we might easily give the
arrangement of the whole dinner, did we not flatter ourselves that we
are believed on our bare word. Beyond this, the Judge was a declared
lover of a roast, and of all kinds of animal food, which circumstance
increased still more Elise's difficulty; and as if to make difficulty
still greater, Elise, on this very day, was remarkably in want of
assistants, for her husband had sent out, on his own business, those
servants who, on extraordinary occasions, Elise found very good help.
The cook, too, was confused to-day in a remarkable manner; the children
were in a fermentation; Eva and Leonore quarrelled; Petrea tore a hole
in her new frock; Henrik broke a water-bottle and six glasses; the baby
cried and screamed for nothing; the clock was on the stroke of twelve,
and no roast would come!

Elise was just on the point of falling into despair over roasts, cooks,
the dinner, the child, nay, over the whole world, when the door opened,
and the words, "your most devoted servant," were spoken out shrilly and
joyously, and the widow of the Court Chamberlain--to Elise she seemed an
angel of light from heaven--stood in the room, with her beaming friendly
countenance, took out of her monstrous reticule one chicken after
another, and laid them upon the table, fixing her eye on Elise, and
making with each one a little curtsey to her, upon which she laughed
heartily. Enraptured by the sight, Elise embraced first the lady
Chamberlain, then the chickens, with which she hastily sprang into the
kitchen, and returning, poured forth her thanks and all her cares to
this friend in need.

"Well, well, patience!" exhorted Mrs. Gunilla, kindly and full of
cordial sympathy, and somewhat touched by Elise's communication.
"Best-beloved, one should not take it so much to heart--such troubles as
these soon pass away--yes, indeed, they soon pass. Now listen, and I'll
tell you something, 'when need is greatest, help is nearest.' Yes, yes,
remember that! As for the chickens, I saw them in a peasant's cart, as I
crossed the market, and as I knew what was going on here, I lost no time
in buying them and bringing them, under my cloak, and I have nearly run
myself out of breath, in my haste. He, he, he! And so now I must go,
for the dear lady must dress herself nicely, and so must I too. Adieu,
dear Elise; I wish you the happiness of getting both the dinner and the
young folks in order. He, he, he!"

Gunilla went, dinner-time came, and with it the guests and the Judge,
who had spent the whole morning in the business of his own office, out
of the house.

Emelie, the Colonel's widow, was elegant in the highest degree; looked
handsome, and distinguished, and almost outdid herself in politeness;
but still Elise, spite even of herself, felt stiff and stupid by the
side of her husband's "old flame." Beyond this, she had now a great
distraction.

"Oh, that the chickens may be nicely done!" was the incessant
master-thought of Elise's soul; and it prevailed over the Pope, the
Church of St. Peter's, Thorwaldsen and Pasta, and over every subject on
which they talked.

The hour of dinner was come, and yet the dinner kept the company
waiting. The Judge, who expected from everybody else the punctuality
which he himself practised, began to suffer from what Elise called his
"dinner-fever," and threw uneasy glances first at the dining-room door,
and then at his wife, whose situation, it must be confessed, was not a
very enviable one. She endeavoured to look quite calm, but often
whispered something to the little Louise, which sent her very
importantly in and out of the room. Elise's entertainment, both that
part which was audible, and that which was inaudible, was probably at
the moment carried on something after the following fashion:

"It must be inexpressibly pleasant to know," (ah, how unbearably long it
is!) "it must be very interesting." (I wish Ernst would fire again on
his "old flame," and forget dinner.) "Yes, indeed, that was very
remarkable." (Now are those chickens not roasted!) "Poor Spain!" (Now,
thank goodness, dinner is ready at last--if the chickens are only well
done!)

And now to dinner! A word which brightens all countenances, and enlivens
all tempers. Elise began to esteem the Colonel's widow very highly,
because she kept up such a lively conversation, and she hoped this would
divert attention from any of the dishes which were not particularly
successful. The Judge was a polite and agreeable host, and he was
particularly fond of dinner-time, when he would willingly have made all
men partakers of his good appetite, good humour, and even of his good
eating--N. B. if this really was good--but if the contrary happened to
be the case, his temper could not well sustain it.

During the dinner Elise saw now and then little clouds come over her
husband's brow, but he himself appeared anxious to disperse them, and
all went on tolerably till the chickens came. As the Judge, who adhered
to all old customs, was cutting them up, he evidently found them tough,
whereupon a glance was sent across the table to his wife which went to
her heart like the stab of a knife; but no sooner was the first pang
over than this reproachful glance aroused a degree of indignation in her
which determined her to steel herself against a misfortune which in no
case was her fault; she, therefore, grew quite lively and talkative, and
never once turned her eyes to her husband, who, angry and silent, sate
there with a very hot brow, and the knife sticking still in the fowls.

But, after all, she felt as if she could again breathe freely when the
dinner was over, and on that very account longed just to speak one word
of reconciliation with her husband; but he now seemed to have only eyes
and ears for Emelie; nor was it long before the two fell into a lively
and most interesting conversation, which certainly would have given
Elise pleasure, and in which she might have taken part, had not a
feeling of depression stolen over her, as she fancied she perceived a
something cold and depreciating in the manners of her husband towards
her. She grew stiller and paler; all gathered themselves round the
brilliant Emelie; even the children seemed enchanted by her. Henrik
presented her with a beautiful flower, which he had obtained from Louise
by flattery. Petrea seemed to have got up a passion for her father's
"old flame," took a footstool and sat near her, and kissed her hand as
soon as she could possess herself of it.

The lady devoted herself exclusively to her old worshipper, cast the
beams of her beautiful eyes upon him, and smiled bewitchingly.

"This is a great delight!" thought Elise, as she wiped away a traitorous
tear; "but I will keep a good face on it!"

The Candidate, who perceived all this, quickly withdrew from the lady's
enchanted circle, in which he also had been involved, and taking "the
baby" on his knee, began to relate a story which was calculated as much
to interest the mother as the child. The children were soon around him:
Petrea herself forsook her new flame to listen, and even Elise for the
moment was so amused by it that she forgot everything else. That was
precisely what Jacobi wanted, but it was not that which pleased the
Judge. He rose for a moment, in order to hear what it was which had so
riveted the attention of his wife.

"I cannot conceive," said he to her in a half-whisper, "how you can take
delight in such absurdity; nor do I think it good for the children that
they should be crammed with such nonsense!"

At length Emelie rose to take her leave, overwhelming Elise with a flood
of polite speeches, which she was obliged to answer as well as she
could, and the Judge, who had promised to show her the lions of the
place, accompanied her; on which the rest of the guests dispersed
themselves. The elder children accompanied the Candidate to the
school-room to spend an hour in drawing; the younger went to play;
Petrea wished to borrow Gabriele, who at the sight of a gingerbread
heart could not resist, and as a reward received a bit of it; Elise
retired to her own chamber.

Poor Elise! she dared not at this moment descend into her own heart; she
felt a necessity to abstain from thought--a necessity entirely to forget
herself and the troubling impressions with which to-day had overwhelmed
her soul. A full hour was before her, an hour of undisturbed repose, and
she hastened to her manuscript, in order to busy herself with those rich
moments of life which her pen could call up at pleasure, and to forget
the poor and weary present--in one word, to lose the lesser in the
higher reality. The sense of suffering, of which the little annoyances
of life gave her experience, made her alive to the sweet impressions of
that beauty and that harmonious state of existence which was so dear to
her soul.

