Translated by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.2 #40 (02 Oct 1847).
No. I.
"IT WILL DO."
A Piece of Experience.
Olof's father was dead. Tears fell from his eyes; tears fell down his checks. He felt a pain in his heart, an extraordinary sedateness in his mind, and the words, "I shall never more see my beloved, worthy father," came as if of themselves to his tongue. But, for all that, a new day had dawned, a new sphere of operation had revealed itself. A door, which had hitherto been closed to the young man's future, now stood wide open. He hastily collected together his things, sped with a light and winged step, although he was conscious of sorrow at his heart, around the city; paid his debts; took leave of his friends and acquaintances; and, last of all, stole up a winding staircase, knocked softly at a door, and entered when it was opened.
"Good evening, Sara," said he in a peculiar voice, which he in vain strove to make calm. "Good evening, dear girl, how are you? I bring you sad news. My father is dead, and I must leave you—for a time—a long time, perhaps; but you shall be cared for." (Sara turned pale with terror.) "Nay, don't turn so pale, dear Sara," continued he, "because then you are not pretty, then I don't like you, then I will not come back to you; so now look charming and gay. I shall soon come back again; if not, you are such a pretty, charming girl, that you will soon get another lover!"
"But I shall not have you!" said Sara, and her eyes swam with tears.
He pressed her to his heart; he kissed her cold lips; he wiped away her tears, and began again:—
"Here, Sara, you shall have all the money which I can spare at this moment. Take it! Live happily; I shall not forget you. I am not so poor now as I used to be. You shall now want for nothing. But live quite quietly until you hear further from me!"
And now followed whispered communications; Sara made a confession, which Olof received with very mingled feelings; and then, with a deep sigh, he parted from the poor girl;—poor in virtue and innocence; rich in grace and natural gifts, and even perhaps good qualities of heart, although from the first they had been so trodden under foot that it was hardly possible now to distinguish them.
Olof rushed down the stairs, hurried into the street, glanced up towards the light in Sara's window, sighed a time or two, and had a presentiment that he now looked up, perhaps, for the last time, to the room where he had spent so many twilight hours. "But she will console herself!" said he, to console his own conscience, and hastened into the street.
His home was full of confusion. Half of his things were unpacked, and it was not until twelve at night, when the post-horses drove up to his door, that he was ready to set out. He went forth into darkness and night. The farther he drove from the city, the fainter, the paler became the image of that Sara, whom he had seen for the first time only a few months ago; who was then a pretty, wilful girl; whom he liked now more than ever; yet, notwithstanding, whom he probably in a short time—very soon, perhaps—would have forsaken, had not business and fate compelled him to do so now; for business and fate compel, people say, when they wish to give a reasonable motive for an unreasonable action.
"Poor Sara; she really loves me!" thought he, with but little grief, and a great deal of egotistical pleasure; because whether beloved or hated, despised or worshipped, a woman's love is always a sacrifice which a man receives with pleasure. "Poor Sara! she loves me; and so long as she is evidently faithful to me, she shall never suffer want!" So thought he, whilst the wheels went spinning round and round. We have already said, however, that Sara's image grew fainter and fainter, and imagination presented, in new, fresh, living, bright colours, his cousin Melida—she with whom he was brought up; she whom father, mother, and relations, educated for him ever since she was born; she, the gulden-haired fairy of light, who had always beamed as the sun in Olof's most beautiful future heaven. In the embrace of the dark-eyed Sara, it is true that her image lost some of its brightness; now, however, it recovered it, and innocence cast around it a glory, the magic of which, Olof now for the first time rightly understood. The more vivid grew his recollections of Melida, the more were the horses urged onward, onward; and when Olof had travelled incessantly for four-and-twenty hours, he stood at the door of the paternal home, where the white blinds in the window, and the weeping people clad in mourning, were the first objects that met his eyes.
"Is my uncle here?" was his first question, on recovering himself somewhat from the painful feeling of entering a house where they whom we loved formerly lived, breathed, moved, and came hitherto to meet us with glad and friendly hearts, but who now lie silent, cold, dead,—who are gone down to the grave and corruption.
