Tales of Two Countries
behind them that peculiar atmosphere which one can, at most, endure in
one’s own children.
Day after day her life dragged on in ceaseless toil. Many a time, when
she heard her husband bemoaning the drudgery of his lot, she thought
to herself with a sort of defiance: “I wonder which of us two has the
harder work?”
In one respect she was happier than her husband. Philosophy did not
enter into her dreams, and when she could steal a quiet moment for
reflection; her thoughts were very different from the cogitations of the
poor philosopher.
She had no silver plate to polish, no jewelry to take out and deck
herself with. But, in the inmost recess of her heart, she treasured all
the memories of the first year of her marriage, that year of romantic
bliss; and these memories she would furbish and furbish afresh, till
they shone brighter with every year that passed.
But when the weary and despondent housewife, in all secrecy, decked
herself out with these jewels of memory, they did not succeed in
shedding any brightness over her life in the present. She was scarcely
conscious of any connection between the golden-locked angel with the
red ribbons and the five-year-old boy who lay grubbing in the dark back
yard. These moments snatched her quite away from reality; they were like
opium dreams.
Then some one would call for her from an adjoining room, or one of the
children would be brought in howling from the street, with a great bump
on its forehead. Hastily she would hide away her treasures, resume
her customary air of hopeless weariness, and plunge once more into her
labyrinth of duties and cares.--Thus had this marriage fared, and thus
did this couple toil onward. They both dragged at the same heavy load;
but did they drag in unison? It is sad, but it is true: when the
manger is empty, the horses bite each other.----There was a great
chocolate-party at the Misses Ludvigsen’s--all maiden ladies.
“For married women are so prosaic,” said the elder Miss Ludvigsen.
“Uh, yes!” cried Louisa.
Every one was in the most vivacious humor, as is generally the case in
such company and on such an occasion; and, as the gossip went the round
of the town, it arrived in time at Sören’s door. All were agreed that it
was a most unhappy marriage, and a miserable home; some pitied, others
condemned.
Then the elder Miss Ludvigsen, with a certain solemnity, expressed
herself as follows: “I can tell you what was at fault in that marriage,
for I know the circumstances thoroughly. Even before her marriage there
was something calculating, something almost prosaic in Marie’s nature,
which is entirely foreign to true, ideal love. This fault has since
taken the upperhand, and is avenging itself cruelly upon both of them.
Of course their means are not great, but what could that matter to two
people who truly loved each other? for we know that happiness is not
dependent on wealth. Is it not precisely in the humble home that the
omnipotence of love is most beautifully made manifest?--And, besides,
who can call these two poor? Has not heaven richly blessed them with
healthy, sturdy children? These--these are their true wealth! And if
their hearts had been filled with true, ideal love, then--then--”
Miss Ludvigsen came to a momentary standstill.
“What then?” asked a courageous young lady.
“Then,” continued Miss Ludvigsen, loftily, “then we should certainly
have seen a very different lot in life assigned to them.”
The courageous young lady felt ashamed of herself.
There was a pause, during which Miss Ludvigsen’s words sank deep
into all hearts. They all felt that this was the truth; any doubt and
uneasiness that might perhaps have lurked here and there vanished away.
All were confirmed in their steadfast and beautiful faith in true, ideal
love; for they were all maiden ladies.
WITHERED LEAVES.
You _may_ tire of looking at a single painting, but you _must_ tire
of looking at many. That is why the eyelids grow so heavy in the great
galleries, and the seats are as closely packed as an omnibus on Sunday.
Happy he who has resolution enough to select from the great multitude a
small number of pictures, to which he can return every day.
In this way you can appropriate--undetected by the custodians--a little
private gallery of your own, distributed through the great halls.
Everything which does not belong to this private collection sinks into
mere canvas and gilding, a decoration you glance at in passing, but
which does not fatigue the eye.
It happens now and then that you discover a picture, hitherto
overlooked, which now, after thorough examination, is admitted as one of
the select few. The assortment thus steadily increases, and it is even
conceivable that by systematically following this method you might make
a whole picture-gallery, in this sense, your private property.
But as a rule there is no time for that. You must rapidly take your
bearings, putting a cross in the catalogue against the pictures you
think of annexing, just as a forester marks his trees as he goes through
the wood.
These private collections, as a matter of course, are of many different
kinds. One may often search them in vain for the great, recognized
masterpieces, while one may find a little, unconsidered picture in the
place of honor; and in order to understand the odd arrangement of many
of these small collections, one must take as one’s cicerone the person
whose choice they represent. Here, now, is a picture from a private
gallery.--
There hung in a corner of the Salon of 1878 a picture by the English
painter Mr. Everton Sainsbury. It made no sensation whatever. It was
neither large enough nor small enough to arouse idle curiosity, nor was
there a trace of modern extravagance either in composition or in color.
As people passed they gave it a sympathetic glance, for it made
a harmonious impression, and the subject was familiar and easily
understood.