She wrote and wrote and wrote, her heart was warm, her eyes filled with
tears, the words glowed upon her page, life became bright, the moments
flew. An hour and a half passed. Her husband's tea-time came; he had
such delight in coming home at this hour to find his wife and his
children all assembled round the tea-table in the family room. It very
rarely happened that Elise had not all in readiness for him; but now the
striking of seven o'clock roused her suddenly from her writing; she laid
down her pen, and was in the act of rising when her husband entered.

A strong expression of displeasure diffused itself over his countenance
as he saw her occupation.

"You gave us to-day a very bad dinner, Elise," said he, going up to her
and speaking with severity; "but when this novel-writing occupies so
much of your time, it is no wonder that you neglect your domestic
duties; you get to care really just as little about these, as you
trouble yourself about my wishes."

It would have been easy for Elise to excuse herself, and make all right
and straight; but the severe tone in which her husband spoke, and his
scornful glance, wounded her deeply. "You must have patience with me,
Ernst," said she, not without pride and some degree of vexation; "I am
not accustomed to renounce all innocent pleasures; my education, my
earlier connexions, have not prepared me for this."

This was like pricking the Judge in the eye, and with more bitterness
and severity than usual he replied:

"You should have thought about that before you gave me your hand; before
you had descended into so humble and care-full a circle. It is too late
now. Now I will----" but he did not finish his sentence, for he himself
perceived a storm rising within him, before which he yielded. He went to
the door, opened it, and said in a calm voice, yet still with an
agitated tone and glance, "I would just tell you that I have taken
tickets for the concert to-morrow, if you would wish to go. I hoped to
have found you at the tea-table; but I see that is not at all thought
of--it is just as desolate and deserted there as if the plague were in
the house. Don't give yourself any trouble, I shall drink my tea at the
club!" and thus saying he banged the door and went away.

Elise seated herself--she really could not stand--and hid her face in
her trembling hands. "Good heavens! is it come to this? Ernst, Ernst!
What words! what looks! And I, wretched being, what have I said?"

Such were Elise's broken and only half-defined thoughts, whilst tears
streamed down her cheeks.

"Words, words, words!" says Hamlet, disparagingly. But God preserve us
from the destructive power of words! There are words which can separate
hearts sooner than sharp swords--there are words whose sting can remain
in the heart through a whole life!

Elise wept long and violently; her whole soul was in excitement.

In moments of violent struggle, bad and good spirits are at hand; they
surrounded Elise and spoke to her thus:

Bad Spirits.--"Think on that which thou hast given up! think on thy own
merits! Recollect the many little acts of injustice which thou hast had
to bear, the bitter moments which the severity of thy husband has
occasioned thee! Why shouldst thou humbly crawl in the dust? Raise
thyself, depressed one! raise thyself, offended wife! think of thy own
worth, of thy own rights! Do not allow thyself to be subjected; show
some character. Requite that which thou hast endured. Thou also canst
annoy; thou also canst punish! Take refuge in thy nerves, in unkindness;
make use of thy power, and enjoy the pleasure of revenge!"

Good Spirits.--"Think on thy wants, on thy faults! Recollect all the
patience, all the kindness, all the tenderness which has been shown
thee! Think on the many beautiful moments! Think on thy husband's worth,
on his beautiful noble qualities! Think also on life, how short it is;
how much unavoidable bitterness it possesses; how much which it is easy
either to bear or to chase away; and think on the all-rectifying power
of affection. Tremble before the chains of selfish feeling; free thyself
from them by a new sacrifice of love, and purify the heaven of home.
Ascending clouds can easily expand into a destructive tempest, or can
disperse and leave not a trace in the air. Oh, chase them hence with the
powerful breath of love!"

The happiness of a long life depends, not unfrequently, upon which of
these invisible counsellors in such moments we give ear to. On this it
depends whether the gates of heaven or of hell shall be opened upon
earth to men. Elise listened to the good counsellors; she conversed long
with them, and the more pure recollections they sent into her soul the
lighter it became therein. The light of love was kindled in her, and in
its light she became clear-sighted in many directions. She saw now what
it was right for her to do respecting her novel, and this revelation
warmed her heart. She knew also that this was the only one she should
ever write, and that her husband should never again miss her from the
tea-table, and therefore be obliged to drink his tea at the club (but he
should be reconciled sometime with the sinner--the novel); and she
would, moreover, prepare a dinner for the Colonel's widow, which should
compensate for the unlucky one of this day; and--"Would that Ernst would
but come home soon," thought she, "I would endeavour to banish all his
displeasure, and make all right between us."

It was the bathing-day of the children, and the message that the hour of
bathing was come interrupted Elise's solitude. She ordered Brigitta to
commence her preparations, and when she had somewhat composed herself,
and washed away the traces of her tears with rose-water, she herself
went down into the chamber.

"God be praised for water!" thought Elise, at the first view of the
scene which presented itself. The soft glowing young forms in the clear
warm water, the glimmering of the open fire, the splashing and
jubileering of the children in their unspeakable comfort, their innocent
sport one with another in the peaceful little lake of the bath, in which
they had no fear of raising stormy waves; nay, even Brigitta's happy
face, under her white cap, her lively activity, amid the continual
phrases of "best-beloved," "little alabaster arm," "alabaster foot,"
"lily-of-the-valley bosom," and such like, whilst over the
lily-of-the-valley bosom, and the alabaster arm, she spread soap-foam
scarcely less white, or wrapped them in snowy cloths, out of which
nothing but little lively, glowing, merry faces peeped and played with
one another at bo-peep--all this united to present a picture full of
life and pleasure.

Elise, however, could not fully enjoy it; the thought of what had just
occurred, longings for reconciliation with her husband, fear that he
might remain long, that he might return too much displeased for her
easily to make all straight again--these thoughts occupied her mind; yet
still she could not help smiling as Gabriele, who had sunk down into the
bath alone, exclaimed, almost beside herself for fright, "I am drowning!
I am drowning!" In order to re-assure her, her mother stretched out her
white hands to her, and under their protection she laughed and splashed
about like a little fish in water.

A shower of flowers streamed suddenly over both mother and child, and
Gabriele screamed aloud for joy, and stretched forth her little arms to
catch gilly-flowers, roses, and carnations, which fell upon and around
her. Elise turned herself round in surprise, and her surprise changed
itself into the most delightful sensation of joy, as the lips of her
husband were pressed to her forehead.

"Ah, you!" exclaimed Elise, and threw her arms round his neck, and
caressingly stroked his cheek.

"I shall get wet through with all this," said he, laughing, yet without
leaving the bath, nay, he even stooped down his head to little Gabriele,
kissed her, and allowed her to splash him with water.

"Thank God! all is right again! and perhaps it will be best to take no
further notice of this unpleasant affair!" thought she, and prepared to
follow her husband into the parlour.