"He is not here, but he is coming," replied an old servant, and dried the tears which the arrival of his young master had again called forth.
"Does he come alone?" asked Olof, and a light colour passed over his cheek, otherwise pale with tears, the fatigue of the journey, and his city-life.
"I do not know," replied the servant, and Olof hoped. But his hope was disappointed; his uncle came alone.
The funeral and troublesome business engaged the time and thoughts of the two kinsmen. In the course of eight days the deceased was laid in the earth; his personal property valued, and that with a certain degree of pleasure, because it was considerable, and far exceeded what had been expected; a fact somewhat consolatory both to the heir and to the future hopes of the uncle, who was in but indifferent circumstances. Everything was quite in order about the house; and the uncle said,
"Yes, my dear Olof, nothing remains to be done here; we will now go to my house. There we are daily expected, and here you cannot get on at all without good company."
At these words Olof's pale checks became crimson, because good company presented at this moment no image in the whole world but that of her who silently waited, and daily longed for their coming,—Melida.
Oh, what joyous, heavenly joyous hours, life can sometimes offer! These joyous prefigurings of the future are fashioned from the most beautiful material which it possesses, for life has a purely bright or dark prefiguring of the future, and blessed are they for whom it is bright!
Olof accompanied his kinsman with restless, unspeakable, joyous longings. It was evening when they reached his uncle's house. It was autumn, and Nature was dark, but spring and hope were in Olof's heart; and he saw with joy light shining in the windows of the well-known house where he had spent so many heavenly, happy hours by Melida's side, in the exultant days of childhood and early youth. A light shadow moved backwards and forwards in the window; and when they had entered the passage, the daughter flew to meet her father, and seemed not to see her cousin, although her crimson cheeks showed plainly enough that she was aware of his being near. Melida had become taller, prettier, wittier, gayer, and more charming, during these years. Her black dress heightened the dazzling whiteness of her skin, and the northern colour of her abundant hair. Olof was altogether in love. Melida knew it perfectly well, and was unspeakably happy. More delicious dreams than, during this long, first autumn night, visited these two young people, never ascended from the lands of dreams—the rich, luxuriant pleasure-garden of fancy.
Days and weeks flew by like moments to this happy pair. Melida had never loved, never thought that she could love, anyone but him, for whom she had been educated from her tenderest years; he who had held undivided possession of her rich, full, warm heart; he who was loyal and true to her in all changes, at home in her native town, or away amid the tumult of the world. So believed Melida, at least, and believed even that love could only be repaid with love, and she loved.
Olof now called her his betrothed, his bride, whispering in the lonely hour of magical twilight. He called her his bride before the whole world, and in the brightest sunshine; and the following summer was fixed upon for their wedding.
Christmas passed over gaily and lovingly for our lovers, and for all those who merely saw them, because their happiness diffused a glory all around them, a gentle and creative happiness. Spring came and went; and now many cares and little troubles beset them. Melida's mother was a good sort of weariful lady; she embittered the invaluable time of the poor lovers with petty affairs: very petty, but at the same time very tiresome, very troublesome, and almost tending to chill or render lukewarm, because they fell like cold water drops upon their warm hearts. Olof all his life had felt the greatest repugnance to his aunt, and felt no little annoyed and angry when elderly people continually tortured him by the remark that Melida was exactly like what her mother had been at that age, for the mother also had been a handsome young lady; but Olof forgot that, and only thought, "Can Melida be some day like her?' and shuddered at the idea.
In the mean time, letters came to him from the city which he had left. A young companion of his, altogether ignorant of his betrothal, wrote to him among other things, "Sara goes out but seldom; whenever one does see her, she is as splendidly beautiful as the sun. What a lucky fellow you are to possess the love of such a girl! Beautiful and true! but how long do you think that she will remain so? There are those who are laying snares for her, and though she may resist them for a time, she will in the end fall into them."
Olof bit his lips and contracted his brows. He wished, notwithstanding his own happiness, that Sara should continue constant to him, and love him still.
