We fear that our readers may be somewhat weary of hearing the names of Sara, Louise, Eva, Leonore, Petrea, Gabriele, repeated so often one after another, and we are very sorry that we find it unavoidable yet once more to present the whole array in connexion with Louise. But we will see what little variety we can make by taking them at hap-hazard, and therefore now steps forward

PETREA.

We are all of us somewhat related to chaos; Petrea was very closely so.

Momentary bursts of light and long periods of confusion alternated in her. There was a great dissimilarity between Louise and Petrea. While Louise required six drawers and more to contain her possessions, there needed scarcely half a one for the whole wardrobe of Petrea; and this said wardrobe too was always in such an ill-conditioned case, that it was, according to Louise, quite lamentable, and she not unfrequently lent a helping hand to its repair. Petrea tore her things, and gave away without bounds or discrimination, and was well known in the sisterly circle for the bad state of her affairs. Petrea had no turn for acc.u.mulation; on the contrary, she had truly, although Louise would not allow it, a certain turn for art.

She was always occupied by creations of one kind or another, either musical, or architectural, or poetical. But all her creations contained something of that which is usually called trash. At twelve years old she wrote her first romance: "Annette and Belis loved each other tenderly; they experienced adversity in their love; were at last, however, united, and lived henceforth in a charming cottage, surrounded with hedges of roses, and had eight children in one year," which we may call a very honourable beginning. A year afterwards she began a tragedy, which was to be called "Gustavus Adolphus and Ebba Brahe," and which opened with these verses spoken by one Delagardie:

Now from Germania's coast returned, I see again the much-loved strand; From war I come, without a wound, Once more into my native land.

Say, Banner say, what woe has caused these tears, Am I not true to thee, or is it idle hope alone that will befool my years?

Whether no sheet of paper was broad enough to contain the lengthened lines, or any other cause interfered to prevent the completion of the piece, we know not; but certain it is that it was soon laid aside.

Neither did a piece of a jocular nature, which was intended to emulate the fascinating muse of Madame Lenngren,[5] advance much further--the beginning was thus:

Within the lordly castle Elfvakolastie, Which lay, in sooth, somewhere in Sverge,[6]

There lived of yore the lovely Melanie, The only daughter of Count Stjerneberge.

At the present time Petrea was engaged on a poem, the t.i.tle of which, written in large letters, ran thus--"The Creation of the World!"

The Creation of the World began thus:

CHAOS.

Once in the depths etern of darkness lying, This mighty world Waited expectantly the moments flying When light should be unfurled.

The world was nothing then, which now is given To crowds of busy men; And all our beautiful star-spangled heaven Was desolate darkness then; Yet He was there, who before time existed, Who will endure for ever.

The creation of the world ceased with this faint glimmering of light, and was probably destined under Petrea's hand never to be brought forth from chaos. Petrea had an especially great inclination for great undertakings, and the misfortune to fail in them. This want of success always wounded her deeply, but in the next moment the impulse of an irresistibly vigorous temperament raised her above misfortune in some new attempt. The blood rushed up to her young head, and filled it with a ma.s.s of half-formed thoughts, fancies, and ideas; her mind and her character were full of disquiet. At times joyous and wild beyond bounds, she became on the other hand wretched and dispirited without reason.

Poor Petrea! She was wanting in every kind of self-regulation and ballast, even outwardly; she walked ill--she stood ill--she curtseyed ill--sate ill--and dressed ill; and occasioned, in consequence, much pain to her mother, who felt so acutely whatever was unpleasing; and this also was very painful to Petrea, who had a warm heart, and who worshipped her mother.

Petrea also cherished the warmest affection and admiration for Sara, but her manner even of evidencing her affection was commonly so entirely without tact, as rather to displease than please the object of it. The consciousness of this fact embittered much of Petrea's life; but it conducted her by degrees to a love in which tact and address are of no consequence, and which is never unreturned.

Sometimes Petrea was seized with a strong consciousness of the chaoticness of her state; but then, again, at other times she would have a presentiment that all this would clear itself away, and then that something which was quite out of the common way would come forth; and then she was accustomed to say, half in jest and half in earnest, to her sisters, "You'll see what I shall turn out sometime!" But in what this extraordinary turning out should consist n.o.body knew, and least of all poor Petrea herself. She glanced full of desire towards many suns, and was first attracted by one and then by another.

Louise had for Petrea's prophesyings great contempt, but the little Gabriele believed in them all. She delighted herself, moreover, so heartily in all that her sister began, that Petrea sacrificed to her her most beautiful gold-paper temple; her original picture of shepherdesses and altars; and her island of bliss in the middle of peaceful waters, and in the bay of which lay a little fleet of nut-sh.e.l.ls, with rigging of silk, and laden with sugar-work, and from the motion of which, and the planting of its wonderful flowers, and glorious fruit-bearing trees, Petrea's heart had first had a foretaste of bliss.

