1. page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/danessketchedbyt02bush 2. the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. the danes sketched by themselves. a series of popular stories by the best danish authors, translated by mrs. bushby. _in three volumes.--vol. iii_. london: richard bentley, new burlington street. 1864. * * * * * [_the right of translation is reserved_.] london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street, and charing cross. contents of vol. iii. the fair prospect. death and his victims.--by adam oehlenschl[oe]ger. all souls' day.--by b. s. ingemann. lisette's castles in the air.--by h. v. holst. twice sacrificed.--by carit etlar. herr sinclair.--by e. storm. the aged rabbi.--by b. s. ingemann. the bankrupt.--by carl bernhard. the hereditary goblet.--from the swedish of uncle adam. the death ship.--by b. s. ingemann. the brothers; or, a good conscience. esben.--by s. s. blicher. the danes sketched by themselves. * * * * * the fair prospect. from his infancy he had loved the sea, with its restless waves; the dark blue ocean, with its white sails; and the idea of a sailor's pleasant life pervaded his very dreams. during the winter months he was satisfied to go to school, and learn to read and write; but in summer, when the soft wind stole with its balmy breath through the windows of the schoolroom, he used to fancy that it brought him greetings from the adjacent sea--that it came fraught with the odour of the sun-bleached deck, of the tarry rope, of the swelling sail--and then the schoolroom became too confined for him, and his little breast heaved with a longing which he could not repress. all his holidays were spent at the quays, or on the seashore. when a ship arrived from some foreign land, he would gaze at it with longing eyes, and he would wish it were not speechless, that it might tell him of the magnificent clear moonlights on which the tropical skies and the dreamy ocean seemed to unite, and form one wide and bland expanse, or of the dark stormy night on which the tempest, resting on its breezy pinions, broods over the foaming sea. oh! how he envied the careless, sunburnt sailors, who looked down from the gunwale, or hung, apparently in frolic mood, amid the yards above! who could be so happy as they, to skim over the sea with only a slender plank beneath their feet, with the white sails outstretched like wings above their heads! when it became late in the evening, he would saunter slowly and sorrowfully homewards to the small, confined house in the suburbs of the town, where his mother, who had, perhaps, just finished her day's hard work, would meet him with gentle reproaches for staying out so long. when he had then assisted her to bring in the heavy pail of water, to stretch the somewhat blackened ropes in the court, and prop them up with long sticks; to water the flowers in the little garden, and the pots of balsam and geranium in the window; and when their simple supper was finished, it was his delight to place himself on a low wooden stool at his mother's feet, while she knitted, and listened to the stories she told him of his poor father, who had gone far away and had never returned. vivid were the pictures the good woman drew from the magic-lantern of her memory. now, it was of her maritime wedding, with the two waving dannebrog flags, the numerous smartly-dressed sailors, with their short jackets, white hats, and red pocket-handkerchiefs, each with his sweetheart on his arm; now, of the day when his father came home from a voyage, and found him--the boy--in the cradle, a welcome gift on his arrival; now, of the dreadful hour when the owner of the ship sent for her, and she was informed, in a few cold words, that her husband had died out on the wide ocean, had been wrapped in his hammock, and lowered into the deep. the stories always ended here with the widow's tears; but the boy would sit lost in deep thought, and would follow in his imagination the sinking hammock, with his father's corpse, down beneath the blue, blue waves, lower and lower, into the darkening abyss, until he became giddy from his own fancies. sometimes his mother was not at home; then he always fixed his gaze upon a miserable little picture which hung against the wall, and which represented a brig in full sail. he would fancy himself standing beneath its broad canvas, and waving his farewell to the land; or he would steal into the recess of the window, and please himself by imagining that he was in the cabin of a ship, and that the white curtain which hung in the window, and was slightly agitated by the wind, was the flapping of the sails in a storm. his little head would at length droop and rest against the window-sill, whilst sleep closed his eyes, and permitted him to continue in dreams his fancied voyage. one day--a bright sunshiny day--he was strolling along the edge of the harbour wall, gazing at the ships, and chattering now and then with the seafaring people. his little white hat had fallen back, and rested awry upon his curly head, as the poor boy jumped and played about, his shirt sleeves tucked up, and without any jacket. how happy he was when the sailors bade him run an errand for them, or what was better still, help them to move or lift anything. as he wandered farther and farther on, he came upon a large ship that was lying close to a wharf, and taking in its cargo. the boy stood long opposite to it, and looked attentively upon it. that strange, mysterious feeling in the human mind, which arises at the sight of the place where our death-bed is to be, or our coffin is to rest, prompted him to exclaim, 'how quiet; how peaceful it is here.' though he thought--unknowing of the future--that his grave would be under some shady tree, yet in contemplating the scene before him, he felt that it was cool, and fresh, and inviting to repose. it was with a peculiar and undefinable sensation that his eye wandered over the newly-tarred hull of the ship--around which the glancing waves were lightly sporting--up the supple mast, till it rested on the pennon at its top. the busy crew went backwards and forwards, to and from the vessel, which appeared to be nearly ready for its approaching voyage, and the master stood upon the deck, issuing commands, and superintending everything. the boy ventured nearer and nearer; with earnest looks he watched everything on board, and everything seemed to have been familiar to him in some dream of the past--everything, from the nicely-painted half-open cabin-door, to the dog that rattled its chains whenever any of the sailors passed it. the captain at length came forward, and, as he leaned over the gunwale, his scrutinizing eye fell upon the boy, who as steadily gazed at him. for a time they stood thus--both silent. at last the captain said: 'what do you want here, boy? are you waiting for anyone?' 'no; i am only fond of seeing ships, sir,' was the boy's answer; as he took off his little white hat, and twirled it about in his hand. 'to whom do you belong?' asked the skipper. 'my mother supports herself by her labour, sir,' replied the boy, 'and my father lies out yonder;' he pointed towards the ocean. 'i also should like to go to sea; but my mother says i am too little yet. do you think, sir, i am _really_ too little?' he added, with an arch, insinuating smile, as he looked up into the captain's eyes. 'well, well, perhaps not,' said the master of the vessel. 'do you know anything about a ship?' how happy was the boy at that moment; with one bound he was at the side of the captain, and he proceeded with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks to name to him all parts of the ship; there was not a sail, not a rope, not a topmast unknown to him, and the master's looks followed him with approbation and goodwill. 'i am bound to the brazils,' said he; 'would you like to go with me? but it is a long voyage, and the weather is not always good.' the boy's answer was a cry of joy; he seized the skipper's hard hand and pressed it to his soft cheek, but suddenly his gladness was checked. 'my mother!' he exclaimed, sorrowfully. 'we will go to her,' said the captain, as he laid aside his pipe and took his hat. next day there was a fresh and stiff breeze, but the wind was fair, and the good ship 'the fair prospect' bent its way out of the harbour under full sail; it was going to the brazils, far away beyond the wide, wide ocean, and many a month must pass before its anchor would again drop amidst the waters that laved the shores of the dear native land. but--'away, into the world--away!' came wafted on the joyous breeze;--'be of good cheer!' smiled the gay, bright sun;--'farewell--forget me not!' whispered the rolling waves; and high up amidst the masts hung the exulting ship-boy, while he waved his little red cap, and wept from mingled feelings of grief and joy. how many remained upon that shore in unruffled tranquillity! they only felt that they were obliged to be stationary, and would never see all the beautiful, the grand, and the wonderful things that the vast world has to display. but among them stood the loving mother, who had no joy on earth but him who had just left her--and in deep sorrow she concealed her tearful countenance. 'dear mother, farewell!' he breathed upon the air; but she could not hear these, his parting words. yet he felt as if his heart would have burst from his breast, and flown to her. and surely she knew this. did she not feel that there were some sad, tender, affectionate thoughts from him who was gone, following her to her humble home, to her deserted rooms, to the empty little couch, on which she cast herself in an agony of grief? alas! how many anxious nights would she not have to pass in that lonely cottage, now terrified by frightful dreams, now startled from her troubled sleep by the howling and uproar of the midnight storm! _one_ was terrible to listen to. it was a night in spring; but the heavens were black and threatening, so that all was darkness around. the tempestuous clouds chased each other wildly through the skies, and cast their gloomy masses from one part of the heavens to another; the moon shone forth every now and then for a moment, as if in derision of its own impotence, and when its straggling beams then glanced in through the small windows, they seemed for one second to gleam upon the floor, merely to vanish again. the low house shook; the tiles fell from the roof with a loud crash into the little court below; the doors swayed backwards and forwards as if moved by invisible hands; and the wind absolutely roared in the chimney. the mother lay awake in her little chamber: she sat up in her bed, clasped her hands, and cried in her agony of spirit, 'oh, my dear, dear child! where are you this fearful night?' then she looked at his bed, which had so long stood empty. how willingly she would have cheated herself into the idea that all was a dream, and that it _really_ was his fair little head she saw resting on his pillow; but it was fancy--only fancy--for no living form was there! there was none to speak one word of comfort to her; no human being near to console her; she raised her thoughts to heaven, and prayed to god to spare the life of her child in that terrific night; she prayed that she might once more be allowed to fold him in her arms, and earnestly did she further pray--alas! for a mother's heart--that if he _must_ die, the death-struggle might be brief! and where was the boy while these anxious prayers were ascending to heaven on his behalf? behold! yonder on the vast wild sea, where the tempest is lashing the waves into mountains, flies the slight bark with the lightning's speed! the subordinate has become the master: the wind, that but lately, managed by the sailors' art, wafted their vessel gently along, has suddenly burst forth in its might, and in its wanton fury assails them from every point. now the ship seems engulfed by the raging waters; now borne aloft as if it were about to career in the air. yet on these frail planks, which seem to be but as a toy to the elements, there is a will stronger than theirs. see how every stitch of canvas disappears from the towering masts! look at the fearless, determined countenance of the man who holds the rudder in his strong grasp! see how boldly, how firmly, yon sailors tread upon and hang among the swaying yards above! oh slip not, slip not! for ye hold life and death in your hands; place cautiously the searching foot; turn the swimming eye from yonder raging deep. hark! what a frightful blast of wind! it seems to come howling from afar, then rolls with a hollow sound over the foaming waves. the ship trembles from stem to stern; and, as if battling with the ocean, it swings first to one side, then to the other, and then it seems to rise and ride triumphant over the heaving billows. in its lightness lies its only hope of safety. but what is that which has fallen from the main-topsail-yard down into the sea beneath? the bubbling foam conceals it for a moment, but it rises to the surface. from a break between the dark heavy clouds the moon casts a solitary ray, mild as a compassionate smile. it is the boy--the boy who loved the blue billows so much--he has fallen into their wild embrace, and they like him too well to give him up again. in vain do anxious faces bend over the side of the ship; in vain are ropes cast out; the small hands fight but a feeble battle for life; the fair curly head, over which his unseen mother's prayers and blessings are at that moment hovering, raises itself once more in the pale moonshine; but the struggle is soon over. some few undefined thoughts flit through his soul: he fancies that he hears his mother's voice. yes, peace be with you, child! she is praying with you at your hour of death. and he sinks down--down--calmly beneath the waves. the subsiding tempest chants his requiem; the moon sheds a farewell ray upon the spot where he sank; and the grave has closed over the sea-boy's corpse! the war of the elements is over, and the ship glides peacefully into its destined harbour. death and his victims. by adam oehlenschl[oe]ger. though i am feeble, yet, dear death, awhile let me remain! 'old man--thy locks are white as snow- still thou art loth with me to go: but come--thy pray'r is vain!' i am in manhood's prime--wouldst thou then break my staff to-day?- 'the tall pine on the mountain's side, by lightning struck, falls in its pride, my call thou must obey!' i am a maiden--beauteous, young, wouldst hide me in the tomb? 'thou, for this world, art all too fair, the bright rose never withers where thou soon again shalt bloom!' so soon, a hero canst thou snatch from glory's high career? 'i come, clad as a warrior proud- what wouldst thou? 'neath my mailed shroud no fleshless bones appear.' extinguish not--oh yet--dear death! love's fire--that burns so bright! 'oh! i can hold in close embrace, and though my mouth no warm lips grace, behold--my teeth are white!' wouldst tear me from my golden hoard with merciless commands? 'follow! beneath the earth's black mould gold never rusts--and thy dear gold shall shine in others' hands!' what! from his country's councils drag the statesman proud? away!- 'i call thee to a court more high, where angel-forms, above the sky, throng round god's throne alway! against my ancient 'scutcheon--ha!- to raise thy scythe dar'st thou? 'adam--the noblest of thy race- was made to bow before my face, thy farce is ended now.' thy vengeance wreck not thou on me. behold--this brow a crown adorns! 'vain is thy claim--thy power is o'er- death on the cross god's own son bore; think on his crown of thorns!' we are so little--us at least from the dark grave--oh, spare! 'does not your heav'nly father love young children? ye shall sport above with winged cherubs there.' call not the anxious mother hence from those her cares employ! 'come--at heaven's window thou shalt stand and gaze on the beloved band, and thou shalt weep with joy! 'for though my form is frightful--i am less your foe than friend, i bring ye all but transient woe; your souls my scythe may never mow, these shall to god ascend!' all souls' day. by b. s. ingemann. it was a stormy autumn evening; the last yellow leaves of the beech-trees were whirling through the forest near sorã¶e, and the usually calm lake was lashed into wild waves like those of the open sea. 'does italian franz reside in this wood?' asked a clear, manly voice from the road, as count otto stopped his grey steed close to a peasant's cottage, and knocked at the little window with his riding-whip. 'you can't lose your way,' replied an old woman, opening the window a very little. 'if you take the path on the left, alongside of the lake, the first house you will come to is where the under-ranger lives.' the young count thanked her and proceeded on. when he turned into the path by the left, where the moon shone full through the trees, and cast its silver rays upon the agitated lake, his horse shied, and sprang to one side; at the same moment the count's eyes fell upon the trunk of a hollow oak-tree by the side of the road, against which a figure appeared to be leaning. it was that of a man in the garb of a hunter he saw; his rifle lay at his feet; his horse, bound to the old tree, stood by his side, and, as a moonbeam fell on his face, lighting up his features, the young count felt, for the first time in his life, a strange sensation of terror--it was as if he beheld before him a well-known countenance, but terribly changed and distorted. he gave himself no time to examine into the cause of this fear, a feeling which he had never before experienced in any of his numerous journeys, not even when he had fallen in with highwaymen and robbers, with whom he had often had desperate encounters, but without reasoning one moment with himself, or taking time to think why he felt such sudden dread, he plunged his spurs into his horse's sides, and galloped on as fast as possible. the solitary hunter leaning against the decayed tree was italian franz. this name had been bestowed on him on account of his having been in the employment of a noble family, with whom he had resided for several years in italy, and who, as a reward for his faithful services to them, had obtained for him the rangership he now held near sorã¶e. he was born in this part of the country, where his father had been the owner of a mill. but his long residence in a southern climate had tanned his originally fair northern complexion, and imparted a swarthy, sunburnt hue to his cheek, while his light hair had also become darker in these remote lands. he was a man somewhere about forty years of age, and when he was in good spirits, or in a gay humour, he might have passed for much younger, especially when he indulged in the vivacity of manners he had acquired in the south. but when his fierce and gloomy fits came over him, he looked so old, and also so wild and formidable, that no one would willingly have met him alone in the woods. he would often remain whole nights in the forest, with his gun over his shoulder, whistling or singing italian airs in the moonlight, especially when autumnal gales whirled the leaves around him, and the lake was dark and agitated. while he thus wandered in the deep woods or by the lonely lake, his only child, the beautiful giuliana, who was born in italy, sat, a solitary being in the forest lodge, and gazed at the charming pictures of capri, torrento, and ischia, and many other lovely spots, views of which her father had brought with him from her enchanting native land, and which she in vain tried to recall to memory, for she had left it at so early an age that she retained but a very faint recollection of it, and to her its beauties were almost ideal. she did not remember her mother at all; her father could never be induced to speak of her; and from the time she first began to notice what was going on around her, she had always felt inclined to cry when other children spoke of their mothers, because she had none herself. she was about three years of age when the countess r. took her from salerno on her journey home from italy, accompanied by her father, who had attended the noble family on a previous journey; and thenceforth giuliana had never seen her beautiful unknown native land. during the two years, over which period their travels had extended, her infantine mind had opened considerably; and of that time she preserved many reminiscences. she had always been a pet of the beautiful countess, and had travelled in the inside of the carriage with her and the two young counts otto and wilhelm, while her father went outside with the servants, though he was by no means always their companion, for when the party arrived at inns in towns where they knew no one, it was always jã¦ger franzesco who enlivened them, and amused the whole party. giuliana well remembered how the countess and both her sons had wept when her father, ten years back, took leave of them, and carried her, then only five years of age, to the forest lodge at sorã¶e, while the young counts, who were then nearly grown up, accompanied their invalid and melancholy mother to some german watering-place. from that time, no year had passed over giuliana's head without her having received several kind and costly souvenirs--dresses, and other gifts--from the countess. she always wore, however, the simple dress of a peasant girl, not to seem peculiar or arrogant amongst her neighbours; and she looked much prettier on sundays, in her knitted red sleeves and flowered bodice, than the smartest country girls, who, instead of appearing in their national costume, awkwardly attempted to sport what they thought fashionable attire. it was only at weddings, and on other great occasions, that she drew forth from her stores some pearls, or other precious stones, to adorn herself; and occasionally when she was alone, or on her father's or her own birthday, she could not resist the childish temptation to put on the pretty foreign garb which she knew was worn in her native country, and which, copying from her father's italian pictures, she had amused herself by making up out of the foreign silks and other materials the bountiful countess had sent her. jã¦ger franz bad acquired more knowledge from his foreign travels than was usually possessed by men in his situation of life. he had been a great favourite of the deceased count, and had been treated by him more as a friend than as a servant. being the companion of so superior and well-informed a man as the count, had improved him greatly. up to the last hour of the count's life, franz had been, next to the countess and their two children, his chosen associate; and when, on his return from a scientific tour in sicily and the coasts of barbary, he was attacked by a fever at naples, which put an end to his life, the countess, being at that time confined to her bed by illness, franz was the only one from whose hands he would take the medicines prescribed for him; and his last request to his wife was, that she would provide for the future days of his faithful franz. the many foreign countries franz had visited, and the intercourse in which he had so long lived with his superiors, had much improved his mind and tastes, and he was able to give his daughter a much better education than the generality of country girls could aspire to. italian franz's pretty daughter was, therefore, well known over the whole district of sorã¶e, and the daughters of the principal burghers in the town did not think it beneath them to visit her. if ever they took upon themselves the least airs of superiority, she soon put them down in a gay and seemingly whimsical manner. she was a favourite, also, among the peasant girls, and they were not a little proud that she generally classed herself amongst them, notwithstanding her intimacy with the daughters of the clergyman and other young ladies in the neighbourhood. within the last few months, however, her numerous young female friends had evinced some lukewarmness towards her, and she was left more to solitude in her father's somewhat lonely house; but if those of her own sex partly deserted her, the young gentlemen of the neighbourhood, both those who belonged to town and country, began to pay much attention to the little italian, who was now fifteen years of age, and had been confirmed the last easter. franz had secretly embraced roman catholicism in italy, but had not found it possible to avoid letting his daughter be brought up in the lutheran religion, although in her early childhood she had learnt the ave maria, and treasured the holy virgin and all the saints in her heart. in a small side-chamber in the forest lodge, into which no one entered but the father and daughter, there hung over a little domestic altar, made of oak-tree, a beautiful picture of the queen of heaven, before which a lamp burned day and night, and giuliana never forgot to keep the lamp always trimmed, and to ornament the little altar with fresh flowers on every festival day. her father often retired to solitary meditation, or prayer, in this little oratory; but on one particular day every year he locked himself in there for twenty-four hours, and always issued from it in a state of great agitation, and as pale as a corpse, exhausted by fasting and earnest prayer. this was always on the 2nd of november, _all souls' day_. giuliana had once asked her father why he kept that particular day so strictly, but she never ventured to repeat the inquiry, she had been so frightened by the terribly withering look he cast upon her. there also lay an impenetrable veil of mystery over her mother's fate, and the history of her own childish years, which she never dared to attempt to raise. she was always glad when her moody father seemed for a little while to forget the past and the future. he also appeared to enjoy these short intervals of forgetfulness, and many people thought him the gayest and happiest man breathing. however, whenever all souls' day approached, he avoided the society of his fellow-beings, and plunged into the depths of the forest night and day, apparently in quest of game; but he frequently returned on these occasions without having shot anything, and often without having once discharged his gun. it was on just such an evening in the beginning of october that giuliana, in her loneliness, had taken out her dear italian costume, to please herself by putting it on, and perhaps amuse her father when he came home. she was sitting with the silver ornaments in her dark hair, with the rose-coloured bodice and skirt of which she had read, and with the little pictures she loved so much before her, fancying herself amidst the charming scenes her imagination so often portrayed. it was late in the evening when she heard the sound of a horse's feet approaching, and observed that it had stopped at the paved pathway which led to the house. she concluded it was her father, and rose to meet him, when the door opened, and the young count otto entered, starting with astonishment at seeing the beautiful italian girl in a danish forester's house. he did not know if he was dreaming or awake, for never before had he beheld any one so lovely, and the southern costume gave to the charming figure which stood before him an air strangely fanciful and romantic. 'giuliana!' he exclaimed, after a moment's reflection. 'yes, you must be giuliana herself; and i am otto,' he added--'the frolicsome little otto, who teazed you with bitter oranges in the corner of the carriage ten years ago.' 'otto!' cried giuliana, calling to mind the half-grown boy who used to be her playfellow, as she had often seen him in her dreams of childhood. in her joy she had almost thrown her arms round his neck, but she beheld a handsome young man before her, and drew back, blushing. 'you have taken me by surprise, count,' she said, colouring still more deeply. 'i was only a very little child when you last saw me, and now you find in me but a big child. i expected no one but my father this evening, and this dress--' 'becomes you admirably,' interrupted the count, 'and transports me back, as if by magic, to fair italy. do not thus cast your eyes down; let me see if i can recognize my little pet of five years old again. yes, the eyes are the same; but i must not now speak so familiarly to you, or call you "my giuliana," as i did then.' 'and my little knight otto, with his wooden sword, which was to protect me from the brigands, has also disappeared,' said giuliana. 'but tell me, count, what fortunate circumstance has recalled us to your recollection, that you should surprise us with a visit here, in our remote hermitage?' 'i shall tell that to your father,' replied otto, gravely. 'he is not at home, i find: but do you not expect him back this evening?' 'he is out hunting in the forest,' said giuliana. 'however, i hope he will come home this evening; i have seen very little of him for some days past. but you must be tired after your long journey, and must require some refreshment. please to make yourself at home here, herr count, and excuse my absence for a few minutes; i will soon return.' so saying, giuliana tripped out of the room, and count otto sat down near the table. at first he observed nothing around him; he could see nothing but the image of the beautiful giuliana, who had made a sudden and strong impression upon him, which, however, he chose to ascribe to her fanciful attire, and the surprise of their first meeting. nevertheless, he almost forgot why he had come, and that his visit was more to the father than to the daughter. but he now decided on remaining a little time at sorã¶e. carelessly glancing over the table, he observed some of the best travels in italy that had ever been published, and lying near them, collections of engravings of the most remarkable places, and of national costumes. he also saw some nicely-bound volumes, containing tasso and aristo in their original language, and, on a shelf against the wall, handsome copies of the old danish tragedies, with selections from the best danish and foreign poets. a small wooden crucifix, on which was placed a wreath of _immortelles_, stood on a chest of drawers in an alcove, and at its feet lay an open bible. the count rose, and, approaching the recess, he saw a curtain, which he drew aside, when a small bed on a pretty oaken bedstead in a corner became visible. 'here, then, that lovely creature sleeps,' thought he, 'happy in her sweet, innocent dreams: and she has chosen very intellectual and refined company for her solitude. who would have expected to find such a girl in an abode like this?' at that moment a nice-looking peasant girl entered, and began to arrange the table for supper--it was giuliana, who had laid aside the foreign costume in which she had felt so embarrassed before the stranger. he thought she looked still more charming in the simple, unpretending peasant dress, but he did not wish to make her feel bashful by letting her see how much he admired her. he questioned her about her father's circumstances, and her own position; and then informed her of his mother's death, a piece of intelligence which made a much deeper impression on giuliana's feeling heart than he could have anticipated. he himself was much affected when he told of his bereavement; but his extreme grief seemed to be caused by something more than even sorrow for her loss. as soon as they had recovered themselves a little, the count took pains to avoid entering further on a subject so distressing to them both, and led the conversation towards those topics on which the various books of travels scattered about made him think he could venture. he soon perceived how the dim, childish recollections in giuliana's excitable mind had been revived, and kept from fading away, by the beautiful engravings and interesting works depicting the enchanting land of her birth, and how it was that she felt herself such a stranger in the bleak north, and longed so much to return to the sunny south. to her it appeared like a wonderful fairyland, where her brightest dreams and hopes were centred. her father's fits of deep melancholy, and his frequent uncontrollable bursts of agony of soul--the cause of which she could not fathom, and which she had no means of alleviating--often grieved her extremely. the constraint under which she generally felt with him, even when he was in good spirits, and unusually cheerful, contributed much to increase her longing for a change to a brighter land, and also to make her contrast in her young mind the peace and happiness entwined amidst her childish recollections, with her gloomy life in the lonely forest lodge. she did not, however, express these sentiments to the young count, or dwell upon her own feelings, but they were soon perceived by her observant guest. he had begun to place before her some pleasanter prospects for the future, and had just mentioned that he knew a family who were soon going to italy, and that they were in want of a lady-companion, who would take charge of two little girls. he was just speaking of this, and feeling in his own secret soul some dim, undefined hopes of agreeable days to come, when the neighing of a horse was heard close by. suddenly the door was opened, and a man entered, in whom the count recognized the solitary hunter he had seen near the old tree in the forest, whose countenance had appeared so dreadful to him in the pale moonlight. 'my dear father,' cried giuliana, springing forward to meet him, 'guess whom i have to present to you! hush!' said she to otto, 'let us see if he can find out who you are.' otto, who had been standing in the shade, now came forward towards the light which giuliana held up near his face, and looked earnestly and in silence at italian franz. 'what is the matter, father?' exclaimed giuliana. 'you have turned deadly pale--you seem to be seized with giddiness!' 'who art thou?' cried franz, starting back from otto as if struck with sudden insanity. 'if thou art a living being, speak!--speak, and do not thus gaze like a spectre at me!' 'good heavens, father! it is only otto!' said giuliana, anxiously, yet soothingly. 'we take turns in being afraid of each other this evening,' said the count. 'for as i rode past you in the forest, franz, i took _you_ for a spectre, or some awful apparition, and now you pay me the same compliment, i see. but how goes it, old franz, and how are you?' 'very well, herr count--very well, thank you,' said franz. 'i recognize you now by your voice, though it has, of course, become much deeper than when i heard it last. so it was you who rode past me down yonder, near the lake, upon that fiery horse? i was standing wrapt up in my own thoughts, when suddenly a horseman sprang forward from among the trees, and, passing me in wild haste, vanished speedily from my sight. by the glimpse i had of him, i thought his face was not altogether unknown to me, but i should as soon have expected to have seen the wild huntsman, or a ghost, as you, herr count.' 'am i so much changed?' asked the count. 'i can now quite recognize you again, franz, although you certainly look a little older. and giuliana's eyes shine like a pair of well-remembered stars from my childhood's heaven. i believe i am as tall as my father was, and i am thought very like him.' 'i can't see any very strong resemblance,' said franz, turning away from him. 'but has the count had no refreshment, giuliana? move that light a little farther off, it hurts my eyes; sit down, herr count, and let us be merry. i have still a flask of old syracuse--we shall empty that together to the health of your mother, the noble countess.' 'i wear this mourning for her,' said otto, suppressing his emotion. 'three months ago, at toplitz, she was released from her long-continued sufferings.' 'dead!' exclaimed franz, and covered his face with his hands. 'you come, perhaps, herr count, as the envoy of the dead, and bring me a word of farewell; or, more probably, she has latterly forgotten jã¦ger franz. she has had no communication with me for ten long years.' 'my dying mother sent this ring to your daughter, said otto, handing to giuliana a gold ring, with a little diamond cross on it. on the inside of the ring was engraved, 'keep watch over your soul, and pray for the dead.' 'i have a few words to say to you, franz, when we are alone.' 'go, my daughter, and fetch us some wine,' said franz, bending the while a scrutinizing look upon otto, yet trying to appear quite at his ease, though a degree of nervousness and anxiety in his countenance and demeanour proved that he was not so. giuliana left the room; and after a moment's silence, which seemed embarrassing to them both, otto took italian franz's hand, and said: 'you must solve an enigma for me, which embitters my remembrance of my mother's last hours. she suffered exceedingly, but i think not so much from bodily as from mental pain. in the last interview i had with her, when i hoped she would have opened her mind to me, and have cast off the burden of some secret which seemed to oppress her heart, it was almost too late; she could scarcely speak, but she pronounced your name, and said, in a trembling voice, "go to him, and ask him if _that_ be true about which i have never ventured to ask him, and which, for full fifteen years past, like a frightful suspicion, has haunted my soul--ask him, for the sake of my eternal salvation, if--"' 'if what?' demanded franz, springing up from his seat. 'i could not understand another word; she was dying, and her speech was very imperfect. suddenly a convulsive fit came on, and in a moment she was gone. it is now, alas! too late to obtain, for _her_ peace, an answer to the mysterious question; but for the sake of my own peace, i would claim it. tell me, franz, what is it you know which made my mother so miserable on her death-bed?' 'and did she really and truly say nothing more?' asked franz, with a relieved look. 'not another word. but you must tell me the rest.' 'thank your god that you have escaped hearing more, herr count! i will carry to my grave what i know; it would be good neither for you nor for myself, were i to disclose it.' 'you shall, though,' cried the count, grasping his short sword. 'i will know it, or--' 'act as you please, herr count,' said franz, coldly, and without appearing to be in the least intimidated by the threat. 'you would be doing me a service by putting an end to a life which i care not to hold; but no power on earth shall wring from me one word i do not choose to utter.' the coolness of franz checked the rising anger of the young man. 'forgive my impetuosity, franz,' he said, in a lower tone; 'your firmness and your calm demeanour put me to shame; i have no right to insist on any explanation from you. but i shall remain for a little while in this neighbourhood; we shall probably meet often, and when you are convinced of the great importance it is to me to discover what you now think advisable to conceal, perhaps you will change your determination.' 'i doubt that,' replied franz. 'if you were a holy priest, herr count, and belonged to the true church, in which alone salvation can be found, but which is proscribed hereabouts, it would be another thing.' 'it is, then, a matter of conscience, franz, about which my mother--' 'think what you will of me, herr count, but do not implicate your mother! whatever she may have fancied, and whatever account i may have to render to him who will judge every soul, and the actions of every being, at the great day of doom--for the sake of your own peace of mind seek not to dive into the mystery of my gloomy fate; enough that it casts a dark shadow over my life. for giuliana's sake, let me also entreat of you to keep this conversation secret from her, and if you do not wish to destroy the childish simplicity and peace of that unfortunate girl, leave us as soon as you possibly can, that she may not witness such scenes between you and myself.' 'i have a plan in regard to giuliana, franz, which i shall tell you to-morrow. to-night i do not feel in spirits to enter on the subject. farewell!' so saying, the young count left him, and when giuliana entered shortly after with the wine, she found her father alone, and asked why count otto had gone away in such a hurry, and without even bidding her farewell. 'he had business to attend to, my child,' replied her father; 'but he intends to remain at sorã¶e to-night, and he will pay us another visit before he goes away.' 'what! is he going away so soon?' sighed giuliana. 'i thought he meant to have stayed some time among us.' 'have you, then, much pleasure in the thought of seeing him, my daughter?' asked franz. 'oh yes, yes! he is my dear old playfellow, and it seems to me as if we had always known each other. if he had not been so tall, and also a count, a nobleman of high rank, i would actually have embraced him when he came in so suddenly, and told me he was little otto.' 'never forget, my child, to behave to him with the respectful distance which becomes the difference between his situation and ours,' said franz gravely, and fell into a gloomy mood. in the hope of enlivening him, giuliana took up the little italian mandolin which her father had brought from her native land, and sang, in the language of that foreign country, franz's favourite song, which ran as follows:- 'if life's joys thou wouldst find, 'twere well oft to be blind, let the changeful hours roll as they may. the stranger who goes, where the summer wind blows, dreads to think of a dark wintry day. 'the stranger who goes, where the summer wind blows, dreams that brightness and beauty shall last. but too oft as he strays, where life's fountain plays, he turns with regret to the past. 'yet sometimes he strays, where life's fountain plays, and pleasures unfading are met. where the balmy breeze sighs, 'neath the soft southern skies, his soul can all sorrow forget!' the next day count otto came again. contrary to his usual custom, franz remained at home, and he sought, by lively conversation and jovial manners, to efface the remembrance of the painful scene of the previous evening. he seemed determined to entertain his guest himself without any assistance from giuliana, with whom otto had, therefore, very little communication. thus several days passed, yet the young count did not seem to think of his departure, although franz often reminded him of it by drinking to his safe journey home. otto no longer doubted that franz had observed the impression which the beautiful giuliana had made upon him, and at the same time he became more watchful of his own feelings. upon reflection, he allowed to himself that the father was acting wisely in wishing to check a passion which, if it were implanted and nourished in the heart of the lovely giuliana, might cause, on account of the difference in their rank and station in life, great unhappiness to both. for several days he battled with himself, and several times he resolved to go away at once, and to give up the plan about giuliana, which he had not yet communicated to her father. this plan would indeed gratify her long-cherished desire to visit her dear native land, but it would necessarily place her and him in a position which might be dangerous to the peace of both, unless he could sacrifice for her the opinions of his family, and the prejudices inherent to his standing in life. the longer he considered the matter, the more he felt convinced that the situation he proposed her filling was far beneath giuliana. after all, he was his own master, and _he_ valued mind, beauty, and amiable disposition more than all the genealogical trees and worm-eaten patents of nobility that ever existed. notwithstanding all her father's efforts to prevent giuliana from being much with the count, he met her frequently by accident, and often saw her when franz's occupations obliged him to be absent, and it was not long before he perceived that the interest she took in him, and the attention she paid him, sprang from something more than mere good will, or simple childish affection. she tried, indeed, to obey her father's directions, and to be distant and respectful; she called him, as she had been desired, 'herr count,' and always corrected herself when the familiar 'otto' trembled on her lips. yet, from a thousand little circumstances, the said otto could not fail to see that he was very dear to her, and when his departure was mentioned, it was evident that she tried in vain to conceal her distress at the idea of his going. one evening, on returning home, franz found count otto at the forest lodge, where he was sitting close to giuliana, reading some beautiful old ballads to her; the sight of their intimacy displeased him, and by way of reminding the count of his long-delayed journey, he asked what day of the month it was. 'it is the second of november,' replied otto; whereupon franz, who for some weeks past seemed to have dismissed all his old sad thoughts, and had been always cheerful, often in a gay humour, became suddenly silent and gloomy. in a minute or two he rose with a grave air, and entering the little side-room, which he had fitted up as an oratory, he locked himself in. as he did not come back, otto asked giuliana what could detain him so long there. 'this is all souls' day,' she replied; 'my father did not remember it until you mentioned the day of the month. he keeps _this_ day more strictly than any of the other fasts or festivals of the church. he always passes it in fasting and prayer. i shall not see him again until about this time tomorrow evening.' 'who would have thought that jã¦ger franz was so pious?' said otto. 'for some days after my arrival he scarcely gave me an opportunity of saying one serious word, he was so full of mirth and pleasantry.' 'my father's humours are very changeable now-a-days,' sighed giuliana, 'and i am certain he would be happier if he did not get into such wild spirits sometimes. these strange fits of gaiety are generally succeeded by moods of deep dejection. do you remember,' she continued, 'the evening that you arrived--' 'let us not think of that evening,' cried otto, interrupting her, while his countenance darkened at the recollection of the dreadful secret which he had come on purpose to discover, but his anxiety about which had given way to the new and softer feelings which his daily intercourse with the beautiful giuliana had awakened in his heart. he tried in vain to recover his equanimity of manner, and finding that even _her_ society could not, that evening, chase away the gloom that was stealing over his mind, he took his leave earlier than usual. when count otto returned the next evening, he found that franz had not yet made his appearance, and that giuliana was very uneasy at his long self-imprisonment; but she did not dare to knock at the door, or in any way to intrude on his solitude. at length the door of the oratory was slowly opened, and franz came out of it, but so altered in appearance as scarcely to be recognized. there was such agony in the expression of his wild, almost livid face, that he looked like one who might be supposed to have died in a state of despair, and arisen from the grave because he could find no rest there. 'but, dear franz, what strange whim induces you to do such terrible penance?' asked otto, with a mixed feeling in his own mind of horror and compassion. giuliana made a sign to him to be silent, while she quickly, yet quietly, set about getting something to revive and strengthen her father. it was not until he had drunk a whole flask of wine that he seemed to recover his consciousness, and to observe who was in the room. 'what, you still here, herr count?' he said, turning to otto. 'i thought you had gone long ago. i have been ill, as you may perceive, and my memory is not quite clear yet, but i shall soon be better. some good wine and the fresh air will speedily set me to rights. will you hunt with me to-morrow?' 'oh yes, with pleasure,' replied otto, who treated him almost as if he were a lunatic, who must be coaxed and humoured. before he left the lodge, however, that evening, franz had quite recovered himself, and was as talkative and lively as usual. 'i have done penance long enough,' said he, as he emptied glass after glass of wine. 'let us be merry now, as long as we can.' the next day they rode out hunting together. on their way homewards giuliana became the subject of their conversation, and otto praised her warmly, and commended franz for the care he had taken in educating her so well, and in cultivating her natural taste for all that was grand and beautiful. 'but,' he added, 'what sort of abode is a forester's lonely cottage for such a superior girl? such a jewel would adorn a crown, and is too good to be thrown away among low people, or hidden in obscurity. she is fitted to shine in a much higher station of life.' 'i pray you not to put any such nonsense into the girl's head, count,' replied franz. 'i see that you like her, but she can never be a countess; and if you say one syllable to her touching upon love or admiration, i shall be compelled to make it my earnest request to you to give up coming to my house.' 'but if i now ask her hand, franz--' 'are you mad, herr count?' said franz, stopping his horse, and looking inquiringly at him. 'if things have really come to this pass, i must only warn you, herr count, that you will have to put up with my society alone for the future, should you continue to honour us with your visits, for hereafter i shall lock giuliana up out of your way.' 'but if she herself, as i hope--' 'so much the worse,' cried franz, interrupting him. 'she shall _never_ be yours, herr count; rather than that, i would bury her in a convent, if i could find one here.' 'but what are your reasons?' 'i am the girl's father, and do not choose to give my consent; if that is not a sufficient reason, fancy any one you please. cast a glance at your genealogy, and see how well a woodman's daughter would look among such a noble assemblage. doves may not mate with eagles--that is _my_ opinion. breathe not a single word about love to giuliana, herr count; not a single whisper. promise me this, upon your honour, or you shall never see her again.' 'well,' replied otto, 'for the present i cannot escape giving you the promise you require; but you must, and shall, withdraw your unreasonable objections.' 'never, as long as i live. nothing can make me alter my decision while i have life; and when i am dead, perhaps you will change your mind yourself.' after this conversation, otto determined, as soon as possible, to tear himself away from the vicinity of the beautiful giuliana, that he might not be tempted to break the promise her singular father had wrung from him; but he also resolved, in the course of a very few years--under, he hoped, more propitious circumstances--to return, and seek future happiness in a marriage with the beautiful girl, to whom, he now felt convinced, his whole soul was bound by the most delightful and indissoluble of chains, and from whom, he thought, that only an absurd and obstinate whim was the cause of his present needless separation. he had not, as yet, said a single syllable to giuliana of his feelings for her; but she had not failed to read them in his amorous glances, and perceived them in the warm interest he took in her, and in his pleasure at the congeniality of their minds and tastes. that she seemed to find new life in his society, that he had made a deep impression on her heart, and that her sentiments were an echo of his, were evident to him also; he saw that a word, a breath from his lips, of love, would develop the sweet feeling of affection, which she scarcely understood herself, and cause the opening rosebud to burst into the full-blown charming flower. if that word were not to be spoken, otto knew that he must fly from the lovely girl. but he was angry at himself for not having resisted the opposition he had encountered from selfish tyranny, and for having bound himself by a promise, which he could not break without creating disunion and unhappiness in a family circle; a proceeding from which he shrank, even though he believed that despotic and unjust authority was exercised on one side. he determined, however, once more to endeavour to make franz yield to his wishes; and while waiting for an opportunity of doing this, an event occurred which materially changed the face of affairs. the celebrated painter, carl van mander, who was invited by christian iv. from the netherlands, to improve the arts in denmark, resided for some time at sorã¶e, where he painted an altar-piece for the church. he was an ardent lover and studier of nature, and was anxious always to give truthful design and colouring to his pictures. this caused him often to introduce real portraits into his historical or scripture pieces, and whenever he beheld a striking countenance he hastened to make a sketch of it, which he afterwards worked up to suit different subjects. thus the countenance of italian franz had often almost terrified him when he met him accidentally in the woods, and on one occasion he had seized an opportunity of sketching him while they were both sitting, among other chance visitors, in a little tavern to which the painter sometimes resorted for the purpose of seeing a variety of faces. without considering that there might be any harm in so doing, the painter transferred the likeness of franz to his altar-piece for the church of sorã¶e. the artist had gone, and the picture was put up in its proper place in church. everyone, from far and near, hastened to see it, and carl van mander's 'last supper' was pronounced a masterpiece. italian franz seldom attended church; he liked the doctrine of absolution, and the rites of the roman catholic church, which he had joined in italy; and there being none within reach of his residence, he had fitted up an oratory in his own house. when he felt indisposed, or his gloomy fits came on, he often lamented that no catholic priest was near to give him absolution, or to administer extreme unction to him when he should be at the point of death. at such periods of excited feelings he would lock himself into his oratory, and, as he had no priest to whom to make his shrift, he would write his confessions in secret, with injunctions that the document should not be opened until after his death. he had often thought of taking a journey to the capital to see a priest, but had always put it off, and sometimes he seemed to forget altogether that he had anything to confess. franz had acquired in italy a taste for the arts--he had become fond of paintings; therefore, when he heard that the new altar-piece was finished and hung up in the church, he felt a wish to see it, and agreed to accompany count otto to the morning service one sunday. they entered just as the clergyman was finishing his sermon. he had been endeavouring to awaken to a sense of their sins the souls around him; and with fervent eloquence was likening those careless christians, who heard the word but did not obey it--who acknowledged christ with their lips, but denied him in their actions--to judas iscariot, who, with a kiss, betrayed his kind lord and master. franz started at these last words. at that very moment his eyes fell on the altar-piece, in which he instantly beheld his own likeness in the face of judas iscariot, who sat like a traitor amidst the holy group. 'yes, i am judas!' he shrieked, in accents of agonized despair. 'do you not all see that i am judas? why do ye not curse me? why do ye not stone me? i am judas--the execrable judas! the entire congregation turned and looked with horror at the frantic being, who stood like a maniac, his whole countenance fearfully distorted, gazing wildly at the picture over the altar, and who, at the first sound of the organ, rushed out of the church with a piercing cry, as if its deep tones had sounded on his ear like the last trumpet's blast. otto was so overwhelmed with astonishment at this extraordinary scene, that he stood for a time as if nailed to the floor of the church. when he remembered himself, and hastened after the unfortunate franz, whom he now sincerely believed to be deranged in his intellects, and who, he feared, might commit self-destruction in his access of insanity, that individual was nowhere to be found. after he had in vain sought for him in the town, he decided on taking the road to the forest lodge, to see if he were there, and to prepare giuliana to hear of the calamity, the existence of which he thought could no longer be doubted. as he pursued his way in much anxiety, a terrible suspicion crossed his mind--a dread, which franz's strange conduct, and his last astounding outbreak, rendered but too likely to be realized. when, on following the path to the left through the wood, he approached the shores of the lake, he beheld a crowd of peasants gathering round a tree, on which some miserable person had hanged himself, but whom, in their terror at the sight, and their horror of a suicide, they had not attempted to cut down. it was italian franz, who thus fearfully had carried out his insane fancy that he was judas, and who had put an end to himself in this dreadful manner. count otto had the body cut down instantly, and he resorted to every means of restoring animation, but in vain, for life was quite extinct. with many entreaties, and considerable bribes, otto at length prevailed on some of the peasants to remove the corpse, at dusk, to the town, where it was quietly buried in the churchyard, and the affair was hushed up as much as possible. giuliana was sitting alone at the forest lodge when count otto entered, and broke to her, cautiously and kindly, the sad intelligence of her father's sudden death; but he considerately withheld from her the knowledge of the mode of his death, as well as the strange scene in the church. but when she insisted on seeing the body, and was told that it was already consigned to the grave, she herself suspected what otto had taken such pains to conceal from her. her tears then flowed in silence, and in silence she prayed, with her whole soul, to the almighty for the salvation in eternity of her unhappy parent. while giuliana sat absorbed in her sorrow, otto, who had constituted himself the guardian and adviser of the orphan girl, undertook the duty of looking through the papers of her late father. during his search among them, he found, in a hidden drawer, the secret confession, which the unfortunate deceased had written in his moments of wretchedness and self-upbraiding. he carried it privately away with him, and read it when quite alone. when giuliana met otto again, she almost forgot her own grief in her distress at the deep affliction which she saw in his countenance. she anxiously inquired if he were ill, and she forced herself to battle against her own dejection in order to cheer him, and restore peace and happiness to his heart. but the more warmly and affectionately she showed him her sympathy and solicitude--the nearer their common sorrow seemed to bring their hearts, and to accelerate the moment, when their deep, though unconfessed mutual attachment need no longer be pent up, but all, of which neither could doubt, might be openly admitted--the more unaccountable became otto's melancholy and singular conduct. he avoided all intimate conversation. he assumed a measured calmness of manner, and a degree of distance in his communication with her, which she would have believed to arise from coldness, indifference, or a narrow-minded regard to their different positions in life, had she not before observed such unmistakable marks of his love for her, and known how little he cared for the distinctions of rank, and how capable he was of overcoming all such obstacles if he pleased. 'i can no longer delay my departure,' he said to her one day, when the constraint which prevailed between them was most painful to both; 'but i am not now going to italy--america is my destination.' he then entreated the astonished giuliana to accept of a large portion of his fortune, in order to secure her from all pecuniary adversity in the future, and which would enable her to purchase a small property in the country, or to reside in the capital with a respectable family, to whom she was related, and who would receive her kindly. giuliana could hardly suppress her tears, but she forced herself to smile, while she declined any assistance. 'i thank you, herr count,' she said, with composure--'i thank you much for the sympathizing kindness you, unasked, have shown me. i have but one wish in this world, and that is to see my native country again. here i cannot live, and if you have any benevolent desire to benefit me, herr count, have the goodness to procure for me a situation as waiting-maid, or in some other capacity, in a family who are going to italy. you once yourself proposed this; and i venture to hope that perhaps you will, if possible, indulge me in my dearest wish, now that i am left a solitary being in the world.' 'well, then,' said the count, after a moment's reflection, 'since your longing to revisit your native country is so strong that you cannot live happily anywhere else, i will myself accompany you thither, and we shall adopt my original plan. you shall travel as companion to my aunt, and go with her and her children to rome and naples, where i shall see you safely settled in some agreeable family circle before i set off on my more distant voyage.' giuliana's childish delight at the hope of seeing the much-loved land of her birth could not, however, overcome her deep, secret sorrow at the alteration which had taken place in count otto; and her wounded feelings would not permit her to accept of his offer, for her sake, to relinquish for a time the visit to another continent, on which he had so recently determined. she entreated him, therefore, earnestly not to delay his voyage, but allow her to attend his aunt and her children, without himself accompanying them. but he had made up his mind to go, and he told her that, without _his_ escort, his aunt would not undertake to travel so far as italy. all was soon prepared for the journey. the aunt was informed of the count's plan for giuliana, to which, fortunately, she was willing to agree. in a few days afterwards she made her appearance in her travelling carriage at the door of the principal hotel at sorã¶e; the count met her there, and took her and her children to the forest lodge, where they were introduced to their travelling companion, who immediately joined them, and who soon made a favourable impression on them all by her beauty and sweetness of manners. the aunt had conjectured that there was some love affair between the young count and the pretty daughter of the sub-ranger, in whose neighbourhood he had remained so long, and she fancied that, in order to escape the taunts and gibes of the other members of his family, her nephew intended to marry giuliana in a foreign country. rumour had not failed to busy itself in the capital, by assigning a reason for the count's stay at sorã¶e. poor giuliana had been described sometimes as a simple peasant girl, who had allowed herself to be deluded by the gay count, and who believed his fine speeches, mistaking them for more honest ware; sometimes as an artful, half-italian wood-nymph, who, under the mask of modesty and virtue, had enticed the hoodwinked young count into a snare, from which he could not escape. his aunt had not troubled herself much about all this gossip; she educated her children herself, and had only accepted giuliana's companionship because the count had made _that_ the condition of his escort, without which she would not have liked to have ventured on so long a journey. now, however, she was very curious to ascertain the exact nature of their connection, and found, to her great surprise, that they themselves avoided that degree of intimacy and freedom in behaviour which travelling together almost rendered necessary; and that, far from seeking each other, they rather seemed to shun every opportunity of being near each other, even though these often occurred by accident. on the other hand, she could not but remark the anxious attention, nay, even devotion, with which the count forestalled every wish of giuliana; and the quiet, retiring manner in which she sought to take her place as an inferior among the travelling party, although in mind and manners fitted to be their equal. the expression of patient sadness in her countenance, which neither her youthful pleasure at approaching italy, nor the enlivening effect of the frequent changes of scene during a long journey, seemed to chase away, soon won the heart of the good-natured baroness; and she was pleased to see that giuliana had also become a favourite with her children. the young girl seemed to be always more at ease and more cheerful in the count's absence than when he was present. giuliana had taken her mandolin with her in the carriage, and she often amused the children by playing on it, and singing for them. when they stopped at the different inns, and she was alone in her own room in the evening, the baroness sometimes heard her playing and singing there also, but not the lively airs she sang in the carriage. her songs were all expressive of deep sadness, and if the baroness entered her room unexpectedly, she generally found the sweet songstress with tears in her eyes. the count's melancholy surprised his aunt still more, as he had always been remarkable for his gaiety and high spirits. he would now sit for hours in the carriage without uttering a syllable, and when they were all enjoying themselves at the evening's repast, after the fatigues of the day, he would often start up and leave them, complaining of a violent headache. however, when they had crossed the simplon, and were descending into the paradise of giuliana's dreams--when they beheld the rich plains where the vines festooned themselves gracefully around the elms--where the lovely lakes were studded with beautifully wooded islets, and the lofty hills reared their blue summits to the skies, all gloomy thoughts seemed to have vanished, and everyone gazed with delight on the enchanting view. giuliana clapped her hands in her transport of joy, and seizing otto's hand, she pressed it to her heart, while she exclaimed: 'may god bless and reward you, dear count! i shall never cease to thank you for affording me yonder sight, and this happy moment!' tears sprang to otto's eyes, and throwing his arm round her, he pressed her suddenly with impetuosity to his heart; but as if frightened at this unpremeditated act, he immediately afterwards got out of the carriage, and thenceforth took a seat on the outside, where, he said, he could have a better view of the country. this scene in the carriage, of which the baroness had been a witness, fully convinced her of otto's suppressed passion for giuliana; and soon after their arrival at florence, some words spoken to herself in her own apartment by giuliana, in which otto was named in terms of deep attachment--and the words of a song which she sang in her solitude, all of which had been overheard by the baroness--proved to her that the same sentiments pervaded both their hearts, though both seemed to wish to conceal their feelings. she had, in consequence, a serious conversation with otto, and urged him to explain what was the reason of his conduct, and why he seemed thus to seek and to repress the poor girl's affection. in reply, he placed before her the confession of italian franz, and then hastened out to order post-horses for leghorn, where the american ship, by which he had engaged a passage, was lying almost ready to sail. the baroness shut herself up in her own chamber, and read: 'i, franz ebbeson, born september--, anno domini 1--, and, when this shall be read, dead, as i hope, in sincere repentance, and trusting to mercy hereafter, confess and make known, that in my irregular youthful days i burdened my soul with fearful sins, for which i pray that the mediation and 'good offices of the holy church may be granted, therewith to obtain pardon for me at the great day of judgment. 'for some years i attended the noble family of r--ske while they were travelling and residing in italy. the count was very kind to me, and raised me from the situation of his servant to that almost of a friend. but, notwithstanding his goodness, i betrayed and wronged him, out of a criminal love for his beautiful wife. in his absence on a scientific tour in sicily and the coast of barbary, which lasted nearly two years, during which he had left his family to my care at naples, t took advantage of the weakness and the kind condescension of the young countess. at the time of the count's return, the consequences of the countess's and my faithlessness were too evident; and she pretended illness to screen herself. the count, almost immediately after his arrival, was taken ill, and i was the only one whom he would allow to attend him. in my wretchedness at having plunged myself and the countess into a misfortune which would lead to inevitable disgrace, the wicked one inspired me with a horrible thought--a dreadful temptation that my sinful soul could not chase away; and when i ought to have mixed a few drops of laudanum with the medicine the poor count was to take, my hand trembled, and more than a hundred drops fell into it. i was going to throw the medicine away, but it seemed as if satan seized my hand, and--i carried the deadly mixture to my unfortunate master. '"god reward you for your kind attention to me, franz," he exclaimed; and he speedily fell into that deep sleep from which he never more was to awaken. for fifteen years i have borne alone the burden of this guilty secret, of which neither the repentant countess, nor her and my daughter giuliana, had the slightest knowledge, though perhaps during our last journey together, the countess might have suspected it. on all souls' day--the day of my ill-requited master's death--i have for ten years past devoted myself to praying for his eternal salvation. on that solemn day may some purer spirit pray for me, and may god have mercy on my sinful soul!' the paper fell from the hands of the baroness, but she instantly caught it up, and destroyed it. 'then they are half-sister and brother!' she exclaimed. and she understood what had seemed poor otto's strange conduct. but did giuliana know it also? at that moment a letter was brought to her from the young count, in which he entreated her to conceal from giuliana what it would be better she should never know, and to treat her with motherly kindness for his sake. he added, that he had himself provided for her future comfort in pecuniary matters. there was, however, a little note addressed to giuliana enclosed, which he requested should only be given to her if it were necessary to calm her grief for his departure. a few days after he had left them, giuliana became extremely ill and the baroness, thinking it was better she should know the truth, handed her otto's farewell letter, which ran as follows: 'ever-beloved sister,--in this world we must separate, but yonder, where bride and bridegroom are as sister and brother, where there are no ties of blood, you will find the fond and faithful spirit, which is eternally bound to you, before him who is lord of the living and the dead.' giuliana outlived her grief for being separated from otto, and learned to love him as an angel whom she would meet in future at the holy gates of the heavenly paradise. she retired into a convent dedicated to the virgin mary, and never forgot, on all souls' day, to pray for the repose of her unhappy father's spirit. count otto returned no more to europe. he died in a skirmish with some savage indians. but by his papers which were sent to his family, it was evident that, unlike the more tranquil giuliana, he had never overcome his unfortunate passion, but had carried that fatal attachment in its full force to his distant grave. lisette's castles in the air. from the danish of h. p. holst. i have always considered a garret as one of the most poetical abodes on earth. ye happy beings who, from that lofty altitude, can look down upon the paltry bustle of the world, do ye not also appreciate the advantages which ye possess? envy not those whose cradles were rocked in palaces or gilded saloons, for their good fortune cannot be compared to yours. in these airy regions peace and freedom reign. ye are surrounded with the purest atmosphere--ye have but to throw open your elevated casements to inhale the clear, fresh air, whilst the rich beneath you, in their close chambers, seek eagerly for one breath of it to refresh them, and assist their stifled respiration. no prying opposite neighbour watches you, or disturbs your peace: there is nothing except the swallow which builds its nest upon the roof, or the linnet that flutters before your window, and greets you with its song. ye are raised far above all human misery, for none of it is apparent to your eye; the manifold sounds of the busy street--the itinerant vendor's varied cries--the rumbling of carriages and carts, scarcely reach your ears. ah, happy tenants of those lofty regions! how frequently, and with what magnetic power, do ye not draw my glances upwards towards you! far up yonder--high--high--mounting towards the clouds--where the rosebush and the white curtains adorn the window, lives a little milliner girl, about seventeen years of age. courteous reader, if you are not shocked at the idea of ascending that steep staircase, and these innumerable steps, we will visit her together. be not afraid! your reputation shall not suffer--i shall cast peter schlemil's cap over you--you shall see all, and be yourself unseen. you will! then follow me, but be silent and discreet; it is a charming girl whom we are going to see. we enter--hush! make no noise, for heaven's sake; lisette is occupied. at this moment she is busy trying on, before the mirror, a bonnet of the newest fashion, which she has just finished making. this is one of the most important incidents in a milliner's life. it is to her of as much consequence as his pieces are to a dramatic writer; with every new bonnet which _she_ has constructed--with every new play which _he_ has composed--comes the deep anxiety, whether the work shall add another blossom to the garland of their fame, or shall despoil them of their _renommã©e_. let us not disturb her, but rather let us take a survey of the little apartment which contains all her treasures. if your eye be accustomed to rest on silken tapestry, rich carpets, elegant toilet, and costly work-tables, these principal embellishments of a young lady's boudoir, i would advise you somewhat to lower your ideas, for lisette possesses none of these, nor does she feel the want of them. all that belongs to her is simple and frugal, but scrupulously clean and neat. the ceiling and the walls rival in whiteness the snowy coverlet which is spread over her couch. near this stands a wardrobe, in which hang two dresses and a shawl; and on a chair close by lie a couple of caps and a straw hat, trimmed with gay ribbons. these form her little stock of habiliments. a large oaken table occupies the centre of the room; it is covered with pieces of _crãªpe_, silk, satin, artificial flowers, plaits of straw, patterns, a knife, and a pair of scissors. these are all her store, and all her apparatus. on a plain chiffonier lie a psalm-book, a well-worn romance of sir walter scott, some songs, and a little pamphlet, entitled 'the ladies' magic and dream book.' these comprise her whole library. i had nearly forgotten the most valuable article among her furniture--yon old lounging-chair, covered with morocco leather: i call it the most valuable, for _it_ was her only heirloom from her forefathers. a mirror is suspended over the chiffonier, before which lisette is standing, fully engaged in taking a survey of herself. there is no mistaking the smile that is playing around her lips--the light that is beaming from her eyes. the critical examination has been satisfactory, and she is pleased with her own handiwork. and well may she be so; for the tasteful white silk bonnet casts a soft shade over her brow of ivory, and the rose-coloured _crãªpe_ with which it is trimmed seems pale when compared to her blooming cheek. i could venture to wager a thousand to one that lisette's face is a hundred times prettier than that of the fair dame or damsel for whom this bonnet is intended. doubtless this idea has struck _her_ also; see, she hastens to her wardrobe, and takes from it her light green shawl. she throws it around her shoulders, arranges it in graceful folds over her slender throat and fairy form, turns to the glass and contemplates herself, first on one side, then on the other, and laughs in the glee of her heart. brava, lisette--brava! hark! she sings- 'for a country girl i surely may look on myself with some small pride; alonzo--yes! all the world will say, thou hast chosen a nice little bride.' at that moment she fancies she hears some one knock at her door. in the twinkling of an eye everything is put in due order; the shawl is hung on the peg in its proper place, the bonnet laid conspicuously on the table, and 'come in' is answered to the summons. 'come in, ludvig,' she repeats in a clearer voice; but lisette must surely have been mistaken, for no one enters at her bidding. she goes towards the door and listens, she peeps through the keyhole, and finally opens the door and looks out, but no mortal is there. the foregoing scene is resumed: the shawl is taken again from its sanctum, the bonnet is replaced on her rich glossy brown hair; again her dark eyes shine, and again she smiles in the most captivating manner. happy little lisette! how unpretending must be her claims to the joys of life! a bonnet is sufficient to minister to her happiness. she parades up and down the room. how proudly she carries her little head; what fascination in her air and figure! she has that grace which is neither acquired nor affected; that untaught grace which nature, in its caprice, sometimes bestows on a milliner's girl, and denies to a lady of the court, or to a princess! at that moment her glance falls on the forgotten common straw hat with its pink ribbons, and the sight of it instantly dispels all her gaiety. who now wears such a bonnet? it is quite, quite out of fashion, unfortunate lisette! you--you alone are born to hide your lovely countenance under such a hideous shade; and not one single male being may behold how charmingly the modern little silk bonnet becomes you. another is to enjoy the fruit of your labour, to sport the work of your hands, and the production of your taste and skill! poor girl! it is hard, it is unjust, your sad fate is really to be pitied. with the slightest look in the world of chagrin she has cast herself into the leather arm-chair to take some rest after her fatigues. the clock has struck half-past seven, and she has been working since four in the morning. she can hardly repress her impatience. 'what can have become of ludvig!' she exclaims to herself. 'everything seems to conspire against me to-day; surely he cannot have taken it into his head to visit me in the forenoon, when he knows that _this_ is my leisure time? why does he not come? for though he plagues me sometimes, and he is often vexed with me, he knows very well how glad i am to see him.' lisette becomes thoughtful, and begins to meditate upon the future. her position is trying enough. what signifies it to her that her embroidery, her flounces, her caps, are always beautiful; that her bonnets look quite as fashionable as those of the court milliners? she barely makes a maintenance, and she has an invalid mother to support. what prospect is there of any change in her circumstances? what good fortune has she to hope for in the future? she throws herself back in the lounging-chair, closes her eyes, and begins--_to dream_. ah! who does not know what happy miracles take place in dreams? real joys are seldom the growth of this world, and are only found by a few, but to compensate for their absence, by the bounty of providence, a reflection of them is permitted to all mankind; for _fancy_ may, for an instant, bestow that happiness which never can be realized. the pleasures of imagination are open to all; in dreams we may taste of felicity, and surely none are so wretched as never in fancy to have known a moment of consolation and comfort. lisette is smiling; she is not asleep, but she has closed her eyes, the better to enjoy her little world of phantasies and dreams. her situation in life is altered. she is no longer the poor lisette who must toil from day to day to supply her urgent wants, and whose wardrobe consists only of two or three dresses, a shawl, and a coarse straw hat. oh, no; it is far different! she need no longer exert herself so much, and is no longer obliged to rise with the swallow, whose nest is near her window. she has bought silk dresses, a pretty bonnet, and a fashionable shawl. she has been to charlottenlund; has heard the band at frederiksberg; and wandered in the woods with her young friends. what magic has suddenly wrought this change in her destiny? she dreams it; and who would recall her from the harmless enjoyment of her vivid waking visions? lisette delights in the theatre; she has been there twice in her life, and has seen the 'elverhã¶i' and 'king solomon;' but she knows all the opera and vaudeville airs by heart, and sings them like an angel. she has just settled that she will take a box for the season, when she hears a knock at the door. 'come in!' she exclaims, languidly; and this time it is no false alarm, for a waiting-maid walks in with a parcel and a bandbox. lisette is somewhat annoyed at the interruption; however, she rises and asks what is wanted. the maid brings an old bonnet to be retrimmed for her mistress, and orders a new one for herself, which she desires may be ready by the next sunday, when she is going out, and will call for it. she dares not let her mistress see it; but her lover, the mate of a ship trading to china, insists on her being nicely dressed. he has presented her with a china-crape shawl, which she begs may be allowed to remain at lisette's until the important sunday. as she is leaving the room the clock strikes eight, and lisette suddenly remembers that she has not watered the rosebush, which was given her by ludvig. what shameful carelessness! she hastens to perform the pleasing task: that in doing this her glance falls upon the pavement below, and that at the same moment the handsome hussar officer, lieutenant w----, is passing by--surely must be the work of chance. he bows--it must be to the family of the councillor of state in the lower story, not to the inhabitant of the poor garret up at the roof of the house. he casts a look up towards heaven, and sees a heaven in lisette's beautiful eyes. perhaps he was watching the clouds, and thinking of the weather; but his eyes sparkled like the beam of the noonday sun, or like two very bright stars. he lifts his hand to his military cap--how elegant are his movements! what a pretty compliment to pass unnoticed! unnoticed? if so, what means that deep blush on lisette's cheek? is it the blush of triumphant beauty, or is it merely a passing tint, cast by the roses over which she is bending? lisette busies herself with the plant, and trains its branches with more than usual assiduity. it would seem that she redoubled her care of the rosebush, by way of making up to its donor for her momentary faithlessness. 'i will never see him more,' said lisette to herself; 'i will never come near the window again at eight o'clock. to-day i have done so for the last time. but why so? i am guilty of nothing--i have never once spoken to him; all i know is, that he always passes this way precisely at eight o'clock; but i have no right to think that it is on my account. perhaps it is not good for my rosebush to be watered so late; and ludvig is so jealous--oh, _so_ jealous! i can't imagine why; i am sure he has no cause for jealousy. it is too bad. ah--these men! these men! they expect from us one sacrifice after another, but not the slightest pleasure will they allow to us.' during this monologue her eye had fallen on the parcel left by the waiting-maid. her curiosity became excited to see what is in it, and especially what sort of a shawl the mate had bestowed upon 'that stupid lena.' she stands for some time debating with herself, her eye riveted on the parcel; at length she determines to open it. what a beauty it is! no countess could have a handsomer shawl. lisette wraps it round her, and betakes herself again to the glass, where she gazes at it with the utmost admiration, slightly tinctured perhaps with a _little_ dash of envy. taking it off, and laying it on her table, she places herself a second time in the old leather arm-chair, and sinks back into the world of dreams. but it is no longer the box at the theatre that occupies her imagination; her head is full of the charming shawl. she fancies that she has one as pretty; that her plain dress is exchanged for another of splendid materials; that she is surrounded by admirers, and--little coquette that she is--that she gives them no hope, for she loves only ludvig: but still, she does not quite discard them. but where is ludvig himself all this time? look round, and you will behold him now! do you see that young man with an intelligent countenance, with bright speaking eyes and dark curly hair, who at this moment has entered the room. that is ludvig. his open collar exhibiting his throat, and the rest of his somewhat fantastic costume, at once evince that he is an artist: but we must add that he is an artist of no ordinary talent, and that as a portrait-painter he is admired and sought after, he has closed the door softly, and stealing forward on tiptoe, he approaches lisette, who, lost in her magic world of dreams, is not at all aware of his presence. she is leaning gracefully back in the large easy-chair, her eyes closed, their long dark lashes reposing on her fair soft cheeks, and an enchanting smile, caused by the drama of her imagination, playing around her rosy lips. he bends over her as if he would fain, from the expression of her countenance, read her unspoken thoughts. what a study for a painter! what an exquisite pleasure for an ardent lover! ludvig can no longer merely _look_--he snatches up her hands, and covers them with kisses. lisette opens her eyes. at that very moment she had been dreaming of him; she had refused all her other suitors for his sake; she had forgotten the caprice, the jealousy, the absurdities of which she had often accused him, and only remembered how happy she was to be beloved by him. ludvig could not have arrived more opportunely. she reproaches him playfully for being so late, scolds him for keeping her waiting so long, but soon allows herself to be appeased. she tells him how industrious she has been, shows him the newly-finished bonnet, and does not omit to try it on before him--for she must have _his_ opinion to confirm her own. perhaps all this may be called coquetry; well, allowing it to be coquetry, there is no guile or deceit in it. poor ludvig is over head and ears in love; therefore he is charmed with lisette, with the bonnet, with everything. his warm feelings find expression in compliments such as lisette is not accustomed to hear from him, and she naturally thinks him more than usually agreeable. they chat about their first acquaintance, the simple incidents of their love history, and '_do you remember when?_'--'_do you recollect that time?_'--these phrases, so often introduced into the colloquies of lovers, pass and repass from their lips; they dwell, not only on their past reminiscences, but on their future hopes, and above all, on their mutual affection, that theme which never seems to become wearisome, and the variations to which appear to be endless. lisette then relates her day-dreams and her castles in the air--at least a part of them, as much as she thinks ludvig can bear to hear, but even that part seems to displease him, for an ominous shake of his head, as he listens to her, does not escape her observation. 'good heavens!' she exclaimed, 'how have i sinned now? what does that grave look portend? it is really very tiresome. two minutes ago you were so lively and so good-humoured. is there any harm in my building castles in the air to amuse my leisure moments, and laying plans in fancy which i know can never come to pass?' 'and how can _you_ be so hasty, and seem so vexed about nothing? i am not at all displeased, my dear girl. i do not deny that these dreams of yours are quite innocent; but i do say this, that if your head be filled with all these romantic schemes and ideas, and you encourage yourself in cherishing them, by-and-by you will be so led away by the vagaries of your own imagination, that you will be discontented with the humble lot which, alas! i have but the means of offering you.' 'oh! you have no need to entertain such a fear. am i not happy in the thought that the time may come when we shall share each other's destiny? or have i ever regretted that my fate is to be united to yours? what care i for wealth, or for all those fictions which it pleases the world to call good fortune? it is your affection alone which can make me rich; without that, i should value nothing.' who could withstand such words from the beautiful mouth of a charming young girl? ludvig has already in his own mind owned he was wrong, and now he hastens to beg a thousand pardons. he presses her to his heart, and is about to assure her of his entire confidence in her, when he suddenly perceives the costly shawl that is lying, half folded, on the table, and the words die away upon his lips. suspicion has darted across his mind. 'where could that expensive shawl have come from?' he asks himself. 'she could not afford to buy it. does she receive presents from anyone but me? can she be faithless--false?' his easily-aroused jealousy speedily got the better of him, and her guilt was no longer to be doubted. lisette had not in the slightest degree observed this sudden change; she permitted her head to rest affectionately on his shoulder--but he quickly disengaged himself, and pushed her coldly from him. 'what is the matter, ludvig?' she asked, in much surprise. 'are you out of humour again? what is wrong now?' 'oh! nothing, nothing! at least, nothing of consequence enough for you to care about.' 'what can you mean? am i not privileged to share your sorrows and annoyances, whether they are great or small? you know you are sure of my sympathy; why, then, should you conceal anything from me? but you have no longer any confidence in me; you love me no longer as you used to do, or you would not treat me thus.' 'these reproaches come well from your lips, indeed, miss lisette. certainly you have much to complain of.' lisette became angry, for she knew that she was innocent of all evil. had she not, a few minutes before, vowed not to go so often to the window, when the handsome hussar officer passed? and had she not recently, in fancy, discarded all her suitors, determining to admit and to listen only to ludvig? and now to be treated so by him! was her fidelity to be thus rewarded? 'fie, ludvig!' she exclaimed, with some vehemence. 'you are too tyrannical; you have often been hasty, irritable, nay, unkind to me; but i have borne it all patiently, for i knew your unreasonable jealousy; but you are too sharp with me--too cruelly sharp--i have not deserved this from you, and i will not put up with it.' 'well said! you speak out, at any rate. you won't "_put up with it_," lisette? of course you have no need to put up with _me_ any longer. there are plenty, i know, who will flatter you, and make a fool of you: but you will not find one who loves you as sincerely as i do.' 'and why not, pray? perhaps i may though.' 'what do you say, lisette? ah! now i see i have been mistaken in you. farewell! you shall never behold me more. i will not stand in the way of your good fortune. my presence shall never again irritate you for a moment. farewell!' he rushed from the room, and lisette had already the handle of the door in her hand, intending to run after him and call him back; but she stopped a moment to reflect. 'no!' she exclaimed to herself, 'i will not afford him such a triumph. let him go. is he not clearly in the wrong; and must i invariably give in? no; this time he shall wait awhile.' lisette is very angry; she paces up and down her room, without so much as casting one look down towards the street to see where he is going. 'it is quite unbearable,' she cries. 'he teazes me out of my life with his ridiculous jealousy. it is a proof of his love, he says.... ah, dear! i am sure i would much rather dispense with such love tokens.' lisette throws herself into the easy-chair, and commences humming an opera air. then she begins to rack her brains to discover what on earth could have caused ludvig's sudden transition from good-humour to anger and jealousy; but she vainly tries to find a reason for his strange conduct. 'i will think no more about him! he does not deserve the affection i waste upon him, nor that i should take his folly so much to heart. is this love? not the slightest indulgence will he permit to me; he cannot endure that i should be happy even in dreams! it is my only, only comfort, and he shall _not_ deprive me of it.' so saying, she lets herself fall back in her lounging-chair: at that moment she feels a kind of perverse satisfaction in doing what ludvig disapproved of. the force of habit is strong, and she soon fails into her day-dreams again. she fancies she has dismissed all her admirers, and now stands alone in the world. she invests herself with astonishing talents; no longer wastes her energies in making bonnets and taking in sewing. she has had first-rate masters for every accomplishment under heaven, and every possible branch of education, from moral philosophy down to--hair-dressing. she dances like vestris--sings like catalani--and plays like moschelles. with youth, beauty, and shining talents, she is received into the highest society, and the mystery which hangs over her early days but adds a piquancy to the charm of her numerous fascinations: for the great world, so monotonous in itself, loves the excitement of curiosity. she soon becomes the cynosure of fashion, adored by all the gentlemen--envied by all the ladies. still she is not satisfied with mere drawing-room admiration. she will go upon the stage. she comes out in an opera of scribe, composed by auber, and arranged by heiberg. the theatre rings with applause; bouquets are showered at her feet; the bright stars of copenhagen--madame h----, and mademoiselle w----, have, at length, found a rival, and to this rival a large salary is offered by the manager of the theatre. she has scarcely finished reading his highly complimentary letter, when another is brought to her. in haste she opens it, and, casting her eyes on the signature, she sees, 'sigismund frederick, count of r.' she starts with surprise; the young, the rich, the distinguished count, assuring her that he cannot live without her, offers her his heart, his fortune, and his hand! but, just then, amidst the glow of her gratified vanity and ambition, a small voice whispers the name of--_ludvig_. he has been rough and rude to her; he left her in anger; he deserves no remembrance from her; yet--her heart yearns towards him--she feels that she can forgive and forget; that she can repay good for evil, and can sacrifice everything for him she loves. poor lisette passes into a state of great excitement between the phantasms of her imagination and the real feelings of her soul; she actually rises to answer the visionary letter, and she writes as follows:-'noble count,--i should be very ungrateful if i did not highly value the honour which you have conferred upon me, in condescending to make me the offer which i had not the slightest claim to expect. i will not repay your goodness by any want of candour, and am, therefore, obliged to confess to you that _that_ heart for which you ask is no longer free; and that love with which you would honour me i am unable to return as it deserves. from my earliest youth i have been attached to a poor artist; he was my first love, and will be my last. i will venture to indulge the hope that you will receive this open admission as a proof of my sincere regard and high esteem for you, which forbid me to accept the happy fortune that destiny, doubtless, reserves for one more worthy of it than myself.' lisette was mightily pleased with this billet, which she considered a _chef-d'[oe]uvre_ of the romantico-literary style. she had conned it over several times, and was about to fold and seal it, when the striking of a neighbouring clock awoke her to the realities of life, reminded her that she had some work to finish, and at once demolished all her _castles in the air_. the horn inkstand is put away, the letter is left lying forgotten amidst the shreds of silk; and the scissors and the needles are once more in full activity. in the meantime ludvig has returned, and stands by lisette's side, in a repentant mood. he has come back to try to obtain some explanation about the unfortunate shawl, and to throw himself at her feet, and beg her forgiveness that he had again offended her by his suspicions. but lisette is angry, and she will scarcely take the least notice of him. she does not, however, hold out long, her naturally kind heart soon becomes softened, she sets his mind at ease by enlightening him on the affair of the shawl; but, very properly, takes him well to task. ludvig is in the seventh heaven. he blames himself severely, calls lisette by all the tender names that language can suggest; he swears never more to torment her by his suspicions and jealousy, and seizes her hands to kiss them, in ratification of his vow, but, at that moment, he espies some stains of ink on her delicate fingers. 'you have been writing! to whom were you writing?' he abruptly asks, in a hoarse voice, while his countenance gradually darkens. lisette colours, and looks perplexed. she is unwilling to confess that she has again been building castles in the air, knowing, as she does, that he has an objection to them; she stammers, and is at a loss for an answer. her embarrassment adds fuel to the flames; the demon of jealousy is again at work in ludvig's mind, he utters not a syllable, but darting at her a glance that, if looks could kill, would have annihilated her on the spot, he seizes his hat and is about to leave her. lisette is in the greatest consternation. she tries to detain him. 'ludvig--dear ludvig!--i have--can you forgive ...?' 'what have you done? what am i called on to forgive? you false, deceitful one!' he cries, passionately interrupting her, while he endeavours to break away from her. 'oh, do not be so violent, ludvig! i have been amusing myself with my dreams again. i have again been building castles in the air. forgive me this once more! _there_ is what i have been writing.' she hands him the letter, and, as he reads it, his stormy brow clears, and his features relax. 'from my earliest youth i have been attached to a poor artist, he was my first love, and will be my last.' these words, which he reads, and re-reads, several times, quickly appease his wrath. 'and this is what you were writing!' he exclaims, in a tone of joy. oh! i am so happy! now i cast suspicion to the winds; from this time, henceforth, i bid adieu to all jealousy.' in the delight of the moment he communicates to lisette what had before been hovering on his lips, the unexpected good fortune which had fallen to his share. an uncle, whom he had never seen, had bequeathed him a little fortune, which was large enough to place them in easy circumstances. lisette is in raptures, and, mingling their joy, they lay plans together for their future life. it is not lisette alone who now _builds castles in the air_, for ludvig joins her in this pleasing occupation with all his might; and yon humble garret becomes, at that moment, a heaven of love and happiness. twice sacrificed.[1] from the danish of carit etlar. * * * i. the dreams of youth. about three miles from viborg lies the celebrated hald. the palace upon the high hill, the lake slumbering beneath the ruins of the old baronial castle upon the island, the fresh luxuriant forest, make in combination a charming and romantic picture, which, placed as it were in a frame of dark-brown heath-clad hills, forms a strong contrast to the monotonous, melancholy-looking plain, in the centre of which it appears like a beautiful flower in the dreary desert, suddenly and unexpectedly seen, and therefore the more highly appreciated. one afternoon, in the spring of the year 1705, three persons were riding through the wood not far from viborg. one was a young lady, by her side rode a gentleman who did not look much older than herself, and at some distance behind them a servant in a rich livery, embroidered according to the fashion of the time. the young lady was very beautiful; the mild, calm, expression of her countenance, the sweet, trusting glances from her large dark-blue eyes, disclosed one of those soft, feminine natures for which life should be all quiet and sunshine, because they bend and break beneath its storms. the gentleman who rode by her side, as near as the horses could approach each other, wore the uniform of an officer. his features were expressive of courage and talent, and all that freedom from care which is the happiest endowment of youth and inexperience. the young lady was jeannã© rysã©, a daughter of the baroness rysensteen, in the district of rive. the gentleman was her cousin, captain krusã©. they were both returning from a visit to major-general gregers daa, who two years before had purchased hald, and built the handsome house upon the hill. there was evidently a deeper feeling between jeannã© and the captain than merely cousinly regard; this was betrayed both by their very confidential conversation, by jeannã©'s smile, and by the endearing glances that seemed to meet and answer each other. they loved each other; and they were laying plans for the future, as that afternoon they rode together through the wood. it was not of the present moment they were thinking--no, none but children and old people, the two at the extreme points of life--take pleasure in the present moment. around them everything reposed in a deep and serene tranquillity; the clear, transparent air, the sun's rays gleaming through the foliage of the trees, the perfume of the flowers, the blackbird's flute-like song, all tended to increase the sense of happiness which pervaded both their hearts, that fresh young love that causes all the blossoms of the soul to expand. 'this evening,' said jeannã©, 'i will tell all to my mother; it appears to me that it would be wrong to conceal our wishes longer.' 'oh, let us wait,' said he. 'the confession will not augment our happiness.' 'but it will indeed!' replied jeannã©. 'my mother has hitherto always been my confidante in everything; it will distress her when she finds that i am concealing our attachment from her. do not be afraid, dearest. she is so good, she has never thought of anything but my happiness, and she will undoubtedly give her consent to our engagement. i know perfectly well that my mother will refuse me nothing,' she added with a gay smile. krusã© made no reply; they rode on for some time in silence side by side, while the same subject engrossed the minds of both, but there was a difference in the way they thought of it. he was thinking, as it is natural for men to do, only of his own happiness; jeannã©, on the contrary, of that which she hoped to be able to bestow upon him. 'what if your mother should disapprove of our marriage?' exclaimed krusã©, at length, after they had left the wood, and were riding towards viborg, which was to be seen at a little distance. 'but she will not disapprove,' replied jeannã©, decisively. 'i know her too well. still, happen what may, my friend,' she said, as she stretched out to him a small, well-shaped hand, 'we love each other, and we will never cease to do so. is not this knowledge enough to induce you to overcome every obstacle?' krusã©'s answer was the same as has been given in similar cases from the time of the deluge. both forgot at that moment how long it is to--never! on the same evening, about two hours later, jeannã© sat alone with the baroness in her private apartment, and confided to her the whole story of the attachment--indeed, the engagement between herself and krusã©. the elder lady listened patiently and attentively to the tale; her face wore its usual bland smile, her voice had its accustomed sweet and affectionate tone. 'i have long suspected these feelings on your cousin's side, my dear child,' she said quietly, 'but i did not suppose that you would admit having returned them without first making some communication to me.' 'oh, my own dearest mother!' cried jeannã©, in the most caressing manner, and in a beseeching tone, 'you must forgive me!' 'there is nothing to forgive,' replied the baroness. 'what has happened has happened, and it appears to me there is nothing more to be said on the subject. i have known krusã© since he was a child; he is of a very amiable disposition and noble character, most gentlemanly and chivalric in all his actions. i also truly believe that he loves you, my darling jeannã©; who could do otherwise?' and the mother leaned over the kneeling daughter, who had placed her hands upon her lap, and kissed her fair brow. 'but krusã©, notwithstanding all these excellent qualities, can never be your husband.' jeannã© uttered a faint shriek. 'oh, mother, mother! what do you say?' she cried, in the greatest consternation. 'listen to what i have got to say,' continued the baroness, 'and listen calmly. krusã© is poor; he has nothing except his pay as an officer, which is scarcely enough to meet the daily expenses of a gentleman. you, my dear child, are not rich either, as after my death your brother will inherit the property. it is only, therefore, by marriage that your future comfort can be secured. you have, naturally, never thought of all these circumstances. at your age the heart is swayed by happier interests; it is not until later that the prosaic part of life forces itself upon us, and awakens us from our dreams. but i--your mother--have well considered all this. while you have engaged yourself to your cousin, i have fixed upon another for you--another who, with the same chivalric character, unites better prospects for your future life. yes, weep on, my darling girl! i understand your tears, for i have felt as you do, for i have loved as you do. when i was about your age i was much attached to a young nobleman, who was as poor as krusã©. my parents chose another for me, and i acknowledge now how fortunate it was that they were not influenced by my wishes. i judge by this--that the woman whom he afterwards married has led a very unhappy life.' jeannã©'s face expressed the deepest grief while her mother was speaking; she wept, she wrung her hands, and at length she exclaimed: 'oh, my dear mother! if you have considered what is best for me, have you not remembered that the fate for which you destine me will render me utterly miserable? it will be my death!' 'no, it will not, jeannã©! that is merely an idea peculiar to your age; people don't die so easily. time is an excellent doctor for such wounds.' 'who, then, have you chosen for me?' 'major-general gregers daa, of hald. he was with me to-day when you were out riding with your cousin; he asked for your hand, and obtained my consent to your marrying him.' major-general gregers daa was a tall, thin man, with a pallid face and very grave expression of countenance. his hair was beginning to turn grey, the numerous wrinkles on his expansive brow-were perhaps as much the consequence of deep thought as of advanced age, for both of these despots impose their marks in the same mode. gregers had held an important post, and had won many laurels in the last war. at the cessation of hostilities which followed the peace of travendal, he returned to jutland, purchased hald, and had the palace rebuilt. when these two events were completed, he had nothing before him but a quiet, monotonous life, without interest to himself, and without affording happiness to any one. the landed proprietors who were his neighbours found no pleasure in his society, for he was cold and reserved in manners. the poor lauded his charity and his munificent donations; but these, in accordance with the nature of the donor, were dictated more by a sense of duty than by any positive satisfaction he had in relieving distress. no one sought his friendship; indeed, it was rather avoided. in the lonely situation in which he was placed, he was poor--for even fortune becomes a burden in utter solitude. the present time offered nothing, the future seemed to promise nothing, and the past was the repository of no cherished recollections for him. when gregers returned from the war, and had ceased to fight foreign foes, he found at home a still more obstinate foe to battle with, and that was _ennui_. a sister, much younger than himself, who had resided with him, and taken charge of his house, had died a few years before the date of the commencement of this story. he regretted her loss very much, and day by day he missed more and more the comforts a lady's taste and society had spread around him. it was about this time that he first met jeannã© rysã©, and the sight of her awakened emotions in his mind which he had never before known. he wished to have her in his lost sister's place; he wished to be her confidential friend, her counsellor, her companion, and, yielding to these growing wishes, he determined on asking from the baroness the hand of her daughter. he had, however, not the most remote idea of the wretchedness with which his proposals were to blast jeannã©'s hitherto tranquil and happy existence. he was wealthy; he was the last--the only survivor of his race. both of these considerations had also some weight in gregers's resolution, and had not less influence on that of the baroness rysã©. but expediency and good intentions sometimes merge into wrong, especially when they forget to take into account the passions and the heart. this fault was committed both by gregers and the baroness. eight days after her conversation with jeannã©, the baroness rysã©'s carriage was seen going towards the hald, with running footmen before the horses, a coachman, and another servant, with powdered perukes; in short, with all that show and affectation of state which might lead the beholder to forget the dutch plebeian henrik rysã©, to whom the family owed their patent of nobility. the baroness herself was elegantly dressed; she was one of those old beauties on whose exterior the hand of taste must replace what time has stolen away. gregers daa received the lady at the foot of the outside stairs in a garb which plainly showed he had not expected her visit at that moment. he led her with a bewildered air into his study, where, before her arrival, he had been occupied. everything in this room bore witness to an old bachelor's uncomfortable home. an ancient-looking hound was stretched on the sofa, and gazed in evident astonishment at the intruder without vacating his place. the dust lay thick on the sills of the window, on the chairs, tables, and bookcases; the air was redolent of tobacco-smoke; books, plants, and weapons were lying in dire confusion about the room. the baroness's ironical smile, and the somewhat sneering manner in which she glanced round at the various articles in the study, seemed to open gregers's eyes to its untidy condition. he stammered an apology, and opened a door leading to a large room close by, but the lady declined entering it. 'let us stay here,' she exclaimed. 'the one room is as good as the other for what we have to talk about.' she removed a bundle of papers from a high-backed easy-chair, placed herself in it, and motioned to gregers to sit down also. the sun was shining brightly through the window, the soft breeze was swaying the branches of a large elm-tree, with their fresh light-green leaves, backwards and forwards outside, the sparrows were chirping under the roof; farther off was heard the song of the larks as they soared over old buggã©'s hald,[2] the ruins of which were to be seen from the window, and were glittering in the sun. presently the lady spoke. 'i come to you, general, on the same errand, relative to which you lately called on me, and i bring you my entire acceptance of the proposal you did me the honour to make respecting a marriage between you and my daughter. gregers daa's tall figure drew itself up in military style; he bowed, and said: 'you have, then, communicated my wishes to your daughter, dear madam?' 'i did so on the very same day that you called on us.' 'and she has no objection to pass her future life with an old man such as i am?' 'on the contrary,' replied the baroness, quietly, and without the slightest hesitation, 'she has many objections to it.' gregers looked thunderstruck; he fancied he had not heard aright. 'my dear general!' said the baroness, with an insinuating smile, 'the principal duty you and i owe to each other is sincerity, and i shall, therefore, venture to speak candidly to you. my daughter likes another--stay, do not interrupt me--i mean that she feels a great kindness for, and much interest in, a poor relation, who, so to speak, has grown up with her, and who has been the only one, until now, who could realize the visions every young girl's fancy is prone to create. but, good heavens! what does that signify? at her age one loves the whole world, or rather, we really love only our own selves in every object which pleases our inclination. i have impressed on my daughter the necessity of giving up her foolish dreams, and of forsaking the world in which she has hitherto lived, to enter into another by your side. 'and was she willing to obey you?' asked gregers, anxiously. the baroness's cheerful smile partially chased away his fears: 'willing!' she exclaimed. 'do you really think, my dear general, that i would wish to see you united to a lady who could not prove, by her obedience to her parent, that she would be able to obey her husband?' 'but as she already loves another, a younger man than i am, who, doubtless, is more able than i to comprehend and to share her sympathies, how can i expect her to love me?' 'love you!' exclaimed the baroness, in evident surprise. 'no--at least not at the present moment; she cannot be expected to do so, since she has, as yet, hardly the honour of knowing you. in regard to the future, it will altogether rest with yourself to call forth this love. your superior character, and the mildness of manners i have remarked in you, will indubitably lead the dear child to the goal you desire. i say lead, not mould, because i know that a husband may easily lead his wife, but not easily gain his wishes by coercion. from my experience of the feelings of my own sex, i can affirm that, in most cases, gentlemen may obtain as much affection as they can desire; but they understand less how to awaken this affection than to retain it when once bestowed. it is an acknowledged fact, that though the man begins by showing the woman the first attention, it generally ends in her showing him the last.' thus commenced a conversation, during the course of which the baroness succeeded in removing all the general's scruples. they afterwards proceeded to discuss the matter in question under another point of view--a view which appeared to the lady of very much more consequence than anything wherein feelings were concerned. the marriage settlements were skilfully introduced by the baroness, who evinced as much practical sense in this second portion of the conversation as in the first; while gregers daa, on his side, showed a degree of high-minded liberality which quite surpassed her most exaggerated expectation. and thus was this marriage determined on, this bargain concluded, in which was bartered away a young girl's future happiness, to secure for her some insignificant worldly advantages. the sacrifice was accomplished with festive pomp, with flowers, smiles, and songs on one side, with smothered sighs and suppressed tears on the other. the same wedding-bells that rang to announce gregers daa's happiness rang jeannã©'s freedom of soul and happiness into the grave. the first few weeks after the wedding were spent in society, visiting, and all the round of amusements which it was more the fashion to offer to newly-married people at that period than in our days. gregers objected to this dissipation in vain, the baroness insisted on it, and the complaisant son-in-law allowed her to take her own way. the baroness rysã© hoped, by these means, to procure her daughter some diversion, which might lead her to _forget_: she had herself never felt any other than these small sorrows that vanish amidst wax-lights and noise in a ball-room; she could not, therefore, conceive that jeannã© might, indeed, be stupified by all the entertainments provided for her, but that solitude is the only comfort in deep sorrow, and the great physician for suffering. betwixt the mother and daughter, these such opposite characters, the principal difference was simply this--that the baroness thought only of marriage, and jeannã© of love. as to the general, he found, to his great surprise, that all those feelings, so new to him, which had begun to be so softening and so pleasant, had suddenly changed their nature. that love, which had wiled his heart out of its accustomed torpor, which had come like a sunbeam on a late day in autumn, unexpectedly, and all of a sudden, had been as hastily enjoyed as if its loss were feared. he tried in vain to acquire the affection he coveted; but how could he think that an old man's measured and bashful love could be able to chase away the clouds of lassitude and grief which rested on jeannã©'s beautiful but pale brow, or dislodge the remembrance of what she had lost by what she had won? when at last, after long and fruitless struggles, he perceived the impossibility of attaining the desired object, which seemed always to draw back from him like the obscure and misty images on a wide heath, he shut himself up in his own study--but not with his former peace of mind; and he bore the marks of his internal battles in his hollow sunken cheeks and whitened hair. from this time forward gregers endured his sorrows in silence, as jeannã© did hers: the only difference between them was--the cause of the unhappiness of each. thus passed some years: gregers daa felt that no blessing had attended his marriage. he was childless. there lay a little embalmed corpse in his family vault in the cathedral of viborg, with an inscription full of grief on the lid of the coffin--that was his only child; it had died soon after its birth. the only person who never appeared to remark the cold and comfortless terms on which gregers and jeannã© lived was the baroness. she resided for some months every summer in her son-in-law's house at hald, drove about in his carriage, received visits from all her acquaintances; in short, she seemed to be the real mistress of the mansion, exactly as on every alteration and improvement at rysensteen she showed herself to have unlimited command over the general's money. war at length broke out again, after the short and enforced peace denmark had been obliged to put up with. king frederick iv. had secretly entered into an alliance with poland and saxony against sweden. reventlow was fighting in scania; shortly after was heard, for the first time, that one of the most ancient and most honoured names among the danish nobility was coupled with a lost battle--a name from which heroism and victory, until then, had appeared to be inseparable. jã¶rgen ranzau was defeated by steenbock on the outside of the gates of helsingborg, and the scene of war after that was removed into germany. gregers daa was ordered to join the army. one evening in the month of november this intelligence reached hald. ii. the farewell. gregers daa received the letter when he was sitting in the same room as jeannã©. his pale cheeks flushed as he read it; jeannã© remarked his emotion. she sat working near the fireplace, and at a little distance from her was a third person, a guest that evening--this person was captain krusã©. after jeannã©'s marriage he had often visited her at hald, gregers himself encouraged him to come, when he perceived that she seemed pleased to see him. he had not then the most remote idea of the engagement which had formerly existed between them. 'that letter seems to interest you,' said jeannã©, turning towards the general. 'yes--certainly!' replied gregers. 'i am called away to-morrow.' 'called away!' exclaimed at the same moment jeannã© and krusã©. there was something in the tone of the captain's exclamation which seemed to displease the general; he knitted his brow, while he answered, 'i ought to have said that _we_ are called away. i have just received an order for our regiment to join the army in holstein immediately.' jeannã© uttered no exclamation. during the last two or three years she had acquired complete command over her feelings; her countenance remained calm, and did not betray the slightest sign of agitation. gregers relapsed into his former silence; he had returned to the place where he had before been sitting, by a table in a corner of the room, at a little distance from jeannã©, because, he said, the lights on her table hurt his eyes; from that place his look seemed to be fastened steadily upon the two others. during the uncomfortable silence which now reigned in the drawing-room, were distinctly heard the wailing of the stormy wind, and the screech of the owls amidst the elm-trees on the outside of the windows. shortly after gregers arose, took a candle, and left the room. those who remained behind heard his steps becoming fainter and fainter as he traversed the long corridor which led to his study. when they were alone jeannã© let her work fall, and bending over the table covered her eyes with her hand. on raising her head again in a little time, she uttered a low cry, for krusã© was lying at her feet! she made a motion of her hand as if to bid him go, but the captain seized that soft white hand and pressed it to his lips, while he cast an indescribably beseeching look up at her. 'you have heard it,' he whispered; 'we must go--we shall part, for ever, perhaps--i must say a few words to you first. meet me down yonder--only this once, this once--for the first and the last time!' 'no, no!' cried jeannã©, vehemently: 'i have already refused this. oh, go!--it would be wrong!' 'oh, i pray you,' he continued, in a still more touching and trembling voice, 'do not refuse my petition! are you afraid of me, jeannã©, though in all these long years i have shown you how safe you are near me? or are you afraid that your glance will fall on yonder wood, where, one afternoon, you promised to love me, where the sun shone, and the birds sang, while god received those vows which have since been so cruelly broken?' jeannã© burst into tears. 'but go--only go, unhappy one! do you not hear? there is some one coming--it is my husband.' 'let him come, he is not my worst enemy at this moment.' jeannã© cast on him a sorrowful and reproachful look, but at the same time held out her hand to him. krusã© sprang up. 'then you have some pity for all that i have suffered,' he said; 'and you will not let me go without one kind word at parting?' she bowed her head almost imperceptibly, and yet it was sufficient for him; his eyes shone, his lips trembled, in his deep emotion. when gregers returned to the room, they were both sitting quietly and in perfect silence. a few minutes afterwards, krusã© took leave, and rode away. within an hour from that time, a youthful figure stole softly out of one of the side-doors which led from the apartments of the lady of the house down to the garden. she was wrapped in a large shawl, and moved slowly, and, as if unwillingly, onwards. krusã© hastened to meet her as she entered the garden. jeannã© received him more coldly than she need have done after having consented to the interview. but he knew her so well, he had expected nothing else. 'you desired me yesterday,' he began, in a low and unsteady voice, 'not to come up often to hald, and were vexed at me this evening because i venture to disobey your injunction. god is my witness, jeannã©, that it was my intention to have been guided by your commands.' 'why, then, did you come this evening?' she asked. 'because i knew before the general did that we were to be ordered on immediate service, and i could not resist seeing you once more ere our departure.' 'would to god we had never met each other!' she whispered in a low sad voice. 'it would have been better for us both.' 'oh, i entreat you,' he said, with that irresistible tenderness which had always found its way to jeannã©'s heart, 'do not say that. i am going far away now, and your wish will be fulfilled; but why should you give me so sad a souvenir to take with me? it is probable, jeannã©, that i shall never return--indeed, it is almost certain, for on what account, or for whom need i seek to save my life?