"Voilà les hommes!" a Parisian would say. "Such are respectable people," we would as quietly remark.
Sara herself wrote, in her poor handwriting and miserable spelling, "How I long for you! Do you never mean to return? I am quite merry and well again; things turned out a deal better than we might have expected or hoped. Our one great trouble cost us needless anxiety, and I am now very happy. You perfectly understand me—the poor child is not living. Thanks for the money you sent me; it came at the right moment. By means of it I got everything very grand for myself, and very grand about me, all for your sake, because I do not trouble myself about other young fellows, although they have spared no means of disturbing me, importunately begging me to come out, and even going so far as to come knocking at my door, and threatening to knock it down, if I will not immediately open it." (Olof clenched his fists, and his eyes flashed.) "What have you been doing latterly in that tiresome country-place? Dalson says that you have been taking possession of your father's property; but that could not occupy you the whole winter. You have not been falling in love with another girl—that I know! or else I shall get another lover for myself; that I can tell you of a truth," etc.
Olof curled his lips, and contemptuously thought about poor Sara, because he still saw so much real happiness behind all those petty annoyances which the future mother-in-law and all these small and great troubles occasioned him: still he fancied that love and concord between husband and wife would be able to overcome these and far greater troubles. Never yet had an idea stolen into his mind, whispering any girl more desirable, or to be compared with Melida, as his other, his better self; she still stood thus in all her glory before his imagination; but even that must be dimmed. An extinguisher of the darkest kind must quickly come to cover it up.
The well-known work "Det gâr an,"[1] had now for several months been extending its unwholesome breath, the produce of some dark and pestilent naphtha-pit, around the country; and people, who are very like moths in more cases than one, because they are especially fond of flying round the fire which scorches their wings, are very willing to suck poison, if there be only a little honey smeared over it. Det gâr an fell also into Olof's hand; he read it once, and threw it away from him. But—he received Sara's and his friend's letter,—but—Melida's mother was intolerably quarrelsome, hard to please, and out of humour—but—work-people and others vexed Olof. He became wearied, and out of temper. Melida wept. No young man of Olofs character could endure tears which did not flow from jealousy. For amusement Olof once more read Det gâr an. He pondered a long time on its contents, and one evening in April, after having received by that day's post yet another letter from his friend in the city, which sail that in a few days Sara would assuredly fall into the snares of a designing person; when he had received also a letter from Sara herself, written as if on the brink of an abyss, and in which she merely besought of him to come, come, come—when Melida's mother was still more ill-tempered—annoyances more than ever, and Melida, pale and tearful-eyed, and "cross," as Olof called it—then—that very afternoon when all this occurred all at once—then he came to his decision, which, according to his views, was merry, original, poetical, magnanimous, advantageous, praiseworthy, excellent in all respects, yes, and even necessary and inevitable; he ordered horses; called for ink and paper, dipped a pen, and wrote the following to Melida, his heart frequently almost aching as he wrote:—
"Melida, we must part! I see it now plainly: I consider it for the best. We are not suitable for each other; and it is better that we part before we are irrevocably rivetted to each other, before we are both unhappy for time and eternity. You area good, an amiable creature; but you are full of prejudices, and are attached to old habits and customs, which we are grown out of, and which are unsuited to the age in which we live, and to the luminary of reason which is now rising upon it. You will not sacrifice for me a single one of your old-fashioned notions; you will not freely surrender yourself to me, who are nevertheless mine, unless a half-foolish, stupid, raw, ignorant, uncultivated fellow, with a couple of white linen rags under his chin, babbles a few words before us, which neither he nor we think about at that moment. And these, could we only think so, would have a far more living, far more intelligible meaning in a silent and solitary hour, alone with each other and the Supreme Being. But I know, I foresee, that you would never be able to accustom yourself to my ideas, my new views of certain things. You would weep away your youth, your beauty, and my happiness, even if they should remain. You would upbraid me incessantly, talk about the world and the scandal, and the blame, and tittle-tattle, and a thousand petty things, which I now, more than ever, have learned to despise. You would be unhappy, and would suffer and would make me the same. You and your parents would never let me have either rest or peace, would compel me thus far to a miserable, unmeaning ceremony, to which