International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1

"How pleasant is it." said Ireneus, "to suffer my mind to repose in the asylum you have opened for it. Since my coming hither I have met with none but pure hearts, and have beheld only the mild pictures of a pure and peaceable existence. How different is it from the agitation of all parties in my own land! Yet, however, even amid the calm and repose I here enjoy, how I regret it. I saw it so great and prosperous, and thought its destiny so certain!"

"Console yourself, cousin," said Ebba, "you will see that country again, which it is both a necessity and a duty for you to love. You will see it in that normal condition from which it has by a great crisis been thrown. Moral diseases, like physical ones, sometimes attack men, and God, to punish the errors of a people, to abase its pride, strikes it with one of these mental contagions, yields it up to the effervescence of its bad thoughts, until the people humiliates and corrects itself, bending before the arm of the Avenger in penitence, and returns to the path from which it has wandered."

Ireneus was amazed to hear her speak thus. The timid young girl seemed like a prophetess animated with a mighty inspiration. A flush was on her pale face, and in her glance was the light of enthusiasm.

"You are a noble creature," said Ireneus, taking her by the hand. The hand of Ebba lay motionless and pale in his, her blush passed away, and the dark shadows of her habitual melancholy returned.

Just then the sleigh of M. de Vermondans arrived at its destination. Eric was waiting for them at the threshold, clasped the hand of his father-in-law, and helped Alete out, as Ireneus did as much for Ebba. The servants took care of the foaming horses.

The little party, as soon as they entered the house, could see that the faithful Eric had sought to avoid the reproaches of his betrothed. The entrance of the corridor was so completely washed and dried that one might fancy the joiner had just finished the floor. Through the open kitchen door a large brazier was seen in a glow, and the ringing of plates and dishes was heard. The antechamber was covered with a woolen carpet, and the Christmas pine brought on the day before from the neighboring forest, decked with garland and moss, rose proudly from a large box, as if it knew how proud a part it played in the festival.

As she passed from the antechamber to the drawing-room, Alete paused to look at the arrangement of the table. Seeing a false plait in one of the napkins, she was probably about to give vent to her epigrams. The door of the other room however was opened, and a handsome old man dressed in a long frock appeared. His head was covered with a cap of black velvet, from beneath which his white hair escaped. This was Eric's father, and Alete paid much respect to him.

"Come, my daughter," said the pastor, as with much kind dignity he kissed her forehead. "You too, my friend, and my gentle Ebba (speaking to M. de Vermondans and his other daughter), are welcome. You too, Monsieur," said he, turning to Ireneus, "though I have not before had the honor to see you, I welcome as a friend. You are all welcome to the hearthside of the poor priest, and may the festival of to-day be to us a commemoration of the past, and a happier tie for the future."

The old man took his guests into his own room, in which there was an Inconsiderable library, a few models of utensils for agricultural purposes, testifying to both his taste and his occupation. He sat on a sofa, which debility in his limbs made necessary to him, and placed his guests beside him. Alete, who could not sit quiet long, soon arose and took Eric to the window. While, as was the custom with her, she tested the patient character of her husband that was to be, the old man conversed with Ireneus, who from the very first had been attracted by his venerable and pleasing face.

"From these instruments of labor collected around you, I see," said Ireneus, "that you have contrived a sure method of making your solitude active. Ebba has already told me how usefully you employ your time."

"Usefully," replied M. Guldberg, with sincere modesty. "Alas! let us act usefully as we may, how much weakness is there in our will, and forgetfulness in our best resolutions. If by the grace of God we accomplish any good, what is that in comparison with what we should do. I love toil, but I can make no merit of it. In my youth it was a necessity. The son of a laborer, who earned with his own hands the money which supported me at school, I was compelled, at every risk, to repay him for his paternal tenderness by my success. Gradually labor became a habit, and then a quasi dogma of religion. I thought it my duty, as soon as possible, to release him from the necessity of sacrifice. I feel myself attracted by a brotherly sympathy to all who toil. I look with respect on the sweaty brow and toil-stained hand. God himself prescribed labor to us as a law, and his infinite goodness unites with obedience to it the enjoyment of much happiness. Certainly no person with a heart can repress sympathy at the sight of the poor laborer, who is busy from morning to night to earn his moderate wages, who braves every weather to sow and harvest his crop. This laborer, however, is often happier than the majority of the rich, who, as they pass, look on him with pity. He has done his duty. When his task is done he sits contented at his humble hearth. The sparkling wood, the bread on his table, he has earned himself. He educates his child by his own exertions, and as he seeks his bed, may say he has done his duty. He is ignorant of the troubles which fill the hearts of the opulent. Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirass warding off stormy passions. The door of his soul is shut to dark chimeras, to the mad fancies which people the area of the palace, and on his rude pillow he enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of his village often asks for in vain. When I thus praise the efficaciousness of toil, I do not speak only of manual labor. The labor of thought is often most painful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable."