--but if i _do_ return, should i be fated to live, will you then be less merciful than god, and deny me permission to visit you as hitherto? if you will only grant me leave to see you again, i shall never misuse that kindness by a word or a look of which you might disapprove; no sigh, no complaint shall betray to you what i suffer.' 'oh heavens!' whispered jeannã©, 'do _i_ not suffer too myself, and do you not perceive that your presence here only prolongs a struggle under which it is certain that we shall both sink? what can you wish to know that you do not already know? what can you see here except that i am gregers daa's wife?' 'yes, it is true--too true!' he replied, scarcely above his breath. 'farewell! it is best that we should never meet again.' 'farewell!' replied jeannã©, in the same heartbroken tone. 'but you will not thrust yourself needlessly in the way of danger. do you hear?--you will not do that? oh, you must not--you dare not!' 'i am weary of battling with my fate!' 'and i, too!' exclaimed jeannã©, bursting into tears. there was a confession as well as a depth of sorrow in these words; he raised his head, grasped her hand, and carried it to his lips. 'farewell!' he said--'farewell! god be with you, jeannã©!' she left her hand in his, and whispered, 'farewell, until we meet again!' 'i may come, then!' he exclaimed joyfully. 'since you threaten to throw your life away. but go now--leave me. let me beg this of you.' krusã© knelt before her, whilst he kissed her hand and said: 'put up a prayer for me, then i shall, perhaps, come back, and god may have compassion upon us both.' he sprang up and left her; a minute or two after, the clatter of his horse's hoofs was heard upon the other side of the garden fence. jeannã© stood and listened. at that moment jeannã© felt her hand seized, and the following words were uttered in a low, sad, scarcely audible tone: 'put up also a prayer for me, jeannã©!' she started back, and uttered a piercing shriek. a man stood before her, in whom she recognized gregers daa, whose countenance in the bluish moonlight looked even paler than usual, and whose smile was sweet, placid, and resigned as it had ever been. jeannã© thought herself lost; she fell at his feet, and stretched out her clasped hands towards him, while she exclaimed: 'oh, forgive me! do not condemn me. i am not so guilty as you must think--if you only understood me--if you only knew all--' 'hush, my dear child!' whispered gregers, in a voice that was full of grief, but mild and consoling. 'do not weep so bitterly; i know all, and it is you who do not understand me. you have never understood me aright. let us go in now.' he assisted the pale, trembling young woman up to her apartment, and then retired to his own study. the next morning, gregers, attended by his servant, had started on his journey before jeannã© was awake. iii. the battle. one dark december evening, about a month after the general's departure from home, the danish army had encamped in the vicinity of gadebusk. in spite of the darkness and the rough weather, there seemed to be an unusual stir and activity in the camp that evening, which betokened that something of importance was about to happen. shortly before it had become dark, a reconnoitring expedition which had been sent out returned with the intelligence that general steenbock, the commander-in-chief of the swedish army, had approached until within three miles of the danish camp, and that, according to all appearances, he was preparing to attack the danes at dawn of day. messengers were sent in various directions. a few of these were to summon the general officers to a council of war, others to take orders to the different portions of the infantry who lay in cantonments in the nearest villages. king frederick iv. had arrived at the camp two days previously from oldeslobe. he had taken up his quarters at the little country town of wakenstadt, whither the officers who had been commanded to assist at the council of war that evening repaired. there was a striking contrast between the appearance of these gentlemen, who, on account of the presence of the king, wore their embroidered and dashing uniforms, and the low, dirty, peasants' parlour, where the meeting was to be held. a peat fire was smoking and blazing in the open chimney; its lurid glare fell on the plastered clay walls, to which time and damp had imparted a greenish hue. two small windows, whose panes of glass the storm raging without caused to shake in their leaden frames, had no curtains. the floor was of clay, the furniture consisted of a long bench and three straw chairs, which were arranged around a deal table that stood in the middle of the room, covered with maps and drawings, and the apartment was illuminated by two or three tallow candles. the moment, however, was too critical for any of those present to waste a thought upon the chattels around them. the discussions in this council of war were long and stormy. immediately after the king had communicated the intelligence brought by the scouts, there arose a difference of opinion between him and reventlow, the commander-in-chief. the count thought that it would be unwise to accept battle at the place where the army then was, because the infantry either could not be assembled before the following morning, or, at any rate, they would be fatigued after their forced march, which it would be necessary to undertake very early to arrive in time. to this was to be added that the saxon auxiliaries, thirty-two squadrons of cavalry, happened that evening to be at eighteen miles' distance from the rest of the army. the king did not see the force of the argument; he entirely differed from the count. full of confidence in the continuance of the good luck which had placed in his power the most important of the german provinces of sweden, he declared the position of the army to be excellent, covered as it was by hills, woods, and morasses. he hoped that the forthcoming battle would crown all his previous victories. the shrewd courtier only adhered to his opinion until he saw that the king was determined not to give up his own. thereupon he pretended to have been reasoned over to his majesty's views. he bowed smilingly, and exclaimed: 'i also agree that we should remain here. if we conquer, to your majesty will belong the whole glory of the victory. the whole glory, but above all the whole responsibility,' he added, in a whisper to his neighbour, as he took his place again on the wooden bench at the table. reventlow's yielding to the king's wishes was a sign to all his party to act in the same spirit. one alone still contended that it would be wrong to accept battle under their circumstances--one alone, and he was major-general gregers daa. he stood in that circle somewhat paler and more suffering than usual, cold, stiff, and stern as ever. he would not swerve from his opinion, gave reason after reason, and did not seem to remark that his coadjutors had by degrees changed their ground and had become his adversaries. 'but, by the lord, major-general daa!' exclaimed the king, angrily, and evidently provoked at the general's cold, calm, but determined opposition, 'you must undoubtedly have stronger reasons for contending with us all than those you please to name? from the time that you joined the army last you have been prevented by illness from taking any part in the earlier actions, and now that you appear to be well again, you are the only one who maintains that we ought to retreat. are you afraid of being killed?' a general silence followed this insulting question. all present looked by turns at the king and at the general. gregers's face became deadly pale, his eyes flashed, and his lips trembled as if from cold, while he rose and replied: 'i shall answer your majesty's question to-morrow. i beg to say that i now quite agree with all the rest.' with these words he bowed and left the room. the king saw the terrible effect his insult had produced, and he called to gregers to come back, but the latter seemed not to hear him. he hastened out, closing the door after him. when gregers had gone a little way beyond the village, where the camp commenced, he stopped for a few moments, as if in earnest thought; he cast a glance of deep distress up towards the heavens, and pressed his hand upon his breast. he then walked quickly back to the camp. here all was movement and noise. the sutlers had a rich harvest that evening. crowds of soldiers lay around the watch-fires, chattering together, or playing at throwing dice on the top of the drums. they sang, they drank, or prepared themselves for the coming dangers by relating the wonderful heroic exploits that had been performed during those that were past. the report of the enemy's approach had already reached every one. gregers continued his walk until he had reached one of the farthest-off tents. here he came to a stand, listened for a moment, and then entered it. captain krusã© was sitting at a table, which stood near his camp-bed; he was supporting his head with both his hands, and was so intently gazing on an open letter, so absorbed in its contents, that he did not observe the general's entrance until the latter was standing by the table. he then quickly concealed the letter, and rose. 'do i interrupt you?' asked gregers. 'no,' replied krusã©, evidently much confused. 'you have received a letter?' 'no!' 'it appeared to me, though, that you were reading one when i came in.' 'the letter i was reading is six years old,' said krusã©. 'indeed! and at such a length of time after its date does it retain sufficient interest to carry it with you to your tent and read it on such an evening as _this?_' 'it is the memento of a loss--of a death; and you know, general, that the heart does not value its memories by their age, but by the estimation in which we hold those to whom they are traceable.' 'no,' said the general, 'i am not aware of any such feeling, for _i_ have no souvenirs, no cherished remembrances.' krusã© looked up in amazement at the bitter and almost despairing meaning which lay in these words. gregers continued: 'i came to ask you to visit me this evening. there is a subject on which i wish to have some conversation with you. have you time to spare?' 'yes, general.' 'very well, come then to me in my tent, near the forest of firs, within an hour--not later, pray observe.' 'i shall be punctual,' said krusã©. gregers took leave, but, before doing so, he cast a glance towards the table, where krusã© had concealed the letter. the captain remained behind, musing: he could not fathom the cause of this visit. latterly, gregers seemed to have avoided his society. during the foregoing conversation, it struck him that there was something harsh and unfriendly in the expression of his countenance, which betokened a dark and hostile mood. an hour later krusã© entered the general's tent. he found him sitting at a table, on which lay two pistols and a sealed letter. gregers beckoned to him to come forward, and, pointing to a straw chair a little way from the table, requested him to be seated. 'have you heard the news?' he began abruptly. 'we are to fight to-morrow.' 'yes,' replied krusã©. 'so much the better!' 'i also would have thought the same at your age. i would, most likely, have thought the same now, if i, like you, were single, and had not bound another to my fate.' 'you allude to the amiable lady yonder, at hald?' 'yes; and perhaps you are surprised that i should be thinking of her just this evening?' asked gregers sharply. 'no--certainly!' replied krusã©, somewhat astounded at the question. 'what is there to surprise me in your doing so?' 'you are not speaking the truth, captain. among all living creatures, you are the only one who could dare to conceive a doubt on this subject. you,' he continued, in a hollow and moaning tone of voice, as if the words he were uttering could with difficulty pass his lips--'you, who love her, and whom--she loves in return.' krusã© was speechless for a moment, while gregers was making visible and violent efforts to regain his composure. 'now i understand him,' he thought; 'he has found everything out, and intends to murder me.' this thought had scarcely entered his mind when it took the shape of a conviction. in the deep silence now reigning in the tent, he heard the general's suppressed groans as he drew his breath heavily, and saw the arm by which he supported himself as he leaned it on the table, tremble. 'what answer have you to give me?' inquired the general. krusã© raised his head: 'it is true what you say, general. i do love her.' the admission did not make the slightest alteration in the expression of the general's countenance, as krusã© had expected it would have done. 'how long ago did your love for her commence?' he asked. 'i have loved jeannã© rysã© since my childhood. she was the first, the only one i ever loved--the only one i ever will love. and now, general! after this confession, i wait to hear what further you have to say to me. i see that you have prepared for what was to happen,' he added, glancing towards the pistols which lay on the table. 'i have been long expecting it, and, when you came into my tent, i anticipated that what sooner or later must end thus was close at hand.' gregers remained silent for a few seconds, and then said: 'you are mistaken, captain! i was not thinking of killing you when i asked you to come here this evening. if such had been my intention, it would have been carried out long ago. for three years, krusã©, i have known that you loved her, but i saw, at the same time, how little guilt there was in this secret love.' he held out his hand to krusã©. 'poor fellow!' he continued, 'how could you help that you loved her? you, who were young, and whom god had destined for her. the error was, that no one gave me any idea of this until it was too late. i was a witness to the grief you both evinced; i heard the last words, the last sighs with which you parted from each other! i know it all. what you, on the contrary, do not know is--that i also loved jeannã©.' 'you!' cried krusã©. 'yes; you are surprised at that, are you not?' continued gregers, with a melancholy smile. 'an old man, who had no other right to that girl's love than what chance and authority bestowed. but i loved her, nevertheless, with an affection that in strength and devotion quite equalled your own. she was the only one, the last who bound me to life; my heart grew young again under the influence of this love, which, in spite of a husband's claims, preserved a lover's first timidity.' 'you loved her!' cried krusã©, as if he must have the words repeated, in order that he might take in the possibility of their truth. 'but jeannã© never suspected this.' 'nay, do not think that i could betray my feelings when i so soon perceived that she was not able to return them! from the garden below have i, like you, often and often gazed up at her windows, until her shadow and her light disappeared; i have felt myself intoxicated at inhaling the perfume she scattered around her; in short, i have been more easily contented than you, for you told her that you loved her, while i hardly dared to confess so much to myself. nor will she ever know it until i have ceased to live.' gregers stopped speaking for a few minutes, while he fixed his gaze on the empty space before him within the tent krusã© could not find words to answer him, he felt so much moved by what he had just heard. a little after, gregers continued: 'to-morrow we go to battle, or rather accept it, since the enemy offers it to us. it is possible that i shall not outlive the day; it is, indeed, almost certain.' 'certain!' exclaimed krusã©. 'yes, my friend!' replied gregers quietly. 'as you said lately, one has one's presentiments in this world, let us suppose that mine will be fulfilled. in case this should happen, i have written a letter, which i now give into your keeping; take care of it, for it contains my last will. my first intention was that you should have remained for a time ignorant of its contents, but i have thought better of it. when i am dead, go back to hald, its doors will open to you, not as heretofore, to receive your sighs and complaints--no, you will enter hald as its master, jacob krusã©! i give jeannã© to you, and when i have done that i have given you all, for my property shall belong to you both, since i am a childless man and the last of my race. raise your head, my son! why do you bend over the table in this manner? she shall be yours, as a reward for her fidelity and your sufferings! you must love each other. i bequeath her to you, and it is my wish and my prayer that you will make up for all the sorrow i have caused her.' gregers placed his hand on the young officer's drooping head. krusã© sank to the ground, and knelt before him! as gregers raised him, he flung his arms round his neck and burst into tears. there was something very strange in this scene between the husband and the lover! 'oh my god!' cried krusã©, 'i see it all; you will let yourself be killed.' 'no, certainly not that, my friend!' replied the general. 'but i shall be killed, that is all. i believe, as i told you, in presentiments, and i owe you both this reparation--you and her. go, now! go and take the letter with you. i wish to be alone a little time.' so saying, the general opened the tent, and motioned to krusã© to leave it. the next day, about mid-day, the battle near gadebusk commenced. twice during the morning krusã© had gone to gregers's tent, but the general had declined receiving him either time, upon the plea of having much business to attend to. the drums and the trumpets shortly after called the soldiers to muster in their ranks, and the captain was obliged to hurry to his duty. when gregers daa rode past reventlow, to the head of the division he commanded, he stopped his horse, and turning to the commander-in-chief, said in a low tone, so as not to be overheard by those near, 'general! i have a request to make to you.' 'to me!' cried reventlow, much surprised. 'yes!' continued gregers; 'and i beseech of you, for the sake of that friendship of which you have given me so many proofs, to grant it.' 'it is already granted, my dear general, if even only on this account, that within another hour i may not be in a condition to accede to anyone's wishes.' 'with the third national regiment, on the left wing of the army, there is one captain krusã© in command of a company. i particularly wish that his life may be saved, if possible. will you, therefore, kindly place him accordingly?' 'colonel eifeler,' cried reventlow, beckoning to one of the nearest officers, 'be so good as to order a portion of the third national regiment, under captain krusã©, to serve as cover for the height, on which his majesty has determined to take the command.' the colonel touched his cap, put spurs to his horse, and galloped off. gregers daa thanked reventlow with a long and warm pressure of the hand, and then went on to join his own men. the danish army was drawn up on a hill, behind a morass; its left wing was protected by a river, its right by a large and thick forest of firs. two hours before the commencement of the action the saxon cavalry had arrived, and had united with the danish. the swedes commenced the battle with a brisk cannonade, and stormed the hill under their watchword, '_mit gott and jesu hã¼lfe!_' shortly after all was enveloped in smoke, which the wind drove over against the enemy. the fire of musketry mingled with the louder booming of the cannon; the signal trumpets sounded; the drums rolled, and men were falling in the agonies of death. an old chronicle says that the battle, 'with great effusion of blood, lasted until five o'clock. as no one on either side would give any quarter, there were fewer prisoners made; officers fought each other as in a duel, and such were the individual combats, that the danish and swedish officers were generally found dead, lying close to each other on the field of slaughter.' the same chronicle tells us that the swedes stormed the hill three times. the last time they were so fortunate as to be able to take up their position at the foot of the hill, without the danes having the power to hinder them. two attempts had been made in vain. the danes were beaten back, the saxon cavalry gave way, and fled in disorder; steenbock followed up his good fortune, and sent troops to pursue them. the danes, too, were beginning to give way, for the enemy's cannon, loaded with grape, and discharged from a short distance, was making terrible havoc among them. at that moment a squadron of danish horse, led by a tall, thin officer, came dashing down the hill, and for the third time made an attempt to drive back the enemy. the spirited horsemen dropped on all sides, but others, who had escaped unharmed, continued their onset, and fell upon their foes, their brave leader charging at their head. the cannons were silent, while musket and pistol shots flew hotly around. shouts of triumph--groans from the wounded horses--prayers--the moans of the dying--and wild cries of encouragement, issued from that confused multitude, immersed in dust and smoke, amidst which were to be seen sabres flashing and sinking, and in the hottest of the fight the tall officer, who seemed invulnerable himself though he dealt destruction around. from a height at a little distance king frederick had witnessed the whole. he had seen the two unsuccessful attempts to drive the enemy back, and the dragoons who had galloped down the hill to make the third effort. gregers daa's name was in the mouth of everyone around. it was he who was speeding on to fulfil his promise. this furious attack took the swedes by surprise, and they began at length to draw back. it was in vain that steenbock sent them reinforcements; before these reached the battlefield he beheld his troops, as if panic-struck, take wildly to flight, and heard the noise made by the dragoons as they spiked the swedish cannon. in the midst of the field, among heaps of the wounded and dying on both sides of him, lay their commander, the heroic gregers, struck by a pistol-ball, while he was trying to wrest the colours from a swedish officer. this episode--the gallant conduct of the dragoons--had given the danes time to recover themselves, and the battle was resumed with fury at another place. some of the dragoons jumped from their horses, and bore their wounded general away from the field. gregers was carried to the village, and into the very same room in which, the evening before, he had been so humbled and insulted. king frederick soon after entered the chamber, went up to the bed, and leaning over him, took his hand, while he exclaimed: 'how this disaster goes to my heart, my dear general! i have sent for my own surgeon; he will be here presently, and he will do all that he can to preserve to our fatherland a life so invaluable as yours.' 'you are mistaken, my liege,' replied gregers. 'the surgeon will be of no use, and i am only fulfilling my destiny. had your majesty been unequal, yesterday evening when you put upon me the humiliation of doubting my courage, i would have killed you; _that_ being impossible, there was nothing for it but to let myself be killed. the ball is in my breast. it will realize my wish.' the king uttered in a low voice some words full of admiration of a heroism that sought death on account of a hasty and inconsiderate expression from his lips. when gregers had finished speaking to the king, he turned his head away from him. his eyes met those of krusã©, who was kneeling on the other side of the bed. a sweet and happy smile stole over the pale countenance of the dying man, as he held out his hand to the captain. 'you see that my presentiments were correct,' he whispered, in a weak and failing voice. 'now she will be happy, and you also; now you may love each other freely--for ever. and when you are happiest, sometimes spare a thought to me--an old man, who was ignorant that it was he who hindered your happiness--who went away when he discovered it. farewell, my son. be kind to her, whom we both love!' gregers drew a deep sigh, clasped his feeble hands, and his spirit fled to other worlds!' * * * a month later, two persons were sitting in one of the drawing-rooms at hald; the one was jeannã©, the other captain krusã©, who the same day had arrived with the general's body from holstein. gregers daa had been buried in his family vault in the cathedral at viborg. jeannã© had read the letter he had addressed to her in his tent the evening before the battle. krusã© related to her, word for word, what had passed the same evening between them. jeannã© wept bitterly while he spoke, and when he had finished there was a long and unbroken silence in the room. a little after, jeannã© held out her hand to him, and said, 'leave me, now, my friend. i wish to be alone.' there was something of decision and earnestness in the tone in which she spoke that alarmed the captain.' he held her hand in his while he asked: 'and when may i come back?' 'never! never come back!' replied jeannã©, with the utmost composure, 'for i no longer love you!' krusã© stood petrified. then he whispered in accents which betrayed the deepest despair: 'and your vows, and your assurance that if you did not belong to _him_, no living creature should separate us?' 'i have not forgotten all that,' she replied; 'but i now belong to him more than ever i did. go, jacob krusã©, i beseech of you. it is not the living which separates us, but the dead!' having thus spoken she left the room. what strange contradictions there are in a woman's heart! jeannã© kept her word, and remained until her death a lonely and sorrowing widow. the following year krusã© fell at the siege of tã¶nning. herr sinclair. by e. storm. herr sinclair o'er the briny wave his course to norway bent; 'midst guldbrand's rocks he found his grave; there, his last breath was spent. sinclair pass'd o'er the billows blue for swedish gold to fight; he came, alas! he little knew norwegian dust to bite. bright beams that night the pale moon flung- the vessel gently roll'd- a mermaid from the ocean sprung and sinclair's fate foretold. 'turn back, turn back, thou scottish chief! hold'st thou thy life so cheap? turn back, or give my words belief, thou'lt ne'er repass this deep!' 'light is thy song, malicious elf! thy theme is always ill! could i but reach thy hated self that voice should soon be still!' he sail'd one day--he sail'd for three- with all his vassal train; on the fourth morn--see--norway--see! breaks on the azure main. by romsdal's coast he steers to land, on hostile views intent; the fourteen hundred of his band were all on evil bent. with lawless might, where'er they go they slaughter and they burn; they laugh to scorn the widow's woe: the old man's pray'r they spurn. the infant in its mother's arms, while smiling there--they kill. but rumours strange, and wild alarms soon all the country fill. the bonfires blazed--the tidings flew- and far and wide they spread the valley's sons that signal knew; from foes _they_ never fled. 'we must ourselves the country save; our soldiers fight elsewhere. and cursed be the dastard knave who now his blood would spare!' from vaage, lessoe, and from lom, with axes sharp and strong; in one great mass the peasants come- to meet the scots they throng. there runs a path by lidã©'s side, which some the kringell call; and near it laugã©'s waters glide: in them the foe shall fall. now weapons, long disused, are spread again that bloody day. the merman lifts his shaggy head and waits his destined prey. brave sinclair, pierced with many a ball, sinks groaning on the field. the scots behold their leader fall, and rank on rank they yield. 'on peasants! on--ye normand men! strike down beneath your feet!' for home and peace the scots wish'd then; but there was no retreat. with corpses was the kringell fill'd; the ravens were regaled. the youthful blood which there was spill'd the scottish girls bewail'd. no living soul went home again their countrymen to tell the hope to conquer those how vain, 'midst norway's hills who dwell. they raised a column on that spot, to bid their foes beware; and evil be that normand's lot who coldly passes there! the aged rabbi. a jewish tale. by b. s. ingemann. * * * i. 'is thy day of persecution to return, lost, unhappy israel?' exclaimed the old rabbi, philip moses, sadly shaking his venerable grey head, as one evening in the autumn of 1819 stones were thrown in through the windows of the house in which he resided, whilst the rabble of hamburg shouted in the street in derision the first words of the jew's lament for jerusalem. 'yes! ye are right,' he continued mournfully; 'jerusalem is demolished and laid waste. ye could not stone us against jehovah's will! but his wrath is sore kindled against us. his patience was great, but his people have forgotten him in the midst of their banishment; they have forsaken the law and the prophets amidst the dwellings of strangers; they have mingled their blood with the blood of the unbeliever; and lo! therefore god's people are thrust forth from the earth, and blotted out from among the living.' 'oh, grandfather, grandfather!' cried his weeping grandchildren, clinging to him in their terror, 'protect us from the fearful christians!' 'if ye be still the children of israel,' answered the old man calmly, 'fold your hands and bow your knees, turn your faces towards the east--towards the ruins of god's holy city--and pray to jehovah, the god of your fathers! while thus engaged in prayer, what if these stones crush your heads and dash out your brains? praise jacob's god with me, and die in the name of the lord god of sabaoth! then shall his cherubim bear ye in peace to our father abraham's bosom!' 'is that the only comfort you can bestow, simple old man?' said his son samuel, the father of the children. he was the richest jeweller in hamburg, and now saw his valuable shop exposed to be ransacked and plundered by the furious mob. 'can you give us no better advice than to pray? _i_ know something better. we will all let ourselves be baptized to-morrow.' 'would you renounce the faith of your fathers on account of your anxiety about your jewellery, my son?' said the old man, casting a contemptuous glance on the wealthy, trembling israelite, who, overcome with fear, was rushing from keeping-place to keeping-place, gathering together and packing up his most valuable articles. 'truly it is indifferent to me whether they call me jew or christian,' replied samuel, 'so i can save my goods and my life. when the question is, whether i shall be a rich man to-morrow or a beggar--whether i shall walk the streets, and go to the exchange in peace, or if i am to be pelted in open day by the very children, and risk my health, my limbs, my life itself--when my jewels, my furniture, my wife, my children, and my windows are in question--i should be a great ass if i hesitated to let a handful of cold water be thrown upon me. it is only a stupid ceremony; but i daresay it is just as good as our own crotchets. now-a-days that is the best creed which gives security and advantages in trade and commerce.' 'miserable being!' cried old philip moses, drawing himself up to his full length, 'accursed be the spirit that speaks by your mouth! it is that pestilential spirit which has wrought evil among god's people, and caused them to become a byword to the nations of the earth, and an abomination to the lord of heaven! accursed be those goods and that life for which you would barter the faith of your forefathers, and mock even the altar of the strangers, to which you would fly in your abject cowardice! accursed be the security and the advantages for which you would betray jehovah! accursed be the trade and the commerce that have enticed god's people to become the slaves of mammon, and frantic worshippers of the golden calf!' 'you talk wildly, old man!' replied samuel. 'you do not know how to accommodate yourself to the times. you are aged, and cling to old notions; but the days of your prophets are gone by.' 'their words shall stand to the last of days,' said the old man, raising his head proudly; 'and be it my care to proclaim them among ye, even if the earth should burn around me, and sink beneath my feet! is it not enough that we are a stricken and dispersed race, cast forth into the wide world, and condemned to live despised in the land of the stranger? shall we add humiliation to humiliation, and despicably constrain ourselves to laud and call those just who scorn us and trample us in the dust?' the jeweller's handsome saloon was full of fugitive israelites, who sought refuge and protection at the abode of the wealthy samuel; whilst the police and the watchmen _pretended_ to be endeavouring to quiet and disperse the mob outside. the assembled jews loudly deplored their misfortunes, and some of them gazed with astonishment on the aged philip moses, who stood there firmly and fearlessly, like a prophet among them, and poured forth words of wisdom and instruction to his trembling fellow-believers. two or three of the old rabbis, with long beards and black silk _talars_, or robes, alone listened attentively and with calm seriousness to him, the most ancient of their community. but the young beardless israelites uttered cries of lamentation, bewailing the conduct of the people of hamburg, bewailing their broken windows, and all the damage that would accrue to their trades or business in consequence of this new persecution. 'ah! if my mother had not been so over-faithful to my father,' said a conceited young jew, 'i might have gone with comfort to the theatre, and seen that pretty ma'amselle wrede, without being recognized as a jew, and abused accordingly; and running the risk of getting my head broken to boot.' 'oh! that we had never been circumcised!' cried another; 'our lives are actually not safe in the streets.' 'would that we were all baptized!' groaned a third. 'ay, with some philter that would turn our dark hair to red, and remove the too apparent marks with which jehovah has signalized us and cast us out among our foes.' 'oh!--woe--woe!' shrieked the women and children--'whither shall we fly in our great distress and misery? ah! were it but morning, and this dreadful night were past!' 'leave off your lamentations, ye foolish and untoward ones!' cried philip moses. 'the lord has struck ye with imbecility, and with blindness, and with corruption of heart. he has scattered ye abroad among all the tribes of the earth, because of your perversity; he has given thee a timorous heart, oh israel! so that the sole of thy foot cannot find rest, and thou feelest that thy life is in jeopardy, and goest about groaning night and day; and in the morning thou sayest, would that it were evening! and in the evening, would that it were morning! because of the terror of thy heart, and the visions that are before thine eyes. but hearken what the lord declares unto you by the mouth of his servants from the tabernacle in your foreign synagogue. if your affliction and your humiliation be greater than your transgressions, shake the dust from your feet, and go forth from the place where ye are treated with ignominy and oppression. leave the iniquitous mammon in the hands of the evildoers, and take only with you that to which there cleaves no curse in the sight of jehovah! come! i will lead ye from city to city, and from land to land, until we find some spot on earth where jehovah may veil our disgrace and grant us freedom among the children of mankind, or else, like our fathers of old, among the wild beasts of the wilderness!' 'what are you dreaming of, old man?' exclaimed his rich kinsmen, in dissatisfied chorus. 'should we leave our hard-won gains, and go forth like beggars into the world, with old sacks on our shoulders? where shall we find a more commercial town than this? and in what part of the world would we not be exposed to annoyances and persecutions? no path leads back to the promised land, and were we to be guided by your dreams, we should neither be able to feed our wives and our little ones, nor to gather golden pieces and silver ducats.' 'if ye believed in jehovah,' replied philip moses, 'ye would also believe that there is a way to the promised land; but that thought is too grand for your contracted souls. the flesh-pots of egypt are dearer to you than the manna from heaven in the wilderness; and if the lord god were to call up moses among you, ye would stone him as your fathers stoned the prophets.' 'what avails all this long discourse, poor, foolish old man?' said his son, the rich jeweller, interrupting him. 'sit down there in your comfortable arm-chair, and amuse yourself with the children, moses, while the rest of us consult together what is best to be done. he is going into his dotage,' added he, turning to the other jews, 'and sometimes he is not quite in his right senses, he has quarrelled with all his family, and i keep him here, out of charity, in my house, as you see; but for all that i have to put up with many hard words, and much abuse from him.' then there commenced a mumbling in the room, and a buzzing sound as in a bee-hive, everyone giving his opinion as to the best way of quieting the people of hamburg, and making up matters with them. some proposed that a deputation should be sent to the senate to demand the protection of the military for their houses. 'it would be of no use,' said others. 'these mean, abominable members of the hanseatic league are our worst enemies; these stupid, paltry, petty dealers, who envy our cleverness in business, and covet our profits--it is just they themselves who set the populace against us.' 'then let us remove to altona,' cried some. 'those danish blockheads will at least have sense enough to be willing to receive us with all our riches; and they will be glad to have an opportunity of causing a loss to the impudent hamburgers, in return for their "_schukelmeier_" _cry_.'[3] 'but when the worst part of the storm is over, we will repent having gone,' argued others; 'for there is not so much business done, or so much money to be made there, as here. it is better for us to put up with rudeness and with temporary annoyances, than to run the risk of seriously injuring our business, and lessening our gains.' 'if the worst happens, we can but let ourselves be baptized,' said samuel, 'and then we can no more be called jews than the hamburgers themselves.' 'what good would that do?' exclaimed a shabby-looking jew, with a long beard. 'it is not on account of our religion that they persecute us; it is only our wealth and the luxuries we can afford, that excite their envious dislike. our handsome houses are our misfortune, and our splendid equipages; our beautiful villas on the elbe and the alster, and all the braggadocio of our young fops. go about like me, with a matted beard and tattered garments. live well in the privacy of your own houses, but let not your abundance be seen by anyone. you will then find that no one will envy you, or persecute you. let the children in the street point at us, and abuse us. is it not for being what it should be our pride to be called? if they even treated us as if we were lepers, they could not prevent us from being god's chosen people. we are blessed in our affairs, and in our wedlock; we multiply, and fill all lands, and devour the marrow thereof; we are _really_ the lords of the people, though we do not blush to seem their slaves.' this advice was rejected by the richer and more modern israelites, who had no inclination to array themselves in sackcloth and ashes, and to relinquish the ostentatious display of that wealth which, in the midst of so many humiliations, and with so many equivocal acts, and little tricks in trade, they had amassed. 'no, no! i know a much better plan,' said one of the richest men present, who had originally been a sort of pedlar, and sold tapes and ribbons. 'we will take it by turns to give turtle-feasts; we will invite all the young men, the sons of the merchants, to our tables; our wives and our daughters must show all manner of kindness and complaisance to them, and not keep them at such a cold distance as they do now; let them lay aside their reserve, and try to please them. it is better, far better, even to marry among the christians, than to have them as enemies, now-a-days.' on hearing these words, old philip moses arose; he could no longer endure to listen to his people humbling themselves, as he thought, so basely. he tore his clothes, and anathematized the tongue that spoke last. he then tried, with all the eloquence of which he was master, to touch the hearts and rouse the spirits of those who were the best among the assembly, by setting forth to them the misery and degradation which their own selfishness and cupidity had brought upon them. he characterized their present persecution as a just punishment from jehovah for their degeneracy, and their being so absorbed in the pursuit of money. he condemned their indifference to the faith and the customs of their forefathers; their neglect of the sabbath, and of its holy rites; their shaving off their beards, and their being ashamed to be known to be what they were. he inveighed against their connection with christians, and more especially their marriages with them, by which two of his own sons had disgraced him. and he denounced their excessive keenness in the pursuit of gold, as likely to be ruinous to them, as being certain to have an injurious effect on their settling happily in any and every country in the world. but this was too much for his fellow jews to harken to in silence. they all attacked him vehemently, calling him a crazy old traitor, who only wished their destruction. loudly, however, as swelled their chorus of abuse, still more loudly arose the voice of the old man, as he, in the words of the prophet jeremiah, reproved them: 'o israel! thine own wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backslidings shall reprove thee. i had planted thee a noble vine, wholly a right seed; how then art thou turned into the degenerate plant of a strange vine unto me? for though thou wash thee with nitre, and take thee much soap, yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the lord god. your sons have withholden good things from me. for among my people are found wicked men; they lay wait as he that setteth snares; they set a trap, they catch men. as a cage is full of birds, so are their houses full of deceit, therefore they are become great and waxen rich. they are waxen fat--they shine; yea, they overpass the deeds of the wicked. they judge not the cause of the fatherless, yet they prosper. shall i not visit for these things? saith the lord. shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this? go ye upon her walls and destroy; but make not a full end: take away her battlements, for they are not the lord's!' scarcely had he uttered these last words than a shower of stones, hurled against the closed window-shutters, demolished them, and dashed in, while this new attack was followed by shouts of triumph and derisive laughter from the streets. 'away with him--away with the old prophet!' cried several of the jews. 'his imprecations are bringing fresh evil and persecution upon us.' 'this is not a time to be preaching all that old twaddle to us about our sins,' said his son, the rich samuel. 'i will not listen to another word; and if you expect to remain longer in my house, you must keep your tongue to yourself, i can tell you. it would be more to the purpose if you went to your room, and shaved off that beard of yours, that you might look like other men. we must howl with the wolves we are among, and if the mob were to catch a glimpse of your long beard, which is just like that of an old he-goat, and your masquerade garb, they would pull the house down about our ears.' 'oh, grandfather, grandfather!' exclaimed the youngest of his grandchildren, starting away from him, 'how your eyes are blazing! you are not going to hurt my father?' 'for _your_ sakes, i will not curse him,' said the old man, in a low, tremulous voice; 'but accursed be the spirit which influences him, and my unfortunate, perverted people! i shall shake the dust from my feet at the threshold of your door, my son, and never more shall you behold my countenance in this world; but, in your last moments, you will remember _this_ hour. i will wander defenceless among our enemies; i will bare this grey head to their insults, stand amidst their showers of stones, and peradventure be torn asunder by their violent hands, before my own child shall pluck out the beard from my aged cheeks, or turn me out of his house as a beggar.' 'stay!--are you mad?' cried samuel; 'you will not pass alive through that mob outside. hold him, some one!' he exclaimed to those around. 'he is deranged, as you see, and is going into his dotage. i should be sorry if anything were to happen to him, or he were to meet with any injury.' but old philip moses went away, like lot, from the doomed sodom, and never once looked back. no one attempted to detain him, for his denunciations, and his terrible look, had frightened them all. with his snow-white locks uncovered, and in his torn dark silk _talar_, alone, and without his staff, he went forth, and shook the dust from his feet as he stepped from the door. when the hamburg populace perceived him, a group of children began to abuse him, but no one took up the cry, and not a hand was lifted against the silent, venerable-looking old man. 'let him go in peace!' said one to the other; 'it is old philip moses. he is a good man; it would be a sin to hurt _him_, or to scoff at him.' 'but if we had his son samuel in our clutches,' said others, 'he should not get off so easily; he is the greatest bloodsucker among them all!' ii. it was late at night--the tumult in the streets had ceased. no more carriages rolled along from the theatre, or from parties at the houses of the rich hamburg merchants. the promenade on the 'jungfernstieg' had been over long before, and the pavilions were locked up. lights glimmered faintly from the upper windows of the large hotels, and only here and there a solitary reveller was to be seen, humming an air, as he was wending his way homewards from the 'salon d'apollon,' or was stopped by some straggling night-wanderer of the female sex. the moon was shining calmly on the alster, and the watchman had just called the hour by st. michael's clock; but two strange-looking figures still walked up and down the 'jungfernstieg,' and seemed to have no thought of home, though the sharp wind scattered the leaves of the trees around them, and the flitting clouds often obscured the moon on that cold september night. a dark-haired young girl walked, shivering with cold, alongside of an old jew, and seemed to be speaking words of comfort to him, in a low, sweet voice; and that jew was the aged philip moses! 'you are freezing, my child,' said the old man, as he threw the skirt of his torn talar around her shoulders. 'let me take you back to the house of your mother's brother; but _i_ will not cross his threshold again. i made that vow the day he was seduced into wedding the artful christian girl. on this day has my third son closed his door against me, and i have no more daughters on this earth. but yes, i have _you_ still--you, the daughter of my dear and excellent rachel! come, let me take you home. it is hard enough upon you to be an orphan--fatherless and motherless--and a servant to your christian aunt; you shall not become houseless for my sake. poor benjamina!' he exclaimed, as a bright beam from the moon, that was unclouded for a minute, enabled him to see her lovely youthful face distinctly, and to observe how tears were gathering in her long dark eyelashes. 'poor benjamina! you are indeed kind to care so much for your rough old grandfather, and not to be afraid to come and wander about with him, in our day of persecution, when he was thrust out alone among our foes!' 'ah, dear, good grandfather!' replied benjamina, 'how could my uncle samuel behave so ill to you! but all my uncles are not so bad as he is. i am tolerably comfortable at uncle daniel's every other week, and they are kind to me now at uncle isaac's, since i have grown stronger, and am able to assist my aunt in the kitchen. do go with me to one of them. their wives and new connections do not hate us as the other christians do; and you must go somewhere. since uncle samuel has become so rich, he disdains all his poorer relations, and will not associate with them. why did you choose to live with him, rather than with either of your other sons? i am sure neither of them could have found it in his heart to have treated you as samuel has done to-day. you never took a vow not to enter isaac's house, therefore do go with me to it. i shall reside there with you, and attend upon you: and the pretty children will become fond of you. they can learn from you the history of joseph and his brethren, and hear about little benjamin, my namesake. you can teach them as you taught me at my poor mother's, when i was a little girl. come, dear grandfather, come!--before day dawn, and our persecutors awake. in these times of tribulation we must cherish each other--we unfortunate and persecuted fugitives.' 'it is five years since i have entered my son isaac's house,' said the old man, slowly. 'how many children has he now?' 'ah, you do not know that, dear grandfather, and yet he is your own son! his fifth boy is an infant in its cradle.' 'is his christian wife kind to him? and does she not turn his feeble spirit from jehovah, and the faith and the customs of our forefathers? i have not seen him lately at the synagogue, but he never misses going to the exchange.' 'only come with me to him, grandfather, and you will see that he is better than samuel, though he may not go to the synagogue, and only puts the shop-door on the latch on saturday, instead of shutting it up. you will like his nice little boys, though my aunt rather spoils the eldest. they have all light hair and pretty blue eyes, like their mother. many christians visit the house; and the good mr. veit, who is a painter, sometimes teaches me to draw when i am there. you do not hate _all_ christians, do you, grandfather, because some of them treat us cruelly? you do not condemn them all so much as these--our uncharitable persecutors?' 'no, my child,' replied the old man. 'i admit the general philanthropy of the christians, which they believe they learned from their wise but unfortunate prophet; though, in their present conduct towards us, they give no proof of it. yet far be it from me to blame them for this. our law tells us to make our own hearts clean before we judge others; that so we may find forgiveness in the day of atonement. but stay not out here longer, so late, my daughter; your good name may be made the prey of the tongue of the backbiter and the slanderer, although it is only in a work of mercy and of love in which you are engaged, and for which the lord god of sabaoth will bless you in future days. leave me to wander out into the solitary paths! the lord can send to me--even to me--a raven in the desert, if he think fit. my tent is now the great temple of the lord, where the sun and the moon are lights in the high altar, and the four corners of the earth are the pillars of the tabernacle. hark! from thence shall it seem to me that his mighty cherubs are singing praises to his name, when the wild storms of nature are playing around my head. let me go, my child, and weep not because i am a lonely wanderer! i would rather roam, houseless, through the world, than seek a refuge under the roof where i am an unwelcome intruder. i would rather be stoned by the christians than be disdained as a pauper by my own kindred--my own children--and perhaps hear that i am so, when the infirmities of age compel me to listen in silence.' 'well, then, so be it, dear grandfather, and i will remain with you. the christians may stone me in your arms if they will.' the old man was silent for a time, and he appeared to be fighting a hard battle in his heart. 'come then, my child,' said he at length, seizing benjamina by the hand, 'for your sake will i endure disgrace, and ask shelter from a son, who cared more for a strange woman than for his father's blessing.' they then proceeded in silence to the 'hopfenmarkt,' and rang at the clothier isaac's door. 'is that any of our people?' whispered an anxious voice from a window. philip moses answered in hebrew, and a little while after the outer door was opened. isaac received his deserted old father, who had thus taken refuge with him, with sincere pleasure; yet this pleasure was damped by the perplexed and uneasy feelings which came over him when he thought of the daily reproaches which he foresaw he would have to encounter, and the many disturbances in his domestic life which he feared the unbending rabbi would occasion. but their common grievances and danger drew their hearts together. though isaac's house was, at present, exempt from all damage (since, through his marriage with a christian, and his frequent intercourse with christians, he seemed almost separated from his own people), he lived still in constant terror, on account of the inimical disposition evinced towards the jews, which had now actually broken out in open persecution of them; and he sought in vain to conceal from those with whom he associated the interest he secretly took in the fate of his unhappy nation. he was extremely indignant when he heard how his rich brother, samuel, had behaved to the old man: and he begged his father to forget all the past, and make himself at home in his house. but he resolved, at the same time, not to permit his domestic peace to be disturbed, or the habits of his daily life to be disarranged, by the old man's prejudices--such at least as could not be borne with easily, and might not give cause of complaint. 'he must accommodate himself, as my guest, to the ways of the house,' thought he to himself. 'he will be accustomed to them in time, and there would be no use in beginning as we could not go on.' 'your brother samuel has not honoured his father, and he cannot succeed in worldly matters,' said philip moses, as he seemed endeavouring to read in the countenance of his son what was passing in his mind. 'but may the almighty give him, and all our people, grace to repent, and let not his angry countenance be turned upon us to our ruin! _my_ days will not be many,' he added, earnestly; 'but had it not been for my faithfully attached benjamina's sake, i would rather have gone forth to wander over the wide world than have exposed your heart, my son, to a trial which, i fear, is beyond your strength.' isaac's wife was quite out of humour when benjamina went to her bedroom to tell her what had taken place. 'it will never answer,' said she, 'to have that old instigator of strife here in our house. he hates me already, because i am not one of your nation. it was on my account that he has never hitherto chosen to put his foot within our doors.' 'no, my grandfather does not hate the christians,' replied benjamina, cheerfully. 'if he lives here, he will bring good luck and a blessing to the house. dearest aunt, may i not get the little blue chamber ready for him? i did not dare to go near him when he was with my uncle samuel, and yet he was so kind to me when i was a child.' 'well, i suppose i can't help his staying, for the present at least,' replied the aunt, peevishly, 'so you can put the blue chamber in decent order for him, benjamina. but if you make too much fuss about him, or give me any additional trouble with this new pest, i will send you back to daniel. you may stay for the present; but keep him as much as possible away from the children and the rest of us. we shall have quite annoyance enough with him at the dinner-table.' 'poor, poor grandfather!' sighed benjamina, as weeping silently she left her unkind aunt, who had often before spoken harshly to her, but had never wounded her feelings so deeply as now. isaac had afterwards an unpleasant matrimonial scene, and a sharp battle of words with his wife, in reference to the old man, to whom he could not deny an asylum in his house, however many scruples he himself had as to keeping him. iii. the next day was saturday. philip moses kept the sabbath in his own room, and prayed for his unhappy people; but he often started, and a look of pain seemed to contract his features when he overheard his son talking loudly to his customers in the shop, and rattling the money in the till; while his wife, in the other apartments, was engaged in various household duties, in all of which benjamina was obliged to assist her. he frequently heard her aunt scolding her, and she had scarcely been able to snatch more than a minute to carry her grandfather's breakfast to him, and affectionately to bid him good morning. on that short visit he perceived that she had been weeping; but he would not deprive her of the comfort of fancying she had concealed her tears from him, by letting her know that he had observed them. philip moses was lying with his old head literally bowed into the dust, and was engaged in prayer, when benjamina returned and called him to dinner. his daughter-in-law had slightly hoped he would be able to put up with such accommodation as their house afforded, but she was neither able nor willing to conceal her ill-humour; and the old man sat silently at table without tasting any of the dishes placed on it, for these consisted of the very things that the mosaic law particularly forbade. his son did not seem to notice all this; but poor benjamina did, and fasted also, though she was very hungry. the tumult of the preceding night was talked of, and it was told that there had not been one window left unbroken in samuel's residence, nor in many of the handsomest houses belonging to the jews; also, that a couple of jew old-clothesmen, who were perambulating the streets, had been very ill-used by the mob. 'why do the rich make so much useless display?' said isaac, 'and why do the poor seek, by their needless oddity, to draw public observation upon themselves?' 'have you become a christian, my son?' demanded the old man; 'or perhaps this is not the sabbath-day?' 'i adhere to the doctrines of my forefathers,' replied his son, 'in what i consider to be of consequence, and in what is applicable to the age in which we live, and to the ideas of what is holy and unholy that my reason and my senses can acknowledge. i wish my father would do the same, and not be scandalized at what is really quite innocent.' 'my father-in-law must try to put up with our fare,' said the mistress of the house, handing him, with thoughtless indifference, a plate of roast pork. 'our house is quite in disorder to-day,' she added, by way of apology, when he silently handed her back the plate, 'and i really did not bethink me of our guest; but i shall have something else another time, when i am accustomed to remember what he will not eat.' a gloomy silence then followed at table, and isaac cast a reproachful look at his wife, which she did not omit to notice. the old man made a movement as if he were about to rise, but at that moment his eye fell on benjamina; he remained silent and reseated himself. what benjamina read, however, in her grandfather's countenance, drew unbidden tears to her beautiful eyes--tears which she quickly brushed away, while in her embarrassment she, unwittingly, broke up her bread into small crumbs on the tablecloth. for this act of extravagance she received a sharp reprimand from her aunt, with a rude reminder that these were not times to waste bread, and that 'those who had nothing of their own should think themselves lucky to get anything to put in their mouths.' 'wife!' whispered isaac, to his better half, as they rose from table, 'that was not according to our agreement.' when old philip moses was alone with his son afterwards, he looked long and earnestly at him, and then said, in a dejected tone of voice: 'my son, speak out the truth freely--the grey-haired, antiquated jew is an unbidden guest; you are ashamed to close your doors against him, but not to give him wormwood in his cup of welcome; and my poor benjamina is looked on as a mendicant here, to whom you have not many crumbs of bread to spare.' 'how so--my father?' stammered isaac. 'if my wife--forgive her!--i myself remarked a degree of thoughtlessness in her, which pained me.' 'isaac--isaac!' exclaimed the old man, 'why does your voice tremble, and why do your eyes avoid mine? but i will still call you my son, and will tarry awhile to see if you can free yourself. your heart is not bad, isaac; but, alas! it has been with you, as with the sons of israel, who, captivated by the daughters of a strange people, forgot father and mother, and that lord who brought them out of egypt--they never beheld the promised land.' 'let not my marriage offend you so much, my dear father,' said isaac, gathering courage to speak out, 'and be not shocked at my way of living. remember, i came into the world half a century later than you did. opinions alter with time and with circumstances, and i have learned to see much in our religion, and our position as regards the rest of the world, in a very different light to what you do. i should indeed be blind, if i did not perceive that our people are the most remarkable on the face of the earth, and the least subject to change, even in their ruin, and their dispersion among all the nations in the world. but i do not think that we are, therefore, called upon eternally to separate ourselves from all other living beings. inwardly we may, indeed, feel our distinction from them; and let this secret knowledge strengthen us to support our humiliations, and teach us to rise superior to our oppressors and persecutors, even when we are condemned to crawl in the dust before them; _inwardly_ we may despise them, but _outwardly_ we must amalgamate with the great masses of mankind, who will otherwise crush us in our stubbornness.' 'if i understand you aright, my son, you mean that we may continue to be israelites, while we accept christian customs and fashions; and that our race might be preserved, notwithstanding that we put an end to it ourselves by mingling our blood with that of the stranger.' 'as a people and as a nation we are already lost,' replied his son; 'and with the destruction of the temple at jerusalem has the outward structure of our religion fallen to the ground. do you not believe that if our great lawgiver had lived in these times, and in this land, he would not have prescribed very different rules for our conduct?' 'would he have changed the commandments to fear and serve the god of sabaoth, and to honour father and mother?' asked the old man. some persons came in at that moment, and the conversation was broken off. in the evening isaac was not at home, but some of his wife's relations came to visit her, along with a couple of foppish young men, who looked in from a party in the neighbourhood. no one seemed to notice old philip moses; he sat quietly in a remote corner of the room, and listened to the jokes, with which some of the gentlemen entertained the company about the rising against the jews, at which they laughed very heartily; also telling, with great glee, that they were to be attacked again. amongst the visitors was a handsome young man, with long fair hair falling over his white collar. he was the young painter veit, who had lately returned from rome, and who still wore the peculiar costume adopted there by artists. the two fops seemed inclined to turn his dress into ridicule, for they were afraid that he intended introducing the fashion into hamburg; but he took no notice of them. he was the son of the physician who attended isaac's family, and who resided on the 'hopfenmarkt.' his attraction to the house was benjamina's beautiful face, which was very interesting to him as an artist. he had hitherto taken no share in the general conversation, but had been standing apart in a window with benjamina, talking to her about her reverend-looking grandfather, whom he had saluted with the respect which his age and patriarchal appearance demanded. he now remarked the tenour of the conversation that was going on, and turned quickly from benjamina to try to stop it, by introducing some other subject. but the thoughtless and unfeeling young men soon resumed their ridicule of the jews, and indulged in witticisms at the expense of their sufferings during the riot, without at all being checked by the remembrance of whose house they were in, or who was present. at length veit thought it necessary to remind them where they were; and he did this in so pointed and stinging a manner, that, ashamed and enraged, they immediately took their departure, but not until they had whispered him that he would find them the next morning near the obelisk. no one overheard the challenge, but veit vowed to himself that he would chastise them severely, and that _that_ meeting should be a blacker hour to them than any which had occurred during the tumult they had considered so amusing. but _their_ exit did not put an end to strife. some elderly wholesale dealers thought fit to take up the defence of their friends who had just gone, and seemed at least not to disapprove of the chastisement inflicted on the privileged hebrew usurers for their long-practised extortions. veit again became the champion of the jews, and descanted with warmth on the hateful, unchristian spirit which could impel christians so shamefully to break the peace, and maltreat a fugitive, defenceless race, to whom the state had promised its protection. 4 we complain that they hate us and defraud us,' said he. 'do we show love to them when we stone them? do we not betray them, when we infringe our own laws in order to break faith with them, and withdraw the security on which we told them they might rely, when they settled among us? if we were to show more justice and christian feeling, we might induce them to like us; but hatred, scorn, and persecution, never yet won either proselytes or friends.' benjamina rewarded the defender of her people with a grateful smile, and old philip moses rose and stepped quietly, but with dignity, forth from his corner. 'it is just and right that we should be humbled before the lord!' said he. 'but unjust and wicked are our fellow-creatures who seek our humiliation. accept an old man's thanks,' he added, as he turned towards the young painter, 'that thou dost not echo the cry of the persecutor, and cast stones at us in the time wherein we are exposed to the contumely and the reproach of the scorner, but that thou hast a word of kindness for the lord's oppressed and humbled people in the hour of their desolation.' 'who is that strange old man? he speaks as if he were a bible,' said the startled visitors one to another. isaac's eldest child, a boy of about five years of age, and his mother's darling and absolute image, had all day been peeping at the old man, as if he were some extraordinary spectacle. 'are not you a jewish priest?' said he, pertly, as he approached him more closely. 'why, what a nasty, ugly, long beard you have! don't come near the windows, or they will be broken for us, mother says.' 'he is your grandfather,' whispered benjamina to the child; 'you must love him, and behave well to him, carl!' 'nonsense!' cried the child, laughing outright--'a jew with a long beard, who won't eat pork, _my_ grandfather! no, no. see if i don't tell him all the funny things that all the boys say--' benjamina cried, and placed her hand over the child's mouth, to prevent the old man from hearing what he was saying; but the unfortunate grandfather had not lost a word that he had uttered. he lifted his hand to crush the serpent that thus hissed in his ear, but at that moment he observed benjamina's tearful eyes; his arm fell by his side, and he stood pale and silent, with his flashing eyes fixed on the floor. just then isaac came in, and almost started as he beheld the embarrassed countenances around. not one of the strangers, except the painter, seemed to feel any pity for the old man, but some were hastening away, while others were evidently preparing to follow. 'what is the matter,' asked isaac, glancing first at the excited old man, and then, with some suspicion, at his wife. 'has anyone been annoying my old father?' 'how can i help that poor child's chattering?' replied his wife. 'but come, my boy,' she added, taking the urchin tenderly by the hand, and leading him out of the room--'come; hereafter none of us must dare to open our mouths in our own house.' the painter, reddening with anger, stood near benjamina and philip moses, whose hand he shook kindly; but the old man stood as a statue of stone, with his eyes fixed on the floor. suddenly he seemed to awaken as if from a dream, raised his head, and looked all around. when he saw isaac standing before him, the tears started to his eyes, and coursed each other down his pale cheeks into his long white beard. 'farewell, my son!' he exclaimed, laying his hand on isaac's head. 'the hand of the lord rests heavily on thee for thy backsliding. i will not curse thy house, but i leave it, lest its roof should fall down upon me!' so saying he walked out of the house, and his son made no attempt to detain him. but the weeping benjamina followed him, and veit followed them both at a little distance, in order to afford them assistance if the mob should attack them; for the tumult of the preceding evening was recommencing, and there were even more ill-disposed persons gathering in the streets than before. veit saw the old man take the way towards the gates of altona, hand in hand with benjamina, whom he had in vain besought to return to her uncle's family, and veit therefore concluded that they intended leaving hamburg, and seeking an asylum in altona. he determined still to follow them, so as to obtain shelter for them at the house of a friend of his there, in case they should find any difficulty in procuring such for themselves. but before they reached the altona gates they were intercepted by a mob of the lowest rabble and a number of tradesmen's apprentices, who were flocking from all parts of the town, and wandering from street to street, breaking the windows of the jews' houses. 'stop, stop!' roared the rabble. 'where are you taking that pretty girl, you old jew rascal?' some of them then commenced pulling the old man by the beard, while others began to treat the pale and trembling benjamina with rudeness and indignity. but at that moment viet rushed to the rescue, and drawing a sword from his walking-stick, he laid about furiously among the offenders; some gentlemen, and other members of the more respectable classes of the hamburg population, took his part; and while the police were endeavouring to disperse the mob, veit succeeded in getting philip moses and his granddaughter away, and conveying them through a side gate into a small back street: after a rather long circuit through deserted by-lanes and narrow streets, he was so fortunate as to reach his father's house without further molestation, and the old doctor received his unexpected guests with kind cordiality, and did all he could, both as host and physician, to minister to their wants and comforts. benjamina was half dead from terror, and the unfortunate old man had sunk in a state of insensibility on the floor the moment he was safely within the door of the house. iv. when philip moses returned to consciousness, he stared wildly about him, tore his hair, and then, like job, he opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth. 'let the day perish whereon i was born--let darkness and the shadow of death stain it--let a cloud dwell upon it--wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul? for the thing which i greatly feared is come upon me, and that which i was afraid of is come unto me!' he speedily, however, became exhausted; and a violent fever ensued. in his delirium he raved of the destruction of his people--of sodom and gomorrah; and wrung his withered hands as he denounced the sins of the chosen race, and deplored the vengeance of jehovah. during his illness benjamina attended him faithfully, and when his fits of excitement came on, she would pray by him, or read to him from a bible lent to her by dr. veit, till he was soothed to peace, and passed into a tranquil and almost happy state. the good physician had given an asylum in his house to those unfortunate individuals; and his son, the young artist, sat whole days with benjamina, sharing in her watchful care of the aged invalid. often, when benjamina had read to the old man till he went to sleep, and when she then sat by his bedside, with the sacred volume in her hand, while he seemed to smile upon her in his dreams, veit would take up his pencil, and sketch them together. a new light seemed to beam on benjamina's soul, partly from what she read to her grandfather, and partly from her conversation with the amiable artist about the holy book which contained the foundation of her faith and of _his_. one day veit came home with his arm in a sling, and gave out that he had hurt it by a fall. but he had found it necessary to chastise the two young fops, who had in vain waited for him at the appointed place of meeting near the obelisk, the morning that he had promised to be there. he had been unable to go that morning, on account of his guests; and the young men had boasted so much of their own prowess, and sneered so at his failure on the occasion, that he determined to lower the tone of their self-satisfaction, and effectually did so by placing them both in a condition to require the care of a surgeon for six weeks at least. the duels had been fought with swords, and though veit's wound was but slight, it was some days before he could make use of his pencil. benjamina suspected what had taken place, and blessed him in her heart for conduct which she deemed so noble and so delicate. the old jewish rabbi, in the meantime, was daily recovering. what veit felt for the young jewess was no longer a secret to himself, and she had not failed to perceive his sentiments, which were betrayed by a thousand little affectionate acts, by the tones of his voice, and by his eloquent looks. she had liked and admired him from the first time that she had seen him; but since the evening that he had so warmly taken the part of her poor grandfather, since he had continued to show such generous kindness to them both, her grateful heart had learned almost to worship him. but neither of them had yet expressed in words what neither could any longer doubt in regard to themselves, or each other. several weeks had now passed. the persecution of the jews had ceased; all was quiet in hamburg, and the people of that persuasion could venture into the streets without fear of being hooted at, or ill-treated. but the newspapers told how the same ill-will against the jews had evinced itself in other places; and from copenhagen, and many other towns in denmark, came accounts of similar shameful scenes. philip moses at length arose from his sick bed, but his steps were feeble and tottering. his countenance was less stern, and less _petrified_, as it were, than formerly; a more subdued and gentler spirit seemed to animate him; yet he still adhered so much to his old feelings, as to lament deeply that it was to christians he owed his dear benjamina's safety, and the preservation of his own life. his son samuel, the rich jeweller, had during this time, in consequence of his own speculations, and of the failure of a foreign mercantile house with which he had had large dealings, become utterly ruined; and not only did he leave hamburg a beggar, but he had also been attacked and severely handled when making his escape from his creditors. and though all the right-minded inhabitants of the city disapproved of the ill-treatment he had received, yet there was not much pity felt for him on account of his conduct to his father, who was respected as a really upright man. their late tribulations and adversity had checked the arrogance of the hamburg jews; and they also began to resort more to their synagogues, and to pay more attention to their priests. a deputation waited upon old philip moses, and expressed the wish of the congregation that he would return among their community, saying that they had made arrangements to provide for his maintenance, and that he should be entirely independent of all his relations. they acknowledged that what he had often predicted to them had come to pass, and they now felt inclined to honour him, as a true servant to jehovah, upon whom a prophetic spirit had descended. 'will ye turn from the evil of your ways, o israel!' exclaimed the old man to the messengers of the congregation. if ye will do this, the lord will let the light of his countenance shine once more upon you. "they that trust in the lord, shall be as mount zion, which cannot be removed." "we will go into his tabernacle; we will worship at his footstool." "he gathereth together the outcasts of israel;" and my heart shall rejoice before i go hence, and ascend into father abraham's bosom.' when philip moses went with benjamina to dr. veit and his son, to bid them farewell, to thank them for all their humanity and goodness, and to pray that blessings might be returned to them tenfold, the two young people looked sorrowfully at each other, and tears came into their eyes. 'oh, benjamina!' exclaimed the younger veit, 'i see that you love me, as i have long loved you;' and before she had time to answer, he had seized her hand, and suddenly they, dropped on their knees before the old man, while the young painter asked their blessing. both dr. veit and the rabbi started back in consternation. could i have dreamed of this, my son,' said dr. veit, 'i would never have brought you back from rome. the difference between your religion--' 'benjamina is a christian at heart,' said the young man, abruptly, as he rose from his knees, and assisted the trembling girl to rise. 'by the sick couch of this excellent old man she read our holy scriptures, and their divine truths have enlightened her soul.' 'is this true, benjamina?' exclaimed philip moses, turning very pale. 'yes, dear grandfather, it is true,' replied the young girl, as she threw herself at his feet, and clasped her arms around his knees. 'it was the word of christ that i read to you when, in the darkness of your soul, you cursed the day of your birth; it was the word of christ that gave you peace when you would have denounced eternal perdition to your people!' 'you are a christian at heart, benjamina, and you love this christian?' asked the old man, slowly, and apparently with a painful effort. 'yes, grandfather--yes. i cannot deny the truth,' sobbed the weeping girl, as she bathed his hands with her tears. 'you, also, benjamina!--you also, daughter of my rachel!--the last hope of my old days, you also!' tears choked his further utterance, and the old man covered his head with his garment, turned away, and tottered towards the door. 'farewell, then, for _this_ world!' said benjamina to her sorrow-stricken lover, as with a strong effort she withdrew herself from his encircling arms. 'yonder--above! where love, and justice, and mercy rule--where jehovah and christ are one--we shall be united for evermore!--father, i will go with you!' she said, as she hastened after the old man. 'take me with you, and let me die in your arms, but curse me not in the hour of death, for my soul has only bent to the will of the most high.' 'lost, for this world!' sighed the young man, as the door closed upon her he loved so much; and all hope seemed extinguished for them on earth. v. 'what is the matter with you, my son? you go about like one in a dream, and as if the world in which you live were nothing to you,' said the old doctor one day to his son, the young painter, shortly after their guests had left them. 'if you cannot conquer your love, and if the girl return your affection in an equal degree, i am willing to withdraw my objection to your marriage, and old philip moses is too worthy a man to wish to make you both miserable.' 'i honour him for the unshaken sincerity of his religious feelings,' replied his son, 'although these will bring me to the grave. i have had a long conversation with him, father: i might have rebelled against his severity, but his mildness has overcome me, and taken from me my last hope. i know that from a sense of gratitude he might bring himself even to join our hands; but the heart of the old man would break in doing so, and i should have to look upon myself as the murderer both of him and benjamina. he is immovable in his adherence to his creed; and even though he might give benjamina to me himself, he would curse her in his heart for having deserted the faith of her forefathers.' 'but she has already deserted that faith in her own mind; she loves you; and the old man knows all this, yet he has not condemned her.' 'still he might do so, if she were openly to throw off judaism. he loves her as he does his own soul, but he would deem his soul doomed to perdition if it could stray from _jehovah_, as he calls his peculiar worship.' 'well, have patience, my son. the old man's days are numbered. my medical knowledge enables me to tell you that death is already creeping over him. 'ah, father! you do not know benjamina; though her heart should break, she would be as true to the dead as she is to the living. but i would not that a knowledge of my grief should add to her sufferings, or deprive her of the peace she may perhaps acquire in the performance of what she considers her duty. allow me to travel, father! there is no hope of happiness before me _now_ in this world; but i will seek tranquillity in the charming land which is sacred to the arts, and in absence from all that may recall the past.' thus the father and son conversed, while the rabbi, philip moses, was engaged in consecrating the great sin-offering for his unhappy people. three days after this event the old man breathed his last in the arms of the faithful benjamina. vi. 'the jews are going to bury their last prophet to-day,' said a lounger on the 'jungfernstieg' to one of his associates. 'see how they are gathering from all corners! and any one of them who meets the hearse must follow it.' 'it is old philip moses,' replied the other: 'he was the only honest jew in hamburg, and some say he is the last of the old mosaic type in the world. he died in the belief, notwithstanding all their wanderings and miseries, that _his_ nation were the holiest on earth, and god's favourite people. when he was dying, they say, he had his windows opened, expecting that their messiah would come flying in to carry him and his people away back to the promised land.' 'what absurd folly!' exclaimed the first speaker laughing; 'however, we must admit that he was consistent to the last.' and ridiculing the jews, they entered one of the pavilions near the alster. towards evening, a young man in a travelling dress stood at the gate of the churchyard belonging to the jewish community, and gazed sadly and earnestly at a female figure, which, in a deep mourning dress, was kneeling by a newly-made grave. the traveller was the young painter veit, who had engaged post-horses for that very evening to take him from his native town on his way towards italy, where he intended to bury himself and his hopeless passion amidst the classic ruins of rome. benjamina's self-sacrificing devotion to her grandfather, and his patriarchal adherence to the faith of his ancestors, which held up to execration every departure from that faith, and the intermingling with those whose religion was different, had entirely destroyed his long-cherished hopes; but he determined once again to see his beloved benjamina, once more to be assured of her sentiments towards him, and then to take a last and sad farewell. with this resolution he had approached her dwelling, just as the hearse, containing the mortal remains of old philip moses, was leaving it. seeing this, he mingled among the mourners and followed the funeral _cortã©ge_, although the passers-by wondered to see a fair-haired christian, in a travelling garb, among the mumbling jews who accompanied the dead to his last resting-place. when the mournful ceremony was ended, and they had all left the grave, veit felt that he could not tear himself away; it seemed as if he found himself impelled to wait there the last scene of his sorrowful fate. he also thought that benjamina would visit the tomb before night. this expectation was realized, for she did come, later in the evening, with flowers to strew over her grandfather's grave. when he perceived her approaching, he stepped aside, not to disturb her in her pious duty; but he felt that _this_ was the sad and solemn place where he was to take leave of her for life. he remained at a little distance, gazing at her, as she knelt in prayer by the grave, and it was not until she rose to depart that he approached her slowly and silently. he held in his hand a cross of shining mother-of-pearl, which his mother had given him when a child, bidding him present it to her to whom in future he should give his heart. when packing his portmanteaus and desk, he had stumbled on this maternal gift, so long laid by, and he had now brought it to offer it as a parting _souvenir_ to her he loved so hopelessly. it seemed to shine with peculiar brightness in the clear moonlight. 'benjamina!' he exclaimed; and she raised her beautiful dark eyes from the grave, and recognized him. but when she saw the shining cross in his hand, she sank on her knees, and folded her hands across her breast. 'heavens! it is fulfilled!' she exclaimed. 'his spirit shows me the symbol of peace and redemption at this grave.' 'what!' cried veit, in deep anxiety, 'at _this_ grave?' 'at _this_ grave i was to be released, were his last words to me, as an angel enlightened his mind at the moment of death. and see, his spirit has led you here with that holy symbol in your hand, the sign of that faith, believing in which i shall be united to your crucified redeemer for ever.' 'praised be the name of that redeemer!' cried the happy veit, 'and blessed be that spirit which in death permitted you to seek redemption! now there is nothing to prevent our union, and i claim you as my bride in the face of the almighty, and by this grave, where i had feared our final parting was to have taken place.' they joined their hands over the old man's grave, and benjamina then told how her departed grandfather, in his last moments, seemed to have understood that the noble predictions of david and the prophets respecting the messiah had been fulfilled, that he had made the sign of a cross on his death-bed with his cold stiffening hand, and with a smile of ineffable happiness had yielded up his spirit in her arms. 'it was ordained, and it has been wonderfully fulfilled!' exclaimed veit, as he and benjamina knelt together by the new-made grave. the following year, on the anniversary of that day, a happy christian couple stood by a tomb, which was thickly strewed with fresh flowers; within that tomb reposed the aged philip moses, with his face turned towards the east. benjamina clasped her beloved husband's hand in one of hers, while with the other she pressed the mother-of-pearl cross to her heart. 'now he knows the truth,' said she, 'and has seen the promised land, and the holy city which is lightened by the glory of god, and where the redeemed out of every kindred, and people, and nation of the earth shall be blessed for evermore!' the bankrupt. from the danish of carl bernhard. about the end of the last century there lived in copenhagen a wealthy merchant, whose name was _kraft_. he was a proud, imperious man, who looked upon riches as the greatest of all advantages, and their possession as the universal, in fact, the only, passport to, or rather source of, happiness. he was extremely rich. his housekeeper declared that he was not able to count his money, he had so much; he measured his ducats by the bushel, and was certainly worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. born in affluence, he had never seen the slightest diminution in the fortune which surrounded him, for his father's mercantile house was already in its third generation, having descended from father to son, without any lessening of its capital during that long period, as there never had been more than one son in the family. in consequence of this, the large means of the firm had remained undivided, and they had been enabled to extend their mercantile transactions over half the world. their acceptances were as good as ready money. the present merchant kraft had also an only son, but he had not, in accordance with the custom of his forefathers, taken him into partnership, for he must then have made over to him--at least in appearance--a portion of his supreme authority, and he was too haughty to share his power even with his only son. he had therefore established the young man in business on his own account, though, to a certain extent, under his own surveillance. herr kraft's wife had died at an early age; she had presented him with all he wished--a son, who might, in progress of time, carry on the affairs of the house and uphold its name and high credit. when she afterwards presented him with a daughter, he was so alarmed at the possibility of such gifts becoming too abundant, that he thought it rather a fortunate circumstance that the birth of this child cost its mother her life. the unwelcome little girl was sent to the care of an aunt, who brought her up, and it was not until she was a young woman that she returned to her father's house, where, however, she found no sympathy. her brother was just married to a girl with a handsome fortune, and he had removed to a house of his own. the family now consisted of herr kraft, senior, his daughter, and his cousin, an old maiden lady, who was received as an inmate of his house after his wife's death, to give her a home, said herr kraft--that he might have some one to vent his ill-humour upon, said miss regine herself--that there should be another torment in the house, said the counting-house clerks and the domestic servants, who hated her and her fat, snoring pet, 'mops,' as much as they feared herr kraft and loved his daughter. for louise was their declared favourite, and, if need had been, they would all have gone through fire and water for her. a complete contrast to the merchant was his relative, herr warner. he was of a mild, unassuming character; he could easily mould his own wishes to those of others, and he valued wealth only as a means of doing good. in all his actions he was guided much more by his feelings than his interests. the lives of these two gentlemen had been as different as were their characters. herr warner's parents had not been rich. his mother had made an _unfortunate_ marriage, according to the merchant kraft, for her husband had lost his small inheritance, and had gone abroad to seek for fortune under foreign skies. herr warner, on the contrary, considered that his mother had made a _fortunate_ marriage, for her and her husband's mutual affection outlived the loss of their property, and if they did not become rich in the distant country to which they had gone, they at least obtained a competence there, and a peaceful, happy home. after the death of his parents, their son went, with but a poor heritage, to the east indies, where he married a young lady without any fortune. good luck, however, seemed now to attend him; his cotton plantations throve well and yielded large returns, and a beloved wife and three fine children made his home a paradise. at the expiration of a few years he determined to return to his native country, there to enjoy the fruits of his labours. an infectious disease, however, just then carried off his wife and her elder children, and with his youngest daughter, who alone was left to him, he sailed from india. but she died on the voyage, and was committed to the deep. thus deprived of every tie, friendless and hopeless, the much-afflicted man quitted the ship in a french port, and repairing to paris, he resided there for some few years, endeavouring to while away his time in the pursuit of science and literature, the pursuit of wealth having lost all interest for him, who had no one now for whom he cared to work. at length he returned to his native city, where he lived quietly, frugally, and in great retirement, visiting at very few houses except at that of his cousin herr kraft, in whose family he appeared to take a warm interest; the regard, however, which he entertained for them all was only returned by the daughter, who became much attached to him. herr kraft made a point of disputing with him every day, and had so accustomed himself to this amiable habit, that he absolutely could not do without his relative and these demi-quarrels. there were many different opinions about the state of his finances. 'he must have saved something in the east indies, where money is as plentiful as grass,' said some; but others, among whom was herr kraft, declared 'that he only had enough to make shift with, and it would be a wonder if the little he possessed should hold out during his life--for he was one of those persons whom dame fortune seldom favoured, as he did not put a proper value on her gifts, letting his money slip through his fingers by bestowing it on everyone who came with a whining tale to him, he was so foolishly soft-hearted.' and herr kraft was right there. in the large drawing-room, which was furnished more richly than tastefully, and where everything looked stiff rather than comfortable, herr kraft and herr warner were pacing up and down. their conversation had come to a stand. they had been disputing about some of the measures of the government, and herr kraft had called the government stupid and despotic; he said it took upon itself to be the guardian of the nation, and to treat the burghers as if they were children under age, prescribing for them, forsooth, what they were to do, and meddling in their own private affairs! he was as warm a supporter of free trade for the higher grade of merchants, as he was an advocate for restraints upon the working classes, for he looked upon all those in an humble sphere of life as 'trash, full of fraud and tricks,' who must have 'a rod held over their heads.' it was the old story--liberality for the higher, despotism for the lower; and this will be repeated till the end of the world. herr warner had differed from him in opinion; he thought confidence might be placed in a wise government, and he wished freedom and justice for _all_, whether they were rich or poor. the argument might have become an angry one, but warner gave in, for he was anxious to avoid exasperating his violent-tempered cousin, to whom he had come that morning on a delicate mission, requiring no small degree of tact. a very fine young man, who had been for some time much attached to louise, and who had won her affections, had determined to ask her hand in a respectful letter to her father. but the reply he had received was a flat refusal, herr kraft having made up his mind to listen to no proposals for his daughter except from a suitor selected by himself. louise wept and was very sad. 'aunt regine,' as she was styled, favoured her with sundry ill-natured dissertations upon ungrateful and disobedient children, mops growled and snarled as if he were taking part with his mistress in the family disagreement, and the entire house and household appeared even more dull and silent than usual. herr warner exerted himself to the utmost to bring his cousin to reason, but in vain. herr kraft was much enraged that his daughter should have presumed, even at the house of his own sister, to have become intimate with any person who was unknown to him, and could not forgive her having dared even to think of anyone as a lover without _his_ permission. 'and the fellow such a poor wretch into the bargain!' for what was a small landed property, not much bigger than a couple of peasants' cottages and cabbage gardens? he was of an ancient and noble family, it had been said--but what of that? he, herr kraft, did not care a straw for nobility; it was merely an idea--an imagination--that some men are to be better than others, because their forefathers, perhaps a hundred years ago, had been people of some renown. herr warner maintained that such an 'imagination' contained a moral obligation to be also a distinguished, or at least a worthy man, not to dishonour one's ancestors; and reminded his cousin that he himself was by no means indifferent to his descent. 'no, in that he was certainly right,' said the merchant: 'but _he_ had good grounds for his pride in his forefathers, because for more than a hundred years they had been wealthy merchants, who had established and maintained a highly-esteemed commercial house. _that_ was something solid--not mere fancy.' and then he went on exhibiting all that arrogance which is sometimes to be found among the rich burghers, who are quite as proud of their wealth, and their burgher's brief of a century old, as any nobleman of his genealogical table, or his forefathers' wounds or scars received on the field of glory. but herr warner had to go away without having disclosed his errand, and could only console poor louise with the uncertain hope of a brighter future, in which, however, he himself had little confidence. soon after, her prospects became still darker. herr kraft gave notice suddenly one day that he had promised louise to the son of one of his commercial friends, that the betrothal was to take place in eight days, and the wedding in three months. the husband destined for louise was the son of a rich man, but he was far from handsome, and was still less agreeable. aunt regine bestirred herself to make every preparation for the betrothal; louise implored with tears that her father would not insist on this sacrifice; she said she would give up the man she loved, to please him, but she could not marry another. uncle warner, as louise called him, did all he could for her, and pleaded her cause with her father to the best of his ability; but herr kraft laughed--a thing he seldom did--at hearing him speak of true and faithful love. 'sheer folly, childishness, absurd sentimentality and foolery, that would not pay a shilling of interest.' 'you will make your child miserable,' said warner. 'on the contrary, she will get a husband worth half a plum, with the prospect of a great deal more,' said the father. 'that may be; but he squints, and has red flaming hair.' 'bah! people don't notice these trifles after they are married.' 'but he is also dull and stupid, and obstinate and wearisome, and unfeeling and conceited--' 'well! and what else? however, whatever he may be, she shall take him, and so--basta!' 'she will not take him--she will throw herself into the sea rather.' 'bah! it is both wet and cold in the sea. she will take him, because she _shall_ do so. to-morrow we shall have the betrothal, as sure as my name is kraft, and i will not hear another word on the subject. will you give us the pleasure of your company at the betrothal? it will take place at seven o'clock in the evening, precisely.' herr kraft and aunt regine were the only persons in the house who slept that night. everyone else was kept awake by uneasiness and anxiety, and the unfortunate louise cried till her eyes were so swollen, that in the morning she could hardly read a few lines which one of the housemaids brought to her from her sympathizing friend, herr warner, who was always anxious, as well as he could, to comfort the afflicted. after reading them, she wept still more bitterly, and the servant girl observed her wringing her hands in despair. the day wore on, the evening came, and at seven o'clock precisely the invited guests had all arrived, forming quite a family congress of the members of the two wealthy mercantile houses. uncle warner was there also. in the morning he had requested an interview with the bridegroom, and had plainly stated to him that louise loved another, and did not entertain even the slightest friendly feeling towards him; but the young man bristled up, thrust his hand conceitedly through his carotty locks, and looked into the corner of his own eyes, while he replied with the comforting assurance, that what he had been told was nothing to the purpose, it gave him no concern, and that he would not give up the match 'for any price,' as he expressed himself. uncle warner was deeply disappointed at his ill-success with the self-sufficient gentleman. they met again at the betrothal party, and the young man had arrayed himself, as he thought, to the best advantage, and looked as smiling as if he were awaiting a beloved and devoted bride. all was ready, and aunt regine went to louise's apartment to bring her. heavens and earth! she was not there! she had gone! a letter lay on a table in her room, and that was all the information aunt regine could give. but old maren had heard some one leave the house about an hour before, and almost at the same moment she had observed a carriage drive away, which had been standing at least a quarter of an hour in the street, as if the coachman were waiting for some one. there was presently an awful hubbub in the house. herr kraft rushed like a madman from room to room, aunt regine hobbled after him, doors were banged, and every corner of the mansion was searched, but louise was nowhere to be found, and it was now certain that she had fled to escape the threatened evil. the letter she had left was then read, and a heart of stone might have melted at the anguish and the terror expressed in it, as well as the earnestness with which she prayed for forgiveness; every word breathed of a spirit that was utterly crushed and prostrate. but her father threw the letter into the fire, and exclaimed in a firm, harsh voice: 'i have no longer a daughter--her name shall never again be mentioned within my doors--i disown her--i--' uncle warner caught his arm, and pressed it so tightly that he involuntarily stopped, and the curse he was about to utter was arrested on his lips. aunt regine began to howl with all her might. the bridegroom and his family took their departure, and the rest of the party speedily followed their discreet example; uncle warner alone remained with the enraged father. but every attempt to mollify his anger, or to awaken in his mind any regret for the harshness by which he himself had driven his daughter to this desperate step, was addressed to deaf ears. herr kraft's wrath was only increased by every new argument the good warner brought forward in the hope of allaying it, and at length he took his leave, expressing his intention of making every inquiry concerning the fate of the unfortunate fugitive. but just as he had left the room, the door was suddenly opened, and herr kraft roared after him, in an imperious voice: 'i desire to be troubled with no information you may gather; and with this--basta!' he then slammed the door so hard that the noise resounded throughout the whole house. a whole year had elapsed, but time had worked no change in herr kraft's vindictive feelings. constant fretting, however, had impaired his health, and he became ill. uncle warner thought it might be a good opportunity to soften his heart, and he led the conversation to the sad position of forsaken old age, and upon the comfort of an affectionate nurse amidst sickness and infirmities. but herr kraft replied that _he_ could never be forsaken in his declining years, for he had a son, 'the heir of his house;' and as far as concerned illness and infirmities, the best attendant was some hired sick-nurse, for she thought only of the good wages she was to get, and it never entered her head to speculate upon what he might leave. he did not put any faith in all the babbling about affection and love, and such nonsense; it was self-interest and money that people thought of in this world, and those who had wealth would always get plenty of attention. 'but you might lose your fortune, you might become as poor as many others are, and then you would stand in need of affection, and learn to know its value,' said herr warner. the rich merchant stared at him with contemptuous surprise; then, with a scornful laugh, he said: 'yes, to be sure; the moon might fall down from the heavens, but it would not be necessary on that account to put up an umbrella. don't tease me any more with such nonsense. enough of it--basta!' herr kraft got better, and he resumed his accustomed rich man's life--the constant yearning and busy schemes to become richer; but in his cupidity he never thought of providence. the moon certainly did not fall from heaven, but within the space of three years, one fine morning, as herr kraft was lounging over his breakfast-table, and congratulating himself on being worth a very considerable sum of money, the postman brought him a large packet of letters. his spirits fell the moment he had read them, for they conveyed the startling and afflicting intelligence of a commercial crisis in a foreign country, which had caused the failure of many houses of old standing; and their failure had brought down several others. among these sufferers was herr kraft himself. yes, the wealthy kraft, dragged down by others, was now _a bankrupt!_ at that time bankruptcy was a more serious matter than it is now-a-days; a bankrupt never raised himself to fortune a second time, and there were _then_ no instances of a man having failed several times, and yet being able to live on the fat of the land. however, credit, in those days, was a very different matter from what it is now. herr kraft had failed--the honourable, ancient, commercial house was ruined, its riches and its lustre annihilated in a moment. what during a century, and by the zealous labour of several generations, had been gathered, had been destroyed by a single storm, and scattered like chaff before the wind! the cash-keeper suggested--and it was true what he said--that the ready money which was lying in their iron chest might be easily removed and placed somewhere else in security, and that _it_ alone would be sufficient to yield a competency to any man for life. but herr kraft was a rigidly honest man, and had not the fall of the house thrown the cash-keeper also out of bread, he would have discharged him for advising such a fraudulent measure. everything was given up, and as an honourable and respected, but a poor and ruined man, the lately so wealthy and so envied herr kraft took his departure from his forefathers' abode. herr warner showed the warmest sympathy in his misfortunes. he immediately proposed that his cousin should come to his house, although he knew that he would have also to receive aunt regine and her pet, mops. but herr kraft had already accepted his son's invitation to spend some time with him. this invitation to his house was perhaps not more than was due to a father who had placed him in so independent a position that he was now in easy circumstances, and had not lost anything by the failure of the house. but yes, he had lost the expected rich inheritance, the succession to the firm, &c. &c.; and as he was his father's son, and brought up in his ways, he was very well versed in the calculation of the interest of money, and in book-keeping by single and double entry, but knew little about humanity and kind feeling, which, from his earliest infancy, he had heard his father ridicule. his failure was a cruel trial to old herr kraft; his pride was severely wounded, but his heart was not at all softened. during these sorrowful days, a letter was brought to him by the post, but, as he recognized his daughter's writing, he laid it aside, and when 'uncle warner' came, he handed it to him unopened, saying, 'if you know where the writer lives, be so good as to see that this is returned; and therewith--basta!' his residence in his son's house was destined to be another heavy trial. the son's wife was the ruler there, and she was far from amiable. aunt regine had always been an eyesore to her. her long-winded prosing was now cut short and ridiculed, and her mops dare scarcely put his nose outside the good lady's petticoats, under the shelter of which he lay snoring from morning till night. the endless talking about what everything cost, and the eternal reference to the advantage of having money, which formerly had never annoyed herr kraft, were now exceedingly disagreeable to him, and drew many a sigh from his oppressed heart. it was given out that everything was to be done to please him, and be heard several times a day these words: 'whatever papa likes--our only desire is that papa may be comfortable in our house.' but he felt as often that these were empty phrases, a mere _faã§on de parler_, and that his wishes, in reality, were never consulted. had he known what _heart_ was, he would have deplored their want of it; as it was, he only grieved for the loss of his fortune. when a bubble that has been blown is nearly exhausted, an atom will make it burst. the life herr kraft led in his son's house was such, that he only waited for some event to form an excuse for leaving it; he could stand it no longer. the opportunity was not long wanting. his son's wife purchased a dog, which was double the size of aunt regine's mops, and was a very pugnacious animal. it was a great amusement to the young couple to set the two dogs at each other, and they enjoyed exceedingly the terror which hector's entrance into the room soon seemed to cause mops, who, with as much speed as his fat would allow, would always waddle towards his mistress, and rush for protection under her garments, which she hospitably raised to admit him, sometimes, in her anxiety on his account, to a most ludicrous height. one day herr kraft was sitting on a sofa reading the newspapers, aunt regine was taking a quiet nap in an arm-chair, near, and mops, seduced by the stillness and the warm sunshine, was stretched full length upon the carpet, as happy as dog could be. suddenly the door of the room was opened, and the son's wife entered, accompanied by hector. as quick as lightning the animal sprang forward and pounced upon the half-sleeping mops, aunt regine started from her slumbers, and lifted her dress in her hurry up to her very knees, but before mops could take flight to that open temple of peace, hector had rendered the asylum useless--he had put an end to the poor favourite's existence, and mops lay dead upon the floor! the son's wife was shaking with laughter at aunt regine's comical appearance, and was so amused that she forgot to call off her dog from mops, and even when she saw the calamity that had occurred she could scarcely stop laughing. herr kraft witnessed this scene over his newspaper; his knitted eyebrows foretold a coming storm, but he mastered his anger, and taking aunt regine by the hand, he led her out of the room. for the first time in his life he felt a sort of longing for a sympathizing friend, and sent to ask herr warner to come to him. that gentleman had been much engaged in the affairs of his cousin's bankruptcy, and had been striving to make the best possible arrangement with his creditors for him. herr kraft wished to know if he thought it would be possible to rescue as much as would enable him to live with great economy in some retired country place, for the short period of time he might still remain in this world. nothing would induce him, he said, to remain longer in his son's house, or in copenhagen, and he would not forsake aunt regine. herr warner encouraged him in this judicious plan, and promised to do his best to find a residence fur him that would suit, in all respects, 'an amiable family,' he added, 'where you can have the society of worthy people, and yet be as much alone as you choose. for in the days of adversity it is kind-hearted people to whom we cling, and in your son's house, though everything is very handsome and in the nicest order, there is no disposition to make anyone happy, and no trace of real hospitality.' herr kraft made no reply to these observations, and when his cousin was gone, he fell into deep thought. a few days afterwards, the indefatigable friend brought him the information that he had been so fortunate as to find a family at some distance in the country who were willing to receive herr kraft and aunt regine. the terms were very reasonable, and the size of the house would admit of the host and his guest being quite independent of each other. the family was small, the gentleman was clever and well-educated, his wife, indeed, was absent from home for a time, having gone to some german baths on account of her health, but the house, nevertheless, was well managed. the country round was pretty, though the situation was rather lonely. 'the person in question is named warner, like me,' said the cousin, 'but we are not at all of the same family. i take it for granted that his name will not be disagreeable to you.' herr kraft shook his hand with a friendly smile, and agreed to the arrangement. two days after this he quitted his son's house, and went into the country, accompanied by herr warner, aunt regine, and old maren, who for many years had been herr kraft's especial attendant, and was acquainted with all his ways. she was the only human being of whom he would have felt the want, she knew so well how he liked his bed made. uncle warner's namesake received the travellers very politely on their arrival at their future home, and regretted that his wife was not there to welcome her guests; 'she was at present at the baths of pyrmont,' he said, 'but would be back ere long.' two fine children, half hidden by their father, gazed with curiosity at the strangers who were thenceforth to live with them. by the kind care of uncle warner, a portion of herr kraft's own furniture had been brought thither from copenhagen, and he immediately found himself quite at home in his new sitting-room; every arrangement had been made with a view to his convenience, and the indulgence of his former habits. aunt regine's tastes and comforts had also been sedulously attended to; her bed-chamber contained all her favourite articles of furniture, and she had a delightful surprise on finding in a basket near the stove a second mops, who licked her hand affectionately, and was so like her defunct pet 'of blessed memory,' that she instantly took a fancy to him. uncle warner spent a few days with them, and then returned to town with the pleasing conviction that his cousin could not fail to be comfortable in his new abode. and so he certainly was. herr kraft began by degrees to associate with his host, whom he found to be a sensible, pleasant man, and whom he began gradually to like and respect. before a month had elapsed, herr kraft had become so much accustomed to the quiet, secluded life he led, that he would have regretted leaving the peaceful home where he had found so much hitherto unknown comfort, and where he felt that, though stripped of his fortune, he was treated with much more attention than had ever been paid to him in the days of his affluence. nature had hitherto been a sealed book to him; he now studied it in his wanderings amidst the charming scenery of the neighbourhood, and it spoke to him in language which he could never before have dreamed of understanding. he had never formerly taken any notice of children, but his host's two sweet children managed to insinuate themselves so much into his good graces, that he was always happy to see them, and have them about him. he could not imagine why he took such interest in them, but they were such good-tempered, pretty, clever little creatures, that it was impossible not to be pleased with them. and aunt regine liked them almost as much as her new mops, and _it_ almost as much as her first canine favourite, so that old maren was right in saying: 'well, this is really a blessed house we are in; we seem to have all become better-tempered since we have been here; even the master himself is quite a different creature, and does not find fault with his bed as he used to do; formerly, there was no making it to please him. and really now, when he sits leaning his cheek on his hand, wrapt up in his own thoughts, he looks quite a good old man.' and herr kraft often sat with his cheek resting on his hand, wrapt up in his own thoughts, but what these were he communicated to no living being; perhaps they were hardly clear to himself, for they were frequently new and unaccustomed thoughts that came to him in his solitude. herr warner occasionally paid him a short visit, and when he began to speak of commercial matters and the affairs of his late house, the old merchant would heave a deep sigh, and say: 'if everyone has been paid, and no one has lost anything by me, my wishes are fulfilled. i desire nothing more--my time is over--and therewith--basta!' but the word came forth like the echo of a sound--the ghost of a habit now almost forgotten; and this conclusion, which had so often caused consternation by its irrevocable vigour, seemed now almost sad. about the time that the mistress of the house was expected back from pyrmont, herr kraft felt very much indisposed, and when she reached home, he was labouring under a fever, the violence of which had made him delirious. in his delirium he sometimes fancied himself the rich man, whose commercial influence extended over half the world--sometimes impoverished and destitute, a dependant on those around him; but it was always on money that his fevered dreams dwelt, and the demons of gold fought their unhallowed battles in his clouded mind. in the course of a week or two this state of morbid excitement passed away, and was succeeded by an utter prostration of strength, an extreme degree of weakness, in which he lay, for the most part, with his eyes closed, as if sleeping. with how much kindness and solicitude was he not tended during that long illness! day and night was his anxious hostess in his sick-room, and whenever he opened his eyes, they always rested on the same form. and when the crisis was over, the greatest danger was past, and all the family would assemble round his bed, anyone would have thought that he was a dear member of it, they treated him with so much affectionate attention. one evening, in the dusk, when they had all left his room for a short time, and old maren alone was sitting by his bedside, he suddenly opened his eyes and gazed around him, as if he were trying to recollect where he was, and what had happened to him. he then asked about the children. maren clasped her hands in joy that her master had recovered to consciousness again, while he repeated his question, and added: 'is it not true, maren, that the boy is called ludvig, and the girl georgia? these are both my own names--' 'well, that is very natural,' said maren, significantly. 'what else should they be called?' 'is my cousin warner here?' asked the invalid soon after. he was there, and maren went immediately to call him. herr kraft made a sign to him to sit down near his couch, and another to maren to leave them by themselves. 'cousin,' he said, 'i see now how things are--i am in my daughter's house. i have been very ill, but i did not lose the use of my eyes, and louise has watched by my bed, and attended me.' herr warner nodded in affirmation of what he had said. 'you knew it all along. you took the place of her father when i threw her off--is it not so?' warner nodded again; he was so surprised to hear a person generally so stern and overbearing speak thus gently, that he could not utter a word for a moment. 'but her husband was not named warner, and he had only a very small property, not such a large place as this? how are all these discrepancies to be reconciled?' herr warner then related to him in a few words that his son-in-law had assumed _his_ citizen-like name out of gratitude, because he had presented louise with a considerable sum of money he had received from the east indies, for which he had no use himself, but which had enabled the young couple to purchase this large property, where they had lived as happily as they could do while under the ban of his displeasure, and without having obtained his forgiveness. but now he would surely not longer withhold that, and they would all be happy together, for which he thanked god from the bottom of his heart. to herr kraft it seemed all a romance. the discarded daughter had received and devotedly attended in his illness her harsh and unforgiving father; the scorned son-in-law had won his friendship and esteem; the poor cousin had been able to give away a fortune; and the rich merchant lay there an impoverished and repentant man. 'money was in your hands only an instrument of doing good--to me it was an idol!' he exclaimed, after a silence of some duration. 'but i have learned to know that our lord did not will money to be a primary consideration. it is all gone now, however!' herr warner assured him that it was not all gone; there would be a surplus left for him after all the creditors were paid, and that he himself had a little money laid by, and they would commence business together; they would soon increase the capital, as herr kraft understood mercantile affairs so well. the bankrupt shook his head at these smiling prospects, and replied that his hours were numbered, and he had other employments for the few that might remain of them. 'whilst i was so ill,' he continued, 'i had very singular dreams. it appeared to me as if an angel and a devil were contending which should get possession of me; the angel always resembled louise, and at last she drove the devil away, and as he was going, i seemed to hear piles of money falling down, as it were, with a crash. it was a dreadful sound. but just then i heard a voice singing solemn hymns, and, lulled by the soothing melody, i felt a sense of peace and happiness steal over me. i sank into a deep sleep, and had such a charming dream--so charming that i cannot describe it.' herr kraft folded his hands and fell back on his pillow somewhat exhausted, but apparently tranquil. in a few minutes, however, he became restless, and moved uneasily from side to side on his bed. suddenly he raised himself till he sat upright, and cried, in an excited tone, 'where is my daughter? bring her to me--and her children--and her husband.' herr warner summoned them all. louise knelt by her father's bed, and kissed his hand, over which her tears fell fast. he took her hand and placed it in that of her husband, and then pressed his own hand on her head, as if invoking a blessing upon her. warner brought the children to him, and he kissed them on their foreheads; he then stretched out both his hands to his cousin, but before the latter had time to clasp them, the invalid had fallen back on his pillow exhausted. it was a solemn moment, and one of entire reconciliation, without a word having been spoken; but they understood each other without words, for language is not always so necessary as many think. a state of extreme exhaustion succeeded this exertion, and herr kraft lay for a long time perfectly quiet, with his eyes closed as if he were sleeping. the party who surrounded his bed felt relieved from a load of sorrow, and, full of hope that he would recover, they whispered cheerfully to each other. late in the evening he awoke, and spoke of his son. 