The Home; Or, Life in Sweden Part 26

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 a.s.sembled after supper:

The a.s.sessor 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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d!

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 G.o.d! 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.

In the latter part of this conversation the mother spoke in a quiet jesting tone, which, perhaps, did more even than her simple explanation to rea.s.sure the heart of her daughter. She pressed her hands on her heart, and looked thankfully up to heaven.

"And if," continued her mother, "you yet entertain any doubt, talk with your father, talk with Jacobi, and their words will strengthen mine. But I see you need it not--your heart, my child, is again at peace!"

"Ah, thank G.o.d! thank G.o.d!" exclaimed Louise, sinking on her knees before her mother, and covering her hands and even her dress with kisses. "Oh, that I dared look up again to you, my mother! Oh, can you forgive my being so weak: my being so easy of belief? Never, never shall I forgive myself!"

Louise was out of herself, her whole frame trembled violently; she had never before been in a state of such agitation. Her mother was obliged to apply remedies both for mind and body, tender words and soothing drops--to tranquillise her excited state. She besought her therefore to go to rest, seated herself beside her bed, took her hands in hers, and then attempted to divert her mind from the past scene, endeavouring with the utmost delicacy to turn her mind on the Candidate and on the Landed-proprietor as lovers. But Louise had only one thought, one sentiment--the happy release from her doubt, and thankfulness for it.

When her mother saw that she was calmer, she embraced her, "And now go to sleep, my dear girl," said she; "I must now leave you, in order to hasten to one who waits impatiently for me, and that is your father. He has been extremely uneasy on your account, and I can now make him easy by candidly communicating all that has pa.s.sed between us. For the rest I can a.s.sure you that you have said nothing that can make us uneasy. That I was calumniated by one person, and am so still, he knows as well as I do. He has a.s.sisted me to bear it calmly, he is truly so superior, so excellent! Ah, Louise, it is a great blessing when husband and wife, parents and children, cherish an entire confidence in each other! It is so beautiful, so glorious, to be able to say everything to each other in love!"

FIFTH SCENE.

The garden. It is morning! the larks sing, the jonquils fill the air with odour; the bird's cherry-tree waves in the morning breeze; the cherry blossoms open themselves to the bees which hum about in their bosom. The sun shines on all its children.

Louise is walking in the middle alley, Father Noah's sermon in her hand, but with her eyes fixed on the little poem appended to it, which by no means had anything to do with Father Noah. The Candidate comes towards her from a cross walk, with a gloomy air, and with a black pansy in his hand.

The two meet, and salute each other silently.

Jacobi. Might I speak one moment with you? I will not detain you long.