The Judge had, probably, during his bad tea at the club, held with the
invisible speakers the same conversation, with some variations, as his
wife during his absence, the consequence whereof was his visit to the
bathing-room, and the shower of flowers from the nosegay he had brought
with him for her, and the kiss of reconciliation which effaced every
thoughtless and wounding word. He felt now quite pleased that everything
was as it should be, and that the gentle and yielding temper of his wife
would require nothing further. But, perhaps, on that very account, he
was dissatisfied with himself, her eyes red with weeping grieved him,
especially as they beamed so kindly upon him, he felt that he misused
the power which circumstances had given him over his wife; he felt that
he had behaved harshly to her, and therefore he had no peace with
himself, therefore he felt a necessity to pronounce one word--one word,
which it is so hard for the lips of a man to pronounce, yet, which Ernst
Frank was too manly, too firm to shrink from.

When, therefore, his wife entered, he offered her his hand; "Forgive me,
Elise," said he, with the deepest feeling; "I have behaved severely,
nay, absurdly to-day!"

"Oh, forgive me, Ernst!" said Elise, deeply affected, whilst she pressed
his hand to her heart and----

Accursed be all disturbers of peace in this world! Such a one entered at
that moment, and undid that which would otherwise have bound them so
closely to each other. It was a messenger from the Colonel's widow with
a note, together with a book for the Judge, and two little bottles of
select Eau de rose for Elise, "of which, I know," said the note, "she is
very fond."

The Judge's cheek grew crimson as he read the note, which he did not
show to his wife.

"An extremely polite and interesting person," said he; "I will
immediately answer it."

"Ernst," said Elise, "should we not invite her to dinner to-morrow? I
thought of something very nice, which is sure to succeed; then we could
go altogether to the concert, and afterwards she might sup with us."

"Now that is a good idea, and I thank you for it, my sweet Elise," said
he, extremely pleased.

Yes, if the Colonel's widow had not been there--if the Candidate had not
been there--and if there had been no _if_ in the case, all might have
gone on quite smoothly. But it was quite otherwise.




CHAPTER IX.

ONE SWALLOW MAKES NO SUMMER.


Too many chaotic elements had collected together in the family of the
Franks for one sun-gleam to dissipate. Even the married pair did not
clearly understand their own actions.

The Judge, truly, was too much enchanted by his former beloved one; and
the beautiful Emelie did all that was in her power to enslave again her
early adorer.

Judge Frank, who would have been as cold and proud as possible, if he
had been assailed by coarse and direct flattery, was yet by no means
steeled against the refined and almost imperceptible flattery of Emelie,
who, with all her peculiar gifts of soul and understanding, made herself
subordinate to him, in order to be enlightened and instructed by him.

"An extraordinarily amiable and interesting lady," thought he still with
greater animation, although he seldom asserted so much; and exactly in
the proportion in which he found Emelie interesting, it was natural that
he should find Elise less so, especially as he found in Emelie precisely
those very qualities, the want of which he had so much regretted in his
wife; namely, an interest in his activity as a citizen, and in general
for the objects connected with which he occupied himself in the
liveliest manner.

Elise, on her part, was neither calm nor clear. The connexion between
her husband and Emelie was painful to her; and she felt a sort of
consolation from the devotion of Jacobi, even when it was beginning to
assume that passionate character which made her seriously uneasy.

A letter, which she wrote to her sister about this time, exhibits her
state of feeling:

"It is long since I wrote to you, Cecilia--I hardly know why; I hardly
know, indeed, my own feelings--all is so unquiet, so undefined. I wish
it were clear!

"Do you know she is very lovely, this 'old flame' of my husband's, and
very brilliant. I fancy I am jealous of her. Last evening I went out to
a supper-party--the first for several years. I dressed myself with great
care, for I wished to please Ernst, and had flowers in my hair. I was
greatly satisfied with my appearance when I went. My husband was to come
later. I found Emelie already there; she was beautiful, and looked most
elegant. They placed me beside her; a looking-glass was before us, on
which I threw stolen glances, and saw opposite to me--a shadow! I
thought at first it was some illusion, and looked again: but again it
revealed unmercifully to me a pale ghost beside the beautiful and
dazzling Emelie. 'It is all over, irremediably over,' thought I, 'with
my youth and my bloom! But if my husband and children only can love me,
I can then resign youth and beauty.'

"But again I felt compelled to look at the shadow in the glass, and grew
quite melancholy. Emelie also cast glances at the mirror, and drew
comparisons, but with feelings far different to mine. Then came Ernst,
and I saw that he too made comparisons between us.

"He was, all this evening, very much occupied with Emelie. I felt unwell
and weak; I longed so to support myself on his arm; but he did not come
near me the whole time: perhaps he imagined I was out of
humour--perhaps I looked so. Ah! I returned home before supper, and he
remained. As I drove home through those deserted streets in the wretched
hackney-coach, a sense of misery came over my heart such as I cannot
describe; many a bitter thought was awakened within me, before which I
trembled.

"At the door of my own home I met Jacobi; he had sate up for me, and
wished to tell me something amusing about my children. He seemed to have
foreboded my feelings this evening. My favourite fruit, which he had
provided for me, should have refreshed me. His friendship and his
devotion cheered me. There is something so beautiful in feeling oneself
beloved.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Every new emotion, every new connexion, among men, has its danger, its
temptation; the most beautiful, the most noble, may have their dangerous
tendency. Oh! how is this to be prevented without a separation?--how is
the poison to be avoided without deadening the sting? Oh, Cecilia! at
this moment I need a friend; I need you, to whom I could turn, and from
whom, in these disquieting circumstances, I in my weakness could derive
light and strength. I am discontented with myself; I am discontented
with----Ah! he alone it is who, if he would, could make all right!

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, Cecilia, this is a mist-enveloped hour of my life!--does it
announce day or night? My glance is dark; I see the path no longer! But
I will resign myself into the hand of Him who said, 'let there be
light.'

       *       *       *       *       *

"All is now better and clearer! God be praised! In a few hours this day
will be over;--I long vehemently for it!

"This evening we have a children's dance at our house. Emelie will be
here also. There is not a good understanding between us two. She is cold
to me, too witty, and too----, but I will do my best to be a good
hostess; and when the day is ended, I will sit and look at my beautiful
sleeping boy, and be happy in my children."




CHAPTER X.

THE END OF THE DAY.


Evening came, and with it lights and guests. A strong, self-sacrificing
amiability governed Elise's manner this evening. She was almost cordial
towards Emelie; cared for the comfort of every one, played the piano for
the children's dance, and appeared to exist only in order to serve
others. The beautiful Emelie, on the contrary, thought of herself; was
livelier and more brilliant than ever, and, as usual, assembled all the
gentlemen around her. The conversation was lively in this group; it
turned from politics to literature, and then dwelt awhile on
theatricals, in which Emelie, equally animated and sarcastic,
characterised the Scribe and Mellesville school as a dramatic
manufactory.

"For the rest," added she, "the stage acts very prudently and sensibly
in letting the curtain fall the moment the hero and heroine approach the
altar; novels do the same, and that, also, with good reason, otherwise
nobody would be able to read them."

"How so?" asked the Judge, with great earnestness.