for the sake of domestic peace I consented. You might—oh, forgive me that I, in this important moment of our life, when we sever a bond which was knit in our childhood,"—here his style was broken and confused; the heart spoke through the words," pardon me, if I, without any apparent consideration, wound your youthful feelings, and perhaps even your self-love—you might, I say, perhaps, inherit your mother's fretful, joy-corroding, and happiness-destroying temper; might become bitter and petulant, and tiresome, and ill-humoured as she; and a hell would thence ensue when we thought of forming an Eden, and we should live with each other in a state of violent disunion, at the same time that we should be compelled, before the eyes of the world, to appear as the dearest friends, merely because a fellow in black had read a few words over us, in the presence of a crowd of indifferent and a few thinking people. No, Melida! It is not written in the book of fate that we are to be united, since we do not think alike, have not the same understanding of right and wrong, of marriage, and many other things. Of late, I have often turned the conversation to these subjects and have always found that you adhere to the old notions; that you talk about 'the inviolability of the marriage vow, and marriages blessed by heaven,' etc., whilst I insist upon it that marriage solely and alone can be based upon all-sacrificing, all-renouncing, generous, unselfish love. Oh, dearest Melida! may I tell you in this sacred moment of confession—may I make known to you that my conscience considers itself bound by such a union? Yes—out with it! There is a poor girl who lives only for me, breathes only for me, possesses no one thing upon the face of the earth but my love; and—can I be so cruel as to rend it from her to squander it upon a proud woman, proud of her virtue and who, had she been bound by marriage to somebody else, would never have cast one glance at me? No, Melida! we are not suited for each other, and if cares and sorrows meet us in our separate paths, we may yet meet them cheerfully, saying, we have sacrificed much to avoid still greater, perhaps,—because by sacrifice and renunciation we may yet obtain, I deny not this—" (here again occurred some breaks)—"and perhaps—perhaps we may once more meet in the distant future, when many years have progressed, and with them pure, sound reason, which by that time may have illumined even your ideas; we then may meet under wholly different circumstances; and who knows whether you might not then say to me, 'You were right! Det gâr an!' God grant that then we both of us may be free, or may be able to release ourselves from the bonds which we have voluntarily imposed upon ourselves. Whatever the case may be with you, I shall endeavour to remain free and unfettered.
"Farewell, Melida! Farewell, friend of my youth! One single word might even now change it all, but that I know, I know full well that you will not speak, and I have resolved to act as a man who dares to follow the dictates of reason, let it cost what it may. Farewell, Melida!"
This written, he hastened down the steps and along the road to the place where his carriage stood, and then flew with the speed of the wind through night and space, neither venturing to look behind, nor to cast backward his thoughts, lest he should change or waver in his resolves, and forming, as he went, as well as his sick heart and his outraged conscience would permit him, a plan of life for the future, as far as heaven apart from that in which, of late, he had mirrored all his thoughts. Now there rose up, like an evil spectre before his imagination—an elegant suite of rooms in the city, equipage, and servants, and the whole splendour of luxury and wealth lavished upon that beautiful Sara, the desired and worshipped of so many. And then the name! How wonderful, how amazingly like a pleasant chance that this name should be the same as the one which genius selected when placing his views attractively before the world! This similarity of name operated more than anyone would believe, for it is incredible how much small circumstances influence small souls. There was something transporting to Olof in the thought of being among the very first—for plenty would afterwards imitate him—who gave, by a striking example, new weight to the new opinions of freedom; of being among the very first who followed this Albert's example, although under much happier and brighter circumstances. People would now say, "see, there he is with his Sara! They live a heavenly life (for Olof meant to lead a gay one); they put to shame all those married folks where the husbands look indifferent and the wives sullen, and the children live together like dog and cat!" — And besides, how common-place, how old-fashioned, to go and be betrothed, and marry his first-cousin, she whom people said was to be his wife when they were little children—all being arranged beforehand, and made up by relations and friends! How tiresome, how vexatious, how petty, etc., etc. — And in process of time, supposing that he should weary of Sara and she of him, what would be more natural and more conformable to reason, than that by mutual consent they should separate, remain good friends, and each choose for themselves one that was more suitable?