'tell him,' said he, 'that i always loved him, but i was foolish in my way of showing my affection. tell him that, exclusive of a provision for poor maren, all that can be saved from the wreck of my fortune shall be divided between him and aunt regine. louise, you have had more of a father in uncle warner than in me, and may god bless him for his kindness to you! you will all remember me, i know, with affection!' he held out his hands to them all, and smiled cordially to them, but he retained herr warner's and louise's hands in his. he then lay for a few moment in silence; his lips moved, however, though no sound was heard. perhaps he was engaged in prayer. a little after he exclaimed half aloud: 'is it not declared in the bible, that "it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of god?" the almighty had placed much in my power. but he will be merciful to me! everyone has got his own--i have defrauded none, and i possess nothing. yet god has made me rich--and with that--basta!' a happy smile flitted over his countenance--a pleading remembrance for those who survived him. by midnight all was over; he had passed into the deep, dark sleep of death. the hereditary goblet. from the swedish of uncle adam. has the spiritual world any intercourse with the material world? this is a question which must always remain undecided, and which only fools and narrow-minded people definitively answer. it is by analogy alone that we can acquire any kind of right even to guess on this subject--we can determine nothing. the whole creation is a continuation of imperceptible transitions; it is a close chain, and, in order to arrange it into a system to suit our ideas, the inquirer into it must parcel it into divisions. in nature none exist; the chain itself having no interruptions whatsoever. as the events of one period influence those of another, by bringing about an uninterrupted series of results, in like manner the powers of nature produce a constant regeneration--a constant repetition of themselves in various forms. thus, it is only when we arrive at the boundary between life and eternity, when _our_ conception of forms is no longer applicable, when we are close upon the transition to a higher state of being, that we admit that one link of the chain is missing. despite of analogy, the want of positive evidence puts it out of our power to prove anything; but, however, the sages of our days, before whose eyes everything, except their own weakness, stands clear, may sneer at me, and consider me superstitious, and a lover of nursery-tales--however the frivolous may ridicule me, or be provoked at my belief in the possibility of such an intercourse--my reason does not reject this belief, and my experience corroborates it. about twenty years ago i was staying with a lively party in the country. in our circles there reigned a degree of unaffected and openhearted hilarity, an almost childish joy, in which all seemed to participate, and which was not chilled by the highly-polished manners of those who were thus agreeably assembled. it was a charming september afternoon, and the country around was most beautiful; we gave ourselves up to the gaiety and the refreshing enjoyments of a country life. i felt particularly happy, and deeming myself far removed from all earthly sorrow, i fancied that i only breathed to sip in joy with every breath. but i had cause to be joyous, for my sister, who a few years previously had been married against her inclination, had shortly before written me that she _now_ felt very happy with her husband, which hitherto had not been the case. he had altered his conduct, and had become kind, considerate, and cheerful--he was more affectionate and sincere, and emilie had begun to lead a happier life than she had dared to hope for since the dreadful marriage ceremony had taken place. this news made me joyful even to extravagance; for i had always loved emilie more than myself; she had ever been the first to excuse my faults, the readiest to forgive injuries, and to forget her own afflictions; she was my most intimate and most sincere friend, and the whole world might have gazed freely, with me, into her clear eyes, and her pure soul. her husband, theodore, on the contrary, had never pleased me; he was one of those reserved, proud beings, who glide like an enigma through life. his feelings and thoughts were like words written in a cipher, to which one vainly endeavours to find the key. in his look there was an inexpressible something, which kept me at a distance; and with his fawning manners, he always appeared to me to resemble a magnificent flower, which even in its pomp looks suspicious--one of linnã¦us's lucidã¦. but i had been mistaken--my sister's letters told me so--her unhappiness had only been occasioned by trifling faults on both sides. i had, therefore, resolved to make atonement for my past injustice, and to become theodore's friend, however repugnant this might be to my own feelings. one evening we were all assembled in a summerhouse in the garden, chatting, laughing, and singing as merrily as if we had met to celebrate the funeral ceremony of sorrow--there was no one who seemed to have the most distant idea that, even in our gayest moments, fate, invisible and icy-cold, always stands amongst us ready to choose her next victim. suddenly a servant appeared--he inquired for me--he wore theodore's livery--a fearful foreboding seized me, i grew pale--a suppressed murmur ran through the company, and the gloomy silence which followed made the moment still more dreadful. the servant handed me a letter--i was forced to sit down to prevent myself from falling; everyone remained in intense expectation, awaiting to hear what the contents of the letter might be! i read it--'she is dead!' i exclaimed, in a low voice to myself--and '_dead!_' sounded like an echo through the circle of my friends. 'emilie!' i cried, and gazed fixedly before me, as if i were reflecting whether emilie really _could_ be dead. i sprang up like a madman, but suddenly stood as still as a frightened child--'my sister is dead!' i said to those present--'farewell, my friends.' i set off in the most terrible state of mind; i had been all at once hurled from the summit of happiness into the unfathomable depths of misery, where not even hope can find its way, and from which there is no other exit, except by death. i had to travel thirty miles before i could see my emilie in her coffin, and i arrived just the day previous to the funeral. i found everything as usual at the country-house of my sister; the oaks were still standing, rustling in the alley; the rivulet, on the banks of which emilie and i had last sat beside each other, quietly rippled along--everything was the same; she alone was missing--she had passed away, and gone to her heavenly father. theodore came to meet me; he was pale; and looked confused; he embraced me, and shed a few tears--i remained as cold as a statue. i could not understand myself; formerly i had so readily sympathized in the happiness, the sorrow, and the fate of my fellow-creatures--but now, i could take no interest in my own. emilie's portrait hung on the wall; how beautiful, how blooming she looked, gentleness beamed from those happy eyes, and that smiling mouth seemed only made to shower blessings on all. 'thus she was,' i thought; 'thus she always looked upon me;--let me go alone to my sister!' i said in an irritable tone, turning to theodore, who stood beside me; 'i wish to take leave of her undisturbed.' he seemed to wish to dissuade me from this, but i would not listen to him, rushed towards the room where the corpse was lying, and drawing out the key, i shut and locked the door, just as theodore was about to enter. here stood the star-spangled coffin, surrounded by massive silver-sconces, the candles in which, with their long wicks, threw a gloomy light upon the black hangings of the apartment. i fell upon my knees by the side of the coffin and grasped one of my poor sister's hands--it was clenched!--i shuddered, and let it go again, it fell heavily back upon the shroud. a veil was thrown over the face; i wished once more to behold the sweet features; i raised the veil--a distorted, livid countenance grinned at me, the dim, wide extended eyes seemed to wish to pierce through me with their gaze. i grew chill with horror, and dropped the veil. 'emilie!' i whispered, seized with unutterable anguish. 'it is thee, nevertheless! this frightful head is covered with thy beautiful curls! o god! how death distorts the human face!' i hurried from the room, it seemed to me as if ghostly spectres stood in every corner, and gazed at me with their rayless eyes--i hardly knew how i got out--but i fancied i heard hollow, scornful laughter behind me. on the day of the funeral i met old anna, the companion of my poor sister during her short worldly career; she had been her nurse, and had built her modest hopes and the happiness of her life upon emilie. now, she was alone, poor old woman; the object on which all her affections had been centred was gone, and in the future she saw only darkness and misery. as she stood there with her recollections, she resembled an aged tree from times gone by, and which, in a circle of younger and unknown plants, awaits the last storm. i considered it would be only an annoyance to my brother-in-law if i questioned him concerning the last moments of my beloved sister--but with anna this would not be the case, i therefore inquired of her. with the usual garrulity of old age, she now began to describe to me the life of my sister, from the time that i had last seen her; she seemed to find consolation in relating all that she had seen, and had enjoyed, and what she had lost. there often seems nothing which binds aged people to this life but the pleasure of being able to complain--why then should not this faithful old woman be allowed to enjoy this one privilege? she pictured to me with a sort of enthusiasm how happy emilie had been, how kind theodore had lately shown himself, how grieved he had been when my sister caught cold and became seriously ill, with what anxiety he had endeavoured to procure relief for her, how he watched by her bed-side, counted every respiration, and in what despair he was when she finally expired in the most frightful convulsions. 'the day after her decease,' continued the old woman, weeping, 'i saw him prostrate on his knees by the bed-side of the corpse.' i had therefore done theodore injustice, had been cold and reserved to one who by his conduct had deserved a better return from me. 'why must this be?' i thought. 'why cannot i bear his look? why do i recoil from his friendship? he certainly never offended me, and emilie perceived her faults, and became happy with him--why, then, should i increase his sorrow?' such were the reproaches which i made to myself, and i again resolved to act like a friend and a brother to him; but it was impossible--between us there existed such a decided aversion that we were never at our ease in the company of each other. my sister was buried in the evening. the ceremony was solemn and mournful, and the future appeared to me as dark as the church in which it took place. notwithstanding the numerous lights, a gloomy obscurity reigned throughout the sacred edifice, the dusky monotony of which was uninterrupted, save here and there by escutcheons, distinguishable only from the columns against which they hung by their glaring colours; the coffin was lowered into the family vault; i looked down--it was so dark and sombre in the space below; it seemed to me as if i gazed into eternity. 'farewell, emilie!' i said once more--and she was gone. when i returned to my own room, i placed myself at the window, and looked out upon the fields. the church in which my sister rested lay in the background, illuminated by the silver rays which the pale moon cast upon it. i stood and thought of her life in another world, of our reunion there, and i gazed up towards the heavens, as if i expected to behold her glorified spirit floating in the moonlight. suddenly it seemed to me as if i heard a movement behind me; i turned round, but saw nothing, for at this moment the moon disappeared behind a cloud--the noise continued--i thought i heard the door of a corner cupboard open--something fell jingling upon the ground and rolled towards me, the moon now shone forth again, and i grew chill with horror--there stood emilie wrapped in her shroud, gazing at me earnestly with her hollow eyes! she pointed to that which lay on the ground. a moment later and the spectre had disappeared, and my almost broken heart recommenced beating, and warmth returned again to my stiffened limbs. was it imagination--only a phantom of my excited fancy? no matter; i had distinctly seen her, and something glittering lay at my feet. it was a silver goblet, and no other than that which emilie had received from her mother as a wedding gift. it was of an antique form, and had been handed down to the females of my mother's family as an heir-loom. there was an old legend attached to it, which prophesied that it should cause the last possessor to obtain speedy happiness. i had not before thought of this; but now it struck me, for i remembered that emilie was the last possessor, since she had no daughter to whom to bequeath it i lighted a candle, and examined the old family relic more attentively; it was ornamented with flowers and inscriptions, written in hieroglyphics, or some unknown character--i did not understand it. inside the goblet was thickly gilded, but i soon remarked that from the bottom to about the middle the gold had become of a silvery white, and that also a streak of the same colour extended on one side up to the rim. it appeared as if some fluid had worn away the gold and laid bare the silver. 'strange!' i thought 'nothing can dissolve gold--what can this be?' i determined i would ask some clever man about it, and could not rest until i found an opportunity on the following day, under some pretence or other, to repair to the neighbouring town. i went to the doctor, a venerable old man, and showed him the goblet, without telling him how it had come into my possession; and i asked him what it could have been that had produced the white appearance. the old man answered smiling, 'it only shows that the possessor is no chemist, but the goblet is not injured, and you have only to let a goldsmith heat it thoroughly.' 'what has made it so?' i inquired. 'that i cannot exactly tell,' he answered, 'but probably something of quicksilver, which has adhered to the gold--perhaps a solution of corrosive-sublimate.' 'is not corrosive-sublimate poison?' i asked, horror-struck. 'yes, certainly it is poisonous--why so?' demanded the old man, surprised at my warmth. 'nothing!' i replied, trying to regain my composure, 'but tell me, my dear sir! how do people die who have taken this poison?' he cast a searching glance at me. 'they die,' he said, at last, shrugging his shoulders. 'they die in the most dreadful torments--death is preceded by tremor, and burning in the stomach, and finally by fearful convulsions, which distort the features, and the corpse soon goes to decay.' now, all at once a terrible secret was clearly disclosed to me, and almost staggering, i left the worthy old man, who, astonished at my unusual behaviour, seemed to doubt whether i were in my right senses. and he was right, if he did so, for at this moment i was hovering on the brink of insanity. i thank god that i did not really become insane. like a spirit of vengeance i flew back to theodore; i found him sitting on the sofa, and occupied in reading. he rose and came to meet me, with his usual smiling manner. with terrible calmness, and an inward joy, such as a fiend might experience when he is about to crush his victim, i drew forth the goblet, and fixing a look upon theodore, as if i could annihilate him, i demanded of him with suppressed anger, 'do you know this?' he turned pale. 'confess!' i continued; 'confess, demon! that my sister received her death by means of this goblet!' theodore's usual self-possession entirely forsook him, and he stood there, as if he had fallen from a cloud, and 'yes!' the only word audible to my excited nerves, convinced me of his crime. 'god!' i cried, shaking the trembling sinner--'do you know that there is a god? _he_, not i, will punish you!' i left him and became as tranquil again as if nothing had happened. as i drove past the church, on my journey home, i cast a sad glance through the lattice window, into the family vault; i could distinguish the coffin of my sister; 'emilie, i have revenged you!' i cried, as if the deceased could hear me, and in almost a happy state of mind i continued my journey. not long after this, theodore put an end to his existence, in a fit of gloomy despair. may god be merciful to his soul! the family goblet could never more be found. probably theodore had destroyed that mute witness of his crime. thus the last possessor had, in fulfilment of the prophecy, received speedy happiness from it--and that happiness was--death! the death ship. by b. s. ingemann. upon the deck fair gunhild stands and gazes on the billows blue; she sees reflected there beneath, the moon and the bright stars too. she sees the moon and the lovely stars on the clear calm sea--the while her steady bark glides gently on to britain's distant isle. 'twas long since her betrothed love had sought, alas! that foreign strand; and bitterly had gunhild wept when he left his native land. he promised tidings oft to send- he promised soon to come again; but never tidings reached her ear- she looked for him in vain! fair gunhild could no longer bear such anxious, sad suspense; one gloomy night from her parents' home, she fled,--and hied her thence. mounting yon vessel's lofty side, to seek her love she swore- whether he lay in ocean's depths, or slept on a foreign shore. three days had she been toss'd upon wild ocean's heaving wave, when the sea became at the midnight hour as still as the solemn grave. on the high deck the maiden stood, gazing upon the deep so blue; she saw reflected there beneath, the moon and the bright stars too. the crew were wrapt in hush'd repose, the very helmsman slept, while the maiden clad in robes of white, her midnight vigil kept. 'twas strange!--at that still hour--behold! a vessel from the deep ascends- it flutters like a shadow there, then near, its course it bends. no sail was spread to catch the breeze; its masts lay shattered on the deck; and it did not steer one steady course, but drifted like a wreck. hush'd--hush'd was all on board that bark, but flitting by--now here--now there- seem'd dim, uncertain, shadowy forms, through the misty moonlit air. and now the floating wreck draws near, yet in the ship 'tis tranquil all; that maiden stands on the deck alone to gaze on the stars so small. 'fair gunhild;' faintly sighs a voice, thou seek'st thine own betrothed love- but his home is not on the stranger's land, no--nor on earth above. ''tis deep beneath the dark, cold sea, oh! there 'tis sad to bide; yet he all lonely there must dwell, far from his destined bride!' 'right well, right well thy voice i know, thou wand'rer from the deep wide sea; no longer lonesome shalt thou dwell far, far away from me.' 'no, gunhild, no--thou art so young, so fair--thou must not come; and i will grieve no more if thou art glad in thy dear home. 'the faith that thou to me didst swear, to thee again i freely give; i'm rocking on the billows' lap, seek happier ties and live.' 'the faith i vow'd i still will hold, i swear it here anew- oh! say if in thy cold abode there is not room for two?' 'room in the sea might many find, but all below is cheerless gloom; when the sun's rays are beaming bright, we sleep as in the tomb. 'tis only at the midnight hour when the pale moon shines out, that we from ocean's depths may rise, to drift on the wreck about.' 'let the sun brightly beam above, so i within thine arms repose! oh! i shall slumber softly there, forgetting earthly woes! 'then hasten--hasten--reach thy hand! and take thy bride with thee; with thee, oh, gladly will she dwell, deep, deep beneath the sea! 'and we will oft at midnight's hour upon the lonely wreck arise, and gaze upon the pale soft moon and the stars in yonder skies.' then reach'd the dead his icy hand- 'fair gunhild! fear not thou- the dawn of rosy morn is near, we may not linger now!' upon the wreck the maiden springs, it drifts away again; the crew of her bark--awaking--see the _death-ship_ on the main! the startled men crowd on the deck with horror on each brow; they pray to god in heaven above- and the wreck has vanish'd now! the brothers; or, a good conscience. from the danish. it was a fresh, cool summer morning; the birds appeared to have exhausted themselves with singing; but the breeze was not exhausted, for, if it seemed lulled for a moment under the clustering leaves of the trees, it was but suddenly to shake them about, and mingle its sighs with their rustling sound; there waved to and fro the heavy heads of the ears of corn in the fields, and the more lowly clover scattered its fragrance around. on the summit of yon green eminence, under the swaying branches of those oak-trees, stands a young peasant, a robust, vigorous youth. shading his eyes with his hand, he is gazing across the fields, where the public road winds along, separated from the luxuriant corn by rows of young trees, and deep narrow ditches, whose edges are bordered by wild flowers. yet it was but a short time before, that war--savage and bloody war--had raged there; that the heavy trampling of the cavalry had torn up that ground, now covered with the plentiful grain; that the thunder of cannon had hushed every wild bird's song, and that those flower-bordered ditches had been the death-beds of many a sinking warrior. the traces of such scenes are soon effaced in nature; it is only in the minds of mankind that they remain, and cannot be blotted out. is it this remembrance which calls an expression of gloom to johan's eyes, as he surveys the meadows, and casts a shade over his brow, as he turns his head and looks into the quiet valley beneath? in it stands a pretty cottage, newly whitewashed and repaired, with white curtains adorning its low windows, and surrounded by a neat little garden, gay with flowers of every hue. there dwell his mother and his betrothed; she who is soon to become his wife--for the wedding-day is fixed. but it is not the preparations for that event which have set the whole house astir; it is a festival of the village, a general holiday; for this day they are preparing to receive the men who had left their homes in order to defend their native land. these had been long absent, had encountered many hardships and perils, and many of them had been prisoners in the enemy's country. most among them had one true loving heart at least awaiting his return with anxiety--therefore the whole of the little village was preparing a festal welcome for them. but why does johan look as if he did not observe the promise of abundance around him--as if he were not himself the most fortunate among the villagers--he, who is about to celebrate a double festival? why does he throw himself down beneath yon tree, and hide his face with his arm? ah! memory has recalled to him _that_ day when he and his brother--two strong, active boys--had stopped at this very place to look at a little girl who was crying bitterly. she was very poorly clad, and the curiosity of the boys passing into sympathy, they inquired why she was in tears? it was a long time before she would impart the cause of her grief to them; but when they placed themselves by her on the grass, patted her little cheek, and spoke words of kindness to her, she confided to them that she had recently come to their village. on the other side of the hill stood the small house in which her mother had lived: but she was now dead, and strangers had brought her over to the village. the overseer of the poor had placed her in service with a peasant woman; but she felt so lonely--so forsaken! she would fain return to her cottage, which stood by itself on the heath; but she dared not leave her mistress. johan took her hand, looked earnestly upon her, and asked what there was so uncommon about her mother's cottage? 'ah! there is no house like it here in your village,' replied the little girl, with animation. 'you see, it stood so entirely alone, nobody ever came near it, and out before the door the purple heather grew so thickly! when i lay there in the morning, it was so warm and still, and one never heard a sound but the humming of the wild bees and the whirring of the great flies' wings. in the autumn, my mother and i used to cut off the long heather, bind it into bundles, and sell them yonder in the village. there was a well near our door, and when one looked down into it, oh! it was so dark, and deep, and cold! and when one was drawing up the bucket, it creaked and creaked, as if it were a labour to come up; and if it were let go again, one might wait and watch a long time before it got down to where the water was. in winter, my mother sat in the house spinning; then the snow almost blocked up our little windows; we dared not peep out of the door, for fear of the cold north wind getting in; and if one ventured into the outhouse to get peats for the little stove, one's teeth chattered with the cold. on the long, pitch-dark nights, when we went to bed early, to save candles, we used to lie awake, and creep close to each other, listening to every sound. oh! how glad we were that we were too poor to fear robbers or bad men. do you think it possible that there can be such a dear cottage as ours anywhere?' johan pointed down towards the valley, and said-'do you see our house, yonder? is _it_ not pretty?' the little girl shook her head, while she replied-'you think so, perhaps, for you are accustomed to it.' 'i should like very much to see your former home,' said the other brother, george, who had been gazing upon the child with his large expressive eyes. 'could you find the way to it?' 'oh! to be sure i could,' she replied. when i go with the sheep up to the top of the hills, i can see it far away towards the east.' it was agreed that the following sunday they should all three go to see the wonderfully beautiful cottage the girl had described; and after that excursion they became playfellows and fast friends. in process of time, when the girl grew stronger, the mother of the boys, at their earnest and repeated request, took her as an assistant in her household work, and ellen became happier and prettier every day. johan carved wooden shoes for her, carried water for her, and helped her at her weaving; george whitewashed her little room, and planted flowers outside her window: and neither of the brothers ever went to the market-town without bringing a little gift to her. they were all three confirmed on the same day, though the brothers were older than ellen; but from that day their peace was disturbed; lars, the son of the clerk of the church, took it into his head to make up to ellen, presented her with flowers and a silver ring, and, what was worse, at a dance in the village, shortly after, he danced with her almost the whole evening. why was it that the gloomy looks of the dissatisfied brothers sought not each other's sympathy? why did not they open their lips in mutual complaints--why not tell each other that they had never dreamed of any one else dancing with their sister, giving her presents, and speaking soft words to her? was it not _they_ who had met her first, and had visited with her the cottage on the heath? _they_, who had been so attached to her? but there had hitherto been two to love her--why had two suddenly become one too many? and when ellen, her face radiant with joy, came tripping up to george, seized his hand, and said, 'will you not dance one little dance with me, george?' why did johan spring forward with a wrathful countenance, snatch away her hand, and exclaim--'no; i am tired of staying here, ellen; we must go home!' then george threw his arm round her waist, pushed johan away, and said, 'go, if you like, johan; but ellen and i will dance.' suddenly the brothers turned upon each other as if they had been bitter enemies; and they would have come to blows, had ellen not burst into tears, and, separating them, accompanied them home. from that day forth they watched narrowly each other's word and look, and seemed to be always in a state of miserable anxiety about each other. if they were going to market, they made a point of starting at the same time; for the one dared not leave the other a moment behind, for fear he should have an opportunity of saying a kind word privately to ellen, or of obtaining a kind look from her, in which the other could not share. if they were sitting together in their humble parlour, they kept a sharp and jealous look-out upon every motion and every glance of hers; and if she spoke a little longer, or with a little more apparent interest, to one, the room seemed to be too confined for the other, and he would rush out to breathe the free air, but yet without feeling the oppression removed from his heart. at length, even the little friendly attentions they used to pay to ellen were given up, for jealousy taught both the brothers what poison there might lie in them for each. perhaps it would have been better if ellen could have then declared which she preferred; her heart would have led her willingly to do so; but to make the other dear brother unhappy! had they not both been so kind to the poor child whom they found under the tree? which, could she say, had surpassed the other in affection to her? besides, neither of them had asked her which she liked best. no--neither of them had ventured to do that: but both became more gloomy, both apparently more miserable, and the love of both became more impetuous. they were all three sitting together one evening; for the young men's mother was now very feeble and mostly confined to bed. at length, johan spoke of the news he had that day heard at the clergyman's house--'that war had broken out, and that the king had called upon all his faithful subjects to assist him in it. for the first time for many months the brothers looked frankly and unsuspiciously at each other, and, holding out his hand, george said-'brother! shall we go to the war?' a hearty shake of the hand was johan's reply. 'for god's sake, do not leave me, my dear brothers!' cried ellen. 'would it not be enough at least for one to ...' she added, almost in a whisper; but she stopped suddenly, for the countenance of both the young men had darkened in a moment. in the fierce look which they exchanged lay more than words could have expressed; and ellen felt, as if the idea had been conveyed to her in a flash of lightning, that they must both go. she seized a hand of each, pressed them to her beating heart, and told them, in a voice broken by suppressed sobs, that they must go, that they must trust in god, and that she would pray for them both. that night, when she had retired to her little chamber, she wept bitter tears, and prayed to the almighty that he would watch over them both; and if one _must_ fall, that he would preserve him whose life would be of the greatest utility. but her sighs were for george, and her secret wishes for his safety. the brothers joined the army. the life they led there, so new to both, seemed to call forth from their inmost souls long-dormant feelings, and they once more became intimate, but of home they never dared to speak. they often wished to write to that home, but something invisible seemed always to prevent them, and neither of them would let that duty devolve upon the other. it was almost a relief to them when they had to march to the field of battle; the lives of both would be exposed there--god would choose between them. and they looked earnestly one upon the other, and wrung each other's hand. but when they met after the battle, they did _not_ shake hands, they nodded coldly to each other; and, to a comrade from their native village, they said--'when you write home, tell them that our lord has spared us.' again they went forth to meet the enemy; again they participated in that fearful lottery for life or death; and amidst the tumult of the fight, they chanced to stand side by side. at length, driven off the field, they took refuge in a small building, but it was speedily attacked by the enemy; they saw the bayonets glittering on the outside, and heard the officer in command give orders to fire at it. immediately, johan pressed the secret spring of a trap-door which led to the woods, and forced himself through it. george stooped over it and was about to follow his example, when an evil spirit entered into johan's heart; he thrust his brother back, drew down the trap-door, and rushed towards the trees. immediately he heard the sound of firing; the smoke concealed his flight, he crept into the wood, trembling in every limb, and fainted away upon the grass. on recovering from his swoon, all was still around him; but he soon fell in with some of his comrades, and rejoined his regiment. the troops were shortly afterwards mustered, and the name of each individual was called. how intense were his feelings when his brother's was heard! none answered to it; and, conquering with a violent effort his emotion, he ventured to glance towards the place that his brother used to occupy, and where he almost dreaded to see a pale and threatening spectre. he heard his comrades talk of him, but his heart appeared to have become seared. he felt that he ought to write to ellen, and evening after evening he sat down to the task; but he always abandoned it, for he fancied, that without any confession, she would discern that the hand which traced the letters on the paper to her had thrust his brother into the jaws of death. he gave up the idea of writing, but through another sent a message of kindness from himself, and the tidings of george's death. when a cessation of hostilities for a time was agreed on, and johan was to return home, he endeavoured and hoped to be able to shake off his deep gloom. he was to see ellen again, but the thought of her no longer brought gladness to his soul. it was with slow and heavy steps that he approached the cottage in the valley; and when ellen came out to meet him, and hid her tearful face on his breast, it did not anger him that she wept, for his own heart was so overcharged with misery, that it seemed to weigh him down to the earth. at length he felt somewhat easier; he tried to concentrate his thoughts upon ellen, and he had everything that could remind him of his brother removed from sight. yet, when in passing through the woods, he came near some large tree, on which his brother and himself, as children, had cut their names together, painful and dark remembrances would rush on him; and it was still worse when his mother wept, and spoke of george--of what he was as a little boy, and how good, and affectionate, and kind-hearted he had always been. when in the society of the neighbouring peasants, he was silent, and seemingly indifferent to all amusement; and when he heard them remark 'how johan is changed since he went to the wars!' he felt himself compelled to leave them and fly to solitude. ellen was kind and gentle to him; but when, of an evening, he loitered near the window of her little chamber, he could not help hearing how she sighed and sobbed. one afternoon, when he came slowly home from his work in the fields, he began to commune with himself, and his soliloquy ended by his saying to himself--'i _will_ be happy; for, as things are now, i might as well be where george is.' and, thus resolving, he went straight to the window of ellen's room, at which she was standing, and leaning against the outside frame, he said-'listen to me, ellen! we have mourned long enough for george. i have been fond of you ever since you were a child--will you be my wife now?' ellen looked down for a moment; then, raising her eyes to his, she said-'ah, johan! i saw very well how matters stood between you and george; but i will tell you frankly, that i would have preferred to have taken poor george for my husband, and kept you as my brother. however, since it was god's will to remove him from this world, there is no one whom i would rather marry than you. are you content with this acceptance?' 'i suppose i must be,' replied johan; but he became very pale, and he added, in a lower and somewhat discontented tone--'there was no need for your saying all this, ellen; you may believe my assurance, that i am as much attached to you as ever george could have been.' 'yes, johan, yes!' said ellen; 'but it is needless to make comparisons now; nor ought you to be angry at what i have said. you are dearest to me after him; and, even if he stood here in your place, i should not be happy if you were dead and gone.' 'hush, ellen, hush!' cried johan, as he glanced over his shoulder with uneasiness. 'let us speak about our wedding-day; for my mother cannot live long, and we could not reside together after her death unless we were married.' after a little more conversation, ellen shut the window, and withdrew; and the subject was not again alluded to the whole evening. when johan went to bed, the thought occurred to him--'it was very strange that i forgot to seal our engagement with a single kiss. am i never more to feel that i have a right to be happy?' he could not sleep that night--he could not help reflecting how it would have been, if it were george who was about to marry ellen, and he who was lying in the grave. 'but george would then have caused my death, and perhaps things are better as they are.' he tried to escape from thought--he tried to sleep, and at last sleep came; but it brought no relief, for he found himself again standing in that well-remembered wood, and saw again before him that small house, with its dreadful recollections. he felt himself struggling violently to keep the trapdoor shut, till the perspiration poured down his face; and then he awoke in his agitation, and anything was better than the horror of such a vivid dream. 'oh! why is it not all a dream?' he exclaimed, as he wrung his hands in agony of spirit. and there he stood now upon the hill, hiding his face from the sweetness of the morning, and the cheerful rays of the sun, as if he feared to pollute the glorious gifts which god had bestowed on creation, and felt that they were not intended for his enjoyment. suddenly, he flung himself down, and buried his face amidst the early dew that stood upon the ground, mingling with it the hot tears that chased each other swiftly down his cheeks. at that moment, a soft hand was gently laid upon his head, and a mild voice exclaimed-'but, johan! why are you lying here? what can be the matter with you?' and when he raised his head, and ellen saw his disturbed look, she sat down by him, and put her arm affectionately round him. 'do you believe that we shall be happy, ellen?' he asked mournfully, as he laid his head on her shoulder. 'tell me--do you really believe that we shall be happy?' 'why not, dear johan?' said ellen, in a soothing manner. 'we are both young--we have a sincere affection for each other--we will do all we can for our mutual happiness through life--and when one has a good conscience, everything goes well.' her last words pierced johan to the very soul; he felt perfectly wretched--he became as pale as death--and a confession which would have crushed his hearer's heart trembled on his lips; but he forced it back to the depths of his own soul, and was silent. ellen, too, sat silent. after a few moments she seemed to be listening to something, and suddenly she exclaimed-'hark! the church bells are ringing! they are coming--i must hasten to our poor mother.' after she had left him, johan remained for a time in speechless anguish. '_when one has a good conscience_,' he repeated at length. 'yes--it is true! but i, who have _not_ a good conscience, how shall i become fortunate and happy? oh! if she adored me--if she would be everything to me--of what avail would that be to me? do i not feel that every endearment is a crime--every word of love an offence to _him_ in his grave? oh! if she knew all, she would spurn me from her, order me out of her presence, and heap curses on my head! but soon--soon--she will not be able to do that. we shall become man and wife--ay, man and wife before god's holy altar ... but--will that ever be? when i walk with her up the church aisle--when the bells are ringing, the church adorned with green branches and flowers, and the rich tones of the organ make the heart swell in one's breast--can _i_ be proud or happy? can i help looking back to see if a bloody shadow be not following me amongst my kindred and my friends, who are the bridal guests? oh! horror, horror! and when the pastor pronounces that those whom god has joined together no man shall put asunder--oh! the blood will freeze in my veins. no--no living man--but a shadow from the tomb--a spectre--a murdered brother's revengeful ghost--will appear. oh! george, george! arise from your grave, and let me change places with you!' drops of agony are falling from his brow, every joint seems rigid in his closely-clasped hands, and every limb of the unhappy sinner is trembling. but what angel from heaven is yon? he kneels by his side--he pushes back the thick hair, and wipes off the clammy dew of mortal anguish from his forehead. johan looks up. 'oh! is it a spectre from the grave, or is it he? george!--george! no--no--no!--he smiles--it cannot be himself!' johan stretched out his feverish, trembling hands, and grasped his brother's arm. 'is it you, george? merciful god! can it be yourself?' 'it is i--i myself!' replied george, approaching closer to his brother. 'and you are not dead?' cried johan. 'answer me, for god's sake! have i not murdered you?' 'hush!--hush!' said george; 'you pushed me back from the trap-door, indeed, but i fell down flat, and the guns did not injure me. the enemy took me prisoner, however, and i have just come from captivity. forgive me, johan, that i so long forgot we were brothers--so long, that you at last learned to forget it too.' johan stood for a few moments as if he had been turned into stone, then raised his eyes, and cast one long, earnest look towards heaven; but in that look there was a world of gratitude and delight. he then threw himself on his brother's neck and embraced him warmly. 'go to your bride!' he cried, as he withdrew his arms, and pointed to the cottage in the vale. 'i have not killed him!' he shouted; 'i have not murdered my brother!--he lives! oh! thou god of goodness, i thank thee that thou hast saved my brother!' and he kissed the flowers, he embraced the trees, he rolled on the grass in the wild delirium of his joy; but he became calmer by degrees, his thoughts seemed to become more collected, and he raised his tearful eyes to the blue heavens above, while his lips murmured his thanks and praise for the unexpected blessing vouchsafed to him. several days have passed since then; the wedding morning has come at last; the bells ring; the church is decorated with fresh flowers and green boughs, and the pealing organ is heard outside in the churchyard. see, here comes the bridal party, gaily dressed, and adorned with garlands of flowers. the bride advances between two young men, each holding one of her hands. the one brother gives her to the other. long had they disputed in a friendly spirit which should be permitted to sacrifice himself, and to yield ellen; but one of them had a crime to expiate; he was most anxious to make reparation for it, and he triumphed in the fraternal struggle. see how his eyes sparkle! see with what firm and elastic steps he advances! and, though deeply agitated as he holds out his right hand to place the bride by his brother's side at the altar, how earnestly he joins in prayer, and how distinctly gratitude and peace are depicted in his countenance! it is night in the valley; the wind is hushed, and not a leaf is stirring; all is so still, that the gentle trickling of the water in the little rivulet near can be heard at an unusual distance. the quiet moonbeams shine on the windows of the cottage where george and ellen, the newly-married couple, are; and the roses which cluster round them exhale their sweetest perfumes. but what wanderer is yon, who, with a knapsack on his back and a staff in his hand, stands beneath the oak trees on the hill? he stretches out his arms towards that lowly house in a last adieu, for _his_ path must henceforth lead elsewhere. why does he now kneel on the grassy height? why does he lift his hands to heaven in prayer? can it be possible that he thanks god because his beloved is his brother's bride? can it be possible that, with a heart unbroken by grief--that with tears, which are not of sorrow, in his eyes, he can leave all he has ever loved, to become a pilgrim in a foreign land? it is--for a conscience, released from the heavy burden of guilt, supports and blesses him, and transforms every sigh into gratitude and joy. esben. from the danish of s. s. blicher. the greatest sorrow that this world can give, is, far away from those one loves--to live. sometimes, when i have wandered away--away over the wild and apparently endless moors, where i could see nothing but the brown heath below, and the blue skies above me; when i have roamed on far from men, from their busy haunts, and the signs and tokens of their active worldly labours, which, after all, are but molehills, that time, or some restless and turbulent tamerlane, shall again level to the ground; when i have strayed, light of heart and proudly free as a bedouin, whom no fixed domicile, no narrow circumscribed fields chain to one spot, but who, as its owner, occupies _all he beholds_; who does not indeed dwell, but pitches his tent where he will; if then my keen searching glances along the horizon have discovered a house, how often--god forgive me! has not the passing thought arisen in my mind--for it was no settled desire--to wish that the human habitation was annihilated. there, must dwell trouble and sorrow; there, must exist disputes about _mine_ and _thine!_ ah! the happy desert is both thine and mine, is everyone's, is no one's. a lover of the woods would have contented himself with wishing a whole colony of trees planted there; i have wished that the heath could have remained as it was a thousand years ago, uncultivated by human hands, untrodden by human feet! yet this wish was not always satisfactory to myself, for when fatigued, overheated, suffering from hunger and thirst, i have endeavoured to turn my thoughts with longing to an arab's tent and rude hospitality, i have caught myself thanking heaven that a house thatched with broom--at not a mile's distance--promised me shelter and refreshment. it so happened that some years ago, one calm warm september day, i found myself on the same heath that, in my arabian dreams, i called mine. not a breath of wind crept among the purple heather; the air was sultry and heavy, the distant hills that bounded the view seemed to float like clouds around the immense plain, and assumed the appearances of houses, towns, castles, men, and animals: but all was vague in outline, and ever shifting, as the images seen in dreams. a cottage would expand into a church, and that again into a pyramid; here, suddenly uprose one spire; then, as suddenly sank another; a man turned into a horse, and that again into an elephant; here glided a little boat, and there, a ship with every sail spread. long did my delighted eyes gaze on these fantastic figures--a panorama that only the mariner or the wanderer of the desert has ever the pleasure of beholding--when, becoming a prey to hunger and to thirst, i began to look for a real house among the many false ones in my sight. i longed most earnestly to exchange all my beautiful fairy palaces for one single peasant's cottage. my wishes were granted: i descried at length a real tenement, without spires or towers, whose outline became sharper and more defined the nearer i approached, and which, flanked by stacks of peat, looked larger than it really was. the inhabitants were unknown to me. their clothing was poor; their furniture of the plainest description; but i knew that dwellers on the heath often hid their precious metal in some secret depository, and that a tattered garb sometimes concealed a well-lined pocket-book. when, on going in, i observed a recess filled with stockings, i shrewdly guessed that i had introduced myself into the abode of a wealthy hosier (in a parenthesis be it said, that i never knew a poor one). an elderly, grey-haired, but still vigorous man, advanced to meet me, and with a cordial 'welcome' offered me his hand. 'may i be permitted to ask,' he added, 'where my guest comes from?' one must not take umbrage at so blunt and unmannerly a question. the rustic of the heath is almost as hospitable as the scotch lairds, though rather more inquisitive; but, after all, one cannot blame him that he seeks to know whom he entertains. when i had enlightened him as to who i was and whence i came, he called his wife, who without loss of time set before me the best the house contained, kindly inviting me to partake of it; an invitation which i was not slow in accepting. i was in the midst of my repast, and also in the midst of a political conversation with mine host, when a young and uncommonly beautiful girl came in, whom i should indubitably have pronounced to have been a young lady in disguise, who had made her escape from cruel parents or hateful guardians, had not her red hands and country dialect convinced me that there was no _travestissement_ in the case. she curtsied with a pleasant smile, looked under the table, went hastily out, and soon returned to the room with a dish of bread and milk, which she placed on the ground, saying, 'your dog will probably also want something to eat.' i thanked her for her kind consideration; but my gratitude was nothing compared to that of the great dog, whose greed had soon caused the dish to be emptied, and who then thanked the fair donor after his own fashion, by jumping roughly upon her; and when she, in some alarm, threw her arms up in the air, chasseur mistook her meaning, sprung up higher, and brought the shrieking girl to the ground. i called the dog off, of course, and endeavoured to convince the damsel of his good intentions. i should not have drawn the reader's attention to so trivial a matter, but to introduce a remark, namely, that everything is becoming to beauty; for every motion and even look of this rural fair one had a natural grace and charm which the well-tutored coquette might in vain try to assume. when she had left the room, i asked the good people if she was their daughter. they answered in the affirmative, adding that she was their only child. 'you will not have her long with you,' i remarked. 'god help us! what do you mean?' asked the father; but a sort of self-satisfied smile showed me that he full well understood my meaning. 'i think,' i replied, 'that she is likely to have a great many wooers.' 'oh!' muttered he, 'wooers are in plenty; but unless they are worth something, what is the use of talking of them? to come a wooing with a watch and silver-mounted pipe is nothing to the purpose--great cry and little wool--and faith!' he exclaimed, setting both his elbows on the table, and stooping to look out at the low windows, 'here comes one of them, a fellow who has just raised his head above the heather--one of those pedlars who travel about with a pair or two of stockings in their wallet as samples, forsooth. the cur-dog, he wants to play the sweetheart to my daughter, with his two miserable oxen, and his cow and a half! yes, there he is, skulking along, the pauper!' the object of these execrations, and the person on whom were bent looks as lowering as if he had been a thief, was now approaching the house, but was still far enough off for me to ask my host who he was, and to be told that he was the son of his nearest neighbour, who, however, lived at the distance of more than a mile; that his father possessed only a small farm, upon the security of which he owed the hosier 200 dollars; that the son, who had for some years hawked about woollen goods, had lately presumed to propose for the beautiful cecilia, but had received a flat refusal. whilst i was listening to this little history, cecilia herself came in; and her anxious and sorrowful looks, which wandered, by turns, between her father and the traveller without, enabled me to guess that she did not coincide in the old man's view of affairs. as soon as the young man entered by one door, she disappeared by another, not however, without casting on him a hurried, but kind and speaking glance. my host turned toward the new comer, grasped the table with both his hands, as if he found some support needful, and acknowledged the young man's 'god's peace be here,' and 'good day,' with a dry 'welcome.' the uninvited guest stood for a few moments while he cast his eyes slowly round the room, took a tobacco-pouch from one pocket and a tobacco-pipe from another, knocked it on the stove by his side and filled it again. all this was done leisurely, and in a kind of measured manner, while my host remained motionless, in the attitude he had assumed. the stranger was a very handsome youth, a worthy son of our northern clime, where, though men are slow of growth, their frames become lofty and strong. he had light hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, ruddy cheeks, and a chin on whose downy smoothness the razor had not yet played, although its owner had numbered his twentieth year. his dress was not that of a common peasant, it was the costume generally adopted by tradesmen, but was much superior in its texture and its smartness to that of the rich hosier himself. he wore a frock coat, white trousers, a striped red vest, and a cotton cravat; he looked, at least, no unworthy suitor to the lovely cecilia. his pleasant, open countenance pleased me: it was expressive of that enduring patience and power of unswerving perseverance, which form such prominent features in the cimbric national character. a long time elapsed before either of them would break silence; at length my host was the first to open his mouth, which he did by asking slowly, and in a cold and indifferent tone and manner, 'whither bound to-day, esben?' the other answered, without at all hurrying himself, while he lighted his pipe leisurely, and took a long whiff, 'no farther to-day, but to-morrow i am off to holstein.' thereupon there occurred another long pause, during which esben looked at all the chairs one after another, took one, and finally sat down. at that moment the mother and daughter entered, and the young man nodded to them with such an unaltered and tranquil air, that i should have thought he was quite indifferent to the beautiful cecilia, had i not known that love, in a breast such as his, might not be the less strong that it lay concealed; that it is not the blaze, which flashes and sparkles, but the steady fire that burns and warms the longest. cecilia, with a sigh, placed herself at the farthest end of the table, and began immediately to knit; her mother condescended to say, 'welcome, esben!' as she settled herself at her spinning-wheel. 'are you going on account of business?' drawled out the hosier at length. 'if any offers,' replied the visitor. 'one can but try what may be done in the south. my errand here is, to beg that you will not be in too great a hurry to get cecil married, but will wait till i come back, and we can see what my luck has been.' cecilia coloured, but continued to look steadfastly at her work. the mother stopped her spinning-wheel with one hand, laid the other on her lap, and looked hard at the speaker; but the father said, as he turned with a wink to me, '"while the grass grows"--you know the rest of the proverb. how can you ask that cecil shall wait for you? you may stay very long away, perhaps, even--you may never come back.' 'it is your own fault, michel krã¦nsen!' replied esben, with some impetuosity. 'but listen to what i say; if you compel cecil to marry anyone else, you will do grievous wrong both to her and to me.' so saying, he arose, held out his hand to both the old people, and bade them a short and stiff farewell. to their daughter, he said, but in a more tender and somewhat faltering voice, 'farewell, cecil! and thanks for all your kindness. think of me sometimes, unless you are obliged to--god be with you, and with you all! farewell!' he turned towards the door, thrust his tobacco-pouch and pipe into his pocket, seized his hat, and went forth without casting one look behind. the old man smiled triumphantly, his wife sighed aloud an 'ah, dear!' as she set her spinning-wheel in motion again, but large tears rapidly coursed each other over cecilia's now pale cheeks. i had the greatest possible inclination to invite a discussion of the principle which actuated these parents in regard to their child's marriage. i could have reminded them, that wealth does not suffice to ensure happiness in married life; that the heart must also have its share; that prudence counsels to think more of integrity, industry, and a good disposition, than of mere riches. i could have remonstrated with the father (for the mother seemed at least neutral) on his harshness to his only daughter. but i knew the nature of the lower orders too well to waste useless words on such subjects; i knew that _money_ takes precedence of everything else in that class: but--is it otherwise with other classes? i knew, moreover, the dogged firmness of the peasantry, approaching almost to obstinacy, especially when any controversy with one in a superior rank of life was in question, and that the less they felt themselves able to argue, the more stiff-necked they became in adhering to their own notions. there came yet another reflection to prevent me, unbidden, from thrusting my finger into the pie. it was this:--are not riches, after all, the most real and solid of all the good things of this earth? is not money a sufficient substitute for every other sublunary advantage and blessing; the unexceptional passport for securing meat and drink, clothes and household comforts, respect and friendship, nay, a pretty large share of love itself? is it not fortune which furnishes the greatest number of enjoyments, and bestows the greatest independence--which supplies almost every want? is not poverty the rock upon which not only friendship, but love itself, often splits? 'when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window,' is a proverb quoted by all classes. alas! it is much to be wished that only love and hymen should meet together, but they too often insist on having plutus to accompany them. after such a review of the world, as it is--but, perhaps a more rational review than many would wish or expect from a writer of novels--they will easily believe that i did not meddle in esben's and cecilia's romance, especially as i thought it not unlikely that, on the part of the former, this might have been merely an eligible speculation, founded less on the daughter's beauty and affection than on the father's commercial credit and well-filled purse. and though i could not admit that _true love_ is only a poetic fiction, yet i could not deny that it is more frequently found in books than in reality. when the beautiful cecilia had left the room, apparently to give vent to her feelings in a passion of tears, i ventured to remark that it was a pity the young man was not better off, adding that he seemed to be a fine fellow, and fond of the girl. 'what if he came back,' i asked, 'with some hundred dollars' worth of bank-notes?' 'if they were his own,' said old michel, with a significant wink, 'well--that would be another affair.' i soon after took my departure, and went forth again into the deserted heath, free as it was from human beings and their cares. at a good distance on one side i perceived esben, and the smoke issuing from his pipe. 'thus,' thought i, 'he is consoling himself in his sorrow and his love; but the unhappy cecilia!' i cast a lingering look back on the rich hosier's domicile, and said to myself, 'had that house not stood _there_--there would have been so many less tears in this sad world!' six years had passed away before i happened again to be on that part of the heath; it was a calm september day, like the one on which i had formerly been there. chance led me to the hosier's habitation; and as i recognized old michel krã¦nsen's lonely dwelling, i recalled to memory the pretty cecilia and her lover. with the remembrance came a curiosity, or rather a longing to know what had been the conclusion of this pastoral poem--this heath-drama. as usual with me in similar cases, i felt much inclined to anticipate the probable history. i made my own conclusions, and settled in my own mind how everything had turned out, guided by destiny to a happy _dã©nouement_. alas! how often were not my conclusions widely different from the real course of events! and such was the case here; i pictured to myself esben and cecilia as man and wife--she, with an infant in her arms--the grandfather with one or two little prattlers on his knee--and the young hosier himself a thriving and happy partner in the still flourishing concern: but, it was far otherwise. before i had crossed the threshold i heard a female's sweet voice singing what, at first, i took for a lullaby, or cradle-song, though the tone was so melancholy that my raised expectations at once fell considerably. i stood a moment and listened; the words of the song were mourning over hopeless love. they were simple, yet full of truth and sorrow, but my memory only retains the two lines which formed the refrain: the greatest sorrow that this world can give, is, far away from those one loves--to live. with dark forebodings i pushed open the door. a stout, strong-looking, middle-aged woman, of the labouring class, who was carding wool, was the first on whom my eye fell; but it was not she who sang. the songstress had her back turned to me, she sat rocking herself rapidly backwards and forwards, and kept moving her hands as if she were spinning. the first-named arose and bade me welcome, but i hastened forwards to see the face of her companion. it was cecilia--pale, but still beautiful. she looked up at me--ah! then i read insanity in the vacant, though shining eyes, in the inexpressive smile, in the whole mindless countenance! i also observed that she had no spinning-wheel before her, but that _that_ which she was so busily turning must have been made of the same material as macbeth's dagger. she suddenly stopped both her song and her airy wheel, and asked me hurriedly and eagerly, 'are you from holstein? did you see esben? is he coming soon?' i perceived her state, and thinking it best to humour her, i answered without hesitation, 'yes; he will not be very long of coming now. i bring his kind remembrances to you.' 'then i must away to meet him!' she exclaimed, in a joyful tone of voice, and springing up from her straw chair, she rushed towards the door. 'wait a moment, cecil!' cried the other woman, throwing aside her work, 'and let me go with you.' she winked to me, and put her finger to her head, to inform me in dumb show that her companion was wrong _there_. 'mother,' she exclaimed aloud, knocking hastily at the kitchen-door; 'there is some one here--come, will you, for we are going out!' she then ran after the wanderer, who was already beyond the little court-yard. the old woman came in. i did not recognize her, but guessed, rightly enough, that she was the unfortunate girl's mother. years and sorrow had made sad havoc on her appearance. she did not seem to remember me either, but after a civil 'welcome--pray, sit down,' she asked the usual question, 'may i be permitted to know where you are from, good sir?' i told her; and also reminded her that i had been her guest some years ago. 'good lord!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands, 'is it you? pray, take a seat at the table while i got some refreshment for you.' though i was very eager to hear all the particulars of what had caused poor cecilia's sad situation, yet a presentiment that some great calamity had happened, and a feeling of respect for the old woman's grief, restrained me from at once asking what i wished, yet dreaded, to hear. 'is your husband not at home?' was my first inquiry. 'my husband!' she exclaimed. 'our lord has taken him long since--alas! it is now three years, come michaelmas next, that i have been a widow. but, pray eat something--it is homely fare--but don't spare it.' 'many thanks,' said i. 'but tell me about yourselves. so your poor husband is gone--that must have been a sad loss--a sad grief to you.' 'ah, yes!' she replied, with tears in her eyes; 'but that was not the only one. did you see my daughter?' 'yes,' i answered; 'she seemed to me a little strange.' 'she is quite deranged,' she exclaimed, bursting into tears. 'she has to be watched constantly, and i am obliged to keep a woman to look after her. to be sure she spins a little--but she has scarcely time to do anything, for she has to be after poor cecil at every hour of the day, when her thoughts fall upon esben.' 'where is esben?' i asked. 'in god's kingdom,' she answered, solemnly. 'so you did not ask her about him? oh, lord, have mercy on us! he came to a dreadful end, nobody ever heard of such a frightful thing. but pray make yourself at home--you can eat and drink while you are listening. ay, ay, sad things have happened since you were here. and times are also very hard--business is extremely dull, and we have to employ strangers now to carry it on.' when i saw that her regret for past comforts mingled with her sorrow for present evils, and that neither were too great to prevent her relating her misfortunes, i took courage and asked her about them. she gave me a history, which, with the permission of my readers, i will repeat in the narrator's own simple and homely style. after having drawn a chair to the table, and taken up her knitting, she began: 'kjeld esbensen and ourselves have been neighbours since my first arrival here. kjeld's esben and our cecil became good friends before anyone knew anything about it. my husband was not pleased, nor i neither, for esben had nothing, and his father but little. we always thought that the girl would have had more pride, or more prudence than to dream of throwing herself away on such a raw lad. it is true he travelled about with a little pack, and made a few shillings; but how far would these go? he came as a suitor to cecilia, but her father said _no_, which was not surprising, and thereupon esben set off to holstein. we observed that cecil lost her spirits, but we did not think much of that--'she is sure to forget him,' said my good man, 'when the right one comes.' 'it was not long before mads egelund--i don't know if you ever saw him--he lives a few miles from this--he came and offered himself with an unencumbered property, and three thousand dollars a-year. that was something worth having. michel immediately said _yes_; but cecil, god help her! said _no_. so her father was very angry, and led her a sad life. i always thought he was too hard upon her, but the worthy man would take no advice; he knew what was best, and he, and the father of mads, went to the clergyman to publish the banns. all went well for two sundays, but on the third one, when he said, "if any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it," cecil rose abruptly and cried out, "i do; the banns for esben and myself have been published three times in paradise." 'i tried to hush her, but it was too late; every soul in church had heard her, and had turned to stare at our seat. we were put to dreadful shame and mortification! i did not then imagine she was out of her mind; but when the clergyman had left the pulpit, she began again, and raved about esben and paradise, her wedding and her wedding-dress, till we were obliged to take her out of church. my good michel scolded her well, and declared that it was all a trick; but, god help us! there was no trick in it. it was all sad reality--she was insane then, and she is insane now.' here the speaker let the stocking she was knitting drop on her lap; took the woollen clew from her left shoulder, turned it round and round, and looked at it in all directions, but it was evident that her thoughts were not with it. after seeming to forget everything around her for a few minutes, she took up her knitting-needles, and, along with her work, resumed her sad tale. 'all her talk was about her being dead, and having got to paradise, where she was to be married to esben, as soon as he also was dead; and she remained in this state day and night. my good michel, of blessed memory, then perceived how it was with her. "it is god's doing," said he, "and none can read his will." but he took it to heart for all that; and as to me, many were the hours that i lay awake in my bed and wept, while everybody else was sleeping. sometimes i could not help saying, that it would have been better if the young people had married. "that may still come about," said my husband. but that never was to be. 'for the first two months or so she was very ungovernable, and we tried severity with her; afterwards she became quiet, spoke little, but sighed and wept a great deal. she could not be induced to occupy herself in any way, for she always said, "in heaven every day is a holiday." 'full half-a-year passed in this way, and it was more than double that time since esben had gone to the south, yet none of us had heard anything of him, either for good or for evil. however, one day, when we were sitting here--my good man, cecil, and myself--who should walk in but esben! he had just arrived, had not yet even been to his own home, and had no idea what had happened, until he cast his eyes upon the girl, and then he could not fail to see that all was not right there. '"you have tarried long," said she; "everything has been ready for the bridal a year and a day. but, tell me, are you living or dead?" '"good heavens, cecil!" cried he, "you can surely see that i am living." '"that is a pity," said she, "for then you cannot enter the gates of paradise. strive to die as soon as possible, for mads egelund is watching to see if he can't come first." '"this is a sad condition," said he. "oh, michel! michel! you have done terrible wrong to us. i am now worth my five thousand dollars, too; and my mother's brother in holstein has lately died unmarried--i am to be his heir." '"what's that you say?" exclaimed my husband. "it is a pity we did not know all this some time ago. but have patience; the girl will recover now." 'esben shook his head, but went up to my daughter, and taking her hand, said, '"cecil, speak sensibly now--we are both living; and if you will only be reasonable, your parents will give their consent to our marriage." 'but she snatched her hand from him, and putting both her arms behind her back, she shrieked, '"away from me! what have i to do with you? you are a mortal man, and i am one of god's angels." 'thereupon he turned away, and began to weep bitterly. '"god forgive you, michel krã¦nsen!" at last he said; "god forgive you for the evil you have done to us two miserable beings!" '"nay, take comfort," said my good man, "all may yet go well. sleep here to-night, and let us see how she behaves in the morning." 'it was towards evening, and a dreadful storm of thunder and lightning came on, the most fearful i ever witnessed in my life--one might have thought the last day was at hand. so esben consented to stay with us, and by-and-by, when the storm had abated, we all went to bed; but through the wall i could hear esben sighing, and almost sobbing. i fancied, too, that i heard him praying to our heavenly father: at length, i fell asleep. 'it might have been an hour or two past midnight when i awoke. all was still around. the storm was over, and the clear moonlight shone in calmly at the windows. i lay reflecting on the calamity that had befallen us--little did i think of that which i am now going to relate. it struck me, after a time, that cecil was very quiet. her little room was close to ours; i listened, but could not, as usual, hear her breathe; esben, too, seemed to be extremely still. i felt a sort of foreboding that all was not right; therefore, leaving my bed, i crept softly to cecilia's. i looked in--i felt for her--but _there_ she was not. i then became very uneasy, hurried to the kitchen, struck a light, and went to the room which esben occupied. oh, horror of horrors! what did i behold there! she was sitting on esben's bed, and had laid her head upon his breast, but when i came closer i saw that he was as white as a corpse, and that the lower part of his face, and the sheets, were red with blood. i screamed, and sank to the ground, but cecil beckoned to me with one hand, while she patted his cheek with the other. '"hush, hush!" she exclaimed, half aloud, "my dearest love is now sleeping the sweet sleep. as soon as you have buried his body, angels will carry his soul to paradise, and there we shall hold our bridal, amidst joy and glory." 'alas! alas! merciful father, pardon her! she had cut his throat--the bloody knife lay upon the floor beside the bed!' here the unfortunate widow hid her face with both her hands, and wept bitterly, while horror and distress filled my heart. after a pause, she continued:--'as you may believe, there were sad lamentations and great wretchedness both at our house and at esben's; but what is done cannot be undone. when the dead body was carried to the parents, they thought at first that it had been brought from holstein--and, oh, what a crying and a screeching there was! it was enough to bring the house down about their ears. no wonder, too, for esben was a fine young man, well to do--and just when he had come into a fine property and so much money, that he must die in the flower of his youth, and by the hand of her he loved. my worthy michel could never get over _that_; he never held up his head again. in the course of a short time he became seriously ill, and then our lord took him from me. 'the self-same day that he was buried, cecilia fell into a deep sleep, and slept for many, many hours on a stretch. when she awoke, her reason had returned. i was sitting by her bed, and praying that the almighty would release her, when suddenly, as she lay there, she heaved a deep, deep sigh, and casting her eyes on me, said, "are _you_ there? where have i been? it seems to me that i have had a most extraordinary dream. i fancied i was in heaven, and esben was there with me. speak, mother; tell me, for god's sake, where is esben? have you heard nothing from him since he went to holstein?" i hardly knew what i could answer, but i said, "no, we have no news from him." she sighed. "where is my father?" she then asked. "all is well with your father," i replied; "god has taken him to himself." she began to weep. "ah, mother, let me see him!" she entreated. "that is impossible, my child," i said, "for he is in his grave." "god preserve me!" she exclaimed. "how long, then, have i slept?" by this exclamation i perceived that she had no idea of the state that she had been in. "why did you not wake me, mother?" she asked; "had you nothing for me to do? oh! how sweetly i have been sleeping, and what delightful dreams i have had. esben came every evening and visited me; but it was rather odd that he had on a shining white dress, and a red necklace round his neck.'" at this part of her story the old woman fell into deep thought, and it was not until after she had heaved many heavy sighs, that she continued her narration. 'my unfortunate child had recovered her reason, but god only knows if it was better for her. she was generally cheerful, but never got into high spirits; she spoke little, except when she was spoken to: worked very diligently, and was neither positively ill nor positively well in health. the news of her restoration to her senses spread rapidly in the neighbourhood, and, about three months after, came mads egelund a second time as her suitor. but she would have nothing to say to him whatsoever. when he was at length convinced that she could not endure him, he became much enraged, and did sad mischief. i, and all our neighbours, and everyone who came here, agreed that we should never drop the slightest hint to cecilia that she herself, during her insanity, had murdered the unfortunate esben, and she imagined that he was either married, or had died in the south. 'one day that mads was here, and was urging her vehemently to say "yes" to him, and that she declared she would rather die than marry him, he said plainly out, that he was, after all, too good for one who had cut the throat of her first lover; and thereupon he maliciously poured forth all that had happened. i was in the kitchen, and only caught part of what he was saying. i instantly left what i was about, rushed in, and cried to him, "mads, mads! for god's sake, what is that you are saying?" but it was too late; there she sat, as white as a plastered wall, and her eyes stood fixed in her head. '"what am i saying?" retorted mads; "i am saying nothing but the truth. it is better for her to know _that_, than to treat her like a fool, and let her be waiting for a dead man the whole of her life." 'he left us; but her reason had fled again, never more to return in this mortal life. you see yourself in what state she is; at all hours, when she is not sleeping, she is singing that song, which she herself composed when esben went to holstein, and she fancies that she is spinning linen for her house when married. but she is quiet enough, heaven be praised! and does not attempt to harm the meanest creature that lives; however, we dare not lose sight of her for a moment. may god take pity upon us, and soon call us both away!' as she uttered these last words, the unfortunate girl entered with her keeper. 'no,' said she, 'to-day he is not to be seen--but we shall surely have him to-morrow. i must make haste, or i shall not have finished this linen.' she placed herself hurriedly upon her low straw chair, and with her hands and feet in rapid, yet mimic action, she recommenced her mournful ditty. these words, so often repeated, the greatest sorrow that this world can give, is, far away from those one loves--to live, always drew forth a heavy sigh; and as she sang them, her pale, but still lovely face, would sink on her breast, her hands and feet would become languidly still, but directly she would rouse herself up to her labour, commence another verse, and set the invisible wheel going again. in deep thought, i wandered forth from the widow's house. my soul was as dark as the colour of the heath i trod on; my whole mind was occupied with cecilia and her dreadful fate. in every airy phantom, far and near, that flitted before my eyes, i fancied i beheld the unfortunate maniac as she sat and seemed to spin, and rocked herself, and threw up and down her hands with untiring motion. in the wild bird's plaintive whistle--in the lonely heath lark's mournful song, i heard only that one sorrowful truth--the words, alas! deeply felt by thousands of saddened hearts- the greatest sorrow that this world can give, is, far away from those one loves--to live. footnotes: [footnote 1: from a collection of short tales in one volume, entitled 'haablã¶s,'--hopeless.] [footnote 2: niel's bugge, in danish history generally called ridder buggã©, the wealthy owner of the ancient castle of hald, was on had terms with king waldemar kristoffersen, to whom he would not yield allegiance. after it had been sought in vain to bring about a reconciliation at slagelsã©, ridder buggã© and two ether noblemen, otto stigsen and peter andersen, were treacherously murdered when returning home from the meeting. some burghers of middlefort were blamed for this dark deed, but they were probably employed by persons in a higher station; at least, waldemar found it necessary to clear himself from the suspicion of guilt by the oaths of twelve men.] [footnote 3: '_schukelmeier_,' a play upon the name _mr. meier_, was a nickname signifying _smuggler_, which the lower classes in hamburg bestowed on the danes, whom they accused of having smuggled the french into hamburg.] the end. london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street, and charing cross. transcriber's notes: 1. page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/danessketchedbyt02bush 2. the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. the danes sketched by themselves. a series of popular stories by the best danish authors, translated by mrs. bushby. _in three volumes.--vol. ii_. london: richard bentley, new burlington street. 1864. * * * * * [_the right of translation is reserved_.] london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street, and charing cross. contents of vol. ii. too old.--by carit etlar. aunt francisca.--by carl bernhard. the shipwrecked mariner's treasure.--by carit etlar. damon and pythias.--by carl bernhard. the fatal chain.--from the swedish of uncle adam. the danes sketched by themselves. * * * * * too old.[1] from the danish of carit etlar. chapter i. between fredericia and snoghöi the sandy and stony shore forms a tolerably broad tongue of land, which is called lyngspoint. the coast stretches out long and flat, without any defence against the sea except a stone wall, and the fishermen who dwell here seem to have thought of nothing but the safe little bays that, on either side of the promontory, afford shelter to their small skiffs and protect them from the wild waves, and the blocks of ice which during winter the north-west winds drive in from the kattegat. farther up on the land, the bare, desolate-looking plain of sand disappears by degrees under high banks which are overgrown by a thick, low copse of brushwood, with some stunted oak and beech-trees showing themselves as sad mementoes of an extensive wood, that formerly joined the forest of erizö, and in the midst of which the village of hannerup was situated. the village and the wood have both disappeared long since. far in among the bushes people sometimes stumble upon pieces of broken stones with their mouldering cement of lime, the last fragments of the work and walls of ages gone by: in a few years the copse itself will have vanished, and the blackbird and the thrush, whose blithe carols on the summer evenings were heard even by those sailing near in the belt, will seek other leafy homes. at a little distance from the sea-shore at lyngspoint stand ten or twelve small cottages, built in the irregular style which is always observable in the houses of the peasantry of ancient days, and composed of hard clay framework and thatched roofs. to each cottage there belongs a small garden enclosed by a low earthen dyke, or a hedge of elderberries and the blackthorn. behind several of them are to be seen boats turned upside down, lying in the sand with their keels exposed, and each furnished with a little gate in the stern. these boats serve as a shelter for sheep, or geese, after having become too frail any longer to carry their owners out to sea. the inhabitants of lyngspoint are fishermen, a reserved and silent race, rough and stern like the element on which they pass so much of their time. among them the struggles of life have no cessation--labour has no reward--time affords no day of rest, except when storms forbid them to launch their boats, or the sea is covered with ice; but such dreaded and unwelcome repose is always associated with distress and want. the women employ themselves in their household affairs, and not unfrequently share the labour of the men, as they always share their privations. even the ocean's tempests are felt in common here, since every squall in which the boats are exposed to danger on the water, causes gloom and anxiety to those in the huts, who dread to lose their relatives and their means of support. in one of these fishermen's cottages one evening there were two persons--an old man, tall and athletic, his grey hair thin and sunburnt, his countenance decided and daring, and a woman, very youthful-looking, pale, and apparently unhappy, but nevertheless of rare beauty. he sat at a table, which was lighted by a lamp suspended by a chain from a beam in the roof, and the glare from which fell upon two long spanish cavalry pistols which he was busy loading. she was standing at the window gazing through the dark window-panes. it was a gloomy november evening. the storm from the seaward swept wildly along, howling dismally, while the rain beat heavily against the windows, and the flame in the lamp fluttered and flickered in the gusts of wind that rushed into the room through the open chimney. there had been a long and unbroken silence between the two occupants of the apartment; the man, while continuing his work, cast several glances towards the young woman, but always looked quickly away when she turned towards him. at length he asked, 'at what are you looking?' 'at the weather,' she replied. 'it will be a bad night to go to sea in.' 'the weather is good enough,' he muttered, gruffly. 'it is all the better for being dark; the darkness will be of use to us.' so saying, he started up, buckled on a cutlass, and stuck the pistols in his belt. 'give me something to eat.' the woman spread the table for supper, and taking a pot off the fire, poured its contents into a dish, which she placed before the man. there was again complete silence; he ate his supper without saying a word, while the young woman sat leaning back in her chair near the table, and fixed her eye on him with a sad, yet scrutinizing look. 'i am done,' he exclaimed, after a little while, 'and now, good-by.' 'are you going already?' she asked, sorrowfully. 'to be sure i am--it is the time agreed on, and they will be waiting for me on the shore down yonder.' he drew on a thick sailor's jacket over his other clothes, and went towards the door. 'farewell, christine!' he said, without even turning to look at her. christine stretched both her hands towards him, and her trembling lips moved, but the words she would have spoken died away in a deep sigh. the man turned round and walked back a step or two. for a few moments he stood in silent surprise, and then exclaimed, 'what are you weeping for?' 'oh, jan steffens!' she whispered, half aloud, as she again stretched her hands towards him, 'i am so afraid lest any evil should happen to you.' the man did not take her proffered hand, and his thick eyebrows were knitted together, as he said, 'how childish you are, christine! what is there for you to be afraid of? i am going on a lawful errand, and things must take their course. take care to put the fire out, and don't forget to feed the watch-dog in the morning. i have locked him up in the wash-house, that he might not make a noise to-night.' so saying he turned to go, but when he had reached the door he came back once again, and exclaimed, with solemnity, 'may the lord's protecting hand be over you, christine!' in another moment he was gone. the young woman laid her head on the table, covered her face with her hands, and wept bitterly. she had sat there for some time absorbed in grief, when suddenly she raised her head, for she had heard steps on the outside of the cottage. she got up and went to the window. presently she saw a figure in the doorway. it was that of a young man in a sailor's dress, and armed in the same manner as jan was. 'good evening, dear christine!' he exclaimed. 'has jan gone?' 'yes,' she answered; 'you will find him down yonder with the other boatmen.' the fisherman seemed to be reflecting on something, while he fixed his eyes intently upon the young woman's face. he observed that there were tears in her eyes, and approaching her, he seized her hand. 'christine!' he exclaimed, in a soft and sympathizing voice, 'you have been weeping? has there been any quarrel between you and your husband?' 'no,' she replied, 'there never has been any.' and as she spoke she tried to draw her hand away, but he grasped it more firmly. 'would to heaven you had never seen that old jan steffens,' he whispered; 'you would have been much happier--oh, what misery we would both have escaped!' 'would to heaven i had never seen you, kjeld,' she answered; 'then, perhaps, jan and i might have been comfortable together.' the young fisherman's eyes sparkled at this imprudent confession, which admitted so much more than christine had any intention of doing. 'but what harm have i done?' he asked, gently. 'we loved each other from our childish days, when we used to go to school together. ah! _then_ we looked forward to living together, to working together, to trying our luck together--and--being so happy! then came jan steffens--and now--' 'and now i am jan steffens's wife,' cried christine, interrupting him impetuously. 'never speak to me more of the past, therefore, kjeld--it is gone! it is forgotten,' she added, in a lower and sadder tone. at that moment the light from the lamp fell upon a face, which, on the outside of the house, was intently looking in through the window. those in the room did not observe it, and had no suspicion that prying eyes were upon them. kjeld asked, with warmth, 'why should we not speak of the past? we have always been only like brother and sister to each other.' 'brother and sister!' said christine, trying to smile, 'what else could we have been? but i am a married woman, kjeld, and you, like every one else, are only a stranger to me. therefore you must not come here so often--people remark the frequency of your visits, and talk of them.' 'but jan himself has allowed them,' said the fisherman. 'only yesterday, when we were coming from church, he asked me where i had been all last week, and why i had never once entered his house. he said that you had been speaking of me.' christine raised her head, and cast a surprised and inquiring look at kjeld. he went on: 'jan said that you were longing to see me again.' 'i cannot understand his conduct,' murmured christine, musingly. 'when your husband spoke thus,' said kjeld, tenderly, 'why will you be harsher than he? answer me, christine--why may i not come here as hitherto? i ask for nothing more.' the young woman's lips quivered, and her whole frame trembled with emotion, which she seemed struggling to overcome, as she replied, in a broken voice, 'oh, kjeld, leave off such questions. it is a sin on your part to speak in this manner to me. go--go, i beseech you. jan will expect to meet you down yonder with the other boatmen.' kjeld seemed lost in thought for a few moments; he then came close to christine, laid his hand on her head, and tried to speak--but words failed him, and turning suddenly away, he rushed from the cottage. at the same moment the face vanished, which, from the outside of the window, had been watching the scene within. the storm appeared to be increasing. the lamp swung, and its light fluttered in the draughts of air from the ill-secured window-frames. when christine found that she was alone, she crouched down close to the door, as if she wished to catch the last expiring echo of the footsteps of him who had just gone. she listened, but nothing was to be heard save the roaring of the tempest, and the sound of the rain pattering against the windows. this is a tale of the year 1808, at the commencement of that unfortunate period when denmark, without a fleet, without an army, and almost without finances, entered into war both with sweden and england. down at the shore, in one of the little bays before mentioned, the water from which was conveyed a good way inland by a broad channel that had been dug for the purpose, there lay that evening two gunboats, which a number of men were getting out into the open sea. they worked hurriedly and silently, and the little noise that they unavoidably made was drowned in the roaring of the waves, which were dashing furiously on the beach of the narrow tongue of land. the men were all armed in the same way as jan steffens, and seemed to obey his orders. jan was the principal pilot of the place, and well known as an excellent seaman. the two gunboats had been built and rigged at fredericia, and afterwards placed under his command. they were the masters of the whole belt, so to speak, and the previous summer they had taken several valuable prizes from the english. at the moment in question the pilot was standing on a rock on the beach, and dividing his attention between the men's work and the black clouds above, from which the rain was pouring down in torrents. all the preparations, so energetically carried on that evening, were made for the purpose of taking by surprise an english corvette, which, for want of a pilot, had anchored in a bay near fyen shortly before the darkness and the storm had commenced. just about the time that the gunboats had been hauled out to the extremity of the point, two persons approached the shore, both coming from the direction of the cottages. one was a half-grown lad, the other was kjeld. the boy looked about for the pilot, and when he perceived him standing on the rock he hastened towards him. jan stooped and whispered in the boy's ear, 'was he in yonder?' 'yes.' 'you are sure you saw him--you have not made any mistake?' 'i saw him as plainly as i now see you, jan steffens.' 'very well, jens; you can go home. let the sails alone!' he cried, shortly after, turning towards the group of men near; 'the storm is increasing, the wind is right against us, and we must row the boats out. how late may it be, i wonder?' 'it is not yet midnight,' replied kjeld, who had just approached the pilot. 'as i was coming along i heard the clock at erizö church strike eleven.' 'mongens dal, at fyensland, promised to place a light in his window at twelve o'clock,' observed another. 'his farm lies close by the bay where the english ship has anchored; we have only, then, to look out for that light, and there will be no mistake.' 'ay, ay--all right,' replied jan, gruffly. 'mind your own business, vextel, and leave me to determine how we shall steer.' a few minutes afterwards he announced that it was time for them to put to sea. 'take your places,' cried jan, 'and see that you make as little noise with the oars as possible. ebbe, take the helm of the other boat, and follow close to the one i steer. we shall be a tolerable number this time, i think.' 'you promised to take the porpoise-hunters from middlefart with us.' 'to be sure i did, and we shall find room for them; they are fine brave fellows, these porpoise-hunters. has kjeld come on board?' 'yes, pilot,' answered the young man from the first gunboat. 'a word with you, kjeld. come a little way on shore.' kjeld sprang out of the boat, the pilot went up to him, and they walked together from the beach towards the sandhills. 'you will see that kjeld will be half-mad this evening,' said one of the seamen in the first boat. 'jan steffens looks as sulky and savage as can be; very likely he has found out the love affair at home in his house up yonder.' 'poor man!' said another, 'why did he take so young a wife. he is much too old for her.' in the meantime, after jan and kjeld had walked to some distance in silence side by side, jan asked suddenly,-'where were you this evening, kjeld? it was very late before you joined us.' kjeld stammered some almost unintelligible words, while he seemed to be framing an answer. 'you are thinking what you can say,' exclaimed the old pilot, in a voice unsteady with suppressed anger, 'for you dare not speak it out. you were with christine. you ought not to conceal this from me. you were there also yesterday, and on sunday, and last friday; and, in short, whenever i am absent, at sea in my boat, or elsewhere, you find some pretext to visit her.' 'i admit it is true,' replied kjeld, who was startled by the stern coldness of jan's looks and words. 'but did it never occur to you that you were wrong in visiting her so often? christine is a married woman, and you will bring discredit upon her with your frequent visits.' 'i am a man of honour, jan steffens,' replied kjeld, in a voice that trembled somewhat with anxiety at what might be the result of this conversation, 'and i have never behaved in your house in any way that you or the whole world might not have witnessed.' 'that is, perhaps, a misfortune, sir.' 'a misfortune!' exclaimed kjeld, in amazement; 'what can you mean?' 'if it had been otherwise,' replied jan, quietly, 'i should have put a pistol to your head, and shot you--that's all. it would have been better both for you and her, maybe.' 'but you yourself gave me permission to visit at your house; you said that christine longed to have some news of me.' 'well, if i said that, of course you knew on whose account i asked you to come. you need not take the matter so much to heart, my lad; let us speak reasonably now. i know that you are a well-principled young man, kjeld; i have watched you narrowly ever since christine and i were married. i am aware how things stand between you two; i know all, kjeld!' 'you?' 'ah, yes! i know that she loves you, and that she has never in her life cared for anyone else.' 'then you know, also, that i am the most unfortunate man on earth,' replied kjeld. 'you!' exclaimed jan, shrugging up his shoulders mockingly--'you! no, my lad, there is one who beats you in misfortune.' 'who?' '_i_. if you had acted towards me as you ought to have done, you would have come to me when i was courting christine, and have told me how things were between you and her.' 'we thought of doing that, jan steffens, but we did not dare to risk it.' 'nonsense--nonsense! one should dare everything to fulfil one's duty. but you kept silence at that time, so did she, and matters were allowed to take their course.' 'oh, jan steffens!' replied the young fisherman, in a voice trembling with emotion, 'what could i have said to you? i was a poor fellow, working hard to obtain food enough for my own support. you were well off, and had been kind to christine's father, therefore they were glad to let you have the girl.' 'a very good reason, truly. what! because i had been kind to the old people, had i a claim to make their daughter unhappy? no; the blame was your own. you both kept silence, and yourselves are answerable for the evil that followed. hearken, kjeld! from this evening forward we must understand each other. i loved christine from the first moment i beheld her; she was so amiable, so dutiful, and so full of affectionate feeling for the old people, her parents, and so attentive to them, that i thought she would make an excellent wife. i knew that she would have many more comforts in my house than she had at home. i reflected on everything, except upon the difference between our ages. she was silent--she wept; but she married me. since that time, kjeld, i have done all that a man could do to make myself liked. i was kind and indulgent to her. i allowed her to rule in all things, and to do whatever she pleased. i brought her home the most beautiful dresses and presents when i went on voyages. but all was of no avail. i was _too old_. 'i bought a new boat for her father, i took her mother into our house, i clothed her little sisters and sent them to school, i prayed to the lord every morning and evening of my life in mercy to inspire her with kindly feelings towards me--but in vain, in vain! she went through her duties, and was civil and good-tempered; but love me she never could. when i was young, like you, kjeld, i dared not attach myself to any woman, because i was _too poor_; now that i have become rich, none will attach herself to me, because i am _too old_. you look sad. ah, so goes the world, my boy! it was not long before i found out that you loved christine; and, alas! still worse--i too soon perceived how much she cared for you. while you both thought the secret was buried in your own hearts, i read it as if in an open book. then i was seized with the most furious jealousy. i resolved to murder you, and more than once, at that period, there was but a hair-breadth between you and death. i watched you closely--my eyes were often on you, and never were you out of my thoughts.' jan stopped; he seemed to be nerving himself to go on with his narration. kjeld observed that he was shaking, as if in an ague fit. 'you were an honourable man, kjeld, as you declared a little while ago,' continued jan, 'yet that which ought to have made my unhappiness less, absolutely added to it. i have nothing to complain of--nothing to reproach you with--all falls back upon myself--upon that disastrous, that wretched union of hands, in which the soul took no part; and when one has come to the full knowledge that such was the case, the painful truth fastens itself upon the mind, and impels one to seek some remedy to the misfortune.' 'you are right, jan steffens,' replied kjeld, earnestly. 'i, too, have been reflecting upon a remedy since i left christine a little while ago, when she wished to heaven she had never known me--never even beheld me.' 'did christine really say that?' exclaimed the pilot with surprise, but, it must be owned, not without feeling somewhat pleased and flattered. 'well, that was rather a cruel wish to bestow on you this evening, when she thought that you were going on an expedition from whence many of us will, perhaps, never return.' 'christine is a better wife than you fancy; she discards every thought that is not in accordance with her duty; i shall not be wanting in mine either, and i have hit upon a plan to set all to rights.' 'so have i,' said the pilot. 'i shall go away and engage myself on board some ship trading with a foreign country, and neither she nor you shall see me often again, if it shall please god to spare my life in our enterprise to-night.' 'that he certainly will do, my lad, for a good reason--that you shall not go with us.' 'not go with you! what do you mean by that?' asked kjeld, in the utmost amazement. 'listen!' replied jan, with cold, quiet decision of manner. 'i have not much time to spare, and my resolution is taken. because you have behaved honourably, and because you have both felt so kindly disposed towards an old man who, without knowing or intending it, brought upon you the greatest disappointment that can befall anyone, i will ensure you both a reward. go back to christine, and tell her, that from this evening henceforth i will bestow on her all the liberty she can desire; she shall no longer have cause to grieve and to weep, as she has so often done when she supposed no one saw her, or at night, when she thought i was asleep: you can say that since it was impossible for me to win her affection, and be happy myself, i will not hinder her from being so. on this account, it is not _you_, young man, but _i_, who must go away to a distant land, never more to return.' it would be difficult to describe the young seaman's amazement as he listened to these words. 'i do not at all understand you, jan steffens,' he said. 'what do you mean by speaking in this manner?' 'they are calling to me from the boats!' cried jan. 'do you not hear their shouts? i must away. what do i mean?' he added, in a lower tone. 'it is easily understood; if i die to-night, i cannot stand in your way to-morrow.' 'die!' cried kjeld. 'are you going to kill yourself?' 'no,' replied the pilot, calmly. 'but i feel pretty sure that the englishmen will take the trouble of despatching me upon themselves.' 'no, no! that shall not be! you must let me go with you, jan steffens, and share your danger; you promised that you would. besides, according to the lots that we drew in the dark, i have a right to accompany you. and if you were to die--if you were to put yourself forward to be killed--i should be still more miserable than i am now. christine would never be mine, if that happiness were purchased by your death to-night.' 'oh, as to that, you will change your tune when the time comes,' replied the pilot, turning to go; but kjeld stopped him, and placing himself before him, while he seized his arms, exclaimed, 'oh, jan steffens! take me with you; i entreat you, as the greatest favour, to do so. you shall not forsake christine; you are a far better husband to her than i should be. let me go with the boats!' jan shook himself free from the young man's grasp, and in answer to his earnest appeal, he said, 'it shall be as i have determined, kjeld, so there is no use for another word on the subject. but you must not go to christine till to-morrow, for you may well believe that i must have ceased to live before i cease to love her. farewell, kjeld--be kind to her, and make her as happy as you can. she is very mild, and is easily intimidated. when she is yours, and you speak of me in future years, remember that i wished to do good to you both--that i atoned for my fault as well as i could--and that my greatest misfortune was--that she was so young, or rather, that i was _too old_.' the pilot wrung kjeld's hand as he said these words, and before the young fisherman had time to conquer his emotion so as to be able to make any reply, the old man had left him, and was crossing the sand with rapid strides towards the shore where the boats' crews were assembled. kjeld followed him, crying, 'jan steffens, let me go with you only this once; do not thus turn a deaf ear to me. you will rob me of my honour, my share in your glory, if i alone am to be left behind.' 'push off!' shouted the pilot, as he jumped into the leading gunboat, and took his place at the helm. the oars sank, and both the boats began to move towards the sea. kjeld uttered a despairing cry, and sprang after them, but he could not reach them, and the waves cast him back on the shore. 'things shall be as i have said,' he heard in the pilot's deep voice from the foremost boat. 'but do not go up yonder before to-morrow, and may the lord be with you both!' the men in the boats had been astonished witnesses of this scene. those who sat nearest to him cast looks of inquiry towards the pilot; but his eye gave no responsive glance, his sunburnt face only expressed inflexible resolution, and his countenance was, perhaps, a little sterner even than usual. from the beach kjeld saw the boats rising and sinking amidst the foaming waves, while his passionate entreaties and his wild shouts were lost in the roaring of the wind and the thunder of the sea. the rain was pouring in torrents, and the skies were obscured by heavy black clouds. soon after the two boats appeared only as dark specks upon the water, and presently even these vanished amidst the thick fog which rested over the sea at a little distance. fortunately the current was running northwards that night--that is to say, in a direction which favoured the progress of the gunboats, so that their crews were not obliged to fatigue themselves with rowing hard. the raging sea broke repeatedly over the boats, but no one seemed to mind this; they placed complete confidence in the pilot, whose tall figure, apparently immovable, stood upright at the helm: and perhaps the thoughts of all were directed to the object of their expedition, which they were rapidly approaching. the rain had somewhat abated in that particular place, and when a gust of wind partially dispelled the fog for a moment, they saw on the opposite high coast of fyen the signal-light, which, though it was but faint and flickering, pointed out to them where they should seek the enemy. amidst the profound silence that reigned in the boats, the pilot addressed the men in low but distinct tones. 'row more quietly still, gutter! make no noise with your oars; you may be certain that they have their eyes and ears open yonder. they know right well where they are. have the guns clear in front there, nikolai; you must show us to-night that you understand your work like an old artilleryman. the wind will fall off the nearer we come under the shelter of the hilly land. if i see aright, we have our man there in the lee of the boats.' all eyes were instantly turned in the direction he had named; a dark object became soon after perceptible amidst the thick gloom around, it gradually grew in size and developed its outline, until the hull of a ship was to be discerned, sharp and black, reposing on the waters like a swan. chapter ii. in pursuance of the plan which jan steffens had arranged, the boats shaped their course so as to come between the land and the corvette. they could hear the wind whistling amidst the cordage, could see the light in the captain's cabin, and the heads of the officers of the watch as they paced up and down the quarter-deck. the silence which had reigned on board was broken the moment the pilot's boat was perceived from the ship. immediately afterwards jan's sonorous voice was heard commanding his men to fire. both the gunboats fired at the same moment, and with terrible effect. it would be in vain to try to describe the commotion which now took place on board the enemy's ship. the attack had been made as suddenly as it had been planned; it was also favoured in the highest degree by the darkness and the tempest, which embarrassed many of the movements of the ship at anchor, whilst the gunboats, on the contrary, were able to move easily towards the places where their fire would operate most effectively, and be most destructive. under these fortunate circumstances the fishermen continued to load and to discharge their guns. splinters and pieces of broken planks evinced the accuracy of their gunners. on board the corvette they were not able to point their cannon so low that they could sweep the boats, whose flat hulls, besides, were only visible during the flashes of fire from the guns, and in an instant after seemed to have been swallowed up by the lofty billows. meanwhile the drums beat on board the ship; the boatswain's whistle mingled with the officer's words of command--disorder was at an end. everything was done that circumstances permitted to oppose the enemy, and their fire was returned whenever their position could be ascertained. soon after the rain ceased, and faint rays of pale moonlight struggled through the dark masses of clouds that were driving across the skies. the gunboats came close under the man-of-war, and after another discharge of their guns, the crews boarded the ship, climbing in by every possible opening, amidst cries of joyous triumph; and then commenced a scene in which were mingled the sounds of oaths, shouts, and pistol-shots, while everything was shrouded in the thick veil of mist and dark clouds of smoke. at lyngspoint every shot was heard, and caused the deepest anxiety for the absent. as usual upon similar occasions, lights appeared in all the fishermen's huts. none of the females thought of sleep while their husbands and their brothers were fighting upon the stormy sea. the tempest roared around the cottages, the watch-dogs howled as if lamenting their masters' danger, and the crowing of the cocks announced the approach of morning. pale countenances, expressive of fear and anxiety, appeared one after the other at the half-open doors; presently the women began to go over to each other's houses to communicate their forebodings, or to seek for the comfort so much needed. in the little porch of one of the houses nearest to the shore stood a group of three females muffled up in woollen shawls and gazing upon the sea. every shot was noticed by them with a sigh or a speaking glance. 'there is warm work going on over yonder,' groaned one woman. 'ah, yes!' replied another; 'i was just thinking that every one of these shots may cost a man's life--the lives of _our_ men, perhaps.' 'nonsense! there is nothing to make such a fuss about,' exclaimed a rough voice. 'our people's lives are in god's hands, even though they may stand before the barrel of a gun, or ride on a plank over the ocean. i have put up a prayer to the lord for my boy. "do your duty," i said to him when he went away, "and our almighty father will order the rest as seems good to him!"' she who spoke thus was an extraordinary-looking woman. her face was entirely covered with wrinkles and marks of the small-pox, which made her harsh features look still coarser than they really were. some years before the date of the night in question, her husband had been lost at sea, and she and her little son had been left in the utmost poverty. from that time ellen went out with the men to fish: she worked as hard as the best of them, managed her boat like an experienced seaman, and never seemed to feel fatigue. equipped in a short dress, a pair of large fisherman's boots, and a dark, low hat, which in nautical language is called 'a sou'-wester,' she was to be seen in the worst weather carrying her fish about to the neighbouring farms for sale; in the autumn months she hired the old right of ferryman at snoghöi, and carried fruit over from æro to zealand--she took travellers across to strib--mended her own boat when it needed repairs; in short, she worked hard, for she worked to maintain her son. doubtless some local readers of this slight sketch will recognize in ellen an old acquaintance, who was always welcome wherever she showed herself; an honest, upright, self-sacrificing character, whose whole life was one scene of unflinching devotion to her duties, until she suddenly disappeared from her home, and was never seen again. ellen was standing with a short clay-pipe in her mouth, her rough grey locks confined by a handkerchief tied under her chin. 'i'll tell you what, ellen,' said one of the other women, 'let us run over to stine steffens, as none of us have any mind to go to sleep to-night. she has a warm, comfortable room, and can give us a good cup of coffee.' her proposition was readily agreed to by the group of women who had now assembled, and, tying handkerchiefs over their heads like hoods, they all repaired to jan steffens's house, with the exception of 'skipper ellen,' as she was generally called, who remained behind. christine was still sitting in the same corner of the room where she had placed herself after kjeld had left her. her beautiful, expressive eyes were swimming in tears. 'good evening, little stine!' cried one of the fisherwomen. 'how goes it with you?' 'oh, as with the rest of you,' she replied. 'i am full of anxiety and terror. it was kind of you to come here. pray sit down.' 'you had better come to one of our houses, and we shall make some good strong coffee; that will help to kill the time.' 'we can make the coffee as well here,' said christine. 'oh, certainly,' said the other, joyfully, 'and i will help to blow up the fire.' the fire was rekindled, the coffee made, and the conversation was then resumed. 'would to heaven our people were safe at home again!' exclaimed christine. 'i am so terrified at the risk they are running to-night.' 'and with good reason too,' said one of the women. 'there is sure to be sorrow among some of us to-morrow, for the firing has been going on at least half-an-hour. but we must comfort ourselves by remembering that storm and sunshine come from the same hand; and if some are sufferers others will be gainers, for no doubt there will be a good deal of prize-money from so large a ship. you, at any rate, can take things easily, my good stine, for if anything should happen to your old man, your fate won't be very hard--you will soon have another and a younger husband. besides, jan steffens always gets a double portion of any prize-money, or any treasure that is found, though all the other men risk their lives as much as he does his.' 'oh, come now,' cried another, 'christine has twice as much cause of anxiety as we have. we have only _one_ to think of--she has _two_.' 'two!' exclaimed christine. 'what do you mean?' 'why, have you not first your old husband, and then a young sweetheart in the background? i mean kjeld olsen.' while christine was reflecting what answer to make to this sudden attack, another woman said, 'there is no fear of anything happening to kjeld olsen to-night; he was wiser than to put himself into jeopardy, so he remained at home, and let them go without him. of course he had good reasons for determining to spare his own life--old jan steffens may lose his.' up to this moment christine had not made any reply to their rude jests, hut her patience was now exhausted, her pale cheeks turned crimson, and rising up she said firmly, 'you have not been speaking the truth. kjeld is to-night where he always delights to be, in the midst of danger, the boldest among the bold.' 'who is speaking of kjeld?' asked skipper ellen, who had entered the room at that moment. 'he is standing down yonder on the shore, and trying hard to persuade poul mikkelsen, at any price, to take him over in his boat to the english ship.' 'there now, you hear he is at home,' cried the woman, who had first mentioned the fact. 'it is well you came, ellen, for christine would not believe our word.' 'will you come down to the shore?' asked ellen; 'the rain is over, the wind has lulled, and the moon is shining clearly.' 'yes, let us go,' said christine, laying aside the empty coffee-cups. 'ah! now we shall see what is the matter with poor kjeld.' 'of course old jan steffens did not care to have his company,' said the most ill-natured woman. 'no doubt he knew pretty well where kjeld's thoughts would be wandering to.' 'and _i_ say you are quite mistaken,' replied ellen, casting a look of angry scorn on the woman. 'it would be a happy thing for you, birthe, if you had a son, or anyone belonging to you, that resembled kjeld.' so saying, she took christine by the arm and went towards the shore, followed by the rest of the women. it had ceased raining, and the wind had abated, but the sea was still much agitated, and the noise of firing was yet to be heard. kjeld was standing in earnest conversation with an old man, who was leaning on a staff, and who shook his head occasionally as if refusing something. 'what is the matter, kjeld?' asked skipper ellen. 'and why have you not gone with the rest of them?' 'jan steffens said there were too many in the boats,' he answered evasively. 'ay--and now he insists upon following them,' said the old man, 'and offers me everything he has to help him to row over yonder. but the weather is too bad. i won't trust my boat out in such a wild sea.' 'what nonsense!' cried ellen, jeeringly. 'are you afraid of risking your life, poul?' 'you know better, ellen,' replied the old man. 'i have no fear for my life, but if i lose my boat my children will starve.' 'that is a serious consideration, to be sure,' said ellen, 'but the young man shall go, notwithstanding, and if you won't accompany him, _i_ will. come here, kjeld--when you and i put our strength together i think we shall manage to reach the other side.' kjeld uttered a cry of joy, shook ellen's hand warmly, and exclaimed, 'may god bless and reward you, dear good ellen; i shall never forget your kindness.' 'as to your boat, poul, you must not be alarmed if we borrow it,' said ellen. 'if we are unlucky, and the sea takes us, my boat lies drawn up on the land, newly painted and just put to rights; and in the village yonder i have a small house--you can take both as payment if your boat be lost. but kjeld _shall_ go as he wishes.' 'don't attempt to go, ellen,' cried one of the women, 'you will only get into trouble.' 'with god's help i have no fear of that. the lad shall go, if we should cross in one of my fishing-boats.' she forced herself through the circle of women who had gathered around her, and hastened to the shore, where kjeld had already placed himself in the frail boat. ellen got into it, and, standing up, seized an oar. soon after the boat glided out to sea, and the somewhat hazardous voyage was begun. 'she is a wonderful woman, that ellen!' exclaimed one of those who were looking on. 'a lucky fellow he was who got her for a wife; there's nothing she can't turn her hand to; and she can work as well as the best man among them.' as long as it was possible to perceive the boat, it was observed to be making straight for its destination; rowed by vigorous arms, and managed by experienced persons, it seemed sometimes to be swallowed up by the waves, and then it would be seen as if riding over them, and defying them, while it never swerved from its appointed course. 'come now, kjeld,' cried ellen, after they had got some distance from the land, 'let us two have a little rational conversation. it was partly to find an opportunity for this that i was so willing to go to sea with you to-night. what really is the matter with you, my lad? why have you been going about latterly with your head drooping in such a melancholy way, and loitering about in idleness, instead of following your occupations cheerfully and diligently?' 'the matter with me!' exclaimed kjeld, in well-feigned astonishment; 'why, nothing, ellen--you are quite mistaken in supposing that anything is the matter with me.' 'oh, there is no use in your denying that something ails you; i am too old to be easily humbugged. you must speak the honest truth to me, kjeld; you must be as frank with me as i am with you. you need not fear to speak freely, for no one can overhear you out thus far on the sea--no one, my boy--except myself and he who rules the ocean. you are still silent, kjeld--then _i_ will speak out. you are sighing and grieving because you love christine steffens, and because you think that she loves you; that's the short and the long of the matter. but have you forgotten that christine is a married woman? and are you aware that your conduct is bringing her name into people's mouths--that every creature in the village is talking of you and her, and that the walls of her own house cannot protect her against jeering and insult? i have myself been a witness of this to-night.' 'what was said to her, ellen?' asked kjeld, in consternation. 'who could speak a syllable in disparagement of christine?' 'say, rather, who can prevent it, kjeld, since you yourself afford such ample room for tittle-tattle.' 'ah, ellen! if you only knew how much i love christine! she has been my thought by day, and my dream by night; and when i have been away on long voyages, i denied myself everything to save all i got for her. i always expected that she would certainly one day be mine--but when i came home this autumn, she was married!' 'it was a pity. there is nothing left for you, therefore, now, but to forget her.' 'forget her! i shall never, never forget her.' 'oh, i have heard such vows before; young folks have always these ideas, but they smile at them when they become older. an honourable man loves a girl when he marries her, or when he intends to marry her.' 'and when he cannot marry her?' 'then he lets her alone, my good lad, and turns his attention to some one else.' 'more easily said than done, ellen.' 'you think i do not know what i am speaking about because i am old, and grey, and wrinkled. is it not so, kjeld? but remember that old people have been young themselves once, and let me tell you that the misery which you find it so impossible to bear, i have borne, though i am only a woman. long ago, when i was a little better-looking than i am now, there was one who was always uppermost in my thoughts--one whom i cherished in my secret soul; in short, to whom i was as much attached as you are to christine. he wooed me, too; he begged me to be his wife, and swore by him who made yon heavens above that he loved only me.' 'and what answer did you give him?' 'i told him that we could not be so imprudent as to marry, for he had little, and i had still less; that i would marry the man who was the landlord of the house in which we resided, to provide a comfortable home for my mother as long as she lived. and i did marry that man. he whom i had refused never knew how much i cared for him; he did not think that i had been really attached to him. but i grieved when he went away. there never was a squall at sea that i did not think with anxiety about him; and many a night have i soaked my pillow with my tears, when i could not go to sleep because the tempest raged so without.' 'do i know the person of whom you are speaking, ellen?' 'yes, you do, kjeld: he is your own father.' 'my father!' 'can you now comprehend why i have always taken such an interest in you, and why i have some right to advise you to let christine alone? i do not say that you must forget her.' 'no, because you are convinced it is impossible for me to do so.' 'not at all--because i know forgetfulness will come of itself. i only desire to impress on you the necessity of leaving this place, and no longer loitering about the sea-shore here. to-morrow i am going to sail to æro, or æbler, and if you will come with me, kjeld, we will go on to copenhagen. you had better engage yourself on board some ship going to the south, and stay away a few years. when you come back again, if our lord has spared my life till then, you will thank me for the advice i have given you this night. but see! here are our boats. for god's sake, kjeld, do your duty! i will fasten our little skiff to one of the gunboats.' christine in the meantime remained standing on the beach at a little distance from the other women. she had been a silent but much interested spectator of all that had occurred previous to kjeld's and ellen's departure, and she stood watching the frail little boat as long as it was visible. at length the fisherwomen rejoined her, and were loud in the expression of their fears and forebodings. christine said scarcely anything. 'of course you have no reason to be afraid, christine,' said the same woman who had before commenced jeering at her in jan steffens's house. 'kjeld cannot arrive yonder until all the dangerous work is over, but he can always boast of being one of the party, and perhaps he may get a share of the prize-money. and if any accident should happen to old jan steffens, you will have a new protector ready at hand.' 'what do you mean by all the insinuations you have been throwing out to-night?' asked christine. 'well, this is too good!' cried the woman, laughing, and turning towards the other females. 'she pretends to be so ignorant, the little lamb!' 'but speak out--explain yourself! i do not understand a word you have been saying, and cannot imagine what you have been all driving at to-night.' 'i mean that you and kjeld will marry as soon as jan's eyes are closed for ever, and that it is no fault of yours or kjeld's that this has been so long of taking place.' 'and will you listen to my answer?' said christine, in a peremptory tone, and speaking with such pointed distinctness that her words were perfectly heard by every one near. 'if such a misfortune should befall me that any accident shall occur to jan steffens to-night, i swear that i will never marry either kjeld olsen, or any other man upon this earth.' 'oh, you would think better of it--you would change your mind,' cried the other, laughing scornfully. 'no!' said christine. 'by my hopes of salvation and eternal happiness in the world to come, i speak the truth. and i beseech you to believe me, and leave me in peace.' shortly after the firing ceased, and many eyes were turned anxiously towards the place where it was known the ship lay. 'it is over now,' said a solemn voice. 