"Because," answered Emelie, "the illusion of life is extinguished on the
other side of this golden moment, and reality steps forward then in all
its heaviness and nakedness. Look at a young couple in the glowing
morning of their union, how warm love is then; how it penetrates and
beautifies everything; how it glows and speaks in glance and word, and
agreeable action; how its glory changes the whole of life into poetry!
'Thou, thou!' is the one thought of the young people then. But observe
the same couple a few years later--'I, I!' and 'my pleasure,' is the
phrase now. The adoring all-resigning lover is then become the exacting
married man, who will be waited on and obeyed. And the loving
all-sacrificing bride, she is become the unwieldy and care-burdened
housewife, who talks of nothing but trouble, bad saltings, and negligent
maid-servants. And what are _tete-a-tete_ communications between these
two? 'How, my dear! is the butter really used up already? Why, I gave
you money only the other day for butter! You really must look better
after things, and see what the cook does with the butter; I will not
allow such extravagance in the house! Do you want something more?' 'Yes,
indeed, my love, I and the children must have new over-dresses. Little
Peter's coat is worn out, and little Paul has grown out of his; and my
old cloak cannot last to eternity!' People," continued the sarcastic
Emilie, "may thank their stars, too, if out of such interesting
communications as these no hateful quarrels arise; and if, in the happy
repose of their homes, harmless yawnings have only taken place of the
kisses which have left it. Contracted circumstances, meannesses, and
domestic trials, destroy the happiness of marriage, even as the worm
destroys the flower, bringing bitterness and sourness into the temper;
and though the married pair may continue to the very day of their death
to address each other as 'My sweet friend,' yet, very often, _in petto_,
it is 'My sour friend.' Yet, after all, this is nothing, in fact, but
what is perfectly natural; and, in this respect, marriage only follows
the eternal law of nature in all earthly existence. Every form of life
carries in itself decay and dissolution--a poisonous snake-king[3] gnaws
even at the root of the world's tree."

Several of the listeners, and among them the Candidate, had laughed
loudly at Emelie's descriptions; but the Judge had not once moved his
lips, and replied, when she had done, with an earnestness that
confounded even her satire.

"If all this were true, Emelie," said he, "then were life, even in the
best point of view, good for nothing; and with justice might it indeed
be called an illusion. But it is not so; and you have only described
marriage in its lowest, and not either in its best or its truest sense.
I do not deny the difficulties which exist in this as in every other
circumstance of life; but I am confident that they may and must be
overcome; and this will be done if the married pair bring only right
intentions into the house. Then want and care, disturbing, nay even
bitter hours, may come, but they will also go; and the bonds of love and
truth will be consolation, nay, even will give strength. You have
spoken, Emelie, of death and separation as the end of the drama of life;
you have forgotten the awaking again, and the second youth, of which
the ancient northern Vala sings. Married life, like all life, has such a
second youth; yes, indeed, a progressive one, because it has its
foundation in the life which is eternal; and every contest won, every
danger passed through, every pain endured, change themselves into
blessings on home and on the married pair, who have thus obtained better
knowledge, and who are thus more closely united."

He spoke with unusual warmth, and not without emotion, and his
expressive glance sought and dwelt upon his wife, who had approached
unobserved, and who had listened to Emelie's bitter satire with stinging
pain, because she knew that there was a degree of truth in it.

But as her husband spoke, she felt that he perceived the full truth, and
her heart beat freer and stronger, and all at once a clearness was in
her soul. With her head bent forward, she gazed on him with a glance
full of tenderness and confidence, forgetting herself, and listening
with fervour to every word which he uttered. In this very moment their
eyes met, and there was much, inexpressibly much, in their glance; a
clear crimson of delight flushed her cheek, and made her beautiful. The
gentle happiness which now animated her being, together with her lovely
figure, her graceful movements, and the purity of her brow, made her far
more fascinating than her lovely rival. Her husband followed her with
his eyes, as kindly and attentively she busied herself among her guests,
or with the little Gabriele in her arms mingled in the children's dance,
for which Evelina's foster-daughters were playing a four-handed piece.
He had suddenly cooled towards his "old flame," nor was he at all warmed
again by the sharp tone with which the little caressing Petrea was
reproved for being too obtrusive.

"Our little Louise in time will dance very well," remarked the Judge to
his wife, as he noticed with great pleasure the little _brisees_ and
_chassees_ of his daughter whom the twelve-years-old Nils Gabriel
Stjernhoek twirled round, and with whom he conversed with great gravity,
and a certain knightly politeness.

In the mean time Mrs. Gunilla was instructing Emelie on the manners and
character of the French; and Emelie, whose countenance since the
discussion of the marriage question had worn a bitter expression,
endeavoured with a tolerably sharp tone to make her superior
information felt, and in return was mown down, as it were, at one stroke
by Mrs. Gunilla, who--had never been in France.

The Candidate followed Elise everywhere with glances of devotion, and
appeared this evening perfectly enchanted by her amiability.

"Fie, for shame!--to take all the confections to yourself!" moralised
the little Queen-bee to the little S----ne,--a fat, quiet boy, who took
the confections and the reproof with the same stoical indifference.
Louise cast a look of high indignation upon him, and then gave her share
of sweetmeats to a little girl, who complained that she had had none.

Supper came, and Emelie, whose eyes flashed unusual fire, seemed to wish
fervently to win back that regard which she, perhaps, feared to have
lost already, and with her playful and witty conversation electrified
the whole company. Jacobi, who was excited in no ordinary manner, drank
one glass of wine after another, talked and laughed very loud, and
looked between whiles upon Elise with glances which expressed his
sentiments in no doubtful manner. These glances were not the first of
the kind which the quick eye of Elise's rival observed.

"That young man," said she, in a low but significant whisper to the
Judge, and with a glance on Jacobi, "seems to be very charming; he has
really remarkably attractive talents--is he nearly related to Elise?"

"No," returned he, looking at her rather surprised; "but he has been for
nearly three months a member of our family."

"Indeed!" said she, in a significant and grave manner; "I should have
thought--but as for that," added she, in an apparently careless
tone--"Elise is really so kind and so amiable, that for him who is with
her daily, it must be very difficult not to love her."

The Judge felt the sting of the viper, and with a glance which flashed a
noble indignation, he replied to his beautiful neighbour, "You are
right, Emelie; I know no woman who deserves more love or esteem than
she!"

Emelie bit her lip and grew pale; and she would assuredly have grown yet
paler, could she only have understood the sentiment which she had
awakened in the breast of her former admirer.

Ernst Frank had a keen sense of moral meanness, and when this displayed
itself no gifts of genius or of nature had power to conceal it. He
clearly understood her intentions, and despised her for them. In his
eyes, at this moment, she was hateful. In the mean time his composure
was destroyed. He looked on Jacobi, and observed his glances and his
feelings; he looked on Elise, and saw that she was uneasy, and avoided
his eye.

A horrible spasmodic feeling thrilled through his soul; in order to
conceal what he felt he became more than usually animated, yet there was
a something hostile, a something sternly sarcastic in his words, which
still, on account of the general gaiety, remained unobserved by most.

Never before was Assessor Munter so cheerful, so comically cross with
all mankind. Mrs. Gunilla and he shouted as if desperate against each
other. The company rose from the supper-table in full strife, and
adjourned to the dancing-room.