An involuntary thought now recurred to the light-haired, innocent Melida, but Olof chased it away, and urged forward the horses—and—what farther he anticipated, is not so certain. To paint this would demand a pen plucked from the wing of the black raven, and a fluid—dark as if it were fetched from the bottom of Acheron, and corrosive as aqua fortis.
Melida woke late upon that bright April morning. She woke, but she did not rise, she lay quiet amid the downy pillows, and noticed with half-opened eyes how sun-illumined, how bright and cheerful her little chamber looked on this beautiful morning. Yet let no one believe that her first thought was of the sun. Even before she opened her eyes the image of Olof met her waking, as it had done her sleeping, imagination. In dreams she had already fancied herself his wife, had wandered by his side on the sea shore, on his father's estate, had held fast by his hand to prevent her falling on the slippery stones, as she now and then stooped down to gather sprigs of the large luxuriant forget-me-not, which flourished there, and mirrored itself in the clear waves. Sometimes she made believe that she was falling, merely to enjoy Olof's uneasiness, but knowing the terror of a loving heart she extended to him the lovely blue flowers as an offering of reconciliation, smiling and joking all the time in her dreams as she would never again—when she awoke.
There is always something oppressive in waking. The reality never is like the dream, neither so delightful nor so sad. Extremes belong to dreams; fear and hope have but little to do with them. There was something painful to Melida in her first waking thought of Olof this morning. She immediately remembered his gloomy brow when he had bid them good night the preceding evening; she recalled so many strange, peculiar, and, to her fancy, half-insane words and ideas which had fallen from Olof of late, and which were so unlike what she had been accustomed to hear from his lips formerly. She heaved a deep sigh, but it was not a very heavy one, for all that. It was only a little cloud, a hand's-breadth upon her bright spring heaven. "It is indeed all those vexations which annoy Olof, and which annoy everybody!" thought she, "and therefore away with them as much as possible!" And, quick as lightning, up rose the young girl, "fresh as the morning, like a bride in a wood,"—and before long her needle was speeding through the cambric with skilful rapidity, pursued by a thought which gave it a double speed. It was yet early in the day. The clock-finger pointed at seven, and Melida had resolved before nine o'clock —the family-hour for assembling—to have finished a great piece of needlework, in order that she might be at liberty during the forenoon, and thus be able to devote it to Olof without any reproaches of conscience, or without deserving her mother's anger.
Very different were the intentions and resolves of the two cousins under the same spring sun; but poor Melida, in her loving innocence, believed that one heart beat in both breasts, and one soul lived in both. At nine o'clock, the family assembled in the break-fast-room, all, except Olof. They waited a little while; the father, impatient at not being able to take his coffee; the mother,—always angry at all kinds of waiting; the daughter,—with affection's uneasiness, for all waiting for the beloved is a torture. They waited,—but no Olof came. They sent a servant, who brought back word, that Olof's room was empty; they sent another, and this one brought back the letter we have already given to Melida.
(To be concluded.)
1. This was a novel with that title, or "It will do," written by Arnquist, a celebrated and much admired writer at that time. It was extremely clever and interesting, and contained that kind of social philosophy and morals which may be gathered from this story. The first volume only of the work was published, as is not uncommon in Sweden. Its effect was like wild-fire: nothing was talked of, nothing was thought of, but this wonderful story of Det gâr an. Arnquist did not hurry the second volume, but to his astonishment, the second volume made its appearance. It was written by another equally clever author—but was published ostensibly as the true continuation of the work. The public eagerly possessed themselves of it;—the story was finished, but not as Arnquist had intended; the apple of the Dead-Sea was opened, and all its poison-contents revealed to the public. It was ended, in the way in which that very system of morals was already terminating many a domestic tragedy in real life. Arnquist was enraged—but it was too late for him to do anything. His own second volume never appeared, and he himself never recovered his position in the literary world.