'they will be coming back presently. god have mercy on us all, but especially on those who have lost any near and dear to them!' there was a deep and unbroken silence among the crowd. terror and anxiety had closed all their lips, and every eye was strained looking out for the boats. old poul mikkelsen, who had clambered up to the top of a pile of rocks, was sitting without his hat, and singing the first verses of a psalm in a weak and tremulous voice. suddenly there burst forth a bright light in the direction of the ship; it increased in width until by degrees it became a broad sheet of dark flame, the glowing reflection of which streamed over the waves and tinged the hills that skirted the adjacent coast. such was the glare of light that the shore at fyensland could be seen crowded with people, and several boats were discerned apparently rowing in great haste to and from the corvette. 'the ship is on fire!' cried poul. 'our people have been victorious.' the fire seemed to increase until at length it appeared to become concentrated, when it shot up in one high pillar of flame, from which jets of sparks were thrown up into the air around. while the group on the shore at lyngspoint were standing in breathless silence, the church clock at erizö was heard to strike three, and the grey dawn of morning began to give place to the clear light of day. in the glare from the fire the corvette--with its slender masts, its yards, and cordage--became distinctly and fearfully visible, and people could be perceived hurrying up and down the deck. shortly after, the guns went off, the fire having then reached them, and one cannon-ball struck the bank at no great distance from where the wives and families of the fishermen were assembled. no one seemed to notice it, for the thoughts of all were earnestly bent upon the terrible drama which was being enacted out upon the sea; each person present had a deep interest in it, and not one of them but waited for its _dénoûment_ with dread and apprehension. 'here come our boats!' cried poul, pointing with his staff towards two dark specks which were to be seen tossing on the waves at a little distance from the corvette. soon after a third boat was observed, towed by one of the gun-boats. christine had been the first to perceive it; she folded her hands, and cast a grateful look of thanksgiving up towards heaven. at length the gunboats reached the shore. in the deeply-affecting scene that followed were mingled joyous exclamations and groans of despair--smiles and tears--as those so dear and so anxiously looked for were found to be safe, or, alas! to be among the wounded and the dead. christine's eyes sought jan everywhere--but in vain--she did not see him. she covered her face, and burst into tears. in a few minutes kjeld approached her, and laid his hand gently on her arm. 'where is my husband?' she asked, impatiently. 'he is dead,' replied kjeld. 'dead! dead!' exclaimed christine, in a voice faint and trembling from agitation. 'yes! he fell at the very moment that he ordered us to return to our boats, when the englishmen had set fire to the corvette. i did all i could to save him, dear christine; i posted myself at his side, and defended him to the last. but it was all in vain; it was impossible to rescue him from death.' 'why did you not go with him at first?' asked christine abruptly. 'because he insisted that i should not. he knew all that we, too, have felt and thought; he desired me to remain behind, and carry a message to you, but i was not to deliver it until to-morrow.' 'it will be needless,' said christine. 'to-morrow i shall be gone to my aunt at kjærup.' she stretched out both her hands to him, and struggling with her tears, she added, in a tone of deep emotion. 'god be with you, kjeld! my dear, my only friend!' 'you are not going away, christine?' exclaimed kjeld. 'yes,' she replied. 'i made a vow to the almighty that i would do so when i offered up my prayers to him to bring you back unhurt.' 'but still why must you go away?' he asked, in a voice of alarm and anxiety. 'because we two must forget our hopes and our dreams; because we must separate from each other, never more to meet again!' aunt francisca. from the danish of carl bernhard. chapter i. on a lovely summer evening, in the month of july, an old lady was to be seen walking alone by the row of small houses which forms one side of st. anne's place, and stretches down towards the harbour. this part of copenhagen contains the domiciles of the fashionable world; it is what the faubourg saint-germain used to be to the parisians; palace succeeds to palace, the court is situated in this neighbourhood, and the foreign diplomatists--a class more important in copenhagen than perhaps in any other place on earth--honour this portion of the city by making it their abode. but, as it were, to remind the world that great people cannot do without the poorer sort, certain small houses have here and there thrust themselves into good society, and the many signboards hanging out plainly evince that their inhabitants do not wear laurels so easily won, or enjoy such luxurious repose as their neighbours do. at any rate, such certainly is the case with the dwellers in the row of houses above mentioned, which, from one end to the other, is occupied by mechanics, seafaring men, and other common people. the old lady walked so slowly that you could easily perceive she was already on the shady side of life; her carriage was stiff, and her steps measured, as if she moved with some difficulty; yet it was evident that she had some determined object earnestly in view. her features were sharp, and denoted firmness; indeed, they might have been thought harsh and forbidding, had not her mild blue eyes imparted an expression of tenderness and goodness to her otherwise stern countenance. i know not if my description is clear enough to convey to my readers any idea of the face that now stands before my mind's eye, but aunt francisca's countenance was always somewhat of a difficult problem, and this must be my excuse if i have failed in the delineation of it. her dress was in keeping with her general appearance; it was in the fashion of a bygone period, at least twenty years old in make and materials, and yet one might in vain have sought for a single spot or crease in it. there were such fastidious cleanliness, and such a degree of scrupulous neatness visible over her whole person, that the beholder at once felt assured an old maid was before him. be this said without any disrespect to other ladies, whose _nicety_ i am far from calling in question. with an extensive parasol in her hand, and a large and apparently heavy silken bag over her arm, the old lady advanced towards a house whose exterior denoted that it was occupied by people belonging to the lower classes. she did not scan the number of the houses, and her feet seemed mechanically to have found its threshold, as if she had often passed over it. and so she had, in truth. a young woman, with a child in her arms, opened the door to her, and exclaimed, 'is it really you, my dear lady? our lord himself must send you here to us, poor miserable creatures!' the speaker and the infant she held in her arms were both clad in absolute tatters. the child looked like a monster in a magic glass, shrivelled up, yellow skinned, with sunken but staring eyes, and wrinkled, though scarcely yet two years of age. it would have been difficult to have determined which bore the palm for dirt and disorder, the room or its inhabitants. the elderly lady looked about in vain for a place where she might seat herself. 'you do not deserve that i should come more frequently to visit you,' the lady said; 'all hope of assisting you is at an end when you yourself will do nothing to improve your condition. in what state is this that i find you? you promised me that when next i came i should see everything tidy about you.' the woman cast down her eyes at this reproachful greeting, and remained silent. she placed the child on the floor while she dusted with the shreds of an old garment a wooden stool, the only seat in the room. the lady looked compassionately at the child, and said, in a less stern voice, 'what you will not do for your own comfort's sake, you will surely not refuse to do for the sake of your poor children. the unfortunate little creatures will perish amidst all this dirt; it _must_ engender disease. where are the other children? has the eldest gone to school yet?' the poor woman looked much embarrassed, and stammered a few words which it was impossible to comprehend. the lady continued her interrogations: 'and your husband--has he got any work? why did he never go to the place where i told him he could obtain employment? because he prefers remaining in idleness to attempting any useful occupation--he would rather spend in rioting the few pence he can scrape together, than work to place himself beyond want and wretchedness. what will be the end of these courses?' 'ah, my good lady, you are quite right,' replied the woman; 'my husband, the good-for-nothing that he is, is the cause of all our misery. he will not let spirits alone, and every penny we have goes down his throat in strong drink. i beg pardon for mentioning this to you, madam, who no doubt have a fine, good gentleman for a husband, but men-folks in _our_ rank are dreadful creatures; i often wish i had never married.' 'very likely your husband has the same improper feeling towards you, and upon as good grounds,' replied the old lady. 'married people should bear with each other, and share their burdens between them as well as their pleasures. a disorderly wife has no right to complain of a disorderly husband. it is a woman's duty to make home comfortable; _that_ can be done at little cost, but it cannot be done without order and cleanliness. all that i have seen here proves that you are quite as much in fault as your husband. where is the yarn for which i gave you money? have you bought the flax?' the poor woman burst into tears, and began to protest that she was not to blame. had she known the lady's name, or where she resided, she would have come to her in her trouble. but she was ignorant of both; the landlord had threatened to turn them out into the street if they did not pay their rent; and she had nothing to give him, no means of keeping a roof over their heads except by handing him the money entrusted to her, which she was assured by her husband there was no sin in disposing of in this way, as it had been a gift. the old lady inquired more minutely into the state of their affairs, remonstrated with the young woman, scolded her, and threatened to withdraw the assistance she gave them if they would not make some exertion for the future to help themselves, and finished by drawing forth from the large silk bag sundry articles of food and clothing, which she laid on the table before the unfortunate mother. she then took the infant up from the floor, kissed it, and gave it some nice wheaten bread and a new dress, and promised the mother that she would give the child an entire suit of new clothes if, on her next visit, she found everything clean and in order. bestowing upon her once more some earnest injunctions, the lady left the house without waiting to listen to the poor woman's thanks and blessings. when she went up the street it was with the same measured steps, and the same prim air as before; the large silk bag hung from her left arm, but it was empty now, while she held daintily with two fingers of her right hand the old-fashioned parasol. thus she walked on until she reached a house in bredegade, where resided a relation of hers named werner, the widow of a councillor of state,[2] who had two daughters, of whom the elder was called louise, the younger flora. louise was a very quiet girl and of a retiring disposition; she was betrothed and soon to be married to rudolph horn, a young lawyer, who had a great deal of business, and was possessed of a good private fortune besides. flora was secretly engaged to lieutenant arnold--secretly, that is to say, the engagement had not been declared, though everybody was aware of it. it might be a tolerable match when he became a captain, but it would probably be a dozen years or more before he obtained his company. they were both young, however, and time flies rapidly, as everybody knows, so they consoled themselves with hope. the family were sitting in an arbour in the garden, as they often did in summer; arnold had brought a new novel which he had just commenced reading aloud to them. the ladies--their number increased by the addition of two cousins, who frequently visited them--sat round the table with their work, exceedingly interested in the novel, which began 'so charmingly,' and promised to be 'so interesting,' when arnold happened to look up, and glancing along the garden-walk, exclaimed, 'may i be shot, if stalking towards us yonder is not--yes, it is herself! i have the honour to announce aunt francisca's august arrival.' the girls all cast looks of annoyance at the old lady, who was slowly approaching the arbour where they were assembled. 'how very tiresome!' exclaimed the little party as with one voice, while arnold threw his book angrily on the table, and said, 'now we must give up knowing the rest of this new story, for i have to return the volume to its owner early to-morrow morning. what unlucky chance can have brought that wearisome old spectre here this evening, i wonder?' louise rose and went to meet the old lady. aunt francisca curtseyed, and then kissed her on both cheeks. mrs. werner and flora underwent the same species of greeting. a heavy, forced conversation was then carried on about the weather and the pleasure of having a garden in copenhagen. arnold took no part in it, although aunt francisca frequently addressed herself to him; mrs. werner was the only one who maintained it with decent civility, for people advanced in years can bear disappointments better than young persons. 'will rudolph soon return from holstein?' asked the old lady of louise; 'it is surprising that he has not written to me. you can tell him, my dear, that i have been expecting a letter from him on both the last post-days.' 'that is devilish cool! a nice piece of pretension on the part of such an antiquated virago,' observed arnold, in a half-whisper. cousin ida could not refrain from giggling. 'you seem to be quite in a laughing humour, my child,' said miss francisca. 'have you been to the german plays yet?' asked flora of the old lady, with a furtive smile to the rest of the party. 'no, my head can't stand theatres now,' replied aunt francisca. 'they do not suit my age, and, indeed, i see so badly that i could not enjoy acting. have you been there?' mrs. werner answered her, and plunged into a disquisition on some of the plays, and on the parts of the performers, but aunt francisca heard them without any apparent interest. she afterwards entered on the subject of the bible society and its great usefulness, but was listened to in return with apathy and suppressed yawns; nobody _there_ cared about bible societies. flora proposed that they should drink tea a little earlier than usual, and louise went to order it. the conversation came to a dead stand; at length aunt francisca said, 'i am afraid my visit is inconvenient to you this evening; you might have been going out--perhaps to the german play?' 'we were only going to have read aloud a book which i brought with me,' said arnold. 'there is no german play to-night; but they are performing at price's, and if the ladies are inclined to go, we shall be quite in time.' 'so speaks youth--distances are nothing for them,' said the old lady, with a smile, under which she attempted to hide the unpleasant feeling she experienced at finding herself unwelcome. 'you must not mind me, my dear cousins; i should be sorry to put you to any inconvenience, and am going presently.' but mrs. werner begged her to stay, assuring her that the tale could be read some other time, and that nobody had dreamed of going to price's; arnold was only joking. 'that other time must be during the night, then.' said arnold, in no very dulcet tone, 'for i have promised to return the book to-morrow morning, without fail.' aunt francisca did not hear his civil speech, for she was talking to mrs. werner. the young people put their heads together, and whispered to each other. judging by their glances, it was evident that the old maiden visitor was the subject of their remarks. one criticised her arms, another her bonnet, a third her parasol. 'but what do you say to that huge foraging-sack hanging from her arm? can any one inform me for what she carries it?' said arnold. 'it would hold at least half a bushel of corn. perhaps the stingy old animal goes to the market to buy all her own provisions, for fear that her servant-girl should make a penny or two out of them now and then.' 'nonsense; she is too prim to venture among the market folks,' said ida. 'but she fancies it is fashionable. dare you attack her about it, flora?' flora wished to show her courage, but could scarcely speak for laughing, as she took up aunt francisca's bag, and said, 'this is a very pretty bag; the embroidery is à la grecque, is it not?' miss francisca replied gravely, '_pretty?_ you cannot possibly mean that, my child; it is as ugly as a bag can be, but it holds a good deal, and therefore i use it sometimes. living so much alone as i do, i must occasionally go my own errands.' flora looked foolish, and stammered a few words in defence of the bag, while she coloured deeply; but the old lady pretended not to observe her embarrassment, and she continued: 'i think it _really_ very pretty, but it should not be seen near this lovely shawl, which certainly puts it to shame.' so saying, she took up a little muslin shawl, beautifully embroidered in gold and coloured flowers, which was lying on the table. 'i am glad you admire it, my dear,' said the old lady, 'for i have often intended to beg your acceptance of it. i have another at home exactly like it, which i intend for louise; they are too gay for my time of life.' flora was much pleased with the gift, and had just thanked her cousin--for the old lady, though generally called among her young connections 'aunt francisca,' was by no means so nearly related to them--when ida whispered, 'why, it is real east indian! well, it was lucky for you that i persuaded you to go into raptures about the hideous bag--set to now and praise her high-heeled shoes. who knows what they may yield?' 'shame on you, ida. do you think i am going to be rude to her again?' said flora. aunt francisca found the evening air rather chilly, and hinted that it would be as well to repair to the more comfortable drawing-room within doors. many were the glances of anger and annoyance which passed among the young people when mrs. werner thereupon desired the servant to carry the tea-things back to the house, and they had all to rise in order to leave the garden. arnold, of course, gallantly assisted the young ladies in putting up their work and carrying their work-boxes, while he exercised his witty propensities at the expense of miss francisca. flora meanwhile offered her arm to the old lady, who, however, did not proceed immediately to the house, but expressed a wish to look first at some of the flower-beds. when they were alone, she turned suddenly towards flora, and said, 'tell me, my dear girl, are you engaged to lieutenant arnold? perhaps you will think that it is no business of mine whether you are or not; but whatever is of consequence to you is interesting to me, and it is not from mere curiosity that i ask you. ah! i saw how he pressed your hand.... come, you must not deny it, for i saw it distinctly. though i am old, i have sharper eyes and ears than people may fancy. but you know, my dear, girls should not allow gentlemen to squeeze their hands unless they are actually engaged to them. it would be quite improper otherwise.' flora cast down her eyes, but made no reply. 'i know that you are a very good, sensible girl, and that is why i like you so much; but truth must be told and listened to, although it is not always palatable. what are the prospects now-a-days of a lieutenant in the army? poor indeed, my child; it would be almost an eternity before you could marry. in the meantime there might be a hundred flirtations, and the first love might be left in the lurch. arnold is very flighty, and i fear also very imprudent. i know that he is in debt, and that leads to beggary.' 'but all young men get into debt. aunt francisca,' replied flora, in a low, subdued voice. 'bless you, child! how can you say so? correct and respectable persons do not _run_ into debt. rudolph does not owe a shilling to anyone--i could take my oath to that.' 'but there is no necessity for rudolph to fall into debt. seeing that he has a good private fortune, he has no great merit in keeping out of it. but what can a poor young officer do who has nothing but his pay to live on?' 'he has no business by his flattery and fair words to entice a girl into an engagement which he cannot carry out,' said miss francisca; 'that is altogether indefensible. the age of miracles is past; no bird will come flying into your window with gold on its bill, and in our days people don't live on air. do you really imagine that love is so durable a feeling that it can withstand adversity, privations, and time itself, which conquers all things? love and inconstancy are half-sisters, dear flora. ten years hence you will be called an old maid, though, if married, you would be still considered at that age a young woman. in twenty years from this time it would be positively ridiculous on your part to think of marrying, yet arnold could scarcely venture to take a wife before then.' flora played with her sash, and her eyes filled with tears, whilst the gloom that overspread her countenance showed how disagreeable the conversation was to her. aunt francisca looked earnestly at her, and putting her arm gently round her waist, asked, in a low voice, 'are you betrothed to arnold, my child? answer me truly, flora--are you or are you not?' the girl tried to speak, but her lips closed again. she looked at the pretty east india handkerchief, and in her embarrassment crushed it between her fingers. the old lady withdrew her arm, and stooped to pick a flower. 'come, my dear,' she said, 'let us go in; it is getting quite chill, and the evening air is not for old people like me. your roses are beautiful; permit me to take one or two home for my flower-vase.' flora hastened to gather a bouquet of flowers, and then accompanied miss francisca to the house, the latter talking on indifferent subjects. 'what did she want with you?' asked one of the cousins. 'did she give you anything besides the little shawl?' 'oh, i wish she had kept her shawl,' said flora, sharply. 'when presents have to be paid for by listening to stupid prosy lectures, i, for one, would rather dispense with the gifts. she is a tiresome old maid as ever lived.' louise was presiding at the tea-table, so aunt francisca sat down near her, and did not again approach flora, who seemed out of spirits, and spoke neither to the old lady nor to arnold. when the latter attempted to whisper something to her, she drew back pointedly without listening to him, and with a toss of her head which plainly showed arnold that she was out of humour. arnold looked at miss francisca as if he could have murdered her, and muttered: 'this is that old wretch's fault, i'll be bound. a starched old maid like her would infect a whole regiment of young girls with her prudery. i suppose i shall be expected to see that ancient piece of goods home--and if i am compelled to undertake this pleasing office, she shall come to grief, for i swear i will contrive to make her fall and break one of her old legs.' if louise had not spoken from time to time, not a word would have been uttered the whole evening; she was the only one who took any trouble to keep up a little conversation. arnold placed himself by the window, and drummed listlessly with his fingers on the panes of glass: flora sewed diligently, as if her daily bread depended on her getting through a certain quantity of work. madame werner knitted with equal perseverance, and only occasionally contributed a 'yes' or a 'no' to the conversation; the cousins cast sidelong glances towards arnold, and tittered. at length nine o'clock struck, and it was announced that miss francisca's servant had come for her. everybody seemed relieved--and the old lady rose instantly, as if she felt that her company was unwelcome, and that the sooner she took her departure the better. madame werner squeezed out an invitation for her to stay a little longer, but it was not accepted. when arnold found that she was really going, he strode up to her, and asked if he might have the pleasure of escorting her home; at which request the cousins could not restrain their laughter, and flora had to bite her lips to prevent herself from following their example, while louise did her utmost to prevent the old lady from observing the rudeness of her relations. her back was scarcely turned before every tongue in the drawing-room she had just quitted became loosened, and the sounds of mirth and laughter could be distinctly heard by her before she had even left the house. when louise, who had quitted the room with aunt francisca, to see her well wrapped up, returned to it, she attacked them for their rudeness in laughing, and talking so loud as soon as she had left the room, when they had been sitting in solemn silence the whole evening previously. madame werner sided with louise, but arnold was not to be checked in his rejoicings at having got rid of the stupid, tiresome old maid. poor miss francisca, meanwhile, heard the shouts of laughter as she walked up the street, and looking up sadly at the windows she thought: 'they are rejoicing at my departure; even there i am _de trop_.' but on her servant remarking how uncommonly gay they were at madame werner's, she only replied, 'they are a very lively, happy family, and long may they remain so.' when the 'happy family' were relieved of her presence, the novel reading was resumed--and it was late before the tale was finished, and the party separated. after the young ladies had retired to the room which they shared together, flora exclaimed, as she put away the pretty indian shawl, 'aunt francisca is a very good soul, but she is abominably tiresome--it is hardly possible to put up with her.' 'i should think that where there is much real worth, a little peculiarity of manner might easily be borne with,' replied louise; but flora laughed as she said, 'nothing is so bad as to be wearisome dear louise; i can't endure anyone who bores me.' six weeks had elapsed since miss francisca's visit above recorded; autumn was approaching, the evenings were becoming longer, and the leaves of the trees assuming a yellow tint. it was on a grey afternoon in september that a young man passed slowly along halmtorv, in copenhagen, and stopped before a small house which looked as if it were the abode of death, for the blinds were all down, although there were no lights inside. the street-door was locked, and it was not till long after he had rung that it was opened by an elderly woman, who had on a black dress and black ribbons in her cap. they recognized each other gravely and then the young man, who seemed familiar with the house, ascended the stairs, and entered a room on the first floor, whilst the servant carefully locked the outer door. the apartment which he entered was empty, not an article of furniture relieved the bareness of the walls, and before the windows hung long white curtains, closely drawn; in the centre of the room there was a square space, where the uncovered boards looked white and shining, but the rest of the floor was thickly strewed with fine sand, and on that again lay flowers and green leaves taken from trees, which in the four corners of the room were formed into elaborate patterns. the young man stopped on the threshold of the floor, and gazed sadly at the empty desolation before him. he was speedily joined by the old servant, who placed herself by his side, and also contemplated sorrowfully the square space, as if she recalled in thought what had so lately occupied it. then, turning her eyes towards the young man, and perceiving by the expression of his countenance what was passing in his mind, she held out her hand to him in silence, which he took and pressed warmly. she was a trustworthy, affectionate creature, a servant of the olden time, such as are scarcely ever to be met with now in families of our modern days. presently the young man crossed the room, stepping lightly, as if he were afraid to crush the already fading flowers, and opened the door to another apartment, where, as in the first, long white curtains, drawn across the half-closed windows, gave a dim sad tone to the tasteful furniture and gay-coloured carpet. he was followed by the old servant, who told him that he would find the keys belonging to her late mistress in her own little daily sitting-room, and that all her keeping places were in perfect order. 'alas! sir,' she added, 'how miserable it is for me to be left behind. i had always hoped and prayed that our lord would graciously call me first.' 'it is the course of nature in this world, inger,' he replied, 'that the eldest should go first. your mistress was almost ten years older than you.' 'very true, sir. had my dear mistress lived till next candlemas, she would have completed her sixty-seventh year, and i shall be fifty-seven come next march. three-and-twenty years have i lived with her, and i can testify to her goodness in every respect; she was such a benefactress to the poor. oh! how many of them will miss her!' and inger began to weep bitterly; her tears were of genuine sorrow for the loss of her kind mistress, for rodolph, who was the nearest of kin to the deceased lady, had already told the faithful servant that a comfortable provision should be made for her, so as to secure to her independence for the rest of her life. rudolph horn was the legal heir of miss francisca garlov, who had that day been buried. she had been his mother's first cousin and dearest friend, they had been almost brought up together, and their intimacy had subsisted without any diminution, until death had separated them, thirteen years before, by removing rudolph's mother from this world. the old maid had transferred the friendship for the mother to the son; when he came to copenhagen, as a student, her house had always been open to him, and she gave him to understand that he should inherit whatever she might leave. she had died after a very few days' illness, and rudolph, who was at the time in the country, though he hastened to copenhagen the moment he heard of her mere indisposition, had not arrived in time to see his old friend alive. as he sat in her now deserted parlour, his memory retraced the days of his childhood, when he used to visit her along with his mother, and when he used to admire the chinese pagodas and mandarins which ornamented her sitting-room, her old china teacups, her pretty inlaid tea-table, her large well-stuffed easy-chair, her chiffoniers with mirrors and gilding in the doors, and, above all, a certain japanned cabinet, that had always to be opened to let 'the dear boy' see the pretty things in it, and some one or other of which was generally bestowed on him, for 'aunt francisca' never let him go empty-handed from her house. ah! how different were the desires which filled his soul _then_ and _now_; a whole lifetime almost seemed to lie between these two periods of his existence; he was then only eight years old, and now he was thirty! old inger brought in candles, and offered to go through an inventory of the furniture and effects with him, but rudolph told her that was quite unnecessary, as he had entire confidence in her; however, he took the key of miss francisca's bureau, as inger informed him that it was the last injunction of her beloved mistress that he should be requested to open that depository of her papers immediately after her funeral. rudolph looked at his watch, as if he would fain have found that it was too late that evening to examine the papers of the deceased; but it was only six o'clock, and he had no excuse for putting off his painful task. it was some little time, however, after he had opened the bureau, before he could bring himself to disturb the neat packets of letters, and other little articles, arranged with so much order in this depository of the good old lady's treasures. he felt that it was almost a sin to touch these relics of the past, and merely half-opened the various drawers, more to obey the wishes of the dead than to search into their contents; but when he came to a hidden compartment, and unlocked its little door, he beheld what riveted his attention, for in it were two miniatures, a few papers, and two or three manuscript books. one of the miniatures was the likeness of a very handsome young man, dressed according to the fashion of a bygone period. the complexion was florid, rather than pale; the dark blue eyes expressed at once thoughtfulness and mirth, and round the mouth played a gay smile, while the smooth forehead gave no evidence of care or sorrow; the cravat was carelessly tied, imparting an idea of negligence in attire, which contrasted rather oddly with the elaborate ruffles that appeared below the brown coat sleeves, and coquettishly shaded a hand of delicate whiteness. close to this miniature lay another, which evidently portrayed 'aunt francisca' in her earlier years. she was pale, but with pretty features, finely-arched eyebrows, and a face altogether pleasing, from its expression of goodness and cheerfulness. her hair, which fell in rich curls over her slender throat, was confined by a light-blue ribbon, and her dress had the peaked stomacher worn in those days. here, then, was a clue to the history of aunt francisca's youth; after so many silent years, these portraits, hidden away together, told a tale of the past--a tale, doubtless, of sorrow and disappointment. how little do the friends and acquaintances, made in after-life, know of the feelings, the hopes, the dreams, and the incidents of earlier years, many of which are hushed into deep mystery until the grave has received its prey, when some cherished token, some treasured reminiscence may unfold the secrets of days gone by. when rudolph had gazed for a time on these interesting faces, he replaced the miniatures where he had found them, and proceeded to examine the papers. among them were memoranda and account-books, which showed how well regulated the affairs of the deceased had been, and how her economy had afforded her ample means to do good to those around her. he continued to read the documents before him until he became quite absorbed in them; and he was sitting at the old bureau, forgetful of the flight of time, until the clock struck nine. its unwearied tongue, which amidst life and death ceased not to give forth its warning tones, aroused him from his dreamy mood, and, snatching one more glance at aunt francisca's likeness, he closed the bureau, and calling inger, he prepared to depart. the old woman lighted him to the door, and attempted to draw him into conversation, but he shook his head and hurried out, with tears in his eyes. 'ah!' said inger, to herself, as she returned to her solitary chamber, 'how kind-hearted herr rudolph is--so different from most young men now-a-days, who are ashamed to let people see that they have any feelings at all!' chapter ii. on leaving the abode so recently visited by death, rudolph repaired to a house in bredgade, where, as he was ringing at the door, he heard, even in the street, the sound of laughter in the drawing-room above. annoyed at this, he drew back a few steps, and, observing lights blazing through the windows, he shrank from encountering the gaiety within, and was about to go away, but when the door was opened, he changed his mind, and slowly ascended the stairs. whilst he had been sitting in aunt francisca's deserted parlour, a gay little party had been gathering around mrs. werner's tea-table. they were all young, with the exception of the lady of the house. flora was making tea, and lieutenant arnold was by her side, rendering her what assistance he could. mrs. werner sat near them, more to sanction the attention arnold was paying the pretty flora, than to check it. louise was at the opposite side of the table, with some fancy-work in her hand, taking little or no part in the gossiping that was going on, but glancing from time to time anxiously at the timepiece in the room, as its hands pointed to half-past eight, a quarter to nine, nine o'clock, a quarter past nine, and rudolph had not made his appearance. the two cousins, who were mentioned on a former occasion--young ladies--and two or three young men, relations also of the family, made up the party. mrs. werner and her daughters were in slight mourning, in consequence of the death of miss francisca, but the gaiety which was going on gave no evidence of sorrow for her loss. the smiling countenances, the well-lighted room, the open pianoforte, with some fashionable waltzes on the stand, all formed a strong contrast to the scene rudolph had just quitted, and he almost frowned as he entered the room. louise arose and went forward to meet him, while flora laughingly scolded him for being so late. 'i beg a thousand pardons,' said rudolph, 'but it was impossible for me to come earlier.' 'mercy on us, what a tragical face! you look as if you were bound to follow aunt francisca into the very grave itself. there, console yourself with a cup of cold tea; it is your own fault that it is not better. don't pet him so, louise. do you not see how melancholy he is?' 'melancholy people are just those who need to be petted,' said louise, moving her chair so as to make room for him by her; 'others don't require it.' 'it is really quite touching to see the deeply-distressed heir of aunt francisca's china pagodas, putting on the solemn look of an undertaker, on account of her, alas! too early departure from this world,' said flora. 'most faithful of swains, where will you find such another interesting shepherdess of sixty-seven years of age?' 'what, is it possible,' cried one of the young men, 'that rudolph is grieving for old miss garlov? it seems to me that the best thing the ancient skin-flint could do was to lay herself down and die. heaven knows there are plenty of old maids left in the world!' 'she was a worthy creature--a good soul,' said mrs. werner, with perfect indifference, 'and, doubtless, is now happy in the other world. there is no need to lament those who go to a better life; they are well off.' 'she will be wafted, like an airy being, up to the highest heaven, on account of her unimpeachable virtue,' said arnold, laughing at his own wit. rudolph looked angrily at him, and was about to say something, when louise laid her hand on his arm to stop him. there was an awkward silence for a few minutes, until one of the cousins exclaimed: 'i wonder if miss francisca ever had a lover.' 'i should think not,' replied mrs. werner, with a half smile. 'she did not look like a person who would have admirers.' 'admirers!' cried one of the young men. 'fancy anybody making love to such a prude. i don't suppose she ever had the most distant idea of love.' 'one can have very good fun with old maids, sometimes,' said arnold; 'one can quiz them about their youthful conquests, or persuade them that peter or paul is casting, even now, sheeps' eyes at them; but it would have been impossible to have brought miss garlov into this state of happy delusion; there was no tampering with _her_.' 'what a tiresome person she was!' exclaimed cousin ida. 'a terrible bore!' 'heavens! yes! such an old maid as she was is positively a horror, enough to scare one,' said arnold, 'though i don't call myself faint-hearted, and am certainly not apt to flee from the fair sex. but these wrinkled, pinched-up pieces of propriety, who are always denouncing the immorality and folly of youth, don't deserve to be included under the head of "fair." well, had i known that aunt francisca was to be buried to-day, i certainly should have followed her to the grave, out of gratitude to her for taking this last journey, never more to return.' 'my cousin did not trouble you much, i think,' said rudolph, angrily. 'she came here but seldom, and was never fond of annoying people.' arnold made some ill-natured answer, continuing to quiz poor miss francisca. everyone laughed except louise, who was anxiously watching rudolph's countenance, and much afraid lest he should make some severe remark. flora, enjoying the scene, said: 'see how louise is labouring to keep rudolph quiet, for he is quite ready to do battle with us all. ever since i have known him, he has been the faithful knight of all forlorn old maids.' 'and all young ladies should, therefore, feel gratitude to me,' said rudolph, 'for not one of them--i make no exceptions--can declare, with certainty, that she may not one day or other become an old maid.' flora cast a glance towards arnold, which plainly said that she, at least, had nothing to do with the threatened calamity. rudolph continued: 'i have often observed with surprise how youth, especially early youth, hates and despises old maids. why is it that age, which demands respect for all others, should, in civilized society, exclude unmarried ladies from it? i do not allude to my deceased relative in particular, nor will i dwell on all her kindness to me--i will only speak of her as one of a class, one among the many who share her fate. we were all acquainted with her, and therefore i ask you, who have just been casting ridicule on her memory, if you have _really_ felt the bitter contempt you have expressed for her? i think i can answer for you, no. not one of you is, in point of fact, so bad-hearted as you would make yourselves appear by your thoughtless chattering.' rudolph looked earnestly round, but not one present attempted to reply. he went on: 'is an old maid's lot so delightful, that people must try to annoy her by scorn? _i_ should say not. should we not rather be sorry to see anyone excluded from what many of us value most? a life without interest, or close domestic ties, is not to be envied; nor is it the fault of the woman if she is not destined to become a wife and a mother. many single women have but to look back in their advancing years on a wasted life; to remember names that no more must be uttered by them; to feel the void in their hearts to which no amount of resignation can make them insensible; and to all this must be added an endless struggle against those who have been more fortunate than themselves, and enforced patience with the jeers and scoffs launched so pitilessly against them. how few girls look forward to this position for their after-years! and yet circumstances not calculated upon, the factitious wants entailed on us by society, the poverty which forbids many a union, the fickle fancies of men, or an evil destiny, which seems sometimes to delight in thwarting the dearest hopes, and sundering those who might have been happy together, may doom them to it. and is all this only a subject for ridicule? for my part, i cannot laugh at an old maid, even if she loves only her cat or her canary-bird. god has implanted affections in her heart; mankind have rejected these, therefore she loves animals of a lower species, who seem grateful for her kindness. ludwig said, a few minutes ago, that aunt francisca looked as if she had never had a lover. could that be possible, with her mild eyes, her sweet face, her amiable disposition? she had more goodness in her little finger than most people have in their whole person; but none of you knew her well!' 'nonsense, rudolph!' exclaimed mrs. werner. 'how can you pretend to say we did not know her? i am sure _i_ have been acquainted with her for at least a score of years; she was a second cousin of my lamented husband.' 'nevertheless, i maintain that none of you _did_ know her well. if not disagreeable to you, i should like to tell you aunt francisca's history as i have heard it from my mother, who was her most intimate friend, and partly from herself. i have also found out much from her private papers, which, by her own wish, i looked over this very evening. now that she is gone, the story of her life need no longer be a secret.' 'hark ye, rudolph,' said mrs. werner, stretching across, and whispering to him. 'in regard to _that_ secret, i would rather you did not touch upon it; her imprudence in early life, which caused so much annoyance to her family, had better not be related in the presence of young girls like my daughters and their cousins. it was fortunate the child died. her friends would have been awkwardly placed had he lived, for they could scarcely have received her. it was surprising that she made so light of it herself.' but arnold had overheard what mrs. werner had whispered to rudolph, and exclaimed exultingly, 'so! is that how matters stood? the old lady deserves our thanks, even though she is in her grave, for the sins of her youth; without them we should have been forced to listen to some most insipid story, but we may now hope to hear something interesting.' 'give over interrupting him,' said flora, 'or we shall not hear a word. now, rudolph, do begin!' 'i am obedience itself, and shall be mute as a fish,' said arnold, bowing gallantly to his fair enslaver. the male and female cousins all placed themselves in attitudes of attention, perhaps because they shared in the young officer's expectation of hearing some scandal, and rudolph commenced his narration:-there is little to be told of aunt francisca's childhood. her father held a situation in one of the colleges, and the first eight years of her life were passed principally in close rooms, away from green fields and fresh air. her father was much occupied, therefore her education was conducted entirely by her mother, a clever and amiable woman, but with one peculiarity, that she had the greatest horror of sick people, and was morbidly afraid of infection. francisca, perceiving this weakness, determined to avoid it, but fell into the opposite extreme, and would scarcely believe that any complaint could be infectious, or if the fact were proved, she had not the slightest fear of it. when the family removed to an estate her father had purchased near a town where he had received a good appointment, the little girl took much pleasure in visiting the poor in the neighbourhood when they were ill, and administering to their comforts, which, of course, caused her to be greatly beloved among them. it was at this period of her life that my mother and she became intimate. the cousins were much together, for my mother used to spend almost every summer at the garlovs', and their mutual affection ripened with their years. at sixteen francisca could not have been called beautiful, but she was pretty, with an animated countenance, a sweet smile, a light, graceful figure, and pleasing manners. it was about this time that a dreadful fever broke out in the part of the country where the garlovs lived; it raged more particularly among the peasantry, but persons of all classes were attacked; the servants in almost every house were ill, and, to crown the evil, the doctors in the provincial town were seized with the fever. in this state of things, francisca's father wrote to copenhagen to request that some young physician might be sent to their assistance in the existing time of need. little did he imagine that this letter was to be the first cast of the die which was to determine his daughter's fate! two young doctors accordingly soon arrived, one of whom was settled for the time being in the little town, the other taking up his abode at mr. garlov's country house. this latter was a handsome young man, about three-and-twenty years of age, who had just passed a brilliant examination, and was glad to obtain some employment. i will show you his likeness some day, which will prove to you that he was handsome and prepossessing in appearance, and that the impression he made on aunt francisca was not to be wondered at. he was successful in his practice, and saved so many lives that mrs. garlov looked upon him absolutely as their good genius, while his lively conversation amused her husband. he had been a favourite with the belles of his own circle in copenhagen, among whom he had been considered quite an adonis, therefore he had no lack of confidence in his powers of pleasing, and he thought it his duty to pay marked attention to the young lady of the family by whom he had been so hospitably received. but francisca soon interested him. he found her very different from his fair copenhagen friends, and then she was the only damsel with whom he associated; and in the country, as everybody knows, people become better acquainted in three days than in three years in town. it cannot be denied that as time wore on theodore ancker made rapid advances in the good graces of the youthful and unsophisticated francisca, and by the time nature had put on its richest summer garb her heart was fairly in the keeping of the young doctor. ah! what a summer that was for her. never before had the sun shone so brightly--never had the skies looked so blue, or the trees wore so brilliant a green! and yet, had mr. garlov's guest taken his departure then, as he thought of doing, francisca might have missed him terribly for a time, passed a melancholy autumn, and a lonely winter; but when spring came round, and the storks had returned to their nests on the roofs, she would have recovered her spirits, and remembered her intimacy with him only as a pleasant episode in her life. it was otherwise ordained. it had been deemed that the fever had entirely disappeared, but a peasant was attacked by it, and in visiting him, theodore, who had escaped as if by magic before, was seized with the dreaded symptoms, and soon became dangerously ill. the family--indeed the whole neighbourhood--were thrown into the greatest consternation, for theodore was a general favourite; but no one seemed sufficiently collected to pay the invalid the attention he required except francisca, who, calm in the midst of her distress, and heedless of infection, took upon herself to be his chief nurse, and waited on him day and night with untiring assiduity. her father was often her companion in the sick-room, but mrs. garlov's uncontrollable fears prevented her from assisting personally in her daughter's benevolent labours, though she was not remiss in praying for the patient's recovery. he _did_ recover, and when the autumnal tints were stealing over the woods, he was able to stroll in the garden, or saunter to the verge of the adjacent forest. how happy francisca was! and when theodore turned to her, and said, in a voice still languid from weakness, 'how delicious the air is to-day! i owe it to you, miss francisca, that i breathe it again. without your kind care i never more should have beheld these beautiful woods.' a thrill of delight passed through francisca's frame at these words, and she trembled so that theodore exclaimed: 'i fear i am leaning too heavily on you; you are fatigued, i see. let us sit down here to rest awhile--here, where the sun shines so brightly through the leaves that they seem to be all of gold. ah! how good, how kind you have been to me! it seems to me as if my own character had improved since i became acquainted with you.' the harvest was gathered in--the harvest-home was to be held--and there was more than usual merriment, for the dreaded epidemic had passed away, and the very last who had suffered from it, theodore, was now only somewhat feeble. the peasantry were enjoying their games, and the garlov family, with a few friends, were looking on at a little distance beyond the gates of the château, when a succession of fearful shrieks were heard, and a number of peasants, some armed with sticks, others with stones, were to be seen running along, though no one could tell what was the cause of the uproar. but presently a large dog, with a broken chain around his neck, rushed from behind some bushes, and ran across the field towards the garlov party, who at the same moment distinctly heard the warning cry, 'a mad dog! a mad dog!' seized with a sudden panic, every one of the little group endeavoured to escape, and francisca caught hold of theodore's hand and hurried him towards the gate; but he could not run fast enough, the large stick on which he had been leaning impeded his movements, and, stumbling, he fell to the ground. francisca was in despair when she found he had struck his head against a stone, and lay motionless; in vain her father called to her to quicken her pace, she would not leave theodore. meanwhile the dog came nearer and nearer--she could hear the rattling of his chain, as with open mouth and protruding tongue he ran towards them. she sprang before theodore, and with outstretched arms stood as if guarding him. the dog rushed on her--she felt his damp paw upon her throat, his warm breath upon her cheek, his glaring eyes close to her own, and she sank senseless by the side of him she had endeavoured to save. 'oh, fie! rudolph,' cried cousin ida; 'your description is too horrible--his wet paw upon her throat--shocking! how could she be so foolish! i think she must have been as mad as the dog.' 'i should have fainted at the first cry of the peasants,' said charlotte, ida's sister. 'master theodore must have been a miserable creature,' exclaimed arnold. 'i would have defended the ladies to the last drop of my blood. but, to be sure, he was only a doctor, and dealt in potions and plasters instead of valorous deeds--that is some excuse for the fellow.' 'i thought the bite of a mad dog was always fatal,' said mrs. werner, quietly. 'yet francisca must have outlived it--how was that?' it was a false alarm (replied rudolph). the dog was not mad. with that instinct which led all distressed creatures to her, it had run to francisca for protection from the crowd of peasants who were ill-treating it. she soon got over her fainting fit, and theodore also recovered consciousness, but the contusion in his head brought on fever, and he raved incessantly about the mad dog which had destroyed francisca. the old doctor, who had resumed his practice, happening fortunately to call, ordered leeches to be applied to theodore's head, and a certain medicine to be administered to him. both had to be obtained from the apothecary in the nearest little town, and the only man-servant who had remained at home--the others having been permitted to join the merry-making among the villagers--was sent for them. after a long absence he returned with the leeches, but did not bring the so-much-needed draught. it would have been a useless attempt to send him back, for he had been drinking freely in the town, and could not be roused from the heavy sleep into which he had fallen after tumbling down in a state of intoxication on the floor of the servants' hall. should the poor patient be deprived of the prescribed draught? no; francisca determined to go for it herself, even though it was getting dark, and she would have to pass through the dreary wood. leaving her mother and an old woman busy putting on the leeches on theodore's brow, she slipped out of the room and out of the house; she almost ran until she reached the gate which opened upon the road that led to the wood; there for a moment she stopped, and hesitated to proceed; yet the doctor had said that the medicine was of great importance, and though she had never been alone in the wood after dark, she conquered her fears and went forwards. but her heart beat wildly, her knees trembled under her, and she often started at the rustling of the leaves, and the pale gleams of uncertain light that penetrated here and there through the thick foliage from the rising moon; the scudding of the deer, whom even her light tread awoke, increased her alarm; and the hoarse cry of the owl seemed terrible to her. 'young ladies,' said rudolph, interrupting his narrative, 'is there one among you who will now doubt that aunt francisca could feel love?' 'oh, heaven defend me from such love!' cried ida. 'i would die of fright if i were to go alone through a dark wood at night.' she reached the town safely (continued rudolph), procured the medicine at the apothecary's, and bravely returned alone through the wood, though her excited imagination conjured up all manner of phantasies--such as dim figures gliding amidst the trees, footsteps pursuing her, and goblin laughter greeting her ear. still she struggled against the terror that had almost overcome her, until, having gained her home and the invalid's chamber, she sank down, nearly fainting, by her mother's side, and murmured, 'the wood--the wood!' the dampness of her dress, wet with the heavy dew--her exhaustion, and the medicine which she could just hold up--told the history of her exploit more quickly than her words would have done. her mother threw her arms round her, and theodore, who was somewhat better, and who was amazed at what she had done for his sake, exclaimed, 'francisca, and you ventured all this for _me!_' during the long, sleepless night which followed, she heard again and again, as it were like the tones of an æolian harp, these, to her, thrilling words; 'francisca, and you ventured all this for _me!_' in the course of a few weeks after this event, theodore being again quite well, found that it was necessary for him to return to copenhagen. but he felt reluctant to leave francisca, and put off the dreaded parting to the latest day possible. he knew how much he was indebted to her; twice she had saved his life, or striven to do so, with a devoted abnegation of self which only affection could have prompted. his vanity whispered to him that she surely loved him, and flattered by this idea, and also feeling grateful to her, he fancied that he entertained the same sentiments towards her. francisca was so retiring in her manners, however, that theodore had had no opportunity of communicating to her what he thought or felt, except by his looks; and even these seemed to alarm her, for she feared that she had permitted him to read too deeply in her heart. at length he could no longer defer his departure, and with a countenance full of woe he informed the family at dinner that he would have to leave them the following day. francisca turned deadly pale, and as soon as she could make her escape from table she rushed into the garden to vent her grief in solitude. theodore had followed her, unperceived by her. he found her leaning against a tree, holding a handkerchief to her eyes, while her whole frame was agitated by her emotion. in another moment his arm was round her waist, while he exclaimed: 'what! weeping, francisca? are you ill? what can affect you thus? is there any secret grief pressing upon your mind? i had hoped to carry away with me the image of the happy francisca i have known here. ah! you cannot guess how dear your happiness is to me. to you i owe my life twice over. i owe you more than ten lives could repay. dearest francisca! say, will you think kindly of me when i am far away? oh, every golden cloud, every waving tree, every lovely flower i behold will lead my thoughts to you--or rather, you will be my only thought.' francisca's tears flowed more freely even than before. she was silent; but there is a silence more eloquent than words. however, young ladies, you all know, or have dreamed, of what might pass during such a scene, and i shall not, with my prosy words, attempt to describe what your poetical imaginations can so much better conceive. it was under that linden-tree that the happy theodore received the assurance of francisca's love, and heard her, for the first time, call him 'dear theodore!' they strolled on towards the wood, and theodore there took up a small quantity of the earth, which he said he would keep as an amulet--a preservative against all manner of witchcraft. 'do so,' said francisca, with a sad smile, 'for you will assuredly need that amulet. you are leaving me now; you will forget me soon among the many beautiful and fascinating you will see in the gay world. but, after all, you had better throw back the earth whence it came, theodore. i would not be remembered as an evil genius.' 'can you fancy that i could possibly forget you, or cease to remember all you have been to me? may heaven forget me if i ever change towards you!' the earnestness of his manner convinced francisca of his sincerity. we are always prone to believe what we wish, and this is why a heart that loves is so easily deceived. when he was going away, theodore whispered with his farewell a request that he might be allowed to write to her, and that she would answer his letters. 'no, do not write,' she said; 'our faith in each other does not require to be kept alive by letter. we shall meet again.' 'in spring, i trust. oh, how long it will be till then!' love and gratitude! what a wide difference there is between these two feelings. love is the offspring of our own heart--its darling, its heir; gratitude is but an adopted child--a poor orphan, admitted but not tenderly cherished. what francisca felt was _love_. theodore had always _gratitude_ starting up in the background to recall his wandering feelings; yet he believed, when he left the garlovs' house for copenhagen, that he was really in love with francisca. it is a pity that no natural philosopher has ever invented an instrument by which to measure love--its depth and solidity. had such a test been available, theodore would soon have found out his own state. but still there are proofs without philosophical instruments; for he who does not find the image of his beloved in every corner of his heart, has never loved; he who does not clearly remember every, even the most minute turnings, in the winding-path by which the little blind deity may have led him, has never loved; he whose beloved is not his all in the future, the object of his dreams, his hopes, his thoughts in the present, he has never loved. ye gentlemen lovers! i advise you to examine your own hearts by these tests, and see how your affections really stand. rudolph paused for a moment--louise glanced at him as if she felt sure he had passed the proof--arnold indulged in a sneering smile, and the other gentlemen looked innocently apathetic. there is an old french saying (continued rudolph), which signifies that absence has the same effect upon love that a high wind has upon fire--it extinguishes the weak, but makes the strong burn more intensely. thus, while francisca's ardent love gained strength in absence, and in her sleeping and waking dreams she invested theodore with every possible good quality and charm, his feeble love became more and more languid, and the image of francisca lost by degrees all the attractions he had fancied it possessed. francisca had communicated all her feelings by letter to her friend, my mother, and the correspondence between them, on a subject so interesting, helped to while away the tedium of the winter months. theodore, on the contrary, concealed his little love affair in the country from his friends in town. at first, it seemed a topic too sacred to enter upon, and afterwards he thought it would be ridiculous--he would only expose himself to be laughed at by his companions. balls, and all sorts of amusements occupied his leisure hours. he was one of the best dancers in copenhagen, and could have as many pretty partners as he liked. time flew fast with him; he sometimes forgot that such a being as francisca existed, and in a fit of vexation, as it reminded him of his duty, he hid away the amulet that was to have been so potent a talisman. early in spring, however, he had an illness, which confined him to his room for a few days; during that short period of seclusion francisca assumed a more prominent part in his recollection. which of all the girls he had been flirting with during the winter would have risked so much, done so much for him as she had done? not one among them. the country and francisca were again in the ascendant for a time, and it was at this period that he had his likeness taken. he would give it to her. how much _she_ would value it! that was a pleasant idea, for even in love men seldom forget vanity. indeed, what love is to be compared, in general, to self-love? armed with the miniature of himself, and a small plain gold ring on his little finger, theodore set off for mr. garlov's. the wood was already clothed in its mantle of green. how anxiously had not francisca watched the budding leaves, and longed for the arrival of spring, which would bring back to her him she loved so much! she had gone out to meet him, and when he caught a glimpse of her, springing from the carriage he threw himself at her feet. she was happy, for she had never doubted his constancy. mr. garlov welcomed him as an old friend, but he did not look upon him in any other light, as mrs. garlov, who knew of her daughter's attachment, had never yet found a suitable opportunity to communicate the matter to her husband, though she was aware that he intended francisca to marry a wealthy proprietor in their neighbourhood, who, although somewhat advanced in years, was a very worthy man, and would be a good match. the evenings were still cold, and were consequently passed within doors, but were enlivened by conversation, music, and reading aloud, for theodore excelled in the latter accomplishment, and also sang well. a happy time it was to francisca, and even theodore felt the pleasing influence of these quiet evenings; but when summer came, with its long days and warm nights, and the lovers could stroll out arm-in-arm, francisca was still happier, and would sometimes exclaim, 'i could not have thought it possible for this world to afford so much felicity as i experience at this moment!' with her the days flew like hours, and the hours like minutes! at length theodore spoke of returning to his home. but he was assailed by father, mother, and daughter, with entreaties to remain a little longer, as guests were expected, and his society would enliven the party very much. 'if you will only stay,' said francisca, 'you shall be rewarded by seeing a most beautiful girl.' 'is your cousin kitty so beautiful?' asked theodore. 'no, she is only amiable; but a miss angel is to accompany her, who is over from holstein on a visit to my cousin. she is called aurora angel--two ominous names, are they not? but they are not misapplied.' 'do you think i would stay for anybody's sake if not for yours, dear francisca?' said theodore. 'no; the goddess of the dawn of day shall have no such triumph. since you wish it, i will remain longer; but i should only be too happy if this blooming damsel would stay away.' she came, however, along with my mother and my grandmother, and very beautiful she was both in face and figure, with remarkably fine arms, and the prettiest feet in the world. she looked lovely as she played the harp, and her voice was one of that peculiar sweetness that, once heard, could never be forgotten. her slight foreign accent gave a piquancy to her simplest words--in short, she was altogether a most attractive little creature. mrs. garlov and theodore ancker were the only persons who did not seem quite captivated by the fascinations of the fair aurora; every one else was enchanted with her, francisca most of all. theodore insisted that the glances of her bright eyes had, when she thought she was not observed, something sinister in them that caused involuntary mistrust; he accused her of being coquettish, cold, and heartless, notwithstanding her affection of feeling. in fact, he evinced a strange repugnance to her society, and much annoyance that the arrival of other guests had thrown a sort of barrier between himself and francisca, with whom he could no longer be frequently alone, and more than once he expressed a wish that he had gone when first he proposed doing so. he was at all times a little given to variations of temper, but now he appeared to be always out of humour, and when he was compelled to show any attention to aurora, he did it with a very bad grace, and looked as awkward as a dancing bear. aurora herself never appeared to observe anything odd in his manners, but the rest of the party could not fail to be surprised at him. one evening, after theodore had been all day looking quite cross because he had not been able to have some private chat with francisca, though his own bad humour had made him neglect more than one opportunity that had presented itself, the little party were assembled in the music-room which opened on the garden. aurora was singing and accompanying herself on the harp. theodore seemed annoyed at the praise bestowed upon her, and she had scarcely finished her song when he began vehemently to press francisca to sing. she declined, though she really sang very nicely, and her admirer was so vexed that he was leaving the room, when she called him back, that he might hear aurora sing clärchen's lied from goethe's 'egmont,' which was then quite new. after preluding for a moment or two, with a sweet smile aurora commenced the romance, and the expression of her countenance changed suddenly to sadness as she sang, freudvoll und leidvoll gedankenvoll seyn; while she seemed powerfully affected by the two last lines: glücklich allein ist die seele, die liebt; for her voice sank almost to a whisper, and her eyes filled with tears. at that moment her glance met that of theodore, and she coloured deeply, while he in vain strove to look indifferent. mrs. garlov entered on a disquisition touching the tragedy of 'egmont' and the character of clärchen, while aurora sought to conceal her annoyance by speaking of the song. 'i do not know any song that has prettier words than these. do you not agree with me, mr. ancker?' 'i think,' replied theodore, 'that clärchen's mother pronounced a very proper judgment on the words when she said, "ah, it is the same eternal nonsense."' 'and i will answer you in clärchen's own words', said aurora, good-humouredly: '"nay, do not abuse it; 'tis a song of marvellous virtue. many a time i have lulled a grown child to sleep with it."' this reply in her own language--the german--came so prettily from aurora's coral lips, that theodore did violence to his own feelings when he answered: 'yes, "schlafen wiegen," that was perhaps clärchen's art. probably you admire clärchen's character. i would swear that you did.' 'yes, i admire it; it is a faithful and pleasing sketch of the female character.' 'of _one_ female character, say rather. god be praised, not of all,' replied theodore. 'clärchen is capricious, coquettish, inconsiderate, heartless. she makes a mere tool of the man who wishes to marry her--a mere hack and errand boy--and she repays the poor fellow's services by the coquetry which holds him in her chains. does she not say herself, "often, without a thought, i return the gentle loving pressure of his hand? i reproach myself that i am deceiving him--that i am nourishing in his heart a vain hope."' aurora listened to him with a smile, complimented him on his admirable pronunciation of german (a compliment which evidently pleased him), and then went on to defend clärchen, quoting sentences from the drama itself, and wound up by assuring him that men could not understand love--at least not such deep, all-absorbing love as a clärchen could feel. mr. garlov remarked that the fair damsel was very severe upon their sex, and theodore shrugged his shoulders in silence. again aurora spoke. 'clärchen,' she said, 'was placed, as it were, between life's cold prose and eternity's warm poetry. it was the battle between these that consumed her, as it had consumed many another heart. _you_ have no conception of that struggle: and may you never feel it. may you never have to say, like clärchen, "i am in a strange position."' aurora rose, put away her harp, and hurried into the garden. the other ladies followed her, and theodore was left alone with mr. garlov, who said, 'you have got into a scrape, my good friend. one must be very guarded in speaking to these german ladies, they are so deucedly sensitive. i can't conceive, though, what made you fall upon her as you did; it was really an unwarrantable attack.' chapter iii. for some days after the little scene in the music-room, theodore took great pains to dispel the gloom his ill-humour had occasioned, and he tried, by unusual courtesy, to do away with any disagreeable impression he might have made upon aurora; but she appeared to notice as little his efforts to please as she had previously noticed his indifference, which had bordered on rudeness. he was annoyed, and said to francisca, 'i can't imagine what that girl wants; i have never in my life beheld a person with so much pretension. if she expects that _i_ shall approach her upon my knees, according to the homage she is perhaps accustomed to in holstein, she will find herself much mistaken. one does not worship a pretty face so much in this part of the world; thank heaven, here beauty is not so rare.' 'a face like aurora's, however, is seldom to be seen anywhere,' said francisca. 'but you quite misunderstand her--she has no pretensions, and hardly knows how beautiful she is. she is sorry that she is not on better terms with you, and, as kitty tells me, cannot imagine why you dislike her so much.' such conversations frequently took place between theodore and francisca, but they had no apparent result, for theodore, though he agreed with all that she said, and was polite to her young guest, did not seem to feel any interest in her; and aurora, on her part, remained cold and distant to him. six weeks had now elapsed since the arrival of the ladies, and the time had passed slowly to theodore, who had never felt himself fully at ease; these weeks had also imperceptibly made a change in his and francisca's manners towards each other--a colder and more distant tone had sprung up between them, they seldom met alone, and when they did, theodore's thoughts always seemed preoccupied, or he was out of humour. francisca observed this with regret, and one sunday morning she contrived to follow him alone into the garden, determined to clear up anything that might have annoyed him. she had a book in her hand, probably snatched up by chance to lead the rest of the party to fancy that she was going to read in the garden. theodore came up to her, and said: 'what interesting work have i to thank for this unexpected meeting? to see you alone is now a rare event; the claims of love, methinks, are no longer of the importance they used to be.' he seized the book with some impetuosity--it was goethe's 'egmont.' 'clärchen!' he exclaimed. 'is clärchen to be always thus thrust upon me? i wish i could as easily get rid of all clärchens as i can of this book.' and he was about to fling the book away. 'for heaven's sake, theodore, don't throw aurora's book into the pond! how can you be so childish as to be angry with a poor book? it was not clärchen that brought me here; i took it up in the breakfast-room to have something in my hand; i did not even know what book it was. i came out here,' she added, timidly, and colouring deeply, 'to seek you.' 'me, francisca? really to seek me? so these visitors of yours have not made you quite forget me? but i am unreasonable, detestable; forgive me, sweet francisca! i hardly know myself what i want. it is very foolish, but i confess i am as jealous of aurora as if she had been a man. the way in which she engrosses you quite separates us; when a woman chooses to pay court, it is much worse than attention from a man--she scarcely ever leaves you for a moment.' 'unreasonable that you are!' cried francisca, smiling. 'do you think you are to be the only 'person who is to be allowed to love me? come, let us make the most of these uninterrupted minutes, and speak confidentially together. let us go into the forest, i feel as if i should be more at my ease there.' theodore drew her arm within his, and they went into the wood. it was a lovely morning, the thick foliage of the trees formed a cool shade from the warm rays of the blazing sun. the birds were carolling among the branches, the chime of the distant church bells was answered by the tinkling of the sheep bells as the animals fed amidst the grassy glades of the forest, and a few peasants passed now and then on their way to church, in all their sunday finery, and with their prayer-books in their hands. they respectfully and kindly saluted the lovers as they sat together under the large tree, beneath whose spreading boughs francisca had prayed for strength on the memorable night when she had traversed the forest alone in order to obtain the means required for saving theodore's life. 'this is our chapel,' said theodore. 'this mossy seat the altar at which i have vowed to devote my life to you. do you remember that it was here you hinted at the possibility of my forgetting you? ah! did i not then say that heaven must forget me first? i feel now, even more than i did then, the truth of my words.' but at that moment a recollection shot across theodore's mind which caused him a painful sensation: had he not all but forgotten francisca? he passed his hand over his eyes for a moment, but francisca took it gently away, while she replied: 'my doubts were unholy. i was but a child then, and i did not think that i could be loved as i felt i loved you. forgive me for these sinful thoughts. i know now how true you are.' theodore embraced her, and played with the ring he had given her, which, not daring to wear on her finger, as the engagement was yet unknown to her father, she had hung round her neck, and generally placed near her heart, but which on this occasion had escaped from within her dress. francisca had taken her own likeness before her glass, and, although it had many faults, it resembled her. she intended it for theodore, but had never been able to gather courage until this day to present it to him. she had brought it down into the breakfast-room with her, and when she saw him stroll into the garden she thrust it hurriedly between the leaves of a book which was lying on a side-table, and took it with her when she went to join him. the ring reminded her of the little portrait, and, turning to theodore, she said: 'you have been very kind to give me both this ring and that dear miniature--that likeness of yourself, to which i confide all my thoughts when i am alone with it. i have no ring to offer you in return, theodore; but will you excuse its many faults, and accept this little sketch which i have done for you? when you look at this pale face, i beseech you not to forget that the soul which animates it is capable of the most devoted love, and is grateful for its undeserved happiness.' frightened at the warmth with which she had ventured to express her feelings, the poor girl became quite embarrassed, her eyes were blinded with tears, and her fingers nervously felt through the leaves of the book for the drawing she had mentioned. she found it, and with averted head, she handed it to theodore. he kissed it as he received it, but no sooner had he looked at it than he exclaimed in great agitation, 'francisca, this is a bitter mockery! i did not deserve this from you.' francisca looked at him with astonishment. he was holding the drawing in his hand, and gazing on it. one glance was enough to show her that it was not her likeness; the book had contained at least one other drawing besides her portrait. a young lady was leaning over a harp, amidst the strings of which one hand was lingering, while the other hand held a pocket-handkerchief towards her face, as if to dry the tears that were swimming in the soft eyes; beside her stood an elegant young man, in an attitude of utter indifference, cleverly depicted by his having placed his foot on a chair near, and being engaged in adjusting his shoe. it was only a sketch, but very spirited, and very well done. in a corner of the paper was written the german line- das herz allein schafft holl' und paradies. 'aurora!' cried francisca, in dismay. 'clärchen,' said theodore, fretfully. 'am i then doomed to find that image everywhere--is it not impossible to escape it! nay, francisca, this is an unfair punishment. i have acknowledged my rudeness, regretted it in my own heart, and endeavoured to make up for it--what more would you have?' 'it is no punishment; it is only a mistake. i did not know that there was any such drawing in the book; the sketch is not by me--it is by aurora,' stammered francisca. 'aurora! did aurora do this?' exclaimed theodore, looking at it again, and eagerly. francisca did not answer, but she seemed as if she was going to cry. little heeding her looks, however, he remained with his eyes riveted on the picture; at length he said, 'clärchen is true to herself. only see what coquetry there is in this little sketch; and the verse, and the tears--it is really charming!--but what is the matter, francisca? you look so pale--so overcome. are you not well?' francisca tried to laugh at herself. 'it is nothing; i felt a little giddy, but the sensation has passed off. let us go home, for we may be missed, and it is rather damp here.' theodore rose and accompanied her through the wood, while he carefully carried the book with the two drawings within its leaves. on reaching the house francisca took it from him, and hurried up to her room. she put away her own likeness with very different feelings to those with which she had taken it from its accustomed place. it seemed so strange that fate should have made her own hand the means of substituting aurora's likeness for hers! this incident, trifling as it was, awoke a degree of uneasiness in her mind; but she endeavoured to conquer the feeling, and, going downstairs, she replaced aurora's book on the table where she had found it. seeing, however, theodore approaching from the garden, and not being yet quite composed enough to meet him, she hastily left the room; but, angry at herself for her folly, she returned after a little time, and with the intention of begging him to say nothing about aurora's sketch, which had been seen by him without her knowledge. why did she a second time so suddenly and silently leave the apartment she had just entered? it was because she beheld theodore bending with the deepest attention over 'egmont,' which was open on the table before him. was it the play or the drawing which so fascinated him? the old doctor and some neighbouring gentlemen dined at the garlovs' that day, and in the course of the evening the whole party repaired to the garden; francisca had quite recovered her spirits, and theodore was in an unusually gay mood. swinging was proposed, and francisca and aurora got together into the swing, which had a capacious seat. the old doctor insisted upon swinging the girls, but after trying it for some time, puffing and panting, he called to theodore and gave up his post to him with, 'it is your turn, now; i am too old to go on long.' but aurora vehemently opposed his doing it--she would not on any account give him so much trouble. 'oh, i shall dispense with all gratitude from you,' said theodore. 'don't distress yourself about giving me trouble, that can all be placed to miss francisca's account; she will return so many thanks, that i am sure they will suffice for both of you.' francisca laughed, and so did the old doctor and kitty. as if in fun, theodore set the swing into more violent motion, and it flew higher and higher, with a disagreeable jerking movement. aurora screamed, and then called out that she was frightened; but theodore continued his exertions, while he exclaimed, 'angels are at home in the higher regions, therefore it is impossible for miss angel to be afraid of reaching the tops of the trees.' 'i don't choose to swing any more; i command you to stop!' cried aurora, with a look that made it doubtful whether she was in jest or earnest. theodore laughed, and then replied, 'entreaties would have more weight than commands; you had better say _i pray you_, miss aurora. now you can truly exclaim, "ich bin ubel dran."' aurora would not condescend to entreat, but when next the swing came to near the ground, she prepared to spring out; in a moment, however, it was off again, and the spring, which she was then not able to check, was made from a considerable height. francisca tried to catch her, and losing her own balance, she, too, with a wild shriek, fell forward. at the same moment both the young ladies lay stunned upon the ground. theodore was in an agony of terror; the old doctor clasped his hands in consternation, and kitty almost fainted away. the rest of the party, hearing the shriek, rushed to the place where the swing was erected, and only added to the confusion. theodore raised francisca gently in his arms; he took no notice of aurora, who still lay insensible after francisca had recovered her consciousness. the latter was carefully carried into the house and laid on her couch by her mother and kitty, and theodore stood at the outside of her chamber door until he heard her voice speaking in its natural tones. he then suddenly remembered aurora, and returned to the garden to see how she was. in the meantime she had come to herself, and had found herself surrounded by the old doctor, mr. garlov, and the gentlemen who were spending the day with them--the ladies had all disappeared. she tried to rise, but could not stand, her ankle was either broken or dislocated. some of the servants were called; aurora was placed in an arm-chair, and carried by them towards the house, while the old doctor walked on one side of her and mr. garlov on the other, the strangers bringing up the rear. theodore flew to meet her, and exclaimed, with the utmost anxiety, 'for god's sake, tell me, are you much hurt? how do you feel?' aurora looked somewhat reproachfully at him, but she answered, 'it was my own fault.' 'it was the fault of that abominable swing--a most dangerous pastime!' exclaimed the old doctor, who forgot, in his wrath, that he had been among those who encouraged it. aurora was carefully laid on a sofa in a small chamber leading into the music-room, where mrs. garlov and kitty came to her after they had made francisca as comfortable as possible; she had struck her chest against the projecting root of a tree, and the spot looked blue, but there was no other apparent injury. the doctor found aurora's foot much swollen; the joint was dislocated, and he tried to put it in its place, but not being able to manage it, he called theodore to perform the operation, which, though painful, aurora bore with great fortitude. the strangers, of course, took their departure, and the old doctor, after having visited francisca, declared that he also was obliged to go. aurora said she hoped to see him again soon; but he told her that he must put her under theodore's care, as he would be unavoidably compelled to absent himself for some days. she seemed much annoyed at this, and anxiously requested to be removed to copenhagen, for she would suffer any amount of pain on the journey, she said, rather than be attended by theodore. she was assured, however, that it was absolutely necessary for her to remain where she was. theodore cursed in his heart his past rudeness to aurora, which had caused the poor girl to dislike him so much. meantime, every arrangement was made for aurora's comfort, and her host and hostess were most assiduous in their attention to her. she happened, however, to be alone when theodore paid her his first visit next morning. she lay on the sofa, which had been converted into a bed, in a white dressing-gown, with her beautiful hair falling negligently about her shoulders, and her rounded cheek resting on one hand. so beautiful did she look, that theodore started on entering the room, and stood as if turned into a statue of stone; it was some moments before he could recover himself sufficiently to ask her how she was. aurora gave him one of her sweetest smiles, and held out her hand to him, while she said, 'like the frightened one in the german tale, let me ask, "daniel, daniel, why do you persecute me?"' this mild rebuke quite overcame theodore; he stooped and kissed her hand, while he whispered, 'o aurora, be merciful!' from this moment their former seeming dislike to each other vanished entirely. theodore devoted much of his time to the interesting invalid; he talked to her, read to her, and before long had quite adopted her opinion of her favourite clärchen in the drama of 'egmont.' francisca made no fuss about herself, but she had come off the worst, nevertheless, for the blow on her chest had brought on a spitting of blood, which, however, she concealed from everyone except my mother--her cousin kitty. aurora's foot had had ample time to get well; but she complained constantly of it, and could not be induced to try to walk. thus, at the end of three weeks, she was still confined to her sofa. during all this time theodore had not had any opportunity of conversing alone with francisca, for either the one or the other was in attendance on aurora, or they were both with her. francisca looked pale and ill, and ought by rights to have changed places with aurora, who reclined like an invalid on the sofa, though her blooming face was the picture of health. but as she still complained of her sufferings, francisca innocently charged theodore to be very attentive to her--an injunction he was only too willing to obey. it never occurred to francisca that theodore might fall in love with aurora; and yet that was already the case. on her first arrival he had been dazzled by her extraordinary beauty; but looking upon her as a cold-blooded coquette, he had endeavoured to steel his heart against her. it was mistrust of himself which made him pretend to dislike her; her indifference piqued him, and was the cause of his ill-humour and caprice, but francisca's mistake about the sketches awoke a new feeling in him, and he determined to win aurora's love. _she_ marked well all the fluctuations in his feelings and his manners, but, sure of her game, she went calmly on. theodore had judged rightly when he had denounced the sketch as an artful piece of coquetry; nevertheless, it had its effect on him in spite of his sober reason. the particular attention which he always showed francisca provoked aurora, who could not endure anyone to interfere with the monopoly of all homage which she claimed for herself, and she worked hard to separate them. the scene at the swing and its consequences, though caused only by her jealousy, had aided her designs, and now she had not a doubt of her conquest. both theodore and aurora were vain--both were coquettes--for gentlemen can be coquettes as well as ladies; the difference between them was, that she was a profound coquette, he a thoughtless one; she had improved her talents in that way by deep study, he was guided only by his natural tendencies. surely much were those to be pitied who had founded their hopes on such characters, for they had built their house upon quicksand! theodore soon found that he could no longer gloss over his feelings for aurora, and shelter them under the well-sounding names of regret, duty, christian charity, or friendship, with which he had hitherto tried to silence his awaking conscience. he was forced to confess to himself that he loved aurora as he never before had loved--what had bound him to francisca was only friendship and gratitude; yet he could not but admit that she had bestowed her whole heart on him. when aurora began to limp about a little, first with a crutch, then with a stick, and, lastly, with the aid of his arm, he found himself so happy with her, that he could scarcely sober his feelings before francisca, who, still unsuspicious of any evil, rejoiced to see them such good friends. but all were not so blind as francisca: her mother and cousin saw more clearly what was going on, and they trembled for the moment when she should find out the unwelcome truth, if truth it really were. that moment came sooner than they had expected. it so happened that kitty was confined to her room for a few days by a bad cold, and at that very period francisca was obliged to be a good deal with the daughters of the clergyman of the parish, in whose family a death had taken place. theodore was, therefore, almost entirely alone with aurora. one evening, about dusk, francisca returned from a visit to the clergyman's family, and on the stairs she met a servant-girl, who was carrying a glass of lemonade to aurora. she took it from the girl to carry it in herself; the door was half open between the anteroom and the music-room, and, hearing aurora playing on the harp, she stopped, not to disturb her. it was clärchen's song, and theodore was singing a second to it in a low tone. it was so long since she had heard him sing, that she sat down near the door to listen to his voice. he stopped before the end of the song, and aurora finished it alone. as she sang the last two lines, francisca heard theodore sigh deeply. 'he is thinking of _me!_' whispered francisca to herself, 'as i am thinking of him.' poor francisca! 'grieved unto death!' repeated theodore. 'you are singing my requiem, aurora.' 'and my own,' said aurora. 'would to heavens i had never come here! what have i done that i should be so punished?' 'speak not thus, aurora; i alone am guilty. why did i not tell you of my engagement to francisca? why did i not fly and leave you both?' 'francisca is of an affectionate but tranquil character; she will forgive a temporary inconstancy, if she has observed it; but it is not probable that she has. it is not yet too late. i must go, and you will soon forget me. francisca may yet be happy--but, oh! what a blank is before me! yet i must away.' 'for heaven's sake, forbear, aurora! leave me! no, no, i cannot tear myself from you, come what may. my life is doomed--alas! there is no happiness more for me in this world. but these vows--these dreadful vows--must they be fulfilled?' 'they may crush our hearts,' said aurora, 'but they must be fulfilled. let my hand go, theodore--you are engaged to francisca; leave me--leave me to weep alone.' 'dearest--adored--most precious aurora!--how wretched i am! how could i fancy that i loved francisca? and yet, shall i repay all her goodness to me by treachery?' 'hush, ancker, hush! you will kill me. go, marry francisca, and be happy!' 'happy!' cried theodore, vehemently; 'happy without you? how can you mock me thus, aurora?' 'perhaps time may do something for us,' said aurora, with a smile as beautiful as the sun breaking through the dark clouds in a stormy sky. 'i dare hope nothing from time,' replied theodore. 'ah! do you not now feel the force of these words, "i am in a strange position?"' murmured aurora. 'you are revenged, aurora,' said theodore, not without some bitterness. 'the loss of a lifetime's happiness is surely enough to atone for a moment's thoughtlessness.' a deathlike weakness, which she could not shake off, had compelled francisca to overhear this conversation. the first words had been enough almost to kill her; as soon as she was capable of moving, she rose and fled like a hunted deer to her own apartment: there, throwing her arms round my mother's neck, she could only exclaim, 'kitty, kitty, what have i not heard!' my mother too well guessed whence the blow had come, and she was not surprised at what was told her. the cousins spent the evening alone together, and when the family had retired to rest, my mother sought the wing of the house in which theodore's rooms were situated. he was not there. she was rather glad to escape an interview with a young man, at night, in his own apartment, and in returning she observed that the door of the music-room was half-open; on going forward to shut it, she perceived that a window was also open, and she went to close it first. but what was her surprise on reaching it, and looking out for a moment, to see, in the clear moonlight, theodore standing below aurora's window, talking earnestly to her, while she was leaning out, with a little shawl thrown over her head. kitty drew back hurriedly, but theodore had seen her, and immediately joined her. he forthwith began to account for his being found there; but it was evident that he was telling a falsehood got up at the moment. my mother interrupted him by briefly informing him what francisca had overheard; she laid the ring and the miniature on the table before him, simply adding a request that he would leave the house as soon as possible. the next day francisca was confined to her room by illness, which was given out to be a cold, and theodore set off for copenhagen without having seen either of the cousins. aurora soon followed him, and then kitty communicated to mrs. garlov the fact of francisca's engagement being broken off. mr. garlov had never heard of it, and often, to francisca's great distress, wished theodore back again. a hard battle she had to fight with herself, but she bore up wonderfully under her deep disappointment. and this is the history of aunt francisca's youth. rudolph paused, and arnold seized the opportunity of exclaiming, 'why, we have only had a mere tissue of sentimentality as yet. what has become of the child, rudolph, that mrs. werner was whispering to you about? you smile--come, out with the child, don't withhold the best part of the story from us--the child--the child.' 'oh!' said one of the other young men, shaking his finger at arnold, 'what have you to do with the child? leave it in peace, poor thing! there is no use in recalling these forgotten affairs.' 'no; we _must_ have the little affair of the child,' insisted arnold, as rudolph was about to continue his narrative. francisca spent some years quietly in the country, not mixing at all with the world, and only cared for by those who were immediately around her. my mother was her sole friend and correspondent, and she used to pass two months every summer at the garlovs'. these were francisca's pleasantest days, for she could talk freely to _her_ of her own short and too bitterly lost period of happiness. her sorrow and mortification had not made her either sour or melancholy, as you will perhaps believe when i tell you that she had two or three offers at this time which she refused. she was about two-and-twenty years of age when her father died, and as he had lived up to his income, there was but little left for the widow and her daughter. they removed to copenhagen, where they lived on a slender income, but slightly increased by what francisca received from the tontine in which she held some shares. often did mrs. garlov lament, for her daughter's sake, their altered circumstances; but theodore's name was never mentioned between them. only once mrs. garlov had spoken of him, and then she had wondered how it was possible for her dear child to forgive him. but francisca answered, 'it is so easy to forgive, dear mother. let us not, however, again allude to him; it only pains you.' theodore, in the meantime, had married aurora. when my mother communicated this event to francisca, she determined to burn every little memento of him which she had treasured with the pardonable folly of affection! and 'oh!' she exclaimed, as with bitter tears she made an auto-da-fé of these souvenirs, 'may he be as happy as my most earnest wishes would make him, and may every remembrance of me be obliterated from his thoughts as entirely as this last withered leaf is now consumed!' about two years after his marriage theodore removed to russia, where physicians, at that period, were in great request, and made large fortunes. kitty had heard that his principal reason, however, for leaving denmark, was to withdraw aurora from the connections she had formed in copenhagen, where her conduct often gave him occasion to repent the choice he had made. they lived unhappily together; her coquetry annoyed him extremely, and the number of admirers whom she encouraged to be constantly around her was a source of daily torment to him. a jealous husband generally makes a fool of himself; when he has an arrant coquette for his wife, his doing so is inevitable, therefore the names of theodore and aurora were soon in everybody's mouth, and _she_ found it as desirable as _he_ did to escape from all the gossip and scandal to which her own behaviour had given rise. kitty, however, did not relate these unpleasant details to francisca, who only knew that her good wishes must follow theodore to st. petersburg. shortly after this mrs. garlov died, and francisca was left almost alone in the world; but she sought happiness in constant occupation, and in doing as much good as her slender means would permit. when my mother married she wished her cousin to come and reside with her, but francisca preferred to be independent, and continued to live alone, with her servant-of-all-work. theodore had not found the happiness in russia he had anticipated. his fortune had indeed increased, but his domestic peace had diminished. aurora cared little either for his advice or his anger, and had soon formed intimacies which quite consoled her for his fits of crossness. he also found amusements away from his home; thus they often did not see each other for days, and when they did meet it was only to quarrel. one evening, on returning home at a late hour, he found his wife was absent; she had left the house early in the forenoon, and had not been seen since. next day the servant of a russian officer called with a message to theodore, to say that he need not expect his wife, as she had gone to moscow with his master, and did not intend to come back. this was a dreadful blow to him, notwithstanding the levity of her former conduct, and with a sudden feeling of hatred to st. petersburg, to which he had no longer any ties, he converted all his effects into cash, and embarked with it on board a ship bound to copenhagen. but he had a most disastrous voyage, the ship was totally lost off rügen, and the passengers saved only their lives. theodore found himself all at once a beggar, and this calamity, following so closely on his other misfortunes, brought on a dreadful illness. he passed six months in an hospital, and at the end of that time was discharged--a wretched lunatic! the danish consul took charge of him, and had him safely conveyed to copenhagen. but no one recognized him there; his passport and his papers had all been lost in the ship which had also contained his money and effects. there was, therefore, no refuge for him but the common bedlam, where he was accordingly placed. it happened, however, that after a short time he had lucid intervals, during which periods he occasionally mentioned names that were known, and this led to the discovery of who he was, and to his being removed from the bedlam and boarded with a private family, who received a few gentlemen labouring under mental disease. tidings of his unfortunate situation soon reached francisca's ears, for it was the theme in every family where he had been formerly known. she had deemed him far away, but happy and prosperous, loving and beloved; she found him near her, but unhappy, deserted, and an object of that cold charity which counts every shilling and every farthing that it expends. she determined to see him, and to administer as much as she could to his comforts. he did not know her; she stood before him as a stranger, and as if from the hands of a kind stranger he received the various little gifts with which she sought to please him. for a whole year she continued to visit him daily, and it was with deep sorrow she observed that his mind was becoming more and more clouded, no thought of the past, no dream of the future, seeming ever to enter it. at this time the landed proprietor, who was formerly mentioned, and who had been attached to francisca since she was sixteen years of age, again made her an offer of marriage. he was rich, high-principled, kind-hearted, and well-educated. she knew also that her parents had much wished her to marry him. but theodore required her care, and she determined never to forsake him. she had just finished the letter declining the offer so handsomely made, and saying that she had resolved never to marry, when the lady with whom theodore boarded, and who supposed her to be a relation of his, sent a pressing message to her begging her to come immediately. she hurried to the house, hoping that some favourable change had suddenly taken place, and that theodore would be restored to reason. but there was no such joy in store for her. she found him sitting in a corner of his room playing at cat's-cradle with some twine and his long, wasted fingers; so eagerly engaged was he on his infantine diversion, that he scarcely raised his vacant eyes as she entered. his gait was slouching, and his clothes hung loose about him. oh, how different from the theodore of former days! his hostess was sitting at work in the same room, and looking extremely cross. a letter and a parcel lay on the table, beside which stood a little boy, whose inquisitive and half-frightened glances wandered round first to the strange man, then to the unknown ladies, and lastly, to an elderly woman in a foreign dress, who was sitting near the stove, and who said a few words to him in a foreign language, apparently bidding him do something he was not inclined to do, as he shook his little head; he seemed bewildered by the scene around him. francisca also stood as one bewildered, but the lady of the house proceeded at once to explain things to her as far as she could. she told her that the foreign woman had informed her, in bad german, that she was the wife of the captain of a small trading vessel from revel, who had been requested to take charge of the little boy and deliver him to his relations, the address given being only that of dr. theodore ancker, copenhagen. all the child's expenses had been paid. the woman had conscientiously tried to find out theodore, and the lady in whose house he lived had detained her until she could send for francisca. the letter contained but a very few words; it was signed 'aurora.' the child's name was alexander, and he was three years of age. his mother sent him to take his chance in the world, as _she_ could no longer maintain him, and she entreated theodore to take care of him, as she was now no longer a burden upon his means or a sharer in his wealth. not a syllable was mentioned of her own fate--not an address or reference to her own place of abode given. in a postscript it was stated that the child understood danish. francisca's determination was soon taken. although the child was certainly not theodore's son--although he was the image of his mother--of that aurora who had blasted her happiness--she resolved to give a home to the deserted and helpless little stranger, and that very night the little alexander slept comfortably in a cot prepared for him, and placed close to her own couch. the same night she opened the small box which held all that had been bestowed upon the poor child by his parents. in addition to his scanty wardrobe, there was a little parcel containing some papers in the russian language--certificates of the child's baptism and vaccination--and below these lay a miniature. it was theodore's likeness, the same that had formerly belonged to francisca, which she had afterwards returned to him, and which had now passed from aurora's possession once more into hers, and rendered its unconscious little bearer dear to her. she gazed at it long, as if comparing the likeness of what he once had been with the ruin he now was. days long gone by arose vividly before her; she pressed the miniature to her lips, and then put it away along with her own--with the likeness of herself which theodore had never seen. it seemed to her as if the meeting of the two portraits after so long a separation were the type of a future meeting between theodore and herself in that bright spirit-world which shall haply be disclosed when this mortal scene has vanished for ever. she knelt by alexander's bed, kissed the innocent child who had brought the treasure to her, and who had himself been thrown on her compassion, and at the same time she vowed she would be a mother to him. but her adoption of him gave rise to many reports. some said he was a poor person's child, to whom she had taken a fancy; others, that he was her own son, whom she had till then kept concealed in the country. her relations, with the exception of my mother, were the most ill-natured. they took great pains to find out who could have been the boy's father, and finally had the folly to confer his paternity upon her old lover, the poor deranged doctor, whom she visited so often. 'well, there was not such folly in that belief, after all,' said arnold. 'for want of a better, i think we must accept this parentage for the youngster; for the story of a boy three years old travelling over from russia, as if he had fallen from the moon, is not at all credible.' 'but i can swear to the truth of it,' said rudolph. 'do you doubt my word?' 'i do _not_ doubt your word in the slightest degree,' replied arnold; 'that is to say, i do not doubt that you believe what you have been telling us. but i think it likely that your mother kindly got up this pretty story, and impressed it on your mind to hide your cousin's _faux pas_.' 'you judge of other people's principles by the rectitude of your own, i presume,' said rudolph, laughing. 'but to continue:' aunt francisca's prayers were not unanswered, for theodore recovered his senses before he died. he recognized francisca, blessed her for all her goodness to him, and passed into eternity with her name on his lips. alexander was a great source of happiness to francisca, but severe trials still awaited her. he was carried off by a fever exactly one month after the death of her dearest and most faithful friend, my poor mother, and she was left alone in the world. the rest of her life was devoted to works of charity, for no day passed over her head without her being engaged in some act of benevolence. love was an absolute necessity to her, therefore she transferred to me much of the affection she had felt for my mother. it was her delight to make people happy, and her last deed was to give what she knew would confer happiness. 'good soul!' cried arnold, laughing. 'that deed was to bestow on mr. horn all her lands and tenements--her goods and chattels--her chinese pagodas and mandarins. i wish you joy of the inheritance.' flora turned angrily upon him, and exclaimed, 'for shame, arnold!' but rudolph went on quietly. 'i repeat, her last deed was an act of benevolence. none of us knew that aunt francisca had money to leave. she never spoke of this, for she wished to be valued for herself, not for what she possessed.' 'aunt francisca rich! you really must be quizzing us,' exclaimed mrs. werner. 'no; i only knew it myself this evening. it seems that she was the last surviving member of the tontine, which i mentioned before, and she became, by its rules, the possessor of the whole sum. i hold her will here, in my hand, and i find that she has left not less than twenty thousand dollars.' the whole party gathered round rudolph and louise, and poured forth congratulations. 'my dear louise,' said mrs. werner, 'what a nice addition this will be to your income, and what a mercy it was that aunt francisca never married. had she done so, rudolph and you would not have got a shilling, though you were both so fond of her.' 'i loved aunt francisca for her own sake,' replied louise; 'and i almost wish that she had left nothing to rudolph but the little matters she valued herself.' rudolph took louise's hand in silence and kissed it. 'good heavens!' exclaimed arnold. 'she has left twenty thousand dollars, do you say? no wonder you were her faithful knight, rudolph! it was a sort of instinct that led you to take up that position; you scented the cash. for twenty thousand dollars i would pledge myself to sing the blessed creature's praises all the days of my life, and for half that sum i would swear to draw a merciful veil over the affair of the child?' 'would you?' said rudolph. 'then i will take you at your word. listen now to _the will_. "as my dear cousin rudolph horn is so well provided for that he does not stand in need of what i can give, and as his marriage is not delayed by any pecuniary difficulties, i shall leave him only five thousand dollars from my tontine capital; the other fifteen thousand i hereby bequeath to my dear flora werner and to lieutenant arnold, upon the condition that their wedding takes place within one year from the day of my death." you see that this bequest is a passport from aunt francisca to that happiness in the future for you two which fate had denied to herself. perhaps you were so polite as to walk home with her some evening, arnold, and that you entrusted to her the secret of your engagement,' added rudolph, with a slight sneer. arnold coloured and bit his lips. flora would not believe what she had heard until she saw the words on paper; and cousin ida, who looked over her shoulder, to convince herself also, exclaimed, 'fifteen thousand dollars! there it stands, true enough. who would have thought that the old lady could leave so large a legacy? it is quite a godsend to you and arnold, flora.' flora burst into tears, and threw herself into her sister's arms. 'well, recommend me to old maids, however absurd they may be,' said one of the gentlemen; 'who could have guessed that such a windfall would have come through one of the sisterhood? i solemnly vow hereafter to pay court to all old maids, for no one can know what they may leave behind when they are screwed down in their coffins. and if i fail with ten of them, the eleventh may prove a benefactress.' 'you have drawn another moral from rudolph's tale to what i expected,' said mrs. werner; 'but your ideas are perhaps those which would generally suggest themselves in this selfish world. take care, in future, to show decent civility to old maids. you will not, of course, do so from kindness of heart, but bear in mind that there is always a hope of being remembered in the last will and testament.' arnold sat for a few minutes quite abashed, with his hands over his eyes; at length he looked up and exclaimed: 'aunt francisca has heaped coals of fire on my head. she has humbled me thoroughly, and taught me a painful lesson; but i had well deserved it. you cannot conceive how much i am ashamed of myself: i feel quite guilty before you all.' 'aunt francisca knew how to distinguish thoughtlessness from malignity,' said rudolph, as he joined flora's and arnold's hands. 'the slight annoyance you might have occasioned her was soon forgiven and forgotten. be as happy together as she prayed you might be. i can add no higher wish for you both. but when you meet by chance an old maid, do not forget that you were--aunt francisca's heirs.' the shipwrecked mariner's treasure.[3] from the danish of carit etlar. chapter i. one summer afternoon, two young fishermen were together before the door of one of the last cottages which are situated between the sandhills near stadil fiord, in the district of ringkjöhing. the one was painting a pair of oars, the other had stretched himself at full length along the bench near the well, and was resting his head idly on both his hands, while he watched his comrade's work. in this attitude his countenance expressed a sort of quiet contentment, which seemed never to have been disturbed by the storms of passion. he had a low forehead, prominent eyes, a round face, smooth hair, combed straight down, and colossal limbs. his companion was of more slender proportions, and evidently possessed less bodily strength; but he seemed active, and there was an expression of benevolence and honesty in his features that could not fail to inspire confidence in him. the sun was shining that afternoon from a cloudless sky; the larks were singing, gulls and other sea-birds were flying about in circles in the air; and the monotonous sound of the waves of the german ocean, rolling lazily on the jutland coast, as, borne across the sandhills, was like the audible breathing of a sleeping giant. the church bell at vædersö was ringing for the afternoon service. all was quiet and repose in that sandy desert, where the eye in vain sought a tree, a bush, a single blade of fresh green. only the lymegrass amidst the hillocks, and here and there a little yellow patch of rough, half-withered grass in the hollows, varied the dismally uniform colour of the sand. 'come, now,' said the young man who was doing nothing, after he had remained a long time silently contemplating the other, 'put away that paint-pot, and give up work for to-day. wash your hands, jörgen, and come with me to vædersö; we will have a game at skittles. this is a holiday, and one can't be always labouring.' the young man thus addressed looked up and smiled, and after having for a minute glanced at his handiwork with apparent pleasure, he exclaimed: 'i am ready now, ebbe. but only look! i have painted two hearts, with a wreath round them, inside of our names, which are to signify that you and i will hold together in friendship and good companionship all our days.' 'yes, that we will, jörgen.' 'i don't see why one should be idle all sunday, any more than on other days,' said jörgen. 'in spring, you know, we two bought a boat together; it was a very ugly one, and in a sadly dilapidated state, you may remember; but in consequence of devoting our spare time to repairing and beautifying it, we have now got as smart a little craft as there is on the whole coast. i am never so happy as when i am at work.' 'and i am never so happy as when i can lie quietly and comfortably on my back in the sunshine, and look up at the heavens, as i am doing now. i don't see the least use in a man's working harder than he absolutely need do. you and i, jörgen, have been obliged to work since we were quite little fellows. our parents sent us away among strangers, because they had no longer the means of maintaining us; we toiled and slaved for the benefit of others, and for the same reward that they gave their beasts--for mere food. from those days to this, we have never been able, with our united efforts, to make more than the fifteen dollars we paid for the boat. and now we must begin to labour afresh; and so we shall be forced to go on through the whole of our lives, until we are too old to work any more, and then we shall be thrust into the poor-house, as our parents before us were, and get leave to hobble about with a stick and a clay pot, to beg for food from those whom we helped to enrich when we were young. you may laugh, jörgen, but what i am saying is the plain truth nevertheless. if a poor lad such as i am could only earn enough in his youth to enable him to take it easy in his old age, he would be labouring to some purpose; if our gains could amount to so much as the gains of the person who owns that large ship out yonder; or if we could make as much as the lord of the manor at aabjerg possesses, who has nothing to do but to drive in summer round his fields, with his hands behind his back, and his german pipe in his mouth, and in winter to sit at home in his warm chimney-corner, and play at cards with all the strangers that visit him, it would be another thing. ah, jörgen, jörgen! if one could only get so far as to be able to take the reins in one's own hands, instead of carrying the bit in one's mouth.' jörgen shrugged his shoulders and smiled. shortly afterwards, the two young fishermen were to be seen strolling arm in arm to the village of vædersö. towards evening the weather changed; the skies became cloudy, and before the sun had set the whole coast wore an aspect very different from the peaceful calm that had reigned around in the earlier part of the afternoon. a cold north-west wind blew in sharply from the sea, whose waves, rising higher and higher every moment, sent a thick rain of spray and foam over the adjacent sandhills, whilst the breakers dashed loudly on the reefs along the shore. the sand began to whirl about among the hills, and flocks of sea-gulls and other birds flew in towards the beach, their hoarse and mournful cries predicting bad weather. the peasants at vædersö had finished their games of skittles, and were about to return to their homes, when a fisherman brought to the little town the tidings that a foreign ship was in distress at sea, outside of husby sandhills. this intelligence, which seemed to interest all who heard it, drew particular attention from those who were standing in groups. a number of men and women set off immediately on the way to the sandhills, without heeding the rain and the coming storm. amidst the crowd who sought as speedily as possible to witness the calamitous spectacle might be observed a person of a very peculiar appearance. he was a tall, heavy-limbed man, with a blood-red complexion, the natural hue of which became deeper and deeper every moment, in consequence of the haste with which he was making his way through the heavy sandy road. his face was encircled by a forest of coal-black hair and beard, and shaded by a dark calf-skin cap. the deep-set eyes were nearly hidden beneath a pair of dark eyebrows that almost met over a nose which looked unnaturally broad, as chance had not bestowed much length upon it. this was the village blacksmith. he was by birth a pole, and had served for some time in the army, under the reign of frederick vi. the road from vædersö to the sandhills, as has been said, was entirely through sand. on both sides might be seen fields of rye, whose slender pale blades were beaten down by the tempest. the smith had taken as a companion along this fatiguing path a favourite and faithful friend, who lived at free quarters in his house, and carried on in this comfortable abode his trade, which was that of the village tailor. these two persons were almost always to be seen together--the lesser man, indeed, seemed to be quite a necessary appendage to the taller one, who looked as if nature had appointed him the tailor's protector. the merits of the latter, however, were not to be questioned; he was an untiring listener, and so submissive and dependent that, if the smith had pushed him out by the door, he would have crept back through a window; so complaisant, that if the smith had chosen to tell a falsehood, the tailor would have sworn to its truth. these two individuals formed, for the moment, the centre of a group of peasants who had gathered on the sandhills. below, upon the sea-shore, were to be seen several fishermen hard at work, drawing up their boats farther on the beach, and when that was done, standing in silence, anxiously contemplating the sea, on which a large ship was struggling with the furious wind, and heavy waves that were every moment driving it nearer to the land, notwithstanding all the efforts those on board seemed making to escape the threatened danger. the groups among the sandhills were less silent. the smith had just declared, in decisive tones, to what nation the unfortunate ship belonged. 'yes, as i have this moment told you,' he continued, in the sort of barbarous danish in which he usually spoke. 'it is an english vessel, and i thank god it is not swedish.' 'why?' asked the tailor. 'because they build their ships with such bad timber--only fir and pine--not an inch of good strong oak among it. i wish no evil to anyone, or anything; but if it be our lord's will that a ship is to be run aground to-night, i am glad it should be an englishman: those english know how to build ships.' 'you are right, there, master harfiz!' said the tailor. 'what capital iron bolts we got from the last wreck, and what excellent oak timber to boot! when the wreck that is going to be is brought to auction, i shall look out for a share of it.' 'and i also,' said the smith. 'i dare say, now, that craft out there will furnish me with some good strong posts for my new smithy; it does not look to be built of tinder or matches.' 'we can discern the goodness of the almighty towards all mankind,' remarked the tailor. 'no cotton grows here--no silk, no iron is to be found; nothing, so to speak, but salt fish can be got on these bare coasts, and he is good enough every year to let one or two vessels be lost here that we may obtain what we require at a reasonable rate.' 'yes, and he mercifully ordains this to happen generally in the fall of the year,' added an old woman, 'because he knows that the winter is approaching, and that poor folks want a little wood for firing to warm themselves.' 'there is no dishonesty in taking what is cast in to us by the sea,' said the tailor. 'they did much worse in old times down yonder at nymindegab.' 'at nymindegab?' echoed the smith. 'i know nothing about it. what did they do down there?' 'don't you remember that true tale we heard last candlemas at thimgaard about the rich nobleman espen? he lived at a castle which was called ahner, and he used every stormy evening, and during the dark nights of winter, to ride over the sandhills with a lighted lantern bound underneath his horse, in order that the seafaring people who were driven out of their course should fancy that the light came from a ship sailing in deep water, and thus get stranded on the reefs while they steered for the light. this went on well for a long time, and espen of ahner became a very rich man, for all the wrecks on that part of the coast belonged to him. but at length, just when he was celebrating his daughter's wedding, a poor half-witted creature found his way into the castle, and disclosed their lord's evil deeds to all his vassals.'