"Music, in heaven's name! music!" exclaimed the Assessor with a gesture
of despair, and Elise and the Colonel's widow hastened to the piano. It
was a pleasant thought, after the screaming of that rough voice had been
heard, to play one of Blangini's beautiful night-pieces, which seem to
have been inspired by the Italian heaven, and which awaken in the soul
of the hearer a vision of those summer nights, with their flowery
meadows, of their love, of their music, and of all their unspeakable
delights.

"_Un' eterna constanza in amor!_" were the words which, repeated several
times with the most bewitching modulations, concluded the song.

"_Un' eterna constanza in amor!_" repeated the Candidate, softly and
passionately pressing his hand to his heart, as he followed Elise to a
window, whither she had gone to gather a rose for her rival. As Elise's
hand touched the rose, the lips of Jacobi touched her hand.

Emelie sang another song, which delighted the company extremely; but
Ernst Frank stood silent and gloomy the while. Words had been spoken
this evening which aroused his slumbering perception; and with the look
he cast upon Jacobi and his wife, he felt as if the earth were trembling
under his feet. He saw that which passed at the window, and gasped for
breath. A tempest was aroused in his breast; and at the same moment
turning his eyes, he encountered, those of another person, which were
riveted upon him with a questioning, penetrating expression. They were
those of the Assessor. Such a glance as that from any other person had
been poison to the mind of Frank, but from Jeremias Munter it operated
quite otherwise; and as shortly afterwards he saw his friend writing
something on a strip of paper, he went to him, and looking over his
shoulder, read these words:

"Why regardest thou the mote in thy brother's eye, yet seest not the
beam in thine own eye?"

"Is this meant for me?" asked he, in a low but excited voice.

"Yes," was the direct reply.

The Judge took the paper, and concealed it in his breast.

He was pale and silent, and began to examine himself. The company broke
up; he had promised Emelie to accompany her home; but now, while she,
full of animation, jested with several gentlemen, and while her servant
drew on her fur-shoes, he stood silent and cold beside his "old flame"
as a pillar of ice. Mrs. Gunilla and the Assessor quarrelled till the
last moment. Whilst all this was going on, Elise went quietly to Jacobi,
who stood somewhat apart, and said to him in a low voice, "I wish to
speak with you, and will wait for you in the parlour, when they are all
gone." Jacobi bowed; a burning crimson flashed to his cheek; the Judge
threw a penetrating glance upon them, and passed his hand over his pale
countenance.

"It gives me great pleasure," cried Mrs. Gunilla, speaking shrilly and
_staccato_--"it gives me great pleasure to see my fellow-creatures, and
it gives me great pleasure if they will see me. If they are not always
agreeable, why I am not always agreeable myself! Heart's-dearest! in
this world one must have patience one with another, and not be
everlastingly requiring and demanding from others. Heaven help me! I am
satisfied with the world, and with my own fellow-creatures, as our Lord
has been pleased to make them. I cannot endure that people should be
perpetually blaming, and criticising, and mocking, and making sour faces
at everything, and saying 'I will not have this!' and 'I will not have
that!' and 'I will not have it so! It is folly; it is unbearable; it is
wearisome; it is stupid!' precisely as if they themselves only were
endurable, agreeable, and clever! No, I have learned better manners than
that. It is true that I have no genius, nor learning, nor talents, as so
many people in our day lay claim to, but I have learned to govern
myself!"

During this moral lecture, and endeavouring all the time to overpower
it, the Assessor exclaimed, "And can you derive the least pleasure from
your blessed social life? No, that you cannot! What is social life, but
a strift to get into the world in order to discover that the world is
unbearable? but a scheming and labouring to get invited, to be offended
and put out of sorts if not invited; and if invited, then to complain of
weariness and vexation, and thus utter their lamentations. Thus people
bring a mass of folks together, and wish them--at Jericho! and all this
strift only to get poorer, more out of humour, more out of health; in
one word, to obtain the perfectly false position, _vis-a-vis_, of
happiness! See there! Adieu, adieu! When the ladies take leave, they
never have done."

"There is not one single word of truth in all that you have said," was
the last but laughing salutation of Mrs. Gunilla to the Assessor, as,
accompanied by the Candidate, she left the door. The Judge, too, was
gone; and Elise, left alone, betook herself to the parlour.

Suddenly quick steps were heard behind her--she thought "Jacobi"--turned
round, and saw her husband; but never before had she seen him looking as
then; there was an excitement, an agitation, in his countenance that
terrified her. He threw his arm violently round her waist, riveted his
eyes upon her with a glance that seemed as if it would penetrate into
her inmost soul.

"Ernst, Ernst, be calm!" whispered she, deeply moved by his state of
mind, the cause of which she imagined. He seized her hand and pressed it
to his forehead--it was damp and cold; the next moment he was gone.

We will now return to the Candidate.

Wine and love, and excited expectation, had so inflamed the imagination
of the young man, that he hardly knew what he did--whether he walked, or
whether he flew; and more than once, in descending the stairs, had he
nearly precipitated Mrs. Gunilla, who exclaimed with kindness, but some
little astonishment, "The Cross preserve me! I cannot imagine,
heart's-dearest, how either you or I go to-night! I think we are all
about to--see, now again, all's going mad.--No, I thank you, I'll take
care of my nose, crooked as it is. I think I can go safer by myself. I
can hold by----"

"A thousand thousand times pardon," interrupted the Candidate, whilst he
pressed Mrs. Gunilla's arm tightly; "it is all my fault. But now we will
go safely and magnificently; I was a little dizzy!"

"Dizzy!" repeated she. "Heart's-dearest, we should take care on that
very account; one should take care of one's head as well as one's heart;
one should take care of that, or it may go still more awry than it now
is with us! He, he, he, he--but listen to me, my friend," said Mrs.
Gunilla, suddenly becoming very grave: "I will tell you one thing, and
that is----"

"Your most gracious Honour, pardon me," interrupted he, "but I think--I
feel rather unwell--I--there, now we are at your door! Pardon me!" and
the Candidate tumbled up-stairs again.

In the hall of the Franks' dwelling he drew breath. The thought of the
mysterious meeting with Elise filled him at the same time with joy and
uneasiness. He could not collect his bewildered thoughts, and with a
wildly-beating heart went into the room where Elise awaited him.

As soon as he saw her white lovely figure standing in the magical
lamplight his soul became intoxicated, and he was just about to throw
himself at her feet, when Elise, hastily, and with dignity, drew back a
few paces.

"Listen to me, Jacobi," said she, with trembling but earnest voice.

"Listen to you!" said he, passionately--"oh, that I might listen to you
for ever!--oh, that I----"

"Silence!" interrupted Elise, with a severity very unusual to her; "not
one word more of this kind, or our conversation is at an end, and we are
separated for ever!"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Jacobi, "what have----"

"I beseech you, listen to me!" continued Elise; "tell me, Jacobi, have I
given you occasion to think thus lightly of me?"

Jacobi started. "What a question!" said he, stammering, and pale.

