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The whole affair might have been as merry as it was droll, had not
Louise--herself the most important person in the entertainment--been in
no state of mind to enjoy it. But although she used her utmost endeavour
to take part in all the diversion, and to appear cheerful, she became
every moment more depressed; and when at last the ices came, and the
waiter, with the utmost cordiality beaming from his eyes, urged her to
take a vanilla-ice, she was only just able to taste it, upon which she
set it down, rushed out of the room, and burst into a convulsive fit of
weeping. This was a thing so unusual with Louise, that it occasioned a
general perplexity. Host, hostess, maid, waiter, Noah's grandson, all
threw off their characters; and all illusion, as well as all reality of
festivity, were at an end. It is true that Louise composed herself
speedily, besought pardon, and assigned as the cause of her emotion
sudden spasm in the chest. Elise and Eva, and more particularly Petrea,
endeavoured, on account of Henrik and Jacobi, to jest back again the
former merriment, but it would not come, and nothing more could succeed.
Everybody, but more especially Jacobi, were out of tune, and they now
began to speak of returning home.

But now all at once the heavy trampling of horses, and a bustle at the
inn door was heard, and at the same moment a splendid landau, drawn by
four prancing bays, drew up before it. It was the Landed-proprietor,
who, unacquainted with returning there after a short absence, and who
had drawn up at this inn for a moment's breathing-time for his horses,
and to order for himself a glass of the beer for which the place was
renowned. The company which he here so unexpectedly encountered
occasioned an alteration in his first plan. He determined to accompany
the family to the city, and besought his aunt and cousins to make use of
his landau. It would certainly please them so much; it went with such
unexampled ease; was so comfortable that one could sleep therein with
perfect convenience even on the heaviest roads, etc., etc. Elise, who
really had suffered from the merciless shaking of the hired carriage,
was inclined to accept the offer; and as it immediately began to rain,
and as the Judge preferred the carriage to the chaise in which he had
driven with Eva, the affair was quickly arranged. Elise and some of the
daughters were to go in the landau, which was turned in the mean time
into a coach; and the Judge and the rest of the company were to divide
themselves among the other carriages. As these were ready to receive the
company, Jacobi drove his Medewi-carriage close on the landau of the
Landed-proprietor, who looked more than once with a dark countenance to
see whether any profane or injurious contact had taken place between the
great and the little carriage.

Jacobi's heart beat violently as Louise came out on the steps of the inn
door. The Landed-proprietor stood on one side offering her his hand, and
Jacobi on the other offering his also, to conduct her to her former
seat. She appeared faint, and moved slowly. She hesitated for one
moment, and then gave, with downcast eyes, her hand to the
Landed-proprietor, who assisted her triumphantly into the carriage to
her mother, and mounting the box himself, away the next moment dashed
the landau with its four prancing bays. Jacobi laid his hand on his
heart, a choking sensation seemed to deprive him of breath, and with
tears in his eyes he watched the handsome departing carriage. He was
roused out of his painful observations by the voice of Petrea, who
jestingly announced to him that the enviable happiness awaited him of
driving herself and the Assessor in the Medewi-carriage. He took his
former seat in silence; his heart was full of disquiet; and
intentionally he remained far behind the others, in order that he might
not have the least glimpse of the landau.

Scarcely had the Medewi-carriage again made acquaintance with the ruts
of the road, than a violent shock brought off one of the fore wheels,
and the Candidate, Petrea, and the Assessor, were tumbled one over the
other into the mud. Quickly, however, they were all three once again on
their feet; Petrea laughing, and the Assessor scolding and fuming. When
Jacobi had discovered that all which had life was unhurt, he looked
lightly on the affair, and began to think how best it might be remedied.
A short council was held in the rain, and it was concluded that Jacobi
should remain with the carriage till some one came to his assistance,
and that in the mean time Petrea and the Assessor should make the best
of their way on foot towards the city, and send, as soon as possible,
some people to his help. A labourer, who came by immediately afterwards,
promised to do the same, and Petrea and Assessor Munter, who, however,
was anything but consistent with his name, began their walk through rain
and mud. All this while, however, Petrea became more joyful and happy:
firstly, all this was an adventure for her; secondly, she never before
had been out in such weather; thirdly, she felt herself so light and
unencumbered as she scarcely ever had done before; and because she
looked upon her clothes as given up to fate--to a power against which
none other on earth could contend, she walked on in joy of heart,
splashing through the puddles, and feeling with great delight how the
rain penetrated her dress, and seeing how the colour was washed away
both from shawl and bonnet. She held her nose high in the air, in order
to enjoy the glorious rain.