[4] during this conversation the ship, which had excited the attention of so many, had tried several times to tack about, so as to get away from the shore, but the attempt had always failed. in the terrible storm, which seemed to be increasing every moment, it was no longer possible to carry such a press of sail as was required to take the ship out. its fate could not, therefore, long be doubtful, as every swell of the sea brought it nearer and nearer to the dangerous reefs which stretched along the coast. it is about half a century since the events here related took place. at that period the german ocean had dashed many a wreck over the outer reef, and many a cry for help or death-groan had been wafted away by the stormy wind, or smothered by the sea, before anyone thought of taking effective measures to give help to the drowning mariners. on the occasion of the shipwreck in question, however, the unfortunate crew were often so close to the land that their despairing cries and earnest prayers were distinctly heard on shore, and the tempest had driven them within the outer reef, their vessel almost smashed to pieces indeed, but so near that, but for the fury of the waves, the fishermen could have got out to them even in their frail boats, and have saved them. in the meantime daylight had gone, but in the summer evening even distant objects were still visible; and when the moon struggled forth from the heavy clouds, in the pale and tremulous light it cast over the sea, the ill-fated ship could be seen driving, with two or three small sails up, nearer to the coast. presently one of the masts went overboard, was caught in the cordage, and hung on one side of the hull. from time to time, between the more furious gusts of wind, the gale bore heartrending cries of distress to the land. all exercise of authority on board seemed to have been long given up, everyone apparently thinking only of saving himself. a boat was with difficulty lowered, but it filled the moment it reached the water. the crowd on the beach was now increased by two persons--the lord of the manor from aabjerg and his son. the first-named was a very stout man, muffled up in a thick great-coat and a fur-cap, with wings that came close down over his ears, and were tied under his chin. he had a tobacco-pouch well fastened to a button-hole in his overcoat, and was smoking a large german pipe. his son was a lieutenant in the lancers at kolding, on a visit for a few days at his father's country-house. he wore that evening a blue uniform, and carried an umbrella, which was every minute almost turned inside out by the wind. 'hark ye, good people!' cried the great man, stretching his chin over the enormous handkerchief that enveloped his throat; 'we must try and do something for them out yonder. it would be a sin to let all these poor fellows perish, would it not--eh? what say you?' 'god have mercy on them!' muttered an old fisherman. 'it is too heavy a sea for any boat to live in; we can do nothing for them, herr krigsraad.'[5] 'not if i promise a ten-dollar note to anyone who will take a rope out to them? what! is there not one of you who will try it?' the fishermen looked at each other, and shrugged their shoulders; but no one spoke. 'i shall add five dollars to my father's ten,' cried the lieutenant. 'well, i think this is a very good offer,' said the krigsraad. 'but you must not take too long to consider about it,' added his son. 'courage, my lads! it only wants hearty good will and a pair of strong arms, and you will soon reach them out yonder.' 'since the noble herr lieutenant thinks so, he had better make the attempt himself,' said one of the fishermen. 'your honour seems to have a pair of strong enough arms; i will lend you my boat for this venturesome deed, but i won't sell my life for any money.' 'the impertinent scoundrel!' muttered the young officer, turning towards his father. 'i wish i had him on the drill-ground at kolding.' 'for heaven's sake be quiet, lieutenant,' whispered his father, 'and don't draw me into a quarrel with my fishermen. that man is no coward; i have myself seen him and another rescue sailors from a wreck in the most frightful weather, when there seemed no more chance of his getting safely back than there would be for me were i to try to wade out yonder in my great-coat.' while this short colloquy was going on, a piercing cry was heard from the wreck--a gigantic billow had raised the ship aloft and cast it in over the reef; when the waves rolled back the vessel lay on its side, having been raised and dashed down again several times in the raging surf, and left lying partially buried in the sand. after this, every wave washed over it with a force that must have been seen to have been believed possible, and which, in the course of a few minutes, swept the deck clean of every object that had hitherto been securely fastened on it. in the confusion which followed, another cry of distress arose, and those of the fishermen who stood nearest to the water, thought in the dusk that they perceived many of the sailors carried away by the sea, which, unchecked, was rolling over the deck. as the swelling waves dashed forward, these unfortunate victims stretched out their arms. when they retired, nothing more was to be seen: the men were gone. three sailors had crept up the shrouds, and had lashed themselves to the only remaining mast, and every now and then the wind carried to the land their agonized appeals to the people on shore to save them. shortly after a boat was seen to be shoved off from the beach with four men in it; they bowed their heads, took off their hats, and held them for a few moments before their faces, while they seemed to be offering up a short prayer, then they let the boat glide out into deep water. the four men stood up, and appeared to be working hard to get over the inner reefs. for a short time the boat went bravely on, the oars were plied by experienced hands, and every effort was made to reach the stranded ship, but the raging sea cast them back, and filled the boat, and the fishermen were obliged to return without having effected their object. at length, the next morning, about dawn of day, the storm seemed to be abating. in the interim those who still remained on the wreck had made another effort to reach the land in one of the boats which had not been carried away from the ship, but had continued fastened to its side. but this attempt also failed; the waves broke over the unfortunate boat, and relentlessly swept it out to sea. when the sun came forth only one man was to be seen, and he was lashed to the mast. the krigsraad returned to the beach at an early hour, and renewed his appeals to the fishermen. ebbe and jörgen were both there; they had not left the sea-shore the whole night. 'the weather is not so wild as it was,' whispered jörgen to ebbe, 'and the sea is not so terribly rough. what do you say to our making the attempt? our boat floats lightly, and will stand the waves better than any of the others.' 'it can't be done,' replied ebbe; 'we should be risking too much--our beautiful newly-painted boat, that we spent everything we had to buy! you don't remember all that.' 'i remember that once when my father was shipwrecked up near skagen, he was fastened to a mast like that poor man out yonder; let us do as the natives of skagen did, and save him.' 'let us wait a little longer, at least,' whispered ebbe, eagerly. 'perhaps the krigsraad may offer a larger reward presently.' jörgen cast a reproachful look at his comrade, and said, 'god forgive you for the sin of thinking of money and reward at such a moment as this. i won't wait; and if you do not choose to go, i will get some one else to accompany me; for, happen what may, i am resolved to attempt the rescue of that poor man.' 'have a little patience,' cried ebbe, holding jörgen back by his arm. 'just wait till i take off my new waistcoat and my nice cravat; it would be a shame to spoil them with salt water.' 'what are you two consulting about?' asked the krigsraad, going up to them. 'have you determined to go out yonder, my lad?' 'we shall attempt to do so,' replied the young fisherman. 'that's right, jörgen! you are a brave fellow, and have more courage than all your comrades put together. well done.' 'i am younger than any of them,' replied jörgen, blushing at the great man's praise, 'and i have neither wife nor child to grieve for me if any accident happens to me.' 'i also am going,' said ebbe, in a doleful voice. 'i also will risk my health and my life to save a suffering fellow-creature. and though your honour was so good as to promise a reward, i must beg you not to think that i am going for the sake of the money. nevertheless, i shall accept it, for i am betrothed to a little girl here in the neighbourhood, and the money might be useful to her if i am lost.' 'go, then, in heaven's name!' cried the krigsraad. 'what! do you think i am the man to withhold the ten dollars i promised?' 'it was fifteen, sir,' observed ebbe. 'well, well, fifteen then! make yourself easy, i shall be as good as my word; but be off now!' 'i shall trust to your word, sir--and there are witnesses,' mumbled ebbe. ebbe then divested himself of his new green-and-red-striped vest and gay-coloured necktie, which he put away carefully together under one of the boats that were drawn up on the beach. he then went down to jörgen, who was busy launching a small, newly-painted boat into the sea. 'the weather is moderating,' cried the krigsraad, filling his pipe comfortably. 'i think the sun is going to shine briskly.' 'our lord is pleased that we are so humane as to risk our all in order to save a human being who is a stranger to us,' whined ebbe, as he took his place in the boat with jörgen. it was a moment full of anxiety and sympathy when the frail little boat was caught in the first heavy sea, was thrown up aloft, and then hidden among the engulphing waves! the crowd on the beach stood silent and breathless, and even the krigsraad forgot his newly-lighted pipe. he mounted on a fragment of rock, holding his hand over his eyes, and standing with his head bowed forward, intently watching the treacherous sea; and he was the first to break the silence with a loud oath, when jörgen's boat glided safely over the reef, and up to the side of the shipwrecked vessel. a thrilling shout burst forth at that moment from the spectators on shore--a shout full of triumph and joy; it rang over the waters as far off as the wreck, and jörgen was seen to turn towards the land and wave his hat in the air, after which he made his boat fast to the shattered ship by the end of a rope that was hanging loosely from the fallen mast, and crept up by the side of the wreck. the one man still clinging to it had fastened himself on the bowl of the mast. at the extreme end of the ship stood a black, shaggy-haired dog, who, with a weak, suppressed whine, was gazing out on the open sea, without taking the slightest notice of the strangers. when jörgen reached the deck the man turned his head towards him, made a sign with his hand, and murmured repeatedly one word--'water!' 'i am sorry you will have to wait till we reach the land,' said jörgen, 'but, with god's help, that shall not be long.' 'i am afraid i have got my chest very much injured,' said the man, in the mixture of low german and danish which he spoke. 'the same accursed wave which carried off our captain with it during the night dashed me down from the bowl of the mast, where i had lashed myself with the end of a rope, to prevent my being washed overboard. whilst i was hanging there a heavy sea came rolling over the wreck, and it drove me with such force against the mast, that i lost all sense and consciousness. since then it has been almost impossible for me to hold out against the weather, and i was on the point of loosening the rope, and letting myself go down to davy's locker with the rest, when i saw your boat put off from the shore. in the name of heaven, why were you so long of coming to our assistance?' 'we dared not venture out sooner,' replied jörgen, 'on account of the awful storm.' 'do you call this bit of a puff of wind a storm?' cried the man, scornfully. 'it is more likely that you were afraid of a wet jacket, or of catching cold. ah well! i must not complain; you have done what you could, and i'm thinking that you yourself will profit the most by having saved me.' 'i don't know what you mean by _profit_.' 'oh, that's not the question just now. help me to get free of this rope; my hands are so cramped that i can scarcely use them, and let us be off.' whilst jörgen was assisting the man, who at every movement that he made uttered a sigh or groan of pain, a voice was heard from the boat. 'make haste to come, jörgen, or ebbe will lose the boat.' 'what do you say?' cried jörgen, much surprised. 'i say that our boat will be thumped to pieces--to splinters--lying here and knocking against the wreck. already the edge of the gunwale has started, and we have sprung a leak on one side; so come down, jörgen--it is too unreasonable for anyone to expect that we should risk ourselves and our all to save other people.' 'a brave comrade you have got!' muttered the stranger, as jörgen carried rather than helped him down out of the shrouds. 'call out to him, and tell him that i have with me that which would make him cry his eyes out to lose if he does not take me safely from this wreck.' jörgen full well knew what effect this intelligence would have upon ebbe, and instantly repeated to him the stranger's words. the object was attained, for ebbe immediately came creeping up the side of the wreck, to assist in bringing the shipwrecked man down to the boat. the suffering seaman groaned repeatedly, and the exertion of moving seemed almost too much for him; bloody froth issued from his lips, and when he reached the boat he sank down exhausted at the bottom of it. the poor dog, meanwhile, had never stirred from its place, although jörgen had done his best to coax it to come to him; the animal had turned his head for once towards him, and then sprang to a higher part of the wreck, with a dismal and heart-rending howl. 'there is no use in your calling that beast,' murmured the stranger. 'he has stood in one place and done nothing but howl since his master, the captain, was washed overboard. he will not quit the ship as long as a plank of it is left. cast loose the rope, and push out with the oars, you there in the flannel waistcoat, who were afraid of scratching your smart little craft.' after this petulant speech, the stranger laid himself back in the boat, and closed his eyes. jörgen loosened the rope; as he did so, a wave carried the boat at once far away from the wreck. the dog was the only living creature left on board of it, and he did not seem to perceive that the boat was speeding fast away. as they were rowing towards the land, jörgen and ebbe had a good opportunity of observing the stranger. he was a man apparently about fifty, partially bald, with a round forehead, high nose, pointed chin, and a shrewd and cunning expression of countenance, which was strongly marked, even though the eyes were closed. ebbe surveyed his prostrate figure with a degree of veneration, and much would he have given to have known where the treasure could be deposited in safety, to which the unknown had so recently referred, and with the possession of which his humble attire so ill accorded. the passage from the wreck back to the land was made speedily, and in silence, until they had got over the innermost reef, which the receding tide had left almost bare of water; then suddenly arose a cry of exultation from the fishermen on shore. at that sound the stranger opened his eyes, raised his head, and exclaimed: 'what are they shouting for in there? oh! i suppose it is in honour of the great feat you have accomplished. nonsense! how far is it from this place to hjerting?' 'about nine miles,' replied jörgen. 'north or south?' 'south.' 'ah, i thought sure enough that we had made a mistake in our reckoning; but it must be forgiven, since it was the last piece of stupidity our blessed captain has been allowed to commit. are you quite sure that it is not more than nine miles to hjerting?' he asked again a little after, as if the matter were of great consequence to him. the two fishermen repeated the assertion. 'are you going on to hjerting?' asked ebbe. 'certainly; my sympathizing friend, it is easy to travel nine miles[6] with a severe wound in one's chest. find me a hut to lie down in and a doctor to put plaster on me, and i shall want nothing more just at present. i have the means to pay you for everything you do for me. and now not another question or another word, for i feel the greatest pain whenever i open my mouth to speak.' in the course of another hour the stranger was lying comfortably in jörgen and ebbe's hut. he had reported himself to the krigsraad as the first mate, fourness, from amrom. jörgen had gone to vædersö to ask assistance from the smith, who, in addition to his other accomplishments, also carried on secretly the profession of a medical man among the peasantry in the neighbourhood. jörgen found the learned gentleman sitting in his smithy, surrounded by some countrymen, to whom he was reading aloud the political intelligence from a soiled provincial newspaper that was lying, spread open, upon his knees. in the furthest corner of the workshop an apprentice was busy shoeing two horses. when jörgen mentioned his errand, the smith put away his newspaper with alacrity, and instantly gave all his attention to the report of the case. 'do you think you will be able to cure him, master,' added the young fisherman, 'or shall i go on to ringkjöbing, though it is so much farther off, for the doctor of the district?' 'i'll tell you what, jörgen,' replied the smith, in a raised voice, and with a look that betokened the utmost self-confidence, 'i will undertake to cure any creature who is not already dead, and even then sometimes they may be called back, as the worthy priest can testify, who knows that about easter, last year, i brought back to life his brown filly, after it had been dead for nearly half-an-hour. if that can be done with a filly, i should think it can be done with a human being. why not? but where is he wounded? in the head?' 'no; in the breast.' 'so much the better. we must give him something. i shall take my pills with me; if they don't set him to rights, you can order his grave to be dug. come over the way, jörgen, and let us have a dram together before we set off to cure the man.' the smith then left his workshop accompanied by jörgen. his secret--the preparation of these wonderful pills--it may be mentioned here, was found out some years later, during an investigation which took place before the magistrates of ringkjöbing, on the occasion of the worthy smith being charged with culpable quackery. they were only made of rye bread and the juice of walnut leaves! while jörgen had gone to summon the smith, ebbe had remained with the sufferer, who seemed to have become worse since he had landed, for he moaned repeatedly, and tossed about as if in pain on his bed. ebbe sat by the window in silence, reflecting deeply upon the words of promise the stranger had let fall before he had left the wreck. 'what are you sitting there and waiting for?' asked the seaman, when he observed ebbe. 'i am sitting here to see if you want any help before the doctor comes.' 'yes, i want something. get me another glass of grog, and let it be warm and strong. do you hear?' 'it is not good for you, mate. when jörgen went away he said you were not to have more than one glass of grog, and you have already drunk three.' 'you blackguard! mix me a glass directly. don't you think i am the best judge of what is good for me?' ebbe arose and went towards the fireplace, where a kettle of water was boiling. a bottle, half full, stood upon the table. 'it is too bad, when rum is so dear with us in these parts,' muttered the fisherman, while he mixed the grog. the stranger took no notice of him. 'i had to give three marks for the pint i bought for you.' the mate still remained silent. 'please to remember, mate, that the money spent for your rum was mine,' said ebbe, in a surly tone. 'oh yes, i shall remember it. make yourself easy; you shall have your money back. what are three marks to me? i could cover you with gold, if it were not a useless expense.' ebbe's eyes sparkled, and he looked with reverence at the unknown, as he approached the bed with the desired grog. the mate raised himself, seized the glass, and emptied it at one draught. 'ah!' he exclaimed, while his face was distorted with pain, 'that _was_ warm! it burned me more than the confounded wound, but it will do me good for all that.' 'no doubt you have made many long voyages, sir?' said the fisherman, after a short silence. 'yes, i have,' replied the stranger; 'you may swear to that.' 'and is that how you have gathered so much money?' 'what money?' asked the mate. 'that which might cover me with gold, if you liked.' 'oh, to be sure--no, indeed! that would have been impossible. the money i own i could not have made myself if i had been as old as the german ocean.' 'mercy on us! how can you carry so much money about with you?' 'who said that i carried it about with me? blockhead! i have disposed of it better than that. the earth keeps it safely for me; i can take it when i want it; and i intend to take it up as soon as i am well. then we shall have a jolly life. it has been long enough of commencing. but don't talk any more to me now; the pain is increasing.' shortly after jörgen, accompanied by the smith, entered the hut. the shipwrecked guest turned his face towards the wall as they approached, but on jörgen's informing him that the doctor had come, he muttered a few unintelligible words, and then stretched forth his hand, without altering his position. the smith evidently misunderstood the meaning of the action, for he laid hold of the outstretched hand and shook it heartily, while he said in a cheerful tone, 'good morning.' 'the mischief take you!' cried the sailor, as he raised himself quickly. 'what sort of a doctor is that you have brought me, young man? i put out my hand that he might feel my pulse, as they always used to do at the hospitals, and he wrings it so furiously that i feel the shock through my whole body. confound it!' when the smith heard these words, which were spoken in the low-german dialect, his scarlet face assumed a very benignant expression. 'so you are a german!' he exclaimed, in the same dialect; 'then we are almost countrymen. so much the better. i have nothing to do with your pulse, my good friend, and i should like to ask any sensible man, what use there would be in feeling the arm when the wound is in the breast. turn over a little bit towards the window, and let us see what the injury is. if you are not able to move yourself, let me get hold of you, and i will turn you in the twinkling of an eye.' there was something in the smith's sharp and determined way of speaking that seemed to please the stranger; he turned towards the light, and opened his vest and his under-garment. however rough and unsusceptible the three spectators might have been, they all started back at the sight of the frightful wound which they beheld before them. 'well, what do you say to this?' asked the sufferer. 'heavens and earth!' cried the smith, grasping his own hair tightly in his dismay. 'this really does look dangerous! i would rather have to deal with a horse in the worst case of staggers, than to cure such an awful hurt. the person who expects to set you to rights must indeed look sharp.' 'of course you must look sharp; but only standing staring at me won't be of any use,' said fourness. 'what do you think of doing with it?' 'you must have a good large plaster on it; and you must take some medicine. i have brought my pills with me.' 'the plaster with all my heart; get it ready at once; but i'll have none of your pills. i once swallowed a whole boxful of pills, and they did not do me the least good.' 'but you _must_ take the pills,' replied the smith, decidedly. 'there is no use in jabbering about your past experience, my good man; you have got a nasty wound in your chest, as you see yourself, but you also feel ill internally, don't you?' 'to be sure i do.' 'now listen. i know what i am about. a breast like yours resembles a watch that has been smashed almost to pieces. what would be the use of putting in a new glass if the works inside were not repaired also? so you must take the pills; and if you make any fuss about it, we shall have to hold you fast, stick the handle of a hammer in your mouth to keep it open, and so pop them down your throat. _i_ know how to manage you.' the mate felt himself too weak to struggle with his powerful medical attendant, and he made no further objections. the smith cast a significant glance towards the two young fishermen as he betook himself to the table, where he set about spreading an enormous pitch plaster. 'come, this will do you good!' he said, when he returned to the bed to put the plaster on the wound. 'and see, here is a packet of pills. i shall give you some of these at once; and if you should be worse before i come back, you must take half-a-dozen more; they will certainly relieve you. i shall call again early in the evening.' the wound was bandaged; and, after giving a few directions, the smith left the hut. towards the afternoon the invalid became much worse, in spite of the remedies which had been applied. the wound burned under the pitch plaster; he tore it off; and, cursing and swearing, he refused to take any more of the prescribed pills. in this state the smith found him in the evening. 'how do you _really_ think that he is?' asked ebbe, who had called the learned man aside. 'well, i think it is a very doubtful case,' replied the smith. 'since my pills have done him no good, not to speak of the plaster, i am inclined to believe he is pretty near his last gasp.' 'do you mean that he is actually in danger?' inquired ebbe, with a degree of interest which was inspired by the thoughts of the mate's gold and the unpaid rum. 'when a person is ill there is always danger,' said the smith; 'and as he will not use the means for his recovery which i advise, i think the best thing either you or jörgen could do would be to go and call the parish doctor.' 'you are right,' said ebbe; 'i will go for him.' 'when you see him, you need not say anything about my having been here. these folks with diplomas are so very jealous. and i think you had better lose no time before you set off. and--by-the-by, ebbe, you can keep the rest of my pills, lest you should be ill yourself some day. they won't spoil by keeping.' the smith took his departure, and ebbe soon after also left the hut, and set off for ringkjöbing to call the doctor. jörgen remained alone with the patient. chapter ii. 'how long will it probably be before he brings the doctor?' asked the stranger, after a considerable silence. 'he will be here soon. there is a man who lives down at vædersö, to whom we have sometimes been of service, he will lend ebbe his gig, and if the doctor be at home they may be here before nightfall.' 'i hardly think i shall hold out so long; the wound in my chest burns like a glowing coal, jörgen, and my breath is failing me. lord help me! must i lie down and die now--now that i am just close upon the realization of all my wishes? for eleven long years i have been speculating on coming to this coast. i wanted to set up my rest here. i have plenty of means--plenty of means, and could live like a king; but first came that accursed shipwreck, and then, after i was so fortunate as to reach the land, to be obliged to creep into a dog-hole like this! there is no luck with the money--it is mixed up with blood and injustice!' 'what money?' asked jörgen, in amazement. 'what, the devil! why that of which i am speaking, to be sure. but i will do some good with it. do you need an hospital here, among these sandhills? if so, i shall have one built, so large that a man-of-war might tack about in it. i will build a tower, too, with a lighthouse at the top of it, to warn my comrades not to approach too near the coast. and i will go to church every sunday, and listen to the preacher, who tells us that we are never too old to repent.' 'how will you find the means to build these places?' asked jörgen, simply. 'bricks and timber are so expensive up hereabouts.' 'but do you not hear that i know where a large treasure is buried, that it belongs to me--_me_ alone, and that i have only to dig it up in order to make use of it? i believe i am able to pay for anything i please.' jörgen shook his head incredulously. 'he is delirious, and does not know what he is saying,' he thought. 'i wish ebbe would come with the doctor.' then, turning to the invalid, he said, 'so you have been on this coast before, mate?' 'yes, lad, that i have. eleven years ago i landed down yonder, near hjerting, pretty much in the same way as i did here this morning. i am only afraid i shan't come off so well here as i did there.' the sick man was interrupted by the opening of the cottage door, and the entrance of the smith, who said, 'i have come to tell you that ebbe might have saved himself the journey to town, for the doctor drove a little while ago into aabjerg. i went up there, and he has promised to call here as soon as he leaves the krigsraad's.' 'coming at last!' exclaimed the sufferer. 'then i shall soon be well again. tell him, from me, that he will be the cause of a great calamity if he does not come soon.' 'that i will,' replied the smith, shrugging his shoulders, and glancing towards jörgen. 'do me a favour, jörgen, my boy. just put my pills out of sight, and say nothing about my having been here.' shortly after a carriage was heard making its way through the sandy road, and the physician entered the hut. he only needed a quick glance at his patient to perceive how hopeless was his condition. 'poor man!' he exclaimed, as he prepared to bleed him, 'you have been sadly hurt.' 'oh, not so badly, after all,' replied the mate. 'last year, about this time, the whole of the upper part of my arm was torn to pieces by the chain of the anchor--that was worse. you will be able to cure me. it is very strange that i feel such difficulty in speaking; my voice seems to be so husky, too! how long do you think it will be till i get on my legs again?' 'why it is hardly possible to name a time.' 'the doctors here are good for nothing. in england they charge higher, but they know their business better.' 'have you taken anything since you came ashore?' 'nothing whatsoever. i have only wet my lips with three or four small glasses of grog; but it is very odd, i don't feel the least inclination for any more.' after the doctor had done all that he possibly could to alleviate the sufferings of the poor stranger, he was turning to go, but the sick man grasped his hand, endeavoured to raise himself in his bed, and exclaimed, with impetuosity, 'you won't leave me, doctor? are you angry at what i said about physicians? pray think nothing of that; it is a habit i have got of amusing myself by teazing people. you must stay with me to-night--all night. do you hear, sir? you need not be afraid that you will be giving your time for nothing.' 'i have not asked, and i do not expect, any fee,' said the doctor; 'but i have other patients who require my help as well as you. i shall see you again early to-morrow morning. god be with you till we meet again, mate! he left the room, and jörgen followed him out. 'and will you really be so kind as to return early to-morrow morning, herr doctor?' 'yes, my friend, i shall most certainly come; but, to say the truth, i fear that my visit will be of no use, for to-morrow your guest will no longer need my assistance. 'what do you mean, sir?' 'i mean that he will be dead before to-morrow, and that no human skill can save him. if you should find an opportunity, you had better prepare him for this. good night.' the physician drove away; jörgen returned to the invalid. he found him sitting on the side of the bed, the light of the lamp falling full upon his face, which, during the last hour, had become of a pale bluish hue. he was pressing his hand on his chest, as if to lessen the pain, while with a thick and trembling voice he whispered, 'hark ye, jörgen! yonder, in the breast-pocket of my pea-jacket there is a small leather purse with nine prussian thalers in it. will you earn one of them?' 'i don't understand you, mate,' said jörgen, much surprised. 'what did the doctor say of me outside of the door there?' jörgen considered for a moment or two what he should answer. 'oh!' he came out with at length, 'he said--' 'in the devil's name, let me have no evasive answer,' cried the mate, raising his voice. 'i will know what he said, word for word; and if i give you a prussian thaler to speak the truth, i think you are pretty well paid to open your mouth. so, out with it!' 'do you wish to know the whole truth?' asked jörgen, seizing his hand. 'certainly.' 'all that he said?' 'ah! it was nothing very cheering, i perceive,' remarked the sufferer, in a low tone, and with trembling lips. 'but speak out, my lad--speak out! whatever that withered old stick could say, i can bear to hear.' 'well, then,' stammered jörgen, in considerable agitation, 'he said--he said--that you had not long to live.' 'did he, indeed! well, well, one must put up with that. a few years of comfort and pleasure are probably worth a long life of care and want.' 'ah! god help you, and send you better thoughts, mate: you cannot look forward to _years_.' 'may i not? how long can i count upon, jörgen? speak, my son. why do you hang your head so? i have seen death too often close under my eyes to be afraid of it. when did he hint that i might be called away?' 'he said that you would die to-night, and that no human skill could save you.' there was a deep and prolonged silence in the room after these words had been uttered. 'to-night!' at length exclaimed the mate, in thick and trembling accents. 'i am to die _to-night!_' and as he repeated this dreadful sentence he burst into tears, and into loud, convulsive sobs. jörgen was much affected; he wrung the sick man's hand, but did not venture to speak for fear of betraying his emotion. at length he said, in a subdued and sad voice, 'take comfort, mate! if you will allow me, i will read a hymn to you.' 'a hymn!' exclaimed the stranger, starting. 'ah, well--read it. the young fisherman took a hymn-book from a shelf, and began to read in a low and trembling voice, 'teach me, like autumn leaves, to fade with joy, oh yellow forest glade! a brighter spring is nigh. the summer of eternity reigns where, an ever-verdant tree, my roots shall never die. 'teach me--oh, wandering bird! like thee to wing my way, undaunted, free, to distant unknown lands; when here, 'tis winter, storm and ice, yonder, an endless paradise, open, before me stands!' the dying man had apparently been listening to the hymn with earnest attention, even devotion, while his clasped hands lay on the coverlet; suddenly he turned towards the light, and exclaimed: 'hark ye, jörgen! if you will swear to me not to reveal what i am now going to tell you, i will confide a secret to you.' 'certainly,' replied jörgen, who, shocked at this sudden interruption of the hymn, laid the book aside. 'come closer to my bed--my voice is growing weaker, and pay particular attention to what i say: 'eleven years ago i went as a sailor in a neustader merchantman; we came from england, where we had sold a cargo of dye-woods, silk, and spices from canton, and on which the firm, in whose employment i was, had made a considerable sum of money. well, we were driven ashore near hjerting, and forced to try and save ourselves in boats. it happened then like last night---the long boat was overcrowded; it capsized and sank! the captain had brought up his papers and a little box from the cabin, and was standing ready to go in the second boat, when an enormous wave washed him overboard. there were then but two men left; the one was myself, the other was the cook. we took the box, which contained all the cash for which the cargo had been sold, got into the boat, and reached the land in safety. this was at night, pitch dark, and in a pouring rain. our first care was to bury the box--after that--' 'go on, mate. i am listening to you, and i have promised secresy; you may depend upon me.' 'well, then,' continued the man, apparently with a strong effort overcoming his repugnance to say more, and in a lower and more unsteady tone of voice, 'after that something happened--which i have regretted and repented deeply--something which i can never forget: after that i killed the cook, that i might be the sole possessor of the contents of the case.' 'you murdered him!' whispered jörgen. 'god forgive you!' 'i did! but it was not such a sin after all. he was a bad, malicious fellow; he cooked shockingly, and was always making mischief between us and the mates. the next morning i was sent to my native home, and i left the case, well knowing that it was safe enough where it was deposited. time passed on, and i went to sea again. first i went to brazil, and then i went to the south sea for the whale fishery, and so on, until full eleven years had elapsed before i had a chance of returning to the place where my treasure was. at length, luck favoured me, and i had determined to begin a new life, and to enjoy my money--and now, i am lying here in the agonies of death! but no, no--it is a fabrication of the cursed doctor's! i will not die! i once lay ill for fourteen months in the hospital at boston, and became quite well again. remember, you have sworn never to disclose a syllable of what i have told you. may god punish you if you betray me! come closer to my bed. how cold it is this evening! below the wall of oxby church, at the corner facing the north, lies the buried case, among three hard stones. if i should not recover, you can dig up the box, and keep what you find. have you understood me?' 'yes, i have, perfectly well; but it is not worth talking more about, mate. i shall not meddle with your money--there could be no luck with it. will you listen if i read another hymn to you?' 'yes, read a psalm, jörgen; it is long since i have heard of our lord.' jörgen began to read slowly, and with much feeling; he was often stopped by his own agitation, and at these times he heard the dying man's breathing becoming thicker, and a rattling occasionally in his throat. he also heard now and then a sigh and a low murmur, which he supposed to be the invalid repeating what he had read. suddenly, the mate laid his hand upon his arm, and exclaimed, 'i am counting about how much money there may be in that case, my lad. you will find much more than you can possibly make use of. when i was last at home, my brother lived at amrom; you must send him fifty guineas. i know that they won't be particularly well spent, for he has taken to the bottle, poor creature! but that cannot be helped, it is his only gratification now.' jörgen nodded his head, and began to read aloud again. 'oh, put away that book,' said the mate; 'what is the use of your sitting there, and reading that i shall go to heaven, and that i am tired of being in this world, when it is not true? i will live, and live merrily with all my money.' a long and uncomfortable silence prevailed for some time in the room, which was only broken by the monotonous and uniform ticking of an old clock that hung against the wall. the moonbeams were streaming in brightly at the window, the storm had ceased, and the sky was clear and cloudless. 'if it should go hard with me, see that you have a large three-masted ship made with full rigging. it must be painted black and green, with a red water-line, and my name, in large gold letters, must be put on the stern. i make a present of this to vædersö church, and it shall hang there from the roof.' one hour later, and the stranger was dead! whilst this scene was taking place in jörgen's hut, ebbe was on his way back from ringkjöbing, deeply buried in reflecting on the unusual gains the last day or two had brought him. 'it is too bad that i am obliged to share all this money with jörgen,' he said to himself; 'this stupid partnership won't do. i will see about getting rid of it, and carrying on the business on my own account. the foreign mate shall help me to manage this; he must have money, for he has several times alluded to it; he is too ill to leave our house for some time to come, and before he is able to go i shall have made something out of him. besides, he owes me some recompense, for i helped to bring him off from the wreck.' thus far he had proceeded in his cogitations, when the conveyance stopped at the door of his cottage. the light was extinguished in the room; jörgen was lying, fast asleep, upon a mattress stuffed with sea-weed, on the floor. he awoke as ebbe opened the door. 'i have had bad luck,' said ebbe, in a whisper, 'and have gone my errand for nothing. the doctor had driven out of the town an hour before my arrival.' 'i know that very well,' replied jörgen. 'he has been here.' 'how is the sick man?' asked ebbe, striking a light. 'he is dead!' said jörgen. 'dead!' cried ebbe, in a tone that sufficiently evinced how many hopes and expectations that one word had overthrown. 'dead! good lord! poor man! did he pay you the three marks i laid out for him in rum?' 'no!' 'then it was a disgraceful imposition on his part, setting forth to me that he was able to repay us tenfold for all our trouble. did you look to see how much money he had with him? i am quite convinced that he possessed nothing, and that he only wanted to make fools of us.' 'now, be done with all this, ebbe,' said jörgen, almost out of patience. 'he did not intend to deceive you; and he was in the right when he said that he had the means of repaying us tenfold for what we did for him.' 'really!' exclaimed ebbe, with a smile, and a glance strangely expressive of covetousness. 'then he _had_ a good deal of money?' 'no; but he knew where to find a good deal of money. he had been shipwrecked once before on this coast, and then he buried a box, which, according to his representation, contains much more than we two could ever dream of possessing. he described to me the place where it is concealed.' 'to you!' exclaimed ebbe. 'indeed! did he not say that you and i were to divide the treasure between us?' 'no!' ebbe seemed lost in thought; he remained silent for some minutes, while his countenance underwent an unpleasant change. 'then it is you who have become rich--you alone; and i have helped to bring this about. well, well, it was to be so. what quantity of money is hidden away in the box?' 'oh! how should i know? judging by what he said, there may be several thousand dollars. but do not let us talk any more about it now. the cocks are crowing, it will soon be morning, and i am so sleepy. come, lie down near me, and put out the light.' 'several thousand dollars!' continued ebbe. 'good lord! and all this money is yours! if i had not gone to fetch a doctor for him he would surely have said that we were to divide it. are you quite certain that he absolutely said nothing about that, jörgen?' 'no, he did not; but that is no reason why we should not divide it.' 'oh, of course! you would be a fool if you did that. dear me! several thousand dollars! you will be able to buy a new boat, with an english compass in it. oh, yes! you will be able to buy a house for yourself, and, moreover, to put some of the money out at a good interest. it is enough to make one mad. will you spare me five dollars for a watch, eh, jörgen? jörgen! are you asleep? good heavens! he can sleep! several thousands!--and _i_ have got nothing!' ebbe burst into a passionate fit of tears. the morning, which was then dawning, found him awake and ruminating on his disappointment, on the bed by the side of jörgen. the next day the body of the mate, fourness, was removed to the hospital at vædersö, to be buried from thence in the village churchyard. jörgen and ebbe pursued their accustomed occupations. the hull of the foreign vessel was carried out to sea at night, and apparently knocked to pieces by the waves, for many portions of the wreck were cast ashore along the adjacent coast. ebbe did not leave jörgen's side that day; all his thoughts were devoted to the mysterious casket, and to the painful reflection that jörgen alone was aware of the spot where it was concealed, consequently was master of its valuable contents. he had no inclination to work, but was continually recurring to the one vexatious fancy, which represented jörgen surrounded with wealth and all the prosperity which he had so often wished for himself. thus passed the week. it had been settled between the two friends that on saturday they would set off to oxby church, so early that they might reach the place that evening, before it began to get dark. ebbe had two or three days beforehand arranged everything for this journey, secretly and eagerly. jörgen could not help observing the striking change which in a few days had come over him. he saw how his energies were quite paralyzed beneath the dreamy state into which he had fallen. ebbe had become silent and irritable; he avoided his comrade's society, and sought solitude, where it was not necessary for him to conceal his feelings. when he was alone, his mind always dwelt upon the hidden treasure, and picture after picture arose from the depths of his imagination of wealth, prosperity, and triumph over those who now looked down upon him. at other times he was tormented by a bitter, gnawing doubt if the mate had spoken the truth, and there existed any treasure at all. then, again, he would make himself miserable about the portion of it that he might obtain. he would sometimes fancy himself set aside by jörgen; then he would work himself up to believe that it was no freewill offer to share with him, but a right which belonged to himself; and to this oft-recurring thought succeeded, little by little, another, dark and dreadful, which, nourished by envy and covetousness, assumed by degrees a more distinct and decided form. when saturday arrived, ebbe rose in the grey of the morning, and was ready for the journey long before jörgen; his whole bearing betrayed a degree of feverish impatience, an eagerness and impetuosity which he had never evinced before. jörgen carried a saddle-bag with provisions, ebbe a spade, and furnished with these necessaries, they left their hut, and passed through the village even before the peasants had left their beds. the road from aale parsonage down to oxby traverses a long and wide tract of boggy land, which, at that time, was overgrown with a sort of close rough glass and a layer of moss, that in summer concealed many a cavity and break in the ground, and which was the resort of frogs and of various moor fowls, that took wing in large flocks when anyone approached their places of shelter. the two fishermen trudged on with unwearying patience towards their goal, which already they could perceive far in the distance. it was late in the day; the sun had sunk behind the line of sandhills which hid the german ocean, and a deep stillness reigned around. the church stood in a naked, sandy plain, surrounded by a stone wall that was partially sunk in the sand. one side of the edifice was, at that moment, illuminated by a bright reflexion from the red evening sky. swallows were flying about under its roof. as far as the eye could reach, there was no sign or appearance of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. 'at last we have reached our destination!' exclaimed ebbe, as, tired and gasping for breath, he threw himself down on a heap of gravel at a little distance from the wall of the churchyard. 'yes, at last,' replied jogen, with a smile; 'and it will soon be seen if we have not had our trouble for nothing.' 'oh, don't say so, jörgen,' cried ebbe. 'how could such an idea enter your head? you have surely not forgotten the place where we were to dig?' 'oh, no!' replied jörgen. 'the direction was not so difficult to remember. it was towards the north, he said, and among three stones which had fallen there from the wall. if you will remain here to rest yourself, i will go at once and try and find the place.' 'no!' said ebbe, rising quickly from his recumbent position. 'i will go with you. why should i stay behind, and not help you to look for it?' jörgen then led the way, proceeding along the wall of the churchyard, while ebbe followed him with the spade over his shoulder; but it was some time before they found the place indicated. the grass grew so high near the churchyard wall, that, in the increasing dusk of the evening, it would have been impossible to have discovered the stones described until close upon them. in the time, too, which had elapsed since the treasure was buried, the stones might have sunk into the ground, or become hidden by moss. at length, however, jörgen found the spot. the three stones lay exactly in the position the mate had described; a young elder-tree had shot up its straight branches just before them. 'it must be here,' said ebbe; 'you have good luck with you in everything. let us begin to dig at once. but, hush! be still! i'll be sworn i heard a horse panting on the other side of the churchyard wall. we will wait a little before we begin.' 'let us rather go round, and see if anyone is there,' said jörgen, about to go. 'no, by no means; stay with me, i don't fancy being alone in such a place as this. they say the evil one goes riding about at night on a white horse. have you never heard that?' 'yes; but what have we to do with him? we are here on a lawful errand, and have no reason to be afraid of anything.' so saying, jörgen walked on by the churchyard wall until he came to the next corner. 'there is nothing to be seen,' he said, when he returned. 'let us commence the digging. lend me the spade.' 'no; let us dig by turns, and i will go to work first,' replied ebbe, as he took off his jacket, and put the spade into the ground. the uppermost layer of earth among the stones was hard and stiff, and moreover, the roots of the elder-tree formed a sort of tough piece of network among the stones, so that it was not possible to proceed otherwise than slowly with the work. ebbe groaned; his impatience was increased by the strong spirit of covetousness which had taken possession of him. jörgen sat down quietly on a stone near him. in the deep stillness which reigned around the spot, the bats might be heard flapping their wings as they fluttered about the walls of the church, and in the distance a hollow, rushing sound, which came from the german ocean, away behind the sandhills. ebbe continued to dig, and had made a tolerably deep hole, when he suddenly stopped, pushed the spade well into the ground, and bowed his head down as if he were listening to something. 'do you think you have come to anything?' asked jörgen. 'no, it is only a stone which lies in the way; but i am tired now.' 'then let me take my turn of digging,' said jörgen. 'let us rather rest a little while, and take a mouthful of our provisions and a drop from our flask. what have you done with the wallet?' 'i left it at the gravel pit yonder, where we rested first.' 'then let us go there, jörgen. after we have had something to eat we shall set to work again. it will be long before it is daylight; we have time enough.' jörgen made no opposition to this arrangement; he was accustomed to give way to ebbe's wishes, and he went back to where they had left their provender. ebbe cast a longing look back at the hole; then took the spade under his arm and followed jörgen. at a little distance from the walls of the churchyard the path lay near the edge of a pit, from which the peasants dug up gravel for the repairs that were annually made in the high road. the pit was tolerably deep, and sloped from the brink, along which the two fishermen directed their steps until they came to a kind of gap, or narrow defile, from whence the gravel was carted away. when ebbe reached this place, he took up the flask, drank off its contents, and let it drop quietly into the grass. jörgen, in the meantime, had sat down, and began to eat. ebbe remained standing, and leaned upon the spade. 'why don't you sit down?' asked jörgen. 'because the grass is wet.' 'where is the flask? i don't see it.' 'you will find it on the grass.' jörgen stooped down to look for it, and at that moment ebbe lifted the spade, and, exerting all his strength, struck jörgen with it on his head! the attack was made so unexpectedly and so hurriedly, that it was not possible for jörgen to avoid the blow or to defend himself. he uttered a low cry, stretched out his arms, and sank backwards to the ground. ebbe bent over him, and listened. the blow must have been a very severe one, for he did not hear the faintest breathing from jörgen. 'you have got this because you tried to cheat me, and packed me off to the town, that you alone might benefit by the stranger's treasure.' and, as if his bitter feelings were increased by this remembrance, he added, triumphantly, 'you asserted that it was to you alone the stranger had bequeathed his money. you would only have given me a small portion of it; i shall take it all now. and you did not know that i have already got it. i heard the ground reverberate under the spade--i heard the sound of the gold--it is mine--all--all mine!' as he said this, he took up his comrade's body in his arms, and flung it over the edge into the pit. 'and now to go back to the churchyard!' he exclaimed. 'i must have the money up, and be off before the dawn of day.' he threw the spade across his shoulders, took up the wallet, and turned to leave the place. at that moment he fancied that he heard footsteps near: he looked round, and perceived in the twilight a tall figure in a flowing mantle, which stopped at a little distance from the place where he was standing. in the extreme terror which seized him, it seemed to him that this figure gradually grew taller and larger, and that it gazed at him with a dark and threatening aspect; it seemed to approach nearer. it was no longer a phantom of the imagination; he heard the heavy steps ringing on the ground--he beheld a hand stretched out towards him--and then fell, in accusing accents on his ear, the dreadful word 'murderer!' ebbe uttered a loud cry, he dropped the spade, sprang to one side, and fled in a direction quite opposite to that where he had so recently sought for the unlucky treasure. he constantly thought that his unknown pursuer was still following him, that he was gaining upon him, and even that he felt his breath close behind him; but he dared not turn his head, he only continued to run swiftly, and without stopping, until at length he stumbled, and fell into one of the many hollows that were to be met with in that neighbourhood. there he lay for several hours exhausted and insensible, unwitting of the storm from the german ocean that was raging among the sandhills near its shores. when at last he re-recovered to consciousness, the morning sun was shining on the sandhills, and he heard the bells of oxby church ringing for the early service. eight days later, the inhabitants of vædersö were thronging round a carriage which was passing through the little town. the front seat was occupied by a tall man, under whose overcoat was to be seen the stiff embroidered collar of a uniform. his self-important air, also the condescending nod with which he acknowledged the respectful obeisances of the peasantry, betokened a person of no small consequence. nor was there any mistake in this, for he was the judge of the district, who was proceeding on official duty to the sandhills. in the back seat of the carriage sat two men, one of whom was the smith of the village, the other a pale, emaciated, shrunken figure, in whose features it would have been difficult to have recognized ebbe, so great was the change that the last eight days had wrought in him. the smith's plump round face evinced, on the contrary, a great degree of self-complacency; he smiled to everyone he knew, and stretched out by turns his hand or his head from the carriage, either for a friendly salutation, or to explain the reason of his appearance in the carriage on that particular occasion. the carriage passed through the village, and did not stop until it reached the cottage which jörgen and ebbe had occupied conjointly. here the judge got out, and after saying a few words to the smith, he entered the house. 'now, ebbe,' said the smith, 'you must get out too; you are at home here. we shall have a legal examination, as his honour has just very properly declared.' ebbe made no reply; he seemed to have fallen into a state of speechless apathy. he descended from the carriage, and followed the smith into the first of the two rooms into which the hut was divided. on entering the cottage, they found the judge, and two fishermen who had been summoned as witnesses, already seated near the table. ebbe cast a rapid and reconnoitring look around him; he perceived that everything was in its usual place; it was not the room that had changed in these eight days. 'place yourself at the end of the table,' said the judge. 'listen to what will be said, and answer minutely and truthfully the questions we shall put to you. speak first, smith. let us hear what you have to say.' not to fatigue the reader with the smith's long-winded story, we shall as briefly as possible relate the substance of his communication. however important it was to ebbe to maintain inviolable secresy relative to the mate's hidden treasure, he had let fall some words which had been caught up by the smith, and which, giving rise to some conjectures and suspicions, caused the clear-sighted man to watch narrowly the movements of the two young fishermen. on the same day that jörgen and ebbe had left their home at such an early hour, the smith had borrowed a horse from one of his neighbours, and set out in pursuit of them, although he took all possible pains to avoid being seen by them. jörgen had previously given out that he was going to take a holiday to visit his aunt at oxby. when the smith had followed the two wayfarers as far as aale church, and assured himself that they were really going to the place mentioned, he quitted the footpath, which, leading through the open heath, would have made him run the risk of being observed, and rode another way until he reached the cross road near oxby church, and the shades of evening began to fall. the fishermen had evidently taken a considerable time to cross the wide heath. the smith had waited long, and had ridden around the church before he saw ebbe and jörgen looking for the spot with the three stones. it was his horse that ebbe had heard neigh, but, as we have seen, he had not sufficiently followed up the circumstance. in consequence of this neglect on his part, the smith became acquainted with all that was going on; for when it grew darker he ventured nearer, got over the wall, and crept on his hands and knees close to the place where ebbe was digging. arrived there, he could hear every word that was spoken while the work proceeded. when they left the wall of the churchyard, he followed them at some distance along the path that led to the gravel-pits, and he had seen jörgen fall. ebbe had not recognized the voice of the smith in that which called after him, nor had he observed that harfiz was carrying jörgen in his arms to the nearest dwelling. 'thus it all happened,' said the plaintiff, in the corrupt language in which he spoke. 'ebbe cannot deny a word that i have said. i know all that passed; i saw and heard all. i took up the spade with which he had struck jörgen, and, to wind up, your honour has only to make inquiry here to be convinced of the truth of what i assert. here you behold the man who can corroborate my statement.' as he said these words he drew aside a curtain that had concealed an alcove, and jörgen, with his head bound up, pale and suffering, was seen raising himself with difficulty on one arm, and gazing at those assembled in the hut. this last action of the smith, so sudden and unexpected, caused a great sensation and much surprise among those present. ebbe, who up to this moment had stood silent and immovable, with his hands folded and his eyes cast down, raised his head quickly, and when his glance fell on jörgen, he stretched out his arms towards him, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed: 'oh, my god! jörgen--dear jörgen!' 'yes, there you see a competent witness. i have cured him--i may safely declare--and now he will confirm what i have said.' 'well, what have you to say to what the smith has just been telling us?' 'i say that he is quite mistaken,' replied jörgen. 'ebbe had no wish to kill me; he had no evil intention against me; i absolve him of anything of the kind.' everyone was taken by surprise, and exclamations of astonishment followed these words, which were uttered in a mild, quiet, but at the same time decisive tone. ebbe's eyes sparkled. the smith jumped up. 'jörgen,' he cried, 'are you out of your mind? you cannot be in your right senses if you speak in this way. did he not attempt to murder you? did i not see and hear it all myself? did i not take you up in my strong arms, when he cast you down into the gravel-pit?' 'you did, indeed, behave most kindly and humanely to me,' replied jörgen, with a grateful smile. 'without your help, i should most probably have been dead now; but, i repeat that it was not ebbe who threw me into the pit. i fell in, sir, and in my fall i hurt myself with the spade. i have now told all i have to tell--i entirely acquit my old comrade, and i must beg you to withdraw the accusation against him.' after having thus spoken, jörgen laid himself down in his bed, closed his eyes, and seemed to take no further notice of what was going on around him. neither did he seem to notice ebbe, who stole softly towards his bed, seized his hand, and carried it to his lips. the smith was very angry, and repeated and maintained his version of the affair, with gesticulations, oaths, and asseverations, in his strange lingo. he could not understand why jörgen exercised such generous forbearance: the judge, on the contrary, comprehended it all; he called ebbe into the other room, and had a long communication with him; after which he broke up the meeting, dismissed the witnesses, and left the cottage himself. jörgen and ebbe were the only persons who remained in it. some time elapsed, during which both remained perfectly silent. at length jörgen raised himself in his bed, and asked, 'are they gone?' 'yes.' 'every one of them?' 'yes, we are alone.' 'sit down by my bed, ebbe; i have something to say to you.' ebbe obeyed. at that moment his whole appearance evinced the utmost humility; he did not dare to raise his eyes before jörgen, who contemplated him calmly, but with a penetrating look. 'what i said a little while ago,' began jörgen, 'was to save you, and because i could not live under the idea that i had another man's misfortune on my conscience. you are now free--acquitted--and no one can do anything to you. with god's blessing, i may also become well again, and recover my strength so as to be able to work as formerly; but you must yourself perceive, ebbe, that we two can never more live and labour together. that saturday night has rendered it necessary for us to separate for ever. i can never banish it from my memory. you shed tears now, indeed, and are deeply afflicted. i also have shed many tears when i reflected that it was you, my only companion and comrade, that had the heart to deal with me as you did. in heaven's name, then, let each of us go his own way. the world is surely large enough for us both. when i am stronger, and able to work, i will pay you for the part you own in this cottage and in the boat; for i hardly think you will like to remain longer here. in fact, i think it would be better for you to seek some other place to settle yourself, where people could not say anything against you. you cannot fail to perceive that the smith does not believe the declaration i made to the judge. he will tell the story his way in the town yonder, and that won't be in your favour. as i have said, when i am better you shall receive the share that belongs to you of what we have hitherto held in partnership, and we must separate.' 'then you have found the treasure?' asked ebbe, hurriedly. 'no,' said jörgen, gravely. 'but the smith has promised to let me marry his daughter, and he will advance me the money to pay you.' 'i do not care about the money,' replied ebbe; 'you are welcome to keep it all.' 'oh yes--so you say _now_,' answered jörgen; 'but you would repent that offer to-morrow. no, let the arrangement i have proposed stand. and you had better go, ebbe, before the smith returns. you know that he is very passionate, and you might get into a quarrel with him. besides, i am weak and weary, and must get some sleep. farewell, and may the almighty bestow on you kinder feelings towards those among whom you may henceforth seek to win your bread, than you have shown to me. shake hands with me, ebbe, and then go.' jörgen sank back on his bed, and ebbe left the cottage. the following five years brought about a striking difference between the fates of the two fishermen. jörgen had married the smith's daughter. he gave up fishing, sold his boat and established himself in the little town of vædersö. there he betook himself to husbandry: he tilled the ground, ploughed, sowed, planted; in short he laboured with all the indefatigable activity, energy, and diligence, for which the inhabitants of the west country are so celebrated. at the end of two years he sold his house to buy a larger one on a thriving farm; field after field was added, and all prospered with him. success seemed to smile on everything he undertook from the period that he relinquished his partnership with ebbe. 'you have got an excellent son-in-law, smith,' said the peasants to harfiz, often when they came to his smithy. 'he gets on very well,' the learned smith would reply, with a cheerful nod, indicative of content. 'but let me tell you, and you may believe what i say, that it was my medicine which has made him what he is. he has been quite another sort of man since i cured him, and restored him, i may say, to life, after ebbe had killed him. he will be a greater man still.' the prophecy was fulfilled as time passed on; for every year that went over his head brought some addition to jörgen's prosperity. he was a happy man in his own family, and in all his transactions he was clever, prudent, and far-seeing. the same space of time that seemed to have had wings for jörgen, had crawled on slowly, unprofitably, and wearily for ebbe. a portion of the sum he had received for his share of the cottage and the boat was appropriated to the purchase of the little plot of ground near oxby church, where the mate had said his treasure was buried. the acquisition was not an expensive one certainly, for at that period a large quantity of waste land could be bought for about two dollars; so that after ebbe had become the proprietor of the place, he had sufficient money left to build a house for himself on a corner of the ground he had bought. then commenced a course of labour which, in exertion, perseverance, and endurance, was far beyond anything jörgen ever attempted, and yet was productive of no good results. the three stones were taken up and thrown aside, in order not to obstruct the work; then the elder-tree was removed; and after every obstacle had disappeared, ebbe dug down, and down, until he came to the stratum of iron-hard, solid rock, which is to be found in that part of the country. his labours were carried on by night, and with the utmost secresy, not to attract attention. during the day he rested, and either spent the hours lounging by the sea-side, or he slept. but, whether waking or sleeping, he was haunted by the thoughts of the hidden treasure, and of the wealth he would acquire, and the consequence he would attain, when he discovered and enjoyed it. it was shocking to see that pale and meagre creature, when the moon shone upon the scene of his labours, working away eagerly, bending over the spade, and listening anxiously when every fresh heap of earth was cast up: by turns cheating himself with hopes of success, then groaning at his disappointment, yet still persevering in the search for a prize which continued to evade his grasp. in winter the ground was frozen, and as ebbe was obliged to cease his digging, he left his hut, and went to hjerting, where he hired himself out among the peasantry as a day-labourer. his history soon oozed out, and his very shy, reserved manners prevented him from making acquaintances, while his fellow-labourers jeered him. 'there goes the gold-digger!' the children would cry after him when he showed himself in the streets. these scoffers, who beheld him now in so humble a position, by-and-by, when he had found the treasure, should witness his triumph. 'wait a little!' he thought; 'success will come at last, and the day cannot be very far distant!' when spring succeeded to winter, ebbe left the service he had taken, and returned to his hut, where he recommenced his labours with as much assiduity as before, and with the same result. the small space in which his operations were carried on soon resembled a deep pit, wherein gravel and sand, stone and clay, were gathered together in large heaps. but the treasure was nowhere visible. when at length the ground had been entirely turned up, every inch examined, and he could dig no lower down, ebbe fell into the deepest despair; his last hope had vanished, and with it all the strength and energy which hope alone had sustained. he was found one day sitting on the outside of the door of his hut, gazing on vacancy straight before him, lost in a reverie from which nothing seemed to have the power of rousing him. at this very time a report was spread in the neighbourhood that jörgen and his father-in-law had found _the shipwrecked mariner's treasure_--for this appeared the easiest mode of accounting for the increasing prosperity of the heretofore young fisherman. ebbe heard this rumour; he believed it, and this belief added greatly to the bitterness of his disappointment, and was as poison to his mind. three years afterwards, a wan, wasted, spectral-looking figure might be seen wandering about in the vicinity of hjerting; it was the unfortunate ebbe, who had become deranged. the harmless lunatic was received into the poor-house at hjerting, but spent most of his days in a remote and secluded valley, away among the sand hills. there he might be heard singing and talking to himself, whilst he occupied himself diligently in digging deep holes in the sand. one winter evening he did not return, as usual, to the poor-house. the next morning he was found, frozen to death, in a grave--it might be called--which he had dug in the sand the day before. damon and pythias. from the danish of carl bernhard. in the so-called good old times, when grown-up people could sometimes be childish--now-a-days even children themselves are above such infirmities--in these good old times one often heard a ballad, a favourite song, which was as common as the lively popular airs that are now repeated nightly at the casinos; but these old songs were by no means lively, for lively music was not then in vogue; the songs were almost all sentimental. there was one ditty about 'friendship, hope, and love,' in which love was depicted as 'light red,' and of which i can now remember but two lines. it was very generally sung: 'friendship rarely doth abound. tell me where it can be found!' yes, where can it be found? all mankind seek for it; everyone wishes to have a friend. most people believe, for a time, that they have found one; but when the friendship comes to be tested, it disappears, and they discover their mistake. why does it disappear? who knows why? but that it does most frequently disappear is quite certain. formerly, even in the grey olden times, long before anybody thought about friendship being violated, they must have had hard work enough to find the genuine article, else there would not surely have been such a fuss made about the three classical pairs of friends whose names we have all learned by heart--damon and pythias, orestes and pylades, euryalus and nisus--all of whom were never distinguished for anything, as far as i have been able to discover, except that they lived as friends, and ultimately died as friends. it is surprising enough that, whilst everyone understands the words _a friend_ in a good sense, there should be some little hesitation about the exact meaning of _a good friend_, and that the more eulogizing and confirmatory adjectives are added to it, the less respect it should inspire, until _a real good old friend_ has become almost synonymous with a stupid old blockhead, or a cunning old rogue. if one were only to hear the following disjointed words of a conversation, 'oh, yes, he is a good friend enough,' nine out of ten would indubitably fancy that the speakers were alluding to some matter in which one party had been taken in, and would think that what had happened manifested the credulity of that saying, in which all the ten firmly believe, 'save me from my friends, and i will save myself from my enemies!' undeniably, there is some truth in this sentence, and however little there may be, it is sad that one must admit there is any at all. one of my--but i may be misconstrued myself if i say one of my good friends; i shall therefore, for the present, confine myself to calling him a worthy acquaintance of mine--had, from his earliest childhood, been an enthusiastic worshipper of friendship. nothing more natural, for friendship is so inherent a feeling in the breast of every human being, of either sex, that it is a desire of the soul, which it strives to realize even before it thinks of love. his predilection for friendship was, it may be said, born with him, as people may be born with a propensity for stealing or drunkenness; and when he was not more than four years of age, and his grown-up relatives would have it that his little cousin should be his 'little wife'--for big people are always too ready to begin putting nonsense into the heads of children, he used to get angry, and declare that she should not be his wife, but his friend. and when he had grown older, and had commenced his classical studies, he raved about being a damon to some pythias. he was an excellent lad, cheerful, good-natured, good-looking, and by no means deficient in talent; in short, he was in all respects a steady schoolboy, but perhaps he carried a little too far his ideas about friendship. he had not, however, then attached himself to any one individual among his companions; he was on good terms with them all, while he thirsted after one, only one true friend, as a celebrated author is known to have wished but one reader, but that one to be capable of understanding him thoroughly. i withhold his name, for he is now in so conspicuous a station that many of my readers must know him, and it would, perhaps, annoy him to see his name in print, for he is one of those folks who have an old-fashioned dislike to what they call 'appearing in print;' that is to say, being named publicly. i shall designate him by one of his first names, which he used in his boyish years--_viz_. mikkel; it is an ugly name, but he is not to blame for that, since his opinion about it was not asked. when he was christened, his parents had called him after a rich old uncle, who, the good people thought, might, on that account, at a future day, leave him a large legacy. it is a bad custom to make innocent children suffer for their parents' bad taste in choosing names, and to inflict on them ill-sounding family names, either because these had been chosen by a generation who had queer notions, or from selfishness and from speculation, as in the case in question. mikkel was grown up, and had undergone much jeering on account of his frightful name, but his uncle did not leave him a stiver! it was a shameful trick--a positive fraud, the parents naturally thought. no one can blame mikkel because he would no longer put up with the disagreeable appellation, especially as it had come to his ears that a young girl had given her suitor a basket solely on account of his name. she said, 'he had such a shockingly ugly name, that she never could bring herself to say, my sweet morten. dear no! the sound made her shudder, and one really must be able to say _sweet_ to one's lover.' morten and mikkel are much on a par. he renounced, therefore, the name of the ungrateful uncle, and selected for the future one of the high-sounding names which had also been bestowed on him at his baptism, like that shoemaker's son who was christened jens napoleon petersen. nevertheless, i should prefer to call him damon, that savouring more of the anonymous, and this i will do with the permission of my kind readers. when he and i went to school together, we got on very well, and were on good terms; but no sworn and patented friendship took place between us. it happened one day, as we were walking together outside of one of the gates of the town, on a friday, and he was lost in his damon-pythias dreams, which went in at one of my ears and out at the other, we met a school companion, who was crying as he came out of a house. the good-hearted damon stopped him, and asked what was the cause of his distress, and we were informed that our comrade had been visiting _a good friend_. damon could not see that there was any cause for howling about this; he would have been glad enough to have been in his place. yes, but our unlucky school companion had received a sound drubbing from his good friend, and from some of the latter's good friends, because he would not be always their horse, and drag them in the little carriage; he wished to take his turn to go inside of it, at least for once, but they abused him like a pickpocket, and beat him; this was always the way he was served, and it was a great shame, for he had liked his friend so much; but now he would have nothing more to do with him. and when he had told him that he was going to break with him, the fellow had thumped him well, and turned him out of doors, and it was almost dinner-time, and now he had no friend--and he would get no dinner! the soft-hearted damon offered him forthwith his friendship and a dinner; the boy went home with him to his parents' house, where he dined, and immediately afterwards staunch brotherhood was sworn, and the empty place in damon's heart was filled up! fate had granted his wish, and he had providentially found a friend! mikkel was a happy boy; he had now truly become damon, and the other was pythias. it was a strong friendship, whose not few thorns seemed to damon like so many roses. he had to thrash his companion's former friend, and fight all that friend's chums, in order to revenge his pythias, and prove their misconduct to him; and he got many a bruise, and many a torn jacket in these battles, which merged into a long, lasting war--a war he had to sustain alone, for pythias stood aloof. he had to write all his friend's exercises, and prompt him every day in his lessons, which pythias, trusting to damon's friendship, had neglected to learn, and this cost the latter many a scold from the master, who had observed it. but if ever he happened to require the least help himself, he got none, for pythias was incapable of giving it. damon not only shared all the nice things he had with his friend, but he often gave him the largest portion, and, indeed, sometimes the whole; but he never got anything in return. pythias took care to eat all his good things by himself; but damon never dreamed of finding fault with this; he was pleased and proud of being able to make various useful presents to his friend, and loved him the better for it. thus passed the whole of his school-days; and in consequence of this sworn friendship the two were called by all the boys damon and pythias. they were at length to separate, and each to go his own way. 'i am sorry i am obliged to part with you, i shall miss you very much,' said pythias, when the farewell moment came. 'i don't know how i shall exist without you,' said damon. 'i am truly wretched!' they agreed to write to each other often. damon did write letter after letter, but never received an answer; that grieved him extremely. he was taken ill about six months afterwards, but i will not say that it was disappointed friendship that made him ill; he had caught an epidemic which was raging then, and had a long illness. though pythias knew this, he had never once inquired for his school friend. as soon as he could hold a pen, damon wrote to him over and over again--no reply! then he buried his friendship in his silent, faithful breast, until at last it died, long after it had been buried. his student-days arrived, and found him full of the enthusiasm of youth. damon longed for all that was beautiful and noble, but especially for friendship. love had not yet touched him. i believe that he looked upon it as a sickly, unmanly feeling, which could not be indulged in without relinquishing the energy and the strength of mind that ought to characterize a man! poor damon! i verily believe such was his opinion. well, damon found at length his pythias; but not the old pythias, for whom he had toiled and fought, and who had repaid him with such ingratitude. no; a bran new pythias had he stumbled upon, one who, like himself, was 'a master in the kingdom of mind;' one who like himself, was devoted to the true and the beautiful; one who, he thought, could sympathize with him in everything, and to whom he attached himself with the strongest ties of friendship--a really good friend. and this friendship lasted for some years--during the whole time they were at the university--and they were nicknamed damon and pythias, to the great satisfaction of one of the friends at least. damon was certainly a kind and trustworthy friend. he wrote with untiring patience all the tedious college manuscripts; pythias used them almost always, and, moreover, lent them to strangers, so that damon never could get them when he wanted them himself. damon bought all the books they both required, for pythias needed his own money for other purposes; and when pythias wanted them no longer he sold them. damon remained at home from balls, that pythias might borrow his dress-coat, as he did not think his own good enough; and damon rejoiced that he had a good coat which fitted pythias so well. not a week passed that pythias did not borrow money from damon, of which he never made any memorandum. pythias was fond of going to the theatre, and he always went to the boxes. one day, when damon suggested that it would be better for him to go to the pit with him, for the money which one box ticket cost would pay two pit tickets, and they might go there and amuse themselves together, as he really could not afford the more expensive places, pythias replied that he by no means wished his friend to spend his money in going to the theatre on his account, that he only wanted _to borrow_ the money for his own ticket, as he was out of cash at the moment, but he could not think of going to such a place as the pit. and the good-natured damon gave him the last shilling he had, and remained at home, rejoicing that his dear friend was amusing himself in the boxes. at length they were both to graduate, and pythias held his ground only because damon had been an unwearied grinder for him, and had devoted himself, early and late, to cramming him in order to pull him through. his success delighted damon much more than his own. there was some talk of a foreign tour--and they were both candidates for the stipend accorded for that purpose--what a pleasure if they could travel together! but this year there was only _one_ stipend to be given away; damon was sure of getting it, having been the cleverest student. pythias adjured him, of course in the name of friendship, to resign his claim, because, for many important reasons, it was necessary for him--pythias--to get away for a time; in fact, he could hold out no longer, while damon had many other resources. damon pondered on the subject, but could not find out what these resources were; nevertheless, he withdrew his petition, and left the field open to pythias, but he endeavoured in vain, also in friendship's name, to induce him to confide to him the important reasons which had influenced his dear pythias to demand the sacrifice he had made for him. he was enlightened as to the truth, however, afterwards. when pythias had obtained the stipend, and was off, it came out that he had been, for a long time, in the habit of gambling, and that he had lost a great deal at play. the debts he had left he transferred to his friend in an affected, high-flown, bombastic epistle to his 'dear, faithful damon,' and in order that the latter, to whom he bade farewell for ever, might still more highly honour friendship, he had drawn without asking leave a few little bills of exchange in his name, wherein his writing was so cleverly imitated, that damon himself had the utmost difficulty in distinguishing it from his own! to one who had for so many years put entire confidence in the reciprocity of the ardent and sincere friendship he himself had felt, it was a severe blow to meet such scandalous treachery. damon took measures to have the bills of exchange paid, and, with a bleeding heart, he buried pythias the second! damon now forswore friendship, and withdrew himself from society; it was easy to do this, for his circle had been principally composed of pythias's acquaintances, and he did not much relish seeing them now--he did not like to hear them pulling pythias to pieces, and recounting the many dirty tricks he had played them, to whom he had also pretended to have been a good friend. damon commenced his professional career, and found comfort in his occupations; but his heart was lonely. one evening he read in the work of a celebrated philosopher the following sentence: 'the dog is man's best friend--it alone is faithful.' these words made a deep impression on him. within eight days he had purchased a dog, a large handsome newfoundlander, of a good breed. it was then only in its puppy years, and had to be brought up to obedience and cleanliness; this cost him the trouble of bestowing sundry good thrashings on the animal, but damon knew that he who loves the child spares not the rod, and he loved his dog as if it had been his child, until it should be educated to become his friend. hector would receive his caning, steal up to his master's feet, lick his hand, sigh deeply, and at the slightest glance of encouragement would spring up joyfully and wag his tail. when damon looked up from his employment, he always encountered hector's friendly gaze. when he took his hat and stick, the dog would start up from his place near the stove, if he were even in the soundest sleep, to follow him through thick and thin, by day or by night. truly, the philosopher was right; the dog is man's faithful friend, and hector was not troublesome, and he obeyed no other being in this world but his master--they were friends. this friendship lasted for a couple of years, and it filled up in a certain degree the vacancy in damon's heart, and cheered his lonely hours. but gradually this friendship took the same turn as love often does--the one loves, and the other allows himself or herself to be loved. the parts they played changed gradually; damon assumed the dog's part, and became humble, obedient, and faithful, whilst hector took the master's part, and turned capricious, tyrannical, and ungrateful. the four-footed creature had become almost like a man, from being the constant companion of his two-legged friend. damon put up with all this, and the dog imposed upon him in his canine fashion, exactly as the schoolboy and the student had imposed on him formerly in their human fashion. damon had had many disagreeables to encounter latterly. one day he came home very much fretted, with his head full of some tiresome business papers, which absolutely required his immediate attention. he patted his favourite, spoke to him as to a friend who could understand him, complained to hector of the provoking chief of the department who had annoyed him, and hector fixed on him a thoughtful look; it was as if the dog comprehended how hard it is to be annoyed. this did his heart good; he recovered his spirits, and began to work away vigorously at the papers he had brought home with him. but hector got angry at finding himself neglected, and also he wanted to go out to walk. 'no, my friend, it is impossible--don't disturb me--down, down--there is no time for walking just now!' the dog became importunate, and was patted, and dismissed; he then became obstinate, and laid his clumsy paw upon the table, so that the inkstand was upset over the numerous half-finished papers. for that he got a slap; he became enraged, and tried to drag his master off of his chair; damon kicked him away, expecting that he would then be quiet, but it made him worse, and he rushed upon him. damon also got angry; he seized the ruler, and struck hector with it, who, however, dragged the chair from under him with his teeth and paws. the one swore, the other growled; it was, certes, anything but friendship that was displayed in this scene, which collected all the inhabitants of the house on the outside of damon's door, in terror at this unusual dog-fight. i arrived at that moment, having come to speak to damon on some business. it was an awful plight in which i found him: excited, bitten, and with his clothes torn; whilst the dog stood snarling over the broken chair, with a brutal, triumphant look, flashing eyes, and teeth set. it was evident that he knew he was the master there, and he looked with anything but a friendly expression at the subdued damon. 'and this illusion has fled also!' he said to me, when we had taken up the overturned chair, and gathered together the scattered and ink-stained papers. 'and thou also, brutus!' he exclaimed with a comical degree of gravity, and a melancholy glance at the sullen-looking dog. 'the bestia bruta!' said i. 'this comes of choosing four-footed friends.' and i seized, the opportunity of bestowing upon him a lecture about his animal mania, which had made him quite an oddity, and had withdrawn him from the society of rational beings. shame, suffering, and anger brought him over to my way of thinking; he made a threatening gesture towards hector, who instantly rose up and showed his teeth; he was evidently ready to renew the battle at any moment. it was really too absurd. after a great deal of persuasion, i prevailed on damon to go home with me, and conclude that uncomfortable evening among my family circle. before we left his lodgings, i privately requested the landlord to have hector removed to an inn, where he could be tied up till the next day, when i should come to say what was to be done with him. the evening passed off tolerably well; it succeeded in dissipating his chagrin. i accompanied him home towards midnight, and before i left him i had obtained his permission to send hector into the country, to a relation of mine, where he would be well treated and be useful as a chained dog, for damon himself perceived that he could not be made a friend of, and that he was too ill-tempered and dangerous to be allowed to go about loose. and thus was pythias the third, the four-footed, deposed. it was very strange that though he wanted sadly to have his pythias's place refilled, he never made the slightest overture to me to occupy it. nevertheless, we were very intimate. he often visited me, and found pleasure in the society of my family, and more especially in that of a young girl, who was a frequent guest at my house, and who was both pretty and good, though, perhaps, being a country girl, she wanted a little of that finer polish which can only be acquired in the capital. i have no doubt it was her being so open, straightforward, unsophisticated, and natural, that charmed him with her; oddly enough, love was never mentioned by either of them; they always spoke of friendship alone, up to the very day of their betrothal. and, indeed, after they were betrothed there was no change in their manners to each other. i never saw him show her any of the usual little attentions, or bestow on her any of the little endearments so common during this period; he always spoke to her as if she had been a male friend; it seemed as if he could not perceive that she belonged to womankind. this engagement delighted us all, especially my sensible wife, who augured a peaceful future for them, a life devoid of passion's storms, calm and even, and rendered comfortable by a competence sufficient for all their wants, though it could not be called a fortune, according to the common acceptation of the word. the damsel's parents gladly gave their consent, and as damon very justly considered a long engagement a wearisome affair, before six months had passed they were man and wife. the young girl was certainly a sweet pretty bride, and i really cannot imagine how damon could be satisfied with calling her 'my friend,' as he led her from the altar; and i was still more surprised next day to find that she had already begun to look after her household matters. there was nothing to be found fault with in this, to be sure, and neither of them seemed to think this out of the usual way. the young couple appeared to be quite happy, and it was to be supposed that damon's heart had at last found its haven of rest. he had his young wife, all went as she wished, and his house was, therefore, a pleasant one; it was evident that it was under the care of a good and kind spirit. i have observed that there is one thing which is a stumbling-block in almost all young _ménages_--that is, the continued intimacy, after marriage, of the husband's young men friends. most young wives seem to think that they must keep a watchful eye upon these friends, and quietly strive to put an end to their baneful influence over the husband! for they suppose that these former companions will withdraw his thoughts from the sanctity of domestic life and lead him into naughty ways. these suspicions seem to be deeply rooted in the minds of newly-married women. i sincerely believe they are suggested by young wives, who ought to know better by experience, and might have perceived that their husbands' earlier associates would, in general, be glad to be received as members of the family circle. the wives imagine that their dominion is insecure so long as these suspicious persons are on board; they think that when such is the case the ship of matrimony may be at any moment upset, or stranded on unknown shores, that they must steer with a skilful hand, and that they cannot be safe until they have had the husbands' early friends cast overboard. i can assert this from experience, for i have myself been cast overboard more than once on account of such groundless suspicions. but a house can hardly be without visitors, and what is more natural than that these should consist of the young wife's friends and connections? she believes she can depend upon them; she is accustomed to them; she likes to display to them her notable housekeeping; it is so very natural, and therefore one generally sees the husband's friends and relations by degrees supplanted by those of the wife. damon's wife, however, was not obliged to man[oe]uvre at all to get rid of his especial friends, for, with the exception of myself, who had my own house, and was already a sedate and discreet person, he never invited a single old associate. it was not necessary for her to throw anyone overboard to make room for her friends and relations; these were self-elected intimates at mikkel's house, and all went on well there. there was one of her cousins in particular to whom damon soon attached himself. he was a young man who had exactly the qualities which were wanting in damon. he was, among other things, witty, lively, amusing; he was at all times ready for anything, and knew how to make the best of everything. damon soon found that he could not do without him, and he became a daily guest at his house, which there was nothing in the way of business to prevent his being, as he lived in a state of _il dolce far niente_, waiting until some good appointment might offer itself, which might suit a person of his talents and pretensions. before the expiration of a year, i observed that by degrees a change had taken place in their relative positions. damon had by this time nearly undermined his own happiness. his old pythias folly had awoke again in him, almost without his being conscious of it. his interest in his young wife was actually cast into the shade by his friendship for her cousin, who had become pythias the fourth. she discovered at length that she was quite set aside, and was jealous of this neglect; at the same time she grew more and more intimate with her cousin, whose lively conversation pleased her. that he had fallen in love with his young cousin i will not assert, but he paid her at times such marked attention, that i often thought this was the only reasonable inference to be drawn from his conduct; at other times there was so much levity and carelessness in his manners, so much flightiness in his way of talking, that i felt myself compelled to discard the supposition. certain it is, however, that he was always hovering around her; that her reputation might run the risk of being injured by his demeanour towards her, and that dangerous consequences really might arise from their being so much together in the intimacy of daily life, yet--who was to blame except damon? with his accustomed blindness, the husband could not see anything of this; he made quite sure that it was entirely for _his_ sake that the young man played chess, talked politics, smoked tobacco, and went out to walk or to fish whenever damon wished to go. in order that they might manage to be still more together, he had prevailed upon the cousin to come out and stay with him at a country-house he had hired at a few miles from town, where they had plenty of room. this invitation was given much against the wishes of his wife, who had tried to prevent it, but she had consented to it when she found that damon had set his heart on it. he said, jestingly, that he could not do without some male society, and a trio would be pleasant in their pastoral life. in this trio he himself voluntarily assigned the second part to the cousin, while he took the third to himself. damon, however, was a little changed; he felt no longer inclined to be _quite_ so subservient in his friendship as he had formerly been with his two-and his four-footed friends. by degrees, a desire had crept into his mind to take his revenge, and for once become himself the domineering party. he began to be somewhat importunate in his claims on the time and companionship of the cousin, who, on his side, showed decided symptoms of wishing to emancipate himself, especially from the tiresome and frequent fishing expeditions to the neighbouring lake; but fishing was perhaps damon's greatest pleasure, especially when he had the company of a good friend. damon was annoyed that the cousin had several times latterly excused himself from accompanying him, and, not caring to go alone, he had been obliged to relinquish his favourite amusement. one day--it was too bad--on a beautiful evening in the very height of summer, he refused to go fishing, when there could be no earthly reason for his doing so--none that damon could discover, except that he preferred to parade up and down the alley of linden-trees at the other end of the garden with his wife--while he himself sat at the top of the stone stairs, and fretted until he was quite out of humour. he could see that they spoke eagerly to each other, and laughed, and amused themselves, while he was wearying himself; and neither of them seemed to be thinking of him or his _ennui_. what were they going to do now? so! they were actually setting off to walk in the very direction of the lake, where he would so gladly have gone to fish; but _then_, it was too far to go, forsooth!--now, they could go notwithstanding the distance. it was almost like defying him; that was probably the cousin's intention. a disagreeable light seemed to dawn on his mind. and when this operation first begins to take place, a man is apt to fancy more than he has valid grounds for supposing. and this was the case with damon. in an exceedingly unpleasant state of mind, he returned to the usual sitting-room in search of some employment to make time pass less heavily. the comfortable room spoke volumes to his excited mind, with its quiet and peace. it was arranged by his wife's taste, everything bore witness in her favour. there stood her work-table, there lay her work, the half-finished embroidery which she was preparing for his birthday, and at which he therefore avoided looking. upon a table close by hers lay the cousin's portfolios and drawing materials. there was no necessity for the tables being so near each other, and he pushed the table with the drawings a little way from the work-table. the young man certainly had talent--there were comical sketches and little landscapes, thrown off as illustrations of poems, not without genius; he thought he would just look into the portfolios, when, in opening one of them, a sheet of paper, with pencil drawings, slipped out of it. what were these? he must see. they were a whole row of caricatures, in doing which the cousin excelled. there was a man with his nightcap on, evidently asleep and snoring; a man with a pipe in his mouth, half-asleep over a fishing-rod; a man half-asleep over a chessboard; a man half-asleep over a berlin newspaper; and lastly, a man half asleep over his tobacco-pipe, while his pretty young wife seemed dreaming over the work she had in her hand. of what was _she_ dreaming while _he_ was dozing? this question forced itself upon him. the sleepy-headed man was no other than himself, caricatured in the most laughable manner; the young wife might have been taken from nature: it was a charming likeness. damon sat as if he had fallen from the skies, with the sheet of paper in his hand; he could scarcely conceive the ingratitude which had suggested these sketches, or the barefaced impudence of leaving them in an open portfolio, in his own daily sitting-room, where anyone might see them--not only himself and his wife, but his guests and his servants also. fate brought me to him for a second time at a critical moment. i came accidentally to pay him a visit, and found him somewhat in the same state as on the evening hector had been doing battle with him. i entered into his angry feelings, but nevertheless could hardly refrain from bursting into a fit of laughter at the exceedingly impertinent, but very droll drawings. we had a serious conversation on the position in which he was placed; with great difficulty i brought him, at length, to perceive that much of the blame rested with himself, and that his young wife had nothing to reproach herself with. i combated his assertion that she must have been cognizant of the existence of these caricatures, and must have sat for the likeness of herself; and i even went so far as to promise to prove to him her ignorance of the drawings, though i did not know how that was to be effected without occasioning a _scene_--and i had the greatest horror of scenes. we had a long conversation, we two, for the wife and the cousin remained a good while absent--longer than i thought was exactly right, especially as it was getting late; but damon did not seem to think about it; he was engaged in speculating on the theme i had suggested for his consideration--namely, that a husband who never makes the slightest effort to find amusement for his young wife, but, without the least compunction, leaves her to solitude or weariness, has himself to blame if another succeeds in interesting and amusing her. it is this unfortunate transition from the devoted assiduity of the days of courtship, to the sleepy security of married life, that so often undermines love, and renders the heart empty; and nature has decreed that a woman's heart can never remain long perfectly vacant. at last the truants returned. it was evident that the lady, at least, felt it was not quite right to have stayed out till so long after the usual hour for tea; she bustled about to get the tea ready, and was very attentive in helping us to it. damon maintained a grave silence, and i felt somewhat embarrassed; the cousin alone seemed quite at his ease, and not at all _gêné_; i could not make out whether this was nature or art. perhaps it was politic to appear as if he had no idea that there could be any cause for animadversion on account of their unusually long walk. my confidence in her began to waver a little, whilst my anger at him increased. after tea the conversation fell, by mere accident, on portrait painting. it was the lady who brought the subject forward, by speaking of a picture of a female which she had observed in passing, hanging like a sign, over the open door of a garden. nothing could have been more _à propos_. i hastened to ask the young wife if she had ever had her likeness taken. no, she never had, and she never intended to have it taken, for she could not bear the idea that anyone should sit down and stare at her. the cousin declared this was a silly objection, and appealed to me if he were not right. 'oh! that is because he wants to make a sketch of me himself,' she said, in rather a hurried manner; 'he has often begged me to permit it, but i won't do so.' the cousin remarked that there was no question of permission, only of complaisance; if he chose to make a portrait of her, he could do it without asking her leave; he could take her likeness without her knowing anything about it; he could do it from memory. his cousin laughed at these assertions, and laughed so naturally, that i felt quite convinced i was right about her. damon, on the contrary, looked more and more distressed as this conversation proceeded; it was quite apparent to me that he was miserable, and in a painful state of doubt, and i had promised him a proof of his wife's innocence. without uttering a word, i laid hold of a corner of the paper on which were the treacherous drawings, drew it out of the portfolio, and handed it to her. i admit that this was very hard on the cousin, but why should i spare the young jackanapes, from whom no mercy for others was to be expected, as his caricatures showed plainly enough? she evidently did not know what i meant by showing the drawings to her, or what she was to do with them. on the first glance at the paper, she seemed about to burst into a fit of laughter, and no one who had seen these capital caricatures of damon could have blamed the child of nature for doing so. but on the second look, her eye had had time to run over the whole sheet, and she had beheld her own likeness; the contrast was too glaring, and there now did not linger the slightest trace of a smile on her countenance. she blushed crimson, threw the sketches far away from her, as if they had burned her hand, which for a short time she placed over her eyes, as one does when suddenly coming to the brink of a precipice. and her womanly tact had assuredly told her that such had been her position. it was a moment for a painter of scenes from domestic life to have taken a sketch. in the background were the open doors leading from the pretty sitting-room to the garden, whose trees seemed drawn on the clear evening skies in their full beauty. on the sofa sat a man, apparently very unhappy, with his cheek resting on his hand, and a look expressive of the deepest anxiety fixed upon a young woman, whose guiltless countenance rivalled the glow of the evening sky; whose whole bearing evinced mingled anger and humility, innocence and embarrassment, while her eyes were riveted on the paper she had cast from her, which had revealed to her one of the dark shades of life. at a little distance from her stood a grave-looking man, whose face expressed perfect confidence in, and esteem for, the young wife; he stood as if he wished to inspire her with courage to follow the dictates of her own heart. and nearest the door leading to the entrance-hall sat a young gentleman, whose assured, careless deportment formed a strong contrast to his perplexed and irresolute glances; no one could have doubted that he was the cause of the dismal mood which had seized upon all the rest of the party, and that he was aware of this himself. but it was only for a few short moments that the young wife stood as described. presently she looked up fearlessly, although tears were streaming down her cheeks; without vouchsafing a single glance to the young gentleman, she swept past him, threw her arms round her husband's neck, and sank, weeping, by his side on the sofa. and this charming, natural act found a response in his heart; he flung his arm round her waist, and pressed her to his breast. it was a dumb and yet an eloquent scene! the friend and the cousin were now _de trop_. i made a sign to him, and he left the room with me, without the others appearing to notice our departure. it was rather an embarrassing situation in which we two found ourselves placed as we walked along the high road together. but as i have always considered that 'honesty is the best policy,' i did not, on this occasion, depart from my general rule. i began by telling him frankly that the ingratitude which he had displayed towards my friend, who was also his friend, and his cousin's husband, by caricaturing him so ill-naturedly, and his hardihood in leaving the drawings in an open portfolio in a sitting-room common to all the family, as if he wished them to be seen by at least _one_ member of it, had convinced me that his remaining in that house would be productive of unhappiness to his host, and would be disagreeable to all parties. it was damon himself who by accident had found the caricatures. it was impossible, of course, that he could pass them over in silence, and their discovery might have caused an extremely unpleasant scene. i had sought to avoid this, as i knew that no explanation or apology could have been accepted; in fact, none satisfactorily could have been offered. i pointed out to the young man that it was not likely his intercourse with the family could be renewed; that it would be necessary for him to determine what he was to do with himself for the future, as he could no longer reckon on their kindness. 'soft and fair goes far,' says the proverb, and its truth was shown here. my words were taken in good part; the cousin and i continued to walk back and forwards on the high road half the night. he accompanied me at length to town, and then there was nothing for it--if he were to have a roof over his head at all--but to give him a bed at my house. we laid our heads together to think of what could be done to procure a situation for him, which might give him some profitable employment for the present, and some prospect of advantage for the future; and at last we both agreed that he had better look after an appointment in one of the provincial towns, which had just become vacant, and in the disposal of which i had some influence. security, however, to a certain small extent, would be required, but i would help him to obtain this. i was quite certain, i said, that if i asked damon, he would be his security, for he had a most amiable and forgiving temper. i wished damon to have this satisfaction, and the cousin this humiliation; _that_ should be his only punishment. i am now inclined to believe, however, that he found the punishment tolerably light, and bore it with great equanimity, notwithstanding that he vapoured a great deal about obligation, mortification, contrition, &c. &c. to cut a long story short, the plan we had hit upon that night was carried out. the cousin went to the country town and obtained the situation, damon became his security, and was not sorry to have this little revenge upon him. and his young wife, who, through my indiscretion, found out afterwards what damon had done, was quite overcome by her husband's generosity, and thought more of him than ever. a man is never sorry that his wife should entertain the belief that he is generous and noble-minded; that raises him much more in her estimation than if he gave her occasion for the vain satisfaction of admiring his wit. that, certainly, damon's wife had no opportunity of doing, for he possessed neither wit nor genius, but he was a good, kind-hearted person. their married life, which had been so nearly rendered unhappy, after the cloud above referred to had cleared off, glided on in a calm and even tenour, and nothing occurred to disturb their serenity. but man is his own worst enemy, an old philosopher has said, and not without truth. before twelve months had expired damon's old whim had revived: he longed again for a friend, and began to lament that he had no one to whom he might speak on many subjects on which he could not converse with his wife. 'to speak the honest truth,' he said to me one day, 'i miss my wife's cousin exceedingly. he was a pleasant, sociable young man as could be, and i really do believe that we did him injustice--at least as far as my wife was concerned--and that she never would have troubled herself about him if he had remained in our house till doomsday. i really do miss him often.' i opened my eyes in amazement at hearing this speech. but he was in earnest. notwithstanding his domestic comforts, and all his previous unfortunate' experience, he longed for--his phantom, his patented friend, his pythias the fifth! the old fixed idea was again in the ascendant! his folly almost made me ill, but it also made me very angry, and this time i did not let him off easily. i remonstrated with him on the injustice with which he had during his whole life treated me, who had always been his true friend, a fact which no one could deny, though he had scarcely considered me as such, while he had run up friendship after friendship with a set of worthless creatures. his pythias-fancy was a positive frenzy with him, approaching to insanity. but he had never had the least idea of what friendship _really was_. and as he was ignorant of it, i would tell him that friendship is the reward of affection, and it is not to be found in the street, like acquaintances, the mere result of chance. but what had he gained by his various friendships? had they not been for a long time a wretched slavery, and in the last instance an equally wretched attempt at governing? the absurdity had merged at length into a perfect monomania, which deserved no mercy, for it had nearly made his poor wife thoroughly unhappy. if he could not give up the indulgence of this caprice, i advised him to engage a pythias by the month for certain stipulated wages; some poor devil whom he could order to go with him to fish, or sit down to a chessboard whenever he pleased, for he required no other companion. such an arrangement would be very convenient, because he could dismiss the hired pythias when he pleased without further ado. as to myself, i said, i should continue to visit at his house only on his wife's account, for, as she was to be so neglected by him, she might require in her isolation the occasional society of a sincere friend. i should not come any longer for his sake, as he had shown me plainly enough how little he cared, or had ever cared, for me. damon was quite dumbfounded at the warmth with which i spoke, and at the unvarnished truths with which i overwhelmed him; his conscience must have told him that my accusations were not without foundation. he gave in, and concord was restored between us upon the condition that, for the future, he should renounce all search after his pythias puppets. it was further resolved that the pacification should be 'firm and lasting,' as it is called in all treaties of peace. i had been two or three months travelling abroad, when i received a letter from damon, giving me to understand that an event was expected in his house which was looked forward to with much pleasure. i was delighted to hear it, hoping that it would add so much to the happiness of my friends in the future. at length, to my joy, came another letter, announcing the birth of a son, his exact image, and he was so expansive in his descriptions of the little stranger, whom he seemed to look upon as a prodigy, that he scarcely left himself room to mention his wife. as soon as i returned home, i went to see him, and found him, like a fond papa, in the nursery' where he was pacing up and down, holding a monologue about the boy's education and future prospects. the young mother was sitting on the sofa with that languid, touching expression of heartfelt joy, which is so becoming to young mothers, and with a dreamy look, as if she, too, were beholding in her mind's eye the future for her child, and in thought were bestowing on him the cherub form more meet for an angel than a child of mortality. i congratulated them both with all my heart. damon lifted his 'exact image' from the cradle, raised the infant high in the air, and exclaimed with pleasure and pride: 'see here! here is my new born friend--my rightful pythias!' i could not help smiling at this truly unexpected outburst. what obstinacy! the young mother held out her arms, and cried: 'oh, give him to me--give me my child, my own little man, my darling!' and when the infant was placed in her arms she caressed him with that tenderness which only a mother can show. 'my pythias!--my darling!' they had both spoken from their hearts, and found the word which made them happiest. when the boy was to be christened, the mother proposed that he should be named charles, and the father that he should also be called pythias. charles was after me; pythias was after him, the other--the phantom. i could not refrain from whispering to damon, if it would not be well to have the child also christened 'the fifth.' he laughed, and pushed me so, that i had nearly gone head-foremost into the cradle, to 'the new-born pythias.' and charles pythias united in his own person that which makes the happiness of marriage--love and friendship. i do not believe that either of the parents bethought them how long these feelings had been shared among various individuals, so entirely were they now united and concentrated in this one little child. but i pleaded earnestly that the boy should on no account be called pythias, and insisted that it was quite enough for him to bear my name, as his father's friend. i was determined to free myself from hearing anything more of pythias. happily i carried my point, and i _did_ hear no more of him. the new-born pythias, however, took, in due time, his rightful place, though he had escaped bearing the ridiculous name. the fatal chain. from the swedish of uncle adam. one dreary autumn evening, shortly after i had taken possession of my living (thus my friend, the rev. mr. z., began his narrative), i was sitting alone in my study, the same which i occupy to this day, and from which i overlook the church and the churchyard, when a servant-girl entered, and announced that a strange gentleman was waiting in the drawing-room, who wished to speak to me. i hastened downstairs, and found a good-looking young man, although he appeared to be unusually pale, with an expression of wild grief in his eyes, which led me to conclude that he was the bearer of some unpleasant intelligence. 'i come to beg you for the key of the lejonswärd'schen family vault,' said he; 'i believe you have it.' 'what!' i demanded in astonishment, 'do you wish it now, at this late hour?' 'yes; i must have it,' said the stranger, impatiently, 'for a corpse. alas! a corpse is to be interred immediately.' the stranger's manners seemed to me to be so very peculiar that i still hesitated. on perceiving this he cried, 'you appear to be unwilling to give it, sir. you need not hesitate; my name is lejonswärd, and the corpse which is to be laid in the narrow tomb is that of my wife. i have one key, but require the other from you. will you still refuse it to me?' i gave him the key, and with scarcely a word of thanks he hastened away. i returned to my chamber, and gazed forth into the darkness which shrouded the churchyard. i soon perceived lights moving over the graves towards the vaults; the vault lies here, on this side, and the wall at the entrance is ornamented by a lion holding in its paw a pierced heart. the tomb was opened, and i saw the torchlight through the grating. it was a gloomy sight, which i shall never forget. the simple burial was over, and immediately afterwards a servant brought me back the key. several years had passed, when the same gentleman entered my room one morning. 'do you recollect me?' he asked. i answered in the affirmative. 'it is well,' continued he; 'i am going to become your parishioner, yonder at lejonsnäs.' 'are you going to live at lejonsnäs? surely you are not in earnest, herr count! no one has resided there for nearly a hundred years.' 'so much the better! i will turn it once more into a human dwelling; but i shall lead a very secluded life; my servant is to be my major-domo, my coachman, and my valet; that will be a quiet household! will you accompany me?' continued he. 'though the proprietor of the estate, i am perfectly ignorant of its situation. will you accompany me, and instal me among my dear forefathers who are there in effigy?' having acquainted my wife with my intended journey, i seated myself along with the count in his carriage, and set off, driven by the much experienced domestic, who, besides his knowledge of the mysteries of the kitchen and the bed-chamber, was also skilled in managing a pair of horses. we soon arrived at the estate. a large, heavy building, to which, wings had been added, stood, with its dingy windows, in gloomy grandeur; a double row of ancient trees skirted the spacious court-yard, in the centre of which, surrounded by a wild and partly withered hedge of box, arose a dried-up fountain. this is a slight description of the place. the count smiled and looked at me. 'how does the house please you?' said he. 'to me it looks like the abode of spectres. it is strange,' continued he, 'that people are always anxious to attach a more intimate connection with the world of spirits to places such as this, as if spirits could not reveal their presence anywhere. you doubt my words. you shake your head. why? if there be no communication with the world of spirits, why have we an inward voice which tells us that there is?' 'all have not such a voice,' i answered, smiling. 'there you are mistaken, dear sir,' replied the count, eagerly. 'you cannot deny that there are things which pass our comprehension, which therefore originate from a higher power; and there scarcely exists a man who, once in his life at least, has not been placed in a situation which has forced him to believe in the influence of a world of spirits. tell me, what is it that consoles him who has lost all that he held dear? for instance, a--'--he was silent a moment, as if struggling with inward emotion--'a wife,' continued he, 'and child. what is that--when, crushed by the cruel hand of fate, one kneels before a coffin--which illumines the soul like a clear stream of light from a better world, or whispers sweet comfort to the half-paralyzed heart?' 'religion,' i replied; 'the consolation of religion, herr count.' 'no, no, herr pastor; religion has nothing to do with _this_. religion is a sentiment embracing duty and devotion, which is founded on faith, and directed by reason. the sensation to which i allude is something outward, something which affects the soul as suddenly as a flash of lightning, without the thoughts having had time to dwell on the possibility of consolation. it is as if a stream of light broke unexpectedly upon the mind, herr pastor. it is not religion, but the spirit of the beloved departed which bestows on the mourner a portion of its own bliss.' just then the inspector arrived with the keys of the castle, and interrupted our conversation. he also was of the same opinion as myself, that the castle was not fit to be inhabited; but the count remained firm to his intention of taking up his abode there. 'give me the keys, inspector. you need not accompany us; my friend and i will be able to find our way, i do not doubt. you need only tell us to which doors the keys belong.' the inspector bowed, and began as he was requested to sort the keys. 'this one belongs to the large house-door; this, to the suite of rooms occupied by the councillor of blessed memory; and this, to the apartments which the councillor's wife inhabited. this key belongs to the young count's rooms; or,' continued he, rather embarrassed, 'to the rooms in the western wing, which belonged to your grandfather, herr count, when he was a young man.' 