It represented two lovers who had slightly fallen out, and people smiled
as each in his own mind thought of those charming little quarrels which
are so vehement and so short, which arise from the most improbable and
most varied causes, but invariably end in a kiss.
And yet this picture attracted to itself its own special public; you
could see that it was adopted into several private collections.
As you made your way towards the well-known corner, you would often find
the place occupied by a solitary person standing lost in contemplation.
At different times, you would come upon all sorts of different people
thus absorbed; but they all had the same peculiar expression before that
picture, as if it cast a faded, yellowish reflection.
If you approached, the gazer would probably move away; it seemed as
though only one person at a time could enjoy that work of art--as though
one must be entirely alone with it.--
In a corner of the garden, right against the high wall, stands an open
summer-house. It is quite simply built of green lattice-work, which
forms a large arch backed by the wall. The whole summer-house is covered
with a wild vine, which twines itself from the left side over the arched
roof, and droops its slender branches on the right.
It is late autumn. The summer-house has already lost its thick roof of
foliage. Only the youngest and most delicate tendrils of the wild vine
have any leaves left. Before they fall, departing summer lavishes on
them all the color it has left; like light sprays of red and yellow
flowers, they hang yet a while to enrich the garden with autumn’s
melancholy splendor.
The fallen leaves are scattered all around, and right before the
summer-house the wind has with great diligence whirled the loveliest of
them together, into a neat little round cairn.
The trees are already leafless, and on a naked branch sits the little
garden-warbler with its rust-brown breast--like a withered leaf left
hanging--and repeats untiringly a little fragment which it remembers of
its spring-song.
The only thriving thing in the whole picture is the ivy; for ivy, like
sorrow, is fresh both summer and winter.
It comes creeping along with its soft feelers, it thrusts itself into
the tiniest chinks, it forces its way through the minutest crannies;
and not until it has waxed wide and strong do we realize that it can no
longer be rooted up, but will inexorably strangle whatever it has laid
its clutches on.
Ivy, however, is like well-bred sorrow; it cloaks its devastations
with fair and glossy leaves. Thus people wear a glossy mask of smiles,
feigning to be unaware of the ivy-clad ruins among which their lot is
cast.--
In the middle of the open summer-house sits a young girl on a rush
chair; both hands rest in her lap. She is sitting with bent head and a
strange expression in her beautiful face. It is not vexation or anger,
still less is it commonplace sulkiness, that utters itself in her
features; it is rather bitter and crushing disappointment. She looks as
if she were on the point of letting something slip away from her which
she has not the strength to hold fast--as if something were withering
between her hands.
The man who is leaning with one hand upon her chair is beginning to
understand that the situation is graver than he thought. He has done
all he can to get the quarrel, so trivial in its origin, adjusted
and forgotten; he has talked reason, he has tried playfulness; he
has besought forgiveness, and humbled himself--perhaps more than he
intended--but all in vain. Nothing avails to arouse her out of the
listless mood into which she has sunk.
Thus it is with an expression of anxiety that he bends down towards her:
“But you know that at heart we love each other so much.”
“Then why do we quarrel so easily, and why do we speak so bitterly and
unkindly to each other?”
“Why, my dear! the whole thing was the merest trifle from the first.”
“That’s just it! Do you remember what we said to each other? How we
vied with each other in trying to find the word we knew would be most
wounding? Oh, to think that we used our knowledge of each other’s heart
to find out the tenderest points, where an unkind word could strike
home! And this we call love!”
“My dear, don’t take it so solemnly,” he answered, trying a lighter
tone. “People may be ever so fond of each other, and yet disagree a
little at times; it can’t be otherwise.”
“Yes, yes!” she cried, “there must be a love for which discord is
impossible, or else--or else I have been mistaken, and what we call love
is nothing but--”
“Have no doubts of love!” he interrupted her, eagerly; and he depicted
in warm and eloquent words the feeling which ennobles humanity in
teaching us to bear with each other’s weaknesses; which confers upon us
the highest bliss, since, in spite of all petty disagreements, it unites
us by the fairest ties.
She had only half listened to him. Her eyes had wandered over the fading
garden, she had inhaled the heavy atmosphere of dying vegetation--and
she had been thinking of the spring-time, of hope, of that all-powerful
love which was now dying like an autumn flower.
“Withered leaves,” said she, quietly; and rising, she scattered with
her foot all the beautiful leaves which the wind had taken such pains to
heap together.
She went up the avenue leading to the house; he followed close behind
her. He was silent, for he found not a word to say. A drowsy feeling of
uneasy languor came over him; he asked himself whether he could overtake
her, or whether she were a hundred miles away.
She walked with her head bent, looking down at the flower-beds. There
stood the asters like torn paper flowers upon withered potato-shaws; the
dahlias hung their stupid, crinkled heads upon their broken stems, and
the hollyhocks showed small stunted buds at the top, and great wet,