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, 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 N to
N. 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.
N. 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.
N. 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.
N. 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.
N. 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 Téméraires,” 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 éminences
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.