"Nevertheless," continued Elise, with emotion, "I must have done so;
your behaviour to me this evening has proved it. Could you think,
Jacobi, that I, a wife, the mother of many children, could permit the
sentiment which you have been so thoughtless as to avow this evening?
Could you imagine that it would not occasion me great uneasiness and
pain? Indeed, it is so, Jacobi; I fear that you have gone sadly wrong;
and if I myself, through any want of circumspection in my conduct, have
assisted thereto, may God forgive me! You have punished me for it,
Jacobi--have punished me for the regard I have felt for you and shown to
you; and if I now must break a connexion which I hoped would gladden my
life, it is your own fault. Only one more such glance--one more such
declaration, as you have made this evening, and you must remove from
this house."

The crimson of shame and indignation burned on Jacobi's cheek. "In
truth," said he, "I have not deserved such severity."

"Ah! examine yourself, Jacobi," said she, "and you will judge yourself
more severely than I have done. You say that you love me, Jacobi, and
you do not dread to destroy the peace and happiness of my life. Already,
perhaps, are poisonous tongues in activity against me. I have seen this
evening glances directed upon me and upon you, which were not mild; and
thoughts and feelings are awakened in my husband's soul, which never
ought to have been awakened there. You have disturbed the peace of a
house, into which you were received with friendship and confidence. But
I know," continued she, mildly, "that you have not intended anything
criminal!--no bad intentions have guided your behaviour; folly only has
led you to treat so lightly that relationship which is the holiest on
earth. You have not reflected on your life, on your duty, and your
situation, in this family, with seriousness."

Jacobi covered his face with his hands, and a strong emotion agitated
him.

"And seriousness," again began Elise, with warmth and deep
earnestness--"seriousness! how it clothes--how it dignifies the
man!--Jacobi, the saviour of my child--my young friend! I would not have
spoken thus to you if I had not had great faith on your better--your
nobler self;--if I had not hoped to have won a friend in you--a friend
for my whole life, for myself and my Ernst. Oh, Jacobi, listen to my
prayer!--you are thrown among people who are willing from their very
hearts to be your friends! Act so that we may love and highly esteem
you; and do not change into grief that hearty goodwill which we both
feel for you! Combat against, nay, banish from your heart, every foolish
sentiment which you, for a moment, have cherished for me. Consider me as
a sister, as a mother! Yes," continued she, pausing over this word, and
half prophetically, "perhaps you may even yet call me mother; and if you
will show me love and faith, Jacobi, as you have said, I will accept
it--from my son! Oh, Jacobi! if you would deserve my blessing, and my
eternal gratitude, be a faithful friend, a good instructor of my boy--my
Henrik! Your talents as a teacher are of no common kind. Your heart is
good--your understanding is capable of the noblest cultivation--your
path is open before you to all that which makes man most estimable and
most amiable. Oh, turn not away from it, Jacobi--tread this path with
seriousness----"

"Say not another word!" exclaimed Jacobi. "Oh, I see all! forgive me,
angelic Elise! I will do all, everything, in order to deserve hereafter
your esteem and your friendship. You have penetrated my heart--you have
changed it. I shall become a better man. But tell me that you forgive
me--that you can be my friend, and that you will!"

Jacobi, in the height of his excitement, had thrown himself on his knee
before her; Elise also was deeply affected; tears streamed from her
eyes, whilst she extended her hand to him, and bending over him said,
from the very depths of her heart, "Your friend, for ever!"

Calmly, and with cheerful countenances, both raised themselves; but an
involuntary shudder passed through both as they saw the Judge standing
in the room, with a pale and stern countenance.

Jacobi went towards him: "Judge Frank," said he, with a firm but humble
voice, "you behold here a----"

"Silence, Jacobi!" interrupted Elise, quickly; "you need not blush on
account of your bended knee, nor is any explanation needful. It is not,
is it, Ernst?" continued she, with the undaunted freshness of innocence:
"you desire no explanation; you believe me when I say that Jacobi now,
more than ever, deserves your friendship. A bond is formed between us
three, which, as I hope before God, nothing will disturb, and no
poisonous tongues censure. You believe me, Ernst?"

"Yes," said he, giving her his hand; "if I could not, then----" he did
not finish his sentence, but fixed his eyes with a stern expression
immovably on her. "I will speak with you," said he, after a moment, and
in a calmer voice. "Good night, Mr. Jacobi."

Jacobi bowed, withdrew a few steps, and then returned. "Judge Frank,"
said he, in a voice which showed the excitement of his feelings, "give
me your hand; I will deserve your friendship."

The outstretched hand was grasped firmly and powerfully, and Jacobi left
the room in haste.

"Come here, Elise," said the Judge, with warmth, leading his wife to the
sofa, and enclosing her in his arms. "Speak to me! Tell me, has anything
in my behaviour of late turned your heart from me!"

Elise's head sunk upon the breast of her husband, and she was silent.
"Ah, Ernst!" said she at length, with a painful sigh, "I also am
dissatisfied with myself. But, oh!" added she more cheerfully, "when I
lean myself on you thus, when I hear your heart beating, and know what
is within that heart, then, Ernst, I feel how I love you--how I believe
on you! Then I reproach myself with being so weak, so unthankful, so
ready to take offence, then--oh, Ernst! love me! Look on me always as
now, then life will be bright to me; then shall I have strength to
overcome all--even my own weakness; then I shall feel that only a cloud,
only a shadow of mist, and no reality can come between us. But now all
is vanished. Now I can lay open to you all the innermost loopholes of my
heart--can tell you all my weaknesses----"

"Be still, be still now," said the Judge, with a bright and affectionate
look, and laying his hand on her mouth. "I have more failings than you;
but I am awake now. Weep not, Elise; let me kiss away your tears! Do you
not feel, as I do now, that all is right? Do we not believe in the
Eternal Good, and do we not believe in each other? Let us forgive and
forget, and have peace together. Hereafter, when the error of this time
has in some measure passed from our remembrance, we will talk it over,
and wonder how it ever came between us. Now, all is so bright between
us, and we both of us see our way clearly. Our errors will serve us for
warnings. Wherefore do we live in the world, unless to become better?
Look at me, Elise. Are you friendly towards me? Can you have confidence
in me?"

"I can! I have!" said she; "there is not a grain of dust any longer
between us."

"Then we are one!" said he, with a joyful voice. "Let us, then, in God's
name, go thus together through life. What He has united, let no man, no
accident, nothing in this world, separate!"

Night came; but light had arisen in the breast both of husband and wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

The furrow of disunion bears commonly thorns and thistles, but it may
likewise bear seed for the granary of heaven.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] According to the Northern mythology, Nidhoegg, the snake-king, lives
in Niflhem, the nether world.




CHAPTER XI.

JACOBI.


When Jacobi entered his room, he found a letter lying on the table near
his bed. He recognised the handwriting as that of Judge Frank, and
quickly opened it. A bank-note of considerable value fell out; and the
letter contained the following words:

      "You are indebted to several persons in the city, Jacobi, with
      whom I wish, for your own sake, that you should have as little to
      do as possible. Within, you will find the means of satisfying
      their demands. Receive it as from a paternal friend, who sincerely
      wishes you to regard him as such, and who embraces with pleasure
      an opportunity of making an acknowledgment to the friend and
      instructor of his children. To the preserver of my child I shall
      always remain indebted; but should you desire anything, or need
      anything, do not apply to any other than

                              "Your friend, E. Frank."