'enough, good sir. we shall find our way,' said the count, as he smilingly interrupted him. we approached the castle. 'did you hear,' said the count, '_the young count's rooms?_' the young count was my grandfather. this shows that traditions never grow old. he is still called the young count here, although it is about fifty years since he died, old and infirm.' as we entered the lofty arched entrance-hall, a chill, dank air met us. here and there a portion of the ornamental gilding from the walls had fallen away, and several large oil-paintings, representing bear-hunts, had become spotted with mould and dust. 'the entrance-hall is not particularly inviting,' said the count; 'but let us proceed farther.' the key was placed into the heavy, elaborately ornamented door, leading to the apartments of the councillor above mentioned. we entered an antechamber, hung with several portraits and landscapes of the dutch school; here, in a richly-gilt frame, which the hand of time had partially robbed of its brilliancy, was a lady dressed as a shepherdess, with a broad-brimmed straw hat upon her powdered head, and a shepherd's crook in her hand; a lovely smile played round the rosy lips, and the bright and speaking eyes sparkled with gaiety. 'that,' said the count, 'is my grandmother. she is smiling to us. she was painted as a bride, and there she still sits in her youthful beauty. it is the same with portraits as with the soul--they never grow old.' we went on, and entered a room with a polished oaken floor, and the walls hung with gilded leather in richly-gilt partitions; there was a stiff grandeur about the room, which was rendered more formal by the old-fashioned furniture. the mouldings of the ceilings were decorated by groups of clumsy figures, a remnant of the grotesque taste, and accumulation of ornaments so prevalent in the seventeenth century. this had formerly been the chamber in which the councillor had studied, and it had been left untouched, just as it was during his lifetime. a clock, in a large stand of chinese painting, in black and gold, stood silent and covered with dust in a corner, and a thick bell-rope with ponderous silk tassels still hung in another corner near the heavy writing-table, before which was placed, as if the student had only a moment before arisen from it, a narrow, high-backed chair, with legs curved outwards. beyond this room came a bed-chamber, decorated in the style as the one we had just left. 'by heavens,' said the count, 'it almost seems as if you were right. i cannot reconcile myself to these rooms, and to this furniture. rooms and furniture--if i may so express myself--are our nearest acquaintances--a chair, a table, a sofa, are often our most intimate companions.' at length we arrived at two small rooms, the windows of which looked out upon the garden; they seemed to have been more recently occupied, and were more simply furnished. 'i shall pitch my tent here!' said the count. 'the arrangements cannot be said to be of the newest fashion, but, at any rate, there is a more cheerful aspect about this place than in any other part of the castle.' before the table stood an arm-chair, which formerly had been gilded, but now the white grounding was visible in many places; the red velvet with which it was covered was not faded; indeed, upon the whole, the colours were better preserved in this room than in the others. i was surprised at it, but the count, who regarded everything in his own peculiar way, merely remarked that the chamber lay on the northern side of the house. 'you see, herr pastor, where the full glare of the sun cannot penetrate, anything old is better preserved. it is a well-known fact, that what is ancient is best preserved in darkness; this holds good as well in the material as in the moral world, for light is only required by that which is growing. objects that decay are more easily destroyed in light than in twilight. hence,' he added, with a satirical curl of his lip, 'darkness is so necessary for the preservation of what is old.' these apartments having been brought into some sort of order, the count established himself in them; from the time he had taken possession of his paternal property, his temper appeared to have become more equable. the castle harmonized with his restless soul, which cared not for the present, but loved rather to live amidst the memory of the past, which was crowded with familiar acquaintances; or, to endeavour to seek a dark and mysterious intercourse with another and to us unknown, world. he was a visionary, but a noble visionary, with a deep sense of everything that is good and grand. i frequently visited him, and found him often engaged in reading, but he always hid his book when i entered. once, however, i happened to catch a glimpse of it; it was jung stilling's works. 'i see, count,' said i, 'that you are reading about ghosts and apparitions. you surely do not believe in them?' 'why should i not? is there anything absurd in that belief, or do you suppose that man is the only being in the creation intellectually endowed? that he stands next to god? do you not believe in the possibility that the human soul, when freed from its vile earthly garment, can receive a more perfect, an ethereal body, suited to its new state? _i_ believe in it, and find comfort in the thought. what were man if he did not, even here below, penetrate, however dimly, into a future existence, and acquire a slight knowledge of its mysteries? what were we did we not all believe in this, to a greater or lesser extent? i maintain that there does not exist a man who has not some belief in spirits, even though he may ridicule the idea to others. when death steals away the best beloved of a man's heart, seizes her in his bony arms, and draws her down into the gloom of the grave--when the hand of providence lies heavily upon him--rest assured, my friend, _that_ man will believe in a spiritual world.' 'assuredly; and he ought to do so. no one should dare to doubt the future existence of the soul.' 'i speak of the atmosphere as being peopled with spirits; to that belief the soul of man clings when sorrowing for the dead.' 'sorrow often leads to wild ideas,' i remarked. 'sorrow!' repeated the count. 'you are partly right; sorrow constitutes the night in the fate of mankind. when we are prosperous we heed not the noiseless, measured movement of the wheel of fate; the earthy element asserts its right over us, and cheats us into the belief that we are happy. true happiness and sorrow are more in unison than we are apt to fancy. if we sit on a peaceful evening with a beloved wife and her children, and thank the lord for all the blessings we enjoy, it is their presence which constitutes our happiness; or, if we fall upon our knees by the side of their inanimate corpses, though we are bowed down with grief for their loss at first, after a time we cease to feel that we are alone. there is a something invisible, inaudible, and yet intelligible to our inmost soul that tells us restoration succeeds to dissolution, and life succeeds to death; and this something i call a mysterious intercourse with the spirit world.' 'but, count,' i suggested, 'reason points out to us--' 'reason!' repeated he, impetuously interrupting me. 'speak not of cold reason! what is that power which some possess of divining every feeling, every thought of those near them? what is feeling in comparison with foreboding--judgment in comparison with faith? he who acknowledges the existence of a higher world--who sincerely and earnestly believes in a connection between his feelings and their author--god--is a person of elevated mind; the man, on the contrary, who in his pride of intellect detracts from the holy one, and divides the indivisible, is grovelling and limited in his ideas. i never could endure that over-wise reason, which would force itself into everything, fancying that it could take part in everything, without doing so in reality. do not say, therefore, herr pastor, what reason points out to us. i contend that reason knows nothing about the matter.' i found it was not worth while to dispute with the count, for as he would not admit the right of reason, i had nothing to advance against his vague and undefinable notions. 'it is a comfort,' said the count, one day, 'to believe in spiritual visits. i live alone here; my servants inhabit the second story, and you may possibly fancy that my time often hangs heavily on my hands. far from it; when my candles begin to burn dimly in the evening, and the thick foliage is rustling gently--when the old furniture creaks, and a distant sound is heard, which may either be taken for the ringing of bells or the chanting of low murmuring voices, then my true life begins. i saunter up and down the room, and at times stand still and listen. ah, then, often do i feel as if a flood of joy were rushing on my wounded heart--there is a flitting sound in the adjoining chamber--"julia, julia! thou hast not forgotten me!" i exclaim; and, calm and happy, i retire to rest and fall asleep dreaming of her.' the count sank into deep thought, but he soon raised his dark eyes again, and gazing into my face, he said, 'you are my friend, are you not, even though you do not approve of my chimeras, as you reasonable people call them? i speak of my julia; you do not know her, although she has for year belonged to your parish. she it was who, on the evening that i saw you for the first time, was conveyed to her last resting-place--she, my wife. i will tell you about my julia, and you must not endeavour to dissuade me, by reasoning, from a belief which has become so necessary to me.' the count seated himself in a large arm-chair, and began his narrative as follows: the house of baron lindesparre, in stockholm, was, at the period from which my story dates, the rendezvous of all the talent and beauty of the capital. his soirées were noted for the distinguished tone which pervaded them, for their unconstrained mirth, and their elegance without ostentation. his splendid apartments were tastefully arranged, without a single article being placed so as to appear more prominent than the rest; where all was luxury the profusion was not observable. it was only when one analyzed the magnificence of the house that one found it _was_ magnificent. the baron had been many years a widower: his wife, a spaniard by birth, i never saw, but she had left a daughter, beautiful and gentle, a being formed partly of the glowing roses of the south, and partly of the snow of the north. she was the fairy of the place, and hundreds vied for a smile from her lips. this was julia. she became my wife. we had been married half a year, and had a separate residence, but on every soirée julia went to her father's to do the honours of the house. on one of these evenings the company was more numerous than usual, and i observed a gentleman among the crowd whom i did not know, and who kept his eyes continually fixed upon my wife. he was tall and thin, with a countenance pale and attenuated, the features were almost stiff and inanimate, and the flashing eyes alone, which he fixed with a sort of scornful look upon my julia, betrayed life. he was dressed in black, but a small star of brilliants sparkled from his button-hole, showing that he was in the service of some government. the man appeared to be about fifty years of ago, and a few grey hairs peeped out here and there among his otherwise black locks. i know not why i took such a strong interest in him; i fancied him disagreeable, and yet i was attracted to him. his was a sort of spell such as certain snakes are said to exercise over their victims. my father-in-law came towards me. 'who is that gentleman dressed in black?' i asked. 'ah,' answered the old man, 'i had almost forgotten to introduce you; he is a spaniard, a countryman of my beloved wife. come.' i followed him, and soon stood before the strange-looking guest. 'don caldero,' began my father-in-law; 'allow me to have the honour of introducing to you my son-in-law, count lejonswärd--don caldero, attaché to the spanish embassy.' the stranger in the black dress said a few polite words to my father-in-law, who then moved on. 'as far as i can judge from observation, count, you are the happiest husband in all cold sweden. i am glad to have made your acquaintance,' said the spaniard; 'i have long remarked you, and intended to have inquired your name. you, like myself, appear to pay attention not only to the outward but also to the inward properties of mankind. i rejoice to have met a kindred spirit.' thus began my acquaintance with a man who, notwithstanding his cold, severe, repulsive manners, possessed a fiery soul, and a mind capable of conceiving grand ideas. from this evening don caldero became intimate with me, and his clear understanding, the captivating warmth which he too well knew how to mingle with his elegant conversation, guided my ideas and feelings into a direction for which i was already predisposed by character, but in which, without don caldero, i probably never would have gone so far. he often visited at our house, and i became more and more attached to the highly-talented and well-informed spaniard, and he, too, seemed disposed to like me. it was he who, with a clearness which i am not capable of imitating, pointed out to me the connection between god and man, between the visible and the invisible world, who proved to me the existence of a communication between a spiritual world and ours, manifested in dreams, forebodings, and in mysterious intimations of the influence of a higher power, which we experience in moments of grave importance. it was he who placed before me the truth of apparitions, purified from all superstition--that is to say, denying them to be gross, material manifestations, but receiving them as produced through the interposition of beings endowed with greater powers of intellect than ourselves. you should have heard him, sir, and though you are so great a sceptic, you would have believed him as i did. we often amused ourselves with playing at chess, game that has always interested me greatly. don caldero shared my taste, and we sometimes fought a whole evening over one game. 'chess pleases me,' he used to say, 'because it depends less than anything else upon the chance of fate. fate makes itself visible everywhere, hence one must seek a pastime which excludes it as much as possible; our pastimes ought to be such, that spirits cannot interfere and amuse themselves at our expense.' don caldero frequented my father-in-law's soirées, and my house, but hitherto he had never invited me to visit him. he resided in a large mansion quite by himself, and never received any strangers. his character did not attract people, it rather caused him to be avoided; for few knew, or could understand, his great worth, and fewer still were inclined to follow him in his bold flights through the vast regions of fancy. after praising his friend at some length, the count concluded his eulogy by saying: in a word, herr pastor, there is but one such man in the world, and that man is called caldero. at length, one evening, caldero _did_ invite me. he lived at the farther end of the northern suburb, in a house which he had furnished according to his own taste. on entering the saloon i found no one, the apartment was empty, and merely lighted by a single handsome lamp, which hung from the ceiling, and which cast a subdued light around. i went farther: everywhere i encountered the same silence, the same twilight, the same heavy grandeur, which was to be traced in every object. i stood still, a strange feeling creeping over me, the nursery legends about enchanted castles flashed across my mind, and i fancied myself transported into one whose owner, with all his retainers, lay in one of the inner chambers, buried for many centuries in a profound magical slumber. these thoughts were soon, however, chafed away by soft steps upon the rich carpet, and caldero's gloomy figure stood before me. 'welcome, count!' he said, courteously. 'i thank you for coming to my hermitage, where, you must know, i have never invited anyone but yourself. i longed for one evening to take entire possession of you; pardon my selfishness.' he led me into the inner cabinet. this was a small chamber, but lofty, and fitted up in a still more gloomy style than the others. the walls, hung with dark-red velvet, contrasted strangely with the white and gold pilasters which stood at the four corners. in the middle of the room was a table, upon which was placed a chessboard between a pair of tall wax candles. we seated ourselves upon the sofa, and my host appeared to be reflecting upon something; at length he exclaimed: 'count! perhaps you may think it extraordinary that the spaniard caldero has formed such an affection for you. he considers it his duty to explain why; but in order to do so, i must give you a slight sketch of my history.' i listened with great attention to what this strange introduction might lead, and don caldero continued: 'i was born and educated in madrid; my father was a poor but excellent man, belonging to the ancient nobility, and i imbibed from my earliest infancy high notions of the value of rank. latterly it has fallen in my estimation, although i cannot even now entirely free myself from a prejudice in favour of the advantages of good birth. i was, as i said before, poor, but proud, as every spaniard should be, and an ardent longing to obtain honour and distinction dwelt in my youthful breast. this longing was increased tenfold by my passion for a lovely girl as poor as myself, but even more richly endowed with ancestors. the slight difference which existed in the ancientness of our lineage, combined with my poverty, prevented our love from becoming anything more than a hopeless passion; for her parents, proud of their pure christian blood, which for centuries had remained unmixed, could not endure the idea of their daughter uniting herself to me, whose early ancestor was a moor, a scion of that noble race who once occupied a portion of spain. still youth and love easily forget these small differences, and maria, so the young lady was called, loved me most fervently. often when she left mass she bestowed upon me a few minutes undisturbed by witnesses. ah! how happy i then was! i fancied my own individual merit would, in time, convince maria's parents that i was worthy of her hand; i therefore sought to be appointed to the diplomatic corps, a path which, under our weak government, was a sure road to distinction; nor was it long before i was named attaché to the mission to vienna. 'i met my beloved; it was for the last time; and never shall that moment pass from my memory. '"do not forget your faithful alphonso," i whispered, as i pressed her in my arms. i felt how her tears rolled down her blooming cheeks. '"see, beloved maria," i said, at length, giving her a small golden chain, which i had received from my mother--"see, here is something as a remembrance of me; keep it faithfully. if, however, you should forsake me, then return it to me, and i will wear it, and die thinking of, and praying for, you."' '"never, never!" murmured maria, as she took the chain. '"never, never!" i repeated, pressing her to my heart. "but, maria!" i continued after i had become more composed, "you might perhaps, forget me; will you, as a proof of our eternal union, share a consecrated wafer with your lover?" i had one, which i broke in two. "god is our witness!" we both said. the clock in the adjoining cloister struck eleven. '"i must go," cried maria. "for ever yours; for ever and for ever!" 'long after she had disappeared i stood rooted to the spot, striving to catch a glimpse of her in the moonlight. "for ever--for ever!" sounded in my ears, and, midst golden dreams of a future full of bliss and honour, i wended my way home. 'i had been about a year in vienna, when one evening a stranger brought me a packet. it contained the chain. i was horrified. '"deceived!--forsaken!--forgotten!" i cried. "but no, it is impossible!" a slip of paper which was enclosed, contained, to my comfort, the following words: "i remember my oath, but am _forced_ to break it. do not despise maria."' don caldero showed me a locket, which he wore near his heart. 'do you know this face?' said he. i started; they were the features of my wife. 'my wife!' i cried, in an agitated voice. 'no, my friend,' replied caldero, with a bitter smile; 'it was her mother. on this account i attached myself to you, for i still love the mother in her child. i have suffered, i have become resigned, but i have never _forgotten_: and i willingly cling to the belief, that necessity and compulsion alone robbed me of my maria. let us play, count.' i silently seated myself at the chess-table, on which was ranged a splendid set of chessmen; the board was of black-and-white stone, and the men of one party were of silver, with tops of clear crystal, diamond cut, while those of the other side were of a dark steel-coloured metal, with dark red-tops. 'it is not usual,' began don caldero, 'to play chess for money; yet why should we not at least venture something? i should like--i have often very strange ideas--i should like to give your julia the chain which her mother possessed for a time; it is neither valuable nor modern, but perhaps if she hears its history, she may kindly wear it in remembrance of don caldero. i will stake the necklace, and you, count, will you stake a lock of the dark hair of your julia? she will doubtless give it, if you ask for it. you must forgive an old, despised lover, for fancying he sees the mother when he gazes on your wife.' 'i consent willingly to this arrangement,' i replied, smiling. we played; but it seemed as though don caldero took pains to lose, and he speedily succeeded in his endeavours. 'i am vanquished,' he said quietly, as he went towards a casket, which i had not hitherto observed. 'here, count, is the chain; i shall be more calm when it is no longer in my hands.' the chain was more costly than i had imagined, and i was pleased at the idea of julia wearing it when caldero visited us. i instantly wrote a note to julia, in which, without mentioning anything about her mother, i told her of caldero's and my bet, and begged her for a lock of her hair, in case, against my expectation, i should lose the next game. i sent a servant to my house with this note and the chain to my wife, after which we again returned to the chess-table. now caldero became more cautious; i, on the contrary, was seized by a secret anxiety, an uneasiness which i could not explain. i did not perceive the false moves i was too evidently making. don caldero drew my attention to my carelessness and more than once, made me take back my move; all was in vain, i was as though bewitched, and could no longer calculate my position. at length the servant returned, bringing a small note from julia. she jested at the taste of our spanish friend, yet sent the lock of hair, at the same time entreating me not again, not even for more costly ornaments than the chain, to stake the ringlets of my wife. i showed caldero the note; he read it, and seemed to turn pale. 'her handwriting resembles her mother's,' he said, and laid the note upon the table. 'let us continue.' we played on, but i soon found myself completely surrounded by his men; my strange uneasiness increased at each moment; i felt as though a drawn sword were suspended by a hair over my head; the candles seemed to burn blue; the white tops of my kings appeared to assume a pale milk-white colour, whereas the dark-red of calderos men glowed like fiery coals, radiant with some inward light. 'checkmated,' he said, in a low tone. 'checkmated, count,' he repeated, louder; but i sat immovable, staring fixedly at the chessmen. i experienced a horrible sensation, as though an evil spirit were standing behind me, with his burning hot hand upon my head; nevertheless i was shivering--a death-like coldness had crept over my whole body, and yet--at length i ventured to glance at don caldero; his gloomy countenance was more pale than usual, he looked like a corpse, and his dark hollow eyes were intently fixed upon me. 'this is the 12th of august,' he murmured, as if to himself. 'reconciliation with the dead. count, give me the lock of hair.' i handed it to him, and then, rising from my seat as one intoxicated, i staggered out of the house. i was conscious of nothing that was going on; but caldero followed me. 'forgive me, count, my strange behaviour; but it is exactly twenty years this day since maria and i shared the consecrated wafer. i have kept my oath. good night, count. do not forget your friend.' i hastened home. never in my life have i so distinctly beard a voice of warning in the inmost depths of my soul. 'hasten! hasten! hasten!' cried the voice; and i flew rather than walked. 'is julia up still?' i asked of the servant who let me in. 'the countess?' he inquired. 'yes, yes; the countess!' 'the countess must be still up; she dismissed her maid only a few minutes ago.' i ran to my wife's room. julia was sitting in an arm-chair before her toilet-table, and quite calmly, as though she had not heard my hasty steps. 'god be praised that my foreboding of evil has not proved true!' i exclaimed. no answer. 'julia!' i cried, in an agony of anxiety--'julia, do you not hear me?' still the same silence. she sat immovable before the mirror, and her lovely features were reflected in the glass; the trinket which i had won was round her neck, and a gentle expression was in her tender black eyes. 'julia! julia!' i cried, seizing her hand. it was cold, but not rigid. god! my god! she was dead! i know not what further happened, but a fortnight later i was with you, herr pastor, to place the remains of my julia in my family vault.' the count had risen, and strode up and down the room in great agitation. the clock struck eleven. 'art thou there, julia?' he cried, while his eyes roved wildly round. 'come in! come in!' he opened the door leading to the adjoining room, and called out into the darkness, 'julia, i am here! here is thy husband!' a cold draught of air alone was wafted into the room, and a slight rustling noise was discernible. 'she passes on,' said the count. he slammed the door, and sank into an arm-chair. 'she will not come to me! my god! my god! let me go to her!' the count sat for awhile lost in deep thought; at length he sprang up, gazed at me with eyes beaming with joy, and exclaimed, 'pastor z., it is glorious to hope!' when i left him i actually found myself trembling, and i was right glad that the servant lighted me along the deserted apartments, so powerful is the effect of the imagination when excited. i continued to visit the count from time to time. his grief had, i fancied, calmed down, but his health was beginning to suffer, imperceptibly to himself perhaps, but not so to those who saw him now and then. i remarked that he was gradually becoming more strange; he often laughed at things which were not at all ludicrous; nevertheless, he was always the same amiable man i had ever known him, and his judgment was clear on every subject except when the mystic world was touched upon, then his thoughts used to wander, and julia, his beloved julia, was always the pivot round which his ideas turned. in the middle of winter i suddenly received a message, to the effect that i was wanted immediately at the castle. the messenger could not tell the reason why i had been summoned, but said that the count's valet had ordered him to saddle a horse and to ride as fast as he could to me. i suspected some misfortune, so set off instantly. when i entered the count's room he was seated at a table. 'ah, is it you, pastor z.?' he said, when he perceived me. 'have you come to preach peace to my soul? begin, sir; it will be amusing to listen--ha, ha, ha!--to hope in god? god? what is that? no, pastor, now i am wise--i believe in nothing, not even in myself, nor in you, priest, you black-skinned slug! you are one of those who wind themselves round mankind, and lie with a double tongue! speak on, sir!' his flashing eyes and uplifted arm, which threatened to strike, caused me to start back: he was evidently deranged. his pale lips trembled with rage, and his black hair hung in disorder about his brow, from which drops of perspiration rolled down his cheeks. i perceived that here i could be of no use; i therefore went to the bell to summon the servant. he made his appearance, pale, and with eyes red from weeping. 'look!' cried the count, wildly laughing--'only look, pastor z.! the livelong night he has been borrowing from the fountain of tears, and talking no end of nonsense, merely because i told the fool the simple fact that neither he nor i possessed a soul, and that there is no such thing as right or wrong. well? how comical you look--ha, ha, ha! you, and my man yonder, look like a couple of frightened sheep. you may rely on what i say, he would have come if it had been in his power; but all is over, he cannot come. yes, look yonder, stare at your heaven: it is air, mere air, nothing but empty air. do you understand? the earth is a solid lump, upon which cabbages, long-tailed monkeys, men, and other plants grow; and above is heaven, that is to say, sensibly speaking, air, atmosphere. well? are you not capable of comprehending this? it is as clear as the day. just listen,' he continued; 'mankind is a sort of animal of prey, which, even when tamed, do not lose their natural propensities; they are worse than beasts of prey, for even the tiger loves its mate and its young, but look, man murders them--murders, do you hear?' he hid his face in his hands, and wept aloud. 'i do not know what the letter could have contained,' whispered the servant. 'the count received it yesterday evening; he seemed overjoyed when he beheld the handwriting, and before i left the room; when i returned, however, he was just as you now see him. the poor count!' he continued; 'he was such an excellent master!' the count sprang to his feet as if he had been terrified by something. 'ho!' he cried, and his wild eyes wandered round the room. 'so much blood, so much poison were flowing over the earth; then a serpent stretched out its scaly head from the bottomless pit and seized the white dove. she fluttered her wings, the poor little thing, but first one part of her and then the other was crushed in the serpent's throat. it was her dead mother who devoured her: it was horrible! look yonder--look, herr pastor! a thick darkness overspread the earth; not a single ray of hope could penetrate through the bloody vapour to her! nay, good pastor, it was merely a freak of fancy, but at the same time a picture of the truth. her mother and her husband murdered her. do you now understand?' in this strain the unhappy man continued to rave for several days. i remained in the castle, for i hoped he might rally. a doctor was called in: he applied many remedies, none of which, however, seemed to afford the sufferer any relief. the count continued to be insane, and never for an instant did he close his eyes in sleep. at length, however, he became exhausted, and was obliged to be carried to his bed. i was then called to him. how much he had changed! his dark eyes had sunken greatly? and looked like flames half extinguished; his cheeks had fallen in, and his brow was full of wrinkles. he lay apparently in a state of complete exhaustion, and when i addressed him he did not answer. his servant privately handed me the fatal letter. it was from don caldero, and ran as follows: 'dear count,--when this letter reaches you, i shall be no more. it shall be laid in my desk, ready to be sent to you after my death. i owe you an explanation to divest you of your erroneous ideas respecting another world. for a long time past i have not believed in a future life, but it has been one of my favourite amusements to observe the faith of enthusiasts. it gave me pleasure when i perceived a man misled by his faith, and i laughed in my sleeve at such folly. i influenced your opinions, as i found you to be a fit subject for my experiments. 'i am a catholic; from my youth upwards my eye has been accustomed to weeping madonnas; i have heard the miracles respecting the saints narrated, and was expected to believe all i heard. the consequence is, that i have ended by believing nothing, the whole of religion rests upon the conviction of the present and eternal existence of the immortal soul; but there is no proof that man possesses a soul, any more than there is proof of the truth of the above-mentioned miracles. man is an animal like the other inhabitants of the globe, with this exception only, that he has a more perfectly-developed brain, and a greater number of intellectual organs. life is quite independent of soul. i have studied these subjects, and have become convinced that the theory about the soul is a fabrication of the priesthood, invented to enable them the more easily to govern the body. there can be no divine disposer of human events, else wickedness would not prosper in this world as it does, whilst uprightness suffers. there is a governing law in nature which dooms mankind to death, just as the trees are compelled annually to shed their leaves. i saw how oaths were broken with impunity; i shared with a maiden, whom i loved more than my life, a consecrated wafer, the most sacred thing i then knew: _she_ broke the oath and became happy, while _i_, who kept it, became miserable. hence i began to believe in fate, and not in providence, and learned to despise mankind to prevent myself from hating them. 'i met you and your julia; she was _her_ daughter. she was beautiful, and as yet nothing had occurred to try her character. for awhile my old dreams of faithful love revived, and for the daughter's sake i forgave the mother, who had so deeply wounded the most sacred of all feelings, if anything can be termed sacred. to be brief, count, i fancied myself once more in my enthusiastic youthful days; i forgot the sentiments experience had induced me to adopt, and faith in maria's love blossomed anew in my heart, like the flowers which take root in the loose ashes of a volcano. i fancied my innocent maria would meet me in another world with a kind welcome, and joyfully traverse with me the regions of space. you see, count, that the notion of eternity and god proceeds from our conceptions of love, and that, where there is no love, faith is also wanting. 'your wife died suddenly on the anniversary of the day on which maria and i had taken the oath. i considered this event as a sign from heaven, from her who, yonder above the skies, still loved me. i thought the mother had called her daughter to herself, for she was the only being on earth who testified to her broken oath. i deceived myself. 'i had scarcely returned to spain, when i received a visit from a monk. '"pardon me, senor," said he, "if i take the liberty of putting a question to you. have you a chain, which you once received from a distinguished lady whom you loved?" 'i gazed at the man in astonishment, and answered, "yes; what can you know about it?" '"señor, i prepared an old woman for death who had been engaged in some cases of poisoning, and she confessed the following, which she gave me permission to repeat, if by so doing any advantage might be gained: 'one evening,' these were her words, 'i was summoned to a young and beautiful lady, she was called maria viso'--was that the name of your beloved?--'and she begged me to insert a powerful poison in the clasp of a chain.' '"although the wretched woman was accustomed to such commissions, she nevertheless asked who was to wear the chain? the lady answered that it had been given to her by an importunate suitor who was called caldero, and she now wished to send back the chain to him. she also said that her feelings towards him were changed, and she now preferred another, but that her parents, who formerly opposed her marriage with him, had become anxious for it, and wished to force it on her, and she was determined to get rid of him. '"the woman thereupon inserted the poison into the clasp. the lady had afterwards married a heretic, and this act of hers it was which had roused the poisoner's conscience, for notwithstanding her being so great a criminal, she was an orthodox catholic. she sought to find you out, in the hope that the scheme had not succeeded according to the lady's intentions. the lord be praised and thanked that you did not wear that chain, you would undoubtedly have died if you had; the best thing you can do with it will be to present it to our poor monastery, for with the pure everything is pure, and the poison might be expunged by melting the gold." 'i stood like one turned into a statue of stone. it was, then, the decree of fate that the mother should be accessary to the daughter's death, and the latter be sacrificed for the crime of the former! 'picture to yourself now, if you can, count, blessed spirits: imagine to yourself, now, a heaven on earth with a woman you love; cling to a belief in another world; if you can do all this, then you are indeed a perfect fool. i have relapsed into my old views: the earth remains earth, and nothing more. when you are reading this i shall be dead, cold, and buried. if, however, i have an immortal soul, you will know the contents of this letter before it arrives, otherwise you must believe that nothing remains of him who once was your friend. 'caldero.' the much-to-be-pitied victim of caldero's cold atheism and contempt of mankind still sat in the same position, staring gloomily before him, without uttering a syllable, but now and then heaving a deep-drawn sigh. it was evident that he would soon be at rest, for every day he became weaker and weaker. i scarcely ever left the bedside of the unfortunate young man, in the hope that he might, if only for a few minutes, regain his senses, when i could speak peace to his soul. one evening, after this sad state of affairs had continued without interruption for a fortnight, i was sitting at a table reading, with my back turned to the count, when i heard a low whispering behind me; it was his voice. i listened--it was a fervent, humble prayer for peace in death, and pardon for all his sins. i let him finish his prayer undisturbed. 'who is there?' asked the count, in a feeble tone. i drew near to the bed. 'is it you, pastor z.?' he said mildly. 'still up? it is late. i am happy now, my friend, for it will soon be day; i have had a long night. i am dying, but i bear within me a strong voice crying, 'love is faith,' and i pray, bowing myself in humility before the god of love. i have wandered from the right path, i was misled, misfortune pursued me, and i became, through my thoughtlessness, julia's murderer. the crushing intelligence contained in caldero's letter shook my trust in everything, for it is a relief to a guilty soul not to believe in a judge. but my presumptuous folly was punished, my understanding became obscured. a light has burst upon me now, and since i have prayed i feel at peace. i prayed--for many years i neglected to do so--yes, i prayed with clasped hands, as my mother used to teach me when i was an innocent child. alas, i ought always to have prayed thus.' he ceased speaking, and leaning his head against his pillow, he looked steadfastly at me with a mild, glorified expression of countenance. i had sunk upon my knees at the side of his bed, and poured forth thanks to my god for the ray of light and hope which he had permitted to penetrate the darkened mind of the poor sufferer. 'lord!' i entreated, 'grant him light!' 'light,' he repeated, in a low whisper, 'lord! more light. god be praised! there _is_ light!' he closed his eyes, heaved a long sigh, and in another world he received an explanation of that secret, the solution of which he had only grasped in his last hour. he now reposes in the family vault by the side of his beloved julia; the receptacle of the dead is full. the pieces of his shattered escutcheon lie scattered upon the floor around his coffin,[7] and the key of the vault will be needed no more! footnotes: [footnote 1: "_too old_"--"for gammel"--is from a danish work entitled "haablös"--"_hopeless_"--by carit etlar. the volume, which contains three tales, was published in copenhagen in 1857.] [footnote 2: councillor of state. etatsraad is a danish title, and an etatsraad's wife is styled etatsraadinde.] [footnote 3: from a collection of tales, in one volume, entitled 'haablos'--'hopeless.'] [footnote 4: see 'eventyr og folkesagn.'--_espen til ahner_.] [footnote 5: krigsraad--a danish title.] [footnote 6: one mile danish is equal to more than four english miles.] [footnote 7: at the death of the last representative of a noble family in sweden, the escutcheon is usually broken over his coffin.] end of vol. ii. london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street, and charing cross. 1. page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/danessketchedbyt01bush digitized by university of toronto. bentley's popular works. * * * one shilling and sixpence. tales from bentley, vols. 1, 2, 3, and 4. two shillings and sixpence. what to do with the cold mutton. everybody's pudding book; or, puddings, tarts, &c., for all the year round. the lady's dessert book. by the author of 'everybody's pudding book.' nelly armstrong. a story of edinburgh life. rita: an autobiography. the semi-detached house. edited by lady theresa lewis. the semi-attached couple. by the same author. the ladies of bever hollow. by the author of 'mary powell.' village belles. by the same author. easton. by hon. lena eden. the season ticket. notes on noses. by eden warwick. salad for the social. books, medicine, lawyers, the pulpit, &c. say and seal. by the author of 'wide wide world.' three shillings and sixpence. quits. by the author of 'the initials.' anthony trollope's the three clerks. four shillings. dr. m'causland's sermons in stones; or, scripture confirmed by geology. lady chatterton's translations from plato. julia kavanagh's madeline, a tale of auvergne. gilt edges. five shillings. the ingoldsby legends; or, mirth and marvels. 58th thousand. francatelli's cook's guide. 100 recipes and 40 woodcuts. 15th thousand. bentley ballads. the best ballads and songs from bentley's miscellany. 5th thousand. lord dundonald's autobiography, with portrait. 6th thousand. anecdotes of animals. a boy's book, with eight spirited illustrations by wolff. handsomely bound, with gilt edges. ellet's lives of women artists of all ages and countries. a girl's book. handsomely bound, gilt edges. mrs. ellis' mothers of great men. hayes' arctic boat voyage. beautifully bound. lamartine's celebrated characters. nelson, cromwell, tell, bossuet, milton. &c. smith's anecdotes of the streets of london, and of their more celebrated residents. colonel graham's history of the art of war. dr. maginn's shakespeare characters, polonius, falstaff, bottom the weaver, macbeth, hamlet, &c. six shillings. ned locksley. with two illustrations. the last of the cavaliers. with two illustrations. the initials. with two illustrations. mrs. wood's east lynne. ------------the channings. ------------mrs. halliburton's troubles. buckland's curiosities of natural history, first series. -------------------------------------------second series. wilkie collins' notes taken afoot in cornwall; or, rambles beyond railways. mignet's life of mary queen of scots. two portraits. guizot's life of oliver cromwell. portrait. james' naval history of great britain. 6 vols. 6_s_. each. timbs' anecdote lives. with illustrations. first series, statesmen. -----------------------second series, painters. -----------------------third series, wits and humourists. -----------------------fourth series, wits and humourists. rev. herman douglas' jerusalem the golden, and the way to it. thiers' history of the great french revolution. 5 vols. 6_s_. each, with 41 exquisite engravings. dr. stebbing's lives of the principal italian poets. the danes sketched by themselves. a series of popular stories by the best danish authors, translated by mrs. bushby. _in three volumes.--vol. i_. london: richard bentley, new burlington street. 1864. * * * * * [_the right of translation is reserved_.] london: printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street, and charing cross. most of the following stories have appeared, from time to time, in the 'new monthly magazine,' and a few in other periodicals. they are now gathered together, and it is hoped that they may convey a favourable impression of the lighter literature of denmark,--a country rich in genius, science, and art. contents of vol. i. cousin carl.--by carl bernhard. the doomed house.--by b. s. ingemann. the felon's reverie. morten lange. a christmas story.--by hans christian andersen. a tale of jutland.--by s. s. blicher. the secret witness.--by b. s. ingemann. agnete and the merman.--by jens baggesen. a waking dream. the confessional.--by christian winther. the ancestress; or, family pride.--from the swedish of the late baroness knorring. the man from paradise.--by hans christian andersen. the danes sketched by themselves. * * * * * cousin carl. from the danish of carl bernhard. part i. when i was a young man about twenty years of age, i was a sad hair-brained fellow. i lived entirely in the passing hour, the time gone by was quite forgotten, and about the future i never took the trouble to think a moment. inclined to every possible species of foolish prank, i was always ready to rush headlong into any kind of frolic--anything that promised fun, even if that were a row; and never did i let slip the opportunity of amusing myself. i was a living proof that proverbs are not always infallible; for if 'bought wit is best,' that is to say, wisdom bought by experience, i must have become wise long ago; if 'a burned child or a scalded cat dreads the fire,' i was singed and scalded often enough to have felt some dread; and 'to pay the piper' had frequently fallen upon me. but i was none the wiser or more prudent. this preface was necessary in order to introduce the following episode of my mirth-loving youthful days. my father thought that the best way of breaking off my intimacy with a somewhat riotous clique of young men, in whose jovial society i passed a good deal of my time, was to send me to hamburg, where i was placed in the counting-house of a merchant, who was expected to keep a strict watch over me, on account of his well-known reputation for the most rigid morality; as if one could not find pleasant society in hamburg if one were inclined to be gay! before fourteen days had elapsed, i had at least three times outwitted the worthy man's vigilance, and twice out of these three times had not got home till close upon the dawn of day, without having been engaged in any fray; a pretty fair evidence that i sought good company, where the risk of getting a drubbing existed between the hours of one and three. but fate spread her protecting hand over me, and at the expiration of a year i returned safe and sound to copenhagen, bringing back with me much experience in all manner of jolly diversions, and no small desire to carry my knowledge of them into continued practice. i was of course destined to be bound hand and foot with the counting-house chains; but before putting them on i obtained leave to take a month's holiday in the country, and visit my uncles and my aunts in various parts of zealand. one fine afternoon in the month of september, i sought out a common conveyance, such as is used by the peasantry, to take me the first few miles of my journey; and with my knapsack in my hand i was standing in the court-yard of the inn ready to step into the rustic carriage, when a servant entered the court and asked if there were any opportunity for kjöge. 'that person standing there is going straight to kjöge,' said the ostler of the inn. the servant touched his hat. 'here is a letter which it is of great consequence to my master should reach kerporal's inn at ----, where a private carriage will be waiting for him; he is not able to go where he is expected, as he has been taken ill. i would give the letter to the driver, but fear he might lose it.' 'well, let me have it,' said i. 'i will be your master's messenger. what is his name?' he mentioned a name quite unknown to me. i pocketed the letter, and drove off. my usual good luck did not attend me on this journey. in general i seldom drove a mile without meeting with some little adventure, if no better than taking up a passenger on the road, or mystifying some good-natured countryman, or playing the fool with some coquettish barmaid; but this time everything seemed bewitched, and i was tired to death. the kjöge road is the stupidest of all possible roads--the wayfarers are too ragged and dirty for anyone to venture to take them up, the peasantry are deeper than coal-pits in cunning, and the barmaids are either as ugly as sin or engaged to the tapsters and cellarmen--in both cases disqualified for the situations they fill. i was dreadfully _ennuyé_, and, as if to add to my despair, one of the horses became lame, and they proceeded leisurely, step by step, at a snail's pace. whoever has felt as weary of his own company on a journey as i did, if he will put himself in my place, will not think it strange that i sometimes got out of the vehicle and walked, sometimes jumped in again, sometimes sang, sometimes whistled, sometimes thrust my hands into my pockets playing with everything there, then dragged them out and buttoned up my coat. but all this impatient rummaging in my pockets did no good to the stranger's letter, which became so crushed and crumpled that at last i discovered with some dismay that it looked more like a scrap of soiled paper than a respectable letter. it was in such a condition that it would be scarcely possible to deliver it--it was really almost in tatters. there was nothing to be done but to gain a knowledge of its contents, and deliver the same verbally to the coachman. luckily the person who had sent it did not know who i was. with the help of a little conjecture, i at length extracted from the maltreated epistle pretty much what follows:-'dear uncle,--i have duly received your esteemed favour of the 7th instant, and see by it that my father had informed you of my arrival in copenhagen by the steam-boat, and that you are so good as to say you would send your carriage to meet me on the 11th, about seven o'clock in the evening, at kerporal's inn, in order to convey me from thence to your house. a severe cold, which i caught on the voyage, obliges me to keep my room for the present, and to put off my visit to your dear unknown family for eight days or so. in making this communication i beg to assure you of my sincere regret at the delay, and to offer my best compliments to my beautiful cousins.' then came one or two inflated and pedantic paragraphs, and the letter was subscribed 'respectfully yours, 'carl.' the short and the long of the matter was that he would come in a week, being detained by a bad cold. 'well, these interesting communications can be made in a few words to the coachman. it is surprising how much paper people think it necessary to waste when they want to trump up a reason for not doing anything!' with this sage remark i threw the letter down on the road, where it must speedily have become utterly illegible, for--one evil more--a shower came on, and it soon increased till the rain fell in torrents. misfortunes, it is said, never come alone; on the contrary, pieces of good fortune seldom come in pairs. at length we approached kerporal's inn. it was pouring of rain, it was eight o'clock, and it was already almost dark. a travelling-carriage was waiting under a shed, and its horses were stamping as if with impatience at a long detention. the gifts of fortune are surely very unequally distributed, methought, as i reflected on the solitary journey before me, and that it was impossible i could reach my uncle's parsonage until very late at night. 'to whom does that carriage belong?' i asked. 'it belongs to the justitsraad,[1] at ---court,' replied the coachman. this place was situated about a mile[2] from my uncle's house. 'oh! then it is you who are waiting for a gentleman from copenhagen?' said i. 'yes, sir. and since you are the gentleman, we had as well set off as fast as we can. the horses are baited, and we shall have no better weather this evening, sir,' said the coachman. 'done!' thought i. 'this is not such a bad idea. i shall get so far dry and snugly; i can get out at the gate, or else carry the message myself. people are so hospitable in the country that they will surely offer me a night's lodging, and at an early hour to-morrow i shall proceed on foot to my uncle's house.' so the journey was not to be ended without an adventure. it is pleasant to exchange a hard, wet conveyance, little better than a cart, which goes crawling along, for a comfortable carriage getting over the ground at a brisk pace; so i yielded to the temptation, and deposited myself in the latter, whilst i envied the pedant who could travel in such luxurious ease to beautiful unknown cousins--i who had neither equipages nor cousins--and he could stay at home to take care of his cold! _i_ would not have done that in _his_ place. the three miles[3] were soon got over--in fact, they did not seem more than one mile to me; for during the two last i was fast asleep, the carriage having rocked me into slumbers as gently as if it had been a cradle. suddenly it stopped, and as suddenly i awoke in a state of utter unconsciousness as to where i was. in a moment the door was opened, lights and voices around bewildered me still more, and i was almost dragged out of the carriage. 'it is he--it is cousin carl!' was shouted in my ears, and the circle pressed more closely around me. i was at ---court. i was about to execute my commission in the best manner i could, and make some apology for having brought the message myself instead of having delivered it to the coachman, when i spied a charming-looking little cousin, who thrust her pretty head forward with evident curiosity. how pretty she was! i could not take my eyes off of her, and stood staring at her for a moment in silence; but during that moment's silence i had been kindly welcomed by the family as 'cousin carl'--i who was only his unworthy messenger. was i not in luck? the justitsraad carried me straight to the dining-room, and they sat down immediately to table, as if their repast had been retarded on my important account. i know not how i carried off my embarrassment; every moment my situation was becoming more and more painful; my spirits sank, and my usual effrontery ... ah! it failed me at the very time that i needed it most. we were quite a family party. there were but the uncle; his wife, who was a pleasant, good-looking, elderly lady, apparently about fifty; cousin jettè, who was pale and silent, but seemed very interesting; cousin hannè, the charming little venus who had caused my awkward position; and cousin thomas, a lanky, overgrown boy, about twelve years of age, with long arms in jacket-sleeves too short for them. from sheer flurry i ate as if i had not seen food for a fortnight, and with each glass i emptied down my throat i started in my own mind one plan after another to escape from the dilemma into which my thoughtlessness had plunged me. 'i am very glad to see that you do not make strangers of us, but really are eating heartily,' said the justitsraad as he filled my plate for the fifth time. 'i can't bear to see young men, or anyone, under restraint in my house; here everyone must do exactly as if he were at home. i am very glad you are not sitting like a stick, or looking as if you were afraid of us and of the viands before you. and now let us drink to your happy return to your native land. i am pleased to see that you are able now to pledge one in a glass of wine. when you were a boy, you had every appearance of turning out a regular milksop. but, to be sure, eleven years make great changes in everybody.' i drank to the health of my father and mother, then to the welfare of the whole family, and then a special toast to cousin jettè's health, which was proposed by her father himself. when we were about to drink it, he nodded to me with an air of intelligence, as if we were _d'accord_ with each other; but the pretty cousin scarcely touched the glass with her lips, and did not vouchsafe me a single glance; it seemed as if she were far from pleased at the compliment paid her. cousin hannè, who sat near me, filled my glass every time it was empty, and she had so industriously employed herself in this manner, that my head was beginning to be a good deal confused. 'and now it is time to go to bed, my children!' said the justitsraad. 'it is late; to-morrow we will hear all that your cousin has to tell us.' i was on the point of requesting a moment's private conversation with him; but the moment for doing so passed away unseized--in the next it was no longer possible. the family bade each other good night, a servant showed me to my room, and i was left to my reflections. the reflections of a harum-scarum fellow of one-and-twenty! you are right, dear reader, they certainly were not worth much. hannè's pretty face and the justitsraad's good wine had taken a somewhat potent effect upon my brain; i hastened to seek repose, and, like the theban tyrant, deferred grave business till the morrow. but i could not fall asleep, for conscience plagued me; it is its custom to wake up when everybody is sleeping, and without the least mercy it compelled me to listen to its lectures. it became so importunate that it drove me out of bed, and induced me to admit that it would be better to jump out of the window, and carry my baggage on my shoulders to my uncle's parsonage, than to be treated to-morrow as an impudent puppy--_that_ i should not so much mind--but also as a scamp of an impostor who had palmed himself upon them for the sake of obtaining a drive and a good supper gratis--_that_ i should mind a great deal, for it would touch my honour. it is thus one reasons at twenty-one. it rained no longer, but it was as dark as pitch. darkness would favour my intention; but how was i to find my way in a place utterly unknown to me? i determined to keep awake till the dawn of day, then take myself off, and leave the family to make inquiries about the cousin, until the real one thought fit to recover from his cold. but that little hannè's charming face, was i never to behold it again? well, it was very foolish to have come there, but after all, it would be still more foolish to remain. i left a little piece of my window open, and sat down near it in order to watch for the first streaks of daylight. i had, however, a long time to wait, for it was just half-past twelve o'clock. as i sat there, fretting at myself for my folly, i heard something or some one, stirring beneath the window, and a moment afterwards among the branches of a tree close by. it was some person climbing the tree, but his visit was not intended for me, for he crept up much higher, and appeared to have mounted to a level with an upper window, as one was opened very gently and cautiously. ah! an assignation! a secret appointment! it is really an advantage to have a tender conscience; without that i should have been fast asleep, and should never have known what was going on so near me. but who could it be? could cousin thomas, though only twelve years of age, be making love to one of the housemaids? let us listen. 'for god's sake make no noise!' said a whispering voice at the window above mine. 'he has arrived; he occupies the room just below, and he can hardly be asleep yet.' 'the light has been extinguished for at least half an hour,' replied the voice in the tree. 'such an ape has nothing to wake or watch for.' an ape, forsooth! as if i were not quite as wide awake as himself. 'dear gustav, think of my distress,' continued the voice at the window; 'my father drank my health at table, and nodded to him in such a significant manner! oh, how i hate that man! tomorrow, perhaps, he will begin to treat me as his betrothed; my father will give him every opportunity, and he will take upon himself to be intimate, and to make me presents. oh! how unhappy i am!' 'you see, dearest jettè, this is the consequence of our silence; if we had spoken to him before the accursed cousin came here, perhaps your father might have been persuaded to have given up this absurd childish betrothal.' 'no--no; he would never have done that,' replied jettè; 'he is too much attached to his brother; and he will do everything in his power to have the agreement fulfilled, which eleven years ago they entered into with each other at their children's expense.' 'why did not that man break his neck on the way! such fellows can travel round the whole world without the slightest accident ever happening to them,' said gustav. 'but he may, perhaps, repent coming here; i shall pick a quarrel with him, i will call him out, he shall fight with me, and either he or i shall be put out of the way.' 'may god protect you, my dearest gustav!' exclaimed my cousin. 'but how can you have the heart to frighten me with such threats? am i not wretched enough? would you increase the burden that is weighing me down to the grave? i see nothing before me but misery and despair; no comfort--no escape.' poor jettè was weeping; i could hear how she sobbed in her woe. i now perceived why the poor girl had been so pale and distant--i was betrothed to her. 'forgive me, dearest girl! i hardly know what i am saying; but take comfort, do not weep so bitterly. heaven will not desert us, and we shall find some means of softening your father; besides, no rational man would wish to obtain a wife upon compulsion. if he has the least pride or spirit, he will himself draw back.' 'ah, gustav! if there were any chance of his drawing back, he would not have come here. his father wrote that he was coming expressly to claim his--his promised rights; and that--and that we should learn to know each other before the wedding. we had been betrothed for eleven years, he wrote, and it was time that ... no! i cannot think of it without despair.' 'what sort of looking person is he? is he handsome? whom does he resemble?' 'he is not in the least like what he was as a boy, he is very much changed; he has improved very much in looks, and, indeed, may be called handsome now.' 'that is a girl with a good taste,' thought i; 'i wish i could help her out of her troubles.' 'handsome!--i congratulate you, miss jettè--handsome people generally make a favourable impression, and by degrees one becomes quite reconciled to them, and pleased with them--don't you think so?' the lover grasped the branch nearest him so roughly in his anger, that he made the whole tree shake. 'gustav! are you in earnest?' exclaimed jettè, in a tone of voice that would have gone to the heart of a stone, if stones had hearts. 'dearest, dearest jettè! sweet, patient angel!' he stretched himself so far out from the tree that i think he must have reached her hand and kissed it. 'indeed, you have no reason to be jealous of him,' said jettè, 'for one quite forgets his being handsome, when one observes how awkward he is. he does not seem to be at all accustomed to society; he eats like a shark, and you should have seen how he drank. hannè amused herself in filling his glass, and i do believe that for his own share alone he emptied two bottles of wine. and he never uttered a single word. oh! he is my horror--that man; but my father seems pleased with him, and praised him after he had left the room. dear gustav! how unfortunate we are!' should i allow these imputations to rest upon me? a blockhead--a glutton--and a drunkard! and cousin hannè had been making a fool of me, forsooth!--the little jade, with her pretty face. i was certainly in a pleasant position. 'i will speak to your father to-morrow,' said gustav, after a little consideration. 'he is very fond of you, he will not be deaf to our prayers, or expect impossibilities from you. what can he bring forward against me? i shall soon be in a position to maintain a wife, my family are quite on an equality with his own, my father is not poor, and my situation in life is now, and always will be, such, that i can satisfy any inquiry he can make into it. deny then no longer your consent, dearest jettè; let us no longer conceal our attachment from him, and depend on it all will go well.' 'ah, gustav! you do not know my father. he will positively insist that i shall fulfil this engagement. vows are sacred in his eyes, and he himself has never broken his word. when i gave that promise i was but a child, and i wore the plain gold ring without ever reflecting that it was a link of that never-to-be-broken chain which was to bind me to a life of misery. oh, god, have mercy upon me!' 'doubt not _his_ help, my beloved girl! he will spread his protecting hand over us, even if all else shall fail us.' the sorrowing lovers whispered then so softly that i could not overhear what further they said, but i concluded they were comforting each other. the first streak of day cast a pale line of light across the tops of the trees and the roofs of the outhouses near. it was almost time for me to commence _my_ flight, but everything must be quiet first. i gathered together my effects with as little noise as possible. the conversation on the outside recommenced, and i approached the window impatiently. 'how long is he going to stay here?' asked gustav. 'i do not know; perhaps only a few days. alas! my only hope is in him,' replied jettè. to-morrow i shall have a private conversation with him, which, of course, will lead to an explanation. i will make an appointment with him in the garden,--if you will promise me not to be jealous,' added jettè, with a degree of archness in her tone which enchanted me. 'it is hard that my rival is to be my sheet anchor,' said gustav; 'but, since it must be so, speak to him, dearest. however, if that fails, then, my sweet girl, then ...' 'then i promise you ... but what noise is that? i thought i heard some one stirring. for god's sake go! let no one see you here!' 'to-morrow night, then, at one o'clock. farewell, dear jettè.' then came a kiss. was it on the hand or the lips? 'take care how you get down. to-morrow night. adieu till then!' the faithful knight-errant swung himself from branch to branch with an adroitness which proved that he was experienced in that mode of descent. as soon as he set foot on the ground the window above was closed. it was now my turn to get into the trees. gustav had taught me that trick. i wondered what sort of a looking fellow he was. poor jettè--to have chosen for herself, and yet to be condemned to be sacrificed to a man who could begin a letter about his intended bride with, 'i have duly received your esteemed favour of the 5th instant,' and who could absent himself from such a charming girl, merely because he had a slight cold! well! it is a wretched world, this, in which we live. it was becoming more and more light. to-day she wished to have a private conversation with me--her only hope was in me; there was to be an explanation between us, an assignation in the garden. who the deuce could run away from all this? but.... well! nobody knew me--the real cousin was not coming for a week ... surely i might stay _one_ day on the strength of personifying him? i am a fatalist; destiny has sent me, and it will aid me.... i will not forsake jettè ... and i will revenge myself upon that little mademoiselle hannè, who wanted to drink me under the table, and i will show the whole accomplished family that i have studied good manners in hamburg, and am neither a blockhead, a glutton, nor a drunkard. it is a matter that touches my honour; i will stay!... but ... suppose they take it into their heads to question me? humph! if the worst comes to the worst, i can but stuff a little linen into my great-coat pocket, make a pretext to get outside the gate, and take to flight at once. in the meantime, i will make some inquiries about the neighbourhood and the roads, for at present i have not the most remote idea whether i ought to turn to the right hand or the left. and to-morrow night--good-by to this darling family, with many thanks for their kind welcome. whilst they are all sleeping, or keeping nocturnal assignations, i shall vanish without leaving the slightest trace behind. it will give them something to talk of till christmas. whilst this monologue was in progress of utterance, i was busily undressing myself. i jumped into bed, and soon slept as soundly as if i had a lawful right to be there, and were the dreaded cousin himself. but when i was summoned to breakfast next morning i was in a very different frame of mind. i had slept off the effects of the wine, sober reason had resumed her sway, fear followed at my heels like a bad spirit; and i would assuredly have made my escape if the well-dressed valet-de-chambre had left me a moment to myself. i was compelled to resign myself to my fate, and allow myself to be marshalled to the breakfast-parlour; but as i approached the scene of my threatened exposure, despair restored my courage, i remembered that it was incumbent on me to wipe out the disgrace of the preceding evening, and i found my habitual impudence and lightness of heart upon the very threshold of the door. i went up to them all, and shook hands with them, and as i now knew that i was engaged to jettè, i kissed her hand with all possible amorous gallantry. the poor girl looked as if she could have sunk into the earth, and i coloured up to my temples, for i just recollected that i had on no betrothal ring. jettè wore the plain gold ring i had heard her mention, but it was almost hidden by another ring, with a simple enamelled 'forget-me-not.' might not _that_ have been a gift from the unknown gustav? 'how are you this morning, my dear?' said the justitsraad. 'jettè has not been very well lately,' he added; 'she looks poorly, and has no appetite. it must be that abominable _nervousness_, of which young ladies now-a-days are always complaining.' jettè assured him that she felt quite well. i doubted if her mother or her sister were so much in her confidence as i was at that moment; but neither of them had been sitting at an open window between twelve o'clock at night and three o'clock in the morning. at first all went on smoothly, for the conversation was on the safe subjects of wind and weather; but a change for the worst was coming. 'now, nephew, tell us something about the old people yonder. how is my brother looking?' 'extremely well, uncle. he is looking quite fresh.' 'but the gout--the gout in his feet? that sticks to him yet--and it is not the most pleasant of companions.' 'oh, yes--the gout! but he is accustomed to that.' 'and your mother?' 'she is also well, only she is getting older every day.' 'ah! that is what we are all doing. and aunt abelonè? how goes it with her?' 'she is very well too.' 'what! _very well_--with her broken leg! why, you must be joking?' 'oh dear, no! i ... i only meant to say as well ... as well as anyone can be with a broken leg,' i stammered out. in truth, i knew nothing about, and cared as little for, abelonè's mishap. 'listen to that madcap. he speaks of a broken leg as if it were absolutely a trifling matter.' the danger was over for a moment, but another attack soon followed. i had scarcely swallowed a cup of tea, before my _soi-disant_ uncle demanded from me a particular account of the new system of agriculture my father had introduced on his property--i, who did not even know where that property lay! but this time his wife came to the rescue, for she declared that we could discuss systems of husbandry when we were strolling in the fields together, or out hunting, and that she and her daughters did not take much interest in agricultural questions. 'well, we will talk of this another time,' said the justitsraad. 'but tell us at present something of your travels. women-folk are always pleased to hear adventures of travellers. you have visited paris, berlin, vienna, and many other places. a man who has travelled so much might talk for a whole month without being at a loss for a subject.' very well did i know that i had never beheld a single building either in paris or berlin, except in engravings. what was i to say? i busied myself in getting up a good tale. 'upon my word, nephew, i should not suspect you of being very bashful; but if you don't like to speak of your travels, let them alone, my boy,--everybody shall do as he likes in my house. many years ago, i remember, i went to hamburg, and when i came home i almost tired them all out by describing what i had seen. but i suppose it is old-fashioned now to make any comments on what one has witnessed abroad.' here was a piece of good luck. i knew hamburg as well as my own pockets, and now i was like my uncle after _his_ return. there was no end to my descriptions and anecdotes. the old man seemed to take real delight in hearing about all the alterations which had been made in the old town since the days of his youth, inquiring often for places which no longer exist. i endeavoured to make my discourse as amusing as possible. cousin thomas rested his elbows on the table, listened with open mouth, and laughed outright several times; my aunt often let her knitting-needle fall, to look at the pencil sketches with which i was illustrating my descriptions; cousin jettè looked less sourly at me than before; and hannè--the pretty, coquettish, little hannè--for whose sake i was sitting apparently so much at my ease among them, was unwearied in her queries about the hamburg ladies, fashions, and theatres. happily these had been the objects of my most intense study. 'i perceive now, that when once his tongue is set a-going, he has plenty to say,' remarked my worthy uncle. 'how long were you in berlin?' 'nay; stop, uncle! we are at hamburg just now. i have still a great deal to tell about that city. everything should be arranged in due order. today i will confine myself to hamburg; to-morrow we shall travel to berlin.' 'catch me here tomorrow,' thought i to myself; 'if i only can get through to-day, i will take french leave before we come to berlin.' 'come! since you give such a good reason, we will let you off berlin just now. i am a lover of order myself, and here everything goes by clockwork. during the first part of the morning every one must look out for himself; at twelve we meet for luncheon--at three o'clock we dine. amuse yourself in the mean time as well as you can; you will find plenty of books in the library--yonder hang fire-arms--and in the stables there are horses at your service; do exactly as if you were at home, and take care of yourself.' 'i will take a turn in the garden,' said i, with a glance at jettè--one of those looks _d'intelligence_ from which i expected great things; but she took no notice of it, and i was under the necessity of remarking, that being a stranger i did not know the way. but even this opening for a _tête-à-tête_ she allowed to pass, and i could not imagine how she intended to bring about our secret conference. 'a stranger!' cried my uncle. 'but true, in eleven years one forgets a great deal. let me see--how old were you then? you are three-and-twenty now ... twelve years of age you were; who could have guessed then that you would have become such a free-and-easy, off-hand sort of a fellow? well, let him be shown the grounds, children. thomas must go to his studies; my wife has her household matters to attend to; jettè, you must ...' 'i really am not able, my dear father--i have a dreadful headache,' said the poor timid girl. and she looked as if she spoke nothing but the truth,--she was so pale, and her eyes were so red. 'a woman's malady,' said her father, looking vexed; 'it is, of course, incumbent on you to ... well; all that will vanish when you are better acquainted. _we_ know what these qualms mean,' he added, turning towards me. i nodded, as if i would have said--_sat sapienti_. 'have you also got a headache, hannè? are you also suffering from nervousness? or can you stand the fresh morning air, my girl?' he asked. i looked eagerly at the little gipsy. 'oh! i can endure the fresh morning air very well,' she replied. 'then take charge of your cousin carl, and show him round the garden and the shrubberies; and don't forget the pretty view from the rising ground where the swing is.' the justitsraad held out his hand to me, and i pressed it with all the warmth of sincere gratitude. 'come, cousin,' said hannè. 'shall we call each other by our first names, or not? but we can settle that as we go along.' 'for heaven's sake, let us call each other by our baptismal names, else we should not seem like cousins. don't you think so, uncle?' 'you are of my own people, my boy. always be merry and frank--that is my motto. i am right glad that you have not adopted the stiff german manners. your father was always very grave; but you have rubbed off all that solemnity abroad, i am happy to see.' in my delight at the promised stroll with hannè, i forgot that it was my duty to kiss jettè's hand on leaving her. just as i had reached the door i suddenly remembered it; and rushing back, i went through the salutation in the speediest manner possible, expressing at the same time my hope to find her better on my return. they all laughed, and even jettè could not help smiling,--there was something so comical in my hurried return, and equally hurried performance of the ceremony etiquette demanded. was i not right in calling myself a madcap? here was i actually walking with the charming little hannè all over the grounds! i--her pretended cousin; i--who ought to have been sent to the house of correction, for having, under another man's name, presumed to thrust myself into the midst of a respectable family; i--who had committed, a positive depredation, and broken the sacred privacy of a seal;--here was i wandering about arm-in-arm with the justitraad's daughter at ---court, the captivating, innocent, beautiful little hannè; i--who deserved to be driven away with all the dogs on the estate at my heels! well! goodness and justice do not always carry the day in this world! part ii. when i looked at my companion i was almost appalled at my audacity. think of the face you love the best in this world--the face that you never can behold without a beating heart--which you dwell on with rapture, which is the object of your waking and your sleeping dreams! ah! quite as charming as such looked hannè in her pink gingham morning-dress, with a little blue handkerchief tied carelessly round her throat, and a becoming white bonnet. she was irresistible! we strayed here and there like two children; plucked flowers to teach each other their botanical names; gathered a whole handful to commence a herbarium, and threw them away again to chase some gaudy butterfly. then we sauntered on slowly, and hannè communicated many little things to me of which she thought her cousin ought to be informed; and at length i began to fancy that i actually was the real cousin carl. of all the young girls that ever i beheld, hannè was the most delightful; such grace, such vivacity, such naïveté, were not to be met with either in copenhagen or in hamburg. 'it is a pity jettè could not accompany you,' said she; 'but to-morrow, probably, her headache will be gone.' i assured her that i did not regret jettè's absence, since i had _her_ company. 'that is a pretty declaration from a bridegroom who has allowed himself to be waited for eleven years,' said hannè. 'jettè did not look as if she were glad at my arrival.' 'you must not think anything of that; she has looked out of spirits for a month past, at least: she is apt to be melancholy at times, but it passes off. her character is sedate. she is much better, therefore, than i am, or than anyone i know. you can hardly fancy how good she is.' 'but i want a lively wife, for i am myself of a very gay disposition,' said i. 'that is not what we thought you were,' replied my fair companion. 'we always looked upon you as a quiet, grave, somewhat heavy young man, and you have been described to us as a most tedious, wearisome person. i used often to pity jettè in my own mind; for a stupid, humdrum man is the greatest bore on earth. but i do not pity her anymore, now.' i could have kissed her, i was so pleased. 'so you thought of me with fear and disgust, you two poor girls? pray, who painted my portrait so nicely?' 'why, your own father did; and the letter which you wrote jettè when she was confirmed, and when you sent her the betrothal-ring, did not at all improve our opinion of you. i'll tell you what, carl; that was a miserable epistle. it was with the utmost difficulty that my father prevailed on jettè to answer it, when she was obliged to send you a ring in return. however, you were little more than a boy then--it is long ago, and it was all forgotten when we never heard again from you. i can venture to affirm that jettè has not thought six times about you in the six years that have elapsed since that time--and perhaps this is lucky for you. it was not until your father wrote us that you had come home, and until he began to bombard jettè with presents and messages from you, that you were mentioned again among us; but my father never could bear our laughing at your renowned epistle.' i listened with the utmost avidity to every little circumstance that could elucidate the part i had taken upon myself to play. in this conversation i learned more than i could have gathered the whole morning. 'it is very absurd to betroth children to each other. what should they know of love?' said hannè. 'it is more than absurd, hannè; it is positive barbarity. it is trampling the most sacred feelings and rights under foot.' 'nevertheless you may thank god for that barbarity,' said she; 'without it you would never have got jettè. she has plenty of admirers.' 'indeed! and who are they, if i may take the liberty of asking? you make me quite jealous.' 'oh, i have observed that both the young clergyman at ---town and gustav holm are much attached to her. and jettè has no dislike to gustav.' 'who is gustav holm? he appears to be the most dangerous.' 'he is learning farming, or rather, i ought to say, agricultural affairs, with a country gentleman not far from this. he has been coming to our house now about three years; i think, and i could wager a large sum, that it is for jettè's sake.' 'or for your own, little hannè?' 'pshaw! nonsense! if anyone were dangling here after me, i should make no secret of it. jettè is a greater favourite than i am, and she deserves to be so.' 'but perhaps jettè cares more for gustav holm than for me, whom she really does not know?' one often asks a question in this hypocritical world about what one knows best oneself. 'no, oh no! that would be a sad affair. has she not been engaged to you for eleven years, and is she not going to be married to you?' 'but if you had been in jettè's place, how would you have felt?' 'i would perhaps have preferred ... no, i don't think i would though. but i am not so mild and amiable as jettè; and the day that i was confirmed no one should have imposed a betrothal-ring upon me, i can assure you, sir; and, least of all, accompanied by such an elegant billet as yours.' hannè picked up a blade of grass, formed it into a string, and twisting it round her finger in an artistic manner, made it into a knot. 'can you make such?' said she. i tried it, but could not succeed, and she took hold of my hand to do it for me. 'but how is this, carl?' she exclaimed. 'where is your betrothal-ring?' 'it is ... i have ... i wear it attached to a ribbon round my neck; ... it annoyed me to have to answer the many questions it was the cause of my being asked. therefore i determined to wear it near my heart.' 'it annoyed you! did ever anyone hear such an assertion? jettè has faithfully worn hers, and placed a "_forget-me-not_" into the bargain by its side, to remind herself, i suppose, not to forget you. but _you_ found it a bore, even to be asked if you were engaged! such gallants as you do not deserve to be remembered. but come now, i will show you a beautiful view.' we passed together through a charming shady wood, where several paths, diverging among the trees, crossed each other. hannè walked before, light and graceful as diana in her fluttering drapery; i followed her, like the enamoured actæon. alas! the resemblance would soon become stronger, i thought--how soon might i not be discovered, driven forth as a miserable intruder, and delivered over to regret and remorse, which would prey upon me, and tear me to atoms, as the hounds tore actæon! upon a rising ground stood a swing, the posts of which towered above the tops of the trees, and the erection looked at a distance like a gallows. from this spot the view was very extensive--a number of country churches could be seen from it, and among others that of my uncle. 'but why have you placed that gallows upon this lovely spot?' i asked. 'gallows! no one ever presumed to give such an appellation to my swing before,' said hannè, angrily. 'if it were not very uncivil, i would say that it evinces an extremely debased and disordered state of the imagination to make a gallows out of my innocent swing.' the girl spoke the absolute truth. it will hereafter come to be called gallows, thought i--and tomorrow my fair fame will hang dangling there, as a terror and a warning to all counterfeit cousins. 'but never mind, cousin, i did not mean to be so sharp with you. don't, however, let my father hear you say anything disparaging of this place; he would, not so easily forgive you. come, you shall atone for your sin by swinging me,' added hannè, as she settled herself in the swing. 'ah, hannè! would that i could as easily atone for all my sins towards you!' i could have swung her for a lifetime, i do believe, without becoming weary of gazing at her; but she compassionately stopped, fancying i must be tired. 'you will be quite fatigued, poor fellow--it would be a shame to make you work longer,' said she. 'get in, and you shall find that the swing stands in a good situation; that is to say, if you are not afraid of the gallows,' she added, as she made room for me. 'for your sake, i would not shun even the gallows,' said i, as i sprang up. the swing went at full speed; it was pleasant to be carried thus over the tops of the trees, and behold the earth as if stretched out beneath one's feet. i felt as if in heaven. i was flying in the air with an angel. 'how delightful this is!' i cried, throwing my arm round hannè's waist. 'what, to be on a gallows? but pray hold on by the rope, cousin, and not by me. now let us get down--we have had enough of this pastime.' 'i have an earnest prayer to make to you, dear hannè,' i said, seizing her hand. 'listen to me before we leave this place. i foresee that the swing, at least in your recollection, will retain the name i accidentally gave it. promise me that you will come here when you hear evil of me, and doubt my honour, and that you will then remember that it was here i entreated you to judge leniently of the absent. fate plays strange tricks with us, dear hannè; it throws us sometimes into temptations which we are too weak to withstand. promise me that you will not condemn me irrevocably, although appearances may be against me.' the lovely girl looked at me for a moment with surprise and earnestness, and then suddenly burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; another moment, and my confession would have been made. 'i promise you,' said she, 'that i shall come here and think of you as well as you deserve--that is to say, if i have nothing else to do, and nothing else to think of. but at present i have no time to spare for gallows'-reflections, the bell is ringing for luncheon, and my father likes us to appear punctually at table.' jettè did not come down to luncheon, her headache confined her to her room, poor girl! i felt very sorry for her, and when i reflected that my principal, whose unworthy messenger i was, would torment her still more, my heart really grieved for her. the family were very cheerful, and it was long since i had been among so pleasant and sociable a little party. alas! half the day was now gone, and when the other half were passed it would be all over with my enjoyments. after luncheon, cousin thomas came to me and begged that i would go out with him for a few hours' shooting, the afternoon being his time for exercise and amusement. i wished to be on good terms with all the family, and therefore accepted his invitation; besides, i thought he might be in a talkative humour, and that i might be able to extract from him some particulars of their domestic history. we took a couple of guns and sallied forth. i had already become so hardened that i did not feel the slightest twinge of conscience at thus abusing the open-hearted confidence of twelve years of age. 'give the devil an inch, and he will take an ell,' says the proverb. but cousin thomas was too keen a sportsman to have ears for anything except sporting anecdotes, and i soon began to grudge the time i had wasted upon him. there was no help for me, however. i was in for it, and i had to follow him from one moor to another, removing myself every moment farther from his father's abode. 'who is that person yonder?' i asked by mere chance, only not to seem quite silent. 'where? oh! that is gustav holm,' said thomas. 'he is coming, i dare say, from green moor--the very best moor in the whole neighbourhood.' 'we must speak to him.--mr. holm! mr. holm! good morning, mr. holm.' the person thus hailed stopped for a moment, and then came up to us. i forthwith introduced myself as a newly-arrived relative of the family at ---court, and he cast on me the pleasant glance with which one generally eyes a rival. 'what sort of sport have they to-day at green moor?' i asked; and i attacked him with questions and stuck to him like a burr, though i saw that he would fain have got rid of me. but that was impossible. mr. holm was exceedingly chary of his words; therefore if either was a blockhead, as i had been described the night before, it was he rather than i. 'i will do poor jettè a service while i can,' thought i; and i invited mr. holm to return with us to ---court. 'you visit at my uncle's, i think,' i added; 'it strikes me that i have heard my cousin speak of you.' he grew as red as fire, poor fellow. 'i don't think little hannè will pick a quarrel with me because i beg you to accompany us home,' said i, slily; and the luckless lover became still more embarrassed. he tried to excuse himself, but i would take no denial; he was obliged to give way, and in triumph i brought my prisoner back with me. 'thomas will bear witness to the ladies how much trouble i had in prevailing on you to come, and they will therefore the more highly appreciate your self-sacrifice,' said i. when we reached the gate, he tried again to negotiate for his freedom, but thomas found his reluctance so amusing, that he would not allow him to make his escape. giving way at length, he exclaimed, 'you are going to afflict your party with a tiresome addition, for i have a dreadful headache to-day.' 'you will feel better when you have dined,' i replied; 'and if you would like to have some sal volatile, you can get some from my _fiancée_; she has a headache also to-day. there must be something in the air to cause it, since you are similarly affected.' mr. holm evidently writhed under my mode of treatment; and at the term _fiancée_ he looked as if i had trodden heavily upon his corns. it was certainly very trying, but i had comfort in the background for him. neither the justitsraad nor his wife seemed to be much pleased at the arrival of their unexpected guest; nevertheless, they received him politely, and assigned to him a place at table between them. he could not have demanded a more honourable seat. thomas was inexhaustible in his descriptions of mr. holm's unwillingness to give himself up as a captive, and how clever he had been in securing him. poor jettè dared hardly look up from her plate. 'mr. holm ought to know that he is always welcome,' said the justitsraad; but it was evident that the remark was the result of good breeding, rather than of any cordial pleasure he had in seeing him. 'very true, uncle; that is just what i said. hannè spoke of him to me so highly this morning, that i really became quite eager to make his acquaintance. the friends of the family must also be my friends. i knew right well that hannè would not be angry at me if i brought him home with me.' 'i! what did i say?' exclaimed hannè, colouring deeply. 'how can you make such an assertion? i believe ...' 'that i am a sad gossip, and never can keep to myself what i hear--i confess the truth of the impeachment.' her parents looked at her with surprise; jettè cast an inquiring glance towards her, and gustav forced a smile. hannè was very angry, but her wrath did not last long; time was precious to me, and i speedily effected a reconciliation with her. 'i do verily believe that you are not quite sober to-day, carl,' said hannè in a whisper to me, when we rose from table. 'truth to tell, hannè, i am not, but that is your fault. why did you try to make me drink myself under the table last night? it is only a judgment from heaven on you; those who dig a pit for other people often fall into it themselves.' 'hark ye, cousin! i am very near wishing that you had been in reality as stupid a nonentity as we were given to understand you were.' 'what if you should be taken at your word? you may get your wish more easily than you imagine; by this day week the transformation may have been brought about; see if you don't wish me back again then.' her father took my arm, and proposed adjourning to the garden with our cigars. i had nearly fled the field at this invitation, so much did i dread a _tête-à-tête_ with him; nothing on earth could have detained me but the expected secret meeting with jettè, whose good genius i was to be. i felt that i could almost rather have faced his satanic majesty himself at that moment, had the choice between the two companions been mine; but what was i to do? there was nothing for it but to accompany my host quietly. 'listen, my son,' said the old gentleman, when we had exhausted our first cigars; 'i cannot say i am much pleased at your having brought that mr. holm back with you. he is a very respectable young man, but ... why should we encumber ourselves with him?... to speak out, you should have been the last person to have brought _him_ to this house.' '_i!_ how so? i really had planned to make him one of my most intimate friends. hannè said so much in his favour.' 'hannè does not care a straw for him--she is only a child.' 'a child! and on the 12th of november she will be seventeen years old! no, no, uncle, girls give up thinking themselves children when they arrive at ten years of age.' 'but i tell you, hannè does not care in the least for him; nor does he for her.' 'very well, uncle, so much the better, for there is no sort of danger then in his coming here.' 'danger! oh! i don't look upon him as at all dangerous; but i can't bear to see him looking so woe-begone.' 'i shall soon enliven him. only leave him to me, and you will see that he shall become quite gay. i will take him in hand if he can come here every day.' 'confound the fellow! i must just tell you plainly out then--he is a great admirer of jettè. do you understand me now?' 'may i ask how you know that, sir?' 'how i know that?... well ... no matter how. suffice it to say, i know it. jettè cannot endure him, that i know also; but his sighs might make some impression on her, so it were better that he kept entirely away. besides, if he gets no encouragement, his fancy will wear out. don't you agree with me that he had better not come here?' 'i can't call it a sin to be in love with jettè, for i am so myself; she is a girl that it would be impossible not to admire. if we were to drive away every one who was guilty of admiring her, we should be compelled at last to live as hermits.' 'what the devil, nephew! do _you_ say all this--you, who are to be her future husband?' 'one must be somewhat liberal, uncle--one must seem not to observe everything. suspicion does a great deal of harm, and jealousy would only encourage the evil. jettè shall find me as gentle as a lamb. besides, you have assured me that she cannot endure him.' 'well!... perhaps she does not exactly hate him ... she has no particular fault to find with him ... but he embarrasses her ... he embarrasses her ... and when a person embarrasses one ...' the good man had got into a dilemma, and he was not able to get out of it; so he stopped short. 'oh! that will pass off when she accustoms herself to see him. it is a great misfortune to let oneself be embarrassed by the presence of others; really, after a time this would lead one to become a misanthrope--a hater of one's species.' the justitsraad looked at me with astonishment, while he replied: 'i wish you had not gone on your travels; i fear your morality has suffered not a little in consequence. i hardly knew you again, you are so much changed. you are not like the same being who, eleven years ago, was such a quiet, bashful boy. and your father, who constantly wrote that you were not the least altered, he must scarcely recognize you himself.' 'that is very probable, uncle, for i hardly know myself again. but travelling abroad is sure always to make some little change in people.' 'it must have been berlin that has done the mischief, and made such a transformation in you; for the letters your father sent me, which you had written from vienna, did not in the slightest degree lead me to imagine that you had become such a hair-brained, thoughtless fellow.' 'true enough it is that i am thoughtless and hair-brained, but, believe me, i have never been guilty of any deliberate wrong. i know i am too often carried away by the impulse of the moment, and too often forget what may be the consequences.' 'one must make some allowance for youth,' replied the old gentleman. 'so it was at berlin you studied folly in all its branches--berlin, which i had always believed to be a most correct and exemplary city, whither one might send a young man without the least risk! well, well! let us consign to oblivion all the pranks you must have played to have been metamorphosed from a milksop to a madcap. we must all sow our wild oats some time or other, and i hope you have sown yours, and are done with them.' 'no, indeed, i fear not; on the contrary, i feel that i am in the midst of that period; but i promise you that it shall soon be over, and that then nothing shall tempt me to such follies. as to youthful imprudence, if it be not carried too far, i shall rely upon your indulgence. will you not wink a little at it, and let your kind, generous heart plead for me when your reason might condemn me?' 'you are a queer fellow, nephew, and a wild one, i fear; but it is not possible to be angry with you.' 'would to heaven that you may always be inclined to entertain such friendly feelings towards me!' i replied, as i pressed his hand. there was good reason for my bespeaking his indulgence; it would be amply required the very next day. i skilfully managed to bring the subject back to gustav holm, and soon perceived that he had really nothing to say against him. holm's position was good in all respects, and the old gentleman would have considered him a very good match for one of his daughters, if he had not had another project in his head. but he had set his heart so entirely on the family alliance, that he could not admit the idea of any other. in eleven years there had been time for it to become deeply rooted in his mind. when we sought the rest of the party, we found them all standing round the swing. hannè was busy attaching a piece of paper to one of the poles. 'what are you doing there, child?' asked her father. 'it is carl's name which i am putting on the gallows, as a well-deserved punishment for all the follies of which he has been guilty in word and deed to-day,' she replied, continuing her employment. 'only think, he disgraced my swing by pretending to mistake it for a gallows. so there stands his name; and there it shall stand, to his eternal shame and reproach, and in ridicule of him when he is gone. we must have something to recall him to our recollection.' 'nemesis,' thought i, 'already!' i was as much moved inwardly, as the worthy emperor, charles v., must have been when he witnessed his own funeral. humph! no one likes jesting about such serious matters. who knows in what it might end? we amused ourselves with swinging--we chattered nonsense, or discoursed gravely--we sauntered about, all together or in groups by turns. hannè was the life of the party, and by degrees everyone seemed to partake of her gaiety. even jettè talked more. i had seized on the unhappy lover, and held him fast by the arm, in the charitable intention of bringing him near his lady-love, without anyone's remarking his proximity to her; but the overcautious girl avoided us, and gustav himself had not courage to begin a conversation on different subjects. i was quite distressed about them, poor things! 'we must try what can be done in the wood,' thought i; 'there are paths enough in it, the party will become more scattered, and i shall then be able to manage, perhaps, to get them into some secluded spot.' but our progress was arrested by a servant, who came to announce that some visitors had arrived. _visitors!_ at that word my ears tingled as if all the blood in my body had rushed up into them. visitors! i felt sure they would be betrayers--they would be persons who either knew me, or the real cousin, and then good-by to my _incognito_--good-by to the secret interview! what would become of it when i had to take to flight? 'visitors! how very tiresome,' exclaimed hannè. the servant mentioned a name unknown to me; that, as it appeared, of a family in the neighbourhood. i was not acquainted with them--but the cousin, my other self ... 'visitors!' i exclaimed, in dismay. 'do i know them? will anybody have the great kindness to tell me if they are acquainted with me?' they all laughed, and assured me that i was not acquainted with them. it was a family who had only lately settled in the neighbourhood, having exchanged a property in jutland for one in zealand, and with whom they were themselves but slightly acquainted. i recovered my spirits, and we turned our steps back towards the house. gustav seized the opportunity to make his escape, the justitsraad made no effort to detain him, and i was too much occupied with my own affairs to trouble myself at that moment about those of other people. the poor dear jutland family had made a most unseasonable visit. i thanked heaven that i had never seen them before; and i cannot say that i should feel any regret at never beholding them more. they were a set of tiresome bores, who deprived me of the brightest afternoon of my life, and took the evening also; so that i had reason not to forget them in a hurry. my cousins had to amuse the silly daughters, the elder individuals on both sides discoursed together, and it fell to my share to entertain the son and his tutor. i looked a hundred times at my watch; i foretold that we were going to have thunder and lightning and rain in torrents--in short, i left no stone unturned to get rid of them early--but to no avail; i only reaped jeers and bantering from hannè for my pains; and when at length they seemed themselves to think it expedient to go, she pressed them to stay longer, only to annoy me, and was mischievous enough to say, 'you surely will not refuse my cousin his first request to you,' thereby, as it were, making me pronounce my own doom. it was enough to put one into a rage. we went to supper with all due formality, and for the first time i remembered that it was my duty to offer my arm to jettè. she accompanied me like a lamb led to the sacrificial altar, and took the earliest opportunity of informing me that her headache had not yet left her. headache is an absolute necessity for ladies; i do not know what they would do if no such thing as headache existed. it was not possible to utter a word which could not be overheard by the tutor, who sat on the other side of her; at length it occurred to me to engage him in a conversation with hannè, and with some difficulty i managed to do this. but fate had no compassion on me that evening. presently i heard my real name pronounced by the father of the family who were visiting us; i felt as much shocked and alarmed as if he had shouted '_seize that thief!_' i had nearly dropped my fork. 'he is a most respectable man, i can assure you; i recommend you to send all your corn to him; he is very fair in his dealings. i have known him for a long time.' it was of my father he was speaking. 'i shall consider about it,' said the justitsraad; 'i do not know the house myself. and he has a son, you say. is the son a partner?' 'it was intended that he should be,' said my personal enemy; 'but he is such a sad scamp that i think the father will hardly venture to take him into partnership. he played such foolish, wild pranks at home, that he was sent to hamburg; but he did not go on a bit better there, as i have heard.' 'i am sorry for the poor father,' said the justitsraad. 'a good character is valuable,' thought i. 'here is the second time to-day that my name has been stigmatized. now, both my person and my name are contraband at ---court. cruel fate!' i became quite silent--willingly would i also have taken refuge in a headache; there was enough to give me one, at any rate; and i took leave in the coldest and most distant manner of the party who had prolonged their visit on my account. 'pray come and see us soon with your betrothed,' said the old wretch who had made so free with my town character. it was with difficulty that i kept my temper, and poor jettè seemed also to be on thorns. 'what nice people they are!' exclaimed hannè; 'the daughters have promised me to come here at least twice a week. but you were quite silent and stupid this evening, cousin.' 'it was what you wished me to be in the morning,' i replied; 'i only conducted myself according to your desire.' 'let me always find you so obedient. goodnight! to-morrow i shall command you to be gay again. that becomes you best, after all.' she held out her pretty little hand as a token of reconciliation. 'and i beg of you to come into the grove to-morrow morning, after breakfast; i wish very much to have a little private conversation with you,' whispered jettè, almost in tears, as i kissed her hand. she could hardly bring herself to pronounce the words; i saw what a pang it cost her. a warm pressure of her hand was my only reply; she little knew how friendly my feelings were towards her. 'so my adventures are not finished even with this day,' said i to myself as i opened a little of the window in my room; 'shall i make up my mind to this delay, or shall i take myself off at once! what! leave poor jettè in the lurch? yet how can i help her? what is the use of my remaining longer here?--i shall but entangle myself still more deeply in a net of untruth, which will bring me into disgrace. have i not had warnings enough--the gallows scene, my hamburg reputation, and the many uneasy moments i have passed to-day? i am vexed and annoyed this evening; it will cost me less, therefore, perhaps, to recover my freedom tonight than to-morrow night; another day with hannè will only make me feel the separation still more acutely. then, in case of a discovery, how shall i excuse this prolonged mystification? by confessing my love for hannè?--a pretty apology, to be sure! but am i _really_ in love with her? _i_ in love! and if i were, what would be the result? is it at all likely that the justitsraad would give his daughter to an impertinent puppy, who had made her acquaintance first by such an unwarrantable trick--to a "sad scamp" who had only made himself remarkable by his wild pranks? or--shall i climb up yon tree, perch myself like a singing-bird before jettè's window, make my confession to her, and then start on my pedestrian journey? or--shall i go to bed, and let to-morrow take care of itself? i will consult my buttons--i will try my fate by them. let me see: i will ... i will not ... i will ... i will go to bed. ... aha! i am to go to bed--chance has so decided it for me. but to go to bed in love! that such a catastrophe should happen to me! i had thought it was quite foreign to my nature; however, here i am, up to my ears in love. ah! why was that little fairy, hannè, so bewitching? why were the whole family so frank and pleasant? it was all their own fault; they forced the cousinship upon me. heaven knows i came to them quite innocent of nefarious designs--fast asleep and snoring--perfectly honourable.... _apropos_ of honour, let me close the window; what gustav and jettè have to talk about is nothing to me--it would be very indelicate to play the listener--wounding to my better feelings. my better feelings! i can't help laughing at the idea of _my_ being inconvenienced by any symptoms of honourable, or delicate, or _better_ feelings. it is my cursed levity and folly that lead me astray; after all, there _are_ honesty and uprightness in me, _au fond_, and my heart is in its right place. i will no longer be the slave of caprice and impulse. i will be something better than a mere madcap; and here, even here, they shall learn to speak of me with respect.... ah! it will be a confounded long time, however, before i can teach them that ... and ... in the meantime, i positively am in love.' having arrived at this conclusion, i betook myself to my couch, and closed my eyes, at the same time burying my ears in my pillows, not to overhear any portion of the discourse which was to be carried on about one o'clock in the morning, on the outside of my window, and also the sooner to dream of hannè. i succeeded in both, for i heard or saw nothing whatsoever of the two unfortunate lovers, and i dreamed of hannè the livelong night. the morning was far advanced, when thomas thrust his head into my room, and rated me for being as heavy a slumberer as one of the seven sleepers;--the little wretch! i was at that moment swinging with hannè, and would have given the wealth of the east india company to have been permitted to end my dream undisturbed. when i entered the breakfast-room they were all at table. jettè looked very pale, but she allowed that her headache was better, though she said she still felt far from well. hannè and her father teased me unmercifully about the visitors of the day before, who had put me so much out of humour, and about my predictions of a thunderstorm wherewith i endeavoured to drive them away. 'but you are quite an ignoramus in regard to the weather, cousin; that i perceived,' said hannè, 'i shall present you with a barometer on your birthday, so that you may not make such mistakes again as that of yesterday evening. which is the important day?' 'it is quite old-fashioned to keep birthdays, hannè; that custom has been long since exploded,' said i, 'and therefore i am not going to tell you.' 'but we are very old-fashioned here, and you will be expected to do as we do in respect to keeping birthdays. first, let me refresh your memory. when is my birthday?' 'on the 12th of november you will be seventeen years of age.' 'right. and jettè's? how old will she be her next birthday?' it was a trying examination, but it was well deserved; why had i not taken myself off the night before, when i could so well have made my escape? 'come, begin; tell us jettè's birthday, and my father's, and my mother's? let us have them all at once. now we shall see whether you are skilled in your almanac.' 'are you seriously bent on this examination? do you fancy i have forgotten one of them?' i asked, in an offended tone. 'i will not answer such questions.' this was one way of escaping. when do people most easily take offence? answer: when they are in the wrong. 'i see how it is,' said hannè; 'as it annoys you to be asked if you are betrothed, it probably annoys you to be expected to remember the birthday of her to whom you are engaged. only think,' she added, addressing the rest of the party, 'he does not wear his betrothal-ring, because he does not like answering any question to which his having it on his finger might give rise. as if it were a question of conscience.' 'so it may be, sometimes,' i replied. 'but since questioning is the order of the day, i beg to ask why _you_ wear that little ring on your finger?' 'i never gratify impertinent curiosity,' said the little devil, colouring up to the very roots of her hair. she seemed very much vexed, and turned angrily away. 'now--now--children! can you never agree?' said the justitsraad. 'you two will be getting into quarrels every moment, that i foresee; you resemble each other too much; it is from the absolute similarity between you that you cannot be in peace.' 'you flatter me very much, uncle,' said i; 'would that it were really so.' 'i say nothing of the kind,' cried hannè; 'i beg to decline the compliment. gentlemen full of whims are my aversion. but, happily for both of us, you are not engaged to me. jettè is much too good--she will put up with your bad habits.' jettè smiled kindly to her, and that seemed immediately to appease her wrath. she ran to her sister, kissed her, and said, 'for your sake i will bear with him; but believe me, you will not make an endurable husband of him if you do not begin in time to drive his caprices out of him. he should be accustomed to do as he is bid, and answer the questions that are put to him.' both jettè and myself turned our faces away to conceal our confusion. hannè held out her hand to me. 'do you repent of your sins?' 'with my whole heart.' 'will you beg pardon, and promise henceforth to be better?' 'yes. i confess that i am a great sinner, but i humbly beg pardon, and will try to do better for the future.' so saying, i pressed a long, long kiss on her hand; i could hardly get my lips away from it. 'so--that is enough. now go and beg jettè's pardon, because you have been naughty in her presence; and,' she added, 'kiss her hand prettily.' i did so. 'very well. but i don't think you have ever kissed her as your betrothed yet. let me see you go through that ceremony, properly too.' poor jettè became crimson at this challenge, which did not in the least embarrass me. i felt that it was going a little too far, but what could i do? dear reader! i was compelled to kiss the young lady--do not judge of me too severely because i did it. but i obeyed the command in as formal a manner as possible; it was scarcely a kiss, yet it burned on my lips like fire; as to how it burned my conscience--well, i will say nothing of that. 'he is really quite timid,' exclaimed hannè, who stood by with her hands folded, watching the performance of her command; 'i did not expect such an assured young gentleman to be so ceremonious; one would think it were his first essay!' 'and peace being now restored and sealed,' said the justitsraad, 'i hope it will be a christian, a universal, and an eternal peace, both for the present and the future; that is to say, at least till you fall out again. and in order that such may not be the case for a few hours, we will leave the ladies, nephew, and pay a visit to the new horse i bought the other day. we shall see if you are as good a judge of horses as you are of the hamburg theatricals.' 'you really should give poor carl some peace,' said my considerate aunt; 'you will make him quite tired of us all. one insists upon catechizing him as to dates, another as to his veterinary knowledge--there is only wanting that i should attack him about culinary lore. you shall not be so plagued by them, carl: as to the horse it was my husband's own choosing; and if you should not instantly discover, by looking at its teeth, that it is young and handsome, and has every possible good quality, you will be called an ignoramus.' 'any how he may be called that,' said hannè; 'but i forgot, peace has been proclaimed, so let my words be considered as unspoken.' part iii. about an hour before luncheon i stole away into the wood to wait for jettè, and it was with a beating heart i listened for any approaching footsteps; had i not kissed her, i should have felt easier in my own mind. ought i now to confess to her the impositions of which i had been guilty? perhaps it would be better to do so ... but the kiss ... would she forgive that? i discerned her white dress a good way off, and i almost felt inclined to hide myself, and let her take the trouble of finding me; but again i bethought me that it was not the part of the cavalier to be shamefaced in a secret assignation. i therefore went forward to meet her. as soon as she caught a glimpse of me, she stopped, and suddenly changed colour. the poor girl--how sorry i was for her! she could not utter one word. i led her to a rural seat near. 'cousin,' at length she said, 'it must doubtless surprise you, and naturally so too, that i should in such a secret manner have requested an interview with you. if you could conceive how painful this moment is to me, i am sure you would compassionate me.' 'my dear young lady, i owe you an explanation, and i thank you for having given me an opportunity ...' 'dear cousin, be not offended with me--do not speak to me in that distant and ceremonious manner--it makes the step more painful which i am about to take, and which cannot be longer delayed. it is i who owe you an explanation--alas! an explanation that will deprive me of your esteem and your friendship. i am very unhappy.' 'do not weep so, dear cousin; you cannot imagine how it grieves me to see you so miserable. believe me, i have your happiness sincerely at heart. you little know what delight it would give me if i were able to say to myself that i had contributed to it.' the double signification which my words might bear drew forth more tears. jettè cried, without making any reply. 'there is comfort for every affliction,' i continued. 'god has mercifully placed the antidote alongside of the poisonous plant. tell me, at least, what distresses you--let me at least endeavour to console you, even if i cannot assist you, and do not doubt my good will, though my power may be but limited.' 'for heaven's sake, carl, do not speak so kindly to me,' cried jettè, with some impetuosity. 'do not speak thus--i have not deserved it. if you would be compassionate, say that you hate me--that you abhor me.' 'and if i said so, i should only deceive you. no, jettè, my complaisance cannot go so far.' 'you would hate me--you would despise me!' she exclaimed, sobbing, 'if you only knew ... oh! i shall never be able to tell ... if you only knew ... how unfortunate i am ... how i ...' 'dear jettè,' said i, in some agitation, 'you have come to enter into an explanation with me; allow me to assist your confession, and help to lighten the burden which weighs so heavily on your heart. you have come, i know, to break off with me.' '_you know!_' she exclaimed, in consternation. and she seemed as if she were going to faint. 'take pity on me, carl; leave me for a few minutes; i dare not look you in the face.' she buried her own face in her pocket-handkerchief, and wept bitterly. i kissed her hand, and left her. very much out of spirits myself, i wandered to and fro under the trees. 'how is all this to end?' said i to myself; 'the poor girl will fret herself to death if she cannot have her gustav, and get rid of her cousin. gustav is a fine fellow, and a very good match; even the father allows that. the cousin must be an idiot to let himself be betrothed by his father's orders to a girl he knows nothing about--and a tiresome one too, according to what is reported of him. jettè is a girl with a great deal of feeling--but he must be a clod with none; he can't care in the least for her, or he would have been here long ere this. he shall not have her. what, if i were to advise them to run away an hour or two before i take myself off? or, suppose we were all three to elope together? nonsense! how can i think of such folly? poor girl! it would melt a heart of stone to see her crying there. what if i were to stay and play the cousin a little longer--formally renounce her hand--give her up to gustav? i should like to act such a magnanimous part ... and when it was all well over, and the real cousin arrived, to let him find that he had come on a fool's errand, and go back to nurse his cold ... or, it might be better to drop him a line by the post to save a scene? i'll do it. by jove! i'll do it! the god of love himself must have sent me here; no man in the wide world could do the thing better than myself. but what right have i to decide thus the fate of another man--a man whom i have never even beheld? right! it is time to talk about _right_, forsooth, after i have been doing nothing but wrong for thirty-six hours. no, no, let conscience stand to one side, for the present at least; it has no business in this affair. i have acted most unwarrantably, i know, but i will make up for my misdeeds by one good deed--one blessing will i take with me; and when i am gone, two happy persons at least will remember me kindly, and hannè will be less harsh in her judgment of my conduct, since it will have brought about her sister's happiness. let me set my shoulders to the wheel--there is no time to lose. no, they shall not all execrate me.' jettè was still sitting on the bench where i had left her. i placed myself beside her, and tried to reassure her. 'i said i owed you some explanation; allow me in a few words to tell you all you wish to communicate. you do not care for me--you love gustav holm--you will be wretched if you cannot find some good pretext for breaking off the match with me--you have many reasons to love him, none to love me--you want to let me know how the matter stands, and to give me a basket,[4] but to do it in so amicable a manner, that you hope i will accept it quietly like a good christian, and not make too much fuss about it. all this is what you would have told me sooner or later. am i not right, jettè? or is there more you would have entrusted to me?' she hid her face with her hands. 'my window was partly open the other night,' i added. 'i overheard your conversation with gustav holm, and i knew immediately, of course, what i had to expect. you will believe, i hope, that i have sufficient feeling not to wish to force myself upon one who cannot care for me. forgive me that i have caused you any uneasiness; it was against my own will. i would much rather have convinced you sooner that you have no enemy in me, but, on the contrary, a sincere friend.' 'dearest, best carl! noblest of men! you restore me to freedom--you restore me to life! the almighty has heard my prayers! you do not know how earnestly i have prayed that you might find me detestable.' 'therein your prayers have not been heard, jettè,' said i. 'if you could have loved me, i could not have wished a better fate. i love you and hannè much more than you think.' i felt that every word i had just spoken was positive truth. jettè wrung my hand. 'you have removed a mountain from my heart,' she replied. 'would that i could thank you as you deserve!' i was quite ashamed of all the thanks she poured out, and all the gratitude she expressed. it is an unspeakable pleasure to promote the happiness of one's fellow-creatures; it is an agreeable feeling which i would not exchange for any other. when the first burst of joy was over, jettè consulted with me how it would be best to break the matter to her father. i told her of his good opinion of gustav, and built upon it the brightest hopes. jettè shook her head. 'he will insist that i shall keep my promise,' said she, mournfully. 'he will not relinquish a plan which he has cherished for so many years. how dreadful it is for me to disappoint him!' 'very well, take me.' 'oh! do not jest with me, dear carl. my only dependence is on you.' 'i shall take my departure immediately, and leave a letter renouncing my engagement to you. that will go far to help you.' 'for heaven's sake, stay! you are the only one who can speak to him,' said she. 'you have already acquired much influence over him.' 'then let us proceed at once to the _éclaircissement_. i shall tell him that i have discovered that your heart belongs to gustav holm, not to me; and that i cannot accept any woman's hand unless her heart accompanies it.' 'oh! what a terrible moment it will be when that is said! i tremble at the very idea of it. you do not know what he can be when his anger is thoroughly roused.' 'then would you prefer to elope with gustav? like a loyal cousin, i will assist you in your escape.' 'that would enrage him still more; he has always been so kind and gentle to me.' 'i wish we had gustav here, that something might be determined on. these anticipated terrible moments are never so dreadful in reality as in expectation; you have had a proof of this in the one you have just gone through.' 