Petrea had in all this a resemblance to her brother, and flattered
herself also that she might have some resemblance to Diogenes; and as
her inclination lay towards extremes, she would very willingly be
Diogenes, since she could not, as she very well knew, be Alexander. Now
she perceived that in reality she needed very little of outward comforts
to make her happy; she felt herself in her adverse circumstances so free
and rich; she had become on thee-and-thou terms with the rain-drops,
with the wind, with the shrubs and grass, with all nature in short; she
had not here the mishaps and the humiliations to fear which annoyed her
so often in company. If the magpies laughed at her, she laughed at them
in return. Long life to freedom!

With all these feelings, Petrea got into such excessively high spirits,
that she infected therewith her companions in misfortune; or, according
to her vocabulary, good fortune. But now, however, came on a horrible
tempest, with hail, whose great stones made themselves _thou_ to such a
degree with Petrea's nose as astonished and almost offended her. The
Assessor looked out for shelter; and Petrea, quite charmed that she was
nearly blown away, followed him along a narrow footpath that led into
the wood, onward in the direction of a smoke, which, driven towards them
by the storm, seemed to announce that a hospitable hut was at hand where
they might obtain shelter from the tempest. Whilst they were wandering
about to discover this, Petrea's fancy, more unrestrained than the
storm, busied itself with unbounded creations of robbers' castles, wise
hermits, hidden treasures, and other splendours, to which the smoke was
to conduct her. But ah! they were altogether built up of smoke, since it
arose from no other than a charcoal-burner's kiln, and Petrea had not
the smallest desire to make a nearer acquaintance with the hidden
divinity of which this smoke was the evidence. The small hut of the
charcoal-burner, in the form of a sugar-loaf, stood not far from the
kiln, the unbolted door of which was opened by the Assessor. No hermit,
nor even robber, had his abode therein; the hut was empty, but clean and
compact, and it was with no little pleasure that the Assessor took
possession of it, and seated himself with Petrea on the only bench which
it possessed. Petrea sighed. What a miserable metamorphosis of her
glorious castle in the air!

The prospect which the open door of the hut presented, and which had no
interest for Petrea, appeared, on the contrary, captivating to her
companion. He was there deep in the wood, in a solitude wild, but still
of an elevating character. The hut stood in an open space, but round
about it various species of pine-trees stood boldly grouped, and bowed
themselves not before the storm which howled in their tops. Several lay
fallen on the ground, but evidently from age; grass and flowers grew on
the earth, which these patriarchs of the wood had torn up with their
powerful roots. Among others, two tall pine-trees stood together: the
one was decayed, and seemed about to separate itself from its root; but
the other, young, green, and strong, had so entwined it in its
branches, that it stood upright, mingling its withered arms with the
verdure of the other, and yielding not, although shook by the tempest.
The expressive glance of the Assessor rested long on these trees; his
eyes filled with tears; his peculiar, beautiful, but melancholy smile
played about his lips, and kindly sentiments seemed to fill his breast.
He spoke to Petrea of a people of antiquity who dwelt in deserts; he
spoke of the pure condition of the Essenes, a morning dawn of
Christendom, and his words ran thus:

"A thirst after holiness drove men and women out of the tumult of the
world, out of great cities, into desert places, in order that they might
dedicate themselves to a pure and perfect life. There they built for
themselves huts, and formed a state, whose law was labour and devotion
to God. No earthly possession was enjoyed merely on account of pleasure,
but only as the means of a higher life. They strove after purity in soul
and body; tranquillity and seriousness characterised their demeanour.
They assembled together at sunrise, and lifted up hymns and prayers to
the Supreme Being. Seventeen hours of each day were devoted to labour,
study, and contemplation. Their wants were few, and therefore life was
easy. Their discourse was elevated, and was occupied by subjects of the
sublime learning which belonged to their sect. They believed on one
Eternal God, whose existence was light and purity. They sought to
approach him by purity of heart and action, by renunciation of the
pleasures of the world, and by humility of heart and mind to understand
the works of the allwise Creator. They believed in quiet abodes on the
other side of the desert pilgrimage, where clear waters ran and soft
winds blew, where spring and peace had their home; there they hoped to
arrive at the end of their journey through life."