"Take care," said Ireneus, "you touch a sensitive string of my uncle's breast."

"Yes," said the old man, "Eric has told me of your discussions on this subject. I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whatever disdain of science he may affect, I believe he would be distressed if he did not know all that he has turned to so good a purpose in life. In attacking in your conversations books and writers, he did not tell you how much he had borrowed from them, and how earnestly he had read them."

"What books?" asked M. de Vermondans; "a few incomplete histories, and some odd volumes of philosophy. One must examine closely the reveries of human pride to be able to judge of them."

"Traitor!" said M. Guldberg, shaking his finger affectionately at his friend, "you not only persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the character of my library. A few incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I then recall to you the admiration with which you looked at my books, and studied all that I had collected? Some incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I recall to you the delight with which you often have studied my collection? Must I defend it against you? Know, that to attack my books is to make war against myself. I passed forty years of my life in collecting them, and to each one is attached some pleasant remembrance. From some I date my student life, and my entry into the priesthood. From some I fix the epoch of my marriage, and the various phases of my existence; some I found in a country cabin, where they were forgotten; some I brought from Stockholm, where I had been to see my bishop and an old friend. All therefore recall to me kind teachers, skillful guides, and are the memorials of different events, which are the great items of my life. Gradually I have collected around me those books which interest me the most. When I am here in my woodland home they are company to me, and the most instructive friends man can meet with. Here I have the philosophers, who aid me in the examination of the mysteries of the soul; the historians, who record the revolutions of nations; the geologists and natural philosophers, who expound to me the organic laws of nature; the poets, who sing the joyous or sad emotions of the heart. Whatever may be my moral disposition, I need only to reach my hand toward one of them to seize on some brilliant intellect, to enlighten, strengthen, and console me."

"How that delights me!" said Ebba, in a low tone.

"Listen," said M. de Vermondans, with emphasis, and with an intonation of grief entirely contradicted by his face, "see, this woman has been bewitched: the poison of your pernicious doctrines has reached the very interior of my house. I fancied I would be able to educate my daughter in the love of good principles, but I have warmed a very serpent at my heart. Luckily, I see my faithful Alete attending only to the positive and who now says that dinner is ready or Christmas-day. Christmas comes but once a year."

The dinner was in truth solemn and splendid, the whole table being loaded with enormous dishes.

"What a luxuriance of richness!" said M. de Vermondans. "Thank God, a love of books does not make us forget material things."

Ireneus said, "This is in truth a banquet, with which, in France, a candidate for the Chamber might win over many electors."

"Luckily," said the old priest, "we have no electors here to lead astray. When, though, we leave the table, my farmer-boys will make merry over what we have not eaten, and with them many poor people who on Christmas are in the habit of coming to the parsonage. You do not to-day dine with me, but with my people. On Christmas, in Sweden, we make presents to each other as in France is done on New-Year's day. This game, these fish, have been brought to me by the huntsmen and fishermen of my people. A peasant gave me a quarter of veal, another gave me cream, a third the butter. Even one woman has brought me an egg or two, saying that they should be boiled only for myself. Before long the house will be filled with a crowd, and many strange stories will be told around the firesides. Whole pitchers of beer will be emptied to the health of the old pastor and his friends."

"They will dance?" asked Alete.

"No, mademoiselle, you will not have that profane amusement. But Nils the schoolmaster has a very fine voice. Olaf the fisherman, and his brother Christian, will be there also, and your cousin will be able to hear some of the popular songs. He never heard anything like them in Paris."

"So be it," said Alete; "one or two rounds with those merry figures would however have been amusing enough. Hark! it seems to me I hear hurras at Nils's arrival. If the two others are come, may I bring him?"

"Do so, my child," said the pastor.

"Yes, go, Alete," said Ebba, gaily.

Alete went out, and came in shortly with three young men, who modestly looked down, and twirled their hats between their fingers.

"Good morning, friends," said the pastor. "Alete has told you I had a favor to ask. I have a friend here who does not know our old Swedish songs, and I rely on you to give him a good idea."

The three young men looked toward Ireneus and then toward each other. Then, being encouraged by signs from Ebba, and having drunken a glass of wine which was offered them, they sang a song which was designated.

They sang, one after the other, the romance of Agnete, who was surprised on the shore and borne beneath the water by the amorous Neck. That of fair Carine, the victim of her virtue, the soul of whom flew to heaven in the shape of a white dove, where it was again transformed into a joyous harp, the sweet sounds of which won the crown of queen. Much to his regret, Ireneus could not understand the sense of these songs, which are, so to say, idyls and charming dramas. He however listened with undefinable emotion to those simple and artless melodies, which, in their expression of grief and joy, were so pure that they seemed to spring from the very heart of the people. He begged Ebba to say to the singers how delighted he was, and they then went to the kitchen to tell how pleased the Parisian had been.