'gustav will be here soon; he knows that i had requested this private conversation with you ... he will meet me here in the wood ... he will come when--when....' she stopped, and blushed deeply. 'he will come when i am gone,' i said, laughing. 'that was very sensibly arranged, but the arrangement must be annulled nevertheless, and he must make the effort of showing himself while i am here. i dare say he is not many miles off--perhaps within hail. mr. holm! mr. holm!' i roared at the top of my voice. 'he knows my manner of inviting him, and you will see that he will speedily present himself. good morning, mr. holm!' i added. 'for god's sake do not shout so loudly, you will be overheard,' said jettè. 'oh! how will all this end?' 'uncommonly well,' thought i. 'here comes the lover.' gustav came, almost rushing up; his countenance and manner expressed what was passing in his mind, namely, uncertainty whether he was to look on me as a friend or a foe. 'gustav--carl!...' exclaimed jettè, sinking back on the bench. she found it impossible to command her voice; but her eyes, which dwelt with affection on us both, filled up the pause, and expressed what words would not. i took his hand and led him up to jettè. he knelt at her feet, she threw her arms round his neck, while i bent over them, and beheld my work with sincere satisfaction. there was a rustling in the bushes, and hannè and her father stood suddenly before us! the lovers did not observe them, although i did my utmost by signs to rouse their attention. 'what the devil is all this?' exclaimed the justitsraad, in a voice of thunder. 'what does this mean? carl, what are you doing?' 'i am bestowing my cousinly benediction and full absolution and remission of sins, as you ought to do, my worthy uncle,' i replied, as cheerfully as i possibly could. it was necessary to appear to keep up one's courage. gustav rose hastily, and jettè threw herself into her sister's arms. 'my dear sir!' said gustav, imploringly. 'mr. holm!' cried the justitsraad, drawing himself up. 'dear uncle!' i exclaimed, interrupting them both, 'allow me to speak. gustav adores jettè, and she returns his love. there can be no more question about me; i am her cousin, and nothing either more or less. i am not such an idiot as to wish to force a woman to be my wife whose heart is given to another. i have dissolved the engagement between jettè and myself, deliberately, and after due reflection. i _could_ not make her happy, and i _will not_ make her unhappy. there stands the bridegroom, who only awaits your blessing. give it, dear uncle, and let this day become the happiest of my life, for it is the first time i ever had an opportunity of doing good.' 'heavens and earth! a pretty piece of work, indeed!' the justitsraad was as blustering as a german, and would on no account allow himself to hear reason. a great deal of his anger was naturally directed against me. i tried to smooth matters down. jettè wept and sobbed. it was a hundred to one against us. 'i shall write to your father this very day,' he said, at length; 'he only can absolve me from my vow; but that he will not do--that he certainly will not do on any account. this marriage has been his greatest wish, for i do not know how many years, as well as mine.' 'but he will be obliged to do it,' said i; 'this very afternoon i shall take my departure, and you shall never hear of me more. my father's power over me by no means extends so far as you seem to fancy. i will not make jettè miserable, merely to indulge his whims. dear uncle, let me persuade you to believe that your contract is null and void: give your blessing to gustav and jettè, and leave me to settle the matter with my father. feelings cannot be forced. jettè does not care for me, and you ought not, in this affair, to be less liberal than i am.' 'liberal--liberal indeed! he is always prating about such folly,' exclaimed the justitsraad, in a rage. 'it is that abominable berlin liberality that has entirely ruined him.' berlin liberality! it was the first time i had ever heard _that_ bewailed. but what absurd things do people not stumble upon when they are angry, and speak without reflection. 'well, it was berlin that ruined me, according to my uncle, and so utterly ruined me ... that i am betrothed in berlin, and cannot be betrothed again. it is against the law both here and in prussia to have two wives.' this was an inspiration prompted by the exigency of the occasion; what did one untruth more or less signify? i was a jesuit at that moment, and excused myself with loyola's doctrine--that the motive sanctifies the means. 'betrothed!' exclaimed the justitsraad--'betrothed in berlin! make a fool of me! hark ye, carl ...' 'betrothed!' interrupted hannè. 'upon my word, you are a fine fellow, cousin. that is the reason he does not wear jettè's betrothal-ring. and i to be standing here admiring his magnanimity!' jettè silently held out her hand to me from one side, gustav from the other; these were well-meant congratulations. 'yes, betrothed,' i continued. 'abuse me at your will, hate me, curse me, say and do what you please, but betrothed i am, and betrothed i must remain.' this was a settler. the wrath of the justitsraad cooled by degrees; that really kind-hearted man could not withstand so many anxious looks and earnest prayers; and fear of all the gossip and ridicule to which his holding out longer under the circumstances might give rise, also had effect upon him. 'you are a sad scapegrace, carl,' he said, 'and jettè may be thankful she is not to have you for her husband; but she shall not be left in the lurch on account of your foolish freaks.' he took her hand and placed it in gustav's, saying, 'you must make up to me for the failure of those hopes which i have cherished through so many years. but,' he added, with a sigh, 'what will my brother say when he hears this history?' jettè cast herself upon his neck; she almost fainted in his arms; the rest of us surrounded him. there was no end to embraces and thanks. 'and now let us hasten to my mother,' said hannè; 'the revolution shall end there. i would not be in your place, cousin, for any money; you will be soundly rated.' 'you shall be my advocate, hannè, and shall defend my case; it is only under your protection that i dare appear before my aunt. take me under your wing--i positively will not leave you.' i slipped my arm round her waist, and i think, if i remember aright, i was going to kiss her. 'hands off, mr. cousin! now that you are not to be my brother-in-law you must not make so free. remember your intended in berlin.' alas! to help others i had injured myself. hannè, her father, and i walked on first, the lovers followed us a little way behind. as we came along we met some of the peasantry on the estate going to their work. 'hollo! good people!' cried i to them, 'this evening we must be all merry, and drink your master's good health, and dance on miss jettè's betrothal-day. hurrah for miss jettè and mr. holm!' 'hurrah!' cried the people. and the declaration was made. 'be quiet, you good-for-nothing!' cried the justitsraad, 'and don't turn everything topsy-turvy in a place that does not belong to you. a feast, forsooth--drink my health, indeed! it is easy for you to be generous at another's man's expense. i declare the fellow is determined to take the whip-hand of us all.' my aunt heard the noise, and came out on the steps to ask what was the matter. i crept behind hannè and hid myself. 'a complete revolution, my dear, which that precious fellow carl has brought about. when the luncheon-bell had rung for some time in vain, without their making their appearance, hannè and i went to look for jettè and carl in the wood; i expected to have found him at jettè's feet; but instead of him there lay another, and he was actually busying himself in making up a match between them. truly, it is an edifying story. come in, and i will tell you all about it, and you will see to what purpose he has travelled. he has betrothed himself in berlin, fancy--and very probably in hamburg, in paris, in vienna, wherever he may have been. he is a fine fellow! a pretty viper we were nourishing in our hearts!' my aunt was easily reconciled to the course of events, and she gave the young couple her maternal blessing. but it was me whom they all wanted for a son-in-law and a brother-in-law. it was very flattering to be such a favourite; however, as i was not to be had, they received gustav (for whom they had a great regard) with open arms. we all became as sprightly as a parcel of children, and i would have been very happy had not the many affectionate good wishes for the future welfare of myself and my unknown _fiancée_ in berlin fallen like burning drops of molten lead on my soul, and had i not had constantly before me the remembrance that i must soon leave this pleasant circle, and for ever! my proposition to spend that day entirely by ourselves was agreed to, and orders were given to admit no visitors. 'let me but live this day undisturbed to the end,' thought i, 'and i shall demand nothing more from fortune, which has hitherto been so kind to me.' it was a day, the like of which i have never spent. you will, perhaps, think it strange, dear reader, that my conscience should be so much at ease; but i must frankly confess that the good action i had accomplished, and the happiness i had bestowed, had entirely had the effect of quieting that internal monitor. jettè was right when she said that i had already obtained some influence over her father; for i can positively assert that my sudden and public announcement of the state of affairs had been taken in good part. i was all activity and excitement; and my exuberant mirth, which was almost without bounds, did not permit a serious word, scarcely a serious thought. i obliged them all to exert themselves, and fly about in order to make preparations for a little dance in a round summer-house at one end of the garden: the justitsraad had to send to the village for two fiddlers; his wife had to give out sheets and curtains to make hangings for the walls; the young ladies wove garlands; gustav and i manufactured chandeliers out of barrel-hoops and vegetables. everybody was set to work, and before the evening the prettiest little ball-room that could be was arranged; and the people on the estate declared they had never seen anything so splendid before; 'but, to be sure, there had never been a betrothal feast in the family before.' 'you are a clever fellow, carl,' said the justitsraad; 'you have got this up so prettily and so well, that one might almost give a real ball. were it not that i should have my wife and children up in arms against me, i really fancy i should like a dance. but there would be too many difficulties in the way.' hannè flew up to her father, and hugged him in her joy; he was taken at his word, and nothing else was talked of but the ball, which in the course of eight days was to be given to celebrate jettè's betrothal. 'we will set about writing the invitations at once,' said hannè; 'there is an hour or more yet before the people are to begin to dance, and we have nothing to do. let us fetch pen, ink, and paper; i will dictate, and carl shall write; it will be done directly, almost, and early to-morrow morning we shall send off the invitations. so, all the difficulties are overcome. now, cousin, mend your pen; you write a good hand,' said hannè. 'write! no, that i won't,' thought i. 'i shall take good care not to betray myself by that.' 'gustav can write what you want; i have hurt my hand,' said i, looking round; but gustav and jettè had both disappeared. 'how? let me see,' said hannè. 'it is not true. gustav and jettè have gone into the garden; we must let them alone; so you shall come, and you may as well do it at once.' 'but i have really hurt my finger, hannè; it is extremely painful. i shall not be able to make the most wretched pothooks--my finger is quite swollen.' 'or rather you are extremely lazy, and won't take the trouble,' said hannè. 'but at least you shall help me to write a list of the people to be invited, before i forget half of them; i have got them all in my head just now, and your pothooks are good enough for that. begin now! put down first our neighbours who were here yesterday. kammerraad[5] tvede, with his wife, his two daughters, his son, and the tutor. have you got them down?' hannè looked over my shoulder at the paper. 'but what in the world stands there?' she asked. 'kammerraad tvede, with his wife, his two daughters, his son, and the tutor,' i replied. 'these are greek characters, hannè; i can write nothing but greek with this finger.' 'but i can't read greek, you refractory monster!' cried hannè, dolefully. 'you must learn it, then, hannè. task for task; if you force me to write the list, i will force you to read greek.' 'that's right, my boy!' exclaimed the justitsraad, laughing heartily. 'if one gives the girls an inch, they are sure to take an ell; they would take the command of us altogether, if they could.' after a great deal of joking and foolery, we accomplished making out the list, and the last name given was that of my good uncle, the worthy pastor, whom it was my purpose to visit, and whose guest i would be before the sun rose on the following day. 'do you know him, too?' i asked, with a feeling of mingled surprise and annoyance. 'he confirmed both jettè and me,' said hannè; 'he is an excellent man, therefore i kept him to the last. you can hardly imagine how much we are all attached to him. if ever i marry, he shall perform the ceremony, i think you must remember him; at least, you saw him in this house more than once when you were here as a child.' 'very true. i think i recollect him; he is a tall, old man, with a hooked nose. yes, i remember him distinctly.' this time, at least, i had no need to help myself out with lies! in a situation such as mine, one seizes with avidity every opportunity to speak truth; it is so very refreshing when one is up to the ears in untruth. our chandeliers answered their purpose exceedingly well: the fiddlers scraped loudly and merrily, and the floor shook under the powerful springs and somewhat weighty footing of the country swains and damsels who were dancing in honour of miss jettè's betrothal. i had taken a turn in the waltz with each of the village belles, and danced that furious _fangedands_ with hannè--a dance that one must have seen the peasantry execute, in order to form an idea how violent it is. glee and good-humour reigned around, and even the justitsraad entered heartily into the joyous spirit which seemed to prevail. and, although from time to time, he whispered to me, 'i ought to be very angry at you--you have played me a pretty trick,' yet he was not in the slightest degree angry; on the contrary, he submitted with an extremely good grace to what he could not help. but i--i who had been the originator and cause of all this gaiety and gladness--i felt only profound melancholy, and stole away to indulge in it amidst the most lonely walks of the garden, or in the wood beyond. the hour of my departure was drawing rapidly near. perhaps you may imagine, dear reader, that it would be impossible for me to be sad or serious. could you have beheld me wandering about the grounds alone, that september evening, when every one else was dancing, you would have found that you were mistaken in your opinion of me. i ascended the sloping hill, on which stands hannè's favourite swing. by day the view from thence is beautiful; and even at night it is a place not to be despised. the garden, stretching out darkly immediately beneath, looked like an impenetrable wood. the moon was in its first quarter, and therefore shed but a faint uncertain light over objects at a little distance, while its trembling rays fell more brightly on the far-off waves of the baltic sea, making them appear nearer than they really were. on the right, the walls and chimneys of the dwelling-house gleamed through the openings of the trees; on the left, light blazed from the illuminated summer-house, whence came the sound of a hundred feet, tramping in time to the overpowered music. all else was as still around me as it generally is in the evening in the country, where the occasional bark of some distant dog, with its echo resounding from the wood, is the only sign of life. behind me lay the pretty grove; and above my head stood the swing, on one of whose tall supporters my name was fastened in derision. had you seen how carefully i detached the piece of paper from the wood, and placing myself in the swing where i had sat with hannè, allowed myself to rock gently backwards and forwards, while i gazed on the strange name that had become dearer to me than my own, because _she_ had pronounced it and written it, you would have perceived that i also could have my sad and serious moments. but people of my temperament seek to avoid observation when a fit of blue-devils seizes them, and only go forth among their fellow-beings when the fit has subsided. jettè and gustav took me by surprise. they had passed in silence through the garden, and arm-in-arm they had as silently ascended the little eminence. 'what, you here! in solitude, and so serious, dear cousin?' said jettè; 'you look quite out of spirits. everyone connected with me should be happy on this my betrothal day, and i must reckon you among the nearest of those--you, whom i have to thank for my happiness. come and take a share in the joy you have created; if i did not know better, i might be inclined to fancy that you are grieving over the irreparable loss you have had in me: you really do assume such a miserable countenance.' 'do not ridicule me, jettè; i have perhaps just lost more than i can ever be compensated for.' 'it is well that a certain person in berlin cannot overhear what politeness induces you to say in zealand,' replied jettè. 'but a truce to compliments at present, they only cast a shade of doubt over your truthfulness: keep them for those who know less of your affairs than i do, and let us speak honestly to each other. in reality, you are glad not to become more nearly connected with us than you are already: you cannot deny that.' 'do you think so? and if that were far from the fact?--if, on the contrary, that were the cause of my melancholy--the knowledge of the impossibility of my being so--what would you say?' 'i should be under the necessity of pitying you very much, poor fellow!' said jettè, laughing. 'but who would have thought that this morning?' 'you may indeed pity me, jettè, for when i leave this place my heart and my thoughts will remain behind, with you--with all your dear family; and i must leave you soon.' 'soon! are you going abroad again?' asked gustav. 'two days after your arrival among us!' exclaimed jettè; 'no, no, we cannot agree to that.' 'and yet it must be,' i said. 'i shall be gone, perhaps, sooner than you think. i have my own peculiar manner of coming and going, and ...' 'but what whim is this, carl?' asked jettè, interrupting me. 'did you not come to spend some time with us? you may depend on it my father will not hear of your going, though our wishes and requests may have no influence over you.' 'i am compelled to go, dear jettè; i must leave you for some time. perhaps we shall meet again ... but should that be impossible, i shall write you, if you will permit me. and when i am gone, will you take my part, if i should be made the subject of animadversion? let me hope, dear jettè, that you and gustav will think kindly of me, and that on the anniversary of this day you will not forget me when you stroll together through that wood which was this morning the scene of my dismissal.' they both shook hands with me. 'but carl, i hardly understand you,' said jettè; 'you are so grave, so strange; you speak as if we were about to part for ever. have you any idea of settling in berlin?' 'i beseech you, jettè, speak not of berlin--that was a subterfuge, a story, which came suddenly into my mind; i could not pitch upon any better excuse wherewith to upset your father's plan in a hurry, or i would not have lied against myself. i assure you i have never put my foot in berlin, nor am i betrothed to anyone.' jettè stepped back a few paces, and fixed on me a look of surprise and earnest inquiry. 'what!' she exclaimed, 'you have never been at berlin? you have told what is not true about yourself to help me? you are not engaged?' 'no; as certainly as that i stand at this moment in your presence, i am not engaged, and have never attempted to become so. i have only put myself in the way of receiving one refusal in my life,' i added, smiling, as jettè began to look suspiciously at me, 'and that was this morning in yonder wood. were it not superfluous, i could with ease give you the most minute particulars.' there was a short silence; then jettè exclaimed, 'you are a noble creature, carl; may god reward you, for i cannot. but day and night i will pray for your welfare.' she was much affected, her voice faltered. gustav shook my hand cordially. 'my dear friends,' said i, 'do not accord to me more praise than i deserve, for the higher one is praised the greater is the fall when opinions change. hear me before you promise to pray for me, and let me tell you how ... but no, no, let me keep silence--let me say nothing. pardon my seeming caprice. promise me that you will be my sincere and unshaken friends, and let us go and dance again. may i have the honour of engaging the bride for the next waltz?' i had been on the point of confessing all my foolish pranks, and how i was imposing on them; but false shame prevented me. was it better or not? i scarcely knew myself. i begged them to accompany me back to the summer-house. in the alley of pine-trees which led to it we met hannè, who, according to her own account, was looking about for us; she almost ran against us before she perceived us. 'but, good heavens i have you all become deaf? i have been calling you over and over, without receiving the slightest answer, and now i find you gliding about in deep silence, like ghosts, scaring people's lives out of them. i suppose carl has been amusing himself, as usual, with mischief, and has been haunting you two poor lovers, and disturbing you. do you not know, carl, that you have no sort of business to be--in short, are quite an incumbrance where jettè and holm are? now answer me--do you know this, or do you not, carl?' 'no,' i replied, shortly. '"_no!_" is that a fitting answer to a lady? be so good as to reply politely. i must take upon myself to teach you good manners before you go abroad again, else we shall have reason to be ashamed of you.' and then she began to hum the song of 'die wiener in berlin:' 'in berlin, sagt er, musz du fein, sagt er, und gescheut, sagt er, immer sein, sagt er....' 'i wish berlin were at the devil, hannè!' i exclaimed, interrupting her; 'that is my most earnest desire, believe me.' 'a very christian wish, and expressed in choicely elegant phraseology, everyone must admit.' 'only think, hannè, he has _never_ been at berlin, and is _not_ betrothed there. carl only made these assertions because he could think of no other way of making my father agree to our wishes,' said jettè, almost crying. 'what! he is not engaged? he has never been in berlin? well! he is the greatest story-teller i ever met. did he not stand up, and make positive declarations of these events, with the most cool audacity? it is too bad. lying is the worst of all faults--it is the root of all evil.' 'no, my little hannè, idleness is the root of all evil.' 'i dare say you abound in that root too. but i don't think you can ever have studied the early lesson-books, from which all children should be instructed. i shall myself hear you your catechism to-morrow, and rehearse to you the first principles of right and wrong; so that when you leave us, you may be a little better acquainted with the doctrines of christianity than you are at present.' 'but he leaves us to-morrow, hannè; he has assured us of that.' 'we positively will not allow him to make his escape,' said hannè. 'at night we shall lock him in his room, and during the day thomas shall watch him. that boy sticks as fast as a burr,--he won't easily shake him off.' 'but suppose i were to get out by the window? you cannot well fasten that on the outside.' 'and break your neck, forsooth. no, no; that way of making your exit won't answer.' 'oh, people can climb up much higher than my window, and descend again without breaking their necks,' said i. jettè and gustav coloured violently. 'well, we can discuss that point to-morrow. this evening, at least, you will remain with us, on account of its being jettè's betrothal day. come, give me your arm, and let us take a walk; it is charming, yonder in the garden--within the summer-house one is like to faint from the heat.' we strolled on, two and two, in the sweet moonlight; sometimes each pair sauntering at a little distance from the other--hannè and i chatting busily, while gustav and jettè often walked in the silence of a happiness too new and too deep for the language of every-day life. 'is it really true that you are going to leave us?' asked hannè. 'it is, indeed, too true; i must quit this place.' 'why? if i may venture to ask. but do not tell me any untruth.' 'because i have been here too long already--because a longer residence among you all ... near you, dear hannè, would but destroy my peace.' 'i expressly desired you not to tell me any lies. good heavens! is it impossible for you to speak truth two minutes together?' 'and is it impossible for you to speak seriously for two minutes together? what i have just said is the honest truth.' 'humph! however, tell me, is it true or not true that you are engaged in berlin? who have you hoaxed--jettè and me, or my father and mother? i beseech you speak truth this once.' 'if any one is hoaxed, it is your father, hannè; but at the moment i could think of nothing else to shake his determination, or i certainly should not have composed such a story, for telling which i blamed myself severely.' 'oh, of course i believe you! to make a fool of one's own excellent uncle! it is a sin that ought to lie very heavy on your conscience, carl. it is almost as great a sin as to make fools of one's cousins.' 'that is a sin from which i hope you will absolve me. ah, hannè! what has most distressed me was, that my character must have appeared dubious in your eyes. from the first moment i was wretched, because i could not tell you that it was only a pretended engagement.' 'i do not see what _i_ have to do with your being betrothed in berlin or not. as far as i am concerned, you might be betrothed in china, if you liked.' 'your gaiety of temper makes you take everything lightly, and yet it is you who have taught me that life has serious moments. you have transformed me, hannè; if you could only know what an influence the first sight of you, the night i arrived here, has exercised upon my fate ...' 'indeed! do tell me all about it; what was the wondrous and fearful effect of the sight of me?' said hannè, laughing. 'dear hannè, without intending it, you have pitched upon the right words, in calling it "wondrous and fearful." yes, it will follow me like a heavy sentence from a judgment-seat, ever reproaching me with my thoughtlessness. awake, and in dreams, will i implore forgiveness; i will kneel and pray for it. look at me once more with that captivating glance which, yon evening, made me forget myself, and tell me that you will not hate me--loathe me--despise me: see, upon my knee i entreat one kind look--one kind word!' i had actually fallen on one knee before hannè, and had seized her hand-'let my hand go, you are squeezing it, so that you quite hurt me. that is not at all necessary to the part you are acting. get up, cousin; you will have green marks on your knees, and i can't endure to see men in such an absurd, old-fashioned plight. you should be thankful that it is no longer the mode, when one is making love in earnest, to fall down on one's knees. these pastoral attitudes are very ridiculous; they savour of a shepherd's crook, and a frisky lamb with red ribbon round its neck.' i arose quite crestfallen. 'at any rate i must allow that you promise to be a capital actor,' added hannè. 'next christmas, when you come back, we shall get up some private theatricals: that will be charming! last year we could not manage them, because we had no lover; holm positively refused to act the part, unless i would undertake to be his sweetheart; and a play without love is like a ball without music.' 'hannè, let us speak seriously for once. i really am going away, and shall be gone, perhaps, before you expect it; for i hate farewell scenes. it is not without emotion that i can think of leaving my amiable cousins, and god only knows if we shall ever meet again. laugh at me if you will, i cannot forbid your doing that; but believe me when i tell you that your image will be present with me wherever i may go, and ...' 'you will travel in very good company, then,' said hannè, interrupting me. 'let me take the happy hope with me that i shall live in your friendly remembrance. sink the cousin if you choose, dear hannè; cousinship is not worth much, and let the term _friend_ supersede it. that is a voluntary tie, for which i should have to thank but your own feelings. it is as a friend that i shall think of you when i go from this dear place, and as a friend that your image will follow me throughout the world.' 'oh, it won't be very troublesome to you,' said hannè. 'as to me, i don't happen to be in want of cousins, still less of friends. let me see, in what office shall i instal you? make a confidant of you? we do not employ any in our family; i am my own confidante: assuredly i could have none safer. i shall follow in this the example of my silent sister, who never gave me the slightest hint of her love for gustav. a counsellor? truly, such an accomplished fibber would make a trustworthy counsellor? no, i am afraid, if you throw up the post you hold, you will find it difficult to replace it by any other.' 'very well, let me retain it then, but not as the gift of chance. you must yourself, of your own free will, bestow on me the title of your cousin, your chosen cousin: that is a distinction of which i shall be proud.' 'and will you, then, promise to come back at christmas, and act plays with us?' 'i promise you into the bargain a summer representation, before autumn is over,' said i. 'the fates only know if i shall preserve the dramatic talent i now have until winter.' i had caught a portion of hannè 's gaiety, and my sentimental feelings, so much jeered at, shrank into the background. 'then i will dub you my cousin of cousins; and besides, on account of your many great services and merits, i will confer on you the distinguished title of my court story-teller.' 'and on the occasion of receiving this new title, i must, as in duty bound, kiss your hand; wherefore i remove this little brown glove, which henceforth shall be placed in my helmet, in token of my vassalage to a fair lady.' 'no, stop! give up my glove, cousin--i cannot waste it upon you. it is a good new glove, without a single hole in it. give it up, i tell you; the other will be of no use without it.' she tried to snatch it from me, but i held it high above her head, and speedily managed to seize its fellow-glove. 'you must redeem them, hannè; a kiss for each of the pair is what i demand; and they are well worth it, for they are really nice new gloves. i will not part with them for less.' 'i think you must be a fool, carl, to fancy for one moment that i would kiss you to recover my own gloves. no, i will die first,' she exclaimed, in a tone of comic indignation. in answer to her mock heroics, i apostrophized the gloves in glowing terms, finishing with--'on your smooth perfumed surface i press my burning lips. tell your fair mistress what i dare not say to her, what i at this moment confide to you.' i kissed the gloves. 'well, well, give me back my gloves and i will let you kiss me,' said hannè. 'but it shall be the slightest atom of a kiss, such as they give in the christmas games, the most economical possible; it must not be worth more than four marks, for that was the price of the gloves. now, are you not ashamed to take a kiss valued so low?' 'no, i will take it. but the value i put upon it is very different, for the slightest kiss from your lips, hannè, is worth at least a million. you will make me a _millionnaire_, hannè.' i gave her the gloves, and was just on the point of kissing her, when the voice of the justitsraad broke on the silence around, calling, 'jettè, hannè, carl, hollo! where are you all?' 'here,' cried hannè, bursting away from me. 'we are coming.' 'but dearest, dearest hannè! my kiss--my million?' 'we will see about it to-morrow; you must give me credit this evening.' 'my dearest hannè, to-morrow will be too late; for heaven's sake, have compassion on me! i am going away to-night; there is no to-morrow for me here. give me but half the million now--but the quarter--but the four marks' worth which you owe me! dear hannè, pay me but the smallest mite of my promised treasure.' 'nonsense! we must make the best of our way home, or we shall be well scolded.' gustav and jettè joined us at that moment. the gloves and the kiss were for ever lost! 'why, children, what has become of you, all this time?' exclaimed the justitsraad. 'come in now, and have a country-dance with the good folks before we leave them and go to have some mulled claret. stop, stop, carl, you can't dance with hannè; she is engaged to one of the young farmers. you must take another partner. there is poor annie, the lame milkmaid, she has scarcely danced at all; it is a sin that she is to sit all the evening, because one leg is a little shorter than the other. go, dance with her.' 'don't turn the poor girl's head with your enormous fibs,' cried hannè to me, as i was entering the summer-house. 'have pity on her unsophisticated heart, and do not speculate upon _a million there_; the herdsman would probably not allow it.' 'a million? the herdsman? what is all that stuff you are talking?' asked her father. 'ill-nature--downright ill-nature, uncle.' 'fie! cousin; that is not a chivalrous mode of speaking. but do go and foot it merrily with lame annie, and i promise you the dance shall last at least an hour.' the dance was over--the mulled wine was finished--the happy gustav had gone to his home--the family had bid each other good night, and i was alone in my chamber. 'this was the last evening,' thought i to myself; 'the short dream was now over, and i had to leave that pleasant house, never more to return to it.' a deep sigh responded to these reflections. 'my deception will soon be discovered; they will revile and despise me. i shall most probably be the cause of their being exposed to the ridicule of the whole neighbourhood; that will annoy them terribly, and they will be very angry that anyone should have presumed to impose so impudently on their frank hospitality. and my kiss ... my million ... the realization of that delightful promise!... what if i were to remain yet another day--half a day--another morning even? remain!--in order to add another link to the chain which binds me here, and which i am already almost too weak to sever? no--i will go hence. in about an hour the moon will set, and when its tell-tale light is gone i will go too. one short hour! alas! how many melancholy hours shall i not have to endure when _that one_ has passed. it is incomprehensible to me how i became involved in all this. chance is sometimes a miraculous guide, when we allow ourselves to be blindly led by it. but a truce to these tiresome reflections; i have no time to think of anything but hannè, now that i am about to leave her for ever ... _for ever!_ these are two detestable words. everything is now quite still in the house. i hear no sound but poor pasop, rustling his chains in his kennel; he will not bark when he sees it is only i passing. they are all friendly to me here, even the very dogs; yet how false i have been to them!' i threw my clothes and other little travelling appurtenances into my _valise_, and opened the window. 'but ought i to run away without leaving one word behind? the worthy family might be alarming themselves about me. what shall i write? i suppose i must play the cousin to the end; at any rate i must try to put them on a wrong scent. i shall address my note to hannè, that she may see that my last thoughts were with her.' i seized a pencil and wrote:-'hannè's cruelty has caused my bankruptcy and my flight. she could have made me a _millionnaire_, but she has left me a beggar. poor and sad i quit this hospitable house, leaving behind my blessings on its much-respected and amiable inmates, including the hard-hearted fair one who has compelled me to seek a refuge at fredericia, which, from the time of axel, has afforded _jus asyli_ to unfortunate subjects.' i stuck the paper in the dressing-glass, where it would speedily be observed. i had played out my comedy, and the sober realities of life were now before me. i fell into a deep reverie, which lasted until the first dawn of day, when i started up to prepare for my departure. first, i threw my carpet-bag out of the window, and then, getting out myself upon the tree, and cautiously descending from branch to branch, i reached the ground safely and quietly. taking a circuitous route, i at length passed the woody village near my uncle's abode; and the sun stood high in the heavens when, weary and dispirited, and out of humour with the whole world, i entered the parsonage-house. part iv. eight days after my arrival, i was sitting in the dusk with the old people, while my thoughts were at ---court. the good clergyman, according to habit, was shoving the skull-cap he wore on his head to and fro, and talking half-aloud to himself. at length he exclaimed, 'in good sooth, nephew, i am quite surprised at you. is it natural for a young man to sit so much within doors? you have never gone a step beyond the garden and our little shrubbery, and really there is some very pretty scenery in our neighbourhood, quite worth your seeing.' 'it is a sin that he should be shut up here with us two old people,' said his wife; 'if our son had been at home, it would have been more pleasant for him. it is very unlucky that he should be at kiel just now. how can we amuse such a young man, my dear? i am quite sorry for him.' i assured them that i had everything i wished at their house, and was extremely comfortable. but the fact was, that i felt extremely uncomfortable. i was miserable at knowing that i was so near ---court, and yet could have no communication with its inhabitants; i was certain that i must have thrown everything there into the greatest commotion, yet, since my flight, i had heard nothing of or from the place round which my heart's dearest thoughts hovered continually. 'why, instead of a wild, mischievous, merry madcap, as you were represented to be, we find a staid, quiet, grave young man. it is not a good sign when a gay temper takes such a sudden turn. you seem to be quite changed, nephew. indeed, it strikes me your very appearance has altered; your hair looks darker to me, within these eight days, and your skin is as yellow as if you had the jaundice.' 'oh, heaven forbid! the lord preserve him from that!' cried my worthy aunt, much alarmed. i relieved her mind by assuring her that my health was excellent. 'and you are allowing the hair on your upper lip to grow to a pair of moustaches,' continued my uncle. 'you will soon look like an officer of hussars. if you were not such a sensible, quiet youth, i should think it was a piece of conceit and affectation, to look smart in the eyes of the girls.' without having formed any settled plan connected with the change of my appearance, but not without considerable trouble, had i by degrees blackened my hair, and darkened my complexion with walnut juice, so that i could not be recognized if any of the people from ---court should meet me. i had also cultivated moustaches for the same purpose, but they were as yet very diminutive. 'just tell me, nephew, what do you want with moustaches?' 'i want them because ... i wish ... i must ... i belong to the corps of riflemen, uncle, and the new regulation is, that every rifleman is to have moustaches ... so i must mount a pair.' 'what a foolish regulation! don't you think so, wife? but i suppose it is a case in which one must do as others do.' this settled, i was left, as to my disguise, in peace. but my venerable uncle commenced another attack. 'i must positively have you to go out and look about you, adolph. i am going to-morrow to see my friends justitsraad ----, whose country seat is not far from this. you shall drive over there with me; the road is very pretty.' i was in agony. 'i would, much rather remain at home, uncle; i don't know these people.' 'i will introduce you to them. they are a very amiable, charming family, and you will soon become acquainted with them. you absolutely must go.' what excuse was i to manufacture? i had recourse to fibs again. 'the justitsraad and my father are personal enemies--they quarrelled about some matter of business. they are deadly foes--i should be very unwelcome--my name is proscribed at ---court.' 'how very strange that i never heard of this before!' exclaimed the unsuspecting old man. 'people should not hate each other for the sake of sinful mammon. we must bring about a reconciliation between them. i shall certainly preach upon the subject of forgiveness next sunday--a powerful discourse will i give.' 'it is also my wish that they should be reconciled, dear uncle, and therefore, i think it would be most prudent not to mention my name _yet_. if i make the acquaintance of the justitsraad without his knowing who i am, i shall feel more at my ease with him. i assure you this will be best.' 'well--so be it,' said my uncle; 'i will not then mention your being here. but i shall throw out a few hints about forgiveness and christian feelings--these can do no harm.' 'no--that they cannot,' said my aunt. 'but i quite agree with adolph. i think his plan a good one.' as soon as the old people had retired to rest, i stole softly through the garden, and reaching the high road, took the way to ---court. as i approached it, i saw with pleasure the white summer-house on the outskirts of the garden. soon after i reached the hill, where stood the well-known swing. the moon was shining brightly, and it was a lovely night. all was so still around, that i could hear the wind whistling through the adjacent alleys of trees--and the rustling of the wind amidst the branches of the pine and the fir has a peculiar sound. far away in the wood was to be heard the melancholy tinkling of the bells worn by the sheep round their necks. there is a sadness in this monotonous, yet plaintive sound, which has a great effect upon the heart that is filled with longing--and where is the human being who has nothing to long for? but such sadness is not hopeless, and as the bells give tones sometimes higher, sometimes deeper, from different parts of the woods or fields, so tranquillizing voices whisper to our souls, 'there is comfort for every sorrow--we shall not always long in vain.' the moon shed its soft light over the quiet garden, the clock struck eleven--that was generally the time at which the family retired to rest--therefore i ventured to leave my place of concealment, without the fear of encountering anyone. presently after i stood again behind the bushes of fragrant jasmine, immediately beneath the windows, and beheld one light extinguished after the other. in the room i lately occupied, all was dark. at length the light also disappeared in hannè's chamber. sleep, sweetly sleep! dream blessed dreams! i whispered with baggesen, and my heart added, in the words of the same poet, i love--i love--i love but only thee! in jettè's room there was still a candle burning; doubtless she was thinking of her gustav, perhaps writing a few kind words to him. i could hardly refrain myself from climbing up _the_ tree, and speaking to her; i had a claim upon her indulgence, for had i not laid the fountain of her happiness? _laid the foundation!_ how did i know that the real cousin had not arrived? but even in that case it would be scarcely possible to undo what had been done. i clung to the pleasing idea that i had effected some good. at length jettè's candle was extinguished also. the last--last light--i had gazed on it, till i was almost blinded. with an involuntary sigh i turned my steps slowly back towards the garden; something was moving close behind me; it was my quondam friend, a greyhound belonging to the justitsraad, but he followed growling at my heels, as if he wished to hunt me off the grounds i polluted by my presence. 'watchel! my boy! is that you? so--so--be still, be still, watchel!' i turned to pat his head, but he showed his white teeth, and barked at me; and presently all the other dogs near began to bark also. 'forgotten!' i exclaimed bitterly to myself, 'forgotten, and disliked!' watchel followed me, snarling, to the extremity of the garden, and barked long at my shadow as i crossed the field. the next day my uncle drove over to ---court. the moment he was gone i hurried up to his study, which looked towards the east, and arranged his large telescope to bear upon that place which had so much interest for me. i could overlook the whole plain; at its extremity was some rising ground studded with trees--this was the garden; to the left lay the grove, and close to it was the hillock on which stood the swing! suddenly the swing, until then empty, seemed to be occupied with something white, which put it in motion. 'it is hannè who is swinging!' i exclaimed aloud in my joy; and i spent the whole afternoon in gazing through the telescope, with a beating heart, and with my eyes fixed upon the swing to catch another glimpse of her who had vanished, alas! too soon. one glance at the folds of her white dress had thrown my blood into a tumult of excitement, but how wildly did not all my pulses beat when, towards evening, my uncle's carriage rolled up the avenue of the rectory. after he had greeted my aunt with all due affection, and delivered the complimentary messages with which he was charged, inquired how things had gone on during the hours of his absence, settled himself comfortably in his old easy-chair, and lighted his pipe, he began with-'i heard some very strange news over yonder; i really can think of nothing else.' 'what is it, dear? a great rise in the price of anything?' asked his wife. 'oh no, my dear, not at all. it is a very ridiculous story. it is not to be mentioned; but i know you will keep it to yourself when i particularly request you to do so. well--i will tell you all about it; it is really quite a mysterious affair.' and the good man proceeded to relate how, one evening when they were expecting a cousin who was betrothed to jettè, a person arrived who answered every question about the family, seemed to know all their affairs, gave himself out to be carl, whom they had not seen for eleven years, and, as might be supposed, insinuated himself into the good graces of the whole of them. 'he found out that jettè was attached to that young man holm, who is studying agricultural affairs in this neighbourhood; so he insisted on annulling his engagement to her, declaring that he was not in love with her, but was betrothed abroad. the justitsraad was at first very angry, but he gave way at last, and there were gay doings at ---court that evening. next morning the cousin was nowhere to be found; but he left behind him a paper of which nobody can make anything. they expected him during two whole days, but he did not make his appearance again. on the third day, another person arrived, who also declared himself to be a cousin, said he was called carl, and that he was the expected guest. he brought letters from his father, about whose handwriting there could be no doubt, and the whole family recognized him at once from many things. the first, of course, was an impostor. but jettè is now betrothed to holm as well as to the cousin, who had come to arrange about the wedding. there was an awful scene--he insisted on holm's giving up jettè to him, and her father had at last to interfere to prevent the rivals carrying their wrath to some fearful extremity. the cousin's obstinacy gave great offence, and he took his departure the day after he had arrived. but he was so angry, that it was with great difficulty he was induced to promise that he would hold his tongue, and not blab about this absurd affair.' 'may the lord graciously preserve us all! it must have been some wicked sharper!' exclaimed my aunt, clasping her hands in great agitation, when her husband had finished his recital. 'of course he was an impostor. but it is a very curious story. for what could he have come--will anyone tell me that?' 'why, to steal, to be sure. did he break into none of the keeping-places? is there nothing missing--none of the plate? no forks or spoons?' 'not the slightest article, and he was there for two days, and went about like one of themselves.' 'it is very surprising; but the fact is, he must have come to reconnoitre the premises, and, when the nights are longer and darker, they will hear of him again.' 'it is a most incomprehensible affair,' said i, in a voice that might have betrayed, me to more acute observers. 'and can they not guess at all who he is--have they no clue to him?' 'not the slightest, nephew. they all describe him as a handsome, gentlemanly young man, who knew how to conduct himself in good society; and he acquitted himself so well in his assumed character, that none of them had the least notion what a trick he was playing them.' 'believe me, my dear sirs, this person was no other than the celebrated morten frederichsen, who was arrested and imprisoned at roeskilde, but made his escape. he must be a very clever fellow, that,' said my aunt; 'i have been told that he pretended to be a russian officer once in copenhagen, made his way into the higher circles, and spoke russian as if it had been his mother tongue. no doubt he has contrived to get free again; and he is a dangerous man. heaven preserve us from him! where _he_ is, there is always mischief going on. i will take care to see that the house-doors are well bolted and secured, and i shall tell the servants to let sultan loose at night. one cannot be too careful when there are such characters lurking in the neighbourhood.' the old lady went out to superintend the safe fastening of the house, without dreaming that he who caused her such alarm was dwelling under her own peaceful roof. the next day nothing else was spoken of, and it was easy for me to draw from my uncle all that i wished to hear. i ascertained that the real cousin had not made a favourable impression; and that, in fact, they were all glad that the engagement between him and jettè was at an end. my extraordinary and mysterious disappearance had set them all guessing, but they despaired of ever solving the riddle, since all the investigations and inquiries which could be quietly instituted had failed to yield the slightest trace of me. gustav, following up the hint i had given in the note i had left, had written to a friend in fredericia, but, of course, this had led to no result. thomas daily scoured the country round, searching the woods and the moors to find me; but every succeeding day lessened his hopes of being able to bring me a prisoner to his home. my imprudence, then, had been productive of no bad effects; fortune had befriended the rash fool, as it so often does. i cannot describe with what joy i gathered this happy intelligence; and when i had reflected on it for some days, i came to the conclusion that i _might_ venture again to show myself at ---court, and entreat forgiveness of my sad delinquencies. i formed a thousand plans and relinquished them again. at length i wrote to copenhagen for new clothes, and sent a letter, to be forwarded from thence by the post to the justitsraad, wherein i made a confession, and candidly avowed all that my inclination for a frolic and a succession of accidental circumstances had led me into. i threw myself upon miss jettè's kindness to intercede for me, trusting that she would not refuse me this favour; i dwelt on my contrition and deep regret, and implored forgiveness for my misdemeanours. nothing did i conceal, except my name and my love for hannè. i hope, dear reader, that you will not find it necessary to ask why i concealed these. the blue coat arrived at length from copenhagen, with information that the letter had been forwarded. it was not difficult for me to put it into my uncle's head to drive over to ---court, and ascertain if there had been any elucidation of the mysterious story that had almost entirely chased sleep from my good aunt's couch. i had intended to have accompanied him, but when the time came my courage failed, and, pleading a headache, i left him to go alone. 'you are not well, my dear nephew, that i can easily perceive,' said he, as i saw him into his carriage; 'we must positively send for the doctor. you will turn quite black in the long run, for in a fortnight only you have become as dark as a tartar, and that is not a healthy colour. perhaps you have got worms.' the worthy man little knew that i was purposely obliterating my good complexion more and more, and had the greatest trouble in giving myself this tartar tint. 'he shall drink some of my decoction of wormwood,' said my aunt; 'it is better than any apothecary's mixtures, and will do him a great deal of good.' whereupon she invited me to go with her to her sanctum, and there i was compelled to swallow a horrid bitter potion, which was enough to bring the most hardened sinner to a sense of his guilt. 'well, tell me, have they found morten frederichsen?' asked my aunt, when my uncle returned. 'has he broken in over yonder?' 'no, no, my dear. there was no housebreaker in question at all. truly, it is a laughable story. the man has written the justitsraad from copenhagen.' 'written? a threatening letter? a defiance? it is making nothing at all of the police--a positive insult to them. but, god be thanked, he is no longer in our neighbourhood.' 'now, my good wife, you are quite mistaken,' replied my uncle, who then proceeded to relate the contents of my letter, which, it appeared, had still further excited the baffled curiosity of the worthy family. my aunt could not recover from the state of amazement into which she had been thrown. 'but what says the justitsraad?' i asked. 'why, what can he say? he is glad that the intruder was a gentleman, for the letter is evidently written by one in that rank of life, but of course he is angry at having been so hoaxed. but it was jettè who pacified him, for she did not stop entreating him until he promised her not to vex himself any longer about the matter. i thought of you, nephew, and took the opportunity to say a few words about forgiveness and placability, grounding my lesson of christian duty on the excellent admonitions of the scriptures. they talked a great deal about the mysterious personage; and the justitsraad said at length that he would not wreak his vengeance upon him if he could see him, but would rather feel a pleasure in meeting him again. the girls wanted their father to put an advertisement in the papers addressed in a roundabout way to him, but mr. holm dissuaded them from this.' 'that was very right of mr. holm,' said my aunt. 'he is a sensible young man; for if the person really was a thief--of which there can be no doubt--for he who tells a lie will also steal ...' 'that does not by any means follow, dear aunt,' said i. 'well, be that as it may, we are invited to ---court to-morrow, and i promised that we would go, and you, too, adolph. i told them i had a nephew on a visit to me at present.' 'i ... but ... you know, uncle, my father and the justitsraad ...' 'oh, we must manage to set all that to-rights; to entertain feelings of enmity is quite unworthy of two such men. leave the matter to me. i have not yet mentioned your name, therefore you need be under no embarrassment in presenting yourself to the justitsraad. he is a very pleasant man.' 'sooner or later--it makes but little difference,' thought i; 'and if i can but look him full in the face, without dreading to be discovered, i shall be willing to acknowledge all his good qualities.' 'had we not better take the bottle of wormwood with us in the carriage?' said my aunt, next day. 'adolph looks so black under the eyes this morning, that i am sure he is worse than he was yesterday.' 'i confess i do not like his looks,' said my uncle; 'but perhaps that dark shade is cast by his moustaches. one might really fancy, nephew, that you had darkened your face with burnt cork. you don't look at all like yourself. truly, the rifle corps has a great deal to answer for.' my endeavours had been successful. instead of the gay, fresh-looking, light-hearted cousin, in a dark-green frock-coat, that had left ---court, came, along with the clergyman and his lady, a grave, silent, dark-haired nephew, in a blue coat; with an olive complexion, very sallow, and with black moustaches; my transformation was complete. i scarcely recognized myself when i saw myself in the glass. the worst that could happen would be to be taken for myself--the agreeably characterized '_sad scamp_' from hamburg. but for what would i not be taken to see hannè again! none of them knew me; the justitsraad addressed me as 'mr. adolph,' and received me very courteously. the guests were kammerraad tvede, the jutlander, and his family, gustav, a friend of his, and ourselves. i do not doubt that my heightened colour might have been visible even through the swarthy shade of my cheek when hannè entered the room. she had become ten times prettier than ever in these fourteen days; she looked really quite captivating. gustav and jettè cast many speaking glances at each other, and her mother looked kindly at them. i stood silent and grave in a corner window; the various feelings that rushed upon me assisted me in playing the part of a somewhat embarrassed stranger. watchel rose from his mat, and walked round the room as if to greet his master's well-known guests; he wagged his tail in token of welcome to my uncle and aunt, but he growled at me, whereupon hannè called him away, and made him lie down in his usual place. 'but tell me, my dear friend, how does this happen? when i was here last your daughter was engaged to another gentleman. what has become of him?' said the inquisitive neighbour, tvede. 'oh, that was only a jest from their childhood,' said the justitsraad. 'he was my brother's son, and was on a visit to us. jettè was betrothed at that time to mr. holm, though her engagement was not generally known.' 'oh, indeed; but where is your nephew now?' 'he left us some time ago.' 'a very nice young man your nephew is; perhaps what was only jest between him and the elder sister may become earnest between him and the younger one. what say you to that, miss hannè?' hannè blushed scarlet, but made no answer. the justitsraad looked a little confused, and smiled to my uncle; i sat as if on thorns. 'so your father resides in copenhagen, mr. adolph?' said the indefatigable questioner, turning towards me. i rose in a fright, and bowed. 'he is a merchant, is he not? and has a good deal to do with the west indies?' 'yes, he has a good deal to do with the west indies,' i replied, in a feigned voice, as different from my own as i possibly could make it. 'my brother-in-law does a great deal of business with the provinces also--commission-business--as a corn-merchant,' said my uncle; 'that is safer than west india business.' 'ah, so he is your brother-in-law--married to your sister, no doubt? well, your nephew seems a fine young man. he is in the army, i suppose?' 'no, my dear sir, he is a clerk in his father's office; but as he has joined a rifle corps, according to a new regulation he is obliged to have moustaches,' replied my uncle, honestly believing the truth of my assertion. the observation of all present was drawn upon me. i turned crimson. gustav and his friend cast a meaning glance at each other, and both smiled, i interpreted the smile into this, 'he is a vain, conceited puppy; the regulation is the coinage of his own brain.' what an unmerciful interpreter is conscience! we were to take our coffee in the garden; thither, therefore, we all proceeded. i approached jettè, and began to talk to her about the pretty country round. 'have you been long at your uncle's?' she asked. 'i have been there some little time, and i should have left it before now, had not a strange commission been imposed on me--one which i find it very difficult to fulfil. it is a commission which relates to the family here,' i added, when i found she was not inclined to ask any questions. 'to us?' said jettè; 'and the commission is so difficult?' 'it is no other than to obtain for a man the restoration of that peace of mind of which his inconsiderate folly has deprived him, and to procure for him your father's forgiveness--his pardon of an injury that otherwise will weigh him down with regret and remorse for the remainder of his life.' jettè looked at me in astonishment. 'what--mr. adolph? i do not understand.' 'a friend of mine has written to me from copenhagen, and charged me to try and make his peace with the justitsraad; but the papers which he has forwarded to me containing his case, really present it in such a perplexing and unfortunate light, that i cannot attempt to carry out his wishes, unless you, to whom he particularly desired me first to apply, will grant me your valuable assistance. he certainly did most shamefully abuse your confidence.' 'you know ... it is ... you are acquainted with that strange story?' exclaimed jettè, much embarrassed. 'i know it thoroughly; and though this is the first time i have had the honour of seeing you, i think i may say you yourself are not better acquainted with the particulars of that affair than i am. it is on your kindness that i principally rely; yet i may not mention my friend's name until he has obtained entire forgiveness. he has given me very positive directions.' 'i cannot but be much surprised that a person who insulted my father and us all so much, should ...' 'insulted you, my dear young lady? i am shocked to hear it; i am sorry that he should have written me what was not true; his letter led me to believe that, on the contrary, he had rather been of service to you.' jettè blushed deeply, and i thought i perceived tears in her eyes. 'he shall certainly not find me ungrateful,' she said; 'i have not forgotten what i owe him. what do you require of me?' 'my friend entreats you, through me, to grant him your forgiveness for a mystification to which purely accidental circumstances led at first, but which was continued solely from an interest in your fate, and an anxious desire to serve you. he entreats that you will use your influence to mollify your father towards him, and procure for me a private interview with him, which i trust will end in the pardon of my friend, who has no dearer wish than to be received again into a circle he so highly esteems and respects, and to be permitted to prove to them how deeply he regrets his thoughtless folly.' some others of the same party now approached, and i was obliged to drop the conversation. gustave and hannè were disputing. 'jeer at me as you will,' said hannè, 'i hold to my opinion, that nothing is so tiresome as family connections. if one only could choose one's kindred those sort of ties would be much stronger. it is a pity not to go a step further, and let it be a fixed rule, that relations to a certain extent remote, should marry whether they suit each other or not. this would certainly extirpate _love_, but it would be vastly convenient, and in a recent case it would have hindered many doubts and hopes, and all that followed.' 'pray recollect your last election; there was not much to boast of in him. the ties of consanguinity could hardly have furnished any family with a less desirable member.' 'yes they could, for the member who came after him was much inferior, notwithstanding he bore on his brow the stamp of legitimacy. even though my "election," as you call it, fell upon one who was treacherous, he was at any rate pleasant, lively, and amusing, whereas the legitimate one was cold, stupid, pedantic, tiresome; wearying one with every slow word he uttered. you do not mean one syllable of all the evil you speak of the stranger. the properly installed cousins and nephews whom i have latterly seen have been miserable creatures, who looked as if they could not count five, and as if they had not a thought to bestow on anything but their own pitiful persons, on which they placed the most exorbitant value, without the slightest grounds for so doing.' as she finished this tirade, hannè cast a side-glance at me, who, in truth, played capitally the part of the most tiresome, self-satisfied blockhead of a nephew anyone could imagine. she had no conception how part of her harangue had enchanted me. 'legitimate right is a good thing; in that i quite agree with the young lady,' said the jutlander, who had just approached us, and thought fit to join in the conversation. he had only caught a word or two of what hannè had been saying, and mistook entirely her meaning. while we continued to stroll about, jettè took her sister aside, and whispered something to her. hannè turned her eyes full on me, and looked keenly at me. as soon as it was possible, i went up to her, and began to talk about the weather, that invariable preface to even the most important and most interesting subjects. we soon fell into conversation, and it turned upon the communication jettè had just made. 'my sister tells me that your friend is anxious to obtain our forgiveness,' said she. 'we have already given him that, for he has done us a greater service than he thinks. our regard is another affair; that would be more difficult to bestow, and doubtless he does not entertain the slightest idea of ever winning it.' 'you would condemn him to a severe doom if you would forbid his striving at least to deserve it. without your good opinion, your forgiveness would be a mere passing act of charity; without the former he would be a beggar all his life, with it _he would become a millionnaire_.' hannè coloured at the reminiscences these words awakened; but she only said, 'you put a high value on it.' 'not higher than my friend does. _your_ regard, charming miss hannè, is what he seeks, and were he not attracted to this place by a perhaps too vivid _souvenir_ of you, i should not be standing here as his spokesman. your sister has kindly promised to obtain for me a few minutes' private conversation with your father; if your hatred of my unfortunate friend cannot be softened, tell me so, i pray you, at once, and i shall spare your father a communication which may perhaps remind him of disagreeable impressions, for without your entire pardon i cannot fulfil my errand, and i will not attempt to do it by halves.' 'you are a very zealous agent, there is no denying that. well, you may speak to my father; i will not be the most hard-hearted of the family. besides, i really feel that your friend has an advocate in my own inclination for a joke, though his jest was carried rather too far.' 'i expected this goodness from you, or my friend would not have painted you in true colours.' 'and pray in what colours did he paint me, if i may venture to ask? it would be difficult to give anyone's likeness on so short an acquaintance.' 'they were as radiant as if he had borrowed for his pencil tints from heaven to do justice to the original ... he adores you, to say the absolute truth.' 'indeed! he really does me too much honour,' she said, stiffly, and in an offended tone of voice. at the 'tints from heaven,' and 'justice to the original,' she had smiled; at the 'absolute truth,' she became angry. we were at the foot of the hillock, on which stood the swing. 'there must be a fine view from the top of that rising ground,' said i. politeness obliged her to ascend the bank. gustav and his friend followed us at a little distance in earnest conversation; the rest of the party had gone to the summer-house, where coffee was prepared. 'really, this is a lovely view!' i remarked, mechanically. 'yonder lies your uncle's church,' said hannè; 'it makes the twelfth spire we can see from this hill.' 'i have remarked this place from my uncle's window; these white poles shine out against the dark-green background.' 'were you afraid of them? did you fancy they were ...' 'a gallows!' i exclaimed, interrupting her. 'no, miss hannè; i am rather more rational than my foolish friend.' hannè looked inquisitively at me. 'have you remembered what he begged of you on this spot? that when you heard evil of him, and doubts of his honour, you would come up here, and judge leniently of the absent; that you would not condemn him totally, although appearances might be against him?' 'he must have favoured you with a remarkably minute report of his sayings and doings here,' said hannè, laughing. 'you have got his speeches by heart--word for word.' 'every word which he exchanged with you remains for ever engraved on his memory. you promised this to him. dare he flatter himself that you have not forgotten that promise, and have not deserted him, while he relied on your compassion?' 'i have taken his part a great deal more than he deserves,' she replied. 'but now that is no longer necessary, and if he return here, he shall find me his worst enemy, for i do not allow myself to be made a fool of without taking my revenge.' 'have some mercy, fair lady! see, i sue for grace--he cannot stand your ire. i have come to throw myself at your feet--acquitted by you, he will have courage to meet any storm ... miss hannè,' i added, with my own natural voice, 'you are the only one who knows that the unfortunate sinner is here; condemn me irrevocably, if you have the heart to do so--i will hear my sentence from your lips.' hannè looked at me with an arch smile. 'you will not betray me, or misuse my confidence,' i added, in a supplicatory tone. 'bestow on me your forgiveness, and procure for me that of your parents. without this i cannot live. you have discovered me, notwithstanding my disguise; it was only under its shelter that i ventured to come near you during the light of day. ah! at night, i have often been here, standing outside of the house, looking up at your window, until the light was extinguished in your room, and i had no longer any evidence of your proximity to feast upon.' she looked at me for a moment with unusual softness,--nay, with kindness; then clapping her hands together, she called out, 'gustav! linden! come here--make haste! here he is--here he is!' 'who? what is it?' cried the two young men, as they came hurrying towards us. 'for heaven's sake--miss hannè--you surely will not ... you abuse the confidence i placed in you--i did not expect this of you. will you betray me? will you disgrace me before that stranger?' i stammered out, amazed and vexed at her sudden change. 'there he is--the false cousin--standing yonder. now he is caught,' added hannè, skipping about with joy. 'the cousin--he!' exclaimed gustav, in great astonishment; 'but tell me then ...' 'mr. holm,' said i, 'and you, sir, with whom i have not the pleasure of being acquainted ...' 'true!' cried hannè, interrupting me, 'i owe you an explanation. you need not excuse yourself to gustav, in his heart he acknowledges you to be his benefactor; and this gentleman, _with whom you have not the pleasure of being acquainted_, is quite as cognisant of your exploits as any of us. "you will not betray me, or misuse my confidence,"' said she, mimicking me, 'therefore let me present to you mr. linden, my bridegroom elect. you once asked me what this ring i wear betokened--do you remember that? i was then obliged to give you an evasive answer; now i will confide the secret to you, my much honoured cousin--and much admired truth-teller.' could i have guessed _this_, or have had the slightest suspicion of it, two hours earlier, i never again would have put my feet within the doors of ---court. there was nothing for it now but to let myself patiently be dragged about by them, after i had muttered something, that might as well have been taken for a malediction as a felicitation. my uncle was walking in the alley of pine-trees with the justitsraad and jettè; she had been preparing him for the audience i told her i wished of him, but she had not yet the least idea that i was the person for whom she had been pleading. i appeared before them as a poor culprit. 'dear father,' said hannè, 'i bring a deserter, who has given himself up to me. he relies on your forgiveness, for which i have become surety, and if you withhold it, my word will be broken.' 'let me speak, child,' said my uncle, who fancied that a disagreement between my father and the justitsraad was the affair in question. 'as the servant of the lord, it is my duty to exhort everyone to peace, and forgiveness of injuries; you should all remember the divine mission of him who is the fountain of love, and who came to bring goodwill on earth; remembering his example you should chase away hatred, and all evil passions and thoughts from your mind. see, this young person comes to you with confiding hope, and now do shake hands with him in sign of reconciliation, and let not two worthy men remain longer enemies. speak kindly to him, my old friend, and do not oblige him longer to conceal his name, because it is one which you once disliked--let the past be now forgotten!' 'what, _you_ also pleading for him, my worthy friend? then, indeed, i must give in. well, the foolish madcap has found intercessors enough, i think,' said the justitsraad, as he held out his hand to me. 'he is petitioning for his friend,' said jettè. 'for my benefactor,' said gustav. 'for his old father,' said my uncle. 'for himself,' said hannè. 'this is the pretended cousin himself, in disguise; this is the very man himself who threw our family into such confusion; but what his real name may be, heaven only knows.' 'he is my sister's son--adolph kerner, a son of mr. kerner, the well-known copenhagen merchant; he has no need to be ashamed of his name,' said my uncle. everyone was astonished; there was a general silence from amazement. at length jettè exclaimed, 'the pretended cousin himself?' 'the young kerner who went to hamburg?' asked the justitsraad. 'what! the impostor my own nephew?' cried my uncle, upon whom the truth began to dawn. the formidable explanation was given, forgiveness followed, and we were reconciled. the justitsraad shook hands with me cordially. 'and now let us seek my mother,' said hannè, 'and fall at her feet. for the honour of our sex, i hope mr. kerner will have to undergo the pains of purgatory in her presence.' we proceeded to the summer-house where the rest of the party were sitting at table, taking coffee. the justitsraad led me up to his wife, and said, 'i beg to present to you your lost nephew, who returns, like the prodigal son, and begs for forgiveness. tomorrow he will show himself without these moustaches, in his own fair hair, and he hopes to find the same kind aunt in you whom the false cousin carl learned so speedily to love.' the lady gave me her hand, after having held up her finger as if to threaten me. 'and here you see morten frederichsen, my dear, against whom sultan was to have guarded our house. the good-for-nothing, he has certainly hoaxed all us old ones,' said my uncle, laughing. 'his liver-complaint was nothing but a trick.' 'what is that you say? morten frederichsen! how the idea of that dreadful creature frightened me! but i have retaliated upon him with my wormwood, i rather think.' the good woman was much puzzled, and could hardly comprehend how it all came about. 'and now i beg to introduce to kammerraad tvede, the younger kerner, son of mr. kerner of copenhagen, a youth who has lately returned from an educational trip to hamburg,' said the mischief-loving hannè, pulling me up to the jutlander. 'a very fine young man,' stammered the kammerraad. 'i have the pleasure of knowing your father, and am aware of the high standing of your house.' i made my escape over to jettè and gustav, who kindly took compassion on me. 'don't you all see now that it was not so stupid of me to propose examining him in the almanack?' said hannè. 'at any rate, to _you_ belongs the credit of having placed me in the most painful dilemma,' said i, with some bitterness. 'be merciful now, and do not play with me as a cat does with a mouse; the conqueror can afford to be magnanimous to the vanquished.' 'well, the sun is about to set, and i suppose i must let my just resentment go with it. i will forgive you for all your misdemeanours upon one condition, that, according to our late agreement, you will return by-and-by, and assist us in getting up some private theatricals, to which i have the pleasure of inviting all now present. i think you will shine in "_the april fools_."'[6] 'shame on you all!' cried jettè. 'how can you be so revengeful, and still persecute mr. kerner in this inhuman way?' 'i trust he will excuse the persecution,' said her father; 'and i hope that it will not frighten him from a house which will always be open to him, and where he will henceforth be as well received under his own name as he was under that of--cousin carl.' the doomed house. by b. s. ingemann. 'the house near christianshavn's canal is again for sale--your worthy uncle's house, johanna! and now upon very reasonable terms,' said the young joiner and cabinet-maker, frants, one morning to his pretty wife, as he laid the advertisement sheet of the newspaper upon the cradle, and glanced at his little boy, an infant of about three months old, who was sleeping sweetly, and seemed to be sporting with heavenly cherubs in his innocent dreams. 'let us on no account think of the dear old house,' replied his wife, taking up the newspaper and placing it on the table, without even looking at the advertisement. 'we have a roof over our heads as long as mr. stork will have patience about the rent. if we have bread enough for ourselves, and for yon little angel, who will soon begin to want some, we may well rest contented. notwithstanding our poverty, we are, perhaps, the happiest married couple in the whole town,' she added gently, and with an affectionate smile, 'and we ought to thank our god that he did not let the wide world separate us from each other, but permitted you to return from your distant journey, healthy and cheerful, and that he has granted us love and strength to bear our little cross with patience.' 'you are ever the same amiable and pious johanna,' said frants, embracing the lovely young mother, who reminded him of an exquisite picture of the madonna he had seen abroad, 'and you have made me better and more patient than i was, either by nature or by habit. but i really cannot remain longer in this miserable garret--i have neither room nor spirits to work here; and if i am to make anything by my handicraft, i must have a proper workshop, and space to breathe in and to move in. 'your good uncle's house, near the canal, is just the place for me; how many jovial songs my old master and i have sung there together over our joiner's bench! ah! _then_ i shall feel comfortable and at home. it was there, also, that i first saw you--there, that i used to sit every evening with you in the nice little parlour, with the cheerful green wainscoting, when i came from the workshop with old mr. flok. i remember how, on sundays and on holidays, he used to take his silver goblet from the cupboard in the alcove, and drink with me in such a sociable way. and when my piece of trial-work as a journeyman was finished, and the large, handsome coffin was put out in state in the workshop, do you remember how glad the old man was, and how you sank into my arms when he placed your hand in mine, over the coffin, and said: '"take her, frants, and be worthy of her! my house shall be your home and hers, and everything it contains shall be your property when i am sleeping in this coffin, awaiting a blessed resurrection."' 'ah! but all that never came to pass,' sighed johanna; 'the coffin lies empty up in yonder loft, and frightens children in the dark. the dear old house is under the ban of evil report, and no one will buy it, or even hire it, now, so many strange, unfortunate deaths have taken place there.' 'these very circumstances are in our favour, johanna; on account of this state of things mr. stork will sell it at a great bargain, and give a half year's credit for the purchase-money. in the course of six months, surely, the long-protracted settlement of your uncle's affairs will be brought to a close, and we shall, at least, have as much as will pay what we owe. the house will then be our own, and you will see how happy and prosperous we shall be. surely, it is not the fault of the poor house that three children died there of measles, and two people of old age, in the course of a few months; and none but silly old women can be frightened because the idle children in the street choose to scratch upon the walls, "_the doomed house_." the house is, and always will be, liked by me, and if mr. stork will accept of my offer for it, without any other security than my own word, that dwelling shall be mine to-day, and we can move into it to-morrow.' 'oh, my dear frants, you cannot think how reluctant i am to increase our debt to this mr. stork. believe me, he is not a good man, however friendly and courteous he may seem to be. even my uncle could not always tolerate him, though it was not in his nature to dislike any of god's creatures. whenever mr. stork came, and began to talk about business and bills--my uncle became silent and gloomy, and always gave me a wink to retire to my chamber.' 'i know very well mr. stork was looking after you then,' said frants, with a smile of self-satisfaction, 'but _i_ was a more fortunate suitor. it was a piece of folly on the part of the old bachelor; all that, however, is forgotten now, and he has transferred the regard he once had for you to me. he never duns me for my rent, he lent me money at the time of the child's baptism, and he shows me more kindness than anyone else does.' 'but i cannot endure the way in which he looks at me, frants, and i put no faith either in his friendship or his rectitude. the very house that he is now about to sell he hardly came honestly by, as he gives out--and i cannot understand how he has so large a claim upon the property my uncle left; i never heard my uncle speak of it. god only knows what will remain for us when all these heavy claims that have been brought forward are satisfied; yet my uncle was considered a rich man.' 'the lawyers and the proper court must settle that,' replied frants; 'i only know this, that i should be a fool if i did not buy the house now.' 'but to say the truth, dear frants,' urged johanna, in a supplicating tone, 'i am almost afraid to go back to that house, dear as every corner of it has been to me from my childhood. i cannot reconcile myself to the reality of the painful circumstances said to have attended my poor uncle's death. and whenever i pass over _long bridge_, and near the dead-house for the drowned, with its low windows, i always feel an irresistible impulse to look in, and see if he is not there still, waiting to be placed in his proper coffin, and decently buried in a churchyard.' 'ah--your brain is conjuring up a parcel of old nursery tales, my johanna! we have nothing to fear from your good, kind uncle. if indeed his spirit could be near us, here on earth, it would only bring us blessings and happiness. i am quite easy on that score; he was a pious, god-fearing man, and there was nothing in his life to disturb his repose after death. report said that he had drowned himself on purpose, but i am quite convinced that was not true. if i had not unluckily been away on my travels as a journeyman, and you with your dying aunt--your mother's sister, we would most likely have had him with us now. how often i have warned him against sailing about alone in kalleboe bay! but he would go every sunday. as long as i was in his employ, i always made a point of accompanying him, and when i went away he promised me never to go without a boatman.' 'alas! that was an unfortunate christmas!' sighed johanna, 'it was not until he had been advertised as missing in the newspapers, and mr. stork had recognized his corpse at the dead-house for the drowned, and had caused him to be secretly buried as a suicide,--it was not until all this was over, that i knew he had not been put into his own coffin, and laid in consecrated ground.' 'let us not grieve longer, dear johanna, for what it was not in our power to prevent; but let us rather, in respect to the memory of our kind benefactor, put the house in order which he occupied and where he worked for us, inhabit it cheerfully, and rescue it from mysterious accusations and evil reports. _our_ welfare was all he thought of, and laboured for.' 'as you will then, dear frants!' said johanna, yielding to his arguments. she hastened at the same moment to take up from its cradle the child, who had just awoke, and holding it out to its young father, she added, 'may god protect this innocent infant, and spare it to us!' frants kissed the mother and the child, smoothed his brown hair, and taking his hat down from its peg, he hurried off to conclude the purchase on which he had set his heart. he returned in great spirits, and the next day the little family removed to the house which belonged to mr. flok, frants was rejoiced to see his old master's furniture, which he had bought at an auction, restored to its former place, and he felt almost as if the easy-chair and the bureau, formerly in the immediate use of the old man, must share in his gladness. but the baker's wife at the corner of the street shrugged her shoulders, and pitied the handsome young couple, whom she considered doomed to sickness and misfortune, because five corpses within the last six months had been carried out of that house; and because there was an inscription on its walls, that however often it had been effaced had always reappeared. 'et forbandet haus'--'the doomed house'--stood there, written in red characters, and all the old crones in the neighbourhood affirmed that the words were _written in blood!_ 'mark my words,' said the baker's wife at the corner of the street, to her daughter, 'before the year is at an end, we shall have another coffin carried out of that house.' frants the joiner had bestirred himself to set all to rights in the long-neglected workshop, and johanna had put the house in nice order, and arranged everything as it used to be in days gone by. the little parlour, with the green wainscoting and the old fashioned alcove, had its former chairs and tables replaced in it; the bureau occupied its ancient corner, and the easy-chair again stood near the stove, and seemed to await its master's return. often, as the young couple sat together in the twilight, while the blaze of the fire in the stove cast a cheerful glare through its little grated door on the hearth beneath, they missed the old man, and talked of him with sadness and affection. but johanna would sometimes glance timidly at the empty leather arm-chair--and when the moon shone in through the small window panes, she would at times even fancy that she saw her uncle sitting there--but pale and bloody, and with dripping wet hair. she would then exclaim, 'let us have lights; the baby seems restless. i must see what is the matter with it.' one evening there were no candles downstairs. she had to go for them up to the storeroom in the garret. she lighted a small taper that was in the lantern, and went out of the room, while frants rocked the infant's cradle to lull it to sleep. but she had only been a few minutes gone, when he heard a noise as if of some one having fallen down in the loft above, and he also thought he heard johanna scream; he quitted the cradle instantly, and rushing upstairs after her, he found her lying in a swoon near the coffin, with the lantern in her hand, though its light was extinguished. exceedingly alarmed he carried her downstairs, relighted the taper, and used every effort to recover her from her fainting fit. when she was better, and somewhat composed, he asked in much anxiety what had happened. 'oh! i am as timid as a foolish child,' said johanna. 'it was only my poor uncle's coffin up yonder that frightened me. i would have begged you to go and fetch the candles, but i was ashamed to own my silly fears, and when the current of air blew out the light in my lantern up there, it seemed to me as if a spectre's death-cold breathing passed over my face, and i fancied i saw amidst the gloom the lid of the coffin rising--so i fainted away in my childish terror.' 'that coffin shall not frighten you again,' said frants, 'i will advertise it to-morrow for sale.' he did so, but ineffectually, for no one bought it. one day mr. stork made his appearance, bringing with him the contract and deed of sale. he was a tall, strongly-built man, with a countenance by no means pleasant, though it almost always wore a smile; but the smile, if narrowly scrutinized, had a sinister expression, and seemed to convulse his features. he sported a gaudy waistcoat, and was dressed like an old bachelor, who was going on some matrimonial expedition, and wished to conceal his age. this day he was even more complaisant than usual, praised the beauty of the infant, remarked its likeness to its lovely mother, and offered frants a loan of money to purchase new furniture, and make any improvements he might wish in the interior of the house. franks thanked him, but declined the offer, assuring him that he was quite satisfied with the house and furniture as they were, and wished everything about him to wear its former aspect. however, he said, he certainly would like to enlarge the workshop by adding to it the old lumber-room at the back of the house, the entrance to which he found was closed. mr. stork then informed him that there was a door on the opposite side of the lumber-room, which opened into the house _he_ occupied, and that he had lately been using this empty place as a cellar for his firewood; but he readily promised to have it cleared out as speedily as possible, and to have the entrance into his own house stopped up. 'yet,' he added, in a very gracious manner, 'it is hardly necessary to have any separation between the two houses, when i have such respectable and agreeable neighbours as yourselves.' 'what made you look so crossly at that excellent mr. stork, johanna?' asked her husband, when their visitor was gone. 'i am sure he is kindness itself. he cannot really help that he has that unfortunate contortion of the mouth, which gives a peculiar expression to his countenance.' 'i sincerely wish we had some other person as our neighbour, and had nothing to do with him!' exclaimed johanna. 'i do not feel safe with such a man near us.' frants now worked with equal diligence and patience--and often remained until a late hour in the workshop, especially if he had any order to finish. he preferred cabinet-making to the more common branches of his trade, and was always delighted when he had any pretty piece of furniture to construct from one of the finer sorts of wood. but he was best known as a coffin-maker, and necessity compelled him to undertake more of this gloomy kind of work than he liked. often when he was finishing a coffin, he would reflect upon all the sorrow, and perhaps calamity which the work, that provided him and his with bread, would bring into the house into which it was destined to enter. and when he met people in high health and spirits, on the public promenades, he frequently sighed to think how soon he might be engaged in nailing together the last earthly resting-places of these animated forms. one night he was so much occupied in finishing a large coffin, that he did not remark how late it had become, until he heard the watchman call out 'twelve.' at that moment he fancied he heard a hollow voice behind him say, 'still hammering! and for whom is that coffin?' he started--dropped the hammer from his hand--and looked round in terror, but no one was to be seen. 'it is the old gloomy thoughts creeping back into my mind, and affecting my brain, now at this ghastly hour of midnight,' said he; but he put away the hammer and nails, and took up his light to go to his bed-room. before he reached the door of the workshop, however, the candle which had burned down very low--quite in the socket of the candlestick, suddenly went out. he was left in the dark, and in vain he groped about to find the door--at any other time he would have laughed at the circumstance, but now it rather added to his annoyance that three times he found himself at the door of the lumber-room, instead of getting hold of the one which opened into his house. the third time he came to it, he stopped and listened, for he fancied he heard something moving within the empty room; a light also glimmered through a chink in the door which was fastened, and on listening more attentively he thought he distinctly heard a sound as if buckets of water were being dashed over the floor, and some one scrubbing it with a brush. 'it is an odd time to scour the floor,' he thought, and then knocking at the door, and raising his voice--he called out loudly to ask who was there, and what they were doing at so late an hour. at that moment the light disappeared, and all became as still as death. 'i must have been mistaken,' thought frants, as he again tried to find the door he had at first sought. in spite of himself, a dread of some evil--or of something supernatural, seemed to haunt him, and the image of his old master--who was drowned--appeared before him in that dark workshop, where they had spent so many cheerful hours together. at last he found the door, and retired as quickly as possible to his chamber, where his wife and child were both fast asleep. he, too, at length fell asleep, but he was restless in his slumbers, and disturbed by strange dreams. in the course of the night he dreamed that his wife's uncle, mr. flok, stood before him, and said, 'why was i not placed in my coffin? why was i not laid in a christian burying-ground? seek, and you will find--destroy the curse, before it destroys you also!' in the morning when he awoke he looked so pale and ill that johanna was quite alarmed; but he did not like to frighten her by telling her his dreams, and, indeed, he was ashamed at the impression they had made upon himself, for, notwithstanding all the confidence he had expressed on coming to the house, he could not help feeling nervous and uncomfortable. nor did the unpleasant sensation wear off, his gay spirits vanished, and he was also unhappy because the time was approaching when the purchase-money for the house would become due, and the settlement of the old man's affairs, to which he had looked forward in expectation of obtaining his wife's inheritance, seemed to be as far off as ever. he found it difficult to meet the small daily expenses of his family, and he feared the threatening future. 'seek and you will find!' he repeated to himself; 'destroy the curse before it destroys you! what curse? i begin to fear that there really is some evil doom connected with this house.' it was also a very unaccountable circumstance that however often he scratched out the mysterious inscription from the wall--'the doomed house'--it appeared again next day in characters as fresh and red as ever. his health began to give way under all his anxiety, and the child also became ill. one evening he had been taking a solitary walk to a spot which had now a kind of morbid fascination for him--the dead-house for the drowned--and when he returned home, he found johanna weeping by the cradle of her suffering infant. 'you were right,' he exclaimed, 'we were happier in our humble garret than in this ill-fated house. would that we had remained there! tell me, johanna, of what are you thinking? has the doctor been here? what does he say of our dear little one?' 'if it should get worse towards night, there lies our last hope,' she replied, pointing towards the table. frants took up the prescription, and gazed on the incomprehensible latin words, as if therein he would have read his fate. the tears stood in his eyes. 'and to-morrow,' said johanna, 'to-morrow will be a day of misery. have you any means of paying mr. stork?' 'none whatever! but _that_ is a small evil compared to _this_,' he answered, as he pointed to the feverish and moaning infant. 'have you been to the workshop?' he continued, after a pause, 'the large coffin is finished; perhaps it may be our own last home--it would hold us all!' 'oh! if that could only be!' exclaimed johanna, as she threw her arms round him. 'could we only all three be removed together to a better world, there would be no more sorrow for us! but the hour of separation is close at hand; to-morrow, if you cannot pay mr. stork, you will be cast into prison, and i shall sit alone here with that dying child!' 'what do you say? cast into prison! how do you know that? has that man been here frightening you? he has not hinted a syllable of such a threat to me.' johanna then related to him how mr. stork had latterly often called, under pretence of wishing to see frants, but always when he was out. he had made himself very much at home, and had overwhelmed her with compliments and flattering speeches; he had also declared frequently that he would not trouble frants for the money he owed him, if she would pay the debt in another manner. at first, she said, she did not understand him, and when she _did_ comprehend his meaning, she did not like to mention it to frants, for fear of his taking the matter up warmly, and quarrelling with stork, which would bring ruin on himself. mr. stork, however, had become more bold and presuming, and that very evening, on her repelling his advances and desiring him to quit her presence, he had threatened that if she mentioned a syllable of what had passed to her husband, nay, farther, if she were not prepared to change her behaviour towards himself before another sun had set, frants should be thrown into prison for debt, and might congratulate himself in that pleasant abode on the fidelity of his wife. 'well,' said frants, with forced composure, 'he has got me in his toils--but his pitiful baseness shall not crush me. i have, indeed, been blind not to detect the villany that lay behind that satanic smile, and improvident to let myself be deluded by his pretended friendship. but if the almighty will only spare and protect you, and that dear child, i shall not lose courage. be comforted, my johanna!' it was now growing late--the child awoke from the restless sleep of fever--it seemed worse, and frants ran to an apothecary with the prescription. 'the last hope!' he sighed, as he hurried along; 'and if it should fail--who will console poor johanna to-morrow evening, when i am in a prison, and she has to clad the child in its grave clothes! oh, how we shall miss you--sweet little angel! was _this_ the happiness i dreamt of in the old house? yes--people are right--it _is_ accursed!' the apothecary's shop was closed, but the prescription had been taken in through a little aperture in the door, and frants sat down on the stone steps to wait until the medicine was ready. it was a clear, starry december night, but the sorrowing father sat shivering in the cold, and gazing gloomily on the frozen pavement--he was not thinking of the stars or of the skies. the watchman passed and bade him 'good morning.' 'it will be a good morning, indeed, for me,' thought poor frants. 'a morning fraught with despair.' at that moment the clock of a neighbouring church struck _one_, and the watchman sang, in a full, bass voice, these simple words: 'help us, o jesus dear! our earthly cross to bear; oh! grant us patience _here_, and be our saviour _there!_' frants heard the pious song, and a change seemed to come over his spirit--he raised his saddened eye to the magnificent heavens above--gazed at the calm stars which studded the deep blue vault--clasped his hands and joined in the watchman's concluding words- 'redeemer, grant thy blessed help to make our burden light.' a small phial with the medicine was just then handed out to him, through the little sliding window; he paid his last coin for it, and, full of hope that _his_ burden might be lightened, hastened to his home. 'did you hear what the watchman was singing, johanna?' asked frants, when he entered the little green parlour, where the young mother was watching by her child. 'hush, hush,' she whispered, 'he has fallen into an easy and quiet sleep. god will have pity upon us--our child will do well now.' 'why, johanna, you look as happy as if an angel from heaven had been with you, telling you blessed truths.' 'yes, blessed truths have, as it were, been communicated to me from heaven!' replied johanna, pointing to an old bible which lay open upon the table. 'look! this is my good uncle's family bible--that i have not seen since he died, and god forgive me--i have thought too little lately of my bible. i found this one to-night far back on the highest shelf of the alcove--and its holy words have given me strength and comfort. read this passage, frants, about putting our whole trust in the lord, whatever may befall us.' frants read the portion pointed out to him, and then began to turn over the leaves of the well-worn, silver-clasped book. he found a number of pieces of paper here and there, but as he saw at a glance that they were only accounts and receipts, he did not care to examine them, but his attention was suddenly caught by a paper which appeared to be part of a journal kept by the old man, the last year of his life. he looked through it eagerly, johanna observed with surprise how his countenance was darkening. at length he started up and exclaimed, 'it is horrible!--horrible--johanna! some one must have sought to take your uncle's life. see, here it is in his own handwriting--listen!' and he read aloud: 'god grant that my enemy's wicked plot may not succeed! why did i let my gold get into such iniquitous hands, and place my life at the mercy of one more ferocious than a wild beast? he has, cunningly plundered me of my wealth--he has bound my tongue by an oath--and now he seeks to take my life in secret. but my money will not prosper in his unworthy hands--and accursed be the house over whose threshold his feet pass. there are human beings who can ruin others in all worldly matters, but mortal man has no power over the spirit when death sets it free.' 'what can this mean?' cried frants, almost wild with excitement. who is the mortal enemy to whom he alludes, but whom he does not name? who has got possession of his house and his means? the same person, no doubt, who bound him by an oath to silence, and threatened his life in secret; who proclaimed to the world that he had drowned himself, and caused him to be buried like a suicide? why was no other acquaintance called to recognize the body? we have no certainty that the drowned man was he. perhaps his bones lie nearer to us than we imagine. ha! old master, in my dream i heard you say, "seek, and you shall find--why was i not put into consecrated ground?" johanna! what do you think about that old lumber-room? there have been some mysterious doings there at midnight--there are some still--that floor is washed while we are sleeping. before to-morrow's sun can rise i shall have searched that den of murder, from one end to the other.' 'oh, dearest frants, how wildly you talk; you make me tremble.' but as frants was determined to go, she sat down by the cradle to watch her sleeping child, while he took a light and proceeded to the workshop. there he seized a hatchet and crow bar, and thus provided with implements, he approached the door of the locked chamber. 'the room belongs to me,' said he to himself, 'who has a right to prevent me from entering it?' to force the door by the aid of the iron crowbar, was the work of an instant, and without the slightest hesitation he went in, though it must be confessed he felt a momentary panic. but that wore off immediately, and he began at once to examine the place. nothing appeared, however, to excite suspicion. there were some sacks of wood in a corner, and he emptied these, almost expecting to see one of them filled with the bones of dead men, but there was no vestige of anything of the kind. the floor seemed to be recently washed, for it was yet scarcely dry. he then began to take up the boards. at that moment he heard the handle of the door which led into the neighbouring house turning; holding the hatchet in one hand, and the light, high above his head, in the other, he put himself in an attitude of defence, while he called out: 'has anyone a desire to assist me?' presently all was still. frants put down his light, and began again hammering at the boards; almost unconsciously he also began to hum aloud an air which his old master used always to sing when he was engaged in finishing any piece of work. but he had not hammered or hummed long before the handle of the door was again turned. this time the door opened, and a tall, white figure slowly entered, with an expression of countenance as hellish as if its owner had just come from the abode of evil spirits. 'what, at it again, old man? will you go on hammering and nailing till doomsday? must that song be heard to all eternity?' said a hollow but well-known voice--and frants recognized with horror the ghastly-pale and wild-looking sleep-walker, who, with eyes open--but fixed and glazed--and hair standing on end, had come in his night-gear from his sleeping-chamber. 'where didst thou lay my bones?' said frants, as if he had become suddenly insane. 'why was i not placed in my coffin?--why did i not enter a christian burying-ground?' 'your bones are safe enough,' replied the pallid terrible-looking dreamer, 'no one will harm them under my pear-tree.' 'but whom didst thou bury under my name--as a self-murderer, when thou didst fasten on me the stain of guilt in death?' asked frants, astonished and frightened at the sound of his own voice, for it seemed to him as if a spirit from the other world were speaking through his lips. 'it was the beggar,' replied the wretched somnambulist, with a frightful contortion of his fiendish face, a sort of triumphant grin. 'it was only the foreign beggar to whom you gave your old grey cloak ... but whom i drove from my door that christmas-eve.' 'where _he_ lies shalt thou rot--by _his_ side shalt thou meet me on the great day of doom!' cried frants, who hardly knew what he was saying. he had scarcely uttered these words when he heard a fearful sound, something between a shriek and a groan--and he stood alone with his light and his hatchet--for the howling figure had disappeared. 'was it a dream,' gasped frants, 'or am i mad? away, away from this scene of murder--but i know _now_ where i shall find that which i seek.' he returned to johanna, who was sitting quietly by the still sleeping child, and was reading the holy scriptures. frants did not tell her what had taken place, and she was afraid to ask; he persuaded her to retire to rest, while he himself sat up all night to examine further the papers in the old bible. the next day he carried them to a magistrate, and the whole case was brought before a court of justice for legal inquiry and judgment. 'was i not right when i said that a coffin would come out of that house before the end of the year?' exclaimed the baker's wife at the corner of the street, to her daughter, when, some time after, a richly-ornamented coffin was borne out of frants's house. the funeral procession, headed by frants himself, was composed of all the joiners and most respectable artisans in the town, dressed in black. 'it is the coffin of old mr. flok,' said the baker's daughter, 'he is now going to be _really_ buried, they say; i wonder if it be true that his bones were found under a tree in mr. stork's garden.' 'quite true,' responded a fishwoman, setting down her creel, while she looked at the funeral procession. 'young mr. frants had everything proved before the judge--and that avaricious old stork will have to give up his ill-gotten goods.' 'ay--and his ill-conducted life too, perhaps,' said the man who kept the little tavern near; 'if all be true that folks say, he murdered the worthy mr. flok.' 'i always thought that fellow would be hanged some day or other--he tried to cheat me whenever he could,' added the baker's wife. 'but they must catch him first,' said another; 'nothing has been seen of him these last three or four days.' on christmas-eve there sat a cheerful family in the late mr. flok's house near the canal. the child had quite recovered, and frants, filling the old silver goblet with wine, drank many happy returns of the season to his dear johanna. 'how little we expected a short time ago to be so comfortable now!' he exclaimed. 'here we are, in our own house, which was intended for us by your kind uncle. i am no longer compelled to nail away alone at coffins until midnight, but can undertake more pleasant work, and keep apprentices and journeymen to assist me. my good old master's name is freed from reproach, and his remains now rest in consecrated ground, awaiting a blessed and joyful resurrection.' the lumber-room with its fearful recollections was shut up. the outside of the house was painted anew--and the mysterious inscription on the wall, thus obliterated, never reappeared. frants had occasion one day, shortly after this favourable turn in their affairs, to cross the long bridge; and as he passed near the dead-house for the drowned, he went up to the little window, saying to himself--'now i can look in without any superstitious fears, for i know that my old master never drowned himself,--that foul stain is no longer attached to his memory; and his remains have at length obtained christian burial.' but when he glanced through the window he started back in horror, for the discoloured and swollen features of a dead man met his view, and in the dreadful-looking countenance before him, he recognized that of the murderer--stork--who had been missing some time. 'miserable being!' he exclaimed, 'and you have ended your guilty career by the same crime with which you charged an innocent man! none will miss you in this world except the executioner, whose office you have taken on yourself. i know that you had planned my death, but enemy as you were, i shall have you laid decently in the grave, and may the almighty have mercy on your soul!' prosperity continued to attend the young couple--but the lessons of the past had taught them how unstable is all earthly good; the old family bible--now a frequent and favourite study--became the guide of their conduct; and when their happiness was clouded by any misfortune, as all the happiness of this passing life must sometimes be, they resigned themselves without a murmur to the will of providence, reminding each other of the watchman's song on that memorable night when all hope seemed to have abandoned them: 'redeemer, grant thy blessed help to make our burden light.' the felon's reverie. * * * * * in a narrow cell sat one who was a prisoner for life. around him were the four dingy walls, covered with great black characters, scratched thereon at sundry times with bits of charcoal: but there was no pleasure in reading these hieroglyphics, for they were the fruit of solitude and melancholy, whose heavy, heavy thoughts had thus expressed themselves. high up was placed the little window, the only connection with life, with nature, and with the heavens; but the black iron bars kept watch over that, and obscured the clear daylight. the links of his chain, round his hand and his foot, kept the prisoner bound in his dreary cage, but they could not fetter the soul's deep longing after liberty. days and years had passed in this gloomy cell. a charming, fresh summer's morning it was, when the door of this prison was first closed on him, and when he was told that death alone should set him free. here he had remained ever since; severed from the rest of mankind, shut up from them as if he had been a wild beast; and their farewell words to him had been--that death alone was to be his deliverer. this was so dreadful a thought that he did all he could to drive it away. he worked diligently, he whistled, he sang, and he engraved strange names and figures on the walls. he frequently gazed up at the window, though he could only see through it a dead wall, but over that wall were the blue skies. he soon came to know every stone in the wall; he knew where the sun cast its streaks of light: where the little streams of water trickled down when it rained; there was more variety in the sky--it seemed to have compassion upon him, for sometimes the clouds were chased along by the wind; sometimes they assumed strange, fantastic shapes, and arrayed themselves in crimson and gold, like the gorgeous garb of royalty; and sometimes they hung in heavy, dark masses over the lofty wall--the boundary of his external world. but he saw no living things; and once, when a daring swallow rested for a few minutes on the outside ledge of his iron-barred window, he scarcely breathed, in his anxiety to enjoy the sight of it as long as possible. winter was his saddest time, for _then_ the snow blocked up his little window, and intervened between him and the skies; then, too, it became so early dark, and daylight was so long of coming. he sang and whistled no longer; he worked, indeed, but not so diligently, for his tormentor--_thought_--had more power over him. during the short day he could partly escape it; but when it became dark--oh! what had it not then to recall to him! and the worst was, he was obliged to bear it all. he could have silenced another, but he could not hush the voice that spoke within himself. in vain he sought to banish remembrance; it _would_ haunt him: so he dropped his head upon his hands, and listened. and it spoke to him of the time when he was a little boy with rosy cheeks, who had never done harm to a living being, and who sat or lay in the bright sunshine, humming the song his mother had taught him. and that mother, who loved him so dearly, who worked for him during the day, and slept with him at night--well! she was dead, god be praised! 'perhaps if she had lived,' said he to himself. no, no! does he not remember well one day, when the little boy with rosy cheeks was coming from school, that he passed a blind old man who was begging, and holding out his hat in his hand, that he dived quickly into the hat, and caught up the pence some charitable persons had placed in it? no one saw him--no one knew that he had done this--why does he now remember it with such bitter regret? his mother died, and a neighbouring family received the orphan kindly; consoled and caressed him, and he slept by the side of their dog. but they were very poor themselves, and could not maintain him long; therefore he was sent to other people, where some one paid a small board for him, and where he, the little stranger, was far from being well treated. he had too little to eat--and he stole food; therefore he was ignominiously turned away, and he fell among wicked people. they talked to him of the paths of virtue--but they followed vicious courses themselves, and he laughed at their admonitions. he grew older, and he went to be confirmed[7] in the house of god; and there he was admitted to the holy sacrament. the priest laid his hand with blessings on his head, and he there pledged his heart to god, and vowed to forsake all sin. how comes it that he now so distinctly remembers the solemn tones of the organ as he was leaving the church, and the large painting of the saviour close by the altar, which he had turned to look at once more before he passed from the crowded aisle? he had never been in that church again to pray--alas! never. he had, indeed, been there again--but it was on another and a reprobate errand--and _then_ he was young at that time, and reflected less. ah! _then_, too, he thought more of the young and beautiful girl who had knelt next to him at the altar, and with whom he had afterwards taken a quiet walk. on other evenings he was wont to spend his time with some wild, bad companions, and to join in their giddy mirth and mischievous sports; but that evening, their company wearied and disgusted him, and he followed the young girl to her father's house. he had now become an apprentice: but he was careless and idle: to sit hard at work did not suit his taste. and yet these were pleasant days when he looked back on them. he became a journeyman, and was betrothed to his pretty friend of the confirmation-day. she had gone into service, and was a hard-working, honest, well-principled girl; _he_ continued to be idle. often and often she entreated him to be more industrious, to seek work, and not to waste his time on riot and strife; and often he promised to reform. but his only reformation was, that he took more pains to conceal from her his bad habits. when he was sitting with her, and her anxious look rested upon his dull eyes, or his faded cheek, he felt that it was time to stop in his career of evil, and resolved to become a steady and respectable workman. but these good resolutions vanished when he left her presence. at length the evil spirit within him conquered; he wanted money, and stole a watch from a fellow-workman. then the arm of the law seized him, never again to let him go. after he had undergone the punishment awarded to his theft, he came, abashed and with downcast eyes, to his betrothed; but she had heard of his guilt. with bitter tears she reproached him for his conduct, and she forbade him ever again to show himself in her presence. he was furious at her reception of him, and left her, vowing to be revenged. many wild schemes rushed through his brain:--now he determined to murder her; now, that she should also be dragged into disgrace. but one day he met her in the street, and her pale, tearful, melancholy countenance disarmed his wrath, and annihilated his plans of revenge. and now, as the prisoner scrawls absently with that rusty nail on the wall, and his sunken eyes fill with warm tears, what is memory recalling to his saddened mind? ah! is it not that short-lived time of early affection--is it not those sweet, calm features--those speaking eyes--that love, so true and so pure? perhaps his fancy paints himself as an honest, industrious citizen, as a happy husband and father, with _her_ by his side, and in a very different place from that dreary cell--in a comfortable home, enjoying all that he so madly threw away--love, happiness and respectability! but his thoughts wander on; he throws the nail away from him, and leans back, with arms folded across his chest. he left the town and went into the country. there was a voice in his soul which urged him to reform. 'return, return!' it said; 'return, for there is yet time!' but another voice also spoke--that of the demon which enslaved him; and that demon was--the habit of idleness. unhappily he then fell in with a depraved wretch--a villain experienced in crime--an escaped convict. they wandered about among the peasantry and begged; but every door was closed against his companion, with unmistakable signs of terror and distrust. one summer night they had taken shelter in a stable, and he had fallen fast asleep. he was awakened by his comrade. 'get up,' said he, 'men will give us nothing--the lord must help us, therefore.' he thought the man alluded to some intended theft, and accompanied him without the least reluctance. they stole along the gardens and fences on towards the churchyard. he stopped his guide. 'what are we to do here? 'he asked, with uneasiness. 'you surely will not--' 'what?' asked the other, laughing. 'oh, let the dead rest in peace!' 'fool!' cried the convict, 'do you think i am going to meddle with the dead? follow me!' and he scaled the walls of the churchyard, and broke open the gothic door of the church. now he understood what his companion meant to do; but his heart beat as if it would have started out of his breast. as he went up the aisle, he felt as if he had lead in his shoes--as if the flooring held him back at every step--as if it were a whole mile to reach the altar. he had not entered the house of god since the day he had been there to take upon himself his baptismal vow, and dedicate his life to his creator; and now--now he stood there to plunder! his hands trembled violently, as he held open the sack for his comrade, who cast into it the silver cups, the silver salvers, and everything that he could find of value; and had it not been for fear of his ferocious associate, he would assuredly have thrown down the sack and fled, for he thought that the picture of christ over the altar looked earnestly and reproachfully at him. when his companion looked up from his sacrilegious work, and observed his eyes fixed, as it were, by some fearful fascination on the picture, he nodded to it in a scoffing manner, and then closed the sack, and left the church. when they were out of it, the prisoner breathed more freely; and when they placed themselves on a tombstone to divide the booty, he received without hesitation the portion that his comrade chose to allot to him. they buried their treasure in the earth, and separated. but the massive altar-plate could not easily be disposed of. he was in want; he begged from door to door, but he was driven from them all; so he had again recourse to stealing. since the night that he had been drawn into robbing the church, he had felt that he was an outcast from the whole world--an outcast from god himself. he knew that punishment was sure to overtake him, and he was miserable. his companion in guilt was soon after arrested; he confessed all, and they were both imprisoned, and put to hard labour. but he had not yet quite lost all hope. he determined to work in future for his daily bread. he came out of gaol a half-savage, half-frightened being--lonely and deserted--bearing upon him that brand of infamy which never more could be erased; but he had made up his mind to labour, and he went far away to seek for employment. it was the harvest-time. god had blessed the fields, and there were not reapers enough to gather in the corn. no question was asked whence he came, but his services were immediately accepted. there was something in this display of the bounty of the creator, in this activity, in this working in the free open air, that pleased him; for the first time in his life he toiled cheerfully. but the country people did not like him; his look was downcast and dark--he was rough and passionate, abrupt in speech, and he spoke little. after the farm-servants had one day proposed to him to go to church, and he had refused positively, but with an air of embarrassment, he was looked upon with great suspicion. there was but one face that always smiled at him, and that was the face of the youngest boy upon the farm. he had won the child's heart by having once cut out some little boats for him, and sailed them in the pond; and from that time the child always clapped his hands with joy when he saw him. it was so new, so delightful to him to be beloved, that he felt himself insensibly attracted towards the little creature. he indulged him in all his childish whims, carried him about in his arms, made toys for him, and seemed to feel himself well rewarded by the innocent child's attachment. thus passed the winter. peace, hitherto unknown to him, was creeping into his heart; and when he stood in spring on the fields with the sprouting seeds, and heard the lark's blithe carol, a new light began to dawn on his benighted mind. one day, when he returned from the fields towards the farm-yard, his little friend ran up to him, jumping and playing. he stretched out his arms to the child, but in an instant he started back, pale and horror-stricken. his former associate stood before him, with a malignant smile upon his sinister countenance, and held out his hand to him, while he said, in a tone of bitter irony,-'so, from all i hear, you are playing the honest man in the place! excuse me for interrupting your rural content, but i have been longing so much for you.' 'away, demon!' cried the unfortunate man. 'go, go, and leave me in peace!' 'not so fast!' replied the other, with a withering sneer. 