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FREDRIKA BREMER'S WORKS.

THE HOME

OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN.

TRANSLATED
BY MARY HOWITT.

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

C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE.

THE HOME:

OR, LIFE IN SWEDEN.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

MORNING DISPUTE AND EVENING CONTENTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO CECILIA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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