After dinner Alete and Ebba went into the drawing-room, and having carefully shut the door, might have been heard going and coming, and giving orders, while the pastor entertained his guests. Alete seemed very busy. She called the servants—had the position of the furniture changed—sometimes talked loudly, and then whispered. Some mysterious scene occupying the thoughts of Ireneus was taking place there.

Toward evening the mystery was explained. Alete came to take the arm of the pastor in triumph, and he, M. de Vermondans, and Ireneus, went toward the room. Drapery of many colors covered the wall, and bouquets of moss and artificial flowers, candelabras reflected from the mirrors, boughs of trees, all made the light soft as that which penetrates the forest. On a large table was the Christmas tree, full of lights, and adorned with bows of ribbon. The pastor had asked Alete to arrange everything as she chose, and to place in the best possible light the presents intended for his friends. With them Alete and Ebba had placed those they intended to make, and all had been arranged most tastefully. Of the pine branch she had made a tree, miraculously bearing silk dresses, portfolios, slippers, embroidered collars, gold ear-rings, &c. The branches bent beneath the weight.

M. de Vermondans gathered a meerschaum mounted with silver: Ireneus several pieces of silk worked by his cousins, and a wooden cup, very beautifully carved by an Angermanian peasant. Exclamations were made as the different objects were detached from the mystic tree, for Alete had taken care to wrap each article with a double and triple envelope, in order to prolong the expectation of the spectators, and to enjoy their surprise. Afterward the servants came in, and also the farmer's boys, none of whom were forgotten, and who kissed the hands of the old priest. The Christmas tree was stripped of its treasures, and all deserted it, as barren and useless. Alas, for human ingratitude!

The pastor, taking advantage of a moment when none were looking, went to the solitary tree, and took from it a letter with a red seal. Then calling his future daughter-in-law, he said, "Since when, dear Alete, have you become so careless of the good things of this world, or so negligent, as to abandon the Christmas tree, without ascertaining all that hangs from it?"

"I do not know that I can get anything from it, except a few pieces of ribbon and half-burnt lights."

"You think so, do you? Well, look here."

"What?" said Alete; "a letter, with Eric's name on it. This is a surprise for him. What is it? That puzzles me. Look, Eric—one day I shall have a right to open your letters, but now be quick and open this yourself."

Eric unsealed the letter; and scarcely had he read it, then casting himself at the feet of the old priest, he said—"Ah, father, how I thank you! Then turning to Alete, he said—

"It is an appointment by the Bishop of Hernos and of myself as vicar of this parish. We waited only for that to be able to marry. Now there is no obstacle to our happiness. We will live here with my father, near your own family. May God grant that our hearts may not be disunited. May God grant us new pleasures without robbing us of those of the past. Now, when shall we be married—tell me?"

"How you go on!" said Alete. "Must I, because it has seemed fit to our venerable prelate to make you a vicar—(after all it is a sensible appointment)—put on my wedding dress and go to the altar? Do you know I expect a letter from Hernosand or Stockholm! Do you know–"

The artless girl, however, sought in vain to conceal, beneath pretended laughter, her deep emotion. She was unable to finish her sentence. She threw herself in her father's arms, then into the old priest's, and gave her hand with dignity to Eric. She said:

"Whenever you please, dear Eric, though I am much amazed. I trust you will never have occasion to repent having given me your love and honor."

This episcopal letter the pastor had received on the previous evening, and he had been courageous enough to keep the secret until Christmas night, in order to give it more solemnity. It was now the sole subject of conversation, and they talked only of preparations for the marriage, and of the day on which it was to be celebrated. At the instance of Alete he consented to prolong the delay, and the wedding was postponed for a fortnight.

"Confess," said Alete to Ireneus, "that you were fortunate in arriving here in the middle of winter, when you could witness our dark tempests, our Christmas festivals, and be present at a Swedish wedding. You will then have only to behold our delicious summer nights; and then, when you return to France, you will be able to speak more learnedly of Sweden than other travelers, who wrote long volumes about it."

"I owe to this country some of the pleasantest hours of my life. I owe to it a calmness which I cannot any longer find in France. I am indebted to it for good and healthful emotions. I owe to it, exile as I am, a tender asylum, a family; and I shall feel your wedding-day one of the happiest of my life."

On the very next day all the house of M. de Vermondans was occupied with preparations for the approaching marriage. Dressmakers were busy, and cabinet-makers were preparing furniture, platforms, &c., for the wedding-day.