'i have told the people of the farm who you are. do you think i am going to lose so useful a comrade?' at that moment the grandfather of the child came up, and when he saw the little boy in the arms of him whom he had just been told was a malefactor, he snatched him hurriedly away, in spite of the child's tears and cries; and applying many abusive epithets to the man, ordered him instantly to leave the farm. the disturber of his peace carried him off with him, while his fiendish laughter rang around! see! the prisoner's chest is heaving with emotion. hark! what deep sighs seem to rend his heart, while a few scalding tears are falling from his eyes! of what is he dreaming now? he sees himself, in the grey dawn of day, stealthily creeping along the hedges that surround the farm, to catch a glimpse of his little favourite. he beholds the infant's soft cheek wet with the tears of affection; he feels his tiny arms clasped lightly round his neck; the kind words of farewell ring in his ears; he listens again for the sound of the retiring little footsteps, as the child is leaving him, and sees the little hand waving to him a last adieu from the door of his mother's house. as he then threw himself down beneath the hedge on the dewy grass, and burst into tears, he now hides his face on his hard pallet, and sobs aloud. but he has risen from that recumbent position. he wrings his hands, and his teeth chatter, in his solitary cell. what horror is passing through his mind? what agonizing remembrance has seized him, and is shaking soul and body, as the roaring tempest shakes the falling leaves? let it stand forth from its dark concealment! in vain he presses his hands on his bloodshot eyes not to behold that scene--in vain he tries to close his ears against those voices--the blackest night of his gloomy prison cannot veil _that_ picture, for it arises from the darkest depths of his inmost soul. listen how his evil-minded associate tempts him, and draws him on! 'yon old man at the farm has plenty of money--ready money--do you hear? do you think i lost my time there? his daughter and her husband are his heirs; they do not need his gold so much as we do. the old man sleeps in that low house near the larger one. it is but a step through the window, and we shall be rich for a long time.' 'but what if he should awake, and recognize us?' asked the prisoner, with much anxiety. the other made a gesture which shocked him. he started back. 'no, no!' he cried, shuddering; 'no blood!' his companion laughed. 'what matters it whether the old man dies a few days sooner or later? people have generally no objection to the death of those to whom they are to be heirs. and have you forgotten how roughly he spoke to you? how he abused you, and drove you away? at that time i am sure you thirsted for revenge. besides, how are you going to live? perhaps you think you may find some good-natured fool to take a fancy to you; but you forget that _i_ like you too well to separate from you.' want, fear, revengeful feelings, got the better of him; but at night, when like two spectres they glided along the road, it seemed to him constantly as if some one saw him; and notwithstanding his companion's ridicule, he frequently looked back. and truly there was one who watched him, but not with any mortal eye. they opened the window, and got in one after the other, and easily found the old man's desk, which was in the next room. the robber's practised hand soon opened it, and he was about to take its contents, when the door of the bedroom was suddenly thrown back and rapidly shut, and the old man, who was still hale and strong, entered, armed with a thick cudgel. a short but furious struggle ensued; he remembered having seized him by the back of his neck with both his hands, and dragged him down on the floor; he remembered having heard some dull blows, that made him shiver with horror, and then having stood in breathless dismay by a dead body. the two criminals looked at each other with faces of ashy hue; then the most hardened kicked the corpse to one side, and went to secure the booty, while the prisoner opened the door of the sleeping-room to search it. but--oh, anguish unspeakable! oh, avenging god!--who should spring forward to meet him, clinging to his knees and imploring his protection--who but his innocent, unfortunate little favourite! he started back, speechless and powerless; but when he beheld his comrade, without uttering one word, brandish his knife, he clasped the child with one arm in a convulsive embrace, and stretched out the other to defend him against the ruffian. 'shall he be left to betray us both to-morrow?' mumbled the wretch. 'he must die, for your sake as well as mine.' 'oh, let us take him with us!' prayed the other, in the deepest agitation, while he tried to keep off the knife, which, however, he did with difficulty, as the child held fast to his arm, and, in his terror at the murderous weapon, hid his little face on that breast where he had so often rested in happy confidence, his silver voice murmuring his childish love. 'you are mad,' said his companion. 'what should we do with the boy? let go your hold of him, i say--we have no time to lose--let him go, or it will cost you your own life.' the quivering lips of the miserable man had scarcely uttered a prayer to wait, at least, till he could withdraw, when the child was torn from him, and like a maniac he rushed away, sprang out of the window, threw himself upon the ground, and buried his head among the long damp grass. what a moment of agony! such agony, that at the remembrance of it the prisoner groaned aloud, and dashed his head against the stone wall, then coiled himself up like a worm, as if he would fain have shrunk into nothing. the dear-bought, blood-stained booty was divided, and the criminal associates separated. but suspicion fell upon them; they were pursued, and soon taken. on being carried before a magistrate, he denied it all; yet when he was placed by the dead body of the murdered child, guilt spoke in his stiff, averted head--in the tell-tale perspiration that stood on his brow--and in his clenched and trembling hands. he confessed, and implored to be removed, even to prison, from the harrowing spectacle. his accomplice was condemned to death, he himself to imprisonment for life. there he was now, alone with the dreadful recollections of former days. the summer came and went, without bringing any other joy to him than that the sun's rays fell broader, and more golden in their gleams upon the wall outside that bounded his narrow view; and that now and then a bird would fly over it, quiver a few notes, then wing its flight away. that sight always awoke a voice in his heart that cried for 'freedom--freedom!' but he would hush it with the thought, that he could not be happier were he at liberty than in his dungeon cell. at other times, he would take a violent longing to see a green leaf--only a single green leaf--or a corn-blossom from the fields, or a blade of grass. ah! these were vain wishes! when winter came, and the sun and the daylight forsook him so soon, he was still more gloomy, for he could not sleep the whole of the long, long night, and the phantoms that haunted him were terrific. once--it was a christmas night--he was reflecting on all the joy that was abroad in the world, and he thought if it would not be possible for him to pray. then long-forgotten words returned to his lips, and he faltered out, 'our father, which art in heaven!'--but _then_ he stopped. 'god is in heaven,' thought he, 'how can he condescend to hear the sigh that arises from the hell within my breast? no, no--it is but mocking him for _me_ to pray!' days and years had gone by since the prisoner had inhaled the breath of the fresh balmy air, had beheld the extended vault of heaven, or wandered in the bright, warm sunshine; at length the spirit had exhausted the body. he lay ill and feeble, and death was near. then was the narrow door of his dungeon opened, and he was removed to a more cheerful place--to a place where the blessed air and light were freely admitted, and where the voices of human beings were around him. but their compassion came too late. earnestly did he entreat them to let him see a minister of the gospel; and when one came, he poured out the misery of his soul to him. he listened with the deepest attention while the holy man discoursed about him, who, in his boundless love, shed his own blood to wash out the sins of mankind, and in whose name even the darkest and most guilty criminal might dare to raise his blood-stained hands in prayer. how consoling were not these precious words to him, 'my god and my saviour! with what an earnest longing he waited to be permitted to participate in that solemn rite which, by grace and faith, was to unite him to that redeemer! and how he trembled lest the lamp of his mortal life should be extinguished before the first spark of that sacred flame was lighted, which was to be kindled for an endless eternity! the time that his repentant spirit so thirsted for arrived. and when he had partaken of the holy communion, and tears of penitent sorrow had streamed over his burning cheeks, peace--long unknown--returned to his weary heart, and his gratitude found vent in thanksgivings and prayer. 'oh!' he exclaimed, as he looked out of his open window, 'it is spring, my friends--i feel that it is spring, beautiful spring!' 'yes,' replied the superintendent of the hospital, 'it is spring; even the old tree by the wall is green. see here, as i passed it, i broke off this budding twig for you;' and he placed the little green branch in the hand of the dying man. 'oh!' said he, with a melancholy smile and a tear in his eye, 'that old, decayed, withered tree--can it put forth new leaves--fresh, green, sweetly scented as these? may i not then venture to hope that the almighty may call forth a new life from me in another world? oh, that such may be his will!' and with the green bough--the proof of god's power and goodness in his hand, and with his redeemer's promise on his lips, he passed to his everlasting doom, in the blessed hope that he also might touch the hem of his saviour's garment, and hear these words of life--'son, thy sins be forgiven thee!' morten langè. a christmas story. by hans christian andersen. each midnight from the farthest thule, to isles the south sea laves, to exercise themselves awhile the dead forsake their graves; but when it is the christmas time they stay much longer out, and may in the churchyard be seen, then, wandering about; and as they dance their merry rounds, the rattling of their bones produces, 'midst the wintry blasts, somewhat unearthly tones. poor things! for them there's neither wine, nor punch, nor supper there, the icicles are all they have, and a mouthful of fresh air. when shines the moon strange forms are seen, tall spectral giants some: such sights as these might even strike a chattering frenchman dumb. scoff not at my poor hero, then, though once in a sad fright- he is a most discreet young man, and morten langè hight. one christmas night the fates ordained a journey he must make, so, for despatch, 'twas his resolve a horse and sledge to take. dark was the hour, and in the skies the ranks of stars looked pale, while from a tower near hooted owls, as in a german tale. and morten langè, by-the-by, was not unlearned, for about molboerne's exploits[8]--also the trojan war, 'octavianus,' nisses, trolls, hobgoblins well he knew, and all about 'the spectre white,' whose story is so _true_. too soon the sledge stood at the door, with many a jingling bell; but ah! these sounds to his sad ears seemed like his funeral knell. yet, though the snow-flakes fell around, of them he took no heed, but like a british runaway pair, he started at full speed. he passed a regiment of old trees, whitened from top to toe, and soon he gained an open plain, where nought he saw but snow. like matthison's 'gedichte,' 'twas very, very cold, but still our hero tried to think that he was warm and bold. he did not care to gaze about, and so half-closed his eyes; yet, spite of this precaution--lo! a curious sight he spies: a muster of the elfin-folk enjoying a gay spree, the men were just five inches high, the women only three; and though 'twas at the chill yule-time, when cold reigns over all, in clothes of flimsy cobwebs made, they capered at their ball; the ancient dames, however, wore some more substantial gear, for of bats' wings their shawls were formed--but, softly--what comes here? twelve harnessed mice, with trappings grand, fit for a monarch's own, they draw a car of fairy work, where a lady sits alone. it stops, and morten langè sees the lady getting out- 'heav'n help me now! heav'n help me now!' he sighed, for he dared not shout. 'i'm no poltroon, and yet i feel the blood within my veins is freezing fast.' in mortal fear, his cold hand dropped the reins; then stooping to recover them out of the sledge he fell, and with it scampered off the horse, whither he could not tell. he felt that his last hour was come, all helpless as he lay- and with such thoughts upon his mind he fainted quite away. at length, when consciousness returned, and when his swoon was o'er, he heard a fearful buzzing sound, that frightened him still more. what had he done to be exposed that night to such alarms? a troop of demons round him thronged--one imp secured his arms. another seized his lanky legs, another caught his head- and powerless to resist them then, away with him they sped. they carried him to some strange place, flames shone upon the walls, into another fainting-fit, half-dead with fright, he falls, but when the pains of death seemed past, and trembling he looked round, he saw that in the other life a sad fate he had found. the vaulted roof was black with smoke, and awful was the heat; the devils stood with naked arms--he dared not scan their feet. one held a hammer in his hand, and threatening, waved it nigh, and in a burning furnace there, red flames were flashing high. soon guessed our hero where he was, and set himself to kneel, and lustily for mercy prayed--but they laughed at his appeal. then to his side an angel came, benignant was her smile, and holding out her small white hand, she said to him the while; 'well, heaven be praised, you're better now! but why are you afraid?' shaking with fear in every limb, in a faint voice he said: 'oh, angel! 'tis not death i dread, but help me out of hell!' the angel laughed: 'you're in good hands--you ought to know us well. this is the smithy--from your sledge thrown out upon the ground, lying alone amidst the snow half-frozen you were found; and i'm no angel, bless your heart! i'm annie, don't you see?' rubbing his eyes, and staring round, up morten jumped in glee; and that he soon forgot his fright 'tis needless to declare- the roasted goose, the foaming ale, and other christmas fare, as might be guessed, put all to rights--and annie by his side at supper sat, that christmas night, as morten langè's bride. _note by the translator_. the ghost-story alluded to--'den hvide qvinde' (the white woman)--is to be found in thiele's collection of danish 'folkesagn.' this spectre is said to haunt some old ruins near flensborg. two soldiers, long, long ago, were keeping their night-watch on the ramparts of the castle; one of them left his post for a short time, and when he was gone the other sentry was approached by a tall female figure in white, who accosted him thus:--'i am an unblessed spirit, who have wandered here for many hundred years, and have never found rest in the grave.' she then informed him that under the walls was buried an immense treasure, which could only be found by _three_ men in the world, and that he was one of the three. the soldier, fancying his fortune made, promised to obey her in all things, and received her command to be on the spot the following midnight. in the meantime the other sentinel had returned to his post, and had overheard what the spectre had related to his comrade. he said not a word, however, but the next night he went to the appointed place, and concealed himself in some recess close by. when the soldier who was to dig for the treasure arrived, with his spade and other implements, the white spectre appeared to him, but knowing that he was watched, she put off the _digging_ till another night. the man who had intended to act as a spy was taken suddenly ill as soon as he got home; and feeling that he was about to die, he sent for his comrade, confessed that he had watched him, implored him to avoid witchcraft and supernatural beings, and recommended him to consult the priest, who was a wise and good man. the soldier took his advice, and laid the matter before the priest, who directed him to do the spectre's bidding, only taking care that _she_ should be the first to touch the treasure. the man accordingly met the ghost at the appointed time and place, and she showed him the spot where the treasure was deposited; but before taking it up, she told him that one half would be for him, and the other half must be divided between the church and the poor. but the demon of avarice had entered into his heart, and he exclaimed: 'what! shall i not have the whole of it?' scarcely had these words passed his lips, than the spirit uttered a fearful thrilling cry, and disappeared in a blue flame over the castle moat. the soldier was taken ill, and died three days afterwards. the story became noised about, and a poor student determined to try his luck. he repaired to the old castle at midnight, saw the wandering 'white woman,' told her his errand and offered his services. but she informed him that he was not one of the chosen three, and could not assist her, and that the walls would thenceforth stand so firmly, that hand of man should never overthrow them. however, she promised at some future time to reward him for his good intentions. one day, long after, when he happened to be loitering near the old castle, and thinking with compassion of the fate of the restless spirit who haunted it, he stumbled over something; and, on stooping to see what it was, he discovered a large heap of gold, of which he forthwith took possession. as foretold by the spectre, the walls of the castle are still standing, and the story goes, that whenever any portion of them has been overthrown, it has always been raised again by invisible agents during the night. matter-of-fact people assert that the locality of this ghost tradition is a _hill_, not a _castle_. a tale of jutland. by s. s. blicher. i had often beheld the highest hill in denmark, but had not hitherto ascended it. frequently as i had been in its neighbourhood, the objects of my journeys had always required me to turn off in another direction, and i was thus obliged to content myself with seeing at some distance the danish schwarzwald; and as i passed on, to cast a hurried glance down the valleys to the charming lake, dotted with green leafy islets, and which winds, as it were, round jagged tongues of land. at length i overcame all obstacles, and resolved to devote two days to a pleasure-trip amidst this much-admired scenery. my cousin ludwig, who had just arrived from the capital, agreed to accompany me. the morning was clear and warm, and gave the promise of a fine evening, but shortly after mid-day there gradually arose in the south-west a range of whitish clouds tinged at the sides with flame-colour. my cousin did not notice them; but i, who am experienced in the signs of the weather, recognized these indications of thunder, and announced to him 'that the evening would not be as fine as the morning.' we were riding exactly in such a direction that we had these clouds opposite to us, and could, therefore, perceive how they kept rising higher and higher, how they became darker at the base, and how they towered like mountains of snow over the summit of the hill. imagination pictured them to us like the alps of switzerland, and we tried to fancy ourselves in that mountainous country; we saw schreckhorn, wetterhorn, and the jungfrau; in the valleys between the clouds we pictured to ourselves the glaciers; and when a solitary mass of cloud, breaking suddenly, sank down, and seemed to mingle with the mountain chain, we called it an avalanche which would overwhelm villages and scattered chalets with everlasting snow. we continued, absolutely with childish pleasure, to figure to ourselves in the skies the majestic scenery of the alps, and were quite wrapt up in our voluntary self-deception, when the sudden roar of thunder awoke us from our fantastic dreams. already there stretched scarcely the thinnest line of light in the heavens above us, and the wood which lay before us seemed as if in a moment enveloped in a thick mist by the fast-falling rain. we had been too long dilatory, and now we rode as hard as possible to reach the nearest village; and we were soaked to the skin before we got to alling, where we sought shelter under an open gateway. the owner of the place, an elderly farmer, who seemed a sort of half-savage foreigner to us, received us with old danish hospitality; he had our horses taken to his stable, and invited ourselves into his warm parlour. as soon as he observed our drenched condition, he offered us garments belonging to his two sons to wear while our own wet ones were dried by the blazing hearth. joyfully did we avail ourselves of his kind proposal; and in a room upstairs, called the best apartment, we soon made the comfortable change of apparel, while laughing and joking at our unexpected travestie. equipped as peasant lads in their sunday's clothes, we shortly after rejoined the family. our host was much amused at the change in our outward men, and warmly extolled our homely appearance, while his two daughters smiled, and stole sly glances at us- 'blushed the valkyries, whilst they turned and laughed.' the coffee-urn stood ready on the table, surrounded by china cups; the refreshing beverage, amply provided with brown sugar and rich unadulterated cream, poured out and handed by one of the pretty daughters, speedily restored genial heat to our chilled blood; and then the father of the family thought it time to inquire the names, occupations, and places of abode of his unexpected guests. meanwhile the thunderstorm had passed away; the sun smiled again in the cloudless west; far away to the east, indeed, could still be heard the distant whistling and rattling of the winds, but where we were all was mild and tranquil. the spirits of the storm had folded their dripping wings, and the raindrops sparkled like diamonds upon every leaf and flower. the evening promised once more to resemble the morning in beauty. 'and now for the ascent of the mountains!' we exclaimed to each other. 'but your clothes?' interrupted the farmer. we hastened into an outer room, where the other fair daughter was busy drying them; but, alas! they were still quite damp, and she said she feared she could not promise that they would be in a fit state to be put on for at least an hour; and then it would probably be too late to enjoy the view from the top of the hill, as the ascent, proceeding from where we were at that moment, would take, perhaps, another hour. what was to be done? the good-natured countryman helped us out of our dilemma. 'if you are not ashamed of wearing the boys' clothes,' said he, 'why should you not keep them on?' 'that is a capital idea,' we both replied, and thanking him for the offer, as we shook hands with him cordially, we asked him where we could find a guide. 'i will myself be your guide,' he said, as he took from a corner a juniper-stick for each of us. we then lost no time in commencing our journey, and still more gaily than before, for we were much amused at our masquerade, especially my cousin, who seemed to feel no small admiration for himself in the rustic blue frock-coat, ornamented with silver buttons--the jack-boots--and the head surmounted by a high-crowned hat. 'i sincerely wish,' said he, 'that we could fall in with some other travellers up yonder; that would be great fun.' our guide laughed, and hinted that he would not be able to talk like the peasantry. 'yes, i can though,' said my cousin, who immediately began to speak in the jutland dialect, to the infinite diversion of the worthy peder andersen who, however, found still another stumbling-block to the perfections of the pretended peasant--namely, that his nice white hands would betray him. 'i can put them in my pocket' ('a ka put em i e lomm),' cried my gay cousin, who was determined to admit of no drawback to his assumed character. presently we reached the river gudenade, which is here tolerably wide, and has rather a swift current. we crossed in a boat something like a canoe, and then entered on quite another kind of a country; for here commenced the moorlands, covered with heather whose dark tints formed a strong contrast to the bright green on the east of the river. we had yet a good way to walk, and as the heather, which almost reached up to our knees, was still wet with rain, we had good reason to be grateful to our long boots. we approached the wood--a wood of magnificent beech-trees--which appeared to me here doubly beautiful, standing out, as it did, against so dark a background. amidst sloping dales the path wound always upward; but the thickness of the foliage for a time deprived us of any view. at last we emerged from the wood, and found ourselves upon the open summit of the mountain. when i hear delightful music, or witness an interesting theatrical representation, i always like to enjoy it for a time in silence. nothing acts more unpleasantly, jars more on my feelings, than when any one attempts to call my attention to either. the moment the remark is made to me, 'how beautiful that is!' it becomes less beautiful to me these audible outbursts of admiration are to me like cold shower-baths, they quite chill me. after a time, when i have been left undisturbed, and by degrees have cooled in my excitement, i am willing to exchange thoughts and mingle feelings with those of a friend, or of many friends; indeed, i find desire growing within me to unburden, if i may so express it, my overladen mind. it is thus that a poet utters his inspirations: at the sweet moment when he conceives his ideas, they glow within him, but he is silent; afterwards he feels constrained to give them utterance; the voice or the pen _must_ afford the full heart relief. our guide's anxiety to please was a dreadful drawback to my comfort, for, with the usual loquacity of a cicerone, he began to point out and describe all the churches that could be described from the place where we were standing, invariably commencing with, 'yonder you see.' i left my cousin to his elucidation of the country round, and, wandering to some little distance, i sat down where i could _see_, without being compelled to _hear_. when stolberg had finished translating homer into german, he threw down his pen, and exclaimed, despondingly, 'reader, learn greek, and burn my translation!' what is a description of scenery but a translation? yet the most successful one must be as much inferior to the original as the highest hill in jutland is lower than the highest mountain in thibet. therefore, kind reader, pardon my not describing to you all i saw. _what_ i saw i might, perhaps, be able to relate to you, but scarcely _how_ i saw it. my pen is no artist's pencil; go yourself and take a view of it! but you, who perhaps have stood on the summit of the brochen, or of st. bernard, smile not that i think so much of our little mountain! it is the loftiest that i, or perhaps many of my readers, have beheld; therefore, what is diminutive to you is grand to us. i was startled in my meditations by a thump on my shoulder--it was from my cousin, who was standing behind me. he informed me that our guide had gone home at least half-an-hour, and that i had been sitting for a long time perfectly motionless, without giving the slightest sign of life. he told me, moreover, that he was tired of such solemn silence, and i must really awaken from my fit of abstraction. 'and at what have you been looking that has engrossed your thoughts so much?' he added. 'the same as you have been looking at,' i replied: 'air, and earth, and water.' 'well, cast your eyes down now towards the lake,' said he, handing me his spy-glass, 'and you will see that there are some strangers coming over this way.' i took the glass and perceived a boat a little way from the shore, which seemed to be steering straight across the water; it was full of people, and three straw bonnets indicated that there were women among them. my cousin proposed that we should await their coming, although it would be late before we should reach our quarters for the night at alling. as the evening was so charming, i willingly consented; we could not have wished a finer one. the sun was about to set, but it seemed to us to sink more slowly than usual, as if it lingered to behold longer the beauty of earth when tinged with its own golden rays. the winds were hushed, not a blade of grass, not a leaf was stirring. the lake was as a mirror, wherein were reflected the fields, the groves, the houses that lay on its surrounding sides, while here and there, in the valleys towards the west, arose a thin column of smoke from dwellings that were concealed by trees. but if in the air all was silence, sounds enough proceeded from the earth. feathered songsters carolled in the woods behind us, and before us the heath-lark's love-strains swelled, answering each other from the juniper-bushes. from the bulrushes which grew on the margin of the lake was heard the quacking of the wild ducks; and from a greater distance came the plashing of the fisherman's oar, as he was returning to his home, and the soothing tones of his vesper hymn. the sun had now sunk below the horizon, and the bells that rang from many a church for evening prayer, summoned the weary labourer to rest and sleep. the heavy dews of night were already moistening the ground, and its mist was veiling the woods, the lake, and the sloping banks. now broke upon the ear the cheering yet plaintive music of wind instruments. it seemed to come nearer and nearer, and must undoubtedly have proceeded from the boat we had observed putting off from the opposite shore. when the music ceased, we could distinctly hear the voices of the party in the boat, and presently after the slight noise made by their landing. we stood still for a few minutes, expecting to see them ascending the hill, but soon perceived that, on the contrary, they were going in another direction, for the sound of the voices became fainter and fainter, and was lost at last apparently among the woods to the west. had it not been that the airs they had played were of the newest fashion, we might have fancied it a fairy adventure--a procession of woodland elves, or the bridal of the elf king himself. the shades of night were falling around. here and there a star glimmered faintly in the pale-blue skies. in the north-west was visible a red segment over the horizon, where the king of day was wandering beneath, on his way to lighten another hemisphere. now, all was still; only at a distance on the heath we heard the plover's melancholy note, and beneath us, on the lake, the whizzing of the water-fowls' wings as they skimmed its darkened surface. 'let us go homewards now!' cried my cousin. 'yes, home!' i replied. but we had not gone far before we both stopped at once with a 'hush! hark!' from the margin of the wood, through which we had just come, issued suddenly the sound of harmonious voices, singing as a duet a tyrolese air. there is something indescribably charming and touching in this unison of voices, especially in the open air, when the sweet tones seem to float upon the gentle breeze; and now, at the calm evening hour, when the surrounding hills were awakened from the deep repose into which they had just subsided, the sweet tones had the effect of the nightingale's delightful song. my cousin seized my hand and pressed it, as if to entreat that i should not, by any exclamation, disturb his auricular treat. when the vocalists ceased, he sighed deeply. i gazed in astonishment on him; he was in general so gay, and yet at that moment tears actually stood in his eyes! i attributed to the mighty enchantment of music, the power of softening and agitating the hardest and the lightest heart, and i remarked this to him. 'ah, well!' he replied, 'the human breast is like a sounding-board, which, although untouched, yet gives an echo when certain chords are struck.' 'you are right,' i said; 'as, for instance, the story of the tarantula dance.' he sighed again, and said gravely,-'but such chords must be connected with peculiar events--must awaken certain recollections--yes'--he took my hand, and pointing to the trunk of a tree which had fallen, we placed ourselves on it--'yes, my friend, yon air recalls to me a souvenir which i have in vain tried to forget. will you listen to the story?' 'tell it,' i said, 'though i can partly guess what it must be.' it was on such an evening as this (he continued), about two years ago, that, accompanied by a friend, i had gone on a little tour of pleasure to lake esrom. we remained sitting a long time on a fallen tree before we could prevail on ourselves to wend our way homewards, so charmed were we with the beauty of the scenery and of the evening. we had just arisen when a tyrolese air--the very one you and i have recently heard--sung delightfully as a duet, attracted our attention. it came from the side of the lake, but the sounds appeared to be gradually approaching nearer. we soon heard the plashing of oars, which kept time to the music, and shortly after we saw a boat making for the part of the shore where we were. when the song was ended, there was a great deal of talking and laughing in the boat, and the noise seemed to increase the nearer they came to the shore. we now saw distinctly the little skiff and its merry freight. 'lay aside your oars!' said one; 'i will steer you straight in to the land.' they did so. 'i know a quicker way of making the land,' cried another, as he sprang up, and striding from gunwale to gunwale, set the boat rocking frightfully. 'be quiet! be quiet!' roared a third; 'are you mad? the fool will upset the boat!' 'you shall have a good ducking for that,' said the madcap, swaying the boat still more violently. then came shouts of laughter mingled with oaths; in the midst of the uproar a loud voice called out, 'be done. i tell you! fritz cannot swim.' but it was too late--the boat was full of water--it upset. happily it was only a short way from the shore. in one moment they were all silent; we heard only the splashing and hard breathing of those who were swimming. there were six of them. presently one of them cried, 'fritz! fritz! come here! take hold of me!' then cried another, 'fritz, come to me!' and then several voices shouted, 'fritz! fritz! where are you?' two of them had by this time reached the shore, and they stood looking anxiously at those who were still swimming in the lake. one of them began counting, 'three, four!' then crying in a voice of extreme consternation, '_one_ is wanting!' he sprang again into the water, and the other instantly followed his example! my friend and i could no longer remain mere spectators of this scene; we threw off our coats and were speedily in the water, searching with the party for their lost friend. we thought he must be under the boat; therefore we all gathered round the spot where it lay keel upwards, and the best swimmer dived beneath it. in vain! he was not there. but at a little distance, amidst the reeds, one of us observed something dark--it was the missing fritz! he was brought on shore; but he was lifeless. zealously, anxiously, did we try all means of restoring him; they were of no avail. it was decided that he should be carried to the nearest house. a plank, which had formed one of the seats of the boat, and which had floated to the shore, was taken up; he was placed upon it, and they carried him towards the road. we followed them mechanically. what a contrast to their late boisterous mirth was their present profound silence! we had not proceeded far, when one of the foremost of the bearers turned round and exclaimed, 'where is sund?' we all looked back, and beheld the unfortunate madcap who had caused the accident half-hidden behind a tall bush, stuffing his pockets with pebbles. 'he will drown himself,' said the person who had just spoken; 'we must take him with us.' they stopped, and my companion and i offered our assistance to carry the body, whilst two of the party went to their repentant friend. the way to the house to which the drowned man was to be carried lay through a wood. it was so dark amidst the trees that we were close upon two female figures, dressed in white, before we observed them, 'good heavens!' cried the foremost of the party; 'if it should be fritz's betrothed! she said she would probably come to meet us.' it was indeed herself. you may imagine the painful scene: first, her horror at meeting us carrying a drowned man, and then her agony when she found out that the unfortunate victim was the one dearest to her on earth; for she could not be deceived, as she knew them all. she fainted, and her companion caught her in her arms as she was falling to the ground. what was to be done? my friend and i hastened to the assistance of the ladies, while the other gentlemen hurried on with the inanimate body to the house, which was at no great distance. i ran to the lake, and brought back some water in my hat; we threw a little on her face, when she soon came to herself again, poor thing! 'where is he?' she screamed; 'oh! where is he? he is not dead--let me go to him--let me go!' she strove to rise and rush forward. 'leave her, kind gentlemen,' said her companion, as she threw one arm round her waist, and with the other pressed her hand to her heart. 'thanks--thanks for your assistance, but do not trouble yourselves further; i know the way well.' we bowed and stood still, while she hastened on with her poor friend; and as they went we could hear the sorrowful wailing of the one, and the sweet soothing tones of the other. having received no invitation we had no right to follow them, and we sought our carriage, both deeply impressed by the melancholy catastrophe which we had involuntarily witnessed. we were not acquainted with any member of the party, nor were we able to hear anything of them. in vain we searched all the newspapers, and conned over all the announcements of deaths in their columns; there never appeared the slightest reference to the unfortunate event i have just mentioned, nor did we ever hear it alluded to in society. we should certainly, after the lapse of some time, have looked upon the whole affair as a freak of the imagination--a phantom scene--had we not played a part in it ourselves. it did not make so light an impression on me, however; you will think it strange, perhaps absurd, but i actually was partially in love! love has generally but one pathway to the heart--the eyes; it took a by-path with me--through the ears. it was so dark that i had not seen the young lady's features; i had only heard her voice. but, ah! what a voice it was! so soft--_that_ does not describe it; so melodious--neither does that convey an idea of what it was. i can compare it to nothing but the echo of tones from celestial regions, or to the angel-voices which we hear in dreams. her figure was as beautiful as her voice--graceful and sylph-like. if you have ever been bewitched in a night vision, you will be able to comprehend my feelings. i saw her, and i did not see her. her slight form with its white drapery looked quite spiritual in the dim light, and reminded me of dido in elysium, floating past æneas, who was still clothed in the garb of mortality. 'of whom are you speaking?' i asked. 'of the friend?' 'of course,' he replied; 'not of the widowed girl, as i may call the other.' 'i do not see anything so very extraordinary in what you have been telling me,' i said. 'when it is almost dark, fancy is more easily awakened; everything wears a different aspect from what it does in the glare of day--objects become idealized, and sweet sounds make more impression on the mind, while imagination is thus excited. but is this the end of your drama?' 'no; only the first act,' he replied. 'now comes the second.' the summer passed away; winter came, and it too had almost gone, when i happened to attend a masquerade at one of the clubs. for about an hour i had been jostled among the caricaturists, and was becoming very tired,--and falling into sombre reflections upon the illusions of life, and the masks worn in society to conceal people's real characters from each other, when my attention was attracted by twelve shepherds and shepherdesses in the pretty costume of languedoc, who came dancing in, hand in hand. the orchestra immediately struck up a french quadrille, and the french group danced so gracefully that a large and admiring circle was formed round them. when the quadrille was over, the circle opened, and the shepherds and shepherdesses mingled with the rest of the company. one of the shepherdesses, whose charming figure and elegance of motion had riveted my attention, as if by a magic power drew me after her. i followed wherever she went, until at last i got so near to her that i was able to address her. 'beautiful shepherdess!' i said in french, 'how is it that our northern clime is so fortunate as to be favoured by a visit from you and your lovely sisters?' she turned quickly towards me, and after remaining silent a few moments, during which time a pair of dark eyes gazed searchingly at me, 'monsieur,' she replied in french, 'we thought that fidelity had its true home in this northern clime.' 'you have each brought your lover with you,' i said. 'because we hoped that they would learn lessons of constancy here,' was her answer. 'lovely blossom from the banks of the garonne!' i exclaimed, 'who could be inconstant to you?' 'there is no telling,' she continued, gaily. 'you are paying me compliments without knowing me. you call me pretty, yet you have never seen _me_. it must be my mask that you mean.' 'your eyes assure me of your beauty,' said i; 'they must bear the blame if i am mistaken.' just at that moment another dance commenced; i asked the fair shepherdess to be my partner, and consenting, she held out her hand to me. we took our places immediately. it was then that a recollection came over me of having heard her sweet voice before. i thought that i recognized it--yes! surely it could be no other's than hers--my fairy of esrom wood! but i was determined to be certain of the fact. i said nothing, however, while we were dancing. the dance seemed to me very short, and at the same time endless. i interrupted him somewhat uncivilly with--'at any rate your story seems endless.' he continued, however. after the dance was over i conducted her to a seat, and placed myself by her side. 'it strikes me,' i remarked in danish, 'that t have once before heard your voice, but not on the banks of the garonne--' 'no,' she replied, interrupting me, 'not there, but perhaps on the borders of lake esrom?' a sweet feeling at that moment, as it were, both expanded and contracted my breast. it was herself--the unseen! she must also have remarked my voice, and preserved its tones in her memory. 'a second time we meet,' i sighed, 'without beholding each other. this is really like an adventure brought about by some magician's art; but, oh! how i long for the moment when you will no longer hide that charming countenance.' she laughed slightly; and there was something so sprightly, musical, and winning in her laugh, while her white teeth glistened like pearls under her mask, that i forgot what more i was going to say. she, however, began to speak. 'why should i destroy your illusion? leave our adventure, as you call it, alone; when a mystery is solved it loses its interest. if i were to remove my mask, you would only see the face of a very ordinary girl. your imagination gallantly pictures me beautiful as some circassian, or some houri; let me remain such in your idea, at least till the watchman cries the hour of midnight, and wakes you from your dreams.' 'all dreams are not delusive,' i said. 'they often speak the truth,' i added; 'yet sometimes one is tempted to wish that truths were but dreams; as, for instance, the very unfortunate event which was the occasion of our first meeting.' she looked surprised, while she repeated-'unfortunate? ah! true. you probably never heard--' at that moment one of the shepherds ran up, and carried her off hurriedly to a quadrille which was just forming. i was following the couple with my eyes, when my sister tapped me on the arm and asked me to dance with her, as she was not engaged. mechanically i took my place in the quadrille, the same in which my _incognita_ was dancing, and mechanically i went through the figures until she had to give me her hand in the chain. i pressed it warmly, but there was no response. ashamed and angry, i determined not to cast another glance at her; and resolutely i turned my head away. the quadrille was over, and once more i found myself constrained to look at her. but she was gone--the shepherds and shepherdesses had all disappeared. whether they had left the ball, or--what was more probable--had changed their attire, i saw them no more. in vain at the supper-table my eyes wandered over all the ladies, to guess, if possible, which was the right one. many of them were pretty; many had dark eyes and white teeth; but which of all these eyes and teeth were hers? it was by the voice alone that i could recognize her; but i could not go from the one to the other, and ask them to speak to me. and thus ended the second part of my drama. 'now, then, for the third act,' said i, with some curiosity. 'for that,' he replied, 'i have waited in vain, above a year and a day.' 'but do you not know her name?' i asked. 'no.' 'or none of the party of shepherds and shepherdesses?' 'i found out shortly after that i knew two of the shepherds; but of what use was that to me? i could not describe my shepherdess so that they could distinguish her among the twelve; they mentioned a dozen names, all equally unknown to me. that gave me no clue; to me she was both nameless and invisible.' i could not help smiling at my usually-gay cousin's doleful countenance. 'you are laughing at me,' said he. 'well, i don't wonder at it. to fall in love with a girl one has never seen is certainly great folly. but do not fancy that i am going to die of despair. i only feel a sort of longing come over me when i think of her.' the singers had now come so near that we could hear their conversation. after a few moments my cousin whispered to me that he knew one of them by his voice, and that he was an officer from copenhagen. in another minute they made their appearance. there were three of them, all dressed as civilians, but the moustaches of one showed that he was a military man. my cousin squeezed my arm, and whispered again-'it is he, sure enough; let us see if he knows me.' we rose, and stood stiffly, with our caps in our hands. they nodded to us, and the officer said-'put your hats on, lads. will you earn a shilling for something to drink, and help to erect our tent?' we agreed to his proposal, and at his desire we joined two men in fetching, from a cart near, the canvas and other things required to put the tent up; also cloaks, cushions, baskets with provisions, and bottles of wine, benches for seats, and a wider one for a table. when our services were no longer needed, the officer held out some money to me, which, of course, i would not receive. my cousin also refused payment; whereupon he swore that we should at least take something to drink, and, filling a tumbler from his flask, he handed it to my cousin, who received it with a suppressed laugh. 'what are you grinning at, fellow?' said the officer; but, as my cousin carried the tumbler to his lips, he exclaimed-'your health, wilhelm!' the individual thus addressed started back in astonishment, while his two companions peered into our faces. my cousin burst into a fit of laughter; and the officer, who now recognized him, cried, laughing also,-'ludvig! what the deuce is all this? and why are you equipped in that preposterous garb?' the matter was speedily explained; the three travellers expressed much pleasure at meeting us, and pressed us so cordially to join their party, and stay the night with them, that we at length acceded to their request. one of the officer's companions was a young, handsome, and very fashionable-looking man; he was extremely rich, we understood, therefore they called him _the merchant_, and they would not tell us his name, or if that were his _real_ position in society. the other introduced himself to us with these words: 'gentlemen, of the respectable peasant class! my name here in jutland is farniente. my agreeable occupation is to do nothing--at least nothing but amuse myself.' there was a great deal more joking among our hosts, and then we presented each other in the same bantering way, after which we all adjourned to the tent, where we wound up with a very jovial supper. at midnight the merchant reminded us that we had to rise next morning with the first rays of the sun, and that it was time to retire to rest. we made up a sort of couch, with cushions and cloaks, and on it we five faithful brothers stretched ourselves as best we might. the other four soon fell asleep. i alone remained awake; and when i found that slumber had fled my pillow, rose as quietly as possible, and left the tent. all around was still as the grave. the skies were without a cloud, but of their millions of eyes only a few were now open, and even these shone dimly and feebly, as if they were almost overcome by sleep. the monarch of light, who was soon to overpower their fading brightness, was already clearing his path in the north-east. it is not the darkness, still less the tempest, that renders night so extremely melancholy; it is that deep repose, that corpse-like stillness in nature; it is to see oneself the only waking being in a sleeping world--one living amidst the vast vaults of the grave--a creature trembling with the fearful, giddy thought of death and eternity. how welcome then is any sound which breaks the oppressive silence of that nocturnal solitude, and reminds us that human beings are about to awaken to their daily round of occupation and pleasure--and, it must be added, of anxiety and trouble! how cheerful seems the earliest crowing of the cocks from the nearest huts, rising almost lazily on the dusky air! the drowsy world was beginning to move; and after a time i discerned faint, sweet tones proceeding from the direction of the wood. i listened attentively, and soon became convinced that it was music--the music of wind instruments--which i heard. to me music is as welcome as the first rosy streaks of morn to the benighted wanderer, or a glimpse of the brilliant sun amidst the gloom of a dark wintry sky. the sweet sounds ceased, and i began to ponder whether it might not have been unearthly strains which i had heard--whether they might not have come from the fairies who perhaps dwell amidst the surrounding glades, or among the wild flowers that enamelled the sloping sides of the hills. the music, however, was certainly weber's, and the question was, whether the elfin people had learned the airs from him, or he from them. i returned to the tent, where the still sleeping party produced a very different and somewhat nasal kind of music. 'gentlemen! gentlemen!' i shouted, 'there are visitors coming.' my cousin was the first to awaken, then the officer, who sprang up, and immediately endeavoured to arouse the other two. 'the ladies will be here presently,' he said; 'get up both of you.' 'they are too early,' groaned one; 'i have not had half my sleep.' 'let them wait outside the tent till i am ready,' said farniente. 'good night!' the rest of us, however, went towards the wood to meet the three ladies, who were making their way to our temporary domicile, preceded by two musicians playing the horn, and two youths bearing torches, the latter being the sons of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, at whose house the ladies had slept. observing the peasant costume of my friend and myself, the ladies asked who we were, and were told by the military man that we were two soldiers of his regiment, who, being in the adjacent village, had assisted in putting up the tent. 'lads,' said he, addressing us in a tone of command, 'can you fetch some water for us from the nearest stream, and get some wood for us to boil our coffee? i will go with you.' 'no, no, sir--that would be a shame,' said my cousin, in the jutland dialect; 'we will bring all that is wanted ourselves.' when we returned to the tent it was broad daylight; farniente had been compelled to vacate his couch of cloaks, and in his lively way was greeting the fair guests with 'good morning, my three graces.' the officers told us, aside, that two of the ladies were his sisters, and were about to tell us more, when a waltz on the turf was proposed by farniente, who seized one of the ladies, whom he called sybilla, as his partner. _the merchant_ danced with another, to whom it appeared he was engaged, and the officer took his youngest sister. their hilarity was infectious, and my cousin dragged me round for want of a better partner, whereupon the fair sybilla, who had observed our dancing, remarked that we were 'really not at all awkward for peasant lads.' while they were taking their coffee afterwards, during which time we stood respectfully at a little distance, my cousin whispered to me how much he admired the lieutenant's youngest sister, who was indeed extremely pretty. he had not hitherto heard her voice, but he could not help seeing that she looked attentively--even inquisitively at him. by farniente's request, the ladies handed us some coffee, after having done which they made some remarks upon us to each other in german. at that moment my cousin let his coffee-cup drop suddenly to the ground, and standing as motionless as one of the trees in the wood, he fixed his eyes upon the youngest girl with a very peculiar expression, which called the deepest blushes to her cheek. we all looked on in surprise, but i began to suspect the truth. farniente was the first to speak. 'min herre!' said he, 'it is time that you should lay aside your incognito, for it is evident that you and this lady have met before.' my cousin had by this time recovered his speech and his self-possession. he went up to the young lady, and said:--'for the first time to-day have i had the happiness of seeing those lips from which i have twice heard a voice whose accents delighted me. in that voice i cannot be mistaken, so deep was the impression it made upon me. dare i flatter myself that my voice has not been quite forgotten by you?' catherina--that was her name--replied with a smile,-'i have neither forgotten your voice nor your face, though last time we met you were a spanish grandee.' 'what is all this?' exclaimed the officer; 'old acquaintances--another masquerade!' 'we are now truly all partaking of rural life,' said farniente; 'so come, you two peasants, and place yourselves with the fair shepherdess and us.' we joined the circle, and after our names having been told, my cousin, leading the conversation to lake esrom, and the events which took place on its banks, asked catherina how her poor friend had taken that sad affair, and if she had ever recovered her spirits?' 'oh yes, she has,' replied catherina; and pointing to the young lady who was engaged to _the merchant_, 'there she is!' my cousin started, and said, in some embarrassment, 'it was a sad event, but--' 'not so very sad,' cried _the merchant_, interrupting him, 'for the drowned man returned to life. he was no other than myself.' 'god be thanked!' exclaimed my cousin, sincerely rejoiced at the pleasant intelligence. 'that is more than we _then_ dared to hope. but what became of the poor foolish madcap who first upset the boat and then wished to drown himself?' 'here he is,' said farniente, pointing to himself; 'and as i once thought i might be promoted to the dignity of court jester, i took a wife, and there,' bowing to sybilla, 'sits the fair one who has undertaken to steer my boat over the dangerous ocean of life.' the morning mists by degrees cleared away from the wooded valleys and the hill-encircled waters; the larks had ended their early chorus, and the later songsters of the grove had commenced their sweet harmonies; all seemed joy around, and i looked with pleasure at the gay group before me. never had the cheering light of day shone upon a circle of more contented human beings, and among them none were happier than ludwig and his recently-found shepherdess, whose countenance beamed in the radiant glow of dawning love. six months have passed since then, and they are now united for this world and for that which is to come. the secret witness. by b. s. ingemann. in the year 1816 there lived in copenhagen an elderly lady, froken f----, of whom it was known that she sometimes involuntarily saw what was not visible to anyone else. she was a tall, thin, grave-looking person, with large features, and an expressive countenance. her dark, deep-set eyes had a strange glance, and she saw much better than most people in the twilight; but she was so deaf, that people had to speak very loudly to her before she could catch their words, and when a number of persons were speaking at the same time in a room, she could hear nothing but an unintelligible murmur. a sort of magnetic clairvoyance had, doubtless, in the somewhat isolated condition in which she was placed, been awakened in her mind, without, however, her being thrown into any peculiar state. she only seemed at times to be labouring under absence of mind, or to have fallen into deep thought, and then she was observed to fix her eyes upon some object invisible to all others. what she saw at those moments were most frequently the similitude of some absent person, or images of the future, which were always afterwards realized. thus she had often foreseen unexpected deaths, and other unlooked-for fatal accidents. as she seldom beheld in her visions anything pleasing, she was regarded by many as a bird of ill omen, and she therefore did not visit a number of families; those, however, who knew her intimately both respected and loved her. she was quiet and unpretending, and it was but rarely that she said anything, unsolicited, of the results of her wonderful faculty. she was a frequent guest in a family with whom she was a great favourite. the master of the house was an historical painter, and his wife was an excellent musician. the deaf old lady was a good judge of paintings, and extremely fond of them; also, hard of hearing as she was, music had always a great effect upon her; she could add in fancy what she did not hear to what she did hear; she had been very musical herself in her youthful days, and when she saw fingers flying over the pianoforte, she imagined she heard the music, even when anyone, to dupe her, moved their fingers back and forwards over the instrument, but without playing on it. one day she was sitting on a sofa in the drawing-room at the house of the above-mentioned family, engaged in some handiwork. the artist had a visitor who was a very lively, witty, satirical person, and they were standing together near a window, discoursing merrily; they often laughed during their conversation, and the tones of their voices seemed to change, occasionally, as if they were imitating some one, whereupon their hilarity invariably increased, which, however, was far from being as harmless and goodnatured as mirth and gaiety generally were in that house. when the visit was over, and the artist had accompanied his friend to the door, and returned to the drawing-room, the old lady asked him who had been with him. he mentioned the name of his lively friend, whom, he said, he thought she knew very well. 'oh, yes, i know him well enough,' she replied; 'but the other?' 'what other?' asked the painter, starting. 'why the tall man with the long thin face, who stood yonder; he with the dark, rough, uncombed-looking hair, and the bushy eyebrows--he who so often laid his hand on his breast, and pointed upwards, especially when you and your merry friend laughed heartily.' 'did you ever see him before?' inquired the artist, turning pale. 'did you observe how he was dressed, and if he had any peculiar habit?' 'i do not remember having ever seen him before; as to his dress, it was very singular, much like that of an old-fashioned country schoolmaster.' and she described minutely his long frock-coat, with large buttons and side-pockets, and his antiquated boots, that did not appear to have been brushed for a very long time. 'the peculiar habit you speak of,' she added, 'was probably the manner in which he slowly shook his head, when he seemed to differ in opinion from you and your other guest; in my eyes there was something noble and striking in this movement, there was an expression of pain or sadness in his countenance, which interested me; it was particularly observable when he laid his right hand on his breast, and raised his left hand upwards, as if he were solemnly affirming something, or calling god to witness to the truth of what he said. nevertheless, i remarked with surprise, that i scarcely saw him open his lips. it was of course impossible for me to hear what you were all talking about.' the terrified artist became still paler--he tottered for a moment, and was obliged to lean on the back of a chair for support. shortly after he seized his hat and hurried out of the house. the individual whom the old lady had so graphically described had been a friend of his in youth, but with whom he had been on bad terms for the last two years, and whom he had not seen lately. the whole conversation with his amusing visitor had been about this very man. they had been engaged in a laughable and, at the same time, merciless criticism of his character, and appearance, and had been turning into ridicule every little peculiarity he had; his very voice they had mimicked, and in their facetious exaggeration, had not only made a laughing-stock of his person and manners, which were indeed odd, but had attributed to him want of heart and want of judgment, which latter sentence they based upon his somewhat peculiar taste, and a kind of dry, pedantic, schoolmaster tone in conversation, from which he was not free. 'that old maid is mad--and she has made me mad, too,' mumbled the artist, pausing a moment when he had gained the street. '_he_ certainly was not there--we do not meet any longer. she never saw him before. there is something strangely mysterious in this matter--perhaps it bodes some calamity. but, whether she is deranged--or i--or both of us, i have wronged him--shamefully wronged him--and i must see him, and tell him all.' he stepped into a bookseller's shop, and asked to look at a directory. after about half-an-hour's walk he entered a house in a small back street, and ascending to the third story, he rang at a door. a girl opened it, and, in answer to his inquiries, told him that the person he asked for was ill, and could not see anyone. 'but i must see him--i must speak to him,' cried the painter, almost forcing himself in. he was then ushered into a darkened room, where he found his poor friend of bygone days looking pale and emaciated, lying perfectly still upon a sofa, in his old grey frock-coat and soiled boots. the kind anxiety with which the unexpected visitor asked about his health seemed equally to surprise and please the invalid. 'you!' he exclaimed, '_you_ here! do you still take any interest in me? have you any regard left for me? i did you shameful injustice two years ago, when i saw your great masterpiece; and had not an enthusiastic word for what i have though, often since, thought of with the greatest admiration. nay, within this very last hour i have wronged you, though in quite a different manner. i was dreaming of you, and i fancied you were speaking of me with scorn and derision--pulling me to pieces in a jesting conversation with a very satirical person, who vied with you in ridiculing me, and in mimicking all my oddities.' 'forgive me--oh, forgive me! you dreamed the truth,' cried the painter, in great agitation, while he threw himself down by the sick man's couch, and embraced his knees. an explanation ensued between the two friends who had so long been estranged from each other--mutual confessions were made--old feelings were revived in the hearts of both--and an entire reconciliation immediately took place. the unusual emotion, and the surprise at the event related to him, did not, as might have been expected, increase the illness of the nervous and debilitated invalid; on the contrary, the meeting with his former friend appeared to have had a good effect on his health, for in the course of a few weeks he had quite recovered. the old lady's qualifications as a seer, or rather her strange faculty of beholding, to others invisible, apparitions, had been productive of good; but it was such an extraordinary revelation, agreeing so entirely with what both the reconciled friends knew to be the truth, that they could only look upon it as a proof of the reality of what was then beginning to be so much talked of--the magnetic clairvoyance. they continued unalterable friends from that time. from that time, also, the artist felt an involuntary horror at ridiculing the absent, or making or listening to any censorious remarks upon them; he always fancied that the injured party might be standing _as a secret witness_ by his side, with one hand on his breast, and the other raised in an appeal to that great judge, who alone can know what is passing in every heart and every soul. agnete and the merman. by jens baggesen. agnete she was guileless. she was beloved and true, but solitude, it charm'd her, and mirth she never knew- she never knew- she made the joy of all around yet never felt it too. over the dark blue waves, agnete, gazing, bends, when lo! a merman rising there from ocean's depths ascends; up he ascends. yet still, agnete's bending form with the soft billows blends. his glossy hair, it seemed as spun out of the purest gold, his beaming eye, it brightly glow'd with warmest love untold- with love untold! and his scale-cover'd bosom held a heart that was not cold. the song he sang agnete, on love and sorrow rang; his voice it was so melting soft, so sadly sweet he sang- sadly he sang. it seemed as if his beating heart upon his lips it sprang. 'and hearken, dear agnete! what i shall say to thee- my heart, oh! it is breaking, sweet! with longing after thee! still after thee! oh! wilt thou ease my sorrow, love, oh! wilt thou smile on me?' two silver buckles lay upon the rocky shore, and aught more rich, or aught more bright, no princess ever wore, no, never wore. 'my best beloved,'--so sang he- 'add these unto thy store!' then drew he from his breast a string of pearls so rare- none richer, no, or none more pure did princess ever wear- oh! ever wear. 'my best beloved,' so sang he, 'accept this bracelet fair!' then from his finger drew he a ring of jewels fine- and none more brilliant, none more rich, midst princely gems might shine; 'here, here from mine. my best beloved,' so sang he, 'oh, place this upon thine!' agnete, on the deep sea beholds the sky's soft hue, the waves they were so crystal clear, the ocean 'twas so blue! oh! so blue! the merman smiled, and thus he sang, as near to her he drew:- 'ah! hearken, my agnete, what i to thee shall speak: for thee my heart is burning, love, for thee, my heart will break! oh! 'twill break! say, sweet, wilt thou be kind to me, and grant the love i seek?' 'dear merman! hearken thou, yes, i will list to thee! if deep beneath the sparkling waves thou'lt downward carry me- take thou me! and bear me to thine ocean bow'r there, i will dwell with thee.' then stoppeth he her ears, her mouth then stoppeth he; and with the lady he hath fled, deep, deep beneath the sea! beneath the sea! there kiss'd they, and embraced they, so fond, and safe, and free! for full two years and more, agnete, she lived there, and warm, untiring, faithful love they to each other bear; such love they bear. within the merman's shelly bower are born two children fair. agnete--she sat tranquilly. and to her boys she sang; when hark! a sound of earth she hears, how solemnly it rang! ding--dong--dang! it was the church's passing bell in holmé vale that clang. agnete, from the cradle, springs suddenly away, she hastes to seek her merman dear, 'loved merman, say i may- say--oh say, that i, ere midnight's hour, may take to holmé's church my way?' 'thou wishest ere the midnight to holmé church to go? see then that thou, ere day, art back here, to thy boys below- go--go--go! but ere the morning light return come to thy sons below!' he stoppeth then her ears, her mouth then stoppeth he; and upwards they together rise till holmé vale they see. 'now part we!' they part, and he descends again beneath the deep blue sea. straight on to the churchyard, agnete's footsteps hie: she meets--o god! her mother there, and turns again to fly. 'why--o why?' her mother's voice her steps arrests thus speaking with a sigh:- 'oh hearken, my agnete, what i shall say to thee, where has thy distant dwelling been so long away from me? away from me! say, where hast thou, my child, been hid so long and secretly?' 'o mother! i have dwelt beneath the boundless main, within a merman's coral bower, and we have children twain, beneath the main. i came to pray--and then i go back to the deep again!' 'but hearken thou, agnete, what i to thee shall say- here thy two little daughters weep because thou art away; by night, by day, thy little girls bemoan and grieve; with them thou'lt surely stay?' 'well--let my daughters small for me both grieve and long, my ears are closed--i cannot hear their cries yon waves among! oh! i belong to my dear sons, and they will die if i my stay prolong.' 'have pity on thy babes- let them not pine away! oh! think upon thy youngest child who in her cradle lay! with them oh stay! forget yon elves, and with thine own, thy lawful children stay!' 'nay, let them bloom or fade- the two--as heav'n may will! my heart is closed--their cries no more can now my bosom thrill- oh! no more thrill! for now my merman's sons alone all my affections fill.' 'alas! though thou canst thus thy smiling babes forget; yet think upon their father's faith, thy noble lord's regret, the fate he met! as soon as thou wert lost to him his sun of joy was set. 'long--long he search'd for thee, he went a weary way; at last from yonder shelving rock he cast himself one day- one dismal day. his corpse upon the pebbly strand in the dim twilight lay! 'and here--'twas not long since- his coffin they did bring; ha! list, my daughter, hearest thou? the midnight bells they ring! ding--dong--ding!' away her mother hastens then as loud the church bells ring. agnete, o'er the church-door stepp'd softly from without, when all the little images they seem'd to turn about; round about. within the church, the images they seem'd to turn about. agnete gazes on the altar-piece so fair; the altar-piece it seem'd to turn, and the altar with it there. all where'er her eye it fell within the church, seem'd turning, turning there! agnete, on the ground she gazed in thoughtful mood, when lo! she saw her mother's name that on a tomb-stone stood. there it stood! then, sudden from her bursting heart, flow'd back her chill'd life's blood. agnete--first she stagger'd back, she fainted, then she fell. now may her children long in vain for her they loved so well. oh, so well! now, neither sons nor daughters more to her their wants may tell. ay! let them weep, and let them long, and seek her o'er and o'er! dark, dark, are now her eyes so bright, they ne'er shall open more! oh, never more! and crush'd is now that death-cold heart, so warm with love before. a waking dream. he sat alone. it was not twilight, it was night, deep, dark night. he had extinguished the lamp, for he wished that all around him should be gloomy as his own sad thoughts. even the pitiful glimmering light, which was cast by the fire in the stove on the objects near it, was disagreeable to him, for it showed him a portion, at least, of the scene of his bygone happiness. his bitter sorrow seemed to have petrified all his faculties, and entirely blasted his life; he did not appear to reflect, he only felt. the deep sighs that every now and then burst from his compressed lips were all that gave sign of existence about him. that agitated tremor, those wild lamentations, those burning tears,--the glowing look which griefs volcano casts forth, lay hidden amidst the ashes of mute and agonized suffering. but a few years before he had been the most hopeful of lovers; and somewhat later, the happiest of husbands and of fathers. now all--all was lost! death had stretched forth his mighty hand and taken his treasures from him; blow after blew had fate thus inflicted on his bleeding heart. he--the strong man--the high-minded--the richly-endowed--sat there like a lifeless statue, without purpose, without motion, without energy: all had been swept away in the earthquake which had engulphed the happiness of his home, and he had not power to raise a new structure upon the ruins of the past. while he was sitting thus, a momentary blaze in the fire showed him the portrait of his departed wife, which hung against the wall. how many recollections the sight of it awakened! oh, how distinctly he remembered the day when that painting had been finished for him! it was a short time before his marriage; he was gazing on it in an ecstasy of delight, when the lovely original cast her beaming eyes on him and whispered, 'do you really think it beautiful? is it so beautiful that when i become old and grey-headed, you may look at my picture and remember your love, your feelings for me, when we were both young?' and when he assured her, that for him she would always be young, she replied so sweetly, 'oh, i am not afraid of becoming old by your side; it will be so delightful to have lived a long life of love with you!' alas! he was still young, but he had to wander through perhaps a long, long life alone. how had he beheld her last? she was lying in her coffin--young and lovely, but pale and motionless. and he--who still breathed and felt--he it was who had clung in despair to that coffin--he who, with a breaking heart, had laid her dark hair smoothly on her marble-white cheek, had pressed his lips for the last time on her cold forehead, had folded her transparent hands and bedewed them with his tears, and had laid his throbbing head on that so lately beating heart, which never, never more would thrill with sorrow or with joy. but who could describe that depth of grief, that rending of the soul, that agonizing convulsion of the heart, when the last farewell look on earth--the long, eager, parting look--was taken, and the head was raised from the harrowing contemplation of these beloved features, which were soon to be snatched and hidden from his gaze! then despair seized upon him, and his grief could find no relief in tears. in these heart-breaking recollections his spirit was long absorbed; at length he pressed his hands on his aching temples, burst into a flood of tears, and exclaimed: 'oh, thou whom i loved so truly! hast thou indeed forsaken me? can it be possible that thou hast dissevered thyself from my soul! oft have i dreamed that thou wert harkening to my lamentations, that thou wert lingering by my side, and soothing my sorrow! but it was fancy--cheating fancy! thou who didst feel so much affection for me--thou who wert never deaf to my prayers--hast thou heard me, and yet not answered me? how often during the sad weary night have i not called upon thee! see--i stretch forth my arms and embrace only the empty air--i gaze around for thee, but am left in oppressive solitude. oh, if thou _canst_ hear me, beloved spirit! if it be possible that thou canst hear me--come, oh come!' his voice was choked by tears. at last, when the water mist had passed from his eyes, removing, as it were, a veil from before them, he gazed wearily on the darkness around, and perceived a faint ray of light, which gradually seemed to become clearer. at first he thought it was the moon casting its uncertain gleams through the window; but the light seemed to extend itself. the corner of the room opposite to him seemed illumined by a pale, tremulous lustre that spread down to the floor. his heart beat violently as he gazed intently at the miraculous light. by degrees it assumed something like a shape, an airy, transparent figure, clad in a shining garment that glittered like the stars of heaven; and when it turned its countenance towards him, he recognized the features of her he had lost, but radiant in celestial peace and glory. her clear eyes, which were fixed upon him, beamed with an expression of indescribable benignity. the deep grief that had oppressed his spirit gave place to a wonderful, a mysterious feeling of holy calmness which he had never before experienced. 'oh, speak!' he entreated softly, as if he were afraid to disturb the beautiful apparition, and holding his clasped hands beseechingly towards it--'oh let me hear that voice, the echo of whose dear accents still lives in my heart! hast thou taken compassion on me?' 'didst thou not call me?' replied the apparition in a faint, subdued tone, yet so full of tenderness and affection that it seemed to inspire him with new life. 'hast thou not often called me? i could no longer withstand thy supplication. the sorrows and sufferings of earth have lost their bitterness and their sting for those who have become heavenly spirits--those who have seen the omnipotent face to face; but thy grief touched my heart even in the midst of blessedness. i could not be happy whilst thou wert wretched. often have i hovered around thee, often lingered by thy side, often wafted coolness to thy burning brow; and when thy sadness would seem to be somewhat soothed, i have lain at thy feet, and contemplated thy beloved countenance. i was by thee when thou didst lean weeping over my coffin, and in an agony of woe didst cling to that body whence my soul had fled. oh! how much i wished then that thou couldst look up at me, and know how near i was to thee! oh! how willingly i would have embraced thee, had the almighty permitted me! i was also with thee when our beloved infant lay in its last earthly struggle. my dying child called for me, and the heart of the mother yearned to respond to that call which had reached her, even when surrounded by the happiness of eternity, i came down to earth to answer it. like an airy shadow, i glided through the garden paths in the still summer night, and all the plants and the flower exhaled their sweetest fragrance to salute me, for they felt that i had come from a better world. and nature spoke to me with its spirit voice, and besought me to consecrate its soil with my ethereal step. the dark elder-tree and the blushing rosebush made signs to me, asking me if i remembered how often they had shed their perfume around us, when you and i, wrapped in our mutual happiness, used to wander in the soft evenings, arm in arm--heart answering heart--eye meeting eye--through the verdant alleys and flower-enamelled walks; but i could not linger over these sweet remembrances, i passed on to watch the death-bed of the little innocent who longed so for its mother. and when thou, my beloved! overcome by affliction, let thine aching head sink in helpless sorrow on its couch, our child lay, peaceful and joyous, in my embrace, and ascended to heaven with me to pray for thee. oh, dearest one i how canst thou think that death has power to sever hearts that have once been united in everlasting love!' he listened in mute and breathless ecstasy to these words, which sounded as the softest melody to his enraptured ear. when the voice ceased, he stretched forth his arms towards the beloved shade, and said beseechingly: 'forgive me, angel of paradise--forgive me! i feel now that the happiness of heaven is so great that nothing mortal can compare with it. yet for my sake thou hast left awhile this inconceivable felicity, and deigned to assuage my grief, and to speak balm to my heart. thanks, blessed spirit--thanks! my path shall no longer be gloomy--my life no longer lonesome!' 'thou wilt sigh no more--thou wilt no longer weep?' asked the spirit, with a radiant smile. 'thou shalt be my guardian angel, blessed spirit!' he replied, in deep emotion. 'god be thanked!' ejaculated the spirit in holy joy. it waved its shadowy hand to him, and as it seemed to turn to move away, its airy robe sparkled luminously for a moment; it then glittered more and more faintly, till it looked like the twinkling of some distant star. then earth-born wishes seized again upon _his_ heart. 'alas;' he cried, as he made an involuntary movement towards the vanishing shadow, 'shall i, then, never behold thee more in this world?' a holy light passed over the scarcely defined features of the spirit, while it replied, as if from afar-'yes! once more--but only once. when thy last hour approaches--when the bitterness of death is passed--then shalt thou tell those that watch by thy couch, and who, incredulous, will deem thy words the raving of delirium--then shalt thou tell them that a messenger from a glorious world is standing by thy side. that messenger will be me. i shall come to kiss the last breath from thy pale quivering lips, to gladden the last glance of thy closing eyes, and, after the heart's last pulsation, to receive thy parted soul, and be its guide to the realms of endless happiness, where i now await thee.' he listened and bowed his head. when he raised it--all was dark and empty. he went to the window, and looked out upon the dazzling snow, and up to the brilliant star-lit heavens, and prayed in sadness, but with earnest devotion. he lives to perform his duties, to do good to his fellow-creatures, to serve his god. he is never gay nor lively; but he is tranquil and content. he loves quiet and solitude. he loves in winter to lose himself in meditation while gazing on the calm, cold face of nature; and in summer to loiter in silence, till a late hour at night, amidst his garden's sweetly-scented walks. he is a lonely wanderer on the earth; yet not quite so lonely as he is thought to be, for he is often soothed by delightful dreams, and then he smiles happily, as if in his visions he had been consoled by the presence of a beloved being. if his soul sometimes ventures humbly to indulge in the wish that it might soon enter into death's peaceful land, none can tell; his silent aspirations are known to none--to none but _him_ who sees into the deepest recesses of the human heart. the confessional. by christian winther. in the magdalene church at girgenti[9] preparations had been made for a grand festival. it was adorned, as usual on such occasions, with red tapestry and flowers. the hour of noon had struck, the workmen had left the church, and there reigned around that deep, solemn stillness which, in catholic places of worship, is so appropriate and so imposing. two gentlemen, who conversed in a low tone of voice, were pacing up and down the long aisle that runs along the northern side of the building, and seemed to be enjoying the shade and coolness of the church, as if it had been a public promenade. the elder was a man of about thirty years of age, stout, broad-shouldered, and strongly built, with a grave countenance, in which no trace of passion was visible: this was don antonio carracciolio, marquis d'arena. the other, who seemed a mere youth, had a slender, graceful figure, an animated, handsome face, and dark eyes, soft almost as those of a woman--which wandered from side to side with approving glances, as if he had some peculiar interest in the interior of the sacred edifice. and such he certainly had; for he was the architect who had planned the church and superintended its erection. he was called giulio balzetti, and had only lately returned from rome. suddenly they stopped. 'i shall entrust you with a secret, which i think will amuse you, signor marquis,' said the younger man, in the easy intimate tones in which one speaks to a friend at whose house one is a daily visitor--'a secret with which, i believe, no one is acquainted but myself. you see the effects of acoustics sometimes play us builders strange tricks where we least expect or wish them. chance, a mere accident, has revealed to me, that when one stands here--here upon this white marble slab--one can distinctly overhear every syllable, even of the lowest whisper, uttered far from this, yonder, where you may observe the second last confessional; while, in a straight line between this point and that, you would not be sensible of any sound, were you even much nearer the place. if you will remain standing here, i will go yonder to the confessional in question, and you will be astonished at this miracle of nature.' he went accordingly, but scarcely had he moved the distance of a couple of steps, when the marquis distinctly heard a whisper, the subject of which seemed to make a strong impression upon him. he stood as rigid and marble-white as if suddenly turned to stone by some magician's wand; while the painfully anxious attention with which he listened, and which was expressed in his otherwise stony features, gave evidence that he was hearing something of excessive importance. he did not move a muscle--he scarcely breathed--he was like one who is standing on the extreme verge of an abyss, into which he is afraid of falling, and his rolling eyes and beating heart alone gave signs of his violent agitation. in a very few minutes the young architect came back smiling, and called out from a little distance, 'i could not manage to make the experiment, for some one was in the confessional--from the glimpse i got, a lady closely veiled--but, heavens! what is the matter with you?' the only answer which the marquis gave the italian was to place his finger on his mouth, and he continued to stand motionless. after a minute or two he drew a deep sigh. the statue passed out of its speechless magic trance, and returned again to life. 'it is nothing, dear giulio!' said he, in a friendly tone. 'do not think that i am superstitious; but i assure you this mysterious and wonderful natural phenomenon has taken me so much by surprise, that it has had a strange effect on me. come, let us go! i shall recover myself in the fresh air,' he added, as he took balzetti's arm, and led him to the promenade on the outside of the town. the two gentlemen walked up and down there for about an hour, when the marquis bade the young man adieu, saying, at the same time, 'tomorrow, after the festival is over, will you come out as usual to our villa?' at a very early hour the next morning the marquis entered his wife's private suite of apartments. the waiting-maid, who just at that moment was coming into the anteroom by another door, started, and looked quite astounded. 'did your lady ring?' asked the marquis. 'no, your excellency!' replied the woman, curtseying low and colouring violently. 'then wait till you are called,' said the marquis, as he opened the door of the dressing-room, which separated the sleeping-room from the antechamber. as he crossed the threshold he was met by his lovely young wife, attired in a morning-gown so light and flowing, that it looked as if it must have been the one in which she had arisen from her couch. the marquis stopped and stood still, as if struck with his wife's extreme beauty. he did not appear to observe the uneasiness, the inward tempest of feelings that, chasing all the blood from her cheeks, had sent it to her heart, and caused its beating to be too plainly visible under the robe of slight fabric which was thrown around her. 'you are up early this morning, antonio!' said the young marchioness, in a scarcely audible tone of voice, with a deepening blush and a forced smile. 'what do you want here?' 'could you be surprised, my lauretta? light of my eyes!' said the marquis, in the blandest and most insinuating of accents, 'could you be surprised if i came both early and late? and yet, dearest, this morning my visit is not to you alone. you know to-day is the feast of the holy magdalene, and a great festival in the church. i have taken it into my head to usher in this day by paying my tribute of admiration to the glorious magdalene of titian, which you had placed in your own sleeping apartment. will you permit me?' he asked, very politely, as with slow steps, but in a determined manner, he walked towards the door. 'everything is really in such sad disorder there,' said his young wife, with a rapid glance through the half-open door; 'but ... go, since you will. i shall begin making my toilette here in the mean time.' and he went in. 'how charming,' he cried, in a peculiar tone of voice--'how charming is not all this disorder! this graceful robe thrown carelessly down--these fairy slippers! there is something that awakens the fancy, something delicious in the very air of this room! all this is absolutely poetry.' his searching look fastened itself upon the snow-white couch, the silken coverlet of which was drawn up and spread out, but could not entirely conceal the outline of a human figure, lying as flat as possible, evidently in the endeavour to escape observation. 'i will sit down awhile,' said the marquis, in the cheerful voice of a person who has no unpleasant thought in his mind, 'and contemplate this master-work.' as he said this he took up a pillow, its white covering trimmed with wide lace, and laid it on the spot where he thought the face of the concealed person must be, and placed himself upon it with all the weight of his somewhat bulky figure, whilst he placed his right hand upon the chest of the reclining form, and pressed on it with all his force. without heeding the involuntary, frightful, and convulsive heavings--the death-throes of his wretched victim--the marquis exclaimed, in a calm, firm voice,-'how beautifully that picture is finished! how noble and chaste does not the lovely penitent look, all sinner as she was, with her rich golden locks waving over that neck and those shoulders whiter than alabaster, while these graceful hands are clasped, and these contrite, tearful eyes seem gazing up yonder, whence alone mercy and pardon can be obtained! one could almost become a poet in gazing on so splendid a work of art. but ah! i never had the happy talent of an improvisatore. in place, therefore, of poetizing, i will tell you something that happened yesterday. our little friend giulio balzetti took me round the magdalene church; and, whilst we were wandering about, he pointed out a particular spot to me, and bade me stand quite still there, telling me that _there_ might be overheard what was said at another spot at some distance in the church. and he was right. at that other place stood the confessional no. 6. i had hardly placed myself on the marble flag indicated to me, than i heard a charming voice--god knows who it was speaking!--but she was confessing the sorrows of her heart and her little sins to the holy father. she had a husband, she said, whom she loved--yes, she loved him, and he loved her: he was very kind to her, and left her much at liberty; in short, she gave the husband credit for all sorts of good qualities, but, unfortunately, she had fallen in love with another man! she did not mention his name. i should like to have heard it. he must be one of our handsome young cavaliers about the town. and this other loved her, too--she could not help it, poor thing!--and so she found room for him in her heart as well as for the husband. this other one was so handsome, so pleasing, so fascinating!... well ... if her husband did not know what was going on, he could not be vexed, and ... it would do him no harm. so she had promised to admit the lover early this morning. do you hear? this is what the french dames call "passer ses caprices." at last, she begged the good priest to give her absolution beforehand. and he did so: he gave the absolution! what do you think of all this, my love?' said the marquis, as he rose from the couch, where all was now still as death, 'well,' he continued, in a jocular tone, 'our worthy priests are almost too complaisant and indulgent--at least, most of them. our old father gregorio, however, would have taken _you_ to task after a different fashion, if you ...' he broke off abruptly, while he quietly laid the pillow in its own place, and deliberately turned down the embroidered coverlet. it was the architect giulio balzetti whom the marquis beheld: he had ceased to breathe! 'have you been to confession lately, my laura?' asked the marquis. there was no answer. 'is it long since you have been to confession?' he asked, in a louder and sterner voice. 'no!' replied the young woman, in the lowest possible tone. 'apropos,' said the marquis, as he covered the frightfully distorted and blue face of the corpse with the coverlet, 'shall we not go to the grand festival at the church to-day? the procession begins exactly at twelve o'clock. i shall order the carriage--we really must not miss it.' he returned to the dressing-room. the marchioness was sitting in a large cushioned lounging-chair, the thick tresses of her dark hair hanging negligently down, her lips and cheeks as pale as death, and her hands resting listlessly on her lap. 'what is the matter, my dear child?' asked the marquis, inwardly triumphing at her distress, but with fair and friendly words upon his lips. 'you have risen too early, my little laura; and you have also fatigued yourself in trying to dress without assistance. where is pipetta? i shall ring for her now.' he pulled the bell-rope--approached his wife--slightly kissed her brow--and then left her apartments. at mid-day, when all the bells of the churches were pealing, the marquis's splendid state carriage, with four horses adorned with gilded trappings, stood before the gate of his palace, and a crowd of richly-dressed pages, footmen, and grooms, were in waiting there. presently the marquis appeared in his brilliant court costume, with glittering stars on his breast, his hat in one hand, whilst with the other he led his young and beautiful but deadly-pale wife. with the utmost attention he handed her down the marble steps, and while her countenance looked as cold and stony as that of a statue, his eyes flashed with a fire that was unusual to them. the servants hurried forwards, the carriage-door was opened, the noble pair entered it, and it drove off towards the town. in the crowded streets the foot passengers turned round to gaze at it, and exclaimed to each other, 'there go a happy couple!' the architect had disappeared. no one suspected that on the day of the grand festival he lay dead--a blue and terrible-looking corpse--amidst boots and shoes, at the bottom of a noble young dame's wardrobe; or that, the following night, without shroud or coffin, his body was secretly transported by the lady's faithful servants to a neighbouring mountain, and there thrown into a deep cave. but the lady paid a large sum to the convent of the magdalens for the sake of his soul's repose. the monk gregorio--the accommodating and favourite confessor of the fashionable world--was also soon after missing. but _he_ was not dead--he lingered for some years in a subterranean prison belonging to a monastery of one of the strictest orders: a punishment to which he had been condemned through the influence of the marquis d'arena. that the confessional no. 6 was removed, will be easily believed. the marquis never alluded to these events before his wife. when they appeared in public together, as also in society at his own home, he treated her with respect, often with attention. but he never again spoke to her in private, nor did he ever again enter those apartments which had once been the scene of so dreadful a tragedy. the ancestress; or, family pride. from the swedish of the late baroness knorring. i. adelgunda was one of the most beautiful creatures ever moulded by the great master's hand, and one on whom he might deign to look with the same paternal complacency as pygmalion looked on his galathea. adelgunda was also as the apple of their eye to her father and mother; but not the less did they bring her up with the utmost strictness and severity, in the awful loftiness of their aristocratic principles, which made no allowance for a single error, a single imperfection, a single weakness even, among any who belonged to them. everyone was to be super-excellent, and supremely high-bred like their ancestors; for their ancestors had only _virtues_, their failings being entombed with their bodies. the slightest infringement of the stately decorum, the formal propriety--and, to the honour of their ancestors we must add--the rectitude, the loyal and chivalric conduct of these worthies, called forth as unmerciful punishment as a heinous fault. and adelgunda, from her earliest infancy, learned to form grand ideas about her noble, ancient, and opulent family; it was impressed on her mind that she would be very degenerate indeed if she did not resemble all those long departed, and now mouldering dames and damsels, whose portraits hung in long rows in the great picture-gallery, as a large old-fashioned apartment was called, which, in spite of accidental fires, of repairs and renovations in the old baronial castle, had preserved unaltered its antique appearance since the middle of the sixteenth century. in her infancy, adelgunda had often been taken into this venerable saloon, and, counting with her five small fingers, she could repeat the names of all those haughty-looking, long-bearded cavaliers, equipped in heavy armour, or these stiff, richly-dressed nobles, most of them decorated with jewelled orders, or other tokens of a high worldly position; and these grand-looking ladies, encased in whalebone and stiff corsets, with towering powdered heads and magnificent jewellery, evincing the wealth of the family. these ladies and gentlemen hung, as has been said, in straight rows on each side of the long, narrow, dark, oak-paneled hall; and they were all half-length portraits in oval or almost square frames, the gilding of which had long since faded into a sort of a brownish-yellow cinnamon tint. but at the end of the hall, between two deep gothic windows, with small old-fashioned panes of glass, there hung alone in state the great _ancestress_, or founder of the family--a tall, dark, stern-looking woman, whose countenance was grave, austere, and almost menacing, though the features, when narrowly examined, were regular and beautiful. in contrast to the half-length portraits around, this picture was almost colossal in size; and the noble lady it represented, who in roman catholic times had ended her days as the abbess of a convent, stood there so stately and so stiff in the close black garb, with the unbecoming white linen band across her forehead, and with one hand, in which she held a crucifix, resting on a dark-looking stand, on which a missal, a skull, and a rosary, lay near each other, the other hand hung carelessly down by her side, and almost reached the lower portion of the picture-frame, which seemed considerably darker and more time-worn than all the rest. this picture was painted on thick wood, or on canvas stretched on wood, it was not certain which, but everyone knew that it was as heavy as lead--and so it proved to be. the likeness of the patriarch of the family--of the father of the race--painted to correspond in size and everything else to that of the high-born lady above mentioned, had in former days hung also in this saloon, but had been destroyed in a fire which had taken place between the years 1740 and 1750, so that the stern imperious-looking dame now occupied the place of honour alone. her parents had never omitted, when they accompanied adelgunda into the picture gallery, to take her up first to one, then to another of the noble ladies whose lineaments adorned the walls, saying, 'how fortunate for you if you could be as good as _this_ ancestress of yours was--as clever as _that_ one--as beautiful as _she_ was--as dutiful and affectionate as _yon_ lady!' adelgunda would fix her eyes on each by turns, and every time she looked at them her desire to resemble them increased. but the great gloomy portrait of the tall dark lady always awakened a thrill of terror in the little girl's mind. this was partly owing to the tales with which the servants frightened her about this harsh, awful-looking abbess, partly to her being obliged, whenever she was naughty, to go into the sombre apartment where the picture was, and, curtseying before it, to beg pardon of the stern, threatening figure. with her tearful looks fixed upon it, she had often fancied that the eyes of the portrait moved; but it was a still greater trial to poor adelgunda, when she had been guilty of some great offence, to be condemned, as a punishment, to stand for a quarter of an hour, or half-an-hour, under the dreaded portrait with her back to it. there was a tradition in the family that many, many years back, during the lifetime of one of the more ancient lords of the castle, a little girl, a member of the race, who was undergoing a similar punishment, distinctly felt the terrible lady's hand, which hung unemployed by her side, stretch over the picture-frame and seize roughly hold of her hair. the recollection of that tradition was martyrdom to adelgunda when this most dreaded penance was inflicted on her; and on one occasion, when her conscience was not of the clearest, and she had cried herself almost into a fever from fright, she fancied that she actually felt a grasp at her little golden tresses. it is easy to imagine how anxious, in consequence of all this, adelgunda was to avoid committing any faults, and with what terror the picture inspired her. and even in riper years, when she began to lay aside her childish dress and childish ideas, and when reason told her that a painted figure could have no more power or influence than any other inanimate object, she still looked with a certain degree of awe upon the portrait of her frowning ancestress, especially when her conscience told her that she had been guilty of any slight indiscretion; while, on the contrary, she felt some pleasure at gazing on the other family pictures, which all seemed to smile upon her. but years and time wore on, and the aristocratic bones of adelgunda's proud, high-born parents were laid in the dust to mingle with the honoured remains of the old stock. she was then still in her minority, and found a new home with a kind aunt, who had resided too short a time under the same roof with the ancestral portraits, and in the place which had been the cradle of their race, to have imbibed their exaggerated family pride. the estate, which was entailed, with everything belonging to it, including the much-prized portrait, passed in trust, for future generations, to adelgunda's only brother, of whom we purposely have not spoken, that we might not be obliged to give an account of all the exaggerated ideas of the consequence of his family which his father and mother had diligently and zealously laboured to imprint on the mind of their son--the only male scion of that ancient house, which was now threatened with speedy extinction--he who, after them, was alone to represent the glory of their time-honoured ancestry. what precepts and exhortations he, the only son and last hope, received under his progenitor's portrait--what deference and devotion were inculcated to the name of the haughty-looking abbess, whose severe virtue and pious deeds were held to reflect honour on her descendants--what aristocratic ideas and exclusive principles were there engrafted on his soul, we will not stop to relate--they would be incomprehensible to many, and do not require to be dwelt on in our short tale. in the aunt's cheerful, hospitable, pleasant, light modern villa quite another tone prevailed, and quite another mode of life from that within the solid walls of the old baronial castle or under its gloomy roof. at adelgunda's age new impressions are soon received, new associations and new ideas are welcomed with avidity, and seldom fail to influence the mind. adelgunda--truth obliges us to confess--soon forgot a very stringent and important paragraph in the paternal and maternal lectures--forgot the faithful portraits of the defunct females of her noble house, and even the threatening glance--the dark eye that shone from beneath the white linen fillet of the haughty abbess--forgot them all amidst new-born and overflowing happiness in the arms of an adored and adoring husband, a young naval officer, rich in all nature's brightest gifts, and standing high in the opinion of the world, but on whom the great ancestress would certainly never have permitted her hand to be bestowed, had she known of the matter; for his patent of nobility was not mouldy from age, was not even made out, and still worse, was not likely ever to be drawn up, because he did not feel the slightest wish ever to possess one. adelgunda, nevertheless, felt unspeakably happy, and her noble brother, to whom the family mode of thinking had descended as an heirloom in conjunction with the entailed property, winked at the plebeian match--partly because he well knew that adelgunda's very limited portion would never tempt any among the needy and impoverished of his own class to lay their hearts at her feet--partly because it was the preservation of the family name and tree in his own person that lay nearest to his heart, not the offshoots from the female line--and partly that, though he was a proud man, and unflinching in his aristocratical notions, he had a kind heart, was fondly attached to his sister, rejoiced in her happiness, and was well aware how much superior in character his estimable brother-in-law was to the generality of the young men of the day. but for himself, this brother and lord of the castle sought a spouse who should entwine no vulgar burgher twig around the fair branches of his genealogical tree, but one who counted as many generations as other good qualities; for ancient lineage is not apt, like wealth, to corrupt the heart, and adelgunda's sister-in-law was truly an amiable lady. again the lordly halls of the ancient castle became the abode of domestic happiness; and it was admitted that it could not be otherwise, for not one alone, but many of the old servants who had passed into the service of the heir of entail, and who were not notorious for their superstition, had clearly and distinctly observed that the first time the young countess entered the picture gallery, the majestic ancestress had relaxed her stern lips almost into a smile of approbation, which had never happened but once before--in the year 1664, on a similar occasion; a remarkable event, which had been recorded by the chaplain of the castle, with many subscribing witnesses, in a document which was preserved like a holy relic amidst the family's most valued papers, parchments, and deeds. when the young count and countess were happily wedded, and comfortably settled at the castle, which however, did not happen until about five years after adelgunda's marriage to her delightful naval hero, the brother and sister felt a strong wish to meet once more under the paternal roof. and adelgunda's husband promised that on his return in autumn from an expedition in which he was then engaged, he, his wife, and their little son, a boy about four years of age, should without any delay accept of the count's invitation, and make the visit so much desired by all parties--even by the young countess, adelgunda's sister-in-law, who was by no means a stranger to her. they had been friends in childhood, indeed were distantly related to each other; for it so happens that almost all the families amongst the most ancient of the swedish nobility are connected by ties of consanguinity. at length the long-looked-for day arrived, and adelgunda beheld, with tears of mingled joy and sorrow, the grey old towers of the castle where she was born, and where she had spent her earliest years--those years which, on comparing them with the subsequent epochs of our life, we denominate the gayest and the happiest. adelgunda and her husband, who had had a long day's journey, arrived late in the evening at the castle, and were shortly after conducted to their sleeping-rooms, a suite of lofty arched apartments in one of the farthest towers, and in the olden time the principal guest-chambers, but which did not bear the best of reputations as regarded spectres, midnight noises, groans, rattling of chains, and the like horrors. adelgunda had all her life entertained great respect for, but also no little fear of, these apartments; and those feelings were probably heightened by an old tradition which averred that some most extraordinary and mysterious events had taken place in these chambers. some pretended to know that one of these apartments, which along with the picture-gallery had remained most unchanged during the lapse of years, had served as the bridal-chamber for the great ancestress of the family; at any rate, there was something that savoured of awe and discomfort about them. never in her life had adelgunda slept in any of these gloomy apartments, and in former days nothing would have induced her to do so; but now, with her brave, bold sailor by her side, she smiled at her old childish fears,--at least when he laughed at her recital of them. she would not, however, on any account, allow her little victor to sleep in the first antechamber with the trembling waiting-maid, but placed the child's crib close to her own bed, and often during the long, dark, and stormy autumnal night, when the wind shook the panes of glass, and howled through the adjacent forest, and she was awakened by its violence, she turned quickly, and with a beating heart, towards the child, leaned over his little bed, and felt unhappy until she had ascertained that her darling was sleeping soundly and peacefully. 'well!' said her husband the next morning, when the sun was already pretty high in the heavens, and cast his cheerful rays through the narrow casements of these haunted chambers--'well, dearest adelgunda, have you heard or seen any spectre last night--been visited in any way by a ghost?' 'no,' she replied laughingly, as the bright sunshine restored her courage; there was but one spirit near me last night--one dear, good spirit;' and she embraced her husband. 'and you, annette?' cried the incredulous visitor to the poor waiting-maid, 'i hope you have not been disturbed by the ghosts either?' but annette, who was half-dead from fear, asserted that she had not closed her eyes the whole night; that she had distinctly heard sighs and groans, and heavy footsteps up and down the floor; and there had been many other frightful things that she could not describe. now, in the cheering daylight, adelgunda laughed heartily at these _fancies_, as she called them; but the previous night she would not have done so,--at least not with a heart so much at ease. 'i wonder what his uncle and aunt will say of my little victor, now that he is nicely dressed, and not so sleepy and cross as he was last night, after that long fatiguing journey!' said adelgunda to annette, with a mother's pride in her pretty boy, and while they were both engaged in arranging his curly hair, and putting on his handsome new green dress. adelgunda's husband had risen early and gone out to stroll round the old castle, and the former young lady of the mansion, who had now become a wife and mother, took up her little son in her arms to go down to her sister-in-law, who had already sent to inquire how she had slept, and to let her know that breakfast was ready. humming an air, adelgunda proceeded with her light burden through the dear old well-remembered passages where her very footsteps echoed, until she came close to the door which opened into the picture-gallery; she then stopped, seized suddenly with a strong impulse to enter it, while a strange, sad foreboding of evil filled her heart. influenced, as it were, by an invincible power over which she had no control, she laid her hand upon the lock, turned it, and stood, she scarcely knew how, in presence of the mute family, who seemed gazing on her from both sides. adelgunda's heart beat quickly; recollections from her childhood and her youthful days began to rush back on her. these aristocratic feelings, which had so long slumbered, began to start up in her mind, and she dared not look towards the terrible lady at the extreme end, for fear of meeting her angry, implacable glance. 'that is a pretty lady! and there is another nice lady! what a grand gentleman! and see, yonder is a fine gentleman, too!' such were little victor's exclamations, as adelgunda went slowly with him past all these well-known portraits of uncles and aunts, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and other members of the family, all long since asleep in their graves. 'but, oh, mother, look!' cried victor, as he first caught sight of the largest; 'see how horrible that one up yonder looks! see, mother, how that tall woman there on the wall frowns down at us!' and victor knit his little brows, and drew in his small mouth, to make his face look very terrible in return. 'oh, do not speak so--do not speak so!' exclaimed his mother, trying in vain to hush the child. 'on the contrary,' she added, in a faltering voice, 'she is an excellent lady, and very kind to all good, well-behaved children. we will go up yonder, and beg her pardon and her blessing.' 'no, no!' screamed victor, kicking his little legs with all his might; 'i won't have anything to do with her: she looks as cross as if she would bite me.' 'again his mother entreated victor to be a reasonable, good boy, and by that time they stood under the great lady's picture. a tremor crept over adelgunda as she encountered that austere, repulsive look, and involuntarily she dropped her eyes beneath it. but reason soon triumphed; she approached closer to the portrait, and said to her little son, whom she still held in her arms, 'now we shall say good morning to that lady;' and she curtseyed herself, and bent with her hand the obstinate little head; 'and we shall beg her to look kindly and gently down upon us, for your dear, good papa's sake, and we will kiss her hand.' and adelgunda kissed the hand in the picture that was hanging down; but when she attempted to raise the child's face up towards the hand, the little fellow, in whose infantine breast was aroused a portion of his father's bold spirit, and perhaps impetuous temper, and who, though somewhat frightened, felt his courage rising, and was, withal, extremely angry, struggled furiously, clenched his little fist, and instead of kissing the great lady's drooping hand, thumped it with all his might--and at that moment he was strong enough. ii. adelgunda's brother and sister-in-law waited in vain for her appearance at the breakfast-table. she came not! but at length the startling intelligence was brought to them that a strange, frightful noise had been heard in the picture-gallery. no one knew what was the cause of it, for no one had dared to venture in to see what had happened, but now every one rushed in. a cloud of dust, a heap of mortar and wood was before them; and a sight so dreadful, so shocking, so appalling, met their eyes, that every heart was like to break. but only one heart _did_ break, for notwithstanding his strength of mind--his unconquerable spirit--his undeniable fortitude, the bereaved husband and father almost sank beneath the frightful calamity that had suddenly deprived him of the wife he adored, and the child on whom all his hopes were centred. yet he was the first--the only one who had sufficient energy, and presence of mind to drag the lifeless remains of his wife and son from under the destroying weight of the heavy portrait. it was a frightful event, and made a great sensation. a rotten rope, and the mouldering state of the wall which should have upheld the enormously heavy wooden frame, had done all the evil. the naval officer passed over distant seas to many a foreign land--the world was all before him, but he never forgot what he had lost. the picture of the awful ancestress met with little injury in its fall; but several years elapsed before it was hung up again in its former place. it was, however, at length restored to its old position, but fastened with new rope, and everything necessary to make it more secure. the dreadful occurrence was beginning to be forgotten, and the brotherly affection which had somewhat cooled, seemed to have displayed itself sufficiently in having banished the lofty dame for some years to a lumber-room. she could not always be left there! so at length she hung in her old place again, as stern, as frowning as formerly. and the count, who had now become an old man, generally when he alluded to the terrible event, reasonably ascribed it to natural causes. but, once upon a time, when he observed his youngest daughter, a girl not much more than sixteen years of age, casting _furtive_ and _rather friendly_ glances at a young man, the son of a country parson, who, on account of his handsome person and pleasant manners, was often received at the baronial castle,--when he saw this, by means of some sidelong looks with the corner of his eye, which were not perceived by the young couple, then he took his daughter by the hand, led her silently and solemnly into the picture-gallery, walked with her up to the replaced portrait of their great ancestress, and said with the gravity of an anxious father, and the dignity of an aristocratic nobleman,-'beware, my daughter! remember the fate of your aunt!' these words were all he uttered. * * * 'and this happened in the nineteenth century, and here in our father-land? 'such an inquiry will assuredly be made by one or other of our readers. but we will not answer it ourselves; we shall only advise the inquirer to address himself to the descendants of _one of the most ancient families in scania_, and ask _them_ whether it be true or not. the man from paradise.[10] a comic tale. from the danish of hans christian andersen. there was a widow, once upon a time- yet stop--with _truth_ we must commence our rhyme- she _had_ been such, but now another spouse had sought her love, and won the widow's vows. one evening she was quite alone at home (for the best husbands sometimes like to roam); she sat, her cheek reposing on her hand, the tea-things spread upon the table, and the kettle singing by, or on the fire- a sort of a monotonous steam lyre: her thoughts from this low world of fogs had flown up to the husband she first called her own; she could not _quite_ the dear, kind soul forget- and ah! the other one was absent yet. 'but thou art happy now,' she cried--'in case in abraham's bosom thou hast found a place: thou pitiest us, in these rooms close and old, where one so often gets a cough or cold.' then into a brown study she did fall, when suddenly some sounds her thoughts recall; she hears a gentle knocking at the door; she starts--looks at the roof, then at the floor- then peers into each corner, as she cries, 'well--who is there?' to be right brave she tries, but truth to tell, she almost shook with fear to see some ghost, or corpse-like form appear. another knock--then in the doorway stood no spectre, but a youth of flesh and blood 'twas an apprentice who had run away from work, and chose from town to town to stray: the rogue lived by his wits as best he might, for nought he scrupled at--except to fight. the quondam widow very soon perceived the intruder was not what she had believed- that he was mortal, not a form of air. she questioned whence he came, and also where he might be bound. 'i'm on my way,' said he, 'to paris, madam, _viâ_ germany.' with joyous heart she listened to his tale, and then she placed before him meat and ale, kindly inviting him to eat and drink; while she exclaimed, 'how very strange to think that you to paradise are journeying on!- why, that's the land where my first husband's gone! please give my love to him, our daughter's, too, and--_his successor's compliments_, will you?' quickly the knave observed that the good dame in her geography was rather lame- that _paradise_ with _paris_ she confounded. and though one moment he looked up astounded, the next into her droll conceit he fell, saying, 'oh, yes! i know the good man well.' 'what! have you really been already there?' she cried. 'then say, how does the dear one fare?' 'ah! very badly. 'tis a tale of woe! i was up there about a month ago. a sort of a dog's life the poor thing led, early he had to rise--get late to bed; worked hard, and scarce a stitch of clothing had. his shroud and grave-clothes from the first were bad; they very soon wore out, and now he goes without a coat, and with bare legs and toes.' these words went like a dagger to her heart; she shuddered--groaned--then, with a sudden start, she rose, and soon an ample bundle made of linen, coats, warm woollen socks; and said, whilst with big tear-drops both her eyes looked dim. 'this package, sir, i pray you take to him. tell the poor fellow i shall send him more by the first opportunity--a store i'll surely send. oh dear! oh dear! 'tis sad his fate in yonder place should be so bad!' the rogue had stuffed quite to his heart's content, so, taking up the bundle, off he went; but first he thanked her for the food, and vowed the clothes she sent should soon replace the shroud. long, long she sits, her eyes still full of tears; the absent husband now at length appears ('tis to the _second_ one that i allude- the _first_, as has been shown, was gone for good). 'well, i have curious tidings for your ear- a man from paradise has just been here; he knew poor _thi--is_ there.' (such was the name of him who was first husband to the dame.) and thereupon, with a most serious face, she told him all that had just taken place. the husband, when he heard her, smelled a rat, but only saying he would have a chat himself with the great traveller, he sent for his best horse, and after him he went. 'twas a sweet night, the moon was shining clearly- just such a night as poets love most dearly; the nightingales were pouring forth their notes, the owls were exercising, too, their throats; but, what was better still, he found the track the thief had ta'en, and hoped to bring him back. thieves, by the way, like the moon's silver rays far better than the sun's meridian blaze. and now, how fared it with the thief himself, thus making off with his ill-gotten pelf? he spied a man, who like old nick was riding, and felt that he was in for a good hiding; therefore into a neighbouring ditch he flung the burden that across his back had slung, then casting himself down upon a bank, quite in a lounging attitude he sank, and gazing on the clear calm skies above, he sang some ditty about ladies' love. up comes the rider at a rapid trot- the pace had made him and his steed both hot- and asked abruptly, reining in his grey, if he had seen a rascal pass that way, who on his shoulders a large bundle bore- a horrid thief he was, the horseman swore. 'why, yes,' was the reply. 'i have just seen a fellow with long legs pass by--i ween it is the same you seek; for he looked round soon as your horse's footfall on the ground was heard--and then, as quickly as he could, he fled to hide himself in yonder wood. if you make haste, you there will catch him soon.' the horseman thanked him much and craved a boon- it was to hold his steed, while in pursuit he went himself into the wood on foot. 'twas granted, and the husband rushed among the bushes tall--while the thief laughing sprung upon the horse; he took the bundle too, and fast away he rode, or rather flew. angry, fatigued, and scratched till he was sore, the husband came, his bootless errand o'er. fancy what was his grief, his rage, to find the horse he thought he left so safe behind, gone too! he cried, 'hey! hey!' its name he called, but all in vain he shouted and he bawled- the clever thief the faster rode away. there was no creature near on whom to lay the blame; so the poor foolish dupe abused the moon, for having thus her light misused. home on his weary legs he had to trudge; his steed to the vile thief did he not grudge! 'well, did you find him?' asked his smiling wife. he answered, in a tone subdued, 'my life, i did. i found him, and--and--for _your_ sake, our best, our swiftest horse i let him take, that he with greater speed might find his way.' the dame smiled on him, and in accents gay exclaimed, 'o best of husbands! who could find your equal--one so thoughtful, wise, and kind!' moral. the moral of this story shows, though knaves on women oft impose, that men are sometimes quite as _green_, but hold their tongues themselves to screen. footnotes: [footnote 1: a danish title, signifying councillor of justice.] [footnote 2: danish mile, equal to about 4 3/4 english miles.] [footnote 3: fourteen and a quarter english miles.] [footnote 4: 'to give a basket,' in danish, signifies a refusal.] [footnote 5: a danish title.] [footnote 6: 'aprilsnarrene.' a danish vaudeville.] [footnote 7: the ceremony of confirmation is deemed of the highest importance in denmark, and is never neglected in any rank of life, from the prince to the peasant.] [footnote 8: for these, and 'octavianus,' see ludwig tieck's works. they have been translated into danish by adam oehlenschlæger.] [footnote 9: a town of sicily, in the val di mazzara, on the site of the ancient agrigenum, the magnificent ruins of which are still to be seen.] [footnote 10: manden fra paradiis. en komisk fortælling.] end of vol. i. london. printed by w. clowes and sons, stamford street, and charing cross. 