There is no want of rays of light on earth; they penetrate its misty
atmosphere in manifold directions, although human perception is not as
much aware of them at one time as at another. The words of the Assessor
made at this moment an indescribable impression on Petrea. She wept from
the sweet emotion excited by the description of a condition which was so
perfect, and of endeavours which were so holy. It appeared to her as if
she knew her own vocation, her own path through life; one which would
release her soul from all trifles, all vanities, all disquiets, and
which would speed her on to light and peace. Whilst these thoughts, or
rather sentiments, swelled in her breast, she looked through her tears
on her companion, as he sate there with his expressive countenance and
his large beautiful eyes fixed on the scene before him, and she saw in
him, not Jeremias Munter, but a wise hermit, with a soul full of sublime
and holy knowledge. She longed to throw herself at his feet, and beseech
his blessing; to propose to him that he should remain in this solitude,
in this hut, with her; that he should teach her wisdom; and she would
wait upon him as a daughter, or as a servant, would rise with him and
pray at sunrise, and do in all things like the Essenes. Thus would they
die to the world, and live only for heaven.

Overpowered by her excited feelings, surrendered to the transports of
the moment, and nearly choked with tears, Petrea sank on the breast of
Jeremias, stammering forth her undefined wishes.

If a millstone had fallen round his neck, our good Assessor could not
have been more confounded than he was at that moment. Deeply sunk in his
own thoughts, he had quite forgotten that Petrea was there, till
reminded of her presence in this unexpected manner. But he was a man,
nevertheless, who could easily understand the excitement of mind in a
young girl, and with a pure fervour of eye, whilst a good-humoured
satire played about his mouth, he endeavoured to tranquillise her
over-wrought feelings. Beautiful, then, was the discourse he held with
her on all that which calms and sanctifies life; on all that on which
man may found his abode whether in the desert or in the human crowd. He
spoke words then which Petrea never forgot, and which often, in a future
day, broke the chaotic state of her soul like beams of pure light.

In the mean time the tempest had dispersed itself, and the Assessor
began to think of a return; for Petrea thought nothing about it, but
would willingly have seen herself compelled to pass the night in the
gloomy wood. But now the thought of relating her adventures at home
attracted her, and before she got out of the wood these adventures were
increased, since fate presented her with the good fortune of assisting,
with the help of her companion, an old woman, who had fallen with her
bundle of sticks, upon her legs again, and of carrying the said bundle
to her cottage, and of lighting her fire for her; with releasing two
sparrows which a boy had made captive; and, last of all, with releasing
the Assessor himself from a thorn-bush, which, as it appeared, would
have held him with such force as vexed even himself. Petrea's hands bled
in consequence of this operation, but that only made her the livelier.

When they came out of the wood, the rain had ceased altogether, the wind
had abated, and the setting sun illumined the heavens, and diffused over
the landscape a peculiar and beautiful radiance. The countenance of
Jeremias Munter was cheerful; he listened to the ascending song of the
lark, and said, "That is beautiful!" He looked upon the rain-drops which
hung on the young grass, and saw how heaven reflected itself in them,
and smiled, and said, "That is pure indeed!" Petrea gave to little
children that she met with all her savings from the feast at Axelholm,
and would willingly also have given them some of her clothes, had she
not had the fear of Louise and her mother before her eyes. She wished in
her bravery for more adventures, and more particularly for a longer way
than it at this time appeared to be; she thought she arrived at home too
soon; but the Assessor thought not, neither did the rest of the party,
who were beginning to be very uneasy on account of their long absence.
In the mean time Petrea and her companion had become very good friends
on the walk; Petrea was complimented for her courage, and Henrik
pathetically declaimed in her praise--

Not every one such height as Xenophon can gain,
As scholar and as hero, a laurel-wreath obtain;

and they laughed.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] half-dramatic poem, remarkable for its wit and humour, from the pen
of the Swedish poet Fahlcrantz.

CHAPTER X.

FIRESIDE SCENES.

"From home may be good, but at home is best!" said Elise from the bottom
of her heart, as she was once more in her own house, and beside her own
husband.