Alete had enough to do to watch over the different works. Smiling and merry as she used to be, a change had come over her, and she seemed already dignified and matronly.

Ebba assisted her with great devotion, and ceased to give Ireneus lessons in Swedish.

M. de Vermondans smoked his pipe with an air of thought, and sometimes of sorrow, for the idea of separation from his daughter weighed heavily on him, much as he desired that she should marry so near him.

For the first time since he had reached his uncle's house, Ireneus was alone. A few days before the merry chat of Alete, the philosophical conversation of the old gentleman, the dreamy poetry of Ebba, and the activity and motion of all the household had diverted the young officer's attention from himself. Now his thoughts involuntarily returned, in consequence of news he had received from his country. His mother, who shared all his secrets, sought to encourage him, and to unfold a new horizon. In spite of this, however, every letter increased his unhappiness. Some of his friends also wrote to him; and this correspondence surprised him painfully. He heard, in this manner, of political defections which he, in his chivalric exaggeration looked on as felony, and at which he was most indignant.

"Villains!" said he, one day, as he read to his uncle a letter which he had just received. "Now, this man owed everything to the kindness of Charles X., yet for the sake of office he has cast himself at the foot of a new master. Here is one who, on the 28th of July, applauded the ordinances, and swore that the hydra of liberalism should he destroyed: and said that he would pour out the last drop of his blood in defense of legitimacy. He is now a partisan of the revolution. We live in a scandalous age. All principles of honor and religion are forgotten. Office has great value, indeed, when honor and conscience are sacrificed to it."

As he spoke thus, Ireneus strode up and down the room, and crushed the letter in his hands.

"My boy," said M. de Vermondans, with his kind philosophy, "your feeling springs from a sentiment which does you honor. Unfortunately, however, it can but injure you without benefiting those for whom you have so much sympathy. To-day is not the first time that man has violated his oath, and made a traffic of obligation; one need only open a history, and read on every page amid some noble actions, countless base intrigues and unworthy cowardice. The Roman senate erected statues to monsters it had dignified with the imperial purple. The middle age, which we are pleased to look on as an epoch of faith and chivalric devotion, is everywhere sullied by acts of felony and the consequences of mad ambition. Civilization, while it corrected the gross errors of rude nations, also restrained their virtues. Love of prosperity, the sensations of luxury, bear to the wall the energetic principles of self-denial. Some individuals, who, by their elevated position, attract attention to themselves; here and there break a link of the moral chain; others imitate them, and by fracture after fracture the whole series of austere ideas is interrupted and dislocated. A few of the faithful may attempt to preserve the remnants, but others look on them with pity, and treat this religious faith as an anachronism. The worship of the great is destroyed, and replaced by that of sensual enjoyments. We do not ask God to give us the heavenly manna. We have made another God from which no prophet can win us. We prostrate ourselves before the calf of gold. This, dear Ireneus, must be a sad prospect for a heart like yours. That all the respect for the past, for religion and misfortune, which exists in your heart, should rise at the prospect of what you have read to me, I can well enough understand. Can you however, repress the wrong which offends you? Can the evils of which you complain be prevented? No, do what you will, there must ever be men, over whom the passion for power will exercise vast influence, and this feeling will always induce them to turn from the sinking to the rising star. Even if you go to the depth of a desert, to the jungles of an Indian archipelago, to the woods at Caffraria, to the desert plains of North America, or to the Cordilleras, you will not escape from the miserable spectacles of human hypocrisy. The Turks have a proverb which says, 'Cure the hand you cannot spare.' Now we can add to this maxim, 'Cure the hand which can serve you, satisfy your pride, avarice and egotism.' Young and happy when you first entered on life, dear Ireneus, you have seen much. A sudden revolution has covered your eyes with a cloud, and unexpected treachery has pierced your heart. Time will show you many others, and if you do not give yourself up to useless misanthropy, the most foolish and idle of all maladies, you will learn to resign yourself to chagrins you cannot avoid. In your time of distress you will draw near to those who do not deceive your esteem. You will, without hatred and anger, be able to look at those whom base calculation or cowardice has led astray, and if you congratulate yourself that you have not followed their example, you will be glad that heaven has endowed you with more firmness and a loftier ambition."

The wisdom of these reasonings touched the heart of Ireneus, but could not subdue it. The ardent young man continued to curse those whom he had seen in the ranks of legitimacy, and who now had linked themselves with the revolution. Often, to avoid the remonstrances of his uncle, or not to annoy him by recrimination, he wandered alone across the desert plains, calling all the deserters of the cause he loved by name, and sometimes he even resolved, like a true knight-errant, to set out and demand an account of their crime. When he returned from these solitary walks, his uncle, thinking that all argument would at such times be useless, said nothing. Ebba however looked at him with eager sympathy.