Petrea's appearance imaged her soul;--for this too was very variable; this too had its "raptures;" and here too at times also a glimmering light would break through the chaos. If the complexion were muddled, and the nose red and swollen, she had a most ordinary appearance; but in cooler moments, and when the rose-hue confined itself merely to the cheeks, she was extremely good-looking; and sometimes too, and that even in her ugly moments, there would be a gleam in her eye, and an expression in her countenance, which had occasioned Henrik to declare that "Petrea was after all handsome!"

To a chaotic mind, the desire for controversy is in-born; it is the conflict of the elements with each other. There was no subject upon which Petrea had not her conjectures, and nothing upon which she was not endeavouring to get a clear idea; on this account she discussed all things, and disputed with every one with whom she came in contact; reasoned, or more properly made confusion, on politics, literature, human free-will, the fine arts, or anything else; all which was very unpleasant to the tranquil spirit of her mother, and which, in connexion with want of tact, especially in her zeal to be useful, made poor Petrea the laughing-stock of every one; a bitter punishment this, on earth, although before the final judgment-seat of very little, or of no consequence at all.

LEONORE.

Spite of the mother's embraces, and the appellation, "thou beloved, plain child!" the knowledge by degrees had come painfully to Leonore that she was ugly, and that she was possessed of no charm--of no fine endowment whatever; she could not help observing what little means she had of giving pleasure to others, or of exciting interest; she saw very plainly how she was set behind her more gifted sisters by the acquaintance and friends of the family; this, together with feeble health, and the discomfort which her own existence occasioned to her, put her in a discordant state with life and mankind. She was p.r.o.ne to think everything troublesome and difficult; she fell easily into a state of opposition to her sisters, and her naturally quick temper led her often into contentions which were not without their bitterness. All this made poor Leonore feel herself very unhappy.

But none, no! none, suffer in vain, however for a while it may appear so. Suffering is the plough which turns up the field of the soul, into whose deep furrows the all-wise Husbandman scatters his heavenly seed; and in Leonore, also, it already began to sprout, although, as yet, only under the earth. She was not aware of it herself yet; but all that she experienced in life, together with the spirit which prevailed in her family, had already awakened the beauty of her soul. She was possessed of deep feeling, and the consciousness of her many wants made her, by degrees, the most unpretending and humble of human beings; and these are virtues which, in private life, cannot be exceeded. If you come near a person of this character, the influence on you is as if you came out of the sun's heat into refreshing shadow: a soft coolness is wafted over your soul, which refreshes and tranquillises you at the same time.

In the period at which we have now to meet Leonore, she had just recovered from the scarlet fever, which had left behind it such an obstinate and oppressive headache as compelled her almost constantly to remain in her own room; and although her parents and her sisters visited her there, it afforded her but little pleasure, for as yet she had not learned how, by goodness and inward kindness, to make herself agreeable to others.

But, poor Leonore! when I see thee sitting there in deep thought, thy weak head supported by thy hand, sunk in sorrowful reflections, I am ready to lay thy head on my bosom, and to whisper a prophesying in thy ear--but this may as well remain to a future time. We leave thee now, but will return another time to thy silent chamber.

And now step forth, thou, the joy and ornament of home, the beautiful

EVA!

Eva was called in the family, "our rose," "our beauty." There are many in the world like Eva, and it is well that it is so; they are of a pleasing kind. It is delightful to look upon these blooming young girls, with smiles on their lips, and goodness and joy of life beaming from their beautiful eyes. All wish them so well, and they wish so well to all; everything good in life seems as if it came from themselves. They have favourable gales in life--it was so with Eva. Even her weakness, a desire to please, which easily went too far, and an instability of character which was very dangerous to her, exhibited themselves only on their pleasing side, within the circle of her family and of her acquaintance, and helped to make her more beloved.

Eva, although perhaps, strictly speaking, not beautiful, was yet bloomingly lovely. Her eyes were not large, but were of the most exquisite form, and of the clearest dark blue colour, and their glance from under their long black lashes was at once modest, lively, and amiable. The silky chestnut brown hair was parted over a not lofty but cla.s.sically-formed brow. Her skin was white, fine, and transparent, and the mouth and teeth perfectly beautiful; add to all this, Eva had the fine figure of her mother, with her light and graceful action. Excellent health, the happiest temper, and a naturally well-tuned soul, gave a beautiful and harmonious expression to her whole being. Whatever she did, she did well, and with grace; and whatever she wore became her; it was a kind of proverb in the family, that if Eva were to put a black cat on her head it would be becoming.

A similarity in understanding and talent, as well as companionship together, had made Louise and Eva hitherto "_les inseparables_," both at home and abroad; of late, however, without separating herself from Louise, Eva had been drawn, as it were, by a secret power to Leonore.

Louise, with all her possessions, was so sufficient for herself. Leonore was so solitary, so mournful, up there, that the good heart of Eva was tenderly drawn towards her.