The young people said nothing in opposition to this sentiment as they
returned to their comfortable every-day life, which they now enlivened
with recollections and relations out of the lately-past time. They hoped
that Louise would become pleasant and contented with her calm activity
in the house and family as formerly, but it was not so; a gnawing pain
seemed to consume her; she became perceptibly thinner; her good humour
had vanished, and her eyes were often red with weeping. In vain her
parents and sisters endeavoured, with the tenderest anxiety, to fathom
the occasion of the change; she would confess it to no one. That the
root of her grief lay at her heart she would not deny, but she appeared
determined to conceal it from the eye of day. Jacobi also began to look
pale and thin, since he lamented deeply her state of feeling, and her
altered behaviour, especially towards himself, which led him to the
belief that he unconsciously had wounded her, or in some other way that
he was the cause of her displeasure; and never had he felt more than now
what a high value he set upon her, nor how much he loved her. This
tension of mind, and his anxiety to approach Louise, and bring back a
friendly understanding between them, occasioned various little scenes,
which we will here describe.

FIRST SCENE.

Louise sits by the window at her embroidery-frame: Jacobi seats himself
opposite to her.

Jacobi (sighing). Ah, Mamselle Louise!

Louise looks at her shepherdess, and works on in silence.

Jacobi. Everything in the world has appeared to me for some time
wearisome and oppressive.

Louise works on, and is silent.

Jacobi. And you could so easily make all so different. Ah, Louise! only
one kind word, one friendly glance!--Cannot you bestow one friendly
glance on him who would gladly give everything to see you happy?
[_Aside._ She blushes--she seems moved--she is going to speak! Ah, what
will she say to me!]

Louise. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten
stitches to the nose--the pattern is here not very distinct.

Jacobi. You will not hear me, will not understand me; you play with my
distress! Ah, Louise!

Louise. I want some more wool;--I have left it in my room. [She goes.]

SECOND SCENE.

The family is assembled in the library; tea is just finished. Louise, at
Petrea's and Gabriele's urgent request, has laid out the cards on a
little table to tell them their fortunes. The Candidate seats himself
near them, and appears determined to amuse himself with them, and to be
lively; but "the object" assumes all the more her "cathedral air." The
Landed-proprietor steps in, bows, snorts, and kisses the hand of the
"gracious aunt."

Landed-proprietor. Very cold this evening; I fancy we shall have frost.

Elise. It is a gloomy spring. We have lately read a most affecting
account of the famine in the northern provinces. It is the misfortune of
these late springs.

Landed-proprietor. Oh, yes, the famine up there. No, we'll talk of
something else--that's too gloomy. I've had my peas covered with straw.
Cousin Louise, are you fond of playing Patience? I am very fond of it
too; it is so composing. At my seat at Oestanvik I have little, little
patience-cards. I fancy really that they would please my cousin.

The Landed-proprietor seats himself on the other side of Louise: the
Candidate gives some extraordinary shrugs.

Louise. This is not patience, but a little witchcraft, by which I read
Fate. Shall I prophesy to you, Cousin Thure?

Landed-proprietor. Oh, yes! prophesy something to me. Nothing
disagreeable! If I hear anything disagreeable in an evening, I always
have bad dreams at night. Prophesy me prettily--a little wife--a wife as
lovely and as amiable as Cousin Louise.

The Candidate (with a look as if he would send the Landed-proprietor
head-over-heels to Oestanvik). I don't know whether Mamselle Louise
likes flattery.

Landed-proprietor (who seems as if he neither heard nor saw his rival).
Cousin Louise, are you fond of blue?

Louise. Blue? That is truly a lovely colour; but yet I prefer green.

Landed-proprietor.. Nay, that is good! that is excellent! At Oestanvik
my dressing-room furniture is blue, beautiful light blue silk damask;
but in my sleeping-room I have green moreen. I fancy really, Cousin
Louise, that----

The Candidate coughs, and then rushes out of the room. Louise looks
after him, sighs, and then examines the cards, in which she finds so
many misfortunes for Cousin Thure that he is quite terrified: the peas
frosted, conflagration in the dressing-room, and last of all a
rejection! The Landed-proprietor declares, notwithstanding, that he
finds nothing of this unpleasant. The sisters smile, and make remarks.

THIRD SCENE.

The family assembled after supper:

The Assessor puts the question--What is the bitterest affliction?

Jacobi. Unreturned love.

Petrea. Not to know what one shall be.

Eva. To have offended some one that one loves beyond reconciliation.

The Mother. I am of Eva's opinion; I think nothing can be more painful.