"He! and he, too!" exclaimed Jacobi, deeply agitated. "Oh, the kind,
noble, excellent man! And I--I shall, I will become worthy of him! From
this day I am a new man!"

He pressed the letter to his breast, and looked up to the star-lighted
heaven with silent but fervent vows.




CHAPTER XII.

TIME GOES.


Life has its moments of strength and bloom; its bright moments of
inspiration, in which the human artist (the painter of earthly life)
seizes on, and utters the supremely pure, the supremely beautiful, the
divine. If, in such moments, everything in human life were executed; if
then sacrifices were made, work accomplished, victories won, there would
be but little difficulty in life. But the difficult part is to preserve,
through a long course of years, the flame which has been kindled by
inspiration! to preserve it while the storms come and go, while the
everlasting dust-rain of the moments falls and falls; to preserve it
still and uniform, amidst the uniform changing of uniform days and
nights. To do this, strength from above is required; repeated draughts
from the fountain of inspiration; both for the great and the small--for
all labourers on earth.

It was the good fortune of Ernst and Elise that they knew this; and knew
also how to avail themselves of it. On this account they succeeded more
and more in conquering their natural failings; on this account they came
nearer to each other by every little step, which in itself is so
unobservable, but which yet, at the same time, twines so firmly and
lovingly together the human heart and life, and which may be contained
in the rubric--_regard for mutual inclinations, interest for mutual
interests_.

Through this new-born intimacy of heart, this strengthening and pure
affection, Elise assumed a secure and noble standing with regard to
Jacobi. Her heart was vanquished by no weakness, even when she saw
suffering expressed in his youthful countenance; nay, she remained firm,
even when she saw that his health was giving way, and only besought her
husband to name an earlier day for his and Henrik's departure. This was
also her husband's wish. Like a good angel, at once gentle, yet strong,
he stood at this time by her side. No wonder was it, therefore, that,
with his support, Elise went forward successfully; no wonder was it,
therefore, that from the firm conduct of her husband, and from the
contemplation of the good understanding which existed between the
married pair, the whispered blame, which had already begun to get
abroad at their expense, died of itself, like a flame wanting
nourishment.

Of Judge Frank's "old flame," which Elise had feared so much, we must
relate how that she found herself so wounded, and so cooled likewise, by
the ice-cold behaviour of her former adorer, that she quickly left the
town, which was too monotonous for her, and abandoned all thoughts of
settling there.

"Life there would be too uniform for me, would possess too little
interest," said she, yawning, to the Judge, who was warmly counselling
her return either to France or Italy.

"In our good North," added he, "we must find that which can give
interest and enjoyment to life in ourselves and our own means,--from our
families, from our own breasts."

"She is, nevertheless, extremely beautiful and interesting," said Elise,
with a kindly feeling towards her when she was gone. The Judge made no
reply; he never was heard to speak again of his former beloved one.

Days went by. The Judge had much to do. Elise occupied herself with her
little girls, and the Candidate with Henrik and his own studies.

The children grew like asparagus in June, and the father rejoiced over
them. "The Queen-bee will grow over all our heads," prophesied he many a
time; and when he heard Eva playing "Marlbrough s'en va-t-en guerre," on
the piano, his musical sense awoke, and he said, "what a deal of feeling
there is already in her music!--is there not, Elise?"

The evenings, on which all the members of the family assembled, assumed
constantly a livelier and more comfortable character for every one;
often they played and danced with the children.

The children! What a world of pleasure and pain do they not bring with
them into a house! Of a truth all is not of as rosy a hue as their
cheeks. Elise discovered that in her children which was not always
exactly good. "Do not to others what thou wouldst not that they should
do to thee." "People should think of what they do." "Patience is a good
root." "You do not see that your father and mother do so; look at me,
and do as I do." These standing and going speeches, which have travelled
through the world from the time when "Adam delved and Eve span," down to
the present day, and which to the very end of time will be ever in
use--together with assurances to the children, whenever they were
punished, or when they must learn their lessons yet more--that all this
was done for their benefit, and that the time would come when they would
be thankful for it--which the children very seldom, if ever
believed--this citizen-of-the-world, patriarchal household-fare, which
was dealt out in the family of the Franks, as in every other worthy
family, did not always produce its proper effect.

Perhaps Elise troubled herself too much sometimes about the perpetual
recurrence of the same fault in her children--perhaps she calculated too
little on the invisible but sun-like and powerful influence of paternal
love on the little human-plants. True it is that she often was in great
anxiety on their account, and that the development and future prospects
of her daughters awoke in her soul much disquiet and trouble.

One day, when such thoughts had troubled her more than usual, she felt
the necessity of a prudent, and, in this respect, experienced female
friend, to whom she could open her mind.

"Ernst," said she, as her husband prepared himself to go out immediately
after dinner, "I shall go below for a few minutes to Evelina, but I will
be back again by the time you return."

"Don't trouble yourself about that, dear Elise," said he; "remain as
long as you like; I'll fetch you. Take my arm, and let us go down
together, that I may see exactly where you go, and whence I must fetch
you."




CHAPTER XIII.

A LITTLE EDUCATION AND COFFEE COMMITTEE.


As Elise entered Evelina's room, Pyrrhus sprang, barking, towards her,
and wagging his tail. Mrs. Gunilla was there, and she and the hostess
emulated each other in welcoming their friend.

"Nay! best-beloved, that is charming!" exclaimed Mrs. Gunilla, embracing
Elise cordially. "Now, how does the little lady?--somewhat
pale?--somewhat out of spirits, I fancy? I will tell confidentially that
I know we shall presently get some magnificent coffee, which will cheer
up little Elise."

Evelina took Elise's hand, and looked kindly and sympathising at her
with her calm sensible eyes. Pyrrhus touched her foot gently with his
nose, in order to call her attention, and then seated himself on his
hind legs before her, began growling, in order to express his sympathy
also. Elise laughed, and she and Mrs. Gunilla vied with each other in
caressing the little animal.

"Ah, let me sit down here and chat with you, where everything seems so
kind," said Elise, in reply to Evelina's glance, which spoke such a kind
"How do you do?" "Here all is so quiet and so comfortable. I do not know
how you manage, Evelina, but it seems to me as if the air in your room
were clearer than elsewhere; whenever I come to you it seems to me as if
I entered a little temple of peace."

"Yes, and so it seems to me," said Mrs. Gunilla, cordially.

"Yes, thank God," said Evelina, smiling gratefully, and with tears in
her eyes; "here is peace!"

"And at our little lady's, the young folks raise dust sometimes in the
temper, as well as in the rooms. Is it not so?" said Mrs. Gunilla, with
facetiousness. "Well, well," added she, by way of consolation,
"everything has its time, all dust will in time lay itself, only have
patience."

"Ah, teach me that best thing, Aunt," said Elise, "for I am come here
precisely with the hope of gaining some wisdom--I need it so much. But
where are your daughters to-day, Evelina?"

"They are gone to-day to one of their friends," replied she, "to a
little festival, which they have long anticipated with pleasure; and I
also expect to have my share, from their relation of it to me."

"Ah! teach me, Evelina," said Elise, "how I can make my daughters as
amiable, as good, and as happy, as your Laura and Karin. I confess that
it is the anxiety for the bringing up of my daughters which ever makes
me uneasy, and which lies so heavy on my heart this very day. I distrust
my own ability--my own artistical skill, rightly to form their
minds--rightly to unfold them."