But it seems to us as if Gabriele looks rather poutingly, because she has been so long, as it were, pushed aside. _We_ will therefore hastily turn to

THE LITTLE LADY.

It did not please "our little lady" to be neglected at all. Gabriele was, in truth, a spoiled child, and often made "_la pluie_" and the "_beau temps_" in the house. She was defended from cold, and wind, and rain, and vexation, and faddled with and indulged in all possible ways, and praised and petted as if for the best behaviour, if she were only gracious enough to take a cup of bouillon, or the wing of a chicken for dinner. She herself is still like the chicken under the mother's wing; yet she will sometimes creep from under, and attempt little flights on her own account. Then she is charming and merry, makes enigmas and charades, which she gives mostly to her mother and Petrea to guess. It gives her particular pain to be treated as a little girl; and nothing worse can happen to her than for the elder sisters to say, "Go out just for a little while, Gabriele, dear!" in order that they may then impart to each other some important affair, or read together some heart-rending novel. She will willingly be wooed and have homage paid to her; and the a.s.sessor is always out of favour with her, because he jokes with her, and calls her "little Miss Curlypate," and other such ugly names.

Learning and masters are no affairs of hers. She loves a certain "_far niente_," and on account of delicate health her tastes are indulged. Her greatest delight is in dancing, and in the dance she is captivating. In opposition to Petrea, she has a perfect horror of all great undertakings; and in opposition to Louise, a great disinclination to sermons, be they by word of mouth or printed. The sun, the warm wind, flowers, but above all, beloved and amiable human beings, make Gabriele feel most the goodness of the Creator, and awaken her heart to worship.

She has a peculiar horror of death, and will neither hear it, nor indeed anything else dark or sorrowful, spoken of; and, happily for Gabriele, true parental love has a strong resemblance to the Midsummer sun of the North, which shines as well by night as by day.

If we turn from the bright-haired Gabriele to Sara, to "that Africa," as the a.s.sessor called her, we go from day to night. Sara was like a beautiful dark cloud in the house--like a winter night with its bright stars, attractive, yet at the same time repulsive. To us, nevertheless, she will become clear, since we possess the key to her soul, and can observe it in the following

NOTICES FROM SARA'S JOURNAL.

"Yesterday evening Macbeth was read aloud; they all trembled before Lady Macbeth: I was silent, for she pleased me. There was power in the woman."

"Life! what is life? When the tempest journeys through s.p.a.ce on strong free pinions, it sings to me a song which finds an echo in my soul. When the thunder rolls, when the lightning flames, then I divine something of life in its strength and greatness. But this tame every-day life--little virtues, little faults, little cares, little joys, little endeavours--this contracts and stifles my spirit. Oh, thou flame which consumest me in the silent night, what wilt thou? There are moments in which thou illuminest, but eternities in which thou tormentest and burnest me!"

"This narrow sphere satisfies _them_; they find interest in a thousand trifles; they are able to exert themselves in order to obtain little enjoyments for each other. Well for them! I was made for something different."

"Why should I obey? Why should I submit my inclination--my will, to gratify others?--Why? Ah, freedom--freedom!"

"I have obtained 'Volney's Ruins' from S----. I conceal the book from these pious fearful people, who tremble at shadows; but to-night!--to-night!--when their eyes are closed in sleep, mine shall wake and read it. The frontispiece to this book gives me extraordinary pleasure. A wreck combats with stormy waves; the moon goes down amid black clouds; on the sh.o.r.e, among the ruins of a temple, sits a Mussulman--a beautiful and thoughtful figure--and surveys the scene. I likewise observe it, and an agreeable shudder pa.s.ses through me. A vast ruin is better and far more beautiful than a small and an empty happiness."

"The book pleases me. It expresses what has long lain silent in me. It gives clear light to my dark antic.i.p.ations. Ah! what a day dawns upon me! A dazzling light that clears away all misty illusions, but my eyes are strong enough to bear it! Let the net of prejudice, let the miserable bond of custom be rent asunder, let the fettering supports fall! My own strength is sufficient for me."

"Why am I a woman? As a man my life and my conduct would have been clear and easy; as a woman, I must bow myself in order to clear myself.

Miserable dependence! Miserable lot of woman!"

"I do not love S----, but he makes a certain impression upon me. The dark strength in his eye pleases me, the reckless strong will that will bow itself only to me; and when he takes the harp in his arms, with what powerful strength he compels it to express all that which the heart has dreamt and dreams. Then he grasps the strings of my heart--then I acknowledge in him my master; but never, he shall never govern me.

"His spirit is not powerful enough for that. He never can be other to me than as a means to my end. Nor will I herein deceive him. I am too proud for a hypocrite. I know well whom I could love. I know well the man who could be the aim of my ambition."

"Nature never created me for this narrow sphere--for this narrow foot-track through life. S---- shows me another, which captivates my mind; I feel that I am created for it.