Louise. Ah! there is yet something more painful than that--something
more bitter--and that is to lose one's faith in those whom one has
loved; to doubt--(Louise's lip trembles, she can say no more, becomes
pale, rises, and goes out quickly; a general sensation ensues).

The Father. What is amiss with Louise? Elise, we must know what it is!
She should, she must tell us! I cannot bear any longer to see her thus;
and I will go this moment and speak with her, if you will not rather do
it. But you must not be satisfied till you know her very inmost
feelings. The most horrible thing, I think, is mystery and vapours!

The Mother. I will go directly to her. I have now an idea what it is,
dearest Ernst; and if I am somewhat long with her, let the others go to
bed; I shall then find you alone. [She goes out.]

FOURTH SCENE.

_The Mother and Daughter._

The daughter on her knees, her face buried in her hands; the mother
goes softly up to her and throws her arms around her.

Mother. Louise, my good girl, what is amiss with you? I have never seen
you thus before. You must tell me what is at your heart--you must!

Louise. I cannot! I ought not!

Mother. You can! you ought! Will you make me, will you make all of us
wretched by going on in this way? Ah, Louise, do not let false shame, or
false tenderness mislead you. Tell me, do you break any oath, or violate
any sacred duty, by confessing what it is which depresses you?

Louise. No oath; no sacred duty--and yet----yet----

Mother. Then speak, in heaven's name, my child! Unquestionably some
unfounded suspicion is the cause of your present state. What do the
words mean with which you left us this evening? You weep! Louise, I
pray, I beseech of you, if you love me, conceal nothing from me! Who is
it that you love, yet can no more have faith in--no longer highly
esteem? Answer me--is it your mother?

Louise. My mother! my mother! Ah, while you look on me thus I feel a
pain, and yet a confidence! Ah, my God! all may be an error--a miserable
slander, and I----Well then, it shall out--that secret which has gnawed
my heart, and which I conceived it my duty to conceal! But forgive me,
my mother, if I grieve you; forgive me if my words disturb your peace;
forgive me, if in my weakness, if in my doubt I have done you injustice,
and remove the grief which has poisoned my life! Ah, do you see, mother,
it was mine, it was my sisters' happiness, to consider you so
spotless--so angelically pure! It was my pride that you were so, and
that you were my mother! And now----

Mother. And now, Louise?

Louise. And now it has been whispered to me----Oh, I cannot speak the
words!

Mother. Speak them--I demand it! I desire it from you! We both stand
before the Judgment-seat of God!

Louise. I have been led to believe that even my mother was not
blameless--that she----

Mother. Go on, Louise!

Louise. That she and Jacobi loved one another--that evil tongues had not
blamed them without cause, and that still--I despised these words, I
despised the person who spoke them! I endeavoured to chase these
thoughts as criminal from my soul. On this account it happened that I
went one day to find you--and I found Jacobi on his knee before you--I
heard him speaking of his love. Now you know all, my mother!

Mother. And what is your belief in all this?

Louise. Ah, I know not what I ought to believe! But since that moment
there has been no peace in my soul, and I have fancied that it never
would return--that I should never lose the doubt which I could make
known to no one.

Mother. Let peace return to your soul, my child! Good God! how
unfortunate I should be at this moment if my conscience were not pure!
But, thank heaven, my child, your mother has no such fault to reproach
herself with; and Jacobi deserves your utmost esteem, your utmost
regard. I will entirely and freely confess to you the entire truth of
that which has made you so uneasy. For one moment, when Jacobi first
came to us, a warmer sentiment towards me awoke in his young,
thoughtless heart, and in part it was returned by me. But you will not
condemn me on account of an involuntary feeling which your father looked
on with pardoning eyes. In a blessed hour we opened to each other our
hearts, and it was his love, his strength and gentleness, which gave me
power to overcome my weakness. Jacobi, at the same moment, woke to a
consciousness of his error, struggled against it, and overcame it. We
separated soon after, and it was our mutual wish not to meet again for
several years. In the mean time Henrik was committed to his care, and
Jacobi has been for him an exemplary friend and instructor. Three years
later, when I again met him, I extended my hand to him as a sister; and
he----yes, my dear girl! and I err greatly if he did not then begin in
his heart to love me as a mother. But that which then had its beginning,
has since then had its completion--it was in the character of a son that
you saw him kneel to me; thanking me that I would favour his love to my
daughter--to my Louise, who, therefore, has so unnecessarily conjured up
a spectre to terrify herself and us all.

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