"Ah, education, education!" said Mrs. Gunilla, angrily; "people are
everlastingly crying out now for education. One never can hear anything
now but about education. In my youth I never heard talk and outcry for
education, and yet, thank God, a man was a man in those days for all
that. I confess that when I first heard this talk of education, I
supposed that there would be two sorts, as of everything in the world. I
thought so! But now, ever since _le tiers etat_ have pushed themselves
so much forward, have made so much of themselves, and have esteemed
themselves as something exclusive in the world with their education--now
the whole world cries out, 'educate! educate!' Yes, indeed, they even
tell us now that we should educate the maid-servants. I pray God to
dispense with my living in the time when maid-servants are educated; I
should have to wait myself on them, instead of their waiting on me. Yes,
yes! things are going on towards that point at a pretty rate, that I can
promise you! Already they read Frithiof and Axel; and before one is
aware, one shall hear them talk of 'husband and wife,' and 'wife and
husband;' and that they fancy themselves 'to be vines, which must wither
if they are not supported;' and 'sacrifices,' and other such affecting
things, until they become quite incapable of cleaning a room, or
scouring a kettle. Yes, indeed, there would be pretty management in the
world with all their education! It is a frenzy, a madness, with this
education! It is horrible!"

The longer Mrs. Gunilla talked on this subject, the more she excited
herself.

Elise and Evelina laughed heartily, and then declared that they
themselves, as belonging to the _tiers etat_, must take education, nay,
even the education of maid-servants, under their protection.

"Ah," said Mrs. Gunilla, impatiently, "you make all so artistical and
entangled with your education; and you cram the heads of children full
of such a many things, that they never get them quite straight all the
days of their life. In my youth, people learned to speak 'the language,'
as the French was then called, just sufficient to explain a motto;
enough of drawing to copy a pattern, and music enough to play a _contre
danse_ if it were wanted; but they did not learn, as now, to gabble
about everything in the world; but they learned to think, and if they
knew less of art and splendour, why, they had the art to direct
themselves, and to leave the world in peace!"

"But, your best Honour," said Evelina, "education in its true meaning,
as it is understood in our time, teaches us to take a clearer view of
ourselves and of the world at large, so that we may more correctly
understand our own allotted station, estimate more properly that of
others, and, in consequence, that every one may be fitted for his own
station, and contented therewith."

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Gunilla, "all that may be very good, but----" But
just then the coffee came in, with biscuits and gingerbread, which made
an important diversion in the entertainment, which now took a livelier
character. Mrs. Gunilla imparted to Elise, with jesting seriousness, a
variety of good counsel on the education of her children. She sent for
and recommended particularly a certain _Orbis Pictus_, which she herself
had studied when a child, and which began with the words, "Come here,
boy, and learn wisdom from my mouth," and in which one could see clearly
how the soul was fashioned, and how it looked. It looked like a pancake
spread out on a table round and smooth, with all the five senses
properly numbered. Mrs. Gunilla assured Elise, that if her children paid
attention to this picture, it would certainly develop and fashion their
ideas of the human soul. Furthermore, she proposed the same educational
course as had been used with such distinguished success upon her
deceased father and his brother, when they went to school, and which
consisted in every boy being combed with a fine comb every Saturday, and
well whipped, whilst an ounce of English salt was allowed per boy, in
order to drive the bad spirits out of him. Beyond this, they had, too,
on the same day, a diet of bread and beer, in which was a dumpling
called "Grammatica," so that the boys might be strengthened for the
learning of the following week.

During the merriment which these anecdotes occasioned, the Judge came
in: delighted with the merriment, and delighted with his wife, he seated
himself beside her, quite covetous of an hour's gossip with the ladies.
Mrs. Gunilla served him up the human soul in the _Orbis Pictus_, and
Elise instigated her still further to the relation of the purification
of the boys. The Judge laughed at both from the bottom of his heart, and
then the conversation turned again on the hard and disputable ground of
education; all conceding, by general consent, the insufficiency of rules
and methods to make it available.

Evelina laid great stress on the self-instruction of the teacher. "In
the degree," said she, "in which man developes in himself goodness,
wisdom, and ability, he succeeds commonly in calling out these in
children."

All the little committee, without exception, gave their most lively
approval; and Elise felt herself quite refreshed, quite strengthened by
the words which showed her so clearly the path to her great object. She
turned now, therefore, the conversation to Evelina's own history and
development. It was well known that her path through life had been an
unusual one, and one of independence, and Elise wished now to know how
she had attained to that serenity and refreshing quiet which
characterised her whole being. Evelina blushed, and wished to turn the
conversation from herself--a subject which she least of all would speak
about, and that probably because she was in harmony with herself--but as
the Judge with his earnest cordiality united in the wish of his wife and
Mrs. Gunilla, that Evelina would relate to them some passages in the
history of her life, she acceded, remarking only that what she had to
relate was in no way extraordinary; and then, after she had bethought
herself for a moment, she began, addressing herself more especially to
Elise, and in the mean time Mrs. Gunilla hastily jotted down the
narrative, which we will here designate


EVELINA'S HISTORY.

Have you ever been conscious, while listening to a beautiful piece of
music, of a deep necessity, an indescribable longing, to find in your
own soul, in your own life, a harmony like that which you perceived in
the tune?--if so, you have then an idea of the suffering and the release
of my soul. I was yet a little child when, for the first time, I was
seized upon by this longing, without at that time comprehending it.
There was a little concert in the house of my parents; the harp, piano,
horn, and clarionette, were played by four distinguished artists. In one
part of the symphony the instruments united in an indescribably sweet
and joyous melody, in the feeling of which my childish soul was seized
upon by a strong delight, and at the same time by a deep melancholy. It
seemed to me as if I had then an understanding of heaven, and I burst
into tears. Ah! the meaning of these I have learned since then. Many
such, and many far more painful, tears of longing, have fallen upon the
dark web of my life.

To what shall I compare the picture of my youthful years? All that it,
and many other such family pictures exhibit, is unclear, indefinite, in
one word, blotted as it were in the formation. It resembled a dull
autumn sky, with its grey, shapeless, intermingling cloud-masses; full
of those features without precision, of those contours without meaning,
of those shadows without depth, of those lights without clearness, which
so essentially distinguish the work of a bungler from that of a true
master.

My family belonged to the middle class, and we were especially well
content to belong to this noble class; and as we lived from our rents,
and had no rank in the state, we called ourselves, not without some
self-satisfaction, people of condition. We exhibited a certain genteel
indifference towards the _haute volee_ in the citizen society, not only
in words but sometimes also in action; yet, nevertheless, in secret we
were extremely wounded or flattered by all those who came in contact
with us from this circle; and not unfrequently too the family
conversation turned, quite accidentally as it were, on the subject of
its being ennobled on the plea of the important service which our father
could render to the state in the House of Knights; and in the hearts of
us young girls it excited a great pleasure when we were addressed as "my
lady." Beyond this agitation of the question nothing came.

The daughters of the house were taught that all pomp and pleasure of
this world was only vanity, that nothing was important and worth
striving after but virtue and inward wor

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